Carcassonne to Barcelona

Over the next few weeks my adventures will take me to many different countries. I started my travels some weeks ago; leaving Ireland on depression-related sick leave and travelling to London and other parts of the UK, then heading home to France. Yesterday my unexpected overland journey to the Barcelona marathon began, with a drive down through France, arriving at Carcassonne in the evening. Late night travel fatigue was rewarded by a glimpse of the illuminated and vast fortified city.

La cité de Carcassonne

This morning I woke up early and headed straight for the old city. Carcassonne is a beautiful, magical place: the old medieval citadel with its solid ramparts, towers and turrets has a long history - two thousand years - and its solid defences have guarded the city unvanquished: a fact not altogether surprising given the exemplary array of portcullises, murder-holes, arrow-slits, battlements, barbicans, moat and drawbridge.

Basilique Saint Nazaire

I had the pleasure of wandering gently through the winding cobbled ruelles and marching along the top of the ramparts with only the clumsy pigeons, a solitary skyhawk and the ever-watchful grotesques for company. On an early morning in March I could only imagine the sweaty bustle of the August tourist invasion, and I savoured the peace of the empty streets and the cool shadows that sheltered me from the sun, unseasonably warm even at that hour. Soon the shops and restaurants started to open, and the lanes began to fill with other visitors, and pervading smells of crêpes, omelettes and cassoulet.

Baby figs! In March!

But Barcelona was calling, and by lunchtime I was on the move again. As I write (ensconced in the back of the car trying not to eat all the pains au chocolat), I can see the sparkling Mediterranean to the east, the snow-capped Pyrenees to the west, and Spain just ahead. It is already 22 degrees, it's another clear sunny day, and I've just spotted some baby figs on a fig tree. The surrounding language is becoming more Spanish than French, and as it does so I find that the dregs of my schoolroom Spanish are rising to the surface of my brain, and swimming about amidst my well-oiled French.

Next stop, Barcelona!