Day 5. June 10, 2014. Beziers to Carpestang. 27 kms
O le canard tout petit,
Je pense bien que oui,
Qu'ici, c'est le paradis.
Tu nages sans sourcis
Pendant le jour et la nuit,
Ici, sur le Canal du Midi. (Anon)
As long as you keep out of the way of the boats, of course!
After the horrors of my hotel room, and the bustle of the early morning city, I was relieved to reach the tranquility of the Canal du Midi. I had noticed signs to Neuf Ecluses, and had assumed that it was a road that led to nine different locks, but I arrived to find that it was a series of contiguous locks, each one raising eastbound boats to a higher level. A long line of vessels were waiting to enter the locks. I asked a lady with a lazy look in her eyes whether she minded the wait. "It's all part of the rhythm of the day," she said. "So relaxing."
As I walked along the towpath the boats chugged by in both directions. It was always the men steering the boat, often shirtless with huge guts hanging over their belts. (They weren't following a Mediterranean diet, these fellows. I'm noticing a lot of obesity in France, this time.) Women were sitting at the stern, reading a book. Kids were sunbathing on top of the cabin. Occasionally, a large tourist boat would pass by, 50 people sitting in lines on the top deck without a patch of shade.
At Colombiers, I stopped for coffee at a bar overlooking the canal and a little sunken performance area. A group of young school kids arrived to practise for an end-of-year presentation. They jumped up and down, raised their fists, lay on the ground, huddled in small groups, and dragged each other around like wheel barrows. I couldn't imagine what they were representing, but they took it very seriously, and their teacher seemed pleased.
Then I walked on. Shortly after leaving the village, I noticed a couple of Muslim ladies coming towards me along the towpath, one black, one white. They asked me how far it was to Columbiers. Glad I was to be able to give directions. Recognizing that I was not from these parts, one of them asked where I was from, and when I said I was from Canada, she launched with great enthusiasm into British English. She was from London, and had a sister in Toronto and was soon going to visit her. They asked me whether I was walking the Camino, and told me that they too were preparing to walk to Santiago. We had an animated conversation, and I was left with much food for thought. I remembered the priest in Triacastella, who said as he conducted a mass in his little stone church, "It doesn't matter whether you are Catholic, Protestant, or non-believer. You are all welcome here." That is the spirit of the Camino!
Then I remembered reading recently of a Bishop in Paris who was issuing pilgrim passports only to practising Catholics. The Muslim ladies had better not try to get their credential from him. (But I'm sure the Pope would give them one.)
La plus ca change... On one hand, we have the essence of the Christianity of Jesus in the Gospels; on the other, the appropriation of Christianity by the Church. The one, open and inclusive; the other, narrow and exclusive. And of course, the same strands appear in Islam, and I had encountered one of them today.
I learnt something else from the Muslim ladies, something very practical that I might otherwise have missed. Le Canal du Midi continues to Carcassonne, four days from here. Why should I follow M. Lepere into the heat of the countryside, when I can stroll along the canal in the shade with a cool breeze in my face?
I popped into the little village of Poilhes for lunch, and I sat outside under a huge plain tree at the restaurant of Les Platanes. I heard the proprietor speaking English with an elderly couple.
"Are you English?" I asked him.
"New Zealander," he replied.
"Ah," I said, "I'm Australian."
"Good day, mate," he responded, and then, "What are you going to it (sic)?" Anything to drnk (sic)."
I decided to have just an entree, Poivre facon Colioure, and a bottle of tap water, but the food was so good that I thought I would have a main, Boles de Picolat (boulettes de boeuf et porc, sauce tomates, champignons, olives, haricots blancs, and with that, of course, I had to have un quart de rouge. It was one of those joyful moments that come out of the blue. There's something very special about sitting in the shade of a plain tree in a cooling breeze. And the wine was not your usual quart-de-rouge plonk, either, but a superb vin de pays from a local winery.
I told his wife about the excellent New Zealand wine I had drunk on the island of Waiheke. She was familiar with the wineries and rattled off all the possibilities. She was from Auckland, and missed it very much, but she hadn't been back in eight years. "Why not," I asked her. "My cats," she said.
She was a cat person. Now I'm a dog person myself, but I warmed to her story of how she would love to go back to Auckland, but couldn't leave her cats. She had brought one with her and had acquired others. They simply appeared and stayed. One was sitting on a chair at a neighbouring table.
I had broken my rule never to have a big meal or a wine or beer before my destination, but it wasn't far to Capestang, and there my good luck continued. The Office de Tourisme offered me a local wine, and found me a nice billet in a local chateau. Things are looking up!
Je pense bien que oui,
Qu'ici, c'est le paradis.
Tu nages sans sourcis
Pendant le jour et la nuit,
Ici, sur le Canal du Midi. (Anon)
As long as you keep out of the way of the boats, of course!
After the horrors of my hotel room, and the bustle of the early morning city, I was relieved to reach the tranquility of the Canal du Midi. I had noticed signs to Neuf Ecluses, and had assumed that it was a road that led to nine different locks, but I arrived to find that it was a series of contiguous locks, each one raising eastbound boats to a higher level. A long line of vessels were waiting to enter the locks. I asked a lady with a lazy look in her eyes whether she minded the wait. "It's all part of the rhythm of the day," she said. "So relaxing."
As I walked along the towpath the boats chugged by in both directions. It was always the men steering the boat, often shirtless with huge guts hanging over their belts. (They weren't following a Mediterranean diet, these fellows. I'm noticing a lot of obesity in France, this time.) Women were sitting at the stern, reading a book. Kids were sunbathing on top of the cabin. Occasionally, a large tourist boat would pass by, 50 people sitting in lines on the top deck without a patch of shade.
At Colombiers, I stopped for coffee at a bar overlooking the canal and a little sunken performance area. A group of young school kids arrived to practise for an end-of-year presentation. They jumped up and down, raised their fists, lay on the ground, huddled in small groups, and dragged each other around like wheel barrows. I couldn't imagine what they were representing, but they took it very seriously, and their teacher seemed pleased.
Then I walked on. Shortly after leaving the village, I noticed a couple of Muslim ladies coming towards me along the towpath, one black, one white. They asked me how far it was to Columbiers. Glad I was to be able to give directions. Recognizing that I was not from these parts, one of them asked where I was from, and when I said I was from Canada, she launched with great enthusiasm into British English. She was from London, and had a sister in Toronto and was soon going to visit her. They asked me whether I was walking the Camino, and told me that they too were preparing to walk to Santiago. We had an animated conversation, and I was left with much food for thought. I remembered the priest in Triacastella, who said as he conducted a mass in his little stone church, "It doesn't matter whether you are Catholic, Protestant, or non-believer. You are all welcome here." That is the spirit of the Camino!
Then I remembered reading recently of a Bishop in Paris who was issuing pilgrim passports only to practising Catholics. The Muslim ladies had better not try to get their credential from him. (But I'm sure the Pope would give them one.)
La plus ca change... On one hand, we have the essence of the Christianity of Jesus in the Gospels; on the other, the appropriation of Christianity by the Church. The one, open and inclusive; the other, narrow and exclusive. And of course, the same strands appear in Islam, and I had encountered one of them today.
I learnt something else from the Muslim ladies, something very practical that I might otherwise have missed. Le Canal du Midi continues to Carcassonne, four days from here. Why should I follow M. Lepere into the heat of the countryside, when I can stroll along the canal in the shade with a cool breeze in my face?
I popped into the little village of Poilhes for lunch, and I sat outside under a huge plain tree at the restaurant of Les Platanes. I heard the proprietor speaking English with an elderly couple.
"Are you English?" I asked him.
"New Zealander," he replied.
"Ah," I said, "I'm Australian."
"Good day, mate," he responded, and then, "What are you going to it (sic)?" Anything to drnk (sic)."
I decided to have just an entree, Poivre facon Colioure, and a bottle of tap water, but the food was so good that I thought I would have a main, Boles de Picolat (boulettes de boeuf et porc, sauce tomates, champignons, olives, haricots blancs, and with that, of course, I had to have un quart de rouge. It was one of those joyful moments that come out of the blue. There's something very special about sitting in the shade of a plain tree in a cooling breeze. And the wine was not your usual quart-de-rouge plonk, either, but a superb vin de pays from a local winery.
I told his wife about the excellent New Zealand wine I had drunk on the island of Waiheke. She was familiar with the wineries and rattled off all the possibilities. She was from Auckland, and missed it very much, but she hadn't been back in eight years. "Why not," I asked her. "My cats," she said.
She was a cat person. Now I'm a dog person myself, but I warmed to her story of how she would love to go back to Auckland, but couldn't leave her cats. She had brought one with her and had acquired others. They simply appeared and stayed. One was sitting on a chair at a neighbouring table.
I had broken my rule never to have a big meal or a wine or beer before my destination, but it wasn't far to Capestang, and there my good luck continued. The Office de Tourisme offered me a local wine, and found me a nice billet in a local chateau. Things are looking up!
Day 6. June 11, 2014. Carpestang to Le Somail. 24 kms
Nowhere to go and all day to get there
I remember hearing of some obscure French law that obliged municipitalities to put up any travellers without a place to stay. Was that why the Office de Tourisme had arranged this very comfortable billet for me at the former chateau? I was on foot, and as I hobbled in dripping with sweat, the O de T could tell I was the genuine article.
I have decided to walk to Carcassone along the canal. Not only is it easier and cooler, but today's prescribed route would have taken me through a forest. M. Lepere warns of the possibility of getting lost and suggests an alternative path along the road for nervous travellers. That was enough for me. Getting lost in a forest is a nightmare! Anywhere else, you just keep walking and eventually you arrive somewhere. In a forest you could walk around forever along winding roads leading nowhere. It is 80 kms to Carcassonne. I will stop at 20 km intervals, take four days, and rejoin M. Lepere there.
I eat breakfast, my usual two croissants and a coffee, at Cafe de la Grille, taking advantage of their wifi. Across the square is Cafe de la Paix where I had a couple of beers last night. They didn't have wifi. Nor did they tell me I could walk a few metres across the square to find it.
It is market day with all the familiar sights and sounds and smells as people set up their stalls.
The heavy thudding of a post, the clanging of metal scaffolding, the rumble of a cart, bursts of conversation of different tones and timbres, and the excited chatter of children on their way to school.
Cigarette smoke blends with fumes from the delivery vans. A tumble of onions reflects the early morning rays of the sun. A lady carefully arranges her oranges, best side up. (But she wouldn't fool my dear wife who would inspect them all very carefully, one by one, before buying.)
A little fox-terrier mix with "Jumbo" on his collar is barking at a black poodle who trots by in front of him. His master says "Assez" in time with his barking. Woof, Assez, Woof, Assez, Woof, Assez, until they both give up. The poodle is better behaved. His mistress mutters to him and he tries to look straight ahead, but he can't help sneaking a glance at his fellow canine. Why do little dogs make the loudest noise? An old man in the shape of an apostrophe shuffles across the square. The proprietor ventures out of his bar, stomach first.
There must have been a market in this square for hundreds of years. Much has remained the same: goods, people; only their carts have gone, to be replaced by modern vehicles. I wish I could linger longer.
It was almost half-past-nine by the time I left the village of Capestang. Soon I came upon a "Chantier Interdit" sign. In the past I have ignored these with varying consequences. This time the sign was on a wire mesh fence that ran from the border of the canal, across the bank, and out into a farmer's field. On the other side, a front-end loader was scooping mud out of a barge and dumping it in a chute where it flowed down onto the field like lava.
I wasn't going to mess around with mud so I followed the detour sign and ventured inland. But halfway into the field there was a chance to cut across and get back to the canal. I took it.
You never know with a detour sign. Is it in your best interests to follow it? In this case it would have been. Unbeknown to me, at that point the canal took a tight loop, and the detour was in fact a short cut. But I was back on the bank of the canal, now facing another chain fence and a "Chantier Interdit" sign. This was obviously the next dumping site for the canal mud. But it wasn't in operation yet, and I couldn't go back, so I sneaked around the end of the fence where it bordered the canal, dashed across the site, repeated the process on the other side, and then continued on. This was the big event of the day, which is why I have described it in some detail.
I walked on. Soon I came to a dredge which was sucking mud off the bottom and dumping it into a barge which would then be towed to the Chantier Interdit. Boats continued to pass by in both directions. I stopped for a salad at the little village of Argeliers. And then pressed on. Soon I crossed the branch of the canal which led down to Narbonne. And a few more kilometres and I arrived at Le Somail. I checked in at a chambre d'hôtes facing the canal.
Le Somail is a village that doesn't date back to antiquity. It developed as a little port on the Le Canal du Midi, the third evening stop for the postal boat out of Toulouse. A few old buildings, formerly associated with canal business, line the banks. The only jarring note is an ugly chateau d'eau which should have been placed out of town.
Interesting is a former library which was now a bookshop.
I had a couple of beers and then supper in the evening at the Auberge du Somail. It was a pleasant spot beside the canal. I could pick out the Brits from the large 500 cl jugs they were drinking, the closest thing to, and even more generous than, a pint. Some lads were jumping in from the top of the old stone bridge. If they had seen the poison which neighbouring farmers were pumping onto their grapes in the neighbouring fields, they might have been less keen.
At the next table was a mongrel dog, the kind that never gets chosen at the dogs' home. He was not handsome. I've seen him before in Australian outback towns, where he gets kicked by his master when the pub has no beer. And I've seen him in Spain on the Meseta, lying in the dirt in the hot sun. He wasnt even ugly. He was just brown and nondescript. And here he was again, this time sitting at a table with his master and mistress. Somebody loved him. Somebody didn't judge by appearances.
I remember hearing of some obscure French law that obliged municipitalities to put up any travellers without a place to stay. Was that why the Office de Tourisme had arranged this very comfortable billet for me at the former chateau? I was on foot, and as I hobbled in dripping with sweat, the O de T could tell I was the genuine article.
I have decided to walk to Carcassone along the canal. Not only is it easier and cooler, but today's prescribed route would have taken me through a forest. M. Lepere warns of the possibility of getting lost and suggests an alternative path along the road for nervous travellers. That was enough for me. Getting lost in a forest is a nightmare! Anywhere else, you just keep walking and eventually you arrive somewhere. In a forest you could walk around forever along winding roads leading nowhere. It is 80 kms to Carcassonne. I will stop at 20 km intervals, take four days, and rejoin M. Lepere there.
I eat breakfast, my usual two croissants and a coffee, at Cafe de la Grille, taking advantage of their wifi. Across the square is Cafe de la Paix where I had a couple of beers last night. They didn't have wifi. Nor did they tell me I could walk a few metres across the square to find it.
It is market day with all the familiar sights and sounds and smells as people set up their stalls.
The heavy thudding of a post, the clanging of metal scaffolding, the rumble of a cart, bursts of conversation of different tones and timbres, and the excited chatter of children on their way to school.
Cigarette smoke blends with fumes from the delivery vans. A tumble of onions reflects the early morning rays of the sun. A lady carefully arranges her oranges, best side up. (But she wouldn't fool my dear wife who would inspect them all very carefully, one by one, before buying.)
A little fox-terrier mix with "Jumbo" on his collar is barking at a black poodle who trots by in front of him. His master says "Assez" in time with his barking. Woof, Assez, Woof, Assez, Woof, Assez, until they both give up. The poodle is better behaved. His mistress mutters to him and he tries to look straight ahead, but he can't help sneaking a glance at his fellow canine. Why do little dogs make the loudest noise? An old man in the shape of an apostrophe shuffles across the square. The proprietor ventures out of his bar, stomach first.
There must have been a market in this square for hundreds of years. Much has remained the same: goods, people; only their carts have gone, to be replaced by modern vehicles. I wish I could linger longer.
It was almost half-past-nine by the time I left the village of Capestang. Soon I came upon a "Chantier Interdit" sign. In the past I have ignored these with varying consequences. This time the sign was on a wire mesh fence that ran from the border of the canal, across the bank, and out into a farmer's field. On the other side, a front-end loader was scooping mud out of a barge and dumping it in a chute where it flowed down onto the field like lava.
I wasn't going to mess around with mud so I followed the detour sign and ventured inland. But halfway into the field there was a chance to cut across and get back to the canal. I took it.
You never know with a detour sign. Is it in your best interests to follow it? In this case it would have been. Unbeknown to me, at that point the canal took a tight loop, and the detour was in fact a short cut. But I was back on the bank of the canal, now facing another chain fence and a "Chantier Interdit" sign. This was obviously the next dumping site for the canal mud. But it wasn't in operation yet, and I couldn't go back, so I sneaked around the end of the fence where it bordered the canal, dashed across the site, repeated the process on the other side, and then continued on. This was the big event of the day, which is why I have described it in some detail.
I walked on. Soon I came to a dredge which was sucking mud off the bottom and dumping it into a barge which would then be towed to the Chantier Interdit. Boats continued to pass by in both directions. I stopped for a salad at the little village of Argeliers. And then pressed on. Soon I crossed the branch of the canal which led down to Narbonne. And a few more kilometres and I arrived at Le Somail. I checked in at a chambre d'hôtes facing the canal.
Le Somail is a village that doesn't date back to antiquity. It developed as a little port on the Le Canal du Midi, the third evening stop for the postal boat out of Toulouse. A few old buildings, formerly associated with canal business, line the banks. The only jarring note is an ugly chateau d'eau which should have been placed out of town.
Interesting is a former library which was now a bookshop.
I had a couple of beers and then supper in the evening at the Auberge du Somail. It was a pleasant spot beside the canal. I could pick out the Brits from the large 500 cl jugs they were drinking, the closest thing to, and even more generous than, a pint. Some lads were jumping in from the top of the old stone bridge. If they had seen the poison which neighbouring farmers were pumping onto their grapes in the neighbouring fields, they might have been less keen.
At the next table was a mongrel dog, the kind that never gets chosen at the dogs' home. He was not handsome. I've seen him before in Australian outback towns, where he gets kicked by his master when the pub has no beer. And I've seen him in Spain on the Meseta, lying in the dirt in the hot sun. He wasnt even ugly. He was just brown and nondescript. And here he was again, this time sitting at a table with his master and mistress. Somebody loved him. Somebody didn't judge by appearances.
Day 7. June 12, 2014. Le Somail to Omps. 22 kms
Please slow down!
One day a fog came down upon the vine
And caught the budding insects in their prime.
While we, quite unaware, consume our wine
And stunted trees bear witness to the crime.
I left the chambre d'hôtes before nine, crossed the bridge, turned right, and walked along the south side of the canal. I passed a long stretch of dead plane trees, and then a string of newly-planteds, but some of these too were dead or dying. Something was amiss on this side of the river. On the other side they stood along the bank in all their majesty. So for much of the time I was in the sun, but the Coolgardie-safe effect of an oncoming breeze cooled me down.
The safe in my mother's kitchen was a wooden cupboard with fly-wire netting on the sides, keeping the butter and sugar, etc, "safe" from flies and ants and cockroaches. A Coolgardie safe was an ingenious device for keeping the food cool. The sides were of canvas which wicked up water from a little trough around the bottom, and the evaporation of the water cooled the canvas and the food inside.
I think I've mentioned before the huge cylindrical canvas water bags on Australian railway stations that worked on the same principle. More than sixty years later, I can taste the cool, canvassy flavour of the water.
This is a classic example of man's intellect in applying science. Observation and Application. And without Pollution! Our friends George and Josephine cool their house in Perth by the same principle, blowing air over water with a fan, instead of using wasteful and expensive air conditioning. And when the temperature rises above 40 degrees on the outside for days on end, they relax in the cool in the inside. (When we lived in Winnipeg, Canada, we would often notice how the temperature in Perth was as far above zero as we were below.)
So as I walked, I was cooled by the evaporation of the sweat on my shirt. I stopped for a real coffee at the the Chateau de Ventenac, for the brew this morning at breakfast was weak. I moved on.
There were still no trees on my side of the river, but they were thriving on the other bank. The canal was following the contour line: on my left were the vines on the plain; to my right, across the canal was a gentle slope up the hill. No vines. Now this is pure speculalation on my part, but had the trees been affected by the pesticide used on the vines? At my next stop I posed the question, and was told they were afflicted by a "maladie". But had the trees on the vineyard side been rendered more susceptible to the maladie by the pesticide? I have not seen any bees as I walk through this area.
And on the subject of maladies, some days ago I was served at a lonely cafe by a woman with the most brutal physical affliction I have ever seen. Dickens would have taken pleasure in describing her, but I won't. I imagined the pain she must have experienced as a child. Yet here she was, bravely and cheerfully venturing out in public, although she retreated inside when a party of children passed by. To spare them, I thought. What courage this woman displayed! I will refrain from any reflections on divine injustice.
All day long the boats passed by. A woman lifted her hand lazily, courtesy demanding that she respond to my bonjour.
Boats of all shapes and sizes are moored along the bank, some in excellent condition. The one above is functioning as an epicerie. Threatened by the wash of passing boats, others in bad repair or with very little freeway are in danger of foundering. In the one to the left, the sign says "Please slow down".
For lunch I ate a magnificent salad at Roubia. And then I walked on, taking another rest at the locks at Tourouzelle.
After another five kilometres, I arrived at Omps, and found another chambre d'hôtes next to the canal. And then I experienced moments of extreme delight, frustration and relief in quick succession. For the first time this trip, I came upon a bar that was serving draught Leffe, but could not find enough cash to buy one. She wouldn't accept a credit card for less than 10 euros. I would have to drink three of them and Leffe is strong beer. I retreated, emptied all my pockets, and finally scraped together the necessary €3.90.
It is easy walking along the canal, despite the heat, but I look forward to venturing into more interesting terrain.
And caught the budding insects in their prime.
While we, quite unaware, consume our wine
And stunted trees bear witness to the crime.
I left the chambre d'hôtes before nine, crossed the bridge, turned right, and walked along the south side of the canal. I passed a long stretch of dead plane trees, and then a string of newly-planteds, but some of these too were dead or dying. Something was amiss on this side of the river. On the other side they stood along the bank in all their majesty. So for much of the time I was in the sun, but the Coolgardie-safe effect of an oncoming breeze cooled me down.
The safe in my mother's kitchen was a wooden cupboard with fly-wire netting on the sides, keeping the butter and sugar, etc, "safe" from flies and ants and cockroaches. A Coolgardie safe was an ingenious device for keeping the food cool. The sides were of canvas which wicked up water from a little trough around the bottom, and the evaporation of the water cooled the canvas and the food inside.
I think I've mentioned before the huge cylindrical canvas water bags on Australian railway stations that worked on the same principle. More than sixty years later, I can taste the cool, canvassy flavour of the water.
This is a classic example of man's intellect in applying science. Observation and Application. And without Pollution! Our friends George and Josephine cool their house in Perth by the same principle, blowing air over water with a fan, instead of using wasteful and expensive air conditioning. And when the temperature rises above 40 degrees on the outside for days on end, they relax in the cool in the inside. (When we lived in Winnipeg, Canada, we would often notice how the temperature in Perth was as far above zero as we were below.)
So as I walked, I was cooled by the evaporation of the sweat on my shirt. I stopped for a real coffee at the the Chateau de Ventenac, for the brew this morning at breakfast was weak. I moved on.
There were still no trees on my side of the river, but they were thriving on the other bank. The canal was following the contour line: on my left were the vines on the plain; to my right, across the canal was a gentle slope up the hill. No vines. Now this is pure speculalation on my part, but had the trees been affected by the pesticide used on the vines? At my next stop I posed the question, and was told they were afflicted by a "maladie". But had the trees on the vineyard side been rendered more susceptible to the maladie by the pesticide? I have not seen any bees as I walk through this area.
And on the subject of maladies, some days ago I was served at a lonely cafe by a woman with the most brutal physical affliction I have ever seen. Dickens would have taken pleasure in describing her, but I won't. I imagined the pain she must have experienced as a child. Yet here she was, bravely and cheerfully venturing out in public, although she retreated inside when a party of children passed by. To spare them, I thought. What courage this woman displayed! I will refrain from any reflections on divine injustice.
All day long the boats passed by. A woman lifted her hand lazily, courtesy demanding that she respond to my bonjour.
Boats of all shapes and sizes are moored along the bank, some in excellent condition. The one above is functioning as an epicerie. Threatened by the wash of passing boats, others in bad repair or with very little freeway are in danger of foundering. In the one to the left, the sign says "Please slow down".
For lunch I ate a magnificent salad at Roubia. And then I walked on, taking another rest at the locks at Tourouzelle.
After another five kilometres, I arrived at Omps, and found another chambre d'hôtes next to the canal. And then I experienced moments of extreme delight, frustration and relief in quick succession. For the first time this trip, I came upon a bar that was serving draught Leffe, but could not find enough cash to buy one. She wouldn't accept a credit card for less than 10 euros. I would have to drink three of them and Leffe is strong beer. I retreated, emptied all my pockets, and finally scraped together the necessary €3.90.
It is easy walking along the canal, despite the heat, but I look forward to venturing into more interesting terrain.
Day 8. June 13, 2014. Omps to Marseillette. 23 ams
The mechanical garden just after Marseillette
Roll out the barrel
We'll have a barrel of fun
I was delighted to wake up to find that the Liberals had won the election in Ontario. They won because Ontarians respect their leader, a woman who wouldn't be leader in many countries in the world because she is gay. In a few, she wouldn't even be alive. The Conservatives lost because their leader couldn't do his sums. The NDP never had a chance because their platform was almost the same as the Liberals, and they had forced an unnecessary election in the hope of gaining power.
I should give you a brief summary of Canadian politics so that you can understand what is going on at next year's federal election. At the federal level, we have the same three parties: the Regressive Conservatives, the Excessive Liberals, and the Aggressive National Democratic Party (NDP).
The Regressive Conservatives used to be called the Progressive Conservatives but were taken over by reactionaries who don't believe in climate change. Some of them believe that the world was created 6,000 years ago. A few believe the world is flat, but their leader tries to keep them out of sight.Their domestic policy is to win votes by appealing to Canadians' self interest. Their foreign policy is to win the votes of immigrants who have ties with foreign countries. Under the Regressive Conservatives, Canada has lost its position of respect in the world.
The Liberals are the Natural Governing Party of Canada but have fallen onto hard times after funding scandals and a couple of idealistic but unpopular leaders. They will win the next election, because they have a handsome young Trudeau at the helm, and because Canadiians, who are basically decent people, are coming to their senses and realizing that Regressives are destroying the country.
The National Democratic Party was the party of Principle in Canada until they sensed a real prospect of forming a government. They used to be to be a Socialist party but now they are trying to replace the Liberals in the centre. Their leader is the most competent of the three, but he looks like a Bolshevik and refuses to shave his beard. They won't win. Appearances are important in Canadian politics.
With that unbiassed little primer you should be able to follow what's happening in the next election.
I continue to investigate the plight of the plane tree. The proprietor at my chambre d'hôtes this morning told me that the plane trees were dying because of a fungus in the water of the canal. A group of people at the next table where I drank a coffee at La Redout said it was the result of some bug brought over by Americans in munitions boxes during the war. I will continue to investigate.
In any case it is very sad. Like the elms which have disappeared all over Europe, the platane is a noble tree which provides shade all over southern Europe, and especially in les grandes places where they link their branches together to form a green canopy overhead.
Every so often I come to a lock. Next to it is always a substantial stone building rather resembling a French rural railway station. People mill about on the platform as they wait for the water level to rise or fall. As I entered a lock just before Marseillette, I was startled by a whirring of machines beside me. To my right was a mechanical garden with cycles and sewing machines and rods and wheels and cylinders and connecting rods, and even a dog who peed, all in motion, and all presided over by a stark-naked wooden woman on a bicycle, the whole affair being set off by a motion detector which sensed the movement of passers by. This was the dynamic exhibit. Further on was a stationary display of metallic figures of various shapes and sizes. I didn't linger though. I was put off by the unfriendly signs which indicated, No toilets! No drinking water!
At least half of the people I meet along the towpath are Anglophones. Most are riding the canal in groups. As I arrived at Marseiilette, I met a Queensland couple on bicycles. We shared stories about our previous experiences in France and commiserated about the heat (like Perth, he said), and talked about the gentillesse of the French people. These were very different Queenslanders from Old Alf, with whom I taught in Townsville 40 years ago, who, at his retirement party, in response to my asking if he were going to travel overseas in his retirement, said (Australian accent required here):
Australia's the best country in the world, mate. Why would I want to go overseas?
We'll have a barrel of fun
I was delighted to wake up to find that the Liberals had won the election in Ontario. They won because Ontarians respect their leader, a woman who wouldn't be leader in many countries in the world because she is gay. In a few, she wouldn't even be alive. The Conservatives lost because their leader couldn't do his sums. The NDP never had a chance because their platform was almost the same as the Liberals, and they had forced an unnecessary election in the hope of gaining power.
I should give you a brief summary of Canadian politics so that you can understand what is going on at next year's federal election. At the federal level, we have the same three parties: the Regressive Conservatives, the Excessive Liberals, and the Aggressive National Democratic Party (NDP).
The Regressive Conservatives used to be called the Progressive Conservatives but were taken over by reactionaries who don't believe in climate change. Some of them believe that the world was created 6,000 years ago. A few believe the world is flat, but their leader tries to keep them out of sight.Their domestic policy is to win votes by appealing to Canadians' self interest. Their foreign policy is to win the votes of immigrants who have ties with foreign countries. Under the Regressive Conservatives, Canada has lost its position of respect in the world.
The Liberals are the Natural Governing Party of Canada but have fallen onto hard times after funding scandals and a couple of idealistic but unpopular leaders. They will win the next election, because they have a handsome young Trudeau at the helm, and because Canadiians, who are basically decent people, are coming to their senses and realizing that Regressives are destroying the country.
The National Democratic Party was the party of Principle in Canada until they sensed a real prospect of forming a government. They used to be to be a Socialist party but now they are trying to replace the Liberals in the centre. Their leader is the most competent of the three, but he looks like a Bolshevik and refuses to shave his beard. They won't win. Appearances are important in Canadian politics.
With that unbiassed little primer you should be able to follow what's happening in the next election.
I continue to investigate the plight of the plane tree. The proprietor at my chambre d'hôtes this morning told me that the plane trees were dying because of a fungus in the water of the canal. A group of people at the next table where I drank a coffee at La Redout said it was the result of some bug brought over by Americans in munitions boxes during the war. I will continue to investigate.
In any case it is very sad. Like the elms which have disappeared all over Europe, the platane is a noble tree which provides shade all over southern Europe, and especially in les grandes places where they link their branches together to form a green canopy overhead.
Every so often I come to a lock. Next to it is always a substantial stone building rather resembling a French rural railway station. People mill about on the platform as they wait for the water level to rise or fall. As I entered a lock just before Marseillette, I was startled by a whirring of machines beside me. To my right was a mechanical garden with cycles and sewing machines and rods and wheels and cylinders and connecting rods, and even a dog who peed, all in motion, and all presided over by a stark-naked wooden woman on a bicycle, the whole affair being set off by a motion detector which sensed the movement of passers by. This was the dynamic exhibit. Further on was a stationary display of metallic figures of various shapes and sizes. I didn't linger though. I was put off by the unfriendly signs which indicated, No toilets! No drinking water!
At least half of the people I meet along the towpath are Anglophones. Most are riding the canal in groups. As I arrived at Marseiilette, I met a Queensland couple on bicycles. We shared stories about our previous experiences in France and commiserated about the heat (like Perth, he said), and talked about the gentillesse of the French people. These were very different Queenslanders from Old Alf, with whom I taught in Townsville 40 years ago, who, at his retirement party, in response to my asking if he were going to travel overseas in his retirement, said (Australian accent required here):
Australia's the best country in the world, mate. Why would I want to go overseas?
The Belgian host at the B&B a couple of nights ago had given me a card for a gite at Marseillette. Unfortunately, it was a couple of miles out of town but I trudged out anyway. Eventually I came upon a sign which said Gite Beauvoir 300m. I decided to test my theory that the French always underestimate distances. I noted the distance on my GPS and walked for 300 metres. I had arrived at another sign for Gite Beauvoir. I followed it. Three hundred metres later I arrived at the gite.
It was worth it. For 20€ I have a room to myself in an old wine barrel. My sleep tonight will be lightly oaked, with a touch of tannin.
It was worth it. For 20€ I have a room to myself in an old wine barrel. My sleep tonight will be lightly oaked, with a touch of tannin.
Day 9. June 14, 2014. Marseillette to Carcassonne. 23 kms
An old wine press at Gite Beauvoir
G'day, G'day, how yer goin'?
Whadya know? Well, strike a light.
G'day, G'day, how yer go-o-o-in'?
Just say G'day, G'day, and you'll be right. (Slim Dusty)
I slept well in my barrel. Adjacent barrels also had their occupants, but they were fast asleep when I climbed the stairs early this morning to heat up my coffee. The others were eating late, and the hospitalier wasn't going to make a special breakfast for me, so she left me some coffee, a few crusts of bread, and a strange jar of syrupy liquid to which, I think, I was expected to add water to make orange juice. I let it be.
The whole building is a veritable wine-making museum with its barrels and presses, and all the other related equipment.
I left the gite early, walked 600 metres to the 300 metre sign, and headed back to the canal. Then I marched on towards Carcassonne into a strong breeze.
I passed a fellow packing up his tent after camping on, or just off, the bank of the canal.
This year I am wearing Darn Tough socks. I like a challenge, don't you? When someone offers a replacement guarantee on a pair of socks if you wear them out, I like to wear them out and get them replaced. Every so often I replace my Tilley socks. They have a three-year guarantee. But this year I am trying Darn Toughs. They have a lifetime guarantee. I have two pairs which I switch from day to day as I walk. I'll let you know how they work out.
The village of Trebes where I had my real breakfast was as alive as Marseillette was dead. People bustled about in the shops and cafés that lined the street along the canal. Flowers added colour to the waterfront.
After that, the canal path was very busy. Walkers, joggers, innumerable cyclists. A family with a baby in tow in a little cart. And a young man in a wheel chair, also pulling a cart. And then the riders on horseback.
There must have been a hundred or more of them.They came in successive files, many of them looking rather nervous, obviously not accomplished equestrians. I stood well back, careful not to spook the horses and end up in the canal.
I had to tread warily after that. I remembered how our mothers used to send us out with a shovel to scoop up after the baker's cart and put it on the roses. Today, for the same purpose on Mayne Island, I visit the little farm with a sign out the front saying "Free Horse Poo".
I must have said "Bonjour" a thousand times today, and 999 responded in kind. Except for one fellow on a bike. "G'day," he said. He was tired of saying Bonjour.
And then, at the outskirts of Carcassone, from behind, another loud "G'day." What could have prompted that, I wondered. My Tilley Outback hat?
It was the Queenslanders. They had turned around. Had they continued, a train strike might have prevented them from travelling back to return the bikes they had rented. They thanked me for advice I had given them yesterday: that they would have no trouble riding along the towpath. They had been told it was too rough for bikes. They had also been told that the French were aloof and "up themselves". We agreed that nothing could be further from the truth.
It is curious that only the Australians have adopted an English equivalent of Bonjour. It is really a very sensible greeting, particularly around midday. How many times have you said "Good morning" only to realize a few minutes later that it was well into the afternoon?
I arrived at Carcassonne, and found lodgings at Notre Dame de l'Abbaye, at the foot of Cite Medievale.
I found the Cite chockablock with tourists buying trinkets and speaking a Babel of tongues. Some loud, crude Australian lads, with attendant admiring lasses, were drinking beer and keeping the Ocker image alive. I retreated outside the walls and sat in the calm under a plane tree.
A word about the Canal du Midi before I leave it tomorrow. It was built, not under the direction of Napoleon as I had thought, but earlier, between 1666 and 1681, to provide, by meeting the Garonne at Toulouse, a link between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean Seas. It was probably the biggest engineering feat of the century. Some of the banks are 20 to 30 feet high, and the canal passes over a number of rivers along the way.
Click here to continue the journey.
Whadya know? Well, strike a light.
G'day, G'day, how yer go-o-o-in'?
Just say G'day, G'day, and you'll be right. (Slim Dusty)
I slept well in my barrel. Adjacent barrels also had their occupants, but they were fast asleep when I climbed the stairs early this morning to heat up my coffee. The others were eating late, and the hospitalier wasn't going to make a special breakfast for me, so she left me some coffee, a few crusts of bread, and a strange jar of syrupy liquid to which, I think, I was expected to add water to make orange juice. I let it be.
The whole building is a veritable wine-making museum with its barrels and presses, and all the other related equipment.
I left the gite early, walked 600 metres to the 300 metre sign, and headed back to the canal. Then I marched on towards Carcassonne into a strong breeze.
I passed a fellow packing up his tent after camping on, or just off, the bank of the canal.
This year I am wearing Darn Tough socks. I like a challenge, don't you? When someone offers a replacement guarantee on a pair of socks if you wear them out, I like to wear them out and get them replaced. Every so often I replace my Tilley socks. They have a three-year guarantee. But this year I am trying Darn Toughs. They have a lifetime guarantee. I have two pairs which I switch from day to day as I walk. I'll let you know how they work out.
The village of Trebes where I had my real breakfast was as alive as Marseillette was dead. People bustled about in the shops and cafés that lined the street along the canal. Flowers added colour to the waterfront.
After that, the canal path was very busy. Walkers, joggers, innumerable cyclists. A family with a baby in tow in a little cart. And a young man in a wheel chair, also pulling a cart. And then the riders on horseback.
There must have been a hundred or more of them.They came in successive files, many of them looking rather nervous, obviously not accomplished equestrians. I stood well back, careful not to spook the horses and end up in the canal.
I had to tread warily after that. I remembered how our mothers used to send us out with a shovel to scoop up after the baker's cart and put it on the roses. Today, for the same purpose on Mayne Island, I visit the little farm with a sign out the front saying "Free Horse Poo".
I must have said "Bonjour" a thousand times today, and 999 responded in kind. Except for one fellow on a bike. "G'day," he said. He was tired of saying Bonjour.
And then, at the outskirts of Carcassone, from behind, another loud "G'day." What could have prompted that, I wondered. My Tilley Outback hat?
It was the Queenslanders. They had turned around. Had they continued, a train strike might have prevented them from travelling back to return the bikes they had rented. They thanked me for advice I had given them yesterday: that they would have no trouble riding along the towpath. They had been told it was too rough for bikes. They had also been told that the French were aloof and "up themselves". We agreed that nothing could be further from the truth.
It is curious that only the Australians have adopted an English equivalent of Bonjour. It is really a very sensible greeting, particularly around midday. How many times have you said "Good morning" only to realize a few minutes later that it was well into the afternoon?
I arrived at Carcassonne, and found lodgings at Notre Dame de l'Abbaye, at the foot of Cite Medievale.
I found the Cite chockablock with tourists buying trinkets and speaking a Babel of tongues. Some loud, crude Australian lads, with attendant admiring lasses, were drinking beer and keeping the Ocker image alive. I retreated outside the walls and sat in the calm under a plane tree.
A word about the Canal du Midi before I leave it tomorrow. It was built, not under the direction of Napoleon as I had thought, but earlier, between 1666 and 1681, to provide, by meeting the Garonne at Toulouse, a link between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean Seas. It was probably the biggest engineering feat of the century. Some of the banks are 20 to 30 feet high, and the canal passes over a number of rivers along the way.
Click here to continue the journey.