Dawn broke around 6.00am. It could have easily been noon, so effective were the electric blinds outside our window. Gingerly we pressed the button to raise them. Thunderbirds are go!
Despite the weather forecast, it was still raining. Our balcony overlooked the hills we had observed the previous evening, now cloaked in angry looking rain clouds. Probably just as well we could not see the tops, since our walk took us only one way – up. We shuddered in apprehension. We already knew the severity of our task. This first day required us to climb around 500 metres out of the valley and up to the first of the several Pyrenean plains we were to come across during our walk.
We now embarked upon a prolonged phase of multiple rucksack faffing. In and out went various essential and non-essential items. Rose shuffled items from one of his rucksacks to another and then back again. Weights were tested, found to be too heavy and discarded. Additional items, thought essential a few minutes earlier, were removed. Then, second thoughts led to their rehabilitation into our baggage. It was a seemingly endless, shuffling dance.
Aside from its inherent pleasure, faffing was an essential precursor to our hike. Anything forgotten or left behind in Quillan would be out of commission for the next six days. Eveningwear was the most problematic. As good as it would be to remove feet and bodies from boots and sweaty garb, did we really need those swanky outfits? In and out they went.
We eventually settled on the ideal weight to utility ratio and went down to breakfast at 7.00. The usual French fare of baguette and jam was supplemented by a bonus omelette freshly cooked by the lovely lady in charge of these things at the hotel. Anxious, in more than one way, to be actually on our way we kitted up, deposited all unnecessary articles of clothing in the car boot, gave the hotel lady our car keys and headed off to the Boulengerie we had identified the previous evening to buy our Sunday morning bread, the last remaining item on our shopping list.
And here is the list:
- Saucisson x1
- Onions x2
- Tomatoes x2
- Packet of crisps (large) x 1
- Apple x 1
- Pamplemouse x1 (look it up!)
- Baguettes (small) x 2
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Feeling very French we contemplated the beginning of the Cathar Way.
The clouds had lifted and we were in perfect sun. The path crossed the road in front of our hotel and after the obligatory pose by a handy sign pointing the way out of town our virtual referee blew his whistle and we were off up the road. As ever when hiking, it is often the sections around towns that provide the most challenge but we pressed on unerringly up a small side street guided by our excellent Cicerone guidebook.
We walked up through meadows for a short while and then dropped down into the pretty village of Ginoles through a slew of fallen figs, where Rose, for some reason only known to himself, insisted on posing by an old US army jeep parked in a small square. The path quickly left the village and it and we climbed (slowly) across a series of rocky outcrops into woodland up a ridge. We crossed the head of a valley, with ever more impressive views of Quillan on our right and then climbed another steep ridge, sweating profusely as the town receded further into the valley behind us whilst the mountains on the other side of the valley – representing the other half of the walk that had we had two weeks we would have completed the previous day – rose up into our view. It was a magnificent sight.
This vicious uphill section of our first day was brought to an end as we emerged, dripping, from the woods onto a side road. Our first half, consisting of the majority of the climbing for the day, was over.
After an imaginary half time break for tea and oranges we pressed on with what we imagined was to be the second half of our day, briefly following the road past a hunting kennels and then along through farmland. Once more we emerged from the trees at a village, although this time the little hamlet of La Fage framed a wonderful view along the farmed plateau towards our destination for the evening – Puivert with its castle strikingly poised above the valley.
Feeling smug, we set off for our target, the small ridge on the other side of the valley, along which we would need to traverse in order to reach the castle, the village itself, our B&B, and, most importantly, the brewery. We tramped on through the village of Nebias, across the valley road along which we had driven so blithely the previous afternoon and up to the ridge.
It was a lovely walk; through dappled woods with occasional views back the way we had come and forward to the end of the valley. Making great progress, at first we decided to wait to eat lunch at the castle, then we postponed it still further to an imagined heaven of sausage, onion and beer at the brewery.
As we came to the end of the path and the valley the full time whistle went. We breathed a sigh of relief. However, the referee had other ideas. Our hopes were dashed as the Ref indicated we were in for extra time. At a T-junction, the route very clearly pointed assuredly up; up a path of unbelievable steepness, rocky and ridged as it disappeared up and around a bend to the left.
Incredulously, we hit the slope up to the ridgeline above our heads, upon which Puivert castle stood. Easy to write, far more painful to undertake as our reducing sugar and energy levels took their toll. The path not only went up, but it angled back the way we had just come and then, amongst much grumbling, puffing and sweating, it headed back down (yes, down again – so why did the path go up in the first place?) to the castle – our first Cathar Castle at the end of probably the most pointless ascent of the whole walk.
But we were here. This was what had motivated Rose’s worldwide odyssey, before us the ruins of an ancient pile just waiting to be clambered all over. We deposited our rucksacks under the watchful eye of the monument guardian’s dog and headed in, through and under the gated guardhouse. Seeking enlightenment and direction – ever mindful of our capacity to get hopelessly lost, we sat down under the roof of an open plan barn beside a large scale model of the tin man from the Wizard of Oz and attempted to watch a helpful video on the castle geography and history, promising ‘le video de Johnny Depp’.
Problem number 1: how to switch the video machine on.
- Solved by pressing the on button.
Problem 2: how to change channels with a controller of completely different manufacture to the one on the laminated instruction sheet with graphic arrows and labels.
- Solved by trial and error.
Problem 3: how to change language
- (see problem 2 above).
As all systems were go we settled down clutching our metaphorical tubs of ice cream and pop corn (we were in fact delirious with hunger, of this more later) to watch the main feature wherein Johnny would take us on a tour of the castle and point out – in English – the main points of architectural, cultural and historical interest.
Frankly, the show was a bit of a disappointment. The English ‘translation’ consisted of a series of dreamy shots of the castle features, each one with a caption consisting solely of the name of the feature; in French.
Problem 4: how to turn the video off.
- not solved; dealt with by getting up from our seats (upturned milk churns) and walking away, the subliminal message being clearly, get up off your bums and look for yourselves you lazy English tourists.
At least the disappointment of the video had softened us up a little for the rest of the visit. Essentially, the message is clear – if you are thinking of making a special journey to Cathar country, spreading your maps and guidebooks out on the table, highlighting potential places of interest, make sure your gaze passes well beyond Puivert. Do not go out of your way to visit Puivert castle. There is more interesting paint to watch peeling in your back room.
After looking at a few desultory cabinets of reproduction Occitan musical instruments we emerged on the roof of the main castle tower to survey the land. Finally, we had something to shout about. It was not so much that Puivert castle had redeemed itself; this was more the responsibility of the surrounding countryside. To our left was the route we had come along the valley, to our right our village halt, and ahead of us a wall of green covered mountains that was the barrier to our next day’s hike. The cloud was beginning to form but we could see clearly the head of the next valley and the climb up still further into the mountains. We saw that this day was merely the first of the three large climbs we had to do to reach the high point of our hike at 2000m in a couple of day’s time.
Thoroughly sobered, we realised that this was not a desirable state to be in and headed for the brewery. Despite the promise of imminent sausage and onion, Rose felt the need to behave like an animal and buried his face in his pamplemouse on the way down the path. He could have rolled downhill but preferred a sugar crazed desent, pamplemouse providing him with the required energy to get to the pub, probably not for the first time.
At the end of a 21km hike and 700m of climbing, there we were again at the site of people living our dream – craft brewing in France. The previous day, as mentioned earlier, we had set up a session with Mitzi, the Irish assistant brewer, and lo and behold there he was to greet us with the words, “Dr Livingstone I presume?” Unfortunately, by this time the cloud had really come over and the temperature had dropped so our sausage, onion, beer and bread nirvana had to be indulged inside the little tap room rather than outside on the patio. No matter, we made friends with the assembled local drinkers – strong French onions really help in this regard – and settled down to a few pints of the best craft beer we had tasted so far in France (which given the brewery’s local craft beer monopoly was not so difficult).
After friendly arguments as to the merits of blondes, pales and stouts, plus a few discussions about beer as well, we set off rather late down the 50m road to our B&B. Sensing a little frostiness at our late arrival, John helpfully mollified the landlady by explaining that we had been in the pub all afternoon. Nonetheless, after dressing for dinner and behaving with our best bonhomie, we all made friends over a couple of carafes of red wine and a superb meal of salad, steak gujons and rhubarb crumble. The landlady was an English woman who was about to start her night shift as a nursing assistant in the local hospital and so we connected and the previous frostiness melted.
Given our very own front door key, the obvious next step was to seek a digestif somewhere in the village. Surprisingly for such a tiny place there were options, although sadly the brewery tap had closed for the evening. Nonetheless, after a quick diversion into someone’s front room and local puppetry workshop, we found an Afganistani restaurant and ordered Calvados and Prune Eau de Vie. Fortunately, the quiet contemplation of the evening was resolved by the appearance of Mitzi who regaled us with tales of French living and more digestifs.
Suitably refreshed and feeling very virtuous we headed back to bed, Rose to his little bunk bed cot and myself to a grown up bed. We slept the sleep of those who know that further exertions lie ahead. We had no idea.