Let’s face it, most Mondays are a bit grim. For most of us, Monday means the carefree attitude of our Saturdays and Sundays coming crashing to a halt on the buffers of the new week. Freedoms curtailed, free will abolished and well worn routines re-established. Normally, coffee and a bleary eyed stumble into work are sufficient to crank the human engine into life.

It might be tough, launching into the new week, but it’s not every Monday that a trip to the Emergency Department is required to get the motor running. However, this was no ordinary Monday.

I blame the early morning email from a colleague demanding my attendance at some project meeting or other, of dire importance to her but of little interest or consequence to me. Such emails always gave me indigestion at the best of times. This was not the best of times. When the pain of indigestion both persists and marches down your left arm it’s probably best to miss the meeting. I decided to politely demur and instead make an alternative appointment with the medical profession.

I had no idea that this particular morning was to be the start of a journey. A journey that took me into the mountains of the Cathars; a journey that introduced me to the high Pyrenean panoramas; a journey that taught me the importance of good socks.
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In my house we now have a big sheet of flip chart paper with objectives and targets written on it in felt tip pen: my ‘bucket list’. The flip chart came about after my discharge from the cardiac care unit when I sat and wrote down some of things I’d forgotten I liked. There is nothing like a close brush with the grim reaper to remind you of the importance of life, of living life and of experiencing life. Sure, some of the things on the flip chart relate to professional achievements – “how do you want to be remembered old boy?” But not all. Right there in the middle it says ‘Do some more long distance walking.’

I am now in my fifties. Since the age of 18 I have done four long distance walks (definition: long-distance walks means a walk that lasts more than a day and requires some form of overnight accommodation along the way, be it tent or luxury spa). So that’s one a decade then, hardly a personally defining activity. But I liked them when I did them. Why didn’t I do more? If my past behaviour and the relentless march of time were any guide, I’d probably manage to fit in one more before various bits of internal or skeletal tissue gave up completely. Something had to change.

Sitting there in front of the fire in mid winter like a five year old with a crayon, I determined that I’d pack in as many walks as I could before…well before what ever else happened. And that is where the journey began.

Rose tells me that the next day dawned bright, although it was stretching a point to apply this description to our internal state on the advent of our adventures. The lovely people at the hotel, having had the foresight to stock their breakfast bar with the requisite amount of French carbohydrate and caffeine, waved us – now cheerily and cheered – on our way as we headed off to search for our car in the hotel car park.

Having located the car, we then proceeded to fill it up with Rose’s accoutrements, adding them to the vast array of wanderingman family belongings already spilling out of every crevice. From beers to a guitar, suitcases to multiple hats, our small chariot strained at the seams. Rose had brought not one but two rucksacks with him and we loaded and unloaded multiple times before settling on the perfect packing regime. At one point Rose disappeared back into the hotel to restock up on bread and jam, such was the carbohydrate sapping nature of the task. The sun too was playing its part in our encroaching exhaustion.

Compared to British, or indeed German and Italian motorways, French autoroutes are generally a joy. Fast moving, under-occupied and efficient due no doubt to the preference of most French drivers to tootle along behind militant tractor drivers on parallel ‘N’ roads rather than pay the tolls, they provide a speedy link to far flung destinations in the vast country. So we slipped effortlessly through the tollgate and onto one such road heading towards Toulouse, not wishing, in true Monty Python style, to squander any of our precious time.

After negotiating the Toulouse ring road, heartily sick even of this excellent French motorway, we headed south into the Pyrenees up the Ariege valley, which unbeknown to us, geography not being our strong suit, was actually to be the end of our walk seven days later. Coasting east behind several agricultural vehicles, we eventually turned off to stop for a coffee at a lovely medieval village called Mirapoix.

We entered through an old medieval city gate, to find ourselves in a typical Bastide town, with a central market square surrounded by wooden gargoyled buildings, their first floors covering wide promenade pavements on all sides. We wandered around, not something that took an inordinate amount of our time, before settling down to some gargoyle spotting and a coffee. Despite the close proximity of beer-o-clock we sensibly abstained for a few more minutes as the restaurants began their rigid French opening routine.

No one in France is allowed, by law one presumes, to eat lunch before the clock has struck midday. Prior to this time it is perfectly acceptable to consume as much coffee as is possible, provided one does not allow solids to pass one’s lips. The ritual of the French lunch is a thing to behold. The only people able to consume even a modicum of victuals are the staff themselves, who raise a well practised digit in the direction of the famished populace by sitting outside their own restaurants scoffing away from 11.30 onwards. Aside from the cooks, servers and bottle washers, the tables are empty until 12.00. By 12.01, there is not a chair to be had anywhere, as the French multitudes descend for their obligatory two-hour repast.

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Rose and I played a blinder. We spotted a restaurant slightly off the main square and down a little street, offering a traditional local lunchtime menu. We checked out the menu using the well known ‘sideways glance’ technique. Of particular merit, was the impressive moustache sported by the patron. That was the clincher. Of course, we could not allow our mounting excitement to become apparent to the swirling mass of other waiting diners, so we walked quickly back to the main square and feigned just enough subtle interest in the other restaurants to keep our opponents guessing. Our real interest we kept entirely covert.

At last, as the town clock approached midday, we judged our approach and headed smartly towards our goal, selecting and sitting down at the best table outside just as the hour turned. Our puzzled competitors looked on with bewilderment but we had our prize, and ultimately, our lunch.

We were not disappointed. Lunch in France really is a marvel. Rarely costing more than 10-12 Euros, it generally consists of three courses with bread and wine or coffee. Such a meal in the evening would cost twice as much. “When in France, eat at lunchtime young man”. We ate a traditional local meal including the best boudin (black/blood pudding) either of us had ever tasted. Dense and chewy, it was as chalk is to cheese in comparison to the dull breakfast fare we were used to in the UK. Accompanied by as much bread as we could eat, salad, desert and a carafe of very passable red wine we sat and marvelled at the other fools munching their hamburgers in the square.

Sufficiently fortified and now fully recovered from the previous night’s excursions we once more found our selves directionally challenged by the onward route . Driving in and out of town twice was a little excessive but clearly necessary as we eventually left Mirapoix’s orbit in the direction of Quillan, our destination for the evening. Firstly, however, we had an appointment to keep. We had some beer to taste. We were headed for the Brasserie Du Quercorb.

 

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.

 

With such a perfect preparation for the subsequent day’s exertions we slept like babies and breakfasted like French aristocracy on cereal, baguette, jams and coffee, prepared by one of the many daughters of the landlady, emphatically contradicting Mitzi’s restless assertion the previous evening that there was nowhere in the village to sow his seed. We set off once again, heading across the fields leading to the range of mountains we had viewed from the top of Puivert castle.

Crossing this agricultural valley floor, we came across a few people whom we were to get to know well – the ‘Encore Couple’ and Richard – but who were at that time mere strangers, greeted only by cordial grunts and nods. After around 40 minutes a light rain began to fall and we decided to temporarily don our wet weather gear, the better to ensure our hiking garb would keep us warm. At that stage we had no idea that temporary was subject to a new definition: ‘all day’. The rain never abated as we had hoped.

The path then headed off into a forest, a forest that we would not leave until we had climbed out of the valley and onto the Plateau de Sault ahead of us. We would not be dry again until we had ended the day in Espezel.

Our last encounter with the built environment came in the village of l’Escale, a poignant spot, having been totally destroyed by the German army in 1944 as retaliation for resistance activity, just two weeks before the occupying forces retreated from France. It was just as the path entered l’Escale that we had our first real encounter with the Encore Couple. We had taken a wrong turning into the village looking for the barracks and were returning along the same path when they emerged from the forest. She appeared to be wearing a black bin liner whilst he was walking along in full usual hiking wear but protected from the rain by a large umbrella.

The couple sought our advice as to the whereabouts of the same barracks we were looking for. We told them where it was not – i.e. where we had just looked – and headed off to find the museum ourselves. We stopped to look at the displays and add our signatures to the visitors book in the mock ‘barracks’ – a hut modelled on the temporary structures built by the French government to house the villagers in the ruins of their once beautiful hamlet. The displays showed the destruction wrought on their houses and the shoddy replacements that was all that could be afforded immediately after the war until the village was rebuilt from stone many years later.

After this brief respite from the rain, we headed off again. We embarked on 500m of muddy climbing through the woods as the rain intensified. It was a cheerless steep slog up through the forest. The end was finally reached as the path emerged out on the Plateau de Sault at a picnic site. We declined to open our soggy bags to extract our lunch, beautifully prepared by one of Mitzi’s missed opportunities, and pressed on through an entirely different landscape, open and heather covered, although impossible to gather a sense of scale due to the inclement weather and low cloud.

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We were, however, getting better at this navigation thing. Unlike a party of Belgian and Canadian hikers we were to become friends with the next day, we actually took this turn and trudged the remaining two kilometres into the village, past a maelstrom of other circulating walkers trying to find their way. At the centre of this whirlwind were the Encore Couple and Richard.

We once again took the right path, entered the village to the couple’s cries of “Encore. Encore” and arrived at our hotel – ‘Le 100 Unique’. We immediately ordered a coffee to warm us up. This hotel, run by a Flemish speaking Belgian man and his uniquely French speaking female helper, was populated by walkers, French forestry and farming workers, and an eight week Pyrenean mountain dog ball of fur, which proceeded to eat John’s rucksack. The coffee came with a variety of very welcome chocolate treats, tickling our appetite for our lunch.

Eventually after much debate between the proprietors, we were shown to our freezing cold room. Unable to turn the heating on, we ate our sandwiches hunched over the bin in the room, then showered for warmth and fell asleep. Feeling much better, and it obviously being beer o’clock, we re-joined the locals in the bar where a couple of glasses of fine Belgian ale soon restored our spirits.

This was certainly the most eccentric place we stayed at. In addition to the faux par of John munching someone else’s bar snacks, partially cleared puppy poo and a bill written out on the back of a beer mat, the whole atmosphere was a little curious to say the least. Nonetheless, we had an excellent meal with very formal French introductions to each course and rather cheffy displays of lettuce propelled cucumber decorations.

We repaired to the bar for a final nightcap and by following Mitzi’s instructions from the previous evening sought out some of the local moonshine – Eau de Vie – made from fermented prunes. This was duly dispensed by the owner from a plain Vittel bottle amongst much boasting about how he made the area’s ‘gold medal’ hooch, even supplying us with the recipe (80kg prunes, 2 kg sugar in case anyone wants to replicate his achievements). Very fine it was too. What remained of the rest of the evening is a blur.