Reflections on Our Peregrinations in France: Adrien 'Edmund' Berk

Reflections on Our Peregrinations in France:  Adrien 'Edmund' Berk

Adrian Fox <adriangfox@gmail.com>	Fri, Oct 4, 2:21 PM (5 days ago)
to crispinroad

Meant to send you a couple of snaps...

Where is the ventolin when you need it: Rocamadour

After a sleepless night due to a tired and emotional Oscar who wanted to awake the hotel at 2 a.m.,  5 a.m. and finally 6 a.m.,  we finally got going this morning at around 9.30 to descend the vast 'Dimril Stair'  down the cliff edge from the chateau at the top of the cliffs.

Going down is easy,  but looking back up made my atrial fib. go into overdrive just at the prospect of walking back up.  Hundreds of tourists even at this time of year,  which probably explains why the locals reply with monosyllabic grunts when spoken to brightly and with friendly tones. 

Both 'ascenseurs'  seem to be closed at this time of year, perhaps in a bid to eliminate a good proportion of the elderly population and pilgrims.  

We thought we would take the 'easy' way back up which involves a long detour along the bottom of the valley and then wending your way back up via the next village along.  But the residents seem to have a cunning wheeze of banning pedestrians on the crucial bits of road (where cars can still hurtle legally along at 50 kph round the bends) but walkers are forced to ascend enormous flights of steep cardiac arrest provoking steps between the bends in the road. 

I finally made it gasping to a potential restaurant and bar at the top of hillside and had a beer, but discovered that the only thing on offer to eat was 'confit du canard' which i had yesterday and from which I am still suffering.  A trek to the next tourist restaurant produced an identical experience,  only with magret du canard.  So our lunch today is a banana,  probably a more healthy option.  

Today a vist to St Girons to find a supermarket,  as they do not appear to have any shops in this locality,  not that open on Sunday or Monday either.  After a gruelling walk in heavy rain along the valley and over the wooded hillside we ended up in heavy rain.  We got to our nearest town of Massat after two hours where I was gasping for coffee only to find every cafe and bar closed.

Today should have been better as the sun was shining and we at least found an open restaurant and a tourist office,  but in the entire town of St Girons, not a supermarket in sight.  Sally found a charity shop and proceeded to buy lots of unneeded clothes while an old biddy made a great fuss of Oscar.  it is interesting that it was apparently the very same old biddy we used to have in the Air Ambulance charity chop in Westbury and who also exists in the Red Cross shop in Le Lude near our home,  and here she was in a Pyreneean mountain town. And I never asked her if her name was Miranda!  

Not surprisingly it seems St Girons is somewhat stuck in the dark ages as we took this street scene photo,  lovingly switched to monochrome on the camera for the sake of authenticy.....

Lovingly attached by the side of the square (or at least this mural) were the words... 'Macron, expulsez les islamistes, et à bas Rothschild.' so Madame Le Pen has been rather active down here.  

After the sojourn here,  herself decided my atrial fibrillation had not had sufficient challenge today,  so we were made to stop at a village on the return trip with a small road rising vertigiinously 

towards a viewpoint on the mountain near a tiny hamlet called 'Erp'.  (Apparently the orginal scene for the 'La fusillade au Corral OK' (geddit?))

About two km up the twisting road we had already nearly been mown down twenty times by local Ariegois who are clearly determined to annihilate the scourge of out of season tourism 

from their locality and I was already gasping for breath and believing my indigestion from too much 'salade de gesiers' must be a myocardial infraction;  so I decided that using my trusty indelible

felt pen was called for.  You can see the justifiable vandalism to the village sign,  here, leaving a permanent Anglo Saxon comment for the locals to consider about the wisdom of their driving, 

during the long winter months.

We seem to have a neighbour here, also a 'giteist',  so we have invited her to quaff some wine with us this evening.

She claims to be the election agent for an SNP MP in the Scottish Highlands so may be quite interesting,  or very

boring of course.  She is looking to buy somewhere down here, as it would be I guess a home from home for those

used to wheezing up and down unnecessarily steep slopes,  but I think Brexit is the main reason.  Perhaps she

is an advance ambassatrice to establish friendly relations between a newly independent Ecosse and the 

hilly lands of southern France.   After all, the Scots did spend a lot of time backing the French in the days of

Agincourt and Crecy, so perhaps she will feel at home.

On the road again today, as it is raining and even herself thinks my atrial fibrillation can go unchallenged today.

We pick up a hitchhiker on the mountain road to Tarascon but he is only going as far as Massat so has to pile into the back of the car with Oscar, who is most affronted.  

Twenty minutes later I cannot believe my luck, when after the 'Twerp' experience, we suddenly rush through a village called 'PRAT'  (on my children's graves!) .  I am overcome with a great urge to grab my magic marker pen to affix TW to obscure the PR,  but not only will herself not let me,  but she refuses to take my camera to photograph the sign.  It is lost in the distance and she has not even removed the lens cap to assent to my request of recording the village in perpetuity.   Never mind, it just has got to be on the social media,  or even a Youtube video,  but you will certainly find it on a large scale Michelin,  should you doubt my words.

At Tarascon,  we might as well be in Spain, as the accents have a Catalan 'tang',  the houses are in the same style,  and we even find a Tapas restaurant at which to eat.,  We indulge in chipirones,  patatas bravas,  and various other tame imitations of 'cocina espanola'.  No Spanish vino available so I drink gut rot from Toulouse. (which of course tastes of tar).

On to Foix,  hoping that ma foie has not been badly affected by the wine, ce fois,  sur ma foi!

Il était une fois,
Une marchande de foie,
Qui vendait du foie,
Dans la ville de Foix.
Elle se dit ma foi,
C'est dernière fois,
Que je vends du foie,
Dans la ville de Foix.

A great discovery!   Who'd have thought it.  There in the medieval quarter not far from the chateau,  Eureka!

The fair Sally and I have barely time to tarantella with joy around the rooms and gulp down a quick coffee.   But in the ancient loo, scrawled in early 20th century felt tip are the words:  'Ive just had an astounding idea for a poem.  I think I will call it,  'Matilda'.  Or on second thoughts,  'Tarantella' '  Belloc H. 1909.  

Even more spooky was underneath the words,  'Great poem,  Hilly!   I am going to teach that to 4A in your memory '   Revill,  P,  1953.

I felt certain that this was some very clever choice of name for the bar by an enterprising owner,  but then a few minutes later while strolling the streets of the quartier,  we found this little 'rue'.   So I am still unsure whether the auberge is named after the Rue, or the Rue named after the poem, or both named after the poem.  

On the road again to return to Massat, on a twisting and dangerous road, which brings me to our fears and complaints about 'Agathe',  our trusty and dependable Sat Nav.  I would say we now 'owned' a Sat Nav but this would imply a master slave relationship with Agathe which she would not like.

Both Sally and I are Sat Nav virgins so you must forgive our misgivings, but although Agathe does fairly well on large roads like Route Nationales or D minor roads, once she gets into mountainous and remote terrain she suffers from some kind of nervous breakdown.  

My suspicion is that she was programmed by a disgruntled employee of Garmin (our 'brand') on a Friday afternoon who put murderous intent into her psychopathic personality.  There can be no other explanation for the way she tells us to 'Tournez a gauche,  puis serrez a droit',  which would take us on precipitous routes on minor roads across the highest peaks in this part of the Pyrenees, roads marked on the map as 'dangerous' and 'to be avoided at all costs'.  

Agathe also has this tendency to believe that any small road no matter how many hairpin bends,  and no matter how vertically challenged, can be negotiated at the limit of 80 kph,  and makes her prediction of arrival time on this basis.  Perhaps she knows that if we follow her instructions to the letter, we will NEVER arrive, so it matters little.

Perhaps you have more knowledge of these things than us,  but I have been ordered to switch Agathe off ("What are you doing Pin?....I'm sorry, Dave (whoops,  Plin!). I'm afraid I can't do that.  This journey is too important for me to allow you to jeopardize it........I know that you and Sally were planning to disconnect me, and I'm afraid that's something I cannot allow to happen.")

Of course, ever since we bought Agathe,  Sally has been consumed with jealousy and not only disagrees with Agathe's every proposal,  but has now taken to talking loudly every time she tells me where to go. 

Never trust technology!

The one thing on which she can be depended, is warning us of every speed limit and tight bend.   The villages and towns here have a myriad of not only 50 kph limits but endless 'humps' and unpredictable zones restricted to 30kph.  Yet as we know, the French driver is not bred to obey such namby pamby rules,  and drives at many times the legal limit and would have no self respect unless seen hurtling into 30 kph zones at 60 kph, and ideally,  on the wrong side of the road.  French cars are also specially designed to take humps at high speed, while British ones are not. 

On the return road to Massat,  we ended up in a long line of traffic which was following two motorcyclists,  one of whom seemed to be a learner, and overtaking would be largely suicidal and probably homocidal.  Besides,  the metal frame of a crushed motorbike plays havoc with the coachwork on an expensive modern car. 

I noticed that five or six vehicles behind me was a gendarme vehicle, which I assumed was watching the traffic like a hawk, ready to pull out and nab anybody exceeding the 80 kph limit that applies everywhere or stopping anyone who overtook dangerously.   I was also conscious of my 25 cl of 'wine like tar' sloshing around in my veins and brain from lunch time and was nervous of being stopped.

I was therefore astonished and bewildered when approaching a hairpin bend with various vehicles approaching head on in the other lane,  the gendarme vehicle suddenly pulled out,  overtook around eight other vehicles into oncoming traffic, and then swerved back into place just in time.

Now in such circumstances I know it can always be justified that the gendarmes were on an urgent mission to arrest someone who had failed to tip a waiter at the local hostelry or to get home early for their 'diner',  but what happened next perplexed me even more when most of the other vehicles behind us,  all breaking the national speed limit, and equally risking life and limb, while still in plain view of the gendarme vehicle, pulled out into the other lane scattering oncoming traffic into their nearside verges,  and sped off in the direction of Erp and Massat.  

Agathe would definitely not approve as she bleeps me for doing 71 kph literally 30 cm from the 'end of limit' sign and she warns me of every approaching limit and sign with angry beeps. 

As we have had speeding fines on virtually every trip we have made around France and my licence has many colorful 'stamps' on it in consequence,  I had hoped a Sat Nav would prevent this happening in future, but it seems she just upsets and frustrates the other drivers following on behind me.

Our tranquil paradise has been despoiled.  We were awoken this morning to the sound of a lorry manoeuvring on the steep hillside outside the gite, and then the rattle of a cement mixer even before it was light.  There were two men rendering the empty building next door who didn't respond well to my intimations that they were buggering up my peaceful holiday.   At least they had gone when we got back this evening. 

Adrian Fox <adriangfox@gmail.com>	10:03 PM (8 minutes ago)
to Terry

You have no idea of the untold harm that your casual references to Anus and Corps-Nud can cause!

This morning, our last day in Ariege,  I was looking forward to a day of requiescence and gourmandise,  when my partner asserted, having glanced my emails,  that it was obligatory before we left to visit the 'Cascades d'Ars'  (the final 'e' has obviously been omitted in the interests of decency).

This would involve a mere 5 hour trek through steep mountain forests and across precipitous hillsides,  and would be 'a wonderful way' to conclude our short holiday here. I notice from my Google history she has been going through my pension and investments data again!

I did of course Google the said Cataracts prior to departure and although they were worryingly described as 'facile',  various visitors had strongly discounted this 'false news' with graphic accounts of exhaustion, broken limbs and fatal cardiac arrests on the narrow tracks.  

Our trip required a precarioous and serpentine route up through a mountain pass and down hairpin bends to the small town of Aulus-les-Bains,  a hot water spa for hypochondriacs, one of which we met during our brief sojourn.  On arrival I tried to postpone the inevitable purgatory to come by suggesting a visit to the tourist office and a strong coffee before we departed.

In the tourist office, a potbellied 'boule de suif' called Arsène was sitting beside his desk sorting tourist leaflets and I asked him immediately whether the walk to the Arse Falls was indeed 'facile'.   

"Bien sur, " he replied.  " Just five hours of gentle walking.  Even a child could do it!  Ne t'inquietes pas!"  

Subsequently I began to appreciate how these things work.  'Facile' means 'painless' as in 'microsurgery on your private parts is totally painless'.  This lard cake bureaucrat had obviously never actually done any of these walks himself,  and with his malicious sense of humour had just used Google maps (satellite version) to give what he hoped might be a suitable nomenclature for the gullible tourists.

I didn't even get my coffee as it seemed the entire village of Aulus was without any cafe or bar that opened out of season,  so desperate and dry throated we set out on the 'walk'.

On the way we met these thirty somethings coming down from the sheep pastures  so I enquired of them the likely duration and effort required to make the ascent to the 'cascades'.  A look of horror entered into the young woman's eyes, and in some unintelligible local dialect she grunted words of warning to me and then crossed herself five times.

Sally was undismayed so we started the ascent, first through a hard track for around two kilometres and then onto rough terrain with precipitous drops into the valley below in wooded mountainside.

You may have noticed the sign pointing the way at the top of this mail,  with the clear 'No entry' sign for motor vehicles,  so were dismayed and irked when first a Spanish registration off road vehicle when grinding past us exuding diesel fumes, and then a French vehicle with a plump sheep farmer.   More of the 'Spaniards' later.  You may know the saying about the administration and enforcement of law and rules across Europe, from Russia, to Germany, to the UK and finally to France.  Suffice it to say that it goes,  'En France, tout est permis, meme les choses qui sont interdites.'

The track went higher and higher and soon we were clambering over boulders and skipping across mountain streams descending the hillside.  It really was like the Dimril Stair, but no Gollum in sight.

Eventually, an hour into the climb I collapsed on to a boulder and tried to catch my breath,  overcome with hot and cold sweats,  atrial fibrillation, nausea and anxiety. Nevertheless,  'Haven't I done well!' went through my mind as it was only two hours to the top and there was at least an outside chance I might make it to the cascades before collapsing. 

Suddenly through the calm came the distant noise of children's laughter and other deeper voices and round the bend from the gloom of the trees, came a young couple with two very young girls (seven and six we later discovered).  The humiliating fact was that they were catching us up and on the point of overtaking us!

I did my best to communicate but my cheerful 'Bonjour!' and gabbled message in perfect French about the wonders of the valley and beauty of the surroundings was met with incomprehension and a look of bewildered confusion.  Eventually,  when I stopped, the dark young man came out with the single word,  'Espanol',  so I dived into my rusty Spanish,  making jokes about 'viejos' and then asking the child 'Cuantos anos, tienes?'  ..... but reply came there none, just a confused look.  I tried again and enquired of the swarthy young man 'Donde viva Vd en Espana?'

I think at this point the peseta dropped as he said,  'No somos espanolas,  somos de Israel'.  Of course we then tried English and found both he and his wife spoke it fluently.  They are on a holiday in France having travelled up from Spain and not speaking a word of French.

I judiciously avoided mentioning that in my youth I had been a keen supporter of the PLO and Yasser Arafat,  and they went sprinting off up the rocks heading towards the falls,  while we laboured on behind them on the ever steepening slopes and rock stairway. Unfortunately,  they appeared to have stopped for lunch at one particular ledge and as we passed them they appeared to be picnicking on sausage rolls,  but I did not mention it.

We eventually arrived at the cascades,  very worth visiting,  gasping and sweating and distraught that we had to climb some few hundred feet down the cliff side again to look back and photograph the waterfall.   A mass of students of various foreign extractions were perched around the path,  Japanese,  Chinese and French and had obviously been sent off from their summer school or activity camp to pay a visit to the cascades.   When they had finished gawping they disappeared en masse like mountain goats up a vertical path which led to the very top of the mountain. 

As always happens on such occasions,  most of my photos have turned out as crap, mainly because I decided to stick my cheap Chinese telephoto lens on the end of the camera,  not realising this buggers up the automatic focus.   I had hoped my view down the mountain to the village where we left lost in the distance and mists below would have suitably impressed you, but that was not to be.

Nor indeed can I share with you, the sight of Ron 'Birdman' Queyntely soaring from a surrounding peak,  captured through the trees as he spends a long holiday in the Pyrennees.  This is the best I could get and were it not for his 'sky writing' with the smoke from a crowscarer, neither of us would have been any the wiser.

We arrived back at Aulus-les-Bains, exhausted and thirsty and I bought and quaffed a strange bottle of French ale which tasted like Old Tymer from Wadsworth.  I must try to find it again.  The rest of the drive is just a muddled memory of hairpin bends,  30kph hour limits and a line of forty vehicles behind all waiting to overtake.  

Eh bien!  We are back on the road tomorrow,  having survived all these ordeals, and have to get back home by Monday night to be sure that the 'Trusted House Sitters' have not made off with the family silver or hacked all the confidential information from my computer.  (I really must change that '123' password!  )