On days like this people often ask why we do it?
Why do you spend precious holidays pitting yourselves against the weather, particularly the hot sun, just to travel a few hundred miles by bicycle?
No-one’s asking. I’m running this conversation alone in my head, as the temperature climbs to thirty three and the cloudless, blue sky dominates everything with its intense heat.
There are no sounds except insects in the hedgerows, no life on the tiny country lanes and tracks that criss-cross the line of the Canal du Midi. The route planned by Headwater, the trip’s organisers, is clever. They’ve taken us off the canal path to give us some respite from the linear miles, so now, we catch a fresh glimpse of the venerable canal every twenty minutes or so, at the end of that old track, or that tarmac road that you thought was going nowhere.
Carcassonne seems an eternity ago. The ride to Trebs, which we had already cycled in reverse to give us some practise and to check out my suspect left knee, seems very simple compared to this new set of landscapes as we approach the canal’s ‘port’ of Homps at the end of the hottest ride we have ever undertaken.
Three bottles of water each – that’s what it’s taken to get us there, safely. And we know the danger signs; the light headedness, the sudden humour at the not very funny…
Sometimes we leave behind the great barges as they rumble their safe way along the water. The Midi is their own ocean, straight line or not.
Life on a bike is not like that. It’s stark and immediate; there is no momentum from a mighty diesel, just the will and determined energy of the legs to keep going, going, as the keen eyes, now tired with the constant dust of the canal path and the country cycle ways, strain to pick out the dangers ahead – that loose boulder, there; the too thin bridge section there…
Lunch today was a far cry from the Oiseau of yesterday. A baguette, bought in Trebs, with a block of Comte cheese and a tiny bottle of rosé to share in washing it down.
An apple each to wrap up the meal. All eaten sitting on the only sheltered bench we could find in the whole of Aigue Vivres – right at the main crossroads.
We could have stopped at a cafe. But, in this heat, time is everything… To get there, in this case Homps, is life itself…
We’ve both gone quiet. No words in the past half mile. We know that the restored merchant’s house ahead is the end of the trail… For today.
She’s not French, she’s Dutch, the lady who runs our home for the night. She’s been waiting for us for the past half hour, knowing, as all those involved in such tense arrivals, that we were nearly with her, nearly safe…
“Tell me why you do it?” She asks, pouring us a glass of sparkling white wine to welcome us to her home. There is a large jug of water behind her, in case we’ve cut it too fine, and the gesture will have to play second fiddle to life…
But we haven’t…
“For getting to know the country in a way that we never could in a car,” I reply. I pick up the glass and we toast her kindness.
“For moments like this…”
©Copyright Stephen Tanham, 2016.
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Bernie and I are creatures of contrasts. We will, on such a holiday, take a train some thirty kilometres to visit a highly recommended canalside fish restaurant.
Then, having taken our bikes on said train (an experience in itself), the meal over, and hopefully noted in our little book of highlights, we will spend the next six hours struggling back along the canal path in deadly temperatures!
I don’t understand it either, but it’s what we do…
If we were being unkind, I could say that the ville of Bram is a one-horse town, as the cowboys used to say.
From our very limited perspective it had one outstanding feature, which our hotel receptionist had pointed out to us: a restaurant called the Ile aux l’oiseau: island of the bird(s). We never did get to the bottom of name’s origin as the quality of the food prevented further discussion for some time after it was served…
Bernie is allergic to much of what comes out of the sea – but not tuna! One sight of my freshly served giant tuna steak and her paltry cheese salad was forgotten.
We ended up sharing both, and both of us left the table stuffed, and wondering at the wisdom of then proceeding to cycle twenty-nine km ‘home’ in dry heat of thirty degrees plus…
Headwater, who operate these cycling (and walking) holidays know their client base well. Bouncing and bumping over an infinite number of tree roots, along the course of nearly two hundred miles of canal path is going to tire the appetite of the most avid two-wheeled explorer.
To compensate for this, they take you off the Canal du Midi at regular intervals to experience the villages and vineyards of the adjacent countryside along the, ultimately tedious, line of the canal- whose original function was to ferry cargo and not to entertain tourists…
The first of our diversions was to a village named Villesequelande. It comprised a very pleasant and tree- shaded centre which housed the local town hall (Mairie), a Knights’ museum and a Spanish lady cyclist, with muscles like elegantly knotted ropes, standing in the large basin of the public fountain, cooling herself, as we wished to.
As she was already calf-deep in the deliciously cool water I removed my helmet and ventured to stand on the lip of the fountain. I didn’t want to remove my cycling shoes and socks, as they take a while to bed in on a hot day.
Smiling in what I hoped was a winning way, I profered my ‘scalp-scraper’ which sits like a liner between my helmet and the endangered hair on the top of my head. This part of my anatomy burns to a crisp at the merest sight of bright sun.
The scalp-scraper has two functions: to prevent cycling sunburn through the slits of the helmet; and to provide the most delicious cooling at such stops, when it can be rinsed in fresh water and put back on.
Unfortunately, the lurid and fluorescent colours in which it is fashioned should not be part of any sixty-two year old’s wardrobe…
I began to get that sinking feeling when the said elegant and muscular Spanish cycliste grinned up at me from the waters. She took my profered scalp-scraper, and, showing more knowledge of its strength than I had, proceeded to hold it under the flowing spout and fill it with at least two pints of icy water.
Completely out-faced, I smiled and nodded before inverting it over my head and taking a shower… which would have gone well but for the fact that I was still wearing my cycling sunglasses, which disappeared off my nose and into the waters of the fountain.. Cool? Er,no…
Bernie had a much more elegant approach to the whole thing, as you can see, below.
Today we leave Carcassonne. It has bee our base for four days. Technically, we will be ‘homeless’ until we reach Homps, our next stop along the mighty Canal du Midi.
©Copyright Stephen Tanham 2016
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We were much later than planned leaving St Davids. All of us had a long way to go before we would be home as we had come together from the far-flung corners of the land. The weather was foul, with heavy sea-mist and rain making driving difficult so we chose the back roads instead of the motorway… it would take longer, but be less unpleasant…and we might even get a final glimpse of mountains if the fog ever lifted. And it did, just briefly, showing us places that at any other time would have demanded that we stop. As it was, it was late into the evening and night was drawing in before we got home.
It has taken weeks for the three of us to share our impressions of the Silent Eye’s weekend workshop in Wales and even now, we have barely scratched the surface. It seems incredible that…
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We began yesterday with twin objectives – Bernie to buy some previously spotted presents from the lovely craft shops that adorn many of Carcassonne’s tiny streets; and I to take advantage of the clear and stark light of early morning to get a final set of shots from the interior of the ancient, walled city.
There were few people around as we agreed our meeting spot, an hour later, then hurried off on our respective quests.
You can pay to walk the full length of the ramparts, but a little exploration reveals that there are little-documented doors in the interior walls that open on to most of them, anyway. These routes around the interior perimeter (beyond which is only the drop to the countryside below) are also used by service vehicles. It was watching one of these (below) that an image came to mind if my favourite teenage book, Dune, by Frank Herbert.
The extreme heat and the shape of the towers reminded me of the covers of the classic set of books at the time – It could well have been Arrakis, the spice ridden desert planet, Home of the giant sand worms.
My hour was soon up, so, drawn by the sound of haunting violin music, I followed its strains down a small alley I had not seen before, to make one final trip to the edge of the walls.
The melody was being played by a local girl who was blind in her right eye. I put some money into her music case and stood back to listen. The two of us were alone and I let the wondrous moment unfold and forgot the passing of time. At the end, I pointed to my iPhone and asked if I could take a shot. She smiled and nodded, picking up her instrument again and starting to play… Very much a ‘Troubadour’ moment.
©Stephen Tanham 2016.
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Behind the High Altar of St Davids Cathedral there was once an empty space, open to the winds. In the early 1500s, Bishop Edward Vaughan created a chapel there which, for me, is the loveliest part of the cathedral. The Holy Trinity chapel seems to be a very simple space of hewn stone; such is the sense of harmony there that the intricate carvings of the fan vaulted ceiling barely register as being ornate.
Instead, the eyes are drawn to the altar and to a niche through which one can just about see through to the High Altar and the shrine of St David. Both the altar and the niche use carvings far older than their construction…fragments of history that were recognised as such five hundred years ago. In the niche, a sanctuary light burns before the ancient carved crosses that frame the little window. Above the altar, the reredos…
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The old Carcassone is gloriously medieval, but much restored. Walking thorough its streets at night – with thousands of others – gives you the feeling of how ‘protected’ its former inhabitants must have felt; and how lucky, to have such a home in savage times.
Step outside its walls to take the twenty minute walk down the winding road and across the river Aude and you are in a very different place.
From here you can look back and seen how the ancient Cité dominates the skyline.
Turning around, you enter the modern Carcassonne, which is a delightful place, and offers that perfect blend of traditional and nearly-new that France does (and protects) so well.
Most of the streets are narrow and without pavements. Few are vehicle-free, therefore most are edged with cleverly spaced ironwork to protect the pedestrian.
The majority of shops and cafes are traditional, and you can sense how the city protected itself against the fast food era; something that was not always successful in this lovely land.
Large and cafe-filled squares break up the ancient grid of narrow streets. The song of summer is everywhere…
In the early afternoon the temperature soars and the interiors of buildings offer some relief. Ancient churches – visited for less mercenary reasons – offer the same respite, and provide great gifts for the visiting photographer, though I’m saving the best for another post!
Carcassonne does open itself to the modern. Here’s an ingress it allowed in the 1930s! Personally, I wouldn’t have it any different.
Truly a beautiful city. More to follow on the trail of mysterious, historic silver…
Sent from my iPhone.
©Stephen Tanham 2016.
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LUCA reaches out…
Part Three of The Unseen Sea: adrift in the enneagram
The busy square is suddenly hushed. He watches as the four-year old girl with the golden hair runs ahead of her mother towards him.
“Grandad! I beat mummy!” she says, gleefully, climbing on his knee.
The constant pain from the arthritis makes him wince – she is getting heavier, but he makes sure that his eyes, though wet, do not show this. Instead, the emotion they display is one of wonder at the demonstration of symbiosis of his inner thoughts with the unfolding of the world in front of him.
Jessica’s mother, the old man’s daughter, is suddenly there, before him, sharing the intensity of her father’s love… and his wonder at what the world has just brought in on the tide.
“She beat mommy, yes,” she says, wistfully, staring into the face of the invisible devil seen only by…
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‘Of circular possibilities’…
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‘Eyeing the Chasm’…
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‘Extending a welcome’…
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‘An Other Time’…
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‘Presence is everything’…
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‘Two O’Clock Shadow’…
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‘There was an Old Woman’…
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‘Who looked out’…
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‘Through a Shoe’…
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Two of the most welcome sights after a long, hot journey by train: the destination station – Carcassonne; and our own hotel room key!
Relaxation for two days, then the bikes arrive and we can start pedalling. Ironically, the TGV from Paris travelled our cycling route to Sète in reverse, so we got a clear view of the landscape ahead of us. We’ll need lots of water… It is very hot!
More pics from Carcassone to follow before we get into the saddles.
©Stephen Tanham 2016.
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It has been a week or more since the last post about our recent workshop in Wales… illness got in the way of finishing the series, but it would be a shame not to share the interior of the Cathedral at St Davids…
I had barely raised the camera to start photographing the interior of the great cathedral at St Davids before a gentleman approached and told me that I could not… or, at least, not without paying for a permit. Now, I know that these ancient churches cost a good deal to keep standing and pay for their conservation, but I have a problem with those that demand exorbitant entry fees before forcing a ‘no photography’ rule on unsuspecting visitors. Especially when they quote ‘copyright’ as the reason; I fail to see how something the best part of a thousand years old can still enforce copyright law.
St Davids…
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Sun in Gemini 
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