On the way to Toulouse

Martha Marino

Days 6 through 9

I was glad to be on the canal again after my brief stop for the

Tour de France. I had missed its quiet beauty and the delicious sense

of freedom I always feel while cycling along its banks.

My first stop that hot afternoon was in Montech, where water runs

uphill. Yes, that’s right. French Engineers have constructed the pent

de l’eau (water slope), an ingenious system to control the flow of

water on an incline. With this method, boats can navigate up a hill

without going through five consecutive locks.

Here’s how it works: A boat enters a lock on the canal. On each

side of the canal are two tracts that have two “bulldozers-like

tractors” with immense rubber tires. These strange-looking vehicles

push 15,000 tons of water up the canal, enabling a boat to move

forward up an incline. If a boat goes in the opposite direction,

these pusher-tractors hold back the water, causing it to flow

gradually down the slope.

I had hoped to observe this unique operation, but it was shut down

for the afternoon. Since the campground was also closed, I continued

on to Grisolle.

For the next 10 miles, the path was covered with deep potholes,

protruding roots and slippery mud. I felt like I was fighting an

obstacle course.

And that wasn’t all. Twice, ferocious barking dogs chased after me

until their owners intervened. Also, in three different places, there

were 2-foot-high cables across my path that had warning signs of

possible death if touched. Fearing this dire consequence, for once in

my life I followed the instructions precisely. First, with my pulse

racing, I unloaded all my bags from my back rack and threw them over

the cable. Then I cautiously lifted my heavy mountain bike over it --

not an easy task for my flabby arm muscles. Fortunately, Murphy’s Law

was not in operation, and I succeeded without a mishap.

As evening crept in, I reached Grisolle’s hilltop campground, only

to find that it was already full. Believing there is always room for

one more, I cycled around the dirt lanes and, at last, met two young

Spaniards who, sensing my desperation, offered me a corner of their

campsite.

With back-to-back people everywhere, I anticipated having one of

my worst camping experiences ever. However, my friendly and helpful

neighbors made it one of my best: A Belgium gentlemen, with a

Mercedes and an elegant trailer, walked over and handed me a cold

beer; the campers next to me shared their pizza; and Daniel and

Natalie, both teachers, offered to help me set up my tent. They were

also biking along the canal with their two small sons, ages 8 and 10.

Very quickly we became good friends.

The next morning I headed for Toulouse, the capitol of this

region. By stopping only twice to watch boats pass through the locks,

I eased into the center of the city by 4 that afternoon. The canal

led me directly across from the train station and in front of a row

of moderately priced (but not seedy) hotels. I chose the Hotel

Chatreuse, where I had a comfortable room for only 170 Francs a night

(about $21).

Toulouse, on the banks of the Garonne River, is a lively city with

everything: ancient churches, a university, narrow, crooked streets

with quaint cafes, wide boulevards with fountains, statutes, elegant

restaurants and a magnificent main square (Place de Capitole) lined

by former palaces with sculptured facades. It was a wonderful town

for sightseeing.

For my dinner that night, I ate in Mas y Mas (More and More), a

small Portuguese bistro along a cobblestone alleyway. Next to me sat

a shaggy-haired Brazilian bass player and his friend, a Spanish

recording artist, who had lived in the States for 10 years. His

impressions amused me.

“What I like about Americans,” he said, “is that they know how to

get things done. There is none of this ‘bon jour’ greeting stuff,

like here in France.”

When I finished my delectable meal of grilled sardines, sauteed

potatoes and red wine, I pedaled in the fresh night air, past crowded

cafes and hand-in-hand strollers to the immense, Romanesque St.

Sernin Basilica. Illuminated by nightlights, it took on an ethereal

glow that transcended reality. It was so beautiful that I encircled

it over and over again, captivated by its splendor.

The following afternoon, I left Toulouse on its deluxe, paved

25-mile path, called the piste cyclable, which borders one of the

most gorgeous, winding stretches of the canal. Shady trees, called

plane trees, lined its banks, forming a canopy of branches across the

water, while the adjacent fields exploded in a colorful mass of

bright yellow sunflowers. It was a breathtaking landscape.

* MARTHA MARINO is a Laguna Beach resident and author of “Asian

Adventure.” This is the fourth in a series of stories from Marino’s

recent bike tour.