From Carcassonne to Paris

Martha Marino

Days 10 to 15: Carcassonne, Olonzac, Narbonne, Paris

As I was cycling through Carcassonne, a huge hilltop fortress

loomed up in front of me, its silver-topped towers glistening in the

afternoon sunlight. I’d seen many films of this citadel in my French

classes, but I never anticipated it could be so spectacular. Also, I

never imagined that I would be seeing it for the first time by bike.

Life’s surprises can be fantastic!

After rolling along below the fortress for a while, I turned off

on a shady, dirt path beside a creek. Unfortunately, by the time I

arrived at the campground, all the sites were taken. But the friendly

receptionist gave me permission to pitch my tent on the soccer field

-- that is, if I promised to stay close to the fence and not

interfere with the games.

Since I liked my “campsite with a view,” I didn’t mind dodging a

few soccer balls. Directly above me, on the plateau, sat the

magnificent fortress. At night, bathed in soft lights, it appeared to

be sitting magically up in the black sky. Even now, I become excited

when I think about this fairy-tale-like scene.

The next morning, though, I had to abandoned the soccer field. The

sun’s rays were too harsh. So, after breakfast in the cafe and a swim

in the pool (it was a five-star campground), I moved to a spot among

the bushes where I found pools of shade and a few branches to hang

out my soggy laundry.

Later, I pedaled to the foot of the high plateau and hiked up the

steep incline to the fortress gate. Inside the thick walls I joined

swarms of tourists, sauntering through a labyrinth of crooked,

cobbled alleyways. I loved being in this medieval village among its

tall stone walls and ancient towers. Only when the heat became too

oppressive did I cease my wandering and seek refuge inside the cool

cathedral.

After eating lunch in an outside cafe, I took the castle tour.

With a guide, we strolled along its three-mile-long ramparts and

climbed inside several of its 50 towers, occasionally peeking below

through the narrow slits that warriors once used to shoot bows and

arrows, dump boulders or pour hot oil on their enemy’s head. Grim,

huh?

Since there were no campgrounds on the next stretch of the canal,

I phoned ahead for reservations in a countryside hotel. What a

surprise when I arrived! The hotel was in an immense castle,

luxurious enough to be the Ritz, with lush green lawns, a swimming

pool, tennis courts and rolling hills in the distance.

Awestruck by its opulence, I eased through its ornate, iron gate.

When the receptionist, a stern-looking man, took one glance at my

loaded bike and sweaty face, he firmly stated, “We have no

reservations for you!” I knew from his voice that I had talked with

him on the phone, but he denied it.

“Well, where can I find another hotel?” I asked, fearing the

possibility of being stranded for the night.

“You’ll have to go to another town.”

“Which one?” I asked, hoping it wouldn’t be far away, as I was

totally exhausted from my day’s ride.

“Olonzac might have a hotel. It’s about 10 kilometers [6 miles]

away.”

Looking like a vagabond on wheels, I knew I didn’t blend in with

the hotel’s rich, fashionable guests. Still, I was unhappy about

having to search for another hotel.

In the calm evening air, I cycled past farmhouses and wheat fields

and, eventually, by following the signs, reached Olonzac. It was a

pleasant town with two, shady, sidewalk cafes and one hotel, which

had a room for only $27. That night I titled my journal page ... a

bad experience turns out good!

The next day, in the morning’s crisp golden light, I breezed along

the canal past vineyards, former Cathar castles on the hilltops,

fields of bright yellow sunflowers and quaint villages with tall

church steeples. “This is like heaven,” I said to myself, feeling at

one with the world.

Then wham! In a second my mood changed. Directly in front of me

stood a long bridge covered with water except for a narrow border of

green, slimy moss where I might be able to pass. With one slip,

though, I’d land in the canal.

Nevertheless, I had no choice but to risk it. With knees shaking,

I unloaded my bike and inched slowly--step by step--along the

bridge’s slippery edge. First, I carried my handlebar bag and

saddlebags, and then, on my second trip, I lugged my heavy duffle

bag. Lastly, without a mishap, I pushed my bike to the other side.

Later on the towpath, I met two German cyclists, and when I

complained about the awful bridge, guess what these “macho men” said?

“Oh, we liked it, it was a real challenge!”

“Challenge,” I screeched. “It was a near-death experience.”

I expected to arrive in Narbonne by 5 p.m. that afternoon.

However, in changing from the Midi Canal to the Robin canal, I made a

wrong turn and got thoroughly lost. For two hours, I circled around

the deserted vineyards until I found someone to give me directions.

By the time I reached Narbonne it was evening. The campground was

far from town, so I stopped at five different hotels near the train

station to search for a room. All were full.

Feeling discouraged, I tried to cheer myself up with a glass of

beer in a Pizzeria on the main square. While munching on a slice of

pizza, I thought about what to do. I knew that “uncertainty” is the

soul of bike touring. At this moment, though, all I could think about

was, it was nine o’clock, I had no place to stay and I was scared.

“Do you know of a nearby hotel?” I finally asked the busy waiter.

“Yes, the Dorada down the street. Why don’t you try it?” Leaving

my bike at the restaurant, I dashed down to the hotel and found my

luck had changed. They had one room left.

The next day, after visiting Narbonne--a beautiful city with

museums, canals, and an exquisite palace and cathedral--I jumped on a

train and headed back to Paris. My final worry was how to ride my

loaded bike through Paris’ heavy traffic. Another cyclist on the

train mapped out for me all the cycle paths to my friend’s apartment.

So, cycling through Paris that evening was a great delight and also a

perfect way to end to my six-week bike tour in France.

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

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

recent bike tour through France.