Carcassone

We came to Carcassone. Two million tourists, each year, also come to Carcassonne. La Cite is visibly decaying under the sheer bulk of us all. 

The majority of tourists are disgorged from coaches and spat into a few cramped crooked little alleys that occupy a tiny quarter of Carcassone: the part chock-full with generic restaurants and boutiques. The cobbles on these snail-pace streets, plazas and arcades are worn thin from their transit. 

Many let the hot dry breeze whip their shopping dockets up over the fortress walls, to rest on a barb somewhere. Anywhere. Adding to the accumulation of summer detritus that remains to be cleaned up around all the low lying lands and canals where the holy armies of crusaders once camped.  Then the tourists leave, having ‘done’ Carcassone.

When we look at our photographs we are reminded that few intrepid souls bothered even to explore the outer sections of the reconstructed medieval fairytale fortress that Carcasonne has become, especially now, as it is a UNESCO World Heritage site. Too few climb the inner and outer fortified parapets, scanning yonder ridges as would the sentries of yore. Fewer still walk the jousting yards, once thick with cries from the lists, as knights on their destriers thundered toward targets, poles and shields a’clanging in combat, as fair damsels waved their kerchiefs in support. An even smaller number explore the gallery of Inquisitions on the western front of the inner wall, wondering about the Cathars who once lived here, who were forced out during the Crusade, fleeing north, south and yonder, dropping everything, simply running for their lives. Persecuted. 

We find we are happy to leave Carcassone earlier than planned. We had thought to spend several days here, but drive away after one and choose a camp for the night at a vineyard in the hills: cool, silent, clean. 

We’d thought to eat cassoulet for dinner in honour of our visit to Carcassone, this being not only the local dish but the favourite on most of the tourist menus we had perused today: pork, beans or a confit of duck. We somehow didn’t have the heart. It is always odd to me how hot places are often famous for heavy dishes: New Orleans for stick to the ribs gumbo, Carcassone for heavy bean filler and sausage or duck confit. It does not quite compute with my food inclinations.  I tend to want to choose lighter food in a hotter climate.  So, in lieu of that, we improvised. We'd bought the sausage with that intent, instead we rolled it into a rustic coil, and ate it simply, with fennel and onion gravy. 

Pondering that the Cathar Perfecti, vegetarians all, would have eaten much simpler fare. Though when they were on the run, some perhaps fleeing across these very hills, many would have been lucky to have eaten a thing.

Little alleys crammed with tourists and window shopping

Medieval citadel of Carcasonne

Cassoulet, a favourite at Carcassone