Up the Ariege

We sped over the border through the Pyrenees, and stopped at our earliest convenience at a French supermarket, entering the vast, delicacy packed aisles like we'd died and gone to food heaven. We stuffed ourselves with free samples of cheese and roast pork, returning far more frequently than would be considered decent. The assistant at the meat counter started hovering menacingly and eventually removed the dish. Just as well, I was starting to embarrass myself. We wandered around dazed, wishing desperately that we weren't on such a tight budget. Oh we loved France so much at that moment. We were making our way to visit Tim in the Ariege, an old acquaintance I'd bumped into in Chipping Sodbury the day before we left for Portsmouth, but we couldn't make it in a single hit, so planned to stay in one of France's great travellers' resources, the aire de repose.
We wound our way around the foothills of the Pyrenees, wondering at the lushness of the scenery and the splendour of the hilltop Chateaux that seemed to be everywhere. No modern development going on here, everything is ancient and beautifully locked into the past. We stop 50km from Foix and camp up for the night. It is a strange point in the trip, the adventure seems to have gone out of the equation, everything is safe and predictable from here on in. Our main challenge now is to see how far we can get on the available funds. We have received a text from Ottilie. She is making her final film and has suddenly changed the story and wants Frida to star. She is shooting at the end of March and is trying to make plans to pick her up. All this makes us feel like the end is nigh, and we feel vaguely depressed by the idea of life without her.

Next morning, relaxed – we make our way to Montesque Volvestre, along beautiful tree lined roads in glorious sunshine. What's Poddy on about? This place is paradise. We arrive at Tim's - a lovely spot, with views of the Pyrenees, rolling hills, greenery and a super chilled vibe, and he jokes about our 'gypsy encampment' as we hang the washing out to dry between the chestnut trees. It's strange meeting him, I only met him twice about 25 years ago, but we talk for hours about the meantime, his travelling life and the gypsy camp on Sodbury common where he lived for years. Strange how things turn out. As a result of our new found kinship, his hospitality is generous -we can stay as long as we like, use his facilities and spread ourselves out on the land outside his garden. We have our first baths since Granada, Zom comes round for dinner and invites us round to his to eat deer. We picnic and go to the local market, which feels more like a social club than anything else.
Everyone seems to be nursing a hangover and self medicating from the bar in the square. Here we meet another Tim who offers to change the radiator in the car – a job that's needed doing since we were in the Asturias at the start of the trip. He has 2 Mercedes 240s in his back yard – a right result. It's a cool area, affectionately known as the' arse-hole' of France – excuse my French – and has the feel of a vast hippy commune. French, English, they're all the same, making money as and when they can. Zom turns out to be an ex London bus driver affectionately known as the Arthur Daley of the Ariege – you want it, he can get it. Over dinner the next night, he tells us how he has managed to convert a bike he found in a skip into a 4 wheel drive in 3 transactions, discusses his wheeler dealer lifestyle and shows us various treasures he has accumulated – an ancient Indian yellow sapphire ring set with an intricate 23 carat gold setting, a beautiful object. Less convincing was the 'genuine' Roman coin that looked remarkably like the ones on sale at the British Museum – and he's got lots of them. Don't suppose it matters out here though. We stay for nearly a week on the land outside Tim's house and manage to upload the blog in the local shop come cafe where Charles lets us use his computer by special arrangement for a couple of euros– internet cafes appear to be non existent down here.
Our next stop is at Kate's – my ex head teacher, who has recently bought a house in Toulouse and offered to let us stay in exchange for airing her carpets, so we drive north for a couple of hours, pick up keys from the agent and find ourselves in possession of a beautiful vacant house. The shutters are opened, light and warmth flood in, and our attention is drawn to the swimming pool, where a strange snake like creature is flipping and twisting uncontrollably. No one dares to pick it up, it doesn't seem to have a head - for once Mark and I are stumped as to what it could be, until we see a small tailless lizard sitting on the window ledge, obviously in a state of shock. We have chopped off its tail when the shutters were opened.
The tail continues twitching for a full 10 minutes in front of our horrified eyes. Poor bugger. Mark wants to dispatch the lizard with a spade, but we manage to persuade him that a life without a tail is better than no life at all, and the lizard limps off disconsolately, adjusting to it's newly lost agility admirably.
The girls pick their room, bring in their sleeping bags and turn it into a dorm We revert to our school personas – Mr Dobbs and Miss Darling, spurred on by the fact the house belongs to a head teacher. We eat like kings, wash our clothes and clean ourselves in the en-suite bathrooms, ah the luxury of it all. In the local woods wild orchids and honeysuckle carpet the floor. The girls insist on a visit to the local village of Poupas – just because the name's funny.
The following Sunday we go back to the market in Montbrun Bocage, visit the 'swap-shop', swap some clothes for roller skates and a bread bin for Kate, then go to see Tim to get the car fixed. The radiator is changed for a mere 50 euros, and we spend the afternoon drinking tea and checking out his caravans and circus relics.
Back at Kate's the weather is changing and during an excursion to Lavit the hail stones start to fall. The temperature has nose dived and the house is freezing.
We all spend our days in the kitchen by the wood burning stove playing backgammon, baking bread and pies and making dolls out of old pairs of knickers. 'Mr Jessop', the school photographer makes an appearance, but is later sacked for taking crap pictures and getting Miss Darling drunk at the local pub. The house has a T.V so Mark watches the weather forecasts with mounting panic – the Mediterranean coast is being hit by an anti Cyclone, the Pyrenees are covered in snow, people are stuck in their cars, the snow is so deep. Ah well, we put off moving for a day, quite pleased to have the excuse for staying a bit longer.
Being here has been more like a holiday, we never quite managed to get out of the immediate vicinity, but what the hell, being settled for a week was just what we needed to recharge the batteries. Mark and I stay up late into the night reflecting on what we've been doing, but never quite get a firm plan for where we're going next. The Guardian has contacted us for a possible article in their travel section, so, after dropping the laptop on the tiled floor in the kitchen (which miraculously cures the long standing charging problem), we write something quickly while the electricity is available. Who knows, perhaps we'll get the funds for Rome after all. Mark texts Ian in Italy for a weather report, and after a positive response we do the inevitable and start the journey East.
It is a long stretch, via Albi and the Parc National del Haute Languedoc. Well recommended. We stop short of the caves at Roquefort and eventually plot up in the car park of the medieval Chateau of Latour sur Sorgues,. We are being watched by a curtain twitcher opposite, but Mark is so hairy by now that no-one would dare approach us. His face resembles the old sandy dog that waddles up to be petted by the girls. This is the sort of thing that makes him nervous, but fortunately Frida has learnt a little trick of her own - 'Oh Pappy', she sighs when the stress is rising and he melts like a puppy, breaks into a smile and everything is OK. We wander the empty streets as the sun goes down, invisible dogs barking furiously as we pass their territory.
It is tiny and deserted - most of the houses don't look like they've been inhabited for 50 years. A closer inspection the following morning revealed tiny doorways on all the houses - like they were built for a diminutive local race, or even a town of children. The kids love it, but when we make our way down to the river we see full sized people catching trout from the local river, blasting our theory out of the water. All the old people are pretty small though, we see them going in and out of the mobile hair salon that has parked next to us.
In with grey, out with orange. We watched them with their heads stuck in hairdryers through the glass back of the truck. Not much else going on though, so push on, stopping for another night on the mountain tops near Digne les Bains, then continue down to the coast at Nice, which wasn't as nice as it used to be – more uglification through development. From there we wind through the tiny mountainous roads of the south coast.
It took an age, if you were to stretch the road into a straight line it would be three times as long as the one on the map. We passed Monaco and drove through Monte Carlo, and our spirits were lifted by the approach of a stream of vintage cars on the way to the rally, one of them even signalled for us to turn round and join in. Tempting mate, but we're heading for the Roman homelands to meet old friends and see the lovely Ottilie for Easter.