Many will remember the summer of 2018 for its peculiarly high temperature and the lack of rain. We will perhaps refer to it while imagining the green grass turning brown as the weeks went by, and the stale air was flooded by the smell of sweat and factor fifty.

A delay of an hour is announced as the aircraft stands idle on the tarmac, at seven, the morning air already turning heavy as we wait for our turn to take off, while over Cornwall, the sight of the Channel Islands dotted with red-tiled roofs break through the heavy layer of humid fog. I fall asleep only to wake up by the rocking of the fresh mountain air, the Boeing swaying sideways before dramatically lining up to the runway on a low-pass approach over Carcassonne.

‘Nobody I know said Languedoc wasn’t pretty’. Nobody I told about the trip disagreed. My mind is fixated on the French cliches from the past,  the seven times I happened to be in Paris and the one time I went to Nice in winter a mere confirmation of them: the bad English, the eye-corner stare, the attitude, the pouting. Cliches that vanished as soon as I board the airport shuttle and the drivers breaks my fifty Euro note with the widest of the smiles and, almost as if he was singing, counts my change with his heavy fingers.

Carcassonne is indeed pretty. Small, manageable and clean. Suburbs of chalets lined next to tall apartment buildings painted in white and blue softly coating the hills around the busy centre, which is divided by the murky Aude River into the hip and palatial new part with its shops and open squares, and the Medieval bank presenting the Citadel, UNESCO-recognised old by excellence, sentineling the horizon like a proud gendarme wearing its best coat against a cloudless sky.

I enter the Citadel through Port Nabonnaise and the thick walls close around me wrapping me into a Medieval story of big empty rooms and small windows, of torture and punishment, of royal titles and stodgy food. And for an hour, I find rest from the heat in the shade of a small restaurant, the lovely waitress whispering in shy broken Spanish: ‘crema catalana de postre’. My favourite dessert I believe.
At Rue Clemenceau the umbrellas create the illusion of UV protection in technicolor and at the Canal du Midi, the milky emerald-colour waters create a unique path of pure peace along the broad valley. Following it takes me away from the streets of the city and into a world of endless vineyards. I feel a small blister on my toe as I arrive in deserted Villalier, I feel a lightness in my head as I arrive in Malves-en-Minervois.

Is it a castle. It is a hotel. It is the main square. I walk into reception and feel the red tiled floor cooling the room and immediately enchanting me. A tall broad young woman shuffles a few pieces of paper and smiles at my request of extending my stay.

– Welcome! Are you here for the Tour de France?
-The what? Sorry?
– You know, the race, with the bicycles. Her long muscly arms emulating pedalling.
-I know what the Tour de France is, I just thought they were done. I smile.
-Non non, the Carcassonne stage is passing by tomorrow. Welcome, let me show you your room.

I open the room window, in the late afternoon a direct portal to the sunset now dramatically turning vineyards into rows of golden strings.  I take deep breaths as the warm breeze enters and for the first time in months, I take it all in and let go.
Downstairs, the only shop in the village sells cheese and cheap Languedoc wine next to shelves of old wigs and the sweetest apricots I have tasted. The only bar in the village serves the locals with pastis, the liqueur diluting its clear tone into mixed tones of green as murky as the thoughts of the drunk patrons playing petanque in the gravel floor. I am joined by a fellow traveller from Britain who is actually into cycling and our conversation turns to books about Afghanistan and long days in Leeds. I cut the baguette  in half and top it with pieces of dried sausage and cheese, tastes of a fresh evening in Southern France, only as wholesome as the taste of the fresh fruit wrapped in one of my  brown paper bags.

– Parlez francais? Habla espanol?

Inquisitive words of a local woman now leaning against the olive tree while lighting up her slim fag. I nod to the last question and she smiles. She gets closer. So close I can see my reflection in her cloudy blue eyes, so close I can see the years of sunshine playing catch with the wrinkles of her tired face. She offers me a bottle of beer and after another two rounds of petanque, she rushes in loud pantings towards the British guy and I and invite us for dinner at her place.
Across the neglected park , a row of bungalows briefly reminds me of Sydney in the darkness, and next to the porch, an inflatable pool desperately awaits for the next morning of sunshine. We sit in a wooden balcony and are served fried sausages and bacon with a baguette cut in pieces. Her husband comfortably leans the weight of his protruding belly against the railing as king of the demesne and his eyes close at his every word and laugh. A childhood friend sitting next to him speaks perfect Spanish and translates from French, while I translate from Spanish to English. I look up to the clear sky and in between laughter I think: ‘if only the full moon above us could talk, it would probably laugh about this Babel tower in the Minervois’.

My head hurts and my stomach twists in the early morning. The gravel rattles as I sit on one of the steel chairs for breakfast, the world only becoming friendlier after a cup of black coffee.
I am given a bike and an old map, though I do not plan to use it, for today is reserved for anti-social behaviour. Granted vandalising Medieval walls is not on the cards, nor is running around naked. The day is about cycling from village to village in pure solitude and noticing that Bagnoles does not have a main square but rather a fountain from where roads divide in two different directions, or that Villarzel-Cabardes climbs up a hill cut by two dry creeks in steep walls, or that Conques-sur-Orbiel’s streets lean downhill to the river, where a leisure centre offers a day in an outdoor swimming pool for three Euros completing the ultimate summer rhapsody.

 

Once the afternoon sets in and taking advantage of my timing, I cycle up a junction at the top of a long soft hill. It is here where entire families have lined up to see the Tour de France, where the carnival of floats finds its first wall of eager spectators aggressively jumping on both sides of the road to collect key chains, hats, bottles and cheap sponsorship memorabilia thrown at them. It is here where I can see the cyclist passing by and feel their panting, so close the smell of sweat from the leading peloton lingers for seconds, so weirdly lucky to be caught in the right place at the right time.

The Southern winds bring a New Zealander couple to the castle and, though I spend the evening on the phone between Leinster and Languedoc, I briefly enjoy the friendliness irradiating from the bluest eyes I have seen and one of the most laid back personalities I have met on my travels. I see she’s new to travelling, I see he is mad for cycling.
In the morning, we briefly chat and I am offered a lift to Carcassonne, automatically becoming the tour guide for the day again. I show them the Canal Du Midi, where my love story with toe blisters began, the Pont Viex from where they claimed an otter was once seen and the Citadel, from where we take several pictures for the overseas eyes, shaking off the heat of the day at the Lac de Cavayere, where locals and tourists alike play in the refreshing body of water at times hiding around the green hills.

It is the perfect evening for an outdoor picnic at the neglected park in Malves. The sun sets behind us as we share our bits of food, opening the show for the full moon shining over our heads, in the late night dizzy from an alcohol-induced heat and a long talk about New Zealander and British politics.

The next morning is nothing short of sad. The heaviness adding weight to the bags in an almost silently lift to the airport, minutes before the roads close for yet another Tour de France stage. The sun shines over the empty parking lot and we say our good byes. I buy boxes of peach barquettes and have a cup of coffee at the airport, my face drawing a pout at the thought of fleetingness of perfect settings and moments, yet at the same time drawing a smile at the memories of it, a smile to the feeling that this is a part of me that will never die, for I will always be able to call myself a traveller.

Merci beaucoup Languedoc. Until the next time.