Lorp Sentaraille, nearly in the Pyrenees

Sunday 3 July

 

West out of Albi

Another quick run down a couple of freeways before climbing over the Petites Pyrenees and Cap Blanc at 519m, nice wooded hill road, up in the cool.

Its been 33 deg most of the day, this hotel has a pool.

 

I miss Albi already, such a nice town. Shot back to the Lautrec Museum to buy the 'Les Chevaux de Toulouse Lautrec' book before leaving, Lautrec's horses. Like the waiters at the St James, the girls recognise me, and we have another nice little chat.

I pass the Tetu magazine ad again, it goes on from saying 'nos heros le rugby' to add 'virile` et sensible'. Cripes...

I see in the paper at breakfast, that Contador and Schleck are at it sledging each other in le Tour.

 

Into the Petites Pyrenees

Had a swim on arriving here, too late for lunch and nothing open in the ville except a MacDonalds, had to happen sooner or later, and a chance to do the international value for money comparison. I got a bacon-burger, sandwich they call it, NZ$7.60, and a large fries as afterthought, $5.00, but roughly about the same in total if I'd bought them as a meal. The large coke was $4.80.

They didnt have an Angus burger, but wait for it,"Le Charolais" was on special for $4.00.

The girl behind the till handled english OK, I think as a general rule, the younger they are the better they speak english, must take it at school.

There's a sunday market across the street I take a look at, supposedly antiques, but the same veritable pile of junk and rusty old tools we've become accustomed to in NZ

 

Down towards Lorp Sentaraille

This hotel is quite conservative, older clientile, but a group of blokes on a cycling holiday turn up, coming in from their days lark in the Pyrenees.

There isnt a covered secure bike park, the proprietor says no problem here, and I sort of believe him looking round the village.

Main problem is it looks like rain, and the forecast says 40% chance of tomorrow. I go back out and push the bike under a tree.

Good table here though, I take option A of the set menu, lapine terrine au pruneau armagnac, 3/4" slab of rabbit pate with liqueured prunes, souri de agneau, lamb shank with baby spuds and stuffed tomato, I dodge the cheese platter, and finish off my local Ariege sav blanc, before the myrtleberry pie dessert and inevitable thimble of cafe.

Sorry to load you with the cuisine detail, but life the same hereafter wont be easy for me.

 

Morning of 4th July now. Have just read Mayles chapter on going to Cannes, cannily familiar, I have to quote him:

"Outside the Palais, what seemed to be the entire Cannes police force, equipped with revolvers, walkie-talkies and sunglasses, was busy creating a series of traffic jams and making sure Clint Eastwood didnt get kidnapped. With the skill that comes from many years of practice, they directed cars into snarling knots and whistled at them furiously, sending the drivers off to the next snarling knot with irritated jerks of the head. It took me 10 minutes to cover 50 yards. When I finally reached the car park, I saw an earlier victim of the chaos had scrawled on the wall: Cannes is a great place to visit, but I wouldnt want to spend the day there."

I watched a bit of TV last night, Clint Eastwood in that movie where he's an aging Presidential protection squadie, dubbed in francais. I try hard myself, but its really difficult to speak french with a low voice, Clint looks absolute incongrous squeaking his lines. That aussie actor in CSI and Shaun Connery in an early Diamonds are Forever are equally hilarious.

And in case you think my comments on french drivers are really because I'm snailing it along the roads, here's Mayle again, in his car, following another to a lunch rendezvous:

"... I should stick closely to his car. Easier said than done. So far as I know, there are no stats to support my theory, but observation and heart-stopping personal experience have convinced me that a frenchman with an empty stomach drives twice as fast as one with a full stomach (which is already too fast for sanity and speed limits). And so it was with Michel. One minute he was there; the next he was a dust smudged blur on the shimmering horizon, clipping the dry grass verges on the bends, booming through narrow streets of villages in their midday coma, his gastronomic juices in overdrive"

Michel goes on to explain to the author how a frenchman needs to win.

I'm amused I should finally make the frustrated comment about fellow road users upon arriving in Provence, where Mayle resides and writes about. There definitely is a difference about that place.

France actually has quite a diversity of character depending where you are.

I'm ultimately careful setting my lines through corners I cant see right round, never to get closer to the centre than half of my lane, and if there's no marked lane, then the right shoulder of the road is my line.

I've picked up on a few bad accidents in the papers around here too, the only blessing being you get scraped up quite efficiently, 2 helicopters at one fatal scene, a 4wd went under the front of a truck, just the floor and seats left.

Last night there were bean sprouts with the terrine, and I think about the news that people are still karking over here from that listeriosis scare.

 

The cyclists are outside my window cranking up for another day in le montagnes, its stopped raining, so I think I'll chance my arm on the run over the mountains to Lourdes, tonight's stop.