Carcassonne the hard way

I’ve always thought that anyone over the age of 16, who eats chips for lunch has given up. They really don’t care what they look like any more.

            But here I am in the medieval walled-city of Carcassonne with a bowl of chips in front of me. There’s a reason for this: I’d ordered a smoked salmon salad and when it arrives it isn’t quite what I was expecting.

            I’m tempted to say to the waiter that salad should consist of something other than a plateful of lettuce, a couple of olives and half a tomato, but that’s beyond the capabilities of my schoolboy French and he wouldn’t give a shit anyway.

            I’ve taken a day off writing my novel to drive to Carcassonne and watch some rugby.

            I find the Stade Albert Domec, home of USC (Carcassonne) easily enough, park up in the massive stadium car park — roughly twice the parking capacity of Twickenham and free — and stroll the mile or so to the medieval city.

            Kick-off is at 6.30 and at 4.30 the temperature in still 32 degrees and this furnace is showing no sign of abating. If they’re looking for a stand-in hooker, they can count me out.

            The ancient city of Carcassonne is well worth a look. The fortifications are so immaculately maintained that you could be forgiven for thinking that it was a Disney creation.

It is, of course, a gigantic commercial ‘opportunity’ with more cafes, restaurants, and gift shops crammed into a couple of acres than there are in the while of France. The really clever bit is that there is only one bench where you can park your arse without having to buy something and I’m sitting on it.  I had to out-scowl a French family to keep my half — essential for my camera, shoulder bag and putting some space between me and my fellow human beings.

            France is a wonderful country, and I know it’s a cliché, but it would be so much better without the French. The English are first rate at running hospitality businesses to fit their own convenience, but the French are even better.

All loo and no Queue

            Just try getting entering a restaurant one minute after 2pm and asking for dejeuner and you will see what I mean.

            I return to the stadium in plenty of time and pay €17 for a seat in the grandstand. There’s hardly anyone around until five minutes before kick off when the place mysteriously fills up, and I find myself wedged between two rotund mustached cigar-smoking Carcassonne supporters.

            But despite their heritage for producing alcohol, the French aren’t big drinkers and that’s no bad thing. They only sell beer in half pints and, although most men are drinking, they make one drink last a half. That would pretty much bankrupt a club back home.

            In keeping with the tradition of tedious French bureaucracy, the system to obtain a drink works like this: You buy tokens for your drinks (including water) from a tent then swop them at the bar.

Jean Pierre Rives — the King of Swing

            Another benefit of the abstemious drinking habits of the French is that there’s no queue for the loo. I find a small brick-built open-fronted urinal, with a long concrete slab last cleaned, I suspect, when Jean-Pierre Rives was a nipper, which I can walk straight into and relieve myself. A couple of teenagers are pissing outside which is pretty much de rigours en France. Mange tout.

            Carcassonne are playing Massy, a Parisian side, and this is the Championnat De France Pro D2, the second tier of French rugby. It’s also the equivalent of our Championship back home, which I write about for Rugby World, so I’m keen to compare the standard.

            Both sides seem to go through the motions in the warm-up. It’s like a cauldron out there, so you can’t really blame them. They do a couple of basic drills — good to see that the old Auckland Squares are still alive and well — and a few defensive drills, but mainly they stand around and chat.

            There’s a lot to be said for the Dean Richards’ warm up, especially in this sort of heat: sit on the bog and read your programme for twenty minutes, then get changed and go out to play.

            Carcassonne looked the better side in the warm up and by half-time they lead 30-9 and the game’s over as a contest.

            They have a very quick right winger an a big Pacific Islander in the centre, who, in keeping with all Pacific Islanders, spurns perfectly good three-man overlaps in the interest of tee-boning his opposite man.

            They continue to pile on the points and I decide to leave with 10 minutes to go. It’s a good plan, and I manage to avoid the inevitable bottleneck that the car park will become. It’s all going well until I discover that there’s a running race on and most of the main streets in Carcassonne are closed.

            Soon I’m on the road to Castres, which I eventually discover is completely in the opposite direction; I’m also running out of petrol and I’m totally lost.

            I find a petrol station, which advertises a 24-hour service using your credit card only to find that that isn’t working, and there’s no facility to pay cash.

            Still, I have a pee in the in the hedge which is going well until the owner’s dogs hurl themselves at the wire fence separating me from his property, and are rewarded by a mouthful of urine. The mournful wailing that follows draws the owner out, complete with shotgun. I mutter something unintelligible in the hope that he won’t realise that I’m a foreigner and load his weapon, and disappear into the night as fast as dignity will allow.

            Then I have a stroke of good luck. I’m looking for signs to a place called Limoux or the D118 and, retracing my steps towards Carcassonne, I come to a roundabout where both are signposted.

            Not only that, but just off the roundabout, and in the right direction, is a huge Leclerc supermarket, which sells petrol and does accept my debit card.      
           Things get even better when I discover a café attached to the supermarket. Here, three busty French women are waiting to serve me from a carvery with a choice of roasts and vegetables that, for once in French, don’t look as if they’ve had the life throttled out of them by my mother-in-law.

            Half an hour later, I’m replete, know where I’m going, have a full tank of petrol and am on the D118. I calculate that it should take me around 40 minutes from here.

            Which it would have done, of course, had the main road — the biggest thoroughfare in the region which links Carcassonne with Perpignan, not been closed because of a carnival.

            Three and a half hours later, I’m back at my gite.