Everybody who visits Montpellier will remember the Promenade de Peyrou which rises above the town. The scenic display is great. Only a few miles away, and in clear view, tosses the restless Mediterranean. The prospect made us realize how far south we had come since the starting of our tour from Berlin. Another interesting bit of sight-seeing in the neighborhood is the Jardin des Plantes, a remarkable botanical garden which was founded as far back as 1593 by Henry IV, and is said to be the oldest in France.
Whatever the indictment against French roads in the Midi, the stretch from Montpellier to Carcassonne was above reproach. Much of the way it was the French highway at its best. Wide-spreading trees arched our route. We would have been speeding every foot of the distance if the beautiful scenery had not acted as a constant brake. For a little way we ran close to the sea. The fresh salt breeze fanned our faces. It was a rare glimpse of the Mediterranean. This enchanting scene lasted but a moment, for the road swerved into the great vineyards of the Midi, an Arcadian land of peace and plenty, the home of a wine industry celebrated since Roman times. As far as the eye could reach, nothing but these green waves that billowed and rolled away from either side of the road. There was a touch of fall in the air, a glint of purple amid the green. Ripening suns and tender rains had done their work. The road led through Béziers, bustling center of preparations for the harvest. On several occasions we passed a wagon loaded with wine casks so large that three horses with difficulty drew it. The capacity of those huge casks must have been thousands of gallons.
At Béziers we could have taken the direct route to Toulouse, but then we would have missed seeing Carcassonne, the most unique architectural curiosity in France and perhaps in the whole world. Our roundabout course brought us to Capestang, a scattered peasant village inhabited by laborers in the vineyards. The luxuries and even the ordinary conveniences seemed far away from these homes. The shutters consisted of nothing but a couple of boards bolted or nailed together and clumsily working on a hinge. It was a region of flies; certainly they had invaded the little inn where we lunched. A heavy green matting tried ineffectually to take the place of a screen door, and let in thousands of unbidden guests. Under these circumstances our lunch was a hasty one. As the noontide heat was too great to permit a start, we gladly accepted the invitation of our hôtesse to see the church. The cool interior induced us to prolong our acquaintance with the sacred relics and to admire with our guide a statue of St. Peter whose halo had become somewhat dimmed by the dust of centuries.
The afternoon's ride to Carcassonne was in the face of a strong wind. It was our first experience with the mistral, a curious and disagreeable phenomenon of Provençe. There was no let-up to the storms of dust it swept over us. There were no clouds; simply this incessant wind that hurled its invisible forces against the car, at times with such violence that we were almost standing still. A heavy rainstorm would have been preferable; at least we would not then have been so blinded by the dust. Occasionally the shelter of the high hills gave a brief respite from the choking gusts.
All at once we forgot about the wind. In full view from the road was a hill crowned by the towers and ramparts of a mediæval city, a marvelous maze of battlements, frowning and formidable as if the enemy were expected any moment. We rode on to la ville basse, the other and more modern Carcassonne, a little checkerboard of a city with streets running at right angles and so different from the usual intricate streets of mediæval origin. Securing rooms at the Grand Hôtel St. Bernard, we hastened back, lest in the meantime an apparition so mirage-like should have disappeared. The first view of this silent, fortified city makes one believe that the imagination has played tricks. There is something fairy-like and unreal in the vision. It seems impossible that so majestic a spectacle could have survived the ages in a form so perfect and complete.
Carcassonne had always been one of our travel dreams. From somewhere back in high-school days came the memory of a French poem about an old soldier, a veteran of the Napoleonic wars, who longed to see la cité. One day he started on his pilgrimage, but he was sick and feeble. His weakness increased, and death overtook him while the journey was still unfinished. He never saw Carcassonne. Since that time we had wondered what kind of place it was that had made such an impression upon the French writers, and induced the French government to make of it a monument historique.
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood
The castle and double line of fortifications at Carcassonne Page 103