The next day dawned all too early as assorted French market traders set
up their stalls outside in an altogether too happy and noisy manner. Perhaps
choosing a hotel on the market square was a bad plan? The route for the
day was to take us to Carcasonne, a place I have been impressed with in
the past (being a large medieval walled town with the walls entirely intact,
including wooden battlements and roofs on the towers). Crispin had been
told that it was a top place to visit, so we agreed to stop there. We set
out in formation, and ascended the Col du Port, at which point Jeremy went
steaming off, only to be caught by Marvin who had been at the back but
was on a flyer. I just couldn't get the hang of it, I am used to much shorter
corners, with a brake, flick, accelerate style of riding. Marvin was impressively
smooth as he swept majestically past. At the top we were joined by a scotsman
on an R1. He had really minimal luggage, and was doing lots of miles. Presumably
a member of the gold amex school of motorcycle touring, but that I could
join that club. After that we got strung out a little on really quite pleasant
roads, including the first of many very oddly coloured lakes.
During a fag stop for marvin I mentioned how bad the rear axle of a
passing truck sounded, and was soundly criticised for noticing such things
amongst the prevailing scenery. We had some trouble passing a concrete
truck, so much so that when we paused to regroup we didn't, setting off
before quite everybody had arrived to avoid having to pass it again. It
availed is naught though, as just up the road Jeremy had stopped in a garage
with suspiciously bad sounding front wheel bearings. Like a flash I produced
the spares I had packed, sizes 6302, 6304 and 6305. Jeremy rang his dealer
in the UK. The Tiger takes 6303. Darn! Jeremy tried to work out the french
for 'ball bearing' while I took a sample to a little workshop up the road.
Neither of us had much luck. We set off again, this time with me in the
front. I lost the others fairly quickly but pressed on knowing that they
were going to Carcasonne, and knowing that they would have to go past a
lay-by on the main road directly opposite where I would wait for them.
Imagine my surprise when Carcassonne was a huge city. It appeared that
I had confused it with a much smaller walled town. I carried on hopefully,
following the signs for 'Citadel', and eventually crossed the river to
see the truly impressive sight that is the old city. I picked a sensible
place to wait. And waited. And Waited. I did a getting very lost lap of
the city, back to the way they would have had to come in to see if they
had regrouped outside the city. Then did another loop a little later. 2
hours later I decided they weren't coming, made a phone call, and found
that they had decided they were behind schedule and had bypassed Carcasonne
altogether. Rats!. I could have spent that time looking round the citadel
by myself. I set off back on the previously arranged route, though due
to eccentric sign posting I did a further 3 laps of the city centre before
finding the Mazamet road. Eventually I arrived at the destination for the
night, and started trying to find campsites. None of the first two directions
I tried looked hopeful, so I stopped and tried a phone call again. I had
missed a call, but no-one was answering theirs. (I wish I had got the vibralert
model, that might have worked above the wind noise). I tried another way
out of town, and found a campsite just as it dropped dark, a campsite full
of Brit. bikers, and the right ones two. Sorted. It turned out that night
life at the sight was effectively absent, so whilst Jeff went (somewhat
worryingly glumly) to bed the rest of us went in to town by bike. As it
was Mikes 35th birthday he hitched a lift on Marvin's FJ so he could drink.
I led the way out of the site and immediately turned the wrong way. One
U turn later we arrived in town and tried to find somewhere open. We had
a not at all bad meal in a bar under a large stone edifice of unknown function,
it was an interesting barrel-vaulted structure with a spiral staircase
going up. Unhappy with the concept of a night of sobriety we bought a large
box of cheap beer from the proprietor, returned to the campsite (Mike on
my FJ this time) and sat around quaffing weak fizzy beer until it had all
gone.
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