Four Cs of Languedoc

If Normandy and the Dordogne can both be defined by their four Cs, why not Languedoc, in Southern France? It's the land of Carcassonne, Catharism, Collioure, and Catalan.

Catalan:

Our next Cathar fortress -- Salses -- doesn't have the pizazz of Carcassonne, especially since we are forced to take an hour-long tour in a French so thickly accented with Catalan that not even the girls or I can understand it. Well, we're pretty sure it's French.

 

In architecture as well as language, there's a definite Spanish/Moorish flavor here. I love the arches and doors at the 11th century Abbey de Fontfroide, where the assassination of a monk was the catalyst for the crusade that wiped out the Cathars (they were Christian -- just not Catholic):

    

Cathar castles:

 

Suffering from castle-overload, we only have the heart to visit one real Cathar castle, but it's a doozy -- the nearly unpronounceable Peyrepertuse, which was built high in the Pyrénées Orientales starting in the 11th century. It's pretty easy to see why it was a good defensive spot. It's practically impenetrable even with a car and admission tickets. In order to get up to the top, there is sweating, and some whining, involved.

 

 

Collioure:

The girls' favorite part of the whole trip is at the end: two really magical days in the Mediterranean beach town of Collioure. Anthony works on all-important rock-skimming techniques with the girls, and Pippa decides it is of utmost importance to collect every possible piece of sea glass. She goes at this task with the dedication of an athlete training for the Olympics. She is a champion sea-glass-finder. It's a charming town and, frankly, we are glad for the respite from education and castles -- so much so that we never even manage to step in the 800-year old Château Royal here, though we walk by it dozens of times and certainly photograph it enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

SOME BONUS Cs: COLD & CLASSMATES:

In this unbelievably rainy and cold spring (throughout all of France), Collioure is a bright spot, quite literally. It's warm enough to hang out on the beach, but only a child could go further in the water than their ankles. I once got hypothermia (true, profound hypothermia) by scuba diving just a tiny bit further south from here in a Spanish small town with a big name -- Torroella de Montgrí i l'Estartit. And I'm not about to make that mistake twice. Don't believe what anybody says about the Mediterranean; if you want to swim, it's South Pacific all the way, baby. This sea is cold!

We are starting to feel like real Frenchies: We are about as far south as one can go and still be in France, over 800km from Paris, yet Gigi runs into a former Parisian classmate on the beach.

   

And now goodbye to the cultural Cs and the cold seas, and we're on our way back to the land of the four Ps: Paris, pollution, and pavement. Yes, I know that's only three.