52 Beds in 52 Weeks: A Trip Around the World

As our adventure comes to a close with our return to Maine tomorrow, we are reviewing the year and trying to get a handle on what it all has meant to us.  Our heads are full of so many beautiful sights: the volcanoes and bold colors of Guatemala, the turquoise water of the Caribbean,  the mysterious golden culture of Thailand, the peaceful temples - and wide sidewalks - of Laos, the tidy tea plantations and enormous monuments of India, the misty moody hills of Scotland, the quaint hedgerows and lovely seaside towns of England, the medieval towns of Spain,  the vineyards and mountains of southwest France, and the bright green rolling meadows of Ireland.  And that's just a taste - a good dollop, mind you - but just a taste of the world's gifts that we experienced.

It was an incredible privilege to have this opportunity to spend a year exploring the world.  The highest privilege was being invited into people's homes and into their lives for a moment - real lives where transitions were taking place, where personal losses were being grieved, where a new home was being planned or where uncertain financial futures were being wrestled with, where serious health problems brought re-evaluations of life-style, where young people were working hard to gain an education and were setting out on their own adventures, some graduating after many years of study, where parents were joyfully anticipating a child's wedding or dubiously looking forward to the life changes that retirement would bring,   We weren't escaping from life; we were jumping into the middle of it everywhere that we went!  We have been impressed by the young people that we've met who are so creative and hard-working and ambitious and desirous of all the good stuff in life that American youth want.

There were experiences of spirituality in huge historic Christian places of worship in Europe, in a modern airy church in Asia, in a damp chapel carved out of a mountainside in France, in an ancient abbey on a tiny windswept island off the coast of Scotland, in a small friendly church in Guatemala, in mysterious Buddhist temples smelling of incense.  Those were the formal, intended places of worship.  There were other places, natural locations so beautiful that they brought an unexpected prayer to mind.

There were funny times, too, like when monkeys came after me in India.  I yelled for Bruce's help while trying to distract the little buggers by throwing my sunglasses at them (it didn't work!). There were scary times in the backseat of an Indian taxi driven by a maniac on narrow twisting roads.  There were moments when we wondered why we were wandering around the world, so far from home, and moments of boredom and loneliness  - and lots of lovely moments as recipients of generosity and kindness and fun, and great gratitude for our good fortune in having this incredible experience.

What have we learned?  How have we changed?  Would we do it again?  Do we still have some wanderlust?

Well, these last two are the easiest to answer, given that we are still jotting down places that we'd like to see and noting tidbits of info, like the fact that Ryan Air plans to begin service from Ireland to Gdansk, Poland.  Ahh, so many interesting places still to explore and so much to learn about the world.  I don't think that we have another long adventure in us - but shorter ones still appeal. It's been a tremendous amount of work to get this endeavor to unroll as smoothly as it has - and it has all been done by Bruce!  Thanks to him, we never had a night without a bed or were left stranded by the side of the road or found our bank account empty when we needed it!  But the time and stress involved with arranging hotels, B&B's, apartments, houses, Woofing, visas, buses, trains, flights, ferries, car rentals, credit card payments, money transfers, new currencies and phone cards in every country - with internet service that was often dodgy - it's been a HUGE undertaking!  Bravo to him.  No wonder I'm the one who wants to get out and see, do, experience every day while he wants to take it slow and easy.

What have we learned about ourselves?  Well, I know now that I have a pretty good sense of direction and that we're both pretty flexible, that Bruce is surprisingly more cautious than I in many situations, that he is incredibly good at aforementioned planning.   We both are more acutely aware of the disparities between the "have's" and "have not's" in the world - and the incredible sweetness and generosity of those who have very little in the way of material goods.  If we have any regrets, it's that we might have done more in the way of being of service to those very people.  Overall, it's been a proverbial blast!  It's hard to let go of such a wonderful experience, but we are ready now to rejoin our families and friends, to reconnect with those whose roots and histories we share, and to reclaim our lives back home.

As the year has unfolded and we've written blog after blog, we've often wondered who was reading them and what their reactions were.  We'd love to have some feedback, thoughts, reactions, etc.  You could send them to my email at:  lwebb34@gmail.com.  Thanks and cheerio!  

Green Green Fields of Ireland

This will be a very quick post since we leave for home tomorrow.  But Ireland isn't to be passed over, so I feel compelled to get out a few words and pictures about this lovely green land.  By tomorrow we will have been here for about 8 days, mostly in Cork, and then a couple of days in Dublin.  We had hoped to stay in Galway, since so many Portland folks of Irish descent came from that western Ireland city and it's reputed to be beautiful.  Alas, it was horse race week in Galway and not a room to be had there.  As a fellow in Dublin remarked yesterday in giving us directions back to our hotel (located next to the Royal Dublin Horse Show site), "all roads in Ireland lead to horse races!".  So, we opted instead for Cork, second largest city in Ireland, where Gay Pride weekend was about to be celebrated rather than horse races!  And, as we've found so often before, the city and surrounding areas had a lot to offer.

                               Cork, second largest city of Ireland, on the River Lee.

                           Church of Ireland tower with rainbow flag for Pride weekend

Probably the two most interesting things about Cork were the place that we stayed and the nearby city of Cobh.  We stayed with a young couple, Denise and Ben, who have a spare bedroom which they offer through AirBnB at a very reasonable rate, with a great breakfast thrown in.  Denise, as it turns out, manages a shelter for immigrants, housing nearly 300 refugees.  Ben works for a mobile phone company.  Of course I was very interested in Denise's work and how the Irish government handles their refugees.  So, on our last day,  Denise took me to see the shelter.  I'm a bit familiar with the Canadian approach and with the US approach, which encourages independence fairly quickly.  It was fascinating to compare them with the Irish way, with its very benevolent services, including housing, meals, educational classes, recreation, health services, day care, and employment support.

It was such a travel plus to stay with ordinary folks and to learn about their lives.  Watching the Olympics together on their big screen tv and using their kitchen to cook up a simple meal and exchanging travel stories felt a lot like staying with friends.  Neat experience.

                                            Our AirBnB, Denise and Ben's home in Cork

Cobh, formerly known as Queenstown and before that as Cove (Cobh is the Gaelic spelling of Cove), is the coastal city from where 250,000 Irish left their country on the "famine ships" to look for a better life elsewhere in the 1800's.  It's also where the Titanic last stopped to pick up passengers in 1912.  Three years later the Lusitania survivors and bodies were brought there after the ship was torpedoed by the Germans in World War I. And, it was one of the cities on the New York, Cherbourg, Queenstown circuit for big ocean liners, too.   Lots of history there that we learned about in a heritage museum.  The tourism guy shared an interesting tidbit:  When Ireland got its independence, it rid itself of anything British, including the name of Queenstown (named for Queen Victoria) and several statues of Victoria, which they sent to Australia and Victoria, British Columbia.  A third statue was buried but recently unearthed in these more enlightened times.  In mentioning the name of the hated English statesman, Cromwell, he gave a little spit out of the side of his mouth!  Makes you realize how relatively recently the war of independence took place, not quite one hundred years ago.

This is a photo of a photo - but doesn't it almost feel like you're on board the Titanic?

Our brief stay in Dublin has gone quickly with Bruce needing to spend time on his new on-line class that he's teaching.  We've walked downtown a couple of times and enjoyed the cool air and the beautiful Georgian architecture, the lovely parks and gardens, and the old pubs.

                                  Our Dublin hotel where Bruce was hard at work on his on-line class 

                                                        Georgian house in Dublin

                                 Garden, park, church - a little bit of everything here!

Ireland was a good choice for our last stop.  We certainly felt closer to home here.  The US-Irish connection was everywhere:  lots of American (and Canadian) flags; lots of businesses and products with American names, such as Manhattan popcorn and Long Island Bar;  lots of people with relatives in the US or who had traveled there themselves.  Everyone seemed to know where Maine is.  I could feel an invisible thread pulling us homeward to those we love!

Devon Days

I have come to realize that I may be a bit indiscriminate in traveling:  I tend to love every place that we visit!  Right now I’m loving Devon.  We’ve just spent 10 days there, back at North Harton Blueberry Farm with Robin and Wei-Wei and the woofers.  While there, we took day trips to a variety of Devon destinations:  Bideford on the northwest Atlantic coast; Castle Drogo, in Dartmoor National Park;  Paignton, on the English Riviera; Totnes, a riverside town near Paignton;  Bovey-Tracey and Widecombe, towns in eastern Dartmoor Park; and finally, Lustleigh, the village near to the farm.  Most of these had been suggestions by Robin because they are charming and interesting.

Bruce and I had wanted to visit Bideford, because we knew that there was a historical shipbuilding connection between Bideford, England, and Bideford, Prince Edward Island, near to where my mom grew up.  In addition, our son Sam has been living in Biddeford, Maine.  Surely there must be a connection between those two cities, as well.  So off we went to see what Bideford, England, feels like now.  We found a bustling, pretty, un-touristy city, going about its business on a sunny summer day.  Located on a tidal river, it’s close to Bideford Bay and the Atlantic Ocean.  On this day, a huge ship was being loaded with massive logs on the waterfront.  Bruce conjectured that the wood was bound for the Scandinavian pulp & paper industry.  Along narrow, pedestrian streets, housewives were buying meat at the butcher shops.  On the edge of town, we stopped to watch a lawn bowling game with older gentlemen clad in white, rolling black balls on a closely cropped green.  We had a feed of fish ‘n chips in a very, very old inn – it seemed only right.

                                                                 Bideford building 

Castle Drogo is reported to be the last castle built in England.  It’s really an ornate mansion and situated on 900 acres of rolling Devon countryside.   Completed in 1930, it was constructed to fulfill the romantic fantasies of a wealthy businessman, Mr. Drewe.  It was fun to see the lifestyle of folks who could afford live-in servants.  During World War II, the mansion served as an orphanage, the children being cared for by the dowagers of the family.  It’s now owned by the British National Trust, which must be weighed down with gifts of estates, no longer affordable to their heirs.  This one needs a 12 million pound roof repair!  

                                                                       Castle Drogo

Paignton is a beach town, located along the stretch of English Channel coastline known as the English Riviera.  With shades of Old Orchard Beach, shops were selling tacky stuff, and rides for kids lined the beachfront.  Behind them, bright white Victorian hotels and B&B’s vied for customers, with signs advertising very competitive prices.  Tiny white peaked beach buildings, with colorful doors, lined the waterfront.  Owners store their beach equipment and grills and chairs there – and then sprawl out right in front of the little beach houses, never mind going down onto the sand! 

                                                   Old hotel along the sea in Paignton

                                   Tiny beach houses in Paignton on the English Riviera

                                                      The beach & stone wall at Paignton

The lovely old town of Totnes is located on the River Dart.  It has a bit of a hippy reputation, with lots of creative, cute shops in pastel-colored buildings, and a commitment to becoming an ecologically green town.  We sat on the riverside and watched kayakers and rowers paddling by and sailboats motoring up to the boat club mooring.  Sheep on the grassy banks opposite us clustered in the cool shade of trees.  We had tea and scones in a funky tea room garden, where the unexpected ear-piercing shrieks of a giant parrot lifted us out of our seats! 

                                                   Main street of the lovely town of Totnes

                                               Rowers on the River Dart in Totnes

Bovey-Tracy is not too far from North Harton.  Since both Bruce and I were suffering from colds and lagging energy, we didn’t want to drive too far on the narrow roads, lined with tall hedge rows, that stress and exhaust drivers who are unaccustomed to them.   So we settled on visiting the Parke Estate for a walk on their peaceful paths along the Bovey River.   This was another old property that had been given to the National Trust.  As we entered the estate grounds, sheep (again) were relaxing in the meadow - can't get enough of them!  Within the estate's walled garden, vegetables, fruits, and flowers were thriving – very inspirational.  In another area, wild Dartmoor ponies were being trained so that troubled children could work with them.   For lunch, we drove on down the road to Widecombe, a tiny village with an unusually beautiful,  light and airy 15^th century stone church.

                                                Wild Dartmoor ponies at the Parke Estate  

                                                                    Peaceful river walk

     Wooden likeness in the church of Tom Cobley & friends,  subjects of a folk song at "the Widecombe Fair".

Friday was our last day on the farm - and another sunny one.  Just like our visit in late May, we had brought the sun with us, and Robin and the Woofers were exceedingly grateful!  (We liked it, too.)  The blueberries needed some sun to push along their ripening, which was happening nicely by the time that we left.  We didn't want to stray far from the farm on this last day, so decided to walk to Lustleigh, about a 40 minute stroll down through leafy, ancient trails, through meadows with sheep, across a burbling brook on a tiny stone bridge.  We sat in someone's field for awhile, just soaking it all in for one last time, thinking how we'd probably be chased off private property if we tried this at home.  Of course, if someone had objected, we'd have brought out the American accent and professed ignorance.  Travelers "from away" have a certain amount of leeway, it seems. 

In the quiet village, we sat for awhile in the village orchard, reading under a tree and watching a little girl play in the grassy, fenced-in playground while her white-haired grandparents relaxed not far away.  Nearby was the huge stone, topped with a stone chair, where the May queen sits after being crowned each May Day.  Can it get any more quaint?   After lunch in the garden of the Primrose Tea Room, we lingered for awhile before starting our uphill trek back to the farm.

                            The stone chair in Lustleigh where the May queen is crowned

                                                    The Lustleigh village playground 

That night we watched the Opening Ceremonies for the 2012 Olympics on the tellie, surrounded by folks from France, Germany, England, and China.  We loved the bit with the queen "parachuting" out of an airplane with James Bond; the piece with kids bouncing on beds, a la Peter Pan, while National Health Services doctors and nurses cared for them;  silly, hilarious Mr. Bean playing the keyboard; and the sobering, astonishing smokestacks of industrial England rising up and belching smoke.   In my opinion, it got off to a slow start but was brilliant in its entirety.  It's certainly getting great press in the UK!  We couldn't stay up long enough to see the US team march in together - if only the USA came earlier in the alphabet!  

Wei-Wei and Robin sent us off with Dartmoor blueberries and Wei-Wei's homemade cheese for snacking on.

Now we're in rainy Cork, Ireland, where they say it's been raining all summer.  Hard to imagine how they can remain so cheery.  Only one week before we fly home on August 8.  Will this all be a dream so soon?

An English Country Fayre

"This is the real first day of summer, the day of the North Bovey Fair!  And I pronounce the fair OPEN!" With those words the clergyman of the ancient, stone church began the festivities at the annual summer fair on the North Bovey village green.  I can imagine that it has been tradition for hundreds of years for the current minister of the church to open the summer fair.

Bruce and I have returned to the blueberry farm in Devon, England, where we helped out for a couple of weeks in May.  This time we are there as paying guests.  We had happened upon the fair when we decided to go for a walk in the countryside.  Walking is very popular among the Brit's, and there are lots of lovely walking trails, well-marked with signs and encouraged by the publication of detailed maps.

Last Saturday Wei-Wei, our hostess, had sent us off with sandwiches, and we had hiked through the meadows to the area high above the farm, called the cleave.  The cleave is communally owned by the bordering property owners, who have the right to pasture cows and wild Dartmoor ponies there.  In fact, it's encouraged to have animals feeding there, so that the moor grass will be kept short and won't revert to forest or bracken.  Big Belted Galloway cows were grazing contentedly as we emerged over the crest of the cleave.  

It was a beautiful day.  From the top of the cleave, we could see far off over green rolling hills, sectioned into pastures which were bordered by hedgerows.  Our maps indicated that there were walking trails to North Bovey, not too far away, so we set out for that little village, making our way down off the cleave on a rocky trail.  A fellow walker, whom we met on the way, had alerted us to the fact that the village was having its fair that day, a bonus for us.   

                     Looking out over the Devon countryside from the top of the cleave.

The grassy green was bustling with activities when we arrived.  In an open area, a large Maypole had been erected with colorful ribbons attached to the top.  Little girls in patriotic red, white, and blue dresses were dancing around it, while a trio of musicians played a medieval tune on a fiddle, penny whistle, and a guitar.  I wondered if we had been dropped into a scene from a hundred years ago.

                                                           Dancing around the Maypole

In another corner of the green, a dog show was being prepared for.  People with all manner of doggie friends were getting ready to vie for prizes in categories such as "Best Pedigree, Prettiest Bitch, and Dog the judge would most like to take home".

At the cake sale table, lovely looking homemade cakes were being tended by a white haired matron who has probably been doing this very same job for decades.  

A couple of sheep in a cage participated agreeably in the festivities as passersby tried to guess their names.  A fairground organ, housed in a truck decked out in Union Jack flags, played camp tunes while a toy orangutan waved his hairy arms in time to the music.  In the middle of all of this, "Uncle Bobby" was tying balloons into funny shapes for kids.  

Along the edge of the green, cream tea was being served at tables.  Cream tea, we have learned, is a Devonshire specialty consisting of tea served with a scone and clotted cream and strawberry jam.  So very British!

More typical church fair-type offerings included a table of flea market items and one filled with garden plants. Around the corner, the church was overflowing with books and local art for sale.  It was a bit torturous to see all those good books and realize that I have no room in my bulging suitcase.  

The whole fair had a very innocent, timeless, quintessential English feel.  We walked around, ate our sandwiches on a bench, watching it all, and then had some "award-winning" local ice cream before beginning our trek back to the farm, feeling lucky to have experienced such a classic summertime British event.   

We are in the last couple of weeks of our year-long adventure and are looking forward to returning home to family and friends.  It's been an incredible experience, to say the least.  It's also been a LOT of work, and we are pretty tired and full of new sights and friendships. As my friend Deb Smith, noted, we are yearning now for familiar places and relationships with deep roots.  Having said that, we are in a special place - with a couple of more special areas yet to go - and we want to savor and enjoy them, too.  

Bordeaux

Bordeaux is a beautiful city with a long, interesting history, dating back to the days when the Romans laid out its streets and main square - and even before.  Its majestic buildings, constructed of honey-colored stone, exude a warm charm.  Apparently, there has been a friendly rivalry between Bordeaux and Paris in the "grandeur" category, and the huge ornate buildings stretching along the Garonne River are evidence.  Fountains and gardens and grand gates that open into the old city at various points hint at a history of wealthy patrons.  There is evidence, too, like so many cities, of a more recent past of seediness along the waterfront.   But the city has obviously poured money into refurbishing that area, so that now it bustles with folks walking, biking, roller-blading, jogging along the wide, wide promenade that borders the river, as well as eating at trendy little cafes and restaurants, many outdoors.  This part of the city has an airiness and sense of freedom which was pleasant after the gorges and shuttered houses of the southwest.  Looking out on the river, just across the street from our apartment, was a huge skateboard park.  I am impressed that the city would devote this prime real estate to a group of young athletes who so often struggle for recognition of their sport.  Their energy and talent were attractive, and we were not the only passersby stopping to watch. 

                                          The city reflected in the Garonne River.

                                One of Bordeaux's majestic buildings and fountains.

The water mirror, a tiny amount of water that reflects the sky in front of these grand buildings (The Bourse), spurt a fine mist every few minutes.  It was very fun.   

                                             Promenading along the Garonne River.

I was surprised to encounter, scattered around the city, public acknowledgment of links with America, and I found them fascinating and heart-warming.  The first thing that I noticed, a few doors away from the apartment, was a plaque honoring  President Thomas Jefferson, who had been influenced by the time that he had spent in France. Farther along the waterfront was a street named after Martin Luther King, with the caption: “Defender of Human Rights”.   In our neighborhood, in a tiny park, was a reduced size replica of the Statue of Liberty, erected in recognition of the attack on America on 9-11.  And, closer to home, a street and cafe in Bordeaux were named after Jean Louis de Cheverus, the same fellow for whom Cheverus High School is named.  A French native, he ministered to the Penobscot Indians in Maine, became the first Roman Catholic bishop for the Diocese of Boston, and died in Bordeaux.   

Needless to say, we indulged ourselves with great French food, which is so easy to come by.  However, one of our favorite meals was our first ever Tibetan repast - incredibly fresh and delicious.   More traditional were the crepes and omelets, found at a cute little Breton resto, and delicious classic dishes, like my sauteed whole fish and Bruce's carpaggio, the first time he's eaten raw beef!  Other meals were more creative, such as Bruce's fish tagine, featuring unexpected cinnamon and clove flavors.

We were lucky to be staying in a conveniently located small apartment.  It was a cute little place, sort of like a nest, made out of a corner of one of the old wine warehouses along the riverfront.  It was efficiently designed, making great use of limited space and, although the windows were placed along only one wall, which looked out onto an inner courtyard, the light was lovely.  We were able to make breakfasts, and one night we ate supper there.

The small living room, just perfect for us for 4 days, with the ladder-type stairs leading to the bedroom and bath above.  

We had looked forward to spending French Independence Day in Bordeaux.  It turned out to be a more low-key celebration than we had expected, unless we missed something.   The big event during the day seemed to be  the BMX Bike Riding Competition, to sort out competitors who will represent France in London (not at the Olympics, I'm sure).  That evening, when we strolled along the quai before dinner, we came upon ceremonies that are more typical, with a few high-ranking military men and women and lots of branches of the military represented.  The Marseillaise, the French national anthem, was played, and I hummed along.  Red, white, and blue tri-couleur flags were flying everywhere.  Later, as we entered the narrow streets of the old city, looking for a place for dinner, restaurants were overflowing with happy revelers.  None of the places that we had scouted out earlier had a seat available.  We walked and walked and looked and looked.  Finally, we happened upon the Tibetan resto.  It was very tiny and kinda funky and had several empty tables.   The owners were sweet, and the food was delicious.  Nice experience.  Bruce has a talent for picking good places to eat. 

              I don't know who he was, but his uniform reminded me of Charles De Gaulle's.  

The fireworks weren't scheduled to begin until 10:45, rather late for old folks!  But after our Tibetan dinner, we made it to the wharf just in time to get a spot among the crowd, close to where the explosives would be shot off a boat in the middle of the river.  Bordeaux is a city of over a million residents, and a large percentage of them were there to watch the pyrotechnics!  The colorful, sparkly arrays, bursting in quick succession, happened right over our heads.  They were fantastic, the best fireworks that we've ever seen!  Vive la France!

Wandering through the Pyrenees

We left our village of Montlaur last Saturday and have been exploring the Pyrenees mountains for the past week.  They form the southern border with Spain, and one day we even ventured over the top and into Spain for a quick peek from the peak.  Bruce found our accommodations for Saturday night on-line before we departed Montlaur.  It was a B&B in the small town of Axat, in the foothills.  It seems to be a phenomenon that we pick a name on the map as a convenient place to stop – and then discover that it is a very interesting destination where we could easily stay and explore for days.  Of course, the enthusiasm of our B&B hosts for their area intensifies this phenomenon. 

Au Quatre Saisons B&B in Axat, France.  Note the Cathar cross on the wall.

Our hosts on our first night out were Brits, Paul and Val, probably in their 40's, who have been running the Au Quatre Saisons B&B for five years.  When we arrived late Saturday afternoon, they put us up in the suite in the re-constructed attic.  It was a pleasant space with leather sofas for lounging and a wonderful view of high mountains, as well as looking down on Paul’s lime green Deux Cheval car.  Bruce and I have always loved these funky, quintessential symbols of France.  Paul thrilled us by offering to take us for a spin.  He rolled back the canvas top and off we went,  touring the small village, being introduced to the hardware store owner as “my American friends”,  seeing the resto where Paul had waited tables one season, and pausing while he greeted an elderly friend.  We heard about the pressures to keep a B&B full during the high season - like Maine in the summer.  Val has kept her job in the UK and returns there every other week, working from Axat in the intervening weeks.  Paul’s suggestions about all the places that we “must” see convinced us that perhaps a second day in Axat was in order. 

                          The Deux Cheval car that we toured Axat in with our B&B host.

Alors, the next day we drove to the Gorges de Galamus, an impressively deep gorge carved by a small river out of the limestone mountains.  The road was narrow and required traffic directors to get the cars safely through.  We walked down to an ancient hermitage, built into the side of the mountain, where there was a small chapel.  Like so many of the constructions in this area, it’s hard to imagine how they could have been completed at these impossible heights, especially hundreds of years ago.  I just googled the hermitage in the gorges de galamus, btw, and a you-tube video popped up of a drive through the gorge, with music!   

                                       The hermitage in the Gorges de Galamus

We didn't linger, as Paul had also suggested a tourist train ride through the mountains for a couple of hours in  open cars.  Our window at the B&B looked out on the tall viaduct that carried the train over the valley where Axat is located.  As we rode along that day, the clouds hung low in the mountain valleys, and it was cool there but brightened up once we got out into the vineyard-clogged plain.

We left Axat on Monday and headed west, farther into the mountains.  Along the way, we visited Montsegur, the ruins of a castle perched on top of sheer cliffs, way up in the hills.  It was the place where the Cathars had made their last stand against the pope and the French king in the 13th century.  Much of southern France is Cathar country, with lots of places where this beleaguered religious sect was besieged.  Not surprisingly, it always ended badly for the Cathars, usually with their being overcome and choosing to jump into a burning pyre rather than renouncing their beliefs.  Over 200 martyrs died at Montsegur, after holding out for 10 months.  I believe that it's the only Christian group against which a crusade was waged.   Pretty brutal times, but so were the times before and after.  Now it's a peaceful place, high in the sky, the trail leading up to it surrounded by the most amazing array of wild flowers.  

                                 We burned off a few croissants climbing to the top of Montsegur.  

That night we stayed in Fos, only about 6 km from the Spanish border, an area where FOUR languages are spoken: French, Spanish, Occitan, and Aranese.  It looked quite different from the Montlaur area.  The orange-tiled roofs were replaced with gray slate, including small spikes to slow the sliding of snow.  The weather was gray and cool.  Twisty, narrow streets led up to the spot where the Au Repos de Moine B&B clung to the side of a hill, nestled among other village houses.  Again, our hostess was a British woman.  Like Paul and Val the night before, Christine and her husband, Bert, had also turned an old, old house into a comfortable B&B.  They both supplement their incomes by teaching English on-line to individual students.  Bert was away sailing on the Spanish coast, but we had a lovely chat with Christine.  She shared their story of coming to France, the fulfillment of a dream.  But, after a serious health crisis, they are missing their British friends and family - and cozy, amiable British pubs - and may buy a canal boat in England and spend part of their year there and part running their B&B in France.

                    Looking down on the town of Fos and its river running through the valley.  

Christine was just as knowledgeable and enthused about her corner of the world as Paul had been.  On her advice, we ended up crossing over the mountains into the Spanish Val d'Aran, which Andrea had also encouraged us to see.  It's a beautiful valley and the town of Vielha seemed prosperous and cheery, with lots of skiing condos spreading up the steep mountainsides and the swift-flowing River Garonne, in its infancy, swooshing down the middle.  The King of Spain comes to ski in a town not far away.  After lunch in Spain, on a sunny plaza next to a centuries-old church, we threaded our way back through the mountains to the French side, descending to a town that was preparing to welcome the Tour de France next week.  Those riders will have their work cut out for them in this challenging area!  We have been tuning in to the race on tv at the end of each day, watching the exciting last few minutes as these amazing athletes vie to cross the line and earn the yellow shirt.

For the first time in our whole year away, we didn't have a place reserved for Tuesday night.  Luckily, many French towns have tourist offices with publications listing area accommodations.  And, to our delight, B's cell phone worked!  So, we made a few phone calls and ended up in the spa town of Capvern-les-Bains.  We hadn't realized it before, but this region has many spa towns where, one hundred years ago, wealthy folks came to bathe in the hot sulfur waters that burble up out of the ground.  Our accommodation was an old hotel, fairly spartan actually, but adequate.  The next day was chilly and drizzly.  Alas, I couldn't convince Bruce to "take the waters" at the spa down the road.  Instead, we continued on our way.   

                    The misty castle that our room in the spa town of Capvern looked out on.

Our destination, which we never got to, was a tiny hamlet far to the west.  A few years ago I had given Bruce a book describing the work of a Belgian surgeon during WWII.  He had set up a phony lumber business there in order to cover his real work of getting people, who were in danger of the Nazis, over the mountains and out of France.  After the war he had emigrated to the USA and settled in Boston, where he became a renowned researcher at Mass Eye and Ear.  Alas, these twisty mountain roads slowed us down and put the kibosh on that idea.  We finally decided to stay put in the pretty town of Oloron-Ste-Marie for 2 nights.  It was located at the confluence of two rivers - and also the confluence of two trails on the pilgrimage route leading to the Cathedral of Santiago de Campostela in northwestern Spain. The town boasts its own historic Cathedral of St. Mary, on the UNESCO Heritage list.  And we found a wonderful little creperie that we visited both nights we were there.  

                                                     Oloron-Ste-Marie 

                                  Carving on the doorway at Cathedral of St. Mary in Oloron-Ste-Marie

So that brings us to Friday, yesterday, the day that we were scheduled to return our trusty leased Peugeot to a dealer in Bordeaux.  We were up early in order to travel up the superhighway and have the car back by noon.  This is our first visit to Bordeaux, and we are already loving the grandeur of the buildings and the lovely warm color of their sandstone, as well as all the cozy little nooks for outdoor cafes, the open and airy feel of this riverside city, and, of course, the wine culture.  Coincidentally, it is located near to where the River Garonne - which we saw far up in the Pyrenees - empties into the Atlantic Ocean.  Today is Quatorze Juillet, France's Independence Day.  No dancing in the streets, as I remember from 43 years ago, the last time I was in France for Bastille Day.  Instead, Bruce and I watched a BMX bike riding competition in the park (preparing for a Tour de France future?).  Fireworks are scheduled for this evening.  The adventure continues!