Homegrown French Champ

“Would you like to see my bull?” said the man, drawing up alongside me in his truck. I was dog walking on a deserted country lane. Under normal circumstances, I might have felt distinctly uncomfortable about such an offer, but this was different. This was Patrick Sazy, a breeder of prize-winning Blonde d’Aquitaine cattle and all-round lovely chap.

The whole family specialise in the beef business, and have the entire process covered, although Patrick doesn’t like to speak much about the end result. With animal welfare at the forefront of his mind, his passion is for rearing and nurturing spectacular live animals.

“Ooh yes please, Patrick,” I enthused.

“You’re welcome. Follow me. I have a bovine specialist coming later. He is pre-selecting for the national livestock show in Paris. I have my best bull and cow to be judged.”

I had wanted to visit his stud farm for ages. This was an opportunity too good to miss. The dogs and I ambled into his yard just as a large trailer pulled in. With fur oozing out of the vents on both sides, and tyres depressed by the strain of their cargo, I guessed what might be inside. The whole vehicle was swaying gently.

Out of the cab sprang a very pretty girl followed by two men. They pulled down the trailer ramp which revealed the most prominent backside I had ever seen.

“This is my colleague’s bull from Gers,” said Patrick, “it will be judged too.”

This was exciting. I couldn’t wait to see the other end of it. A couple of eager whines suggested that Aby and Max, our Australian Shepherd dogs, were thinking the same thing. Concerned they might start developing latent herding skills, I decided to tie them up before they made a nuisance of themselves. Patrick found me two lengths of bind-a-twine. I tethered them to a tractor in a grandstand position and watched while the newcomer was unloaded.

The monster, still inside, started quivering and pounding the trailer floor. Aby and Max stared, looking absolutely horrified. Checking them, so they didn’t break into a hysterical chorus of barks, I enthusiastically snapped away with my camera.

“Madame, this is not his best feature,” said a grinning stockman, “you might be better to wait until he comes out.”

“Ahem, yes. Yes, of course,” I peeped, embarrassed at being caught taking photos of such an immense derrière.

Chains rattled inside the trailer as tackle was released. The vehicle’s sides rocked as Monsieur le bull decided it was time to go. Gates either side of the steep ramp were put in place and out he came, one bellowing pace at a time.

I stared goggle-eyed at the emerging mountain of flesh, wondering whether the little man hanging onto the halter rope was in fact as small as he looked. But no, as I quickly realised, he was above average height. It was his animal which was vast.

Once out, the bull, who actually seemed a placid enough chap, was tied up as his handler prepared him for the judging. This wasn’t quite as technical as one might think since it involved a scrubbing brush, and a hose, and a buffer-upper for finishing touches.

As the gent got stuck in, the lady, who turned out to be his wife, joined me. Admiring her pride and joy, she told me about their five-year-old home-grown boy and the breed standard. It was fascinating.

The ideal conformation for the Blonde d’Aquitaine breed is complicated, she said. Features such as dappling on the back forming rosette shapes, the curvature of horns, the rump and musculature were all significant, as were the chest depth and set of the eyes. It seemed that they had bred a fine specimen, one they had high hopes for in the show ring. There was one key issue, though. And I’m afraid it’s difficult to express it any other way.

This was a very mucky bull.

Every time poor monsieur cleaned up the rear end, there would be a swish of the tail and another outpouring. But this wasn’t an innocent dribble. Oh no, it came out like a power washer. On jet setting. One lot was deftly splattered all over Patrick’s car windscreen, which caused a good old belly laugh about the future need for industrial strength windscreen washers. Then the bull altered his ejections to squirt mode and caught the roving stockman square on the side of his face as he walked past. Nobody seemed to mind, though, this seemed to be normal.

Happily, monsieur taureau eventually ran out of fuel, which enabled the final bidet session to be completed and buffing-up to commence. He was gleaming by the time they’d finished. Meanwhile, Patrick had been preparing his own beasts in the shed. This building was one of several, all of which contained fabulous looking cattle. And they were as interested as we were in what was going on.

The Gers bull was untied and led to his place in the stable. More people arrived for the judging. As each car drew up, out came crates of beer, Pernod and breadsticks. Judging bulls must require a great deal of sustenance, I decided. I followed them in, agog at seeing Patrick’s beast for the first time.

And there he was.

A moment of maths, here. Patrick was standing on top of a sweet-smelling deep bed of fresh straw. His taureau was knee deep in it. Patrick is well over six feet tall. On the same level, I calculated that this animal must surely tower over him. More substantial than the interloper from Gers, this animal was beyond magnificent. Beside him stood the beautiful, creamy-coloured cow. Calm, and entirely unperturbed by the appearance of the new bull, she watched as he was gently slotted alongside. I swear that girl looked smug.

The air was thick with testosterone as we began the long wait for the judge to arrive. I took a short video during this period which I have posted on my Facebook profile. It quickly became clear was that Patrick’s bull evidently didn’t like the idea of this pretender, who might threaten his position as head of the heard. He got a bit grumpy and started a slow-motion thrashing, transforming the straw into confetti with each stamp. Patrick, sensibly hanging onto its nose ring, lovingly chided his charge.

 

The cow, sandwiched between the mounts of masculinity, still wasn’t taking a bit of notice of either beau. She calmly chewed her cud, while the newcomer took an unhealthy interest in her backside. Actually, it wasn’t hers I was worried about. If he’d let rip again, we’d all have been covered.

Then something new happened.

Patrick’s bull, now thoroughly fed up, started making strange noises. Have you ever heard a bull roar? In a stable? If not, I can tell you it’s a remarkable, bone-rattlingly booming kind of a sound. As this animal began to vocalise, its enormous, muscular body contorted with the effort. Out came this extraordinarily powerful sound. This was truly a fabulous animal, ferocious, yet utterly majestic.

Fortunately, Patrick was used to the protective antics of his boy and kept him under close control with the aid of stern words and the occasional slap with a stick on his shines. It must have felt like a feather tickle. Meanwhile, the beautiful cow continued to look on benignly, batted her extra-long lashes as she munched.

Disappointingly, the judge was delayed, and I reluctantly had to go before the pre-selection took place. I unhitched the dogs, who had been quiet as lambs throughout the whole process, wished everyone bon chance, and we returned home. It wasn’t until some weeks later that I learned the result. I bumped into Patrick’s sister-in-law and asked her what had happened.

“Come with me,” she smiled, ushering me into her office, the beating heart of their cattle business. Walls were lined with rosettes, photographs of winning beasts with family members beaming alongside. Trophies were on filing cabinets, shelves, anywhere. Everywhere.

The upshot was that both Patrick’s animals had been passed for the national show in Paris, and there was more. His fine bull had been placed overall third in show, but his gorgeous cow had been crowned bovine female show champion. They were both Champions of France. This wonderful family had done it again. Thrilled for them, I complimented her on their success.

“It is our passion,” she said bashfully. “We are nutritionists. We work with vets to breed our animals correctly and give them different special foods for their four growth phases. All completely natural. Only the best. We love our animals and want only to produce the best standard beasts with good character.”

I don’t know what happened to the bull from the Gers, but so long as he had been able to keep a lid on things I felt sure he would have been in with a great chance too.

My dog walk that day may have started out with a quaint offer, but it developed into an experience I shall never forget. I suspect the dogs won’t either. It had been a perfect treat and another unexpected adventure to mark our lives here in France among these kindest people. Life doesn’t get much better than this!

The Punk Pig

“Have you told Beth?” asked Patrice, popping his head around the door.

“No, not yet!”

Patrice shrugged, gave me a nervy wave and disappeared.

This awkward exchange between Melanie, my pal, and her husband occurred during my ‘nails’ appointment. Melanie, a beautician who works from home, was applying a coat of gel gungy stuff at the time. By the way, I know, it’s uber-girlie, but with my outdoor lifestyle, my fingers suffer from that just-been-attacked-by-the-cheese-grater look if I don’t get them fixed. It’s a damage control situation.

The pair of them looked so shifty I had to ask.

“Well, what?”

Melanie looked troubled.

“The problem is it’s illegal here in France.”

“I see,” I replied, not seeing at all. “Then don’t feel you have to tell me.”

“I must, we need your help.”

This was tricky. We’ve been through many scrapes in our short history here, but being incarcerated hasn’t featured.

Yet.

 Still, I thought, they’re our friends so we’d better help if we can.

“Okay, in that case, you’ll have to tell me.”

Melanie stuck my nails in the UV machine to cook and began her tale. Here’s the abridged version.

Patrice is an animal lover with a reputation for rescuing and recuperating injured creatures. He was out walking in a remote area with his dogs when two baby boar burst out of a bush. As Patrice fought to control his dogs, one of the babies scampered off into a thicket. The other tried to follow but was evidently weak. It collapsed. Bleeding from a hidden wound.

Patrice hunted around for their mum, but there were no other boar in the area. He briefly examined the piglet, found the cut and made a snap decision. Grabbing his rucksack, he popped the little one inside and took it home.

Melanie is chic (positively gorgeous, actually), and very house proud. Therefore, you might imagine her reaction when she returned from shopping to find piglet swaddled in a baby cot in front of the fire.

It was a familiar scenario. Melanie’s initial aaah’s quickly evaporated as the youngster’s bowels were activated. She tolerated the situation for a few days before demanding its removal to the garage.

Over the next few weeks the youngster, fed on cow’s milk, recovered from what turned out to be superficial injuries. It was developing fast, she said.

“Presumably, Patrice released it back into the wild like he normally does?” I asked.

“No, he refused,” Melanie said, arching her brows. “He was worried it would get shot by the local hunters. Anyway, he was too attached to it. The next problem was that it grew and we couldn’t garage the car without risking squashing it.”

“Oh, so what happened?”

“It’s in the kennel with the dogs.”

“Gosh!” I hadn’t expected that one.

“It’s illegal to raise wild boar in captivity without a proper licence,” she said, “so it’s becoming a problem with our neighbours. We have to keep it in the shed during the day, and Patrice lets it out at night to play with the dogs.”

This was sounding weirder by the minute.

“So now that it’s a bit older,” continued Melanie, “we wondered if we could release it into the enclosed section of your forest where it will be protected from hunters.”

To hang with regulations! Having saved its life, I felt the least we could do was to give the little one a home.

“No problem,” I smiled, still under the impression we were talking about a relative tiddler. “I know Jack will agree. If Patrice can bring it over, we’ll take it.”

Patrice reappeared at the end of my session and was thrilled at my decision.

“You must see her now,” he grinned rushing off across the lawn.

The dog’s compound was tennis court size with a big shed in the middle. Shooing his three bouncy mutts to one side, he carefully opened the door.

“This is Sophie,” he beamed.

And there she was.

Tiddler? Nope. Sophie was a near full-sized, extremely healthy, tubby boar.

Thinking it was playtime, Sophie gambolled determinedly towards the doorway, embedding me in the wall as she swept past to join her pals.

Patrice clucked at his beloved, chiding her for being clumsy and tried to entice her back in. It wasn’t easy. Sophie thought she was a dog, and she wanted to romp.

“What do you feed her on?” I puffed, as she gallumped past me for the umpteenth time.

“Dog food. She loves it.”

“Of course she does,” I replied, wondering whether she ate bones too.

We finally drove Sophie back in where she settled down amiably.

I returned home to brief Jack, whose reaction was predictable.

“Hah!” he chuckled, “we’ve come across some strange situations here and this one’s right up with the best of them.”

Time passed, as did my next nails appointment. Was Sophie ready? Not yet, apparently. Why? I never did find out. Meanwhile, Sophie was still growing.

The call from Patrice finally came early one evening about six weeks later. He had Sophie in a cage and could he bring her over straight away? Of course, we agreed. Soon after, Patrice turned up in his Peugeot. It’s a little car so we naturally presumed there would be some kind of trailer behind.

“Bloody hell! Look at the back of the car,” said Jack, “the tyres are almost touching the wheel arches. It must be in there!”

A large blanket covered something in the back. It filled the seat and either end pressed against the windows. Patrice opened the rear door, removed the drape and out rushed an explosive pong of hot boar. His passenger was indeed Sophie.

Sophie wasn’t at all happy at being incarcerated. We could hear the growls and see the stamping hooves as she strained to break free. She had also grown quite a bit. A lot, actually. Fortunately, the makeshift cage Patrice had somehow squeezed her in had metal bars otherwise she doubtless would have eaten her way through in seconds.

Fortunately, Nathan, our forester, was still around and was pressganged into helping. The four of us carried the heaving mass of grumpy boar and loaded her into our old 4x4 forest vehicle, which also buckled under the weight.

“How on earth did you manage to get it in the car by yourself?” asked Jack.

“She trusts me,” said Patrice, “I gave her lots of dog biscuits and she walked in quietly.”

Good old Soph wasn’t at all quiet now. The car rocked on our short journey to her new home as she tried to eat her way out. We had folded down the rear seats to make more room for us all and I was stuck in the back with her. Mid-chew, Sophie paused, turned her shaggy head and eyeballed me. I froze. Vivid memories of that scene in Jurassic park involving Velociraptors popped into my head. Sophie may not be a dinosaur, but she certainly wasn’t an animal to be messed with. I didn’t even blink.

We reached our destination unscathed and carefully removed the cage. Patrice produced an electric power tool and started removing bars. Halfway through he stopped.

“Merde! I forgot.”

“What now?” said Jack, trying to stop Sophie bulging out of the sides.

“I have paint.”

“What?” we both cried.

“I must colour Sophie’s mane so you can always identify her in the woods. Then you can tell me when she has her first babies.”

Before Jack could give him an opinion on this latest brainwave, Patrice dashed back to the car. He returned with a can of spray paint, the type commonly used to mark sheep. He took careful aim and covered her long spiky mane with crimson red. Then he stood back, shrugged and showered a big circle of the stuff on her backside.

“Bullseye! So now we have a punk pig roaming around the forest. It’s going to be hard to miss this one,” observed Jack.

The final screw was removed, and the cage clunked apart. Sophie gave herself a shake, completely ignored her owner’s coos, and made a beeline for the brook. We followed to see what would happen.

Sophie sank in the water and had a good old wallow. I couldn’t help smiling. It was probably the first time she had ever done this, an act so natural for these animals. It must have felt wonderful after her scary trip.

Despite Patrice’s anxious twitters, she continued to disregard him and us. That was fine. If she was going to cope in her new habitat, she needed to become independent very quickly. We left food in the area that night and for several weeks after that.

It was a while before we saw Sophie again and we were becoming concerned that she hadn’t coped with being returned to the wild. Our worries were unfounded.

One day we found her grazing in the field. It was unmistakably Sophie. Her brightly coloured mane stuck up like a beacon. And contrary to my fears, she had gained weight. That boar was on top form. She sped past us, kicking up her heels as she galloped across the field, evidently happy in her new environment.

I reflected on the grand adventure Sophie had experienced in her young life. If it hadn’t been for Patrice’s kindness, she would surely have been dead, and we would not have had this magnificent animal roaming free in our woods. We still see her now and again. Her tall spiky mane is very distinctive, and there is still a faint trace of red paint.

We love our punk pig!

The Magic of Carcassonne

Vicious blasts from the Autan wind roared down the Black Mountains, screaming across vast plains to Carcassone. Soldiers positioned high on crenellated battlements, shivering, drew in their cloaks, but they were no match for the penetrating icy gusts. Dear God, it was cold. Their jobs to defend the mighty Carcassonne from Catholic attackers was merciless. Life as a Cathar in the Middle Ages was tough. At least that’s how I imagined it must have been.

Happily, a visit last week from my friend, Trish, coincided with sunny skies. A history lover like me, I had the ideal treat in store. A trip to Carcassonne. Any old excuse really – it is one of my favourite historical sites.

 

It takes about two hours to reach the cité, long enough for me to get annoyingly excited. Trish probably found this bemusing, but then she had never been. She continued to humour me until I finally popped.

“Right, we’re very close now. When we get to the top of this hill look left. Try to close your eyes until we get there.”

“If I do that, Beth, I won’t  know when to open them.”

“Good point. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you. Hang on.”

“Okay, although I don’t know why you’re… Wow! It’s amazing.”

Too late, Trish had experienced her first sighting.

A Disneyworld of fairy turrets interlaced with perfect walls glittered in the spring sun – a hilltop jewel crowning the luscious Aude plain below. The meandering river close-by shimmered too as it flowed lazily around part of the fortification. This place is mesmerising.

We parked in a designated zone and climbed steep steps to the entrance. As Trish and her new hip would soon find out, there are lots of steps involved in a visit to Carcassonne. We approached the imposing entrance with its mighty drawbridge, stopping every now and again, trying to absorb the sheer scale of our surroundings. On one of the pillars, there is a stone replica of Lady Carcas. Her story, based on legend, tells how the city came to get its name. Here’s my take on it.

A long, long time ago during the eighth century, there was a Saracen princess named Lady Carcas. A feisty lady, she ruled the Knights of the cité Carcas after her husband died during the wars between Christians and Muslims. Charlemagne, King of the Franks and top victor, arrived with his army, hell-bent on reconquering the city for the Franks. But it wasn’t easy.

Carcas was besieged for years. The inhabitants struggled on, but by the sixth year, food and water were running out. The population began to starve. Lady Carcas, never one to give up on her people, ordered an inventory to be made of all remaining reserves. It didn’t take long.

The villagers brought her a few scraps together with a pig and a sack of wheat. It was the beast that gave her a cunning idea. Much to their surprise, Lady Carcas commanded that the pig be fed as much wheat as it could eat. Had she gone mad? They would soon find out.

The now corpulent animal was duly produced for inspection. Lady Carcas declared it ready for action. A group of soldiers grabbed the porker and hurled it at the attackers from the highest tower of the city walls. Unfortunate for the pig, but it impressed Charlemagne and his troops no end.

Believing the city had enough food to the point of wasting fat farm stock, Charlemagne lifted the siege. Overjoyed by the success of her plan, Lady Carcas had all the bells rung in the city. One of Charlemagne’s men exclaimed, “Carcas sonne!” (“Carcas sounds!”) And this is allegedly how the name of the city was born.  

Luckily we had chosen a quiet day to visit this most remarkable of landmarks. It allowed me to take a nauseating number of photos and for us both to amble around, reflecting on life as it might have been here during the Middle Ages.

We pottered along narrow cobbled streets. The same ones used by folks so many centuries ago. Were they crowded, smelly? Was petty crime rife here? Were there beggars and starving dogs looking for scraps? Did the bubonic plague touch the populace? Or was it clean, civilised and well-ordered? We suspected there were probably elements of each.

We passed several shops. I guessed many were housed in restored buildings using original medieval timbers, many of which were visible. This place was mind-blowing.

Did we want to buy a sword or a shield? A selection of herbal remedies, perhaps? Tempting, but no, not today thank you. On the other hand, all this gawping was working up an appetite. Distracted by whiffs of freshly baked cookies we followed our noses into a shop close-by.

The store walls were bursting with sweetmeats. Brightly coloured lollipops, fudge, chocolate, there were shelves of them. And then there were the biscuits, loads dominated the centre. A costumed lady approached with a box of goodies and coyly asked if we would like a sample. Absolutely definitely, yes, please! Feeling a tad guilty, we left the shop with an excellent selection of the larger types, convincing ourselves they would be needed later on. And they were.

Coffee was next before we explored the château and ramparts. Having been before I knew what to expect. Trish confirmed her new hip was in tip-top condition and ready for action, she’s a good sport, my pal.

Our tour began with a short film about the fortification’s history, one that extends over 2,500 years. The Romans first occupied its hilltop until the demise of the Western Roman Empire. After that, the city was held by the Visigoths, Saracens and Franks in turn.

The Trencavels, one of the most powerful Cathar families in the south of France between the tenth and thirteenth centuries, were once notable custodians of Carcassonne. During this period Pope Innocent III launched the crusade against the Cathar heretics. A political consequence of the Crusades was the eventual exile of the Trencavel family.

The besieged Carcassonne surrendered on the 15^th August 1209.  In 1226, the Viscount of Carcassonne was attached to the royal estate and became a seneschal, an office equivalent to a steward. The city then took the form of the fortress that can be seen today.

Until the Treaty of the Pyrenees was signed in 1659, Carcassonne defended the border between France and Aragon. Battles and great fires ravaged the cité, causing devastation to its people and buildings. Over the following years, it gradually fell into ruins, perpetually bombarded and slowly neglected.

In 1844, the French state commissioned the architect, Eugene Viollet-le-Duc (who sadly died before he was able to see the fruits of his work), to restore the cité. The restoration, which began in 1853, was not completed until 1911 under the direction of his pupil Paul Boeswillwald. The renewal returned the royal city to its original splendour of the late thirteenth century with its featured pointed slate roofs. It was this we had come to see.

Still inside, and expertly by-passing the gift shop, we admired fragments of Romanesque frescoes, fine remnants of the distant past. The restored colours were vibrant, gorgeous. There were Gothic masonry treasures, grumpy gargoyles, a magnificent water urn and the original stone bust of Lady Carcas. These ancient rooms housed some of the cité’s archaeological collections, sadly we only had time to glimpse. Many more visits would be needed to do this place justice.  

Back out and we explored the footprint of another section housing wooden hoardings high above on one side. The overhanging wooden ramparts were attached to the upper walls of the fortress. Now restored, some would have provided protection to defenders on the walls, allowing them to shoot arrows or drop projectiles on attackers beneath. 

Others provided protection to the Trencavel family members against inclement weather. Looking around, we could see where the upper floors would have been in this immense building. The outlines of fireplaces, windows and doors told those stories.

Thank goodness for handrails. Hanging on for support, we clambered up the steep inner rampart steps (en route deciding historical records were wrong as medieval soldiers must have had exceedingly long legs), each was bevelled with action and age. Momentarily sheltered by the crenellated rampart wall, we poked our heads through to enjoy views towards the Black Mountains. Blimey, it was fresh! Despite it being a beautiful sunny day, the Autan was blowing at a stiff rate of knots. For special reasons, this famed wind deserves some explanation.

According to Lanuguedoc-france info., the Autan comes in two varieties: L’Autan blanc (white) and L’Autan noir (black). L’Autan blanc is a wind of good weather, (very) fresh in winter, warm in summer. The Autan noir is warm, bringing heavy rain of short duration.

Some days before it blows, calmness descends, characterised by crystal clear air. When this happens, farmers mournfully predict that l’Autan wants to blow.  The noise of this hot, dry wind causes insomnia. Also known as the Vent des Fous (the wind of the mad), it can blow for days on end, allegedly driving people as mad as the Mistral wind. For these reasons, some call it the devil’s wind and the wind of death.

Interestingly, the thirteenth century Song of the Crusade against the Cathars describes a gale of Autan on Sunday 1st July 1218 that coincided with the last attack by Crusaders against Toulouse. During this brutal period, its nicknames could not have been apter.

Nippy but keen, we continued enthusiastically, emotionally blown away by what we were seeing. Up and down knee-high stone steps we went.

Sometimes eye-level with vast slated turrets and barbicans, all designed to prevent attack by siege engines. We loitered beneath conical roofs, avoided murder holes, passed crenels made for defenders to unleash their weapons of war, eyed arrow slits in walls.    

We paused every now and again to feast our eyes on the interior. Like roofs? If so, you’d love Carcassonne. Sloped, rounded, damaged and always tiled, they form a higgledy-piggledy morass protected by the mighty defensive walls.  

“Hang on a minute,” said Trish, “that looks like someone’s home.”

She was right.

Trish had spotted a back garden. Mark you, not a normal one. This was decorated by Roman statues, possibly authentic ones. Amazingly the cité has 50 residences. While it can’t be easy living in the second most popular tourist centre in France, I couldn’t help thinking about how exciting it must be to experience life inside these walls.

Back down we went passing a dishevelled area which looked excitingly undiscovered. Who knows what riches might be hidden below that turf? 

We strolled along more cobbled streets warmed by the afternoon sun and nicely protected from that pesky wind. We passed divine looking restaurants, tempting shops and headed towards the gothic church. I was dying for Trish to see this.

In 1898, Pope Leo XIII upgraded it to a Basilica. The sense of serenity is extraordinary in this place. 

Silently, we studied the exquisite stained glass windows, they’re some of the oldest in the south of France, the graceful vaulted arches, and the breath-taking simplicity of the ceiling design.

Candles flickered along the sides, highlighting the pulpit, the cylindrical pillars with sculptured capitals and the magnificent organ pipes. What a treat to spend time here.

Breathing a contented sigh of resignation we reluctantly left. We paused to feel jealous about folks lucky enough to holiday at the hotel next door, promising ourselves we would stay there one day and book tickets for one of the famed Carcassonne festivals.

Time was against us now, and we still had one more section to explore. This meant that late lunch turned into another biscuit from our goodie bag washed down with a fat ice-cream. Not a day for dieters but it was a welcome combo.

Our amble back to the car was via the outer ramparts. Once again we gasped in wonder at the enormity of this place. We craned our necks at the turrets high above.

We chuckled at the birds flying overhead. Those colour coded pigeons had found a safe home.

Three kilometres of ramparts, two fortresses (during its history), four gates and 52 towers – we had only scratched the surface. No wonder this great city was designated a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 1997.  

And did my friend, Trish, enjoy herself?

“Can we come here next time I visit, please?” she pleaded.