The Crêpe Escape: We’ll always have Carcassonne…

Del Hughes

Étape Trois

If you’re joining mid-tour, catch up on Étapes Une et Deux first.

Our entente is over, and the good vibes have curdled after a night of savage honesty. We’re not speaking – not even in that clipped, one-syllable way that screams ‘civil but seething.’

Instead, we’re stuck in the stunned silence of words that went too far. And from what I can remember, I’m fairly sure it was all my fault. But we’ll sift through that wreckage later.

Because, after our Ardèche catharsis, we’d slipped into Bella’s motorhome rhythms and settled into an easy flow. No spats, no tension, just the delicious knowledge that the next ten days were ours to enjoy.

So, Bella nosed west, the landscape loosening before her. Occitanie doesn’t so much unfurl as evolve: Corbières scrub blurring to vines, Minervois vines yielding to the faint lilac wash of the Pyrenees. And once we entered the Aude, the light altered too: richer, more vivid, as if someone had upped saturation on a high-def TV.

Here, hills spill like rumpled blankets, pale with cistus and flecked with juniper. Ahead, a stronghold straddles a crag, and suddenly the present feels thin. That’s the spell of Cathar country.

Villages surface, then sink into the slow tidal folds of land, and the resinous scents of the garrigue – all wild thyme and rosemary – thicken the air. It’s a place that invites you to pause, to listen, and sense the centuries shifting beneath your feet. But then came the winds.

The Marin pummelled us from the sea with hot, salty breath, while the Tramontane barrelled down from the mountains, fierce and fresh – the two surging into one long, battering stream. Bella, bless her, shouldered through with stoicism, emerging shaken but still resolute. Phew.

By the time we blew into our campsite, the gusts had died away. We found our emplacement – #81, 100 m², high-hedged – and Tim eased Bella in. Then we flung open the doors, hooked up the leccy, and shook off the journey.

While Tim waged war on the pop-up gazebo (eyeroll), I cracked open a couple of Desperado Limes. Then we kicked back – me with sudoku, Tim with virtual golf, and the boys gnawing on gravy bones – as the afternoon unspooled around us. Bliss.

We decided to eat at the campsite café; we both needed a break from the pain-jambon-fromage combo we’d been scoffing thrice daily – not least after discovering our ‘ham’ was the kind you’re meant to cook.

(I’d guessed à poêler meant pepper; it does not, which admittedly explained why it had the consistency of a yoga mat. Ugh.)

That evening, we enjoyed a thoroughly forgettable meal, the furry bulk of our dozing dogs made a toddler cry, and the wine was warm. But it made a change.

Besides, tomorrow promised a ritzy meal out – the first of our holiday – in a proper restaurant and everything. And so to bed, entirely unaware that demain had other ideas.

The second Tim got back from the morning dog walk, I knew something was up. This is a man whose emotional range is so narrow, his face rarely bothers to get involved – he’s the Basset Hound to my Labrador. And his highest praise sits somewhere around, ‘Yeah, it’s alright / okay / not bad.’ That’s Tim.

Awe

So when he appeared, eyes shining with unmistakable awe, wearing a smile I hadn’t seen since 2020 (when Leeds were promoted), and said, ‘It’s amazing… incredible… you have to see it!’ – blink… double blink… Naturally, I assumed the worst.

Clearly, he’d caught too much sun; been concussed by a rogue longdog; or witnessed a pétanque showdown so thrilling, it briefly counted as cardio.

But no – it was La Cité that had bewitched him. And according to the unexpectedly effusive Tim, I needed bewitching too.

Don’t get me wrong, coming here was my idea – the last non-negotiable on my list – and a place I’d wanted to visit since it first flashed across my telly in the 1991 Tour de France.

And yes, I was thrilled he’d been so swept up in its magic. But it’s somewhat disconcerting when your other half morphs into a man who uses superlatives, without it being prompted by a double‑top, a hole‑in‑one, or a 147.

Still, when it comes to Carcassonne, you’d need to be pushing up daisies to not feel a frisson when confronted with it.

A medieval gem crowning its hilltop, all ramparts and battlements and impossible geometry – the sort of place you expect to see in an illuminated manuscript, or perhaps an Escher illustration, rather than in real life.

And look, I’ve grown up in the castle capital of the world, so I’m no stranger to curtain walls, murder holes, or machicolations. But Carcassonne? This is architectural flexing, and then some.

It’s not that it’s ‘better’ than Caerphilly, Conwy, or the countless others stitched into our landscape; it’s simply on another scale entirely – three kilometres of twin walls, a forest of fifty-two towers, and a fortified city rather than a single castle.

Like a time capsule on steroids, it’s ancient to its bones, yet oddly modern. You could comfortably believe that its long‑vanished chevaliers have just popped out for a quick espresso et une Gauloise.

Think Far Far Away, Prince Charming’s crib, or whatever springs to mind when you hear ‘Once upon a time.’ You’d deffo keep your eyes peeled for dragons – and wouldn’t be at all surprised to see one.

Power struggle

Carcassonne has basically spent two millennia as the spoils of every power struggle: Celts (Asterix‑adjacent rather than Rhodri Mawr) built the first fort, Romans upgraded it, Visigoths tinkered with it, crusaders battered it, nobles argued over it, and then, left to its own devices, it slowly began to fall apart…

Until 19th-century architect, Eugène Viollet‑le‑Duc, swooped in and rebuilt it with the wild‑eyed zeal of a child who’s discovered candyfloss, caffeine, and a cartload of LEGO (Hogwarts Castle, Set 71043), all on the same day.

And the result? A citadel so absurdly breathtaking, it should come with a health warning, and oxygen tank.

So of course, Arthur (Tim) was riding high: he’d spent the morning leading Lancelot (John) and Mordred (Wolfie) around the parapets, stopped off for un café, and picked out a smashing little dog-friendly bistro for our evening meal. Whoop.

Like a knight victorious, all he lacked was a trompette fanfare and noble steed. He’d even scouted the walkways to ensure they weren’t too brutal for Anwen’s little wheels – she’s my adult-sized, balance-bike-slash-mobility-walker.

And thank goodness he did, because my undercarriage is not built for either medieval or Napoleonic levels of pain. (See Étape Deux. Ouchy!)

After a day au repos, I donned the only non-crease, semi-smart, flowy-showy dress I’d brought – or, for that matter, own. Next came my zip-up flats, rendered ‘stylish’ only by the paradox of an elasticated ankle strap – which did my cankles zero favours. Sigh.

Mascara. Lippy. Chanel No. 5. Job done. I was ready, and so was Tim – radiating the smug satisfaction of a man who’s orchestrated the perfect evening.

Tim took the scenic route via an A61 service station, which offered staggering views of the whole city. Next, he circled back into town, weaved through an industrial estate, followed the bus route back to La Cité, and pulled up directly opposite the city entrance. So far, so fab.

At which point he discovered his master plan had one minor flaw: the disabled parking was super – unless you happened to be in a motorhome. Which we very much were.

Sweet-talking

Cue the slow, shared realisation that we weren’t getting anywhere near La Cité tonight. No amount of sweet-talking the local gendarmerie, or blue badge flapping, helped. And not even La Bastide Saint-Louis – the buzzing lower town across the Aude – could accommodate Bella’s dimensions. As quests go, we were now firmly in Holy Grail territory.

So, after several increasingly exasperating circuits – Tim unravelling, me brittle as a breadstick – the inevitable happened. Klaxon Alert: I deployed the dreaded ‘It’s fine,’ and that was that. We called it a night and headed to the only place we knew we’d fit. McDonald’s. Sob.

Because, as gorgeous as Carcassonne is (and as disability-friendly as it wants to be), here’s the rub: if you’re mobility-impaired AND holidaying in a motorhome, you’re buggered. It’s about as accessible as Carreg Cennen; technically there, theoretically doable, but in practice? A one-way ticket to both spinal mutiny and air ambulance call-out.

By now we’d slipped into soundless, steaming territory. Tim muttered something about ‘being unreasonable.’ I muttered about ‘reading parking signs.’ And while neither of us raised our voices, we weaponised exhales, eyebrows, and the strategic folding of arms. It was, in its own way, impressively childish.

But back at camp, when I realised Anwen had warped in transit – so even the perfect parking spot wouldn’t have helped – I snapped. I didn’t so much explode as suffer a total emotional blowout.

I lobbed a wildly over-the-top grenade squarely at Tim and unleashed a torrent of très loud, pent-up frustration. And Tim’s response of ‘Calm down,’ unsurprisingly, achieved the opposite.

Righteous anger

Next morning, I woke to the realisation that, while my eruption was the result of righteous anger, it had little to do with Tim… and everything to do with me. And before I’d even properly surfaced, I felt it – that hot knot of shame, deep in my belly, declaring I was in the wrong. Big time.

Because when your own limitations veto your dream… well, it crushes you. And my outburst – all the yelling and hurty words – was pure self-reproach. Poor Tim copped the lot. So it was time to serve up one giant sorry. Deep breath.

Shamefaced, I apologised, explained, and Tim, as always, understood. But he’d made a decision last night – a quiet, heavy one – to forget the rest of our plans and head straight back. I could see by the set of his shoulders that his mind was already halfway across the Channel.

And it was a heartbreaking U-turn because it meant binning his only non‑negotiable too – a long-overdue visit to his best mate in Spain. Just like that, one stupid flare-up had derailed our whole Crêpe Escape. Sniffle.

We packed up, left our lovely campsite (and even lovelier Carcassonne – forever to be an aching ‘if only…’) and headed towards Toulouse to join the fastest route north.

The cab was cool – no, not only the air-con. Not hostile; instead, that careful, tiptoe-tautness where both of you are trying not to prod the bruise. Tim gripped the wheel a shade tighter than usual, his focus wholly on the tarmac, as the miles between adventure and retreat racked up.

And me? I sat there scrolling through camping apps, pretending to be Very Busy and Deeply Productive, when I was simply trying to outrun the echoes of last night. The dogs snored in their beds, the only ones brave enough to make a sound.

I did find a site, slightly east of Toulouse. We cruised up, took in the desolate setting, the razor-wire fencing, and the gate guards with tasers. Hmm. Not exactly giving ‘relax, you’re on holiday’ vibes – though sadly, neither were we.

Even so, we kept moving, merging back into the afternoon traffic with no plan other than to put distance between ‘Camp Alcatraz’ and us. Tim swung Bella towards Montauban, the first breadcrumb on the long road home.

We’d almost reached Cahors when Tim pulled into some services and took the boys off for a trot. I stayed behind, scrambling to find a campsite with less ‘I Predict a Riot’ energy.

But when he returned, something in him had softened – like he’d finally exhaled. He looked at me and, in that calm, practical way of his, offered a lifeline disguised as a question: ‘Shall we go back to Carcassonne?’

I didn’t need to think. And, as Tim navigated the next roundabout to point Bella back the way we’d come, the atmosphere in the cab thawed. By the time we reached the A61, my ‘if only’ had been replaced by a second chance.

And on the surface, nothing had changed. We’d returned to the same Carcassonne campsite, the same pitch, and the same old us. There’d been no grand speeches or cinematic crescendos – just the quiet relief of two people who’d refused to let one bad night steer the whole trip.

But in our world, reconciliation doesn’t start with roses – it starts with a mallet from campsite reception. So, before a bemused audience, Tim hammered Anwen’s frame and locking hinge back into shape. My hero. Swoon.

And voilà – one fixed bike, one delighted Del, and one medieval city waiting to be conquered, preferably without further DIY.

That afternoon, Tim did another recce and cracked it, though the solution was more tactical operation than parking plan. First, he’d navigate the labyrinth of one-way streets and ‘No Motorhome’ signs to reach the Narbonnaise gate, for the rapid deployment of Anwen and me.

Next, since Bella has the waistline of a detached bungalow, he’d be forced into a circuitous loop of the city walls to reach the restricted coach park. Then, once Bella was tucked in, he and the dogs would begin their ‘short’ 4 km trudge to meet me at Le Petit Marcou’s.

It was an almighty faff that might’ve broken a lesser man, but he felt it was worth it – and I certainly did too.

Logistics

The logistics went like clockwork, and as Bella pulled away, I was dwarfed by the looming walls: layer upon layer of honeyed stone, scarred by weather, warfare, and, more recently, the relentless footfall of tourists. The towers – dozens of them – punctured the skyline, conical roofs a patchwork of slate and bleached terracotta.

And the entrance… it doesn’t so much welcome you in as size you up. An enormous, theatrical gateway, flanked by imposing bulwarks, built to impress and intimidate in equal measure.

Up close, the whole place feels too perfect to be real – like a film set that’s outlived its production. But then you spot the grit behind the glamour: the viciously tight arrow slits, the uneven cobbles designed to break a charging horse, the drainage channels carved to sluice away blood and rain alike.

You feel the suffocating scale of the fortifications, and suddenly it’s no fairy tale; it’s a brutal two‑thousand‑year‑old snarl of a fortress, still defying the world around it.

As I pushed deeper into the city, medieval music drifted through turrets and twisting streets. But it was no ghostly lute‑wielding troubadour; this was ‘Addy,’ a boombox-toting minstrel, with a child’s xylophone and serious talent. An unlikely pairing, but his music was phenomenal – it haunted the Barbican and set the perfect tone for the surroundings.

Tim and the boys were still labouring somewhere behind me, but in the overwhelming joy of arriving, for a few selfish, golden moments, all else had slipped my mind. I was here. Bent bike, bad back, emotional carnage, and all – I’d made it.

There I was, navigating the shadows, fizzing with excitement that had sparked back to life – the good kind, the holiday kind. It was as if the city itself had leaned down and whispered, ‘What took you so long?’

And Anwen? She was gliding confidently over cobbles, a dead-cert entrant for this year’s Tour de France (Mobility Étape, obvs). Everywhere, locals cooed ‘très jolie,’ photos were snapped, and teen lads on scooters nodded approvingly.

And instead of feeling like a complete tit – as I often do when pootling around Swansea – I felt oddly at ease. Proud, even. Weird, innit.

Marcou’s was a revelation: exceptional food, striking surroundings, drowsy dogs (so no table-surfing, thank God), and company that made the evening glow. It was a triumph salvaged from disaster, much like Carcassonne itself.

We stayed another night, enjoying the beauty of the citadel, but with only six days left, we needed to start curling north to Calais. We set off early, taking the A61 west towards Toulouse (groan). It’s a long, level run, where the sky opens out, and colours tip from scrubby sage to the gentler golds of the Lauragais.

Somewhere near Castelnaudary – a town famously overexcited about its own cassoulet – the motorway starts shouting ESPAGNE, as if daring you to ditch your Gallic agenda, do a rapid 180, and veer south towards sunny Barcelona. As if. Lol.

Tim: Sithee?

Me: Huh?

Tim: Spain.

Me: Yeah.

Tim: Too late now.

Me: Oh yeah. Way too late.

Tim: Can’t do an extra 1,500 km for one night.

Me: ’Course not. That’s nuts.

Tim: Yeah. Nuts.

Me:

Tim:

Me: Do it!

Reader, we did it.

And that’s Étape Trois: done. 700 km (mainly due to our A61 ping-pong), two tanks of gazole, and two major mechanisms whacked back into shape – one walking bike, and one relationship (for now).

If Étape Une was survival and Étape Deux was catharsis, Étape Trois was conquest – which is why we will always have Carcassonne, the place where I truly found my feet.

So vamos Bella, because España, here we come. Olé!

(P.S. As global barometers go, you can’t beat the pumps – and with gazole at preposterous levels, I’m guessing the day-glo demagogue is still mid-tantrum. Hard eyeroll.)

If this is giving you the urge to roam and you want to experience the ups and downs of the open road (while in cosy confinement with family and friends), Bella and her various-sized sisters are available to hire from Whyknott Motorhome Hire in Bridgend.