We have now driven south down to near the Spanish border and are staying at a really interesting B&B called Les Eaux Tranquilles, located in the small village of Belvianes et Cavirac which is a couple of k's down the road from Quillan.
The B&B is just great, however the English owner Chris, well, there's an interesting customer. This man is right-out-there, if you get my drift, and deserves his own personal blog, so I will hold fire on that front until later in the week.
Today, we ventured forth and decided to stress test our small diesel rental by way of driving the sucker straight up into the Pyrenees.
Of course the views up in the mountains are spectacular, however, I have to say getting there was a mission in itself.
For starters, the roads aren't exactly what one might describe as highway material.
If you happen to come across a truck or large camper-van that's heading in the
opposite direction then it's every man for himself. On occasion these brushes with near death can become quite an adrenalin rush.
If that is not enough, you then have the ongoing prospect of vehicles heading directly towards you approaching at excessive speed whilst positioned in the middle of the road.
This is 'who is going to blink first ' territory.
And because we are trying to obey the speed laws, any number of loonies come screaming up behind you then proceed to pass you on blind curves at high speed.
It's Sunday morning for God's sake, why aren't these soon to be aquatinted with coffin merchants off home in bed?
As for the weekend warrior cyclists who are getting in road-time prior to The Tour De France, all I can say is that these guys will never see old bones.
After ninety minutes of this drama we pull into the town of Mont Louis, heave a great sigh of relief and make our way into the restaurant Le Clos Cerdan - Eau De Forme.
When ordering we decided to play it safe so Julia plugged for Salade Catalane. Now this was a tricky call as the salad was accompanied by local meats that could be best described as .....unusual. She gagged on the blood sausage. Who wouldn't?
Her main of Poulet Catalane was pretty standard stuff, so no worries there.
My experience was altogether different.
The main was a whole Trout accompanied by potatoes that looked like they had yellow fever but the dish was actually pretty good.
However, where things took a turn for the worse was in respect to my entree or starter.
By way of explanation, Julia and I had a great friend (now deceased and much missed) called Stuart Loudon.
All who knew Stuart recognised this man to be the ultimate party animal and an individual who just loved fine food and wine (actually , come to think of it, a lot of wine).
A group of us used to get together for Friday lunches in Auckland. The thing was that once Stuart had finished off a second or third bottle he just reached a point where he would stand up, announce to everyone within 50 metres that that was it for him, then informed us he was going home to put a tongue in the oven in preparation for his and Helen's evening meal.
So here we are high up in the Pyrenees and Julia tells me they have Tongue as an entree, so thinking fond thoughts of Stuart, like a fool, I order the tongue from our lisping gay waiter with the high pitched voice.
When this entree hit my placemat, I damn near choked on the spot. Julia let out an involuntary whimper and said "you don't have to eat it, just tell the waiter that you have changed your mind and that you are not big on grey food."
At that moment I'm staring down at seven large slices of cold meat that look the colour of recently fallen Volcano ash.
My heads screaming what to do, what to do. If I send it back I might end up getting into a verbal with that overhyped lisping waiter, however then again, if I eat this stuff it might kill me.
I'm gutless. The thought of a stoush with a pissed off gay waiter was just too much for me to contemplate so I thought what they hell, if the Loudons could stomach this stuff then I'm just going to have to harden up and get this cow's licking equipment down my throat in short order.
No messing about, I did my Zen thing, put my thoughts in a far away place and proceeded to attack the first piece of this horrible looking dead animal tongue.
How bad was it?
Well, when Julia inquired my system had already commenced the mother of all battles for survival. This entree without a word of a lie was singularly the most disgusting food I have ever pushed down my thorax.
The next ten minutes was a living hell.
It was so bad I couldn't even talk. I just swallowed these hunks of whatever whole whilst praying that I wouldn't throw up.
At the end of this seemingly endless torture I looked over at Julia (who knew when to stay silent) and I asked "how do I look?"
Julia responds, "you look fine . No that's a lie. You look dreadful. Your face has turned grey and you appear to be heavily perspiring. Do you think it had anything to do with the tongue?"
WAITER, WHERE'S THE BATHROOM!
The trip back down the mountain was just a blur. I didn't even react when a woman coming towards our line of vehicles hit the approaching corner at speed, spun out of control, turned 720 degrees then accelerated into the cliff face on our car's right.
Near death driving experiences no longer cut it for me.They are nothing in the greater plan.
It's the bloody tongue that's going to get me in the end.
Cheers
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