About another 90 minutes of riding through a few more small towns and we arrive at Col d’Ares, the mountain pass that is our gateway to Spain.  A quick fill-up on gas, and we cross the border back into the country where we started.  I make a mental note: No more “bon jour”; it’s back to “buenas dias.”  Sort of like when I used to head back to college in Texas every summer and had to switch from my usual Illinois “you guys” back to the more accepted “ya’ll.”

I love passing through the out-of-the-way towns in this part of France and I will miss this charming region.  There are many images I carry with me as we pass through them, particularly the street scenes, such as quaint and welcoming outdoor cafes, cobblestone town squares with fountains, potted plants, bicycles and scooters, narrow sidestreets and of course my favorite image, windows and doors.  One of the doorways that remains vivid in my mind is an old stone building that housed a small garage no more than 12 feet wide with painted wood double doors and the iconic brand name “Renault” above it.  I love the contrast between the ancient stone work, the faded blue paint and the lettering of the sign.  The entire image is perfectly symmetrical and actually quite indicative of colors and textures seen throughout these mountain hideaways.

The wind has picked up noticeably along this ridge.  We can see the peaks of the Pyrenees in every direction from this vantage point.  Years ago, I am sure these mountains helped draw the lines between these two countries.  With only one day left on this trip, I can’t help but feel like we are leaving more than France behind and headed back to reality sooner than I would like.

Within moments we arrive at our hotel in Mollo, a tightly spaced and placed village carved into the side of the mountain.  Our hotel stands several stories tall above the rest of what there was of town.  The tiny rooms are not much larger than the bed itself.  The best part of our room is the balcony, which we both immediately walk out onto.  The mountain region below us is painted with the evening sun’s rays.  A layer of clouds rolls in along a ridge below us.  Again, I feel a twinge of sadness creep in, but I quickly push it aside, eager for dinner with our companions and the hours of lively conversation we have all come to enjoy so much.

After getting our fill, four of us decide to hike through part of the canyon to a nearby monastery we have spotted clinging to the side of the mountain.  Minutes before we had driven right over where these small buildings were attached just below the road, and we would never have seen them if we had not stopped for a better view of the gorge.  The hike is down a steep rocky path, and we definitely break a sweat as the trail also turns sharply upward.

Our short but challenging trek is rewarded as we step inside a doorway leading to the residence.  We are surprised to see a small cathedral carved into the side of a cave, which actually continues further on into the mountain.  A few benches are here as well as a stone altar.  A bit of light is streaming in through several small archways above our heads.  Otherwise, it is dimly lit by a few candles.  This is a serene place, and clearly most visitors are content to view it from afar.

One of our fellow hikers had learned its story.  Centuries ago, monks in training for higher positions in the church would live here one at a time, in seclusion from the rest of the world, to draw closer to God.  It would be easy to do in this spectacular setting.  I wondered aloud what would one of us do for a year alone here.  “Try to bring honor to this beautiful place,” said one of my companions.  An amazingly insightful answer that summed up what we were thinking but could not express as well.  As we left, we looked at each other and without saying a word knew we had witnessed something very special together.  I may have left the monastery behind, but I absolutely took the memory with me.

The ride ahead finds us climbing even higher into the mountains.  The roads are still as twisty and tight as the afternoon wears on.  We wind through olive orchards and more vineyards.  We stretch our legs for a few minutes in Bouleternere, a small town where we find wild blackberries growing within our reach along a stone bridge.  They are sweet and plump.  I sneak a quick peek inside the town church along with two of my friends.  Once again, another beautiful house of worship.

Since today is technically a rest day, we ride less than 100 miles and head back to the chateau from here.  Fortunately, though, it is not the end of the day, but only a welcome stop to change into clothing more suited for the hot afternoon sun.  Several of us decide to get back on the bikes and go into Carcasonne for something to eat and a visit to La Cite, a restored medieval citadel just on the outskirts of the city.

We grab small sandwiches, quiche, figs and olives at a small shop in the old part of the city, and then ride just a few blocks up a hill to La Cite.  Being on a bike has its advantages, and one of our companions leads us right up to the main gate, where there is parking for motorcycles.

La Cite is quite remarkable and one of France’s top tourist attractions.  A fortress within a fortress, the miniature city can only be entered by crossing a drawbridge. Complete with turrets and towers, La Cite looks every bit like you might imagine a medieval town should.  There are among other things many shops, narrow alleys, a cathedral and a chateau, which is preserved today as a museum.  We toured the chateau to see what life was like at the town’s zenith in the 12th century.  There were many rooms to walk through where we saw paintings and murals, terra cotta pieces and fragments from the cathedral.  We also walked along the tops of the outer walls, which connect the towers surrounding the chateau.  Here we saw numerous stations that were used by look outs to spot approaching enemies and from which they could fire canons or crossbows.

Leaving La Cite, a much smaller group of us set out on a small adventure to find one or two local vineyards.  While we passed several that looked promising, they were either too far down a gravel road (not great for motorcycles) or simply not open.  However, there was one near our chateau that was still open, so we stopped for a short visit and to sample the local wines.  We thoroughly enjoyed the experience with our friends as well as visiting with the owner, who could not speak English.  Just as in my other encounters with locals, she was delightful, however, and we had a marvelous time.

Dinner tonight was at the chateau restaurant.  I could not resist having the foix gras again, but chose the escargot, duck breast and strawberry soup this time.  If it’s possible, tonight’s dinner was even better than last night’s.  I will miss the magic of the chateau when we leave tomorrow.

This is the best day so far as our journey takes us through much of the region to see, well, vineyards and 13th century towns.  I am thrilled.  The morning is cool and beautiful, and we make our way through one of the prettiest little towns yet – Trebes, which sits on the banks of a river.  Boats float slowly along filled with passengers enjoying the countryside as we zoom by doing the same.  This looks like a great place to come back to and spend more time.

Riding through countless vineyards, we stop at Minerve, a small village surrounded on three sides by a gorge, no doubt making it easy to defend during times of battle.  In fact, the town is famous for a seven-week siege in 1210 brought on by a particularly cruel ruler named Simon de Montfort.  He was determined to wipe out a separatist Christian sect called the Cathars.  The Languedoc region was home to the Cathars because it was a remote area difficult to reach from more populated parts of France.  Unfortunately the Cathars were eventually massacred in huge numbers in the early part of the century, and during the battle of Minerve, 140 Cathars were burned at the stake.  It is hard to imagine such warfare in this peaceful town.

We park our bikes on the edge of town and walk across a high bridge spanning the gorge below.  While everyone else finds an outdoor café, I move through town taking numerous photos of windows and doorways.  I also find some lovely gifts including hand towels, small painted boxes and tiny animals carved out of metal.  The proprietor is very kind and though she speaks no English and I speak no French, we find we can communicate in German, which I know a little of.  This actually works quite well, and I am charmed by her smile and care for me.

As I have experienced all along on this trip, if you are willing to talk with people in spite of the language  barrier, you will have some pleasant surprises.  Bolstered by my encounter with the shop owner, I stop as we are leaving the café to speak with a woman who appears to be drawing the scene.  It turns out she is from Ireland and while my friends have been sitting there, she has  quickly drawn them.  She is very friendly and wanted to know where we are from and where we are headed.  “Minerve is a wonderful place for a holiday, don’t you think?”  she says to me.  I assure her that I have fallen in love with France as well.  She talks about her observations of the country, all the while casually but masterfully applying soft water colors to her sketch.  I can begin to see the people – our group — come to life where only silhouettes once were, much like this trip seems to be doing for all of us.

Thinking of them, I realize they have all headed back to the bikes now.   I quickly say good bye and begin jogging through the small town, looking down the tiny streets for a glimpse of the group.  Since I wandered in to the town on my own, I really don’t know any other way out than the way I came, so I decide to retrace my steps and go the way I know.

In just a few moments, from a distance I see our group crossing the bridge, almost back to the bikes, and I catch them fairly easily.  We put our helmets back on and bring the engines back to life.  Suddenly, a wave of regret sweeps over me.  In my rush to find the group, I missed out on a one-of-a-kind opportunity to purchase that painting – or at least get her contact information to strike the deal once we were stateside again.  I would have loved this priceless memento, and it would have been worth far more to me than to her, and far more than any price she might have named.

A lesson to remember: take time to recognize what’s in front of you.  Rushing through life, you’ll miss too many masterpieces.

It was an effort to get back on the bikes, but once going we find ourselves now descending out of the highest peaks, where it has been fairly chilly all day.  The hills are greening up a lot and the afternoon sun warms our faces.  The countryside becomes more rolling, and we begin to see vineyards around nearly every turn.  I am surprised by this as I didn’t realize we would find French wine country this far south.  It makes sense, however, since Spain also has many vineyards even further south.  I discover later we have entered the hilly terrain of the Corbie’res, which is known for its wine and castles. You can learn more about this region at www.lezignan-corbieres.fr/tourisme.

The French towns we pass through – Belcaire, Quillan, Couiza, Limoux and Pomas – and all the tiny villages in between are all quintessentially European like those you have seen in postcards.  Lace curtained windows, narrow streets, flower boxes, scooters, weathered shutters and wooden doorways.  It’s all here in abundance.  Since I am so taken by doors and windows, I find myself eager to photograph as many of these particularly picturesque settings as soon as we hop off somewhere.

Finally we pull into Cavanac, a tiny town just five kilometers outside of Carcassonne, which is a major city in the Languedoc-Roussillon region.  With just a few small buildings and of course a church, the town is dominated by a large stone chateau, which turns out to be our lodging for the next two nights.  It is an awesome place with ivy covered stone walls, iron gates, a gravel courtyard, a spiral stone staircase with a banister carved from a single tree trunk, a game room with a snooker table — there is even a knight’s armor standing in the corner of the reception area.  The rooms have no numbers, just names of flowers.  Ours is the Belle de Nuit and the key to the room comes attached to a very heavy round metal fob with the name of the room inscribed on it.  Everything about this place seems authentic and amazing.  Our canopied bed never looked so good, though, as we peel off our riding attire and kick back for a little while.  The only drawback for me: no Internet.  So for the next several days, I won’t be connected.  Raye is delighted with this development, and with no other real option, I decide this was meant to be and just go with it.  Whatever there is can wait.

On the grounds of the chateau is a pool and pool house, which most of us find our way to.  We’re still hot from the afternoon ride, and a dip sounds just perfect.  Since nearly all of us are here, we spread the map out on a poolside table and plot the trip for the next day.  Today whet my appetite for France, so I am really looking forward to seeing more of it.

We gather in the courtyard after showers and fresh clothes for a pre-dinner visit and to wait for the restaurant to open about 8:30.  Apparently it is well known throughout the area, and we are joined at this time by many locals.  The show kitchen is well stocked, lined with colorful tiles and copper cookware, and centered around an open-flame grill.  It looks as though it has been in operation for hundreds of years.  This is a four-course meal, and we have the difficult task of choosing from a wide variety of items for nearly every course.  A charming young waitress with short dark hair and an interesting tattoo on her shoulder takes on our table of about 25 people and recites in thickly French-accented English the many options to choose from.  Everyone begins with a surprise on the house – a sweet peach liqueur served in a small sugar-crusted cup.  For my first course, I select chilled foix gras on crushed ice with truffles, seafood bisque, filet of beef, and finally crème brulee with espresso.  Raye enjoys escargot, hot foix gras with a fixed sauce, beef kidney and an apple tart.

Our conversation with our friends is stimulating and engaging.  There are so many interesting sides to our companions.  I learn much more about high finance and investment banking, the political and economic challenges facing South Africa, and what it was like to serve as an intern for some of our country’s highest ranking elected officials.  Wonderful experiences that are made all the better with each storyteller’s unique perspective and learning.

Several of us linger easily past midnight for more conversation and stories.  Eventually, we head for bed still in awe that we are sleeping in a French chateau.

Continuing on through Andorra, we drive through several ski resort towns that look a lot like Breckenridge in Colorado.  This is a high end destination, no doubt, but one of our riding companions who grew up in England tells us it has not always been expensive.  He used to enjoy family vacations here as a child, and it was beautiful but not so always so posh.  Only in recent years has it become quite expensive to own land or a vacation home in Andorra.

We cross the border into France, our third country of the day, and after another hour or so of riding, stop for lunch at a restaurant named La Bexane in a picturesque mountain village called Pays de Sault.  It sits along the Plateau de Sault near Col du Chioula and is surrounded by forests on all sides.

Across the street from our restaurant is a small watering trough with mountain water running freely from a faucet mounted on a weathered metal box.  Several of our friends use the cold water to cool their faces and necks.  We have seen fountains or small watering sources like this located usually in the heart of small towns everywhere.  Many years ago, this is probably how townspeople gathered water for their daily needs if they did not have access to a stream or well otherwise.  A few of us also wander down the road toward a small farm to get a closer look at a donkey eating his lunch along the roadside.  In spite of his rather mangy coat, he has a friendly face and enjoys a good scratching on his nose.

Lunch at La Bexane is delicious – a meat plate with salad, cheese and foix gras as a starter followed by the special of the day, a huge portion of pork in a brown sauce made with Dijon mustard, vinaigrette and no doubt plenty of butter.  Add in a pile of fries.  We were stuffed, and I admit I only made it about half way through the special before I gave up.  Our guide kept telling us to save room for the real meal of the day, which awaited us at our hotel this evening, and I planned on enjoying that if I could manage to save room.  Once again, an older couple ran the place and were just delightful hosts.  Throughout the meal they stopped by to check on us making sure we were comfortable.  We opened the sliding glass doors from the dining room onto the porch and the mountainside beyond.  The breeze was marvelous.