Day 17: Pechabou to Carcassonne 93 km. On the road to cassoulet.

Back on the Canal du Midi having AirBnB'ed (that is surely a verb by now) in Pechabou. I stayed in a very large wooden chalet at the bottom of someone's garden. A comfortable and substantial wooden chalet with a swimming pool but a wooden chalet all the same. (Note to self: tidy up toolshed, move lawnmower, evict frogs from pond and draft description of bijou artist's residence with pool). Lovely family looked after me and it was a pleasant stay.

Towpath has changed a bit since Toulouse from smooth and speedy tarmac to the occasional stretch of compacted mud with tree roots, pot holes and a few chunky rocks thrown in. Bit more challenging now and I worry about popping a spoke. Lots of people out enjoying the sun with quite a few hikers, some in groups. 

When I cycle up behind people walking on shared paths, there's always a bit of a dilemma about the optimal distance to announce you are behind them and coming past. My bike is very quiet so if I leave it too late and shout out 'Bonjour!' then I'm too near and I startle folk and they jump around in unpredictable ways. Also, their dogs go apeshit. Too far and they may not hear and by the time I repeat it I'm too close. Ring a bell? I could do but do you want my hands on a bell or my brakes?

This morning I could see a large, slow moving group ahead with canvas rucsacks, thick woolly socks and anoraks (it's 20 degrees C). Forgive the ageism but I'm going to go for an early and loud shout just to make sure. About 20 metres away I give it a loud call. No sign that it landed.  I give it another loud shout and slow down a bit. Diddly squat. Not a sausage. Oh dear. I'm cycling at walking pace now and could topple over. Five metres away I shout again. The woman at the back of the group hears my 'Bonjour!', jumps a bit and seems to think the group is under attack. She shouts at the top of her voice ' Attention! Attention! Velo! Velo! Attention!'. Two people in the middle of the group clutch their chests and turn purple, one at the back raises his stick to fight off the invader and two of his companions look ready to dive in the canal. I'm desperately trying to think where I last saw a defibrillator. The front four just trundle on still having heard nothing. Bloody nightmare getting past.

I finish the road to cassoulet (sorry Rudyard) a bit late and I'm in Carcassonne the home of the bean, duck and pork stew that is cassoulet. I find it and it's lovely. Everytime Liz and I travel to France we bring tins of cassoulet home. We never eat it of course and our cupboards are full of it. It even survived lockdown. It's stored away with our bottles of Ouzo, Retsina and Unicum. They all tasted so good in the right place at the right time but now we're home we don't really fancy them. Look in the back of your grog cupboard and tell me this isn't true.

Must dash. I think I saw some tins of cassoulet in the grocers.