Veronica has alerted me to the fact that the hairless bikers of the Tour de France will arrive in Carcasonne on Sunday. Monday will be a day of rest and then they will pedal off again on Tuesday. I'm just hoping that none of them choose to spend Monday on any roads between this house, the airport and the railway station, because I will be using them avec une voiture.
My mum has provided my holiday reading material – Sepulchre by Kate Mosse – set locally.
I am not enamoured with her writing style, but the story is captivating enough to keep me going. She reminds me a little of Victoria Hislop, whose heroines are always utterly flawless. I once wrote to Ian to enquire where she drew her inspiration for her litany of dastardly husbands, but I received no response. Apparently he is uncomfortable when the joke is turned on him.
However, the novel has brought to my attention the fact that the Cité de Carcassonne is a relatively modern and technically inaccurate replica of the original medieval fortress, being a moment younger than London's Palace of Westminster although a few years older than Neuschwanstein Castle.
I confess I have a great fondness for Victorian Gothic revival, I particularly enjoyed Cardiff Castle when I first visited, I've no idea how long ago. I've visited Bute since then, I love Pugin's work but I loathe his clients. I think that is the conflict I have been having in my own life for such a long time, I cannot bear to work for wealthy people who don't understand the meaning of the word.
So here is a bit of local colour.