Montségur en route for Arles

From a distance, the "pog" rising from the valley constituted an impossible rocky outcropping whose ruins perched a mile above sea level. Manuel gasped and pointed, and we all rolled our eyes and said, sure, nice joke. He was not joking. I said simply unrepeatable things as I stood in the parking lot looking up. There had to be an elevator. The path must wind around to the back and go gently up. There was no way to scale that height without pinions, ropes, or a helicopter. Wrong, wrong, wrong. We did climb it, no equipment, no aid. Why, you ask? So did we!

Montségur was the final bastion of a beleaguered cult, the Cathares, who after the last crusade had brought their brand of gnosticism back to southern France, where the landholders allowed them to live in peace in spite of their heresy. They believed that all that was worldly was evil, all pleasure, all joy, all comfort, and that in denying themselves all in this life, they would earn happiness in the next. They tended to be well-educated and gentle, abhoring violence, so they made decent neighbors. That tolerance cost many southern Christian his life.



In a classic land grab, the northern knights petitioned for permission from the Pope to crusade against the heretics, keeping their land as a just reward for their efforts. The Pope agreed, and led by the infamous Simon de Montfort, they slaughtered, starved, and burned the sect into oblivion. The clever northerners made sure to also kill the landowners who allowed the Cathares to live under their protection, so that they could snag more land. The famous quote pretty much sums it up: a captain galloped up to Montfort as the attack on a city began and asked, "How shall the men tell the Christians from the heretics?" Montfort's reply? "Kill them all and let God decide."

That's pretty much what was going on in my head as I put one foot ahead of the other for the 30-40 minutes of vertical ascent. It was actually the altitude's effect on breathing that took the greatest toll. The summit is 1059 meters above sea level, so over a mile. Yikes. Welcome to Denver.





The ruins at the top were frankly a letdown. I expected a boutique, gift shop, toilets, maybe some brochures explaining the history... Oh no. It was a ruin. Nothing more. So we put the pride and the accomplishment in the bank and documented our achievement. I am pleased to say that although I expect to have nightmares about losing children off mountains, we came back all intact, though one of the Alaska boys took off his secret passport pouch at the top because he was sweaty - and left it there. He did a run to the top and back in a Guinness worthy 20 minutes, returning with the passport safe and sucking wind. Harriet and I took a moment while awaiting the descent of Niles to take a portrait together for our mutual hairdresser, Fabienne, who emailed last night having seen the blog documenting Harriet's cut and requesting a photo of mine. Alors, Fabienne, nous voici, la fille et la femme forte qui a achevé la montée de Montségur!



We had a long bus ride across the south of France, avoiding a 12 mile "escargot" of protesters blocking the autoroute around Montpellier by taking the coastal highway. We were delighted to have the opportunity to pass the impressive walled medieval city of Carcassonne, where Kevin Costner flew over the main gate in Robin Hood, and to bisect the Camargue region, a marshy delta home to the
landmark white horses and pink flamingos, wine from vines grown in sand and French cowboys.





We passed the port town of Aigues Mortes from which St. Louis departed for his last crusade (and in which I was stranded in 98 for a day of shopping while the coach's broken window was repaired after the street crazies threw a rock through it after the French soccer team won the World Cup semi-final!) I have a splendid skirt and blouse and a fav Hard Oc tee-shirt from that day.

We also passed Les Trois Maries, where the 3 Mary's landed fleeing persecution in the Holy Land, now an annual pilgrimage for the gypsies of Europe. We found Arles to be a southern city with a character far removed even from Toulouse. This is all burned orange and gold and white in the torrid sun, baking at 30 degrees Centigrade.

After a lovely duck dinner in an old room with matador decor, the kids hit the pool with glee, enjoying an evening in the water, for which they received the high praise of the owner for their good behavior, "très correcte," music to my ears, especially after the scolding for the noisy crew watching the France-Italy soccer game. (But, really, the French were getting killed, what good fan was quiet, for heaven's sake?) The sun down, we enjoyed a balmy poolside evening. I printed a contract from email, faxed an offer on the house I want to buy, rewrote the blog twice since blogger went down for routine maintenance and I missed the Pacific time change - good night all. Tomorrow will prove whether the pen indeed mightier than the sword.