Today was Friday, the morning after the day before. And after our adventures in Narbonne (or, more accurately, in the 15 kilometres between Narbonne and its beach), the last thing we wanted to do was ... anything. But I'd bought the train tickets to Foix in advance and I'm even more reluctant to be parted from my money than I had been the skin on my feet, so I was going to walk on them and go to Foix, and Clare was coming with me.
We hadn't heard of Foix and supposed it was a little place with not much to do, so we were going to take it easy. And it's true that it isn't a metropolis and it boasts little in the way of distractions, so we could've relaxed. Except the one thing that Foix does have is a castle, and so we just had to climb the hill to get to the top of it.
We got quite a surprise when we visited the local church and saw leaflets in Esperanto! Well, leaflet I suppose, but at least there was one:
We rewarded our efforts to drag ourselves out of bed on our weary feet with a monstrous jug of wine. Huge! They're the best kinds.
Having got ourselves suitably drunk, what did we do? We looked upwards and saw those turrets looming over us.
And, like all good drunks, we made what appeared to be a good decision, but doesn't really stand up to scrutiny. We decided to climb up their again. The healing properties of alcohol are remarkable, aren't they> We made some good progress:
But still had a way to go:
And were eventually awarded with a view of the Pyrennees:
I don't think it's a controversial statement to say we'd had a much better day today than yesterday!