We were on the road again. This time on our way to Toulouse, a place known for its shimmering pink and red stone buildings and thriving café culture. Situated between the Canal du Midi (which we had been following for some time on our travels, and which brings back stunning memories of barging with my family) and the River Garonne, we were looking forward to a night in this well-known French city.
Well, things don’t always work out quite as planned. It may have been the combination of heat, exhaustion and entering the city from the less than welcoming and picturesque industrial areas, but Toulouse was not what we had expected. We had to walk for miles in searing heat in between construction sites and down dingy alleys, the crowds swarming and the maps distorted, and we bumped one too many neo-Nazi skin head types with homemade swastika tattoos than was frankly necessary for a weekday afternoon. I’m sure it’s a really lovely place and that the city and us were just having an off day, but we were not gelling with Toulouse. ‘Embracing the detours’ as we have tried to do on this adventure, we decided to cut our losses and find a small town outside the city, whilst still on our route down to Spain, where we could crash for the night.
Enter Mirepoix. It was literally a random point on the map that we could find a highway to and although I keep mistakenly renaming this town after my favourite French grocery shop (J’taime Monoprix!), it really was an unforgettable experience and the other end of the scale to hustling, bustling Toulouse.
Yes, another medieval town. But with a difference! Mirepoix is literally only the size of two town blocks but the ‘old town’ is remarkably preserved and the 12th century stilted wooden buildings, with worn yet colourful carved facades, shutters and flowerboxes, is truly enchanting. It overlooks into a grassy square with the standard carousel of every French town. Completely by accident, we ended up staying in the town’s local hotspot, a quirky family-owned hotel situated right next to the old town and which overlooked a large but slightly overgrown garden that doubled as the restaurant grounds. We should have known by the listing hand-painted sign for the hotel, complete with fairies and cheesy poison ivy, that this place would be something else. Besides, it was only 56 euros!
Well, without an elevator we had to shlep our bags up two teeny tiny dark and uneven flights of stairs. The corridor leading to our room had a distinct inclination to the left and our door seemed to double, triple and quadruple lock, depending on its mood at the time. The room itself was plain and simple, although dominated by the massive wooden support beams holding up the entire establishment. The theme of the 1960s bedspread was cleverly carried through into the 1860s bathroom. Outside our room however, was the real treat. The spa, consisting of a now recalled and banned brand of coin-operated 1980s massage chair in mouldy green velvet, which loudly reverberated throughout the hotel. Yes, a gem.
Anyway, we survived the night and had a wonderful sunset and then morning walk around the town, watching it both close up and wake up in a pattern of activity, noise and colour which must have been going on unchanged throughout the centuries.
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