I awoke early enough on Sunday morning to kill my alarm before it had a chance to disturb my fellow passengers. Items that were no longer required were stuffed back into the rucksack and I climbed carefully down the ladder. I was in time to see the walled city of Carcassonne through the train window just as the sun was projecting honey-coloured onto the rampart walls. Too awkward for a photo, but I gained enough information to deduce that I would not be visiting this city as a tourist by train.
I knew that it would take another 20 minutes to reach my disembarkation point and that watching the scenery from a soft couchette was preferable to standing in a corridor, so I elected to stay put until I began to feel the train slow down, and then I got up to leave. At that same moment the train announcer told us we were approaching my station and that we should get ready to leave so I figured I had timed everything to perfection. Not only that, but all my room-mates were still fast asleep, I hadn't disturbed a single soul.
When the train stopped at the platform I was completely unable to open the door, but I could see a whole bunch of people at the door at the other end of the carriage so I scuttled along the corridor to join them. There was a train guard doing something to the door with a large tool and saying “there is a problem with the door” so naturally enough I assumed that these other people were also trying to disembark, had experienced the same problem with opening the door as I had and that this chap with the large tool was assisting their disembarkation. Wouldn't you?
But then the door was locked shut and the train began to pull out of the station and I was hands up asking “excuse me?” Can I please get off?
Apparently no. I hadn't been brazen enough to just clamber over everyone else and their baggage and the guard with the large tool to assert my right to arrive at my destination and I was now obliged to continue to the next station and buy another ticket to return to my original destination. The “problem with the door” turned out to be that the mad family should not have piled all their valises in front of an exit door prior to arriving at their own destination but they were not to be penalised, that was a treat all of my own.
Amazingly, the strongest language I used was NON! But it was very shouty and employed some quite sweary body-language.
I called Veronica to alert her to the malfunction and a couple of hours later I was returning by train illegally sans-billet to my original destination.
From that moment on everything went swimmingly. I met Mystère, my charge for the next fortnight, and he permitted a stroke at the first pass! If you understand, you do, and if you don't, there's no point trying to explain.
I can't believe this is still the same day, but really it is.
Veronica's village is less than half the size of my former Greek village and appears to be a wonderfully close-knit community. We enjoyed a community Sunday lunch of mussels. The food was divine as was the camaraderie, and having lived a similar lifestyle myself, I can only wish that more people had the chance to experience proper village life. The mussels appear to have been cooked in a vessel made for grape treading – a great idea for a dual purpose piece of equipment assuming a perfect confidence in eradicating historic culinary aromas.