By Dr Olga Roh, editor lifestyle & art
Many years ago, while leafing through a box of old photographs belonging to my great-grandmother – a woman of uncommon grace, insatiable curiosity, and a passport filled with stories – I came upon a small yet extraordinary treasure. There were portraits mounted on thick cardboard, those dignified cabinet cards once favoured by Europe’s well-heeled classes. And then, scattered among them, a collection of postcards – silent witnesses to places she had once known, moments she had once cherished.
She had travelled across Europe in her own private railway carriage – a rare privilege in the early 20th century.Travel in a private carriage during Imperial Russia was a display of elite luxury: polished walnut interiors, velvet armchairs, brass fittings, and crystal lighting. The air carried the scent of cigars and perfume of her favorite L’Origan by Coty – spicy, powdery, with an adventurous elegance that lingered long after the moment had passed. Meals were served on fine china, with silver cutlery and imported wines – a rolling salon for the sanctuary for those with an insatiable desire to explore the world in style, now lost to time.
Her wanderlust was matched only by her eye for beauty. But what caught me most was a single postcard: a view of Carcassonne, the fortress rising in the haze like something out of legend, its towers layered against the sky, too perfect to be believed.
Much has vanished since then. The carriage disappeared into history. The art collection she lovingly assembled was confiscated – nationalised after the October Revolution, that dramatic and tragic end to Russia’s monarchy, a collapse not only from foreign conquest, but from betrayal within. Betrayal by the very people who, in their naïveté – or perhaps for foreign coin – claimed to fight for a better life, yet delivered only terror and ruin.
And so it all was lost: the paintings, the carriage, and with them, a whole world – swept away in the fires of ideology. Millions were deceived. Millions vanished. What remains are fragments. A few faded photographs. A handful of postcards – objects so innocuous they could be hidden away during the long Soviet years, tucked out of sight from prying eyes, too delicate to destroy, too dangerous to display.
And yet that image of Carcassonne stayed with me throughout my childhood. The dreamlike silhouette of ramparts and turrets, eternal in its stillness. A vision untouched by time, holding within it echoes of everything that was – and everything that was lost.
Fifty-two of them, precisely – as many as there are weeks in a year. A detail that’s hard to forget, once you know it.
At last, I managed to find two days and make my way to this extraordinary corner of Occitania – a place many have heard of, but only the curious and the history-obsessed ever actually reach. And it’s worth it. This is no theme park; it’s a city that has seen empires come and go, where
stone walls remember more than most books. A UNESCO-listed fortress town that still stands proud, despite everything.
Let us not mistake Carcassonne for just a postcard-perfect medieval fantasy. Behind those stout stone towers is a blood-drenched legacy. The city’s roots twist deep into Roman times, when it was known as Carcaso. Later came the Visigoths, the Saracens, the Franks. But the most dramatic chapter arrived with the Albigensian Crusade – a religious war so savage it could make even Dante wince.
In the early 13th century, Carcassonne was a centre of Catharism, a stronghold of the Cathars, a Christian sect deemed heretical by Rome for their inconvenient tendency to reject earthly power and wealth.
The Catarhs settled mostly in the sunny south of France – in places like Carcassonne, Béziers, Albi, and Montségur.
They had a very clear take on life:
“We live – therefore, we suffer. This world is Hell.”
Their only true liberation? Death – the sweet escape from the prison of the flesh.
Naturally, this didn’t go over well with the Pope, who preferred saving souls through the Church, not losing them to independent mystics.
So, in classic 13th-century fashion, the Pope replied:
“You think life is Hell? Allow me to demonstrate.” Cue:
- A crusade launched within France (yes, really),
- The Inquisition,
- Public
This was not a minor doctrinal disagreement; it was an existential threat to the Church’s earthly dominion. The most infamous moment? In 1209, during the siege of nearby Béziers, the papal legate reportedly gave the instruction: “Kill them all, God will know His own.” It’s the sort of thing that leaves a stain on a tourism brochure. And this charming slogan is a real quote from the siege of Béziers.
Funny enough, once upon a time, Nostradamus himself passed through these lands. His grandfather was named Crescas de Carcassonne – a Jew who converted to Christianity in 1459 and adopted the name Pierre de Nostredame.
The great seer studied medicine and became a doctor at the Faculty of Montpellier; he spent several years in Agen, in Languedoc, in Provence, and in the Rhône Valley. In Carcassonne, he treated the Bishop Amédée de Foix. Nostradamus even mentioned Carcassonne in his prophecies:
“There will be a long struggle with the countries, heavy blows will fall. Two cities will have great disputes.
Carcassonne and Narbonne will test their hearts. Intrigue will be woven in Carcassonne.
The great city will soon be devastated…
Its people will flee, only the wall, the land, the temple, and the Virgin defiled by iron will remain. Fire, plague, people will die,
the city will be taken by deceit and treachery with the help of a captured beautiful young man…”
All came true: there were battles, betrayal, and disease…But before all the calamities arrived, love reigned in the region. Languedoc – the land of the langue d’oc (now Occitania) – was the domain of troubadours, green hills, warm seas, and equal rights between men and women (in the Middle Ages!). The voice of poetry rang louder than the cries of war.
Carcassonne (and the entire Languedoc-Roussillon region) was formally annexed by France in the mid-17th century.
The border with Aragon moved to the Pyrenees. The city lost its strategic purpose. Worse, the invention of artillery made its medieval walls obsolete.
The people were either expelled or “cleansed” – spiritually and quite literally. The Church made its point clear: follow the script or face the flames.
Carcassonne fell shortly thereafter. By the 19th century, the fortress was abandoned. Locals dismantled its stones to build houses nearby.
Carcassonne was being erased from history and its walls left to decay – until …the city was resurrected! Carcassonne would have vanished completely – if not for Prosper Mérimée: jurist, writer, diplomat, translator of Pushkin and Turgenev – and saviour of France’s heritage.Born in Paris to a family of bourgeois artists, Mérimée understood the tragedy of castles and cathedrals being looted and destroyed. He made it his mission to protect them, declaring: “In such work, pretending to do well is dangerous – doing no harm is already a great achievement.”
He entrusted the first restorations to his childhood friend, the architect Eugène Viollet-le-Duc – who went on to restore Vézelay Basilica, Notre-Dame in Paris, and, of course, Carcassonne.
Viollet-le-Duc was known for that flamboyant knowledge of French Gothic; he restored medieval buildings with more enthusiasm than historical accuracy. To him, Carcassonne was not merely a ruin but a stage set. A legend in need of scenery. Some purists sneer at his romantic flourishes, but I rather admire them. His Carcassonne, with its fairy-tale turrets and perfect symmetry, may not be exactly medieval – but it is precisely what the medieval ought to have looked like.
And here lies the paradox. The real Carcassonne is not within the walls but beneath them. It resides in the whispers of the Cathars, in the wine-soaked soil of Occitania, in the weary sighs of schoolchildren marched up the cobbled slopes on obligatory history excursions. It’s in the dialects lost and the beliefs burned. In the cracks between stone. The result? You can see for yourself when you visit the medieval citadel.
At night, it’s eerily quiet. There are no schools, pharmacies, post offices – not even a butcher (a shocking fact in France!). Only 36 people live there today. But by day, it’s a thriving world of tourists, linen tablecloths, soap stalls, knives, and the wonderful bread from the bakery inside the Hôtel de la Cité! Ah, but this isn’t just any hotel. Since 1909, this jewel has hosted legends.
- Walt Disney stayed here as a soldier during WWI, and again as a visitor on 2 July
- Ernest Hemingway, another soldier-turned-writer,
- On 2 December 1948, the great Joséphine Baker slept in Room
- On 1 August 1953, Gary Cooper stayed in Room
- And the royal herself – Grace Kelly – spent the night of 8 July 1961 in Room 118. The receptionist Julian, ever gallant, showed me her suite: modest, charming, with a garden view – quietly regal, just like her.
And my favourite room? In 2008, the Pirate of the Caribbean himself – Johnny Depp – stayed there with Vanessa Paradis (do you remember her “Joe le taxi”?) Their room, 218, looks straight out onto the towers. Pure magic.
When you feel it’s not enough to read about the places, but get a professional and truly emotional explanation, it’s worth getting a trusted and knowledgeable guide and I was lucky to have one: my guide in Carcassone – Maxym – knew every stone and tree of Carcassonne inside out. Having been passionate about its history since childhood, he was an absolute treasure trove of knowledge – a true blessing for a lifelong tourist like me. 🙂 Interestingly, Maxym de la Grille @Maxymaxdelagrille hails from the nearby town of Saint-Pons-de-Thomières. This region is famed for its richly coloured marbles, especially the deep red variety with striking white veining, often called the “Red Marble of Languedoc” or the “Marble of Caunes”.
This luxurious stone graced the grand interiors of Versailles – adorning columns, fireplaces, and decorative panels – adding a dash of southern French splendour to the Sun King’s palace. In Carcassonne, you’ll spot this magnificent noble stone in the Church of Saint-Nazaire, a jewel of the city’s heritage.
Visiting the museum is well worth it if you find yourself wondering what life was truly like in a fortress that seemed impregnable. Yet, the castle’s downfall came not at the hands of an enemy’s sword, but through cunning deception, the naïveté of its inhabitants, and, eventually, a shortage of water. Indeed, even the mightiest fortress can be conquered without a fight – through folly or mere thirst.
The castle itself is a complex fortress with ‘murder holes’ at the entrances – narrow funnels allowing only one soldier at a time to pass, who would be swiftly dispatched upon entry.
You’ll delight in the gargoyles and the gleaming roofs, which give the castle an almost Parisian flair, thanks to the architect Eugène Viollet-le-Duc’s restoration work.
The stones of the ramparts and houses often glow in warm shades – ochres, sandy beiges – colours that echo the local earth and rock. The traditional slate roofs add a striking contrast, with their deep grey-blue hues lending a refined elegance to the ochre walls.
Speaking of colours, one cannot ignore the rare and highly prized pigment for which the Carcassonne region is famed: cocagne. This colour – a vibrant, almost mythical shade – evokes the medieval concept of “Pays de Cocagne,” an imaginary land of abundance, pleasure, and ease.
In European medieval tradition, the Land of Cockaigne (or “Pays de Cocagne”) was a mythical utopia where food was free, rivers flowed with wine, and idleness was the norm.
In a way, my own experience here mirrored that fantasy – a blissful, almost paradisiacal time filled with magnificent food. And here, dear reader, you caught me! Stereotypes are tricky things, but they don’t emerge from nowhere – there is often a kernel of truth.
One word instantly comes to mind when mentioning France: cuisine.
Indeed, the quintessential French lifestyle attribute is the baguette – freshly baked and brandished by early-morning crowds like tiny spears in the streets of French towns. The simplest tables boast clear broths, golden cutlets, and airy omelettes – the latter so revered in France that once, according to legend, a woman’s skill at making it was a key to winning a suitor’s hand. All accompanied, naturally, by bottles of Burgundy and Anjou wines.
French cuisine has another, perhaps less well-known but equally illustrious synonym: Paul Bocuse.
Born into a family that had worn the chef’s hat since the 17th century, Bocuse was lauded as “The Chef of the Century” and awarded the prestigious Legion of Honour.
It was largely thanks to him that French cuisine became world-famous and, most importantly, elevated cooking into an art – inspired, poetic, and romantic in the very French way.
This spirit lives on in chefs like Franck Putelat, who channels the legacy of haute cuisine française with both precision and imagination. In 2003, he was awarded the Bocuse d’Argent, placing him among the world’s top chefs – just one point shy of the gold. And in 2018, he earned the coveted title of Meilleur Ouvrier de France, one of the highest honours in French craftsmanship, reserved for true masters of their art. And guess what? Just a few steps away from the fairytale walls of Carcassonne’s medieval citadel, a glittering surprise awaits: La Table de Franck Putelat. A true jewel of French gastronomy, the chef’s “cuisine fiction” here is like a story on every plate – full of elegance, and delicious imagination. It’s an experience that lingers like a perfect final note in a beautiful piece of music. As a devoted admirer of haute cuisine, you then take a leisurely walk (far better on foot) from the castle to this restaurant La Table de Franck Putelat, where his attentive team performs an exquisite culinary theatre just for you. At sunset, this gastronomic spectacle feels even more magical and defies description – gourmets find themselves immersed in a rare atmosphere of shared connoisseurship…
As the sunsets, champagne (by Putelat, bien sure!) sparkles, wine (with an incredible raspberry note!) flows, and the whole scene feels like a beautiful dream – elegant, playful, and unforgettable. Franck Putelat’s classic fiction is a brilliant blend of tradition and daring creativity. I savoured Franck Putelat’s splendid menu – a two-Michelin-star experience – a journey between land and sea, is a voyage of the senses. I highly recommend you do not alter any part of it – the Putelat symphony must be enjoyed in full harmony. During my visit, I opted to substitute the meat course with veal. While the restaurant accommodated this request, the veal lacked the finesse and perfection that characterize the rest of the menu. It was a subtle reminder of the chef’s guiding hand, which was absent that evening. A pity, indeed, as such nuances can make all the difference on the path to a third Michelin star.
And come morning, a short trip to Carcassonne airport awaits – conveniently served by Ryanair, which fills its planes with history buffs and food lovers alike, making for an interesting study of its passengers! On my flight, I travelled with the family of a Cambridge lecturer and a London restaurant owner…
If you don’t own a private jet, you can still share your adventures with many fascinating fellow travellers. The journey continues!
And do tell your friends – it’s a journey well worth taking.
Carcassonne is not simply a city. It is a surviving artefact – a fortress that endured crusades, sieges, neglect, and finally, restoration. Listed by UNESCO, photographed by millions, and yet still capable of surprising you when the sun hits its ramparts just so.
And for me – it all began with a postcard that refused to be lost. So yes, I came for the postcard, but I stayed for the paradox.