My husband is a sensitive. It’s not something he’s particularly comfortable with and rarely shares with anyone but after 42 years of togetherness, I recognize the signs when we are not alone. Countless times what he tells me has been validated so I no longer doubt his sensitivity. It’s lead to some uncomfortable and sometimes comical situations as we travel, in particular Europe. I could regale you with stories but one still makes me shiver....
The leaves were turning color in late September as we motored our rented canal boat up the Canal du Midi. Having left Carcassone that morning, the broad Lauragais plain spread out before us as we made our way toward Castelnaudary. It was a perfect fall day with the sun casting long shadows across the Plane trees lining the canal. As the day grew longer, I surveyed the galley for dinner fixings. Hmm, should have hit the stores back in Carcassone. Things were pretty thin. A quick assessment of the “fluviale guide” showed a town up ahead not too far off the canal. We decided to tie up near the bridge that lead to town and go for supplies. In high spirits, we headed the mile or so to town. As we grew closer and closer to the village, I recognized the signs; the quiet withdrawal, eyes darting to and for, a certain tension in his body. I asked if he was okay.. He asked if I knew anything about this town. I didn’t.. With every step, His agitation rose. By the time we reached the edge of town, he was adamant this was not a good place and need to stay away from the church though he couldn’t say why. It was an old Roman village with concentric circle roads emanating from the church in the center, very confusing. Needless to say ever time we headed down a street that lead into the village, he’d abruptly turn on his heel and say “we can’t go that way”, keeping us to the outer perimeter, away from the church in the center. Spying a little to go place, I suggested we grab something to eat and push on to the next town in the morning for supplies. Quickly agreed, we ate. As we headed back to our boat the sun was setting. I was having trouble keeping up his pace. Unusual, I’m usually the quick step. I asked if we could slow up a bit. He turned to me, looked me square in the eye and said “absolutely not. There are black shadows following us in the trees. There’s something really bad in that town. We need to hurry.” I decided to put my dance shoes on and ask questions latter. We made it back to the boat as the last rays of sun set. Once aboard, he quickly shut all the windows, hatches, doors and closed the drapes tight. This was well beyond his normal response to picking up on things. His agitation had found its way to me and I was definitely jumpy too. I needed to know what was so wrong with this village so I googled it. Bram, France - a center for Cathar beliefs attacked in 1210 by St. Dominic. Once he conquered the town, he cut off the top lip and gouged out the eyes of the survivors except one person to lead them out of town. Don’t ask me how but he knew the church in that village had been the center for deep tragedy in that town but he did. After sharing my “research” with him, we decided to lock ourselves into our stateroom until morning. We kept hearing strange noises and rustling outside but we stayed lock away inside our room waiting for daylight. It was a long night with little sleep. I don’t know who was more grateful for the first light of day. We pulled our stakes from the canal side, pushed off, gratefully to put some distance between us and Bram.
