Carcassonne
Carcassonne is one of those places that shouldn’t work as well as it does.
On the surface, it can feel a little rough around the edges. Not polished like Provence. Not precious. The newer town is practical. Lived in. Comfortable in its own skin. And then, rising above it all, there’s the fortress.
A full-blown, double-walled medieval citadel with towers, ramparts, and a long, occasionally bloody history that refuses to fade into the background. Romans. Crusades. Cathars. You don’t have to be a history buff to feel it. The stones do the talking for you.
We came for a weekend and ended up changing our plans. That should tell you something. August in Charente-Maritime was scrapped in favor of staying nearby in Caunes-Minervois, just down the road. Sometimes a place grabs you like that.
One of our first real friends in France lived in Carcassonne, and that first night we had drinks at a rooftop bar with a direct view of the fortress, fully lit, hovering over the town like it knew exactly what it was doing. Conversation stopped mid-sentence. You just sit there for a moment and let it happen.
We didn’t even tour the whole citadel that trip. Being near it was enough. Seeing it glow after dark makes you believe in castles again, even if you thought you were done with that kind of thing.
Later that night, we settled in for a long, three-hour dinner at La Table de Marie with our friend and her husband. If Marie suggests a wine, you say thank you and stop asking questions. She curates the list herself, and she does not miss. It was one of those perfect French nights. Good food. No rush. The kind of evening that quietly resets your expectations.
The next morning, we hit the Saturday market. Big. Local. Busy in the right way. Afterward, our friend took me into La Ferme, which remains one of my favorite shop experiences anywhere. Serious wine. Staff who know what they’re talking about without making you feel tested. Charcuterie that makes you reconsider every decision you’ve ever made at the grocery store.
Across the street, I had my first crouton pulled straight from a hot baguette at Boulangerie-Patisserie Papineau. Crackling crust. Steam. No exaggeration, it changed my understanding of bread.
Carcassonne is touristy, sure. But unlike a lot of places, it earns it. There’s no elitism here. No performance. Just history, food, people, and a town that feels surprisingly easy to be in.
Maybe that’s why it works so well.
Carcassonne doesn’t ask you to dress better or act impressed.
It just says, “Sit down. Have a glass. You’re fine.”