I am in France where I have a ‘base camp’ in a lovely three-story house in a medieval town nestled in the foothills of the Pyrenees, owned by generous friends who live in Canada. My plan was to settle in here after Barcelona and then travel about to wherever my mood took me. 

Montpellier and Marseilles being the two main cities I wanted to see, I booked trains and Airbnbs heading east along the southern coast. I never made it to Montpellier.

The Airbnb I reserved for Montpellier said it was a six minute train ride from the city centre. No problem, I thought. I had been taking the subway all over Barcelona. How different could this be?

I got off the train at the main station in Montpellier, ready to purchase a two-day pass for public transportation to get back and forth from my Airbnb to the city center. The ticket booths were unclear, I needed help from the information desk. Language was a bit of a problem but the agent helped me buy a ticket, pointed me toward the track and told me to get off at the first stop. Easy-peasy.

I got on the train, doubtful if I’d made myself clear to the agent. She had pointed on a map to where my Airbnb was. It seemed off from my understanding but I felt I had no choice except to trust her.

I got off at the first stop. The train pulled away and I swear I was in the middle of nowhere. It was not a train station, just a stop with a wall and a small enclosure. Nothing else. No buildings. The wind rustled through the trees. I had no idea where I was. I knew it was a fifteen minute walk from the train to my Airbnb, but…

And then my hostess popped around the end of the wall. We had been conversing, she knew the specifics of when I’d be arriving and thank goodness for it. She cheerily threw my bag into the back of her three-wheeled scooter and took off ahead of me. I followed. Ten minutes walking on a lovely country road until we reached the edge of town. Her house was in the heart of the old village, on a narrow winding street. I still had no idea where I was exactly. It was definitely not Montpellier. It was Villeneuve-lès-Maguelone.

What a happy mistake. My hostess was delightful. She’s a cook, a waitress, an improv aficionado, a dancer, a woman who has designed her own lifestyle based on maintaining her independence and feeding her soul. 

She convinced me to spend my one full day in the village rather than taking the train back into Montpellier. She fed me breakfast, gave me a bicycle and sent me on my way to see the beautiful marshlands. There is a causeway to the sea that runs through salt water ponds full of pink flamingoes.

The beach was gorgeous too.

And then there was the twelfth century Cathedral. In the centre of a stand of trees, surrounded by a vineyard, the site dates back to the 6th Century when it was the seat of the diocese for a thousand years. 

I pedalled back to the village to join the festival of ‘Moveable Art’. There was local food, beer and wine, and art installations throughout the vineyard—just follow the paths. 

That evening my hostess and I were joined by another guest, a young traveller from Berlin. We three went out for pizza and swapped our life stories. My hostess used her improv skills to imitate my face when she first laid eyes on me at the middle-of-nowhere train stop. Made me laugh. I looked like a lost ogre.

It was the best mistake I’d made in a long time.

Keep your joy.

Anne Milne is an every Sunday blogger, unless it’s a holiday weekend. Or summertime. Facebook or email.