Christmas Market

Didn’t we have a lovely time the day we went to Strasbourg? 

We had done no research on the place, other than muttering about its having something to do with the European Parliament, so it was, in fact, a splendid surprise. The charabanc was there at The Glacis in Luxembourg, just as promised, having been organised by the British Ladies Club (twinset and pearls not necessary) ready for the two and a half hour coach ride. The weather could have been better and the scenery was therefore cloaked in a light grey drizzle. But I did notice that the buildings changed, their roofs more pointed and brightly coloured above their white walls as we travelled deeper in to Alsace.  

Amusingly, if in a slightly alarming and ironically seasonal way, there was no room for the coach at the Park and Ride... but the driver seemed unfazed, so we left him trying to hide a 50 seater coach under a hedge. The trams were sleek and quiet, snaking alongside the pavements, ringing their bells to hurry pedestrians away from the tracks. Edinburgh take note: the tram system is fantastic. It is quiet and clean, fast and simple to use, and in Strasbourg, it links all the suburbs to the main part of the city for a mere 1euro 50. 
It was anybody’s guess where the stop for the Christmas market was. We just followed a family from the coach who looked like they knew what they were doing. But this plan came to naught as they turned to us and said, “Any idea where to get off?”. It made sense therefore to alight where the crowds seemed thickest (density, not brain power) and found ourselves at the foot of the tallest Christmas Tree we have ever seen, surrounded by the wooden booths and carnival tents of the Charities’ Christmas Market. Jolly, but not the ultimate goal.

Signs to the Christchild Market seemed more promising. Sharply angled streets, jettied buildings, frosted and garlanded shop windows and, marvellously, a horse-drawn double decker omnibus, complete with top hatted driver and conductor.

 It is evidently a Strasbourg tradition that the shops and businesses bedeck the entire frontage of their buildings with ribbons, bows, greenery or with gingerbread men, snowmen and twinkly lights best shown in the photographs attached. I paused in front of a chocolate shop to admire novelties for the tree, as richly decorated as a Faberge egg. And at 20 euros per bauble, I put even my chocolate loving brakes on. Please note the restraint.

 

The Christchild market filled a square. Perhaps a hundred cabins clustered in rows, where the shoppers and on-the-hoof diners pushed and dawdled breathing in the hot cinnamon sugar of gauffres and crepes, the barbecue tang of sausages, and the fondue of cheeses melted over pretzels.

  “ I’m ravenous” we said in chorus. But, wisely resisting these delights, mainly because I wanted to eat in the warm and sit down for a proper lunch, we sought a restaurant. “La Marseillaise” seemed promising, if gloriously inappropriate for such a land-locked place; the board outside proposed choucroute and Slavic style meats. Yet there was also a Magret de Canard on offer, and Dearly Beloved was interested in the Jarret Braise.
  “ I’m up for a braised shin of anything,” he declared, and we joined the queue. Tables were arranged in long rows, and the room was steamy and loud with the chink of cutlery and the chatter of the well fuelled.

“If you are not pressed, “ said the proprietor, who had such undeniably Slavic features that I looked nervously behind him for the Magyar hordes, "I will have a table for you in five minutes." I assured him that we had all the time in the world and within a couple of minutes we were shoe horned between a young and absorbed couple dealing efficiently with chocolat au fondant and a carafe of white wine, and an older, more serious couple, still earnestly debating the menu. Dearly Beloved ate the bread  that was already on the table which awoke the young couple from their chocolate reverie sufficiently to insist, “ No please, eat it, we didn’t want it anyway”. We were only slightly embarrassed at eating their bread.They were on the pudding course..  

We ordered quickly having already made our choice outside on the pavement, and we were unsure what was involved in the special of the day, Choucroute Alsacienne. Behind Dearly B, a table of four, whose figures suggest years of skilled and thorough Gourmandise, attacked plates piled high with soft white cabbage dotted by the palest of pink sausages, white boudin and an even paler pate topped, like icing on a cake, with a thick layer of fat.

  “ I’m glad I didn’t choose the  choucroute , “ I said to DB, “ I think I would have had nightmares.”

Elizabeth David herself in "French Provincial cooking": describes  the "...amber green and gold choucroute" as "somewhat formidable" but that one "should at least try them once." Hmm, maybe.
The magret was rich and sweet, in a thick mushroom sauce,  wintry warm while the shin of pork was  slightly charred, savoury and wholesome the fat chips crispy on the outside and fluffy in the middle. Not an exceptional meal but tasty,  providing us also with the opportunity to dine in an ancient building, to observe the Franco-Slavic charm of the owner as he swiftly took orders, made recommendations, joked and laughed and provided the bill with ease and grace, to watch the excited families on adjoining tables, where a small boy threatened with every toddler gesture to topple the tall bottle of coke at his mother’s elbow. Meanwhile, the diners behind DB finished their meal with a rich sugary savarin and a digestif.

Warmed and emboldened, we dived in to the market. Unlike some of the markets we have been to recently, a lot of the produce seemed to be well crafted rather than cheap imports. Some lovely scarves and gloves, hats, handbags, tree ornaments, I was never going to get started in shopping for others. Mentally I had pretty much spend the budget on myself. But I did find a couple of gifts.

 “ Are they a present? Shall I wrap them for you?” was the invariable request of the stallholders, as they reached for curly ribbon and scissors. We never felt rushed despite the crush of other shoppers and the stallholders were keen to discuss their products and to talk to us. Of course tehr was the stall selling small china moles  - every typeof mole you could imagine: Elvis moles, golfing moles, moles in tutus or in dresing gowns, Nativity. " Is there a terrible problem in Alsace? " I asked, "with moles?" But apparently not. mMaybe the statuary is successfully preventative.

We moved on out of the market through streets bearing the names of the trades and guilds that had worked there for hundreds of years, the mercers, the fishmongers, the  hatters, and followed the sound of music, past the the intricate carvings on the face of the cathedral, to reach the edge of a crowd gathering on a square. We could hear two voices: a tenor and an alto, with a lute and selection of bells.  But, and this was the best surprise of the day, there was but one man, seated in the middle of the square, playing an Irish bouzouki. Magnificently tattoed and pierced, he wore the costume of a troubadour and sang such a sweet and true counter tenor, that it brought tears to my eyes. We bought his CD straightaway and I have attached a link to his website that you might find interesting.

  ( http://www.myspace.com/lucarbogast)

The ancient streets, the smell of roasting chestnuts from the “steam trains” on every corner, troubador music, twinkly lights strung overhead, the shops full and bright, this was the Christmas shopping experience I would always have preferred. The shops too offered a range of goods and services that were not all high street names. We were deligthed to find a milliners, where DB and I both bought hats. At last I have found a hat to go with my lovely camel coat, a gift  last Christmas. DB even had his hat stretched on an aged hat stretching mould so it now fits perfectly.

As the evening progressed, we found more markets, selling candles, Alsacienne eaux-de-vie, breads, cakes, honey and soups. Only the engagement with the coach forced us to leave. Our last stop was at a bakers and tea room, evidently shutting up but still keen to warm through some quiche for us to take away. The trams were now full and we stood like sardines to return to the Park and Ride, where the driver  had successfully parked. Our fellow travellers had shopped and eaten, but I think we had the best experience, having avoided the fatty cheap cheese snacks, and the chain stores. And nobody else had heard the Troubadour.

continental shift

If I say that I spent part of my weekend selling cards and crackers, with Dearly Beloved swinging his kilt, sporting his Braveheart shirt and pressing tots of whisky on strangers, could you guess where I have been? What if I were to add the  information that I also exchanged three kisses with friends from Zimbabwe and Texas, shook the hands of men from Germany and Surrey, waved at folk from the Midlands, ate soft Greek bread stuffed with sliced lamb doused in herby olive oil, sampled a Lumpia with vegetables, nibbled edamame, followed by a hot and creamy Irish coffee, avoided moose milk, stroked some thick whiskery Icelandic jumpers, bought a glittery Polish bauble and a Scandinavian cotton reindeer, topped up with felafel in pitta bread, all washed down with a shot of vodka shared with a man in a furry hat, would you then have a better idea?  Some will still be struggling.  How about if I say that DB was eyeing hats from Azerbaijan and entering a competition for an all round trip to Japan? What if I say that I was gently marshalled aside by burly men in uniforms while a Grand Duchess also enjoyed the wares on sale from South America? You must have it by now! 

Yes, a prize of a home made mince pie to aal those who guessed correctly that I spent most of Saturday in the company of Dearly B at the International Bazaar of Luxembourg in the mini version of Birmingham’s NEC, Lux Expo. Since its first appearance as a Church Bazaar held by the Anglican church here in 1961, it has grown to become one of the biggest fundraising events in the Duchy, and has raised millions of Euros for charities in Luxembourg and elsewhere. For locals it is a great opportunity to eat  their way round the world and to catch up with friends, as well as to buy for Christmas and other feasts. Huge fun and absolutely exhausting, we shall definitely put it in our calendars for next year and hope that prospective visitors  will do the same.

A more peaceful Christmas Fayre was held at Cons La Grandville, a name you may recognise from a previous sortie into the neighbouring French towns. We have previously pressed our noses against the gates to the  Priory  which boasts an enormous restored barn. The website offers tantalising glimpses only, and Dearly Beloved, who loves barn conversions, has been champing at the bit for months to get inside to  inspect.

Luckily, while shopping the other day at the market in Longwy, I saw a flyer , quite modestly displayed, stating that there would an exhibition of wooden toys and other useful objects in this magnificent setting. So despite our aches and pains from the day before, we  breached the November mists and entered the Great Barn. It is magnificent. The stonework has been cleaned and restored to its pale clover honey colour, contrasting with the dark grey slate roof. The thick oak beams, vaulting into the roof space some 30 feet high are grey and sturdy, held together in the traditional way with thick wooden bolts. There is still evidence of the stalls used for the animals and of the supports for half width platforms once used for storage. 

There was a happy buzz of shoppers, mellowed, no doubt by the wine tasting (I bought only three bottles of a dusky burgundy) in the creamery, the artisan bread in the cattle stalls and the beer and hams on the mezzanine floor.  Much of the display was devoted to toys.  With sturdy forts and open walled dolls houses with spiral staircases and even a hinged loo, all made in wood and to a scale and spacing that would make play so easy, we almost found ourselves longing for grandchildren! There were chunky tipper trucks and tractors, their wooden wheels lovingly carved to reveal deep treads. Dolls cradles, children's stools, all nicely finished and at modest prices too…another date to put in our diary for next year.

But all this talk of November mists reminds me that I did not even tell you about  how we at last found our local auberge open for business.The day after our return from the south, and despite the fact that we had said,  “Enough! We have eaten our fill of lovely lunches out. We must retrench!”, we displayed the breaking resistance of a kit-kat when, on our first Sunday back from holiday we went up the road to Piedmont (of pig-roast fame) for a short constitutional.

 “What about popping into the Auberge?” I said, “ It might be open because it is the summer. We could just have a drink.” 

“I’ll take my wallet,” said Dearly Beloved, obediently and without pause.  

It was hot and sunny at midday, ansd we strolled up the hill noticing who had done what with their gardens and houses since we had last gone by. Some had dug up drives and replaced them with paving, others had repainted the orginal “grise” covering of the house with a more toothsome buttermilk. The lintel that was being knocked out above an old barn door has now been replaced with sturdy breeze block pillars and the young couple doing the renovation were perched on cement sacks in the sun taking a fag break. 

We rounded the corner and saw that lights were on in the windows of the Auberge. “But is anyone home?” asked Dearly B.  The kitchen windows were open, and there was the homely sound of cutlery clinking against plate.

“Just open the door” I said, “and walk in.”

At last we had crossed the threshhold of  the Auberge, which has, since January, been shut whenever we have visited. In the inner hall, a fire was burning in a deep inglenook recess, next to a traditional bread oven. Two ladies greeted us.

“Could we just have a drink please?” 

 “A drink? Only a drink? Mais oui.”

A table was cleared in the dining room where two or three other tables were occupied. A couple about our age sat discreetly in the window and in the corner an older couple were joined by a friend.  We ordered beers and listend to the deep gravel filled voice of the elderly gentleman,with an accent that surely must have influenced Peter Sellars’ Inspector Clueseau…

The beers arrived swiftly followed by an amuse-bouche: two morsels of Quiche Lorraine, hot from the wood oven, the egg just set and the bacon melting into the buttery puff pastry. What a low and cunning trick!  

“Madame!” we cried, “we would like something to eat.”

“You would like to eat? Well, our specialities are here on the board.”

“ Monsieur would like something meaty.”

“Oh we have the Cassoulet Maison, cooked for seven hours, a confit de canard, a cous cous…”

“I’ll have the cassoulet please, “ said Dearly Beloved, beaming. 

“And I shall have the canard, please, with a demi carafe of rose.” 

We looked at each other somewhat shame faced. Today was meant to be the return to abstemiousness and exercise to regain the body beautiful in preparation for Christmas. Dearly B was facing into the room and his eyes widened as he saw the portions being served behind me. 

" It’s as well we didn’t order starters.” 

While waiting, we admired the room. The Auberge was built in the  mid eighteenth century and, structurally, had barely changed, with broad beams only just above our heads spanning the room. The walls were at least eighteen inches thick.  A radio set from between the wars sat on a squat oak dresser behind busts of Laurel and Hardy and a sempervivens. On the wall were some local artist’s impressions of the auberge and a couple of nudes. It was all very cosy.

Dearly Beloved admired the dresser, its sliding doors protecting all the glass ware within. Then the dinner arrived. The cassoulet was a mound of plump haricots  and even plumper saucissons, in a sauce of tomatoes, carrots and onion, competing for room on the plate with chunky cubes of fried potatoes. Man food.   

By comparison, mine was quite dainty although the food also covered the plate. A dark haunch of duck covered with thinly sliced soft mushrooms, a tomato steeped in roasted garlic and a poached nectarine stuffed with finely shredded red cabbage jostled for space with the same crispy potateos. The carafe of rose was light and fresh.

“Bon Appetit!” said the waitress with the certain knowledege that we would clear every morsel. 

Dearly Beloved’s eyes misted over. This was truly a dish made in heaven for a hungry walker.  Ironically, Cassoulet is a dish orginating from Toulouse, in the same region from which we had just travelled but where we had failed to find any on offer.  The duck was sweet and tender, and our conversation was reduced to  the happy gruntings and mumblings of the well fed. Madame came to  check on our progress. D Beloved could only kiss her hand …she seemed unfazed by this, evidently used to such praise.

“We shall return,” we assured her.  

But  two months have passed by and we have yet to go there. I feel a seasonal booking coming on.

A bientot!

Crossing the border

Social networking via internet: love it or hate it, you do keep in contact with a much wider range of people than ever afforded by wax tablets and their modern derivatives.  

What has this to do with holidaying in south west France?  To explain: Dearly Beloved obtained, while holidaying in Edinburgh, an electronic tablet. It has since  been returned to its maker, but we took it on holiday where no doubt the significant change in temperature, water and air  caused it, like us, to constantly need rebooting. All of which is a roundabout way of saying we had internet access while on holiday and through said social networking site, discovered that a friend was holidaying only an hour away. In Spain. Well, we had already had a day away from our trans-frontalier life style of skipping across three borders to borrow a cup of sugar, and we were missing the frisson of doing so with the fear of never knowing if we had the right papers or phrases to get where we wished unimpeded.

Network Friend and I were at university together and had not seen each other since graduating, ooh, must be a couple of years ago now. She and a group  from Barcelona, an hour further down the coast, rent a house throughout the year in Colera, on the Costa Brava. And it was our privilege to join her there for the day.  

The route took us along the La Corniche of La Cote Vermeille which the Michelin guide threatened would be hair raising – but the route along the motorway would be less spectacular and almost twice as long. So, with the whites of my knuckles already glowing from the bumpy road down the hills from our holiday gite, we set the Sat Nav and headed even further south.

And we were so glad we did. The road has either been  improved since the Michelin inspector wrote his description, or he has not ventured up the death defying sides of the Picos de Europa in Northern Spain. Or he is just lily livered. The road was extremely curvy as it hugged the cliffs and hillsides along the coast. The temperature was already nudging 30 and  the sea was a delicate cornflower blue, the sun bright white through the heat haze, and the vines growing right down to the road’s edge, yellow green and glistening with ruby red grapes, the rocks a deep vermillion .

“ We must go there, oh, and there and there,” I sighed as we drove past bustling seaside villages, where the houses clung together  up the steep hill sides so as not to fall into the sea. We stopped to view the panorama shown on the map, and looked over Catalonia, the Pyrenees behind us and the Mediterranean Sea before us. A catering van with a number of customers called to us, saying that even the Luxembourgish could not resist such a deal that he was offering – 6 bottles for the price of 5. Even at 9.30, the local and world famous Banyuls aperitif was selling well…setting you up for those twisty steep edged roads.

 Arriving in Colera and driving under the gantries of the Eiffel designed bridge, we skirted the square built round a huge tree where Network Friend waved from the balcony. The square on which the house sits has cafes and bars,  perfectly placed for a pre-swim beer. Locals called to Network F, pleased that we had arrived safely; the waiter bringing us our drinks had been a small boy when NF first came to the square. The beach, merely 5 minutes walk away, curved deeply in a secluded bay; we learned why all locals wear shoes or sandals in the water – the beach and sea bed tending to shale and tiny pebbles; the larger rocks provided shelter for hundreds of pale banded fish; DB took off with his snorkel while we floated and chatted, basking in the sunshine. Before lunch, we took a light aperitif of beer with nibbles of Pop (octopus) and anchovies and tomatoes on toast, and enjoyed the ligth breeze sea where we sat looking over the bay.  Lunch had been pre-ordered at NF’s favourite restaurant, where she had recently assisted in the translation of the menu into English. We were surprised at the need to do so, as it seemed not to be a tourist spot for Brits. It was mainly for those who do not speak French or Catalan – the Dutch in particular take long road trips to the southern coasts.  

So on to the paella – fresh cooked, (ordered to be low salt) fat yellow mussels bursting out of their shells, pink prawns, red peppers and charred chicken, a bed of soft saffron rice in a stock tasting of sunshine, wine and sea -  paella is surely the holiday dish  above all others…Coffee, a digestif of cava, and DB willingly poured me into the car to go home, clutching my presents of fresh herbs and a jar of liquid gold - a first pressing of olive oil from the local groves.

The trip home was as beautiful, the light now softer in the evening sun, our route defining our itinerary for the week to come.

A bientot.

We were not terribly pleased with our gite.  

On our arrival, a stench of rotting food hit us – so we emptied the bin of the maggots, a task seemingly not included in the cleaning  between occupiers.  The blinds to the south had been left open during the day, the glass doors creating a greenhouse effect where tomatoes would ripen in a blink of an eye. Those of you close to us will already know that the loo in the second bedroom, which faced directly though the frosted glass door onto the front door and the street, was marked with a sticky label saying Broken: Do Not Use. The constantly flushing whine sounded throughout the night so much so that Dearly Beloved later found a washer in the kit he always carries and tried to stem the flow, to no avail.  A canvas lounger lay in shredded disrepair on the balcony, its springs scattered over the tiles. The kitchen, newly installed with a high gloss wooden counter, contained warnings about using it – not to get it wet or to put anything hot on the surface. It was all a bit intimidating. Better not drink anything then, I thought, we could get out of control here and wreck the place. Our bedroom was  furnished with the only wardrobe and dresser in the house (available for 8 holiday makers), with an en-suite shower room – but if the shutters were open, anybody on the road could see you using the facilities.  

It was hot – 30 degrees C at night for the first few days. The plastic sheet on the mattress had us getting up to cool down with cold drinks and washes throughout the night. From 7 am, traffic bounced down the rutted roads two metres from where our hot heads lay. We thought of moving into the quieter back double bedroom but as the space between wall and bed on each side was barely 6 inches, we realised it was not for us, our youthful days of springing over the foot of the bed having long gone.

The bathroom facing the front door also had a futon and a hefty glass fronted bookshelf in it. Everything to hand then, including a door onto the balcony.

We barked our shins on the 5’ square coffee table in the lounge, its polythene sheet, screaming “Do Not Use” at us. We shoved it into a corner and thought we would treat ourselves to some satellite TV (a luxury for us, as it is not available in the Chateau due to planning restrictions). The signal flickered throughout the evening as we sat uncomfortably in the armchairs, the cushioning of whose seats was now a distant dream.

What had we  come to?   

We had been seduced into hiring a gite an hour’s walk from the village, because  it sounded idyllically remote and peaceful, save for the tinkling of the Pyrennean stream behind, flowing into a swimming hole  to which the gite had direct access. We had looked at the pictures and could see a small gravel beach. We thought we would be able to cool off  in the fresh mountain water. That first day, we clambered over the rocks at the foot of the garden and stared into the pool. It was a steep drop of a metre or more. The beach was on the other side, behind a barbed wire strip, a small goat bleating balefully at us as if to remind us of the physical traits that were necessary to even consider such delights. But we paddled up and down the stream for a while and decided to dry off in the sunshine.

I sat in the garden in the shade and DB opted for a bask on the plastic lounger he had found on the roof terrace. DB had lowered the lounger onto the balcony.  I sat peacefully listening to the stream. A crash and loud yell ripped through the valley. DB’s lounger had sheared right through at the point where the seat joins the back. Luckily, Dearly B was shaken but not stirred, and the bumps on his head and hip not too bad. We called the owners who said we could have the loungers from the apartment below if we wanted. We would have to get them ourselves. Could they fix the toilet soon? Yes, they were going to anyway, as water is metered and it was costing them money. Could they fix the dishwasher door where the spring had gone, making it drop like a boulder on to the shin of the unsuspecting holiday maker? Oh, they did not know it was a problem. Could we move the polythene sheet from the  coffee table? Well…only if we were very careful. The seats of the armchairs are broken – really? They did not know.

We opted for a siesta indoors, first clearing away the persistent ants that marched daily across the bedroom floor from one nest to another. A few days later, they got bolder and colonised our bed one late evening.  

I could go on, but I wouldn’t want to complain.

Good things about the gite: the view of the mountains from the balcony; a good hair dryer; the showers were hot and powerful; the sound of the stream. And the WiFi access meant that we could use  the tablet computer to find out that an old friend, not seen since university days, was staying further down the coast just over the border in Spain. Would we like to visit for the day? Well yes! 

The great thing about a gite that doesn’t feel right? You go out and about and see and do stuff! 

And that will be told soon enough.

A bientot.

The Journey South

Much of the landscape  of the first three hours of our trip south from the North East corner of France down to the South west was rather similar, covered as it was at that early hour in a thick September mist. However, the trip itself could hardly be said to be dry or with out savour. Compensating for the lack of visual stimulus, the itinerary ensured that we would be refreshed at all stations.  

Starting off with a  crisp refreshing Luxembourg-ish cremant and savoury quiche Lorraine in place of breakfast, we took on some tiny little boiled sweets flavoured with essence of bergamot as the autoroute sped on past Nancy. For an early post-breakfast snack, a couple of madeleines from Commercy, signposted at a distance, dipped in tea – oh how that brings back memories, and a teaspoon of fruit flavoured jellies from Bar le Duc. Time for a bracer of the local Quetsch eau- de vie, and we were ready to leave the area so bitterly fought over in the last century and to start foraging over new borders. 

Taking a draught of Vitel, we toyed briefly with the idea of Andouilletttes from Troyes,  but it proved a detour too far, and we were seduced, in any event, by the treasures of Burgundy. A light pork dish for elevenses we thought, flavoured with the mustard of Dijon, before settling the tum with a fruity Nuit St Georges, swiftly followed by a dusky Beaune and a fresh Macon.  Yes, driving the autoroute in France is a gastronomic challenge. We had only made it half way and could have been three sheets to the wind were it not for our admirable resolve and abstemiousness.  

However, all this mental stimulation for the stomach took its toll and we stopped for real sustenance in Villefranche-sur-Saone.  The mist had cleared and it was a scorching hot day, tipping 30 degrees. The car park was handily placed next to a small Organic market. We eyed the soft goats cheeses lovingly but realised that, in the heat, they would never make it to the coast without making their presence felt. We bought blue poppy seeds for Dearly Beloved’s favourite cake, pumpkin seeds and took a chance with a firm plump cow’s cheese looking like an offensive gouda with the promise of flavour and texture.  It was lunchtime, so the shops were closing for the two hour break and we followed the noise of cutlery and the smell of fish along the high street past patissiers selling  huge mounds of meringue and sponge cake both freckled with angelica and glace cherries.  

We were surprised to see so many fresh fish restaurants, as Villefranche, is some 25 kms from Lyon, and a considerable distance form the sea. However, consulting Elizabeth David much later, it appears that fish cookery is something of which the Lyonnais are proud, and it proved to our advantage. Choosing a restaurant with a terrace in the shade at the crossroads, we selected the dish of the day  for Dearly B ( La Friture – which proved to whitebait with nice crisp chips, while I had Moules Marinieres; DB’s portion looked rather paltry next to the steaming tureen at my plate. However, he proved to be up to the task of helping out. Followed by Floating Islands, a dish I have been yearning to see and taste since trying to make it many years ago at university. It arrived as a pillowy white mound on a sea of creamy yellow custard, a delicate filigree of caramel  over the top. It was heavenly. A stiff coffee and it was time to hit the road again. There was a lot  yet to be consumed en route. Parking proved to be free: it was lunchtime. Nothing so inconsiderate as having to pay to park could be entertained in this lovely central town with its wide main street and tall Renaissance buildings.

Getting south of  Lyon, where I suppose we could have indulged in some tasty sausage and potato dishes, were it not so soon after dejeuner, we hit the start of the Routes du Vins. My heart began to quail. Having travelled the Autoroute du Soleil up to this point which was dotted with famous name wines, I could not see how we were ever going to make it to the south west. 

It was tempting to tuck into some teeth sticking nougat at Montelimar and even to try Orange for oranges. The bit between our teeth, however, we skirted the Pont D’Avignon and saw no need for Savon from Marseilles. The weather was too hot for thick blue working trousers from Nimes, and so we at last reached Montpellier, a name from my early days of working for IBM. The manufacturing plant there was one of my first customers – and one of the contacts there was a very handsome young man who set all our hearts a fluttering in the 1980’s with his dark version of Barry Manilow’s looks.  

At last we were getting sea glimpses as we headed in to the Roussillon. Signs  pointed us at every kilometre to vineyards and Domaines, so numerous that we were obliged to put some visits on a waiting list.  

Sat Nav directed us through Perpignan as the quickest option, which we very much doubted at six o’clock on a Saturday evening at the end of a hot summer’s day.  Tout le monde was there strolling by the canal, getting stuck into Catalan style Tapas.

Only half an hour to go and we would arrive. Even on the back roads we were tempted not only to more vineyards, but to goats cheese and peach farms, and of course Tortoise Valley.  

“No, dear, “ I said patiently to Dearly Beloved, “they are not crunchy meat pies.” His face fell but we were at  last in Sorede  where a mountain stream flowed eagerly past the back of the house.  

Now blutered, trousered and completely trolleyed, if only by association, we had arrived in Catalunya. 

A bientot.

Time Travelling Part 2

Dearly Beloved and I went for an after work picnic the other day, filling in time between work and an event in town. As autumn approaches, the crisp mornings have been turning into bright sunny days – tempting us to be outside again, after a cold wet August.

With two hours to spare, we dialled up Adventures by Sat Nav again, intending to sit by the river to eat our tea.  There is always an ongoing dialogue between Dearly Beloved and the Sat Nav, more recently renamed as Moaning Minnie. She makes her suggestions, Dearly B expresses surprise or derision, Moaning Minnie recalculates and we find ourselves in heading in another direction. As a former, keen, navigator, I blame the fact that I do not have a credible road map of the area so I do not really have a grasp of the general direction in which we are headed. Therefore I cannot comment on whether MM has fully understood our instructions. I know that we could download recent changes to road systems and traffic jams and road works, but we don’t. This is why we did not have our tea by the river that evening but by a small man made fishing “etang” in Boler. This was set at the edge of a small hamlet of farms, one beautifully restored and “fleurie” and another painted in white with shutters of eau- de-nil but where another household is tucked beside a barn now completely derelict.  A strong electric fence enclosed a field where a handsome and massive bull, now somewhat lonely, munched his way through the evening.

The small lake was surrounded by trees, one   a willow where martins were taking shelter before swooping and dipping there for their supper over the lake.  A young man with his small boy had set up their fishing post across the lake. The father was patiently seated, while the little lad hopped his way round the lake grasping a net. We spoke but he did not hear us. He was intent upon the tiddlers in the reeds at the edge. A few horses in the field opposite wandered up to peer at us from afar, this year’s foal in their midst. We were full and were now being eaten by midges.  We allowed Moaning Minnie out again and she directed us through Rodemack. I was reminded of our time travelling in the early part of the summer.

 Back to the Middle Ages in the narrow streets of this citadel under the shelter of its enormous city walls on a July day so hot, that fellow time travellers, many in ful leather Goth  and biker gear, edged their way along the side of the streets clinging to whatever shade was offered by the high buildings.

Situated only a few kilometres from the border of Luxembourg, Rodemack is listed as one of “les plus beaux villages” of France. Its only blot is its proximity to the distinctly non medieval triple towers of Cattenom, one of France’s atomic power stations, neatly positioned so that the prevailing winds from the west will carry any fallout towards Germany.

But in the Middle Ages, we strolled along the narrow road between the houses, heading towards the main square. A faun, some 2 and half metres high loped past bemoaning his thirst. Tiny princesses darted about at knee height, their hair held in place by richly braided hoops. Merlin was there, robed in earth dyed cloth, his pointed hat battered and shiny from millennia of use, his  owl glaring backwards as his master strolled past.  Merchants shouted out their traditional wares of herbs, wines, pies and CDs of piped music. Tambours played and masked plague warriors shouted warnings whilst children settled comfortably on hay bales to watch the puppets Harlequin and Columbine play out their eternal love triangle. Young men strode past in tights, one leg a rich maroon, the other stone coloured, their tunics coloured the opposite way, advertising  the fire eating act to take place in the square, texting as they passed. A wood elf in silver and green flowing robes nearly two and half metres high stroked Dearly Beloved’s head with her 6” fingernails and hissed at me through her piercings.

There were lots of clothes stalls, selling traditional fashions – although the traditions displayed were varied and ranged from peasantry to heavy Goth. Dearly Beloved has long been coveting a Braveheart style shirt to wear with his kilt and we stopped at a stall also selling local herb wines, I imbibed while DB tried on a shirt of cream linen with a threaded front. The stall holder confided to me that he had always wanted to live in Scotland, that it was his plan to save enough money to move and retire there and that it was probably the most beautiful place in the world. Had he ever visited, I asked conversationally. Mais non. A pause. It is much colder there, I said, than it is here to day. It would be a good thing, non? Dearly Beloved bought his shirt, I declined buying the thyme wine and we moved on for lunch  - as ever, a four course meal for 16 Euros, including a dressed salad, a potato and cheese dish not unlike a tartiflette, some camembert and a cherry clafoutis. Parfait.

The fire eaters were gathering in the main square, as temperatures rose to lower 90’s.  The young men and women whirled balls of fire around their heads, threw flaming swords up in the air and blasted dragon breath over the crowd. Terribly exciting and so, in need of calm, we moved off to where the sounds of a harp drifted over the herb gardens behind the town walls. Then on up to the ramparts to see the archers and falconers and for a quick draught of fine ale.

And our time travelling was done. Whilst we didn’t do any of the manic running that the Tardis set thrive on, we were foot sore and ready for home.

See you in the 21^st Century. A bientot.

Time Travelling Part 1

It is the season of fetes, feasts and festivals and I am somewhat behind in letting you know about the events we have graced in the past couple of months.

By way of explanation, I have been back in the UK admiring  No. 1 Son's graduation and his work  to which, unashamedly, there is a link on this blog. Coming back to the familiar always makes life here stand out  in contrast. For one thing, I notice that even though Luxembourg is a busy city, it is by no means as  hectic as London or as frantic as Bournemouth. I am becoming quite the provincial cousin. Highlights of the recent visit also included visits to friends and family in the South and no less than four sea encounters. Dearly Beloved is quite jealous and so we are currently plotting a trip to Edinburgh in August and to the French Mediterranean in September to  top up our wave count.

But before that took place, I was time travelling: to the 1970's and to the Middle Ages.

Back to the 1970's then with the Anglican Church Fete, held in the ground of the beautiful home where I once had Easter Lunch. Why the '70's? For no better reason than it just felt like it - atmosphere and weather mainly -with great British resolve, we battled the elements of the wettest windiest weekend this season, even though we feared for our our lives as tents broke free from their mooriongs and flapped angrily past into the apple trees.Once safely contained, they continued to wreak their vengeance on us in a way I thought to be particularly cunning and spiteful. As the rainwater collected in the canopies, they conspired with freak gusts of wind to discharge their load over the edge and onto to the produce, the tables and onto this particular stallholder.  When the sun broke through it was hot and the field of damp grass, gazebos and cagoules steamed mystically lending an ethereal air to this event.

The format of the Church fete has changed very little from my recollections of the old days with the home produce stall besieged by guilty faced dieters and sticky fingered children.  The Bottle tombola was soon cleared of all its stock, not long after a five year old boy won the 10 year old brandy with the first, and his only, ticket. "Take it to Mummy", urged the stallholder, "I am sure she'll need it, over there on the plant stand."

Tea was served, regrettably  similar to the weak lukewarm offerings I recall from the seventies. But I adjusted my time traveller's waterproofs and reckoned it was all to do with weather disturbance caused by my time distorting travel. But the distortion may have ben caused by my own intake of mind changing substances as a dear, kind and beautiful friend took one look at my worried confused frown and said :"Oh dear! You need a cremant" and within minutes I was restored.

There were sack races and egg and spoon races, Dad's races and Mum's races.  There was a dog show with judges so it was all serious stuff. Though I did spot the chaplains' dog, newly washed,brushed, and tartan ribboned, rolling ecstatically in the muddy puddle created by the petulant gazebo. And he won second place, so the standard to be reached was  much tempered by the circumstnaces. It is very bedraggling, time travel.

After all my scathing comments in previous blogs about "brocante" it, of course, fell to Dearly Beloved and  me to run the White Elephant (which, as all the translators here will tell you, is 70's speak for "Brocante").  Much had been given of which little was expected. Half a barn's ( and 8000 steps') worth of boxes of "stuff" was transported from barn to field, displayed, haggled over, wrapped in wet newspaper, and then the remaining 90% was transported back again. Some nice pieces of Villeroy and Boch, a wet and dry cleaner and pretty cups and saucers were probably the better items on sale along with a set of KLM Dutch houses and got snapped up. And the obligatory foot spa? We sold it!!!

Soon to come: a day in the Middle Ages...

Contrary to reports...

...I have not stoppped writing my blog! The good news is that I have been doing far too much to find the time to write, including the submission of two stories for competitions whic has taken a lot of writing energy.

But there is stuff in the pipeline which I will continue after my return to the UK to see No 1 son graduate.

A bientot

Fete Gauloises

The day-glo green sign tied to the traffic lights at the end of our Rue certainly caught our attention, with its picture of a tractor and its promise of a Fete Gauloise, featuring Brocante, Artisanats and Cochon a la Broche. Such signs are now two a centime at the moment locally, promising all sorts of delights over the next few weeks including, tantalisingly enough in this landlocked part of the world, a Beach Party in a village some 3 km from us. But the immediate appeal of the Fete Gauloise was that it was in Piedmont, the picturesque little commune up the road from us on the other side of the viaduct. We could actually walk it and stagger home down the hill. 

We started off promisingly enough by walking up the hill on Saturday, only to realise that it was to take place on Sunday. But we rallied well and continued our walk along the Chemin de Longwy which featured in an earlier expedition. Instead of turning right this time and heading into Belgium, we pursued the path into Longwy, taking in a closing down sale in a sports shop where Dearly B at last found a new pair of trainers at a substantial reduction. I have, since we arrived here, cherished the notion of sitting in the sun at a café table nursing a glass of beer, watching this French part of the world go by. Finally I have achieved it. Although the Café a La Crème on the corner of the square seemed not to have noticed the bright warm sunshine set for the afternoon and had not put out its tables and chairs (again), the Gothic café, Le P’tit Troc, on the corner of the ramparts along the main road had thoughtfully provide a few wobbly tables and garden chairs on the road side. Dearly Beloved was despatched for beer and to practice his French and we sat back and soaked up the sun.  

There was a lot of the world passing by that afternoon. A coach was parked on the corner, alongside the rampart wall, just beyond the zebra crossing over the main road connecting Longwy Haut to Longwy Bas. Cars inched forward as others parked and people crossed themselves as they stepped out onto the stripes. Horns blaring, hand waving, revving of motors: the whole Gallic driving experience was manifest, not two metres from where we sat. It was particularly busy because the coach was in fact waiting for the schoolboys’ rugby teams to assemble in their club house in the casemates under the ramparts before whisking them off for their final match of the season. Boys and Dads appeared, shook hands with the coach, the bus driver, each other and, I believe, if we had joined them, we would have got a handshake too.  Once the boys drove off to their match, it all got a lot quieter. The bar man came out for a quiet cigarette; we paid up and went home. En route at the chocolaterie, which has been refurbished and is now selling fair-trade products and therefore to be revisited, we found a more detailed poster about La Piedmontaise Fete Gauloise. Times and numbers were given and I left our details on an answering machine saying that we would very much like a pig dinner.

 

The day was bright and breezy and the stalls were arrayed up and down La Grande Rue. There was a lot of “brocante” to be had. The same car boot items are to be had everywhere: Greying children’s vests; foot spas; a number of chipped plates; old chisels and files and a set of samurai swords. Local produce was available. I bought some mirabelle jam from a very sweet lady who took great pains to explain to me how the jam was very much “epluchee” – without stones. I also thought the quince jelly would go nicely with our roast dinners. Sadly, on getting home, the former proved to have a good coating of mould and the latter had something suspended in the jelly which I was unwilling to identify. Tant pis.

Inside the old school house I found two ladies selling a vast array of crocheted doilies, mats, shawls and, bizarrely, pottery clowns. I bought a doily or rather a very sweet daisy pattern mat which looks great on the 18^th Century French Cabinet, although Dearly Beloved was concerned that I was becoming obsessed with such things. I think not - there is no such thing as too many doilies. 

It became very breezy and the contents of an entire stall and its Ricard Umbrella spilled across the street. Others, including our large old friend from the market in Longwy Bas selling his own dubious saucissons, had held their tables and brollies down with more sensible weighty things, like crates of beer. The top half of the road was lined with tractors. I liked the pretty blue one best but Dearly Beloved took photos so that you can choose your own favourites. One ancient machine has evidently toured all the steam shows in the UK and is currently registered in Luxembourg.  An expat hobby, perhaps?

As you know, we have been harbouring desires to obtain a Lorraine farmhouse and due to this event we were actually able to do our first viewing. Some of the stall holders merely opened up their barns and allowed you to look at the wares within, having priced them with sticky labels. We were not particularly interested in obtaining an old plastic Christmas tree or a pair of stiletto heels, but we loved the high dark barn, its plaster crumbling away revealing the lime and horsehair underneath and the monumental king pin firmly supporting the half floors above us. Swallows swooped in and out, beaks full of grass, busy renovating their nests.

But Dearly Beloved was keen to pursue an encounter of the meat eating kind. Following the smell of the smoke, we found the field behind the houses where an enormous electric rotisserie was slowly turning three whole pigs, while two enthusiastic members of the Fete committee continually basted each beast with the dark oily juices being collected in the trough below. At this stage the pigs were a light mahogany and smelt of hot fat and smoke. 

We were directed to the organisers’ tent where I explained that I had reserved a place, he added our names to the list and we bought our dinner for the evening and the frites for lunch. We were given little laminated cards depicting our choice for the day, to exchange at the food tents. I particularly liked the picture of the jolly wild boar and the cheese being pulled by a tired mouse. Oh yes, it would be a four course meal – entrees of boar pate, the main repas of pork and frites, fromage and les desserts.  We ate our frites, took a beer from the beer tent where the bartender’s cigarette never left the groove in his lip, even when he was explaining about the deposit for a real glass, and went home to prepare for the evening, with a pre-prandial nap.

 

The smell of smoked cochon a la broche drifted down the hill in the evening sunshine, the stall holders were all but gone, save for the last plants, jewellery and espadrilles and the village of Piedmont was now fully en fete. The tractors had been driven away and we never found out which had won for the day – but I am sure the blue won took it, wheels down. The pigs were blackened and ready to eat.

  Our tickets provided us with a bottle of rose and we settled on a bench in the huge marquee opposite the wooden platform where the Colorado River lien dancers were stamping their stuff to such old western favourites as the piano accordion versions of “Y Viva Espana and “The Birdie Song”. No matter, they were nattily turned out in white jeans, shirts and Stetsons and in what other country would you expect to hear a piano-accordion? During a pause, the stout DJ for the evening explained how we were to queue for our entrees, and suddenly the evening took on its own flavour. The chunky garlicky Ardennes pate was served with a lightly dressed salad and seemed to need the whole bottle of rose to do itself justice. Dearly Beloved queued for the Cochon while I negotiated with the bartender for another bottle of rose. It had been very popular this evening, and now, malheureusement, there was only the one glass to be had in the whole place. But I had paid for a bottle so what could he recommend that was chilled? Well, there was a very nice Pinto Gris which would suit madam well and would complement the fine cochon. I waited for Dearly Beloved to return after a long wait, because a new pig was being prepared by the butcher in the tent behind the tables. He scraped away the old carcass as the armed guard from the rotisserie approached with the offering.  Dearly Beloved was the first to put his hand up for the crispy trotter that was offered round and appeared with a tray laden with of chunky slices of pork and piles of fresh frites. In the meantime, another family had joined our table. We exchanged pleasantries and I explained how to use the tickets to obtain the meal. They expressed surprise that we were not here just for the holiday and delighted that we had turned up at the Fete.

But it was time to turn our attention to the dish of the day. The meat was tender and the fat had melted away, leaving the taste of the herbs, the smoke and the olive oil it had been saturated with for the last ten hours.  Even the dancers on stage had succumbed to the feast and the DJ thoughtfully played romantic Argentinian Tangos as a serenade to the great beast before us.

A camembert with salad to follow, a dish of profiteroles and we were pretty much replete. The gentleman was sitting next to us offered us a cigarillo and told us that he had always lived in Piedmont. We explained why we where there and tried to explain what Dearly Beloved does for a living which is hard enough to explain in English let alone in French after the better part of two bottles of wine and over a the sound of the piano accordion and the chatter of hundreds of happy diners.
We exclaimed at the lateness of the hour -  it had taken three hours to eat our meal - shook hands al round and rolled home down the hill, in the moonlight.

We were somewhat subdued the next day - perhaps we had  caught a chill or something.

 Next time: The Fete de Rhubarb

A bientot.

One can dream

You may or may not remember that we said we would visit some places again when the weather got better. True to our word we went back to Cons La Grandville for our weekend jaunt the other day.  I could just post up the photos for you to enjoy, but that is just lazy blogging, and I am already condemning myself for not keeping you all up to date more.

Cons La Grandville is a marvel. Built in the local yellow, sandstone it nestles round the 18^th Century abbey and extends out into the green wooded hills.   Being on a slope, the abbey is supported on immense walls  on one side that reach high above you  as you park, soaking up the sunshine.


The abbey is generally closed, it seems, although it opens on festival days to look round the grounds and its barn is available for hire for weddings and conferences. So, in order to allow Dearly Beloved an opportunity to drool over the high arched oak beams of the tithe barn, somebody, please, organise an event there and invite us! 

We wandered around the village, again noting with sadness that there are few local businesses there anymore. But it is obviously well off, with the old labourers’ cottages, restored, re-pointed and painted to make bijou residences for modern families.  We noticed some long gardens backing onto the river running round the promontory of the abbey, and we thought it would be a charming place to live.

Then as we rounded the corner, we found a feature that has become one of our favourites in the area: terraces of Lorraine farmhouses, some still working farms, facing each other across a wide cobbled road. The massive barn doors and deep windows are so attractive and welcoming that I had to restrain Dearly Beloved from hammering on the doors and taking up residence then and there.  It is lovely to see these homes still inhabited by families who work on the farms elsewhere in the countryside. Tractors, ploughs and mowers are stored in the barns under the houses, and kitchen pans hang from the rafters in the dark cool kitchens. On the corner, through the gates of a large mansion, we caught a glimpse of gardens populated with Italianate statues and topiary. It seemed a bit rude to take photos, especially as the owner was doing a little gardening...Further along, with buddleia clinging to its sides, we found the reason for the earlier wealth of the village: a blast furnace built in the latter part of the 19th century. A feature if many villages near here, it provided a futher employment in areas that had only previously been agricutural.

We decided that if it were nearer work, we could just move into a huge house that had evidently been part of the priory complex, with its fishponds created from a culvert from the river further up and walled grounds ready for me to recreate into a kitchen garden. This house was being renovated by the Friends of the Abbey, but nobody seemed to be there except for three nosey donkeys, busily engaged in keeping the grass down.  Even the Mairie was charmante:

Well, one can dream.  

More recently we to took the streets of Luxembourg for the Stroossemarkt. If I had needed to buy leopard print leggings and thin lacy tops, I probably would have been in my element, but certainly the stalls set out near the Gare did not offer the discerning shopper much in the way of satisfaction. The market continued in the main part of the town, and often proved to be stalls set out by the shops they stood in front of.  The shops were offering some discounts but, sadly, I wasn’t in the mood to buy. It was a bit tatty, to be honest and not what I expected. We took lunch in the Place Knuedler which was full of temporary restaurants, which form part of the festivities of the Octave, an annual pilgrimage in honour of Our Lady of Luxembourg. Since 1628, Catholics from the Grand Duchy and neighbouring regions come to venerate the 'Comforter of the Afflicted'. We did not take part other than to dine stylishloy on Frites Mayonnaise, perched onteh steps of the Town Hall. We think we add an element of class to most events,in this way.

A bientot.

Market day

Just a brief update to the blog, because I have just finished lunch. It comprised nearly all the items I bought at the market I went to today. This market is held twice a week in Luxembourg, normally in the Place de Guillaume. I was foxed slightly to arrive and find the square full of temporary restaurants (I think – perhaps a Lux reader will be able to provide more specialised knowledge).

So, having already got it wrong about the buses in a Saturday and obliged Dearly Beloved to leave work and take me into the Gare, from where I caught a bus to the La Ville Haut, I regrouped, had breakfast of  croissant and pain chocolat, and walked up to the Glacis  where the market was well into its working day.

What a treat. It’s so exciting, going to the market in Luxembourg. It’s always a guess which language the stall holder will greet you with initially and it’s fantastic to be able to buy local produce which could come from any of four countries. I breathed in the smell of the fresh roasted chickens, and resisted the sausages, on the grill. 

At this time of year, the plant sellers have taken up most of the central pitches, and so the ground is covered with bright orderly rows and squares of geraniums, busy lizzies, all types of herbs and, interestingly enough, hundreds of baby lettuce plants. Bunches of flowers are set out in groups of colours, with white and pale green tulips progressing along the ranks to episcopally purple peonies. I bought three huge hydrangeas, white tinged with lime green and blue – the elderly gentleman made no fuss about separating the blooms I waned from the bunch, and then wrapped the stems carefully in cellophane so that I could carry the home without them dripping into the rest of my shopping.

The best way to shop is to join a queue, on the basis that local knowledge points the way to the best produce. Hordes of people were gathered round the fruit and vegetable stall, where huge punnets of strawberries gave off their summer scent. I listened to the conversations around me and gathered that these were grown by the stallholder who had brought them in from Belgium that morning. They were plump and irresistible – two punnets went into the bag, along with a dark green cucumber, still spiky from the vine, and crisp haricots verts. The prettiest white cauliflower followed, its curds as curly as the child Shirley Temple. Woodland honey, dark and viscous, from the tiny German stall on the corner and dark chewy “dreikorn” bread from the Eifel region.  A French stall sold Greek salads drenched in olive oil and herbs, to which I added sundried tomatoes with basil and pitted olives with oregano. And because I tasted it and loved it, some sharp and robust Luxembourgish goats cheese.

We have now eaten the Greek salad, gasped at the tang of the cheese, chewed the fragrant sundried tomatoes and devoured nearly a whole punnet of strawberries. Dearly Beloved has gone for a lie down.

Bon Appetit.

Easter Feasts

I remember saying a while back that we hoped things would pick up with the good weather.

Well I am delighted to report that it had been just so. I think all of northern Europe had basked in sunshine since the latter part of March, and April brought longer days and increasing warmth. This has seen the terraces come alive with tables, chairs and umbrellas: smart, chic, cloth covered tables and cushioned rattan chairs in the Place D’Armes in Luxembourg ville, wrought iron and glass effects outside the Cafe  Crème in Longwy and even their ragamuffin brothers and sisters, the Bar du sport and the Café Troc, along the main roads have scraped together some plastic garden ware  and now, tout le monde is to be seen relaxing, drinking and eating as we expect.  At last. 

 

Easter Week saw Dearly Beloved and me out tasting the wares and sampling the vins of the many countries at our disposal. It must be said that the award for “Petit Dejeuner du mois” goes to IKEA, just outside Arlon, where it nestles as close to the border of Luxembourg as it can possibly get without breaking the ban that prevents it from trading within the Grand Duchy. At 1 euro, it offered petit pain, croissant, a slice of cheese, butter and jam with coffee and tea. First thing in the morning the place was clean and quiet, the rolls fresh, and the croissants sweet, flaky and soft – the best we have had to date. I think it is because it is situated in the country of gourmand heaven, Belgium, that the difference is made – why, I have even had moules-frites as the dish of the day in the same IKEA earlier in the year. And we were thus suitably refreshed for the horror that is flat pack later on in the day.

Another place that caught our culinary eye was the Roud Haus restaurant in the Rue de Neudorf just outside the centre of town. The evening of Maundy Thursday took us out as guests of Dearly Beloved’s supplier  where Mr M’s wife and son came too, making it a warm family occasion. Junior M dearly wanted to try frogs’ legs. Luckily, whilst sipping my customary coupe de cremant, I espied “cuisses de grenouilles al’ail et au persil.” We dared him and he took the challenge. Others of us played it a bit safer with the warm goats’ cheese salad and pate de fois. We were delighted when the waiter appeared with tiny bowls of a delicate pea and mint soup as our “ amuse-bouches”. This is a Luxembourgish restaurant with a French chef – so the menu is an eclectic merge of dishes from the two cuisines. The frogs’ legs were tried, reconsidered and their similarity to babies’ legs noted. It was the mopping up of the delicious garlicky butter that won the praise. The mixed grill won over the speciality tripe for Dearly B and Mr M; Mrs M had poissons au saison and I had a soft, buttery tender juicy maigret of duck. Definitely I think I favour the French side of the culinary border for such things, especially when crème brulee follows.  The restaurant itself is smart in old fashioned Luxembourgish surroundings: beams, dark wood and dressed stone walls. The company was great – gently conversation over holidays and other meals - a warm up for the weekend to come.

Good Friday is not a public holiday here, so our long weekend began later that warm Friday evening, whenDearly Beloved, coming home and hearing voices in the courtyard, presumed I had joined the neighbours for a drink and went to see. It says a fair bit about his understanding of me. But on this occasion he was wrong – I was, in fact, preparing a light and nutritious salad, with a bottle of Bergerac Sec on ice. However, our neighbours, from Berlin via Poitiers, invited us to join them. That bottle of cold white wine has never moved so fast. It was on the neighbours’ table before even a degree of the balmy weather could take effect. The evening evolved into a gentle evening of bi- lingual chit-chat during which we learned how Frau S’s mother and father met.  He was 16 and she was 21. He went into the local pub and he saw her for the first time. She had boyish cut short hair and was smoking a pipe. He went home and told his mum he had seen the girl he would marry. He was a prisoner of war in Canada and returned to Germany in January 1947. They married in the February and our neighbour is now here to tell the tale.

And that is one of the lovely things about life here in the chateau. If the weather is kind and the circumstances allow, it is easy to spend a little time chatting in the mews, or, like we did the following day, to cross over to the main building for home made cakes, vodka and wine with the parents of a sweet two year old girl, Marielle. As we settled over martinis and vodka, Marielle disappeared into her room and emerged with plates of egg and chips complete with a full set of cutlery. We all tucked in with gusto, but miraculously the little plastic comestibles remained unharmed. There is a story behind the vodka: Father of Marielle is German and met mother of Marielle in Poland. She spoke no German and he no Polish, so the language of courtly love, as ever, was English.  Ten years on they speak each other’s language plus French, and the little girl admits to only speaking French, when not tied up with domestic duties. He, in the meantime, vigorously promotes the Polish vodkas perhaps in compensation for the loss of love in another tongue. Who knows?

Easter Sunday was a treat and a half. We had been invited by members of the congregation at the Anglican Church of Luxembourg to join them for a festive roast lamb dinner at a restaurant in the Duchy; however, for domestic reasons, it emerged that we were now to eat at the home of the Churchwarden, who, having been here for over thirty years, has renovated a beautiful old priory in a farming village north west of the Ville. We followed our neo hosts (who had issued the invitation but were not hosting - with me so far?) as they drove maniacally, with the confidence of a knowledge of a route well travelled, through the valleys of the deep cleft gorges that run up towards the farmlands and villages. Obviously a labour of much love and effort over the years, the house sits comfortably round a cobbled courtyard and is in turn flanked by its shaded gardens where every year the congregation hosts its annual fair.

Its renovation has evidently been a group project as guests and hosts reminisced over various projects and pointed to the tall trees that they themselves had planted. We drank champagne on the terrace over looking fruit trees and roses, and ate in the huge lofty dining room with its barn struts and wooden floors. I sat between a Swedish air pilot who had flown for Cargolux in the days long before the smart new airport was open, and a now retired gentleman who is an expert on the battle fields of the Verdun. The hostess explained how when the children were young at school in the city, she bought a camper van in order to transport and entertain the various age groups without constantly driving back the house some 40 minutes away. So the children had their lunches in the van, did their homework and napped while various brothers and sisters went to rugby and music lessons before eventually making their way home. Wish I had thought of that!

Finally, on the Easter Monday we went back to the old part of Luxembourg Ville to witness the Easter Fair. One heard it and smelled it long before encountering it. The Organ grinder was in full swing( no monkey though) creating his ambience in a little crowd, the country dancers  in their own versions of smocks and mob caps danced dos-a dos accompanied by an accordion while stall tenders sold roasted hazelnuts, candy floss, sausages in a bun and all the delights one expects across European fairs. But the main noise came from the item peculiar to this Easter Fair, the Peckvillchen, Indeed there is even a pub there named after them Peckvillchen are little pottery birds; a competition is held annually for the best design. The noise? Well, many of the birds are in fact ocarinas.  You blow into the tail (and not as Dearly Beloved in a coarser moment suggested, “up its bum”) and adjust the sound, recorder style, over holes on its back. Charming, but rather shrill with hundreds being played simultaneously.

I think we can safely say we celebrated the holiday suitably this year,

A bientot.