Out and About

We have not just been strapped to the cartons. We have, in fact, been fairly intrepid and have seen a few Places Of Interest.

Our first weekend was in danger of being totally absorbed in the Zen of Unwrapping, so we decided to just head south for no more than 20 minutes and to see where it led us. We found ourselves in Longuyon, on the southernmost tip of the Department responsible for our well-being, Meurthe-et-Moselle. It did not take long to leave the industrial and commercial landscape of our home town and find ourselves driving through fields and villages, still covered with the icy remnants of the deep snow that fell at Christmas. We had not researched where we were going, unlike our normal nerdy selves, so we had no expectations. There were signs announcing the nearness of the Maginot Line, although I suspect there are a number of these dotted about locally. Possibly in a line. After about twenty minutes, we found the above mentioned Longuyon, advertising the Fort du Fremont. But having parked, and wondered round the town, we realised why there were so few people about; it was freezing. And a fort viewing did not hold sway in our list of needs. We found a café, ordered tea and coffee and enjoyed the feeling of almost being on holiday.  Longuyon promises to be a little more interesting in good weather, especially as it has, in the scruffy area by the station (as opposed to the scruffy area in the middle of town, and the scruffy area where we parked) a Michelin starred restaurant with a reasonably priced Menu du Jour. First visitors to join us out here get the privilege of testing. As the café filled up, the town became more and more deserted. It was nearly midday and we needed to buy food for the rest of the weekend, especially if we were to prevent our first Sunday lunch in France being something from our On Toast repertoire.

A small supermarket on the high street, about the size of a "Spar", had fresh vegetables and fruit displayed outside. Inside, the meat counter was disproportionately large with a tiny weather beaten butcher greeting us with an accent you could only cut with a freshly sharpened Sabatier. I greeted him with my desperate standby phrase “Je viens d’arriver en France”. It doesn’t make anyone speak any more slowly or clearly but they all smile, look delighted and say the phrase again, only louder. I smile too, pay too much money and walk out with something about which I have no clue and more of than I could ever possibly consume. Yes, it is just like being on holiday, but I promise I will get better. Note to self: learn to count in high numbers.

On this occasion, we staggered out with a “Feuillete de saumon et epinards” promising portions for 4, and two entrecote steaks, dark red, marbled with fat, each about a foot long, having shaken hands with the butcher and the proprietor who was delighted to practise his English and who bemoaned the fact the youth of today do not pronounce their words properly. Plus ca change…Needless to say, both meals were excellent, with the meat tasty, tender and so much nicer than the lean, pale meats on offer in Canley. We are slowly paying the mortgage off on the entrecotes.

The following weekend found us still somewhat weary, with Mr B having gone back to work. The boxes were pretty much under control but their contents were not. Rebelling, we headed north, past the shopping malls of Messancy where we seemed to have spent every other evening, towards historic Arlon, in Belgium. Again a cold wind ensured that we walked briskly and being totally unsure of where to go, we followed a general crowd of about three people towards the centre of the town. Popping into the local Wiltgen Boluangerie et Chocolaterie with its bright pink leatherette seats and chrome trim, Mr B looked particularly at home as we ordered two petits dejeuners a deux croissants et des chocolats chauds. The chocolats chauds arrived in two parts: one cup of steaming hot milk and one sachet of powdered chocolate. Stir it yourself.

Arlon is a medieval town which again holds great promise once the weather warms up. It has a bastion and a fearsome knife shop so I think Mr B will be more than happy to explore while I and any passing visitors check out the cafes which by then should have their chairs out on the terraces to bask in the sunshine. This is how I imagine it. Whether it will be realised thus, remains to be seen. It has charm; it needs sunshine. And, dear reader, we stopped off at IKEA on the way home. I need say no more.We are still talking.

Last week was a great leap forward. I braved the public transport to Luxembourg Ville. I have already conquered the buses in town and have sussed the short use ticket (two hours, anywhere for e1.50) and the website for the local buses promised something similar for e1.30.  But you can never be sure. I caught the bus at the end of the road, in something of a fluster because it hurtled down the hill 5 minutes early just as I was finding my purse. I remembered to stand on the right side of the road too. I conversed with the driver: would this ticket be valid in Luxembourg? Of course, but only for the one hour. Even on the train? But yes, but only for the one hour. Or was it two? I wasn’t sure.

So the bus arrived in Rodange at the station; everyone got out. There was a train waiting on the opposite platform, ready to go to Luxembourg. It was a double decker, first class upstairs, and still very neat and comfortable downstairs. No one had checked my ticket and I worried that I might not have understood properly and that I would be ejected at any of the ten stations en route. But the nice young man in a peaked hat admired my ticket and said it was very good, thank you. How simple was that? I feel so liberated now that I have cracked the system. It is also 20 cents cheaper to travel towards Luxembourg than the other direction. But only for an hour.

The real thing...

We arrived here for good in Mont Saint Martin just behind the removals van on the 6th January with ice still on the ground, adding a certain excitement to the procedure of moving in. I don’t think I have been so exhausted since the children were small. Having had a week of entertaining at Christmas (and the week before that of preparing food, shopping and catching up with old friends), and then the constant packing into boxes and the agony of decisions to keep or throw, even at that late stage, I don’t think I had much in the way of physical emotional or even spiritual reserves for the long drive south and then opening up the apartment ready for the reverse process.

Our removal men could not have been nicer. Cheerful and resourceful, they made no complaints about bringing everything up the dog-leg stairs to our first floor apartment. They even brought in bacon for lunch while Ralph went to forage for baguettes and pains chocolats.  It made a very cosy picnic round the kitchen counter.  

Thanks to the help of friends in the UK, our breakables were well wrapped and cared for; the only breakage so far seems to have been a garden pot.  All the Edinburgh crystal is now carefully placed on various shelves and in cabinets. Fantastic! All that remains to unpack are the dozen large boxes in the second bedroom. I am in denial about these; they all seem to contain large items and I cannot imagine anywhere for them to go. In Coventry we had an attic, five sheds and a greenhouse. Amazing how much those held. We gave away so much and yet we are still overwhelmed by “stuff”. The temptation before moving was very much to throw everything away and start again, but now that I have found some old treasures in books and photo albums, I am glad I didn’t. I have unearthed some Gothic novels from university days, some F Scott Fitzgerald paperbacks and pictures of the children playing with their Nana. I have also found the Elizabeth David classic, Provincial French cooking and in the spirit of the film “Julie and Julia”, am attempting to cook my way through a number of the recipes. Yesterday, a lovely “Poulet roti au beurre” accompanied by “navets a la Bordelaise”. both of which would have had the fat police after us with a big stick. Yum. Ralph says that a hot topic for debate at work amongst his Belgian colleagues is the preparation of food and its sourcing. I take notes.

Last week was wet, cold and overcast and I did not leave the house except for one incredibly cold and rainy walk around the roads across the field from the chateau.  But brighter weather is here this week. I may even be tempted out to the Mairie to register my existence, although I feel a little rebellious at remaining an illegal alien ad infinitum.

It takes a while to get a feel for the rhythm and character of a place. Who comes and goes? When does the place wake up?  And how much should I stare out of the window? We overlook some of the other apartments, so it isn’t easy to look out without seeming to be peering into other people’s homes. But there is also a pretty view over the park and the lakes that used to belong to the chateau before the owner had to sell up following the collapse in the steel markets in the 1980’s. The town council bought the property, intending to turn it into a retirement home;this never happened and a local farming family bought it up and restored it to its current glory.

Today I watched the cat belonging to the people in the old carriage house. It leapt into the air over and over again batting something with its paws. It is too early in the year for butterflies so I watched more closely. The cat threw a small grey object (could have been a dead mouse) into the air, playing “keepy-uppy” with it, suddenly stopping to look round to see if anyone was watching its return to kittenhood. Charmant.

I have given in to internet radio to enjoy my daily fix of Radio 4. Disappointingly, two of my treasures, my DAB Radio and my atomic clock radio do not work here. Well, the atomic clock radio works, but has not adapted to local time, and I can only get medium wave UK radio with lots of squeaks and whistles. So, I shall have to practice my French more to understand local media.  This moves me on to my next obligation, the “Rosetta Stone” language course, which I am working on from the beginning, and which calls me now.

A bientot.