A Walk in the Parc

Last week I hinted that I might tell you about our mini break abroad when we covered four countries in our two hour drive to Germany. I still marvel at our position on the frontier here; I shall probably keep mentioning it.

It was time, we felt, after months of living apart and all holidays having been focussed on the moving and saying goodbye, (and it did take a long time, didn’t it?) that we had a proper break and time together. We particularly focussed on finding a Center Parcs not too far away. In the past, we have much enjoyed the accommodation and Aqua Sana, our routine being to walk all morning (well alright, for an hour or so after a late breakfast) and then to recuperate with fluffy towels, robes and books in the sybaritic delights provided. We found the Parc Eifel, which boasted a sauna and spa near Gunderath, set in the heart of Volcanic Eifel, a region about which we knew nothing. I speak German, but it was learned a long time ago, when there was a still a German O-level. I can pretty much order a newspaper, request a room with a shower and state that the weather is inclement.

We were lucky setting off, after such a long grey winter, to have a beautiful day, crisp, and sunny. We saw exciting signs telling us that we were now in Vulcan Eifel. One imagined great Mulciber raining down fire and forging great swords. In reality, the country side is similar to anywhere in Northern Europe, with its mixture of broadleaf and evergreen trees on rolling heaths and downs. Indeed, it could have been Ashdown Forest.

I must say now that there was absolutely nothing wrong with anything. The staff were pleasant, pleasant friendly and helpful. Everywhere was clean and the chalet had everything we needed, with a pretty view over fields and hillside. You can sense a “but” coming? Yes, it lay with us. We have been so spoiled over the years by the CPs in the UK, which are apparently, all “5 Bird” parcs. This was a “3 Bird” parc and had only recently been taken under the corporate wing; it all looked a bit tired and it was very small. The walk around the parc and its amenities took barely half an hour. We found the spa at the far end of the swimming pool. There was a suspicious sign on the door stating that it was textile free zone.  I despatched my beloved to find help; a jolly young life guard explained that one took one’s costume off before going into the spa area, but you could wear robes and sit on towels, especially necessary in the sauna area. “Right”, said dearly beloved, “Get your kit off.”

To cut short a long and excruciating story, I hastened in, quickly donning one of the robes hanging on the hooks. There were no towels, and no water fountains. The young life guard called us into the sauna, adding aromatic herbal essences to the water she was pouring onto the coals, flapping her towel at us to create more heat; she chatted jauntily about her long held wish to visit Scotland with all its mountains and castles. She could afford to be jaunty – she had her costume on. In fact, I wanted to be in Scotland – nobody ever takes all their clothes off in Scotland. Thankful for my beach towel, I scurried into the cold shower, and then wrapped myself in the robe; at which point a man loomed, very naked, out of the mists of the steam room and said that it was his wife’s robe. Unrobing, I crept, ashamed, into the comparative modesty of the Jacuzzi. Not long after, we were in the bar, with very large strong beers.

But in the night, I woke with steel bands, studded with carpet tacks, tightening around my head. I do not believe I have ever had such a bad headache. Dearly beloved, discovering that for the first time in written history he had not brought a medicine cabinet, went through the frosty night to the 24 hour shop to forage for pain relief, or perhaps a guillotine. In Germany, neither is sold except in the appropriately licensed shops. We would have to wait for paracetamol until we found a pharmacy. I drank copious amounts of rooibos tea, and slowly re-hydrated. In the morning, I felt well enough for a gentle trip out as long as no-one expected me to nod my head, or open my eyes.

So we set off for the healing properties of Wallenborn which promised a sight of mainland Europe’s only geyser. The sat nav took us to a small quiet field within a small quiet village. Railings and an attractive display of rocks were arranged in a circle around a small, quiet pool of water. Disappointed, we turned away just as the water offered up a few bubbles. And then with a rush and a strong smell of sulphur, a column of water gushed high in the air above us. It lasted for a couple of minutes before subsiding and retreating. Truly magnificient. The information boards stated that it was powered only by CO2 and that some considerably deep engineering works had taken place to concentrate the underground springs towards the one in question.

We walked around for a while, admiring a bold chaffinch hopping within six inches of our feet, while we waited again for the geyser to appear. It seemed to spout every quarter of an hour. But it did not have the curative effect I was hoping for and we went in search of lunch and an Apotheke for drugs.

You will be pleased to know that drugs had the desired effect. We did not go to the spa again and the parc refunded our booking fees for the remaining four sessions.

The highlight of our trip is probably best described by the pictures attached, showing our walk around the deep volcanic lakes or “Maare”.  Again, beautiful weather made this excursion a real joy, with the sun on our faces, and the wind at our backs. In fact, we just kept walking until we ran out of Maare to walk round. The pictures show only two lakes, but there were also a marshy Maar and a dry Maar; and one of the lakes was in fact two, merged together. So we in fact achieved a walk around 5 Maare, a first in the Birch family.

The next day, dearly beloved expressed a wish to walk by the Rhine, and that he felt Koblenz was the place to do it.   Koblenz was under siege, however, by road works and pedestrianisation schemes, and the river that we walked by, albeit for only five minutes, was the Mosel. Well, we can walk by the Mosel any time we feel like it back home. But later, looking at a map, like we should have done, we saw that we were in the wrong part of Koblenz, and that indeed it is also on the Rhine. But no matter, in recompense, we found Cochem which is all a German town should be, with its steep crooked narrow streets, haphazard roofs and buildings. And a fine hot chocolate in the tea rooms by the river defrosted us and made it a perfect ending.

You will note there are no culinary musings this time. Sadly the best meal we had was at a little delicatessen, selling home cooked ham hock. Man food, and certainly not fine dining!

Auf wiedersehen!

Beating the blues

It took a meal out last Sunday to lift a touch of the blues.

We could not really put our fingers on why we had the blues; perhaps it was because of a spat with the landlords over flowerpots and ceiling tiles; or maybe because for the first time in 26 years, I was not near enough to celebrate Catherine and Oliver’s birthdays; or because our holiday the week before did not quite provide the rest and relaxation we were expecting; or maybe it was because after the first excitement of being abroad and the adrenalin rush of moving in, things have started to become ordinary. Then again, it's February.

We headed south to Metz. But road works sent us out of our way, and, for once the sat-nav could not cope with the diversion. “Just keep driving,” I said “and take the next left.” How fortuitous. Just ten minutes from home we found ourselves in an ancient village, Cons-la-Grandville, complete with Renaissance period chateau, priory, river walk and, of course, a listed 19^th century blast-furnace. Many of the buildings were built in the local butter-yellow sandstone, (pierre de Jaumont) and in the pale sunshine, it was glowed gently. Being Sunday, everywhere was shut, with no evidence of an open restaurant. But it whispered of the promise of future excursions, to walk round the parks and gardens of the castle to faire le picnic, when the weather improves.

Our drive continued through farmland back on to the motorway, happily taking in towns whose names we would have loved to have on our address cards, such as Ugny and Woippy. By the time we got to Metz, we were famished, and so, ignoring signs to the Centre Pompidou de Metz, we headed straight to the centre of town.

I was more than agreeably surprised at its charm.  Imagine a French Oxford, in that same sandstone, with covered walkways round cobbled market squares. We dallied with the opportunity to eat in a couscousserie, and hastily walked past three pizzeria (the pizzeria in this area are, however, generally authentic and pretty good, tending to be independently owned, due to the huge influx of Italians ove the last 100 or so years to work in the steel industry) heading on under the colonnades to Place St Louis. A small restaurant, “La Marmite”, offered a Menu de Decouverts at 24,90 euros which we thought was stunning value, as were its two other set menus at a similar price for three courses, all promising local food (it was a restaurant du terroir).  In the spirit of Winners Dinners, my charming companion chose a biere piquante and I had a white wine flavoured with a sirop de mirabelles (a Lorraine speciality), while we drooled over the menu. After much discussion, we chose from the Menu “La Marmite”. I had a local pate de foie gras with quince jam, to be followed by saumon en champagne, while my charming companion chose potage de coquilles St Jaques and maigret de canard. My dear friend, every mouthful was meltingly heavenly; cooked to perfection and portions were just right, leaving us wishing for just a teency weency little bit more. And the pudding, the “Assiettes de Gourmandes”, included profiteroles filled with ice cream topped with a rich chocolate sauce, a chocolate mousse and a blackcurrant sorbet – the latter was the best I have ever had, fruity without the bitterness. I felt at last that we had found a touch of the real France. The service was friendly yet discreet, the meal was beautifully presented and the atmosphere was that of a roomful of contented diners. It seems daft that a meal should make one feel at home, but there we are. We felt better. And next time I shall consider telling you about our holiday in VulcanEifel which we took the week before.

Elizabeth David Dish of the Week: Saumon poele au vin blanc. On a Friday evening after a hefty week, fry  seasoned salmon steaks on both sides briefly in butter over a high heat, add a wine glass full of Muscadet, simmer for seven minutes only; serve with potatoes au choix and the rest of the bottle of Muscadet. Relax on the sofa in front of the fire with a dvd. Do not rise on Saturday morning until at least ten o'clock.

Keep on Troc'ing

Keep on Troc’ing

Probably an unoriginal pun, I am sure, amongst local expats, but it serves to introduce a shopping experience without equal.

“Un Troc”, by its dictionary definition, is a barter, exchange or swap. The chain of shops of this name, supplies, apparently throughout Europe, a vast assortment of household goods no longer wanted by their original owners. And when I say vast, I mean overwhelming.  There are a number of stores near us, and like any second hand store, the quality of goods supplied is very much dependent on the wealth of the immediate neighbourhoods. So the smaller stores on the borders in Belgium and France seem to stock more tat than those on the Duchy itself.

Imagine, if you will, all the furniture you ever used on your gite holidays: the massive dark wood, ornately carved sideboards and dressers; refectory style tables and chairs that only Hagrid would ever find comfortable; the wardrobes with their creaky, ill fitting doors and mysterious stains; the array of cooking utensils and foot spas; all found their way to the gites along with sets of coloured wine glasses and salad spinners; hundreds of the hard leather sofas beloved by the dentists of my youth. They have all come home to roost in the Troc. We imagine that across Europe, scores of great grandmothers have died leaving their estates to their many children and grandchildren, now living in their sleek apartments with no room for furniture that is larger than a child’s bedroom. Where else to send it, in the hopes of making some cash, but Le Troc? Who would buy such monsters? If we were setting up in our own chateau and were keen to fill echoing spaces, then, bien sur, these would be useful et charmant - but not for us at the moment.

Then there are the real treasures: a pair of red leather chairs shaped like stiletto shoes; “lits de bateau” (or sleigh beds), intricately carved or smoothly polished, all deposited when 1.6 metre beds became more fashionable than the usual 1.4m; an adorable high chair, dating from the 50’s – varnished wood and decorated with delightful scenes of children playing; model sailing boats, fully rigged. And of course the tank sized yello ochre model of a French Bulldog. But we resisted.

Our quest was for a sideboard or dresser. Although we got rid of so much “stuff”, we still needed a place to put glass and china. We also wanted a pretty piece of furniture (not flat packed) as a memento of our time on The Frontier. In the Troc in Esch-sur-Alzette, Luxembourg’s second largest town, was the perfect piece. Made entirely in oak, and not a splinter of mdf or chipboard in sight, it sat in the window as part of a smart salon set, and we loved it.  There is a little damage, apparently caused by the men removing it from the owner’s home, which caused much chagrin, but did not lessen the price. Could they deliver? Of course, they could bring it on Wednesday.  Much excitement, some hasty calculations and it was ours, at apparently a tenth of the original price. Bargain.

We went to lunch to celebrate, a rather nice little Italian place where the menu of the day included a cheese and ham parmentier (basically a triangular cheese pasty) and braised beef so tender, you could eat it with a teaspoon, produced by a spherical jolly chef. And then we went back to the Troc to buy four oak dining chairs for 20 Euros – and some webbing to ensure we do not disappear through the sagging seats. A successful day followed up by two very polite young men delivering the sideboard  on the Wednesday as promised.  All glass and crockery now installed, it is just perfect, and a little polish seems to be treating the damage splendidly.

No Troc’ing for a while now. But watch this space.

A bientot.