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.