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.