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.