Time Travelling Part 2

Dearly Beloved and I went for an after work picnic the other day, filling in time between work and an event in town. As autumn approaches, the crisp mornings have been turning into bright sunny days – tempting us to be outside again, after a cold wet August.

With two hours to spare, we dialled up Adventures by Sat Nav again, intending to sit by the river to eat our tea.  There is always an ongoing dialogue between Dearly Beloved and the Sat Nav, more recently renamed as Moaning Minnie. She makes her suggestions, Dearly B expresses surprise or derision, Moaning Minnie recalculates and we find ourselves in heading in another direction. As a former, keen, navigator, I blame the fact that I do not have a credible road map of the area so I do not really have a grasp of the general direction in which we are headed. Therefore I cannot comment on whether MM has fully understood our instructions. I know that we could download recent changes to road systems and traffic jams and road works, but we don’t. This is why we did not have our tea by the river that evening but by a small man made fishing “etang” in Boler. This was set at the edge of a small hamlet of farms, one beautifully restored and “fleurie” and another painted in white with shutters of eau- de-nil but where another household is tucked beside a barn now completely derelict.  A strong electric fence enclosed a field where a handsome and massive bull, now somewhat lonely, munched his way through the evening.

The small lake was surrounded by trees, one   a willow where martins were taking shelter before swooping and dipping there for their supper over the lake.  A young man with his small boy had set up their fishing post across the lake. The father was patiently seated, while the little lad hopped his way round the lake grasping a net. We spoke but he did not hear us. He was intent upon the tiddlers in the reeds at the edge. A few horses in the field opposite wandered up to peer at us from afar, this year’s foal in their midst. We were full and were now being eaten by midges.  We allowed Moaning Minnie out again and she directed us through Rodemack. I was reminded of our time travelling in the early part of the summer.

 Back to the Middle Ages in the narrow streets of this citadel under the shelter of its enormous city walls on a July day so hot, that fellow time travellers, many in ful leather Goth  and biker gear, edged their way along the side of the streets clinging to whatever shade was offered by the high buildings.

Situated only a few kilometres from the border of Luxembourg, Rodemack is listed as one of “les plus beaux villages” of France. Its only blot is its proximity to the distinctly non medieval triple towers of Cattenom, one of France’s atomic power stations, neatly positioned so that the prevailing winds from the west will carry any fallout towards Germany.

But in the Middle Ages, we strolled along the narrow road between the houses, heading towards the main square. A faun, some 2 and half metres high loped past bemoaning his thirst. Tiny princesses darted about at knee height, their hair held in place by richly braided hoops. Merlin was there, robed in earth dyed cloth, his pointed hat battered and shiny from millennia of use, his  owl glaring backwards as his master strolled past.  Merchants shouted out their traditional wares of herbs, wines, pies and CDs of piped music. Tambours played and masked plague warriors shouted warnings whilst children settled comfortably on hay bales to watch the puppets Harlequin and Columbine play out their eternal love triangle. Young men strode past in tights, one leg a rich maroon, the other stone coloured, their tunics coloured the opposite way, advertising  the fire eating act to take place in the square, texting as they passed. A wood elf in silver and green flowing robes nearly two and half metres high stroked Dearly Beloved’s head with her 6” fingernails and hissed at me through her piercings.

There were lots of clothes stalls, selling traditional fashions – although the traditions displayed were varied and ranged from peasantry to heavy Goth. Dearly Beloved has long been coveting a Braveheart style shirt to wear with his kilt and we stopped at a stall also selling local herb wines, I imbibed while DB tried on a shirt of cream linen with a threaded front. The stall holder confided to me that he had always wanted to live in Scotland, that it was his plan to save enough money to move and retire there and that it was probably the most beautiful place in the world. Had he ever visited, I asked conversationally. Mais non. A pause. It is much colder there, I said, than it is here to day. It would be a good thing, non? Dearly Beloved bought his shirt, I declined buying the thyme wine and we moved on for lunch  - as ever, a four course meal for 16 Euros, including a dressed salad, a potato and cheese dish not unlike a tartiflette, some camembert and a cherry clafoutis. Parfait.

The fire eaters were gathering in the main square, as temperatures rose to lower 90’s.  The young men and women whirled balls of fire around their heads, threw flaming swords up in the air and blasted dragon breath over the crowd. Terribly exciting and so, in need of calm, we moved off to where the sounds of a harp drifted over the herb gardens behind the town walls. Then on up to the ramparts to see the archers and falconers and for a quick draught of fine ale.

And our time travelling was done. Whilst we didn’t do any of the manic running that the Tardis set thrive on, we were foot sore and ready for home.

See you in the 21^st Century. A bientot.