Contrary to reports...

...I have not stoppped writing my blog! The good news is that I have been doing far too much to find the time to write, including the submission of two stories for competitions whic has taken a lot of writing energy.

But there is stuff in the pipeline which I will continue after my return to the UK to see No 1 son graduate.

A bientot

Fete Gauloises

The day-glo green sign tied to the traffic lights at the end of our Rue certainly caught our attention, with its picture of a tractor and its promise of a Fete Gauloise, featuring Brocante, Artisanats and Cochon a la Broche. Such signs are now two a centime at the moment locally, promising all sorts of delights over the next few weeks including, tantalisingly enough in this landlocked part of the world, a Beach Party in a village some 3 km from us. But the immediate appeal of the Fete Gauloise was that it was in Piedmont, the picturesque little commune up the road from us on the other side of the viaduct. We could actually walk it and stagger home down the hill. 

We started off promisingly enough by walking up the hill on Saturday, only to realise that it was to take place on Sunday. But we rallied well and continued our walk along the Chemin de Longwy which featured in an earlier expedition. Instead of turning right this time and heading into Belgium, we pursued the path into Longwy, taking in a closing down sale in a sports shop where Dearly B at last found a new pair of trainers at a substantial reduction. I have, since we arrived here, cherished the notion of sitting in the sun at a café table nursing a glass of beer, watching this French part of the world go by. Finally I have achieved it. Although the Café a La Crème on the corner of the square seemed not to have noticed the bright warm sunshine set for the afternoon and had not put out its tables and chairs (again), the Gothic café, Le P’tit Troc, on the corner of the ramparts along the main road had thoughtfully provide a few wobbly tables and garden chairs on the road side. Dearly Beloved was despatched for beer and to practice his French and we sat back and soaked up the sun.  

There was a lot of the world passing by that afternoon. A coach was parked on the corner, alongside the rampart wall, just beyond the zebra crossing over the main road connecting Longwy Haut to Longwy Bas. Cars inched forward as others parked and people crossed themselves as they stepped out onto the stripes. Horns blaring, hand waving, revving of motors: the whole Gallic driving experience was manifest, not two metres from where we sat. It was particularly busy because the coach was in fact waiting for the schoolboys’ rugby teams to assemble in their club house in the casemates under the ramparts before whisking them off for their final match of the season. Boys and Dads appeared, shook hands with the coach, the bus driver, each other and, I believe, if we had joined them, we would have got a handshake too.  Once the boys drove off to their match, it all got a lot quieter. The bar man came out for a quiet cigarette; we paid up and went home. En route at the chocolaterie, which has been refurbished and is now selling fair-trade products and therefore to be revisited, we found a more detailed poster about La Piedmontaise Fete Gauloise. Times and numbers were given and I left our details on an answering machine saying that we would very much like a pig dinner.

 

The day was bright and breezy and the stalls were arrayed up and down La Grande Rue. There was a lot of “brocante” to be had. The same car boot items are to be had everywhere: Greying children’s vests; foot spas; a number of chipped plates; old chisels and files and a set of samurai swords. Local produce was available. I bought some mirabelle jam from a very sweet lady who took great pains to explain to me how the jam was very much “epluchee” – without stones. I also thought the quince jelly would go nicely with our roast dinners. Sadly, on getting home, the former proved to have a good coating of mould and the latter had something suspended in the jelly which I was unwilling to identify. Tant pis.

Inside the old school house I found two ladies selling a vast array of crocheted doilies, mats, shawls and, bizarrely, pottery clowns. I bought a doily or rather a very sweet daisy pattern mat which looks great on the 18^th Century French Cabinet, although Dearly Beloved was concerned that I was becoming obsessed with such things. I think not - there is no such thing as too many doilies. 

It became very breezy and the contents of an entire stall and its Ricard Umbrella spilled across the street. Others, including our large old friend from the market in Longwy Bas selling his own dubious saucissons, had held their tables and brollies down with more sensible weighty things, like crates of beer. The top half of the road was lined with tractors. I liked the pretty blue one best but Dearly Beloved took photos so that you can choose your own favourites. One ancient machine has evidently toured all the steam shows in the UK and is currently registered in Luxembourg.  An expat hobby, perhaps?

As you know, we have been harbouring desires to obtain a Lorraine farmhouse and due to this event we were actually able to do our first viewing. Some of the stall holders merely opened up their barns and allowed you to look at the wares within, having priced them with sticky labels. We were not particularly interested in obtaining an old plastic Christmas tree or a pair of stiletto heels, but we loved the high dark barn, its plaster crumbling away revealing the lime and horsehair underneath and the monumental king pin firmly supporting the half floors above us. Swallows swooped in and out, beaks full of grass, busy renovating their nests.

But Dearly Beloved was keen to pursue an encounter of the meat eating kind. Following the smell of the smoke, we found the field behind the houses where an enormous electric rotisserie was slowly turning three whole pigs, while two enthusiastic members of the Fete committee continually basted each beast with the dark oily juices being collected in the trough below. At this stage the pigs were a light mahogany and smelt of hot fat and smoke. 

We were directed to the organisers’ tent where I explained that I had reserved a place, he added our names to the list and we bought our dinner for the evening and the frites for lunch. We were given little laminated cards depicting our choice for the day, to exchange at the food tents. I particularly liked the picture of the jolly wild boar and the cheese being pulled by a tired mouse. Oh yes, it would be a four course meal – entrees of boar pate, the main repas of pork and frites, fromage and les desserts.  We ate our frites, took a beer from the beer tent where the bartender’s cigarette never left the groove in his lip, even when he was explaining about the deposit for a real glass, and went home to prepare for the evening, with a pre-prandial nap.

 

The smell of smoked cochon a la broche drifted down the hill in the evening sunshine, the stall holders were all but gone, save for the last plants, jewellery and espadrilles and the village of Piedmont was now fully en fete. The tractors had been driven away and we never found out which had won for the day – but I am sure the blue won took it, wheels down. The pigs were blackened and ready to eat.

  Our tickets provided us with a bottle of rose and we settled on a bench in the huge marquee opposite the wooden platform where the Colorado River lien dancers were stamping their stuff to such old western favourites as the piano accordion versions of “Y Viva Espana and “The Birdie Song”. No matter, they were nattily turned out in white jeans, shirts and Stetsons and in what other country would you expect to hear a piano-accordion? During a pause, the stout DJ for the evening explained how we were to queue for our entrees, and suddenly the evening took on its own flavour. The chunky garlicky Ardennes pate was served with a lightly dressed salad and seemed to need the whole bottle of rose to do itself justice. Dearly Beloved queued for the Cochon while I negotiated with the bartender for another bottle of rose. It had been very popular this evening, and now, malheureusement, there was only the one glass to be had in the whole place. But I had paid for a bottle so what could he recommend that was chilled? Well, there was a very nice Pinto Gris which would suit madam well and would complement the fine cochon. I waited for Dearly Beloved to return after a long wait, because a new pig was being prepared by the butcher in the tent behind the tables. He scraped away the old carcass as the armed guard from the rotisserie approached with the offering.  Dearly Beloved was the first to put his hand up for the crispy trotter that was offered round and appeared with a tray laden with of chunky slices of pork and piles of fresh frites. In the meantime, another family had joined our table. We exchanged pleasantries and I explained how to use the tickets to obtain the meal. They expressed surprise that we were not here just for the holiday and delighted that we had turned up at the Fete.

But it was time to turn our attention to the dish of the day. The meat was tender and the fat had melted away, leaving the taste of the herbs, the smoke and the olive oil it had been saturated with for the last ten hours.  Even the dancers on stage had succumbed to the feast and the DJ thoughtfully played romantic Argentinian Tangos as a serenade to the great beast before us.

A camembert with salad to follow, a dish of profiteroles and we were pretty much replete. The gentleman was sitting next to us offered us a cigarillo and told us that he had always lived in Piedmont. We explained why we where there and tried to explain what Dearly Beloved does for a living which is hard enough to explain in English let alone in French after the better part of two bottles of wine and over a the sound of the piano accordion and the chatter of hundreds of happy diners.
We exclaimed at the lateness of the hour -  it had taken three hours to eat our meal - shook hands al round and rolled home down the hill, in the moonlight.

We were somewhat subdued the next day - perhaps we had  caught a chill or something.

 Next time: The Fete de Rhubarb

A bientot.

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.

Missing the bus

I missed the bus the other day by a whisker. It was waiting at the bus stop across the road at the top of our street but the crossing lights were against me. I waved but to no avail. The bus must meet its target times. UK, take note.

I say “missed”. I was actually in good time for the bus I thought I was going to catch. This is because there are two timetables in this part of France - one for weekdays in during the “Periode Scolaire” and the other for Saturdays and school holidays. I was mistaken in assuming that because all the children I know at the Church in Luxembourg are already cooling their heels in preparation for Easter, and those who go to school in Belgium have nearly finished their Easter break, the schools here in France would also have broken up. How is a girl to know?  There are only so many timetables I can hold in my head at one time, let alone cross boundary variations.

Be that as it may, I didn’t fancy hanging about for another half an hour nor did it seem worth my while walking back to the chateau. I thought that, if I was smartish, I could nip down the road and catch the bus further on as it looped round the town to pick up other shoppers for the supermarket complex. So I walked down Mont Saint Martin’s steep narrow main street, where I haven’t been since the heavy ice and snow at the beginning of the year. There was a surprising amount of traffic, with drivers jostling for places to park by the side of the road. But where do they all go? I could see that only the florist and the chemists were open. There are plenty of shop front windows along this road, but like the “Poterie Maeva”, they are now either whitewashed and advertised for sale, or covered with net curtains and made into dwellings. The couscous restaurant at the bottom of the hill near the former railway station is still carrying out its renovations, the friterie next door is not set up for mass catering on this scale and Snack Antalya was not yet open as it was only 10:30. There was no evidence of any mobbing of either the chemist or the florist.  So I can only assume that everyone was making their way either to the hospital or the old people’s home that is attached to it. Like most hospitals, it suffers from insufficient and expensive parking and so my guess is that the frantic driving into recently the vacated positions along the high street was to avoid charges and still be within staggering distance of the doctor.

I very much wish it were different. I accept that the supermarket at the top of one of the hills and its smart complex of stores represent the march of progress and, more to the point, attracted valuable funding to an area so hard hit when the steel world collapsed,  but I regret the loss of the domestic community. Mont Saint Martin was evidently a thriving little town. I walked past large villas in the high street with their many gables, massive wooden shutters and elaborate brick work. I almost expected to go round the corner and see the sea. There is a small terrace on the corner where I imagine a café once put out its tables and chairs to catch the sun and to watch the world go by. A shop now up for sale used to promise books, gifts and flowers, presumably once successful because of its proximity to the hospital. I yearn for the boulangerie, epicerie and charcuterie. But they are gone, all centralised in the plastic fantastic world of international supermarkets, their former presence now only evident in the faded paint on lintel beams.

 I found the bus stop, and waited another half hour for a bus. An elderly gentleman clutching a large white envelope nodded at me, we exchanged bonjours and he inspected the timetable. I moved along the seat and he joined me. He told me his story, starting with the fact that he had an “infiltration” for screening, had been on the “scannaire” and was feeling pretty ropey. I expressed the hope that he would be able to rest that afternoon, and he assured me that his wife had been warned. Did he live locally? Yes, in a nearby suburb.  He is 80 years old, you know. His son lives in Luxembourg, his other son is handicapped and his daughter is 52. He has 8 grandchildren I am sure I have had this conversation on the bus from

Broad Lane

in Coventry. And on the train to London. And probably on a dolmush in Turkey.

When the bus came, it set off, completely ignoring the turning towards the supermarket. It is a circular bus route and I was on the wrong side. Too proud to get off at the next stop and cross over, I sat tight, went the full circle and went past the original bus stop I had failed at an hour earlier. But I enjoyed the tour of the towns with the lilac and flowering cherry in bloom and urban gardens bursting with this years’ bright orange tulips.

A peculiar anomaly this year is the swirling of pollen. We all thought we were seeing spots before our eyes, or imagining a fuzzy horizon. Too many Cremants perhaps.  Bu this year, it is exceptional. The cars are covered in the yellow dust and the house is full of seed heads, which irritatingly enough, have gathered in little webby pockets giving the lie to my premise that I am constantly dusting and polishing.

Dish of the week: Asparagus is now in and, encouraged by a meal in a brasserie in Belgium last week, I consulted Mrs David again. She was not very encouraging, and somewhat dismissive of white asparagus, of which there is a lot in the supermarkets at the moment. Undeterred, I boiled the fat white stems for a half an hour, and served it with home made mayonnaise and wrapped in Lorraine ham. Verdict: quite nice. Wait, as Mrs David suggests, for the tender green stems.

Highs and Lows

“Oh good,” said D, when I brandished my trekking pole. “You can fight off the wild boar”.

It wasn’t quite what I was expecting when three ladies from church invited me to join them for a Saturday morning walk. But then  nor did I expect to be sitting on the top  of a double decker train speeding past sparkling streams, craggy rocks and downy hills studded with broadleaf forests and charming farmsteads, let alone sightings of storks and working horses the size of Suffolk Punches. And, please note, I exceeded  12,000 steps on my pedometer.

We set quite a pace on this walk, a section of the Sentier du Nord which stretches 65 km from Weiswampach to Diekirch, and completed the 9 km stretch from Drauffelt to Clervaux in about two and a half hours. Consequently, I am sorry to say, I did not have time to fumble in my backpack amongst spare socks and unneeded waterproofs for my camera. When we did stop, it was because I was rather red in the face and breathless at the top of a number of steep hills and far too exhausted to even think of taking photos. But hills make for splendid views and shaded leafy valleys. And luckily, no wild boar.

I shall return to this part of the world to show dearly beloved who manfully stayed at home battling with flat pack wardrobes. And I shall ensure that we take loads of photos to show you all.  I am told that one of the towns, Wiltz, has an annual festival that is well worth making the train trip for, so watch this space.

Inspired by my walking endeavours, we set out the next day to try out part of a similar network of French footpaths, our immediate section being “Sentiers de randonnee de trios frontieres” It’s those frontiers again! We headed towards Villers-La Chevre, about a ten minute drive away, intending to find the Sentier du Bois du Pays Bayard, a walk of about 6.5 km. It was at this stage that we realised and missed the excellence of the Ordnance Survey maps of the UK in which you can pinpoint a small mole hill. We had evidently driven too far along the way looking to park, although it seemed to correspond with the map. We could not find the start of this particular walk, which, we were assured, would be marked clearly en route.

We parked and walked, and walked a little further peering into the forest for signs. Eventually we found a board displaying information about the Sentier de Minieres, which, for want of any other direction, we followed. This path takes the route of the mining works that took place a few hundred years ago. Good iron ore is, apparently, rare in the Lorraine regions, but this particular seam at “St Pancre” produced a rich malleable iron. The miners worked in deep “ruelles” or lanes, and the path was set out along the crumbling banks of these steep deep ditches.  The trees have all grown over now, and the rocky clefts are covered in moss. Some of the works had been further exploited as quarries for the lovely yellow sandstone that I have mentioned before. Boards along the way described the miners, their lives, the geological nature of the area and how it was formed, as well as describing the flora and fauna of the land. I grasped my wild boar stick tightly.

The way was marked quite clearly with little white signs tacked to trees. This worked well generally apart from the fact that only the previous week, in the first spell of sunny dry weather, the foresters had been out and thinned a lot of winter damaged trees. Friday evening had evidently fallen before they had the opportunity to move said trees which stretched their lengths across the Sentier des Minieres. I am sure the miners would not have been fazed but we were a trifle disconcerted. Ralph’s binoculars proved useful in spotting signs further along the way, and we traversed along and up and down various ruelles and ditches to find our way back to the track.  It was worth persevering. A break in the trees at the side of the forest gave us a glimpse of the distant Lorraine countryside: a small hamlet tucked into the folds of the fields and hills, wood smoke drifting and a church bell sounding the end of Mass. It was good to be in the open air.

Later in the week, L, one of the ladies I had walked with earlier suggested a walk in Ernster in Luxembourg, again following one of the set walks. All we had to do was to find the start and follow the “three trees” logo for a brisk 5km stroll. Some work men mending the road after the winter’s ravages, directed us with confidence away from the village and we thought they might know what they were talking about. However, the three trees failed to present themselves and we found ourselves on one of the cycling tracks. But as a circular walk, it would never have worked as that circle continued for about 12 miles. Excellent cycling track, though, and if I still had the knees and the puff for it, I’d be there, despite the hills.

Ernster is a pretty village built in the traditional Lorraine style. A number of small farm houses or “fermettes” are clustered together, with thick rendered painted walls, deep window sills and, dearly beloved’s passion, huge barns under one half the house. I am not sure if I can take dearly beloved there, however, in case he insists that the local residents move out to make room for our ambitions to live in such lovely surroundings. They are very attractive solid looking houses, much sought after. Sadly, they can no longer to be picked up for a song as they used to be a couple of decades ago when the first Eurobods came over to work for the Commission and the Parliament...

We have continued our zeal for walking this weekend with our temporary house guest, Jack. Jack is always very keen to walk although his habit of sticking his cold wet nose up one’s trouser leg or running off with a shoe to encourage us on a trip out would not endear him to everybody.  He took us on a fantastic walk only minutes from Le Chateau at the weekend, through a small village and into the hills behind and on through to Belgium. We seemed always to be walking up hill however, and while Jack’s little legs would have been happy for the walk all over again, we spent the afternoon in a stupor, with a fine Belgian beer, slumped in front of the rugby.

Dish of the week: Coq au Vin. Mrs David let us down a bit here. We tried her instruction to warm through a glass of cognac and set light to it. Pouring it, still alight, over the coq proved to be incredibly exciting.  It flamed magnificently in the saucepan and set light to the extractor fan over the cooker.  And we were not that happy with the sauce…perhaps less flambee would have been the answer.

A bientot.