Moving on

So, no entries on the blog in goodness knows how long. My files show a number of half completed essays which I never felt like getting round to finishing or posting. I even looked at last year and started a round up of events too small to make it worth posting about as an entity but which I thought might be interesting to mention.

What happened? We moved house. It didn’t take four months to do it but we spent two months looking, an activity prompted by an advert in the British Ladies Club magazine about a property available less than 15 minutes from Dearly Beloved’s work. It was spacious and, at a pinch, affordable. One of the reasons we were living in a Chateau in France, was because it was considerably cheaper than similarly sized properties in Luxembourg. But it came at a higher price that we only realised after a year of living there. 

 It was a long way from work and the city where our social life was emerging. I spent three times as long on public transport getting to these events than I did actually enjoying them. We spent some long evenings eating Al Desko - I would get the bus to DB’s work with a picnic and we would while away the hours before an event in town started at 8. Not enough time for Dearly B to get home without immediately turning around and going out again, but too much time spent doing nothing. Or we had some unmemorable meals out eaten at a rush. Living the Transfrontalier life meant that we fell between a number of stools, and felt part of neither country.

Then there was the heating. Anybody who has lived in an old or listed building will identify with our dislike of sitting in a draught, with a coat on even though you are paying over 400 euros for two months’ worth of electricity. Nor was it easy to meet people living, as we did, behind high chateau walls. And I realised that my French is nowhere near useful enough to have volunteered for anything. The same could also be said for my Turkish, Portuguese, any North African language you might care to think of and I have no Roma. Mont Saint Martin has many social needs which the local services work hard to address. But I didn’t think they needed another problem expat. 

There are a few things that we shall look back on with affection and I wouldn’t want you to think we were having a horrible time. As I explained to a friend, there were just a number of low level discomforts which seemed to grow daily, and if we had loved the place and got involved with the community, we would have overlooked them and the long and tiresome commute to the city.

So what shall we look back on? 

The pig roast of course was a highlight and in our mental calendar.

 We joined a small archery club and took lessons in a tiny school hall in order to be insured to loose arrows in France. We both got badges and a certificate and we learned some very specific French vocabulary. I would say that this is the closest we got to meeting local people. At the archery club, we were impressed with the way the youngsters behaved and were treated. Each child came in and either shook your hand or offered “les bons bises”. Any adult coming in payed the children the same regard as the adults. C’etait charmant.

Francois, the trainer, made us very welcome and took us for a tour around the area, where he has lived all his life. He remembers a time when Longwy, the town nearest us, was still producing steel and moving it on the once busy railway network. When he was boy, all the buildings were black with soot and a grey pall hung over the town even on a sunny day. Although there is comparatively little employment in the area now, Francoise, who lives near the current mayor, says that the latter strives hard to make the town presentable and a pleasant place to live. Its Vauban fort is listed as a World Heritage Site; the Well house which used to serve the garrison town in the eighteenth century, is now the tourist office, the well glazed over...

 At the beginning of last year, I was rather peeved that the former Mairie, La Roseraie, was running well over its target date in its refurbishment. From the middle of February, the date slipped further into the summer, which meant that the public park in which it sits was out of bounds to the public. The park itself must surely have previously been within the curtilage of Le Chateau, and possibly La Roseraie was too, but the two areas are now divided by a link fence. There is a lake with fish which provided the dramatic reflection of the best fireworks we ever saw in a local festival for the eve of Bastille Day. There are some swings and a death slide, and it was a shame that in those glorious spring days (do you remember that false early summer?) nobody could use the park. However, it was open for a few special events, including a book fair. This explains why, one evening from the chateau, we could see lights suspended in the high plane trees and day-glo clad people in abseiling gear hiding amongst the leaves. In another part of the park, the children were singing songs and listening to a story. I never did find out what story our abseilers were enacting.

Talking of the Bizarre, we took in an open air late spring concert tucked in the gateway of the aforementioned garrison town. It was free, the weather was fine and we knew nothing about any of the acts. Two of the acts surprised us. The gentleman in tail coat and pebble glasses, looking very like Picasso, played electric cello setting up his own recorded backing track while we watched which he then looped over the sound system as he played popular classics which hummed and soared in the Spring air. Then by complete contrast was RIC (pronounced “airissay”. Young men with wild dread locks and dressed in brightly coloured spangly overalls, we soon understood why they were so skinny. Puck like, they jumped, skipped, leapt over and on top of the speakers all the time rattling off the lyrics without pausing for breath. The crowd loved them and all seemed to know the words. We were exhausted just watching them.

The few visitors we have had to Le Chateau will have seen The Gothic Dream. Featured on local Mirabelle TV, the owner has taken a modest bungalow in the little village of Piedmont, and has refaced it in the local sandstone adding a turret and crenellated balustrade around the roof. Then he has added dragons, swords, runes, Black Knights, Knights Templar, Celtic crosses and it is by no means finished. Snugly behind his huge oak door, with its medieval hinges and bolts, he dreams and plots his new creation, lovingly worked in the summer evenings and at weekends. There is always a pile of stone in the trailer outside his house. He smiles and waves as people go past. It is a happy labour of love. I think we shall go back next year and take an inventory of new modifications.

 I might even miss my frequent trips to the post office where I was the only English speaker. On one memorable occasion, the assistant behind the counter asked me if I was looking forward to the wedding. I could only think of the one we had attended the previous year and wondered why she knew about it. She obviously saw my confusion.

“It is the wedding of William and Kate. It is very exciting, is that not so?”

“Oh yes,” I said, rallying well. “There will be many lovely hats.” This seemed a satisfactory response even though I was not attending the event as I evidently should have been.

We spent a lot of time trying to obtain a Carte Vitale, so that I could visit a doctor and benefit from the social security and the medical insurance we had been paying erroneously for nearly a year. We crossed the final hurdle and appeared at the local office with all our paper work intact. The lady smiled very nicely and asked for our bank details. We produced the Luxembourg account details.  

“Oh no,” she said, “That won’t do at all. You must have a French account.”

 I could have wept. In fact, I think I did. We trawled round Longwy looking for a bank. The Post office only allowed you to open an account with a rendezvous, in three weeks’ time when their officer was back from leave. The other banks were shut on a Monday, apart from Credit Agricole. By the following Thursday we had a French bank account and leapt through the final hoop at the social security office. Everyone was very pleasant but the paper work had us completely submerged. 

I could go on. But enough to say we have happily moved and I shall tell you tales from Luxembourg as soon as I have worked out how to change my blog from “Chateau Living”.

A bientot.

Christmas Market

Didn’t we have a lovely time the day we went to Strasbourg? 

We had done no research on the place, other than muttering about its having something to do with the European Parliament, so it was, in fact, a splendid surprise. The charabanc was there at The Glacis in Luxembourg, just as promised, having been organised by the British Ladies Club (twinset and pearls not necessary) ready for the two and a half hour coach ride. The weather could have been better and the scenery was therefore cloaked in a light grey drizzle. But I did notice that the buildings changed, their roofs more pointed and brightly coloured above their white walls as we travelled deeper in to Alsace.  

Amusingly, if in a slightly alarming and ironically seasonal way, there was no room for the coach at the Park and Ride... but the driver seemed unfazed, so we left him trying to hide a 50 seater coach under a hedge. The trams were sleek and quiet, snaking alongside the pavements, ringing their bells to hurry pedestrians away from the tracks. Edinburgh take note: the tram system is fantastic. It is quiet and clean, fast and simple to use, and in Strasbourg, it links all the suburbs to the main part of the city for a mere 1euro 50. 
It was anybody’s guess where the stop for the Christmas market was. We just followed a family from the coach who looked like they knew what they were doing. But this plan came to naught as they turned to us and said, “Any idea where to get off?”. It made sense therefore to alight where the crowds seemed thickest (density, not brain power) and found ourselves at the foot of the tallest Christmas Tree we have ever seen, surrounded by the wooden booths and carnival tents of the Charities’ Christmas Market. Jolly, but not the ultimate goal.

Signs to the Christchild Market seemed more promising. Sharply angled streets, jettied buildings, frosted and garlanded shop windows and, marvellously, a horse-drawn double decker omnibus, complete with top hatted driver and conductor.

 It is evidently a Strasbourg tradition that the shops and businesses bedeck the entire frontage of their buildings with ribbons, bows, greenery or with gingerbread men, snowmen and twinkly lights best shown in the photographs attached. I paused in front of a chocolate shop to admire novelties for the tree, as richly decorated as a Faberge egg. And at 20 euros per bauble, I put even my chocolate loving brakes on. Please note the restraint.

 

The Christchild market filled a square. Perhaps a hundred cabins clustered in rows, where the shoppers and on-the-hoof diners pushed and dawdled breathing in the hot cinnamon sugar of gauffres and crepes, the barbecue tang of sausages, and the fondue of cheeses melted over pretzels.

  “ I’m ravenous” we said in chorus. But, wisely resisting these delights, mainly because I wanted to eat in the warm and sit down for a proper lunch, we sought a restaurant. “La Marseillaise” seemed promising, if gloriously inappropriate for such a land-locked place; the board outside proposed choucroute and Slavic style meats. Yet there was also a Magret de Canard on offer, and Dearly Beloved was interested in the Jarret Braise.
  “ I’m up for a braised shin of anything,” he declared, and we joined the queue. Tables were arranged in long rows, and the room was steamy and loud with the chink of cutlery and the chatter of the well fuelled.

“If you are not pressed, “ said the proprietor, who had such undeniably Slavic features that I looked nervously behind him for the Magyar hordes, "I will have a table for you in five minutes." I assured him that we had all the time in the world and within a couple of minutes we were shoe horned between a young and absorbed couple dealing efficiently with chocolat au fondant and a carafe of white wine, and an older, more serious couple, still earnestly debating the menu. Dearly Beloved ate the bread  that was already on the table which awoke the young couple from their chocolate reverie sufficiently to insist, “ No please, eat it, we didn’t want it anyway”. We were only slightly embarrassed at eating their bread.They were on the pudding course..  

We ordered quickly having already made our choice outside on the pavement, and we were unsure what was involved in the special of the day, Choucroute Alsacienne. Behind Dearly B, a table of four, whose figures suggest years of skilled and thorough Gourmandise, attacked plates piled high with soft white cabbage dotted by the palest of pink sausages, white boudin and an even paler pate topped, like icing on a cake, with a thick layer of fat.

  “ I’m glad I didn’t choose the  choucroute , “ I said to DB, “ I think I would have had nightmares.”

Elizabeth David herself in "French Provincial cooking": describes  the "...amber green and gold choucroute" as "somewhat formidable" but that one "should at least try them once." Hmm, maybe.
The magret was rich and sweet, in a thick mushroom sauce,  wintry warm while the shin of pork was  slightly charred, savoury and wholesome the fat chips crispy on the outside and fluffy in the middle. Not an exceptional meal but tasty,  providing us also with the opportunity to dine in an ancient building, to observe the Franco-Slavic charm of the owner as he swiftly took orders, made recommendations, joked and laughed and provided the bill with ease and grace, to watch the excited families on adjoining tables, where a small boy threatened with every toddler gesture to topple the tall bottle of coke at his mother’s elbow. Meanwhile, the diners behind DB finished their meal with a rich sugary savarin and a digestif.

Warmed and emboldened, we dived in to the market. Unlike some of the markets we have been to recently, a lot of the produce seemed to be well crafted rather than cheap imports. Some lovely scarves and gloves, hats, handbags, tree ornaments, I was never going to get started in shopping for others. Mentally I had pretty much spend the budget on myself. But I did find a couple of gifts.

 “ Are they a present? Shall I wrap them for you?” was the invariable request of the stallholders, as they reached for curly ribbon and scissors. We never felt rushed despite the crush of other shoppers and the stallholders were keen to discuss their products and to talk to us. Of course tehr was the stall selling small china moles  - every typeof mole you could imagine: Elvis moles, golfing moles, moles in tutus or in dresing gowns, Nativity. " Is there a terrible problem in Alsace? " I asked, "with moles?" But apparently not. mMaybe the statuary is successfully preventative.

We moved on out of the market through streets bearing the names of the trades and guilds that had worked there for hundreds of years, the mercers, the fishmongers, the  hatters, and followed the sound of music, past the the intricate carvings on the face of the cathedral, to reach the edge of a crowd gathering on a square. We could hear two voices: a tenor and an alto, with a lute and selection of bells.  But, and this was the best surprise of the day, there was but one man, seated in the middle of the square, playing an Irish bouzouki. Magnificently tattoed and pierced, he wore the costume of a troubadour and sang such a sweet and true counter tenor, that it brought tears to my eyes. We bought his CD straightaway and I have attached a link to his website that you might find interesting.

  ( http://www.myspace.com/lucarbogast)

The ancient streets, the smell of roasting chestnuts from the “steam trains” on every corner, troubador music, twinkly lights strung overhead, the shops full and bright, this was the Christmas shopping experience I would always have preferred. The shops too offered a range of goods and services that were not all high street names. We were deligthed to find a milliners, where DB and I both bought hats. At last I have found a hat to go with my lovely camel coat, a gift  last Christmas. DB even had his hat stretched on an aged hat stretching mould so it now fits perfectly.

As the evening progressed, we found more markets, selling candles, Alsacienne eaux-de-vie, breads, cakes, honey and soups. Only the engagement with the coach forced us to leave. Our last stop was at a bakers and tea room, evidently shutting up but still keen to warm through some quiche for us to take away. The trams were now full and we stood like sardines to return to the Park and Ride, where the driver  had successfully parked. Our fellow travellers had shopped and eaten, but I think we had the best experience, having avoided the fatty cheap cheese snacks, and the chain stores. And nobody else had heard the Troubadour.

continental shift

If I say that I spent part of my weekend selling cards and crackers, with Dearly Beloved swinging his kilt, sporting his Braveheart shirt and pressing tots of whisky on strangers, could you guess where I have been? What if I were to add the  information that I also exchanged three kisses with friends from Zimbabwe and Texas, shook the hands of men from Germany and Surrey, waved at folk from the Midlands, ate soft Greek bread stuffed with sliced lamb doused in herby olive oil, sampled a Lumpia with vegetables, nibbled edamame, followed by a hot and creamy Irish coffee, avoided moose milk, stroked some thick whiskery Icelandic jumpers, bought a glittery Polish bauble and a Scandinavian cotton reindeer, topped up with felafel in pitta bread, all washed down with a shot of vodka shared with a man in a furry hat, would you then have a better idea?  Some will still be struggling.  How about if I say that DB was eyeing hats from Azerbaijan and entering a competition for an all round trip to Japan? What if I say that I was gently marshalled aside by burly men in uniforms while a Grand Duchess also enjoyed the wares on sale from South America? You must have it by now! 

Yes, a prize of a home made mince pie to aal those who guessed correctly that I spent most of Saturday in the company of Dearly B at the International Bazaar of Luxembourg in the mini version of Birmingham’s NEC, Lux Expo. Since its first appearance as a Church Bazaar held by the Anglican church here in 1961, it has grown to become one of the biggest fundraising events in the Duchy, and has raised millions of Euros for charities in Luxembourg and elsewhere. For locals it is a great opportunity to eat  their way round the world and to catch up with friends, as well as to buy for Christmas and other feasts. Huge fun and absolutely exhausting, we shall definitely put it in our calendars for next year and hope that prospective visitors  will do the same.

A more peaceful Christmas Fayre was held at Cons La Grandville, a name you may recognise from a previous sortie into the neighbouring French towns. We have previously pressed our noses against the gates to the  Priory  which boasts an enormous restored barn. The website offers tantalising glimpses only, and Dearly Beloved, who loves barn conversions, has been champing at the bit for months to get inside to  inspect.

Luckily, while shopping the other day at the market in Longwy, I saw a flyer , quite modestly displayed, stating that there would an exhibition of wooden toys and other useful objects in this magnificent setting. So despite our aches and pains from the day before, we  breached the November mists and entered the Great Barn. It is magnificent. The stonework has been cleaned and restored to its pale clover honey colour, contrasting with the dark grey slate roof. The thick oak beams, vaulting into the roof space some 30 feet high are grey and sturdy, held together in the traditional way with thick wooden bolts. There is still evidence of the stalls used for the animals and of the supports for half width platforms once used for storage. 

There was a happy buzz of shoppers, mellowed, no doubt by the wine tasting (I bought only three bottles of a dusky burgundy) in the creamery, the artisan bread in the cattle stalls and the beer and hams on the mezzanine floor.  Much of the display was devoted to toys.  With sturdy forts and open walled dolls houses with spiral staircases and even a hinged loo, all made in wood and to a scale and spacing that would make play so easy, we almost found ourselves longing for grandchildren! There were chunky tipper trucks and tractors, their wooden wheels lovingly carved to reveal deep treads. Dolls cradles, children's stools, all nicely finished and at modest prices too…another date to put in our diary for next year.

But all this talk of November mists reminds me that I did not even tell you about  how we at last found our local auberge open for business.The day after our return from the south, and despite the fact that we had said,  “Enough! We have eaten our fill of lovely lunches out. We must retrench!”, we displayed the breaking resistance of a kit-kat when, on our first Sunday back from holiday we went up the road to Piedmont (of pig-roast fame) for a short constitutional.

 “What about popping into the Auberge?” I said, “ It might be open because it is the summer. We could just have a drink.” 

“I’ll take my wallet,” said Dearly Beloved, obediently and without pause.  

It was hot and sunny at midday, ansd we strolled up the hill noticing who had done what with their gardens and houses since we had last gone by. Some had dug up drives and replaced them with paving, others had repainted the orginal “grise” covering of the house with a more toothsome buttermilk. The lintel that was being knocked out above an old barn door has now been replaced with sturdy breeze block pillars and the young couple doing the renovation were perched on cement sacks in the sun taking a fag break. 

We rounded the corner and saw that lights were on in the windows of the Auberge. “But is anyone home?” asked Dearly B.  The kitchen windows were open, and there was the homely sound of cutlery clinking against plate.

“Just open the door” I said, “and walk in.”

At last we had crossed the threshhold of  the Auberge, which has, since January, been shut whenever we have visited. In the inner hall, a fire was burning in a deep inglenook recess, next to a traditional bread oven. Two ladies greeted us.

“Could we just have a drink please?” 

 “A drink? Only a drink? Mais oui.”

A table was cleared in the dining room where two or three other tables were occupied. A couple about our age sat discreetly in the window and in the corner an older couple were joined by a friend.  We ordered beers and listend to the deep gravel filled voice of the elderly gentleman,with an accent that surely must have influenced Peter Sellars’ Inspector Clueseau…

The beers arrived swiftly followed by an amuse-bouche: two morsels of Quiche Lorraine, hot from the wood oven, the egg just set and the bacon melting into the buttery puff pastry. What a low and cunning trick!  

“Madame!” we cried, “we would like something to eat.”

“You would like to eat? Well, our specialities are here on the board.”

“ Monsieur would like something meaty.”

“Oh we have the Cassoulet Maison, cooked for seven hours, a confit de canard, a cous cous…”

“I’ll have the cassoulet please, “ said Dearly Beloved, beaming. 

“And I shall have the canard, please, with a demi carafe of rose.” 

We looked at each other somewhat shame faced. Today was meant to be the return to abstemiousness and exercise to regain the body beautiful in preparation for Christmas. Dearly B was facing into the room and his eyes widened as he saw the portions being served behind me. 

" It’s as well we didn’t order starters.” 

While waiting, we admired the room. The Auberge was built in the  mid eighteenth century and, structurally, had barely changed, with broad beams only just above our heads spanning the room. The walls were at least eighteen inches thick.  A radio set from between the wars sat on a squat oak dresser behind busts of Laurel and Hardy and a sempervivens. On the wall were some local artist’s impressions of the auberge and a couple of nudes. It was all very cosy.

Dearly Beloved admired the dresser, its sliding doors protecting all the glass ware within. Then the dinner arrived. The cassoulet was a mound of plump haricots  and even plumper saucissons, in a sauce of tomatoes, carrots and onion, competing for room on the plate with chunky cubes of fried potatoes. Man food.   

By comparison, mine was quite dainty although the food also covered the plate. A dark haunch of duck covered with thinly sliced soft mushrooms, a tomato steeped in roasted garlic and a poached nectarine stuffed with finely shredded red cabbage jostled for space with the same crispy potateos. The carafe of rose was light and fresh.

“Bon Appetit!” said the waitress with the certain knowledege that we would clear every morsel. 

Dearly Beloved’s eyes misted over. This was truly a dish made in heaven for a hungry walker.  Ironically, Cassoulet is a dish orginating from Toulouse, in the same region from which we had just travelled but where we had failed to find any on offer.  The duck was sweet and tender, and our conversation was reduced to  the happy gruntings and mumblings of the well fed. Madame came to  check on our progress. D Beloved could only kiss her hand …she seemed unfazed by this, evidently used to such praise.

“We shall return,” we assured her.  

But  two months have passed by and we have yet to go there. I feel a seasonal booking coming on.

A bientot!

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.

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.