Like a murderer to the scene of the crime, or an old hound to its festering pile of doggy vomit, we have returned, inevitably, ashamedly, to France, and to the Côte d’Or.

Now I know what you are no doubt thinking, dear reader. You are no doubt thinking – ‘Oi, T.H. you swine, The People didn’t go and vote Brexit so you and your lot could bloody-well go buggerin’ orf to that Europe they’ve got down there!’

These would be a fine and fair and irrevocably British thoughts, and you would be right to have them. However, my counter-point would be the following: ‘But we have severe, severe cheese addictions.’

Still, ‘We’ve got cheese here!’ you might rage, and rightly. As the erstwhile Justice Minister and future Nobel laureate, Liz Truss, so famously lamented, “We import two-thirds of our cheese: that is a disgrace!” Hence our collective shame in returning Burgundy-way: We could have driven long and steady across land and water to Cheddar (Som.), Stilton (Cambs.) or even Wensleydale (North Yorks.). Then we might have been pure. Then we might have been patriots. But we did not. That is not our story. Those were not the paths we trod.

So, instead, we dusted off our disgracefully red passports and headed down to Dover, for the second time in less than a year. When I say ‘we’, at this point the travelling party was made up of L’Aigle, myself and Si-Moan de Beauvoir, me youngest sister (not to be confused with Moan of Arc, me middle sister, who shall enter the fray at a later date). The Old Man and Katzenjammer would be arriving on the morrow, and at its fullest our number would be six.

Yes indeed, a round half-dozen; a fifty percent increase on last year’s cohort. Sequels are traditionally bigger and baggier than their predecessors, and ours is no different. Let us hope, dear friends, that this ‘difficult second album’ of a holiday meets with positive reviews, and manages to slip on by with nary a bust-up…

*

A wise man once noted that ‘the smell of a French supermarket is quite unmistakable and not nearly as bad as you think it is’. That wise man, was, of course, me, one year ago, almost to the day. It is always good, I feel, to listen and bear witness to one’s own eloquence, to learn from it, and use it to keep oneself grounded and humble.

The drive down had been a long one. Following an unfeasibly early start we’d arrived at Dover Port at an unfathomably early hour, where L’Aigle and I leant our prodigious intellects to the key issue of, ‘How the bloody blazes are we to watch the 3rd Lions Test?!’

Luck, that sweet, chimeral princess, was, that morning, very much in our corner, holding the rag and spittoon. It only took the swiftest reccy around the ferry to find an upstanding Welshman, perhaps his late fifties or early sixties, who was in possession of a functioning tablet device, replete with signal and rugby ‘rugger’ union. This was a development most fine indeed, and L’Aigle and I promptly invited ourselves into his little party, sourced ourselves some eye-wateringly expensive teas, and sat down to watch one of the most serviceable draws rugby football has yet known. That the referee, a Frenchman, opted to ‘bottle it’ and hand this favourable result to the British & Irish boys augured well, we felt, for the remainder of our sojourn.

Sport watched, Si-Moan found and ferry docked, we proceeded to drive. Radio 4 Long-wave, carrying as it does the heavenly tones of TMS and the always indispensable Shipping Forecast, forces its way a decent distance down into central France, and, as such, our drive, whilst undeniably long, was not an unpleasant one. Eventually, deep into Burgundian territory, we left the toll roads for leafier, less grasping routes – and it was just off one of these that we found our market and began to acquire our vittles.

So, my friends, back to le supermarché français (mentioned, you remember, at the beginning of this ramble). Orangina – a prerequisite for all continental doings – was first on the list, closely followed by myriad cheeses, hard and soft.

Young Si-Moan de Beauvoir, trying as always, gawd-bless-her, to be as tiresome as is humanly possible, is currently both a vegan and on a ‘carb-free diet’. Fortunately the Carrefour we’d found included a small garden centre built-in, so we sourced a nice spot of mulch and soil for her to chew upon, along with a tasty pot of geraniums and assorted, vitamin-rich mosses. L’Aigle and I, more omnivorous, opted for steak, bread and garlic.

From marketplace to rented homestead was but a jump, skip and Gallic hop. Accordingly, we got wildly, wildly lost amongst the lovely yet interchangeable French villages which nestled themselves amongst the unending Côte d’Or vines. L’Aigle’s ‘Googlemap’ sent us to one village; my own ‘Applemap’ sent us to another. Neither, it scarcely needs to be said, were the village we required.

Eventually, upon our second visit to a tiny hamlet named Marey-Les-Fussey (named, famously, after a lass called Mary, particularly particular with the food she consumed; and not to be confused with the nearby village of Fussey, which we also visited twice during our drawn-out searchings) we spotted the recently renamed and unmapped rue we desired. And there, tucked behind some unnecessary black gates, stood the house The Old Man had rented. It looked good. It looked very, very good.

Once parked up we were immediately set upon by Marc and Sylvie, our landlords for the week. I uttered a few French pleasantries, which gave them the exceptionally false impression that I speak and understand their wonderful but unintelligible tongue. They therefore dragged me all around the property, showing off this and that, explaining that and this – all of which soared over my weary head like a babbling, Francophone goshawk (more on this fellow later).

That they were garrulous and friendly would have scarce been a problem, had I not been, at that time, utterly, utterly ravenous. I am not sure if you’ve noticed, but if one has been a decent stretch between meals – as I had that eve, vittles during our journey being insubstantial at best – one’s patience is not always at its most extensive. That Marc and Sylvie went on and on and on, unceasingly French, as I stood mere yards from the stove and our laden shopping bags…well my friends, it was truly, for old T.H. the thirteenth labour of Hercules.

Marc, a fine, true soul all things considered, perhaps mistook by suffering for thirst, for he dashed away for a moment and returned with a local bottle of red as a welcoming present. This did, in fact, brighten me no end, and I began to feel new level of bonhomie towards this talkative pair…until, that is, Sylvie took advantage of my exhausted, hunger-addled state and stung me for an additional 600€ deposit. Yes my friends, ’twas indeed le bon gendarme, mauvais gendarme trick – an oldie but a goodie. I paid the money, wept a little, then drank the wine.

L’Aigle, true Briton that he is, had sensed my struggle, and while I sorted what needed to be sorted and signed my young life away, he was busying himself in the kitchen, cooking up the finest garlic flank and mustarded potatoes the world has yet known. The landlords now finally sated and sent away, we sat out, at last, upon the terrace, feasting on the food of the gods and looking over the most wonderful vista of vineyards, trees and the Burgundian skies of late eventide. Well…two of us were feasting thus…

“How’s the moss, sweet sister?” I asked Si-Moan brightly, drinking Marc’s wine and starting to feel a wee bit more human.

“Moral,” she grunted, choking down her geraniums and glaring at the bloodied remains of my steak. “You know that that poor cow you’re eating probably never even…”

“Peace, de Beauvoir, peace, I beg! Have some potato salad…”

“I can’t! Mayonnaise has eggs in it.”

“Oh does it now?” asked L’Aigle in his carefree baritone. He was looking a little interrogatively at the darkening skies, the merest hint of a frown upon his brow.

“Er…yeah, L’Aigle! It’s like the main ingredient!”

“Well I’m sure the eggs in this mayonnaise were laid by contented, Gauloise-smoking hens!” I posited, pushing the bowl of potatoes towards Si-Moan.

“Storm’s a-brewing…” muttered L’Aigle.

“Not half! I believe young de Beauvoir here is coming in off her long run…”

“Well even if they were treated nicely, all the boy hens get killed at birth!” raged the sibling. She was, I guessed, not without a semblance of accuracy, attempting to get herself wound up into the righteous, rage-fuelled state necessary to swallow the quote-unquote ‘foodstuffs’ which sat, sadly, upon her plate. “You’re both accessories to mass-murder!” she proclaimed.

“Yep, storm’s definitely on its way…”

“Well, let’s toast to their young sacrifice then!” I cried. “To the wee, male chicks!” I raised my goblet to the angry, purple skies.

CRRRAAAASSHHH!!

“Aaaghh!”

“Bugger me sideways!”

“Told you so…”

The storm, a furious bastard of a tempest, rolled in swiftly and vociferously, rain now teeming down and lightning crashing about the place like an unruly stag-do in a low-end Wetherspoons. Accordingly, we put our debate on hold and fled into the house, where we watched the unfolding downpour for a while. Then, the day’s miles and fatigue taking their toll, we all began to wander to our rooms, keen to grab ourselves some early, if thunder-filled, nights.

*

The crew woke up at a, shall we say, leisurely hour, before sorting ourselves out and making for Dijon, where we would be meeting The Old Man and Katzenjammer, arriving on the ‘express’ from Paris. Si-Moan de Beauvoir was at the wheel, driving quite superbly slowly through the villages and vineyards, towns and fields, and then, almost imperceptibly, through the southern reaches of the city itself.

Fortunately, given the glacial pace of Si-Moan’s piloting, the Sunday train from Paris was a good hour or so late, so we arrived just in time to meet them at the platform, heave their bags into the motor, then go seek out a likely spot for a spot o’ lunch. Once in place at a serviceable establishment, we were treated to the entertaining sight of The Old Man refusing to speak anything but French to our somewhat lugubrious waiter while, simultaneously, our somewhat lugubrious w. exclusively replied in en anglais.

With both key players refusing to speak their own mother tongues, ordering took a wee bit longer than it might’ve – but once the food arrived all became instantly well. They really do know their way around the kitchen, do the Burgundians, and even Si-Moan de Beauvoir, she of the impossible culinary requirements, found herself well catered-for.

I forewent dispassionately the (very fine) wines at the restaurant, as I was fated to drive back to the house. I therefore put the hammer down, as they say, and raced back to Marey-Les-Fussey post-lunch, only losing my way once or twice before screeching to a halt in the driveway then dashing for the homestead and the grapey booze within, mine by right.

Thusly sated, I proposed a game of pétanque on the bespoke gravel boules pitch not twenty yards from the house. (Please see a previous post, Et maintenant, la fin est proche…, for additional information about this game of games). This was a jovial contest which rapidly developed into an epic, hotly contested series, one which saw alliances made and dashed, sons turn upon fathers and fathers attempt to turn upon sons, but then miss by several feet and curse loudly and bitterly.

Wandering off to lick his figurative pétanque wounds, L’Aigle found himself, serendipitously, back in the kitchen. French supermarkets, we remembered too late, close early on Sundays (if they open at all), so the cupboards were much barer than one might’ve hoped. However, L’Aigle, deep in mid-season form, was still very much able to cook the people up a tasty, if lighter meal, hitting each and every serving very much from the middle of the bat, if you will permit a fellow to mix his sporting metaphors. More wines then flowed, then hay was hit. A fine, fine day, all told.

*

The next morning The Old Man set out early to purchase some necessities and, upon his return, we enjoyed a tip-top breakfast of all sorts of quality French nonsense. The breaking of our fast was spoiled only by Si-Moan de Beauvoir objecting at length to the consumption of honey, due, one gathers, to the psychiatric bills faced by uninsured bees, following the grand theft of their sweet, sticky wealth. Her objections were, of course, dismissed out of hand – but that, it seemed, only meant they increased in volume and hyperbole.

Following this, The Old Man, poor bugger, was dragged out for a cycle ride by Katzenjammer. He seemed displeased by this turn of events, but, looking around, he saw none were much inclined to aid him in his plight, so he met his cruel fate like the stoic he is. L’Aigle and I, on the other hand, explored the village and surrounding vineyards at a much more leisurely pace. It really is a glorious part of the world, and if you get the chance to walk its paths and gulleys, you really, truly must.

All through the sojourn so far, The Old Man had spoken reverentially of the rare and misanthropic goshawk, apparently local to the area, though very, very rarely seen. He had spotted their kind in the Far East before, but never in Europe and, while he still kept a wee flame of faith burning, he concluded it highly unlikely that one would be seen on this trip.

Imagine, therefore, the astonishment of L’Aigle and myself as we, during our jaunt between the vines, spotted a large French goshawk in his mid-to late teens, perched on a post, smoking a cigarette which, it would transpire, to no-one’s great surprise, was very much of the Gauloise variety.

“Hail Goshawk, well met!” says I.

“Casse-toi,” he suggested, giving us the once over and looking rather uninspired.

“Well, that’s not particularly friendly,” noted L’Aigle.

“Et va te faire foutre aussi…”

“I say! What a mean spirited, featherly little bugger you are!” I exclaimed. I am not sure you’ve been verbally abused by a continental bird of prey before, but if you have you’ll know that it cuts one mighty deep.

The hawk rolled its mighty eyes, stubbed out the butt of his cigarette with its talons then flew away, offering nothing more to the conversation. Despite his unconscionable rudeness, on the wing he was an utterly glorious sight, his juvenile brown beginning to give way to that lighter underbelly which would mark him superior to one’s run-of-the-mill sparrow-hawks. In short, a ‘top top’ bird.

“Beautiful bastard,” I noted, watching him fly away. “Mouth like a guttersnipe, but still.”

“I’m thirsty,” noted L’Aigle.

“Aye, moi aussi, let’s go home.”

Back at the place, beers and wines and G&Ts in hand, the pétanque series recommences. I begin to edge ahead overall, though, oddly,  whenever L’Aigle and I play mano-a-mano he whoops me good and proper. Come the evening the boules are laid down and a search party is sent out for a.) meat for the BBQ, and b.) Moan of Arc – who, it transpired, at that point languished at Dijon Ville train station, having arrived that eve from Munich.

Splendidly, she is found and is brought back safely to the castle, yet the rains again descend in serious earnest, and we are obliged to cook up our own storm beneath the eaves. That night we drink anything with the misfortune to resemble wine as winds howl and rain hammers down. The half dozen is complete and we are replete, and soon it is time to retire, for all is drunk and all is well.

*

If memory serves, I was told by a wine merchant fellow last time we were around these parts that, as Burgundy wines contain no sugar, they dole out no hangovers the morning after whatsoever. And, against all the odds, this proved delightfully true the following morn.

Yet another top breakfast was munched into nothingness…and not too long after that another top lunch. The pétanque series reaches fever pitch, The Old Man coming back strong and L’Aigle beginning to show his class. Si-Moan de Beauvoir also begins to get the hang of it and, little by little, I am dragged from my pinnacle and rubbed in the boules court gravel, mewling like an infant at a poker table, twice done-over by an unkind river.

Four of us (all sans sisters Moan and Si-Moan) cycle that afternoon to a nearby village (with only half of the team getting lost en route), where we completely fail to find the restaurant we seek. Instead, that evening we strike out to the nearest town, Nuit-Saint-Georges – named, infamously, by the settlement’s lady foundress many centuries ago, in tribute to an evening of passion she spent with England’s own St. George, during his pan-European post-dragon speaking tour.

Despite it being a Tuesday, available tables at decent restaurants are limited, so we find a serviceable bar on the main square for a few drinks and send L’Aigle off to work his Saxon charms. Before too long, he has somehow secured an excellent table at a nearby eatery, where enjoy a very ‘decent’ Burgundian dinner indeed:

The first course, l’escargot, was very fine. The main course, coq au vin, was even better. Sadly all, for me, was let down by sorbet, of all things, being served at the last instead of ice cream, as promised. Our waiter, a tattooed, scarred fellow with an eye-patch and two missing fingers, did not think much of my complaints, preferring to ignore me while leaning against the wall, picking his remaining fingernails with an eight inch, serrated blade and not even having the decency to look bashful.

It takes, one reflects, all sorts to make a world. But why oh why does said world have to include bastard fruity sorbets?

*

My final day (and final breakfast) arrives – I am back off to Blighty and honest toil, a few days earlier than the rest of the crew. I slope around the place, enjoying the house a wee bit more, before packing my humble belongings in the old kit bag, feeling a little maudlin.

Leaving Si-Moan de Beauvoir to guard the fort (something she is more than happy to do, having had more than her fill of mine and The Old Man’s nonsense), we head off to Dijon once again. This time we explore the city a mite more extensively, visiting lofty churches and purchasing various high quality mustards, or, as they call them there, moutarde (which sounds rude but isn’t).

The fell time then arrives, as I had known it would but had hoped it somehow would not. I have, lamentably, to catch me a train to Paris, then to London. The melancholy of our goodbyes is lessened by my childish glee at my train having two stories – double-decker trains can warm even the saddest and weariest of English hearts, you see.

I find my seat, sit down and crack open my laptop. The ‘holiday notes’ I had composed previously throughout the break I find fatuous and unintelligible, so I delete the whole dang thing and start afresh. As le train pulls away, I conjure up memories of cheese and ferries and wines and surly goshawks. I sigh, pause, sigh again, then begin to type…