Lundi 13th Septembre
Well, well and, if you will, well. Les Blogs Français have made a triumphant post- (mid-) pandemic return! After a lengthy absence which admittedly, despite my 2018 predictions, was not entirely down to Brexit, I am once again sitting down to bash out another blog bourguignon – the sole Breton blog of 2018 proving but a passing phase. Yes indeed, it is fair Burgundy were once again we lay our scene. Northern Burgundy, admittedly, a decent poke away from our habitual Côte-d’Or territory, but Burgundy nevertheless!
But wait, we get ahead of ourselves – first we’ve actually got to get to the darn place, and this will involve your narrator visiting his very first ‘airport’ since October 2019 – i.e. just before a Chinese fella woke up with an overwhelming but ill-fated hankering for a fillet of bat…
It was at Clapham Junction where I met my traveling companions for the voyage – L’Aigle and Moan of Arc – now both wearing wedding rings, proving that my writings are not completely devoid of character development. One train ride and a Corona-prompted vigil at check-in later, and we are skipping around the World Duty Free with stars (well, whiskies) in our eyes. Here I buy a bottle of ‘The Chita’, chiefly as I feared L’Aigle’s own whisky purchase would taste of burning soil, but also because I purchased the very same bottle back in October 2019, the last time the duty was free for Ol’ Tom. We then rushed down a beer (/ beer and a half) and a spot of grub, before we hustled aboard our ‘Vueling’ plane, just as the gate was closing.
The flight was agreeably uneventful – not a bad short-haul carrier, Vueling, truth be told, though maybe this was down to the plane being fabulously empty. We are picked up at Paris Orly but a short while later by The Old Man, and away we drive towards distant Sens. The Old Man (wrongly) fears that we’ll run out of diesel ‘at any moment’, and we stop a few hundred yards from the supermaché to get ripped off by a mustachioed petrol slinger who has seen us coming. At said supermaché, just as L’Aigle had loudly and repeatedly predicted, there was ample diesel fuel at rock bottom prices. L’Aigle, in fairness to the bloke, celebrates his profound rightness by buying up half the shop.
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, back in the midst of the proceeding decade. It is always good, as I may well have mentioned before, ‘to listen and bear witness to one’s own eloquence, to learn from it, and use it to keep oneself grounded and humble’. That the same wise man also noted that ‘were you to liquidize egalité, fraternité and the other one, put it in a small glass bottle and charge through the nose for it, it would surely taste like Orangina’ proves this point still further. I therefore made ‘damned sure’ that plenty of that fine nectar was placed safely in the trolley.
Goodies and vittles thus secured, we later arrive in Voisines – a pleasant enough village, if a little short in the way of ‘shops’ or ‘anything useful or diverting’. It boasts one bar/café which never seems to open, and an exceptionally loud medieval church that gives it the big ‘un on the hour every hour – a cacophony which sends the local hounds completely spare, adding a fine canine layer to the village’s singular din.
The house which we’ve rented, very much adjacent to said clamorous church, is equipped with a swimming pool, barbeque, somewhat curious interiors and an undeniable family feel, with 1970s toys and aging family photos being rather abundant. There’s even a signed letter from J.R.R Tolkein(‘s assistant) in the smallest garderobe – what more could one ask for? A bit more space, perhaps…it was potentially a bit smaller than planned, especially given that we’ll be up to seven burly adults for some nights…would we all fit? Only time would tell…
Anyhow, within these august environs, Si-moan de Beauvoir was nobly and hungrily holding the fort, awaiting the house chef (L’Aigle) to pitch up and get his fine ass to work. And work he did, firing up the BBQ and slapping down the steaks (alas, not the huge côtes de bouef we’d been looking at lovingly back at the shop) along with some sausages and some aubergines for Si-moan herself, who was still fitting a losing battle to be a vegan en France. The sun, there to greet us on our arrival, and even permitting a brief preprandial lounge by the pool then deserted us, and we fled under cover as epic and rolling thunderstorms begun to roar away. We played a few hands of cards before bed – and it seems I must have lost quite badly, as I was relegated to a narrow bed in the children’s nursery room (for now at least). Oh well, with the continental storms going like the clappers that night, I was never fated to get too much of the dreamless in any case…
Mardi 14th Septembre
Our first petit déjeuner of the trip was sourced from a middling-at-best bakery in Souchy, then munched down at HQ before we headed to Sens, to meet Argent and Plage Ensoleillé, who’d be joining the family party for a couple of Burgundian days.
Once we were fully quorate, we had the first of many beers in the aptly named Café de la Halle 100 Bieres, right on the main square by the cathedral. Making our way steadily through the proffered century, we note that nothing in any way useful seems to be open during a Gallic lunchtime. We then attempted to find somewhere for a late lunch, and realised that nothing in any useful was open post-lunchtime either. We therefore all slope back to ‘CdlH100B’ and their humble menu, just in time to order a chastened and last minute minute steak (and a non-vegan salad for the vegan).
Finally and fortunately sated, we wandered around the fabulous Sens cathedral for a wee while and then went outside to watch some French firemen do…something next to the cathedral…no real purpose, no water sprayed, lots of ladders extended; all very odd – perhaps just practising with a fancy new crane recently gifted by the mayor? Either way, they seemed to be enjoying themselves so we left them too it. While the other four drove back, me, Argent and Plage Ensoleillé were obliged to wait an age for one of the fourteen Sens taxi drivers to summon up the blood and deign to drive us across to Voisines. Eventually one was summoned (and exceptionally well paid for his troubles) and we were at last home, ready for relaxation.
The sun, happily, was now ‘out out’, so we try the pool (cold) and drink a few beers (also cold). L’Aigle has fired up the barbie in the meantime, and a frankly gargantuan amount of marinaded duck breast is soon flambéd. Lots of wine follows – the oddmakers once again taking a beating – then the duty-free whisky is breached, alongside (rather ghastly) cigars and (less ghastly) cards and games. All this, understandably, makes folks a little sleepy. The Old Man, never much one for Virginia Woolfing, turns down the offer of ‘a room of his own’ and rushes back upstairs to his quarters from the previous eve like a misunderstood teen. He sorely regrets this, however, as space constraints mean that I myself am forced to ‘crash’ with him (a good bit later) that eve. Neither of us sleep well that night.
Mercredi 15th Septembre
While The Old Man gave up the quest for further slumber mighty early the next morn, preferring to sit down in the kitchen, lamenting his lot – for the rest of us Wednesday started late. The rain has returned, so we opted against fighting the elements and took it nice and easy. Argent did threaten a run, but wiser heads prevailed.
Something must be achieved with our precious French day, we eventually conclude, so I drive Argent and Plage Ensoleillé over to a damn fine hypermaché the other side of Sens, to pick up more red wine (which had somehow vanished from our stocks) and a pre-dinner ‘cheese board’ – apparently a particular preoccupation of Plage. The sun comes out for our return, albeit briefly, so we eat and quaff outside. I, saintlike, abstain on the (b)rosé. I’m on driving duty today, alas; but I suppose it’s always better to get one’s ‘round in’ early doors – much like in ‘da club’, people are always more likely to remember your sweet, preemptive sacrifice and reward you warmly later on.
Accordingly, I ferry the folks out (in two trips) to the outskirts of Sens and a well-reviewed restaurant named Le (Fresh Prince of) Martin Bel’air. They turn The Old Man, Moan of Arc and L’Aigle away at the door (for French reasons) so they go off to La Bar Celtic without cash for a free round of small beers. Second and first carloads then reconvene at the restaurant, fashionably late for our reservation, thereby ‘showing them’. The food is fantastic, one has to say: I had a beef tartare as big as une tête de bébé, followed by some rather excellent cod (dory being the choice for the fancier folks). Argent, sharing no chromosomes with Si-moan de Beauvoir, risks her wrath by ordering frois-gras. He doesn’t regret it. I try some in secret. It’s delicious.
After the food is enjoyed and the not insubstantial fare paid, The Old Man bails out to a (seemingly closed) hotel on the way back to the homestead – being far too wise/cowardly (delete as appropriate) to risk a second night in a row with this particular bedfellow. Has to clamber over a wall to gain ingress, and loses prized umbrella in so doing, but he doubtless considers it a price worth paying. I then completed a second trip for the youngsters left behind, who I find roaming the streets, carousing, begging and singing ribald ditties.
Back at the house, I take my inevitable reward for good-blokery in the form of many wines and superior cigars, attempting to catch up the others in the indulgence stakes. There are then some cards, some Carcasonne, then more spacious slumber. High times, high times, high times indeed.
Jeudi 16th Septembre
Wouldn’t you just know it, but it’s another lazy morning for us…Argent excepted, who both swims and runs before the sun hits the yard arm, curse him. Once I’ve had my cup of English breakfast, I then take said Argent, along with Plage Ensoleillé, back to Sens, where we meet The Old Man for a coffee/small beer/fond goodbye at the old faithful, CdlH100B. The pair then take a train to Paris, where further feasting awaits them, while The Old Man and I, health-conscious to a fault, have a large salad and then hit up the excellent boulangerie on the town square.
The sun is very much out now, so we remaining few make the very most of it. A game of petanque on the village’s bespoke boules courts, with large amounts of (b)rosé sounded just the ticket, and so it proved…even if The Old Man was narrowly victorious over the vigorous youth. ‘Scenes’ as they say. ‘Absolute scenes’.
I then finally start my huge book about both light and mirrors, while L’Aigle, as is his wont, cooks up a storm – this time a big ol’ ratatouille. More wines follow, along with an unnecessarily complex game called ‘Ticket to Ride’ which proves most controversial, but not by any means terrible.
I, at last, have claimed a decent room out in the annex and Si-moan de Beauvoir, quite rightly, is now relegated to the children’s room. Is the moral arc of the holiday at last bending towards justice? Quite possibly. Nevertheless, my sleep, I’m afraid to say, is fitful, troubled as it was by curious and prescient dreams of idiot British bureaucrats…
Vendredi 17th Septembre
At last, a productive morning: I finally booked an inane ‘Day #2 test’ from a drive-in test centre up in Warrington (wherever that is) just so I have something, anything, to put on Her Majesty’s Government’s asinine ‘passenger locator form’. I also start writing this nonsense – so yes, a productive, yet undeniably pointless morning.
While I was bitching about the internet and the forms she contained, Moan of Arc and The Old Man went and found the best boulangerie yet, from a packed quarter of (yes, you’ve guessed it) Sens. They bring back fine fair, including a wildly alcoholic panettone style thingy. L’Aigle was then forced grunting and farting from his pit in order to make the 12.30 ‘shuttle’ to Chablis, and we drive for an hour through villages much prettier than our own, with wine country on the distant horizon.
Once there, we drop off a cranky and ravenous L’Aigle (with the ever-enabling Moan of Arc) to find a late lunch, while the rest of us go and park la voiture very much in the wrong place – the ‘William Fevre’ winemakers owning more than the one property in this fine little town, it seems. We’re escorted across Chablis by a helpful, if a little irritable, WF employee in a Citron, and find that the other two have found a sunny courtyard right next door to the assigned spot for wine-tasting. Sequestered there in Le Bistrot des Grands Crus, don’t cha know, they have ordered themselves expensive dishes, as is their wont, alongside a very nice bottle of Chablis, just to ease us into proceedings.
A few yards down the road then we went, so see this Billy F. chap and ask about his wines. It turns out he (or she – they might just self-identify as a William) sold many a vintage, and the ever-helpful fella behind the counter let us taste a fabulous percentage of the stock to hand. We were interrupted briefly by some friendly Danes, prompting something of a Faulty Towers interaction with The Old Man:
‘Aha, English! We Danes and the English have always gotten on well’
‘Not in the mid-900s.’
‘Ah. Yes, sorry about that…’
An apology for the Danegeld finally exacted, The Old Man then went and bought a celebratory box of the good stuff. L’Aigle, not to be outdone, purchased a full mixed case – though this did include two for me from an old pal who, on these pages, has gone by many names: The Satsuma, The WWG, El Peor Novio del Mundo) – it’s all the same coat, and what a fine coat of many colours he is too.
So yes, many a victory was won over the future forces of thirst and sobriety. Such was the generosity of the William Fevre fella doing the tasting, in fact, he threw in two extra bottles ‘for free’ – including, of all things, a rare local sauvignon blanc, ‘for the ladies’.
Time for a final Chablis beer in the warm Chablis sun, then Si-moan de Beauvoir, freshly insured on the motor and ‘taking one for the team’ today, drove us all back nice and slowly to HQ (via the fabulous Carrefour I’d visited on Wednesday, so we could pick up strictly necessary ‘supplies’). L’Aigle, ever the chef supreme, fancied some coq au vin that evening, so that, not entirely coincidentally, was what he purchased and what he made.
Given the labours of the day, it did not prove quite as boozy a Friday night as it might have been. Additionally, horror of Covid-related horrors, a few of the party were now feeling a little under the weather, The Old Man chief amongst them…and with our Gallic ‘Rona tests tomorrow booked for the next day and all…
Did this bode? It may well have boded. I, made of stern and manly stuff, was fine, however – and L’Aigle’s ailments were strictly those of his own indulgent making, so the pair of us stayed up late, playing the pestilential train game and sampling conservative amounts of the new Chablis stocks.
Samedi 18th & Dimanche 19th Septembre
The final full French day of our most pleasant French stay is nigh! Accordingly, we have a table booked at Au Crieur de Vin in Sens, potentially for a last supper (well, last lunch) before at least a handful of our number are heaved off towards the Covid bastille…
Troops assembled, we drive across to the bright lights of the ‘big’ city – stopping en route to retrieve The Old Man’s prodigal umbrella, which has somehow turned up, covered in cheap cologne. And once we reached our destination, following the occasional wrong turn and muttered aside, one is happy to report that Au Crieur de Vin is a triumph! Despite being superbly busy and somewhat under-/inexpertly staffed, it really did prove a lunch to end at least a good few lunches: Starting with an impossible to define ‘beefy foam’ entré, the main is a sensational chicken dish that surmounted even L’Aigle’s mighty offering the previous evening (both of these were the daily ‘inspirations’ from the head chef – an inspiration we wisely followed). A classic chocolate bomb offering exploded for desert, and it was all bookended by a couple of clever amuse-bouches which amused a fella greatly. All in all, seriously fine.
The Old Man, however, didn’t seem to enjoy it nearly as much. He lamented the glacial (but charming) service from the sole pair of waiters (one old and overburdened, the other – potentially his son – clearly cosmically useless) and chuntered away all the while, pausing only to fill his hungry maw. His day of Corona judgement loomed large, you see – and he had already found himself guilty of premeditated and aggravated ‘Rona, dooming himself to the Covid gallows. ‘It’s just a cold,’ said we, but he wasn’t having a bar of it…busy rewriting his will and jotting terrible, tear-sodden poetry on restaurant napkins.
Bill paid and au revoirs au revoired, we strode like true Britons across town to face the music; music that was being played down a back alley behind a pharmacy, within obvious earshot of the fell Sens bells which tolled away, potentially for us. A nurse there threw small sticks up our nostrils with a sadistic and almost arousing fury, giggling like a milkmaid all the while. We then went at sat at our usual spot – ‘CdlH100B’ – to enjoy the sun, drink some beers, and await our fate…
Si-moan de Beauvoir, then Moan of Arc, then myself, then Moan of Arc again – we all got the emails – all clear! We breathed again.
Nothing, however, was forthcoming for L’Aigle and nothing for The Old Man. The time tick, ticked away and small rivulets of condensation ran from our warming beers, drip dripping into the wooden slats of the outdoor table. Around us patrons chattered and ate, but silence gripped a section of our own little gathering.
Eventually, never much of a stoic, The Old Man could bear it no longer, and he marched into the pharmacy, demanding an immediate release from this medical purgatory. At last, he returned, a stay of execution held tight in his hand – his test was negative, despite all evidence to the contrary! If the nose swab don’t fit, you must acquit, as they (don’t) say. L’Aigle was also given the all-clear, but he’d already known that, not ever being a bird given over too easily to undue worry.
A celebratory trip to the boulangerie was in order, and then back home for yet more unnecessary online bureaucracy, a bit more petanque, and a spirited attempt to drink and eat all the remaining vittles in the house. Tomorrow morning, we ride – and it wouldn’t do to leave good men (that is to say, good wine and cheese) behind.
*
A restless slumber, some final packing and away we hasten. Dropping off L’Aigle at Sens train station, The Old Man runs over his foot, just for old time’s sake – as it wouldn’t really be a proper jaunt on the continent without some automotive idiocy on his part. He’d clearly aimed to get both me and L’Aigle, but fortunately I had proved too nimble to be trapped beneath his wheel. Very much for the best, I’d say – as writing blogs with a liquefied pied distracting you all the while doesn’t sound much fun to me.
Anyhow, with our chef supreme now limping off to catch a train to Stratford via Paris (in many ways the Stratford of the Île de France) all there was for us four to do was drive and drive and drive some more. Did they check our lovingly curated online Covid papers once we’d reached the channel? Did they hell. But the French blokes did, eventually, let us claim our VAT back for the eighteen bottles of wine we’d stashed in the boot…albeit after making us jump through a few more customarily Gallic hoops.
But ah well, friends, ah well: if that’s not as close to a Brexity success story that you’re likely to read on these pages, then I’m really not sure what is! ‘Believe in Britain’, I say, and away from Calais, letting the shackles of our once free movement fall heavily upon the Folkestone floor!
T.H. Mansfield 