Nous sommes arrivés (2016. I)
With the pound plumbing new depths, Article 50 strolling around London kicking unsuspecting coves in the castanets, and the delightful Mrs May marching towards Downing Street, the Old Man and I think the best course of action is to flee the country for a spell in la belle France (trans: French campanology). We therefore steal my mother’s hideous Vauxhall, pack up our troubles in the proverbial kitbag and do one via Dover Port.
We get there at some ungodly hour yet still, of course, miss our ferry. This was mostly due to the Old Man picking the longest, slowest lanes at the dock with the practised hand of the true connoisseur (trans: to provide a gentleman with an informal cognac). Once on the ferry we are surprised to find no fewer than 530 Americans, all garbed in blue windbreakers. It turns out they are the state band/choir/assorted hangers-on for the great State of Minnesota. I go around saying a friendly ‘Go Vikings’ to the whole battalion, to mixed/negative responses. Perhaps it was still a little early for sports-based bonhomie (trans: ‘good boy, who’s a good boy then?’).
The drive south was long and mostly uneventful. Every so often the French government would stop us and shake us down for ‘toll money’. I guess that’s what happens when the socialists take over – be warned Corbynistas, la belle will toll for you as well.
[My word that was a combination of frightfully poor jokes…one can only apologise…moving swiftly on…]
One incident of note took place in a French service station, where one gentleman, clearly a long-standing fan of the European Union, decided it was high time to reverse into the side of our good, British car. Unfortunately for him, being a continental he had strapped two velos (trans: ‘velo, velo, velo, what’s all this then?’) to his boot, which proceeded to smash straight through his rear windscreen.
The Old Man, with remarkable patience and quite serviceable French, got out to do battle. He kept shaking his head and repeating “Vous ne regardez pas…vous ne regardez pas” and adopted the tone of a frustrated matron who had returned to the playroom to find her young charge had filled his kegs with shit, right up to the belt. We explained to the fellow that, try as he might, it is simply not possible for a gentleman to strike other gentleman with the side of his motor. As he had done the reversing and “nous sommes arreté”, he was, as we say outside the EU, bang to rights. The fact that he would not accept this clear reasoning was a credit to his proud nation.
Also at this particular aìre (trans: quintessential French affectedness) I purchased and quaffed my first Orangina of the trip. One has not truly arrived in France until one has skulled an Orangina. 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.
[Coincidentally, should anyone who works for Orangina be reading this, my blog is still currently without a sponsor.]
After an age and a day we make it to a very pleasant little village in Burgundy called Soussey-sur-Brionne. I am not sure who Soussey was or how they knew Brionne, but what goes without saying is that they got on splendidly. Here we are staying in an old converted farmhouse, seemingly untouched since we joined the EEC and Common Market (sighs… pours another glass of red).
We are renting said pad from a fellow called Mungo Lockhart. We have yet to meet Mr. Lockhart, and I am fully of the opinion that the reason for this is that he does not actually exist. Rather, he is a character from a P.G. Wodehouse novel who flogs fortnights in delightful, cluttered Burgundian farmhouses online as a way of paying off sizable gambling debts to Bertie Wooster following a ‘corking boat race night’. We shall have to, as they say, wait and see.
That evening we somehow manage to squeeze into position A1 at the nearest town’s one and only sports bar (imaginatively called ‘Le Sporting’) to watch France’s heroic one-nil loss to a bog-average Portuguese side. The whole of the Stade de France was seemingly covered in locusts – proof if proof were needed that Hollande’s nefarious plan to construct vast public works using enslaved Israelites was getting the bird from the Almighty. I am told later that these are moths, not locusts, and that I should not talk about Hollande’s nefarious plan to construct vast public works using enslaved Israelites.
The beers are very small and all the establishment offers a weary traveller in terms of nourishment is either a croque monsieur or “sausage” and chips. I opt for the former, the “sausages” looking quite sensationally ghastly. I don’t know who Mr Croque is, but you can tell him from me that he makes a damn good cheese-on-toast.
The whole village has turned up and the atmosphere is jovial. Everyone knows literally everyone, and plenty of Burgundian kisses are planted on plenty of Burgundian cheeks. No-one kisses my cheek, which is a shame I felt, and probably because 52% of us Brits voted to leave the EU. There were a couple of lasses there who I thought should really know that I was among the 48%, but in the end I held my tongue – mostly because, upon a second glance, they were seventeen at the very most.
France dominate the game and manage not to score. Payet at one point early doors kicks Ronaldo exceptionally hard – so hard, in fact, that after plenty of treatment and a few Portuguese tears, he has to be stretchered off. Payet wanders up to the stretcher, smoking a Gauloise cigarette and wearing a trilby. “Stay out of East London” he suggests, knocking ash onto Ronaldo’s beautiful, hideous face.
Later on a good goal is scored by a Portuguese substitute called Eder, which is French for ‘header’, somewhat ironic as he used his foot. The crowd in the bar are somewhat disquieted by this. We beat a hasty retreat before the topic of EU membership comes up again.
*
Once home I hit the sack and grab myself a good eleven hours of the dreamless. The following morning we return to town to find a supermarché (trans: a group exercise which Jeremy Corbyn feels is a fine substitute for a functioning political opposition). There are plenty of sad faces around. As Brits, who have been victorious in 100% of our major association football cup finals, we can sympathise but not empathise with their plight. They really might have considered scoring a goal or two.
The smell of a French supermarket is quite unmistakable and not nearly as bad as you think it is. As we wander the aisles it also strikes me that as one gets older the roles between parent and child become more and more reversed. It is now me, the son, who pushes the trolley and he, the Old Man, who runs around in an excited trance, grabbing item after item. Soon there is a preponderance of cheese and wine in the shopping cart. Hoping to keep us from catching scurvy I toss in a few speculative apples, but they are soon buried under rich strata of pate and variouscharcuterie (trans: final evolution of the Pokémon ‘Charmander’ in the French-language version of the famous computer game).
On the drive back home the Old Man pulls not one but two monumentally illegal manouevers: The first is a swift U-turn to go visit a previously missed boulangerie (trans: fancy bras, but for a gentleman’s testicles) , as he feels the two baguettes in the boot are simply not sufficient. [NB: there are only two of us on this trip until Moan of Arc and L’Aigle arrive later in the piece. The man simply loves his bread.]
The second is an emergency stop combined with fifty yard reverse down a country road after he believed, erroneously, the bird sitting in a nearby field is something more interesting than a buzzard smoking a Gauloise. It should be noted at this point that the Old Man is quite the ornithologist (trans: twitcher) and has always been quite happy to risk the neck of his firstborn in order to gaze upon something feathered.
Much to his delight when we return to the homestead there is an arrogant woodpecker bouncing around the lawn, ignoring the trees and sticking two fingers up to nominative determinism. He looks at us, suggests we casse-toi (trans:…um, go ask your mother) and flies off. The heavens then open and we dash inside. The weather was sensational yesterday and this is most dispiriting. I’m not sure how, but my guess is that it is something to do with us leaving the EU.
The inclement weather gives us ample time to get on with some work. I settle down to do a spot of writing, but then decide that actually the Mansfield belly is getting a little extensive and some exercise is in order. I take a handy ab-roller and give it a go, tearing every single one of my stomach muscles on the very first ‘roll’.
Now my old friend Andthesea would no doubt suggest that “that’s the fookin’ point you fookin’ pussy, get up and do ten more” but he is made of sterner stuff than I. Instead I crawl weeping to my keyboard and decide, on a whim, to write a pretty damn inconsequential blog post. There may be more coming in the next week or two. In any case, a bientôt (trans: good head) my friends, and may God save Archchancellor May!
Rien à déclarer (2016. II)
As the elegantly French title of this post suggests, there really is little to report since the last post. We’ve drunk lots of wine, mostly good. We’ve eaten many a meal, again, mostly good. On one occasion I jumped into the pool, but then leapt back out again. I have yet to summon up the courage to go back in to retrieve my testicles, which instantly froze clean off and clanged to the bottom like two wrought iron maracas.
The region is undoubtedly a beautiful one, with lush valleys and pretty little villages. I have looked at a medieval chapel on a hill. I have gazed upon a medieval hospice in a town. I have surveyed a local chateaux and guessed that it perhaps dated back to the medieval period, though I have no idea why. The sun has gotten progressively more bullish and all has been well.
There are a couple of uncommonly large rabbits which frequent our lawn. Every so often the male one will attempt to do what rabbits do, but I do not feel his heart is in it.
I have done quite a lot of writing. Sadly I am now at that stage many authors come to periodically, where I am quite convinced that my ‘stuff’ is utter bobbins. Fortunately there is still much wine.
We caught a large gerbil-type creature in our kitchen attempting to make off with our hard-earned foodstuffs. We gave him two-days without the option in a small metal cage then released him three miles away. He has not returned, proving the rehabilitative powers of a decent bit of ‘bird’.
L’Aigle and Moan of Arc will be arriving tomorrow, so perhaps they will attempt to interrupt the pleasant, lazy routine The Old Man and I have perfected this past week. Hopefully we might catch a rat tonight. I feel dear old Moan would appreciate that.
Oh, lastly we met Mungo, our landlord. He is, in fact, real, not a Wodehousian creation as some cretin once suggested. He and his wife had us around for drinks, and we were informed that his ancestor used to run India and that another of his forebears was a fellow called Oliver Cromwell. He was more keen to talk about the India chappie.
All in all they seemed good sorts and at one point Mungo attempted to flog The Old Man the whole estate. Perhaps he assumed that the Mansfields also used to govern sub-continental nations. We didn’t, for the record. Not even Sri Lanka.
Et maintenant, la fin est proche (2016. III)
With two new hands on the metaphorical deck, the sheer quantities of wine being drunk have reached biblical proportions. A veritable red sea of the stuff has been quaffed, every cup of potential water miraculously replaced by something more grape-based. We are told by a wine merchant fellow that Burgundy wines contain no sugar so they give no hangovers. However, we have strived keenly to prove the fellow wrong.
L’Aigle is, in his own, friendly manner, a mad wee bastard. He somehow manages to spend a good portion of his first day or two in the arctic waters of the pool. He is kind enough to retrieve my ice-clad testicles from the floor of said pool, but then only agrees to return them to me if I play umpteen-million hours of boules with him (pun not necessarily intended).
[FUN FACT: The game boules is sometimes called ‘pétanque’, but only when played using early-twentieth century tanks. This variation requires a great deal more space and heavy ordinance, so is more regularly played in this part of the world by the Germans.]
We find old Mungo’s golf clubs and invent a new game where you take a beach towel and lay it somewhere in the house’s (large) garden, and then attempt to fire golf balls onto it from increasingly improbable angles. L’Aigle, bless him, has limited control over his motor functions and regularly belts the balls into adjoining fields/the swimming ball/Moan of Arc. I, on the other hand, remain undefeated over the whole week. It seems that without my pendulous bollocks weighing me down I am quite the natural sportsman. I therefore decide to lob them back into the pool and live as a eunuch, planning to join the PGA tour upon my return.
*
We are somewhat less slothful this week and visit a few of the nearby towns. At one point we get a little carried away and purchase some very fancy Côte-d’Or wines. The Old Man seals his up in a box, which I offer to stash at my flat while he is back in China. He makes me promise not to drink them and I agree to this. (And who says that lying never works, my friends? Lying is fantastic. As soon as his airplane takes to the skies they are dead bottles walking.)
On one particularly balmy jour français, we drive cross-country for the best part of an hour to reach a town the Mansfield clan had not visited in two decades. Only when we get there does The Old Man remember that the place he was thinking of is actually in the Dordogne.
[FUN FACT: The Dordogne is the best part of 500km from, that is to say ‘nowhere-bloody-near’, Burgundy.]
If I was not already firm in my resolution to drink all The Old Man’s fine wine, this exercise in senility would certainly have pushed me across the line.
Just before we pack the car and head back to Albion we manage to catch not one, but two additional gerbil-rat thingies. We have neither the time nor the inclination to drive off into the deep wild to release them as before, so content ourselves by freeing them on the other side of the garden. As soon as the trap opens the little buggers peg it out of the cage, back across the lawn and up into the eaves of the house, rendering our great, final hunt somewhat pointless. We reflect, however, that this is now someone else’s (i.e. Mungo’s) problem – for it is time to race up to Calais and catch us a ferry.
*
Fortunately for us, all the widely-reported trouble at Dover is coming from north to south, as it were. Driving away from the port we sail past thousands of poor souls trapped in their automobiles as the gridlock extends up the A2 from Dover deep into Kent. It is certainly understandable that the French wish to up the rigour of their border security in the light of recent, tragic events. What is less understandable is why they decided, in order to do this, they should only send one solitary fellow over to check the cars, trucks and passports of innumerable holidaymakers and long-haulers. One imagines that it has something to do with Brexit. Everything seems to be, these days.
So, overall, a very pleasant fortnight indeed. A gentle medley of cheese and wine and relaxation, of wine and sunshine and wine, of rodents and bread and wine and wine and writing and wine. There was the occasional beer as well for good measure. And there was also wine.
Many thanks to those of you who read and enjoyed these incidental fripperies. Why not try rereading them and attempting to go drink for drink with us, in the manner of the potentially fatal ‘Withnail and I Drinking Game’? I suggest that you might first pop to Oddbins, however, for you shall, almost certainly, need to buy some wine.
Un retour bourguignon (2017)
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 uswere 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…
Un blog Bretange (2018)
Given that March ’19 will see the #willofthepeople satiated at last, with our borders tightly closed and the beauteous ‘garden county’ of Kent turned into the globe’s largest parking lot, now is surely as good a time as any to venture (for perhaps the final time) into la belle France, to sup on French whatsits and gaze upon French thingamajigs.
Venturing dangerously from the well-trodden path, however, The Old Man, on this occasion, opted for Brittany not Burgundy as our destination française. Why, one does not know. ‘Tis not for the likes of us to delve into the dark recesses of that cavernous, inexplicable mind. Either way, ’twas towards Nantes, not Dijon, that I flew to out of Dublin on the Lundi – the third separate flight I’d managed to book out of that fair city, but that’s a story for another time…
The weekend past had been a pretty fruity one – a three-day wedding binge over in South Dublin and picturesque Enniskerry – so a fella was feeling ever-so-slightly fragile as mon avion touched down at Nantes and I breezed through some pleasantly lackadaisical Gallic security. I felt a wee bit more chipper, however, when I met the Old Man, Si-Moan de Beauvoir and Cousin Abercrombie, who were waiting for me just outside the arrivals gate, cheering my name and waving homemade placards.
This warm feeling of familial bonhomie was short-lived, however, as once we’d shoved the Mansfield bag into the boot of The Old Man’s Audi and once three-quarters of our party had successfully gotten into said deutsche car, The Old Man promptly ran over Si-Moan de Beauvoir’s foot.
This, as can readily be imagined, did not go down well at all – neither did his decision, in the midst of the understandable yelling and caterwauling which had ensued, to neither move the motor forwards nor backwards, but simply to leave the dratted vehicle parked square upon Si-Moan’s big toe.
Eventually I forced him bodily to ‘Reverse the bloody thing, you sheep-faced fugitive from hell!’ and a shocked, irate sister was able to limp into the car (uttering various Chaucerian swearwords in the direction of her weak-witted father as she did so).
Once we’d all concluded that, while liquefied, the toe would probably not require amputation, we managed to escape the labyrinthine Nantes parking lot and make our way to the beautiful town of Vannes for dinner, en route back to Lorient, where we would be laying our heads this trip. We ate at a popular, colourful joint called ‘Le Coq & Folks’, which leant itself easily to jests and served up very tasty fare indeed: I thoroughly enjoyed some salmon ceviche, followed by some very fine cod and some good local cheeses; Cousin Abercrombie opted to eat his entire body weight in moules, which, curiously, he shelled to a man woman and mussel using the carcass of one of their number as organic ‘pincers’ before devouring the whole lot en masse by the fistful. Eye-opening stuff, truly.
My benefice knowing no bounds, I stood us a round of post-meal glaces from a nearby ice-cream slinger, and we wandered around the adjacent quay (well, three of us wandered, one of us limped and cursed) before heading back to the car, getting pleasantly lost along various cobbled streets. After gingerly hopping into the automobile – ensuring that The Old Man was a good five yards from the driver’s seat before we did so – we all cruised back to our rented homestead in Lorient. Being a trifle wrecked, I marched straight to my apportioned quarters and, despite the close, pressing heat of the evening, fell straight into a dreamless slumber.
*
Mardi matin proved to be a leisurely one, beginning with croissants the size of a baby’s head for breakfast and including a thorough explore of the idiosyncratic mansion in which we now resided. Clearly a dwelling for Bretons of an older vintage in the very recent past, the furniture, legion as it was, was chiefly of a very high quality; the artwork which adorned the walls, however, was frankly bizarre – ancient oil paintings of diabolic wee kiddies, black and white photographs of random, severe nuns, ceramic ducks, odd self-portraits and many an assorted charity shop-style knockoff abounded. Much of the meat of the house, as it were, was taken up by an over-sized, sweeping staircase, polished to within an inch of its life, and the bathrooms couldn’t have been more seventies if they had been fitted by ABBA themselves. The kitchen and garden, however, were top-notch, and it was here that we spent the majority of our time, getting outside good bread and cheese, and drinking those moreish little lager beers they are so partial to out here.
In an attempt to be somewhat productive, I began writing up a selection of belated Shanghai blogs from earlier in the year, before knocking that lark on the head sharpish and accompanying the others on a jaunt out to a Chesil Beach-style headland for some sand and sun (The Old Man, inveterate twitcher that he is, went bird-watching instead). After a sunny age, during which Cousin Abercrombie, Si-Moan and I had invented two sports: competitive rock stacking and quick-fire pebble pétanque, The Old Man returned and we shuffled along to the very end of the spit, where we wandered around the small village of Gâvres and sunk a beer at the imaginatively named ‘La Taverne’.
Back at HQ, Cousin Abercrombie and I cooked up a veritable steak storm, to be eaten al fresco with some rather good wines. Si-Moan, showing rare good sense, had left her veganism back in Suffolk for a few days, and while she could not be tempted by the fillet, did rustle up some very fine potato salads and other vegetarian side dishes to accompany the fine flesh.
During the cooking process, however, I smelt burning:
‘Akk, what’s burning?’ asked I.
‘Your hand’s on fire,’ noted Cousin Abercrombie.
‘No time for silliness, squire, something’s getting charred!’
‘No, seriously, you’ve set fire to your oven glove.’
‘Nonsense, I…wait a tick, my hand’s on fire!’
‘Nothing gets past you mate…’
‘I should probably run screaming to the sink, eh?’
‘Certainly couldn’t hurt.’
Flames eventually doused, comestibles thoroughly ‘comested’ and our tissues thus restored, we all played a few rounds of ‘Cards Against Humanity’ – The Old Man, to our shock and delight, played an absolutely filthy game of CAH, but I still managed to secure a famous victory; Si-Moan de Beauvoir crying foul at every juncture, but to no avail.
*
The Old Man, as is his wont when en vacances, was up with the Mercredi lark to go ‘birding’, en route to picking up Moan of Arc from Nantes Airport. The remaining trio got down to various toils and schemes at the house, Cousin Abercrombie, for example, having various ,voracious English students roaring at him from all corners of the internet for his Anglophone wisdom and instruction.
Once Moan arrived – and after she had provided us with an extended, accurate critique of how ‘weird as’ our holiday home was – we all enjoyed a sunny afternoon together at said madcap pile. Cousin Abercrombie and I, much to our sorrow, managed to break our ball upon the rose-thorns, but following this tragedy I finallyfinished and published the aforementioned long-overdue selection of Shanghai/Borneo blogs – and, as they say, one cannot make an omelette without breaking a few plastic yellow footballs from the local supermarché.
But where, my friends, to dinner? Answer: Le Vivier in Lomner, down past Ploemeur and right by the seafront, where we all guzzled a fabulous, fishy dinner by the bay. My choices (that is to say, the correct choices) were the tuna tartare first up, then the lobster & apple tartin, and then grilled brill with miniature clams (puddings and/or desserts, I feel, in these kind of set-ups, being solely for suckers – especially when there are multiple starters to be had). Some kind of crab/melon melange and a cheeky selection of petit-fours rounded off a seriously fine feed indeed – fancy, aye, but delicious all the same.
*
Another morning, another fine breakfast. While breaking said fast the idea of a Jeudi trip to a nearby island was mooted as we pored over a map of the area, seeking out ‘the craic’. However, this idea was then discarded, after it turned out that there is simply ‘tap all’ to do out there most weekdays and that the ferry servicing it was slower than a recalcitrant sloth with three gammy legs.
Instead, we cooked up a lovely lunch à maison of eggs, sausages, bread and various salads, then headed off to Fort Bloque (pronounced, by me at least, as Fort Bloke) and Guidel-Plages for some sunbathing, bird-watching and other beach-based jollities. The Old Man found himself a likely looking nature reserve and was lost to the world for a prolonged spell, during which Cousin Abercrombie and I attempted some ‘bouldering’ on the beach’s cliffs, to very little avail, as said cliffs were made not of stone but earth, and routinely threw us back onto the course sands, large portions of seemingly ‘safe’ handholds still held tight in our fists.
Once The Old Man eventually returned to sender, we dusted the sand from our collective feet and grabbed a round or two of drinks, crepes and ice creams at Les Pieds dans l’Eau over in Guidel (though not before The Old Man had taught the French a thing or two in ‘parking like a fourteen year old Dutch girl).
We then sourced a massive amount of cheese and bread at a local supermarket and beat it back to the mansion, where said fromage et pain was dispatched with great prejudice and where further hands of cards were played (by all) and lost (chiefly by me). The Old Man, toning down the filth by at most 10%, put together a untouchable run of CAH, leaving Moan of Arc blushing like a nymph startled while bathing; Si-Moan de Beauvoir, however – usually cursed with exclusively poor luck at the card table – proved nigh-on bulletproof at whist, though once the 3.80 EUR bottles of Alsatian wine began to take their toll normal service began to be resumed. Safe to say, many a beer et beaucoup de verre de vin met their end that night.
*
I rise a wee bit earlier than might be considered typical and help The Old Man pick up the Vendredi pastries and drop off the impressive collection of empties we’d accrued over the past few days. Just as we returned to the homestead and to the refreshed and rising troops, it began to tip down with rain with serious gusto. In response, I start typing up my latest French blog post – the blog post, in fact, wot you are currently reading, me old mucker – and spend some time watching The Old Man refuse to be beaten by the elements: sheltering under a sodden parasol, reading a moistened book and drinking a rain-diluted lager, he displayed all the symptoms, one must admit, of mild-to-middling derangement.
Outdoor excursions therefore put on hold for a spell, we opt to use up the rest of the edibles and throw together a varied, mishmash luncheon, washed down with the final bottle of wine – described by various parties as ‘dusty’, ‘heavy’, ‘corked not corking’, and ‘shite’.
Eventually, the weather remaining stubbornly ‘pants’, we set out regardless into the midst of the maelstrom, back to charming Vannes for an evening’s soggy festivities. We start things off in a very drippy Le Gambetta, dodging water droplets the size of quail eggs and feeling particularly sorry for a large, depressed looking wolfhound which seemed to act as an uncanny magnet for every leak and drip going spare. Next was ‘Daily Gourmond’ across the quay, where we had a swift half and a fabulous baked camembert, but which we had to leave as they offered n’a pas des moules, if you’ll excuse the française risible, and Moan of Arc, you see, wanted her some mussels.
Lastly then, and despite them technically offering a lassie no moules neither, we had our main bit of grub and a bottle of curious white wine at L’Atlantique. Moan and I both ordered the seafood marinade – which, praise be, did include the odd mussel or two – and a selection of high-level ices to finish rounded things off nicely.
[A point of note, I’d managed, somehow, to navigate this entire crawl without slipping the Mansfield hand once into the Mansfield pocket – nothing short of a miracle, considering the famous parsimony of my splendid sisters. I began, however, to sniff a rat. Tomorrow – that is to say, Saturday 28th July, 2018 – would see us all driving back eastwards… and the French are famously capitalistic when it comes to their best highways… In short, ‘thar be tolls in them thar hills’ – and the smart money, given the Friday evening’s record and what I know of my nearest and dearest, would be on ol’ Tom payin’ them all.]
Back then, through the weakening rain, to HQ for a final tidy, a final glass of dodgy vin rouge, and a final type-up of all and sundry wot’s been occurin’ over the last handful of Brittany days. I hope you’ve appreciated reading it all as much as we’ve appreciated…er…experiencing it all. Who knows – say ‘Brexit’ doesn’t go as phenomenally poorly as it probably will; say Mrs May finds a little courage and common-sense deep in her knicker drawer; say Johnson, Rees-Mogg et al perish in a happy conflagration – perhaps…perhaps then, dear reader, there might be future French trips and future blogs française for us all to enjoy. But until then, my friends, this is sadly not au revoir; this is, and it breaks my heart to say it, goodbye!
Un retour bourginon – encore! (2021)
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!
Un grand (blog) de Merusault
Vendredi 9th Septembre
Another blog bourguigon? Ah, mister ambassador, truly you are spoiling us!
But why not, eh? Why Ever Not. The mind-melting temperatures of the European summer have now faded into comfortable clemency. The ancient vines lie there freshly picked and the wine sits snug in Burgundian bottles, just waiting for right-thinking Englishmen to get in their cars, point ’em south and drive.
So yes, we leave gentle Freckenham for climes Francais, the very morning after Good Queen Bess has brought a sensational innings to an august close, and the whole country is plunged into deep and in no way performative mourning. The Old Man and I saunter down to Redhill – devoid, before you ask, of vermilion promontories, scarlet hillocks and even so much as a humble maroon knoll – to pick up Si-Moan de Beauvoir, now of Woking (nine to five, not a way to make a living). The famous Channel Tunnel is ever-so-slightly delayed for us, but no matter, mourners such as we are in no real rush. Accordingly, we have time to wolf down an unprepossessing but actually very edible cooked breakfast, then head underground for a brief spell beneath the brave bobbing boat bashers of Suella (nee Priti).
Once up and across in (ever glorious) France, we shoot down the ol’ Rue d’Anglais towards delightful Reims, where we would be breaking our southerly march that evening. Stopping only in St Quentin (I’m sick to death of you) for some unpatriotically cheap gazole and ever-so-British ice creams in the teeming rain, we made this ‘sacral city’ in double-quick time.
Finding our mystery parking spot was hindered by several cultural misunderstandings, but eventually we switch off the old internal combustion and access our light and airy chambers – three good-sized rooms and elegant, comfortable living quarters. This flat was the THM contribution towards the holiday accommodation, so I’d slammed down the additional twenty (seventeen) Airbnb dollars and said ‘make it so’.
Dinner then, at the Bistro d’Anges – a hostelry L’Aigle, Argent and I had once visited while hanging like absolute hounds, earlier in the year. An excellent bottle of (inevitably) local champagne was drunk and toasts ‘a la reine’ and ‘au roi’ were made. We wolfed down various French foods, all while being regaled by the anglophile proprietor regarding his previous life in the fabulous west end of distant Londres. We then enjoy a champagne-y digestif on the main square, overlooked by the sensational Reims Cathedral, lit up like a vast, gothic dream against a thundery French sky. The heavens open and clouds roar, just as we make it back to the flat and hit the proverbial hay.
Samedi 10th Septembre
South then, south I say: An easy drive down smooth, open roads. Before heading into numinous Mersault, we stop in my happy place – that is to say, the Nuit St Georges Carrefour. There I dropped many a happy franc on vittles and affordable wines, getting the crew well-stocked (for the moment at least).
Into Mersault we go, driving through the beautiful, albeit offputtingly narrow, streets, to meet with ‘Nadia’ of the Charles V hotel/wine bottlers/general good things conglomerate. She books us in for one of her own wine-tastings on Mardi then shows us to our new and sprawling Mersault HQ. Mr Nadia is there out back, tending to a very pleasant pool looking over, of course, vines upon vines upon vines.
The property itself is a strange creation – an old farmhouse sitting on the southernmost edge of the village, wrapped around a small stone courtyard that traps the sun like a noose. I’m planted in a converted ‘mini-barn’, backing onto a much larger, unused barn around the same size as the eccentrically arranged ‘main house’ – the upstairs bedrooms of which can only be accessed via the courtyard. The kitchen, that is to say, the most important chamber of the whole dang chateau, is large, light and well-appointed, and between my garret and the main building sits a covered section of smoke-darkened real estate, complete with a large wooden table and quaintly old-fashioned barbeque, fated to be well-used by the end of the week.
We crack open a bottle of the common-garden Charles V white – very, very nice, especially when enjoyed by a pool complete with stingray robot thing that’s partial to spray the unsuspecting with rare and mischievous humour. A quick feast on cheese and ham, then The Old Man and I are taught ‘Catan’ by Si-Moan, who never seemed happy in her work but whose natural talent for the game was already shining through. A spot more wine, then off to bed and accompanying cheese dreams.
Dimanche 11th Septembre
L’Aigle et Moan of Arc arrive in Lyon at lunchtime so, noble ferrymen that we are, we hop back in la voiture and motor down the trusty A26 (‘but I haven’t seen A1-25 yet!’). At the city’s eccentrically designed aeroport, we pick up this pair, laden now with an unborn bairn, rather than much other carry-on luggage, and into la centre we hasten.
This was my first time in France’s third largest and second most celebrated city, and what I saw I liked. Spacious avenues and lofty rows of neat, French buildings, with the occasional unnecessarily massive parade ground and hilltop basilica. There’s no time for any real sightseeing that this juncture, however, for we all have a hunger, and we head instead to ‘Rue Mercière’, where significant restaurant choice paralysis sets in. In the end we opt for an outdoor spot at the popular ‘Mozzato’, which – just for a modicum of variety – focuses on (Italian) cheese dishes. One by one though we wilt in the fierce sun, retreating into the cowardly shade, cheese in hand.
L’Aigle is then keen to wander across the Rhone (or was it the Saone?) to visit the ancient Roman amphitheatre. This involved much walking uphill, which enraged les Sœurs Moans – as did the fact we forewent the funicular railway, which was very much there for the riding. We did take it back down, however, post-culture and post-multiple mini tantrums. A slow and sleepy drive back north to Wine Country then followed, with multiple changes of somnolent chauffeur. Wines and snacks were the order of the evening, and The Old Man was roped into a second Catan-ing in two days, after the labours of the day had worn down the Moans, for L’Aigle and Ineeded grist for the board game mill. He did not win – but doubtless learned many a valuable lesson.
Lundi 12th Septembre
Lazy day – at least, for those of us who weren’t L’toiling Aigle. Pool times, wine times, reading books of varying quality – all the good, holiday things. At one point Moan of Arc and I roused ourselves sufficiently to head to the local supermarché for further fine things, and L’Aigle popped round the corner to the local chàteau – while on a work call, of course – to pick up a trio of very exciting looking wines.
Once L’Aigle finally extracted himself from The World of Business, the great pentaque rivalry is rejoined, down on the uneven but personality-rich pitch at the foot of the garden. Wines are attempted, and succeeded, either side of a fine BBQ for dinner – one conducted in the dark, as the outside lighting seemed to attract a swarm of friendly wasps. The wood-fired feast was a great triumph, if one does say so oneself, with lamb steaks, Toulouse sausages and curious turkey kebabs that may or may not have been properly cooked. Si-Moan feasted on flame-licked vegetables, as is her curious wont.
This particular evening, no grist could be found, so L’Aigle and I ventured across France to fabled Carcassonne, while we tidied up the wines like the well-brought up fellas we are. And then, as they say, to bed, and some scarcely-earned (for this writer at least) rest.
Mardi 13th Septembre
Mardi proved a day when we all looked to be garcons de la ville – even the girls – with varying levels of what one might call ‘success’. Things started relatively well, with a somewhat ruinous butchers trip and then short jaunt around the main drag with L’Aigle et Moan of Arc, in preparation for guests (guests!) coming tomorrow. Matters then improved still further, when we headed over to Charles V HQ for an excellent wine tasting put on by Nadia of Belgium. Despite the sun only just going over the ol’ yard arm, the measures and selections were generous indeed, and the vintages very much ‘on point’ – and unsurprsingly this was all followed by some judicious and necessary purchases.
We then enjoyed some pool times until the sporadic rains arrive, before then braving said sporadic rains in a spectacularly unsuccessful attempt to get some dinner in town. In the end, poor leadership and (imagined) choice paralysis results in us returning home empty-handed (or empty-stomached) to mange the (assumedly famous) bird L’Aigle (no relation) had purchased for tomorrow at eye-watering expense. It was, however, quite expertly cooked in some sub-par demi-sec by the befeathered one. Crisis averted, the evening ends happily, back in Catan.
Mercredi 14th Septembre
Another morning trip to la bouchere, this time for the Old Man, and this time during a quite sensational thunderstorm that damn near flattened the place. My humble barn-based abode sprung not one, but two sizeable leaks – one very much in the smallest ‘room’ and very much as I was making good use of it. However, the rest of the property seemed to survive the onslaught pretty much intact.
Man like Thor having now toddled off for a spell, George and Jill Assam arrive in budding sunshine, and I hit up the BBQ once more, again to far from insignificant effect, with sausages, pork steaks and very succulent bavettes-cum-sirloins the order(s) of the day. How much the smiling lady-butcher took the Old Man for when he purchased these beauties, quite simply doesn’t bear thinking about. But only the best for the Chai Lattes, they being very old friends of the family from eons past.
Loving Mother Sun is now officially back with a passion, so we lounge by the pool and then play some molkky – with yours truly stumbling over the line in the singles, but those famous Lapsang Souchongs triumphing in the pairs round. It seems my eccentric skill cannot be constrained by so-called ‘teamwork’.
After we bid Earl and Lady Grey a warm goodbye, and with the gallons of wine we (well, some of us) had consumed beginning to take their toll, the rest of the afternoon and evening were somewhat lethargic. Some games, some grazing, some gentle sipping, then relatively early nights were the order of this particular evening. All for the better, as tomorrow L’Aigle would at last be able to fly free.
Jeudi 15th Septembre
I wake at a reasonable hour and wander into town to purchase some rudiments for rustic soup making. The end result seems something of a hit, once certain folks have been persuaded into eating something somewhat wholesome…
Wine tastings in the afternoon were attempted, though the Château de Meursault proved wildly expensive and the Domaine Jean Monnier et Fils was open only for pre-bookings. At the latter spot, the ‘Fils’ proved a lot less personable than Monnier Snr. had proved back in 2016, when we first visited this same spot. Like rouge, bleu, but not, in this instance, blanc, this lad was on a spectrum or another and no mistakin’… didn’t even enjoy my Jurgen Klopp jests, the spoon.
Regardless, instead of overpriced formal tastings, once the necessary purchases had been made, L’Aigle and I conducted our own, personalised tasting at La Place, drinking a couple of their exceptionally reasonably priced 1er Cru out in the sunshine, which had proved victorious after a series of violent bouts with unwelcome rainstorms. How many working folks’ spots in the UK might boast 1er Cru by the glass? Not so many, I might wager, were it not for my eternal fear of ‘talking Britain down’.
Back to HQ and a spot of petanque, watched eagerly by the aged gentleman who lives next door, who was clearly mightily impressed. We then got changed for a ‘fancy’ meal round the corner at Au Fil du Clos – an exceptional eatery which wowed all comers, be it with beef bourignon, snails and bacon, filets of hake and beef, and even a selection of top-rate vegetarian options for S-M de B. Top, if you will (and I know you will) hole.
Back home, we enjoy the final bottle of the trip – a cut-price but high-quality Mon(t)rachet purchased by L’Aigle that very afternoon, after my poverty-sharpened eye spotted the tell-tale yellow sticker of value. As lovely as it was, there followed a broken and troubled night’s sleep for yours truly, as my liver filed for divorce, citing ill-use.
Vendredi 16th Septembre
L’Aigle et Moan of Arc have to head back to Blighty for not one, but two weddings, so are dropped off at Beaune to find themselves a slow train down to Lyon, then a fast plane over to Londres. Alas, their journey is fated to be ill-fated, but let us leave their cruel travails for another tale and another day – this, after all, is a happy account; comedy not tragedy. Weep not for L’Aigle et Moan, for they, much like your one’s boats beating back endlessly against the shore, are past now.
And happy were we, the remaining three, you see, for would you believe it but we’re invited round this fine, fine day to Domaine Alain Zorninger, a small wine-makers right next door to HQ, owned and run by Alain, the petanque aficionado from the day before! The Old Man and he had hit it off, so over we went and down into his sprawling cellars, to enjoy a history lesson of significant interest which spanned several half-remembered languages, and to enjoy (x2) a few of his choice vintages – despite the protestations of my liver. We were kind enough to take a few bottles off his hands at the end of the personal tour, bringing up our total haul to ‘a truckload’.
Desperate to at least pretend to be moderately healthy, I run twice around the vines, reminding the battered frame the meaning of a least one of ‘cardio’ and/or ‘vascular’. Almost dying, I then draw and take a lazy bath, seeing out much of the afternoon beneath the suds, as a gentle pottering ennui descended on our final hours within this fabulous Meursault abode. And what is left to do, dear reader? Well, for starters, vingt et une bouteilles need to be secreted away to various bottle banks to hide our shame, then bags must be packed and Burgundian dreams put away for another year at least.
There’s time enough, however, for one final barbeque, cooking up the remnants of The Old Man’s mighty haul from Wednesday, along with all those other victuals that must be victimised. The coals take their sweet time to warm, so it is dark as the tomb by the time we’re done, the stars above twinkling a fond and Gallic goodbye.
Samedi 17th Septembre
An early start and a long, long drive ahead – no Reims-based stop-off for these seasoned travellers on the way back north. And a good job we did leave in (aggressively) early time – for a little way past Paris one of the trusty automobile’s tyres, having spent far too long in France, decided to go on strike. No matter how much air we pumped into the damn thing, it really wasn’t having… a bar of it. On we limped, however, battered and bruised but with our hearts full of faith, catching our tunnel by the proverbial whisker.
And that brings us to a conclusion, my friends. Ah, Burgundy, what a place. Now to start lobbying The Old Man in persona and in print that really, when one thinks about it, Mersault is the only place to which a gentleman of taste and standing might retire…
T.H. Mansfield 