 |
| Further to our previous blog, this shot sums things up nicely. the woman with the pink arm has just exited the Pharmacy loaded with free drugs (thats the plastic bag on the table) Before heading in the direction of the bar she makes a side trip to the Spar Store to pick up half a dozen packs of ciggies. She then headed for the bar and sits down next to us, immediately lights up a smoke and orders a rose. The barmaid in black brings out the drink, then sits down to have chat about the drug purchases. Old pink arm immediately offers the barmaid a ciggie which she gratefully accepts. .This scene is so much the norm its barely worth commenting on. As an aside check out the produce tester in the background. This guy was fast . It only took him five minutes to purchase his single potato and he didn't need any help in the process |
Thursday, 31 May 2012
We rest our case
The Daily Grind in La Garde Freinet
 |
| The Village. this shot was taken from our apartment which is about 900m away as the crow flies |
 |
| The village main street. The guy in white in front of us is the chef from the restaurant directly opposite, downing his nightly cassis prior to firing up his stoves. The chap in yellow is a a real character and the owner the restaurant with the orange umbrella. this guys is a real class act and knows how to work the punters as they stroll down the street. Guys,if you haven't already done so you really need to make time in your lives for this sort of experience. you won't regret it for one minute |
The Daily Grind in La Garde Freinet
There is no two ways about it . After spending a week in the village of La Garde Freinet one gets the feeling that this would be the ideal location to film the sequel to 'Groundhog Day'.
Around 6pm these last few evenings we plonk ourselves down under the awning of Le Petit Bar which is located in the middle of the village main street. This is about the hour where the residents realise that the lunchtime siesta is over and start venturing forth to do whatever before they get on with their next meal.
Three nights into this routine and you realise that each evening's activities is basically a full repeat of what went down the previous evening and on and on.
The village Mayor Jean-Jacques Courchet fronts up for a drink with the locals and any French speaking ex-pat who feels like chatting.
At some point in the piece the priest (attired in full battle gear) fronts up to each and every bar and restaurant to chew the fat with various parishioners.
Lots on kissing, hand shakes,the full routine.
Retired ex-pat Poms flood the bars, order endless numbers of beers, talk their heads off whilst appearing to be really enjoying themselves.
As for the locals, once seated they guard their single drink for hour upon hour and talk amongst themselves at a volume level one notch up from whispering.
This national mania for soft talking must play merry hell with the hard of hearing.
The grocery store with all the fruit and veg on display out the front has a continuous flow of villagers carefully assessing, squeezing, prodding, inspecting and then selecting their two potatoes or their three tomatoes for their evening cook up. You can see their cogs working.'Am I going to purchase one potato or go mad and have two?' Sometimes when leaving they stop to show friends their potato.'Take a look at this potato. What are your thoughts?'
Italian and Belgian house builders arrive en masse and attempt to drink the bars dry. Their boots covered in dust and still in their work clothes they swarm into our little bar laughing, joking and flirting with the staff and patrons then settle down in the back to a quiet rumble.
At around seven every night a good looking woman in her early forties ( who Julia has identified as the town whore ) arrives at our bar decked out in high heels, skin tight jeans and a see-through top that leaves nothing , but nothing to the imagination.
My feeling is that if you have got it you might as well flaunt it, and she does , in bucket loads.
Bar owners, their staff, and restaurant owners and staff all wander around to each others premises to have a good old natter whilst at the same time smoking up a storm. I'm now convinced that smoking is a condition of employment when it comes to French service industries.
Meanwhile old men and women stroll up and down the street, stopping at every eatery and bar for a chat while collecting their plastic bottle of water from the town fountain. There are always dogs working the street, children playing, the odd cat going from restaurant to restaurant and pigeons doing acrobatic fly-bys down the main run way.
Directly over the road from the bar is a Pharmacy which does a roaring trade . We were aware that the French are a nation of hypochondriacs however it's not until you have spent a few days plonked down directly opposite the front door of a Pharmacy that you really start to come to grips with what's going on here. These guys just love the place. As we sit swilling down another red endless stream of punters file through the front door of the Pharmacy and exit ten minutes later loaded to the gunnels. The proprietor must be making a small fortune. And that's one facility that doesn't close on the dot of seven. It's all free anyway with the wonderful French government catering for every Frenchman's sniff.
Julia tells me this ex-pat surge to Provence was accelerated by some English guy writing 'A Year In Provence' back in the eighties.
All I will say on this matter is that we will enjoy our week here and leave satisfied.
As to the thought of contemplating a longer stay in these parts, forget it.
We both agree that a move such as that would do our heads in.
Every day is just a repeat of what's gone before.
It's OK for us, as we lap up this lifestyle then simply fold our tent and move on.
In my opinion these beautiful southern French villages are locked in a time warp.
If you hang around one of these places for long enough you would become a basket case or worse.
Around 6pm these last few evenings we plonk ourselves down under the awning of Le Petit Bar which is located in the middle of the village main street. This is about the hour where the residents realise that the lunchtime siesta is over and start venturing forth to do whatever before they get on with their next meal.
Three nights into this routine and you realise that each evening's activities is basically a full repeat of what went down the previous evening and on and on.
The village Mayor Jean-Jacques Courchet fronts up for a drink with the locals and any French speaking ex-pat who feels like chatting.
At some point in the piece the priest (attired in full battle gear) fronts up to each and every bar and restaurant to chew the fat with various parishioners.
Lots on kissing, hand shakes,the full routine.
Retired ex-pat Poms flood the bars, order endless numbers of beers, talk their heads off whilst appearing to be really enjoying themselves.
As for the locals, once seated they guard their single drink for hour upon hour and talk amongst themselves at a volume level one notch up from whispering.
This national mania for soft talking must play merry hell with the hard of hearing.
The grocery store with all the fruit and veg on display out the front has a continuous flow of villagers carefully assessing, squeezing, prodding, inspecting and then selecting their two potatoes or their three tomatoes for their evening cook up. You can see their cogs working.'Am I going to purchase one potato or go mad and have two?' Sometimes when leaving they stop to show friends their potato.'Take a look at this potato. What are your thoughts?'
Italian and Belgian house builders arrive en masse and attempt to drink the bars dry. Their boots covered in dust and still in their work clothes they swarm into our little bar laughing, joking and flirting with the staff and patrons then settle down in the back to a quiet rumble.
At around seven every night a good looking woman in her early forties ( who Julia has identified as the town whore ) arrives at our bar decked out in high heels, skin tight jeans and a see-through top that leaves nothing , but nothing to the imagination.
My feeling is that if you have got it you might as well flaunt it, and she does , in bucket loads.
Bar owners, their staff, and restaurant owners and staff all wander around to each others premises to have a good old natter whilst at the same time smoking up a storm. I'm now convinced that smoking is a condition of employment when it comes to French service industries.
Meanwhile old men and women stroll up and down the street, stopping at every eatery and bar for a chat while collecting their plastic bottle of water from the town fountain. There are always dogs working the street, children playing, the odd cat going from restaurant to restaurant and pigeons doing acrobatic fly-bys down the main run way.
Directly over the road from the bar is a Pharmacy which does a roaring trade . We were aware that the French are a nation of hypochondriacs however it's not until you have spent a few days plonked down directly opposite the front door of a Pharmacy that you really start to come to grips with what's going on here. These guys just love the place. As we sit swilling down another red endless stream of punters file through the front door of the Pharmacy and exit ten minutes later loaded to the gunnels. The proprietor must be making a small fortune. And that's one facility that doesn't close on the dot of seven. It's all free anyway with the wonderful French government catering for every Frenchman's sniff.
Julia tells me this ex-pat surge to Provence was accelerated by some English guy writing 'A Year In Provence' back in the eighties.
All I will say on this matter is that we will enjoy our week here and leave satisfied.
As to the thought of contemplating a longer stay in these parts, forget it.
We both agree that a move such as that would do our heads in.
Every day is just a repeat of what's gone before.
It's OK for us, as we lap up this lifestyle then simply fold our tent and move on.
In my opinion these beautiful southern French villages are locked in a time warp.
If you hang around one of these places for long enough you would become a basket case or worse.
Tuesday, 29 May 2012
Saint Tropez
We were there once before maybe thirty years back with our friend Heinz.
Nothing has changed over the years.
Driving into this small beach town is a nightmare dodging, weaving and braking to avoid missiles coming at you. The hairy-chested middle aged Latharios with their parchment-skinned trophy-wives completely own these winding hillside roads. There are also ribbons of Kamikaze motor cyclists screaming past you taking risks on each turn then disappearing off into oblivion leaving just a whiff of fuel fume for us to suck on.
The town is full to overflowing with locals, tourists, the wealthy, those that aspire to a wealthy lifestyle, and yes ,a few down and outs (but not too many).
The sun beats down as two opposing factions strut their stuff.
Wandering along the quay side is a seemingly endless stream of gawking tourists (us included) who are just amazed by the sheer opulence of the floating gin palaces that are moored to the quay.
We are not talking a dozen or so super yachts here.There is floating wealth on show as far as the eye can see.
On the boats the various crews get on with their daily chores, completely oblivious to the hordes staring at them from a couple of metres away.
However, it's the body language of the yacht owners (and their cling on friends) that is of real interest.
The scenario is basically what you see when you call into a zoo and check out the monkey enclosure.
On one side are the tourists staring at the ship board monkeys all with the collective thought running through their brains along the lines of, 'why in hell has life dealt me such average cards on the money front? I would give my right arm to be reclining on one of those aft deck chairs right now, sucking down a pre lunch Bollie'. Oh well, I might as well walk over to the bar across the road and order a double expresso.
Meanwhile the rich and famous onboard (and their less affluent friends) are staring back at the tourists with a look of complete indifference on their faces.
We're not fooled for one minute.
We know damn well that these guys feel they have earned the right to look down at we plebs wandering around the quay in an aimless fashion.
I must say we enjoyed the whole spectacle and did our bit watching the watchers from the safety of a very nice brasserie.
And as for the yacht owners and those living in St Tropez, all I can say is that word of the world's economic problems haven't reached the ears of these privileged few.
These guys live in their own rarified time zone.
Do we want to go back to St Trpoez on any future sojourn to France?
Not in this lifetime.
It's all just a little too 'bling'to take seriously.
Sunday, 27 May 2012
It's Friday. It's fight night
 |
| One of El Lobo's victims (thats the one attached to the wall) |
 |
| The man himself. Nowadays he has changed camps and raises bulls in the vain hope that one of his stars will take down one of his former competitors |
 |
| I know, its not politically correct to admit one enjoys this stuff, however if we denied that it held a certain attraction we would be lying, and we can't have any of that |
 |
| Beemed in 24/7 from Spain. Its a bit like Sky's Rugby Channel, with just a little more mayhem and endless gore |
It's Friday. It's Fight Night
Last night in Arles. Friday nights in Christchurch and the punters watch rugby. It's league in Australia, soccer in the UK and boxing in the US. In some parts of South West France on Friday night there is only one game in town and it's all about gore, and lots of it at that. Down to the central area of the old city (The Forum) for drinks . As had been the case on previous nights our first port of call was a wine bar called The Toubadour.Charlie, the old Parisian who owns the bar has decorated the place as some kind of shrine to his recently retired Arlesian Matador son, the one and only self titled El Lobo. Apparently the son was the real deal and dealt to any number of bulls over the years, however politics play a big part when a Matador attempts to get into the big league in Spain, and regrettably El Lobo just couldn't get the breaks and saved face by way of early retirement back in 2005. (I bet a heap of Arles based bulls heaved a collective sigh of relief when they heard that news)
Julia and I went to a full on bull fight in the main Madrid bullring back in the late seventies. I remember walking away from that experience and swearing I would never watch another fight and yet here we are gulping down reds whilst night after night watching live fights beamed out onto Charlie's wide screen TV courtesy of some Spanish 24hr bull fighting channel. It's a weird experience watching a spectacle that should run against your principles. And the funny thing is, Charlie kept on telling Julia that the this spectacle pits man against bull. What a crock. By my reckoning when we had left the bar the score was Humans 12 and Bulls 0.
By the time we returned to our hotel we had agreed that we had seen enough fights for one night, so we called it quits and went to bed.
But just we were finally dropping off we were woken by hissing, screeching and spitting cats from the roof next door. This eventually died down and it was all quiet on the front so sleep took us over.
Then the main bout of the evening hit with avengence around 1130 when we were woken to the screams of a couple who live in the house next to our second floor room in the hotel.
And let me tell you this was the mother of all domestic disputes. Our best guess was that this epic altercation involved the senior male member of the household and either his wife or a daughter.
This was a take no prisoners epic. We figured out fairly early on that the guy must have thrown the woman out of the house then locked the front door.
This woman was not going quietly. She gave us more hissing and screeching like another moggy.
We are not talking mild mannered Kiwi type disputes here. This was fully blown Latino temperament in the extreme.
We were in a bit of a fix as outside it was still around thirty degrees so closing the double glazed windows simply wasn't an option as we would have been gasping for air in no time flat and the wooden shutters couldn't block out the racket.
Sleep was simply not an option so we just lay back and listened in as this drama unfolded.
Julia translated for me and the endless repeated lines of abuse appeared to be
"Bitch", "Bastard" , "You tell me" followed inevitably by "No, you tell me"
Questions and abuse followed by a return serve.
These attacks simply didn't move on.
Times passing, 1130, 1230 , 0130, 0230 and there is still no let up.
By this stage the woman has started slamming the street side window shutters in some kind of act of defiance .
The guy must have relented at this point as the argument moved indoors.
Too late , some angry neighbour had finally had enough and called the cops.
Now this is interesting territory. Our French friends and ex pats living in France have all told us that when it comes to the authorities you steer clear of the Gendarmes who have a reputation for acting first and asking questions later. The regular police on the other hand are regular guys and OK.
Down the street come three vehicles with blue lights flashing.
The scene below our window was pretty impressive.
I had hoped that we might see the Gendarmes in action and were a little dissapointed to see that they were only regular cops.
That aside, these cops proceeded to turn off their engines and then lined themselves up against the wall of a building opposite the target house.
Normal procedure, safety first.
At this point our room is flooded with blue light as was the street below now awash in blue.
The whole scene turned into one of deathly silence. The cops weren't saying a word, the on lookers were keeping their distance (that's us ) and staying mum.
Then on a signal these cops proceeded to open up the shutters of the downstairs windows of the targeted house and to flood the downstairs living area with light from half a dozen incredibly powerful torches.
And all the while no one is saying a word. This was all pretty dramatic stuff and was far more satisfying that sleep.
Then finally a cop knocks on the door with a large truncheon.
Out comes the male.
In a low and very threatening voice the cop lays down the law and finishes of with a "don't force me to come back and arrest all of you".
And that's that.
Until 0530 when this couple started round two and this time their dialogue was ferocious . Screaming! My God, a Hollywood actress wouldn't have been in the same league.
The end play was that the guy finally exploded. This level of anger must have clicked something inside the woman's brain as she then sprinted off down the street, all the while screaming at the top of her lungs.
Street theatre , there should be more of it!
It's just a pity that one has to wait around to nearly midnight before the first act takes place.
And as for the two hour intermission between three and five in the morning, I reckon someone should give serious thought to shortening the break to maybe ten minutes.
Cheers
Julia and I went to a full on bull fight in the main Madrid bullring back in the late seventies. I remember walking away from that experience and swearing I would never watch another fight and yet here we are gulping down reds whilst night after night watching live fights beamed out onto Charlie's wide screen TV courtesy of some Spanish 24hr bull fighting channel. It's a weird experience watching a spectacle that should run against your principles. And the funny thing is, Charlie kept on telling Julia that the this spectacle pits man against bull. What a crock. By my reckoning when we had left the bar the score was Humans 12 and Bulls 0.
By the time we returned to our hotel we had agreed that we had seen enough fights for one night, so we called it quits and went to bed.
But just we were finally dropping off we were woken by hissing, screeching and spitting cats from the roof next door. This eventually died down and it was all quiet on the front so sleep took us over.
Then the main bout of the evening hit with avengence around 1130 when we were woken to the screams of a couple who live in the house next to our second floor room in the hotel.
And let me tell you this was the mother of all domestic disputes. Our best guess was that this epic altercation involved the senior male member of the household and either his wife or a daughter.
This was a take no prisoners epic. We figured out fairly early on that the guy must have thrown the woman out of the house then locked the front door.
This woman was not going quietly. She gave us more hissing and screeching like another moggy.
We are not talking mild mannered Kiwi type disputes here. This was fully blown Latino temperament in the extreme.
We were in a bit of a fix as outside it was still around thirty degrees so closing the double glazed windows simply wasn't an option as we would have been gasping for air in no time flat and the wooden shutters couldn't block out the racket.
Sleep was simply not an option so we just lay back and listened in as this drama unfolded.
Julia translated for me and the endless repeated lines of abuse appeared to be
"Bitch", "Bastard" , "You tell me" followed inevitably by "No, you tell me"
Questions and abuse followed by a return serve.
These attacks simply didn't move on.
Times passing, 1130, 1230 , 0130, 0230 and there is still no let up.
By this stage the woman has started slamming the street side window shutters in some kind of act of defiance .
The guy must have relented at this point as the argument moved indoors.
Too late , some angry neighbour had finally had enough and called the cops.
Now this is interesting territory. Our French friends and ex pats living in France have all told us that when it comes to the authorities you steer clear of the Gendarmes who have a reputation for acting first and asking questions later. The regular police on the other hand are regular guys and OK.
Down the street come three vehicles with blue lights flashing.
The scene below our window was pretty impressive.
I had hoped that we might see the Gendarmes in action and were a little dissapointed to see that they were only regular cops.
That aside, these cops proceeded to turn off their engines and then lined themselves up against the wall of a building opposite the target house.
Normal procedure, safety first.
At this point our room is flooded with blue light as was the street below now awash in blue.
The whole scene turned into one of deathly silence. The cops weren't saying a word, the on lookers were keeping their distance (that's us ) and staying mum.
Then on a signal these cops proceeded to open up the shutters of the downstairs windows of the targeted house and to flood the downstairs living area with light from half a dozen incredibly powerful torches.
And all the while no one is saying a word. This was all pretty dramatic stuff and was far more satisfying that sleep.
Then finally a cop knocks on the door with a large truncheon.
Out comes the male.
In a low and very threatening voice the cop lays down the law and finishes of with a "don't force me to come back and arrest all of you".
And that's that.
Until 0530 when this couple started round two and this time their dialogue was ferocious . Screaming! My God, a Hollywood actress wouldn't have been in the same league.
The end play was that the guy finally exploded. This level of anger must have clicked something inside the woman's brain as she then sprinted off down the street, all the while screaming at the top of her lungs.
Street theatre , there should be more of it!
It's just a pity that one has to wait around to nearly midnight before the first act takes place.
And as for the two hour intermission between three and five in the morning, I reckon someone should give serious thought to shortening the break to maybe ten minutes.
Cheers
Friday, 25 May 2012
Arles, Jules, Vincent, Pablo and on and on
 |
| The former hospital of Arles where Van Gogh was a patient. He painted this exact scene (fair to say his painting had a lot more vibrance) |
 |
| Musee Reattu- Pablo didn't restrict himself to canvas. He designed these outfits for an opera |
 |
| Carrieres de Lumieres. What an amazing location for a light show, an ex limestone quarry. These caverns have had their walls smoothed out and you can now wander around and take in multiple (like heaps) of sixty foot projections thrown onto the walls. Seventy projections at a time accompanied by classical music. Very very impressive. a big tick for French culture |
 |
| Another famous Vincent shot, this time The Bridge Of Langlois. What the local maps don't tell you is that when you set out to see this disused lock, you need a cut lunch and a St Bernard. It's not exactly located next to the market square. That said it was worth the trek |
 |
| Big fan at Vincents favorite watering hole in Place du Forum. Whats notable about this shot is the complete absence of Japanese tourists . They were all over the cafe like an invasion of locusts . more about Japanese tour groups when I work up the courage to comment suffice to say.............nevermind |
 |
| Your round Vincent, and make it a double! (Is anyone going to tell him this stuff is a killer and encourages amateur surgery after downing a couple of bottles) |
Arles - Julius, Vincent, Pablo..and on and on
Checked into a great two star hotel in Arles, the Hotel Porte Camargue, sited just over the bridge and a ten minute walk from the really interesting historical central section of old Arles.
What a simply amazing city. There are two driving forces that make this a great place to peg out for a week. One, this is Roman History central when it comes to France and two,Vincent Van Gogh moved down to Arles to take in the superior light conditions way back when, then proceeded to drink himself into oblivion, ended up committed to a local hospital, and all the while painted up a storm. This disagreeable genius even managed to persuade Gauguin to join him for an extended painter's bonding session. Of course their mateship ended in total disaster when the two had the mother of all altercations , in the main driven by an over imbibing of Absenth.
Cut off ear time, to express a state of mind that friends and foes couldn't quite get their heads around.
All that aside, Vincent painted some brilliant stuff when living in Arles. It's just a pity that his personality didn't exactly lend itself to being user friendly.
Julia tells me that during his life Vincent only managed to sell two paintings.
All I can say is I feel for his brother Theo who had to pay this sucker's bills.
All that aside, when you visit the various inner city locations where Vincent created most of his notable stuff, you do get that weird feeling that you are following in the steps of greatness. Julia in particular loves this feeling and is really making the most of her time here.
As for all the historical Roman stuff, it's simply overwhelming . These Romans certainly didn't mess about when they decided to settle in . You name it, they built it. It has taken us days to trawl our way though all the sites, throw in a few magnificent catholic structures, drinks in The Forum Romain, visits to local hillside villages and a must do experience to a huge cavern complex up country called Carrieres De Lumieres where some brilliant Frog has designed a light show dedicated to Van Gogh and Gauguin, and it's fair to say that we are well touristed out.
Side trips to Avignon and Les Baux de Provence, whilst obviously interesting, were however not in the same league as Arles.
There are actually Three Guys to this city: Julius, Vincent and Pablo. Picasso must be mentioned as he gifted 57 prints and drawings to the Musee Reattu- Beaux Arts in 1971. We were lucky enough to catch an amazing exhibition linking Christian Lacroix costume designs with Picasso's creative genius.
A couple more days and nights of this culture and that will be it for us.
Next stop the South of France and a bolt-hole high in the hills just above Nice
Can't wait.
What a simply amazing city. There are two driving forces that make this a great place to peg out for a week. One, this is Roman History central when it comes to France and two,Vincent Van Gogh moved down to Arles to take in the superior light conditions way back when, then proceeded to drink himself into oblivion, ended up committed to a local hospital, and all the while painted up a storm. This disagreeable genius even managed to persuade Gauguin to join him for an extended painter's bonding session. Of course their mateship ended in total disaster when the two had the mother of all altercations , in the main driven by an over imbibing of Absenth.
Cut off ear time, to express a state of mind that friends and foes couldn't quite get their heads around.
All that aside, Vincent painted some brilliant stuff when living in Arles. It's just a pity that his personality didn't exactly lend itself to being user friendly.
Julia tells me that during his life Vincent only managed to sell two paintings.
All I can say is I feel for his brother Theo who had to pay this sucker's bills.
All that aside, when you visit the various inner city locations where Vincent created most of his notable stuff, you do get that weird feeling that you are following in the steps of greatness. Julia in particular loves this feeling and is really making the most of her time here.
As for all the historical Roman stuff, it's simply overwhelming . These Romans certainly didn't mess about when they decided to settle in . You name it, they built it. It has taken us days to trawl our way though all the sites, throw in a few magnificent catholic structures, drinks in The Forum Romain, visits to local hillside villages and a must do experience to a huge cavern complex up country called Carrieres De Lumieres where some brilliant Frog has designed a light show dedicated to Van Gogh and Gauguin, and it's fair to say that we are well touristed out.
Side trips to Avignon and Les Baux de Provence, whilst obviously interesting, were however not in the same league as Arles.
There are actually Three Guys to this city: Julius, Vincent and Pablo. Picasso must be mentioned as he gifted 57 prints and drawings to the Musee Reattu- Beaux Arts in 1971. We were lucky enough to catch an amazing exhibition linking Christian Lacroix costume designs with Picasso's creative genius.
A couple more days and nights of this culture and that will be it for us.
Next stop the South of France and a bolt-hole high in the hills just above Nice
Can't wait.
The last week in the Pyrenees
 |
| Chateau de Peyrepertuse. Blame the location on the Romans as they set up this location in year dot. The French obviously thought this to be a great location for a border control point, God know why. The Bee Gees would have loved this as a pho shoot location as the wind was fair screaming through our hair. Why punters locate a magnificent place like this atop a mountain in the middle of nowhere beats me. One things for sure, no one would be dropping in unannounced. The French wisely quit the place some hundreds of years back |
 |
| Dan Browns play thing. Its small however , very impressive |
 |
| Julia can sniff out local art a mile away. This time the exhibition was within the tower of Le Chateau d'Arques |
Last week in the Pyrenees
Last week in the Pyrenees,
Great scenery, amazing hillside villages, any number of "must see" ruined castles and abbeys sitting atop impossibly high mountain peaks ( no threats of uninvited guests on that front) .
Really interesting meals in restaurants with stunning views.
Driving conditions that would get even a hardened Parisienne driver's heart racing.
Historical sites of epic proportion.
If you ever have a spare week in Southern France then this is a great area to visit.
We were based in the village Belvianes et Cavirac staying in a very unusual B&B called Les Eaux Tranquilles.
The highlight of the week had to be when we stumbled across the village of Rennes-le-Chateau and wandered into a church called St Mary Magdalene.
Now this is one very interesting church and some of you may already know its colourful history .In 2003 Dan Brown drew inspiration from the legend of this church for The Da Vinci Code and in fact various scenes from the film were shot in the church. Apparently in 1885 some priest who loved the high life arrived in the village, started throwing cash around in bucket loads, spent a small fortune on the church and village, and when cornered by his superiors spun some cock and bull story about discovering a horde of missing Knights Templar Treasure. A subsequent trial inthe early part of the nineteen hundreds couldn't nail this shifty sucker and he died in the fifties , taking his secrets to the the grave. Current thought is that he was getting backhanders from the financially well heeled, who were desperate for a big tick prior to popping their clogs.
Enough of that, we're are off to Arles and looking towards a far more refined lifestyle.
A bientôt.
Great scenery, amazing hillside villages, any number of "must see" ruined castles and abbeys sitting atop impossibly high mountain peaks ( no threats of uninvited guests on that front) .
Really interesting meals in restaurants with stunning views.
Driving conditions that would get even a hardened Parisienne driver's heart racing.
Historical sites of epic proportion.
If you ever have a spare week in Southern France then this is a great area to visit.
We were based in the village Belvianes et Cavirac staying in a very unusual B&B called Les Eaux Tranquilles.
The highlight of the week had to be when we stumbled across the village of Rennes-le-Chateau and wandered into a church called St Mary Magdalene.
Now this is one very interesting church and some of you may already know its colourful history .In 2003 Dan Brown drew inspiration from the legend of this church for The Da Vinci Code and in fact various scenes from the film were shot in the church. Apparently in 1885 some priest who loved the high life arrived in the village, started throwing cash around in bucket loads, spent a small fortune on the church and village, and when cornered by his superiors spun some cock and bull story about discovering a horde of missing Knights Templar Treasure. A subsequent trial inthe early part of the nineteen hundreds couldn't nail this shifty sucker and he died in the fifties , taking his secrets to the the grave. Current thought is that he was getting backhanders from the financially well heeled, who were desperate for a big tick prior to popping their clogs.
Enough of that, we're are off to Arles and looking towards a far more refined lifestyle.
A bientôt.
Monday, 21 May 2012
So what are these shots typical of?
 |
| These shots are classic examples of what confronts you in most locations outside of Paris and Lyon should you be foolish enough to think you can go shopping on either 1) A late Saturday afternoon 2) A Sunday 3) A Monday 4) On any one of the thirteen French public holidays and 5) More likely than not this will be the sight before you if a public holiday falls on Tuesday or Thursday in which case the shop owner may well chose to make the Faire Le Pont , or in layman's language simply shift into high gear and go for a four day weekend. Here is another stat which I'm not sure is a winner. The working week is 35hrs. The Employer has the right to ask you to work 40hrs however he must make that request well in advance and if the employee accepts they get paid triple penal rates for those extra hours. Apparently the French value their time off and as a rule decline the offer of extending their working week. It's a very cruisy life the further south we go. Right down in the Pyrenees every moves at glacial pace , except for road traffic |
Monday, 14 May 2012
Aaah, the Pyrenees, time to kick back and relax
 |
| This is as close as it gets to sunshine up here at this time of the year |
 |
| The photo doesn't do these potatoes full justice .In the flesh they looked like they had a case of jaundice . The trout, well it looked and tasted pretty good |
 |
| The tunnel to Andorra , the de Puymorens, very long, and very impressive |
Aaah, so this is what the Pyrenees is all about
We have now driven south down to near the Spanish border and are staying at a really interesting B&B called Les Eaux Tranquilles, located in the small village of Belvianes et Cavirac which is a couple of k's down the road from Quillan.
The B&B is just great, however the English owner Chris, well, there's an interesting customer. This man is right-out-there, if you get my drift, and deserves his own personal blog, so I will hold fire on that front until later in the week.
Today, we ventured forth and decided to stress test our small diesel rental by way of driving the sucker straight up into the Pyrenees.
Of course the views up in the mountains are spectacular, however, I have to say getting there was a mission in itself.
For starters, the roads aren't exactly what one might describe as highway material.
If you happen to come across a truck or large camper-van that's heading in the
opposite direction then it's every man for himself. On occasion these brushes with near death can become quite an adrenalin rush.
If that is not enough, you then have the ongoing prospect of vehicles heading directly towards you approaching at excessive speed whilst positioned in the middle of the road.
This is 'who is going to blink first ' territory.
And because we are trying to obey the speed laws, any number of loonies come screaming up behind you then proceed to pass you on blind curves at high speed.
It's Sunday morning for God's sake, why aren't these soon to be aquatinted with coffin merchants off home in bed?
As for the weekend warrior cyclists who are getting in road-time prior to The Tour De France, all I can say is that these guys will never see old bones.
After ninety minutes of this drama we pull into the town of Mont Louis, heave a great sigh of relief and make our way into the restaurant Le Clos Cerdan - Eau De Forme.
When ordering we decided to play it safe so Julia plugged for Salade Catalane. Now this was a tricky call as the salad was accompanied by local meats that could be best described as .....unusual. She gagged on the blood sausage. Who wouldn't?
Her main of Poulet Catalane was pretty standard stuff, so no worries there.
My experience was altogether different.
The main was a whole Trout accompanied by potatoes that looked like they had yellow fever but the dish was actually pretty good.
However, where things took a turn for the worse was in respect to my entree or starter.
By way of explanation, Julia and I had a great friend (now deceased and much missed) called Stuart Loudon.
All who knew Stuart recognised this man to be the ultimate party animal and an individual who just loved fine food and wine (actually , come to think of it, a lot of wine).
A group of us used to get together for Friday lunches in Auckland. The thing was that once Stuart had finished off a second or third bottle he just reached a point where he would stand up, announce to everyone within 50 metres that that was it for him, then informed us he was going home to put a tongue in the oven in preparation for his and Helen's evening meal.
So here we are high up in the Pyrenees and Julia tells me they have Tongue as an entree, so thinking fond thoughts of Stuart, like a fool, I order the tongue from our lisping gay waiter with the high pitched voice.
When this entree hit my placemat, I damn near choked on the spot. Julia let out an involuntary whimper and said "you don't have to eat it, just tell the waiter that you have changed your mind and that you are not big on grey food."
At that moment I'm staring down at seven large slices of cold meat that look the colour of recently fallen Volcano ash.
My heads screaming what to do, what to do. If I send it back I might end up getting into a verbal with that overhyped lisping waiter, however then again, if I eat this stuff it might kill me.
I'm gutless. The thought of a stoush with a pissed off gay waiter was just too much for me to contemplate so I thought what they hell, if the Loudons could stomach this stuff then I'm just going to have to harden up and get this cow's licking equipment down my throat in short order.
No messing about, I did my Zen thing, put my thoughts in a far away place and proceeded to attack the first piece of this horrible looking dead animal tongue.
How bad was it?
Well, when Julia inquired my system had already commenced the mother of all battles for survival. This entree without a word of a lie was singularly the most disgusting food I have ever pushed down my thorax.
The next ten minutes was a living hell.
It was so bad I couldn't even talk. I just swallowed these hunks of whatever whole whilst praying that I wouldn't throw up.
At the end of this seemingly endless torture I looked over at Julia (who knew when to stay silent) and I asked "how do I look?"
Julia responds, "you look fine . No that's a lie. You look dreadful. Your face has turned grey and you appear to be heavily perspiring. Do you think it had anything to do with the tongue?"
WAITER, WHERE'S THE BATHROOM!
The trip back down the mountain was just a blur. I didn't even react when a woman coming towards our line of vehicles hit the approaching corner at speed, spun out of control, turned 720 degrees then accelerated into the cliff face on our car's right.
Near death driving experiences no longer cut it for me.They are nothing in the greater plan.
It's the bloody tongue that's going to get me in the end.
Cheers
The B&B is just great, however the English owner Chris, well, there's an interesting customer. This man is right-out-there, if you get my drift, and deserves his own personal blog, so I will hold fire on that front until later in the week.
Today, we ventured forth and decided to stress test our small diesel rental by way of driving the sucker straight up into the Pyrenees.
Of course the views up in the mountains are spectacular, however, I have to say getting there was a mission in itself.
For starters, the roads aren't exactly what one might describe as highway material.
If you happen to come across a truck or large camper-van that's heading in the
opposite direction then it's every man for himself. On occasion these brushes with near death can become quite an adrenalin rush.
If that is not enough, you then have the ongoing prospect of vehicles heading directly towards you approaching at excessive speed whilst positioned in the middle of the road.
This is 'who is going to blink first ' territory.
And because we are trying to obey the speed laws, any number of loonies come screaming up behind you then proceed to pass you on blind curves at high speed.
It's Sunday morning for God's sake, why aren't these soon to be aquatinted with coffin merchants off home in bed?
As for the weekend warrior cyclists who are getting in road-time prior to The Tour De France, all I can say is that these guys will never see old bones.
After ninety minutes of this drama we pull into the town of Mont Louis, heave a great sigh of relief and make our way into the restaurant Le Clos Cerdan - Eau De Forme.
When ordering we decided to play it safe so Julia plugged for Salade Catalane. Now this was a tricky call as the salad was accompanied by local meats that could be best described as .....unusual. She gagged on the blood sausage. Who wouldn't?
Her main of Poulet Catalane was pretty standard stuff, so no worries there.
My experience was altogether different.
The main was a whole Trout accompanied by potatoes that looked like they had yellow fever but the dish was actually pretty good.
However, where things took a turn for the worse was in respect to my entree or starter.
By way of explanation, Julia and I had a great friend (now deceased and much missed) called Stuart Loudon.
All who knew Stuart recognised this man to be the ultimate party animal and an individual who just loved fine food and wine (actually , come to think of it, a lot of wine).
A group of us used to get together for Friday lunches in Auckland. The thing was that once Stuart had finished off a second or third bottle he just reached a point where he would stand up, announce to everyone within 50 metres that that was it for him, then informed us he was going home to put a tongue in the oven in preparation for his and Helen's evening meal.
So here we are high up in the Pyrenees and Julia tells me they have Tongue as an entree, so thinking fond thoughts of Stuart, like a fool, I order the tongue from our lisping gay waiter with the high pitched voice.
When this entree hit my placemat, I damn near choked on the spot. Julia let out an involuntary whimper and said "you don't have to eat it, just tell the waiter that you have changed your mind and that you are not big on grey food."
At that moment I'm staring down at seven large slices of cold meat that look the colour of recently fallen Volcano ash.
My heads screaming what to do, what to do. If I send it back I might end up getting into a verbal with that overhyped lisping waiter, however then again, if I eat this stuff it might kill me.
I'm gutless. The thought of a stoush with a pissed off gay waiter was just too much for me to contemplate so I thought what they hell, if the Loudons could stomach this stuff then I'm just going to have to harden up and get this cow's licking equipment down my throat in short order.
No messing about, I did my Zen thing, put my thoughts in a far away place and proceeded to attack the first piece of this horrible looking dead animal tongue.
How bad was it?
Well, when Julia inquired my system had already commenced the mother of all battles for survival. This entree without a word of a lie was singularly the most disgusting food I have ever pushed down my thorax.
The next ten minutes was a living hell.
It was so bad I couldn't even talk. I just swallowed these hunks of whatever whole whilst praying that I wouldn't throw up.
At the end of this seemingly endless torture I looked over at Julia (who knew when to stay silent) and I asked "how do I look?"
Julia responds, "you look fine . No that's a lie. You look dreadful. Your face has turned grey and you appear to be heavily perspiring. Do you think it had anything to do with the tongue?"
WAITER, WHERE'S THE BATHROOM!
The trip back down the mountain was just a blur. I didn't even react when a woman coming towards our line of vehicles hit the approaching corner at speed, spun out of control, turned 720 degrees then accelerated into the cliff face on our car's right.
Near death driving experiences no longer cut it for me.They are nothing in the greater plan.
It's the bloody tongue that's going to get me in the end.
Cheers
Sunday, 13 May 2012
Midwife duties
My first opportunity to act as a midwife.
Life on a French farm can be so demanding!
We have seven hens and a handsome rooster called King Gold here on this lovely farmlet in the hamlet. As well as a cat, once a wild thing but now tamed to be a gentle creature busy catching mice all day.
There has been much excitement in the hen house with Adam, aged eleven, the keeper of the chickens as there are seven eggs about to hatch. Well, yesterday I was lucky enough to be on hand helping with the hatching of two new chicks. Ian gently helped the chicks out of their shells once we could hear the 'cheeping' through the little holes that they had made. He peeled them like he was peeling an egg....actually they were eggs. That was a fowl-house in joke. We noticed that the hen sitting in the nest was the twin sister of the mother and was more interested in laying her egg that getting on with job of hatching eggs. Once she had laid her wet egg on my hand as I was inspecting the eggs,she departed the nest. So, we had to round up Alberta who was on her break scratching about with her mates on the next door farm totally oblivious of the due date of her chicks. She somehow got the message and as if by sixth sense, looked very guilty and sped back in to plop herself onto of the two wet chicks and the awaiting eggs.Sounds weird but true.
Today we have another chick and yesterday's two chicks are now fluffed up and strutting about.
Another bird story...
After having a fabulous French lunch yesterday and a rather relaxing evening going to sleep was no problem for me. But to be woken at 1pm by a constant trilling and chirping by some poor misguided and dysfunctional bird was just 'not on! ' What bird sings in the middle of the night? Ah, methinks, it must be that big fat orange moon thing making little flighty creatures do strange things in the wee hours. Then I thought, or maybe some kind of mechanical bird noise triggered by the flowing fountain outside setting off a sensor. On and on it went, until finally I stumbled out of bed , threw open the curtains, to check out this diva. But what confronted me was the biggest full moon I had ever seen. Reflected against this moon was the black silhouette of a bare tree and there perched on a branch was a brave little bird singing out its thorax. Such a tiny creature making so much noise. Back to sleep.
Next morning, our host Ian is dancing about the front gate with 'les juemelles' binoculars getting very excited. What are you searching for? A nightingale.
Ahhhhh....yes, I heard it....all night!
Response: you are very lucky as they are so rare.
'Lucky, I don't think so. No sleep is not lucky'
An update on the heart warming chicken story. The morning after I wrote this piece we heard frantic knocking on our front door. There stood young Adam in tears. He burst in and struggled to tell me that "they are all dead!"
He had just found three flat baby chicks, stone cold eggs and no mother hen on the nest. She was out with the girls scratching up breakfast worms & bugs. A real whodunnit? Murder in the henhouse? Was it sly Mr Fox, the twin sister, King Gold or the mother?
We will never know what went on that night in the hen house.
Life on a French farm can be so demanding!
We have seven hens and a handsome rooster called King Gold here on this lovely farmlet in the hamlet. As well as a cat, once a wild thing but now tamed to be a gentle creature busy catching mice all day.
There has been much excitement in the hen house with Adam, aged eleven, the keeper of the chickens as there are seven eggs about to hatch. Well, yesterday I was lucky enough to be on hand helping with the hatching of two new chicks. Ian gently helped the chicks out of their shells once we could hear the 'cheeping' through the little holes that they had made. He peeled them like he was peeling an egg....actually they were eggs. That was a fowl-house in joke. We noticed that the hen sitting in the nest was the twin sister of the mother and was more interested in laying her egg that getting on with job of hatching eggs. Once she had laid her wet egg on my hand as I was inspecting the eggs,she departed the nest. So, we had to round up Alberta who was on her break scratching about with her mates on the next door farm totally oblivious of the due date of her chicks. She somehow got the message and as if by sixth sense, looked very guilty and sped back in to plop herself onto of the two wet chicks and the awaiting eggs.Sounds weird but true.
Today we have another chick and yesterday's two chicks are now fluffed up and strutting about.
Another bird story...
After having a fabulous French lunch yesterday and a rather relaxing evening going to sleep was no problem for me. But to be woken at 1pm by a constant trilling and chirping by some poor misguided and dysfunctional bird was just 'not on! ' What bird sings in the middle of the night? Ah, methinks, it must be that big fat orange moon thing making little flighty creatures do strange things in the wee hours. Then I thought, or maybe some kind of mechanical bird noise triggered by the flowing fountain outside setting off a sensor. On and on it went, until finally I stumbled out of bed , threw open the curtains, to check out this diva. But what confronted me was the biggest full moon I had ever seen. Reflected against this moon was the black silhouette of a bare tree and there perched on a branch was a brave little bird singing out its thorax. Such a tiny creature making so much noise. Back to sleep.
Next morning, our host Ian is dancing about the front gate with 'les juemelles' binoculars getting very excited. What are you searching for? A nightingale.
Ahhhhh....yes, I heard it....all night!
Response: you are very lucky as they are so rare.
'Lucky, I don't think so. No sleep is not lucky'
An update on the heart warming chicken story. The morning after I wrote this piece we heard frantic knocking on our front door. There stood young Adam in tears. He burst in and struggled to tell me that "they are all dead!"
He had just found three flat baby chicks, stone cold eggs and no mother hen on the nest. She was out with the girls scratching up breakfast worms & bugs. A real whodunnit? Murder in the henhouse? Was it sly Mr Fox, the twin sister, King Gold or the mother?
We will never know what went on that night in the hen house.
Friday, 11 May 2012
Rocamadour, this village is a winner on all fronts
 |
| Let's face it, this village is a real stunner |
 |
| Living proof that the French are as nutty about rugger as their Kiwi and Welsh brothers |
 |
| Post lunch and ready to defend French citizens from all harm |
 |
| To be honest I don't think the French have any concept of the perils relating to drinking and driving |
Rocamadour, now this was a surprise.
Rocamadour, now this is a very interesting trip on a day
out.
Today we decided to drive out of the Dordogne area and over
to Lot to check out the cliff side village of Rocamadour.
There is no two ways about it, this village is a stunner.
When the village first comes into view the first thought was, French building
genius aside, what loony would design a village up a cliff face when he could
settle for building atop the cliff?
Who knows what goes on in a medieval architects mind–set?
If you check out the attached photo you will note a Chateau
carved into the rockside halfway up the cliff.
This little number is referred to as Notre Dame de Rocamadour,
The Chateau – Sanctuaires, basically a religious shrine.
As you wander around this Chateau you stumble on any number
of chapels dedicated to Christ and his many minions.
That is, until you come into the last chapel on the right
which, believe it or not, is dedicated to Rugby (as in, ‘give it a boot Robbie!’)
As proof that I wasn’t hallucinating I have attached a shot
of the display cabinet filled with assorted rugby jerseys.
I had hoped for a better shot however just after we had
entered this shrine to the oval ball, in rushed a Spanish tour guide with maybe
thirty very noisy retirees in tow. This over-hyped tour guide then
started impersonating a back line player passing a ball whilst at the same time
screaming some kind of Spanish version of an aroused commentator at the top of
her lungs.
This wasn’t a big chapel.
The tour guide had the lung capacity of a large glass blower.
What a performance!
Enough of that, down to the highlight of the day.
When we arrived at the Chateau car park, we were confronted
with a seemingly endless stream of Pompiers arriving for a celebratory lunch in
the outdoor restaurant. All in pale blue uniforms they resembled a humanoid
army of wode coloured ants.
And, yes even I know the literal translation of the term
Pompier, however in the real world this expression covers all emergency rescue
crews not just firemen.
We arrived at about noon and left at least a couple of
hundred Pompiers to settle in as we went off exploring.
As we wandered away from the restaurant area I reminded
Julia of a restaurant we frequented in Beaune (Burgundy) back in 2010.
This establishment was run by a brother and sister who,
without a word of a lie, resembled behemoths. When these guys served us our
daily Menu order both the Alcorns and our friends the Bartley-Smiths, had the
overwhelming feeling that we had been transported into the seventies flick ‘Land
Of The Giants’.
That aside, every day these giants hosted the local Gendarmes
who dropped in for lunch inclusive of a couple hours of steady drinking.
Watching cops down two litres of rouge over lunch prior to hitting the back
roads of Burgundy left a lasting impression.
So, with that thought not far from my mind, off we set to
explore the Chateau and town beneath it.
Two hours later, we are back at the car park level, atop the
cliff and proceed to the restaurant.
What confronted us was almost beyond belief.
Slouching around the outdoor tables were hundreds, yes
hundreds of completely wasted emergency service crews.
I was so amazed I actually forgot to take a shot of the
scene. We then settled in for a leisurely gourmand lunch. Meantime these dudes
(and dudesses) just kept on partying.
Sometime around about four we exited left, nicely timed to
coincide with the mass exit of any number of public servants whose motto in
some parts apparently referred to ‘the saving of life’.
And this they inadvertently did, by way of us making the
logical decision to wait until these guys had driven their emergency service
vehicles out of sight before firing up our rental.
I have to tell you that whilst we waited it out under the
safety of a nearby tree, no less than six of these vehicles managed to bang
into each other. The guy on the right in the photo at the back of the van,
shortly after this shot was taken, proceeded to walk directly into the tree on
the right, poking himself in the eye and in a rage, lashed out and ripped the
culprit branch off the tree.
It was classic.
I just love these Frogs.
They just listen to a different drummer.
Cheers
Wednesday, 9 May 2012
OK, I think I have this dream nailed down
 |
| Julia has always dreamed of a French bolt-hole. I think I've nailed the perfect location. I can't wait to see the look on her face when I announce the good news. the price is irrelevant , honest! |
Monday, 7 May 2012
If you have a mate called TomTom you are in business
TomTom has to be a winner in these parts.
In days past when we arrived to pick up a rental in France we would have come loaded with any number of Michelin road maps to ensure we reached our destination without having first traveled the length and breadth of France in a futile attempt to locate our destination.
Then along came TomTom, a bullet proof GPS application that downloads onto our iPad and iPhones.
This devise is simply brilliant. Just enter the partial or full destination address or even better hit the coordinates button, select if you wish to use toll roads or avoid same, choose a preference for the scenic route and then that's that.
This devise rates up there with screw caps for wine bottles, iPhones and two-for-one deals at Sainsbury's . It's that good.
Last Saturdays foray was a classic example.
Brother David had suggested a great restaurant to have lunch at when we drove north to catch the Saturday market at the regional capital of Perigueux.
By the time we arrived the central city roads were chaotic thanks to any number of streets being blocked off during the morning market trading hours.
No problem, we just cruised around until we found a parking spot and at every turn Katrina, the selected voice of our TomTom system basically kept us up to date about where to from here.
And when we started walking back into the central city area this disembodied voice (courtesy of our iPhone) basically gave us continual updates as to which alley to turn into until we finally arrived at our restaurant, Le Vertigo at 16 Rue des Farges.
If any of you guys are thinking about travelling around Europe and don't want to be burdened down with maps , do yourself a favour and download a copy of TomTom UK/Europe.
It turns the whole travel business into a breeze.
Word from Julia. Before Katrina my experiences of navigating through little towns of tiny streets or back streets of big cities were nightmarish. Adrenaline overload, tension headaches, stressed to max were features of my previous touring life. Now, I could probably navigate through central Paris during rush hour with a paper bag on my head thanks to my trusty Tom Tom companion. Much more enjoyable.
In days past when we arrived to pick up a rental in France we would have come loaded with any number of Michelin road maps to ensure we reached our destination without having first traveled the length and breadth of France in a futile attempt to locate our destination.
Then along came TomTom, a bullet proof GPS application that downloads onto our iPad and iPhones.
This devise is simply brilliant. Just enter the partial or full destination address or even better hit the coordinates button, select if you wish to use toll roads or avoid same, choose a preference for the scenic route and then that's that.
This devise rates up there with screw caps for wine bottles, iPhones and two-for-one deals at Sainsbury's . It's that good.
Last Saturdays foray was a classic example.
Brother David had suggested a great restaurant to have lunch at when we drove north to catch the Saturday market at the regional capital of Perigueux.
By the time we arrived the central city roads were chaotic thanks to any number of streets being blocked off during the morning market trading hours.
No problem, we just cruised around until we found a parking spot and at every turn Katrina, the selected voice of our TomTom system basically kept us up to date about where to from here.
And when we started walking back into the central city area this disembodied voice (courtesy of our iPhone) basically gave us continual updates as to which alley to turn into until we finally arrived at our restaurant, Le Vertigo at 16 Rue des Farges.
If any of you guys are thinking about travelling around Europe and don't want to be burdened down with maps , do yourself a favour and download a copy of TomTom UK/Europe.
It turns the whole travel business into a breeze.
Word from Julia. Before Katrina my experiences of navigating through little towns of tiny streets or back streets of big cities were nightmarish. Adrenaline overload, tension headaches, stressed to max were features of my previous touring life. Now, I could probably navigate through central Paris during rush hour with a paper bag on my head thanks to my trusty Tom Tom companion. Much more enjoyable.
Thursday, 3 May 2012
French Foodie Day
French Cook Class in Pechboutier
The day started with the arrival of two Ozzie birds in our little hamlet to join me and Chef Ian for a day of French cooking. Over freshly brewed espressos Ian announced that we would be preparing the five course meal for twelve guests in the restaurant that evening. Gulp!
Then, with the zing of caffeine still in our veins we were off in his Land Rover to the market in Le Bugue. With the usual buzz and bustle of the typical colouful French market Ian darted about to his regular stall holders with us in tow carrying straw baskets that were quickly filling up with freshly picked produce.
Leeks, olives, fresh garlic,aromatic tomatoes, broad beans, white and green asparagus, cauliflowers, golden potatoes, fragrant strawberries and fresh sorrel and on and on. Then skirting around the market again to find the goat cheese lady to purchase fresh baby goat cheeses. Of course there were the usual ' Bonjours' and friendly greetings as our chef was a regular at these markets.
We were given a quick run down on the foods one might find in a French market like the dried cepes, cooked beetroots, artichokes and the masses of Foie Gras and how to cook,prepare or serve such foods. There was even a honey stall with live bees buzzing about a honey comb.
Back in the kitchen, aprons on, chopping blocks out and knives sharpened we started prepping up. We started making the chicken stock, doing it the Heston Blumenthal method by using the protein milk powder coating on the chicken pieces while roasting. Good quality stock is 'liquid gold' in a French kitchen.
The next three enjoyable hours slipped by so quickly as Margaret, Betty, Ian and myself worked as a tight team creating the most exquisite flavours and dishes.
A break outside with a lovely lunch at a long table devouring fresh goat cheese, cured salmon, cold meats, large bowls of salad, coucous and finishing with fresh strawberries done in balsamic vinegar and black pepper. All washed done with crisp white wine.
Back to the chopping boards and the heat of the kitchen for another two hours of cooking and preparing with delicious aromas drifting out and about.
Done! No severed fingers, no burns, no frayed nerves and no yelling. I did break into my Julia Childs impersonation at one stage which one might call a serious accident but it was appreciated. Time to relax a bit and get ready for show time!
7.30pm -and dinner will be served. Bon appetit.
Le Menu
Fresh green tapenade with fresh French bread
Cauliflower volante served in expresso cups, full of intense flavour
Duck confit on creamed mustard potato with green & white asparagus and a delicious chestnut sauce with fresh baby broad beans
Baby goat cheeses in crispy cases on lamb's lettuce with fresh cherry dressing & broken roasted walnuts
Creme brûlée and a few fresh strawberries
The dinner was a winner! Thank goodness it was only a ten metre stumble from the dining room to our apartment.
The day started with the arrival of two Ozzie birds in our little hamlet to join me and Chef Ian for a day of French cooking. Over freshly brewed espressos Ian announced that we would be preparing the five course meal for twelve guests in the restaurant that evening. Gulp!
Then, with the zing of caffeine still in our veins we were off in his Land Rover to the market in Le Bugue. With the usual buzz and bustle of the typical colouful French market Ian darted about to his regular stall holders with us in tow carrying straw baskets that were quickly filling up with freshly picked produce.
Leeks, olives, fresh garlic,aromatic tomatoes, broad beans, white and green asparagus, cauliflowers, golden potatoes, fragrant strawberries and fresh sorrel and on and on. Then skirting around the market again to find the goat cheese lady to purchase fresh baby goat cheeses. Of course there were the usual ' Bonjours' and friendly greetings as our chef was a regular at these markets.
We were given a quick run down on the foods one might find in a French market like the dried cepes, cooked beetroots, artichokes and the masses of Foie Gras and how to cook,prepare or serve such foods. There was even a honey stall with live bees buzzing about a honey comb.
Back in the kitchen, aprons on, chopping blocks out and knives sharpened we started prepping up. We started making the chicken stock, doing it the Heston Blumenthal method by using the protein milk powder coating on the chicken pieces while roasting. Good quality stock is 'liquid gold' in a French kitchen.
The next three enjoyable hours slipped by so quickly as Margaret, Betty, Ian and myself worked as a tight team creating the most exquisite flavours and dishes.
A break outside with a lovely lunch at a long table devouring fresh goat cheese, cured salmon, cold meats, large bowls of salad, coucous and finishing with fresh strawberries done in balsamic vinegar and black pepper. All washed done with crisp white wine.
Back to the chopping boards and the heat of the kitchen for another two hours of cooking and preparing with delicious aromas drifting out and about.
Done! No severed fingers, no burns, no frayed nerves and no yelling. I did break into my Julia Childs impersonation at one stage which one might call a serious accident but it was appreciated. Time to relax a bit and get ready for show time!
7.30pm -and dinner will be served. Bon appetit.
Le Menu
Fresh green tapenade with fresh French bread
Cauliflower volante served in expresso cups, full of intense flavour
Duck confit on creamed mustard potato with green & white asparagus and a delicious chestnut sauce with fresh baby broad beans
Baby goat cheeses in crispy cases on lamb's lettuce with fresh cherry dressing & broken roasted walnuts
Creme brûlée and a few fresh strawberries
The dinner was a winner! Thank goodness it was only a ten metre stumble from the dining room to our apartment.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)