I’ve always had a low opinion of the French so it’s no surprise that during my last European trip I spent as little time in the country as possible. Almost all the French people that I’ve met have been arrogant, pompous and rude, and similar stories abound from people that I’ve talked to. With this as an introduction it may come as a surprise that my latest trip abroad was a week spent in the French countryside. My excuse is that I was there on the kind invitation of my sister, Rachel, and her partner, Tony. They had been on holiday for a month but had devoted this week to assembling Rachel’s European based friends in the one place.
An old house in a little village in the Burgundy countryside played host to Brendan, Kerry, her partner, Chris, and their son, Felix. For now I will assign these additional players to the shadowy sidelines of this email, perhaps never to return. I think that it’s bad manners to write about people that you’ve just met, apart from when they’re snoring, so I will shelve my analytical skills for all but 2-year old Felix, who occasionally provided the evenings entertainment.
The house we were staying in was an old farmhouse that had been expanded to three floors, but still retained some obvious signs of country living, such as the massive wooden table in the kitchen, the stonework and wooden beams, and in my room a collection of meat hooks built into the ceiling. Thankfully, all the jugged hare had long gone, and although I feared having my dreams invaded by rotting, green hares, I remained unscathed for the duration of my stay.
There wasn’t a lot to see in the sleepy town of Villiers-sur-Yonne, but the surrounding countryside beckoned. The nearby town of Vezelay had the advantage of being situated on the biggest hill for miles around, and as is usually the case in such instances, the best spot was taken by a church. As churches go it wasn’t very ornate or elaborate but it made up for that with a towering, dignified simplicity. On the day that I saw it the outer wall had an additional armour of backpacks stacked four deep. I don’t know whether they get this kind of crowd every Sunday, but on this day it was packed with French scouts. As they stood on the cold flagstones, occasionally shifting from foot to foot, they belted out some of my favourite religious tunes in a manner that soon had the birthmark on my scalp itching in a very sinister fashion. At the end of the service the flag bearers marched out through the crowd, followed by the priests. The next man that came along, judging by his impressive headgear, was some kind of high priest. He had a politicians instinct for seeking out children, but rather than kissing them he simply touched them on the head. The parents seemed a lot more impressed than their children.
Back at the house it was cold. We should have had a big oil burning stove pumping out enough heat to cause a sweat to break out, but due to a misguided change of fuel by the owner it was completely clogged up. As I’m heading into my fourth summer in a row I was quite grateful for the chilly atmosphere. For a couple of nights a few of us stayed warm with some brisk games of table tennis before bed, but this nocturnal activity was halted by a food poisoning attack brought on by a French custard tart.
It’s a pity in a way, because I was starting not to hate the French quite as much as I had previously. Outside Paris the typical snooty attitude had been moderated, some of them were even friendly, but I can’t forgive being sold an off tart. It was so virulent that within three hours of consuming it I was redecorating the toilet in the new seasons colours. It was a curious progression from feeling healthy to throwing my guts up. I wandered off to bed quite early to have a quick nap. This turned into a long lie down feeling slightly unwell, until the dreaded thought entered my head.
– If I was leaning over the toilet right now I would probably throw up.
Casting such negativity aside I tried valiantly to get to sleep, but soon reached the point of no return. I calmly walked to the toilet before gushing forth a quantity of liquid that felt better suited to an elephant sized stomach. I returned to bed a shivering, sweaty wreck and passed the rest of the night as best I could.
The morning revealed another two casualties, Kerry and Brendan, so I had some company in my planned activity for the day of doing absolutely nothing. Actually, my main activity for the day was a desperate attempt to get my appetite back for that evenings meal. Rachel and Tony were preparing a leg of lamb to be cooked in a sealed pot for seven hours. Apart from wanting to try this succulent sounding dish for gastronomic reasons alone, the price of lamb in France would make it a crime to let any go to waste. It turned out as good as it sounds, with the meat literally falling off the bone, which looked as if it had been lying in the bleaching sun for months.
There are good and bad things about spending a week in the company of a toddler. The bad is obviously the odd tantrum and general yelling. The good are the cute goodnights and that they do stupidly entertaining things with very little prompting. Felix’s bedtime trick was to run around the kitchen table, which is quite a long way on such short legs, only halting before drawbridges constructed from lowered arms. We soon had him uttering a secret command to get through.
– The 13th century is sooo boring.
It was quite a strange site, especially as Felix, not having the strongest grip on language, soon chinese whispered himself into uttering a drivel of vowels before ending with gusto on ‘sooo boring’.
It would be criminal to stay in Burgundy and not sample a good range of wines. One winery we visited was located in what used to be an underground rock quarry. We walked through a long wide tunnel towards the degastation station, with only the sound of popping champagne corks filling the silence. The nearby town of Chablis had more places to taste wine than restaurants, which is a sure path to tipsiness.
There was a canal running past the front door of the house that we stayed in. One fine day Rachel, Tony and I went for a walk along it until we came to a little lock where two barges were lined up to come through. We watched as the lock keeper wandered around opening gates and sluices, then managed to get a ride on one of the barges back up to the house. If we had followed the canal even further we would have arrived in Paris, which is where we drove at the end of the week in order to fly back to London.
Dave out.
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