As we headed South, Jane managed to include three incredible words in just about every other sentence she uttered. The three words did not necessarily appear in the same sentence together, though occasionally they would. The words each represented areas of France and they were, Dordogne, Bourgogne and Languedoc.
To my two ears these names had a wonderful, musical, poetic ring to them. I particularly liked the finality imparted by the emphasis she placed on the ‘Oc’, at the end of ‘Languedoc’, when she used it to finish a sentence.
By late afternoon the rain had stopped and the sky cleared. The sun was shining and the temperature started to rise. I felt our decision to head south had been vindicated.
When we found ourselves crossing the Dordogne River, we decided it was time to stop. We quickly found a two star hotel in a small town. Of course we expected this to be a bit of a comedown after the previous nights chateau experience. However having gone over budget on the two consecutive previous nights, we checked in regardless.
When we were shown to our room it was rather depressing. The window shutters were closed and it was lit by a single low wattage, un-shaded light bulb. I could tell it was a low wattage bulb because I could stare directly at the filament without hurting my eyes. The wall paper, paintwork and carpeting were all rather shabby.
Certainly the bed-springs and mattresses would have done no favours to a person with back problems, but the low point was the sheets. These were made of shiny nylon and were coloured in various hideous shades of green and orange. They might have been beautifully clean, but it was difficult to tell.
The matching pillow-cases had a few holes, which looked like they had been caused by earlier guests falling asleep, while smoking cigarettes.
The only pleasant surprise was when we opened the shutters and found that we were right on the edge of the river. It had not been apparent from the checking-in side of the hotel that it was on the river-bank. In fact it was so close to the river, that had I brought my fishing rod with me, I could have spent the evening fishing from the bedroom window. Since I didn’t have a fishing rod we settled for an unhurried dinner in the hotel’s restaurant instead.
Given the dubious state of the rooms, the restaurant was a pleasant surprise. It was not up to the standard of the ones of the previous two evenings, but it was not as far adrift from their standard as the bedrooms were.
The menu was in French only, so we were glad be had brought a book containing French to English food translations with us.
There were two inexpensive menus to choose from. Both had their plus points and their minus points. We all chose the same one on account of the fact that it started with pate fois-gras. Of course we felt sorry for the force fed geese, whose livers had been donated for our enjoyment, but not sorry enough to choose the other menu which offered ‘Ris de Veau’ as an alternative.
Calves Sweetbreads are probably very nice. I believe they come from the pancreas, though I’ve met a number of people who claim they are another part of the anatomy. At the end of the day though, whether they are pancreas or testicles, the thought of eating them doesn’t do much to get my digestive juices flowing.
The possible down-side of our chosen menu was that the next course was andouilet. To my ears andouilet has a rather nice ring to it. However our food dictionary told us that it was in fact a sausage made of chopped up pigs stomach and intestines. Delicious no doubt. We reasoned that this really would be no worse than eating a black pudding, a haggis or even an ordinary English banger.
Further perusal of our food guide also revealed the existence of andouilette. This sounds even nicer, although it is actually a small version of the same thing. Rather like a cocktail sausage versus a real sausage.
In fact the andouilet were quite passable, tasting largely of garlic and what I would guess from the flavour was white wine. Of course there was also a hint of offal, but it was not overpowering.
The next morning we ate breakfast and walked to a couple of local shops to purchase bread, butter, ham and a one litre bottle of vin de table for our lunch. Then we continued our journey southward on yet another dull grey day.
We stopped for our picnic in a small lay by next to a wood, which was sparsely populated by pine trees. The ground was littered with dead pine needles and the previous year’s pinecones. I guessed Jasmine had never seen pinecones before, since she gathered up half a dozen fine specimens, to take back to Hong Kong.
By now Jasmine had acquired quite a taste for wine. Since Jane and I were taking it turns to drive, Jasmine got to drink the lions share of it. As usual she was inflicted by pink cheeks and the giggles.
She spent most of the early afternoon asleep on the back seat of the car. I’m sure she would have giggled even more, if she could have heard how loudly she snored.
Thankfully the sun came out early in the afternoon, cheering up the roadside flowerbeds as we navigated our way through Montpellier.
At last we arrived at the Mediterranean coast. We stopped for a stroll at Palavas-les-Flots, where I purchased a postcard as a momento.
In those days, I firmly believed that purchasing post cards was better value than taking photographs. In this case it was particularly so, since the postcard I purchased was a night scene, but our visit was in broad day light. Of course with the advent of digital cameras all that has changed. In the days of film you had no idea as to how good or bad the photos were until after you had them developed, which was usually after you had returned home from your holiday.
The photographer of postcards often gets up at a time of day when no one else is around and has access to devices such as a crane or a helicopter to get a view, not normally available to the average tourist. These days I must admit, I occasionally regret not having my own stock of personally taken photos of all the places I’ve visited.
Returning to the car we passed Le Grand-Mot and wondered how anyone could get away with erecting such a hideous construction, in what could otherwise have been a very pleasant location.
Our next stop was Aigues-Mortes, where we took another stroll. When we had arrived in the Loire we had brought a guide-book to that area with us and hence knew roughly what we were looking at. Our excursion to the South had been totally unplanned so we had no such reference at our disposal here.
Rather than speculate about the history of Aigues-Morts, we simply browsed around the shops. The sky was now clouding over again and once more the rain began to fall.
After a short run to the car, we drove through the flat uninteresting landscape that some people rave about, called the Carmargue. As advertised we spotted some horses, that may possibly have been wild, and some flamingos, which were definitely pink, but due to the rain, they were apparently not enjoying themselves as much as the ones you see on postcards.
By seven pm we had reached Stes. Maries-de-la-Mer and checked into a small two star hotel on the seafront. The building was quite modern and the rooms somewhat brighter than the previous night. Best of all, the sheets were not made of nylon.
Looking out of the window here was not such an exhilarating experience, even though we had an excellent view of the sea and the beach. This was the first time I’d set eyes on a Mediterranean that was not a clear sapphire blue or an emerald green colour. With the overcast sky, it looked as grey and about as enticing as the English channel, on a bad day at Dover.
That evening we feasted on prawns, sea fish, lemon soufflé and white wine. We were only at the end of the fourth day of our holiday, but we all agreed that even France was not much fun, when the weather was miserable.
We decided that unless we woke up the next morning to bright sunshine, we would head north as quickly as possible and return to England.
When we woke up the weather was better, but not enough to convince us that it would hold out. We made an early start. Despite our determination to get home quickly, we could not resist stopping at Arles and taking a walk around it’s impressive amphitheatre.
It didn’t take long for a downpour of rain to cut our visit short. We got onto the peage and pressed northward. Having decided to cut our holiday short we realised that our budget could withstand a couple more nights of staying in Chateau. Using the same guide we had used in the Loire, we agreed to stop at a chateau near Beaune for the night. When we arrived, we found it was closed. A closer inspection of the guide revealed that this chateau was not open for business on Mecredis.
In the end we drove on, and eventually stopped at a modern road side inn, which was constructed of unrendered concrete blocks. Based on the number of camions in the car park we realised that this was an establishment preferred by lorry drivers. It may not have been the chateau we had hoped for, but in fact the food served in the restaurant surpassed anything that we had eaten during the holiday so far.
If what I observed here was typical, then it would seem that while your average British truck driver might expect to tuck into something such as sausage, mashed potato and baked beans for his dinner, his French counterpart was more likely to be feeding on pheasant, wild forest mushrooms and haricots vert.
We left very early the next morning and continued our journey northward. Not having bought ourselves a picnic lunch, we stopped for a late one once we were north of Paris at Compeigne. As we walked back to the car we spotted a shop selling an amazing array of cheeses. After sampling some, I bought a whole disc of chaumes and put it in the back of the car. It did not take long for it’s scent to permeate.
For me the smell was reminiscent of a delightful combination of freshly mown grass and soiled baby’s nappy, with a hint of warm honey. Many Chinese do not enjoy the smell of maturing fromage, much as many westerners do not like the odour of the Asian fruit durian. While Jane had developed into quite a cheese connoisseur during her time in Europe, Jasmine had not. We headed for Calais and the ferry.
After the channel crossing we returned to our vehicle. While Jasmine gagged on the back seat, I prayed that a zealous British customs officer would ask to inspect the contents of the rear of the car. Unfortunately as is usually the way, when one has no contraband, but has something to be strongly remembered by, we were waived through the green lane without incident. Three hours later the Chaumes occupied the whole of the second shelf of the fridge, in our kitchen in North West London.
As an occupant of the house the aroma from the cheese was hardly noticeable. Visitors however, invariably wondered about “the smell”.
We had planned to spend ten days in France, including seven touring the Loire valley, but after just five nights away and having covered considerably more ground than originally intended, we were already home. Despite the disappointment caused by the weather, my Francophilia had hardly diminished.
Since it was soon to be Jane’s birthday, and since she loved growing flowers and edible plants such as tomatoes and various herbs, I purchased an 8ft by 6ft greenhouse from the Woolworth store in our local High Street.
With the help of Jasmine, I erected this in the back garden and was fascinated at how awed she was, as this pile of aluminium extrusions and sheets of glass were transformed.
From the way Jasmine re-acted anyone would have thought we had erected the Crystal Palace. On each of her few remaining days in England, she would sit inside it for hours on end. I’m quite sure that if the door had been wider, she would have moved her bed into it and would have happily lived there forever after.
Shortly before Jasmine left to return to Hong Kong, we held a cocktail party on the back lawn to celebrate Jane’s birthday. We used the occasion as an excuse to finish off the Chaumes, which was by then getting rather ripe.
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