We took a different route to the one we had come down on, taking the autoroute to the East, through heavily congested Lyon, stopping off at Beaune in the Bourgogne for the night.
We parked the car in a large cobbled square, along with one hundred or so other cars. It seemed that Beaune was the place to be on a Friday evening, if the crowds milling around the town on this particular Friday evening, were anything to go by.
We were unexpectedly flushed with French Francs, having under spent on the holiday so far. We decided to book ourselves into a decent hotel and have a blow out meal on the final night. A visit to the tourist office less than 50 meters from where we had parked, revealed that only one hotel near the railway station had vacancies. Having found a rare parking space in the crowded town, we were reluctant to abandon it, so we dragged our cases further than we expected to the hotel marked in biro on a map, provided by the girl in the tourist office.
The hotel was well below the standard we had set ourselves, but we settled for what was apparently the only room available in the whole of Beaune. The room smelt strongly of urine, but we had little choice but to accept it. Anyway we were exhausted from dragging our cases so far. The unspent funds could be diverted to make the blow out meal a real blow out.
Unusually we had to pay for the room in advance, but since we intended leaving early the next morning and the reception was not manned until 8:00am, we paid up and received keys for the front door to the hotel in exchange.
Having freshened up, we walked back to the centre of town, Sarah riding piggy back on my shoulders. Of course as we walked we were impressed by the amazing tiled roofs of Beaune. Eventually we reached an area with plenty of restaurants. we investigated a good dozen menus, before deciding on a five course one at 400 Francs each. On entering the restaurant, we realized that we were not dressed for the occasion. Throughout France our experience had been that jeans and children were welcome anywhere, as evidenced by the swarthy lorry drivers and abundance of well behaved children you find where ever you eat.
Tiled Roofs of Beaune
In this establishment however blazers, bow ties and no children appeared to be the order of the day. Having crossed the threshold of the establishment however, it was difficult to turn back, the aromas of cooking already having assailed our nostrils.
Despite a few sideways glances from the established clientele, the receptionist led us through the amassed eaters to a stairway, which led down to the cellar. The cellar was equipped with tables, linen and cutlery identical to the room above, but was devoid of other diners. We were ushered to a discreet corner and were offered bread and menus.
Once the waitress had left our table, with our orders, we wondered between ourselves whether it was Sarah or our jeans which had caused us to be exiled to this otherwise empty part of the restaurant. Of course I should have known better of the French. Before our first course had arrived, other diners were also being shown to the cellar and by the time the Venison arrived, the cellar was full and lively. I have to admit that being the first in the room, I was less embarrassed about Sarah’s occasional indiscretions, than I would have been had we been the last.
I remember that all the food was excellent, but the potato dish “pommes Lyonnais” was the one which impressed me most. Somehow the blend of potatoes, garlic and cream, were unbelievably good, for what passed to be the most simple item on our menu. The first couple of courses were accompanied by a half bottle of white Burgundy and the remaining courses, by a full bottle of deep rich red, from one of the Caves we had passed on our walk from the hotel. ‘Dad this is such a long meal, can I have two good girl presents’ piped up Sarah. Well it was the ‘last supper’, so of course I agreed.
We paid the bill and slightly tipsy, returned to the hotel, this time with Sarah slumped asleep across my shoulders, rather than riding on them. I looked at the clock in the foyer, it was 11:45pm. Soon we were sleeping the sleep of gluttons.
I awoke with a start as the room shook. I had no idea what had disturbed my sleep, but a look at my watch indicated 12:05am. I had hardly dosed off again when the room shook once more. I threw open the shutters just in time to see the tail end of a very fast freight train, disappearing down a railway line, unbelievably close to our bedroom window.
I tried to re-engage with my dreams, but as I anticipated the next train, I heard the familiar buzz of a mosquito, hunting someone to bite. After tossing and turning in the stifling heat, with no let up from the trains or the mosquito, we left our room and the hotel at 3:30am, somehow carrying Sarah and our cases to the square where we had left the car.
The square was coming to life as traders set up their market stalls. The car was not where it had been, but was easily found having been manhandled about 30 meters down the road, presumably to make way for the Saturday morning market. There were no signs of any parking ticket.
We were soon back on the auto route heading Northward. We suffered the occasional loss of power in the car, which had always been reliable beforehand. Presumably the manhandling in Beaune had disturbed sediment in the tank, not that there should have been any sediment in such a new vehicle.
Never the less, we were back at home in North West London, by late afternoon on Saturday. I unpacked my stock of very cheap Corbieres and Minervois wines, which we had purchased prior to our departure.
We were not quite ready to accept that the holiday was already over, so I opened one. An initial sip confirmed our suspicions. The wine did not taste anywhere near as good as it had, when consumed some six hundred miles almost due South of where we were now.
About two weeks after our return, my brother Dick called to tell me that he had also made a purchase not far away in Agde. The urge to buy property in the Languedoc must have been spread through our family by a virus, because in no time at all, my step brother Ron also called to say he had bought one near Lodeve.
That Autumn we kept our interest up by looking at our photos, buying books about the Languedoc and watching video tapes of French movies.
We visited the Kensington High St offices of the B.N.P. to sign more mortgage related forms and in early December received a letter from the Notaire confirming that the house in Frasquenet was at last ours and enclosing some keys.
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