sunday constitutional

WE TOOK TO SUNDAY CONSTITUTIONALS this Autumn. At least that's how it seems in retrospect. Our constitutional proceeds from Rasteau village square, round and through the hilltop vines and returning to said square via the back road to Roaix, to take refreshment at the sleepy bar before collecting the wheels and rolling back across the Plan de Dieu for a simple lunch back at the abode. We did it every Sunday we were in residence, save one. 

A very simple and untaxing little habit thus sprang up. We've been doing the Rasteau round ever since we got the keys to 1 rue FB and made our home there. You'll have heard of Rasteau if you are at all up on Fr. wine. It is the business. A Cru in fact – the red, and their vin doux – distinctive desert wines: syrupy, fruity and delicious. Originates from these chaps…… those are the Dentelles beyond…

From the terrace of number one we can look across the Ouvèze to Rasteau: Séguret is closer in the view from up there, arguably more scenic in aspect, but it's Rasteau that catches our eye. It beckons. Perhaps because we entertained an aspiration to buy our spot there, given its sweeping views across to Les Baronnies and Le Géant, not available in Sablet. Nothing came of that aspiration: there was zero on the market in Rasteau when we were looking and I doubt anything would have been in our price range anyway … up on the hill that is, with them views.  We are content with the way the cards have fallen (well almost, let's not go there in this post my dears!) but still frequent Rasteau village (the original bits) and exercise in Rural Rasteau: it's a firm favourite. 

We park the motor in or on the edge of Rasteau's lovely square, usually quiet of a Sunday unless some event is being staged therein: the exception rather than the rule. We plod up a steep little street and turn left behind houses, passing the clock tower and the school, to come out quickly onto a country terrace road flanking an orchard. The views are good already, across to Sablet, Gigondas and Les Dentelles.

The road we follow shrinks to a track and gives up on tarmac before skirting round then up to the top of the first hill that forms the northwest corner of the Rasteau commune. There are pines and river pebbles, and Rasteau's finest vines. An outdoor classroom for tots etc. has been put together under the trees – planks for tables and long benches. Never seen it in use mind, but there is another such facility on another wooded bluff which we pass coming back into Rasteau: that one is associated with a botanical trail. 

We pick our way up the pebbly track skirting the trees to the topmost hill. The views have grown more extensive – to the south and east, across to Orange, Châteauneuf-du-Pape, nearby Cairanne et Ste. Cécile, the more distant hidden Rhône and the far distant Cévennes. East and North it is the Baronnies particularly, and of course, Le Mont Ventoux plus Les Dentelles. My, it is capital.

As we traverse the upper terraces, we encounter a 'snug' with barrel table and baulks of timber to perch on, put together beneath a clump of mediterranean pines, to rest up under shade, catch a breeze in the stifling summer heat. Take your own drinks though, it isn't manned. There are butterflies, there are grasshoppers. In Summer the hilltop copses are loud with cicadas. Wood larks are in song in every direction. And some!

There are surprises… Mme Melling strode out on the returning road one time, when a very large hare crossed the road between us. Passed right behind Mary, without a second glance. More recently, in Spring, we encountered a skein of cranes battling their way north against a sudden mistral upsurge, only a few metres above our heads. In the same place, more or less. 

There may be kites, possible harriers, kestrels and serins, even the odd vulture on a day out from the higher Baronnies. And unless the harvest is in progress, there is quiet most often; they still pick the grapes by hand up here… There's a bench back on the returning road one reaches: shaded by evergreen oaks and with a nifty roadside shelter on the other side of the oaken clump, should it be coming on to rain. I love a bench, me. And a shelter to watch the rain from. Not had that privilege as yet…

From here the round brings us (by unfrequented country road) to the uppermost part of the village, the cemetary, the church and its tower. Footpaths snake down to the old gateway avec horlorge (with hours chiming, and repeated as they should be – this is Provence after all). There are variations one can make, both out in the country and whilst returning through the habitations, with the aspiration (and intent) for a snifter coming to the fore.

So we filter back into the capacious square (…might have picked up a pastry or two from yer boulangerie, or a baguette, depending on plans for lunch) where I join Mme M at the table she has selected to her liking… and where we eventually secure liquid refreshment…

… (it can be slightly sedate,

one might have to nip inside to secure the tipples desired) then bask in the blue of the sky over the borders of middle age planes, watch anything that might be taking place, soak up the ambience of the pre-lunch drinkers, of which there is rarely more than a handful and they can often be Spanish. 

We bond with this space. Fringed with bright and quite classy houses, sheltered and shaded by carefully managed planes, sporting a fountain with runnels, and the war memorial. The square slopes downhill and is gently terraced. Is airy. Has a play area. And it is very often canopied overall with that Rasteau blue sky. No school on sundays obvs, but on a weekday there is playground chatter across the square, if it isn't half term that is. Pleasant children's play: just far enough away to be agreeable rather than earsplitting… the place with the prison bars is the tourist office…

The walk we've been a-doing of is augmented with explanatory information panels, (as you can see in the cloudscapey panorama earlier) recently replaced, upgraded and refettled, explaining the viniculture, highlighting the views etc etc. Normally we'd be a bit sniffy about such intrusion but these seem to be alright generally. Apart from the challenges of fr. texts of course (I blame my school). But as a guide to the making of fine wines (and flogging it, no doubt) and explaining what you are looking at, then they serve. Rasteau is a Cru after all. I think I mentioned that before. 

So does that mean (the adoption of this round as an official educational perambulation) that there are others traipsing round this commune approved route? Well, out there, à la campagne, one can occasionally come across such a person or persons… but generally we have the circuit to ourselves. We have variations we can utilise if we feel at all compromised by a party of walkers: they are rare enough. And now it has become a Sunday thing. I'd give my eye teeth to go round it, right now. What say you, Mme Melling?  Exactly. Simple pleasures, with a glass of Rasteau Kir at the end of it (or pastis, pression, un-demi: other drinks are available…). 

…and if you've been a visitor to the Melling–Smith enterprise in Sablet, you'll have been coaxed round this two miler – so you'll have some idea of what I am writing about here. You might have bought the drinks, although Mme M claims she does that.  Rasteau… The Round… Nice, ain't it?  At any time …  although as yet we've only caught the rain up there just once. Surprising… it does rain y'know. On occasion. 

Footnote: The pictures included in this post were obviously not all taken this autumn. Spring summer and autumn are represented here. There was snow on those distant hills on occasion.

Lots of work goes on over the winter interval amongst the vines: it is intense. Such as two major pruning cycles, replanting, weed control, terrace reconstruction – in fact starting all over again from scratch from time to time.  Look it up! Hard work or what?

Raise a glass to the workers!

shipping out and getting back

THERE IS LITTLE LEFT TO TELL concerning this latest return of the natives. As already reported, we didn't leap from the couch before daybreak at Yffiniac, preferring for a while to take in the incessant patter of rain on the double glazing from the comfort of the beds provided …and enjoy the questionable benefit of the clocks going back. There was still no hot water anyway. 

We were assured of a good breakfast at the tried-and-tested Châtelaudren – we need not look further. We were already au fait with the fact that our ferry was going an hour ahead of schedule to try and beat the incoming storm conditions. Time on board is British time of course so we'd be gaining two hours anyway by the time we landed in storm tossed Plymouth. However, my normal requirement for une douzaine de huîtres before embarkation would go unrequited: couldn't risk The Surcouf, if their service was as slow as last time. Never mind, we would eat on board. And anyway, we could fill up a bit at the P'tit déj stage, the boulangerie in Châtelaudren being division one. We could buy quality bread to take back with us too! 

stoicism in the face
of disappointment

The explanation for the lack of eau chaude in the Ibis Yffiniac was not convincing: the failure of a major component in the water system of the hotel which management could neither solve or find un heating engineer who could. We await a partial refund. 

As I often am given to remark: yeah… right. 

The Châtelaudren boulangerie was barred and shuttered. 

We were assured all such outlets in the town, nearby towns and the départment as a whole were similar, as it was Toussaint! I mean to say! This is supposed to be a secular state!! Yeah… Right. We moped over our grand crèmes. No croissants. No beer mats to suck either. On our last morning, FGS! We had hard boiled eggs, but…… We passed the only Boul. open in Côte d'Armor, later, en route to Finistère… there was a queue that stretched to the horizon. Strong men wept. I nearly joined them. 

But before leaving Châtelaudren we inspected the former printing works and its wonderful water powered turbine-race, we read up on the bridge about where two cultures and differing languages formally met. It is historic: we liked Châtelaudren even today when it so seriously failed to meet our needs. We left it, but we will return. We will forgive. 

The weather being more kindly disposed, suggested perhaps that we might get recompense at our first breakfast stop of this jolly, the one where we unselfishly let Dr G have the only croissant. We left the N12 to drop through Morlaix and turned up at Locquénolé. Not a chance. Nothing. B&S, again. Give us a break! We strolled down to the estuary as if that had been our intention all along, after all it was sunny and calm. We admired the only for-certain surviving tree of the revolution planting frenzy (1794 Le Chêne de la Liberté), but it didn't help. Mme M called us to order: let's get on…… we hi-tailed it to Roscoff; distant view of feu antérieur, Île Louët, snapped en route…

Roscoff: parked up, bought a net of onions and a dozen of the best garlics known to man, got ourselves into the thankfully functioning boul/café. just along from the Surcouf. The rain thundered down as we were, aprés twelve of the hour, rewarded with breakfast. The s&h went further: he had a Croque-Monsieur. The quality of those pastries brings a tear to my eye, even at this remove. The chocolat chaud was inspirational. Less so the café latte. We went to meet our destiny on the Armorique with renewed hope, the rain even refrained long enough to get there sans splash! (snap of lunch by M, annotated by your author).

Armorique was straining at the leash as we crept on (up to deck five, disabled the motor's burglar alarm, footed it 'up-top') got under way on the dot, exchanging toots as we went with the incoming Pont Aven, also running before the storm, but 'tuther way. The clouds indicated the nature of what the crossing might be like (we had a cabin). 

White horses of the wave-and-water type rapidly manifested themselves around us even though the sun shone on. Soon the decks were closed to the passengers and first the s&h, self, and then Mme M adjourned to cabin 8034. Armorique staggered pitched and rolled her way across La Manche; we've known it rougher (more rough). Quite windy. Upon arrival a tug was enlisted to bring our vessel to the quayside in the Plymouth dock: achieved without the slightest of bumps. Hearts of Oak!

All in all the return sailing was executed with the skill and care we expect from Brit Ferries, notwithstanding the deck-dumping of a fully loaded tray of glassware behind the bar. The recently refettled HM Customs and Excise at Ply. dealt with the disembarkation in its usual efficient manner: we were out of the port to dice with the nonsense of Plymouth's traffic light and bus lane mysteries within twenty minutes or so. We stopped for milk at the Shell garage and wolfed down a pack of Waitrose sausage rolls thereat. Not bad for shop bought.  Mary quite forgot herself and ate two! 

You see, no one had bothered to eat on the crossing — beyond a shared bag of Piper's crisps. I bought a bottle of gin. I ate a hard boiled egg back at the homestead while Mary defrosted and heated up a pizza aussi. I ate a bit of it. Adam ate the rest of it. 

The car was emptied, the crew went to bed. Thank you ma famille. Until the next time… Storm Ciarán arrived on Thursday and pressure took a record breaking dip… we had got in — under the wire!

getting on and shipping out

 

AT AMBOISE, AND SUBSEQUENTLY AT YFFINIAC, the last two lodgings we patronised before we shook off the dust of France, the early away regime was suspended. In Amboise therefore we drifted out of Le Blason, (our hotel) down the street towards the river fetching up in a most welcoming and well lit boulangerie with café extension, where we sucked up rather good café crèmes and very passable croissants and pains aux raisins. A cheery place, with a number of other like minded souls seeking Saturday morning P'tit déj aussi. We secured sandwiches too: we were fit to resume.

But before we got on the road we took time out to pay homage to a favourite installation hereat: The Max Ernst Fountain, no less. We'd taken a shine to this feature of Amboise as long ago as 1995… and I maintain, possibly earlier than that. After all, the infamous Okehampton College Loire Cycle Tour of 1989 had stopped off here to take in the Leonardo da Vinci Museum (he died here you know, and his last home can be toured and his inventions inspected). We were part of the support team for the aforementioned cycle tour you see, and I am pretty sure we spotted the M E fountain whilst in town, but Mme M won't confirm it; her memory is better than mine so I won't press the point. This time the daylight was just returning and we had the environs of the water feature to ourselves. 

The portrait snaps herewith were taken at Easter 1995 (note the S&H in the smaller photo) while the study below is as it is now: hardly changed, although I understand that several of the small turtle fountain spouters have had to be replaced as light fingered individuals have made off with a number of them, or broken them in the process of trying to half-inch one. The replacements are made of resin. I defy anyone other than a skilled metallurgist to spot the difference from the surviving extant bronze originals. 

But we must get on. Reference to the itinerary (you may not have not committed it to memory, I realise some of my public don't embrace this account quite as thoroughly as they perhaps should) will show that our route now took us along the wonderful Loire, through the riverside roads of Tours, Vouvray, Saumur and all the way to Angers. 

The morning sun shone golden light upon the wooded islands and golden sand banks of this magnificent river. We varied our route, first one bank and then the other, dodging the odd routes barrées here and there by using the strategically placed bridges that grace the flood. 

So why no pictures? Because I was at the helm, and have often snapped the stream, and yet never to my satisfaction, I have to own. We've done all this before of course, various stretches of the river, and today strung a lot of those previous inspections together into one. An indulgence. The levée is a pleasure to drive (on a quiet Saturday morning at least). 

Stop Press: The s&h has responded to my SOS and provided this impression of the silvery Loire from the shotgun seat of the speeding motor. It gives some idea…

Shortly after the levée Mme Melling decided that my projected route, tried and tested in the past, did not meet with her aspiration, so I was redirected by her to proceed another way. I have to tell you now that instead of the sedate progress I had anticipated and planned for, we found ourselves in Angers suburbs and beset by Routes Barrées of the most bewildering sort and variety. Language in the cabin was colourful and shouty. Shortly after we got onto that fast road NW, far earlier than planned, the rain recommenced. We had several other mis-routings as well (which I put down to Mme M being under the weather with the family cold, which only now was I beginning to experience… and she puts down to my inability to understand straight forward directions). 

I'll draw a veil. We lunched at Janzé in a car park with floral edges, after trying to locate an historical site as our venue – which proved entirely unsuitable to meet our needs (pay to go in and closed to all comers anyway.) We were once more confined to the motor by deluges  in uninspiring Janzé. Not that I wanted to get out that much. We gritted what teeth we possess and resumed the N12 road, getting to Yffiniac at a quite reasonable hour (in daylight at least) and took ourselves up to our suite of rooms (honest, we had two connecting chambers this time) and even managed to get into them, eventually, after a while, and after fetching the hotel manager to demonstrate the knack of card-in-the-door – remove smoothly, and then gently, oh so gently – coaxing the door handle to release the locking device… 

Later that evening, after we had been out and supped, returned, witnessed via our wall mounted TV the final of the Rugby Union World Championships, in which the Springboks retained the cup by a single point over the All Blacks, as if you didn't know already) we discovered there was no hot water. More choice words were employed as we went to our very comfortable beds, possibly unwashed. The matter would be raised with the management on the morrow . . . wouldn't have happened at the Ibis budget across the way. We paid extra to be in the posher Ibis, damn it!

Footnote: Supper was taken at the crêperie down by the sea as in previous stopovers at Yffiniac. We'd booked, thankfully. It was empty when I snapped this interior… it was full within another twenty minutes. Not sure why the place has a ship's mast springing up right through the salon. Best not to ask. 

The tide was right in and almost up to the grounds of the restaurant. Curlews etc in profusion. Adam's first time here of course, I'd not have had the burger option, personally. The cider was good as were the galettes and concluding crêpes. Top flight spot. The rain held off… until we got back to our suite, at least…

sustenance under the rains

 

LEAVING SARLAT VERY MUCH TO ITS OWN DEVICES after a rain filled night, we slunk off before the break of day on my new variation of route, which bypassed Montignac. Mme Melling was having none of it and instructed the helmsman to steer a course for the centre of town. 

Her instincts were proved to be correct once more. A good café was easily located where croissants of singular quality and aesthetic beauty were presented, with almost acceptable grand crémes. We deduced that these buttery delights almost certainly originated in the boulangerie across the road, so that is where we made enquiry as to what sandwiches might be obtained thereat. We were crisply introduced to the full range of options, partially in perfect English by the charming female operative, from which Adam and self selected the smoked magret-de-canard, cheese, fresh walnuts & salad option, in delicately seeded and perfectly baked baguettes. Mme Melling had something else, she was operating a bit under par due to the influence of a cold virus. 

These baguettes were simply the best in show, this trip. We ate them roadside some hours later and, dear reader, I can tell you, no sandwich is likely to surpass that culinary experience:  until we can contrive to pass that way again and call in at Montignac, for another.

Oh yes, I should mention that Montignac is close by the Lascaux caves and has a museum dedicated to the findings there and the lads who found the cave paintings. Those lads were not gauchos by the way, as the contemporary snap on the public information board might suggest (see topmost montage).  Hence the Montignac-Lascaux pairing in the place name now commonly used (there are a few Montignacs in Fr: you wouldn't want to fetch up in the wrong one when trying to buy a duck sandwich, now would you?).

Notwithstanding the excellent provender obtained, our ongoing journey was soon very much a wet one. It also entailed some highly speculative and inappropriate deviations into the walnut groves which took us nowhere really – although illuminating as to just how many hectares the locals dedicate to walnut growing in these parts. We seemingly saw most of it and at length. We also stopped off in some town or other (Le Dorat I think it was) that Adam identified as being the site of a particular WW1 memorial sculpture he wanted to visit. We parked in front of said edifice in heavy rain, so I snapped it through the windscreen: I wasn't about to go out there… impressive work though n'est ce pas? Reminds me a bit of a Soyuz rocket, if you discount the figure of Victory. Adam has the details… we could have eaten our baguettes here but no, we had to get on…

Much later, on empty main roads, the rain was teeming down, but not to the exclusion of sharp eyed and ever alert Mme Melling espying a picnic spot, signed off down a woodland track. I executed a three pointer after driving past, and brought the motor to rest in a soggy patch adjacent to a forest glade with roofed over picnic tables (trois) and a single composting loo. There was a car (a Volvo from Paris) already in said patch and three figures could be discerned eating their frugal repast at one of the aforementioned picnic benches. The point-and-shoot herewith is Mme Melling's snappy phone in action!

How that small family kept dry escapes my comprehension – it was raining sideways as well as straight down. The roof was insubstantial. We stayed in the car: the drumming of the rain on the roof and windscreen almost drowned out normal speech. 

Not that I had much time for idle chat: I was principally committed to addressing my baguette. So was the S&H.  I did it justice. So did he. When it was gone I followed it with a hard boiled egg. As one does. 

We pondered what the rationale for this almost hidden and well appointed picnic site could be: it was kilometres away from any apparent commune responsibility… we'll never know… as if I cared … Oh! It was called Fôret Communale de Tersannes, I am informed —you'll want to make a note of that …

We broke off the drive for liquid refreshment at Loches where it had just stopped raining but would begin again soon. The cobbles were slippery during our brief mooch, but we stayed upright. Not long now before Amboise…

And then? Routes Barrées. Yes! Again. This time we almost got into visual contact of where we know we can slip into the town. But no way. Like many others we turned right round and (can you believe it) had to go all the way to Chenonceau (on Cher) before we could access a road that would take us in Amboise (on Loire). Triple merde!!! However, in gathering gloom we finally arrived right into the square in Amb. where the hotel we were patronising is situated. It even had a parking spot right outside the door!

The day ended in lurid skies. We rested up in our roof top accommodation… we beetled out to our chosen eatery. Full. We went next door. A crêperie. We ate. Drank cidre bouché.  We went back to the hotel. We watched England win the bronze medal in the RU World Cup. We slept. The rain pounded on the roof above us. Sunset is one word apparently.

end of part two]

running before the rains

THE SON AND HEIR had hardly time to take his coat off before we had to complete the packing of the family saloon and turn our attention to getting back to what is left of the United Kingdom after more than thirteen years of Tory misrule and fiscal abuse. And I am not prepared to risk yet again boring the chaussettes off your good selves, so this account will be brief and to the point — yeah, right — some day it could happen …

Our transit to Roscoff was essentially very wet at times: not all the time you understand, but a lot of the time. Compatriots will be aware of my fondness for the jolly old precipitation, so our party was in good hands… but it did get a bit… er, persistent. 

Now, as you may already appreciate, I am not one to complain, but FGS, why could we not have had a bit more rain fall on 1rueFB while in residence thereat, and a litre or so less on Octavia as she effortlessly transported us back North, with self at the tiller?

…… and Sarlat-la-Canéda was our first overnight stop, so that was it, the first day of our return voyage. Succinct, what? 

Don't get me started on Routes Barrées, though – just don't. About the time the novelty of being on the road for god knows how long had worn quite away, and with Sarlat showing on the roadside signage, we get the jolly old RB: Sarlat blanked out with black tape. The same RB we had last time we came this way (and before that, I'm not sure, nothing surprises me about RBs, damn them all and each). Massive diversion required. The ever resourceful Mme Melling applied all her road craft, guile and local knowledge (enlisting the Michelin Atlas 2023 edition) to ameliorate the situation via back roads through the woods, but the extra kilometres were not a welcome addition to conclude our first day going back.

Luckily the resto that the aforementioned tour-organiser had booked in advance is a peach (we'd been there before when they could only take cash, you'll recall that saga, I'm sure). She and me had some damned fine pasta (S&H chose pizza, its a generational thing) and we all drank walnut wine, limoncello, vin rouge, and had startlingly good sweets to follow… and after paying up, the rain abated long enough for us to stagger back to the Ibis without drowning. But a long day indeed, and not shortened any by the incessant swoosh of the windscreen wipers… 

to be continued]