november final

Montsoreau

I THINK STITCHING UP THESE POSTS concerning our to-and-fros to Sablet and vice-versa has to come almost to an end, run it’s course, lost it's sparkle, become unconscionably repetitious, I mean who really wants to read this stuff? No one. So very, very yesterday. A contrivance, as repetitive (as thin –ed) as workhouse gruel. 

But as such excursions are indeed coming to an end anyway, to 1rueFB at least, and as this transfer was such a classy, rich and enjoyable one, perhaps, well, one more time? Where’s the harm. Skip it, no one is forcing you to suck up another self satisfied travelogue, there are limits. But this is at that limit; after this you’ll have to start on something altogether more challenging. Travels with a Donkey, RL Stevenson for example. NB: There is still the hike back to Bullsmead Lawns to come, but at time of typing, that is yet to happen and yet to be writ. Two more times then — here's the first of the last.  

We are the very last motor off the Armorique: last off the very last regular sailing of the year (we are talking 2025 here). Nevertheless, we are on the road to Rennes just 30 minutes after the ship rubs up against the quay. Lovely day, even this late in the year: 0830 allows us to proceed without having to light the motor’s lamps. There is just one brief shower in the vicinity of Morlaix: thereafter the wipers are not summonsed. Breakfast is taken at Châtelaudren and we are relieved to see the church belfry is restored fully, the associated tower cleaned and repointed. Most excellent filled baguettes are obtained in association with our breakfast croissants which (the latter) we enjoy in the busy Grand Café (it is market day on Mondays here). A proportion of my readership will recall it……

Our route takes us down to the Loire as is usual (we cross and recross it to get the best benefit of the waterside roads) and we sink the sandwiches high above the river at St Florent-le-Vieil (south side of the stream) where it is warm enough to sit out, there are others of like mind, and we bask a tad. Those baguettes: oh my. Mary has the last rustique for sale and I make do with the classic standard, both stuffed with the chicken salad option. I’d trade a straight repeat of these delights all over again for the meal we suffer in the evening of this day, if I had had the foresight and the option. 

The river flow is up on our transit a few weeks ago. The trees – every shade of gold, copper and yellow, ditto the vines. Mme Melling distributes remnants of her Fr library to book boxes en route…   

Campanile (Saumur) is our hotel of choice this time, on account of cost differentials. Oh dear. I don’t care for this chain at all. Old fashioned, motel style, even if one’s motor can be parked right outside one’s porte. The hotel is not central, so we elect to eat in. Somewhat of a let down. The wine is paletable at least…… waiter service is also good, executed by a startling yet modest, friendly, tall young woman of Sudanese complexion and a most endearing countenance. Hem hem (OK… young). But Mme Melling agrees… so I rest m’case. Upon return to our quarters, sadder, wiser and even more ancient of aspect maybe, I note that the shower is part-broken – so I risk a bath. Lots of hot water at least but, you know, a hotel bath (for folk less than 60 inches tall)? No plug?? I thought those days were behind us. But I cope: let it never be said that he didn’t cope. Whenever next door drain their wash basin, or worse still, flush, it sounds as though they are doing same actually in our bathroom. Quite unnerving for one of my sensibilities.

The Campanile bed though is, in our room at least, remarkably comfortable. Competition on this journey on this front (best bed awards) proves to be intense, but while the chain trails behind in all other respects, the bed takes the accolade. Mme Melling is as one with me on this. It has springs! 

café-cat at Montsoreau

Our second day is full of light and warmth. We crawl through early morning manoeuvres in Saumur to pick up the Loire-side roads and again take petit d’ej at Montsoreau, as the mists on the river dissolve. Top flight coffee as some weeks ago. Proceding southwards Mme Melling is in favour of a visit to the square in Richelieu where more sandwiches are obtained and we potter about a bit.

Our route after departing from Loire riverside, lies through lovely countryside, sometimes on long straight switchbacks but usually in proximity (often alongside in fact) to the Loire’s principle tributary, the Vienne. So much light, and actually so very little traffic. Where is everybody? We eat again riverside, Vienne that is, the sun hot on our backs and again with like minds adjacent but reasonably spaced. We’ve taken our repast here before, at Chabanais, but below the bridge: better upstream side, imho. M comments on the number of cranes she spots flying ultra high in large skeins (the birds, not the constructor’s apparatus). 

Our passage is modest today but there is Périgueux to negotiate. We do it without the slightest error (right through the middle) and arrive at our hostelry betwixt the cathedral and the river early enough to bag one of the very few parking spots right outside the lodge. Nevertheless we are still only designated accommodation with a view to the cathedral still being repaired, brought up to scratch – so covered in scaffolding. As it was last visit. 

At the back of the Ibis,  that is. It drives us to drink

 – four kirs (4) in the bar (two apiece) before zipping off to Chez Fred’s which has changed its name (can’t remember to what, do you even care, really?). Tsch. Fred's is longer quite the thing as far as I’m concerned. Pricey (but apparently competitively so) food, good as far as it goes – but now fails to impress, me at least. Heavy, shall not willingly patronise a fourth time…  

So stuffed after last eve, are we, that we skip lunch altogether the next day. Périgord countryside as lovely as hitherto until we exit and get down amongst the netted orchards concentrated on the Tarn/Garonne confluence, Montauban, Castelsarrasin et al. They are only just beginning the harvest, for juice we reckon. We drink tomato juices in Villemur (for lunch) and watch the plane tree leaves blow back and forth…

Mme Melling sorts alternative routes avoiding Montauban of unhappy memory (long time ago, don't ask), but it takes a while to skirt round the area and get back into more shining uplands. 

We take a mooch around the older part of the town… check out the church etc. which can be observed from miles around, gracing the ridge with its hefty tower and belfry. I believe the  organ here is of some significance… The town runs to its own composer of note, Déodat de Séverac as well. He could come up with some good tunes, look him up and take a listen… fin-de-siècle sort of cove… you must have come across him, surely…

Good views and clear light stretches to the Montagne Noire. Our room, when we report for duty, proves very adequate indeed. Not the top suite this time but been there, done that. Views of the D662. The double glazing keeps out most of the drone of the passing timber-laden lorries. There are no fireworks and no burning of the guy in St Félix this November fifth… 

Our supper? – The Cassoulet option. The auberge chefs are renowned for it here and have won Michelin stars and Toulouse gongs galore for the dish. I’m happy to confirm that a further gong [with bar and oak leaves] could be willingly proposed from this quarter: good show! We go to bed feeling full of bonhommie and beans. The shower works, the towels (and gowns) are soft and purest white… the wind rattles the shutters I’ve opened until the early hours, but reassuringly so. As beds go, it's a winner, another winner. 

Grey scud greets our first view of the morning. But it is oh so mild and the air is fresh. We modify our route a little to employ the bendy road through the southern flanks of La Montagne-Noire, via Revel. Wonderful, although a distant enforced day in Revel when Berlingo’s overtightened brakes had been re-adjusted (no charge) comes to mind. Years ago.

Not covered in this post or in this blog even, you'll be relieved to learn.

The beech and oak forests, maple perhaps (et al) even more eye wateringly beauteous as we sweep round bends and chicanes, all set against a darkling sky. Coffee (expensive but very sound) sans croissant at Montolieu, and the rain is falling. Down to the Castelnaudary–Carcassonne road, bypassing the former by this serpentine and long descending variation… we begin to circumnavigate the aforementioned honeypot in increasingly torrential downpour. The sky is close on black. The rush hour traffic even slows, the wipers working flat out. Surface water inches deep everywhere, then lightning strikes close by and the sky seems to fall in.

We come through it unscathed. More precip. is encountered but it is not on the same scale, thankfully. Decision made: hop on to the A9 at Béziers and conclude this November Cheldon–Sablet transit as soon as is reasonably possible. Toll notwithstanding. We fetch up at 1rueFB as the church clocks rings the half hour after mid-day. We unload our rather reduced luggage allowance and are quickly off to Tulette for victuals, petroleum distillate and a chocolat chaud in St Cécile (with cake). Bread, cheese, Devon hard boiled eggs for supper washed down with Ventoux rouge (bib) that we started drinking in Bullsmead tavern and brought back to finish here. Who says that wines don’t travel? This one has, I can attest.

The purpose of this rather late visit, the clearance and final retreat from our Sablet, looms. We will be here  but eight nights. And that will be that. End of an era. OMG. Just wanting to get it over with now, if truth be told… But still need to stock up on Bibs-for-Christmas and find room for same in the next cartage back to Blightey…

And this post, dear reader (is anybody there?) has delayed that activity by some minutes (well an hour or two if truth be told); I really can't devote any more time to addressing the void just now, much as I would like to………