Today we were up at a far more reasonable hour – Le Logis de Bief has breakfast hours between 8am and 10am, which means an extra half hour of sleeping in. Doesn’t sound like much, but very important as it turns out. Breakfast, as usual in France, was the Continental Special, this time with a soft boiled egg added for good measure. No soldiers though, which was too bad.
Our mission for today was a tour of at least one of the Chateaux of the Loire valley, Chambord in particular. We’d passed relatively close to it on the way in yesterday, but we were on a mission to get to Lôches at the time and didn’t stop. Located not too far from Blois, it was a pleasant drive back, with a quick stop in the charming Montrésor for some photos.
It took about an hour and a half to get to Chambord, but it was well worth it. It was once the hunting lodges of the Kings of France, and man did they do the hunting in style. I’m not sure how many rooms the place has, but I can tell you that they didn’t spare any expense on chimneys or windows. Surrounded by a moat/canal, it is absolutely stunning from the outside.
As with so many things, the outside may have been the best part. We wandered around for a while, taking many photos and having a very tasty (if expensive) ice cream before paying the €9 each to go inside. If you’re into large, mostly empty rooms, full of furniture which seems too small, beds which have canopies taller than a two story building, or hordes of unruly and quite frankly bored children, then this is possibly heaven on earth for you. For us, it was a bit boring.
They have quite a nice double helix spiral staircase, and some nice art on the walls, and quite a lot of antlers and skulls on the walls (oddly mostly from Hungary and Romania from the late 50’s and early 60’s – not sure what the deal was with that). Other than that, not much I’d go out of my way to see. You may call us shallow, being more impressed by the exterior beauty and dismissing the interior splendour, but I’m okay with that.
Having had enough with the kids and other assorted hordes of tourists (okay, to be fair it wasn’t that crowded – not anything like Versailles in the summer for example), we got back into the car and set the sat nav for Blois for a quick exploration and possibly a drink. Lunch was also beginning to enter our thoughts.
We made it to Blois in good time, and found some valuable free parking on the Blois Sud side of the bridge. The cost of this was a 10 or 15 minute walk along the river to get to the bridge itself, but this seemed well worth avoiding paying the fees for parking or having to deal with driving into the town itself.
It seems that pretty much everything in Blois that might serve food shuts down after about 3pm. We had made it there at 3:30 and were absolutely starving. The only thing that seemed to offer any promise, after having checked in a few likely looking bars and cafes, was a Subway just over the bridge. I’m ashamed to admit that in our hour of desperation, we succumbed to the siren call of the sandwich made fresh for you, by dedicated and highly trained sandwich artists.
Blood sugar somewhat restored, we felt up to a walk to the Chateau in the middle of Blois. I’m sure it’s quite impressive, but after the glory of Chambord it seemed quite lacklustre. I guess the Count of Blois couldn’t be seen to be outshining the Kings of France.
The bright ray of light in the Blois Chateaux experience was the spectacular display put on by the Magic House of Magic (or with a name similar) directly opposite. To our amazement and wonder, FIVE golden fibreglass dragons with animatronic mouths and one with a giant animatronic foot appeared in the windows (it looked like there should have been six, possibly the last was on his annual leave?). They opened and closed their mouths with only minimal banging of fibreglass bits on the railings, and with extraordinarily mysterious and quite crap spiritual house music being pumped over a loud speaker. Jamie and I were amazed, as were quite a few children. Where they come up with these things, I’ll never know.
The show over, we felt the need for a restorative beverage, so walked back down the stairs to the square below, the sense of mystical wonder not having quite left us. Jamie had a glass of rose, and as I’m valiantly fighting a cold, I wisely and bravely chose a half litre of Badoit.
After restoration, we walked to the little pharmacy across the road. Jamie was quite amused by the prospect of me asking for an expectorant cough medicine from a pharmacist who probably wouldn’t speak much English, if any at all. The prospect for a humorous situation was quite high, if I’m completely honest (I had quite bad pneumonia when I was in my early 20’s, and since then whenever I get a cold I get quite a bit of fluid in my lungs and am paranoid that I’ll get the pneumonia again).
Fortunately, while the pharmacist spoke no English, the sheer quality of my miming the coughing up of chest congestion (not a pleasant miming experience, Marcel Marceau would have been horrified) got the message across and I ended up with what I hope is a bottle of expectorant cough syrup (from what I can understand of the instructions on the bottle, I’m golden). After a quick stop at the 8 A Huit for a bottle of wine and some water for the car, we walked back to Nancy the car and set Gazza the Sat Nav for Lôches.
A quick note: We eventually ended up becoming quite good friends with the owners of Logis de Bief, and feel a bit bad that we engaged in the minor indiscretion which follows (Jean Claude and Moha, if you ever read this please skip over the next few paragraphs. And know we only ever brought up white wine, and were extremely careful not to open it or pour it on or near the carpets – please forgive us.)
A whinge (in the nicest way possible) about our B&B. We’ve specially booked the room with a beautiful balcony, featuring two extremely comfortable chairs and a view over the little canal below. Despite this, and its obvious potential for long and relaxing afternoons drinking cold bottles of local wine while reading or writing etc, the owners would apparently prefer that we not drink any wine in the room at all. We have instead been asked to use the shared and unlit communal terrace below.
This has brought out the rebels in us. We lacked the forethought to bring our own corkscrew, granted an unforgivable oversight given a trip to France, however made the fatal mistake of asking the owners if we could borrow one. This was when we were given the instruction to drink on the shared terrace. We did, grudgingly the first night, but have now devised several devious plans, including buying our own cheap corkscrew and smuggling our own wine up to our rooms, hidden in spare jackets etc.
This may seem completely stupid, and I agree that it is. On the other hand, I’m a grown man who has paid quite a lot of money (okay, not actually that much to be fair) to have a room with a balcony which features the chairs and the view, and I’d like to be able to drink my wine in peace, not to have to feel guilty about it or like I’m a 14 year old who has raided by parents liquor cabinet (not that I would ever have done such a thing, if my parents ever happen to read this).
So we enjoyed half a bottle of quite nice wine (the bottle is currently resting under the sink in the bathroom to avoid detection) while reading and writing on our balcony, before getting somewhat gussied up for our dinner reservations at the restaurant at Le Hotel de France. Despite some vaguely misleading directions, we found it without any problem and had quite a nice and very affordable three course meal. On the other hand, the place was quite formal (waiters with suits, softly piped in Sade music, décor as if someone’s grandmother’s sitting room had exploded with fake plants, birds, hideous wallpaper, dusty rose and peach carpets and paint…you know the type).
Feeling quite stuffed and pleased with the meal, we yet again waddled back to our B&B for a final nightcap (have to finish off the bottle, you see, so we can smuggle it back out again in the morning so that no one will be the wiser). Have I mentioned that I love France?
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
Day Four – Gav-o’s Revenge – May 23, 2011
Today was officially a travel day. We had to make it from the champagne-soaked hills of, well, Champagne, to the wine and château soaked hills (and more accurately extremely flat fields of wheat) of the Loire Valley. Drive time was scheduled to be about 5 hours via the autoroute, but we’re big and tough and decided to ask Gezza to take us by the non-toll routes. This, he did with typical Aussie glee (I think he might have been drunk). The drive turned out to be a beautiful meander through six and half hours worth of backroads, tiny villages which may have never seen tourists.
We were up again far too early, after what turned out to be for me not a particularly restful night for some reason. Breakfast was the same as previous days, although this morning I didn’t try to shove everything into a giant slice of baguette and thus wasn’t uncomfortably full when we left (it’s amazing how much ham, cheese, and boiled egg you can get into a four-inch portion of bread).
We loaded up Nancy the Clio and hit the dusty trail. On our quest to avoid paying for driving, we chose the slower but more scenic N and D route approach from Champagne to the Loire. Other than some very busy roads around Paris, for much of the drive we were among the only cars on the road. While it may not have been as fast as the Autoroute, it was so much less stressful and there was more to see.
Not much more to say about the drive to be honest. Six hours of beautiful back roads, quaint villages, and beautiful scenery. Lunch, on the hand, was incredibly interesting. We’ve read that the best places to eat lunch when on long road trips in France is at the places where the truckers eat – generally good food apparently, very cheap, and very friendly. At about noon, on an otherwise unremarkable D road somewhere in deepest France, we came upon just one of these Routiers (trucks stops for truckers run by truckers, according to the literature on our placemats).
It was like something out of an old western. We parked up amongst all the giant lorries and walked through the front door. All conversation stopped. All eyes turned to look at us. We sat down, and conversation slowly started up again. We were given menus with no prices, it seemed to be a basic two course affair. We both had oeufs mayonnaise to start, then grilled steak with fries and pepper sauce for me, and chicken cordon bleu with fries for Jamie. Surprisingly good, considering the atmosphere, and a steal at €11.50 each.
Back on the road after lunch, feeling a bit full and bemused, we made fairly good time the rest of the way to Loche in the Loire, with only a few small errors of direction around Bloise to keep Gazza on his toes. We pulled into Loche at about 3:30 and got settled in our new room. The two owners of the B&B were extremely friendly and once they found out we spoke a bit of French, insisted that all conversations be conducted in that language (in a very humorous manner, with many little side translations for bits we couldn’t keep up with).
The room itself is beautiful, with a huge terrace overlooking a little canal, part of the Indre river I think. It has a door on the bathroom and everything, more than we could ask for!
The owners agreed to arrange a reservation on the patio at Le Gerbe d’Or (the Golden Wheat Sheaf – the French translation of 13,000 pubs in Britain).
After a walk around the unbelievably twee (but in a good way) village, we found a little brassiere for a few glasses of Ricard for me and white wine for Jamie. There are few ways to spend an sunny and hot Monday afternoon than sitting at a café drinking tasty beverages – even if it did hit 30 degrees Celsius (our Canadian and British blood isn’t used to this sort of torture – it’s so thick from the constant cold that when we cut ourselves we have to run around the block to start bleeding).
We eventually made our way over to the restaurant for our reservations and proceeded to absolutely gorge ourselves on foie gras, chicken in rich sauce, veal, and chocolate cake with peppermint sorbet to finish. Life is, if nothing else, extremely rough. As usual, we ate far too much and ended our evening feeling uncomfortably full.
We waddled back to the B&B, clutching our bottle of wine closely, and have spent a delightful hour sitting on the little terrace listening to the deafening sound of frogs getting their freak on. Seriously horny little buggers, if the sound of it is anything to go by. On the other hand, I’ve never been one to interrupt someone about to get their leg over.
We were up again far too early, after what turned out to be for me not a particularly restful night for some reason. Breakfast was the same as previous days, although this morning I didn’t try to shove everything into a giant slice of baguette and thus wasn’t uncomfortably full when we left (it’s amazing how much ham, cheese, and boiled egg you can get into a four-inch portion of bread).
We loaded up Nancy the Clio and hit the dusty trail. On our quest to avoid paying for driving, we chose the slower but more scenic N and D route approach from Champagne to the Loire. Other than some very busy roads around Paris, for much of the drive we were among the only cars on the road. While it may not have been as fast as the Autoroute, it was so much less stressful and there was more to see.
Not much more to say about the drive to be honest. Six hours of beautiful back roads, quaint villages, and beautiful scenery. Lunch, on the hand, was incredibly interesting. We’ve read that the best places to eat lunch when on long road trips in France is at the places where the truckers eat – generally good food apparently, very cheap, and very friendly. At about noon, on an otherwise unremarkable D road somewhere in deepest France, we came upon just one of these Routiers (trucks stops for truckers run by truckers, according to the literature on our placemats).
It was like something out of an old western. We parked up amongst all the giant lorries and walked through the front door. All conversation stopped. All eyes turned to look at us. We sat down, and conversation slowly started up again. We were given menus with no prices, it seemed to be a basic two course affair. We both had oeufs mayonnaise to start, then grilled steak with fries and pepper sauce for me, and chicken cordon bleu with fries for Jamie. Surprisingly good, considering the atmosphere, and a steal at €11.50 each.
Back on the road after lunch, feeling a bit full and bemused, we made fairly good time the rest of the way to Loche in the Loire, with only a few small errors of direction around Bloise to keep Gazza on his toes. We pulled into Loche at about 3:30 and got settled in our new room. The two owners of the B&B were extremely friendly and once they found out we spoke a bit of French, insisted that all conversations be conducted in that language (in a very humorous manner, with many little side translations for bits we couldn’t keep up with).
The room itself is beautiful, with a huge terrace overlooking a little canal, part of the Indre river I think. It has a door on the bathroom and everything, more than we could ask for!
The owners agreed to arrange a reservation on the patio at Le Gerbe d’Or (the Golden Wheat Sheaf – the French translation of 13,000 pubs in Britain).
After a walk around the unbelievably twee (but in a good way) village, we found a little brassiere for a few glasses of Ricard for me and white wine for Jamie. There are few ways to spend an sunny and hot Monday afternoon than sitting at a café drinking tasty beverages – even if it did hit 30 degrees Celsius (our Canadian and British blood isn’t used to this sort of torture – it’s so thick from the constant cold that when we cut ourselves we have to run around the block to start bleeding).
We eventually made our way over to the restaurant for our reservations and proceeded to absolutely gorge ourselves on foie gras, chicken in rich sauce, veal, and chocolate cake with peppermint sorbet to finish. Life is, if nothing else, extremely rough. As usual, we ate far too much and ended our evening feeling uncomfortably full.
We waddled back to the B&B, clutching our bottle of wine closely, and have spent a delightful hour sitting on the little terrace listening to the deafening sound of frogs getting their freak on. Seriously horny little buggers, if the sound of it is anything to go by. On the other hand, I’ve never been one to interrupt someone about to get their leg over.
Day Three – Driving into Calf Heads – May 22, 2011
We got up again at 8am for our continental breakfast, which seemed much earlier than yesterday. Apparently a two hour nap in the middle of the afternoon does not make for a good night’s sleep, and I think both of us had trouble drifting off last night.
After our tasty repast, we packed up Nancy (our hired Renault Clio – our sat nav with the Australian accent is named Gavin, or Gav-O/Gazza for short) and drove out of town. On the itinerary for the day was a tour of the vineyards and villages of the champagne region, with stops for lunch and photographs along the way.
We chose, after getting out of Epernay itself, to relegate Gav-o to the backseat, only to be called up on in emergency situations. Jamie had a map with extremely limited detail as provided by the tourist office, and if it’s free, it must be quality, or so they say, evidently.
We drove for about six hours in total. I’m not completely sure where we went, as I didn’t have the map and Gav-o was giving us the silent treatment, but I did see the towns of Pierry, Moussy, St Martin-d’Ablois, then Boursault, Oeuilly and Festingy. At this point, we took a wrong turn and ended up some time later in Orbais l’Abbaye. For those keeping track, this is sort of the equivalent of aiming for Seattle and hitting Dallas instead (only not on such a grand scale). A very long detour back up north and we found the vines again.
At this point, we felt that lunch was in order and started looking out for a place to stop and eat. We realized that while the villages and towns of Champagne are very scenic, unless you know where to look there doesn’t seem to be many places to eat (and clearly we didn’t know where to look). We eventually found a restaurant on the river in Damery, however as we didn’t have a reservation, there was no room for us. Bugger. Much driving and a scenic viewpoint later in the aptly named town Belleville (not on the map, but a nice view nonetheless), we found a roadside restaurant between St-Imoges and Champillon.
Now, if you’ve never had lunch at a French country restaurant, you might not be prepared for the serving sizes. We have had lunches such as this, but apparently have forgotten, because we each ordered the faux fillet. What we received was a huge slab of beef, with at least 3 ounces of unmelted garlic and parsley butter sitting in all it’s artery hardening glory on top. This with a side order of fries each as well. We made a valiant effort, each of us, but in the end had to admit defeat. It did make us feel slightly better than the French couple at the table next to us made similarly surprised noises about the serving sizes and seemed to have much trouble finishing as well.
Sufficiently suffuncified, we were back into the car and off to the last bit of the champagne tour, focussing on the town of Bouzy so we could take our photo in front of the sign (yes, we are a bit childish, but we have fun so aren’t so concerned about it). From here we made our eventual way back to Epernay for a much deserved break at the B&B for some reading and charging of various batteries.
Dinner was planned for 8pm at Le Cave de Champagne, but by 4:00 we were ready to leave the flat and head out into town. The only reasonable course of action was to start at Le Progres for a fortifying glass or two of champagne while we considered our options. The obvious choice, as it turned out after the two glasses of champagne was to try the flight of champagne at the champagne bar up the road – 6 glasses of local non-super-house champagnes for £39, in a very charming little bar.
Our pre-dinner entertainment, besides the champagne of course, was surreptitiously watching in horror as the middle-aged and extremely drunk couple at the table next to us came as close to having carnal knowledge of each other as is possible in a public place without being arrested. The lowlight of the display was when I was given a shocking “Basic Instinct” moment by the woman. Unpleasant.
Eventually they left and the evening picked up. We finished our flight and walked the short 20 metres down the road to the restaurant for dinner. We’d heard mixed reviews of the restaurant and had a very mixed experience ourselves.
The other two dinners we’d had, we’d enjoyed a very relaxed and casual atmosphere along with good food (especially at Le Coquille). At Le Cave de Champagne, after seating us and taking our orders, they seemed aggressively indifferent to the course of our evening. Not once were our glasses topped up (we’d ordered a bottle of champagne, which I poured all night), nor were we asked how we were enjoying our meals or if we needed anything. I can live with food that isn’t Michelin three star quality, however I can’t stand poor service.
As for the food, I’m not sure what I can say. I have a philosophy that I don’t know if I like something until I try it, paired with a desire to try new things, especially if it’s a delicacy in a region I’m travelling in. This has lead to some disastrous yet memorable meals – pied de cochon (fried pigs foot) in Paris, tripe in tomato sauce in Rome, Andouilette (sausage made from the lower intestine of a pig – tastes good but there’s apparently no way to get rid of the smell) in Rennes, and now Tete de Veau in Epernay.
To be clear, Tete de Veau translates to “head of calf.” I’d read about it in Michael Sadler’s “An Englishman in Paris,” which I’d greatly enjoyed. I’ve also had tete de couchon in Paris which was incredibly tasty. I thought I’d give it a go, how bad could it possibly be?
In a word, it was bad. Not so much the taste, as it didn’t have much, it was more the texture (or lack thereof). After discussion later with the waiter at Le Progres where we stopped for a final nightcap, I’d probably been served the lower lip and/or chin of the calf, which is pretty gelatinous. This with a generous portion of brain and I think some tongue, was more than I could handle. I made a valiant effort and ate all the actual meaty bits, as well as a good portion of the brain and all of the tongue. The lip/chin bit was my downfall.
I’ve been trying to come up with a way to describe the texture of the skin and fatty meaty bit underneath, and the best I can come up with is slightly beefy flavoured warm Turkish delight, without the sweetness or stickiness. That doesn’t quite do it justice, as one could almost convince oneself that warm beefy Turkish delight without the sweetness or stickiness could be enjoyable. Beef lip and/or chin is not enjoyable, even with the warm vinegary sauce it was served with.
I ate a bit of it, but then I thought about what I was eating, and concentrated very briefly on the texture in my mouth, and was nearly forced to spit it out. Thanks to a large swallow of water I managed to get it down, then had a second bite to make sure the gag reflex wasn’t a mistake, hoping that it was and I’d be able to finish my meal. It wasn’t a mistake. I came closer the second time to losing it, but another gulp of water saw me through, at which point I admitted defeat.
The woman who took my plate was horrified at the amount of quivering goo left on my plate, and made a rapidfire comment in French about it. She then took it away, and I heard much commotion in the kitchen. Evidently leaving the best bit of the face just isn’t done and they were very concerned.
We finished our meal with very tasty deserts, although mine was possibly slightly overshadowed by the horror with what had just befallen me. Bottle complete and plates clean, we paid up and went back to Le Progres for a final glass of champagne, and also so Jamie could laugh at me for a while for ordering and attempting to eat tete de veau.
So ends our stay in Champagne – a very successful, if slightly expensive few days (bottles of champagne, while cheaper here than in London, are still quite pricey). Tomorrow is going to be another day of driving as we make our way to the Loire to explore the garden of France and to see if they have as many chateaux as it seems they do there.
After our tasty repast, we packed up Nancy (our hired Renault Clio – our sat nav with the Australian accent is named Gavin, or Gav-O/Gazza for short) and drove out of town. On the itinerary for the day was a tour of the vineyards and villages of the champagne region, with stops for lunch and photographs along the way.
We chose, after getting out of Epernay itself, to relegate Gav-o to the backseat, only to be called up on in emergency situations. Jamie had a map with extremely limited detail as provided by the tourist office, and if it’s free, it must be quality, or so they say, evidently.
We drove for about six hours in total. I’m not completely sure where we went, as I didn’t have the map and Gav-o was giving us the silent treatment, but I did see the towns of Pierry, Moussy, St Martin-d’Ablois, then Boursault, Oeuilly and Festingy. At this point, we took a wrong turn and ended up some time later in Orbais l’Abbaye. For those keeping track, this is sort of the equivalent of aiming for Seattle and hitting Dallas instead (only not on such a grand scale). A very long detour back up north and we found the vines again.
At this point, we felt that lunch was in order and started looking out for a place to stop and eat. We realized that while the villages and towns of Champagne are very scenic, unless you know where to look there doesn’t seem to be many places to eat (and clearly we didn’t know where to look). We eventually found a restaurant on the river in Damery, however as we didn’t have a reservation, there was no room for us. Bugger. Much driving and a scenic viewpoint later in the aptly named town Belleville (not on the map, but a nice view nonetheless), we found a roadside restaurant between St-Imoges and Champillon.
Now, if you’ve never had lunch at a French country restaurant, you might not be prepared for the serving sizes. We have had lunches such as this, but apparently have forgotten, because we each ordered the faux fillet. What we received was a huge slab of beef, with at least 3 ounces of unmelted garlic and parsley butter sitting in all it’s artery hardening glory on top. This with a side order of fries each as well. We made a valiant effort, each of us, but in the end had to admit defeat. It did make us feel slightly better than the French couple at the table next to us made similarly surprised noises about the serving sizes and seemed to have much trouble finishing as well.
Sufficiently suffuncified, we were back into the car and off to the last bit of the champagne tour, focussing on the town of Bouzy so we could take our photo in front of the sign (yes, we are a bit childish, but we have fun so aren’t so concerned about it). From here we made our eventual way back to Epernay for a much deserved break at the B&B for some reading and charging of various batteries.
Dinner was planned for 8pm at Le Cave de Champagne, but by 4:00 we were ready to leave the flat and head out into town. The only reasonable course of action was to start at Le Progres for a fortifying glass or two of champagne while we considered our options. The obvious choice, as it turned out after the two glasses of champagne was to try the flight of champagne at the champagne bar up the road – 6 glasses of local non-super-house champagnes for £39, in a very charming little bar.
Our pre-dinner entertainment, besides the champagne of course, was surreptitiously watching in horror as the middle-aged and extremely drunk couple at the table next to us came as close to having carnal knowledge of each other as is possible in a public place without being arrested. The lowlight of the display was when I was given a shocking “Basic Instinct” moment by the woman. Unpleasant.
Eventually they left and the evening picked up. We finished our flight and walked the short 20 metres down the road to the restaurant for dinner. We’d heard mixed reviews of the restaurant and had a very mixed experience ourselves.
The other two dinners we’d had, we’d enjoyed a very relaxed and casual atmosphere along with good food (especially at Le Coquille). At Le Cave de Champagne, after seating us and taking our orders, they seemed aggressively indifferent to the course of our evening. Not once were our glasses topped up (we’d ordered a bottle of champagne, which I poured all night), nor were we asked how we were enjoying our meals or if we needed anything. I can live with food that isn’t Michelin three star quality, however I can’t stand poor service.
As for the food, I’m not sure what I can say. I have a philosophy that I don’t know if I like something until I try it, paired with a desire to try new things, especially if it’s a delicacy in a region I’m travelling in. This has lead to some disastrous yet memorable meals – pied de cochon (fried pigs foot) in Paris, tripe in tomato sauce in Rome, Andouilette (sausage made from the lower intestine of a pig – tastes good but there’s apparently no way to get rid of the smell) in Rennes, and now Tete de Veau in Epernay.
To be clear, Tete de Veau translates to “head of calf.” I’d read about it in Michael Sadler’s “An Englishman in Paris,” which I’d greatly enjoyed. I’ve also had tete de couchon in Paris which was incredibly tasty. I thought I’d give it a go, how bad could it possibly be?
In a word, it was bad. Not so much the taste, as it didn’t have much, it was more the texture (or lack thereof). After discussion later with the waiter at Le Progres where we stopped for a final nightcap, I’d probably been served the lower lip and/or chin of the calf, which is pretty gelatinous. This with a generous portion of brain and I think some tongue, was more than I could handle. I made a valiant effort and ate all the actual meaty bits, as well as a good portion of the brain and all of the tongue. The lip/chin bit was my downfall.
I’ve been trying to come up with a way to describe the texture of the skin and fatty meaty bit underneath, and the best I can come up with is slightly beefy flavoured warm Turkish delight, without the sweetness or stickiness. That doesn’t quite do it justice, as one could almost convince oneself that warm beefy Turkish delight without the sweetness or stickiness could be enjoyable. Beef lip and/or chin is not enjoyable, even with the warm vinegary sauce it was served with.
I ate a bit of it, but then I thought about what I was eating, and concentrated very briefly on the texture in my mouth, and was nearly forced to spit it out. Thanks to a large swallow of water I managed to get it down, then had a second bite to make sure the gag reflex wasn’t a mistake, hoping that it was and I’d be able to finish my meal. It wasn’t a mistake. I came closer the second time to losing it, but another gulp of water saw me through, at which point I admitted defeat.
The woman who took my plate was horrified at the amount of quivering goo left on my plate, and made a rapidfire comment in French about it. She then took it away, and I heard much commotion in the kitchen. Evidently leaving the best bit of the face just isn’t done and they were very concerned.
We finished our meal with very tasty deserts, although mine was possibly slightly overshadowed by the horror with what had just befallen me. Bottle complete and plates clean, we paid up and went back to Le Progres for a final glass of champagne, and also so Jamie could laugh at me for a while for ordering and attempting to eat tete de veau.
So ends our stay in Champagne – a very successful, if slightly expensive few days (bottles of champagne, while cheaper here than in London, are still quite pricey). Tomorrow is going to be another day of driving as we make our way to the Loire to explore the garden of France and to see if they have as many chateaux as it seems they do there.
Day Two – Getting Settled – May 21, 2011
Day Two – Getting Settled – May 21, 2011
Breakfast at Parva Domus is scheduled for the unsociable hours of 7am through 9am. This, in my opinion, is far too early and narrow of a window for a properly relaxing holiday. On the other hand, it did force us up and out of bed at a reasonable hour and gave us an earlier start to the day than we probably would have otherwise had.
Breakfast itself was typical for a French B&B – bread, croissants, coffee, orange juice, a selection of cheeses, ham, yoghurt and other “continental breakfast” favourites. Jay and Lauren, who we’d met the previous night, were just finishing up when we went down and looking much the worse for wear. While champagne-based hangovers I find are very difficult to achieve, when one does manage to bring one on, it’s impressive. Lauren did not look healthy.
We didn’t have a particularly ambitious itinerary for the day – the plan was to visit the market, visit Moet & Chandon, then relax with our books and a bottle or two of champagne on the balcony at the B&B. We managed to achieve all of these goals, with more thrown in for good measure.
It took us ages to find the market. Our assumption was that Epernay is a fairly small town, and it wouldn’t be difficult to find. This turned out to not be the case, but mostly because we weren’t really thinking clearly. We’d found the big market hall the previous day on our wanders around the town, but when we put two and two together we only came up with three and didn’t immediately connect that that’s where the Saturday morning market would be.
Despite this, we enjoyed our saunter around the centre of town looking for the market, and made it that much more of an accomplishment when we finally found it (feeling rather sheepish, especially as I’d made Jamie go into two separate stores to ask where the market was).
It was a typical French village market – loads of beautiful and fresh fruit and veg, flowers, all of the cheese you could possibly want, all of the usual meat and some very unusual meat products (two horse meat butchers, and at least one that seemed to focus purely on the bits that wouldn’t normally be eaten by sensible people – tripes, brains, tongue, head, ears, feet, tail, etc…). We spent about an hour wandering back and forth looking at all the selection before deciding to stock up on some beautiful strawberries and a bag of fresh cherries for our afternoon snack.
Having checked off the first of our list for the day, we deeply felt the need for coffee (at least I did). We stopped in at our little bar on the main roundabout (Le Progres – I think there is one in every town by law), where I had a grand café crème and Jamie went for a lemonade, which I think turned out to be sprite or similar. It’s amazing how much time we can spend sitting and drinking various beverages whilst on holiday, be if coffee, wine, or champagne.
A quick stop in at the B&B to put on some proper shoes and then we were off to the grand house of Moet & Chandon for our tour and tasting. Avenue de Champagne is filled with all the major champagne houses, however most of them are by appointment only, with Moet one of the only ones that does guided tours for the plebs. The waiting room was well stocked with tourists, and our 11:30 tour group was of about 15 people.
The tour wasn’t a typical winery tour, of which we’ve taken far too many. There was little discussion of the grapes, the pressing or the fermentation. It focussed more on the importance of the cellars (there are 28 kilometres of cellars under Moet for example, on 3 levels – freaking HUGE) and the care that it taken with the aging and de-sedimenting of the wine.
At the tasting after the tour, a group of women were taking photos of each other in the tasting room. Jamie offered to take a group photo of them, and we all got to talking. First, we discovered that we’re all from Vancouver. Then we all found that we’d worked for the same large company at the same time. Finally, it turned out that they’d all worked either with or for my dad, who also worked at the same company. Talk about a small world. We had the tour guide (with the very non-french name Barbara) take a group photo of us all so that they could email it to my dad. Very bizarre.
All the walking in cellars and drinking of wine had worked up an appetite in us, so we decided to find some lunch, then walk out of town and take some photos of one of the vineyards. We made it as far as Le Chapon Fin on the far side of town and had what we’d felt would be a healthy and light lunch – salad for both of us. Of course, this being France, Jamie’s salad consisted of a few leaves, baked goats cheese on croutons, lardons, fried potatoes, poached eggs, and a few slices of tomato. Mine, on the other hand, was very health-conscious – the same few salad leaves, half an avocado, a quarter of a fresh pineapple, 6 grilled prawn, and some marie-rose sauce for good measure. I love France.
After lunch we decided that the walk into the vineyards was a bit ambitious, especially as we planned a day of driving and exploring the vineyards for tomorrow. We’d made it as far as the train station (which was more or less across the road) before deciding this, and turned back into the centre of town. We’d just had lunch, and it was too early to start drinking, so we went for a bit of a walk about town.
Somewhat surprisingly for a Saturday afternoon, there weren’t that many people about. It seems that Epernay is a very quiet little town most of the time, for all that it’s the centre of champagne in the world. We stopped in at two places and made reservations for dinner for both tonight and tomorrow, then walked back to the B&B for our afternoon of strawberries and champagne.
It turned out to be a beautiful afternoon indeed – we sat for a few hours and read, chatted, sipped chilled champers and nibbled on fresh strawberries. The only way it could have been any better was if we’d then had a nap, and as we are on vacation, we did just that. We woke up more relaxed than I thought was humanly possible, and considering the lack of activity for the day, a bit peckish.
We walked back into town and sat down for dinner. While we were a bit rushed by the waitress, dinner itself was reasonably good and quite well priced. I don’t know that I’d go back, or recommend that anyone go out of their way for it, it was decent and I definitely can’t complain.
After dinner we felt that a final nightcap was in order before we headed back to the B&B for bed. Le Progres was the obvious choice given the warm and cloud-free evening, as we could sit outside and enjoy the beautiful weather.
It probably would have been better, in retrospect, if we’d been a bit more careful in reading the menu. We thought we were ordering a half bottle of champagne, given the price, and the bottle was in a separate section on the drinks menu. Had we looked closer, we would have realized that it was just a different producer of wine. The half bottle of red we got turned out to be quite tasty and a nice break from all the champagne if I’m honest. Plus, it came in a bag of ice water so was nice and cool and refreshing.
We sat and chatted and watched people having dinner and drinks for good hour or so before deciding to call it a night. A bit sunburned despite the sunscreen, but relaxed and happy – I’d call that a very good day indeed.
Breakfast at Parva Domus is scheduled for the unsociable hours of 7am through 9am. This, in my opinion, is far too early and narrow of a window for a properly relaxing holiday. On the other hand, it did force us up and out of bed at a reasonable hour and gave us an earlier start to the day than we probably would have otherwise had.
Breakfast itself was typical for a French B&B – bread, croissants, coffee, orange juice, a selection of cheeses, ham, yoghurt and other “continental breakfast” favourites. Jay and Lauren, who we’d met the previous night, were just finishing up when we went down and looking much the worse for wear. While champagne-based hangovers I find are very difficult to achieve, when one does manage to bring one on, it’s impressive. Lauren did not look healthy.
We didn’t have a particularly ambitious itinerary for the day – the plan was to visit the market, visit Moet & Chandon, then relax with our books and a bottle or two of champagne on the balcony at the B&B. We managed to achieve all of these goals, with more thrown in for good measure.
It took us ages to find the market. Our assumption was that Epernay is a fairly small town, and it wouldn’t be difficult to find. This turned out to not be the case, but mostly because we weren’t really thinking clearly. We’d found the big market hall the previous day on our wanders around the town, but when we put two and two together we only came up with three and didn’t immediately connect that that’s where the Saturday morning market would be.
Despite this, we enjoyed our saunter around the centre of town looking for the market, and made it that much more of an accomplishment when we finally found it (feeling rather sheepish, especially as I’d made Jamie go into two separate stores to ask where the market was).
It was a typical French village market – loads of beautiful and fresh fruit and veg, flowers, all of the cheese you could possibly want, all of the usual meat and some very unusual meat products (two horse meat butchers, and at least one that seemed to focus purely on the bits that wouldn’t normally be eaten by sensible people – tripes, brains, tongue, head, ears, feet, tail, etc…). We spent about an hour wandering back and forth looking at all the selection before deciding to stock up on some beautiful strawberries and a bag of fresh cherries for our afternoon snack.
Having checked off the first of our list for the day, we deeply felt the need for coffee (at least I did). We stopped in at our little bar on the main roundabout (Le Progres – I think there is one in every town by law), where I had a grand café crème and Jamie went for a lemonade, which I think turned out to be sprite or similar. It’s amazing how much time we can spend sitting and drinking various beverages whilst on holiday, be if coffee, wine, or champagne.
A quick stop in at the B&B to put on some proper shoes and then we were off to the grand house of Moet & Chandon for our tour and tasting. Avenue de Champagne is filled with all the major champagne houses, however most of them are by appointment only, with Moet one of the only ones that does guided tours for the plebs. The waiting room was well stocked with tourists, and our 11:30 tour group was of about 15 people.
The tour wasn’t a typical winery tour, of which we’ve taken far too many. There was little discussion of the grapes, the pressing or the fermentation. It focussed more on the importance of the cellars (there are 28 kilometres of cellars under Moet for example, on 3 levels – freaking HUGE) and the care that it taken with the aging and de-sedimenting of the wine.
At the tasting after the tour, a group of women were taking photos of each other in the tasting room. Jamie offered to take a group photo of them, and we all got to talking. First, we discovered that we’re all from Vancouver. Then we all found that we’d worked for the same large company at the same time. Finally, it turned out that they’d all worked either with or for my dad, who also worked at the same company. Talk about a small world. We had the tour guide (with the very non-french name Barbara) take a group photo of us all so that they could email it to my dad. Very bizarre.
All the walking in cellars and drinking of wine had worked up an appetite in us, so we decided to find some lunch, then walk out of town and take some photos of one of the vineyards. We made it as far as Le Chapon Fin on the far side of town and had what we’d felt would be a healthy and light lunch – salad for both of us. Of course, this being France, Jamie’s salad consisted of a few leaves, baked goats cheese on croutons, lardons, fried potatoes, poached eggs, and a few slices of tomato. Mine, on the other hand, was very health-conscious – the same few salad leaves, half an avocado, a quarter of a fresh pineapple, 6 grilled prawn, and some marie-rose sauce for good measure. I love France.
After lunch we decided that the walk into the vineyards was a bit ambitious, especially as we planned a day of driving and exploring the vineyards for tomorrow. We’d made it as far as the train station (which was more or less across the road) before deciding this, and turned back into the centre of town. We’d just had lunch, and it was too early to start drinking, so we went for a bit of a walk about town.
Somewhat surprisingly for a Saturday afternoon, there weren’t that many people about. It seems that Epernay is a very quiet little town most of the time, for all that it’s the centre of champagne in the world. We stopped in at two places and made reservations for dinner for both tonight and tomorrow, then walked back to the B&B for our afternoon of strawberries and champagne.
It turned out to be a beautiful afternoon indeed – we sat for a few hours and read, chatted, sipped chilled champers and nibbled on fresh strawberries. The only way it could have been any better was if we’d then had a nap, and as we are on vacation, we did just that. We woke up more relaxed than I thought was humanly possible, and considering the lack of activity for the day, a bit peckish.
We walked back into town and sat down for dinner. While we were a bit rushed by the waitress, dinner itself was reasonably good and quite well priced. I don’t know that I’d go back, or recommend that anyone go out of their way for it, it was decent and I definitely can’t complain.
After dinner we felt that a final nightcap was in order before we headed back to the B&B for bed. Le Progres was the obvious choice given the warm and cloud-free evening, as we could sit outside and enjoy the beautiful weather.
It probably would have been better, in retrospect, if we’d been a bit more careful in reading the menu. We thought we were ordering a half bottle of champagne, given the price, and the bottle was in a separate section on the drinks menu. Had we looked closer, we would have realized that it was just a different producer of wine. The half bottle of red we got turned out to be quite tasty and a nice break from all the champagne if I’m honest. Plus, it came in a bag of ice water so was nice and cool and refreshing.
We sat and chatted and watched people having dinner and drinks for good hour or so before deciding to call it a night. A bit sunburned despite the sunscreen, but relaxed and happy – I’d call that a very good day indeed.
Monday, 23 May 2011
Francing Again
Day One – Epernay – May 20, 2011
There are few things in life that are as good as starting a vacation on a Friday, when everyone else has to schlep off to work as usual. Even getting up at 6am didn’t grate as much as it usually does when all I have to look forward to is a 3 hour round trip commute with 8 hours of work in between, especially when we’re heading to France for a two week adventure.
We made it to the Eurostar station at St Pancras in record time, having discovered the joys of the overland network connection from London Bridge (as opposed to our normal DLR trip to Bank and then fighting to get on the Northern Line to head north). After a quick stop in Boots to collect essential supplies (Zantac, for the excess of rich food and wine, and Imodium, for the same root cause), we went through security and got onto the Eurostar.
Unfortunately a group of older English partiers were sitting directly in front of us, evidently on their way to Brussels for a weekend of debauchery. They cracked their first bottle of wine to pair with their Tesco sausage rolls and scotch eggs at 8:30 am, and didn’t show any signs of stopping by the time we hit Lille an hour and half later – they were a bit the worse for wear by this point. While they may have had trouble standing, they were having no issues being heard. My clever plan of getting a good half hour nap was down the drain.
We found the Europcar agency in the train station and signed the requisite paperwork for our car, and then spent far longer than we should have looking for it. The door to the parking garage is cleverly disguised and located behind a large lift, and the lifts down to the lower levels themselves are completely absent (or not working). With the help of a disgruntled parking garage attendant we finally found our car – a Renault Clio only marginally bigger then one of my shoes. Despite appearances, we managed to cram both our cases in and set the sat nav for Epernay.
As usual, the auto routes in France, while a bit pricey, are excellent to drive on. We made a quick stop at one of the Aires along the way for lunch (which was surprisingly good) and managed to get to Epernay by 2:30, which was pretty good time really. The new sat nav worked well, although the new voices aren’t a shadow of the friendly helpfulness of Tracy, the old sat nav.
The B&B we’ve booked in was right on the Avenue de Champagne in Epernay, which means it’s basically at the epicentre of all things bubbly in the world of wine. To walk from our place into town, we pass Pol Rogers, Moët and Chandon, Perrier Jouët, among others. The room itself is relatively nice, although there isn’t a separate bathroom – the toilet, sink, and bathtub are right in the room itself with just a flimsy and oh-so-see-through curtain to separate them from the rest of the room. I’ve always been a bit shy in this department, so it’ll be interesting to see how I deal with it for three days.
After setting in, we walked into town to find a convivial bar for a glass or two of champagne. The first place we found seemed to be infested with several swarms of various types of small fly-type insects, so after a very tasty glass we left for sunnier and more bug-free venues. This is where the trouble started.
I think we must’ve headed the wrong direction, because we couldn’t find a wine bar for love nor money. The one place we did eventually find after almost a full circuit of the town both managed to not offer wines by the glass (let alone champagne) at the same time as being incredibly rude. We walked back to the big roundabout right at the end of Avenue de Champagne, the one we’d dismissed earlier as being on the edge of town and assuming more would be available, and sat down for a drink.
As it turned out, it was a fantastic spot to engage in one of our favourite pastimes…well, two of our favourite pastimes – people watching and drinking very tasty beverages. Two glasses of very nice champagne each later we had made the following observations (not necessarily in this order):
• Despite all the trips to France over the years, we still love it here
• Champagne tastes good, whatever the occasion
• There are no 30-somethings in Epernay (as far as we could determine, based on clientele at the café we were at – not exactly scientific, but it was the best we could do)
• French teenagers spend far too much time kissing each other on the cheeks, time which would be better spent doing something about the incredibly stupid looking hair they seem to favour (at least among the boys)
We went back to the B&B to freshen up before dinner and then walked the short distance to Le Coquille, the restaurant recommended by the sweet old guy at the B&B. Le Coquille is exactly what we love about France – not pretentious, friendly, not overly expensive, very tasty food made by people who seem to care about what they’re doing. Dinner was excellent and we definitely enjoyed our evening there.
Clearly we needed to finish the evening with a final glass of champagne, so we walked back into town to find a champagne bar. We were headed in the general direction of Le Banque, the posh looking place just on the edge of the big square. On the way we walked past a nice looking, somewhat casual champagne bar. After poking our heads into Le Banque, we decided to go back to the other place, as it seemed more our style.
Part of the way through a half bottle of very good champagne, the somewhat drunk people at the table next to us introduced themselves. They are staying at the same B&B as us and had seen us earlier in the day as we’d left. Lauren and Jay were from Toronto, and were doing the grand tour of France, having spent a few days in Paris, another few in Eparney, and are taking the train to Provence tomorrow.
They had managed to drink a flight of six glasses of champagne each, followed by another half bottle, on top of whatever they’d had at dinner. They were impressively drunk, but as it was on champagne were also very cheerful about it. We chatted for a bit before they decided that they’d had enough for the night and headed back to the B&B. We had a final glass of champers before coming to the same conclusion ourselves.
At the end of the night, a quick inventory shows we’ve had 6 individual glasses of champagne each, a champagne-based aperitif each before dinner, a bottle of wine shared between us at dinner, and another half bottle of champagne after dinner. Not bad for our first day in France…
There are few things in life that are as good as starting a vacation on a Friday, when everyone else has to schlep off to work as usual. Even getting up at 6am didn’t grate as much as it usually does when all I have to look forward to is a 3 hour round trip commute with 8 hours of work in between, especially when we’re heading to France for a two week adventure.
We made it to the Eurostar station at St Pancras in record time, having discovered the joys of the overland network connection from London Bridge (as opposed to our normal DLR trip to Bank and then fighting to get on the Northern Line to head north). After a quick stop in Boots to collect essential supplies (Zantac, for the excess of rich food and wine, and Imodium, for the same root cause), we went through security and got onto the Eurostar.
Unfortunately a group of older English partiers were sitting directly in front of us, evidently on their way to Brussels for a weekend of debauchery. They cracked their first bottle of wine to pair with their Tesco sausage rolls and scotch eggs at 8:30 am, and didn’t show any signs of stopping by the time we hit Lille an hour and half later – they were a bit the worse for wear by this point. While they may have had trouble standing, they were having no issues being heard. My clever plan of getting a good half hour nap was down the drain.
We found the Europcar agency in the train station and signed the requisite paperwork for our car, and then spent far longer than we should have looking for it. The door to the parking garage is cleverly disguised and located behind a large lift, and the lifts down to the lower levels themselves are completely absent (or not working). With the help of a disgruntled parking garage attendant we finally found our car – a Renault Clio only marginally bigger then one of my shoes. Despite appearances, we managed to cram both our cases in and set the sat nav for Epernay.
As usual, the auto routes in France, while a bit pricey, are excellent to drive on. We made a quick stop at one of the Aires along the way for lunch (which was surprisingly good) and managed to get to Epernay by 2:30, which was pretty good time really. The new sat nav worked well, although the new voices aren’t a shadow of the friendly helpfulness of Tracy, the old sat nav.
The B&B we’ve booked in was right on the Avenue de Champagne in Epernay, which means it’s basically at the epicentre of all things bubbly in the world of wine. To walk from our place into town, we pass Pol Rogers, Moët and Chandon, Perrier Jouët, among others. The room itself is relatively nice, although there isn’t a separate bathroom – the toilet, sink, and bathtub are right in the room itself with just a flimsy and oh-so-see-through curtain to separate them from the rest of the room. I’ve always been a bit shy in this department, so it’ll be interesting to see how I deal with it for three days.
After setting in, we walked into town to find a convivial bar for a glass or two of champagne. The first place we found seemed to be infested with several swarms of various types of small fly-type insects, so after a very tasty glass we left for sunnier and more bug-free venues. This is where the trouble started.
I think we must’ve headed the wrong direction, because we couldn’t find a wine bar for love nor money. The one place we did eventually find after almost a full circuit of the town both managed to not offer wines by the glass (let alone champagne) at the same time as being incredibly rude. We walked back to the big roundabout right at the end of Avenue de Champagne, the one we’d dismissed earlier as being on the edge of town and assuming more would be available, and sat down for a drink.
As it turned out, it was a fantastic spot to engage in one of our favourite pastimes…well, two of our favourite pastimes – people watching and drinking very tasty beverages. Two glasses of very nice champagne each later we had made the following observations (not necessarily in this order):
• Despite all the trips to France over the years, we still love it here
• Champagne tastes good, whatever the occasion
• There are no 30-somethings in Epernay (as far as we could determine, based on clientele at the café we were at – not exactly scientific, but it was the best we could do)
• French teenagers spend far too much time kissing each other on the cheeks, time which would be better spent doing something about the incredibly stupid looking hair they seem to favour (at least among the boys)
We went back to the B&B to freshen up before dinner and then walked the short distance to Le Coquille, the restaurant recommended by the sweet old guy at the B&B. Le Coquille is exactly what we love about France – not pretentious, friendly, not overly expensive, very tasty food made by people who seem to care about what they’re doing. Dinner was excellent and we definitely enjoyed our evening there.
Clearly we needed to finish the evening with a final glass of champagne, so we walked back into town to find a champagne bar. We were headed in the general direction of Le Banque, the posh looking place just on the edge of the big square. On the way we walked past a nice looking, somewhat casual champagne bar. After poking our heads into Le Banque, we decided to go back to the other place, as it seemed more our style.
Part of the way through a half bottle of very good champagne, the somewhat drunk people at the table next to us introduced themselves. They are staying at the same B&B as us and had seen us earlier in the day as we’d left. Lauren and Jay were from Toronto, and were doing the grand tour of France, having spent a few days in Paris, another few in Eparney, and are taking the train to Provence tomorrow.
They had managed to drink a flight of six glasses of champagne each, followed by another half bottle, on top of whatever they’d had at dinner. They were impressively drunk, but as it was on champagne were also very cheerful about it. We chatted for a bit before they decided that they’d had enough for the night and headed back to the B&B. We had a final glass of champers before coming to the same conclusion ourselves.
At the end of the night, a quick inventory shows we’ve had 6 individual glasses of champagne each, a champagne-based aperitif each before dinner, a bottle of wine shared between us at dinner, and another half bottle of champagne after dinner. Not bad for our first day in France…
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
Day Thirteen – Adventures in Parking
Day Thirteen – Adventures in Parking (January 8, 2011)
One of the many interesting things we’ve learned about Portugal in our time here so far is that they make the hardest beds, possibly in the world. These champion hard bed makers did themselves proud in Marvão, although in retrospect, I’m not convinced it was a bed, possibly just a slab of wood with sheets on. The hotel was also incredibly noisy throughout the night, and one of the cleaners was nice enough to position a creaky ladder directly outside our thin door very early in the morning so that she could polish the wooden ceiling. I’ve never seen a ceiling being polished.
Sufficed to say that neither of us had a particularly restful night. In addition to that, as a result of a skiing accident many years ago in which I broke my back, nights on overly hard beds often result in a disc in my lower back slipping, which is as painful as it sounds. After a slightly lacklustre breakfast in the dining room downstairs, we packed up Aurelia and left Marvão, heading across Portugal for the slightly bigger town of Évora.
The drive was on another of Portugal’s excellent toll highways, and Tracy took us there by an easy and direct route – she’s evidently over her anger at us. The hotel in Évora advertised the ease with which it could be found and the convenience of its parking on the website, so therefore we were suspicious, especially as it is inside the town walls. Somewhat surprisingly, it was easy to find, being only a few short corners from the entrance to the town, and it did have a small parking lot.
While I have many talents, hill starts in manual transmission cars is not one of my better ones. I can do it, but like the aforementioned fat man on the bicycle, it’s not pretty. The parking lot at the hotel is extremely small; the drive up to the lot itself is extremely steep and includes a very sharp right-angled corner up the previously described hill. Adding to the degree of difficulty, some clever person had parked a shiny silver Mercedes right at the top of the steep corner bit of the drive, cutting off a big portion of the lane and making the corner up the hill even steeper and tighter. I tried several times to get up it, and while I only stalled it once, it was clear that it would take more than my meagre skill to negotiate the treacherous path.
We put the car in park at the bottom of the drive and went into reception, to see if we could get someone to move the Mercedes, on the theory that if I had more room, I might be able to get around the corner up the hill. Jamie also suggested that on her previous trip to Portugal, when she had trouble in parking, the guys at reception invariably leaped to her rescue and either parked her car for her, or extracted it from the lot. The older gentleman on reception this day was no exception to her rule.
We asked if the Mercedes could be moved, and he scoffed at us – there was surely plenty of room to drive the car up! He escorted us downstairs and took a look for himself. He considered, checking from several angles, before saying “perhaps I move it for you”. I readily agreed, his air of confidence convincing me that he was a professional parker, a paragon in the field of car positioning and placement. He took the keys, got in the car, put the car into gear, and drove quickly backwards through the gate and into heavy traffic. I guess reverse is different in his car?
He worked out where first gear was at about the same time as the sinking feeling in my stomach reached my toes. He started back up the drive with confidence, pulling the car around to the outside to give himself a better angle to get up the hill and around the sharp corner. The speed was considered, the approach sensible, a poor start but potentially a good finish I thought. At this point, the threw caution to the wind and put the accelerator to the floor – the wheels started spinning at high speed on the slightly damp cobblestones as he slewed around the corner, almost starting to smoke. The speed at this point increased rapidly, and if he’d actually gotten any traction he would have driven directly into the side of the Mercedes.
Fortunately for Aurelia, the Mercedes, and my insurance, he didn’t’ actually get enough traction to hit the Mercedes but did keep enough forward movement going to get up the hill. At this point, he stopped the car, got out, and handed me the keys. I’m not sure who was more grey, me or him. Evidently the parking was more difficult than he’d anticipated. “You can finish parking” he mumbled before scuttling back up the stairs to reception. I finished parking, my nerves completely shot and in desperate need of a drink.
We dropped our bags off in our room and headed back into Évora to find a bar or restaurant where I could steady myself and possibly have some lunch as well. Évora seemed, however, to be almost completely deserted, and we spent quite a lot of time walking around looking for somewhere to eat. Eventually we found some sort of bizarre cafeteria take away place near the market square, where Jamie had a pre-made bit of ham and pineapple pizza and I had combination plate number three, which included two hot dog wieners, a fried egg, some bacon, a side salad, and some chips. Very odd.
After this culinary adventure, we thought it best to have another drink, after taking some photos. It turns out it’s harder to find a drink in Évora than one would have thought. After much wandering and many photos, we ended up at a vaguely stylish bar near the old roman ruin where we had an enjoyable afternoon sampling beer and wine (at only €1 a glass) and watching both the people of Évora as well as the MTV video countdown (with no sound).
After a time, we had to go back to the hotel to freshen up before dinner. We’d made reservations through the hotel for a set-menu feast for that evening. By this point, my back was really playing up, and after changing and having some ibuprofen, we found our way eventually to the restaurant.
The deal for dinner was a three course meal with a bottle of wine for €25. That was all the information we had about the menu. The food would be traditional Portuguese, but would be whatever the chef cooked that night. By reservation only, no substitutions. An adventure.
It turned out to be really good, and a LOT of food. We started with a traditional first course of bread, cheeses, sliced sausages, and olives. Second course was most of a pig which had been roasted since before Christmas (in a good way – so tender it was falling apart) with spinach and chick pea mash and a huge portion of polenta. Finally, it was walnuts and port to finish things off. There was no way we could finish all of it off, except of course for the wine. After doing what we could to represent Canada in the eating challenge, we stumbled back up the hill to our hotel to sleep off that giant meal.
The next morning we woke to our last morning in Portugal. My back had gone completely out and I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to put on my socks, let alone drive the car. After some help from Jamie to tie my shoes, and help from one of the cleaners to get my suitcase down the stairs (I’ve never felt like more of a man than asking a little cleaning lady to carry my giant suitcase down to the car), I made it into the driver’s seat and found that as long as I was sitting my back would be okay.
We were both a bit sad to be going home, not only because work awaited us there. We’d had a fantastic time in Portugal, and despite the terrible weather and the generally bland food (unless one is a fan of salt cod that is) we were going to miss it. The people were friendly, the wine was cheap and tasty and CHEAP, and there are some amazing sights. I’m not sure we’ll go back to the same countryside of Portugal as we saw all we wanted to see, but I suspect Lisbon hasn’t seen the last of us.
One of the many interesting things we’ve learned about Portugal in our time here so far is that they make the hardest beds, possibly in the world. These champion hard bed makers did themselves proud in Marvão, although in retrospect, I’m not convinced it was a bed, possibly just a slab of wood with sheets on. The hotel was also incredibly noisy throughout the night, and one of the cleaners was nice enough to position a creaky ladder directly outside our thin door very early in the morning so that she could polish the wooden ceiling. I’ve never seen a ceiling being polished.
Sufficed to say that neither of us had a particularly restful night. In addition to that, as a result of a skiing accident many years ago in which I broke my back, nights on overly hard beds often result in a disc in my lower back slipping, which is as painful as it sounds. After a slightly lacklustre breakfast in the dining room downstairs, we packed up Aurelia and left Marvão, heading across Portugal for the slightly bigger town of Évora.
The drive was on another of Portugal’s excellent toll highways, and Tracy took us there by an easy and direct route – she’s evidently over her anger at us. The hotel in Évora advertised the ease with which it could be found and the convenience of its parking on the website, so therefore we were suspicious, especially as it is inside the town walls. Somewhat surprisingly, it was easy to find, being only a few short corners from the entrance to the town, and it did have a small parking lot.
While I have many talents, hill starts in manual transmission cars is not one of my better ones. I can do it, but like the aforementioned fat man on the bicycle, it’s not pretty. The parking lot at the hotel is extremely small; the drive up to the lot itself is extremely steep and includes a very sharp right-angled corner up the previously described hill. Adding to the degree of difficulty, some clever person had parked a shiny silver Mercedes right at the top of the steep corner bit of the drive, cutting off a big portion of the lane and making the corner up the hill even steeper and tighter. I tried several times to get up it, and while I only stalled it once, it was clear that it would take more than my meagre skill to negotiate the treacherous path.
We put the car in park at the bottom of the drive and went into reception, to see if we could get someone to move the Mercedes, on the theory that if I had more room, I might be able to get around the corner up the hill. Jamie also suggested that on her previous trip to Portugal, when she had trouble in parking, the guys at reception invariably leaped to her rescue and either parked her car for her, or extracted it from the lot. The older gentleman on reception this day was no exception to her rule.
We asked if the Mercedes could be moved, and he scoffed at us – there was surely plenty of room to drive the car up! He escorted us downstairs and took a look for himself. He considered, checking from several angles, before saying “perhaps I move it for you”. I readily agreed, his air of confidence convincing me that he was a professional parker, a paragon in the field of car positioning and placement. He took the keys, got in the car, put the car into gear, and drove quickly backwards through the gate and into heavy traffic. I guess reverse is different in his car?
He worked out where first gear was at about the same time as the sinking feeling in my stomach reached my toes. He started back up the drive with confidence, pulling the car around to the outside to give himself a better angle to get up the hill and around the sharp corner. The speed was considered, the approach sensible, a poor start but potentially a good finish I thought. At this point, the threw caution to the wind and put the accelerator to the floor – the wheels started spinning at high speed on the slightly damp cobblestones as he slewed around the corner, almost starting to smoke. The speed at this point increased rapidly, and if he’d actually gotten any traction he would have driven directly into the side of the Mercedes.
Fortunately for Aurelia, the Mercedes, and my insurance, he didn’t’ actually get enough traction to hit the Mercedes but did keep enough forward movement going to get up the hill. At this point, he stopped the car, got out, and handed me the keys. I’m not sure who was more grey, me or him. Evidently the parking was more difficult than he’d anticipated. “You can finish parking” he mumbled before scuttling back up the stairs to reception. I finished parking, my nerves completely shot and in desperate need of a drink.
We dropped our bags off in our room and headed back into Évora to find a bar or restaurant where I could steady myself and possibly have some lunch as well. Évora seemed, however, to be almost completely deserted, and we spent quite a lot of time walking around looking for somewhere to eat. Eventually we found some sort of bizarre cafeteria take away place near the market square, where Jamie had a pre-made bit of ham and pineapple pizza and I had combination plate number three, which included two hot dog wieners, a fried egg, some bacon, a side salad, and some chips. Very odd.
After this culinary adventure, we thought it best to have another drink, after taking some photos. It turns out it’s harder to find a drink in Évora than one would have thought. After much wandering and many photos, we ended up at a vaguely stylish bar near the old roman ruin where we had an enjoyable afternoon sampling beer and wine (at only €1 a glass) and watching both the people of Évora as well as the MTV video countdown (with no sound).
After a time, we had to go back to the hotel to freshen up before dinner. We’d made reservations through the hotel for a set-menu feast for that evening. By this point, my back was really playing up, and after changing and having some ibuprofen, we found our way eventually to the restaurant.
The deal for dinner was a three course meal with a bottle of wine for €25. That was all the information we had about the menu. The food would be traditional Portuguese, but would be whatever the chef cooked that night. By reservation only, no substitutions. An adventure.
It turned out to be really good, and a LOT of food. We started with a traditional first course of bread, cheeses, sliced sausages, and olives. Second course was most of a pig which had been roasted since before Christmas (in a good way – so tender it was falling apart) with spinach and chick pea mash and a huge portion of polenta. Finally, it was walnuts and port to finish things off. There was no way we could finish all of it off, except of course for the wine. After doing what we could to represent Canada in the eating challenge, we stumbled back up the hill to our hotel to sleep off that giant meal.
The next morning we woke to our last morning in Portugal. My back had gone completely out and I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to put on my socks, let alone drive the car. After some help from Jamie to tie my shoes, and help from one of the cleaners to get my suitcase down the stairs (I’ve never felt like more of a man than asking a little cleaning lady to carry my giant suitcase down to the car), I made it into the driver’s seat and found that as long as I was sitting my back would be okay.
We were both a bit sad to be going home, not only because work awaited us there. We’d had a fantastic time in Portugal, and despite the terrible weather and the generally bland food (unless one is a fan of salt cod that is) we were going to miss it. The people were friendly, the wine was cheap and tasty and CHEAP, and there are some amazing sights. I’m not sure we’ll go back to the same countryside of Portugal as we saw all we wanted to see, but I suspect Lisbon hasn’t seen the last of us.
Friday, 7 January 2011
Day Twelve – Lost in Translation
Day Twelve – Lost in Translation (January 7, 2011)
I’m getting tired of waking up at 4am and lying there in bed, trying to work out how to get back to sleep. This morning was no exception to the trend I’ve developed here in Portugal. I did manage to fall back to sleep eventually, and managed to sleep right through until our alarm woke us at 10am.
Today we’d slept in intentionally – it was planned as a travel day and therefore we didn’t have any plans in particular. We had a leisurely morning packing up the accumulated detritus of four days in a self-catering and loaded up little Aurelia. Unlike the Avis hire car guy, we didn’t even attempt to cram our giant cases into the miniscule boot, instead folding down the rear seats like normal people. Despite the lacakadasical nature of our morning preparation, we were on the road by not long after 11, which was surprising. We loved our little room at Casa Rosden and were sad to leave it.
Our destination for the day was far on the other side of Portugal – the fortified hill town of Marvão. We’d estimated the drive as taking more than a few hours, and had we listened to little Tracy it probably would have done. We managed to get most of the way here with no incident, driving through the most bizarre landscape I think I’ve ever seen.
When we were in primary school as children, we learned about glacial till and the resulting landscape, and I think what we saw today was the result of that – massive boulders strewn about as if a giant had had a major tantrum at some point.
Apparently we’ve offended Tracy at some point in the last while, as she decided that as we approached Marvão that the challenge of driving wasn’t enough, so she thought she’d route us up tiny side roads and through even more tiny villages. We got stuck in some unnamed village at the base of the rather large hill leading up to Marvão and decided that Tracy was more or less fired for the rest of the trip.
We’d seen signs back on the main N road pointing to Marvão, so decided to find them again and follow them up to the town.
This seemed to be the right tact to take, as we could see the town perched on its cliff and we seemed to be getting closer and closer to it. Then the road got steep. Second gear steep, with sharp switchbacks and sheer cliffs just to the side of the road. Nervous driving, although I would have loved it on my motorcycle.
We reached the top and were faced with a problem – the town is surrounded by massive walls, and the road went straight through via a very narrow gate. I’ve been in these small walled towns before, not the best place for cars in my experience. We parked up just this side of the gate and walked in, doing a quick scouting mission to find the hotel. It turned out to be embarrassingly easy to find the hotel, and there was plenty of free parking. After checking in, we went back to collect Aurelia and settle in.
At this point we were a bit hungry so we started a search for a lunching location. It turns out that there aren’t a plethora of options in Marvão, especially in early January. We finally found the tourist office who drew on a very small map showing us the four options we had (one of which being our own hotel). We walked back down the steep streets and found a place which looked not too bad.
I’m not sure what it’s called, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s the one near the big (by Marvão standards) town square with the cafe on the ground floor and the restaurant on the first floor. Lunch was actually pretty good and again very cheap. We’ve discovered the thrifty joys of Portuguese sangria, which is not only good value for money, but allows us to pretend that the weather is suitable for sangria, rather than the grim cloud and foggy rain we’ve had. I think they started cooking my veal sometime last week, and Jamie’s pork was swimming in a deep pool of butter along with her rice and chips. Two litres of the sangria and the sheer entertainment of the Portuguese soap opera that was on the telly more than made up for the shortfalls of the meal and we had quite an entertaining afternoon eating and drinking.
After lunch we did a tour of the walls, taking photos as we went. Holy crap, but it was windy. The wind was so strong that at one point of the wall, where a small rivulet of water was flowing over the edge, the wind picked it up and sprayed it back up over the railings, to distribute it somewhat evenly over the hedges and parked cars in the area. I’ve never seen water flowing uphill, let alone virtually exploding in an upwards direction.
The castle at the end of town is very steep and seems to have been build with defence in mind. Between the steepness of the cliffs leading up to it and all the battlements, I can’t imagine it ever being attacked let alone taken. We spent quite a while wandering around taking photos, and waiting for the wind to blow some of the clouds away. Unfortunately this was not to be, so eventually we admitted defeat and walked back down the hill to our hotel for a restorative beverage.
Some time later, we felt that dinner was in order. Neither of us were particularly up to braving the hill again, and it seemed the fog had rolled back in (although at this altitude I guess it’s called a cloud). Fortunately, our hotel comes equipped with a restaurant downstairs, so we went there. Like many things, apparently January is not their big season, as there was only one other table taken.
We sat down and perused the menu. It seemed to be a fairly traditional Portuguese place, with much salted cod and pork products. We both clocked the breaded chicken and thought that we would go for that. The waiter came over and we both ordered the same thing – breaded chicken. At the last second, I decided that a mixed salad as a starter would be nice, to get some vegetables and vitamins in after the excesses of the last few days. This is where the trouble started.
“I’ll have the mixed salad also” said I.
“Just the mixed salad?” questioned the waiter.
I thought of the several salad options on the menu, which included such things as tuna and eggs.
“Yes, just the mixed salad” I responded.
I thought nothing of this exchange. The waiter, it seemed, heard something completely differently. When our dinner finally arrived, Jamie got a plate of breaded and fried chicken, and I got a mixed salad. To be fair, it was quite a large mixed salad, but a salad nonetheless. Evidently, he had thought that I’d changed my mind at the last minute and had gone for the salad alone. At this point, we were both too embarrassed to point out the error. I quite enjoyed my salad, and Jamie was good enough to donate some of her chicken to the cause. Healthier than I’d been planning, but quite tasty.
After dinner we debated going to the hotel bar for a final drink, but decided that we had enough wine left over from Casa Rosden that we’d dragged to Marvão to float a battleship and that we should probably try to make a dent on that. So we have. It’s been a very entertaining evening indeed.
I’m getting tired of waking up at 4am and lying there in bed, trying to work out how to get back to sleep. This morning was no exception to the trend I’ve developed here in Portugal. I did manage to fall back to sleep eventually, and managed to sleep right through until our alarm woke us at 10am.
Today we’d slept in intentionally – it was planned as a travel day and therefore we didn’t have any plans in particular. We had a leisurely morning packing up the accumulated detritus of four days in a self-catering and loaded up little Aurelia. Unlike the Avis hire car guy, we didn’t even attempt to cram our giant cases into the miniscule boot, instead folding down the rear seats like normal people. Despite the lacakadasical nature of our morning preparation, we were on the road by not long after 11, which was surprising. We loved our little room at Casa Rosden and were sad to leave it.
Our destination for the day was far on the other side of Portugal – the fortified hill town of Marvão. We’d estimated the drive as taking more than a few hours, and had we listened to little Tracy it probably would have done. We managed to get most of the way here with no incident, driving through the most bizarre landscape I think I’ve ever seen.
When we were in primary school as children, we learned about glacial till and the resulting landscape, and I think what we saw today was the result of that – massive boulders strewn about as if a giant had had a major tantrum at some point.
Apparently we’ve offended Tracy at some point in the last while, as she decided that as we approached Marvão that the challenge of driving wasn’t enough, so she thought she’d route us up tiny side roads and through even more tiny villages. We got stuck in some unnamed village at the base of the rather large hill leading up to Marvão and decided that Tracy was more or less fired for the rest of the trip.
We’d seen signs back on the main N road pointing to Marvão, so decided to find them again and follow them up to the town.
This seemed to be the right tact to take, as we could see the town perched on its cliff and we seemed to be getting closer and closer to it. Then the road got steep. Second gear steep, with sharp switchbacks and sheer cliffs just to the side of the road. Nervous driving, although I would have loved it on my motorcycle.
We reached the top and were faced with a problem – the town is surrounded by massive walls, and the road went straight through via a very narrow gate. I’ve been in these small walled towns before, not the best place for cars in my experience. We parked up just this side of the gate and walked in, doing a quick scouting mission to find the hotel. It turned out to be embarrassingly easy to find the hotel, and there was plenty of free parking. After checking in, we went back to collect Aurelia and settle in.
At this point we were a bit hungry so we started a search for a lunching location. It turns out that there aren’t a plethora of options in Marvão, especially in early January. We finally found the tourist office who drew on a very small map showing us the four options we had (one of which being our own hotel). We walked back down the steep streets and found a place which looked not too bad.
I’m not sure what it’s called, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s the one near the big (by Marvão standards) town square with the cafe on the ground floor and the restaurant on the first floor. Lunch was actually pretty good and again very cheap. We’ve discovered the thrifty joys of Portuguese sangria, which is not only good value for money, but allows us to pretend that the weather is suitable for sangria, rather than the grim cloud and foggy rain we’ve had. I think they started cooking my veal sometime last week, and Jamie’s pork was swimming in a deep pool of butter along with her rice and chips. Two litres of the sangria and the sheer entertainment of the Portuguese soap opera that was on the telly more than made up for the shortfalls of the meal and we had quite an entertaining afternoon eating and drinking.
After lunch we did a tour of the walls, taking photos as we went. Holy crap, but it was windy. The wind was so strong that at one point of the wall, where a small rivulet of water was flowing over the edge, the wind picked it up and sprayed it back up over the railings, to distribute it somewhat evenly over the hedges and parked cars in the area. I’ve never seen water flowing uphill, let alone virtually exploding in an upwards direction.
The castle at the end of town is very steep and seems to have been build with defence in mind. Between the steepness of the cliffs leading up to it and all the battlements, I can’t imagine it ever being attacked let alone taken. We spent quite a while wandering around taking photos, and waiting for the wind to blow some of the clouds away. Unfortunately this was not to be, so eventually we admitted defeat and walked back down the hill to our hotel for a restorative beverage.
Some time later, we felt that dinner was in order. Neither of us were particularly up to braving the hill again, and it seemed the fog had rolled back in (although at this altitude I guess it’s called a cloud). Fortunately, our hotel comes equipped with a restaurant downstairs, so we went there. Like many things, apparently January is not their big season, as there was only one other table taken.
We sat down and perused the menu. It seemed to be a fairly traditional Portuguese place, with much salted cod and pork products. We both clocked the breaded chicken and thought that we would go for that. The waiter came over and we both ordered the same thing – breaded chicken. At the last second, I decided that a mixed salad as a starter would be nice, to get some vegetables and vitamins in after the excesses of the last few days. This is where the trouble started.
“I’ll have the mixed salad also” said I.
“Just the mixed salad?” questioned the waiter.
I thought of the several salad options on the menu, which included such things as tuna and eggs.
“Yes, just the mixed salad” I responded.
I thought nothing of this exchange. The waiter, it seemed, heard something completely differently. When our dinner finally arrived, Jamie got a plate of breaded and fried chicken, and I got a mixed salad. To be fair, it was quite a large mixed salad, but a salad nonetheless. Evidently, he had thought that I’d changed my mind at the last minute and had gone for the salad alone. At this point, we were both too embarrassed to point out the error. I quite enjoyed my salad, and Jamie was good enough to donate some of her chicken to the cause. Healthier than I’d been planning, but quite tasty.
After dinner we debated going to the hotel bar for a final drink, but decided that we had enough wine left over from Casa Rosden that we’d dragged to Marvão to float a battleship and that we should probably try to make a dent on that. So we have. It’s been a very entertaining evening indeed.
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