Grand trees...

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Among the millions of trees we see as we sweep through France, some remain in the memory because they are so special. For instance, when we stopped for lunch on Wednesday in the charming little bistro called le Roquetin at Laroque Timbaut, there were behind the church two huge and expansive black cedars about 200 yards apart. They must have been at least 150 years old, and probably planted at around the same time and maybe by the same person.  Planting them was certainly a grand gesture. These had no practical purpose. Whoever did it would have been very unlikely to have seen these trees more than 20 or 30 feet high.  Now they add grandeur and delight to an otherwise typical village.

It is also clear that some small districts were also inspired to plant specimen trees - for instance, the Hospital at Flers has two enormous creatures - Giant Redwood? Sequoia? Swamp Cedar? I am not very good at identifying these magnificent things but I love them. Their great height and commanding presence dominates their surroundings, but without any aggression or bullying.   One imagines that sometime, somewhere, a single individual who knows about trees and also supplies seedlings can inspire a whole neighbourhood to do something - maybe the local landlord or rich man takes an interest - and there you are. A hundred or so years later, we get a spread of utter magic - great living artworks.  I read some years ago that the arrival of the blue Atlantic cedar was the end of the traditional black cedar beloved of English landscapers, and that these older darker trees cannot now be found in any nursery. That may no longer be true, but whereas I see quite a few of the glaucas in small and medium size, I cannot think of a single young Cedar of Lebanon anywhere in England or Ireland.   We saw none in France either. 

I will have to take back some of my rude remarks about Flers, or at least I should bolster up my enthusiasm, because this morning on our way out of town we diverted to see the chateau, which was a miraculous survivor of the 1944 bombardments.   It is not huge, and is made in an L-shape, but it is very pretty and sits surrounded by water - lakes, moat, etc.   The reflections are gorgeous. The whole chateau, with its park and watergardens was presented to the town by the mayor at the end of the 19th century and now houses the Mairie, the Museum and the Tourist Office.  We saw it in bright sunshine, with small groups of very small children being shown round the grounds by their teachers.  A lot of careful attention was paid to some of the artworks installed for the summer as part of a fête. They were asked to observe colour, subject, form and scale and seemed to be paying careful attention. The behaviour of French children is also remarkable from an English point of view, as described in that famous book 'Bringing up Bébé', otherwise known as 'French children don't throw food'). 

At this moment we are on the ferry back to England - amid cloud, drizzle, darkness and damp. We are looking at our suntanned arms in amazement. The mood is sombre - the party is over.  But - I will just mention one of our discoveries today - a café-bar called Le Frescot at St Romain de Collbosc, which is a small vill just 3km south of the motorway near le Havre. Vaut le detour for the whole experience - free parking in the street, convivial, bustling atmosphere, firm handshake from the proprietor (M Pascal Ledoult) after we had sat down, about thirty local working people very enthusiastically having their lunch there - presumably they go there every day - and a delicious four course lunch for just €12.95.   That meant fresh local produce, freshly cooked by Madame (signed outside as 'cuisinier professionel' and we would expect no less), and included bread, wine and water. Coffee would have been an extra €1.50.  So, suck that, Thatched Inn, Hassocks, West Sussex.

We are bringing home some fancy secateurs, red peppers, wine of course, cheese, olive oil, rice, dried beans to cook and to sow in the allotment next year, honey, bread, black pudding, Iberian ham packed under vacuum, sweet Spanish onions, and sweet red pimiento pepper.  This is of course, an attempt to prolong the fabulous culinary experience which has been at the heart of our trip.  We've driven just short of three thousand miles. We've had loads of fun and sought out some very memorable places to visit. My eyeballs are almost scorched with plain old looking.  Tonight we'll be home. I can hardly believe it.   

Les flics

Just wandered into Flers for supper. It's a complete contrast to la Rochelle - lots of ethnic bars which mostly feed the owners' families, I suspect: Turkish, Italian, Vietnamese. The whole place is a bit stark - but - it is genuine. It has a sort of grubby pride in itself, and real people doing real things.  We actually chose a little hotel in one of the squares, Saint Germain, which turned out to be Turkish, with an owner/waiter of great charm and friendliness (not at all French), whose name was Genghis.  Nice light supper, all good.

He did not have on the menu the local speciality - Flers Beak and Duck Pie.   Thank God.

Now, while we wandered around looking for which place to go to, we passed a group of cops on the pavement.  There were seven or eight of them, young, fit, serious.   This is the second such group we have seen in France.  All gathered, ready for a swoop.  This time, in their clutches, was a guy blowing into a big breathalyser machine. He was calm, dark, looking a bit pissed off. His car - a Porsche - was black and shiny and about 30 years old, maybe more. Classy.  He must have failed to appease them because shortly afterwards we saw a little cortege going past - a cop car with several of them inside, and then the Porsche, driven by a cop and with the man in the passenger seat.

Earlier today, we saw a headline in a newspaper clipboard: Les gendarmes cherchent une arme dans l'étang    Cops search the lake for a gun. 

You don't often see British police gathered in public for a sting or whatever they call it. We saw about eight local French police two days ago doing that when we went for lunch with my sister at Valence d'Agen - there the group of cops had with them an electrical engineer and we speculated they were going after someone doing meter-fraud. Who knows? The days of Dixon of Dock Green or Maigret are long gone. Bonjour, bonjour, bonjour...... I don't think so.

Beautiful places but a collapsing economy and a bad smell, apparently

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As we left the wide Garonne countryside where my lovely sister lives with her husband in an old Gers farmhouse, we headed into a complex hilly country where the layers of civilization are stacked one over another, and the place-names reflect the passing ages.  We pulled up into a bastide town called Puymirol which is pretty astonishing in appearance - it has a five-star hotel, arcaded place, swimming pool, and stunning views all around.  The steep road up to the top  reminded me of Winchelsea near Rye, if that helps to visualize it - but of course here things burn hotter and it's all less green.   

We strolled about, admired the stone buildings, and had a coffee. Monsieur told us the sad story.  He's pleased to have sold up - signed his restaurant away last week. The town's economy - like the whole of France he said - has collapsed. The nearby camping has closed. Whereas last year, the town's famous medieval pageant attracted 3,000 people in one day - with its Templars, knights, jousts, feasts, etc. - this year there was no pageant.  Every business has slumped.  The place is - for now - effectively dead.  He said, this is happening throughout the country. People have no money, so it is a vicious cycle.  He went to get his iPad - started reading out the exchange rate of the euro against the pound, against the dollar.  He was nearly crying.   We did not stay to see the town's necropolis, though perhaps we should have done.

Another astonishing thing about France - from an English point of view - is how unrelentingly uniform it is. That was very striking the moment we came through the tunnel from Spain, but on this journey we have been very aware of how each town, village, restaurant, hotel, crossroads, factory-zone - all of them, conform to their own sector's official way of doing things. You could be plumped down anywhere and find exactly the same thing: signage, schedules, menus, facial expressions, expectations…. This is quite remarkable, considering how huge it is and when you see how tremendously varied the landscape is, and the great variety of all the kinds of farming and industry which are going on. It implies a total obedience or acceptance.  Even local pride is manifest in a nationally equal way. 

We loved the drive up to la Rochelle yesterday - over those great marshes. In the south, there is an emphasis on the cultivation of oysters, with nice shambly shacks in the watery mess, but for a great part of the expanse it appears to be just rough grazing and wild birds.  The sky is huge. The light, bouncing in from the Atlantic, is scintillating, magic.  We doodled about on the coast for a while - exploring the clean, plush seas-side towns reminiscent of M Hulot, and at Rochefort we gawked at the marvellous transporter bridge high over the Charente (ceased working in 1967,  refurbished 1994 and now an historic monument open to foot passengers and bikes during the summer time. 160' high!).

When you get into la Rochelle itself - so historic and enchanting - you realise how well it has promoted itself for tourists.  The huge basin is - as I gasped at you last night - furnished with more restaurants than you can imagine. They push out onto the broad pavements at the back of the wide quays, and through the back streets too, with impressive awnings and sidescreens, and that is not unusual of course, but it's the fact that there are so many of them.  The menus are almost indistinguishable from each other. One had a live piano show going on.  One specialised in ice-cream. But otherwise, there must be more fish soup and moules-frites on offer per kilometre than most other places on earth.  Tiens!  Actually we had a very acceptable formule meal, with just a tinge of aggro underneath... were they waiting to close up? were they going to pounce on us and cook us for the next day's menu?

Today we zooped along northwards to this resting place in Normandy, ready for Calais and the ferry home tomorrow.  We are in Flers, which is not particularly distinguished as far as I can see, but we had a superb lunch right on the banks of one of the Loire River's mighty streams at Chalonne-sur-Loire, and have been enjoying the golden light on the rich farmlands - maize, some grapes, woodlands, more and more pasture, happy cows eating grass (ahhhh!).    Wikipedia says they are not sure what the name of the town means - possibly wetness, or grotty land, or bad smell.  Hmmmn.  The Ibis (cheapo, natch) has the address Grandes Champs, which implies agriculture and open space, but is in fact at the top of a wrinkly-tin-shed area: factories, retail outlets and the like. Luckily we are too tired to take much notice and will stroll down into the town for a light supper.  Meanwhile we commend to you the Bistrot des Quais at Chalonne if you are planning to cross the Loire. It has a fine position, a fine chef, and a fine view of the bridge which was rebuilt after being bombed to bits in 1944.

Eating yourself stupid

Getting to la Rochelle by car, from the Bordeaux direction, is a very pleasant experience if you avoid the various rush-hour congestions - which we did, by the way. The road takes you across the most wonderful huge marais or salt-marsh, which is used for the cultivation of oysters and grazing cattle.  The sky is huge and soft, but filled with light reflected from the great ocean just a mile or so away.

The town is well served by information-boards, car-parks, walkways etc., and has a great many smart shopping streets. It also has gangs of ruffians with dogs, whose work preying on tourists is sufficiently effective for the authorities to post up warnings: SWINDEL in German, for instance.

We are tired now, after the drive from Caumont, and have eaten a pleasant and perfectly acceptable meal under an awning (avoiding starling-poo). Sadly, I am really not able to write about the last few days, which had been my plan. But I do want to say something about eating.

Anyone interested in eating - especially fish - will already know about la Rochelle, on the French west coast. If you have not considered it before, then you have a lot to learn. Around this ancient port (which has a working lighthouse about half a mile inland in the main boulevard at the back of the port, between a couple of boutiques), there are about 25 million restaurants, all serving variations on the same excellent menu of fish, fish and fish.

It is not difficult in France to eat yourself into a state of extreme discomfort. You long for oblivion, swear you will never eat again - and then the waiter says.... 'Et pour le dessert?....'   Each time, I think 'Next time I will just order salad.....' but my resolve crumples when I see these local specialities: eel, brandade de morue.....   Sometimes I manage to stick to plan A. Ha!

Suffice to say, France is very different from Spain, and has formal pleasures around every corner of the Tarn-et-Garonne: beautiful medieval market towns, bosky valleys, impressive harvesting operations for the corn and sunflowers, seductive weekly markets selling everything from top-grade wild smoked salmon to second-hand trousers, and wide open spaces and stonking great rivers where the water is a surprising range of colours.

So - more will follow. Thanks for reading and please do comment if you can.

Personality shines through

Ainsa has a useful split personality - the medieval pleasures of narrow alleys and stonework up on the bastide, and access to roads, banks, shops, etc down by the rivers. That includes a brilliant little bookshop where we bought one of those 3-D maps of the Pyrenees - a semi-scientific dolls' house version of the 'real' world, or this bit of it, where you can, like God, look down on the land and see everything laid out before you like a toy. I know that my house is full of clutter and junk, but on the other hand, I really like things like this and do not own one. So, I bought it, and my pretext is that I can offer it to my brother in law, who is interested in Geology, in case he would like it more than I do.

We also went back into a tiny Fortnum and Mason type of shop which sells every kind of delectable food you can think of (including a few pots of jam made in Tiptree, Essex). Most of the stuff is local of course - huge radiant tomatoes and peaches, packed black pudding, variety packs of epicurean olive oil, various local cheeses made of sheep's milk or goat's milk, some wet, some dry.  The hams, whole legs of the poor piggies, are hanging in array up by the ceiling. Some are €50 or €60, which is about twice the supermarket price, but some, near the door, are €200 or even €300. These will have been fed on the best chestnuts or acorns, hand-reared, cossetted, before their final terrible day of reckoning. This is the kind of ham which is sliced quite thinly and costs £1 a slice, and tastes like every wonderful memory you ever had….

Loaded with tins of oil and packs of cheese, we set off north, up the valley of the Rio Cisca, under the big sign which assured us the Bielsa tunnel into France is open 24 hours a day.

Here we were getting up into the real mountains, where the great molars of limestone with their seductive stripes and weathered cliffs rear up as implacable reminders of man's puny condition. We live on a planet made of rock. We live in the stone age. In the end, gravity and time will pull us down - and these mountains too, to crumble into dust and pebbles.  In the old meaning of the word, these great mountains are awful - nowadays, people say 'awesome'.  We get a Gothick thrill at how big they are and how small we are.  No matter that we have split the atom or gone to the moon - we are still just tender animals, and these ranges were here long before we were ever thought of, and will be here long after every mammal has been scorched off the planet.

We saw no mammals, just a couple of buzzards and a kite.

Bielsa is Ainsa's little brother up the road - a skinny village with more and very attractive architectural treasures, and more contamination from a Spanish cultural point of view. That is to say, being so close to France, they actually offer lunch about 1pm.  We had been up a side road - 10km of glory - to see the base of Monte Perdido ('the largest block of limestone in Europe') - and decided to make this our last Spanish meal.  At a café, where some tables were set for lunch, a lady was sitting at a long table, and I picked up a menu to see what was on offer.

She snarled at me in French: 'C'est prie!' ('It's taken!') meaning that she was guarding every seat and I should not approach her. It was shocking, how rude she was. I said politely 'C'est pour voir' meaning I was just looking at the menu.   I was thinking, no Spanish person would have been so hostile.   Andrew said to me, I should have said, 'Madame, you flatter yourself. Why would I want to sit with you….?'   I wish I had said it. Actually, come to think of it, she did actually look like a frog.

The tunnel of Bielsa actually takes you through from Spain to France and of course, although the climate must be different on the north-facing side, it doesn't properly explain the profound, shocking difference when you get through. The mountain side in France is absolutely bare (rain shadow?), and cropped by sheep which are themselves shorn to within an inch of their lives. The road signage is IN YOUR FACE - in control, in charge. They do things THE FRENCH WAY in France, and no-one is going to make any mistake about where you are. This is France!  This is THIS village, this is THAT village. Do this. Do that.  A distinct cultural difference.

The roads stayed empty for us, though there were a few scary moments around about 5pm when the Sunday lunch-hour ended and tous le monde was heading home. Aaaaagh! Jean-Pierre and his family all warm and glowing, overtaking a slow-moving farm machine, and thus on the wrong side of the road at top speed heading straight for us….. Neeeeeeowwwwwww!

Satnav guided us faithfully across the tiny roads and rivers to Sheila and Chris's house… we suddenly recognized landmarks and then here we were. 

It was about six o'clock, hot, the pool was waiting. Kersplash!

Now for a few days doing not much. Unwind.

I am mourning Spain. We've had a marvellous 3 weeks there. I started to read a bit of the great Bill Bryson while we were on the road, and see that he is quite a role-model for this writing, and produces in me moments of helpless weeping laughter as he describes what he really thinks as he meets various people on his travels. Such a personality could never have been kept in Ohio.

I think I need more laughs in this.  Am I brave enough?

Tired, but reporting on the stupendous landscape

It is hard to describe the quality of what we have seen today. There are not enough superlatives. The scale of the landscape is colossal. We drove from the outskirts of Bilbao into the central part of the Spanish Pyreneean approaches, where there was a dramatic change in the look of the whole land. Not only is it empty of people for the most part, but suddenly it changes from green and woody to barren and dry, burned brown and empty.  

At the point of change we saw a huge flock of birds wheeling overhead… I really wish I knew for certain what they were. I see that choughs flock, but they are maritime, and this was inland. They seemed huge - but then again, the air was very clear and had a magnifying quality. Were they buzzards? (In such numbers? No). There were about fifty of them, wheeling and calling - a sort of kyak sound.  This was in a valley-pass.

We have driven for hours (about 250 miles) today - both very tired but relaxed.  We headed for Sos de Rey Catolico - a hillfort in the middle of the plains - something like Rye, but bigger, or Gerberoy in Picardy which has similar aristocratic concentration.  We loved it… the medieval alleys, the stonework, the battlements, the cobbled streets. Lunch was ace - in a café called Mayor25 - totally recommended for the quality of the food and the kindness of the waitress. I particularly liked something called salmorejo which is is a pounded soup of tomatoes, garlic, oil, eggs and then topped with chopped hardboiled eggs and tiny scraps of bacon (like so many Spanish dishes, the bacon is there to prove that the household is not Jewish, a legacy if you can call it that from the days of the Inquisition).  

It was quite hot today - nearly 30 - and we were glad of the aircon, but struggled with the contrary information coming from the satnav (our fault for not updating). There is often an irritating conflict of data between the roadmap, the satnav and the roadsigns.   However, nothing could take away from the majesty of the mountains as we headed east.  The hills  - mere hills! - are very high. They are clothed in unadulterated dark green forests (unlike the acne of eucalyptus we have seen all along the road till now).  The angles of erosion are steep - with perfect triangles formed by the valleys, and deep ravines, and gorges and canyons as the great rivers begin to eat away at the rocks. The roads are fabulously engineered, with viaducts, tunnels, sweeping curves, balletic cambers and lots of space.  And all the time, spiking up in the distance to the north are the great peaks and ridges of the real Pyrenees. Some catch the light. Some are shrouded in cloud. Some are fabulously spiky, some are more like greeters, waiting to usher in someone taller and bigger than themselves.   It is glorious, dramatic.

We had the road almost to ourselves, sometimes a new stretch of motorway, sometimes an old bumpy track - but inexorably we pushed on. At last we reached Ainsa.  Oh, why has no-one ever told me about this place? It's the last place where Christianity held out against the Moors. It's a medieval city between two huge rivers, and (yet another) fortified medieval hill-top city. It was prosperous in the time of Henry VIII, and then went into decline - its very poverty has kept it almost intact, and now with modern tourism to bring admirers, and all the benefits of new roads a mile or so away, it can flourish as a relic of a lost age - church tower, cloister, castle, steep streets, vaulted cellars, lots of steps, city walls, stone stone stone…. Legends, bars, cafes, families, children, blissful.

I know I am waxing lyrical, but I want you to understand that there are some places which have just got it right. They can be old and new at the same time, faraway and accessible. Inspirational and salutary.   And above all, beautiful and ordinary.  The Spaniards may have their problems but they know how to be themselves…. They visit their lovely places, take their children, everyone is ok and happy, the food and drink are wonderful and affordable, there is no aggro.   And I keep thinking of those birds, wheeling over the valleys. The huge landscape. 

Painful music

I like Ibis hotels - plain and simple, great value and restorative when you've been bucketing about on the road.  This one is in Arrigorriara, which may once have been a real place but is now a rather amazing St John's Wood lookalike with smart apartment blocks clustered together between a river, a big road and a mountain which happened to be alight last night. 

They know how to live here. We had asked where we could go for supper. The girl said to walk into the town… and crossing over the footbridge we found - yes! - dozens of bars, full to the brim, with people of all ages drinking and talking and playing cards and playing dolls and explaining things to each other. It was one huge street party.  Presumably every Friday night is the same.

The bar we chose - Coyote - was giving free cocktails to anyone who wanted one. The young man decided I should have a gin and tonic. The tonic was a new sort, flavoured with ginger and cardamom, and was carefully prepared with masses of ice. He called the spirit Ply-Mouth Gin.

Obviously, no-one running a bar, cafeteria or restaurant wanted to cook or serve an actual meal while all this shouting and laughing was going on, so we just had a few pinchos from the bar - olives with quails egg, anchovies with hot peppers, tostadas with aubergine and anchovy, smoked salmon on more smoked salmon….. and that was our supper.  We had had two small bottles of water and one glass of wine, and with the free G&T the whole bill for supper and fun came to under €10.

This morning's delight has been to listen to the radio - the Spanish 'classical' channel. Each hour is devoted to a particular type of music, and from 7-8 this morning we had local brass bands.  This is the kind of thing which may have inspired Bizet. It certainly sounded early nineteenth century. The band was more-or-less in tune, but playing very nervously - that is to say, very very slowly. 

A high-school music teacher might be proud enough to arrange a recording of the little darlings' end of year concert, and might even try to flog a few copies to the stunned parents, but for someone to schedule on national radio a full hour of the sounds these musicians made is frankly incredible. Andrew wanted to turn it off but I had to listen to it all, soaking up the sound in a masochistic spirit of research.  Pass the earplugs!

Now - having had an excellent breakfast - we are off to Sos Rei Catolica and then Ainsa (both recommended by Antonio from the Palacio), and then into the Pyrenees. 

I think our local mountain fire was extinguished in the night. No smoke out there this morning.