tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24923607992484195032024-02-07T02:32:35.677+00:00Maxted Travels with Modestine 3September and October 2007Jill, Ian and Modestinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122859105828936321noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2492360799248419503.post-90193889201567493452007-10-31T09:26:00.000+00:002008-12-08T22:05:16.142+00:00Index and map<B>1 September to 15 October 2007.</B><br /><MAP NAME="maxtedtravels-3"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="57,39,8" title="Exeter"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="96,34,8" title="Poole"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="116,77,8" title="Cherbourg"> <AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="153,90,8" title="Caen" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/08/back-to-france.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="244,133,8" title="Lac des Settons" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/08/back-to-france.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="257,143,8" title="Autun" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/08/back-to-france.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="332,141,6" title="Champagne-sur-Loue" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/08/back-to-france.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="329,147,6" title="Arbois" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/08/back-to-france.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="337,138,6" title="Mont Poupet" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/buboes-on-our-butties.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="342,143,6" title="Chateau de Joux" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/buboes-on-our-butties.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="353,137,8" title="Fleurier" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/buboes-on-our-butties.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="336,124,8" title="Vesoul" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/buboes-on-our-butties.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="327,134,8" title="Pesmes" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/buboes-on-our-butties.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="327,154,8" title="Poligny" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/vendange.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="319,158,8" title="Louhans" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/ambre-solaire.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="319,258,8" title="Gorges de l'Ardèche" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/ambre-solaire.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="302,274,8" title="Ganges" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/ambre-solaire.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="301,282,6" title="Gorges de l'Hérault" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/ambre-solaire.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="308,304,6" title="Marseillan" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/ambre-solaire.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="293,307,6" title="Saint Chinian" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/ambre-solaire.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="297,315,6" title="Narbonne" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/ambre-solaire.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="285,311,6" title="Minerve" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/ambre-solaire.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="285,304,6" title="St. Pons" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/ambre-solaire.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="295,297,6" title="Lamalou" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/midi-pyrenees.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="281,297,7" title="Espinousses" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/ambre-solaire.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="267,291,7" title="Albi" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/ambre-solaire.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="262,286,7" title="Monastiés" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/midi-pyrenees.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="259,276,8" title="Villefranche-de-Rouregue" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/midi-pyrenees.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="250,273,8" title="St. Cirq-Lapopie" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/midi-pyrenees.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="242,274,8" title="Cahors" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/midi-pyrenees.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="230,276,6" title="Fumel" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/villeneuve-and-bergerac.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="221,280,6" title="Villeneuve-sur-Lot" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/villeneuve-and-bergerac.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="218,287,7" title="Pujol" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/villeneuve-and-bergerac.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="233,268,7" title="Bonaguil" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/villeneuve-and-bergerac.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="228,281,6" title="Penne" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/villeneuve-and-bergerac.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="224,271,6" title="Montflanquin" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/villeneuve-and-bergerac.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="210,262,8" title="Bergerac" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/villeneuve-and-bergerac.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="170,244,6" title="Gironde" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/ile-de-re.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="164,238,6" title="Royan" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/ile-de-re.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="158,234,6" title="Le Palmyre" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/ile-de-re.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="146,218,8" title="Ile de Ré" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/ile-de-re.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="161,225,8" title="Rochefort" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/ile-de-re.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="154,206,8" title="Luçon" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/mayenne-and-calvados.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="150,134,8" title="Laval" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/mayenne-and-calvados.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="151,123,8" title="Mayenne" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/mayenne-and-calvados.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="226,87,8" title="Paris" HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/mayenne-and-calvados.html"><AREA SHAPE="CIRCLE" COORDS="116,22,8" title="Portsmouth"></MAP><br /><IMG SRC="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXuxxk6kF71YshTKY7wVV-BPY7EJ9LyMm710fE06lSLicQEu2_8PJX2U6JEretwUCNHPKt9de51wbCAtkyvmr4YiZTf5RhJPEzag81c0M2fROMyZTZIDQrT7z9UdFtHb4OWY4fPHh0vk/" ISMAP USEMAP="#maxtedtravels-3"><br /><CENTER><B>Clickable map showing the route of our travels</B></CENTER><br />Because of the scale not all places are linked to. Where places occur more than once, the link is to the first posting on which it is mentioned.<br /><BR /><B>Index</B><br />The details given for each posting in the chronological list below are: a running number, the first day of the posting, the title - which is a hotlink - and the main places included. <BR /><BR />1. 1 September 2007 <A HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/08/back-to-france.html">Back to France</A>. Caen, Gien, Lac des Setton, Autun, Champagne-sur-Loue, Arbois, Cirq du Fer à Cheval, Arc et Senans, Buffard.<BR /><BR />2. 10 September 2007 <A HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/buboes-on-our-butties.html">Buboes on our butties</A>. Ornans, Buffard, Mont Poupet, Ivry, Recologne, Vesoul, Pesmes, Château de Joux, Les Fourgs, Switzerland, Fleurier.<BR /><BR />3. 16 September 2007 <A HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/vendange.html">Vendange</A>. Champagne-sur-Loue and around, Arc-et-Senans, Poligny.<BR /><BR />4. 22 September 2007 <A HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/09/ambre-solaire.html">Ambre solaire</A>. Louhans, Isérand, Gorges de l'Ardèche, Alès, St. Hippolyte du Fort, Ganges, Gorges de l'Hérault, St. Etienne d'Issenac, Marseillan, St. Chinian, Capestang, Canal du Midi, Minerve, St. Pons.<BR /><BR />5. 28 September 2007 <A HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/midi-pyrenees.html">Midi-Pyrénées</A>. Roquebrun, Narbonne, Lamalou, Herepian, Espinousses, Albi, Aveyron, Monastiés, Najac, Villefranche de Rouergue, Cajarc, Lot, Calvignac, St. Cirq Lapopie, Cahors.<BR /><BR />6. 3 Octomber 2007 <A HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/villeneuve-and-bergerac.html">Villeneuve and Bergerac</A>. Cahors, Albas, Fumel, Villeneuve-sur-Lot, Bonaguil, Pujol, Monflanquin, Penne.<BR /><BR />7. 5 Octomber 2007 <A HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/ile-de-re.html">Ile de Ré</A>. Gironde, Royan, la Palmyre, Marennes, Rochefort, Ile de Ré.<BR /><BR />8. 8 Octomber 2007 <A HREF="http://modestine3.blogspot.com/2007/10/mayenne-and-calvados.html">Mayenne and Calvados</A>. Marais de la Vendée, Luçon, Laval, Mayenne, Caen, Paris.<BR /><BR />In all Modestine travelled about 2900 miles and consumed 284 litres of diesel. Ferries and other transport accounted for another 500 miles or so of travel.Jill, Ian and Modestinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122859105828936321noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2492360799248419503.post-19909594001455351192007-10-17T12:37:00.000+01:002008-12-08T22:05:16.258+00:00Mayenne and Calvados<B>Monday 8th October 2007, Near Craon, Mayenne</B><br />Once again we are camping, almost alone. Tonight we are on a site beside a pretty lake where migrating birds are gathering for their onward flight for the winter. How do they know where to meet? We watched them flying in to land on the water. Their every move was synchronised. They all stopped flying at the same moment and glided in to land at a specific point on the water where their arrival was awaited by others of the same species. Is there a bird language that says "Okay, same place, time and date next year. See you there."? <br /><br />Almost all the campsites are now closed for the season. This one was listed in our book as open all year but we have been told that demand is so limited they have decided to close at the end of the month. It certainly makes winter travelling difficult if it is impossible to find electricity, water and security.<br /><br />This morning we left the Ile de Ré with regret. There is still so much to explore and so many routes we would still love to cycle. The maximum height on the island is eleven metres so it is perfect for lazy cyclists like us. We had hoped for a photo of the really impressive bridge but the morning was too hazy to see more than a dark line disappearing into the mist towards the mainland, completely hidden in the distance.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx9y1PVEEHPGrsUPJ9zTgNmGByv44dSefIkCpODVzXJmI9Rb7Q6edbr_61rII19jafJUMnGNjnKkYmeHfzNZo00xIbBp8CZahKfexFXjn8opvVC85W3wZhLocXfvf6PTxCK8lcfnZo0sw/s1280-h/YIMG_4017.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx9y1PVEEHPGrsUPJ9zTgNmGByv44dSefIkCpODVzXJmI9Rb7Q6edbr_61rII19jafJUMnGNjnKkYmeHfzNZo00xIbBp8CZahKfexFXjn8opvVC85W3wZhLocXfvf6PTxCK8lcfnZo0sw/s400/YIMG_4017.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122273660458056242" /></a><CENTER>Just visible from the Ile de Ré, the bridge linking it to the mainland</CENTER><br />Once on the mainland we headed towards Luçon, a route we had never travelled before. We hoped to follow some of the side roads as they twisted between the drainage ditches and canals that intersect the fields of this area. Unfortunately we missed the area we were seeking, where flat bottom boats force their way between the reed beds which are harvested for thatching. All we found today were endless flat fields of maize or bleached grass interspersed by canals, stretching to the horizon. There were herds of the white cattle, typical of the Charente and the Vendée, with their young calves. There has been so little rain in the area that the dead grass of the fields was almost the same pale colour as the cattle. <br /><br />Luçon was deserted when we arrived. It was lunchtime and absolutely nothing happens in France between noon and 2pm. The town seemed pleasant but it was the cathedral that intrigued us. Outside it looked rather a jumble of different architectural styles. The heavy square tower was topped by a delicate white spire that was not at all in keeping with the rest of the mainly 16th century building. Inside though, it was far more harmonious, light and airy. We found a statue of Richelieu prominently displayed and quickly discovered that he had been bishop of Luçon from 1608 to 1623 when he was made a cardinal and later became chief minister to Louis XIII.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwaMV-eVLrKoOgiMD_0bOJeKLOPwKPlWF3ltRGqsZ4KR8gr6wYQMBYfyrmXKN1ser-_kJhicMgMCgzi1rgHR7-uLFX6GRAucv_QD-h3oJlL9JDH1f3YTaV7cv_iSgGq5mCOXHPQbDp-8/s1280-h/YIMG_4020.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwaMV-eVLrKoOgiMD_0bOJeKLOPwKPlWF3ltRGqsZ4KR8gr6wYQMBYfyrmXKN1ser-_kJhicMgMCgzi1rgHR7-uLFX6GRAucv_QD-h3oJlL9JDH1f3YTaV7cv_iSgGq5mCOXHPQbDp-8/s400/YIMG_4020.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122273686227860034" /></a><CENTER>Cathedral, Luçon</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_tZqYkMpYfO9faxE7nBgqDdLDiQlBCyvhpjOh4YdDMQKIgA8r0KNun9vgYfwoJpA-R0df2Q_bJjNJDxZT_lCDHdOf0j3xgfR_eL8cw4T7Ht8OWenA4IIOYgDSQCgB5GW6XsAArZt-drQ/s1280-h/YIMG_4023.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_tZqYkMpYfO9faxE7nBgqDdLDiQlBCyvhpjOh4YdDMQKIgA8r0KNun9vgYfwoJpA-R0df2Q_bJjNJDxZT_lCDHdOf0j3xgfR_eL8cw4T7Ht8OWenA4IIOYgDSQCgB5GW6XsAArZt-drQ/s400/YIMG_4023.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122273750652369490" /></a><CENTER>Fete d'humor in a small town near Luçon</CENTER><br />Things cultural and historical took second place to our hunger however. At the supermarket we discovered the menu of the day was a generous helping of sautéed venison with juniper berries in a rich wine sauce served with mixed vegetables, courgettes in cream and French fried potatoes. At 5.70 euros (£4) each it was amazing value even if the surroundings were not very exciting. Other diners were tucking into paella, lobster, mussels and asparagus in a cheese sauce, served with carafes of wine. We cannot imagine British supermarkets thinking so imaginatively, and certainly not at French prices!<br /><br />Much of the rest of today has been spent driving north, stopping to explore anything of interest on the way. The landscape this evening is very different from further south. Gone are the olives, almonds and cactuses of the Midi, the vines, figs and quinces of the valley of the Lot, the endless vistas of mudflats and salt marshes of the Ile de Ré and the network of waterways in the countryside of the Charente. Instead the fields of the Mayenne are bright green and there are huge orchards of shining red apples. There is flowering gorse, brambles and bracken in the hedgerows, and the leaves are tumbling from the trees in a confetti of red and gold. The state of the roads too is infinitely better away from the south of France and while the towns may not be quite as picturesque, everywhere is far cleaner, more hygienic and the streets are generally in a better state of repair.<br /><br />We have just phoned Geneviève to warn her of our return tomorrow. Is it really only five weeks since we were last with her? She sounded as warm and welcoming as always. We are so very lucky to have such amazing and tolerant friends around Europe. It is also a comfort to know we are never very far from help if we should really need it as we travel from country to country.<br /><br /><B>Monday 15th October 2007, On board the Mont St. Michel sailing from Ouistreham to Portsmouth</B><br />Over the past week there has been little opportunity to maintain this account as we have been living closely with our French friends from Caen and getting to bed around midnight most nights. The main difficulty though, has been our computer. For reasons of safety against theft we have it well hidden in Modestine. Unfortunately, due almost certainly to the disgusting state of the departmental roads in the south of France, it has suffered an internal injury that has destroyed the DVD drive, resulting in it being impossible to boot up. At the computer shop we learned several new technical terms and ascertained that we were in for a rather expensive repair job once we reached England. They have diagnosed the fault, removed the DVD drive and got it working again so we can at least access our files and continue this blog. We are also worried about Modestine's suspension which received a violent jolt and is now grumbling from time to time from just beneath where we had hidden the computer. Perhaps it is as well we are returning home so we can get everything checked over.<br /><br />But worse things happen at sea. Perhaps that is not a good expression to use considering that's exactly where we are at the moment! Generally the past week has been very enjoyable indeed.<br /><br />Last Tuesday we left our lakeside campsite and travelled north, stopping to investigate the towns of Laval and Mayenne. These lie in a peaceful, pretty area wedged between Brittany and Normandy where the influences of both regions are apparent. Buildings are in granite – from Brittany, and white stone – from Normandy. There is considerable use of wooden timbering, particularly in Laval. Tiles have given way to slates, typical of Brittany and the north of France. Laval in particular is a very pleasant town built either side of the river Mayenne with the narrow, steep streets of the old town slithering picturesquely down to the river. Mayenne also lies on the river of the same name and has a château and some very pleasant public gardens above the streets of the main town. Around here, and on into Normandy, the green fields are filled with healthy cattle and it is easy to realise why some of the best soft cheeses in France come from Normandy and the Mayenne, where there is plenty of rain and rich pastures. (The rich Alpine meadows of the Jura and the Haute Savoie also produce superb cheeses but these are generally hard ones.) As a sweeping generalisation, in other parts of the country where the landscape may be more dry and arid the cheeses tend to be produced from the milk of goats and sheep rather than cows.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFRz2ZpmUmZ6sanEQbkvlNOFMMuWuQ74oV6ngjN7jCjxHif3p40mNMLctVAXOkA8e_2UoFgZ2hYEzTHqM_Z2VrGS3BHOHQv10wPXc0ZfG_rqvTbCOanYJ1KbOqMaNBaxDeWO_rOiD3_w/s1280-h/YIMG_4026.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFRz2ZpmUmZ6sanEQbkvlNOFMMuWuQ74oV6ngjN7jCjxHif3p40mNMLctVAXOkA8e_2UoFgZ2hYEzTHqM_Z2VrGS3BHOHQv10wPXc0ZfG_rqvTbCOanYJ1KbOqMaNBaxDeWO_rOiD3_w/s400/YIMG_4026.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122273780717140578" /></a><CENTER>Old town at Laval</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8mllCz_Cj3_xjksqgQoql6tEx0v_WVN4qB8G3i34CG5AIn8XO7cPTn4RfwBA6mjNvrPH8cOr8Gm429DBfY_rVvzcz_cEMLhEdkz0d5PDH3TW7_7Q05rbChVHig3MigsxWef8wtdNmxwo/s1280-h/YIMG_4027.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8mllCz_Cj3_xjksqgQoql6tEx0v_WVN4qB8G3i34CG5AIn8XO7cPTn4RfwBA6mjNvrPH8cOr8Gm429DBfY_rVvzcz_cEMLhEdkz0d5PDH3TW7_7Q05rbChVHig3MigsxWef8wtdNmxwo/s400/YIMG_4027.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122273810781911666" /></a><CENTER>Market, Laval</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4R2Cj2RLXXHk_fpV6LFUS6L8bZEkJQd1AkI683LDU0YJdVihpo4OBUPas6MuVDxY7T6DtgYzWiCjUNlIpAwakc9IE5LrBufX6zsB3Zoxe722RIJgly26knmPP5WSsWcZBpQSdh_vGL0/s1280-h/YIMG_4029.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4R2Cj2RLXXHk_fpV6LFUS6L8bZEkJQd1AkI683LDU0YJdVihpo4OBUPas6MuVDxY7T6DtgYzWiCjUNlIpAwakc9IE5LrBufX6zsB3Zoxe722RIJgly26knmPP5WSsWcZBpQSdh_vGL0/s400/YIMG_4029.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122275086387198626" /></a><CENTER>Castle walls, Laval</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLu0LyceVliiidu3uh9i_WBKHg9vleaZYpOpdgLtnTwC2FgsmJBbMolZFVMzWtVzZTDKDniBkpEJe98H3EeNByt5TMiNbAtqmMZPHGMSOhjl5s2N6YD5J0ZxBqlkWHom28ltxFTU3SUms/s1280-h/YIMG_4033.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLu0LyceVliiidu3uh9i_WBKHg9vleaZYpOpdgLtnTwC2FgsmJBbMolZFVMzWtVzZTDKDniBkpEJe98H3EeNByt5TMiNbAtqmMZPHGMSOhjl5s2N6YD5J0ZxBqlkWHom28ltxFTU3SUms/s400/YIMG_4033.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122275116451969714" /></a><CENTER>Roofscape of slates, Laval</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrApd6FxyYURN32Z9J5dCejWiKxBFsNn7k6Sx8CiZ3mMyzvFpZ1zWuuwgmsiXHN1ltmUehK_SXGD5doK28NlL8PrCEutyHtwDlCpf_RzbYSm3l8OqrMu9MtiyTwS7pUkmwD3JK4t8bJyg/s1280-h/YIMG_4035.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrApd6FxyYURN32Z9J5dCejWiKxBFsNn7k6Sx8CiZ3mMyzvFpZ1zWuuwgmsiXHN1ltmUehK_SXGD5doK28NlL8PrCEutyHtwDlCpf_RzbYSm3l8OqrMu9MtiyTwS7pUkmwD3JK4t8bJyg/s400/YIMG_4035.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122275155106675394" /></a><CENTER>Ambrose Paré, a 16th century man of medicine, Laval</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vMV5-1_s2tB2k6m0ZLJYqOZ826kvefGSu3Pqw_5MmWjnuj4W3ZNC1N0M7dWB8nT1pHRfo09QvVBuf11XjS2iRX0-_r_Xsj_x-Je-Qr7S_NdLaeS_kpLwR7pBDe0_OrcbkjpSb-9j0Ac/s1280-h/YIMG_4036.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vMV5-1_s2tB2k6m0ZLJYqOZ826kvefGSu3Pqw_5MmWjnuj4W3ZNC1N0M7dWB8nT1pHRfo09QvVBuf11XjS2iRX0-_r_Xsj_x-Je-Qr7S_NdLaeS_kpLwR7pBDe0_OrcbkjpSb-9j0Ac/s400/YIMG_4036.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122275189466413778" /></a><CENTER>River Mayenne, Laval</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggRIuTl73N5i5hETcyTYwmQcdU1w6JAbbN7HLUCsxaaJLcUHSu7kyXQG79piXwQPTDW1FQDh0HyhnBaPeIBXvDI6vy7sCF2I4BgURW1ne1tf0IOAFCLzLh0FZuopWXtHh_-MLhST_BNOY/s1280-h/YIMG_4038.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggRIuTl73N5i5hETcyTYwmQcdU1w6JAbbN7HLUCsxaaJLcUHSu7kyXQG79piXwQPTDW1FQDh0HyhnBaPeIBXvDI6vy7sCF2I4BgURW1ne1tf0IOAFCLzLh0FZuopWXtHh_-MLhST_BNOY/s400/YIMG_4038.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122275210941250274" /></a><CENTER>Castle, Mayenne</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieG0v5f79RvIHxugs3yra73LvQTHNfkwdiAo84i11JMLLjk2DlJKJme6ifIFPx0nRjkKc8b2CXvOILBe3ms-ouloDmEjuOXpMx2ldpsurAm6XxmKNMEWBcb932nL3277_SSQ_88bdjZi4/s1280-h/YIMG_4039.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieG0v5f79RvIHxugs3yra73LvQTHNfkwdiAo84i11JMLLjk2DlJKJme6ifIFPx0nRjkKc8b2CXvOILBe3ms-ouloDmEjuOXpMx2ldpsurAm6XxmKNMEWBcb932nL3277_SSQ_88bdjZi4/s400/YIMG_4039.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122275863776279282" /></a><CENTER>Impressive flying buttresses of the Eglise Notre Dame, Mayenne</CENTER><br />As we reached Normandy and the landscape gradually became familiar, the sky darkened and soon we were driving through torrents of rain that continued unabated all night and much of the next day. Modestine is now nearly as clean as when we set out at the start of September. We reached Caen around 6pm and it really felt as if we were arriving home! We received our usual warm welcome from Geneviève and were soon exchanging news over supper as the rain beat against the windows.<br /><br />Over the next couple of days Ian worked on Alain's manuscripts. On Thursday researchers of the 18th century book trade at the Institut d'Histoire Moderne et Contemporaine in Paris arrived for lunch and to spend the afternoon discussing how best to proceed with preparing the material for publication and how it could best be integrated into the series of regional biographical dictionaries being compiled by the pompously named Proposopographie des Gens du Livre en France. It turned out to be a very agreeable afternoon for everyone with quite as much interest expressed in Geneviève's poule au pot and mousse au chocolat as in Alain's detailed and precise work on the book trades of Basse-Normandie in the century leading up to the French Revolution! It was also a relief and a pleasure to Geneviève that Alain's research was finally being given recognition, years after his death.<br /><br />During the rest of the past week we have seen several friends and family members, including Claire for tea one afternoon, Yves for supper on Tuesday and Germaine for an aperitif and Sunday lunch. We have also spent time with Nisha and her baby Ayden, now returned from an extended visit to see her parents Shirley and Nazir in Trinidad. As her husband, Lucas, was working all week in India, Nisha decided to come down to Caen from Paris for a few days so Yves could play with his grandson, Ayden.<br /><br />On Saturday we drove Nisha and Ayden back to Paris in Geneviève's car. It was a long and tiring day but enabled us to see a rather jet-lagged Lucas and to visit their new home, a flat high above the banks of the river Seine, bordered on either side by house boats where people live permanently, surrounded by cats, potted plants and washing. It is a very colourful area with every race under the sun squashed close together in apartments on the Ile St. Denis, just to the north of Paris. It is also within walking distance of the imposing rugby stadium where the semi-finals of the World Cup were due to be played that evening. The Stade de France was ringed by police and fans were beginning to gather outside. Traffic was at a chaotic halt due to a minor accident and we spent a frustrating time waiting for it to clear as Ayden began to feel more and more fractious and hungry, squashed together with us, his pram and equipment in the back of the car. It was not the most relaxed way of spending a day and frustrating that almost all we saw of Paris were distant views of the Eiffel tower and the Sacré Coeur as we alternately sat in queues or sped through countless long noisy underpasses. (Easy to see how a slight swerve in these tunnels could result in a serious collision with the columns at the side as happened to Princess Diana!)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLjo-jFJLTlvEBKO38d6nmvE0wmXRdr7E5seI2ILlWRkq8rIhEtgF7mV0ElDEX5I0KPP3bUF1AzoAXLx0gqwbGaPvAkih_iAZ2ViqeaHD_52r2q7MaOuIEstz5BbY8kSYBsSCHBlKHmAk/s1280-h/YIMG_4056.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLjo-jFJLTlvEBKO38d6nmvE0wmXRdr7E5seI2ILlWRkq8rIhEtgF7mV0ElDEX5I0KPP3bUF1AzoAXLx0gqwbGaPvAkih_iAZ2ViqeaHD_52r2q7MaOuIEstz5BbY8kSYBsSCHBlKHmAk/s400/YIMG_4056.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122275880956148482" /></a><CENTER>Rugby flower sculpture near the stadium, Paris</CENTER><br />Once we arrived Nisha disappeared to cook quiche for everyone while Ian balanced precariously on the terrifying, tiny balcony above the river, taking photographs of the Paris skyline. Anxious to get back to Caen before dark we left shortly after lunch and reached home in time for supper before settling with mugs of tea in front of the TV to watch the rugby match between England and France. The commentary was, not surprisingly, very much in favour of the French who were playing on their own ground in Paris. In the end England won and no doubt we will now watch the final. It looks a horrifyingly dangerous game! Watching together with French friends did cause amusement and mock rivalry so it was quite a good fun thing to do even if we are not normally sports fans.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRrDWpyCTsr6Zdc9-NDe1aoGy5ZcsL9I5J7jELkVgaGyBDwKaeicbPQa6jLLJppHINO9FWghpx9w_B2P_pnpnYaH3EPx88UlQGzGmAwwaJpnaTcSDdLS9-oM9-cbNHv8lvM-hbGM0etE/s1280-h/YIMG_4054.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRrDWpyCTsr6Zdc9-NDe1aoGy5ZcsL9I5J7jELkVgaGyBDwKaeicbPQa6jLLJppHINO9FWghpx9w_B2P_pnpnYaH3EPx88UlQGzGmAwwaJpnaTcSDdLS9-oM9-cbNHv8lvM-hbGM0etE/s400/YIMG_4054.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122275893841050386" /></a><CENTER>Seine from the apartment window, Paris</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhamtC_cCVaRc3y4qgQv1ZwyZVTDPVU9uQUUj3X9Xh25jeCNfdYULz17SQgXRpEDUp-DmNCbTSF3MnoOAHiW1GO_Jq7Mme69dxQ0gAF4fTIfWRPzbeYuLnzMvS2JbnLjfilgyUuWfx4UYE/s1280-h/YIMG_4055.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhamtC_cCVaRc3y4qgQv1ZwyZVTDPVU9uQUUj3X9Xh25jeCNfdYULz17SQgXRpEDUp-DmNCbTSF3MnoOAHiW1GO_Jq7Mme69dxQ0gAF4fTIfWRPzbeYuLnzMvS2JbnLjfilgyUuWfx4UYE/s400/YIMG_4055.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122275906725952290" /></a><CENTER>Lucas, Nisha and Ayden in their flat</CENTER><br />Yesterday was Sunday and the day started cold with a thick fog that made us apprehensive for our early start to catch the ferry this morning. (Fortunately today was clear.) We walked down to the huge market held along the banks of the Orne where we browsed the second-hand books at the bouquinists and strolled along the countless stalls of fruit and vegetables, intrigued by such unusual produce as black tomatoes and purple cauliflowers and potatoes. In the oriental and Moroccan corner we bought couscous to carry home for lunch. This is prepared on the market in large vats. A typical portion includes carrots, turnips, onions and swede cooked in a spicy orange sauce served with a portion each of mutton, chicken and spicy merguez sausage. The couscous that accompanies it is made from crushed bulgar wheat and frequently has raisins mixed in along with aromatic spices such as cinnamon. A small pot of very powerful spices is provided to be mixed into the vegetable sauce at the last minute. This can be an acquired taste. If used, water is a better drink than wine which is a complete waste as it is rendered tasteless.<br /><br />By lunch-time the fog lifted and the temperature soared. Time for coffee on a terrace as we watched the families of Caen doing their market shopping. Back home we set lunch in the garden as the couscous reheated. It seemed a last taste of summer. Germaine, Geneviève's mother, joined us later to show us her collection of French cheese labels. As Jill is also an enthusiastic collector we've promised to bring ours next time so we can exchange possible duplicates. Jill's collection covers forty years whereas Germaine's covers less than thirty, but whereas Jill has collected from all over France, Germaine has specialised in Normandy. She has some lovely old-fashioned examples from the days before the pleasure was taken out of it all by bar-codes printed across the images.<br /><br />In the afternoon we took bunches of flowers round to the cemetery for Alain and walked up to the Colline des Oiseaux. Because of the sunshine the gardens were crowded with families. Even in October the flower beds were full of bright colours and pumpkins and gourds added to the delights of the vegetable gardens. The maze of rose bushes still had many pretty blooms and the children's zoo on the summit of the huge mound contained tiny goats, ponies, geese and chickens. It's amazing how beautiful it is possible to make a city's former refuse tip! There is even a Devon Garden complete with cob walls, a thatched roof and a kissing-gate, looking for all the world like the gardens at Killerton!<br /><br />This morning we were up and on our way to Ouistreham for the ferry before daylight. Although we have only been away six weeks it has blended with our visit earlier this year and seems much longer. We were, after all, only back in England for less than four weeks between them! <br /><br />Now though, we intend being home for longer. Neil and Jeev will become parents in early November and we are not eager to rush away too soon. It will be a new departure for us learning to be grandparents and an experience to which we are greatly looking forward. Thank you everyone for travelling with us and if there is anyone out there who has stuck with us throughout, you deserve a medal! We hope it has been worth the time.Jill, Ian and Modestinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122859105828936321noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2492360799248419503.post-82622021081641837672007-10-17T11:47:00.000+01:002008-12-08T22:05:16.352+00:00Ile de Re<B>Friday 5th October 207, Ile de Ré, Charente</B><br />Yesterday morning, on the campsite in Bergerac, we debated our onward route back towards Caen. Originally we intended to travel through the area of the Loire. However, it is not so long ago that we were there and it is an area we will certainly return to before long. We realised that it has been a long time since we last saw the sea. Strangely, we never actually went down to the sea while we were recently near the Mediterranean! The nearest we got was seeing it from the Noilly Prat factory in Marseillan! For several years now we have harboured a wish to explore the Ile de Ré with Hinge and Bracket and as the weather has been perfect for cycling we decided to continue westward to the Atlantic and have now settled on a campsite at St. Martin de Ré from where we hope to explore the island by bike tomorrow. <br /><br />Yesterday we drove north-west across a pleasant landscape, passing through very few towns, none of which we had heard of, until we reached the banks of the Gironde with the vineyards of the Médoc on the further shore. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN8UN8Qn8r1T2pxaOv-LOYylosLUTCUzi9oUgSN1bKAxLnhAeheRvYlsmXFEC89_O-QV3iaOqk_MZcCiv_LL_bJ-vpXGTIlXmTt0YxbukH9mI_5uQBZxGTs1QymFn27r0fO09c9-pr4tQ/s1280-h/YIMG_3931.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN8UN8Qn8r1T2pxaOv-LOYylosLUTCUzi9oUgSN1bKAxLnhAeheRvYlsmXFEC89_O-QV3iaOqk_MZcCiv_LL_bJ-vpXGTIlXmTt0YxbukH9mI_5uQBZxGTs1QymFn27r0fO09c9-pr4tQ/s400/YIMG_3931.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122256411869395026" /></a><CENTER>Fishing huts on the banks of the Gironde</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv3EhhHef_Vqlx2w6kc-k0wswoBxVcHDP9jRXISAiMVFMMp0-3Z4-XZUeyHSeo6Abi3RKbrCKCm-YcpU4h5t4QXvH5IciAjrgq7ztX2tT9MPNjEiMV7TkQ1S_B-qefhwgXc47Jmspo9FM/s1280-h/YIMG_3937.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv3EhhHef_Vqlx2w6kc-k0wswoBxVcHDP9jRXISAiMVFMMp0-3Z4-XZUeyHSeo6Abi3RKbrCKCm-YcpU4h5t4QXvH5IciAjrgq7ztX2tT9MPNjEiMV7TkQ1S_B-qefhwgXc47Jmspo9FM/s400/YIMG_3937.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122256424754296930" /></a><CENTER>Cliff beside the Gironde</CENTER><br />We followed the sandy coast northwards along the side of the estuary to Royan from where a ferry links to the tip of the Médoc. Royan is a typical French seaside resort. Badly damaged during the war it was largely rebuilt during the 1950s. All along the seafront, as in the Côte d'Azure, we found notices banning camping cars from stopping and barriers preventing vehicles more than two metres high from entering the parking areas. At 6pm on an October evening we were almost the only people around. Most of the hotels and restaurants were closed for the season, but we dare not stop for fear of being wheel-clamped. There were dozens of signs to camp-sites but after following several and finding them closed and deserted we gave up and continued our route northwards. Dusk was falling as we drove along the Côte Sauvage. We were alone on deserted roads through endless pine forests that protect the coast road from encroaching sand dunes. Only rarely did we see another vehicle. Any isolated hotels or restaurants were closed and shuttered for the season and nowhere was there a campsite open. A large mobile home overtook us, looking purposeful, so we followed it. After all, it had to be going somewhere and at last we thought we might discover where all the big camping cars we saw during the day disappeared to at night. In the depths of the pine forest it turned off the route down a side road and right beside the sea we discovered a huge parking area reserved for camping cars, free from 1st October! It was full with over 40 huge vehicles lined up side by side! There is safety in numbers so Modestine tucked herself in at the end of the row, looking comically small. In fact we spent a very comfortable night there, with the beam from the lighthouse on the far side of the dunes raking through the trees every few seconds. The evening was really mild, and with no electricity to run the computer we sat outside in the darkness until bed-time. Despite so many people sleeping nearby we saw hardly anybody and it was completely silent. For us, unfortunately, using such sites is not usually practical as we do not carry an onboard toilet or shower, but in an emergency it was an excellent solution, especially as in this instance, because there is usually a charge made for overnight parking, the council had supplied clean toilet facilities!<br /><br />This morning we took a walk along the beach to a nearby harbour of small fishing boats and pleasure craft, returning through the forest where cyclists were out enjoying the sunshine. Rejoining Modestine we continued along the coast and round to Marennes, passing through several deserted holiday villages sheltering amongst the pine trees. Once the season is over in France coastal resorts become ghost towns. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFZ1WOQW0Q4P8r7xAIifFo4j-4WhVrqy0laTH3ExnDMZN83Uxmp9W8-u0AxhA5ijvV0IQ9PwcsV9saSOQgaZQaxOc1m8MtPud9ZMkwf7G29VcQxtkK4p0TvLboJhd544RXKHyaJAJSVEQ/s1280-h/YIMG_3942.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFZ1WOQW0Q4P8r7xAIifFo4j-4WhVrqy0laTH3ExnDMZN83Uxmp9W8-u0AxhA5ijvV0IQ9PwcsV9saSOQgaZQaxOc1m8MtPud9ZMkwf7G29VcQxtkK4p0TvLboJhd544RXKHyaJAJSVEQ/s400/YIMG_3942.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122256437639198834" /></a><CENTER>In the pine forest of the Côte Sauvage</CENTER><br />Marennes turned out to be a very nice little town indeed. It was quite bustling, being anything but a holiday resort. It lies in Charente Maritime, a strange area criss-crossed by a dense network of small drainage canals and irrigation channels. The economy of the town is based on oysters and it lies between the sea and a massive salt water lagoon laid out as oyster beds. They were on sale everywhere around the town. Even the PMU betting shop/café was selling them for just a few euros served with lemon and bread and butter together with a glass of white wine! We lingered here over our morning coffee watching the customers. In particular there were three elderly ladies in cardigans and slippers, each with their open newspaper, selecting their bets as they drank glasses of beer at 11am! Having made their choices they handed over their betting slips and money at the bar before settling to do their knitting until the race was due to run! It's quite an education seeing how strange other people's lives can be! <br /><br />We passed this way several years ago, returning from visiting a friend at Arcachon, on the coast near Bordeaux, famed for having the largest sand dune in Europe. Then we visited the Ile d'Oléron which lies off the coast near Marenne. It did not impress us so much as the Ile de Ré so today we didn't stop to revisit. Instead we continued to Rochefort, a delightful town which developed in the 17th century, established by the French minister Colbert as a place to built and repair ships for the French navy. We have spent most of the day exploring the old dockyards, and the marine rope works. Here is the oldest dry dock in the world, rather overgrown with weeds and in need of restoration. In another dry dock a replica of the18th century ship, the Hermione, has been under construction for some years, beside the river Charente. The rope works is an architecturally beautiful building stretching right along the river bank overlooked by attractive public gardens with colourful flower beds.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi80Q4mfh56PVv3h95C8ZzFQcjUv1h6L0Gf5UxLw4k7rjPQfbxVNymhNn1QolV0kZ-VpBwNSr8bIN0yNZ3iOYitPRDnhXJzjXJu4nlQaiakTlyVLFCI0QSYuaqx1YJizG90JnXrHTdctrs/s1280-h/YIMG_3957.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi80Q4mfh56PVv3h95C8ZzFQcjUv1h6L0Gf5UxLw4k7rjPQfbxVNymhNn1QolV0kZ-VpBwNSr8bIN0yNZ3iOYitPRDnhXJzjXJu4nlQaiakTlyVLFCI0QSYuaqx1YJizG90JnXrHTdctrs/s400/YIMG_3957.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122256446229133442" /></a><CENTER>Entrance to the arsenal, Rochefort</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8lALeoXD_pLkbmrhb2KHFX81eZb7p1DjvSLsMp3zD03pQ89e2x4B3CRuVrh376DBfaeu9pOmUnURY7Scd_SlyNLl8jQdUN9Al1H9x7QKFR3LLRkXxEJ7qFp8mBDtMQEEMUsq9m3BKDsE/s1280-h/YIMG_3954.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8lALeoXD_pLkbmrhb2KHFX81eZb7p1DjvSLsMp3zD03pQ89e2x4B3CRuVrh376DBfaeu9pOmUnURY7Scd_SlyNLl8jQdUN9Al1H9x7QKFR3LLRkXxEJ7qFp8mBDtMQEEMUsq9m3BKDsE/s400/YIMG_3954.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122256463409002642" /></a><CENTER>World's first dry dock, Rochefort</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Ae67AuOXnDgxWcMVjcmQ1q-ppmNAcr2owBhFw6xeoi68VNn3WugVQ3n9gPRb_ycJZS08FW3NAeXk2hLaZ5jz0nD3qxto8Ge0jbpVa-hZlHzOrdz-H5tbovMuPbrvTsZHfWXuXKJNdQs/s1280-h/YIMG_3951.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Ae67AuOXnDgxWcMVjcmQ1q-ppmNAcr2owBhFw6xeoi68VNn3WugVQ3n9gPRb_ycJZS08FW3NAeXk2hLaZ5jz0nD3qxto8Ge0jbpVa-hZlHzOrdz-H5tbovMuPbrvTsZHfWXuXKJNdQs/s400/YIMG_3951.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122256918675536034" /></a><CENTER>17th century rope works, Rochefort</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN7PRXrpPByrBehXNCZ9Sa_kNTSDHuvirBMI09z_yuGa3IBlQwoi1QtGbPipLh7EwN7rDXcLk-_AXb64hDFmGiICW8QR_rwzBeeZm16k-I9k4f-rD_3jGBBel5vxpJ062XeojH8lVBlnE/s1280-h/YIMG_3952.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN7PRXrpPByrBehXNCZ9Sa_kNTSDHuvirBMI09z_yuGa3IBlQwoi1QtGbPipLh7EwN7rDXcLk-_AXb64hDFmGiICW8QR_rwzBeeZm16k-I9k4f-rD_3jGBBel5vxpJ062XeojH8lVBlnE/s400/YIMG_3952.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122256935855405234" /></a><CENTER>17th century rope works on the banks of the Charente, Rochefort</CENTER><br />Back in the town we sought out the house of the writer Pierre Loti. He was a naval man who led a colourful life, travelling around the world and developing a love affair with the Orient during the late 19th century. Eventually he settled back in his native town, writing novels and travel accounts and turning his home into a microcosm of his travels. Each room is dedicated to a different area of travel, filled with exotic costumes, fabrics and furniture. He even turned one room into a mosque! France respects her literary figures and there is a large statue dedicated to his memory in the town.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivC7z06BuawYJsQMlhOEEyymE5wsmejIR1PB9ZTQvY-OskZQ4ATr4jvt9cn64nGBCE3NvE7Zz1PW-Ovki_Jh9vqRxuQIdQLU8dNU0fpBNudaJB5SeAZnOUZapuJZi8LcSEuLhPuRLd1UM/s1280-h/YIMG_3945.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivC7z06BuawYJsQMlhOEEyymE5wsmejIR1PB9ZTQvY-OskZQ4ATr4jvt9cn64nGBCE3NvE7Zz1PW-Ovki_Jh9vqRxuQIdQLU8dNU0fpBNudaJB5SeAZnOUZapuJZi8LcSEuLhPuRLd1UM/s400/YIMG_3945.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122256944445339842" /></a><CENTER>To the writer Pierre Loti, Rochefort</CENTER><br />With regret we left Rochefort. It is the second time we have passed through the town and on each occasion we have wanted to stay longer. Our route continued to La Rochelle. Signs warned us that it was a day when traffic was banned from the city, so we decided not to try to visit today. We did not have enough time to do it justice. So we continued to the beautiful, huge, arching bridge, three kilometres long, that now links the Ile de Ré to the mainland. After paying the nine euros toll we drove steeply up, out and across the sea on the narrow ribbon of steel, the woods and sand dunes of the island showing hazily at the far end as we gradually approached. It is an impressive piece of modern architecture.<br /><br />If the bridge is modern it is the only thing about the island that is. It is such a peaceful, place of fields and small, scattered villages that it is hard to realise that the busy, sprawling city of La Rochelle is so close by. Here time seems to stand still. The villages are small, single-storey whitewashed cottages with hollyhocks leaning against the walls and doors and shutters all in toning shades of pale green. The island is long and narrow, so the warm sandy beaches, deserted after the season, are never more than a few minutes away. Once, the island was mosquito-ridden and the donkeys that worked in the fields and around the salt pans suffered from permanently being bitten on their legs and rumps. The villagers came up with a novel solution, clothing these beasts of burden in gingham knickers! Blue ones for the boys and pink for the girls! Now of course it has become something of a tourist attraction, but we are rather anxious about our own beast of burden, Modestine! She is here completely knickerless! A revolutionary "sans culotte". Tomorrow we will have to search the island for some pink gingham!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT0WjAV72lvVOn0YcHfazBn0kVDBOL1NNVz377MULs1lggFnTGjNRGrB1d-lhe60DKjoMmdB5uTBqswZkJzQOllVtCWFQw2gbruVKnYIkypJKjGsHFR7bCxBLKW-A9ynXVoCidG2LXVrQ/s1280-h/YIMG_3971.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT0WjAV72lvVOn0YcHfazBn0kVDBOL1NNVz377MULs1lggFnTGjNRGrB1d-lhe60DKjoMmdB5uTBqswZkJzQOllVtCWFQw2gbruVKnYIkypJKjGsHFR7bCxBLKW-A9ynXVoCidG2LXVrQ/s400/YIMG_3971.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122256953035274450" /></a><CENTER>Typical cottages, Ile de Ré</CENTER><br />Now though, Ian is yawning in the corner and it is time for bed. We need to get going early tomorrow as Hinge and Bracket are eager to explore the island.<br /><br /><B>Saturday 6th October 207, Ile de Ré, Charente</B><br />We cycled 35 kilometres around the island today and this evening the only one left with any energy is Modestine. She has spent the day resting on the campsite and showing off as usual to various groups of French campers. This evening they were back again, this time intrigued by Hinge and Bracket, wanting to know how we could fit so much into Modestine. <br /><br />Actually, Hinge and Bracket have very little stamina and are leaning wearily against a tree on the corner of our pitch, quite exhausted after a day spent bouncing over the cobbled quaysides of the various little towns and village we have passed through. We meanwhile are sitting painfully on cushions, wondering how we will possibly cope with our planned 45 kilometre ride tomorrow! The tiny wheels and lack of suspension do not make for a comfortable ride!<br /><br />But we have at last achieved our ambition. Several years ago we visited the Ile de Ré for a day as we travelled north. Stopping to explore the ruins of the 13th century Cistercian abbey, standing silent and alone in empty fields, we watched with envy as a couple cycled up to it along a tiny track. We remembered that moment today as we approached along the same deserted track to stand alone within the silent, ruined walls, in the distance the ghostly outline of the bridge linking the island to La Rochelle just visible through the hazy morning mist. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9HYI9HCTuFFBV5BRnVGjqT0nhQ0ElRm4bHNxEW1q8B1OD8JyssY9u6hBTfSVKUI7aXLXeUevIk6d-kh4YdjBzcF1oriCs5tMUlocK1NrWexECDFQUfMdSF0RM-2X9r1X2jEnGdeC_a4/s1280-h/YIMG_3975.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9HYI9HCTuFFBV5BRnVGjqT0nhQ0ElRm4bHNxEW1q8B1OD8JyssY9u6hBTfSVKUI7aXLXeUevIk6d-kh4YdjBzcF1oriCs5tMUlocK1NrWexECDFQUfMdSF0RM-2X9r1X2jEnGdeC_a4/s400/YIMG_3975.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122256961625209058" /></a><CENTER>An ambition realised, Cistercian abbey, Ile de Ré </CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0LJtqF06n6w0Z6RYExDSyGXFcswNW1bOeZ4Q_eRYfxKdOdnbmHtUAvM5KigjaTIW_zpFayBkgrfMgJI5aV623xyp8cLqb9wTbTxZrooe9rNJ-j2Lc1Wm3OhccKjqzjLZuEr1mPmlOeKI/s1280-h/YIMG_3982.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0LJtqF06n6w0Z6RYExDSyGXFcswNW1bOeZ4Q_eRYfxKdOdnbmHtUAvM5KigjaTIW_zpFayBkgrfMgJI5aV623xyp8cLqb9wTbTxZrooe9rNJ-j2Lc1Wm3OhccKjqzjLZuEr1mPmlOeKI/s400/YIMG_3982.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122257464136382706" /></a><CENTER>Cistercian abbey with free range hens, Ile de Ré </CENTER><br />The island is really flat and except for the bumps there is little effort involved. We have discovered lots of joints and muscles however that have become lazy over recent months, particularly around our knees.<br /><br />We stopped to explore a wonderful second-hand bookshop and for a picnic lunch beside the quayside in La Flotte, returning to St. Martin during the afternoon where we had been assured the donkeys would be wearing their finery. We were sadly disappointed however. The only ones we have seen today have been cute and friendly with long velvet ears but absolutely no knickers!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgALNi96jh7xXnU0K_qF95x17bJiiuNmQLe1ZLfEOxx1CGuHnPHbw-25U3MhFI5avVkLBDaTSZgJ2LC0R5Nqiy-qcjXNye9vB3jOF3YUDrawSsW0HbXtUMGpOjx1iGaXEtCUyz3RFkG69A/s1280-h/YIMG_3972.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgALNi96jh7xXnU0K_qF95x17bJiiuNmQLe1ZLfEOxx1CGuHnPHbw-25U3MhFI5avVkLBDaTSZgJ2LC0R5Nqiy-qcjXNye9vB3jOF3YUDrawSsW0HbXtUMGpOjx1iGaXEtCUyz3RFkG69A/s400/YIMG_3972.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122257472726317314" /></a><CENTER>Quayside at La Flotte, Ile de Ré</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZXRCUq5IUc-yzJCkIHQ3SlfdggPucBTBv04XXO1-bByj9-1VRApNHh11V-b22pKi3ulWVBW2RKhySUk4YTVNfpior9xRxRhdKs-bCfK-G3mwIukP3-T1jFbhi4IXkYXpJVKt9XjZhao/s1280-h/YIMG_3983.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZXRCUq5IUc-yzJCkIHQ3SlfdggPucBTBv04XXO1-bByj9-1VRApNHh11V-b22pKi3ulWVBW2RKhySUk4YTVNfpior9xRxRhdKs-bCfK-G3mwIukP3-T1jFbhi4IXkYXpJVKt9XjZhao/s400/YIMG_3983.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122257477021284626" /></a><CENTER>Sweet shop window, La Flotte, Ile de Ré </CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Nf8jG1YL6JmrsjZXfQFTThiQqg673ytqUmmsGFQiq2e4Y_mY3Fd_ICHYpVArfdCI85hwwq-QHFkNgPm3iA4VoJ5KJycIWN9BwCW3ZioxxAnb31Vo7d_gIThB0vPE0JgbHcYLSSuOyIU/s1280-h/YIMG_3985.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Nf8jG1YL6JmrsjZXfQFTThiQqg673ytqUmmsGFQiq2e4Y_mY3Fd_ICHYpVArfdCI85hwwq-QHFkNgPm3iA4VoJ5KJycIWN9BwCW3ZioxxAnb31Vo7d_gIThB0vPE0JgbHcYLSSuOyIU/s400/YIMG_3985.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122257485611219234" /></a><CENTER>Original mediaeval market, Ile de Ré </CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqjf28zy-gC5tUWoE4annU7DvwxLSWVmBxG1GvZASmFf3NScViArvlU_qblGuUE4scKnJS9NaPe6T02too_oFNOWlCCpAoOKDP0DF7OhLnod6AqCJu0VumNAsC66ktVNOZzmaP3tu91k/s1280-h/YIMG_3969.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqjf28zy-gC5tUWoE4annU7DvwxLSWVmBxG1GvZASmFf3NScViArvlU_qblGuUE4scKnJS9NaPe6T02too_oFNOWlCCpAoOKDP0DF7OhLnod6AqCJu0VumNAsC66ktVNOZzmaP3tu91k/s400/YIMG_3969.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122257502791088434" /></a><CENTER>Donkeys in the ramparts of the fort, St. Martin en Ré</CENTER><br />The morning sunshine had disappeared and there was a light mist during the afternoon as we cycled off along the low, sandy cliff top between the sea shore with its oyster beds and salt pans on one side and vineyards full of grapes on the other. We followed the cycle routes across salt-flats where little embankments had divided the area into muddy squares where salt water is evaporated off and the salt crystals that form around the edge are packaged up and sold as sea salt. Salt seems to be one of the major industries of the island after fishing, tourism and cultivating oysters. We even saw expensive bottles of 18 percent alcohol caramelised wine for sale enriched with two percent salt! <br /> <br />It has been a very different day and wonderful to cycle along safe, flat routes across such a peaceful landscape with so many different perspectives to take in. These include flat fields with heavy horses and donkeys, vines, vegetable plots, farmyards where chickens really are "free range", tiny villages of picturesque whitewashed cottages and gardens of bright shrubs, roses and hollyhocks. There have been drystone walls, church towers seen from far away across the landscape, the sea shore, a yachting regatta off the coast, the heavy, defensive walls of the 17th century Vauban fort at St. Martin, sacks of oysters arriving in the market and fresh fish being cleaned and scaled. We have been offered free samples of almond gateaux and biscuits and chatted to dozens of friendly people. Often a place can be a disappointment on a second visit, but certainly not here on the Ile de Ré. It is a beautiful, peaceful, holiday haven, full of charm and far removed from the bustling world of the nearby mainland.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7h46p9F3QuSFCgkfwAb3yKAlupWIsGHCCm8N-niS_JQSB83R1eRxO9Y425jWMkZ1O7tQlQTTVpAtzkcCBXvdajyyQb0iCLIb_yuEHgx0UIyihzvPHUT6QU967ve3c2Gi1wG8QEmrnUc4/s1280-h/YIMG_3988.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7h46p9F3QuSFCgkfwAb3yKAlupWIsGHCCm8N-niS_JQSB83R1eRxO9Y425jWMkZ1O7tQlQTTVpAtzkcCBXvdajyyQb0iCLIb_yuEHgx0UIyihzvPHUT6QU967ve3c2Gi1wG8QEmrnUc4/s400/YIMG_3988.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122258353194613058" /></a><CENTER>Vauban defences, St. Martin en Ré </CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9ksuVgyAT3Yd3iwngUJ6e57kXa7F5zFiJ3yRFh4wFY51jdT5P-OkSY673H8uS3TjVplFqsYUttC6qumxFNlen6BQVuCSk2iHoifsKrxKicKNxWsgcLxVnQDshHvet2WwZQogVI4Vvofc/s1280-h/YIMG_3991.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9ksuVgyAT3Yd3iwngUJ6e57kXa7F5zFiJ3yRFh4wFY51jdT5P-OkSY673H8uS3TjVplFqsYUttC6qumxFNlen6BQVuCSk2iHoifsKrxKicKNxWsgcLxVnQDshHvet2WwZQogVI4Vvofc/s400/YIMG_3991.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122258357489580370" /></a><CENTER>Quayside, St. Martin en Ré </CENTER><br />Back at the campsite this evening we discovered a couple of English camping cars. Both drivers were eager to tell us that Britain has just beat the Aussies in the quarter finals of World Rugby and France is guaranteed to be slaughtered by New Zealand tonight. We are quite ignorant of what else may be happening in the world, having access to neither newspapers, television nor radio, but at least we always seem to be kept informed about the really important issues affecting people's lives!!<br /><br /><B>Sunday 7th October 207, Ile de Ré, Charente</B><br />It was well after midnight before the sound of hooting died down on the island, signifying France had beaten the New Zealand All Blacks against the odds. The French are really enthusiastic about their Rugby. Next Saturday they will be playing England in the semi-finals. Fortunately we should be back in Caen by then as we don't fancy sharing a campsite TV room with our rivals for such an event. We risk being lynched if by any chance England wins!<br /><br />We have not been impressed with the campsite at St. Martin which is overpriced and underprovided with facilities – unless you are keen on shellfish. We discovered four places to wash your coquillage but only two toilets! Furthermore, overnight there is a light permanently lit in the fish cleaning area whereas the sanitaires are in complete darkness! So this morning, deciding our knees were not really up to the long return cycle ride to the Phare de Baleines (lighthouse of the whales) on the furthest tip of the island, we left the campsite and drove there instead.<br /><br /> The lighthouse was built in the 19th century with an earlier, lower one designed by Vauban nearby. Being Sunday the area was quite busy with people out from La Rochelle for the day, enjoying seafood, mussels and sardines in the several restaurants and buying local specialities - such as caramel sweets enriched with salt, bags of sea salt, liqueurs flavoured with salt, and special ceramic containers for storing salt! On our way we passed across the mudflats and salt meadows that constitute the whole of this end of the island. Salt drying pans are laid out between mud embankments. The water is left to evaporate and the grey mess around the edges is raked together as sea salt. The atmosphere of the marshes is wonderfully peaceful and the area a haven for sea birds. The Ile de Ré is on the migration routes for birds flying from both Canada and Siberia down to Africa for the winter and many species are currently to be found resting amongst the reed beds of the marshes. We only saw ducks, gulls, egrets and kestrels but we are not knowledgeable bird-spotters. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjC14szSUnIMCcrMPfFAMmYnBDpDfnPIKX0mVI5dbA3tLthMFejvW88u6hNDnSh4mGb7rGjUPpsb9Tq5L8KF4_f0QB826vGgtvt8Yht_uXh308DSyI6-qkRQovH7rLwLU8vBEnUjjJ5lE/s1280-h/YIMG_4012.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjC14szSUnIMCcrMPfFAMmYnBDpDfnPIKX0mVI5dbA3tLthMFejvW88u6hNDnSh4mGb7rGjUPpsb9Tq5L8KF4_f0QB826vGgtvt8Yht_uXh308DSyI6-qkRQovH7rLwLU8vBEnUjjJ5lE/s400/YIMG_4012.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122258361784547682" /></a><CENTER>Phare des Baleines, Ile de Ré</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha-gRhkj5FImTIx3bzObZT27NF_y2xuj378xvnDcLrKjs_j43EM8w2-5hQkIaEg006HiUU0ClcFGPJ2L9bmkv-4luiYTEkUNQV7aKbP8jDseHWagcqxmGEompMgjIfZb19tk1qSUOuCiI/s1280-h/YIMG_3994.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha-gRhkj5FImTIx3bzObZT27NF_y2xuj378xvnDcLrKjs_j43EM8w2-5hQkIaEg006HiUU0ClcFGPJ2L9bmkv-4luiYTEkUNQV7aKbP8jDseHWagcqxmGEompMgjIfZb19tk1qSUOuCiI/s400/YIMG_3994.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122258370374482290" /></a><CENTER>Village street, Loix, Ile de Ré</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf-gCd7y2gHdinMySvHFbDLjdThvSEZrsjbvhDurA-0JbocyQaAlasm4IIZ3rtgdzfIpVSttWOkQ0Rk2GW-7gb2dFvxpWMyapV8FTy6H-nvfyOu90W37A-suQ03wUVLdI_v6mgMrG7nLw/s1280-h/YIMG_3998.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf-gCd7y2gHdinMySvHFbDLjdThvSEZrsjbvhDurA-0JbocyQaAlasm4IIZ3rtgdzfIpVSttWOkQ0Rk2GW-7gb2dFvxpWMyapV8FTy6H-nvfyOu90W37A-suQ03wUVLdI_v6mgMrG7nLw/s400/YIMG_3998.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122258374669449602" /></a><CENTER>Port at Loix, Ile de Ré</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_QxFV2cOXuusR1j5q34-9BvVuOoJmW4KiP5rSREoccPAQz4HNofiO2EAF01nfhBn2HFgINLmeVtkiK71TTCdMPpfT7txBC2mBREGn9zH9WGFWsomJWqqiiMTPrqnSjha0_JiBRvZDGVs/s1280-h/YIMG_3995.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_QxFV2cOXuusR1j5q34-9BvVuOoJmW4KiP5rSREoccPAQz4HNofiO2EAF01nfhBn2HFgINLmeVtkiK71TTCdMPpfT7txBC2mBREGn9zH9WGFWsomJWqqiiMTPrqnSjha0_JiBRvZDGVs/s400/YIMG_3995.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122258860000754066" /></a><CENTER>Marshes near Loix, Ile de Ré</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggBQjYf8kuGDjDJp8R0dX9_Eh4B4TWYHwopgny7Ei3mXG4nv3k9lHXOCtg9x0wVaugbVr13If-86oGZ3-o_tkMWdTGB4hThNXqehC8bmCSpUCEpNA_K0R1rIjoQiOiHhJmNt0_jCIK47U/s1280-h/YIMG_4003.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggBQjYf8kuGDjDJp8R0dX9_Eh4B4TWYHwopgny7Ei3mXG4nv3k9lHXOCtg9x0wVaugbVr13If-86oGZ3-o_tkMWdTGB4hThNXqehC8bmCSpUCEpNA_K0R1rIjoQiOiHhJmNt0_jCIK47U/s400/YIMG_4003.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122258864295721378" /></a><CENTER>Egret fishing on the Ile de Ré</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHalObe0nBeKrC35keF_pxxOn-7xBaGGOCNh-LQNr6UQxNcbO4MFIVNyR08MgTbN5hyZ3I9YdZMz23UBCZrIDolKpjHCTsVpq-Y7XN1QKzjAhLOpO9gX8-w5qwtdoSfnG3rbG0Jg-moHI/s1280-h/YIMG_4006.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHalObe0nBeKrC35keF_pxxOn-7xBaGGOCNh-LQNr6UQxNcbO4MFIVNyR08MgTbN5hyZ3I9YdZMz23UBCZrIDolKpjHCTsVpq-Y7XN1QKzjAhLOpO9gX8-w5qwtdoSfnG3rbG0Jg-moHI/s400/YIMG_4006.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122258872885655986" /></a><CENTER>Piles of salt raked from the evaporation beds, Ile de Ré</CENTER><br />During the afternoon we left Modestine and rode our bikes out across the marshland on tiny, narrow cycle routes that wound between the dykes, sluices and salt pans. Around us was the pungent smell of salt, seaweed and drying mud. There was total silence except for the occasional cry of a gull. The area is a haven for wild flowers and plants, most of which are unknown to us. However, the predominant plant was salsify, or salicorne as it is known here. (Is this the same as samphire?) This is a short, green, succulent plant of tiny fleshy fingers tasting salty and sharp. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipCATwpvzGBqflLxIJDxPHamo_0EkCO5u_eKFKwskm4c7AY7yxRpV_0Jeysc_SeHoOmppyjaHtDysbZNlzJqkrDqg_OqQgqm5B1Kv3JiuIJ_Ku684ZMDBWOGvOwF6Rr0AFtbD5fdFfPVw/s1280-h/YIMG_4015.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipCATwpvzGBqflLxIJDxPHamo_0EkCO5u_eKFKwskm4c7AY7yxRpV_0Jeysc_SeHoOmppyjaHtDysbZNlzJqkrDqg_OqQgqm5B1Kv3JiuIJ_Ku684ZMDBWOGvOwF6Rr0AFtbD5fdFfPVw/s400/YIMG_4015.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122258881475590594" /></a><CENTER>Beside the cycle route through the mudflats, Ile de Ré</CENTER><br />We also found time to walk along the coastal footpath where we watched the tiny fishing boats bobbing off shore and the flat bottomed craft used for tending the oyster beds. The light along the coast seems unusually bright. There is so much sea and sky with the flat marshes stretching away into the distance where the light house and several church spires tower above the single storey whitewashed villages.<br /><br />We had been told of a place where camping cars could stay overnight, complete with sanitary facilities. Unfortunately they do not seem to have ever been cleaned. It was quite impossible to stay there and it is illegal to park off-site on the island overnight. Almost all the campsites are now closed for the season but eventually, at Loix, we discovered one still open. There are only four vehicles staying here. It is clean and friendly and only half the price of the one we left this morning. Campsites are a complete lottery. Price is no guide at all to quality.Jill, Ian and Modestinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122859105828936321noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2492360799248419503.post-47181177593759877352007-10-11T09:50:00.000+01:002008-12-08T22:05:16.580+00:00Villeneuve and Bergerac<B>Wednesday 3rd October 2007, Bergerac, Dordogne</B><br />Tonight we find ourselves camping on the banks of the Dordogne, just a short walk from the old town centre of Bergerac, famed not only for its wine, but for the fictitious character Cyrano de Bergerac. His story is a tragic one of unrequited love. He wrote beautiful poems to the woman he truly loved, sent to her on behalf of someone else, convinced that she could never love him for himself. He suffered an inferiority complex, convinced he was ugly because of his oversized nose. A couple of statues to him are to be found around the town. Bergerac is a very pretty, quaint little town with paved streets of half-timbered houses with brick infill. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8o6cw_yVCGWjTDkyTF78OL3lUiH8nBm15chEMSWYn5JFOCBYR8ALLRHQtpaZRfpqbE0cM9CfcW7aAGnkYkgqv3Da5_SElq4FHYxm_bgbPFsV_XQH0ZowjBScp1-8app2x3haE4mxJ9Ws/s1280-h/YIMG_3921.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8o6cw_yVCGWjTDkyTF78OL3lUiH8nBm15chEMSWYn5JFOCBYR8ALLRHQtpaZRfpqbE0cM9CfcW7aAGnkYkgqv3Da5_SElq4FHYxm_bgbPFsV_XQH0ZowjBScp1-8app2x3haE4mxJ9Ws/s400/YIMG_3921.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119999939131291042" /></a><CENTER>Bergerac seen across the Dordogne</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghOV2f82u0fgfbB8VphHsiuj2W465u9nhoZxn2GMWlCQe_E4x6Xh9kdDYt83FtGQDrBh_3hpcptX1RJq53W2K8nqsmCcqf346wiCyGDSfe5qeHL81VG2hE2BTNAp0HzkP0aP5Kqe_yoUs/s1280-h/YIMG_3922.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghOV2f82u0fgfbB8VphHsiuj2W465u9nhoZxn2GMWlCQe_E4x6Xh9kdDYt83FtGQDrBh_3hpcptX1RJq53W2K8nqsmCcqf346wiCyGDSfe5qeHL81VG2hE2BTNAp0HzkP0aP5Kqe_yoUs/s400/YIMG_3922.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119999947721225650" /></a><CENTER>Half-timbered houses in Bergerac</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij2krm1AUOg9PmxIqyjEXOvuRX2qG6amN4lo9omtvib8c1KDsaozyuxwe-KRqQI7RKDMtY16Gc7SBFmVcbmhErE7GtDooGkPH-TsVH012jafl_bw7jdpfDqEsR5e2vDcj-cXzE8MTU_a4/s1280-h/YIMG_3923.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij2krm1AUOg9PmxIqyjEXOvuRX2qG6amN4lo9omtvib8c1KDsaozyuxwe-KRqQI7RKDMtY16Gc7SBFmVcbmhErE7GtDooGkPH-TsVH012jafl_bw7jdpfDqEsR5e2vDcj-cXzE8MTU_a4/s400/YIMG_3923.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119999960606127554" /></a><CENTER>Typical street of 16th century buildings in Bergerac</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhStRnbzHfGWCrrOwOggY9UOOcrcxaN99QMFZBm5UGaQ40jGKqPWUuNU78SKBa_4QiRDcullbj2bxgHaqkOvpxwCh_Fs7uHprJRM9CFQweyQ-gzpqByPVQaxq3ihn8Dp59-gj0Mmb0KZZw/s1280-h/YIMG_3925.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhStRnbzHfGWCrrOwOggY9UOOcrcxaN99QMFZBm5UGaQ40jGKqPWUuNU78SKBa_4QiRDcullbj2bxgHaqkOvpxwCh_Fs7uHprJRM9CFQweyQ-gzpqByPVQaxq3ihn8Dp59-gj0Mmb0KZZw/s400/YIMG_3925.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119999964901094866" /></a><CENTER>Cyrano de Bergerac</CENTER><br />Over the past few days we have been rather pre-occupied. Before leaving Cahors we drove along beside the river Lot to discover Pont Valentré, the beautiful mediaeval bridge with its perfect reflection mirrored in the still waters. This view, rather than anything to be seen in the town is what makes Cahors special and justifies a visit. Nearby can be found the Fontaine des Charteux. The waters flow from a resurgence in the cliff face and have been used since Roman times to supply the town.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEknKknOTrkjQEmha6ckL39qwXuz5H5uLpyzc-VaR6N725gfB5u-nWTtI1R45TEMojaFhW1hBeFLb50oyCh7Z67NOpXHEZf0wdCAyeT1yms4dNhKBRJ7Hg6HEXbFXn6aKTxAlVckQJQ2U/s1280-h/YIMG_3834.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEknKknOTrkjQEmha6ckL39qwXuz5H5uLpyzc-VaR6N725gfB5u-nWTtI1R45TEMojaFhW1hBeFLb50oyCh7Z67NOpXHEZf0wdCAyeT1yms4dNhKBRJ7Hg6HEXbFXn6aKTxAlVckQJQ2U/s400/YIMG_3834.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119999969196062178" /></a><CENTER>Pont Valentré reflected in the river Lot at Cahors</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXppMIZRsuVfMoa3ODtZlCABsBBYJR4oaJPK00LYtHAoM0EvNkE54lOd5PzA5juwc6IpIIfzgMwaHbsHG-wK_hwBVDNOvW7B7W9C1OnZ1ttzPXvOubBoJjf8U5MgxpVsgel6rdH3yQwc/s1280-h/YIMG_3835.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXppMIZRsuVfMoa3ODtZlCABsBBYJR4oaJPK00LYtHAoM0EvNkE54lOd5PzA5juwc6IpIIfzgMwaHbsHG-wK_hwBVDNOvW7B7W9C1OnZ1ttzPXvOubBoJjf8U5MgxpVsgel6rdH3yQwc/s400/YIMG_3835.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120000458822333938" /></a><CENTER>Pont Valentré with autumn colours, Cahors</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO9HIJ9WBxIoaGIZRFN921vmhCm8caS7ES0oK7nDhPgfgIo3N-RP823gC4ITmWhK-5oMCC_hD2MecJOlHl7lQcw1EhSO0ZVqHfo_F3KmbNNmtTGUbDVHtvhAITEMfHmvL34kGiMVPqiIM/s1280-h/YIMG_3837.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO9HIJ9WBxIoaGIZRFN921vmhCm8caS7ES0oK7nDhPgfgIo3N-RP823gC4ITmWhK-5oMCC_hD2MecJOlHl7lQcw1EhSO0ZVqHfo_F3KmbNNmtTGUbDVHtvhAITEMfHmvL34kGiMVPqiIM/s400/YIMG_3837.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120000467412268546" /></a><CENTER>Sorry, but we cannot resist it! Pont Valentré on the river Lot at Cahors</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7PLF5vNRuEpuQAwGvi1MfVk1iqi4T-48lukPhuwDJjRv-t1a4XdkDpawySI6VJIhy6HGa4knyC8EskAZD-JRP8kxGotkiFBpy_zKlN4YpMXbbbGsE9f-D_y-VWcYbRNq_TdUBqRPC_yU/s1280-h/YIMG_3838.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7PLF5vNRuEpuQAwGvi1MfVk1iqi4T-48lukPhuwDJjRv-t1a4XdkDpawySI6VJIhy6HGa4knyC8EskAZD-JRP8kxGotkiFBpy_zKlN4YpMXbbbGsE9f-D_y-VWcYbRNq_TdUBqRPC_yU/s400/YIMG_3838.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120000476002203154" /></a><CENTER>Fontaine des Charteux, Cahors</CENTER><br />Our route continued down beside the twisting river Lot passing through the little town of Albas where we drove up through the vines for a hilltop picnic offering a wonderful vista down onto the river. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbcaU4aMKnUYLrW5fGCKjznuT_1vxwn0aiDPiYD7BK6BvMkyJLVGqJxDf2xv5L39kerciwGkPQ-bfUWYVRs8-wgRiE36VP3u8-YKIu1lHXmyrqpypVN0K1Y8QoYjyCCwlNJiVp2Sb_i0/s1280-h/YIMG_3840.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbcaU4aMKnUYLrW5fGCKjznuT_1vxwn0aiDPiYD7BK6BvMkyJLVGqJxDf2xv5L39kerciwGkPQ-bfUWYVRs8-wgRiE36VP3u8-YKIu1lHXmyrqpypVN0K1Y8QoYjyCCwlNJiVp2Sb_i0/s400/YIMG_3840.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120000484592137762" /></a><CENTER>Albas</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEwiAMXw4Zp6OqkPeMvwQZJkLh96RntbYpddUD6l3jOKT9psoapEwc7zbYP4BbrY3HZFovNCgLfs28uo4dz8PauvFdVDCHU8Nv3TxdbQLrxn6xNHVoL41I3oz0YTUK2am9QEs-Ykg_wk/s1280-h/YIMG_3842.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEwiAMXw4Zp6OqkPeMvwQZJkLh96RntbYpddUD6l3jOKT9psoapEwc7zbYP4BbrY3HZFovNCgLfs28uo4dz8PauvFdVDCHU8Nv3TxdbQLrxn6xNHVoL41I3oz0YTUK2am9QEs-Ykg_wk/s400/YIMG_3842.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120000497477039666" /></a><CENTER>Grapes ready for harvesting near Albas</CENTER><br />In Albi Ian had discovered another manhole cover for his collection, cast at the foundry at Fumel. By chance our onward route took us through the town, quite pleasant in itself, but it was not the pretty château Ian sought, but the very ugly foundry, still just about active, straggling along beside the river.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw67B9A5Iy9XKaa2tc0CVo1W3eGvZ4cxJd-vTt2LgQfrZ3DChxzSaA0fThx6Dw1U1mP7I9VIIQ6L0sWtBAgELUiT-31xrRkRR_Us4dV_Ztqc3h9u6X9KiboSCiTNWdB7bOaQTWo-_QRFM/s1280-h/YIMG_3843.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw67B9A5Iy9XKaa2tc0CVo1W3eGvZ4cxJd-vTt2LgQfrZ3DChxzSaA0fThx6Dw1U1mP7I9VIIQ6L0sWtBAgELUiT-31xrRkRR_Us4dV_Ztqc3h9u6X9KiboSCiTNWdB7bOaQTWo-_QRFM/s400/YIMG_3843.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120001111657363010" /></a><CENTER>Iron foundry, Fumel, on the banks of the Lot</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgINEJuToRqKy8E0ofuEFXf_CShEKLS-Q1uTIA3zpwzWiWASvWgPXW3THqRoc9mn4EgMt04hmF9WdPkFvrkhsIdplLm5WMUrH8QBDwYYHUeXNj7axMSZhtTgWn4kRht8JIUdQGxFkbv5v4/s1280-h/YIMG_3846.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgINEJuToRqKy8E0ofuEFXf_CShEKLS-Q1uTIA3zpwzWiWASvWgPXW3THqRoc9mn4EgMt04hmF9WdPkFvrkhsIdplLm5WMUrH8QBDwYYHUeXNj7axMSZhtTgWn4kRht8JIUdQGxFkbv5v4/s400/YIMG_3846.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120001124542264914" /></a><CENTER>Château at Fumel used as the mairie and for council offices</CENTER><br />We had been invited to visit our friends Yves and Cathérine, whom we first met in Sri Lanka four years ago at Neil and Jeev's wedding. Since then we have already visited them at their house in Bordeaux, but now we had arranged to meet at the family château near Villeneuve-sur-Lot to spend a couple of days together while they showed us around the local area. They arrived from Bordeaux shortly before us and immediately set about throwing open all the doors and windows of the château to warm it up. Outside the day had been really hot and sticky, but inside the thick stone walls it was very chilly. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNUyhsOHcr4VQx02TOtaqW3wbdP88AN1XEW_wLFkNflPBHDzS2SH4RwqnqgsajdAB1JJBN33SeRSxnhhJMgQ3lb1e-EpGAkvWGThFEiOeBS1bv-e7E5JvD_2UP1tRSt6yKnDdea5ocih8/s1280-h/YIMG_3859.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNUyhsOHcr4VQx02TOtaqW3wbdP88AN1XEW_wLFkNflPBHDzS2SH4RwqnqgsajdAB1JJBN33SeRSxnhhJMgQ3lb1e-EpGAkvWGThFEiOeBS1bv-e7E5JvD_2UP1tRSt6yKnDdea5ocih8/s400/YIMG_3859.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120001133132199522" /></a><CENTER>Family château seen from the garden</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOZhcv9elncDlpL_aOCyOMxkLHDx2paVFtTDgRLzqDoQnmIoMcq__UxSJ4uqlQ0RfN_vs4Ka_P0LJAMcTqmRa6subSidtExJW9Zi711Cn8VGXKgMTyGPN65QNEKXnYv0WJi_5eHhL_hJQ/s1280-h/YIMG_3860.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOZhcv9elncDlpL_aOCyOMxkLHDx2paVFtTDgRLzqDoQnmIoMcq__UxSJ4uqlQ0RfN_vs4Ka_P0LJAMcTqmRa6subSidtExJW9Zi711Cn8VGXKgMTyGPN65QNEKXnYv0WJi_5eHhL_hJQ/s400/YIMG_3860.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120001137427166834" /></a><CENTER>Family château seen from the garden</CENTER><br />The château has been continuously in Cathérine 's family since 1802 when her ancestors purchased it after the Revolution. Napoléon apparently sold off the property of the French nobles who either did not return from abroad, or where the entire line had been guillotined. In recent years the property has been used as a holiday home and is inhabited only during the summer months as it would be quite impossible to heat it during the winter. There are 15 bedrooms in various states of repair as well as a huge area in the roof and a circular tower filled with generations of jumble. This includes Cathérine's grandmother's pram, children's toys, old bicycles and a cornucopia of other objects. The roof beams are made from entire tree trunks and at the top of the tower are the remains of the pigeon loft, a source of fresh meat in earlier centuries.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJuSyz_hCqC7A0akI1xr-DdAS8cS43xvZYs52BR_zJJKdpEEYGDKTyCxWq3I9r5v3aGQGLiIJegob65-RsOfEab4mEYekbKwq6EyNJG6NTW4myn4kGkV5_2EnxxPY3TSQyS8q8juOpDg/s1280-h/YIMG_3850.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJuSyz_hCqC7A0akI1xr-DdAS8cS43xvZYs52BR_zJJKdpEEYGDKTyCxWq3I9r5v3aGQGLiIJegob65-RsOfEab4mEYekbKwq6EyNJG6NTW4myn4kGkV5_2EnxxPY3TSQyS8q8juOpDg/s400/YIMG_3850.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120001146017101442" /></a><CENTER>Family jumble in the attic</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDLdIu8fMi3SROF5sg4upQQb8WUJsAjS-wvzoi67fYUdlTfNicXmmScv9vBtwgMGljo6wRL5bN2Bj0N2c3hOt9_9uVHa3xhZXxsECUUCYxURaS_x43lQOndy8gL9oJNEJNWSLQzmm4zk/s1280-h/YIMG_3851.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDLdIu8fMi3SROF5sg4upQQb8WUJsAjS-wvzoi67fYUdlTfNicXmmScv9vBtwgMGljo6wRL5bN2Bj0N2c3hOt9_9uVHa3xhZXxsECUUCYxURaS_x43lQOndy8gL9oJNEJNWSLQzmm4zk/s400/YIMG_3851.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120001700067882642" /></a><CENTER>Old bikes and a 19th century device for warming beds</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJBz8iIsGQQ7nOaHH292WSKwjYvsJwL286sJRw11xXOZQiWOcBiisbZMoA1O8C40J8AIc3x2kh3EZFpGxGP38jgmvLnfdkj8xIB6ejU-8sXTdKr-RNfCwQpB6wvfKW-x3rsbdkRtBbyYY/s1280-h/YIMG_3849.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJBz8iIsGQQ7nOaHH292WSKwjYvsJwL286sJRw11xXOZQiWOcBiisbZMoA1O8C40J8AIc3x2kh3EZFpGxGP38jgmvLnfdkj8xIB6ejU-8sXTdKr-RNfCwQpB6wvfKW-x3rsbdkRtBbyYY/s400/YIMG_3849.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120001704362849954" /></a><CENTER>Pigeon loft in the tower</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm6BI6_gmq0MBBpQUdPj8xlfWOYDAUPaIo3fwJEIO_0g5FDT5N0fBaGK-KTlG9cpzRHDnAnI5aG5fc4GcKgxJEoTWv0myzfJdlixkL3cN3LnVAqsZzRxe-F_9EZui5_Ztrltgk2xlMElc/s1280-h/YIMG_3852.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm6BI6_gmq0MBBpQUdPj8xlfWOYDAUPaIo3fwJEIO_0g5FDT5N0fBaGK-KTlG9cpzRHDnAnI5aG5fc4GcKgxJEoTWv0myzfJdlixkL3cN3LnVAqsZzRxe-F_9EZui5_Ztrltgk2xlMElc/s400/YIMG_3852.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120001712952784562" /></a><CENTER>Original roof timbers</CENTER><br />Although in Cathérine's family only since the Revolution, the castle dates mainly from the 17th century, while the base of the tower has existed since Mediaeval times. Maybe the property was purchased already furnished as some of the contents seem much older than the 200 years it has been in the family. <br /><br />Yves and Cathérine showed us around, starting with the grounds. Much of the land has been sold but the lawns and a small woodland remain. In the 19th century a private zoo had been established in the garden. The owner brought back animals from his travels and let them roam freely around the grounds. He also planted a few bamboo shoots to add atmosphere. Today it has overtaken the woodland and forms a total jungle through which a narrow path has been hacked by the present family.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnAi0taWFbRp4f_14WNNKu7uLBOJTUlHSb4GTjKkBb3aGH5EY6a7gGiFrVp0T9RZ6zyGOuqyFND8q42YJb-6vSvbs9C_TlP5zf6Y4eiNe5YbSD7TqPT1I7YMhZvqervMCJ4AGa7lBAeP8/s1280-h/YIMG_3858.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnAi0taWFbRp4f_14WNNKu7uLBOJTUlHSb4GTjKkBb3aGH5EY6a7gGiFrVp0T9RZ6zyGOuqyFND8q42YJb-6vSvbs9C_TlP5zf6Y4eiNe5YbSD7TqPT1I7YMhZvqervMCJ4AGa7lBAeP8/s400/YIMG_3858.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120001721542719170" /></a><CENTER>Part of the garden</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtVcp3J4C8-AnsJ8g1V8UmLlM7QiqbTW4C7o7cfIlLi7aOaMgdmWL6IbFi3DA4zIr01kAGGktdY-tjwr4e9LRu4mfcwoy0JWJfTLiSc3D7TpIVZnaG4MIQrcj-JjjaRAlXD5VYH19dRcQ/s1280-h/YIMG_3848.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtVcp3J4C8-AnsJ8g1V8UmLlM7QiqbTW4C7o7cfIlLi7aOaMgdmWL6IbFi3DA4zIr01kAGGktdY-tjwr4e9LRu4mfcwoy0JWJfTLiSc3D7TpIVZnaG4MIQrcj-JjjaRAlXD5VYH19dRcQ/s400/YIMG_3848.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120001730132653778" /></a><CENTER>Bamboo forest in the garden</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5M473eSzI-I78bLq8xzDO2dFwLYL8-Kg3kokHDvQYVRYzHF-yVRyC1eCFCQmMdKClZv2pogE_UzC0DZcgkL4N3rHWl63-lJbYT0rY05VckzUpb7wfwEjIbw-XhNCWwh5DKyGoS8cMiA/s1280-h/YIMG_3883.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5M473eSzI-I78bLq8xzDO2dFwLYL8-Kg3kokHDvQYVRYzHF-yVRyC1eCFCQmMdKClZv2pogE_UzC0DZcgkL4N3rHWl63-lJbYT0rY05VckzUpb7wfwEjIbw-XhNCWwh5DKyGoS8cMiA/s400/YIMG_3883.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120002318543173346" /></a><CENTER>Front door</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf1EcekcA31aECXkcGsCRPXAs1TaF2sEqBFZhT4XefVM334_E_V-zZXCL-dpoov9aXs0R8bsdBaIh77c775SxslXs8daqA5cGYgnvbd_kIYXh9REsIY_tugyeka9bFRreEfZ6U5g7S7t4/s1280-h/YIMG_3882.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf1EcekcA31aECXkcGsCRPXAs1TaF2sEqBFZhT4XefVM334_E_V-zZXCL-dpoov9aXs0R8bsdBaIh77c775SxslXs8daqA5cGYgnvbd_kIYXh9REsIY_tugyeka9bFRreEfZ6U5g7S7t4/s400/YIMG_3882.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120002327133107954" /></a><CENTER>Entrance hall</CENTER><br />We were given a couple of rooms on the ground floor which included a four-poster bed! It was like spending the night in a museum where we were at liberty to use all the exhibits! Rugs, fabrics, furniture, paintings, prints, books and ornaments were all original. There were bronzes, oil paintings and chandeliers. The tall windows had heavy shutters and the wide wooden floorboards were covered with ancient, faded rugs. We also had a modern bathroom, but other bedrooms had beautiful china jugs and bowls on marble wash stands. For Ian though, the best room was the library. Many of the books were as old as the house with bindings that were sometimes in a sorry state of repair. There were long runs of Paris Match filled with old black and white photos. The lighting made it impossible to see clearly what was there and it is doubtful whether anyone actually knows. It is just what has accumulated since the property has been occupied.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolc_wY6t9gfCD47OZto37mMqCP4pbJvCiX7NuhX_3eaEJ-371vdo_gmkPOTv6ztnBU-G_BwxIlh8N98jOaEv2AjrjaYmJfHz4kXnnNXUgInfRI1C5X1z1uM0huMEVpxnZm5wnPGLIbgA/s1280-h/YIMG_3855.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolc_wY6t9gfCD47OZto37mMqCP4pbJvCiX7NuhX_3eaEJ-371vdo_gmkPOTv6ztnBU-G_BwxIlh8N98jOaEv2AjrjaYmJfHz4kXnnNXUgInfRI1C5X1z1uM0huMEVpxnZm5wnPGLIbgA/s400/YIMG_3855.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120002335723042562" /></a><CENTER>Part of our bedroom suite</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf-88Ua3ssbOY_dYSnLvBqloLHJTbZ2ZRDj37NfFcbbLBdBA7QXrJZ0Z7KpGPxmvK8PLtMz0Kdr-9zEizyCjJuWYm0ySC_YISSklUVnNTFwoI6kj0l3BhnNkSe4SZKvbKUD3ux6bcZ27k/s1280-h/YIMG_3909.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf-88Ua3ssbOY_dYSnLvBqloLHJTbZ2ZRDj37NfFcbbLBdBA7QXrJZ0Z7KpGPxmvK8PLtMz0Kdr-9zEizyCjJuWYm0ySC_YISSklUVnNTFwoI6kj0l3BhnNkSe4SZKvbKUD3ux6bcZ27k/s400/YIMG_3909.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120002348607944466" /></a><CENTER>The library and the remains of one of the inhabitants of the zoo!</CENTER><br />In the huge old kitchen there is a large stone fireplace with a couple of fire irons to support whole logs. If there is a need to be at the château in the winter it is here that people gather. The rooms have fire places but there is no central heating. Cathérine set about preparing supper while Yves opened a bottle of Champagne to celebrate us all being together again. Between us we set the table in the garden near the bamboo jungle beneath tiny lights strung through the trees. Meanwhile the owls were hooting, unseen somewhere in the gathering darkness. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnEXWyK3W6kGAG15sBioqm_dZhPQpiH1yKGLUPOuWN6_q2aQTd73gvcaONAAM6ySaAIer_EvUABTFwMnxaXUm96ws3mVZr2AKMFyHBGXlREw6qqiy1KIfbcvvTS1fFF1ZOC_rPmAYY708/s1280-h/YIMG_3863.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnEXWyK3W6kGAG15sBioqm_dZhPQpiH1yKGLUPOuWN6_q2aQTd73gvcaONAAM6ySaAIer_EvUABTFwMnxaXUm96ws3mVZr2AKMFyHBGXlREw6qqiy1KIfbcvvTS1fFF1ZOC_rPmAYY708/s400/YIMG_3863.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120002352902911778" /></a><CENTER>Kitchen</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlfJV-B5HrV89Eisd-cyill5fSEn77tmR2OtY0gY4tiwgr8ijQinmSpAwvOoJ11quxaxcNIPwrtReAkmaLDAI6zOMgz956Kgnp4fA8IBmr2gPzFP1IkGralGCdFbXBI2M22IFsZdoIM8k/s1280-h/YIMG_3857.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlfJV-B5HrV89Eisd-cyill5fSEn77tmR2OtY0gY4tiwgr8ijQinmSpAwvOoJ11quxaxcNIPwrtReAkmaLDAI6zOMgz956Kgnp4fA8IBmr2gPzFP1IkGralGCdFbXBI2M22IFsZdoIM8k/s400/YIMG_3857.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120003001442973490" /></a><CENTER>Breakfast room</CENTER><br />As we started supper there were rumbles of thunder and the garden was lit by a couple of lightening flashes. A few minutes later, our meal continued around the kitchen table as the rain poured down.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipl5BM5JGjFrYIH9JaqqRxO4k8I5buqCuQx9hNqJXxw9IdCgY0X3RGPLvsNEQ0712DldwGMzpAMOzK-aUYOVWl_pyF4QDStVzA5wv2NyCfCpGXg_YcYmXg3ORM4U45cdsMa0yq2fDfPQs/s1280-h/YIMG_3856.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipl5BM5JGjFrYIH9JaqqRxO4k8I5buqCuQx9hNqJXxw9IdCgY0X3RGPLvsNEQ0712DldwGMzpAMOzK-aUYOVWl_pyF4QDStVzA5wv2NyCfCpGXg_YcYmXg3ORM4U45cdsMa0yq2fDfPQs/s400/YIMG_3856.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120003010032908098" /></a><CENTER>Yves, Catherine and Jill toasting our reunion with champagne in the garden</CENTER><br />Despite our rather surreal surroundings we slept well and after a leisurely breakfast next day we all drove into Villeneuve for a guided tour of the town. This is the area of Bastide towns, set up over a period of 150 years during the 13-14th centuries. In principle they are similar, being built on a grid system surrounding a central square where the market was held and business carried out. Just off from this can be found the church, and the streets lead away from the square at right-angles, crossed by small streets. Frequently they are built on hilltops or are protected by strong walls or the bend of a river. Perhaps 500 such towns were built in South West France over a 150 year period of perpetual fighting between France and England. At that time England owned much of the land including Aquitaine.<br /><br />Villeneuve lies on the Lot. We found it a very pleasant place. Today of course it has spread out across the plain but the basic mediaeval town lies at its centre. The church though, is early 20th century and built in red brick, a traditional building material of the area as seen in Toulouse and Albi. Further west, towards Bordeaux, brick gives way to stone. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij5IgW4zEzapj803ZaBdUdboa2OG3mX3cVgueP3ifpmmR_UaUSNa5CVu4Wly8BucKwAzwQD4aHVqdQG4_WrMj-aZMnQXxtlxy_o_atHzXNQbIroSM1J_MnLvys8d8tdxxw7vkXs1RdpWk/s1280-h/YIMG_3872.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij5IgW4zEzapj803ZaBdUdboa2OG3mX3cVgueP3ifpmmR_UaUSNa5CVu4Wly8BucKwAzwQD4aHVqdQG4_WrMj-aZMnQXxtlxy_o_atHzXNQbIroSM1J_MnLvys8d8tdxxw7vkXs1RdpWk/s400/YIMG_3872.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120003014327875410" /></a><CENTER>Market square, Villeneuve-sur-Lot</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM9rEgTe3FMPLqbZ3nbn564GPOSb9mOJzptxW4REpfi3VhOzjFpLJJdsX6_StRaWUn_XR7Rq2cLgPnRLyb2q5RH17MbyJoX1ifC0RpgoE_9ZKK-J_qdPlgJ6iNLEM8Mm82A31lL_mMi2s/s1280-h/YIMG_3876.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM9rEgTe3FMPLqbZ3nbn564GPOSb9mOJzptxW4REpfi3VhOzjFpLJJdsX6_StRaWUn_XR7Rq2cLgPnRLyb2q5RH17MbyJoX1ifC0RpgoE_9ZKK-J_qdPlgJ6iNLEM8Mm82A31lL_mMi2s/s400/YIMG_3876.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120003018622842722" /></a><CENTER>Villeneuve seen from the river Lot</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA9tgW3UgRYQfW5neiPF44Z-DjmQNuNdT-WkVz2xdFWqQ8z3lBjiBIkJgzfRBM4p6OXJCo0GkUbFuCVcvn6DUh4QvVj-aW8dvg4rbBUiDBWFI6F4hMt6ScG2BHTvAOrZ-2kCqw5DPqHhg/s1280-h/YIMG_3877.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA9tgW3UgRYQfW5neiPF44Z-DjmQNuNdT-WkVz2xdFWqQ8z3lBjiBIkJgzfRBM4p6OXJCo0GkUbFuCVcvn6DUh4QvVj-aW8dvg4rbBUiDBWFI6F4hMt6ScG2BHTvAOrZ-2kCqw5DPqHhg/s400/YIMG_3877.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120003022917810034" /></a><CENTER>Cathérine in the Rue Parmentier, Villeneuve. (Parmentier introduced the potato into France)</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7h-Lm_zhLmHVUJHzINaJyIr4__uhtSsQPZlF0Hc3VGArmyKw_5a3FbsMVq0sATv1WEcVWa-kso7RwPb2hVc1oG0donISiUSAUnnzXmZZMJwaNeyvyk540C-zcOcQjGhyGrKFzYqg3rj4/s1280-h/YIMG_3866.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7h-Lm_zhLmHVUJHzINaJyIr4__uhtSsQPZlF0Hc3VGArmyKw_5a3FbsMVq0sATv1WEcVWa-kso7RwPb2hVc1oG0donISiUSAUnnzXmZZMJwaNeyvyk540C-zcOcQjGhyGrKFzYqg3rj4/s400/YIMG_3866.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120003937745844098" /></a><CENTER>20th century brick church, Villeneuve</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYU0GOMgWGHJjNk8mSG1X1qzeohROF5umlr7xWYywdbz_osMWqTUmTVA-XY7NUBgQxg4T9IqeejARMVCTs2lex20XdAHh70jKUd2jaMwm30tWrlkmzkd9uBkiyPo_UE9FE4wwlfT_KOMA/s1280-h/YIMG_3871.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYU0GOMgWGHJjNk8mSG1X1qzeohROF5umlr7xWYywdbz_osMWqTUmTVA-XY7NUBgQxg4T9IqeejARMVCTs2lex20XdAHh70jKUd2jaMwm30tWrlkmzkd9uBkiyPo_UE9FE4wwlfT_KOMA/s400/YIMG_3871.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120003942040811410" /></a><CENTER>Baptismal font, Villeneuve</CENTER><br />After lunch Yves decided we should visit the château-fort at Bonaguil, started in the 13th century and completed in the 15th. It stands on a rocky promontory surrounded by woodland. We had an excellent guide who spoke very clearly so our French vocabulary is now enriched with several terms for mediaeval weaponry and architecture! We climbed towers, descended into dungeons, crawled along underground water courses, squeezed between walls and peered over high battlements.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpubRDGEshEaRjllHm97y-hSHbEh-t-VGqzO7wzzyYWvV72gdli7elOjyQg9qbpIi9uL0j4zo2Fs_kWFdfn22Q_WtcIGSJo8ge1N7aOytuKf0L44KvilHXRBPTFL9J2OyrgknZNBCzRLs/s1280-h/YIMG_3884.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpubRDGEshEaRjllHm97y-hSHbEh-t-VGqzO7wzzyYWvV72gdli7elOjyQg9qbpIi9uL0j4zo2Fs_kWFdfn22Q_WtcIGSJo8ge1N7aOytuKf0L44KvilHXRBPTFL9J2OyrgknZNBCzRLs/s400/YIMG_3884.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120003946335778722" /></a><CENTER> Entrance to the donjon, château-fort at Bonaguil </CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPtub28abeMXp1gnnLmgRj06xXntL4SsapCOO-sMGQoH6ilu1bHfU6nMeVLaMPQEoii825EFL2Azc7dWlREPeZ4PfVGDhz78jxkSQKD_LEpb4YS6dsz4fETvZcnPtEZQifWgSP2Lt-2C8/s1280-h/YIMG_3900.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPtub28abeMXp1gnnLmgRj06xXntL4SsapCOO-sMGQoH6ilu1bHfU6nMeVLaMPQEoii825EFL2Azc7dWlREPeZ4PfVGDhz78jxkSQKD_LEpb4YS6dsz4fETvZcnPtEZQifWgSP2Lt-2C8/s400/YIMG_3900.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120003959220680626" /></a><CENTER> Château-fort at Bonaguil </CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcczharcbIyOAGgRsWgaf0pCcHs0rIkp3Md6MZrHME_IfMHGXFZndF5xVvdrhec8GqFoiZXj2NX6vDct1FigUq0Ycagg1hx5yd-v59nLoNwepzTJj05a7v1rtTzrW3G1jEJTNDJVSA_4A/s1280-h/YIMG_3892.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcczharcbIyOAGgRsWgaf0pCcHs0rIkp3Md6MZrHME_IfMHGXFZndF5xVvdrhec8GqFoiZXj2NX6vDct1FigUq0Ycagg1hx5yd-v59nLoNwepzTJj05a7v1rtTzrW3G1jEJTNDJVSA_4A/s400/YIMG_3892.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120003967810615234" /></a><CENTER> Château-fort at Bonaguil</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjN2tLbQ4mgGtOR_mn0ag3cHjK1DlG-jCnPwltH14swQrWufFP0kcRxSkU_ss849V8FOK2mXGdO3AfimkjK04HZguesyJqBnpDb2QwcqqDTZSpBTuagJJNKlz8E95MClNZ9ZhWt47M_l8/s1280-h/YIMG_3895.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjN2tLbQ4mgGtOR_mn0ag3cHjK1DlG-jCnPwltH14swQrWufFP0kcRxSkU_ss849V8FOK2mXGdO3AfimkjK04HZguesyJqBnpDb2QwcqqDTZSpBTuagJJNKlz8E95MClNZ9ZhWt47M_l8/s400/YIMG_3895.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120004689365120978" /></a><CENTER> Château-fort at Bonaguil</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjupLLJ5AZUwVJy1qVGVbVLMk4tP1peh2zsQYNIXCI1DK96r_o1SP1X22t7Z8-VjxUIPCycO6Vk1ds1Jq4t1FDKIcCbJdhEf-Wm_miAwrNxBFgjIwtMb6GFHTcCXr6dmO1qPMqvwBI0JA0/s1280-h/YIMG_3890.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjupLLJ5AZUwVJy1qVGVbVLMk4tP1peh2zsQYNIXCI1DK96r_o1SP1X22t7Z8-VjxUIPCycO6Vk1ds1Jq4t1FDKIcCbJdhEf-Wm_miAwrNxBFgjIwtMb6GFHTcCXr6dmO1qPMqvwBI0JA0/s400/YIMG_3890.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120004697955055586" /></a><CENTER> Inside the château-fort at Bonaguil </CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDtE4iNbAvDOibRymBDPRU5K4BeWz6-TroHkEyBwEogpqAmFmSHvuTh53Q8MWi8n__FjMaYusA7TWKLhtQarm6ikjNZZo6oBnSY9PMdg0LSG6Jce6iIPtIx-hamO14zlsjEpmlsGM4N_4/s1280-h/YIMG_3899.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDtE4iNbAvDOibRymBDPRU5K4BeWz6-TroHkEyBwEogpqAmFmSHvuTh53Q8MWi8n__FjMaYusA7TWKLhtQarm6ikjNZZo6oBnSY9PMdg0LSG6Jce6iIPtIx-hamO14zlsjEpmlsGM4N_4/s400/YIMG_3899.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120004706544990194" /></a><CENTER> Yves and Cathérine with Jill at Bonaguil</CENTER><br />Returning home we decided to drive up to the pretty bastide village of <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2006/03/cantabria-to-gascony.html">Pujols</a>, which overlooks the plain of Villeneuve, to watch the sunset. As we parked we recognised it, having passed here briefly in March 2005. Now though, it was much warmer and the streets where colourful with tubs of flowers. Cathérine told us her daughter had been married in the church there.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig0wjS7sLczO9pZoPqniChPykgfRlmajdrDktg430nVU58ri96VVNrllPcQwEQkeWO9unyNH-AaorTLUPLOgPCYZBtmZ3K970NzgQFUPPAFN79keQ8gu61PNnbv5HgpBQJZ3pEgGhiV8k/s1280-h/YIMG_3903.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig0wjS7sLczO9pZoPqniChPykgfRlmajdrDktg430nVU58ri96VVNrllPcQwEQkeWO9unyNH-AaorTLUPLOgPCYZBtmZ3K970NzgQFUPPAFN79keQ8gu61PNnbv5HgpBQJZ3pEgGhiV8k/s400/YIMG_3903.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120004710839957506" /></a><CENTER>The well at Pujols</CENTER><br />Back home we ate supper outside, uninterrupted this time by the rain. It was a warm, still evening and we lingered, chatting, long after we had finished supper. In the lounge, amidst the furnishings of a long gone era, watched over by the portraits of unknown ancestors and faded photos of great grandparents, we watched some of Yves masterly produced videos of recent family reunions. Several times a year the members of the large family come together to celebrate different events, to put on plays and operettas, or just to meet together for a weekend of fun. Yves job is to record it all for future generations of the family!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuaVMg88Wq4VjApyeinQTJjrFG53Yqho8Wy6pzf8jCAWwGFIGnUAP-Wv6jiGB1JfZfr2UDKp8Ug0QTQcuEirBFqzGhNkceKKultvVvz5hQATTfQW6G5wNWj1beykBulcMHWwEgn1XwGkU/s1280-h/YIMG_3879.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuaVMg88Wq4VjApyeinQTJjrFG53Yqho8Wy6pzf8jCAWwGFIGnUAP-Wv6jiGB1JfZfr2UDKp8Ug0QTQcuEirBFqzGhNkceKKultvVvz5hQATTfQW6G5wNWj1beykBulcMHWwEgn1XwGkU/s400/YIMG_3879.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120004715134924818" /></a><CENTER>The lounge</CENTER><br />Today Cathérine had to be back in Bordeaux for an appointment by early evening. After breakfast we drove together to Monflanquin, a classic example of a mediaeval bastide town with a museum explaining the history of such towns. It once belonged to the English and seems to have reverted back to its original owners to judge from the dominant language heard in the streets today! It is a typical bastide of timber-framed houses with the central square surrounded by colonnades. To one side stands the stone house of England's Black Prince. By this time however, all we had seen and read seemed to be merging into each other and such towns were beginning to seem exactly the same.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLCm9t7Gi6N9ElL6bUS9eUDTeOp6WQAxzkBFJqMevVAV3DC64RzcV1NVPTvIGNNVFSQN10l2jC87h3JcqqYPMW8NdwGYF_mG47idEDtk1nsiOvQQrwsPqpgXuSRAsaM3QleE7Vlj7ssEU/s1280-h/YIMG_3915.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLCm9t7Gi6N9ElL6bUS9eUDTeOp6WQAxzkBFJqMevVAV3DC64RzcV1NVPTvIGNNVFSQN10l2jC87h3JcqqYPMW8NdwGYF_mG47idEDtk1nsiOvQQrwsPqpgXuSRAsaM3QleE7Vlj7ssEU/s400/YIMG_3915.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120005376559888434" /></a><CENTER>Side street, Monflacon</CENTER><br />Next we drove to Penne. This is another mediaeval town built on a hilltop but not a bastide for once. We picnicked, admired the view, visited the imposing but rather ugly 20th century church at the summit and after wandering slowly down, exploring the little streets along the way, we stopped for much needed coffees and beers before returning to the house to collect our belongings and go our separate ways. We have spent a magical couple of days and have been greatly spoilt by our hosts. Merci infiniment Yves et Cathérine.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5M-vpx_pUWwKo7lMmEp8qrj6_ueVmy4R8pw1uIiWCITw1rwSog1ao4oYaF_CMCJBVyK8c3jp5D_t6IATMVa5jj2FAGL4biBmN5mUcold1B73grLAWZt2S3bjnN2c3MgUna7yDajoV-uE/s1280-h/YIMG_3917.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5M-vpx_pUWwKo7lMmEp8qrj6_ueVmy4R8pw1uIiWCITw1rwSog1ao4oYaF_CMCJBVyK8c3jp5D_t6IATMVa5jj2FAGL4biBmN5mUcold1B73grLAWZt2S3bjnN2c3MgUna7yDajoV-uE/s400/YIMG_3917.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120005372264921122" /></a><CENTER>Penne</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiLh6-KKwi4jXcbSRNZ93WyEH8NVq93bn7txAO3t4vBj_OvEgTHCznCn4_gHSqa1ZDSZy7T9164gaiQ_DBBA0kWXXAsKR96-drJpicfxFEDLBRR9x2hVBrsRZVZwonyQQqsiJNPy1WrKg/s1280-h/YIMG_3918.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiLh6-KKwi4jXcbSRNZ93WyEH8NVq93bn7txAO3t4vBj_OvEgTHCznCn4_gHSqa1ZDSZy7T9164gaiQ_DBBA0kWXXAsKR96-drJpicfxFEDLBRR9x2hVBrsRZVZwonyQQqsiJNPy1WrKg/s400/YIMG_3918.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120005380854855746" /></a><CENTER>We were not actually avoiding each other! Penne</CENTER>Jill, Ian and Modestinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122859105828936321noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2492360799248419503.post-70641111413272253682007-10-10T13:54:00.000+01:002008-12-08T22:05:16.805+00:00Midi-Pyrenees<B>Friday 28th September 2007, Albi, Tarn</B><br />Tonight we find ourselves back in Albi again. Our last visit was on our way back from visiting friends in Salies-de-Béarn late in 2005. Then there were Christmas trees in the streets and ice beneath our feet. Today it has been much warmer. <br /><br />Warmer too than yesterday when we found ourselves in the Haut-Languedoc, several thousand metres up with the chilly north wind, known as the Tramontane blowing powerfully across the hill tops.<br /><br />The last few days have been very sociable which has left absolutely no time for continuing this blog. Last Tuesday we visited the <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/11/storms-and-floods.html">Mediterranean garden</a> perched on the rocks above the steep, winding streets of the popular village of Roquebrun. The views from there over the valley of the Orb, the Caroux and along towards the Gorges de l'Héric are magnificent. During the afternoon we pottered around the house tidying away our scattered belongings and preparing supper ready for the arrival of Lesley and Ivor, the owners of the house in Ambre. They arrived around 6pm and once they had settled in and recovered from the journey we enjoyed a very leisurely supper on the terrace by candle-light.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGtBjM-dvKvJ8uH-j-k06iA_r7u4cM4a3dMXjL9-cCXFn32wRHQYjTvmiK0Opcu8bvXwtYnoxcYKhWdByQgANse2hJ82LMnCzC2-s2yD4WTkUN6kL7OmbswV0or7Q1Z__gRzQOwS3IdA/s1280-h/YIMG_3728.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGtBjM-dvKvJ8uH-j-k06iA_r7u4cM4a3dMXjL9-cCXFn32wRHQYjTvmiK0Opcu8bvXwtYnoxcYKhWdByQgANse2hJ82LMnCzC2-s2yD4WTkUN6kL7OmbswV0or7Q1Z__gRzQOwS3IdA/s400/YIMG_3728.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119691723688194962" /></a><CENTER>Roquebrun on the Orb seen from the Mediterranean garden</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlv9S73Ogc3TyS5MHDGi7oUEtFg7cUg3Fmu7F8zwoYPUGg8cFW0Z58txDtGegeWhky8ISDaJBTPDjCMZvRjlo5eYuVvXPeW7gvGxH9ztul2T_mXqxleq3mZZpOOd13a-xN8baE8ckeHG0/s1280-h/YIMG_3731.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlv9S73Ogc3TyS5MHDGi7oUEtFg7cUg3Fmu7F8zwoYPUGg8cFW0Z58txDtGegeWhky8ISDaJBTPDjCMZvRjlo5eYuVvXPeW7gvGxH9ztul2T_mXqxleq3mZZpOOd13a-xN8baE8ckeHG0/s400/YIMG_3731.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119691745163031458" /></a><CENTER>Roquebrun from the road to Cessanons - Mediterranean garden surrounds the tower above the village</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1xBjqOenuglqHAIAP_yabrK91jk6NWK7sSARAlcB0vF4OBMSAGAMMG4UH1u9z6xddED82k9eENqrdUg0srMU7oWKjknpVnQ4Ml4yPi9ActR_WGXcJ95l0nYyrIrqxBnEoQzM32FdBjVQ/s1280-h/YIMG_3746.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1xBjqOenuglqHAIAP_yabrK91jk6NWK7sSARAlcB0vF4OBMSAGAMMG4UH1u9z6xddED82k9eENqrdUg0srMU7oWKjknpVnQ4Ml4yPi9ActR_WGXcJ95l0nYyrIrqxBnEoQzM32FdBjVQ/s400/YIMG_3746.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119691749457998770" /></a><CENTER>With Ivor and Lesley and a bottle of Ambre!</CENTER><br />Next day we left them to settle in peacefully, unpacking, taking a walk by the river in search of wild herbs and changing the tyres on their bikes ready for an extended cycle ride around the countryside and across the plain to Narbonne. Being far less hardy than them, we spent the morning in the library at St. Chinian before picnicking by the old windmill on the hill above the town and driving through the countryside to Narbonne! In a couple of lazy hours of driving we covered much of the same ground they were about to spend two or three days doing! They will of course be far more fit at the end of it. How they manage the hills, even with proper bikes and decent gears we cannot imagine! Hinge and Bracket would be quite incapable of such a journey.<br /><br /><a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/12/starting-to-feel-like-christmas-at.html">Narbonne</a> is a pleasant town dating back to Roman times with an excellent mediathèque. It is the ville natale of the writer André Malraux. In the past it has seemed rather dirty and unsavoury, particularly beside the attractive canal where the pleasure boats are moored, which doubles as a dogs' recreation area. It did seem cleaner this time. Returning home Modestine caught her bottom on one of the many road humps or potholes in the town of Capestang, since when we have had a permanent rattle from somewhere in her bodywork which we have been quite unable to trace<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXU49WwUu5WtMmijijUUr_haQuvNLzsdUMoDzmSfn-aChetd5U_SIIVOGwSExs6ahkGFZDwnCpeBxHXOiBlYvG4nwGQB7NSNDz4_ylb57HHZlI7dypK-WFXdWU-eTwrzVZzM0TGVu8Ll4/s1280-h/YIMG_3734.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXU49WwUu5WtMmijijUUr_haQuvNLzsdUMoDzmSfn-aChetd5U_SIIVOGwSExs6ahkGFZDwnCpeBxHXOiBlYvG4nwGQB7NSNDz4_ylb57HHZlI7dypK-WFXdWU-eTwrzVZzM0TGVu8Ll4/s400/YIMG_3734.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119691766637867970" /></a><CENTER>Roman mosaic (1st century BC) discovered beneath the floor of the new mediathèque, Narbonne</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMwpLznQtxA64BHyXx282Sf5SN07lgKAMTQbK8HHWYFXGF3UTK2wwrpVCsRQcr9T-NOp6a7SAAH4x54b4mAXJBS-sKEI5yGz2Ti6ldTUwttNnaVe4qFqFK9QnKz35OVNSvh8i-6Vvkjsk/s1280-h/YIMG_3735.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMwpLznQtxA64BHyXx282Sf5SN07lgKAMTQbK8HHWYFXGF3UTK2wwrpVCsRQcr9T-NOp6a7SAAH4x54b4mAXJBS-sKEI5yGz2Ti6ldTUwttNnaVe4qFqFK9QnKz35OVNSvh8i-6Vvkjsk/s400/YIMG_3735.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119691770932835282" /></a><CENTER>Modern mosaic (2000 years later) depicting André Malraux on the pavement outside the mediathèque, Narbonne</CENTER><br />Another delightful evening was spent with our hosts, this time in the kitchen as the Tramontane had arrived, tossing the leaves and tendrils of the vine covering the terrace and attempting to whip the cloth from the table there. With Lesley's leek soup, seasoned with the wild herbs of the garrigue, a couple of bottles of wine and a DVD Ivor had brought from England, the evening passed all too quickly.<br /><br />By yesterday morning the wind was whistling around the village, which is actually more sheltered than out on the plain towards Narbonne. Ivor and Lesley decided to wait a day before setting off. Certainly cycling in such a wind would be very difficult and unpleasant. So they spent the day sorting out their new computer hoping the weather would be better today. For us though, it was time to move on. We had arranged to visit Christine and Mostyn in Bédarieux, on the far side of the Caroux mountain. They showed us great friendship when we met them during our previous stay in the Languedoc, inviting us to spend Christmas with them and even allowing us to clear our backlog of laundry in their washing machine! You can read more at <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/12/baubles-at-boubals.html">Baubles at Boubals</a><br /><br />First we popped round to say farewell to Mme. J. and to buy several litres of her wonderful red wine. She gave us farewell kisses and yet another of her quality St. Chinian wines, confident that we would return again one day, and determined we would choose to buy from her over the other producers in the village! When we told her she'd never be rich if she kept giving the stock away she told us her purse may not be, but her heart would definitely be richer.<br /><br />We bid farewell to Ivor and Lesley who have been so very generous with their hospitality and friendship, allowing us to use their home for several weeks during the winter of 2005 and lending us a set of keys in case we need an emergency base at any time while we are travelling. But for them we may never have discovered this corner of southern France or forged several very rewarding friendships.<br /><br />We spent the day on a very leisurely journey along the valley of the Orb, beneath the towering bare mountain of the Caroux before joining the road to Bédarieux. Ian wanted to see the Bois des Ecrivans Combattants so we turned up into the forest of sweet chestnut trees covering the lower slopes of the hillside. We drove along a steep winding, narrow road through the wood but saw nothing resembling a memorial and the bright green spiky chestnut cases were not yet ready to release their nuts. We were freezing by the time we drove down into the strange little spa town of Lamelou and headed for the café attached to the state-run betting office, the PMU. The coffee was good and we had the added interest of watching the punters placing their bets and cheering the overhead TV as they watched the racing. In France a particular form of racing is Le Trotting. The jockey does not actually ride the horse but sits on a very lightweight carriage behind the racehorse and guides it around the course at a very brisk trot. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0L75DdVmDuFIctXuI-JNaAFrsHzGyuxQdol-fyYzkwpAOg-HCWyWJufEi9ZzI6CKr1AUYxLUm4vBA5PyglC9COqB0Aod3ORybzx4G3KELYtdoIB4i9-NaF8ZrQgHL9LY3iEOhzAulJAo/s1280-h/YIMG_3747.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0L75DdVmDuFIctXuI-JNaAFrsHzGyuxQdol-fyYzkwpAOg-HCWyWJufEi9ZzI6CKr1AUYxLUm4vBA5PyglC9COqB0Aod3ORybzx4G3KELYtdoIB4i9-NaF8ZrQgHL9LY3iEOhzAulJAo/s400/YIMG_3747.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119692329278583778" /></a><CENTER>PMU café, watching the race, Lamelou</CENTER><br /><a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/12/baubles-at-boubals.html">Lamelou</a> is nothing like any of the other broken, dilapidated towns in the Haut Languedoc. It is reasonably smart with a casino, cinema, theatre, several late 19th century hotels and a spa complex. The town specialises in the treatment and rehabilitation of those confined to wheelchairs. Every shop has a ramp at the door and there are always several wheelchairs to be seen in the main street. <br /><br />Last time we were in Lamelou the fountain had frozen over. It was not that cold yesterday but the fierce north wind made it feel much colder than the official seven degrees. We moved on to the next town, Hérepian, where Ivor had told us we should visit the bell foundry. We arrived to find it closed, the season for visits having officially ended at the start of September. By this time it was late afternoon and we were expected at Boubals.<br /><br />It was a happy reunion with Christine and Mostyn, who, like Jill, once worked for the University of Exeter. As may well be imagined, none of us regret that we do so no longer! As the wind howled around the mountains outside we sat around their first log fire of the season with mugs of tea catching up on news and learning more about the progress they have made in mastering French and integrating into the local community. They seem to have done amazingly well in the four years since they left England and have even been asked by some of their French neighbours to start English conversation classes for them! <br /><br />Before it became too dark to see clearly Mostyn took us for a walk around their "domain" which stretches right across a field with a vegetable garden at the side of the house, to an orchard of apple, pear, plum and fig trees beyond. He even has 40 metres of vines but the grapes, although sweet, do not make good wine and are suitable only for eating. Then there is an area of woodland where he is removing damaged trees and sawing them up for the log fire. Finally we came to the banks of the river Orb. After weeks without rain it is just a rippling surface of water too shallow for fish. Soon though, it will become a raging torrent, tearing trees from the banks and carrying them downstream! Both Christine and Mostyn are still enjoying their new lives and remain convinced the move from England was the best thing they have ever done. But they have both been determined to make it work and have put a huge amount of effort into becoming active members of their commune.<br /><br />It was midnight before we eventually went to bed. This morning Mostyn was up before us and out gathering fresh figs for breakfast!<br /><br />We moved on around 11a.m. They told us of an exhibition up at St. Gervais, high in the mountains of the Espinouse. Unfortunately, as so often happens in France, when we arrived the exhibition room was closed until 2pm. There was no way we could wait several hours so we continued along our route through the impressive, grey, green mountains of the Espinouse towards <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/12/look-back-in-ambre.html">Lacaune</a>. The wind had dropped and temperatures risen since yesterday, but at 800 metres the air was still very fresh at the col de la Croix-de-Mounis. Here the scenery changed abruptly. Looking back across the Languedoc we saw a bare, scrubby, Mediterranean landscape while looking forward, as the road started the descent on the far side of the col, there were hedgerows, trees, ploughed fields and meadows with cattle!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivzP0nQkdxT4qyBnOMKCMIuHGUzAcb2e9fNGK4CMjvPnIldvXpTpC-JqexrMut6z1wwIKf560Y4BjpKXW9DracbcQvNxxHlhOOScl_Xdz8HaJ8ten0PmtmdldslhV0atdBMU8yWkb6cLw/s1280-h/YIMG_3749.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivzP0nQkdxT4qyBnOMKCMIuHGUzAcb2e9fNGK4CMjvPnIldvXpTpC-JqexrMut6z1wwIKf560Y4BjpKXW9DracbcQvNxxHlhOOScl_Xdz8HaJ8ten0PmtmdldslhV0atdBMU8yWkb6cLw/s400/YIMG_3749.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119692337868518386" /></a><CENTER>Farewell to the landscape of the Languedoc, Les Espinouses seen from the col de la Croix-de-Mounis</CENTER><br />We reached <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/12/rose-red-cities.html">Albi</a> around mid-afternoon and having settled Modestine onto the campsite we walked into the centre of the city where we re-explored the old quarter and marvelled at the huge, brick-built cathedral. Outside it is bare, austere and intimidating. Within it is ornate gothic, a complete contrast in style and decoration to the exterior. As on our previous visit, we found Albi a very interesting town, clean and smart and with such sympathetic and continuous use of brick as a building material, it is sometimes difficult to notice where the ancient buildings end and the modern ones begin! There are rich merchant houses built with the wealth of the cloth-dying industry. The area was once known as "le pays de cocagne" which roughly translates as "the land of milk and honey". This was founded entirely on the production of woad, used to create a purple dye in the 13th century.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTPr_T3gPe8gBxi8_09iV0gGTam3VVDy-mpkEfQxi_K-piA8NYWzDXz_n4U18lfOQniHfJLAT0ZJQ7reP4u0v_h6hN3XRQpze_BRaqbcTqCgCeQz8bdETl770YecRjMMdKqNas77tW-w/s1280-h/YIMG_3753.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTPr_T3gPe8gBxi8_09iV0gGTam3VVDy-mpkEfQxi_K-piA8NYWzDXz_n4U18lfOQniHfJLAT0ZJQ7reP4u0v_h6hN3XRQpze_BRaqbcTqCgCeQz8bdETl770YecRjMMdKqNas77tW-w/s400/YIMG_3753.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119692342163485698" /></a><CENTER>Red brick cathedral at Albi, built at the end of the Albigensian crusade against the Cathars, around 1280</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIoHHE4hnmaX4AFHM1ebydGa7DIfRwhR3Py1Idc_vo-rCaDuTnqL45GyCIUeXeE_zNapJ7KjAvV3cmQr-boIpq0KyceOxc-4ceyS63avNnW3SsN4krG21tNw1cwE8A8DcESyz9bY56qs/s1280-h/YIMG_3755.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIoHHE4hnmaX4AFHM1ebydGa7DIfRwhR3Py1Idc_vo-rCaDuTnqL45GyCIUeXeE_zNapJ7KjAvV3cmQr-boIpq0KyceOxc-4ceyS63avNnW3SsN4krG21tNw1cwE8A8DcESyz9bY56qs/s400/YIMG_3755.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119692350753420306" /></a><CENTER>Elaborate gothic interior of the cathedral, Albi</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqJfBcXzSxfPlVeLzd5mFMAuD6tKpKO9uk6cYGvY_eh5ex0iALMnesLoItvV6w5ex-C4DaCa77H4KRYDErPyDrYXKtnncBy_NQDGLYt9XrBBRsSTuZu0tXbMM3v__H3TkVY8IjoeDhKM8/s1280-h/YIMG_3760.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqJfBcXzSxfPlVeLzd5mFMAuD6tKpKO9uk6cYGvY_eh5ex0iALMnesLoItvV6w5ex-C4DaCa77H4KRYDErPyDrYXKtnncBy_NQDGLYt9XrBBRsSTuZu0tXbMM3v__H3TkVY8IjoeDhKM8/s400/YIMG_3760.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119692359343354914" /></a><CENTER>Birthplace of the artist Toulouse-Lautrec, Albi</CENTER><br /><B>Sunday 30th September 2007, Cahors, Lot</B><br />Is it only yesterday that we left Albi? Since then we have visited several bastide towns built on inaccessible promontories along the winding valleys of the rivers Aveyron and Lot. In this region there are so many little mediaeval villages that have been designated as amongst France's most beautiful villages, that it is almost the exception to find one that is not! Approaching them from along the river they stand, high on their hillside, protected by a curve of the river, a castle at the summit and strong, defensive walls guarding the narrow streets within. They are wonderfully picturesque, almost as if they have been planned as an exquisite architectural entity rather than having evolved over the 13th to 15th centuries.<br /><br />Monestiés on the Cérou, while not a hilltop town, is medieval, with an old stone bridge and streets too narrow for cars. In the centre of the town we discovered a children's concours de pétanque.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3l78Fhb82vHSYh-A4c13_wEchB5cnn90M8OhQUEvRvEVgenEWJGW49Oc35-hNcbj90AXDd5N1gsg-ByZ77ez8_M2G9UgT5iAT_OMK1SYynWy_vFFLH4cNEpX2YI5C7yxrcYnoWVjO0nY/s1280-h/YIMG_3774.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3l78Fhb82vHSYh-A4c13_wEchB5cnn90M8OhQUEvRvEVgenEWJGW49Oc35-hNcbj90AXDd5N1gsg-ByZ77ez8_M2G9UgT5iAT_OMK1SYynWy_vFFLH4cNEpX2YI5C7yxrcYnoWVjO0nY/s400/YIMG_3774.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119692780250149938" /></a><CENTER>Village street, Monestiés</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4FGG8Xw3jlz31EKldnRry1aPhvlJ8L6hTD3SZTFIsmKGtNAxo77extuGOF_tqkFrPmEYUHPGsro0PsJkKxd1zivYhEw5CMxBE3gZVDbiX0hJPMHTw47PRr67AZNmGEgLTwk1BTPYVdyQ/s1280-h/YIMG_3775.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4FGG8Xw3jlz31EKldnRry1aPhvlJ8L6hTD3SZTFIsmKGtNAxo77extuGOF_tqkFrPmEYUHPGsro0PsJkKxd1zivYhEw5CMxBE3gZVDbiX0hJPMHTw47PRr67AZNmGEgLTwk1BTPYVdyQ/s400/YIMG_3775.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119692788840084546" /></a><CENTER>Outside the church, Monestiés</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTuhI2ZW4IPafX2PNowbcyMWsdreVSxmcfQbdHoPb7YV9fagouUZAN_QWcyrPVSr7RLC22N0Fdm78u-_hmMfC6H49RKLKGts46EpwQdXXaBPmFD_3IZlh3RB40eiPUL9C_KWUBBsxg-NI/s1280-h/YIMG_3779.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTuhI2ZW4IPafX2PNowbcyMWsdreVSxmcfQbdHoPb7YV9fagouUZAN_QWcyrPVSr7RLC22N0Fdm78u-_hmMfC6H49RKLKGts46EpwQdXXaBPmFD_3IZlh3RB40eiPUL9C_KWUBBsxg-NI/s400/YIMG_3779.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119692801724986450" /></a><CENTER>Children learning to play pétanque, Monestiés</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6qoMLZsKIb6_ucgZQ-mDa9Gbb-VlEYPP2YwgP9Nya-8IAnPLs7RLv5xn1c_IYy-piaanUB_EFFLHB2CPDczKKgVT7lnPMpJtMWLbcszZEol3SDxg8DYLvGCLBPHmFvRF8Q8Mt1Cm2H8Y/s1280-h/YIMG_3780.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6qoMLZsKIb6_ucgZQ-mDa9Gbb-VlEYPP2YwgP9Nya-8IAnPLs7RLv5xn1c_IYy-piaanUB_EFFLHB2CPDczKKgVT7lnPMpJtMWLbcszZEol3SDxg8DYLvGCLBPHmFvRF8Q8Mt1Cm2H8Y/s400/YIMG_3780.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119694253423932626" /></a><CENTER>Gateway into the village, Monestiés</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6JNssabeEN0KJhf_5UbpRhr3xyMcwrXiiC6rMV4XZ6c-ZKb2HLQpHHjYngDFd5_fTOiTxAf8U4icGFEj3b_nRA3OcgXzKC6i2YWhOf-zTrOMZ-8s13d60SiLwt4_HN0Ijd1oQcquc7A/s1280-h/YIMG_3781.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6JNssabeEN0KJhf_5UbpRhr3xyMcwrXiiC6rMV4XZ6c-ZKb2HLQpHHjYngDFd5_fTOiTxAf8U4icGFEj3b_nRA3OcgXzKC6i2YWhOf-zTrOMZ-8s13d60SiLwt4_HN0Ijd1oQcquc7A/s400/YIMG_3781.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119692814609888370" /></a><CENTER>View from the river, Monestiés</CENTER><br />We continued, bypassing <a href="">Cordes</a>, a delightful bastide that we visited in 2005, to Najac on the river Aveyron. This was indeed a typical mediaeval hilltop town and made a stunning impression as we approached it, perched high above the winding river with its castle, church and steep streets of stone houses with their rounded roof tiles of natural stone that so resemble fish scales.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNl7oTul9_EXtGh5pCVuoRdkldhJTOd1rJEVPueTCip-_183ub2i2FAnmqOiSirUcaHQPO8UBG3VODWLLHA3iDpFFiRRpqBRy6j4nNHDcDb5X06bq30Q9BkQj5boIviDAG5JWQAEZjJc/s1280-h/YIMG_3782.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNl7oTul9_EXtGh5pCVuoRdkldhJTOd1rJEVPueTCip-_183ub2i2FAnmqOiSirUcaHQPO8UBG3VODWLLHA3iDpFFiRRpqBRy6j4nNHDcDb5X06bq30Q9BkQj5boIviDAG5JWQAEZjJc/s400/YIMG_3782.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119693527574459522" /></a><CENTER>Approaching Najac</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6stijecUmKxDR4PAFqvbM_Lx86OvdVcIrt_j7mKc_g84SqKGTd3UWHY_GqaSagGvuijZoSTf7BqzsQNS8X2g3EhOgSfRMa1g9IUedpcjKTtJvT-4MnVpw1b1T9qY4F9q8ZWKMm7mytw/s1280-h/YIMG_3790.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6stijecUmKxDR4PAFqvbM_Lx86OvdVcIrt_j7mKc_g84SqKGTd3UWHY_GqaSagGvuijZoSTf7BqzsQNS8X2g3EhOgSfRMa1g9IUedpcjKTtJvT-4MnVpw1b1T9qY4F9q8ZWKMm7mytw/s400/YIMG_3790.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119693536164394130" /></a><CENTER>From the path leading up to the castle, Najac</CENTER><br />We ended up spending so long wandering the steep streets, peering over ruined walls into hidden gardens or looking down from the castle, deep into the gorge as the river wound around the town, that we decided to find a campsite nearby rather than continue towards Villefranche as we originally intended. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCEDaS8P3CUvze6fDMtwQCptNiI_Tbfs5sYBtDoSyYbbnO2sVNZImk0NUxEii_ILehiZJuqQikgjm4LoYWA7VXDVRyIyUYdz6geHIZcT9wzyZFCihkv2Fm4r76G34XUWrB0GR2obHmoo/s1280-h/YIMG_3791.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCEDaS8P3CUvze6fDMtwQCptNiI_Tbfs5sYBtDoSyYbbnO2sVNZImk0NUxEii_ILehiZJuqQikgjm4LoYWA7VXDVRyIyUYdz6geHIZcT9wzyZFCihkv2Fm4r76G34XUWrB0GR2obHmoo/s400/YIMG_3791.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119693540459361442" /></a><CENTER>Village fountain, Najac</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH9FiOScarES3dG34lLkKq8nJRybaF1-JrmomFk8BYU4OQyxSsEaYkVLyVIkwa_qzVW-zQqiT6W8tMqEF2PKTg8VBztYfXwSyMFSqqsIPJUVqJiRcuFc_sodaK_qax_cWNUJeVAN10_GE/s1280-h/YIMG_3793.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH9FiOScarES3dG34lLkKq8nJRybaF1-JrmomFk8BYU4OQyxSsEaYkVLyVIkwa_qzVW-zQqiT6W8tMqEF2PKTg8VBztYfXwSyMFSqqsIPJUVqJiRcuFc_sodaK_qax_cWNUJeVAN10_GE/s400/YIMG_3793.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119693549049296050" /></a><CENTER>Castle seen from the main village street, Najac</CENTER><br />We are discovering that most campsites are already closed or will be doing so at the end of the month. Down beside the Aveyron we found a deserted campsite, still officially open. So we made ourselves at home, eating supper in the dusk beside the river and sleeping well. This morning after hot showers we were just beginning to wonder what to do about paying when the owner turned up to close the site for the season. She was surprised to find anyone there and has warned us we will not easily find campsites as we travel north later in the week.<br /><br />Today we made our way to Villefranche de Rouergue, a much larger town, again set on the Aveyron. We climbed the steep streets up to the church and explored the narrow alleys surrounding it. All these towns still have their ancient stone fountains and the buildings, frequently timber framed, overhang the streets on the upper floors, while at ground level stone arcades often surround open squares. Down by the river we found a small Sunday market where we bought croissants before crossing to the busy terrace of a bar for coffee. Here we watched the local people meeting, kissing, ordering drinks, reading the paper and even practicing their guitar playing! It was a very pleasant experience in the Sunday sunshine.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gcD83I8XyrGlK_87Ah2l3HSmV8HfSzy0xFuEYu7zM3ojgA7H3oTrvE3bEyRcQkFhMKxMJHzfFMMYK8XgLzHUJJpBMWU8e91-pMg88OJWOzlRt-0lIMZvZYSJuSTjK5XoVARCwBcWpU8/s1280-h/YIMG_3797.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gcD83I8XyrGlK_87Ah2l3HSmV8HfSzy0xFuEYu7zM3ojgA7H3oTrvE3bEyRcQkFhMKxMJHzfFMMYK8XgLzHUJJpBMWU8e91-pMg88OJWOzlRt-0lIMZvZYSJuSTjK5XoVARCwBcWpU8/s400/YIMG_3797.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119693553344263362" /></a><CENTER>River Aveyron at Villefranche de Rouergue</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF2uppM0jFNqTn4tRm_pCoZZ5EWP6X6OtWCBst4oHrw8w-z7yk-Tu14zH19OtKhIjYRlD-LU7dtlO0_sOJAdSoRuPqC1SUBWpaOxNPnmURenEG_8PwyzE9QPriQ2hLn3zEojA1Uc7Iv_Y/s1600-h/YIMG_3800.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF2uppM0jFNqTn4tRm_pCoZZ5EWP6X6OtWCBst4oHrw8w-z7yk-Tu14zH19OtKhIjYRlD-LU7dtlO0_sOJAdSoRuPqC1SUBWpaOxNPnmURenEG_8PwyzE9QPriQ2hLn3zEojA1Uc7Iv_Y/s320/YIMG_3800.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119702482581271954" /></a><CENTER>Street near the church, Villefranche de Rouergue</CENTER><br />At Cajarc we joined the river Lot which twists its way peacefully along the valley towards Cahors. As we drove through the village centre a young man ran into the road signalling to us to stop. Breathlessly he explained in charming English that his mother needed to see our camping car as his dad would no longer take her camping in their big one and she needed one she could handle by herself. After answering all his questions and giving him one of the few remaining leaflets we carry, supplied by our Romahome agent because we told him it was quicker and easier to hand out publicity than to explain everything over and over again, he announced that he had one more request. Would we please follow him. He then lead us, at a snail's pace, through the village to his house and told us to park outside so his mother could see all over Modestine, open the doors and ask us lots of questions – including whether we would sell her! We are now quite used to being stared at and questioned, otherwise it would all have seemed quite bizarre! <br /><br />We followed the bends of the Lot down to Calvignac on the far side of the river, looking very precariously perched on the high rocks above the gorge. Along the water's edge the trees shed nuts, apples, figs and wild quinces. Food for free!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9oeiCL5QF6IwzCrvO4EpPk6OUMDrP_IPS90S0dkHQ1KZN8s8RyfTgiGbP03EvjzQSG-SqWcz7IIczb-_H_ADQ773R0G0cWuOyf9LDSyWQxxUBtUkNPGf5rkf5lplyZQlfWMdNm7bcrvA/s1280-h/YIMG_3804.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9oeiCL5QF6IwzCrvO4EpPk6OUMDrP_IPS90S0dkHQ1KZN8s8RyfTgiGbP03EvjzQSG-SqWcz7IIczb-_H_ADQ773R0G0cWuOyf9LDSyWQxxUBtUkNPGf5rkf5lplyZQlfWMdNm7bcrvA/s400/YIMG_3804.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119694262013867234" /></a><CENTER>Calvignac seen across the valley of the Lot</CENTER><br />At St-Cirq-Lapopie we spent most of the afternoon climbing up and down the cobbled streets and broken steps of the pretty little town, obviously something of a tourist Mecca, full of art galleries, sculpture studios, craft and jewellery shops and countless restaurants selling such homely fare as maigrit de canard and escargots farcies. Generally the French don't go in for picnics or simple snack lunches. From the summit of the town we had splendid views down onto the winding river Lot as it flowed peacefully through the steep-sided limestone gorge. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-HJ9TLqF57Q0VD9izbJburQAZyiLCN23BGa1WeYk_uGHXI1mEDuNP1tCfDZtnDmJyPObk2psAqRrEEUcpEvDfjYxwpDfFOpWWhnPctVKTmvsxESAmpt3nv7xTQsp7Fs1hUBbJn3vyBk/s1280-h/YIMG_3812.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-HJ9TLqF57Q0VD9izbJburQAZyiLCN23BGa1WeYk_uGHXI1mEDuNP1tCfDZtnDmJyPObk2psAqRrEEUcpEvDfjYxwpDfFOpWWhnPctVKTmvsxESAmpt3nv7xTQsp7Fs1hUBbJn3vyBk/s400/YIMG_3812.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119694266308834546" /></a><CENTER>St-Cirq-Lapopie, Valley of the Lot</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkTAGw6L7PZY-nzmW9ixPg9hfBExF4bm-ZHo-tykEoKeyVPjAJHAJXK-9eSeM2badhi7zwoVFju2No5Esry33jovJSkBbPfItfZKLFceFl1dXaAAhzGBQWwQPPbXf2Uelv0Lhb0pmiqVM/s1280-h/YIMG_3814.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkTAGw6L7PZY-nzmW9ixPg9hfBExF4bm-ZHo-tykEoKeyVPjAJHAJXK-9eSeM2badhi7zwoVFju2No5Esry33jovJSkBbPfItfZKLFceFl1dXaAAhzGBQWwQPPbXf2Uelv0Lhb0pmiqVM/s400/YIMG_3814.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119694270603801858" /></a><CENTER>St-Cirq-Lapopie, Valley of the Lot</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCHJrqA03y7TU8zhGvIIBQ-aG81XeeWwwfjoJbrOETlB-Rd61LY4EZbwB1r77Mso7l-Q1Sw0Seefr3OhdCDezYjH7PVd-SswTGxRic936H2Ye5lp-HBqULIFkx9WZpec9qMr_UpU3BIo/s1280-h/YIMG_3816.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCHJrqA03y7TU8zhGvIIBQ-aG81XeeWwwfjoJbrOETlB-Rd61LY4EZbwB1r77Mso7l-Q1Sw0Seefr3OhdCDezYjH7PVd-SswTGxRic936H2Ye5lp-HBqULIFkx9WZpec9qMr_UpU3BIo/s400/YIMG_3816.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119694274898769170" /></a><CENTER>Valley of the Lot seen from St-Cirq-Lapopie</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_WuhSjJkEWzXrlcZ8NqSKpuZuztBjtK-F4L2ce7ufN2O7HN4R_8cVAaFb0iAeJ290qvXWU8Eysqgvt2uppMd8yAa2oIrw5pqQ6N3CmtXf38TDMq0ep1ktgUbXTOlw1P4YauTFjdvLOqY/s1280-h/YIMG_3817.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_WuhSjJkEWzXrlcZ8NqSKpuZuztBjtK-F4L2ce7ufN2O7HN4R_8cVAaFb0iAeJ290qvXWU8Eysqgvt2uppMd8yAa2oIrw5pqQ6N3CmtXf38TDMq0ep1ktgUbXTOlw1P4YauTFjdvLOqY/s400/YIMG_3817.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119695249856345378" /></a><CENTER>Valley of the Lot seen from St-Cirq-Lapopie</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5P6tNBHjziFNWsqpS_lpl8wynntaOWWtXMG6iArf8X6Sn4L-kIaXmNKdV_n2R29-oSzKeWhqBvF6xT-6fQlOCMBrblF-HOdQMmzJ0uFhbSCrUpl9_3La8nydIK-T2zs5KAG1j6sLU3Jk/s1280-h/YIMG_3821.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5P6tNBHjziFNWsqpS_lpl8wynntaOWWtXMG6iArf8X6Sn4L-kIaXmNKdV_n2R29-oSzKeWhqBvF6xT-6fQlOCMBrblF-HOdQMmzJ0uFhbSCrUpl9_3La8nydIK-T2zs5KAG1j6sLU3Jk/s400/YIMG_3821.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119695258446279986" /></a><CENTER>Roofscape, St-Cirq-Lapopie</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGJuwQw40x2IMMAcoLm9_ZW5dz8s2dIPYm6dOXwGdCnk8z4vgu4aVAbfbKmJKLphtxT6nlluIBRDG4wTl-LCdfAhOMat2wTCJcvhN2EubWHddQ-AeCA-XQ0fBU60F3iZTQot0LFLSmABg/s1280-h/YIMG_3822.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGJuwQw40x2IMMAcoLm9_ZW5dz8s2dIPYm6dOXwGdCnk8z4vgu4aVAbfbKmJKLphtxT6nlluIBRDG4wTl-LCdfAhOMat2wTCJcvhN2EubWHddQ-AeCA-XQ0fBU60F3iZTQot0LFLSmABg/s400/YIMG_3822.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119695262741247298" /></a><CENTER>Mediaeval corn measure, St-Cirq-Lapopie</CENTER><br />We continued our travels towards Cahors, famed for its wine. Passing through a tiny roadside hamlet we noticed a massive harvest of corn-on-the-cob being dried in special racks. We also noted, with surprise, golden tobacco leaves hanging in special drying sheds. We know nothing about tobacco growing in France, nor what the market for the dried leaves may be. It was most curious.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9nAzt4iUhDb5tmIM-aWn9HBnfyPYamoVOr4Fc5j6D75DwHtjjncRqY6A_QjMoZmwpNiWb9_8Ob4ZQvGBIZRLo_C2BEZVRu9r9Pji7NrCIVlVEM-Kg7ndtnxrnoCi3nFQ4X8Ryvxf9rlw/s1280-h/YIMG_3807.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9nAzt4iUhDb5tmIM-aWn9HBnfyPYamoVOr4Fc5j6D75DwHtjjncRqY6A_QjMoZmwpNiWb9_8Ob4ZQvGBIZRLo_C2BEZVRu9r9Pji7NrCIVlVEM-Kg7ndtnxrnoCi3nFQ4X8Ryvxf9rlw/s400/YIMG_3807.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119695267036214610" /></a><CENTER>Drying shed with tobacco, Valley of the Lot near Cahors</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaa7V4uiL2FAAK9VG8u-6y48N7nHfG050PjAXGOJc-k-1eKsdx8YDVWGughGsPKBpFxYp2c4YleRXgZVeTkKJJlF4qeUCDkZsXtMTlqNYUhfscROHaMPEh2ackXrOv5hmiLds7iAmbCgQ/s1280-h/YIMG_3809.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaa7V4uiL2FAAK9VG8u-6y48N7nHfG050PjAXGOJc-k-1eKsdx8YDVWGughGsPKBpFxYp2c4YleRXgZVeTkKJJlF4qeUCDkZsXtMTlqNYUhfscROHaMPEh2ackXrOv5hmiLds7iAmbCgQ/s400/YIMG_3809.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119695275626149218" /></a><CENTER>Tobacco leaves hung up to dry, Valley of the Lot near Cahors</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDqyFalV2-DB-_sAgZWjLbUI8V1joDBD-Z07V-mRB9WrlVHRtNtFtqX5xgNPZX7JbOEINMrnoFQnbZg36T3vNM0SIPSmzhKw-THcIq2UefgJoS1fK36aAIgnasvOpT6dqkRf0aiFS0ZQg/s1280-h/YIMG_3826.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDqyFalV2-DB-_sAgZWjLbUI8V1joDBD-Z07V-mRB9WrlVHRtNtFtqX5xgNPZX7JbOEINMrnoFQnbZg36T3vNM0SIPSmzhKw-THcIq2UefgJoS1fK36aAIgnasvOpT6dqkRf0aiFS0ZQg/s400/YIMG_3826.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119695756662486386" /></a><CENTER>Troglodyte dwelling and road cut through the cliff, banks of the Lot</CENTER><br />It was late afternoon before we parked Modestine in Cahors and went off to explore the town. So far it has been rather a disappointment, not least because we suddenly realised we were out of wine and needed to buy some urgently! Can you believe that it is impossible to purchase a bottle of wine on a Sunday anywhere in one of the major wine centres of France! In the end we have been reduced to opening one of Mme. J's bag-in-boxes and drinking wine from the Languedoc in completely the wrong area!<br /><br />The town has an interesting barbican and seen from the far side of the river it looks attractive. Within however, its charm is less than expected. Nor is its importance as a centre of the wine trade particularly evident. It lacks completely the mysterious enchantment of Minerve, one of its great rivals as a supplier to British supermarkets.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTbL023YcG0wrz1ubrQdtHIdOTWPeldrDkQ_GwW6ifif3Y8JGDDkv_HVKXdMUG0kL99kC7ffheZdF6CC1DyCYp5ZcgQU7gcYujtU7UcJSLH0jVeZKWoprc9KtH2c51V1DLh7lCG3O0A5M/s1280-h/YIMG_3830.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTbL023YcG0wrz1ubrQdtHIdOTWPeldrDkQ_GwW6ifif3Y8JGDDkv_HVKXdMUG0kL99kC7ffheZdF6CC1DyCYp5ZcgQU7gcYujtU7UcJSLH0jVeZKWoprc9KtH2c51V1DLh7lCG3O0A5M/s400/YIMG_3830.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119695760957453698" /></a><CENTER>Barbican, Cahors</CENTER><br />Down beside the river, below the walls of Cahors, we found a pleasant campsite where the owner told us we could only stay one night as tomorrow morning she will be locking the gates until next springtime! When we started out last April we found ourselves amongst the very first to use the French campsites this year! How fast the months have flown by!Jill, Ian and Modestinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122859105828936321noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2492360799248419503.post-11957885982246812112007-09-26T09:03:00.001+01:002008-12-08T22:05:16.957+00:00Ambre Solaire<B>Saturday 22nd September 2007, Ambre-les-Espagnolettes, Languedoc</B><br />It hardly seems possible that it is nearly two years since we first arrived in this little village in the south of France, caught between the flat plains of vines stretching to the Mediterranean sea and the inhospitable, arid landscape of the Haut Languedoc with its deep, stunningly beautiful ravines of the Herault and the Orb and the sparse, coarse, heathers, shrubs and herbs of the garrigue.<br /><br />Our journey here from the Jura took three days, travelling across France on minor roads. Beyond Lons-le-Saunier the roads were new to us and we stopped briefly to investigate the little town of Louhans with its old, arcaded streets designed to keep off the snows of winter and the extremes of heat during the summer. Its brick gothic church was of particular merit. Beyond Maçon we crossed the Rhône to the west bank in the hope of avoiding the worst of the traffic around Lyon. Unfortunately we reached the suburbs during the rush hour and wasted a frustrating hour weaving our way through the city outskirts where every traffic light seemed set at red. Once we eventually left Lyon behind we found the west bank of the Rhône to be more peaceful than the east side we had followed on our previous trip, passing Vienne and Valence. Instead, this time we passed through the peaceful vineyards of the Beaujolie region, very pleasant but lacking the beauty of the Moselle and the classic architecture of the Loire – though there were the remains of several impressive castles strategically positioned on hilltops overlooking the river. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsZ6RWkmDRtk2oge9FA-9YoUqn8ubmH0ok7XACjyUHP5S1d_OXZKeAoQkfuQmwB18KSC-lK4fScvNheFe2619u77nK1kH2pd1JPIde94MJmrNPECEC8BKuSMaUayd-a6rv5rK4-ROz-WA/s1280-h/YIMG_3581.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsZ6RWkmDRtk2oge9FA-9YoUqn8ubmH0ok7XACjyUHP5S1d_OXZKeAoQkfuQmwB18KSC-lK4fScvNheFe2619u77nK1kH2pd1JPIde94MJmrNPECEC8BKuSMaUayd-a6rv5rK4-ROz-WA/s400/YIMG_3581.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114422026449269026" /></a><CENTER>Main street, Louhans</CENTER><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyL1N3KRGXcmZM22l7lVpe3ANlUsUOA9ST7rC8GfkOgi9ytEnsVEJCxy32Y08cYTT66yqA4zqT1D7om0i8YigOzvtYJVWzCH5e2-zeHrAOht8kqm9-99DMLlXXnuwi9nY1YsFS5ntqVY/s1280-h/YIMG_3583.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyL1N3KRGXcmZM22l7lVpe3ANlUsUOA9ST7rC8GfkOgi9ytEnsVEJCxy32Y08cYTT66yqA4zqT1D7om0i8YigOzvtYJVWzCH5e2-zeHrAOht8kqm9-99DMLlXXnuwi9nY1YsFS5ntqVY/s400/YIMG_3583.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114422035039203634" /></a><CENTER>Gothic church, Louhans</CENTER><br />Our aim on this trip south was to discover the Gorges de l'Ardèche, just as we had explored the Gorges du Tarn on our previous journey down to the Languedoc. We spent the night at an excellent but deserted campsite at Isérand where, after sleeping really well, we continued south of Montélimar, famed for its nougat and eventually turned away from the Rhône to follow the tortuous route up the Gorges de l'Ardèche.<br /><br />Whereas the Gorges du Tarn is seen from the bottom of the ravine, looking up at the huge, towering cliffs as you travel down beside the water, the Ardèche is seen from a corniche road, high above and travellers look down, over the edge of the precipice to the twisting river far below. As a driver, it is easier to enjoy the splendour of the Tarn from the driving seat than it is the Ardèche. Normally the cliff edges are covered in low bushes and stunted oaks, the ravine being unseen except at certain places along the route where view points have been established. This means we were stopping to park every few hundred metres, locking the car and walking through woodland to the cliff edge. The view invariably justified the effort but on a hot day with lots of other visitors it was less enjoyable than we had hoped. Down in the surprisingly small, twisting green meanders of the river canoeists were paddling down the gorge, making their way through the shallow rapids. It looked an idyllic way to travel, sometimes in bright sunshine, and sometimes plunged into chilly gloom as the river rounded a bend to pass beneath towering bare grey rock.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF80UV24NZ4KX1MfxkxwUC1nfJuC_Yv6xmw-eUzegv918eta4EpTDNW_HuY74813JxxZFTMxWfteosBaeMWI0BQ1GXSWysWnWOM5-2jF-n_N9NqZUHR2kJjwcg12NpY7-KuAZh8rwVlag/s1280-h/YIMG_3599.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF80UV24NZ4KX1MfxkxwUC1nfJuC_Yv6xmw-eUzegv918eta4EpTDNW_HuY74813JxxZFTMxWfteosBaeMWI0BQ1GXSWysWnWOM5-2jF-n_N9NqZUHR2kJjwcg12NpY7-KuAZh8rwVlag/s400/YIMG_3599.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114422052219072834" /></a><CENTER>Gorges de l'Ardèche</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcdil2BUbORwspajph0Zn9VmQv8pgUU4CbxTNcHlcYGIzsy_1o9PA6xGYy_9G8hmkC1W_yzC-w4O-ROS3tADaNJxFrO9H6LQydOfj6YMW908x0UbtMZc1pZxDOxr5rTIqU95E9XI1lsRY/s1280-h/YIMG_3604.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcdil2BUbORwspajph0Zn9VmQv8pgUU4CbxTNcHlcYGIzsy_1o9PA6xGYy_9G8hmkC1W_yzC-w4O-ROS3tADaNJxFrO9H6LQydOfj6YMW908x0UbtMZc1pZxDOxr5rTIqU95E9XI1lsRY/s400/YIMG_3604.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114422065103974738" /></a><CENTER>Meander on the Gorges de l'Ardèche</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEd4ZE4A_faQLAX9oTuWL_2nYDsg86L8-ES7HneaGXlviJeE0S25nOe4Za79IoONT0mpgT69hEG6tM2x2Y3EC5eR10pCcejQWowz8qEigBUOtLc-vjwqk4GQAXQPq0i5wNbjm-JUUZrfM/s1280-h/YIMG_3601.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEd4ZE4A_faQLAX9oTuWL_2nYDsg86L8-ES7HneaGXlviJeE0S25nOe4Za79IoONT0mpgT69hEG6tM2x2Y3EC5eR10pCcejQWowz8qEigBUOtLc-vjwqk4GQAXQPq0i5wNbjm-JUUZrfM/s400/YIMG_3601.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114422073693909346" /></a><CENTER>Gorges de l'Ardèche</CENTER><br />We found somewhere fairly isolated to pull off the road for a picnic lunch with a view across the landscape to a strange rock formation similar to that we discovered near Lake Iseo in Italy back in April. Water had eroded the rock leaving tall columns capped with wide, flat, "hats" of rock. Just as we finished our picnic, a couple of mountain goats with huge horns appeared, clamouring for the remains of our lunch. So we threw them some bread and packed everything rapidly into Modestine while they literally fought over it! They were most aggressive.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidc7oiT9glD7fK2axKHX5m5EA33e1DodBUHYi01BCucow22d_3A0W-wTpSSnDgab6U-7lMaa-NixtdxvnolB5aeqtsjgDlpKbptnFByx8ET5iTW-kl8DcMu8lSD6oJuYWLfHxOY4FIbA0/s1280-h/YIMG_3607.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidc7oiT9glD7fK2axKHX5m5EA33e1DodBUHYi01BCucow22d_3A0W-wTpSSnDgab6U-7lMaa-NixtdxvnolB5aeqtsjgDlpKbptnFByx8ET5iTW-kl8DcMu8lSD6oJuYWLfHxOY4FIbA0/s400/YIMG_3607.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114423963479519602" /></a><CENTER>Limestone stacks, Gorges de l'Ardèche</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQvS9Ae5Kliyg1QiPN6FlLmOI73jnfTtTh3XAntRWFRQ3fZOLOzesGs5jEv0kl3TwE8eVfeKD7HT65Q87q8o9-mIMaLpDQ3uFENcnoecUHtOeoEhhYEGq-Ox9ZILXTismPbX8I6MY5asE/s1280-h/YIMG_3611.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQvS9Ae5Kliyg1QiPN6FlLmOI73jnfTtTh3XAntRWFRQ3fZOLOzesGs5jEv0kl3TwE8eVfeKD7HT65Q87q8o9-mIMaLpDQ3uFENcnoecUHtOeoEhhYEGq-Ox9ZILXTismPbX8I6MY5asE/s400/YIMG_3611.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114423972069454210" /></a><CENTER>Fighting goats, Gorges de l'Ardèche</CENTER><br />The day was wearing on but it was still 28 degrees at 6pm as we neared the end of the ravine at the famed beauty spot, the Pont de l'Arc. This is a massive, natural arch formed by the action of the river breaking through the limestone rock. To either side, natural beaches had formed as the river's meanders changed over time, and the river widened out into a small, shallow lake, perfect for canoeing and swimming. It would have been wonderful to spend the night here and join in the fun, but Ian, who is nowhere near as keen on water sports as Jill, insisted we needed to press on.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM_yJwYaMHV2RR5rMk_sORe_uH_9_zo24u7mS5Eh87q-NqKLXe6b9aObZMMA2EoIEyxy9brUo1aX5OIJpBhfJs93CouMNkVBMToy-v0TW2kaXT6MDw7AG_9AlNoaD3XmqKsBfcLSmjvME/s1280-h/YIMG_3614.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM_yJwYaMHV2RR5rMk_sORe_uH_9_zo24u7mS5Eh87q-NqKLXe6b9aObZMMA2EoIEyxy9brUo1aX5OIJpBhfJs93CouMNkVBMToy-v0TW2kaXT6MDw7AG_9AlNoaD3XmqKsBfcLSmjvME/s400/YIMG_3614.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114423980659388818" /></a><CENTER>Pont de l'Arc, Gorges de l'Ardèche</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXKI10dgIhCWyUV-LcrnhN5vpF7rEUvv5epibbYyoG7DwsSIuS_V8Gu3X9PqETg39BdJbUz7RWsXMROhwrZRk0bze3-kwXTMyEoybB-OZVkdQeSHKfE1s8C3jNsrqJKvxkYkJfuG1Agkg/s1280-h/YIMG_3618.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXKI10dgIhCWyUV-LcrnhN5vpF7rEUvv5epibbYyoG7DwsSIuS_V8Gu3X9PqETg39BdJbUz7RWsXMROhwrZRk0bze3-kwXTMyEoybB-OZVkdQeSHKfE1s8C3jNsrqJKvxkYkJfuG1Agkg/s400/YIMG_3618.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114423984954356130" /></a><CENTER>Pas de lieux Rhône qu'à nous, (say it and think about it!), Gorges de l'Ardèche</CENTER><br />So we continued to Alès. By now our route had almost met up with the journey we made through the Cevennes in 2005 following in the footsteps of Robert Louis Stephenson and his donkey Modestine – a journey they made in 1878. It was to Alès that he travelled by stage coach after having sold Modestine in St. Jean-du-Gard. We of course are still only too eager to enjoy our Modestine and she seems to know it. Alès today is a large, busy town which we skirted on the ring road, passing through its ugly commercial hinterland. We were glad to leave it behind and make our way up into the beautiful hills of the Cevennes, passing almost within sight of St. Jean-du-Gard where we terminated our previous travels along the Modestine route. By the time we reached St. Hippolyte-du-Fort it was time to find somewhere for the night. The grubby little town, in its beautiful setting, did not impress us much but just outside we found a clean, pleasant but extremely basic camp site.<br /><br />As we have travelled south we have been aware that it is not just the landscape that had been changing, but also the style of buildings. In the Midi there are large, old, crumbling farmsteads and peasant homes amongst the vines - known as a mas - with low walls and almost flat roofs covered in huge, pale pink and orange terracotta pantiles. Windows are usually hidden behind heavy closed shutters covered in peeling lavender paintwork to keep the interior in permanent darkness against the searing heat of the summer sun. These building are timeless. They must have always looked old with their shabby, crumbling plaster and rough, exposed stonework. In much of Europe such properties would surely be declared uninhabitable. Outwardly at least, the lives of many living in rural areas of southern France, have changed very little over the generations, where whole families carry on the same traditions of wine production and agriculture as their parents.<br /><br />Yesterday morning we drove down from the Cevennes, across a flat landscape of vines with the dark green and grey hillsides of the Languedoc to either side, into the crumbling but picturesque little town of Ganges. Ironically for a town so named, the huge river that must once have flowed beneath the bridge at the entrance to the town was completely dry. It was nothing but a wide, boulder-strewn bed filled with straggling weeds and bushes. While we in northern Europe have had one of the wettest summers on record, down in the Midi there has been no rain for months!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkx5QMZqE98w7JT9DUaNua1e30XUREiuZXOtWPu7mtZsoumAgJgaV4mgdxIA6wsTKhrEA91tmu2DWq6Pk8XWOmUlnjtnTlmfxnmMo-mzKVzmCBYknXR2ONRiqzOustKjSAxhbAX6w-fjU/s1280-h/YIMG_3620.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkx5QMZqE98w7JT9DUaNua1e30XUREiuZXOtWPu7mtZsoumAgJgaV4mgdxIA6wsTKhrEA91tmu2DWq6Pk8XWOmUlnjtnTlmfxnmMo-mzKVzmCBYknXR2ONRiqzOustKjSAxhbAX6w-fjU/s400/YIMG_3620.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114423993544290738" /></a><CENTER>Ganges, the river running dry</CENTER><br />We walked into the town and discovered it was market day. Markets in the Midi are the best in France and France has the best markets in Europe. So we gave ourselves up to the pleasure of wandering the streets of the town lined with hundreds of exciting stalls selling everything you could possible ever need and far more besides. There were the clothes and shoes stalls, selling the latest fashions at a fraction of what would be charged in city stores. There were book stalls, record and DVD stalls and stalls selling bedding, towels, even beds. There were live chickens, rabbits and quails on sale and a huge tank of live trout from which customers made their choice. Once caught the fish were rapped over the head with a stick and impaled immediately, still twitching, onto an evil looking gutting machine.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfGSG5t5_wH5zoC0llrrsgelYq52eRI3yLbSbvKgXwG1-mSvWikTzrIYKbWSSsOf0pSy9agmYHEBjHcTOz5bXZl_quauSrnZX-v7_PZWD7KyxrVLdZIA5RhDcRxOgfstIcX9W3wYxXFQE/s1280-h/YIMG_3621.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfGSG5t5_wH5zoC0llrrsgelYq52eRI3yLbSbvKgXwG1-mSvWikTzrIYKbWSSsOf0pSy9agmYHEBjHcTOz5bXZl_quauSrnZX-v7_PZWD7KyxrVLdZIA5RhDcRxOgfstIcX9W3wYxXFQE/s400/YIMG_3621.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114425672876503490" /></a><CENTER>Market day in Ganges</CENTER><br />Other stalls were less disturbing, selling herbs and spices, and soaps from Marseilles in a huge range of colours and perfumes. There were cakes, breads and pastries, even stalls specialising in various types of onions. There were dozens of different kinds of olives for sale as well as china and fabrics printed in the bright sunny colours of Provence. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicaHkezWSrMN4iPNZ9ZYlYHpZLT5JBjhnkK1BR9MWY7s0BHDarn6cM9P2Rxcmwi7gPo4xFe4FABVboMFJxWQ3U964MzTv8Weu673cVKmqYsz8ASzaVDx-R47ia3xPnuzjKDM2SIxhXOfU/s1280-h/YIMG_3622.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicaHkezWSrMN4iPNZ9ZYlYHpZLT5JBjhnkK1BR9MWY7s0BHDarn6cM9P2Rxcmwi7gPo4xFe4FABVboMFJxWQ3U964MzTv8Weu673cVKmqYsz8ASzaVDx-R47ia3xPnuzjKDM2SIxhXOfU/s400/YIMG_3622.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114425681466438098" /></a><CENTER>Olives and dates, market day in Ganges</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZVcQFbE1C9dYTaijQAW9VO6utfT7wVMW5H6WPn-BE0ny5FfW0DnoJF_BKw28-tNZT7eY0TkUnenbW4S6Xh8W1G53nGxYI-6XL0F4uvn1niezr0Zl0SG7q7MkibHBnOC2p0l3K9l-lDJU/s1280-h/YIMG_3624.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZVcQFbE1C9dYTaijQAW9VO6utfT7wVMW5H6WPn-BE0ny5FfW0DnoJF_BKw28-tNZT7eY0TkUnenbW4S6Xh8W1G53nGxYI-6XL0F4uvn1niezr0Zl0SG7q7MkibHBnOC2p0l3K9l-lDJU/s400/YIMG_3624.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114425690056372706" /></a><CENTER>Herbs and spices, market day in Ganges</CENTER><br />In such wonderful weather, surrounded by so many fascinating sights, it was sheer delight to sit on a terrace with a coffee and watch the entire town out doing the weekly shopping. The market really is the heart of every rural French community and the characters are as colourful as the produce for sale. There is nothing in England that can remotely compare.<br /><br />Nothing is perfect however and as people stopped to kiss each other on each cheek and block the way through the crowd as they exchanged gossip, their pet dogs, bored with waiting, would leave hefty deposits on the market thoroughfare which their owners would studiously ignore. It was never more than a few seconds before the mess was trampled around amongst the stalls! <br /><br />Leaving Ganges we made our way down the Gorges de l'Hérault. Somehow we never got round to doing this when we were here before. It is truly splendid, the Mediterranean vegetation of coarse leaved bushes, kermis oaks, arbousiers, heathers and herbs crowding the hillsides to either side of the gorge where the green waters of the Hérault tumbled down to exit eventually onto the vine-covered plains. It finally reaches the sea at Marseillan.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfMfxie1dEr_zsF9G9Jb7o853kI3qUPhx-UJxJpF2gxCQcISH2Xo3LnreBDObFeAw0zB6kC7IJz1Tb-nZffEssjWrCXNJCfYFY0vLMCN9TwF9sj3zk6cayCnUHJVOENdtCrc5lTV_5zA/s1280-h/YIMG_3627.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfMfxie1dEr_zsF9G9Jb7o853kI3qUPhx-UJxJpF2gxCQcISH2Xo3LnreBDObFeAw0zB6kC7IJz1Tb-nZffEssjWrCXNJCfYFY0vLMCN9TwF9sj3zk6cayCnUHJVOENdtCrc5lTV_5zA/s400/YIMG_3627.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114425698646307314" /></a><CENTER>Mediaeval bridge and church, St. Etienne-d'Issenac on the river Herault</CENTER><br />Marseillan was our destination too. It lies on the salt water Bassin de Thau, sheltered from the sea by a spit of land stretching as far as Sète, to the west of Montpellier. We have described <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/12/baubles-at-boubals.html">this area</a> in detail during our earlier stay here so will not describe it now. <br /><br />We were on a mission to visit the Noilly Prat factory in Marseillan in search of some special wine. The house we are currently using is owned by English friends in a little village for which we invented the name Ambre-les-Espagnolettes. <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/11/into-languedoc.html">See our earlier blog for an explanation why.</a> The name stuck and we now call the village Ambre rather than its proper name. We recently discovered that Noilly Prat produce a limited edition aperitif called "Ambre" that is sold uniquely at the factory in Marseillan. It seemed the perfect gift as a surprise for our wine-connoisseur hosts when they arrive here next Tuesday!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuLJchG6RT7-uJXigrdBe-uxhU51RAKgXljXCHcOonkxSHxRXZRpvIFQybNHfcWtOAu_1dXMUclTsdKg7PmTJnd-I4cg8cXHFZira_mCbNFVlS_zYw61Vw9yMaok8w7NN49nDo-XyQx-U/s1280-h/YIMG_3633.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuLJchG6RT7-uJXigrdBe-uxhU51RAKgXljXCHcOonkxSHxRXZRpvIFQybNHfcWtOAu_1dXMUclTsdKg7PmTJnd-I4cg8cXHFZira_mCbNFVlS_zYw61Vw9yMaok8w7NN49nDo-XyQx-U/s400/YIMG_3633.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114425707236241922" /></a><CENTER>Port at Marseillan</CENTER><br />While we were there we decided to visit the factory which has been in production since the early 19th century. We gazed in astonishment at the huge barrels, some holding as much as 40,200 litres of wine! We still find it hard to believe they are cleaned inside by a man climbing through a really tiny door at one end. Being overcome by the fumes must be a real possibility! We were given a fascinating guided tour where we learned that two different wines are stored separately and matured outside in oak casks for over a year, subject to all the rigours of the Mediterranean climate and seasons - sun, sea air, wind and rain. Eventually the wines are blended together and secret herbs and spices are added to create the three different Noilly Prat specialities. The one we were interested in, Ambre, is infused with vanilla, the peel of Seville oranges and cinnamon. It is months later before the wine is eventually ready for bottling and finally for sale. We could well appreciate why such an aperitif does not come cheap.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiubvW2Il5fmpiVTpsfJrseJpdpAYcwYa6Rs_sqLUEU5cTL6jueJrXkuARy0ZGKI1hAkPD9BlqmLPTcbeOK9DlQz-ZF63NuB5RHKtJdaIIsideTLZp0VLvPY0AaTo9db49gw4cfkIwtxlI/s1280-h/YIMG_3638.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiubvW2Il5fmpiVTpsfJrseJpdpAYcwYa6Rs_sqLUEU5cTL6jueJrXkuARy0ZGKI1hAkPD9BlqmLPTcbeOK9DlQz-ZF63NuB5RHKtJdaIIsideTLZp0VLvPY0AaTo9db49gw4cfkIwtxlI/s400/YIMG_3638.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114427347913749010" /></a><CENTER>Wine maturing in the open, Noilly Prat factory, Marseillan</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOgHR9k16ZnqbTwK1tXL9ipf6DkWmMrdenVVXVLUMnx-oJqScML10PvC4ZIaoi68Wi56vbVCmRVF9QG6gNCsSeqylqPCkLDMzb6_VRRdN6D_7ZVe5dJOC7Ae9U-12kyJ8obMD1UIxx_Eg/s1280-h/YIMG_3637.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOgHR9k16ZnqbTwK1tXL9ipf6DkWmMrdenVVXVLUMnx-oJqScML10PvC4ZIaoi68Wi56vbVCmRVF9QG6gNCsSeqylqPCkLDMzb6_VRRdN6D_7ZVe5dJOC7Ae9U-12kyJ8obMD1UIxx_Eg/s400/YIMG_3637.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114427352208716322" /></a><CENTER>Cask of 21,700 litres showing tiny door used for cleaning. Noilly Prat factory, Marseillan</CENTER><br />Finally we stowed our ambre liquid in Modestine and headed for our village, excitement rising as we drove. We skirted Béziers to the south – a town we hate to drive through as we invariably get lost and end up in the industrial outskirts – and soon found ourselves following familiar routes. As we reached the village it seemed as if time had stood still and we were just returning from one of our days out. The intervening two years seemed to disappear and we still find it strange to recall all the travels and adventures we have undertaken since we were last here. Our key unlocked the door and we were back in the dark, shuttered house where our fingers automatically found the meters and light switches. Everything looked just as we had left it that icy January day in 2006 when we departed to make our way around the Iberian Peninsula. There are pictures and a description of the house <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/11/into-languedoc.html">on our earlier blog</a><br /><br />We spent a nostalgic evening lingering over supper in the familiar old kitchen where we had spent so many chilly winter evenings in the past. Soon though, tiredness overcame us after the long drive and we climbed the steeply winding stone stairs to our bedroom at the very top of the house. The night was so warm we slept with the shutters and windows wide open onto the narrow street below. <br /><br />This morning, Saturday, we drove into St. Chinian for a nostalgic stroll around the town and to visit Ecomarché to replenish our mobile larder. With the rising hills of the Haut Languedoc national park on the skyline the view from the supermarket entrance must surely be second to none!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwr4uFCjhM5VjnjNjiyTU18xBb_MoVBpbrGt-_r3FVUyb2t5kO3hf_1eDkPxTea5R7WfllyEZrMywUDY6S02N5jCuij7HxLDXKuakIrGCTs-V2RISe2LiPww-fhezhgSORPxGVULBzd_E/s1280-h/YIMG_3651.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwr4uFCjhM5VjnjNjiyTU18xBb_MoVBpbrGt-_r3FVUyb2t5kO3hf_1eDkPxTea5R7WfllyEZrMywUDY6S02N5jCuij7HxLDXKuakIrGCTs-V2RISe2LiPww-fhezhgSORPxGVULBzd_E/s400/YIMG_3651.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114427360798650930" /></a><CENTER>View from Ecomarché, St. Chinian</CENTER><br />Next we called at the library to use the internet in the IT suite. Once again we had the feeling that it was only a week or two since we were last there. The library staff, Luc and Careen, who had been so friendly and helpful to us, were sitting at their desks exactly as we had last seen them. They were happy to see us back and we all swapped news before finally using the computers.<br /><br />After returning to Ambre for lunch on the roof terrace we donned our hiking boots for a walk through the woods and vineyards surrounding the village. The chocolate brown mongrel dog that patrols the village street and keeps everything in order immediately came to investigate. He obviously recognised us and remembered that last time he permitted us to go off on our own we got lost for best part of two years. This time he was taking no chances. Abandoning his usual afternoon activities of barking at passing cars and investigating the communal refuse bins, he trotted beside us as we set out along one of the stony tracks leading out from the village into the endless expanse of vines. Several times our companion hesitated, a look of longing in his eyes as he sighted a couple of the other village dogs locked in combat and a funeral procession on its way to the village cemetery, but he knew where his duty lay. <br /><br />Our walk turned out to be about 10 kilometres. Soon our companion was disappearing amongst the vines, chasing out wild hares, investigating interesting ditches and raising his leg against the thick clusters of dark, ripe grapes soon to become one of the famed A.O.C. St. Chinian quality wines. Never though, did he consider abandoning his duty and whenever we came to a fork in the path, he was there waiting, to make sure we took the correct one! If we walked 10 kilometres, he undoubtedly managed twice that. Once in the woodland our pace slowed as we climbed the steep, rough tracks. He became impatient and left us for longer stretches, but sooner or later we'd encounter him trotting back to find us, or lying on the dusty path scratching and exploring himself in the way mongrel dogs do. We don't much like dogs as a rule and French ones are the very worst, but somehow we reluctantly warmed to this unsavoury animal. Once back within sight of the village, confident that we couldn't get lost, he abandoned us and rocketed off at top speed to snarl and bark contemptuously through the gate where a semi-spaniel was kept ignominiously locked in the garden, unable to retaliate. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk36jdZio2E57RZlu21OTNiZBkJ5qXEY3whG7EpzkjNq1fRlU5hvWyGiYJ148JPrd70mSlM1pGC2rebXrYZAsMfba87eFUGs5lOxcdf0Uq79hSDO2LdoKaBYQu0jt4N1HufODQ7WD1Vk8/s1280-h/YIMG_3653.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk36jdZio2E57RZlu21OTNiZBkJ5qXEY3whG7EpzkjNq1fRlU5hvWyGiYJ148JPrd70mSlM1pGC2rebXrYZAsMfba87eFUGs5lOxcdf0Uq79hSDO2LdoKaBYQu0jt4N1HufODQ7WD1Vk8/s400/YIMG_3653.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114427365093618242" /></a><CENTER>The boss of Ambre-les-Espagnolettes</CENTER><br />On our way down the village street we met Mme. J. She and her family are one of the independent wine producers of the village and are mentioned in the Michelin good wine guide. We became friendly on our last visit when she obligingly filled our five litre cubi for us at regular intervals at a fraction the price charged for bottles. We've been dreaming of her wine ever since we left. So we went round to her cellar and after lots of chat about the excellent quality of this year's grapes and the drastic need for rain to revitalise the vines now their vendange is complete, we finally left with five litres of liquid sunshine which we paid for, and a bottle of their latest award-winning rosé as a gift! She also gave us an invitation to visit the family's new cellar and store room, now almost complete. She says the olive trees near the entrance are over two hundred years old and had to be dug up and moved to their new location once the building work was completed.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsxe9B1XbJyaj_nEqbTs4iYUl_eiGI1XvBySuL3ql4q34Rop5uQg-7UyVqVFc-4zbOTwumhYHWo8k0UHV1ezC6pkAf5BrUzKAnFP8KiyXjfuym3TRVSwRlcEzuIPH2Yj3qjqI4Mbicz3M/s1280-h/YIMG_3732.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsxe9B1XbJyaj_nEqbTs4iYUl_eiGI1XvBySuL3ql4q34Rop5uQg-7UyVqVFc-4zbOTwumhYHWo8k0UHV1ezC6pkAf5BrUzKAnFP8KiyXjfuym3TRVSwRlcEzuIPH2Yj3qjqI4Mbicz3M/s400/YIMG_3732.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114435534121415554" /></a><CENTER>The new cellar with the old olive trees, Ambre-les-Espagnolettes</CENTER><br /><B>Sunday 23rd September 2007, Ambre-les-Espagnolettes, Languedoc</B><br />We were up and away early this morning. The market at St. Chinian is the highlight of the week for everyone in the surrounding area, the place to see and be seen. We wandered the stalls, needing nothing but wanting everything. Suddenly the rain Mme. J. had been waiting for arrived without warning and everyone ran for cover leaving the poor stall holders to cover their table linen, bedding, bread, soap and olives with plastic sheeting. We paused long enough to buy a couple of croissants before crossing to the Café Balcon to join the usual Sunday crowds around the little tables with their drinks as the portly waiter squeezed between them. Meanwhile the bar staff behind the counter scattered cigarette ash into the coffee cups in direct contravention of the EU law prohibiting smoking in public places! Such legislation is not for the French!<br /><br />While the rain fell we enjoyed our croissants with a couple of coffees and watched the mix of nationalities at the surrounding tables. There is a very large resident Dutch community in the south of France and almost as many English here too. Eventually the rain stopped and across the street on the edge of the market, a crowd began to gather. When we went to investigate we found people were being entertained by a group from Holland called "The Salty Dogs" specialising in singing sea shanties! Standing around listening to Dutchmen singing an English song about a Liverpool docker, while in the heart of southern France seems a sufficiently bizarre way of spending a Sunday to us and we happily joined the crowd. The 20 strong group was really rather good. They were all past retirement age and had come to sing on the invitation of the Nederlandse Vereniging Languedoc Roussillon. Their repertoire included rousing sea shanties in French and German as well as English and Dutch. They spoke all four languages fluently. The Dutch really are amazing linguists.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9L678ntGFgy5uBiYD6dAdGb2IYmBXaEpv5QMhyphenhyphen-b8ajLHFeCge-pK4r44N92Nh_WNgJkCVthWrM0CmzyFuPjyzu_CHV1DifFEisD58Dy0vcPZcARYtqcemy02g0I2y2NIOmtS2gr1P-w/s1280-h/YIMG_3659.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9L678ntGFgy5uBiYD6dAdGb2IYmBXaEpv5QMhyphenhyphen-b8ajLHFeCge-pK4r44N92Nh_WNgJkCVthWrM0CmzyFuPjyzu_CHV1DifFEisD58Dy0vcPZcARYtqcemy02g0I2y2NIOmtS2gr1P-w/s400/YIMG_3659.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114427373683552850" /></a><CENTER>Singing Dutchmen,, St. Chinian</CENTER><br />Their audience was predominately Dutch and they loved every minute, singing along loudly, swaying to the tunes and even dancing around the market place. Maybe they felt a little nostalgic for the country they had left behind. Meanwhile the French stall holders and their customers looked on, somewhat bemused by it all but smiling when the Dutchmen sang a well known shanty about a fisherman from Marseilles.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN_mS03NamBllU5b_gySPwiijJxHerrzmpCULigOPmp0vVmiHtT25BR50IN6U3eU-vzx6fry0pZC5nyRx1kKe7Rg2zr_1_kv-O1U8GsDrc7t8Vk43hXe9sAsTkxda3MAxDA7ngFGUd1Io/s1280-h/YIMG_3663.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN_mS03NamBllU5b_gySPwiijJxHerrzmpCULigOPmp0vVmiHtT25BR50IN6U3eU-vzx6fry0pZC5nyRx1kKe7Rg2zr_1_kv-O1U8GsDrc7t8Vk43hXe9sAsTkxda3MAxDA7ngFGUd1Io/s400/YIMG_3663.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114429143210078818" /></a><CENTER>Dancing to the music, St. Chinian</CENTER><br />Eventually the singers adjourned to the Café Balcon for a well needed beer and we wandered off to buy a tub of paella full of mussels, prawns, squid, chicken, rice and vegetables which we took back to Ambre for lunch.<br /><br />This afternoon we checked furtively and discovered our canine companion fast asleep in the middle of the road round the corner. Being solely responsible for safeguarding an entire village is a huge responsibility and even he needs to rest sometimes. This way he ensures no vehicle slips down the street unnoticed! So we crept off through a back alley and escaped the village without our guide. This time we walked to Cessenon. All the routes are through the vineyards because there is nothing here but vines and stunning but arid scenery. The sun was far hotter than yesterday and we were soon wilting with the lack of shade. However, a mirage of cold beer kept us going and eventually we staggered into the town and collapsed in hot, sticky heaps on the terrace of the bar Le Helder which, judging by the name, is probably run by yet another Dutchman. The beer was icy cold and the huge plane tree protected us from the heat of the afternoon. We put off as long as possible the moment to start our return walk but it was still unbearably hot and bright as we returned across acres of vines without a spot of shade, directly into the setting sun. At least we could help ourselves to dark, ripe, sweet grapes as we walked. Eventually, as we neared our village, we could stop for moments of shade beneath occasional fruit trees. In the Jura we found nuts, apples, pears and plums. Here we found figs, pomegranates, almonds and olives.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOf31SpQdEy4yGzphk64ExW4fgs4-_4Q3CbnvPPdPY_qu4f3wZEic7sQyW27jRtK42HSYUT15YXEwe_cYEHJRnJGFWSZLIlPWCGXfPiI65YSPdp7tjNOWmDQ1YRfTLaLWBglUEAp4XI8/s1280-h/YIMG_3670.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOf31SpQdEy4yGzphk64ExW4fgs4-_4Q3CbnvPPdPY_qu4f3wZEic7sQyW27jRtK42HSYUT15YXEwe_cYEHJRnJGFWSZLIlPWCGXfPiI65YSPdp7tjNOWmDQ1YRfTLaLWBglUEAp4XI8/s400/YIMG_3670.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114429147505046130" /></a><CENTER>Confluence of the Vernezobre with the Orb</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlI8taq05Er06SEg3DD_T3BeztJ73jB50iA1pEwQeHTtmXeSCMKwTlg2GF4KYcSnyecIFEXP2LdSJdWYsbXI5wB5nUkAXPlup9rybEqdtk_49fzdZ5HJUSd1i5x3FmZBO27KmKTvjTPA/s1280-h/YIMG_3672.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlI8taq05Er06SEg3DD_T3BeztJ73jB50iA1pEwQeHTtmXeSCMKwTlg2GF4KYcSnyecIFEXP2LdSJdWYsbXI5wB5nUkAXPlup9rybEqdtk_49fzdZ5HJUSd1i5x3FmZBO27KmKTvjTPA/s400/YIMG_3672.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114429156094980738" /></a><CENTER>Parched landscape near Cessenon</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqxpdGrPB7I3l5SwcKqk6aM-AadwrEScX7O2hD9GcgppZIH-hXet6l2VypwvWBUb6yYTSo27kc0ZvZ-Kv7aX_C13JY0GdwxBtz3A7kAHLH5Wc5eEp4AApAYDTYeRLpE4NGZ2CnxtYo6Y/s1280-h/YIMG_3652.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqxpdGrPB7I3l5SwcKqk6aM-AadwrEScX7O2hD9GcgppZIH-hXet6l2VypwvWBUb6yYTSo27kc0ZvZ-Kv7aX_C13JY0GdwxBtz3A7kAHLH5Wc5eEp4AApAYDTYeRLpE4NGZ2CnxtYo6Y/s400/YIMG_3652.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114429164684915346" /></a><CENTER>Pomegranates, Languedoc</CENTER><br />We had walked about thirteen kilometres by the time we reached home where we found the mongrel dog patrolling our back street with a reproachful expression. Our first priority was cold water, to drink and to bathe aching feet. Maybe we are just getting soft but we prefer to think it's just too hot still for serious walking.<br /><br />This evening we sat with a glass of wine on the roof terrace, illuminated by a couple of candles in jam jars, and watched the moonlight through the overhanging vines.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiuxHnMpfgVE6REvSbQXBz672O4KMliKHn1IGXtlH3N-mL39qWL4xs1cQ1Rez5Gvfq3M5clREw7jHKTAjTrZZbayPovi7_FevFe7pZNAuLXxR91V7phj2CqVgk1LWkU8xx1DMsrXOEOL8/s1280-h/YIMG_3656.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiuxHnMpfgVE6REvSbQXBz672O4KMliKHn1IGXtlH3N-mL39qWL4xs1cQ1Rez5Gvfq3M5clREw7jHKTAjTrZZbayPovi7_FevFe7pZNAuLXxR91V7phj2CqVgk1LWkU8xx1DMsrXOEOL8/s400/YIMG_3656.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114429173274849954" /></a><CENTER>Roof terrace, Ambre-les-Espagnolettes</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYSErRFFPGmSLCpi8ypFZnG6-7Nn321qaDfvy4TfYIphZGigcCOOM7APvuE6p6IXEiLGmJgFM98vjkdc0CE8-3aSnjf1dffrHzUMiSSwMshShhAYRyyHN_uNd2p5Bfg0bM8N0boVJfHVs/s1280-h/YIMG_3657.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYSErRFFPGmSLCpi8ypFZnG6-7Nn321qaDfvy4TfYIphZGigcCOOM7APvuE6p6IXEiLGmJgFM98vjkdc0CE8-3aSnjf1dffrHzUMiSSwMshShhAYRyyHN_uNd2p5Bfg0bM8N0boVJfHVs/s400/YIMG_3657.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114431398067909298" /></a><CENTER>Roof terrace, Ambre-les-Espagnolettes</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg98zMVnGZHMvWcMXQjDe5AOcopjg-cSLcYmwfehXf8ush7aNCanIhOPq46kbSozoXZxzOc4aPZjMl7ZGaQAQpWgCJQQHeDOiEGRWR0btN39TBaREgQUwDsg5yr02oowU_d0fBjszYQUIU/s1280-h/YIMG_3658.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg98zMVnGZHMvWcMXQjDe5AOcopjg-cSLcYmwfehXf8ush7aNCanIhOPq46kbSozoXZxzOc4aPZjMl7ZGaQAQpWgCJQQHeDOiEGRWR0btN39TBaREgQUwDsg5yr02oowU_d0fBjszYQUIU/s400/YIMG_3658.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114431432427647682" /></a><CENTER>Roof terrace, Ambre-les-Espagnolettes</CENTER><br /><B>Monday 24th September 2007, Ambre-les-Espagnolettes, Languedoc</B><br />Please look back at <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2006/10/index-to-maxted-travels-european.html">the key</a> to our earlier blog for details of places mentioned below.<br /><br />In every way today, Monday, has been a Grand Day Out. The sun was already hot as we sat on the terrace with our breakfast. It promised to be unbearable for either walking or cycling. We want to do and see so much in the brief time we are here, so first we drove to <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/12/starting-to-feel-like-christmas-at.html">Capestang</a> where we strolled the familiar streets and stopped for our morning coffee on the main square. On previous visits we were muffled against the icy cold so we greatly appreciated seeing the summer face of the town. Next we walked up to the nearby <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/11/storms-and-floods.html">Canal du Midi</a> with its avenue of shady plane trees stretching across the parched landscape. Here there was a marina for the canal boats and barges making their way up and down between Beziers and Carcasonne. We indulged in a little Schadenfreude as we gleefully watched the pig's ear three Germans were making of mooring their boat. We waited with baited breath as they reversed into neighbouring berths and lost the mooring ropes overboard. Ian stood eagerly poised with his camera, waiting for one of them to fall in! Sadly he was disappointed.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEtYUhEQyBlrX1aqGkxpaDQjBZ4uz8sLeUToaD-N3PfbWalEKJcW-Z83iZ65OjAeJN9ndllXIExYZXa6TjPNPiZaMWH35VjvBSao9-R1TEY3LlvcYXToxi2llP0VXdqEHD200zsdBGIw/s1280-h/YIMG_3676.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEtYUhEQyBlrX1aqGkxpaDQjBZ4uz8sLeUToaD-N3PfbWalEKJcW-Z83iZ65OjAeJN9ndllXIExYZXa6TjPNPiZaMWH35VjvBSao9-R1TEY3LlvcYXToxi2llP0VXdqEHD200zsdBGIw/s400/YIMG_3676.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114431441017582290" /></a><CENTER>Street terrace at Capestang</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDt7ny-QXSkFcKENczS4j_CwI1-PO7Y_4BUOjPLA-4m0dQ93JTX9sSG9HeLkIxl5bt_5IM45X-H_05eCz8kWjuhtduH6VTGMw5yPoI2pPdkzMfdkJBvtbMHS97trEiQDNDNVH54Af4hw/s1280-h/YIMG_3677.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDt7ny-QXSkFcKENczS4j_CwI1-PO7Y_4BUOjPLA-4m0dQ93JTX9sSG9HeLkIxl5bt_5IM45X-H_05eCz8kWjuhtduH6VTGMw5yPoI2pPdkzMfdkJBvtbMHS97trEiQDNDNVH54Af4hw/s400/YIMG_3677.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114431445312549602" /></a><CENTER>Three men and a boat, Canal du Midi at Capestang</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTQYej_V3DYfcKtgRK_QJP9Oe2i9mlydqdj1AUBktQg5NhrU7JS6DXlsd0_oiCc6VfItEvtZd42ov5BXPcTA1pdXYZe5lbGKzGqA_PVNBMy7nJw5zNSd_zPMGM1ghqSGgUSM9NJAgtTms/s1280-h/YIMG_3678.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTQYej_V3DYfcKtgRK_QJP9Oe2i9mlydqdj1AUBktQg5NhrU7JS6DXlsd0_oiCc6VfItEvtZd42ov5BXPcTA1pdXYZe5lbGKzGqA_PVNBMy7nJw5zNSd_zPMGM1ghqSGgUSM9NJAgtTms/s400/YIMG_3678.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114431453902484210" /></a><CENTER>Canal du Midi, Capestang</CENTER><br />Next we drove through the familiar landscape to <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/11/cathar-country.html">Minerve</a>, one of the strongholds of the <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/12/wholly-snug-on-holy-trail.html">Cathars</a> which finally fell in 1280. This little village, in its spectacular setting on the edge of the ravine of the river Cesse is today recognised more for it wonderful Minervois wine than for its tragic religious history. We re-explored the shady, narrow streets of the town with the high tower of the castle the only obvious evidence of its past grandeur. Soon though it became too hot on the bare exposed clifftop and we made our way down into the gorge below. Last time we were here there was water swirling through. Today there was nothing but a stony, dried-up river bed.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNJjJ-rR0qXIh6nxpxO5_LOJxpG8JsiKbxbQMWvCXZ26wPwjex37Cp8s6IdeG6Jky_kBgTyIuWjmFVL-IeNmsm-0bR96LaIblql7tvQQW4UvlrF_xNfyH4McEAwm5waBwwNPuwCv5lk8E/s1280-h/YIMG_3694.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNJjJ-rR0qXIh6nxpxO5_LOJxpG8JsiKbxbQMWvCXZ26wPwjex37Cp8s6IdeG6Jky_kBgTyIuWjmFVL-IeNmsm-0bR96LaIblql7tvQQW4UvlrF_xNfyH4McEAwm5waBwwNPuwCv5lk8E/s400/YIMG_3694.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114433330803192578" /></a><CENTER>Bridge across the Gorges de la Cesse to Minerve</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9tQqKfyWJ2pdU3xV5viGmcxe_LcI_Dr9t5xjPFYcO3uwO-nxzpo-QpTzxlIQYiHDATu4Ox2G81_H8V9pG3KCx3QTcgGwBmTVbdSEL98Pv4324YUn6C1B7dip3rzx1ojKLH8_P2qyQwY/s1280-h/YIMG_3698.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9tQqKfyWJ2pdU3xV5viGmcxe_LcI_Dr9t5xjPFYcO3uwO-nxzpo-QpTzxlIQYiHDATu4Ox2G81_H8V9pG3KCx3QTcgGwBmTVbdSEL98Pv4324YUn6C1B7dip3rzx1ojKLH8_P2qyQwY/s400/YIMG_3698.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114433335098159890" /></a><CENTER>Street in Minerve</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2fmoFX_sHPkputD4bk3ffTMxLd0FpS9fCcElQbVhbfJkDQseYhDWfNugLyO627tinr4mMlYpO0wv7o7b29bEf-BZuCVocRl6f3rkSedUGCgWlXQET0QxNrWmiOwLdYCxSVMpz6DM4M4/s1280-h/YIMG_3690.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2fmoFX_sHPkputD4bk3ffTMxLd0FpS9fCcElQbVhbfJkDQseYhDWfNugLyO627tinr4mMlYpO0wv7o7b29bEf-BZuCVocRl6f3rkSedUGCgWlXQET0QxNrWmiOwLdYCxSVMpz6DM4M4/s400/YIMG_3690.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114433339393127202" /></a><CENTER>A gorge named Brian</CENTER><br />Beneath the village, perched on its sheer cliff edge, is a natural tunnel some 150 metres long where the river usually flows. It was the only place to find shade today and we were able to walk right through, scrambling over the rounded stones of the river bed! Nearby the dried-up gorge of the river Brian joins up with that of the Cesse. The bottom of the gorge is an awesome, intimidating place to be, with the baking sun on the dry limestone rock face towering above, surrounded by nothing but boulders and tree trunks swept down by winter floods, butterflies, lizards and amazing grasshoppers with bright blue and scarlet "wings" that open when they jump, enabling them to glide huge distances. The climb back up to the village and across the suspension bridge linking it to the far side of the gorge where we had left Modestine was gruelling in the afternoon heat. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjay_Jnp8GGEfM9MLs5ZWDx9mQo2UUC2N2FLzEE0Bb-dzGE9Uju0zwHQ3vrFsBZqGoVnwgnHYwkGHQycZsnQEPDoj5AHe8tY97n5xctVU7H9aLyvC0-H8FYg1YLQHlJb6M2p_nhcpp9C9o/s1280-h/YIMG_3701.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjay_Jnp8GGEfM9MLs5ZWDx9mQo2UUC2N2FLzEE0Bb-dzGE9Uju0zwHQ3vrFsBZqGoVnwgnHYwkGHQycZsnQEPDoj5AHe8tY97n5xctVU7H9aLyvC0-H8FYg1YLQHlJb6M2p_nhcpp9C9o/s400/YIMG_3701.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114433347983061810" /></a><CENTER>Gorges de la Cesse with houses of Minerve on the very edge</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd63q_fj3d1Cha8R6GgYnS4mUFUPs392bbXz6cpeqExVipLrz8aq6G8rLRZpLtgZHUVO4bq6nS2ARP4972A9ETuXmh_gC3sTAmFo-E4e_d7sOuE0uRY2JcMm7ylG_O93smWm_vw_U4LGo/s1280-h/YIMG_3706.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd63q_fj3d1Cha8R6GgYnS4mUFUPs392bbXz6cpeqExVipLrz8aq6G8rLRZpLtgZHUVO4bq6nS2ARP4972A9ETuXmh_gC3sTAmFo-E4e_d7sOuE0uRY2JcMm7ylG_O93smWm_vw_U4LGo/s400/YIMG_3706.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114433352278029122" /></a><CENTER>Entrance to the dry river tunnel beneath Minerve</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjexzJ5vB2G-YrNZjPIGLYe2Khyphenhypheny3ssiPqr-UHpkKqXlKCa2HM_uhMWD6dIxFe2oMRLNmxOI_1qj4NSPY0NwmVRSbSPcrPl9MO01FVgEAumM30js1gA_QhVfm-WpvMKdPN-sr56makuT4Q/s1280-h/YIMG_3713.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjexzJ5vB2G-YrNZjPIGLYe2Khyphenhypheny3ssiPqr-UHpkKqXlKCa2HM_uhMWD6dIxFe2oMRLNmxOI_1qj4NSPY0NwmVRSbSPcrPl9MO01FVgEAumM30js1gA_QhVfm-WpvMKdPN-sr56makuT4Q/s400/YIMG_3713.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114435516941546322" /></a><CENTER>River bed of the Cesse from the far end of the tunnel</CENTER><br />Our route home continued via St. Pons-de-Thomières, famed for the red veined marble quarried nearby. It has been regularly used in churches around the area for centuries. There is so much marble that the trimmings have been used to pave the streets which look most attractive. Which is just as well really as there is little else about the town that is exceptional. Once off the main street it would be easy to imagine you were back in mediaeval times with crumbling masonry, broken tiles, rotting old doorways and window frames that frequently lack glass. How can the people of southern France accept to live in such dark, dirty, dank conditions in the western world during the 21st century? Meanwhile others live sophisticated lives in the major cities of the north. France really is a nation of contrasts.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqe1YtrLotPhduVL9UJ37njesofDhxhg4-Oe2-JOUjtT4Ni5unUKxHhNjPGy-R0rysH2Uk5vCFh_m-zACXeG_Cfu2FHar_c7ZfUkCsvIerINHGu-wjwllP9Cexwei1S5zPdBnqtUcYj2M/s1280-h/YIMG_3715.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqe1YtrLotPhduVL9UJ37njesofDhxhg4-Oe2-JOUjtT4Ni5unUKxHhNjPGy-R0rysH2Uk5vCFh_m-zACXeG_Cfu2FHar_c7ZfUkCsvIerINHGu-wjwllP9Cexwei1S5zPdBnqtUcYj2M/s400/YIMG_3715.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114435521236513634" /></a><CENTER>Back street in St. Pons-de-Thomières</CENTER><br />We returned home via the picturesque old town of Olargues along the valley of the Orb, passing the entrance to the spectacular Gorge d'Héric before turning up into the mountains with spectacular views towards the stark, grey, huge Caroux mountain in the chain of the Espinousse, shining in the setting sun. Once over the col, we descended through steep-sided vineyards to Berlou to eventually regain the plain of the Bas-Languedoc near St. Chinian.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqg9KOXxpEchrf3dSWo4m3P5Be-ph29of-CFdknKCUQLQzFelqFGZf8khoOv8FMnIN6semP21-Hoif5EeGppyI5qyyazK9wmm-MWuv804obR4YFKr3jjmQlEO52-6OQl-SHiG2Jvsv0ls/s1280-h/YIMG_3718.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqg9KOXxpEchrf3dSWo4m3P5Be-ph29of-CFdknKCUQLQzFelqFGZf8khoOv8FMnIN6semP21-Hoif5EeGppyI5qyyazK9wmm-MWuv804obR4YFKr3jjmQlEO52-6OQl-SHiG2Jvsv0ls/s400/YIMG_3718.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114435529826448242" /></a><CENTER>Sunset over the Caroux near Ambre-les-Espagnolettes</CENTER><br />After supper we sat by candlelight on our terrace watching the full moon and the stars shining in the clear night sky.<br /><br />It may be a while before we continue this blog. Our hosts, Ivor and Lesley, fly in to Toulouse from Bristol tomorrow and will be here with us by supper time.Jill, Ian and Modestinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122859105828936321noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2492360799248419503.post-43664613218335012892007-09-22T09:53:00.000+01:002008-12-08T22:05:17.096+00:00Vendange<B>Sunday 16th September 2007, Champagne-sur-Loue</B><br />We are sheltering from the afternoon heat in our chilly kitchen which even today will soon have us shivering! The garden is so hot it's only fit for lizards and grass hoppers.<br /><br />After the Friday market in Arbois we invited Suzanne and Roland to join us for lunch at our favourite restaurant, La Cuisance, overlooking the river where ducks waded in the shallow water and trout somehow found sufficient depth in the travertine pools to swim. Lunch took a couple of very pleasant hours as we worked our way through rice salad with anchovies followed by coq-au-vin with haricot beans. There was a selection of cheeses from the Franche-Comté region with chocolate mousse and coffee to finish. <br /><br />During the afternoon we went our separate ways, ours being to the internet shop in Salins for a two hour stint with emails and blogs. On our return to Champagne we discovered the Convent building is now up for sale again, having been sold by the nuns a few years ago when it stopped being rented by the Centre for Research into the Future based at the Salines at Arc-et-Senans. We have since been imagining all the different uses we could put it to if we were able to buy it! It's a nice dream but even if we could we are too old now to undertake such an enormous project.<br /><br />Yesterday was the day of the second grape harvest. Roland declared them sweet enough to gather and everyone bustled around preparing for the event. On the hillside above the village other wine producers were already out amongst their vines during the morning and the road through the village was noisy with voices and tractors as the grapes were brought down and loaded into vats.<br /><br />As we were only gathering what was left after the first harvest Roland decided a few hours during the afternoon would suffice. During the morning therefore we drove across to the village of Villers-Robert, the Jura home of our late friend Danielle and her parents to pay our respects to their memory and remember how Danielle, ill in Brittany, had asked us to visit the village for her during our previous sojourn here.<br /><br />Suzanne had prepared a very nice lunch for all the grape pickers when we returned and her kitchen was crowded as everyone enjoyed her rôti de porc with vegetables and glasses of last year's wine.<br /><br />Then the nine of us made our way up onto the hillside above the village to the vines, overlooking the Loue. The sun was hot so we all wore baseball caps. Hugues had brought his sons Thibault and Valentin to help. While we worked systematically along the rows armed with secateurs and buckets, Hugues directed operations and collected our grapes into a huge metal container on his back. He'd then walk down to the bottom of the vineyard and discharge it into a container on Roland's truck. Here nine year old Valentin was busy rubbing and pressing the grapes through holes in a large, flat, wooden sieve. This separated them from their stalks which were discarded into a corner of the vineyard.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKF0qV6pwA5p81JI3TMBr_k5IP2_-UzqKUHVvizxaAMKGkU6ctkrge6YsrwyFRf2RmzFYm1FRpWm2JGwbhLMuIJvh5tBIp4jbVSpTm90-qH9-Yk0pmvbY3nt5IN8EqnZ1F-3WBISJlmg/s1280-h/YIMG_3520.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKF0qV6pwA5p81JI3TMBr_k5IP2_-UzqKUHVvizxaAMKGkU6ctkrge6YsrwyFRf2RmzFYm1FRpWm2JGwbhLMuIJvh5tBIp4jbVSpTm90-qH9-Yk0pmvbY3nt5IN8EqnZ1F-3WBISJlmg/s400/YIMG_3520.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112950643668103026" /></a><CENTER>Valentin gathers the grapes, Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUQBE6h-A9kdpjQmBU1oQ2VV6etZf1zEDuTxwz2VPxIU5r-7whOHNqw4-OgKld1dZhOQ7vw1iNbXVnPi3t3t1gyhRbPgiXM0RCFfdnJVgwvm5TWI_86ADOfYPF7K_DEBEFl9AWUOP1H0/s1280-h/YIMG_3521.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUQBE6h-A9kdpjQmBU1oQ2VV6etZf1zEDuTxwz2VPxIU5r-7whOHNqw4-OgKld1dZhOQ7vw1iNbXVnPi3t3t1gyhRbPgiXM0RCFfdnJVgwvm5TWI_86ADOfYPF7K_DEBEFl9AWUOP1H0/s400/YIMG_3521.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112950656553004930" /></a><CENTER>Jill helps with the vendange, Champagne-sur-Loue </CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIpQqnyxe5RwCgV2Y8nlgWAGL8D7m0iOrlNdWpTvc01UX4BwxL1phuO25ujxmfGO61MZL52OsUPS09bD-dfH5HZ48cv0svtot3YSK5cWH2Y3vW6nDpSMyfbaXVNAoQaRjrHrl52y83fTE/s1280-h/YIMG_3527.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIpQqnyxe5RwCgV2Y8nlgWAGL8D7m0iOrlNdWpTvc01UX4BwxL1phuO25ujxmfGO61MZL52OsUPS09bD-dfH5HZ48cv0svtot3YSK5cWH2Y3vW6nDpSMyfbaXVNAoQaRjrHrl52y83fTE/s400/YIMG_3527.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112950665142939538" /></a><CENTER>Hugues collects our grapes, Champagne-sur-Loue </CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj95i1wlghUmKCiea-D2a7Zv0lVhE52N36iGogtnuo4hXP1_pByn2iYHbTt0C-xZNw63L_r38P8NmdbQf-CHqJtEZfBdztrwptND3W80Ru6nXW0u8TGVglKd2g-P12smUCnUIu6_6RaZi8/s1280-h/YIMG_3525.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj95i1wlghUmKCiea-D2a7Zv0lVhE52N36iGogtnuo4hXP1_pByn2iYHbTt0C-xZNw63L_r38P8NmdbQf-CHqJtEZfBdztrwptND3W80Ru6nXW0u8TGVglKd2g-P12smUCnUIu6_6RaZi8/s400/YIMG_3525.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112950673732874146" /></a><CENTER>Roland and Valentin separate the grapes from their stalks, Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRa_1k1x5E5nNptjYGfUrgJm_OKRhRdT3P3WWnzy5Vxw31k0fjfVj2mJRThvnVNCUNAI7GbYFXDUieMk1Iry_oCJ2_mZUuw-tv8co-fXrFaQPKdMDTghjIDwfjPX11KZugTNX-Cce3-_g/s1280-h/YIMG_3528.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRa_1k1x5E5nNptjYGfUrgJm_OKRhRdT3P3WWnzy5Vxw31k0fjfVj2mJRThvnVNCUNAI7GbYFXDUieMk1Iry_oCJ2_mZUuw-tv8co-fXrFaQPKdMDTghjIDwfjPX11KZugTNX-Cce3-_g/s400/YIMG_3528.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112950678027841458" /></a><CENTER>Roland, Valentin, Hugues and Thibaud</CENTER><br />Even stopping for cold drinks didn't delay us long and by the end of the afternoon we'd stripped the vines bare. Hot and sticky we trundled our way back along the uneven tracks to the village where we tested the sugar content of the grape juice and found it satisfactory. Thibault climbed up into the truck and started filling buckets with the juice and squashed grapes while the rest of us formed a human chain down into Roland's cellar where he had the new vat ready and waiting. Nothing is added to the grapes and almost immediately, being already warm from the sun, a natural fermentation began. By today it is well under way and Roland is having to go down night and morning for the next couple of weeks to keep the mixture well stirred so that the grapes do not rise to the surface and float on the top of the juice.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXIV4dsd6wqgDcBIH9bDr_z7Gaw38EAWLcMYpu0S6WrS0ERvwuVQ0PdXEm9vX17HBsXchlL29yuWJMTwdg0Ch2kn_V22YbslZ6Fic17-eeaw8MU1FGaXGCnjXSevTYN8fAVO78U2KV0MI/s1280-h/YIMG_3531.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXIV4dsd6wqgDcBIH9bDr_z7Gaw38EAWLcMYpu0S6WrS0ERvwuVQ0PdXEm9vX17HBsXchlL29yuWJMTwdg0Ch2kn_V22YbslZ6Fic17-eeaw8MU1FGaXGCnjXSevTYN8fAVO78U2KV0MI/s400/YIMG_3531.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112952065302278082" /></a><CENTER>Our harvest is already swimming in its own juice, Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgq_kwE9_Z3RKctWCTdxHe_SriHeC5PLgMvNMVKbCTpeY28zTZX3otFhO0fY9XsQTPDGAVa8lad_wKmkU4TxwMJHNx4v6Rhanu6ly32A3XIF3hfJGprmd9YaXfpzLktvO5Yekjs15yRM/s1280-h/YIMG_3535.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgq_kwE9_Z3RKctWCTdxHe_SriHeC5PLgMvNMVKbCTpeY28zTZX3otFhO0fY9XsQTPDGAVa8lad_wKmkU4TxwMJHNx4v6Rhanu6ly32A3XIF3hfJGprmd9YaXfpzLktvO5Yekjs15yRM/s400/YIMG_3535.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112952073892212690" /></a><CENTER>Testing the sugar content of the juice, Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnkVj2FmsBcWj6DOvm5PaPprQIs4-hByCczx0RE_ZBGwI2JYlxThnPQtHQ6SPz3x3zRfh6kib7CZzvgjqMe_1FyVC_5hm7oSMHwNZ47MlIhmW9BXt2nnAtsa-mIJhux3o9uKMl_-fhyphenhyphen5Y/s1280-h/YIMG_3533.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnkVj2FmsBcWj6DOvm5PaPprQIs4-hByCczx0RE_ZBGwI2JYlxThnPQtHQ6SPz3x3zRfh6kib7CZzvgjqMe_1FyVC_5hm7oSMHwNZ47MlIhmW9BXt2nnAtsa-mIJhux3o9uKMl_-fhyphenhyphen5Y/s400/YIMG_3533.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112952078187180002" /></a><CENTER>Keeping the grapes stirred, Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-MkEfeI4qg93w6Y-xa63dXIRyF_lbiJjzwqqWRUJZVZxZFHd8qNzGByp7bNawDFqrNdKKATnYT4gVEQPZa_3Kg_iGV7QM_MbMC2oJWEd0KKYxAEKX55vpg9cfBqaulSlLWd2YzW2xNo8/s1280-h/YIMG_3534.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-MkEfeI4qg93w6Y-xa63dXIRyF_lbiJjzwqqWRUJZVZxZFHd8qNzGByp7bNawDFqrNdKKATnYT4gVEQPZa_3Kg_iGV7QM_MbMC2oJWEd0KKYxAEKX55vpg9cfBqaulSlLWd2YzW2xNo8/s400/YIMG_3534.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112952086777114610" /></a><CENTER>Suzanne's home-made preserves in the cellar, Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br />Next we all had fun splashing huge quantities of water around as we cleaned the equipment, washing out all the buckets and the containers we'd used up on the hillside. Young Valentin particularly enjoyed this bit though he had worked amazingly hard all afternoon and heaved with the rest of us in the bucket chain.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Ak7OIZRIlg8JbvsDynMZHemv9WzK484vmXxTkSIzcDaOMOOKrkOM0sSFZc4j5iqZ8KGgaBydYMy9x4xMir_BbhoufohvlbNdtLy945MDUKXBqLObxVJmG3sVpTAdFGmha5JYjAdGUWY/s1280-h/YIMG_3532.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Ak7OIZRIlg8JbvsDynMZHemv9WzK484vmXxTkSIzcDaOMOOKrkOM0sSFZc4j5iqZ8KGgaBydYMy9x4xMir_BbhoufohvlbNdtLy945MDUKXBqLObxVJmG3sVpTAdFGmha5JYjAdGUWY/s400/YIMG_3532.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112952095367049218" /></a><CENTER>Cleaning the equipment, Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br />Having tested the various vats which had been set fermenting a couple of weeks ago, we all adjourned to the balcony of the house to enjoy home-produced aperitifs in the setting sun. Having provided lunch and worked with the rest of us in the vineyard all afternoon Suzanne then produced a raclette supper for everyone with various kinds of cooked meats and jacket potatoes. The raclette is toasted comté cheese that is melted in tiny trays at the table and poured over the potatoes. As the weather was so warm we ate in the dusk on the balcony as the owls began to hoot in the grounds of the old convent and bats swooped around our heads. One misjudged things and dived straight through the open door into the kitchen where it fluttered around the ceiling, stopping to hang upside down from the cupboard doors, while we all wondered how to persuade it to leave. Eventually it found its way out and we settled to a desert of caramelised apples from the orchard accompanied by Roland's vin mousseux – or as we call it, Champagne de Champagne. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDhAt4R9ZfKImeepc3GTkCjQim_4xSesaNHVZWUxDUb1i-_uGro_i5Sa0LXA95xg0kvIJB6ZvV70UzL7CUPI0Yl8jd5xsj0M0tO-1HWf27I1lT0dVth-kz3Bn47UU2Iqd9swshZD2fH7E/s1280-h/YIMG_3537.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDhAt4R9ZfKImeepc3GTkCjQim_4xSesaNHVZWUxDUb1i-_uGro_i5Sa0LXA95xg0kvIJB6ZvV70UzL7CUPI0Yl8jd5xsj0M0tO-1HWf27I1lT0dVth-kz3Bn47UU2Iqd9swshZD2fH7E/s400/YIMG_3537.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112954049577168914" /></a><CENTER>Hugues tests the progress of the earlier vendange, Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWj0NI0FjAKVTcQyDVrWa4J8DOIj3nioQmW2VZP83kZuV-49YYjD74vjOpaIuU6jhej6vKcbHErq77tqaPlg3GJNLsam-EpcXvB9wVDB5ycDLax4Ig2ZahgpfiigRvj3yiwlFtJiEPp7Y/s1280-h/YIMG_3538.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWj0NI0FjAKVTcQyDVrWa4J8DOIj3nioQmW2VZP83kZuV-49YYjD74vjOpaIuU6jhej6vKcbHErq77tqaPlg3GJNLsam-EpcXvB9wVDB5ycDLax4Ig2ZahgpfiigRvj3yiwlFtJiEPp7Y/s400/YIMG_3538.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112954058167103522" /></a><CENTER>Grape crushing equipment, Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBffDwJx8neUhHhc4W94lFmB7VA6hqf65yyTKHoGsI24ICWxQ_vtvvL75JcsByfgalgBpOyCQNM5DwFH2IbhtP6krlk_5TH_-DgADtPfWWo8sWnhOW-6vLkzHecjFPwfTdQIcPicDlXJc/s1280-h/YIMG_3540.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBffDwJx8neUhHhc4W94lFmB7VA6hqf65yyTKHoGsI24ICWxQ_vtvvL75JcsByfgalgBpOyCQNM5DwFH2IbhtP6krlk_5TH_-DgADtPfWWo8sWnhOW-6vLkzHecjFPwfTdQIcPicDlXJc/s400/YIMG_3540.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112954066757038130" /></a><CENTER>Aperitifs at the end of our work, Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br />As the evening drew to a close Roland presented each of the adult pickers with a bottle of his champagne for helping. We felt guilty taking ours as we'd had such a brilliant time and felt so privileged to have had such an experience. However, we have promised to save it until our grandchild arrives in early November. It seems a lovely way to welcome it into the world.<br /><br />Since we arrived here I have been reading the last volume of Harry Potter each night before going to sleep. Somehow time slips by and it is frequently gone 1am before Ian forces me to stop reading. Coupled with the dark shutters at the windows we find it difficult to wake in the mornings and somehow never seen to hear the loud clanging of the church bell, right next to the house, as it rings each morning at 7am. It was gone 9.30 therefore before we woke this morning. As we needed bread, and the bakers in Arc-et-Senans closes at noon, we cycled down after breakfast along beside the river. The little town was packed when we arrived. We had forgotten that this is the weekend of the Journées Européennes du Patrimoine in France. This means that many of the national monuments, museums and public buildings are open free of charge and there are frequently guided walks or tours around the countryside or even building sites. The Salines Royales of Arc-et-Senans were free for the day and, being such a spectacular architectural undertaking in such a lovely setting, it was guaranteed to be a popular place for family outings. The grounds are also used as a launching place for hot air balloons and a two day event had been arranged to coincide with the journées du patrimoine. There was a great air of festivity with dozens of Montgolfier balloons waiting to go up later in the day. There were gliders and microlite aircraft or powered hang gliders. There were model, radio-controlled aircraft and model boats. There were parachutists jumping out of aircraft and helicopters flying around. There were beer tents and candy floss stalls as well as stalls selling hot dogs and pancakes. Families were arriving with their picnic baskets and settling anywhere they could find a patch of shade.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiYsXoEzRFB4vkq8FsVqEbPsVfpVk0Bjk4oSjdiCiFRUQSnbOcpLW2CCLJcmM_6d6Dq6BYuh4FD-qCD7X83T-BBB2bBxAzUvXnmI7Y9Gqchq9Jn49G7St_zxvsznY9chgMlocbQBqsgaw/s1280-h/YIMG_3542.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiYsXoEzRFB4vkq8FsVqEbPsVfpVk0Bjk4oSjdiCiFRUQSnbOcpLW2CCLJcmM_6d6Dq6BYuh4FD-qCD7X83T-BBB2bBxAzUvXnmI7Y9Gqchq9Jn49G7St_zxvsznY9chgMlocbQBqsgaw/s400/YIMG_3542.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112954075346972738" /></a><CENTER>Boys with toys, Arc-et-Senans</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4yV8fGymUkas1P6kFGjOdgmfTrbtakZowE3dhCmwIxTw4JYVLXQ5RgmOKd6U8J9lZKp0jvlLztcSjrcVFw_MnrPBIl6M3pHKxZiEgO8qeGTQ0KG7G2mA6K4ncmIKr6QK8tCHD4F4j69Q/s1280-h/YIMG_3543.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4yV8fGymUkas1P6kFGjOdgmfTrbtakZowE3dhCmwIxTw4JYVLXQ5RgmOKd6U8J9lZKp0jvlLztcSjrcVFw_MnrPBIl6M3pHKxZiEgO8qeGTQ0KG7G2mA6K4ncmIKr6QK8tCHD4F4j69Q/s400/YIMG_3543.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112954079641940050" /></a><CENTER>Jill goes to investigate the basket of a Mongolfier, Arc-et-Senans</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-aWGsXhGwJqAbHrrZzvPxMyQ9dQt-vCyU_aNTB8VhMiRaMDQBldbQAL1xKE6pt4eMLY9ROqOAFlyOo-WvQCHT0faSsSgCzDwf-zqmAV_0cjwYTxuQIqeLig7ztI8TRGPlMxdZxWVtcPM/s1280-h/YIMG_3544.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-aWGsXhGwJqAbHrrZzvPxMyQ9dQt-vCyU_aNTB8VhMiRaMDQBldbQAL1xKE6pt4eMLY9ROqOAFlyOo-WvQCHT0faSsSgCzDwf-zqmAV_0cjwYTxuQIqeLig7ztI8TRGPlMxdZxWVtcPM/s400/YIMG_3544.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112955329477423202" /></a><CENTER>Claude Nicholas Ledoux, architect of the Salines, Arc-et-Senans</CENTER><br />We spent a couple of hours around the Salines before cycling home across the fields for a late lunch.<br /><br />It is now evening and we have now just returned from a climb up onto the hillside behind the château in the evening sunshine. From the open meadowland on the top there is an uninterrupted view across the plain of the Loue towards Arc-et-Senans. We were able to watch as the Montgolfier balloons were prepared for flight, looking like huge, multicoloured mushrooms as they inflated. There were 28 in all and they made an impressive sight as they all took off together into the still blue sky and drifted silently down the valley against the light of the setting sun. Suzanne says the most she has ever counted launched together were 84! She and Roland have been up in one themselves in the past and their friends from Paris keep a Montgolfier in one of Roland's outbuildings here.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ZdW1v-Kej4w2RS_XY9vz2xaTOqUhyKN5Lo6hUSW089gPFUZ8pL-eTMDDv-76b5zZnRQgfSeqOQMp2lBQ3XtaRdiqsq_R4gFebfxinyEZ3qRfWUUfq4puHB04JuEgmktkecdLZQf1z-o/s1280-h/YIMG_3552.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ZdW1v-Kej4w2RS_XY9vz2xaTOqUhyKN5Lo6hUSW089gPFUZ8pL-eTMDDv-76b5zZnRQgfSeqOQMp2lBQ3XtaRdiqsq_R4gFebfxinyEZ3qRfWUUfq4puHB04JuEgmktkecdLZQf1z-o/s400/YIMG_3552.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112955333772390514" /></a><CENTER>Mongolfiers preparing for flight at Arc-et-Senans, seen from the hillside above Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMM6YL0mUmNuptAD7UkbW19gqFphi0R43peq3thrtmQiuK53FetPDXIESFoRSBkNjkJNQbjYJJx_iE6K8BeNcT0wYa65_MQZmdj2ivCt6mWMI4AkkDcbaT6byPEPIkfZv-EQaOVK34J8A/s1280-h/YIMG_3553.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMM6YL0mUmNuptAD7UkbW19gqFphi0R43peq3thrtmQiuK53FetPDXIESFoRSBkNjkJNQbjYJJx_iE6K8BeNcT0wYa65_MQZmdj2ivCt6mWMI4AkkDcbaT6byPEPIkfZv-EQaOVK34J8A/s400/YIMG_3553.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112955342362325122" /></a><CENTER>We have lift off! Arc-et-Senans</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPuFD-qUNJmSTo1yVjD60QqBpzQfMsYNE48H9IA50DrV19nGpz5Po1MVVZXbOFOMHKiXkivVH4zwCYoMOKFIB_rXU2tQk5b3aFMThbirNN90ZBeM_8YeQht6M4peGNCKDQtHgHeD4-9M/s1280-h/YIMG_3558.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPuFD-qUNJmSTo1yVjD60QqBpzQfMsYNE48H9IA50DrV19nGpz5Po1MVVZXbOFOMHKiXkivVH4zwCYoMOKFIB_rXU2tQk5b3aFMThbirNN90ZBeM_8YeQht6M4peGNCKDQtHgHeD4-9M/s400/YIMG_3558.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112955342362325138" /></a><CENTER>Drifting across the plain of the Loue, seen from Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br /><br /><B>Monday 17th September 2007, Champagne-sur-Loue</B><br />At last the final page of Harry Potter has been read and we can start getting to sleep at a reasonable hour. We have both felt really weary all day. It is probable though that the change in the weather is more to blame than Harry and Hermione's hunt for horcruxes and hallows at Hogwarts. For the first time since we arrived there has been rain, making the day hot and humid. This evening there is lightning flashing around the sky beyond the woods by the river and according to the TV we should have awful weather with storms, high winds and low temperatures for our onward journey down towards the Languedoc on Wednesday.<br /><br />We didn't really get going until after lunch when we drove to Poligny, a very pleasant old town overlooked by the sheer grey limestone cliffs so typical of Franche Comté. You can read a full account of <a href=" http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/09/poligny-and-elsewhere.html">Poligny</a> on our earlier blog.<br /><br />It was raining as we reached the town so after a preliminary splash around the streets to refresh our memories we headed for the Comté cheese museum. Poligny is at the centre of the region famed for the production of this delicious cheese. We joined a couple of French visitors and another couple from Germany for a bilingual guided tour. As we heard everything twice, if we missed anything in French we picked it up later in German.<br /><br />We have eulogised so much over the mountain pastures of this area where the meadows are filled with a huge variety of sweet smelling flowers. We just never see such rich grassland in Britain so it is not surprising that cattle feeding all summer out in the beautiful meadowlands of Franche-Comté are going to produce a milk far sweeter than anything we can hope for in Britain. Of course, over the winter months the cattle have to be kept under cover in this inhospitable climate, so during the late summer the long meadow grass is mown, dried and rolled to be used as winter fodder. There are strict controls limiting the production of Comté cheese concerning geographical limits and the minimum hectarage per head of cattle. Only Montbéliard cows are grazed. It takes 450 litres of milk to produce one Comté cheese weighing 50 kilos which is matured for a minimum of four months before use, but is frequently aged for much longer. After our visit we were given tastings of differently aged Comté, of 12 and 27 months. Both were delicious but had quite different flavours, the older one being far stronger in taste. We have previously written and illustrated local cheese production at <a href=" http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/08/bees-bisous-and-la-montagne-de.html"> Nans-sous-Sainte-Anne</a><br /><br />As we drove back to Champagne we were obliged to stop on the edge of the village as one of the farmers lead his troop down from the fields for evening milking. Now knowing just how important their work is we were only too willing to give them precedence and waited patiently as they surrounded Modestine, pausing to lick her wing-mirrors or scratch their flanks on her sides as the passed!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKigFniQsbN6THZfpCMDKeqV7eOzWH76SEfhJDJltoKzNlr68kcPJZXuGR-tW2izgXwkFoOKLkasSSUkEDVOES8Q-sjuyNM9Q8YDuCTvrz8v5dFKgLh1Vpw10uK6T2MMO24X7XUFsGuyY/s1280-h/YIMG_3564.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKigFniQsbN6THZfpCMDKeqV7eOzWH76SEfhJDJltoKzNlr68kcPJZXuGR-tW2izgXwkFoOKLkasSSUkEDVOES8Q-sjuyNM9Q8YDuCTvrz8v5dFKgLh1Vpw10uK6T2MMO24X7XUFsGuyY/s400/YIMG_3564.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112955359542194338" /></a><CENTER>Milking time, Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br /><B>Tuesday 18th September 2007, Champagne-sur-Loue</B><br />All last night the storm continued with thunder and lightening. This morning it had moved on leaving a wet, grey, chilly countryside. We spent the morning clearing up and starting to pack for our onward journey tomorrow before driving in to Salins to buy some flowers for our hosts as a leaving gift.<br /><br />During the afternoon the sun put in an appearance and it became much warmer. We decided to make the most of our last few hours by donning walking boots against the mud and climbing up onto the hillside above the village to take a walk through the vineyards, now almost all devoid of their grapes and the leaves starting to turn yellow and crimson. Beside the vines roses were frequently in bloom and the tracks between the plantations were lined with fruit and nut trees – apples, pears, apricots plums and quinces as well as walnut trees. The fallen fruit lay scattered along the paths, too abundant to gather. Beyond the bend of the Loue the wooded hills rose in blue folds towards Mont Poupet, its summit frequently disappearing into the misty clouds heavy with rain yet to come.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFmPp4hbYmWoYODu01KEvLWBQ7HVW7wBT7sO6jkDB7BRxa6roURwEmZjaELIfK7LUHxnYEp-gOmywgq9UvxHY9GPLG1p7WdcxZuJYcFxI-z22pWTZIptgbM_Yug8rNEfuFH0-uqnBOxE/s1280-h/YIMG_3569.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFmPp4hbYmWoYODu01KEvLWBQ7HVW7wBT7sO6jkDB7BRxa6roURwEmZjaELIfK7LUHxnYEp-gOmywgq9UvxHY9GPLG1p7WdcxZuJYcFxI-z22pWTZIptgbM_Yug8rNEfuFH0-uqnBOxE/s400/YIMG_3569.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112956837010944178" /></a><CENTER>Falling fruit, Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKhhUfKdg70Ussk1esEbb-rsn4OL6UUBNB8JaU7w_-yUp2mZ_aPJQ2jieL6w9x0gYLK-O_yDBeBSlnXJGm_mzlvWt2bkGehUJGZcEMstzmZM8yxlJYGOfXyawyqXzBjp3yTMFWBQZ_RR0/s1280-h/YIMG_3566.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKhhUfKdg70Ussk1esEbb-rsn4OL6UUBNB8JaU7w_-yUp2mZ_aPJQ2jieL6w9x0gYLK-O_yDBeBSlnXJGm_mzlvWt2bkGehUJGZcEMstzmZM8yxlJYGOfXyawyqXzBjp3yTMFWBQZ_RR0/s400/YIMG_3566.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112956849895846082" /></a><CENTER>View from the vineyards towards Mont Poupet, Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br />We passed Roland's wooden cabin on the edge of the woods. He was up there with the tractor working yesterday, tidying it up and cutting back the grass ready for an extended family picnic at the weekend. We will be sorry to miss it. Eventually the track lead out onto the tarmac road that runs between Port Lesney and Cramans. With at least three vehicles and hour using it we decided it was too busy so turned off to follow a track through the woods trusting our luck that we would not run into either hunters or sangliers. We saw neither but after the rain we had to step carefully to avoid the hundreds of long, slimey, bright orange slugs that scattered our path sometimes paired in a passionate embrace and emitting large quantities of oozing bubbles as the excitement increased! We found it such a repulsive sight we couldn't even bring ourselves to photograph it for the blog! Further along the track we discovered a lone snail. This was one of the true snails of Bourgogne and was the size of a pingpong ball! Just a few of these with some garlic butter would make a meal! With its four inquisitive eyes on their long stalks it looked far more attractive than the horrid slugs! <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjER-rWPzCoOPXhIOJgYcCmnkAGztiEiouhX1btxYibNDyO_oCZBAIhQOM65WH8jUwCpn6UsMLRStdqplJoDEZI64xhLRiuxmRAm8uRy8hyytHOmemw97_8ikAv_LoXix9l6Ge2CvQhUgc/s1280-h/YIMG_3565.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjER-rWPzCoOPXhIOJgYcCmnkAGztiEiouhX1btxYibNDyO_oCZBAIhQOM65WH8jUwCpn6UsMLRStdqplJoDEZI64xhLRiuxmRAm8uRy8hyytHOmemw97_8ikAv_LoXix9l6Ge2CvQhUgc/s400/YIMG_3565.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112956875665649874" /></a><CENTER>Roland's cabin in woodland above the river, Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT56SrRnRW_xof25ChR3No-MEcKiDLxGSkpJQfw9_UboDpkUDuVQoOFzf2RIlStttIapE61RhXtsETc4Ug3en5B0kf_2hyphenhyphenJ5hABAAt8icpFbYnaSkjoNvka2del7jQAgC8GgVJnhbXepY/s1280-h/YIMG_3567.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT56SrRnRW_xof25ChR3No-MEcKiDLxGSkpJQfw9_UboDpkUDuVQoOFzf2RIlStttIapE61RhXtsETc4Ug3en5B0kf_2hyphenhyphenJ5hABAAt8icpFbYnaSkjoNvka2del7jQAgC8GgVJnhbXepY/s400/YIMG_3567.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112956888550551778" /></a><CENTER>Slugs in the woods at Champagne-sur-Loue </CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSGx5mJMFOKRf0z6rlfg6UZf5OoPjnpvpJJWZEK2h8E6DDemPOWLLQT6SJqwogogCT5BGbmQnyxuzcnAxylhWC4zS_VQIYMcogNai8vNOq14q5V_xgCrBpTrt4H8uSlMapVAaul_rbQo/s1280-h/YIMG_3572.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSGx5mJMFOKRf0z6rlfg6UZf5OoPjnpvpJJWZEK2h8E6DDemPOWLLQT6SJqwogogCT5BGbmQnyxuzcnAxylhWC4zS_VQIYMcogNai8vNOq14q5V_xgCrBpTrt4H8uSlMapVAaul_rbQo/s400/YIMG_3572.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112956897140486386" /></a><CENTER>A true escargot de Bourgogne, Champagne-sur-Loue </CENTER><br />Today it struck us for the first time that autumn is not far off. In the woodland there was the perpetual sound of acorns falling around us and the track was covered in falling leaves. The trees are now starting to wear a hazy tweed of green and tan, touched with yellow.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AjHXAvaEv7ccUCSJlffTDf7pA3aD2zvOAOCDXYMIT8jXThSsDW9teKhGLCR0mR6fi-Sh0sEqP_NIs0F5O8JYbI_ghdgJp_5WIBgzOa8GX6MWseZJoMQbNn8-4IkXoQIaFeXV0uH-s08/s1280-h/YIMG_3568.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AjHXAvaEv7ccUCSJlffTDf7pA3aD2zvOAOCDXYMIT8jXThSsDW9teKhGLCR0mR6fi-Sh0sEqP_NIs0F5O8JYbI_ghdgJp_5WIBgzOa8GX6MWseZJoMQbNn8-4IkXoQIaFeXV0uH-s08/s400/YIMG_3568.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112957584335253762" /></a><CENTER>Woodland path, Champagne-sur-Loue </CENTER><br />We were back in the village before Suzanne and Roland returned from their visit to relatives up in the mountains where they said it was really chilly with a frost expected tonight.<br /><B>Wednesday 19th September 2007, Champagne-sur-Loue</B><br />We woke to a chilly world with condensation on the inside of the windows and wreaths of mist shrouding the surrounding hills. However, by the time we had packed Modestine and cleaned through the flat the sun was up and the mist fast dispersing. Upstairs we drank coffee with Suzanne while Roland busied himself stirring the barrels and cauldrons down in his cellar, which he assures us, stays at the same temperature throughout the year. By the time we left at 10.30 the day was threatening to be really hot and the hedgerows were steaming in the sunshine.<br /><br />Of course saying goodbye to friends is always tinged with sadness and Champagne has such a special place in our affections that when the moment for departure arrives the one thing we really want is to stay there for ever! At last Suzanne eased us away with promises that we must return next year to sample the results of the recent vendange. <br /><br />As we drove away along beside the Loue the beautiful Comtois horses raised their heads to watch us leave before tossing their golden manes and returning to the business of cropping the flowers in their meadow.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMkPaUEPglxgBHXoiKL6iSTQbToIUuboyl9JS7eyYHEA0dSGD9RLwp09lNhVgFLX1IU8q5nkZTDJTIH58MenRcC8du-CChbcysIxYr-f6C6yCtbrf7WCAhR_aJozRFbl3hyrT81dHIJOA/s1280-h/IMG_3580.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMkPaUEPglxgBHXoiKL6iSTQbToIUuboyl9JS7eyYHEA0dSGD9RLwp09lNhVgFLX1IU8q5nkZTDJTIH58MenRcC8du-CChbcysIxYr-f6C6yCtbrf7WCAhR_aJozRFbl3hyrT81dHIJOA/s400/IMG_3580.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112957597220155666" /></a><CENTER>Suzanne and Roland at the entrance to their cellar, Champagne-sur-Loue </CENTER>Jill, Ian and Modestinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122859105828936321noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2492360799248419503.post-2516401102778022102007-09-14T15:20:00.000+01:002008-12-08T22:05:17.172+00:00Buboes on our butties<B>Monday 10th September 2007, Champagne-sur-Loue</B><br />Yesterday the hunting season opened in France. The sangliers or wild boar in the woodland above the village, and any other wild creature that just might possibly be construed as edible, will spent the next few months pitting their wits against the local hunting fraternity. Our walks are now accompanied by the intermittent sound of gunfire. The first casualty of the season has already happened. A hunter propped his loaded gun against the fence while he climbed over. His weight accidentally pulled the wire down onto the trigger and the bullet passed right though his chest, killing him instantly! From the nearby woodland came grunts of satisfaction as the wild pigs looked up from snuffling acorns! This afternoon we passed a lone huntsman with his gun standing near the river. His dog was writhing happily on its back in the middle of a particularly large, glutinous and highly fragrant cowpat. On seeing us he bounded across the field, liberally scattering turds and hay, and hurled himself at us in an ecstasy of delight! <br /><br />The weather has been superb for the last few days and yesterday we drove up towards the source of the River Loue to Ornans, famed as the homeland of the painter Gustave Courbet. Around midday we discovered a vide grenier being held in the main street of a small rural village. People had travelled from all around and there was a definite air of festivity as stall holders exchanged both gossip and junk. We were sorely tempted by a large metal shield perhaps from a village mairie, painted in red, white and blue with RF (Republique Francaise) across the centre. But then again, a mangold crusher, a church pew and a slipper bath like the one in which Marat was murdered during the French Revolution, also attracted our attention.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqRSOozgsDNm-K9vPzEWgF-Mb-7sLkftaT3EEiFrbOxOnLi5T00sDvWHkXaXOTEYXHbhluLU7jTi8lRr93MQ0AW3-yqlJ-ayBDygB7MmqBTlOkkmzqKvp-w7KdpUvlfjIzQC4Tdsj_BI/s1280-h/YIMG_3439.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqRSOozgsDNm-K9vPzEWgF-Mb-7sLkftaT3EEiFrbOxOnLi5T00sDvWHkXaXOTEYXHbhluLU7jTi8lRr93MQ0AW3-yqlJ-ayBDygB7MmqBTlOkkmzqKvp-w7KdpUvlfjIzQC4Tdsj_BI/s400/YIMG_3439.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110065196368394034" /></a><CENTER>Houses overlooking the Loue, Ornans</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5qliiWqijKNiRaFzUUKoSI6XcZL_1qMcg9niYB88-ArqTG_UI6_wZEgnjP8ncyUu2ocpkZLjORvnG4DNXmbrBymJZxBcaddOmehyphenhyphenv9oM4AwqdUZJMvK24UdM3LlC_KP30ZGlhfDdokxQ/s1280-h/YIMG_3442.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5qliiWqijKNiRaFzUUKoSI6XcZL_1qMcg9niYB88-ArqTG_UI6_wZEgnjP8ncyUu2ocpkZLjORvnG4DNXmbrBymJZxBcaddOmehyphenhyphenv9oM4AwqdUZJMvK24UdM3LlC_KP30ZGlhfDdokxQ/s400/YIMG_3442.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110065200663361346" /></a><CENTER>Chateau de Cléron</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzmyxtRPZBM8jFQUyhXL3rm5gsWZfPa1QR7DdMxZ4j36fI6pYRZmv6faRKd_dIu-HLbKJVDSszTadDKrGzcslGfmBmJgNVuf6ADyoQ6ZCnk2c8oAMnULVa7RG13ZAnPfZ-c29Ple124Os/s1280-h/YIMG_3444.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzmyxtRPZBM8jFQUyhXL3rm5gsWZfPa1QR7DdMxZ4j36fI6pYRZmv6faRKd_dIu-HLbKJVDSszTadDKrGzcslGfmBmJgNVuf6ADyoQ6ZCnk2c8oAMnULVa7RG13ZAnPfZ-c29Ple124Os/s400/YIMG_3444.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110065209253295954" /></a><CENTER>The Loue near Lizine</CENTER><br />This morning Suzanne accompanied us across the river to Buffard where the village historian had arranged to show us around the inside of the church which now has no priest of its own and is normally closed. It turned out to be a fascinating couple of hours as he explained the building and its contents within the context of the religious history of France. We were also given detailed explanations concerning the identification of the various saints according to their accoutrements. The main reason for our visit had been to see the newly inaugurated statue in memory of the Abbé Coutteret, dedicated a couple of days before our arrival by the Archbishop of Besançon. However, it turned out to be the most insignificant part of the morning, overwhelmed by the wealth of other religious artefacts within the church, all of which had far greater artistic merit than the new, horrible, fibre-glass statue of Our Lady of Fatima. Our guide was also interested in French family history. To everyone's amusement it transpired that he and Suzanne were actually related, both had lived within a couple of kilometres of each other for most of their lives, knew each other by sight, but had never realised there was a family connection! He has promised to come over to visit soon, bringing various papers and documents! So it turned out to be a fascinating morning for everyone. As we finally emerged from the church a couple of hours later Roland turned up in his truck, wondering what had happened to delay us and was he ever likely to get any lunch? Ian and I piled into the back and we rattled and swayed our way back along the narrow, partially metalled track beside the river, to Champagne.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevoHAm-XjvuJWQxPnivU9xK9qu4Rarxb6GPQU4a3WzghDyuSquKlUW8Pzggalg-p5LFwv4-YwtSgN4GQYR-w-GA4GqeGHT7YNG5DQ9_n3_e1y4imVjxhcAbBueMzxxXuPbGayEsvP0nc/s1280-h/YIMG_3446.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevoHAm-XjvuJWQxPnivU9xK9qu4Rarxb6GPQU4a3WzghDyuSquKlUW8Pzggalg-p5LFwv4-YwtSgN4GQYR-w-GA4GqeGHT7YNG5DQ9_n3_e1y4imVjxhcAbBueMzxxXuPbGayEsvP0nc/s400/YIMG_3446.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110065217843230562" /></a><CENTER>Inside the church, Buffard</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx4IG-0Ag9pqQXRuICyIMXxOxGxwFKISQRaLmaoJdQ4pwQBsrxXddVVm3zk_Nc0dfsvlb_hC6jzyXUb-tdeA5iEfXspj4IzOBrevuzlo1HMtlHkoqoHKvHgIMWnBpFXBJ_41Y3Qkg1NVo/s1280-h/YIMG_3447.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx4IG-0Ag9pqQXRuICyIMXxOxGxwFKISQRaLmaoJdQ4pwQBsrxXddVVm3zk_Nc0dfsvlb_hC6jzyXUb-tdeA5iEfXspj4IzOBrevuzlo1HMtlHkoqoHKvHgIMWnBpFXBJ_41Y3Qkg1NVo/s400/YIMG_3447.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110065222138197874" /></a><CENTER>Our Lady of Fatima, in fulfilment of the wishes of l'Abbé Coutteret, Buffard</CENTER><br />During the afternoon we walked through the fields down to the little riverside town of Port Lesney where we sat on the terrace of the Café Edgar with a beer, reading the local paper until we discovered enough energy for the five kilometre walk back along the opposite side of the river. It took twice as long to return as we stopped at each nut tree we passed to gather walnuts and hazelnuts. We now have a couple of bucket loads, most of which we will pass on to our hosts. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBLpZ1U8cuAWyWVjAAvfN4cDPVhZtEyQzcGoG026ujoWwrc-IooSJ-Hjmn1B7Fzee7j6dbPa70lpLTKT2zWHKRVeYIpGWNypSEABiyKlsTCGAYoHgzO1_tnOvG6e1Y_T2Fg6AXlwcb0A/s1280-h/YIMG_3451.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBLpZ1U8cuAWyWVjAAvfN4cDPVhZtEyQzcGoG026ujoWwrc-IooSJ-Hjmn1B7Fzee7j6dbPa70lpLTKT2zWHKRVeYIpGWNypSEABiyKlsTCGAYoHgzO1_tnOvG6e1Y_T2Fg6AXlwcb0A/s400/YIMG_3451.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110065947987670914" /></a><CENTER>Makes you itch just to watch! Near Port Lesney</CENTER><br />That's it for today. Time now to scrape that congealed cowpat off our jeans!<br /><br /><B>Tuesday 11th September 2007, Champagne-sur-Loue</B><br />Returning from the internet shop in Salins at lunch-time we groaned as we saw a slip of paper stuck beneath the windscreen wiper. Was it a parking ticket? It had seemed such a perfect place to park Modestine. We were relieved to discover it was actually a note written by some English visitors who had seen Modestine in the main street and could not resist telling us they had owned a Romahome for eleven years and lots of happy memories had come flooding back to them! They said they now used more elegant accommodation and wished us luck with our travels. We felt quite touched!<br /><br />After a trip around the supermarket – the only place still open during the two hour lunch break in Salins – we drove up into the hills high above the town for a picnic on top of Mont Poupet, the highest point in the area. The route was rough and very steep as it wound up through pine forests to eventually emerge in a huge grassy meadow where the only sounds were of the wind blowing gently through the surrounding forest and the bees humming amongst the many pretty wild flowers.<br /><br />It was so warm and peaceful we could have lingered over our picnic of French bread, tomatoes, pâté and coffee the entire afternoon. Leaving Modestine we climbed the now very bumpy track up to the very edge of the plateau from where the world was spread out below us like a wonderful green map. Indeed, with the large scale Michelin map Ian carries like a Bible, we were eventually even able to locate the tower of the church of Champagne as well as the course of the Loue and the various villages nestling in the folds of the hills below and stretching to the hazy horizon towards the Plaine de Bresse. At certain times the summit is used as a launch pad for hang gliders. Our stomachs squirmed at the thought of hurling ourselves off into the empty void just a few inches in front of us! The advisory notice for hang gliders recommended that they should check they were properly attached before jumping! Duh!!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_9KnjX0uHgRxVZkdxVmgc-wJjCSiCbtNLwUxWjQO_H0JTdnzVKlWiw-x6HhbXbsOkg3xl4hZY084qBhATgXMnwCqimo4l1uls62Vw46DoW0lF40Xua_TVNs30sgNN3T3kVJCB8BiVEw/s1280-h/YIMG_3464.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_9KnjX0uHgRxVZkdxVmgc-wJjCSiCbtNLwUxWjQO_H0JTdnzVKlWiw-x6HhbXbsOkg3xl4hZY084qBhATgXMnwCqimo4l1uls62Vw46DoW0lF40Xua_TVNs30sgNN3T3kVJCB8BiVEw/s400/YIMG_3464.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110065952282638226" /></a><CENTER>Viewed from Mont Poupet - Salins, flanked by the two hills that tower above the town, each with a fort on its summit.</CENTER><br />After an hour or so wandering around the edge of the sunlit summit identifying landmarks below, during which time we say nobody at all, we returned to Modestine and made our way down and home along a different route that followed the flank of the mountain, cutting through a limestone gorge and passing through the isolated little village of Ivry. In the centre we discovered a monument to commemorate the atrocities carried out in the village during 1944. Such a lonely spot seemed an unlikely place to have been disturbed by nazi forces. The inscription indicated that it had been a hide-out for the French Resistance, known in this area as the Maquis. Presumably it had been discovered and reprisals taken. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ZBDyDWvOr6Ay4Y-hphkBu3V6s4D6Om7T1fJRC8QQvdhJX9QjoP6grx2kLd7uqkmr8toT3rQzdjEbqhtiMGjYvjTiuBjX2hLdUBJE2NZhXZvDTi80bbq3JMMpb8EozjGXPewRt1yeZ1Q/s1280-h/YIMG_3481.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ZBDyDWvOr6Ay4Y-hphkBu3V6s4D6Om7T1fJRC8QQvdhJX9QjoP6grx2kLd7uqkmr8toT3rQzdjEbqhtiMGjYvjTiuBjX2hLdUBJE2NZhXZvDTi80bbq3JMMpb8EozjGXPewRt1yeZ1Q/s400/YIMG_3481.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110065960872572834" /></a><CENTER>Monument to the Resistance fighters killed at Ivry</CENTER><br />Our route eventually brought us out onto the road back to Champagne at Lombard, right beside the house in which the Abbé Coutteret had been born. There is so much history concerning the Second World War around here. Near to Germany and nearer still to neutral Switzerland, with the demarcation line between occupied France and the Free French running nearby, it is not surprising that there was so much covert activity in the area.<br /><br /><B>Wednesday 12th September 2007, Champagne-sur-Loue</B><br />In the 17th century the bubonic plague, known as the Black Death, swept through Europe, decimating the countryside sparing neither rich nor poor, young nor old, peasant nor aristocrat. Across France it killed perhaps fifty percent of the population. At Recologne today we discovered a cemetery for its plague victims lying in woodland just outside of the village. The Plague struck Recologne in 1632 killing over half the inhabitants. So many died each day it was impossible to bury them in the churchyard and they were buried in communal graves without coffins or shrouds in unhallowed ground. Most died long before the priest could give them the sacrament of extreme unction thus, according to the beliefs of the time, they could never enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Later Suzanne told us that here in Champagne, when she was a child, her father was digging for sand beside the Loue and dug up skeletons from a previously unknown plague pit. We once read a not very cheery novel about La Peste by Bernard Clavel – La Saison des Loups, set in the village of Aiglepierre, just a few kilometres from Champagne on the road to Salins. Healthy men were forced to work as corbeaux – going around the village with a cart, collecting the bodies and taking them to the plague pits where others were forced to dig the pits and bury them. Sooner or later they all contracted the disease and died whereupon others were forced to take their place or be killed anyway. Those with the disease, or having been in contact with it, were shunned and isolated from the rest of their community. Almost all succumbed sooner or later and were dead within hours.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXh1vtluvjLC2k-UgqtDiPxgHbeP4rsIAnv-id_Y8SJ1Rvld_Sl13bCR1TU80XbkllWDAH9rMwIVhQvVkeMmuA22Fvrd9JfF8XbJXOTEbWRfJvZI2Il4Ub_di3Y2Luv3XoHMXoI37jijY/s1280-h/YIMG_3483.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXh1vtluvjLC2k-UgqtDiPxgHbeP4rsIAnv-id_Y8SJ1Rvld_Sl13bCR1TU80XbkllWDAH9rMwIVhQvVkeMmuA22Fvrd9JfF8XbJXOTEbWRfJvZI2Il4Ub_di3Y2Luv3XoHMXoI37jijY/s400/YIMG_3483.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110065965167540146" /></a><CENTER>Memorial to Plague victims at Recologne</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9VsYCKPVfpcI7AdB6AcbLkzfeyWYewcwAp-0ly4b0cnZDy6QElzLUwvp6V7o5UG9cyLwKUhfM6Qx1rta34KVFab52bKlTiJqq5A6A3p3Hm2IqRmzdTL5Yvi4_upNd5H_WEq7FGZfjBFM/s1280-h/YIMG_3482.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9VsYCKPVfpcI7AdB6AcbLkzfeyWYewcwAp-0ly4b0cnZDy6QElzLUwvp6V7o5UG9cyLwKUhfM6Qx1rta34KVFab52bKlTiJqq5A6A3p3Hm2IqRmzdTL5Yvi4_upNd5H_WEq7FGZfjBFM/s400/YIMG_3482.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110065973757474754" /></a><CENTER>Remains of a tree twisted and destroyed by a tornado in 1999, Recologne</CENTER><br />We discovered the site today in a deserted spot at the end of a woodland path along with a couple of picnic table! Somehow the thought of eating our lunch there was not appealing. The mid 17th century was a time of turmoil and tragedy for the region of Franche Comté. No sooner had it started to recover from the plague than it was ravaged again in 1635 by Richelieu and the forces of France who carried out appalling atrocities in the struggle to overthrow the independence of the region and annex it forcefully to France. This was eventually achieved in 1678.<br /><br />Otherwise however, today has been quite sunny and cheerful! We drove across to look at the town of Vesoule which somehow we have never managed to visit before. It is a pleasant enough little place with a few handsome, if somewhat decayed buildings from the 17th and 18th centuries. After a picnic lunch in the park by the river, overlooked by a gruesome statue commemorating the deportation of local civilians as forced labour during the Second World War, we continued to the village of Pesmes, on the select list of France's most beautiful villages. We have never seen it before and while it is certainly beautifully set on the river Ognon, with high defensive walls, it is in rather a dilapidated state within. People are living in the crumbling remains of the once handsome old buildings. The interiors looked dingy and decayed through the open windows with damp plaster and peeling paintwork. It is not clear why this village should have been chosen when there are so many others far more deserving of the title. There was a funeral at the church and the entire village was gathered there. From inside came the sound of singing while the square outside was crowded with people standing around in groups chatting. Most looked very casually dressed for such an event. Suzanne later explained that it is common for people to attend a funeral but not to go inside because they are not Catholic! I have to admit to being astonished at such an attitude today! I was even more astonished, and shocked, to see that the church wall was being used quite openly as a lavatory by certain male mourners during the service! I don't think I will ever understand why the French have such an unsavoury attitude concerning standards of public hygiene. Salin-les-Bains is the only place we have discovered a reasonably clean public convenience since we left Caen! In the very few places they can be found they are usually Turkish and are never cleaned. None provide toilet paper or soap – in the unlikely event of finding a basin with a tap.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ0iOgkoS19h8_Rm45h15D6uTjUEC7jsTRPzB06-z_HEqaGg5LfSQ815MVOmGfPBBDjbyRZQpSeHXprI9gbodl4oQwkZ3s70hb4tInkggDyiT_lhKiF3Iutoz2MJ82icM_VKbz262t1p0/s1280-h/YIMG_3488.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ0iOgkoS19h8_Rm45h15D6uTjUEC7jsTRPzB06-z_HEqaGg5LfSQ815MVOmGfPBBDjbyRZQpSeHXprI9gbodl4oQwkZ3s70hb4tInkggDyiT_lhKiF3Iutoz2MJ82icM_VKbz262t1p0/s400/YIMG_3488.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110066360304531410" /></a><CENTER>Pesmes</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqrhy8pZxRi-8Bkmd7gHTWFzazHI08IzyeLGZE0SccyGUoW4OpB0QDxp01OWtAgW22gsZ7a3vAGrTVoy0TqRB570G-hlEQ1s7zRkeadZ-aSq0ETSlCQDTVZWH9KGpDQpAQCEsDYHsYQM/s1280-h/YIMG_3489.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqrhy8pZxRi-8Bkmd7gHTWFzazHI08IzyeLGZE0SccyGUoW4OpB0QDxp01OWtAgW22gsZ7a3vAGrTVoy0TqRB570G-hlEQ1s7zRkeadZ-aSq0ETSlCQDTVZWH9KGpDQpAQCEsDYHsYQM/s400/YIMG_3489.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110066373189433314" /></a><CENTER>Pesmes</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbWMprhywbQggLBtoy9KzuI3-IY_Lv9ekN9H5ieCHMCgsUq0n0meOWgqNZGKZXhvUdgkWjT9uCtjyIQAzaOTM8tbxbIINkxQAdGu-ewX4oWD9eehq29WlGX359DZ1wjXzy1Q-H7mSf9W4/s1280-h/YIMG_3491.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbWMprhywbQggLBtoy9KzuI3-IY_Lv9ekN9H5ieCHMCgsUq0n0meOWgqNZGKZXhvUdgkWjT9uCtjyIQAzaOTM8tbxbIINkxQAdGu-ewX4oWD9eehq29WlGX359DZ1wjXzy1Q-H7mSf9W4/s400/YIMG_3491.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110066377484400626" /></a><CENTER>Pesmes</CENTER><br /><br /><B>Thursday 13th September 2007, Champagne-sur-Loue</B><br />During the day temperatures rise dramatically but out of the sunshine there is a freshness to the air. At night the temperature drops right down and by the time we go to bed we are beginning to shiver in our semi-troglodyte flat. <br /><br />This morning the sky was a brilliant blue and the day promised to be hot so we decided to drive over towards Switzerland and the Château de Joux. This is a defensive castle protecting a narrow gorge edged on either side by sheer walls of Jurassic limestone offering a natural route into France through Switzerland from Northern Italy. The castle was first built in the eleventh century but was of course extensively reworked by Vauban, as were so many of France's great defensive military works in the late 17th century. After Franche-Comté became French the castle was used as a prison and among the more notable prisoners were the writer Mirabeau (who actually spent most of his time in the nearby town of Pontarlier where he seduced the young wife of the Marquis de Monnier), the German writer Heinrich von Kleist in 1806, and the leader of the slave revolt on Haiti Toussaint Louverture, who died there in 1803. Unfortunately our latest attempt to storm the castle was unsuccessful as we arrived just as it closed for its two hour lunch-break. However the views were worth the effort of climbing up to it in the heat. Last time we tried, also unsuccessfully, to visit it was wintertime and the snow was blowing in icy flurries from the Alps.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu4_mF6hikc37JPF_whGiUo_vmVP5oBjlAyW_P4ExvUag82VNWGWxhAZ9IEKWmqY-JjIcM9FgAYjpCY6zPEe5fuNa2_6_oSTLpR4v3LWVUabAvBp2BvKZd33poxkWrAklyScbr6lLFfZo/s1280-h/YIMG_3496.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu4_mF6hikc37JPF_whGiUo_vmVP5oBjlAyW_P4ExvUag82VNWGWxhAZ9IEKWmqY-JjIcM9FgAYjpCY6zPEe5fuNa2_6_oSTLpR4v3LWVUabAvBp2BvKZd33poxkWrAklyScbr6lLFfZo/s400/YIMG_3496.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110066381779367938" /></a><CENTER>Chateau de Joux</CENTER><br />We entered Switzerland through the mountain village of Les Fourgs, which claims to be the roof of the Haute-Doubs, where huge dilapidated farm houses straggled along the main street. It was here that Jill used sometimes to spend the weekend with Françoise and her family when we were both working at the convent school in Champagne back in 1961/2. In those distant days we would take the train up to Pontarlier on Friday afternoon, collect Françoise's youngest sister from her convent boarding school in the town and take the evening bus along the valley, past the Chateau de Joux and turn off up the steep route leading to the highest plateau of the Jura massive and the village of Les Fourgs. The snow would be feet deep beside the road and morning and evening the plough would be out keeping the route open for the bus and farm vehicles.<br /><br />Françoise's parents home was an enormous wooden building with a steep roof to throw off the snow. One side was living accommodation, the other the barn and stable for the cattle. In the warm kitchen cooking was done on an iron range fuelled by wood from the surrounding pine forests. The door opened directly from the kitchen into the stable where the cattle were all inside over the winter period. Their warmth helped raise the temperature in the chilly bedroom above where we climbed a ladder from the stable at night to sleep. Rural France was still very Catholic at that time and our bedroom walls had several holy pictures and a crucifix for decoration. Through the low window we could see the winter ski slopes behind the house. Back in those days such an experience for an English teenager was something rare, as was the chance to learn to ski. I cannot claim to be a naturally gifted skier, indeed Françoise spent most of the afternoon pulling me out of snowdrifts and turning me the right way up again! It was the first and last time I ever tried skiing, though it was certainly good fun. The best bit though was returning to the house to change into dry clothes and sit by the fire reading Tintin in French while one of the family's rabbits simmered in a pot on the iron stove for supper. (Many of the rural inhabitants here still keep cages of rabbits as a winter source of fresh meat.)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3YLG6lLRm40aBPWF6ze9UGCz9a19Gi3cmUqfZ1zx6ME9vFeqHHzIQsUHkvPICyE4cHLzt0ysCCygWyl9HZCV12Tvh4H7c0PpTdY14KoBovBVtpdybBuaVy8RY3y7INNWy8nCkAsjFZf8/s1280-h/YIMG_3497.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3YLG6lLRm40aBPWF6ze9UGCz9a19Gi3cmUqfZ1zx6ME9vFeqHHzIQsUHkvPICyE4cHLzt0ysCCygWyl9HZCV12Tvh4H7c0PpTdY14KoBovBVtpdybBuaVy8RY3y7INNWy8nCkAsjFZf8/s400/YIMG_3497.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110066386074335250" /></a><CENTER>Typical old farmhouse in Les Fourgs, perhaps once the home of Françoise</CENTER><br />Just up the road, even nearer the border with Switzerland, lived one of Françoise's married sisters. We would walk up the village street, the snow piled beside the road higher than we were, to visit her. She taught me how to assemble cuckoo clocks – a cottage industry for many women at that time. One day we walked on up to the Swiss border where we eventually persuaded the frontier guard, who came from the village, to allow me through into Switzerland for a brief walk as I had stupidly left my passport back at the school in Champagne.<br /><br />Les Fourgs is very different today. There are still some of the old farm houses on the main street but also many newer developments as the village has become a winter ski resort. There are chalets and flats for rent and places for hiring skis and all the accompanying equipment. We found it impossible to be certain of the family home but think we found the right one, or if not, it was very similar. The family name appears several times on the war memorial in front of the mairie. One young man was lost at Verdun in 1916, another in 1918 and a third during the Second World War. From official notices pinned up outside the mairie we saw that the present mayor is also a member of the family, possible Françoise's brother.<br /><br />We are still in contact with Françoise. She and her husband Eugène live at Amancey, about thirty kilometres from Champagne, leading an almost self-sufficient lifestyle and have become honey producers. <br /><br />I may have had trouble getting across the French/Swiss border all those years ago but today it was completely deserted as we drove across. Almost immediately the landscape and villages were subtly different. Wide green pastures swept up to the darker green of the pine forests above. In the meadows were the remains of the yellow gentian plants from which a powerful digestive is distilled. Cattle roamed across the fields, held together as a troop by the continuous gentle clanking of the bells they each wore around their necks. Scattered across the hillside, were isolated farmsteads in huge wooden chalets. They all looked smart with their bright shutters and troughs of flowers, so unlike the untidy collection of dilapidated wooden buildings in Les Fourgs.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw1w3hBGA_3tSqL0xlVl-rGw48PWfK2shaetpnOGH91ffd5xq_dxBYQ4M8j3hUi3Jrs9Pzt-g6Yl7NVZhGlZPTGBJq9p3CCTAP9BUA7Nayr9-UmzZe4W-ND33xFSgox4wq5YxHBD4smUc/s1280-h/YIMG_3507.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw1w3hBGA_3tSqL0xlVl-rGw48PWfK2shaetpnOGH91ffd5xq_dxBYQ4M8j3hUi3Jrs9Pzt-g6Yl7NVZhGlZPTGBJq9p3CCTAP9BUA7Nayr9-UmzZe4W-ND33xFSgox4wq5YxHBD4smUc/s400/YIMG_3507.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110066794096228386" /></a><CENTER>Typical farm in a Swiss pasture</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs52KEDYkLZjd1zj5dbzPIR54ofIy4IP9QVbzLXjcbfbB5qUULXShwGSx8ombXNVI64fTrQXWgyWAkegAIWDq1djTRw0Wsf4oVdQEvQ-UdfNETaWaq87ijfBSe_sSnE5pvIqCD0sv6h8I/s1280-h/YIMG_3511.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs52KEDYkLZjd1zj5dbzPIR54ofIy4IP9QVbzLXjcbfbB5qUULXShwGSx8ombXNVI64fTrQXWgyWAkegAIWDq1djTRw0Wsf4oVdQEvQ-UdfNETaWaq87ijfBSe_sSnE5pvIqCD0sv6h8I/s400/YIMG_3511.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110066798391195698" /></a><CENTER>Cowbells and an alpine pasture</CENTER><br />We stopped for lunch in a deep ravine as we descended steeply down towards the valley floor. Around us the sharp grey rock and forests of pine trees hemmed us in - the Swiss mountains are very different from the sheer, flat escarpments of the French Jura. During the afternoon we followed mountain roads up towards Le Locle, lying to the north of the lake of Neuchâtel. Time was passing too quickly for us to drive as far as Neuchâtel, so we stopped for a walk around Fleurier, one of the tidy little Swiss towns we passed through before turning up a steep winding road that lead us back into France as inconspicuously as we had left it. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWyKLn98xdHY46XCW_0Oi1P0YKQt-_lvFdkqxKooqF9AYvVCP8vNKkhM8mXddbbVLcaKdhjJ_pHpUw4pentWlU4cbuCZDnXXEgY2f49Jrx1NIW0N2vT_2DYQeBglzSrmyrrdOWNbVQn68/s1280-h/YIMG_3505.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWyKLn98xdHY46XCW_0Oi1P0YKQt-_lvFdkqxKooqF9AYvVCP8vNKkhM8mXddbbVLcaKdhjJ_pHpUw4pentWlU4cbuCZDnXXEgY2f49Jrx1NIW0N2vT_2DYQeBglzSrmyrrdOWNbVQn68/s400/YIMG_3505.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110066806981130306" /></a><CENTER>Main square, Fleurier, Switzerland</CENTER><br />We reached home a couple of hours later, travelling along near deserted roads all the way, passing through woodland, tiny villages and pastures bounded by dry-stone walls. Occasionally we would hear the distant clanging of cowbells. <br /><br />We both felt in need of a walk after so much driving today. The sun was still warm and bright so we strolled across the plain below the village to the banks of the Loue, stopping to gather yet more walnuts on the way. It was dusk by the time we returned and already the heat was draining from the day.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ3EcxgDlW_zTfLRcHSq1lDkmcAg1iQ0J05NfT-fWkUIEKnu3DetRUuyy0GlTzNyxE9rfj0EcpJwkzY7cWGnfIUXvklpKeTFrqA9NZfDf03KuNUDqthTLB6LSJXYZMGruh8ieYQf6aYr8/s1280-h/YIMG_3513.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ3EcxgDlW_zTfLRcHSq1lDkmcAg1iQ0J05NfT-fWkUIEKnu3DetRUuyy0GlTzNyxE9rfj0EcpJwkzY7cWGnfIUXvklpKeTFrqA9NZfDf03KuNUDqthTLB6LSJXYZMGruh8ieYQf6aYr8/s400/YIMG_3513.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110066815571064914" /></a><CENTER>Champagne sur Loue at sunset, from the banks of the Loue looking towards Mont Poupet</CENTER><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl0Na-opJ6JGkOgmIOJIyHT3VeWmY1oUzmxVzzA3B3ONfuGYnZSV04AYtFT4qdv-3JFHKXGFWPSZjxB5b7lrCbojsBuYsRyez5wSWgM6NvaHW6N8_dFbJ04vcyuiVbtAPwjqMHhWRcHFY/s1280-h/YIMG_3514.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl0Na-opJ6JGkOgmIOJIyHT3VeWmY1oUzmxVzzA3B3ONfuGYnZSV04AYtFT4qdv-3JFHKXGFWPSZjxB5b7lrCbojsBuYsRyez5wSWgM6NvaHW6N8_dFbJ04vcyuiVbtAPwjqMHhWRcHFY/s400/YIMG_3514.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110066819866032226" /></a><CENTER>The old convent or chateau at Champagne, from where Jill once worked as an English teacher.</CENTER>Jill, Ian and Modestinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122859105828936321noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2492360799248419503.post-17696623125773428172007-08-30T10:41:00.000+01:002007-09-11T11:05:13.854+01:00Back to France<B>Saturday 1st September 2007, On board Barfleur crossing from Poole to Cherbourg</B><br /><br />We were back in Devon for just a month. Time to see our children and a few friends and to bring the garden back under reasonable control. It was good to see our home again and to appreciate how lucky we are to have it there to return to. After four months squashed together in Modestine we suddenly had so much space we could spend our days almost without seeing each other - Ian digging up potatoes at the bottom of the garden and Jill sorting through cobweb covered baby equipment in the attic. Best of all though was having our own bathroom and the occasional chance to lounge in bed with an interesting book and a mug of tea in the morning.<br /><br />We had intended to return to Champagne-sur-Loue on our way back from Eastern Europe and the Balkans but after our debit card troubles we were obliged to return more directly to Caen to collect our replacement cards. So we promised our friends Suzanne and Roland that we would return to help them with the grape harvest. Their personal vineyard is quite small and the wine produced is not sold commercially. For a few days in September therefore family and friends converge on the hillside above the village to gather in the grapes. We arranged to arrive in the Jura around 5th September, but Susanne phoned yesterday to say that because of the wet summer the grapes were rotting and would need gathering this weekend. So by the time we arrive it is likely that the first harvest will have finished. However, a second picking is expected in a week or so, as many grapes are not yet ready.<br /><br />Geneviève also phoned to say we are expected for an extended family lunch on Sunday with a dozen or so guests. As usual she is hoping for good weather so we can eat in the garden. It will be good to see everyone again and especially to meet Ayden, the baby son of Lucas and Nisha born last April. (Lucas is Geneviève's nephew whom we have known since he was a baby himself, while Nisha is the daughter of <a href="http://maxtedtravelstrinidad.blogspot.com/2007/02/wednesday-14th-february-2007-simla.html">Shirley and Nazir who welcomed us so warmly on our visit to Trinidad last February</a>.)<br /><br />We have not rented out our house this time as we will be home in early October in good time for the expected arrival of our first grandchild on 5th November. An evening of national celebration is expected to herald its arrival with fireworks and bonfires throughout the country. We are unsure how becoming grandparents will affect our desire to travel. For a few months at least we will probably limit ourselves to shorter, more exotic trips and start investigating Britain in greater depth. Possible candidates for future blogs are Mexico and the Maya sites of the Yucatan, and nearer to home, Pontypridd, Southend and Neasden.<br /><br /><B>Thursday 6th September 2007, Champagne-sur-Loue, Jura</B><br />After a couple of days in Caen with Geneviève and her family, where we were spoilt and indulged as much as ever, we have moved on to the Jura in Eastern France not far from the border with Switzerland.<br /><br />Before we left Caen however, we took part in a belated family birthday celebration for Yves, Geneviève's brother, together with a dozen members of the family. We were thus able to meet baby Ayden, Yves grandson, which was a particular pleasure. Today Nisha is flying to Trinidad to introduce him to his other grandparents, Shirley and Nazir. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQdlJaRL5NVUwCEn91lSXVBcOuHAmjpBiaTl3bDipt6ValBNgFL1l26xEOK7tfrh17AocbDKCXRQMyGc7eO36wE7bvKSsYMPjcPK1CRP9-7PXOOmE7MEaWjeCl200B2udFOrPkQekX1w/s1280-h/YIMG_3370.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQdlJaRL5NVUwCEn91lSXVBcOuHAmjpBiaTl3bDipt6ValBNgFL1l26xEOK7tfrh17AocbDKCXRQMyGc7eO36wE7bvKSsYMPjcPK1CRP9-7PXOOmE7MEaWjeCl200B2udFOrPkQekX1w/s400/YIMG_3370.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108876825403879410" /></a><CENTER>Ian meets Ayden</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxgjQ39LffpP4Y988Lj_LuGtE-rodamcnhsFMvPDSZFOtyZP8NH7zZmIFxvNlOpgKGOIheWBXKX8Wp7618Uf2ctIgOr_wViLY3eNhZE8tCIwI0JKkGNDfgrzkC5VzuLsvCRlk-1jrUGk/s1280-h/YIMG_3373.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxgjQ39LffpP4Y988Lj_LuGtE-rodamcnhsFMvPDSZFOtyZP8NH7zZmIFxvNlOpgKGOIheWBXKX8Wp7618Uf2ctIgOr_wViLY3eNhZE8tCIwI0JKkGNDfgrzkC5VzuLsvCRlk-1jrUGk/s400/YIMG_3373.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108876833993814018" /></a><CENTER>Nisha and Ayden</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiU3KCxGYy05mxBfYSjhndxEjNA3-W16lrizpqdHeyCJ_Yhs910PeoUcBAZY9k8f4pIf7s2gy0RcJL7fYZgJl2z3EHcbehufD-UkFM7vuQc-WEgC0Fb3-_-pn26Nm-kvBaQ9p3CFID5rQ/s1280-h/YIMG_3385.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiU3KCxGYy05mxBfYSjhndxEjNA3-W16lrizpqdHeyCJ_Yhs910PeoUcBAZY9k8f4pIf7s2gy0RcJL7fYZgJl2z3EHcbehufD-UkFM7vuQc-WEgC0Fb3-_-pn26Nm-kvBaQ9p3CFID5rQ/s400/YIMG_3385.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108876851173683218" /></a><CENTER>Yves, Ayden and a birthday cake</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuFGv2ZqyyEA9xoAsuk_OTqmS2E1ydQ_ephJt7u5zQrgJ8kSp5U13BHfOSFP-hmQR5HQcuMPAC3qc0qT_9ra7Zjl-0ztkC_nz24HexVC393l5cT5gg40DpaIQeePJ-b_I9rwR54W1kyA8/s1280-h/YIMG_3387.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuFGv2ZqyyEA9xoAsuk_OTqmS2E1ydQ_ephJt7u5zQrgJ8kSp5U13BHfOSFP-hmQR5HQcuMPAC3qc0qT_9ra7Zjl-0ztkC_nz24HexVC393l5cT5gg40DpaIQeePJ-b_I9rwR54W1kyA8/s400/YIMG_3387.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108876864058585122" /></a><CENTER>Yves and Geneviève</CENTER><br />We were also able to join our friends from Caen libaries, Benedicte and Marie Françoise for supper, and Odile for coffee. It is always a pleasure to see our Caen friends again but regrettably time is never enough to see everyone each time.<br /><br />Geneviève has discovered a collection of documents concerning the book trade in Basse-Normandie. At the time of his death Alain had been working on these as part of a national project to document 18th century book trade personnel across France. Ian has been sorting through the papers and has made contact with the compilers in Paris who are showing considerable interest in the several hundred detailed records Alain has compiled. It is exciting that Ian may be able to assist them to bring Alain's research to a conclusion as a posthumous publication that will be a valued contribution to the project.<br /><br />When we first retired we stayed here in Champagne with our friends Suzanne and Roland for several weeks. Those blogs, setting the scene and describing the area can be seen at <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/08/champagne-sur-loue-at-last_22.html">Champagne-sur-Loue at last</a> and the entries that follow.<br /><br />We arrived here around 7pm last night after two days of fairly uneventful but tiring travel across France along mainly departmental roads. Tuesday night we spent on a chilly campsite at Gien on the Loire. Once the warmth has gone from the day the evenings are starting to feel really chilly. Trying to find yet another route between Caen and here we ended up spending most of the first day crossing the flat, uninteresting plains of northern France where the wheat and yellow rape had already been harvested leaving vast fields of stubble as far as the eye could see. From many kilometres away the towers of Chartres cathedral showed across the empty landscape. Anxious to arrive in Champagne in good time and having seen the Cathedral several years ago we did not stop to visit. <br /><br />We continued, bypassing Orléans, following the north bank of the Loire to Gien. Next we made our way eastward through the wooded and hilly national park of the Morvan - once the homeland of the former French president François Mitterand. Here we stopped for a stroll beside the Lac des Settons, actually a reservoir prettily set in the hills, surrounded by pine forests. In the warm afternoon sunshine there were several pleasure boats plying the lake, filled mainly with large groups of retired French holidaymakers, all thoroughly enjoying themselves.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinKg4lTdo509Hg0tkPQDtGap-8ujFmmw3jmj_GcpN10Nn7Vbux-KviiPm4G0zWPQdyZHokDYD3_bmbIUGsDEZFUODfnrydn_Md1PWgIbUV55IFfoZvSEjNc1wLaaD8jGC10bE-rQLesjg/s1280-h/YIMG_3392.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinKg4lTdo509Hg0tkPQDtGap-8ujFmmw3jmj_GcpN10Nn7Vbux-KviiPm4G0zWPQdyZHokDYD3_bmbIUGsDEZFUODfnrydn_Md1PWgIbUV55IFfoZvSEjNc1wLaaD8jGC10bE-rQLesjg/s400/YIMG_3392.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108876872648519730" /></a><CENTER>Lac des Settons</CENTER><br />At Autun we stopped for a quick visit to admire the romanesque tympanum over the west door of the Cathedral. It was too dark and filled with scaffolding to see much of the interior. The lady in the tourist office confounded us by asking "Etes-vous venus en triomphe?" Why would we be triumphant? Seeing our blank stares she explained there was an English rally of old Triumph vehicles in town today! The town is of Roman origin with several notable sites to visit including a theatre and a temple of Janus. However, we were expected for supper with Suzanne and Roland and were already very late so another visit to Autun is called for.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifW0npbGPhbP6rEBsa6b9Poz8fJs9uG7V-sZrlJxAc9AXQycS32wsHTlwh28Vlx4HlzLsI5rTu45i_BX62IPHMu4A-cAFdzlFhB0utJedJvN7JVJJF54GYjBaFwvjinc_ClbDwUbpsNAA/s1280-h/YIMG_3396.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifW0npbGPhbP6rEBsa6b9Poz8fJs9uG7V-sZrlJxAc9AXQycS32wsHTlwh28Vlx4HlzLsI5rTu45i_BX62IPHMu4A-cAFdzlFhB0utJedJvN7JVJJF54GYjBaFwvjinc_ClbDwUbpsNAA/s400/YIMG_3396.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108877254900609090" /></a><CENTER>Tympanum at the cathedral, Autun</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSZ2kMpGERLK8nfAx-fum4IBNqZ_33HonI6STa8YKKRY6qPV90jCP4tVuDdZslPejo4y1iHndP6cyV8q1sGBDDFLRfM6oSZaKGOfLsjgxDOJsEu6n6U4CbuFlBlof_g-c8_H7uf75qT5Y/s1280-h/YIMG_3397.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSZ2kMpGERLK8nfAx-fum4IBNqZ_33HonI6STa8YKKRY6qPV90jCP4tVuDdZslPejo4y1iHndP6cyV8q1sGBDDFLRfM6oSZaKGOfLsjgxDOJsEu6n6U4CbuFlBlof_g-c8_H7uf75qT5Y/s400/YIMG_3397.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108877272080478290" /></a><CENTER>Roman gateway at the entrance to Autun</CENTER><br />Once we arrived we were greeted with the traditional warm welcome. After our long and tiring journey it was such a delight to find ourselves once again with our friends around the large wooden table in the kitchen that overlooks the grounds of the old convent where Jill once taught English. Beaming at an excuse to try out a selection of his own wines Roland poured liberal quantities of ratafia (grape juice reinforced with eau de vie) to accompany the dried sausage we nibbled as an aperitif before moving on to his red wine with the main meal followed by his vin mousseux with the desert – an apricot tart made from their own fruit. The foaming cascade of wine was for us every bit a good as a traditional champagne with a rich fruity flavour and a golden sparkle.<br /><br />By the time we reached the coffee our French had degenerated into incomprehensible rubbish, though our friends seemed somehow to understand us well enough. The evening ended abruptly when Ian excused himself and rushed downstairs to our flat feeling sick. The combination of two days of tiring travelling, not drinking enough water and then drinking too much wine and coffee had taken its toll. By the time Jill followed him downstairs – feeling well hard and happy to be back - he was sound asleep. This morning he woke at 9 feeling fine again.<br /><br />Today has been spent settling in again and taking an afternoon walk beside the Loue and across the fields to the neighbouring village of Buffard with Suzanne and her friend Colette. The sun was warm and bright, reflecting off the green, fast-flowing waters of the Loue where fish swam in the shallows, no doubt thankful that the fishing season has finally ended and that from Sunday it is the turn of the wild boars in the surrounding woods to avoid the wiles of the local hunters. Both Champagne and Buffard are looking smarter each time we visit. Within commuting distance of Besançon luxury new homes are starting to appear on the edges of the villages but the white stone houses with their large arched doors look far better cared for than in the past. In the 1960s it used to be possible to buy a property in the village for little more than the price of a new car! <br /><br />Along the garden walls and across the façades of the huge old houses vines support huge clusters of purple grapes. The hedgerows are heavy with shiny blackberries and along the roadside are scattered wild ripe cherries and damsons while there is a regular rain of nuts falling from the many walnut trees.<br /><br />Back home in the garden Roland's wine equipment is drying. It includes troughs and racks for removing the stalks from the grapes and a set of vicious rollers for crushing the grapes. We missed the main harvest last weekend and already the processed grapes are fermenting in the cellar beneath our flat with Roland rising during the night to stir the brew while it gradually settles to a less volatile fermentation.<br /><br /><B>Saturday 8th September 2007, Champagne-sur-Loue, Jura</B><br /><a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2006/10/index-to-maxted-travels-european.html">Please follow links back to our 2005 blog for fuller descriptions of places mentioned in the Jura.</a><br /><br />It was the weekly market yesterday in Arbois. Always a happy experience, it was particularly pleasant in the bright sunshine. Compared to Caen it was no more than a travelling, provincial market where the shops come to the residents as the towns do not have the capacity to provide such a range of clothes, shoes, household goods and foodstuffs. These markets also provide the opportunity to meet friends, organise business and exchange views on anything from the latest reforms of President Sarkosi to the pruning of the vines.<br /><br />Arbois is the centre of the Jura wine growing area and its sweet "vin jaune" is the speciality of the region. The grape harvesting season coincides with the feast day of the town's patron saint, St. Just. At the weekend a huge bunch of grapes, a good two metres high and one in diameter, was carried in procession through the streets of the town before being hung in the church in front of the main altar. The fruit was donated by the local viticulturers, arranged in bands of white and black grapes and topped with the flags of the town and the region. By the time we discovered it yesterday there was a gradual pool of fermenting grape juice developing on the stone flags below!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggcOD3lSOUyNjO1EfhKxeGGW_Sr2RyhLlzNp4-es9yZ6OIngCHNAd9ISaxJNzSoM8hNukKQyASBMKNhnIS-jW_rFJfn1kjWLm6ZQmeS_VXAHkFBlJLMNDi8pH19Vja8DHa1DFItWgx2eE/s1280-h/YIMG_3404.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggcOD3lSOUyNjO1EfhKxeGGW_Sr2RyhLlzNp4-es9yZ6OIngCHNAd9ISaxJNzSoM8hNukKQyASBMKNhnIS-jW_rFJfn1kjWLm6ZQmeS_VXAHkFBlJLMNDi8pH19Vja8DHa1DFItWgx2eE/s400/YIMG_3404.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108877284965380194" /></a><CENTER>Arbois with the church of St. Just</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcfoI1_9h3JQyiN_Z7z1O6OwZ0TWQNcqyocPCq_XMTHLUuJ5PUWak4XRSlLIeKbyudkTvaPIBtCGSO3wtjG0ZgDtLvQVQhFOEA0bevX9ycD2A8pRArT8ya1f0lHXysRelrnMlgnKmq4lE/s1280-h/YIMG_3400.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcfoI1_9h3JQyiN_Z7z1O6OwZ0TWQNcqyocPCq_XMTHLUuJ5PUWak4XRSlLIeKbyudkTvaPIBtCGSO3wtjG0ZgDtLvQVQhFOEA0bevX9ycD2A8pRArT8ya1f0lHXysRelrnMlgnKmq4lE/s400/YIMG_3400.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108877310735183986" /></a><CENTER>Grapes hanging in the church of St. Just, Arbois</CENTER><br />After queuing on the market to buy a cooked chicken with a barquette of roast potatoes to take home for supper, we drove up to the Cirque de Fer à Cheval, situated on the first of the three levels of the Jura plateaux. At Arbois it forms a blind valley or reculée around the town with vertical walls of Jurassic limestone, permeated by caves and subterranean streams. This is very much the nature of the landscape here and it can be quite awesome! Standing on the unprotected edge of these plateaux, looking down onto the green fields of the valley floor, dotted with cattle or striped with a corduroy of vines, there is a struggle between curiosity to see right over the vertical edge and a terror of slipping. Somehow, being an enclosed valley, it seems so much more intimidating than the coastal cliff-tops of Britain.<br /><br />We followed a track up through the woods and along the edge of the plateau to its highest point with a vista back along the valley to the pretty town of Arbois nestled at its entrance. The sun was comfortably warm and around us the air hummed with the sound of bees as they worked their way systematically amongst the flowers scattered in the meadow grass. Fluttering butterflies taunted us, leading us ever closer to the cliff edge in our eagerness to see their pretty markings. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvoyo1gmpQJ7-dshJmfCoA4QKlu-d8n9sjzcDVdfQ7bHaKkdaMkz-kAGPjkNJ1_gC0mtV2Ut-QiPQ7uVQInADBfR1IOKk3Hzbxk4sgHQPIEqRz44So2XzTp33uM6QUHVSfhiBZ46jPOr8/s1280-h/YIMG_3409.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvoyo1gmpQJ7-dshJmfCoA4QKlu-d8n9sjzcDVdfQ7bHaKkdaMkz-kAGPjkNJ1_gC0mtV2Ut-QiPQ7uVQInADBfR1IOKk3Hzbxk4sgHQPIEqRz44So2XzTp33uM6QUHVSfhiBZ46jPOr8/s400/YIMG_3409.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108877327915053186" /></a><CENTER>On top of th plateau, Cirque de Fer à Cheval, near Arbois</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgszjPwsxdW7vHJOZ7YWCLOT5RQbIRKgT6GYxeYk8qg3xvxaX_b-hCkuiSx2jKL5Yoj14r5Y4GnP4_3T1dO4mFGGiGCctKlHHl3VLyYHfa65NyPFWgUPlsGt-7MHe1nhNFwEIy5hkOxZwQ/s1280-h/YIMG_3411.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgszjPwsxdW7vHJOZ7YWCLOT5RQbIRKgT6GYxeYk8qg3xvxaX_b-hCkuiSx2jKL5Yoj14r5Y4GnP4_3T1dO4mFGGiGCctKlHHl3VLyYHfa65NyPFWgUPlsGt-7MHe1nhNFwEIy5hkOxZwQ/s400/YIMG_3411.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108877761706750098" /></a><CENTER>Ian, Cirque de Fer à Cheval, near Arbois</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiF_DyzyvKZpXpFh5V1YBvZrsrO3Q5tWqhyphenhyphendnFBhmh2n7WsFuaK12-sel0UTxSBnyy93kW6pJyozqFRXeZr9vLWm_vCuCFz7itldxhY_4kX4XLA-ZWLfzQKSrjlGPCG1GGLug568SshaM/s1280-h/YIMG_3412.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiF_DyzyvKZpXpFh5V1YBvZrsrO3Q5tWqhyphenhyphendnFBhmh2n7WsFuaK12-sel0UTxSBnyy93kW6pJyozqFRXeZr9vLWm_vCuCFz7itldxhY_4kX4XLA-ZWLfzQKSrjlGPCG1GGLug568SshaM/s400/YIMG_3412.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108877778886619298" /></a><CENTER>Arbois seen from the Cirque de Fer à Cheval</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRKeHa1IRenOqzHLdVBdkhbE2liwHRzc3TkDMd-ykkXeKlBHr_yvyQP1mJGOtwGYwzIF9UPvJWpbydc_L5GaaktDbvQyfJxgwjjY5xg7X_v__dsm9ib328P9NN5Kqr7Y8XluoqGDDsv8A/s1280-h/YIMG_3406.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRKeHa1IRenOqzHLdVBdkhbE2liwHRzc3TkDMd-ykkXeKlBHr_yvyQP1mJGOtwGYwzIF9UPvJWpbydc_L5GaaktDbvQyfJxgwjjY5xg7X_v__dsm9ib328P9NN5Kqr7Y8XluoqGDDsv8A/s400/YIMG_3406.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108877796066488498" /></a><CENTER>In a Jura meadow</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxkhZtC-jIV4XnCMFFy_Nu9Z-wxJfoGCp8c3_m2IN9QNTQUIqX1elgQesgfqKEyM5NZY3AXXG7nLOcty1ss_7WX7oVx7-o6aAVKE_vDQAiT6T-Tkq0uTrd_CH99SaK32VDk-9osdkf6M/s1280-h/YIMG_3429.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxkhZtC-jIV4XnCMFFy_Nu9Z-wxJfoGCp8c3_m2IN9QNTQUIqX1elgQesgfqKEyM5NZY3AXXG7nLOcty1ss_7WX7oVx7-o6aAVKE_vDQAiT6T-Tkq0uTrd_CH99SaK32VDk-9osdkf6M/s400/YIMG_3429.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108877813246357698" /></a><CENTER>In a Jura meadow</CENTER><br />On our way home we stopped beside the river Loue to gather the walnuts scattered along the roadside, many crushed beneath the wheels of the village tractors laden with crates of grapes. <br /><br />This morning, Saturday, we cycled Hinge and Bracket the few kilometres down to Arc-et-Senans, past the snail farm and the field of golden-maned Comtois horses beside the Loue. In the village we found the 19th century church open with a lady sorting the altar flowers for tomorrow's mass. Around the walls we were amazed to discover ten 16th and 17th century religious paintings by Murillo, Rubens and Claude Vignon. They originally formed part of the personal art collection of M de Grimaldi, former director of the salt works at Arc-et-Senans.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBA0dG9wNTzoYJ9F94rP_v9cNOyNk58ajChheh_ArV8p4p_T9Q-yx-tZ9arPjes5-DoJIXaPD0K75F8pr7b7DDAvSEz5AwOHjFaPVPSTgCPn6FWDKIG5qw7AHuCIzVhjIl640n-T05UNg/s1280-h/YIMG_3415.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBA0dG9wNTzoYJ9F94rP_v9cNOyNk58ajChheh_ArV8p4p_T9Q-yx-tZ9arPjes5-DoJIXaPD0K75F8pr7b7DDAvSEz5AwOHjFaPVPSTgCPn6FWDKIG5qw7AHuCIzVhjIl640n-T05UNg/s400/YIMG_3415.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108878225563218146" /></a><CENTER>Mill near Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpT2QYoqvoGTp8_KhrNPDVLqs2Opg7x28jNirXW4RahcEdq8d9Y2Ji4P7qeF6lgpvRQ23iM75n6kJApTXoUeynW31hzOhERmit-knehmP-hwdic7SvsOLHqfqYT0aTB2ZaD652v3BAm9g/s1280-h/YIMG_3416.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpT2QYoqvoGTp8_KhrNPDVLqs2Opg7x28jNirXW4RahcEdq8d9Y2Ji4P7qeF6lgpvRQ23iM75n6kJApTXoUeynW31hzOhERmit-knehmP-hwdic7SvsOLHqfqYT0aTB2ZaD652v3BAm9g/s400/YIMG_3416.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108877834721194194" /></a><CENTER>Comtois horses near Champagne-sur-Loue</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmG0R2iy6Es9vwMbweJDPJsWQWsUg3DmsCrxcylNlv5mLs2VTTEWaPvOOohjlmgN5a7eIE73VJZFLYpbjTu6Fh6fjtPIl0dhjWemUajBUXBh6wZLWw8Ok4i6_IdhjbE76_ItgN9Ebhglw/s1280-h/YIMG_3420.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmG0R2iy6Es9vwMbweJDPJsWQWsUg3DmsCrxcylNlv5mLs2VTTEWaPvOOohjlmgN5a7eIE73VJZFLYpbjTu6Fh6fjtPIl0dhjWemUajBUXBh6wZLWw8Ok4i6_IdhjbE76_ItgN9Ebhglw/s400/YIMG_3420.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108878255627989234" /></a><CENTER>La Vierge aux Donateurs, attributed to Peter Thyss, Church of St. Benigne at Arc-et-Senans</CENTER><br />Having completed our shopping we cycled through the surrounding woodland, stopping for a sunny picnic lunch before continuing across the fields behind the Saline, an architectural achievement of Claude-Nicholas Ledoux in 1773. Beside the road we passed a tiny chapel to the Virgin Mary, filled with flowers and erected by the commune in gratitude for being spared from the cholera that was sweeping the region during 1854.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgds34JNJZRgIuIgqm3zS3RctkvYzfgVeRRjp39j8-gb-HcJzcp7l-Z8O3YSnpTJzBRnTaYK08Thdrr97sPwR4v0IP4W_EC6MrYQokO0-7CrIXQGfAVzHXGjRPTSf-pxMUoWhKyjMtOdS4/s1280-h/YIMG_3424.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgds34JNJZRgIuIgqm3zS3RctkvYzfgVeRRjp39j8-gb-HcJzcp7l-Z8O3YSnpTJzBRnTaYK08Thdrr97sPwR4v0IP4W_EC6MrYQokO0-7CrIXQGfAVzHXGjRPTSf-pxMUoWhKyjMtOdS4/s400/YIMG_3424.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108878272807858434" /></a><CENTER>Wasps nest discovered at our picnic spot</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiiZpAzT4Wp1vo_RAoSg2JtseVihc0XIM1aUcuzIFO58CvG5ZRDfKduQBR29M01XvvwXRtCJKtd4AcT1u6a1pgdtXf4E7AnuY7MjVg8YEKNrK83r2n5XNVDPtFOgUk_tJOf-GtPzJsres/s1280-h/YIMG_3435.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiiZpAzT4Wp1vo_RAoSg2JtseVihc0XIM1aUcuzIFO58CvG5ZRDfKduQBR29M01XvvwXRtCJKtd4AcT1u6a1pgdtXf4E7AnuY7MjVg8YEKNrK83r2n5XNVDPtFOgUk_tJOf-GtPzJsres/s400/YIMG_3435.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108878298577662226" /></a><CENTER>Can I join the picnic?</CENTER><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKfXFSYjZeqvOX8ZLXGeKYwoP_wjxi6GMo6LJAUVBNNB71NyYnmwTjJ8LFCu2uGot35Z0Ic_j6Mlu78XG-wOT7ePdgJPAB4BcLhuDShyphenhyphenj7p9i-QT37B-KjyqmlCMKIy5Zu4RWyDkU4bAY/s1280-h/YIMG_3425.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKfXFSYjZeqvOX8ZLXGeKYwoP_wjxi6GMo6LJAUVBNNB71NyYnmwTjJ8LFCu2uGot35Z0Ic_j6Mlu78XG-wOT7ePdgJPAB4BcLhuDShyphenhyphenj7p9i-QT37B-KjyqmlCMKIy5Zu4RWyDkU4bAY/s400/YIMG_3425.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108878324347466018" /></a><CENTER>Wayside chapel near Arc-et-Senans</CENTER><br />During our stay here in 2005 we became interested in the story of the local priest, Germain Coutteret, arrested by the Gestapo while saying mass in Champagne in 1943. He was accused of helping a British aviator, shot down in the area, to escape. Our original report, <a href="http://modestine.blogspot.com/2005/09/besancon-and-around.html"> Interlude – a local hero</a> is recorded on 5/09/2005. Today we discovered we have just missed a special service at Champagne's neighbouring village of Buffard when a statue of Our Lady of Fatima, commissioned by local subscriptions in his memory, has been placed in the church. We cycled over to Buffard to take a look but found the church closed. The only person holding a key was away from the village for the day but his wife has promised to arrange a special visit for us next week. It turns out they are friends of Roland who seemed really pleased when we told him of our meeting. Their daughter is the mayor of Buffard and one of her adjoints has written a history of the church and the village so should be able to fill in some of the gaps in our earlier account of the Abbé Couteret.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPCWhDILF5b3SGfi70rC5H49Ey02oFdsH3fTiTQtMzyTFINEewrRX85otM5TrRkSj2nLvzhGKVwCmGjdJHlvNvcxRx_HhaHVbUWMFuRqAopSaGecAOrQYQrzvrl1pVdN78Qf6Hc_fJU50/s1280-h/YIMG_3399.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPCWhDILF5b3SGfi70rC5H49Ey02oFdsH3fTiTQtMzyTFINEewrRX85otM5TrRkSj2nLvzhGKVwCmGjdJHlvNvcxRx_HhaHVbUWMFuRqAopSaGecAOrQYQrzvrl1pVdN78Qf6Hc_fJU50/s400/YIMG_3399.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108878569160601906" /></a><CENTER>Church at Buffard</CENTER><br />Ever since we arrived there has been a smell of fermenting grapes wafting up for the cellar beneath the house. When we arrived home this afternoon we found Roland had left the door at the bottom of the steps wide open. In the dark, stone-vaulted tunnel, covered with cobwebs and dust, we could just discern the wine-making equipment and the various vats and cauldrons containing this year's bubbling brew. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcst4T4-2VCzg1verURoGH9yGWQ9cJimdmcX-fF_ykuSe0SiqUziw4SI2siu9QNIFIDAeYI7Tq-DJvuqC5rJTiKQBCZerN3tunv3S7Q7yVGvKr4KkF25lTIHiVbMOK8xKK_p1uwZ-y7Tg/s1280-h/YIMG_3436.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcst4T4-2VCzg1verURoGH9yGWQ9cJimdmcX-fF_ykuSe0SiqUziw4SI2siu9QNIFIDAeYI7Tq-DJvuqC5rJTiKQBCZerN3tunv3S7Q7yVGvKr4KkF25lTIHiVbMOK8xKK_p1uwZ-y7Tg/s400/YIMG_3436.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108878612110274882" /></a><CENTER>Roland's cellar</CENTER>Jill, Ian and Modestinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04122859105828936321noreply@blogger.com