Showing posts with label French Country Holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label French Country Holidays. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Cathar Castle Interieurs
In the 12th Century Christians of the Paulician line who became known later as 'Cathars' were forced to take refuge from Catholic armies and inquisitors in the fortified towns and castles of local sympathisers and protectors.
Tracing the persisting stone forms of castle life...
Monday, August 31, 2015
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Rafting
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| Getting in... |
The young in wetsuits bob off hugging the rubber sides; one will fall into the living flow, one will jump off, one will jump five metres down into it for the hell and the heaven of it and be rescued by ropes. The raft will spin and jump high and plunge under and sail over rapids. Feet will be waterlogged and numb, and the rafters will grow to love the river and their raft mates for a moment or two.
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| Falling in... |
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| Hurried goodbye... |
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| Setting off... |
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| ...for the open river... |
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| Our Trusty Heros |
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Ariège: Another Unexpected Restaurant
We decided to make a pilgrimage from Ercé to Montségur, not realising that with one mountain road 'closed' (late snow apparently, although the natives are outraged and say it is a nonsense), 40 minute detours are obligatory, and the mountain road via Massat must have inspired the Beates 'Long and winding road', and passed through some of the most beautiful mountain scenery I've seen, including 360 degree circles of peaks.
About halfway we realised we wouldn't make it to Montségur village in time to eat, and there appeared an auberge/restaurant, the sort of venue that would have suited the Made in Chelsea cast had it suffered sufficient investment (which happily it hadn't). Smoke billowed from the kitchen, the asparagus was tinned, but the timing, service and view were splendid.
About halfway we realised we wouldn't make it to Montségur village in time to eat, and there appeared an auberge/restaurant, the sort of venue that would have suited the Made in Chelsea cast had it suffered sufficient investment (which happily it hadn't). Smoke billowed from the kitchen, the asparagus was tinned, but the timing, service and view were splendid.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Ariege: Unexpected Restaurant
It was jeudi-saint, a bank holiday, so I rang in advance,
'Is it possible to reserve a table for this evening?"
'Houff, pfff - this evening?" said the restauranteur, audibly put out "What time?"
He must be overbooked, I thought, but he agreed nonetheless to reserve a table for us at 8pm.
We arrived at a grey building on a grey road with a white plastic table and chairs on the pavement, and entered via the bar. Cigarette smoke hung in the air from hastily departed smokers, the TV was full-on, an unsociable Pekingese dog regarded us from under the table with a bulging eye, the customer-in-residence regarded us with two. He called the owners, they showed us to the dining area, which opened onto the bar. The entire restaurant was empty, it had always been empty and always would be. A plastic Christmas tree sat atop a pile of papers and bits and pieces littered the shelves. The tablecloths were faux Provençale in yellow and blue polyester with mud coloured paper protectors.
A small waiter moved sideways across the room towards us and said blurrily 'did you reserve?'.
French Country Restaurants; appearances can be deceptive
However, I have learned that appearances can be deceptive in French country restaurants. There was no dust on the cladding ledge, the paper table protectors were new, the floor clean to the edges, this gave me hope.
We chose the mid-range menu at 23 Euros, starter, main, cheese and pudding. For a starter I chose duck 'ham' with melon, S and JC omellettes aux cèpes, B salad with two livers, and B the childrens' menu (steak and chips as per, thank goodness or there would have been a terrible fuss and the restaurant would have been deemed No Good).
The mum came in with 'amuse-bouches'. Yes, exclamation mark, amuse-bouches! Verrines filled with a Roquefort pear and cumin 'crème'.
My starter was decorated with star fruit and wafer thin slices of blood orange. B had duck liver, half of it poêlé (seared) half in a foie gras style, and R had pâté en croute for his childrens' menu starter (9.50 the menu) a sort of up-market pork pie slice. The roast breast of duck was served with hand-fried potato slices and a 'gallette' of courgette and cheese, followed by a pretty wild raw-hide cows milk cheese (which we wrapped in napkins and took home for cooking) served with home made apricot jam and isle flotante for pud, even the quarter pitcher of table wine from Corbières was good; the meal was delicious; presentation attractive; the service attentive (we discussed the rescue of their stray cat, the wild men in the mountains and the introduction of the bear, it turned out the waiter had to cancel his night out with his hippy friends when we booked, so that was why he sounded put out) and we all had a jolly good time, who could ask for more? (apart from turning down the telly and cutting out the fags).
'Is it possible to reserve a table for this evening?"
'Houff, pfff - this evening?" said the restauranteur, audibly put out "What time?"
He must be overbooked, I thought, but he agreed nonetheless to reserve a table for us at 8pm.
We arrived at a grey building on a grey road with a white plastic table and chairs on the pavement, and entered via the bar. Cigarette smoke hung in the air from hastily departed smokers, the TV was full-on, an unsociable Pekingese dog regarded us from under the table with a bulging eye, the customer-in-residence regarded us with two. He called the owners, they showed us to the dining area, which opened onto the bar. The entire restaurant was empty, it had always been empty and always would be. A plastic Christmas tree sat atop a pile of papers and bits and pieces littered the shelves. The tablecloths were faux Provençale in yellow and blue polyester with mud coloured paper protectors.
A small waiter moved sideways across the room towards us and said blurrily 'did you reserve?'.
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| We peruse the menu, not yet reassured we are in a good place... |
However, I have learned that appearances can be deceptive in French country restaurants. There was no dust on the cladding ledge, the paper table protectors were new, the floor clean to the edges, this gave me hope.
We chose the mid-range menu at 23 Euros, starter, main, cheese and pudding. For a starter I chose duck 'ham' with melon, S and JC omellettes aux cèpes, B salad with two livers, and B the childrens' menu (steak and chips as per, thank goodness or there would have been a terrible fuss and the restaurant would have been deemed No Good).
The mum came in with 'amuse-bouches'. Yes, exclamation mark, amuse-bouches! Verrines filled with a Roquefort pear and cumin 'crème'.
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| Tucking in: omellette aux cèpes for S and JC, salade 2 foies for B, pâté en croute for R |
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| We kept the picture of our English exchange student S deliberately blurred to preserve his anonymity (he is laughing not screaming...) |
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| R on top form, just been given novelty ice cream and plate of sweets; JC peaking after a day's walk in the peaks Le Picou at Ercé, no website available....obviously |
Yes, this is enough
Out in the early morning, just before the early sun climbs the mountain and reflects itself on the snow caps opposite, I bring with me a mug of tea. Despite the panorama almost too beautiful to contemplate, I close my eyes: the bell call of the great-tit and the soft call of the bullfinch, a hundred points of birdsong like stars all around, a woodpecker to the right and a cuckoo to the left, a cowbell from on high and a cockerel in the valley below, the gargle of crows who come and go, a visiting donkey who revs up his squeeze-organ for a honk and a holler which bridges the mountains.
Life accepts to touch down here.
Breathing returns to base
It is enough.
Life accepts to touch down here.
Breathing returns to base
It is enough.
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