Bonjour campers! We have a lovely flat in Aix and woke up this morning with the french windows open and the chirp of birds. Slowly the streets awoke, children off to school, markets opening and the day begins.
A net bag hangs outside our door each morning filled with bread.
The morning light was . . . morning light in Aix-en-Provence.
Off to the morning market capturing moments around every corner.
And then, you are at the market.
My loot from this morning and I’ll shortly be off to collect a roast chicken and makings of a green salad for tonights dinner in our flat.
After disembarking from the Enchante, Sylvain dropped us off at the station in Nimes and we caught a train to Arles, a UNESCO World Heritage site for its roman and romanesque monuments. Of course, the most famous resident is Vincent Van Gogh. He spent over a year painting in and around Arles and many months in a psychiatric hospital. We arrived in Arles to grey skies and a steady rain, water sloshing down the streets and people crowding in doorways waiting for it to break. Maybe the history, maybe the weather but while enjoying ourselves immensely, the touch of melancholy was in the air. We were told Arles was a bit down on it’s luck but we found the lack of gentrification refreshing and the town an honest presentation of itself.
We try to walk from the train stations to exercise our bodies and minds and Arles was no exception. As we were well in advance of check in time at the hotel, Wayne decided a glass of wine was in order so we stopped at a sidewalk cafe. Soon after we sat people started running in and out with a frantic look on their faces. We were perplexed. Soon, paramedics arrived all flashing lights and sirens. Apparently, a severely injured person was laid out just inside the door. No one asked us to move, so the whole scene played out in front of us. The French emergency response was spot on and they quickly immobilized the victim with an inflatable stretcher and whisked him off to treatment. I have to admit, I peeked in several times. Of course, the lovely French couple took all in stride and sipped their afternoon wine.
The streets of Arles wind, curve, uphill, downhill, open onto squares and end in alleys. There is a new view almost every step. The naughty French kitty jumped into the open window when we approached. We turned the corner and out he came on the other side.
Wayne decided this house would suit just fine should we entertain residing in Arles. The roof line of the front is actually the balustrade of a third floor terrace.
A Saturday evening wedding at the Hotel de Ville.
And the bells rang Sunday morning.
An abundance of stunning entryways and shops.
While searching for Van Gogh’s home (which was destroyed) we happened upon the very spot were he painted Nuit étoilée sur le Rhône. You can see the shore and bridge below and in the painting.
Arles even had their own “yellow vest” protest parade on Sunday. While a little wet from rain, very neighborly with smiles all around.
We were very lucky campers. When we checked into the hotel they told us we had been selected as the “guest of the day” and thus were upgraded to a large room with two french windows and a bathroom that was a religious experience with the tile, in Van Gogh’s palette, and a chair depicted in studio paintings.
I would posit every American traveling to France dreams of having the “meal of a lifetime”, their taste buds thrilled with every bite. Quite possibly many leave disappointed. That could never happen when Sylvain is chef. While he works quietly in an open kitchen with guests mere feet away, each move is confident, precise and achieves the intended purpose. He never seems to make just one dish from start to finish. Instead he is heating, cooling, seasoning, resting the food, and building the entire meal. Each course reaches its full potential just as it is placed in front of you. I thought I captured all of them but frequently the desire to pick up the fork beat out the camera.
Goats Cheese Aumoniere with honey and almonds served on a bed of green leaves. Roast Breast of Guinea Fowl with Tarragon Sauce served on top of potato balls with radishes and spring onion.
The kitchen is always working.
Tomato and Mozzarella Stacks with Fresh Basil, Balsamic Vinegar, and Olive Oil. Scallops in Crayfish Sauce. Rack of Lamb in Rosemary Jus with Ratatouille.
Preparing caramel baskets and poaching pears.
Filet of Fish from Narbonne Market on a bed of roast Fennel with Sauce Vierge and Pilaf Rice. Creme Caramel with basket of strawberries.
Parmentier de Canard with Parsnip crisps in a Spicy Sauce served with Celeriac Puree and Sautéed Celery.
Preparing Mint Creme Anglaise for snails while the Sole waits preparation (see previous post).
Trio of Asparagus served with a Homemade Herb Mayonnaise. Sole Meuniere served with Spinach Flan and Tomato Provencal.
Each dinner included a cheese course with flavors from local regions of France. This night was Morbier, Munster, and Langres.
Tartar of Avocado with Prawns in a Soy Sauce and Sesame Seed Dressing. Salmon in a Crust of Rock Salt (see previous post for visual recipe) served with fondue of Leek and Creamy Risotto.
Cheese Soufflé. Blanquette de Veau with Homemade Pasta, Pleurotes Mushrooms, Carrots, and Coriander.
Each morning a breakfast table was laid with pastries brought aboard daily, fruit, possibly some cheese from the previous night, smoked trout or ham, coffee and fresh squeezed orange juice.
Smoked ham, Quail Eggs, Phyllo cup with greens and walnuts. Tuna Steak with Beurre Blanc Sauce served with Lentils and Bell Peppers. Tiramisu.
The final meal comes together step by step.
For our final dinner; Homemade Foie Gras marinated with Cognac served with Fig Jam made with Red Wine and Cinnamon. Charolais Beef with Pear Shaped Mashed Potato, Green Beans wrapped in Bacon and Morel Mushroom Sauce.
Choux Pastry Swans swimming in a pool of Chocolate Caramel Sauce with Roast Nuts. Sylvain insisted his Sous-Chef plate our final dessert. The pressure was intense.
Nothing more powerful than a chef.
You have to be confident in who you are and what you’re doing. Of course, you try to evolve. I would never tell you, ‘Today is the best I will ever be.’ I’m always trying to be a better chef, a better dad, a better person.”
Bonjour, Campers! Finally the French have deviated from perfect weather to rain and clouds. Actually, the perfect way to view Carcassonne – no crowds and the dark sky increases the imposing nature of the fortress. Regardless of the weather, the crew deliver fresh bread every morning, even the captain.
After breakfast we hopped on the van for a trip to Carcassonne, a city inhabited since the neolithic period. Until the Treaty of the Pyrenees transferred the border province of Roussillon to France in 1659, Carcassonne was on the Catalonian border and completely contained within a double walled citadel. During a papal siege in 1209 a surrender treaty allowed the citizens to leave their fortified village and inhabit the valley below giving way to today’s city limits. The citadel, known as the Cité de Carcassonne, is a medieval fortress dating back to the Gallo-Roman period and restored by the theorist and architect Eugène Viollet-le-Duc in 1853. It was added to the UNESCO list of World Heritage Sites in 1997.
Although she appears to be a fictional character, a bust of Lady Carcas stands guard over the entrance and her legend provides the etiological origin for the Carcassonne name. The plaque below honors the UNESCO World Heritage designation.
O’er the ramparts we climbed and learned about stairways built to make climbing difficult for an enemy in armor and advantage the defender and took in the view of the modern city originally inhabited by the fleeing citizens.
The cathedral within the walls is of two distinct periods. The nave is romanesque and plain, the altar, built as a pride of French victory is fine gothic tracery.
Turns out, gargoyles function brilliantly.
We returned to the barge, and enjoyed our final cruise through a misty rain.
Billboard on the Canal du Midi.
After a final dinner (more to come on the cuisine), Sylvain presented my sous-chef toque which I will cherish.
Sylvain’s shopping day is Wednesday. That means no lunch on the barge. Instead we took a trip to Lagrasse, a small village in Aude and lunched in a restaurant.
Wayne loves the Deux Chevaux auto made until 1990. A vintage model parked next to us tooted it’s own horn.
Speaking of “charming” our group has decided the word is now drastically overused describing every turn of a corner and each utterance requires a “Cher Slap”.
Our walk went past the cemetery so in we went. French bury in family graves so they are adorned with pictures and “souvenirs” of each family member. The large monument is for the Berliotz family who were benefactors to the abbey and lived in the household portion until 1922. The four stones at the top of the arch are thought to by the Master of Cabestany, making it significant in ancient sculpture.
On to the Abbey. There are two separate areas, one the previous home of a ruling monk and the working abbey. We were not allowed into the working abbey but a monk did come out to say “hi”. The piece of “in situ” art in the former household chapel was completed by Christian Jaccard in 2017 by applying an ointment to the wall and setting it aflame.
It’s always worth taking a peek over the garden doors to see what lies behind. These are “allotment” gardens, city owned plots where citizens can create their own secrets.
Des roses et le chien overwhelm with charm – – – uh, change that to “are overwhelmingly captivating”.
A small and delicate cathedral had typical pews of chairs tied together with a kneeling bench in back. These colored by sun shining through stained glass.
After boarding the barge we took a short cruise and arrived at our mooring next to a lock house. After a walk in the evening light we dined on Sole Meuniere (food post to follow). Bonsoir, Campers.
Prepping Sole, Gâteau Breton with Apricot Filling and Salmon Baked in Rock salt
We’ve been in a WiFi black hole the past three days so no posts but I was having a great time in the kitchen. Sylvain, our incredible chef, has made this trip remarkable. I’ll do a full post on the food later but for now, here’s this.
Prepare your sole
A little long, but you can see each step of Silvain’s Salmon in a Crust of Rock Salt.
We lazed around the boat in the morning and after a lunch of oysters and seafood our cruise got underway. I opted for getting off at the first lock and biking along the canal giving me a different view than staying on the barge. The food has been incredible and I’ll do a full post at the end of the week.
The process of passing through a lock is one of repetition, pull up, sometimes wait for some traffic, the first door opens after the level in the lock falls, pull into the lock, doors close behind, the sluice doors open filling the now occupied lock from the base of the forward doors, once the water is raised the doors open and on you go. Repeated over and over and over. Here is a series of still and video of process.
Sometimes you catch a passenger through the door.
It’s always a tight fit.
Always a lock house.
The Sluice Gates OpeningSometimes it gets a little crowded
Accidents could happen when one doesn’t keep their eye on the path.
After breakfast we set off west towards Toulouse. And we joined the main artery of the Canal du Midi. In the process we crossed two rivers, the first the Cesse, then disembarked and walked alongside the canal, and then reboarded and traversed Repudre Aqueduct, the oldest navigable aqueduct in the world, built in 1676. In some of these shots the view seems from a bridge but in fact is from the aqueduct and we are cruising on the barge. Fred guided the barge through one of the tightest bridges on the canal with nary a scrape.
At each lock sits a lock house. They are a simple duplex. The plaque on each house shows the distance to the next lock in either direction. In France, lock keepers were generally women. Shortly after World War I, war widows were offered jobs as lock keepers which provided housing. Many of the women fostered war orphans so the houses were often filled with children. Now it seems cats have taken over.
Walking the foot path (originally used for horse drawn tows) is a wonderful perspective, weaving through some very local sites.
The stretch of canal that we walked today was barren of the famous Plane tree. The canal was lined with them in the1800’s but since 2006 many succumbed to a fungus and had to be felled. Restoration is on-going with a new type of Sycamore tree called the Platanor. A vaccine has been developed and test trees are identified with a tag. The Pyrenees complete the backdrop.
While the trees might be seedlings the wildflowers were flourishing. Yellow Iris line the canal along with the occasional field of poppies. The vineyards seem infinite.
After lunch we toured an olive processing commune. Nothing much was happening since the trees are just flowering and harvest doesn’t begin until fall. Then we were off to the city of Minerve which has just achieved designation as a Les Plus Beaux Villages de France. Minerve is a small, compact town perched on top of the gorge of the river Cesse. With only one bridge of entry is was easily defensible and survived six weeks of a siege only to have the attackers cut off their water supply from a well near the river below. There a few streets, mostly just cobblestone paths lined with homes that still burn fire for heat. Oh, and the occasional cat.
Steps 13,767 to 13, 777 were boarding the barge to enjoy the evening light before dinner.
A single moment can tell an entire story if you are willing to let it.
“The best way to execute French cooking is to get good and loaded and whack the hell out of a chicken.” ~ Julia Child
How do the citizens of Narbonne spend their early Sunday afternoons? Going to market – to purchase, to meet, to spend time with friends, to sell, to eat, drink and celebrate the richness of being French. American commentary is of no use, the French have figured it out.
An airplane, a long walk, two hotels and a train ride
We started out Thursday evening with an uneventful flight from Chicago to Paris. Landing early Friday morning we hopped on a bus to Gare de Lyon, our hotel was within walking distance from the station. After three miles hauling luggage over cobblestone we had sufficiently worn our feet to nubs and our muscles ached. A light drizzle started at dinner and turned into a sort of deluge throughout the night and into Saturday morning giving Paris an overcast. Perhaps a leftover mood from the tragedy of Notre Dame.
Click on images to enlarge. A note; since last posting the site has been upgraded so forgive me while I try out new features.
The view from our window
A quick taxi to Gare de Lyon to board our train for Narbonne.
Our train pulled out on time and we were soon on a winged bullet flying through the countryside. Capturing views from the window of a high speed train is nigh impossible but I gave it a try.
The rolling hills quickly transformed to seaside views.
Nothing better than entering your room
and seeing french doors and a fireplace.
We selected Narbonne as the meeting point for our group of seven to start our barge trip through the Canal du Midi. We anticipated a simple sleep over and nothings special. What a surprise! Who knew we landed upon such a charming town.
We met a new friend while walking along the canal. If you ever met our dear Isadore the smile and personality will seem familiar.
In the city center is Narbonne Cathedral. Normally we just pop into a cathedral for a quick tour but the history of this church dates back to 331, the gargoyles staring at you from every crook and bend dared us to go inside.
We just happened to be touring the interior while a choir was rehearsing for their concert that night.
The vaulting was extremely high and seemed out of proportion but made sense when you understand that only the “choir” section of the church was built. The rest of the cathedral was left unfinished due to poor planning requiring the demolition of the city wall abutting the site.
Later in the evening we strolled out for dinner.
A bit of street theatreThe first bowl of Moules Mariniere
Farewell Ireland. It seems fitting that we visited a 5,000 year old megalithic passage grave on our last full day.
We started with a nice view from the breakfast table.
Then got on the road still plagued by downed power lines.
Negrange, orBrú na Bóinnein Gaelic, is older than the pyramids. Wayne reminisced about public school textbooks hailing Egypt as the cradle of civilization while being mum on what lies here in Ireland. Pictures were not allowed inside the tomb so you’ll have to settle for the grounds, peaceful and quiet, settled in place, set in rolling hills with cows and sheep grazing around ancient sites.
The mass dwarfs a pack of humans.
Many of the stones have intricate carvings.
The astronomical alignment is perfect. On the winter solstice, a shaft of light pierces the “roof” window, which is set above the entrance and is the same height as the horizon beyond, lighting the passage all the way to the tomb, which itself is at the same height of the window and horizon. They have a lottery for 20 tickets each of the two days before and after the solstice and every year 36,000 people buy a chance to witness the event.
The entrance.
A close up of the window.
Tomorrow, up at the crack of dawn, finish the final packing and then head home. We have had a wonderful time. Thank you for coming along for the ride.
Innocent tourists that we are, we didn’t look at the weather report this morning, but outside our hotel the wind was blowing and the rain coming in sideways. Unbeknownst to us, Storm Ali was bashing Ireland. And it was a whopper forcing the cancellation of the second day of the National Ploughing Championships (I know, how will you go on?). The front desk warned during check out, handing us a map to get out of the city and telling us power lines were down on the M1 so alternate routes had to be taken.
FREQUENT alternate routes. Seems every road we drove down ended up blocked.
Even the occasional power line down.
With the help of google maps we criss-crossed our way from Belfast to Kingscourt.
Debris everywhere.
Even the trucks were going down single lane country roads in search of a thru passage.
A vacated church in the middle of nowhere.
We finally made it to our lodging for the night.
And now we’re all tucked in our little cottage nursing colds.
Shout out to google maps. Although I would suggest an alternative to “continue straight”, which we heard over and over and over. Might I suggest “continue gayly forward”?
Yesterday we trooped like good tourists to the Titanic Museum. I wrote a review on TripAdvisor entitled, “A Disappointment of Titanic Proportion.” I’ll just leave it at that and pop in one picture just to prove our attendance.
Oh, but one more, the venerable “Crapper” aboard the SS Nomadic, the Titanic tender ship. Click to enlarge so you can see the logo.
We have fallen in love with those “Hop On, Hop Off” buses. They give a great tour of the city and we end up seeing things we wouldn’t otherwise see, getting a sense of the city overall.
We decided to walk the few blocks from our hotel to Queen’s University and the Botanical Gardens and after trouping around there . . . hop on.
Our street – can you conjure a more definitive Belfast street scene?
The Palm House Conservatory, finished in 1840, and one of the first to feature curved glass and cast iron.
Just a few steps to the iconic university building with walls of stained glass.
Time to hop on. It was raining when we boarded so no pictures to show until we got to Royal Victoria Hospital where I guess they are not accepting new patients (click to enlarge).
As the bus zigged and zagged through the now sunny neighborhoods, the guide let us know if it was Catholic or Protestant. The city is still mightily segregated. Here is a “peace wall” which started springing up in 1969 to “minimize inter-communal violence”. This one is still standing around a Catholic neighborhood and the gates close at 6:30 every evening.
Here a slowly crumbling prison where folks were held without cause.
And on we went to Shankill Road (yesterdays post referred to the Shankill Butchers) where allegiances were proudly displayed.
Then you turn a corner and flash back into the world of Irish Ozzie and Harriet.
The Belfast Castle is nestled in the hills just outside the city centre. The gardens have a view across the river to the shipyard.
Another turn, another declaration. This claims territory for the Ulster Volunteer Force.
The fragile peace is palpable.
For the sake of history, here is the Albert clock. Vickie built memorials all over the empire in an effort to impress upon everyone how sad she was to lose her German husband. I’m not a bad photographer, the clock tower leans. Never one to be told no, Vickie had the thing built over a submerged river.
Back to the hotel and a view out our window of the mammoth H & W cranes next to the Titanic dock.
It just started raining while the sun is shining . . . pot of gold?
Since we are getting to the end of the trip, we can safely add a tip for hoteliers around the globe. THESE THINGS DON’T WORK. You step on the pedal and it hits you on the shin!
During the “troubles”, downtown Belfast was enclosed by a steel wall and vacated at the end of the business day. It became known as “Dead Centre”, which appropriately, is the name of the tour company which guided us around today. As a child, I saw the “troubles” through a television set and some pictures in Life magazine.
Here in Belfast today, I saw through the lens of testimonial, time, and place.
Paul, our guide, is a teacher now with a degree in political science but lived through the troubles as a child.
When he was four a store a few doors from his home was bombed and his parents found him upstairs sound asleep amid broken glass. Some of his earliest memories are of his family carting out their possessions to move to a place of safety. Paul also does mediation work between Republicans (predominately Catholic) and Unionists/Loyalists (predominately Protestant). His perspective both personal and intellectual brings clarity to the disturbing history of this city.
We started at City Hall (note; Births, Deaths, Marriages and Civil Partnerships).
Here Queen Vickie, holding the orb, stands in authority (perhaps the root of the problem).
In just a short walk we were in the middle of dead centre. The steel wall was a ring of fencing around the city centre, you had to be searched to enter. It did not come down until 1995. Here you can see what it was like to go to work each day.
Even now the streets are deserted at night and shops closed on Sunday leaving a ghost town feel amid the clash of architecture past and present.
Across the street from this shot was one of the first bombings in the entrance of a night club. The bomb was set by a paramilitary squad who pulled up, held the bouncers at gun point, set down the bomb and then told them they had ten minutes before it exploded.
In 1972, the Abercorn Restaurant was bombed, killing 2 and injuring over 130. The IRA was blamed but no one was ever charged.
The scene then.
And now.
This is the sight of Mooneys Bar where three Scottish soldiers (two of them brothers aged 17 and 18) were lured out of the bar and into the hands of IRA paramilitary then shot at a remote location.
The response from the Protestants was to start the Tartan Gangs and the Shankill Butchers who would kidnap, torture and murder random Catholics. The point being, if you couldn’t kill an IRA soldier, you killed a civilian.
July 21, 1972, is remembered as Bloody Friday when 20 car bombs went off all around Belfast in less than 80 minutes terrorizing the entire city.
This building in 1972.
And today.
During the course of the Northern Ireland Troubles there were 16,209 bombings and attempted bombings. Most in Belfast, a compact city of 300,000 individuals spread over just 42 square miles. Compare with Chicago at 1,318 square miles and you can understand the concentration of terror involved in living each day.
Signs of hope appear randomly throughout the city. Charming cobbled streets, flowers, and a street mural project that reinterprets the violent murals of the past. And what is more hopeful than a smiling Cavalier?
As Paul said, “A city that has one eye on the past is wise, a city that has both eyes on the past is blind.”
