Category Archives: France

From chateaux to wine caves…

As we drove into the Loire Valley yesterday, we were stunned to see the lavish chateaux everywhere. We expected vineyards and quaint villages. Instead, these ‘getaway lodges’ for the rich and powerful litter the countryside.

You could spend days here visiting chateaux, and some people do. We popped into Chambord Chateau for a look around…

Copyright: Louise Ralph

Chambord Château: just a humble hunting lodge really.

Chambord’s tricky staircase… and EB playing Where’s Wally (aka Where’s Poppy Frank)

Set on a mere 13,000 acres of forested parklands, complete with rutting stags and more, the chateau has enormous fireplaces in every room – but it still looks like a drafty, uninviting old place to stay in.

Which is probably why King Francois I didn’t spend much time there after it was built.

Chambord’s double helix staircase was brilliant. Two open parallel flights of stairs are wrapped around a hollow core.

So EB and I could enter the staircase on the same floor, but from opposite sides, and we could see each other walking up and down…but we’d never cross paths. Spooky.

Copyright: Louise Ralph

That one’s going straight to the pool room, Henry.

And then there’s the pool room… I mean, trophy hall.

These (pictured) are just a few of the ‘decor peices’ hanging around the chateau.

This is probably the best-known chateau in the region, but there are better – or so we’re told.

One chateau was enough for us, and all those stairs had worked up a thirst…

But finding cellar doors that are open on a Thursday afternoon – that’s the real adventure.

We finally came across the Cave des Productuers de Vouvray, and took the tour to find out about the methode traditional and (of course) try the fabulous final product.

Hmmm, chateaux or caves? We are definitely bats…

PS: We’re staying in a chateau ourselves for a few days – Chateau les Muids. But this one is way smaller and only has one deer head on the wall. Phew…


Lost in translation too…

Copyright: Louise Ralph

There’s never far to go to find a crêperie in France – usually a metre or two in any centre ville…

The other day I wrote about my translation issues with my dodgy French. Clearly it goes both ways.

To cater for tourists, many restaurants provide English versions of their menus. This is very helpful – and also very cute and funny.

Everything is literally translated, like crème brûlée (which is to die for over here!).

Their translation: Egg custard with burnt butter topping. Pass.

When comparing white wines to a nearby table of Brits today, a young waiter said “this has more flowers”. I think he meant floral notes, but I’m not sure?

Sometimes they are as lost in translation as we are. And there’s something quite comforting about that.

 


Crossing the border into Brittany…

Copyright: Louise Ralph

Mont Saint Michel’s maritime character will soon be restored…

Mont Saint Michel has been at the top of my bucket list for a long time – and it doesn’t disappoint.

From that first moment when it emerged from the haze above acres of open fields, both EB and I were captivated.

As we soon discovered, there’s a major restoration project underway to return the island feel to Mont Saint Michel – including replacing the causeway with a bridge so the water can circulate and removing around 1.3 million cubic metres of silt (i.e. ****loads) that’s built up over the years.

Copyright: Louise Ralph

Archangel Saint Michael towers 560 feet above the bay…

Even with extensive work going on around it, and restoration on the Mont itself, it’s incredibly impressive.

And the stairs… there are a lot. Once we got to the top, EB found a reason to go back down again (of course).

Five minutes later, we just had to go back up because (apparently) the cathedral was open. It wasn’t, so we went down again for coffee. And he thinks I don’t know what he’s up to. Ha!

Eventually, we went back up again to go through the cathedral – which is a bit like one of those dreams where you keep opening doors in your house and finding more and more rooms.

Except these are huge, crafted from hand-hewn rock, perfectly melded with the rocky islet they rest on – and built at a time before cranes and other modern machinery. Phew.

From cathedral to a resort…

Copyright: Louise Ralph

Locals collecting their evening meal at Dinard…

On the way back to our hotel in the walled-city of Saint-Malo, we took a detour to the resort village of Dinard.

It’s another impressive ‘village’, this time on an island. The stone houses along the shoreline are huge and posh, but the amazing moment for us came when the locals turned out in force, armed with buckets and long pronged-metal spikes.

They were on a mission to harvest the goodies from the seafood garden revealed at low tide – there for the taking, if you know what you’re doing.

They certainly did, poking under rocks, finding exactly the right place in the sand to dig, picking the choicest fruits de mer

For some, this was a serious exercise, but for most I suspect collecting their seafood feast was as much about dinner as about hanging out with friends. Ah, France… what’s not to like?


Lost in translation…

© Royalty-Free/CorbisOkay, before I start banging on about how utterly gorgeous Brittany is, and how breathtaking Mont-Saint-Michel is, and how gobsmacking St Malo is – clearly I have run out of superlatives – I have to tell you…

I’ve been wondering why the waiters have been looking at me quizzically when I order those double expressos avec du lait sur le côté.

It’s all in the pronunciation – and the secret is in the sneaky accent on the ‘e’ (é). Which subtly changes ‘coat’ into ‘coat-aye’.

So here I am ordering milk ‘on the coast’ (côte) instead of ‘on the side’ (côté). Tch!

Now I understand why my French teacher kept telling us to ‘hit the ending’. Learning by doing…


We will remember them…

“You can manufacture weapons
and you can purchase ammunition,
but you can’t buy valor
and you can’t pull heroes off an assembly line.”

Sergeant John B Ellery, U.S. 1st Infantry Division

Copyright: Louise Ralph

Normandy American Cemetery & Memorial, Omaha Beach

On Saturday, we took an emotional journey along the D-Day beaches in Normandy.

It’s hard to express how truly moving it is to stand on this peaceful stretch of coastline and think about that day – June 6, 1944.

The land is still scarred with zig-zagging trenches, concrete bunkers and other evidence of Hitler’s Atlantic wall.

How close we came to a very different world, and what a sacrifice these thousands of men made to preserve our freedom.

We use the term ‘hero’ so loosely today. These are the real heroes… lest we forget.

Copyright: Louise Ralph

 


Gone to the dogs…

I see so many shops called Le Chat this or that in France, but so far I’ve only seen three cats. Wild, bedraggled and very un-pampered.

Dogs, now that’s another story. They are everywhere. In shops, beside us in restaurants (yes, even the posh ones), at breakfast in the hotel. Wait… they are guests here?

Two take the lift to the second floor after breakfast this morning, leading their owners. This is taking “a man’s best friend” to a whole new level.

Perhaps it’s true. Somewhere on a distant planet in another galaxy, we are being observed by an alien dog race, intent on studying our behaviour, plotting to take over the Earth.

How else do you explain us brushing and pampering them, letting them sleep on our couch or in our beds, feeding them a gourmet diet – and picking up their poo?

Perhaps, someday, they’ll be taking us for walks and carrying black people-poo bags to clean up our indiscretions. Hmmm, somehow I think that might be beneath them.


From Paris to Port en Bessin

our Paris address…

Au revoir, Paris

On Friday, we said au revoir to Paris with some sadness, but also with a sense of relief that we actually made our way out of the city – in peak-hour traffic (at 10 am…), without a scratch.

Sylvia, our fabulous GPS voice that gently yet insistently guides us, is our new best friend. Gagged (well, bagged) since we left home, she is suddenly wonderfully vocal – and faultlessly directs us out of what is essentially a spaghetti-bowl of roads circumnavigating Paris.

You know those days when technology really lets you down – and winds you up? Today is not one of them.

Bonjour, Port en Bessin

After sticking to the toll roads until Leviers, we convince Sylvia that we really do want to take the narrow, meandering pathway to Normandy. Thanks very much.

After Paris, Normandy’s wide open spaces are a surprise – and the villages along the way are breathtaking. Literally at times, when we squeeze between ancient stone walls and around blind corners.

Sylvia finally leads us into Port en Bessin and to our hotel – which is facing the fishing port or face en port. This fishing village is beyond picturesque, and it’s easy to lose track of time here…

Copyright: Louise Ralph

Port en Bessin, Normandy

We suddenly realise it’s six o’clock – and the sun isn’t even thinking about setting. Time to find the seafood restaurant a local has recommended, while Sylvia has a well-earned rest.


Strolling the Louvre

Ce n’est pas la Joconde…

It’s no wonder the Mona Lisa (La Joconde) has that enigmatic smile. The madness she’s seen…

Tourists jostle to get close enough to her to get a snap. Others work their way to the front row and immediately turn their back on her.

Their quest is to be photographed with her. They check their friend’s photography efforts (gotta love digital), nod and walk away…

I pause for a moment to look into those serene yet knowing eyes.

I have someone’s elbow in my ear… and is that a camera almost resting on my head? The price of being short I guess.

Mais non, ce n’est pas la Joconde soit. C’est EB…

The magnetic Mona Lisa is unperturbed. Long after the snaps feature in slideshows and photo albums, long after the memories have grown tired, she will be here. Ever the celebrity.

Down the hall, a young woman holding a lime green-covered iPad is walking towards us – well, almost over us.

She is spinning slowly, taking in the artwork through the screen.

Every now and then she peeps out from behind it.

I guess there are ways and ways to see the Louvre…


Flâneurs à Paris

EB on the rue St. Louis en l’Isle

I’ve discovered there is a word for people like us who like to explore places on foot: flâneurs or ‘strollers’.

Although we did master the Metro today, nothing compares to  wandering the streets of Paris.

Negotiating cobblestones and catching the delicious smells that waft from the boulangerie (and the not-so-delicious from god knows where).

Drinking in the shapes and colours of buildings that will outlive us all.

Hearing l’enfants laughing and playing somewhere behind a school’s high stone wall or the piercing ee-aw of police sirens on some urgent mission.

Or stopping to people-watch and savour double expresso avec du lait sur le côté. 

Eiffel Tower

la dame de fer

But let’s back track to Sunday… possibly the worst day we could pick to see the Eiffel Tower – an engineering masterpiece but, mon dieu, the lines.

There was no way EB was going up there if he had to wait in a line of more than a hundred people. So we took the stair option to the second floor… then stood in line for an hour to get the lift to the top.

Gustave Eiffel’s winning design for the entrance arch to the 1889 World’s Fair, the Eiffel Tower was originally built to be torn down. Even so, the protests began as soon as work commenced on the latticed iron tower in January 1887.

Nicknamed la dame de fer (Iron Lady), very few Parisians appreciated their city skyline dominated by this apparent monstrosity.

Today, it’s said to be one of the most recognised monuments in the world – and one of the most visited. Surrounded by hot, bothered tourists anxious to get to the top, I’m easily convinced.

Needless to say, we flâneured (is that a word?) out of there pretty quickly and recovered over a glass or two of Ruinart, my favourite French champagne. Ah Paris, voilà ce qu’est la vie.

Getting around and getting the knots out…

If you’re not completely insane and you like to wear something other than sensible walking shoes, taking a Batobus (boat-bus) is a good option and gives you a different perspective of Paris. It’s hop-on, hop-off at eight different stops along the Siene. A five-day pass cost us €21 each. A day ticket is €18.

After a long day on your feet, relax  with a brilliant Thai massage at Nuad Thai Sabai on the Quai de la Tournelle (Metro: Pont-Marie, Sully Morland or Jussieu).


Eat, sleep, play… in Paris

St-Germain des Pres From the moment EB and I stepped out of our quaint, oh-so-Paris apartment on the Ile Saint-Louis this morning, I knew I was ‘home’.

It just felt like the right fit for me in every way, and I immediately felt myself relaxing.

I love the way women dress here – relaxed, understated and not a nose-bleed-height heel in sight. Except on tourists who are willing to risk their ankles on the uneven cobblestones.

And in spite of the bad wrap Parisians often get, we’ve found them friendly and helpful. They don’t gush and they don’t try to impress, but they seem comfortable in their own skin and I like that.

Best of all, after years of having conniptions over conjugations, I’m finally speaking French without hyperventilating… ordering breakfast, asking a man on the street for directions (and even understanding the answer!), and buying supplies at the marché.

Later, exploring the deliciously charming streets of St-Germain de Prés and nearby Left Bank neighbourhoods, I could very well have been in heaven.

At the end of our first day in Paris, EB has already walked my legs off… and hopefully the day’s indulgences.

I suspect tomorrow will involve, among other things, not taking the lift up the Eiffel Tower. As if 88 stairs up to our apartment isn’t enough already. Not that we’ve counted.