Beaune

The flight out of London into Paris was brief and pretty painless, even the security checks in Paris were quick, so before we knew it we were in our hire car and off. It is a real beauty. A new Peugeot, with all the bells and whistles, a classy piece of work, too good for me. The driving on the right thing was not such an issue, probably because we have toured so many times in the past four years, but still it takes full concentration for a while. After a few wrong side trips we were on the road south east and we got to Beaune late afternoon.

This place is just beautiful.

In superb wine country, surrounded by ancient villages and chateaus, our villa for the week is a work of art. It is run by a family, our host is the owner's son, Vincent. His wife is a sculptor who has populated the villa with her works, various characters, mainly children at rest or play. For the first day or so, you double take every time you discover another corner peopled by non people, they are so life like. Our room is magnificent and the terrace overlooks the valley and the township, the best place for a few post travel bevvies. Vincent showed us the cellar, dug out by friends and family, complete with a spa and shower and more "les undead." You reach it via a little secret door and steep stairway. Love it.

We had a lovely dinner out at a recommended restaurant in the town square and immediately the standard of the food goes up a notch. No doubt about the French, they know how to do food.

Wine touring was the order of the day, Day Two. Led by Vincent in a little hire bus that he couldn't drive, we toured the local vineyards and outlets. At each place I learned more and more, not just about French wine, but wine in general.  Wine has been produced on these hills for two thousand years, dating back to the Romans (what have they ever done for us?) and it is the absolute lifeblood here. Every little village is kept alive by the industry, with every family reliant on it in some way. It is Chardonnay and Pinot Noir country here, graded strictly by the positions of the vines - Grand Cru, Premier Cru, Village appellation, Bougogne, in that order from the top of the hill down to the flat. Interesting. It is important that the history and the tradition is maintained both for tourism and export so you understand why they guard it strongly. But no snobbery about price at all, it is about what you like and what you can afford. I like that.

The lunch was really good. Escargots so fresh they were slithering out of their shells.

Home after a great day, Angela prepared us a light meal from the local produce, pate, cheese, baguettes, veggies. When in Beaune do what the Beaunies do. The wine was our favourite from today, Volnay Premier Cru. Yvonne, Mark and I are having some reds shipped home. 

Our third day was spent in touring round Beaune. There is plenty to see in this beautiful town, a typical French medieval town, complete with city wall, moat, market square and narrow, winding ways. The centrepiece is the Hospice de Beaune, a medieval hospital, in a great state of preservation. It was built in the thirteenth century by someone with a French name, Godfrey de Vac, rings a bell but I could be wrong. Anyway, it was centuries ahead of its time, with a system akin to Medicare, where the poor were treated free, covered by the paying rich. The instruments looked in great order, the nuns cooked up a storm in the huge kitchen, the beds looked big and comfortable with your own ensuite (a hole, but a convenient hole) and there was freshly grown medicine. Better than Canterbury hospital 2017 I reckon. A viniculture museum followed, which was a little dry, squeezing every drop out of us. I don't mean to whine, but we were hard pressed to raise a smile here. Our full day yesterday may be staying a bit long on the palate?

But after we returned to Terre D'Or the patriarch of the whole shebang, Jean Louis, took us to his little vineyard where he is cultivating truffles. For free he gave us a monologue on the EU and Brexit. It is the second time on the tour (Quebec was the first) where a Frenchman had unloaded on the poms. Jean Louis brought up the way Aussies, Kiwis and Canucks were their cannon fodder in WW1. His take on EU was really thoughtful and intelligent. He is funny, friendly and a workaholic. Most of this incredible place is literally his handiwork, with the help of family and friends. I got tired just listening to him. Visited the local church and did some meditation. Ok a nap. There. I said it.

Dinner out was at Le Petit Paradis. It is really tiny with a capacity of about 22 people. When we arrived we doubled the crowd and got a thorough checking over from the locals as we plonked down in the centre of the room. "If you don't like duck you're rather stuck" Basil said, but not true at Le Petit Paradis. I loved my huge canard and everyone else seemed to wolf down their various choices with the same relish. Not literally. The waitress got really chatty at the end of the night when we were the only ones left. She was funny with plenty of insight into today's kids. It is the same the world over. French parents are ruining their kids too, it seems.

We took to the road on Thursday, with Michele at the wheel. This was her first time driving the countryside in Europe and she did a sterling job negotiating the tiny village streets with their ridiculously large vehicles. Given a few must sees from Vincent and Jean Louis, we headed south to the little town of La Rochepot. A spectacular chateau overlooks the village and when the three musketeers, Yvonne, Michele, Jacques, arrived we had the place to ourselves. Literally, we wandered from room to room and up to the top of the tower, without another person around. It really gives the place a different atmosphere altogether when you aren't sidestepping the hordes. These places were built because life in the 13th, 14th C was one long siege and just staying alive was a daily achievement, but in the sun with belly full of croissants and jam, overlooking the autumn colours of the valley, it is heaven. We are lucky people. The village church was guarded by a chihuahua with attitude, a case of short dog syndrome, but once past him we were inside a real Dan Brown Da Vinci Code French church. Entry through a heavy squeaky door, unlit and deserted it was eerily cold and musty. The flagstone floor was almost completely enscribed grave markers and a dedication stone dated it to 1230. 

Lunch was in a really neat little village, where we ate light and had a little trouble trying to get a cup of tea. It came in stages. A half cup of boiling water first, a nice long break to let it go cold, then after a gentle reminder to the irritated waitress, an even more irritated grunt. Then, once the water is nice and frigid, a tea bag dropped onto the table. First bad service. Le Buckley's chance grande tip pour vous, Madame. Off then to Chateau du Clos de Vougeot. The word "Clos" is everywhere. It indicates the boundary, usually a stone wall of the vineyard. This Clos was enormous, surrounding a very salubrious, commercial chateau that operates as a function centre. It was started in 1110 by the Cistercian monks, who loved their wine. The smell of duck fat was everywhere as they prepared for a function, the jazz band was tuning up and the waiters were running around like ants. This area, apparently produces the most "prestigious" wines in France. Not sure how prestige is acquired, but Vincent assured us of this as a fact, not an opinion.

It was Libby's birthday celebration dinner that night. It was a family style restaurant with a really friendly atmosphere. A New Zealand couple sat next to us and the conversation was easy. He is a geophysicist and she is battling cancer. It is going to be a really tough battle too, reading between the lines. We wished them well at the end of the evening, thinking how minor my own little aches and pains are.

Happy birthday Lib. Cheers.

I was back at the wheel for the long drive to the much anticipated Abbay de Fontenay. It has been give a huge build up, this one, marked heavily on the maps by every helpful Frenchman and woman as a special. We decided to go the slow, scenic route rather than the expressway. It was a good choice. Despite the quiet, relatively isolated part of the county we are in, the roads are terrific. The tolls are expensive, but the quality of these country roads is top class. I really enjoyed the drive through the little hamlets where we played "spot the local" Seriously, we found it hard to spot a living human in these picture postcard villages named after an endless array of saints. It is like Burgundy is a theme park. Perfect. But where are the people?

We drove the steep hill up to Chateauneuf, a castle that can be seen for miles around. Another stunner! Once more, little in the way of crowds, a defensive castle commanding the countryside for miles in every direction and a stunning village closed around it. The perfect time of year this, after the holiday period, comfortable weather, low crowds, low traffic, autumn colour everywhere. The hero of the region it seems is the little guy who built these castles, Phillipe Pot. One of his descendants was a handy Aussie cricketer. Little known fact, that.

Onto the much anticipated Abbey. Allons!

Yes, dear reader, well worth the wait. Magnificent. The Cistercian monks found themselves a pretty tidy corner of France here. Quiet neighbourhood, running stream to provide power for Europe's first metal forge, a trout farm and easy access to stone for the building of the mother of abbeys. A monk city really, not an abbey. The Las Vegas of monkdom. The place was incredibly peaceful and stunningly beautiful, but huge. Religion was big business back in the day, before enlightenment and the emergence of Science. These abbeys were centres of education, commerce and community, a time when religion was universally lived out, the core of daily life.

We shared a picnic lunch by the water. Yum. Picturesque drive home.

Dinner that night was a farce. Well, not so much the dinner, that was great, it was the excursion to the restaurant that created the hubbub. If a restaurant is five minutes walk from your accommodation how do you lose a member of your party? How can the police be called? Would leaches or bush ticks be an issue? Would you expect the party to arrive in small, exhausted groups full of tales of their adventures?

It's true this is maybe not your garden variety group, but still...

Our host said "turn right, then left, five minute, voila!" But the track was a bush track. One ignored it, went ahead, three followed then realised their mistake when those bringing up the rear yelled to come back. The foremost ploughed on, ignorant of their terrible mistake, into oblivion. The group was fragmented now, beyond aid, some taking to the frightening bush track, others trying to ring the police on an EFTPOS machine from the villa office.

Those out in the darkening wilderness trusted to their instincts as the track narrowed to a sliver, finally bursting free, bits of bush life clinging to them.

Noises, calls and shouts for help rang through the valley below them, but they saw lights on the hill. The restaurant. At last. Finally, under shelter, they waited with baited breath, as their battered companions arrived over the next hour, with their stories of survival.

The calamity sure gave me an appetite though.

Nice food. My steak was big. There was a German Shepherd at the next table throughout the meal, barking and howling. That's not normal, or am I being picky?

The next morning we told Vincent we had taken an hour to get to the restaurant and had to call the police. He said something in French. I think it translated to "yes, but you are old and demented."

On Saturday we said our goodbyes before taking to the long road a Paris. It had been a fabulous week. Vincent was a brilliant host, as was as his dad Jean Louis. The accommodation was first class, terrific location, top food, wine, company. We were all sad at times too. Brien Holden we missed you, but we toasted you and knew you were here. Vale, great man.

A little visit to the markets before hitting the long road. They were going off. Just like they have on Saturdays for a thousand years.

There was a funny little interlude buying petrol on the motorway.

The woman at the cash register's question in French "what number bowser was it?" caught me on the hop. I answered "Bonjour" and she burst out laughing. She was still laughing when I said "Je ne parle pas la Francaise" then I added "La Terre est dans la systeme solaire" (the earth is in the solar system). She was still laughing when I left.

Easy car drop off at Orly. Flight to Valletta was smooth and comfortable. Au Revoir La France.