Beer, wine or champagne?

Beer. I just love it. Nothing better than a cool, creamy frothing pint of ale to relax with. In the winter it has a warming effect – dark, fruity sweet and bitter, in Summer it cools with a blonde crisp, hoppiness. Very versatile. I probably drink too much of it. Nope I know I used to drink too much of it – increasing problems with gout, a widening middle girth and even a brush with pancreatitis – woke me up somewhat. I now don’t drink at all during the week, exercise more, have lost the extra pounds and take my medication and drink plenty of water to keep the gout at bay. Still doesn’t stop at me weekends though enjoying more beer than I probably should. I could blame my dad as he likes a pint, but actually it would be more of a ‘thankyou’ than blame.



Whilst beer will always be my first love I have over the years turned my attention somewhat to the joys of a decent glass of wine. Started a few years back with a friend of the Mrs, inviting us to join a wine club – Laithwaites. I’ve bought numerous bottles now over the years, even been to a few wine tastings and visited a couple of English vineyards. I am not an expert by any means but I have reached that stage where I know what my preference is and what I prefer to stock my “cellar” with. One thing I’ve never quite understood though is the hype over champagne. Sure I’ve tasted a couple of well rounded champagnes but most of them just appear to be expensive, over fizzed, dry nothingness. The worst examples just give me heartburn.

It was a little strange therefore that on our journey home we decided to have an overnight stay around Reims, the Champagne capital. In our heads we had visions of a romantic little hotel or a magnificent chateau to finish off the last night of the holiday. In many instances dreams don’t quite work out, this was one of them. It was getting late and we’d been driving all day, plus the fact the bonnie was low on fuel. We passed through many villages, drove round in circles, asked the locals, checked the Sat Nav etc but kept get getting pointed back to the only hotel within a 20 mile radius – a modern motel on the main busy road. Eventually we realised it was our only option and booked in, dreams somewhat dashed. Don’t get me wrong it was clean and comfortable but not quite what we had envisaged for our last night.

The receptionist pointed us in the direction of the nearest restaurant about a couple of hundred yards down the road. It was nothing special from the outside, but that does not matter much to the French as they take their food seriously and it’s rare to be served a poor meal. It was reasonably busy, a few locals and a smattering of guests from the motel. To accompany our meal we decided to have a bottle of champagne, “when in Rome……”. We were handed a menu of champagne that listed about dozen or so producers from the surrounding villages, all within 10km. We asked the waitress for her thoughts, she pointed to one of the local village producers just a couple of kilometres away. We went with her recommendation.

Now I am not going to say it was the best bottle of champagne ever because it wasn’t. I’d simply be lying. It was though a lovely quaffable example of champagne, a million miles away from the mass producers that line the shelves of British supermarkets. For just 28 euros, in a restaurant, it also represented good value for money. Perhaps what this ‘little’ champagne demonstrated more though was the fact that most of the champagne we see in Britain is a triumph of marketing and snobbery over taste. The ad men have certainly done their job well when it comes to champagne, Moet, Bollinger etc you can keep it.

In the future however I may buy the odd bottle of champagne from smaller producers in the hope of finding one that represents similar taste and value for money. Who knows maybe I’ll even find one that doesn’t give me heartburn.

Breathe it in .................. Lovely Bonnie

There is one particular aspect of the Bonnie that is understated but admirable. It has an ability to be “involving”. Bike journalists often describe a bike as involving but this is predominantly based on how much fun the bike is to corner, blast along a country road or lift its front wheel under acceleration. Involving with regard to the bonnie is the way it makes you feel part of the surroundings. No need to hurry, take it all in, look around you, breathe the fresh air, relax. Sure you can hustle it if needed but I’m not convinced that’s what the Hinckley engineers designed into their creation. It’s about emotion – involving.

With the bonnie purring along, the scenery in the Alps rolled on by. The chocolate box houses, rolling fields and green forests giving way to the occasional stream. Mountain side villages with their small hotels, church steeples, cafes and shops. Window boxes full of red geraniums, the occasional cheery wave from a passer by and a bright cloudless sky all pushed themselves forward and pulled me in. The setting of sheer alpine mountain peaks providing the final striking background.

We rode all day, no real destination in mind, changing our minds at will. Occasionally we got it wrong – a mountain road ascending sharply and changing into a gravel mountain path. No worries, turn the bikes around, try somewhere else. Eventually we set a target of Annecy for lunch – a beautiful if somewhat crowded lakeside town. The scenery, the roads and the need for a cool breeze in the hot sun soon drew us back to the bikes though.

Towards the end of the day it got a little harder. Wrists stiff from constant hair pin bends, eyes getting tired from continued concentration. With no route in mind we stumbled on a mountain climb that was quite simply scary, stunning and involving all at once. The Col Alvis features a breathtaking view from the top of Mont Blanc, a rewarding surprise on reaching the summit.

The route up was hard, incredibly steep and long, no respite from first and second gear corners. Sportsbikes were in abundance, their riders looking for that “twisty” experience at speeds that would scare and frighten anyone with a degree of self preservation. It was the people on push bikes though that I noticed. Thin mountain air and the steepness of the climb straining every sinew and muscle. One rider was stripped to his waist, his tanned back glistened with the sweat of strained effort. His face contorted with pain. It was hard enough on a motorbike, on a human powered cycle I could only imagine the level of effort and endeavour. I passed slowly, respectfully giving him the room to continue the rocking motion of the bike below him as he pumped the pedals slowly.

We reached the top – crowded – took a couple of photos and pushed into the long twisting descent for home as the afternoon was getting late.

I’ve thought a couple of times since about that poor cyclist and the effort he needed to make his goal. Did he reach the top? Probably, his determination as I followed and then passed was startling. On a sportsbike though, would I have noticed him? I don’t think I would. On the bonnie I did – Involving you see.

Trying to reach our destination

Slowly it crawls deeper through every pore, exposing weakness in your defensive shield. You move, you feel it more, cold and unpleasant. It hurts, stinging your exposed legs. It has to stop, you urge it to stop, it doesn’t listen. Relentless.

Around you it blackens, harder now, even more incessant. But you are alive, every sinew striving for control, every movement felt, scanning, alert for danger. Try to keep your vision clear. You process countless information streams, make the changes, - survive.

This is hard, you know it can’t get much worse. There is no respite, no relaxation just the occasional burst through a bore hole in a mountain to provide some fleeting relief. You must keep your focus, fatigue could be fatal.

Other users, more fortunate than you, take their place obliquely in front of you, oblivious to the damage they inflict. Back away from them, keep safe, wipe it quickly away from in front of your eyes.

Rain, hard rain, heavy rain, crashing thunder and bright white lightening……………..four long hours, crowded motorway, dangerous.

We have ridden in gale force wind and rain before, but nothing like an Alpine summer storm. Its intensity and longevity coupled with a crowded motorway made it genuinely frightening. We arrived at our destination that evening, no sense of celebration, just relief, sheer bloody relief.

Hoping for a memory

There are places we visit that stay with us, often aligned to a pleasant memory or experience. Hotels, Bed and Breakfast, Guesthouses and even Camp Sites can all be recalled for how they influenced us or made us feel at a particular point in time. For me there are a number of special places that I’ll always remember for the impact they made on me - our honeymoon hotel in the lakes, a two bedroom cottage in deepest Winter in the Peak District and a Coaching Inn’s hospitality during a boozy wine tasting, but there are numerous others too.

It had been a long first day on our trip to the French Alps. The tedium of the crowded English motorways and long wait in Dover to join the ferry. The flat and featureless plains of the Pas de Calais region were neither spectacular or interesting but the emptiness of the motorway network came as blessed relief and allowed us to acclimatise gently into a different country. The excitement of the holiday ahead still buzzed around us and the challenge of taking two ‘little’ naked bikes to the French Italian border remained our goal.

I must confess our first night hotel was nothing special, a major French chain, booked for its convenience, a mere stopover on our journey. The surprise though was the Town – Arras – with its pretty square lined by bars and restaurants all vibrating to a heady Friday night atmosphere. We immersed ourselves within it, dining al fresco and partaking of a few beers. First day fatigue was our main enemy however and we knew we had to keep fresh. Stifled yawns signalled to us both that we should draw our first night to a conclusion.

After a morning of more French motorways it was time to head into the wine making Burgundy region of France. Chablis, and the Beaune villages beckoned. Here we entered the ‘real’ France. Rolling fields of agriculture flanked with vines on the hills. Pretty and sleepy French villages ambled by our bikes, tree lined roads giving needy shade from the mid-day sun. We were enjoying ourselves, extending the bikes for the occasional overtake, slowing in the villages to breathe in our surroundings. I could wait no longer it was time to sample that glorious French institution of “Lunch”. Not for the French is a grabbed Marks and Spencer butty or a baked spud on the run. You sit, you enjoy, you take your time, maybe a little wine to wash it down. Where we stopped I have no idea, it was a Restaurant like you find in any French village, its importance in their culture paramount judging by the amount of tables taken as again we dined al fresco to a lazy lunch of local produce.

After Lunch we were only an hour or so from our destination for the evening and I must admit to a sense of anticipation. Our second night stay had the potential to reach the status of ‘memorable’ that I dearly wanted it to be. As we turned into the gates you could not help but smile at its beauty, this was going to be special. An imposing, beautifully symmetrical French Country house in its own grounds with a heady mix of flowers and shrubs. It looked gorgeous. Our host greeted us warmly and showed us to a beautiful room at the top of a winding spiral staircase.

Relaxing is an overused term for hotel and holiday brochures but a more apt word I cannot think of. We spent a lazy afternoon with a dip in the pool, a snooze in the bedroom and a draught of wheat beer in the grounds whilst we awaited our friends, a number of whom were also travelling down through France to our holiday destination in the Alps. Our hosts busied themselves in their kitchen preparing our evening meal. The beer made me a little ‘woozy’, my cheeks reddened and slowly the hours passed.

We joined the rest of the guests later that evening on the lawn as we awaited dinner. A bottle of Chablis topping up glasses at will. The table was set outside and then it happened suddenly – a summer storm of flashing lightening, crashing thunder and raindrops soaking everything. Quickly we all hurried the set table back in doors into the grand dining room, all the guests and hosts ‘mucking in' as quickly as possible. It just demonstrated further the informal, relaxed atmosphere that the house generated amongst all. The father of the house insisted that Rachel and I move our bikes into his garage for shelter – just another caring touch.

Some of our friends were a little late for dinner. It didn’t seem to phase our hosts, a little more wine and an acceptance that serving dinner might be a little chaotic for them that evening as many of our friends looked to ensure that their young children were tucked up in bed. I won’t describe the intimate details of the meal other than to say it was every bit as good as you would expect from a trained French cookery teacher (the mother of the house also runs French cookery classes from the kitchen). The wine flowed, local food, cheeses and a tot of spirit to complete the evening. I slept soundly that night.

The next day it was still raining. After a breakfast of fresh croissants and homemade jams we prepared the bikes, still harbouring the shelter of the garage and gathered our waterproofs around us. Slowly we manouvered the bikes gently down the wet gravel pathway. Some of our friends and their children leaned out of their room windows and waved us goodbye, I was sad to leave. La Cimentelle you will stay with me as memory, hopefully one day to return.

http://www.lacimentelle.com/