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 emptines
s 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 la
zy 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.
zy 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.
No comments:
Post a Comment