Sens and Seinesability
One noticeable change as we move through the regions of France is in the quality of the food. I am quite sure that one can find as much fantastic food as one wants in any place in the world for the right price: however, put simply, mid-budget food in Bourgogne is cooked tenderly with a clear striving for excellence (and possibly by a chef too!) whereas West of Paris you could squeeze more tenderness out of an agony aunt column than the food: in the culinary world of the north west of France it seems, money directly correllates to effort.
In Fontainebleau, however, we had the first restaurant meal which stood up to the French reputation for top-quality food: from the moment an English person is born, he is immediately trained that meat should be grey. James and I both, mainly as a result of Christophe's steak tartare have developped a taste for la viande sanguine (seeping). I am still not quite at the stage where I can take my meat bleu (hardly even waved over the pan), but we're getting there.
Nothing interesting happened on the way to Sens, except for a rather bizarre incident where we stopped in a lay-by to find an Italian woman, sitting at the base of an Obelisk, yelling abuse into a dictaphone whilst a man fixed their car nearby. We didn't ask...
The road itself was fairly easy going, along an enormous, fairly industrialised river valley. Rather embarassingly, we were overtaken by a bunch of kids on those BMXesque bikes with the tiny wheels... but we felt quite smug since they didn't have a whole load of baggage, and quite frankly we weren't as 'cool' as them; and thankfully never will be!
Sens was rather dull, but it redeemed itself in three ways: firstly it had a cheap hotel right in the centre which had available rooms with a shower which was not in the middle of the bedroom or completely see-through; secondly, the cathedral was rather nice in a calm norman columny sort of way; thirdly, and perhaps by this stage of the evening, most importantly, there was a creperie which sold the most outrageously huge crepes.
Day 8 began with a look round the cathedral and a hunt for the presbytery, in order to get a rubber-stamp to add to the collection begun in Chartes - this helps show the Romans how catholic we are. At the cathedral house, the door was answered by a lady who I can only describe as being remarkably similar to the house-keeper from the Father Ted series! James bought a new pair of sunglasses to replace the old ones (RIP) which died in the tragic accident with a car tyre in Chartres.
We set off to the south with the intention of going to Auxerre. The lady in the hotel had told us slightly cryptically that there was no road to Rome from Auxerre (well, there wouldn't be, would there?) but if we wanted to go there we could (er... yes). So we ignored her for the time being.
We took a break in Villeneuve-sur-Yonne, a beautiful little village which had towers at each end of its main street. The countryside, along side the canal and railway, could quite easily have been in England (but for the 30°C temperature). It really was gorgeous.
We had lunch in Joigny, where the hotel lady's comments were deciphered when the restauranteur suggested that rather than go to Auxerre, which was horrid apparently, there was the opportunity to follow the old road to Switzerland through Tonnerre.
Thank God we did - Tonnerre was a gorgeous little town clinging to the side of the hill, and the bits that didn't fit or hadn't clung, had flopped out over the valley floor. The houses were all trying deperately to fall down, but someone keppt propping them up it seemed. It was also the town's fête, so it was with heavy heart that we went to the hotel to check that they didn't have any rooms! They didn't have any guests, in fact, and were rather pleased to see us. We walked round the fête, with stalls ranging from fruit sellers to hot dog people, attic clearances to the man selling bathroom flooring (though I can't imagine he got many customers in truth). It zas a lovely village atmosphere, the sort of atmosphere we lack in so many of our own English villages.
One thing we don't lack however is the annoying tendency to force piped music on people from communal mayoral loud speakers until 1 O'clock in the morning. One such speaker pronouncing the music of modern beqt combinations was situated just outside our window. BUt there we go. The most amusing this there was what appeared to be a karaoke barrel organ or something, with singing quality to match the tuning of the organ itself... special.
The most glorious thing about Tonnerre was, I feel the view from the church, high up at the top of the hill, from where, on this ever so clear night, one could see for miles, a rosy sunset dying behind the hills, painting the higgledy-piggledy tiled rooftops a shade of orange. It really was stunningly lovely.
Away we went, still on the same road towards to south, along the slightly narrowing valley till we came to Ancy-le-Franc, where we stopped to refill the water bottles. The bingo café where we stopped had all the old men of the village crammed into it, marking their cards on the televised "rapido" lottery machines. One can only imaging that on a Sunday after mass, there is that period until lunch, familiar to anyone who attended boarding school, ahere nothing ever happens: here, bingo filled the gap.
A fantastic lunch in the pizzaria in Nuits, a town which was completely deserted. it was Sunday 1st August: all the French were on holiday and there was quite literally no one in the town!
At about 5pm, just before a little hamlet, the repair which I had made to the tyre on Day one, gave up the ghost: just as well we bought that new pump I thought. Off came the wheel, in went the new inner tube, and on went the tyre. We started pumping. And pumping. And pumping. Every time the pressure got anywhere beyond feeble, the pump would wheeze with consumptive joy and let all the air out. Sod it! I took the eauipmen to bits and applied a rubber band and some of James' lip-salve to see if we could seal the valve a bit further, and although this went some way to helping, it was only good enough to walk the bike along.
I am a firm believer that the Trading Standards officers should examine Zefal pumps to see if there are any grounds at all for calling these objects "pumps". Or perhaps they should put a warning on the side of each one saying
"WARNING: does not inflate tyres"
Eventually a cyclist came along and we borrowed his. We shall be performing a pump massacre after purchasing a new one here in Dijon.
It proved quite hard to get a hotel (given that there weren't any) in the little valley in which we were travelling (or attempting to at least), and it was now 7pm. We continued therefore, up the steep climb out of the valley and came eventually, after helping to heard some cattle for an irate woman with a stick, to a delightful but rather dull place called St. Seine l'Abbaye, so called because it is near the source of the Seine river. Finding a hotel, we had our second awesome restaurant meal, where we had a delicious Beef Bourguignon.
This morning we have cycled up two fairly long hills, out of valleys. Things are definitely hotting up, both temperature-wise and in terms of hills - roll on the Alps - I can't wait for the scenery!
In Fontainebleau, however, we had the first restaurant meal which stood up to the French reputation for top-quality food: from the moment an English person is born, he is immediately trained that meat should be grey. James and I both, mainly as a result of Christophe's steak tartare have developped a taste for la viande sanguine (seeping). I am still not quite at the stage where I can take my meat bleu (hardly even waved over the pan), but we're getting there.
Nothing interesting happened on the way to Sens, except for a rather bizarre incident where we stopped in a lay-by to find an Italian woman, sitting at the base of an Obelisk, yelling abuse into a dictaphone whilst a man fixed their car nearby. We didn't ask...
The road itself was fairly easy going, along an enormous, fairly industrialised river valley. Rather embarassingly, we were overtaken by a bunch of kids on those BMXesque bikes with the tiny wheels... but we felt quite smug since they didn't have a whole load of baggage, and quite frankly we weren't as 'cool' as them; and thankfully never will be!
Sens was rather dull, but it redeemed itself in three ways: firstly it had a cheap hotel right in the centre which had available rooms with a shower which was not in the middle of the bedroom or completely see-through; secondly, the cathedral was rather nice in a calm norman columny sort of way; thirdly, and perhaps by this stage of the evening, most importantly, there was a creperie which sold the most outrageously huge crepes.
Day 8 began with a look round the cathedral and a hunt for the presbytery, in order to get a rubber-stamp to add to the collection begun in Chartes - this helps show the Romans how catholic we are. At the cathedral house, the door was answered by a lady who I can only describe as being remarkably similar to the house-keeper from the Father Ted series! James bought a new pair of sunglasses to replace the old ones (RIP) which died in the tragic accident with a car tyre in Chartres.
We set off to the south with the intention of going to Auxerre. The lady in the hotel had told us slightly cryptically that there was no road to Rome from Auxerre (well, there wouldn't be, would there?) but if we wanted to go there we could (er... yes). So we ignored her for the time being.
We took a break in Villeneuve-sur-Yonne, a beautiful little village which had towers at each end of its main street. The countryside, along side the canal and railway, could quite easily have been in England (but for the 30°C temperature). It really was gorgeous.
We had lunch in Joigny, where the hotel lady's comments were deciphered when the restauranteur suggested that rather than go to Auxerre, which was horrid apparently, there was the opportunity to follow the old road to Switzerland through Tonnerre.
Thank God we did - Tonnerre was a gorgeous little town clinging to the side of the hill, and the bits that didn't fit or hadn't clung, had flopped out over the valley floor. The houses were all trying deperately to fall down, but someone keppt propping them up it seemed. It was also the town's fête, so it was with heavy heart that we went to the hotel to check that they didn't have any rooms! They didn't have any guests, in fact, and were rather pleased to see us. We walked round the fête, with stalls ranging from fruit sellers to hot dog people, attic clearances to the man selling bathroom flooring (though I can't imagine he got many customers in truth). It zas a lovely village atmosphere, the sort of atmosphere we lack in so many of our own English villages.
One thing we don't lack however is the annoying tendency to force piped music on people from communal mayoral loud speakers until 1 O'clock in the morning. One such speaker pronouncing the music of modern beqt combinations was situated just outside our window. BUt there we go. The most amusing this there was what appeared to be a karaoke barrel organ or something, with singing quality to match the tuning of the organ itself... special.
The most glorious thing about Tonnerre was, I feel the view from the church, high up at the top of the hill, from where, on this ever so clear night, one could see for miles, a rosy sunset dying behind the hills, painting the higgledy-piggledy tiled rooftops a shade of orange. It really was stunningly lovely.
Away we went, still on the same road towards to south, along the slightly narrowing valley till we came to Ancy-le-Franc, where we stopped to refill the water bottles. The bingo café where we stopped had all the old men of the village crammed into it, marking their cards on the televised "rapido" lottery machines. One can only imaging that on a Sunday after mass, there is that period until lunch, familiar to anyone who attended boarding school, ahere nothing ever happens: here, bingo filled the gap.
A fantastic lunch in the pizzaria in Nuits, a town which was completely deserted. it was Sunday 1st August: all the French were on holiday and there was quite literally no one in the town!
At about 5pm, just before a little hamlet, the repair which I had made to the tyre on Day one, gave up the ghost: just as well we bought that new pump I thought. Off came the wheel, in went the new inner tube, and on went the tyre. We started pumping. And pumping. And pumping. Every time the pressure got anywhere beyond feeble, the pump would wheeze with consumptive joy and let all the air out. Sod it! I took the eauipmen to bits and applied a rubber band and some of James' lip-salve to see if we could seal the valve a bit further, and although this went some way to helping, it was only good enough to walk the bike along.
I am a firm believer that the Trading Standards officers should examine Zefal pumps to see if there are any grounds at all for calling these objects "pumps". Or perhaps they should put a warning on the side of each one saying
"WARNING: does not inflate tyres"
Eventually a cyclist came along and we borrowed his. We shall be performing a pump massacre after purchasing a new one here in Dijon.
It proved quite hard to get a hotel (given that there weren't any) in the little valley in which we were travelling (or attempting to at least), and it was now 7pm. We continued therefore, up the steep climb out of the valley and came eventually, after helping to heard some cattle for an irate woman with a stick, to a delightful but rather dull place called St. Seine l'Abbaye, so called because it is near the source of the Seine river. Finding a hotel, we had our second awesome restaurant meal, where we had a delicious Beef Bourguignon.
This morning we have cycled up two fairly long hills, out of valleys. Things are definitely hotting up, both temperature-wise and in terms of hills - roll on the Alps - I can't wait for the scenery!
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