Chapter 15teen: The Charentes then into Brittany

The Charentes then into Britanny

I would have loved to have posted some great photos here to help tell the story of our visits in the Charentes, staying with our friends, Theresa and Tommy at their Chez Thomas in Segonzac, but, sadly, I laid my camera down. After a few thousand clicks, I needed to cool off the camera and give my trigger finger a rest.  I will, however, resort to some quickie little smartphone shots

I recommend to all explorers of France, that if you ever want to visit the Cognac region, namely, the Charentes, book some time at the Chez Thomas Chambre d'Hôtes.  The famous city of Cognac, and touring opportunities at the distilleries there, are only a short drive away.

Segonzac is the real centre of the cognac producers. This is where Raymond Desse, grand viticulteur, produces his award-winning cognac. 

On this visit to France we visited him again, honoured to be invited to his home with our friends for an aperatif dînatoire, prepared by his wife Marie Noel, a most gracious hostess, and a true ambassador for France. 

Raymond proudly showed us his award, a distinction of honour in his industry. 

We celebrated with samples of his eau de vie.






M. Desse gave us a tour of his property. 

Several years ago he planted a small grove of oak trees at the back of his house. The trees facilitate the propagation of truffles. These he harvests in February with the help of a friend's dog.

The other side of the house is flanked by a perimeter of bushes (sorry, I did not get the plant name). These also promote the growth of truffles. Raymond harvests these ones in May/June.





Tommy has the truffle eye: he picked one out of the ground on our little tour!

Wow! Now who has their own private "truffle plantations"? And this is not all. M. Desse also cultivates his own escargots.

He picks the snails off his grape vines and places them into a big garden pot that he covers with a lid. There is flour in the pot for the snails to eat, which purges them of toxins.

Before we said au revoir, we followed the viticulteur into his personal cave where we selected a very special bottle of VSOP to take home to Canada, and two bottles of his Pineau des Charentes for consumption during our weeks in France. 

The last glass of the Pineau we consumed this evening!

Merci beaucoup, Monsieur et Madame Desse!

With the exception of just a few wet days, we have been blessed with almost two months of rain-free days in France. T-shirts and shorts on a lot of hot April days. Friends back home in southwest BC have repeatedly messaged us about their biblical rains - 40 days and 40 nights ... 


The rain did finally catch up with us though, when we pointed our little Peugeot to the Atlantic coast. We pulled into Brouage for a look. 

17C Citadel

This pre-Roman settlement had, by the 16th century, developed into one of the most thriving commercial centres/seaports on the south Atlantic coast of France. 

More than half a century ago Brouage was the centre of France's salt trade.



This, the birthplace of Samuel de Champlain (some say) is a "must-see" for the French Canadian in search of his/her roots.

I was jumping in and out of the car between rain showers in the old fortified city, determined to capture some of our past with my lens. 

To avoid a sudden downpour I ducked into a musty, cavernous chamber at the top of a flight of worn stone stairs. My eyes quickly grew accustomed to the dark and I was able to make out some of the details in the room. 

I was in the latrine. I swear there were about six black holes on a smooth old bench, a big bum width between each. Wow! Hell, I'll pay a euro to use the toilet by the Tourist Office.

I had a lot of questions, among which:
What were these guys talking about, all shitting together?
How bad was the air? 
Was it unisex/co-ed?


We stayed at a hotel in La Rochelle that night, grey, cold and dreary in the Atlantic rain.

Tour de la Lanterne

The seafood dinner was excellent, even with (maybe, because of) the smell of the muddy banks in the lowering tide.

Dinner Recommendation: Restaurant Le Bar André, Rue St Jean du Pérot

...ooo0ooo...

The following piece is a jump ahead to the dark side. 

I promise that the next post will be a much brighter Brittany.

Dinan is the city in the north of Brittany if you have a penchant for the Dark Ages with crooked half-timbered buildings, streets shared by only old people and tourists. We felt we should stop here to check it out. Ricky Steeves recommends it highly ...

It was a rainy day and very gloomy in the old city. My wife used the word, "spooky".

I wanted to find a restaurant that served up local Breton dishes. A Crêperie seemed to fit the bill - in the photo, located under the arch, bottom right, of the 1,000 year old building. 

I was sure we had chosen the right eatery: 
Firstly, because I was having trouble understanding the French.

It wasn't. It was Breton.

Secondly, the food - I had no idea what it was. I like mysteries. But it turned out to be downright medieval. 

"Slow-food-France" has both advantages and disadvantages. On the one hand, the slow, civilized pace is healthy, calming, and provides an ambience for good conversation; on the other hand, the pace can be unhealthy, stressful, and conducive to grumbling and nastiness. 

I was famished by the time we were shown to our table. When the food finally arrived I was ecstatic about the grand, veined  saucisson laying large on my plate. I ravenously wolfed down the first half of the andouiette. Then my taste buds kicked in. They slowed down my knife and fork. I put smaller and smaller pieces of the sausage in my mouth, garnishing each one with more and more dijon. 

After much ado, the Breton wiener, reduced now to a thumb-sized length, lay lonely and abandoned on my plate. 

Joanne said, "What's wrong?"

"I don't think I like this. What is it anyway?"

"Chitterlings," she said, with a smile on her face. "Tripe."

I hate tripe. It is the only thing in the world I don't eat. This might be a psychosexual repression Freudian thing from my childhood. Ugh! Andouiette. I should have known.

We got out of Dinan.

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Chapter 3hree: Menton and the Macabre

Vieux Ville - Menton

There are basically two ways to get up to the Basilica St Michel above town: 

a) by the half dozen flights of stairs from the street at the old port, or 
b) through the ancient meandering alleys that you enter from the sea level pietons (pedestrian-only streets), and small squares. 

We have done both, and I recommend the tiered stairs - far more interesting. In the hot summer though, you may want to use the shadier streets.

Much of the old city of Menton is in need of an upgrade - everything from a simple power-washing to a more costly plastering and repainting.

Is that a flying spirit on the wall behind the lantern? 

Or, the map of Africa behind Joanne?

(more on spirits below)

There is a day care/child-minding centre at the basilica square. I feel these little ones look so glum, so sad, wanting to go out and play, to go fishing, perhaps, but alas, they are behind bars ...

At the top of the hill, above the church steeples, lies the Cimetière de Vieux Château, commanding a magnificent view of the city and the sea. Old European cities often reserve the best real estate for the necropolis.

Why is that?

So the spirits of the dead can overlook the living from up on high.

Wandering around the cemetery was a rather macabre experience.

This is not a headless spirit (above). I ventured a little closer and found it to be a gown draped over a Greek or Roman column. Somewhat freaky at first. Then a sudden waft of cold air blew across my shoulders at my back. I quickly turned, and somehow my camera recorded a fleeting movement of a haunting presence - black, weightless, and floating, then disappearing behind a large tomb.

Lost in translation. We got the heck out of the cemetery, snaking our way down into town, in search of a yoga mat. For about fifteen years now I have been keeping myself out of the Chiropractor's office with a pre-breakfast stretching routine. I usually use a thin, roll-up yoga mat, and vowed to buy one in France as soon as I could. The small store we went into surely sold such a common item, but I was mistaken. Worse, I caused some trouble trying to explain what I wanted. The staff clearly did not speak English. I got confused with my French. Grasping for words, I meant to say excercise but instead said excorcisme.

Big-eyed, the cashier and a sales guy on the shop floor backed away from me, crossed their fingers in front of their face, and Joanne hissed in frustration. Quite flustered, I said, à demain, à bientôt. My choice of departing words did not seem to change their composure. We left the store.

It's Friday, so a short train ride to just across the border into Italy -to Ventimiglia's large outdoor market where a wide variety of products are available for sale - edible, drinkable, and wearable.

(photo left) wingless, limbless green birds that resemble pears

truffles

Now, one cannot go to Italy without buying a pair of shoes there. The Italians make the best. The ones in the picture (below) were hand made in Florence.

Question: 

Which pair did I buy?

Answer: 
To be revealed in a pre-dinner pose in a future posting in this blog


Dinner Recommendation: Maison Martin & Fils, Rue des Martins

It is time to leave Menton, pick up our car in Nice, drive very slowly west along the Med, then a little north to our next two-week stay in the Luberon: in Vaison-la-Romaine.

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