Bordeaux, Limousin and adieu to France
Bordeaux
I never met my room companion the first nite as he arrived in after i had dozed off. No doubt he was enjoying the pre-curfew pleasures of Saucy Sue across the street. The second evening i arrived apres-midnite to discover that my dorm had been changed during the day. So i had to pack all my stuff in dorm 301 and move it two doors down to dorm 303 where two guys were already sleeping. The reason for the move was obscure, particularly as dorm 301 had three empty beds after i moved out. In moving i endeavoured not to wake the two sleepers in dorm 303. This courtesy was not reciprocated at 6:30 am by said sleepers. Having arisen at an ungodly hour - that even preceded breakfast - they clattered around the dorm for an hour thereafter, killing time until said brekkie commenced. In those sixty minutes each of them left and re-entered the dorm on a dozen occasions. Seeing as the shower and toilet were en suite this love me/love me not relationship with the dorm was inexplicable. Its fair to say that if two whippets and a badger had awakened to find each other in the dorm they would have caused less commotion.
Sights and Activities
During my stay I went to see the Musee D´Aquitaine which has excellent displays on life in Acquitaine and the Dordogne region from prehistoric times to modern days. Numerous remains of Cromagnon and Neanderthal men were displayed as well as reproductions of cave paintings which are not on view to the public due to their delicate nature. I also tripped to the Cathedral St Andree where Eleanor of Acquitaine married Louis VII of France. Following an annulment she married Henry Plantagenet who later became Henry II of England, thereby giving rise to the Anglo-Norman claim to Acquitaine. Bordeaux's status as a territory of the English crown continued until the end of the Hundred Years War in the fifteenth century. Although given the number of English ex-pats settled in Acquitaine, Limousin and the Dordogne one could be forgiven for thinking a more peaceful reversal of said conflict is well under way.
On day two i visited a food market in Bordeaux. The market had numerous speciality stalls with top class produce - butchers, fishmongers, cheesemakers, boulangeries, fruit and vegetable stands. Many of the butchers were in the process of skinning rabbits or plucking chickens as they awaited their next customer. On many butcher's stands the still-furry rabbits sit next to unplucked pigeons. Skinned rabbits are generally sold with livers and kidneys intact, and the pigeons and chickens often come with heads still attached. There was a primary school outing to the market with teachers instructing the kids on the various produce. A number of the kids were blindfolded and entreated to identify foods by smell. Not much fun to be had at the stalls where the rabbits were being gutted.
Limousin
Limousin is small-town, rural France. I was visiting friends from home who had moved there last year. At this time of year Limousin is drenched in colour - green pastures and woodlands of golden yellows and flaming reds. It is dotted with tiny man-made lakes - virtually every farm in the area i visited has one. A legacy of the post-WWII years when the government provided grants to restore decimated water supplies. The countryside bears fruits of all sorts - apples, plums, peaches, cherries, grapes etc. On suitable days the locals forage in the woods with buckets for wild ceps (mushrooms).
My hosts reside on a small patch of farmland in the countryside. It supports two horses - but only just! There is marginally enough grazing - however, this razor-thin margin gives rise to difficulty due to a fact that had hitherto evaded my knowledge: a horse will not eat grass that lies within a yard (or more) from where it or another horse recently - how shall i put this delicately - took a crap. Hats off to the fine culinary instincts of the horse - no doubt you agree that it is a rather discerning and sanitary beast. On any sizeable piece of ground this equine eccentricity would be an irrelevance. When dealing with razor-thin grazing margins this sensibility presents a serious difficulty. The more the horses crap, the less they have to eat. So each morning, to the amusement (and bemusement) of the local farmers, my friend can be seen heading down to the fields with a wheelbarrow and spade to collect the horses' crap. On the upside, said crap is put to good use and he assures me that he had a most excellent crop of tomatoes this year. Mmmmmmm.
On the final afternoon of my stay we took out my friend´s horse and cart for a jaunt through the surrounding countryside - no doubt he was hoping that Primrose would discharge its bowel movements far from home. I proved myself to be a most excellent horseman (an assertion my friend is unable to challenge in this forum!). While out and about we encountered "1922", an elderly lady in ancient clothing and a tea-cosy hat. Of slight stature, hunched and sporting a walking-stick, she is known locally for rambling the by-roads. A doctor once informed her that she should get more exercise and so, taking his advice to heart, she has been walking ten miles of countryside everyday since. One day while driving home from the village my friend encountered 1922 walking in the rain so he kindly offered her a lift home. This was the first and last occasion of such an offer. What appears to be less well known locally is that 1922 smells worse than the horses' manure.
The hospitality provided by my hosts was exemplary and I was never once asked to visit the fields with the wheelbarrow and spade. Unlike my unfortunate host the only thing i collected from the fields was some chestnuts we roasted to accompany the beer, which was generously free-flowing. Excellent food was also provided, even to the extent of a much-appreciated box of sandwiches and biscuits when i finally left for the train. It was a change of pace from the larger towns and a relaxing few days for which i am most grateful.
On my final nite in Limousin we had a few beers with my friends' Dutch neighbours. After they departed we continued with a few more. Apres-midnite as we prepared to retire my friend reminded me that i had to be out of bed at 8:30am in the morning and he promised helpfully to intervene if i failed to appear at the appointed hour. Intervention was deemed necessary due to my habit of first emerging from my room each day for lunch. At 8:30am the following morning my alarm bell rang. I neutralised it, soaked up the painful brightness through my cobwebbed eyes and rolled over for a moment to contemplate the unbearable lightness of being. At 8:31am my host briefly opened the bedroom door and released an excessively energetic German Hunting Dog into my room. The ferocious little beastie had me licked and pawed to a screaming, fully awakened state in 30 seconds.
Onward to Spain
The trip from my little part of Limousin to San Sebastian in the Basque Country would take eight and a half hours by train. Much of this time was soaked up waiting for connectioning trains. Arrival at the border-crossing at Irun necessitated yet another change of train. Having finally begun to acclimatise to the regular use of pigeon French i had utterly forgotten to prepare my brain for Spanish immersion. So on my first encounter with a Spanish official-type person - at the ticket desk at Irun - i ended up using a melange of French, Spanish, English and gestures to get by:
Me: Bon Soiree Monsieur. Oh.. em...i mean Hola. Avez-vous une... Damn. I mean Hablo Anglais Senor?
Humourless ticket official: No.
Me: Non? Marvellous.
The language difficulty was exacerbated on arrival in San Sebastian. My minuscule Spanish vocabularly- Hola, Hablo Anglais and uno cerveza por favora- stood as a giant monument to the unfathomed depths of my ignorance of the Basque language. Suffice it to say, Ez dakit euskaraz ondo hitz egitea. Gero.
Accommodation
I stayed in a modern hostel in Bordeaux that had excellent facilities and all of the character of a dentist's waiting room. Established as part of a government-sponsored initiative it had the dead hand of Stalinist design and governance. No access to the dorms between 10:00am and 4:00pm - ie one must be out of bed at a sensible hour. And a curfew after 2:00am to prevent the kiddies from getting into too much trouble. Trouble or fun - depending on your outlook - was close at hand. The hostel with the most good intentions is located next to Bordeaux's small red-light district. Inside, the youths (of youth hostel fame) are carefully and ethically governed. Across the road, "Live girls strip naked", "Hot ladies waiting for you" and "Pierre's Peep-show" are available all the way up to the curfew time of 2:00am and beyond.
I never met my room companion the first nite as he arrived in after i had dozed off. No doubt he was enjoying the pre-curfew pleasures of Saucy Sue across the street. The second evening i arrived apres-midnite to discover that my dorm had been changed during the day. So i had to pack all my stuff in dorm 301 and move it two doors down to dorm 303 where two guys were already sleeping. The reason for the move was obscure, particularly as dorm 301 had three empty beds after i moved out. In moving i endeavoured not to wake the two sleepers in dorm 303. This courtesy was not reciprocated at 6:30 am by said sleepers. Having arisen at an ungodly hour - that even preceded breakfast - they clattered around the dorm for an hour thereafter, killing time until said brekkie commenced. In those sixty minutes each of them left and re-entered the dorm on a dozen occasions. Seeing as the shower and toilet were en suite this love me/love me not relationship with the dorm was inexplicable. Its fair to say that if two whippets and a badger had awakened to find each other in the dorm they would have caused less commotion.
Sights and Activities
During my stay I went to see the Musee D´Aquitaine which has excellent displays on life in Acquitaine and the Dordogne region from prehistoric times to modern days. Numerous remains of Cromagnon and Neanderthal men were displayed as well as reproductions of cave paintings which are not on view to the public due to their delicate nature. I also tripped to the Cathedral St Andree where Eleanor of Acquitaine married Louis VII of France. Following an annulment she married Henry Plantagenet who later became Henry II of England, thereby giving rise to the Anglo-Norman claim to Acquitaine. Bordeaux's status as a territory of the English crown continued until the end of the Hundred Years War in the fifteenth century. Although given the number of English ex-pats settled in Acquitaine, Limousin and the Dordogne one could be forgiven for thinking a more peaceful reversal of said conflict is well under way.
On day two i visited a food market in Bordeaux. The market had numerous speciality stalls with top class produce - butchers, fishmongers, cheesemakers, boulangeries, fruit and vegetable stands. Many of the butchers were in the process of skinning rabbits or plucking chickens as they awaited their next customer. On many butcher's stands the still-furry rabbits sit next to unplucked pigeons. Skinned rabbits are generally sold with livers and kidneys intact, and the pigeons and chickens often come with heads still attached. There was a primary school outing to the market with teachers instructing the kids on the various produce. A number of the kids were blindfolded and entreated to identify foods by smell. Not much fun to be had at the stalls where the rabbits were being gutted.
Limousin
Limousin is small-town, rural France. I was visiting friends from home who had moved there last year. At this time of year Limousin is drenched in colour - green pastures and woodlands of golden yellows and flaming reds. It is dotted with tiny man-made lakes - virtually every farm in the area i visited has one. A legacy of the post-WWII years when the government provided grants to restore decimated water supplies. The countryside bears fruits of all sorts - apples, plums, peaches, cherries, grapes etc. On suitable days the locals forage in the woods with buckets for wild ceps (mushrooms).
My hosts reside on a small patch of farmland in the countryside. It supports two horses - but only just! There is marginally enough grazing - however, this razor-thin margin gives rise to difficulty due to a fact that had hitherto evaded my knowledge: a horse will not eat grass that lies within a yard (or more) from where it or another horse recently - how shall i put this delicately - took a crap. Hats off to the fine culinary instincts of the horse - no doubt you agree that it is a rather discerning and sanitary beast. On any sizeable piece of ground this equine eccentricity would be an irrelevance. When dealing with razor-thin grazing margins this sensibility presents a serious difficulty. The more the horses crap, the less they have to eat. So each morning, to the amusement (and bemusement) of the local farmers, my friend can be seen heading down to the fields with a wheelbarrow and spade to collect the horses' crap. On the upside, said crap is put to good use and he assures me that he had a most excellent crop of tomatoes this year. Mmmmmmm.
On the final afternoon of my stay we took out my friend´s horse and cart for a jaunt through the surrounding countryside - no doubt he was hoping that Primrose would discharge its bowel movements far from home. I proved myself to be a most excellent horseman (an assertion my friend is unable to challenge in this forum!). While out and about we encountered "1922", an elderly lady in ancient clothing and a tea-cosy hat. Of slight stature, hunched and sporting a walking-stick, she is known locally for rambling the by-roads. A doctor once informed her that she should get more exercise and so, taking his advice to heart, she has been walking ten miles of countryside everyday since. One day while driving home from the village my friend encountered 1922 walking in the rain so he kindly offered her a lift home. This was the first and last occasion of such an offer. What appears to be less well known locally is that 1922 smells worse than the horses' manure.
The hospitality provided by my hosts was exemplary and I was never once asked to visit the fields with the wheelbarrow and spade. Unlike my unfortunate host the only thing i collected from the fields was some chestnuts we roasted to accompany the beer, which was generously free-flowing. Excellent food was also provided, even to the extent of a much-appreciated box of sandwiches and biscuits when i finally left for the train. It was a change of pace from the larger towns and a relaxing few days for which i am most grateful.
On my final nite in Limousin we had a few beers with my friends' Dutch neighbours. After they departed we continued with a few more. Apres-midnite as we prepared to retire my friend reminded me that i had to be out of bed at 8:30am in the morning and he promised helpfully to intervene if i failed to appear at the appointed hour. Intervention was deemed necessary due to my habit of first emerging from my room each day for lunch. At 8:30am the following morning my alarm bell rang. I neutralised it, soaked up the painful brightness through my cobwebbed eyes and rolled over for a moment to contemplate the unbearable lightness of being. At 8:31am my host briefly opened the bedroom door and released an excessively energetic German Hunting Dog into my room. The ferocious little beastie had me licked and pawed to a screaming, fully awakened state in 30 seconds.
Onward to Spain
The trip from my little part of Limousin to San Sebastian in the Basque Country would take eight and a half hours by train. Much of this time was soaked up waiting for connectioning trains. Arrival at the border-crossing at Irun necessitated yet another change of train. Having finally begun to acclimatise to the regular use of pigeon French i had utterly forgotten to prepare my brain for Spanish immersion. So on my first encounter with a Spanish official-type person - at the ticket desk at Irun - i ended up using a melange of French, Spanish, English and gestures to get by:
Me: Bon Soiree Monsieur. Oh.. em...i mean Hola. Avez-vous une... Damn. I mean Hablo Anglais Senor?
Humourless ticket official: No.
Me: Non? Marvellous.
The language difficulty was exacerbated on arrival in San Sebastian. My minuscule Spanish vocabularly- Hola, Hablo Anglais and uno cerveza por favora- stood as a giant monument to the unfathomed depths of my ignorance of the Basque language. Suffice it to say, Ez dakit euskaraz ondo hitz egitea. Gero.
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