A warm morning on a day that got hotter and hotter. Yellow warnings in the paper about a canicule (heatwave) in the days to come…but we started calmly, taking breakfast on the front terrace making the most of the offerings ‘fait a la maison’. In my case the yoghourt…mmm.
Then a slow stroll to the covered market to buy goodies for our beach picnic. Pate a la croute, chorizo and garlic sausages, cherry tomatoes, mixed olives and big fat, almost black, cherries. Into Carrefour for fizzy drink for Lou, a cheeky bag of veggie crisps and paper plates and bamboo cutlery. Why didn’t I remember to pack the plastic plates etc back home?
An even slower stroll back as Mr McGregor finds walking hard these days post whatever it was that laid him low in 2023 but a good excuse for a stop at the cafe de la poste for a fortifying beer and a grand creme!
After a change into cossies under our clothing and a roundup of beach furniture, ie blanket and parasol, it was off to the nearest bit of beach.
Happily, this year the tide was just past the turn of high so we had the sea fairly close for paddling (himself) and swimming (me). I had a lovely swim in saltwater for the first time in ages…
And Mr McGregor valiantly staggered down to dip his toes in the briny…so he could say he had!
After a picnic lunch sans abri (the parasol took flight at every opportunity) we had a short siesta then decided the sensible option would be to repair to our cool hotel room. Which we did.
Around 4.30ish we decided a swim in the hotel pool would be refreshing and with a panache I instantly regretted I slung my handbag into my suitcase and locked it…. immediately realising the key to the suitcase’s padlock was in…my handbag! Quel horreur, what stupidity!
I went in search of the hotel proprietors and admitted how ridiculous I’d been and did they have any bolt cutters on the premises, please? They didn’t but monsieur shot off to the ‘garagiste’ across the road behind the hotel to see if he had any. Back he came but no bolt cutters.
Then he disappeared again and reappeared with a fancy toolbox. After trying a few of the contents he picked up something that after using commendable force he managed to snap the padlock hoop in half! Applause and relief all round. I owe him!
We still had our swim once my red face had faded. And later we had aperos on the pool terrace before going out to find our supper.
As we discovered last year, the promenade was calm but the restaurants busy. We scrutinised menus and decided on a fish/pizza place.
Himself finally got his oysters while I had prawns..very messy but delicious.
Then Noix St Jacques on a bed of spicy leeks with a langoustine bisque, yummy!
Only room for coffee after that and a slow walk ‘home’…..
Car all packed, Kitty’s food and water left out for her, neighbours aware so all we needed to do was lock up and go and fill up with diesel. But easier said than done!
Down at our local Leclerc there seemed to be a problem. Himself appealed to me to help. We stuck the bank card in, chose gasoil, added the pin number but were then told to take the ‘carburant’ from pump 3…,but gasoil/diesel is the fourth pump. After two tries I moved the car to the next pump …and got told we could fill up from pump 2 but gasoil was still in the fourth one!
About now a car pulled into the previous pump so I went to warm him of our experience. As I did my eyes wandered to the number on the collection of carburants on offer…pump 3. And our car? It was sitting by pump 2. Oh, bum…we got back into the car, told ourselves it wasn’t like that last time we filled up. Surely it confirmed your choice and then told you to fill up to a certain sum of euros.. didn’t it? Several villages later we pulled into a supermarket gas station that we thought was still operational but the screen on the pump was blank and festooned with cobwebs!
Our third try was ok. Wise to the pump numbering we were ready for anything but the screen was on our side. Yes, it still gave the overall pump number but actually stated we had chosen gasoil. Result.
After that excitement the rest of the journey was straightforward. Very hot so aircon and windows open at times…I know, it’s either one or the other. Coffee stop close to Brive on the A89, lunch sarnies at aire des Palombieres somewhere west of Perigueux where I sat in the shade of a very leafy pin oak. Bet it will be beautiful in the autumn…
and arrival at our lovely hotel in Chatelaillon Plage at five o’clock. We were greeted warmly and told they remembered us …ominous? But our room is great, on the ground floor overlooking the terrace and pool.
While Mr McGregor rested his eyelids I went for a wonderfully relaxing swim…
Then it was off to find some supper and a stroll along the ‘prom, prom,prom’ but no brass band playing ‘tiddly om pom pom’…😊
…but lots of beautiful sand to wiggle my toes in and the sun sinking into the sea…bon nuit!
It’s June, it’s hot and sunny, the schools are nearly out… it’s time to hit the beach before the kids do!
So we’re off tomorrow to Chatelaillon Plage to the hotel we stayed in last year which I loved. Homemade goodies for breakfast, sunny terrace to eat it on, quiet pool to relax in and beside…let’s hope the memories aren’t too rose tinted.
I remembered last spring the dreary wait for our train at Gare d’Austerlitz so decided to find something to see near our hotel. I didn’t think either of us would want to spend the morning in the natural history museum or the zoo in Jardin des Plantes but the Grand Serres (greenhouses) sounded interesting. I remembered being very impressed with the beautiful ones at Kew. Luckily our hotel had free baggage storage in a locked room in the basement and were happy to keep our cases until we needed them.
Outside it was much warmer than the two previous mornings so Mr McGregor had to divest himself of his quilted jacket which I stuffed into his backpack despite his protests that it wouldn’t fit…it did!
For the last time this trip we turned left out of the hotel but not to find the bus stop but to turn left again into the Jardin des Plantes.
The spring flowers were beautiful and it was strange to see such low displays after the tall abundance last September when we were passing through on our way home from Dublin.
We made our way to the Serres passing joggers, walkers and a group of children from a maternelle all holding onto a long strap with one hand with a teacher in charge at each end! To the sound of oriental music a group did their morning synchronised tai chi. It reminded me of the parks in Beijing.
The Grand Serres are imposing and a sort of austere art deco design with wide stone steps without a handrail. We notice things like that these days! Inside it was hot and damp as might be expected of a tropical hothouse and we followed a wooden boardwalk twisting between the greenery, some of which was tall enough to reach the roof.
At the far end large stepping stones took you across to the far side of the display, another unforeseen challenge for himself. A handrail was available, thank goodness. Past a small fish pond and a cocoa plant amongst many others and then into the desert zone which was uncomfortably hot with the sun beating down on it. We didn’t hang about in that part.
Up the short staircase and into the New Caledonia display and we were almost done. Neither of us had the desire or energy to climb to the first floor for the history of plants so we left and looked for a bench on which to recover.
It seems churlish to criticise but we were both unimpressed with Les Grand Serres but perhaps our expectations were too high. We sat enjoying the fresh air sitting in the shade near a tall Gingko tree, a very ancient species until we began to feel a bit chilly. After consulting Google maps we moved off towards Porte Monge.
Near the Porte Monge exit there was an enormous common plane tree. I tried to take a photo of himself and tree but, rather like taking one of me and the facade of Notre Dame, I couldn’t get both of them in…so I took two!
The reason for leaving the Jardin by this gate was because it was the nearest to the Grand Mosque of Paris. I had noticed it on Google maps and upon investigating, as I do, it seemed an interesting place to visit. It wasn’t far to walk, thank goodness. The activity of the last few days was catching up with us both.
Despite it being Ramadan visitors were still welcome to enter and follow a defined route through the mosque and its tranquil garden.
The prayer room wasn’t open to visitors but it was possible to see into the large carpeted space.
The garden was cool and calm, a complete contrast to the hothouses we had just visited.
We strolled slowly and I took lots of photos of the intricate tile patterns everywhere.
The lady in the ticket office had told me the mosque cafe was outside and to the left. Ready for some coffee we walked to the left, and then left again and finally found the cafe tucked into a corner…on the left. It would have been appropriate to have mint tea but we stuck to coffees although my mouth watered at the pictures of the many pastries; baklava cigars, mmmm.
Once more we sat enjoying our shady corner until a chilly little breeze found us. We took a different route back towards the hotel along a typically picturesque Paris street full of different styles and eras of buildings..
Luggage collected we debated what to do about lunch. Finally we bought some filled baguettes to ‘eat on the train’ and then stopped at one of the several cafes we had eaten at over the last three evenings for a last cold beer and glass of white.
Of course, it didn’t stop at drinks. We ended up sharing a pizza and watching the world go by. It’s a pretty eclectic world near a Paris station! Then we really did have to go and catch our train.
A slow start to the day with no timed entrances to hurry for this morning so I lazily opened birthday cards over my morning tea. At breakfast it was clear from the cluttered tables with just one left laid for us that everyone else had rushed off!
It was going to be a day for feasting the eyes.. and feasting!
Back to our now familiar bus stop for the number 63 to Cluny (named after the nearby musee Cluny which houses artefacts associated with the history of Paris). Then a short walk up to St Severin church, stopping on the way at the quaint Abbey bookshop.
Disappointed yesterday at the poor pickings at Shakespeare and company I read with interest a sticker on a bin (as you do) advertising English books for sale. Back in our room I googled it and discovered it was on our way today. Seeing the enormous maple leaf flag waving outside it would be hard to miss. Finding the books was not as easy. The space inside the shop is cramped with shelves full of books literally from floor to ceiling. The owner, Google says a Canadian, must have heard us hunting for authors C to D but took a while listening to my polite questions before coming out of his tiny space behind a tiny counter and then rolling aside the shelves for A to B and revealing my quarry. I chose an eclectic few which was just as well as, despite being secondhand, they cost 9 euros each. Mind you, he told me we should help ourselves to tea and coffee which was outside on a table and offered me a loyalty card with the possibility of winning a tote bag. My kind of shop!
The space you can see in the photo is all there is between shelves. Fire risk? Don’t even go there. And there were stairs down to a basement!
St. Severin was just around the corner and practically empty. So I had plenty of time and freedom to wander around taking photos of the ‘vitraux’ and the spectacular twisted stone column alongside its neighbours that represent palm trees and lead up to beautiful fan vaulting.
The earliest stained glass dates from the 14th century and the latest from the 1960s. These last ones were created by the painter, Jean Bazaine.
He chose blue for those near the baptistry as he was inspired by the knowledge that there was a spring just outside the church at that point which is why the baptistry is in its unusual position.
I was interested to read that other windows created by Edmond Hirsch in the 19th century used photographs fired onto glass to get realistic faces.
Unfortunately the camera reacts to the sunlight and the detail is lost in my photos.
Meanwhile Mr McGregor had been busy with his film camera. He has recently rediscovered an interest in film and has been rooting about in our collection of discarded cameras to find one that can still be used successfully.
Later we passed one of those newspaper kiosks which oddly had a table full of old cameras for sale…we have enough already!
But for now it was time for coffee. We persuaded a cafe laid up for lunch inside that it was too windy to sit outside so we were allowed to squeeze into a corner for his expresso and my grand creme.
The decor seemed to still be stuck between the Paris Olympics and Christmas. 😊
Then a stroll in the direction of rue Racine where I had booked our/my birthday lunch. Another internet find, it’s a bouillon, an old name for a Paris bistro, as I understand it, and this one still retains its beautiful art deco style.
On our way there I saw a shop that advertised itself as selling videos etc. but had trays and trays of books outside! Like a moth to a flame I was soon sifting through while himself muttered impatiently.
French books but only 50 centimes each, who could resist?
We still got to the restaurant ahead of our booking but there wasn’t a problem and we were ushered up the stairs to a long room that was fairly empty but was soon full of chattering diners.
The food was wonderful and so rich neither of us had room for dessert. An elderly lady at a table near ours had no compunction about taking photos of everything and anything and told us she lived in Reims where she had worked for many years but used to come to Paris on business. She and her friend sat for ages after they had had their coffee and paid the bill, just enjoying the ambience I imagine. We were not so confident and, anyway, had timed tickets for Notre Dame to think about. We wished each other bon continuation and left.
Retracing yesterday’s steps (we realised we were on the same road the bus driver had dumped us on) we were in plenty of time to join the fast moving queue at Notre Dame. It was crowded and, despite a service going on in the centre of the church, people still talked as we shuffled round the ‘sens de visite’. The shock of the new light inside was not as great as I’d expected but then the reopening had been very thoroughly filmed and reported on television with very few people cluttering up the space. But it was still incredibly impressive and at one point, as we discussed a stained glass window, wondering if it was original or a substitute for one that had been lost, I found myself beginning to feel emotional. The scale of the restoration is almost unimaginable as you stand in what had been a smoking shell.
I searched in vain for a memorial I remembered near the exit that commemorated British help in two world wars when France had been invaded but I couldn’t find anything nor anyone I could ask. Back to Google.
Outside I tried to get himself to take a picture of me in front of the facade. I usually moan if he loses my feet but this time I didn’t mind, I just wanted Notre Dame..but a corner got chopped off and I look grumpy! 😊 But I woz there.
So I took one too…crane and all!
Then back over the river to sit down with Google maps and find the 63 bus stop…
And home for a snooze and my scribbling…
Not forgetting my goodies for feeding the brain later…
The sky might be blue and the blossom dancing but it was pretty nippy around the nethers this morning as we set off to find the number 63 bus stop by the Seine.
Google maps always offers a choice of routes between location and destination and I will always take the bus over the metro. Claustrophobia is a problem for me but I always defend myself by saying you see more from a bus!
I had tickets for the Musee de l’Orangerie which has huge paintings of water lilies painted by Monet specifically for a gallery built to display them.
It was only after a conversation about Paris with a London based friend during which she mentioned seeing some Monets displayed on curved walls that I went off on a Google hunt and found them. How had I missed that? I finally got to Giverny about fifteen years ago and had seen the lily pond there.
So here we were, crossing the Seine on Pont de la Concorde and noticing that you can see the Eiffel tour if you look back. Photos of each of us, of course!
We were early but got in the timed ticket queue anyway. It was cold standing there but at least I wasn’t in a flimsy dress as one young girl. Pretty but brrrr..
It was warmer inside, thank goodness, and the waterlilies were stunning. As usual there were the selfie takers. And chatterboxes. There were signs asking you to look in silence and one young curator spent most of her time shushing people. Himself found the comfy bench in each room while I wandered and marvelled at the scale of the paintings and the mixture of colours used in a simple tree trunk..
Downstairs there was a collection of paintings assembled by an art dealer and collector, Paul Guillaume. Some interesting ones by Andre Derain whom I’m not familiar with and others by Modigliani and Utrillo which I am and love…
After a sit down and some coffee it was back outside onto the huge terrace overlooking Place de la Concorde where it was feeling much warmer. A bit early for our lunch reservation we wandered down into the Tuileries garden and sat in the sun for a while.
Mr McGregor , ever the gardener, was fascinated by the symmetrical and severe pruning of most of the trees around us.
While we were there a starling ran up to us, clearly expecting some crumbs. We had nothing to share but it was a surprise to see one as we rarely get them at home. Feeling peckish we strolled back to the exit gates and crossed rue de Rivoli to find the bistrot I had booked online. It was a bit more upmarket than I had realised, all long aprons on the waiters and waitresses and starched tablecloths. But delicious food and friendly service.
Afterwards a stroll down the rue de Rivoli as far as the Louvre where we decided we needed to catch a bus! Long queues around the courtyard and under the colonnades. Been there, done that…although there’s always more to see!
We were catching a bus as far as Notre Dame as I hoped to buy books at Shakespeare and company but clearly something has changed as there was a queue outside with just a few people at a time being allowed in and only one small wall rack of secondhand books. So no replenishing of English novels today.
There was one more thing I hoped to do before taking my poor exhausted husband home to rest his eyelids.. so I led him into the park René Viviani, sat him on a bench and went off to look inside St Julien la Pauvre.
I had seen it on the map close to Shakespeare and company and discovered that it is a Greek Melkite catholic church and has several icons within it. I remembered how beautiful the icons had been in the Kremlin churches years ago when we were in Moscow and was interested to see these.
And they didn’t disappoint. The church is a remnant of its original size but that makes it an intimate space with the icons glowing from every wall. A perfect and peaceful way to finish the day. For me anyway. Himself was just thinking of his forty winks! 😊
So, after a car ride (big shout out to magnificent mates), two trains, a second migraine and, yet again, no WiFi on the Paris bound train, we are here!
Unlike last time our ‘comfort’ room is bijou, to put it politely. But then, the hotel makes no secret of the small size of its ‘chambres’, calling the most petit ones ‘cosy’. We were spoiled last time by being put in a family room so had loads of space, free slippers, use of snowy dressing gowns etc etc. This evening I looked at the floor plans in the lobby and realised our present room is average. The night porter and I had a giggle together about the shock of discovering our fourth floor room! But at least we are next to the fire escape, something I take very seriously. Years ago when working in the West End, I went to a restaurant near Covent garden and an American actor in our group looked for the fire exit before he sat down. He was very concerned that cramped restaurants in old buildings was a recipe for disaster in the case of a kitchen fire. His concern has stayed with me, except I include hotels too!
It was cold in Gagnac this morning, much colder than recent weeks, and we were amazed to see fresh snow lying on the embankment and forest as we traveled north of Limoges. Mind you, we had an elderly neighbour for years who always referred to the area around Limoges as ‘les montagnes’ whenever we spoke about bad weather on our journey down.
Happily, as we pulled into Gare d’Austerlitz the sun was trying to break through the clouds and from our eyrie on the fourth floor we could see some blue sky which bodes well for tomorrow, fingers crossed.
I’d booked a local bistrot for our evening meal, just in case,and realised, as we walked in, that we had eaten there last September on the recommendation of the cyclist and his partner. It was still good, my Caesar salad and Mr McGregor’s cheeseburger, made from beef from the Aubrac. I reminded him about the sign I had read in Aubrac village about local people going off to Paris to open cafes, perhaps this was one. There are old black and white photos on the wall of previous proprietors, so who knows?
Across from the hotel the building work goes on with its many cranes, this one looking particularly patriotic with its red, white and blue floodlights…
Tomorrow, Musee de l’Orangerie for the Monets, lunch near Place de la Concorde and ‘home’ via Shakespeare and co to stock up on English secondhand novels.
Last year we had a brilliant few days in Paris for my birthday. Recognising that it isn’t always a good idea to repeat and try to recapture the same enjoyment I still went ahead and booked a few nights in a Paris hotel. This time I decided that staying near the station would save on taxis and remembered that the hotel we used coming home from Dublin was comfy and convenient. So Hotel Libertel opposite Gare d’Austerlitz is booked for tonight!
A particular motivation for the trip was to see the new and beautifully restored Notre Dame. However, my search via their app to get tickets had been fruitless thus far. I’d booked other things for us to do but the cathedral was my original impetus and it was frustrating not to have any guarantee that we would eventually get inside.
But.. waking up early this morning I decided to give it one last try and.. bingo! Instead of ‘epuise’, a table of entrance times popped up. And on my birthday! So, I’ve booked and shall print them off as soon as himself is awake. On y va!
Despite his balance problems Mr McGregor really wanted to return to his traditional snowy (or not) birthday walking. Our most recent and nearest favourite station de ski can sometimes necessitate putting on snow chains (cripes) and has pretty challenging terrain but I remembered that we once did a day trip to Laguiole ski station and walked a raquettes piste there. Not impressed as it was fairly flat and not very picturesque we didn’t return. Now it seemed a better option.
I found an auberge, part of the Logis de France chain, in Laguiole village, crossed my fingers it would be ok and booked it. The village’s claim to fame is the production of the charismatic knives of the same name.
We drove up last Sunday through glorious scenery under blue skies which, admittedly, didn’t bode well for snowy slopes. But we’re used to that, the Jura has been the only place that regularly gave us plenty of the white stuff; deep and crisp and even!
The GPS did its usual goat track deviation, taking us up the Truyere gorge from Entraygues and then onto narrow winding lanes which involved a lot of gear changing and dark mutterings as I steered us through the many bends. Coming out on a junction with a bigger road I saw that Entraygues was only a handful of kilometres on our right. The next time the gps argued with the signpost, I followed the sign!
The lady on the auberge desk gave us a warm welcome and a choice of three rooms, something that hasn’t happened to us for ages. We chose the sunniest one overlooking the street. Then it was back downstairs to the bar for a welcome drink and the France v Italy Six Nations match on the TV.
That evening we ate dinner in the auberge restaurant mainly served by the same cheerful woman who had checked us in. There seemed to be a large staff all working hard to create a good atmosphere which we really appreciated. I opted for aligot but with salad rather than the traditional sausage while himself had his favourite….’disgusting, Dada’ as our grandson would say!
Monday morning was dry and the sun was trying to break through which was better than the forecast of heavy cloud so, after a buffet breakfast served in the bar still with the roaring log fire but no rugby, we set off for the ski station, le Bouyssou.
On the way there we saw a little bit of lying snow but not a lot. However, the ski station was filling up while we changed into our walking boots. A lot of families were enjoying the luge piste judging by the shrieks coming from that direction The children’s learner slope was busy too, the more proficient ones using the two downhill pistes that still had a snowy surface, albeit icy.
Armed with our walking sticks we headed off to the start of the sentier botanique…
There are several marked paths for summer walking as well. We tried to scan the QR code for details with not much success. Our particular walk, ‘sentier pieton’ was indicated by blue balises with a sign to be careful of the ski de fond users. Not much chance of being mown down by one as the piste was green, or rather brown, the colour of the carpet of beech leaves.
It was reasonably easy walking despite the climb up to the point de vue where we discovered the only patches of snow!
A hour later we were back on the terrace of the cafe enjoying coffees while the families queued for sausage and aligot after all that sliding.
It was very satisfying that himself had managed to climb and descend without tumbling or getting too exhausted and on his birthday. Tradition satisfied!
Back at the auberge we shared a ‘mixte’ lunch platter of local charcuterie and cheeses in the busy bar. This place is clearly very popular and deservedly so.
A short sieste for the birthday boy, comme d’hab, while I plotted the afternoon activity, a circular drive around the area taking in two ski stations I didn’t know existed.
The purple lines on our map gave a clue as to why I had missed them while googling. The Aubrac plateau spreads over three departments, Aveyron in the west, Lozere to the east and a tongue of the Cantal pushing in from the north. I had only looked at ski stations in the Aveyron!
Our first stop was the village of Aubrac, the highest on the whole plateau at 1303m, looking very grey under a steel coloured sky. A village founded by ‘chevaliers’ to protect pilgrims on the Compostela way from ‘brigands’ I read.
The Maison du Aubrac was closed for the winter so I was pleased to find an information board which told me there are only ten inhabitants in Aubrac now and that many agricultural workers who migrated to Paris from the area in the 19th century opened up cafes which are still operating today.
Back to the car and on to Nasbinals where the ski station was very obviously closed judging by the hazard tape stopping anyone from entering. So onwards to St Urcize where the ski station was high up on the plateau. We didn’t stop. Too windy!
Dropping down the scenery seemed gentler and I stopped to photograph a bridge across a river we had been following, the Bes.
Turning back onto the main road for Laguiole the sky lightened in the west and we crossed our fingers it wouldn’t just be the night that stayed dry…
But it wasn’t to be as we woke up to pouring rain. ‘Knife factory, it is!’ we agreed. After breakfast I wanted to find the tourist office for information about a Plus Beau village our neighbours had told me about and a collection of walks I had seen on their website. We splashed our way down the street, luckily it wasn’t far.
I found the collection of local walks but the plus beau village lay outside Aveyron so they had no information. I love the tourist offices in France but their partisan attitude to places just beyond the departmental border always seems nonsensical. We live on the edge of the Lot but finding out what’s happening just across in the Correze is practically impossible despite the creation of the vallee de la Dordogne website!
The factory we chose to visit was the forge de Laguiole, an impressive building designed by Philip Starck. In fact, it was only reflecting on it just now that I realised the huge wing that runs up through the entrance and ends metres above the roof must be representative of a knife.. !
The foyer is full of impeccable glass cabinets displaying highly polished and exquisite cutlery at eye watering prices, quite a contrast to the factory beyond which you are invited to explore. The building is long and sleek on the outside but inside it is full of machines thumping and whining. There are many photos and explanations of the processes surrounding you in both French and English so we spent a long time reading but also talked briefly to a friendly chap in the first workshop as I tried to translate the only all French label.
At the far end of the building and the end of the tour we could look into the final workshop where the knives were assembled by individual cutlers. On the right hand side we could see a long row of seated figures, each bent over their work. We had read one panel that said there was no assembly line in this factory but Mr McGregor said he’d find it ultimately very boring work. I agreed. We also agreed that, lovely as the knives were, the prices didn’t warrant a purchase, although I was briefly tempted by some knife rests decorated with a bee.
Outside it was still damp and grey. We decided to drive down to Espalion and look for lunch there. The Plus Beau village of St Come d’Olt that my neighbours told me we should visit was just along the Lot river.
I found a parking space just before the bridge and we headed for what appeared to be the centre ville. The tourist office was shut all day so no chance of finally finding the information I wanted. But we did find lunch, even if the cafe/bar looked very shut from the pavement.
It was crowded inside and people kept arriving all through our meal; croque monsieur and a plate of the best chips we’ve eaten in a long while. Himself had a Guinness as he discovers the perks of not being only the driver anymore!
A wander back to the car stopping to gaze at the Vieux Pont and the river from both sides of the bridge. A cormorant flapped over just as I lined up my first photo. We’d seen several kites and buzzards on the drive here and were to slow down for a resplendent pheasant high stepping across our path on the way home to Laguiole.
At St Come d’Olt it was almost impossible to find a parking space. Given it was still raining on and off and so not conducive to wandering, I parked on the side of the street and, leaving himself to mind the car, I ran into the centre historic to take a photo of the celebrated twisted spire of the church.
The hill out of the valley after Espalion is very long and steep but the views are stunning from the top, probably much better when everything is green!
Before dinner we went in search of a ‘butlers friend’/ sommelier knife for Lou as I realised I hadn’t bought him a birthday present! Laguiole has some very upmarket boutiques and not just its cutlery shops. I had bought socks in the morning which were pretty but the price I usually pay for three pairs! In one window I spotted some folding scissors. I had had a pair in my handbag for years but on entering the Uffizi in Florence some years ago I was told to throw them in the bin by security. They only came out of a Christmas cracker but were endlessly useful and this opportunity to replace them was not to be missed. An early birthday present for me.
This particular shop was quaint and nothing like its neighbours. A prominent sign said all the knives and scissors were produced in Thiers, a cutlery town in the Auvergne. A town that vies with Laguiole as the true originator of the knife!
It was la Maison du Laguiole which had a good range of sommelier knives. Lou chose one with a cep du vigne ‘manche’. The wood comes from the stem and root of a vigne which seemed apt for the knife’s purpose. The prices were within our grasp and it was something that would be used.
Interestingly, the day after we got home, there was an article in la Depeche du Midi, our local paper, about the ongoing argument about the true ownership of the Laguiole label, Laguiole or Thiers. The factory we visited and the shop we bought from both appeared as two of the main Laguiole protagonists!
A last auberge dinner where we tried to choose lighter options having been almost defeated by the previous evening’s starter of onion soup with a melted cheese crust. We chatted with a couple of fellow guests who came from Poitiers, who told us the road between it and Limoges has been subject to proposed changes for as long as they have lived there, 45 years. It’s a road we love to hate!
Of course, we woke up to snow on the day we were leaving. But not enough to make us decide to stay.
Not wanting to be bamboozled by the gps I decided as driver/navigator we would go home via Espalion and Estaing to reach Entraygues where it would be good to stop for coffee.. so we did.
Estaing
It was a good plan. The road to Espalion is straight and fast and although it wiggles, the road along the Lot river from there to Estaing and then Entraygues was practically empty at this time of year.
At Entraygues we found a bar on a pretty ‘place’ filled with elderly clients chattering over their coffees with just enough space for us to sit. Probably saves on the heating at home? To return to the car we walked the signposted ‘visite de vieille ville’ with lots of little alleyways and arches. No wonder our friends love camping here in the summer.
Then home via Aurillac from where we could see the snow on Puy Mary glistening in the sun.
For lunch I enjoyed some of the l’Ecir cheese sold by the auberge, one we had not seen or tried before, a souvenir of a lovely birthday break.
Before Christmas I read online that Les Abbatoirs and le Chateau d’Eau both in Toulouse were putting on a combined exhibition in Les Abbatoirs of their collections of photos showing the progression of photography. I immediately jotted down the dates as we both love looking at photos and I already hankered to visit the nearby Musee Bemberg which reopened last summer. Himself had announced he wasn’t keen about the Bemberg and complained that Toulouse is a boring drive now he’s not behind the wheel. Of course, that was a challenge I wasn’t going to ignore. So I set about devising a plan that would work for both of us, bien sur.
So, tomorrow we are off to Toulouse with tickets for Les Abbatoirs and a hotel booking close by. Thursday morning I have tickets for the Musee Bemberg which the other half can use or refuse. Maybe he can sit himself in a cafe and people watch while I immerse myself in the collection, concentrating on the paintings. I’m hoping that spreading the visit over two days with some good meals thrown in will make up for the journey boredom. Anyway, our youngest son gave his dad some ear buds last Christmas so he can plug himself into a podcast to keep his mind off my driving!
I’ve written before about Les Abbatoirs and le Chateau d’Eau, two interesting exhibition spaces in buildings originally created for quite different purposes. The Musee Bemberg is more traditional in as much as it is in a grand renaissance mansion called the Hotel d’Assezat now housing the collection of Georges Bemberg, a twentieth century Argentinian collector. The house was built in the 1560s by Nicolas Bachelier, a Toulousain architect, for Pierre Assezat, a woad merchant. Woad, or pastel as it is called in French, was a major trade all over Occitanie as we discovered years ago on a visit to Albi.
The building was bequeathed to the city of Toulouse on the death of its last owner, Theodore Ozenne, in 1895 to be used for ‘hosting learned societies’
In 1915 Georges Bemberg was born in Argentina into a family of German industrialists. He grew up between Buenos Aires and Paris and worked as a writer and playwright after graduating from Harvard. One of his plays, ‘Someone to talk to’, had a brief run in the West End of London in the 1950s. In 1995, he decided, quite randomly if an article I read is to be believed, to gift his collection to the city of Toulouse for 99 years when he saw it was to be housed in the Hotel d’Assezat. He died in 2011 but the collection can still make acquisitions guided by his somewhat eclectic tastes.
When the Musee opened last year there was a flurry of articles on the French3 TV lunchtime news which was what piqued my interest, especially when I saw the paintings, particularly the collection of the 30 plus Bonnards.
But first, the photos! We had a sunny and dry drive south which was unexpected as the forecast was for showers. Parking was easier than last time so fewer stairs to climb. After choosing and booking our hotel I had discovered their carpark was closed for a month for improvements so, leaving our bags in the car for collecting later, we went to find lunch. There was beautiful mimosa outside the Halle as we headed to ‘our’ bistro.
Two courses later (and a large glass of Chardonnay as I wasn’t driving again that day!) we ambled along to the Abbatoirs. Walking into the first exhibition space we were greeted by images of several naked bodies. Always interesting how the curators plan these things! As usual we wandered off in different directions..
Here are a few favourites…
This must be a pig to untangle if stored badly!
Someone who only took up photography in his retirement..
…our namesake! The peacock
Jean Dieuzaide…a print of his has hung in our little house for years.
Quite a lot of black and white which pleased himself although it was a colour image that brought me up short.
Three boys with guns…I was not surprised it was taken in Montana, USA.
On the lower level was a lively exhibition gathered together by one half of a pair of local rappers who go by the names of Big Flo and Oli.. this was Oli!
Looking for ‘Mr McGregor ‘ I came across ‘Marilyn’…
I was reminded how long ago it has been since I went to my first and only Warhol exhibition in the Tate when there was just the one Tate gallery.
We eventually found each other and decided not to queue up for a photo booth image to add to the collection on the nearby walls. A gentle stroll back to our hotel collecting our bags from the car on the way and then a little snooze before going out to find dinner..
St Cyprien in the evening becomes student central with lots of bars and fast food restaurants whose terraces are packed with young people oblivious to the cold night air! We didn’t fancy tacos or burgers or questionable tapas so ended up back at an Italian restaurant we spurned earlier as its menu displayed outside looked a bit heavier than we wanted. However, once inside it transpired they did pizza which was fine. Friendly young staff, good wine list and a cosy atmosphere only three minutes from our hotel.. great.
Opening the curtains the next morning it was clear that it had rained overnight. Oh, well, we had brought a brolly! After breakfast and checking out we went back to the car to dump our bags and then walked towards the river.
I wasn’t quite sure where the Musee was, just somewhere on the left after crossing la Garonne. In fact it was really easy as it was pretty obvious and not tucked away as I had thought after looking on Google maps!
The glory that is the renaissance courtyard is hidden behind a plain wall and approached through an arch.
Being elderly now, we took a breather on a bench with a lovely view
There was a very thorough security check by the lady by the entrance. Maybe because we were the only apparent visitors? Once inside it was all light wood and white walls. Our tickets were read by a scanner on a fancy gate and we were finally in. I had asked the two young chaps on the desk where we should go to find the Bonnards and were told the second floor.
The exhibition spaces are beautiful. Light and airy with plenty of room to move back for a better look which is so often absent. It helped that we had the place to ourselves! Lou settled himself on an available bench and waved me away to enjoy myself…which I did.
I was surprised that I wasn’t as smitten by the Bonnards as I expected to be. They are hung in chronological order so it was interesting to see his artistic progression. A farmyard was my favourite. The saddest was a self portrait painted not long before he died.
There were other lovely surprises tucked away in lower lit alcoves, a Renoir, a Degas and a Picasso amongst a few others including a Berthe Morisot. So lovely to see a woman painter amongst the chaps!
I had started my tour in salle 12 with the Bonnards but that is actually the last room according to the ‘sens du visite’ so I ended up doing the tour in reverse but clear introductions to each room avoided any confusion. This painting by Eugene Boudin entitled ‘Crinolines on the beach’ amused me as you can really feel the blustery day discombobulating the ladies as they grabbed their skirts. There is even an overturned chair as witness to the strength of the wind.
This Utrillo reminded me of one that hung over our staircase in our last UK home for many years, a print gifted to me by an artistic aunt.
I caught sight of this one across the room (lots of space as I said) and I loved how the light shone out of it. It must be a favourite already as it is reproduced in the card collection and in several other items in the museum shop. The painter was unknown to me but I have since looked him up. Paul Signac,a Neo-Impressionist painter, he worked with Georges Seurat helping to develop pointillism which I did recognise in this painting called ‘Le clocher de Saint-Tropez’
I had to pause in front of Dulwich college by Camille Pisarro. Growing up on the north Kent border, as it was back then, our almost weekly drive to visit our grandparents in north London always took us through the toll road there. Google tells me it still exists and a toll is paid, I have no recollection of that just that it was a green and leafy road in the middle of an urban landscape.
Luckily for me no attendant jumped out to tell me not to take photos and there was nothing on my programme forbidding it either.
Collecting Mr McGregor from his bench we descended to the first floor which holds all the earlier paintings but this time hanging in rooms embellished with pieces of furniture loaded with object d’art etc. On the second floor there had been a few sculptures contemporary to the paintings. I was not so keen on the older paintings although some interior scenes were fun. I found a stunning marquetry cupboard and some enormous blue and white platters…sneaky photo time!
At the far end of these rooms I found several Canelettos.
It was time to go and find the bored one. Before leaving I bought the obligatory postcard and, happily, they had the one I wanted. So often my favourites never make it to the card section of the shop.
We found coffee in the brasserie des arts, a cafe attached to the hotel of the same name and overlooking the river.
As we walked back we discussed whether to have lunch or go home, grabbing a sandwich on route. The latter was decided on but I did stop to buy a glorious bunch of mimosa to take back with us.
ps please excuse wobbly gallery photos, never easy!
pps the Foundation Bemberg, Toulouse won the Apollo magazine ‘museum opening of the year’ award in 2024. I found the magazine’s article about the award very informative.
promenadingpeacocks 