24 August 2019, Ribeauville, France. Slow down, smell the roses.

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As I opened the weathered, fading, flaking green shutters , the early morning light crept in slowly to reveal a scene from an impressionist painting. The mountains directly behind the house framed my first impression of a soft green canopy of plants trees and lush grass, highlighted by vivid gardens of orange, crimson, and yellow flowers. The backyard has a small well kept vegetable garden, a small shed, and random garden beds surrounded by chunky square stone borders. Evidence of children playing lies scattered in the yard, and a neat playhouse with a string of mini Tibetan flags draped across the door is tucked against the fence.

On opening the double glazed windows at 7am, two things were immediately obvious. The crisp, cool morning air as it passed through the gaps in the old shutters was bracing, and it was like jumping in a cold pool- staying dry of course- and already the optimism of a great day appeared. If it didn’t get better than this, I’m happy. The second element was the babbling brook just below our window. Yes it’s now official, they do babble. It certainly beats the radio, and leaves you with your own thoughts, not some announcer who occasionally enrages you with their opinions or stupidity. It’s the one constant as you move around the house; it follows you from room to room. Very calming.

Over the top of our tree lined garden, the moss covered terracotta steep gabled roof of a beige rendered house can be seen, and if you lean slightly out the window, the ancient stone ruin of a castle overlooks the entire valley.

As the day moves on, the light changes, the day warms up, but that initial feeling sticks around, hopefully.

Today is a clothes washing, strolling, take it slowly, rest day. Ribeauville will be the focus, maybe with a late drive to a nearby village for coffee, after a siesta. But first, the Saturday Market.

The 10 minute walk through lonely backstreets, past pastel coloured buildings, hundreds of years old, set us up for the Market, where fruit and vegetables are peddled alongside bread, cheese, honey, and small goods. It’s a don’t touch system , where the stall attendant chooses the items you buy, although I’m sure you could point out your favourite tomatoes or apples and there’d be no war. The cheese man stocks any item that is produced on his farm, and we bought yoghurt and two types of cheese. He also sells butter, cream or any other milk based produce. His bright blue van put out the best odours in the Market. Our three day stay needs plenty of food, so we stocked up, aware that the market is a one day event for us. Locals stock up until next Market day and love the notion of buying local, fresh produce instead of imported stuff. Imported stuff can still be French but from too far away. It’s all local at this market, sold by the producers.

For no reason I can think of, I walked out of home, into a European summer, without a hat. Now I know Europeans start dropping dead when it reaches 30 degrees , a mere trifle for the bronzed Mick Dundee types we think we are, but my pasty, white Irish-origin skin starts to burn if I watch summer travel shows without sunblock on. I need a hat.

By chance we strolled past a hat shop on our way to the market and I just touched a hat on a stand, didn’t remove it, just touched it, and the mad hatter pounced. I now know how those flies feel at a Venus flytrap. She drew me into her world of hats, started eyeing off my head for size ( she got that wrong; didn’t allow for the boof part of boofhead that applies to me), and with Tim and Sue’s encouragement, I waivered between looking like a bookie at the race track to a dandy in need of a hat feather. My opinion didn’t matter and I felt- no pun intended- that it was a setup.I kept getting told I looked good, but even if I know what a spiv looks like, and he was staring at me in the mirror. The woman had the sales lines. At one stage I was told the hat band matched my blue eyes. I may have believed her if the hat band was covering my eyes; I could see it! Her enthusiasm wasn’t fooling me. This lady had slightly poppy eyes, and at first I couldn’t tell if she had unbridled enthusiasm for my new look, or it was just an affliction; I think the latter.

In the end, my companions - her co- conspirators - sensed me edging towards the door, and asked my opinion. Five minutes later we were back in the street with me sporting a new raffier Stetson hat. It’s not a cowboy model, they have diversified, but I’m sure my American friends would approve of my choice.The label says that I will now embody the American values: Make things right and the best they can be. That’s good enough for me. I’m thinking of buying a Stetson for D Trump.

And the hat is UPF 40 +, so I’ll wear it watching those travel shows.

Ribeauville is a busy little village. It is Saturday, so Monday will indicate if many are French weekend travelers, away for a short break. The food, the people and the wonderful green clean natural environment combined to make this a memorable experience. The steep mountains slowly flow into a patchwork of crisscrossing vineyards, dotted with châteaus, tiny villages and strangely, cemeteries, all linked with the single aim of producing great wine. The vineyards forebears seem to still overlook the heritage left to others, but I suspect the real reason is to squeeze every valuable drop from the land. Grapes next to the cemetery are no less valuable than any others.

Well, we stayed in for the remainder of the day. and enjoyed a picnic dinner of salami, cheese, tomato and bread on our lawn area, and topped it off with an ice cream cone from a village store.

Tomorrow is Colmar and a few other villages in between, so I’ll check in then.

I hope you like the hat.

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Photos

Medieval Castles
On the left, Saint-Ulrich Castle, 12th Century, on the right, Girsberg Castle, built around 1250.
These castles were occupied by noble families who dominated the local villages .

Our Accomodation
Middle floor, left half. It’s perfect.

Home for now.
A little look inside.

The Bouchers Tower
Built in the 13th Century, with the upper section added in 1536, it served as a watch tower and formed part of the defence system, when the town was only this side of the Tower. I think the guy giving me the look back stare might be on an Interpol list.

Site of Original Hospital
This hospital was constructed in 1542 to service the poor.

Originally Home To Auguste Bartholdi
This celebrated sculptor designed the Statue of Liberty in New York. He used his mother as the model for the figure.

Old Grain Hall, 1431
The place for storing grains that the peasants had to pay to the lords. The top opening in the gable had a pulley, used for pulling up the sacks of grain.

I’m On The Scent !
The Camino de Santiago passes through Ribeauville, a distance of 1706 kms by foot. The restaurant shown was Pilgrim accommodation in years gone by.

Lunch at Post Brassiere, headquarters of the Gourmets.
The Gourmet was the most important person in the Alsace vineyards. He judged the wines, fixed the prices, organised business, and collected the ‘Umgeld’ or tax on wine sales. Lunch was a Flammekuchen, a thin pizza of crepe fresh, onion, and bacon. Very light but tasty.

It’s A Fairytale Village
Built in with a strong germanic influence, it was under German rule at the start of WW1, taken back by France at the end of the war, taken by the invading Germans again in 1940, then forfeited again at the spend of WWII. I has it’s own dialect but French is the accepted language these days.

Comments

[Home and Away]

As an American friend...
I approve of your choice of what to wear in France. Cowboy it is not...HA!

[sherrys]

Not just France,Bob
This is my new go to hat. This isn’t some cheap imported rubbish, it’s the real deal. I wouldn’t wear an Akubra, but I’m happy with my Stetson. Someone even stopped and took my photo today. I hate to think who they thought it was. My only double is Peter Senior, an Australian golfer. Who knows?

[Home and Away]

The shells...
must have brought back good memories!