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A nice bottle of Bordeaux red wineOur arrival at Bordeaux Airport went without incident. One hour later, during the evening rush hour, Angela and I were sitting in the hire car on the motorway exit road causing mayhem. “The bloody clutch pedal is stuck,” I shouted at Angela as I tried in vain to get the car to move. “I can't get the thing in gear.” I pointed at the gear stick which refused to budge. Underneath my foot, the clutch pedal seemed to be glued down to the floor and there was nothing I could do except curse. In the rear view mirror a snarl of traffic was building up rapidly. A few brave souls managed to go past, risking death by overtaking me on the main motorway. I looked at Angela in despair. “We're doomed! It’s bad driving on the wrong side of the road but having a bloody car that doesn't work properly is too much.” I stomped down hard on the clutch pedal and yanked on the gear stick. “Jesus Christ!” I yelled, and then it went into gear and we were off.
Twenty hellish minutes later we found our hotel, located on the outskirts of Bordeaux, and parked the car with
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Cailhau Gate one of Bordeaux’s main entrances. It was used for visiting royalty relief. For the final ten minutes of the journey the car had been fine, the clutch pedal behaving itself. Nevertheless, I didn’t relish the prospect of now driving into Bordeaux centre and so we ordered a taxi.
As we pulled into the city centre the trauma of my poor driving soon gave way to the views outside. The grandeur the riverfront buildings were immediately apparent. Bordeaux looked like a rich city. The columns adorning many of the buildings were surely a sign of opulence, a time when Kings wandered, gazing at the beauty of the city. By the time we reached the centre, even though it had only taken six or seven minutes, the taxi driver still charged us nineteen Euros. We climbed out to take in the sights, neither of us having any prior conceptions of what Bordeaux would be like.
We were both soon pleasantly surprised. The eighth largest city in France looked beautiful and well cared for. The buildings were majestic, the pavements polished, the boutiques chic and romantic, and every woman, young and old, looked elegant and fashionable. Wide boulevards transported us along until we decided to stop for a meal in one of
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Meteor Lager one of the local brews the many restaurants littering the centre of Bordeaux.
The menu, of course, was in French, but we had come prepared. For a few months, we’d been listening to CDs teaching us basic French, hopefully enough to get by on. However, after only two or three CDs, it became clear that Angela was picking up the language far better than me. She could understand the nuances of grammar and punctuation while I was still stuck on phrases involving childish sexual innuendo.
“Bonjour!” said the waitress who approached our table with a smile. “Voulez-vous voir la menu?”
I looked at Angela. I got the bonjour bit, but the rest was gobbledygook. Angela smiled and addressed the waitress. “Oui,” she replied. “Est je voudrais une bouteille de vin rouge, s'il vous plait, avec deux verre!” I nodded like a simpleton. I quite fancied a plate of boots with some other French stuff on it. The waitress took our order and wandered away.
The bottle of red wine Angela ordered was lovely, and after Angela inspected the label she informed me it from the chateau. “Is that important,” I asked with a hint of a French accent. If I couldn't
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Pont-de-Pierre crossing the River Garonne, Bordeaux speak the lingo, at least I could do a fair impression of it.
“It means it was bottled at the chateau where the vineyards are. It's usually a good sign. Trust me.”
The meal I ordered was thin strips of raw beef with the added bonus of a pickled artichoke to choke on. It wasn't what I wanted of course but it looked suitably French and so I was happy. Angela's food was much nicer, but then, she could understand the menu.
Later we found a lively square surrounded by cafes and bars. The buildings all around had flower arrangement to make their outside appearance more appealing. While I supped a pint of Meteor lager, a quartet of young men began setting up for some sort of performance. Ten minutes later some music started and they began to dance. It was a modern piece, complete with handstands and impressive jiving, and then when the song finished, the four of them went literally cap in hand.
The next day, we checked out of the hotel and braved the hire car for a drive to Perigueux, about two hours east from Bordeaux. Luckily the car was well behaved,
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Sunrise over Bordeaux and along the way we passed numerous vineyards and rustic French villages straight out of Allo Allo. “This is like the France of my imagination,” said Angela beside me. I nodded. All it needed was a man in a blue and white striped t-shirt, wearing a beret, riding his bicycle, while holding onto a string of onions with a line of sausages around his handlebars and the scene would have been complete. Oh, and he'd have to have a thick moustache and be shouting 'Zut Alors!’ at timely intervals, whatever the hell that means, and have a wife at home preparing a meal with garlic.
We arrived in Perigueux in the early afternoon. “This place is amazing!” said Angela as we wandered through the compact city centre. The sun was shining; the sky a perfect azure, and our French odyssey was in phase two of its operation.
Two thousand years previously, the Romans, together with a Gauls, built amphitheatres, artesian wells, villas, and temples to accommodate 20,000 people. Eventually this settlement became Perigueux. As we wandered the cobblestone streets, we couldn't see any evidence of the Romans, but we could see lots of medieval architecture, including the magnificent
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Medieval Street of Perigueux Cathedral St-Front, dating back to the twelfth century. Virtually every alleyway was beautiful and rustic, and many had nail-studded wooden doors. With a cart and horse, and perhaps a man carrying a broadsword, the side streets of Perigueux would have made a wonderful backdrop for any period drama of the Middle Ages.
In a wine shop I made a massive faux pas. It started off okay. We wandered inside and a gentleman said bonjour. “Bonjour!” I replied, my accent superb and my diction spot on. And then the proprietor started speaking to me at a hundred miles an hour in French. I didn't understand a word of it and judging by Angela's expression, neither did she.
“Parlez vous Anglais?” I asked. The man shook his head, no sorry. I shrugged and so embarrassed we elected to look at the expensive bottles of wine on offer for a few moments. The man watched us; seemingly sorry he couldn't tell us about his wares. And then as we left the shop I made my hideous error, one Angela laughed mercilessly at as we headed up the street. As we headed for the door, the man smiled and said, au revour.
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Mataguerre Tower the remains of a medieval tower, Perigueux Quick as a flash, I made my own idiotic reply. “Bonjour!” I boomed and exited the shop. Why I said hello to the man just as we were leaving I had no idea. Suitably abashed, I took the taunts from Angela like a man. “I can't wait to get back and tell everyone what you said,” she quipped.
The evening was spent having a lovely meal in yet another outdoor cafe. Market stalls had been set up to tempt the evening browser, and nearby, a brass band marched about blasting out some hearty tunes. “I like Perigueux,” Angela declared. “I think I could live here.”
The next morning, we hit the road once more. It would take us three hours to get to Royan, a small seaside resort north of Bordeaux. Along the way, we passed field after field of vineyards and sunflowers. The roads were long and windy and it was all very rural. The condition of the roads was highly impressive. No potholes or workmen digging anything up. What a contrast to the UK we both agreed.
Feeling peckish, we decided to stop somewhere. It turned out to be another gorgeous little French village
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Come hither mighty knight complete with picturesque river, cobbled streets, ancient abbey, and best of all, cafes and patisseries to satiate our hungry palates. We were in Brantome, located on a meander in the Dronne Valley. After a croissant and a cafe au lait, we wandered around town, arriving at a shop selling wine. It didn't take us long to make our choice. A box containing six of the region’s finest. And their total cost was only sixteen Euros! Later, when we cracked one open, we both agreed it was a most flavorsome vin rouge.
We arrived in Royan just after lunchtime. The blue skies of the previous two days had made way for clouds, with even a spot of rain. Royan was almost flattened during the Second World War, as a result losing much of its Victorian charm. Why the Germans chose to bomb a quaint little seaside resort we had no idea, but today, the town is a popular seaside resort for all ages.
Youngsters enjoyed surfing while pensioners enjoyed games of bowls in specially constructed sand enclosures close to the beach. Along the front, shops peddled the usual touristy fare (postcards, sunglasses, buckets and spades etc) and set out
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River scene, Perigueux on the small beach were blue and white-striped deck chairs. Royan was the commercial side to the Dordogne, one we wanted to avoid really. But with the hotel prebooked, we had no choice but to enjoy what we could. We paid for the deckchairs and with the afternoon sun making a timely appearance; we lounged about for a good few hours, doing nothing in particular.
On the drive back to Bordeaux, we drove through the other end of Royan, the better side. A lovely harbour filled with yachts and sailing boats was on our right, while on our left, numerous boutiques and cafes advertised their wares to those passing by. We drove on into the French countryside to catch our flight back home.
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Bev
non-member comment
I can better that.
Jason, We're planning a trip to the Bordeaux region for April/May next year, and just loved your blog - so funny, and well written, so congrats. I have to admit, I can better your faux pas. On our first trip to France I was heard to enquire of locals (on more than one occasion it must be admitted) "Parlez vous Francaise?" A wonderful Gallic shrug, "Oui, je parle". Like your wife, my husband thought it superb entertainment. Cheers