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Published: August 24th 2006
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Venice - Milan - Geneva - Lyon - Paris - Laval (Train)
23 July The French will carry their baguettes with such abandon. They will buy their one metre long stick of baked fresh bread on their way home from work. You will see it tucked under the arm of a commuter like an umbrella on a wet day; and at the ready to beat off the competition for that seat on the train. Or you might spot them precariously balanced in the backpack of a cyclist where it will smite any insects unlucky enough to be in the path of the baguette as it swathes through the air behind the rider. The stick can hold open the door allowing one to load shopping bags inside and then keep out the draught from under that door until it is sliced up for a dinner of onion soup and cheese. The next morning, what remains of the bread will have a fruit conserve spread upon it and drowned in a café au lait (a large, milky coffee) - its last moment of existence before the cycle repeats. Croissants are for the weekend.
Our long train journey across Europe covered Napoleonic
distances from Venice to Paris; with a necessary stop in Geneva to re-book our seats after a very late arrival (2.5hours!), which caused us to miss our connection and much cursing of the Italian rail service. The Swiss person in the ticket office remained … well, rather neutral to our predicament and offered us no real help - nor did he take side with Italian rail. Our first view of Switzerland from the train was as it cut through a deep valley, towering granite mountains of the alps either side of us (all in line - just like the toblerone). Finally, just through Lausanne, the vista opened across the great blue expanse of Lake Geneva. With perfect views such as these, and the chocolate, one might even forgive the Swiss for being a little aloof when dealing with us auslanders.
Our problem was sorted in Lyon and we were on our way to Laval (via Paris) in the Normandy region of France. Our friends - Linton and Clare - had invited us to stay with the in a farmhouse gite near Saint Hellier that they had booked for the week. We quickly settled into the relaxed country surroundings, as
it is always easy to do when with old friends.
Setting out for supplies to stock the fridge was an anticipated adventure. One would have to scour Melbourne or Sydney’s more affluent suburbs to locate the obscure fromagerie who imported the cheese that was sold in the petrol station’s cool case over here. The wine was cheap and with the French choosing not to categorise by grape variety, our limited knowledge made it was a matter of sampling bottles from each region’s to find what we liked.
We strolled through the walled seaport of Saint Malo before visiting the isolated fortress abbey of Mont Saint Michel towering above the sandy tidal plains. We climbed the busy, winding alleyway, lined to the top of its ancient ramparts. Looking out from the height of the abbey, you understand why this was one of the only places on this coast never to fall to siege of invaders and hence is a national symbol for France. We drove down the Loire Valley to the Chateau Chambord built by two French kings for their hunting pleasure in its large reserve. (NB: the hunting woods are still reserved for exclusive use of the President
of France; Chirac has not yet chosen to add a stuffed wild boar head to his smoking room though - nuclear testing in pacific atolls is much more engaging).
Linton would go to collect fresh croissants each morning (every day was a weekend for us). We ate gallet (savoury crepes) with chevre, bought Moules (mussels) at the local farmers market with fresh vegetables and wood-fired oven baked bread to create a feast of the sweet shellfish. The highlight was a set menu dinner at Le Moulin de Jean; sitting outside on a balcony overlooking the green and golden fields of corn and wheat with the holy trinity of good food, wine and company is the perfect way to mark the end of a great week.
On our last day with Linton and Clare we travelled northwest, closer to Paris, and spent time wandering through Monet’s garden. The small town of Giverny is well preserved to see the house and gardens of Monet, which he landscaped to inspire his work around 1900 including the well-known and oft re-printed ‘Water Lilies’. Walking around his pond, over the bridges and through the rows of colourful flowers, if you blur your vision
just a little so the colours are more distinguished than the line and shapes, you have your own, real time, impressionist’s image of the gardens at Giverny.
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