In 1986, Pierre Romeyer, one of Belgium’s great chefs, became aware of the risks of food abuses. With his friend Paul Bocuse, he contacted other well-known chefs, who were passionate about their profession in all of the European countries: Wegner Vogel in Sweden, Gualtiero Marchesi in Italy, Juan Mari Arzak in Spain, Cas Spijkers in the Netherlands, Myrtle Allen in Ireland, Arne Fusager in Denmark, Eckart Witzighann in Germany, Michel Da Costa in Portugal, René Jacquemin in Luxembourg, David Miller in the United Kingdom and a few others; to set up the Euro-Toques Association.

I have been a member of this organisation since the early nineties, and was elected the Commissioner General for Ireland in January of this year.

On election I said that I wanted the theme of my term of office to be something that I feel very passionate about, that is that we should look carefully at our children’s diet as their health and welfare was being put in serious jeopardy by the current trend towards additive laden fast foods.
I think that I have already given my mission statement on this in a previous “Words” piece, Back to the eating Board
One of the highlights of our year in Euro-Toques is our annual Food Forum and Fair which was held last Sunday in Brook Lodge in Macreddin in Wicklow.
We decided that our theme this year should be

A is for Apple’ Educating our Children to Eat Well

Gabby Cribbin and Eva and Molly Lewis (all good chefs daughters)
tell us what its all about

We were lucky enough to get the services
of John Bowman of RTE as our chairman
for this forum.

John is a committed Food Person as well as being a superb chairman.

MEP, Mairead Mc Guinness agreed to sit on the panel for this discussion
As did Giacomo Moioli of Slow Food International, Hugo Arnold, who writes a weekly food column on the Irish Times and , putting his head into the lions cage, Paul Murphy, Chairman of Unilever also agreed to sit on the panel.

The discussion was an extremely lively one and, whereas I don’t think any world shattering decisions were made I do feel that the subject has now been raised and can now be debated.

The fair which was also on on the day was
a particularly lively one, with teriffic artisan
food from all parts of the south and north
of Ireland available.

We finished up the night with a superb table of the very best of Irish food produced by Evan Doyle and his team in Brook Lodge.

Myrtle Allen and Eimer Bowman at the Fair

Many thanks to everyone who was there on the day, particularly to Ruth Hegarty and Abigail Colleran in the Euro-Toques office who had to do all the organisation while I was swanning around France.

I came across this, to me, fascinating photograph today.
As soon as it was described to me by my Sister D a couple of weeks ago I immediately recognised it.
She had come across it somehow in my mothers effects.
I remembered being shown it by my mother who was most scathing about it. She told me “That’s Auntie Agnes and Uncle Billy’s Wedding, I was a bridesmaid but because I was only four they wouldn’t let me pose for the photograph”

It is a photograph that is so full of family history that it would need at least 1000 words to describe it!

The bride first,
She was Agnes Harding, grand daughter of an ex mayor of Cork , John Francis Maguire who was also a M.P., had founded the Cork Examiner and written a history of “Rome and its Institutions” for which he had received a papal knighthood.(I have a copy of the book)
She was later to prove a great cook, lived her life in some splendour in a Victorian villa in Rushbrooke in Cork which I remember chiefly for its summerhouse which could be turned on its axis to face the sun!
She came to our house to help with my three sisters’ weddings always bringing her own much worn carbon steel carving knife which I have managed to inherit. I remember her as a lovely warm lady.
Her husband, William Dwyer, better known as Billy, was one of Corks merchant princes, he made his fortune by founding Sunbeam Wolsey in Cork which at its peak employed several thousand of Corks northsiders. (Including, according to Google, Roy Keane’s father for his lifetime!)
Uncle Billy (who died before I was born) led my poor Aunt Agnes a merry dance by all accounts.
As well as being an entrepreneur of some skill he was also an MP and a great patron of the arts. At one time in the twenties he covered over his swimming pool (yes! a swimming pool in Ireland and in the twenties!) in the garden of his house to stage a midsummer version of Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Perhaps his most famous claim to fame is that before his death he organised the money to be made available for a church to be built in Blackpool in Corks northside.
The people of Cork, in fairness, were never deceived by this piety and perhaps Aunt Agnes got a little revenge by the fact that to this day this church is known as “Dwyers Fire Escape”
I have come across two anecdotes about the man recently.
One Seamas Murphy mentions in one of his books.
Billy was given a few bob by a workman on the church to get a few masses said for his dead son. Billy instead got Seamas to carve the child’s name on the steps of the church so that everyone climbing the steps would pray for his soul.
Another story was told me, in the restaurant one night, by Darryl Gallwey of Tramore who knew Billy.
Apparently the curate of the church in Blackpool came to see my Uncle Billy and presented him with a Gold Sovereign (a huge sum of money at that time)
“Mr Dwyer” he said “ We found this in the collection plate last Sunday, you must have put the wrong coin in by mistake”
“But there was no mistake” said my grand uncle “ I always put a sovereign in”
It transpired that the sexton had taken his annual leave the previous Sunday, so the parish received the sovereign for the first time.
History does not record what happened to the sexton.

As to my interest in the wedding.
Well, it is not often one can suddenly come across a photograph of both sets of your grandparents together in a picture which is about 6 years short of being 100 years old.

The lady and gentleman third and fourth at the back on the left are my mothers parents

and the lady on the extreme right and the gentleman sitting next to her are my fathers parents.

This is because my maternal grand mother, Josephine is Agnes Harding’s sister, and my paternal Grandfather George (known affectionately to us all as Dubs), is Billy Dwyer’s brother.
Strange isn’t it?
My father was not I reckon yet born but until I firm up on the dates I’m not certain. My mother was, I imagine, watching the photo being taken and fuming because she wasn’t included!

I hasten to add that this doesn’t imply that me and my siblings are the result of an incestuous relationship!
My mother and father were, on their marriage no way blood related, they just had first cousins in common.

Well maybe not quite a thousand words ! But, as pictures go it certainly has a tale to tell!

Post Scriptum September 13th 2005

This picture gets curiouser and curiouser!

Thanks in part to some notes which my brother David sent to me a long time ago which originally came from our cousin Neil Fleischman I have been able to identify some more people and even provide some anecdotes about the same.

Great Aunt Min Barry was the mater familias as William’s mother had died some time ago. She was a woman who has a reputation for performing great charitable works including sending packed lunches each day to the women in Cork Jail. She and her husband George Barry were childless so they adopted the Dwyer children as their own. My father still spoke fondly of Auntie Min.

This must be the brides mother, Mary Harding nee Maguire. A formidible looking lady as becomes the daughter of an apostle of temperance. She is in full Victorian mourning so we can take it that Edward Harding, the father of the bride is dead.

This lady is the most interesting of all.

Mabel Dwyer, in the family tree she gets a brief (Unm) after her name.
But what a wealth of family legend and heresay that hides.

Before I get to her story I must point out the most glaring omission of the day.

Where is the Grooms Father?

Walter Dwyer of Arbutus Lodge was alive and well.
Of this I am certain because in 1914, (which is the year this photograph was taken) he married for the third time.
His third wife was a May Goldie, a French Governess to the Pollack family.
(Family legend has it that she was previously courted by my grandfather, his son, George/Dubs)
Is that the reason why he was not present?
Was there a family row about his choice of bride?
We do know that Mabel, being the only one at home,had sought permission to marry only to be refused by her father on the grounds ;
“Who would look after me then!”
Mabel remained unmarried but the bold Walter went for the third wife as a safety clause.
That he had already built his own “fire escape” is evidenced that when the other daughter of the house, Mary, insisted, against his wishes in entering the Poor Clares, he promptly built a Poor Clare convent in Cork so she would be nearer him. This convent still stands and we as a family had special permission to attend Midnight Mass there on Christmas Day right up to my adolescence.
Furthermore as proof that Walter was not dead or indeed ailing he afterwards fathered four children with his third wife May. One of these, Rosemary, as Holy Child nun, Sister Colette, went on to become a marvellous champion of the Travellers in Ireland.
We know that after Walter’s death May Goldie went to London where she married an emigre white Russian Count, many years her junior.
Boys Oh! Boys!
Did these people lead colourful lives!
The researches continue.

Post Scriptum 2 September 14th 2005

I am getting thoroughly fed up with Walter Dwyer.
I know he is my Great Grand Father and therefore deserves the usual amount of ancestor worship but, not only did he refuse his daughter her chance of happiness, wipe his sons eye with a french governess but now
despite all my wonderful projections he was at the wedding.
Furthermore, and just to upset me he sat next to the bride (I ask you!) and therefore escaped detection.
Unfortunately my eagle eyed brother Ted spotted him,

and remembered having seen a picture of him in a 1931 “Review of Progress
of Dwyers of Cork”

Not much doubting its the same man.

So he was at the wedding after all.
back to the drawing board Martin,

In the meantime my nephew Eamonn has professed an interest in the priests
so I have sent him off on a mission to name them.
Doubt Ya Eamo!

Just in case anyone is wondering what I have been doing since I came back from the holidays (other than blogging same)

I have been spending each morning cycling with Jacques Brel.

Now as you all know Jacques Brel, unfortunately, is no longer “Alive and Well and Living in Paris”.
While in France I bought a CD of his, Infiniment.

This I have fallen in love with and have discovered a new health giving aspect of my love for Brel songs.

I have copied all of the words of the songs out from internet sites and now when I cycle my daily 12 klms on the exercise bike in the kitchen I blast forth the CD and sing along Karaoke style.
I don’t even notice the time passing anymore.

The only thing I fear is that the neighbours may start organising a petition to get me stopped.

All Right?

All together now
On your bikes and
1 2 3 4….;

Ce soir j’attends Madeleine
J’ai apporte du lilas
J’en apporte toutes les semaines
Madeliene elle aime bien ca…….

Chapter 8(of 8)Holiday 2005
The Final Chapter

We left Argeles on Tuesday afternoon giving ourselves 48 hours to tackle the 1200 klms trip to the ferry.
Considering that it had taken us about 24 days to get down so far, that doesn’t seem a whole lot of time but, if you beat it up the motor way in France it would be just about possible(but exhausting) to do this distance in 12 hours.
Part of the fun we get out of travelling the roads in France is that we never know quite what to expect from our overnight stops. They usually manage to surprise us somehow.
Our first nights accommodation was destined not to disappoint us.
We had bought in France the current “Chambre d’Hote” guide from Gites de France (our old copy being dated 1994 was proving a little out of date!)
We rang just about every one of these in the appropiate area but they were all booked out.
Our second choice was to pick out a cheap hotel in the Michelin Guide.
Hotel Felix in Castlesarrasin seemed to suit and had rooms available so we decided to head for it.
There were some strange comments in the guide about cowboys etc but, assuming that it must have some vague“Western” theme we said we would risk it.
When we finally pulled into the carpark (read corral) we were fairly gobsmacked.
It was a complete replica of a Hollywood Cowboy movie set.
Hitching posts,General store, Saloon (in which we were to eat a barbecued dinner),
a little chapel (which was the Bridal Suite)

and an Indian Station

Which was where were to sleep.

How far over the top can you get!

The following day saw us driving through the ourskirts of Bordeaux so, on another of our whims, we decided to make a diversion to the wine town of St Emilion.
Was this ever a good decision!
St Emilion was a little stunner.
The cobbled medieval town was of course thronged with tourists but in its cobbled centre even the shopping arcades were pretty.

The star of the town has to be the 9th century church carved out of a single rock in the limestone that underlies the town.

Even the stones overground showed the most amazing effects of 11 hundred years of weathering.

Inside the monks had carved the rock to decorate it.
These were carved into the ceiling of the nave

But one of the most surprising sights were these beautiful 12th century frescoes which had only in the last 10 years been found in that portion of the chapel over ground.
Apparently at the time of the revoloution this part had been used as a smithy and the resulting sooty deposit had preserved them perfectly for 300 years.

As we left the town I had to stop and take a shot of the true heart of St. Emilion and the fruit which, if we were lucky, we might yet drink the fermented juice of,

We drove on that day to Nozay to a “Chambre d’Hote” which had another very handy feature. Madame Urien (telephone 02 40 87 98 75) provided a kitchen for her guests who could then cook their own dinner if they wanted. This was perfect for us, so our last night ended up costing us €43 plus €11 spent on food and wine in the local supermarket.
Further more madame let me help myself to the delicious herbs growing in her garden and to the fruit on the groaning plum tree

Packing the car, which (with the addition of some cases from St Emilion) now contained 12 cases of wine, was possible, but difficult, for the last leg of the journey.

Rennes was our last stop before the boat.
It had been badly bombed during the war but had managed to retain its old town centre

Which had some amazing carved and painted buildings

And an early carving of St Sebastian getting martyered

And so to boat, and home.
In case you are wondering if eating all this wonderful French food for a month had any effect on the Dwyer figure I give you this photo Sile took of me on the boat.

(Its all right folks, it’s just wind!)

Chapter 7 (of 8)Holiday 2005

My friends and Brid and Marc Torrades from Sligo have an apartment in Argeles sur Mer which is on the Med and about 20kms from Spain.

The history of Argeles is interesting, this whole stretch of coast was plagued my mosquitoes who bred in its many lagoons and consequently was never developed like the Cote d’Azure was.
In the ‘50s the government of the time sprayed extensively with DDT.
This got rid of the mossies and then they decided to have an input into the kind of resorts they wanted.
Argeles is a very deliberate working class resort. Planning decreed no high rise, and also insisted on an extremely high proportion of camp sites to houses in the development plan.
There are a very few old houses on the sea front

but the place is at heart a modern seaside resort with a magnificent endless beach to the south and the grandeur of the mountains to the west.

And they did manage to have a Foire des Brocantes while I was there

The Apartment was most comfortable with a large airy terrace

With plenty of space for yours truly to write, in long hand, his journal
(of which you are now getting the much edited version)

Commercial Break
If you want to rent the apartment you can contact Brid at torrades@eircom.net

It is also a brilliant centre for exploring the area.
Just down the road is the fishing village of Collioure where Matisse and Derain painted many of their Fauvist pictures and where one of my heros, the naval novelist and mock Irishman Patrick O Brian lived most of his life.

They still have the same little fishing boats in the port as they had in Matisse’s day

And have so many arty crafty types in the, very appealing, village that even the drainpipes are hand thrown,and glazed, faience.

We also struggled over the foothills of the Pyrenees
(On the way having the windiest picnic ever)

To the equally attractive town of Ceret, with its marnificant, Picasso endowed, Modern art Gallery

Where we managed not to get served in the café where he used to have his morning coffee

At the end of this week Una and Martin went home
But before they went they took the only photograph of the holiday of the two of us together.

Then we too headed back on our 1200 klm trip to Cherbourg and home.

Chapter 6 (of 8)Holiday 2005

On our last night Au Bord du Tarn we got quite sentimental thinking that we were going to spend the rest of the holiday under bricks and mortar and would be mothballing the tent the following morning.
We added up the money we had spent on accommodation, i.e. camp site charges for the previous 17 days, it came to an astounding €120. (Or about the cost of one nights B&B at home!)

Since I started putting this account of our holiday together I had a comment from my friend Billy who pointed out correctly that I had now,with my profligate use of pictures, stretched the “Words” concept a bit far.
True for him, since I got the digital camera I have gone a bit nuts with the images. I will have to talk to my personal computer trainer to see if I can change the “Words” title to something more appropriate.
This is all by way of an advance apology because the following piece about Peret is completely picture led.

This was to be the luxurious part of the holiday.
A house, with its own pool in the far south Languedoc with my Sile’s brother Colm, her sister Una and Una’s husband Martin .
It did indeed prove to be a peaceful, relaxed and most pleasant week.

The Olive Tree in Peret
My camping Gazebo came in handy on the terrace.

The church was just across a little valley in the village and we spent a lot of our time, sitting on the terrace, watching the hands of the clock go around and listening to the bells.

Peret church by day

Peret Church by Evening

Peret Church by Night

We spent a lot of time in the pool

Sile in the Pool

Martin (Lyes) in the Pool

Except for Colm who was up in the garrigue botanizing

From which he would bring back fresh sweet green figs

Almonds

and Olives

We did go on a day trip to Pezenas, a pretty but touristy medieval town which had some beautiful Italianate houses

L’Hotel d’Alfonce with its beautiful Renaissance Loggias.
(The word Hotel here just means mansion)

Clermont l’Herault, because less precious, was even more impressive and as we went there on market day, mad busy. The two men underneath on the left are a duo, playing hurdy gurdy and saw!

We also went to the Cirque de Moureze which was a weird geological mishap which had left these strange pillars of rock behind.
The locals claimed all sorts of shapes for these like camels humps and sleeping tigers but to us they just looked like rocks.

And were extremely difficult to get around

Which didn’t stop Sile trying to climb one.

The village itself however was very pretty

On the way back we stopped on a whim at the tiny wayside church of Notre Dame de Peyroux
This had yet another picture of St Roche lifting his skirt to show a passing dog his thigh. What this was all about even we could not imagine.

I took a shot of this,but the church was so dim (and I didn’t like to use a flash) that you may not be able to make it out.
Since we came back I have, by courtesy of the internet, discovered that is a legend about St. Roche being fed by a dog when he had the plague.
In some of the pictures he is rather less coy and is lifting his skirts much higher to show the buboes at his groin!
Eight months after I had written the above I was delighted to read in Alan Bennet’s Untold Stories;
“St Rocca…is more difficult to take however well he’s painted because he must always be hitching up his skirt to show you his boil…..In the painting by Crivelli which is in the wallace Collection you half expect him to be wearing suspenders”

The same church also had a wonderfully voluptuous Golden Madonna

Which contrasted strangely with the virginal figure in blue and white which we see in Irish Churches

A lot of the rest of the time we spent eating

Breakfast

Toulouse Sausage

and huge steaks

And playing Scrabble
and charades on the terrace at night

Which gave us a chance to compare the moon with the one we had seen from the Tarn

It got bigger, and yellower as we went through the week.

Chapter 5(of 8) Holiday 2005

The Tarn sort of crept up on us, from behind.

When we left the Auvergne we were heading towards Languedoc .As the area of the Gorges de Tarn was directly on our path, it seemed the obvious place to head to.

The only camp site in that area which satisfied the rigorous Dwyer criteria was in the tiny village of Le Truel. This seemed to be at the bottom of a Gorge, surrounded by wooded cliffs so we decided to stock up with food before we ventured into the interior.

We went to a supermarket in Millau (on the way driving frustratingly under one of the longest bridges in the world, and bridges are one of my favourite things) and filled the car with three days basic rations of food and wine.The only thing we didn’t stash was bread on the basis that no French man was going to exist further than 10 minutes from a fresh supply of bread for breakfast.
(On this point, at least, we were correct)
So taking our courage in our hands and lacking only native bearers we headed into the thickly wooded hillside banks of the Tarn.
Not to far from Le Truel we saw a picnic spot ahead and decided to stop for lunch. At this stage you must realise that we had seen nothing but the trunks of trees for the last 30 minutes or so.

We stopped and started to unpack the picnic things when I turned away from the table I frightened Sile by suddenly saying “Jesus Mary and Joseph!”
Through a break in the trees I had suddenly seen this,

This was the first stage in our seduction by the Tarn. As I said it crept up on us, from behind.

When we got down to the Campsite itself we were again seduced.

It was exactly on the bank of the river
and our emplacement was not only just a hedge away from its course, it also had its own walnut tree.

The Gardienne was very warm and welcoming, of course we could get fresh bread in the Alimentation in the village at the other side of the river (and all other grocery supplies as well) and, furthermore she was going to have a little welcoming drink up by the Sanitaire tonight and she hoped we would come along.

The only fly in the ointment soon flew away.
There was a snotty looking French woman looking over the site next to ours as we unpacked out tent. She was the first and only person I met in France who didn’t reply to my “Bon Jour”.
However, with a look that indicated that the quality of the neighbours was not “comme il faut” she departed only to be replaced very shortly after by a single male cyclist who instantly stuck his hand over the hedge and said “Hello I’m Mark, I’m from Holland and I’m married to an Irish girl and I’m really glad to meet you”.

So there we were, a lovely site Au Bord du Riviere, Fresh bread available for breakfast, a doty Gardienne and now a friend to talk to.
Le Truel on the beautiful Tarn was, as they used to say in Cork, “The Berries”

And it lived up to its initial promise extremely well.

We went on a couple of brief excursions. One to Rocquefort to go through the “Rocquefort Experience” which was about as exciting as it sounds.
If you get turned on by Caves filled with plastic models of cheeses this is a must for you. To get there we had to pass through the town of St. Affrique which was a perfect model of a sensible French working town, with absolutely no touristic pretentions, and an excellent farmers market.
Furthermore the property prices were good and it had a good bookshop.
I even took a photo of a dilapidated Hotel by the river which looked like it could be ours for a few bars of a sean nos.

On the way back we had gone this way to see a Dolmen which was marked on the map,amazingly similar to the Irish dolmens (maybe we both used the same architect?)

And from a nearby hill top I had been able to glimpse the Millau Bridge, fully 30 miles away.

Then we stumbled upon an amazing sculpture park
We had been noticing these huge sculptures in various towns in the area.
They were all made of pieces of scrap metal cleverly welded together
by a clever sculptor with some nice witty touches like spoons used for mouths etc.
Quite by accident we found ourselves at his workshop which was on top of the garrigue near St Affrique.

There, in the middle of nowhere,we suddenly found ourselves in a Zoo of huge metal animals and people.
While we were prowling around this mans work (and it grieves me that I forgot to write down his name) a little boy cycled up from a nearby house and fearlessly parked his bike, leaning against the nose of a huge Rhino.

I was also quite taken by his Asterix

Which was made of the oddest scraps

That was about the most exciting thing thar happened to us on our most pleasant few days by the Tarn.

Other than that we just lazed the days and nights about by the river

Fetched bread from the village in the morning

Drank plenty of wine

And even had time to spend Moon gazing

Chapter 4(of 8) Holiday 2005

We had camped with the children in the Auvergne in the nineties and had been impressed with its old fashioned rural qualities. It seemed, and still seems, caught in a bit of a time warp and always has a certain air of mystery. Attractive to tour in but not a lot of cash flow evident. We picked a camp site in the village of Faverolles, perched up over the Gorge de Truyere.

The camp was most comfortable, big high hedged emplacements, a free electric “branchement” for each site and, as per usual, spotless and efficient sanitaires and washing up facilities. For once we got a place right next to the central block so the piddling trips during the nights weren’t too far.

It was a small camp and extremely friendly. All the campers seemed to know each other well and there was much inter site partying in the evenings and always knots of people standing and gossiping at corners and by the sanitaires.
It seemed to be the sort of place that the same people came back to year after year, and had more the atmosphere of a medieval village than a campsite.

The camp was just up the road from the Viaduct of Garabit.
This was Eiffel’s rehearsal for his more famous tower and if you look at it carefully you can see how was inspired in his design of the Tower by the supports of the bridge

The village still had its, no doubt heavily subsidised, bakery, a church, and a restaurant.
The church had a wonderful Chandelier which looked like its bits had been replaced with jam jars as they fell off, but it had a definite charm anyway.

We took a few trips while we were there.
One over the hills

to St Flour and its terrific Musee d’Auvergne.
There they had preserved some of the past life of the land including a marvellous full panelled room complete with built in beds and wardrobes
made of the most wonderful mellow chestnut.
This must have come from the house of a well to do farmer.

Another trip was to the town of Chaud Aigues which must be one of the only towns in the world with free central heating. They have an unending supply of hot springs and they use this to heat their houses and even have several fountains in the town supplying it to passers by.

But it was while we were in Faverolles camp site that one of the most intriguing incidents of our holiday occurred.
Just as night was falling we heard the start of a row in the campsite.
Two female voices were raised one against the other, one quite young, one more mature.
Immediately all the teenage boys in the camp proceeded to run and hide, in some fear, in the camp across from ours where a young Adonis was in a caravan with his parents.
The loud argument went on for some time but, unfortunately, either due to the distance from the tent or the dialect they were using we couldn’t understand a word.
In the mean time Adonis’s mother came bustling about the sites near us obviously looking for Adonis who had gone missing.
After a while the argument faded slowly into the distance and we assumed all was over.
But then a car roared into the centre of the camp and a woman (the older voice?) began to hector all the inmates loudly about her greviences.
Infuriatingly we couldn’t get the gist of what these were.
At this stage the women of the camp began to retaliate verbally and to abuse the abuser in turn.
Just when we, lurking heroically within tent, were sure it was going to end in a brawl, the Hectoring Woman, slammed into her car and exited.
At this stage Adonis’s mother burst through the camp with Adonis, whom she had just found, and dragged him and all the other teenage boys to a spot just outside the forum, sorry, sanitaires.
There she in her turn harangued them for a good half hour but this time, and equally frustratingly, she did this in a shrill and sibilant whisper.

The following morning, other than the women taking longer than usual gathering water from the well, sorry, taps, all seemed normal.
We didn’t know anyone well enough to find out what the real story was but you can be sure that, like yourselves, we had a couple of theories.

Nothing more exciting than that happened before we left the Auvergne.
We did however manage to see the impossibly romantic Chateau d’Alleuze.
Perched dramatically on a bend of the Truyere it also seemed to offer tales of mystery and romance.
Or maybe it was just time to leave the Auvergne.

Chapter 3(of 8) Holiday 2005

We left the Sarthe in the extremely early morning as we had decided that the next place the wind was going to blow us was somewhere in Burgundy. I can only hope that the knowledge the some of the finest wines in France are produced here wasn’t part or the winds intent.
As we left at 7.00, unbreakfasted, the first stop had to be for fodder.
We drove into Vendome only to be told by the café that “No, there was absolutely no bread, ALL the Bakers had taken their holidays together.
Even the Market was shut but they at least had left their pictures up on the windows to remind us of what they looked like.

So we struggled on and decided to stop in the first town where we could reasonably demand lunch.
In Sully-sur-Loire we were not disappointed.
We had a marvellous lunch in “La Ferme des Chataigniers”.
An endless and generous supply of courses helped to sustain us and we ate in solitary splendour in the garden of the farm with a hopeful hen begging for scraps by our toes.

The campsite in Chateau Chinon was pleasantly placed at the edge of the forest and had the necessary emplacements so,having managed to find a day old Guardian, (for the crossword) we installed ourselves there.

The following day was cloudy, mist was filling the valley when we woke up.

Fortunately the town had two large museums.
Mitterand had been the local T.D. here for many years so he had given all his many presentations to the town. These were numbered in their thousands and most were the sort of hideous, but valuable souvenirs that you would expect.
In the fairly small Irish contribution we found that Waterford Co-Op had presented him with a piece of bog oak. This was strangely pleasing among the jewel encrusted chessboards etc.

The other museum was a very good one of costume where I managed to take a few surreptitious snaps,(for the costume designing daughter) with the flash turned off, thus the shakes.

The nearest large town was Autun whose chief claim to fame was a lovely old cathedral. This had a beautifully carved doorway

A wonderful Spiral Pulpit Stairs

But the thing I liked best was a window where all of the prosperous burghers, who had endowed it, had managed to get themselves portrayed as Saints and Apostles. If you look carefully I think you will see that the Vitrail maker has managed to poke subtle fun at them at the same time.

The town also had some nice Art Deco buildings includingd a particularly pretty Arcade

The following day saw us take off on a long trek to a town whose name I have forgotten to another Brocante Fair. This was far more up market than the last and consequently way over my limited budget.
However on the way back we stopped in a wayside Brocante and in a rummage box, where everything was for sale at 20 cent, I found a true Absinthe saucer, complete with printed price of 40 centimes. These are difficult to come by and sell on ebay for anything up to $100.
My day was saved!

Chapter 2(of 8) Hol;iday 2005

The Sarthe has a very special place in Sile and my affections.
We worked there, in the little village of Cheffes sur Sarthe. In the early Seventies, and have had many holidays around the area and that of Le Loir and of La Loire since. If only it was a bit further south I think it would be our choice of place to buy a house.

This was the village pond at Bazougeres where l’Houzardiere was.
We went for a walk after supper and loved the colours of the night sky.

The Abbey church here is reported to have terrific 12th Century Frescoes but people in shorts (me) weren’t allowed in.
The Village church however had some terrific blue stained glass windows.
We just managed to get this photo before some lady sextons came in and bustled us out. Very old fashioned in Solesme.

While we were in the camp site in Roeze I took this photo of some water-lilies A La Manet.

It was only later when I blew it up that I discovered this Moorhen chick in hiding among them.

Malicorne, another of the “Petites Cities de Caractere” had a good, if a little too State of the Art Musee de Faience (Glazed Earthenware) Their fortunes as producers had fluctuated during the years and they had at one time gone in for making miniature furniture like the Chest of drawers here,

And even the odd Bidet, complete with rude message like this one.

I did manage to get to one “Foire de Brocante” while we were in the region, in Vallon-sur-Gee. Truth to tell it was much more of a “Vide Grenier” (Car boot sale) than a brocante. Never fear though, this did provide me with quite a few bargains. I found this Absinthe Glass in a stall which I paid €7 for. I had seen his brother in the Marche des Puces in Paris for sale for €100.

But these Champagne Tompettes (I think that is the word for these baseless glasses) were my prize buy. I had been wanting some for ages but they are quite rare. There is a great tradition of baseless glasses which have to be emptied before they can be put down. This was why tumblers were originally so-called to distinguish them from stemmed glasses with bases.
These ones with their original Moet stand were fine but he was looking for €25 for them. It involved quite a bit of barter (I even had to leave the stand and come back later) but I eventually beat him down to €10. He sold them,however, with good grace as he said he had to sell them to us as he could see that “comme moi et ma femme” we were romantics.

He is right though.
There is something very romantic about the Sarthe.
This is a photo I took very early one morning from one of its bridges.