From Toulouse to the Pyrenees: a Dizzying Journey
Sep 29th, 2009, 11:16 AM
#22
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"the presence of vendors of cheap clothing"
Kerouac might be right, but there's also a different possible explanation.
The phenomenon is depressingly common throughout Europe - or at any rate in France, Britain and Italy. Street markets that once had lots of food stalls now have less food and more cheap clothes. I'd say it's grown faster (from a smaller base) over the past five years in France than elsewhere.
There are - I'd argue - two reasons. Street markets - especially in France - find it increasingly difficult to compete on price for food with limited range discount stores. Two decade ago, hypermarkets offered cheap food, but only on the edge of largeish towns. Now Aldi, Lidl and their clones are in every tiny town (even in the Cotswolds!!!), and they've killed off independent fresh food stores, like greengroceries. And they've also undermined market food stalls (not as spectacularly in France as in Britain, but enough for the gaps to start showing)
At the same time, there's no equivalent cheap clothing chain that can survive in very small towns. So traders doing the circuit of weekly markets step in, and offer something (really, really crap cheap stuff) the chains won't sell. Most chains sell stuff purpose-made to their spec in Asian factories, but there's also cheaper clothes around: the stuff Asian factories sell off, because Wal-Mart or Carrefour cancelled the order or rejected it because it was substandard, because they made a batch on spec to keep workers employed during an order gap or because they've discovered by trial and error there's an opening for it.
The gap for this stuff is bigger than in the US because Europe has less bureaucratic Customs rules and dramatically lower import duty than America. Europe also has thousands of lorries a week arriving overland from low-cost production centres (none of this protectionist nonsense beloved by posturers like Obama about banning foreign lorries from our roads), so there's a constant stream of cheap clothes arriving that's not reliable or consistent enough for chains to handle. Market traders grab it up. In Britain they undercut WalMart for what looks like similar merchandise by 30%-50%.
It's not just small villages, either. In the past few months, I've noticed street markets in London and Orvieto almost denuded of food (in Britain they're also under attack from Farmers' Markets) and replacing the food with junk clothes nearby bricks and mortar shops would regard as too naff for them.
Kerouac might be right, but there's also a different possible explanation.
The phenomenon is depressingly common throughout Europe - or at any rate in France, Britain and Italy. Street markets that once had lots of food stalls now have less food and more cheap clothes. I'd say it's grown faster (from a smaller base) over the past five years in France than elsewhere.
There are - I'd argue - two reasons. Street markets - especially in France - find it increasingly difficult to compete on price for food with limited range discount stores. Two decade ago, hypermarkets offered cheap food, but only on the edge of largeish towns. Now Aldi, Lidl and their clones are in every tiny town (even in the Cotswolds!!!), and they've killed off independent fresh food stores, like greengroceries. And they've also undermined market food stalls (not as spectacularly in France as in Britain, but enough for the gaps to start showing)
At the same time, there's no equivalent cheap clothing chain that can survive in very small towns. So traders doing the circuit of weekly markets step in, and offer something (really, really crap cheap stuff) the chains won't sell. Most chains sell stuff purpose-made to their spec in Asian factories, but there's also cheaper clothes around: the stuff Asian factories sell off, because Wal-Mart or Carrefour cancelled the order or rejected it because it was substandard, because they made a batch on spec to keep workers employed during an order gap or because they've discovered by trial and error there's an opening for it.
The gap for this stuff is bigger than in the US because Europe has less bureaucratic Customs rules and dramatically lower import duty than America. Europe also has thousands of lorries a week arriving overland from low-cost production centres (none of this protectionist nonsense beloved by posturers like Obama about banning foreign lorries from our roads), so there's a constant stream of cheap clothes arriving that's not reliable or consistent enough for chains to handle. Market traders grab it up. In Britain they undercut WalMart for what looks like similar merchandise by 30%-50%.
It's not just small villages, either. In the past few months, I've noticed street markets in London and Orvieto almost denuded of food (in Britain they're also under attack from Farmers' Markets) and replacing the food with junk clothes nearby bricks and mortar shops would regard as too naff for them.
Sep 29th, 2009, 02:01 PM
#24
Original Poster
Wednesday morning the group heading to Spain leaves early. We are determined to go despite the clouds and the forecast of rain in Spain (there’s a song in there somewhere), figuring we can’t trust either one. And we are right. As we draw near to the mountains, we see more and more blue sky. As the road begins to climb, the houses change their character. The red tile roofs of the valleys give way to steep gray stone roofs as we enter snow country. Some of the trees up here are starting to turn various shades of gold. Then we are above the tree line and climbing steeply toward the Aragnouet-Bielsa tunnel linking France and Spain.
We pass the deserted border crossing station on the French side and head through the tunnel. This tunnel was built in 1976. While this country appears remote today, I can only imagine how unpopulated it was before the tunnel was built. On the other side we pass the deserted Spanish border crossing station. It doesn’t really feel like entering a different country. No need to show passports. But we have made sure to bring them with us. Soon after entering Spain, we pass a gas station. Gas is significantly less expensive in Spain than it is in France. Motorists must all stop here to fill up before venturing into France.
We drive to the medieval town of Ainsa, which was restored in anticipation of the increased tourist traffic from France with the opening of the tunnel. There is a large parking lot outside the walled village to accommodate the summer crowds, but today it is nearly empty. We walk on the bridge across the moat and into the castle. There are rest rooms here and a small museum dedicated to the mountain ecology. A woman drives a cart pulled by a horse with a pony tethered behind it. The sign on the cart says “Taxi”. She drives across the castle courtyard and across the plaza to the village and back several times while we are in the town, but we don't see anybody taking advantage of the service.
The weather is warm and beautiful. The sun is shining brightly here in Spain. The leaves are not turning yet on these south-facing slopes. We walk to the large plaza where I remember having lunch in one of several cafés with large patios opening onto the plaza. Today there are many fewer tables outside, and when we choose a place the waitress seems surprised that we want lunch. I order a mushroom tart and partridge with “poor potatoes”. They are quite rich, despite the name.
After lunch we drive back up the road on which we came to a turnoff at Puyarruego that leads to a one way road into the canyon of the Rio Vellos. This road goes into the Parque Nacional Ordesa y Monte Perdido. The drive through the canyon is spectacular. The river appears to be bright green. It has started to cloud up and there is a little rain as we drive along, but it does not amount to much and soon stops. We pass the trailhead for the hike up into Anisclo Canyon, where several cars are parked. We continue in our car, however, opting to drive West through the villages of Fanlo and Broto toward Biescas and then north toward the pass into France at El Portalet.
The stunning mountain scenery in this area makes the long drive worth it. We can see a fresh dusting of snow on some of the peaks, presumably from the same precipitation we were experiencing in the canyon. Once we enter France, we descend into a cloud, and visibility becomes very poor for a while. We are relieved when we come out under the cloud and wind our way down the mountain. I am glad when we are back on lower ground as the sun sets.
We have been looking for restaurants ever since crossing into France, and there have been few options. We are going back by way of the city of Pau, but we do not want to go into the city to find a place to stop for dinner. Just before getting to Pau, in Jurançon, we pass a hotel with a restaurant and a sign out front saying “Bikers Welcome”. We decide to stop here.
Bikers in France must be considerably more refined than bikers in the US. We have landed at the Castel du Pont d’Oly, which turns out to be a beautiful dining room with creative and excellent food. It starts out somewhat less promising, however. It is freezing when we enter the dining room. There are doors wide open to the outdoor swimming pool. The waiter tells us he will see about closing them, but he just closes one of the four doors. It doesn’t help much. As the proprietress walks by and sees us shivering, she goes to close the rest.
We wait for a while and start grumbling when the waiter does not appear with menus. But the grumbling stops when he appears with a beautiful platter of amuse bouches for the tables. There are cheese crisps, a cold tomato puree, little spoons with curried cream, and thin bread sticks to dip in olive oil. We are happy now. And the menus are brought to us.
I do not take notes during the meal, and I do not recall everything I had. But I do know that before every course we order, another amuse bouche appears, so we end up with a meal of many courses. It is all creative and beautiful and delicious.
We drive back to the house, circumnavigating the city of Pau by means of a dozen or more roundabouts until we reach the autoroute so that we can go back in the dark without thinking as much as is required on the back roads.
We pass the deserted border crossing station on the French side and head through the tunnel. This tunnel was built in 1976. While this country appears remote today, I can only imagine how unpopulated it was before the tunnel was built. On the other side we pass the deserted Spanish border crossing station. It doesn’t really feel like entering a different country. No need to show passports. But we have made sure to bring them with us. Soon after entering Spain, we pass a gas station. Gas is significantly less expensive in Spain than it is in France. Motorists must all stop here to fill up before venturing into France.
We drive to the medieval town of Ainsa, which was restored in anticipation of the increased tourist traffic from France with the opening of the tunnel. There is a large parking lot outside the walled village to accommodate the summer crowds, but today it is nearly empty. We walk on the bridge across the moat and into the castle. There are rest rooms here and a small museum dedicated to the mountain ecology. A woman drives a cart pulled by a horse with a pony tethered behind it. The sign on the cart says “Taxi”. She drives across the castle courtyard and across the plaza to the village and back several times while we are in the town, but we don't see anybody taking advantage of the service.
The weather is warm and beautiful. The sun is shining brightly here in Spain. The leaves are not turning yet on these south-facing slopes. We walk to the large plaza where I remember having lunch in one of several cafés with large patios opening onto the plaza. Today there are many fewer tables outside, and when we choose a place the waitress seems surprised that we want lunch. I order a mushroom tart and partridge with “poor potatoes”. They are quite rich, despite the name.
After lunch we drive back up the road on which we came to a turnoff at Puyarruego that leads to a one way road into the canyon of the Rio Vellos. This road goes into the Parque Nacional Ordesa y Monte Perdido. The drive through the canyon is spectacular. The river appears to be bright green. It has started to cloud up and there is a little rain as we drive along, but it does not amount to much and soon stops. We pass the trailhead for the hike up into Anisclo Canyon, where several cars are parked. We continue in our car, however, opting to drive West through the villages of Fanlo and Broto toward Biescas and then north toward the pass into France at El Portalet.
The stunning mountain scenery in this area makes the long drive worth it. We can see a fresh dusting of snow on some of the peaks, presumably from the same precipitation we were experiencing in the canyon. Once we enter France, we descend into a cloud, and visibility becomes very poor for a while. We are relieved when we come out under the cloud and wind our way down the mountain. I am glad when we are back on lower ground as the sun sets.
We have been looking for restaurants ever since crossing into France, and there have been few options. We are going back by way of the city of Pau, but we do not want to go into the city to find a place to stop for dinner. Just before getting to Pau, in Jurançon, we pass a hotel with a restaurant and a sign out front saying “Bikers Welcome”. We decide to stop here.
Bikers in France must be considerably more refined than bikers in the US. We have landed at the Castel du Pont d’Oly, which turns out to be a beautiful dining room with creative and excellent food. It starts out somewhat less promising, however. It is freezing when we enter the dining room. There are doors wide open to the outdoor swimming pool. The waiter tells us he will see about closing them, but he just closes one of the four doors. It doesn’t help much. As the proprietress walks by and sees us shivering, she goes to close the rest.
We wait for a while and start grumbling when the waiter does not appear with menus. But the grumbling stops when he appears with a beautiful platter of amuse bouches for the tables. There are cheese crisps, a cold tomato puree, little spoons with curried cream, and thin bread sticks to dip in olive oil. We are happy now. And the menus are brought to us.
I do not take notes during the meal, and I do not recall everything I had. But I do know that before every course we order, another amuse bouche appears, so we end up with a meal of many courses. It is all creative and beautiful and delicious.
We drive back to the house, circumnavigating the city of Pau by means of a dozen or more roundabouts until we reach the autoroute so that we can go back in the dark without thinking as much as is required on the back roads.
Sep 30th, 2009, 04:53 AM
#26
Original Poster
Thursday morning is clear and bright. The mountains are visible through the window from the house for the first time all week. An excursion is being planned over breakfast heading back up into the mountains, this time toward the Cirque de Gavarnie. This is a steep-walled rocky mass in the shape of an amphitheater on the French side of the Pyrenees. We had been looking at the same peaks from the Spanish side on yesterday’s excursion.
We drive up the valley of the Gave de Pau, the river that has its source at the Cirque de Gavarnie and flows down through Pau and eventually into the Adour before the Adour empties into the Atlantic near Bayonne. We pass through Lourdes but do not stop. We climb steadily until we are on the small road leading up to the tourist town of Gavarnie. The guide book says that after passing the village of Gèdre we will have a view of the Cirque de Gavarnie, and so we do.
We decide to drive up past Gavarnie on the very steep and winding road that ends near the Spanish border. Our decision is immediately rewarded, as we spot a large number of griffon vultures circling above. (The identification is not made so quickly, however. There is quite a bit of discussion among the more knowledgeable birders in the party, and the question is finally resolved when we are back at the house with a book to compare to the photos taken at the site.) We stop to look and realize that there is a dead cow higher up on the slope and the vultures are feeding. The road goes quite near the spot, so we drive up and park there, hoping for a close-up view of the vultures.
We spend some time there, watching and photographing. We are joined by another car or two. After a while one of the other people there asks if we are done photographing, as he wants to walk over to check out the cow. If I understand correctly, he wants to see whether it is really dead. His wife calls out that she hopes his insurance is paid up. He goes and naturally all the vultures fly away, to the annoyance of members of our party. One of the members of the other party says that there is an over-population of vultures, and that the cows are being attacked even before they die naturally. It seems more likely to the members of our party that the cow fell down the steep slope, and that the concern of these people for the cow over the vultures represents the farmer’s perspective.
The newspaper La Dépêche has been featuring the story of a sheep carcass found in the Pyrenees. A bear is suspected of killing it. This is bad news for farmers but good news for conservationists, who have been reintroducing the brown bear into the area in an attempt to build up the population, which had declined to near extinction.
I am wondering if we submit our photos whether the next edition of La Dépêche will feature the headline “Dead Cow, Vultures Suspected”. Maybe on a very slow news day.
We continue our drive up past a ski area and then past a sign that we are entering the Parc National des Pyrénées. We catch sight of a marmot as we drive along. One member of our party says that his day would be complete if he could photograph a marmot. I am wondering about this. Basically as I understand it, the marmot is a woodchuck. Some years ago, I spoke to a farmer at a farm stand at home in Massachusetts about how to get rid of woodchucks in the garden. He gave me some kind of bomb to put down its hole. That bomb sat in our bathroom closet for a very long time. According to my husband, we don’t have it any more, but I’m not so sure. I stopped gardening shortly thereafter.
I also learned fairly late in life that woodchuck is just another name for groundhog. I tell this to our party and they are skeptical. I tell them it is true, that Groundhog Day is really about the same animal as woodchucks. They are confused. They know Groundhog Day only as a movie, not as a celebration of Punxsutawney Phil. They are Scottish. But I digress.
We park at the end of the road and take in the wide view of mountain peaks and valleys. Some members of the party head up a footpath to walk a bit and see the view from even higher up. I notice that the road continues past a barrier and speculate that walking in that direction one would be in Spain fairly quickly.
As we drive back down, someone spots a marmot at the side of the road. We stop to try to photograph it, but it is too quick, and the photographer captures only its rear end. We spot another one. And then we see nothing but marmots everywhere we look. The hills are alive. We pull over and the photographer’s day is complete.
We descend to the town of Gavarnie and park, hoping to find a place for lunch. But all the places we check have stopped serving, even though it is only around 2:00. I go into a café and ask if they are still serving lunch, and they tell me they are open for drinks only. The group decides we will stop here for coffee and then drive back down the mountains in search of lunch. But one member of our party (the photographer) asks whether there is anything to eat. His charm obviously appeals to the proprietress more than mine did, and she says she is “pauvre” in food but she will go back to the kitchen to see what she has. She comes back and offers us crepes, which we are happy to order.
While we are eating, we see several bus tours arrive in the small town. A load of people from one of the buses comes into the café but they have apparently had their lunch already and are only here for drinks. There is an astounding number of tour buses in this small place, and we are glad that we hadn’t encountered them on the road.
Gavarnie is the jumping-off point for excursions into the Cirque de Gavarnie, which can be accomplished on foot or on mule. It is apparently also the destination of busloads of daytrippers. I speculate that these tour buses are from Lourdes, which is within a reasonable distance to head up this way after lunch. We head back down the road before the buses can catch up with us.
We stop in Lourdes at a supermarket for supplies for dinner. We can see the castle above the town but we do not head into town to see the pilgrimage site. I am somewhat curious after reading conflicting accounts of the town’s commercialism and of its spirituality, but it is late and we have promises to keep.
We drive up the valley of the Gave de Pau, the river that has its source at the Cirque de Gavarnie and flows down through Pau and eventually into the Adour before the Adour empties into the Atlantic near Bayonne. We pass through Lourdes but do not stop. We climb steadily until we are on the small road leading up to the tourist town of Gavarnie. The guide book says that after passing the village of Gèdre we will have a view of the Cirque de Gavarnie, and so we do.
We decide to drive up past Gavarnie on the very steep and winding road that ends near the Spanish border. Our decision is immediately rewarded, as we spot a large number of griffon vultures circling above. (The identification is not made so quickly, however. There is quite a bit of discussion among the more knowledgeable birders in the party, and the question is finally resolved when we are back at the house with a book to compare to the photos taken at the site.) We stop to look and realize that there is a dead cow higher up on the slope and the vultures are feeding. The road goes quite near the spot, so we drive up and park there, hoping for a close-up view of the vultures.
We spend some time there, watching and photographing. We are joined by another car or two. After a while one of the other people there asks if we are done photographing, as he wants to walk over to check out the cow. If I understand correctly, he wants to see whether it is really dead. His wife calls out that she hopes his insurance is paid up. He goes and naturally all the vultures fly away, to the annoyance of members of our party. One of the members of the other party says that there is an over-population of vultures, and that the cows are being attacked even before they die naturally. It seems more likely to the members of our party that the cow fell down the steep slope, and that the concern of these people for the cow over the vultures represents the farmer’s perspective.
The newspaper La Dépêche has been featuring the story of a sheep carcass found in the Pyrenees. A bear is suspected of killing it. This is bad news for farmers but good news for conservationists, who have been reintroducing the brown bear into the area in an attempt to build up the population, which had declined to near extinction.
I am wondering if we submit our photos whether the next edition of La Dépêche will feature the headline “Dead Cow, Vultures Suspected”. Maybe on a very slow news day.
We continue our drive up past a ski area and then past a sign that we are entering the Parc National des Pyrénées. We catch sight of a marmot as we drive along. One member of our party says that his day would be complete if he could photograph a marmot. I am wondering about this. Basically as I understand it, the marmot is a woodchuck. Some years ago, I spoke to a farmer at a farm stand at home in Massachusetts about how to get rid of woodchucks in the garden. He gave me some kind of bomb to put down its hole. That bomb sat in our bathroom closet for a very long time. According to my husband, we don’t have it any more, but I’m not so sure. I stopped gardening shortly thereafter.
I also learned fairly late in life that woodchuck is just another name for groundhog. I tell this to our party and they are skeptical. I tell them it is true, that Groundhog Day is really about the same animal as woodchucks. They are confused. They know Groundhog Day only as a movie, not as a celebration of Punxsutawney Phil. They are Scottish. But I digress.
We park at the end of the road and take in the wide view of mountain peaks and valleys. Some members of the party head up a footpath to walk a bit and see the view from even higher up. I notice that the road continues past a barrier and speculate that walking in that direction one would be in Spain fairly quickly.
As we drive back down, someone spots a marmot at the side of the road. We stop to try to photograph it, but it is too quick, and the photographer captures only its rear end. We spot another one. And then we see nothing but marmots everywhere we look. The hills are alive. We pull over and the photographer’s day is complete.
We descend to the town of Gavarnie and park, hoping to find a place for lunch. But all the places we check have stopped serving, even though it is only around 2:00. I go into a café and ask if they are still serving lunch, and they tell me they are open for drinks only. The group decides we will stop here for coffee and then drive back down the mountains in search of lunch. But one member of our party (the photographer) asks whether there is anything to eat. His charm obviously appeals to the proprietress more than mine did, and she says she is “pauvre” in food but she will go back to the kitchen to see what she has. She comes back and offers us crepes, which we are happy to order.
While we are eating, we see several bus tours arrive in the small town. A load of people from one of the buses comes into the café but they have apparently had their lunch already and are only here for drinks. There is an astounding number of tour buses in this small place, and we are glad that we hadn’t encountered them on the road.
Gavarnie is the jumping-off point for excursions into the Cirque de Gavarnie, which can be accomplished on foot or on mule. It is apparently also the destination of busloads of daytrippers. I speculate that these tour buses are from Lourdes, which is within a reasonable distance to head up this way after lunch. We head back down the road before the buses can catch up with us.
We stop in Lourdes at a supermarket for supplies for dinner. We can see the castle above the town but we do not head into town to see the pilgrimage site. I am somewhat curious after reading conflicting accounts of the town’s commercialism and of its spirituality, but it is late and we have promises to keep.
Sep 30th, 2009, 08:15 AM
#27
Original Poster
Thanks to anyone who is bearing with me through this report. It helps to read the comments so I don't think I am writing into the void (as opposed to writing to avoid- I'm all too familiar with that).
Michael, my daughter is in California and she has found one type of Madiran wine in a store near her also. Thanks for the tip.
Flanner and Kerouac, I appreciate your respective perspectives on the (somewhat literal) rag trade in French markets. I do like this place, where no rhetorical question goes unanswered.
Kerouac, I will take exception to your comment about eating better in the countryside than in Paris. I believe there are restaurants in Paris serving regional country food that are every bit as good as the ones I visited on this trip. I hope to get back to a couple of them in November to test the hypothesis. I'd be happy if anyone cares to join me in that challenge.
Michael, my daughter is in California and she has found one type of Madiran wine in a store near her also. Thanks for the tip.
Flanner and Kerouac, I appreciate your respective perspectives on the (somewhat literal) rag trade in French markets. I do like this place, where no rhetorical question goes unanswered.
Kerouac, I will take exception to your comment about eating better in the countryside than in Paris. I believe there are restaurants in Paris serving regional country food that are every bit as good as the ones I visited on this trip. I hope to get back to a couple of them in November to test the hypothesis. I'd be happy if anyone cares to join me in that challenge.
Sep 30th, 2009, 09:04 AM
#28
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Hi Nikki - great report! I love your writing.
Not to steer the thread in a different direction, but your last comment made it sound as if you are going to be in Paris in November. When will you be there? I'll be there from Nov. 21 to Nov. 28.
TR
Not to steer the thread in a different direction, but your last comment made it sound as if you are going to be in Paris in November. When will you be there? I'll be there from Nov. 21 to Nov. 28.
TR
Sep 30th, 2009, 11:23 AM
#30
Original Poster
Thanks, there are just a couple days left to write about.
TravelRibbon, I will be in Paris from November 7-20, so I will just miss you. Are you going to the Boston get-together?
TravelRibbon, I will be in Paris from November 7-20, so I will just miss you. Are you going to the Boston get-together?
Oct 1st, 2009, 03:56 PM
#32
Original Poster
On Friday there is an all-day excursion organized by the former owner of the wine shop in Trie (who has retired and turned the business over to her son). She has used her contacts with two Armagnac distilleries to arrange tours and tastings for our group and lunch at a nearby rustic auberge. She and her husband are accompanying us. Ten of us make the trip in two cars.
We drive through the vineyards of the Madiran wine region on the way to the Bas-Armagnac region in the Landes département where the first distillery is located. This is the Domaine d’Ognoas (www.domaine-ognoas.com). Our wine shop friend tells us that this is the larger, more prestigious of the two establishments we will be visiting today. The approach is that of a grand estate. The production of Armagnac here goes back to 1780. The estate was donated to the church in 1847, and was taken over by the government in 1905. It is now operated by the Landes council as a showplace of terroir, local heritage.
We are led to the room containing the still, or alambic, which is the oldest in Gascony, dating from 1804. The process of making Armagnac is complex, and apparently involves the liquid flowing down toward a wood fire through the copper apparatus, and then being forced upward as gas bubbles through the descending liquid.
In the tasting room, the guide siphons the finished product out of barrels and gives everyone samples. After emptying a glass, she demonstrates a technique of swinging the empty glass back and forth and then sniffing it. This produces an aroma of the oak of the barrels in which the liquid was aged. She tells us that if you swing the glass long enough, you can smell the cooper who made the barrel. Maybe that isn’t such a good thing.
The party is in fine spirits as we head off to lunch. We follow the directions given by the guide at the distillery and drive along smaller and smaller roads until we are in some cornfields. We drive almost far enough to find the turnoff but decide we must have missed it and turn around. Still no luck. We turn again and ask the lone walker who has seen us pass three times now, and he says to keep on going straight. We continue through the fields and then turn into the drive of the place we are to have lunch, the Restaurant Auberge du Grand Megnos.
This restaurant is located in a farm and serves traditional Landaise cuisine. It is filled with people, and I wonder where they have all come from to have lunch in such a rustic spot. We order the menu du jour for twelve euros. The first course is pipérade: two fried eggs with a sauce made from red espelette peppers, green peppers, onions, tomatoes and olive oil, topped with slices of ham. The three people who order the soup instead are brought a huge tureen of fresh tomato soup. This is followed by an enormous platter of sliced duck breast and a similarly enormous platter of potatoes fried in duck fat served family style. Dessert is tourtiere Gascogne, an apple filled pastry typical of the Landes region, or peach melba or ice cream.
It is a delightful feast in both quantity and quality, and we leave the auberge in a jolly mood. We drive on to the second Armagnac producer, the Domaine de Baraillon (www.armagnac-claverie.com). Our friend from the wine shop has told us that this is a small, artisanal distillery that has been in the same family since 1840. As we drive up, this appears to be much more a family farm than a commercial operation. We are greeted by the mother and daughter of the family as well as a large, friendly, flea-ridden dog.
We go to visit the barn with the alambic, which is similar to the still at the previous distillery. It is partially disassembled, and there is a young man cleaning it while the daughter of the family gives us the tour. The tasting room is filled with bottles dated from 1900 to the present. The father of the family pours tastes for the whole party. First the newer vintages are poured. I watch as people in our party take their first taste and give a shudder. The new vintages are rougher, and they are meant to open up all the sinuses to prepare the palate for the more subtle flavors to follow. After two or three tastes, the proprietor pulls out the bottle labeled 1900, and pours a taste for everyone. By now people are all pretty happy and convivial, and this feels like a celebratory moment.
We make the long drive home feeling very satisfied with the day. The two drivers have not been sampling the goods. One of them does not like spirits, and the other one has been given small vials of Armagnac to take home and sample later.
We drive through the vineyards of the Madiran wine region on the way to the Bas-Armagnac region in the Landes département where the first distillery is located. This is the Domaine d’Ognoas (www.domaine-ognoas.com). Our wine shop friend tells us that this is the larger, more prestigious of the two establishments we will be visiting today. The approach is that of a grand estate. The production of Armagnac here goes back to 1780. The estate was donated to the church in 1847, and was taken over by the government in 1905. It is now operated by the Landes council as a showplace of terroir, local heritage.
We are led to the room containing the still, or alambic, which is the oldest in Gascony, dating from 1804. The process of making Armagnac is complex, and apparently involves the liquid flowing down toward a wood fire through the copper apparatus, and then being forced upward as gas bubbles through the descending liquid.
In the tasting room, the guide siphons the finished product out of barrels and gives everyone samples. After emptying a glass, she demonstrates a technique of swinging the empty glass back and forth and then sniffing it. This produces an aroma of the oak of the barrels in which the liquid was aged. She tells us that if you swing the glass long enough, you can smell the cooper who made the barrel. Maybe that isn’t such a good thing.
The party is in fine spirits as we head off to lunch. We follow the directions given by the guide at the distillery and drive along smaller and smaller roads until we are in some cornfields. We drive almost far enough to find the turnoff but decide we must have missed it and turn around. Still no luck. We turn again and ask the lone walker who has seen us pass three times now, and he says to keep on going straight. We continue through the fields and then turn into the drive of the place we are to have lunch, the Restaurant Auberge du Grand Megnos.
This restaurant is located in a farm and serves traditional Landaise cuisine. It is filled with people, and I wonder where they have all come from to have lunch in such a rustic spot. We order the menu du jour for twelve euros. The first course is pipérade: two fried eggs with a sauce made from red espelette peppers, green peppers, onions, tomatoes and olive oil, topped with slices of ham. The three people who order the soup instead are brought a huge tureen of fresh tomato soup. This is followed by an enormous platter of sliced duck breast and a similarly enormous platter of potatoes fried in duck fat served family style. Dessert is tourtiere Gascogne, an apple filled pastry typical of the Landes region, or peach melba or ice cream.
It is a delightful feast in both quantity and quality, and we leave the auberge in a jolly mood. We drive on to the second Armagnac producer, the Domaine de Baraillon (www.armagnac-claverie.com). Our friend from the wine shop has told us that this is a small, artisanal distillery that has been in the same family since 1840. As we drive up, this appears to be much more a family farm than a commercial operation. We are greeted by the mother and daughter of the family as well as a large, friendly, flea-ridden dog.
We go to visit the barn with the alambic, which is similar to the still at the previous distillery. It is partially disassembled, and there is a young man cleaning it while the daughter of the family gives us the tour. The tasting room is filled with bottles dated from 1900 to the present. The father of the family pours tastes for the whole party. First the newer vintages are poured. I watch as people in our party take their first taste and give a shudder. The new vintages are rougher, and they are meant to open up all the sinuses to prepare the palate for the more subtle flavors to follow. After two or three tastes, the proprietor pulls out the bottle labeled 1900, and pours a taste for everyone. By now people are all pretty happy and convivial, and this feels like a celebratory moment.
We make the long drive home feeling very satisfied with the day. The two drivers have not been sampling the goods. One of them does not like spirits, and the other one has been given small vials of Armagnac to take home and sample later.
Oct 1st, 2009, 04:45 PM
#34
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Hi Nikki:
<i>We have landed at the Castel du Pont d’Oly, which turns out to be a beautiful dining room </i>
The establishment's setting is quite attractive, too...we stayed at the rather funky Castel a few years ago...and yes, not wanting to drive back into Pau, the restaurant was a pleasant surprise. We were the only guests for two nights. The drive through the Pyrenees, both sides, sure is a dramatically beautiful one as you decribe.
Did you cross any of the TdF passes (Col Aspin, Tourmalet, etc)? We were astonished to see so many of the roads still sporting painted welcome and cheeerleading signs for favorite bikers...most frequent being Armstrong (riding for his sixth victory at the time)
Such an interesting and descriptive report...I would expect nothing less from you Nikki!
Stu T.
<i>We have landed at the Castel du Pont d’Oly, which turns out to be a beautiful dining room </i>
The establishment's setting is quite attractive, too...we stayed at the rather funky Castel a few years ago...and yes, not wanting to drive back into Pau, the restaurant was a pleasant surprise. We were the only guests for two nights. The drive through the Pyrenees, both sides, sure is a dramatically beautiful one as you decribe.
Did you cross any of the TdF passes (Col Aspin, Tourmalet, etc)? We were astonished to see so many of the roads still sporting painted welcome and cheeerleading signs for favorite bikers...most frequent being Armstrong (riding for his sixth victory at the time)
Such an interesting and descriptive report...I would expect nothing less from you Nikki!
Stu T.
Oct 1st, 2009, 06:22 PM
#35
I hope there is more?
Nikki, Abby's husband and I are armagnac lovers.
My night cap of choice. I've written down, the two you tasted and will see if my favorite wine shop carries them. If you like armagnac, check my trip report for the shop that specializes in armagnac
Nikki, Abby's husband and I are armagnac lovers.
My night cap of choice. I've written down, the two you tasted and will see if my favorite wine shop carries them. If you like armagnac, check my trip report for the shop that specializes in armagnac
Oct 1st, 2009, 06:58 PM
#36
Oh how wonderful. I hadn't seen this until now. Don't want to sound like a sycophant (or a Nikkiphant?) but I always get so much out of your reports. This is no exception and beautiful photos too. Thank you!
Oct 2nd, 2009, 04:35 AM
#37
Original Poster
Thank you so much for the lovely comments.
Stu, it's a small world after all. The thing that most mystified me about the Castel was the sign "Bikers Welcome" in English. There was a picture of a motorcycle too, so it wasn't referring to bicycles.
We did not cross either of the passes you mention on this trip. I did go to the Col du Tourmalet two years ago, but the only sign of the Tour de France at that time was the large statue of a biker at the top of the pass. And all the amazingly hardy folks pedaling bicycles (many of whom were far from young) that we passed along the way.
Mimi, I didn't actually drink the Armagnac. But the people who did try it liked the smaller distillery's products better than those from the larger, more prestigious distillery. Our wine shop friend suspected that would be the case, so she took us to the bigger one first.
I hope to finish this up by the end of the day.
Stu, it's a small world after all. The thing that most mystified me about the Castel was the sign "Bikers Welcome" in English. There was a picture of a motorcycle too, so it wasn't referring to bicycles.
We did not cross either of the passes you mention on this trip. I did go to the Col du Tourmalet two years ago, but the only sign of the Tour de France at that time was the large statue of a biker at the top of the pass. And all the amazingly hardy folks pedaling bicycles (many of whom were far from young) that we passed along the way.
Mimi, I didn't actually drink the Armagnac. But the people who did try it liked the smaller distillery's products better than those from the larger, more prestigious distillery. Our wine shop friend suspected that would be the case, so she took us to the bigger one first.
I hope to finish this up by the end of the day.
Oct 2nd, 2009, 05:10 AM
#38
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Nikki: I have flown to Toulouse more than once -- most recently in May -- but have always headed N or E from there. Was not sure what I wd find to the SW and have found few trip reports to guide me. Yr report is illuminating -- thanks.
(Off Monday to France for 2 weeks: Lyon airport/ Burgundy/ Uzes/ Marseille airport)
(Off Monday to France for 2 weeks: Lyon airport/ Burgundy/ Uzes/ Marseille airport)
Oct 2nd, 2009, 06:18 AM
#39
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Nikki: I feel as if I am being permitted to peer into my own future. My daugher and SIL (newly minted!) are going to be staying in Sheila's lovely home one week and we, a gaggle of 'girls', are supplanting them the following week, May 2010. This and your previous Trip Report (en famille) have been extremely useful for us.
So let me make you a trade: this sudden onset vertigo, without the presence of underlying symptons of infection MIGHT be a condition called BPPV (benign paroxysmal positional vertigo). My husband was diagnosed with this, as was his sister. The bad news is, it may re-present: the good news is, it is easily managed once diagnosed and with a little information. I won't go into details, you can check it out online or wait until you get to see a doctor back home.
In the meantime, please keep the reports and pictures coming. I am hanging on your every word and bite and sip(curiously, one of the women who is joining us at TSB next May is named Nikki and she is a chef-we are indeed blessed!)
So let me make you a trade: this sudden onset vertigo, without the presence of underlying symptons of infection MIGHT be a condition called BPPV (benign paroxysmal positional vertigo). My husband was diagnosed with this, as was his sister. The bad news is, it may re-present: the good news is, it is easily managed once diagnosed and with a little information. I won't go into details, you can check it out online or wait until you get to see a doctor back home.
In the meantime, please keep the reports and pictures coming. I am hanging on your every word and bite and sip(curiously, one of the women who is joining us at TSB next May is named Nikki and she is a chef-we are indeed blessed!)
Oct 2nd, 2009, 10:17 AM
#40
Original Poster
Back in Luby-Betmont, we decide to go to a vernissage (opening) at the art gallery on the square in Trie. The gallery is operated by a woman who also practices reflexology out of the same space. She is a member of the British expatriate community and the gallery is filled with people speaking English. There are interesting works of art and photography, as well as wine and cold pizza. I am pleased to see that I can look at the art on the walls without swaying back and forth. Things are looking up, as it were. We do not stay long.
Saturday morning I pack my bags. I am leaving Luby-Betmont today for Toulouse, where I will spend one last night before flying home on Sunday. Two of the guests are flying back to Scotland this evening, and they will drive me to Toulouse. Their flight does not leave until evening, so we have decided to join the group driving up to Bagnères-de-Bigorre for the weekly market this morning.
This is a very good market, with vendors who come down from the mountains with the produce from their own gardens. There are people selling figs, lettuce, dried flowers, eggs, milk, and cheese. There are also many stalls with large selections of charcuterie and baked goods. I buy some sheep’s milk cheese and some slices of local ham to bring with me. I have a seven hour layover in Paris tomorrow, and this will be a much better lunch than the fare sold in the departure lounge at the airport.
The entire group gathers for drinks at a café and we say our thank-yous and good-byes. Those who are remaining are going to the spa in Bagnères, where there are hot whirlpools, saunas, and steam baths. Those of us who are leaving head back to the car and drive to Toulouse. We only get a little bit lost finding my hotel- not nearly as lost as my husband got finding the same hotel two years ago when a number of streets were closed for construction. And the driver becomes only a little bit anxious- not nearly as anxious as my husband did when after two hours of driving around the narrow one-way streets he hit a post and dinged the rental car. More thank-yous and good-byes follow, and I am on my own again.
For this final night, I have reserved a room at the Hotel Albert Premier (http://www.hotel-albert1.com/). This hotel is less expensive than the Grand Balcons, where I stayed at the beginning of the trip. My room is smaller than the one I shared with my husband at this hotel two years ago, and much smaller than the one our two daughters had on that same occasion. It is also more utilitarian. But it is fine. It is bigger than my room at the Grand Balcon but has a smaller bathroom with a walk-in shower.
For my final evening in France, I head back to the Place Wilson and eat at Le Bon Vivre, where I had my first meal. Once again I pass over the skewered duck hearts with a tinge of regret, but I am wanting duck confit, a dish I love but for some reason have not managed to get yet on this foray into duck country. The indoor dining room is full and the evening is cool but I am happy to sit on the patio and watch the passing scene.
There is an American couple at the table next to mine enjoying a leisurely dinner. They are engaged in people watching and are talking to each other about their observations of those who go by. I startle them when at the end of my meal I turn and say, “Where are you folks from?” They look grateful that at least they haven’t been talking about me. They are from California and have just completed a barge cruise on the Canal du Midi. We talk for a while about our trips. I have told them that I live in Massachusetts, but the man says to me, “That’s not where you come from originally, is it?” My New York roots are showing, and they tell me they are also originally from New York.
I am somewhat pleased that my accent still gives me away. Regional accents seem to be disappearing at an alarming rate. Here in the deep south of France, I have noticed a distinctive accent that I can not reproduce, but when I hear it again I will know where the speaker comes from. There are nasal “ng” sounds at the end of words where I wouldn’t expect them, such as in the word “vin”. Interesting.
It has started to rain, so we talk a while and wait until the rain lightens up. I head back to my hotel and order a taxi to take me to the airport in the morning. The flight to Paris is uneventful. The layover is long, but I have my excellent ham and cheese to tide me over. I buy some French books at the airport, read for quite a while, and get on the flight to Boston. I have an anxious moment or two at customs while I wait to see whether my foie gras and stuffed duck hearts will be allowed into the country. The customs officer says duck is fine. They just want to look at the ingredients to make sure there is no beef. Everything is acceptable, and the wine has not spilled in the suitcase. So the luggage, the contents, and I are all back safe and sound.
Saturday morning I pack my bags. I am leaving Luby-Betmont today for Toulouse, where I will spend one last night before flying home on Sunday. Two of the guests are flying back to Scotland this evening, and they will drive me to Toulouse. Their flight does not leave until evening, so we have decided to join the group driving up to Bagnères-de-Bigorre for the weekly market this morning.
This is a very good market, with vendors who come down from the mountains with the produce from their own gardens. There are people selling figs, lettuce, dried flowers, eggs, milk, and cheese. There are also many stalls with large selections of charcuterie and baked goods. I buy some sheep’s milk cheese and some slices of local ham to bring with me. I have a seven hour layover in Paris tomorrow, and this will be a much better lunch than the fare sold in the departure lounge at the airport.
The entire group gathers for drinks at a café and we say our thank-yous and good-byes. Those who are remaining are going to the spa in Bagnères, where there are hot whirlpools, saunas, and steam baths. Those of us who are leaving head back to the car and drive to Toulouse. We only get a little bit lost finding my hotel- not nearly as lost as my husband got finding the same hotel two years ago when a number of streets were closed for construction. And the driver becomes only a little bit anxious- not nearly as anxious as my husband did when after two hours of driving around the narrow one-way streets he hit a post and dinged the rental car. More thank-yous and good-byes follow, and I am on my own again.
For this final night, I have reserved a room at the Hotel Albert Premier (http://www.hotel-albert1.com/). This hotel is less expensive than the Grand Balcons, where I stayed at the beginning of the trip. My room is smaller than the one I shared with my husband at this hotel two years ago, and much smaller than the one our two daughters had on that same occasion. It is also more utilitarian. But it is fine. It is bigger than my room at the Grand Balcon but has a smaller bathroom with a walk-in shower.
For my final evening in France, I head back to the Place Wilson and eat at Le Bon Vivre, where I had my first meal. Once again I pass over the skewered duck hearts with a tinge of regret, but I am wanting duck confit, a dish I love but for some reason have not managed to get yet on this foray into duck country. The indoor dining room is full and the evening is cool but I am happy to sit on the patio and watch the passing scene.
There is an American couple at the table next to mine enjoying a leisurely dinner. They are engaged in people watching and are talking to each other about their observations of those who go by. I startle them when at the end of my meal I turn and say, “Where are you folks from?” They look grateful that at least they haven’t been talking about me. They are from California and have just completed a barge cruise on the Canal du Midi. We talk for a while about our trips. I have told them that I live in Massachusetts, but the man says to me, “That’s not where you come from originally, is it?” My New York roots are showing, and they tell me they are also originally from New York.
I am somewhat pleased that my accent still gives me away. Regional accents seem to be disappearing at an alarming rate. Here in the deep south of France, I have noticed a distinctive accent that I can not reproduce, but when I hear it again I will know where the speaker comes from. There are nasal “ng” sounds at the end of words where I wouldn’t expect them, such as in the word “vin”. Interesting.
It has started to rain, so we talk a while and wait until the rain lightens up. I head back to my hotel and order a taxi to take me to the airport in the morning. The flight to Paris is uneventful. The layover is long, but I have my excellent ham and cheese to tide me over. I buy some French books at the airport, read for quite a while, and get on the flight to Boston. I have an anxious moment or two at customs while I wait to see whether my foie gras and stuffed duck hearts will be allowed into the country. The customs officer says duck is fine. They just want to look at the ingredients to make sure there is no beef. Everything is acceptable, and the wine has not spilled in the suitcase. So the luggage, the contents, and I are all back safe and sound.
