Going Native in the Midi-Pyrenees: Nikki's trip report
Sep 16th, 2007, 02:32 PM
#21
Original Poster
On Thursday we decide to go to the thermal spa at Bagnères-de-Bigorre. This resort town located on the Adour in the Pyrenees has natural thermal springs that have attracted people since the Romans were there. An old casino building has been updated into a complex called Aquensis, where you can buy a pass for two hours for 16 euros per person. There is a large pool with various types of water jets, bubbles, whirlpool effects and waterfalls. There is a hammam with a steam bath and tearoom serving spiced tea. On the upper level there are two saunas (very hot and impossibly hot) with a cold shower to dunk yourself under afterward. And on the roof there are jacuzzis and a pool with a clear bottom so that swimmers can be seen from underneath from the main pool area.
Signs throughout the complex urge “calme et silence”, but there is little of either while we are there. Families with children of all ages are making the atmosphere more like a beach party than a day of relaxation. It’s an interesting experience, though.
We dined at home that night. All our meals at the house were wonderful, using products from the local stores and markets. Grilled meat and vegetables, cheese, pates, sausages, various prepared foods and salads from the charcuteries, we were not suffering. Not to mention the wine that we had brought back from the vineyards, and the bread and desserts from the bakeries.
This was our younger daughter’s last night in France. She had to get back to the real world, move into her new dorm, and start classes before the rest of us returned. Her flight left Toulouse on Friday morning at 6 AM. I wasn’t awake to see it, but apparently she and my husband, still awake at 2:30 AM, left for the airport without ever getting to bed. They found the airport, my husband found his way back to the house, and our daughter got to Boston without further incident. Her suitcase had an unplanned stopover in Amsterdam and arrived in Boston two days later.
Signs throughout the complex urge “calme et silence”, but there is little of either while we are there. Families with children of all ages are making the atmosphere more like a beach party than a day of relaxation. It’s an interesting experience, though.
We dined at home that night. All our meals at the house were wonderful, using products from the local stores and markets. Grilled meat and vegetables, cheese, pates, sausages, various prepared foods and salads from the charcuteries, we were not suffering. Not to mention the wine that we had brought back from the vineyards, and the bread and desserts from the bakeries.
This was our younger daughter’s last night in France. She had to get back to the real world, move into her new dorm, and start classes before the rest of us returned. Her flight left Toulouse on Friday morning at 6 AM. I wasn’t awake to see it, but apparently she and my husband, still awake at 2:30 AM, left for the airport without ever getting to bed. They found the airport, my husband found his way back to the house, and our daughter got to Boston without further incident. Her suitcase had an unplanned stopover in Amsterdam and arrived in Boston two days later.
Sep 17th, 2007, 06:06 AM
#22
Original Poster
Friday morning I drove into Trie with my daughter for bread and other goodies. We stopped at the supermarket for whatever else we needed because it was about to close for over a week. This was unfortunate, because the nearest other supermarkets were all about half an hour away. We had become accustomed to the convenience and to stopping in for various things that we needed on an almost daily basis. For instance, we became addicted to the smoked salmon that was available in packages at a far lower price for a far better quality than we have available in our part of the world. We had bought some for breakfast almost every day. And there were all sorts of things in the supermarket to fill in our meals that we could never get at home: duck sausage for the grill, smoked duck breast, I want some now.
There was a fish truck in the center of Trie and we wondered whether it only came on Fridays. There is no fish market in the town. A crowd of older people looking like a Hollywood casting call for French villagers had gathered around the truck to buy fish, blocking our way out of the parking lot. The women were standing around the truck making purchases; the men were a few feet away chatting. One of the men came out to wave and guide me as I drove between this Gallic Scylla and Charybdis. Somehow I avoided running over his toes.
The sun had finally come out. We spent this day around the house, finally getting the opportunity to use the pool. At least that’s what I think I remember; there are no photos from that day to jog my memory further.
That night, or maybe it was the next night, we had dinner at a restaurant in Pouyastruc, a village between our house and Tarbes. The restaurant was called Aou Soum, which in the local Bigourdan patois means au sommet, at the summit. It was indeed at the top of one of the ridges, with a theoretical fine view of the Pyrenees, if one could ever see them through the clouds and the haze. We had tried to get reservations here on two previous evenings without finding them open. Reservations are essential therefore, if only to make sure they will be serving when you arrive (05 62 33 24 60).
This was a lovely meal. There was one couple there when we arrived, and at some point I heard loud lapping noises coming from their table. When the woman noticed me looking startled, she smiled and told me it was their dog, which was sitting unseen under the table. A party of about six older couples came in after that and appeared to be having a good time with lively conversation. I thought I picked out some distinctly southern French accents with rolling r’s and extra syllables.
I had garbure to start the meal. Last time I had this was in college, when our dorm would make a communal meal on Sunday nights. Our resident faculty member had traveled in France and came up with this idea for a soup/stew that contains everything but the kitchen sink. The dish and its name became a running joke between a friend and me, so I had to have some to celebrate the memory. I hope she remembers.
Garbure is based on white beans, which are grown in Tarbes. Driving through the area, we had passed a field with a big white bean cartoon figure looking something like Casper the friendly ghost, extolling the virtue of the haricot Tarbais.
There was also magret, some nice fish dish that my daughter ordered, and a very nice plate with assorted small dessert items. There appeared to be only two people working there, a woman serving in the front and the chef in the kitchen. I would go back to this restaurant (a good thing, too, since it was one of the closest ones to the house).
There was a fish truck in the center of Trie and we wondered whether it only came on Fridays. There is no fish market in the town. A crowd of older people looking like a Hollywood casting call for French villagers had gathered around the truck to buy fish, blocking our way out of the parking lot. The women were standing around the truck making purchases; the men were a few feet away chatting. One of the men came out to wave and guide me as I drove between this Gallic Scylla and Charybdis. Somehow I avoided running over his toes.
The sun had finally come out. We spent this day around the house, finally getting the opportunity to use the pool. At least that’s what I think I remember; there are no photos from that day to jog my memory further.
That night, or maybe it was the next night, we had dinner at a restaurant in Pouyastruc, a village between our house and Tarbes. The restaurant was called Aou Soum, which in the local Bigourdan patois means au sommet, at the summit. It was indeed at the top of one of the ridges, with a theoretical fine view of the Pyrenees, if one could ever see them through the clouds and the haze. We had tried to get reservations here on two previous evenings without finding them open. Reservations are essential therefore, if only to make sure they will be serving when you arrive (05 62 33 24 60).
This was a lovely meal. There was one couple there when we arrived, and at some point I heard loud lapping noises coming from their table. When the woman noticed me looking startled, she smiled and told me it was their dog, which was sitting unseen under the table. A party of about six older couples came in after that and appeared to be having a good time with lively conversation. I thought I picked out some distinctly southern French accents with rolling r’s and extra syllables.
I had garbure to start the meal. Last time I had this was in college, when our dorm would make a communal meal on Sunday nights. Our resident faculty member had traveled in France and came up with this idea for a soup/stew that contains everything but the kitchen sink. The dish and its name became a running joke between a friend and me, so I had to have some to celebrate the memory. I hope she remembers.
Garbure is based on white beans, which are grown in Tarbes. Driving through the area, we had passed a field with a big white bean cartoon figure looking something like Casper the friendly ghost, extolling the virtue of the haricot Tarbais.
There was also magret, some nice fish dish that my daughter ordered, and a very nice plate with assorted small dessert items. There appeared to be only two people working there, a woman serving in the front and the chef in the kitchen. I would go back to this restaurant (a good thing, too, since it was one of the closest ones to the house).
Sep 17th, 2007, 07:00 AM
#24
Original Poster
I just googled a bit and found out that bigarade is the French name for the bitter oranges grown in Seville.
Bigourdan is the dialect spoken in the Bigorre, the region of France around Tarbes, which was a province before the French revolution.
I love the internet.
Bigourdan is the dialect spoken in the Bigorre, the region of France around Tarbes, which was a province before the French revolution.
I love the internet.
Sep 17th, 2007, 07:38 PM
#26
Original Poster
On Saturday we headed East in search of ancient ruins and pottery. As we approached Montmaurin, we took a detour down the Gorges de la Save, a wooded canyon along which are limestone cliffs studded with prehistoric excavations. We did not locate any of the caves themselves but we passed several parties of hikers and picnickers. We drove up to the village of Lespugue, just outside of which my husband and daughter followed a trail to the ruins of a thirteenth century castle overlooking the countryside. Then we stopped at La Hillère, where there is a cemetery with an old chapel that we read houses a beautiful mosaic, but the chapel was locked. Next to the cemetery there are Roman ruins that may be the remains of a villa similar to the one in Montmaurin, which is where we headed next.
The Gallo-Roman villa at Montmaurin is a large site alongside a river. There are remains of a huge, luxurious residence with two hundred rooms, heated water under the floors, a temple, and separate rooms for use in summer and in winter. A few mosaics remain on the floors.
This is one of the large and best-preserved Roman villas in France. Cornfields run right up to the walls of the villa. There is a view toward the village of Montmaurin at the top of a hill beyond fields of sunflowers. This is an unspoiled site in a rustic setting that probably did not look very different when the villa was inhabited.
We drove from the archeological site to the village of Montmaurin, built in the bastide style, with a public swimming pool in the central square. It was getting good use on this warm afternoon. We were in search of drinks, but there were no stores visible in this town, so we drove on.
Outside the town of Boulogne-sur-Gesse we found La Poterie Hillen (www.poterie.fr). In a beautifully landscaped setting filled with garden decorations made at the pottery sits a studio and shop where we selected an assortment of items. The house where we were staying had on display a set of dishes from this pottery which I had admired, so I bought several small items in a matching glaze to bring home as mementos.
The Gallo-Roman villa at Montmaurin is a large site alongside a river. There are remains of a huge, luxurious residence with two hundred rooms, heated water under the floors, a temple, and separate rooms for use in summer and in winter. A few mosaics remain on the floors.
This is one of the large and best-preserved Roman villas in France. Cornfields run right up to the walls of the villa. There is a view toward the village of Montmaurin at the top of a hill beyond fields of sunflowers. This is an unspoiled site in a rustic setting that probably did not look very different when the villa was inhabited.
We drove from the archeological site to the village of Montmaurin, built in the bastide style, with a public swimming pool in the central square. It was getting good use on this warm afternoon. We were in search of drinks, but there were no stores visible in this town, so we drove on.
Outside the town of Boulogne-sur-Gesse we found La Poterie Hillen (www.poterie.fr). In a beautifully landscaped setting filled with garden decorations made at the pottery sits a studio and shop where we selected an assortment of items. The house where we were staying had on display a set of dishes from this pottery which I had admired, so I bought several small items in a matching glaze to bring home as mementos.
Sep 18th, 2007, 06:41 AM
#29
Original Poster
Sunday was our anniversary. We decided to celebrate by driving up into the mountains. The weather had improved. The caretaker had come and fixed the leaky roof over our daughter’s bedroom. A can of Drano had eliminated the backed up drain in our shower. Life was good.
Our first stop was Bagnères-de-Bigorre. The last time we had been there, it was overcast. This time, it was a revelation, with mountain scenery all around. Who knew there was a mountain at the end of that street? We stopped at a bakery for bread just in case we were inspired to picnic (we had brought along some saucisson for the same reason).
As we drove through the town, we saw a flea market set up beside the river. Stop here, please. Great anniversary present. I found all sorts of treasures. How much for that Baudelaire livre de poche? Twenty centimes. And that set of nesting copper pots? Five euros. I’ll take two of those santons, s’il vous plait.
I had to walk around for a while and think about the set of brass scale weights in the wooden case, even though the vendor dropped her price ten euros for me. When I returned, she and her friend were excited to see me. Someone else had come and examined the weights, and she hadn’t offered him the discount because she thought I would come back. And so I had. It’s sitting in my kitchen now, alongside the wooden tobacco jar from the guy with an accent I had never encountered before who spoke at lightning speed.
When I showed up at the car with my several bags, my daughter said, “How did you buy so much stuff? I saw nothing but junk!” “It’s not junk, it’s brocante.” Sounds so much better in French.
We continued driving up into the mountains and came to the village of Campan. There is a tradition in this village of displaying stuffed figures that resemble the harvest dummies we see in New England in the autumn. These hay-filled people, called mounaques, were posed on porches and balconies and seated on benches throughout the town. According to the Cadogan guide, the origin of these figures can be traced to a wedding custom: when a local girl married an outsider, the town would demand money from the groom to throw a party. The villagers would mock the wedding couple by holding satirical effigies of the couple over the wedding procession.
There was a market set up selling local cheese, honey, liqueur, and pork products, among other things, under the sixteenth century market building and beside the sixteenth century fountain.
The farther up we drove, the more bicyclists we passed. The road up here became very steep and winding, and we admired their stamina. The Tour de France follows this route, and I suppose these folk were attracted partially for that reason.
We stopped in the ski town of La Mongie, eating a lunch of crepes at an outdoor cafe before lining up for the cable car that would take us to the Pic du Midi de Bigorre. On the way up, we passed a flock of sheep which appeared to be a startling shade of aqua-marine. At the top of the mountain, there is an astronomical observatory built in 1888 that was active for many years and which provided the maps of the moon used by astronauts during the lunar landings. The observatory has been deactivated now and is used as a tourist site and museum.
There are wonderful views in all directions, and we sat in the sunshine taking it all in while having cold drinks on the terrace. There were telescopes set up outdoors with a young guy looking like an MIT grad student on hand to explain what one was looking at. The telescopes were pointed at the sun, and we were supposed to be able to see sunspots and solar protuberances. All I could see was a big red ball, but my daughter thought she saw some sunspots.
Inside the museum, there were films showing the life of the early astronomers who had to make their way up the mountain on foot. That must have been some life.
Back down the mountain, we continued up the road from La Mongie to the Col du Tourmalet. This area is open grazing land for sheep and cows. The cow we waited for in the center of the busy street in La Mongie seemed less perturbed by seeing us than we were by seeing her. And the very steep winding road up to the pass was definitely made more interesting by the sudden appearance of sheep in the road after rounding a bend with a sheer drop beside the road. Usually with an impossibly fit bicyclist coming down in the other direction to add further interest. Glad I wasn’t driving. Or bicycling, for that matter.
At the top of the pass there is a sculpture of a bicyclist, Le Geant de Tourmalet. After admiring the view, we left the giant behind and retraced our steps back to the house.
Our first stop was Bagnères-de-Bigorre. The last time we had been there, it was overcast. This time, it was a revelation, with mountain scenery all around. Who knew there was a mountain at the end of that street? We stopped at a bakery for bread just in case we were inspired to picnic (we had brought along some saucisson for the same reason).
As we drove through the town, we saw a flea market set up beside the river. Stop here, please. Great anniversary present. I found all sorts of treasures. How much for that Baudelaire livre de poche? Twenty centimes. And that set of nesting copper pots? Five euros. I’ll take two of those santons, s’il vous plait.
I had to walk around for a while and think about the set of brass scale weights in the wooden case, even though the vendor dropped her price ten euros for me. When I returned, she and her friend were excited to see me. Someone else had come and examined the weights, and she hadn’t offered him the discount because she thought I would come back. And so I had. It’s sitting in my kitchen now, alongside the wooden tobacco jar from the guy with an accent I had never encountered before who spoke at lightning speed.
When I showed up at the car with my several bags, my daughter said, “How did you buy so much stuff? I saw nothing but junk!” “It’s not junk, it’s brocante.” Sounds so much better in French.
We continued driving up into the mountains and came to the village of Campan. There is a tradition in this village of displaying stuffed figures that resemble the harvest dummies we see in New England in the autumn. These hay-filled people, called mounaques, were posed on porches and balconies and seated on benches throughout the town. According to the Cadogan guide, the origin of these figures can be traced to a wedding custom: when a local girl married an outsider, the town would demand money from the groom to throw a party. The villagers would mock the wedding couple by holding satirical effigies of the couple over the wedding procession.
There was a market set up selling local cheese, honey, liqueur, and pork products, among other things, under the sixteenth century market building and beside the sixteenth century fountain.
The farther up we drove, the more bicyclists we passed. The road up here became very steep and winding, and we admired their stamina. The Tour de France follows this route, and I suppose these folk were attracted partially for that reason.
We stopped in the ski town of La Mongie, eating a lunch of crepes at an outdoor cafe before lining up for the cable car that would take us to the Pic du Midi de Bigorre. On the way up, we passed a flock of sheep which appeared to be a startling shade of aqua-marine. At the top of the mountain, there is an astronomical observatory built in 1888 that was active for many years and which provided the maps of the moon used by astronauts during the lunar landings. The observatory has been deactivated now and is used as a tourist site and museum.
There are wonderful views in all directions, and we sat in the sunshine taking it all in while having cold drinks on the terrace. There were telescopes set up outdoors with a young guy looking like an MIT grad student on hand to explain what one was looking at. The telescopes were pointed at the sun, and we were supposed to be able to see sunspots and solar protuberances. All I could see was a big red ball, but my daughter thought she saw some sunspots.
Inside the museum, there were films showing the life of the early astronomers who had to make their way up the mountain on foot. That must have been some life.
Back down the mountain, we continued up the road from La Mongie to the Col du Tourmalet. This area is open grazing land for sheep and cows. The cow we waited for in the center of the busy street in La Mongie seemed less perturbed by seeing us than we were by seeing her. And the very steep winding road up to the pass was definitely made more interesting by the sudden appearance of sheep in the road after rounding a bend with a sheer drop beside the road. Usually with an impossibly fit bicyclist coming down in the other direction to add further interest. Glad I wasn’t driving. Or bicycling, for that matter.
At the top of the pass there is a sculpture of a bicyclist, Le Geant de Tourmalet. After admiring the view, we left the giant behind and retraced our steps back to the house.
Sep 18th, 2007, 08:32 AM
#32
Original Poster
Monday promised to be hot. We went to the market in Mirande in the morning. This was bigger than the market in Trie, with separate areas for food and for clothing. My daughter and I bought a couple of cheap purses and scarves and tablecloths before heading over to the food area for olives, cake filled with walnuts, fruit, bread, and photographs.
As we drove back toward the house, we passed several farms advertising foie gras and decided to go into one. There were all sorts of things for sale in cans and jars. We had bought foie gras at a roadside stand a few days earlier, as well as a jar of duck hearts stuffed with foie gras. I hadn’t figured out what to do with the duck hearts, and when I saw them for sale here as well, I asked the farmer how you prepare them. He said to serve them cold, sliced in half, and showed me a recipe for a salade Gasconne with the halved duck hearts and smoked magret arranged around salad greens. OK, now I know what’s for lunch.
We bought some more foie gras as well as a sauce to eat with pate. So much foie gras, so little time.
After lunch we hung around the pool. This was the hottest day of our vacation, the kind of day that's so hot that as soon as you get out of the pool you need to get back in to cool off again. Fortunately the thick stone walls kept the house cool.
Dinner that night was at La Ferme Auberge du Lac, in Puydarrieux, a few miles past Trie. Reservations are required at 05 62 35 54 92. There is a web site at http://www.ferme-du-lac.com/. I didn’t get a picture of the haystacks arranged into the shape of a cow at the entrance to the driveway, more’s the pity. Dinner was served outdoors and it was cooling off enough to be a beautiful evening. We enjoyed our dinners. Garbure. Homemade charcuterie, more duck, either confit or grilled magret with an interesting rub. Green beans and sautéed potatoes. Fromage.
The host came out and when we asked if he was the chef he smiled and said no. But who cooked dinner? He did. Not a chef though. Modest fellow. He said they have many English-speaking guests because of the large number of people from Britain buying houses in the area. He was sorry that his seven years of English classes in school had not taught him enough to speak any English. My daughter commiserated, a kindred spirit, although one with whom she could not communicate.
The only other guests that night were a party of two English couples, and we were encountering our own language barriers with them. We were all deciding what to get for dessert. It became clear that we were talking about entirely different food items when one ordered flan and was surprised to find that it was custard. Well yes, I said, isn’t it always custard? No, I was informed, in England it was more like quiche. And as we continued to discuss desserts, it seemed to me that I was more likely to get what I expected ordering from a French menu in France than I would be at a restaurant in England.
As we drove back toward the house, we passed several farms advertising foie gras and decided to go into one. There were all sorts of things for sale in cans and jars. We had bought foie gras at a roadside stand a few days earlier, as well as a jar of duck hearts stuffed with foie gras. I hadn’t figured out what to do with the duck hearts, and when I saw them for sale here as well, I asked the farmer how you prepare them. He said to serve them cold, sliced in half, and showed me a recipe for a salade Gasconne with the halved duck hearts and smoked magret arranged around salad greens. OK, now I know what’s for lunch.
We bought some more foie gras as well as a sauce to eat with pate. So much foie gras, so little time.
After lunch we hung around the pool. This was the hottest day of our vacation, the kind of day that's so hot that as soon as you get out of the pool you need to get back in to cool off again. Fortunately the thick stone walls kept the house cool.
Dinner that night was at La Ferme Auberge du Lac, in Puydarrieux, a few miles past Trie. Reservations are required at 05 62 35 54 92. There is a web site at http://www.ferme-du-lac.com/. I didn’t get a picture of the haystacks arranged into the shape of a cow at the entrance to the driveway, more’s the pity. Dinner was served outdoors and it was cooling off enough to be a beautiful evening. We enjoyed our dinners. Garbure. Homemade charcuterie, more duck, either confit or grilled magret with an interesting rub. Green beans and sautéed potatoes. Fromage.
The host came out and when we asked if he was the chef he smiled and said no. But who cooked dinner? He did. Not a chef though. Modest fellow. He said they have many English-speaking guests because of the large number of people from Britain buying houses in the area. He was sorry that his seven years of English classes in school had not taught him enough to speak any English. My daughter commiserated, a kindred spirit, although one with whom she could not communicate.
The only other guests that night were a party of two English couples, and we were encountering our own language barriers with them. We were all deciding what to get for dessert. It became clear that we were talking about entirely different food items when one ordered flan and was surprised to find that it was custard. Well yes, I said, isn’t it always custard? No, I was informed, in England it was more like quiche. And as we continued to discuss desserts, it seemed to me that I was more likely to get what I expected ordering from a French menu in France than I would be at a restaurant in England.
Sep 18th, 2007, 10:21 AM
#33
Original Poster
Tuesday was another sunny morning, so we headed toward the ocean. We took the autoroute and encountered a patch of rain that made our beach plans look unlikely, but the rain ended and we saw nothing but sunshine the rest of the day.
Our first stop was Biarritz. We parked in the garage under the casino, which is right across the street from the Grande Plage. We had lunch in a café with a view of the beach and watched the surfers. One end of the beach is devoted to surfers and one to swimmers. The waiters at our café looked like surfers. There are chairs and umbrellas for rent at reasonable prices both on the beach and on the promenade overlooking the beach.
After an hour or two of beach time, we changed out of our bathing suits and drove along the shore toward St-Jean-de-Luz. The area around the picturesque fishing harbor was very crowded with tourists, but we lucked into a parking space and walked around for a while. I shopped in two stores selling Basque linens and ducked into a chocolate shop for a couple of truffles and macarons in honor of the local chocolate industry, brought to the area by Jews escaping the Inquisition.
We drove to Bayonne. I had no map and no clear idea of the layout of the city and we drove around for a while looking for parking. We found a spot along the Nive River. Directly across the river I spotted the Musée Basque. We visited the museum, which has a fascinating collection of artifacts of rural Basque life. I want to go to the flea market where those things are sold. There was a collection of objects of sports and games, including the most enormous bowling ball and pins I have ever seen. A fascinating film showed an old community theatrical historical re-enactment. The museum was recently re-opened after a major renovation and it is an attractive, well-designed and interesting collection.
There were several restaurants along the riverfront, but none were open yet at 6:30, when the museum closed. So we sat at a quayside bar and had drinks until we could go for dinner. The restaurant right in front of our car was open, and although I have misplaced the name, it was a very nice choice for a casual Basque dinner. I had an ocean salad, which consisted of greens mixed with shrimp, smoked salmon, tuna, and I forget what else. Then grilled fresh fish. My husband had a great fish soup with aioli, and my daughter had a veal stew.
After dinner we made the drive back home, which took about two hours.
Our first stop was Biarritz. We parked in the garage under the casino, which is right across the street from the Grande Plage. We had lunch in a café with a view of the beach and watched the surfers. One end of the beach is devoted to surfers and one to swimmers. The waiters at our café looked like surfers. There are chairs and umbrellas for rent at reasonable prices both on the beach and on the promenade overlooking the beach.
After an hour or two of beach time, we changed out of our bathing suits and drove along the shore toward St-Jean-de-Luz. The area around the picturesque fishing harbor was very crowded with tourists, but we lucked into a parking space and walked around for a while. I shopped in two stores selling Basque linens and ducked into a chocolate shop for a couple of truffles and macarons in honor of the local chocolate industry, brought to the area by Jews escaping the Inquisition.
We drove to Bayonne. I had no map and no clear idea of the layout of the city and we drove around for a while looking for parking. We found a spot along the Nive River. Directly across the river I spotted the Musée Basque. We visited the museum, which has a fascinating collection of artifacts of rural Basque life. I want to go to the flea market where those things are sold. There was a collection of objects of sports and games, including the most enormous bowling ball and pins I have ever seen. A fascinating film showed an old community theatrical historical re-enactment. The museum was recently re-opened after a major renovation and it is an attractive, well-designed and interesting collection.
There were several restaurants along the riverfront, but none were open yet at 6:30, when the museum closed. So we sat at a quayside bar and had drinks until we could go for dinner. The restaurant right in front of our car was open, and although I have misplaced the name, it was a very nice choice for a casual Basque dinner. I had an ocean salad, which consisted of greens mixed with shrimp, smoked salmon, tuna, and I forget what else. Then grilled fresh fish. My husband had a great fish soup with aioli, and my daughter had a veal stew.
After dinner we made the drive back home, which took about two hours.
Sep 18th, 2007, 01:36 PM
#34
Original Poster
Wednesday was a day of rest. I have no idea what we did, other than enjoy the pool and the house. We probably did a lot of reading. Maybe we played Boggle. I probably spent a lot of time weeding through my pictures. I know I didn’t take any.
We had one more major excursion to take, and that was to drive across the mountains into Spain. Looking at the weather report for the two days remaining to us, we decided to go Thursday. It was looking pretty sketchy, though. Very cloudy. But we took a chance on the weather and headed South toward the Aragnouet-Bielsa tunnel. The road climbed steeply and near the top of the climb we stopped the car and got out for pictures.
The clouds were hanging low and obscuring the view of the tops of the hills. It was very chilly at the top, and I was wondering whether this trip would be worthwhile. Just before the tunnel we passed a structure by the road and wondered what it was for. I thought that it might have been a toll booth, although the crossing was free now. It didn’t occur to me until later that it must have been the border crossing. Not needed now that people pass freely between France and Spain without showing passports.
The tunnel was unlighted. When we emerged on the other side it was a bit brighter out, and I had more hope for a decent day. One of the first things we noticed in Spain was the hydroelectric plants. The rivers on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees are almost all dammed. I read in the Rough Guide to the Pyrenees that the area was a Republican stronghold during the Spanish Civil War, and that Franco punished the people living there by damming the rivers and flooding the valleys that had been used for agriculture.
The land on the Spanish side of the mountains was dryer than the French side. And the sky was getting bluer. This made my daughter and me recall our drive to Santa Fe last May, when we passed from the green countryside of Colorado to the yellow high desert of New Mexico. The change was a bit less abrupt, but by the time we had driven a few miles into Spain, it was a beautiful, sunny day. I was very glad we had taken a chance on the weather.
We stopped at the medieval village of Ainsa, parking in the lot next to the castle at one end of the village. Despite my extensive research, I had read nothing about this hill town. Most of my books dealt with Portugal and France; I had neglected the Spanish part of our itinerary. This was a pleasant surprise. The village has been heavily restored. The castle contains a museum about the nature of the Pyrenees, but we didn’t go inside. We walked on the castle walls for nice views of the countryside. Inside the castle walls there is a large open space, and workers were erecting a tent for what looked like a party or other event. Looked like a nice place for a shindig.
Walking out the other side of the castle wall, we entered the village. The Plaza Mayor is a big public space lined with restaurants, so we settled into one for lunch. There was quite a breeze, and it was all we could do to make sure our glasses and napkins didn’t blow away. We weren’t entirely successful; my husband’s shirt was covered with wine stains by the time we left. A family with small children observed the wine glass fall toward him, and it was the source of some great amusement.
The restaurant was Restaurante Alberto, and we enjoyed our lunch there very much, wind and all. My husband and daughter shared paella, which was really good, and I had some dish made from pork cheeks. My daughter started with a very nice spinach pie with nuts. I can’t remember my appetizer, but I do remember thinking it was very good. Should have taken pictures, should have taken notes, should have written my trip report sooner, oh well.
I spoke to the waiter in French; he said more people around there spoke French than English, which makes sense. He was hesitant to take our US credit card, saying that when he tried to use one the night before, the machine broke. But today it worked, he said we were lucky, and we were on our way again.
We decided to take the road past Torla and Biescas, returning to France over the Col du Pourtalet. This route took us through some of the most spectacular mountain scenery I had seen in a long time. We passed hills that looked like they had been lifted from the earth with an ice cream scoop. Old villages and castles dotted the landscape. There were views up to rocky peaks in all directions.
Near the border, we stopped at a rest area for photos. It felt like the end of the world. But just a little farther up the road we came to a ski area with all its attendant development.
We did make one stop after coming down from the mountains, at a bakery outside Pau, where I bought a flaky croustade made with apples and Armagnac, just in case we got hungry later that night. While I was in the bakery, my husband watched a woman selling pizza out of a truck with its own wood burning pizza oven. She was doing a brisk business. If only we were hungry.
We had had a very long day of driving on steep, winding roads, and we were all ready to get out of the car by the time we got home.
We had one more major excursion to take, and that was to drive across the mountains into Spain. Looking at the weather report for the two days remaining to us, we decided to go Thursday. It was looking pretty sketchy, though. Very cloudy. But we took a chance on the weather and headed South toward the Aragnouet-Bielsa tunnel. The road climbed steeply and near the top of the climb we stopped the car and got out for pictures.
The clouds were hanging low and obscuring the view of the tops of the hills. It was very chilly at the top, and I was wondering whether this trip would be worthwhile. Just before the tunnel we passed a structure by the road and wondered what it was for. I thought that it might have been a toll booth, although the crossing was free now. It didn’t occur to me until later that it must have been the border crossing. Not needed now that people pass freely between France and Spain without showing passports.
The tunnel was unlighted. When we emerged on the other side it was a bit brighter out, and I had more hope for a decent day. One of the first things we noticed in Spain was the hydroelectric plants. The rivers on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees are almost all dammed. I read in the Rough Guide to the Pyrenees that the area was a Republican stronghold during the Spanish Civil War, and that Franco punished the people living there by damming the rivers and flooding the valleys that had been used for agriculture.
The land on the Spanish side of the mountains was dryer than the French side. And the sky was getting bluer. This made my daughter and me recall our drive to Santa Fe last May, when we passed from the green countryside of Colorado to the yellow high desert of New Mexico. The change was a bit less abrupt, but by the time we had driven a few miles into Spain, it was a beautiful, sunny day. I was very glad we had taken a chance on the weather.
We stopped at the medieval village of Ainsa, parking in the lot next to the castle at one end of the village. Despite my extensive research, I had read nothing about this hill town. Most of my books dealt with Portugal and France; I had neglected the Spanish part of our itinerary. This was a pleasant surprise. The village has been heavily restored. The castle contains a museum about the nature of the Pyrenees, but we didn’t go inside. We walked on the castle walls for nice views of the countryside. Inside the castle walls there is a large open space, and workers were erecting a tent for what looked like a party or other event. Looked like a nice place for a shindig.
Walking out the other side of the castle wall, we entered the village. The Plaza Mayor is a big public space lined with restaurants, so we settled into one for lunch. There was quite a breeze, and it was all we could do to make sure our glasses and napkins didn’t blow away. We weren’t entirely successful; my husband’s shirt was covered with wine stains by the time we left. A family with small children observed the wine glass fall toward him, and it was the source of some great amusement.
The restaurant was Restaurante Alberto, and we enjoyed our lunch there very much, wind and all. My husband and daughter shared paella, which was really good, and I had some dish made from pork cheeks. My daughter started with a very nice spinach pie with nuts. I can’t remember my appetizer, but I do remember thinking it was very good. Should have taken pictures, should have taken notes, should have written my trip report sooner, oh well.
I spoke to the waiter in French; he said more people around there spoke French than English, which makes sense. He was hesitant to take our US credit card, saying that when he tried to use one the night before, the machine broke. But today it worked, he said we were lucky, and we were on our way again.
We decided to take the road past Torla and Biescas, returning to France over the Col du Pourtalet. This route took us through some of the most spectacular mountain scenery I had seen in a long time. We passed hills that looked like they had been lifted from the earth with an ice cream scoop. Old villages and castles dotted the landscape. There were views up to rocky peaks in all directions.
Near the border, we stopped at a rest area for photos. It felt like the end of the world. But just a little farther up the road we came to a ski area with all its attendant development.
We did make one stop after coming down from the mountains, at a bakery outside Pau, where I bought a flaky croustade made with apples and Armagnac, just in case we got hungry later that night. While I was in the bakery, my husband watched a woman selling pizza out of a truck with its own wood burning pizza oven. She was doing a brisk business. If only we were hungry.
We had had a very long day of driving on steep, winding roads, and we were all ready to get out of the car by the time we got home.
Sep 18th, 2007, 02:26 PM
#35
Join Date: Dec 2005
Posts: 903
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Nikki, you're doing very well writing at your dining room table. I even had to get out my Midi-Pyrenees map to see all the places you visited. We drove into that area as far south as Lectoure at the end of our Dordogne trip last year to visit a woad dying attelier, Bleu de Lectoure. Very lovely, pastoral, quite unspoiled countryside.
I know that Sheila has a house in that area that she sometimes rents and checked her website to see whether you stayed nearby, only to dicover that you actually exchanged with Sheila! Cigalechanta has stayed there too and says it is lovely.
Since fodorites can't write about their own rental places, I have accumulated a list of fodorite renters that I am happy to share. I have absolutely no interest in this other than that renting from a fodor regular is different than renting from a stranger. [email protected]
I know that Sheila has a house in that area that she sometimes rents and checked her website to see whether you stayed nearby, only to dicover that you actually exchanged with Sheila! Cigalechanta has stayed there too and says it is lovely.
Since fodorites can't write about their own rental places, I have accumulated a list of fodorite renters that I am happy to share. I have absolutely no interest in this other than that renting from a fodor regular is different than renting from a stranger. [email protected]
Sep 19th, 2007, 06:22 AM
#36
Original Poster
Friday was our last full day in France. My daughter and I took a last trip to the bakery in the morning, finally getting there early enough for croissants. Ah, maybe we’re getting adjusted to the time change. The fish truck was making its Friday fish sales.
We spent most of the day at the house and around the pool. There were still a couple of things we wanted to do though. My daughter wanted to shop at Kookai in Tarbes. And we had some idea of trying to get to the Musée de la Déportation et de la Résistance, also in Tarbes. By the time we were ready to go, it was too late for the museum. So we headed for the shopping street and explored in our own ways. There was a Monoprix and a branch of Galeries Lafayette.
As I sat on a bench in the park in front of the Hotel de Ville, I watched the people and thought how differently they looked and dressed from the people in the countryside. The people in this small provincial city looked more modern than the folks gathered around the fish truck in Tri-sur-Baïse. Maybe they were just younger. And the people back in Trie must be their parents.
We decided to eat dinner at home for our last night. We had too much good food sitting at home waiting to be finished, not to mention the wine. But we didn’t have a main course, so we looked for a store in Tarbes. We ended up at a huge supermarket where we had to walk a mile or two to get to the butcher counter and ask the butcher to cut veal chops for us.
Back at the house we cooked and ate and packed and fell asleep, waking up the next morning to the view of a beautiful sunrise and the prospect of a long day of travel.
We drove to Toulouse, returned the rental car, and walked through some construction to the terminal. We waited on line for the check-in agent, who told us our connection in Amsterdam was too short, they shouldn’t have issued us tickets for that flight, and the computer wouldn’t let him print out boarding passes.
A supervisor told us he would send a telex (don’t they have phones?) to the gate in Amsterdam and tell them we were coming, but that we would have to go to the transfer desk in Amsterdam. Our flight arrived in Amsterdam on time and we were at the transfer desk with over half an hour before our flight was scheduled to leave for Boston, but the desk agent told us the flight had already closed and there was no way we could get on it.
He said they shouldn’t have sold us those tickets. Oh well. He found us a flight to Paris and got us on the next non-stop flight from Paris to Boston, so we ended up being delayed by just a few hours. And instead of Northwest, we were now flying on Air France, so the food was better and there were French movies to watch en route.
My bags decided to stay an extra day in Amsterdam, but everyone else’s bags were on the Air France flight with us. Our younger daughter was at the airport to pick us up (we had called to tell her of the delay; what did we ever do without cell phones?) and we got home without further incident. After traveling for something like twenty hours, I was ready for bed. But I would turn around and do it all again tomorrow.
We spent most of the day at the house and around the pool. There were still a couple of things we wanted to do though. My daughter wanted to shop at Kookai in Tarbes. And we had some idea of trying to get to the Musée de la Déportation et de la Résistance, also in Tarbes. By the time we were ready to go, it was too late for the museum. So we headed for the shopping street and explored in our own ways. There was a Monoprix and a branch of Galeries Lafayette.
As I sat on a bench in the park in front of the Hotel de Ville, I watched the people and thought how differently they looked and dressed from the people in the countryside. The people in this small provincial city looked more modern than the folks gathered around the fish truck in Tri-sur-Baïse. Maybe they were just younger. And the people back in Trie must be their parents.
We decided to eat dinner at home for our last night. We had too much good food sitting at home waiting to be finished, not to mention the wine. But we didn’t have a main course, so we looked for a store in Tarbes. We ended up at a huge supermarket where we had to walk a mile or two to get to the butcher counter and ask the butcher to cut veal chops for us.
Back at the house we cooked and ate and packed and fell asleep, waking up the next morning to the view of a beautiful sunrise and the prospect of a long day of travel.
We drove to Toulouse, returned the rental car, and walked through some construction to the terminal. We waited on line for the check-in agent, who told us our connection in Amsterdam was too short, they shouldn’t have issued us tickets for that flight, and the computer wouldn’t let him print out boarding passes.
A supervisor told us he would send a telex (don’t they have phones?) to the gate in Amsterdam and tell them we were coming, but that we would have to go to the transfer desk in Amsterdam. Our flight arrived in Amsterdam on time and we were at the transfer desk with over half an hour before our flight was scheduled to leave for Boston, but the desk agent told us the flight had already closed and there was no way we could get on it.
He said they shouldn’t have sold us those tickets. Oh well. He found us a flight to Paris and got us on the next non-stop flight from Paris to Boston, so we ended up being delayed by just a few hours. And instead of Northwest, we were now flying on Air France, so the food was better and there were French movies to watch en route.
My bags decided to stay an extra day in Amsterdam, but everyone else’s bags were on the Air France flight with us. Our younger daughter was at the airport to pick us up (we had called to tell her of the delay; what did we ever do without cell phones?) and we got home without further incident. After traveling for something like twenty hours, I was ready for bed. But I would turn around and do it all again tomorrow.
Sep 22nd, 2007, 09:18 AM
#40
Original Poster
Interesting question, Anselm. As we passed over the sheep in the cable car going up to the observatory, the French woman next to me pointed and said to look at the brebis aquamarine. I was looking for green cheese, didn't realize that was also the word for sheep.
But now I'm thinking, moon rocks.
But now I'm thinking, moon rocks.
