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France
We're in France, this week, having got the train over on Saturday.
French motorways are nice and empty, but I'm terrified by the idea that they actually need the 'no left turn' signs as you go from the slip road onto the motorway.
Also, what's going on with the pointless brown signs? Most of them are just a random picture of whatever, with no text to give you a clue about what it is, and they seem to just be plonked somewhere near the site of interest, with no consideration of being near a motorway exit or of telling you how to get there, as if to say 'yeah, there's this cool think near here but you're on the motorway so you missed being able to stop and see it. Sorry 'bout that'.... Some of them have an arrow pointing off so you know which way to look in order to see the castle you're driving past, which is nice.
Not nearly do many Schrodinger's Ponies as there would be on a sunny Saturday or Sunday or bank holiday Monday (which it is) at home. Not so many ponies generally, in fact. Lots of trees, though.
On Saturday night, we stayed in Troyes, which seemed nice enough: lots of half timbered buildings, pretty good dinner, Ibis hotel room with balcony and heavy, freely swinging bathroom doors; my little finger found the latter to be painful.
On Sunday, we went further south and now we're at La Maison sur la Sourge, near Avignon, and thankfully we're staying there for a few days: Mike's had to do a lot of driving, to get here.
The hotel is lovely, with a nice comfy bed, poor wifi and a lovely owner. Our room has a nice terrace area, which would be even nicer if any of the chairs on it were comfy.
Sunday dinner was less than average. Given that Mike didn't know the French for 'medium rare' (we thought I should go up a notch, being in France) and so asked for my steak to be rouge mais chaud, I was annoyed that it was both brown and distinctly chilly. Lovely charcuterie platter to start, though.
On Monday, we had tasty breakfast and Mike discovered that he doesn't dislike goat cheese, which seems to be big around here, by the process of not realising what it was until I went 'yuck' when I had some that he'd pronounced tasty.
After breakfast, we went over to Avignon, and visited the Papal Palace (lovely ceilings, surprisingly little Papal tat on sale) and the bridge (very careless; you'd have thought they would remember to finish it. I am apparently lacking in my French education because, although I know about the bridge through reading an article on the web about it, I don't believe I've ever actually heard the song), before getting lunch and planning the afternoon's museums.
All of which - did I mention that it was a bank holiday? - were closed.
Instead, we went to the Pont de la Tour (Romans, being far less careless, had managed to finish their bridge), looked around a bit and then, as I was wilting and somewhat concerned about the rapidly swelling and streakily red bit on my foot, acquired in Troyes, we headed back to the hotel. What is it with me and nasty bites on my feet when on holiday?
The town we're in is called L'Isle sur la Sorgue, and it is apparently the centre of the localtat antiques industry. It's probably a good job the Project House In The Country is still so far from completion or, indeed, being properly started, else the car would probably be full of pretty table linen, hessian sacks with stuff printed on them, giant wooden cotton reels and a host of other things that I've not yet spotted on market stalls as we've driven by. I'd quite like to go and actually walk through the market, but I fear it may be unsafe to do so.
(Presumably) because of the bank holiday, there's some sort of concert going on in the main town square, outside the church. This has two main effects on us: firstly, it blocked our planned route through the maze of twisty passages all different that make up the old town and secondly, I'm writing this on our balcony listening to what is either a very faithful cover band or a CD of Queen's greatest hits. Hopefully, they'll stop before bed time. Hopefully, too, the restaurants won't be too packed.
French motorways are nice and empty, but I'm terrified by the idea that they actually need the 'no left turn' signs as you go from the slip road onto the motorway.
Also, what's going on with the pointless brown signs? Most of them are just a random picture of whatever, with no text to give you a clue about what it is, and they seem to just be plonked somewhere near the site of interest, with no consideration of being near a motorway exit or of telling you how to get there, as if to say 'yeah, there's this cool think near here but you're on the motorway so you missed being able to stop and see it. Sorry 'bout that'.... Some of them have an arrow pointing off so you know which way to look in order to see the castle you're driving past, which is nice.
Not nearly do many Schrodinger's Ponies as there would be on a sunny Saturday or Sunday or bank holiday Monday (which it is) at home. Not so many ponies generally, in fact. Lots of trees, though.
On Saturday night, we stayed in Troyes, which seemed nice enough: lots of half timbered buildings, pretty good dinner, Ibis hotel room with balcony and heavy, freely swinging bathroom doors; my little finger found the latter to be painful.
On Sunday, we went further south and now we're at La Maison sur la Sourge, near Avignon, and thankfully we're staying there for a few days: Mike's had to do a lot of driving, to get here.
The hotel is lovely, with a nice comfy bed, poor wifi and a lovely owner. Our room has a nice terrace area, which would be even nicer if any of the chairs on it were comfy.
Sunday dinner was less than average. Given that Mike didn't know the French for 'medium rare' (we thought I should go up a notch, being in France) and so asked for my steak to be rouge mais chaud, I was annoyed that it was both brown and distinctly chilly. Lovely charcuterie platter to start, though.
On Monday, we had tasty breakfast and Mike discovered that he doesn't dislike goat cheese, which seems to be big around here, by the process of not realising what it was until I went 'yuck' when I had some that he'd pronounced tasty.
After breakfast, we went over to Avignon, and visited the Papal Palace (lovely ceilings, surprisingly little Papal tat on sale) and the bridge (very careless; you'd have thought they would remember to finish it. I am apparently lacking in my French education because, although I know about the bridge through reading an article on the web about it, I don't believe I've ever actually heard the song), before getting lunch and planning the afternoon's museums.
All of which - did I mention that it was a bank holiday? - were closed.
Instead, we went to the Pont de la Tour (Romans, being far less careless, had managed to finish their bridge), looked around a bit and then, as I was wilting and somewhat concerned about the rapidly swelling and streakily red bit on my foot, acquired in Troyes, we headed back to the hotel. What is it with me and nasty bites on my feet when on holiday?
The town we're in is called L'Isle sur la Sorgue, and it is apparently the centre of the local
(Presumably) because of the bank holiday, there's some sort of concert going on in the main town square, outside the church. This has two main effects on us: firstly, it blocked our planned route through the maze of twisty passages all different that make up the old town and secondly, I'm writing this on our balcony listening to what is either a very faithful cover band or a CD of Queen's greatest hits. Hopefully, they'll stop before bed time. Hopefully, too, the restaurants won't be too packed.
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Which should get you what you want... not sure how they did well done and cold.
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(I suspect that the process by which I got what I did was related to being English, in France....)
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In the end I think they cooked the hell out of them which wasn't necessary.