the Loire Valley

It's often called the Garden of France. Vineyards, abundant produce, artfully arranged landscapes behind manors and smaller homes. They're all here. French roses weren't developed in this region -- that's more of a Lyon thing (Meilland, the breeder of roses that I have in Steffi's garden, has ancestral roots in Lyon and he's not the only one). Nonetheless, you'll find the country's best rose nurseries in the Valley and in a different season, I would be tempted to take the Rose Route that would have me visit both gardens and gardening centers in the Loire Valley. And Lyon is a mere 20 miles (or 30 kilometers) from the Valley proper, and we know that these boundaries are artificial anyway. In late October though, none of this is really on anyone's list of Loire imperatives. Nor is visiting the numerous Loire vineyards, since the harvest is long done. I suppose if you were me even ten years ago, you'd like to poke around the wine caves and maybe sample the delicious whites. That's a thing of the past. Now I just look for peace and quiet and a nice walk in nature.

I get up late-ish. Late sleep, late morning. It's rather nice on a vacation. I love my routines back home, but some are meant to be broken when away. Getting up early seems to be one of the routines I let go of on this trip.

I'm readyfor breakfast just before 10, but I am diverted en route! The morning sunshine is just too gorgeous. Morning light is the best for contemplation, for taking in the beauty of our planet. I walk over to the little lake across dewy meadows and I exhale deeply.

(out my window: beckoning!)

(Two chairs, inviting. Behind them -- a see of winter rye and heart clover)

(The Lake House)

(The lake)

(Another pair of chairs, a boat, and yes, it's an American Red Maple)

(morning mist)

(Time for breakfast; and yes, there are donkeys here as well)

Breakfast is fine. I go eggsy this time, because the granola looks uninteresting and besides, I'm sure to skip lunch so I may as well enjoy some protein, even though this is a truly do nothing day.

After breakfast, I read a bit about the horrors of the world (meaning I catch up on news). Is this a mistake? Should I give myself just one day of blissful ignorance? I don't know... I think I've lived through so many decades of political turmoil and human loss and environmental degradation that I've accepted by now the fact that in our short lives you have to make peace with yourself and your community, wherever you may find it, despite it all. To be miserable helps no one. To find ways to live with contentment may in fact help others to do the same.

Another walk follows -- this one along the entire perimeters of the property. That takes maybe an hour. The Domaine de Primard is spread over 30 hectares/75 acres of land. That's okay for my do-nothing day, but you'd have to head out for a proper country hike. I do wonder -- where is everyone? A few are sitting on the artfully positioned chairs (see below), but the strolling paths are empty. I'm enjoying that! And before I delve into the photos, let me just say that some of my first impressions are evolving! After my walk, I'm beginning to understand that this property really is for a rosarian, but the proper time to appreciate this is... earlier in the season. There are roses everywhere and most of them are quite substantial. Jacques Wirtz is the landscaper who designed the gardens here (he also designed gardens in the Tuileries -- the sculpted, cloud-like boxwood are a giveaway) and I see that these are not young plants. Almost none of the roses scattered throughout are labeled. I had them ask the gardener if he knew some of the varieties (there was one in particular I was curious about) and he responded that he did not know any of them. This is very understandable. There are over 30 000 known rose cultivars and if you lose your tags and do not create a map of your roses, you might as well say good bye to ever knowing what you have planted. If these were put in tag-less a decade or two (or more) ago -- well, there's no way the current head gardener could say what they are.

(I pass this tall tree, maybe twice my height, and I think -- this is actually a rose bush, and not a rose tree. and it's quite old)

 

 

 

(and this is the "official" rose garden... just a few blooms now) 

 

 

 (The vegetable garden is actually quite big, but I don't see abundance right now, certainly not enough to keep all the guests happy at dinnertime)

 

 

 

 

(Chairs that I associate with Parisian cafes, by the river. I sit for a few minutes, looking at the rapid movement of the water) 

 

 

 

 

(Another 2 chairs and next to it, another old rose, climbing nearly to the top of a tree) 

 

 

 (In the roses by the main Domaine house: looks to me like a Desdemona, but what do I know...)

 

 

In the afternoon, I do something that I thought (months ago when I made a reservation at the Domaine)  I would need after many weeks of hard physical labor and the emotional strain of late summer (all these people, ill!) -- a spa time. The Domaine has a spa and I daresay, many a French person here from Paris is here exactly because it has a spa. A sort of relaxation break if you will. (There is also a pool, but it's outdoors and despite the fact that it's open until the end of this month, you'll find no one swimming in it. I wonder why...) 

Truthfully, I'd rather not do anything at the spa today. But, I booked it and it's the weekend -- their busiest time, so I am not going to unbook it. There are benefits to reserving things in advance (availability is always limited in these places), but there are drawbacks. And it's not as if I wouldn't enjoy a spa treatment, I just dont need it, and these days need trumps want for me. Money and time are at play here. 

 

In fact, I'm thinking maybe I did need a rub down. My shoulders hurt. After the therapist's kneeding, my muscle mass softened from tight to like butter left out on the counter too long. Never underestimate the value of lymphatic and immune system support! And of course I'm delightfully relaxed after it. All ready for my very long journey home tomorrow!

Another "tea time with cakes" follows. Possibly a terrible idea as it's a latte for me -- in fact, nearly dinner time (working that caffeine into my bloodstream and then wondering why I cant sleep!). But, a new routine has been established (can you call something that you do for two days a routine?) and so here I am. 

(back to the main house)

(drinking coffee)

And now it really is supper time, again at the Bistro (because... where else? We are in the middle of nowhere). No photos for you. My camera often switches shutter speed accidentally, seemingly of its own accord and it did so tonight. I got a lot of black photos from the evening. But I will note that the dinner was delicious. A lovely final one in France. 

with so much love... 

 

leaving Paris

A cloudy day in Paris, with a chance of rain. It hardly matters. I'm traveling today. A forced exit because I know that if I stayed, I would not feel like taking a train out to the country for an afternoon, or a day. I would do what I did yesterday and the day before: walk the streets, visit museums, buy chocolate. And I really want that walk in the country. In a garden that's not touched by city noise, dust, debris. So today I leave for the country. My last two nights in France wont be in Paris.

Breakfast -- late as usual. (My bedtime last night? Don't even ask.) Only one other couple in the breakfast area. Americans. Perhaps my age. Can't really tell. Being the curious sort, they as our waiter what he does after he's done taking care of breakfast for Baume guests. Oh, I read books. I love to read, he tells them. And I run. I do not read the news -- too depressing. Indeed. I had checked my email and had gotten the usual Breaking New alerts. Horrible stuff. We seem to cultivate school shootings as a hobby back home. How depraved are we anyway? So much taking of human life, deliberately. We use guns to stop those with guns. So, more guns, an endless stream of guns. At some point will they think of you as insane if you dont have at least five stored in various closets? A couple of days ago I was at the post office in Paris buying some stamps. The woman didn't want to give me "just boring" ones so she proudly took out a pack of some iconic cartoon characters. Bad guys, good guys, shooting with guns. I said I'll take the boring ones. Why? -- she asks. These are classic cartoons from the past! I don't care. I'm American. For me, guns are not funny. Boring is way underrated.  

And yet, if you think about it, most people are like our waiter here: they like to run, read books, find calm. A million, ten million of those for every one person whose brain malfunctions. I suppose there is hope in that. 

(My last breakfast. I almost want to cry. It's very special for me at home (Millie's with me!), but here, it is pure harmony of the senses.)

This hotel never fails to charm me. When you come back to a place, you start to notice the progression of time. Things fade. An older patina sets in. Not at the Baume. The other time I asked -- is that new carpet on the stairs? They said -- no no, it's been there for a few years. How do they keep things so fresh? Outside in their courtyard, there are now tiny lights forming shapes of butterflies. Everyone comments on it. -- it's so pretty! You need unusual and rare managerial skills to run a place so beautifully.

And speaking of such skills, who should I see out on the street but Madame Harrault herself, riding her bike to work (she is the highly respected general manager at Le Baume).

We pause to talk for a few minutes. She always takes the time for me. She is by nature a warm and wonderful person. And inevitably I learn something from her. She tells me how French grandparents (and aunts and uncles) do presents in France. A great idea! I'll try it back home.

I'm out for just a short stroll, to one point and back again. With one last glance at places I know and, by virtue of their familiarity, love so much.

(many photos have been taken over the years of this mirror and the image in it!)

 

 

(home)

 

 

And at 11:45 I take a cab to the Gare Saint Lazare, the same station that you would use for a trip to Giverny, or to the Normandy coast. It's a busy but well orchestrated station. One level of shops, one of take away food venues. Screens showing where your train serving your station departs from (usually you have to remember the final station; this is so much better). I'm especially impressed because Snowdrop and I had such chaos using trains in Spain. Crowded spaces where you learned of your train platform less than ten minutes before it left. Here, efficiency rules. (And the ticket was an inexpensive 10 Euro and of course there's WiFi on the train.)

So am I going to be spending my last two night in Normandy? No, not exactly. I take the train to Bueil -- a small town in southern Normandy. But my country hotel sits right at the border of Normandy and the Val Loire (the Loire river valley) and technically it belongs to the latter, though culturally, they regard themselves as Normand.

My new for me hotel is the Domaine de Primard.  French people think of it as the former home of Catherine Deneuve. I think of it as an 18the century estate on the river Eure, though I do smile at the thought of her once living here. I loved her in the Umbrellas of Cherbourg! Deneuve is 82 years old now (she has 5 grandchildren!) and lives in Paris right on the Place Saint Sulpice, which is a five minute walk from Le Baume.

For me, there were good reasons to pick this Domaine as a retreat. It had to be within a reasonably short driving distance to the airport (the Primard just manages to fit the bill on this!). It had to have a place to take a nice walk. And an informal dining room on the premises. And less expensive than the Champagne hotels, which in October are way beyond my retired person's pension. Champagne is closer to the airport, but the the Loire Valley offers more reasonable choices. That the Domaine de Primard also has a rose garden (250 varieties!) is a bonus that I only discovered after I fell in love with growing roses. True, they may be fading now, but it hardly matters. They haven't had a frost yet in central France. Something must still be blooming!

The train ride is brief -- not quite an hour. The hotel is about a mile from the station and there is a shuttle service to it. Even if you come by car, you cannot drive up to the Domaine. Walk a distance, or ask for a golf cart ride to the door.

My room? In a side building, but lovely! Nicely subdued and serene. I unpack all that I need to unpack.

I have no goals really, no plans. Take a walk. That's it. Their grounds won a gardening prize. They tell me it's the only hotel that received a "gardens of distinction" honor. It's not just the roses. They grow their vegetables. They farm animals here. There's a river and walking along its banks makes you remember what serenity feels like.

(A side stream that creates an island for the main house.)

(I hope this isn't next month's dinner here...)

(Is that an American Red Maple? I'll have to check it out tomorrow. Behind it -- a lake)

(The River Eure, not to be confused with the River Epte, which flows by Monet's house in Giverny which, by the way, is only 26 km or 16 mi away, but it takes half an hour to get there on these small rural roads. No thanks. I like the quiet here.)

(well positioned chairs)

(Dahlias, the veggie garden, and against the wall -- fruit trees.)

(... like these:)

 

(this is what being caught in a sudden cloudburst looks like!)

 

Between 4 and 5 they serve a tea (or coffee) with cakes if you want this. I do want this! True, I have a plate of gifted madelines and chocolate in my room (chocolate!), but I'm not one to pass up a free pastry and a latte.

I see it's going to be another carrot cake lunch for me. Supplemented with fruits and nuts this time. Including those French plums. Perfect.

I sit back in the large living room in their main house and think about where I am. The grounds are indeed extensive and beautiful in a nature sensitive kind of way (lawns have weeds, gardens have a pleasantly unkempt character -- it looks good that way). The rose garden is less perfect. A few blooms remain...

... but most leaves and flowers have given up the battle. Was it the weather, or is the lifecycle of French roses (or these roses) shorter? Ours, which n.b. are English and French and German varieties, bloom until frost. 

I think about the hotel as well. I hear a lot of French. Exceptions: 1. there is an American family with three daughters, but listening in, I hear that he's actually German, and they live in London, where the girls attend the American school. It's complicated! 2. There is a family with a little girl who is maybe three years old. I heard her speak English. She sees my phone. She takes it. I ask her to give it back. No! Please? No! We do a few more rounds of this. Eventually, she throws it on the floor. Thanks, kid.  

This Frenchness all around me (with these two glaring exceptions) surprises me, though perhaps it shouldn't. If you travel all the way to France why would you go to a place that is a retreat from cities, from the rest of French life? If you're me, that is exactly what you want to do, but not many would trade art, culture, cafe life for looking at two donkeys graze in a paddock. (They have donkeys as well.) 

The staff here is remarkable. They will do anything for you, even before you ask. Between the two buildings, there are 37 rooms, and with the large grounds here, you can feel isolated even when you do not want to feel isolated. A friendly staff undoes the feeling of abandonment. I do not need someone to carry my coffee for me, but the concern is sweet.

Supper is at the hotel's informal Bistro Martin (they also have a well regarded posh restaurant here). The food is quite good and artfully prepared and for that there is a price of course. 

 

 (a meal of duck and potatoes never looked so good!)

 

 

Still, I'm eating less expensively on this trip than I would, were I to eat out in Madison. Which of course I never do. Only for family gatherings or to celebrate a birthday with Ed. [At the bistro, I have mushrooms as a first, duck as a second, and fruit as a dessert. With all that chocolate in the room (big thick slab -- I ate the whole thing), I think I'm good with just fruit for dinner.]

(the walk back to the house with my room...)

 

And yes, I should go to sleep now. Instead, I read up on starting dahlias indoors in early spring.

with so much love... 

 

Paris

Last night, I did not go to sleep at 1a.m. (like the previous night). Instead, I turned off the light just before 2 a.m. I am thinking it may be the late afternoon coffee, or the dark chocolate I'm munching in the evenings, but really, probably it's neither. I just want to stay up late and get up late.

Breakfast at 10. Almost empty now. People are here for Paris. I'm here for the wonderful morning meal, leisurely taken, where even at 10:30, the kind waiter says prenez votre temps (please dont hurry). I gave him my biggest smile.

Yesterday, the breakfast room was not so empty. Two couples were engaged in a conversation a stone's throw from me. One said "we've been traveling for over a month. We're from Australia." The guy from the other couple said "I couldn't do that!" "Why?" "I already miss my dog!" I mumbled "I do too," but he didn't hear me. He was too lost in his thoughts about his pup. The wife said nothing. Doesn't she like their dog? Or is it that she doesn't like her husband missing their dog on what is their first trip to Paris?

I don't think I could leave Millie again for two weeks. I did that when I went to Poland and the Nordic countries back in June. Fifteen nights without Millie. Never again. (I have a nine nights away coming up in January and an eleven nighter in March -- all too long, but it couldn't be helped. She will be with people (and dogs!) she knows and who love her, but it's not her I'm worried about, it's me! 

 

One more gorgeous (and warm) day. I've had nothing but gorgeous days. One day on a future trip it will be miserably wet and cold. Remind me how good I had it this October.

I decide to not go to the museum today. It was a Cezanne themed exhibition -- possibly interesting, but I want instead to not hurry anywhere at all. To walk at a slower pace. To look into shop windows, to make my way to the Trois Chocolats, a small chocolate and pastry shop on the Right Bank (yes, you heard right!). Why go there? Because for some reason that I cannot now remember, this shop is the only business that I follow on Instagram, even though I have never been to it. And why haven't I? Because they keep strange hours and I can never time my walks in that direction on the days and at the hours they are open. And every time I look at my Instagram account (which, admittedly, is not very often), I see a new display of their chocolates and I think -- WOW!

So instead of going to the Grands Palais museum, I turn toward the east, walk to the Île Saint-Louis, then turn north toward their shop.

The walk is wonderful and leisurely and I do things that normally I would regard as a waste of time, but today nothing is a waste of time. I am in Paris, the day is beautiful, let's see what I find on my way to the chocolatier.

(leaving my hotel: to the right is my hotel street with the Odean Theater visible at the end of it, to the left is the Sorbonne Medical School. Students again congregate at the pizzeria at the base of this uniquely shaped building)

 

 

(I walk a long way along the Boulevard St Germain. I come across this store: books on one level, stationary on the level below. Heaven! I try to ignore the books, all in French, knowing I have too many at home that I never get to, but the notebooks and such are an endless source of excitement for me. Really. I must have spent an hour in there.) 

 

 

(Paris is one of the few European cities that still has lots of postcard stands. When they're good -- like here -- they are very very good. When they're bad -- they're awful.) 

 

 

(turning toward the river, with the Notre Dame in the background) 

 

 

(familiar stuff: a bouquiniste and his stand, with Notre Dame behind the plane trees, and of course the river)

 

 

(looking toward the Ile Saint-Louis) 

 

 

(Now this is interesting: a piano player, plunking out a Chopin piece more or less well, though terribly fast; you have to wonder how he gets his piano there. I've seen him on previous trips to Paris. Must make this his job...Study the picture carefully!) 

 

(I always assume most people on this island are tourists; I'm often wrong. These women and their child live here)

 

 

 (the Berthillon ice cream on the Ile Saint-Louis is legendary!)

 

 

(the cat is not theirs, but it's following them nonetheless; maybe they're wearing fish perfume) 

 

 

(a good place for a heart to heart) 

 

 

(I stumble across this little park. Lots of morning glory and dahlias, stricken with powdery mildew) 

 

 

(There are no big demonstrations scheduled for this day, but the high schools remain barricaded; people want more money for schools despite the fact that France spends more on education than most European countries. But it's not enough -- much of it has to go to the pensions of retired teachers.)  

  

 

The chocolate shop itself is so small that I miss it, walking right past it on my way there. Emiko Sano, the chocolatier and shop owner is from Japan and the store is named after the fact that she is from a family of chocolatiers. Her grandfather, her father (both in Japan), and now the third generation -- Emiko.  Chocolate lovers say it's French chocolate making methods, but with unique ganache flavors: smoked cherry blossoms, wasabi, Matcha infusion, Yuzu and Savoy honey. All are made with less sugar to accentuate the flavor of the chocolate and ganache.

 

 

 

 

I be taking a few small boxes home. One for my dog sitter, one for someone who will love the stuff, one for me! 

Walk back... The heart to heart continues...

(The pianist is gone and the jazz musicians have taken over. I know them as well -- and I like the spirit that they always bring to this bridge that links the Île Saint-Louis with the Île-de-la-Cité.)

 

 

 (clearly these guys like it too)

 

 

And then I stop for coffee, this time at "my local" coffee shop, L'Arbre a Cafe, where I have my "lunch" of pistachio cake along with another fabulous latte. (Hey, pistachios and milk have protein, no? And I've been chomping away at the plums I bought at La Grande Epicerie that first day. Veggies are always a problem when in Europe. Ah well. I shall survive with their minimalist appearance until next week.)

Back in my room I take stock. Apart from chocolate, I bought almost nothing for myself (well, I bought a sweet shirt for Millie, which I have to admit is more for myself because she doesn't care and indeed arguably she'd like it if I kept cute shirts off of her, and too, there are the Cassatt posters...), and just some chocolate, notebooks and trivial books for others. But suddenly I have a bunch of heavy bags that will need to be consolidated and packed into my one suitcase. I'm leaving Paris tomorrow.

I'll worry about it tomorrow.

I count my various chocolate purchases and decide I need to remember a couple of others and so I google the very best ganache chocolatiers in the area (because ganache filled chocolates are my favorites and I never give people stuff I dont especially like myself). I'm told by some French AI character that I should visit Patrick Roger over on Boulevard St Germain. I know what you're thinking -- that he is an Irish transplant here. After all, the name! Not so. Patrick Roger was born and lived in a tiny village in the Loire Valley. His parents were village bakers and gave him the name Patrick because it was incredibly popular in France in the 60s (when he was born). For being a poor student and a bored baker, he has become incredibly successful as a chocolatier, winning awards left and right for his creations. The shop is no small place where you pick out your own chocolates! It looks very posh.

(In buying the gift boxes, I got to sample one. So delicious!) 

 

 

Eventually I make my way to the Jardins Luxembourg (just before it closes).

(cutting through on the way home from work...)

(and look: someone on my first visit here on Monday was not following the park rules!)

 

You could say I undervalued this park this time around, which is especially strange because the weather has been so good! (Though I do think that the park has suffered this summer. And in any case, in October, vibrant it is not. But still so pretty!)

(the fading light: the park closes in ten minutes)

 

(still pretty!)

 

I skirted it because it's been a while since I've been in Paris and I felt a pull toward other places. And of course toward the special exhibitions. Walking miles and miles each day is both pleasurable and time consuming. But I can't imagine treating Paris differently. The day I can't move out of my wheelchair is the day I stop coming to Paris. (Famous last words?)

 

 

 

(Outside the gates to the park...)

 

Yes, same guy, same piano, magically transported! And now the guy standing and watching, the one with the brown hat, hands his phone to the pianist and asks him to film him playing. And he does!

 

 

So did you really look closely at the photo of the pianist in my picture of him on the bridge? Interesting, isn't it?

Oh, here's someone else watching. I do not think the doodle will ask to play.

 

 

 (Just next to Le Baume is a tea store. Now this cup does tempt me. For obvious reasons.)

 

In the evening I go to dinner to Le Prince Racine. Google will tell you it is a one minute walk from my hotel and yet I have never eaten there (and I have eaten in every single eatery within a FOUR minute walk, and there are many that belong to that club!). Why? Possibly because the menu is not unusual. Traditional French with some modern healthy items thrown in. But this is exactly what I want on this trip! I'd seen Madame Harrault (general boss here at Le Baume) eat lunch there once and that gave me pause, and when I asked her the other day where I should go for a simple French meal, she didn't hesitate. Le Prince it is.

And I'm sorry I passed it by up to now. It was relatively inexpensive, very pleasant, with a serious but funny staff (you know what I mean! all serious until something funny happens! like, Nina leaves behind her credit card and has to be chased down the block after the meal). And the food was good! It does lean heavily toward beef dishes. Their only fish was a seared tuna and you know how I feel about undercooked fish on this trip, but on the other hand we are talking about tuna, and everybody expects tuna these days to be basically raw inside the sear, so you know they will use only fish that permits that kind of consumption. I liked it! And they came up with a salad for me -- something I have missed quite a bit. No NA beers, so I suffered through a kir vin blanc!

I ate at 7, which is on the early side for the French. The first French speaking couples drifted in when I was on my way out already. However, right next to me there was a family from Poland. The parents were my age, and they were there with their daughter and her husband. I felt sorry for the daughter. The mom was a grump, the dad was looking for a sweet red wine (Poles like fruity wines), everyone seemed tired and no one spoke French. No one seemed happy. I listened as the young woman tried to navigate the landscape, working to find ways to make everyone pleased to be there. How does this happen with families -- where one person takes on the burden of keeping things alive and happy? Surely others could step in and help her, but no, they were, for the most part, silent and the mom spoke as if she were burdened with being there rather than pleased to be sharing a meal with these three. (Of course, I know nothing about any of them, but from the way the young woman was trying, I inferred that this was a role she played frequently, and their attitude, too, was not an uncommon thing For whatever reason.)

I spoke French to the waiter (he quickly switched to it realizing that I am one of those who tries to hide her otherwise obvious American nationality), and since the Polish family spoke no French at all (they communicated with the waiter in English), they likely assumed that I was French. My accent has always been better than my grammar. But I thought I'd give them something to talk about and so when I left, I asked, in French of course -- you're Polish, aren't you? Polonaise? They nodded vigorously, understanding the query. Perhaps apprehensively. Polish people aren't arrogant. They assume they're low on the totem pole of nationalities (Americans assume the opposite, though these years, maybe we've finally understood that we were never at the top and now are hovering toward the mud at the very bottom). They seemed worried. So I merely said "smacznego" -- which means bon appetit, but wanting to preserve the mystery, I said it with a French accent. Then left, smiling. That was my (and hopefully their) entertainment for the evening.

Now, I leave Paris tomorrow in the very early afternoon. Let me not stay up tonight nor sleep in tomorrow, okay? Thank you.

with so much love...