from Pont l'Eveque, Normandy: knee-deep in buttercups

If you come here for the cheese (Pont l’Eveque: one of the most popular French cheeses, right up there, I am told, with Camembert, Brie and Roquefort), you’ll be disappointed. I mean, you can find it in stores, sure. But then, I can find it in Whole Foods, Madison. What you cannot find in Pont l’Eveque, Normandy, is a Pont l’Eveque cheesemaker.

Which is fine. Especially if you come here on a partly cloudy day, after a miserably wet one and you expect to be charmed by other Pont l’Eveque attributes. Like buttercups.

But maybe I’m jumping ahead too much.

First, you have to be told that it is the place to go if you want to see a charming village in the Department of Calvados in the Province of Normandy. Well, maybe not THE most charming village. For that, you should hike from there to Beaumont en Auge. That is absolutely THE most charming village.

Yes, fine. We can do all that. We don’t have a car, but we are so absolutely on top of things that we can work with bus schedules and we can get ourselves anywhere.


And so we set out. [Oh, wait. There is the matter of the Honfleur market. We are staying in Honfleur. The official Honfleur market day is Saturday, but trust this place (what with its artists and super with it locals) to develop, in addition, an alternative market – a bio market (meaning organic), on Wednesday mornings. How perfect! I stock up on the red treasures of the region: strawberries, cherries, apples, tomatoes, and a good and heavy bottle of Normandy apple juice.]










Oh how I love to go for a ride,
To see the country far and wide…

I hum this to myself as we climb the bus and speed down south to Pont l’Eveque. Maybe speed is the wrong word here. It’s not really a long trip, worthy of great speed. Fine, it’s a very short trip. Pont l’Eveque is a mere 17 kms from Honfleur.

We’re happy as we’re rolling along…

How true.

And so we find ourselves in this quaint old town ...which we fully intend to leave ASAP, because we really do want to get to THE most charming village in France.

So, we look this way…





…and that…



…and we head out.

Mind you. Not all of us are avid hikers. In fact, I later find out (much later: after I whip everyone along on this close to 20 kilometer round trip trek) that an alternative may have been to take a more contemplative move through the day, one which would include a lot of pauses and conversations. Like, maybe, this:




But, the skies are almost blue, the buttercups are in full bloom and the there’s the prospect of discovering all that charm. Who can pass on that!

We walk slowly at first, each taking, most likely, the same picture, but in three versions. Perhaps all of our photos look something like these:



cows, knee-deep in buttercups










And we are charmed by similar things. Like this mom donkey and her donkey kid. Can you even guess how long we spent looking at the two of them chasing each other in a the field of buttercups? (And we did it both going there, and on the return)



let's play, mommy!




oh, I'm hungry...




walk with me




not now, I'm prancing!




oh, come here!

And then, suddenly (perhaps not suddenly enough for some) we were in Beaumont en Auge. Actually what Beaumont was really sur (on) was a pretty steep hill. Which added a nice little denouement to the whole journey.

But, hills do give good views and I’ll let you judge for yourself if this qualifies. Zooming in, you can see Deauville by the Channel…

…and zooming out, you can still see the sheep. I always like sheep. Especially knee deep in buttercups.

Some people, those who live here, for instance, may find this view to be commonplace. They'll come to this spot for the quiet that it offers. A place to read a newspaper.

I'm not so jaded. For me, it's heavenly up here, in Beaumont en Auge.

And the village itself? Not sure how any of us felt about the MOST CHARMING label. Here, take a look:

It was pretty alright, but then, so many of these villages are lovely. And besides, we were too hungry to chew over the matter of labels. We wanted dejeuner (lunch)! We find the one open eatery and settled in among the men and women of Beaumont en Auge. Here, you see mostly muscled men. I assure you, at some tables, there were women. An older mother and her son, both with their dogs. A couple. And us.

The food? Here are my choices:

(The hearty men ate heartier dishes -- meats and gizzards and such; I didn't notice the plates of the mother and son, but I did note that one of their dogs liked a morcel, and French dogs are fussy so I am certain it was good.)

Afterwards, well, one had to get back. There was mention of a taxi maybe, but that thought drifted toward the sea as Beaumont was low on taxi stands. In villages of about 52, you just don’t have much use for cabs.

In Pont l’Eveque, we compensated for the absence of cheese makers (they’re all outside the town, which figures as cheese makers are often where the milk is) by visiting a Calvados distillery. We sampled the stuff, but I myself will admit to not appreciating anything that is that potent and so one of us purchased small quantities for gift purposes while the others delighted in being offered free samples of everything in very large glasses.

More fruitful shopping, so to speak (I'm feeling so clever now, long after midnight) was accomplished at a local clothing store where everything was tres cheap and billowy and cottony. Sort of like this frock (in an antique shop next door), except much more au currant:





And then it was time to leave. Except, perhaps you have not been reading this blog carefully or for a long time and so you do not know that I am notoriously inaccurate in reading French bus schedules. I always miss the pertinent piece of information, like that the bus takes a vacation on Wednesdays and this happens to be Wednesday, or that the bus does not stop at this particular stop on any evening run and here we are – stupidly waiting at evening time.

The point is, it took almost as long to finally get ourselves on the seats of a bus to Honfleur as it takes a meringue to bake to a fine crisp texture.


Back in our home town, we bought Pont l’Eveque cheese and many other things and one of us opened her secret bottle of champagne (well, not too secret – everyone at the b&b knew about it after all) and we ate and chatted until I pushed back my chair and retired, to go off and post. Loyal to Ocean readers, to the core.

from Honfleur: gray clouds, gray shrimp

Honfleur is a small town. 8,000 residents. My guess would be that there are 1,000 artists, 4,000 involved in servicing both residents and tourists, and the remainder – in the production of regional foods (don;t quote me on that -- it's just a guess). Which, in Honfleur, would put the little shrimp, France’s crevettes, at the top of the list (followed by apple stuff and milk stuff).

In many sea-coast towns and villages in France, in those charming little restaurants that fill to capacity every beautiful weather day, they’ve given up. If you ask about their popular shrimp salads and shrimp entrees, they’ll reluctantly admit that the little crustaceans come from the coast of Africa. They’re good, but they’re not local.

Not in Honfleur. So much does this town jump around its shrimp business, that it celebrates it annually with a huge shrimp festival (in the fall). And if you can’t stand the idea of peeling a plateful of tiny little gray critters (pink, once cooked), you can attend the shrimp peeling contests and grab the stuff that gets pulled out of the shell.


And speaking of gray, today was a gray, wet day. So wet was it, that you could not make do with just an umbrella. I mean, you could, of course. But you’d get wet in spite of it.





Over breakfast, we reviewed our options. Day trips were postponed until less wet days.

And here's a digression: I remain certain that the reason we are such good friends is that we have much the same orientation towards life’s essentials. We believe in being prepared against adversity and so we travel with supplies of food, wine, champagne, too, just in case. Even in France, where the chances of running low on any of the above are very minimal.

And even when supplies are not low, because we have managed to eat satisfying meals at least three times a day, we restock.

Today, we went into at least one candy store (purchase of choice: caramel au beurre salé), one sardine store (peculiar, as no one was especially looking for sardines) and one bakery.

Let me pause in the bakery, because we certainly did pause there, perhaps to demonstrate our support for the craft of fine baking in this part of the country (as if it were inferior elsewhere in France!).















We bought provisions for lunch (the likes of which will not be described here, as you may find us to be perhaps a bit over the top in our food cravings) and waited while the proprietor took great care to heat them properly. None of this microwave stuff. (Do they even sell microwaves in France, or are they banned for reasons of culinary blasphemy?)

During our wait, we watched people come in for their lunch breads and supplements. I grew intensely jealous of the client who was known to Madame, so that she would reach for his daily loaf in a familiar way. Such intimacy seems to me to be a wonderful byproduct of living here.

After, we ate. And talked. In the way that only the closest friends, who believe that bread products can break all final barriers to communication, talk.


We then went on to pursue our various interests, which include painting (don’t look at me), photography, and writing – professionally and otherwise.

I felt my camera needed a work out after staring at food so much and so I set out in the rain. It was miserable out there for all but those under solid cover (“solid” is a matter of personal interpretation).













The lens of my camera kept up a steady stream and steam of protest, but I was determined. Honfleur is about gray shrimp and gray skies and I want to sample both. At times, in combination. For example, let me poke around the fishing trawlers some and see if anyone is still out and about.









Fine, camera wins. The lens refuses to stay dry.

I search for a café where the camera and I can recover. Though really, only a radiator will help me now as I am thoroughly wet. Still, I pause at a little place and study a book on Honfleur. (Did you know that the village of Quebec is just a few kilometers from here and that in the Canadian province of Quebec, there is a Honfleur?) And I study the jovial men that come for an early evening drink.





I can’t tell if they are in the art, shrimp or service industry, but they are a happy lot and it warms me up to be in their presence. The outside weather seems less formidable now.





Afterwards, I slosh home, passing two young boys who, like all young boys, don’t seem to mind anything having to do with weather.





For dinner? Oh, crevettes, of course.

from Honfleur, Normandy: walks

A morning stroll into town. A look at the quiet bay. At the fishermen on the trawler, repairing the large net.









Time to explore a little more.


WALK No. 1

There is a hill behind our bed and breakfast. I ask if it is climable.
Biensur! There is a path even…

We climb. And you get the views. Of Honfleur, of the green fields of Normandy.









At the top, there is a lovely little church – chapel really – with a nautical theme. Paintings and models of ships are scattered in its small interior. We pause for a bit and listen to the bells do a melodic little spin at each quarter hour.

One last look over the mouth of the Seine, the new bridge linking upper Normandy with Le Havre (largest cable something or other in the world!)...





...and we head down for lunch. At an old cider press. Where one man is whipping out crepes and galattes for the entire roomful of people.





Classic Normandy: the (Brittany influenced!) buckwheat pancake, the cheese, the cider.


WALK No. 2

But the first walk only whets my appetite. I set out along the coast on a second run. Here is a case where the photo is better than the reality.





It could be that someone would be enchanted with what is an artificial stretch of beach along the river Seine. Me, I’m spoiled by Brittany. Le Havre on the other side doesn’t compete with pristine sands and hidden coves. I return to the road. That’s a mistake. Me and all those cars. No path to help me along. I turn back.

And even though I find a quieter road for the retreat, I am now hearing three very low flying, very loud helicopters.

After a few minutes of hovering, I’m thinking – hmmm, they’re not keeping an eye out on things, they’re chasing someone. Someone dangerous. They haven’t a clue where this person is! They’re searching from above! We are all doomed! (I admit that last sentence doesn’t quite follow, but when you are standing under the loud spin of the helicopter blade, you cease being entirely rational.)





I find out that there is a TV filming of a game show where contestants are madly trying to find clues. I encounter the contestants scurrying around in the quiet interior of St. Catherine’s Church.

Do the people of Honfleur care that the their town has been taken over by a TV crew? Sure.



looking up at the chopper




taking photos of the choppers



Me, I’m looking for a quiet spot. In the Boudin Museum, I find it. Here, I am reminded that Normandy was a 19th century heaven for painters. One book tells it bluntly: without Normandy, there would be no Impressionism. A little bragging, but not a ridiculous statement. I mean, Monet painted St. Catherine’s church – the one with the buzz of the TV crew just a few minutes back! And later, Dufy, the wonderful playful colorful Dufy painted fields of blé – buckwheat! Crepe material!






WALK No. 3

And now it is late afternoon and the clouds of the morning are retreating (for the moment) and I am antsy to wipe out the image of my unsuccessful earlier walk. I set out along a small road (and a hiking trail, at last!) away from the coast, into the deep country.

And only I would be thrilled with this – pastoral scenes, smells of meadowland, cows. Lovely, beautiful, happy, friendly cows.

















I am reminded of something Ed once said – he saw cows kissing and from then on he thought it would be difficult to enjoy their meat on a plate.

Now, here in Normandy, I watch two cows licking ach other’s faces which I suppose is a real French cow kiss.





I cannot say that I reject all meat henceforth on principle, but it was a lovely scene. And I continue along this empty narrow lane of a road until I see that it is almost 6 and every step I take away from Honfleur has to be retraced on the return. And still, I can't get myself to stop moving forward.













It's very late before I am back in the town again.


My patient friends are waiting. We walk to the old port for an evening meal by the bay.





I am lusting for seafood and there is enough of it in this town so that I am satisfied. And for dessert? Tart Tatin. About time!

from Honfleur, Normandy: postcards

You’ll see a lot of timbered houses on Ocean in the week ahead. I can’t help it. I’m in a place that has written the definitive book on timbered houses.





I’ve not been to Normandy much before this trip. Oh, sure. I’ve been here. Indeed, my very first trip, my defining voyage – to the States, as a kid – was from Cherbourg, which very much is in Normandy. I remember it as a countryside with white horses. I remember an old Normand telling me: lick your thumb, touch your palm with it, then slam the palm with your fist every time you see a white horse and you’ll have luck forever.

I’ve done that all my life and I’ve had great luck and so I highly recommend it. I say it from Normandy, so my words are quite authentic.

I took the train to Hornfleur with my two friends. Actually several trains and a taxi. The buses were taking a Sunday break. Honfleur has it all, but it does not have a train station.

It does have a very charming b&b, and the owner has given me a room in a small (yes, timbered) house by myself, so that I can do my work. The view is out onto the courtyard. Out the door, I see this:





Okay, then there’s the historic town – right there at the mouth of the River Seine, on the western bank, opposite the huge port city, Le Havre. You don’t actually see Le Havre from here, but you know it’s there. So, Le Havre to the east, Deauville and the Normandy beaches to the west, and lots of pasture land and apple orchards to the south.

And here’s the thing. I think the port is great. I do. Here, take a look:









But I know there are happy cows just south of us and (historically significant) beaches and cliffs in all directions so it could well be that time spent here will be supplemented with time spent meandering this way and that.

In the meantime, I offer you this Sunday walk through town. Get a feel for Honfleur! Meet the men, the artists (the concentration of studios here is intense), study her foods. Though, I have to remind you that the sister province of Brittany lays claim to the galette – the buckwheat pancake; they say that Normandy’s is inauthentic. Fine – I’m not getting involved in interstate food battles of France. Let’s all agree though that Normandy is the place of the tarte tatin (apple cake), Camembert and Pont l’Eveque (cheese). And the cap Normand – see below.



young men of Honfleur




...their caps




older men of Honfleur




artists of Honfleur




galette with cheese and potatoes




cat and rooster




dog and hard cider




evening

from Paris: when one jumps out, the other jumps in (again)

A week ago, Ed left and an hour later, my daughter emerged at the Paris airport. This time, she’s returning home (sob!) and within minutes, I’ll be heading north for a week with two friends from law school days.

We walked, she and I, to the RER station very early this Sunday morning, past shuttered houses and closed cafes, past the locked gates of the Luxembourg Gardens.



I let her go, in the way that one must let one's children go. To the station, through the turnstile, down to the tracks. A final wave and a forced smile as I watch her settle in to wait for the 6:54 a.m. to l'aeroport CDG.