Friday, August 17, 2012

We're agreed, aren't we -

that Sablet is the most beautiful village in France,

what with the  -->                      

and the

and the              ^

and all of the



to say nothing of these -->

We're agreed about that? Well - come over here a minute.

In almost the middle of France, in the Burgundy area, there is an absolutely precious wee town called Beaune. It's all pretty squares and and the roof-line is utter perfection. It was quiet when we were there, almost empty - most of France having crammed itself into a  municipal campground in Fieurie with a manager who was terribly rude to everyone; we booked in too, but really he was too mean. I did feel sorry for everyone else, though not enough to hang around, frankly. Despite his assurance that there were no other campgrounds at all where we would find space, we barrelled into a lovely one, clean and friendly a short way down the road on the bank of the river at Creches-Sur-Soane (and I'm sure there's a lesson in that.) But I digress -


Quiet and lovely, modern, rennaissance, medieval, Roman, pre-roman in places,

and friendly and welcoming and full of echoes and - please don't tell Sablet this - I could live there, I really could. It's close to Paris, closer to England in case we want grey skies and rain, close to Switzerland in case I want Paul roughed up again, or smugged on and close to Germany which is good because of my girl-crush on Angela Merkel More importantly - much more importantly, it's close to Vix.

I've wanted to see Vix since I was eight years old - and it didn't disappoint.

I could get up to Vix -  me and my bolt-cutters and a metal detector perhaps - pretty much every weekend...

Monday, August 6, 2012

Grande Fete Votive

Sablet has gone into Party Mode - and oh how well she does it!

A Friday-Wednesday festival - covering most of the major delights. It started, of course  on the village petanque field - where we acquitted ourselves, it must be said, Not Badly At All. We didn't win, exactly, but we made it through the first round sans deshonneur-

which surprised at least one of us, mightily. There are tiny little petanque courts hidden all round the village, and people have clearly been sneakily practicing up for ages. We'll be ready to take them on next year, now that we know; we'll get Anne back here, and field her and Paul as a team.

It's not all Killer Boules though -

Yesterday, there was boot-scooting,


 merry-go-rounds and dodgems and fairy floss; tug-of-war, side-show alley - and tables of grown-ups with grown-up drinks and card games that looked  quite a lot like poker. 

There were children and joy and laughter all through the day and into the night.

And talking of night  -
                     when the sun left the sky at last, very late - there was dancing.