The sun had made an appearance, it had warmed up, there was a buzz in the air. It was early evening, time for a drink at the Vignette and let the week come to an end. On the way there we noticed that Peter's Brezel's, which had started business about about 9 months and stopped trading about 3 weeks ago, was replaced by "Oxygen Homme" promising the aspiring young man a fine selection of clothing. It must have been opening day because some rather important men were in the door.
The Vignette had a few tables free on the pavement and we sat down, the sun shining on our faces, the cars and motorbikes hurtling past. Eventually, the waiter appeared. He could cope with my order of a beer but the request for a Beaune de Venise or similar confused him. Vermouth, Pastis, non.. we didn't want that...a very slight flicker of irritation, barely noticeable crossed his face. Eventually we settled for a vin rosé. He rushed off to the next table.
The important looking man we had seen at Oxygen Homme walked up the street with some side kick. He saw the group people two tables down and stopped. He knew them, greeted each one with a shake of the hand, kissing the women on both cheeks and then sat down on an empty chair, cheerfully talking to the party. It was then that I realized who he was: the newly elected mayor. No pomp and circumstance, no security, just another citizen of the town doing his work and stopping in a café (even if it is directly next to the Marie) and have a quick espresso with some people he knew. This too, could be politics and on a much more pleasant level.
We let the atmosphere envelope us, enjoying the drinks, watching people walk past greeting, exchanging comments, moving on. The patron's dog had settled down at the feet of a customer and was quietly dozing. Madame came out and emptied the "bar toutou" an old used cream container filled with water for the dogs to have a drink as well.
The bar keeper from the Irish Pub came past clutching a few papers promoting something and walked inside. After the time it takes to drink an espresso and have a chat, he walked out again with a bottle of Ricard. The Irish Pub must have run out and the Vignette had a spare bottle to lend. Competition exists, but it is friendly.
And so the time passed. People coming, going, meeting, talking and enjoying the warmth and anticipation that the wetness of April may about to come to an end.
Lazily we paid up, left a few coins as a tip and sauntered off home.
Saturday, 19 April 2008
Happy Chickens
On the way to exchange our hire car, we saw an interesting sign: au paradis des poules. Chicken's paradise. It sounded inviting and so, homeward bound, we dropped in.
Paradise, at least for chickens, is found in Roppenheim which is about 2km from the German-French border heading towards Baden-Baden. The way we normally drive, paradise is somewhat hidden by the Restaurant La Couronne. What appears to be not much more than a typical small village French restaurant seems to be, at least judged by the cars parked outside and where they come from, rather a hidden gem. It has been earmarked for testing at some time.
Skirting around the Couronne, we came across a farm entry sporting an over sized sign informing us that we had found the chicken's paradise. We drove on into the farm yard, not much activity and no chickens to be seen. But, as it was just after lunch, not surprising as everyone in paradise must have a proper lunch. To the left was a small shop in which the farm produce was sold. A few apples had survived the latter end of the season, Pates, Eggs and their own sunflower oil. Some cheeses, herbs. The farmers were chatting to another customer in the local dialect a mixture of French and German interwoven as we pottered around, making a mental note for future reference.
www.auparadisdespoules-roppenheim.fr
About 3km further on we stopped at another place that had caught my eye, the Moulin de Forstfeld. Somewhat tucked away from the road, next to a lake and a small stream and a few large puddles because the excess water simply had no where to flow anymore, was a slightly ramshackle large building, maybe about 200 years old. In the summer, with the large birch trees out in the front, it would make an idyllic place. The sign on the road informed the incoming motorist (but not the outgoing motorist) that it sold flour and grain. We walked into the courtyard and were greeted by a dog loudly barking at us. The mill was in operation, it seemed almost as old as the building and 25kg bags of flour were everywhere. But, naturellement, it was closed Saturday afternoon and we would have to return later - maybe the dog would be more welcoming then too.
Paradise, at least for chickens, is found in Roppenheim which is about 2km from the German-French border heading towards Baden-Baden. The way we normally drive, paradise is somewhat hidden by the Restaurant La Couronne. What appears to be not much more than a typical small village French restaurant seems to be, at least judged by the cars parked outside and where they come from, rather a hidden gem. It has been earmarked for testing at some time.
Skirting around the Couronne, we came across a farm entry sporting an over sized sign informing us that we had found the chicken's paradise. We drove on into the farm yard, not much activity and no chickens to be seen. But, as it was just after lunch, not surprising as everyone in paradise must have a proper lunch. To the left was a small shop in which the farm produce was sold. A few apples had survived the latter end of the season, Pates, Eggs and their own sunflower oil. Some cheeses, herbs. The farmers were chatting to another customer in the local dialect a mixture of French and German interwoven as we pottered around, making a mental note for future reference.
www.auparadisdespoules-roppenheim.fr
About 3km further on we stopped at another place that had caught my eye, the Moulin de Forstfeld. Somewhat tucked away from the road, next to a lake and a small stream and a few large puddles because the excess water simply had no where to flow anymore, was a slightly ramshackle large building, maybe about 200 years old. In the summer, with the large birch trees out in the front, it would make an idyllic place. The sign on the road informed the incoming motorist (but not the outgoing motorist) that it sold flour and grain. We walked into the courtyard and were greeted by a dog loudly barking at us. The mill was in operation, it seemed almost as old as the building and 25kg bags of flour were everywhere. But, naturellement, it was closed Saturday afternoon and we would have to return later - maybe the dog would be more welcoming then too.
Wednesday, 16 April 2008
Serious Business
Some months ago, Mr Grumpy, in a flourish of artistic display with aim to lure the unsuspecting tourist to his quaint, old world style fruit and vegetable emporium (the tourists of course do not get to see the wholesaler lorries pull up during the small hours of the morning), anyway, what he did was dig out some old photos of what the Place outside our respective buildings looked like back at the beginning of the last century and hung them in his shop window.
It was an interesting experience to notice that the rather large footpath between the shop fronts and the small fountain was actually a road on which some cars were parked. Not the big monsters we see today but smaller, more crudely welded together frames, as one friend commented on a car I had many years ago: "400 spare parts traveling together in close formation". The friendship has outlived the car.
Smiler's drinking establishment, now under Turkish ownership and romantically called "La Mirabelle" was, when this part of France was under German ownership, demonstrably called "Die Krone", the crown. Simply comparing the pronunciation of these words is an interesting lesson in different cultures.
What was also fascinating that where there have been shops, what was being sold didn't really differ - just the name changed from German to French, and maybe the occasional owner.
Looking at the photos made me wonder where he got them from. Probably some family archive. It did set me thinking until the missing link appeared in a local magazine which announced the local activities (flee markets, dinner dances, Easter fairs) and voila, there it was. Tucked away at the bottom of the page was an announcement that the local postcard society in Hageunau was going to have a Bourse. And, as "Restauration et Buvettes" was assured, who could resist the temptation?
It was yet another experience in the mysterious workings of the French mind when locked into a passionate embrace of one's hobby. La Bourse was being held at the "Salle Municipal de Coop". Hmm, and where please, could one find this building? The choice was to ring a person, but I had left that too late, or, to go to the internet and look at the town's website. The Bourse was listed (the hours differed to those mentioned in the local magazine), the venue was correct, but again, it is simply the assumption that as a serious postcard collector, steeped in the eternal (3 year) tradition of the Bourse, one automatically must know where to go. C'est normale! Eventually, a picture gave it away and off we went.
In the scale of marches, there seems to be a hierarchy. At the bottom are the marche aux puces, the flea markets, local colourful affairs in which one can find an odd piece of useful junk. Jules, a small stuffed toy duck, was plucked from certain starvation, and once he passed quarantine in the washing machine (he smelled bad) he was allowed to join the merry band of his friends who reside in our house.
Up the scale are the specialist Bourses. These are more upmarket marche aux puces, for the discerning collector of things. And one must, in order to partake in this highly exclusive club, make a small donation at the entrance, officially probably to finance the hire of the venue, more realistically, because the town probably has a passionate postcard collector in the council, to finance the Pastis, Beer, Vin to be drunk to celebrate a good day's trading or to drown one's sorrows if the day, which by tradition, it always must be, was terrible.
We entered. Opening up before us was a large amount of trestle tables, laden with postcards, books, coins, stamps. There was a loud buzz of professional talk as dealers and customers were evaluating, searching, debating, haggling. As one does.
The first stall fell victim to our inexperience. We were confused by the fact that the thousands of postcards, all neatly sorted, all very neatly slipped in plastic envelopes were not facing us but away from us. So, a thorough rummage was not possible. Fortunately, the stall keeper ambled down to us and asked us what we were looking for and when we told him, he went to the appropriate box and handed us a mountain of cards.
It was fascinating. You have in your hand, a black and white postcard, costing a penny or two at the time, written to somebody somewhere in immaculate handwriting saying what a pleasant time they were having. The pictures showed where we lived and how it looked 70, 80 years ago. Not much had changed, somethings had. I was in clover. That is until I saw the prices neatly penciled in the corner and then I understood why, especially the Buvettes are assured. This was, indeed, very very serious business.
At another stall, the owner was a little more chatty. He was a collector, (the first one was a professional dealer with business card and all) and so if he sold something, well bon, if not, well, perhaps next time. We got into talking, he wanted to know what precisely we were looking for. I explained to him Mr Grumpy, whom he knew, as it turned out that some of the profits from the fruit and vegetable trade were being invested in the postcard business. Obviously, selling fruit and vegetables seems to be a lucrative business. Ah oui, he also knew our house. And he had two postcards, affordable at that, of what the Place outside looked like about 30 - 40 years ago. We bought them, and since it was a bulk purchase of two, we got a discount.
On the way out, the local and highly effective adverting industry was represented in the form of flyers advertising other markets. They had found in me, another fan.
It was an interesting experience to notice that the rather large footpath between the shop fronts and the small fountain was actually a road on which some cars were parked. Not the big monsters we see today but smaller, more crudely welded together frames, as one friend commented on a car I had many years ago: "400 spare parts traveling together in close formation". The friendship has outlived the car.
Smiler's drinking establishment, now under Turkish ownership and romantically called "La Mirabelle" was, when this part of France was under German ownership, demonstrably called "Die Krone", the crown. Simply comparing the pronunciation of these words is an interesting lesson in different cultures.
What was also fascinating that where there have been shops, what was being sold didn't really differ - just the name changed from German to French, and maybe the occasional owner.
Looking at the photos made me wonder where he got them from. Probably some family archive. It did set me thinking until the missing link appeared in a local magazine which announced the local activities (flee markets, dinner dances, Easter fairs) and voila, there it was. Tucked away at the bottom of the page was an announcement that the local postcard society in Hageunau was going to have a Bourse. And, as "Restauration et Buvettes" was assured, who could resist the temptation?
It was yet another experience in the mysterious workings of the French mind when locked into a passionate embrace of one's hobby. La Bourse was being held at the "Salle Municipal de Coop". Hmm, and where please, could one find this building? The choice was to ring a person, but I had left that too late, or, to go to the internet and look at the town's website. The Bourse was listed (the hours differed to those mentioned in the local magazine), the venue was correct, but again, it is simply the assumption that as a serious postcard collector, steeped in the eternal (3 year) tradition of the Bourse, one automatically must know where to go. C'est normale! Eventually, a picture gave it away and off we went.
In the scale of marches, there seems to be a hierarchy. At the bottom are the marche aux puces, the flea markets, local colourful affairs in which one can find an odd piece of useful junk. Jules, a small stuffed toy duck, was plucked from certain starvation, and once he passed quarantine in the washing machine (he smelled bad) he was allowed to join the merry band of his friends who reside in our house.
Up the scale are the specialist Bourses. These are more upmarket marche aux puces, for the discerning collector of things. And one must, in order to partake in this highly exclusive club, make a small donation at the entrance, officially probably to finance the hire of the venue, more realistically, because the town probably has a passionate postcard collector in the council, to finance the Pastis, Beer, Vin to be drunk to celebrate a good day's trading or to drown one's sorrows if the day, which by tradition, it always must be, was terrible.
We entered. Opening up before us was a large amount of trestle tables, laden with postcards, books, coins, stamps. There was a loud buzz of professional talk as dealers and customers were evaluating, searching, debating, haggling. As one does.
The first stall fell victim to our inexperience. We were confused by the fact that the thousands of postcards, all neatly sorted, all very neatly slipped in plastic envelopes were not facing us but away from us. So, a thorough rummage was not possible. Fortunately, the stall keeper ambled down to us and asked us what we were looking for and when we told him, he went to the appropriate box and handed us a mountain of cards.
It was fascinating. You have in your hand, a black and white postcard, costing a penny or two at the time, written to somebody somewhere in immaculate handwriting saying what a pleasant time they were having. The pictures showed where we lived and how it looked 70, 80 years ago. Not much had changed, somethings had. I was in clover. That is until I saw the prices neatly penciled in the corner and then I understood why, especially the Buvettes are assured. This was, indeed, very very serious business.
At another stall, the owner was a little more chatty. He was a collector, (the first one was a professional dealer with business card and all) and so if he sold something, well bon, if not, well, perhaps next time. We got into talking, he wanted to know what precisely we were looking for. I explained to him Mr Grumpy, whom he knew, as it turned out that some of the profits from the fruit and vegetable trade were being invested in the postcard business. Obviously, selling fruit and vegetables seems to be a lucrative business. Ah oui, he also knew our house. And he had two postcards, affordable at that, of what the Place outside looked like about 30 - 40 years ago. We bought them, and since it was a bulk purchase of two, we got a discount.
On the way out, the local and highly effective adverting industry was represented in the form of flyers advertising other markets. They had found in me, another fan.
Picnic 1 2008
It was only 3 weeks ago, but we have had continuous rain and cloud for most of April. The sun is but a distant memory. Especially when we remember April last year, it went into the record books as being one of the hottest Aprils on record.
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