Our last day in the village was a shade anti-climactic after such a feast of wonderful music. But the visit to the Abbey on its tenth anniversary open day was a treat, the more so since we'd spent a sweaty morning on the chores that infest the day before we leave. The restoration of the cloister and the garden are real successes, and the reception by the brothers was friendly, informative and nicely understated. They'd done a little Powerpoint show of the before and after, which was fascinating, and elsewhere in the Abbey there were explanations of its history in general, and of the stunted tower in particular. It's thought that it ought to have reproduced the spire of the cathedral of Mirepoix, hence that it should have been close on twice its present height. I don't see that work being done in short order, but given the 132 years and counting progress on the little church down the road from our Barcelona flat, succeeding generations may be surprised.
We dined on our last night at the restaurant at the top of the Prom, and were not vastly impressed. They did not have the wine listed on the menu. The table was set, on my side, with a fork that was simply unusable, and we were short of a glass: I nicked suitable replacements from an adjoining table. The first course salad was copious, granted, but full of Dutch hothouse tomatoes, cucumber and the like, which beggars belief when there are such superb tomatoes etc to be had from the organic supplier just up the road, or indeed from any local supermarket or village shop. Martyn's main course entrecôte was OK. I'd selected a pavé de porc, but got two thin leg steaks, overcooked and served with a strip of Schmelzkäse and a couple of slices of flavour-free bacon. The cheese platter was OK, though without character, but at least it wasn't overpowering. My tarte aux pommes was so heavily laced with cinnamon that I couldn't taste anything else, and gave up after a single spoonful. When we needed more wine, the staff determinedly avoided my eye, and I had to march the carafe up to the bar and slam it down to get service.
Dreadful night of indigestion - not handy the day before departure, but at least we'd done the worst of the housework the day before. Before we left, we fed the street cat that visits us when we're there. We know from his coughs and sneezes when he's on the dining room window ledge sunning himself. I tried him on softened bread (noting that he has lost most of his teeth) without success a couple of weeks ago, but Martyn found his weak spot with chopped-up baked chicken breasts. We were quite upset to leave him, and wonder whether we'll see him again. But then, we say that after every visit. And I think he has rewarded our hospitality by pissing on the dining room window.
I tire of reporting the awful driving we meet on the motorway, so shall gloss over that. The journey was pretty much OK, and less rained on than we'd expected from the forecast. We'd decided to spend the night on the outskirts of Orléans, choosing a place that offered more than the Campanile for less money (save for the kettle, which we take with us anyway) and threw in breakfast as well. Ibis Styles, Orléans. The Ritz it ain't, and the makeover from its previous All Seasons title is distinctly half-hearted. But the WiFi was good, the room clean and just about quiet enough (though it was a good job we didn't need the noisy air conditioning).
A selling point is its proximity to the terminus of a tram line that takes you inexpensively (1€50 per ticket) into the centre of the city. The tram was very busy, with a lot of Eid revellers heading into town to celebrate the end of Ramadan, some of them in superb West African gowns, of which we saw a lot more in the centre.
We had a stroll round, settling eventually on a rather pretentious restaurant in the shadow of the statue of Jeanne d'Arc. I've reviewed it elsewhere as La Maison du y'en a plus. 'I'd like a gin-tonic, please'. Lengthy pause: 'We have no tonic: how about a gin-fizz? Oh, and by the way, we have no moules, filets de rouget or filets de bar.' 'OK, we'll both have faux-filets, mine saignant with pepper sauce, his à point with béarnaise.' Very lengthy pause. Steaks arrived, each with pepper sauce. On remonstrating: 'Oh we'd run out of béarnaise, so we just gave him pepper sauce instead'. A French couple, on hearing the litany of what they hadn't got, got up and left. Wish we had. Inflated bill, no tip. Name on application. But think of the British Finance Minister's title.
After another indigestion-afflicted night, we'd a pretty fair ride up to the end of the hole, including a pause to top up the diesel and to stock up the cool bag at the good old Intermarché in Marquise. We got away an hour or so earlier than planned, so were home in time to wind down before fish and chips from the usual suspects down the road. Best meal we've had for a couple of nights, but maybe a bit of an ordeal after so many other challenges to the appareil digestif.
Gentle day today: we've washed the covers of the top floor sofas from Another Place, dead-headed the penstemons and roses, and elected to put off grass cutting till tomorrow. As usual there was a mountain of paper, including three weeks' worth of the local rag, which was more than usually full of scurrilous revelations. Details, not unrelated to the hobby, on application.
Kate's play Queen Anne is getting a lot of good reviews, and we shall go on its closing night, perhaps taking in the RA summer show on the way. Check the web site for lots of images of the production, the synopsis, reviews (including the usual bitchy one from The Stage) and much more.
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