When we were in Toul, Paul had strongly recommended that we visit a particular restaurant in Dun-sur-Meuse.
We were about a morning’s distance from the said village and therefore lunch when we woke this morning, and since we hadn’t actually made up our minds how far we were planning to go today, lunch seemed to be an obvious destination despite it being almost fifteen kilometres away. If our sums were done correctly, we’d have to skip a stop for morning tea if we were to make it though, so we braced ourselves for a three hour, three lock marathon.
There was no risk that any of the beige notions of familiarity expressed yesterday would be carried through today though, from the moment we cast off, the river was in one of those moods where the light was filtered through a subtle haze mooting the colours of the landscape so that they looked as though they’d been desaturated in photoshop or perhaps left to weather for millenniums.
We discovered when we arrived that the village itself is postcard decrepit, intact but with a layer of wear thick enough to satisfy the harshest critic of urban renewal. It’s stone church rises from the rocky crag above the town, posing rather than imposing. Even those remnants of commercial activity the demise of which I was ruing only yesterday are scattered throughout the town, still sign written as they were decades or more ago.
After eating terrific Italian food cooked by an African chef for a Sicilian restaurant in a French village on the recommendation of a Dutch friend while on route to Belgium we can probably cease our quest for multi cultural adventure for a day or two at least.