The smell of warm blood was still lingering in our nostrils when we arrived at the Chateau for what they called “brunch”.
Commencing at eleven-thirty in the morning it was certainly not breakfast as we know it, but it was probably a little too early for lunch and certainly barely late enough for civilised people to be out of bed and dressed.
Certainly Celine and Dume had not completed either of those tasks when we dropped in to pick them up, whereas we, with the streets outside Jackie’s house alive with people visiting one of the three annual “attic sale” events in the village had been out and about since “early”, avoiding the temptation to buy any of the refuse on sale, watching as the street butcher made “boudin noir” - a regional blood-sausage specialty before our very eyes in a pre-breakfast stomach churning extravaganza of steaming offal.
By contrast the Chateau les Muids at least when we arrived was tranquil, awaiting our pleasure. A pleasure it was indeed. The gentle scent of the fresh flowers on the table quickly supllanted the olfactory horrors of earlier and “Brunch” turned out to be a simple affair comprising fine foie gras, and duck breast smoked on the premises, as indeed was the salmon. The chocolate cake and fresh berry sauce made a superb breakfast accoutrement, indeed some in our company thought it to be something of a master stroke.
By early afternoon that point had arrived though, when we were forced to leave the breakfast table and once more endure the sweet sorrow of parting.
Five hundred kilometres, two stops, four and a half hours, and forty Euros in tolls without once breaking the speed limit later, we were safely back on the boat in Toul and our little roadfest was over.
Commencing at eleven-thirty in the morning it was certainly not breakfast as we know it, but it was probably a little too early for lunch and certainly barely late enough for civilised people to be out of bed and dressed.
Certainly Celine and Dume had not completed either of those tasks when we dropped in to pick them up, whereas we, with the streets outside Jackie’s house alive with people visiting one of the three annual “attic sale” events in the village had been out and about since “early”, avoiding the temptation to buy any of the refuse on sale, watching as the street butcher made “boudin noir” - a regional blood-sausage specialty before our very eyes in a pre-breakfast stomach churning extravaganza of steaming offal.
By contrast the Chateau les Muids at least when we arrived was tranquil, awaiting our pleasure. A pleasure it was indeed. The gentle scent of the fresh flowers on the table quickly supllanted the olfactory horrors of earlier and “Brunch” turned out to be a simple affair comprising fine foie gras, and duck breast smoked on the premises, as indeed was the salmon. The chocolate cake and fresh berry sauce made a superb breakfast accoutrement, indeed some in our company thought it to be something of a master stroke.
By early afternoon that point had arrived though, when we were forced to leave the breakfast table and once more endure the sweet sorrow of parting.
Five hundred kilometres, two stops, four and a half hours, and forty Euros in tolls without once breaking the speed limit later, we were safely back on the boat in Toul and our little roadfest was over.
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