Lunch and a revision of plans is the order of the day. A stroll into town to revisit a favourite from last year – a waterfront favourite that’s consistently busy whilst other places stand a little empty. There’s good reason why too – the food is excellent.
I lay to rest a burger envy I’ve had since last year when Chris ordered. It’s the slice of local Munster cheese that elevates this bad boy to the next level.
Meanwhile, Himself plumps for a more traditional dish with noix de porc, cooked in beer with tiny pearl onions. He deems it very good.
After lunch I had great intentions of lighten Himself’s wallet in the cooking supplies store – the shops here are full of tempting bits and pieces I rather fancy for my kitchen – but I hadn’t counted on the frustrating French habit of closing for a two hour lunch. The shop won’t open until 2.30 pm. Foiled!
In one of his cleverer moments, Chris suggests that we thwart the weather by heading south, to the lavender fields. Last time we were in Provence, we missed flowering season by two weeks. Much gnashing of teeth ensued at endless kilometres of shorn lavender bushes, nary a waft of scent in the air. By my reckoning, this trip should see us arrive at the start of the bloom and before the hordes descend. As far as I’m concerned, Himself has outdone himself – this suggestion borders on sheer genius. Thus decided, we take the road south in earnest.
It’s interesting, looking across farmland in late spring vs summer. Grain crops are almost ready for harvest, whilst the ever present corn, usually 6′ tall in summer, are mere seedlings, inches high. Set against blue skies, it’s a pretty setting.
Late in the afternoon we cross the Moselle river, home of many happy vineyard adventures on our sojourn through Germany as few years ago.
It’s here we settle for the evening, stretching our legs before dinner with a walk along the canal then up a killer hill to the nearby village.
I make a few hissy goosey friends along the way.
What’s left of the sun is spent sitting outside, listening to birdy evensong, the occasional cuckoo making himself heard.
I don’t sit still very often, but if the cool weather has reminded me of anything, it’s how nice it is to just sit under blue skies and feel the sun’s kiss.