We bid adieu to lovely Beaune. It would be easy to stay. A wine degustation tomorrow, another lunch perhaps. A stroll through the Sunday brocante in the search for a new piece to add to my copper. Another lunch. The food and wine of Bourgogne is most familiar to the classic French we from afar first fixated on.
If you’ll allow those dreams wings and a short flight: a French farmhouse. A vegetable patch, fruit trees. Half a dozen chickens to support my baking habit. A bunny to spoil and love. A perpetualy sassy farm cat perhaps. A gingham apron features. The opportunity to immerse myself in languages I love, to befriend local growers, bakers and restauranteurs. Daily coffee in the tabac at 3. Debating the troubles of the world betwixt 3 and 5.
I’d never leave. Utter truth be spoken, my heart belongs in Europe. Northern Italy, if DNA testing is to be believed. My heart? Either there or France. Equally at home in either.
If there’s any sad truth for those of us torn betwixt, it’s this: you can’t be in two places at once, never mind three. I learnt this the hard way in leaving family for Melbourne. And again on the reverse journey. I revist the irony each time we travel to Europe. I can only imagine my parent’s journey to Australia from afar. My plight may be to live with a heart torn. Those who have truly found home in one place, what peace they must enjoy.
But I digress. Tis the excellent Bourgogne wine perhaps, a sliky and sly loosener of tongue. Or a little melancholy setting in with the end of journey in sight. Sometimes, we have to acknowledge the reflection in our mind’s eye and recognise it as our own.
Our lovely friends, frequently travellers to Beaune, have guided our way forward with two recommendations: the nearby villages of Meursault and Autun. They’re perfectly correct, of course. Bourgogne has enjoyed centuries of prosperity underpinned by its wine and it’s evident on this short drive.
Meursault first, with its beautiful white stone houses and patterned tile rooves.
Himself calls for lunch so it’s here we stop. A burger for him. Ouef muerette for me – farm fresh eggs poached in red wine, lardon and just a kiss of shallot. Utterly delightful. I first had this dish decades ago, in a restaurant freshly crowned “best new restaurant” in Melbourne. Mushrooms in that version, reduced to intensify flavour and baked in copper. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Himself meanwhile, has a childhood mortal fear of soft eggs. How sad he’ll never know their joy.
Meanwhile the roasted apricot clafoutis we both finish with is roll eyes in the back of your head good. Oh my. Bourgogne’s food certainly does not disappoint.
Vines surround us on all sides – make no mistake this is serious viticulture country.
Post lunch we press on. Himself has booked our passage to England at month’s end and with that goal in mind, we have to move. Autun isn’t far away. Founded by Roman settlement in 27 – 14 BC with a well preserved Roman past, it’s well worth a walk in the day’s blinding heat.
They were a brutal bunch, the Romans. I’ve learnt recently that they were responsible for the extinction of a number of African species thanks to their endless blood lust. Shameful.
You have to hand it to them when it comes to building though, 2,000 years on and this amphitheatre could be pressed into service tomorrow. If Roman troops were to loyally follow, custom dictated that they had to be entertained by the arena’s blood thirsty call. Completed in the latter half of the 1st century, it was the largest in Roman Gaul. Think on that for a moment. The 1st century.
An artistic rendition shows the amphitheatre complete with what can only be assumed was a chariot track.
A rather grandly decorated house overlooks it. You’ll need to zoom in to fully appreciate it.
Closer to the village, the remnants of one of four Roman gates remain, preserved as part of a church built in mediaeval times. An excellent use of archeological remains. Imagine if they’d leveled them instead. Unthinkable.
A helpful artistic representation shows us how the Roman fortifications would have appeared intact.
We elect to stay at day’s end. There’s a lake nearby which makes a peaceful oasis from day’s fading heat.
The following day we progress only a little further, settling on the Bourgogne canal. Glorious reflections in the afternoon light broken only by an occasional duck.
Miss Baci Travels 