In Strasbourg there was this hunting shop. You might not be big on guns and stuff but I used to love to see hunting gear in shops. This place was the piste resistance of hunting shops. In the foyer an old man sat with a pipe and by his side lay a small “hairy McClairy from Donaldson’s Dairy” dog snoring happily. In the front desk cabinet there was a Glock, a Barreta and an 1860 Colt .45. Behind the old man were rifles and shotguns with beautifilly stained timber stocks.
The young salesman (the son I think) explained that there are 1.2M rifle hunters in France. The part of the shop not packed with arms contained all you would need to wear to walk onto a set of “Midsomer Murders” as the well healed country manner owner out for a spot of duck shooting. Forest green felt pocket vests, thick brown/grey woollen jumpers green canvas backpacks. I fell into a kind of trance until the young suggested I perhaps should bugger off.
Anyway, this evening we sit in the kind of pub that, had I’ve decked myself in hunting gear from said Strassbourgian store, I would’ve looked right at home (actually I would’ve looked like a complete wanker but I’m going for a feel here). Thick timber beams line the ceiling, the walls are adorned (I’m moving away from strewn) with the heads of countless unfortunate beasts who happened to stop to sniff the flowers or canoodle quietly in a secluded corner of the forest, at precisely the wrong moment; deer, boar, fox, rabbit etc. Wine is served in big clay pitchers and the room is filled with the smell of red wine, wild game stew and caramelised onions.
I ask for gluten free options in my now well rehearsed frenglish speach and the waiter replies, “no, for you only salad et beaucoup des vin”, laughs and pulls a “special” menu from the draw. Pointing to a sign which I thinks says something like, “we cater for all kinds of wierdos”, he proceeds to out-line a massive selection for moi. We go for a beef and potato stew for two with a smoked boar meat salad for starters (we’re on a light day).
After the “salad”, that would’ve sunk an upturned frisbee in a bathtub, outcomes a Terrine the size of a shoe box piled to overflowing with stewed beef and potatoes. Feeling like the oie (goose) in pate de fois gras, we went for a promenade of this small twee town. We climbed up to the top of Kayserburgs 1250 castle turrent and looked up the steep mountain valley through the mists to Labaroche beyond…..returned for a brandy then bed.
Mists indeed! Yesterday 32 today 15 maybe, and pissing rain! We’d had a delightful breakfast at Des Deux Clefs, chatted comfortably with Simon and Simone, Aussies working at the Embassy in Paris, on holidays (Simon went to Kenmore high where and Harry and Jordy went! – I know) and were ready to go. We’d just dumped our excess gear with the hotel, donned our packs and bid the hotellier of this fine establishment adieu when the skys fell. With a brief break, as I’ll shortly describe, they contined to fall for our six hours march to Kayserburg.
Wandering up the hill the clouds parted momentarily revealing the rolling hills under vine plummeting to the petit villages below. The brief photo-opportunity quickly passed and it was something of a trudge onwards. Above Neidermorschwihr we took a detour from the yellow trail to the blue trail to take in a tiny chapel – this may have been our undoing. So as not to double back we continued on the blue trail, the blue trail taking us on a delightful (sodden) black forest trail up above the towns of Neidermorschwihr and Katzenthal and below the peak of Trois Epis probably doubling our journey.
We climbed to the peak of Boenthal (623m) and then finally, dropped down into the pretty little town of Ammerschwihr. I know they all sound German but we’re told if you call them that you’ll get the look of death; not french, not German… Alsation. We found a litte boulengerie here and dried off. This place was deserted but every second 700 year old home was a vigneron offering a degustation lunch! The boulengere was delightful and jammed us with tarts and hot chocolate ( merangue citron pour moi). Off in the rain once more for the final couple of kilometers.
To be fair, the forest walk was lovely, new emerald green growth on the trees, clear, soil smelling air and a mossed, leaf-lichen forest floor. We saw two deer, countless yellow green snails, a half drowned earth worm and a massive fat slug. But it’s good to remove sodden boots, and warm from the stew an red wine, collapse into bed.
Labaroche tomorrow,….but not before a hearty hunting lodge breakfast!