We bit the bullet and decided that enough time had passed to allow the French authorities to respond to our letter sent from Lyon regarding our Carte de Sejour. We were at the prefecture in Beaune near opening time, it was the complete opposite to Lyon, gone were the queues of immigrants with tales of woe written all over their faces. In fact, there was not a soul in sight, except for the three, non-english speaking staff behind the counter.
We gave them a copy of the letter we had sent to Lyon prefecture and to date have not had a reply to. "What do we do we asked?" We would have to get our dossier forwarded from Lyon to Dijon, an hours drive away. "Could you please request our dossiers be forwarded," we asked. "Non Madame, you can call the Lyon prefecture to request this, I cannot." "Can we not do it here, we are tourists and we leave for Paris on Friday and will not be in Dijon?" "Non." "How long will it take for our dossiers to arrive in Dijon?" we asked. "It could take 3 weeks", was the reply.
The long and short of it is that we are a low priority for the administration so there would be no rush. Our hands really are tied, we try and try to do the right thing and are constantly met with an administration who does not seem to care. I hope they are as unfazed, if and when we are asked for our documents over the next 5 months! Somehow I think not.
So we returned home to call the number the Beaune prefecture had given us to enable us to transfer our dossiers, this number is merely a recording giving opening hours and you are unable to speak to anyone. We researched sending an email with our request, again we hit a brick wall, the web site says they cannot be contacted via email. Grrrrr!!!
Now for the fun stuff...
I must begin by warning you that some extracts of today's blog entry may sound as if they have been lifted from a fairytale, and it is quite possible they were.
We ventured past Autun, the town we visited a few days ago, into the Parc Naturel Regional du Morvan, a little slice of paradise in the French countryside. The landscape was one of rolling, pine covered hills, and where the trees were forbidden to grow, fat, milky-white Charolais beef grazed on lush pasture, I'm sure with internal grins. AJ played navigator for a while, deciding which direction we would take, he navigated us up a little road, ascending the side of a hill. The road lead nowhere, only to an old ramshackle farm house. One of the buildings had bird coups attached to its side, some of them tumbling down. The laneway we had driven was lined with wild blackberries which we plucked gently from their bushes, some were sweet and some were blushed dark purple with a tart inside, AJ seemed to find these ones. Most of the fruit that hung from their prickly hosts were red and hard and would surely be a surprise for visitors here on another day.
We headed along the road, turning left at AJ's insistance. Ahead was the village of La Grand Verriere and a darling of a picnic spot. We ate crusty French bread and our usual haul of saucisson and mustard. The vegemite was a ring in today and was nice with a little cold butter on soft bread (thanks Bugs!). We opened a wheel of Soumaintrain fromage from our visit to Gaugry last week, it was soft enough to spread over our bread in a cheesy blanket and was devinely creamy. The stream that ran beside our picnic table provided a tranquil soundtrack, there we sat soaking up another magic moment shared by just the three of us. We perched ourselves on an old stone wall just along the stream from where we ate, AJ and I sat together, we sat, and sat, and sat, just making memories. Behind us the road was lined with wild blackberries, some of which were cannopied by apple trees laden with fruit, beginning to turn rosy and sweet.
As we drove out of the village and over the bridge, we noticed a fly-fisherman, slowly stalking upstream, the movement of his action was practiced and graceful, it was mesmerising. We hopped out of the car and were careful not to make a sound, you could tell he was here enjoying the solitude of his sport, he was contemplative and seemed not to notice us at all. His rod bowed a little and I knew he had caught something. It was just a baby, but a trout none the less, he gently released it, easing it into the water to catch again another day when it would be more of a challenge.
We headed along the road, turning left at AJ's insistance. Ahead was the village of La Grand Verriere and a darling of a picnic spot. We ate crusty French bread and our usual haul of saucisson and mustard. The vegemite was a ring in today and was nice with a little cold butter on soft bread (thanks Bugs!). We opened a wheel of Soumaintrain fromage from our visit to Gaugry last week, it was soft enough to spread over our bread in a cheesy blanket and was devinely creamy. The stream that ran beside our picnic table provided a tranquil soundtrack, there we sat soaking up another magic moment shared by just the three of us. We perched ourselves on an old stone wall just along the stream from where we ate, AJ and I sat together, we sat, and sat, and sat, just making memories. Behind us the road was lined with wild blackberries, some of which were cannopied by apple trees laden with fruit, beginning to turn rosy and sweet.
As we drove out of the village and over the bridge, we noticed a fly-fisherman, slowly stalking upstream, the movement of his action was practiced and graceful, it was mesmerising. We hopped out of the car and were careful not to make a sound, you could tell he was here enjoying the solitude of his sport, he was contemplative and seemed not to notice us at all. His rod bowed a little and I knew he had caught something. It was just a baby, but a trout none the less, he gently released it, easing it into the water to catch again another day when it would be more of a challenge.
We began to chat a little and he shared that he travels 20 km to fish here twice a week, I understand why, it is a lovely part of the world, a little slice of heaven with a stream running through it. "Would you like to try it?" he asked in his broken english. He stood behind me, placed my hand on the fishing rod and held it firmly while he coaxed my body into a gentle rhythm, back and forth, occasionally dropping the line into the water. AJ had a turn next, another wonderful life experience I hope he will never forget. Our fly-fisherman was a peaceful man, quiet and gentle and I liked him for that. He suited being in the lovely stream that encircled his long waders.
Back in the car, I could not stop thinking about the things we are experiencing and the people we are meeting, everyday brings so many wonderful moments and I am so thankful to be experiencing them all. We tootled along to a place called Bibracte, an old archeological site on Mount Beuvray. The bus took us along winding roads to the top of the mountain. The view was spectacular, rolling hill after rolling hill softened by forest and pasture, it looked over the Auvergne region in the direction of Mount Blanc. It felt like we were on the top of the world.
We walked to the bottom of the mountain through the pretty forest, filled with bushes of deep green, wild holly. Archaelogical sites were marked on our map and we stopped at a few and marveled at the discoveries that had been made over the years, walls, roman houses, Franciscan chapels and the like. My attention was drawn deep inside the forest where the trees were covered in a soft, hairy moss of lime-green. I ran my fingers through it enjoying its softness. Wild mushrooms were scattered over the forest floor amongst the leaf litter, if I was more educated on which were safe to eat, I would have filled my bag and transformed them into something yummy on our return to Combertault. The old, gnarled trees made shapes like wild animals and as the evening came, the light was low and illuminated the forest in a warm, soft glow.
Back in the car, I could not stop thinking about the things we are experiencing and the people we are meeting, everyday brings so many wonderful moments and I am so thankful to be experiencing them all. We tootled along to a place called Bibracte, an old archeological site on Mount Beuvray. The bus took us along winding roads to the top of the mountain. The view was spectacular, rolling hill after rolling hill softened by forest and pasture, it looked over the Auvergne region in the direction of Mount Blanc. It felt like we were on the top of the world.
We walked to the bottom of the mountain through the pretty forest, filled with bushes of deep green, wild holly. Archaelogical sites were marked on our map and we stopped at a few and marveled at the discoveries that had been made over the years, walls, roman houses, Franciscan chapels and the like. My attention was drawn deep inside the forest where the trees were covered in a soft, hairy moss of lime-green. I ran my fingers through it enjoying its softness. Wild mushrooms were scattered over the forest floor amongst the leaf litter, if I was more educated on which were safe to eat, I would have filled my bag and transformed them into something yummy on our return to Combertault. The old, gnarled trees made shapes like wild animals and as the evening came, the light was low and illuminated the forest in a warm, soft glow.
It was 7pm when we returned to the bottom of the mountain, we had had such a wonderful time discovering that time had escaped us. We hurried to see the archaelogical museum and only had 1/2 an hour to scoot around it, never mind, I think we experienced the best parts of Bibracte and discovered her true inner beauty.
