A day on the farm... Wednesday 5th August 2009.

Unfortunately we were fresh out of sheep's testicles this morning and AJ had to settle for a simple bowl of Special K for breakfast.

On our way to La Ferme de la Ruchotte, we passed through Bligny-sur-Ouche, the village we departed from for our little steam train degustation adventure a week or two ago. The usually sleepy streets were in full swing for the early hour, the line from the boulangerie door snaked out onto the street and the weekly market was bustling with shoppers in the main square. The last time we sat in this square, a sudden storm hit and our table and chairs nearly cartwheeled across the facade of the Hotel Dieu.

We arrived at La Ferme de la Ruchotte by 10 as espected, Frederic and his youngest son were already out in the parc feeding the chickens when we arrived. The farm is certified biologic, something very important to Frederic who raises all kinds of ancient breeds of animals whose meat is served at his restaurant table. The chubby black pigs were my favourite, the way they chortled as they rushed to the trough as Frederic filled it with their food. He patted the 'big boy' lovingly, clouds of dust rose into the air escaping from his wiry hair.

We chatted while he filled feeders with grain and legumes, and replenished the water for the hens. roosters, ducks, geese, goats and pigs. A lone lama stood watch as if given the job of the farmyard centry.

How lucky we were to wander in Frederic's 13th century garden, it's landscape wild, hiding edible and fragrant gems. If the herbs don't grow in here, he does not use them in his recipies. He proudly showed us his fruit trees and a wall of hazelnuts. As we headed back to the farmhouse, rustic with crumbling stone, he bent down and showed us a small oak tree his Mother had bought him, it has been impregnated with spores of the Burgundy truffle which one day will bear its rich fruit, Frederic hopes he lives long enough to see it.

Chubby puppies greeted us near the house and rolled over on their backs for a tummy scratch, their Dad, a local, is a blue heeler so they have a bit of Aussie in them. Frederic will keep one as a working dog.

Back inside, I sat with Fredric in the same dining room where we had enjoyed such a wonderfully authentic experience last night. He shared his thoughts on life and told the stories of turning his back on the Michelin starred life and about working in the big name restaurants of France. We bade him a fond farewell, it was time to go fishing with his son.

Bollocks! Tuesday 4th August 2009.

When talking to food lovers in this wonderfully rich gastromomic area of France, one meeting always leads to the next. When you hear the same name whispered more than once, it is hard to ignore it, and you feel you just have to check it out to see what all the fuss is about. This was the case with La ferme de la Ruchotte, a tiny little auberge hidden deep inside the forest above the village of Bligny-sur-Ouche.


As you step over the threshold of farmyard, complete with chorteling pigs, lamas, and all kinds of fowl, and into the dining room, some adjustment is needed to the psyche. Here you are in Frederic and Eva's home, at their table, looking through to their family kitchen, here you are part of the furniture.

It took some time to settle in, there are no staff to fuss over you, to pour the water, or to offer an aperitif, you don't even know what is on the menu. The wine order is taken and Frederic disappears to the cellar, returning with your chosen drop. Comforting, buttery smells begin to make their way through the open door of the kitchen, Frederic is busy at the pans. Our entree arrives, two discs of lightly floured, seasoned and pan fried something. We run our knives across the meat, it is soft and pillowy, a little like chicken but not as firm by a long shot. We are in raptures and mop up the juices on our plates with crusty bread, baked by Frederic of course. He enquires if we liked our entree as he passes by our table on a nother trip to the cellar. "Oui, tres, tres, tres bon", we all agree. "Do you know what it is?" Frederic asks. "Sweetbreads" is my closest guess, due to the softness, but unlike any sweetbread I have ever eaten and not nearly as rich. "Lower" he says, "much lower". It begins to dawn on us all that we have not just eaten, but devoured, a plate of pan fried and beautifully seasoned testicles, sheep's testicles in fact. Boy did we laugh, AJ just couldn't believe it, and JR's eyes had definitely widened a little. Welcome to French farmhouse cooking, this is the real deal!

The next course was a little more common, boudin, sometimes known as blood sausage. Frederic's version was a lot more delicate and fine in texture than others I have tried, and was served with buttery, pan fried apples, the ideal foil for the rich flavours of the sausage.




Main course arrived at the table in an old copper serving dish. It contained slices of rosy pink pork fillet in a sauce made from morille mushrooms, quartered red onions, cream and stock. This is how meat should always be and so different to the usual animal flesh we eat. The flavour is deep, old, and truly of a farmhouse, it was real. The pig is called Grand Gascon and it is an old, old, breed with a history reaching back to Julius Caesar. Frederic is living his dream of raising his own meat from ancient breeds which are biologicaly certified, and serving them to appreciative guests in his home. The true greats of gastronomy are regular diners at his table, Trois-Gros, Rostang and Lameloise, just to name a few. Frederic shared with me his recipe of the dish they all adore.




The things I loved about La ferme de la Ruchotte were the honesty, the experience of eating typical food in a French farmhouse, the simplicity of the food and the deep flavours derived from the quality of the products, the way the meal was served in the middle of the table allowing us to help ourselves, Frederic's humility, and the old Limoges china we ate from.




And guess what? Frederic invited us back to see the farm in the morning! We are to be there for 10am to see the work begin.

Hooty Hoot and Tooty Toot! Thursday 24th July 2009.

Our appointment with Friar Fredric at Abbaye de Citeaux was for 10am, we didn't want to be late so we left home at 9 with plenty of time to find our way.

Friar Fredric greeted us and was rather taken with Alex's mop of blonde hair. We walked outside together, him wearing his long robes of black and white secured with a knotted leather belt around his slim waste, the sky had turned dark and mysterious. "The sky is dark, I am sorry" he said with a shrug of his shoulders and a smile. He turned out to be quite the joker, AJ was surprised, so was I. Frair Fredric showed us around the Abbey. Much of it had been destroyed during the Revolution, with the exception of the 15th century biblioteque. We followed him up the spiral staircase made of cold stone to where the original manuscrips are housed. They were beautiful and Friar Fredric spent time explaining and showing things to AJ.







The thunder clapped the loudest I had ever heard and the heavens opened. A sureal feeling while in an old Abbaye standing beside a monk looking out the window, smiling and nodding. Can't say that has ever happened to me before.

The monks make a very well respected washed rind cheese, it has a fine reputation in Burgundy so I wanted to do a little digging and find out all about it. Friar Fredric was a closed book on the matter, obviously not a foodie. I happened upon Friar Raphael, I had hit the sweet spot. It turned out this monk is responsible for tending the cheese from when it is 2 days old to when it is packaged (about 20 or so days). He was so full of information and only too willing to share it. Our discussions ended at prayer time when we bought half a wheel of his sweet fromage, tasting of pasture, and bade him farewell.

We traveled around with no compass and ended up in St-Jean-de-Losne, a canal town not far from Dole. Our tummies were growling and we had packed one of our famous picnics, all we needed was a baguette and we were set. Not so easy to find today. It was mid afternoon and all the boulangers were closed, so were two supermarkets we tried. After much tooing and froing, we found a little artisan boulanger and were armed with a big, crusty baguette to accompany our goodies.

Finding a picnic spot can sometimes be tricky too but we set off in search of one. As we drove along, I saw two baby deer grazing in a field. I had kept saying to the boys that I just wanted to see a deer, the last I had seen was in the distance in the countryside of Lyon. It was a lovely sight to see.

By the time we found a suitable picnic spot in the shade, with a table, and by a river (we don't ask for much) it was after 3 - we were starving. We sat beside a crystal clear stream, I had never seen a stream so clear and perfect before and we had a great time. Certainly not a picnic from hell as they sometimes can be.



We had to be in Bligny-sur-Ouch for 5.30 so on we pressed. The country side is lovely here, hilly and painted green in one direction and gold in the other. There was time for a quick coffee in the bar that spilled out onto the village square. As we were about to leave, the wind came in a huge gust, blowing chairs along the ground and things off tables. We ran for the cover of the car. Mother Nature had another storm in store for us, just as we were about to board our steam train ride for a degustation of local products in the lovely Vallee d'Ouche.


Lucky for us, and everyone else, the storm came and went and we clickey clacked along the tracks under a sky of blue. Over the next few hours we rode the steam train and stopped at Thorey-sur-Ouche to enjoy a taste of regional products. The chevre was lovely, mild and smooth and the gougeres were light and cheesy, AJ loved them and so did we. JR loved the pain d'espice studded with fruit and nuts, cassis made an appearance as confiture spread on sweet bread. Everyone ate and drank wine without a care in the world.

The train made its way through the valley, passing cows with their calves, sticky-beaking at us all aboard this noisy steam train, they couldn't take their eyes off us. As we returned to Bligny-sur-Ouche the sun was soft and low, the shaddows were long, and we were tired after our day of adventure and discovery.

Too Much Beauty In One Day. Saturday 11th July 2009.

Is it possible to see too many beautiful things in one day? Today was one of those days, everywhere I looked I was struck by just how lovely the world is. First, to begin my day with JR and AJ, and then to travel around France to places so beautiful they should come with a warning.

We returned to the Bourgogne Canals, where life trickles along at such a leisurely pace it makes one weary. The first stop was at the village of Bligny-sur-Ouche right near the source of d l'Ouche Canal. The water was lined with apple and cherry trees, laden with fruit.






The loch keeper at Bouhey was awaiting the arrival of a few boats so we waited around to see the process from start to finish. The boats arrived and made their way into the loch, and then meandered slowly downstream. The first boat through was manned by two elderly ladies, one on deck and one in the wheel house - you go girls!




It was already 3pm and on our arrival in La Pont d'Ouche, our canal-side spot for a picnic lunch was settled on in an instant. We laid the table with our saucisson, varieties of cheese, red tomatoes, and crusty baguette. A boat drifted past us as we ate, the English guys on board told us the Aussies were doing us proud in the Ashes match. The boys were happy.

I met two ladies on board a Flemish/Dutch boat moored on the canal, they had set up camp for a few weeks. One of the ladies and her hubby had bought the boat in England, restored it, and brought it over to France via the Channel. It's name is loosely translated to 'Out of the ratrace'. They couldn't be further from the ratrace if they tried. The sisters sat on deck, sipping white wine and smoking like chimneys, a crossword sat on the table in readiness for when there was a lull in conversation. I guessed that would be rare.

Downhill from the village of Chateauneuf, we could see its Chateau high on the hill. Chateauneuf has been awarded the honour of being 'a beautiful village of France'. No wonder, we all agreed it was one of the most beautiful we had visited on our travels so far. Bright, blooms sat atop spindly stalks with busy bees darting in and out of the flowers, on their outward journey they were covered in white specks of pollen. They were industrious and surely the hardest workers in the village today. Can the botanists out there tell me the name of these flowers please? My friend JC says it may be a Hibiscus but he is just as bad with flowers as I am.





The Chateau was beautiful, it was simple in contrast to others we had seen and was beautiful in its simplicity. My favourite thing were the glazed floor tiles. I liked the way the light shone through the windows onto them.







In the centre of the village we sat on an outside table at L'Auberge du Marronier, Alex chased a lemonade flavoured with syrup fraise, with a rich hot chocolat, JR downed a cold beer, and I, a cafe creme. There was a game of Jeux de Palet in play in the village square, in view of our table. It's a simple game. Today's participants used metal discs, rusted with age, and tossed them onto a wooden board, the player landing closest to the jack disc is the winner, kind of like petanque I think, although I am no expert. This was the first time I had seen this game and the information I gleaned was from people that spoke no English, and from watching intently while sipping my cafe.



The road took us back canal-side to Vandenesse-en-Auxois where boats were moored just after the village loch. From here there was a distant view of the Chateau with the glazed tile floor, high on the hill. We knew the canal disappeared through a tunnel to travel underground for about 3km further upstream at Pouilly-ex-Auxois. It took us so long to find the entrance but I'm glad we persevered. Young lovers had set up a picnic just near the entry. Alex and I threw rocks into the water from above, the sound of them breaking the water's surface made the best plopping sound, echoing in the tunnels entrance.



We were home by about 10 and dinner was on the table by 11 - who cares!