The alarm rang out at 3.30am. "Do we really want to go to the goat farm for milking this morning?" was my first conscious thought. Of course we do.
The car wound its way around the tiny roads in the back blocks of Beaujolais. The morning's light had just arrived when we found Vincent's farm. "Coffee first" he said as he walked us through the tiny hamlet of Les Combes. We sat around the dining table with Vincent and his wife and sipped hot coffee, sweetened with caramelised sugar cubes, which would hopefully stimulate us a little. A crusty loaf of dark, seeded bread was cut on the timber table, already gouged with marks from the serated bread knife.
Vincent took us to the milking shed that reverberated with bleating of about to be , and just milked goats. They were eager to get their mouths on our jacket sleeves, note paper or anything within their reach. They were cute with their tufty beards, inquisitive, snowy white, wise and soft as silk. I like goats.
The morning's still-warm milk came to the dairy in shining milk cans. Vincent was precise with everything he did. Precise without measuring, "I used to measure the acidity in the milk, now I just know, I feel it" he tells me. We all shared a 'button' of yesterday's cheese which was resting on racks before going to be dried a little. It was pure and creamy. Life on the farm is certainly simple but not necessarily easy. Vincent works long hours but this afternoon he will take his family walking in a nearby forest for his dose of family time.
We ended where we began, around the timber table filled with gouges. Another mug of hot coffee saw us on our way. Yet another memory filled with the hospitality of almost strangers. We leave with the name of a local Auberge for lunch. Life is a wonderful journey.
Alex thought it was time for some shut-eye as we drove to the pretty village of Beaujeu, the capital of the Beajolais region. This region is one of contrasts with northern Beaujolais being forest and pasture and the more southern area of Beaujolais Rouge which nourishes the grapes grown for winemaking.
Our tummies begin to grumble and midday was approaching so it was time to head to the town of Gremolles-sur-Grosne and to Vincent's recommended Auberge for a long lunch. Sophie welcomed us to Restaurant de la Grosne, Chez Sophie like old friends. The food was good and homely but it was Sophie who made the place. So sad to finish my meal with a creme brulee that did not inspire a chorus of oohs and ahhs, it was a little too solid. Creme brulee is either on the money or not, it's one of those things.
Gremolles-sur-Grosne is nothing much more than Sophie's friendly Auberge and a small church. Wandering up the narrow road we entered the forest where we found the makings of a fort. We laughed at how a few years ago, alex would have been running through the forest, an imaginary war playing out scenes in his head. Today he was full of quiet contemplation.
We began to drive with no particular direction in mind... ahh, the luxury of time. There on the signpost was an arrow to the town of Jullie. We went with the flow, how could we not visit the town named after my much loved little sister so off we went.
The road to Jullie wound down the side of a hill planted with gnarled grape vines. Even though not visible today, the time would come when nature would demand that the dry wood allow itself to sucumb to a smothering of new leaves and vines, and in turn, grapes for the new harvest.
The tiny village of Jullie held wonderful new surprises for us all in different ways, just like my sister. She holds something special for all of us and always seems to have enough love to share, to make you feel as though you, and you alone, are the most treasured thing in her life. I know this because we all feel this way. She's one in a million.
Alex asked to go for a walk while John and I investigated a wine cave and knocked back a cheeky Beaujolais. He reported back a few times between returning to his new aquaintances, a group of four young ladies around his age. They had a great time and he left with happy memories and a photo of his favourite. Meanwhile John and I were getting to know Simone, a girl from Cleveland, Brisbane who had married a French guy and they had settled in Jullie. They have renovated a building built in the 1700's to be a restaurant called 'Le Haut Beajolais'. It is centre stage in the village square and looks so inviting with its sun drenched terrace filled with french style tables and chairs. If they were open for dinner we would have stayed.
A quick call to Alex tore him away from the gaggle of girlies and we made our way home. Our eyelids were heavy with the memory of the 3.30am alarm. It is always nice to return home after a day on the road.
