In response to the article in today’s Daily Mirror

Self-employment at Brasserie Bar Co

• Brasserie Bar Co has just nine out of 600 employees who are self employed. They are an exception to the rule because of their nationality (Romanian). Under European law, Romanians working in the UK are mandated to work on a self-employed basis and then apply for a national insurance number once they have a job.
• Taking on staff on a contracted basis is a matter of last resort for Brasserie Bar Co and a route which we take only because there are simply not enough people coming forward to fill the job opportunities which are available in our company.
• We do not employ anyone on a contracted basis for longer than six months. It is not in our interests to do so. It is much better for us that they  become part of our company and benefit from the training and career opportunities which we are proud to offer all of our staff.  As soon as a self-employed person has a national insurance number we transfer them onto our payroll.  This has happened already with one of our Romanian employees who has been with us for six months and the rest will follow as soon as they receive a national insurance number.
• Unfortunately, in its article today, the Daily Mirror has chosen to ignore many of these facts about self-employment at Brasserie Bar Co. Our focus is to employ enough of the right people in quality working roles to deliver great service to our customers.

I despair! Every time we have a new dish or a new menu, all the waiters and waitresses in the Brasseries taste the food as the Head Chef takes them through the history, making and possible issues of each dish. Nothing strange there; many of our staff have tasted their first snails or soufflé during these sessions. Amongst the dishes we were tasting recently was Bœuf Bourguignon. Very politely, one of our staff’s hand went up. “Yes?” enquired the Head Chef (equally politely). I hesitate to continue this little story, as much in anger as in sadness, but this was the question: “Chef? Carrots; they’re the orange things aren’t they?” I will allow you a pause to regain your breath. I am very happy that we create an atmosphere where the staff ask questions and are eager to learn. But this was no child; he has left home, lives on his own and is no fool. But he is not sure what a carrot is, because this obviously strange vegetable has been a rare occurrence in his life. What hope have we regarding sustainability, provenance, diet and the many other very serious issues we fight for when some of the very fundamentals are missing?

As you might expect, I was not going to let this lie. I was intrigued how this young man had managed to live 23 years without becoming somewhat acquainted with the humble carrot; even if it was only in a Bugs Bunny cartoon or even in a snowman. The answer, my dear friends, is far more frightening than you may have thought. Rather than berating the poor man, I ignored the Daucus carota sativus issue and approached him casually after the training and started a casual conversation. What was his favourite dish? What did he think of the Celeriac and Bramley apple soup? My Gallic charm having put him at ease, I went in for the kill; what did he eat at home? My dear friends, the answer is a bombshell that should resonate throughout Britain. He does not exist, as you might expect, on a diet of takeaways; no he does eat at home. He goes to the supermarket to get his food like all of us. That he buys ready meals only is bad enough, but it is the way he thinks of them that is terrifying. He has NO idea what he is buying. To him they are all rectangular boxes that carry a name. Some he likes; some he doesn’t. He is oblivious of what ingredients make up the dish, even less the origins of the dish. He knows he likes the purple packet that says Chicken Balti and he knows he likes eating it with the white one called Cauliflower Cheese but he doesn’t like the brown one that says Risotto. This is one of the truly rare moments in my life when I was speechless; dumfounded my English friends would say. In instant all the art, love, joy and pleasure of food disappeared; I nearly cried for this young man. Please do not blame him, if our society is incapable of show our children what real food is; it is our problem. A problem our children must sadly live with.

The answer is easy; we have to show our children how to cook! And I don’t mean pierce lid and microwave for 5 minutes. At the Brasseries, Elf and Safety permitting, we invite schools, clubs, Scout packs (any tribe of children) to come and get a cooking lesson. These are no starchy classroom sessions. These are fun. They make things, they eat them, they get a bit dirty (sometimes a lot). They discover that there is magic in making things; a sort of alchemy. Eggs and sugar turn into meringues. Cakes rise and soufflés fall. They discover that once you have had fun making things, it continues because you can eat them. The Chefs enjoy it too but that’s because the kids tend to be better behaved than most kitchen brigades.

So ladies and gentlemen, cook for victory! Don’t take your kids to work; take them to the kitchen and cook something together. A memory I will take to the grave is being allowed to lick the spoon while Maman Blanc and I cooked together and she seemed to have managed quite well in instilling a love of food in yours truly.


Pas de Calais and Picardie

This part of France deserves more than being the arrival and departure lounge for your holidays. I understand that on a day trip, aimed at stocking up on food and wine, you may not have the time to explore further afield. But on I can assure you that by hitting the accelerator on the A26 you are missing some quite delightful sights. It is an area steeped in history, some of sadly quite bloody; Agincourt, the Hundred Year war, the Somme and the Marne and of course Dunkerque. The connection with Britain goes back to the 1300, so it’s sad that we now seem to ignore it.

Compiègne

A truly hidden gem, it rarely gets a mention in any list of “must visit”. A pity for such a royal city, Louis XIV complaining that he was a king in Versailles, a Prince in Fontainebleau but a peasant in Compiègne set about remedying the situation (as any self respecting Sun God would do) He built a palace facing the forests that are an integral part of the beauty of the town. And the palace is a good place to start. The wonder of this palace is the existence of remaining examples of the imposition of taste. by varied kings and emperors. The winners are the 18^th century, first and second empire. Now none of these styles could be described as minimalist, but it is fun to see the somewhat delicate opulence of the last king turn into a far more solid kind only to end up with something that is nearly a mixture of the two. They have thoughtfully laid out most of the rooms in a straight line; this only increases the experience as you stroll from one to another. My particular favourites are the rather delicate (certainly in comparison) Games Room built for Marie Antoinette and the fairy tale ball room. If open the grand and pompous theatre is worth a detour, Napoleon III never saw it finished, but it was built to the original design. Oddly this palace was chosen to house the National Car museum, if that is you thing you will not be disappointed. The gardens are sweet but are only there as antechamber for the woods. These are the real attraction and the hunting was what brought royalty and emperors here. Witness the power of the avenue Beaux Monts ripped through the edge of the woods, emperors go hunting in style.

The town itself is pleasant enough but bares the scars of two world wars but the impressive gothic Hôtel de Ville is still standing in all its bureaucratic beauty. This is a statement of power. Just down the road is the Church of St Jacques, a somewhat grey exterior belies the gothic splendour inside. This is where Joanne of Ark preyed before being captured by the English (still a touchy subject in France, so do be careful)

The woods are the other star attraction; these are ancient woods that once would have covered most of Northern France. There are various routes round the forest, many taking in the area where the Armistice was signed. I prefer the more natural routes, take the N31till the Pont de Berne and head for Mont St Marc. If you are lucky enough to do this route in autumn, the colour of the beech trees is breathtaking and the views of the valleys on the opposite side are not bad either. You are then looking for directions to the Vieux-Moulin, the roads are not the best but you are in one of the oldest forests in Europe so stop complaining. Vieux-Moulin is an old logging village long since invaded by what are the more affluent burgers of Compiègne and is notable for its lack of a mill and the distinctly odd church.  Built by Napoleon III it boasts a nearly Chinese steeple and porch of dark wood. Onwards to the Etang de St Pierre. I’m not sure what an étang is in English, my dictionary says pond or lake, but they are more than that. These were built by monks for the purpose of fish farming; the Empress Eugénie found it so charming she built a sweet little forest home there. How wonderful to have such power. Next stop St-Jean-aux bois, this was a monastic village in the 12^th century, and the church is spectacular in its Roman simplicity.

You can now start heading back to Compiègne but not before you stop and take a walk in the magnificent forest. I’m not going to tell you were, just pick a spot and go and get lost for a while. So there we have Compiègne a true hidden gem, if was good enough for kings and emperors surely it’s worth a small detour by us mere mortals

Baie de Somme

Start at the wonderfully named  Mers-Les-Bains, this little monument to the Belle Epoque owes its existence to the arrival of the train and the great and the good of Paris looking for a healthy break by the sea. The village is at the foot of (apparently) the tallest chalk cliffs in Europe. Considering how unstable these things tend to be, I’m not sure that this is something to crow about. It does however frame the village quite dramatically especially with the North Sea as a background. The place was so popular that the Parisians built lavish houses in the Art Nouveau style. This means the promenade is a slightly confused mix of colours and those mock gothic shapes so loved by the movement. Butlins does medieval in colour. The beach is mainly pebbles but the low tide divulges so sand.  Onwards and upwards to Ault, literally. Why this is not spelt with an H is a mystery. Another seaside resort known as the Balcony on the Sea. It boasts a very sweet little church, some formidable views on the bay and the most lovely, picture book light house. In glorious red and white, it’s just the sort of thing I would draw as a little boy. The Bay at Ault, helped by debris from the cliffs has become a lagoon and a sanctuary for a myriad of birds (over 150 breeds I was told) Hitchcock would have loved it. From here the road takes you to Saint-Valery-sur-Somme, but before arriving there, the views of the Bay of Somme of absolutely spectacular. I think it is the combination of the light and the flatness of the land, the way that on calm day it just fades into the sea. On stormy days the light is even more striking as is the contrast between land and sea. So whatever the weather you are being treated. Saint Valerie played a huge part in British history………. it is from here that William the Conqueror set sail to invade Britain. The Famous Somme river flows into the sea here and adds yet another layer to the mood of the countryside. So much so that the likes of Degas and Seurat visited, and when two such diverse painters chose a place then you know there has to be something. Still not convinced? I raise you Jules Verne and Victor Hugo… The town has a “high” part and a “low” part. The low part by the sea is best for that wonderful British thing, the bracing walk. Unlike most of the villages around, this is a medieval town, most the ramparts remain giving the place a feeling of snug safety. Not that there is any chance that you will be invaded during your visit. It’s just that the weather can be most inclement and the fortified town gives shelter from the wind coming off the sea. The main “portes” into town are the best examples of the fortifications and are quite imposing for a small town like this. The Porte de Nevers, named after the previous owners of St Valery, is like a layered cake of history; all rough and ready 14^th century base topped with a far more refined and less scary 16^th century part. Don’t miss the Mariners church. This is a slight oddity, built by the sea it is decorated with a checkerboard affect not unlike chef trousers and is topped by a curiously small bell tower.

You now have a choice, either you continue towards Le Crotoy enjoying superb views of the bay, or if the whole William the Conqueror thing has left a bitter chauvinist taste in your mouth, I have the answer. A small detour via Abbeville can take you to Crécy, where the French were given a lesson in archery by Edward III (also the first use of canon on European soil) Either way you should finish your day at the Marquenterre park. This is a bird sanctuary at the very tip of the bay. No dear friends I have not become a twitcher (is this really what people who bird watch are called?) but nature of this beauty simply can not be ignored.  And anyway it’s in the middle of an even bigger nature reserve. Man (monks in fact) have been playing tug of war with the sea here since the 12^th century. It’s not until the beginning of the last century that man starting wining, but by a stroke of luck (actually a crash of prices in the farming sector) rather than becoming arable land it was given over to the nature reserve. Not being an expert of the avian as I previously admitted, I can not name the multitude of birds there. Feathers not your game, then there are seals and even an extremely curious small woolly horse. The latter being something to do with Norwegian Fjord horses. The park is well organised and there are different walks you can go on and even those little shelters you can hide in so as not to scare things away. All in all a wonderful way to end the day

Lille

The beauty of France is diversity, around its borders neighbouring cultures leach in. Lille is the capital of French Flanders. The historic influences are many, Germanic, Spanish, Portuguese and even your King John (the eternal villain in Robin Hood). It only became truly part of France after its conquest by Louis XIV. The flavour however remains very Flemish. Beer reigns here, and with it a wonderfully boisterous view on life, big fairs and late nights. The beer has not, however, stemmed a highly creative population; lace, ceramics and tapestry from here are amongst the finest in the world, though today it relies on more modern forms of commerce. It has always been a prosperous town, due to the river which made a perfect staging post for trading.

Start in the old town, here you will be immediately struck by the local style. This is a delightful if quirky mixture of plain red brick and ornate sculpture. As always the best way to visit such places is to allow yourself to wonder, let your eyes guide you. If it looks interesting go towards. You can start at the Place du Général de Gaulle or depending on your age, the Grand’ Place. This is the centre of Lille and of course the main market place. The Flemish influence is strong, so what you get is a large empty square (apart from a central column and fountain) just waiting for the next market. The square itself is mostly framed by narrow houses with intricate sculpture decoration on a background of brick. This could become monotonous if it weren’t for the each house boasting a different shade of red brick, the result is a glorious variance on a red brick theme. The square is dominated by the Grand’Garde, an imposing building that housed the King’s guard, the building is topped by three graces that are the symbol of the town. Urban planning is older than we think, the position of the Grand’Garde is I think no accident. There in the busiest place in town, the soldiers overlooked the populace, ready to intervene and the drop of a hat. The old stock market (Vielle Bourse) is a delicate Gothic (is that possible) building, its internal courtyard surrounded by colonnades. Take time to look at the decoration, angels, flowers and grapes adorn the walkway, a successful attempt to bring beauty to a place of finance. There are also little islands of Art Deco as well, the Huiterie in the Rue des Chats Bossus (the humpbacked cats street) is a fine example and has also kept its interior. Of course there is also the cathedral, but in Lille the cathedral is not your average French proposition. The neo gothic building was started in the 1850’s and only finished at the very tail end of the last century. There is no doubt that it is an oddity; there is no bell tower, they ran out of money so a small tower has been erected just next to it. It is a mixture of what I can only call “copied” and modern. I must admit the modern part is more interesting. The main façade is curious, somewhat stark affair, topped by the main stain glass window that appears to be held in place by a large metal cobweb. The main doors by the sculptor Jeanclos are really quite impressive and a more successful modern interpretation of ecclesiastical gateways.

It is rare that I highlight museums or art galleries, the Beaux Art in Lille has to be an exception; this is possibly the best after the Louvre. It’s been going since the 1800’s, so it has had time to build quite a collection, and what a collection! A veritable smorgasbord of art. You can start with some wonderful oils on wood from the middle ages and go all the way to Picasso, taking everything else in between. There may not be the famous grand stand pieces of the Louvre, but this is an advantage as they always seem to suck you in to the detriment of everything else.

This is the birth place of Charles De Gaulle, and so it fitting that you may want to finish your visit one of the great forts of France (unless you really want to visit the house of his birth) The Citadel was built by Vauban and is built as a series of ever decreasing stars. The reason behind this is simple, the star shape is better than the old flat wall. It increases the area you can post your defenders thus increases the fire power. On a less murderous note, it is now set in a lovely wood, and make a lovely backdrop when walking the ramparts. Beware, it is still used by the army and so only parts are open to the public.

So there we have the Pas De Calais, well worth more than a fleeting glance as you speed elsewhere. It may not be the France you know, but it is France and it is beautiful of course.

Though neither the young Candide or Voltaire his creator were talking horticulture, the thought that we must tend our own gardens has not faded in over 200 years. When I first arrived in England, I did not expect to see Napoleon’s nation of shop keepers, what I expected was a nation of gardeners. To some extent the Brits lived up to my expectations, Britannia may have ruled the waves but it had a good go at nature. The results were gardens of great beauty and great order, manicured and military in their precision and totally visual and olfactory in their appeal. Growing food was quite a rarity and even then the majority banished to theses strange things called allotments. It was as if growing food was something to be frowned upon, something that had to be done in secret behind closed doors so as not to cause offence. It seemed that it would remain forever so, the castle was only a castle if it had a garden. And a garden did not contain anything edible. A somewhat sad state of affairs that suddenly took a real turn for the worse in the late 80’s with the arrival of the dreaded decking. Suddenly we were all encouraged to cover over our gardens with wooden planks, namely so that we could enjoy the garden, the very thing that we had just covered over. Somehow people who would have screamed “philistine” at the suggestion of paving or concreting their lovely gardens were quite happy covering it with wood. It is time I declared my position on this; I was brought up in a family were the role of the garden was to not only to frame our family home but to feed us as well. Maman Blanc is the head gardener just as my father is the head forager. Though possibly no match for some of the most beautiful flowers, vegetables, herbs and their like are hardly the ugliest things in the world. They are slaves to the seasons and will refuse point blank to reward you if planted in the wrong place. The battle with insects and disease is exactly the same and sadly so are some of the ways of combating them.

So it is with this background that I am pleased to report that there is once again a change in the air. The people of Britain are reconnecting with their little private part of nature, they may not be giving over their gardens to food production, but they are starting to realise the importance of their square of green. We are beginning to understand that pouring vast amounts of noxious chemicals into our gardens may result in short term splendour, but the long term effects are disastrous. Our eco system can simply not take it, and the damage extends far further than our castle. I am not pretending that a well managed back garden is the answer to all problems, but it’s certainly a start. If you have ignored your garden, I can promise a monumental return for a small investment of time and money. Brief surf on the net will help you chose simple low maintenance plants, a quick walk round your local garden centre will help as well. There is a middle ground between the waste land and the perfect manicured garden, and does not involve a power drill and some planks.

So what of those allotments, well dear readers, I can happily inform you that they are not just still with us but they are thriving. A few months back I was lucky enough to visit one. It was a revelation; a monument to the people of varied background that make up this island. Plots of potatoes and leeks nestled next to plots growing cavalo nero and basil, mustard greens here, corn there, tomatoes of every type, salads of every hue and much much more. I was in heaven, and to top it all the vast majority were using organic methods. I even witnessed a delivery of horse manure direct from her Majesty’s Horse Guards. Royal Organic.

So as the very wise Voltaire said, you do indeed have to tend your garden. Who else is going to do it?

Specialist tools 467 pots and pans, knives,

Ovens
One of the wonders of modern life is the choice, but with choice comes a whole new set of problems in that we have to make the choice. Not so long ago what we cooked on was not a choice; gas, electric or coal. Now most of us are faced with a dizzying array of hobs, cookers etc ….

Gas or Electric?If you have to make a choice, then you need to know what the difference is. Using gas will result in a more moist finish but far less evenly cooked than electric. The usual presence of a grill in an electric oven means you can brown things, a rarity in gas ovens. Electric also gives you far more control over the temperature. The public seems to have chosen electric ovens as the choice is far bigger and as technology improves the variety of things they can do (bread proving, defrosting, thermo cleaning, rotisserie and many more)

One or two?
If you have the space, a large and a smaller (with a grill) is very useful if you do a lot of cooking though this may put an end to the large turkey at Christmas. You may not see the beauty of this set up until the day you decide to cook two things in the oven that need different temperatures, I also find them very useful for keeping plates warm or resting meats.

Fan assisted? Cycloheat?
The normal electric oven is controlled from the centre, so will always be slightly hotter in the middle. The fan puts a stop to this by simply circulating the temperature evenly across the oven. If you go for two ovens, only one needs to be fan assisted. For gas ovens the choice is cycloheat or not. The conventional gas oven falls prey to physics and is always hotter at the top, cycloheat concentrates the heat in the centre.

Combination ovens
These ovens use the combination of the electric grill, oven and fan assisted oven to great affect. The caveat is that this is technology and you really do have to read the instructions (not always an easy thing) as it really is the only way to get the best out of these things.

Size
Of course ovens come in varying sizes, how big do you want yours? A simple way of ensuring you get what you want is to take you biggest oven dish off to the show room and try it out. Don’t worry about strange looks, you’ll be laughing when they find out theirs won’t fit.

Before an army of Arga loving readers swamp me with emails, can I simply explain that they are wonderful tools but are nearly a whole chapter by themselves and are best left to specialist to explain.

Now I know that strictly speaking that honey is a completely natural ingredient, but man has had to tame the bee to produce enough of the real amber stuff. Where do we start? Well man’s use of honey is as old as the hills, it is mentioned in some of the oldest surviving written texts, so we are talking at least 5000 BC.

A few words in tribute to the bees who produce honey; for a kilogram of honey the bees need to visit over 4 million flowers and travel over 110,000 miles. On a less pleasant note, honey is “made” by eating the nectar and regurgitating it several times before sealing it in honeycombs and ventilating with wing power.

The truth regarding the age of the honey bee puts us poor humans to shame. So we were writing about them 4000 years ago, well a recent bee found in a piece of amber has been estimated to be 100 million years old! It makes the reported decline in their numbers even more shameful. So when did we humans start getting in on the act, it seems the Egyptians caught on first, indeed lower Egypt was known as Bee Land (as apposed to upper Egypt known as Reed Land. It was used as a medicine and even made its way into the embalming process of the Pharaohs. The famous milk baths Cleopatra was so fond of were laced with honey. It was the Romans however who really took the breeding of bees to another level. The reason is simple, the Romans had a notorious sweet tooth, and never a good meal went by without the use of honey. A particular favourite being soft boiled eggs, with ground pine nuts, honey and anchovy paste.  Half a world away the Chinese were following very similar paths as the Egyptians with honey being an asset for the ruling classes and used in medicine.

Other contenders for the honey “inventors are Greece and India, Krishna himself is sometimes depicted as a bee, and religious writings glorify honey. In fact so does the Koran and the bible where the often used “land of milk and honey” comes from. Not to forget the term Ambrosia the food and drink of the Greek gods, many think that this was honey. And last but not least Eros/Cupid dipped his arrows in honey, though it is not recorded whether this was to intensify the feelings of love felt by the victim or simply to stop infection from the arrow. And if there was not enough doubt as to who did what first, when Europeans invaded the Americas they were surprised to find … yes the use of honey was common

As humble as I am, I would not dare pass judgement; I just do not know where it all started. And as all this happened some 99 million years or so after the first bee, I don’t think it is of any great importance.

As bees were more easily “farmed” and honey more available, it found its way into the mainstream as sweets and of course drink. Mead is just honey wine.

The arrival of sugar on the scene brought to and end to the mass use of honey, as it was an easier way to sweeten things, and it is only lately that the wonderful medicinal properties of honeys are being rediscovered.

I apologise for what is quite a vague time line, but in itself this says more about honey than I could ever do. The bee has been around long before us, it produces something that is both nourishing and healing, if it is present throughout the world, it is not because of us, no it’s just one more astounding truth about bees.

Savoie and the Nothern Alps 2500

Covered in pines is the origin of the Savoie name, this idyllic starting point belies a tempestuous history. The simple reason for this is access; it is the easiest place to cross into and out of what is now France. And though elephants are possible they are still discouraged. At one point the house of Savoie was the oldest ruling family in Europe and oddly stretched its tentacles as far as Sicily and Sardinia. I apologise at this point for using the French Savoie, to me Savoy is a cabbage. Needless to say that an area with such natural beauty and money will always yield a stunning selection of places to see.

Annecy

Annecy is that rare combination of historic and natural beauty. Man has lived here, at the tip of the lake, since pre-history. The weather will determine the setting; it forces the lake to take on many guises. A sunny day brings out a blue that would not be out of place in the Caribbean. Bad weather and mists roll delightfully down the mountains, giving the lake a simmering pot like illusion. Either way a walk in the Parc Impérial, by the lake, will lift the spirits. The Pont des Amour will take you into the old town. This bridge is a lovely bridge over one of the canals that cut across Annecy, but it is no Bridge of Sighs. I was somewhat perplexed by its grandiose name, surely love merited a better monument. It was only sometime later, that I discovered the love the bridge alluded to was, how can I put this delicately, paid for. Once across the bridge, you find yourself in the Jardins de L’Europe which is a small but delightful arboretum and a wonderful entrance to the old town.

A word of warning, there are some who call Annecy, the Savoyard Venice. With the greatest of respect to the Annecy, canals do not a Venice make. The canals are delightful but not magical, a closer comparison would be the Savoyard Amsterdam. And that’s not bad at all. The oldest church in town is St Maurice, a relatively austere façade hides a gothic interior. It was a convent, and the somewhat piecemeal construction is due to “donations” from local fat cats. Each chapel bears the arms of its benefactor. In complete contrast, up next is the church of St François de Sales. Built much later in the 17th century, this is an altogether more resplendent building. It is worth remembering that Annecy was on the front line of the Protestant and Catholic schism. St François, the patron saint of writers, spent his life converting Protestants and is buried here. This church is a celebration; it was a place of pilgrimage and gifts were heaped on it. The revolution was not kind at all, and it was only in the last century that it was fully restored. No austerity here, it is wedding cake white, Baroque wood and splashes of coloured panels. Unlike most churches it is also very bright, no pools of light, here all is illuminated. From the light of sainthood we move to the darkness of jail and the most famous site in Annecy; the Palais De L’Ile. This odd building, with its prow like frontage, appears to be attempting to break its moorings to head out for a trip round the lake. It has been in its past a Lord’s mansion, a seat of local government, a mint, a jail and now a museum. The best view is from the bridge that crosses across the front of the building. The building is now the home of Centre d’Interpretation de l’Architecture et du Patrimoine, who says the French are pompous!

The main street of old Annecy is the Rue St Claire, a narrow vaulted street, that though a bit touristy is worth a stroll. Added delight comes from sneak peeks (peaks?) at the mountains above the city. If you follow the curve St Claire will bring you to the castle. This is an architectural quilt, started in the 12th century and added to for the next 400 years; it boasts medieval and renaissance buildings. As a castle it dominates the town and lake, and as a tourist please take advantage of this. The views of the mountain framed lake are lovely, but even nicer is gazing down on the old part of town. The roofs, canals and small roads make a charming abstract puzzle. Your final destination is the Cathedral of St Peter. It was not originally built as a cathedral, so it is not the most imposing of structures of its type. I does have the honour of having been the temple of Reason during the Revolution. This mere chapel was only promoted some 200 years after it was first built. It is quite a modest building, as simple as a renaissance build would allow it to be. The one extravagance is the organ that seems to have been shoe horned in. I could not help thinking that it would blow the roof off if used in anger.

Time did not allow me to be tempted by the many types of excursions the lake offered, I do however regret this.

Croix De Fer

Do not be put off by the fearsome name, the Iron Cross is one of the most wonderful car journeys you can imagine. Its title comes simply from the Iron Cross that is found at the summit of the pass of the same name. A summit that is regularly used by cyclists on the tour de France, a point I make only to question the sanity of some people. A quick look at a map will tell you to check your brakes and advise anyone suffering from vertigo to stay in bed. You can start (or finish) in St Jean de Maurienne a charming village that has the dubious pleasure of being the resting place of some of St John’s the Baptists fingers. I imagine the presence of these digits explains the cathedral in such a place. Most of it dates back to the 11th century; it is quite simple from the outside but yields a picturesque cloister once inside. The crypt, which was only re-discovered in the late 50’s, is a real gem. It allows a glimpse of the far more modest and simple architecture of the early church. Before we set off, it would be remiss of me not to mention Opinel knives. These simple knives were one of the first signs of manhood for me; neatly folded in your pocket, they could be retrieved for mushroom picking, collecting vegetables in the garden or just sharpening a stick (I am told there is a word for this in English). Mr Opinel started his business just outside St Jean de Maurienne.

So we are off, direction St Jean D’arves. This good road will take some way there, but don’t be concerned we will be heading “off piste” soon enough. Think of this bit of the trip as the overture, stop and admire the views of the valley of the Arvan as you seem to leave earth behind. Ahead rocky spines bid you welcome. Someone in the car (or bike) needs to keep an eye out for the turn off for St Jean. Here find the church, slightly outside the village. The view is spectacular, think of it as base camp one. I think it is the juxtaposition of gorges and the snowy mountains that are wonderful, extreme at the top to extreme at the bottom. Off to Saint Sorlin D’Arve. I have negligently forgot to mention that you really should check the feasibility of this little journey, this is skiing country and might prove to be difficult in winter (to say the least) Skiing is also sadly responsible for the ugly villas that seem to sprout along the route. Prince Charles would have a fit and I don’t think I would disagree. St Sorlin is at the base of the Col de la Croix de Fer, the trip up in a car allows you to enjoy the views; the valley below and its villages limpet like on the side of the mountains, the mountain peaks and even the odd glacier. I must apologise for not naming all these, but beauty like this does not need names. At the top a short walk takes you up to the famous cross, more views and a certain sense of achievement (totally unwarranted of course) you will also find a 360 degree map if you insist on naming every peak. Next stop Combe d’Olle where the EDF (the French Electrical Company) has mastered nature by building a barrage. In fairness it could have been worse, it is not a complete monstrosity and tries hard to blend in. Heading for Le Rivier d’Allemont, the road gets interesting as the mountains seem intent to reclaim its own, pebble by pebble. More fantastic scenery and even a graceful waterfall. Le Rivier d’Allemont boasts possibly the most incongruous pair of tourist attractions in the world; a “museum” dedicated to the local mountain goat and a space dedicated to Air Marshall Leigh-Mallory the British commander of the D-Day air forces. I belittle neither, just question them side by side. Heading for Le Collet de Vaujany, the road intertwines with many of the rivers coming down from the mountains. The view at the top is made special by its breadth and of a lake whose name I do remember; Lac Blanc.

Vaujany is the next stop, it seems to have been built as a viewing gallery for us. The Massif des Grandes Rousses is laid out in all its splendour and a short walk treats you to the spectacular 1000 meter Cascade de la Fare water fall. And here I leave you to find your way home. I find mountains leave me breathless, the air, the beauty and sheer grandiose spectacle they give us. I hope you agree, and if you don’t; on your bike.

Evian les Bains

Even Maman Blanc has her limits and I have run out of tips, so I am throwing out a challenge to all our readers. Do you have tried and trusted old fashioned household tips. A bottle of Champagne with your next meal if we use yours, email them to us.

A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down

To sum up, I plead with our government to stop being such spoilsports, what a crime it would be if we ended up fearing food, where a chocolate éclair could only be bought from some shady character in a dark alley. It was a famous nanny who said “in every job that must be done there must be an element of fun”, and this simply is not FUN.