Burgundy
Where does one start, from a culinary point of view Burgundy has an almost obscene richness of food and wine, it would have been only fair that the scenery and towns were ugly. This is not the case, history; trade and geology have combined to ensure that the visual delights match the culinary ones. I am always somewhat perplexed that it remains an area little visited by the British, it seems to be that place on the motorway on the way south. No more I say.
Dijon
Sometimes a city becomes so famous for one thing it is to the detriment of everything else. Unless you have been in a cave for the past couple of hundred years you will be aware of Dijon mustard. It the French mustard and maybe the mustard par excellence. Whilst we are on the subject good readers, maybe you could help me with a long running mystery. When I first arrived in this fair land, I was shocked when served what was sold to me as French mustard. This came as a dark brown sweetish mass, usually drying round the sides. What on earth was it, it certainly was not French (answers on a postcard) Back to Dijon, having become so famous for the mustard, somehow people seem to imagine that that’s it, Dijon, you’ve got the mustard, don’t be greedy. Well the mustard is only for starters, after all this is the capital of the Dukes of Burgundy. Geographically and tactically it is in a perfect position and can trace its roots back to the Romans. It is the Dukes, however who put it on the map.
So it is only fitting that we visit their powerbase: Palais des Ducs. It has to be said that imposing as it may be, the palais is a bit of a temporal architectural jigsaw. Started in the 14th century, its last alteration was in the 19th. This is home improvement on a grand scale, only the Dukes could ignore centuries of town planners. Here the medieval rubs shoulders with the baroque. Unsurprising as it shares an architect with Versailles. Standing physically and ecstatically above the rest is the Tour Phillipe -le-Bon, a lovely 15th century tower that affords wonderful views of Dijon and the Côtes D’Or, if you can brave the 300 odd steps that is. Otherwise the palais is a bit like an oyster, not exactly pretty on the outside but inside revealing a marvel with the odd pearl. First it houses a fine Musée des Beaux Arts, whilst it may not boast the greats it has some absolutely delightful pieces. The pearl are the rooms (even the kitchen with its 6 massive cooking chimneys). These are grandiose rooms, rich and luxurious. I just do not have the skill to describe them. They are the architectural version of an incredibly rich chocolate cake, with chocolate sauce and a good spoon full of Devon cream for good measure. Don’t miss the Salle des Statues and the Salle des Guardes. At worst you’ll never think your neighbour’s gold taps are ostentatious again.
A short walk from the Palais is the Rue des Forges, with its Renaissance buildings and their mix of stone, dark wood and local red tiles, it is a perfect antidote for the excesses of the Palais. At the end of the street you will arrive in Place François Rude, now the sight that will greet may make you think that the Rude is question was just plain rude, but the golden Bareuzai that takes pride of place at the centre of the square has nothing to do with poor François (he was however the sculptor of the freezes on the Arc de Triomphe) The resplendent young man you before you is the area’s version of the Bow bells. You see Bareuzai (or pink stockings) are the real natives of this quarter, why the colour pink? I can only surmise that it has something to do with treading grapes, though just around the corner you will enter Cul Bleu (blue arse) territory, and there I think my theory falls apart.
Dijon has many other little splendours, so do wonder around regardless of colour.
Vezelay
It seems inconceivable that this tranquil little village and St Bernard, better know for his lifesaving canine namesake, should be the launch point for something as bloody as the 2nd crusade. But history has a habit of starting in the oddest places, and it is indeed in Vezelay that St Bernard first preached the need for a crusade. He of course did not pick the village out of the phone book; it was home to a very powerful Benedictine abbey and allegedly one of the resting places of Mary Magdalene’s bones. This led in turn to St Francis of Assisi to choosing the place for the fist of his monasteries in France. Throw in Richard the Lion Heart meeting his French counterpart here before setting of for the 3rd crusade, and I am sure you will agree that Vezelay has more than its fair share of history (the wine is nothing to sniff at either)
As usual I digress, if you think that one abbey simply is not worth a small detour, UNESCO disagree and has put it on the list of World Heritage Sites. True my republican friends did quite some damage to the exterior, but not enough to detract from the sheer marvel of the abbey.
It always amuses me, when people point to old and ancient buildings and use them as a great example “leaving things well alone” As with most French and European historical buildings, the abbey is a complete architectural spider’s web built over a very long time period. The finished item in this case spans 10 centuries, from the 9th C to the 19th C.
One of the things that will strike you as you enter the abbey is what some describe as its main building material; light. The abbey has been built to light up in a very precise way. Here god will not hide in the shadows, he lights up worshipers. Apparently this reaches its nadir at noon on the summer solstice. For us less than organised folk, a sunny day will suffice to delight in the somewhat mystic way the light plays with the interior. The main doorway is also much talked about, I particularly love the depiction (mainly on the lintel) of the people who have not “hear the word of our lord”. Look out for men with pig snouts, elephant eared men, feathered men and a good smattering of dwarves, one trying to mount a horse with the help of a ladder. What you are staring at is some very early spin, it’s a sign saying “do not enter here at your peril” or a billboard advertising the plight of the sort of people the crusades were going to save. A long trek up the tower will reveal a lovely view of the surrounding valleys and the Morvan.
The Morvan
Natural beauty has sadly never had much currency, the Morvan is no exception. With no geographical importance or natural resources, the area has been generally passed over by the history of man. It’s most famous product was wet nurses; they were considered fine specimens when breast feeding your own was frowned on. There is now a National Park, a recognition of what is a truly wonderful area of natural beauty.
There are many little trips you can take in the Morvan, one example is the one that takes you from St Honoré les Bains to Autun. The road is not unlike the end of the Italian Job (the original not the awful remake) so if you have any gold in the back of the car be careful. This trip takes you through the higher parts of the Morvan. St Honoré les Bains is a chance to try some real mineral water; not the bottled stuff we all know but the real thing. These are heavy in sulphur and cyanide and said to be a boon to those with breathing difficulties. It is well worth a try, if only so that you will never call bottled water “mineral” again. Now that you are feeling re-invigorated take the road leading to Vielle Montagne, a relatively relaxed drive. When you get there a little walk is in order. Park up and follow the signs to the Belvédère de la Vieille Montagne. Here you will get your first view of the real Morvan, Mount Beuvrey and the surrounding forests spliced with those sharp rock formations. And we are off again towards Larochemillay. This is a delightful little village with a fine 18c castle over and fine views over the Roche valley. And we are off again heading towards Autun, skirting Mount Beuvrey. From here it is just the shear beauty of nature, the Morvan is Tolkien like. Dense forests are only interrupted by sharp rocks seemingly springing from the trees and dangerous gorges appearing from nowhere. You half expect to be slowed down by a group of tunnelling dwarves. Sadly the average Frenchman would still react with some excited use of the car horn. I do not want to spoil the trip with a detailed description of every turn, there are too many and I really don’t have the time. Autun is no shabby end of the line, it was the gateway to Burgundy for the Romans and possesses its own Cathedral St Lazarus. Maybe after a day spent in the car, a walk along the ramparts will stretch your legs, it will also allow you spot one of many little jewels in Autun that you still have the energy to visit.
