Jurassic World Treasure

It’s a dream come true for every dinosaur-mad eight-year-old. And I have to confess that even at the grand old age of 30-something with two kids under my belt and the third en route, I too am excited.

Call it the Jurassic adventure of my lifetime – to view herds of fossilized, dinosaur footprints found in Switzerland during the construction of a motorway. Since the extraordinary discovery in 2000, paleontologists have been hard at it digging, cleaning, casting plaster copies and so on. But it is for just four precious days in August – last weekend and this weekend (29 & 30 August) – that the Paleontology A16 site is open to the public. 

The experience lives up to expectation. From a 15m-high platform, one sees what experts reckon to be one of the world’s most astonishing Jurassic finds – 1700 fossilized dinosaur footprints, best seen illuminated at night. Much to the disappointment of every kid there, the exact type of dinosaur hasn’t been identified. But what is known is these footprints belonged to herbivorous sauropods – a type of diplodocus probably – who stood 2.5m to 3.5m tall and 20m long,

The fossilized footsteps are impressive, but what most woos is the sheer scale of the site – 4000 sq m of Jurassic world treasure incongruously ensnared by a mix of green field, forest and bright-yellow building-site machinery. Standing below the platform on the flat rock plateau, it is easy to imagine the Bahamas-style ‘beach’, mottled with shallow lagoons and tropical vegetation, across which these dinosaurs would have roamed 152 million years ago. A sudden roar behind one’s shoulder as we viewed the prints, each carefully catalogued and ringed in a different colour to match it to a track, would have come as no surprise.

The Béchat-Bovais site is in Courtedoux, a village near Porrentruy in the Swiss Jura. It is one of six sites to have been excavated during the construction of the A16 Porrentruy-Besancon motorway, to be completed by 2016. So far 4200 dinosaur prints and 30,000 fossils have been found, and experts reckon there are herds more waiting to be exposed. But the big question remains: what will happen to them? The decision rests in the hands of the Swiss Federal Department of Environment, although the odds they will be covered in tarmac never to be enjoyed again. Grrrrr ..

The Feast of Your Life

What an incongruous setting for France’s longest buffet bar – a municipal swimming pool in Narbonne, an old Roman town in the Languedoc, southern France.  So practical though. The kids had run riot all morning with a duet of outdoor water slides and the sparkling Olympic-sized pool. They’d made mad dashes dozens of times between pool and bouncy castle (wet skin = greater speed down bouncy-castle slide) and by noon were, in true five- and seven-year-old style, STARVING.

The buffet bar, all record-breaking 70m of it, arranged in a trio of U-shaped courtyards, was mind-boggling. Lavish trays of crabs, oysters, nail-sized tellines and other shellfish jostled for tummy space with traditional fish soup, Italianate antipasti, salads, cold meats, sushi and oeufs de poisson aka poor man’s caviar. And that was just for starters. Main course translated as sufficient roasted meats and fish to render even Mr Decisiveness Extraordinaire completely inadequate: beef, chicken, pork, ham, lamb, quail, veal, veal kidneys, frog legs, deep-fried squid rings and so on, not to mention meaty local specialities such as pieds de porc a\` la Narbonnaise (pork trotters), saucisse de Toulouse (hunky pork sausage from Toulouse) and fatty chunks of courtellous (pork belly slices).

With the exception of how many dirty plates you could cunningly balance on your well-laid table (dressed in a white tablecloth no less), there was no restriction on how many plates you took or times you served yourself. Food quality was something akin to a Swiss motorway service-station restaurant – which for any Brit translates as of an exceptionally high quality for pre-prepared food en masse – and drinks served by waiters added a touch of style.

The pièce de résistance was dessert, the course that interestingly everyone in the restaurant aged between 5 and 18 seemed to make a mad dash to – and linger on forever. Imagine a dozen different chocolate cakes, every breed of fruit tart and French patisserie, syrupy Greek-style pastries, exotic ice-creams like lavender or white chocolate, champagne sorbet in plastic green bottles, waffles and donut rings topped with milk, dark or white chocolate fresh from a chocolate fountain … each generously doused with a choice of whipped cream, fromage blanc, yoghurt, rice pudding, vanilla sauce or soft meringue.

Bottom line: The one fixed €22.90 menu at Les Grands Buffets  is good value for the ravenous and/or those who dream of gorging unrestrictedly on an unimaginable choice of different dishes and food products. Kids aged five and under feast for free, those aged 6-10 eat for €11.50, and wine is served at local producer prices (read €1.40 a glass or €7-10 a bottle). French dining hours are strictly adhered to, that is you’ll only get seated between noon and 2pm, and 7pm to 10pm (from 11.30am Sun). Turn up a second later and you’ll miss the feast of your life.

A Timeless Lunch

So my table reservation for 12 – six adults, six kids – is confirmed for Saturday. And with what relish I am looking forward to it, all the more so because I will lunch on the exact same meal I savoured so smugly last year when researching Lonely Planet’s Languedoc-Roussillon guide. This is where the unique charm of Château de Jau kicks in. I mean, where else in the world can you dine so memorably – think dining al fresco between 18th-century stone and pea-green vine with tasting notes to accompany each wine – and, return years later, to same said chateau to relive same said meal all over again. This address has been a faithful lunch date for returning Languedoc-Roussillon lovers since the 1970s.

I also love Château de Jau’s creative fusion of dead-contemporary art and timeless tradition. As with any self-respecting French restaurant, it serves its Côtes du Roussillon and Muscat de Rivesaltes wines by the bottle and carafe, the latter in this case being endearingly dubbed ‘le jaja de Jau’ and stamped with a unique Ben squiggle designed for this wine-making chateau by the self-same New Realist artist, born 500km-odd along the Mediterranean coast in Nice.

The Caviar of Lake Geneva Cuisine

 

Filets de perche (pike-perch filets) are a staple around Lake Geneva, to the point that dining can become monotonous (at least on the ‘rural’, southern French side where I live). Knowing most filets de perche come frozen from Estonia makes this ‘local’ dish even less sexy.

 

Not the case with fera, specifically carpaccio de fera. Savour just one mouthful of this raw fleshy whitefish and your libido for Lake Geneva cuisine spikes ten-fold.

 

I gorged on it with friends Friday night at Chez Gousse (tel +33 4 50 94 72 20, 24 rue du Bourg. Messery), our local bar which in true French village-bar fashion is propped up by the same faces six days a week and is never open when you want it to be. Gousse aka Serge who has run the place forever had gone all out with his feast of local products (incongruously called a ‘cheese and wine’ evening): cheese from the fromagerie in Douvaine, charcuterie (cold meats), three types of biscuits de Savoie (which pretty much translates as dry sponge cake), and some fabulous AOC Seyssel wines (I loved Maison Mollex’s 2007 La Tacconnière).

 

But it was the shrimp-like écrevisses (crayfish) and fera, both fished fresh from the lake that morning by Serge Carraud (tel +33 4 50 94 04 71, 68 rue des Pecheurs, Chens-sur-Leman), the local fisherman, that stunned the room. Served as wafer-slim slices soaked in an olive oil, raspberry vinegar and echalot marinade, carpaccio de fera is quite simply the caviar of Lake Geneva cuisine. I challenge you to find it in any restaurant. Rather call Serge for a fish and DIY.

Carpaccio de fera is practically impossible to find on restaurant and cafe menus.

Travel Writing: Putting in the legwork

 

It’s not all wining in trendy Marseillais caves à vin and dining in the next best place to eat before Michelin. Hiking in the rain to hidden rocky coves, walking dodgy streets, cruising by pedal-power along defunct railways … Putting in the legwork is all part and parcel of a travel writer’s job which is precisely what makes it such hard work, so darn inspiring.

 

The Rough, Tough, Macho Camargue

Leap of Life by @luefkens

It’s really not my cup of tea hence my never quite making it to one before. But today was different. Being in the right time at the right place, aka Arles on the opening day of the Camargue’s bullfighting season, I really had no excuse. All in the name of research I reassured myself. I also knew two small boys, aged five and seven, would be mesmerized by such gravity-defying acrobatics.

As spell-binding as the pack of young fit 20-something men in tight white flying to the sky to escape the bull, was the seriousness with which the audience watched. Easter is still a week away, so tourists remained anonymous. We were surrounded on all sides by born-and-bred aficionados for whom watching a bullfight at Les Arenes is the perfect Sunday afternoon. Cowboy hat, shirt and intense concentration were a uniform.

I grasped the Les Arenes bit: gargantuan arch-laced amphitheatre built by the Romans in Arles in the 1st to 2nd century AD, intact, magnificent. But the bull bit, not really. No blood is shed in a course Camarguaise (Camargue bullfight) and the pesky bull trots out the ring 15 minutes after entering to the sound of resounding applause. Six bulls in all make up a course, each one in turn taking on 11-odd razeteurs who pit their wits against the bull to pluck rosette, tassles and strings from its horns using a small metal comb-like object. Dressed from head to toe in bright white, bullfighters charge at the bull then flee the ring with an almighty acrobatic leap – an astonishing feat of agility and athleticism – up and over the red-painted barrier dividing the sandy ring from the audience. One razeteur, haircut swankier, t-shirt tighter, demeanor cockier than the rest, practically flew to the moon each time he leapt to safety. The accuracy of jumps was equally impressive: not once did a bullfighter miss the barrier, stumble and fall. Sensible given the size of those horns just centimetres from his bum.

Leaping in Tandem by @luefkens

Best up was the bull who also leapt over the barrier in hot pursuit, prompting cries of terrified delight all round. Best up was the bull who refused to leave the arena, prompting attempts by both the bell-clad head of herd and the herd-keeper aka a Camargue gardian wielding steel fork to get it out. Best up was bull after bull who thwarted the razeteurs’ acrobatic bids at bagging his trophies.

Time and again, bull after bull sent them flying like a pack of cards out of the ring. Crumpled, sweaty, bums scuffed with red from the painted barrier, those cocky razeteurs didn’t look half as immaculate when they left the ring. In the Camargue’s rough, tough, macho scape of bulls, white horses and mosquitoes by the billion it is clearly the black bull who has the last laugh.

Pack of Cards Go Flying by @luefkens

Dine Well, Dine Savvy, in Southern France

 

Peppers at the Provencal Market by Michael Gwyther-Jones

Having eaten out every day for the past two weeks (and set to do so for another four), I categorically confirm the following top three tips for dining well, dining happy in southern France:

 

1. Do not be bullied into ordering a bottle of water. Even in the most multi-starred Michelin restaurant, it is quite acceptable to ask for une carafe d’eau. A nonchalant ‘une carafe’ will do should you really want to say ‘I know what’s what in this Frenchie neck of the woods, so don’t mess with me!
2. Go on, be a devil, rip a chunk off that bread and wipe your plate with it. It goes against the best of English table manners but it’s soooo satisfying, honest.
3. If you’re unsure precisely how to eat something, don’t be afraid to ask for un petit conseil (a little advice). This is something I have done on several occasions with magnificent results (and not only on truffling matters at Chez Bruno). Take last night at the Hotel des Deux Rocs in Seillans: As starter I ordered saumon dans un macaron et salade japonaise. What came was two plates, one displaying a ‘flower’ of raw salmon with a sweet macaroon at its centre, the other an Asian-style patty of flaked raw and cooked salmon, mixed with hazelnuts and Asian spices, and topped with tart rocket and other green. I didn’t even pretend to know which plate to tackle first, to which I was told ‘don’t hesitate to eat them together, the sweetness of the first neutralises the acidity of the second’. And indeed, the orgy of contrasting tastes was fabulous.

Researching a Guidebook Off-Season

St-Tropez by Michael Gwyther-Jones

In a tourist-hot region like Provence there is one enormous advantage (bar the obvious) of travelling out of season – or rather on the cusp of the season as I have done for the past fortnight. Come Easter, this fabled part of southern France will burst into mad-busy life. But for the moment many hotels and restaurants are in a sleepy state of anticipation – painting woodwork, doing up shop fronts. Or they are simply shut full-stop … zero sign of life.

  

For me, researching a guidebook, this poses an interesting phenomenon. Instinct says ‘Pain in the neck! Have to come back!’ Selective judgment says ‘Great, easy as pie to spot where people who live here go!’.

 

 

Take St-Tropez. All those flashy, high-flyer celebrity addresses – Club 55, La Voile Rouge et al – are shut: summer’s jet set hadn’t arrived yet. Rather, it is down-to-earth, gutsy, simple bars and bistros like Brasserie des Arts, Le Sporting, La Dame de Coeur that are open, busy and buzzing. And have been all winter. That’s where I’ll send you, where the locals are.

Road Trip: Lake Geneva to the Med

 

Col de la Haute Croix, nr Grenoble, by gaetanku

Being so fixated on getting to St-Tropez by noon to have a decent afternoon’s work, I somehow managed to ignore the six-hour road trip south … from Lake Geneva to the Med. It was a glorious journey. Fuelled with two pre-departure coffees and four apples to munch en route, I was up with the larks and speeding direction ‘Annecy-Chamonix-Mont Blanc‘ by 6am. My Twingo practically purred as I drove between mountain peaks in the untouched Vercors National Park; snaked up and over the snow-hugged hairpins of the Col de Haute Croix mountain pass; razzed 130km/h past Sisteron’s rock-perched citadel; gave a nod to the monks frozen in stone at Les Mées; glanced wistfully at the ‘Gorges du Verdon’ exit; lusted after all that lavender I wouldn’t get to see around Manosque; motored passed the Luberon turn-off. Up to Aix-en-Provence where I joined the A8, the drive was rather like a slow-motion, cinematic version of a ‘Best of Northern Provence’ movie in fact.

 

By contrast the A8 was rammed with cars speeding hell for leather towards Nice. Five minutes short of my St-Tropez exit, warning lights flashed and all three lanes screeched to a death-defying halt. To pass the two long hours it took for fire crews to clean up the accident, I read the Provence chapter of Lonely Planet’s France guide, researched in 2008. Excellent tip by Parisian-turned-Londoner co-author Emilie: To avoid the worst of high season traffic (or in my case a crashed flaming lorry full of courgettes, aubergines and other Provencal veg) peel off at Le Cannet des Maures instead and follow the D558 road across the Massif des Maures to La Garde Freinet and Port Grimaud (from where you can sail Signac-style to St-Tropez). 

Joyous was the final approach to St-Tropez. It being March and low season, traffic was as silky smooth and fluid as that huile d’olive every second shop in Provence sells. I dumped the car in the hotel car park, skipped to Place des Lices, plopped myself down at a sun-facing table at Le Café and ordered a nice cup of tea and slab of Tarte Tropézienne. I had arrived.

Co-Authors Hit the Road

Massif de l'Estérel by theslaveofjapanapart

So, the second of my co-authors arrived in Provence today. I follow in two days time and Fran, the fourth on our all-girl power team, arrives in mid-April fresh from penning a guide on Iceland.

 

Alexis’ arrival in Nice particularly tickled my fancy. First she sent an email: ‘I’ve made it to France and to a computer with no full stops!’ And indeed every sentence ended with an exclamation mark. I sent a welcoming ‘salut copine’ text to the spanking new French mobile number she’d just acquired at the airport and within seconds she replied: ‘Just about to take on the A8. The island on which I live has no cars. Ahh, the adventure…’.

 

There’s no disputing Lonely Planet authors are a colourful bunch. This Prov & CA 6 team – four fabulous brunettes – is no exception. Alexis is a 30-something artist who lives and works on the Greek island of Hydra. My commissioning editor in London described her as ‘a real inspiration’ and reading the text Alexis sent a couple of hours ago she’s clearly not the only one to think so:

‘Full day: Got hit on by a toothless elder gentleman and I’m speaking atrocious Freek (mélange of French and Greek). But the Vallée de la Roya is incredibly beautiful and I’m about to indulge in a panna cotta after my plat du jour. Cheers!’.

Emilie meanwhile spent the day sprinting along footpaths researching day walks in the Massif de l’Estérel and cursing Sarkozy for the strikes that saw much of France shut up shop. Several of the museums she had planned to visit in Cannes were shut. As a kid Emilie summered from birth on the Côte d’Azur, is a London-based journalist, and is one of just two French people I have ever met in my whole life who speaks flawless English with no accent. Hard to believe but true. It’s also very hard to believe she’s Parisian.