Wednesday late morning the children and I headed to Gourette, a tiny mountain top village two or three hours away from Biarritz depending on which route you choose—although I created a third way, a four hour extended scenic route because I was traveling without a decent map! Mea culpa. Driving the scenic route I was following and being followed by others who had the same thing in mind about taking in the beautiful country views, and because of this found myself enjoying their company—meaning, we drove at the same speed with good driving distance between us (a luxury one will appreciate because this concept in France is almost non-existent!). We did have two particularly impatient drivers join the ranks but they quickly left the entourage annoyed because of our snail like pace—I figured if they wanted a quick way to get to their destination cheaper, then this was not the route! My driving companions and I could not be bullied from our Sunday drive speed and so Fangio 1 and 2 opted for the speedy tollway.
We made a stop in Pau (the town before one turns off onto the country roads towards the mountains) to ask for directions and to use the bathroom. We got directions and then found one of those detached outdoor paying toilets—that I usually avoid like the plague—and am happy to report that there was toilet paper and that it was clean!
I asked the children if they wanted to eat their sandwiches before we left Pau, but they said no—get this, they said that they wanted to wait until we got to the hotel so they could eat “properly” rather than eat in the car—they wanted to eat on a chair with a table! Argh, our children have turned French! LOL. But getting to our hotel would be our next challenge, a challenge because I didn’t book one. Olivier gets frustrated traveling Athena style because I prefer to shop for accommodation once we get to our destination rather than make reservations from looking at brochures. A risky venture and don’t I know it!
Ten minutes from Gourette we were stopped by police who said we had to park our car and take the shuttle up because there was no parking at the top—the car park we were about to enter was near full and there were cars parked along the side of the mountain—I swear the whole of France was on that mountain that day! I parked our car then pulled out the cell phone and hotel brochure to check out the accommodation—I wasn’t going to haul our kids AND luggage everywhere up that mountain—and so ended up doing what I should had done in the first place! I rang all the hotels in Gourette and, as was to be expected because of school vacation, not one hotel had any available rooms. But I was cool and then rang the hotels in Eaux Bonnes (the next village down from Gourette), and fortunately for us there were rooms available at the first hotel I rang—I took it without further ado. We liked the receptionist—a pleasant unassuming elderly gentleman—and the accommodation—clean, warm and comfortable.
After checking-in, we made a dinner reservation to eat at the hotel and then headed back for Gourette luggage-free to enquire about ski lessons and rental ski equipment for tomorrow. On our way up the mountain this time the whole of France were heading the opposite direction which meant that we were able to continue driving to the top rather than park then catch a shuttle. To our disappointment all ski lessons were booked but we were back in happy-land after we purchased some beignets to eat. After an hour at the rental store we loaded the car with ski equipment and headed back down the mountain to get ready for dinner.
Le Richelieu, the hotel we stayed at, was an old two star establishment but the sort that exuded character rather than one falling apart (the hotel does not look like the pics in the brochure and the website though—the pics were taken, I don’t know, fifty hundred years ago—meaning the hotel in the pics look new). The trimmings and woodwork were ornamented, the walls were textured still in its original fabric, the doors groaned slowly and a touch of rusticity was added to the frames (although the frame of the mirror we took our pic looked as if the paint work was coming off entirely). In the dining room were ten to twelve tables drapped in a psychedelic orange tablecloth and matching napkins and more wine glasses than a Mormon knows what to do with them—than maybe build a tower to the ceiling one above the other—and small baskets with plastic pastel coloured flowers that needed dusting. When I sat down I looked about and noticed that the French doors were stapled with homemade padding at the openings to keep out the draft—an even brighter idea than the orange tablecloth, I thought. Then the door groaned some more as more guests entered the dining room, with Stevie Wonder playing softly in the background.
We ordered from the menu and afterwards were fast becoming aware that we were being stared at because of our ability to speak English, French, and shh-up! The children were both acting like clowns and fighting like bulls, and although they weren’t the only children in the dinning room, they were certainly the noisiest! I was also thinking about the meal; I was curious how it fit with the decor hoping it wasn’t as eccentric, but when our meals were delivered—true to French style—it was excellent. I ordered a set menu at 13 euros that consisted of patè that came with fresh salad leaves and a light dressing, a tender pink trout fried with vegetables for main, and a scoop of vanilla and pistache homemade ice-cream for dessert. I noticed that the receptionist was also our waiter and when I spoke with Captain O afterwards, he asked if the hotel was like the British television program Faulty Towers—where all the jobs in the hotel is done by four leading characters. I had to say that it was, minus the fake French accents.
I’ll write about Thursday another time.
