Gnarled sea creatures

When we are not sightseeing we are hunting down markets. One stop, this week, was Cancale. Here, in days long past, Louis XIV regularly sent his minions to collect these delicious Cancale oysters from the sea to serve at his dining table at Versailles. 

We parked just above the harbour, where at low tide, the oyster beds spread out in long strands across the sea floor. At this high tide, the locals had had enough of tourists parking in front of their sea view and moved us on, so when next we saw oysters next it was at a cafe in St Malo.

Bretagne is all about seafood: to such an extent we traipsed off to Paimpol to the fish market on Tuesday and bought up these gnarly old spider crabs that had been swimming together happily only this morning. 

We bought them and took them home where we anguished about killing them mercifully but after a glass of fortifying wine we had them immersed in salted water without any pain. We hope. 

The shelling and dressing took a team of four nearly an hour. Not easy. 

But the flavour -- fine filaments of fresh crab on crostini drizzled with lemon -- was worth the effort.

Thank you, sea gods.

Stone ladies of Cancale, washing the oyster catch

Cancale oysters - fit for a king

Spider crabs in Lannion market

Dressed spider crabs for dinner

Venelles and lanterns

Some places in Bretagne have, about them, an air of romance.  Morlaix is such a place.  Its prominent church has spires rising straight out of a fairytale. 

Overhead a graceful granite viaduct rises so high above the town it casts arched shadows over the many pretty half timbered houses beneath it. 

A walk along the second level of the grand viaduct reveals arch after disappearing arch leading off onto viewing platforms, perfect for peering from on high over the overhanging facades of the pretty town.   

Winding down the narrow pedestrian venelles to St Matthew's church we came upon an unexpected and ancient 14c treasure of the French Church, the statue of Our Lady of the Sea, which when closed shows Mary suckling Jesus, but when opened reveals a triptych of scenes from the life of Christ.  So small and and so very precious.  

One of the flower ladies decorating the altar went to great trouble to seek out sufficient light, first by candle, then by lamp, to enable us to take our photos.  So kind.  

On we went to one of the definitive historic homes in Morlaix:  Duchess Anne's house: remarkable in so many ways.  Its living space rises high and tall overhead, topped with glass which allows in light as if a lit lantern had been placed in the rafters, creating a unique architectural feature specific to this town which has been called the 'lantern house' effect.  

The entire living space is suffused with a soft glow.

Morlaix's romantic features don't stop there. Oak steps set into a bulge in the back wall are pegged all the way up and around an exquisitely carved central wooden post, rising three floors.  

At each level a little pont-alee, a charming wooden balcony bridge, joins the back rooms to the front of the house, allowing for easy connections.  Carved saints and secular figures decorate each level and it is all so utterly charming.  

It is so easy to imagine a time when the streets of Morlaix was rich with prosperous merchants and captains of the sea.    

Morlaix

Graceful granite viaduct overlooks Morlaix

Arch after disappearing arch

Our Lady of the Sea

Lantern feature

Pont-alee, wooden balcony bridge

Like scotch thistle

Once, many decades ago, we ate globe artichokes with hollandaise as a first course at a dinner party in Canada. Ever since then I have wanted to try that dish again, but we see them so rarely in Australia that by the time I am ready to buy them they have, again, disappeared from the shelves.

As the white asparagus stocks slowly begin to deplete in Bretagne, globe artichokes appear to be popping out all over. 

We first noticed new fields of spiky root cuttings all in a soft grey green as we were driving by. We wondered what the crop was until we shortly found mature fields of richly rounded globe artichokes. If left unharvested these globe artichokes develop a purple flower making then look like a large scotch thistle -- which makes sense, since an artichoke is a variation on a thistle. 

Salivating we bought some, took them home and trimmed the root stems, the tops and spiky outer leaves; then cooked them, slowly boiling in acidulated water. 

We dipped the outer leaves in fresh buttery hollandaise, eating down to the choke. The feathery choke we removed with a spoon, then polished off the last bit of the delicious heart that was left. 

Globe artichokes in Bretagne

Trimming the artichoke

Simmered slowly

Simply delicious 

Alive, alive o-oh!

Locquirec waterfront on the coast of Brittany is like something Monet might have painted: shadowy figures against a back drop of soft misty sea, bending, gently teasing les coques--cockles, out of the shifting sands. Gleaners of the sea.

Unlike along the Thames where they dredge these little fellows by sucking them out of the sand using huge vacuum pumps, the local Bretagne folk treat these little bivalves gently using just a rake. They can fill a plastic bucket in no time. Free. From beneath beautiful Breton sands. When the tides are out. Using simple tools from the back shed.

A delightful old man on the beach explained to me in effusive expressive French (which I only partially understood and, then, only because of the context) that when he gathered les coques he had to wash them in litres et litres (et litres!) of salty sea water, getting rid of the sand. Then he liked to steam them open and dress them with garlic oil.

 I longed to join them.

Locquirec in Monet colours

Demain or Dimanche

South we then head for two months exchange in Brittany, a thousand kilometres over lovely little river ferries that bridge the Netherlands dike roads, bumping over pot-holed rustic roads through Belgium, and averting our eyes as we pass the endless tragic war graves of the Somme.

On to the two and half acre property in Rugugen in rural Brittany where we are staying for a two month stint after a fabulous local welcome from our new Bretagne friends, who are exchanging with us in Australia and are off on a plane in the morning. 

We had wonderful day with them showing us the local sights all around including an extended drool at their local traditional charcuterie in Ploumilliau just a couple of kilometres from home where we bought everything to make lunch.  The shop is filled with slices of rolled and roti meats and heavily peppered and spiced sauccisons and fat stuffed tomatoes, an amazing little place wafting with deliciousness.

One of the owners is famous for her cooking classes. We must see if we will be able to follow them, and perhaps book a session. Then on we go to check out where the best farmer markets are and the best restaurants in the region.

Brittany is famous as the place Parisiennes come for summers. In our first week we were to see many houses along the coast shuttered, waiting for them. Sometimes even the paths leading to the front doors showed long spells of being left untramelled.

For our first Sunday lunch we turned up at one recommended place bursting at the seams--always a good sign!--but where there was no room for us, so we attempted to make a reservation for next Sunday, tho' we're not sure if they understood it to be for 'demain' (tomorrow) or 'Dimanche' (Sunday). We will know next Sunday*.

Sundays are clearly busy for dining out but luckily we found a lone table in the next village for lunch and tucked into snails, shrimp, seafood and a sweet layered dessert.

PS:*Again, the next Sunday the 'reservation' that we thought we had made face to face still had not registered as such. Whatever we said was not what they thought we said. Yet again, we ate well down the road in an ad hoc place: fresh oysters dripping with tart lemon, lamb with roasted garlic and vegetables in glossy gravy; vinaigrette lettuce leaves served with a huge cheese platter and glazed strawberry pastries topped off with an espresso.

All tossed back with a soft red. Yum!

PPS: We finally made it to this restaurant. On our very last Sunday in Brittany. The food was sublime and details of the meal are in a later blog: a sublime long table Sunday lunch. All of the guests, bar us and one other, were locals. They all wanted to learn our story and how we had found our way to this tucked-away restaurant in this tiny village, on this particular Sunday.  

Lovely creperie in Lannion

Ollivier, our local deli in Ploumilliau

Filled with deliciousness

Our five bedroomed home in Rugugen

Shuttered Parisienne summer home

Sunday on the streets of Utrecht

What a day in Utrecht!  We arrived last night and drove all over town trying to find a campground to stay using the Points of Interest on the Sat Nav. One was a train wreck, undergoing renovations and with only temporary amenities; three others had succumbed to a ball wrecker and were now new apartment blocks. After a hilarious drive north, then south, then west, under overhead bridges that were too low for our height, Peter huffing and puffing, and roads the width of bicycle tracks and maybe a few were, we finally found a country respite about 8kms out of town which, on this long weekend holiday in Utrect, was also booked out: but such was Pete's charm they gave us a hard standing without electricity for just the single night. We had hoped for two. 

And we are in the middle of prime summer temperatures now at the end of May. We could have done with a fan but, amazingly, we survived the night without power. Just a week or so ago we were moaning about the freezing cold. 

At nine this Sunday morning we were the only ones surfacing in the streets of Utrecht. Just us and the choir boys. Not a soul else was about but the church goers. We think from the streets around the main Domkirke where we parked, that they probably partied in Utrecht until late last night. Confetti was thick on the ground, as were cigarette butts, last night's empty beer cans, and a new and fresh layer of graffiti. 

We found the only coffee shop open in the downtown and had our best coffee to date. Delicious. Along with a stylish loo: what more can one ask. Then a couple of hours on a walking tour found us up and down canals, visiting ancient Cathedrals, old cellars built into the lower walls of the sides of the canals, and tiny almshouses that once housed the poor but looked too trendy and were now likely home to a much different population. We wandered little sunny alleys and shaded leafy walking paths and loved the colour and alternative air that Utrecht gives off with its large downtown university population. We had a lovely time, keeping to the shade and going hither and yon. 

We ate lunch early as we had a 2 o'clock appointment in another part of town, so had to search high and lo to find a place that served anything cooked. Many lunch things on menus in Europe seem to be able to be more assembled, rather than cooked: which saves hiring a chef hours before he is really needed. Moreover, most would have been exhausted after last night, we think. 

Again, we found our fallback choice on the menu: croquette: but, this time, sadly, it was microwaved, not deep fried, and served on a slice of white bread: so not a patch on our brilliant Den Haag feast. Plastic, Pete said, disappointed. 

Utrecht suddenly came alive just as our lunch was complete. People arose from their beds and surfaced for their first coffee of the day, or their juice du jour or vino.  Cyclists and walkers came out in dribs and drabs, then in dozens. As the day poured down even sunnier they came out in droves. 

Our afternoon was spent going through the Rietveld Shroderhuis, that we were only able to access with a booking made in advance. For us, that is a chore, as our mobile rarely works (usually the battery is dead flat) and we have very variable internet access. Complicated by having the confirmation number on a laptop email which is not all that portable or flexible. Still, we managed. 

A group of Argentinians, Koreans and Americans arrived before us. Only twelve folk are ticketed at any one time to enter this small architectural gem that was built for Mrs Shroder and her three children by Gerrit Rietveld in 1924. We were so glad we'd booked in advance or we'd have had no hope of seeing it. 

Rietveld was a furniture maker. At the time he met Shroder he was doing an architectural course and vitally interested in architectural ideas. He and she discussed ideas and found they liked similar things, so much so that she commissioned him to design and build her this elegant simple home at the end of a long row of terraces in Utrecht, that, even today, creates so much discussion and interest it is now a renowned World Heritage Site honoured by UNESCO. 

The house, on entry, is small, almost tiny. It is only when you wander through each of the rooms and pay attention to the taped descriptors that you even begin to appreciate the many functions Rietveld was able to incorporate into these small spaces with his clever planning: an unusual skylight on the top floor of the house that allows light to flow through the entire house: folding doors that are able to enclose complete open spaces making them intimate and secure; clever illusions, like a disappearing corner where a window opens in such a way that a corner of a room disappears, completely welcoming the outside in; shutters that during the day are panels on the wall, but at night are removed and click in to shade the window. 

The house reminded me of the eccentric spaces (albeit those were crammed and jammed) in the house of John Soanes, the architect, in nineteenth century London. I wonder if Rietveld knew of John Soanes work. 

You can see that Rietveld was primarily a furniture maker: his expertise is in thinking of the ins and outs of the small stuff and how to make it work: making each arm of each chair useful and effective; each bed able to double as a sofa; a door is designed to fold away into a disappearing space when it is no longer needed or to become a wall if that is the preference. 

But, as well, Reitveld is able to visualise the whole: the house in its setting of the landscape is prime: creating windows that take full advantage of the views; decks that gave every member of the family private outdoor and indoor areas; and rooms, at a slide of a panel, are able to be transformed from the private to the communal. He demonstrates that he thinks of the detail and also has the ability to conceptualise. 

This wonderful home is nearly a hundred years old, but dressed in its simple Mondrian prime colours of blue, red, white, black and yellow, it feels as fresh and bright in its ideas as if it were built just yesterday.

We left the site, searching for a campsite, which we'd been warned would be a problem this holiday weekend, and found one after a drive south over another narrow dike road with idyllic rural scenery and a quick ferry trip across a river to Culemberg. 

We saw possibly the entire population of southern Netherlands draping themselves in bikinis and swimsuits on the sandy shore of any patch of water, even a canal or a pond, enroute. Along with the resident population of Netherland's sheep. 

Question: Why, given that we see so many sheep in the fields is it impossible to find lamb in the supermarket in the Netherlands? We rarely find anything other than schnitzelled or skewered pork or chicken, along with a small selection of fresh fish. Once we saw lamb frozen but Peter would not buy it. We'd tried that once in France and he said it was cardboard after it was frozen. And once we found, and bought, beef. But so rare to find the variety or the cuts that we get fresh at home. 

It is amazing how much of the soil in the Netherlands is actually sand, too. We find that when we go walking in the National Parks we are actually kicking up sand--no matter how far inland we are. We think this might be a function of so many places being below sea level, but we don't know for sure. But much of the land is really very sandy. 

Our campsite, tonight, is heavily occupied. Many people who have spent long winters with white pasty arms and legs have, over the last couple of days, sprawled too long on beach chairs in this sun and allowed their limbs to be overexposed. Yesterday and again today they have looked, at the end of the day just like cooked lobster: hot and red and hurting. Ouch!

Interesting pole building on the outskirts of Utrecht

Domkirke cloisters, Utrecht

Red shutters in one of the lanes in Utrecht

Canalside, Utrecht.

Rietveld Schroderhuis, Utrecht

Rietveld chair

White bodies, albeit stone,  sunbathing on the grass at Kroller-Muller museum

Darling Vincent

Another private art collection: this one at its heart has my favourite painter, Van Gogh, so we made a special journey to visit it.

The Kroller-Muller Museum in Otterlo contains the personal works of art collected by Helene Kroller-Muller, the daughter of a German industrialist who married a Dutchman who became director of her father's company. 

Helene became heavily involved in art collection after attending an art appreciation course. The teacher of that course soon became her personal art advisor as she set about acquiring her very large collection of over 11,000 pieces of work.

Her favourite artist was Van Gogh. She collected nearly 200 Van Gogh works, including over 90 of his paintings.

One of my favourites (and one of Vincent's favourites) was The Potato Eaters. This piece Van Gogh painted in his very early Dutch period: the colours deep, dark and gloomy reflecting the mood of the poor peasant farmers who have on their plates to eat, only potatoes. Their faces, noses and fingers, too, are shaped in almost a caricature-potato shape, so involved was Vincent with the shape of the potato as he created this work. The shafts of light and the brilliant contrast of the small patches of white in this work are just amazing. 

Helene also collected his Cafe Terrace at Night in the Place du Forum in Arles. This is another of my favourite paintings, the bright bright yellow against the deep dark blue of the sky with the colours all collected in the yellow and blue cobbles of the street by night. When we were last in Arles we stood in exactly the spot where Vincent painted this evocative piece. 

Helene's collection of Van Gogh's work is the largest outside of the Van Gogh family collection, so we were able to see works here that we had not seen in Amsterdam, or in other art galleries.

Works we might not ever have seen had Helene not gifted her entire collection to the state during the financial troubles of the 1930s. Her only condition was that they build a museum for the collection. This they proceeded to do and Helene even became its first director: a role she occupied until she died in 1939. Today the museum has been extended and sculpture acquisitions have been included over the many acres of gardens: my favourite being the white floating sculpture in the pond. This is beautiful in form and motion. We had the day walking around this very accessible garden and museum and loved every minute of it.

The Potato Eaters, Vincent Van Gogh

Cafe Terrace at Night, Vincent Van Gogh

Langlois Bridge at Arles, Vincent Van Gogh

Blue and green: all texture and floating form

Kroller-Muller Museum, Otterlo

Floating sculpture in Kroller-Muller Museum