The Morris Men of Little Egypt
A Bloodless Crusade
Little Egypt:
Languedoc
2006
What a fine Pyrenees ...
"Calquecop le pa que be quand las denses s'en soun anandos."
"Sometimes the bread arrives after the teeth have gone."
After Alet, our coach wound its way up the Aude valley to Quillan before beginning a dramatic ascent into the
foothills of the mountains which
we had been watching from a distance all the time we had been in France.
Our eventual destination was not
in the mountains themselves but on the
plateau of the "Pays de Sault" - the slightly anonymous looking, but nevertheless impressive, village of Espezel.
The wind was blowing, the village shop was closed, etc. etc. ... but that didn't allow for what went on beyond the walls of the Le Relais de Pays du Sault outside which the coach had parked.
For there we found wines and food of the best and a patron who could dispense wine on an industrial, nay Olympic, scale.
To the unfamiliar palate, they tasted strange, but very pleasant - a sort of madeira/sherry cross, without the overbearing cloyingness.
This, we were told, was the local Muscat.
And it went very well with the scratchings left on the tables to nibble.
Duck scratchings, that is.
In response to these blandishments we did what Morris Dancers do, we danced.
The menu was fascinating.
Everything (apart from the "faux filet" and the cheese) was built around Duck, in splendid variety - grilled, stewed, roast, preserved, sausaged, paté-ed - and all delicious.
And, of course, accompanied by plenty more wine.
We reckon Sebastian checked in sometime during lunch, and was soon creating havoc by inducing other members of the group to wear silly hats.
Not that we really noticed, because we'd all had such a brilliant time that we would have welcomed Aleister Crowley on board.
As we left, we thought we caught a fleeting glimpse of the patron still pouring wine down his face.
But perhaps it was another Tumbleweed Mirage.
In any case, there was more fun ahead, in the evening.