Day 6 - Friday

It was foggy when we set out, and didn’t lift for most of the morning. Not too much so, just clouds on the trees and wisps across the vineyards. 

The vineyards (we were in the region called Entre Deux Mers, between two seas, although it is really only part of the land between the Dordogne and Garonne Rivers) were on rather hilly slopes, almost like Athens. Led by Pierre, we mostly walked for the first hour. As the land flattened out we were joined by Pierre’s friend Monique, riding her own horse. I didn’t get the name, but it was the fattest, shittingest (at least 15 times) Appaloosa cross I have ever seen.

 Monique was a local so showed Pierre some new trails, including right along the Garonne River, people’s backyards on the other side, often stocked with chickens, geese, goats and sheep.

We turned into the town of Cadillac, yes, you heard me right, and rode past the ancient walls of the city. Then down another street, around a river and there was our picnic set up, right under the bridge that crosses the river. 

Monique ate with us: sausage, salad, THEN the main course of fried eggs and a sort of ratatouille but only with eggplant. Sarah makes all this on a burner.

Monique then kindly took Sue and me on a walking tour of Cadillac, including the outside of the castle, the quite nice old church (decorated all gaudy like Spanish churches are; we are only 250 kilometers from the Pyrenees) and a very old door. And the city fortifications, built by the British when they occupied the area. Note to self: look up when that was. It’s very hard writing this blog without access to Google or Wikipedia or, for that matter, the Internet.

 

Monique also VERY kindly let us use her bathroom. Then we saddled up and crossed the bridge over the Garonne, Sarah leading now. Considering that Sue’s horse is afraid of trucks it went better than expected.

We moved across flat vineyards now, and took an elevated old Roman road at one point. 

The fog had lifted during lunch and it got a lot warmer. Some nice trots and canters, and more winding between backyard walls, with a dropoff and a stream on the other side. A few encounters with hand pickers.

Then we began to climb, vineyards all around us. We were in Sauterne, land of the really sweet, expensive dessert wines. It’s also drunk with pate de foie gras. Sarah explained that the grapes needed to be touched by fog each morning and evening to make them sort of rot, which adds to the sweetness. Harvesters move through the rows three times to get the grapes at just the right point, which helps explain the cost of the wine.

Then we came to a pasture by the road where the fence was all laid out and, unsaddling the horses for the last time, put them in with food and water. A minute’s drive up the hotel was our hotel, the Relais du Chateau d’Arche, the fanciest place yet. I almost groaned with pleasure when I saw the enormous shiny white bathtub. 

And my room looked out on the horses’ pasture far below, so I could watch them while Sarah drove Monique and her horse home in one trailer and Pierre drove back from his base near Agen in the large trailer that would transport all three horses home tomorrow.

We ate at a restaurant in nearby Sauternes: marinated raw salmon with lemon and orange, duck leg and French fries, cheese and tiramisu. We brought our own wines, a collection of what we had tasted over the trip, plus a Sauterne at the beginning. Sweet wines don’t really do it for me, although I’m sure this one was quite good. Then a Medoc, then a Cote de Bourg, then a Saint-Emilion, all very nice and yummy. Monique ate with us too and it was quite jolly.

And then next morning, cloudy and rainy, we said goodbye to Pierre and Sarah.

 Then Sarah took Sue and me to the Bordeaux train station, where we learned that despite strike threats our train was set to depart on time, which it did.

Day 5 - Thursday

We said a sad goodbye to Hermann and Dorothee this morning, then set off as three: Sarah, Sue and me. Pierre was taking Hermann and Dorothee to where they had parked their car an hour and a half away. It was quite cold at the beginning, maybe in the low 40s, though sunny. We had a wonderful ride, through forests and vineyards, with a lot of trotting and galloping. By this time, most of our aches and pains had disappeared. I really felt like those years of riding retired Thoroughbreds had paid off: I sat better and more securely in the saddle and even my highly unstable lower legs were a bit more under control.

Maybe this is a good place to mention how well the horses are kitted out. The saddles are good brands – mine is a Forestier – and they come with two Velcro-opening saddle bags on each side where we can put sun cream, water and the camera that I always fumble for and rarely get in time.

Two special Pierre touches: a metal carabiner-type clip in the front of the saddle that you use for the reins whenever you get off, so they don’t slip over the horse’s head or tangle his feet, and a leadrope (they wear halters under the bridle) that we learned to tie in an amazing spiral knot under their neck.

                                                                                        The trailer as well is carefully arranged and stocks everything from extra bridles to red wine.

After about 2 ½ hours we reached the Abbey of Saint-Sauve (I don’t know if he was a real saint or not) in the town of La Sauve. It is a total ruin, having been destroyed several times after it was built in the 12^th century, especially during the Revolution but also by a subsequent fire. We could see the walls rising from the hill of the city as we approached. We rode right into the grounds and found the trailer all parked and table set up. The van itself had gone with Pierre. 

Sue and I visited the abbey grounds while Sarah made lunch. (We tied the horses up to a line hooked on the wall and, as always, watered and fed them).

The abbey was lovely. About 70 percent of the walls were still standing, as was the bell tower (except for the very top). The church columns were topped by intricate Romanesque sculptures of appetizing subjects like St. John the Baptist’s head being served to Herod on a platter. The parklike grounds were silent (click here to hear and see) except for the sound of birds singing. Christians seem to choose really nice real estate.

Sarah managed to whip up a sausage omelet, with cucumber and tomato salad, fresh plums, more cheese and dark chocolate. And hot herbal tea, of course. Not to mention a Muscat sweet-wine aperitif and white AND red wine with lunch. While Sue and I were in the abbey she had discovered Pierre had forgotten to buy bread and raced at top speed (on foot, not horse) into town, getting to the bakery seconds before it closed at 1. This was after, you recall, leading us riding that morning.

We were back on the road by 3 and stopped on the way only to pick up some chataignes in the forest. I think chataignes are chestnuts, though marrons are also chestnuts. Pierre and Sarah explained that some marrons could be eaten and some not, while all chataignes could be eaten. It was confusing.

Dinner and overnight was at the Chateau de Grand Branet, a gorgeous structure atop a hill near the village of Capran. There was a pasture for the horses as well. Dinner, again prepared by the proprietress, was St. Jacques in a cheese cream sauce, blanquette de veau, cheese course and homemade crumble (I forget the fruit). Pierre, prompted by us, recounted being sued by American customers for 1. dangerous hotels (they were working on the windows) and 2. not enough galloping on the ride (after they had told him what a lovely time they had). (This reminds me of an earlier conversation, where we asked Sarah about the distinguishing characteristics of their international clientele. Swedes drink the most and Americans show up the latest for meals.) And we drank the local wine, like, produced on the chateau’s 3 hectares. Rich people take note: The place is for sale.

Day 4 - Wednesday

Yet another beautiful day, though somewhat colder. We were also pleased to see that our hotel in Libourne served something other than bread. We dived into the cereal and fruit. 

The horses were waiting for us in a field down a hill from the Belles-Graves winery.

Sadly, Hermann and Dorothee had decided they couldn’t continue riding. Dorothee was feeling exhausted and was bruised where she had fallen, while Hermann’s back was acting up in a way he feared was lumbago; very painful. 

This led to some very interesting horse-logistics issues, as there was no way we could pony two horses. We finally agreed that Dorothee would ride until lunch, at which time Charlene (who we learned later was 15) could come help again after school let out for the Wednesday half-day. So we set up a plan with me as leader, Pierre ponying the two horses and Sue behind them doing the task that Charlene had done the day before: whacking the ponied horse with a stick when he lagged. It was very effective. Dorothee came last.

After a brief stop at the Belles-Graves sales office, where Hermann and I both bought some of that terrific Pomerol, we set off, and immediately discovered the turns life can take. We had just gone through some fields into a forest when we saw a small camping caravan with a couple of vehicles and a small tent that happened to be set up partly in our path. Standing nearby, smoking a cigarette, was a rather surly-looking young man. He approached and said, not, “Give me all your money,” but, “Would you like me to lead your horses through? I know horses really well.” Said Pierre: “Would you like to ride one? We have a spare.” The guy looked at Pierre like he was crazy and Pierre said, “I mean it. I’ll drive you back at noon.” “You don’t have to ask me twice,” said the fellow, who proceeded to put out his cigarette, put on a jacket and get right on the spare horse. 

It turned out that Jeremy, as was his name, had come close to getting an equitation degree and had always loved horses, but now was moving from place to place looking for grape-picking work, which hadn’t come together that day. Off we went, and he turned out to be a lovely rider.

Because I was just in front I could listen to him and Pierre chat as we walked through the gold-lit vineyards. This was one of the busiest days we had seen yet: machines harvesting and then spitting the grapes out into bigger trucks that drove them back to the vineyards, and people with big metal containers on their back walking through the rows picking by hand. You will see very few photos of those things because, as anyone who rides knows, taking a photo of a big loud machine on a moving horse is not all that easy.

We were in the Saint-Emilion region by now. As with Pomerol, the soil varied, becoming more clay-ey and less gravelly as we went along. Then we were walking between two high stone walls leading to the city ahead, a tall spire jutting up from the center and the last remaining wall of a destroyed abbey to the left. Click here to see a video. That grunt at the end must be me stopping at the stop sign.

We rode around the outskirts of Saint-Emilion – it’s mostly a walking city, with parking lots outside, a little precious. Only 150 people live there now, we learned. 

Just on the other side we turned into a grassy courtyard and parked for lunch. (Pierre drove Jeremy home first). Shrimp and pasta salad, ham, cheese, Sarah outdid herself again. Then we walked into town and Pierre, who seems to know a lot about the local areas we go through, showed us the cardinal’s palace and the church, which was beautiful – Romanesque in the old section, where the chairs were, and Gothic in the central axis. 

We then took a guided tour in English of the underground parts of Saint Emilion, which distinguish the city. First, there was the underground lair of the saint himself.

 Legend is that in 750 or so he established himself here in a grotto as a hermit and pilgrims came from all over to be near him. This was, our guide assured us, almost surely a myth thought up to lure the pilgrim trade since the trail to San Juan de Campostela was only 3 kilometers away. Ditto the enormous underground church built by Pierre de Castillon (or something like that). Business is business. She also noted that Emilion was a “local” saint, uncanonized by the pope. No photos of the underground church were allowed so you have to settle for a scanned postcard.

For our afternoon ride we had me ahead, Sarah leading the two horses, Charlene next with the whip and Sue behind. It went very well. At the end part we rode along the wide Dordogne River on a lovely trail that shrank into a little path on the edge of people’s backyards, lots of ducking needed. The village where we were to stay was just across the river in Saint Jean de Braignac, at the end of a big bridge crossed by many trucks. This was looking pretty hairy until Pierre showed up and drove behind us to keep cars from trying to pass us on the bridge. At the horses’ overnight place he loaded up the two now-extra horses, since Hermann and Dorothee were done riding, and drove off to his home base two and a half hours away. He figured he would be back by midnight. Charlene also got home in unknown fashion.

Dinner at the little gite, prepared by the proprietress, began with a thick vegetable soup, followed by incredible mussels in creamy buttery sauce. We were just wiping our fingers and exclaiming what a good dinner it was when she walked in with the main course! It was beef tongue in a thick sauce and whipped potatoes. We did the best we could, but it’s safe to call it work more than pleasure. It's not just riding that require effort on this vacation. Oh, and of course there was the local Saint-Emilion. We got through more than one bottle, let me tell you.

One PS: I asked Pierre the next day how he knew Jeremy could ride. I thought maybe he had some kind of sixth sense or something.

"I didn't," he said. "But I really didn't want to lead that other horse."

Day 3 - Tuesday

The big national strike was today, though it didn’t seem to affect our horses or trusty guides. We set out from the inn and had one of the loveliest mornings yet. The October sun was golden on the vineyards and the forests we went through, and there was barely a cloud in the sky.

We got in some long trots and canters, in addition to crossing a bridge over an autoroute (click to see a video).

We also went through a number of tiny villages, another sign that France is one of the most rural countries in Europe. There were a lot of very simple one-story houses, of fairly new construction, no bigger than 1500 square feet, with children’s toys in front and raised swimming pools (at the nicest) in back. It was a reminder of how many French people aren’t bureaucrats – or strikers – but just hard-working people who do their jobs every day.  Very different from Paris. Also more wine-harvesting going on by these hard-working people.

After quite a long morning, maybe 3 ½ hours, we stopped on top of the hill at a chateau winery whose name eludes me at the moment. Sarah had already set up our picnic and the portable enclosure for the horses. Another completely different kind of fresh salad, with salmon pate and, bien sur, a cheese course. For dessert a moist chocolate brownie with crème anglaise. And some more of the local Bordeaux we carry around with us. We were quite relieved when Pierre said they were working so hard at the chateau that they didn’t have time to give us a tasting.

Dorothee and I took a nice talk around the property – not even all of it, actually – as the others napped. She and Hermann, though, didn’t feel up to riding in the afternoon after the very long morning.  Pierre, as always, had everything figured out. A young girl named Charlene (pictured in white) had already showed up, summoned by a phone call from Pierre we presume, in riding gear, and took Dorothee’s horse. Pierre got on Hermann’s horse and led his own, who not only was new to trail riding but had never been ponied before.

So off we went, me rather nervously in front, Pierre with the two horses behind, shouting directions, followed by Charlene and Sue. The country was less pretty; in some cases we were just wending our way along roads or crossing busy ones. There are two kinds of French drivers when it comes to horses: The ones who stop their cars and give you plenty of room, and the ones who nearly run you over. I encountered the latter kind on one occasion: Following Pierre’s instructions I rode onto the highway and raised my hand in a stop signal; the driver simply zoomed around us!! Note to all drivers, especially you new and future ones: ALWAYS stop or slow down for horses. Needless to say, no photos of this part.

We arrived safely at Chateau Belles-Graves, where the horses were to be stabled, and Sue and I got a really interesting tour.

It’s in the Pomerol region, which produces some of the finest wine in Bordeaux. Something to do with the soil, though every winery in the region has a Pomerol designation even though the band of good soil doesn’t include all the farms (though it does such famous ones as Petrus and Cheval Blanc.) Apparently some mayor at some point in the past said to the appellation controllee people: it’s all or nothing. So they all got it. Anyway, the wine was the best we’ve tasted yet and some boxes will be making their way to Paris shortly.

Hotel and dinner in Libourne not too far away, the best beef I’ve ever had in France. It says something about the days we are having that the five of us drank only one bottle of wine between us!

Day 2 - Monday

We came down to breakfast to the pleasant discovery that it wasn’t raining. After a short drive in the van, we found our horses already saddled and bridled, tied to a wall on the castle grounds where they had been left. Soon we were underway.

It got warmer and warmer as we rode through vineyard after vineyard. At first we were going mostly up, on small roads, dirt paths for the vineyard vehicles and on open grass in the vineyards themselves.  We did some walking, some trotting, a bit of cantering. Horses as enthusiastic as ever. After we passed a chateau d’eau – water tower – we started going down. 


The soil around the vine plants was more clay and less gravel than yesterday, though the plants were, as yesterday, in autumn colors; some harvested and some not. Signs of the harvest were everywhere.

Lunch was – where else? – at a lovely wine chateau, the Chateau Guionne. Don’t look for it at your local wine merchant, their wines aren’t even sold in Paris. After tying up, watering and feeding the horses around the corner, we had another fine picnic – roast chicken, salad, paté, cheese course. 

With a bubbly aperitif whose name I forget that is made from the sediment of the wine and then the Bordeaux we carry with us and then some of the Bordeaux made by the chateau.  For some incredible reason, after that the four of us decided to spread out our waterproof jackets and take a nap on the lawn in the increasingly warm sun.

Upon awakening, it was time for – you guessed it – a winetasting! We sipped two local rosés, one of which I really liked, and a couple of reds. Maybe it was three. But the thing is, Bordeaux just doesn’t taste right at 4 p.m. with no food. I haven’t liked a single red we have tasted so far, probably for that reason. But I may buy some of the rosé when the proprietors come through Paris for a festival in December.

Then it was back on the horses for another two hours of riding, faster this time. See here for a video of our start. The terrain was less vineyard and more forested, except when we were going through town. We also passed several establishments demonstrating why French poultry is better than American poultry.

We did a lot of trotting and cantering. My horse, an Anglo-Arab named Ankou, was as always a really energetic, enthusiastic mover. In fact she was getting a little too close to the horse in front of her in line and I decided to try to train her to keep her distance by using my seat and legs and a little rein and all that stuff I had been taught to do. To no avail. Then Sarah happened to mention that Ankou was 23 and I decided to stop trying.

At about 6:30 we arrived at our very simple chambre d’hote, set out in the country with a pasture for the horses. 

After getting cleaned up we had a lovely meal (with four other guests around a dining-style table) of salad with roast goat cheese and apples, then roast breast of duck. And a cheese course. To drink: Did you have any doubts? A nice rosé and then a red, both from the 5-hectare spread of the now-retired proprietor. And so to bed.

Day 1 -- Sunday

Our riding today really began with a dinner last night at our starting point of Listrac-Medoc, during which we met the members of our group. The only other guests in addition to Sue and me were a German couple, Hermann and Dorothee, perhaps a bit older than us. Plus our host and guide, Pierre Chemineau, and his assistant, Sarah. It was Sarah and Pierre’s wife, Nicole, who picked us up at the Bordeaux train station.

Also at dinner at the lovely-but-simple inn were 9 Finnish women, all of firm skin and fair face, who were just finishing up a weeklong ride with Pierre, doing the reverse route of what we were going to do. So when they said the hotels got better and better along the way our hearts sank. But we had a great dinner of mushroom omelets (it’s mushroom season here) and fletan, which, like all unknown French fishes, translates as, white fish. In this case, in an excellent sauce. Anyway, the Finnish ladies had had a great time, which encouraged us for the future.

                                                                                                                                              

Also fortunately, we had known it was going to rain today, so we were all kitted out in  full rain gear when Pierre picked us up.

The horses were waiting, already saddled by Sarah, at a nearby barn.

 It took only a short time to get going. Dorothee, a beginner, was a bit uncertain but Pierre put her on a calm horse and all seemed well. The horses in general were of high quality and the equipment also.

We set off and immediately were in the vineyards of Medoc. Field after field of red-turning leafy vines. Some fields had been harvested already, others still had luscious bunches of blue grapes clustered at the bottom. Rain was falling, but not very hard.

We did some walking and trotting and then a short canter; all seemed well, even for Dorothee. But a bit later, we were cantering again next to a woods and some small animal came out and scared Pierre’s horse (a newbie being broken in). He made a shy to the right and all the other horses followed suit. Dorothee made it through the initial jump, but lost a stirrup and eventually came off. Bruised and shaken, she nonetheless got back on.

We continued on through more vineyards and small roads and eventually came to the ferry across the Gironde River, near Lamarque (where the British had built a chateau to guard the region during the Hundred Years War.) There, Sarah had parked the van and trailer and laid out a picnic. 

French-style: kir and peanuts for starters, then carrot soup (heated on a burner) and tomato, corn, carrot and cheese salad. Oh, and a jar of incredible pate. By then we were into the Bordeaux, of course. I was just thinking I couldn’t eat or drink any more when she brought out the cheese course.

(The horses, by the way, were tied to a portable line under a tree near the parking area and happily noshed their nosebags).

After lunch, what else? A visit to a local wine chateau, accompanied by tasting. As Sue said, “After all, it’s been 20 minutes since we had any wine.” So Sarah drove us to the Chateau Maucaillou (‘Bad Rock,’ as in, don’t plant any vines here). We had a nice visit of the facilities (there were maybe 10 other people), a tasting of a mediocre wine and a trip around the museum.




Then back to the riverbank, where we, to the delight of the other passengers, led the horses onto the car ferry. Many people snapped photos of us and wanted to pat the horses, which was exciting since they were a bit unnerved.

After about half an hour we landed in the city of Blaye. Almost as soon as we got off the ferry and mounted (Dorothee was feeling a bit undone so slept in the van while Sarah took her horse) we walked into town, looked up and saw the Citadelle de Blaye, a huge fortress that had first been built, like, some real long time ago and then reinforced by the Marquis de  Vauban in, say, the 1600s. As we turned left toward it, I called out to Pierre in a really clever joke: “Are we going to visit the citadel on horseback?” He just gave a little smile and turned up the cobbled path leading to the long, narrow uphill bridge across the moat, us clopping behind him.

See this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0NFzH70tYHU for a movie version.

And indeed, we walked all through the grounds, looked out over the Gironde – a very wide estuary at this point  – and saw most of the ramparts.

Then we left through a different exit and walked down to a broad field where, it turned out, the horses would spend the night. In very little time, Sarah had a portable electric fence strung around an area of maybe 300 square feet and the horses had been watered (buckets we carried from a nearby stream) and had their nosebags.

We stayed at a fairly charming (in the sense of, no hot water) local hotel in Blaye and had a nice meal at a nearby restaurant. 




                    




Sarah was with us while Pierre stayed with the horses; the trailer was fitted out with sleeping quarters.