Every so often, all you want to do is lock up the house, load up the car and go on a road trip. I never actually saw the film, but it got me thinking about cuckoo clocks. You know the sort, they used to be depicted on biscuit boxes and tins of sweets.
Green meadows, alpine lodges, cows with bells around their necks and some young Bavarian girl in a dirndl. And so it comes to pass. Advance room prices are ridiculously cheap β they make up for it by securing your custom in the Brickfield restaurant, next door. The food is good, the bar well stocked and the breakfast is excellent value for money. The second night brings us to Saint-Memmie, a couple of miles outside Chalons-en-Champagne.
The view from the window takes in, for as far as the eye can see, car park after car park after car park. The breakfast is optional, but where else do you go? You could have it ready for the next occupants in under five minutes. There are bedside tables, barely big enough on which to balance a very petite espresso cup. A screen opens up in the corner of the room to reveal the shower. Anyone whose disposable income forced them to frequent Formula 1 motels back in the 70s would feel, as I do now, to be very much at home.
A second screen opens to reveal the toilet β predetermination of the reason for using the facility is advantageous. Enter forward or in reverse. Perhaps if they made do with just normal sized bed, it might create room for furniture? Just saying? The bed is monstrously and ridiculously wide for a room of this size. Come out tonight? Buffalo Grill, that great French institution that has been around since time immemorial. Well, since , at least. As a family with young children, we used to mosey on over most evenings for the chuck-wagon experience long before other similar outlets became so popular.
We sat in booths surrounded by dark saloon doors with photographs of cowboys and native heroes of the Great Plains adorning the walls. We wake to clear blue skies and the last, rather long leg to our journey. Alsace is an interesting buffer between France and Germany. The vast majority of cars on the roads carry French number plates and the signage is in French.
