Pérouges
The days and weeks are starting to flit by and the temperature is getting ~slightly~ warmer each day. I feel Lyon coming to life a bit more each day - whether that is because I am beginning to know it better or because winter is pissing off I don't know.
Last Sunday was my first day trip with two new amigos to a nearby medieval village called Pérouges. The 30 minute train ride took us through what I can only politely call the back end of nowhere - an assortment of beige buildings every 10 minutes featuring perhaps a handful of greenhouses and/or a church. We arrived at Meximieux - the nearest station to our remote destination - fresh for an adventure, but also reluctant having to alight the warmth of double-decker French trains. Our attempt to reach Pérouges sans google maps was - let's say - unlucky and took us via a barriered cemetery and down some small woody paths which eventually led to more nowhere. We gave up and took the road, which eventually got us there in a very short amount of time past a wee river and dirty lake thing. Pérouges, which is extremely small and feels a bit like Duloc from Shrek, was quiet. Soon after our arrival we realised that we had managed to hit the unholy jackpot of 'Dimanche' + 'Congés annuels' which = almost everything being closed. This wasn't the end of the world though. We wandered through the cobbled streets peering into empty windows, pondering over why there was an osteopath, and trying to communicate with a troop of goats in a nearby field.
After seeing a sign for 'Vin chaud' at one very full eating establishment I became slightly fixated on getting some mulled wine, having missed out on an opportunity at Christmas. We located perhaps the most expensive restaurant and enjoyed some hot bevs with with a slice o' the local gallette - which is like a big sugary pizza (minus all the things you put on a pizza).
With warm bellies we entered back into the empty cold and swiftly made our way to another restaurant - realising we had done pretty much all there was to do in this place. After several embarassing attempts at opening the restaurant door we followed in a French couple who, being competent adults, were able to open the door on first attempt. Luckily, the waitress - who had probably witnessed this mortifying event - warmed to us and we enjoyed a large, large meal of what can best be described as pure matter - quenelles (a lyonnaise speciality which I think could best be decribed as a spherical slightlier stodgier Yorkshire pudding) wth mushrooms hidden in a basin of creamy sauce, followed by an icecream called 'La Dame Blanche'. It disappointingly did not resemble a white lady. This time I resisted another vin chaud.
We bumbled back to the train station through the très sleepy town and returned to the comparably ~teeming~ metropolis of Lyon.
Last Sunday was my first day trip with two new amigos to a nearby medieval village called Pérouges. The 30 minute train ride took us through what I can only politely call the back end of nowhere - an assortment of beige buildings every 10 minutes featuring perhaps a handful of greenhouses and/or a church. We arrived at Meximieux - the nearest station to our remote destination - fresh for an adventure, but also reluctant having to alight the warmth of double-decker French trains. Our attempt to reach Pérouges sans google maps was - let's say - unlucky and took us via a barriered cemetery and down some small woody paths which eventually led to more nowhere. We gave up and took the road, which eventually got us there in a very short amount of time past a wee river and dirty lake thing. Pérouges, which is extremely small and feels a bit like Duloc from Shrek, was quiet. Soon after our arrival we realised that we had managed to hit the unholy jackpot of 'Dimanche' + 'Congés annuels' which = almost everything being closed. This wasn't the end of the world though. We wandered through the cobbled streets peering into empty windows, pondering over why there was an osteopath, and trying to communicate with a troop of goats in a nearby field.
After seeing a sign for 'Vin chaud' at one very full eating establishment I became slightly fixated on getting some mulled wine, having missed out on an opportunity at Christmas. We located perhaps the most expensive restaurant and enjoyed some hot bevs with with a slice o' the local gallette - which is like a big sugary pizza (minus all the things you put on a pizza).
With warm bellies we entered back into the empty cold and swiftly made our way to another restaurant - realising we had done pretty much all there was to do in this place. After several embarassing attempts at opening the restaurant door we followed in a French couple who, being competent adults, were able to open the door on first attempt. Luckily, the waitress - who had probably witnessed this mortifying event - warmed to us and we enjoyed a large, large meal of what can best be described as pure matter - quenelles (a lyonnaise speciality which I think could best be decribed as a spherical slightlier stodgier Yorkshire pudding) wth mushrooms hidden in a basin of creamy sauce, followed by an icecream called 'La Dame Blanche'. It disappointingly did not resemble a white lady. This time I resisted another vin chaud.
We bumbled back to the train station through the très sleepy town and returned to the comparably ~teeming~ metropolis of Lyon.
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