Flying north takes me easterly over the water first to Palma de Mallora before winging in the correct direction, an hour later settling lower over the lush landscape of France west of Geneva.

The Rhone Express, perhaps better named the Rhone Decaffeinated, crawls though intersections after brusque rushes past farms, dropping me off at Gare -Dieu (don’t ask me why they need a dash in there when they need it instead on on the train). The landlord let me in, gave me a few incomprehensible instructions and one or two otherwise and off I went. It’s wine and cheese time and I’m on my own in the big city.

None can compare to a Rustique Camembert. Take my word for it, I’ve tried the expensive shops, paid much more and come back disappointed. (Note to my Valencia readers- you can get one at the Mercado Central in the center where they have the belens at Xmas time). I looked for one in the small epicerie a minute from our turn of the century front door. They not only had it but another of my favorites as well, a monk cheese with a washed skin that gives it an almost crunch texture. It’s called Chausse de Moines

Mon dieu! I’d forgotten the bread. Another minute wasted as I shuffled down the street to the artisanal bakery. My moment was saved.

A mere day later then came the Missus. Our Lady of Perpetual Motion. She of the Map. Known by many names, off we went. Not that my days of wine and cheese were over. It’s a land of wine to go with the cheese. For 4-5 € there’s a good one even in the supermarket. There’s a Merlot (gasp go the winos), rond et fruite from the Pays d’ Oc, further south, while here you can get Beaujolais, including of course its famous Nouveau, and a tiny bit further the wines of Burgundy appear. I found a Petite Chapelle from Burgandy at the Super U. Not much fruit left but lots of complex flavor nonetheless and enough legs to qualify as a Rockette.

It’s going to be a rough few weeks.