The Italian Job: Dijon

There’s no doubt about it, travelling this way is tiring.  And we suffered for it the next day, with the boys surfacing at around 10.00am – unheard of at home.  And so consequently we missed breakfast, which was not included in the room fee, and so we entered Dijon absolutely famished and heading for the first car park that we could find.  There was a scraping noise as the car went down a steep ramp to the underground parking that was Parking Darcy.  G looked a bit concerned, whilst the rest of us concentrated on finding a space in the packed car park.  As we got out of the car, the boys all knelt, peering into the darkness under the vehicle.  There was a piece of the undercarriage hanging low, through which flowed a liquid on to the concrete floor.

Pandemonium and panic ensued.  G panicked that it was terminal, the boys panicked that the car was falling apart. I wandered how on earth we were going to eat.  I don’t profess to know much about cars, but having been brought up in Africa, where pretty much any vehicle is held together on a wing and a prayer, I was not unduly concerned.  I suggested that G put his finger in the puddle and look and sniff.  It wasn’t oil, diesel or brake fluid.  It was water.  It made sense that because it was so hot, the air conditioning had been working overtime.  And on that diagnosis, the pouring liquid stopped abruptly.

We had a Lonely Planet and some advice from the internet. Of course Dijon is famous for its mustard, and we were sad to see that the mustard factory tour had closed down – we had no idea why. We decided that the Owl Tour seemed to fit our style of ambling around, with the benefit of being free (with the exception of 2.50ϵ for the guide book from the Tourist Information Centre). 

The Owl is a lucky symbol in Dijon, and built into the pavements are tiny brass owls which one follows, and which point out the places of interest. The tour itself takes about an hour to do, unless you are us, and meander up and down, in and out of mustard shops and little interesting side streets. 

The owl symbols in the tarmac that the boys ran ahead to spot

The boys were on the hunt for food, and soon we came across the Maison Millière, a house steeped in history and built in 1483 – and now a renowned restaurant. We went in, were seated by a young man who spoke fluent English and who nevertheless understood our attempts at French.  We decided on the Menu du jour, and Little Man’s children’s menu was served at the same time as our entrees, and he had his dessert when we had our mains.  The restaurant itself was set outside in a quaint old courtyard, replete with elegant French women sipping glasses of crisp white wine and with wall paintings of the French countryside which would have done a Hollywood set painter proud.

Maison Milliere with its painted walls

Mustard mustard everywhere

So well fed and watered, we ambled through some of the finest architecture that we have seen, and taking in some fine sights such as the Hotel de Vogue, Jardin Darcy, the Palais de Justice and the cathedral at Saint- Bénigne.  It was very hot, and several stops were required to stock up on l’eau and les glaces. The boys were delighted to reach the Palais des Ducs et des Etats de Bourgogne.  This was not because of the enormous tower of Philippe Le Bon which stood at 46m above the town, or the Palais des Etats with its host of red white and blue flags and the proud words Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité above the enormous door.  No, it was the Place de la Libération with its three linear ground level fountain displays, amongst which the local kids ran squealing and shrieking in the sunshine.

Fun in the sun

Within no time, G and I watched as our kids joined in, forgetting their shyness as they joined in the splashing and shouting and getting totally drenched much to the amusement of the people in the nearby cafes.

Nodding Queen

Those who know me, or who are regular readers of the blog, will know that for a year or so I have been battling with an Achilles Tendon problem, and indeed, by the end of the day, my foot was tender and swollen and in need of icing.  Stopping off en route at a leClerc near the Hotel Armony, G used his initiative, and came back with a bag of frozen peas.  I would give any money to have seen the puzzled face of the chamber maid after we had checked out the next day…

Dinner that evening was in a family friendly French chain of restaurants known as Hippopotamus.  The boys were slightly disappointed that hippo was not on the menu, but they were delighted with their steaks, and I with my Hippopotamus Colada cocktail. Walking back across a dual carriageway proved an exciting end to the evening, and I was glad that I had only stuck to the one!

The next morning we were all up early enough to make check out.  We sat in the car and Garmin sprung into life.  She sounded perky as we typed in the address in Milan.  The boys settled down, and I got out the Italian phrase book.  As we whizzed along the toll roads with their magnificent mountain views and the glaciers of Mont Blanc, all we could hear were the kids rolling their ‘r’s and stressing their ‘e’s with Latin drama ‘Per favorrrrrre’ and ‘Grazieeee Milleeeee’.

9 or 10 tunnels, 15 bottles of water, 2 boxes of tracker bars, 1 bar of melted chocolate, 5 tangerines and 4 hours later we reached the border.

 

La famiglia Morrisoni had arrived in Italy.

The Italian Job: The Start

So this was it… suddenly the time had come for us to depart.  And for once in a long time I felt very unprepared.  It has been a bit of a thing, our holidays.  Most of our friends go all inclusive.  Or they try the cottages in Cornwall.  Every one of them proclaim that it is simply the best way to vacation- there’s so much to do, to see, to eat.  We’ve done Cornwall at Easter for years – it’s practically a tradition, sitting there on the beach at Perranporth in fleeces whilst kids and husbands, seemingly impervious to the weather, reenact Baywatch in various episodes with not one Hasselhof between them.  And our one experience of all inclusive certainly worked in terms of food –my hungry family ate whatever was offered whenever, but after about 5 days lounging by the pool, joining in the watersports and meeting lots of people, even the boys got a bit bored… whereas G and I had cabin fever. Our happiest days were spent hiring a car and enjoying the land around us – G loved the landscapes and we loved the shopping.

So, back to our kind of holidays.  Before Little Man had become a reality, but was an actuality in my swelling belly, we had taken a tour sans schedules or charters off the beaten track to a massive villa in Tuscany, where we invited the grandparents and had a lovely idyllic time. This spurred us on, two years later, to travel, with 3 children under 8, in a car to Spain, where we went to Paris (and Disneyland), Le Mans (where we mistakenly got on one of the perimeter race tracks in our Nissan Pathfinder and roofbox) Andorra, Grenada, Rosario (to visit friends who had just moved there) Al Hambra and Majorca (again to stay with friends but we seemed to cause a lot of attention with our GB plates). We saw fiestas, carnivals and lots of sights were well documented in our photo albums.  Two years ago we did a marathon tour of Australia.  So this year we decided on Italy.

 Why?  It kept G quiet, part of the joy for him is in planning out the route, which is then changed by me when I remind him of the realities of travelling with three boys – a 9 year old, a 12 year old and a 6ft 1 14 year old. So he sorted out our vehicle, his car, a golf estate with the racing roof box from Le Mans. In a break from tradition, and a nod to the kids desire to look inside rather than outside the car whilst travelling, he set up a complicated system of adapters and chargers for all of the electronic devices, including a brand new sat nav, which he has since said came with no instructions (more on that later).  I was then presented with a map of Italy, several bits of sticky paper with nights and locations, and proceeded to book up hotels in those areas.

Those of you with a strange family size that doesn’t fit the 2 adults/2 kids hoteliers dream, will realise that this is no mean feat when you are on a budget.  Luckily, over the years, the world has been getting smaller, families bigger and hotels have had to adapt.  And the internet is extremely useful.  So in one happy but slightly stressful afternoon I booked up all the hotels/apartments.  The plan was to travel down through France and Italy stopping en route, and then have a relaxing break in a pre booked villa in Sorrento before making our way back again. With 3 kids and a car, it became quite clear in some areas that it was going to be expensive, and so I looked out of town at more flexible options. We have yet to see how it all pans out, but so far, so good.

Garmin, sitting pride of place...

The alarm went off at 4.30am, and G shot out of bed as if he had been electrocuted. The boys had packed their bags, with all the essentials like gismos and hair styling products. We were all out of the house by 5.15, Tesco bags crammed full of BLT’s as a nod to breakfast.  Getting to the tunnel early, we were put on an earlier slot than booked and as the boys began to wake up, we reached France.  Garmin, our sat nav, woke up too, ready for our first stop, Dijon.  She (we haven’t learned yet how to change her slightly nagging voice, but I quite like her as she sighs and throws her hands up gallic style as we yet again go off in the wrong direction) directed us to Lyon.  G disagreed with this, and so we had to resort to (this is where friends of mine will grin, as they know how I love itineraries) my printed out directions from hotel to hotel, or in this case, tunnel to hotel. Garmin was right of course, and so G and her settled down to become better acquainted, just as the first ‘I’m hungry’ started from the back.

Swapping seats to the back to unfurl cramped legs

One service station later we were all traumatized. Eldest Son had been stopped by an over officious assistant who told him to put back his drinks and step away. At least, that is what he thought she had said, what she meant was, was that there was a certain place to pay for cold drinks, whilst we were queueing for baguettes. Once we got to the front of the queue, the server looked at me quizzically when I ordered three double hot dogs. ‘Trois?!!!’ she bellowed in incredulity as she looked at me.  I pointed out the children.  She muttered under her breath and slammed the baguettes into submission.  G and I had ready made ones, in a bid to pacify.  She refused to let G pay for the cold drinks in her queue, directing G to another queue.  Little Man wailed that he hated France.  This was not going well…

Hotel Armony, wasn’t really ‘armonious.  Situated on an industrial estate (lots of clothes shops and shoe shops) it stood like a slightly shabby teenager at a glamorous function. But it was cheap, it had parking, interconnecting rooms and a restaurant.  We were knackered.  The staff took to Little Man and didn’t even mind when he broke into an impromptu song and dance routine, Happy Feet style, as he waited for his food.

Little Man, our official tour photographer

We toddled off to bed, full and weary, the boys giggling through the interconnecting doors, Eldest Son trying to stop Little Man from jumping on top of him in their shared double bed.  Suddenly the boys broke into hysterics as Middle Son shot into our room, his face green, his toothbrush in his mouth.

Ahhhh Dijon, famous for its mustard, and somewhere that my boys will always remember as the place that Middle Son mistook Eldest Son’s hair gel for toothpaste…