An island of serenity

Except for occasional glimpses of distant châteaux, you'd never guess at the rich and historic countryside you're driving through as you hurtle along the A6/A7.  Each year, the autoroute de soleil carries millions of sun-starved Parisians and other northern dwellers toward the sunny spaces of the south of France.  I am among them, as every couple of months I drive to our home in Haute Provence along this highway, a trip necessitated by an accumulation of objects destined for that house, but too large and heavy to carry on the train.  The drive also permits me to pick up pieces of pottery in the Drome to offer for sale to you, dear Readers, on this website. 

My route begins in Paris early in the morning, heads southward through the outlying portions of the Ile de France (Fontainebleau, Milly-la-Forêt), and begins the plunge along the interminable spine of Burgundy. Drive the length of Burgundy and you have the impression of having traversed an entire country--which you have.  Burgundy wasn't always part of France.

 I traverse Lyon sometime around noon, diving under the mighty Rhône via tunnels about which it's best not to think too much.  (All that water above me...no, I'll just put my faith in that good old French engineering.)  Now begins the last hair-raising section before I can get off the autoroute--an hour and a half downhill stretch of slaloming trucks rushing to get to Marseilles and points beyond.

Up until I exit the highway, I usually never leave it except to gas up.  And the service stations along French autoroutes are all built right on the highways.  You exit directly into the gas station and, after swallowing your automat espresso and filling your car's tank as well, you seamlessly re-enter traffic.  This arrangement contributes to the impression that you have been hurtling along a giant open-air tunnel that prevents you from seeing any interesting thing for the duration of your trip.  (And, P.S. pack a lunch if you don't plan to get off the highway.)

When I exit at Loriol in the Drome, I'm only 15 minutes away from the pottery at Cliousclat, a sunny stone village drowsing like Sleeping Beauty under its climbing roses .  The minute I pass the toll gate, I roll down my window and sigh with relief.  I breathe in the southern air that always seems to smell of sun-lit stone.  I'm aware of fatigue ringing in my ears--the fatigue of the surreal, high-speed hurtle through the anonymous countryside flanking the autoroute.  I may or may not stop at the pottery; I might have lunch on the terrace of the hotel practically next door and let the view of the sun-flattened landscape below soothe the ringing of my ears.

Or, if I'm running a little late, I may just keep on driving, following a route that cuts in back of the Mont Ventoux , following the valley of the Toulerenc to spit me out on the high plain of Albion.  I rejoice when I see the sign declaring "Vous êtes en Haute Provence."  Now only a delightful swooping stretch of two-lane road separates me from the house.  Depending on the season, I fly through fields of bachelor's buttons or lavender in bloom, or forests of golden-leaved chestnut and oak.  In less than an hour, I'm opening the shutters of the house.  My impatience for this moment means that I always make the trip down in a single day--all 800-odd kilometers of it.  And granted, it is thanks to the autoroute that I am able to do that.

But driving back up to Paris is a different story.  If I did the same one-day drive in reverse, I'd find myself, ears ringing deafeningly, caught in endless rush-hour traffic in the approach to Paris.  This is more than I can bear.  So I always look for a stop-over.  Often I leave the house in late morning to wander (slowly, with many stops) back up to Cliousclat.  There, I'll stay in 'my' hotel and have dinner with my friends from the pottery.

But, if I need to be back in Paris earlier than 3 p.m. the next day, I'll make the first  leg of my journey the long one, and stop in Burgundy instead.  That's how I found myself pulling into the sleepy village of l'Ile-sur-Serein late one recent afternoon.  It wasn't by accident that I'd stopped in this village where absolutely nothing is going on (not even cell phones work here).  I was planning to spend the night at Le Pot d'Etain (The Pewter Mug), a true auberge  that was formerly a relais de poste, a relay station for the French pony express, where drivers would get  fresh horses and dinner and sleep for the night.

Now, if I had my druthers, I'd stay in auberges everytime I travel.  But sadly, the authentic item is slowly disappearing from the French landscape.  An auberge imbues you with a true sense of shelter, an inimical coziness that stems from knowing you'll have a wonderful dinner, drink excellent wine, and sleep in an unpretentious but comfortable bed--all at incredibly reasonable prices and without having to get in your car to go from one place to the next.  And in my case, the auberge shelters me from my car, where I have spent the day and will again spend a good part of the morrow.  Where the modern pilgrimage along the autoroute is fast and efficient, yes, but also utterly impersonal and anonymous, the auberge stands in contrast as a full stop.  And finding one will force you to get off that autoroute and discover the wondrous countryside that has remained inscrutably hidden--as if folded into a different dimension of time--while you raced along the highspeed corridor.

I don't know how it is for you, but for me, there is something delicious from time to time about traveling alone.  I admit to loving the feeling that I can do exactly what I want.  Sounds egotistical?  Maybe it is, but in a healthy way.  I think all of us need to occasionally exist without the pressure of another personality pressing in on us.  Small indulgences--dining early or late as is our whim; turning left instead of right on a stroll--can provide a satisfaction that nurtures us for a long stretch spent facing the demands of daily life.

My stop in L'Isle-sur-Serein was such a moment for me.  I wanted to be here.  While the village isn't as picturesque as nearby Noyers-sur-Serein, it does have the distinction of having existed at least since the 9th century.  The Surein (serene) is an aptly named river that barely seems to flow at all.  In fact, you have to observe, say, a leaf floating on its surface to  reassure yourself that the water is actually moving.  And--you may not believe this--I swear that the incredibly slow-flowing river sets the pace for the entire village.The town is tightly embraced by a meander of the river and so--in my mythology--must do as the river tells it.  Which is to say:  not much of anything.  This time-standing-still quality makes L'Isle-sur-Serein the perfect spot to decompress from a day spent on the autoroute, or on any other fast-paced occupation.

Having arrived around 5 in the afternoon, I decided to take a walk--both to stretch my legs and to soak in the atmosphere.  Next to the auberge is an unremarkable château, inhabited, whose primary interest for me is that I can see its horses grazing from the window of my room.  I follow a small street to the west of the main drag, which quickly leads to the river.  I notice signs that the river once played a much more important part in local life.  Most of the houses along it have a private 'embarcadère (photo left) of sorts which obviously was once where a small, flat-bottomed rowboat must have been tied up.

I find a small dirt road that enters a forest.  An impressive-looking iron gate tells me this is probably a forêt domainiale--a property associated with the château.  On my right is lush, flood-plain pasture where a loan horse grazes calmly.  Just looking at this horse makes me feel calm too.  An ancient, rotting feed rack is parked at the edge of his field along with an old claw-foot tub that serves as his water tank. 








The borders of this tiny road (more likely a cart track from the past) are bordered with wildflowers and the occasional stone wall.  Lush stands of white lamium and yellow lamiastrum are the groundcovers nature's chosen for this landscape.

The stone walls--like old stone walls everywhere--harbor stunning still lives of succulents, ferns, wildflowers and ivy.  It's so easy, I think, to have a beautiful garden if you have stone walls.  You just sit back and let nature do the work.  In a crevice of one wall, I see a mâche plant in bloom.  Build a dry stone wall, and even spring salads will appear as if by magic.

My secret little cart road opens out onto the banality of the main drag, which I follow back into town.  As I approach the welcoming pink façade of the Pot d'Etain, the kitchen staff are lounging on the sidewalk out front, chatting and smoking before the evening service begins.  I walk through the archway where postal carriages once entered, to the courtyard within.  (When you come here today, you park your car in the former stable.)  I sit down at an iron table among the geraniums in the courtyard and order the apéritif bourgignon par excellence, a kir (white wine and crème de cassis).  It is served with deliciously crisp gougères, cream puff pastry rendered savory by the addition of Gruyere cheese.  I read peacefully until it is time to go in to dinner. 

This auberge boasts one of the best and least-acclaimed kitchens in rural France.  I failed to decipher what made the appetizer of squid and snails so delicious; maybe it was just the lavish bourgignon butter in the sauce.  The pigeon that followed was cooked to rosy perfection.  The accompanying spring vegetables were toothsome.  And the wine!  Suffice it to say that this establishment boasts about 1500 different wines, mostly from Burgundy and all chosen with great care and connaissance by the owner.  It is he who takes your dinner order and, if you feel overwhelmed--as I do--by over 130 Chablis alone and a wine list as big as a bible, he will advise you on your choice.  I highly recommend that you allow him to choose, as he will make you discover a wine you could probably taste nowhere else, and wouldn't have the sense to pick.  I might add that his wine prices are the best in France and bottles for carryout are available (I departed with a mixed case of 12, chosen by monsieur , who first listened carefully to my preferences and clearly relished putting together the selection.

When I climbed the stairs to go to bed, visions of the superb chariot of cheeses still danced in my head.  (This auberge is the only place I know where you can always find the rare but sublime cheese, l'Ami Chambertin.) I felt utterly relaxed, replete, and for the moment, I hadn't a care in the world.  My only tasks were to digest a delicious dinner, read in bed until my eyelids grew too heavy, and switch off the light. 

L'Auberge du Pot d'Etain
89550 L'Isle-sur-Serein
Tel. 03 86 33 88 10
Fax 03 86 33 90 93
www.potdetain.com

Annual closure 1 Feb.-1 March

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