Belgium, it seems, offers little fun even on the ‘fun’ route, I made the most of it, the farms and fields better than the grinding monotony of the motorway. A surprise was how much top topiary got practiced here, precise privet perfection turned my thoughts to our destination, home where my own unruly hedge would require a trim. Often tracking waterways for miles, we retreated towards Dunkirk, quant towns at the few bridges, we rolled on in the windy sunshine in search of coffee.

Into France, the passion for precision pruning of borders unaffected by borders apparently, I don’t know how they do it, my own efforts with the shears result in lumpen loaf shaped forms, perhaps the plants are different here. I finally found coffee and embarrassed myself with pre-schoolboy french and the ultimate surrender, proffering payment as a handful of change in a ‘pick your own’ admission that I have mastered neither the language nor currency. On to the Eurotunnel terminal, at least that is what I thought, the sky opened and drenched me in an instant, no time or place to stop and put on waterproofs. The French appear to have concocted a perfect plan to frustrate and befuddle those bold enough to visit and naive enough to expect to leave. The signage is impenetrable, the massive shopping mall sucks in the traffic, the sat-nav, even give the What3Words from the website, misdirected, soaked I circled and cursed.

Motorcyclists, delicate flowers that we are, accept that into every life a little rain must fall, we don’t like it, thankfully the authorities had provided a shelter. Here I met Aran, returning to Dublin after a trip to Turkey, his wife and kids had taken the plane, remarkably he would be stopping over in Barnet just up the road from my home. His Honda was slowly dripping oil into an iridescent puddle, these things always look worse than they are, I told him and myself. His enthusiasm brightened my day.

‘Face’ proprietor and tour guide for ‘Freedom Motorcycle Tours’ boarded the train behind us along with one of his customers, both on big ‘Adventure’ bikes. Their colleagues presumable still baffled in the maze of malls. We were at the back, last to load, last to leave, behind a Jaguar F-type that rocked disconcertingly as if the driver had left it in Park but not applied the handbrake. We chatted, they changed into dryer clothes and I rolled a cigarette to savour on home soil.

We arrived, the cars started and left, bar one, the Jaguar, apparently an issue with not being able to get out of park, a nice French train guard attended but, the boys behind were going for the pragmatic option of turning around in the tight space and getting out of the rear door. I started to follow the guard protested and then ‘Face’, half way through his manoeuvre, unceremoniously dropped his 2024 BMW R1300GS motorcycle (dry weight 237Kg). This drama, quite rightly, disturbed the guard and she began berating us, I stopped my 300 point turn and helped pick the bike up. They left, I waited, a recovery van backed all the way down the train to attend the Jag, who was not having a good day either.

With permission I tentatively backed out over the wet checker plate and then nothing. Ignition on, kill switch off, press the started button, nothing, bugger! Lifting the seat I could see no action from my transparent started relay, checking the starter button and following the loom I came to a detached plug, bingo! My earlier attempt at an about turn must have dislodged the connection, I sent it home and was fired up to be homeward bound again. Up the M20, no longer a motorway in any real sense reduced to 50mph the majority of the way, the lanes altered to provide space for lorries to queue on their way to our major trading partner.

Louise was pleased to see me, she expressed it in a very feline way, by which I mean barely at all. I shaved and showered and headed down to the Catcher in the Rye where Bill, Don, David, John, Matt, Holly, James, Henk, John, Cate, Kieran and Niamh were more expressive in their pleasure to remake my acquaintance. John, the first one, deserves special thanks because he made this whole trip possible by generously dropping in to attend Louise every day, John and I went on to Annie’s. There the Guinness is good and the company of Deano, David, Ignacio, Steven, Kirsten and another David capped my day.

I awoke as I often do, at six, and busied myself with trousers and a cigarette then set to quietly breaking camp. the routine is established and one thing follows another, like a sequence. The ground and fly sheets are last, left attached to the frame I dry them as best as time and sunshine will allow. While this happens I’ll transcribe in my ‘luxury item’ a camping chair that serves as my lounge and office. On this occasion I filed my post with the assistance of my power bank that I have discovered will charge my iPad but not my iPhone, why would this be Apple? Planned obsolescence? The power bank doubles as a jump starter so let’s hope that functionality isn’t required. A cautious cat kept me company and finally succumbed to a waved leather lace from my tobacco pouch, games without frontiers.

I headed out with a ‘fun’ route to Mons, blessedly free from highways but overshadowed by the low cloud base that drizzled but never rained on our parade through the countryside. Often I was tempted to stop and put on my over-trousers, I didn’t, the Kevlar lining of my jeans combined with the protection offered by the protruding cylinders could weather out this weather.

The first opportunity for coffee turned out to be a machine in a gas station. “Recogne. Le marque d’ un cafe genereux” proclaimed the cup, reality begged to differ as barely two fingers on latte graced the bottom. I topped up later at a biker friendly bar in Beauraing but passed on eating.

The N40 proved an adequate route, entertaining by dipping into France then frustrating as roadworks left me looping Beaumont. Missing a turn in Mons required me to lap the inner ring road before locating my goal, The Nimy rail bridge, where Lieutenant Dease and Private Godley heroically covered the retreat of their battalion becoming the first soldiers to be awarded the VC in the First World War.

The Great War wasn’t, we all know that, it still brought a tear to my eye and a shiver to my spine, 110 years to the day after this heroic act, to see their memory persist. A war that didn’t end all wars as witnessed by the tragedy 1500 miles to the east, what is our problem?

My problem was fatigue, a visual migraine arrived and passed, my mind wandered, thankfully not my path, but waking dreams and nightmares haunted me. I had the feeling that I’d lost my thread, probably should have eaten and drunk less, were that possible, coffee.

From Mons I found a campsite that sounded good (had the word bar in one of the reviews). The sat-nav led me down single track rural lanes, just wide enough for a tractor, through harvesting farmers and crops of maize we rode the Flanders fields to Camping Zennijs.

Wind whistled across the flat landscape hindering my pitching, once set I followed the signs to the bar and was not disappointed, it was in a field. A wholesome burger and bottles of 6.6% Kwaremont restored my spirits. The ghosts hosted now in fields of sunflowers not poppies.

I forget, perhaps deliberately, how dependent I have become, on others, on electricity, on the internet and mobile connectivity. I don’t like to think about it, the knife edge that I ride, the fragility of my lifestyle and the illusion of stability that 3 days of food on a shelf gives. You don’t like to think about it either so here are some Canada Goslings that I caught grazing by the lake.

I was worried, in case it passed unnoticed, about my charging issues, at home left to my own devices, quite literally, I can burn hours watching YouTube secured by cable to the grid, or matrix, never remembering the key combination to get to ‘slide to power off’. This morning I blogged perched next to a power outlet, blagging the juice to sustain my tablet. Post posting it was on to navigation, 6 hours twisting westwards on back roads was what the ‘fun’ option recommended, I needed more fun.

My cunning plan was to charge on the way, the alternator continuously produces power and any excess is wasted as heat, “Waste not want not” my mother’s words, not her ghost, haunt me. I rigged up the sat-nav, the tablet and the phone to the battery via my, single point of failure, usb connection. What I didn’t do was close the pocket containing the phone and all the leads, or select the one lead that the iPhone deemed acceptable.

The roads were entertaining, perhaps too many small towns and villages at first, forcing us down, initially to 70 then 50 then 30 kph, however blessedly clear of traffic. Ruined castles unfeasibly set high above observed our passing as we traversed the forests. Stopping first for her fuel and then mine, coffee and a pastry, I discovered that not only was the phone not charging but the only working lightening lead had exited the bag to start a new life.

With less than 50% phone battery we were not half way to our Belgian destination. I tried to buy another at a Netto supermarket, nicht gut, then, in Paul Muger Platz a helpful man directed me to a ‘DM Drugerie Mart’ (a bit like Boots Chemist in England) where €10 secured me a powder blue piece of shit that may serve as a shoe lace, at a pinch as far as my iPhone is concerned.

40%, we crossed into Luxemburg at Kenz, a blocked road and failed handoff between mobile networks contrived to leave the sat-nav stuck ‘rerouting’, and me lost. I took a guess based on the sun then stopped and tried the tablet, it had 4G data so I shared a WiFi connection with the confused phone and, thankfully, service resumed. That gave me an idea, I’d randomly packed a lightning to USB-C lead of Apple manufacture, I wondered, then stopped again and tried, “fuck around and find out”, the fussy phone would indeed charge directly from the iPad, I cursed and thanked Apple for this somewhat esoteric feature. I can now use the tablet, not just for this nonsense, but as a power pack for the phone, we might still find our way home.

We found ourselves chasing 3 Belgian registered bikes with sidecars, one with a dog as a passenger, through the lanes of Luxenburg, strange to see square car tyres on motorbikes, they were not hanging about. Finally passing them with a friendly wave, all the bikers are friendly, here and in the States they share the same greeting, an outstretched left hand in the semblance of a peace sign, or scissors. Tempting as it is to go with rock or paper I never have, it feels good, almost like shaking hands with the oncoming brethren. In the UK our choice to drive on the left restricts us, by throttle location, to a, naturally reserved, nod.

They say that the majority of accidents occur in the last mile to home, where familiarity or fatigue get the better of us. Nearly so for us as we turned into and explored a chalet site next door to the intended campsite. The steep, under construction roads challenged our vertical orientation. The Guzzi has linked brakes with a foot pedal operating both a front and rear discs, this is great for late braking and on loose surfaces however, with feet out for stability descending steeply, I was left with just the handlebar operated front brake. Off road only the front brake is a precursor to a fall, “front brake, fall off” my friend Rich will remember as painfully as his cracked rib. I finally fell into Collins de Rabais Taverne Camping to a welcoming reception and a spacious grassy pitch. The poolside kiosk, a pepper steak and Three Blondes beer awaited.

Stefan, Dominic and Fabio departed around the same time by canoe, bike and food, that sounds like the start of a maths puzzle. I remained transfixed to my transcribing morning chore. Despite an early start I didn’t leave until gone 10, pausing to chat with some chap whose brother had a Guzzi California (much like my T3) and who enthused over the characteristic V-twin exhaust note.

The temptations of the Dornier and Zeppelin museums called, I resisted (sorry Ian, this is no holiday) and exited into traffic, a portent of things to come. I’d tweaked our route, to a random campsite south east of Frankfurt, by adding waypoints to tune the ‘fast but no tolls’ option into something more fun. Also to take in the Schwarzwald (Black Forest) although not going so far as to include the fast and furious section of the B500, instead turning north at Triberg.

The route started out fast and boring, black bottomed clouds prowled the sky but didn’t find me. That figures because I’d had the foresight to don a waterproof jacket.. Turning at Bad Durrheim we headed up into the forest, alpine in nature but hairy with conifers, still peppered with tunnels by necessity. At Triberg I parked in the road, an Italian registered car stopped to ask if it was OK to park there. 207 consecutive days of trying to learn Italian and all I had was “I’m English” in English.

Northwards, past my second waypoint we came to the edge of the furry (fir’y ?) highlands and an overlook onto the flatlands beyond, things were not going to be as interesting any more. The last of the squiggly bits ran out at Hornbach where we joined the motorway. Motorway Hell, eating miles like ready meals or fast food from the siren calling outlets semi-parasitically attached to gas stations along the way. Past Pforzheim things backed up, big time, I found myself filtering, cautiously splitting the lanes as unsure of the legality. Cars moved out of the way so they either are conditioned to this kind of behaviour or mistook me for a cop. Roadworks were to blame, the road cleared by Weingarten but I’d had enough, pulling over into a lay-by I searched for alternatives and found Camping Kollersee (a lake off the Rhine). Less than an hour away and more importantly with a route from the next junction.

Leaving the motorway just in time to avoid another snarl-up we rattled along the back roads until more queues arrested us. The police and fire brigade were attending what looked to be the remains of a very large barbecue with Tesla rims, no tyres. With some relief I checked into the campsite, a very German resort, and pitched in a sloping corner of a crowded field of tents. The lakeside bar and restaurant was exceptional and made up for having to wear a wristband tag that allowed me access to the spotless latrines. Very little English spoke here, terrified I listened out for a number to be called as if my very spaghetti bolognaise depended upon it.

Overlook Hotel was no less creepy in the morning but the views were stunning. The elevator only took one person at a time and dipped disconcertingly as I stepped in. Breakfast was a lonely affair, a pair of Harley Davidson riders, apparently the only other guests, and I shared the cavernous dining room.

Blog transcribed and illustrated I checked out, it was indeed €90 + tax, I gladly paid. At the start of the day I have to select a destination, an onerous chore where I overestimate the achievable and suffer the consequences as time runs out. Time is not running out for my trip but it has started to jog. My initial estimate of 3 days to get to Lake Como had been woefully short and would have involved a lot of tedious roads and tolls, actually paid. “The journey not the destination” I told myself, I have to factor this into my return trip and, wishing to avoid any drama, elected to bail on the Dolomites in favour of reduced stress on man and machine. I’ve pushed my luck enough getting this far. There it is, I’m a quitter. A route around loud motorcycle unfriendly Switzerland, through Austria and into Germany, where the Black Forest beckoned, was selected.

That and the bill settled it’s on to the descent from the mountain top to the depths of the Morlock’s tunnels. I first mounted the 360 camera and then the bike. Pausing at the top to consider the 48 hairpin turns ahead. A German couple pulled up beside me on a 1970 BMW, we compared notes and exchanged compliments. They had been on the road for 40 days (and nights), my self doubt sprouted another branch.

I won no prizes for style or valour but lived to ride on into the sunlit valleys. For a better rider the fabled pass may offer more thrills and less white knuckled terror however for this hack the slow speed corners, seemingly dropping at 45 degrees, with a heavy load require skills I seldom practice in North London. More for me the sweeping high speed curves of the lower roads.

I crossed into Austria and treated her to 100 octane, was delayed, fortunately stopped in the brief gap between two tunnels, for what seemed like an hour, apparently while a large rockfall was cleared from the road. Then rolled on at a pace into Germany where the roads straightened and widened, the pace picked up, more of a grind but homeward miles have their own comfort.

At Campingpalz Fischbach on the Bodensee I set up camp, the efficiency met my expectations and the hospitality exceeded them. Stefan, an environment engineer from Augsburg came over to say hi. He was paddling a beautiful wooden canoe that he had built himself and wheeled up into the campsite. Also Dominic, from teh Netherlands on an extended cycle tour since May having quit his logistics job in search of a life.

We assembled in the bar-restaurant and exchanged stories, awaiting the Nachtruhe curfew at 10 when the noisy children have to shut up. This was relevant to our band of turn-up-and-hope solo travelling misfits allocated a patch of ground between the playground and the latrine. Not so lucky Fabio, from Hanover now living in Hamburg, He completed our band and on a walking tour he had strode 40 Km that day (2 short of a marathon) having been turned away from a campsite 8km away he had retreated to his tent to sleep only to be awakened at 9 by singing from the bar.

There are certain obligations a Moto Guzzi enthusiast accepts, the highest of these callings is to park outside the famous red gate. Meaningless to many this act of returning a trusted companion to its birthplace feels right, as if repaying some of the 47 years of service.

Pilgrimage complete I trusted the convalescing sat-nav to guide us to the Stelvio Pass. That didn’t go well. An hour later I found myself convinced that we must have visited Switzerland in a mostly subterranean voyage, back in Mandello del Lario. This may, I accept, not be entirely the sat-nav’s fault. After its errors episode I had brought in its predecessor as a back up, gaffer taped to my tank bag. I feel that some differences of opinion arose between the two as to which waypoint was current.

I despaired and adapted, planning a new route to the south that should take me to a campsite near the pass by around 6pm. This new route had a single waypoint, Berzo san Fermo, that I missed and was rerouted up a magnificent, terrifying mountain road, only to be directed back down again. The algorithm, perhaps rightly has an issue with U-turns on single track steep hills, I know that I do. On the flip side the view was once again fantastic.

It was a slog, a magnificent sometimes terrifying slog, many miles, many more tunnels. I hate the tunnels, they remind me of work, long stretches of darkness being passed by more confident or reckless companions, just hanging on to see the light. Often the light is an all too brief respite with no other course but to dive back in. The tunnels themselves are an engineering marvel , civil and social, so it goes. I kept going, I have kept going, In compensation for the dark times the sat-nav treated me to another vista.

The tunnels stopped, we were ejected into the congested traffic of Bormio, once clear the roads rose the bucked and twisted as if to throw this rider off. It got steep, really steep, too steep for your average mount and cold, bitterly cold through my mesh jacket I stopped shaking to don a waterproof. I was tired, so tired I forgot to close the pack, then up and over the final rise into a carnival of stalls and motorbikes. I had crested the Stelvio Pass, by accident.

I stopped, dog tired and soaked it all in then considered my immediate options. Find a hotel here or descend the wet serpent to an unknown and unbooked campsite. I tried the nearest hotel explaining that I had no reservation to the receptionist standing next to a wall of unadopted keys. €19 or €90 I didn’t hear and didn’t care, a room and a shower awaited. I got strong ‘The Shining’ (Overlook Hotel) vibes from Hotel Passo Stelvio and crossed the road for a pork and venison bap from Bruno’s Hot Dogs, washed down with two bottles of unfiltered beer.

Fed and showered I set my electronic charges to charge and crossed the road to a bar with some semblance of life and a, I presumed Russian proprietor, more beer and scribbled notes that grew into this nonsense, then off to bed.

Rising early I got to see the clouds ascending, as if slinking off home after a big night out or a tough night shift.

My cunning plan unravelled when I discovered that the campsite, although great, was actually at the end of a mountainous cul-de-sac. Hannibal may have had other ideas but for me a retreat back through Ville Vielle was on the cards.

A gentle ride down empty lanes bar the occasional car, cyclists and wildlife, I stopped to allow an Alpine Marmot to saunter off the road and marvelled. I cursed my luck by fitting the 360 camera once again and nothing cinematic occurred until I removed it at a petrol station. There it captured my bemused frustration at the de-humanised petrol pumps.

The rain mostly held off as we climbed the Colle dell’ Angnello but the temperature dropped and patches of ice were hiding in the shadows, at 9,003 ft you get that kind of thing. Descending was hairy with deteriorated road surfaces and no safety barriers save at one point an electric cattle fence to send you on your way with a buzz, shocking! Only at the bottom, stopping at a lake and surveying the signs, did I realise that we’d crossed into Italy. “At last!” I hear you say, no more French stuff in this Italy blog.

There was still a very long way to go if we were to make it to Lago di Como today so we pressed on. Italian driving and quirky speed cameras were duly noted, for the most part the weather held off. That was until I made a wrong turn and ended up facing a toll booth with no option to turn back, I panicked and went through the ‘T’ motorcycle lane which did not issue me a ticket. Re-routing and getting off at the next exit ticketless I found myself distraught facing a machine with no ‘Help me I’m stupid’ button and a queue of traffic behind. I did the reasonable thing and panicked again, letting a car pass I snuck through the barrier behind them.

Italian tolls appear to have a direct link to the Almighty because the heavens opened with the violence of a vengeful God. The roads were immediately flooded and I was soaked. Stopping at a supermarket I sheltered with the trolleys until less than biblical service resumed. The re-routing led me through the northern outskirts of Milan on busy roads, not tolls thankfully. It all got a bit sketchy in the long, extremely long, tunnels near our destination, the sat-nav had pause for thought and I imagined the consequences of a breakdown in this subterranean world.

I arrived at Camping Spiaggia south of Mandello del Lario close to 6pm. It was still raining and the offered a ‘cabin’ for €35, I couldn’t refuse. Dripping I unloaded and put on dry clothes, my German neighbours greeted me and complimented the Guzzi, they’d toured the factory museum on Saturday (booking is online only and 48 hours in advance for the Friday and Saturday openings) I won’t, unfortunately get to go.

Checkout is at 10am so I got busy writing this nonsense (it had been a long day) then got distracted by my navigation device throwing errors and rebooting. I think that the deluge may have got to it (sad face emoji). I fiddled about with it, blowing away any moisture from the USB port, shaking to shift any drops, re-updating from the internet and re-pairing to my phone. The ‘repair’ appears to be holding for now, let’s hope so, I’d be lost without it.

Delayed I visited the beach then the Bar-Pizzeria, leaving my many devices to their own, attached to ‘shore power’. Pizza, birra and limonata for me then bed.

It rained, a lot, so much so that I got up in the night and sheltered her side-stand with my folding chair to keep the ground beneath dry. That worked, thankfully, because had it pierced the sodden ground then the bike would have toppled onto the tent, dousing me with petrol as a bonus.

By morning there were puddles in the squelchy ground. I bogged and blogged. Vincent, appalled that I was starting my day with a ‘Poweraid’ chemical drink, generously brought us a breakfast of coffee, croissants and orange juice.

He packed and left, I checked my plan to do the Route Napoleon and realised that it would leave me more than a day from Como and, if I have learnt anything, I overestimate the miles that I can do in a day. I bailed on the Gap and set a course for Col d’ Izoard and a randomly selected campsite after. A quick chat with Mark, from Wales but working in Kuwait on the airport air conditioning, it’s 45 degrees there, and I packed and left the lac.

I stopped to mount the 360 camera on my helmet, the act, like forgetting an umbrella, precipitated precipitation adding tiny droplet lenses to the lenses. Soldiering on, the road started to get interesting then downright fascinating as I climbed to Col la Visard. Slatibartfast may have had a hand in designing these squiggly bits. Spectacular and scary.

I was relieved to return to the sweeping curves nearer the valley floor and thought perhaps the worst was over. Col d’ izoard had other ideas, raising the bar on peril with wet roads and acrophobia inducing drop offs. I’m not ashamed to say that I waved, with my leg, other bolder bikers by.

Camping Ristolas awaited, a spacious site in the valley with strong ‘new age’ vibes. Didier, the proprietor calmed my apprehension, he spends the summer here but the rest of the year in Manchester. He proved to be a perfect host, I was prepared to pitch, he offered the use of a large tent in ‘the bivouac’ for the same, very reasonable, price. My neighbours were Matthias and Marine who had arrived on a BMW GS1200 from Como, A mirror of my journey and motorcycle selection, but we had much in common.

Nature tried to eat me, one blighter chose to bite the centre of my forehead, the motorcycle mirror revealed a new third mystic eye, somehow appropriate. No bugs under the pine trees where an unexpected surprise awaited, the camp open air restaurant. Matthias graciously offered to help me with the menu of locally sourced dishes but Didier stepped in as the attentive host. I picked a table on my own, because I’m English, Josephine took my order of Beef Louise (slow cooked with salad, pasta, frites, beans, carrots …) washed down with a locally brewed Amber Ale. I’m not a foodie, normally struggling to feed myself, however I’m starting to see it, might be an age thing.

Kids and dogs, families sitting at long tables, fairy lights in the trees and yurts in the shadows, country music and an open fire, woodsmoke in my nostrils complimenting a Glenmorangie. You get the picture, you’ll have too because I didn’t take many.

I rose early in Saint Jean de Losne, blogged and packed up ahead of the maddening crowd. A picturesque town that I omitted to picture, my regrets, often I have them moments after but roll on thinking that the next vista is just around the corner. This happened again as I rose up into the mountains and crossed Pont de la Pyle over the mystically blue Lac de Vouglans, I thought about it and stopped to fit a camera to the bike. Recording a 360 degree photo every 4 seconds, a lazy way to capture my viewpoint without stopping at every view point.

I took it easy on the old girl, she rattled on and I, like a careworn spouse, ignored her. Concerned more for my electronic charges I rigged up a cable to recharge the camera and Beeline navigation device and to keep an eye on the battery voltage. A healthy 13.4v reassured me that the alternator was serving, the alternative being unthinkable, although I do have a replacement regulator/rectifier should that fail.

I broke my fast, having not eaten the day before (restaurant ferme) I pulled into a very civilised services and parked out of the scorching sun under a convenient scooter shelter. The services, rather than the UK equivalent, had separate establishments, a boulangerie and a restaurant. I elected to sit outside, in the shade and enjoyed a salade César while keeping a weather eye on the bike.

Lac D’ Annecy was my destination, the town was mad busy, I stopped in a car park and looked for a campsite, picking the one farthest from the chaos, at the far end of the lake, I crawled along with the heavy tourist traffic. There was no room at the inn until a phone call to, presumably the owner, secured an expensive spot in the ‘Garden’. I pitched then pitched my sweaty self into the lake amongst the assembled tourists.

Vincent rolled up on his Yamaha and we struck up the kinds of conversations that only solo motorcycle tourers have. Discussing routes he dispelled my misguided assumption that I could make it to Lake Como from here in one day and suggested avoiding Lombardy would avoid boring straight roads. Route Napoleon down to Gap was his suggestion for great French roads, also avoiding motorbike unfriendly Switzerland at all costs. Gap to Col de Izoard would put me back in the direction of Como.

I’d done some shopping and after Vincent had been swimming we headed out to a restaurant where I enjoyed a local chicken dish with spätzle (pâtes Alsaciennes), conversation and a bottle of Mondeuse. Vincent is from Paris and without his persuasive skills in getting us a table and kind recommendations from the menu and wine list the evening would have certainly been less of a triumph. We ate and smoked and drank and talked then polished off the evening with a glass of Genepi (mountain flowers spirit) that went down very well.