To the End of the World

Our last week of travel has begun and we are wandering somewhat aimlessly through the beautiful Beaujolais. The warm late summer sun makes the golden villages shine, which are rightly called 'Les Pierres Dorées'. 

The small towns of the famous wine region radiate in all shades of yellow that one can imagine: starting naturally with gold, we discover amber, sun, Aztec, and maize yellow. But honey, baguette, mustard, saffron, and pumpkin colors are also not lacking, highlighting the region's rich culinary side. And everything shines in the beautiful glow of the now quite low-hanging sun.

Today at noon, we take a break in the parking lot of the former quarry, from which one has a fantastic view of the vineyards and those golden villages. The material for the houses and some of the opulent castles in the area comes, among other things, from here. The small tour is closed for safety reasons, but one can still walk in the old quarry.

Today we are welcomed by soft murmurs and gentle hammering from the golden yellow shimmering rock surrounds. A group of older gentlemen is sitting in the small hut they built, discussing over a café noir.

The entrance to the old quarry is now prevented by three fences, which reminds me a bit of an antifascist wall. We are puzzled, for not too long ago one could still approach the edge of the cliff by a few meters.

As the gentlemen are just finishing their break, I ask about the reason for the rigorous blocking. They very French shrug their shoulders until the oldest among them chuckles and reports that powerful, flying golden chunks have been sighted, which swooped down on unsuspecting visitors in a high, nearly kilometer-wide arc on mighty wings. For everyone's safety, therefore, the now third and insurmountable barrier.

The guys are very friendly and let us peek over their shoulders. They carefully and patiently hammer out small and large works of art from the yellow sandstone. Two to three times a week, they come together here to indulge in their unusual passion and exchange feelings about the joys and sorrows of everyday life. 

We mention that we were in Guédelon a few years ago, a French municipality where a castle is being built using only medieval techniques. We were there in August and, of course, the place was packed with vacationing people. Unfortunately, many craftsmen were on holiday too, as they are normally employed and also have time off. However, we noticed that we had inconveniently hit a holiday, namely the Catholic Assumption Day, only when we found ourselves standing in front of closed bakery doors after the visit and had to eat dry cake from yesterday instead of fresh bread, very much in the spirit of the legendary Marie Antoinette.

The gentlemen smile at the anecdote, knowing that Guédelon always has many tourists, unlike their modest workplace. Yet they work with enthusiasm and appreciate interested visitors. 

We say goodbye with the announcement that the hero might have the wooden camera next year and take a few wet plates of the dedicated men. In the corner of my eye, I see a large golden boulder spreading its wide wings and cheerfully gliding over all the fences with a laugh...

For the further journey, I navigate us decisively past the golden villages, as there should still be discoveries left for next year. With my route, I incur the displeasure of my companion, as he didn't want to miss these beautiful places. Sometimes, clear communication and explicit expressions of desire can be helpful. Now we are back on the 'Route des Grands Crus' in Burgundy, from which heavy rain had driven us at the beginning of the tour.

Here we find the end of the world. The little road there, through seemingly abandoned villages, suggests that we are on the right path. Fortunately, the designated parking lot is very generously designed, so we can turn around easily with our oversized camper without getting stuck here. The hero immediately brushes away my concerns with a sweeping gesture; so far, he has masterfully handled every tricky maneuver in every narrow spot. 

Upon exiting, I hear muted calls in the surrounding steep rock faces and, startled, look for flying rock chunks. One has seen horses vomit, as my father always wisely said. But these noises quickly clarify themselves as signals from climbers who, high above our heads, pursue their sporting passion.

So we can safely stroll along the path through the colorful deciduous forest. 'Autumn is on the ladder and paints the leaves' - we used to sing as kids, this comes to mind with the colorful images and I hum a little to myself. Sometimes, it seems that not only pills uplift the mood. 

Lost in thought, we marvel at the rich color palette around us, and then suddenly it ends! A steep gray cliff prevents any further passage, rising several meters, almost threateningly high, the world seems to come to an end here. One can vividly imagine that for our ancestors, the mammoth hunt ended at this point and fate had to be decided face to face.

From a gully high above our heads, in spring, a roaring waterfall must rush over thick rock chunks, but today only a little water drips, despite the continued rainfall in recent days. 

Daring, fearless, reckless adventurers have discovered a steep path along the end of the world, traversing stumps, stones, cliffs, and the rushing stream, and one can continue one’s march at lofty heights. For me, however, it is time to stop here and now, and I would be defenseless against the wild animals. How fortunate that I have a brave hero by my side who reliably and safely leads me back to the Mistral.

Parking here is FOR-BID-DEN and therefore we are looking for another beautiful, quiet spot. However, I can imagine that the climbers pay little attention to the signs prohibiting parking, if I take a closer look at the cars.

But we still need bread, which is why the thousand-inhabitant wine village of Meursault appears just at the right moment, with a mini market, epicerie, and a bakery. And it's worth taking a detour.

As I make my way past the three market stalls, I glance at the coffee cups on the tables occupied by people seated in the warm midday sun, recovering from the exhausting shopping excursion. I ponder whether the hot drink in the paper containers tastes better than the last one in Nyons and, distracted in my unfocused mental presence, nearly bump my nose against the door.

The hero prevents the misfortune at the last moment, for he is attentive and deduces wisely through careful observation of other customers that the entrance must be to the left of the outdoor seating.
So we follow the locals, and we are immediately impressed by the gentle, spacecraft-like Sssssit with which the glass door in the old building opens. 

We land in front of a long glass display case from which delicious treats in colorful autumn colors tempt us with immeasurable calories. Petits fours in every imaginable variety, round and strawberry red, long and caramel-colored, rectangular and chocolate brown, square and mirabelle orange. Ah, I can't stop marveling, but behind me, two local, chatty grandmothers are pushing. 

Don't stop, the music and the service are playing up front, the direction is clear and explicit! To the left goes into the store, without stopping at any confectionery, delicacy, or treat, two young ladies behind a huge apparatus are calling out orders, and to the right, we whisk back out again. No shortcuts, no detours, no direction changes, and certainly no entrance through the right door!

Thus, the hero pulls me forward, for we only need bread, unfortunately. Even here, the selection is almost overwhelming, so I simply choose une baguette, as you can't go wrong with that. The tempting buttery croissants, however, I cannot resist. 

Meanwhile, Mademoiselle quickly inputs orders into a brand new tablet of the latest technology, while the second attendant points at a narrow slot at the front of the counter before me.

While I wonder with my mouth agape why the best croissants from the end of the world are supposed to come out of that narrow opening, as they would get totally squished!, the hero pulls out the tenner from my fingers, for he has understood Mademoiselle correctly. The money goes into the slot, and the change clinks, rattles, and rolls into the little dish next to it. Of course, we are happy to accept a sample of the homemade, exquisite, fresh brioche on offer.

Then the hero gently takes my hand and leads me through the now correct automatic door outside, the door opens with a soft sssssit, allowing me to get ready for the challenge in Scotty's transporter with cupholder and ambient light. The madams behind us have concluded their gossip and are now rushing to act, as they need plenty of little treats for dessert and don't have forever.

If you ever want to experience a fully automated village bakery, it can be done at Monsieur Babout in Meursault. And please, please tell me which of the famous pastries tastes the best!