Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

A perspective into European life

On Sunday last weekend, after breakfast, we jumped on our bikes, and headed out for a Sunday morning cycle.  For the most part, we were all very tired after a late night the night prior, having entertained. But since it was Mothers Day here, and I had no aspirations to stay indoors and play Lego, I was grateful to meander around town for a while.

Anton led the way, and we headed into Robertsau, which is not quite Strasbourg because its post code is not 67000, is not considered a quartier, but more of a ville. 

As we meandered around, we came across the Robertsau allotments.  These allotments make up an area in some suburbs, divided into small spaces that citizens can rent, and they serve the purpose of being their own little gardens, with which they can do what they want with-well, mostly.

I’m sure you know what I’m talking about- we’ve all seen them in movies set in New York- little rectangular patches where you (who lives on the 10^th floor of a sky-rise) can walk down 10 blocks of city streets, and tend to your flourishing lettuces, and tomatoes.  Mostly, as South Africans’, we dismiss the idea as quite absurd.

I have seen several of these areas around and about Strasbourg in the last 10 months, while driving around, but on Sunday, we got up close and personal.

Sunday morning was lovely and warm. In the shadows of the city, where our apartment is, you don’t feel the sun, and for the most part, the more prolific scents are those wafting from le boulangere, and the corners where apartment-size dogs do their daily business.

But out in Robertsau, the late spring sun and the breeze from the River Ill caressed our shoulders and shined up our freckles.  Out in the ‘burbs, we cycled past stables and horses, the hedges high. When the gravel path opened and the hedges fell away, I stopped my bike in amazement.  Hidden beyond the tarmac, cycle paths, canals and hedges were little blocks of everyday-gardeners dream.

Varying in size, for the most part the rectangles of garden are about 10 x 20 meters.  There are fences surrounding them. Some are neat, but a little neglected- the grass is long, and you can see weeds propping up the sweet peas.  Some have children see-saws and swings, most have type of wendy-houses- where you can store gardening tools, chairs, and anything else to use in the garden. 

Mostly, though, you can see how much time and effort people put into these spaces.  More than half of the allotments are dedicated to growing vegetables- staked trees of tomatoes, rivers of strawberry rows, mounds of potatoes plants, I saw fava-bean strings dangling, even the occasional fruit trees, their luscious peaches ripening under the spring sun.

So, the vegetable allotments- I get it!  To have a little piece of earth to grow your own plants- heaven!  If it was me, I would develop an attachment to the produce, not to the process of being outdoors and working the soil.

What I do not really understand is the allotments that resemble formal and traditional old fashioned masterpieces- curved gazebos with roses climbing over it- and not just mini ones- roses blooming the size of your hands; in dusty pink; deep red; creamy white.  There were immaculately mowed stretches of grass, some interspersed with gleaming stones, tall pots, ornamental citrus trees; neat rows of irises, small trimmed hedges of jasmine.

I won’t deny it- they were absolutely lovely, and it warmed my heart to see how peoples’ passions’ are ignited by nature.  The thing is, for me anyway, is that these little pieces of heaven do not lie at my back door… how you can’t step out on a crisp spring morning with a steaming pot of tea and croissants, to smell the lavender in the first light, how you can’t linger there in the evening as the sun begins to sink, with a tray of olives, cheese and crispy baguette- it doesn’t make sense to me.

Yes, I know what you’re asking- “what is stopping you from doing that?”  Well, me, for one.  If I were lucky enough to get my hands on an allotment, I am not sure I would trek the 4km’s on a late summer evening, to simply enjoy the peace and serenity of it. 

But, perhaps I underestimate myself.  Perhaps I would end up doing just that.

 

The other 2 experiences last weekend were not as profound. 

Late in the afternoon, we drove through to the village of Entzheim, where we had been told about the strawberry fields.  Clearly a very popular activity once the strawberries are ripe, we saw many families returning to their cars as we approached from the edge of the village.  They were carrying BUCKETS of the delicious berry of love, and I have to confess to wondering if there would be any left at all for us to collect.  And this is the beauty of it- there were fields upon fields, row upon row of different varieties- some fields were closed that day, as they were possibly waiting for a later-ripening berry for later in the season. 

A new experience for the girls, I expressed my instructions:  “Don’t pick anything that is even remotely green, and NO EATING!”  (I have been ridiculed for that last instruction- it’s very acceptable to taste as you go along).  We wandered along for about 20 minutes, and as the pile grew bigger, I was worried about space in the fridge, not even remotely interested in making jam, so I stopped the picking.  We headed back to weigh up and pay- a little over 3 kilograms later- barely even 9€, and we ate strawberries all week.  Truly, I can think of nothing as delicious.

(In case you are converting the cost of 9€, don’t.  It’s not fair on you.  However, should we head to a supermarket to buy strawberries, we pay 3€ for 500g.  Does that make a better perspective?)

 

So the other thing I noticed earlier in the day when we cycled alongside the Ill River was the barges.  Okay- barges are not that unique- we saw some smaller ones on the canals last summer, but these on the Ill River looked pretty permanent.  There were more than 20 of them, docked next to one another.  The gang-plank (for lack of an appropriate word) lay abroad, deeply set into grass and their roots on firm land.  There were roses planted next to name-boards at some, bicycles lined up and locked up, plant boxes filled with geraniums- colourful splashes on the rusted sides of some boats.

I had always imagined that barges were peoples’ summer houses- like a caravan, and considering we were 7 weeks away from the start of the summer holidays, I did not expect to see how they were docked up like they were.  It was on closer inspection when I saw how deeply set on the river banks these boats were, and I realised that people seem to live there, for more than just summer.

My first reaction was one of surprise- me being me- 4 walls and a roof on terra-firma is what I know, and am comfortable with.  But lest I am quick to judge, let me remember my friends and acquaintances that don’t have the same needs as I do.  We are indeed, not all cut off the same cloth.

On that note, let me say cheers for now.  I have gone on long enough, and by now you have probably smoked half a box, drank 3 cups of tea, or have put this down entirely, considering the children who are crying for attention.

As always, love and miss you.

xxx