Our recent trip to the one of the spiritual hearts of Absinthe, the Val de Travers in Switzerland, was memorable for a whole host of reasons. But one experience in particular stood out.
“We’re heading off to the secret fountain.” OK, I thought, time to see some cheesy tourist attraction with some vague connection with Absinthe.
I drove the worst car in the world (a 4-wheel drive Fiat Panda), out of the valley floor and up into the hills and forests. The leading car gave barely enough confidence that the driver knew the way. The fountain is reputed to be “secret” after all! We wound through farms, fields, and then forests, heading ever upwards from the valley. We eventually parked near an innocuous junction, next to stacks of recently felled logs.
The forest was wet with that morning’s rain, and the continuing drips from the surrounding trees seemed to echo the recent weather. We were led across the road and down along a typical gravel fire-break in the forest. It was in the middle of nowhere, even my portable sat-nav could not muster up its location.
After a few hundred yards, a sign appeared: “Fontaine La Discrete” and we left the main track into a small makeshift clearing. I first noticed the heavy wooden picnic table and seating. Large enough to accommodate perhaps a dozen individuals.
Before it stood what at first looked like a large bird house perched on wooden legs. In what might be regarded as the attic, was a small slot and padlock. Below, a door which opened to reveal a bottle of La Clandestine Absinthe and two absinthe glasses.
If you know anything about absinthe, you know that it should be diluted before drinking, so fresh water was provided by a nearby mountain spring. Though the water itself surfaced a few metres away, it had been redirected through a wooden channel to where it could be conveniently used to louche one’s absinthe. The ritual is: to break from your wandering over the mountains for a glass of locally distilled absinthe, diluted by gloriously fresh spring water. You would then demonstrate your gratitude by dropping a little money into the locked upper slot, and continue on your way.
This secret absinthe fountain is one of several dotted around these hills, we were told. This one is maintained by a boy who would regularly purchase the absinthe directly from its distiller, Claude Alain Bougnon in the nearby town of Couvet, then reaps the financial rewards left in the locked compartment by grateful travellers.
This experience was a distinct highlight from a wonderful weekend. Here’s some video…
Last weekend was the first venture out on the kayak. We got wet, we broke stuff, bobbed on the water a bit, and had a thoroughly great time.
Back in my teens I canoed a fair bit, and even achieved a basic canoeing instructors qualification – likely expired. My old canoe – appropriately named Green Goddess – still hangs in my Dad’s garage. So the prospect of spending some time on the water again was something I was not going to pass up.
We picked up a second hand, sit-on-top kayak about three weeks ago. Large enough to carry two adults (“plus a child or dog” is often included in the sales blurb), it is something of a plastic beast and I was concerned about how much effort it would take to paddle it. It came with back-rests and paddles, so we had to shop for safety equipment and even a roof rack to carry it.
The calm and glorious weather last weekend was ideal for our first venture out, so we popped it (sorry, heaved it) onto the roof of the car and drove the full mile down to the sea. The tide was close to low water, so we were glad of the lightweight, two-wheel trolley to help get the boat down to the surf.
I’ve paddled the sea a couple of times and know well how tricky it can be to get through the surf and into calmer waters beyond. But with two paddlers, that is far trickier. One, the front-most, must get into the boat first, the other following once it is in enough water to float. This must happen between waves, so timing would be critical. Jen climbed in, I pushed the boat a little further and lept up. But the kayak turned a little away from the approaching wave before I could grab my paddle and so we were firmly dunked!
We timed it just right for the second attempt and soon we were on the almost totally smooth water beyond the surf.
The beach shrunk away quite quickly, as did the sounds of people and the surf. Just a few hundred yards out and all we could hear was the slight lapping of water against the kayak hull. Below, the sea was clear enough to see right to the sandy bottom. (We did not take out cheap sonar “fish-finder” this time, so I’m not sure how deep the water was.)
Chucking some lures
With low levels of fitness – and Jen being just out the other side of her cold – we decided to be safe and not paddle far. Instead, we floated around near the entrance to the cove with her dipping Mackerel feathers and me spinning a lure for any interested Pollock. It was inappropriate conditions and location for either of those fish, but this outing was really about orientation and familiarity.
Next time, we’ll go further, perhaps around nearby Cambeak point, a likely spot for fish, and a great test for the little fish=finder. This is a small sonar device that floats behind your boat, measuring the depth of water and sensing any passing shoals of fish. I’ve never used one before, so it should prove interesting. (And yes, I am having to fight the temptation to test it in our goldfish tank!)
By the time we returned to the beach, after perhaps an hour, the surf had increased a little with the now incoming tide. The plan was to ride a wave or two right into the beach – and we almost made it! Unfortunately, I failed the steering task by getting my paddle trapped between surging water and boat, turning us sideways for another dunking in the last three feet of water.
Boats need maintenance
Boats always seem to need something doing to them. Stuff breaks, stuff gets beaten by salty water, stuff gets lost. We were no exception.
The return dunking overturned the kayak and resulted in the rear fishing rod holder snapping in its mount (easily replaced). We also managed to lose the front drainage plug when emptying water on the beach. Plus, the uneven sand caught and broke our little two-wheeled trolley. At least only the drain plug will be a necessary (and cheap) purchase before the next trip.
It will take us a few trips to properly familiarise ourselves with the kayak and how to handle it. But before the summer is out, I expect we’ll be heading further out to sea and perhaps paddling around headlands and onto inaccessible coves. The ultimate aim is to catch a fish or two en route, to cook and each it for lunch on a beach before heading home. Now doesn’t that sound like a satisfying day out?
In a minibus of expectant absinthe professionals, I watch inside and out as we climb into the mountain mists. Towns give way to farms. Farms give way to forest. Forest to the restaurant at the end of the road*.
Literally at the end of the road. We cannot see far for the deep fog all around, but we are very near the edge of the Creux du Van, a 160 meter high, vertical rock face.
In to the restaurant and we are ushered up a creaky wooden stair beneath a dangling forest of suspicious-looking sausages, and into a claustrophobic, wood-panelled room already filled by the rattle of expectant early arrivals.
The room bears the scars of countless visitors. Carving ones initials, the date of one’s visit, or some other dubious monogram into the wooden walls is anything but discouraged. (Though a prominent sign dictates such activity on the tables to be less acceptable.)
I feel very much in Switzerland: the promise of alcohol and melted cheese and a complex tangle of multilingual conversation.
This is no ordinary gathering. It is the annual coming together of the absinthe business elite. The players who make and distribute absinthe products right across the world.
Tomorrow is the annual absinthe festival in the tiny town of Bovaresse in the Val de Travers. The town is far too small to be marked on my sat-nav. Tonight, absinthe manufacturer Claude-Alain hosts his famed party for those in the business. (if you are wondering why we are there, this Absinthe Shop is the reason).
There are some heavyweights of the absinthe world here. The author of the most respected absinthe histories, who happens to be offering tastings of a currently unreleased absinthe he produces from herbs gathered in the wild. There’s the Brazilian who runs an absinthe bar and shop in Tokyo, and who wins the award for the longest journey to attend this weekend’s festivities. There’s one of the top absinthe distillers who only removes his blue work overall after the drink starts to flow and the air temperature in the cramped room peaks. And there’s the guitar-playing woman who at last year’s event, was a man (and who turns out to be a capable musician).
The cacophony of conversation, exaggerated by the many languages, is close to deafening in such an enclosed environment. But those snippets of English I can make out are fascinating. Small talk abounds, but future deals are being instigated, meetings scheduled, relationships forged and strengthened: business is being done over the absinthe, wine, and alcoholic melted cheese. It is thoroughly fascinating to note who is happy to imbibe plenty of alcohol, against who is maintaining a clear head.
This is unlike any trade event I’ve ever experienced (until next year, perhaps), and the absinthe festival itself is not until tomorrow.
* This post was written during the latter stages of the gathering on the evening of 18 June 2010, with limited editing before posting.
I’ve grown up eating fish. Until moving to west of London at the age of ten, I knew an environment of valleys, mountains and rivers. Our current location is not that different, with the advantage of the sea.
As a child I knew little of horizons. Living in the flood plain of the river Tawe in South Wales meant easy access to fresh trout from the river. At the bottom of our garden ran The Feeder, a small overflow stream fed from a control gate further up the Tawe. Brown trout would sometimes find their way in from the main river, and once in a while also find a hooked worm, on the end of a fishing line, from a rod leaning over the back fence.
River fish was never enough, so Dad and I would regularly head down to dig Lug and Rag worms from their burrows in the low-water sands at Swansea and Penclawdd to beach cast for a variety of flat-fish, or head out on the rocks at Worm’s Head. And as a special treat, a boat fishing trip for mackerel or deeper water over reefs (I never did manage to get out wreck fishing).
After those early years, fishing became “something I used to do”, and the lack or a nearby river meant the activity passed into memory.
Hey, look, it’s the sea
It took me several weeks of staring out from the back of our current home over to the Atlantic before my brain managed the realisation that fishing could once more be on the agenda. We are less than a mile from the sea, a rugged beach, and less accessible coves and cliffs along the South West Coastal Path. What better opportunity to get back up to speed? No more are fishing trips planned and scheduled: If the tide and swell is right, I can pop down the hill at any time!
The problem is, it has been so long I have pretty much forgotten everything I once knew. Not that I knew much up to the age of ten, as Dad would fill-in the many gaps and as a child I would mainly fish to his directions. This meant most of my more recent fishing forays resulted in an aching casting arm, some lost weights and hooks, and several clumps of seaweed – not to mention a soggy boot here and there.
I found some great communities online that have helped me re-climb the learning curve. But even they keep the best fishing spots (“marks” as they call them) close to their chests as many of the discussion forums are watched carefully by professional fishermen on the lookout for new locations or the latest news on catch reports for local hot spots.
This area, it seems, is prime territory for Bass, Pollock, Bream, Plaice, and a few others. Though I have spotted people fishing from our local beach and the nearby rocks several times, I’m sure the best locations are a little more out of the way. Again, the advantage of our location means heading out to the wild corners of this coast is but a brief car journey away.
Grab a boat
We recently had a guest to stay and planned some fishing. “Don’t you take me fishing if we are not going to catch anything!” Came the good-natured demand (clearly, he had discovered my secret stash of seaweed). So to maintain what little fishing credibility I had, we decided to head out on a boat.
We signed up for a four-hour reef fishing trip on Mystique, out of South Quay in Newquay (about an hour drive from home). Everything was supplied, rods, bait, expertise, so all we had to concentrate on was dropping a baited, weighted line into the water, and hauling the fish up from near the sea bed.
Pouting by the bucketload. I hooked several of these even before I felt my line hit the bottom. A distant relative of the Cod, Pouting are not the tastiest fish and are generally used for animal foods. They don’t even put up a fight! With a typical boat fishing rod setup, it is difficult to tell you have one on the line. I’d say only Mackerel is easier to catch than these.
LSDs galore! Lesser Spotted Dogfish put up much more of a fight as you haul in the line. Normally thrown back into the water due to the need to skin them before cooking, I decided to keep one (of the half dozen or so I caught) just for the experience. Preparation strenuous but not excessively so, and the cooked meat was soft in texture.
The best catch of the day, however, came from my friend, who hauled in a what was probably a 6-7 pound Pollock. Another member of the Cod family, and pretty decent eating if cooked correctly.
We did not keep all the Pouting, and you can see the result of the trip in the photo above.
Today’s hunting adventure
Back to more local, shore fishing. Scouring Ordinance Survey maps and Google satellite images, I have spotted some remote but promising locations for Bass. So near low water, we will head out with fishing kit and supplies to see what we can discover.
The main challenge is not the fishing itself, but gaining access to promising locations. Google satellite images, as they are taken from directly above, offer few visual clues as to whether a particular path actually reaches sea level or whether it terminates in a vertical cliff. We must also consider whether – and when – the access point becomes cut off as the tide moves in. Heading out about an hour and a half before low water should give us ample time to fuly explore two nearby locations.
At the very least, we have another opportunity to enjoy this spectacular coastal landscape. And that, for me, is what it is all about. Sure, eating fish you have caught is very satisfying, but being out there, in the windswept, salty, desolate landscape is what it is all about.
The BBC recently ran a series of programmes under the title “Sea Fever”, which, as you can guess, were all focused on the sea and the British relationship with it.
One gem in this great series was “Wrecking Season“, programme about Cornwall-based playwright and beachcomber Nick Darke (now deceased – and sadly, the programme is not available on the BBC iPlayer).
[it followed Nick] as he combed the wild seashore for the wonderful hardwoods, exotic sea beans, fishing paraphernalia and fascinating artefacts deposited on Cornwall’s beaches by the ocean’s long haul drift
So with a visit to The Strangles in yesterday’s glorious weather, and a little time to kill until the tide allowed us to access Little Strangles beach, Jen was inspired to do a little wrecking herself.
It took no more than a handful of minutes for her to discover what you see in the photo. These are floats probably used by lobster fishermen to mark the locations of their cages. Though it was a tough climb back from that beach even without the burden of wrecking spoils, this find now sits on our doorstep.
I shudder to think what might be added to this pile when the stormy weather returns late in the year.
