Greetings from the little bourg of Anost – pronounced An-O – in the Morvan National Park in Burgundy, where this is a temporary home in the forest (well one of eight little homes in the forest, but if you shoot at the right angle it looks like solitude, and at this time of year virtually is, except for the people a couple of places down with a large golden retriever, which is not getting on terribly well with ma nouvelle copain … who has adopted me for the duration, I suspect. (Might have something to do with my usefulness as a milk supplier. And guess I’ll have to learn the French for “cat food”.)
Anost is pretty well the last village at the head of the valley, advertising itself as a walking and cycling resort, although also curiously a logging centre. (Well they do mostly seem to be logging the non-native conifers, and it is all arranged in small fields, so you don’t get huge bare patches.)
The tradition that the region celebrates is the ox-drivers – rebuilt in the central square is the traditional structure in which the oxes were shod (not had their “paws” done, as the English translation says, although I suppose you have to give them marks for trying.)
And getting older, this must have been in the middle ages quite a rich area (wool maybe – hard to see what else the hills and quite poor soil would have been good for) – displayed in the church is a monumental Merovingian sarcophagus from about the 8th-century, and there’s also a lovely husband and wife 13th-century memorial, now thought to be Sir Jehan of Rousillon and his wife Isabeau (Isabelle?).
The church goes back to the 12th-century, although is so rebuilt you’d be hard-pressed to tell.
As is so amazingly the case in so many apparently tiny French centres there’s basically everything you need – two general stores (although one is on vacances annuelles), a chemist, a butcher and a baker (also vacance), a bar, and two restaurant (one closed for you guessed it).
Dined at the restaurant last night, where once they’d got over the fact I was tout seule, on my own, and the struggles between their regional accents, my Australian-accented French, and my failure to understand that yes there was a menu, but all I was going to get was what was on tonight, we got on fine. And if I thought I was getting an omellette and instead got meatloaf (both “parmentier” I gather), I did at least know that the entree was going to be a warm salad of preserved cabbage and local ham (which was better than it sounds, really).
(Where I’m staying is the Chalet Chenelet – although the website doesn’t advertise it the owner speaks (and emails) perfectly good English, and is very friendly and helpful. To find it turn left for Bussy at the Y intersection, rather than going into Anost proper, and it is just outside the village on the right, with a very ecologically friendly (but not very visible) wooden sign). (And I’m pleased to say my chalet has solar panels, and some of the others are wood-heated – part of what attracted me to the place.)
And heading over the hill, you get to see moonrise over Bussy…
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