I do it my way

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Chapter II

(Now featuring Uzès)

Day 1

Barely 24 hours after waving goodbye to our last visitors — with just enough time to reclaim the sofa and the fridge — we were back on the road again. Destination: festive reunions. Or, to be precise, the reunion — the now yearly Cousinade Sauvaget, a gathering of cousins and partners where family tales, laughter, and bottles of wine flow with equal ease.

Fun fact: of the six Sauvaget cousins, four have migrated south to Occitanie in recent years, while the remaining two cling stubbornly to the Paris area. Coincidence or not, these two are also the only ones still working. We’ll let you decide whether that’s correlation or causation.

Last year, we gathered in Burgundy, one of our ancestral heartlands. This year? We headed to the Gard, near Uzès, the new stomping ground of the latest cousin to trade Parisian smog for Provençal sunshine.

But before I tell you about wine, gîtes, and naps (yes, naps deserve their own mention), let me pause for a quick introduction to our host town:

Uzès. Or as some call it, the First Duchy of France. This jewel of the Gard was once a Roman pit stop on the Via Domitia (Italy ↔ Spain, pre-Google Maps). By the 16th century, it had risen to duchy status, with dukes, religious conflicts, and enough history to fill several textbooks. Fast forward to today, and Uzès is known for its bustling Saturday market, artisan traditions, and, importantly, the birthplace of Haribo candies. Yes, gummy bears began here. Chew on that.

Arriving from Carcassonne after a perfectly timed 2.5-hour drive, we dove straight into lunch at Le 80 Jours, because nothing says “road trip complete” like a good meal. With a couple of hours to spare, we wandered Uzès’ cobbled streets, and I’ll admit: guidebooks undersell it. This town deserves serious exploring — more than our post-lunch stroll could deliver.

By 3 p.m., it was time to check into our temporary headquarters: La Maison des Lauriers in Arpaillargues. Picture this: a 17th-century magnanerie (silkworm farm) turned maison d’hôtes, complete with vaulted rooms, stone floors, and ceilings that whisper history. Naturally, our first move wasn’t to unpack — it was to nap. A tactical nap. The kind that prepares you for aperitifs.

Which brings us to cousin Jean-Yves’ new home, conveniently in the same village. Glasses clinked, stories flowed, and by 7:30 p.m., we were ready for dinner at CEBO back in Uzès. Cue excellent local red wine, creative plates, and the kind of atmosphere that makes you linger long after dessert.

A night stroll through Uzès’ cobblestones capped the day perfectly, before heading back to our gîte for what I’ll call “a fairly good night’s sleep” — because with cousins, laughter always runs later than planned.

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Chapitre II

(Avec une touche d’Uzès)

À peine 24 heures après avoir salué nos derniers visiteurs — juste le temps de récupérer le canapé et le frigo — nous voilà déjà repartis. Destination : les réjouissances familiales. Plus exactement : la réjouissance — la désormais annuelle Cousinade Sauvaget, un rassemblement de cousins et conjoints où anecdotes, rires et bouteilles de vin coulent à flot.

Petit détail amusant : sur les six cousins Sauvaget, quatre ont migré vers l’Occitanie ces dernières années, tandis que les deux restants s’accrochent vaillamment à la région parisienne. Fait encore plus curieux : ce sont aussi les deux seuls qui travaillent encore. Correlation ? Causation ? À vous de juger.

L’an dernier, nous nous étions retrouvés en Bourgogne, terre de nos ancêtres. Cette année ? Cap sur le Gard, près d’Uzès, nouveau fief du dernier cousin ayant troqué le smog parisien contre le soleil provençal.

Mais avant de vous parler de vin, de gîte et de sieste (oui, la sieste mérite sa propre catégorie), un mot sur notre ville-hôtesse :

Uzès. Ou, comme certains l’appellent, le Premier Duché de France. Cette perle du Gard fut autrefois une étape romaine sur la Via Domitia (Italie ↔ Espagne, sans Google Maps). Au XVIe siècle, elle s’est élevée au rang de duché, avec ses ducs, ses conflits religieux et assez d’histoires pour remplir une bibliothèque. Aujourd’hui, Uzès est réputée pour son marché du samedi sur la Place aux Herbes, ses artisans, et surtout : elle est le berceau des bonbons Haribo. Oui, les ours en gélatine sont nés ici. À méditer entre deux mâchouilles.

Après deux heures et demie de route parfaitement synchronisée depuis Carcassonne, nous avons attaqué directement par le déjeuner au 80 Jours, car rien ne dit « voyage réussi » comme une bonne table. Avec quelques heures à combler ensuite, une balade digestive dans les ruelles pavées s’imposait. Et je dois l’avouer : les guides ne rendent pas justice à Uzès. C’est une ville qui mérite bien plus qu’un petit tour post-déjeuner.

À 15h, il était temps de poser nos valises dans notre QG éphémère : La Maison des Lauriers à Arpaillargues. Imaginez : une ancienne magnanerie du XVIIe siècle transformée en maison d’hôtes de charme, avec ses salles voûtées, ses sols de pierre et ses plafonds qui murmurent l’histoire. Première mission ? Non, pas déballer nos affaires : faire la sieste. Une sieste tactique. Celle qui prépare à l’apéritif.

Direction ensuite chez mon cousin Jean-Yves, fraîchement installé dans le même village. Verres qui s’entrechoquent, histoires qui fusent… et à 19h30, cap sur Uzès pour le dîner au CEBO. Au menu : un rouge local excellent, une cuisine inventive et une atmosphère qui donne envie de s’attarder longtemps après le dessert.

Enfin, une promenade nocturne à travers les pavés d’Uzès a conclu la journée en beauté, avant de regagner notre gîte pour ce que j’appellerai « une assez bonne nuit de sommeil » — car avec des cousins, les rires durent toujours plus longtemps que prévu.

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Final thoughts

Ireland, you have been grand

(Mostly)

After twelve days wandering the Emerald Isle, it’s time to sort through the good, the bad, the ugly… and yes, even the weird.

✅ The Good

The Irish themselves top the list: fun, welcoming, and only occasionally decipherable through their musical accents. Add to that landscapes so green they make a billiard table look anaemic, and you’ve got a country that lives up to its postcard reputation.

History here isn’t just preserved — it’s cherished, celebrated, and sometimes peddled to tourists in woolly jumpers. The whiskeys and beers (red ales, stouts, you name it) deserve their own applause. Let’s just say I rarely went thirsty. In short: I felt oddly at home.

❌ The Bad

Yes, it rains — but that’s like complaining the Irish play fiddles. Expected. What wasn’t expected were three nagging irritants:

The tsunami of American tourists loudly “reconnecting” with their great-great-grandfather’s cow. Entire towns seem retooled to cater to this diaspora pilgrimage. Prices that make Paris look cheap. Hotels, B&Bs, restaurants — my wallet is still whimpering. B&B roulette. Sometimes charming, often claustrophobic, and occasionally equipped with showers requiring Olympic-level contortions.

🤦‍♂️ The Ugly

Let’s talk wine. 🍷 As a Frenchman, I naturally require it with meals. What I got instead? Screw-top plonk from Chile or Argentina — shipped across oceans while perfectly good Bordeaux sits next door in Europe. Ecologically insane, gustatorily tragic.

To add insult to injury, my good English companion often ordered Merlot or Sauvignon Blanc with the solemn expectation that “all Merlots taste the same.” My Mediterranean soul wept. If you need cinematic therapy on the subject, rewatch Sideways — it’s aged better than some of the bottles I endured.

🤷 The Weird

Finally, the invisible-but-not-really border between Northern Ireland and the Republic. As a staunch EU supporter, it makes about as much sense as putting up a toll booth between your kitchen and dining room.

So there you have it: Ireland, with its charms, quirks, and questionable wine lists. Would I go back? Absolutely. But next time, I’m packing a decent bottle of red — purely for cultural survival.

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Réflexions finales

L’Irlande, un vrai régal

( ou presque)

Après douze jours à parcourir l’île d’émeraude, il est temps de faire le tri entre le bon, le moins bon, le franchement moche… et même l’étrange.

✅ Le Bon

Les Irlandais d’abord : drôles, accueillants et seulement parfois compréhensibles à travers leurs accents musicaux. Ajoutons à cela des paysages d’un vert tellement intense qu’un tapis de billard en paraîtrait pâlichon, et nous voilà dans un pays qui mérite vraiment ses cartes postales.

L’histoire n’y est pas simplement préservée, elle est chérie, célébrée, parfois même vendue aux touristes en pulls de laine. Quant aux whiskeys et bières (ales rousses, stouts, etc.), ils méritent une ovation à eux seuls. Autant dire que je n’ai pas souffert de soif. Bref : je me suis senti étonnamment chez moi.

❌ Le Moins Bon

Oui, il pleut. Mais se plaindre de la pluie en Irlande, c’est comme critiquer les violons dans un pub : attendu. Non, ce qui m’a un peu agacé, ce sont trois points précis :

La marée de touristes américains, venus “retrouver leurs racines” parce que leur arrière-arrière-grand-père avait une vache irlandaise. Des villes entières semblent remodelées pour ce pèlerinage nostalgique. Des prix stratosphériques. Hôtels, B&B, restos… mon portefeuille n’a toujours pas repris ses esprits. La loterie des B&B. Parfois charmants, souvent minuscules, et équipés de salles de bains où il faut être gymnaste olympique pour se tourner sous la douche.

🤦‍♂️ Le Moche

Parlons vin. 🍷 Français oblige, j’aime en avoir un verre avec mes repas. Ce que j’ai trouvé ? Du piquette bouchonné à vis, venu du Chili ou d’Argentine — traversant la moitié de la planète alors que d’excellents Bordeaux patientent à deux pas. Aberration écologique et tragédie gustative.

Cerise sur le gâteau : mon bon ami anglais commandait invariablement un “Merlot” ou un “Sauvignon Blanc”, persuadé que tous se ressemblent. Mon âme méditerranéenne en a pleuré. Pour un peu de pédagogie cinéphile, (re)voyez donc Sideways : le film a mieux vieilli que certains crus servis ici.

🤷 L’Étrange

Et puis il y a cette frontière invisible-mais-bien-réelle entre l’Irlande du Nord et la République. Pour l’européen convaincu que je suis, ça a autant de sens que de mettre un péage entre sa cuisine et sa salle à manger.

Voilà donc l’Irlande, avec ses charmes, ses bizarreries et ses cartes de vins douteuses. Y retournerai-je ? Absolument. Mais la prochaine fois, j’apporterai ma propre bouteille — question de survie culturelle.

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Abschließende Gedanken

Irland – ein Genuss

(mit Abzügen in der B-Note)

Nach zwölf Tagen auf der grünen Insel ist es nun an der Zeit, Bilanz zu ziehen: das Gute, das weniger Gute, das Hässliche… und das Merkwürdige.

✅ Das Gute

Die Iren stehen ganz oben: lustig, entspannt und nur gelegentlich schwer zu verstehen durch ihren musikalischen Akzent. Dazu kommen Landschaften, die so grün sind, dass ein Billardtisch dagegen verblasst. Kurz gesagt: Irland ist eine Postkarte in Echtzeit.

Die Geschichte wird hier nicht nur bewahrt, sondern regelrecht gefeiert – manchmal auch in Wollpullovern an Touristen verkauft. Und die Whiskeys und Biere (ob Stout oder Red Ale) sind schlicht großartig. Durst leiden musste ich jedenfalls nie. Ich fühlte mich fast wie zu Hause.

❌ Das Weniger Gute

Ja, es regnet. Aber sich darüber zu beschweren, ist wie sich über Geigen in einem Pub aufzuregen – gehört einfach dazu. Wirklich gestört haben mich drei Dinge:

Die Flut amerikanischer Touristen, die auftreten, als gehöre ihnen das Land, nur weil ihr Ur-Ur-Großvater angeblich eine Kuh auf einer irischen Weide hatte. Ganze Städte scheinen auf diese Nostalgie-Pilger zugeschnitten. Die Preise. Hotels, B&Bs, Restaurants – alles so teuer, dass sogar Paris erschwinglich wirkt. B&B-Lotterie. Mal charmant, oft winzig, und nicht selten mit Badezimmern, in denen man akrobatische Fähigkeiten braucht, um sich in der Dusche umzudrehen.

🤦‍♂️ Das Hässliche

Kommen wir zum Wein. 🍷 Als Franzose brauche ich zu meinen Mahlzeiten einfach ein Glas. Was ich bekam? Schraubverschluss-Plörre aus Chile oder Argentinien – über halbe Ozeane geschifft, während Bordeaux gleich nebenan wartet. Ökologisch absurd, geschmacklich tragisch.

Zu allem Überfluss bestellte mein guter englischer Freund immer einen „Merlot“ oder „Sauvignon Blanc“ – in dem festen Glauben, sie schmecken überall gleich. Meine mediterrane Seele hat leise geweint. Wer die Lektion filmisch aufgearbeitet haben möchte: Sideways anschauen – der Film ist besser gealtert als mancher Tropfen, der mir serviert wurde.

🤷 Das Merkwürdige

Und dann ist da noch die unsichtbare, aber sehr reale Grenze zwischen Nordirland und der Republik. Für einen überzeugten Europäer wie mich ist das so sinnvoll wie eine Mautstelle zwischen Küche und Esszimmer.

So viel also zu Irland – mit all seinen Reizen, Eigenheiten und fragwürdigen Weinkarten. Würde ich wiederkommen? Unbedingt. Aber beim nächsten Mal bringe ich sicherheitshalber meine eigene Flasche mit – rein zur kulturellen Selbstverteidigung.

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With Ryanair and warm saké along the way

Our departure from Dublin was at the positively luxurious hour of 10 a.m. — a time that allowed for the smug satisfaction of not having to stumble bleary-eyed into an Uber at dawn. The Hotel Dublin 1 had served us well: spacious room, central location, and — most importantly — a bathroom that didn’t require me to attempt yoga positions just to turn around in the shower.

Security at the airport was mercifully swift, though boarding came with the now-familiar Ryanair ritual: a ten-minute stairwell pause, as if preparing us for the discomfort that awaited.

The plane left thirty minutes late thanks to a wind-inspired game of aircraft queueing, and the next two hours proved every bit as bone-rattling as Ryanair has conditioned us to expect. The two gin & tonics did nothing to dissipate the pain. I am this close to swearing them off entirely, though I fear that such an act of rebellion would not boost my domestic popularity.

Landing in Carcassonne was like stepping from monochrome into technicolour: 32°C, blazing sunshine, and the immediate shedding of long trousers in favour of shorts. 🩳

With the fridge at home standing as empty as an Irish pub at 9 a.m., the solution was obvious: dinner out. My brother and his wife will join us at the local Japanese spot, where I may even raise a cup of warm saké 🍶 — purely in honour of our safe return, you understand.

Tomorrow, of course, I resume my virtuous life of moderation and no alcohol. But tonight? Tonight, I’m home — and that’s worth celebrating.

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Bacon, rain & self-congratulation

Another early night, another bad night’s sleep. Between nightmares and a stomach that behaved like a bodhrán at a ceilidh, I woke up more times than a nervous leprechaun guarding his pot of gold. So yes, “not feeling too fresh” might be the understatement of the trip.

Still, nothing quite snaps you back to life like the unmistakable smell of bacon wafting up from the B&B kitchen. If that doesn’t get you out of bed, you may already be dead. Breakfast wasn’t due for another hour, and my stomach was still filing official complaints—but let’s be honest, who in their right mind says no to a full Irish on the last day? Exactly.

Suitably fuelled (and possibly doomed), we packed up and braved the rain for a smooth 120 km drive back to Dublin. Rental car returned, hotel luggage dropped, and spirits still surprisingly intact—we marched off to EPIC The Irish Emigration Museum.

Now, EPIC is slick. It’s modern. It’s shiny. It’s also a bit like Ireland throwing itself a surprise party: “Look at us, we suffered terribly, but by God we also invented the White House lawn and gave the world U2.” I admire the optimism, but as a non-Irish visitor, I sometimes felt like I’d wandered into a family reunion slideshow where everyone insists you’re basically a cousin too.

History lesson absorbed (with mild scepticism), it was clearly time for a pint. Ryan’s Bar around the corner obliged: Guinness for everyone, food to settle stomachs, and the comforting hum of lunchtime pub life.

By 4 p.m., we were back at the hotel to check in. I, naturally, surrendered to the siren call of a nap while the others rediscovered the River Liffey.

Evening saw us regrouping, and suddenly my brain clicked into déjà vu mode—I actually remembered the way to Temple Bar from a trip two years ago. Yes, the area is touristy. Yes, the drinks cost as much as a small house in Leitrim. And yes, the live band at The Quays was loud enough to drown out existential thought. But you can’t really say you’ve “done Dublin” without passing through, preferably while shouting your order over a cover of “Whiskey in the Jar.”

From there, we ambled back in search of dinner, stumbling upon The Big Tree, a quiet sanctuary next to our hotel where the pints were cheaper, the volume tolerable, and the collective sigh of relief audible.

Eventually, we caved to the hotel restaurant itself before the kitchen bolted its doors at 9 p.m. Wine (Chile again, sorry Ireland) and whiskey rounded off the evening, because how else do you mark your last night on the Emerald Isle?

Stats of the day: 9.7 km walked, smashing our 11-day average of 7.5 km. Muscles sore, wallets lighter, livers slightly singed—but hearts full.

Tomorrow, the tour breaks up as half the crew heads airport-ward. For now, though, sláinte to Ireland: land of rain, bacon, and the occasional self-congratulatory museum.

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We woke up indecently early again (apparently Ireland is turning us into morning people), well-rested thanks to the Celtic House B&B. Our room came equipped with two double beds — which meant I could starfish myself across one of them while still having the other as a backup in case of emergency. Breakfast wasn’t until 8:30, so I did the noble thing: updated my blog and checked the news from home. Apparently, Carcassonne is bracing for another heatwave. Shorts weather awaits us there, but for now, we’re firmly in “sherry weather” here in Kilkenny — damp, chilly, and only missing the glass of fortified wine to complete the mood.

Breakfast itself was served by none other than Angela Byrne — painter, author, and, if I’m being honest, someone I had never heard of until she placed sausages in front of me. (Every day’s a school day in Ireland.)

Kilkenny was hosting a “Medieval Half Marathon” today. I was this close to joining but, alas, forgot my running shorts. (Also, I don’t run unless a Guinness is involved.) Instead, we settled for something less sweaty: Kilkenny Castle. Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s a fine castle — but after you’ve seen a few, they do start to blend together. Turrets here, tapestries there, medieval draftiness everywhere.

Next up, we wandered through the Craft & Design Experience, peeked at Butler’s House and gardens, and then — brace yourselves — we boarded the little tourist road train.

Yes, we had already walked most of Kilkenny the day before, but when the opportunity arises to sit down and be driven in circles while someone tells you fun facts over a crackly speaker… you don’t say no.

Back in town, I stumbled into a men’s clothing shop and came out with a jumper (half-price in the sales — I ask you, what choice did I have?). Now the real puzzle: will Ryanair let me cram it into my already rebellious hand luggage? Stay tuned.

The Medieval Mile Museum kept us entertained until lunch beckoned.

Our friends A & S had already infiltrated Kyteler’s Inn, so we joined them. The place was buzzing, Guinness was flowing, and the beef stew of the day was calling my name.

Payment, however, was another story — the card machines were down, but by some miracle we had enough cash. A rare occasion, because normally our wallets hold just enough coins to operate a public toilet.

After lunch, we split up. Some of us went to the Smithwick’s brewery tour (where we learned the great Irish truth: Kilkenny = Smithwick’s in a tuxedo, sent abroad for export glamour).

The others went to Rothe House. The plan was to regroup at the legendary Hole in the Wall pub, but alas, it was closed. Plan B: the “Famine Experience.” Spoiler alert — it turned out to be a virtual walk housed inside a shopping mall. Nothing says famine like a food court.

By 4pm, energy levels flatlined. Four of us retreated to the B&B for tea, naps, and the illusion of productivity (yes, I typed this bit of the blog with one eye closed).

Evening brought us all together again at the Langston Hotel for apéritifs, dinner, and live Irish music.

The place was buzzing, the atmosphere cheerful, and the pints plentiful. Kilkenny does know how to do a Saturday night — and we managed it all without running a half marathon.

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