(Monday, Sept. 21) Our Ribeauville Hotel is very civilized. Breakfast begins at 8:30 am and continues until 11 am, so we had a “lie in” after our long day on the road yesterday. (As I type this three days later¸ we are rocketing along another road --- “Die Bahn” (railroad line) --- at 267 KPH a bit faster than a Porsche Carrera roaring down the Autobahn, on our way from Frankfurt to Amsterdam).
We opted for a car-free and carefree day and set off later morning down the Gran Rue¸ the main street which runs from the top to the bottom of Ribeauville which sits at the foot of the 4,000+ foot high Les Vosages mountains. Last night we only walked a short distance traversing the upper part of the town in order to reach the restaurant where we dined, and that gave us the impression that Ribeauville was a fairly tiny little village. But in the light of day, and with tourist rising like the tide up the Gran Rue as we flowed down it, we realized that although relatively small, Ribeauville is much larger than we originally estimated.
Storks that build huge nests on rooftops here (although we only saw two that were bereft of these large avians) are an iconic symbol of the Alsace and shops sell many stork-themed gifts such as children’s mobiles, mugs, backpacks for toddlers, and what has become my favorite symbol of European souvenir kitsch, the snow globes (avec stork). We wandered into a bucherie/charcuterie just to smell the wonderful aromas of giant quiches, roast chickens, and thick pork chops waiting in glass cases for some lucky person to snatch them up and wolf them down. A local biscuiterie offered samples of macaroons, gratis, enticing us to buy a bag to insure no afternoon would go snackless.
Finally around 12:45 pm, the satiations from the macaroons wore off and we had an omelet and pork and veal tart lunch at Chez Marie on the Gran Rue. A cocker spaniel sort of small dog wandered around the tables and off towards the “WC”. Later he flopped down under one of the tables so he obviously was a resident of the restaurant.
Fortified with food, we set off back uphill towards our hotel, but then veered left and headed south to walk to Hunawir, the next village along the “Wine Road”. One of our Two Sisters Named Marie innkeepers told us that we’d be strolling through vineyards and that we’d get to Hunawir in a half hour or so. But after walking steadily uphill through a residential neighborhood under a warm sun we were almost ready to turn back when we reached the crest of a hill, felt a cooling breeze, and reached the beginning of the vineyards which run up the mountain and down along the narrow paved road connecting the two towns.
We ambled along, walked up steps carved into the stone wall supporting the uphill embankment, stopped to looked at the ripening grapes and take some photos, then descend to the roadway to continue southward. Some of the grapes were light green, others pinkish, and still others dark purple. A half dozen men and women hand cutting the grape clusters told us the lightest color grapes were Pinot Blanc, not Riesling as I had guessed, and that the pink ones were Pinot Gris.
After about an hour of easy walking we reached Hunawir where everyone appeared to be taking a mid-afternoon nap. We saw a handful of other tourists when we visited the local church. When it was built centuries ago the town was so poor that both that the Protestant and Catholics had to share the sanctuary for their services, as they continue to do so today. A fortified wall around the church was built with narrow slights so archers (and maybe later musketeers) could lose their missiles at approaching enemy forces. But perhaps only the Catholics allowed within the walls during war and the Protestants were left to fend for themselves outside, since today only the Catholic graveyard lies inside the wall and the heretics are buried outside of its protective circle.
We saw a couple enjoy an afternoon treat on the patio of a little café, but we unwisely continued on to the church, planning to have a glace (ice cream) on our way back. Unfortunately, the café was closed when we returned and we had to be content with munching on macarons on a log bench on the edge of Hunawir.
The grape harvest was still continuing as we walked back to Ribeauville in mid-afternoon. Incongruously, a Japanese family sat at a picnic table next to one of the vineyards having lunch while the French fieldworkers toiled away nearby.
Ken and Christina Waldeck, our friends who had recommended staying in Ribeauville, had been hiking in the hills when Ken fell and severely injured his leg. When we asked our innkeeper, Sister Marie the Elder, if Ken’s surgery had taken place at the hospital directly across the street from the hotel, she laughed out loud, explaining that it was an “Old Folks Home” for elderly patients that were immobile. She laughed even louder when I suggested that Cindy and I should probably be incarcerated there.
When we returned from our walk to Hunawihr we sat on a bench by the stream that runs through the top of the town, saw the “mobile” retirees (the ones with canes and “walkers”) and figured that we’d fit right in with that group. A half dozen tourists and a single dog passed by riding in the fake steam-train tram that runs up and down the Gran Rue. The tourists wore headsets listening to a tape recorded sightseeing monologue, eyes glazed over. Only the dog looked happy.
