We booked a trip to Dijon before I realised it was our girl’s birthday (and subsequently felt like the worst mother ever) (or the best, because France for a first birthday party). We hit the road on Thursday after an epic game of car tetris trying to fit all our luggage and two chubby kids in the rent-a-van. We stopped en route at Mulhouse, just over the border, for a stretch of tiny legs.

We arrived in Dijon later than anticipated due to the car mishaps and one rather cranky birthday girl. Our apartment was situated opposite Park Darcy, the main public park in the city. Our first night in town – and indeed all nights since – we sat at the table, ate cheese (a local specialty is a soft cheese washed, daily, for a month in white wine. It was heaven) and drank wine while contemplating our activities for the following day. As luck would have it, the following day included this:There’s a self-guided tour one can do called the Owl Trail. It started the other side of the park and covered three kilometres and all the major sites of the city…which apparently included the Bundy Bear. Back in the day, Dijon was a tremendously wealthy city (not to say it’s poor now, but it used to be a contender for the throne). The Dukes of Burgundy reigned from there – in fact, from the palace and tower you see below. ‘Liberty Equality and Fraternity’ used to be ‘Liberty Equality and Fraternity – OR DEATH’ (caps mine, obvs, but the words were theirs). I guess in the spirit of liberty they dropped the death lark. 

The trail took us past church after church after church. We were later advised that Dijon – due to its wealth – had thousands of churches prior to the revolution. Now, over 300 still kick on. We also passed the owl for which the tour is named. You rub it with your left hand (left being closest to your heart) and make a wish. Ours were for pastries and quiet children, both of which I am pleased to report came true.

Naturally the tour would be no tour at all if we didn’t peruse local fromageries.

Festive fromageries.Later that night, after a repeat of said platter, we took the wee ones into town to see the Christmas light show. There were the standard Christmas lights, but also a light show that played out against the side of the palace. It blew the kids’ minds, and our girl giggled pretty much the entire time.

After dinner and drinks out on the town, Hotel and I had dreams of a lovely relaxed Lyon morning. A little lie in (nothing too ambitious – say, seven?), coffee, french pastries and cuddles with our sweet girl. The same sweet girl who woke up in the threes and ruined all our plans (to be fair, daylight savings kicked in and so as far as her body was concerned, it was in the fours, but that’s still completely ludicrous). After trying our best to reclaim precious zzzs, we reverted to Plan B (which stands for bloody hell, are you kidding me?) and made our way to catch the sunrise over the Roman amphitheatre. Except when we arrived at some ungodly dark hour of course it was closed, the attendants probably luxuriating in their warm beds with their coffee on standby and pastries at the ready, sniggering at us in their dreams. Plan C (you can use your imagination): we made our way to Saint Jean-Baptiste Cathedral, and typically she fell asleep just as the sun came up.

The church bells tolled and she awoke – you think she’d be used to them after Rotkreuz. You’d also think I might have been able to manage my hair and wear clean jeans. You would be mistaken on all counts.

Not quite ready to give up on the pastry dream, we made our way back into town to find the Sunday markets. They were delicious. There is a law in France that prohibits taking photos of people without their permission, hence Tim’s odd law-skirting camera angle. Rest assured, we’ve not included any dirty jean shots.

We had to head to Geneva as Tim had to get his passport renewed (the Kiwis can apparently submit everything electronically and have the passports delivered within days; not so for us. In person, with an appointment, at the embassy, thankyouverymuch). As Geneva was only a few hours away we decided to detour via Beaujolais.

If, when driving through wine territory, we are instructed to get out and drink wine, then fine. We will do so.

The only problem with that plan was that it was Sunday, and all the things were shut. We had a lovely drive through the autumnal vines, mentally making ‘what we would do better next time’ lists (call first / have a game plan / pack a picnic / remember things shut on Sunday / have a daughter that sleeps past three am). We grabbed baguettes at the only place we could find that was open, and Adelaide promptly ate her grandfather’s.

We made it to Geneva that afternoon. Tim and I did a brief UN, Botanic Gardens and Lake Geneva circuit before calling it a night (night = wine and whispers in our hotel room, hoping that things would fare better the following morning). (Spoiler: they did not.) However the lake was beautiful and the UN doesn’t support any kind of warfare, let alone that with your child, so we cut our losses and enjoyed the evening.

After a week of friends visiting from Australia (which means more wines than one should have with an early waking baby), we had plans to meet up with my parents following their travels in Spain and Portugal. We were to liaise in Lyon, and as Tim had a work function Adelaide and I hit the road alone on Friday. We made our way to Lausanne, not too far from the border of Switzerland and France, and stopped for lunch. Adelaide had a wriggle in the gardens and I had a rose and we were both rather pleased with ourselves.

It’s still novel – and will be for some time, I suspect –  to drive a few hours and cross into another country. Luckily the baby slept, because every time I saw ‘FRANCE’ on signposts I embarrassingly screeched in excitement (quietly though, so as not to disturb her).

World heritage listed, Lyon is the third largest city in France, and is lauded as its gastronomic capital. We didn’t have long in town, so we set out early to check out its sights (and squeeze in as many pastries as our arteries could handle). The old town is nestled between two rivers and looming above it, visible from almost everywhere, is the cathedral.

Only visible if you can be bothered looking up, that is.

We strolled around the town in the morning, checking out architecture and finding our bearings (but mostly trying to work up an appetite for lunch).

We moseyed through museums, cruised through courtyards and ogled ornate churches.

And Tim and the girl viewed vinyl at the markets along the Rhone.

Lyon has the largest number of Michelin starred restaurants in the world, and an uber famous octogenarian chef. It has oodles of delicious markets with astounding ranges of charcuterie, cheese, meats, chocolates, pastries, fruit and vegetables. It also has bouchons, home-style restaurants that used to provide a resting place for horses and give a simple meal, usually based around cheaper ingredients, to weary travellers. Given the choices of food in Lyon, we’d deliberated for some time as to how we’d fill our stomachs and had decided to lunch at one such establishment. A low ceilinged, checkered tableclothed affair, it did not disappoint. We were served a standard menu: salami and pickles, rilettes, lentils and a cabbage salad to start, and a choice of mains. They ranged from the local specialty of quenelle (a pike dumpling in crayfish sauce), andouillette sausages and pork cheek stew, to blood pudding with roast apples, and pigs head. We sampled bravely and were well rewarded (also, there was praline pie afterwards for the win). Our bellies full – for the time being – we embarked on a walking tour.

Lyon’s old town consists mainly of streets parallel to the rivers. In order to carry originally water, and later silk, and still later move army troops quickly between the streets a series of traboules (meaning ‘to cross’) were developed. Secret passages through the city, they are located behind closed doors, and lead you through private courtyards and alleys to the next bustling thoroughfare. In the old town there are over 300 such passages, and unless shown where they where I would have walked on past, foolishly taking the long route. Happily for my lazy legs, we were shown many entrances which led us to common courtyards, usually with the communal well still intact.

These were joined by passages: some straight and some meandering, some with stairs and some flat, illuminated to guide the way.

Some of the traboules are signposted, like the one below, but the vast majority of them are private and hidden to the unknowing eye.

Many were filled with tourismos like us, admiring the view (and for some, the greenery).
Unlike today, the cheapest rooms were located on the top floors as they were the furthest from the well and didn’t have the luxury of elevators. The owner of the building would often have a single room at the top to maximise access to the sun as the courtyards were frequently dark and damp.

All the talk of hauling water (or more accurately Tim’s work function) tired out some of the tourists.

Even after being shown many of the entrances to the traboules, it was still a surprise when one popped open in an unassuming place.

I had hoped that this was the nexus of Lyon’s gastronomy and traboules but sadly I was mistaken. It wasn’t all about hidden passageways, of course – we also relished the imposing views from above.

Tim and I hit the town that night sans baby (thanks, grandparents!) and marvelled at the difference of the city. By night, the buildings are lit from below and are covered in a golden glow. The city had a buzz to it – while fairly frantic during the day, it mellowed out at night and the hum of well fed and watered patrons murmered through the streets. We drank champagne in a dark, spacious and ornate bar, and despite learning the hard way that we really should make reservations in a gastronomic wonderland, we had a dreamy night out.