The Côte d’Or of Burgundy: Oct. 1-7, 2024

I’ve planned five days to walk from Dijon to Beaune. My normal pace is fast—chin up, chest out, 2 miles by sunrise. This time, I’m trying something new.

In a book I’m reading, which takes place in France, the author talks about a pleasurable day (good) versus a successful day (less good). Since I tend to be a bit goal oriented, I think in terms of measurable outcomes. For this walk, I’m forcing myself to slow down and enjoy it—even if it kills me.

In this spirit, while our stops are planned, by necessity given the dearth of accommodations in these small villages, our days are fluid. Besides, Pat has joined me on this trip. He’s refocused on photography; I’m trying to improve my note taking. I will stop while he works on a shot. He will wait while I capture a memory.

And I’ve recently been informed that there is no prize for the fastest finisher.

So let’s begin.

Day one: Dijon, France.

We walk from the train station to our hotel in early evening darkness and an absolute downpour. Our backpacks are covered. Umbrellas up. Feet soaked. Spare hiking shoes packed, and dry, thank goodness. We check-in, quickly change, and head out to a moules restaurant that I stumbled upon as I was mapping our route to the hotel.

It’s a small place that’s little more than mom, pop, and a bucket of mussels in any one of fifteen or so sauces. And of course, frites. Pat selects citron. I chose the house special—Dijon mustard, crème fraîche, white wine and tarragon. We devour it until all that remains are a heap of shells topped with two wrinkled wet wipes. By the time we walk back to the hotel, the rain has stopped.

Dear lord this city is beautiful. 

Day 2: Dijon to Fixin (thru Chenôve, Marssany, Chouchey) 

We wander old Dijon, stop for a coffee and croissant, and head out by 11. As we leave the city, we spot a church but upon entering discover it’s a food and wine museum masquerading as a church—which actually serves to make it more interesting. Inside are a mix of religious icons and gastronomy. These unusual bedfellows make sense in a country where food is a religion.

I overhear a French woman telling her children that in some countries people actually put butter on bread. Yes children, I want to say, the best butter in the world can be smeared on the best bread in the world. But it’s not my place, so I move on.

The last time we hiked this route, we took a taxi to Marsannay, but the walk out of Dijon is more pleasurable than I expected. We pass another much larger wine exhibit, the Burgundy canal, and eventually enter the historically interesting village of Chenôve, which is the northern terminus of the Côte d’Or of Burgundy.

An impromptu lunch in Chenôve is the absolute highlight of this day. This is a mom, pop, and daughter establishment, Le Vieux Pressoir. The name is a tribute to the ancient wine press of the dukes of Burgundy a few paces away.

The restaurant is in a two-story house on the village square that is absolutely packed with diners. I don’t hear a word of English and sense that the larger groups of ten and fourteen are celebrating the end of the vendage. Although this has been a dismal, rainy year in Burgundy for grape growing, the mood is far from somber.

Our lunch starts with an amuse bouche of squash soup and moves onto green bean, melon and ham salad for Pat and escargot in a puff pastry for me. The main is fish with white beans in a beurre blanc sauce. I have pork and roasted potatoes. We swap plates halfway through and say ten or twenty times, “this is incredible.” We swipe the bread through every drop of the sauce.

Despite our better judgement, we each have a glass of red burgundy from the next village, Marsannay. The only time that I drink burgundy is in Burgundy—and I always love it. Today is no exception.

By now, we’ve been here for well over an hour, but we are in so deep that we decide to linger over the ill-advised 2PM espresso—which comes with a tiny financier and a homemade marshmallow (Full disclosure: I decided this when I saw that the espresso came with a tiny financier and a homemade marshmallow.) Nearly two hours after we entered, we hoist our packs and pay the bill. All in, lunch is 55 euro.

We have five miles left to walk and spend a good bit of it reliving our meal and speculating about how much it would cost in a half a dozen cities around the world. We top out at three hundred dollars in New York City.

Two years ago, we walked solely thru the vineyard paths, but this time we loop out and back in order to see each village—and to lallygag in each village’s square. Marassany is cute, but the highlight is sweet Chouchey with its ancient church, Renaissance cross, and backyard gardens that roll along as far as I can see. We agree that next time, we’ll stop here for a night. 

Fifteen minutes from Fixin, a gentle rain starts to fall. We pull out our umbrellas, but it’s over almost immediately.

As we enter the village, we stop to admire a charming backyard and take a few photos. As we are doing this, the owner pulls up and gets out of his car to unlock the gate (the same gate that my iPhone is stuck through so as to avoid it being in the photo). I’m a bit embarrassed, but I compliment his yard and tell him that we particularly like his row of watering cans. I pause, searching for the word in French. He smiles and says arrosoirs and thanks me for the compliment.

I thank him for the French lesson.

A few steps further is an ancient community bread oven. Utterly amazed, I imagine a world where I have an allocated slot in a wood-fired oven. Oh the pizzas, breads, and croissants I could make. 

Pat breaks my reverie by saying, “At this moment, there’s no place in the world that I’d rather be than here.”

“I agree.”

We stop around the corner at a meager inn that’s billed as “clean, comfortable, and quiet.” I’m exhausted. It’s all I need. Thankfully the town closes up with the early to bed early to rise sensibilities that I grew up in up with.

Tomorrow we head to Vosne Romanée.

To Be Continued …

PS: I’m editing this just before dawn in the village of Vosne Romanée while sitting on a wall next to one of the most valuable wine fields in the world. It looks like this:

(Full disclosure: Sunrise is at 7:45 AM.)

Categories: Exploring France, life in France

Tags: Expat life, hiking burgundy, nomadic retirement, the world inbetween, Unusual retirement options