Sailing to Byzantium - 10

A giant tuna at a pescheria in the Mercato della Ballaro

Yeats published ‘Sailing to Byzantium’ in 1928, and it is for me one of the most memorable poems from my school days. I may not be able to recite the poem in its entirety but some lines and clauses remain permanently etched on my mind and have never left me. Sitting in an antiquated and dull classroom with well worn wooden floors which were approaching a century of constant use, and gazing out through tall windows across an impoverished Dublin city, it was not difficult to cast your thoughts further afield to the bright waters and exotic life of an ancient Mediterranean city.

Byzantine history would not have been widely researched and appreciated by the 1920s, as it has resurrected itself in the last two decades. I always thought that the poem was based on some genuine experience of the East and in particular a possible visit to Istanbul. However, it came as a bit of shock when I read recently that Yeats never actually sailed to Byzantium, or visited Istanbul. Instead, the poem was inspired by a trip to Ravenna where he witnessed the golden Byzantine mosaics in the churches of Sant’ Apollinare Nuovo and San Vitale.

Many of the images I have of the route ahead to Istanbul are somewhat preconditioned by this powerfully descriptive poem. Visiting the remarkable 12th century mosaics in Palermo and at Cefalu, direct descendants of those at Ravenna, has introduced me to an enlightened medieval world which celebrated the arts, humanities and encouraged the sciences while aspiring to be the equal of Byzantium.

Unlike Yeats my journey will continue; our delay in Palermo should not be too long and we can expect to have the new engine fitted and working by the end of next week. In the meantime, explorations have continued with a view to provisioning once again with fresh food. People cram streets of the city markets where the air is filled with pungent aromas of fennel and an abundant crop of strawberries imported from Treviso. There is colour everywhere from the radiant yellows and oranges of the citrus fruit, the fragile shimmering skins of the sardines, to deepest purple red of a cow’s liver. The giant tuna fish are starting to appear in the market, dwarfing the experienced men who carefully carve them in the pescherias. For the next summer months the majestic swordfish will be temporarily relegated as the giant tuna takes centre stage.

Market vegetables

I have taken a little break from the boat this week and I am visiting Corinne in Besancon. The Franche Comte countryside is very green at this time of year. The wild garlic is in flower creating a wall of heady scent as you pass it on the country roads and lane ways. The apple blossom is likewise much to be admired. We have been travelling around visiting friends but decided to go on a little adventure to Vesoul where we were told an agricultural show was taking place. I might be become renowned for my spontaneous agricultural adventures in the future; my previous announcement to Corinne (with Mo and Christina) resulted in us departing for Virginia, in County Cavan, to visit the Pumpkin Festival.

Flowering wild garlic or Allium Ursinum

These spontaneous adventures always tend to turn up more than you would expect. We arrived at the show, le Festival de L’Elevage, and entered the main tent for the presentation and parade of the three finalists in la vache des vaches. This contest, possibly a beauty pageant, was to establish the best of the Montbeliard breed of cow in Haut Saone. After a long speech by the ring master, who had an infinite and in depth knowledge of the breed including the annual milk production figures (noted in kilos) of each cow present, the contest came to a grand crescendo and the 1500 people present were on their feet with anticipation as the chief judge ran across the ring indicating the winner of the contest by slapping the docile Montbeliard on the rear end. The ceremony was concluded with some fitting music, from the movie Gladiator (the arena scene), and the proud owner leaped into the air in excitement before leading his charge up onto the winners podium. By this stage, the poor animals thought they were on the way to the abattoir, and with a predictable loss of bodily function, they were looking anxiously around for a suitable exit. In any event, the contest passed off peacefully; the cows were returned to their straw bedded pens, where detailed notices were hung above where they lay announcing their details, including number of days of milk production per year and yield in kilos. It is a cow’s life in Franche Comte.

A traditional basket maker

Among the stands advertising, milk, cheese and meat producers were a number of stalls which allowed local craftsmen to put on show for sale their produce. There were a number of small potters, model makers and painters, but also some traditional crafts present such as farmhouse cheese makers, sunflower oil producers and a basket maker who occupied himself by making baskets.

A typical colourful "cloche" campanile on a church in Franche Comte

We returned home to a wonderful meal. Corinne announced it as her favourite which caught my attention immediately. I was brought to the table and served up some fried portions of meat. I was given some instruction, “do not to place the entire morsel into my mouth”, which of course I ignored and quickly discovered a large number of bones in my mouth. I was eating frogs’ legs, which were served with a fine Riesling from Alsace. By the end of the meal I had collected a neat pile of bones on my plate, some very tasty fingers to lick, and a satisfied smile on my face. The legs tasted very much like the meat from a chicken wing, but are a little different as they take the seasoning of flour, salt and lemon very well. There is a saying in the Haut Doubs to the effect that it is a great shame if you do not have frogs’ legs at least once during springtime. This is no exaggeration. The legs were followed by the usual cheese plate from the Haut Doubs with Comte and Cancoillotte with a munster for a little variety. This in turn was followed by some strawberries and a clear, and moderately harmless eau de vie de prune appeared not long after.

As I type Corinne is searching through my camera looking for the photograph I said I had taken if her. This is accompanied by several remarks of disapproval concerning the disproportionate number of photographs of milk producing livestock, although she must have missed the photograph I took of her with a wonderful looking Holstein and another with some piglets. We are quite close to the river Doubs and the croaking of the remaining frogs can be heard along the river bank in the darkness of the night.

The eventual winner of the Festival d'Elevage at Vesoul