Away, at last, from the swirling lights and vivid colours of gay Paris into the land of Burgundy.

Into a land of endless flat fields, temporarily barren of their lush produce. Into the countryside, where people are endlessly polite, conservative, and old-fashioned (one kiss one each cheek, NO exceptions). Into a medieval wonderland of ancient stone houses, castles, and churches that have been thrice ransacked in various revolutions. Into the food and wine heartland of France, home of incomparable cheese and wine, not to mention dishes like Boeuf Bourguinon (Pardon the spelling, I can in fact speak French, which is verified by the French consulate at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FK-wcXJVSbw). Into a haven of tranquility where music is only interrupted by food, which is only interrupted by the occasional nap, which is only interrupted to wander the streets, ramparts, or cloisters of some brilliantly ancient wonder.

Rue d'Enfer (Street to Hell) is nothing like the name implies. It is a tiny street that runs through a tiny town filled with tinier people living out lives that are almost decadent in their delicious simplicity. We are here because our grandparents, the infamous Alice Thibeau and David Thorpe, have called us across the oceans to join them. [For more information on Alice and David, speak with Peter Tatum about reading his short story "My Life in France" which is available at most major bookstores,and will shortly be published additionally on the blog] These two beloved individuals have ever been, and are, some of our dearest family members, and have over the last few years created, as I said, a haven of music and simple luxury in the countryside of Burgundy, in the tiny town of Grimault, to which we have often made a pilgrimage for peace or happiness. So here, in Grimault, a town you will never find on a map, we have been for the last week. The days blend together in blissful harmony, so I will detail a few highlights. Harmony is truly the best word to describe our lives here. Harmony in company, in music, and in general.

The house is small but ideal, built simply of stone, and nestled in a garden of flowers and fruit trees up against a stone wall built into the hillside. Vines adorn it's exterior and art it's interior (Alice is an artist by profession, and paints everything from portraiture to medieval and religious art). There is a main room with a crackling fire, full of music and all of music's accessories. A tiny kitchen that produces more wonderful food than almost any other I have ever seen. And upstairs the master bedroom, complete with an elaborate antique headstand that literally forms a massive crown over the bed. There are two massive dogs named Grace and Fideaux (note French spelling). Outside is a tent in the garden for eating lunch and playing music, and next door is a cozy room where we sleep. A stone room with a tiled roof, two cozy beds with painted bedspreads, piles of good books and a cupboard full of wonderful costumes and art supplies. We sleep in Victorian nightgowns (pictures of us in our nightgowns will shortly be posted, pending approval from the extremely self-conscious Casey Brazfield).

We eat a light breakfast (great coffee) and a massive lunch. While not the standard (and, quite frankly, exhausting) 4 course, 4 hour affair generally accepted across Frances, our lunches are a joy to see. Alice is a wonderful cook, but frankly, she could survive even without her prodigious skills, since the raw materials are so breathtakingly good. We eat beautiful cuts of meat from the Boucherie. We eat fresh loaves of incomparable sourdough from the Boulangerie. We eat cheese that ranges from plain to delicious to putrid from the Fromagerie. Vegetables and fruits are dragged in heaping baskets from the open air market, and generally include fresh squash, cauliflower, pears and figs. David loves apple sorbet and incredible chocolate, so that is the perennial finish to our feasts. Creme de Marron (chestnut) and pear jam are other favorites. Eating is not a chore, but a joy. It is quite easy to literally live for meals that are this good. Dinners are stupendous, just with rather more wine.

You may be wondering why we would do anything other than eat (I occasionally ask myself that too), but every moment here is filled with music. Alice and David are artists in every sense of the word, from painting to Flamenco to playing guitar, banjo, and mandolin. So music is the way of life here. And we arrived wonderfully, three days before a benefit concert that David organized for the local library and for which we were (surprise!) headlining. My next post will detail the event itself, but we spent the preceding days putting together songs. David sings in a deep and powerful bluesy rumble, which blends wonderfully with Casey's fantastic (and rapidly developing) voice. Their two guitars intertwine, laced together with the luscious tones of the violin. We play Dylan, Cat Stevens, Leonard Cohen, Beatles, Donovan, Lou Reed, and Neil Young, as well as a medley of Blues standards. Playing music is endless work and endless fun, constant invention and collaboration, with the occasional compromise. Finally we settle on "So Long Marianne" (Cohen), "Jesus, Etc." (Wilco), and "Where do you go my lovely?" (Peter Starsted). But more about that show later.

We all read and study and argue and debate endlessly. Alice and David are academics and historians, and the conversations are endless, ranging from conspiracy theories and the French strikes to Joan of Arc and John the Fearless. Casey and I satisfy our hunger for intellectual stimulation with self-imposed studies: he studies architecture and I music theory, and our studies, for once voluntary, are immensely satisfying and invigorating. Alice is writing a book (several actually) and David has recently written a song called "I'll live the Blues with you," and is working on his third CD. So life here is a buzz of constant activity, but all constantly at our leisure.

And then, one day, we drive to Montbard, to the local train station. We sit drinking espresso and waiting until out from the Dijon train issues an individual of such style and charm that random French people come up to her and talk for hours about nothing in particular, just to be near her (that actually happened). Whitney Turley swept in from Nuits-St.-Georges and spent three days with us. The happiness of this reunion with one of my favorite people on this earth cannot be understated. For every moment she was here, we had a good time. A damn good time. Luckily she doesn't read our blog (she is working hard as an au pair at a local winery) so she won't read all these silly compliments and get full of herself because that would be terribly obnoxious.

So back to our Burgundian lifestyle (which now involves Whitney) Every day involves, besides all of the above, an outing of some description.
-We go to the outdoor market where we wander amid endless rows of beautiful food and barter for sandy carrots (much better than normal carrots) and celeriac, which looks like a cross between a turtle and a hedgehog. We try new delicacies (yummy escargot among others) and buy enough food to last a month. It lasts two days.
-We also go to the supermarket which is incredibly good and, if it weren't for the outdoor market, would be the best I have ever been to. We bought half the store.
-We go to a friends Brocante (Antique shop) which is bursting with terrific swords, pistols, bayonets, and other antiques.
-We go to a huge Flea Market, where we wonder through the stalls buying cool stuff and bargaining for priceless relics of the past (including great clothes, we look very French).
-We go into the local church, Eglise de St. Barbe, which Alice and David have recently restored at the bequest of the Mayor, giving them unlimited access to its otherwise vacant halls. It has breathtaking acoustics so I bring my violin in and serenade the others for hours. I don't know whether it is sacrilegious to fill the halls with celtic airs and Bach, but it is certainly breathtaking. It certainly felt like sacrilege when we did our unimpressive rendition of Swing Low, Sweet Chariots. We spend hours recording.
-We make friends with a Donkey, who Casey names Thomas.
-And a duck, who Casey also names Thomas. Very inventive.
-Casey and Whitney and I wandered the streets of Grimault and Noyers at night. Which is not as exciting as it sounds. However, we were the first teenagers to cause mischief in these sleepy little towns for over a century, so we felt very cool. We were young hip French kids. Or trying to be, which is what counts.

Each day we rise and creep through the cold to rub the sleep out of our eyes in front of the crackling fire. Each evening we dress in hour nightgowns and collapse into bed. Something which very shortly, I must do.