Peregrinations

Eat in peace – my Alsatian epiphany

Anthony Peregrine

The possibility arises that the ending of war might be a simple matter of eating too much. This occurred to me once again last week in Alsace. Here, France bangs into Germany, and thus they know a great deal about both war and eating copiously. From Colmar, we drove high into the Vosges mountains, through forest and past leisure cyclists self-evidently having the worst times of their lives. (You really enjoy this, I asked a Lycra-man. He had a death rattle from pedalling vertically. “No,” he said, “but it’s good when it stops.” So, I said, is cholera.)

First pause was at Hartmannswillerkopf, the mountaintop where French and German troops knocked seven bells out of each other through 1915. Then they settled back to trench warfare. The site has a noble French monument, and cemetery – and the trees, having grown back, impose calm. The Great War front was, essentially, established from here, along the Vosges summits. The French created a high-altitude road, the Route-des-Crêtes, to supply their forces.

The route exists still, weaving for 50 miles from dense woodland to rounded pasture, punctuated with winter ski stations and summer cattle. Mountain grandeur has outlived the barbarity – of not only the two world wars but most other Eurowars dating back to the Ice Age. Every time Latin and Germanic worlds collided, they clattered through here. Trace elements of antagonism persist – the waitress in the café at the Grand Ballon, the Vosges’ highest point, could have been auditioning for the SS – but it’s essentially sensesmacking tranquillity enhanced by September’s high sky. The cows help, as cows generally do.

Further north, Le Linge is the southern Vosges’ second First World War site, a soaring outcrop dominating the Alsacien plain and River Rhine, where Germany begins. Here, French and German trenches are still etched into solid rock, the front lines within chatting distance. One forward French post was dug six feet from the German line. “They could have lit each others’ cigarettes,” said my friend Paul.

We jumped into the trenches and roamed around, then went for lunch. Alongside war and natural splendour, the Vosges are distinguished by their (mountain-farm inns). Dotted across the uplands, these are proper farms that generally put on the same “marcaire” meal: soup or foie gras, smoked pork with roïgabrageldi (spuds, with butter, onions and bacon), Munster cheese and blueberry tart.

The Glasborn auberge was five minutes from Le Linge. We sat on its farmhouse terrace looking down the valley, and polished off the four courses. By the end, we could barely move. “Want to fight anyone?” I asked Paul. “No,” he said. I rest my case.