Dijon... like the mustard

We left Castellane, with teary eyes, and terrible hangovers, last Friday.



Our last night was spent at the Discoteque, at their 'Fluro' night (a room full of people decorated in glowing jewellery!).



We jumped on a bus the next morning and followed the windy alpine roads to Grenoble, from where we grabbed a train to Lyon.

Lyon was beautful. Full of history, amazing architecture, palatial maisons, hidden 'traboules' (covered walkways that link blocks of apartments), and is also famous for puppets and silk weavers.



From there, it was on to the home of 'moutarde', Dijon. The head chef in Castellane has told us that mustard is no longer made right in Dijon, but in a small town nearby called 'Moncul' (which translates as 'my arse'). Perhaps he is pulling our leg, but maybe he was being serious. Does mustard really come from 'my arse'?

We're yet to find Moncul on a map, and neither of us is game to ask a local if they can show us where 'my arse' is!