Down the Lake From Geneva, Enchanted Ground : Paddle-Steamer Connects Pretty French Villages, One With an Ancient Country Fair

I found a table next to the window in the paddle-steamer’s dining room. A white-jacketed waiter pushed open an etched-glass door to bring me croissants and coffee. Behind him, the early morning sun lit the inlaid-wood paneling, and I smelled fresh French bread. Already, last night’s packed plane ride across the Atlantic seemed long ago.

A 10-minute taxi ride from the bustle of Geneva’s international airport had brought me to the docks of Lake Geneva. Now, sailing from Switzerland to France on the Savoie, I was sure, as I signaled for more rolls, that this was the perfect way to launch a leisurely holiday exploring the romantic French villages on the southern shore of Lake Geneva--or Lac Leman, as it is called in France.

In an hour and a half, I would arrive in Yvoire, a medieval French village where my friend Elisabeth Booz, an artist, makes her summer home. Using Yvoire as our base, we planned to take paddle-steamers along the lake to the other romantic French towns of Meillerie, Thonon and Evian.

In the days of sail, two-masted barks plied the waters from Geneva to this then-remote French shore, a fabled land of feudal chateaus and picturesque fishing villages romanticized in works of now-forgotten (except for the great French writer Rousseau) 19th-Century artists and writers. These days, from May until September, 15 passenger boats sail from Geneva, but only three are still steam-powered: the Savoie, the Rhone and the Simplon.

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As the Savoie sailed into Yvoire, I could see masses of pink geraniums, purple fuchsias and white petunias hanging from window boxes. They were like welcoming flags for the boats whose daily arrivals mark the slow rhythm of Yvoire’s village life. Yvoire’s turreted chateau has been occupied by its hereditary baron since the 14th Century, and only residents’ cars are allowed through the arched gates of its medieval walls. An ancient plane tree shades the village square. In a stone water trough beneath the tree, the basket maker soaks his willow boughs and children splash on hot days.

Tourists who were staying in the village’s small inns or making day trips from Geneva promenaded along the grande rue from one medieval gate to the next. I joined them, peeking into Yvoire’s tiny cafes and lakeside restaurants to decide where I would sample the famous lake perch, or fera , and linger over a bottle of local wine.

Later, in the cool of the evening, I sat in a corner of Yvoire’s peaceful Jardin des Cinq Sens, or Garden of the Five Senses. In 1990, when she was 92, Britain’s Queen Mother made a special visit to this special garden. So enchanted was she by this magical spot, villagers proudly told me, that she lingered much longer than planned.

I understood her enchantment. The garden is like an illuminated page from a medieval book of hours. Vines with purple grapes twine up the ancient stone walls, and the turreted castle looms beyond. Espaliered trees hang heavy with red apples and golden pears. A potpourri of fragrances--thyme, rosemary, lavendar, roses and other delicious smells--enveloped me. Birds sang, fountains bubbled and the village clock chimed.

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The next morning, on Yvoire’s flower-edged pier, I stammered to the young ticket seller in my best college French, “A round-trip boat ticket to Meillerie, please.” With a slight smile, she replied in perfect English, “That will be 122 francs, please.”

Back on the Savoie, Elisabeth and I went below to look down on the engine room and watch its four huge pistons pumping like two sets of powerful steel legs to turn the paddle wheels. Surrounded by excited children and awed parents, we hung over the railing, mesmerized by the pistons’ syncopated rhythm. Below us, an engineer, in modish purple shorts, delicately tended his gleaming charge with a long-spouted oilcan. We were smoothly under way for the three-hour ride to Meillerie.

Meillerie, at the eastern end of Lac Leman, is only about four miles from the Swiss border. Nearly two centuries ago, it was the destination of the young English poets Byron and Shelley, who were sailing in a small boat. A sudden squall nearly shipwrecked them; waves crashed over the deck and the rudder broke. But the sail held, and they were able to crawl up, drenched and shaken, on Meillerie’s “enchanted ground,” made famous by Rousseau. In his novel “Julie: ou, la nouvelle Heloise,” the ill-fated hero is banished from the sight of his adored Julie. Contemplating his tragic lot, the melancholy suitor sits on the remote “rocks of Meillerie,” thus immortalizing this small village, which was subsequently visited by generations of lovesick youth from all over Europe.

Today, powerboats and sailboats moor at Meillerie’s long stone wharf, swans glide along its rocky shoreline, and pollarded plane trees line its narrow waterfront street, backed by a steep mountain wall. In a sidewalk cafe facing the water, I lazed over a cafe au lait while Elisabeth climbed the hill to sketch the steep, pitched rooftops and old square-towered church. Meillerie is a place to dream on a quiet summer’s day.

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In contrast, Thonon, a 45-minute boat ride from Yvoire, is a bustling market town. From the port, we rode the funicular up the cliff to the center of town, arriving, happily, on the first Thursday of september, which is the day of the great Thonon fair, La Foire de Crete. Villagers and mountain people from the Alps behind Thonon gather for this medieval fair as they have done in an unbroken tradition for 514 years.

We joined the good-humored crowd surging past stylish shops on the main level of town and up a winding road now transformed into a bazaar of stalls. Here were luscious peaches and plums, kitchen utensils, flowered housedresses, toys, stacks of hams and stereo tapes. A sound system wafted the sentimental refrains of Edith Piaf, France’s “Little Sparrow,” over the crowd, and strolling couples in tight blue jeans sang along. A Yorkshire terrier, carried by a man in a beret, yapped; a little girl whirled a plastic noisemaker, and a tall Moroccan selling leather bags stood in a broad-brimmed hat bemusedly surveyed the scene.

This was a county fair with a French flavor: bins of garlic piled higher than my head, great rounds of cheese, croissants and the region’s famous sausages cooked in vats of white wine. A woman with a round, leathery face popped her spicy sausages between chunks of crusty bread and handed them to us with a jolly, gold-toothed smile.

On the flat crest of the hill, a row of fat cows munched hay next to antique stalls. Goats were being sold right across from Gucci shoes. Pink pigs lolled in their immaculate pen beside a stand of food piled high with round loaves of bread, each loaf fully two feet in diameter. The air was filled with delicious aromas and carousel music.

Suddenly I spotted stalls with Western-style saddles and felt a pang of nostalgia for the Idaho state fairs where my Aunt Luree rode her chestnut mare at the head of the Ladies Posse. But the cattle traders here wore no cowboy boots. Instead, they had on long black smocks and leaned on whittled staffs as they appraised the cattle and horses. Then they sauntered to outdoor stand-up bars to drink to their deals.

A tiny, gray-haired woman pointed her gnarled finger at the live chicken that she wanted from the middle of a flock filling a room-sized cage. She reminded me of my grandmother who had emigrated to America from the Alps a century ago. A young man opened the wire gate, waded into the squawking mass, scooped up a chicken by its feet and brought it to her. “Non!” she cried, and sent him back. With the cage full of alarmed chickens flapping and cackling about him, he finally caught the very three she wanted, stuck them into a cardboard box with their startled heads sticking out, and taped the box shut. Off the woman went with her chickens. On her face was the same satisfied smile that my grandmother had when she snatched the plumpest hen from her flock for our dinner.

As if evoked by my memory of my grandmother, a yodel rang out above the din. Peering behind a wall of parked, horse-carrying vans, I saw a group of mountain folk sitting in a ring, laughing and teasing one another into a boisterous yodeling competition.

Later, Elisabeth and I suddenly felt the need to eat. The restaurants back in Thonon were as packed as the streets, but a smiling waitress beckoned us up some stairs and squeezed us into a table next to four white-haired gentlemen. With twinkling smiles they gallantly raised their glasses to us and kept up a sparkling flow of gastronomic and romantic advice throughout our excellent meal.

We took the last boat back to Yvoire, with the moon casting a luminous gleam across the lake, and fell into bed surfeited with sausages, wine and bonhomie. We hadn’t seen Thonon’s 15th-Century castle and vineyard. That would be for another day.

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But first I wanted to see the town of Evian, famous for its mineral waters. Near the dock we hopped on to one of Evian’s open-air toy trains that run along the shore in front of its wonderful old Beaux Arts and early Art Deco buildings. The old Hotel Splendide, where Gen. Charles de Gaulle held his surprise peace conference with the Algerians in 1962, is gone, but the magnificent old casino, Le Casino Royal still dominates the center of town.

“Let’s try our luck,” Elisabeth said. But I balked. I could imagine the young Prince Karim, the Aga Khan, with Rita Hayworth on his arm ascending the casino’s curving staircase--behind them men in pearl-gray suits with diamond stickpins in their silk cravats and beautiful women in peach-chiffon gowns. Here we were, in blue jeans and sneakers. But, as it turned out, so was almost everyone else on the lower level of the casino, where Elisabeth pulled me in to squander our loose change in a slot machine.

We ambled along the Rue Nationale, a charming street closed to cars, but lethal for shoppers, so appealing are the shops. Elisabeth, in keeping with local tradition, bought jars of strained myrtle berries for her new grandson, to assure him of a discerning palate. For friends in Maine, I found wood-and-wire berry pickers designed like bear claws. At an outdoor cafe, we ate black-currant tarts, then lined up at the exuberantly decorated public fountain (built in 1789) to fill our empty bottles with healthful Evian water.

Evian’s modern new spa offers everything from mud treatments to bodybuilding. But we decided to top off the day with a plunge in the lake. The grounds and changing cabins are as stylish as a private club. Vast velvet lawns, edged with bright flower beds, sweep down to two large swimming pools, and areas along the breakfront are roped off for lake swimming. Here we dove in and swam out to meet the long, curving waves of a passing paddle-steamer. As the waves gently floated us back to shore, we dreamed of our next excursions and of all the glorious meals yet to come--for life along Lac Leman is an endless feast of delights.

GUIDEBOOK: Paddling Along Lake Geneva

Getting there: From Los Angeles to Geneva, round-trip high-season fares (through Sept. 30) start at $1,106 for SwissAir, KLM, Lufthansa and Air France. TWA and United are offering high-season fares of $784 for midweek service and $834 on weekends.

When to go: The Compagnie Generale du Navigation operates boats on Lake Geneva from May until mid-September. Buy tickets at the docks by the Pont de Mont Blanc Bridge, a 10-minute taxi ride from Cointrin International Airport.

Where to stay: Yvoire, Thonon and Evian can all be used as bases for lake excursions. All have good hotels and many restaurants in all price ranges.

Yvoire: The newest and best-appointed local inn, just outside the village wall with a view of the lake, is Hotel-Restaurant Le Pre de la Cure (74140 Yvoire; $50-$60 double). The Hotel-Restaurant du Port is right at the port overlooking the water (74140 Yvoire; about $120 for rooms with balcony).

Thonon: A charming Old World hotel near the port with a terrace is the Hotel-Restaurant Bell Rive du Lac (6 Quai des Rives, 74200 Thonon-les-Bains; $50-$60 double). The Hotel Arc-en-Ciel is quiet with a fine view over the lake (18 Place de Crete, 74200 Thonon-les-Bains; $50-$60 double).

Evian: The Neuvecelle-Eglise has been run by the Vervier family for four generations. Swimming pool, tennis (74500 Evian-les-Bains; $160-$200 double). The new Hotel Le Litoral is next to Le Casino Royal, with lakeside gardens (Avenue Narvik, 74500 Evian-les-Bains; about $80 double).

For more information: Contact the French Government Tourist Office, 9454 Wilshire Blvd., Suite 303, Beverly Hills 90212, (900) 990-0040 (50 cents per minute). Locally: Agence Touristique Departementale, 56 rue Sommeiller, 74012 Annecy, France, telephone (from the U.S.) 50-45-73.