Surrounded by Daleks
1 września 2016, Holandia ⋅ ⛅ 18 °C
Thursday September 1st
In Which we Get Surrounded by Daleks
When you talk about Holland, the first thought that comes into most people's minds is a windmill. Up until today today the only windmill I had ever seen was in my children's book "The How and Why Wonder Book of Windmills". It seems the Dutch have been blessed with such a flat and low lying country that they have to spend almost all of their waking hours trying to preserve their fragile little piece of territory from being completely swamped by a massive inrush of water.
I well remember hearing my grade three teacher telling us about the little boy who saved his nation by sticking his finger in the dike. Of course at the time, I thought it was a true story and I thought that there was a statue somewhere to commemorate his bravery. Now I am shattered to discover that none of it was true.
Although there was apparently no brave boy with his finger in the dike, the rest of his nation did their bit by inventing wind powered pumping machines to keep lifting the water from the low lying fields and depositing into the higher canals.
A couple of hundred years ago there were thousands of these incredible engineering works, but now only several hundred remain in use.
Our day began with a short trip on the waterbus from Dordrecht to Kinderdijk.This is one region where the landscape is still dotted by rotating windmills, even though nowadays their function has largely been replaced by large electric pumps. It certainly makes an interesting sightseeing these towering structures scattered across the paddocks. I could not help but think that they looked a bit like giant Daleks on the rampage. I could almost hear the dreaded cry of "Kill, Destroy, Annihilate" emanating from the nearby monsters.
We learned that every remaining windmill is actually inhabited by a family - the windmill is their home. The head of the house must be a certified miller in order to legally live there. We were able to examine the insides of a typical windmill and see just how minute the millers must be. After all, the beds are only about 4 foot long. At least each bed was equipped with a compact en suite toilet in the form of a china chamber pot at the foot of each bed. I tried not to think too much about spending the night accompanied by the smell of warm urine, but I suppose it did act like a sort of hot water bottle on the coldest winter evenings.
It is also worth adding that the name "Kinderdijk" comes from the account that a small baby was found floating in a small basket in the floods at this point. Accompanying the baby was a cat that was carefully making sure that the basket did not tip over.
As we were about to head off from Kinderdijk, we discovered that our tally of riders was down by one. A check of names revealed that it was Lynda who was missing. Some time later she was discovered doing some gift shopping in the souvenir shop. With all the sheep finally back in the fold we were able to continue our journey.
It was another perfect day for cycling. The early morning clouds soon disappeared, the sky turned blue and another lovely tail wind blew us along our way to the north. I have to reluctantly take the credit for yet another triumph of impeccable planning.
Morning tea was at the small settlement of Schoonhaven, although the toilets were not kind to any men with bashful bladders as they had large windows just above waist level which meant that you could maintain eye contact with the large group of people who were standing just a few metres outside the toilet, while you were trying hard to get something to take place a little lower down
A lot of the day's riding took place along the tops of huge dikes. The narrow bitumen track on the top provides a great bike path, but it also serves as a road for vehicles as well. As we rode along my mind started to hum the well known Monty Python tune "Always look on the bright side of Life". In deference to the local conditions I did alter the words a little-
"When you're very old and inclined to do things wrong
Remember as you're pedalling along
Look straight ahead
Or you'll likely end up dead
And - Always Ride on the Right Side of the Road.
Always ride on the right side of the road, da da da and so on"
About 10 km further on we left the top of the dike to take another toilet break. Maggie and Douglas did not think they needed to stop so decided to conserve energy by stopping on the top of the dike. Since we could not coax them down we decided to play a cruel trick on them instead.
Instead of heading back up the road to the top of the dike we rode off in the opposite direction, wondering just how long they would delay before taking off after us. When they finally started to panic and came down to catch up to us, we calmy U turned and rode back to them. Fortunately they saw the humour. It is little moments like this that help to make such long distance rides so much fun.
As we approached Vianen we passed through a succession of settlements where just about everywhere was crisscrossed with drainage trenches, all filled with stagnant green water. Douglas almost got to test it out as a swimming hole as he suddenly took a sharp turn to avoid a collision and headed directly to the putrid water. It could have been nasty, but somehow disaster was narrowly averted.
We finally arrived at the familiar waiting boat at around 5 pm. Our pit stop for the evening was the town of Vianen. Czytaj więcej
A Mutiny is Planned
31 sierpnia 2016, Holandia ⋅ ⛅ 22 °C
Wed 31st August
In Which a Mutiny is Planned
Today started with an extended boat ride out of Antwerp, through several locks and alongside massive port facilities. It was fascinating to watch the way that the water is controlled inside the locks in order to raise or lower the ships inside. Since we seldom see such goings on in Australia, several of our participants decided to stay out on the desk so that they wouldn’t miss anything. They didn’t.
While we were safe and dry inside the lounge, Pauline stood proud on the prow – just in time to catch a veritable deluge of slimy green water cascading down from the huge gate. It left her completely saturated, and also left the rest of us in hysterics.
She stood on the deck with the water dripping from her clothes and pretended that it was all planned that way.
Today was the day that we crossed from Belgium in Holland and our first impressions of the new country were that it was sparsely populated and very waterlogged. And yes, it was also VERY FLAT. No wonder that the Dutch have spent much of their history trying to devise ingenious ways of surviving in such adverse conditions. The entire region is crisscrossed with an elaborate network of canals and drainage channels – and yes there are also large windmills all over the place as well.
Our first lunch stop in Holland was at a lovely hotel/cafe by the bike path. I almost accidentally left without paying the bill (serves the owner right for trusting the memories of people our age). A little further away we passed through Willemstadt – a prosperous looking town with a marina full of pretentious large boats. It soon became obvious that people who own such vessels never actually sail them – they just sit on the decks drinking and smoking and trying to impress those who pass by.
It was somewhere along the way that Lynda happened to spy a bike shop
She immediately stopped and announced that she “had to buy something”. She rushed inside and returned a few minutes later with brand new pair of cycling gloves. Apparently she had lost her previous pair somewhere and need a replacement. It was not until the end of the day’s ride, when she took off her helmet that she found where she had packed the original gloves. They were safely inside her helmet and she had actually been wearing them on her head for the entire ride.
We found our familiar boat waiting for us at the wharf in Dordrecht. In Holland’s wealthy past this town was actually the second largest city, but now its position has been overtaken by Rotterdam. After a superb dinner of salmon and mashed potato we went on an evening walk around the city. It was yet another perfect, warm summer’s evening with the northern constellations twinkling overhead.
It was also about this time that a few of us came to an interesting discovery. Thanks to Europe’s intricate network of rivers and canals, it would actually be possible for the Magnifique to take us all the way to Budapest. All we would have to do is take Captain Roy, throw him overboard and then take control of the boat
Paul had once hired a Bull’s Cruiser at Meetung, so we already had some experience about driving boats. I had a working GPS and a couple of walkie talkies. I am sure that we had a range of other skills among the other passengers so it would not be hard to form a working crew. Could you imagine the fun we could have on our pirated vessel as we took it across the continent ? It would surely reach the news services and capture the imagination of elderly citizens the world over. We also figured that, at our age, at least we wouldn’t have to languish long in prison. It would be thoroughly worth it.
It had been yet another wonderful day Czytaj więcej
A Red Faced Thief is Caught
30 sierpnia 2016, Belgia ⋅ ☀️ 22 °C
Tuesday August 30th
In Which I Catch a Red Faced Bike Thief Red Handed
There is little doubt that, when planning a six week bike ride across Europe, we will encounter every type of weather along the way. When you are a cyclist you must continue to ride in both fair weather and foul. While some are content to cocoon themselves away in air conditioned buses, the long distance rider has no such defense against the elements. The upside of this is that there really is nothing quite as sublime as cycling alongside a river in the early morning, when the sun is still low in the sky and the air as fresh and clear as crystal.
Once again we awoke to a perfect morning. Although my backside was still very tender from riding on an unfamiliar fat bike seat I was keen to get rolling. I wheeled my bike to a suitable start position and waited while the rest of the peloton formed around me. Soon we were all raring to start. Tom lead out and the rest of the yellow shirted riders lined up behind in a long conga line
I had decided to take up a position near the rear but, before I could start, I could hear Gerry was not happy. "Where is my bike?" he called as he was getting increasingly more anxious. It looked like someone had been at the bikes during the night and stolen one of them. Not a great start to the day I thought. I rode around the vicinity helping Gerry search for his bike, but it could not be found anywhere. Fortunately there was still another (presumably spare) bike remaining in the car park. "What number is that one ?" I asked Gerry. "Number 27", was his reply.
Number 27, Number 27, why did that sound familiar ? Probably because it was the number of my bike. To my utter shame I discovered that I had been merrily riding around on Gerry's missing bike, helping him look for the thief. I swapped bikes, trying to pretend that I had done it on purpose for a joke, but it was not my brightest moment. The morning had already gotten off to a less perfect start when I was too slow to grab a roll from the basket and then had to set off without any lunch. Maybe I was still in the middle of a sulk when I picked the wrong bike.
Finally Gerry was astride the correct bike (and I was back on mine) and we set off in pursuit of the rest of the group.
The first few kilometres wound back and forth along the meandering river bank. The sunshine gradually dispelled the chill of the evening and all were in very high spirits as we chatted and pedaled our way along.
A short distance along we came to riverside sanctuary where there was a shrine to the Virgin Mary. It was surrounded by a peaceful cool haven of shady trees and flowers. A small booklet allowed riders and walkers to record their prayer requests. Another feature of this lovely place was an outdoor toilet behind a 1 metre high screen. It was possible to take a relaxing "comfort break" sitting here surrounded by the beauty of nature. Rome might have the Sistine Chapel but only Belgium has the Cistern Chapel.
Our lunch stop was a large outdoor rest area where we met quite a number of fellow cyclists from other bike/barge tours. David was a little appalled when he discovered that the Gent's toilet was an open urinal where all the passing ladies could walk by only a few feet away from the men passing. The embarrassment was so much that he found that he could not get nature to take its course. In fact his bladder only decided to fully release its contents a couple of minutes after he had hitched up his shorts. Life is like that sometimes.
Our destination for the day was the large city of Antwerp.
Although it does have some older sections, it certainly could not be called a Medieval City. Many of the sections were obviously only constructed quite recently. It appeared to a relatively clean city but I could not help but feel that it was a little too austere for my liking.
We spent a couple of hours exploring the city centre before riding the short distance to our boat which was moored in the nearby huge port. This short ride was made all the more interesting by the fact that it took us directly through the red light district. Even in the mid afternoon all the shop fronts and doorways were occupied by scantily clad young (and some not so young) women trying to sell themselves to passersby. A somewhat sad side to life in the big city.
That evening we all dispersed to various restaurants around the harbour area. It was a beautiful warm evening and a wonderful opportunity to get to know some of our fellow travelers better. It had been a terrific day, even with the less than perfect start. Czytaj więcej
Doddle into Dendormonde
29 sierpnia 2016, Belgia ⋅ ☀️ 21 °C
Monday August 29th
In Which we Doddle into Dendermonde
The second day of any extended ride can always be a little trying in many ways. Bottoms that were punished by riding on an unfamiliar bike seat for many hours have to again front up (or back up ?) for another dose before the previous damage has healed. Grumpy old men (and even grumpier old women) have to start getting along with other, finally realising that they are going to have to live with them for the next 6 weeks. Some who found the first day's riding a little harder than they expected may even begin to doubt whether they will have the stamina to complete the ride they have committed to.
My first look out the porthole at 6 am also showed that we would also face a new challenge - teeming rain. In complete contrast to the previous few days, the skies had opened up and the temperature had dropped. The decks were flooded with water. I wondered how the rest would react when they finally emerged from their nocturnal hibernation and saw what they would be confronting
I needn't have worried. By the time we had finished breakfast the rain had stopped and by the time we climbed on the bikes the clouds were already beginning to break up. The earlier rain had actually freshened the air to give us absolutely perfect riding conditions.
Like the well disciplined team that we were we formed into a lengthy conga line of riders and began our circuitous route around the Flemish countryside. It is always surprising how the nature of a region can change in such a short distance and already we could see a distinct change between the houses and villages we were riding through compared to those we had seen yesterday. Lisa also pointed out that the cows had also changed - "These cows have wider bottoms", she pointed out with a straight face. Such a unique insight !
Somewhere around mid morning we pulled to the side of the road to ooh and ahh in front of a paddock of coloured begonias and roses. I had earlier discovered that, since the gears on our bikes were internal hub gears, we could actually change gears while we were stationary. I decided to put this to the test. I pulled up alongside Dave and asked to check his mounted GPS unit.
At the same time I secretly rotated his gear selector to Number 7 (the highest gear possible). I was curious to see his reaction when he started to ride away.
You could imagine how disappointed I was when he climbed on the bike and just rode away as if nothing had changed. I assumed that he must have seen my mischief and quickly selected the appropriate gear. It was only when we stopped for lunch about 10 km later that I found that the gear selection was still on 7 ! He hadn't even noticed. When I asked him he merely said that he "thought his legs were a little tired". Either he is excessively strong or unbelievably stupid. The reader can decide which is true.
Our destination for the day was the pretty town of Dendermonde and we found our barge moored on the outskirts of the city. Since we arrived around 3 pm we had plenty of time to shower and catch up with overdue laundry. It had been a thoroughly delightful day. Czytaj więcej
Bitter Battles at Breakfast
28 sierpnia 2016, Belgia ⋅ ⛅ 18 °C
Our 2016 European Odyssey Ride is actually a four part ride, the first section (or "Prologue") takes place between Bruges and Amsterdam. Our home for that first section is the aptly named Magnifique, a delightful and character filled timber barge. It can accommodate a maximum of 32 passengers and we have fully booked the entire boat for the Ghostriders. Since most of us have never done this sort of bike/barge option before, the first couple of days are obviously going to constitute something of a learning curve as we adapt to the particular challenges of living aboard a floating hotel.
On arrival we were introduced to our Captain Roy. Someone pointed out that he looked about 14 years old (I guess we really are getting old, when even other old people start looking young). We also met Tom who was to be our cycling guide and resident comedian for the first section. Tom is a tall, skinny young (everyone is) Dutchman with a Shirley Temple hairdo. His first briefing included a complicated explanation of sequences of numbers like the Enigma Code of WWII fame. Since most of us were too tired to take any notice, we immediately decided that the best approach would be to completely ignore all the maps and instructions and just follow him instead.
Our alarm went off at the usual time of 6 am and I was tempted to walk up and down the corridor, banging on all the doors. Surely they should all be awake by then ? Apparently they weren't. Some seem to be able to sleep for much longer periods of time, thus wasting the best part of the day.
Breakfast was served at 8 am, an elaborate affair with starched white tablecloths and candelabra on every table (just like breakfast at home). We set down to dine on freshly squeezed orange juice, muesli, fruit, fresh bread, meat and a host of other treats. Ken obviously enjoyed the orange juice too much as he proceeded to fill an enormous beer glass to overflowing, thus almost emptying the entire carafe
This behaviour caught the disapproving eye of Ingerbord (our ship’s manager).
“Only one glass”, she reminded Ken.
“Sorry”, Ken replied guiltily.
“And by the way, where did you find that huge glass?”, she added.
“In the big tray, behind the sink”, he answered.
“They are the unwashed beer glasses from last night”, she informed him.
Oh well we all make mistakes, we are old people after all.
Part of the daily routine is for each person to make up their own picnic lunch from a variety of ingredients. The idea is to fill a bag with your selected choices and bring it with you on the ride. We all happily started filling the bags with bread rolls, fruit, drinks, etc. But that was where the trouble started.
“I can’t find my lunch”, John started
“I’ve forgotten where I put my bag, where is it ?”, someone else moaned.
“Is that it ?”
“No, I don’t fold the top like that”
“Are you sure ?”
“Why has (name removed) got my lunch ?”
“It’s not your lunch, it’s mine”
“(Name removed) has two lunches”
“Your lunch is bigger than mine”
“You didn’t really make an egg sandwich did you?”
“Not in this weather”
"That was your lunch, why are you eating it now?"
"Was that lunch ?"
“Is that your lunch, or mine ?”
“Oh, perhaps that was mine all along, I can’t remember”
And so it went on, and on and on.
I suspect that this will be another part of every morning. It is not easy trying to travel with a group of people who are all rapidly hurtling into senility and perpetual forgetfulness.
Somehow the lunches finally got sorted and we gathered with our bikes for the obligatory photoshoot before the ride itself got under way. We jostled for position alongside the boat, smiled to the camera and were finally ready to go.
Everything went well for about 200 metres before Douglas (aka Lucky Lee) complained. Surely he couldn’t need coffee already? The rest of our large group waited while Tom examined Douglas’ bike. Apparently it had “gone all funny” and could not be ridden. A new bike was produced and we were finally underway.
The first day’s ride was around 60 km and was a perfect introduction to this type of riding. For those who had not ridden the European style of bikes, they took some time to adapt to the upright posture and wide seats. “I’m not riding a ladies bike”, David moaned. “We all are”, I reminded him.
The biggest danger we faced on these delightful bike paths was the real probability of being skittled by a Flying Flem on a road bike. Since there are no mountains here, the only way the local boy racers can get their thrills is by flying along the narrow bike paths at breakneck speed. Anyone in their way is in real danger of being knocked into the canal alongside. This danger is made worse by the fact that they never use their bells or warnings to let us know that they are racing up from behind. We hoped that they would all be back at work tomorrow and the paths would be much quieter.
At least the weather was perfect – blue skies, a gentle wind and a temperature in the mid twenties. This was a huge contrast to the appalling day we had on the first day of our 2015 France Ride.
The main highlight of the day’s ride was the impressive medieval city of Ghent. We had a couple of hours to explore the old city centre I was pleased that they had obviously heard of our arrival in the town and had planned some sort of special celebration and market to welcome us. We certainly didn’t disappoint them and our bright yellow jerseys meant that we easily stood out in the large crowd.
Maggie and I joined with David and Carol, in search of Belgian chocolates and a cup of famous hot chocolate. We walked and walked but not a hot chocolate in sight. We got tired, but finally found a place promising the best hot chocolate in Ghent.
We ordered our drinks and sat down to wait. Unfortunately the anticipation was better than the product. The drinks tasted more like hot milk than hot chocolate. It was a big letdown. We also took the opportunity to try out some little cone shaped treats which were being sold all over the city. Apparently they are a famous feature of Ghent and we were told that they tasted like wild berries.
As we sat lamenting the hot chocolate we passed around the little purple treats, hoping that they would be really delicious. They weren’t.
“They taste like jam”, I commented
“Jam tastes better than these”, Carol added
“I meant toe jam” I explained.
We all burst out in hysterical fits of uncontrollable laughter, while everyone stared at the disgusting old people in the chocolate shop.
“Perhaps we should do a runner”, I suggested
“With these shirts we should be able to blend into the crowd”.
We finally augmented our hot chocolates by adding our chocolates into the hot milk and stirring them in.
The first day finished with another 10 km to our waiting boat. It was a relief to climb off the broad seat, lock the bikes and prepare for dinner. It really had been a great start and everyone did an amazing job. Czytaj więcej
The Wheels Fall Off Before we Even Start
27 sierpnia 2016, Belgia ⋅ ⛅ 25 °C
I know that many people find it hard to understand why a group of sexagenarians and septuagenarians would ever contemplate undertaking a trip across Europe by bicycle. Most people our age are exhausted at the prospect of sleeping in an air-conditioned tourist bus as it sweeps along a smooth autobahn, why on earth would we want to pedal bicycles up and down hills, into headwinds, through heat waves and downpours ? While some might think that we could get enough excitement from a weekly round of bingo or by buying a new non stick frypan from the shopping channel, I am so pleased that we have surrounded ourselves with a wonderful group of like minded lunatics who actually are addicted to this type of travel.
I first got the idea of such an extended ride about two years ago and then proceeded to put together the detailed itinerary. By early 2015 the plans were ready and I put out an invitation to anyone else silly enough to join me on such a hair brained escapade. I had originally planned on a group of around 15 or so, but was quite overwhelmed when the first twenty places filled as soon as I shared the details. Over the next three days I had another 20 applications and I had no alternative other than to declare the adventure well and truly full. The problem then was to work out how to cater for a group that was twice as large as anticipated. Of course the answer was to simply pass the problem to Jaclyn and Dana at UTRACKS and let them battle with the logistics. It certainly did throw up some challenges, but somehow it looked like the whole thing could be actually do-able after all.
Over the ensuing eighteen months our participants trained (well some of them did) and prepared for the ride. Whenever we met together the main topic of conversation was what we were going to do on our Grand European Odyssey. Now the time for departure has finally arrived and the dream is about to be turned into a reality.
Such a venture is always a combination of dozens of individual links which have to work together to make a perfect finished product. Our first such link was "how to get the airport at Melbourne?". Although we had many options – train, taxi, bus, etc, we decided to opt for the simplest alternative of booking a shuttle bus to collect us from our doorstep and deliver us to Tullamarine. The friendly lady on the phone promised that the driver would be there “right at 2.30 pm”. He actually arrived right on time at around 3 pm and then proceeded to make up lost time by doing his best Fangio impersonation all the way to the airport. It was a real white knuckle affair of passing everything in sight, bouncing over curbs and abusing fellow motorists all the way. Although it was not the perfect way to de stress before a long flight, but we did set a new record time for Pakenham to Tullamarine.
Since we had arrived quite early it was too early to check in our luggage. Oh well, it was a good excuse for the first coffees of the day. We settled down for a coffee and a muffin while we waited for the others to arrive. Although most of our fellow riders were already in Europe, we did have the final six others who would be making the long journey with us. Although Maggie and I were flying with Etihad and the others with Qatar, our two flights were due to depart within a few minutes of each other.
When the check in desk finally opened, Maggie and I were happy to be at the front of a very short queue. We rolled our baggage up to the smiling young man at the desk and handed over our passports.
“Is the plane full?”, I asked.
“No not quite”, he replied.
“Any vacancies in business class?”, I nonchalantly added.
“Yes a few”.
Well here's my chance....
“Any chance of an upgrade?”, I asked, trying to look like the feebleminded elderly gent that I was.
“Yes certainly, but it will cost you $2200 each”.
“Actually we quite enjoy economy class” (lying comes easily to me).
After a few minutes more smiling and chatting to my new friend, we finally negotiated our way into a couple of "extra legroom" seats (for a fee) and then went to meet the others. Within a few minutes our group had grown to 6, but there was no sign of the last two. It looked like they had gone missing before the ride had even started. As it turned out, that was going to be a portent of sinister events to follow.
We returned to the coffee shop for another coffee. By this time we now had Gael and Gerry and Paul and Jan as well as Maggie and myself. It was while we were drinking our coffee that Gerry decided to break something (fortunately it was news, not wind), but unfortunately it was bad news, not good news.
“I nearly didn’t make it tonight”, he started.
I looked at him, waiting for the punch line. There wasn’t one.
He went on to explain that he had been caught in a flash downpour when driving his car that morning and the resulting flood of water across the road caused him to lose control and head straight for the nearest large tree. All 73 years of his life flashed before his eyes and he could not help but regret the fact that he had already paid for his upcoming holiday that was now going to be cruelly snatched out of his grasp at the final moment.
The car did hit the tree, the air bags went off, the car wrapped itself into a warm arboreal embrace, but fortunately Gerry’s near death experience was premature. There was no light at the end of the long tunnel, just a sore reminder of the seat belt’s impact across his chest. Apart from shock and sore muscles, he was OK, but it was certainly not the ideal way to start an extended trip.
I have to admit that Gerry’s account did unnerve me a little. It sounded like a close call and a reminder that things really can change so dramatically in the blink of an eye. I hoped that all the trip’s mishaps would be over before it began. As it turned out, I was wrong.
After passing through security and immigration very quickly, we met the two missing members of our team and settled down to wait for our respective flights. Maggie and I boarded on time, settled down into our pretend business class seats, stretched our legs out and braced ourselves for the next 13 hours or so.
Although I could never say that I enjoy these long haul flights, at least the extra legroom seats and the high headroom of the A380 did make the flight bearable. It was only when I switched on my phone at Abu Dhabi that I received a message from Douglas. It was more bad news. Apparently the Qatar flight that they were on was delayed no less than 4 hours at Tullamarine. This meant they arrived so late at Dohar that their connecting flight to Amsterdam had already left, leaving them stranded in the Middle East furnace. If they were expecting a sympathetic ear from the people at Qatar they were mistaken.
What transpired over the next day was more harrowing than an extended stay in a Philippines’ Prison. The details are too horrible to include in this account, suffice to say that the group was divided into two subsets that were sent on a circuitous combination of planes and trains around Europe in an attempt to get them to the starting point at Bruges by the designated time.
In the meantime Maggie and I had arrived at Amsterdam and had staggered to our hotel near Amsterdam Central Station. Our room was smaller than a compact refrigerator and had no air conditioning, but at least it was clean and convenient. After almost 40 hours in transit we could have happily slept on a railroad track. With the unseasonably hot weather we pulled off the heavyweight doonas and threw them to the floor, then climbed onto the top of the mattress and within seconds we were both fast asleep.
The next thing I knew it was 6 am the following morning. We got up and went for a short walk in the pre-dawn. The view of Amsterdam at this time was not the view that most tourists ever get to see. The streets were covered in garbage, upon which hordes of hungry seagulls were fighting over the best spoils. A few homeless tramps were still straggling around looking for a place to sleep. Although it was a somewhat depressing scene, it did give a fascinating insight into the daily routine of a typical city.
Within the next hour the garbage collectors went to work, the street sweepers drove along the footpaths and soon the whole scene transformed into the familiar sight that most tourists see every day. We ate our breakfasts, packed our bags and headed off on the short walk back to Central Station. Soon we were on the high speed Thalys Train speeding towards Antwerp at 300 kph.
The plan had been to meet the rest of the team on the deck of the MS Magnifique at 1 pm and I knew it was going to be a close run affair as to whether we would get there on time or not. I could not help but feel a little like Phineus Fogg on his way to meet the deadline after his trip around the world in eighty days. I imagined the clock on the boat ticking off the minutes while we were battling to beat the hour hand to the top of the face. All the while I was worrying about the fate of those who had unfortunately been “lost in transit”.
We changed trains at the impressive Antwerp Central Station and boarded a local train headed to Oostende. Compared to the Thalys it seemed very pedestrian indeed as it rattled and shaked its way from station to station. I looked at my watch, starting to get anxious.. It seemed like it was taking forever, but eventually we pulled into Bruges Station around 12.30pm. We had less than 30 minutes to navigate to the boat.
“Hurry up Maggie”, I yelled.
“I need a toilet”, she replied. I rolled my eyes. She went in search of a toilet. I waited (and waited and waited). She eventually reappeared with a sheepish look on her face. “I got lost on the station”, she explained as if it was perfectly normal. People just don’t appreciate that this is the sort of stuff I have to put up with all the time.
We bolted out into the hot afternoon sunshine, dragging our cases up and down footpaths, through parks, over bridges, through traffic and finally found the boat with about 2 minutes to spare. It had been a close call but my reputation for punctuality was intact. Now I could return my attention to the 6 lost sheep.
The rest of the afternoon was spent welcoming each team member and sharing stories of how tough the journey had been. “Our plane had been violently thrown from side to side and up and down – and then the real turbulence started”, someone shared. “Our flight was the worst in history”, someone else added. “We saw our pilot reattaching the right wing with gaffer tape”, I contributed. There is little doubt that the getting to the start line is by far the worst part of all such trips but, once we get started, the real fun begins.
Our lost six finally staggered up the gang plank – eyes blank, nerves completely shot, bodily functions all but ceased. They were not a pretty sight. I thought it best not to ask what they thought of Qatar Airlines.
Although it had been an eventful start to our adventure, at least everyone was finally here. I wondered what the next six weeks would bring.
After a beautiful dinner we had a late night guided walk around Bruges. I think it was amazing, but I can’t be sure because I was unconscious for most of the time. I stumbled back onto the boat around 11 pm and collapsed onto my bed. It went dark, I fell into a deep sleep. The adventure was finally beginning. Czytaj więcej
Home Again
2 listopada 2015, Australia ⋅ ☁️ 15 °C
Days 69 and 70 In Which we Circle the Planet and Reach Home
Although we had arrived in Amsterdam with no clear idea of what to expect, in the space of the past three days we had quickly settled in and we both felt a growing fondness for the place. Unlike huge cities like London or Paris, Amsterdam is small and compact enough to enable visitors to quickly get their bearings and feel at home wandering the network of canals and narrow roads. The biggest challenge we experienced was in coping with the sea of bicycles that continually move about the city like corpuscles in some giant bloodstream.
At first we felt that, whenever we ventured beyond the front door of our hotel, we were being targeted by a thousand crazed riders intent on driving us into the nearest canal. However it is amazing how quickly people can adjust to their surroundings and, after a couple of days of dodging two wheeled suicidal cyclists, we were starting to grow in confidence. We discovered that the best approach is simply to walk straight across the flow of bikes and let the bikes just make their way around you. It is only when you hesitate that you sow uncertainty, and increase the chance of becoming another statistic.
The amazing tilting houses that crowd along every canal are really quite enchanting. Although many looked like they were on the verge of collapse, we never actually saw any fall over while we were there. We were glad that we will be returning to this city in less that 12 months time to begin our 2016 European Odyssey Ride across Europe.
On the morning of our departure we faced the daunting task of cramming our bags for the final time, hoping that the zippers would not give up at the most critical time. We almost succeeded in getting everything into the bags, but unfortunately there were a few items that had to remain behind. I emptied my pockets of loose change and found a handful of copper coins (they still make coins with a value of 1 Euro cent). Since the sum total was less than about 50 Euro cents worth, I left the entire pile on the desk as a gift to the housekeeper.
The next task was to manhandle our bulging bags back down the almost vertical staircase without either of us getting flattened in the process. We were very relieved when our bags were safely at the bottom and we were ready to go. I had already ordered a taxi to take us to the airport and was a little surprised when it arrived about 15 minutes early. Since it was still relatively early on a Saturday morning, the streets were quieter than usual and our black BMW taxi was able to make quite good progress. It would have seemed even quicker if the driver did not have the unpleasant habit of sniffing back a nostril full snot every couple of minutes. I felt like offering him my handkerchief, but didn’t.
We arrived at the Schipol Airport about 25 minutes later and collected our bags from the boot of the taxi. I asked the driver how much our fare was and received the reply “Forty six Euros”. Since we already knew that the maximum fare from Amsterdam to the airport is capped at 35 Euros, I questioned the driver again.
“Surely you mean 35 Euros ?”, I asked
“Oh yes, 35 Euros”, he replied. He appeared a little embarrassed that his attempted scam did not work. I suppose that is why he was driving a fancy BMW and not a Skoda like most of the other taxi drivers in the city. Handing over the 35 Euros (he lost his tip when he tried to cheat us), we made our made to International Departures. We were the first to arrive at the Cathay Pacific desk and were able to check in without any waiting. Maggie had been harbouring the unlikely hope that we might have been offered an upgrade on the flight, however these are about as likely as being invited to have breakfast at Buckingham Castle with the Queen.
There is no escaping the fact that it is a LONG way from Melbourne to Europe and, every time I squeeze myself into another economy seat, I am reminded just how long it really is. At least the passenger in front did not recline their seat so I was able to have the relative luxury of around 10 cm of legroom to cram my legs into. The plane began the first leg of the journey from Amsterdam to Hong Kong while we watched the flight tracker slowly trace our route across the globe. I was interested to see that we first headed north and then started a wide northerly route across the length of Russia, before finally turning south and crossing the length of China. We arrived in Hong Kong about 12 hours later, but it certainly felt like 12 days. My legs were numb (and so was my bum) when I tried to get out of my seat. We now had a three and a half hour transit before the second leg to Melbourne. Since our flight was delayed, it turned into four and a half hours. More of my life that I will never get back.
Finally we squeezed into another couple of diminutive seats and prepared for the next 9 hours by swallowing a couple of aspirin. Some claim that it reduces your chance of DVTs, I was just hoping that it might help me get some sleep. I would rather not talk about what happened during those long hours, but it did involve a couple of forgettable movies, a couple of pretty terrible meals and a few minutes sleep. Finally we touched down at Tullamarine and we were home (well almost).
Since our flight arrived at almost midnight on Sunday evening I had arranged for a shuttle bus to take us back to our home in Pakenham. We quickly cleared immigration, collected our luggage and made our way to the meeting area for the bus. A few minutes later the bus arrived and we joined about 10 others who were also eager to get to their homes. We sat in the bus waiting but the driver explained that he was waiting for the final passenger to get on. And where was this elusive final passenger ? She was sitting in the adjacent bus shelter having a smoke. The entire busload had to wait while she finished her nicotine hit.
When she finally boarded the bus she calmly looked at the waiting passenger and said “Oh, I didn’t know you were waiting”. I bit my tongue while Maggie elbowed me in the side to keep me quiet. The tardy passenger was a middle aged woman with huge painted fingernails and a ring on every finger. The toxic smell from her recent cigarette followed her into the bus and stuck in my nostrils. I just wanted to get home, but more was yet to come.
Although all the other passengers had paid in advance, the smoking lady apparently had not. The driver asked for her fare. She looked surprised and asked him to drive her to an ATM machine. Not just any ATM, but it “had to be a Westpac”, otherwise she would have had to pay an extra $2. I was impressed at the driver’s patience and surprised that he did not immediately offload her and her luggage back onto the road.
While we commenced our journey to the Eastern suburbs, the new passenger immediately started up a long and loud phone conversation with someone. We heard far more of her life story that any of us wanted to hear. When her phone call finally ended she looked at her phone and asked the driver if he could charge it for her. He would have been quite within his rights to throw it out his window, but he fumbled through his leads and plugged it in for her.
Some time later it was just the smoker, Maggie and me on the bus. As we neared her house the driver spotted a petrol station with an ATM and drove into it. At first she complained that it was not a Westpac, but this time the driver was adamant. She climbed out and walked into the office. When she had not returned some ten minutes later, we were all getting ready to strangle her. We looked out the window and saw that she had been stocking up on her groceries while she was in the shop. This was getting ridiculous.
She finally emerged with a bag of purchases under her arm, paid the driver and explained where her house was. We arrived a few minutes later and discovered that it was a block of units. The driver was about to stop outside in the street, but the smoker instructed “You will need to drive down the drive to my front door”. For some reason he did that and then had to reverse out the entire length of the drive. I was just glad to see her go.
About 30 minutes later Maggie and I were standing outside our own front door. It was about 1.30 am in the morning, the streets were deserted and everything looked quite different to the way it had looked 10 weeks ago when our journey started. We fumbled to put the key into the lock and open the door, almost feeling like we were entering someone else’s house. It was only when our bags were safely inside and the door was shut behind that we looked around and realised, yes we were home. After something like 35 different hotels in 35 cities we would soon be back in our own bed – and that is always something very special. Czytaj więcej
The Long Way Home
31 października 2015, Holandia ⋅ ☀️ 8 °C
Day 68 In Which we Start the Long Journey Home
In a couple of hours we begin the long journey back to Melbourne. We sat at the breakfast table and gazed out at the quiet Saturday morning streets of Amsterdam and thought back over the past 10 incredible weeks. In the clear early morning skies the jets were already painting their glistening vapour trails like some sort of giant naughts and crosses game on a blue blackboard. Soon our plane will be painting its own trail eastwards from Amsterdam to Hong Kong.
This is the part that no Aussie traveler looks forward to. There is no escaping the fact that Melbourne really is a long way from just about everywhere and this is reemphasized every time I make a trip to Europe. It’s not easy being cramped up in a flying sardine can for around 24 hours, hoping that the person in front will have enough compassion NOT to recline their seat as soon as they board the plane. It’s not easy trying to grab a couple of hours sleep while worrying if that strange feeling in your right leg is some sort of insidious blood clot forming. It’s not easy trying to swallow a meal of bland airline food, at the same time as trying to make sure that the plastic knife doesn’t fall off your tiny table and bounce under the seat in front. And how do I always seem to manage to take home a sample of every meal on the front of my shirt ?
By the same token, within a couple of days the flights are forgotten, but the memories linger for a lifetime. Whenever we meet with the same familiar faces we shared so many happy times with, the laughs and recollections always flow freely. This has been an exceptional trip in so many respects. Although we did have the slight misfortune of two broken legs occurring, I cannot recall any previous trip where we laughed just so damn much. I am sure that this was due to the fantastic group of people we were fortunate enough to have shared the experiences with. Although our next European Adventure is almost twelve months away, I am already counting down the days till I again squeeze into another economy class seat to do it all over again.
Thanks to those also who have shared our journey from Australia and other places around the world via this blog. I have appreciated the many emails and other messages that you have sent me. It has been a pleasure to share something of our experiences with you. I just hope that my simple words have conveyed some idea of what we actually did and saw. We look forward to catching up with you in person in the near future. Czytaj więcej
Our Nerves are Shot
30 października 2015, Holandia ⋅ ☀️ 8 °C
Day 67 In Which we Escape with our Lives (but our nerves are shot)
Anyone planning to walk around Amsterdam would be well advised to first practise a few exclamations. Goodness knows that, in the course of any 30 minute walk, you will be likely to use almost all of them. I have listed some of the most common ones below:
Look Out on your right
Look Out on your left
Look Out, they’re coming at us from both sides
That swine almost skittled me
That swine skittled me
Where did he (she) come from ?
I didn’t see that one at all
I’m going to die
This is absurd
They’re everywhere, I can’t take it anymore
They just ran over my foot
He only missed me by a millimetre
He must have been riding at 40 kph
He was an old guy and he was still a maniac
What the ?
My nerves are shot
Now can we get back to our hotel ?
Since this was to be our last full day in Amsterdam we wanted to spend the time doing something away from the masses. For that reason we headed away from the centre of the city to a large public park called the Vondelpark. This is a sprawling 45 hectare parkland situated about 2 km from our hotel. It sounded like a good place to escape the bicycle menace for a couple of hours.
The weather had also excelled itself by providing yet another beautiful clear and mild day. We had expected that, at this late stage of the season, it would have been rather bitter. Although the thick carpet of fallen leaves spoke of the nearness of winter, the warm sunshine almost made it feel like springtime.
On the way to the park we had several more near death experiences and also witnessed a crash between two cyclists at an intersection. Both seemed adamant that they had right of way (whatever that means here) and spent some time exchanging heated words after they had dragged themselves and their bikes back up off the bitumen. They were both able to continue on their ways, but the outcome could easily have been worse. It was just as well that neither of them hit their unprotected heads on the road. I suspect that these sort of collisions must be a common occurrence in such a hectic cycling scene.
The park itself was delightful with lots of open spaces, lakes and huge trees. We found a quiet coffee shop and sat down to enjoy a cup of coffee and some good Dutch apple cake. After the park we headed back towards the centre of the city for the final time. We had heard that the Rijksmuseum was a pretty special place to visit, so we thought we might be prepared to give it a go. As we approached the museum the huge crowds of noisy tourists, shouting tour guides and proliferation of selfie sticks was enough to make us have second thoughts. I don’t care how good the museum might be, but we were just not prepared to endure the crowds. I longed for the quiet back roads that we loved so much on our France ride. I guess I am just not a city person. That probably explains why I only go to central Melbourne about 2 or 3 times a year, and as soon as I am there, I can’t wait to escape back to my own personal sanctuary again.
We turned our backs on the Museum and also on the nearby Van Gogh Museum as well. I wondered if there was somewhere nearby where it wouldn’t be so crowded. As it turned out there was, and what’s more, it was FREE. We found ourselves in the impressive headquarters of Coster Diamonds and spent the next hour fascinated by the work of the diamond cutters and jewelry makers. I had heard that Amsterdam is renowned for the skill of the diamond cutters and now we could see why. I wondered how you ever acquired this sort of skill, after all you could not entrust a million dollar diamond to a first year apprentice.
The workers were handling diamonds so small we could barely see them and it was mesmerising to see how a complex diamond earring slowly took shape before our eyes. Each small movement could potentially destroy a valuable gem. I wondered what they told their wives when they came home after a bad day. “Today I shattered a $10,000,000 diamond, the company wants to take it out of my wages”. It would also have been so easy for a tiny diamond to fall onto the floor and bounce into some unseen hiding hole.
Connected to the cutting rooms were a series of showrooms where the rich and famous could indulge themselves on priceless diamonds, unbelievably expensive watches and other equally pointless rubbish. It was interesting, but we left shaking our heads and wondering what was the real point behind all the show and pretense.
We both felt like something easy for lunch and ended up at the KFC store in the Centrum. It was the first KFC we had seen since leaving Melbourne and I had to admit that it did taste finger licking good. A final long and meandering walk back to our hotel completed our final day.
As we walked we again dodged bikes and marveled at some of the crooked buildings we were passing along the way. In some case the entire building had slumped forward towards the canal, and in other cases the two sides of the building had moved in opposite directions. The result was an amazing collection of higgledy piggledy buildings unlike any I had seen anywhere else in the world. I am not sure what it would have been like to live in some of these crooked homes and I am sure that they would have been condemned in Melbourne. In Amsterdam they are apparently embraced as part of their history.
Tonight we pack our bags for the last time as we prepare for that long, long journey back home.
The next time you hear from us we will be back in Melbourne. Czytaj więcej
The Two Wheeled Maelstrom
29 października 2015, Holandia ⋅ ⛅ 10 °C
Day 66 In Which we Run the Gauntlet in a Two Wheeled Maelstrom
It would be impossible to describe Amsterdam without mentioning the bicycles. Hundreds of thousands of them crowd every road, alleyway and footpath. When they are not being ridden they are chained up to every possible secure anchor point.
It is a startling sight and quite intimidating for the visitor to be thrust into this unfamiliar environment. I read yesterday that there are actually many more bicycles in Amsterdam than there are people. I wondered at first how could this be possible ? Do some of the bikes ride themselves ? Of course there are several reasons for this.
Firstly I suspect that many residents have multiple bikes and keep them chained up at several convenient locations around the city. That way a bike is always close by when they need one.
Secondly it is worth noting the type of bikes that are used here. They are certainly NOT the carbon fibre racers that we see on Beach Rd in Melbourne. Almost all of the bikes here are heavy, steel framed, single speed city bikes, often covered with a liberal layer of rust from being kept outdoors in all types of weather. They usually also have partially flat tyres, a heavy cargo rack for carrying groceries or children (or just about anything else), front and rear mudguards, assorted rattles and squeaks and a massive chain for locking the bike. Actually it is illegal to park an unchained bike in the city.
Judging by the decrepit nature of many of the bikes, I suspect that many are chained up somewhere and then simply forgotten. In this ocean of bikes who would ever have any idea of which ones are ridden regularly and which ones are just castaways?
The riders themselves always wear their everyday clothes. We have not seen a single “lycra wearer” anywhere. They never wear helmets, gloves or high visibility clothes. In fact at night it is apparently compulsory for everyone to dress completely in black, presumably to complement their lack of lights.
Another, apparently compulsory, accessory for every rider is a large smartphone. This should be held in front of your face with both hands (leaving the handlebars free) so that you can update your Facebook status and send a few tweets while you are riding at top speed through a pedestrian walkway.
This love affair with the bicycle has gone back for many decades. Apparently over the years many leaders have proclaimed that the “end of the bicycle” was near, but every one failed. The bikes triumphed and now reign supreme throughout the city. They are here to stay.
The bikes are such an integral part of life in Amsterdam that the law states that, in any altercation between a bike and a motor vehicle, the car driver is always at fault ! This has resulted in a situation where the drivers drive in abject fear of the cyclists while the cyclists ride with a casual indifference, knowing that they are the protected species here. While motorists must obey the normal road rules, the cyclists are free to do basically anything they want – ride the wrong way up one way streets, ride on footpaths, through red lights, fly through intersections without slowing down, etc. In our first hour in this place we had numerous near death experiences where we came perilously close to being skittled by a flying cyclist. It is sort of like being caught in a silent tsunami of potential crazed kamikaze killers, all coming at you from every direction. To the outsider it really does seem like a kind of bike madness.
With all this bike mania, does that mean that Amsterdam is free from problems ? Certainly not. The locals agree that the bikes have gotten a little out of hand, the bike parking is a real problem with thousands of chained bikes clustered alongside every beautiful canal like blowflies around a honeypot. On the other hand the people certainly seem happy and healthy. The regular exercise must be doing them good. It was also very evident that the incidence of smoking in the city was much less than we had seen everywhere in France. Perhaps cycling is a good deterrent to clagging up your lungs with a toxic tar and nicotine cocktail.
Another thing I noticed in this city was the high number of tall men and women. And I am talking really tall men and women. I have never seen so many tall people in the streets, so much so that I began to feel a bit like a midget. Perhaps it was due to the time that we had recently spent in our Parisian Hobbit Hole, that we both now felt like two Lilliputians surrounded by a nation of Gullivers. Maybe the constant cycling and breathing fresh air, instead of tobacco smoke, makes the Dutch kids grow taller than the rest of the European kids.
It is also worth noting that, unlike in France, here almost everyone speaks perfect English. In fact many of the younger ones have obviously spoken so much English that they don’t even have a discernible accent. When you turn on the TV around half of the channels are in English. They don’t use the dreadful dubbed voiceovers that are used on every French movie and TV show. This must give the youth a huge advantage when it comes to communication, international travel and seeking job opportunities, when compared to the French.
Another obvious difference between Amsterdam and Paris is the absence of urine stains and dog poo on the footpaths. In fact the footpaths looked pristine compared with the veritable minefields of Paris. We were glad that we were able to walk without having to jump and dodge over foul booby traps every couple of metres.
I had considered going to visit the Anne Frank Museum, which is only 10 minutes walk from our hotel, however when I found that the queue stretched right around the block I quickly lost interest. I was certainly not going to waste half of my day lined up with hundreds of camera toting tourists, just to have a look inside. I was also disappointed to see that the entire site had been developed into a full tourist mecca, complete with huge kiosk. There are many other things to see in this city without first having to wait hours for the privilege. We set off to wander the city and see what unexpected discoveries we might make. We even bumped into Johnny Depp (but that’s another story).
Finally I would like to make a comment on the style of houses you find here in Amsterdam. All of the numerous canals are closely lined on both sides by a continuous collection of multi storied buildings. Almost all of these are constructed of brick and vary from 4 to 7 stories tall. Because of the unstable foundations, it is also common to see many of them titling at quite alarming angles as they gradually subside into the wet mud. Inside the buildings you find narrow staircases that rise at a vertiginous angle. Each time we climb to our hotel room it is almost like walking up a ladder. I have become paranoid about one (or both) of us taking a tumble and joining the growing list of Ghostriders with broken legs.
Because it would be physically impossible to get any item of furniture up such a staircase, every building is equipped with a protruding girder and hook at the highest point. This enables the owners to lift any large items with a block and tackle and then maneuver them inside through an upper story window. I have included some images of buildings with these anchor points.
After a full day of walking, the sun sank below the horizon and we gazed at the dozens of bright jet trails that crisscrossed the dusk skies. This is a phenomenon we do not see in Australia and it never ceases to fascinate me when I am in Europe.
A little later again we watched the almost full moon rise above the roofs of the houses on the opposite side of the canal. The last time we had seen the full moon was near the end of our France ride at Le Croisic. This was another reminder that our trip was inevitably drawing to a close. Czytaj więcej
The City of Bikes
28 października 2015, Holandia ⋅ ☁️ 8 °C
Day 65 In Which we say Au Revoir to the City of Light and Hello to the City of Bikes
It’s now been almost 10 weeks since I left Australia, and Maggie and I are nearing the final stages of our 2015 European Adventure. It is common at this stage of any trip to have a variety of emotions flowing through your system. On one hand you start to really crave the security and familiarity of your own bed and bathroom, and to see your family again. On the other is the inevitable feeling of regret that accompanies the approaching termination of something that you have been working on for the past two years. We will both be filled with such a huge collection of wonderful memories that I am sure that it will take quite some time for us to settle back down to our “everyday lives” again.
On our final morning in Paris we woke early (in fact neither of us slept much at all). I had to admit that, although we will be sad to leave Paris, we will not be sorry to see the last of our Middle Earth hobbit hole of an apartment. It certainly was in a brilliant location, within a couple of minutes walk from the Louvre and the Musee D’Orsay. It was in a Left Bank precinct that is filled with art galleries and hugely expensive antique furniture shops. The front entrance looked inviting enough but it was once you walked past the first couple of doors that the real character of the place became apparent.
Over the previous four days we had learnt that there was one section of the corridor where you had to stop breathing if you wanted to avoid filling your nostrils with a strong smell of wet wood and decay. Then you had to negotiate the narrow wobbly staircase to get to the front door. Then insert the key, turn it around half a dozen times and hope that the door unlocks. Welcome to Hobbit Heaven.
Well the first room wasn’t so bad. It was of a reasonable size by Paris standards and it didn’t look really awful. Well actually it didn’t look like much at all because almost all of the lights did not work. We managed to get by with the flickering output from a single bulb of about 40 W. The bed was clean (or we think it was, since it was hard to see it properly). The only trouble was that it was made up of two beds that were pushed together. This meant that we kept rolling to the centre and falling into the yawning abyss. The doona was so hot that, if you slept under it, you soon felt like you were in the middle of a Bangkok summer heat wave. On the other hand, if you threw it off, you soon froze. The only option was to to keep alternating between on and off.
From the bedroom a narrow hall led to the “kitchen and bathroom”. Here the ceiling height dropped to about knee level, forcing us to double over if we wished to navigate it safely without risking concussion and serious bleeding. In these two tiny spaces the lights were also almost all inoperative, adding to the Middle Earth feeling. The bathroom was so small that you had to step out into the hall to turn around and face the other way. The shower was hot but the shower door was about 10 cm too narrow, meaning that every time you had a shower you created a tsunami that flooded out the door and into the kitchen. It probably also dripped through the floor into the art gallery below us. Yes it was an interesting place. We laughed about it a lot and, over the years I have certainly stayed in worse places. It just was not exactly what we had been expecting. Sometimes life is like that.
We quickly got dressed and then wandered out on our final Parisian Promenade. It had been raining most of the night and the streets now glistened like shiny mirrors in the early morning light. They say that Paris always looks best in the rain, and I can understand why. There were a few early morning joggers and cyclists out on the roads, but it was still too early for any traffic on the river. We wandered around and looked down the Seine to the profile of Notre Dame in the distance. Looking the other way we could just make out the top of the Eiffel Tower. At our feet the rain had temporarily obliterated the urine stains on the footpath. in fact the place looked really beautiful. It is always hard to leave this place we had both fallen in love with.
We returned to the apartment, made a strange breakfast out of a mixture of left over oddments and then packed (crammed) our bags the second last time. Soon we were struggling down the creaking staircase and closing the door for the final time. We only had a short walk to the St Germaine Des Pres Metro station where we were going to catch a train to the Gare de Nord. The last time we had taken our luggage on the Metro we had experienced a major malfunction when the auto closing doors ate my luggage. Fortunately this time we escaped unscathed and, two hours later, we were sitting in a first class carriage on the high speed Thalys train to Amsterdam. When I made the booking there was not a huge difference between the ticket prices and we thought it might be nice for once to actually feel a little spoilt. After our experience in Middle Earth, we were glad of this decision.
The GPS told me that we were silently flying along at over 300 kph as the countryside flew past outside the window. Why can’t we build trains like this in Australia ? It really was a comfortable ride and we even got some food and coffee during the ride. After stops at Brussels, Antwerp and Rotterdam, by 4.00 we had reached our final destination of Amsterdam. Neither of us had been here before, and we were keen to see why people talk about this city so fondly.
The first impression we had when we left the Central Station was bikes, bikes, bike and bikes. Bicycles are everywhere. Everywhere you look there is a continuous stream of pedaling travelers, seemingly flying along at breakneck speed. Whenever you try to cross a road there are cyclists coming at you from every direction. To add to the danger there are a few vehicles as well, but many of these are silent electric vehicles, so you cannot hear them coming for you. It really was a strange experience at first and I wondered if this is a glimpse into what all cities will be like in the not too distant future.
Our hotel is a delightful family owned hotel right on the canals and our room looks directly out onto two intersecting canals. It was also clean, we could see around inside, the bathroom was immaculate and the Internet worked brilliantly. It was a fantastic final destination for us. The next bed we sleep in will be in our own home in Pakenham. Czytaj więcej
Our Final Baguettes
27 października 2015, Francja ⋅ ⛅ 12 °C
Day 64 In Which we Enjoy our Final Baguettes
In some respects it does not seem so long ago that I waited in Charles de Gaulle Airport for the other members of our 2015 France ride to arrive. I remember sitting in the arrival lounge anxiously looking out for each familiar face and then ticking each name off my list. I also remember the relief i felt when the final participant safely arrived and we were able to make our way to the waiting shuttle bus. At that time everyone was eagerly looking forward to the adventure that we had spent so long planning.
Now, seven weeks later, our adventure is drawing to a close. Most of our original participants are now back in Australia and, within a few days, Maggie and I will also be starting the long journey back home. Since that first meeting at the airport, we have shared countless amazing experiences as we cycled, walked, trained and drove thousands of kilometres around this wonderful country. France is not a country that you can understand in one or two days and certainly those who only see it from the seat of a bus on a whirlwind European tour, will never appreciate just what makes it tick.
It is true that the French can be bewildering in some aspects of their behaviour, it is true that many of the city footpaths are stained with urine (from dogs and men), it is true that they have a rather cavalier attitude to rules and regulations, but is equally undeniably true that they really do embrace life. I know of no other place where eccentricity is so accepted and embraced. They love their food with a passion. Their families are usually very close and the children’s manners in public are almost always impeccable. Every back street and building echoes with the voices of history dating back hundreds or even thousands of years. They love their culture and are inordinately proud of it. Their bread is better by far than anything we could ever buy in Australia. It’s little wonder that every French person is willing to line up for it twice a day at their favourite Boulangerie, I would too if it was available in Melbourne. We will really miss that superb bread.
Today was our final full day in Paris and we were thrilled that the weather reverted right back to the very best of autumn weather. With a clear sea blue sky and a temperature in the low 20s, it was absolutely perfect for us to spend the day indulging in that favourite French activity – walking around Paris.
We began by following the Seine past the Musee D’Orsay and on to the magnificent lawns of Les Invalides. Considering the growing number of cuts and abrasions that were now adorning my head (thanks to the 5 foot ceilngs in our Middle Earth Apartment), any place called Les Invalides was probably an appropriate place for my recuperation. This is a vast complex of beautiful buildings that was originally set up as a hospital for wounded soldiers, but now houses a variety of military museums, military retirement homes and the huge memorial to hold Napoleon’s tomb. One of the aspects of Paris that I adore is the way that huge open spaces have been incorporated into a grid of huge intersecting boulevards and low rise buildings. The vast majority of Parisians live in apartment buildings and they utilise these open spaces for a wide variety of activities and sports.
Our walk continued to the mansion and gardens of Rodin. This magnificent building was originally a convent but became a hotel called the Hotel Biron. Rodin and other artists used it as an artists’ headquarters in the early 20th century. Late in his life, Rodin agreed to bequeath all his works to the French nation in return for his being permitted to live in the hotel for the remainder of his life. So that is what happened. The beautiful walled gardens now provide a wonderful quiet sanctuary from the noise and crowds just outside.
As we walked back to our apartment we passed by several street vendors selling roasted chestnuts. Combined with the carpet of autumn leaves on every street and pavement, it really helped to capture the real nature of autumn in Paris.
After sundown we returned to the streets to wander with the crowds as the lights on the buildings gradually replaced the fading twilight. The air was still and warm and thousands of others were out enjoying the unseasonably warm conditions. It was a magical way to end our 7 glorious weeks in France. Tomorrow we will be catching the high speed Thalys Train to Amsterdam to begin the final stage of our odyssey. Czytaj więcej
Soaking Up the Sunshine
26 października 2015, Francja ⋅ ☁️ 9 °C
Day 63 In Which we Soak up the Sunshine
After three days of living in the Middle Earth of our Paris Apartment, my head is showing distinct signs of abuse. The five foot ceilings may have been designed for hobbits, but they are not suitable for someone of more normal height. Although I have been trying my best to walk around like the proverbial Hunchback of Notre Dame, it only takes a momentary lack of attention to collect another huge welt on the top of my cranium. I have been tempted to wear my bike helmet indoors but I can’t be bothered trying to retrieve it from the lower recesses of my luggage.
In spite of the fact that I was looking like a car accident victim, Maggie and I were buoyed by the prospect of a late return to summer conditions in Paris. With blue skies and a predicted top temperature of 20C, we thought it would be a perfect opportunity to revisit two of our favourite places in this city.
Our first stop was the Butte (hill) Montmartre and the beautiful Sacre Coeur Cathedral. The cathedral is situated at the top of the rise and provides glorious views down over the surrounding chaos of narrow streets and chimney pots. This spot has been special to me since my first visit to Paris. Although it can be crowded with tourists and preyed upon by scammers, pickpockets and touts, it really has something of a sacred atmosphere. On every subsequent visit to Paris I have always made time to visit this spot, soak up the wonderful atmosphere and indulge in my favourite pastime of people watching. I have never been disappointed.
Although it is now very late in the season, the main front road up to the steps was jammed solid with tourists from a multitude of origins. Several groups of eastern European con men and women were busy running the three cup scam and sucking in a never ending succession of gullible visitors into parting with handfuls of Euros. Their system has been unchanged for years and yet it obviously still brings in lucrative returns.
We walked through the suckers as they lost handfuls of money and continued up the hill to the base of the Cathedral steps. This has been the place where groups of black African thugs pressure tourists with their “friendship bracelet” scams. This is really just extortion and it especially upsets me when they work their threats on young kids and fearful young women. This morning I was pleased to see two heavily armed local police stationed at the base of the steps and their presence had obviously scared away the string scammers. We both hoped that this would be a permanent police placement to help curb this dark side of Paris.
We continued to the top of the stairs to made our way to our favourite little coffee shop in the Place Du Tertre. This is a lovely little sanctuary with a secret veranda covered in flowering creepers and inhabited by dozens of cheeky little sparrows. It always provides a lovely spot to enjoy a coffee and cake and observe the crowds from a safe distance.
After a lovely 30 minutes spent at the coffee shop we made our way back down the cathedral steps and discovered that the police had gone and the black African thugs had quickly returned. I felt like screaming out a warning to those who were falling into their clutches, but it would have been a bit like trying to warn a fly not to fly into a spider’s web. It looks like this practice is destined to be an ongoing problem for the foreseeable future.
We then made our way back across Paris to the left bank of the Seine and to the beautiful Luxembourg Gardens. With the brilliant warm sunshine and the spectacular autumn colours it was the perfect place to spend a couple of hours. Thousands of Parisians were already here, resting, walking, reading, drawing and enjoying the sun. Maggie and I found a place in the sun, positioned a couple of chairs and made ourselves comfortable. It didn’t take me long to fall deeply asleep while Maggie worked away with her sketchpad.
The Luxembourg Gardens are surely one of the real treasures of Paris, but their location makes them rather inaccessible for the majority of bus tourists. It is a lovely feeling being in place where nearly all the other people are locals.
On the way back to our “Hobbit House” we stopped at the Marks and Spencer Store to buy some familiar foodstuffs for a feast. Our supplies were complete when we purchased our evening baguette from a wonderful Boulangerie. We really are going to miss that bread when we get back to Australia in a week’s time. Czytaj więcej
The Return of the Sun
24 października 2015, Francja ⋅ ⛅ 9 °C
Day 61-62 In Which the Sun Returns (and the cars all leave)
Although I really do love Paris, I have to agree that you often have to take your life into your hands to cross the road. It is true that there are hundreds of zebra crossings on the roads, however I think these literally are for zebras and not pedestrians. Very few motorists seem to take any notice whatsoever of someone walking across these crossings. Then again French motorists don’t seem to take much notice of anything at all when it comes to regulations. They are quite happy to park anywhere at all that they can nudge their cars into, even if it is in the middle of an intersection. They will drive the wrong way up a one way road, or even drive up the footpath if they can find a way to jump the kerb. Yesterday I saw three drivers in a row, all happily sending SMS messages while they were driving in peak hour traffic.
Pedestrians are also equally oblivious to most road rules. We have seen numerous Parisians simply step out into the traffic without even taking a cursory glance to check if any cars were coming. The weird thing is that somehow it seems to work. We have seen no examples of road rage and drivers generally seem quite philosophical when other road users do quite stupid things. I was certainly glad of this nonchalance when I was driving (probably quite incompetently) on their roads.
The apparent chaos of cars, motor bikes, bicycles and pedestrians can make it rather stressful when you are making your way from one part of Paris to another. Even in the narrowest streets you never feel free from the danger that you could get skittled at any moment by a speeding driver flying right through the crowd of pedestrians. You could therefore imagine our joy and relief to leave our apartment and find that the roads were clear of all cars. This was not just because it was Sunday morning, but because the police had blocked off huge areas of the city to everything apart from pedestrians and bicycles.
It was sheer bliss to be able to walk down the boulevards, surrounded by dozens of happy Parisian families all out enjoying the late autumn sunshine. There were also cyclists of all sorts – from the lycra clad racers right down to the casual weekend wobblers, all of them enjoying the car free streets. On the narrow streets of the Ile de La Cite and the Ile St Louis it was the same scene, without a car in sight. I could not help but think how glorious it would be if Melbourne could adopt a similar practice each Sunday.
Maggie and I happily wandered the car free streets in amazement. After the spell of wintry weather we had been through, it was also a lovely feeling to have warm sunshine on our faces again. After lunch in a lovely small cafe on the Ile St Louis we walked to the Promenade Plante. This was originally an elevated train line but it has now been converted to a beautiful tree lined walking and bicycle path. It was a strange feeling to be walking through the autumn trees with the city streets far below us.
After wandering for some time we were both feeling tired and in need of coffee. We found a convenient Starbucks Store and ordered two coffees. The young assistant asked Maggie for her name and wrote something on the side of her cup. It was only later that we noticed that he had written “NAGGIER” in bold letters on her cup. Obviously he had mistaken her name for her nature.
By mi afternoon we had walked so far that our legs were threatening to cease to function. We decided to catch the Metro instead, not realising that virtually every other person in Paris much have decided to catch the same train. I now know what a sardine in a tin feels like, but we did manage to safely escape with our wallets and phones intact. The final part of the sunny afternoon was spent sitting in the Tuileries Gardens watching the crowds go by. Even at this late stage of the season we were surprised at the huge crowd of tourists all making their way to the Louvre Musee (and yes, heaps of them were wielding the ridiculous selfie sticks that I have come to detest so much). It was even more ridiculous to see the upper desk of the Hop On Hop Off bus crammed with tourists with their selfie sticks pointing to the skies like a host of TV antennas,
It had been a wonderful day but we were glad when we got back to our apartment, even with if its low ceilings make me feel like Bilbo Baggins. Czytaj więcej
My Luggage Gets Eaten
23 października 2015, Francja ⋅ ☁️ 11 °C
Day 60 In Which the Evil Paris Metro Eats my Luggage
After three nights in Dijon in beautiful Burgundy, it was time for us to make the next transition back to Paris. Now that we had handed back our rental car, all our future travel had to be conducted either on foot or public transport. Before leaving Australia we had already purchased two tickets from Dijon to Paris on the French TGV train system. At this point I should point out that there are several train systems in France, all run by different companies with different ticketing and staff. The TGV is supposed to be the most sophisticated with the fastest trains (TGV – “Train Grand Vitesse”).
In previous trips we had traveled on TGV trains and I had photos of my GPS showing speeds over 300 kph. Even at these extreme speeds, inside the carriages the ride is smooth and quiet. The trip to Paris was just over 300 km and scheduled to take around 90 minutes. We bundled up our luggage in our Dijon apartment and prepared for the trip. Maggie obviously thought my case had some surplus space inside and packed it with gifts for the grandkids and about 5 kg of magazines that she decided would make good reading back home in Australia.
By the time I strapped on my backpack and started dragging the case, I figured that I had about 35 kg of luggage to navigate safely to our apartment in Paris. At the same time Maggie appeared to have conveniently lightened her load and kept wondering why I was struggling to keep up with her.
We walked the first few hundred metres to the tram stop. We had researched the tram system the previous day so I knew how much the tickets would cost and carefully sorted out the correct change in advance. While I looked after the mountain of luggage, I sent Maggie across to the ticket machine to buy our tickets. She came back with only one ticket and a story that “the price had gone up to 1.60 Euros”. Now I know that prices can increase due to inflation, but that did seem a bit steep. I gave her a handful of extra coins and send her back to buy my ticket. This time she came back and announced that the price was “only 1.50 Euros”. I have no idea what she had been doing on the ticket machine, but it seems like she had managed to select the poker machine mode whereby it generates a random price for each ticket. At least we had two tickets, even though I felt like we had been fleeced.
When the next tram came along we piled our luggage on board and narrowly avoided injuring any of the other passengers in the process. The tram took us straight to the DijonVille Train Station where we were to catch our train. The first ominous signs that the trip was not going to go smoothly was the sign that announced that our train “was delayed”. We sat and waited. And waited.
When the train finally appeared the platform was jammed with other paasengers, mostly also with huge amounts of luggage. We found our carriage and pulled our luggage on board, only to find that every possible storage space for luggage was already crammed to overflowing. I dragged my confounded case from one end of the carriage to the other (damn those heavy magazines) without success. People were starting to look at us with smirks on their faces. I partially got even by making sure I bumped into their shoulders each time I passed by.
Eventually we came to the unhappy conclusion that there was NOWHERE for our luggage. We would have to just cram it into our seat and squash in next to it. So that’s what we did. Maggie got in first and I heaved the case in next. By the time it was my turn, there was only room for my left buttock on the seat. Maggie started to complain that the wheels were cutting off her circulation. I replied that my problem was much worse. I was sitting half in the aisle, looking like the world’s biggest imbecile. At least it provided free entertainment for the rest of the carriage.
“Don’t worry, it’s only 90 minutes”, I told her. It wasn’t. The so called TGV train struggled to muster anything above 100 kph. No wonder it had been delayed. At one point it stopped completely without a station anywhere in sight. Maggie’s right leg went to sleep, but she didn’t. I felt like murdering someone, but I couldn’t. We had no alternative other than to just sit there as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Of course, at that stage, we had no idea that our day was going to get worse. Much worse.
The train had originally been due at Gare de Lyon in Paris at around 1.30 pm. It eventually arrived at around 2.30 pm. It was only in the final 30 minutes of the trip that the driver finally managed to find the throttle and get it flying along at 305 kph. By then it was already too late. Maggie was worried that she was going to lose her leg and join Carol and Fran in the sad French leg injury tally.
It did finally pull into the station. We stumbled out onto the platform and into the biggest jam of people I had ever seen on a railway station. We could hardly move. We both just wanted somewhere to sit comfortably, but Maggie had an even more pressing need. She needed a toilet and fast. I sat with the pile of luggage while she set off in search of that elusive Holy Grail – a clean toilet. About 30 minutes later she returned.
We then went in search of the right Metro line to take us close to our apartment. We found it without too much trouble, but what was trouble was the multitude of flights of stairs that we had to ascend and descend in order to get to the right platform. I pity any disabled person who has to survive this system.
At least we were relieved to find that the Metro was not too crowded and we were soon headed in the right direction. “Not long to go now”, I tried to calm Maggie’s anxiety. She looked up at the list of stations on the carriage wall.
“Which station do we get off at ?”, she asked.
“The Louvre”, I replied.
“But that sign says it’s closed”. I looked up and saw that she was right. Apparently there was work being done and it was “ferme”, for the next few weeks. Well that’s how our day had been going. And it was still going to get worse.
We had no alternative other than to go to the next station and walk back. That was not such a big problem, except that we could not find the “Sortie” (exit) anywhere. We walked back and forth until we eventually located the exit doors. I had been through these types of doors many times and knew that it was possible to wheel my bag through, however for some reason, this time my brain was not working properly. We saw a special line that had a luggage symbol so I thought maybe I should put the bag through there. I lined up the bag and then walked through the neighbouring exit. The problem was the luggage door did not open. I was on one side and Maggie was still on the other with both bags and a very worried look on her face. Well what do we do now ? I wondered.
“Pass your bag over the top”, I called to her. She did that and that was one problem partially solved.
“OK, now come through with my bag”. She started through, only to find that the barrier snapped back like a giant alligator, securely grabbing my bag in their huge jaws. I tried to force them open without success. I tried to just pull my bag through. At least that achieved something – I almost managed to rip the entire top of the bag from one end to the other. Not exactly what I had planned.
At that moment a helpful French lady noticed our predicament and used her ticket to reopen the doors for us. I retrieved the ruins of my case and the two of us stood seething at the damage. What an absolutely stupid system, I thought. Just like the French to design a gate that would be capable of cutting a small child (or slow senior) completely in two.
I would liked to have punched someone right on the nose at that point, but there would have been no point. We should have known that is what France is like. It can be frustrating, it can be irritating, but it is never boring.
I managed to roll the remains of my bag to the apartment we had booked on the Internet. It was situated on the left bank of the Seine, not far from the Musee D’Orsay and the location and the description, looked too good to miss. We were met at the door by a young spiff and his “cousin”. Young Guillaume certainly spoke good English but he was just too much of a smart Alec for our liking. He insisted on making every question we asked into some sort of joke and really managed to really get under our skin. I suspect he would have been happy to sell us the Eiffel Tower if we had shown any interest.
The apartment itself was not exactly as it appeared in the advertisement. It was a collection of rooms and corridors with ceilings low enough to crack the head of the shortest midget. At least it had a bed and a toilet and we had to agree that the location was perfect. It is probably typical of what to expect in Paris when you are traveling on a budget. There was no doubt it did have character and we would probably look back on this day in the years ahead and laugh about it.
That evening we went out and brought some supplies and some beautiful fresh baguettes and had a feast in our room. It was fun. Already the hassles of the previous few hours started to fade and we looked forward to what we would do it in the next four days in this amazing city. Czytaj więcej
Ronald the Wrongfoot
22 października 2015, Francja ⋅ ☁️ 6 °C
Day 59 In Which we Meet Tiny Ronald the Wrongfoot
When I was preparing for our 2015 European Renaissance rides I did some research into the history of Italy and France. One of the most influential characters in the French Monarchy of the Middle Ages was King Francoise I. During our trip we came across his extensive legacy right throughout the Loire Valley. I also learned that King Francoise was well known for the extreme size of one of his body parts, so much so in fact that one his alternative names was “Francoise the Grand Nez”. I thought it was a little unfortunate that someone should be remembered throughout history because of his huge honker, but that was the way it went in those early days. I guess it was regarded as being a little inadequate to just give a simple name such as Louis, Georges, Pierre or Gabriel. In order to make sure who you were referring to, it was also required to add an extra descriptive to the name.
I could imagine the roll call in a medieval school classroom might have sounded something like this – “Henry the Horrible, Freddy the Fat, Sally the Silly, Gary the Grumpy, Harry the Hairy, Philip the Flatulent” and so on. I wondered what my name might have been if I had been born about 600 years ago – maybe Dennis the Dimwit ?
Today we decided to visit the Musee de Beaux Arts (Museum of Fine Arts) in the centre of Dijon. This museum is actually one of the oldest in France and has an interesting and varied collection of antiquities from Ancient Egypt through to the 19th century. Since we had a free day and since it was wet and rainy outside, we considered that it might be an interesting way to spend a couple of hours.
We grabbed our umbrellas and walked the now familiar short distance to the old town. It was easy enough to find the building, but much more challenging to find the entrance. We wandered around and around the exterior before eventually discovering the unmarked door which accessed the inside of the building. We were also surprised to find that the entrance was Gratuit (free). The lady at the door handed us a plastic bag to hold our dripping umbrellas and we started exploring the fascinating rooms inside the museum.
It did not take us long to meet several other past members of the French royal family – Phillipe the Bold, John the Fearless (not to be confused with John the Scaredy Cat) and also Phillipe the Good. I didn’t know much about what they did to receive these accolades, but their death memorials were certainly impressive.
In the adjoining room we discovered a row of suits of armor. While most were approximately the same size, the one on the end was severely vertically challenged. Although it was an impressive collection of armor, the tiny size gave evidence to the fact that the owner must have only been about 150 cm tall. I wondered what his name might have been – perhaps Michael the Midget ?
As we looked more closely at the metal suits, Maggie made a startling discovery. “Look at his feet”, she said. I did. “They are back to front”, she added. I looked more closely and had to agree with her. It certainly looked as if the left and right feet had been mounted on the wrong legs. Surely the curators could not have made such a terrible mistake, and why had no one else ever noticed such a basic error ???? It was then that the real truth dawned on me. Obviously the owner was not only extremely short, but he also had the rare handicap of having his feet on the wrong legs. I could only assume that this was the famous “Ronald the Wrong Foot”. Well that WAS interesting.
Just before we left the suits of armor, I had another thought. Considering the unfortunate sequence of events which had resulted in both Carol and Fran breaking their legs during the trip, perhaps they should both consider getting fitted for full body armor before setting on our 2016 European rides. It certainly couldn’t hurt.
As we proceeded to the higher floors of the building we came across a series of huge carved 3D dioramas of assorted religious themes. Since these must each have taken thousands of hours of painstaking effort to produce, they could only have been gifts for the royalty. Since the descriptions were all in French, I had to make up my own explanations for what they were used for. I guess in the days before TV, such dioramas provided an entertaining evening diversion for the members of the royal household. On a dull, dark winter’s night in the King’s palace the conversation could have gone something like this….
“What are we going to do tonight Papa ?”, the little princes asked the king.
“I think we should have a look at the new diorama”, the king replied.
“But we saw that diorama last week, don’t you have a new one for us to look at ?”
“But the royal artisans took 17 years to make the last one”, the king added. “And it does show at least 30 different gory ways to die”.
“But dioramas are so boring, I wish one of your subjects would invent social media”.
Life really was tough in those days. Maggie also commented that all the dioramas, paintings and sculptures depicted people who were either being massacred, or who looked as if they were about to be massacred. Didn’t anyone actually smile in the Middle Ages ?
When we exited the museum we noticed that they were setting up some sort of outdoor musical event in the open space. Unfortunately due to the cold and wet conditions, the performance was put on for the benefit of about 7 rather wet looking onlookers. I hate to think how much it must have cost to set up all the sound equipment.
Since we felt that we had eaten in far too many restaurants, that evening we bought food from the nearest supermarket and had our own little party in our apartment. We both enjoyed it immensely. Tomorrow we catch the fast train to Paris and begin the next chapter of our odyssey. Czytaj więcej
We Become Unraveled
21 października 2015, Francja ⋅ ☁️ 8 °C
Day 58 In Which Everything Becomes Unravelled
When you have 25 people travelling across the globe to complete a complex trip such as our rides across Italy and France, there are hundreds of details which have to be planned flawlessly in order for the whole trip to succeed. Although I had put in countless hours of preparation in covering all the preliminary arrangements, in the back of my mind there is always a fear that something might go wrong. Perhaps there could be a mix up with the hotels, maybe planes and trains could be delayed, maybe there will be a nationwide strike and so on.
Now after two months, and with the end almost in sight, I could almost relax. Up will now everything had gone exactly according to the script. Well almost everything. There were the two women who somehow managed to independently break their legs during the trip, but that had nothing to do with my planning. After all there was no way I could be responsible for Carol falling over in the shower or Fran tumbling down the staircase. As far as I was concerned, I felt that not only had the group arrangements all worked perfectly, but our own personal arrangements had also gone smoothly as well. Maggie and I could take pride in the fact that we had not even left anything behind in any of the 30 hotels we had stayed in over the past two months.
They say that pride always goes before a fall, and maybe I should not have ignored the nagging feeling that, at some stage during the trip, there would be something that would inevitably go awry. Today was that day.
After a good first night’s sleep at the Adagio Access Apartments in Dijon, we woke up and spent the first hour catching up on our backlog of laundry. The hotel had its own laundromat – how easy was that ? While the washing machine was battling away on our dirty clothes, we sat down to lovely crunchy baguettes for breakfast. Our main task for the morning was to return our hire car to the nearby Europcar rental office. I had already checked on Google Maps and it promised me that the trip would only take about 12 minutes. After all the thousands of kilometres we had traveled all over France, it was a mere bagatelle. We even programmed the address into our trusty Tom Tom GPS, just to make sure.
After a final check of the car, we drove out of the hotel car park and straight into a narrow one way street. But why was a car coming the other way straight towards me ? I reversed back and pulled aside to let the elderly driver squeeze past (he looked almost as mystified as me). We resumed our progress and executed another couple of turns. So far so good.
“I think you are in the bus lane”, Maggie advised.
“That’s a funny place to put a bus lane”, I replied. At the same time it probably explained why I had received some strange looks from other drivers. Not a big problem I decided, as I calmly veered across to the correct lane. Only about 500 metres to go. Why was my heart thumping so much ?
The last time we hired a car in France we drove it for weeks without incident, and then came close to driving it into a concrete wall in the rental car parking lot when we were returning it. On that occasion I managed to avoid catastrophe (and great embarrassment) by about 3 cm. It did succeed in reminding me that the show is never truly over till the proverbial “fat lady” has finished her solo. With only a few hundred metres to go, I was sure that I could hear the fat lady already warming up her vocal chords.
It was at that point that things took an unexpected turn for the worse. The wonderful TOM TOM that had guided us all over the entire country decided that the satellites were no longer there. The screen proclaimed “NO SIGNAL”. We were on our own with no idea which turn to make. In the area near the central Dijon Train Station there are numerous one way streets and it is essential that you approach in the correct sequence. I did the only thing I could think to do and that was continue straight ahead. Within seconds we were almost T-boned by two fast cars coming up from my left. The drivers were more forgiving than I would have been under the circumstances as neither of them got out of their vehicles to attack with a tyre lever. I tried to do my best impersonation of a foreign elderly dimwit and they seemed to take pity on me. It had been a close call and my sweaty palms made it hard to grip the wheel.
Somehow I managed to fluke a space that could have been a parking space, but probably wasn’t. I tried turning on my pocket GPS. It couldn’t find the signal either. This was ridiculous. Had some sort of global cataclysm shut down the whole system? I crept forward again, hoping that the signal would resume before I had a nervous breakdown. Fortunately it did. After a couple more turns we were at the right car depot and managed to squeeze the car (almost) into the one remaining car spot. At that point I didn’t care anymore. It was not my problem. We had returned their blessed car in one piece and I was ready to hand over the keys. The remainder of our trip will be conducted either by train or on foot. The car had been great but we were both quite relieved to hand it back.
We slowly made our way to the city centre and did some research about possible bike rides in this region. A couple of hours later we returned to our hotel room. It was then that we discovered the second major catastrophe of the day. Over the past couple of weeks we had accumulated a stash of food and nibbles. This included chocolates, biscuits, a jar of jam, fruit, muesli bars, a packet of tea bags and a few other odds and sods. This bag had circumnavigated the entire country with us and served as a backup source of nourishment if we could not find any shops handy. The bag of goodies had been left in our room on the bench in the small kitchenette. To our horror the precious bag was no longer there. We searched and we searched but all our goodies were gone. It might have only amounted to several Euros worth of mostly junk food, but we could not help but feel violated. How could the cleaner possibly have mistaken such a collection of wonderful items for junk ? I almost felt like reporting it to the local Gendarmes, but thought better of it. I also thought that it would probably not be worth lodging a claim with my travel insurer for a couple of packets of lost biscuits. By the same token I could not help but wonder what else could possibly go wrong.
In spite of our huge loss, we decided to explore the city anyway. On our previous trip here we had discovered that Dijon has a great way of taking visitors on a walk of the major places of interest in the city. The so called “Chouette Walk” is made up of hundreds of brass owl plaques on the footpath. These take the visitor to 22 major sites around the centre of Dijon. It is a fantastic way for families to have fun and discover the sights at the same time.
Since the start of our adventure, Maggie had brought along with her a small extra friend that she had christened Pierre. Pierre was a tiny little Lego man with a striped blue and white shirt. He had been photographed in dozens of fascinating locations all around France. The images had been sent back to our grandchildren so that they could see what a great adventure little Pierre was having. Now that Pierre had traveled so far with us, we both regarded him as a very important part of the trip.
Maggie decided that little Pierre should be photographed in front of all 22 of the tourist locations. Each location is marked with a large brass plate and so we began putting him down on the plate on the ground, and taking his picture. It was only when we got to number 6 that a terrible thing happened. Maggie cried out in despair that she had left him on the road at the previous location. We both immediately felt sick. It was only a small Lego man, but it really would have been a disaster for him to get lost at this late stage.
We both started running back through the city crowds, hoping that no one would have noticed the little lost man on the ground. It was only about 500 metres, but it seemed like an eternity before we got close to the plate in question. I don’t know (and I didn’t care) what the locals would have thought about a red faced elderly couple charging through their peak hour crowds. In spite of hundreds of people walking back and forth (and not to mention the numbers of family groups doing the same walk), by some miracle little Pierre was still lying exactly where we had left him. He looked like a frightened little lost soul, all alone in such a big foreign city. By that time Maggie was in tears at the thought that he would be lost. We both never let him out of our sights for the rest of the day.
In spite of the mishaps (and near mishaps) that had occurred, it did not alter our opinion of this city. We still think Dijon is a lovely place. We love the mixture of old and new, the fact that it is not over crowded, the lovely gardens and the feeling that it is little like a miniature version of Paris. If anyone is looking for a place to spend some time in France then the Borgogne Region and Dijon in particular should be carefully considered. Czytaj więcej
Dijon Days
20 października 2015, Francja ⋅ ☁️ 9 °C
Days 54 to 57 In Which It’s Beginning to Look a Bit like Christmas
In putting together our itinerary for this trip Colmar was always going to be a bit of an unknown quantity. Neither of us had been to this part of France before and so our knowledge was entirely gained from Dr Google and Prof Wikipedia. We had heard that the region of Alsace was unlike any other region of France because of its unique Germanic character. Over the centuries it had alternated ownership between France and Germany so many times that maybe it was unsure as to which country it really belonged.
On our first full day in this area we drove to the centre of Colmar and spent a couple of hours wandering the old city. The buildings were certainly completely unlike any we had seen anywhere else in France. Rather than the stone buildings that are so common everywhere else in this country, here we found a kaleidoscopic assortment of topsy turvy structures, all huddled closely together at odd angles. It seems that it is a requirement that each building must be painted a different colour of the rainbow. The overall effect is to make a magical wonderland of narrow streets and fairytale houses.
Just about every building is adorned with brilliant floral displays hanging from every window and a strange assortment of odds and sods on every available space. Obviously storks are considered to bring good luck and so many of the homes have model storks on chimney pots, doorways, fences, etc. Many homeowners actually build nests on their homes, hoping for a real stork to make its home there.
We also noticed that the council had been at work putting up Christmas lights above the main streets in the centre of the old town. Many of the businesses had already decorated their windows with Christmas wreaths and other Christmas trappings. With the temperatures plummeting around to around 4C it really felt that Christmas was rapidly approaching. We were both glad that we had brought our thermal underwear with us from Australia, although I was not so glad that my winter beanie had not survived the packing cull and had been left behind in Melbourne.
During the day I received an email update from Dave and Carol Yates. It made for such entertaining reading that I decided to include it in this account.
“Hi Dennis
I have just finished reading your latest blog in which you describe some of the hair raising driving experiences you have had since collecting you hire car. I completely understand and can relate to your angst as I have been reduced to a quivering ball of jelly on quite a few occassions driving in both France and the UK. Like you we have had this romantic notion that driving on the back roads we allow us to see more of the real France and England. Unfortunately some of these secondary roads quite quickly detiorate in to little more than goat tracks with barely enough room to negotiate your car through without the shear terror of another vehicle approachng from the opposite direction. In the UK we have hired a Ford Mondeo station wagon which is black with dark tinted windows.When driving it I feel that I should be wearing dark glasses, a black hat and suit and have a revolver in my shoulder holster. I have always thought of a Mondeo as being at best a medium size car however when driving over here it seems absolutely enormous! If anything driving around Cornwall is even more terrifying than in France. Many of the roads here must be centuries old as they have worn down to at least a metre below the surrounding land. In addition tbey are exremely narrow,wind around n a ridiculous fashion and have two metre hedgerows growing so close to you that you feel like you are driving in a green tunnel from which heavily laden farmers tractors suddenly appeararound very tight bends. Anyway I have learnt two important lessons about driving in Europe which I feel I should pass on to you before you make the same mistakes as I have. They are:
NEVER GIVE A FRENCHMAN THE FINGER
After we left Le Croisic we had quite a long drive to Normanby to visit our friends. We chose to drive on the aforesaid minor roads which made it much longer and nerve wracking. Towards tbe end of the drive I became trapped behind a very large French tractor hauling a large trailer loaded with hay. The road was very narrow and winding and I was stuck behind him for a considerable time during which a queue of cars collected behind me. Eventually an opportunity to pass came along and I dropped the car in to second gear pulled out and planted my foot expe ting to quickly sail pass him. Well the accelaration I anticipated did not occur and I had apparantly selected fourth or even sixth and tbe car took off like a very tired snail who hadtaken to many valium pills. This aggravated the driver behind me who had also pulled out to pass and he started tooting his horn aggresively.Well I was feeling tiredand emotional and also trying to find tbe correct gear so I reacted instinctively and gave him the finger.It seems tbat he took offense at this and pulled alongside me and made a very angry face at me and was mouthing what Iam sure were very rude French words. This is where common sense should have caused me to wave apologetically and hopefully that would have settled him down. Well I didn,t did I i nstead I gave him the finger again which was not a smart thing todo. He pulled infront of me and slammed on his brakes coming to a rapid halt amost causing me to rear end him. He then jumped from his car and came towards me and tbis was when I realised how foolish I had been.He was probably about25 to 30 built like a weightlifter with full sleeve tattoos on both arms a black t shirt and an angry look on his face. Seeing my life race before my eyes I did what any sensible person would do in similar circumstances and threw the car in to reverse and tried to retreat. Imagine my chagrin when after travelling no more than a metre I realised that a car had pulled up behind me and I had nearly reversed into him. As it happend tbe upset Frenchman changed his mind and after much finger pointing and again saying very rude things in French got back in to his car and much to my relief drove off.
DONT ALWAYS TRUST YOUR GPS
I have generally found the lady in my GPS to be very reliable and in fact I have become quite fond of her however on one occassion she let me down badly. I set the GPS to take us to St Ives in Cornwall which she duly did. Unfortunately we ended up on a very narrow one way road on the foreshore of the oldest part of the town. That in itself was ok however when directing us out she tooks us up a very very narrow road, or at least at that time I tbought it was a road. After about 200 metre we came to a corner that was impossible to get around without scraping the side out of the car.While I was contemplating how to get out of tnis dilemma several aggreived poms advised me that tnis was not a road and was infact a footpath and that even if I did get around tbe corner it was a dead end. There was nothing to do other than to reverse back down the footpath with what seemed like no more than a few millimetres to spare on each side. We retracted tbe mirrors and with Carol letting me know how close we were on her side we slowly, very slowly inched backwards. To add to my humiliation an art shop owner whose window I had come close to breaking as I tried to negotiate that corner startrd to photograph or video my slow retreate. Probably to show to his friends to remind them how stupid tourists can be.
So I hope you can learn from my experiences and not make tbe same mistakes.
Regards
David”
It certainly sounded like they had been having a wonderful time and were enjoying their car driving experiences as much as Carol had enjoyed the hotel shower in Angers. Maggie and I spent some time chuckling at their adventures before looking for a place for dinner. Just outside of Colmar there are a couple of smaller medieval towns – Eguisheim and Riquewihr. We had read about a little restaurant in Eguisheim and thought that it sounded like a good option for dinner. We programmed the address into the GPS and headed off into the dark.
If driving in France is a challenge in broad daylight, it is an even greater challenge on a dark night, especially when your headlights don’t seem to penetrate the inky darkness at all. Maybe it was because I still did not know how to turn them on properly, but all I knew was that I could barley make out the road ahead. We crawled along at about 30 kph, glad that there were no other cars on the road at this time. Apparently all the locals know that only mad dogs and Englishmen drive at night.
Somehow the GPS managed to get us to the village without a major accident and we parked the car anywhere that looked suitable and staggered out. My palms were sweaty and my heart was thumping. I didn’t feel hungry, but we had come this far and it would seem stupid not to find the place we had driven all this way for.
We had not walked for long before my mouth gaped open in wonder. In the dim lights from the windows this place really did look like a magical world. I had to admit that we had never seen anything like it and it even made the streets of old Colmar look plain by comparison. We did eventually find the restaurant and enjoyed a wonderful meal there with the locals. In this region many of the locals speak a special dialect called Alsation. It is related to German but is actually quite distinct. Sitting in this tiny restaurant gave us a chance to hear it spoken. We were the only English speakers in the place and we got the impression that very few visitors would come here after dark. It was a lovely night that we will never forget.
Finding where we had left the car presented some challenges but we did eventually find it in the dark and I was so grateful for the GPS to help me get back to our B & B for the night.
The following day was a Sunday and, since we had enjoyed the dinner in Eguisheim the previous night, we thought it would be good to drive back and see it during the daytime. In the bright light of day it still looked wonderful, but perhaps not quite as magical as it had in the darkness. The streets are narrow and cobblestoned and the houses are built so that each floor is cantilevered out above the floor below. It would not have seemed entirely out of place if Bilbo Baggins came out of one of the front doors, it was just that sort of place.
Like Eguisheim, Riquewihr is also a tiny medieval village on the outskirts of Colmar. In many respects it is like Eguisheim, however it has been much more commercialized. Although it was undeniably beautiful, it did start to feel a little like Disneyland, especially when the buses started to disgorge large throngs of tourists into the narrow streets.
There was one shop that really did impress us both as it contained the largest collection of quality Christmas decorations and novelties that we had ever seen. A narrow walking path led us through a myriad of levels, surrounded on all sides by enough tinsel and toys to keep any child mesmorised for a month. It was obvious that Christmas really is big here. A pity that we could not take any photographs.
Although we were glad we had visited this area, it really was not the France we had come to know and love. In fact we were not really sure what it was. There was no doubt that it was impressive, but somehow it did not seem real. After a couple of hours we were ready to escape the throngs and seek some peace and quiet again.
After three nights in Colmar it was time for us to resume our travels. The next few days were to start our journey back towards Paris and that meant that our trip was starting to move towards its final stages. Our plan was to first drive from Colmar to Besancon, a distance of around 250 km or so. We wanted to avoid all the toll roads and seek out only the quiet rural roads instead. Although this would take us a lot longer, we both felt that we wanted to return to the tranquility of the rural farmlands again.
After the past week of overcast and rainy conditions, it was great to see the return of the sunshine again. After leaving Colmar we soon found ourselves in beautiful rolling green hills that reminded me of Southern Gippsland. The autumn trees were all now well into the advanced stages of preparing for the winter and we often found ourselves driving through flurries of russet coloured leaves that had fallen to the road in front of us. We could see that winter would quickly follow in this region of the country.
As we drove further east we also noticed the return of the lovely old stone buildings that are so typical all over the country. Gone were the brightly coloured and rendered buildings we had seen in Alsace.
Our destination for the day was the mid sized city of Besancon. We did not know anything about this city other than that its location would make it a convenient place for an overnight stay. As we drove into the town we were surprised to find a thoroughly modern city with a fantastic infrastructure. The roads were new, the traffic flowed easily, the buildings were clean and modern and we even discovered a great tramway system that had only been built in the past twelve months. The old city has a long history and was even mentioned in the writings of Julius Caesar. One of its more recent residents was the writer Victor Hugo who was born here in 1802. Besancon was long a centre of the watch making industry, but its recent prosperity is due to a growing micro technology industry. It also houses a huge university and I was surprised to read that almost 20% of the current population are university students. In the short period of time we were here it certainly impressed us a city that was well managed and was rapidly forging a confident future for itself. We didn’t even see any graffiti anywhere !
In the afternoon we caught the tram to the city centre and sat on the banks of the lovely River Doub in the late afternoon sunshine eating a delicious kebab dinner.
The hotel we had booked for the night was the brand new Zenitude Aparthotel complex. It was an impressive brand new building situated high on a hill near the medical school of the university. It was unfortunate that the first room they allocated us had such a dreadful smell inside that we had to go back to the reception to ask for another one. The second room was immaculately clean and came without the stink, but it did come with another unwelcome feature. Whenever we entered the bathroom we were met by a strange musical sound. At first I thought it was music coming from somewhere, but we came to the conclusion that it must have been some paranormal manifestation taking place in the water pipes. It really was a little unnerving and we were glad we were not staying there for a more than a single night.
The next morning we only had a relatively short drive to Dijon. The sun stayed out all day and made our final day of driving a real treat. The Bourgogne Region truly is a lovely part of France and it would have been easy to settle into one of the many villages we drove through along the way. Tomorrow morning we return our rental car and we will be reverting to travel by train and foot for the remainder of our trip. Although the Nissan Juke really was lacking in power, it had proven to be reliable and surprisingly economical (around 7.7 litres/100 km). After driving it all over France, all that remained was the simple task of getting it the final kilometre to the Europcar Rental Office. Nothing could go wrong with that simple task – or could it ? Czytaj więcej
Besancon
19 października 2015, Francja ⋅ 12 °C
Beautiful Colmar
17 października 2015, Francja ⋅ ☁️ 7 °C
On to Alsace
15 października 2015, Francja ⋅ ☁️ 5 °C
Days 50 to 53 In Which we Switch from Sea to Snow
Our four nights in Cassis passed by all too quickly. Although we lost the bright sunshine after the first couple of days, the temperature was still mild enough for swimmers to bathe in the blue Mediterranean waters. One of the natural features that this region is most well known for is the succession of Calanques along the coastline. These are a bit like a French version of a fjord, with sheltered inlets surrounded by towering rocky cliffs. Many of these calanques have been utilised to make safe, sheltered marinas for pleasure craft.
Maggie and I thought it would be a good idea to walk from our accommodation in the centre of town to the Calanques. We should have remembered that nothing can be achieved in Cassis without walking up and down an endless succession of steep hills. After staggering up the first few climbs we were already hot and tired – and we hadn’t even left the town. I reminded Maggie that we could have driven to the parking section and just walked to the Calanques themselves, but she had thought it would be good for us to walk the entire way. It was a dumb idea.
After walking around the first calanque and taking a few pictures we deduced that, if you have seen one calanque, you have probably seen them all. It seemed like a fine idea to head back to the town, unfortunately somewhere on the way back we took a wrong turn and ended up executing a complete (and completely unnecessary) loop around the town. I was reminded of the Grand Old Duke of York as we noticed the same houses pass on by the second time around. Finally we found our way back to familiar territory and sat down at the water’s edge to watch the boats gently rocking back and forth in their moorings.
The following morning it was time to pack our car and find our way out of Cassis. When we visited this town for the first time in 2013, we never thought it would be possible for us to return, however two years later we had been able to enjoy it all over again. As we drove out along the nearby tollway we both knew that, this time, it would be most unlikely for us to be able to return for a third visit.
The weather had undergone a distinct change and the clear sunny skies had been replaced with low dark clouds and very limited visibility. We settled down for another long and fast drive on a succession of tollways. Although the payment systems on these roads is always a little hit and miss, we had learnt that it is safest to always carry a huge stockpile of coins. Although they are supposed to accept credit cards, for some obscure reason, the machines often reject the cards you insert. When you have a line of impatient waiting cars behind you, it is NOT the best time to try to work out what is going on.
As we left the Mediterranean coast and headed north toward the Alps, the temperature steadily dropped. I reminded Maggie that I had advised her to bring some cold weather clothes on this trip. Although she had ridiculed me about this virtually every day up to now, I knew that sooner or later they would prove welcome.
The first section of the drive took us back over the same section of road we had driven a few days earlier, but fortunately this time we were able to skirt by Avignon and continue on the tollway. Our destination for the day was the famous small town of Pont En Royans. The main feature of this town is that it is perched precariously on sheer cliffsides above the Bourne and Vernaison Rivers. The so called suspended buildings really are quite mesmerising, although I couldn’t help but feel a little vertigo as I stood precariously close to the raging waters in the river. The water was so clear that the bottom was clearly visible. Certainly anyone who had the misfortune to slip into the water would have little chance at survival.
Since we were still dressed for the much warmer climes of Cassis, it didn’t take long for us to feel frozen. As we walked along the narrow walking track along the river we came across a very welcoming sight. It was the local library and one step inside its warm interior convinced us that this would be a lovely way to spend the next 30 minutes or so. We both picked a book and sat down to read. For me this meant utilising my rusty high school language skills, and mostly looking at the pictures. It was a thoroughly relaxing and very enjoyable way to pass the afternoon.
A short time later we were at our accommodation at the Mas Du Servant B & B. The room was lovely, the surroundings were as peaceful and quiet as you could find anywhere and the proprietors were fantastic hosts. The only problem was that they did not speak a single word of English between them. The entire conversation had to be conducted in French. Somehow we did manage to communicate, and I was even able to show them our web site and tell them about our recent bike ride to Le Croisic. In the morning we were fed a lovely breakfast and we each bade a fond Au Revoir to our hosts.
The next day was to be the longest driving distance of our entire trip and a large section of the drive would take us through Switzerland. Along the way we would also pass through a succession of long and impressive tunnels cut through the towering mountains. The names of the places certainly were familiar, and I am sure that the views would have been amazing – if we could have seen anything. Unfortunately the visibility was still almost non existent as we climbed higher and higher into the mountains. It felt like we were standing in the middle of the smoking room at Singapore Airport.
We stopped for lunch at the beautiful town of Annecy, famous for its canals running through the centre of town. It certainly was a photographer’s dream and the lovely Plat du Jour (Plate of the day) that we enjoyed in one of the small cafes was delicious. The only somewhat sour note to this place was a miserable looking homeless woman who was busy eating scraps from the cast off piles of rubbish. I could not but help but wonder at what sequence of events could bring anyone to such a dreadful state.
In the final hour or so of the long drive we climbed relentlessly higher and higher into the mountains. I stopped to check my GPS at it told me that our elevation was already well over 1000 metres. The temperature gauge on the dashboard was also flashing a warning that we were in danger of ice on the roads. I suppose we did not need any reminder that it was really cold, the steady fall of snow drifting down from above was enough to remind us that Cassis was now just a distant memory.
We briefly stopped at a market to buy some food for the night and, when we got back to the car, we both had a layer of snowflakes on our shoulders. Across the road some council workers were already erecting the Christmas decorations in the main street. Christmas decorations ? Where had summer and autumn gone ? A lot can certainly change in a couple of days.
Befitting the alpine nature of the area, our accommodation was in a lovely mountain chalet, complete with roaring log fire and natural pine walls and ceilings. Judging by the numbers of doonas and blankets they had loaded onto the bed, they must have been expecting another ice age. There was no way that I could ever had slept under all that weight and immediately throw the vast majority onto the floor, and then opened the large window. Living in the Dandenong Ranges for the past 30 years had obviously prepared us for all conditions.
The next morning we began by following the beautiful La Doubs River for around 30 km. This river skirts along the border between France and Switzerland and we were so glad that we had listened to our host’s advice to take this route. Although it was not our original plan, it rewarded us with some of the prettiest scenery we had seen so far. Although the weather was still overcast, at least the rain had stopped and we even had a few patches of blue sky overhead.
The colours of the autumn trees now ranged from yellow all the way through to dark red. We had seen a progression in these shades in the past couple of weeks and we also noticed that many of the trees were now well along in the process of shedding their leaves for the coming winter.
The road steadily dropped altitude, at times quite quickly. I could not help but think how hard it would be to ride a bike up these roads. The drop in altitude also raised the outside temperature to a relative balmy 5C !
We have now entered the Alsace Region of Eastern France. This region has been hotly contested for centuries and has, at various times, been part of France and Germany. The names on the towns all bear clear evidence of the divided character of this region. The capital of this region is the nearby town of Strasbourg. It is this town that has been a favourite subject for trivia quizzes for many years. When asked the question “In which country is Strasbourg, it is not surprising that most would answer (incorrectly) that it is in Germany. The correct answer is France.
Our home for the next three nights is another B & B in Colmar. When we pulled into the final street Maggie saw an obscure sign and insisted that it was the place we were booked into. We spent some time trying to break into the place, before I noticed that the house number was NOT the same as the place we were looking for. In fact the correct place was several hundred metres further along the road.
We are now looking forward to spending a couple of quieter days enjoying the local region. Czytaj więcej
White Knuckle Driving
13 października 2015, Francja ⋅ ☁️ 17 °C
Days 46 to 49 In Which I have to Have my Fingernails Surgically Removed from the Steering Wheel
Our time in Cordes Sur Ciel had been one of the most amazing experiences we have ever shared together. We were expecting something a little different, but we had no idea of just how different this place really is. The four days we spent wandering the narrow streets, gazing at the view, exploring the nearby villages and soaking up the history of this town will never be forgotten. Unfortunately time marches on and the morning arrived for us to pack our bags and bid farewell. Of course that meant once more driving up the tiny cobblestoned alleyway to the front of our hotel. The day that we arrived in this town was the same day that we picked up our rental car and I could still vividly remember the sheer terror that I felt trying to navigate the unfamiliar streets in a totally unfamiliar car.
Now that we had become more familiar with the streets, it did not seem quite as daunting. I safely made it to the front door, collected our bags and said “Au Revoir” to the staff. We bounced and rocked our way back down the hill, ready for the next stage of our trip. Since Maggie had requested that we stay away from the major arterial roads this time, I asked Tom (aka “TOM TOM”) to give us a route that would avoid all the toll roads. We set off.
We had not gone very far before we realised that avoiding the toll roads might have seemed like a romantic notion, but we were then placed with the challenge of driving along diminutive back roads that were barely wider than our car. I guess that is the problem when you take a track that has only been used for walkers for thousands of years and try to convert it to a road. Our progress was painfully slow as we crept around a series of tortuous hillside tracks and squeeezed our way between barns and houses. At that rate we would not have arrived at Avignon till about mid December.
By the same token I did have to admit that the Provence countryside was beautiful. With the rolling hills and the brilliant autumn colours that were now blanketing the countryside, it was not hard to see why many foreigners are seduced by this place and end up living here. We had already met a few Australians who had made the decision to start a new life in France and their obvious enthusiasm was quite contagious.
After three hours of twisting and turning, Tom kept revising our expected arrival time in Avignon and it became evident that we would have to modify our original plan and head to the closest toll road. France has a growing network of these super highways and they do constitute a quick and efficient way to get from major centre to major centre. The only problem is that they tend to be rather boring and you do need a pocketful of coins to keep feeding the regular pay stations along the way. The nominal speed limit is 130 kph, although many drivers seem happy to drive considerably faster than that.
Soon we were flying along the relevant tollway and the kilometres finally started to tick by. I did discover that the Nissan Juke we were driving was a bit of a gutless wonder and had to be prodded and coaxed to get anywhere near the 130 kph limit. Downhills were OK, but on any sort of a climb the speed quickly dropped away.
After about 7 hours of driving my eyelids were getting heavy as we finally arrived at the famous city of Avignon. This place was actually the seat of the Catholic Popes for a period of the 14th century. The centre of the old part of town is surrounded by a huge fortified wall and the city was made a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1995. Since we had only booked one night here we would not have much time to explore, especially as it was after dark when we finally reached the B & B we had booked. The owner said it “was easy” to get back into town and gave some handwaving directions as to where to park the car. We didn’t understand a word of it, but nodded and replied that it sounded like a good idea.
It took some degree of white knuckle maneuvering to reverse the car out of their driveway without bashing into the owner’s cars or the wall of their house. I think I almost succeeded. We had not driven the car after dark and I could not figure out if the headlights were on or off. Certainly most of the streetlights in Avignon were definitely off, making it virtually impossible to see where we were supposed to be going. I pressed my nose on the windscreen while Maggie tried to calm me down and forestall my impending nervous breakdown. It was a Saturday night and we soon found ourselves in a tight jam of cars going somewhere. Where ? We didn’t know. We couldn’t get out of the jam anyway. We followed them to wherever they were taking us.
After a series of more twists and turns we entered a huge tunnel into the Palais des Popes. Since we had read about that, it seemed a good idea. Then up another tight corkscrew ramp. (Damn those tight corkscrews made only for tiny cars and insane drivers). Finally we found a parking spot and, after about 10 minutes of juggling, managed to park the car more or less correctly. I prized my fingernails out of the steering wheel. took a deep breath and announced “Well that was interesting”.
Taking a good look around so that we would have a fair chance of finding the car again, we went in search of dinner. The centre of Avignon was buzzing and we found a likely looking Pizza Restaurant and enjoyed a passable French Italian Pizza together. Judging by the number of paparazzi photographers gathered outside the Opera House, I guess that someone famous must have been inside. I suppose I could have told them that I was part of the famous Ghostriders Cycling Group, but at that time I just wanted to get back to our bed and get some sleep.
The following morning we bade farewell to the house owner and squeezed the car back out of her driveway. Sweaty palms right from the start. Considering the challenging nature of driving in France I was just glad that we did not have to teach our teenage kids how to drive in this place. I don’t think that either us or the kids would have survived the strain.
Our first stop was at the unusual hilltop town of Roussillon. Unlike the myriad of medieval villages scattered all over France, this town stands out because it looks more Mexican or Spanish than French. All the buildings are rendered with a pink coloured ochre that is apparently obtained nearby. We had a delightful hour or so there before the busloads of tourists started arriving. Before we left I was able to observe the antics of the most self absorbed selfie taker I have ever seen. Armed with her large iPHONE and huge selfie stick she worked her way from building to building, carefully posing and photographing herself in front of every one of them. She would take a few steps, throw her head back, smile at the selfie stick and “click”, another one captured. All the time she never took her eyes from the screen ! I knew that it was time for us to leave.
We then had a sizable drive to Cassis on the Mediterranean coast. This is a beautiful town that we had stayed in back in 2013 and we were keen to see it again. The remaining drive was mostly on toll ways and should have been easy. It wasn’t. Each time you pass onto a tollway you must collect a ticket from the machine. When you leave the tollway you insert the ticket and it calculates the amount you have to pay. Since I was busy driving, each time I collected a toll ticket, I passed it straight to Maggie for safekeeping.
This system worked well until we stopped at a roadside rest station. When we got back into the car I asked Maggie if she had the ticket ready. She couldn’t find it. We searched our pockets, we searched the back seat of the car, we searched the glovebox. Just when we were about to give up, Maggie shouts “I see it”. It had fallen down between the seats. We then spent the next 10 minutes trying to reach it, before finally succeeding.
“That was a relief”, I said. “Without the ticket we would have had to pay a special penalty”. We drove to the final turnoff to Cassis and pulled in at the final pay station, retrieved ticket in hand. Just when Maggie was about to pass it to me she had an horrific realisation. “That isn’t the toll ticket, it is the parking ticket from Avignon”, she says.
At that stage I am stuck in the line of cars at the boom gate. OK, what do we do now ? I push the red emergency button. A French voice says something that I do not understand. “Do you speak English ?”, I ask. There is a long pause before the reply “Non”. I try to explain in my best Gibberish “Ticket lost”. I could have added that it was all due to my incompetent partner, but my three words of French would have made this difficult.
I think the operator must have taken pity on the elderly couple from Australia as we were only charged EUR1.4 and we were on our way again. The final few kilometres into Cassis involved some more white knuckle driving down a succession of narrow, hilly, one way streets but somehow we arrived at the correct accommodation. I let out a sigh of relief, turned off the ignition and was ready for a cup of coffee and a rest.
One of the things that Cassis is famous for is the huge sheer cliffs that drop over 400 vertical metres into the Mediterranean. The books say that these are the highest cliffs on the whole Mediterranean and they are certainly impressive. Looking at the cliffs from our window I made the mistake of asking the owner if there was any way to get to the top. He explained that there is a little road that winds its way to the very cliff face. It is called the “Route des Cretes” and it is one of the most spectacular clifftop drives anywhere in the world. Little wonder that access to this road is severely restricted.
Since we had nothing particular planned for the following day I suggested to Maggie that we could try driving the road in question. To my surprise she did not immediately veto the idea. I almost wished she had. We climbed into the car and battled our way out of town and up a tiny street with a gradient over 20%. The Nissan puffed and struggled its way up the hill. I struggled to keep my heart rate under 160. “This is not so bad”, I lied to Maggie. She wasn’t talking to me anymore.
Soon we were winding back and forth along the twisting road. Precipitous drops switched from my side of the car to Maggie’s side. And not an inch of ARMCO in sight. My speed dropped back to about 20 kph. I told Maggie that I was driving slowly for her, but in truth I was terrified. And then the rain started. I tried to turn on the windscreen wipers. Oops, that’s the indicators. I could not see where we were going, not sure if that was a good thing or bad. I have been on some hairy roads in my time. Certainly some of the roads in Nepal, Bhutan and Peru were probably more exposed, but I wasn’t driving then. I could just sit and put my life in someone else’s hands. For some reason it seemed worse when I was in charge of the vehicle.
We managed to stop at a couple of very high vantage points, but the torrential rain unfortunately meant that we could not see a thing. The road continues for about 14 km to the nearby town of La Ciotat. Although we were relieved to finally descend into the town, the torrential rain had sent rivers of water flowing down the steep streets and I was reluctant to stop in case we got swept away. Just a week earlier 20 people had been drowned in Cannes following a huge deluge of rain and I did not want to appear in the next day’s news.
We kept driving and returned to Cassis (this time along the Toll Road). We had another unfortunate incident at the toll station that I would rather not mention at this stage and we greatly relieved to arrive back at our room in one piece. It had been another “interesting” experience. Czytaj więcej
Quiet in Cassis
12 października 2015, Francja ⋅ 🌧 20 °C
Roussillon to Cassis
11 października 2015, Francja ⋅ 🌙 16 °C
Days 46 to 49 In Which I have to Have my Fingernails Surgically Removed from the Steering Wheel
Our time in Cordes Sur Ciel had been one of the most amazing experiences we have ever shared together. We were expecting something a little different, but we had no idea of just how different this place really is. The four days we spent wandering the narrow streets, gazing at the view, exploring the nearby villages and soaking up the history of this town will never be forgotten. Unfortunately time marches on and the morning arrived for us to pack our bags and bid farewell. Of course that meant once more driving up the tiny cobblestoned alleyway to the front of our hotel. The day that we arrived in this town was the same day that we picked up our rental car and I could still vividly remember the sheer terror that I felt trying to navigate the unfamiliar streets in a totally unfamiliar car.
Now that we had become more familiar with the streets, it did not seem quite as daunting. I safely made it to the front door, collected our bags and said “Au Revoir” to the staff. We bounced and rocked our way back down the hill, ready for the next stage of our trip. Since Maggie had requested that we stay away from the major arterial roads this time, I asked Tom (aka “TOM TOM”) to give us a route that would avoid all the toll roads. We set off.
We had not gone very far before we realised that avoiding the toll roads might have seemed like a romantic notion, but we were then placed with the challenge of driving along diminutive back roads that were barely wider than our car. I guess that is the problem when you take a track that has only been used for walkers for thousands of years and try to convert it to a road. Our progress was painfully slow as we crept around a series of tortuous hillside tracks and squeeezed our way between barns and houses. At that rate we would not have arrived at Avignon till about mid December.
By the same token I did have to admit that the Provence countryside was beautiful. With the rolling hills and the brilliant autumn colours that were now blanketing the countryside, it was not hard to see why many foreigners are seduced by this place and end up living here. We had already met a few Australians who had made the decision to start a new life in France and their obvious enthusiasm was quite contagious.
After three hours of twisting and turning, Tom kept revising our expected arrival time in Avignon and it became evident that we would have to modify our original plan and head to the closest toll road. France has a growing network of these super highways and they do constitute a quick and efficient way to get from major centre to major centre. The only problem is that they tend to be rather boring and you do need a pocketful of coins to keep feeding the regular pay stations along the way. The nominal speed limit is 130 kph, although many drivers seem happy to drive considerably faster than that.
Soon we were flying along the relevant tollway and the kilometres finally started to tick by. I did discover that the Nissan Juke we were driving was a bit of a gutless wonder and had to be prodded and coaxed to get anywhere near the 130 kph limit. Downhills were OK, but on any sort of a climb the speed quickly dropped away.
After about 7 hours of driving my eyelids were getting heavy as we finally arrived at the famous city of Avignon. This place was actually the seat of the Catholic Popes for a period of the 14th century. The centre of the old part of town is surrounded by a huge fortified wall and the city was made a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1995. Since we had only booked one night here we would not have much time to explore, especially as it was after dark when we finally reached the B & B we had booked. The owner said it “was easy” to get back into town and gave some handwaving directions as to where to park the car. We didn’t understand a word of it, but nodded and replied that it sounded like a good idea.
It took some degree of white knuckle maneuvering to reverse the car out of their driveway without bashing into the owner’s cars or the wall of their house. I think I almost succeeded. We had not driven the car after dark and I could not figure out if the headlights were on or off. Certainly most of the streetlights in Avignon were definitely off, making it virtually impossible to see where we were supposed to be going. I pressed my nose on the windscreen while Maggie tried to calm me down and forestall my impending nervous breakdown. It was a Saturday night and we soon found ourselves in a tight jam of cars going somewhere. Where ? We didn’t know. We couldn’t get out of the jam anyway. We followed them to wherever they were taking us.
After a series of more twists and turns we entered a huge tunnel into the Palais des Popes. Since we had read about that, it seemed a good idea. Then up another tight corkscrew ramp. (Damn those tight corkscrews made only for tiny cars and insane drivers). Finally we found a parking spot and, after about 10 minutes of juggling, managed to park the car more or less correctly. I prized my fingernails out of the steering wheel. took a deep breath and announced “Well that was interesting”.
Taking a good look around so that we would have a fair chance of finding the car again, we went in search of dinner. The centre of Avignon was buzzing and we found a likely looking Pizza Restaurant and enjoyed a passable French Italian Pizza together. Judging by the number of paparazzi photographers gathered outside the Opera House, I guess that someone famous must have been inside. I suppose I could have told them that I was part of the famous Ghostriders Cycling Group, but at that time I just wanted to get back to our bed and get some sleep.
The following morning we bade farewell to the house owner and squeezed the car back out of her driveway. Sweaty palms right from the start. Considering the challenging nature of driving in France I was just glad that we did not have to teach our teenage kids how to drive in this place. I don’t think that either us or the kids would have survived the strain.
Our first stop was at the unusual hilltop town of Roussillon. Unlike the myriad of medieval villages scattered all over France, this town stands out because it looks more Mexican or Spanish than French. All the buildings are rendered with a pink coloured ochre that is apparently obtained nearby. We had a delightful hour or so there before the busloads of tourists started arriving. Before we left I was able to observe the antics of the most self absorbed selfie taker I have ever seen. Armed with her large iPHONE and huge selfie stick she worked her way from building to building, carefully posing and photographing herself in front of every one of them. She would take a few steps, throw her head back, smile at the selfie stick and “click”, another one captured. All the time she never took her eyes from the screen ! I knew that it was time for us to leave.
We then had a sizable drive to Cassis on the Mediterranean coast. This is a beautiful town that we had stayed in back in 2013 and we were keen to see it again. The remaining drive was mostly on toll ways and should have been easy. It wasn’t. Each time you pass onto a tollway you must collect a ticket from the machine. When you leave the tollway you insert the ticket and it calculates the amount you have to pay. Since I was busy driving, each time I collected a toll ticket, I passed it straight to Maggie for safekeeping.
This system worked well until we stopped at a roadside rest station. When we got back into the car I asked Maggie if she had the ticket ready. She couldn’t find it. We searched our pockets, we searched the back seat of the car, we searched the glovebox. Just when we were about to give up, Maggie shouts “I see it”. It had fallen down between the seats. We then spent the next 10 minutes trying to reach it, before finally succeeding.
“That was a relief”, I said. “Without the ticket we would have had to pay a special penalty”. We drove to the final turnoff to Cassis and pulled in at the final pay station, retrieved ticket in hand. Just when Maggie was about to pass it to me she had an horrific realisation. “That isn’t the toll ticket, it is the parking ticket from Avignon”, she says.
At that stage I am stuck in the line of cars at the boom gate. OK, what do we do now ? I push the red emergency button. A French voice says something that I do not understand. “Do you speak English ?”, I ask. There is a long pause before the reply “Non”. I try to explain in my best Gibberish “Ticket lost”. I could have added that it was all due to my incompetent partner, but my three words of French would have made this difficult.
I think the operator must have taken pity on the elderly couple from Australia as we were only charged EUR1.4 and we were on our way again. The final few kilometres into Cassis involved some more white knuckle driving down a succession of narrow, hilly, one way streets but somehow we arrived at the correct accommodation. I let out a sigh of relief, turned off the ignition and was ready for a cup of coffee and a rest.
One of the things that Cassis is famous for is the huge sheer cliffs that drop over 400 vertical metres into the Mediterranean. The books say that these are the highest cliffs on the whole Mediterranean and they are certainly impressive. Looking at the cliffs from our window I made the mistake of asking the owner if there was any way to get to the top. He explained that there is a little road that winds its way to the very cliff face. It is called the “Route des Cretes” and it is one of the most spectacular clifftop drives anywhere in the world. Little wonder that access to this road is severely restricted.
Since we had nothing particular planned for the following day I suggested to Maggie that we could try driving the road in question. To my surprise she did not immediately veto the idea. I almost wished she had. We climbed into the car and battled our way out of town and up a tiny street with a gradient over 20%. The Nissan puffed and struggled its way up the hill. I struggled to keep my heart rate under 160. “This is not so bad”, I lied to Maggie. She wasn’t talking to me anymore.
Soon we were winding back and forth along the twisting road. Precipitous drops switched from my side of the car to Maggie’s side. And not an inch of ARMCO in sight. My speed dropped back to about 20 kph. I told Maggie that I was driving slowly for her, but in truth I was terrified. And then the rain started. I tried to turn on the windscreen wipers. Oops, that’s the indicators. I could not see where we were going, not sure if that was a good thing or bad. I have been on some hairy roads in my time. Certainly some of the roads in Nepal, Bhutan and Peru were probably more exposed, but I wasn’t driving then. I could just sit and put my life in someone else’s hands. For some reason it seemed worse when I was in charge of the vehicle.
We managed to stop at a couple of very high vantage points, but the torrential rain unfortunately meant that we could not see a thing. The road continues for about 14 km to the nearby town of La Ciotat. Although we were relieved to finally descend into the town, the torrential rain had sent rivers of water flowing down the steep streets and I was reluctant to stop in case we got swept away. Just a week earlier 20 people had been drowned in Cannes following a huge deluge of rain and I did not want to appear in the next day’s news.
We kept driving and returned to Cassis (this time along the Toll Road). We had another unfortunate incident at the toll station that I would rather not mention at this stage and we greatly relieved to arrive back at our room in one piece. It had been another “interesting” experience. Czytaj więcej
Cordes Sur Ciel
9 października 2015, Francja ⋅ 19 °C
The name Cordes-sur-Ciel literally means "Cordes in the Sky". When you arrive there, you will see why it is so called. The medieval village sits precariously on the top of a hill. When the air is still, the lowlands fill with clouds, giving the impression that the town is floating above them.
We had the privilege of spending three glorious days there. Czytaj więcej
In La Rochelle
7 października 2015, Francja ⋅ 🌧 16 °C
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