Reset search
European Renaissance RidesEuropean Renaissance Rides
SatelliteEdit route

European Renaissance Rides

August - November 2015
In 2015 I took 25 Ghostriders to cycle in Italy and France. The first part consisted of a ride from Venice to Florence. Then it was off to France to ride from Orleans to Le Croisic. The journal of this ride was recently rediscovered. Read more
  • 58footprints
  • 4countries
  • 69days
  • 404photos
  • 0videos
  • 37.5kkilometers
  • 32.6kkilometers
Follow Calendar Share Bucket list
Date ascending
  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 13

    Our First Casualty

    September 6, 2015 in Italy ⋅ ☀️ 22 °C

    One thing that soon becomes apparent on this type of ride is that it can be difficult to front up day after day for another long stretch in the saddle. I have found on all the previous such rides that, while the fitness of the group increases rapidly, it is also likely that some will develop miscellaneous aches and pains. Soon after we completed the long day into Camacchio, Irena explained that she was not feeling very well and would need the following day off the bike. Fortunately it was possible to arrange transport for both Irena and her bike so this did not constitute a huge problem. We are all hopeful that she will be able to resume her ride after a day to rest and recuperate. This also meant that our peloton would be reduced to only 5 riders for the longest day of the trip which would take us from Comacchio to the famous city of Ravenna. Along the way we would be riding through a wide variety of surroundings, from isolated wilderness areas to crowded beachside tourist meccas.It would also introduce our first off road sections.

    The early part of the ride followed the lagoon for many kilometres. This consisted of wide open spaces with absolutely no shade. Although we had been hoping for a considerably cooler day, the long awaited cool change seems to be perpetually delayed. Although there were some early wispy clouds, these soon burned off and most of the day was again ridden in full sunshine. Looking around at the stark and desolate surrounds and the ruins of old buildings, it certainly did not look like most people would imagine Italy to be. To me it seemed more like some place in Eastern Europe, such as Romania or Bulgaria.

    It was while we were riding on one particularly long flat section that Lionel (Alwyn, Mervin, Angus, Oscar ?) and I were riding side by side when we realised that we had not heard any chatter from the following riders for some time. We stopped to look around and found there was no sign of them. We pulled over and waited for 10 minutes and, when they still did not appear, we tried to call them on the phone. This was the first time we had no service so we had no alternative other to ride back to see what had happened to them. It turned out that Mary had suffered a puncture, no doubt due to the extended section of off road riding we had just completed. Fortunately John had repaired the puncture by the time we arrived, so our timing was absolutely perfect.

    In the meantime I had problems of my own. A couple of days earlier I had suffered an irritating case of ticking coming from my bike. Every rotation of the pedals resulted in a loud click noise. Fortunately Josef had arranged for a replacement bike and, for the next 24 hours, I was able to ride in silence. Unfortunately misfortune chose to pay me a return visit by gifting me with another clicking noise to replace the one that had been taken from me. For the rest of the day my riding was once again accompanied by the bottom bracket counterpoint. I had no choice other than to just accept it. In life there will always be some things you can change and others that you have to learn to accept. Rather than let it ruin my ride, I chose to regard it as something humerous instead. My faithful tick will now presumably travel with me all the way to Florence.

    After riding about 47 km we arrived at the seaside resort of Casalborsetti and settled into a wonderful restaurant situated right on the beach. After a couple of cappucinos (only 1.4 Euros each) and a lunch stop we were on our way again. In the next section we left the road and followed a forest path for several kilometres. It was a relief to be out of the sun and to enjoy the relative coolness of the forest.

    We then caught a ferry across to Marina di Ravenna which soon answered the question as to where all the people had been. Here was a place similar to Torquay or Lorne, with dozens of fancy restaurants, resorts and expensive cars everywhere. Obviously a lot of Italians are still enjoying their vacations on the beach.

    Finally our path turned inland and for the final 12 km we followed a wonderful bike path, all the way to the centre of Ravenna. This large city has a rich past, having served as the capital of the western Roman Empire and much later as the home to the famous Lord Byron. In fact our hotel is called the Hotel Centrale Byron, presumably because it is situated right in the very centre of the city. We certainly do not have to walk far to explore the place.

    After dark I left the hotel to wander around the Centrale. It was a warm Saturday evening in Ravenna and the streets and outdoor restaurants were bursting with happy people. A jazz trio was playing in the nearby Piazza and a crowd had gathered to listen. It would have been even better if they could have played well. Since I was feeling hungry after the long day I decided to try out an exotic local delicacy. It was absolutely delicious and I enjoyed every mouthful. Apparently it was called a “Doner Kebab” and it cost me 5 Euros.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 13

    Lazarus Makes a Comeback

    September 6, 2015 in Italy ⋅ ☀️ 22 °C

    Day 13 – In Which Lazarus Makes a Comeback

    Again it is amazing what a difference 24 hours (and a hack saw) makes. By day 11 Irena had started to struggle with the long days in the saddle, riding a bike that was a little too big for her. We had already lowered the seat to the lowest position that was possible with that seat post, but she still had to stretch from side to side to turn the pedals. We decided to take matters into our own hands and go looking for an hack saw to cut off a few centimetres. Not off Irena, but off her seat post.

    This modification seemed to make all the difference. After 24 hours off the bike and the lower seat she was ready for action once more and our peloton was restored to its full size again.

    Since this was a very quiet Sunday morning, we were able to ride out of Ravenna on deserted roads. The weather was also a few degrees cooler which gave a most welcome relief from the sustained heat of the last week. As we left the town we could not help but notice the contrast with the regions we had cycled through over the past couple of days. Gone were the wide open spaces and deserted houses. We were now in a much more developed region and the farms were generally much better maintained.

    It was interesting to see the huge size of some of these farmhouses, although many only seemed to have a few habitable rooms with the rest left to go to ruin. It was common to see sections of roof that had just collapsed into the inside of the house. Apparently the area must have been significantly more prosperous than it is now. When looking for the suitable word to describe these houses, the one that came to mind was “distressed”.Obviously anyone feeling the need to take on a project could certainly buy a suitable place here.

    At the 40 km mark we stopped for lunch at Faenza. This is a sprawling town with a large cobblestoned central piazza. There were only a few people out and about and we settled in a suitable eatery in the shade while we enjoyed a cup or two of cheap coffee and a sandwich.

    After lunch the road began to climb steadily and, for the first time, we started to encounter groups of serious cyclists. Some were riding singly and others were in groups of up to 8 riders. As we passed we gave them a wave and an “Aussie Aussie Aussie”. Obviously these cyclists are attracted to this region to strengthen their legs on the hills.

    After a final steep descent and corresponding climb we arrived at the delightful small town of Brisighella. The town is surrounded by mountains and we could see several imposing castles perched on the clifftops. The road into town is bordered by beautiful towering trees which gave the place a very welcoming feel. We were also interested to see the numerous signs warning of ice on the roads. Obviously this place must get cold in the winter months.

    Our home for the evening is the La Meridiana Hotel, a large but thankfully not too distressed building on the outskirts of town. It was also the first rooms we had that did not have either air conditioning or TVs. However the water was hot and the cool mountain air blowing in my open window gave the best night’s sleep I have had so far.

    Tomorrow we complete our Italy ride by riding into the famous city of Florence (Firenze).    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 14

    We reach Florence

    September 7, 2015 in Italy ⋅ ⛅ 26 °C

    Day 14 – In Which we Roar Into Florence

    It is always amazing how much a group improves after riding for several hours every day. Even the saddles that might have been unfamiliar on the first couple of days, don’t seem so bad any more. When this ride was starting there were a couple of riders who had never before tackled this type of adventure and it is not surprising that they had some initial anxiety about how they would cope. For Gonny, this was the first time she had done any serious riding since her spinal surgery and no one would blame her for feeling a little nervous about how well it would stand up under pressure.

    Now that five days of extended riding have been completed all riders are performing well, even in the sometimes unpleasantly hot conditions. Last night was spent in the beautiful country town of Brisighella. It was a treat to savour the cool mountain air blowing in our open bedroom windows. It was also a treat to be able to catch up on the backlog of washing and drying.

    This morning we had to get up early to make sure we were able to catch the train from the Brisighella Station. The train was due to depart at 8.30 am and, if we missed that on, the next one would not come for another 4 hours. Although the ride from the hotel to the station was quite short, it did involve a quite steep climb. It was a good way to prepare the legs for the extended brutal climbs that were to come later that day.

    Fortunately our team is well prepared and all were ready to leave even earlier than I had instructed. We made it to the station with plenty of time to spare and were soon seated in a very comfortable carriage speeding our way through the mountains. This was the most spectacular and beautiful countryside we had seen thus far and the train passed through numerous tunnels along the way.

    About an hour later we were deposited at our appointed starting point for the final day’s ride to Florence. It was still relatively early but the coolness of the early morning was wearing off and the blazing sun was again making its presence felt. By this time we were so sure of our navigation skills that we hardly had to refer to the instructions. About 4 km of uphill riding later we realised that we had completely missed the turnoff and had to backtrack almost back to the start. Take Two.

    We eventually found the right road and were soon into a routine of steady pedaling up the rolling inclines. The notes warned of a brutal section of 14% gradient and I can’t say that I was relishing the thought. No matter which way you say it, 14% is STEEP, really steep. Especially for those of us who are not friends of gravity, like me. On the other hand I was feeling quite well and some part of me was actually looking forward to the challenge. After all, if the entire ride was too easy, people would think they had been robbed.

    When I turned a bend and saw the road rising vertically straight into the stratosphere, I knew that we had reached the steep bit. I clicked down a few gears and attacked it with gusto. The front of the bike lifted and the speed dropped, but it was still climbing. So far so good I thought. At least I had survived the first 10 metres. The next 10 metres were a little tougher. The speed dropped a little more, my heart rate rose a lot more. Lungs started heaving. How do those Tour de France riders do this ? Probably has something to do with the fact that they only weigh about 50 kg.

    I started to tack back and forth across the road in a attempt to cleverly reduce the gradient. Two can play at this game I thought. That clever tactic bought me about another 7 metres of progress. Time to dig deep. Click down to the lowest gear. Bugger, I was already in it. No more gears left. Not much more strength left. The only thing I had left was the pride in wearing the coveted yellow jersey. I tried to imagine those scenes as the Tour heroes approach the summit of the Alpe d”Huez with hundreds of adoring fans running along cheering encouragement. I could almost hear their shouts, but I think it was the blood vessels in my ears about to burst.

    Come on Dennis, you can do this ! Unfortunately I discovered that I couldn’t. I had made it about 400 metres up the climb, but had to come to the decision that it was better to get off than to risk having a simultaneous heart attack, stroke, pulmonary embolism and heebie jeebies. When it was all said and done I was able to rationalise my decision with the knowledge that it was clearly faster to walk than ride. I took a few deep breaths, grabbed the handlebars in one hand and the seat in the other and starting pushing. A hundred metres or so in front of me I noticed that Lionel (Irving, Walter, Claude ?) had also dismounted. I suspect that we were all going through our private purgatories.

    Although it was tough, a little while later we had all made it to the top and were already making light of the challenge. The next few kilometres climbed further, but at a much more realistic gradient. We were even relieved to find a convenient coffee stop a couple of km before the top of the final climb. In some strange way I suspect that we were a little sad that the challenge was about to finish.

    After a coffee and an icecream we had little difficulty reaching the final summit. All we had was about 15 km of mostly downhill to take us home to our final destination of Florence. This was a time to enjoy ourselves. Sweeping around the bends on a beautiful smooth surface, Cycling heaven. Soon we got our first views of the famous city and the even more famous “Duomo”. Each bend took us closer until we entered the outskirts of the city and into the final maelstrom of traffic.

    About 20 minutes later we had finally reached the Hotel Grifone which marked the end of the ride. We locked the bikes for the final time, hugged and congratulated each other. Our first Italy ride had ended without a single accident. We had all got to know each other better and had accumulated a new storehouse of memories to recount in the years ahead. In a few days 5 of us will be regrouping in France to begin our 2015 France rides.

    After dropping the bikes, I transferred to the Hotel Bigallo, which will be my home for the next 3 nights. I knew that it was close to the famous Duomo, but I did not appreciate just how close it was. The hotel is literally only a few metres from the towering church. I also discovered that it was the first hotel that I have had in Italy that charged for its Internet. In spite of the 10 Euro charge I never could get the Internet to work there. I think there is definite irony in that.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 15

    A Fierce Battle

    September 8, 2015 in Italy ⋅ ☀️ 25 °C

    Day 15 – In Which I observe a Fierce Battle

    Two millennia ago the Roman Army was conquering Europe. The highly disciplined troops proudly marched into battle with their overlapping shields in one hand and their long spears held high in the other. Each group prominently displayed the colours of the century they belonged to and dutifully obeying the commands of their centurion.

    In modern times a far more fierce battle is waged in dozens of European cities every single day. While the ancient Roman armies are now long gone, today we have the legions of pole carrying tour guides, each representing another competing tour company. Following behind each leader is their troupe of highly obedient (and often exhausted) modern tourists. Each follower has their ipad and guide book clutched in one hand and, in the other, they proudly hold their smartphones high in the air on the end of a selfie stick. It is easy to tell which regiment to which each traveler belongs because they are all saddled with a massive name tag garlanded around their neck. Presumably this also aids in identification if any of the confused and exhausted tourists are lost in the battle and fail to return before nightfall and their bus departure.

    As each guide leads their followers into the conflict zone, the obedient troops all nod their heads in agreement with each new (but often doubtful) fact they are told, and all smile in unison at each carefully rehearsed joke.

    The tactics of this new type of warfare are indeed complex. Each guide has their own theory as to the very best time to attack a tourist hot spot. Some choose the early morning and others prefer the late afternoon when the weaker armies have already retreated in exhaustion.

    In ancient times the conquering heroes returned from battle loaded with the spoils of war – gold, silver and precious gems. While these rare spoils still exist for the very elite tourists, most must content themselves with a shopping bag full of cheap, Chinese made, T shirts, tacky plates and plastic souvenirs. Of course there is always the chance that they might return with the most highly sought after trophy of all – the perfect selfie, standing right in front of some famous work of art.

    While the ancient Romans took centuries to conquer Europe, the modern day traveler has no such luxury. At most they only have around 2 hours to capture each city before nightly retreating to the sanctuary of their tourist buses. They need to catch a few hours sleep because tomorrow they will repeat the same campaign all over again in another city, maybe hundreds of kilometres away. After all they have around 2 weeks to conquer the whole continent before they must return home and make plans for their next conquest.

    I spent most of today in the region of the famous DUOMO in the centre of Florence. I did revert to the role of the classic tourist just long enough to climb to the top of both the Dome and the nearby campanile. Battling my way up the narrow spiral staircases and trying to avoid being skewered on the end of someone’s selfie stick , I could not help but think that I can’t wait to get away from the jostling crowds and escape to the quiet backroads of France.

    I must also admit that I could not help myself being a little mischievous. After seeing the throng of huffing and puffing unfit travelers struggling to the top of the staircase, I took up a position near the top of the stairs and announced with the most authoritative voice I could muster “Nothing to see here, people, please turn back”. I think the devil made me do it.

    I have one more day in Florence before flying to Paris to meet the rest of our France Team. Bring it on.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 16

    A Huge Segway Smash

    September 9, 2015 in Italy ⋅ ☀️ 23 °C

    Day 16 – In Which Florence is Rocked by a Giant Segway Smashup

    During my short time in Florence I have learnt one thing. It really would be a nice city if it were not for the relentless crush of tourists (see my previous post). During daylight hours it is difficult to go anywhere interesting without being surrounded by selfie stick waving tourists, shouting guides and eager touts. The best time to explore the place is after nightfall when the masses have left and some semblance of sanity returns to the streets.

    Last night I set off at around 9.30 pm and had a delightful walk in the warm summer air. Although there were still quite a few people wandering about, most of them were locals who have presumably learned that this is the best way to cope during the height of the tourist season. In the larger Piazzas there were still a few African trinket sellers who were occupying themselves by launching small luminous whirlyjigs high into the air. With so many in the air at the same time, they looked a bit like multi coloured fire flies.

    I have calculated that, over the next 7 weeks, I will be staying in something like 35 different hotels. With so much packing and unpacking it is very hard not to lose an item or two along the way. So far on this trip I had prided myself on being very diligent and thoroughly checking the room every morning before leaving. This morning I realised that I had blotted my copybook but leaving my GPS adapter mounted on the handlebars of the bike when I returned it a couple of days ago. Although this was not a tragedy, it was a bit of a nuisance as I was planning to use the GPS for the entire France ride.

    I decided to ring Eurobike to see if the bikes had been collected from the hotel yet. As it turned out they would be there for another day. The only problem was that the hotel where the bikes were returned was quite a distance from the place where we are now staying. In fact the taxi fare was well over 20 Euro one way (around $35 AUD). The thought of spending around $70 to retrieve a $16 mounting bracket seemed a little ridiculous. In any case there was nothing I could do about it until the afternoon. This morning I already had made other plans.

    Following the great fun we had on Segways in Rome, John, Gonny and I had decided to book another Segway experience in Florence. We turned up at the Segway office and found that we would be joined by two others. Paul and Karen were a friendly couple from New Orleans, however they were not experienced Segway riders like us. We nodded sagely and offered them lots of useful advice, like “try not to fall off or you will hurt yourself”.

    Our guide for the morning was a diminutive Italian girl called Mia. She started by giving Paul and Karen an initial training session. Karen immediately got the hang of the thing and was soon happily cruising up and down the alley, spinning in circles and executing other complex maneuvers. Paul was also very keen. He climbed on board, violently shook the control stick back and forth, immediately sending his Segway out of control and crashing into a row of parked bikes. The Segway went one way, Paul went the other and Mia looked on in horror. I was also very upset that I had not had the episode recorded on my GoPro camera.

    Paul climbed back to his feet, apparently shaken but not shattered. He assured Mia that his cuts and bruises would soon heal and that the rips in his clothes were not anything to be concerned about. He climbed back on his recalcitrant Segway and our little peloton rolled out into the chaos of tourists. Once again we observed that walkers seem to get into some sort of trance when they walk and that no amount of bell ringing, shouts or abuse will make them move out of the way. On numerous occasions I nearly skittled whole families of blind and deaf wanderers. I took my example from the local bicycle riders who simply charge right through the crowds at maximum speed and don’t seem to have any concern for anyone who might get in their way.

    Just as we thought we were over the worst we came to a traffic light. We all pulled up to a stop. It was just at that moment that the ground parted and a huge automatic bollard sprang forth from the bowels of the earth. This would not normally have been much of a problem had it not chosen to emerge from its subterranean resting place right when Karen’s Segway was parked on top of it. Karen was caught unawares by this unfortunate turn of events and she was thrown violently to the side, narrowly avoiding being pinned underneath her machine. She had actually surpassed the severity of her partner’s previous accident and poor Mia again apologised for the booby trap that she had not warned us about. The Segway had of course kept going on its own agenda but it was eventually rounded up a short distance away. Karen rubbed her new assortment of soft tissue injuries and was relieved that no major bones were broken. These Segways are more exciting than most people realise.

    Fortunately we suffered no further incidents and 3 hours later the machines were safely parked outside the office where we had collected them. In spite of their injuries, Paul and Karen said they had actually had a lot of fun. And so had we.

    After a short rest back at my hotel I then set off on foot back to the Grifone Hotel and my lost GPS bracket. After all, it was only 4 km away and there was a principle at stake. About 45 minutes later I found the hotel, retrieved the bracket and started the long walk back. By the time I eventually made it back to my hotel I was a little hot and bothered, but at least my inventory was, once again, complete.

    Tomorrow morning we catch the plane to Paris to meet the rest of our France riders. And that will be another story.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 17

    Ghostly Zombies of Paris

    September 10, 2015 in France ⋅ ☀️ 23 °C

    Day 17 – In Which Paris is Invaded by Ghostly Zombies

    They say that all good things eventually must come to an end and, after over two weeks in Italy, it was time to say goodbye to Florence and make our way to France to begin the second stage of our 2015 adventure. Our small Italian peloton was about to be fragmented. For Irena her riding was now over as she was heading off to spend some time in Portugal. Lionel was heading off to Burgundy for some days before meeting us again in Orleans. Mary would be staying in Florence for one additional day before flying to Paris.That left John, Gonny and myself to catch a noon flight to Paris.

    We booked a taxi for the short ride to Florence International Airport. The driver seemed competent (by Italian standards) yet had no regard for staying in the same lane when driving on any road. I was sitting in the front seat and had to bite my tongue and clench my fists every time he veered without warning from one side of the road to the other. Even more surprising was the fact that not once did any of the cars behind toot their horns in complaint at his wayward tactics.

    Fortunately we arrived safely at the small, but very busy, Florence Airport and were soon checked in for our flight. We squeezed into the crowded departure lounge and waited for our Air France flight to board. I was very relieved when I found my allocated seat on the plane and discovered that the next two seats were empty. In fact about half the plane was empty. Hooray I thought. My exhilaration was premature however, as another couple of busloads of passengers jostled up the steps and occupied every seat. Even though it was a squashed and somewhat uncomfortable flight, at least it was only for about 90 minutes. European travelers really are spoilt when it comes to jetsetting from one country to another.

    We were soon disembarking at Charles de Gaulle airport and fortunately my luggage also caught the same flight as me. There were quite a few of our France team that were due to meet us at the aiport. These included Keith and Marg who were also coming from Italy and also David, Carol, Eugenie, Sally, Liz, Sharlie, Mary and Maggie who had all made the long journey from Melbourne.

    We knew that those who had made the long flight from Australia would not make a pleasant sight when they staggered into the arrivals area. I patiently waited for about 2 hours until the first passengers started stumbling out the exit doors. With their dark sunken eyes, pallid colour and unshaven faces and filthy clothes, they really did look quite frightening. The men were even worse. It really did look like a scene from one of those Zombie Apocalypse movies.

    When all were present and accounted for I directed them to the waiting 22 seater bus that I had booked to take us to our respective hotels. For several of those on board it was their first visit to Paris and I could not wait to see their excitement. Unfortunately their obvious excitement was somewhat tempered by the fact that they were in a semi coma following their long journeys.

    All the hotels are close together in the northern region of Paris known as Opera – Saint Georges. This gives us easy access to Montmartre and is only a short Metro trip from the centre of the city. After a meal at a local restaurant we all retreated to the sanctuary of our hotels and the happy prospect of a long night’s sleep.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 19

    A Group Stagger Around Paris

    September 12, 2015 in France ⋅ 🌧 18 °C

    Last time the Ghostriders conducted a ride in France, I offered to take a group of them on an extended walking tour of the city, just to help them get their bearings and appreciate some of the magic of this amazing place. When I offered to do the same thing this time, I had 12 people who turned up at the appointed meeting place.

    Although this was always to be a walking tour, several of the participants presented with various ailments right at the start. In fact, even before we started, John pulled out because he apparently has a bone in his foot and his wife Gonny pulled out because her knees are “wonky”. At the start of the walk Carol informed me that her feet were already sore after the 100 metre walk from the hotel and Sharlie informed me that she would not be able to walk on any uphills or downhills (and apparently was not much good on the flats either). I often compare the Ghostriders to the famous Dad’s Army, but this is getting ridiculous. I began to think I should have booked a set of wheelchairs for the group.

    In spite of my misgivings, we set off at a brisk pace of about 1 km per 24 hours and slowly made our way towards Pigalle. After we had crawled about 200 metres, I turned around and could not fathom how some were already 300 metres behind me. They must have been walking in the wrong direction. After much hand waving and shouting we were regrouped and staggered on about 100 metres or so. “My feet are aching” said Carol, “My knees are feeling a little queer too” added Sharlie. “Is it time for coffee yet ?” Maggie contributed. This was going to be a long, long day.

    After much encouragement, cajoling, threatening and after numerous “rest breaks” we finally made it up the hill to Sacre Coeur Cathedral, one of my favourite spots in all of Paris. Carol and Sharlie caught the funicular railway to the summit, while the rest ran the gamut of the African hustlers who always crowd the steps. “It must be time for coffee now” suggested Maggie. It was.

    We crowded into a delightful little flower covered coffee shop near the Place du Tertre and settled down to a heavy session of coffee drinking and people watching. When we counted the heads we discovered that we were one head less than a dozen. Sharlie had gone missing. She turned up after a few minutes and explained that she had been shopping for some cat pictures, as if that explained it all.

    As we started to head back to Pigalle to catch the train, Maggie found a lovely little Montmartre back street and said that we should go that way. It was delightful, but it meant that we were going in the wrong direction, necessitating a long walk back up the hill and past the cathedral again. More complaining from Carol and Sharlie. A few others joined the chorus as well with a steady counterpoint of “I am getting tired”, “Is it much further ?”, ” I saw a man with a baguette” and other nonsense. Maggie asked if it was too soon for another coffee.

    I finally herded the remaining 10 people onto the Metro (Keith and Marg had already lost patience and bolted). Carol’s feet were still hurting, although Sharlie had apparently found her second wind and had come good again.

    When we got off the train at Concorde there was the usual exclamations of wows as people stood on one of the most famous boulevards in the world. The women all headed straight to the nearest toilet. The clock kept ticking.

    We wandered down through the Tuileries Gardens towards the Louvre and I was amazed that the usual Gypsy pickpockets were nowhere to be seen. Maybe the police have finally succeeded in moving them away once for all. It was then along the right bank of the Seine and through the famous Ile de La Cite and the equally famous Ile St Louis. It was then time for a baguette and an ice cream. Carol had already caught a taxi back to the hotel. And dammit, even my feet were getting tired. It was getting close to 3 pm so I decided to cancel the remaining 10 km of the walk and announce that it was time to head back to the hotels.

    What followed was another lesson on survival in the underground maze that is the Paris Metro, but all made it safely home. Maggie and I bought some food from a mini mart and had our own picnic in the hotel courtyard. It really had been a fun day and, in spite of the teasing I give them all, I really do love travelling with these wonderful folk.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 20

    The Dead Centre of Paris

    September 13, 2015 in France ⋅ ⛅ 17 °C

    Day 19 – In Which we Visit Oscar Wilde, Marcel Marceau and a VERY BAD MAN

    Up until today we had not seen a drop of rain since we left Melbourne almost three weeks ago. In Italy the weather was hot and sunny virtually every day and we joked that we would love to see a few clouds and a little rain, even if just to settle the dust and lower the humidity. Our first two days in Paris have also been hot and sunny, however today the weather pendulum has finally swung to the other extreme and it has been drizzling or raining for most of the day. Like a spring garden, the city has bloomed with the opening of a million umbrellas. The Parisians are used to coping in the wet and never seem to be too bothered by something as trivial as a torrential downpour.

    This of course leads to another question – why do so few countries think to erect verandas over the fronts of their shops ? Certainly in Paris they are non existent. It really is essential to carry your own veranda in the form of an umbrella. Thankfully there was a $2 shop around the corner from our hotel and I am now the proud owner of a new 9 Euro folding black umbrella.

    When looking for something to do this morning we considered a few options before deciding to head to Paris’ largest cemetery – the Pere Lachaise Cemetery. This is a huge (110 acres) plot on a rise in the 20th Arrondissement. The oldest graves date back to 1804. If you want to see what happened to all those who died before that time you will need to venture far underground to the sprawling catacombs that hold the bones of literally millions of ex Parisians.

    David, Carol, Maggie and I caught the crowded Metro to the closest station (Phillipe Auguste) and wandered in through the large front entrance to the cemetery. It was soon apparent that many of the residents here must have belonged to the privileged classes, judging by the numbers of huge mausoleums that crowded every available space. We slowly made our way between these structures until we came to perhaps the most prominent mausoleum of all, situated right at the highest point. I pulled open the rusty gate and made my way to peer into the cavernous interior when I was interrupted by a voice from behind. At first I thought it might have been a guard abusing me for desecrating the building, but when I turned around I saw a rather scruffy looking character with shoulder length scraggly hair and the very minimum quota of teeth. In very poor English he told us that the resident was a past President of France and a “real bastard, a megalomaniac”. Apparently a nasty piece of work indeed, according to this expert at least.

    Carrying his tattered folder of newspaper cuttings our new acquaintance explained that he had been a guide at the cemetery for the past 28 years. Apparently, because we did not tell him to go away, this meant that we had now entered into a binding contract for his professional services. David and I looked at each other and held tightly to our wallets, fearing that we had been ambushed.

    In spite of our misgivings, the guy certainly knew his stuff. Over the next hour or more he walked us up and down, back and forth and revealed a whole insight into history that we would never have discovered. He explained that the famous residents were guaranteed a permanent tenure, but for the others they would be dug up in 100 years and anything still remaining would be “barbecued” and their plot used for a new resident.

    Among the famous graves he took us to were the final resting place of Marcel Marceau (died 2007), Ferdinand de Lesseps (Suez Canal builder) and Oscar Wilde. Another interesting grave was to commemorate the young journalist who was shot by Napoleon Bonaparte and whose grave is used as a pilgrim site for those wishing to fall pregnant. It was also easy to recognise the graves of prominent freemasons as they had HUGE pyramids built over them. One such freemason grave also had a vast underground chamber which acted as a great echo chamber when we yelled into it. I was also somewhat surprised to find the grave of James Morrison, adorned with dozens of gifts and mementos. It reminded me of the famous Evita Mausoleum in the Ricoletta Cemetery in Buenos Aires.

    We were also shown the final resting place of Fred Chopin, or at least part of him. Apparently his heart was removed and buried in his homeland Poland. The government of Poland still pays for the upkeep of his grave and for fresh flowers to be placed there every week. In fact it really did turn out to be a very informative experience, but we were now getting exhausted and could not figure out how to terminate his services. Every time we told him we had to go, he would reply with “one more thing, must see”. I was beginning to worry that we could end up spending the next 28 years of our own lives here, if we did not force the issue.

    After another half dozen or so of “one more things”, we were back near the entrance. Now we had the difficult part. We knew we would have to pay him something, but how much ? From the look of his lack of dental work it looked like he was doing it tough, but for all we knew he might have a Porsche parked out the back.

    Dave and I fumbled around in our pockets and produced about 25 Euro. Considering we had never asked him for the Grand Tour,we thought that was a reasonable donation. It obviously wasn’t. Our Worzel Gummidge lookalike took one look at our donation, rolled his eyes and let out a disgusted grunt. Our hands went back into our wallets looking for a few more notes. I suspected that the next payment on his Porsche was due.

    We finally handed over 40 Euro and he seemed happy enough. He should be, it was not bad money for 90 minutes work. On the other hand, it was another example of just what makes Paris so unique. He certainly put on a real show for us, his knowledge was unquestioned and it really had been fun. We went away thinking that it was worth it for the experience and it will certainly be an experience we will never forget. Another example of where the very best travel experiences are always unplanned.

    This evening quite a few of our team have decided to go to a concert at St Chapelle. That leaves me sitting alone in the hotel room, taking an opportunity to catch up on a few chores. Our plan for tomorrow is to go to the famous Palace of Versailles, but that may depend on what the weather is doing. At least I now have a good umbrella.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 21

    Disasters in Paris

    September 14, 2015 in France ⋅ ⛅ 17 °C

    Day 20 – In Which Dave Gets Propositioned, I get Bisected (and everyone else gets injured)

    This was always going to be a long day. Due to the vagaries of hotel bookings, it was not possible for Maggie and me to get 5 consecutive nights at the Trois Poussins Hotel. This meant that the final two nights of our stay would have to be at a nearby hotel with the unlikely name The Monterosa. For me, that name conjured up images of rugged cowboys running a huge cattle station, whereas in fact The Monterosa turned out to be just another typical 3 star hotel in this area.

    We packed our bags early in the morning and set out on a short walk to see where our new hotel was located. As it turned out, we were not the only ones out on an early morning walk. On our way back to our morning meeting point I noticed Sue Rainsford wandering blindly in the opposite direction. She seemed pleased and surprised to see us. “I am lost already” she explained. “Then just follow us” I replied. Sue had arrived in Paris just the previous evening and was obviously still having a little trouble navigating the maze of streets near Saint Georges. Sue’s arrival brought our total strength to 19 participants. The final two would be arriving the following day and the rest would be meeting us in Orleans.

    Although we had originally been intending to visit the Palace of Versailles, the dark gloomy skies and drizzling rain soon convinced us that an indoor activity would be more appropriate. About a dozen or so left, following Keith and Marg on their way to Versailles. I had given very clear directions so I knew that they could not possibly get lost. In fact they did.

    Maggie and I joined David and Carol on a visit to the famous Musee D’Orsay. This amazing building was erected as a railway station for the Universal Exhibition of 1900. By 1939 it was deemed to be no longer suitable as a station and had a variety of other uses before it was scheduled for demolition in 1970. Fortunately it was saved from this dreadful fate, and it now houses the largest collection of Impressionist and Post Impressionist Paintings in the world. Many consider this museum to be the finest museum in Paris and it certainly should be included in any visit to this city.

    When we arrived at the entrance, the main queues had not yet developed and we only had a short wait before we were able to enter. The cashier courteously explained that my Victorian Seniors’ Card would not get me a discount, but I figured it was worth a try. Although the art is certainly impressive, and the total value must be in the billions of Euros, for me the real work of art is the building itself. For anyone who has seen the movie “HUGO”, about the boy who lived inside the clocks in a huge railway station, you could swear that this is where it was filmed. Dominating high above the main auditorium are two huge clocks. You can stand inside the clock face and look out over the whole of Paris. In the distance you can clearly see Sacre Coeur Cathedral perched high on the Butte Montmartre. It would have been easy to stand here for a long time and just gaze out over this incredible city.

    Although the notorious selfie sticks are banned inside the museum, this does not deter the intrepid horde of selfie addicts who carefully plan their visit so that they can be photographed in front of virtually every piece of art in the place. It made me tired (and also a little bilious) just watching the effort and planning this entailed. On the other hand it was easy to see that real art lovers left their cameras at home and just used their eyes instead. Some would stand for extended periods in front of just one painting or statue, carefully examining every detail and trying to get inside the mind of the artist.

    By midday Maggie was begging for a coffee and a sit down (in that order). We left the museum and noted that the queues had now grown to biblical proportions, stretching halfway to the Eiffel Tower. Another reminder to always arrive early. We looked for a suitable cafe for a coffee and some lunch and found a large likely looking place nearby. We settled down and soon found that the waiter seemed especially attentive to Dave. After a while I was half expecting him to bring Dave chocolates and flowers.

    This reached an even higher level of infatuation when the waiter arrived with our meals. He explained that he would “serve ze ladies first”, first Carol, then Maggie and then his favourite Davide. Apparently I rated as the only man at the table. By this time David was blushing redder than a bride on her wedding night and he seemed anxious to make a getaway. We managed to pay the bill and escape, just as the waiter was off to get a piece of paper to record Dave’s phone number. It had been a close call, even though David had repeatedly tried to explain that he was already married.

    In every group there are some feats of endurance that are worthy of special mention and this group contains such a couple. Ever since they had arrived in Paris, Keith and Marg had engaged in a frenetic round of continuous tour hopping. Obviously every minute of every day had been planned months ahead in an attempt to get their names in the Guinness Book of Records for the most Paris tours in any 4 day period. Their stamina is obviously legendary. I knew that such a grueling pace would kill most people our age. It was even more amazing that each successive tour was ever further away from Paris. They had already done every possible tour, hop on hop off bus, cabaret show, etc in the city itself and then started venturing to more distant locations such as Giverny and Mont St Michel. Apparently they are now seeing if they can fit in a tour of Melbourne’s MCG on Tuesday.

    The rest of the team have much more limited stamina and are rapidly reaching the end of their endurance. I did suggest that there was one activity that rewarded the participant with a unique view of this city and somehow managed to convince about a dozen takers that it would be a good idea to take a night cruise along the Seine. I instructed that we should meet near the base of the Eiffel Tower around 7.30 pm.

    Maggie and I arrived early and took a long slow walk along the river from the Musee D’Orsay towards the Eiffel Tower. As I crossed the road I was nearly skittled by a driver roaring up the road in a brand new red Ferrari sports car. I could not be certain, but I think the offending driver was the same scruffy guy that had taken us on our cemetery tour a couple of days earlier. C’est la vie , I guess.

    Near the base of the tower we met up with Eugenie, Sally and Liz. Maggie was starting to rebel at this point and gave me an ultimatum. “I am not walking any further until you bring me coffee and dinner”. She pouted her bottom lip and went and sat on a bench seat under a big tree. I have learnt that, when she is such a mood, I have no alternative other than simply obey.

    I walked around looking for something that might appeal to her appetite. I was soon mesmerised by a crepe maker and found myself ordering two crepes, stuffed with strawberries, bananas, chocolate and cream. It seemed like a good idea at the time and I didn’t even faint when the operator asked for 27 Euros. When he handed across the steaming hot bundles I had to admit that they did look good. The trouble was that I had two cups of coffee and two crepes and I was exactly two arms short of the optimum quota.

    Clutching the scolding crepes and balancing coffees, I staggered back through the crowds and tried to find where I had left Maggie. Along the way I started to wonder why people were looking at me and smiling. I guess they all wished they had bought a crepe as well, I thought. After a couple more minutes, my hands were burning and I tried to get a better grip on my goodies. It was only when I looked down that I could see why I was single handedly sending the multitudes into paroxysms of mirth. The bottoms of both crepes had burst, sending cascades of brown molten Nutella all down the front of my shirt and trousers. I was literally covered in the stuff right down to my shoes. Now I knew what the village idiot must feel like. I was NOT happy.

    Eventually I found Maggie relaxing under her tree and I thrust the now collapsed and saggy crepe into her hand. “You had BETTER enjoy this”, I yelled. She took a few bites and allowed the rest of the delicious contents to slip through her fingers and splatter to the ground in an unsightly pile of pink and yellow. At least the birds would get a feast.

    In the meantime I was engaged in a futile attempt to remove even a little of the cream and Nutella from my clothes. I really hoped that night would come early to hide my shame. It didn’t, in fact I think there was an unexpected hour of daylight that day for some obscure astronomical reason.

    Later in the afternoon we were met by a large group of Ghostriders and we set sail on our Seine River Cruise. Although I had already done this cruise several times before, I always find it a beautiful way to experience the famous City of Light. All of Paris’ most beautiful buildings are illuminated and the whole place looks like a scene from a fairy tale. On the top deck of the boat it was getting pretty cold and even the heat from the red hot Nutella was no longer sufficient to keep my legs warm.

    After the cruise Sally was the only one with a map and she took over leadership of the group to get us home to our hotels. I should have already known that women have no concept of what maps are, and I suspect she was holding it upside down as she led us like the famous Pied Piper in the opposite direction to what common sense was pointing.

    After 30 minutes of blind wandering we found a Metro Station and began an eventful journey back to Montmartre. “Hurry Up” I called to the stragglers when I saw a train waiting at the platform. I jumped on board and tried to hold the door open. In the process I made an important discovery about Metro trains – you cannot hold the doors open. They simply snap shut like a metal press, no matter what is in the way. I was fortunate not to lose the major part of my right arm, but somehow managed to fall into the carriage just in time to watch the rest of the group still standing on the platform.

    Fortunately Metro trains runs every few minutes and we were eventually all reunited. Maggie and I staggered into our room around 10.30 pm and made the decision that the following day would be a quiet day.

    I hope that our team have enjoyed their short stay in Paris and just maybe they might have fallen a little in love with the magic that permeates every street. Paris is so much more than museums and monuments, it is the infectious joie de vivre that Parisians incorporate into every aspect of their lives that makes me want to return over and over again. This was typified by the elderly trumpet player that we saw wandering the streets yesterday. He was not asking for money, he just wanted to play his trumpet and greet people that passed by him in the street, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

    UPDATE ON THE INJURY LIST
    John Rundell – evacuated to London for rest and recuperation leave – indefinite
    Maggie Dawson – Hand improving, but hip now hopeless (also a bit irritable) – 2 days
    Sharlie Cousland – Restricted to bed due to possible recurring bout of tiredness – 4 hours
    Dave Yates – Bad back and severe embarrassment – 2 weeks
    Myself – mental stress – indefinite
    Gonny Rundell – Wonky knees – indefinite
    Carol Yates – Dodgy Feet – 2 weeks
    Mary Jonas – Lost in action – indefinite
    All the other women – suffering from obvious bladder failure and acute incontinence – indefinite    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 22

    The Rich and Famous

    September 15, 2015 in France ⋅ ⛅ 18 °C

    Day 21 – In Which we HobNob with the Rich and Famous

    Every major city has its iconic luxury hotels and, in Paris, there is no hotel with a longer or more distinguished reputation than the impressive Le Meurice. Situated on the posh Rue de Rivoli, and facing into the beautiful Tuileries Gardens, Le Meurice has been a preferred hotel for the rich and famous for over 180 years. If you want to spot some well known celebrities, just take up a position over the road and wait. Most likely it won’t take long till some actor, banker or world leader comes out the front door.

    Although I considered selecting this hotel for our stay in Paris, I thought the 4300 Euro a night ( around $7000 AUD) charge might be a tad high. For that you get a standard room, but of course you have to pay extra for breakfast (around $100 a head per day), internet access, sheets and fresh towels. You also need to have your pockets stuffed with 50 Euro notes for the obligatory tips for everyone on the staff who even says “Bonjour” to you.

    Next door to Le Meurice is the almost equally iconic Angelina’s tea rooms. This place looks like something out of the Palace of Versailles with its ornate painted ceilings, chandeliers and expensive furniture. Of course, if you want a tea or coffee there, you can’t just walk in the door. Unless you are a class A celebrity there is always a long waiting list and a queue that means you must wait in line for hours, just to get a seat.

    Fortunately for the Ghostriders, that was not a problem. Apparently the proprietor had been eagerly following our adventures each day on the blog and, when we arrived at the front door, we were directed around the long queue and up to the exclusive upstairs section. The distinguished butler escorted us to their finest table and indicated that we should be seated. When we saw the prices on the menu, I could see why it was so important to be seated first. I was grateful that I was not wearing my Nutella stained shirt and pants from the previous day, as that probably would not have gone down very well.

    This whole episode had been Ross and Fran’s idea. Apparently they like to always visit this place, whenever they are in town. It was their influence with their favourite waiter that had got us the extra special service we received. There were eight of us sitting at the table, all looking a lot like the proverbial fish out of water. Most of my table etiquette had been learned at the local Macdonalds in Pakenham, so I was a little unsure how to act in such surroundings. Somehow the best we could manage was to regularly break into loud and hysterical fits of laughing every few minutes. I suspect that this is not the sort of place you are meant to laugh in, so it was little wonder that the waiter disappeared for a long time before reluctantly returning to take our orders.

    Looking at the price of a cup of hot chocolate, I was tempted to order a single glass for Maggie and me to share. I looked in my wallet and stared at the quickly diminishing euro notes. On the other hand I did not want to look like a cheapskate, so decided that we could cut back on dinner. “Garcon”, I called, “bring me a cup of your finest hot chocolate, and also a glass of tap water for my wife”. I looked at the pictures of the desert selections and decided to order a chocolate delicacy that looked a lot like Donald Trump’s toupe. That should just about do it.

    When the coffees and deserts arrived, I have to admit they were rather special, although I did somehow manage to spill my chocolate within the first few seconds. Fortunately it missed my trousers this time and just splashed all over the table cloth instead. More laughter. While I was drinking the chocolate and eating the hairpiece, Eugenie noticed that something was happening outside in the street.

    Soon we were all on our feet looking out the windows at the huge line of shiny black cars that were blocking the entire Rue de Rivoli. There were also at least 10 motorcycles with especially dressed police riders on each. Obviously someone important was about to come out of the hotel next door. I wondered if Bronwyn Bishop may have been in town. We all scrambled to muster enough euros to cover most of the exorbitant bill and then walked out the front door. I was trying to hide the brand new chocolate dribble on the front of my shirt as we walked past the same queue that was still patiently waiting for their seats. I felt like advising them to join the Ghostriders, but wanted to see what was happening next door.

    We apparently exited at just the right moment. A group of Africans all came out, all dressed in impressive caftans that would have even made Kamahl envious. While the footmen, doormen and security guards all competed to be the most subservient, the apparently powerful group of leaders quickly got into their vehicles and sped away. The impressive motorcade disappeared into the streets of Paris. Soon there was a massive explosion of horn tooting as the motorists that had been blocked for so long finally vented their pent up spleen.

    Later in the day I searched the Internet to try to find out which country the leader had been from, but discovered that, while he was important enough to warrant a stay at Le Meurice and his own motorcade, his visit was not significant enough to register on Google. I suspected that, since he was from Africa, he would probably been thrown out of power by the time he returned to his own country anyway. Just as well that they always have their secret Swiss bank accounts to fall back on in such hard times.

    Maggie and I spent the rest of the afternoon rearranging our sock collections and catching up on our laundry. It was a wonderful time of togetherness for us. On my way back to the hotel that night I was very careful not to stand on the dog turd that had been in the middle of the footpath for the past two days. I think I succeeded.

    We later learnt that Eugenie spent the afternoon at the local beauty parlor. Apparently she had been walking past when she saw an elegant looking French hairdresser making eyes at her from the inside. Her heart went a pit a pat and she found her feet taking her straight inside. Phillipe explained to her about the day’s special – “une haircut for ze price of two”. She could not let a bargain like that slip through her fingers, so spent the next hour feeling Phillipe’s fingers in her hair and his hot Gallic breath on the back of her neck. She came out with her hair looking like Madame Pompadour and her face the colour of beetroot. It had been worth the 200 Euros.

    Tomorrow morning all those in Group One will be leaving Paris for Orleans and the start of our real adventure. We can’t wait to get riding again.    Read more

  • 2024© FindPenguins
  • Home
  • About us
  • Blog
  • Group Tracking
  • Press
  • Terms
  • Privacy Policy & Cookies
  • Support
  • Legal notice
  • English