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 descending
  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 70

    Home Again

    November 2, 2015 in 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.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 68

    The Long Way Home

    October 31, 2015 in the Netherlands ⋅ ☀️ 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.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 67

    Our Nerves are Shot

    October 30, 2015 in the Netherlands ⋅ ☀️ 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.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 66

    The Two Wheeled Maelstrom

    October 29, 2015 in the Netherlands ⋅ ⛅ 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.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 65

    The City of Bikes

    October 28, 2015 in the Netherlands ⋅ ☁️ 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.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 64

    Our Final Baguettes

    October 27, 2015 in France ⋅ ⛅ 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.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 63

    Soaking Up the Sunshine

    October 26, 2015 in France ⋅ ☁️ 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.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 61

    The Return of the Sun

    October 24, 2015 in France ⋅ ⛅ 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.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 60

    My Luggage Gets Eaten

    October 23, 2015 in France ⋅ ☁️ 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.    Read more

  • The World on Two WheelsEuropean Renaissance Rides
    Day 59

    Ronald the Wrongfoot

    October 22, 2015 in France ⋅ ☁️ 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.    Read more

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