We didn't feel at all guilty when we loaded our bikes onto the train in Santiago: It was raining hard, and we got quite soaked enough on the ride over to the station. It was about four in the afternoon, and the forecast just promised more of the same.
The train took us to Vigo, a seaport on the Atlantic coast of Galicia, where we had planned to spend the night in the HI youth hostel. Of course, it was raining in Vigo as well when we arrived, but despite this fact, the streets were full of folk bustling around, or just going for a stroll, with their umbrellas. The weather didn't seem to phase them, which was just as well, because we later learned that this was the first rainfall in three months - very unusual for Galicia, with is probably the rainiest province in Spain. Encouraged by the local mood, we set off valiantly in search of the hostel, which the HI website promised to be less than 2 km from the station. It was in fact, a very wet three and a half, (pushing our brakeless bikes most of the way) and only found with the assistance of a couple of members of the local constabulary, who hadn't a clue that it even existed, although they were kind enough to give us their town map, and some encouraging directions to the address which I had fortunately noted down on the back of a now very soggy bank receipt. We had received shrugs and funny looks from every one else that we had asked directions from, so we should have smelled a rat right away. When we finally found the hostel, (disguised as a swimming pool), we were informed that we couldn't stay there, as we were not part of an organized youth group. A little discouraged, as we had never run into this barrier at HI hostels before, we decided to hoof it back to the station, and find a cheap hotel in the vicinity. Of course, we found a decent place well within our budget right across the street from the station, where we were able to dry ourselves out in time for our train the next morning. (moral of the story: If its pissing down with rain, don't scew about looking for a hostel, when there's a perfectly adequate hotel right in front of you!).
Roger set off to buy a phone card, and yours truly decided to go for a beer in the bar next to the hotel. I picked this one, because it was almost empty, and thus would probably not be full of cigarette smoke. It didnt take me long to realize that the only other two other patrons were a pair of motor cycle cops, in full uniform, riding boots and all, bellied up to the bar with their motor helmets on the chair beside them. They looked at me a little apprehensively (they were drinking beer, no doubt in contravention of regulations), but upon recognising me as a harmless tourist, turned their police radios down a notch, and ordered another round. Feeling safe in such august company, I too ordered another beer, and hoped that they would not be called out to undertake a high speed chase through the busy city streets outside. Apparently they were not, as they were still happily quaffing beer when I left about three quarters of an hour later.
Our train south to Porto was due to leave Vigo at 7:30 the next morning, so we showed up early to beat the rush - we were afraid that we wouldn't be allowed to put our bikes on if the train was full. It was a Portuguese run service, so we found it tucked away in a remote corner of the station, still being worked on by the cleaners, who helped us lift our bikes and trailers up into the luggage van (very low platform in this corner of the station). Well, we needn't have worried: when the train pulled out EXACTLY on time, (we have found the Portuguese rail service is fanatical about punctuality, quite the achievement in a nation with a deeply embedded "manana" culture), with half of the doors still open (no automatic doors on this old girl, and the cleaners hadn't bothered to close them all), we found that the only other soul on the train was the engineer; even the conductor didn't join the party until we reached the Portuguese border an hour later. The train filled up and emptied a couple of times, and eventually deposited us (punctually) on the platform in Porto. There we ran into a bit of a challenge: we found that the long distance trains do not accept unbagged bicycles, let alone touring bikes with trailers attached. The agent at the information counter cheerfully told us that this shouldn't be a problem, as we would be able to take a series of local trains to our destination in the Algarve. He provided us with a series of timetables that would guide us as far as Lisbon, and gravely informed us that he had no control over the train staff, who may not permit bikes on their trains. And as for trains beyond Lisbon....... well, he had "no information on operations in the South". Starting to get a little worried, we went back to the ticket counter and tried to buy a ticket; the ticket agent wasn't having any of it. He "couldn't be responsible" if the conductor wouldn't let us on the train. Eventually, he made a phone call, and then allowed us to buy a ticket for the first leg of what was to be a nine train odyssey. With our two euro (very short leg) tickets clutched tightly in our fists, we made our way to the indicated track, where the train pulled in (exactly on time) and deposited the conductor on the platform right in front of us. Thinking we were doomed, we fearfully asked if it might be possible to put our bikes on his train. Without hesitation, he beamed at us, helped us load them, shood other passengers out of the way, and after asking where we were from and where we were going, gravely punched our tickets and told us we were welcome on his train. Encouraged, we enoyed the first section, down the river Douro with great views of the city of Porto and the wine centre of Vila Nova de Gaia, to Aveiro, where we detrained, wondering how we would make out on the next "section", to the university town of Coimbra.
There was a train bound for Coimbra waiting on the adjacent track, so we asked the conductor if there was room for us; like the last conductor, he graciously showed us where to stow the bikes, and told us not to bother going to the ticket office, as he would be happy to sell us the tickets on the train. After this, we decided not to bother with the ticket office again, and sure enough, five trains, and five helpful and friendly conductors later, we reached Lisbon just as night was falling. So the lesson leaned here: if travelling on regional trains in Portugal, don't bother with the station staff, you will get all the assistance you need from the train staff.
In Lisbon we discovered that in order to reach the Algarve, we would have to take a ferry across the harbour, and then take a series of regional trains from there, so we mounted our bikes (it was flat, no brakes needed) and set off in search of some accommodation for the night. We pedalled in the direction of the ferry terminal, so as to be close by in the morning, and quickly found ourselves trapped in the warehouse district, with the river on the one side, and an impassable and incredibly busy motorway on the other. Obviously, there would be no hotels or pensions to be found here, so we struggled on, finally running out of bike navigable roadway, so we opted for an abandoned stretch of railway track, which offered a direct, if bumpy, avenue in our general direction. Eventually we made our way to a truck parking area, where we found a group of truckers gathered around a mobile bar/canteen, waiting for their trucks to be loaded, and passing the time by gulping down beer and brandy, no doubt to fortify their nerves for the busy motorway on the other side of the fence. The bartender confirmed our suspicions about the lack of accommodation, so we decided to stop and rest for a while. Roger, being a bit peckish, in his best Portuguese, ordered a plate of veggi croquettes to snack on. There must have been something lost in the translation, because five minutes later he was presented with a piping hot cheeseburger, complete with a mountain of fried onions. ....It was delicious.
We continued on, soon entering the famous Alfama district of Lisbon, where we stopped at a local police station, to ask directions to a place to stay, preferably with a secure spot for our bikes. This must have posed a dilemma, because after a lengthy debate between several police officers, we were directed to a Pensao down the road that might have such a facility. Then one of the coppers volunteered that we might be allowed to store our stuff in the police station. upon approval of the "Jefe". Accordingly, we were lead inside and presented to a very dapper police officer with a grand mustachio and about two jars worth of brylcream in his jet black hair. After another great debate, (in which we took no part) he graciously offered to allow us to leave our stuff OUTSIDE the police station, where they "couldn't be responsible for it". Clearly, this did not really meet our needs, as the Alfama is a distinctly seedy part of the city, and rife with petty thieves and pickpockets, so we thanked the Jefe for his trouble, and pushed on.
A few hundred metres further, and we found a pensao on the second floor of an ancient building, right across the square from the ferry terminal. (We didn't know this at the time, it was dark, but it was a very pleasant surprise in the morning!) Run by two matronly ladies, it was spotlessly clean, if a little run down. When asked about bicycle storage, the matron in charge told us to "just bring them up". Which Roger did, trailers and all. Luckily the staircase was fairly wide, and built of stone, so there were no scratches left on the walls. We hadnt a clue where we were supposed to put them, but it quickly became apparent: one room for the bikes, one room for the trailers, and one (larger) room for us. Fortunately, it was quite late, and not busy, so the ladies must have assumed there would be no more travellers to provide a roof for, so they only charged us for the one room!
We spent the next morning checking out a little bit of the city, as our earliest train connection to the Algarve was not until late afternoon. We took a ride on an ancient tram to the Campo Ourique. It was a pleasant ride, if a bit jerky, as the gal in the drivers seat was being taught how to operate the vehicle by a fellow standing behind her, and was obviously one of her first shots at it. She actually did very well, and got us to our destination without collision with any of the unsympathetic drivers in her path. We actually had to wait for one guy to finish his breakfast and move the car he had parked on the tramline in front of a cafe......
We had OUR breakfast at the ancient market, and then took a bendy bus back to Alfama through the centre of the city, where we loaded our bikes onto the ferry boat to Barreiro, across the river Tejo. From there, an uneventful train ride (again courtesy of very friendly train operators) to a sleepy commuter town by the the name of Pinhal Novo, where we had a three hour wait for the next leg of our trip.
Here we had an interesting interaction with a couple of canines. .....On the way to find some lunch we were lunged at by two apparently ferocious dogs... not having the ability to pedal away as we had in the past (by now I had a broken chain too!), I quickly placed the bike between self and the aggressive canines, bared my fearsome teeth and snarled back at them. Well. two tails went between four legs, and they made a hasty retreat. After lunch, we passed their "turf" again, to be met by two barking dogs, keeping their distance, with a slight wag to their tail. I snarled at them again, and they reacted with another hasty retreat. We went to the supermarket for some train snacks (mostly road pops and chips for me, fruit for Roger) and on the way back to the station, there was the fierce duo once again, lying on the sidewalk. This time, they didn't even get up, just wagged their tails vigorously and gave us doggy grins as we went by. Not having a tail to wag back, I just returned the gesture with MY best doggy grin....... (they didn't howl with laughter, so I guess we are now considered "locals" in Pinhal Novo.)
Our train to Loule in the Algarve finally pulled in, we again made peace with the train staff, and now here we are, taking a break in the Algarve sunshine, reading about snowstorms and cold weather back home. Roger has gone back to Lisbon (Sem bicicleta) to meet Justene at the airport, (his beau, joining us for our last two weeks in Iberia), and I will be back soon with another update when the moment is right, and time permits.
Ate Logo........
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
El Camino de Santiago
We arrived in Lourdes early on a beautiful Mountain afternoon, blue skies, snow capped peaks, and clean fresh air. Lourdes is an interesting place, very clearly economically motivated to the Catholic tourist. The gift shops are very similar in some way to the Banff experience, with one basic difference: Instead of mounties, they sell plastic Virgin Mary's, and instead of Japanese, most of the European languages are represented. One place, right across the road from one of the holiest of shrines in Christendom, was particularly klitzy, right down to the Latin chorus belting out from the streetside speakers to the background of pipe organ music. Roger was a little shocked, end even I (Banff hardened as I am) was reminded of the story of Jesus chucking the money changers out of the temple. (Jesus clearly has NOT visited Lourdes, whatever their claims to fame!) Even the beggars looked like Banffites (Beards, dreads, dogs and, of course, French!) Despite the attractiveness of the town itself, we did not linger the next day, shaking the dust from our feet as we climbed into the beautiful Pyrenean countryside. It took us two glorious days to reach St. Jean Pied de Port, at the foot of the pass leading to Roncevalles in Spain. We crossed over one pass with the most incredible views of our entire trip to date. It was a steep climb, with a rewarding 25 km descent on the other side, that brought us right into St. Jean. St. Jean is a delightful little town with a very interesting old character, bastion, churches an all. Absolutely touristy, but without the crassness of Lourdes. I guess you could call it "honest touristy"! We checked into the pilgrim hostel (from here on we were "officially" pilgrims), where we met some interesting folk, some of whom we were to cross paths with several times again over the next few days.
From St. Jean we set out the next day, heeding the advice of locals NOT to try and drag our bikes over the hiking trail which follows the route of Napoleon, instead taking the road route which follows the route of Charlemagne, another French invader who got his ass kicked out of Spain . (Ever read the "Song of Roland"? He was Charlies rearguard general, who was beaten up by the Moors at the battle of Roncevalles.) And of course, it took Lord Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, to kick Napoleon out of Spain, along with some help from the Portuguese. Wonder what the spanish were doing all that time......? Oh, of course, I forgot. Siesta!
Arriving at Roncevalles quite early in the afternoon, after a grueling climb over the pass, we headed onwards, now giving the actual Camino a try. The Camino is in itself a route that has been used by pilgrims for about a thousand years, and although quite smooth in some places, we found ourselves in a steep rocky descent not compatible with our heavily laden touring bikes. So after a couple of hours of grunt and despair, we gave up, made our way back to the road, and reached the Albergue at Zubiri just as night was falling. Night falls quickly here, so it does not do well to tarry...........
From Zubiri, we limped our way into Pamplona, and the nearest bike shop, where we had to stop and wait for it to open the next day. (It was Sunday, of course!). The damage caused by our foolish venture onto the Camino repaired, We set out late on Monday afternoon, using secondary roads that were blissfully traffic free, making it as far as Uterga, where we put up in the Albergue, and had an excellent "Menu del Peregrino" dinner. From Uterga we ventured on, sometimes electing for the Camino, in areas that were not too hilly, but often on the roadways. For the most part, the Camino shadows little used secondary roads, so we did not often have to compete with heavy traffic very often. Each day brought us closer to Santiago, some days over 100km, on the plains, and some only 50 or 60, in the mountains.
We stayed each night in pilgrim hostels (Albergues) that offer dormitory style accommodation for about five to ten Euros a night and avoiding Albergues with reputations for bed bugs or Montezuma inducing water. In Viana there was a sign on the door advising us to call the local police to open the hostel if there was no one there. This we did, and the coppers came and let us in. Interestingly enough, they did not LOCK us in, so they must have other accommodation for those who transgress the law.
The next morning, we were welcomed at the provincial boundary near Logrono by a wonderful Lady by the name of Felisia, who makes it her business to greet every pilgrim that passes (40,000 a year, give or take!), offer them coffee and cookies, and stamp their credencial. In Najera, we had to deal with a very officious little "hospitalero", who was something of a control freak: "take your boots off, leave them there, bikes must go in this spot, not that way, this way" etc. He even followed me into the washroom to make sure that I flushed, and used the toilet brush. However after a couple of hours he relented, and became helpful and friendly. In Irache we availed ourselves of the free wine fountain at the Bodega. Its just a tap like any other, except it dispenses wine, not water. We stopped for a picnic there, and ran into another Pilgrim by the name of Guillaume, from Gaspe, who we had crossed paths with twice before over the last few days. Guillaume had walked from Le Puy en Velay, and like us, was aiming for Portugal after he reaches Santiago.
The plains, or "Meseta" stretch from Burgos to Astorga, about 230 km, and took us three days to cross. Very reminiscent of Alberta´s prairies, with standing crops of corn awaiting harvest as sileage, harvested grain fields, coveys of Partridge, similar native grasses and scrubland. We crossed two ranges of mountains after Astorga, the first at Puerta Irago, where a simple iron cross El Cruz de Ferro) stands as a sentinel welcoming pilgims to the summit at 1505 m. A couple of miles further on, we encountered a gentleman by the name of "Tio Tomas" living by himself (if you don´t count the hundred or so cats that also came out to greet us) in the abandoned village of Manjarin. Clearly eccentric, and very hermitish, he runs a little refugio with a few old matresses on the dirt floor. Luckily for us, it was still early on a glorious sunny afternoon, but I am sure that his humble refuge has been a welcome port in the storm to many a pilgrim caught in a sudden mountain snowstorm. He informed us that the weather was "Mejor que en verrano" as he stamped our credentials. Upon espying that we had started in Roslin, he immediately became very excited, and gave us a long discourse on the history of the Templarios (An order of Knights well known to those who have studied history, or read the De Vinci Code). He then stamped our credencials again, this time with a "secret" templarian emblem, to which he added the latin words: "Non Nobis Domine". (I am not allowed to share the secret meaning of this, so you will just have to unravel this riddle yourselves!). He clearly was saddened to see us leave, but we did, pressing on down the narrow mountain road with a trail of kittens hopping, skipping and jumping along behind us. After an overnight in a rather austere, but freindly, albergue in Ponferrada (Complete with Templarian Castle, just as Tio Tomas had promised), we ascended the Puerto Do Cebreiro, spending our first night in Galicia in a little village perched at 1400 M by the name of O´Cebreiro.
The next morning we climbed on to another series of "Altos", followed by a long and sphincter puckering descent (by now, my brakes were all but useless!), to continue on one of the most challenging riding days we had yet had. This was probably because of the cumulative effects of riding without a break for over two weeks, but also because of the very rolling terrain - it was either UP, - or DOWN. we reached the rather bleak, but adequate Albergue at Gonzar, just as night was falling, and went to bed tired, but confident that we would reach Santiago the next day. This, alas was not to be! (Yours truly was too tired the next day, so we had to overnight 22 km short of our goal).
We arrived in Santiago de Compostela at about 10:30 on Friday morning, with 4350 km on the bicycle odometer. After drifting by the Cathedral we went for a celebratory beer and checked into a comfortable Hotel. After a relaxing afternoon, and some good food, we had a great nights sleep in a real bed. Roger took off on Saturday morning for the two day round trip to Cabo Finisterra, and I elected to remain in Santiago, rest, and catch up on this blog.
At this point, we have decided to take a pause from cycling. We do not have enough time left to give the next 600 km through Portugal the proper credit they deserve, and we are a little fearful of continuing on in the mountains with no brakes. (On the last downhill into Santiago, we both completely lost our brakes: Roger was able to ride out the hill, but my brakes had failed right at the top, so I ended up bailing into the rocks and brambles at the side of the road at about 45 kmh. Luckily, the Fuerza of Santiago was watching over me, as neither I nor my bike suffered any serious injury!). So this afternoon, we are going to load our bikes onto the train, and, with stops in Vigo, Coimbra, and maybe Fatima, head on down to the Algarve, where my brother Richard avers that there is a really top notch bike shop, that will hopefully put us to rights. And while the bikes are getting fixed, we can relax, and catch up on the Portuguese side of our Family life.
If you are wondering where the promised photographs are, well...... I can't figure out how to get them out of my camera and on to this blog. (Al Power - Doing anything next weekend?!)
We will update again when we reach the Algarve
From St. Jean we set out the next day, heeding the advice of locals NOT to try and drag our bikes over the hiking trail which follows the route of Napoleon, instead taking the road route which follows the route of Charlemagne, another French invader who got his ass kicked out of Spain . (Ever read the "Song of Roland"? He was Charlies rearguard general, who was beaten up by the Moors at the battle of Roncevalles.) And of course, it took Lord Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, to kick Napoleon out of Spain, along with some help from the Portuguese. Wonder what the spanish were doing all that time......? Oh, of course, I forgot. Siesta!
Arriving at Roncevalles quite early in the afternoon, after a grueling climb over the pass, we headed onwards, now giving the actual Camino a try. The Camino is in itself a route that has been used by pilgrims for about a thousand years, and although quite smooth in some places, we found ourselves in a steep rocky descent not compatible with our heavily laden touring bikes. So after a couple of hours of grunt and despair, we gave up, made our way back to the road, and reached the Albergue at Zubiri just as night was falling. Night falls quickly here, so it does not do well to tarry...........
From Zubiri, we limped our way into Pamplona, and the nearest bike shop, where we had to stop and wait for it to open the next day. (It was Sunday, of course!). The damage caused by our foolish venture onto the Camino repaired, We set out late on Monday afternoon, using secondary roads that were blissfully traffic free, making it as far as Uterga, where we put up in the Albergue, and had an excellent "Menu del Peregrino" dinner. From Uterga we ventured on, sometimes electing for the Camino, in areas that were not too hilly, but often on the roadways. For the most part, the Camino shadows little used secondary roads, so we did not often have to compete with heavy traffic very often. Each day brought us closer to Santiago, some days over 100km, on the plains, and some only 50 or 60, in the mountains.
We stayed each night in pilgrim hostels (Albergues) that offer dormitory style accommodation for about five to ten Euros a night and avoiding Albergues with reputations for bed bugs or Montezuma inducing water. In Viana there was a sign on the door advising us to call the local police to open the hostel if there was no one there. This we did, and the coppers came and let us in. Interestingly enough, they did not LOCK us in, so they must have other accommodation for those who transgress the law.
The next morning, we were welcomed at the provincial boundary near Logrono by a wonderful Lady by the name of Felisia, who makes it her business to greet every pilgrim that passes (40,000 a year, give or take!), offer them coffee and cookies, and stamp their credencial. In Najera, we had to deal with a very officious little "hospitalero", who was something of a control freak: "take your boots off, leave them there, bikes must go in this spot, not that way, this way" etc. He even followed me into the washroom to make sure that I flushed, and used the toilet brush. However after a couple of hours he relented, and became helpful and friendly. In Irache we availed ourselves of the free wine fountain at the Bodega. Its just a tap like any other, except it dispenses wine, not water. We stopped for a picnic there, and ran into another Pilgrim by the name of Guillaume, from Gaspe, who we had crossed paths with twice before over the last few days. Guillaume had walked from Le Puy en Velay, and like us, was aiming for Portugal after he reaches Santiago.
The plains, or "Meseta" stretch from Burgos to Astorga, about 230 km, and took us three days to cross. Very reminiscent of Alberta´s prairies, with standing crops of corn awaiting harvest as sileage, harvested grain fields, coveys of Partridge, similar native grasses and scrubland. We crossed two ranges of mountains after Astorga, the first at Puerta Irago, where a simple iron cross El Cruz de Ferro) stands as a sentinel welcoming pilgims to the summit at 1505 m. A couple of miles further on, we encountered a gentleman by the name of "Tio Tomas" living by himself (if you don´t count the hundred or so cats that also came out to greet us) in the abandoned village of Manjarin. Clearly eccentric, and very hermitish, he runs a little refugio with a few old matresses on the dirt floor. Luckily for us, it was still early on a glorious sunny afternoon, but I am sure that his humble refuge has been a welcome port in the storm to many a pilgrim caught in a sudden mountain snowstorm. He informed us that the weather was "Mejor que en verrano" as he stamped our credentials. Upon espying that we had started in Roslin, he immediately became very excited, and gave us a long discourse on the history of the Templarios (An order of Knights well known to those who have studied history, or read the De Vinci Code). He then stamped our credencials again, this time with a "secret" templarian emblem, to which he added the latin words: "Non Nobis Domine". (I am not allowed to share the secret meaning of this, so you will just have to unravel this riddle yourselves!). He clearly was saddened to see us leave, but we did, pressing on down the narrow mountain road with a trail of kittens hopping, skipping and jumping along behind us. After an overnight in a rather austere, but freindly, albergue in Ponferrada (Complete with Templarian Castle, just as Tio Tomas had promised), we ascended the Puerto Do Cebreiro, spending our first night in Galicia in a little village perched at 1400 M by the name of O´Cebreiro.
The next morning we climbed on to another series of "Altos", followed by a long and sphincter puckering descent (by now, my brakes were all but useless!), to continue on one of the most challenging riding days we had yet had. This was probably because of the cumulative effects of riding without a break for over two weeks, but also because of the very rolling terrain - it was either UP, - or DOWN. we reached the rather bleak, but adequate Albergue at Gonzar, just as night was falling, and went to bed tired, but confident that we would reach Santiago the next day. This, alas was not to be! (Yours truly was too tired the next day, so we had to overnight 22 km short of our goal).
We arrived in Santiago de Compostela at about 10:30 on Friday morning, with 4350 km on the bicycle odometer. After drifting by the Cathedral we went for a celebratory beer and checked into a comfortable Hotel. After a relaxing afternoon, and some good food, we had a great nights sleep in a real bed. Roger took off on Saturday morning for the two day round trip to Cabo Finisterra, and I elected to remain in Santiago, rest, and catch up on this blog.
At this point, we have decided to take a pause from cycling. We do not have enough time left to give the next 600 km through Portugal the proper credit they deserve, and we are a little fearful of continuing on in the mountains with no brakes. (On the last downhill into Santiago, we both completely lost our brakes: Roger was able to ride out the hill, but my brakes had failed right at the top, so I ended up bailing into the rocks and brambles at the side of the road at about 45 kmh. Luckily, the Fuerza of Santiago was watching over me, as neither I nor my bike suffered any serious injury!). So this afternoon, we are going to load our bikes onto the train, and, with stops in Vigo, Coimbra, and maybe Fatima, head on down to the Algarve, where my brother Richard avers that there is a really top notch bike shop, that will hopefully put us to rights. And while the bikes are getting fixed, we can relax, and catch up on the Portuguese side of our Family life.
If you are wondering where the promised photographs are, well...... I can't figure out how to get them out of my camera and on to this blog. (Al Power - Doing anything next weekend?!)
We will update again when we reach the Algarve
Sunday, November 18, 2007
High in the French Jura
It was raining cats and dogs, kangaroos, elephants, in fact the whole damn zoo when we left Dwingeloo. We decided to see how effective our rain gear was, so we carried on cycling for about 50 km, before deciding that the cold water running down our necks and into our boots was not, in fact, honest sweat. Thoroughly soaked, we found a railway station: Dutch railways do not have ticket offices in many stations, and this was one of them; neither would the ticket machine accept any of our plastic. So ignoring the signs that threatened that passengers without tickets would be tossed off the train into the nearest canal, (we didn't care - wet is wet), we climbed onto the next train without tickets. It was blissfully warm and dry, and the conductor, probably not wanting to get any of our rainwater onto his Gucci loafers, studiously ignored us.
At the end of the branch line, we were able to purchase some tickets to Maastricht (not all conductors wear Gucci), and thus, no longer potential canal pollutants, made our way to the sunnier and much drier conditions in the south of Holland.
The next day dawned somewhat sunny, if a little brisk, so we cycled on into Belgium; we noticed the border immediately, because the cycle path abruptly ended, forcing us onto the road (cars and all) for the first time in more than a week. Holland is definitely better equipped for the two wheeler population. However, it was not to be thus for very long: after a strenuous climb onto the plateau of the Ardennes, yours truly decided that he had earned himself a beer, and in spite of Rogers whining about smoke filled bars etc. etc., we entered a little hostelry, sort of a hunting lodge really, aptly decorated with deer and boar heads, and to Roger's delight, old men puffing on obnoxious cigars. Even the bar keep had a ciggy going on a bartop ashtray . Despite the smoke and difficulties with the local dialect, we struck up a conversation with the aforementioned bartender, who having noticed Rogers discomfort, wisely left his cigarette on the bar. It was a conversation well worth the investment, as he was able to point us towards a RAVEL. We didn't have a clue what he was talking about at first, but we quickly figured out that a ravel is an abandoned railway line, upgraded to take bicycle and pedestrian traffic.
The Ravel took us to a little village in the German speaking corner of Belgium by the name of Sankt Vith. We were befreinded by another cyclist along the way, who kindly showed us to the youth hostel, and also pointed out that the ravel network continued on into Germany, and south to Luxembourg.
Accordingly, having set our alarm to 6 am, I arose obediently to its chirp the next morning. Woke up Roger, showered, dressed, and went for breakfast. However, the breakfast room was firmly locked up. After the initial frustration of this inconvenience, it finally dawned on us that it was not yet dawn. In fact, it was 4:30 in the morning, our cell phone having mysteriously advanced itself by two hours overnight. Thoroughly embarrassed, we went back to bed, no doubt reawakening our room mate yet again!. At least I had already had a shower when we tried again at 8.00 (now an hour of daylight wasted).
After half an hour of cycling around the village trying to find the beginning of the next ravel,(bickering the whole time: Roger is soooooo grumpy in the mornings!......) we finally stumbled upon it, and sailed on a northern tailwind into Germany. The cycleway was smooth and hassle free, taking us south to Bittberg, a nasty brewery town (big brewery, way too much traffic) where we promptly got lost again. After another half hour of only just avoiding frequent death and dismemberment in the traffic, (and more bickering) we decided to find a bierstueb and ask directions. Incredibly, despite the presence of the vast brewery, with its factory and smoke stacks dominating the environment, we were unable to find one (open that is). By now, yours truly needed to get out of the traffic and chill out for a few minutes, so espying a fitness club with a juice bar, we enquired if one needed to be a member to enter. The receptionist had watched us park our bikes through the window, and probably figured that we really were not going to get on a treadmill, (or a stationary bicycle for that matter), so we were cheerfully made very welcome. We took a table, and looked at the "juice" list. Just about any kind of beer available! So that solved the mystery of how to get a beer in a German brewery town. I took great (and perverse) delight in ordering a beer that was NOT brewed in Bittberg!
Half an hour later, we took another stab at trying to find the cycleway out of town, and were instantly successful. Another ravel, it took us all the way to the Luxembourg border at Echternach.
From Echternach, we found cycle-ways down the river Sur to its confluence with the Moselle. It was a beautiful morning, with views of fall colours and hilltop castles peeking through the layers of morning mist. Still on cycle ways, a short jog down the Moselle took us to the river Saar, which provided us with another traffic free cycleway up river and well into into Lorraine (France). We met some very interesting characters along the way, including a wonderful gentleman by the name of M. Anders Jeannot. It being Sunday, we had had been having a hard time finding a place to have lunch. Every restaurant was either closed or "complet" (fully booked). After trying several villages over a 20 km stretch on the towpath, we stumbled into yet another restaurant, just as it started to rain, to be informed that they, too, were booked. Thoroughly disappointed, (as well as hungry and thirsty) we asked if we could at least have a glass of beer at the little bar in the front area of the restaurant (there, no doubt, for the purpose of accommodating those with reservations until their table is vacated by the previous diners). Grudgingly the hostess allowed that we could, and so we met M. Jeannot. Sixty-five ish, wearing a chefs coat and a mischievous smile, he welcomed us to the bar. It would appear that he was the owner of this family run establishment. He was exceedingly friendly, and quite talkative, and upon realising that we were not being offered a table in his establishment, immediately went to the kitchen and came back with two massive ham sandwiches that he had made himself. (For which he emphatically refused payment!) We were thoroughly entertained by his antics as we munched our way through our meal. In between preparing the occasional drink, he would surreptiously pour himself a glass of red wine and gulp it down when he thought no one was looking. On seeing that I had noticed, he gave me a long wink and laid a finger on the side of nose in the classic gallic submission for secrecy. Thus fortified, he carried on, trading insults with the waitresses and slapping their butts every time they came behind the bar. They didn't seem to mind, so we guessed that they must all be his grandchildren. M. Jeannot was also a learned authority on how to navigate the towpaths of the canal system, and gave us some very useful information and directions. When we again ventured out into the rain, we again had learned the lesson that it is very important to obtain local advice when deciding upon which route to take. M. Jeannots directions served us well. and we completed 125 km that day, with only the last 20 or so on the road. We spent the night in a trucker´s motel in Phalsbourg, the youth hostel being closed. (That Sunday thing again!) and carried on the next day down the Rhone/Rhine canal into Alsace.
We had arranged to meet with our good friend Charlotte at her Granny´s house in Romansviller, which is on the Alsace side of the Vosges. Charlotte was waiting for us, as arranged, and Granny made us very welcome in her house. A very interesting and gracious Lady, who shared with us a few of her war time experiences. We spent a couple of nights there, spending a day in Strasbourg, with Charlotte as our guide. A beautiful city, with an interesting culture and history. Feeling rested once again, we set off down the Route des Vins, again with Charlotte as our guide. We spent our day cycling through the vineyards of Alsace, passing through story book villages reminiscent of Hansel and Grethel, Little Red Riding Hood etc. (actually the Black Forest is only a short distance away, on the other side of the Rhine). Evening brought us to Mulhouse, where we were again made welcome, this time with the family of Charlotte´s aunt Clothilde. After a wonderful dinner and a good nights sleep, we spent the morning finding a bike shop, as Roger was having problems with his bike. We eventually found a Canondale dealer who was able to make a temporary repair, but the main problem (brakes) was not to be remedied for several more days, as the brake parts we needed are not commonly available. (Advice to everyone else: when bike touring through Europe, stock up with extra brake shoes before you start off, as we have had great difficulty finding these very important little pieces.)
Repair effected, we again set off, again following a canal, and then another cycleway, climbing steadily into Switzerland, where we spent the night at the "Hotel de la Gare" in Vendlincourt, Haute Jura. This hostely was recommended to us by a very elderly gentleman, who overheard us asking for directions in the pub at the border. In a quavering voice, he said: HHooootelll de laaaa gare.....Vend....lin......coooooourt! (Its one fifth the price of the hotels in Miecourt!)(Tranlsation, of course, he was speaking in his very distinct dialect!) Another reason to ask for local advice. The next two days were spent cycling through classic Swiss countryside, over quite high passes, through meadows and forests, listening to the tinkle of cowbells, and wondering which of the blonde girls was the real Heidi. Unfortunately, there are very few cycle routes in this part of Switzerland, so we spent quite some time on the road, dodging impatient and inconsiderate drivers. Despite assurances from the lads in the cycle shop in Mulhouse that the Swiss drivers were most courteous to cyclists, we found that not to be the case: in fact, so far, they have been the worst, even worse than the Spanish drivers. Nevertheless, we survived, and after a night spent at the Maison de Jeunesse in Chaux de Fonds, we recrossed the border into France in the department of Doubs, in Compte. Another long climb, and a couple of long and speedy descents (luckily Roger had found some brake parts in Switzerland) brought us to Pontarlier, where we found the youth hostel again closed. (Was it Sunday?). We spent the night in a budget hotel that had seen better years (probably about five hundred years ago). Seedy would be a word that comes to mind, and smoky too, as the cigarette smoke leaked through the floorboards from the bar below. Roger was NOT amused.
Another day cycling through the French Jura brought us to Syam, near Champagnole, and the home of Charlotte´s parents, who made us again welcome. We are indeed fortunate to have such great freinds, and we are very thankful for their very gracious hospitality. We hope to be able to return the hospitality some day in the near future.
This was the end of another section of our journey, as we had gotten quite a bit behind our schedule. We decided to take the train to Lourdes in the Pyrenees, unfortunately bypassing Le Puy en Velay, and the Massif Central, which will have to wait for now. A good reason to come back some day. So our Camino starts again in Lourdes, a town quite reminiscent of Banff, Spas and Gift Shops and all, nestled in the foothills of the front range of the Pyrenees.
More later.........................
At the end of the branch line, we were able to purchase some tickets to Maastricht (not all conductors wear Gucci), and thus, no longer potential canal pollutants, made our way to the sunnier and much drier conditions in the south of Holland.
The next day dawned somewhat sunny, if a little brisk, so we cycled on into Belgium; we noticed the border immediately, because the cycle path abruptly ended, forcing us onto the road (cars and all) for the first time in more than a week. Holland is definitely better equipped for the two wheeler population. However, it was not to be thus for very long: after a strenuous climb onto the plateau of the Ardennes, yours truly decided that he had earned himself a beer, and in spite of Rogers whining about smoke filled bars etc. etc., we entered a little hostelry, sort of a hunting lodge really, aptly decorated with deer and boar heads, and to Roger's delight, old men puffing on obnoxious cigars. Even the bar keep had a ciggy going on a bartop ashtray . Despite the smoke and difficulties with the local dialect, we struck up a conversation with the aforementioned bartender, who having noticed Rogers discomfort, wisely left his cigarette on the bar. It was a conversation well worth the investment, as he was able to point us towards a RAVEL. We didn't have a clue what he was talking about at first, but we quickly figured out that a ravel is an abandoned railway line, upgraded to take bicycle and pedestrian traffic.
The Ravel took us to a little village in the German speaking corner of Belgium by the name of Sankt Vith. We were befreinded by another cyclist along the way, who kindly showed us to the youth hostel, and also pointed out that the ravel network continued on into Germany, and south to Luxembourg.
Accordingly, having set our alarm to 6 am, I arose obediently to its chirp the next morning. Woke up Roger, showered, dressed, and went for breakfast. However, the breakfast room was firmly locked up. After the initial frustration of this inconvenience, it finally dawned on us that it was not yet dawn. In fact, it was 4:30 in the morning, our cell phone having mysteriously advanced itself by two hours overnight. Thoroughly embarrassed, we went back to bed, no doubt reawakening our room mate yet again!. At least I had already had a shower when we tried again at 8.00 (now an hour of daylight wasted).
After half an hour of cycling around the village trying to find the beginning of the next ravel,(bickering the whole time: Roger is soooooo grumpy in the mornings!......) we finally stumbled upon it, and sailed on a northern tailwind into Germany. The cycleway was smooth and hassle free, taking us south to Bittberg, a nasty brewery town (big brewery, way too much traffic) where we promptly got lost again. After another half hour of only just avoiding frequent death and dismemberment in the traffic, (and more bickering) we decided to find a bierstueb and ask directions. Incredibly, despite the presence of the vast brewery, with its factory and smoke stacks dominating the environment, we were unable to find one (open that is). By now, yours truly needed to get out of the traffic and chill out for a few minutes, so espying a fitness club with a juice bar, we enquired if one needed to be a member to enter. The receptionist had watched us park our bikes through the window, and probably figured that we really were not going to get on a treadmill, (or a stationary bicycle for that matter), so we were cheerfully made very welcome. We took a table, and looked at the "juice" list. Just about any kind of beer available! So that solved the mystery of how to get a beer in a German brewery town. I took great (and perverse) delight in ordering a beer that was NOT brewed in Bittberg!
Half an hour later, we took another stab at trying to find the cycleway out of town, and were instantly successful. Another ravel, it took us all the way to the Luxembourg border at Echternach.
From Echternach, we found cycle-ways down the river Sur to its confluence with the Moselle. It was a beautiful morning, with views of fall colours and hilltop castles peeking through the layers of morning mist. Still on cycle ways, a short jog down the Moselle took us to the river Saar, which provided us with another traffic free cycleway up river and well into into Lorraine (France). We met some very interesting characters along the way, including a wonderful gentleman by the name of M. Anders Jeannot. It being Sunday, we had had been having a hard time finding a place to have lunch. Every restaurant was either closed or "complet" (fully booked). After trying several villages over a 20 km stretch on the towpath, we stumbled into yet another restaurant, just as it started to rain, to be informed that they, too, were booked. Thoroughly disappointed, (as well as hungry and thirsty) we asked if we could at least have a glass of beer at the little bar in the front area of the restaurant (there, no doubt, for the purpose of accommodating those with reservations until their table is vacated by the previous diners). Grudgingly the hostess allowed that we could, and so we met M. Jeannot. Sixty-five ish, wearing a chefs coat and a mischievous smile, he welcomed us to the bar. It would appear that he was the owner of this family run establishment. He was exceedingly friendly, and quite talkative, and upon realising that we were not being offered a table in his establishment, immediately went to the kitchen and came back with two massive ham sandwiches that he had made himself. (For which he emphatically refused payment!) We were thoroughly entertained by his antics as we munched our way through our meal. In between preparing the occasional drink, he would surreptiously pour himself a glass of red wine and gulp it down when he thought no one was looking. On seeing that I had noticed, he gave me a long wink and laid a finger on the side of nose in the classic gallic submission for secrecy. Thus fortified, he carried on, trading insults with the waitresses and slapping their butts every time they came behind the bar. They didn't seem to mind, so we guessed that they must all be his grandchildren. M. Jeannot was also a learned authority on how to navigate the towpaths of the canal system, and gave us some very useful information and directions. When we again ventured out into the rain, we again had learned the lesson that it is very important to obtain local advice when deciding upon which route to take. M. Jeannots directions served us well. and we completed 125 km that day, with only the last 20 or so on the road. We spent the night in a trucker´s motel in Phalsbourg, the youth hostel being closed. (That Sunday thing again!) and carried on the next day down the Rhone/Rhine canal into Alsace.
We had arranged to meet with our good friend Charlotte at her Granny´s house in Romansviller, which is on the Alsace side of the Vosges. Charlotte was waiting for us, as arranged, and Granny made us very welcome in her house. A very interesting and gracious Lady, who shared with us a few of her war time experiences. We spent a couple of nights there, spending a day in Strasbourg, with Charlotte as our guide. A beautiful city, with an interesting culture and history. Feeling rested once again, we set off down the Route des Vins, again with Charlotte as our guide. We spent our day cycling through the vineyards of Alsace, passing through story book villages reminiscent of Hansel and Grethel, Little Red Riding Hood etc. (actually the Black Forest is only a short distance away, on the other side of the Rhine). Evening brought us to Mulhouse, where we were again made welcome, this time with the family of Charlotte´s aunt Clothilde. After a wonderful dinner and a good nights sleep, we spent the morning finding a bike shop, as Roger was having problems with his bike. We eventually found a Canondale dealer who was able to make a temporary repair, but the main problem (brakes) was not to be remedied for several more days, as the brake parts we needed are not commonly available. (Advice to everyone else: when bike touring through Europe, stock up with extra brake shoes before you start off, as we have had great difficulty finding these very important little pieces.)
Repair effected, we again set off, again following a canal, and then another cycleway, climbing steadily into Switzerland, where we spent the night at the "Hotel de la Gare" in Vendlincourt, Haute Jura. This hostely was recommended to us by a very elderly gentleman, who overheard us asking for directions in the pub at the border. In a quavering voice, he said: HHooootelll de laaaa gare.....Vend....lin......coooooourt! (Its one fifth the price of the hotels in Miecourt!)(Tranlsation, of course, he was speaking in his very distinct dialect!) Another reason to ask for local advice. The next two days were spent cycling through classic Swiss countryside, over quite high passes, through meadows and forests, listening to the tinkle of cowbells, and wondering which of the blonde girls was the real Heidi. Unfortunately, there are very few cycle routes in this part of Switzerland, so we spent quite some time on the road, dodging impatient and inconsiderate drivers. Despite assurances from the lads in the cycle shop in Mulhouse that the Swiss drivers were most courteous to cyclists, we found that not to be the case: in fact, so far, they have been the worst, even worse than the Spanish drivers. Nevertheless, we survived, and after a night spent at the Maison de Jeunesse in Chaux de Fonds, we recrossed the border into France in the department of Doubs, in Compte. Another long climb, and a couple of long and speedy descents (luckily Roger had found some brake parts in Switzerland) brought us to Pontarlier, where we found the youth hostel again closed. (Was it Sunday?). We spent the night in a budget hotel that had seen better years (probably about five hundred years ago). Seedy would be a word that comes to mind, and smoky too, as the cigarette smoke leaked through the floorboards from the bar below. Roger was NOT amused.
Another day cycling through the French Jura brought us to Syam, near Champagnole, and the home of Charlotte´s parents, who made us again welcome. We are indeed fortunate to have such great freinds, and we are very thankful for their very gracious hospitality. We hope to be able to return the hospitality some day in the near future.
This was the end of another section of our journey, as we had gotten quite a bit behind our schedule. We decided to take the train to Lourdes in the Pyrenees, unfortunately bypassing Le Puy en Velay, and the Massif Central, which will have to wait for now. A good reason to come back some day. So our Camino starts again in Lourdes, a town quite reminiscent of Banff, Spas and Gift Shops and all, nestled in the foothills of the front range of the Pyrenees.
More later.........................
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
North and South
North and South Again
It has been a while since have had a good opportunity to catch up on our journal; We are now in Dwingeloo, a charming little village in the Drenthe countryside (in Holland), and the home of Gert, (Ella’s older brother) Desiree, Liza and Charissa, along with their horses, dogs, cat and a group of very shy chickens that hide in their hen house, refusing to come out, in spite of my assurances that I have no intention of placing them on the menu. The horses are very friendly, although the colt gave Roger a good nip when he did not produce the required apple. The dogs, albeit trained to tear the postman (or any other intruder) into pieces, accepted us as friends immediately upon learning that we have access to their cookie container (which Roger does every time he goes near them.)
Dwingeloo is in the northern part of the Netherlands, and is the apex of our loop through Europe. From here we shall venture directly south, hopefully following the sunny weather that has been with us since we left Jersey.
Gert & Desi, have, as usual, been exemplarary hosts: We made a day trip to Amsterdam, including a boat tour of the canals and harbor. Suus and Frank came over from den Haag, and spent the day with us there; it was great fun spending the day with the family together, just like the old days, when Ella & I would come to visit, and we’d all go off to do something together.
Gert also took us on a bicycle tour of the Dwingevelder National Park, and also a visit to Giethorn – a village of old houses, serviced by canals and footpaths – no streets – followed by lunch in Blokzijl, an old harbor town, from the days of yore, when the Dutch East India Company plyed the oceans from ports in the Zuyder Zee. That was before the polders were built, and the access to the outside ocean cut off. The harbor is, of course, still used, but now by inland recreational sailors.
We left St Ouens (Jersey) on the morning of Friday Sepember 26, arising early for the bike ride into St Helier to catch the ferry to St. Malo. The ferry was due to depart at 0715, so we pushed ourselves along at full steam in order to complete the nine km distance in time. Arriving at precisely three minutes after seven, we presented ourselves at the ticket booth, credit card in hand. The ticket agent looked at me down his nose, and in his best Monty Python accent, informed us that the ticket office had been closed since seven. When I threatened to take my business to the competition (sailing an hour later) he back tracked a little, allowing that he would be able to sell us tickets for the evening boat. Thinking that I might be on camera as part of a British comedy skit, I wisely kept my temper, went next door to the other ferry company, and bought tickets for the eight fifteen ferry. We then retired to the café, that had a grand view of the forbidden ferry, loading those few who had arrived in time to purchase the hallowed pieces of pasteboard that granted them access on board. We were mopping up our egg yolks and baked bean gravy with the last piece of soggy toast (an English delicacy: always toasted the day before, and carefully aged to perfection overnight, preferably in a damp fridge) when the ferry captain decided that it was time to pull out, and make room for the competition’s boat, which of course by now had a full load of passengers waiting to board it.
Upon arrival in France, we breezed past the French douanes, muttering our greetings in rusty Quebec accents, no doubt reassuring the agent that it was a good thing that he had not chosen us for inspection. We the pedaled our way through the Brittany sunshine across the polder (complete with Dutch style wind mills) to Mont St Michel. The Mont is a volcanic plug that protrudes from the tidal coast on the boundary of Brittanny and Normandy. It is adorned with a medieval French town, and topped with a grand Abbey, complete with sandaled monks, many stone stairways for them to atone themselves by climbing every day, and the requisite souvenir shops and overpriced cafes. The Mont is surrounded by tidal sands, and connected to the mainland by a causeway, closed to cars (unless driven by one of the aforementioned monks) but open to bicycles. Signs cautioned us about wandering off onto the tidal flats, where unsuspecting tourists, if not consumed by quicksands, are cut off by the rapidly rising tides and quickly drowned. Of course, for a small fee, you can hire a “guide” to accompany you through these dangerous hazards, and with much waving of Flags (I gathered their way of announcing how many clients were missing) and much chatter over walkie talkies, circum-navigate the famous Mont at low tide. Because this feat required the removal of foot wear, and rolling up of trousers, we graciously declined. One does not want to be photographically recorded looking like the bucket and spade brigade on Brighton beach. We went to the pub instead, which was far safer, much cheaper, and definitely more fun.
From MSM we cycled over the cols of Normandy, and after an overnighter in a closed and deserted (and thus free) campground at Conde sur some river (the Noireau, je pense,) a stop at the onion festival at Trun, and brief visit to Camembert, we arrived in Vimoutiers, just in time to pitch the tent before it rained, quite heavily, all night. The next day we visited St Foy de Montgommery, the old family seat, where I showed Roger the château that would still be ours, if his forebear had not decided to go off and conquer England with Guillaume le Conquerant. We were not invited in for tea, or even a glass of Calvados, so I broke the chain on my bike, forcing us to return to Vimoutiers, where we had to wait for the bike shop to open (at two pm, because the French do NOT work on Monday mornings.) After Roger had purchased a chain tool, and effected the necessary repair to my bike, we cycled on to Orbec, a delightful little Norman town where the campground was also closed, but this time, unfortunately, also fenced and locked. We found accommodation in the only pension in the ville, very comfortable, and open on Monday because it is run by a Belgian couple. All the restaurants except the one next door to our pension were also closed up (the Monday thing again) so we marched past the tuxedoed maitre D’ in our wrinkled (and no doubt, Camembert ripe) road togs, and were fed an excellent meal. Roger was a little confounded by the array of cutlery, but after a little coaching, was able to discern between the butter and fish knives, and not to blow his nose in the linen napkin. The bill was surprisingly light on the wallet (Amex actually, because the banks had been closed. Monday.), so we didn’t have to go pearl diving in lieu of payment.
The next day, we continued northwards, crossed the Seine on the ferry at Duclair,and pedaled until darkness forced us off the road. We spent the night as guests (for a small fee, of course) at a dairy farm near Totes. We had not been able to find a campground, or any other accommodation, for that matter, but were very comfortable in the centuries old farmhouse, where they fed us supper in front of a cozy wood fire.
Arriving at Dieppe the next morning after a pleasant pedal down the river Scie, we shared a baguette, some saucisson and fromage by the harbor. I washed it down in good Gallic fashion with a half a bottle of red wine (Eu 1.50, at the local market , and quite drinkable) but had to pack the other half, as Roger did not want any. (But he does like the cider!) We then wobbled on up the coast road to the Royal town of Eu, where we overnighted in the youth hostel. The hostel was very big (located in the former kitchens and servants quarters of a large chateau) and very empty. I think we were the only guests.
The following day brought us to Abbeville, where we boarded the train for Arras, our next destination, about an hour by train, thus avoiding some of the industrial centres that were looming up on the map. From Arras, we cycled to Vimy, where we visited the Canadian Memorial. Very humbling, and highly recommended. The land the memorial rests on is actually Canadian soil, with the Maple Leaf flying proudly over the magnificent sculpted edifice, staffed by a cadre of real Canadians, looking very out of place in their ugly Parks Canada uniforms. (That was the first clue – no self respecting French person would be caught dead wearing such a terrible shade of green!) Sadly, they do NOT serve bloody caesars.
Hence across the Belgian Border to Ieper, another testament to the terrible price paid by the World during that awful conflict. We were lucky to arrive in time for the sounding of the last post, played by buglers of the local fire dept. at the Menin Gate every night at eight pm – every night……… since 1920 something. The night we attended, we were rewarded by the presence of an Australian Army contingent, complete with a couple of Generals, a colour guard to salute them, and a bugler and piper to keep them awake on parade. It was very moving, especially when they all marched off into the darkness. (except the generals, who had limos).Thankfully they spared us the singing of Waltzing Matilda, although I believe it would have been very appropriate under the circumstance. The piper and bugler performed flawlessly, as did the Fire Dept. contingent.
We camped outside the city walls by the moat, took it easy the next morning, and left around noon, pedaling across the flat fields of Flanders to Brugges, where we set up camp again for the night. Brugges is a very old city, well worthy of a couple of days visit, but we were lagging behind our schedule (such as it is), so we cycled around that evening, had a late dinner, and cycled on through a heavy morning fog over the border into the Netherlands, crossing the river Schelde by ferry from Breskens to Vlissingen. Although impressed by the provision of cycle paths in Belgium, Holland is definitely THE paradise for cyclists. Dedicated paved cycle ways, with excellent signage from just about anywhere to everywhere. Evening found us on an island in Zeeland, where we camped in an old apple orchard, now a “Mini Camping”. Small campground, very adequate, very quiet, and very safe. Sunday brought us to the Hague where we imposed ourselves upon Susan (Ella’s niece, Gerts daughter) and Frank. We enjoyed a fun couple of days as their guests, and went for dinner at Els’ place, (Susan’s mother), where Roger got into deep and enthusiastic discussion with Leen, Els’friend. Leen is a retired engineer, who spent about a third of his career in the US and another third in Germany. He speaks many languages, and is an authority on just about everything. Roger, having just finished reading “ A Short History of Just about Everything”, by was an easy mark.
From Den Haag, we charged across Noord Holland to Hoorn, an ancient seaport on the old Zuyder Zee (now Ijsellmeer), where we stayed as guests of old and very dear friends Lodewijk and Gretha.
From there, a ferry ride across the Ijsselmeer from Enkhuizen to Stavoren, followed by a five hour ride through the fields of Friesland, Overijsell and Drenthe to Dwingeloo.
Tomorrow, we venture south……………………….
A huge thanks again to all of our wonderful family and friends who have harboured us as guests and been so willing to show us around the countryside. Please come visit us anytime.
(Roger will miss the soesjes and mergpijpjes in holland, not to mention Gerts most unabashedly humourous comments to all manner of people, a true Snijders no doubt!)
It has been a while since have had a good opportunity to catch up on our journal; We are now in Dwingeloo, a charming little village in the Drenthe countryside (in Holland), and the home of Gert, (Ella’s older brother) Desiree, Liza and Charissa, along with their horses, dogs, cat and a group of very shy chickens that hide in their hen house, refusing to come out, in spite of my assurances that I have no intention of placing them on the menu. The horses are very friendly, although the colt gave Roger a good nip when he did not produce the required apple. The dogs, albeit trained to tear the postman (or any other intruder) into pieces, accepted us as friends immediately upon learning that we have access to their cookie container (which Roger does every time he goes near them.)
Dwingeloo is in the northern part of the Netherlands, and is the apex of our loop through Europe. From here we shall venture directly south, hopefully following the sunny weather that has been with us since we left Jersey.
Gert & Desi, have, as usual, been exemplarary hosts: We made a day trip to Amsterdam, including a boat tour of the canals and harbor. Suus and Frank came over from den Haag, and spent the day with us there; it was great fun spending the day with the family together, just like the old days, when Ella & I would come to visit, and we’d all go off to do something together.
Gert also took us on a bicycle tour of the Dwingevelder National Park, and also a visit to Giethorn – a village of old houses, serviced by canals and footpaths – no streets – followed by lunch in Blokzijl, an old harbor town, from the days of yore, when the Dutch East India Company plyed the oceans from ports in the Zuyder Zee. That was before the polders were built, and the access to the outside ocean cut off. The harbor is, of course, still used, but now by inland recreational sailors.
We left St Ouens (Jersey) on the morning of Friday Sepember 26, arising early for the bike ride into St Helier to catch the ferry to St. Malo. The ferry was due to depart at 0715, so we pushed ourselves along at full steam in order to complete the nine km distance in time. Arriving at precisely three minutes after seven, we presented ourselves at the ticket booth, credit card in hand. The ticket agent looked at me down his nose, and in his best Monty Python accent, informed us that the ticket office had been closed since seven. When I threatened to take my business to the competition (sailing an hour later) he back tracked a little, allowing that he would be able to sell us tickets for the evening boat. Thinking that I might be on camera as part of a British comedy skit, I wisely kept my temper, went next door to the other ferry company, and bought tickets for the eight fifteen ferry. We then retired to the café, that had a grand view of the forbidden ferry, loading those few who had arrived in time to purchase the hallowed pieces of pasteboard that granted them access on board. We were mopping up our egg yolks and baked bean gravy with the last piece of soggy toast (an English delicacy: always toasted the day before, and carefully aged to perfection overnight, preferably in a damp fridge) when the ferry captain decided that it was time to pull out, and make room for the competition’s boat, which of course by now had a full load of passengers waiting to board it.
Upon arrival in France, we breezed past the French douanes, muttering our greetings in rusty Quebec accents, no doubt reassuring the agent that it was a good thing that he had not chosen us for inspection. We the pedaled our way through the Brittany sunshine across the polder (complete with Dutch style wind mills) to Mont St Michel. The Mont is a volcanic plug that protrudes from the tidal coast on the boundary of Brittanny and Normandy. It is adorned with a medieval French town, and topped with a grand Abbey, complete with sandaled monks, many stone stairways for them to atone themselves by climbing every day, and the requisite souvenir shops and overpriced cafes. The Mont is surrounded by tidal sands, and connected to the mainland by a causeway, closed to cars (unless driven by one of the aforementioned monks) but open to bicycles. Signs cautioned us about wandering off onto the tidal flats, where unsuspecting tourists, if not consumed by quicksands, are cut off by the rapidly rising tides and quickly drowned. Of course, for a small fee, you can hire a “guide” to accompany you through these dangerous hazards, and with much waving of Flags (I gathered their way of announcing how many clients were missing) and much chatter over walkie talkies, circum-navigate the famous Mont at low tide. Because this feat required the removal of foot wear, and rolling up of trousers, we graciously declined. One does not want to be photographically recorded looking like the bucket and spade brigade on Brighton beach. We went to the pub instead, which was far safer, much cheaper, and definitely more fun.
From MSM we cycled over the cols of Normandy, and after an overnighter in a closed and deserted (and thus free) campground at Conde sur some river (the Noireau, je pense,) a stop at the onion festival at Trun, and brief visit to Camembert, we arrived in Vimoutiers, just in time to pitch the tent before it rained, quite heavily, all night. The next day we visited St Foy de Montgommery, the old family seat, where I showed Roger the château that would still be ours, if his forebear had not decided to go off and conquer England with Guillaume le Conquerant. We were not invited in for tea, or even a glass of Calvados, so I broke the chain on my bike, forcing us to return to Vimoutiers, where we had to wait for the bike shop to open (at two pm, because the French do NOT work on Monday mornings.) After Roger had purchased a chain tool, and effected the necessary repair to my bike, we cycled on to Orbec, a delightful little Norman town where the campground was also closed, but this time, unfortunately, also fenced and locked. We found accommodation in the only pension in the ville, very comfortable, and open on Monday because it is run by a Belgian couple. All the restaurants except the one next door to our pension were also closed up (the Monday thing again) so we marched past the tuxedoed maitre D’ in our wrinkled (and no doubt, Camembert ripe) road togs, and were fed an excellent meal. Roger was a little confounded by the array of cutlery, but after a little coaching, was able to discern between the butter and fish knives, and not to blow his nose in the linen napkin. The bill was surprisingly light on the wallet (Amex actually, because the banks had been closed. Monday.), so we didn’t have to go pearl diving in lieu of payment.
The next day, we continued northwards, crossed the Seine on the ferry at Duclair,and pedaled until darkness forced us off the road. We spent the night as guests (for a small fee, of course) at a dairy farm near Totes. We had not been able to find a campground, or any other accommodation, for that matter, but were very comfortable in the centuries old farmhouse, where they fed us supper in front of a cozy wood fire.
Arriving at Dieppe the next morning after a pleasant pedal down the river Scie, we shared a baguette, some saucisson and fromage by the harbor. I washed it down in good Gallic fashion with a half a bottle of red wine (Eu 1.50, at the local market , and quite drinkable) but had to pack the other half, as Roger did not want any. (But he does like the cider!) We then wobbled on up the coast road to the Royal town of Eu, where we overnighted in the youth hostel. The hostel was very big (located in the former kitchens and servants quarters of a large chateau) and very empty. I think we were the only guests.
The following day brought us to Abbeville, where we boarded the train for Arras, our next destination, about an hour by train, thus avoiding some of the industrial centres that were looming up on the map. From Arras, we cycled to Vimy, where we visited the Canadian Memorial. Very humbling, and highly recommended. The land the memorial rests on is actually Canadian soil, with the Maple Leaf flying proudly over the magnificent sculpted edifice, staffed by a cadre of real Canadians, looking very out of place in their ugly Parks Canada uniforms. (That was the first clue – no self respecting French person would be caught dead wearing such a terrible shade of green!) Sadly, they do NOT serve bloody caesars.
Hence across the Belgian Border to Ieper, another testament to the terrible price paid by the World during that awful conflict. We were lucky to arrive in time for the sounding of the last post, played by buglers of the local fire dept. at the Menin Gate every night at eight pm – every night……… since 1920 something. The night we attended, we were rewarded by the presence of an Australian Army contingent, complete with a couple of Generals, a colour guard to salute them, and a bugler and piper to keep them awake on parade. It was very moving, especially when they all marched off into the darkness. (except the generals, who had limos).Thankfully they spared us the singing of Waltzing Matilda, although I believe it would have been very appropriate under the circumstance. The piper and bugler performed flawlessly, as did the Fire Dept. contingent.
We camped outside the city walls by the moat, took it easy the next morning, and left around noon, pedaling across the flat fields of Flanders to Brugges, where we set up camp again for the night. Brugges is a very old city, well worthy of a couple of days visit, but we were lagging behind our schedule (such as it is), so we cycled around that evening, had a late dinner, and cycled on through a heavy morning fog over the border into the Netherlands, crossing the river Schelde by ferry from Breskens to Vlissingen. Although impressed by the provision of cycle paths in Belgium, Holland is definitely THE paradise for cyclists. Dedicated paved cycle ways, with excellent signage from just about anywhere to everywhere. Evening found us on an island in Zeeland, where we camped in an old apple orchard, now a “Mini Camping”. Small campground, very adequate, very quiet, and very safe. Sunday brought us to the Hague where we imposed ourselves upon Susan (Ella’s niece, Gerts daughter) and Frank. We enjoyed a fun couple of days as their guests, and went for dinner at Els’ place, (Susan’s mother), where Roger got into deep and enthusiastic discussion with Leen, Els’friend. Leen is a retired engineer, who spent about a third of his career in the US and another third in Germany. He speaks many languages, and is an authority on just about everything. Roger, having just finished reading “ A Short History of Just about Everything”, by was an easy mark.
From Den Haag, we charged across Noord Holland to Hoorn, an ancient seaport on the old Zuyder Zee (now Ijsellmeer), where we stayed as guests of old and very dear friends Lodewijk and Gretha.
From there, a ferry ride across the Ijsselmeer from Enkhuizen to Stavoren, followed by a five hour ride through the fields of Friesland, Overijsell and Drenthe to Dwingeloo.
Tomorrow, we venture south……………………….
A huge thanks again to all of our wonderful family and friends who have harboured us as guests and been so willing to show us around the countryside. Please come visit us anytime.
(Roger will miss the soesjes and mergpijpjes in holland, not to mention Gerts most unabashedly humourous comments to all manner of people, a true Snijders no doubt!)
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Epistle from Jersey
Oxford was a blast! Zoe & Al were amazing hosts, and we packed a bunch of adventures into our short stay: A tour of the old university town, including a classic punting side trip on the river Cherwell, (a tributary of the Isis, which is actually the Thames, don’t ask me, its just an Oxford thing) a climb up St. Mary’s Tower, where I took some photos, (already shared some at the end of the last blog), an excellent lunch (I had Steak & Kidney Pudding!) at an old pub accessed by a secret passage only known to the locals (and fortunately, Al too!), a visit to the natural history museum, a tour around a couple of University “quads” – actually very refined gardens with PERFECTLY rolled lawns, rose beds and academics lolling around having their afternoon tea .
We also strolled through the university botanical gardens, where they seem to have samples of just about EVERYTHING that grows in soil. On our second say, we went for a hike near Dorchester, an old Roman town, making a modest climb to a hilltop that offered a grand view of the Thames valley with the church spires of Oxford on the horizon. Thanks, Zoe & Al for a great visit, and your help with our previous blog posting and photos!
Dad and I left Oxford about 2 weeks ago, setting our course south, in the general direction of Bosham (pronounced Bozzum), Dad’s childhood home. After a couple days of cycling along the narrow by-ways, and staying in campgrounds, we came to Bosham, and had a poke around. Another picturesque village in a picturesque country, with some funny memories and apersonalized tour from Dad, the very best. He knows, to my surprise, more about boats that I would have thought, and was able to explain every little nuance of the harbour, apparently he was quite the little sailor as a kid.
From Bosham we cycled to the Isle of Wight, perhaps the most visually stunning as it was a super hot day, add to that the slow pace of things and the excellent stone architecture and we had a wow day, finally hitting a shower in the well kept hostel in Totland, and a most agreeable pint of English Cider.
Thence came the journey to Weymouth, through the new forest, which is actually an old forest. I’ve noticed the features can change so rapidly, from lush island to windy heath lands, and it was a blustery day, with much map consulting to find the safest roads, which we did. It started raining and we decided to stop in for a bit to eat, and the obligatory pinty. We came upon the “Green Lamb” in a little village called Corfe Mullen, and there partook of fine ales, ciders and a warm meal, which greatly improved the mood, as I am finding good food and ales often do. I must say that I would make a good Hobbit indeed!
Upon leaving the pub we headed south and made very good time to Wareham, where we embarked on a brief train ride to make it to Weymouth before dark, finding a most agreeable Farm on which to pitch a tent and rest our heads.
Trains have been a mostly hassle free affair for us and I am relieved, as I was a tad nervous at first. I am sorry we don’t have a system like it in Canada, and if anyone says we have Via rail, I say “Balderdash!”, it’s too expensive and doesn’t serve the smaller towns and cities. But I digress.
It was off to Hawkchurch, this time without the trailers, having left them at camp. Hawkchurch is where my Grandmother, Dad’s mum, is buried. We toiled all day, as it was very hilly, and finally came in the early afternoon to the village, and spent an hour searching for the gravesite, which we never found! Couldn’t find a trace of it. We suspect that it has been grown over, as it was a flat stone. We sailed back just in time for another pub dinner and hit the hay, it had been a 100kms of up and down and all around, but we had a great day, and as usual, I was impressed with Dad’s increasing level of fitness and vigour, hooray for Dad! (Roman roads, by the way, are as straight as you get over here, and a highly efficient means of getting around by bike as they are gently graded and often not busy. The better to move troops around, no doubt)
Morning saw us packing up for the impending trip to Jersey on the Condor Ferry Express, which is the fastest ferry I’ve ever been on, it fairly zooms along, and in no time at all we were docking at Jersey, bound for the parish of St. Ouen, home of my late aunt Sylvia and Uncle Robin, along with cousin Duncan. Finally, a little while to rest and get ready for phase 2 of the journey to the continent, and catch up on a long overdue moot with family from afar.
And so the dayz go on….
Dad and I find ourselves about to leave Jersey after a wonderful week and a bit stay with Uncle Robin and cousin Duncan. A beautiful, lush island, Jersey plays host to many species of lichen and plants and trees (Maples, Beeches, Ivies, thistles, gorse etc etc), and has a nice stretch of coastline, although it is a small island, only 45 miles square. Gorse, by the way, is about as unpleasant a plant as I’ve met, an evil cross between thistle and devil’s club, though it’s flowers have the singular quality of smelling like coconuts. I’ve cycled around Jersey twice, and it doesn’t take long, which makes me wonder about the amount of cars on this island, it seems everyone has one, and you often cannot exceed the speed of a bicycle anyways, so whatz the point??? Silly humans tsk tsk.
Anyhooo…Dad and I have been reeelaxing and taking the small but surprisingly busy island in bit by bit, hiking sections of the coast or cycling, yesterday we did a farm tour on an organic farm, which re-inspired me, the gentleman took us on a 2 hour tour, and he’s growing a lot!
The long beaches here play host to many surfers of all kinds and I find myself drawn to watching them from the beach, the kite surfers especially catch my eye, and I like how they whip along for hours at a stretch. The tides have their rhythm too and I find that this changes the feel of the place, and it’s something I want to understand more, because I’ve realized I really don’t understand the first thing about tides, except that they can be dangerous and exceedingly swift. (Which, by the way reminds me that the Bay of Fundy in NB, Canada, has the highest tide in the world, I think it’s something like 500 metres)
Having stayed for quite a long stretch has introduced some steadiness back into the days and it’s nice to wake up with a kitchen to maketh breakfast in and lunch and so on. Dad has, of course, been cooking up a veritable storm and I’ve been enjoying THAT very much, as the deep fried EVERYTHING here in Britain leaves something to be desired, though there are the odd resto’s and what not that do serve good hearty food, a lot of it is fried. So coming back, it’s good to have a place to cook. Not to mention the tasty pies and trifles he’s been making with the ample supply of blackberries that grow virtually everywhere here.
Robin and Duncan have been most gracious and I have been enjoying their company very much. Often we stay up until late talking and, for me, listening to stories of yore. Robin, being a meticulous saver of pictures (as well as a damn good photographer in his own right), has some real gems of Dad’s youth, as a baby and the like. I was amazed that they even existed and I must say it is odd to see a photo of Dad without that ubiquitous moustache of his. There’s a beaut of him with his mum and Uncle Robin, looking up playfully at his older brother. We’ll see if we can’t get them posted at some point. Connecting with Dad’s side of the family is really good, as it was always such a mystery to me, and now it’s finally coming together. I believe this truancy was mostly due to sheer lack of interest in writing letters and the like, but in their older, wiser years the family is finally getting their act together.
I have been absorbed in playing with the pencil crayon set that my aunt Corrie gave me before I left, to draw on blank postcards, it’s been a real blast. I can’t draw worth a damn, but I can make bubbles and dots and cool patterns. I’ve also been catching up on some long overdue reading, and would suggest to anyone and everyone that “man without a country” by Kurt Vonnegut is absolutely one of the best contemporary works I’ve read in a long time, not that I read a lot. So read it if you get the chance, it only takes an hour or so, but is worth every line, I am sad that he’s no longer around.
I’ll leave you with a joke of his, my love to all of you
Funniest joke in the world: “Last night I dreamed I was eating Flannel Cakes. When I woke up, the blanket was gone!” har har har
Peace
Roger ;) xoxox (as usual, for the ladees ONLY!)
Har Har says I (not).
Jersey has been indeed a wonderful sojourn. I should mention that I lived here for a few years in the 1960’s, just before I immigrated to Canada, so the visit has also been a trip down memory lane! Roger has given the subject good credit, so I won’t elaborate more, except to say that there are more photos, that will have to wait until we find a broadband connection. So far we have taken 1 GB of images, (most are rubbish, but some are OK), which will need editing before we can share them. Robin helped us copy our card onto a CD, so we can venture forth with an empty memory card and a fully charged battery.
Tomorrow we take the early ferry to St Malo, in Normandie, and on to the next stage of our journey. We shall leave the English language behind, and embrace la langue Francaise, jusqu’a notre arrive au Pays Bas. Et bien, ma chere famille, et mes cheres amies –Au revoir! - a la prochaine!.
We also strolled through the university botanical gardens, where they seem to have samples of just about EVERYTHING that grows in soil. On our second say, we went for a hike near Dorchester, an old Roman town, making a modest climb to a hilltop that offered a grand view of the Thames valley with the church spires of Oxford on the horizon. Thanks, Zoe & Al for a great visit, and your help with our previous blog posting and photos!
Dad and I left Oxford about 2 weeks ago, setting our course south, in the general direction of Bosham (pronounced Bozzum), Dad’s childhood home. After a couple days of cycling along the narrow by-ways, and staying in campgrounds, we came to Bosham, and had a poke around. Another picturesque village in a picturesque country, with some funny memories and apersonalized tour from Dad, the very best. He knows, to my surprise, more about boats that I would have thought, and was able to explain every little nuance of the harbour, apparently he was quite the little sailor as a kid.
From Bosham we cycled to the Isle of Wight, perhaps the most visually stunning as it was a super hot day, add to that the slow pace of things and the excellent stone architecture and we had a wow day, finally hitting a shower in the well kept hostel in Totland, and a most agreeable pint of English Cider.
Thence came the journey to Weymouth, through the new forest, which is actually an old forest. I’ve noticed the features can change so rapidly, from lush island to windy heath lands, and it was a blustery day, with much map consulting to find the safest roads, which we did. It started raining and we decided to stop in for a bit to eat, and the obligatory pinty. We came upon the “Green Lamb” in a little village called Corfe Mullen, and there partook of fine ales, ciders and a warm meal, which greatly improved the mood, as I am finding good food and ales often do. I must say that I would make a good Hobbit indeed!
Upon leaving the pub we headed south and made very good time to Wareham, where we embarked on a brief train ride to make it to Weymouth before dark, finding a most agreeable Farm on which to pitch a tent and rest our heads.
Trains have been a mostly hassle free affair for us and I am relieved, as I was a tad nervous at first. I am sorry we don’t have a system like it in Canada, and if anyone says we have Via rail, I say “Balderdash!”, it’s too expensive and doesn’t serve the smaller towns and cities. But I digress.
It was off to Hawkchurch, this time without the trailers, having left them at camp. Hawkchurch is where my Grandmother, Dad’s mum, is buried. We toiled all day, as it was very hilly, and finally came in the early afternoon to the village, and spent an hour searching for the gravesite, which we never found! Couldn’t find a trace of it. We suspect that it has been grown over, as it was a flat stone. We sailed back just in time for another pub dinner and hit the hay, it had been a 100kms of up and down and all around, but we had a great day, and as usual, I was impressed with Dad’s increasing level of fitness and vigour, hooray for Dad! (Roman roads, by the way, are as straight as you get over here, and a highly efficient means of getting around by bike as they are gently graded and often not busy. The better to move troops around, no doubt)
Morning saw us packing up for the impending trip to Jersey on the Condor Ferry Express, which is the fastest ferry I’ve ever been on, it fairly zooms along, and in no time at all we were docking at Jersey, bound for the parish of St. Ouen, home of my late aunt Sylvia and Uncle Robin, along with cousin Duncan. Finally, a little while to rest and get ready for phase 2 of the journey to the continent, and catch up on a long overdue moot with family from afar.
And so the dayz go on….
Dad and I find ourselves about to leave Jersey after a wonderful week and a bit stay with Uncle Robin and cousin Duncan. A beautiful, lush island, Jersey plays host to many species of lichen and plants and trees (Maples, Beeches, Ivies, thistles, gorse etc etc), and has a nice stretch of coastline, although it is a small island, only 45 miles square. Gorse, by the way, is about as unpleasant a plant as I’ve met, an evil cross between thistle and devil’s club, though it’s flowers have the singular quality of smelling like coconuts. I’ve cycled around Jersey twice, and it doesn’t take long, which makes me wonder about the amount of cars on this island, it seems everyone has one, and you often cannot exceed the speed of a bicycle anyways, so whatz the point??? Silly humans tsk tsk.
Anyhooo…Dad and I have been reeelaxing and taking the small but surprisingly busy island in bit by bit, hiking sections of the coast or cycling, yesterday we did a farm tour on an organic farm, which re-inspired me, the gentleman took us on a 2 hour tour, and he’s growing a lot!
The long beaches here play host to many surfers of all kinds and I find myself drawn to watching them from the beach, the kite surfers especially catch my eye, and I like how they whip along for hours at a stretch. The tides have their rhythm too and I find that this changes the feel of the place, and it’s something I want to understand more, because I’ve realized I really don’t understand the first thing about tides, except that they can be dangerous and exceedingly swift. (Which, by the way reminds me that the Bay of Fundy in NB, Canada, has the highest tide in the world, I think it’s something like 500 metres)
Having stayed for quite a long stretch has introduced some steadiness back into the days and it’s nice to wake up with a kitchen to maketh breakfast in and lunch and so on. Dad has, of course, been cooking up a veritable storm and I’ve been enjoying THAT very much, as the deep fried EVERYTHING here in Britain leaves something to be desired, though there are the odd resto’s and what not that do serve good hearty food, a lot of it is fried. So coming back, it’s good to have a place to cook. Not to mention the tasty pies and trifles he’s been making with the ample supply of blackberries that grow virtually everywhere here.
Robin and Duncan have been most gracious and I have been enjoying their company very much. Often we stay up until late talking and, for me, listening to stories of yore. Robin, being a meticulous saver of pictures (as well as a damn good photographer in his own right), has some real gems of Dad’s youth, as a baby and the like. I was amazed that they even existed and I must say it is odd to see a photo of Dad without that ubiquitous moustache of his. There’s a beaut of him with his mum and Uncle Robin, looking up playfully at his older brother. We’ll see if we can’t get them posted at some point. Connecting with Dad’s side of the family is really good, as it was always such a mystery to me, and now it’s finally coming together. I believe this truancy was mostly due to sheer lack of interest in writing letters and the like, but in their older, wiser years the family is finally getting their act together.
I have been absorbed in playing with the pencil crayon set that my aunt Corrie gave me before I left, to draw on blank postcards, it’s been a real blast. I can’t draw worth a damn, but I can make bubbles and dots and cool patterns. I’ve also been catching up on some long overdue reading, and would suggest to anyone and everyone that “man without a country” by Kurt Vonnegut is absolutely one of the best contemporary works I’ve read in a long time, not that I read a lot. So read it if you get the chance, it only takes an hour or so, but is worth every line, I am sad that he’s no longer around.
I’ll leave you with a joke of his, my love to all of you
Funniest joke in the world: “Last night I dreamed I was eating Flannel Cakes. When I woke up, the blanket was gone!” har har har
Peace
Roger ;) xoxox (as usual, for the ladees ONLY!)
Har Har says I (not).
Jersey has been indeed a wonderful sojourn. I should mention that I lived here for a few years in the 1960’s, just before I immigrated to Canada, so the visit has also been a trip down memory lane! Roger has given the subject good credit, so I won’t elaborate more, except to say that there are more photos, that will have to wait until we find a broadband connection. So far we have taken 1 GB of images, (most are rubbish, but some are OK), which will need editing before we can share them. Robin helped us copy our card onto a CD, so we can venture forth with an empty memory card and a fully charged battery.
Tomorrow we take the early ferry to St Malo, in Normandie, and on to the next stage of our journey. We shall leave the English language behind, and embrace la langue Francaise, jusqu’a notre arrive au Pays Bas. Et bien, ma chere famille, et mes cheres amies –Au revoir! - a la prochaine!.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Journey so far
Anavale
I was still a teenager when they retired those venerable airliners, so you do the math. At least airliners face mandatory retirement.
Fiona and Guy met us at the airport, and we piled our bikes, trailers and luggage into the back of their SUV. We stood back to admire our superlative packing achievement, finally realizing that there was no room for passengers. Passengers, of course, meaning Roger and Chris.
After a few minutes of trial and error, we managed to invent a couple of new Ashtanga poses, and perched ourselves on top of the luggage, with our heads sticking out of the open roof hatch. And so we went, merrily down the highways and byways of the Pentland Hills, rather like a giraffe transport from the circus, waving at the passers by as if we always travelled in that fashion. I think we had them fooled, because everybody just casually waved back.
Mushrooms at Dawick
Fiona and Guy have two horses still on their holding, but apart from the considerable work associated with feeding and doctoring hayburners, live contently in retirement. We were treated like Kings, fed like Gourmands, and provided with a wealth of local lore and knowledge, which gave us a great start to our trip.
Guy, being an engineer, is a natural mechanic, and was able to help us assemble our bikes and trailers, and troubleshoot some problems that we encountered. Roger wanted to pack him in the trailer and bring him with us, but he graciously declined.
We were also able to have a brief but good visit with Roger's cousin David, who lives at Annavale, but was off the day after we arrived to visit Brian and family in Canada. He is going to drop in and spend a few days with Phillip in Canmore.
Hopefully he will enjoy his visit, and come back again when we are all at home to welcome him. Towards the end of the week, David's sister Harriet drove up from Dumfries to spend the weekend, so we were able to enjoy a reunion with her as well.
Family at Annavale
Stone Scallop of St James
Highlands
Rear view
After a wonderful six days at the Oxley's, we were finally ready to embark on the tour. We cycled in a south easterly direction through the Lanarkshire hills into the Scottish Border country, spending our first night at Hawick (pronounced H'oik), about a 100km ride. We had actually intended to stay at a Hostel in a little village called Burnfoot, which was shown on the ordnance survey map that Guy had very kindly donated.
However, the map was some years out of date, as was the hostel, having closed its doors some years previously, according to the lady across the street tending to her rose garden. This, of course, was a bit disappointing for yours truly, having decided that 85 km was quite enough for the first day.The bike trailer seems to get heavier as the day goes on.
England
Craig and Betsy
Rachel
Then over the Pennines, (a real ball breaker, at least for yours truly, Roger thought it was a walk in the park) to the shores of Ullswater in the Lake district.
Ulswater
Ulswater
Kirkstone pass
Coming into Kendall
I wasn't the only victim either, as I heard a succession of muffled yelps and curses from the other guests from time to time through the night. Being Saturday night, we joined the venerated and ancient english tradition of queuing (lining up) at the local curry house for dinner, and actually had an excellent meal. So nicely spiced, that we got double enjoyment from it. (I could smell the curry in my sweat the next day, along with the other usual morning after sensation that a good curry brings!).
Walking back to the hostel after dinner, we were entertained by the many troupes of young ladies, plastered with make up and beer, adorned in the miniest of mini skirts, valiantly negotiating the cobblestones in their high heels and handbags, as they trolled the streets for young gentlemen. The lads, of course, were all sensibly avoiding the fuss by ensconcing themselves in the pubs, watching soccer and swearing noisily at each other over the tops of their pint glasses.
The hostel provided an excellent Sunday breakfast, after which we loaded up our steeds and headed off for the Yorkshire dales. The roads at first were blissfully quiet, as the local population was sleeping off the effects of Saturday night soccer.
Except for the older folks of course, but this is a country where people still walk to church. I suspect more because the country churches have cemeteries instead of parking areas, and the local constabulary strictly enforces the drinking/driving laws.
(Church here is always followed by a visit to the adjacent pub. The English are, of course very civilized.) We made good time, and managed to reach the quiet country lanes of the Dent Dale before the motor cycle clubs hit the main roads for their Sunday Run. We passed a number of these processions, lined up getting tea from the roadside canteen - some with their souped up crotch rockets, and notably one group of about 150 bikers, average age 60 to 70, all riding vintage machines such as BSA, Triumph and Nortons.
Viaduct, Dentdale
We even encountered a large group of Mini Cooper enthusiasts, who all zoomed by us, one after the other, rather like a bunch of Shriners in the Canada Day parade. The day started to turn a bit grim and cold, with rain in the air, and a wind that was becoming 'a bit thin' to use the local Yorkshire parlance.
So we were not disappointed to reach Settle, at the southern end of the Dales, and board the weekly train (yes, that's weekly, as in once a week, every Sunday. In fact the last train of the year, as it is a seasonal service) to Preston.
The train arrived a bit late, so we missed our connection to Oxford, and had to spend the night in the station waiting room, huddled under the security cameras to avoid becoming a target for some drunken chav. (English vernacular for a brotherhood of gentlemen with a pugilistic nature and a very discerning attitude towards people of a different cultural background).
We therefore had no trouble making the morning train to Oxford, and arrived to find the fine weather had leaped ahead of us. Having spent a pleasant day cycling around the ancient university town, we presented ourselves at Zoe and Al's, who are very graciously hosting us until we leave on Thursday morning.
Roger finally gets to fulfill his dreams of punting in Oxford, but gets stuck in the mud.
Chris helping out.
Botanic gardens - Oxford.
Bridge over river Cherwell.
Weeping willow and punts.
View over quad from St Mary's Tower, Oxford spires.
Radcliff Camera - Oxford.
St Mary's spiral staircase.
And that's it so far! A huge thanks to Mr. Al Power for helping set this post up, we couldn't have done it without him, or at least not this well. It may be sometime before we are able to set up another post, but rest assured that we will do our best to keep everyone informed. Time to hit the road again, it's been a lovely stay in Oxford, thanks again to everyone who let us stay with them and who fed us.Peace
Chris and Roger ;)
Monday, August 27, 2007
A dedication to gentle hands....
Mother
Thinking 'bout you now as always, getting ready for the trip, going across the big pond and to your own birthplace. I want to say thanks for everything, my first steps into the world were gently coaxed into being by you and as I grew your hands remained ever present ready to catch me. And many times catch me you did, tho' in ways I am just now beginning to understand, such hands as they were filled with love and understanding.
I am humbled more and more every day as I realize the dedication and commitment you undertook to raise me with integrity, truth, love, joy, happiness and most of all..laughter! Your steadiness knew no bounds, and often it is true that we realize these things much later, now as I see young Quinn and think "you fortunate little man, raised with such attentiveness and care, love and dedication, patience and joy" . And so I dedicate this journey to you, Mom, with infinite gratitude and many bows. May your love and joy spread infectiously throughout the universe,
Knowing we are never separate, I rejoice, and 3 dimensionally, I miss you!
As I have grown now to boyhood, I take confident steps and leaps and bounds knowing my boundaries in love are limitless and my lessons never ending. I see you in the morning sky and the evening sunset, where the lines between dream and awake blur and take me toward no-thought, there you dwell, in limitlessness and truly, beyond words.
Form comes and goes,
Changing
essence remains
inspires,
and truth
lives to tell
the inevitable story
See you around,
Your son
Roger ;) xoxox
PS Dad looks pretty sexy in that yellow jersey of his, I'll have to keep an eye on him. He likes his front panniers because they're just the right size to carry about 3 bottles of wine, a baguette and some foie gras. Just the kind of food we'll need after pedaling 100+ kms a day no doubt, I'll be there, good son that I am, to help out with the wine. I know you'd be trots op me.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
And so it begins
And so the journey begins, the last year and a half of planning is finally coming to a head as Dad and I prepare for our departure. Ready we are, Dad has but one more day's work left and then it's off. Autumn bears down on Canmore like a slow moving train, steady in it's inevitable course, and I like that I get to taste at least its beginning. Dad busies himself with the last errands and other small details, indeed without him this trip should be much less smooth, as I tend to fly by the seat of my pants. So he, in essence, is the navigator and that is well, for lost isn't something he usually says he is, altho' on a trip such as this, being lost only means that we are not where we thought we might be. Nothing is fixed except certain key waypoints, other than that, we get to dive into the timeless essence of the moment, with no real schedules to keep, just the wind at our backs (hopefully) and the gentle push and pull as pedal stroke after pedal stroke guides us along. Perfect!
Here we are. With no expectations and a pilgrimage to explore, I say, let it be as it is!
And that's saying a lot.
See you next blog
Here we are. With no expectations and a pilgrimage to explore, I say, let it be as it is!
And that's saying a lot.
See you next blog
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