It is still overcast and rather cool today. I am busy packing my car. Everything fits nicely and I think the sleep-in-the-car exercise will work fine. Later I take some photos of rather small Polaroid prints from some of my mother's patchwork banners and tapestries. They are absolutely delightful. I believe we have some more in Australia of hers. I consider it important to have her creative products recorded so that all the family remembers who she was.
In the afternoon some clients of Wivica arrive, so after briefly saying "Hello" I make myself scarce and drive into St. Peter. First a Tea with Rum in the small Zähringer Eck Cafe I am frequenting these days, then on to the BertoldsBrunnen Pizzeria where I have my usual half dozen of escargots and their spaghetti al tonno. After paying the bill they always offer each diner a complimentary grappa or amaretto. I never had an amaretto before so I try one, quite nice, an almond liqueur.
In the evening Wivica goes with her 4 visitors to the Burgerstüble
for dinner. They all order Pangasius, never heard of it before but all
love it. One of them is a TV presenter for the local station and promises to
film a couple of Wivica's paintings when she covers the esoteric conference on
Saturday.
Some good news today, including : Bev from the mango farm in Darwin is out of the hospital and (according to the reports) is looking fitter than ever again. Also my Primary school friend Dick Matthes is home when I am in Holland and I will stay with him and his wife Lyde in Gorssel for a few days at the end June.
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Friday May 23, 2008
(diary, travel)
The sun shines and we have a blue sky this morning. I am ready and on the road
by 9.30 am. Only about 310 km to Beaune. Once in France I loved the countryside.
The landscape gradually changes from gently sloping hills to undulating fields
once I approach the river Soane. Here and there a river or canal, all very peaceful.
There are two marked differences here in contrast to Germany. Firstly there are lots
of wooded areas, all of them with leafy trees, no pines to be seen anywhere.
Secondly whereas in Germany wind farms are almost always somewhere on the horizon, in France all the 300 km to Beaune I don't see a single one. The French
were about the first to get into nuclear power I believe and I suspect they are
quite comfortable with that and much prefer it to mucking up the countryside
with these horrible, horrible things.
200 km French freeway costs me about € 16 on toll charges, about the same as
the fuel cost me over that distance. However the freeway is very good with
plenty of nice rest areas, beautiful scenery and no staus.
I arrive in Beaune at midday, the
caravan park is quite nice with lots of shady trees and hedges separating all
individual sites (cost only € 8.50). There are lots of motor homes, they are quite the thing here in
Europe in preference to caravans.
Beaune is a nice city with an Medieval wall
surrounding the entire old center. Lots of Restaurants and Wine cellars, but the
wine is not cheap. You pay anything from $5 to $15 for a single glass of wine
which can be as little as 0.1 liter. For dinner I have my escargots, then Beef
Bourguignon and cheese at the Caravan Park Bistro. The snails are wonderful, the rest is so so.
OK I am
going to try out my bed now, reed and to sleep. Tomorrow to Orange.
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Saturday May 24, 2008
(diary, travel)
Overcast this morning. I wake up at 6 am, marveling at the good night's sleep I
had in the car. Nobody is about yet, a great difference with caravan parks in
Australia where most people are up and about by 6. I wash, have my breakfast and
am on my way by 7.30 am. Undulating county continues until Lyon, where I hit
the Rhone and much more hilly country. About midday I arrive in Orange. I find
the caravan park. The Mistral is blowing like shit and I have some
argument with the hedge protecting me from the reception as to which site.
Eventually I get one with a hedge protecting me from the wind.
The town of
Orange though is an absolute delight. I feel instantly at home here, it is by
far the nicest place I have visited for a long time, little squares with
terraces and restaurants all over the place. There are tourists here but they
just seem to blend in with the locals.
Pantomime Francais : I can't
understand most of what is being said, but just watching these French is a sheer
pleasure. The women all (without exception) look interesting, many with great
legs or wiggly bottoms (sometimes both !!) no man in the world can take his
eyes off. The French men are therefore champion chatters uppers. I love seeing
this all going on. No cars allowed in
the Center and Cafes, and Restaurants with terraces abound. I find a shop
selling thongs, an absolute necessity when showering in caravan parks,
then I set myself down at the Festival Cafe for lunch. Moules Frites, is not fried
muscles, but simply steamed as usual. Hover they are great and together with a
couple of quarter liters of house red are just the ticket.
I also discover Bar La Palace mentioned in the Lonely Planet Guide.
They don't serve meals today, just the bar is open. The decor is quite artistic
and I take a few photos and drink a Pernod.
Back at the Caravan park I
discover that € 20 per night does not include toilet paper ! You absolutely
would not believe this !!!
So far today. I will go back into town tonight for another meal and tomorrow set
of for Spain, but most probably come back here on my return journey.
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Sunday May 25, 2008
(diary, travel)
Last night I went back to the Festival Cafe and had a "Plat du Jour", Entrecote au poivre, quite good, with some cheese and one of those tiny, delicious espresso cafes.
I am woken up in the morning by some showers while snuggly in my bed in the car. But the wind has topped and by 8 am I am on the road. As soon as I cross the Rhone the countryside changes dramatically. Irregular buff chalky hills and low compact bushes cover the ground, some blooming brightly yellow while the leafy trees from yesterday have virtually disappeared. Also an increase in conifers, especially those tall thin pencil trees, famous from the van Gogh paintings, which form part of the landscape all the way into Spain. Most of the way it is heavy heavy rain, but I am kept warm by a wonderful feeling that I am not alone, but that other thoughts are traveling with me. The landscape changes frequently, sometimes flat sometimes hilly, but the pencil trees are always there.
The Spanish border is right at the start of the magnificent Pyrenees. I drive on to Fegueres then left to Roses where the Pyrenees mountains dip steeply into the Mediterranean. Here the houses cling precariously to the mountain side right up to the top. The caravan park in Roses is not much so I find my way on to Cadaqués, via a 14 km narrow road through the mountains, which is a magnificent National park. Cadaqués is a delightful fishing village and the original home of Salvador Dahli. After a while I find my way twisting and turning to a rather wet caravan park and book for two nights. I will stay longer if the weather improves. The narrow boulevard of Cadaqués is right along the waterfront, with the waves at places splashing right across the road. Tiny beaches are crowded by small fishing vessels at several places. Restaurants abound along the waterfront as well as inland. Tomorrow I will explore all this. Today I just dry out and get settled.
In the evening I change my mind and start walking down hill through one of the town's narrow streets, but after only a few hundred yards I see a typical Spanish pub, no respectable tourist is sure to get near. So I go in and enjoy a couple of unadulterated tintos (glass of red wine of the house, at € 1.50 nowhere near the 1 peseta 50 years ago, but still quite cheap these days) and swap remarks with some locals about the film we are watching on TV.
There is also a fancy little restaurant I noticed on my way down with marinated sardines on their Specials board outside. I walk back up and go in. The place is run by a Swiss couple. The sardines are great, the entrecote as medium rare as you can have it and the Gruyere with thinly sliced passion fruit (?) a combination which reveals a chef who know his business.
Throughout the night the background music features a clarinetist from the Swing era. I know him well but just can't think of his name. Buddy de Franco, they tell me. He is the one reed player, dead or alive, who has managed to remove the sharp edge of the typical clarinet sound. His sound is therefore so sweet, so romantic, so melancholic you never forget it, and every song he plays becomes sheer musical magic. (Well that is how an incurable romantic like me feels about it.)
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