theworldtourists

Autumn in Paris

2015-06-11T01:21:00.000+08:00

Paris in October was frigid when we last visited it in autumn. Temperatures had steadily been dropping from early to late October as Max and I drove from the western to the central parts of France during a two month journey by car.

I recall in those first few days as we pounded the Parisian pavements, four layers of clothing for us Aussies weren’t cutting it. The dry coldness was so sharply biting that my nose, ears and face were threatening to break like shards of glass and fall off, or so it felt, as we gazed out at the radiating boulevards from the top of the Arc de Triomphe to survey elegant Paris stretched out before us.

Visually, Paris in autumn is a gorgeous time to visit when the light gives the city a soft palette complemented by the tones of autumn foliage.

Romantic Parisian bridge in the autumn sunshine

Visiting newly found friends, it was a pleasant stroll from the metro through neighbourhood parklands in the 15th arrondisement to Edith’s and Paul’s lovely and light-filled apartment where we were invited for dinner. Pizza, French champagne and wonderfully stimulating conversation turned out to be a great partnership before catching the bus back to our hotel in the centre of town. Pizza and politics do seem to go hand in hand, don’t you think? Max and I feel so blessed to have met and engaged with these two charming, intelligent and witty Parisians during our travels. Edith and Paul certainly enriched our cultural tour of France back then, and Paul's passing since this visit has made this memory even more poignant and special.

I’d already fulfilled my chocolate fantasy by visiting Paris' October chocolate expo. The remainder of our time in Paris was spent revisiting some of our favourite landmarks and destinations and discovering new ones.

FAVOURITE LANDMARKS

Sexy combination - Ferrari & Eiffel Tower!


Outside my most favouritest museum, the Louvre

The stylish Art Nouveau Galeries Lafayette, my favourite department store

PERE LACHAISE CEMETERY

Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris' 20th arrondisement is a fascinating look into the who’s who of deceased celebrity. This turned out to be a half-day excursion for us as it is so vast an area to cover. There are beautiful gardens within where we noticed locals had come to sit, read, reflect or picnic.

Avenue in Pere Lachaise cemetery

A few of the many memorable tombs and plots visited were those of Edith Piaf, Jim Morrison (of The Doors fame), Oscar Wilde and the historical crypt of medieval lovers Heloise and Abelard. Isadora Duncan and Maria Callas we found in the massive double-storey crematorium which is quite an imposing structure to visit in its own right.

The cemetery produces a detailed plan of notable grave sites so you can pick and choose to pay homage according to your interests whether they be philosophers, actors, scientists, musicians, writers, artists, poets, playwrights, intellectuals or aristocrats.

LA DEFENSE


La Grande Arche

La Defense is the business district of Paris and La Grande Arche is its brash statement in bold architecture. Here we marvelled at the futuristic landscape of skyscrapers and explored the area on foot as it lit up at night.

Sculptural art on water in La Defense

ST OUEN FLEA MARKETS

Weekend flea markets in Paris are great to visit for sheer curiosity value rather than to buy. Catching the metro to Porte de Clingnancourt took us to a huge array of markets around the St Ouen area.

The sidewalk flea market of Marche aux Puces de Saint Ouen (St Ouen flea market) where locals bargain over household odds & ends was a kaleidoscope of cultures. Mostly male sellers, buyers and browsers were crowded around second-hand goods that were sprawled over scatter rugs on footpaths. Across the way and not far from here, African traders operated from stalls of handbags, clothing, costume jewellery and footwear at another market location.


Flea market - anyone care to buy one left-footed black boot?

Further along are numerous other markets including its most well-known one on Rue de Rosiers which has vintage and antique pieces for sale. Much as I'd have liked to have spent some moola, I prepared myself not to get emotionally hooked into buying. There is the issue of luggage space and weight, I argued to myself.

Very pricey on the hip pocket, there were tons of gorgeous items I saw. They definitely would have needed logistics and careful planning to get them home, let alone carry on public transport back to our hotel, had I fallen in love with that must-have piece. Thankfully, head reasoned over heart by the time we left.


Love the red French beret in St Ouen!

Luckily for us, cloudy skies cleared for the remainder of our Parisian stay and the sun came out at just the right time of day to warm our faces and thaw our hands as we picnicked outdoors on baguettes around Paris' landmarks for lunch. Although chilly, much of the weather was calm and dry.

We’d reached the end of our grand tour of France after having bonjour-ed, merci-ed and au revoir-ed our way around the country for nearly two months. However, as then, France still leaves me with a yearning for more - to explore and discover more, taste more, learn more and experience more. Forget Paris in spring rain or crowded humid summer. Of all the seasons I've seen Paris in, autumn is definitely the best time to be here.

Paris By Chocolate - An Autumn Delight

2013-03-31T05:30:00.000+08:00

Autumn is upon us here in the southern hemisphere and with it comes the refreshingly cooler mild weather. Thoughts of rich velvety chocolate have now begun to pop into my head ......mmmmm. However, my tastebuds have sunk to new lows. I am beginning to indulge in supermarket-purchased chocolate. How woeful, especially when I think of all those varieties of refined artisan-made chocolates I’d sampled when last in Paris.

Upon returning from the chocolate expo in the city of lights, love and indulgences in the northern hemisphere's autumn time, I’ve turned up my nose at the brand name chocolates and macarons available here in Perth. My chocolate palate had changed. After tasting some of the best of the best from around the world all under one Parisian roof, how can one eat the commoner’s stuff on offer in local stores back home?

SALON DU CHOCOLAT

The Salon du Chocolat is an annual cocoa extravaganza held in Paris each October. When I discovered that our trip to Paris coincided with this event I was beside myself with delight. My favourite food on tap in one vast Aladdin’s cave!


"How do I love thee, let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach". The English poet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning must surely have been referring to chocolate.

By metro, getting to the choc expo at Porte de Versailles in the 15^th arrondissement was a good 30 minute commute. It was a reprieve from the outside temperatures and, once inside, my heart rate went up the moment we paid for our entry tickets and stood gawping at the huge number of chocolate displays on offer.

INSIDE THE TEMPLE OF COCOA

Stepping into the Salon du Chocolat was to worship at the Temple of Cocoa. Only the French can elevate the bitter cacao bean to such sweet divine status. I’d reached heaven! There were slabs of chocolate and nougat stacked up high on trestle tables, chocolate sculptures, chocolate fountains, pyramids of macarons, chocolate artisans at work, chocolate merchandise, video presentations, cultural song and dance acts, sugarless chocolate, chocolate goblets, chocolate sauces and all the various accompaniments that could possibly partner it. Chocolate couture was on display on mannequins. These fashion pieces crafted from real chocolate were to be worn by models in the early evening catwalk parade.

Chocolate couture

Madonna eat your heart out!

Countries represented were Switzerland (of course!), Belgium, Germany, Italy, Japan, Syria (pre-revolution days), Ivory Coast, Mexico, Madagascar, South American producers as well as local and regional French chocolatiers and patissiers.

An amazing taste sensation was partnering foie gras with chocolate and onion jam - who would have thought!!!. Those French think of everythink! But, my best chocolate discovery was the green tea-dusted Tokyo chocolate beans. After the sweetness of all the other varieties, the slightly bitter and unusual flavour was refreshing.

After two or three hours of free sampling, Max and I reached saturation point and we still had a few hours to spare. I was ready to regurgitate my addiction but our new French friend, Edith, who’d rented us her family townhouse in Monpazier just weeks before, was meeting us here after work. By the afternoon we went through it all over again. Groan ..... I couldn’t stomach any more. Hard as it is to believe I had to wave away further offers of free chocolate from vendors.

Too much of a good thing is exactly that. Looking back on it now, though, I wish I had crammed in just one more mouthful!

Halloween at Eurodisney

2013-03-30T01:22:00.001+08:00

Leaving behind the serious adult world, we decided to let loose and indulge our "inner child" at Disneyland Paris for four days before returning our lease car to the Charles de Gaulle airport outside of Paris. It's an easy drive to the Disneyland complex from Epernay in the Champagne region from where we were departing. From the resort it was then a 30-45 minute drive to reach the airport. Simple with the help of a GPS!

MONTEVRAIN IS AN EXCELLENT BASE

We chose to stay at the Ibis Hotel in Montevrain, a great value and cheerful choice and close to the train station that links this small town to Eurodisney, rather than the more expensive option of staying within the resort. One train stop away and two or three minutes later we were there - how easy! Trains came and went between both destinations frequently.

A shopping centre with many eating options and a supermarket is walking distance from the hotel. This is also where I got a much-needed great hair cut and colour, despite the young hairdressers in the salon speaking very limited English and my French limited to a few words and basic phrases. A small designer outlet centre that resembles a little village is close by for those keen on splashing out on brands such as Armani, Burberry and the likes.

HALLOWEEN - DISNEY STYLE

Pumpkins were in abundance around the resort as a big nod towards the American celebration of Halloween. The theme also tied in beautifully with the autumn palette of colours. Golden tones on foliage and in gardens visually gave the place much needed warmth as outdoor temperatures were on the brisk side of the thermometer.

Shades of orange light up Snow White's castle and performing stage

There were two weeks to go before our departure back home to Australia after being on the road for almost six months and Max had come down with a terrible cold. Two weeks into our travels, almost six months prior, when we had begun our travels the same thing happened. What can I say, the man's consistent! Just like bookends.

Max's 'Cheshire Cat' impersonation in front of Disney-style Halloween gardens

FUN FOR ALL AGES

Despite the cringe-worthy factor for adults, it was kind of fun and playful experiencing the theme parks and its many stories and characters, if we overlooked the price tag associated with being there. There was so much to see, do and cram in. Whilst chilly and overcast for most of the time, it did not deter the crowds who were a mix of French and international visitors. British families seemed to be overrepresented - most likely due to school holidays.

So, we'd been to Disneyland in Florida years before, and this was not quite on the same scale. But in saying that, being big little kids at heart didn't deter us from enjoying the experience a la French-American style. Against a bilingual backdrop, everything from signs to announcements are given in both languages. There was Adventureland, Discoveryland, Frontierland and my favourite - Fantasyland which is towered over by Sleeping Beauty's castle. Main Street USA is where you arrive after coming through the turnstiles and this area resembled a small 1800's Western-style town. It is also where we viewed the colourful street parades with their gorgeous costumes and elaborate floats. When we wanted to relax and rest our feet we boarded the cute Disney steam train with its old-fashioned whistle which took us on a railroad journey around the whole complex, passing overhead at times.

Snow White mobbed for autographs

Walt Disney Studios and the famous man himself

By the time the four day mark neared of indulging in park tours and rides and feasting on expensive rubbish takeaway, visual overload and theme park weariness kicked in. We were well and truly ready to re-emerge into the land of reality.

Letting the inner child loose with a sugar high!

On The Champagne Trail

2012-07-22T14:43:00.003+08:00

If French is the language of love then French champagne is the magic drinking potion of love. What could be more sensuous to drink than a frosted flute of golden liquid that tantalizes the palate and nose. And those celebratory bubbles of joy are perfect for festivities. It’s a sharing kind of drink that gives more pleasure when paired with good food and good company.

A recent trip to Uluru (Ayers Rock) in central Australia with a group of close girlfriends - all of us this year celebrating our milestone birthdays with bottles of bubbly – had me looking back from a distance of 8 months and thousands of kilometres away to our time in France travelling the Champagne route.

Champagne countryside

EPERNAY

The departement of Champagne is the French heart of sparkling wine countryside and Epernay is its epicentre. While the average person would save champagne for celebrations and special events it appears that in Champagne the locals don’t need an occasion to drink it. It’s on the lunch table and dinner table most days according to a local. How lucky are they to be sipping this beverage of delight on a daily basis and none other than the highest of qualities.

We had arrived after a late harvest so the autumn vines were bare of fruit. The vast spreads of vineyards across these chalky hills and flat lands grow three varieties of grape that all go into making up champagne – pinot noir, pinot meuniere and chardonnay.

We spent a night in Chalons-en-Champagne at an Ibis hotel, a 40-minute drive to Epernay, as moderately priced accommodation in town was full then moved to Epernay for 3 nights. In France we often make use of the hotel chain Ibis as they have hotels in numerous locations and are affordable, comfortable, clean and usually well located. Very formulaic but at least you know what to expect.

Avenue de Champagne, Epernay

Situated on the town’s main artery, Epernay’s classically elegant Avenue de Champagne, are some famous maisons de champagne such as Pol Roger, Moet et Chandon, Mercier, Perrier Jouet and many more. There is an air of restrained affluence along this street. We chose three cellar tours to do – Moet et Chandon, Mercier and de Castellane. These were the ones in this small town that were most readily accessible to the public and also easily reached on foot from our hotel. Mumm, Taittinger and Veuve Clicquot are located around Reims. Mind you, after three lots of champagne tours and tastings (not all in the same day) we’d just about reached bubble fatigue.

Dom Perignon looks out at Moet et Chandon entrance above

M & C cellars below

MOET & CHANDON

Moet & Chandon, who are part of the swanky LVMH conglomerate (Louis Vuitton Moet and Hennessy) put on a classy but pricey tour with an introductory self-promoting film narrated by Scarlett Johanssen and then finished off with a glass of bubbly. The limestone cellars were impressive and we learnt a lot about the methode champenoise and the history of the brand. 80% of its champagne is exported worldwide. It was incredible to learn that the grapes are all hand-picked so as not to bruise the fruit. Are you for real?!

MERCIER

Mercier, also part of the LVMH stable, has a very showy tour where we descended by lift to the cellars, put on audio headsets and taken by electric train through their massive underground network followed by a selection of champagne tastings.

Mercier champagne house

DE CASTELLANE

De Castellane is a champagne house probably not so well known in Australia – around 20% of it is exported but mainly to European countries. “In France we keep the best champagne for ourselves” replied the guide. Oooo-kay, so what does that imply about the well-marketed, brand-conscious ones that fill the shelves of international grog shops? This maison had the least showbiz factor about it but was the more realistic and interesting for two reasons – its Belle Epoque tower that stands as a landmark above Epernay and its real-life production plant. In the factory we watched staff in action as bottles were being labelled and packed by modern machinery. Climbing the tall tower leads to panoramic views of Epernay and the surrounding Marne Valley.

Maison de Castellane's Belle Epoque tower

de Castellane museum and
bottling plant

Some interesting facts - a bottle of champagne has anywhere between 43 to 250 million bubbles (depending on the size of the bubbles and which scientific study you believe) and has 3 times more pressure than a car tyre (whoa, a live bubble bomb!!). We were shown how the indentation at the bottom of the bottle is important for distributing the pressure. Initially, flat-bottomed bottles would explode in cellars. The best vintage year in the last decade was 2002. Not every year is a good vintage year for champagne. You can tell the quality of a champagne by the size of the bubbles – a high quality product has very small (fine) bubbles so we were told.

Considering that Epernay sits atop miles of musty underground limestone tunnels and cellars it is a wonder that the place doesn’t cave in on itself.

Driving along one of the many Champagne routes we passed through peaceful villages in bloom and past rows and rows of vineyards. Some places such as Bouzy and Dizy seem aptly-named for the locality – after a few glasses you too could be feeling like this. There are hundreds of small, family-run champagne producers in the region that sell to the local market.

DOM PERIGNON

At the tiny village of Hautvillers, we visited the resting place of the father of champagne, the Benedictine monk Dom Perignon. He lies in front of the altar at the Hautvillers abbey church.

Across the road from his abbey is the champagne producer Gobillard et Fils (Gobillard & sons). As we entered, the place was heaving with families sitting down to tastings around wooden tables and Parisian daytrippers loading up their cars with not bottles but boxes of champagne.

Hautvillers abbey church, Dom Perignon's resting place

VERZY FOREST

A change of scenery from champagne tasting was a daytrip east for some hiking through the Verzy Forest to see a pocket of distorted beech trees, the Faux de Verzy (meaning fake or false), that have been growing bizarrely for centuries. Some have developed canopy or umbrella shapes, others reach out gnarled limbs. The dark outlines of branches remind me of black ink that has been blown with a straw across paper. Botanists have been mystified as to their twisted and exceedingly slow growth pattern. Whilst walking along a trail we were stunned out of our reverie by loud rustlings of leaves and pounding of hooves as a pack of wild boar tore out from the woods in single file metres away from us. Whoa, adrenaline rush! It was exciting to see real wildlife in its natural surrounds.

Twisted beeches, Verzy Forest

Close by, along a quiet leafy trail, we reached the edge of Mt Sinai (no idea about the name) on foot which has a World War II bunker and a great lookout to the plains below.

Max by this stage was coming down with a cold. He’s ending the trip the way we started. Two weeks into our travels he caught a cold and two weeks away from the end of our wonderful adventures he’d caught another one. What can I say, he's consistent.

Memorial church, Dormans in the Champagne region

Medieval Troyes and Ceremonial Reims

2012-04-30T23:58:00.001+08:00

Our October sojourn in the French Valley of the Kings had drawn to a close for us. It was time to leave the land of forested estates. Where the rich, the elite and the aristocratic can be seen gathered on Sundays in hunting parties dressed in period costumes atop their horses, accompanied by a traditional horn blower and packs of hounds. Where gateau-like chateaux adorn the landscape. Where fairytales, fantasies and follies come to life.

So we left Fantasia Land (ie, the Loire Valley) to head towards another well-known area of France – Champagne, the Land of Bubbly. Eastward bound we travelled deeper into colder weather and greyer skies. After weeks of gorgeous sunshiny high 20’s it was now downright gothic and wintry.

TROYES

First stop – Troyes – for several days. Two reasons drew us here. It was the ancient and original capital of Champagne filled with half-timbered medieval houses ….and……. strangely, factory outlet shopping districts, according to our Lonely Planet guidebook. Whoa, we’d held back on consumerist pleasures such as retail therapy for most part of this long-haul trip and now, nearing the end of it, we were in the mood to let those euros shake loose from pockets and purses.

Troyes after rain

What did we discover apart from heaps of affordable international brand name labels and it being the home of Lacoste? This town is the origin for the name “troy weight” - the unit of measure for gold.

In the heart of the city whose layout resembles the outline of a champagne cork, Troyes is a delightful-to-explore-by-foot place (even in pouring rain) that has beautifully preserved its medieval small town charm. Narrow cobblestoned streets and town squares are bordered by pretty half-timbered buildings, some of which slant more precariously than the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Some streets and laneways have great names such as the dark and narrow Ruelle des Chats (Cats Alley).

After a few champagnes you could be forgiven for thinking
that you weren't seeing straight

We picked up a Troyes City Pass that gave us discounts to outlet shops and museums, free champagne tastings, chocolate samples and an audio-guide of the historic centre. We came across many wrought-iron framed wells, numerous stone churches crammed with beautiful statuary and art, an old Jewish quarter and, of course, a large range of cafes, wine bars and restaurants squeezed into any conceivable space.

Ruelle des Chats

Detail of Sts Crispin and Crispinian, patron saints of shoemakers
in Eglise St Pantaleon, Troyes

TOOL MUSEUM - SERIOUSLY GOOD

A fascinating stop was at the Maison de l’Outil, Troyes’ tool museum – it was seriously good. Housed in a historic multi-storeyed creaky 16^th century building was a vast collection of around 10,000 tools from bygone trades and eras. Carvers, coopers, milliners, butchers, carpenters, stone masons, upholsterers, glovemakers, you name it, all crafts were represented. This place is a shrine to the art of manual labour.

Max stands in courtyard of Troyes' Tool Museum, above
and
in front of one of its many collections

REIMS

A memorable daytrip from Troyes was to Reims, the coronation capital of many of France’s kings. To pronounce it is something like “Rance” but rolling the ‘rrrrrrr’ and saying it as if you have a blocked nose. Here we were entertained by buskers and acts around the town’s café-lined squares and visited the fascinating and massive statue-encrusted Reims’ Notre Dame Cathedrale where Joan of Arc stood by Charles VII at his coronation.

We ate a bison sausage hot dog and bison hamburger for lunch at an outdoor Canadian promotional event (rather tasty) and stood sombrely in Eisenhower’s and the Allied’s map room in the Surrender Museum (Musee de la Reddition) where the Nazi Germans surrendered to the Allies, effectively ending WWII. There’s so much more to explore in Reims, including Roman ruins as well as the champagne houses of Taittinger (a little out of town) and Mumm – however, we were saving the champagne tasting for Epernay. A daytrip certainly cannot do justice to such a richly historic town, but at least we tried.

Horsemounted Joan of Arc faces the Reims Notre Dame Cathedral

A few examples of over 2000 statues
at the Reims Cathedral

Surrender Museum, Reims

This was the one day we decided not to drive and instead caught the train to Reims – 22 easy minutes there, 3 long weary hours on the return due to a power failure on the train tracks. We sat patiently in the train-to-nowhere with other passengers for over 1 ½ hours whilst railway authorities decided what to do, then shepherded like a sheep flock to a bus stop where we stood outside shivering in the cold for a further half an hour waiting for a bus that never arrived and finally ushered back again onto the railway platform to catch a slow train to Troyes.

Two fabulous Champagne cities explored. Onwards next to other places within the Champagne province loaded down with our many clothing purchases (more Max’s than mine!) squeezed into a brand new mini-suitcase which is crammed alongside our swollen backpacks in the small car boot.

Autumn In The Loire

2012-03-09T17:06:00.001+08:00

We’re back home in Perth in body but with heart still in France. I read over my notes and reflect back on our wonderful time passed in beautiful surroundings …..

FRENCH HOSPITALITY IN LE GRAND PRESSIGNY

We’re in the Loire region for an indulgent ten days to bask in the land of grandiose royal chateaux, and bask we are doing. Edith, the friendly owner of the Monpazier house we’d rented, and her husband Paul are keen to meet us at their 18^th century weekend country house in the Loire Valley. So, the village of Le Grand Pressigny is unexpectedly on our agenda.

Edith's garden, Le Grand Pressigny

Under an arbour of acacias in the warm sunshiny autumn in Edith’s untamed walled garden the four of us get to know each other as we sip on Vouvray champagne (a small wine growing village in the Loire) and feast on platters of cold seafood salad, smoked salmon with crème fraiche and boiled potatoes, a refreshing zucchini salad and prosciutto with a crisp lettuce salad. A French tarte is next followed by small cups of espresso indoors behind the coolness of huge shuttered windows.

“Do you ever get tired of seeing chateaux or are you amazed every time you see one?” I ask Edith. In their salon, we gaze at old prints of some of France’s immense array of castles. “No, I love them. They are part of French history”, she replies. Her response reassures me. We’re a few days into what will become an “8-chateaux in 10 days” line-up and I’m hoping it won’t be a case of ‘shattered by chateaux’.

Edith is an elegant, charming hostess with excellent English, a passion for learning Italian and a curiosity for meeting strangers such as ourselves. Husband Paul is retired whose passion is Egyptology. He has us captivated as he describes being trapped in Cairo during the riots earlier that year and of being airlifted out of the country amid great fear and panic. Before we know it, almost 6 hours of convivial company passes by in a flash and plans are made for catching up in Paris where they live. It’s time to make the 1½ hour road journey back to our accommodation about 12km further past the attractive little town of Amboise.

Town views from Chateau Amboise

LOGIS LE FLEURAY

We are in the Loire to celebrate my birthday and we base ourselves at a gorgeous country lodge, the Logis Le Fleuray, that has all that we are not accustomed to as budget travellers – a sparkling swimming pool, tennis court, gracious staff, an outstanding restaurant and a king-sized bed (in other words monumentally big, not the typical French Napoleonic size) with crisp white linen in a spacious charmingly decorated room. It is situated about 12 km from the lovely town of Amboise which is renowned for its fortress chateau that overlooks the pretty town and for its famous inhabitant, Leonardo Da Vinci.

Ordering an afternoon tea tray after a swim in the pool is an extravagant treat so we sit outside our room’s French doors facing the peaceful countryside whilst a waiter brings us a large tray of white crockery and delicate slices of cake and biscuits from the main lodge. A bright red hot air balloon drifts by and we watch with fascination as it slowly descends into the neighbouring field. We take delight in the moment and remind ourselves how lucky we are.

Birthday celebration at Logis Le Fleuray

On other days we soak up the never-ending glorious balmy afternoons and dusks on our terrace with improvised dinners of local wines and typical French food staples – baguette, cheeses, dry sausages, various duck pates, terrines and luscious mini gateaux picked up from local supermarkets. Oh, what a blissful lifestyle. After a cold, wet summer the French are appreciating the exceptionally warm sunny autumn season and we are thankful for the Indian summer conditions. We’re not yet ready for the dampness and cool of a traditional autumn and impending winter.

The Loire Valley has numerous gorgeous chateaux to choose from, all within a relatively short drive from each other. This is the land of real-life royal fairytales that come with huge doses of intrigue, love affairs, plots of murder and betrayal, secrets and clandestine ambitions amongst kings, dukes, courtesans and courtiers thrown in over the centuries. To stand out from the others, chateaux pitch their theme or uniqueness for their share of tourists.

CHATEAU D'ANGERS

The military-inspired fortress of Chateau d’Angers at the western end of the Loire region was a midday stopover on our way to Amboise after farewelling our friends in Brittany. It sits in the centre of the lovely city of Angers with its striking squat black and white-striped towers, nowadays protecting the famous and priceless 14^th century Apocalypse Tapestry. In a modern, specially-designed museum built to house this magnificent 100 metre-stretch of medieval tapestry is a vast dimly-lit space of grim depictions of death, strange fantasy animals and scenes from The Book of Revelations. They read like a visual horror story. The castle grounds are a quiet respite for a picnic lunch.

Chateau d'Angers above
houses the Apocalypse Tapestry

ABBAYE DE FONTEVRAUD

From military to monastic, not far from the town of Saumur, is the massive Abbaye de Fontevraud. Friends Odile and Patrick had suggested that it was definitely worth a look and we were glad to have made the detour. Built in the 12^th century this amazing site has beautiful cloisters, an unusual scaly-roofed multi-chimneyed Romanesque kitchen and an enormous abbey church all but empty except for the faded sculpted figures of King Henri II, his wife Eleanor of Aquitaine and their son, Richard the Lionheart lying in repose. After the French Revolution, much of the site became a prison until the early 1960’s.

AZAY-LE-RIDEAU

Enchanting Chateau Azay-Le-Rideau proudly sits looking narcissistically at its own reflection in the stillness of the lake. Amboise Chateau is small and quaint with an unfortunate tale to tell of how King Charles VIII unceremoniously died by running into a low doorway and knocking himself out. Chateau Villandry is outstanding for its spectacular gardens. Its ornamental love gardens in red, pink and white begonias symbolise the 4 types of love – fickle love, tender love, passionate love and tragic love. And then there are its Renaissance kitchen gardens originally set up by the monks. Who would have thought landscaping with vegetables could look so amazing!

A small part of Chateau Villandry's extensive grounds

CHATEAU CHAUMONT-SUR-LOIRE

Chateau de Chaumont-sur-Loire hosts an annual Festival International de Jardin (an international garden festival) which we were lucky to view in its final days. Innovative, experimental and futuristic would be the way I’d describe some of the unusual plots with names such as the Pixelated Garden, the Garden of Extinct Plants and the Memory Library. It truly deserves a whole day’s outing to take it all in. Within the chateau itself, of interest is Catherine de Medici’s royal bedchamber and that of her astrologer’s, as well as the beautiful 17^th century floor tiling in the Council Chamber brought across from Palermo in Sicily.

Chateau Chaumont-sur-Loire
and in the grounds, below
a Chinese-inspired garden in the Festival International du Jardin

CHATEAU DE LANGEAIS

Then there’s the medieval Chateau de Langeais which is entered through the picturesque village of Langeais and over the drawbridge. It’s small but packed with brilliant medieval furnishings and beautifully tiled floors. It was here in Chateau de Langeais’ grand hall that Duchess Anne de Bretagne at the age of 15 was secretly wed to Charles VIII, therefore uniting Brittany with France. In its parklands are the remains of a 10^th century fortress tower, the oldest in France, and one of the biggest treehouses we’ve ever seen. Climbing it was de rigueur, of course (so I told Max)!

The town of Langeais viewed from the chateau's drawbridge

Chateau Langeais' treehouse in an ancient cedar

CHAMBORD

And the granddaddy of all chateaux – Chambord - can’t help but take your breath away. With its lavish, riotous roofline and sheer size looming up from a vast estate, this is King Francois I’s elaborate Renaissance grandeur on a boastful scale.

Chambord was a favourite re-visit for us. Inside the castle is an intertwining double helix stone staircase designed by Da Vinci in such a way so that if two people were to climb each staircase they would never meet. Max and I mounted the staircases and immediately lost each other. Searching for each other on all the landings at every level and through the thick of the crowds was futile. Thank goodness for mobile phones! Like the phone ad, Nokia does connect people.

Chateau Chambord

BLOIS

Nearing the end of our ten day stay we move on to Blois and downsize to VERY budget but clean, comfortable accommodation, a short walking distance from the town’s large chateau.

Lording over the city and Loire River the grand Blois Chateau is a mix of architectural styles from various centuries. It was here that seven of France’s kings ruled. We check out Catherine de Medici’s secret cabinet of poisons, her bedchamber in which she died and the king’s bedchamber where Henri I was assassinated.

Entrance to Blois Chateau

Eight chateaux done and dusted but, remarkably, neither of us feel chateau-ed out. We have admired each and every one of them for their own individuality, history and unique backdrop. However, after all that gluttonous French living our waistbands have popped out – BOOM! – just like that. So, we try going from gourmet dining to cup-a-soup. I say ‘trying’ because it’s a huge hurdle adjusting from wanton eating to minimalist style. Once again, we have feasted on lovely foods, lovely sights and feasted on every other sensory level.

It is about now that I discover that Paris will be hosting a huge international Chocolate Expo on our arrival there. How important is that, I ask you, to a chocaholic like moi? Very, with a capital VIP (Very Important Pleasure). That’s enough incentive, I hope, to stick to breakfasts of black tea and dry biscuits and cup-a-soup dinners. Goodbye chocolate chaud and pain au chocolat until we eventually make our way to gay Par-ee!

Revisiting Brittany

2012-01-11T23:47:00.000+08:00

Once more (our 4^th time over the years) we found ourselves landing on the doorstep of French friends Patrick and Odile in western France, or more correctly the region of Loire-Atlantique near Brittany. We were welcomed with typical Gallic hospitality into their rural wooden cottage – with bisous (kisses) and French champagne, of course!

Travel talk is always top of the agenda when we meet. These two are hard-core backpackers with an unquenchable sense of adventure who don’t let encroaching age slow them down. For them, talking in English happens generally only when we meet. Like themselves, friendly family members who dropped by to visit chatted and joked with us with ease and skill in English, too. Oh, we were so envious and impressed. If only we could speak French as easily as they joked in English!

Typical French hospitality. Salut!

One of my favourite words learnt in French from Patrick and Odile (I’m sure they’ll be embarrassed by this) on our first visit to their home many years ago is the word “poubelle”. It sounds such a pretty, refined and melodic name for the commonplace rubbish bin. Translated into Franglish its meaning sounds something like ‘beautiful poo’, does it not!? The French language is certainly the language of romance, even when it comes to labelling a humble rubbish bin.

Our friends’ flair for traditional cuisine is sensational and they effortlessly whip up luscious meals in super quick time. I have watched a delicious quiche Lorraine thrown together on a previous visit in the time that it would have taken me to read the recipe and locate the ingredients. These two intrepid travel buddies of ours understand which cheeses to pair together on a cheese platter and which wines to marry with each course with such aplomb. But of course they are French, no?!

Truly Breton - galette, butter and cider.

Everything is so excruciatingly tasty. Fish, shellfish off the Atlantic coast, seasonal vegetables, wines, French bread and pastries. We savour Odile’s fresh-out-of-the-pan galettes (savoury buckwheat crepes) served traditionally with ham and cheese topped with a fried egg and washed down with Breton cider and finish off most evening meals with a platter of regional cheeses. What a way of life….. what a waistband!

BRITTANY ATTRACTIONS - WHERE TO NEXT?

Venturing away from gourmet kitchen delights and their tranquil garden in this peaceful rural setting, we’re taken to places that we hadn’t seen on earlier visits. Previously, our friends had driven us to many fascinating spots not far from the serenity of their country life - the salt marshes of Guerande, pretty fishing villages such as St Goustan and St Cado, the mystifying prehistoric stones of Carnac, numerous tourist spots on the Morbihan coast, science fiction writer Jules Vernes’ birthplace of Nantes and the list goes on. This time, they've selected the port town of Vannes (or Gwened in the Breton language) to the west and the Ville Fleurie (a national competition for the best flowering villages) of La Gacilly to the north.

LA GACILLY

La Gacilly is your quintessential picturesque French village set on the riverbanks. This tiny place is renowned as the birthplace of Yves Rocher and his cosmetics empire as well as attracting many artisans and craftsmen in glass, leather, ceramics, jewellery, metal crafts, painting and sculpture.

La Gacilly in bloom

La Gacilly's town buildings adorned with giant artwork and photographic displays

Stone village houses and shopfronts are adorned with colourful plants and a flower-festooned pedestrian bridge spans a river across to the other side where the Yves Rocher cosmetics foundation and his botanic gardens sit on the banks. All colour of bloom looks fabulous against the grey stonework. When we visited, young boys were fishing along the riverbanks like Huckleberry Finns with their lines and rods dangling in the water. The village oozed a peaceful charm about it.

Throughout the town and along the riverbanks an intriguing annual international photographic exhibition was on display alongside enormous works of art. Following the riverbanks, through the town’s streets and in amongst flower and vegetable gardens, huge scale photographs lined pathways – some quite beautiful and others very confronting and thought-provoking, especially the images of war, disaster and poverty which sat incongruously amongst the tranquillity of their setting. This stimulated much discussion and contemplation amongst us.

Signpost in French and the Celtic-like language of Breton

ILE D'ARZ

Along the coast on another day trip, we boarded a ferry passing by many oyster beds sitting in the tidal shallows of the Golfe du Morbihan to reach the small Breton island of Ile d’Arz.

The black and white striped flag of Brittany could be seen proudly flying from many sailing and fishing vessels. On the island, pathways led us around the tiny commune in search of historic points of interest, into a medieval stone church and past duck hunters firing off their guns in the reeds. These hunters were the same chaps that we’d spotted earlier into our walk at one of the island’s cafes having a drink as we passed by their line-up of rifles and kit that brazenly lay propped outside against the stone walls trustingly (or foolishly) unattended. A strange sight, indeed. Luckily, no madmen or unsupervised children walked by.

Low tide on Ile d'Arz

Low-roofed Breton cottages on Ile d'Arz

VANNES

On our return to shore, through the arched entry of Vannes’ old city walls, we discovered a lovely harbour town of half-timbered houses and buildings, Vannes Cathedral with its beautiful stained glass windows and prettily landscaped gardens along the stream (formerly the moat) behind the old town ramparts and historic washhouses (lavoirs).

Half-timbered buildings front the Vannes Cathedral

Flower-lined moat along the city's ramparts

A game of petanque played out in the historic centre of Vannes

Back at their home and nearing the end of our short stay, after a few glasses of the fine stuff gales of laughter erupt from us as Patrick forgets words in his own language after speaking for days in English. It’s time for us to move on. We leave behind two legendary travellers-cooks-extraordinaire who share a similar cynical and dry sense of humour and world view as ourselves. We hop into our trusty black French steed and head on out of this blissful rural retreat and down the motorways towards the Loire Valley.

Monpazier Part 2 - Outside The Town Walls

2011-12-16T16:18:00.002+08:00

The car’s windscreen was like my large flatscreen TV playing the lush green pastoral scenes in front of my eyes as Max wound us through the Dordogne countryside across valleys and forests. The roads we took followed the meandering ribbons of rivers and passed under canopies of shady trees. Classical music wafting from the car’s radio at times added ambience to the gentle landscape.

At the 4-month mark into our journey, however, travel weariness was beginning to get a hold of us so the arrival of our long-time French friends, Patrick and Odile, from Brittany on our Monpazier doorstep for a few days followed by even longer-term friend Sally who flew in from the UK was welcome relief. Now, suddenly our jaded eyes looked out with more enthusiasm. Although Max and I love each other’s company and we feel very comfortable spending 24/7 with each other, sharing a foreign location with good friends particularly over good food, good wine and good laughs brought a refreshing vitality to our time in the Perigord.

Dordogne forests surround farmlands

Regardless of how many years pass before we see each other, when we meet up with Patrick and Odile it is like we haven’t been apart. Our good friends were a source of knowledge to us as we made our way through the countryside, pointing out details about the vegetation, crops, history and architecture.

WHERE'S THE CORN?

Outside the boundaries of Monpazier and between medieval villages, woodlands nestle around field after field of corn and cultivated farmlands. But you won’t see corn on the menu. The French aren’t big on eating it. These fields of corn aren’t for human consumption, so Patrick tells us, they are for animal fodder – for the animals that will eventually make their way to the French dinner table. Well, I must admit when I think of Dordogne regional specialties duck, goose, foie gras, pates, terrines and black truffles spring to mind not corn. So, if all those feathered-ones live on a corn-diet does that make them low-cholesterol birds, I joked.

Hiking trail markers near Beaumont

Picking walnuts

Hiking with Patrick and Odile we picked fresh walnuts directly from the trees and plucked berries growing on wild, profuse bushes. Considering that Max and I get our produce from supermarkets, this was a wonderful back-to-nature experience for us.

Back on the bitumen, regional roads around here can get busy with tour buses, groups of cyclists and more annoyingly, slow-moving motor homes. ‘Tamalou’ (tu as mal ou?) is the amusing French slang term, Patrick told us, literally meaning ‘where is my pain?’, to describe retirees in motorhomes clogging the roads. We passed a delightful time together before temporarily farewelling each other as we were to catch up with them again in Brittany.

After their departure, Sally spent a week with us. At the helm of our car, Max drove us to villages, chateaux, abbeys, grottoes and markets. There was such a huge range of places close to our base from which to choose.

5 HIGHLIGHTS NEAR MONPAZIER

Here are five of our favourite highlights in close proximity to Monpazier that we saw with and/or without friends:

1. Chateau Bonaguil – set atop a steep hillside Max and I loved roaming over the partly restored ruins of this massive 13^th to 15^th century fortress castle built over a cave in the region of Lot. Awesome when viewed from the dizzy heights of the topmost tower and easy to imagine how it would have been an impressive and mighty sight in its heyday.

Ruins of Chateau Bonaguil

2. Chateau de Marqueyssac – a private estate with beautiful, classically sculpted gardens that are hand-pruned. We followed terraced pathways through its idyllic surroundings passing waterfalls, drystone huts, belvideres and an elegant chateau with a stone-tiled roof. Fantastic Dordogne Valley and river views from its clifftop location.

Sculpted gardens, Chateau de Marqueyssac

3. Cadouin Cloisters & Abbey - in a pretty village of the same name. Gracefully arched cloisters in Flamboyant Gothic style, fascinating stone sculpture work and huge abbey built by the Cictercian monks in the 11^th-12^th century on the pilgrimage route of St James of Compostela (St Jacques de Compostelle) in Spain. Now a UNESCO-heritage site it still retains its medieval spiritual feel. The story here is that the Shroud of Cadouin, revered for over 800 years as belonging to Christ, was ultimately proved a fake and originated from the shroud of an Arab in the First Crusade in the 11th century.

Cadouin Cloisters

Faded wall mural of knight, Cadouin Abbey

Cadouin village street

4. Grotte de Maxange – not stalactites nor stalagmites attracted us here but fascinating and rare “excentriques”. Millions of years old, the amazing crystal formations inside these caverns have grown sideways and at all crazy angles. Originally a private quarry, this site recently opened to the public and exploration for further passages and caverns are still underway. It’s close to the village of Cadouin and difficult to find but well worth the trouble.

5. Grotte du Pech Merle – a little further out east in the Lot region, we were blown away by the numerous prehistoric cave paintings that date back 25,000 years ago. Spotted horses, woolly mammoths, deer, bison and human handprints are revealed by torchlight as a guide steers tourists through numerous caverns. Bear caves with scratch marks, hyena bones and smooth, perfectly round ‘cave pearls’ and an incredible stone spinning top formed by the dripping action of water and sand over millennia are pointed out. Standing inside these enormous galleries was like walking onto a real-life movie set of Jules Verne’s “Journey to the Centre of the Earth”.

SARLAT

Within an hour’s drive from Monpazier, the touristy town of Sarlat-le-Caneda is like walking onto a film set of medieval and renaissance buildings. The day we visited with Sally, Sarlat’s main street, Rue de la Republique, was congested with street markets, vendors and their vans, tourist throngs and crowded cafes. Artists standing at their easels were trying to recreate the bedlam and contrasts of light and shadow of canopied stalls below in the main street. Away from the bustle of crowds we explored ancient doorways and alleyways.

Painting of Sarlat's market scene

Sausage stall, Sarlat

CHATEAU DE LOSSE

In quiet contrast, the castle chambers and beautiful gardens of Chateau de Losse on the banks of the Vezere River not far from Sarlat provided tranquillity. Around the chateau surrounded by heavy forest, pasturelands dotted with huge rolled bales of golden hay in the hazy sunlight were a Monet painting come to life. At that particular time of the afternoon we were witnessing a view not unlike what the Impressionists of the 19^th century had captured on canvas. In the distance of the hayfields, two painters sat on fold-away chairs in front of easels under a small umbrella doing their arty thing in the great outdoors. It was a scene all so terribly romantic and terribly French.

Behind the chateau unfolded a languid riverscape. Like an aquarelle painting, pale golden green water reflected the huge forest trees bordering the banks as a fly-fisherman stood perfectly still knee-deep in concentration. Ivy clung to the chateau’s walls that rose up from the water and deep green boxwood hedges shaped into a basket-weave lay in a small knot garden at the river’s edge. It was a picture of time gone motionless.

There were many other memorable sites and moments too numerous to list here. BUT….. peasant-style picnics of foods bought at local markets and enjoyed in the fresh country air with friends would have to rate as one of the best experiences. Sometimes, the simplest meals are often the best.

Aged cheeses, Sarlat

Charming medieval villages, chateaux, ancient caves, scenic countryside, fabulous food, historical sites below ground and above – we experienced it all in this French microcosm. Our town house in Monpazier has been the perfect base to explore all that this region offers.

Cheese board, Beaufort

Base Camp Monpazier

2011-11-23T00:31:00.000+08:00

What do you call a 14 kilometre paddle downstream in a two-man canoe? Answer – a relationship test! It’s a skills test on the art of teamwork and we’ve failed. Out on the Dordogne River in France’s south-west on a warm sunny day, a leisurely canoe trip seemed like an idyllic pastime. The picturesque villages of La Roque Gageac, Beynac and Castelnaud line the banks of the river, overlooked by historic imposing fortress chateaux, limestone-coloured facades glowing in the sunshine. They sit proudly up high, enticing photographers. In the wide shallow waters riverweeds, like lurid long green wigs of mermaids’ hair, wave underwater with the downstream current. Numerous fish can be seen clearly through the water and swans, ducks and kingfishers glide and dive about.

La Roque Gageac

Canoe pitstop, Dordogne River

The romance of it is shattered, however. Two captains in one vessel is a surefire recipe for disaster. We bicker over strategy. He says I’m paddling too much, too little, not enough. I say he’s paddling too hard, too soon, too late. We watch others pass us effortlessly in their canoes and kayaks through the slow-moving waters. Meantimes, our canoe gracefully pirouettes in circles as it pulls out of patches of small currents.

After the first 10 km we’re too tired to argue as fatigue sets in. We pull over to a spot of gravelly beach on the riverbank for a snack, a stretch and a truce then continue zigzagging in almost blissful silence for the remaining 4 km, taking in the serene landscape until we reach the canoe company’s base. Okay, so we’ve proved to ourselves that after a few attempts over the years at various aquatic activities we’re hopeless together on water. Relationship test over, this experience has finally sealed the deal for the end of any future couple’s watersports.

View of Dordogne River

We are in France’s Aquitaine region, between the Pyrenees in the south and Brittany and the Loire Valley to the north. Our base is the small village of Monpazier in the Aquitaine’s province of Dordogne. Also referred to as the Perigord, this area is divided into four counties – Perigord Blanc (white because of its limestone), Perigord Noir (Black Perigord because of the dark oak and pine forests), Perigord Pourpre (purple to represent the vineyard region) and Perigord Vert (Green Perigord due to the area’s verdant forests and valleys). Monpazier lies to the south in Perigord Pourpre where we’ve been sampling the fine red wines of Bergerac (of Cyrano Bergerac fame). We have rented a lovely two-storey renovated 13^th century home in the centre of town that comes with a peaceful garden.

Entry into town

Different building styles around the town square

Rue Notre Dame, Monpazier

Within the medieval village, a narrow cobblestoned carreyrou (tiny alley) leads past a garden to the left, growing wild behind a stone wall with its tantalising smell of ripening figs. To the right, passing under a small stone arch we step across the gravel path to the house with its roses and wisteria vines clinging to the neighbours’ stone walls. Four bedrooms decorated with country-style furniture and two bathrooms are upstairs. From two of the bedrooms, views to the gardens below and out past the boundary walls of Monpazier to the gentle countryside beyond. The other two bedrooms overlook the street and a little restaurant opposite. Downstairs, French doors from the kitchen and living areas lead out to the courtyard garden, which is the perfect setting for a late afternoon glass of wine. It is one of the few properties in the village with a garden, a rarity. This is home to us for three weeks – the longest period we’d have stayed put on our 6 month journey.

The laneway to our house

Our retreat

The caretaker, Amelia, shows us through the house and where to find things. She speaks not a word of English and we get along fine between my limited command of French and lots of gesturing and hands waving about. Max watches and tries to interpret the body language between us two ladies to make sense of how things work. The beds are typically French-sized – Napoleonic – and we’re lucky that either of us aren’t tall or big-framed. In bed we’re snug as two bugs in a rug. Treading the wooden floorboards in the dead of night creates a cacophony of little creaks and squeaks ensuring that both of us awake to hear the other’s nocturnal trip to the bathroom.

So the house is antique and creaky, but we’re loving it! We’re steps away from the main square. The things that a traveller appreciates are all here - a washing machine (no more hand scrubbing of socks and undies in a hotel basin for a while), a fully equipped kitchen for stay-at-home meals (hard to believe, I know, but one does get tired of dining out every day) and taking out freshly laundered and ironed clothes hanging in a cupboard rather than shaking out the creases from stale clothes folded in a backpack.

Town square and market hall

Interesting photographic exhibition of local villagers
displayed in large scale on public buildings around town

Dinner of tinned cassoulet from Carrefour one of France’s largest supermarket chains, a good Bergerac red to wash it down (in other words, Draino to clear the fatty palate) and crisp French bread to sop up the juices is one of our first in-house meals. Cassoulet is a thick hearty stew from the Languedoc region in the south of France and is usually made with white beans, goose and/or duck fat, duck pieces, pork sausage and sometimes bacon. You get the idea - this is not a Weight Watcher’s meal. Very enjoyable but be warned - tinned cassoulet does not burp up very well.

Cheap French meal

Monpazier’s history stretches back to the 1200’s when it was founded by King Edward I. It is considered one of the best preserved bastide towns in France, that is, a medieval fortified village with its strong walls and arched gateways still standing. In the arcaded town square ancient timbers hold up the open market hall that is still used to this day for markets. Just like its range of historic buildings, some things haven’t changed over time. Every Thursday is market day as it has been for centuries, when the town comes out of its inert state and livens up. We’ve bought good quality fresh produce such as luscious French cheeses, locally-made dry sausages of pork, bull or duck, honey, excellently priced wines and fruits and vegetables that stretch across outdoor trestles alongside arts and crafts stalls. We’ve even enjoyed some tasty Asian foods by a Vietnamese couple who load up their car and go from village market to village market in the area selling their freshly cooked products.

Three boulangeries in town (which incidentally take it in turn to close on alternate days - how thoughtful), ensure that we have ready access to freshly-baked delicious bread and croissants that come with a sing-song “bonjour, madame” and a smile from charming shop assistants each morning. I have fallen in love with warm pain au chocolat (a chocolate-embedded pastry similar to a croissant) here in Monpazier. In recent weeks we have eaten loads of European bread (ie, Greece, Italy & France) and not felt the ill-effects of it, like back home.

Flea market, Monpazier

Each time we take a walk around the village we discover more of its hidden surprises. Like being on a treasure hunt, we notice little architectural details and unearth interesting historical facts and figures that are subtly presented on plaques down alleyways and on old stone facades. For instance, the width of the few main roads through the gateways were designed to be wide enough to allow two carts to pass side by side to allow trade in and out of the community.

Narrow laneways waiting to be explored

On non-market days Monpazier falls into a kind of fairytale slumber. Like many rural places in France, the village opens for 3 hours in the morning and 3 hours in the afternoon. It means having to plan ahead and be organised before the supermarkets, bakeries, post office, library (for internet access) and shops close. On Wednesdays much of the village closes up for a day off. To an outsider the French 35-hour working week, whilst frustrating for tourists, presents as an envious condition of employment.

Arcades around town square

Locals are puzzled as to why Monpazier attracts many Australians throughout the year. Tourists come here from many European destinations, including French nationals, but there seems to be a disproportionate number of Aussies visiting. Maybe it has something to do with the village highlighted in Lonely Planet guidebooks. Who knows? It certainly oozes romantic historical charm in its rustic setting which is what attracted us here to this part of the Dordogne.

Our shadows fall across a country lane

Maybe it's the relaxed lifestyle that's so appealing around these parts. Sitting in the town square soaking up the warmth of the sun over a café au lait or creamy hot chocolate at one of several cafes, depending on where the autumn sunshine falls, has to be one of Monpazier’s best pastimes. Outside the village periphery, we explore the quiet country laneways and the surrounding farmsides on foot. By car, driving out of the village walls, we notice the same 4 men sitting on the same bench in front of the same street most mornings. Life in the fast lane, a la Monpazier style. Stress and speed don't seem to be a way of life here.

Minutes away by car is the lovely fortified medieval town of Belves where we’ve gone underground into fascinating troglodyte limestone caves that still exist below the town’s marketplace and streets. These were used for dwellings by the poorest of poor since the Middle Ages and earlier. Permanently etched in my mind is the horror of learning that in these dark, dank places some families were smart enough to suspend their babies’ cradles from hooks set into the stone ceiling to protect their young ones from rats that would eat away at babies’ ears and noses. In fact, a number of babies would have grown up with those body parts missing, thanks to hungry scavenging rodents. How gruesomely ghastly!

Troglodyte caves lie directly below this street in Belves' market square.

The Dordogne is heaving with chateaux yearning to be explored. One of our favourites in the area is Chateau des Milandes, once owned by the famous Afro-American 1920’s dancer, Josephine Baker. This castle is now a tribute to her and her life with many of her costumes, photographs and posters on display. In between scandalising and tantalising Paris in her skirt of bananas as a Les Folies dancer and adopting 12 children of different nationalities (Brangelina aren’t doing anything new) she campaigned for black civil rights and worked secretly for the French Resistance in WWII. Josephine Baker’s songs are played in the background as you stroll from room to room, and it was actually rather delightful to hear little old French ladies in tour groups walking by singing along to her music.

Chateau des Milandes

Our impressions to date – goodness gracious, coming from Australia we’re bowled over by how cheap the food and top quality wines are. The small grower is king here. High quality produce over quantity, and quality over profit is evident. A big thumbs up to small local French producers who are out there selling their products. The cost of living is infinitely cheaper than back home. My local village haircut, colour and style was an unbelievable 40 euros (about AUD$55) and I was very happy with it.

We’ve dined on the most amazing meals. A local restaurant, Bistrot 2, serves up the most incredible, almost orgasmic TO--DIE--FOR foie gras (we are in goose county after all) garnished with merlot-marinated sea salt and red wine onion relish washed down with a very enjoyable French champagne. Don't want to think about cholesterol levels till the party's over. Fine dining quality at West Australian café prices. Our money is certainly stretching further than anticipated.

Divine flavours of foie gras

A Stopover in Toulouse

2011-11-09T22:34:00.000+08:00

Leaving the southern region of Provence, we were making our way towards our base in the village of Monpazier with two days up our sleeves before we were due there. We chose Toulouse as a short stopover, a halfway point between Arles in Provence and the house that we were going to be renting in the Dordogne in the south-west region of Aquitaine.

Canal locks, Beziers

Along the way to Toulouse we stopped in at the town of Beziers, in the Languedoc region, renowned for the Canal du Midi that passes by, a brilliant engineering marvel and World Heritage attraction. People gather along the stairway of canal locks and over little bridges to watch holidaymakers in house boats make the journey down Fontseranes, a series of nine locks. Picnicking by the side of the canal we could only but smile as boaties heave-hoed on mooring ropes as each lock slowly drained of water and released the boats into the next lock. Having tried our hand at house-boating several years prior down the Canal du Midi during a very wet windy spring week, we realised that we weren’t cut out for this watery pastime. In two days we had managed to get the boat through more than 30 locks and there were 30 more to go. Max valiantly trying to steer a wayward boat (after a 5 minute training session that came with the hire boat) and me jumping on and off through pouring rain to either haul the boat in for mooring or to unleash the ropes, was far too arduous for only the two of us. But we were more than happy to watch others doing it this time and I offered to photograph the Aussie boaties for them as they posed while working the ropes.

Once more, lack of research on our part before arriving in Toulouse meant that we wouldn’t be popping into a museum of any kind associated with the French Impressionist painter Toulouse-Lautrec, the man of the Moulin Rouge and dancing hall poster-fame. Oops, wrong city. No, his museum was located in his birthplace, the town of Albi an hour’s drive out of Toulouse. Nor could we visit what Toulouse was famous for – its aeronautic industry, aka the Airbus factory. For security reasons tours require bookings two weeks in advance. As consolation it was lucky for us that the hotel had a pool, a good way to pass the time in warm weather, and Space City, an aerospace museum that was nearby and AVAILABLE. Here, a large landscaped park is filled with space rockets and a replica of the Russian Mir Space Station (how the heck did those astronauts live in such a small cramped capsule for so long?). There’s also a planetarium, various theatres and interactive displays. Aeronautical paraphernalia, we figured, were a nice change from architectural and historical sights-fatigue.

Practising my Russian Euro-pose
in front of the Mir Space Station, Toulouse

Space City, below

Leaving Toulouse two days later for the village of Monpazier, in the Dordogne, we set out via Albi to finally see the works of the talented, height-challenged painter. It was well worth the detour. In the town's centre, Albi is graced with half-timbered buildings that are dwarfed by the huge Cathedrale Sainte Cecile that towers majestically over the town. Le Musee Toulouse-Lautrec is in a stunning historical setting. The pinkish-red bricked Palais de la Berbie, once upon a time housing the bishops of Albi from the 13^th century onwards, now houses many of Lautrec’s prints and artworks. Outside, beautiful manicured gardens overlook the Tarn River way below.

Palais de la Berbie now houses the Toulouse-Lautrec museum

So, onward then to the Dordogne’s southern gourmet epicentre we went. We drove a long time, even though distance-wise it wasn’t really that far away. Miss Moneypenny, our GPS system, turned our 2 ½ drive from Albi into a 4 hour long distance marathon. Over hill, dell and dale our little black Peugeot rolled on. She knows where she’s going and we don’t so we’ll put our full trust in her, we reasoned.

Cathedrale Sainte Cecile, Albi

Just as we neared large autoroutes the digital voice would steer us parallel to these highways then whisk us down winding country roads where we’d sit fuming on the tail of hay-laden tractors that were impossible to overtake on the bends. Had I programmed the GPS to select France’s most scenically smallest roads? A re-check of the system - fastest time, shortest distance or eco-route - confirmed that I’d selected shortest distance. Changing the GPS to fastest time to get there took us further down smaller and tighter roads. Under the sunroof of our car, exasperation levels peaked when Max refused to cross a farm property down a gravel road that Moneypenny had directed the car to go. That put her into another one of her hissy fits - then a short silence as she recalculated more of her dastardly routes all the way to our destination.

View of Albi and the River Tarn

Okay, so we got to see some pretty villages and bucolic pastures along the way but on arrival here at Monpazier I made the decision to put her into temporary retirement during our three week stay in the Perigord. In other words, she was fired and I forged an intimate alliance with our Michelin road atlas. A much more trustworthy partnership.

Arles and Provence - A Land of Contrasts

2011-11-04T03:05:00.000+08:00

Arles in Provence is all about the bull - big black bulls that paw the earth and lower their golden-knobbed horns before charging around the Roman amphitheatre after athletic young bodies in a game of tag. Others find themselves on restaurant menus in the form of toro sausages and bull steak.

Were we really in France? We were hearing French but drinking sangria and eating paella and tareau casserole. Arles in the southern French region of Provence is a couple of hours’ drive from the border of France and Italy. And yet despite its proximity to Italy, to immerse oneself in this town feels as though one foot is straddling Spain and just the big toe of the other foot is in France. We had arrived from Genoa in Italy, giving the French Riviera a wide berth. After spending time on the Italian Riviera and the beaches of Naxos it was time for a change of scenery.

Arles' Roman amphitheatre

Having naturally acquired many Italian words to our limited repertoire whilst in Italy, we automatically responded with ‘si’ and ‘gratzie’ against this new backdrop, then quickly replaced them with “oui” and “merci”. So, it was no wonder that we were continually mistaken for tanned Italian tourists. However, unlike Italy where places are buzzing with people at night time, evenings on the old Roman streets of Arles were relatively quiet.

Arles street with amphitheatre in background

Vincent Van Gogh is a big name here in Arles, where he spent time living with Paul Gaugin and painting before committing himself to an asylum. The central Place du Forum, which houses the café that Van Gogh famously painted in ‘Starry Night’, has the tourists flocking to its many eateries including these two little black ducks for very average, moderately priced meals with a roving Spanish guitarist thrown in for ambience. But we weren’t here for the art or the artists this time, our second visit after 17 years. What attracted us were the Camargue area to the south of Arles and the Provencal scenery to the north.

The Camarguaise area, flat and filled with swamps and salty marshes along the coast, is home to a wide range of birdlife including flocks of pink flamingos that we observed picking for food through wetlands at the large regional nature park. Beware the mosquitoes! We passed black bull farms and stables of white Camargue horses. This is cowboy country with a Spanish-French twist. There are white-washed, blue-shuttered houses some with horned bull skulls proudly on show on walls and some with thatched roofs. In the nearby coastal town of Saintes-Maries De La Mer, cowboy boots are for sale, along with horse saddles and belt buckles that would appeal to the Marlborough man within you. Shops display names such as El Rio Grande and Sitting Bull, and stuffed toy bulls are popular souvenirs.

Flamingos in the Camargue

In Sts-Maries De La Mer we visited a large church dedicated to the two Maries (Marie-Salome and Marie-Jacobe) who apparently were shipwrecked here. The church and the surrounding area attract Roma gypsies (called gitans) whose patron saint is the black Sara, whose relics are here along with relics of the Maries. We found an underground church crypt that had a fascinating gypsy shrine devoted to Sara.

Siesta time.
Side street, Saintes-Maries de la Mer

Okay, so the French in these parts, unlike the rest of their countrymen, are into bull games. The Camarguaise bull games that we witnessed in Arles’ Roman amphitheatre involved young lads dressed in white (Max likened their outfits to cricket whites) running across the arena and taunting bulls to encourage them to take chase. The runner’s task is to run in front of the bull and snatch the ribbon tied between the bull’s brass-capped horns using a claw-like comb held in the hand. To escape a charging bull, runners leap high over the arena boundary with incredible energy and athleticism. The bulls don’t get hurt in the process but the team of 14 able-bodied men was reduced to 11 by the end of the show. Bulls win!

Charge!

Time out, guys!

Everyone takes cover as this smart bull jumps the barrier.

We organised a stay at a French country-style house B&B a few kilometres out of Arles where we met up with two Italian families travelling together. This jovial, friendly bunch of four adults and four children invited us to join their family gatherings where we shared food, laughs and conversations. Carla and her husband work for the Senate in Rome and their English was very good which meant, having them as translators, we could all communicate.

To the north of Arles lies the Provencal region of Luberon. We managed to squish in a lot of places along a 100km route (plus return) into one scenic sunny daytrip that also included small hikes. Up in the pretty light coloured village of Gordes perched on its hilltop location, it was market day where trestles of local products, including colourful Provencal-designed linens, cheeses, sausages, nuts, olive oils, crafts and flowers, filled the small streets and town square. Bunches of deep purple highly-fragrant Provencal lavender were too irresistible to pass by. We bought a bunch to take with us along our trip.

Gordes

Nearby is a tiny village of historic bories (huts made of stones) that have sat amongst hilltop farmlands for centuries. The dry stone huts reminded us of Irish ones we’d seen, such as the Gallarus Oratory on the Dingle Peninsula, only that these ones were set against a backdrop of a limestoney Mediterranean landscape with fig, olive and cypress trees. To reach the village meant driving very carefully along tight country laneways lined with high stone walls with an occasional little widening of the road to allow for passing traffic. As we were in a brand new lease car, Max was mindful of the paintwork and the side mirrors which on occasion had needed tucking in to get through tight spots, so we were hoping that we wouldn’t meet oncoming traffic. The bories were very impressive - stone housing, workshops and animal pens were grouped together like a small commune. Considering that no mortar was used to build the roofs and walls, they were an amazing feat of architectural engineering.

Village of bories

The salmon pink-coloured clifftop town of Roussillon with its terracotta roofs lit up under a sunny sky was an absolute delight. Roussillon is renowned for its ochre canyons and quarries. We hiked through the Sentier des Ocres, the ochre trail that led downhill through a veritable colour chart of deep yellow and red ochres, apricots and melons interspersed with streaks of russets, maroons and burnt umber. Tall trees of chestnuts and cypresses shaded the canyon floor providing cool respite from the glare of the sun. By the time we’d finished hiking the ochre trail, our walking boots and socks were coated yellow by the fine pigments underfoot.

Hikers on the Ochre Trail

Further past Roussillon is the Colorado du Provencal near a tiny village called Rustrel. This is a strange rock landscape that rises suddenly from surrounding forests and was once an ochre quarry. We followed the marked trails, hiking around and over ochre formations that looked like mini-me versions of Uluru (Ayers Rock) and others with names such as the Sahara. Driving through the Luberon’s fields and rolling hills, lavender bushes neatly trimmed of their summer flowers sat looking like silvery grey pincushions lined up in orderly rows.

Cafe life, Roussillon

Surveying the lay of the land, Colorado du Provencal

Max on top, Colorado du Provencal

The Camargue and Luberon areas of Provence are so vastly different from each other in terrain, sights and customs, and yet surprisingly a short distance from each other within the same country. Black bulls, white horses and pink flamingos around wetland coastal plains and then the inland colours of limestone, ochres and terracottas amid green pastoral scenes at the other. What a colourful, intriguing glimpse of contrasts it has been for us.

Genoa - The Last Italian Port of Call

2011-10-28T10:12:00.000+08:00

Our last stop-off in Italy before heading into France was the birthplace of Christopher Columbus (a fact still being questioned among historians) – the port city of Genoa. We left from the Cinque Terre, detouring off at pretty Santa Margherita, a short distance away from our base in Levanto, which we turned into a major feat of time and driving due to misinterpreting ambiguous GPS directions. We also wanted to drive through Portofino, 2 minutes away from St Margherita, but were turned away by a police roadblock at Portofino’s one and only entry road. The town was “full” and no more cars were being allowed in! How quaint does that sound.

Onwards to Genoa on the Ligurian coast, theoretically an hour’s drive away, where we’d booked an overnight hotel stay near the harbour before driving into France.

Ok, Miss Moneypenny, our GPS electronic gal – “the all-knowing one” whom we depend on to find our way through Italy or we’d still be lost – kept silent when Genoa’s tricky motorways rapidly split into two directions at regular intervals. We drove through the city exit tolls twice until we could make sense of Moneypenny’s directions, with Max by my side blowing his brains off in frustration. She was patient and unresponsive as Max unleashed a barrage of choice words at her.

"Recalculating....recalculating" was her mantra as we took many wrong turn-offs. “Arriving at destination on left”, says Moneypenny as Max swung the car into the hotel’s driveway located on the right. It was a great relief to finally arrive.

Genoa is a grungy, mangy kind of place. It is the least Italian city we’ve explored and yet there was something about it that we liked. Maybe it was refreshing to be in a gritty place after all the prettiness of Chianti and Cinque Terre. Tall apartment blocks spill down Genoa’s steep granite hillsides which fan out along the coast. A melting pot of cultures, there is every shade of skin colour that points to its long history as a trade port. As you walk its streets you pass by eating places such as sushi bars, kebab joints and others with names such as Shanghai Kitchen or Orient Express. Foccacia with pesto and spaghetti with pesto sauce are some of the local Ligurian specialties.

Alleyway, historic centre

In the old historic part of town across from the harbour are homeless street people with dogs. The vicoli (narrow laneways) are dark, depressing and forbidding. Old buildings are so tall and so close together that sunlight doesn’t penetrate down to ground level. Squeezed in from all fronts by aged buildings is one of the most amazing-looking black and white striped churches, Cattedrale di San Lorenzo. Two huge beautifully-sculpted marble lions sit guarding either side of its entrance.

The renovated harbour, Porto Antico, is a palm tree-lined waterfront with restaurants, bars, luxury yachts, the Biosphere, a pirate ship and a contraption called Il Bigo that looks like a giant hoist that takes you up in a rotating lift for panoramic views of the harbour. Genoa Aquarium, which we visited, spreads out across the pier and onto a floating engineless barge with great exhibits. There was a festive atmosphere about the harbour as eating stalls, vendors and performers had set up for a temporary event that we couldn’t make out – possibly political PR – but we enjoyed joining in the celebrations.

Both sides of modern sculpture,
Porto Antico

Whilst strolling the harbour front I was approached (but not Max) by someone handing out leaflets to a Tattoo Convention being held in Genoa on the weekend. Now seriously - I ask you, do I look like the kind of person who is into skin art? It seems like nearly every second Italian sports a tattoo of some kind, so I guess there’s a niche market for a communal gathering for the inked-skin ones. We’ve seen a huge variety of tats on a range of body parts throughout Italy – a few tasteful ones, some pretty ghastly ones and others in places that makes you question whether the tattoo owners were conscious when they chose their design and location.

We really couldn’t do Genoa justice in the short time that we had, although we would have loved to discover more. Looking at the tourist map, it listed nearly 50 palazzi around the city centre (we wouldn’t even try had we had the time!), bucketloads of churches, museums and monuments and many panoramic viewpoints by funicular. Genoa is a city daring to be explored.

On the steps of Cattedrale di San Lorenzo
and below
its beautiful detailed facade

Leaving Italy after almost 3 weeks, we are now well and truly gluten-ed out by Italian pizza, pasta and panini – and may we say, most of them of excellent taste and quality. Our final night in the country, however, was spent eating Turkish kebabs washed down with ayran, a Turkish sour and salty kind of yoghurt that we’ve enjoyed on previous travels to Turkey.

The cost of food as we’ve motored through Italy has been excellent value. An example - Max had to question the café if he was charged correctly (ie, undercharged) for a breakfast of 2 coffees (caffe latte) and 2 croissants = €3-80. Admittedly, it wasn’t in Rome. Any longer in the country, though, and my body would have popped out into the shape of a gnocchi ball.

Coming face-to-face with Genoa Aquarium's sea creatures

The opposite to Russian table service (ie, just as the fork leaves your lips with the last mouthful of food a waiter appears from the wings and whisks your plate away), in Italy once you eat and ask for the bill you could be left sitting staring at the walls or the scenery for a long time. Looks like they’re in no hurry to take your money or have you out of there quickly.

Maybe it’s this time of the year, the end of the summer holiday season when everyone is more relaxed, but drivers in Italy have not seemed as notorious as the stories we’d heard. Highways and motorways have not seen the busy crowded streams of traffic as we’d expected. What we’ve found most impressive is how the Italians are terribly skilled at manoeuvring around and parking their vehicles in the smallest and tightest of spaces, not that they have a choice.

Arrivederci, bellissima Italia. Farewell to panini, now we begin the baguette. We head over the border to France next where we bonjour our way around for two months.

Cinque Terre

2011-10-24T17:09:00.000+08:00

Vernazza, one of the Cinque Terre villages

As mentioned in the last post, we were fortunate to have been offered an apartment in Levanto, a 5-minute train trip away from the Cinque Terre villages (literally translates as the Five Lands), when all around the region places were full for the summer. On our arrival into town, Paola the hotel owner, left her busy little hotel behind, hopped on to her scooter and zipped away leaving us to follow her to her rental apartment. This apartment is where she used to live when newly married pre-children, she explained to us as she showed us around but now it’s rented out to tourists. Paola’s parents live in the apartment next door and we were introduced to the kindly mama.

The place was perfect for our 5 day stay, although in the end we wished we could have stayed longer, but it was fully booked. A one-bedroom flat with separate kitchen, lounge room and bathroom (by the by, what’s with all the bidets in Italy and who uses them these days?) on the 4^th floor of an apartment block in the centre of town that overlooked gardens below and a 3-minute walk to the beach – fantastic! It felt as though we were going to be living like locals.

A light Levanto lunch

Levanto is a much larger town than any of the five Cinque Terre villages, and proved to be a great base. It’s attractive in its own right with colourful painted facades in trompe l’oeil (the painting technique that makes something look three-dimensional). Levanto has a long gravel and black sandy beach where, although constantly crowded, we still managed to find space to spread out two beach towels side-by-side – that’s a big accomplishment on a tightly packed Italian beach. For some meals, we dined on fresh figs, sweet golden peaches, Italian cheeses, prosciutto and Toscano ham with bread whilst sitting on our balcony after a swim. What a life!

Stepping outside the apartment, we were metres away from shops, restaurants, gelaterias, bars, cafes and pizzerias with the train station a 10-15 minute walk away. The Cinque Terre villages – Monterosso, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola and Riomaggiore – don’t allow access into their centres by car, so being close to the train station was handy.

Street in Levanto at siesta time,
with the Appenines in the background

Max in his Italian straw hat
on Levanto's waterfront

We were looking forward to cereal for breakfast which we hadn’t eaten in quite a while, and so we went grocery shopping. Cereal is not a customary part of the Italian breakfast regime, but I was missing it after the same choices that we’d had for weeks on end in Greece and Italy - bread, jam, coffee, occasionally cheese and cold cuts. In Italy, Italian croissants (always filled with custard – puke! - please leave the croissants to the French) or pastries (always filled with custard, not again!). Unlike Max, I couldn’t face slices of nitrate for breakfast – let’s leave that for lunch.

Corniglia's colourful homes sit high on the cliff

Below, vines and fruit trees on terraces around Corniglia

On our first morning we discovered there were no bowls for cereal in the apartment. I knocked on mama’s and papa’s next door apartment. He arrived in his summer pyjamas (oops, at 8.30 am I’d woken him up) and he began rifling through the kitchen cupboards and drawers. Holding the cereal box in one hand and making a bowl shape with my other whilst imitating eating he starts to narrow down the choices – spoon, side plate, stainless steel cooking pot. Gosh, I must be shocking at charades – failed Non-Verbal Communication 101.

Max says “for soup”. Papa holds out a china cup on a saucer. Hmm, I’m thinking that should fit about 2 tablespoons of cereal flakes and 6 sultanas. “Ohh, no”, I say, shaking my head, “that’s a coffee cup”. “N-o-o-o, this is not for coffee”, he says reaching up to the overhead cabinet and bringing down a tiny espresso cup “ …THIS is a coffee cup”. Okay, we’re in Italy, I should have figured. Anyway, mama went shopping that day and there sitting on the kitchen table on our return that evening were 4 Goldilocks-sized patterned bowls –bigger than a teacup and smaller than a saucepan – that were just right.

We were here to visit the colourful little UNESCO-heritage Cinque Terre villages so we decided to see them first by ferryboat before tackling the coastal Blue Trail (the ‘Sentiero Azzuro’) that connects all five villages. In this way we got a good clear view of all of them from the water and would better appreciate the sights before commencing the hot sweaty job of hiking.

The pretty villages cascade down the rocks to the water’s edge or otherwise sit clinging like barnacles to cliff faces, with the Ligurian Appenines curtaining the surrounding background. Parts of hillslopes are farmed terraces and a railway track that passes through mountain tunnels links all the coastal towns and villages.

Manarola spills down to the rocky water's edge

The weather was extremely hot and humid and we wished we’d taken our bathers (swimming costumes for non-Sandgropers) with us on the boat trip. The brilliant blue of the waters taunted us all day long as we hopped on and off the ferry from one port to the next. Beaches are not as we Aussies would define them. In Manarola, swimmers jump into the sea from huge granite boulders around the bays and were using the rocks and boat ramp for sunbathing. In Vernazza and Riomaggiore a tiny patch of sand at each inlet is the spot for swimmers. Monterosso’s long sandy beachfront was lined with perfect formations of patterned beach umbrellas to one side and a free-for-all crowded strip on the other. But, hey, when the sun’s beating down so hot, who cares as long as you can reach the water.

Swimmers take the plunge

Sentinels of umbrellas in military formations

Tans, tattoos and torsos were in abundance. There were plenty of Euro-poses for photos – it’s a lift and a roll of the shoulder, toss of the hair and sideways sultry look at the camera. I’m still working on mine, it’s taking a bit of practise and I’ve yet to perfect it.

We enjoyed a delightful seafood lunch at Manarola, found the-Best-Lemon-Granita-Ever in Monterosso made with real lemons from the local orchards, and came home with bottles of limoncino liqueur and pesto, specialties made in the area. The villages are brightly painted and so picturesque, but expect to walk up and down many steps that connect different street levels.

Tiny backstreets linked by stairs

When you’ve seen it all at ground level there’s nowhere else but up after that. So then, after paying our National Park fee it was time to tackle The Hike which we planned to do over 2 days. We would walk from Riomaggiore to Vernazza and then pace it out by completing the final and most difficult leg, Vernazza to Monterosso, the following day so that we wouldn’ t drop dead from heat exhaustion and muscle aches.

We got an early start to avoid the worst of the heat. Problems with train delays, however, put paid to that intention. The first section from Riomaggiore to Manarola, called Via dell’Amore, was an easy paved stroll of about 20 minutes overlooking the Ligurian Sea. And it’s no wonder that it’s called lovers’ lane, the views are stunning. Numerous couples in love have left ribbons and locked padlocks hanging on the netting covering parts of the rock face.

Spectacular coastline from Via dell'Amore

The one-kilometre trail connecting Manarola and Corniglia was closed because of a landslide earlier in the year so that meant waiting to catch a train onwards and then an over-crowded bus ride up the steep slope to this colourful hamlet. Corniglia has tall, painted building squished together on tiny hillside streets and micro-sized piazzas. It doesn’t have direct access to the sea by boat as it sits high above the water but its outskirts can be reached by road.

Hiking past olive and fig trees

Hiking from Corniglia to Vernazza, the longest section by distance, took 1 ½ hours to walk the 4 kilometres following the scenic coastline. The narrow trail undulated up, down and around hill sides past grapevines, olive and fruit trees. Yachts could be seen sailing by in the cool waters far below. The humidity and heat were building up as we headed into midday. Vernazza was a very beautiful sight to behold as we approached over the ridge and down the stone steps. Its church bell tower and stone castle towers overlooking the harbour come into view as you near the village.

Hiking trail between Vernazza and Monterosso

A lunch break of pesto pizza on the steps along the main street with other tourists was a welcome and cool respite, and then came time to challenge ourselves. Could we continue knowing that the next section would be difficult and it was afternoon when the sun was at its peak? We asked each other if we were up to it. Both of us felt that we still had plenty of fuel in the tank. As we tend to subtly spur each other on, I don’t think either of us would have given in and admitted that we wouldn’t do it, whether we could or not. Anyway, completing the whole trail in one day would give us extra swimming and relaxation time we reasoned. Good-o, then off we go!

Following the blue and white striped route markers through Vernazza’s backstreets, uphill and onwards to Monterosso took us nearly 2 ½ hours to complete the 3 km steep hike. The path narrowed further as we slowly ascended. In places the trail was rough with loose stones and uneven steps. In others, thin dusty dirt paths barely wide enough to accommodate a fat goat’s belly (it is an old mule track, after all) followed the mountain edges where it would be a long rough fall if you lost your footing. All the while, spectacular coastal views were to our left (west) and we stopped numerous times not only to catch our breath but to remember to look back over our shoulders for views of the villages hugging the cliffs and inlets.

The rough track narrows

It was hot sweaty work, although not as strenuous as we’d expected it to be. Along the way, I was captivated by the numerous and unusual delicate spider webs that stretched like the finest of fine organza miniature trapeze artist nets across wild untamed shrubs. We passed fig and cypress trees, tangled bushes of wild berries and terraces of untended orchards. Apart from buzzing bees, no animal or insect life was visible under the blue cloudless sky but cicadas could be heard loud and clear.

Look how high we've climbed!
Vernazza in the distance as we look behind us

We passed hikers coming from the opposite direction (much harder hike this way as it’s more uphill) who looked quite professional with their walking poles whilst others wore only bathers. Some women walked in high heel shoes (? ? confounded by that!), others inappropriately dressed for the heat in synthetic long sleeved tops in the sweat-inducing humidity and yet others wore tiny tops and no hat under the blistering sun.

In the last half kilometre that steeply descended closer towards Monterosso, Max’s knees gave him a hard time and mine were beginning to complain. We slackened the pace considerably as Max tackled the downhill steps slowly and painfully. Once we reached flat ground his knees thankfully settled back to normal. A salt-encrusted layer of Ligurian dust coated us as we re-hydrated at the end of the trail and we celebrated the finish with one more of Monterosso’s icy cold lemon granitas.

Monterosso beach

We thought we’d pull up really sore the next day but surprisingly both of us were in fine form with no aches or pains, apart from a headache on my part. Mission accomplished as well as a tick next to “hike the Cinque Terre” on our mental wishlist of world wonders to see and do. We’ve sunned, swam, hiked and sampled the Cinque Terre delights. Toscano salami and proscuitto with a great tasting Toscano pecorino cheese have been our favourite staples, but no vino. Our bodies needed hydrating after the litres they’d lost up in the Cinque Terre mountains. Both of us would have loved to have explored more hiking trails around this area, many that stretch up through vineyards and to inland villages. As we say to each other, gotta leave something for next time, which is another way of comforting ourselves with the belief that we will return.

The Walled City of Lucca

2011-10-19T05:36:00.002+08:00

Allora (as the Italians would say), our next Italian stopover after leaving the Chianti area is Lucca in the north-west part of Tuscany. It’s Sunday morning and the church bells are ringing crazily two doors away from our hotel. In Italy you’re never too far away from a church or the sound of ringing bells. The weather is hot and muggy today. It’s expected to reach 40 degrees, the first time we’ve experienced such high temps since our time in Uzbekistan. It’s far too steamy to be out walking the medieval streets until the temperature drops a few C’s and the coastal breeze reaches us. We’re a long way off for a dip in the ocean waters which would be the perfect antidote to today’s heat.

This is the birthplace of Puccini, which we weren’t aware of (embarrassed to say we hadn’t done much research before our arrival). His operas are performed here and cafes and restaurants are named after him. Pasticcerias (patisseries) make references to Puccini through their wares, aka Madama Butterfly cakes. We didn’t get around to tasting any theatrically-sounding sweets, nor go to any operas, a shame; although 'La Boheme', one of my absolute favourites, was not being performed which made me feel a teensy bit better. His birthplace was closed for renovation until next month – so no luck on all Puccini fronts.

Puccini's birthplace sits at the far corner of this piazza

We’re here, however, because Lucca is the only completely walled-in town in Italy with its original Renaissance walls still intact as it hadn’t been bombed in WWII. We’d heard great things about this place. It has a fascinating history where it was a centre of silk production in the Middle Ages (although there doesn’t seem to be any evidence of this now) and Napoleon Bonaparte’s sister ruled the city for a while.

Our first evening here was spent strolling the 4km circuit that crowns the top of the city’s ramparts. We joined cyclists, joggers, walkers and families with prams partaking in a little passeggiata (promenading) on this wide path that is lined with trees up at this height. Earlier that day, for a higher elevation, we climbed to the top of Lucca’s tower of the hour (ie, historic clock tower) for panoramic views across terracotta rooftops, palazzos, churches and hill-surrounded backdrops. Memories of past travels to the land of pizzas and piazzas came flooding back – I’d forgotten how the leg and butt muscles get a good workout climbing all those ancient steps and towers.

Max practising his Tyrolean hiker's pose
on Lucca's ramparts

Although Lucca is very close to Pisa and Florence we chose to stay away from these heavily touristed places. The summer heat, parking woes and tourist crowds made it a definite no-go zone for us. Florence, as we’d previously discovered, is uncomfortably jam-packed any time of the year, and we agreed that it would be best to come back to Italy in cooler climes to visit these locations.

We climbed more than 200 steps to the top of the Torre delle Ore
for panoramic views

So we took in Lucca at a leisurely pace. Several churches and cathedrals, its city gates and little streets, a Roman amphitheatre whose ruins had turned into a piazza with housing over the ages now with cafes and restaurants, sampling the gelati, naturally.……. We also had the chance to sit in front of our hotel room’s TV which we hadn’t done for simply ages, watching programs dubbed in Italian as well as some very old, ghastly Aussie TV series and movies (real shockers that must surely had been a bargain for Italian networks to purchase). We understood barely an Italian word emanating from the idiot box, but sat there mutely like zombies attracted to the moving pictures.

More interesting than Italian TV, a monthly antique market in the piazzas around the Cattedrale di San Martino and spilling into other side streets had us browsing old oil paintings, American 1960’s-1970’s costume jewellery, African crafts, retro furniture as well as vintage bric-a-brac. Max lingered over the timeworn English sports goods, an unusual place to find such a collection. The term ‘antique’ seemed a little fluid.

Antique markets around the Cathedral

It’s August (I’m way behind in posting my blogs, as you can tell,) and the summer sales are on. Comparing prices with those back home, clothing in Italy is great value. I went from trying medium sizes to large…. then extra-large. I gave up after devastating moments in front of many fitting-room mirrors with pants that would pull up just a little further than the knees and tops that would best serve me as either a straightjacket or a neck warmer. The only thing that fitted was a scarf. Come on, are all Italian women really that small? You’d have to be 10 years old to fit into some of those boutique sizes. So, in fact the clothing was really good value – I saved a heap of euros.

We’re getting quite comfortable walking hip-to-hubcap with trucks, buses and cars down narrow squeezy roads. Whilst it would not be the done thing back home, here it’s acceptable for pedestrians to spill out directly onto the roads, especially where there are either no footpaths or they’re no wider than a handkerchief. Often it’s the vehicles that slowly pick their way around and through the passers-by.

Street view of Guinigi tower with oak trees on top

We’ve spent a day or two longer than we had anticipated in this city – our fault due to not planning too far ahead or taking into account how busy the Italian coast would be in late August. Often it’s a few days before moving on that we make up our minds about where we want to go next. This time we got caught out without accommodation for the Cinque Terre region.

I’d searched online and sent emails to numerous places, finally tracking down a hotel room that was a little more than what we wanted to pay, but in this season beggars can’t be choosers. The owner and I emailed each other to and fro, until there was no response to one of my queries. The day before our arrival in Cinque Terre a phone call from Max to confirm and check on details regarding our booking revealed that our reservation had been given away. Unbelievable! Merda (that’s shit in Italian)!

A heap of phone calls directly to accommodation places by Max at a public phone booth in the heat of the afternoon turned up no result – many were booked up until the end of the month. A call to a regional tourist office and Max was told that the Cinque Terre was fully booked for miles. #!@?! Insert very strong expletives here.

Yesterday afternoon I sent off a bundle of pleading emails to accommodation places hoping someone would take pity on us. All came back to us in the negative. Finally today, we received one positive response – a hotel owner who had no hotel rooms left but her private apartment in the centre of Levanto was available due to a cancellation. Yoohoo! We’re finally moving on.

Tonight (our fifth and final night) we are dining at one of the many little Italian trattorias inside the town walls with one of the hotel guests, a British tourist who shares Max’s enthusiasm for the game of cricket. We are looking for an alternative to pizza, so it’s pasta tonight. I think we’ll be celebrating our great luck, as well.

Winding Through Chianti

2011-10-16T08:20:00.000+08:00

We picked up our new lease car, a Peugeot 207, from Rome’s airport to drive us through Italy and France over the next 2 months. It comes with a portable GPS (and a 30 second training session) – which we’ve never had the need to use before – and it’s been a huge learning curve on how to manipulate it so that it becomes your friend rather than your enemy.

Our GPS speaks to us in a commanding and cultured British-accented female voice. She sounds as though she would be a twin-set and pearls kind of gal. We’ve named her Miss Moneypenny, as in James Bond’s secretary. Miss Moneypenny is certainly worth her weight in gold pennies but that’s not to say she’s always right. There’ve been many occasions when Max has sworn his head off at her. She’s confused me, Navigator number 2, by comments such as “Turn right” on mountainous hairpin bends. Oh what, as opposed to going over the edge? We’ve plenty of time, Miss Moneypenny and I, to get very well acquainted.

Grapes, wild boar, pungent black truffles, olive oil, chianti classico wine and porcini mushrooms – these are the staples of the Chianti area and what we found on typical Chianti menus.

Radda-in-Chianti

We didn’t realise that the rolling hills of central Tuscany were so forested. Anticipating it to be mostly cultivated land of neat rows of vines with the occasional line of cypresses was only part of the picture. Thick woodlands cover the slopes and surround farmlets. Narrow winding roads climb and descend Tuscan hills, sometimes passing through canopies of forest trees. Villages, stone castles and farmhouses nestle in amongst all the greenery.

Small cafes tucked away in small corners of piazzas,
Radda-in-Chianti

The area we chose to stay in had pretty villages and hamlets with melodic names like Castellina-In-Chianti (beautiful medieval stone tunnel streets and a small square-towered castle), Radda-In-Chianti (pretty little piazzas), Greve-In-Chianti (cool arched arcades surround the medieval piazza and has historical links with Verrazzano who discovered New York’s harbour), Panzano (where Max scored a free bottle of white Chianti through a raffle held outside in the village piazza) and Montefioralle (a gorgeous tiny medieval stone village). If you say these names with a broad Italian accent you get the right melody. Florence lies to the north and Siena to the south.

Tiny 3-wheeler for tiny streets,
Panzano

By the way, when do hills become mountains? I’ve always wanted someone to explain the difference to me. Any ideas? Some of those hillslopes were very steep and scary whilst I sat white-knuckled in the passenger seat as we reached high elevations then went back down again, with only the occasional gasp of fear as cars or the irregular truck approached from the opposite direction when it looked like there was room only for one of us on the road. On the other hand, Max with cool nerves carefully wound the car around tight bends and mountain-edged slivers of tarmac, only twice having to coax the car into a 3-point turn to get around sharp z-bends. A few days of this kind of driving and then I began to relax. Luckily the roads were relatively quiet which surprised us considering it was peak summer season.

Montefioralle

As well as enjoying the food and wine of the district, we stayed at two countryhouse B&B’s. The first was in a rustic farmhouse set high up near a national park and the second was a charmingly decorated country house by the name of Il Casello with a lovely pool and gorgeous countryside views. The area has vineyards, cellars and olive groves and is loaded with wild boar as well as wild deer. Gunshots at dusk can be heard at times ringing around the countryside with the distant sound of the hunters’ barking dogs. Feral piggy-wig sausage would be arriving on someone’s plate soon.

A moment of surprise happened as we headed back to our accommodation at dusk after a pasta dinner at one of the local villages. A stout wiry-haired tusked boar emerged from the edge of the forest and stood by the road as Max slowed down the car to take the bend. Whoa!! A boar with road sense! The only time we got close to seeing one after that was on Tuscan menus (wild boar sausage, wild boar casserole, wild boar and truffle pasta sauce) and hanging up in the form of dried salamis in macellarias (butchers) and in supermarkets.

Motoring us around the neighbourhood, Max made the challenging drive up to the historic Antinori wine estate of Badia a Passignano to sample the local vino. The estate is very picturesque set across hills and valleys with typical Tuscan-style buildings. Pricey wine tastings are held in a restored 18^th century building that also houses a restaurant. On site we explored the exterior of an extremely old abbey with a fascinating history and frescoes, but we were disappointed to find that it was closed for renovations when we were there.

Antinori wine estate of Badia a Passignano

Chianti’s airforce of stripy mosquitoes are ravenous for exposed flesh in this neck of the woods on summer nights so insect repellant is a must. We saw tourists sporting the results of the most blotchiest and heartiest feasts on legs and arms. Both of us came out unscathed, maybe the tanned skin is getting too tough for a mozzie proboscis to penetrate.

A short and sweet, although hot, reunion with medieval Siena after a 17 year absence was a daytrip away from our Chianti nest. The Piazza Il Campo was packed with rammed earth, embedded with horse hoof imprints from the Il Palio – Siena’s famous horse race where jockeys in their satins tear around the piazza on bare-backed highly strung steeds to win the honour of a flag. Leading up to the main race are many trials and parades in the preceding month. Team Giraffa (the Giraffes) had won and their colours flew from flagposts outside palazzo buildings.

Siena and Duomo Cathedral

The wealth and power of ancient Siena can be seen and felt when we walked its narrow streets and passed by the numerous palazzos. The Duomo Cathedral, crowning the hilltop overlooking Siena, was still as drop-dead gorgeous as the first time we remembered it. Stepping inside, it’s gothic gone ga-ga - this is a sculptural confection of marble, painted artworks and dramatic black and white striped soaring columns reaching up to blue-domed starry ceilings.

Siena's Cathedral

Great gelati was a memory of our previous visit to Siena so we scoured the gelaterias for the best to taste. Artiginiale, which refers to it being handcrafted, is a label we look out for as well as judging the colour of the gelati – too brightly coloured is a no-sale for us. Max chose his favourite lemon whilst I indulged in my favourite flavour of the day – sometimes it can be rockmelon, other times it can be coconut, caramel, raspberry….

Gelati - confused for choice!

These have been some of the flavours of Chianti for us on our sensory meander through the sights, sounds and tastes of this one small section of the region.

Rome: An Account Of A Rat and The Ruins

2011-10-11T16:16:00.001+08:00

Buongiorno, ragazzi from bellissima Roma where we’ve come to sample some dolce vita. We had to be somewhere on the continent in August, and Italy was the best option after leaving Malta and before we head into France. Checked out Turkey – way too hot; checked out Tunisia – too unstable; checked out Libya – doubly unstable. Everywhere too hot in more ways than one! So here we are in Roma, to continue our Italian travels, after flying across the sea from Sicily on a budget airline flight.

Street busker at work

Summer in the Eternal City appeared bereft of Italians. Where were all the Prada-accessorised, D & G-clad, perfectly tanned beautiful people? They’d vacated Rome for the beaches and coastlines, and so it seemed that the tourists outnumbered the locals. Away from the usual attractions, streets were quiet and many shopfronts closed. Rome wasn’t the potent sauna we’d been expecting of mid-August, with temps climbing to around the low 30’s, with a light breeze at times by evening. Maybe the summer scorcher was yet to come.

A Michelangelo masterpiece in the Church of St Maria Minerva

The most exciting moment during our short stay was THE RAT! On a balmy evening, we sat outdoors in the Trastevere neighbourhood at one of the 6 or 8 tiny tables squeezed together and bedecked with red-and-white-checked tablecloths at a tiny family trattoria that sat side-by-side with a tiny pizzeria in a teeny-weeny piazza. An Italian female singer in costume accompanied by her guitarist arrived on foot across the cobblestones and did her busking thing around the tables in a gorgeous voice and beautiful face. Tips collected, off she and guitar man went and diners went back to eating their pasta and pizza and to their quiet conversations.

It was then that the rat (more like a mangy-looking mouse) ran across the piazzetta causing gasps from diners. “Ratta!” someone shouted. There was a moment of frenzied panic as some stood up and began backing away towards restaurant doorways. One woman stood on her chair in fear. The rat ran back from where it came and all settled down. It made a re-appearance minutes later. More shouts and panic, mingled with nervous laughter. We watched the reactions range from cool amusement to absolute horror, and tried to control our laughter. The pizzeria’s signora then dragged the young cook out of the kitchen with a broom in his hand and gestured for him to pursue it. Honestly, what was he planning to do with the broom, sweep it? It was the rat’s lucky night for it escaped through a smidgeon of a space under a roller door. The young cook found pieces of cardboard and stuffed them into the crevices so that the rat wouldn’t return. If anything, the rat seemed to have sparked some animation and lively conversation into the quiet little crowd of diners, and made a pleasant evening even more memorable for us.

The ancient Pantheon houses the tombs of Raphaelo
and Italian kings

We’d visited Rome on previous travels and had seen the major sights before, however we felt compelled to visit the famous antiquities again. Some sites can never be fully appreciated in one visit. Being in Rome and not re-visiting the Colosseum or Trevi Fountain would be akin to going to Paris and missing the Eiffel Tower or Louvre – unspeakable! So we sought out our favourite gems to see, as well as be on the lookout for Rome’s many hidden little springs and drinking fountains, some of which are quite ornate.

Water spring

Pretty quickly into our treasure hunt though, I was blaming the publishers of our Lonely Planet guidebook for changing the size of the font – how dare they make it impossible to read! Labels on maps, in particular, looked little more than trails of ant droppings – until the spectacles went on. I’m determined, when I get back home, to dig out my old editions and compare the size of the texts to see if they’ve changed.

Views across Rome from Palatino Hill

It was there, smack-bang in the middle of the scattered ruins of the Roman Forum that, after 3 ½ months of being constantly on the move, my right knee decided “BASTA” (enough)! I ignored the occasional sharp pains at first but they grew more insistent as I limped about following Max around columns and temples, refusing to give up and therefore miss out on all that wonderful history surrounding us. Besides, my imagination was all fired up trying to picture scenes of how it would have looked during the reign of Augustus and his wife Livia. After queueing for 1 ½ hours under a fiercely skin-burning sun to buy tickets (and that was the short queue), picnicking at the summit of Palatino hill with brilliant views across Rome and the Forum below and being in the midst of an amazing visual feast of relics, I was on a sensory high and wanted to absorb it all.

On a dodgy knee, we viewed the Colosseum from afar

The knee won out in the end and we caught the bus back to the hotel with a disappointingly unfinished tour of the antiquities under our belts. Our remaining day was spent relaxing in the hotel and resting up the knee which I was fervently praying would heal quickly. Not having experienced knee pain like this before, I envisaged worst-case scenarios – being pushed around in a wheelchair like a geriatric invalid on the slopes of Chianti, which would be our next stop, or worse still, having to cut the holiday short and fly home in agony. In the end, to the relief of my over-active imagination, the knee responded well to massage, ice and anti-inflammatory meds.

Ancient ruins of the Roman Forum

Luckily for the knee and for me, we begin the next sector by picking up our brand new Peugeot lease car to drive us through Italy and France over the next 2 ½ months. The timing of it couldn’t have been more perfect.

We've thrown our coins into the Trevi Fountain to ensure our return

A Week In Sicily

2011-10-09T02:48:00.003+08:00

As I sit by our hotel’s wooden shuttered window in the medieval mountaintop town of Erice, in western Sicily, the mist swirls around the aged terracotta rooftops and antique stone buildings, sometimes obscuring the nearby bell tower that I could see so clearly in the bright sunlight the day before. The thin rusted metal crucifix on the duomo’s rooftop that faces the belltower seems to cut through the smokey grey mist. Yesterday’s blue skies and breathtaking vistas from this eagle’s nest (if you ignore the military antenna stationed in front of the town’s prime views) have given way to a shroud of gothic ambience, all the more moody as the bells ring out the time through the thick air.

Erice's castle ruins by sunshine

Out on Erice’s cobblestoned laneways this morning we saw the wind-swept mist whirl up the limestone clifftops, over the Norman castle towers, through the ancient piazzettas and baroque balconies and around doorways of little cafes and ceramic outlets. Down below lay the port town of Trapani and a sweep of bay lapped by the bluest of water - only peeks through the misty gaps today. The cool breeze and drop in temperature are welcome relief to us after weeks of hot Mediterranean summer days.

Last night we joined the throngs of locals and tourists as we dined in the town’s main piazza and watched a local concert under the stars as part of a summer festival.The tall, slim and attractive female presenter with the glossy hair, glamorous gown and perfect tan introduced the talented female singer with the long hair and fashionable frock, both of them talking on and on in Italian before any singing actually began.There was lots of tossing of the hair, and the hands and arms got a good work-out. It was a very pleasant way to pass the evening watching the Italians (make that, Sicilians) in action.

Erice ceramics shop

We had intentions of taking a daytrip into Palermo today, but the strong Italian coffee that had me tossing, turning and losing sleep last night, as well as Erice’s atmospheric allure, kept us contentedly within the limits of the old stone walls. Tomorrow we fly out of Palermo, having seen only its airport. With the tight timeframe that we gave ourselves to drive around Sicily, some compromises had to be made. Palermo was one of them.

The rough plan was to drive from the east to the west side of the island in one week. Our 45 minute flight from Malta, that we’d booked only days before online, was so much cheaper than ferry tickets with the bonus of buying us a little extra time. The aircraft flew us over the brown dry lands of Sicilia, becoming greener the closer we approached Catania airport. Then the unexpected vista of Mt Etna suddenly loomed out of the landscape, a wispy halo of smoke ringing its summit. It was an awesome sight from the plane’s window. A laborious 2 hour-long queue standing around waiting for our rental car with crowds of international holidaymakers followed. With no GPS system available and a basic map provided by the rental car company we were ready to hit the road, Jack.

Taormina views

Taormina's ancient Greek amphitheatre setting up for an opera
with Mt Etna in the distance

We made up our route on the hop, firstly heading up the north coast to the pretty town of Taormina clinging to a cliff’s edge.Here we wandered up through the medieval streets, past a little pasticceria with the best Sicilian cannoli we were to EVER sample, to reach its ancient Greek amphitheatre that overlooks a glorious bay far below and Mt Etna smoking away in the distance. It must be THE most panoramically situated amphitheatre in the world and it was preparing to host a Chinese philharmonic orchestra from Hangzhou who were there with their ancient Egyptian props setting up for an operatic performance of Aida.How surreal would that be, sitting on worn marble steps from an ancient civilization long gone, listening to classical music from past days performed by another culture whilst watching an enactment from another age-old era. All this with blue sky above and deep blue sea below.

Biscuits and marzipan sweets, Taormina

Leaving Taormina the next day we headed south to Mt Etna, Europe’s largest volcano, eventually arriving at its base long after we’d anticipated.As navigator, I finally figured that road signs pointing left meant go straight ahead, but that signs pointing left also meant go left. Often on small rural roads they’d peter out near important forks leaving me to make decisions about unknown routes or were obscured behind wild oleander bushes.Max patiently put up with many wrong turns and routes as I tried to make sense of the road system.

Mt Etna smokes away as we walk further away from the jeep base

Mt Etna is reached part of the way by cable car then, rather than hike the rest of the way up under the glare of the summer sun and cold windy high altitude (we’re not crazy), we chose to climb aboard a monster of a 4WD jeep bus with an accompanying guide to reach a height of around 2700 metres plus.Fresh lava from an eruption four days ago, the 8^th one this year, looked like shiny black stones and an eruption in July had formed a new crater as well as burying the 2-storey refuge, named the Philosopher’s Tower, near where we walked on the lunar-like landscape. The scene was one of black gravelly mountains, craters with steam escaping from deep fissures and the highest volcanic point covered in snow against a vista of blue sky with Catania way below. Luckily, Etna behaved herself whilst we were there.The guide let on that, although measurements are taken constantly, the staff don’t know exactly when it will erupt.Are you serious?

Syracuse, once a major ancient Greek city, was a whistlestop where we stayed on its little island of Ortygia connected to the mainland.We chose not to thrash ourselves on the overload of archaeological sites here so as not to diminish the specialness of our next stopover at the Valley of the Temples. By this stage of our travels we’d passed through many ancient sites in Greece and Malta and were feeling a little archaeologically-weary.Rather, we soaked up Ortygia’s historical streets on foot and dined outdoors in the evening at the baroque Piazza del Duomo to people watch.

Piazza in Ortygia

Our longest stretch on the road was the leisurely drive from Syracuse in the east to Agrigento in the south-west, spending the morning in the gorgeous town of Noto that had us ooh-ing and aah-ing. The place was dripping with lovely baroque architecture.Had time permitted this would have made a lovely overnight stay.

Beautiful Noto

Agrigento was our base to reach the world heritage site of the Valley of the Temples, a bit of a misnomer as this is an avenue of ancient Greek temples that sit spectacularly along a sandstone clifftop (not a valley) that rises from the plains below and visible from the road and the sea further out.Wow and double wow!How do you take in one of the most amazing spectacles of antiquity?By wandering amongst the ruins from morning to late afternoon as the sun beat down on us, picnicking under a tree in front of the majestic pillars of the Temple of Concordia, exploring the many pathways that lead from necropolis to temples to orchards, seeking shade on old ruins under cool trees, investigating ancient rock closely to discover seashells embedded in the grains of sandstone and picking ripe almonds from branches overhead, cracking them open with rocks of history strewn about.

A brilliant display of massive contemporary bronze sculptures of mythological figures such as Icarus by the French Polish artist Igor Mitoraj scattered throughout the site added a sense of awe and aura to the place.

Igor Mitoraj sculptures scattered among the ruins at Valley of the Temples

We took respite from the heat back at the hotel’s swimming pool which was also the venue for an evening barbecue.Expecting a casual affair, we turned up to find that the pool area, which a short time before was filled with sun lounges, swimmers, beach towels and inflatable toys, looked like a wedding reception by the water without the bridal party. We were delighted to see locals take to the dance floor as they put on a display of line dancing, latin grooves and moves, as well as traditional dances such as the polka and mazurka to the Italian band.They were having a ball of a time (we gathered that perhaps they were a dance club) and we had a ball of a time watching them while we hoed into mountains of local dishes and wine.And that was before the meat was served. So, this is a barbecue Sicilian style, hey?Loads of food ……and then some steaks and snaggers on the barbie followed by dessert.

Temple of Concordia (above) and Temple of Juno,
Valley of the Temples

Back on the road we headed towards the coastal town of Trapani, with a stopover to view another dramatically located ancient Greek site, the imposing Doric temple of Segesta, not far off the major highway.This side of the island we found very scenic, made all the more stunning with its unfinished marble temple of thick soaring columns sitting so majestically in a valley of wooded mountains.Geez, even in archaic times unfinished government projects lay abandoned – just like the present.Further up a nearby mountainside are the ruins of an amphitheatre and ancient townsite.

Down below, green fields with orderly rows of crops, mostly grapevines, carpet the rise and fall of the land which is interspersed with rectangles of straw yellow plots and neat patches of scorched earth where farmers burn off fallow ground.The ever present mountains in the backdrop follow us around this part of Sicily.

We arrived at Trapani’s port on a Sunday afternoon and it felt like a ghost town as we walked around the old town’s empty narrow streets loaded down with our packs trying unsuccessfully to locate our rented room off tiny vicoli (laneways). Everything was closed and we hardly passed a soul, save one local who assisted us to locate the small cortile (courtyard) where the guesthouse was located.By evening Trapani’s streets came to life as cafes and bars opened, and tourists and residents alike emerged for their passegiata (evening promenade).

Fiat Bambini in Trapani came with rosary beads & Madonna radio station

Motorway spans a valley in western Sicily

We had a serious decision to make on where to spend our last couple of days before our departure.To stay in Trapani and use it as a base to nearby sights or head for Erice which sounded enticing from our guidebook’s description.Trapani, a jumping off point to Tunisia (NOT a good choice right now, given its political situation), wasn’t really ‘doing it’ for us – we’d stayed at other historic seaside towns along the way and we were in search of something a little different. Mountaintop scenery won out, especially combined with the word ‘medieval’. And so it came to be that we ended at the top of the steep winding road to the little place of Erice, where I now sit by the window admiring the view as it disappears under eerie mist as I write this.

Sicily is Italian and yet it has felt as though it’s a land unto itself, its own little mountainous country of wild oleander and prickly pear. It’s synonymous with the Mafia and yet this side of life is not visible to the tourist. The ancient Greeks, the Arabs, Normans and Romans have all left their mark and shaped the island that is Sicily today. It certainly has some of the best ancient Greek antiquities we've seen.

Whilst we covered a lot of ground in our one week ziparound and soaked up its sun, sweets and sights, we must return one day to do it better justice. Sicilia is an island worth exploring in more depth.

Doric temple at Segesta

Marvelling At Malta

2011-10-05T07:17:00.000+08:00

“I am sooo tired”, said the jaded waiter to us as we dined at an outdoor table on the cobblestones of Valleta towards the end of our stay. “It’s festa time every weekend here”.

We arrived in Malta’s capital unknowingly for the start of the St Dominic festivities. Fireworks by day and night across the town and surrounding villages, marching bands, ticker tape parades, local film crews and reporters, church bells ringing out and religious street processions filled with the rich symbolism of the Catholic faith carried on over days. Colourful banners and religious statues on decorated pedestals lined the narrow 16^th century streets lending a festive atmosphere to the town. By night, Valletta’s many churches were lit up with hundreds of lights.

Malta was a five-day interlude between Greece and Italy to celebrate Max’s birthday. The flight from Athens was almost 1 ½ hours long but we gained an hour because of the time zone difference. So, as you do when travelling from one country to another, we had breakfast in Athens, lunch mid-air over the Mediterranean Sea and a special birthday dinner in a Maltese restaurant that serves farmhouse style food.

Situated in the village of Qormi, about 20 minutes from Valletta, a friendly and talkative waiter in this renovated 1700’s millhouse served us starters of rabbit livers, snails, curried tripe and Maltese sausage (most of it was tasty) whilst describing life and work on the island. Mains were the Maltese traditional cuisine of rabbit - stewed rabbit and fried rabbit dishes were brought to the table in shallow saucepans, accompanied by a lovely Maltese shiraz. We ate many a rabbit dish after that first night.

Traditional rabbit stew

Valletta's grand harbour

Listening to the Maltese talk confuses me, its written language even harder to decipher. In one instance it sounds like Italian and yet my ears prick up at familiar Arabic words mishmashed into the language. And it’s no wonder considering its long past as a prize trophy fought over by so many different empires as well as a Crusader Knights stronghold due its proximity to Europe, Jerusalem and northern Africa. Malta is English, Italian, Arab, Roman, Norman, French and Spanish (to name a few) rolled into one historically fascinating island. Everyone’s had a finger in this little rabbit pie.

Then there’s the question that I’m sure is oft asked - if one is of Maltese heritage, does that make one a Malteser? I bet they have heard all the jokes. It made me wonder, though, how the confection derived its name. You’re more likely to come across a British lolly shop than the chocolate balls themselves. But Malta is more renowned for other things. It’s the place of manufacture for the children’s plastic toy range, Playmobil, the place where St Paul was shipwrecked on his way back to Rome, and for its delicious pastizzi (savoury flaky pastries usually filled with ricotta, meat or mushy peas – all varieties sampled, thank you very much). The local Cisk Beer was light and easy to drink on these hot summer’s days and we were quickly hooked on to Kinnie, a refreshing soft drink made from bitter oranges.

Valletta by night

Valletta was a gorgeous surprise of knights’ palazzos and steep narrow streets and alleyways to explore. Its streets were designed to catch the breezes and are lined with overhanging enclosed wooden balconies that reminded us of Istanbul’s medieval architecture. British leftovers such as the red telephone booths on the streets seem to be occupied more by tourists posing for photos than for actual calls and Malta’s old English buses had been put out of service and replaced by modern buses just before we arrived.

Valletta sits up high on a promontory within massive fortified walls. Looking out of the French windows of our hotel room perched up high on the hilltop gave us an excellent vantage point across to the harbours and villages across the way. Massive cruise ships could be seen docking, knights’ castles were clearly visible from across the harbour, horse carriages with bridal parties clip-clopped through the small square in front of our hotel on their way to the gardens nearby with panoramic views and the general busy-ness of daily life carried on below us. Next door a historic knights’ residence now houses Malta’s presidential office.

Valletta streets

Whilst many visitors come to Malta for the sun and beach, we were unimpressed by the overcrowded, homogenous high-rise resorts that stretched along part of the east coast. You could be at any number of similar mass-produced package-tourist resorts scattered along Europe’s coastline. Like cormorants sunning themselves on a rock, sunbathers sat at so-called beaches that were really just slabs of stone by the water’s edge. There were miniscule patches of sandy beaches. But we weren’t here for the sun and the sea – we were here for the history.

Grand Master's Palace

You can’t come to Malta and not see the legacies left behind by the Knights of St John who arrived here in Malta in the 1500’s after being kicked off the island of Rhodes by the Ottomans. The huge and imposing St John’s Co-Cathedral built for the knights is richly decorated in baroque style. It contains the tombs of some of the Grand Masters of the Order and paintings by famous Italian artists such as Caravaggio and Preti. Each chapel dedicated to the various divisions (or nationalities) of the knights order was saturated with art and sculpture.

Colourful fishing boat

The imposing corridors of the Grand Master’s Palace, now housing Malta’s Parliament, are lined with suits of armour, paintings of battles and portraits of the Grand Masters. There’s a large collection of armoury and deadly-looking weapons that can make an imagination run riot with gory, bloodied images of attack. Everywhere out on the streets each building breathes a story of its own.

Further afield we explored the colourful fishing village of Marsaxlokk (you say it like marsa-shlok), the scenic fortified citadel of Mdina perched up high in the centre of the island, the prehistoric temple ruins of Tarxien and St Agatha’s catacombs in Rabat. We were lucky enough to secure limited tickets to go deep down into the underground depths of the Hypogeum, an ancient necropolis from past civilisations – quite an awesome experience.

Fishing village of Marsaxlokk

Malta is a sundrenched island with an easygoing lifestyle and people. It is all about Grand Masters and their rich historical architecture, the legends and legacies of the Crusader knights and their symbolic Malta Cross, deeply-rooted conservative Catholic traditions, religious celebrations, rabbit and fish cuisine, its British links and unusual multi-racial language. All these juxtaposed against a backdrop of prehistoric underground burial chambers and megalithic temples. Impressive and marvellous Malta.

Naxos: A Grecian Island Paradise

2011-10-01T17:57:00.000+08:00

Villa Ira

I’m basking in the warm shade under a Naxian sun on the balcony of Villa Ira, our gorgeous rental home, as I write this piece. The light ricochets off the dazzling white walls making the colours of sky-blue shutters and hot pink bougainvillea seem more vivid and stark. We’re in the ancient land of Greece – of our forefathers - where the sun, after all these millennia, is still worshipped only this time by bronze-skinned Ambre Solaire idolisers. We are on the beautiful Aegean island of Naxos in the little village of Stelida by the seaside.

In the mornings we wake up to sun filtering in through the open French doors with their pale blue drapes that gently sway with the breeze. Sun bounces off the stark white bedroom walls. Each morning when I wake up I never tire of propping up on one elbow and staring through the window in front of the bed before getting up. The view is beautiful at this time of day – looking down at the garden below and across the deep blue of the sea to the island of Paros. At nighttime when all the house lights are turned off the twinkling lights of the villages from the island across the water shine in the dark.I like to stand by the window at this late hour and take in the serene view. A full moon this week has made the nighttime scenery all the more shimmeringly beautiful.

Our local beach

I can keep on waxing lyrically about this Cycladic island of sparkling blue and turquoise beaches and clustered white-washed villages on rocky hill slopes set against a backdrop of hot cloudless blue skies - but there are also the realities of being on a tourist island in summer. There are the ferryloads of tourists arriving several times daily and sharing beachfront towel space with so many other Europeans. Most weekday mornings the sound of construction workers can be heard around the village as more villas go up. We’ve been told that it is illegal on the island to carry on construction in July and August, the height of the tourist season. It’s not stopping the building trade however. Funnily, the construction doesn’t bother us. It makes us feel as though we’re definitely on holidays when others are busy at work.

Beachside chapel

Views from mountain to sea

And then there’s the story of the neighbours. To one side of our villa is scrubby land of wild grasses whilst modern white villas perch further up the hillside behind us. Our rented villa and the handful of others next to and behind ours are connected by a dirt path that leads onto a narrow winding village road. We’ve not met the next door neighbours but we’ve heard them loud and clear, amusing us with their strongly accented voices. He is Greek and sounds old. His voice comes across slow, heavy and raspy. She speaks broken English and broken Greek in a thick unfamiliar accent. So, over the bougainvilleas and cypresses separating our villas and through the kitchen window her faceless voice rises and falls as she moves in and out of the house “I go and I see somesing……and he say 185 evrrros. Toooo expensive” (her voice rises) “…zer left side and zer rrright side. Next time YOU give zer car……and pente evrrro I give to zis people…”.

Often their voices travel in through the French doors of our bedroom upstairs as they sit having their regular midnight chat and cigarette outside on their verandah. Their droning nighttime conversations are starting to act as a kind of muscle relaxant now that we’re getting used to them.

Apeiranthos village scenes

As I’m writing, Max has gone for his daily dip in the cool waters of Agios Prokopios beach, a short stroll down the village road. For much of the first week of our arrival in mid-July it was windy all day every day until evening. Now the winds are calming down, temperatures are hotting up and the seawater is becoming refreshing rather than icy against warm skin. The waters are so calm and crystal clear, making for very pleasant paddling and frolicking.

Alykos Beach

We’re loving the dips at the many beaches around the island but I must admit I’m a hopeless sunbather. I do try to lie there in the sun, like everyone else, but when sweat oozes between the creases of my elbows forming little pools, cricks develop in my neck, my back aches from lying in awkward positions and I need a driptray under my breasts, I honestly can’t stand lying there any longer and give up. How DO the Italians do it so elegantly and so sweatlessly? I’ve watched them laying there for ages, their faces and bodies following the direction of the sun like sunflowers, soaking up the sun’s rays tanning their eyelids. They’ve perfected the flawless deep tan. No red sweaty faces or drippy boobs or damp patches. And…..no dips to cool off and wash away the sweat stains. Amazing!

Sunset drinks by the beach

We’re getting browner though, how can you not under a humid Mediterranean sun, but trying not to work at it – too much sweaty uncomfortable effort required. Many of the European tourists down by the beaches seem to be here for one purpose – to return home with the deepest all-over tan possible to the envy of family and friends. “Oooh, you’re so brown”, I can imagine relatives remark, “It must have been a good holiday”.

Mountain villages serve tasty meals

We’ve rented a car and were fortunately upgraded to a small 4-wheel drive vehicle to zip us around the island. Exploring the small white-washed hillside villages in the centre of the island, some which have been around since Byzantine times, has been one of our delightful pastimes. To reach these however, means driving up, down and around winding mountain lanes and along narrow roads that squeeze through tightly-built communities.

What a challenge for Max, who’s doing a superb job at driving, particularly when traffic is coming the other way fast down the almost single car- width country lanes. A good sense of judgement is needed so that the car comes out of it with side mirrors and bumpers intact. At one time, our car followed behind a heavy haulage truck that slowly manoeuvred its way inch by inch forwards and backwards through the one main street of a little hamlet. Villagers peered down their balconies to watch the spectacle, oncoming traffic reversed to allow it to get through and people emerged from doorways literally inches from the road to remove parked scooters.

We have stood still near ancient olive groves in the plains and hillside villages of Naxos just listening to the deafening sound of cicadas hidden amongst the gnarled and age-old trees and wildflowers as the midday sun beat down on us. Their sound loud enough to drown out conversation. We have delved around crumbling stone houses and old watch towers from Venetian times as well as the steep backstreets and alleyways of tiny villages. When the nephew of the Doge of Venice captured Naxos in the 1200’s he built himself a fortress castle and many defence towers around the island, many of which remain today though most are in ruins. We have lost ourselves through the medieval labyrinth laneways of Hora, Naxos’ main town, that lead up to its Venetian castle, before changing direction and following the scent of freshly made waffles instead. The food on Naxos, indeed Greece, is one of its joys and highlights.

Since our arrival in Greece, we’re rediscovering this land’s fragrant and fruity-tasting olive oil, of sheep’s milk yoghurt so thick you can stand your spoon in it, tasting all the better when drizzled with rich-tasting forest honey. It is the place for Greek salads of plump tomatoes and refreshing cucumbers weighed down by a dense slice of feta, like a miniature slab of white marble off an ancient ruin, sprinkled with oregano and slathered in olive oil that dares you to mop up its juices with chunks of torn rustic bread.

Luscious baklava and frappe

The smell of herb-marinated souvlakia wafting from the charcoal grills of the tavernas of Athens and Naxos have drawn us in – we are but gullible fish being reeled in on the bait. The joy of biting into sweet, nutty baklava with crispy filo topping as the honeyed syrup oozes out has got to be the nearest to ambrosia of the gods. This sweet is sometimes accompanied by a slab of mastiha icecream.

Hora, Naxos town

Exploring Hora's labyrinth alleyways

The strong, bitter taste of an ice-cold frappe (iced Greek coffee) that has to be tamed with milk and sugar for my palate comes served with a cold glass of water. And the bread – oohhh, the bread! I’m not a bread lover by nature, the smell of bread down the supermarket aisles back home in particular, is offensive to my sense of smell and yet in Greece I can barely eat through a meal without tearing chunks of the crusty local bread to dip into the salad juices or mop up the olive oil.

Our favourite lunchtime meal after a swim as we sit cooling off under our verandah has been mouthwateringly juicy watermelon salad sprinkled with crumbled feta and freshly picked mint from the garden, followed by tangy olives and bread. One of life’s great pleasures. Athens was a four-day Euro-adjustment spell before arriving on this island, coming after 2 1/2 months of travel through China, Mongolia, Russia and Uzbekistan. Surprisingly, it was a great feeling arriving back on familiar territory (third time around), as well as a cool respite (temps in low 30’s) after the intense summer heat of Uzbekistan. Flying into Athens, which appeared below like a mosaic of white marble chips carpeting its rise and fall, we were greeted at the airport by a large sign proclaiming “Welcome to Greece.The ultimate destination for everyone. Just like WIND”. Hahaha, pardon? I hope the reference in the ad was referring to the breezy kind. Is the advertiser aware of the double entendre?

Two highlights of Athens for us were the new Acropolis Museum (stunning show of architectural design and natural light) and meeting up once again over great food and company with Max’s cousin and partner, since our unexpected catch-up in St Petersburg. So now, as the sun’s heat softens it’s time to consider a siesta or to read a good book or take a stroll along the gritty rice-grained seashore, a wonderful sensation on feet that allows for free massage and exfoliation as one walks. Maybe we’ll go for a late afternoon swim. The last of the sunset swimmers drift off around 8 o’clock and restaurants start filling up with diners along the beachfronts of the nearby villages of Agia Anna and Agios Prokopios by 9pm. Late-night dining is the summer tradition which we’ve adopted (naturally), often sitting down to meals as late as 10 o’clock, and café-ing until past midnight.

Alfresco dining at the water's edge

Naxos has been idyllic and more for the two of us. Villa Ira has been a godsend for two weary backpackers. We have savoured, relished and lapped up the relaxed summer lifestyle of this little piece of paradise. In Greek, “hortasame ke fouskosame” – we’re now content and filled.

Uzbekistan Part V - Fergana Valley

2011-09-20T17:52:00.000+08:00

Feeling much more energetic and on the mend after commencing a course of antibiotics, we were ready to hit the road again in the opposite direction, this time east of Tashkent to Fergana Valley, the last leg of our Uzbek roadtrip.

Stopping off to buy a melon

Our journey would take us up and over mountains, through the Kamchik mountain pass and to Fergana Valley’s silk production town of Margilon and to Rishton, renowned for its ceramics. Whilst not big on the 4 M’s (mosques, minarets, madrassas and mausoleums) this region is big on Markets.

Through the Kamchik Pass to Fergana Valley

Roadside produce

All the while as we drove through the Fergana Valley and up and over mountains, Marat’s car stereo provided just the right thematic background to the scenery. I wanted to hear what the country’s music sounded like. At first Marat put on American country music, which he is fond of. No, no, I said. Your country’s music! So, we listened to contemporary and traditional tunes, some sung in Russian, others in Uzbek and still others in Tajik.

Roadside stalls along the way and on the return once again proved to be interesting stops, especially to us foreigners. A major military checkpoint meant handing our passports to our driver who then passed them over for processing. This side of the regional border, whilst more conservative, has seen political unrest and people are screened entering and leaving, although it’s pretty safe for tourists.

Max and Marat in cotton fields

Cotton blossom below (or should that be a cotton bud?)

Fergana Valley is very much a rural-based economy. In the irrigated fields are fruit trees, tobacco fields, wheat, corn and massive cotton plantations. Cotton is one of Uzbekistan’s main industries, a water-thirsty plant that is irrigated by canals that channel water from the tributaries of the Amu-Darya and Syr-Darya rivers (the Oxus and Jaxartes rivers as they were known in ancient Greek).

Margilon looks like a Russian town in the grid-like layout of its streets. There are wide boulevards lined with shady trees, there are parks and gardens, and the town has a green lushness to it.

Here we were shown around several bazaars, bustling places all of them with gold-toothed smiling vendors, many asking to have their photo taken and wanting to know where we were from. Some offered us samples of crystallised sugar, fruit or a handful of peanuts. We passed by stalls of fruits and vegetables, breads, sacks of nuts and spices, crisp sweet pastries lightly sprinkled with caraway seeds stacked high in little piles, past the sour smell of the dairy section where homemade yoghurt filled plastic Coke bottles and mounds of soft farm cheese that looked like cottage cheese lay in tubs or spread out on plastic sheets.

A weekend bazaar on the outskirts of town had us haggling over a $5 ‘brand label’ cotton T-shirt amongst the rows and rows of clothing stalls. This outdoor market was also THE place to come and buy spare auto parts, kitchen sinks, plumbing fixtures, tools, shoes, ceramics and furniture. It looked like a monster Swapmeet.

Beautifully-patterned flatbreads

A visit to a small silk factory was a fascinating insight into silk production. This factory is renowned for its quality silks, one of the main reasons for visiting Fergana. I wanted to see where a part of ancient China’s secret knowledge of silk had spread along the Silk Route. An intriguing story about how the mystery of silk making reached the West goes that a couple of monks heading back to the Byzantine emperor hid silkworm eggs in their hollowed staffs (or should that be staves?).

Silk weaver at loom

The silk at this factory is produced by two methods – the traditional way by hand as has been done for centuries and by old mechanical looms. Nowhere in the factory did we see electricity used in its production bar the fluorescent lighting in the workrooms. Making up a group of only the two of us, we were led around to where the silkworm cocoons are boiled and the white silk spun on old wooden spinning wheels. We watched a dyer hand-dyeing the skeins of silk in natural dyes extracted from fruits, vegetables and natural pigments. His hands were stained that morning from indigo that has travelled across the border from Afghanistan, a big producer of this dye. There were rooms of young male designers kneeling on the floor sketching designs directly onto the silk before the dyeing process, and a large factory space of wooden looms where men and women wove the coloured silk into brilliantly patterned fabrics. The weavers each held a bottle of milky fluid which they’d occasionally sip from and then skilfully spray this liquid from their mouths in perfect arcs over the fabric as it was being woven. Of course, the best part was walking into the shop of fabrics, clothing, scarves and pashminas in rainbow colours too gorgeous to resist.

Driving past a local bakery made for an impromptu stop to watch a local baker at work. Marat was aware of our curiosity and interest in the local breads and this turned out to be a spontaneous opportunity to see first-hand. Within the space of two tiny rooms, the baker and his 2 assistants were churning out 1500 loaves of flatbread a day. One would weigh each batch of dough, the other to shape it into a flat round and stamp its centre, and the baker glazed and sprinkled each with caraway and sesame seeds before flattening each bread in rows onto the hot interior walls of a domed oven for baking. Since the Soviets left, Marat explained, the people are reverting to their traditional ways and foods. The big Soviet bread factories are not as popular anymore. Seems like Uzbeks are discovering and exploring their national identity.

Rishton was a ceramics stop to view the works of the internationally-recognised master ceramist Ristam Usmanov. Although not at home that day, his wife welcomed us through the massive wood carved doors of their property, through his private collection of antique ceramics, and out to his studio and workshops. Only the purest of clay that is derived from a small region nearby and the purest of water is used in his creations – no other ingredients apart from the natural pigments and dyes in his artwork.

Leaving the Fergana Valley and heading back to Tashkent via the city of Kokand, before jetting off for Europe, had us reflecting on our 2 week stay in this beguiling country. From lush valleys to stark deserts, craggy mountains, mudbaked villages and modern towns, it’s a land of contrasts. From a palette of browns and earthen colours to the vibrant rainbow colours found on silks, ceramics, embroideries, the tapchans of teahouses and worn by its women.

Contrary to what our guidebook and blogsites stated about its capital, Tashkent, about police shaking down tourists for money especially in metro stations, we didn’t encounter any trouble. It’s been refreshing to find a people so open, who like to meet foreigners. We’ve learnt a few Uzbek words in return “bir, ikki, uch , sirrrr” (1, 2, 3, Uzbek cheese!”).

Our journey has been a discovery of hospitable peoples along the way, of a land adorned with captivating architecture and beautiful tiles, of a country with an enthralling history and a fresh identity being rediscovered. Appearances are a blend of Asian, Mongolian and Western features. A confluence of cultures, their country’s history and legacy displays on its people’s faces.

As Marat drove us into Tashkent for the last time, tears sprung to my eyes as I realised that we were nearing the end of a dream visiting this beautiful and exotic land. What an incredible feeling and adventure it’s been to have had the chance to imprint our footsteps on a small part of the huge network of roadways once travelled by traders and camel caravans on their torturous journey along the Silk Route.

Roadside breadsellers - all wanting their produce to be photographed

Uzbekistan Part IV - On The Road To Khiva

2011-09-14T22:08:00.000+08:00

After three days in Bukhara, it was time to hit the desert road to Khiva. Marat, our driver, has begun the solo and long drive back to Tashkent so that he can pick us up from the airport in two days’ time. We will fly the long distance from Khiva in the far west back to Tashkent in the east.

Standing in the hotel’s little alfresco foyer early in the morning laden with our backpacks, our new driver explains in his few words of English that the journey from Bukhara to Khiva will take about 8 hours. Pardon, what? Our guidebook had stated that the 450+ km journey was approximately 4 ½ hours. A quick phone call by the new driver to our Tashkent travel agent to explain it to us in English.

Yes, the road is very bad. It used to take around 4 or 5 hours but now it takes longer. Great news NOT to the both of us. We had developed traveller’s diarrhoea, but luckily with no pain or other symptoms except frequent bathroom stops. Gawd, I hope that shitting camel at the yurt camp wasn’t contagious. Now we had to make the mammoth drive holding in our butts for as long as was humanly possible.

The landscape for the majority of this drive was mostly aridness as far as the eye could see. Other than the odd donkey or lizard along the one-highway route, it was a stark barren landscape. We were being driven by car on what felt was one of the worst roads in the world as a result of roadworks. A new road was being constructed with the aid of German and Korean companies and their heavy machinery, but was another two or three years away from being completed.

The better part of the road

Driving on roadbase

At times, the wind whipped the sand across obscuring the road. Further along, what remained of the existing road was badly rutted and extremely corroded. In one section, we bounced along on rough roadbase with enormous potholes for more than 100 km. Cars and heavy-haulage trucks weaved, zigzagged and manoeuvred all over the road to miss the holes and therefore each other. Eight hours of driving with only one cigarette stop by the driver and another at a remote military outpost in the middle of nowhere was a marathon effort. There didn’t appear to be any towns or food stops enroute until we got closer to Khiva and then green irrigated fields and muddles of mudbrick villages and small towns began to appear.

Luckily for us, our bowels kept quiet as there were no bushes to hide behind. The moment any food or water passed our lips would get the trots going so four sips of water and a few mouthfuls of crackers sustained us for the entire journey.

The only diners at the only open restaurant in the old town

Khiva at dusk

Khiva at dusk was glowing with the last of the sunshine striking the blue and terracotta-banded minaret of the Islom-Hoja Madrassa and the stout turquoise walls of the Kalta Minor tower, deepening the colours of the town’s earthen walls. This is a walled-in fortress city, the Ichon-Kala as it’s known. However, in the fading light as we wandered through almost empty streets it seemed as though this place was frozen in time.

By daylight, the strong summer sun bleaches the colour out Khiva’s walls. Old men, some in traditional black and white embroidered caps, sit chatting in small groups in the shade of the town’s west gate whilst through the town’s four gated entrances the colours of tiled towers and domes peer over scorched roofs.

Men chewing the fat by the West Gate

There were very few tourists about. We met and chatted with staff from the Japanese embassy in Tashkent whilst strolling through the Harem of the khan rulers’ 12^th to 17^th century residence and fortress. News and condolences were exchanged regarding the devasting tsunami earlier in the year.

Views over Khiva from the Ark's fortress walls

Climbing to the highest point in the citadel’s fortress were amazing views over the ancient monuments, across the ramparts and outside the walls to the more modern town’s green-lined streets and rooflines. The old minaret towers standing grandly over the city were beautiful pieces of artwork, each so different in shape and decoration. Inside the cool darkness of the Juma Mosque we found a forest of wooden-carved timeworn pillars – uncommon for a mosque. There were more madrassas and mausoleums, many turned into museums, but by this stage in our journey we had reached saturation point. There are only so many madrassas, mausoleums and mosques that a tourist can handle.

Outside the walls of the Ichon Qala

Streetscape by midday

Khiva is small enough to see and discover in a day. After our one night/ one day stay, it was a short one hour pleasant flight to Tashkent with Uzbekistan Airlines. Max and I broke out into laughter, however, on arrival at the airport. We were offloaded directly onto the airstrip and then ushered to collect our baggage from a small, ancient baggage conveyor belt sitting there outside the airport’s terminal. Marat was there to collect us and take us to our hotel before continuing our roadtrip the following day. Sinking into soft pillows and airconditioned comfort that night, we hoped that the worst of the searing desert heat was behind us.

Uzbekistan Part III - The Treasure Chest of Bukhara

2011-09-08T21:57:00.001+08:00

Eating traditional 'laghman' on tapchan at Lyabi Hauz

Big, beautiful Bukhara is one of those unforgettable places, overwhelming in magnificent sights and majestic buildings, in its desert setting. It’s all about the four M’s – mosques, minarets, mausoleums and madrassas.

Our little traditional hotel (not flash but functional), whose rooms all faced inwards to a garden courtyard, was in the historical centre. This small section of town was in past times the old Jewish quarter, and only steps away from the Lyabi Hauz, Bukhara’s central square, positioned around a historic pool shaded in places by mulberry trees hundreds of years old and overlooked by age-old madrassas at both ends.

The size of this van gives an idea of the scale of Bukhara's monuments

Out here in this ancient desert town, temperatures were stiflingly hot by midday, and by afternoon the streets and mudbrick alleyways became deserted as cool respite was sought indoors. Only a handful of brazen (or idiotic?) tourists were brave enough to venture the baked streets at this time - us included. We tried it once on our arrival and daren’t repeat it. Siestas became the order of the day after that.

By night, as temperatures dropped to a tolerable warmth the town centre came alive as people socialized and strolled around its illuminated sights, now escaping the heat in their homes. Icecreams were relished, babies in prams pushed, cigarettes smoked, and tea drunk at the local chaikanas (teahouses). People sat around the pools and small canals that survived the Soviet era. Bukhara’s many medieval pools, used for drinking and washing, became plague-ridden over the centuries and a large number were closed and replaced by water channels when the Soviets moved in.

Folkloric show in one of Bukhara's madrassas

We hired a young guide in his mid-twenties to take us around Bukhara’s many historical treasures. It was like discovering a jewel box of delights as we absorbed the history and stories of these monuments. There was the Ismail Samani mausoleum (my favourite piece of architecture with its delicate detailed brickwork), the imposing Ark (fortress of past rulers) with its towering crennelated mudbrick walls, the understated Spring of Job, the beautiful Kalon Minaret of exquisite pale patterned bands, the huge Abdul Aziz Madrassa, the Bolo-Hauz Mosque with its unusual tall slender carved wooden pillars and many other monuments. All these and more were within easy walking distance of each other.

The fortified walls of the Ark

Rustam, our guide, was very informative with detail. We listened as he explained how learning English, or another foreign language, (French would be ideal as they are the largest contingent of tourists to Uzbekistan), is the best available option for them so that the young generation may make a living from tourism. His wife had also learnt English and worked with tourists as a guide. For US$20 you can hire a private guide that will fill you in on more knowledge, facts, history and local myths than you could possibly remember. It seems as though tourism equals dollars, more than one could earn in a regular job.

Max is dwarfed by Bukhara's streetscape

Bukhara is also about bazaars and handicrafts. The bazaars of old, now restored, once specialised in particular crafts – there was the jewellery bazaar, the hat bazaar, and so on. There was even a moneychangers’ bazaar for merchants from faraway lands who passed through on their trading route. Nowadays, craftsmen show their skills and wares to tourists. Smiths and engravers work with all kinds of metal (iron, silver, brass and copper, mainly), there are gorgeous carpets and rugs, silks and fabrics in bright bold colours, wood carvings, lacquered boxes with painted oriental scenes and ceramics of brilliant blues and greens. A huge range of souvenirs is sold under the cool domed archways and arcades. A long-standing hammam (Turkish massage and bath house) still operates from one of these bazaars with men-only days and women-only days displayed in the doorway. Foot massage and foot reflexology is practised here as a therapy.

The beautiful, striped Kalon Minaret

It was in Bukhara that we were introduced to Uzbekistan’s national dish, plov. This is a rice, or pilaf, dish cooked with mutton, fried onions, carrots, raisins, barberries (tarty in flavour like cranberries), pine nuts, seasonings and lots of mutton fat over a large pot on a fire. It is traditionally cooked only by Uzbek men and friendly rivalry exists as to who can make the best. Marat, our driver, took us to a terrific local plov restaurant at an off-the-tourist-trail location that specialised in this dish. Outside at the open air kitchen an enormous cauldron over an open fire had been just about emptied of plov by many diners sitting inside the restaurant’s cavernous but cool interior. The place was a huge unadorned white space of plain tables and chairs, but everyone was there for the lunchtime plov not the décor. It was delicious and accompanied by icy-cold berry juice and, as always with every Uzbek meal, a pot of tea in blue and white china decorated with the cotton plant motif.

Chor Minor madrassa

Our sojourn in Bukhara was impressive – an architectural feast for the eyes with a fascinating history. Although there are all the modern conveniences of internet, mobile phones and satellite TV, in a place like Bukhara it is easy to imagine life in centuries past – colourful, noisy and crowded bazaars, laden camels and donkeys plodding through baked mud alleys, and grand towers and blue domes rising above throngs of sellers with carpets, silks and trinkets. Onward bound now for the holy city of Khiva.

Uzbekistan Part II - From Nuptials to Nurata

2011-09-01T06:35:00.000+08:00

It was one of those moments on a mountainous road when two cars travelling in opposite directions veered out of their lanes to miss pot holes and ended up facing each other at high speed. One of those cars was ours. Thankfully our driver pulled away in time. Inside our vehicle, silence followed while heart rates calmed down. I desperately needed a shot of vodka, I jokingly thought to myself – to one who doesn’t particularly enjoy spirits, let alone the burning taste of Russian firewater. Soon after, Marat pulled the car over to a group of sellers manning their mountainside stalls. This break helped steady our nerves. Vistas of the surrounding mountains and countryside stretched out. There were nuts of all kinds for sale here, hard white balls of dried cheeses, bunches of wild herbs and dried fruits on display in sacks, cardboard boxes and baskets all sitting under a hot sun.

Tangy balls of dried cheese

We were on our way to Shahrisabsz, the birthplace of Amir Timur (one of Uzbekistan’s greatest rulers) and a daytrip’s ride out of Samarkand. The town’s central point is a park with a giant bronze statue of Timur in the centre and the crumbled late 1300’s mudbrick remains of his palace, the Ak-Saray, behind him. Judging from the scale of the ruins, this palace would have been astonishing in size and splendour in its lifetime. The faded remains of beautiful tilework still clung to some its walls.

It was Sunday and this was the spot for weddings. As we wandered around and climbed to the top of the Ak-Saray’s tower the sound of music bleated across the square announcing the arrival of bridal couples. Down below we counted more than a dozen bridal parties drifting around the park, many accompanied by musicians blowing on flutes and enormously long-stemmed trumpets whilst drums banged. Each party gathered around Timur’s statue for their Kodak moment, sometimes up to 4 bridal groups spanning the same space for the same group photo. The humidity was high but this didn’t hold back the brides from wearing long veils, voluminous, layered white gowns that resembled puffed-up meringues and thickly applied makeup that stayed on despite the melting heat. Small crowds of tourists, including ourselves, joined in photographing the spectacle.

Crepe paper, sandpaper or toilet paper? It was all 3.
Seriously, I could file my nails with this stuff!

Shahrisabsz’s other attractions included a couple of historical mosques, one at which Max and I met two young South Korean archaeologists who’d been excavating ancient Buddhist artefacts around Termiz, a town in Uzbekistan’s south near the Afghanistan border. One had studied English at a Melbourne university – what a small world we live in. We listened with fascination as they described working in outside temperatures of over 50 degrees in Termiz (it’s late June!) but they’d finished for the time being, until next year. There were apparently loads of Buddhist relics yet to be unearthed and catalogued in that part of the region.

A lunch stop enroute back to Samarkand was a highlight as the driver pulled up at a restaurant off the main road in a small village down in a green valley. Families were dining outdoors on tapchans under the shade of a thick canopy of forest trees. These are like wooden platforms decorated with colourful fabrics where you sit cross-legged or recline on and they have a small central table for the food. Shashliks (metal skewers of meat, like kebabs) were cooking on the grill, the delicious smell of chargrilled lamb, or most likely mutton, taunting our hungry stomachs. A traditional meal of hot noodle soup of meat and vegetables was followed by salad, then the shashliks served with raw onion (not acrid at all), and finally thick juicy slabs of watermelon. Green tea and black tea as well as the patterned flatbread, nan bread, are customary with meals. So much food, and yet Marat told us this is what is traditionally eaten every day. Hot soup on a hot summer’s day – that takes some getting used to. It was all very delicious, hearty food.

Leaving the Samarkand area we travelled along flat verdant farmlands of cotton, wheat, tobacco and fruit trees, past many small villages, often of mudbrick, and through territorial checkpoints, stalls of piled up watermelons and women in their multicoloured dressses selling nan bread. Donkey carts shared the roads with bicycles, cars and trucks, while goats, sheep and cows grazed in the fields. Heading north away from Samarkand, the landscape changed suddenly. Green fields became parched aridness dotted with flat dry grasses, and always the presence of mountain ranges in the distance.

Max making the trek up Great Alexander's fortress

Nurata is where our vehicle was headed, to see what was left of a fortress built by Alexander the Great. With an intense sun beating down on us, we were two of only a tiny handful of visitors to make the dry, dusty uphill climb to the fortress ruins. There wasn’t much left apart from rammed earth mounds and remains of mud brick walls. Its location in the region, however, was impressive from above as it was at a strategically high point in the landscape. Flat land stretched for miles around. A pity there was no historical information available, and it was in a badly deteriorated state. Down below at its base lies an important mosque around a natural spring where fish thrive. It’s quite amazing really, to see water running through channels when outside the small town it's such barren desert land.

Back on the road our destination was to a yurt campsite, 60 km away from Nurata following sealed road and then bush tracks, sparse of much sign of life, and where we’d organised to go camel riding and spend the night. The desert camp was in a shallow patch between low sand dunes. These traditional nomadic yurts, similar to Mongolian gers, are round camel hair lined tents. In the daytime summer heat however, it was too unbearable to stay in its dark interior. Sitting inside for several minutes my internal thermostat was ready to blow a gasket – it must surely be around a dangerously high claustrophobic 50+ degrees in here.

The three of us were the only guests at the camp, apart from a couple of staff. The last of the tour buses had left for the season the day before. The female cook ran a kitchen out of a converted railway carriage powered by truck batteries, preparing us an amazing array of cold salad dishes. Bathroom facilities were rudimentary – a hand basin mounted on a metal frame with water hose from a water tank attached (great campsite views in the morning), a pit toilet (lovely under the stars), and an outdoor shower cubicle with cold water (refreshing). What more could we want.

Our room for the night

As dusk fell and the temperature began dropping it was time to mount the ships of the desert for a ride around the dunes. My beast of burden didn’t look so healthy, in fact it looked downright scrawny with its flaccid humps drooping sideways on its back and pooping diarrhoea for most of the journey. Max’s camel looked a little healthier. The ride was disappointingly short. After trekking for hours through the edge of the Sahara by camel in Morocco to reach our Bedouin campsite, I was expecting a similar experience. Back at the ranch, Max whiled away the time playing backgammon with Marat while I read and wrote.

Inventive bathroom facilities

Trying to look cool on top of 2 limp humps
and a loose bowel!

The evening’s entertainment arrived after dinner – a Kazakh man playing a traditional 3-stringed guitar and singing old Uzbek ballads around a campfire. The tunes all sounded the same, we joked, until he learnt we were from Australia and then began inventing verses about kangaroos in his songs. However, the best entertainment was the surprise appearance of little nocturnal prickly-backed animals that waddled out from under the railway carriage kitchen hunting for food scraps. They looked really cute, similar to hedgehogs, but with big pointed ears and pointy faces and obviously used to human contact as I was able to get very close to them. We weren’t able to find out their name – if anyone does, please let me know.

Remains of caravanserai on the Silk Route highway

Back on the main road the next day were the ruins of an 11^th century caravanserai, an inn for merchants and their camel caravans. Or, as Uzbeks will tell you, “business class hotels”. The sheer scale of it was mindboggling.

In fact, anywhere on the these roads we are never far away from remnants of the silk trading route – an ancient covered well to water the animals, an old mosque – and so on. We now head for the next jewel in the crown of the three ancient cities - Bukhara.

Uzbekistan Part I - The Legendary Land of Samarkand

2011-08-28T06:41:00.000+08:00

The Registan

I distinctly recall coming in for landing from Russia to Tashkent and suddenly awakening to such brilliant stars in the night-time sky not far from my airplane window. Surely this is what ancient astronomers from these lands also saw hundreds of years ago that helped them navigate through such remote and harsh terrains. Then a little further on, the city lights below shining like glittering jewels against a backdrop of black velvet. It felt like the start of our very own magic carpet ride through the history and legends of Uzbekistan.

There was nothing fable-like, though, about arriving into Tashkent Airport in the wee hours of the night. No romantic references to its historical past. Passengers applauded as the plane touched down. Sweet gesture; I know it was Russian Airlines after all, but were they just pleasantly surprised to have landed?

Visa and passport procedures cleared, we dutifully filled in all our customs declarations papers x four in duplicate by hand, no such thing as carbon paper. Not wanting to get into strife for being evasive we obediently declared all medicines and electronic equipment as per the questions. The customs lady took one look at the forms and scribbled out all our declarations in the ‘yes’ column and proceeded to cross the ‘no’ boxes. Ooh, I like this place already. I had pre-arranged a letter of invitation into the country, necessary for a visa, via email through a local travel agent, Airat, who had a driver waiting for us at the airport exit, past all the people calling out if we wanted a taxi.

Waking up the next morning my most vivid memory is running to the window to throw back the curtains to see the land of the Silk Road legends. I was so excited to be in such a faraway exotic locale and I was keen to get cracking and see it. Immediately, I copped an eyeful of glaring sunlight blinding me for a moment until I could make out the city rooftops of Tashkent from the heights of the ‘Hotel Uzbekistan’ – a renovated 4-star (cough, cough) Russian dinosaur come to life as a free market hotel with smiling, efficient staff only too willing to assist. I was surprised to see how green the city looked from way up yonder on the 16^th floor. Marat, the same driver that collected us from the airport, and who is also Airat’s brother, took us to meet Airat the next day. On the way we stopped off at a nearby black market moneychanger where the equivalent of US$200 was returned to us in a black plastic shopping bag the size of a small saddlebag filled with Uzbek som. The highest denomination is 1000 som (about AUD40 cents’ worth) and the black market rate is far more favourable than the official exchange rate. They love hard currency here and this ain’t no Mastercard wonderland. Can you imagine how many wheelbarrowsful you’d need to pay for a car or house!

Uzbek Som currency - equivalent to US$150

We were ushered unexpectedly into Airat’s cosy family apartment where we met his wife and some of his 6 children. The office had temporarily located to his home whilst new premises were being prepared. As the 3 of us sat over tea discussing and planning a possible route and itinerary, his apartment was a beehive of busyness with household and family activities and staff working out of their makeshift travel office. Accommodation, full-time driver with car, one flight, sights, routes and costings finalised for our two week journey, we were able to commence the following day – surprising us, since we anticipated losing a little time waiting in Tashkent to commence. Sweet – I was dying to get the show on the road. Up until that point Max and I had debated the idea over and over again of doing it all ourselves by catching local transport and finding our own way about. The indulgence of having our own driver was going to have to be the way to go, we decided in the end, trying not to feel too guilty for taking the easy option. One major reason held us back – the hot weather. From experience we knew it would be no fun bananas wilting under a blazing sun with packs waiting for a lumbering, un-airconditioned bus to take us long distances to drop us off at one end of town and then door-knocking from place to place for accommodation at the other end. We’d lose valuable time in the process. This is how we’d travelled through the Middle East several years ago, independently but the season was more backpacker-friendly, most long-distance coaches were airconditioned, we had time up our sleeves and we were a little more hardwired for rough travel then. Age is making us softer, methinks. Driving out of Tashkent the following day, with Marat at the wheel of his own Chevrolet sedan, we passed cotton fields, corn crops, mulberry trees lining the roads, poplars and cypresses, cows grazing on the golden stubble of wheat fields and hollyhocks growing wildly down the central median strip separating both directions of traffic. All around were green fertile farmlands. Excitement was high as we were following the path of one of the legendary Silk Roads to our first destination west, Samarkand.

Shah-I-Zinda, Avenue of Mausoleums

After a while, emerald fields behind us, we ascended over hills and honey sellers standing under the hot sun next to their stalls of different-coloured honeys. Then past dry fields in shades of yellow and brown, always with the vista of the Pamir Mountains in the background. The road was long and hot, and the June temperature in and out of the car was steadily climbing higher and higher. The city of Samarkand is intertwined with the names of Alexander the Great, the feared Chinggis (Genghis) Khan, the respected 14^th century ruler Amir Timur and his favourite grandson Ulugbek. It’s synonymous with the ancient Silk Route, being at the crossroads of the east and west. As we’re driving along, in my mind’s eye I picture caravans of many camels heavily laden with silks, spices, perfumes, exotic fruits, porcelain, precious metals, gems, tea and China’s most innovative technology of those times – paper! Merchants leading camels west toward Rome and camel convoys in the other direction heading to Xian in China. There was not one particular road to follow but many paths along that east-west route.

Samarkand is truly a treasure trove of architectural wonders and nothing quite prepared us for its monumental attraction, the majestic 14^th century Registan. To gaze over this vast walled-in complex of blue-domed mosques, madrassas (Islamic schools), courtyards, soaring minarets and geometrically-patterned tiled walls and portals in cool blues left us in awe. The two-storey high madrassas here once housed thousands of students and teachers in tight cell-like tiled windowless rooms. Students slept inside their classrooms, some in small loft-like areas near the ceilings reached by wooden ladder. Imagine sleeping and learning all within the space of a small few square metres! Teachers also had their living quarters on site. It was here that Ulugbek, a 15^th century ruler and renowned medieval mathematician- astronomer, apart from ruling, warring and inventing would also spend one day a week teaching mathematics to students in the madrassas, so we were told. He was keen on education and had a special talent for maths, science and astronomy to the extent that his calculations are still considered fairly accurate today. Can you imagine our country’s leaders being remotely interested in doing that whilst in office? Souvenir sellers now fill the ancient madrassas and courtyards. Akhbar, a retired journalist, acted as our guide, leading us through this enormous site and its maze of spaces, as well as to Samarkand’s other historical places. His specialty was cultural reporting in the local newspaper and he certainly had a vast knowledge of the country, its rulers and history, as well as sharing with us what life is like in modern times Uzbekistan, pointing to his blogsite on his business card. He was also curious to ask about the way of life in Australia. We were taken through a slice of history from ancient mosques and mausoleums, some in a state of mud brick decay (which I much preferred) and others recently gaudily restored so that they appeared almost brand new, through to the remains of Ulugbek’s astronomical observatory. Genghis Khan, revered leader in his Mongolian homeland and dreaded by others, arrived early in the 13^th century, decimating and burning Samarkand and much of Uzbekistan’s history. What we saw was rebuilt after his sacking of the country. The beautiful filigree-tiled Shah-I-Zinda Avenue of Mausoleums, which sounds rather morbid but wasn’t, was the most photogenic and atmospheric, particularly as dark clouds gathered overhead lending it a rather dramatic backdrop. Most of the tourists here were local women in headscarves, multicolured dresses worn over colourful pants and flashes of gold teeth when they smiled. The traditional monobrow-look is fashionable for some married women, the space between eyebrows filled with black pencil. Whilst gawping at the ruined splendour of the Bibi Khonym Mosque, another of Samarkand’s remarkable sights, a young man with golden teeth accompanied by his shy new wife approached Max to say hello and asked questions of us in his faltering English. Max’s initial reaction was one of caution, strangers don’t usually approach unless they’re after something, right? Well, he’d learnt English 15 years ago (Russian and Uzbek are the national languages spoken) and was keen to put it into practise. We found out that speaking with foreigners also entitles them to boasting rights amongst family and friends.

Ribbed dome of remains of Bibi Khonym Mosque

Walking around the Registan’s perimeter at dusk on a different day, Max and I came upon a bazaar that was still a hive of activity just before closing time. There were nougats, homemade sweets, fruits, vegetables, nuts, dried fish and rounds of local flat breads. Foods were being sold from trestle tables, out of prams, shopping trolleys, buckets, sacks, baskets, boxes and tablecloths laid out on the ground. Most of the sellers were women, some of whom tried coaxing us to sample their sweets.

A park opposite the Registan was respite for us as the hot day time temperature dropped. Locals were out and about here relaxing and escaping the heat of their homes. Whilst sitting resting on a bench, a young child came forward and handed over a paper bag with sweet pastries to us. Her mother had sent her over. Nargiza was the mother’s name and she, like her mother and grandmother, is a doctor. Amongst other things we learnt that her little daughter Farina loves Lady Gaga’s music (wouldn’t you believe it!), that doctors are poorly paid, she shares a house with 17 other relatives of three generations including her parents-in-law, brother-in-law & his family and her own children and husband, and that she was keen to distinguish herself as Tartar.

Friendly Uzbek family pose with me

Nargiza was accompanied by a few of her relatives, one of which was a young teenage boy keen to ask questions in his limited English. “How many people in you house?” he asks me. “Two”, I reply, “myself and my husband”. Boy’s response – “ Ahhh, you lucky. You have good life”. Youbetcha! Blessed is what I’d call it. After posing for family photos and promising to email after exchanging addresses, we waved goodbye.
However, this wasn’t the end of an extraordinary day. Further along, I hear bellydance-style music and it draws me. Dragging Max in the direction of the band, we came across an outdoor venue where I tried to sneak peek with my eyes as well as the camera. A woman came forth and beckoned us in to take photos. How could we resist witnessing a wedding spectacle with 400 to 500 guests seated on gold-clothed chairs at gold-draped tables listening to a traditional Uzbek band on stage with a young bridal couple sitting almost lost behind masses of tulle and flowers? There was a film crew with blazing lights and a camera posted on a long boom that hovered over guests’ heads, a multitude of waiters in white shirts and skinny black ties (you know, the 60’s retro look), an enormous flat screen and a large splashing fountain.

Evening highlight

The woman was the mother of one of the bridal pair and she willingly posed for photos with me. Without speaking a word of English, she wanted us to sit down and partake of the feast. Mortified we shook our heads and pointed to our jeans and T-shirts. This was no excuse and in seconds, with great embarrassment, we were whisked over and introduced to a table of relatives (more gold teeth smiling), plied with vodka and bowls of steaming soup placed in front of us. The table was loaded with food – by the looks of it, all the courses were on display at once from the caviar nibbles, to platters of cold meats, salads, savoury pastries, cooked meat dishes, fruit bowls, chocolates, nuts and cream-smothered tortes wilting in the heat. There was one lesson the Soviet occupation of Uzbekistan had taught them - how to drink vodka. As soon as our glasses emptied they were filled up again. Bellydancers in long shimmery dresses danced around the tables collecting money from guests, which went to the bridal couple. An English-speaking nephew who had worked in the UK told us “eat as much as you like, stay as long as you like, you’re our guests”.

Just as the party was really rocking we had to say our goodbyes – we had arranged for Marat to pick us up at a certain time and place. The mother insisted that we stay longer and join in the dancing which was about to begin. Oh, how I would have loved to, walking boots and all, but alas our carriage awaited us. Samarkand has been legendary in many ways, from its history and its monuments to its incredible hospitality from strangers that have all left a big impression on us. How lucky we are to have had such an awesome experience.

Looking rather dapper attired in traditional wedding clothes

St Petersburg - The Regal Duchess of Russia

2011-08-12T06:29:00.000+08:00

If Moscow is the young Pop Princess of Russia, St Petersburg must surely be the rich old

A strange babushka

grand Duchess reclining along her waterfront. The people and its city seem more relaxed and not hyped up on glamour like the Muscovites. It is a beautiful imperial city where every façade and elevation, whether freshened up or in a state of decay, exudes an air of regality softened by pretty bridges and canals.
Whilst we were there in the June summertime this White Nights city turned into festive mode. I’m taking liberty with the word ‘summer’ here as during our week’s stay, days were a smorgasbord of rain, sun, wind, cloud then almost-guaranteed clear bright skies by 8 pm. The sun doesn’t seem to set below the horizon until the wee small hours of the night and the Petroburgers were making the most of it.

An annual fireworks show put on by the city is a point in case. The crowds began swelling and thickening along the banks of the Neva River as Max and I stood patiently waiting for the action. It seemed as though half of SPb’s 4 ½ million population had turned out for the event and everyone was in good spirits - literally and figuratively. Midnight came and went, then 12.30, 1 a.m., and finally at 2 in the morning, when the sky had darkened enough, off it went with a BANG! Luckily we hadn’t chosen to turn in for the night as yet because the pyrotechnics were deafening across the city.

Almost midnight on the Neva River

Fireworks at 2 a.m.

Our little boutique hotel was in a superb location, central to the Hermitage (St Pete’s equivalent of the Louvre) and where 3 quaint little bridges met over quietly flowing canals. This intersection of canal bridges seemed to be the spot where bridal couples arrived in their stretch Hummers and limousines to pose for photos with white doves or balloon bouquets, with the ornamental Church of the Spilled Blood in the background. Afterwards they’d attach a padlock to one of the bridge's lamp posts to seal their love. How romantic.

Church of the Spilled Blood

One of my first tasks on arrival was to get to a hairdresser which the hotel arranged with a nearby salon. Within a few hours I was sitting in the chair trying to communicate with the hairdresser about colour and style. She spent considerable time fussing over my hair, far longer than was really necessary, and spoke a few words of English - “not black” she reassured me about the colour and then asked “like this (hands wide apart indicating boofy hair volume) or like this (hands close together meaning smooth, no volume hair)?”. I chose to go for broke – the big hair look. Two hairdryers (they both packed up) and 3 hours later I emerged with almost-black straight sleek hair. Hey, doesn’t matter – it’s only hair. The hotel receptionist, after her initial flattery was astounded to learn that the stylist didn’t speak English. How did we communicate, she wanted to know? Der, what are hands for?

Hermitage Palace

Our time in SPb coincided with a world economic forum that the city hosts regularly which meant a free outdoor concert by a BIG NAME performer and paid for by the government (you beauty!). Whilst admiring the grandeur of the Hermitage Palace and its stunning art collection, our ears construed that this year’s performer would be Sting. We viewed the ancient Greek & Roman civilisations collections, then on through the ages, pushing through big tour groups at the most popular sections. By the time we reached the 19^th century French artworks - we’re talking Monet, Degas, Cezanne and a pile of Gaugins - we had lost interest as Sting and his band rehearsing in the palace square below distracted us from the seriously cool stuff inside. That evening we did get to watch him perform from a distance over the shoulders of the large crushing crowd where he looked about as big as an ant and sang as if past his prime. Despite the limited view and his vocal range struggling to hit the high notes I was only happy to leave once he’d sung a rendition of “Fields of Gold”.

There were many glorious landscapes, vistas and moments enjoyed during our visit – Petershof, the Tsars’ Summer Palace on the Baltic seaside, a mini-Versailles look-alike of fountains, gold statues, formal gardens, trick water features and pavilions; the highly decorative Church of the Spilt Blood that rivals St Basil’s in Moscow for splendour and ornamentation; drinking vodka and Azerbaijani wine in a central Asian restaurant whilst chatting to and learning about the fascinating background of the young Russian female entertainer/opera singer who also works in Egypt; and having a catch-up dinner with Max’s cousin and his partner who had popped over to St Pete’s from Finland on their travels.

Petershof, the Summer Palace

And let me describe Russian cuisine. There are two features to their gastronomy – “sour cream” and “mayonnaise”. When I’d had enough of it I ordered a toasted ham and cheese sandwich. How did it arrive? Mayonnaise embedded between the bread and filling. BEAUT-iful.

A last day errand was to lighten our packs by posting off accumulated souvenirs and ‘no-longer-needed’ stuff back home. After some phone advice from the young Russian tour guide that we’d bumped into in Moscow and a reconnaisance mission beforehand to this 24-hour central Post Office, off we went on our merry way. This little job looked like it was going to be a piece of cake – take a ticket, buy box, fill it up, take box to counter for posting. Who would have guessed that it would be a 2 ½ hour affair to mail a parcel overseas.

Thirty three ahead of us in the queue (sigh, moan) and 3 counters for this particular service. However, staff rotated so that at any one time 2 were working (slowly, what did we expect?) while one was on break. Ahhh, service with apathy and a frown. Looks like some ex-Soviet ways die a slower death. In that time slot we could have done a mini-grocery shop, written out 2 dozen postcards over a coffee and been back in time to take our place in the queue. For a man who did doth protest with a lot of arm waving and raised voice about the length of time he had to wait, a security guard was called over to the counter. That subdued him. A helpful customer nearby, who’d broken out in a profuse sweat whilst going through the rigmarole of posting her parcels in the unventilated hot building, spoke a little English and assisted us with some of the paperwork (all in Russian and French) and then our little ordeal was finalised to everyone’s satisfaction. This called for a consoling thick-as-custard Russian hot chocolate drink after that.

We headed for St Pete’s airport the following day for Uzbekistan and stood out as the only white westerners waiting for the check-in counters to open for our flight to Tashkent. Dark-skinned people with coarse features and flashes of gold teeth had gathered with their mountains of luggage. The way the unruly masses pushed their way through and surrounded the counters for our flight, I think that airport staff should have taken a leaf out of the Post Office’s book of service and had ticket machines and burly security guards putting order into the chaotic scene. People squished in all around us, almost causing us to topple over with the lack of foot space as we felt bodies pressing closer and suitcases pushing into the backs of our legs. I pushed back in return. There was no such thing as personal space – space was there to be filled if given half a chance. I thought Max, normally a placid kind of guy, was heading for a heated argument as an impatient passenger tried pushing his baggage through on the luggage belt with our backpacks and elbowing his way at the counter as we were being checked in. Some calm was restored by a staffer for the few moments that we were being processed, then the argy-bargy took up again behind us as we pushed our way through the clamouring mob who instantly filled the space we’d just occupied. All checked in, we were then ready to leave the expansive perestroika-ed land of onion-domed churches to fly Russian Airlines….....so help us God.

Our journey east to west from China to Russia via Mongolia, has been a goal realised, an incredible adventure of contrasting patchworks of cultures so different to each other and yet there’s shared history and boundaries through time with all three. We've encountered flavours, smells, sounds, landscapes, peoples, languages, architecture and lifestyles far different from our own life back home and surely that is what the experience of travel is all about. Our Silk Route quest is next as we head excitedly with great curiosity into Central Asia.