Loire à Vélo - day 3

Bike riders' breakfast, courtesy of my host

A breakfast of champions (more or less) is waiting for me this morning. The table is set with a fresh croissant, a whole fresh bread, three little bowls of what looks like home-made jams, butter, juice, and shortly after I sit down, freshly brewed coffee appears. Marie-Thérèse, my host, is spoiling me! Maybe it's like this every morning, or maybe it's a little extra by way of thanks for helping her set up her WiFi and showing her how to find online English lessons, I don't know - but I appreciate it either way.

The ride out of Les Rosiers-sur-Loire is lovely; along the river, shady, a few curves and mostly flat. A nice way to start the day: a interesting ride with a view.

Early morning in Les Rosiers-sur-Loire

Later, I'm riding along a country road and pass a tractor coming from the opposite direction cutting the roadside grass. After I've passed it I get to enjoy riding through the sweet smell of freshly cut grass for a kilometre or so, which is quite pleasant. This is one of the advantages of riding: you get to be a part of the environment you're riding through, hearing the sounds and smelling the smells, unlike being in a car where you're sealed off from your environment. Being part of the environment is not always a good thing of course, as anyone who's ridden past fields freshly covered in chicken shit or who's been overtaken by a semi trailer full of pigs can tell you.

After having bought my pastry du jour at a nice looking little patisserie in little village called La Daguenière I ride on until I find the next place where I can get a coffee to go with it. But it transpires that the patisserie is the only shop in the village that's open (see earlier discussion about finding a shop that's actually open at this time of year) and I continue riding, looking in vain for a suitable café. Eventually I give up and stop at the next town at a nice spot by the river and have my flan with my water. At least I won't be disappointed by the coffee!

As I am sitting enjoying the setting, the local church bells chime midday and a minute later the air raid sirens go off, presumably for their weekly or perhaps monthly test. At least I hope it's a test; I haven't seen or read any news for a while, so who knows what's been happening while I've been riding. The siren is a stark reminder of Europe's history and brings home what all these bucolic little villages must have once gone through, and are still prepared for the possibility of going through again. A little later I see a local couple approaching the table near mine, obviously wanting to have their lunch. That table is in the sun (it's hot) and mine is in the shade and I notice them look over in my direction. I indicate that they're welcome to share my table and they come and join me. We talk about the Loire à Vélo (what else?) - they have ridden part of it too. And then I ask them about the siren. Is it a weekly or monthly test? I ask. "We don't know" they reply, "We've never heard it before."

Later in the afternoon it's getting quite hot. I start thinking about that beer (see yesterday's post) and when I pass through a little village with a cute square complete with a bar (which, contrary to my earlier notes, is open) I decided it might be time for a break. But there are no free seats or tables and so I ride on. That's the problem when so many places are closed; the ones that are open are packed.

Twice today I get sucked into following the signs (and not my common sense) and get taken up rather steep hills, once to the extent that for the first time this trip I'm down to my lowest gears. Going up the first hill I tell myself the view will be worth it, but although the vineyards the route passes through are pleasant I don't get to see the Loire from on high; no scenic river views here. The second time, in a little village called Savennières, there's a reward: a little village with a nice church and, much more importantly, a nice café that serves me a well-earned cold beer. Much better than a coffee!

Later on, I'm riding on one of the only inhabited islands on the Loire, the Ile de Chalonnes. I'm only about 1 km from my destination for the day and am already looking forward to stopping, when a guy on a tractor coming in the opposite direction waves me down: "You didn't see that the bridge is closed?" he asks accusingly. "You'll have to go back across the other bridge" he says with what looks like a hint of schadenfreude. The other bridge he's referring to is the one at the other end of the island that I've already come over to get onto the island in the first place. It means riding all the way back to the other end of the island, across the other bridge, and then back along the mainland bank of the Loire. I've just bought myself another 18km of riding, which I definitely didn't need right now. I feel a little better when, as I'm at the closed bridge - just to prove to myself that it's really closed (I can't somehow sneak by?) - another cyclist appears. This guy is a local (he lives on the other side of the bridge) and he didn't know either.

Almost there! But had to turn around and go back

I arrive at my B&B after a longer than planned 85 km ride; it's hot today, probably the hottest it will be all week. I certainly picked the day for what turns out to be the longest ride!

I accept the invitation to have dinner at the B&B (table d'hôte at the Chambre d'hôte) which means I won't have to ride back into the village to have a meal. I share the dinner with the other two guests - a retired couple from near Paris. He's a talker and she's a listener, so they are well matched. We go through the usual "Where are you from?" - "How long are you staying?" - "Where are you going?" question and answer sessions until the conversation moves on to children and grandchildren. We are all of a certain age I suppose, so this progression is inevitable. Then the conversation shifts, through several phases, to killing pigeons and kamikaze motorbike riders in Paris (the two subjects are unrelated, except that they both involve Paris). We pass through rabbits and Myxomatosis (Australia, and it was the French who invented the vaccine according to Alain, the talker*) ending up with chocolate cake decorating. An interesting evening.

*) Actually, according to Wikipedia the French only became involved in 1952 when a French bacteriologist was accidentally responsible for killing 90% of the rabbit population in France when he used a myxomatosis vaccine (which was already in existence, having been used in Australia in 1938) in an attempt to rid his private estate of rabbits. It's rather a shame I didn't know this when Alain made his claim!

Distance today: 85 km, 4.8 hours riding

Loire à Vélo - day 2

Follow the signs

The day starts with breakfast with my hosts, discussing the various places we've traveled to. He has spent some time in India and relates all sorts of stories, mostly centred on the consequences of drinking the water, which is perhaps not the best subject to discuss over breakfast. I had earlier admired his BMW bike and now I find that he'd bought a Lee Enfield motorbike while he was in India and brought it back to France. Later on I am given a tour of the bike and a demonstration of how it still runs, after 20 years. An old Indian (originally English of course) motorbike in a remote farmhouse in France; not exactly what you'd expect to find.

"Are you going all the way to the coast?", he asks. "It's really beautiful!" I explain that this time I'm only going as far as Nantes. "You really should go and see the coast, it's wonderful", he insists. "I've never been myself", he adds, somewhat casting doubt on his recommendation.

Chinon Nuclear Power Station

The route follows some smaller dedicated bike paths and is quite pleasant. Soon however the cooling towers and billowing steam clouds of the Chinon nuclear power station loom on the horizon, changing the bucolic atmosphere somewhat. Then the route leads into Avoine which is a nice little town with a square in front of the church; several cyclists are already sitting at some tables there: morning coffee time!

I go to the local  Carrefour mini-market to buy my emergency banana (it's still a bit early for coffee for me). At the checkout there are a couple of cyclists buying some sandwiches and one has bought a can of beer. I keep forgetting that you can buy alcohol at supermarkets here. I look at my  banana and suddenly that can of beer looks like it would have been a very good idea.

At a tiny village a little further on, there's an enormous picnic area set up with tables, play equipment and other amenities. Just for the Loire à Vélo. Just the spot to have my little tartelette aux fruits bought at the local patisserie. I have the place to myself and try to imagine what it might be like in peak season, full of bikes and families. I'm glad I'm not here in peak season. There's a tall pole with height markings on it indicating the levels of the various floods over the years. The highest is well over 3m, a sobering thought.

I'm stopped at a small rest area, having a look at the information sign. An older couple pull up on what are very obviously Dutch bikes (Gazelle brand, enormously high handlebars...). "Hello", I say in Dutch, "Those look like Dutch bikes", I add by way of starting a conversation. The lady looks at me like I'm from another planet. Her husband says something to her in Dutch (not having heard me) confirming to me that they are indeed from the Netherlands. "We're trying to find the way to Candes Saint Martin", she volunteers. "We've been around in circles twice and each time we come back here. There must be something wrong with the signs."

I digest this. The signage is almost too frequent on the route; it's very hard to miss. But what is most difficult for me to understand is the fact that we are, literally, about 200m from Candes Saint Martin. And they still don't know which way to go. How did they get here in the first place I wonder? I point in the direction to go. "We've just come from that way" says the woman. The guy is a little odd; he doesn't want my directions and starts pedaling away (in the wrong direction) leaving his wife in his wake. She looks at me, then at her departing husband, and with a look of resignation follows her husband.

At Candes Saint Martin (about 5 minutes after my discussion with the odd Dutch couple) I stop for what turns out to be yet another cup of awful French coffee. I'm a sucker for punishment; I should know by now that expecting to find a good cup of coffee (with milk) in France is a lost cause. I still don't understand that in a country that (justifiably) prides itself in the excellent food and wine it produces, they cannot  seem to make decent coffee (or tea, for that matter). I should stick to cold drinks I suppose. Beer for example.

Candes Saint Martin is one of the Plus Beaux Villages de France. I've been here a couple of times before and never quite understood how it made the grade. It's attractive but not particularly pretty, nor especially remarkable compared to so many other nice villages. Its neighbour, Montsoreau, is also on the list and I think justifies its position more. The castle dominating the Loire is imposing and attractive and the village is pretty.

Crossing the Greenwich Meridian

At Pernay the route deviates inland slightly for no reason other than to take you through the commercial or touristic areas. Since this involves going uphill I wimp out and stay by the river. A bit further on I pass a series of troglodyte houses which I would otherwise have ridden over the top of, so I feel justified in my choice of deviating from the track. There's even an upmarket troglodyte restaurant and an art gallery; it's amazing what they can build into the rock. I also unexpectedly cross the Greenwich Meridian, something which I've no doubt done quite a few times, but here's a sign to inform me of the fact.

Saumur is an attractive and welcoming town which has cleverly deviated the route to pass right through the rather attractive town centre (while not involving any hills). I find a nice little shaded square with a fountain and treat myself to an ice cream - it's getting quite hot in the afternoon. A German couple is giving their two large dogs water from the fountain; I can't imagine traveling with two large dogs, especially not in a camper van as some people I met earlier were doing. At Saumur I deviate again from the track and cross the Loire to the north bank, which I follow until my destination at Les Rosiers-sur-Loire.

Saumur Castle looming over the town

Here I am staying in a house with a woman who has joined Airbnb as a way to meet people and avoid becoming isolated since becoming a widow. She's good company and a considerate host. She mentions that she had a couple of Tasmanians on bikes stay recently, which is an impressive coincidence: yesterday the hosts had also mentioned the Tasmanians, so they had obviously chosen the same two places to stay as I have. It's also interesting that these people referred to themselves as Tasmanians and not Australians. In fact my host of last night was somehow under the impression that Tasmania was one of the islands of New Zealand. I wonder what the Tasmanians would have thought of that?

Dinner is at a place recommended by my host. I must look like I need feeding because one of the first things she asked when I arrived was where I planned to eat tonight. She's been concerned that I wouldn't find a suitable place that's open (see discussion on this subject in yesterday's blog). The place she recommended, and called to check they were open, turns out to be a small hotel. Normally I would avoid hotel restaurants, but I think this will turn out OK. I'm having the menu du marché, which has as a main course "confident chicken". That's my translation of course, but that's what it says. Menu-speak is a foreign language in any country, usually in an attempt to make a plain dish sound appealing. I'm curious what my confident chicken will be. Are they confident you'll like the chicken? Or maybe they select only chickens that were confident for this dish? Or perhaps the chef is confident that it's chicken?

I can't help myself. Here I am dining alone in a restaurant, so of course I am occupying myself by observing my fellow diners. There's the couple at the table next to me; they are speaking something that sounds like a mix of German and French. Alsatian perhaps? Actually, it's the woman who is doing all the talking; her companion doesn't have to say much. She keeps blowing her nose; loudly, fruitily, and often. "Superb" she says, " I've never eaten so well" , she adds, when the waitress asks how the meal was. They are not having the simple market menu - for them it's the multi-course full- blown menu. Pretentious is the word that comes to mind. She blows her nose again.

Then there's the older French couple. He's in sandals (although thankfully not with socks). She looks like she'd rather be having her hair done than have dinner with her husband. So far they haven't said a word to each other and neither looks particularly pleased to be here.

Behind me is a young couple; out on a date? They are obviously confused and a bit worried about something on the menu, perhaps they are also thinking about confident chickens. Then the waitress comes and the problem is revealed: the guy is concerned whether it's OK to have red wine with the duck, or should they have white? I feel for the guy, it's a serious dilemma and he clearly needs to impress his dining companion.

Across the way are a couple of guys: they must be on a business trip. Perhaps they are out here to sell something, or maybe they are setting up the local branch of their business. Notes are compared, plans for the next day are discussed. My confident chicken arrives: it's a chicken that's confidently turned itself into a type of sausage and it's rather good. The sandals couple still hasn't said a word to each other.

Final restaurant observations: the (suitably surly) waitress serves me from the cheese trolley. The selection is impressive. While cutting some cheese, she knocks one of the cheeses (admittedly a wrapped piece) onto the floor. She picks it up and puts it to the side on the trolley. She serves the next table their cheese. Then, as she heads back to the kitchen, she surreptitiously takes the dropped piece of cheese and puts it back into the covered part of the trolley with all the

other cheeses. The next diners will be none the wiser. The Alsatian woman blows her nose and the older couple says their first words to each other; he's had a half bottle of red and she's finished the best part of whole bottle of white. It was about time they said something. The young couple is having red wine with their duck. The waitress, although surly, knows her trade; her knowledge of the food, the cheeses, and the wines is comprehensive and impressive. My coffee (espresso, which the French do know how to make) arrives accompanied by a macaroon and a mini almond cake. Not a bad way to end a day's riding.

Distance today: 63 km, 3.8 hours riding

Loire à Vélo - day 1

Here I am on my next bike trip. Although I still have to complete the middle section of the Camino de Santiago, this time I only have a week, so I'm going to be riding a section of the Loire à Vélo route along the Heritage listed Loire river valley in France  instead of riding the Camino. I'm going to head downstream to Nantes, before turning around and backtracking, hopefully not along exactly the same paths. I've allowed eight days for what should be around 500 km.

Day one will take me 60 km or so to a little town called Bréhemont. So off we go!

In the middle of nowhere I pass a sign pointing to a little village with the most accurate, but spectacularly unimaginative name: "Le Village". Clearly not a lot of thought went into coming up with that name. It's heavily overcast with a constant slight drizzle for the first hour or so of my first day's ride; not enough to warrant stopping to cover up but enough to keep me cool and damp.

Lunch with cow at Pernay

I stop for lunch in Pernay at 'Le Crêpolo' (the name is not inspiring), sitting at a table on the footpath under a manicured tree and next to a life-sized pink plastic cow. There must be a reason for that cow, although it's not obvious to me what it is. I am eating a sandwich jambon blanc-fromage; boringly reliable. While I am sitting outside eating my baguette, the local workers start arriving for their midday meal. Small groups of painters (recognisable by their white pants covered in paint), carpenters, stonemasons (covered in a light dusting of the local limestone) plumbers and electricians arrive, look at the menu of the day  - entrée, plat, dessert + 1/4 de vin, a pretty standard French workers' lunch - and then head inside to sit at the prepared tables. The daily ritual; no lunch boxes or take away food for these guys; this is France after all! Then three older women turn up and start taking their photograph with the cow; perhaps it's a local landmark; at least I'm not the only one to find it unusual. I offer to take their picture for them so all three are in the photo. The cow's purpose remains a mystery.

At La Houbellerie, the road passes some sort of military installation. There's a double barbed wire fence, floodlights on the perimeter and signs warning of all the things that are prohibited, including taking photos, which although tempted, I decide not to do. There are lots of strange looking antennae and an enormous grey metal sphere on an impressively large pole. Some sort of military surveillance installation I conclude. And then, as if to make the point, while I'm writing these notes, a military 4WD with two soldiers drives past, seemingly checking me out. In my fluorescent vest I am hardly trying to hide and they do not stop. A little further along the road there are several old concrete bunkers and then another set of buildings, clearly military. The old jet fighter plane on a stand in front of the main building is a bit of a sign that this is indeed a military, probably air force, installation. Then again, James Dyson, of vacuum cleaner fame, has a 1960's Hawker Harrier parked in the car park in front of his factory, so having a jet fighter on display isn't always an indication of a military presence.

The road heads down now, towards the Loire river. That's a nice feeling; both because from here on the ride will be more or less flat and because the Loire is really the whole point of this ride. I meet the river at the rather strangely named town of Cinq Mars La Pile. Supposedly, the name is a bastardisation of "Saint Martin" and has nothing to do with the fifth of March as you would logically expect. The 'Pile' refers to a local landmark; a Roman brick tower.

I pass through Langeais, an attractive little town with a marvelous medieval castle. I don't stay long since I've been here a few times already and will be spending the night here on my return  journey. So I'll leave exploring the town until later. I pass a (closed) newsagent with a sign on the footpath advertising La Nouvelle République, a daily newspaper. Written by hand on the sign are the words "News Paper". I wonder whether this is to attract English speaking tourists, or perhaps to explain to the anglophones what La Nouvelle République is. Maybe both. This little bit of English is certainly unusual and somehow out of place here.

After Langeais my path finally meets the Loire river and I cross to the south bank over the impressive suspension bridge. I'm now riding the Loire à Vélo route proper and begin meeting the first bike riders I've seen today. Only a few more kilometres to Bréhemont, my destination for today.

Bréhemont is a tiny sleepy little village whose main claim to fame seems to be that it is on the Loire à Vélo route and that it had a small bicycle rental and repair shop, which also seems to be the only place that's actually open. Actually, I think it might just be the only place. I've arrived early in the afternoon so I sit for a while on the banks of the river watching it go by.

Boats waiting patiently for their owners to return

As it's still a bit to early to go to my B&B I decide to go for a ride in the surrounding countryside. After all, what else do you do after just having ridden 60 km? I end up taking little gravel paths between the fields to get back to the B&B, which is in an interesting if somewhat ramshackle collection of buildings. It is very quiet.

I ask my host about dining possibilities in the village and she offers to call the bicycle rental shop, which turns out to also be the only place that sells food in the village; she's not sure they are open (it is Monday, half of France seems to close on Mondays). She ends up getting an earful from the guy who runs it, along the lines that it's getting late (although it's not even 17:30 and their brochure claims they open until 19:00) and that they have better things to do than stay open just to serve their customers. A not uncommon attitude amongst shopkeepers in France unfortunately and my host makes the same observation. She offers to provide some food so I can cook my dinner in the B&B because she feels put out by the guy's attitude and so doesn't want to send him any customers. It saves me the ride back into the village I suppose, although it means I get to cook my own dinner. I am compensated by their offer of a half bottle of local (good) red wine and some local lait cru goat's cheese to go with it.

I am sold; the wine is excellent and the cheese delicious. I will sleep well tonight.

Distance today: 67km, 4 hours riding.

Normandy - not just D-day beaches

So here we are in France and as it happens, our trip coincides with our 25th anniversary. Perhaps I should have told my wife we were going to France for our anniversary - a much more romantic concept! To try and salvage this situation a little, I planned a little trip to Normandy, including a visit to Alençon to visit the lace museum, which she had been wanting to visit for  years.

Our home for the three nights we were in Normandy was to be a castle no less - and on instructions from the management it had to be a medieval castle: thick stone walls, towers, secret passages, low doorways and so forth. Actually, it's amazing how many place that would fit this description still exist in France (and in Europe generally). We stayed at La Ducrie, which our daughter had stayed at a few years ago and which fit the bill perfectly.

Our hosts were Joe and Vivienne, a retired and some might say slightly eccentric English couple, together with their two dogs and three cats. They were living the dream that so many have but so few realise - pack everything up, buy a run-down castle in France, do it up and live in (medieval) style.

La Ducrie was the home of a future King of France and goes back to 1437. Coming from Australia, which was only discovered by the English in 1770 it always impresses me how old things are in Europe. You see that bridge? It was built in the year that the first settlers arrived in Australia. You see that house? It was built two hundred years before Australia was even on the map!

I helped Joe get his computer and WiFi systems set up and to thank us he invited us to join them and a couple of their friends for a BBQ dinner. I think the "prick with a fork" apron he donned for the occasion nicely summed up his joie de vivre. Although I promised him I wouldn't post the picture on Facebook, I'm sure he wouldn't mind it appearing here; it perfectly captures his lifestyle of medieval castle living in Normandy.

Although we'd been to Normandy before and had visited many of the D-Day landing beaches, we made a little trip to Utah beach which was nearby and which we had not visited yet. It's amazing what an effect this area can have on you when you are faced with the realities of the actual beaches where all those people were sacrificed in order to free Europe and trigger the end of WW2.

So what else to do in Normandy? Have the world's most delicious ice cream in the home of seriously wonderful dairy products, Isigny-sur-Mer of course! Arriving at the dairy we were greeted by the sight of dozens of people milling around all holding ice cream cones; an odd sight, but soon we had joined them and had appreciated why they were there! Next on the agenda was a visit to the ancestral home of cheese: Camembert. For what must be the world's most recognisable cheese type, this is just an unassuming little village - similar to many such places that are familiar from their products, but unassuming in real life.

Last on the agenda was a place that I'd had on my to-do list for quite some time: the Musée Schlumberger, which is located at the Château de Crèvecoeur. I did not realise before visiting that the chateau is in fact much more than just the museum, which is actually only a relatively minor part of what the chateau has to offer. 

[Schlumberger is the company I used to work for, and is an oilfield services company started by two brothers in France, back in the 1920's; the Chateau is owned by the Schlumberger Foundation and contains, amongst other things, a small museum that tells the "Schlumberger Story"]

If you're thinking of going just for the museum - as we were - be aware that the exhibit is relatively small and will not take you long to visit although it is quite informative. It does however contain some interesting and rare pieces of early equipment (as well as some wireline logging equipment which my dear wife Ann was astounded to learn was of the same type that I had actually used when I worked for the company:  "but that looks antique" was her comment, making me feel suitably old).

Interior of an early Schlumberger wireline logging unit

Still, I now realise most people will be visiting the chateau for its restored medieval "village", and especially on those days when they hold reenactments, which I am pleased to say we very much enjoyed - they were very well done and everyone was not just in costume, but also very much in character. We hadn't expected any of this and it was a nice surprise.

Road trips and other observations

A bit of an odd post this. The first of a compilation of various observations and anecdotes written over the last couple of years that I never got around to actually compiling into anything organised. Rather than lose them forever in the dark recesses of some long-forgotten disk drive (or perhaps floating in the cloud somewhere) it seems reasonable to bring them together here for posterity. So, in no particular order - actually, probably in roughly chronological order - here they are:

Here I am in Bangkok, sometime in 2013. I'm staying at the Pullman hotel (it's a work trip, I am teaching a course here and someone else is paying the bill, so it's the Pullman this time). I am at the reception desk where there is a lot of staff. They have name tags with 'English' names - how do they come up with there I wonder? I am served (at the same time) by two lovely girls named 'Nutty' and 'Luck'. My mind goes back to the early 1980's and other places in Bangkok where you could (can?) be served by multiple girls (often also wearing name or number badges) at the same time. I drag my mind back and focus on task at hand: checking in. There are other interesting names, but these two catch my attention. 

Actually, there are lots of staff everywhere; a feature in Asia where staff is still cheap enough to have lots of them. The lobby area sometimes seems to have more staff than guests, the restaurant is bustling with not just customers, but also the huge number of staff replenishing the buffet, cooking, baking fresh bread, making coffee at the two enormous machines (that look like they are set up for guests to use, but with the amazing service mentality of the staff, they are not giving any guest the chance to have to make their own drink). You order a coffee at your table from one person and what seems like seconds later another person magically appears with a freshly made cup. How do they know where you are in this vast place? There are no numbers on the tables. But then again, there aren't so many westerners  either, the place is certainly popular with the Chinese and Japanese tourists, clearly outnumbering the locals. I probably stand out from the crowd more than I realise.

Now we're on a quick road trip from France to Andalucia (and back again!), also sometime in 2013 - June actually.

We make a special detour to Le Puy en Velay to visit a lace school. As luck would have it, the day we are there the school is closed "exceptionally". The heating isn't working so all the teachers have gone home... We stay in a quirky B&B right in the middle of the old town. It's a medieval building, charming in the sense that there's not a square angle in the place and if you were to spill a bag of Maltesers, they'd roll over the sloping floor to the far corner of the room, falling into the gaps between the floorboards as they went. Since we're in France, and not in an Australian cinema in the 1970's, we don't have any Maltesers with us anyway. The B&B is actually a tea shop with a couple of rooms upstairs. There's free WiFi, but it doesn't reach the upper room, which of course is the one we're staying in. The view through the wobbly old glass paned windows over the town square is gorgeous. Breakfast is generous with a vast array of cakes, breads and other things - and tea!

In Montpellier we have dinner with some friends in a restaurant that seems to serve essentially baked slow cooked food. It's tiny. The service is good and the wine list is impressive - and since we like our red wine, all seems well with the world. There's confit de canard and a slow-roasted lamb, which is delicious, falling off the bone. The portions are very large, but we have enough red wine to last the distance.

Then we're in Spain and in Murcia after a marathon run down the east coast autovias. It must be said that the motorways in Spain are, in general, excellent. Most are quite recent, there's not a lot of traffic, and there's enough bendy bits to make them interesting as well. Driving into the town we spot a familiar sign: a hotel Campanile. Boring as anything, but reliable, clean, and at this late hour a welcome sign after all. The place is being run by just one woman who is flat out trying to deal with everything, including manning the desk, handling the bar, and serving food. There's no dinner however. The next morning this is somewhat compensated by the very complete breakfast buffet. 

Now we are at our destination in Andalcia, Jimena de la Frontera. We're staying at Casa Henrietta which is a relatively recently restored large building on the main street. It's probably an old doctor's mansion or something similar. There's a nice feeling and decor, with central space open to the roof level with balconies looking down into the lobby area. Like many buildings in this part of Spain, there's a Moorish / Moroccan influence and the open central space with patterned tiling reminds me of a small hotel in Morocco I stayed at towards the end of my trip across the Sahara desert way back sometime in the eighties (is it really that long ago?) I like how things can trigger memories of places you've been but may have not otherwise remembered.  Our room has great views as you would expect in Jimena. It's all very casual and easygoing; the girl running the place has a relaxed approach to hotel management, which it must be said is not at all out of place here in the south of Spain. Again there's no dinner here (seems to be a theme we're encountering) but there's a good assortment of rather unusual tapas and there's a bar, so all is not lost. Breakfast is very simple but adequate. The only disappointment is that since we're the only guests, we don't warrant them turning on the espresso machine in the morning so have to have tea instead, which seems somehow wrong when you're in Spain. The free WiFi is only in lobby area and if you're lucky perhaps in the rooms next to and above the lobby. Our room is on the top floor, well beyond the range of the little WiFi router in the lobby (seems to be a theme we're encountering). There's a lift, but (of course)  it's not working. It's probably been a long time since it has worked. Miraculously, we find a parking spot in the main street, right outside the hotel so we end up leaving the car there for most of our stay in Jimena (which is a village for walking in any case).

One night when we are thinking about dinner, we decide to walk into a restaurant on the main street called El Ventorrillerro. This is a place we've walked past many many times over the years, but which we never thought would be much. How wrong we were! Our evening turned into a memorable event, thanks to both the excellent food as well as the theatrical owner, who also turned out to speak excellent English. The meal was designed "to order" together with the owner / waiter, who used the paper tablecloth to write down various suggestions, making up "our" menu as he went. While this sounds potentially tacky, it was all great fun. Red wine came by the bottle-on-the table and pay-for-how-much-you-drink method, which personally I think all restaurants should propose, since I can never finish a whole bottle (although I have been known to come close on occasion). The food, cooked by Mama, is genuine, simple, generously portioned, and delicious.

One of the nights we are in Jimena we make a pilgrimage visit to the El Anon restaurant. It's a pilgrimage of sorts since this place is an institution that's been there even longer than we have been coming to Jimena, which I realise is almost 30 years now. Is it really that long? El Anon is still essentially the same as it has been for all that time and it's nice to come back to something reliable and known. There's quite a large selection on the menu with an eclectic mix of local foods with a few British influenced dishes - just like it always has been.

On the way back to France, we stop in Cáceres and stay at the Hotel Iberia. This place is a little quirky, but it has an excellent location just off the Plaza Major. It's a charming old building, clean and tidy. We have a good-sized room and there's friendly and helpful staff. Parking at a special price at a nearby parking station. Furnished with attention to detail. Cáceres is a medieval walled city and it's a pity we're on a quick road trip back and we're only stopping for a night. Still, we spend a little time wandering through the cobbled streets getting a feel for the place. The Iglesia Concatedral de Santa María is fascinating, not least for the square bell tower (with wonderful stone spiral staircase) which you can climb all the way to the bells - and stay there while they toll (fingers in the ears is good strategy at that point). Great views over the old town from here.

Then we're in Salamanca and staying at the Hotel Toboso. It's a good location, right in the old town - which is always nice for discovering the old areas, but not so nice if you're arriving by car, since often - such as here - you cannot reach the hotel by car.  The receptionist is very friendly and helpful; he's chatty and I guess that might be because he's glad to have someone to talk to; are we the only guests I wonder? The reception area is a bit grim and there's nobody to be seen. Salamanca is a university town and is a lovely colour as a result of the local stone used for most of the old construction. There's also the unique feature of having two cathedrals; the old cathedral and the new cathedral. These two buildings actually join at one point and are most definitely worth visiting. "Old" and "new" are of course relative concepts; even the "new" cathedral dates from the 16th century. The new cathedral has a gorgeously decorated (on the inside) dome and there's a clever mirror set up directly underneath it so you can look up without having to look up. In the morning we head for the "best churros in Salamanca" - a little hole-in-the-wall place which serves up what are indeed very delicious churros (con chocolate, of course). There's a guy making them in front of us, by the hundreds. He's clearly making orders for surrounding restaurants and large packages of churros are regularly picked up and taken away. We are glad for our chatty hotel receptionist, who let us in on this little gem.

Our last stop in Spain before re-entering France is Vitoria. Here we stay at the Hotel Dato which is most definitely deserving of the label "quirky". Outside, on the footpath there's a large bronze statue (chained to the door, presumably bronze statues - even almost life-sized ones - are popular souvenir items in Vitoria). There's no elevator and our room is on the fourth (top) floor (seems to be a theme for our entire trip). The walls in the hotel public areas are pretty much  all covered in mirrors and everywhere you look there are brass, marble, and bronze statues. I have to wonder what this establishment was in its previous life? Our room in in the attic and is small, as is the bed. Dinner that night is at the Restaurant Dolomiti, which turns out to be a very good Italian restaurant. To complete the non-Spanish picture, the waiter turns out to be English. The home-made desserts are seriously good. After a couple of weeks in Spain it's good to have a change from tapas....

Back in France and it's time to re-visit St Emilion, which I last visited in what seems like another life, when I was working in Africa (the eighties again). A lovely town in what is, of course, a key region for red wine lovers: Bordeaux is emblematic of red wines in many ways (of course, this is not to say that there are not many other regions making very good red wine!!) But, if you're in that neck of the woods so to speak, it would be a shame not to stop in St. Emilion. We stay are a B&B just out of town and are greeted in a fairly odd way on arrival - it's a bit like "what are you doing here?" although no quite. Luckily, things do get better and the room - and the breakfast next morning - is very good. Dinner is at L'Envers du Decor, which is definitely a good choice: simple, great wines (of course!) and good authentic food.

Lakes Entrance, New South Wales, Australia

25 March 2015

Watching birds at bird feeder. Interesting hierarchy. The Rainbow Lorikeets and Rosellas argue amongst themselves for the prime spot. The magpies, which are much larger, have to content themselves with whatever falls on the ground. Each time they attempt to get seed directly from the feeder the Lorikeets drive them away. The wild pigeons stand on the sidelines watching. When the Lorikeets leave, the Magpies take over the feeder and chase the pigeons away.

The sunset is filtering through the gums trees as I sit on a veranda overlooking the bush, glass of red wine in hand. The local cat is much too old to even think about chasing the birds, who clearly know that he isn't going to cause them any harm. In fact it's more like they are taunting him. The cat contents himself with brushing up to my legs and trying to find a way up on my lap. There are definitely worse ways to spend an evening.

Another series of strange beds

For the French part of my bicycle trip (on the Camino de Santiago), I've been staying in places found on Airbnb. It's a bit of an experiment. My only experience with Airbnb so far has been two places in Australia, and both were positive experiences, in each case essentially like a good B&B. As I have written earlier, on this trip I've decided to book my accommodation ahead, something I hadn't done before. Initially I'd planned to stay at hostels, but these are, interestingly, few and far between in France. I don't travel with a tent (although I have a sleeping bag just in case) and hotels are boring, expensive and don't lend themselves to meeting people. "Real" Bed and Breakfasts (Chambres d'Hôtes in France) have become ridiculously expensive and in reality virtually boutique hotels, having lost the sense of staying at someone's house and becoming more and more anonymous. So I'm experimenting with Airbnb hoping to find a more authentic bed and breakfast experience.

My first one in France is run by a gay couple. It's a large house that dates from the fifties perhaps. It's been renovated in a fashion; Fake wooden flooring roughly cut and placed on top of the tiled floor so you can still see the tiling around the edges and around the toilet type of fashion. The couple is super friendly although one is clearly the boss in the house and he thinks a little too much of himself I think. They have invited a couple of friends over for the evening and we have dinner together. It's a very male gathering tonight and we are five boys for dinner (two couples and me). It's all cider and beer in this part of France and the cider is local and very good. The beer is Belgian. Not a bottle of red wine in sight. My room is large with a nice view into the garden, which also contains the swimming pool featured in the description of the place. The description hadn't mentioned the fact that the pool was empty and to all intents and purposes derelict.

I'm surprised to find a waterproof sheet on the mattress which reminds me of the youth hostel's plastic mattresses. It makes for a sweaty night's sleep. Breakfast is French, meaning coffee and yesterday's baguette cut into pieces and toasted. There's a young Labrador which is way too friendly and won't stay away. Later in the evening the guy smokes in the room (it's his house of course but you'd think that nowadays this would not be done when you have guests.)  During our pre-dinner conversion the conversion is inevitably about my bike ride. The youngest, a very sweet slim young lad, pipes up: "mais ça fait mal aux fesses" - 'but that gives you a sore bum'. What he says and the way he says it just crack me up; he's a caraciture. Is it bad of me to think this, I think to myself?

Next night and another Airbnb, this one is very different. Run by a rather alternative couple who have several medium and long term tenants as well as at least one room for people like me who are passing through. Unusually there's no breakfast included but when I come back from dinner there's a brioche in a bag and a cup with some teabags left out for me to have next morning. The woman later explains she realised I'd need something before going on my ride; it's a nice gesture. There's an over-friendly dog but he's reasonably well behaved. When I ask for dinner recommendations they seem surprisingly unprepared; you'd think that if you have guests every night you'd expect them to need to go and eat somewhere. Perhaps they are used to the longer-term guests who cook their own meals. But a bit later I find a photocopied list of restaurants with a couple of hand written notes. Another nice gesture. The room is simple and I have to make my own bed. The bathroom is a conversion of part of the upstairs landing, so is small and a bit rickety (it's a very old house) but everything works and the place has a certain charm. In the dining area the walls at covered in pictures and articles from magazines and papers, some of it fascinating. There's one photograph that catches my eye: a naked couple walking down the street. They are both well built. The woman is walking is front leading the man by his penis, like a dog on a leash. There's a story there. The next morning the couple comes out to say goodbye and wave me of on my journey. They are gentle caring people with an good sense of humour.

Third night, again Airbnb. My room is exactly like it was in the picture on the website, which is to say not particularly welcoming. But the whole house is like that. I feel like I'm in a shared student hovel. In the bathroom there's multiple collections of toiletries everywhere. The owner is Indian and the house looks Indian and is very cluttered and messy. There's a lot of stainless steel cookware and little dishes. In the bathroom there are four such dishes, each with someone's soap in them.

The house is full of furniture that looks a bit like it was taken from charity shops or bought at garage sales, which I'm guessing it probably was. Many of the doors and drawers appear to be left open, it looks a bit like someone's been rummaging around everywhere looking for something they misplaced, and in their frustration just left everything open.

The address the house is in a quiet street in a quiet area but it's otherwise totally without charm or character. It's an area I would never normally have come to, so in that sense it's a good experience because I'm discovering something new. Which is one of the reasons I'm making this trip of course; to expose myself to different things.

In Paris I am lucky to be able to stay with a friend at her apartment. What a difference it makes to be able to spend a night with her and her family, who I have not met properly before. They are gracious and welcoming hosts and it's nice to chat about "old times". In the morning she makes me a picnic lunch for the day's ride which is a lovely gesture.

My next stop is a 'Room in a large house in the country'  according to the description and the picture looks impressive. I'm arriving before my host comes home, but she's generously offered to leave the key to the house out for me (hidden away, with a series of clues to find it). I love the fact that such trust still exists and feel somehow honoured to be considered worthy of it. The house is just as impressive as it was in the pictures. When my host comes home we have a drink and there's open and easy conversion. Dinner is shared with her and another guest who is staying long term. The house is a renovation work in progress, and I admire the tenacity the couple shows to continue working on it, even though  they both work and the husband works in Versailles, which is a very long commute. There are children's books everywhere, but no children. The garden and surrounding forests are full of the sound of frogs and birds. I am woken next morning by a real cuckoo, not a clock, which is just lovely.

I am cycling along a street in Orléans looking for the address of the place I'm staying at for the night; it turns out to be a group of large older social housing apartments; HLM as this type of accommodation is known in France. Another new experience, I've never been inside one of those. This is going to be interesting. On the way up to the apartment, which is on an upper floor, we meet several other tenants, who clearly know each other and my host chats with them. It's a like a little village and although it's obviously not well off, there's a spirit of community.

My host is an artist and somewhat alternative in her ways and very left in her politics. She's someone who has hitch-hiked around France when she was 17 to attend anti-nuclear protests and self-converted an old work van into a camping car, and then lived in it for several years. She has slept on the beach, buys only 'Bio' food products (but shops at Carrefour, a major supermarket chain) and uses goats milk because it's supposed to have less pollutants in it than cows milk. When she came into a little money, rather than buy a house she bought an empty block of land on the river where she can go camping. But we have art in common (she a lot more than me of course) and we have some interesting discussions about art of the Renaissance and later periods. I learn that the Château de Chantilly has a very impressive collection of mostly Italian art, second only to the Louvre according to my host.

My room is exactly like it is in the picture on the website, which is to say charming and welcoming, which I think I can say about the whole apartment as well as the host. It's a great experience to recalibrate what are at times preconceived ideas.

Blois. Here I am in an older (38 years old, not really so old by French standards) house in suburb, in somewhat down-market area. My host is an 80-year old widow. She has 5 children and 11 grandchildren and a cat. Only the cat still lives at home. Although we converse in French, it turns out she speaks pretty good English, which she learned after the war when she worked at an American military base in France. I ask her how she finds having guests, and she mentions that it was her daughter's idea (just like the host in Orléans in fact) because she needs the money to supplement her pension; since her husband (who was in the military) died, her pension has halved. We talk about her experiences with previous guests, Chinese, Korean, several Australians and an Italian American girl with quite a story who obviously made an impression. I suppose I'll be added to the list for discussion with next next arrival.

She shows me the room (which has a couple of glasses and bottles of water), bathroom, toilet and even has the WiFi code written on a piece of paper. The room looks and feels a bit like it used to be the master bedroom and there's photographs of her husband in uniform. She seems pretty well prepared. But when I ask for restaurant guidance she's can't help much (she clearly doesn't go out to dinner.) However she does take the phone book "goodness, there's a lot of restaurants in Blois" and finds the number of a relatively nearby place which she calls for me to check if they are open. I am touched by her efforts to look after me.

My final night on the journey is yet another place found through Airbnb. And it's another female artist. The house is an old city house, typical of Tours. Except it's absolutely full of artworks in various stages of completion; leaning against the walls, stacked in a corner, and so forth. My room is under the roof space and has a nice feel about it, even if it's a little cramped. Just as well I'm not that tall. This host is very well organised and has a sheet of instructions and a list of restaurant recommendations laminated in the room. There's also little notes stuck in various places, such as in the bathroom; "These toiletries are my own and are not for your use" and so forth. A little too organised perhaps, but I can understand why she might have felt she had to resort to that. The restaurant recommendation turns out to be very good. Breakfast in the morning is carefully prepared with organic foods and fresh breads and coffee. But she has forgotten the milk and my image of perfect organisation is dented. Of course I am being far too critical as she is really doing her best.

So in the end I am happy with my choices: it has turned out to be a very eclectic mix of places and people, and every one of them has given me an experience I wouldn't have had otherwise. I've been out of my comfort zone a few times and that's just what I have been looking for. Why travel if you only want to see and experience what you already know?

Camino de Santiago reprise - the analysis

Here's a quick review of the engineering and financial aspects of my second Camino de Santiago bicycle trip. Just a reminder: this section started in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, and finished in Tours, France. I'll also add the equivalent figures for the first Camino trip, which started in the south of France and apart from that first day was exclusively in Spain.

Arrival in Tours, destination of Camino part 2

These numbers might be helpful if you're planning a similar bicycle trip. Keep in mind that the financial figures reflect my particular choices in food and accommodation (!) and reflect the prices at the time of the trips (2014 and 2015 respectively).

Financial summary:

	Camino part 2	Camino part 1
Food	320 (29/day)	430 (21/day)
Accommodation	317 (29/day)	308 (10.50/day)
Travel	31	247
Other	21	87
Total Cost	689	1,072
Daily Average	58	33

(all figures in Euros, daily averages exclude special days)

As you can see, my second Camino trip (which is, confusingly perhaps, the first part of the Camino journey) cost me almost twice (per day) compared to the first trip. Not really a surprise, since Spain is considerably cheaper than either the Netherlands, Belgium or France. Also, in Spain I stayed almost exclusively in hostels, while in my second trip I stayed in various types of B&Bs. The main reason the first trip total was higher was the fact that it was a week longer, and there's also the train and air fares to get to and from Spain (from France). The daily averages are adjusted to reflect that I stayed a couple of times with friends on the second trip and do not include the French section of the trip (preparation time, really) for the first trip. The totals however reflect all the expenses I made.

The Engineering review

	Camino part 2	Camino part 1
Total number of days	14	18 (including one rest day)
Total distance ridden	1,110 km	1,031 km
Total time on the bike	75.8 hours	66.8 hours
Average speed for the trip	14.7 km/h	15.4 km/h
Average hours ridden	5.4 hours/day	3.9 hours/day
Average distance ridden	79.3 km/day	60.6 km/day
Longest distance ridden in one day	105.7 km	84.5 km (on the first day!)
Shortest distance ridden in one day	49.7 km	34 km (second-last day)
Most hours ridden in one day	7.1 hours	6.2 hours (on the first day!)
Least hours ridden in one day	3.5 hours	2.1 hours (second-last day)
Highest average speed	15.0 km/h	19.1 km/h
Lowest average speed	13.5 km/h	12.4 km/h

In general in the second trip I spent more time per day riding, and rode longer distances. If I was to give any advice based on these numbers, I'd say it would be much better to take a bit more time and slow down (something I also noted on the first trip). My second trip had some total time constraints which meant I couldn't really extend my trip, much as I would have liked to. Interestingly, the average speeds for the two trips are very similar, and in fact the second trip is lower than the first. This is a bit counter-intuitive, since the second trip involved much more flat terrain (and no mountain crossings at all). Maybe I was fitter or more enthusiastic the first time around!