In this ultra-modern era of hi-tec, most of us tend to not notice, or choose to ignore, so many wonderful designs and inventions that we come into contact with on a daily basis.
We take for granted the seemingly simple, yet essential variety of packaging. Marvelous and ingenious constructions that enhance sales while remaining completely functional. Destined to end up in the bin.
The brainchild ergonomic appliances that seamlessly make everyday life easier. A kitchen is stacked to the brim with them. Someone, somewhere had an idea.
After our very first trip to France, we realised that Beastie’s on-board Tom-Tom SatNav was exactly the same unit that Fiat fitted into their 500 hatchback. As a consequence it never knew that Beastie was four times heavier; twice as high; twice as long and 150% wider. Many a sticky situation the result.
A standalone tablet, loaded with ‘CoPilot’ has since been our go-to navigation aid. Up until twelve months ago, the tablet has mainly resided on Mary-Ann’s lap throughout each journey. But that has not always been ideal. Sometimes Mr S has needed to see, as well as hear, where to turn.
Now on top of Beastie’s dashboard, above the SatNav screen, sits a weird looking pop-up, pop-out construction. An integral bulldog clip at one end, with some strange wiggly cut-outs opposite. The use of which has never been investigated. Just assumed the clip was to hold a map, or paper notes.
“Why not use the bulldog clip to hold the tablet?” – a consensus lightbulb moment!
So for the last two trips that clip has fiercely held on to the leather tablet cover. Ultimately wearing it through with its daily repositioning. So not a perfect solution.
Then, while cleaning the dashboard, before this trip, curiosity eventually got the better of Mr S. “What is the real purpose of this strange feature? Just what was it designed for?”
A Fiat afterthought? Knowing that the built-in Tom-Tom was useless?
Does a holiday start when you step out from your house? Or does it start, when you step off the plane, or ferry; or in our case, the other side of La Manche?
So, at the end of day, before Day 1; or it could possibly be Day 1, depending on your stance to the above, finds us pitched up at the now very familiar. The Blackhorse Farm Campsite at Densole. A few furlongs, or so, north of Folkestone, and a short gallop down to the water jump.
Previously, the run up to D-Day, as ever, felt as if time itself was squeezing and condensing every minute down into tiny bite size seconds. Chewing, then knowingly spitting them out with earnest disregard. As a consequence, our focused efforts were rewarded with the earliest get-away ever. A bunch of keys, some indoor plants and feed-fishing requests left with our fab, over the road friends, Sue & Dave; then we were off.
With a host of minutes left to fill on the drive to Densole, we make a meaningful detour. Put our NT memberships to good use. Take a first visit to Chartwell House and Gardens. Host to one or two ‘Landscape Artist of the Year’ competitions.
We can see why. Even by today’s standards the more than modest house is very livable; amply aided by eight hectares of sculpted gardens and twenty-three of parkland. No doubt at times offering a secluded balm for Sir and Lady Churchill.
A soul soothing scene for the Churchill’s for over forty yearsTheir add-on elegant dining room overlooks the gardens and across to the parkland
We all do it, don’t we? Decide to make a change for the good. Remedy an irritating habit. Try not to be so judgmental. Promise to eat less, exercise more. Pray for more patience. Take up a new class. The list is endless.
Knowing, even before the Türkiye trip got off the ground, that this autumn would find us back touring France, I made a mental promise to brush up on my French. Just a little a day I told myself. Over a period of a few months. Surely that would result in a huge improvement.
And so it was, three days before leaving, I downloaded a couple of ‘French Today’ audio lessons. ‘It’s still not too late’, I told myself. Six weeks immersed in France, interacting with site receptionists, shopkeepers and the odd local, plus my audio practice – it can’t fail, my plan is bound to reap dividends.
Day 2 – We’re currently pitched up for two nights at Camping des Cygnes. About 6K shy of Amiens Centre Ville and 160K, or thereabouts, from Calais. I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself after a French only conversation with the site receptionist. That is, if you can call two sentences a conversation! 🤣 It was one of those where you work out in advance exactly what you want to say. On approach, you repeat it over and over in your head, until you feel sure you’re grammatically word perfect. Then, once uttered, you seductively readjust your beret and hope that the recipient doesn’t think you can speak and understand perfect French by responding in some strange foreign language that you’ve never heard before !!!
Day 3 – In this neck of the woods, the 12th and 13th centuries saw a plethora of Catholic Cathedrals being erected in the Picardy region. Often, funded by fleecing the plebs, while at the same time promising a lifetime of work, followed by an eternity of milk and honey.
Today we venture into town on the number 11. Leave Scoot to ponder why he isn’t chosen as the number one means of transport. Another chance to practise mon ackson. “Deux pour le centre ville, s’il vous plaît”.
Previously, we’d talked about trying to not always head straight for the main religious buildings. Even, giving them the cold shoulder. Yet here we are outside Amiens Gothic Cathedral, another intention gone bust. Attracted like moths to a flame. It’s the largest in France. You can fit two Notre Dame of Paris Cathedral’s in it and still have room for a couple of table tennis tables. We’ve also heard that John the Baptist’s head is here. Well, what remains of it anyway.
The architects of yore, certainly knew how to create an impressive entranceThe beautiful marble labyrinth – designed to be a symbolic pilgrimage of penance and reflection“How much blinking longer do I have to hold this pulpit thingy up for?”
After a lunch of quiche and salad (what else), the afternoon brings on a couple of clangers.
(This isn’t one of them) – the French towns never fail to put on a cheery face
Jules Verne lived in Amiens. When still at junior school, the first novel I ever read from cover to cover was Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea. His old house is open to the public. But not today. It’s closed every Tuesday. That’s today. Although we haven’t journeyed quite as far as to the centre of the earth, his old property sits on the outskirts of the centre. A forty-five minute round the houses walk.
Thirty minutes later we’re faced with more disappointment. An eighty minute wait to board a marsh boat at Les Hortillonages for a trip through a waterway maze of floating gardens, proves too long.
So, as two forlorn nomads, in need of cheer, we trundle into Quartier St Leu. Come across ‘Sorbet d’amour’ – offering the perfect pick-me-up, since 1935.
Mrs S almost breaks into a smile, but really, she can’t wait to break into her caramel and pecan ice-cream.Our ice-cream view across the canal towards the cathedralQuartier St Leu is the prettiest part of old townA tres jolie waterway walk – back to catch the bus
Sidenote – I must listen to some French Today – SOON!
Gambling is rife throughout today’s world. A massively successful industry that’s grown on the back of someone, wanting something much bigger, or better, in exchange for relatively little outlay. It’s been around as long as envy.
A flutter on the National. A lottery purchase. Playing the stock-market – can add a little excitement to life for many. Generate hope of something better, where there may be none. Or simply bring pleasure, if affordable.
Deciding to tour France during autumn was always going to be a bit of a gamble – weather-wise. Like all good gamblers, we weighed up the odds. Considered the possibilities. Balanced the pros against the cons and concluded that of the forty-two nights away, the probability was that on the whole, it would remain mainly dry.
Day 4 – We’re currently pitched up at Camping St Paul, Lyons-la-Forêt – one of many villages in France laying claim to be the ‘fairest in the land’. We’d bet that this one will take some beating.
Wall to wall quaintnessNot much has changed in centuriesRomantically appealing, but probably a nightmare to upkeep and live in
The site is pretty too and we’ve chosen a nice secluded and what we thought would be quiet pitch. Over the boundary fence is an aire. France is full of them. Cheap overnight MOHO parking, with little, or no services. It starts to fill and spill. New arrivals step down. Loud mouths that don’t know when to shut shop. A chorus of yappy dogs join the throng. Stretch their jaws as well as their legs. No doubt full of pent-up energy after the cooped-up journey.
Our reading peace gets disturbed. We move pitch. Far from the maddening crowd. Fortunately, this site is long and thin.
Obviously, you can’t win them all – come morning and it’s time to move on
Day 5 – A long day’s journey of 266K ends at Huttopia’s Les Châteaux site – a hundred metres from the village of Bracieux and fifty metres from the Max Vauché Chocolate Factory. Both offering every good reason for a walkabout – we do just that.
It’s easy to overlook the apparently innocuous. That ache that comes and goes. The headache that bursts out of nowhere for seemingly no reason. That splinter that didn’t get cleaned out properly and days later is festering.
Things never stay as they are. Living or inert, they are subject to change. And often, when that change occurs, it can seem sudden. Yet most likely, a subtle unseen transformation has been going on behind closed doors.
After Scoot’s impromptu debacle last August, he spent some time behind the scenes being nurtured back into his former showroom glory. In Türkiye, he got to show off his brand new lilywhite bodywork. But, unbeknown to us, underneath that shiny coat of admiration, something was afoot. Suddenly and inexplicably his petrol cap wouldn’t close shut. Gaffer tape came to the rescue, but at the cost of his vanity.
Back on home soil and after a couple of wasted repair shop visits, Mr S decides to take matters into his own hands. Removes Scoot’s front cover panel. Take a decco. It seems that after his snatch and grab, the metal cable housing had taken a knock. Not enough to sever it from its mounting. Then, over the course of our ensuing journeys, vibration had dutifully been nagging away at the weakened joint. Until ‘ping!
A dollop of metal-gluing epoxy – a hopeful quick fix
With our site a mere 8.4k from Château de Chambord – the largest in the Loire, it’s time to give Scoot his first run out. An ideal opportunity to test his new mend.
Oddly, having visited France many, many times, this is our first Chateau experience.
On approach it’s certainly imposingEven more so close up
Inside, the three floors are connected by a central double-spiral staircase. The amusing feature being that two people can pass one another, see one another as they pass, but not meet! Work that one out if you can.
We step off together. Get blown over by the wonderfully exquisite engravings of Octave de Rochebrune. He created nine masterpieces of Chambord, over a period of twenty-six years. The images contrived with unbelievable patience, attention to detail and the ability to capture light and shadow.
The central double-spiral staircase
There’s enough English translation throughout and our audio-guide/Histopad (8″ tablet) was not really required. It did have a a neat 360 feature though. In any room you could slide the image back to mid 16thC to see how it would have looked then.
Louis XIV’s ceremonial bedroom with his four-poster tucked behind what resembles an altar rail
We break off for a lunchtime sarnie. Unthinkingly, order a couple of ‘normal’ coffees. Get served espresso’s in tiny paper cups, no more than 60mm high. “Could we have some milk in one, please” “Yes, of course, that will be an extra 50cents!” – the added milk would have barely filled a desert spoon.
Not what you’d call thirst quenchingThe third floor balcony – a perfect viewing platform from which to peruse the gardens The equivalent engraving of the opposite wing – photo qualityThe impressive third floor viewOur parting shot . . .
Our four hour visit ended with an all-time first – a parking fee for Scoot – 6€ !!
There are few things more frustrating than making a plan. Deciding when or how to implement it, then only to see it get thwarted. Preparation, anticipation and hopes go to waste. Become hard for your ego to swallow. How you react can frustrate you, annoy you, or even annoy someone you’re with, just by how well, or not, you cope.
I’ve never found dealing with that type of frustrating situation easy to handle. At times in the past I would let it get under my skin. Fester and spoil the moment, or day. Find it difficult to shrug off. Motor-homing has helped to change that – mostly. The weather and other impromptu outside sources can sway their influence. Bend you this way or that, as easily as a sapling. ‘Go with the flow’ – my current rule of life.
Day 7 – Starts where it left off . . .
Yet, another good reason to move on this morningThe weather front has the rest of Europe to go play, but decides on the skies above yours truly
Half way along today’s planned route, paranoia strikes. Its unseen guillotine blade silently swoops down from above. Like a couple of headless chickens we’re unsure of which way to turn. Look to the heavens for an answer. Not a good idea. Pick Flower Camping L’lle d’offard, just outside Saumur. Importantly it sits to the west of the east moving front. More importantly, it’s renowned for its great wine!
More famous for its white
As we approach Saumur, it’s clear we’re in a race. A massive grey and purple cloud conglomeration is gathering strength ahead. Ominously it hovers over the town and surrounding suburbs. Day starts to turn to night. From left to right, lightning dances behind the threatening curtain, and a thousand timpani pick up the beat. Out of nowhere, an invisible force joins the throng. Huge trees are bent low, as if the master and star of the show has just entered the room. The atmosphere is condensed into tiny droplets of anticipation. Held in abeyance by awe.
However, we’ve seen this show before. Don’t fancy a repeat. Eager to get pitched up as soon as possible. Preferably before the curtain goes up, or in this case, comes down.
Unexpectedly and frustratingly, we pull in behind a queue of camper-vans. All waiting their turn to register. As the first droplets announce the main act is about to start, a woman in light summer gear and carrying sunnies, quickly heads into reception. Mr S togs up in his anti-water garb. Keeps his quick drying flip-flops on. By the time he steps out, it’s as if he’s been transported to Mumbai during the height of monsoon season. He can barely squeeze between the stair-rods. It’s not a question of life or death; simply wet or wetter.
The short 10metre dash, or should that read splash, obviously unexpected. His grand entrance is received with a mixture of admiration and astonishment. Least of all by his flamboyant courtesy.
Duly signed in Mr S prepares to step out once again into the full-on raging torrent. Beastie is barely visible. “Excuse me. Sorry to ask. But do you have any room in your camper for me?” – it’s the woman with the sunnies. Mr S, typically slow on the uptake, immediately thinks she’s looking to shack up inside Beastie. Has she been abandoned and thrown out by her loathsome other half? The seconds of puzzlement spread across his face in a mosaic of bewilderment. “It’s only that I see you’ve been allocated 45 and we’re pitched up really close to you. If it’s not too much trouble, can I cadge a lift?”
Ten minutes later it’s all over, bar the shouting and Beastie wishes he’d brought his galoshes
Day 8 – It’s dry. Château de Saumur is destined to be given the cold shoulder. Despite its pretty proximity. We’re off in search of something much more butch.
The pool with a view
So we head off to the far side of town. Across river. Our site sits on a small island in the middle of the Loire. It’s Sunday. No busses. No room on the muddy pitch to exit Scoot. We become a couple of piétons
Only another 3.5K from here
We spend two hours inside one of the largest tank museums in the world – the Musée des Blindés. A chronological tourway from WW1 through virtually every war campaign up to present day. All information in clear English.
In WWI they started off as glorified bull dozers – then thought it only fair to be able to shoot back. Notice the wind-up starter.Exterminate, exterminate . . .
A couple of our quirky favourites were these small amphibious creatures.
A paddle and spade essential on the first SchwimmwagenRibbit, ribbit . . . Easy to imagine how formidable these machines are in battle
Our walk back to base camp takes us past one of these. An underground recycling collection centre for the local community. Each top connected to its cavernous cave below.
It’s difficult to imagine what another person has endured, or suffered, without having gone through the same. Likewise, it can be difficult to grasp how a community can survive; even flourish and prosper in places and under circumstances that by today’s western comfortable standards seem far inadequate, or inhabitable.
Yet, they have and still do, in innumerable places around the globe.
Today’s short traverse of 105K to Camping Le Bois Vert in Parthenay is enhanced with a stop off at the Troglodyte village of Rochemenier. Now a museum housing two of the forty underground farms that used to occupy this area. A village of medieval troglo (cave) dwellers. Still inhabited into the early 20thC.
The museum founded by these characters in 1967 – cut out of the soft tufa stone predominant in this area
The fascinating museum exhibits, furniture, tools and photographs describing the lifestyle of the last inhabitants. Living rooms, kitchens, bedrooms, wine cellars, ovens, stables, barns, chapels – all bespoke made and cut out of the stone by the residents – as one does.
Our visit follows a clearly marked route of twenty ‘rooms’, with plenty of English, so no head scratching.
A quarry was dug out, then later the farms and homesteads moved in.
The soft tufa stone made it easy should a new born, or two, come along. No need to sell up and move. You’d simply dig a little further into the rock and create an extra bedroom – sorted!
They were certainly tough in the old days – and looked it – even the menTheir staple diet probably helped to ease the hardship – if that’s what they ever felt
Without seeing and witnessing how the construction of these caves was accomplished, it’s difficult to believe that they managed to conceive and build such underground structures. Yet somehow they did.
Some of the communal rooms are very large
“Now go and play, mummy’s got work to do” . . .
A toddler ‘Run” – safe and independent
Living so close to the elements often creates the need for innovation . . .
Something to warm the cockles of every woman’s heart . . .
Our visit nears its end requiring a stretch of the imagination – not seeing, yet believing.
In five hundred, or even a thousand years from now, will people still be interested in visiting ancient towns and villages? And if so, what sites will still be available to them? Will medieval places even exist? Will the urban sprawl of then have condemned the medieval to the history books only?
The medievals got there first. Chose the best and prettiest places to live. Safety and security top priority, yet they still liked their fortified towns to be both practical and aesthetic. Just like today, they were always keen to create the right image. Put on a front, either to be admired, or respected.
Mention the word medieval in a flyer. Add one or two enticing images and we’re there like a shot. We know what to expect of course. It’s not as if we haven’t seen it all before. There’s hardly going to be a surprise waiting around the next corner. We’re just a couple of suckers. Like many that enjoy this ‘stuff’.
What little remains of the fortified town of Parthenay is still impressive – from this distance.
Clutching our cleverly designed map of many colours, it shows we have the choice of over thirty-one sites of interest waiting and ready to be ticked off. It’s Tuesday (this blog is a bit like Mr S – always playing catch-up), so naturally, the first on the list, the Heritage Centre is closed. ✔
Our journey to the top of town starts here as we enter Quartier Saint-Jacques
The long and winding uphill main street is stacked from top to bottom with beautiful and occupied half-timbered houses. Squeezed in shoulder to shoulder. Each helps the other from falling over. If one goes they all go. Kept in immaculate condition. Owners all do their best to impress. An array of colourful flowerpots add a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’ to the walk-through. Like a couple of judges at a show, we deliberate, make comments and pass opinions on the merits of each building’s rank. The main street is the main facade. Less romantic looking abodes fill in the gaps created by the dark narrow off-streets. There’s hardly a soul in sight away from the three cafe/restaurants – we’ve arrived at lunchtime. Even though it’s cold, everyone is sitting outside, noisily chatting. “Who do you think will win the gold rossette today” top of their conversation – no doubt.
We overtake ‘The Pilgrim’ – with a long journey ahead, on the Way of St James towards Compostella in Spain ✔
The penultimate of the few ticked off is the impressive 12thC Church of St Laurent. ✔
It’s amazing the high proportion of churches that are built on hills, or at the very top of towns. Penance enough by the time the parishioner steps inside exhausted?Pretty impressive inside ✔
This very old entrance below, hides the Dominican Nuns of Parthenay Teaching order. One of twenty-one worldwide centres attached to a school.
The school looks like a 60s office block and sits behind this ancient facade. The final ✔
The nomadic tribes of old were constantly aware of the weather and all it’s foibles. How it affected their landscape and in particular the available grazing for their herds. They needed to pay heed to any subtle changes in the timings of the seasons. Remain alert. Forever ready to make the decision. Stay put, or move on.
Fortunately for 2 Cheeses, we only have one Beastie to consider. When we’re on the move, he only needs feeding once every other day. His ultra high calorific liquid diet readily available, regardless of how barren the terrain may be.
Day 11 – Beastie is on the move again. He’s fed up with alternate days of rain, coupled with daytime temperatures ranging from 12C to 17C. He could have stayed put in the UK for that. He’s not donned his winter coat yet, so he’s feeling the chill somewhat. “Let’s go south”, he demands. “Down to the Dordogne”. A little bird told him it will be warmer there. We’d hoped he’d got it right. It’s rained the whole journey. At least it relented while we booked in and pitched up. We’re all currently under cover in Rocamadour, at Camping Koawa Les Cigales – as the now all too familiar pitter patter starts again . . . Beastie!!!!!
Day 12 – Yippee! It’s not raining. It’s bright. There’s a big yellow thingy cheering us on – we leave Beastie to dry off while we go walkabout . . .
We’re less than a two kilometre walk from the iconic Rocamadour. Its series of churches cling to the side of the gorge like desperate limpets. Stuck in time. A place for pilgrimage, but now overtaken as a huge tourist attraction. As a pilgrim you’d get the best of both worlds of course – and not only in the here and now.
You can see why it attracts.
Each zig and zag of our upward trek to the top is punctuated with one of the fourteen ‘Stations of the Cross’. So aware, or not, every visitor gets to become a pilgrim. Walk with Jesus. At least for a short time.
Station VII – ‘Jesus Falls for the Second Time’That’s what you call confidence in the rocks aboveStation XIV – Jesus is Laid in the Tomb
Obviously the religious in this neck of the woods knew a thing or two about what to expect from the local weather.
Come rain or shine, they had it covered.Up top at the chateau we are rewarded with a spectacular viewMrs S already looking forward to a bigger reward in heavenNot everyone wants a selfie
A few weeks before set off, there were signs of mice in our garage. They’d gnawed through a plastic sack, that was on a bench and stuffed themselves silly with fish food. Good intentions to provide their freedom via a humane trap never materialised and after a clean up there were no further signs.
It wasn’t until Mr S searched out his special ‘for Scoot use only’ jacket, that he discovered they’d moved on to more nourishing produce. Stored inside an office drawer they’d breakfasted on the drawer base, before finding lunch and dinner at the ready.
Four drawers – this was number three – perfect nesting materialLuckily, it seems this jacket sleeve was not entirely to their taste.
Day 13 – Today’s very short hop of 67K takes us west to Vezac and Camping La Plage. Beautifully positioned alongside the Dordogne River. Hemmed in by open fields and stunning golden cliffs, that are typical in this Périgord region. With wall to wall sun forecast, we’re here for four nights.
A basking Beastie
For centuries the Dordogne course fed life and trade along its banks. Nowadays, as it cuts its watery swathe through this green and golden Périgord region, it’s all about the tourist and their euros. Hardly surprising. When the weather is as good as this, they swarm like wasps around a warm pint of beer.
We have an afternoon to fill. We step out. Go take a look-see around the tiny commune of La Roque-Gageac. Literally, just around the next bend in the river.
Goods for trading replaced by kayaks and river cruises
A huge rockfall in 2010 destroyed parts of the old fortress. A scary reminder to the villagers that nature must have its way and say.
One of many pretty villages clinging on to existence through the grace of the tourist. Up close it’s only a matter of time before the next big one dropsWe climb the 140 steps. Take a look at what remains of the old fortress.A view doesn’t get much more enjoyable than this
Day 14 – This morning’s low of 6C comes as a shock. With both showers and loos open to the elements, there is more than a shady nip in the air. The campers’ responses vary. Some defiantly remain in shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops, in spite of the mouth-mist of foggy droplets clouding above their heads. Silently urging the sun to do a and ‘Move on up’. Others, the self-called sensible ones, layer up. Ready themselves for winter’s first snowy blast. But soon regret that. There’s only one peg in the shower cubicle.
It’s midday before we make our move. Like a couple of rustic reptiles, we need the sun’s warmth for mobility. We want to keep our shorts on for the short Scoot over to Les Jardins de Marqueyssac and its 150,000 box trees. Expertly manicured twice a year by a dedicated team of six.
Hand sheared only – to prevent leaf damagePlumb lines, strings and for these oblongs, same-size frames, ensure perfection is only a snip awayMind-boggling
The narrow eight hundred metre long gardens, run riverside on a 192metre high escarpment that give us a birds-eye view of our campsite.
Our view from the Belvedere look-out platformThe Belvedere platform from Beastie – just about visible (or should I have gone to Specsavers?Ahoy there!
In this world of modernity, it’s so easy to take our era of abundance as a gimme. Take it for granted. As if it’s always been so. There seems to be no thing that’s unobtainable. We moan and decry the supermarkets for shortages. Beans from Kenya, bananas from Venezuela, wines from Australia. Giving no thought to the logistics involved. We demand. We want. It must be so.Now.
We’re in a perfect location. Spoilt for choice in fact. So many touristy sights in easy reach of Scoot. He’s raring to go, but before we zoom off, we need to let the temperature rise a little. Ease those joints into the day. Go find a sunny rock to lie out on. Let some rays tickle our tums.
This morning’s cold 5C start a pretty picture from Beastie’s position.
Warm to hot afternoons. Cold nights and mornings
It’s Mary-Ann’s birthday today . . .
No, the bottle of wine not amongst her gifts 🙂Birthday Girl – Looking gorgeous – as ever
We could have chosen any number of places, but we decide on another hill-top location – Beynac Castle.
He who builds his house on rock – and all that implies. Never a truer word.Defence and aesthetics – hand in handIn those days, cross the river, or pass the castle, you pay your dues – your money or your life!
Strange to think that in the fourteenth century the Dordogne River formed the border between France and England! With the English occupying castles on the opposite bank, skirmishes were inevitable.
A view worth fighting over?No skirmishing here . . .
In dreams, imagination runs riot. Like a toddler left alone with paint and brush. While no one is at home, joyously creating disorder, just because it can. For no apparent reason. No good asking “Now why did you do that!” It simply doesn’t know.
Even when conscious, our mind creates disorder. We give it credit for being much smarter than it actually is. Yet it’s still a work in progress mostly. It’s never around when you really need it. It has an irritating habit of switching off without letting you know. I mean, if it told you it was going for a nap, why on earth would you start the Times Crossword, or try and remember what day it is!
Having last visited Sarlat on our very first French MOHO trip in 2017, our minds have since discombobulated our time there into a series of impressions. Savaged our memories. Ripped them up into tiny fragments. Rearranged them as a random collage of Renoir look-alikes. Making it impossible to remember the specifics. We do remember being impressed though. Will it still live up to that?
We hope this afternoon’s foray into Sarlat’s Centre Ville will bring back some memories . . .
We don’t remember this . . .Manoir de Gisson – we don’t remember this – a good excuse to go check it out
Dating back to the 13thC it’s in fine order inside and out. The fifteen roomed house creates a viable impression of what life may have been like for those nobility fortunate to have resided here.
Elegance and style – the order of the dayThe floors in many houses of the time a beautiful construction of pebbles “I say old dear, won’t you be a good girl and pass me my favourite pipe . . .” The ancient ‘Lantern of the Dead’ – we certainly don’t remember this
We walkabout some more. Search out the nooks and crannies of the cramped corners and alley-ways. Vainly hoping to recognise at least something . . .
Nope, never stood on this corner before . . .Ah, that’s more like it . . . or . . . is it?Hmmm ? . . these narrow streets all look the same – no, don’t remember this either . . .
We say goodbye to Sarlat. Leave with a new set of memories – for now. At least we were impressed.
Earlier in the day our first Scoot stop came at the stunning Water Gardens of St Rome – Carsac.
We’re joyfully greeted by a few of the residents . . .
No! You can’t have a kiss . . .Some of the lily pads are enormous
It’s out of season so we’re given a rare treat. (No senior concessions in France) A reduced price to compensate for the lack of colour, now that bloom time is over.
The water is circulated up from the Dordogne, which sits at the garden’s boundaryPretty, but with lily-time over the impression won’t be as long lasting as Monet’s Giverny It does its best thoughOy – Gimme me a kiss!
Relaxation comes in many forms. And in different ways for different people. For some it’s a switch to a mental activity. For others to something physical. The bottom line being that a change is as good as a rest.
Today our change of address is a very short 34K up the road switch to Camping La Fage. Positioned slap bang between two places on our radar. We do an on the way stock up shop at an Intermarché supermarket. Come 3.30pm, we’re fully pitched up and the sunny afternoon beckons some leisure time. Mrs S fancies a sit out and read. Suggests Mr S could go ride-about. He doesn’t need asking twice. Plots a route, using Plotaroute app and then he’s off. Leaves Mrs S with some peace and quiet. (that was probably her plan really)
Route plotted – no idea of the terrainYou never know where you’ll pass through – this pretty commune of Valojoulx – population less than 300They obviously like the whackyA small and less visited lake in the middle of nowhere – an off-roading benefit
After clicking ‘Play’, to ensure best viewing quality click on the settings wheel and select 720p
Very few of us can claim to have a true vision. Then patiently work at it over an extended period of time. Sometimes for decades. Even to not live and see its completion. Or witness its full potential.
Today we’re visiting another point on the constantly spinning triangle that’s Périgord. Roques, chateaux and jardins.
Scoot’s earning his keep on this trip. He diligently bumps us 20K south-east. The surface of the narrow country lanes provide an unexpected shaky bronco ride. While he cools down in the shade and catches his breath, we go explore the ten hectares of Eyrignac Gardens.
Over five hundred years, the gardens have been owned by twenty-two generations of the same family. It wasn’t until more recent times (1960s) that Giles Sermadiras started to draw up plans and start work on his new vision for the gardens. Creating a masterpiece within what was then, a wilderness. Nowadays lovingly cared for by his son Patrick.
The picture perfect result from sharp shears, muscles and dedicationSeven individual garden spaces have been created. Each with their own style and character.Everywhere an eye watering mass of curves and lush grassNot a bad view from the manor houseA series of random metal ‘works of art’ do little to enhance the surroundings, despite the arty-farty BS displayed on the accompanying plaques. Mrs S does a far better job . . . These almost pull it off – title? Pecking order?A vision of a visionStunning water gardens with panoramic views – not by chance
We round our visit off with a couple of timed photos . . .
This one – we’re under control . . .This one – not quite . . .
Scoot has another treat in store for us on the way back to temporary chez nous.
Impossible not to stop and admire – main street of commune Saint-Geniès
Some people can become fixated. Totally absorbed by one thing alone. Unable to resist the urge to indulge. Driven to the point where it becomes a need.
We’re not quite at that point. Yet. Fascination and an inquisitive nature, draw us towards visiting more of the same. Yet they are far from that.
Today we Scoot over to two more troglodyte residences. Step back in time. Stop one, visit a place first inhabited during the Upper Paleolithic era of about 17,000 years ago. During the days when the wooly mammoth was still roaming around. It didn’t become a troglodyte village until the 9thC.
A steep cliff face. Rock shelters within it. A close-by river. Three ingredients required for troglodyte existence. A perfect mixture evident at Le Village de le Madeleine, situated within a looped meander of the Vézère.
With the back wall of your house already in place and likely to stay that way for centuries to come, it provides a good starting foundation for your new abode. Add a wall here. Another one there. Veranda darling? There you go . . . sorted.
These rock-face fissures long enough to house a village – and they did.
The village architects of the time had a good eye and knack for melding their constructions seamlessly with the natural undulations.
A one street village
Looking at the kitchen below, it doesn’t take too much of a stretch to imagine how hard life would have been.
Is that a pizza oven? . . .
A village is not a village without a church . . .
When you’re constantly facing the elements, as well as marauders, faith matters. It’s then you need all the help you can get.You pray this would never happen to the ceiling in your house
A little further up the road we stop off at what could be described as the Troglodytique Pièce de Résistance.
The very impressive Maison Forte de ReignacVirtually as it was when last inhabited
A most unusual three storey medieval chateau positioned 80 metres above the Vézère river. Its mouse-like maze a treasure trove. Mrs S becomes my personal guide for our visit.
No smell of cheese anywhere . . .Every room fully furnished and with ceilings and rear wall already in situA side window presents a pretty lateral view
Down in the basement below living quarters, an extraordinary exhibition is housed. It seems every conceivable instrument of torture that man has ever invented, is on display. Each with a graphic description of it’s purpose. How it was used and the effect upon the helpless victim.
Bone snapping; skin scourging; eyeball piercing; joint popping; tongue slicing; limb removal; boiling; roasting; impalement; not forgetting head removal!
And all variations therof . . .A gory testimony of man’s inhumanity to manNo, it’s not a variation of the Trojan Horse. If you were very naughty, you were put inside. The lid fastened. Then in complete darkness you’d shiver in fear. Listening to your torturer first build, then light a fire beneath the bull’s belly.
We Scoot back to camp in a somewhat sombre mood – I wonder why . . . ?
Does an interest in the past, naturally increase the older you get? Is it inversely proportional? Or is it simply when there’s less future ahead, it becomes easier to look behind. To gaze beyond the point of your own existence coming into being. Dare to imagine what it would have been like B.Y. (before you)
As a schoolboy history nincompoop, it’s come as a surprise to me over the last few years, how fascinating history can be. To accept its relevance, by being able to visit first hand the places where ancient civilisations rose, flourished and perished. But I guess that can apply, no matter where your feet may be planted. Without digging deeper beneath, how can you know?
We’re still on the theme of cave dwellers. Today’s 8K Scoot finds us at Lascaux IV. Four because this exhibition site is the latest to ‘house’ the world famous iconic works of cave art that were first discovered by four teenagers in 1940. Ancient works of art that very few of us can claim not to have seen, at least in part.
To protect the artwork from further deterioration, the original cave has been closed to the public since 1963. What we visit today is the very latest laser scanned and reproduced facsimile. Not just of the art, but the whole original cave!
The futuristic looking home for Lascaux IV is sited close to the original cave entrance.
Once down inside the air cooled to 16C ‘cave’, Samuel, our English speaking French guide reminds us “no photos or videos“. Not that the reproduction needs protecting. It’s a purposeful means that allows us to fully focus on the images and what he has to say about them. Which is a lot! Yet, conversely, he opens by telling us that we can ask a question at any time, but don’t expect any answer other than “I don’t know”.
The ‘experts’ have been deliberating over these paintings since their discovery.
Other than fat burning holders, no other sign of occupancy has been found. No artifacts, no bones, no nothing. Begging the questions. Who? & Why? & When? (the mineral paints used are not easy to accurately carbon date). Samuel doesn’t hoist any propositions on us. He allows us to make our own considerations. Come to our own conclusions. Enjoy our experience for what it is. That’s how it should be. It’s art. In all its magnificent glory.
No! I didn’t secretly video our tour.
To get our ‘photo-fix’ we exit into a galleried area. Certain additional sections have been reproduced and suspended – allowing the realistic ‘walkthrough’ above.
Past and future melded together into a work of sci-fi art – my video walk through as seen from a different angle!
With unanswered questions to ponder and discuss, we leave none the wiser. But before we do, Mrs S does get one question answered. “Where’s the cafe?” After over an hour at 16C with no jacket (she thinks it was well below that – although not quite as cold as Tesco), she needs a coffee to warm up.
What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? Who knows? What happens when an unstoppable force meets two movable objects? Who knows? We do!
Day 21 – Co-ordinates entered into CoPilot. Aiming for La Pelouse Municipal Camping. A two night stopover in Bergerac. Another been there, done that refresher course.
This same morning another MOHOman, most likely does the same. Although his co-ordinates are different. Ours are set west. His east. Also most likely, is that we are both presented with two, or three route options. Shortest, fastest, most scenic. There isn’t a safest option. More’s the pity. Mr Google’s Maps isn’t yet sophisticated enough, or should that be, intelligent enough, to determine points of very high risk. In any event, oblivious to one another, we make our choice.
Sometime later, the narrower than usual main road is clear ahead. Nothing in front. Nothing behind. Beastie’s trundling along nicely at approximately 35-40mph. Minding his own business. Doing what he does best. Mr S is humming a happy tune. Enjoying today’s short ride.
MOHOman east is doing the same, most likely. Mr S rides along close to the grassy verge. His left hand drive opposite number is riding in the crown of the road. Along the white line. As is Mrs S. We both spot the other. Neither slows. Combined approach speed probably 75-80mph. Beastie has nowhere to move, other than the ditch, just off the verge. He holds his ground. He’s been in many a tight spot before. It’ll be OK. Won’t it?
Both MOHO’s are manufactured to the same Ducato spec. Wing-mirrors positioned at exactly the same height. Mrs S sees the fast approaching impact first, as it rushes past that point of no return. Lets out a scream a nanosecond before the two movable objects meet that unstoppable force. An almighty thunderclap shatters both objects. As if hit by a cannon shell. Debris explodes and flies into the air like windswept confetti. Mr S slows to a halt. The contorted remains of Beastie’s nearside wing-mirror are swinging by an electrical umbilical chord. In need of emergency treatment. We hope monsieur MOHOman’s beastie has suffered the same fate. Fairs, fair and all that.
Day 22 – This severely outdated riverside camp site is a mud bath. Eight hours of overnight rain create perfect sticky goo. A toddlers playpark. By the time we reach the sanitary block, our footprints are four sizes larger. Its only saving graces, we have a riverside view and it’s a ten minute walk into the centre.
All gone rain . . .
By late morning the rain eases, then clears. We step out, along, then over the Dordogne River. Make use of the pretty bridge.
The serene and reflective bridge Just in case visitors forget where they areCyrano – the city’s most famous novelist and playwright – he didn’t really have a big nose
We head for the Tobacco Museum, it’s a free entry day. As in all old quarters, there’s usually a surprise waiting around the next corner. Or in this case sleeping.
Better not turn over the wrong wayMust be a sunny spot
Ninety-five percent of the displays are in French. When your language skill is bordering on tepid, it can make for a slow and very tedious walk-through. Even using Google Translate can become trying and tiring. So we end up looking, not reading.
As it happens there is plenty to see. The museum tells us little about tobacco and its production. Although, it comes as a surprise to learn that from 1637 until the 1970’s many farmers in this south-west region of France, relied on income from tobacco farming.
The museum focuses on the satellite industries, that grew as a result. Mainly pipe design and construction and the machinery needed for that. It shows a bewildering amount of pipe designs, from the very earliest as used by the Sioux, up to current day. From very basic, to crazily complicated.
Would you really want to be seen in public smoking either of these? A his and hers?
Of course painters had to get in on the action too . . .
Astronomers point to the distant past. Mathematicians calculate to the nth degree. Astrologers look to the heavens above. Philosophers remain unsure.
As finite beings, walking a finite timeline, we can look back, but never go back. Our linear walk is always forwards. We can look ahead, but never get ahead. Its infinite line is something we tread. Each for a determined number of seconds. Unique to every individual. We live lives limited by time. But not governed by it.
Day 23 – We’re 60K further west in Rauzan at Le Vieux Chateau Camping. The old castle looks down over the site. Like a disabled war-torn veteran on crutches. It’s seen better times.
We arrange to meet Paul & Kath at the castle at 2pm. A fifty-year long friendship that stretches from Christchurch to Sheffield and beyond. We both plan to stay three nights in the area. Allow our timelines to touch. Run parallel briefly.
The Fab Four
It’s Monday. The ‘chateau’ is closed. Naturally. Perhaps it’s done us a favour. We wander the lonely streets, like four time travelers, lost in space. Once an orbit or two is completed, we agree there’s not much to see in this part of the universe – apart from the Grotte Celestine. That’s closed too. Viewing by appointment only.
However, we round the day off at Paul & Kath’s AirB&B to celebrate Kath’s Sunday birthday, with a meal, wine and laughter.
Day 24 – We keep all eyes on the weather forecast for today. We don’t want our visit to Les Jardins Sardy at Velines to disappoint. A first time visit for Paul & Kath. We were last here in June 2017. The day remains in our favour, warm and dry.
An Italian style, rather than French – the seeds of an idea, planted by Bertie & Betty Imbs – owners from 1956The main focus – still as pretty
We’re surprised and delighted, to find we have the run of the gardens to ourselves. Nowadays, it’s owned and maintained by son Frederick and his young wife Ninon, who has plans to enlarge the gardens and increase footfall.
We unpack our sarnies for lunch. Settle down on the tabled terrace. Frederick comes over with a freebie. A bottle of Chateau Sardy. In his cultured English, he kindly suggests a glass, or two, might enhance the ambiance. How did he know?
Our table setting sadly lacked these finer fittingsFrederick Imbs – looking pleased as punch, after securing our purchase of three bottles.
Day 25 – Paul’s booked a 10.45am cave visit. But first we have to get into character . . .
The only kids around are us four . . .And it shows . . .Mrs S finds her tiny toes getting somewhat squashedWe get ready to start our kitchen shift . . .
Once helmets and wellies are donned, we come over all serious. Helmet light leads our spiral down. We play follow the leader. Our tour is in French. We’re issued info booklets and strict instructions not to take photos or videos. (Yet, these are readily available on the website!? – and very easy to copy and paste!!!)
We duck and weave along the course of an underground river
The cave was first discovered in the 1940s by a shopkeeper above. He needed a supply of water. Decided to dig a well and got more than he bargained for. A little later during WWII it came in handy as a hide-out for four resistance fighters.
Deliberately touching any of the ‘features’ could be subject to a fine of €30,000So we keep our hands dans nos poches
Two hours later, we’re perched on a stone bench in St Emilion. It’s sarnie and crisps time again. The cafe’s and restaurants are over laden. The locals are tucking into their gastronomique delicacies. Oblivious to what they’re missing . . .
Our self-guided tour is welly-less. Starts at the foot of the monolithic church, impressively carved directly out of a massive block of limestone.
Saint-Émilion died in 787 – this church still serves to revere and remember himAcross the cloistersThe illustrated backwall around the cloisters reminds visitors of the future to come as described in RevelationIt’s almost time to go our separate ways . . .
But before we do, we share another meal and some St Émilion red, bien sûr.
We head back to our own universe. Promise to coincide again. At some point in the not too distant future.
Some circumstances we find ourselves in, whether of our own making, or not, can have a direct impact on the way we feel. Cast a dark shadow. If they bring you down, then best chase them away.
Despite very mixed weather and unexpectedly low temperatures, we’ve had a decent run for our money. So far only one morning has been lost to rain. However, shortly after saying our goodbyes to Paul and Kath, that changes. Over twenty hours of non-stop rain, sees to that.
We decide to do a runner. Head south. Aim to lengthen our days. Shorten our shadows. Rid ourselves of those threatening overheads.
Day 26 – At the end of our rainy drive we navigate Beastie diagonally onto a rectangular piece of concrete that’s too short for his wheelbase. Les Pommiers d’Aiguelèze Camping has at least tried to make some provision for when it’s wet. Although the ground around this solid island resembles nothing short of muddy swampland. If a croc were to suddenly slither its ugliness across our path on the way to the shower block, it wouldn’t look out of place. We stay one night.
Day 27 – We head towards Montpellier and Camping le Parc, in Lattes. It’s in easy reach of the centre. Our next planned go-to. Knowing there’s a possibility the coastal sites are still overly busy, Mr S almost books online. Almost. Baulks at the on-line booking fee of €10. Decides to arrive on spec. Oops. On arrival reception is closed. ‘Complet’ reads the sign on the door. “Sorry Mrs S”.
We decide to phone ahead to the next nearest. “We only have three pitches left. You’ll need to book online, to make sure.” We do and we don’t.
It’s a too slow 20K. Crammed in with the Friday afternoon rush hour over to Fabrègues and Camping Le Botanic, is not the perfect way to end any journey. Despite their booking system giving us green lights and seemingly taking our upfront payment (no booking fee), on arrival we discover neither booking, nor payment has gone through. Fortunately there are two pitches left. Beastie jumps at plot 16. There’s just enough room to squeeze his fat belly between two trees.
Come morning, the airborne shadows are back at ground level, where they’re supposed to be.
Day 28 – We give Montpellier a miss. We’re out in the sticks. It’s too far to Scoot and there are no transport connections. Spend a very breezy, yet sunny afternoon, lazing around the man-made lagoon.
Despite the blue sky, we do more wind-bathing than sun-bathing.
As time passes ‘science’ becomes more sophisticated. More technologically robust. Nowadays, answers more questions than we can think of to ask. It can unravel the ‘how’. Predict the ‘when’. Discover the ‘what’. Yet, because it’s only capable of studying the mechanics, if asked the question ‘why?’,it can flounder.Why do our physical senses react in ways to create emotional and spiritual responses?
Day 29 – We’re now on a mission. Determined to find more of that feel good factor. We head further south. Aim for Le Brasilia Village Camping, in Canet-en-Rousillion, 10K from Perpignon. Just about as far south as we can go and still remain in France. It’s not long before the landscape changes dramatically. More barren. More sandy. Even the trillion rows of vines have lost that succulent Frenchness. Village houses resemble mini haçienda’s. Masses of red tiled roofs give the game away. “This looks like Spain” – no wonder. Perpignon used to be the continental capital of the Kingdom of Majorca.
It’s Sunday. 12.34pm. Lunchtime. LIDL is closed. Only open until 12.30. We’ve probably lunched more times on a LIDL car park when traveling, than anywhere else. Today is no exception.
We’d previously passed a bronzed topless bike back-packer. Unexpectedly, he appears at the hab door. (habitation door. Beastie’s centrally positioned in and out) His opening greeting even more unexpected. “Hello. Did you buy any beer from LIDL just now?” “Sorry, we don’t drink beer”. [Not even Guinness]
He settles for a glass of mango squash. Originally from Sweden, Frederick is a lifer. He’s broken free. His entire belongings cling to his Scott bike. He’s been on the road for the last nine years. Like a peddling philosopher, he graciously accepts what little rewards each day brings. His outlook on life resonates. He is a gentle wandering soul. Like us, he’s heading south for warmth.
Day 30 – This five star luxury site lacks nothing. An enclosed family village with all amenities on tap for a perfect stay.
The Haçienda style luxury shower blockBeyond the fantastic pools and palm trees – direct access to its own beach
We save and savour the planned poolside lounge for later. Scoot scoots us over to the arboretum at Mas Rousillion. A short 8K. Its not what we expect. Gravel avenues with formal lines of unfamiliar trees. It’s mostly in its infancy. A work in progress.
Our highlight – the beautiful collection of cacti.
You either love them, or hate them. But you’ve got to admire them.The young ‘uns stick close to mum – or could be dad.Prickly beauties
Our sarnie bench-view, begs the question. Why do we see beauty? Why do we appreciate it? Why does it make us feel good? As a species we can survive without these perceptions and emotional responses – surely?
The breeze and sun perform an act of beauty. Leaves dance to a mystical rhythm, while the sun creates the optimal ‘set’ lighting against a perfect backdrop of a clear azure sky.Why is that dead tree beautiful? Why does the tree behind, to the left, appear as beautiful as a peacock’s fan?A couple of beauties? or not? It’s all in the ‘eye’.
There are many tales surrounding impending disaster, where people suddenly have the compulsion to change a plan at the very last minute. An inner feeling of doom rises to the surface and shouts out “No. Don’t!”
Not boarding a plane that then goes on to crash, the ultimate example. After an event, how many times have we heard ourselves say “I just knew that was going to happen”.
Today we have a couple of places of interest in Perpignan to Scoot to. First up is the Palais de rois Majorque. We park in a side street directly alongside the massively high outer walls. Mr S usually leaves Beastie’s ignition key in his jacket, which gets stored under Scoot’s seat. Today he has a feeling something might happen to Scoot. What if Scoot is stolen, or broken into? Decides to carry the key with him.
It’s a palace/fortress on a massive scale
The palace rooms are bare. Red brick stone walls. Terracotta floors. A chest here, or there. A couple of chairs against one wall. Look miniscule. Like dolls furniture under 30ft high wood-beamed ceilings. Emphasised by the huge acreage given over to each room’s footprint. It’s like walking through a ‘Vacant For Sale’, with no forward chain. Info boards in French and Spanish do little to stir the imagination as to ‘what it was like’. Both chapels are equally lacking, but at least shed a little light on the grandeur that would have existed back in the 13th and 14th centuries.
Obviously King James II of Majorca liked high ceilings
The barren nature of each room gets countered downstairs. Firstly, by an exhibition of artistic graffiti . . .
. . . which does little to impress Not even by the display cabinet of cans supposedly used
Then in one of the underground rooms, a weird light show for kids is in full swing. The palace through the seasons.
No prizes for guessing time of year
Finally, and with full info in English too, we follow the fascinating history of the garnet gemstone and it’s manufacturing process as adopted in Perpignan. The same strict 17thC practice is still maintained today.
Mary-Ann’s favourite
In those days it wasn’t easy to pass your jewelry apprenticeship . . .
A quite hilarious set of hurdles needing to be jumped
It’s now 2pm. Two hours have flown by, somehow. Two peckish tums head back to Scoot. The keeper of all things sarnie. Mr S decides to move him to a more salubrious location in front of the palace and a bench.
Scoot’s security Titan disc lock has always been a bit tricky to release. Mainly because Mr S has to bend so low to get the key in. This time it slips in easily. The central cylinder pops open as it should. But not the holding pin, which should release with it. A wiggle and a jiggle (of the lock) does no good. It’s decided to grit its teeth. Happy being where it is. Scoot is stuck in its steel gnasher.
When that shiny metal inner cylinder is sticking out, then the lock should release
At this point Mr S is not concerned – much. He’s an ace fiddler. He’s now lying side-on in the gutter, trying to use his X-ray vision. Hoping to conjure an imagined image of the inner workings. Constantly turning the key this way then that in an attempt to get some purchase, or fool it into thinking it should release. Ten minutes of optimistic fiddling go by. A passing dog stops. Sniffs to see what’s going on. Resists the urge to do what comes naturally. Moves on. His master’s voice calling. “Don’t you dare!”
Thirty minutes later the lock wins. Mr S concedes. Googles 24/7 emergency locksmith. His shop is just over 1K away. Mr S should have phoned first. His shop is locked. Shutters down. Obviously he’s out on an emergency job!
A phone call where neither party fully understands the other, ensues. A text is sent. Back at Scoot the scenarios start playing out in our minds. Will we need to get a taxi back? Will Scoot still be here when we return tomorrow? Will we need to call a tow truck? Even then, how do we get Scoot back up the ramp into Beastie’s backside? Will Monsieur Locksmith materialise? Has he read the text? Will he have the right tools?
It’s now 4pm. The grey clouds darken. Under Mrs S’s prompting, Mr S engages a young father. He’s out walking his baby. He willingly speaks to Monsieur Locksmith on our behalf. Success!!
Our perceived saviour arrives at 4.50pm. He emulates Mr S’s previous flawed attempts. Even a squirt or two of WD40 proves useless. Pulls out his black bag of tricks. Pins and needles of all wiggly shapes and sizes. Like the types you see used in a crime movie when a safecracker is at work. Sadly no stethoscope. All to no avail. Decides something with a little more oomph is required. A small dollop of gelignite peut-être?
By 5pm Scoot receives his freedom of the city.The culprit – still sticking out on the right refuses to budge.
When a plan is made and executed to perfection, it feels good. Yet, oddly, when that plan gets turned on its head, the ability to adapt, accept and overcome a new set of circumstances, can be equally rewarding.
Day 32 – At this time of the year when many campsites are closing for the season, the day’s plan is simple. Find one that’s still open, in striking distance and head for it. We arrive quite late at Flower Camping Le Lac de la Thésauque, just as the site manager is about to head off for a rendezvous to pick up her son. She kindly delays. We’re today’s latest and last arrivals. Like many French sites, it’s situated in a beautiful location, yet let down by its sanitary facilities. This time of the year us old foggies can do without bottomless and topless doors that let the cold outside creep under and over our nether regions.
Day 33 – A long day in the saddle, finds us sidling alongside, rather than onto Camping Ventoulou. The entrance has red and white tape across. A sign says “Fermé”. Despite the website indicating it’s open. A quick phone call confirms. Two more motorhomes arrive. More frustration and disappointment after a long day no doubt.
Phone calls to other local possibilities prove unsuccessful. We head to an Aire [unattended dedicated parking areas for campers – some are free, others paid – a sort of communal wild camp facility]. This one needs a payment. If only we can get in. A twit has parked his van in front of the entrance/exit.
The driver suddenly materialises from behind some bushes. “Pardon. Désolé. Sorry” he blushes
In any event, we decide not to pay. Instead head into Gramat. Another Aire awaits. [free]. We take the last place. Mrs S gets dinner on the go. Doing her usual juggling act. My phone rings. There was no reply from one site I phoned. It’s him. “We’re open. Come. We’re very close.” We’re sort of settled, but we do prefer a bit more. We pack up. head the 2K across town.
This wasn’t the ‘bit more’ we bargained for – the sanitary/shower block.A bucket, sand – but no spade – the previous users ‘dump’ sits below the lid. We decide we won’t be sitting there.
Twenty minutes later it’s a definite feeling of déjà vu . . .
Beastie’s spot after a perfect quiet night’s sleep back at the Aire in GramatOur not so early constitutional take us into Gramat’s old market square.
Vegetables and cheeses galore are on display and offer. The French don’t mind paying prices that we would baulk at back home. €4.95 for a cauliflower! Mrs S splashes out. Buys one medium sized broccoli €3.20 (Tesco price 85p)
It’s not unusual to find that the most famous and successful people have a burning passion for what they do. Rarely driven by financial gain. Often for altruistic reasons. Nearly always, because they couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
Day 34 – With a little over a week of this trip left, we halt our northward climb. Turn left. Back-track a little. Head for Bordeaux. The week-end weather is set to be mainly dry. We’re currently pitched up at Village Camping Bordeaux Lac. About 8K north of the centre.
We aim to shake off an unhappy distant memory. A 1979 camping holiday. Our red Datsun 180B. Parked in a Bordeaux side street. Broken into. Back in the day when bent coat hangers were the tools of the trade. Mary-Ann’s rings from the glovebox stolen. Sentimental value – included her mum’s engagement ring. Thought to be safer there than left in the tent. Frustrated form filling at the Gendarmerie followed. When English was as much a foreign language as French. In the days when NCR (no carbon required) sets were all the rage. Why make one copy when five would do? A French formality that came to nothing. We now wonder ‘who is wearing those rings today?’
Day 35 – The free walking tour of Bordeaux is given a miss. It starts at 10am. Far too early for non-early-birders. However, the tour itinerary is listed on-line. That comes in very handy. Creates our must-do list in one foul click. Sorted. First on the list is The Cité du Vin – the Bordeaux wine museum. Sounds right up our street. Tram 15 drops us virtually alongside.
Guggenheim – eat your heart out!
The €22 pp entrance fee is worth every cent. Video presentations by the owners of important wine producers from around the globe, describe the conditions in which their vines flourish. We see and learn how vines are cultivated in such a way that they’re able to grow in the most unusual and extreme conditions. From the Chilian arid desert, to the Swiss snow-covered mountains. From the Polynesian Islands in the Southern Pacific, to the foothills of Mount Fuji.
A fly-over across many of the types of terrain used to grow vines starts our visit.
A shortened snip-it . . .
China goes the extra mile – having been introduced to French wine-making in 1980 by Rémy Martin, want to really look the part. So they’ve even built their own chateaux!Inside equally futuristic.
Interactive displays graphically inform in novel and innovative ways.
The attention to detail is superbAn amazing interaction of puffer smells demonstrate the importance of the nose as well as the palete.
After three hours, there’s only two things left to do. 1, choose a complimentary degustation glass on the eighth floor . . .
Mr S selects a fruity red from Corsica’s capital Ajaccio. Mrs S a more conservative local red.
2, delve into the cave . . .
A bottle of Noble Dragon from China intrigues at a modest €18.90 – compared to most on sale, a snip!
From there, we walk 2300 metres in record time – go submerse ourselves in a bit of culture at second on our tour list – Les Bassins des Lumières. A huge portside concrete construction. Created during WWII by the Germans, to house a fleet of U-Boats. A perfect base from which to prowl the Atlantic. The four docks have been converted into one massive digital arts centre. A spectacular light show cascades the works of famous painters to music.
The surface water adds to the effectIt’s a work of art in itselfLooks like Banksy may have sneaked in . . . not quite!
When future historians of architecture look back to the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, what will they think? What will they see? Buildings of substance and beauty? Or a mash of inconsistent, uncoordinated plans and designs?
Of course, the answer to that question presupposes that many of these buildings will still be standing. Unlike their predecessors that have proven to stand the test of time.
Yesterday’s bus, plus tram trip is a no can do. No buses on Sunday. We either pay €21.60 to Bolt, or leg it. We leg it. 2K. Jump on tram 15 again. A morning stroll plus €3.60. We’re quids in.
We know where we are.
Today’s first stop on our walking tour list is the forty-three metre high Monument aux Girodins. Situated at one end of Place des Quinconces, one of the largest squares in Europe. [currently occupied by a massive ferris wheel and its accompanying fairground attractions]
In remembrance of the Girondins, political activists, who favoured the end of the 18thC monarchy, but then paid the ultimate price for resisting the revolution.
We edge closer towards le centre ville and ouir next ‘tick’. Very few cars. The pace is calm. Quiet. Mainly pedestrianised. Trams rule. It feels civilised. Maybe because it’s Sunday. People always behave better on a Sunday, don’t they?
The elegant National Opera House
We’re on a roll. So we roll on to La Place de la Bourse with its Miroir d’Eau. A modern feature that keeps the granite slabs watered and misted from April to October.
Miroir d’Eau – the most photographed landmark in Bordeaux.He’s not on out tour list. Is he a distraction? A wake up call? A mistake? A talking point? Art? Cut the top of his head off and he’d at least make an interesting ship’s funnel.
It’s impossible to visit a city without checking out its cathedral. Walking towards it, a queue comes into view. Three or four deep. Is there a show on? An upcoming concert maybe, needing tickets? It rounds the corner. So do we. They’re patiently waiting to get into the three storey Restaurant L’Entrecote. An extraordinary ‘steak and chips’ rendezvous.
Come back Berni Inns – all is forgivenBordeaux Cathedral. Built to please the eye of God and man. Built to last. There are few modern buildings that you can just stand in front of in awe and admire its design and beauty.
We’re not anywhere near Paris. No sign of a beret. Or string of onions. But France isn’t France without the sound of an accordion – though we’ve not heard it played quite in this jazz-funk way before.
Jazz accordian has been around since the days of Edith Piaf in the 1930s
Don’t you just hate it when the writer of a book, or a film, leaves you dangling at the very end. Abruptly stopping, just when you really need to know what happens next. Leaving the storyline to free-form in your mind. Play out in any direction. Or, in other words, do their job for them.
Life can be like that though. Quickly go one way. Then just as quickly the other. Take you by complete surprise. Like a balancing act at times. Sometimes you’re in control. Then you’re not. It’s as if life’s director of events has snatched your prepared script from you. Scribbled unexpected changes. Causing you to lose the plot. Suddenly put a foot, or even both, wrong.
Day 37 – Le Lambon Camping in Prailles, Deux-Sèvres is tonight’s one-stop. A pretty site next to a pretty lake. We waste no time in pitching up. Go walk its 2K perimeter. Minimum reward for a long day. With less than a week from Homeville, we’re hoping that each day’s leg will provide a little something to entertain, or amuse.
Grey and almost autumnal. Pretty nonetheless.Mr S can’t resist . . . but what happen’s next . . .
Day 38 – Les Vaugeons Municipal Camping in Écommoy is where we find ourselves for another overnighter. Webbed toes have become a necessity over the last couple of days. There is still more yet to come according to the forecast.
We make good use of an unexpected window. Clear for one hour. The weather app is spot on. We pop down into town. Another end of day reward. We lap the square. Like a couple of ‘OffVille’ inspectors. Pass comments back and forth. Deciding which aspects of the town are meritorious.
Above average – room for improvement.
At the side of the square, a parked van is selling unusual goodies. Awning out. Side down. Counter brimming with nibbly take-aways. So we do just that. Spring rolls. Samosas. Prawn thingy’s. Spicy dips. We’ve a half bottle of Gewürztraminer patiently waiting inside Beastie. The perfect aperitif combination.
Beastie’s wet start to a day that gets wetter and wetter and wetter
Then it’s onwards and upwards towards Le Mans. We should get there within 24hours . . .
Throughout history, men have sought to be challenged. Seeking to test their physical and mental strengths. Finding ways to stretch themselves to the very limits of their powers. In extremes of heat and cold. To the highest points and the deepest depths. Longest. Strongest. Fastest.
Our day ends pitched up at Municipal Camping Le Sans Souci, in Fresney sur Sarthe. A handful of kilometres from our earlier afternoon of pleasure. Courtesy of the Le Mans 24H Museum.
It’s one of those days when you just have to grin and bear. Cover to cover rain. Often torrential. We arrive in it. Leave in it. From the car park opposite, the barely visible entrance throws up a conundrum. Which will be quicker? Crawl, or butterfly?
The museum entrance is that dark shape to the left.
We arrive a little over one hundred and one years since the first race. Then, it was conducted around the public streets. Nowadays each 13.626K lap is a combination of permanent track and public roads.
Stamina, endurance and a strong back – necessary prerequisites.
Visitors have the option of a combined ticket. Museum plus circuit. Today it’s limited to inside only. Beastie bemoans the weather. Having watched the film Ferrari and more recently Le Mans, we’re keen to do a dry lap. We shrug off our wets. At the drop of the Tricolor we head down the first straight.
Steve McQueen never got to race – couldn’t get the insurance cover. When Paul Newman did in 1979, he finished second!
We stay in first gear. Make a pit stop at every hoarding. Refuel with informative and interesting bits of info. Then we round the first bend. Faster than the first winners?
Not quite. They were André Lagache & René Léonard in their Chenard-Walcker Type U3 15CV Sport Convertable – capable of a top speed a little over 150kph.
Completing 128 laps at an average speed of 92kph was no mean feat in 1923.
Entering the first chicane, we catch, then overtake the best looking car by far.
73 years after Bentley’s first win, they did it again in 2003 by completing 377 laps with this beautiful EXP Speed 8 – by then part of the VW Group.
Exiting we slow down, almost come to a spluttering standstill. Think better of it. Put our foot down, accelerate . . . leave this sore sight in our rear view mirrors.
Not the prettiest Porsche on the block. Or around it – they did love a ducktail spoiler.
We sweep over the finishing line to the chequered flag. Our three hour Le Mans doesn’t set any records, but at least we complete one full lap. Not every entrant can claim that.
Since 1978, motorbikes have done their own yearly thing too. Our lap of honour brings on a view of a fantastic looking moto.
The now classic Honda Daytona CB750 – this Superbike won the beauty stakes, but not the title
The heaven’s are still crying their eyes out as we climb back into Beastie and his warm belly. When the weather is like this, there’s only one remedy . . .
The chronology of earthly war, certainly backs that statement up. When will man ever learn? There is no place on earth that can be permanently owned, or occupied. What did Hitler gain, apart from a bullet to the head?
I can think of at least two other current day leaders that could benefit from such a trigger.
In 2024, more than ever, we witness the devastating effects of war on the civilian populations. It’s nothing new. WWII proved to be no exception. Over twice as many civilian recorded deaths than military. A staggering thought to consider, next time we stand in front of rows and rows and rows of white crosses.
Today, we take a detour on our way to Camping Risle Seine Les Etangs, in Toutainville. Go visit the Mémorial de Caen, dedicated to telling the story of WWII, D-Day and the Battle of Normandy.
A Hawker-Typhoon swoops to greet visitors on entry.
The museum details every aspect of the build up to and then the war itself. The obvious ineptitude of the European leaders in their belief that a war, so soon after WWI, could never happen. We walk the timeline. It starts with Hitler. A little man on the horizon. A nobody, who wanted to become a somebody.
The most hated emblem in all of history
Each section combines memorabilia, graphics, recordings, documentation and film footage from actual events. Daringly shot by incredibly brave journalists. English spoken and printed narration is of the highest quality.
Effective sets help create a time illusion
The Japs, as an info board points out, were keen to enlarge their empire. But for their mis-judgement at Pearl Harbour, they probably would have. Photos of military training exercises showing live Chinese soldiers being used as bayonet practice, serve as a reminder why many a soldier hated them to his death. Even long after the war had ended.
All for sake of oil and territory
The towns in north east France took the brunt. Not only from the Nazis. Allied Forces hit 1,570 towns and cities across France. Civilian ‘collateral’ damage – at least 68,778 dead – sound familiar?
The vicious cycle continues today – a look back in time that’s all too frighteningly real to PalestiniansNo excuse for the creation of needless suffering
The final figures are a blasphemy to the human race . . .
Mrs S reckons I’m short of a gene. (probably more than one) It’s the one that’s supposed to make you fearful of embarrassment. Enable you to bite your tongue. Swallow an inappropriate thought. One you shouldn’t have even had in the first place. Deter you from acting stupid (difficult) and making a proper Charlie of yourself.
Day 41 – A simply long day of travel from A to B. Or in our case, from one campsite to another. We shorten both time and distance (not by much) by deciding to utilise a Péage, or two. €30 sees us roll into Camping Du Grand Sart, near Péronne-en-Mélantois, at 5.57pm. Three minutes ahead of schedule.
Day 42 – Today is Saturday. We plan to visit Lille. Have a look-see around the vieux ville. Go see the birthplace of Charles de Gaulle for one. We’re 15K south of the city. A bus and metro away. The only thorn in that journey’s side, is that the bus doesn’t run between the hours of 9.45am and 2pm. (and not at all on a Sunday) We discover this fact just before leaving. It’s a cold day. Summer has disappeared further and further into each morning’s chill. Curled itself up into a tight huddled ball. In a vain effort to retain a little heat, before hibernation. As purely warm weather Scooterists, Scoot is considered a no-go. Taking Beastie into towns and cities, where parking is mainly dedicated to cars, can be risky. With the help of the site owner, she points us to the only suitable car park in town. It’s near the ancient citadel and in easy reach of all we want.
It’s raining. We umbrella it to 9 Rue Princesse. There’s a very short queue. A clipboard man is asking for names. Checking them against his list. Ours aren’t on it. Why would they be? We (Mr S) didn’t book. It’s a museum. Don’t you just stroll up, walk in and pay? “Non” – we can’t enter without a reservation. Next available pre-paid slot? 27th October!
Didn’t U eer me zee first time? I said “Non!”
So we turn tail. Tails between legs. Join the rest of Lille. Walk the old cobbled streets.
We always like a bit of art and this passage is one long street of art galleriesIs it art? or is it a Mango Coupé?
When it’s cold and damp, we can always rely on a church, or in this case Lille Cathedral, AKA Basilica of Notre Dame de la Treille. It’s been fitted with a weird looking facade. Added on in 1999, to eventually complete the construction, which had started as late as 1854. Almost ugly. Grey marble slabs, juxtaposed with grey metal scaffolding.
As first time viewers – we don’t like it. Brave? Extreme? Foolish?Inside however, it’s very traditionalBeautiful even
Once inside, the facade takes on a whole new look . . .
What better way to make it feel like church, than to show off its acoustics
We leave the city to its grey. Pick up some apple and chocolate beignets – tonight’s second course.
The last day of any of our trips has its own routine. As we head towards our final night at Sangatte, and tomorrow morning’s early crossing, we start to switch our minds from the here and now. Start to think about home-living again. The chores that are there waiting for us. But more than anything at this time of the year, Mrs S is dreaming of a warm bathroom.
Today is different. We plan to make two more excursions. Cram the cookie pot full to its brim. Set an earlier than usual alarm clock. We needn’t have bothered. This chirpy cockerel got there first at 6.07am.
His fence is three feet behind Beastie’s backside, which houses our bed!
We head back into town. Park in the same place. 2K later we’re standing in front of this beauty. It’s going to be a day of photos.
Le Palais des Beaux-Arts de Lille
Inside, the architecture is as stunning as the paintings and sculptures it displays.
Built to admire and impressElegance around every cornerNot a number in sight . . .A powerful representation of temptation.No prizes for guessing whose behind that.
One hundred and fifty minutes later, we’re heading across and out of town to Roubaix. A small city of 99,000. 13K north-east. There’s a swimming pool there we want to visit.
We’re using in-phone MAPS as our guide. Not always a sensible choice. At this point Mrs S is just shy of a meltdown. We’re suddenly running out of roads big enough for Beastie. Lille is a mass of street furniture and narrow rat-runs.
Beastie weighs in at 3.85t and 2.9m high.
Built in 1932, the swimming pool on the Rue des Champs closed in 1985.
From the outside it looks like a bit of an industrial build, with a newish glass frontage
By 2001, it had been transformed into a wonderful Art-Deco museum.
The old tiled changing cubicles on both floors to left and right are used to house modern and classic designs.Like this one. How creative is this?Mrs S fits in perfectly with all the other beauties on display
One of our many favourites is this ginormous painting by Marcel Jambon and Alexandre Bailly, completed in 1911, three years after Jambon’s death.
The Grand Place de Roubaix – 1911The Grand Place de Roubaix – 13/10/2024
Another trip comes to a close. To you faithful followers – thanks for traveling with us and for giving me an added reason to write.
. . . and making the most of it. Mrs S is a renowned expert. She’s like the proverbial juggler. Able to keep any number of objects flying through the air at any given moment. AKA Mrs Multitask. She hates to occupy wasted time which could be utilised more effectively. In fact, she even hates to witness anyone else wasting time too (especially Mr S !) A job as a Trades Union time and motion manager would have been right up her street.
Beastie’s engine is a bit like Mrs S too. A co-ordinated multitude of tasks being executed at any given time. Intent on moving forward. Not standing still. Although most of his timing management is handled by a single timing belt. After seven years and 45,000 miles of being let loose on the open road, it came to light just a few days before leaving, that his should have been replaced two years ago! It’s not a small job, but not wanting to risk being caught out in the middle of Türkiye’s wilderness, we decide to bite the bullet. We get him back just in time, twenty-four hours before take off.
Day 1 – finds us pitched up at Camping La Chenaie, a 2K walk outside the old city wall of Laon, about 40K north of Reims famous Pommery Houses. Like many towns and cities en France its inner medievalness has been preserved. In those days everyday life was all about staving off marauders. As a consequence, they would build a town, or a city, on the highest lookout hill around. Erect a massively thick and tall outer wall and shout obscenities down to any passerby, who may be harbouring ill intention. Giving no thought to the passing visitor as to how they should reach the centre up-top, without falling into a severe state of apoplexy, from the sheer effort. Several hundred years later, we find ourselves hiking that one in three incline – like a couple of hillbilly goats intent on seeing what’s hiding behind those ancient walls. So we do. And see. The cathedral in particular, is spectacular.
Luckily we were not wearing armour . . . A spectacular masterpiece . . . outside . . . . . and insideLight filled interior with stunning stained glass windows
During our walk around the centre we come across a number of Banksy look-alikes.
“Somebody give us a bunk up then!”“Don’t lose hope – things will change for the better. Trust me. I know . . .”
There’s nothing to fear, except fear itself – so the well known phrase tells us. The mind can create catastrophe out of thin air, where non exists. Like a magician it seemingly produces strange and worrying scenarios that never come to fruition. A can-load of worms buried deep underground in the subconscious. A multitude of wriggling and furtive ‘what if’s’.Ready and waiting to surface.
And so it was, that after reading up on the poor and rundown state of many camping facilities in Türkiye and the lack of a decent electric hook-up, we decided to invest in a larger than life battery pack. One with a 1500W built in inverter, for when we’re off grid. This mini-beast is capable of powering our toaster, Nespresso machine and most importantly Mrs S’s hairdryer!!!
The luxury of being able to make a hot coffee en-route has already been enjoyed.
We’re currently south of Metz, enjoying single figure temperatures on the beautiful Villey le Sec camp site, nestled alongside the very full Moselle.
Beastie can be spotted behind the tree second from left.Now this is what you call a MOHO.
It’s so easy to live in the future sometimes. Especially when the present is not as it should be and change is yearned for. When what seems like an interminable set of circumstances start to grind you down. Your mind fast-forwards. Desperate to shake off the heavy coat of pessimism. Imagines a softer, less harsh time. One where peace and tranquility abide.
Our minds are fast-forwarding. Set on the welcoming warmth further south and east. Focused on reaching that sunshine just as soon as we can. Winter back home has felt never-ending. However, the weatherman has other ideas.
Today we cross over into Germany. Heading for our one-nighter at Hohencamping, Langenbrand. A do-able 280K. With no autobahn charges, we break our own rule. Beastie’s no slouch on the motorway, but an Exocet he’s not, despite taking the quickest and most direct route.
The motorway services over here are like elaborate parking lots for the thousands and thousands of container trucks that ply the Shengen routes 24/7. Crammed in like huge sardines, their massive tin bodies create dirty coloured static shoals. Parked alongside, Beastie feels and looks like a minnow.
En-route – Mrs S tries to stay snug as a bug at our lunch time stop.
On site, our pre-dinner appetiser is a forty minute ping-pong session.
6.45pm – We never forget to pack our TT bats.7pm – Looking down to Beastie’s sunny evening spot from the TT room.8.30pm – Picture postcard view from Beastie’s hab door.Knew I should’ve packed those snow shoes . . . 11pm – Beastie feeling the chill – thinks it’s all over . . . ?
Every good story worth its salt has at least one main protagonist. A character that’s capable of driving the narrative in whichever way it chooses. Openly leading the reader one way, then the other, before deceitfully doubling back to cover tracks, or invent different possibilities. Clouding perceptions with conundrums. Confusing issues with inconsistences. One second telling the truth. The next a lie. Perhaps. Maybe.
A blanket of beauty silently cloaks the neighbourhood
The beauty of this morning’s white awakening is enhanced by the muffled silence. Stepping down, crunching and squeaking into freshly lain snow brings a feeling of joy to the spirit.
Scenes like this bring out the kid in youOne hour later, a couple of degrees warmer and the day’s thaw is already setting in.Snow – pretty – amazing stuff
We’re currently pitched up on what is no more than an elaborate car park at Campingplatz Nord-West, Munich. Paying a pretty price of €59 for the privilege too. The most expensive overnighter in our experiences to date. But one in which we had no option. A question of third time lucky.
Touring on spec, as we do, always leaves open the possibility of a disappointment, or two, as proves the end of today’s journey. Campsite one at Langwieder See, resembles a cramped scrapyard of old and discarded caravans. Bunched up tightly together like fractal polytuplets. As if each depended on its neighbour to survive. A brief 360 and we’re out. Campsite two at Ampersee, according to our travellers’ bible should have opened on 1st April. But the entrance sign says “Sorry, but we’re closed”. Fortunately all three are within 20K.
France, Germany, Italy and Spain, for the main part, play the main protagonists for most MOHO travellers. Campsites throughout have so far steered under any EU bureaucratic regulations. It’s what gives every campsite its uniqueness. The ability to be either good, bad, or indifferent to the services it provides.
German campsites are free and liberal with hot water. But. You pay a price for that so seemed luxury.
One of our many impressions while touring, is that the grass this side of La Manche often seems greener. An appealing ambience exudes in many visited locations. Constantly bringing the thought to mind ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely to live here’.
And no more so than at today’s two-nighter – Camping Nord-Sam, Salzburg. A short bus journey from the Aldstadt. That awaits us tomorrow. We pitch up. Leave Beastie to cool down. Do likewise. Take a brisk walk, into a brisk finger-numbing wind. Blow away today’s mind and bottom numbing journey along the A8. A mix of cyclists pass. Some togged up, as if ready to move on from base camp, only eyes visible. Others pretend it really is spring. No gloves. Flimsy cotton tops. Hardy types. Women!!
We love the landscape that surrounds the local towns and villages here. The logical and thoughtful way metalled cycle/walk-ways connect one and all. Clearly signed. Simple and functional.
We pass gardens with wisteria, cornflowers, geraniums and their like, all in bloom. Well ahead of back home. Our path opens out. Leads us through oceans of buttercups, earnestly glowing in the gloom. Oblivious to the valley chill. Brighten our way.
Like Maria von Trapp, we’re walking free in the wind. No lonely goatherd in sight. Mrs S reckons if we lived here I’d want to climb every mountain. Yet for a mere €60 we could take the Sound of Music tour – some scenes filmed in these parts.
These are some of our favourite things . . . .There is something good . . .
Our 2K touch n turn perfectly timed at Antonius von Padua Catholic Church. Small, circular, with amazing internal murals.
You can’t always feel at your best. Things happen that can change your mood. Sometimes there can be no apparent reason. You just don’t feel quite your normal self. A little lack-lustre. No energy. Or simply under the weather.
Eleven stops and the number 23 drops us into the heart of Salzburg’s Aldstadt district. The grey heavy cloud cover hangs threateningly overhead. Biding its time. Silently waiting, assassin-like, ready to strike its victims at any given moment.
It’s not the type of day Salzburg would really want to welcome visitors. It feels dull headed. Not looking its best i.e. picture postcard perfect. It hates to be seen in a bad light. “Send them away! I’m not in the mood. I’m feeling under the weather”.
We are too, but in a different way. In any event, all and sundry ignore its pleas. Nationalities from across the globe flock here. Eager to visit the birthplace of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. The museum, dedicated to the genius child and man, has been accepting visitors since 1880. Our first port of call.
The family didn’t have to go far to buy their groceries.
Set within a labyrinth covering three floors, it details the great man’s family, birth, life and unexplained death, at the all too early age of thirty-five.
In Mozart’s day the keyboard colours were reversed. Black incidentals were white; white were black.
Mozart developed a passion for composing opera and the final room displays models of many sets used in those productions. Hugely inventive and intricate in their own right.
This set designed for The Abduction from the Seraglio. (Almost, entices me to want to watch the real thing)
We move on into the impressive cathedral. Intricately ornate beyond belief, but not overtly garish.
Obviously in those halcyon times masterpieces were commonplace, expected and the norm.
We discover that it’s a working church taking its role seriously – good to see.
Slava UkrainiDomplatz – the cathedral square
Before lunch we idle the streets centrally. Intentions to not spend. Just as well. Many streets interconnected by up-market alley arcades. Some touting only the best that money can buy.
Madly extravagant outfit prices range from an affordable €2,300 to €3,900 !!!
In contrast, this busy shop is selling a product more to our taste . . .
Obviously, it seems we’re not the only cheeses in town. Every conceivable flavour on offer.
A Nordsee lunch is walked off at Salzburg’s mighty Fortress, a fat sentinel that guarded the city for centuries. Now houses a fascinating city history.
This amazing video cleverly introduces each visitor to the then and now.
The Puppetry rooms show how important and popular stringed puppetry was to the plebs of the day. Never more so than when poking fun at the elite.
“Mock me if you will. But I must warn you . . . “A grey Salzburg from atop the Fortress.
Stepping out at the bottom of the almost perpendicular funicular, the heavens heave a sigh of release. Decide it’s time ‘to go’. The forecast lied. Mrs S is brolly-less. OMGA. We head for the nearest cafe for shelter. Sit it out with a cappuccino and cake, before twenty-threeing back to camp.
It’s how friendships are created. A moment of broken ice. A mutual warmth between. An unconditional acceptance. A desire to get to know the other. Forge a link. Have some fun.
Day 7 – A 299K squirt, finds us pitched up at Campsite Ljubljana Resort. A work in progress. Literally. Aiming to live up to its ‘Resort’ title. It’s almost there. High quality tiling and fixtures in the still to be completed shower block give a sense of ‘hotel’. However, with no doors in place yet, the wind inside spins around one’s exposed nether regions like Whirling Dervishes who’ve spent far too long lost in the Siberian Chara Desert.
Day 8 – With no sign of a change in the weather, we use the opportunity to continue our rush south. Like a couple of stoic starlings in search of warmer climes. Wings frantically flapping, just to keep warm. Happy to leave Slovenia’s capitol to its 4C and bone chilling rain. By the time Croatia looms, that Cs doubled and more than tripled upon reaching Campground Zelen-Gaj, Lonja. A small and perfectly pretty site of eight pitches, set within the Lonjsko Polje Nature Park.
The run in, and subsequent walkabout, has the feel of being in an open air museum. It turns out that this area is famous for its traditional timbered houses. Sadly, many barely standing, as one generation passes and the next head for the city, in search of euros and the 21stC. Even at €25,000 a pop, with acres of land, there are few homegrown takers.
For how much longer will the few remain occupied?
There are hundreds of properties lying to waste with acres of land. Desperate for some TLC. Our leg stretch passes mostly deserted worn down types. All from another era. Romantic reminders. No longer viable. Who wants to work the land from dawn to dusk, when the local mini-market can supply everything?
Set in a superb national park, these would make fabulous summer houses. But who’s got the cash?The village war memorial looking sadly abandoned. We loves rural . . . So does Beastie . . . Next door – the site owner’s house – typical of this area.
One week on the road. It’s time Mrs S has a break from cooking. Restaurant Svratiste, a camp-site add-on, to the rescue. Nikolina and Josip cook up a storm. Home made food at its best. All downed to satisfaction with the largest glass of local fruity red ever. Mrs S can feel a ‘hic’ coming on . . .
We clicked . . .
Mrs S (& Mr) not impressed with Josip’s background music. The gentile jazz influenced piano-forte, has been replaced with a more traditional vibe. Is he trying to impress? Drum up an authentic ambiance? It’s a sound which hasn’t been heard since the days of the 60’s Eurovision Song Contests, when each eastern European country really did think that their homegrown music was top of the pops. We request a change from these Croat rhythms that are creating an offbeat feeling. He obliges. Calls up another playlist. Switches to Blues and some Pink Floyd – that’s more like it. Reveals he has a Fender in the back room.
Desserts and coffee are by-passed. Complimentary brandy and liqueur offered. We don’t mind if we do. Seconds follow. We don’t mind if we do. (Did I already shay that?) Spirits raise spirits. Banter flows. Smiles widen. Laughter loudens.
One cannot but associate bureaucracy with communism. An inner desire for complete control, without the use of a gun.
Day 9 – Camp Dunav, Belgrade welcomes us with 20C and blue skies. Arriving on spec, Beastie rolls onto one of the few remaining pitches. Slips in between a Slovenian and French MOHO, to enjoy a threesome. All other twenty MOHO spots taken by a touring group of Dutch. The doubling of temperature calls for Mr S to pack away his jeans. It’s shorty time.
Patiently waiting for admission into the EU since 2012, Serbia Border Control does its best to repay, despite the fact that Serbian citizens have been granted the freedom to travel the Shengen area visa free. Our early afternoon crossing passes five miles of lorries. Hemmed in. Lying in wait. Crying on the hard shoulder. Each driver preferring a game of Russian roulette no doubt. A living nightmare for them and their contractors. Each one subject to a mind-numbing process. Our sixty minute wait, a mere spec.
What a way to earn a living. Heroes. Feeding the consumers paramount.
It makes you think about the time and human effort it takes to put those far flung ‘taken for granted’ products on our shelves.
Beastie lumbers up in the slower ‘All Passports’ queue. Overtaken by his swifter Dutch EU counterparts ahead. The only item of interest on today’s journey – but what is it?
Day 10 – With no EE roaming coverage in Serbia (an oversight by Mr S) we decide to exit left. Head into Bulgaria. Smaller A roads become our norm and favoured routes.
To find only a handful of vehicles in front at the border crossing, comes as a relief. Although it takes the best part of 45 minutes to get through. Strangely, on exiting Serbia, we’re asked to furnish Beastie’s registration documents. A bit late now. We’re also asked to back him up for an internal inspection. He doesn’t flinch. A tall uniformed good looking fresh faced and pleasant smelling whipper-snapper sheepishly climbs aboard. He ducks in. Officially pretends he knows what he’s looking for. Points to a cupboard. Food filled. Elongates his neck around into the bedroom. Emulates the water filled N-T-L from The Abyss. Finds a bed. Surprise, surprise . . . backs out. Non the wiser . . .
Misses Beastie’s wine cellar.
Every LIDL helps . . .
We cross into, what can only be described as a non-war zone gap of 100 metres. AKA Nomansland. Although no-one is playing footie. (Well, it’s not Christmas!) Stop at the Bulgarian western front. It’s then that Mr S realises he’s forgotten that all roads in Bulgaria require a digital vignette to be purchased. Luckily I can buy one here. I misunderstand instructions and find myself inside the large office. Screens everywhere. A silent quizzical look passes between the uniforms. “How the FCUK did that unauthorised person gain access and breach our security systems? Get him away from the screens”
“Can I buy a vignette here?” – “TAM. TAM” pointing to an ATM lookalike I’d walked past – on the outside! I open the unlocked door I’d just entered through. Buy a vignette with the assistance of one of the uniforms. He’s looking sheepish too. The steady stream of traffic had probably been particularly unwelcome and therefore dealt with more slowly than usual. The uniforms seemed to be spending more time behind glass than was necessary. It’s Saturday afternoon. “Who’s playing I ask” – “The equivalent of Man U vs Liverpool” – the two Sofia teams PFC and Levski going head to head – being watched live, intermittently, on a mobile phone.
Our journey ends at Camping Starite Porove. A secluded guest house with twelve camper spaces – all empty. Beastie chooses the flattest. It’s taken the owners twenty years to build from a dilapidated ruin. The shower facility is spa-like. We loves it.
No EE coverage here – or GPS signalBeastie cools off in the shade
Outside of human invention, its debatable as to whether time exists. Can the distance between life and death be measured? What exactly are these eight minutes and twenty seconds that it takes sunlight to reach the earth?
Rarely do things stay the same. They either improve, or get worse. Just maintaining a quid pro quo situation can take a huge amount of effort. Just ask any keen gardener.
We’re currently in a state of faut déjà vu. The fact is, we stayed in Camperstop Vrana on the southern outskirts of Sofia, in 2019, during our Greece trip. A forever memorable stop, mainly due to an ill-planned spontaneous walk by Mr S, that lead Mrs S on a merry dance, via a route she would rather have not travelled. But let’s not talk about that. Been there, blogged that.
Again, pitched up on the far right of camp. This evening’s view from Beastie – 5 years on from the image belowBeastie is the MOHO to the far right – note the state of the roof on the building in previous photo.
However, inside this MOHO coop, time has brought on an improvement. The owner has installed a hi-tec German designed wash-up facility . . . obviously in the hope it will drum up extra business – BOOM BOOM!
Vorsprung Durch Technik!Time for Beastie to snuggle down for the night
Earlier in the day we take time off from scudding southwards. Don sunnies. Spend an hour or so going nowhere fast. Montana provides a perfect perambulation.
It’s Palm Sunday and Easter is in abundance around the fountains on ZheravitsaBehind the scenes, these apartments all get a share of the fruits of one vineA solid reminder of the September Rebellion
A couple of ice creams later, then it’s time to go wake Beastie from his shady spot. Then it’s onwards and downwards.
The first men on the moon must have needed fistfuls of faith. Trust too, in bucket loads. Plus an unquenchable thirst for adventure. Entering the unknown. Their journey planned and executed with a fraction of the onboard technology that’s inside Beastie.
Our leap of faith starts tomorrow. Into the unknown for us. A new country, in a new continent. Full of the interesting and different. Maybe the curious and curiouser. We’ve planned. Put everything in place. But . . . we’ll soon find out. Will we be venturing into the sun? Or the dark side of the moon?
At this precise moment, it’s hammering down. As if the king of all pop riveters is working Beastie’s roof. The time is 15.37 and 50, no, 51, no, 52 . . .seconds on Tuesday 30th April 2024. We’re on day two of our two-night stop-over at Sakar Hills Camping. 35K north of the Turkish border. Exactly on schedule. This English run site, along with its counterpart Camping Dragijevo, situated near the old capitol in Veliko Tarnovo, were the very first two camp sites to be officially set up in Bulgaria, sixteen years ago. They are part of a small group of sites that have been leading the way for MOHOmers and the like, to explore this beautiful country.
Numbers 1,3,4,5 & 7 – been there, done them . . .
This site is the perfect location, but . . .
That raised hump beyond Beastie is a train line.Behind that fence, the neighbour’s menagerie. 40 goats; umpteen hens and cockerel; 5 dogs !!!Not the most quiet site we’ve ever stayed on . . .
Yesterday afternoon hemmed us in too. Giving us the opportunity to master a new game – Mancala. On loan from our fab friends Sue & Dave. Looks simple, but it’s a thinking game of anticipation and preparation. One where you can never be sure whether you’ve won or not, right up to the very last move.
How to play? . . . not telling you!
The near village of Biser provides our short walkabout this morning. A nose and mini shop. The housing a real mix of run down and on the way out; those just managing to sustain an equilibrium; those owned by hopefuls with something more elaborate in mind. How, or to whom they’d ever sell to in the future, a mystery.
The back roads are not really roads.Biser town square. The Town Hall is middle with flags.The locked church shows off its new roof. Obviously capable of drawing funds for renovations.You can’t own a house here without a few of these.The owners have good reason perhaps. Those three, guard their new upmarket incomplete build.
It’s stopped raining. During the time it’s taken me to write up today’s post, Mrs S has been busy too. With a more artistic project.
My talented lady.
Not quite the end. The rain stops. We decide to skip into town. It doesn’t have one of everything. But it does have one shop and one restaurant. We’re hungry. The waitress approaches. Ready to take our order. A young girl and her friend realise we’re English. Rush over from the far side of the room. Viki, a modern looking second grade student, is keen to practise her language skills. Exudes confidence as she acts as our translator.
Our dinner is the Bulgarian version of tapas. The most interesting being fried cheese coated in cornflakes.
We decide to have dessert. Then we decide not to. The table immediately behind becomes occupied by two men. Their wine arrives. Time to light up. Despite a no smoking law that’s been in place since 2012.
We walk back to camp in the rain.
[The next blog post may be some days away. We need to source Turkish sim cards, hopefully with enough coverage and data.]
When things don’t go according to plan and not in your favour, it’s so easy to let them drag you down. You can become angry, frustrated, manic even. We all have different levels of tolerance. Different ways of reacting to trying situations. Dealing with those associated emotions, overcoming and letting go of perceived ‘disasters’ is crucial in ridding yourself of negative energy. Easier said than done though.
Today we say goodbye to Bulgaria and say hello to Türkiye.
We’re mentally prepared for a four hour border crossing. Anything less will be a bonus. Unaware of a series of events that will test our coping strategies.
It’s one of those situations, like being pushed in at the deep end. We’ve all been there. A spot of on-the-job training. First day a confusing nightmare. Seven lanes. Full to the brim. No real signage to help first-timers. It’s a guessing game. Which lane? Beastie’s not a bus. He’s not a car. Does that mean he’s non-binary?
No other MOHOs to follow. I choose car.
Pick a number – any number
All’s going well until we’re approached by an official. I think he’s saying we’re in the wrong lane and is asking me to reverse all the way back. The car immediately behind doesn’t fancy being butted in the face by Beastie’s backside, so slips through on the nearside as I start the ponderous manoeuvre. Which is where I continue looking, in case more decide to do the same. Don’t notice the bus trying to get through on my side. Until a huge blast of his desperate horn shakes my concentrated focus. My foot hits the brake pedal so hard it brings Beastie to a body shuddering full stop. Mrs S is jolted out of her seat and sure I’ve pranged the bus.
I’ve not! There’s at least three inches to spare.
unedited highlight . . .
We eventually move through All Passports – we’re now Brexiteers. Then head for D3. Auto Insurance required. They seem to love paperwork more than the French. We show all documents. Pay the fee. Move on to window two, where exactly the same process follows, but without the fee.
We’ve heard they sometimes X-Ray vehicles. Beastie gets herded into a RI-RO hangar. No electronics in sight. It’s going to be a personal hands-on search. A hatchback in front is loaded to the hilt with stuff. Some of it is brought out to aid inspection. One man passes with a dozen cans of beer and a couple of bottles of spirits. Confiscated no doubt. Then it’s Beastie’s turn. He’s inundated with alcoholic hiding places. We tell him to keep a straight face. Don’t give the game away.
She steps aboard. Looks in one food cupboard. Sees food. Steps down.
“How many glasses of alcohol do you have on board?” – A calculator is not at hand, so I lie and say eight bottles. I’m then asked for vehicle documents and escorted to another window, where once again Scoot’s and Beastie’s V5C details are keyed in. Nothing like having things done in triplicate.
The green light is given. We roll Beastie onwards very slowly, for fear the sound of clinking bottles may give the game away. Just over three hours. Two happy bunnies.
At Edirne, today’s destination, there’s a lot of road works on the go. We (I) become discombobulated when our route is supposed to take us through a pedestrian only thoroughfare, with a bollarded entrance. I turn left instead of right. End up in a narrow dead-end street. A couple of surprised military look on. During the course of my embarrassing twenty point turn I prang Beastie’s backside on a low lying (but not that low lying, bollard)His tender trim gets a split lip. BOLLARDS!#!$*
The consensus is? “We can’t go up there!!”BOLLARDS!#!$*
We back track and by chance see Otopark. A huge gravel carpark, overlooked by a new and massive raised section of motorway. There’s one other MOHO parked up. He’s moving on before mid-night. It’s his last day of ninety. He says it’s safe. We decide to stay for the night. Take a breather. Calm down. £5 – a no brainer. It has modern European style loos. Sorted.
Not one of the most pucka stop-overs – but needs must and all that
It continues to be one of those Bizarre days. We head into town. In search of a couple of SIM cards. It’s an almost typical centre. One that you’ll find anywhere. But with it’s own unique peculiarities. Packed with shoppers. At Vodaphone we can buy 20GB for 1,000 TLira (£25) However, first we can only buy one card. Then, not even that. Their system is playing up.
Top of the high streetA bustling side streetEvery shop’s wares on display out frontThere are many ancient timber buildings in town
Turkcell shop offer is 20GB 1,700TL, so we buy only one sim. Thinking that in Istanbul we can get a better deal. Come across a second Vodaphone shop, where 20GB is going for 2,000 TL. We go back to Turkcell.
Essentially Otopark is like wild camping in the middle of a city. The almost final straw comes when we discover a fault with Beastie’s onboard boiler. It won’t switch on. We need it for dish wash-up and wash/shower. An hour later, an internet search discovers an old thread, with a suggested cure. We turn on the engine and then the boiler – hey presto! We can go to bed clean.
Our sweet dreams come to a nightmare ending at 5am with the call for prayer.
We like to think we’re in control. It’s clear we’re not. Plans. Routes. SatNavs. Might just as well fly out of the window. There are too many other sources of influence that interfere with our deemed outcome.
Day 15 – In real terms, today’s journey to Kamp Rumelifeneri, of 248K, should be a doddle. It’s about 35K north of Istanbul. Situated at the north-east of the European side of Türkiye. It overlooks the Bosphorus Strait, just as it meets the Black Sea. We aim to arrive early afternoon. But don’t. 11K short, our route takes a turn for the worse. We’re not planning to go over the spectacular Yavuz Sultan Selim Bridge – one of the tallest suspension bridges in the world. We cut down right a hundred metres before. A barrier is down. We think it’s a small toll booth. Mrs S readies a note or two. We sidle up towards the window. It isn’t. It’s security. No way down. Police are in action on our chosen road. Because of the very hilly terrain we have only one option. Reverse and go over the bridge. Find a way (easier said than done, but we do), to come back over. 45K and some 90 minutes later we eventually arrive at camp.
Yavuz Sultan Selim Bridge – our turn off is immediately after the overhead illuminated sign.
We (i) chose this site because the online photo and associated blurb indicates it has the type of facility we like and are used to ‘in Europe’. Not so. Obviously a little self-flattery can drum up customers, like us, in droves. 85% static Turk caravans in permanent occupation.
Gentleman left; Ladies rightTwo porta-loos each; One shower each – there are 130 pitches on this site!!
Day 16 – With Istanbul and it’s famous delights beckoning, we leave early (for us). In fifteen minutes short of two hours, the 150 bus, then M2 Metro, ‘whisk’ us into the heart of tourist-land Istanbul, just before midday and just before we start to resemble a couple of Red Bottomed Baboons. Crowds are out in force – a mix of home grown and foreign. A couple of famous mosques and the Grand Bazaar feature as today’s Turkish Delights.
The Blue Mosque
We gain free entry into the Blue Mosque. A basically circular inner hall means that in little short of a lap, we are in and out in less than twenty-five minutes.
Exiting, the Blue Mosque the queue has grown – or should that be groan . . .
Previously free, in January this year, they introduced charges for the Hagia Sophia. €25 each. It’s evident that some of the internal decor needs it. We suffer an hour’s queue. We’ve come this far, so why not. Then it’s another in and out in thirty minutes. Unlike a cathedral, there is little of interest to consider, other than the internal structure and elaborate paintwork. A scattering of QR codes supply the tech visitors with additional info.
Inside the Hagia Sophia – we were not allowed to go downstairs – it’s reserved for Turks only – so we were toldThe Hagia Sophia Mosque – 1,500 years ago the site was occupied by a Christian Orthodox Church
We were pleased to see a couple of sections where some of the original Christian mosaics had been left untouched.
You can’t keep a good man down . . . Mrs S – Eloi-like, stands rigid, caught in the headlights of ‘The Siren Call’
We anticipate more of a Moroccan Souk type of experience from the Grand Bazaar. But not so. It’s no more than an arcadian fantasy. A labyrinth of Jewelry outlets and Turkish Delight shops that predominate the myriad of tunnels. All compete for the cacophony of tourist dollars, as they slowly stream past each doorway.
Excited chatter clatters throughout.
We come across a couple of other delights of note . . .
Bentley Continental GT – (also available – Ferrari 488GTB & Porsche Taycan Turbo S)Some artistic soul’s delightful wall creation
It’s getting late. We decide to eat in town. Get drenched by a terrific thunderstorm on exiting the Metro. Made worse by two-ing and froing between our bus connection and the ticket machine, which was unfathomable. Eventually drop back into camp at 9.45pm. 22,000 + steps – a long day – shorter legs?
I imagine that to be good at gambling, you need to be able to recognise that precise moment when the odds are so stacked against you, there’s going to be no way you can win. It’s then, you make a calculated decision, based on fact, not emotion. Time to bite the bullet. Resist that contagous urge. Realise it’s better to quit while you’re ahead.Walk away.
We do just that. We rarely gamble. So we decide to cut short our stay north of Istanbul. Agree to move on. The weather is against us. The long trek to the city is against us. The number of mosques to visit is against us. Afterall, when you’ve see one, or two, you’ve seen them all; right? Apparently not. We stayed in Edirne on our first night. Seems we missed the forerunner and best of them all. A return visit may be on the cards – providing we don’t go bust.
Day 17 – Today’s dismal rainy journey south, takes us to beautiful Lake Iznik and its namesake town. Famously known within Christianity as Nicaea. It was here that in 325AD the Christian declaration of faith (Nicene Creed) was formed and then finalised in Constantinople (Istanbul), fifty-six years later. Since then and with its change of name, the town is more famous for its patterned ceramics.
Before pitching up at Doga Muhit Camping, family run by Tarkan and his wife, we stop off in town. Take a look inside the virtually brand new Iznik Museum. We’re lead chronologically along Iznik’s time-line; prehistory up to the establishment of Turkey the Republic in 1923.
So far, all information boards, not only here, include a full and very competent English translation. Make our enjoyment more satisfying.
An ultra-modern building; inside & out – in total contrast to everything else around this ancient city.Mrs S in concentration mode . . .Artistic ability & eye for detail – obviously been around for millennia, judging by this locally discovered tomb.
There’s a change in the weather due. Our evening view from Beastie confirms.
For centuries the 32K long lake hid a secret. Its surface camouflaging the remains of a 5thC Basillica below. An unusual set-up – we’re pitched up this side of the road – our toilet/shower block is behind the cafe.
Day 18 – Today is not quite a repeat performance. For one, the sun is out in full force. Doing its best to climb above the giddy 20C mark.
We minibus into town and go in search of as many ancient sites as possible. Which reminds me – Mrs S can be quite poetic at times. Bordering on the romantic even. An example – yesterday she said to me “I have to be very patient; now that you’re an ancient” – isn’t that kind and sweet? I journey with my very own RomCom.
Much of the Nicaea town wall structures still standing.Amazing how these huge cement-less archways have remained upright.You’re never far from one of these – our lunchtime view
We trip over, literally, the older, and to our eyes more aesthetic, other museum.
Surprisingly, the English translations inside offer a discombobulated narrativeOn entry, we interrupt tea-time . . .
. . . then move on. Peruse what they’re renowned for.
It’s always good to step out of one’s comfort zone from time to time. Experience a new experience. We do just that.
We spend our third and final day dogging. Or to put it more clearly, enjoying the company of a couple of gorgeous ‘street dogs’. As previous cat owners we’ve always considered dogs as being so much more needy. Requiring so much more effort. All those walkies. All that sniffing. All that peeing. All those black bags . . .
Our stay here has given us a glimpse of what it’s like to own a dog, or two.
From the moment we pitch up, we’re befriended by a couple of ‘city dogs’. We name them Whitey and Browny, just to be original. Both tagged, signifying that they’ve been neutered. They live the life of Riley. Coming and going as they please. Their two favourite past-times are called “Chase the Tractor” (run behind, barking vicious abuse at the driver) & “Let’s See How Close I Can Get To Death” (overtake the tractor and run inches in front of its front wheel.) This area is awash with olive groves and the main drag awash with tractors pulling their spraying kit, so both dogs get plenty of exercise!
It doesn’t take much persuading before we enjoy having them around. We think it’s mutual. And this is before we’ve fed them a sausage. They are both placid and playful. Very territorial. Obedient too.
Yesterday evening Browny joined us for dinner.Apart from dogs, it feels like we have the lake to ourselves“Oy, what are you waiting for Oldy” . . .
The local store stocks everything. It’s immaculate. And at just over a kilometre’s walk provides a perfect morning leg stretch. Whitey agrees. Tails us there and back. Like our very own companion guard dog. He ignores every bark, snarl and growl directed his way, from the multitude of chained dogs we pass. He remains calm, aloof and in control, when other like-type interlopers come sniffing his way. Tarkan is amazed. Tells us he’s never done this with any other visitor. We feel chuffed.
Whitey stays close behind his favourite owner of the day.We don’t know what they’re fishing for. The three men standing, constantly throw stones into the water.We return with a kilo of dog biscuits!
With still a couple of hours of the afternoon to kill, Mr S decides to take a hike. His suggestion, not Mrs S’s. She doesn’t fancy a grazed knee or two. His sights are set on the highest point around. The flag pole, the goal.
If I carried a Union Flag with me, could I claim that rock for GB I wonder?The view is worth its weight in gold.
A young Turkish couple roll down onto site. Early evening. We hoped we’d keep this site to ourselves. They quickly set up their table and chairs for dinner. Only it’s not. He comes over. Carrying a small plate. It has a chocolate birthday cake on it. Offers us half. How hospitable is that! They are celebrating her 21st. He serenades her with some nifty guitar. We reciprocate with a bottle from Oz.
Random or meant to be? We all experience them from time to time. Whether a chance meeting, event, or circumstance, a series of actions have occurred to place certain parties at exactly the same place at exactly the same time.
A few days ago, we cut short our stay in Istanbul. A spur of the moment thing. During our onward journey we pull into a services next to a parked car. The driver, crouched down by his rear wheel. A few minutes later he’s expectantly holding up a tiny self-tapping screw to me and intimating “Do you have a pozi-screwdriver?” Silly question! Beastie used to be in the Boy Scouts, so he’s always packed with a set of tools. After several minutes, the young man (I can use that phrase, now that I’m ‘An Ancient’), is till crouching. I wander over. His back bumper is damaged and hanging on by a thread. Beastie has been in the same situation. He’s stacked to the hinges with Gaffa tape, for just such a circumstance. It’s almost the same colour as the car. Half a dozen strips do the trick – now what are the odds?
Later, that same day, the weather sets in for the worse. It’s tipping down. A young teenager is standing at the side of the road in dripping hope. Beastie does the right thing. 5K later, he’s nearer to home – a coincidence?
Today’s target is Bursa and its City Museum. Reaching it easier said than done. Not knowing it’s the fourth largest city in Türkiye, Beastie trundles in. And in. And in. Manic doesn’t come near. Unable to find a suitable car park, we pull up in a side road, behind a parked coach. Unsure if a non-domicile could be left there, Mr S goes in search of a clue. With the help of Google Translate he’s informed that it would be unwise, because “there are nearby thieving children who are always on the lookout for visitors’ vehicles”. However, the man suggests we use the free carpark behind the new museum ‘over there!’ – as in one hundred yards away! – now what are the chances?
Panorama 1326 Bursa Fetih Muzesi – an amazing sight
Not where we had in mind, but what a spectacle. It’s the largest fully panoramic museum in the world, and depicts one day, April 6th 1326, when Bursa was eventually captured by the Ottomans.
Eleven artists created this awesome backdrop with 10,000 people & animals
We then go in search of the City Museum. When in doubt, always best to ask. We stop a young Turk woman. She speaks perfect English. She’s an English teacher. She directs us. She also takes Mr S’s telephone number. She wants information about language schools in Bournemouth – you can’t make this stuff up (although it has been known)
The museum frustrates. No English. A pity. It all looks really interesting. Our favourite section and needing no translation is dedicated to Zeki Müren – a Bursa born Turkish singing legend, who’s career spanned the second half of the twentieth century. His outfits were more than spectacular.
Liberace – eat your heart out . . .Bowie would have looked good in this . . . Slade’s Dave Hill would have rocked wearing these
There is another couple walking the same round. We can hear English spoken. We engage. They have been on the road for eighteen months and aiming for Japan! Their green camper is parked two spaces away from Beastie. She is French/Peruvian. He lives in Boscombe, Bournemouth. Honest – I’m not making it up . . . and all because we left Istanbul one day earlier.
We all enjoy giving. Whether it be resources, energy, or time. It’s part of a human’s intrinsic nature. Simple acts of kindness are beneficial to one’s soul and spirit. The receiver and giver each receiving a double blessing.
Yesterday’s final run in, or rather run down, to Bursa Caravan Park ended after a bit of a runaround the houses. Often, at these critical moments our sat nav will throw a blue-looey. Toddler-like. Throw him-self down on the floor, with stiffening limbs. Go blue in the face. While we go red in the face. We never know what to expect. Sites can be found in the most unlikely of places. This one more so . . .
The joy of finding a campsite . . .
Day 21 – Of course, come this morning, what goes down, must go up . . .
But before we attempt the climb out, a quick goodbye pic with the owner.The joy of leaving a campsite . . .
From here we travel kilometre after kilometre along rutted dirt tracks. Pass through acre after acre of olive groves. Beastie bouncing along like a heavyweight balloon, filled with rubbery cement. Luckily we’re not wearing dentures. He’s aiming for the nearest highway, with a smooth black-top. He can’t wait. He’s decided to take the most direct route. We sit back. Enjoy. Pleased to have broken free of the site. At one point we’re so high we can see our motorway. There’s just a small town to negotiate. The dirt track empties us onto a back street, no doubt relieved as much as we. Our relief bursts as quickly as if we’d stuck a pin in Beastie’s backside. The seemingly only way out of this no-way-out-town is up for repair.
They could have waited . . .
It’s customary at this point, for Mr S to also adopt the aforesaid pose of a toddler. He may go a little blue at first, audibly at least, then red in the face, as he confronts the fact he can’t have (in this case, go) his own way.
Google Translate has been a God-send this trip. So Mr S steps down, phone at the ready. Firstly to check out all route options. Secondly, to collar a friendly Turk. The first man collared, doesn’t understand. I ask my phone the obvious and indicate I need him to read and reply. He insists on ignoring the phone. Instead, gesticulates various directions along with verbal instructions. When he eventually realises what his part entails, instead of answering my question “Can you please tell me how I can get out of this town and onto the highway.”, he replies “Where you from? Where you going”. I thank him for his time . . . Argh!
The second man behaves as if he’s never seen a phone before. Treats it with suspicion. Afraid to get too close. He watches how I do it. After several attempts, the penny drops. I ask my question. Hooray, he speaks clearly. Mr Google translates for me “Where you from? Where you going” . . .
I spread my on-foot search for a way out, with no success. It seems we’ll have to go back up and across the olive groves. Find a different route from there.
Just at that moment, the first man reappears in his car. Indicates, follow me. We do.
He gives his time, energy and resources. Expecting and wanting nothing in return.
Tonight’s stop-over at Atilgan Terapi Havuzlu Camping in Saricakaya, is not quite as warm as it was on August 15, 2023. On that day it reached 49.5 °C (121.1 °F) A new record for the highest temperature ever recorded in Türkiye.
Earlier, our mountainous route took us through some fascinating scenery.
Somewhere between Söğüd and SaricakayaNorth of EskisehirWe passed the 250 metre wide Akkaya Travertines on day 22
Day 22 – After a 323K mountainous journey, we are now pitched up a short two minute walk from the UNESCO World Heritage town of Safranbolu – tomorrow’s looksee. Karavan Kamp Alani perches within the confines of a massive rock bowl. Beastie has to climb to the top of the site, just to find level ground.
Beastie thinks he may have to paraglide out of this site.Alone Again – Naturally
There might be safety in numbers. Staying part of the herd. Following the leader. But if you’re stuck in the middle. What then? Might as well be wearing blinkers.
It’s one thing we’re good at. Breaking free. Going walkabout. Shying away from the crowds. Nothing more rewarding than having a place all to ourselves. Seeing something, others may not.
Entering into the labyrinth of Safranbolu’s haven of preserved Ottoman houses, we head around the perimeter. Search out the quiet and deserted lanes. If we ignore the scattering of lampposts and satellite dishes, we could almost be stepping back in time.
There’s something romantic about quaint . . . Modernity silently creeps into some side streetsAlways good to see what’s under the skinThese brick and wood built residences scrub up nicely
The building style is based around a brick, or stone base, with a wooden structure perched on top. The design must have something going for it as a previous earthquake did little to shake most of the towns’ foundations. We’re really curious to see the inside layout. We stop to admire, what looks like a hotel. A peeper peeps. Then pops out. Recognises our curiosity. Are our faces communicating we need somewhere to stay? He invites us in. Proudly shows us around each floor and room of his mum’s place. He’s the cook. Gedirli Yasam is a B&B with a beauty-spa & yoga element. It’s immaculate and tasteful. Four en-suite bedrooms lead off from the very large main landing. A traditional internal design for these three story dwellings. It’s hot outside, but pleasantly cave-like cool inside.
Always good to see how the other half lives (except when house-hunting!)Window seating as standard
Two rumbling tums remind us that we can’t stay on the outside forever. We drop down. Get lost in the ‘made for tourist’ streets. Eat. Then get lost some more.
All made in Türkiye – we hopeThese are – a man is busy. Works a pattern on a large dish.No protection, other than his reading glasses, as sparks fly in this workshopIf you come looking for a knife, or maybe a bespoke item of torture, then this is the place.Each house is positioned so as not to disturb the view of its neighbour
It’s easy to romanticise the ancient past. Put on rose tinted glasses. Imagine how it was. Think how incredible it would be to time-travel back. Just to see how it actually was. But then always with one eye on the now.
To a much lesser degree, we are all time travellers. No other option. All heading into the future. Whether we like it, or not. Forever creating ‘the good ‘ole days’.
So that’s what 2-Cheeses do. Constantly head into the future. One eye in the rear view mirror. Three looking forward.
Day 24 – Beastie boosts us into and through wide open never-ending landscapes. Snow still visible on some high-top ranges. Fertile valleys and plains overlooked and threatened by rugged rocky crags. Crops, fruit and vines all flourish. A designated mix of large and small. Some obviously under the hammer of twentieth century industry. Tractors rule OK? Yet, others we pass, have one or two bodies crouched, tenderly tending their livelihood, as if their very existence depends on it. Animal presence is minimal. When they do rear their heads, goats seem to be the chosen flavour, with sheep following close behind. Cows occasionally get a look in, yet oddly, not a pig in sight.
Hotel Asikoglu Camping at Boğazkale is our home for tonight. This area, for several hundred years, home of the Hittite Empire.
Day 25 – On leaving, we toy with visiting the nearby ancient site. Decide against it. Leave our friendly Nederlander campers to hike the 10K on our behalf. We head south towards Göreme in Central Anatolia. Famous for its fairy chimneys.
The route out from Boğazkale rewards us with a view of what we’d missed – not a lot!We love surprises en-route – like this white carbonate mineral flow – a thermal spring deposit.
Türkiye is vast. The panoramas huge. The skies massive. It’s road network is good. Far better than expected. The extremely hilly terrain doesn’t always allow us to go from A to B in a straight, or flat line. Many a day so far, Beastie’s bounced well in excess of 300K. Fortunately fuel prices are low at £1.10 per litre.
A favourite view from today’s route.
Another unusual entry awaits us at Camping Panorama, Göreme. Beastie gets piloted in like a big ocean liner coming into port. Then marshalled into his lot, with an unexpected, and fortunate full stop.
Not many can afford the best seat in the house, regardless of cost. Able to obtain that envied place with mere pocket change. Most have to calculate their budget carefully. Stretch it out as far as it will reach.
Beastie gets the prettiest view in town
No need for us to stretch our budget. Panorama Camping lives up to its name. Beastie gets the best seat in the house, at no extra cost. The fairytale valley below lights up our evening, like so many twinkling stars. Dinner-time eyes linger, delighting in the glow below.
4.30am. We either sleep through, or, in this morning’s case, not. Our brains still not fully accustomed to the bizarre and far too early call for prayer. By the time we’re nodding off back into cuckoo-land, excited chatter natters around Beastie’s outer skin. Irritating, like a mosquito’s drone around an ear. Sounds like an insomniacs’ convention. Our early morning fuzz gets fuzzier. An unwelcome dawn chorus. It’s aided and abetted by a whoosh and roar. Unfamiliar at first. Finally recognised. A flaming balloon passes directly overhead. Mr S bounces out of bed, Tigger-like. Grabs camera. Just in time.
Beastie ducks . . . . . . then it’s onwards and upwards . . .
These eroded rock formations are a wonder. So that’s just what we do – wander. Step down into this city from the Middle Ages. Go take a close up. Try and get a handle on how life could have been handled back then, within these hollowed out pointy turrets.
Then, a centre for Christian living . . . Now, an ever increasing tourist trade demands & expects something a little more grand.A local ‘estate’ – looking more like a group of cartoon characters.
Many structures still utilised – either as personal living space or mini-hotels.
Home Sweet HomeVery Sweet . . . An astonishing site.
It seems each pointy tower had a distinct and unique finish on its roof. Perhaps, so that when little Jonny went out to play with his mates, he’d always be able to find his way back home.
The rock formations disguise the fact that this area is fertile. Eyes look up to their tall tops. Yet at ground level there is a myriad of small-holdings. Each with a variety of produce ‘on-the-grow’. Onions, mint (they drink a lot of tea), grapes and other-non familiars.
Many of the lower and more accessible rocks have been converted for modern living. Electricity and bottled gas on hand. At one point, Mrs S’s curiosity gets the better of her better-self. Hargreavesesque, she becomes Little Miss Nosey . . .
The daily treats keep piling up as we head away from one fairytale city, to another. From high rise living – to low rise living.
This morning’s treat is a miracle of what can be achieved without the use of modern technology, or tools. Derinkuyu’s underground city, set on five levels, to a depth of 280 feet, was capable of housing up to 20,000 people and their livestock. Also functioning as a sanctuary from persecution, to many throughout the ages, right up to the 20th century.
Looking like a film set
Situated on a lower level, the graveyard chamber and tunnel, give Mr S an opportunity to experience total black out.
With no light, it’s impossible to see hands, or camera, in front of faceThere’s always light at the end of a tunnel
Were these ancients, mini-giants with huge eyes? Or did they have tiny eyes and a good sense of smell? Were their spines permanently curved to cope with the low tunnels?
The city’s 180ft ventilation shaft
How on earth did they get to know their way around? How did they remove and carry the excavated materials up to street level – considering trousers with pockets had yet to be invented.
We’re not quite lost
Fun over, we head straight (not the right word) for our overnighter. A freebee ‘wild’ camp at Suğul Kanyonu’s public carpark, just another 347K up the road. With perfect timing, we arrive just before the sun decides to turn in for the night.
Not quite on our own – shortly after, we’re joined by a lone Swiss tourer – his trip set on Armenia & Georgia.
All cobwebs are blown away as two pairs of walking boots later, 2 Cheeses explore as far as the track allows.
We play catch up with the last of the sunA treat for the eyes and senses
Are we there yet? How much longer is it? I’m bored? What can I do? I need the loo.
When travelling long distances daily, we have two priorities. Prevent bottoms from going numb. Keep brains from becoming dumber. Regular stops help to avoid the first. For Mrs S, Quordle (Wordle x four) and Classic Words (Scrabble) are her go-to mind bending apps. She loves nothing more than wiping the floor with ‘Droid’.
Meanwhile, Mr S keeps his hands on the wheel and snoopy eyes on the road ahead. When not occupied deep inside his ‘nothing’ box, there are few moments when something of interest doesn’t loom into view. The Jandarma seem to be everywhere. Cars and occupants randomly checked at mini road blocks. On sight of Beastie, we are waved through. We did get stopped on one occasion. The officer approaches. Passenger side. The usual mistake. We’re right-hand drive. Window winds down. Two innocent smiles beam silent protestations. “We ain’t dun nofin guv!” “Welcome” he says. Waves us on. Very random!
Mr S is constantly caught out by clever roadside lookalikes. Strategically positioned. Some have red and blue flashing lights for authenticity. Job done. Beastie’s speed halved.
On approach, these life-size cut outs appear to be the real McCoy.
Our journey has taken us past thousands upon thousands of minareted mosques. Mr S has a theory. Bush, Blair & Co have been blindsided. All hamlets, villages, towns and cities in the Middle East and Asia have been fitted out with the very latest air defense systems.
Hiding in plain sight – crouched prayers towards the east; warheads towards the westThen, of course there is always a view and a half
Today’s start was delayed. Mr S had to confront head on (au contraire) another looming fear. So far, the squat toilet has best been avoided. A cubicle too far. A single sit-down, often coming to his rescue. It was inevitable that sooner, or later, the axe was going to fall. Today it fell. So, in for a penny, in for a pound . . . thighs take the strain, as if preparing for a lift and jerk; knobbled knees groan as undercarriage is slowly lowered; cartilages creek and bulge as the point of possible no return is reached; an ungainly balancing act, Jenga-like and not for public viewing starts to take place behind the loo door; hands grasp ankles, as if preparing to do a tucked summersault from the five-metre board; thighs start to burn; knees scream; balance lost; body topples forward; head bangs against the door; perfect pinioned position attained; mission accomplished – that’s the easy bit – now for lift off.
We are now pitched up at Damlacik Garden Camping – 18km from Mount Nemrut, tomorrow’s main attraction. The highest and furthest east we’ll venture. The facilities here are immaculate – by far the best. With a restaurant terrace view that’ll take some beating.
When facing a severe test, we all hope and pray that we can rise to the occasion. Be brave enough to meet adversity head on. Have enough courage to persevere. Never give up.
To come so close and fail to reach a goal, can be one of the hardest things to come to terms with. When your mind, or heart, is set on a certain something, to be thwarted at the very last instant, can be a bitter pill to swallow.
Türkiye’s EU membership hopes have been hanging in suspended animation for a quarter of a century. The likelihood of achieving that goal is most certain to be another twenty-five year wait. In parts, the infrastructure is new and modern; in others old and dilapidated. Differences appear between rural and urban. More so than would be seen in ‘the west’. Culture, tradition, religion, lifestyle, expectations – all influence and govern a molasses movement towards western modernity.
Away from the cities, the countryside ‘holders’ still hold on to the old ways. Shepherds and farm labourers scatter the countryside like blown dandelion seeds. Unable to tell what time it is.
If this is all you know and live for, then why not . . ?
This morning we leave Damlacik’s herdsmen and head up Mount Nemrut. A fifteen kilometre climb to its summit at 7,000 ft. For vehicles and feet, the route is paved. It needs to be. Some of the inclines are uncomfortably steep. (We were warned by the site’s owner, who offered to drive us there.) At one point, with engine revving in first gear, like a demented hyena, Beastie stutters to a halt on a one-in-three section, just short of a hairpin bend. With foot and handbrake unable to counter the gravitational pull, he unnerves two cheeses. Slithers slowly back down, like a balloon letting go of air. Fortunately there’s no vehicle behind. Inside his cab, silence, relief and determination. We’ve come too far to give up now. A second and longer runup is called for. It works. Beastie gets a second wind. However, the remaining uphill 5k in second gear takes its toll. By the time Beastie comes to rest just below the summit, he’s about to gasp his last. His engine is fuming. The smell, that hot, oily precursor to smoke.
Although parking is free, we need to buy tickets. The parking attendant asks the proverbial “Where you from”. Then proceeds to imitate drinking from an imaginary carafe. Closed fist, extended thumb, head tilted backward. The hidden question being “Have you any alcohol on board?” – silly question!! A bottle of red is gratefully accepted.
He’s a happy chappie – is that a bottle of red you’re holding behind your back? (He put his sunnies on specially for the photo)
Beastie’s done his bit. Now it’s our turn for a work out. The seated Englishman, just visible at the top of this first set of steps, is taking a breather. From where he’s sitting, he can see he’s only half way to heaven.
Good news for Mary-Ann’s Fit-BitIt’s the job of every CherubWe take breath – take in the viewsMeanwhile, Beastie cools down in the mountain breezesThe mausoleum of Antiochus I (69–34 B.C.) Its five giant headless statues stare blindly out across the magnificent voidHis mum told him what would happen if he bolted his food . . . Lunchtime viewpoint – we down a perfectly browned toastie, before downing ourselves
A long afternoon drive sees us end the day riverside at the bargain priced and ultra-smart Gaziantep Karavan Park.
The mind is so clever. As an outsider, it can fool you into believing you understand another’s feelings. Sympathy and empathy can reach only so far.Witness and shared experience the chief unifiers.
Each day’s travel is overwhelmed by the level of ongoing new build. Virtually all high rise. Every region we’ve passed through. No town or city exempt from the ceaseless towers. Vertical townships signifying a new beginning. A new hope of a better life.
Today’s run-in to Antakya more than typical. The reason? Hatay province took the brunt of last year’s devastating earthquake. Half of Antakya’s buildings flattened.
For those waiting, they can’t go up quickly enoughBuilding, the easy bit.Every new build needing fully connected services and infrastructure Building blocks of new societies
With half a million new homes required to house the 700,000+ homeless, the Turkish Government has a mammoth task on its hands. Its promise – to ‘give’ for free!
Over 400 Container Cities are scattered throughout the effected areasThose with a little garden space, do what comes naturally to a Turk – they share
Earlier and as is becoming the norm on this trip, we find ourselves having lunch on a petrol station forecourt. Today no different. Only it is.
Mr S steps down for a leg stretch. A group of garage workers enjoy friendly banter over their shared lunch. Without hesitation and as one, they call me over. “Please sit, join us” – some sentences in no need of Google Translate. A large metal dish overflows with juicy water melon slices – bread and a hot paste dip as suitable ‘sides’. Mr S doesn’t need to be asked twice.
Google Translate bridges the language gap as we exchange our curiosityIt’s thumbs up from me and it’s thumbs up from them
Our penultimate stop of the day finds us parked up below St Peter’s Cave Church. Just 101k from Aleppo – it offers a grandstand view over Antakya – not a pretty sight. Perched high up and cut into the rock face of Mount Starius, its more modern facade fronts what is now, no more than a wet and mouldy interior. Fragments of Roman mosaic offer little to satisfy. Yet this is the place where St Peter preached and helped build up the early Christian community, in what was then Antioch.
Surprisingly, we pay an ironic entrance fee – Muslim coffers topped up by Christian coughers
In the shady corner of the carpark, a young man, gestures to us. He indicates that many of the ancient rock relics had collapsed in the quake. On further discussion, we discover he lost his home and family. He, being the only survivor. He’s holding a band of prayer beads. Condolences offered – along with a can of Fanta and Turkish Delight. This sharing thing is catching.
Back at the MOHO, Beastie is approached by a visiting Arab couple. The woman is eating an apricot. With her other hand she offers six freely. Their way of saying “Stranger – You are welcome”
Just before leaving, we get boxed in by a mini-bus. The windscreen displays a CONCERN Worldwide sticker. It seems the CEO of this Belfast based aid charity has interrupted his schedule to visit the church. We learn from the local area rep more of the quake’s effects and how AFAD, the Turkish Disaster aid agency, is dealing with the situation.
With the afternoon running away before our eyes, we head for tonight’s camp. It’s high up on the other side of the city. It’s rush hour. A misnomer, if ever there was. An hour later we wished we’d stayed put. It’s clear the once camp site is no more. What remains just a rundown bit of scrubland.
Even Beastie baulked at the thought of an early morning scramble up this rutted dirt trackBoth ways down to that nice flat bit would not hold Beastie’s weight
We have no option but to soldier on. Hope to find a suitable and safe overnight space. Forty minutes later our luck holds. We pull into a Lukoil petrol station. Like ours, Beastie’s belly is rumbling. As at every other station, it’s manned. Self-serve has yet to arrive in Türkiye. Without exception, the homeland of this strange Beastie is requested. Further exchanges result in an offer to let us stay here for free.
Sharing space alongside a gang of unhooked trailers, we’re granted one of our most peaceful night’s sleep.
Confronted by many types of physical stress, the human body is capable of supreme endurance. When all seems hopeless. When the painful agony becomes unbearable, a way forward can be found. The ability to find that little extra. An invisible and special type of focus can kick in. Mental strength, borne on a willing spirit. Defeat, not an option.
While away for extended periods, it’s easy to become disconnected from international and home events in general. Personal news another matter though. Today, we are deeply saddened to learn of the death of David Martin. A family member and friend. A man capable of extraordinary endurance. Someone who successfully rowed the Atlantic Race with three mates, during one of the roughest crossings ever experienced. It was 2006. (Ben Fogle & James Cracknell were fellow competitors). One year later he was at it again. Competing in an Extreme Marathon. Five consecutive days crossing the Kalahari Desert. Madness to most. Then, after the event, in an unexpected accident, his Land Rover overturned. Dave’s spinal cord severed. A life changing moment. His biggest challenge lay in front of him. Stoically faced head on. RIP Dave. Forever remembered.
Dave (left) with his successful Atlantic rowing team
We’re currently pitched up at Sokak Camping – beachside. If we squint, we can almost make out Cyprus. Described on the app as cute camping – it is not. Another owner shy of cleaning utensils. A two night stop. Time to catch breath. Plan next week’s route.
A new Browny and Whitey join us. Sense our in house stock of dog biscuits has not been exhausted. Although it appears that they’ve never come across them before. Browney adopts a very relaxed attitude. Reclines on his belly and occasionally leans forward and licks one or two up with a confused look. “Is this how you eat them?” Not fully decided if they’re to his taste.
What exactly am I supposed to do with these?
Whitey has already decided. They’re not for her. “Anyway, I’m not hungry” she implies, as she rolls around unladylike, “Whatever they are”
“Come on. Just tickle my tum”
During my early school years, swimming was never a strong point. An early fear of water, never allowed me to develop the confidence I now have. However, the anxiety that accompanied the weekly visit, was always compensated with a Horlicks and Wagon Wheel for afters.
My new after dinner coffee and bite – a daily reminder . . .
As we journey onwards, every horizon holds a promise. A golden store, filled with the unexpected. An endless linear line of surprises constantly drawn nearer. Items of interest. Curiosities. Things to consider. Talking points. All lined up on the conveyor belt, we call life.
Today, we’re on our way to Karatay Karavan Park, on the outskirts of Konya. It’s a recent municipal build, attached to a splendid new park facility. But first we have to get there. A slower than usual 320K is promised. No surprise there then.
Türkiye terrain is hilly. Occasionally flat. Often very mountainous. As a consequence, a direct route a rarity. There’s always a bump, or a lump, or two, or three, or four, to circumnavigate. Tunnels few and far between – thankfully. Far too boring . . . bends, therefore, ten a penny. Monumental inclines attempt to defy gravity. Beastie drags himself slowly up. Huffing and puffing. Like an old man, at the end of the day. Climbing bedtime stairs. Thankful on reaching the top. Dramatic descents turbo charge his weight. Increasing momentum, so he frantically clings to each curve, as if his very life (and ours) depend upon it. Brakes squeal. Engine roars.
Türkiye roads are generally wide and in good repair – here, heading up and across the Taurus mountains..
Despite the bleak dry nature of the peaks, hidden fertile plateaux provide adequate conditions for growing a multitude of fruit and vegetables. Manually picked; part-mechanically sorted – as we discover at our lunchtime stop.
Gangs of equipment; waiting on gangs of workers. A conveyor belt pushes produce up – three sifters sit either sideGraded by? Type? Size? Colour? Quality? Ripeness? – we couldn’t tell from the numbers
A little further on it’s time for another stop. The sifters and graders have done their bit. A mountain-road-side market, overflows with fruit and veg stores. Each, in turn, overflows with fresh perfectly presented produce.
Mrs S can’t wait – for once, Mr S plays catch-up.It doesn’t come any fresher than this
We round the day off with a walk into Karatay Sehir Parki. 13p each to enter! It’s purpose built. BBQ & covered picnique gazebos everwhere. Lakes. Sports areas. An amusement park. Playgrounds. Paved throughout. Manicured lawns. A perfect piece of planning that wouldn’t be out of place in The Trueman Show.
It’s always a good idea to count your blessings. Even during difficult times. Remaining positive is a positive. Leaving no room for the negative. Contemplation and meditation help to balance soul, mind and spirit.
Today’s frenetic start is borne out of not knowing what to do. Our bus-bound city trip almost ends before it gets off the ground. A little info can take you far. As in 24 stops down the road. So, the bus stop is 100 meters from Beastie. We arrive, according to MAPS brilliant journeying system, two minutes before the number 41A. It sails past in the centre lane. Driver doesn’t give us a seconds glance. OK, we’ll get the 42A. Here it comes. We can see it stopping at the previous stop, a couple of hundred meters up the road. Then, likewise, it sails by. Did it miss Mrs S’s outstretched arm? Confused? Are we at the right stop? There is absolutely no info on it. Is MAPS’ GPS slightly out of kilter? We leg it up the road. MAPS turns us into twisted twisters. Indicates bus stop one is definitely correct. We do the return leg with rubber necks. After bus number three blind-sides us, a warrior-like state is developing on the pavement. The Turks are getting a verbal pasting. Mr S does the sensible. A diplomatic thing. Goes back to camp and asks the park security guard “Why?” He smiles. Then impersonates a one winged baby gosling attempting his first earth-bound flight. We flap down the next bus. Just how big is the Hokey Cokey in Türkiye?
Once in town we head for the free entry Mevlana Museum. The world famous Whirling Dervishes (no similarity) perform their weekly Sufi dance here. Today is not their day. Or ours. We make do. There’s plenty to see.
Getting ready to Whirl . . .
It’s the final resting place of Rumi, a Persian mystic and poet, from the 13thC. Now a place of pilgrimage. The grounds contain a mosque and a number of tombs – a lot like visiting a church and it’s cemetery, but a bit posher.
They Mustapha had good tiler’s in those days
To become a dedicated follower of Rumi you had to undergo a time of suffering and isolation. Prove you were ready and capable of renouncing all worldly cravings. A bit like becoming a nun, but with a beard. Not for everyone – unless you’re ex-circus.
Each novice’s cell now houses information and historical items.
Although 99% of the information we read never sticks, it does help to give a feel of the times and people. Like the good little museum morons we are, we methodically read, enter, gawp, comment, forget, move on. A group of teenagers are visiting too. Like a sewn long-stitch they snake in, raise phones, snap, snap, snap, snake out. Facebook and X ready themselves. Far flung friends connect. Envious of screen shots. A constant ADHD life blog, perpetuates and infiltrates the airwaves. Just how much can the atmosphere take? Will it explode, or implode . . . ?
We add our pennyworth.
These prayer beads – all 1494 of them – a neck aching penance in themselvesGrand free-standing mausoleums house (dead) family members – provide a couple of seconds of interest to the young and old alike
But – then there are the patterns. They’re like mesmerising optical illusions.
Ceiling workDomed brick workMindboggling mathmatical geniusIf it has a surface, then it gets decorated
We finish our Konya visit with a leg stretch. Get a feel for the place. Like most inner cities, it’s two faced. Designer facades front the old and dilapidated inner back streets. Yet, here there are fewer. There’s a more prosperous feel.
Even the pigeons prosper. A reminder not to buy from these outer displays.
We all need a reason to get up and out of bed each morning. Even more so when retired. Otherwise, it’s easy to fall into the same old, same old. Stagnate. Become satisfied with less, rather than with more.
Day 35 – Any thoughts of stagnation are left firmly on the pillow. Every MOHO day offers something fresh. Today, we head south, towards the coast and Camping Mavi Cennet. A tiny site, perched above an endless beach. It’s another up and over job. But before we leave Konya in our wake, we make a detour. Head north, to the city’s suburban limits. Go visit the Tropical Butterfly Garden. See what’s fluttering.
It’s winged, head, and thorax domedHome Sweet HomeWho’s a pretty boy then . . Wings distract from the more interesting
The noise level increases ten fold as a school group of excited ten year old’s enter the foray. Like lost particles in a Hadron Collider, they seem to be everywhere at once. A fever level fusion of confusion seemingly set to explode. Teachers unable to find the right switch. That’s discovered inside the small theatre. Like calmed bees under a smoke screen, they quieten. Eyes glued to the screen. Like ours. A brilliant French animated comedy, their new focus. It’s a race. A grasshopper, fly, bee, ladybird, damselfly and a millipede are on their starting blocks. But who will win?
Feeding time at the zoo – their racing days are overA not unusual lunchtime stop – anywhere that’s flat – only another 214K to go
Day 36 – A day of two halves. There’s only so far we can travel without finding a washing machine. It’s one thing that Beastie refuses to carry on-board. It’d do his back in. Three washes later and duly pegged out leaves us enough time to peg ourselves out, down at the water’s edge. The sand is that coarse brown grainy type, that feels rough underfoot, rather than the Bournemouth golden stuff us softies are used to. Entrance (and therefore exit) into the water is very steep. Drops away quickly and guarded by several meters of uncomfortable pebbles. On each exit Mr S resembles a drunken firewalker, who can’t find his way home.
Looks can be deceptive . . . The effect of a full moon and increasing wind prevent a final morning’s swim for Mr S
Day 37 – Our itchy feet are itching to get going again. So today, we head for a two-nighter in Antalya, a short 100K coastal drive west. Perfectly planned so that we can stop off at the ancient city of Aspendos. Home to the most complete Roman theatre still in existence. The whole complex sits atop a series of hills. Many areas still undergoing archeological digs.
The clever Romans new the importance of a clean water supply – what remains of the AquaductMuch of the brickwork is dry balanced using no mortar – what remains of the Basilica No mortar on view here either – what remains of the 2 CheesesTheatre Hill reveals the beauty of the ‘pièce de résistance’Still used for theatre and music performances
Not everyone is good at choosing. Making decisions. How many changes in governments occur because the chosen few, are equally poor at making decisions as those who chose them. Every sheep needs a shepherd. If that shepherd keeps it safe, fed and watered, should it be of concern whether the sheep gets a say in the matter?
With a binary onboard population of two, casting a vote has no meaning. Daily decisions are made by Mr, or Mrs, without consultation. The reasons for those decisions rarely challenged. One is good at this, the other at that. So answers to “What’s for dinner?” and “Where are we going today?” are simply accepted, with faith in the other.
Today, we keep faith with the local bus service. A consensus decision to walkabout Antalya Old Town is in order. Although if truth be known, the decision was already made for us, courtesy of the subliminal write up in our Eye Witness travel book.
Turns out to be a thoroughly good decision. Antalya is, to all intents and purposes, a modern European city. It’s Türkiye’s toe, firmly pointing west. Dragging with it the heels of the east. The old town streets, clean, tidy and smartly presented.
Would you guess Türkiye?
Like two cheese starved maze-bound mice, we go sniff out the Suna & İnan Kıraç Kaleiçi Museum, from within the warren of narrow lanes. It occupies a couple of restored Ottoman mansions that illustrate the culture and customs from the 19thC. Next door, in the former Greek Orthodox church of St George, there’s lots of money on display. Worldwide currencies depicting different animals, from turtle to butterfly.
Jonny Morris would have liked this lot
Up on the balcony, another display takes our liking. Clay models and photographs from an era when you didn’t need to go to the shops. They came to you. More often than not, on the back of the seller. From cow’s liver, to ice-cream, they sold it all.
Mrs S goes to the foot of them stairs (that lead to the balcony)Spoilt for choice . . .The ice-cream seller (left) is down your street . . .
A little pre-lunch relief brings a surprise . . .
The museum houses the most sophisticated loo-seat set-up everFrom the top of Old Town – looking down towards the small marinaMr S feeling well satisfied with life – now that he’s eaten
Getting back to camp by bus proves impossible. We get locked in. There’s a planned protest march. The route security controlled. Barriers block roads. Some pavements too. No traffic in, or out. Cars, buses, trams, taxis all brought to a standstill. It’s a protest calling for better pensions.
Will the politicians listen? Put it to the vote? Or are the marchers banging their heads against a brick wall?
We sniff out a parallel escape route. Catch a taxi at the tail end of the march.
“I’m not in the mood” – an often repeated and clichéd phrase that’s been typecast for centuries – far less so than its uttered counterpart – “Not tonight Josephine”.
When you’re not in the mood, or don’t feel like doing something, it isn’t always easy to push that mood in the opposite direction. Say “shove off” and break free of its control. Yet, when you do do the very thing you don’t feel like doing, the swing becomes more dramatic and uplifting.
Despite there being so many daily points of interest, when it comes to putting them down ‘on paper’ at the end of each day, I’m not always in the mood. Yet, once the first few words are down, and toyed with, others flow. Then before I realise it, I’m feeling pleased with myself – again!
Day 39 – Ya Basta Camping, Kayakoy, just 9K south of Fethiye, is today’s destination. It’s another up and over entry. In doing so, we can be forgiven for thinking it’s snowed down below. In fact, it’s fruit and veg land.
Thousands of acres in many provinces are given over to a snowy covering of giant cloches.We pass an unusual road sign – although we’ve yet to see a soft-top convertible in Türkiye.
Day 41 – AM One by one, our Türkiye hit list is diminishing by the day. Today’s a little different. We get to kill two birds with one stone.
It’s this trip’s first outing for Scoot. Like a Phoenix, he’s risen from the ashes. Reincarnated and virtually factory floor new. His unhappy kidnap and torture, just before our Northern Spain trip, a dim and distant memory.
To us, he’s still the same old Scoot – just a little shinier . . .
A twenty minute up and over, Scoots us to the foot of the Lycean tomb of Amyntas, son of Hermagios. Laid to rest high up in the mountain rock face a mere 2,374 years ago! Not suprisingly, it looks a little worse for wear. Nevertheless, it’s still hugely impressive. Especially when viewed from close up.
It’s another long haul to the top – we’ll have to change our name to 2 goats go climbing at this rateBut worth it – the Ancients were capable of mysterious wondersUnbeknown to Amyntas, he became a bit of a trend-setter . . .Suddenly every body wanted to follow suit . . .
Day 41 – PM – We’re pitched up about 400 meters from a previously Greek occupied town of Kayaköy. A ghost town of roofless ruined houses. The Greek/Turkish people/home exchange, after Türkiye was officially formed in 1923, was another event designed to create a fully Muslim state.
Kayaköy was never reoccupied. The Greek incoming Muslims had heard of the atrocities committed against many of the town’s citizens and feared it was infested with the ghosts of those massacred in 1915.Many buildings were destroyed in the earthquake of 1957Not so much a ghost town, more of a goats’ townOn look-out dutyUnsure whether to raise the alarm, or not – staying tight lipped“Oy! Shove off. Carn’t you see I’m avin me lunch”Flowers never know when to give up the ghost.
We can be saved in so many different ways. Saved from making a big mistake. Saved from buying an overpriced product. Saved from going in the wrong direction. Saved from doing a chore.
With the hope of being saved from disappointment, we read reviews for each site we’re considering, before making our choice. However, it’s not always easy. Each international reviewer has their own idea of what constitutes a good site. Some prefer this. Others that. Contradictions reign supreme. As a result, confusion. From One Star to Five Star within a twenty-four hour period. No doubt, ours, when added to the mix, will murky the water even further. Therefore gut feelings play a part.
Day 41 – Despite the very mixed reviews, Manzara Restaurant & Camping sways our choice, with its fabulous pool and location. A stunning backdrop of blue sky against the world famous Pamukkale Travertine greet us – it’s already receiving a mental five star thumbs up.
Mr S can’t wait to get in it – Mrs S is eyeing a loungerBeastie’s happy too – his peaceful evening view.
Day 42 – It’s 5am. Submerged in that dreamy state of mind. Unsure of what is real. What is not. Is somebody running some sort of motor? Why have I got oily hands? How does that fit in with the banana I’m eating? Have I left the car running? Careful of that skin! Too late . . . oooops – Phew – I’m awake . . . it’s not long since the call to prayer. Doesn’t anybody want to sleep around here? Apart from us? Our beauty slumber is interrupted, yet again. I need mine more than Mary-Ann. The noise gets louder and louder, as if a low flying squadron of Messerschmitts are about to create some sort of early morning manic mayhem. Payback time to those snoozy-heads for missing prayers. 5.29am – there’s nothing worse than not knowing. Mr S’s curiosity gets the better. Takes the plunge – gets up.
Eleven balloons being filled by eleven monster hot air heatersNot the sweetest sounding dawn chorus – preparing for lift offBy 6am there are 35 balloons on the loose – a full squadronBeen there done that!The onboard captain obviously has plans above his station . . .
Not surprisingly, Mr & Mrs S spend a good portion of the day poolside, catching flies.
Day 43 – This morning, a repeat of a rude awakening is averted. Home made ear plugs to the rescue. Pamukkale Travertine is one of Türkiye’s ‘must do’s” – just over 2.5 million visitors per year can’t be wrong. Can they? That equates to seven thousand each day. We’re already mulling over that statistic, when the German couple next to us on site, return from their early morning visit. (They didn’t need to set an alarm). Give it a thumbs up and wish us an enjoyable visit.
Scoot, scoots us up to the top entrance car park. Its rammed. Over thirty tourist coaches. Drivers busy, dong nothing. Waiting on the return of their hoards. Surprisingly, a young couple approach us. Give us a contradictory review. Basically telling us “Don’t do it. It’s far too busy. It’s not worth it. Save your money”. At €30 each per pop, we pop our helmets back on and pop off further up the hill.
Folks from far and wide come to have a paddle in lukewarm water.From up above the whole site looks tiny in comparison to the huge landscapeThe pools are no longer blue like the advertising photos. No longer empty either.
Back down at street level, we go search out our own private and free experience . . .
It doesn’t take us longMrs S has only just realised how much bigger my head is than hers.Mrs S spots this on the floor of the rock hard mineral deposit – prehistoric fossil or, prehisteric imagination?
This camp site consists of a tiny allocation of space alongside the boundary wall. The owner tells us his hard luck story. Weddings and other family events their fortune. Catering for 500+ guests. Then came Covid. Then the financial crisis. We think he’s milking any campers that come his way. At 1,000 Turkish Lira per night, almost double the average that we’ve been used to paying. His saving grace, the magnificent pool.
Apart from us and the German campers behind, the place is dead.
Felling a little sorry for the owner and his family, we decide to try out their restaurant. Help their coffers. Our Sea Bream attracts a usual suspect. With difficulty, his tireless patience goes unrewarded. If he hadn’t developed a stiff neck, he’d have noticed his dinner tippy-toe silently behind him.
Look!! He’s behind you!!!
As expected, the restaurant facility is immaculate and huge – in direct contrast to the shower facility we suffer.
One review described this as being ‘adequate’ – we came up with more colourful adjectives.
Most people would agree that you get what you pay for. Low price, low quality. With the reverse being true.
Two factors that can govern selling and buying prices, are demand and availability. In respect to camp sites, both of these are in short supply throughout Türkiye. Caravan and MOHO touring still in its infancy. Consequently, the number of ‘proper’ camp sites is tiny for a country of this vast size. As a result, touring numbers are very low. Retirees, like us, make up a huge proportion throughout the EU, but not everyone is prepared to rough it out over here, using car parks, quiet roads, petrol forecourts and the like, when nothing else is in distance.
Day 44 – Our last site felt like we’d been taken for somewhat of a ride. EU price, but not EU standard. However, on arrival at today’s Antique Lodge Camping, we turn up trumps. Beastie is given a front of house shaded seat, courtesy of a huge olive tree.
Mr S begins to drool at such a picture as this.
Day 45 – We’re here for one reason only. Its close proximity to the ancient city of Ephesus. One of St Paul’s many preaching grounds. His tireless efforts galvanised and encouraged the early Christian communities.
It’s a reasonable Scoot away. We choose to visit late afternoon. Hoping to miss the majority of the coached in hoards from China and Japan. It’s a good reason, as if we needed one, to pass the earlier part of the day with some sadly missed pool time.
Later, on arrival at Ephesus, Scoot does something silly. Something unexpected he’s not done before. His multi-purpose key system, includes the lockable petrol cap. Mr S opens it, instead of the seat. The cap mechanism jams open. Unsure whether to still visit and leave Scoot to breath out fumes, or return to base, we decide to risk it. Hope his tank contents don’t evaporate before we return. [much later and back at camp, there’s only one solution. Out with the Gaffa-Tape. Sorted. ]
Not a pretty sight – but needs must. He was looking so smart too.
We baulked at the Pamukkale fee of €30 each. Starting price here is €40! We’ve read that the Terraced Houses are a must. Even though they’re part of the site’s complex, they come at an extra €12 pp each. So, for €104 we enter, thinking we better get our money’s worth.
First stop, the magnificent theatre. As we approach, it appears impressive. Easily on a par with Aspendos. On closer inspection, it’s easy to see it’s a new build look-alike.
Nice and tidy, but not very ancient. Regardless, swarms of phones snap-chat – eager to get some value for their entrance fee.
So, exactly what are we seeing here? Part replica? A 3D rendered impression? The photo below, taken of the theatre just over a century ago, reveals all . . . sort of!
Are we visiting a jigsaw puzzle, with most of the pieces missing?
Undeterred and still needing to justify our €104, we move on up the impressive massive marbled main street.
The huge slabs hide the waste water system beneath.As a visitor, or resident for that matter, in those ancient days, you couldn’t help but be in awe of the brilliantly designed architecture.Mrs S looking more impressive than the pillars
If only the Romans had stayed around and expanded their gift of city building worldwide. They really were the ultra-modernists of their time.
No doubt many a great idea sprang from just this spot. A channel of running water, below these communal loo seats, kept things moving nicely along. Goddess Nike at the Domitianus Square – in those days she tended to wing it, so never needed her Air trainers.
The Library of Celsus is the image every visitor comes with and leaves with. Only the facade remains. Re-erected just fifty years ago.
We start to feel the value of our entrance fee. Almost overpowering – 17metres high – they knew how to impress.
A couple of hours in and it’s time to take a look at that little bit of added value. The Terraced Houses. An upmarket apartment block. Constructed for seven of the most prominent families of the time. Fountains, private baths, central heating, mosaic floors, a grandstand view of the city, close to the shops!
Excavations still ongoing, but a beautiful insight. We come across one non-paying visitor. Cooling off.
Three hours comes and goes. Just like us. Scoot is still breathing. With enough umph to see us back.
At the end of a hot tiring day, it’s good to look forward to a relaxing sleep. Not in earshot of a call to prayer, we go to bed with high hopes. They get shattered at 3am. A short growl. A warning bark. A blood curdling howl. Have we been transported to Baskerville Hall? Are we to be forever cursed with interrupted nights? We turn. Then turn again. To get up, or not get up? That becomes the question. The barking reaches maniacal proportions. Mr S bounds up, down and out. Does a Sherlock. Torch in hand. Finds the fiendish hound. Tempts him closer with a handful of dog biscuits. Gently chastises. He’s happy. We’re happy. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzs
Day 46 – Sirince, a hilltop village about a 20k Scoot away, grabs our attention. Mr S imagines it will be a quiet Sunday afternoon trip. The universally used brown signage gives the game away. All of yesterday’s Ephesus visitors have the same idea. It’s jammed. And this is in the low season! People, cafes, bars, restaurants and shops. Hundreds of shops. All vie. Most sell bangles, beads and nick-nacks. Competition is fierce. But few buy. Haven’t they heard? Us westerners are trying to minimise. Maybe their sales hopes lie with the Easterners?
St John’s Basillica – Mr S waits patiently for a clear shot. Mrs S grins (I lie) and bears.
We let loose some Turkish Lira. Mrs S indulges in a hand finished top. Mr in a litre of concentrated Mulberry juice. Obviously contrasting needs.
An immaculate display of home grown and squeezed various juices.
For lunch, Can greets us with the usual. “Hello. Welcome. Where are you from?” “England. Where are you from? – he gets it, (Mrs S doesn’t) – Can plays along. “I’m from Brazil. No Mexico. Como esta usted? From Spain actually.”
Mrs S takes some convincing that he’s Turkish through and through
We hit the pillows just after midnight. Hoping beyond hope. 1.29am. Barking starts. Much louder than last night. Growling, more fierce. Not just one dog. Two. Is it a competition? Who barks loudest wins? What the hell is going on? Mr S dons deerstalker. Steps down. The dogs continue to let rip. Not at one another. It’s pitch black. What on earth . . . then, my torch catches three dark shapes – wild boar. Surprised by the evening of numbers they turn tail and scarper.
No chastisement. Well done pats of approval. Licks of acknowledgement. “We did good didn’t we?” – Yes. Peace. Silence. Sleep.
Now that we’ve been MOHOers for seven years and toured most EU countries, one question I’m often asked is, “Which is your favourite place?” The answer is simple, “The one I’m currently in!”
Today is no exception. We’re pitched up at Cunda Mocamp, on Cunda Island. (Pronounced Chunda). A two-night break, as we slowly head north towards our ‘out’ via Gallipoli. Fifty metres from the water’s edge and sharing the site with four Turkish couples, we virtually have the sea and sand to ourselves.
If Beastie gets any closer he’s going to get his ankles wet.
It’s good to take time out, from taking time out. So we do just that. Today’s temperature is reaching for the mid-thirties, so we reach for our towels and cozzies. Find out if we’re capable of melting. We wait for our bodies to generate their own heat haze, then, like a couple of blacksmith’s horseshoes, we sizzle as we hit the water.
As good as first footing in newly fallen snow – swimming in early morning calmness
We extend the afternoon’s relaxations into the evening. Give the Master Cheffette a night off. We become totally bemused by the music that’s playing. It’s all 1940s/50s, very Vera Lynn’nglish. We’re the only ones in the restaurant. “How old do you think we are? Have you put this playlist on especially for us?” “No, my girlfriend likes these songs.” “Is that speaker bluetooth connectable?” . . . An all time first – we eat in a restaurant with one of our own Spotify playlists playing.
Mr S doing his best to brighten the place up.Mrs S always does that!
Earlier, this morning’s leg stretch, via a coastal path that didn’t exist, takes us onto private land. Gulay & Hunkar meet and greet us with friendly faces. Interrupt their work. They own this 6,000 square metre olive grove. They have over one hundred trees to tend. Utilising natural methods each tree produces about a gallon of the finest olive oil in the area. Selling mainly to friends, we learn their sales don’t cover their costs. “Why do you do it?” – “It brings us peace”. Hunkar works in the glass industry, his wife Gulay a banker. During our friendly banter it seems Gulay may be the main invester!!.
It’s amazing how you can immediately ‘hit it off’ with strangers, that suddenly become friends.
Gulay and Hunkar are currently busy adjusting the landscape. Introducing a series of walls that they hope will help to retain more water. We wish them both every blessing in their endeavours.
Heavy work when it’s 30Cplus
We can visit every town and city. Explore every bit of nature. Delve into the history of a country. Photo this, photo that. Yet, it’s always the people we meet that bring a country to life. Expose its soul. Release its spirit. Just as Gulay and Hunkar did today.
Eyes idealise many situations. Take in and feed the brain with an exponential amount of visual stimuli. Most gets trashed. Peripheral images get discarded. Yet sometimes the focus hones in. A sensitive nerve ending touches an inner emotion. Causes a reaction.
Day 49 – On Hunkar and Gulay’s recommendation, we go take a look at Cunda town, a short 8K drive from camp. It’s on our way north. A much earlier than usual, or ever planned walkabout. It’s a seaside/harbour resort. The narrow cobbled streets overflow with cafes, bars, hotels and shops. A marketing photographer’s delight. It borders on chic in places. Curiosity leads us on a random path. No plan other than to search and look. We wander. Inwardly wonder what it would be like to live here. Could we? Possibly.
Shabby chic? Romantic? Demolish?
Surprise, surprise. We find ourselves in the ex-Greek refurbished church of Michael and Gabriel, which now houses a fascinating museum of industrial items.
In 1873, when the church was built, the Greek population of the island numbered around 9,000My favourite – these set of clockwork supercars – wasting away inside a cabinet.These ‘blue-eyes’ are a common sight in Türkiye – they ward off evil.Our shady lunchtime spot – Greece a mere 12K – beyond those islands in the foregroundNose around over, we stop to admire this Chinese Trumpet Creeper . . .
As we’re still swirling around the idea of whether we could live here . . . we receive an answer from the Almighty himself . . . NO!!!
Any romantic feelings dissipate as quickly as steam from a kettle – they were all hot air actually.
Tonight’s one-nighter at Guzelyali Camlik Park Kamp finds us pitched up next to a rarity. A Yorkshire couple. They’ve been out on the road since January. Home rented out. No definite return date. A lucky find. An out of sight grub screw has come loose within Beastie’s chemical toilet housing. Mr S is unable to figure out why he can’t replace the cassette. Done it hundreds of times before. Fiddles around like a furtive Shylock. Hands getting grubbier and grubbier. Jim has been there, done that. So, after his nod and a wink, Mr S does likewise. Sorted. Pocket picked.
This site is situated high up in a pine forest. It has potential. But what kind is unclear.
Weird, whacky, or what? They even cater for weddings!!
Hatred. Revenge. Envy. Prejudice. Belief. Greed. Power. Control . . . the list of man’s warmongering traits is endless. Ultimately useless.
The Southern Loop – We’re not quite done with Türkiye. A little matter of the Gallipoli peninsular has been on our radar since day one. Another piece in our ever increasing WWI jigsaw puzzle of events. Our exit route set to take in as many of the memorial sites as possible.
The Peninsular, a protected National Park and in itself a monument, pays tribute to those on both sides who fought and died. 300,000 Allied (Empire, France, Australia & New Zealand [ANZAC]). 255,000 Turks (then Ottoman Empire)
First stop just south of Kilidülbahir, at the Mecidiye Coastal Battery, brings us face to face with the most famous Turkish gunner. Now an iconic hero for his actions in defending the Mediterranean entrance to Canakkale from the Allied Naval Fleet. Churchill & Co’s superior notions of taking the peninsular, suffered a series of embarrassing setbacks on land and sea.
He’s famous for having carried three shells to an artillery piece during the Allied attempton 18 March 1915.Seyit Çabuk
Although at great loss, this successful defense of one small, but important part of the Ottoman Empire, lead on to the foundation in 1923, of what we now know as the Republic of Türkiye. Something that the nation feels rightly proud of.
Planning styles for the Turkish Gallipoli cemeteries can be totally different to the fully regimented and formal structure adopted by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.
No guesses required for our first stop – a massive tribute to all of those who were killedThe dead referred to as Martyrs – and rightly so
The cemetery is kept in immaculate order by a gang of women who work in pairs.
They make back-breaking work look so easyHow they cope with the heat being all wrapped up a complete mysteryWe wonder if they are volunteers, but suspect not.Monument representing the typical headgear.Beneath this massive 137ft high monument is a verse from the Turkish National Anthem . . .
Do not ignore the ground on which you have walked, It is not ordinary soil. Reflect on the thousands of people, who lie beneath Without a shroud. You are the son of a martyr – Do not hurt your ancestor, Do not give away this beautiful motherland, Even if you have the whole world.
The park is peppered with monuments, graves and cemeteries. All marking the death of those either found, or not found. Driving around within this beautiful landscape it’s impossible to imagine the tragedy of what a few ‘simple’ minds threw onto so many young innocents.
Cape Helles Memorial Obelisk honors the 20,000+ British & Australians with no known grave
We overnight on a carpark in Gelibolu. There’s a nice looking restaurant opposite with a half decent menu. We tog up and step down. Order. In general, you don’t get much of a choice in what you can have ‘with’ in terms of vegetables. They like to serve bread (no butter option) and salad. The salad on a few previous occasions has arrived at the table cut so finely it was just shy of being liquidised. Other than that, they take one red onion. Slice it thickly. Layer it across one half of the plate. Add the fish, or meat and throw over three or four stalks of a herb we don’t recognise. With that in mind we order a plate of chips.
Eventually the bread arrives. Then sometime later the chips. Then we wait. And wait. With rumbling tums we reluctantly tuck into the chips, which are now getting cold. Mr S starts to simmer. Getting hotter than the chips were. Goes and enquires. Sometime later Mr S’s dish arrives. No sign of Mrs S’s. She encourages me to make a start. Ten minutes later a fresh plate of hot chips arrives – only. At this point Mr S confronts the manager, who’s excuse seems to rest on miscommunication, because he doesn’t speak English. Totally dissatisfied, we walk out. Without paying. An all time first. Fortunately we hadn’t drunk all of the wine . . .
Twenty-five minutes later and a little further up the street, we’re both tucking in to chicken curry and chips.
Beastie looks out to sea. His backside looks towards the local cop shop.
Heroes or Martyrs – words that hide the brutal fact that ultimatelythey were considered expendable. Sacrificial lambs providing cannon fodder – for each other.
Even so, unbelievable acts of friendship between warring parties were not unheard of. With some opposing trenches no more than a road width apart. During lulls, exchanges would occur – banter, sweets, beef, ciggies, dates and the like. Then they’d get back to killing one another.
On one occasion an Australian soldier was lying wounded in no man’s land. The firing was going on all around him until a Turkish soldier lifted a white flag. Fighting stopped. He picked up the wounded Australian. Carried him to the safety of the ANZAC trenches, before returning to his own.
The Respect to Mehmetçik Memorial
Day 51 – (The northern loop) – Today’s first port of call is the Gallipoli Museum. A balanced presentation of the why’s and wherefores from both sides’ perspective is presented.
It’s an ultra modern constructionDisplays capture the agony of the moments defending the seas . . .. . . and the land
The route through the 80+ cemeteries and memorials is a long one way loop. Indicated wherever a red Turkish flag can be seen flying. Flags can be spotted at every turn. The peninsular is high. Very hilly and undulating. At this time of year and when the fight was on, extremely hot too. We gasp considering what it must have been like.
A couple of Turkish cemeteries use informal placements of memorial stones. Indicating the randomness of the fallen.
A smiling crescent – unable to disguise the sad futility
Lone Pine Memorial, one of five memorials on the peninsula which commemorate servicemen of the former British Empire killed in the campaign, but have no known grave.
Lone Pine plateau – captured by Anzac troops, but not for longMr S imagines the scenario. Looking down on Anzac Bay with Kemal Attaturk and his officers.View across and down to Anzac Bay from inside a Turkish trench
We stop off at all of the major memorials and cemeteries; many smaller ones too. By the time we leave, we’re virtually the last visitors out of the park.
As a tribute to the decimated 57th Infantry Regiment, a 57th doesn’t exist in the current Turkish military.Most visitors to the peninsular are Turks
In 1934 Kemal Attaturk wrote this epitaph for those who fought and died at Gallipoli
Those heroes that shed their blood in the territory of this country, you are in the soil of a friendly country here. Therefore, rest in peace, you are lying together with the Mehmetcik; side by side in each other’s arms. You, the mothers, who sent their sons from far away countries. Wipe away your tears. Your sons are now lying in the bosom of ours. They are now in peace and will rest in peace here forever. After losing their lives on our land, they have become our sons as well.
With no other place to stay, we overnight again in a car park further north. This time in the centre of Kesan
Greed is self-perpetuating. It thrives on itself like a parasite. Inwardly eats away at the very thing it desires. Therefore never able to fully satisfy.
We gobble up what remains of our time in Türkiye. Greedy to spend our last day where it all began, in Edirne. Then, still finding our feet, SIM cards and somewhere to stay, misdirected our intentions. The Selimiye Mosque, high on our agenda, overlooked. We’re back to make amends.
As we approach, we see it’s in a state of repair. Not looking its best. Typical – and we’ve made such an effort. Undergoing works since 2021. No info on website indicating such. Completion date set for next year. Too late for us.
Even so it still looks impressive – even with one perpendicular Dalek armHuge wall and ceiling prints unsuccessfully try to emulate the real thing
Inside, a mass of metal scaffolding cloaks its beauty. Looks more like an industrial unit than a house of prayer. Only one small area is open for viewing.
We snap up the remaining remnantsIt will look more impressive this time next year.
What we missed. Below, the central musalla seen from above – that isn’t a patterned carpet – it’s the backs of praying worshipers, knelt in prayer.
A quite spectacular image
With eyes now focused on Gemmagos Leisure Camping in Boyanovo, Bulgaria, we say goodbye to Türkiye. Join, then overtake the five mile queue of HGVs.
The drivers must be mentally tough to deal with this every time they leave or enter.
Our overnighter is a quiet back garden. Guy & Janet moved to Bulgaria eighteen years ago. With electricity, water on tap and shower facility it’s perfect at just €10. We learn that many properties in the area are abandoned. Most set in large plots. £1,000 can get you a bargain!
There’s a thriving ex-pat group here. Not all Brits. Italians, Dutch, Germans – they all clubbed together to build a village pub. Obviously all having the same priority.
Beastie loves a bit of peace and quiet before nodding off.
True friendships can last a lifetime. No matter the frequency of contact. Being able to pick up the relationship with ease, as if no time has passed. Liking, loving & respecting, maintain that invisible bond.
We last stayed on Camping Veliko Tarnovo exactly five years to the day, less one. An unexpected timing. So much did we enjoy our previous stay, that we made this a must do return. It’s not everyday we’re in this neck of the woods. And Bulgaria has lots of them.
Nicky & Nick bought this land in 2002, moved from the UK and built their house and site from scratch. As campers themselves, they ensure that every aspect of their guests requirements are catered for. Near perfection.
Situated in a beautiful countryside location, yet a short walk to the local village of Dragizhevo. There are few sites we’ve stayed on that match and enjoyed.
Mouth wateringly inviting . . .
For weeks the temperatures have constantly hovered in the mid-thirties. Pools and swims few and far between. So it doesn’t take Mr S long to get reacquainted with an old friend . . .
Spladush . . .
Mrs S prefers to take a more gentile approach . . .
Hardly a ripple out of place . . .
One acquaintance Mr S hadn’t had the privilege to meet on his last visit joined him for a shower . . .
“Can you do my back please” . . . “Now I’ll do yours” . . .
Looking back on old photos it’s clear the onsite greenery has exploded into a wonderful wildlife habitat. Lizards (also a very bright green), nightingales, tiny loud-mouthed frogs, unusual butterflies (& spiders) and at dusk a proliferation of tiny beetles, AKA fireflies, illuminate our walk to the showers like a New Year’s Eve fireworks party.
Then there’s the swallows. Constantly on flight. Unable to sit still for five seconds. As if they’re a flock of ADHD infected hang-gliders. Like a skilled team of swooping and diving stunt kites, they wait until the pool is free (mostly); skim the surface at break-neck speed and accuracy. Rehydrate. They don’t realise they could save all of that energy by just sitting quietly in the shade. It seems it’s more than that. A fun game they love to play together.
Our three night, two day stop isn’t all about relaxing. Three washes, plus a Beastie clean isn’t so much about what the doctor ordered, as Mrs S ordered . . . she’s forever bemused at what a mucky puppy Beastie is, compared to his compatriots. I tell her it’s his way of showing how adventurous and daring he is. Like displaying his medals of valour. She has none of it, so it’s out with the bucket and sponge. Two make light work though.
A woman’s work and all that . . . Mrs S always happy to iron out my creases . . .
Morning two and our pre-pool paradise is kept waiting. We go walkabout in Dragizhevo. It’s bigger than we thought. But typically Bulgarian in so much that there’s a mix of deserted, dilapidated and seemingly up-market properties, with many undergoing renovation too.
Swallows are obviously big in this area.Drainpipes not the thing over here. Rainwater directed away from each property with a penile extention.
We all do things without a second thought. Tasks we’ve done so many times before, we can do them in our sleep, given half the chance. We switch into autopilot. Switch our minds off. Switch them back on again once the task is completed. Having no real memory of actually doing it.
Each morning Mr S’s usual job is to do the breakfast wash-up. This morning is no different. A pleasant five minute chore, washing, drying and chatting to another camper. The loo is next door. So, I leave the bowl and contents on the floor outside. Go and do what’s necessary before getting back to Beastie, to prepare for our off. Today we move on.
Our planned journey is not too long. After an hour we stop and do a small LIDL shop. A further hour up the road, we’re making good time. 100K+ under our belts. Lunchtime beckons. We pull over. Mrs S opens the cupboard. “Brian, where’s my lunchtime plate?” “Isn’t it there?”And my coffee cup?“Where’ve you put it?” I don’t know, isn’t it in it’s normal place?” “And my egg saucepan? And the rest of the items you took to the wash-up this morning, including the bowl?” . . .
200K later and we’re back in the same spot, having gone back to retrieve the bowl and it’s full contents. How or why my brain hadn’t re-engaged a mystery. I usually put those items away in the cupboards too! Doh!! Just didn’t register. Early signs? . . . .
So, it’s after six by the time we roll on to our pitch at Camping Green Lawn, Skravena. A journey of 387K. Our longest in one day to date.
We’re warmly welcomed with the assistance of Google Translate, by Georgi whose large back garden we’ll be staying in. It’s a calm sunny evening. Perfect for a bit of al fresco.
In the near eastern distance, Mr S notices an unusual cloud formation has started a series of intentional manoeuvres. Like a gathering cross border army flexing its muscles before the big push. A silent intimidating language designed to strike fear. A single lightning flash gives the all clear. Attack. A yell of thunder follows suit as the potency of its built up energy gets released. A few rain drops the size of fried egg yolks are hurled forward, like grenades clearing the path forward. Now it’s full force gathers pace. Then suddenly explodes across Georgi’s back garden like a supersonic low flying jet. A cyclonic rush follows its path. Demonstrates its strength. Howling out “Gang way – we’re coming through!”
Rock steady Beastie stands his ground – he won’t be intimidated.
Fifteen minutes later, it’s past and like an army of soldier ants has moved on to torment its next victim.
The sun never stops shining, so al fresco it is. Ellen our green campervan neighbour is from Norway. But not for long. She, and her two rescue dogs are due to pick up the keys to her new home tomorrow. She’s an ex singer in a rock band. Now a kind of philosopher, who helps people deal with certain life issues. What it’s all for and about.
MOHO journeys to an extent, mirror a life. On a mini scale. There’s an exciting birth. A sad end. And an in between of forgettable and memorable moments – presented as a series of unconnected synaptic snap-shots.
Travelling takes a lot of time. It’s not always easy to fit everything in. Stuff happens along the way. You miss places, or hear about some ‘must see’ that you camped near to and didn’t know it existed, until you’d moved on.
Occasionally, the opposite happens. By chance, you come across a nugget, or two. Today we visit two.
Today’s route takes us within one hundred metres of Bobuka’s Waterfall. Beastie gets reversed into a bit of rough ground. About as wide and long as his torso. We can hear it. But can’t see it. It’s neatly hidden behind dense undergrowth. A very narrow thinning gives the track away. It’s steep. Mrs S becomes an onlooker. Creepers help balance and support. It’s not a particularly high fall, but would be if you did! It’s beauty lies in its secluded spot and the knowledge that not too many may find it, or even bother to search for it.
Well worth the scramble down to the edge
We’re taking this north-western route out of Bulgaria because Mila, from Camping Veliko Tarnovo, told us Belogradchik Fortress is one of those must sees. So here we are. Its hill-top position proves a little tricky for Beastie and his onboard screwed crew.
It only we were Scottish, we’d have chosen the low road . . .
This Balcan Mountainous region is filled with really weird, yet beautiful natural rock formations and outcrops. Typically, the Romans were the first to realise its potential.
We’re getting used to climbs!Inside is equally stunningOne last snap before we move on
We end the day in the bosom of an old friend – Camping Madona Inn Falkovets, a previous one-nighter on the way down to Greece in 2019. Unbeknown to us then, just how close we had been to Belogradchik Fortress!
Beastie has this very pretty spot to himself until three bikers roll up much later.
Circumstances can skew your perspective. What can be acceptable one minute, can be unacceptable the next. One minute you’re Dr Jekyl. The next Mr Hyde.
Time plays tricks. Having all the time in the world to get from A to B causes no stress. Yet, squeeze that time frame down. Add a deadline. Throw a slow moving vehicle, or two, into the mix and those stress levels can rise faster than a boiling pan of milk.
Being a relatively slow moving vehicle, Beastie has got used to sharing the roads and by-ways with others of the same ilk. Lorries, tractors, trailers and the like are all treated with the same respect. When he’s the front man, he’s often been known to briefly pull over. Release the stopper. Prevent a further build up of steam. Toots and flashes of appreciation always worth the consideration.
Day 58 – We overnight at Camping Zornica Kuca. A large hotel complex with an equestrian centre and children’s farm. Nicola the manager welcomes us with a Serbian favourite – Rakia. Plum flavoured rocket fuel. Even though the quantity wouldn’t fill a thimble, it’s one of those drinks where the after-burner kicks in at the back of your throat, as your feet slowly start to lift off the ground.
Beastie’s raised pitch overlooks the hotel rear.This is more to our taste
Day 59 – We move into Croatia and onto Kamp Odmoriste Zlatni Lug, another been here before stop. Though this time a little more convoluted. We arrive at 5.55pm. The facilities are all locked up. The keyless entry card has to be picked up from Zlatni Lug Restaurant, down in the village, which we’ve just passed through, 2K back. Today is Saturday. Croatia are playing their first Euro match. A ‘biggy’ – it’s against Spain. Cars and people togged up in their famous red and white check. Proud flags fly from most houses. Respective national anthems stream from every household. An optimistic buzz fills the air. Humming out a call to victory. No doubt with high hopes of causing another upset – as they did against England in the World Cup semi of 2018. The restaurant is heaving. Car park full. They have a huge outside screen set up to show the match. Plus, there’s a birthday event going on. Though it seems most are more interested in the match, including the birthday girl. The manager eventually drags himself away to deal with the unexpected shorts and flip-flop gatecrasher. Passports photocopied. Card gets issued.
By the time we sit down to dinner, all is as quiet as a funeral wake. We have the airwaves to ourselves. Spain must be winning.
Our earlier border crossing a dim and distant memory . . .
Leaving Serbia – we’re checked and double checked to make sure we leave as entered – they fail to notice our humour is no longer on board.
There’s a gap between the two country borders. A sort of no man’s land. A slow moving car park. Oddly, no one is interested in a game of footie.
Seemingly out of Serbia, but into where? Croatia’s border is 200 metres away.
A lorry gets pulled over for inspection. Driver interrogated. Obviously his answers and documents don’t satisfy. He obligingly unwraps the whole of one side of his trailer. The officer wants proof of the shrink-wrapped contents. With only a large screwdriver to hand he can’t get into any of the packaging. He feebly stabs at one pile. Like a reluctant assassin assigned to kill his granny. His shoulders shrug, “I just can’t do it”. She doesn’t believe him. Insists. He shakes his head. Then brings a ladder. Hands over the screwdriver. She pokes, rather than stabs. More in a threatening manner, than one which will do any real harm. Perhaps worried, in case a pile stabs back. It’s no use, the shrink wrap wins the day. More dissatisfaction. More shoulder shrugging. She reluctantly relents. Lets him through.
She’s only doing her job. He’s only trying to do his.
Day 60 – and onto Camping Slapic for a two night stop to catch breath. It’s a beautiful location alongside the Mreznica River. A game of table tennis and swim ease away today’s journey.
Day 61 – A day of rest and refresh. We still have about 2,000K to clock, so we’re taking some deep breaths before the long push for home. A short bike ride into town. Lunch by the river. Sun bathe. Swim. Al fresco. There is good there is.
Lunch spot on the other side of Mreznica River in Duga Resa
A fixed penalty fine, is what it says – fixed. Written in stone. Immovable. Without one almighty indisputable reason, or cause. Regardless of the mitigating circumstances, it’s useless to argue your case. Even if you only want a sympathetic ear. An understanding of how, or why.
Overstep the mark by the length of your big toe, or the whole length of your foot, results in the same fine. Five minutes over, or thirty-five minutes over, it makes no difference to the regulation, the regulation setter, or the regulation enforcer. The line’s been crossed.
Day 62 – This trip we’ve broken our golden rule of not using motorways, or toll roads, more than ever. In many cases no other sensible option; in others, a question of time management. Some simple maths tells us we need to keep an eye on kilometres to Calais. Divide by the number of days left. So today we make use of the most direct route into Italy from Croatia. Cut across a small 30K corner of Slovenia using the E61 motorway – which extends from its Croatian neighbour.
300 metres from the border into Italy, Beastie gets pulled over. Strange we think. Two officers ‘in wait’. Saw our dust in the distance. Knew we were bound to show up. Trip wire tripped. We’re in the Shengen area – there should be none? Is Beastie going to be searched? No. Slovenia motorways require a vignette. Mr S forgot. Realised going. Bought a seven day pass on 24th April. Didn’t plan to come back through Slovenia.
In Bulgaria where you can’t drive for more than five minutes without seeing a roadside reminder, it’s impossible to forget. Also they have reminders at the border crossings, where they have vignette issuing machines set up.
Crossing from Croatia, the Slovenian customs officer waves us through. No ‘Get Your Vignette Here’ signs visible.
Mr S is summoned into the hi-tec surveillance vehicle. Gets shown multiple images of Beastie’s number plate. “Are you the driver? Is this your MOHO? Your seven day vignette has expired!” The atmosphere inside changes when a fixed penalty of €150 is issued. Plus a further €16 for a vignette. The Slovenian officers imply we (I) were trying to pull a fast one. Not interested in lending a listening ear to the frustration. Mr S believes that if their sophisticated system is capable of immediately recognising whether a vehicle has a vignette, or not, then the border crossing is where it should be implemented.
Sometimes, it’s difficult not to feel aggrieved, even knowing you are in the wrong.
We end the day pitched up in the ancient Roman city of Aquileia – at Camping Aquileia, where the pool cools away the feelings of earlier frustrations.
Day 63 – In Roman times Aquileia was an important thriving inland port. So before we set off, we go take a look at what remains.
The Natiso River, no longer here, or near
We don’t have time to visit the Basilica di Santa Maria Assunta complex, so make do with a quick outer looksee.
We give it fifteen minutes of our time – the morning is almost goneJust to prove the tower does have a pointy bit at the top!
Situated at the southern tip of Lago di Caldonazzo, Camping al Pescatore provides today’s destination.
We get to stay free of charge. A man and his mower throw a wobbly. Chew away some of our awning mat.
Mr S negotiates an additional refund of €30 to cover the full replacement cost
There can be few more joyful sights than the combination of a lake surrounded by mountains. A gift from nature. Solace for the soul.
Not wanting to simply double back on our outward route, we continue our left turn. Head west. Take a ‘long cut’. The Dolomites and Alps get pushed into the static sidelines. Like a couple of ancient smoothed flat stones, we’re aiming to tippy-toe our way across the lakes of Northern Italy. One down. Next please . . .
We by-pass the obvious Garda. Look for something less busy. Smaller. Lago d’Idro and Camping Pilù, tick all boxes. The same family-run camp site, since 1959. Gates onto the lake, fine facilities and a great swimming pool. The only thing that’s missing is the sun . . .
Beastie’s out of sight behind the trees to the far left.
The misleading information about La Rocca d’Anfo leads us on a wild goose chase. It’s the largest Napoleonic fortress in Italy. Typically Italian, it’s built on the side of a mountain. More suited to a roaming herd of goats, than the garrison of four hundred soldiers it was constructed for.
It’s much higher than it looks
Street level entrance is a fifteen minute walk along the lake. We arrive 11.40. It’s closed for lunch from noon until 1.30pm. We do likewise. Return 2pm. Discover the full site can only be viewed with a guide. The next one is due in seventy-two hours. We won’t be here. However, we are allowed free access to one lower section only, the Batteria Tirolo. It’s all about health and safety. We sign disclaimer forms. Get issued with ID lanyards. Given ninety minutes max. If we’re not back by then, presumably a helicopter search will commence.
A twenty minute hike and a fifteen minute peek is all it takes. Just as well it’s free.
It’s old, deserted and smelly. A matrix of rooms off tunnels.
Our leisurely meander back to camp passes a rare sight. Ponders the question . . .
. . . which came first, the fence-post or the egg?
An evening of rolling thunder, high winds and heavy rain deters any chance of al fresco dining. That clears the air perfectly for a welcomed sunny start to today . . . but we’re leaving.
A heavenly sight – the topmost tower of the fortress is two thirds up on the left
It’s easy to get used to this nomadic life on the road. Having no fixed abode. It brings with it a strange feeling of freedom. At any given moment you decide where to go and how far. When to stay and when to move. It’s like getting lost every day and being the only person in the world, who knows where you are.
Even now, nearing the end of this trip, when the choices becomes more limited there’s no escaping that perception of liberty.
Day 66 – Our penultimate skip plops us lakeside at Italia Lido Castelletto, Lago Maggiore. A tourist hotspot. The site’s famous for its ‘exclusive’ floating pool. It’s rammed. Sessions in place. It doesn’t float our boat. We’re tourists, of a kind. We prefer to stay clear of other herds. Roam freely. Seek more open pastures to graze on. So we stay for one night. Move on.
Day 67 – With the weather set hot and sunny we pre-book another hotspot on the banks of Lake Annecy, at Camping de L’Aloua. It seems a long time since we set foot in France. Hope we can remember a semblance of a sentence or two. Hope our French acson still functions.
Other than distance and estimated time of arrival, just to make sure it’s doable in a day, Mr S never double checks a planned route. Today is no exception. He makes no exception. Hoo-Ha Henry does likewise. Not interested in road types. As long as Beastie can fit, he’ll direct. With parameters still set to allow motorway use, his blue route seems straight forward.
After paying one hefty toll of €42 to cover just over 100K, Mr S is surprised (though he wouldn’t have been if he’d have done his homework) to discover our route is taking us through Mt Blanc, rather than around it. Cost for this privilege? €72.
The entry system is strictly governed. Whilst in the tunnel there’s no overtaking allowed, plus a set minimum speed of 50kph and a set maximum speed of 70kph. We pay, then wait our turn. Like bike time-trialists each vehicle sets off at a set distance from the previous. Once inside, a series of speed cameras lie in wait, eager to flash any deviators. Beastie’s cruise control spoils their day.
It seems even longer insideIt’s boringly monotonous, but this expensive short cut probably saves us a day
Day 68 – Lake Annecy must be one of our all time favourite locations. The shared walking and biking lane provides this morning’s preamble amble. We haven’t gone far when we’re stopped by a young day-glo woman on a bike. She operates as a pedestrian predator. Seeks out any wayward walkers. As in those that are walking two abreast. Hands out a safety information leaflet. Instructs us to walk single file along the gravel section at the side of the metalled bike route. Trunks in front, tails behind.
Nellie gets us – gets themBy comparison, Lake Annecy is smallWhat it lacks in size is made up in beautyOur furthest touch and turn point finds us inside Eglise Saint Blaise, SevrierA welcome notice quietens our minds and warms our hearts Then it’s time to turn back and go push over a tree
Back at camp, we have options, Sun, or swim. We do both. Poolside.
After time has passed and you look back, try to relive moments in your mind; recreate people, places and events, it often feels like another life. Even one lived by another person.
Going through old photographs can have the same effect. You look at yourself then. Compare that image to the now and wonder “Is that really me?” Of course, every second of every day brings on a subtle, unseen change. Not only of the exterior, but interior too. We are never the same person twice.
The days on the road have the same affect. Never the same. A new day takes us further away from the ‘Türkiye experience’. Without videos, photographs, this blog and Mary-Ann’s journal we’d already be hard pressed to recall many places and events. Nomadic movements constantly focus on the future. Blur the past.
Day 69 – Tonight’s stopover at Camping du Sevron à Saint-Étienne-du-Bois, revives a memory. Buried deep within our archaic archives. It’s a cute little site with its boundary lines dictated by a snakelike Rivièrele Sevron. We recall from when, we have no idea, of staying here when the bank overflowed. One caravan was saved from launching in headfirst by the expertise of the owner and his rocking quad.
It now has new young owners; a table tennis table and a swimming pool – no better way for a couple of nomads to end the day.
Day 70 – We break our journey to tonight’s Camping Municipal, Rives de Marne, Vouécourt. Like a couple of robotic lawnmowers, we go bump about the small town of Gray. Bounce around its narrow streets, with no idea where each leads. Blindly taking a short cut here, or there.
It must be fête season – the French love to high-rise their displays. Just as well, with a couple of daisy cutters on the loose!A climb of forty-two steps to the Notre-Dame de Gray Basilica – Easy peasy, lemon squeezyThe River Saône adds to the town’s ambiance
On the way back to Beastie, I stop and snap this rock fountain. Need to get something off my chest – again. Hopefully will. Must be an ‘old fogey’ thing. In almost every town we have ever visited there is at least one fountain pumping day and night. Gray is no exception. Energy crisis? What energy crisis?
Pretty? Pretty awful waste of money. Ratepayers get to see their hard earned taxes splattered.
Beastie spends the evening with a bunch of lookalikes a few feet from the Marne. As our after dinner walk reveals.
This noisy rocky outcrop is a bedtime soother, rather than a bedtime irritator.Beastie’s equivalent Waterhome, floats peacefully on Marne’s parallel canal16thC L’église Saint-Hilaire – Vouécourt
At 7am, this peaceful looking church, turns deceitful. For a solid three minutes it announces the start of a new day. Fine if you’re already up. We’re not. But we are awake – NOW!
The curious nature of man constantly searches out the new, the different, or the unexplained. A never-ending quest of investigation. To fathom; to reason; to create; to recreate.
That same curiosity helps fuel tourism. A stream of global border hoppers, scatter themselves to the four winds. Just to find out ‘What it’s like over there’.
Camping Corny Metz-Sud, 16K south of historic Metz, is perfectly positioned. A thirty minute Scoot from the old town, along quiet country lanes. On the city outskirts, L’église Sainte-Thérèse-de-l’Enfant-Jésus, brings Scoot to a sudden stop. A church like no other. A futuristic masterpiece.
Subtle is not its middle name. An urban oligarch.Inside, it has a character all of its ownInside the Mothership – a design Ridley Scott would be proud to create According to French folklore Graoully the dragon lived in the Roman Amphitheatre in Metz. Vanquished in the 1st century AD by St Clement.
Many of the historic buildings are constructed using Jaumont stone. The yellow sandstone hue exudes a familiar Cotswold warmth.
Any city visit not worth its salt without a decco at the cathedralIts impressive porch entrance is intrinsically intricateNot a bad looking Office de Tourism
This Alsace–Lorraine region has been to-ing and fro-ing between France and Germany for centuries. After WWII Metz was given the right to keep both feet firmly planted in France. To this day there still remains a German presence – within its local laws and some of its historical sites. We spot the most famous on MAPS. Follow the blue triangle. It’s a 13thC relic. Serving no real purpose other than to sit pretty and smile for the camera. We click. Click our heels. Turn and head across town for the next shot.
La Porte des Allemands – AKA German’s Gate
We pick up Scoot. Make one last stop before heading back to camp. A strange looking building that houses a large collection of modern art – not to our taste. Neither is the building.
Doing something in a particular way over a long period of time, can make that something, feel absolutely normal. Right even. Make it seem the only way it can be done.Leaving no room for an alternative.
It’s now our 8th year of retirement. 7th in Beastie (allowing for COVID) With over 50,000 miles on Beastie’s clock, [more than double my UK miles in that time] it now feels much more natural to drive on the right. I now have to readjust back home, rather than here.
Today, we leave Metz. Head 240k north, to our penultimate one-nighter. Camping de la Valise de l’Oise, in Guise. (try saying that without moving your lips). This large Metz site is like a Dutch distribution hub. Each afternoon gets packed with new arrivals. We get hemmed in on all sides. By 10am each morning, the site is virtually empty. Some going home, some aiming for warmth. The Dutch, in general are a very tall nation . . . this site panders to that characteristic.
Mr S-hortarse can just about reach the lowest and ridiculously high EHU – with a little help
At Guise, we stop off at the local Intermarché. All shoppers, bar one, oblivious to the incredible cloud structure forming above . . .
Low and forebodingAsperitas clouds – getting scarier – a preempt to the thunderstorm that follows at camp
Adrenaline seekers can’t help themselves. That supreme rush of almost overwhelming excitement, becomes highly addictive. Everyday routine and calm normality a boring reality that’s to be avoided like the plague.
There’s no comparison to the above, but after our too short tour of Türkiye, the EU seems a little bland. Predictable even. Dare I say boring? Or is it that over these travelling years we’ve been getting used to too much of a good thing? Or perhaps as no longer newbies on the block, we now have everything sussed. Nothing new to learn, or experience. No surprises that can’t be dealt, coped with, or ignored.
With less than twenty-four hours to go before we land back on terra-firma, we decide to make one last visit. Like a couple of kids being called in for the day, we want to stay outside, playing until it gets dark, or rains.
We head for Dunkerque War Museum. It details the story of the Battle of Dunkirk and Operation Dynamo, which in May-June 1940, became the largest evacuation effort in military history.
Bastion 32 – headquarters for the French & Allied forcesA clear and detailed timeline of events is housed in each gallery
Northern France is peppered with memorials and cemeteries from both world wars. Earlier, we pass through Fromelles.
Many village signs have been upturned (or should that be downturned) in protest. Young Farmers seek a better agricultural policy. Many local councils show their solidarity by leaving the sign ‘as is’.
WWI Australian armed forces suffered greatly at the Battle of Fromelles and their memory is honoured at the site of the fight lines.
At one point, the German machine guns went quiet. Allowing over two hundred ‘Cobbers’ to be lifted out of Nomansland.
And now it’s all over. With the Euros in full force, it’s a miracle this blog has kept up to date. We’ve spent almost as much time getting to and from Türkiye, as we did there. But we wouldn’t do it any other way.
An unexpected stranger’s ‘knock’ on the door, can often bring, good, bad or indifferent news. To a degree our generation have been freed from the dreaded ‘telegram’ era. So if it’s not the big prize from ERNIE, a local MP, Amazon, or a pair of JWs, then the police are probably the least expected of callers.
It’s strange how when some form of misfortune occurs, it’s normal to rewind preceding events. Make an effort to understand how this particular point in time was reached. As if that would somehow make sense of what’s happened. Help us to accept the outcome. We list a series of ‘if only’s’ and ‘I could have’s’ or ‘why didn’t I’s’. Imagining a slightly different course of action could have been a prevention. A sort of Sliding Doors syndrome.
Perhaps that’s true in some cases. But often it’s the randomness that’s most difficult to come to terms with. It can simply be a question of ‘wrong place, wrong time’.
REWIND . . . on Tuesday 29th August at 10.15am I took Scoot out for a short ride to boost his battery and to fill up with petrol. In readiness for this MOHO trip. When not in use Scoot is usually stored in our home garage, or Beastie’s. The plan was to pre-load the garage, with Scoot as priority. However, the heavens opened, so I covered Scoot, with the intention of doing it tomorrow AND forgot to put the wheel lock on. If only . . . I could have . . . why didn’t I . . . ???
FAST FORWARD thirteen hours approx . . . it’s not quite dawn. The doorbell sounds. I glance down from our bedroom window. A person in hi-viz stands outside the porch door. My immediate thought is “what the hell time is this for a delivery?” Check the clock. It’s 5.41am.
In fact it’s two hi-viz jackets. The one asks me “Are you Brian?” . . . “Yes”. Then he half turns and says “Is there usually a scooter under that cover?” . . .
A case of now you see him, now you don’t . . .
According to the police they think the thief skidded and came off Scoot and then left him in the middle of the A35 Lyndhurst Road. A passing motorist had phoned it in.
Whoever it was, knew what they were doing. Front panel ripped off, in order to hot-wire a start.
Scoot, doing his best Arnie impersonation . . .
Oddly, I wasn’t angry. Just frustrated and annoyed with myself. A later prayer for the thief/joy-rider, that they may turn away from crime, helped me not to dwell on the whole situation longer than was necessary.
It’s always a good idea, when faced with a large and possibly daunting task, to break it down into manageable pieces. Concentrate on the immediate. Get that sorted and completed. Then move on to the next. Try not to bite off more than you can chew, at any given moment.
So, with plans laid to be in San Sabastian by next Thursday (today is Sunday) we break the 1,434 kilometers into do-able days.
Day 1 – as ever, like little clockwork soldiers, we march over to Folkestone. Pitch up within thirty minutes of the chunnel. Our previous go-to, given the proverbial heave-ho. Motorhome and Caravan club’s £37 unacceptable. The Caravan & Camping Club’s £27 a bargain !? The run into CCCs The Warren, lives up to its name . . .
PatNav our interim navigator sees us right . . . Beastie’s early morning view . . .
Day 2 – as the heat starts to build, the end of the day finds us enjoying a shady spot at Camping Les Escales, Louviers. Earlier, delays at the Chunnel put us behind on our imaginary schedule. Arriving in Calais after 12.30pm (France one hour ahead), not the best of starts. Coupled with road works, we fall 70k short of our intended Chartres stop. Like a couple of runaway trains, we find ourselves dashing ever southwards. Not taking in the rolling countryside. Just happy to see the kilometers roll on behind.
Beastie’s shady cool-down spot . . .
Day 3 – With Camping les Ormes in today’s sights, we step down for a mid-journey leg stretch at Châteaudun. Clear blue and 35C just about what the doctor ordered.
The Chateau is closed today . . .
As it’s lunchtime, the town centre, apart from eateries, is closed too. We have it virtually to ourselves.
Mrs S looking cool, although it’s 35C – is it me, or is that fountain leaning? . . . . . . obviously not It doesn’t get any more ancient than this . . . . we sympathise . . .
Camping les Ormes provides our cheapest inclusive overnight stop ever at €9.80. Hot showers; hot wash-up; hot weather . . . plus half an hour’s table tennis a welcome way to ping-pong off the day’s journey.
For this trip, we have a new virtual navigator on board – English posh Henry. The rude Ossie, Jessica, has been given the heave ho. We now receive upper class instructions from this Michael Portillo sound-alike. Whether he will prove his worth as a better navigator remains to be seen . . . if not, we could always take a train . . .
With the gift of prophesy, a wise man would take heed of any portent. Turn over. Close his eyes. Turn his back on the day. Go back to sleep.
Neither of us have that gift. And probably even if we did, we’d ignore our own advice. Especially if offered to the other! It’s amazing how quickly a clear blue sky can suddenly cloud over. Turn into a raging storm. Toss you this way, then the other. Just as if to say “Told you so!”
Day 4 – Another long day in the saddle ends at Salles and Camping Parc du Val d’Eyre, a larger than average riverside site. The smiley lady in reception hands over a map and brief instructions on the easiest route to our allocated pitch. The map has two flaws. It’s not accurately drawn and some pitch numbers are either missing, or in excess to what’s physically on the ground. Without hoo-ha Henry leading the way, it doesn’t take much for us to get lost and totally disorientated.
Some audio has been edited out – if you get my drift . . .
It’s another reasonably priced French site with good facilities and a pool. Just what’s required to cool down in more ways than one. The riverside walk helps . . .
. . . his furry face helps too . . .
Day 5 – Henry’s route towards San Sebastian, is destined to take us through Sabres. A small commune in south west France, with a population of a little over 1,000. It’s market day. Or perhaps every day is market day. There seems to be no corner shop, or supermarket. The locals all buying under cover. The array of tempting fresh fruit and veg on offer, a good excuse to give Beastie a welcome rest. And for us to practise our French ‘axon’.
A couple of JWs, stand by their stand. Vainly hoping that at least one person is going to be more concerned about how they’re going to make it into heaven, rather than searching out the best produce for dinner. Believing in the drawing power of their leaflets they remain motionless. As still as a silver painted street artist. They resemble a couple of cut-out dummies, waiting for the next dummy. Yet to realise in Catholic France they have their work cut out.
Loaded with supplies, we pop into Église Saint-Michel.
It’s Mexican style tower entices us in.In the searing heat outside, it’s difficult to imagine this bank of heaters is ever utilised.On the coldest of days, He will always guarantee a warm welcome . . .
At this point in time, if we’d have had a cup of tea, or bumped into a stranger clutching a bunch of lucky heather, we may well have received some insight to what lay in store further up the road. But like two of the three blind mice we venture forth.
Hoo-ha Henry thinks he has the makings of becoming the third blind mouse. With half an open eye he guides (not quite the right word) us into the beating heart of rush hour San Sebastian, a massive city, based around narrow roads. It’s a mash of constricted bus lanes and one way streets. Every road lined both sides with parked cars. To make matters worse he’s oblivious to the fact that road works bar the only way out of town on his chosen route. There’s nowhere to pull Beastie up and take stock. Henry duplicates his instructions, no doubt wondering why we didn’t turn into the street that’s blocked. So we do a couple of laps and again we become totally disorientated, lost and frustrated. In cab stacatto chatter bounces back and forth. Not quite as insinuations. Each cheese expecting the other to find a solution. An answer to a question that doesn’t exist.
With some ad-hock guess work, Henry gets ignored and we steer away from the city then point Beastie in the general direction of Igueldo and WeCamp camp site. By now it’s past 6pm and hopes of ending the day pool side, fade with the lowering sun.
We leave the city behind and run the green gauntlet of envy – come back Scoot, we need you . . .
WeCamp is a large terraced site. It’s heaving and other late comers are being turned away. We’ve pre-booked three nights. Horrah!! But. To pile misery onto misery our allocated pitch is a joke. Far too tiny for Beastie to manoeuvre onto. It’s a further hour before we’re found an alternative.
Doh!!! Pitch 36 remains unoccupied during our three days here. Surprise, surprise.
Over dinner, we question the sanity of driving all this way to park up on an eight by five plot of sloping gravel and mud.
Madness, or sadness? Still, the evening 28C compensates.
Plus . . .
. . . every cloud does have a silver lining – We Camp’s saving grace . . .
Mathematics and its seemingly universal laws, can be used to explain virtually all known and unknown physical aspects of our tiny planet and what lies beyond. Yet for 99.9999999 % of the time, and for 99.9999999% of the living population, at any given time, we only need to know how many fingers, toes and thumbs we possess to get by.
Barely over the border with France, San Sebastian WeCamp becomes our watering hole for three nights. Give ourselves a thumbs up for getting here in what is record time for us. With temperatures hovering again in the mid thirties, a day of rest is on the cards. A lazy morning rounded off with a pre-lunch game of table tennis. The table is on a slope. To keep it level, long legs one end, short legs the other. How did they know to expect us?
We spend the afternoon poolside. Play a game of in and out. Wet and dry. Hot and cold. Perfect.
San Telmo Museum is today’s (Saturday) go-to. We’re eager to discover more about the Basque region. What better way, than by starting with a spot of lunch. Every narrow street seems filled to overflowing with Pintxos establishments. That’s BIG tapas to you and me.
There are over forty variations to choose from . . . . . . we share six of the best.
We’re hoping to discover more about ETA and its role in trying to gain independence for the Basque people. The front facade of the new entrance block looks as if it’s pot-marked with bullet holes . . . is that a good sign . . . ?
. . . the local flora wastes no time in taking hold.
The museum is housed in a converted monastery. The cloisters and church in immaculate condition.
It’s not often you get a clear shotThe huge wall illustrations are stunningSan Sebastian being attacked from both sides by archers
The museum and audio guide underwhelm. Lack of English info and uninventive displays. ETA and the Basque struggle for freedom hardly get a mention.
We step back out into the elegant walkways.
One hundred and ten years ago the British laid siege to San Sebastian and finally ousted the French on September 9th. Today the sound of a pipe band echoes around every street to commemorate that event.
It’s far too easy to create and then mount our own treadmill. Hop on board the fast train. Stay on track, with intentions to step down at every station for a look-see.It’s what we’re good at.
With promises made to each other to make this more of a relaxing trip we decide to apply the brakes. Instead, jump aboard the slow train. Two half days of travel see us go no where soon.
Pity the depth of water at low tide is barely ankle deep.
First stop at Camping Playa del Regaton, near Loreda, is preceded by a supermarket shop. After pitching up, a short beachside walk, then a late afternoon and evening of rolling thunder, is followed by a night of torrential rain. It’s an unusual site with every pitch covered with a dense canopy from spotty barked Plane trees. Barely taller than Beastie, when he’s on tippy toes. The effect at ground level feels almost Amazonian, creating a dark, dingy, damp, humid atmosphere. All we need are a few swinging monkeys for the scene to be set. No need for any rain dances. If we stay here too long, we’re liable to grow some thick bottom lips. So we don’t. One night of overhead drumming enough.
This morning we dawdle over the short distance into Cantabria and its capital Santander, for a two night stay at Cabo Mayor Camping. A nearby cliffside walk reveals a fabulous sheltered cove hiding the wonderful Playa de Mataleñas. A must visit, weather permitting. It doesn’t!
Playa de Mataleñas – clean sand, clear water – all that’s missing is the sun.Nearby, its rugged coastline reveals its beauty . . .. . . even when parts are crumbling
Back at camp, I have the fab pool dished up all to myself, and like the good little fishy that I am, I go swim-about. . .
Nothing to feel blue about . . . until . . .
. . . twenty minutes later . . . and for the next seventeen hours, it did this . . .
As kids in our day, the old adage, children should be seen, but not heard, was often expected. Speak when you’re spoken to, the rule of thumb – or else. As an adult, biting one’s tongue, rather than proffering an opinion, becomes an art worth cultivating.
It’s an art, sadly, or not, that I find increasingly difficult. Maybe it’s a getting older syndrome. Maybe life experiences give you many more perspectives for comparison. Maybe it’s about time you were heard. I don’t know. What I do know, is that offering an opinion is very personal. Unique even.
In today’s techno age it’s become the norm. Better known as a ‘Review’. And everywhere you travel on the web it’s in high demand. We have come to respect the opinions of hundreds, or even thousands, of people we’ll never meet. ‘Influencers’ are in abundance. Making a living by monetisation. Adverts pop up out of thin air. Selling products we don’t want, or need, or maybe mentioned in a passing conversation, with phone in hand. But WHO exactly was listening? Thumbs up, rule – OK?
Today, the Line 1 Bus drops us off opposite the uninspiring looking cathedral. Its outer façade in need of some serious TLC, IMHO. Or perhaps, the intention is to leave it as is. To show it, as was, so to speak. Remain true to its original design. Never judge a book by its cover, and all that springs to mind. We can’t find out, right now. It’s closed for its afternoon siesta. Re-opens at 4pm. We decide to do an Arnie.
Looking very un-cathedral like
So, instead we nip over to find out what the Botin Art Gallery has to say for itself.
Its stilted weghtbearers ensure that no part of the main building touches the ground.
Looking like something straight out of Independence Day, its outer surface, covered with 270,000 ceramic discs, whets our anticipation.
Set over three floors it offers massive display areas. We pay our combined ‘Senior’ entrance fee of €4. A bargain we think. Until . . .
Gallery One houses a number of these weird looking balloons . . . Gallery One and Two are connected by this blow up ‘maggot’ – or is it a giant’s upper intestine?Gallery Three – a collage perhaps?
I have a suspicion. Or maybe it’s an opinion, that when an ‘artist’ feels it’s necessary to explain the thought processes behind their work, or what the work is, then it’s not art. Surely art is about the imagination of the creator, laying down a body of work that then inspires the imagination of the viewer. No words necessary.
I rest my case . . .
Floors two and three beckon. We can hardly wait. We take the lift to floor three. The doors open revealing a taped off building site. Now that’s a novel art concept. Confused, we return to ground level. Unbeknown to us, the top two floors are closed due to preparations for the next series of exhibitions. Perhaps this was our lucky day.
We take the outside lift up onto the upper viewing area. It has a fun surprise waiting inside.
No guesses for what she sang going up . . .
Lunch is pintxos – what else of course, then back to the cathedral, for another pleasant surprise.
Beautiful construction and in immaculate order – Mrs S gives it a thumbs up.
Returning to the bus stop we pass the main post office – they don’t make-em like that anymore.
Style is everything . . .
Urban living space is at a premium and the skyline testifies to that.
You get the impression that Santander is a city that doesn’t stay still for too long.
During our lives, we all need a little inspiration from time to time. Something that spurs us on from the present. Help us become more creative in whatever sphere we operate. Whether at work, or at leisure.
Sometimes, inspiration springs up seemingly out of nowhere. Presents itself as a gift. To be used diligently. At other times. it comes only as a result of perspiration. A period of hard work, or serious contemplation.
We move on today, but beforehand, make a short hike from camp, up to Cabo Mayor Lighthouse. Drawn to the light. We’ve heard it has a small art gallery, worthy of a peek. It is. An hour quickly passes in the round.
Free entry to the gallery, but no views from up top.
Fascination with the sea and lighthouses have provided more than enough inspiration for Eduardo Sanz to produce his awesome works of art.
Mrs S finding inspiration for her next painting project. Transfixed and totally amazed that these paintings by Eduardo Sanz are not photographsIn contrast, Carlos Forns Bada’s paintings seem whacky, but on closer inspection, are masterful delights.
Come 3.30 pm we’ve moved a little further west. Still in search of sun, before it sets up shop permanently. We’re pitched up riverside at Camping Costa Verde, Colunga. An appropriate name for this northern coastline. Verdant it is and we’re beginning to understand why. We’re within a couple of hundred metres from this fabulous beach. We make plans to make serious use of it tomorrow. Weather permitting!
This northern coastline a combination of small and larger than large, fine sandy covesLooking back across the bay, from where dinosaur footprints have been found
Kids love playing in the mud and getting mucky. Especially boys. Even when grown up, some of us men can sometimes find it difficult to resist the temptation of a muddy puddle, or two.
Bit by bit, little be little, we continue to edge westward. Follow the sun. Knowing there’s no chance of falling off the edge. So long as we keep our feet firmly on the ground. The Basque and Cantabria regions catch a red glimmer from Beastie’s rear lights as we cross over into Asturias. We’re nestled between sea and mountains. Two sun-searchers. Imagined inventions in some strange Greek tragedy. Half flying-goat, half flying-fish. Wanting to burn, but not quite like Icarus, showing no fear of falling into the sea.
Beastie nestles out of sight alongside the Rio Libardón Rio Libardón empties itself down at Playa de la Griega
There’s a constant weather battle along this beautiful and rugged coastline. Cantabrian Sea versus Picos de Europa mountain range. Sea breeze versus mountain rain clouds. Two immortal warriors in an endless battle till the end of time. Days of dry weather and lots of night time rain, currently the norm. Today starts dry. So this morning we head up into the hills, rather than mountains. Horns and wings not fully formed.
Half way up Mrs S asks “Are we there yet” . . .Mrs S finds a sunny spot and gets transformed – even though we’re not there yet.Up top and along the ridge the pretty panorama spreads out before usWe don’t have to look far for another spectacular viewWearing only trainers, we carefully manage to stay unmuddied and by-pass these . . . . . . but with high-rise mud on one side and bramble the other, Mrs S puts her foot down and turns tail . . . Mr S reluctantly does likewise.
The afternoon’s two hour sunny window comes as more of a shock than a surprise. Playa de la Griega, welcomes our sun-creamed torsos, and its surfers’ waves offer the perfect cool down.
Meanwhile back at camp, an army is at work. All of the residents are preparing to leave. This camp closes for the season in four days. Each year they abscond for four summer months, as this site becomes their second home, creating a shanty ghetto of sunning lay-abouts.
Ancient caravans are fastidiously emptied and cleaned. Awnings and floor coverings laid outside. Brushed and scrubbed until nearly new. Fridges, freezers, cookers, BBQs, boxes and furniture pile up. Patiently waiting their turn for the removal man. A queue of refugee look-alikes, not wanting to leave one single possession behind.
Yes, they even bring rolls of artificial grass . . .
Living miles away from the ‘seaside’, as we used to, there was always two important signs that would suddenly set the internal bells of excitement ringing, the nearer we got to the coast. A glimpse of the sea. The sound of seagulls.
Thirty plus years of living less than ten minutes from the beach, has still not dampened that excitement. Despite the sea being out of sight. The seagulls that swoop and play above our back garden are a constant delight. On a windy day, they take to the sky to show off. Acrobatically ‘sky-lark’ around. Like a noisy gang of teenage boys. Just having fun. Masterfully controlling their flight. Miniscule feather light adjustments magically react to every contortion of air currents blown their way.
Day 14 – Friday the fifteenth. Mary-Ann’s birthday. Our four hour traverse west finds us pitching up for a three night sojourn at Camping Penarronda and it’s wonderful massive beach.
You’d think it was Beastie’s birthday with a plot like this.
There’s no time to lose. The sun is visible! We can hear the roar of the waves. We don costumes. Apply lotion. Gather towels and sponge-bob mats. Leg it. Go park next to the sea. Attach ourselves to the sand, like a couple of bathing barnacles. Eager for some balmy heat. Ten minutes later we go barmy, as the sun disappears from the day. Undeterred, and determined, we laze for a cloud covered hour. Then walk the beach giving Mr S a good excuse to get in a couple of dips.
Difficult to imagine that ten minutes later it was a case of all gone blue.Ten minutes later! A spectacularly beautiful birthday girl!
Our late arrival on site, partly due to a Masymas Supermarket shop. The fresh fish display is extraordinary. We pick up a couple of cut to order chunky tuna steaks at €14 per kg!!!
By 6pm the heavens let it be known that they are in charge. Thunder and lightning flashes compete with torrential rain. Our noisy neighbours for the next sixteen hours.
Time for Mr S to demonstrate his grilling skills as Mrs S shows her shy side . . . Feta, red onions, cherry tomatoes, cannellini beans & French dressing – the perfect accompaniment. Happy Birthday Darling Wife.
Day 15 – The rain eases and stops around 10am. We plan an 8K coastal walk that takes in part of the Camino Way.
Pilgrims! This way please . . . Mrs S has her work cut out, but not the track between corn and brambles.Sitting pretty – well, one of us is . . . Mr S looking more like a peeky blind man than a Peaky Blinder.
We end the afternoon with a virtual repeat of yesterday, sea-side. Well, almost. The sea has done a runner. It’s gone out. Virtually doubled the size of the beach. The sun has ‘gone out’ too. So it ends as a grey day – again.
Day 16 – Today starts as another repeat performance. But in the opposite direction. Looking back, the tide is still out to sea.
Now that’s what you call a beach.
3K into the walk, Mr S decides on a detour. Curious to search out a secret, or deserted cove. We drop down almost to sea level. Take a more interesting route.
Mrs S showing off her one handed rock climbing skills . . . The tricky section worth it . . .
We think we have this area all to ourselves. But then, as we reach the next small cove that’s Mexota Beach, we’re greeted with pink and brown flashes of human flesh. Hanging and dangling. It’s one of two small and very secluded ‘nudist’ spots. A young athletic looking man strides past us. Pacing out his morning constitutional. Draws a toe-line in the sand. Then full frontals us as he does a touch and turn. I avert my eyes. Can’t speak for Mrs S.
With clothes still in place, and cap firmly on, we cross over onto the massive and more discreet Serantes Beach. On the lookout for a picnic seat.
Looking back towards the skinny dippers’ coves. It’s another ocean size beachA stranded Mrs S. If you want lunch, then you’ll have to get your boots wet . . .
At this point, we do our own touch and turn . . .
Looking less peeky, or is that more Peaky, after our sarnies have been downed.
Back at base Mrs S fills the remaining grey hours under cover playing Quordle. Her newly found fascination. Mr S takes off his cap, scratches head and makes his next international chess move.
Our last night at this lovely watering hole, feels and sounds just that. A noisy night of gale force howling winds and torrential rain, do their best to drown out any thoughts of sleep. By morning it’s all blown over and the now calm blue heavens looks serenely down, shrugs it’s shoulders at the rising sun, as if to say “What? What did I do?”
With a diminishing twelve hour day of sunlight, the early morning chill becomes our daily reminder that summer is coming to a close. A reminder that this short trip is doing likewise too.
Day 17 – we delay our pitch-up onto the terraced site of Camping Rodero by a couple of hours. 400 metres down wind is the massive Playa Oyambre. Beastie is left to twiddle his brake pads, road-side, while we go and twiddle our toes, beach-side.
50 yards from Beastie we find our perfect spot.Both left and right views are extensive
Day 18 – Today our shortish trip of 160K to Camping Sopelana, Bilbao, includes a big top-up shop and an extended check-in period of an hour. On arrival at 3.45pm reception is closed. Obviously siesta time. We queue at the gate. Fourth in line, with three more MOHOs behind. It’s 5pm by the time we’re pitched up in the sun, with sea glimpses. Probably worth an extra bob or two in a Torquay guest house.
We pay top price too . . .
With both the sight and the sound overwhelming, Mr S can’t resist. A fifteen minute downhill trundle sees him playing like a local kiddywink in the rolling surf for half an hour. Surfers are out in force as the force of the incoming tide rises, along with the height of the incoming waves.
Back at base camp and drying out nicely, we get ambushed by a local prowler. She’s on the look-out for some Scooby Snacks. How did she know Mrs S always travels prepared?
A bowlful later and it’s time to take to the shade
Has the age of the traditional motor vehicle run its course? Is the hydro-carbon era coming to an end?The amount of vehicles we see travelling around the major roads during our short EU sorties at any given time, would suggest not. Despite what we hear from the political elite.All nations have become ‘beep-beep’ ever dependent.
It’s hard to imagine the emissions effect that over 1.2 billion cars has each and every day. With 500 cities worldwide having populations of over 1million (in 1950 there were just 83) is it any wonder times are hotting up?
We passed by Bilbao and its fascinating Guggenheim Museum a couple of weeks ago. A case of bad timing. Ours and theirs. It’s closed on a Monday. Today is Wednesday. No excuse then.
A twenty minute hike, plus a forty minute metro journey of €1.90 each, ends as we come to surface in the heat and heart of Bilbao. With necks swivelling like a couple of meerkats on the lookout for danger, we go in search of a road sign to tie in with Mr G and his MAPS swivelling triangle. Whoever came up with that one? Is it pointing this way, or that way? Why does it only point the right way, when we’re walking the wrong way? Shade becomes a must, just to see the screen clearly.
The gyratory of Federico Moyúa Plaza is a liquid merry-go-round of traffic. Many of the buses either hybrid, or fully electric, silently float by. A good reason to pay heed of the many equally silent, green light crossings. No one’s left fuming in the fumes. Everyone’s patient. No jay walkers. Its hot, but there is a calm chill in the air. No rush. No push. No fuss. The buses a tribute, perhaps, to having the predominately Qatar owned Iberdrola energy company housed off one of its main arteries.
Beautiful and spider like, Federico Moyúa Plaza. It’s basically a ginormous roundabout with eight major roads leading to and from it.
A huge puppy greets us outside the museum. His flowery overcoat hides his water filled oases.
This gargantuan West Highland flower adorned Terrier, has been sitting in residence, welcoming visitors to the Guggenheim, since the museum’s inauguration by King Juan Carlos I, in 1997.Quirky shapes outsideQuirky shapes inside too – all seeming to work together somehow.
The whole of the ground floor exhibition rooms are given over to the phenomenal works of ninety-three years old contemporary artist Yayoi Kusama. Her dotty dot creations are quite extraordinary.
One fifth fragment of one of our many favourites – ‘Sex Obsession’Art? Entertainment? or a bit of both?
Her creative genius lends itself to many mediums . . .
Any wool shop worth its salt would be proud of this display.The Japanese equivalent to Dali perhaps – her self-portrait a little potty? But definitely spotty.
Floor two houses a frustratingly disappointing selection of abstract paintings, by artists who obviously must have been unable to abstract their heads from up their own backsides. We let them remain there, in order to consider a different point of view. Await a new perspective. We turn heel. Can you blame us?
Not even worth the effort to line it up for the photo . . .The unusual is maintained along the riverside walk. Looking like it’s just landed straight out of HGW’s War of the Worlds.
With the natural ageing process, comes a growing inability. In one sense, or another. Either physical, or mental, or both. An inevitability. Difficult to slow down. Harder to delay.
Mental and physical, work hand in hand. Both affecting the other. Adjusting and adapting is key. Not giving up on yourself vitally important too. “After 68, you renegotiate” [John Mayer] Even more important, maintaining a sense of humour. Being able to laugh squarely in the face of that new found inability. Even when you fail to recognise the face that’s staring back at you from the mirror.
Long journeys involve many hours of sitting. So to compensate, we focus on that grey stuff sitting up top. Give our brains a regular work out. Share a daily crossword. Some days we feel like a couple of dummkopfs. Left wordless and speechless. Unable to locate words that have gone into deep hibernation. We know they’re in there somewhere, but the cave seems empty (or, is the correct answer ‘void’?) Frantically play the alphabet from A to Z. Then back again. Emulate a couple of maniacal xylophonists practising scales. Like trying to find just the right combination of lottery numbers, but with letters. Then Mrs S shares her Quordle. Concentration concentrates each day’s journey. Squeezes it down into a manageable size. Time passes as quickly as the passing countryside.
Day 20 – With eyes eyeing the return journey north and its colder climes, our bodies still yearn for the warmer weather south. So we delay. Head south west. Leave the cold wet Atlantic weather front to do what it does best in Bilbau. Head for Zaragoza’s promised sun. We’re not disappointed. A large municipal site Ciudad de Zaragoza is bathed in late afternoon sun on arrival. Before unscheduled rain sets in for a few hours, Mr S has just enough time to make solo use of the 25metre pool. There is good, there is – as Hugh would say.
Day 21 – We walk. Then bus the 19 stops almost into Old Town. Then walk some more. An hour later we’re heading for the Plaza of Our Lady of the Pillar, via the incredible enclosed fish and meat market. It has the feel of a souk. Either side, a huge line of traders’ stalls overflow with variety and freshness. Patient queues at each shop. It’s a buyers’ market.
Entrance to the indoor fish and meat market through the large glass doors.Every type of cut available. As lean as lean can be.Large whole crabs the trickiest to wrap. Their still live legs contrive to confuse the wrapper. Do the okey-cokey. As soon as one leg’s in, another pops out.Plaza of Our Lady of the Pillar houses the magnificent cathedral-basilicaStunning from every angleInside, a masterpiece of construction.
Goya’s Museum is just around the corner. We forget that most ‘attractions’ have a siesta in Spain. Should have done it first. We get there twenty minutes before it’s shut-eye time. Not long enough. Re-opens at 4pm. We take a riverside walk. Shake off the frustration. Aim for the Palacio De La Aljaferia. That too is feeling sleepy. Re-opens at 4.30pm. In circumstances like this we take the only other viable option. Go search out a coffee and cake.
At least we get to do a lap of this pristine looking establishment. It’s located in a residential area. Surrounded on three sides by high rise apartments. What a view they must have. Almost as good as this one . . .
Ninety minutes of Goya magic are pure magic. Born just 44K from Zaragoza, he’s considered a home bred boy. His family having moved from Zaragoza that year.
Goya’s self portrait age 29 – already creating masterpiecesObviously he was ahead of his time – he left his smart phone on this lady’s table to prove it . . .
Two floors dedicated to Goya’s painted masterpieces, his prints and engravings. One floor to some acceptable abstractions.
Not all abstract can be discarded or discounted – this one might just end up on a wall at chez nous . . . .Mrs S looking as cool as a cucumberMr S not quite pulling it off . . . Not all art is to be found in a gallery
We’re definitely homeward bound. Crossed the point of no going back. Though not necessarily no return. Like a couple of meteoroids, destined to become meteorites once back on terra firma. We’re high-tailing it with hot tails. Dragging some heat along with us.
Day 22 – Calais, Friday’s crossing is caught in our cross hairs. That doesn’t mean we’re keeping our heads down. On the contrary. Breath-taking panoramic views of the Pyrenees lighten today’s journey.
Beastie’s going to have to squeeze through that narrow gap . . . Beastie sails through while we Quordle through . . . It’s all plain sailing – timing is everything on these narrow cornersThey’re only doing their job Mrs S . . . Once through the pass and back into France, Mr S notices that everything seems very French . . .
Today’s one-nighter at Pyrenees Nature Camping is a thirty minute walk into Oloron Sainte-Marie, where we come face to face with a fellow traveler.
St James leads centuries of pilgrims to Santiago de Compostela, his place of burial. Dropping route finding scallop shells along the way for all lost souls.
Day 23 – Some days are better to get over and done with. And forgotten ASAP. Today was one of those. A long haul of over 300K is extended by an hour. A Route Baree 11K short of camp sets us following yellow deviation signs that send Beastie literally in circles. As a result Hoo-ha Henry has a melt down. Like a lost soul, he loses his way. Can’t tell his left from his right. Has no idea which way to turn. No scallop shells to follow. Decides to wash his hands of us. Call it a day. Deny all knowledge of our existence. Dumps Beastie on a single lane dirt track in the middle of woodland. (Some camp site run-ins are like this, hence we obey his call signs). On further investigation the nearest camping is a further 10K.
All’s well, that ends well though. Camping La Motte, just east of Montguyon, is a pretty woody site with a small heated indoor pool. Just about long enough to swim away Hoo-Ha Henry hatred.
Beastie loves pitches like this. He feels like he’s really camping.A couple of plates of sea bass, with a couple of glasses of Spanish red and all is forgotten and forgiven.
Day 24 – As sole campers on Camping Les Petites Minaudiers, near St Sauveur, we have the huge woodland site to ourselves. Arriving late afternoon ideal. Mrs S is in fine form for our forty-five minute under cover table-tennis knock about. She just about knocks back everything I throw at her. Like the good little doggy I am, I mostly play fetch the ball. “Woof”
Then it’s time for a lakeside walk . . .
Fortunately for Mr S, Mrs S is not so good at stick throwing.
Humans are very clever beings. Yet as characters, flawed in so many different ways. One person may see a flaw in themselves and if they don’t like what they see, will work hard to change. Another may find it hard to see their own flaws. Until pointed out. At the end of the day, nobody is perfect.
The appropriately named Municipal Camping de Chartres, houses Beastie and his imperfect inmates for one night. Neither, under lock and key. Free to come and go as they please. While away some time. While the jury remains out. So we do just that. A planned early arrival enables a saunter along the river Eure. Destination – the ancient Centre Ville and its famous cathedral.
With all riverside walks, reflections dominate the camera’s perspective. Entices multiple stops, like a series of red traffic lights. For the accompanying spouse, patience is a virtue.
A passing duck, oblivious to the importance of calm water, creates imperfect reflections; but good enough.
The current day existence of Chartres Cathedral, owes itself to one man. Colonel Welborn Barton Griffith Jr (1901-1944). His superiors suspected the Germans of using it for a look-out during WWII and intended to destroy it. Welborn questioned the order. Volunteered to ‘check it out’. On discovering it was empty of Germans the order was rescinded. Ironically, he was killed in action later that very same day, just a few kilometres from Chartres, in Lèves. We found it strange and sad, that he wasn’t mentioned on any of the information boards inside.
Its massive footprint too huge to be accommodated on one shot.We’ve not come across many grander entrancesMrs S wishing she had some ladders and cleaning materials to hand. She’d make light work of restoring these to their former glory. Worries the same may be true inside.
She needn’t have. Inside, it seems mammoth cleaning and restoration works are ongoing. Many of the internal structures have been brought back to life.
StunningThe incredible Choir Screen. Just a small part of its one hundred metres!!
By the time we exit, unlike us, the evening is still young. It’s warm, sunny and calm. Perfect for a bit of alfresco dining. Just metres from the cathededral, Café Bleu obliges.
A little translation goes a long way. A veal choice quickly scratched off on discovery that it was veal kidneys.
The return saunter equally enchanting as the sunset sets in for the night.
We all love and often prefer to be at home. Faced with the familiar, we feel more comfortable. Set routines dominate day to day life. We create our own natural rhythms of how to start, spend and end each day. We enjoy the easy life.Even so, too much of a good thing can become a bore.
No chance of boredom out on the road with Beastie & Co. There’s always places to go, people to see – as they say. Today we do something unusual. We revisit the familiar. Stop off at Claude Monet’s superb maison et jardins. We were last here when still newby MOHOmers. At the end of our very first French trip in 2017. Then, we were legging it back home. Having to cut short our allotted days. Mr S had put his knee out playing table-tennis on uneven ground at Sarlat. Became a hero for the day and hobbled around like a ‘gud’un’.
Therefore, today’s long walk from the car park and through the village was slightly more comfortable and enjoyable.
One thing that can never become a bore – a garden packed to the brim with flowers. Seasons always bringing a change prevent that. We can understand Monet’s love of this place and why his paintings are iconic. Who wouldn’t enjoy living at ‘home sweet home’, when this is it.
Avenues of colour set the sceneThe lily ponds just as beautifulCompeting beauties . . . .Two cheeses saying “Cheese”
Inside, many of his paintings stare out from the sidelines. Encourage the visitor to come closer, take a look. A splodge here, a dab there See how the master did it.
Not just a pretty face . . . The familiar and comforting yellow dining room.
At Camping La Miniere, just outside Forges-Les-Eaux, our day concludes with another game of table tennis. On uneven ground. This time, Mr S decides to change from flip-flops to trainers! Lessons learned and all that . . . .
Extinction is inevitable. It’s been happening since ‘The Beginning’ – whatever that means. Stars, that have been burning, seemingly for billions of years, all have a life span. Energy is not inexhaustible.Nothing is immune from this fact. Everything, whether living, or not, is subject to change.One second, as this, the next as that.The whole universe is governed by this unwritten law.
Everything has a start and an end. So many earth born species have come and gone. Lived and died. Become extinct. It’s still happening. As the most ‘aware’ species (as far as we know), to have inhabited planet earth, we are obsessing over the inevitable. Blaming ourselves even. Unable to see that change is coming. For all. It’s necessary. How else does re-birth occur? One thing is certain, humanity’s time for ‘extinction’ will arrive.
Everything comes from eternity and returns to eternity. As human beings we perceive that in different ways. Either through faith and hope, or unbelief and hopelessness.
Our last evening on the ‘other’ side of the channel, finds us in a new location to our previously preferred Sangatte. Fort Lapin Camping, further up the same coastline, just outside Calais. It’s separated from the huge flat beach, by an equally huge range of sand-dunes. We fancied a change, but of our own making. An early morning Chunnel Crossing awaits us. We’ll pop under and out as two different people. That’s what time and distance does.
If you’re one of the unfortunate few who have logged in from time to time, then thanks for doing just that. I hope you’ve found some pleasure in some of the, as my sister Yvonne likes to call them, “essays”. Like a lost in space voyager, sending out a constant hopeful message, it’s good to know there are other life forms out there, listening in. Regardless of whether they understand the dots and dashes, the beeps and skreeks.
A huge stretch of deserted dunes and beach – saw busier days in WWIIPerfect for landings. I have it all to myself. These breakers look bored and lifeless . . .This cheers them up . . . a timed selfie with Mr S doing his own version of a pole dance . . .
Our journey had its start and now it has its end . . .
. . . so it’s adios from ‘her’ and it’s adios from ‘him’ . . .
Snails have it made. They’re born into a world of plenty. Surrounded by green lush on all sides, their constant on-tap supply of fuel and energy sustains and maintains. It’s no wonder their growth rate can be phenomenal, though they never outgrow their home. Some subtle mathematics and their fibonacci-like spiral is ever accommodating. A warm, cosy and protective outer is all they need. And when it comes to locomotion, a little slippery slime can take them a long, long way – you just ask our hostas.
Motorhomes are not called motorhomes for no reason. With an eight week jaunt ahead, the list of must takes, plus the forgotten must takes from last time, stuff Beastie’s inners to bursting. Once we’ve packed every item we perceive as being essential to replicate our home situation, he thinks it’s time we put out a call to Norris (R.I.P.) Then, when he’s fully loaded and on his way, his Billy Bunter Belly starts to rumble and grumble like a Moaning Minnie. Rocket propelled he is not. His speed becomes almost snail pace on any sizable incline. But get us there he does.
The eventual end to a long and sometimes frustrating day, sees us pitched up at our favourite pre-chunnel Black Horse site in Densole. A ten minute drive from La Manche. 10.20am crossing all booked for tomorrow (Wednesday) morning.
You’ve written umpteen best sellers. Some even made into blockbuster films. Your advance, nestles nicely in your account. Yet here you sit. Staring blankly at a blank piece of paper. Or a blank screen. No ideas. No fresh thoughts. Devoid of inspiration. A deadline looming. The loneliest place in the world, with only your empty coffee cup for company. A daunting prospect for any author.
My ‘gratis’ Blog comes with a different type of advance. It’s composed of expectation and an inner commitment to continue. Come what may. It’s born of hope too. That inspiration, coupled with clever and amusing witticisms will trip off the tongue and metaphorically dance across the pages of our travels. Acting as a conduit. Bringing three nomadic jesters to life as they move freely from town to city to country. Keeping the reader and sometimes readers (I am an optimistic realist) informed, amused, or appalled. I’m not comparing my Blog to anything the likes of Ken Follet or Robert Harris might pen, but the task of word-finding and placing them in just the right order, can in itself become daunting. Even overwhelming. I exaggerate for dramatic effect of course (he doth pretend).
Words, like notes on a staff, can create music too. An orchestra of soundless characters. Horizontally aligned and arranged like a never ending theatrical performance. A concerto of collaboration, when written with panache, can create every type of conceivable sound. “Crash!”, “Bang!”, “Wallop!” – there! – told you so!
On the subject of a crash – today’s lunchtime stop had one of its own. The three ring gas hob, upon which Mrs S conjures all manner of culinary delights, when not in use, has a hinged & handy toughened glass cover. At times, it provides a little more working space. My lunch (we always eat different lunches) was to be yesterday’s tasty leftover. I’d usually have it cold – for ease and quickness. Mrs S decided to treat me and warm it up. Before preparing her own. A good loving turn. She didn’t need to. Bloke that I am, I’d have happily wolfed it down frozen.
By the time I had wolfed mine down and Mary-Ann had just taken her first bite of lunch, that glass cover exploded with a mighty crack. As if shot at close range by Dirty Harry wielding his .44 Magnum. The effect was literally ear shattering. Thousands of glass fragments clouded our thoughts as to the cause. A once in a lifetime lapse. One gas ring left on. Not visible in the bright sunlight.
No harm done to Mrs S, or her lunch!
Sun drenched culprit – top left
Writer’s block? Me? Never! I needn’t have worried. Every trip has its own can of worms, or box of candies, lying in wait. I just need to be patient.
So to any ‘blocked’ authors out there. A few words of wisdom . . . with your next advance, go buy yourself a motorhome!
Blue seas and blue skies, elicit inner feelings of calm and delight. Sweeping through us like a warm summer holiday breeze. However, if you’re lost and waterless in the Sahara, or floating aimlessly on a raft in the middle of a flat Pacific, then your perspective may be somewhat different. If you were a 19th century slave cotton picker, sweltering day after day, beneath endless blue skies, then feeling the ‘blues’ would come naturally.
The first, of a hat-trick of two-nighters, finds us pitched up at City Camping Antwerp. A Werkmmaat managed site that provides job training opportunities for those needing help to secure permanent positions.
No sad feelings surround us on this edge to edge blue morning; for a mere 1€ return, a five minute waterbus ride crosses the river Scheldt and drops us right outside the oldest building in Antwerp. Het Steen Fortress. Used today as the Tourist Information Centre.
Lange Wapper – a morphing giant, who chases drunks throughout the city at night, welcomes visitors to Het Steen.
Walking tours are on offer at week-ends only. We scratch that off our list. Rubens’ House is closed until 2027 for refurbishment. We scratch that off our list too. We discover the underground tunnels tour is fully booked for the next four days. Oops. So we head straight towards the huge cathedral that dominates the city skyline.
En route the impressive 16thC Town Hall overlooks the Grote Markt
Continental calmness is in abundance. The locals float about as if having no cares in the world. It’s what we love about these laid back European towns and villages. A sense of order and peace; perhaps brought about by the effects of WWI & WWII.
Towering above Old Town. Over the centuries the cathedral has grown upwards and outwards to become the seventh largest in the world.
Its mammoth inner quarters house a mass of art. A museum in itself. Amongst the many Rubens’ paintings, equally gifted artists of the then and now, have their marvels on display.
A delicately contrived crown of glass thorns silently sit and encourage one’s mind to contemplate . . .
A series of twenty-four life-size sculptures dominate one wall. The twelve apostles having been interspersed (not a euphemism) with twelve women.
Ecclesiastes 1:2 – All is vanity . . . Eyes focus intently on the huge cross, being balanced in his right palm.
Ninety minutes later our rumbling tums tumble out into the bright sunshine in search of lunch, followed by an afternoons visit to the red and modern Mas Museum, recommended by a couple of German ladies at this morning’s breakfast wash-up. It’s fully clad with hand-hewn, red Indian sandstone from Agra, so we can’t miss it.
At each level, six metre high wavy glass panels show off a rising perspective of the town.
With over 600,000 pieces, two hours of intense browsing becomes a mind numbing experience. However, we leave with a greater understanding of Antwerp’s place in the past and present world.
Kids compendium of ‘home protectors’ liven up this wall with their wonderful display of invented play-dough figures .
A pre-Columbian display (before Columbus) from the Americas rounds off our visit.
I’d always wondered where the term ‘dick-head’ had originated . . .And all because . . .
Every site is different. Each with its own pros and cons. Size wise, some are like postage stamps, where you get stuck uniformly cheek by jowl. Unable to sneeze or let rip a fart too loudly, especially at night, for fear of waking your neighbour. Then, when in others, like today’s Huttopia site in De Meinweg National Park, you find the workers moving around in Prisoner-Like Mini Mokes, you know you’re in for some serious on-site hiking.
Some larger sites may resemble a small village, or town. By comparison, this is more the size of the USA. It’s low season and the place is less than a tenth full. Even so, the lady in reception allocates us a pitch that is the equivalent of being parked up in Washington DC, with the shower block way down south in Jacksonville. Despite there being only two other campers between us and the showers. Maybe the other pitches are pre-booked? Or maybe word has gotten round about my wind-breaking capabilities . . . who knows?
In any event, we do as we’re told and pitch up at number 4. Then, the opportunity of a gadabout is quickly curtailed by a severe clouburst that leaves us wishing we’d packed our wellies and oars.
An unwelcome dampner
With most of today set dry, we break out the bikes for a morning recce. Netherlands, home of the bike, has an endless labyrinth of car free cycle routes. Numbered waymarked junctions provide a seamless routing system that functions and co-exists with the car driver.
It’s not rocket science – simple common sense.Holland wouldn’t be Holland without seeing at least one of these
Our totally flat 20K loop is being enjoyed by many other cyclists. We stop for a selfie. Chat briefly to a Dutch couple who’ve pulled up for a Scooby Snack. Discover that their ride is saving them from having to watch Charles’ coronation!
Time for the first selfie of this trip . . . We catch a Storker, stalking . . .
We’ve seen some pretty pictures of a nearby town. So Scoot gets his first outing too. But not before a swift battery change. His flat one came to light on Bank Holiday Monday. An in-stock replacement, from Bournemouth Battery Centre, on our day of departure, to the rescue. Scoot coughs into action and Scoots us into Roermond, where the indoor shopping centre provides shelter from a downpour.
Roermond’s tourist waterfront – all one hundred metres of it . . .
We’re a tiny bit like lightning. We hardly ever strike twice in the same location, unless by mistake. Prefer the unexpected and to be unexpected. So pre-booking, a rarity rather than the norm.
Going against the grain, our first six nights have been pre-booked. A prial of two-nighters. No immediate thought required. A winning hand. Breathing space for planning. So when checking in to Knaus Camping, Koblenz, to be told “I cannot see your name” it seemed at first hand a trump had been played. “But you’ve taken my 16€ deposit. Look, here’s your email confirmation”. “Ah! You’ve booked to stay at our sister site 35K further up the Mosel! – but don’t worry. We have plenty of space for you”. That was unexpected. Preferred? Hmmm . . .
Knaus Camping is perfectly positioned. We look out across the confluence of the Mosel and Rhine. Our home from home Two Rivers Meet, as one might say. We pay through the nose for that privilege. The whole scene dominated from above by the Ehrenbreitstein Fortress. Tomorrow’s must see. However, this afternoon is still young, so we take the small Mosel water-cab. (cue – enters right . . . )
The Belgian captain touch n turns non stop daily.
Go for a walkabout in Koblenz Aldstadt.
The oldest church in Koblenz, the 9thC Basilika St. Kastor – a good place to start. Not sure about the megaphone head gear, but I like his winkle pickers.Polished to perfectionA little further on – three Silent Sentinels from the Berlin Wall – unwilling witnesses to that tragedy. A-top the Deutches Eck monument, where the Mosel (left) joins the Rhine. Mrs S is left of the blue jogger.
The Mosel and Rhine attract many cyclists. Over wash-up we chat with a French Couple from Colmar. They and their two boys (10 & 11) are on day ten of a four month cycling/camping adventure – a round trip of over 6,000K, to include Norway. We envy their spirit, but not the thought of huddling inside a tent, when, like this evening, the heavens pour out their misery in bucket loads.
Both rivers are busy. Huge vessels of every description chugging and lugging. Phutting and putting, up and downstream. Like flat backed camels plying the Silk Road, in search of trade. Even containers, shipped in to Rotterdam, are then distributed through Netherlands, Germany, Belgium, France, Switzerland and Austria.
A mere 9.9 second dash for Linford should get him from stern to bow on this cruiser.However, it may take him a little longer on this one . . .
It’s too late now. About fifty-seven years too late. Instead of looking out of the classroom window onto the playing field, wishing I was out there kicking a ball, I should have paid more attention to my German teacher. Then I would have understood now, what “Ich bin ein dichead” means!
The young ticket lady confirms that the majority of information up top will be in German only. My unbelieving English face reveals astonishment. What!? “Well” she sardonically replies, “you are in Germany . . . “
The 118 metre cable-car lift across the Rhine is swift and smooth. Provides a 360 view. We only need half of that as we look back to where we came from. We step out onto the huge plateau that Ehrenbreitstein Fortress and surrounding grounds occupy. It feels like a smaller version of Cape Town’s Table Mountain. Only more ordered.
Beastie’s not invited up here. He’s left to his own devices back on camp, bottom right.
To the non-initiated military brain, these types of fortresses seem to be constructed to a most bizarre design. Yet, as this one is still standing, obviously successful. A conglomeration of pointy angles, emulate the pointy hats of their day. Create a massive maze of tunnels and alleys. Das (I’m guessing) Haus der Archäologie houses an immaculate presentation of historical artifacts. Our first port of call. We disdainfully brush past each cabinet. Ignore the information boards that fail to divulge a semblance of sense to two of its paying customers. We give it ten minutes max – out of bored courtesy. Move on. Go explore the numerous nooks and crannies.
Give it a . . .
No translation necessary . . .
A shoal of security guards swim past us and down. They’re on a private tour. Possibly in preparation for a forthcoming event. I lean over and listen. Become a Creepy Peeper. Can’t understand a word! If only . . . I was a pigeon.
Such a pity. No one is wearing a protective cap . . . .
The photography house, is more up our alley. Six artists show off their talents. Each in their own unique way.
Hyejeong Yoo’s wonderful prints delve into three generations of mother and daughter relationships.Allegra Kortlang’s extraordinary and comic “AI Odyssey” video, explores the realm of face recognition versus identity and how to defeat the system.
Some ideas and concepts are universal. Need no assistance from Herr Google’s translator app. We always love a bit of hands on. In the tech house we come across a couple of fun, yet ingenious interactive concepts.
With no smoke, just how does the “Rusty Mirror” react to movement? Behind the scenes . . . it’s secret revealed – sort of . . . We get captured. Converted into shadows. Forever to play the fools?
Then it’s time to make our own bit of art . . . “Black Rectangle on White Wall”
Reminds me of BBCs Playschool
Then it’s back down to base to finish the day and meander the Aldstadt sites. As usual, the churches provide some of the best and most interesting architecture.
Citykirche corners the JesuitemplatzChurch of Our Lady
For a house-proud person, I imagine completing a chore takes on a different perspective. In itself it doesn’t lack importance, or purpose. Once completed, it enhances the living space and with it, the occupier’s satisfaction.
That’s not to say that a person who hates chores, can’t be house-proud too.
There are some chores you expect to take with you on a MOHO trip. Others are best left at home waiting. We had to pay a fee before we could complete today’s chore and then it didn’t even warrant a discount!
On route to Knaus Camping Park in Bad Dürkheim, we stop off at Schloss Stolzenfels. One of the prettiest castles in Germany.
Bavaria, is full of pretty castles. AKA Scloss’s (?) It’s probably the main reason why we’re down here. Problem is, after today’s visit we’ve now come to realise they are all ‘up there’. Up, meaning nowhere to park within a kilometre, leaving the one in five slope the only option. By the time we reach the pay kiosk we’ve developed hooves, grown a goaty (suits me more than Mrs S) and are almost overcome with a desire to head-butt the but of the person in front.
A very pretty look-out.
Although we’re upside, there’s a downside. Visits are by tour guide only. In German. We enter to find the wooden floor gleaming with a high sheen. We quickly find out why. Polishing slipper overshoes provided to all who enter. Presumably they get a lot of Sasquatch visiting!
Mrs S discovers that one size doesn’t fit all!A pretty scene despite the empty beddingsThe old architects always knew just where to put all the twiddly bits for best effect.
After an hour of German “gobblydegook”, we exit feeling more sloshed than Schlossed, but at least with the satisfaction of completing a job well done.
