A cheesy tour

Blog by Shirls

Just outside of Millau we make a stop in Roquefort-sur-Soulzon for a tour of the caves where for centuries the famous blue cheese has been made. The tour was typically French – fixated on food, lots of detail and pretty weird.

If you would like to recreate the tour in your own home, just follow this handy do-it-yourself guide.

1. Ensure you have a printed translation of what is going to be said on the tour. This is because the man taking the tour is going to speak French, very quickly, and you will have no idea what he is saying. Selected parts of the translation should make no sense.

2. Set up your environment to be dark. Perhaps try to grow some lichen on the walls. Set the aircon to 10 degrees and breezy.

3. To start the tour proper, you’ll need a room with a model of a mountain which will collapse to a soundtrack of morning birdsong. Then move on to a different room and project pictures of ghostly ladies on to the walls – here the soundtrack should be French men talking. And then on again to a bigger room where you’ll play a video showing pictures of sheep being milked and the master cheesemakers taking an awfully long time to sniff their cheese.

4. Finally, you are ready to move to the cheese room. Recreate the smell by bringing a wet Labrador into the room, as well as at least 5 pairs of smelly shoes.

How can it be that cheese that smelly tastes so darn good?

A Bridge Too Far

We hire a Renault hatchback in Arles and head towards Millau (pronounced meeowww) and the Millau Viaduct. Designed by the renowned engineer Michel Virlogeux, it is the highest viaduct in the world. The architect Sir Norman Foster gets all the credit, but this really was Virlogeux’s baby, both aesthetically and functionally. It is breathtakingly beautiful to see ‘in the flesh’, particularly when driving across it. The speed limit has been lowered from 130km/h to 110 because of gawking tourists like us gazing up at the seven cable stayed piers, and down at the valley far below as we cross.

A map of France looks like a crumpled piece of paper, with roads (major, and very minor) going everywhere. Unfortunately, we don’t have a map. We have the Garmin in-car GPS supplied with the rental car. It appears to have navigation software designed on the Sinclair ZX81. Unbeknownst to us, it was set to ‘shortest route mode’. Our journey from Arles to Millau starts off on a picturesque winding two lane road. At each turn the road gets imperceptibly narrower and narrower as it climbs up over a mountain range.

A hand written note attached to a detour sign guides us on to a still narrower side road , until it eventually becomes a single lane farm tracks. The bushes scrape down the side of the rental car (with an 800 euro excess) and at one point Shirls has to get out to clear a rock slide of small boulders from the path. Thick leaves cover the track in places, indicating that it has been a long time since anyone passed this way.

Unbelievably, the GPS is still saying everything is ok. We pass curious villagers, who are still marvelling at the discovery of the wheel, get lost countless times and eventually pop out the other side. Tomorrow we are buying a map. I don’t care how Old School it is.

The following is a public safety announcement

Please be aware of possible Health and Safety hazards present in some areas of France.

1. Tiny, ancient streets and crazy local drivers who will not slow down to avoid pedestrians unless their car becomes wedged inside the kerb sides.

2. Travellers are warned that they will experience a desire to eat at hourly intervals, sometimes more often. Willpower alone is not an effective deterrent.

3. Take care to ensure that your limbs remain attached at all times.

4. Related to point 2 above, do not confuse ice-cream (i.e. a frozen snack shared at a park bench overlooking a pretty river) ...

.. with a similar-looking substance found on most roads and pavements. The latter substance Is Not Ice-Cream and normally has evidence that some other unfortunate has already ridden, walked or skidded through it, and it busy spreading it across the city.

Les Arenes

About 200m up the road from our apartment is a large white sports stadium known as the Arles Amphitheatre. It is used regularly for bullfights, concerts and other events and seats about 20,000 people, similar to North Harbour Stadium. Unlike the latter though, it appears in a painting by Vincent van Gogh.

At the time he painted Les Arenes (Nov/Dec 1888), he had his mate Paul (Gauguin) staying with him. Gauguin was escaping the winter chill in Paris – he seemed to like the warmer climes, and eventually fled to the Pacific to paint naked Polynesian maidens. As they huddled around the fireplace at the Yellow House, he must have said to van Gogh, “Hey Vince, ever been to a bullfight?” Hearing that, van Gogh would have leapt up and said, “Yeah, man, last spring. That gives me an idea for a painting” before disappeared off to find his favourite smock and brushes. Maybe the memory of the bullfight started to get to him – the matador winning victory over the bull and then cutting its ear off as a trophy – or maybe it was just an attempt to get Gauguin arrested after he threatened van Gogh with a razor, but a few weeks later he cut his own earlobe off and gave it to a prostitute.

Anyway, back to the stadium. It was built around the first century BC after Julius Caesar established the city as a sort of retirement village for the Roman 5th Legion. When you wander around ancient monuments, it’s easy to imagine them lying in ruin for centuries until the council builds a visitor centre and some interpretive displays, but this is not the case.

After the fall of the Roman Empire it became prime real estate. Solid construction, arched windows and plenty of natural light, not like your typical medieval leaky building. They built stuff properly in those days. About 200 houses and two churches were built inside the stadium. It wasn’t until the 1800’s that they began booting out the remaining residents and declaring it a national monument. And holding bullfights. And hence a visit by a scruffy drunkard in paint stained pants.

Best of Arles, Day 1

Blog by Shirls (while Bruce watches some unintelligible French drama on TV)

Arles (pronounced Arles) is a city in Provence, in the south of France. We're waiting for the public transport issues to return to normal, so are spending a week exploring this ancient city. The city is famous for its Roman buildings (cue happy Bruce) and also for some modern things such as that it's the home of the Gipsy Kings (everybody sing along "Volare oh oh, cantare, oh oh oh oh") and that Vincent Van Gogh painted many of his most famous works and removed his own ear here.

Highlights from our first day.

• Realising we're well and truly in holiday mode because we know to plan all activities around getting home in time for siesta. Home is a newly-refurbished apartment near the Rhone River, just inside the old city walls. It has most mod cons, but weirdly no bottle opener. Bruce had to make an emergency dash to get one in time for dinner or we were going to resort to digging the cork out with a fork.

• Walking around the very atmospheric, almost 2000 year-old Roman amphitheatre which is still being used today, no longer for throwing people to the lions, just bullfighting now.
• A chocolate, custard and almond croissant-type treat that we found at the bakery next door to our apartment. I can't remember the French name but they may as well just call it "Mmm".

• Finding out that the cheapest bottle of French wine in the supermarket is very drinkable and not at all like vinegar. In fact, at 3 euros, it's cheaper than vinegar. The French have made their priorities clear.

Dark clouds looming, but not for us

Three crowded train trips bring us from Italy into France, but only just.  Each time we board the train there is a scuffle as tired looking travellers jockey for seats.  Luckily, we have reserved our seats in Pisa, and for us the journey is quite pleasant.  Shirls talks to a big burly Swiss guy trying to get home.  He looks like an army sergeant, and grins as we listen to the other passengers bickering.  All trains north are booked out for the next six days, so he is attempting to go via France, or even Spain if he has to.  The other passengers are heading for the UK, Netherlands, USA; they are still thousands of kilometres from home.  Our goal is less ambitious, and we soon pull in to Nice, on the French Riviera.  Our onward plans have changed several times in the last week; working on an organic farm in the Dordogne has been abandoned due to the difficulty in getting there.  Together with the volcanic eruption in Iceland, the French rail workers are also on an extended strike.

But Nice is… nice.  The eerie haze and brooding clouds make for an interesting photo on the beachfront.  We are not sure whether the strange light is a result of the volcanic ash or something more mundane.  By morning the skies are clear and the Cote d’Azur is living up to its reputation as a winterless holiday spot for the super rich.  Tomorrow, we head east.  The rumours are that the planes will start flying soon, but it will take some time to clear the backlog.  None of this matters to us; we will go wherever the train takes us.

Fun with Pisa and pizza

Blog by Shirls

I remember the first time I went scuba-diving in the ocean. We had practiced the Open Water basics in a pool in Johannesburg and then driven all the way to Sodwana to do our qualifying dives in the sea. I back-rolled off the side of the inflatable, heart pounding in my chest as I hoped I remembered what to do. A few moments of fumbling with equipment and all was under control. And then the unexpected surprise and delight of hearing the crackling sound made in the ocean and feeling the surge ... I couldn't help smiling and started to laugh. And then my cheeks pushed out my mask which flooded with water. But the point is how nice the surprise was, and that brings me to the Tower of Pisa.

We all know that Pisa's famous tower is leaning over and we've seen the pictures of people pretending to hold it up.

But today as climb it, I am surprised at how disorienting it is to walk on a lean that moves from left to right.  We wind up the 296 spiral stairs to the top, and I notice that each step has hollows where people over the past 830 years have placed their feet, and the hollows move left and right as we take the same path as all those others.  

It really is a strange feeling and by the time we reached the top after fits of giggles, I'm giddy with excitement - clearly it doesn't take much - and do some crazy jumping (secure in the knowledge that Bruce says the stabilisation work to stop the tower falling over is complete). The trip down is even better because with a bit of speed if feels like I'm in a pinball machine, bouncing off the sides.

After all the excitment we go to a restaurant that Michele recommended, he says it's a haunt of families and students so it will suit our budget. It's our last night in Italy so it's only appropriate to have pizza, and we order one to share. It arrives and is the size of a car tyre. We protest that it's too big, and then finish all but a few scraps.

Big Italian Knockers

Shirls says I am obsessed.  She doesn't understand.

What the Eyjafjallajoekull?

Stepping off the train in Pisa we notice the commotion in the station. The ticket hall is packed with long queues of travellers snaking back and forth and out the main doors. A short walk later, Michele, our B&B owner (and also professional photographer, tile maker and Italian Army geographer) explains; an eruption of a volcano in Iceland (I won’t repeat the name above) has cancelled over half the flights in Europe.

The scene at Pisa Centrale station is being played out throughout Europe as travellers try to find alternative routes home. Our planned onward journey to France might have to wait. We decide to spend an extra night here and see what happens. Apparently there is some sort of tower. Slightly canted. Listing. Not quite straight up. On the Pisa, so to speak.

The Five Lands

Squeezed between rugged hills which plunge into the Mediterranean, Manarola is one of five villages in the Cinque Terre National Park. The topography has prevented the construction of a road up this stretch of the Italian Riviera, but somehow it has not stopped the local communes from planting every available non-vertical cliff face with terraced vineyards, vegetable patches and olive groves. A railway passes through each village – quite literally. The line only briefly emerges from the earth at the stations and the occasional gully.

On this clear, calm early morning, our pension rumbles gently as the trains pass beneath us. The main street, usually full of villagers and wandering tourists is deserted. We leave the town and set off along the Cinque Terre walking trail. Still we pass no-one. Have we broken some rule? Where are the crowds of walkers we have heard about? Just when we think we must have entered the park illegally we pass another walker, obviously also keen to avoid the rush. He passes us without a word, with his fingers firmly inserted in his ears. Must be French, we mutter.

We continue on, walkers outnumbered by cats sunning themselves in the early morning light.

We stop at Corniglia for breakfast, then on to Vernazza before the final leg through to Monterosso, and only then do we encounter crowds not too dissimilar to the Abel Tasman coastal track. The difference being that sections of the Cinque Terre trail are very narrow – a stone wall on one side and a precipitous drop to a vineyard or wave-tossed rocks on the other. As we step aside to allow others to pass we get a “Buon giorno!”, a “Grazie!”, or an indifferent silence from some. “You’re welcome!” Shirls calls. Must be French, we mutter.

Lunch and the obligatory gelato at Monterosso is followed by a comparatively quick train trip back to Manarola through the tunnels.

Via dell'Amore

Post by Shirls

Warning! This post contains soppy, lovey-dovey stuff. Boys need not read any further.

We arrived in Manarola late afternoon and are taking advantage of the beautiful weather to walk the short coastal track to Riomaggiore and back, it'll be a nice introduction to the Cinque Terre trail which we'll be taking on tomorrow. This section of the trail is called Via dell'Amore so we're expecting romantic views or maybe a nice spot to see the sunset. We aren't expecting to see tunnel walls covered in graffiti and about a million (give or take) padlocks fixed to any suitable bit of railing or wire.

We get a taste of what's to come just as we're leaving; a metal gate has 2 interlocking hearts on the bar at the top. Hearts .. Path of Love.. it's makes sense, but the bar is almost covered in padlocks. We've seen this before on a bridge railing in Florence. Is this some odd Italian superstition to ward off the Evil Eye?

Further along the trail there are yet more padlocks, this time attached to the wire mesh fixed to the rock face. We know the mesh is to stop boulders falling on walkers, still not sure about the locks.

And then it's into a tunnel which is covered, floor to ceiling, with graffiti. Our first reaction is disappointment that anyone would want to spoil such beatiful surroundings, but then we notice a theme and all is forgiven! The walls are full of expressions of love, poetry and drawings. Apparently it started in the 1940's when the trail between these isolated villages was opened and became a popular meeting place for courting couples from the two towns. The padlocks are a more recent addition - they are attached to a railing and the key thrown into the ocean. The ritual probably involves passionate declarations of love. And snogging.

Mmmm, gelato...

Need we say more?

Mmmm, coffee...

A five minute walk from our apartment in Florence is the Mercato Centrale (I’ll leave you to do the translation).  It is a large two storey indoor market built relatively recently, when Queen Victoria ran most of the world, and Florence became the capital of the newly formed Kingdom of Italy.  If you are looking for that leg of cured ham or some fresh tripe it is the place to come, but it is also an excellent place for a cappuccino and a paste (pastry) before buying the daily supplies for lunch and dinner (i.e. Shirls buys and Bruce nods approvingly).

Viva L'Italia ! (Post by Shirley)

Dolce & Gabbana, Gucci, Bottega Veneta, La Perla … I’m walking down a small side-street near the Ponte Vecchio and it feels like I’ve stumbled into a real-life edition of Vogue. Shop windows are tastefully arranged with clothes, shoes, jewellery, handbags; the number of articles in each display in indirect proportion to the cost. Beautifully-dressed Italians and wealthy tourists wander in, the rest of us walk past slowly not able to spend that much on a piece of clothing but wishing we could.

It seems that there’s a code for dressing in Italy, everyone makes an effort. Even the policewoman have perfect make-up and party hair for their day on the beat! And so, for any of you wanting to be more Italian here are what I assume are the unpublished but always adhered-to rules:

• Fashion for under 40’s
  Always look good. This is mandatory. Wear expensive leather boots or designer sneakers and include at least one of the following items in your outfit - a designer jacket, designer sunglasses or a designer t-shirt. Men can wear pink jerseys / shirts / shoes / scarves without embarrassment (but only 1 pink item at a time, please). Women should always wear tight jeans, this is non-negotiable.
• Fashion for over 50’s
  Always look good. This is mandatory. Wear a fur coat or quilted jacket when out walking in the chilly morning air. The wearing of mini skirts and stockings is not limited to warm summer days. Wear a lot of expensive gold jewellery. Make-up is compulsory.
• Additional rules.
  - You should have strong coffee and baked treats (chocolate croissants, custard doughnuts etc) for breakfast, pizza for lunch and pasta for dinner, and gelato at least once a day and not get fat. If you get fat, move to another country or at least pretend you are from another country.
  - Shouting, laughing, swearing and wild gesticulations are encouraged for all conversations, including those about politics, the latest gossip, when being romantic or giving directions.
  - Smoke. Non-smokers are not cool.
  - The only public places where it is acceptable to have a snog are piazzas, all forms of public transport, roads and alleyways, and outdoor restaurants. Exceptions can be made.
  - Women over 50 should flirt with men under 30. Men over 50 should flirt with woman under 20. Flirting is acceptable at all times, including when catching the bus or buying a cappuccino or having your teeth examined.

I love Italy !

Siena

We take the local bus from Montepulchiano to Siena for a day trip. The Duomo Santa Maria della Scala is built in the popular Gothic Liquorice Allsorts style (my classification) with bands of white and dark green marble.

It is Shirls’ first visit to Siena and my second. I had never been inside the cathedral, despite having a poster of the interior pinned on the wall of the bach for years. Begun in the 12th century, construction took over 100 years as the plans were added to and re-styled from the original Romanesque basilica.

For some unknown reason, the return bus stops 18km short of Montepulchiano in Pienza, itself a charming town, but not where our bed happens to be. The unplanned stop and a chance visit to a local hardware store results in an unusual purchase, which may prove to be a real burden in the coming weeks...

La vie de Poliziani

We are developing a nice daily routine.  Jet lag is still making us wake up at 4am and by 7am we have breakfast at the apartment.  We venture out into the crisp morning air, up the hill, past the street sweepers and rubbish men, across the deserted main square and down Via di Voltaia nel Corso to Caffe Poliziano, which first opened its doors in 1868.

At this time of the morning the only patrons are impeccably dressed old ladies and gents coming in for their caffeine fix – all taken at the bar.  We order our cappuccinos and chocolate brioches and shuffle down the deserted back of the café to a table overlooking the Tuscan countryside.  By 10am we have solved a good number of the world’s ailments and are ready for the day to begin.

And... ACTION!

Honestly, Montepulciano is so beautiful it’s like being in a movie set. This morning there are No Parking signs and red tape strung up outside our apartment. The tape continues up the hill, past Cantina del Redi (our local wine cave) to the Piazza Grande where large white trucks are unloading film equipment next to the fountain.

We decide today would be an excellent day to climb up onto the roof of the Pallazo Comunale and watch the ‘scenery’. The view from the roof is stunning on this clear morning. The vineyards stretch away to Siena, about 20km away. Over to the east, there is still plenty of snow on the mountains.

Below us an unintelligible scene is being filmed; the local bus pulls up, people get off, two policemen walk across the square, a man rides past on a bike. There are some instructions over a loudspeaker and then they do it all again. It’s definitely not ‘Full Moon’ – that was filmed here a while ago. Some of the shops are capitalising on the exposure with souvenirs – Robert Pattinson calendars and long red capes mainly. Montepulciano, your moment in the spotlight has arrived!

Il Vino Nobile

Montepulchiano, it seems, is a whole hilltop town held up by wine cellars. On every street and lane, doorways lead off down into the darkness. A few doors up from our apartment is Cantina del Redi, a cellar built under a 14th century palace. We enter through the back door and following the arrows, descend down a series of stairways passing side chambers filled with dusty oak barrels and stacks of maturing bottles, to a high vaulted gallery full of barriques, the large oval French barrels used for maturing the wine.

Shirley poses for a photo before, slightly embarrassed, we ask the lady behind the counter for a bottle of the Cantina’s cheapest offering. The result: accompanied by fresh bread rolls, soup and salami from the butcher; vey nice indeed.

Easter Bunnies

Some things are perfectly obvious in hindsight. When we booked our flights to Rome, Sunday seemed like a good option for our arrival – quieter than midweek, and a surprisingly cheap ticket. Perfect. We were not, however, taking account of the little guy in the white skullcap and the osteoporosis. Well, not so much him as all his followers, who booked out every hotel in Rome for the religious festival.

So, here we are in Tuscany after two eleven hour flights, a one and a half hour high speed train trip and a taxi ride. Montepulciano is a most beautiful hilltop medieval town. Two weeks ago there was a 60cm dump of snow, which buried cars and lay in thick drifts around the town. Today the cobbled streets are in the cloud and the temperature is above zero, but not by much.

We have a small apartment with heavy wooden beams overhead and whitewashed walls. Funky paintings by the owner’s father hang on the walls and the shelves are lined with an eclectic collection of books, bottles and other curios. The only noise is the faint rumble of the very occasional car going up our street, Via Di Collazzi. The photo is from our window.

The contrast with Bangalore couldn’t be greater. We will be here for a full week before moving on, hopefully long enough to sample at least a few of the local wines, and maybe some gelato if it warms up...