The next stage

Hello to all

At last blog, we indicated we were in a town called Saint-Emillion. We got up the next morning (despite the attempts by the Pommies to keep us awake all night with their highly intelligent mutterings) and jumped on the shuttle into Saint-Emillion town.

First impressions gained were that we had stepped straight onto the set of a King Arthur movie - cobblestone streets, gothic archways and quaint little buildings of sandstone and granite.

Our plan was to attend the Office de Tourisme and book ourselves onto the tour which we did with very little fuss - first English speaking tour of the day commenced at 11.15am so we did what all good French people do - headed to a cafe for coffee and croissants and take up a seating position near the windows so we can look down on the tourists and glance at them with a superior posture and demeanour. Amazingly, after having seen this done by just about every French person we have encountered, Jane and I have just about perfected the art of snobbery and do a more than passable impression of French locals wherever we now find ourselves. We look forward to continued practice of this fine art upon our return to Australia with you all as our assistants!!

The tour cost about 13 Euro for both of us and turned out to be worth every cent and more. Unfortunately, most of the historical aspects of Saint-Emillion are now privately owned and whilst the owners have no difficulty with tours being conducted of these locations, they ban photography to ensure the protection of the artifacts etc (all these places are below ground and are currently lit by special lighting which is not damaging to the paintings on the walls and the like, hence the banning of photography/flash photos and videos - or at least that's their story).

The town of Saint Emillion is high upon a hill and overlooks vast valleys of vineyards in all directions within the Bordeaux Region. Around the year 750AD, a man named Emillion began providing food to people in the Region who could not afford to feed themselves, despite an edict by the then King that this not occur. One day, Emillion was detected by the Kings soldiers with a loaf (perhaps a baguette) of bread in his hands feeding people. When asked to show what was in his hands, Emillion held up the baguette only to find that it had been turned into a length of timber! Walking around with a piece of timber in your hands was not, at the time, an offence so Emillion was allowed to go free. In his own mind, and in the mind of many, the turning of bread into timber was deemed a miracle (still not a patch on turning water into wine if you ask me!) and convinced Emillion that he must become a monk and tend to the needs of people on behalf of the Lord.

As such, he took up residence in a cave and slowly gathered about him a group of followers who tended to the sick and poor. As more and more people came to the area, a township was formed which would go on to become the town of Saint Emillion. The cave in which Emillion began his work was the first point of our tour and it is, apart from the stairs built to access it and the special lighting installed within, exactly as it was when Emillion resided within it. Inside the cave is a small well which, it is recorded, was used by Emillion to cure a woman of blindness by splashing water from the well onto her face. There is also a seat inside the cave that is believed to be the seat from which Emillion prayed and often sat on to contemplate the worries of the world. Nowadays, the seat is believed to be a seat of fertility and women are encouraged to sit on the seat, which is no more than a carved niche within the rock wall, to increase their fertility.

Whilst many of the husbands on the tour were grabbing their wives and pulling them away from the seat, I gave Jane a slight shove in the back and before you knew it, Jane was doing an Emillion in the chair - well, if I am going to pay for these tours I want to get my monies worth and perhaps Emillion's chair might be the trick!

The cave is very cold, dank and dark as you would imagine however, having heard the story of Emillion and his work, it was very easy to imagine the monk seated in the cave praying and we found the history of the place, at its narrative, very austre.

By the way, Emillion died of old age and was deemed a saint - hence the town name however, Emillion was never cannonised by the church and is in fact an unrecognised (officially that is) saint yet referred to as a saint by the church and all others.

From Emillion's cave, we moved on to a magnificent, but small, chapel which had all been carved by hand out of granite. Historically, the chapel had been taken over by a blacksmith during the times of revolution when all things associated with the church were burned or destroyed. It is said that the work of the blacksmith within the chapel caused a significant build up of soot to line the walls and this soot was ultimately responsible for the preservation of the paintings on the walls which are evident today. The painted walls represent the Lord during the crucifixtion, a number of disciples, Mother Mary holding a Fleur de Lys representing purity and at the same time nursing an adult Jesus in a baby size body. It also shows representations of the Archbishop as a jackal (apparently he wasn't well thought of) and various other pictures of religious significance.

We then went to the catacombs which were all carved out from a single huge piece of rock and these were reserved for those with either high position within society or of royal lineage. The places bodies had been lain were clearly visible and there are still human bones and some skulls to be seen within the burial areas.

Finally, we went to the monolithic chapel which defies description. It is difficult, even whilst within this chamber, to accept that you are underground and that above you on street level stands a large church and even larger steeple. The underground chapel has four major colums supporting the 4,500 ton chappel above it and incredibly, after all this time the below ground chapel and the altars built within in are both intact and still in use for specific religious occasions.

There remains on the ceilings and walls evidence of early paintings and religious artifacts and what struck me as particularly notable was that people had etched their names into the rock work whilst visiting, much like our graffiti artists of today, however the significant difference being the dates they did so - some being in 1729 and 1736. I guess the need to be remembered has been a constant through time but it was an incredible feeling for both of us to be standing in a functioning chapel, many metres underground, some 1,500 years after it had been originally built. The whole group of visitors were visibly in awe of the chapel, and all the other things we had seen thus far, and it was a very reverential assortment of tourists who emerged into the sunlight some 45 minutes later to take in the rest of the town.

During the tour, Jane and I met a couple from Christchurch, New Zealand named Brent and Raewyn who had purchased a motor home in England and were touring Europe for 7 months before returning to NZ, with the motor home, at the end of that time. These two people were an absolute pleasure to be with and after bumping into them a couple of times during the day, agreed to meet up later that evening at our camping ground.

Jane and I continued touring the town and climbed everything available to climb including the (above ground) chapel, the town square and a fortress on the outskirts of the town itself. Little legs seems to be getting the knack of all this climbing and before long she resembled a possum going up a tree - such was her enthusiasm to beat me to the top of the stairs each time. Unfortunately, these little spurts of energy took their toll and by the end of the day, the now famous "leg wobble" was starting to put in an appearance.

After a full day's sightseeing, we decided to walk the 3 km hike back to our camping ground and during the walk, had the opportunity to wander through vineyards, bask in the Bordeaux sunshine and once again discuss how fortunate we were to be able to do all this and experience the things we were seeing and doing.

Back at the camping ground, Brent and Raewyn joined us and it was an evening of drinks, of more drinks and by the time we called it a night, we realised we had not eaten anything and had just passed the time chatting - such was the company of Brent and Rae that we just seemed to form a very easy friendship and swapped stories about camping grounds we had both respectively been to. As Rae and Brent were going south, and we were going North, it was a good chance to off load some of our collected brochures from places we had already stayed at and vice versa.

During the evening's chat, Brent mentioned a town nearby called Arcachon which boasts Europe's largest sand dune. As Brent and Rae were heading there the next day, we politely asked if we could tag along and finished up following them to Arcachon (Brent has a GPS system in his motor home so Jane got the chance to have a break from navigating). Unfortunately, GPS systems tend to take you somewhere via the most direct route, irrespective of whether there is a road there or not, so we got to see quite a bit of the back streets, lanes, parking lots and undiscovered areas of Bordeaux town on our way to Arcachon. Motor homes are reasonably large units which were not ideally designed for some of the French streets which are sometimes encountered, as evidenced by the black stripe which found its way on the rear of Brent's motor home (and the perfrectly matching white stripe on the black car parked in the back street of Bordeaux).

We arrived at Arcachon and came upon the sand dune known as the Dune de Pilat. This sand dune is a continually shifting dune which is fed by the sea and the coastal winds in the area. At the time of our visit, it was approximately 104 metres high and approx. 2.5 klm wide. There is rumoured to be a motel under it which was taken over by the sand hill and whilst I can't say I saw evidence of it, I don't doubt it due to the proximity of houses and other structures nearby. We were informed that the sand hill had recently lost approx. 10 metres of its height however, because it is continually "fed" by the sea and wind, it is impossible to know it exact dimensions with any certainty.

Off course, I told Brent and Rae that in Australia, our kid's build sand castles this high when we have a day on the beach and that they needed to come to Oz to see fair dinkum' sand hills!!

Nonetheless, Jane and I opted for the stairs installed (in the sand mind you) to get to the top and those mad Kiwi's decided to walk up the hill via the sand. Full marks to them, they met us at the top and neither one looked like they would blow a candle out - such was their fitness and determination to make the "Aussies" look bad. After the usual look around at the top, we all climbed back down via the sand (which in itself is an adventure) and decided we would all have another night together so we headed into Arcachon township and to a camping ground that Brent had details of. After setting up and a quick bite to eat, we wandered the 1 klm into town and spent a lovely Sunday afternoon peering in shop windows, walking by the beach and finished it with 3 pints of Guinness each (accompanied by chilli olives and savoury biscuits) in an English/Irish/French bar.

Back to our campers for drinks (this time accompanied by dinner) saw us spend a great night sitting in front of our motor homes and describing to each other what we had seen in our travels and outlining future plans.

Next morning, we bid farewell to our new Kiwi mates with mutual promises of looking each other up should either of us find ourselves in the other's back yard some time in the future.

Brent and Raewyn - if you guys are reading this make sure you give us a call as soon as you plan to visit Australia. We expect you to stay with us and we would both really love to catch up with you again - I'll even show you some really BIG sandhills!! Thanks for the great couple of days together, we both enjoyed the humour and the company no end.

Armed with bucket loads of brochures and useful information given to us by Brent and Raewyn, Jane and I headed north to a place called Pointe de Graves where we got on board a ferry which took us across the channel to a place called Royan. From there, it was a long day's push and we drove via Niort, Saumur, the outskirts of Angers and on to Le Mans. From there, we continued north westerly to a town named Poix de Picarde where we bedded down for the night after a local meal of Casserol d'escargot (snail casserole) and L'omelette Jambon (cured meat) washed down with one of the worst beers I have ever drunk named Leffe Ruby. The beer is pink-red in colour and tastes like a bad beer that has had red cordial added to it making it an even worse beer.

Next day, on the road bright and early, this time heading via Amiens to Lille. During the drive, we were to see some of the prettiest French country side a tourist will ever see and the lush green fields and quaint cottages and villages seem to capture a time lost. Everything I had ever seen on television or in movies depicting rural France comes very much to life when you actually drive through France and see it first hand. It may be 2009, yet in many of these villages it could just as easily have been 1940 or earlier, such was the visual impression given by the houses and people within them.

From Lille we went on to Villers-Brittenaux - the site of the Australian War Memorial Cemetary and, for Jane and I, the start of the most poignant, sad and emotion provoking part of our trip to date.

From the outset, I will say that it is difficult to do justice to the memorial and the solemness one feels when pulling up in front of same. The memorial cemetary is high upon a beautiful green hill overlooking Villers-Brittenaux and is unobstructed in its attraction of the days sunlight. Like a true canvas of colour and brillance, the marble white headstones, symbollically and arithmetically aligned in row after row after row against superbly tended and manicured green lawns creates a mosaic of beauty and awe. Never before has the term "bitter sweet" held such relevance as at the first moment of sighting this immensely respectful, yet deeply sad, monument to our fallen hero's.

Walking amongst the gravestones, Jane and I went our separate ways to pay due respect in an individual manner. For me, the sense of patriotism and Aussie pride has never been more paramount nor more important, and I could not help but think of those misguided fools at Cronulla some years ago during the "Cronulla Riots", engaging in anything but true Australian behaviour and justifying their conduct and attitudes with the mantra of being "Australian". Here before us were the true Australians, those whose behaviour and conduct typified what being Australian was all about. Boys of 19, men of 36, husbands, fathers, sons, uncles, all united in the cause of freedom and paying the ultimate price for same.

Three headstone inscriptions were particularly poignant :

Green sod above, Lie Light, Lie Light, Goodnight dear husband, Goodnight, Goodnight. (a 26 year old soldier's headstone)

Another life lost - for what? (a 21 year old soldier's headstone)

Tread softly, for here lies our hero son. (a 19 year old soldier's headstone)

I have attached a photo of the Memorial at Villers-Brittenaux - one of the most emotional and moving places I have ever been.

From there, we drove to the town of Albert and visited multiple Australian War Memorial sites & cemetary's which have been erected relative to particular army units such as the 1st Battalion, the 2nd Battalion, the AIF generally, the Tank Division etc etc. All have been erected with obvious respect by the French Government and are tendered to, and maintained, impecably.

The same can be said of the cemetary at Fromelles. In recent months a further mass burial site has been located nearby and there are current excavation activities in place to repatriate the remains of Australian soldiers located in this newly discovered site. We drove past the excavation area and paid our respects at the cemetary. No matter how many headstones you see, we could not lose sight of the fact that each and every one represented an individual soldier, and it really was very emotional to read the statistics concerning the number of casualties resulting from the Great Way. In one particular battle, the name of which escapes me at the moment however occurred within the Somme, in one 24 hour period over 50,000 soldiers were killed with a territorial gain by the Imperial Forces of less than a kilometre. Such a high cost for such a (measurably at least) little gain!

The words "Lest We Forget" really mean something when you can conceptualise, in a visual way, the cost of war. There is something strangely beautiful, yet so very sad, about hundreds of perfect white headstones standing almost proudly in testament to the efforts of those who lay below them - "bitter sweet" in every sense!

We then moved on to Bray Dunes which is on the coast just north of Dunkirk. This is a lovely little coastal town with a 17 kilometre sand beach extending from Dunkirk in the south to the Belgium border in the north. We weren't taken by the only camping ground in the town so we set up camp in the car park in the middle of the town alongside about 20 other motor homes who appeared to be equally disappointed in the offerings of the local caravan ground. This is apparently perfectly legal provided stays do not extend beyond a 24 hour period.

Once again, the motor home community formed and the melting pot of nationalities in the car park made for interesting listening and discussion. We dined indoors on our usual "stay at home" dinner of baguettes and assorted meats and cheeses. A quiet night of uninterrupted slumber followed and next morning, Jane and I were up at 6am for a walk along the beach front and a quick appreciation of the town before the crowds came out. We found a small bakery and breakfasted on fresh croissants with piping hot coffee.

We packed up the motor home (which in the car park meant simply to push the step to the side door in and close the roof vents) and off we went, this time headed for Calais. We headed south via the coastal road and were amazed by the vastness of the beaches which occur due to the great distances between the high and low tide marks of the ocean along the coast of France in this area. Three wheeled sail vehicles are popular on the beaches here and are easily hired for a hair raising speed ride across the open sand "racetracks".

We arrived in Calais whilst driving around the town saw about 30 motor homes parked in a car park area, right on the beach and very close to the arrival point of large ships conveying freight, and vehicles, from Dover in England. We took up an available position and once again found ourselves accommodated in a prime location with magnificent, uninterrupted ocean views surrounded by like minded persons of all nationalities. Our immediate neighbours came from Great Britain, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, Austria and France. All spoke some form of "Motor Home" English (which I think should be an internationally recognised language, such is it's useage!) and we spent the afternoon sitting out in the sun, in the middle of this"overnight community" exchanging tales of travel, wandering around admiring each others homes and just taking in the wonder of the experience.

Dinner was a home made meal of pasta (cooked magnificently by little legs who is now starting to show her Italian culinary talents) and a very peaceful night followed during which we were continually treated to the sight of massive ships slipping silently into, and out of, the port and superimposed on a moon lit ocean with not a puff of wind to be felt. A night strtaight out of a story book!

Next day, we were up early and after attending to the pre-requisities of motor home living (no, not what you think - I meant topping up the fresh water tank for drinking and washing up and throwing out the garbage etc) we headed north west to the Belgium border.

Our destination today was the Australian War Cemetary in Ypres (the French name for the town of Iepers in Belgium) - the site of significant battles during the 1st World War and the now final resting place of Janes great uncle.

We crossed the Belgium border with only the remnants of the border check station as the actual confirmation of now being in another country. Since the unification of most of Europe within the European Union, the now abandoned border check points are the only real indicators evident of entry into different countries.

On arrival in Iepers, we drove through the famous Menin Gate and within a couple of turns came upon the Menin Gate South War Memorial Cemetary, situated well and truly within the confines of the town boundary and alongside residences and businesses.

Once again, we were confronted by an immaculately kept testament to the heroes of the Great War and in Section 3, Plot K 34, located the final resting place of:

Gunner Albert David Beard, 28455, 1st Brigade, Australian Field Artillery. Died of wounds 3 November, 1917. Aged 26. Son of Albert and Isabella Beard of Corowa, NSW. Native of Phillips Island, Victoria, Australia.

I left Jane standing at the foot of the plot so she could pay her respects in private. I know this was an emotional moment for Jane and whilst wandering through the cemetary, I was again struck by the ages, and numbers, of soldiers who had been killed on a single day during one battle.

How does one truly measure the success of war? When so many are lost, so young and no doubt under horrific circumstances - when the emotion and grief of those remaining is considered and when the fear, and bravery, of those facing the enemy is imagined, it is difficult to rationalise the concept of "winning". Yes, the Imperial Forces were the victors but the number of men and women who gave up their lives to "win" is something that all generations of Australians should be continually reminded of.

Jane left a personal note for her great uncle together with a small wooden cross with a poppy flower attached - one of very many now adorning the graves of Australians throughout France and Belgium. I remember reading of the "Killing Fields" during the reign of the Khmer Rouge but I will never forget the emotions and feelings generated by physically standing in "No Man's Land" in the Somme - the small patch of hell which lay between the German front lines and those of the Allies - that "neutral" area where the actions of Australians such as Sergeant Simpson of the Australian Infantry Forces became legend as he returned to retrieve dying Australians time after time, whilst under enemy fire, over a three day period.

During one of his rescue missions, a voice called out "Don't forget me, cobber". Simpson accordingly continued to bring back his mates and, fittingly, a bronze statue titled "Cobber" now stands at the site depicting the brave Simpson carrying an injured mate out of No Mans Land and across Allied lines. I have attached a photo of "Cobber" so that you can see how the efforts of Simpson have been recognised. It is difficult for me to articulate the emotions and levels of respect generated by the sight of this statue - other than to say the actions and sacrifices of these men truly define the word "Australian".

We strolled through the shops of Ieper and were told tales by local historians of the efforts of the Allies during the Great War, including one story of a 14 year old English boy who had signed up as a sniper and had tallied 7 "kills" in action before his age became known and he was subsequently sent home. Even in the telling, the respect held for the Australians, the British and the Candians by the Belgian people is evident. Australian flags are flown proudly in shops, in public places and in local government offices - the sight of which made Jane and I very proud and so thankful that we made the effort to visit the grave sites of so many.

We spent the next 3 hours driving east through the country side of Belgium and ended the day at a camping ground in a small town called Grimburgen. We dined in a small outdoor cafe next door to our site and had one of the most sumptuous meals of our trip thus far. I started with a huge serve of cigarette paper thin carpacio (raw meat) drizzled with pure virgin olive oil, lemon juice and sliced parmesan cheese. Jane and I both then had chicken breasts with vegetables and chips and I finished the meal with a desert of ice cream with frangelico liquor and cream. A couple of ice cold Belgian beers and a wonderfully chilled bottle of Belgian White wine later, we took the small walk back to our camper and had a fitful nights sleep.

Next morning, we were up and on the road reasonably early with no real destination in mind other than to continue heading east across Belgium with an eventual aim of finishing up back in Germany. On route, we found information relating to a camping ground in a place called Winneger so I duly rang the number and was answered by a female speaking German. As has become my habit, I answered in rudimentary German and then asked whether the lady spoke English. Her reply was "a little bit" so I enquired, in my slowest, clearest English whether there was accomodation available for our "camping car" for the night. I was greeted by "you must be a bloody Aussie" and as it turned out our host was a lady named Joanne from Nelson in New Zealand who arrived in Belgium 20 years earlier on a bicycle, found her way to the camping ground and finished up marrying the owners son. She now runs the place with her husband and after staying on the phone to give us detailed directions on how to get there, greeted us at the gate and refused to accept any payment for the nights accomodation.

Normally, when we have arrived at places they are quite specific about where you are permitted to set up however, in this case, we were told by Joanne to simply "pitch up somewhere, relax and come back later to let me know where you are". We found a great, grassed and shaded area between the boat marina on one side and the flowing Rhine Mosel river on the other. We ended up having a quiet night surrounded by some where in the vicinity of 100+ other motor homes, tents and caravans and yet, the quiet location and the general mood of relaxation was obviously infectious as we had a blissful night of sleep with not a disturbance of any sort.

Next day, we took our time packing up as we only had to travel for a couple of hours to get back into Germany and near the motor home drop off point in Frankfurt. We had booked a motel which, by our internet search, seemed to be fairly close to the motor home rental firm in a suburb of Frankfurt called Offenbach. On arrival at the motel later that day, we realised we were directly across the road from where the motor home had to be dropped off so we cleaned the camper out and for the first night in the past 25 nights, we once again slept in a motel bed.

Both Jane and I appreciated the linen, the facilities and the comfort of the hotel room however, were both sad to say goodbye the next day to our little "home on wheels". After the usual checks and paperwork, I said goodbye to the owners of the business and Jane and I got a cab into Frankfurt City and booked into another hotel. We had decided to stay in Frankfurt for another day and night so we could take a guided tour of the city and actually see the sites that Frankfurt had to offer.

As it turned out, we took a walk around the city to take in the sites armed with a tourist map of the place and a couple of bottles of cold water. Whilst it is a relatively large city, there isn't a lot within the place that really stands out as being special or unique. It was a steaming hot day and after spending the day wandering in and out of malls and plaza's of ancient churches and buildings, we had a meal at a bar/restaurant called "The Aussie Bar". This was a bar done out in Australiana to the extreme with Aussie flags flying proudly, pictures of kangaroos, Crocodile Dundee and just about every bit of "corny" Aussie things you could imagine. The place was absolutely packed out however, after about 10 mins Jane and I realised we were the only "Aussies" in the joint. Nonetheless, the food was great and we ate very well on a truly Aussie meal of Antipasto, olives, mixed cheeses and cold German Beer. Yep, the Aussie bar really is the place to go if you are an Australian tourist in Frankfurt and looking for a little bit of home!!

Another good nights sleep between sheets on a real bed and we were ready for our train trip to Zurich the next morning. Up bright and early, we arrived at the Railway Station and ate a quick breakfast, then onto the train and 3 hours later we arrived in Zurich, Switzerland. Once again, no border checks or anything resembling customs so we hitched the big back packs on and made our way to the hotel we had booked into which turned out being right in the middle of the restaurant/bar/cafe district of Zurich town. As we were walking to the place, which was about 500 metres from the Railway Station, the weather turned from being bright and sunny to extremely windy with dust and dirt flying everywhere. It got so bad at one stage that Jane had to put her sunglasses on just so she could see where we were going. We arrived at the Hotel called the Hotel Alexander and we had no sooner signed the register and handed over our passports when a massive hail storm hit the place. Were we to have been a minute later, we would have been caught in it and drenched throughout.

We went to our room which was clean, tidy and with a window overlooking the courtyard. We unpacked, had a quick shower and set out to explore Zurich town. We actually managed to get about 15 metres from the Hotel and found ourselves in an Irish Pub which sold Guinness (which made Jane happy) and we got chatting with the barman who was a young bloke about 22 years old, spoke five languages (including English thank heavens) and who travelled to America regularly to see his girlfriend. We spent most of the night there talking to him and he recommended a restaurant about 20 metres away as being his favourite.

Ready for a good dinner after our long day (in the Irish Pub) we took his advice and had a fantastic meal consisting of veal schnitzel with chips (which was Jane's choice) and I had thinly sliced chicken breast served in a cream and pepper sauce accompanied by a local delicacy called "Spietzel" which is a small dumpling which is lightly fried and prepared by hand when ordered. Save to say it was fantastic and I ended up having to eat Schnitzel and chips because once Jane tried mine, she decided she really wanted it instead.

We were seated at a table with another couple (the place was packed) and they turned out to be quite interesting company. He was a retired GP (we seem to have a knack of finding retired doctors) and his wife was an interpretor. They were from Germany however, often spent time in Zurich and were good company for the time we spent with them. I had another opportunity to brush up on my Italian and Jane had someone else to converse with so it was another night of good food and pleasant company.

On the advice of the night clerk within our Hotel, we signed up for a tour the next day to the "Top of Europe" which took us by coach from Zurich on a 2 hour trip to the Jungfrau Region of Switzerland, including Interlaken which lies between Lakes Thun and Brienz. Interlaken is the economic and cultural centre of the Region and we were dropped off at the Interlaken Railway Station to catch the Funicular which took about ten minutes to climb to the 1323 metre altitude of Harder Klum. Here we were provided with incredible views of Interlaken, the two lakes and the whole Jungfrau Region.

We then jumped on another train and travelled further up the mountain to Lauterbrunnen, Winteregg and Murren. We found ourselves amongst snow covered hills above the Valley of the Waterfalls surrounded by fragrant pine forests and meadows of Alpine flowers. From here, we continued the railway climb through Wilderswil and Schynige Platte to the 1967 metre mark. From this point, we saw the majesty of the Eiger, Monch and Jungfrau mountains open before us, draped in low cloud with occasional bursts of bright sunshine streaming through.

Needless to say, both Jane and I were pleased that we had not sent all our warm clothes home as we had been advised to dress warmly for this particular trip. How appropriate that advice turned out to be. Despite the sunshine, the temperature was dropping noticeably the higher we went and the increasing presence of snow convinced us there was more cold air to come.

On we went on what is Europe's highest railway and continued to Kleine Scheidegg, the foot of the Eigernordwand (the Eiger Mountain North Wall which featured in the movies The Eiger Sanction with Clint Eastwood and also Mission Impossible with Tom Cruise). By now, the snow was really think and the temperature was hovering around the +2 degress mark.

And yet on we went, with a quick stop mid way up the Eiger North Face which provided a viewing area and finally to Jungfraujoch, "The Top of Europe" at 3,454 metres above sea level. We disembarked from the train and walked out of the tunnel to an outside observation area. Here the temperature was fluctuating between -6 and -10 degrees and we stood in knee deep snow.

We then walked to an even higher viewing area, known as the Sphinx (3,571 metres) and had a perfect 360 degreee view of France, Germany and Italy. We also saw the Aletsch Glacier - the longest glacier in Europe and had a truly magnificent view of the Monch Mountain - standing proudly before us at a height of 4,107 metres.

Despite the freezing cold, I couldn't help thinking about the majesty and beauty of the surroundings. For the slightest moment, I understood how truly magnificent it must be to climb Mt Everest and look out over the world. The outside temperature finally got the better of us and after a couple of photographs, we headed back indoors to the comfort of a cafe for lunch. Whilst eating, we met another couple from Australia and it turned out that Colin was a Senior Police Chaplain with the Queensland Police Force and Jenny (his wife) was a producer with a Theatre Company in Brisbane. We spent the rest of the day with them and they were great company.

The four of us had loads of fun walking through a very long cave called "The Ice Palace" which had been carved out of sheer ice in the mountain. Everything had a pale blue colour about it and the whole experience was surreal.

After a fantastic afternoon of taking in the view and swapping travel stories with Colin and Jenny, it was time to start the long trip back down the mountain and finally back to Zurich. The trip down was as beautiful as the trip up and provided many photo opportunities of the Swiss Alps in all their (snow covered) beauty.

We arrived back in Zurich about 8pm that night and after showering and freshening up at our motel, headed back to the same restaurant we had eaten at the night before as Jane had a craving for more "Spietzel". After dinner, we had a stroll around the cafe's and shops and then put ourselves to bed, tired and contented after a beautiful day in the mountains.

Next day, we packed our bags in preparation for our train trip to Rome that night and after leaving our bags with the Hotel staff, headed off on a guided bus tour of Zurich. We saw lots of churches, historic buildings, magnificent lakes and beautiful country side surrounding the city which now houses some of the worlds largest insurance company headquarters. Zurich is a particularly expensive city to live in (and to visit) and only 6% of its population actually own their own homes. The others either rent or live in distant suburbs and are forced to commute into Zurich town.

After the tour was over, we made our way back into the cafe district near our hotel and wandered back to the Irish Pub for a Guinness or two before taking the night train to Rome. After a couple of hours in the pub, we collected our bags, made the trek back to the railway station and at precisely 9.23pm, our train left Zurich station bound for Rome.

Jane and I had booked ourselves a couchette with sleeping allocations for the top bunks. We thought this would be a great spot to sleep, high above the others in the six bunk cabin. As it turned out, it was a 12 hour trip on a particularly hot night and as per the laws of physics, hot air rises therefore the hottest part of the cabin was surrounding the top bunks. As such, we were confronted with stiffling temperatures, an overly excited 18 month old Indian girl who's indian parents spent the entire night trying to quieten, two cabins (which are made to hold 6 people) containing 15 American kids on a holiday who all participated in a competition to see who could stay up the longest and a lecherous Indian guy in his 50's who spent the entire night prowling up and down the corridor looking into any cabin that contained women.

Needless to say, the sight of Rome station the next morning made Jane very happy and we were determined to enjoy this leg of our trip, particularly knowing that Grahame and Lone Langford - our good friends from Cronulla - were joining us later in the day.

Well, I have probably rattled on enough now. I will end this particular blog here with an apology for not having posted a blog sooner however, once again the technical gremlins have been at play and, coupled with sporadic internet coverage, circumstances have prevented an earlier publication.

Our best wishes to all - the next blog will contain tales of our time in Rome, on the Amalfi Coast and the Isle of Capri, and of our experiences with my family in a small town on the East Coast of Italy called Fermo.

Keep the feedback and comments coming.

Little legs and me.

Bonjour mes amis

Welcome back everyone!

You might want to make a coffee, take a quick toilet break and settle in nice and comfortably because, unlike my other blogs, this one could be a bit long!

If I recall correctly, our last blog was brought to you from the shores of the Costa Brava - sitting by the pool and looking out over the virgin like white beaches, emerald and jade green seas, basking in the glorious sunlight and pontification of the many difficult issues that lay ahead of us - what would we select from the menu for dinner that evening; should we stroll barefoot and care free on the sand whilst the waves lap the shore prior to reposing for the evening; would a midnight swim in the Olympic pool followed by a relaxing spa in the Jacuzzi prepare us for the many challenges that lay ahead in days to come - ah, the stress of it all.

Needless to say, rather than try and choose one specific activity, we decided to indulge in them all however, rest assured you were all on our minds the whole time!

The following morning saw another magnificent day present itself so after a hearty breakfast of cafe con leche (coffee with milk), dos premier ( 2 sweet pastries) and an accompanying mouth freshener of agua con gas (sparkling mineral water), we packed up the camper and undertook the next leg of our Spanish adventure - south to Barcelona.

Little legs armed herself with the essential items all good navigators require:

1. Her trusty street directory (the one totally written in German)
   
2. An out of date map of Europe I borrowed from my Dad which is so old it shows Italy in the shape of a "sensible shoe" rather than the "boot" we all now recognise
   
3. A small spinning world globe we acquired in an antique shop along the way (we actually have it mounted on the dashboard of the motor home and tell people it is the latest in Australian GPS units and that you turn it on simply by spinning it!!)
   

3 hours and 250 klms later, we arrived in the thriving metropolis of Barcelona which, for those rare few who are not familiar with the history of the beautiful town:

1. is the home of the still occupied and used Monestir de Pedralbes (a monastery) which was founded in 1326 by Queen Elisenda de Montcada
   
2. was the setting for the 1888 Universal Exhibition
   
3. houses the magnificent Royal Palace built for King Alfonso XIII in 1924,
   
4. hosted the 1992 Olympic Games
   
5. hosted the 2004 Universal Forum of Culture.
   

We secured accommodation at a camping park called the 3 Estrellas (which means 3 stars - 2 less than Jane normally likes to stay at) and after a quick stroll and familiarisation with the surroundings, we dined within the on-site restaurant and had an early night. The following morning, we jumped on an early bus which took us straight into the heart of Barcelona, the Placa de Catalunya. This is a very large plaze within the centre of town and from the moment we arrived, Jane and I were overcome by the sheer size of this City.

As has become our practice, we secured two tickets on the "hop on - hop off" bus trip with the Barcelona Bus Turistic company (19 Euros each) and off we went.

Through sheer good luck, as evidenced within one of the photographs I have attached, we were on the same bus as Micheal Jackson and his stunt double so we got to rub shoulders with a true superstar - this trip looked liked being a "thriller" right from the word go!

We were shown highlights of this beautiful city including the Kings Palace which really must be seen to be appreciated. It runs the entirety of a city block and is an imposing, yet grandiose building which still gets used by the Royal family of Spain for official receptions. Outside of those occasions, the Palace is open for visitors.

One of the most significant architects in Barcelona's (and in fact Spain's) history was a man named Antoni Gaudi. It is obvious from his work that he was well ahead of his time - evidenced by his avant garde desings which meld neo-gothic with contemporary style. His most famous work is a yet to be completed church named the Sagrada Familia. Work began on the project, under Gaudi's direction, in the late 19th Century and at the time of his death in 1926 (he was run over by a tram which, ironically, was named after him before it killed him) only one of the now erected 8 towers had been completed. The continuance of this strangely beautiful church is now funded by donations from visitors, tourists and the occasional philanthropist with an expected completion date of 2025. I have included a photo of this so you might get some sense of how totally radical Gaudi was in his vision of structures and design. The photo in question shows 4 towers with what appear to be bulbs on the top of each.

We also visited the home stadium of the Futbol Club Barcelona (Barcelona Soccer Club) which has been the home to players such as Kubala, Cruyff, Maradon and Ronaldinho. The Club was founded in 1899 and is Europes largest and most successful soccer team/club. As indicated in our previous blogs, Jane and I have now become avid soccer fans and Barcelona supporters to boot so for us, the visit to the Barcelona Stadium was akin to a Muslim visiting Mecca whilst undertaking the Haj.

Without going into every single detail of our tour, let me just say that the only way to really appreciate the size, the nature and the essence of Barcelona is to actually visit the place and immerse yourself in its pulse. It is vibrant, nostalgic, contemporary and historic all at the same time and any visit to this beautiful city would not be complete without a ride on the cable car which takes you to the very top of Barcelona's main "hill" which also houses a truly magnificent castle. This really was a highlight of the day's tour as it gave us an opportunity to conceptualise the places we had seen by bus during the day and geographically understand the layout of the city.

Barcelona does not have multiple high rise buildings as seen in Sydney however, it is such a large city, spread out over such a significant area, that it actually makes Sydney appear no more than a reasonable sized suburb. From its sea port, resplendent with both cruise ships and freight carriers, to its industrial areas on the outskirts of the city, to its many castles and churches, and finally to the hill overlooking the outlay of it all, Barcelona really is a city to behold.

We finished the day with an authentic Paella each, mine being Pollo (chicken) and Jane have mixte (seafood and meat) and then walked off dinner with a stroll down Barcelona's most famous street, La Rambla (which should be Spanish for "the world's noisiest and most lively street on earth"). Here we were entertained by street performers, had the opportunity to buy everything ranging from ferrets, turtles, birds and chickens to flowers, lingerie, souvenirs and food. Just walking down this street provided the opportunity to absorb the colour, the texture and the kaleidoscope of humanity that confronts you in all directions. We both loved the experience and after a couple of hours it was obvious to me that those little legs were getting tired (the knee "wobble" has become a dead give away) so we hopped on the bus and headed back to the camping park for another good nights sleep.

We were on the road by 9.30am the next day, faced with a 628 klm drive from Barcelona to Madrid via Zaragoza. The drive from Barcelona to Madrid provided us with some of the most varied landscapes we have seen to date. Lush fields supporting various crops and herds of grazing animals were interspersed with vast patches of arid tundra and desert like sand. Between Zaragoza and Madrid, I saw areas of the country which looked like a set from some Western movie - plateau's and mesa's which could have been the back drop to any episone of Bonanza, High Chaperal or The Big Valley (Barbara Stanwyck included!)

Whilst driving through these areas, I recalled early westerns I had watched with my dad and thought of numerous scenes involving shoot outs between John Wayne, Audy Murphy and countless hordes of Apache, Sioux and Navaho indians - such was the appearance of these particular cliffs and rugged earthen terrain. In fact, during our subsequent visit to Madrid we befriended a couple of people from Arizona and I believe that were they to have driven to the places we had just driven through, they may have mistakenly believed they had arrived back home in the United States.

I have included a photo illustrating what I refer to about the "western" look of the country. The most striking feature of the landscape was the absolute delineation between the lushness and the bareness of the country - almost as if the hand of God had drawn a line in the dirt and where one ceased, the other commenced.

We arrived in Madrid and secured accommodation in a camping park named Alpha Madrid which, strange as it may sound, was located within an Industrial Estate 12 klms outside the City of Madrid in a town named Getafe. We set up our motor home in a quiet and reasonably secluded area and, on our arrival, noted that two fold up chairs and a fold up table stood in the middle of the camping plot next to ours.

As seasoned motor home travellers, we immediately recognised these symbols for what they were - universally recognisable indicators that others had already secured that particular plot and were staking it as their own whilst absent - what we in Australia refer to as having "dibs" on the spot. A quick piece of invaluable advice here for any aspiring motor homers - it is essential that these sorts of signs are noted and respected by all within the motor home fraternity, lest someone relieve themselves into your water tank during the night as retaliation for any disrespect shown.

About an hour later, a motor home pulled up and backed into the spot where the chairs and table had been. Before long, we came to meet with the occupants, two absolutely fantastic retired specialist surgeons from Italy who take breaks from their respective wives and families and travel together around Europe for a couple of weeks to a month at a time.

Alessio and Fabio were in their late 60's, had both known each other for 35 years through working in the same hospital yet, prior to each suffering major heart attacks, had not really had much to do with each other. Circumstances brought them together and they became close friends - in fact amongst their respective families and friends they are known as the Amici de Cuore (friends of the Heart) due to the medical conditions that caused their mateship to begin.

Whilst both had a rudimentary grasp of the English language, the time we spent with these guys was the most outrageous, educative, informative and good plain old fun that we have had so far on this trip. Through their efforts, and patience, my Italian has improved no end (as has Jane's for that matter) and their English now includes the words "you little beauty", "fan-bloody-tastic" and "Wodonga" - would love to be a fly on the wall to hear how those three rippers get used in a sentence!!!

We were invited to have dinner with the guys, which Fabio offered to cook, and we feasted that evening on fresh crusty bread, spaghetti with vongole (pippi's), pomodore and chiphola (tomato's and onions) done in rock salt and pure olive oil, washed down with Portugese red wine and finished with nips of straight vodka - an unusual combination I must admit however, the circumstances and surroundings were such that it all seemed perfectly natural at the time and even now, whilst writing this blog entry, I find myself smiling in recalling that first night together with those guys.

We had a truly memorable evening and at one point during the night, I found out that Fabio actually came from an area of Italy called Le Marche which is the same area my Dad comes from. Obviously, this was a sign from the heavens that Dad and Fabio needed to speak to each other so I duly rang Dad (4.45am Sydney time - sorry mate) to put them in touch.

My reasoning for doing so was simple enough - any two people coming from the same country MUST know each other therefore it was essential that I facilitate their re-union. As it turned out, and very much to my surprise, Fabio and Dad didn't know each other however, being Italians, it didn't take long before there was frenetic hand gesturing and theatrics with the conversation revolving around some incredibly serious topics - their home towns, wine and women!

I was eventually handed back the phone and got the impression that Dad actually enjoyed the opportunity to speak to a fellow country man who was familiar with his local area, despite the ungodly hour chosen to do so. Dad wasn't the only one having a good time - Jane seemed to really enjoy herself and both Alessio and Fabio showed Jane immense respect by including her in all our conversations and directing specific questions and comments to her - blissfully unaware that they did so in Italian and obviously took Jane's head nodding as confirmation that she spoke fluent Italian and was in total agreement with their opinions on the subjects being discussed.

Prior to calling it a night, we agreed we would travel into Madrid together in the morning as the trip into town involved a bus trip to a town named Legazpi, then a train trip into the Puerta del Sol - the centre of Madrid city.

Fabio and Alessio were history and art buffs and had a specific interest in the Museums and Galleries whereas Jane and I were keen to get onto a "ho on - hop off" bus and see the sites. We agreed to meet up with the guys later that night back at the camp for another communal dinner and with that, we headed off for a cafe con leche and a dolce (sweet) before taking in the sites of Madrid.

As first time travellers to Madrid, the city's architecture and history are impressive however, is similar to some parts of both Paris and London. Madrid is a current candidate city for the 2016 Olympic Games therefore, is undergoing a major facelift. Everywhere we went, there were obvious signs of either new construction or upgrading of existing facilities including plumbing, electricity and road transportation.

For these reasons, we probably saw much more of Madrid that is normally seen by tourists on buses as we were continually diverted around road workds and the like. We visited the Fubol Club Madrid - the home ground of Real Madrid and until recently the the team for which David Beckham played for (as committed Barcelona soccer supporters, neither Jane nor I enjoyed this bit of the tour. In fact, were we French, we would have spit on the ground in front of the Stadium!!)

We saw all the usual tourist sites and more however, we weren't overly fussed on the place. Madrid is old and tired and, perhaps because of all the work currently underway, seems disjointed. It does have significant history and wonderful examples of early Spanish architecture and culture yet neither one of us would rush back here for another visit (unless it was on the way to a Barcelona soccer match or a weeks holiday at the Costa Brava!).

We returned by bus/train to our camp and sure enough, Alessio and Fabio were hard at it preparing the evenings dinner of pasta with Siciliana sugo (sauce made up of olives, spices, tomato's and various other things best left unsaid) steak marinated in lemon juice and rock salt, tomato's and onions in oil and salt, fresh bread and this time washed down with a couple of bottles of Sangre de Torro (Blood of Bulls) which is a particularly well known Spanish wine that Jane and I had picked up on the way home as a "thank you" gesture for the guys.

As per the previous night, it was another occasion of laughter, of serious discussions concerning the rise and further rise of Bernasconi as the President of Italy, the unification of various political parties and parts of the Communist Party within the current Italian Government, the role of the mafia in politics, both historically and in a more contemporary setting, and of course the inevitable debate about whether Italian women are the most beautiful in the world. Fabio and Alession did acknowledge that Jane gave their theory a real run for its money - Fabio describing Jane as a "woman of great mystery"

All in all, after much wine, hand gesturing and laughter, we finally called it a night just after midnight - Jane and I laying in bed and reflecting on how fortunate we had beeen to have met such great people and and very appreciative of the way in which they had "adopted" us into their trip. We had taken no end of photos of each other, enchanged email addresses, phone numbers and home address details with promises that we would look each other up - whether the guys ever found themselves in Australia or were Jane and I to find ourselves in their particular towns during our forthcoming tour of Italy with Grahame and Lone Langford.

We travelled via freeways through Burgos and as could be expected, travel on freeways in this part of the country is accompanied by splendid scenery of lush fields as far as the eye can see. One thing that has struck both Jane and I is the vast fields of electricity generating wind mills we have seen throughout rural areas of Spain and France. Both countries seem to have adopted eco-energy in a very committed manner and utilise naturally windy areas for maximum benefit.

We arrived in a small coastal town named Zarautz which is a fishing village, much like that previously described in our blog concerning the town of Playas Les Flot. Accommodation for "camping cars" wasn't available so we drove on and went through towns such as Donastia San Sebastian, St. Jean de Luz, Biarritz and finally settled in a town named Lebenne which saw us cross the Spanish border and once again enter the land of phlegm and "barkers eggs".

On arrival, we set up camp and cooked up a dish of pasta followed by a lovely after dinner walk amongst the trees and then turned in for an early night after a long day behind the wheel. We had seen some great sights within the inland of Spain yet Jane and I always feel more at home when we find ourselves near the ocean and see beaches and seagulls.

We left Lebenne the next morning with the intention of driving no more than 3 hours and seeing where that would take us. Along the way, we pulled into a beach side town named Hossigor which immediatelyt gave the impression of an "up market" surf village. Despite the locals wearing board shorts, caps and t-shirts, these were accessorised with heavy gold necklaces, earrings and designer sunglasses.

We had cafe crema et croissants (we are back in France after all) and I had the chance to chat to a couple of local police who were extremely friendly and willing to assist with directions. It was obvious by their nature and their use of the English language that they were used to dealing with tourists. As you can see in the attached photo, I also got to go on motorcycle patrol with the local cops although I must say I prefer my Harley or even the BMW's we use at home rather than the bikes used by the French Police.

Whilst in Hossigor, we also dropped into the local Tourism office (a must for travelling in rural/regional Francew) as they provided detailed maps of local regions and sound advice in relation to places to see and to avoid. Jane had located information in one of our camping books on a camping ground in the Vielle-St. Girons area of the Bordeaux/Bayonne Region and we were provided with information about the best way to get there and distances etc.

Within an hour, we had arrived at Le Col Vert and it was everything written about it and more. This was a great camping park located on the banks of the Etang de Leon (Lake Leon) and surrounded by surfing beaches and beautifully unspoilt pine forests. The camp houses over 800 sites which accomodate tents, camping cars (motor homes) and caravans together with numerous on site bungalows available for hire. There were 3 large swimming pools, a heated pool, 2 spas and vast areas surrounding same to simply sunbathe and think about work!

After checking in and setting up, we hit the pool and spent the whole day sunbathing with the tepid waters of Etang de Leon flowing and ebbing nearby. Dinner at a nearby restaurant consisted of two of the biggest pizzas Jane and I had ever seen, Jane's being a combination of Jambon (cured meats) and mine being seafood.

Fully feted, we walked back to our motor home escorted by the sprinkle of evening rain. Once in bed, we drifted off to sleep listening to the rythmic repertoire of rain drops on the motor home roof and silhouetted by the illumination of an evening moon shining through our perspex skylights.

The following morning saw a day of continued rain and after attending to a 6am local time (2pm Sydney time) conference call regarding uni assignments, I woke Jane and we spent the day occupying ourselves with washing, cleaning the motor home and reviewing our maps to determine our next port of call.

Dinner that night was again at the nearby cafe - Jane once again opting for a pizza, this time consisting of Chorizo (a spicy spanish sausage) and I chose a dish of Lomo (pork fillets) accompanied by a light green salad drizzled with Balsamic vinegar and red wine. A quick walk home and another night of serenaded slumber thanks to the light rain that continued to fall.

This morning, we had an unusually late sleep in, not waking until 7.45am and after attending to ablutions, packed up and after leaving Le Col Vert, passed through Mimizan, Roquefort, Captieux and Langon, finally arriving at a small town named Saint-Emilion. This place was recommended to us by Kate Spargo, a friend of ours from Albury, who had visited here a number of years ago and declared it her favourite place in France.

Saint-Emilion is a picturesque medieval town, built on a hill with steep and narrow streets. We arrived at our accomodation, a camping park named Domaine de la Barbanne, which is occupied by at least 15 other motor homes, most of which are occuped by tourists from Great Britain doing a French wine tour.

We have booked the 10am shuttle bus into the village tomorrow morning and intend to take one of the guided tours up and down the tertres and escalletes (local name for the narrow cobblestone streets at a very steept angle) and also the below ground tour of the catacombs, the Hermitage, the Chapelle de la Trinite' and the Monloithic Church. No doubt these will form part of the commentary in our next blog.

Tonight, we dine indoors and fine ourselves surrounded by vast vineyards, lush landscapes and at least 20 bloody pommies all of whom are over lubricated by fine french wine and feel the need to see who can talk louder than the next bloke. Wouldn't mind so much if they actually said something that had value!!

Kid and Lone Langford - not long now and we are looking forward to catching up with you in Rome soon.

Good health to all our families and friends - please continue to post comments as we love reading your views and it keeps us up to date with what is going on at home.

Love to all

Fiffi and Pierre (alias Little Legs and Rick)

Buenos Dias Amigos

Hola

Now, where were we??

Oh yeah, on the Costa Brava coast - sorry, I got so carried away by the beautiful temperatures, crystal clear waters, white sands and topless sunbathers that I momentarily lost all concept of where I was!

At last blog, I think I mentioned that we had set up camp in a camping park in a great place with fabulous sea views and all the facilities we need. Well, the place and surrounds are that good that we decided to add an extra night to our stay meaning this blog comes to you from the same place as the last one. Since the previous blog, we have:

• slept in
• had coffee and croissants
• sunbathed and swam in the pool
• walked back to our motor home for an afternoon siesta
• walked back to the pool for another swim
• walked to the bar/restaurant for dinner and drinks
• watched Manchester United beat Arsenal (we both know nothing about soccer)
• watched Barcelona score an equaliser against Chelsea (still know nothing about soccer)
• slept in
• had coffee and croissants..........
  

I think you get the drift!

Today, we actually ventured down to the beach and walked the 2klm along the beach path into the township of Platja d'Aro. Like typical tourista's, we simply walked in and out of shops, sat in cafe's and snacked, then had a local lunch - Jane having a Tortilla Espanola' (an omelette with Potatos) and I had Tostido's (various dips on local bread including anchovies, olives, tuna, chilli, lots of oil and then lots more oil). Wonderful meal and then the 2km walk back to our camp so we could have a swim, wander off for an afternoon siesta........(deja' vu kicked in yet?)

We are currently sitting on the outside balcony of the camping ground restaurant gazing out over the Mediterranean Sea. I have to keep reminding myself that this is a Camping Ground rather than some retreat for the rich and famous - the surroundings, the facilities and the location are simply fabulous.

In fact, Jane and I had just discussed whether we would extend our stay here for another night however, at this stage I think we will be leaving in the morning and heading south to Barcelona. I have located a great camping ground (according to the internet so time will be the judge on that) and I am keen to witness a Corrida (a bull fight) and to really get amongst some traditional Gambas al oleo (garlic prawns), Paella (the Spanish version of rice-a-reso but with flavour) and all washed down with Sangria (a fruit drink that actually gives you a punch!).

I will sign off now however, will blog again soon. In the interim, you will have seen a couple of extra photos on this blog just to fill in a bit more space.

Love to all and take care

Little Legs and Rick

PS. Forgot to mention - during this morning's beach walk into town, we were required to travel up and down a significant number of steps as we cut across headlands from one beach to another. You will all be pleased to hear that those little legs managed to get Jane into town with only the slightest little wobble evident and through sheer guts and determination, she powered on.

In fact, even the locals are starting to clap and cheer when she walks past them - such is the reputation she, and her legs, have developed over here. It is not unusual to hear the world famous Spanish chant of "Aussie Aussie Aussie, Hola Hola Hola" erupt whenever she walks by.

Rest assured blog readers, those little legs are doing Australia (and Telstra) proud!

A New Day

Hello everyone

A new day dawned and off we went.

At last blog, we had indicated our intention to head to Montpellier and beyond. Well, we packed up the motor home in Dardilly and headed south. This was predominately motorway driving so there wasn't really much to report on regarding this aspect of the trip other than the usual (now benign) experiences of subsonic speeds by cars overtaking us and beautiful scenery as far as the eye could see.

The land in this part of France (and the rest of it I suspect) is so fertile I am convinced you could grow kids here!

Anyway, we arrived in Montpellier and had found some literature about a camping ground called the Oasis Palasienne. It was about 3klm beyond Montpellier and sounded exotic so we decided to give it a go. After all, we had stayed in Auschwitz - aka. Frankfurt City Camping - so we were ready for anything.

Well, the Oasis Palasienne was not exotic, in fact rather than an Oasis it was more like a puddle - although in fairness it was not all that bad except that the lawns were almost as tall as me and appeared to have been spared the mower or whipper snipper for about 12 months - the restaurant and bar was not open yet (even though the tourist season was officially underway), the only water views (which had been advertised) were gained if you looked over the shower wall whilst someone was showering next to you and it was 3 km from anything with nothing anywhere nearby to walk to.

Once again, we relied on baguettes, smoked meats and cheeses washed down with a little beer and wine and had an early night. Prior to bedtime, Jane and I had walked around the graveyard, er sorry, the camping ground, and did see, in the faraway distance, buildings and landscape that gave the impression of being the coast so decided we would at least drive there the next morning before we pushed off again on the next leg of our adventure.

As it turned out, this was the best thing we could have done. That distant resemblence of coastal landscape turned out to be a little fishing village called Palavas Les Flots and it reminded us both very much of Dingle in Ireland or Forster on the mid north coast of NSW. Wonderful little village right on the ocean with channels into the main section of town where the fisherman unload their catch each morning and sell direct to the public in the main street. We wancdered amongst the fishing boats and crews, who by this time (10am) had unloaded their catch and whilst their wives tended to the cleaning and sale of the catch, the fishermen were to be found seated behind the women, slicing smoked ham from the leg, accompanying this with large chunks of fine French fromage and washing the whole lot down with a bottle (or 4) of red wine. Once again, I found myself musing on the joys of being a French fisherman in a no nonsense, no worry environment like Palavas Les Flots.

On entering this particular village, we had seen a large paved parking lot very near to the main Marina where no end of boats were berthed. It turned out this "parking lot" was in fact a overnight (or as long as you liked) accomodation area for motor homes, complete with electricity, fresh water, toilets and showers and all available for the overnight price of about 15 Euros. We immediately drove in and booked ourselves a wonderful spot right at the marina edge with the water and floating boats all of about 6 feet in front of our motor home.

An absolutely delightful view straight out of our front window and a fabulous spot to bunk down for the night knowing we were in a secure area, surrounded by about 50 other motor homes of various size and opulence all sharing the view, the experience and the life style.

I wandered around (as I am prone to doing) to admire the various configurations and set ups of these homes and got to speak to quite a number of people. It turns out the motor home community in Europe in vast and they will spend significant periods of the year travelling around Europe - similar I guess to our own 'grey nomads' - however, these people have the benefit of being able to do it every couple of week ends through the proximity of European countries and the opportunity to just jump in the motor home and head off for the weekend to France, Spain or Germany - or many other countries as well- and get back home in time to start work on Monday. For that reason I guess, motor homes are a really big thing over here and having now travelled on roads in three countries (Germany, France and Spain) I understand why you see more motor homes than semi trailers on the road. Everyone who gets the chance takes up the opportunity of travel and does so quite comfortably in a motor home. Its affordable, accomodation is everywhere and all undertaking this type of travel seem friendly and offer assistance in whatever form needed if/when required.

Back to the story: So Jane and I hooked up the power, locked up the motor home and ventured into Palavas Les Flots for a survey of the town and its inhabitants.

I once read a book by Kate Grenville called The Idea of Perfection which was set in a (fictitious) little country town. When I read the book, I thought of the setting of another book called The Bridges of Maddison County and I believe that Palavas Les Flots could have been used for the inspiration of either of the two. Nothing clever or funny to mention here - simply a wonderful place and one Jane and I truly enjoyed being in. Great local people who represent, in our eyes at least, the quintessential french rural lifestyle - from the sea worn and weathered tanned skin of the fishermens faces to the still evident liveliness sparkling in the eyes of older village women scurrying about making much about nothing really but occupying their time none the less.

The simplicity and contentment abounding in this village was for me an absolute highlight of the trip thus far. I really was sorry to have to pack up and move on and told Jane I could have quite easily stayed for many more days.

We lunched on freshly prepared sea food of moule (mussels), crevette (prawns) and petite poulpe (calamari). This was accompanied by french crusty bread and finished with creme caramel and espresso cafe.

We filled in the afternoon browsing through the shops, walking amongst the bobbing boats on the pier and feeling the sand dissipate between our toes as we carried on like schoold kids running in and out of the ebbing french waters on the nearby beach. Time literally seemed to stand still and I think we could have gone on doing this for ever, however, before we knew it the time had come to source another restaurant for dinner.

We found a place which was apparently popular, judging by the number of people eating in it, so took a table and were served a filling meal of veal and pasta for moi and a pizza for Jane which would have easily doubled as a "lazy susan" on a gourmet table seating 15. Needless to say, Jane was not able to get through it all but we both wandered back to our motor home that night feeling filled and relaxed after a wonderfully simple day taking in the pleasures of this little place.

A great nights sleep and after a quick breakfast of coffee, croissants and another walk around, we packed up the motor home and headed for the Spanish border.

We hit the motorways and encountered some really rough wind blowing us (and other motor homes, caravans and large trucks) all over the road but eventually, we came to the (by now) expected toll point - adieu France - hola Espana!

I hadn't previously mentioned the toll booths but let me just say this - they leave the old toll gates at Berowra and the Harbour Bridge for dead. Conservatively, these toll gates have been set up across at least 24 lanes of traffick as the road spreads out on entering same. They are both a welcome site (as an indicator of arriving at specific destination points on our trip) and awesome when confronted by them for the first time. Booths are both automated and manually operated and personnel within same seem to be multi lingual - having no difficulty speaking English, Spanish, Italian, German and no doubt countless other languages in recognition of the variety of nationalities passing through same each day.

We then drove on and whilst travelling toward the Costa Brava coast, had our first true glimpse of the Pyrenee's (Pirineos in Spanish) mountains which, in contrast to the sunshine and 25 degree temperature we were experiencing, were still heavily covered in snow. We captured some lovely photos of the mountains and eventually drove into a town named Palafrugell which is effectively the commencement of the Costa Brava coastline. A puick stop in a parking area right on the beach and we lunched in our motor home with the door wide open admiring and taking in the bridal white sand of the seaside splashed against the crystal clear blue waters of the Spanish coast. I see why the English come here in their droves - the sands on these beaches would be the only thing on earth whiter than their legs!!

We finished lunch and hit the expressway to a place called the Globo Rojo which advertised on the internet as a "hip, happening camping park where everything you need is at your doorstep". This is about 40 klms north of Barcelona and after arrival, we requested that we be permitted to actually walk around and "check the place out" before we booked in (another handy hint for aspiring travellers in lieu of our recent experiences at Auschwitz and the "Oasis").

Good thing we did - the internet site was far more "hip and happening" than the park was so we decided to do a u-turn and head north again, this time via the entire Costa Brava coastline, until we found a place we wanted to stay at.

Even though this took a lot longer than going by motor way, the scenery was well and truly worth the continual gear changing required going up and down windy coast roads with high cliffs on one side and massive sheer drops to the ocean below on the other. A couple of heady moments were experienced when we encountered full size tourist buses coming the other way and I now have a completely new respect for anyone who drives a bus - whether it be the drivers of these top of the range coaches ferrying tourists across Europe right down to the poor bugger transporting kids to school and back each day - these guys have gone up in my estimation. We arrived in a place called St Feliu de Guixols and found a great camping place called Cala GoGo which is in an area named Calonge. As it turned out, this place was about 25 minutes from where we had stopped to have lunch at Palafrugell some 4 and a half hours earlier.

We booked in and set up the motor home in about 5 minutes. Jane has become quite the hand at this and once I pull in, she gets the chocks out of the back and puts them under the relevant wheels (I then drive onto them and this levels up the motor home), hooks us up to power and then winds out the awning. Our selected spot is near the two very large swimming pools (one of which is heated), is high up with views of the Costa Brava coast and out to sea, near the restaurant and bar and very close to all amenities we need. We decided to spend 3 nights here to "recharge the batteries" and soak up some much needed sun and ocean swimming (and to give my left knee time to recover from a bad dose of "clutch leg"!)

We are also sitting in a WiFi serviced site so I am writing this to you at 5pm in the afternoon under a gorgeous blazing sun. Jane and I have been swimming this morning and generally lazing about. We will be heading for a walk down to the beach once I send this off and I have attached a couple of photos from the last few days including pictures of Palavas Les Flots, the Pyrenees and our current camp site.

Hope all is well with you all - please keep the comments coming. We enjoy your chit chat and it keeps us informed about whats happening with you.

Love to everyone

Seniora Piernas Poco (Little Legs) and Signore Ricardo

A couple of snapshots

Hi all

Here's hoping these load succesfully - enjoy!!

Us

Hello Hello

Bonjour Mesdames et Monsieurs

We arrived in Paris via Ryanair Airlines – very much a “no frills” airline. Plastic seats, no trays and everything, including water, coming at a price. We checked in on line the night before however, were not able to print our boarding passes as there was no printer available. On check in at the airport, we were told that passengers who check in on line, but do not print out their boarding passes, are required to pay an additional 10 Euro (about $18 AUD) per pass however, on this occasion he would waive the fee. Unfortunately, he wasn’t as considerate when it came to levying the 15 Euro PER KILO tax on baggage weighing in excess of the allowable 15 kilos. Jane and I had bags weighing 16 kilos each so we had to pay the 30 Euro prior to being given our boarding passes.

That aside, we had inadvertently also paid for priority boarding which meant we were given accelerated access to the plane and could then elect to sit anywhere we wanted prior to the “peasants” coming on board. Strangely enough, they too had plastic seats, no trays, had to pay for water and could sit anywhere they wanted to as well. Still trying to work out exactly what we paid extra for??

On arrival at Beauvaris Airport, we were herded onto a coach for the 80 klm trip into Paris. It was then a brief taxi ride costing about 10 Euro into the heart of Paris at our Hotel named Le Serre. This Hotel had been recommended to us by the Langfords and it was a terrific place ideally positioned to access all the major attractions in Paris. We were within two blocks of the Tour Eiffel (that’s French for Eiffel Tower for those not up on their basic Francais) and a short walk to major train and bus stops. Once we booked in and unpacked, Jane headed around the corner (literally) to do some washing at the Laundromat whilst I navigated my way to Montparnasse Train Terminal to acquire train tickets to Frankfurt for Thursday.

216 Euros later, I had the tickets in hand and slowly meandered my way through the streets of Paris taking in the beautiful buildings, the romantic settings and only mildly distracted by French men spitting in the street and French dogs defecating on the footpath. Inner city living is obviously as fashionable as dog ownership in Paris, and because the dogs appear to enjoy high rise habitation, on the rare occasions they are permitted to actually leave the confines of their homes, they take great delight in depositing all over the footpaths. Unlike Australians, Parisians have no apparent inclination to actually pick up after their dogs so the streets are littered with urine and excrement from dogs, nicely interspersed with sputum and pieces of unwanted rubbish such as cigarette wrappers which the French seem to have no difficulty simply casting to one side for someone else to clean up.

Perhaps in their own arrogant way, they may believe that to litter is to keep some poor wretch employed!!

As you may have gathered, I was very disappointed in this aspect of Parisian life. Anyway, back to the story.
I slowly meandered back to our hotel, slowly off course lest I get back before the washing was finished and be expected to assist. Needless to say, by the time I got back all was done. She may have “little legs”, but boy can she wash!!

Jane and I then went out to explore and took in the sights of the Tour Eiffel, the Avenue Des Champs-Elysees, les Arc De Triomphe Etole and other French things that you see in Paris. We were in awe of the shops (Jane the bags and shoes on offer, me the prices!!), the beautiful women parading on the Champs-Elysees in the latest fashions and the men spitting in the street and smoking Guilloises cigarettes whilst casting verbal aspersions and hurtful glances at the “English Peegs”!

We found a little café named “Le Petit Cler” (which for those non lingually gifted is French for “The Little Cler” – I don’t know what a Cler is so don’t ask!)

By the end of day 1 in Paris, Jane and I were exhausted. We had worked out a routine whereby she looked up at all the beautiful old buildings and majestic sights whilst I maintained diligent scrutiny of where we walked to ensure we avoided dog droppings or saliva. When she spotted something of note, we would either stop completely to take it all in or she would take up “turd patrol” whilst I took in the sights. Incredibly, we developed a natural synchronisation whereby words became unnecessary. If Jane was looking up, I automatically knew what my immediate responsibility was and kept my eyes acutely peeled for those dastardly “barkers eggs”!

All in all, our first day in Paris was exciting, humorous and wonderful all at the same time.

Day 2 dawned with rain and a howling cold wind. Our Hotel is located in a mall area that transforms into an open air Farmers Market each morning. Fresh vegetables, pastries, steaming hot meals and the wafting smell of brewed coffee assails the senses and stimulates the taste buds as soon as you venture into the street or look out of your room window.

Obviously, “little legs” (and big strong legs like mine) need nutrition so it was off to find fresh coffee and croissants for breakfast. We located a small, romantic café and it appeared that we were to be the first customers for the day. 2 latte’s and a croissant set us back 14 Euros – I now realise why we were the only customers there!!

From here, it was a direct but short walk to the end of the queue awaiting entry to the Eiffel Tower. We opted to join a shorter queue which meant having to pay a reduced price and actually walking the first 355 steps to get to level 1 of the tower. The main queue which provided elevator access had over an hour waiting time so we managed to walk up to the first level well ahead of the people awaiting the elevator. From level 1 of the Tower, the view is something to behold with a clear picture of Paris stretching out in all directions. The parklands, the churches and the residential sectors all suddenly become apparently clear in configuration and location relative to the central part of Paris.

We then purchased tickets for the elevator ride up to the second level of the tower. Thus far, the tickets for level 1 were 4.5 Euros each and the tickets for the second level were an extra 3 Euros. The elevator ride was relatively short however, the view from this level really started to open out the layout of Paris and its neighbouring suburbs.

An additional 3.5 Euros acquired us tickets for the summit of the Tower, however, here we stood in a queue for in excess of 40 minutes in some of the most howling cold wind I have ever experienced. Mt Hotham in a blizzard now seems like a cool spring day compared to the temperature, and winds, that struck us whilst in this queue. Eventually, it was our turn to enter the lift and we then began the ride of our lives. The lift accommodates about 12 people and has large glass doors front and rear. You actually travel directly up the centre of the Tour Eiffel in this lift with only the tower’s superstructure around you. For those like myself that are less than comfortable at heights, this became a real challenge. But for the presence of “little legs” holding my hand and calming me with reassurances such as “if you vomit I’m divorcing you” I don’t think I would have made it.

Once the lift arrives, you exit into a glass enclosed area with the option of one final set of stairs which takes you into the mesh enclosed, yet open to the wind and other elements, summit of the Eiffel Tower. From here, the only words which can adequately describe the view is “magnificent”. The sheer spectacle of viewing everything within a 60 kilometre radius of the Tower is a sight to behold and one that neither of us will ever forget. The grandeur of, les Arc De Triomphe Etole, the beauty of Notre Dame Cathedral and its period descriptive peaks, the curves and craftsmanship evident in the church of Sacre Coeur, the Musee’ de l’Armee, the Trocadero, le Place de la Concorde – the list goes on and on (and so do I says Jane) however, the brilliance of being up so high and actually viewing these beautiful sights rather than just reading about them left quite an impact on me. I honestly believe that living in Australia, we tend to shrug our shoulders when we hear about these places and sights as if they don’t really matter all that very much however, I can tell you that from my perspective, they take on a whole new significance when you are exposed to them visually and make the connection with history that they represent.

After we had feasted on the view for well over an hour, we reluctantly allowed other people to have a look and began the descent. This was accomplished in a remarkably short time and 3 quick elevator rides later we were back on terra firma and amongst the gathering masses.

It was about this time that Jane and I remembered that we hadn’t eaten since breakfast so a quick side trip to the local McDonalds for le burger de poisson (fish burger) for Jane and a poullet avec cheeps (chicken and chips) for moi.

Suitably refreshed and nourished, we ventured off to further explore the sights of the Champs Elysees and surrounding streets. We saw concept vehicles on display from Citroen, Peugeot and Toyota and this really were something to see. I took photos and won’t be surprised to see some of these vehicles actually on the road in the next couple of years – all focussed on aerodynamics, hybrid technology and eco friendly.

The rest of the day was spent imitating classic tourists – heads back, mouths open and continually muttering the words “look at this – what about that” etc etc.

As evening began to close around us, we took the short stroll to our hotel via a bakery shop and armed with 2 baguettes which resembled Darth Vader’s light sabre, a packet of Prosciutto, some Chorizo sausage, a packet of Goudam fromage (cheese for those still struggling with the language) and a small bottle of wine, dined on our sumptuous morsels reflecting on the day that was. Spit and turds aside, I could get used to this style of life!

A hot shower, a quick peck goodnight and “little legs” was gone. Jane gave the perfect impression of Andrew Ettingshausen as once described by the famous Jack Gibson – “she was that fast she could turn out the light and be in bed before the room went dark”!

Day 3 began much as day 2 – crema café (milk coffees) with fresh pastries although this time we found a place which didn’t require the use of a Visa card to pay for it – 8 Euros for the lot.

We then jumped on a tour bus similar to the one we did in London – hop on hop off – which was valid for 2 days and included a river cruise on the tranquil Seine River. Ear plugs in, commentary set for English and we sat back and absorbed the narrative of history, of bloody wars and revolutions, of public beheadings and of love found and lost. We became participants in civil uprisings, imaginary observers of the imposition of martial law and casual listeners during the hedonistic days of painters, poets and bohemians meeting for coffee and vigorously debating philosophy, politics and the virtue of women and wine.

We travelled by bus to the Moulin Rouge which is situated in Montmarte – an area which actually resembled Kings Cross in its hey day. Complete with sex shops, prostitutes, live “peep shows” and the usual gathering of old, unshaven blokes wearing long coats and offering boiled lollies to passers by, we mingled with the crowds and climbed the hill to the historic church called Sacre Coeur. We were very fortunate to enter the church during a prayer vigil being undertaken by about 12 nuns. The beauty of their voices when singing the hymns of worship was uplifting and reverential and Jane and I both lit candles in memory of our loved ones – momentarily reflecting on those who have past and humbly requesting continued health for our dear family and friends.

We then jumped back on the bus and this time found our way to the Notre Dame Cathedral. How does one describe both the outside and inside of this magnificent piece of architecture, of religious significance and historic record?

We walked through the entire cathedral and were overcome by the uniqueness of its interior. Multiple sections existed within the church surrounding the main alter and these were for the purposes of confession and/or prayers to specific saints. Jane lit another candle here and engaged in private prayer whilst I wandered about and discreetly overheard a number of confessions. Needless to say, a quick exchange of Euros ensured nothing I heard will ever be repeated!

Beyond Notre Dame, it was another leg of the bus tour, this time via the Louvre, the Champs Elysees, the Arc de Triomphe, the Trocadero and the Tour Eiffel.

Another full day completed, and it was dinner at a local French restaurant named the Tribeca which brought back memories of our time together in New York in 2002 and walking around the Tribeca area of Manhattan (that’s another story for another time).

Wednesday began with our usual breakfast however, pre-empted by a carton of Moroccan strawberries purchased from a fruit shop right next door to our hotel. These were the biggest strawberries I had ever seen yet were sweeter and more flavoursome than any I had ever tasted before. Jane absolutely loved them and insisted on continuing her telephone conversation with Peter Bull from Optus whilst munching on same (apologies from Jane to you Peter).

Back onto our tour bus, this time direct to the Louvre which we had pre purchased tickets to enter, thereby avoiding the queues we had been advised would be in place. On entry, we followed the millions (there were lots anyway) of tourists making their way into the Denon wing to see a well known finger painting by a bloke named De Vinci called the Mona Lisa (Jodie Grimmond – Jane says you would love it if you saw the artwork on display in the Louvre – tell Dicky to start saving up for our next trip together).

The Mona Lisa is as beautiful, as mysterious and as awe inspiring as we have all been led to believe. There is something indescribable about standing in the same room, let alone directly in front of, one of the most famous works of art in history. I have some wonderful photographs of Jane and Mona together, both smiling and following everyone in the room with their eyes. But for her backpack, I may very well have walked off with the wrong woman – so striking was the similarity between the girls.

Bidding our new friend Mona a fond farewell (she seemed both happy yet dismayed that we were leaving - judging by the wry grin she gave us) we toured the Egyptian antiquities on display and both wondered whether there was any artefacts actually left in Egypt. The size and volume of this display was incredible, ranging from tiny pottery images of cat like gods and miniature sphinx (not sure what the plural of sphinx is/are but you get my drift) to a number of actual sarcophagus’ (mummies and their tombs for those rare few who are not familiar with Egyptian antiquities displays). A very impressive display and well worth the time to enjoy. A tour through the actual moat of an ancient castle which once stood where the Louvre sits today into another wing of the building, this time to see the beautiful statue of Aphrodite (known more commonly as Venus de Milo) – a Roman statue located off the isle of Crete. Again, wonderfully humbling to share the room with another historical.

It would take a full 3 days to truly view all that the Louvre has to offer. After the better part of half a day, both Jane and I were well and truly knocked up and slightly claustrophobic due to the size and constant movement of the crowds.

We decided we had seen enough of the works of Renoir, de Vinci, the Edmond de Rothschild Collection, art from 7000 BC Mesopotamia, the Renaissance and the immense private and public collections of objects d’art dating from the 7th to the 19th centuries. All in all, a most culturally enlightening day for us both.

A left turn, then a right, then straight ahead and we found ourselves back on the Champs Elysees. We then climbed the 284 steps to the top of the Arc d’Triomphe and again were granted the most gorgeous views of the Champs Elysees, the surrounding parklands and Paris generally. A casual stroll from there back to our hotel enabled us to start our packing in preparation of the next days train trip to Frankfurt. After packing all of our goods and chattels, we headed back to the Champs Elysees for our final dinner and night in gay Paris. We found a wonderful place on the Champs Elysees within 200 metres
of the Arc d’Triomphe and were treated to a magnificent sun set and the light show accompanying same silhouetting the Arc d’Trimomphe.

After pasta, veal, chocolate mousse and wine, we wandered off to the Eiffel Tower to witness the night light of the Tower and the ½ hourly strobe effects which engulf the entire tour for 4 minutes. We were fortunate enough to capture this on still and video photography – truly a sight to behold.

From there, back home to bed and an early start the next morning.

The 6am alarm gave us both a start and it was out of bed, into the shower and up and away. A cab happened to chance by and we were in the back and shoving directions at the cabbie before he could get a “bon jour – ca va” out. We were required to get to a train station named the Gare de l’Est which was well and truly on the other side of Paris from where we were staying. Unbeknown to us, we had managed to jump into a cab being driven by none other than the bastard son of Nelson Piquet and just like his famous father during the 1996 Le Mans, young Nelson managed to get us there in a heartbeat and using driving techniques (not to mention footpaths, median strips and on one occasion, someone’s private driveway) not normally experienced by the layman. A screech of brakes, a hint of accelerator and finally, a hand brake turn saw Jane and I execute perfectly synchronised combat rolls out of the cab and landing squarely next to our luggage. A quick payment of 24 Euros (tip included) saw young Nelson disappear trailing a puff of smoke and the acrid taste of burning Avon rubber tyres in our mouths.

7.15am saw us in the train station despite the fact our train didn’t depart until 9.09am. Jane was adamant that we be there well before departure time to ensure nothing went amiss. I, on the other hand, was completely at ease with the aspect of timing – my new philosophy being that whilst ever there is coffee, croissants and somewhere to spit, I am happy to be a French man!!

The Gare de l’Est is a major commencement and interchange point for train travel throughout Europe. As such, there are a vast number of platforms, a vast number of trains and an even vaster (is that a word?) number of people regularly commuting into and out of the station. Backpacks on our backs, and totally lost looks on our faces, we wandered about and made our way to Platform 3 where a few minutes prior to departure time, the actual platform of our train was advertised. One thing about the French, they don’t believe in advance notification – just before something is meant to happen, and not a moment sooner, will they actually inform you of same.

As it turned out, the train we were to travel in was the actual train that set the world train speed record in November 2007 at a speed of 584kph. This is proudly displayed, in huge lettering, on the side of the train and as we settled into our seats, I envisaged a sense of déjà vu from my Peugeot driving days in Ireland. Needless to say, once we took off and got up to speed, it became obvious this was not the Hooterville Express making its way into Petticoat Junction. This train (or should I say land based Concorde) travelled at amazing speeds and we seemed to have gotten from Paris France to Frankfurt Germany in record time. As it turned out, the ride was that quiet and comfortable that Jane and I had fallen asleep therefore assumed the trip was really quick. Amazingly, the train was due to depart Paris at 9.09am and arrive at Frankfurt at 1.35pm. I say amazingly because that is exactly what happened – to the minute. No graffiti, no hoodlums and no breakdowns. Viva Le France!!

Frankfurt greeted us with sunshine and our first really clear skies since we left Australia. We walked out to the cab rank to be confronted by a number of C and E class Mercedes all painted cream bearing “Taxi” signs. Uncanny and somewhat disquieting to see a queue of Mercedes as Cabs rather than dropping school kids off at Vaucluse. To separate ourselves from the run of the mill tourists, Jane and I opted for a fully optioned, leather seat and tinted windows fitted Skoda station wagon taxi being driven by a Russian immigrant who spoke “taxi driver English”. We had a ball with this guy who was a font of (apparent) knowledge – only thing was we couldn’t understand what he was telling us. Nonetheless, between my German, his English and Jane yelling, we managed to convey our destination to him and some very short time later, (and about 15 klms) we pulled into an Industrial Estate to collect our Motor Home.

What greeted us here was a slick, well run and well managed motor home hire business which we had organised, via the Intranet, from Australia last October. I had read a number of internet traveller blogs from tourists who had motor homed around Europe and unanimously, all agreed that the cheapest place to hire a motor home was in Germany, hence our arrival in Frankfurt. This all turned out to be entirely true and the price paid by us was about 60% of what was being asked by motor home hirers in places such as France, Spain, Amsterdam and Belgium.

We were met by English speaking people who were bright, friendly and obviously well used to dealing with tourists. After the completion of required paperwork, we were required to watch a 20 minute, professionally produced DVD (in English) on the workings of motor homes including operation of the 3 way fridge (gas, electric and diesel), the water heater (for the on board shower), the cabin and sleeping area climate control regulators and all the other necessary bits and pieces that make up the motor home. We were then given a detailed inspection of our motor home and shown various additional operational features of the unit. Our motor home is based on a Fiat Ducato, is a 3.5 tonne unit, 6 speed manual diesel 3.5 litre motor, and comes with a shower, chemical flushing toilet, kitchen and stove, huge double bed, no end of cupboard and storage spaces, a dining table, seating for 5 and also includes an external bike rack (we had indicated our preference for this as we intend to buy some cheap bikes and ride around a bit) and an outdoor table and chairs.

The motor home was pristine in condition and presentation and had a total of 1,405 klms on the clock when we picked it up. The company guarantees no motor home hired will be older than 2 years old and from the look of all the other motor homes awaiting collection, they are as good as their word.

We threw all our things into the back and with the best wishes of the owners, bid them farewell with a promise to return in 26 days.

I must admit the first tentative klms were anxious for me – here I was in an unfamiliar vehicle, on the wrong side of the road in an area I had never been before in a country I hadn’t seen in over 30 years and Jane was armed with a street directory supplied to us entirely written in German.

To our own amazement, and to the amusement of many motorists and pedestrians, we managed to motor our way back onto the freeway and headed roughly due south to find a camp site for the night. We had picked up a brochure for a place called the “Frankfurt City Camp” which, according the (again German only version) brochure, looked quite good and within site of Frankfurt City. To get there, Jane and I collaborated and determined that we would need to get onto the A661 which turned out to be the right decision however, the A661 is an Autobahn with vehicles regularly travelling up to 180 kph. I managed to get the motor home up to a respectable 140 kph a few times and the only way to describe the sensation is to momentarily pretend that you are sitting in your lounge chair at home whilst your house is transported on the back of an aeroplane somewhere.

Driving a 3.5 tonne motor home at that speed on a motor way in Germany whilst being overtaken by Porsche’s, BMW’s, Audi’s and the occasional Maserati or Ferrari is a wonderful experience for the completely insane or anyone having a terminal illness and no real plans for whatever time remains of their life!

By sheer luck, a few disagreements and relying heavily on Australian intuition (eg “Geez Jane, how did you get us here – I would have gone left back there if you weren’t here helping”) we managed to get ourselves to the Frankfurt City Camp.

My German language skills are not great however, I am now completely convinced that the “Frankfurt City Camp” is the English translation of Auschwitz. A more run down, stinking, dank and ominous place I have yet to travel to! Even Siberia (or for our Melbourne readers Broadmeadow) on a winters day would be brighter, and more welcoming, than this place. It was occupied, in parts, by broken down and abandoned caravans, blokes living in tents and walking around in just long pants and no shirts, despite the cool temperatures by the time we got there, a Spanish couple who could not speak English but insisted on asking me questions about motor homes and wanting me to look at their caravan on wheels, and a german woman next to us who had a big black dog living in her van and she insisted that it share our baguettes with us when she visited us during our dinner outside the van.

I don’t recall passing through a time tunnel or entering some far off land when we arrived at this place, but I must say on reflection it was bloody funny. I half expected Alan Funt (or for the younger readers Ashton Kulcher in “Punked”) to pop out of one of the abandoned caravans whilst filming an episode of Candid Camera.

The toilet block was clean however, to have a shower you required a token which could only be purchased from the office – which was shut as the owner wanted to sit down with his mate and have a beer where we could all see him – and would not re-open until 10am the next morning. Jane and I met up with two Australian girls camping there overnight in a small kombi van, Anna who is on an extended holiday touring Europe with her boyfriend (who was away for a couple of days somewhere) and Ashleigh, from Queensland, who lives in London and popped over to Germany to catch up with Anna for a couple of days. Anna gave us the tip in relation to a number of camping places around Europe and confirmed for us that the “Frankfurt City Camp” was by far Europe’s worst camping ground.

There’s a hint for any would be campers intending to travel to Germany!

Anyway, Anna had previously stayed at a camping ground in Lyon, France and recommended the place to us, including giving us a brochure of the place which looked great. We had intended to travel back into France anyway so decided we would head off the next morning early to do so. Unfortunately, due to the fact that we had not purchased any shower tokens the night before, nor paid in advance for our accommodation overnight, we may not have been able to get away early. As luck would have it, the cleaners came into the shower block as Jane, Anna, Ashleigh and I were discussing our options and they were able to access the required tokens for us in exchange for a small amount of Euros. Jane and the girls headed off to their shower block and I went into mine only to be followed by the female cleaner who, it turned out, was rostered to clean the men’s shower room. I had to enter my cubicle fully clothed, then reached over the door to put the token into the slot to get hot water, only to be completely drenched by the shower which some imbecile had left turned fully on the last time the shower was used. It turned out the token gave you 4 minutes (and not a second more) of hot water so most people appear to simply leave the shower turned on and wait til the water stops rather than turn it off – hence my drenching!

Like all good things, the shower had to end and 4 minutes later, it did.

We packed up the motor home, stood around waiting for 10am to arrive so we could settle up with “Hans” the world’s unfriendliest, most uninformative and hostile camping ground owner one could ever be unlucky enough to meet. We paid up, bid him a fond farewell with a genuine promise we would never be back and would recommend his place to everyone we absolutely detested and drove off as quickly as possible. When last sighted, Anna and Ashleigh were on their way to Dusseldorf and we headed south to Lyon.

In comparison to everything we have done, experienced, seen, spoken of and even discussed so far on this trip, the 740 klm trip from Frankfurt to Lyon using the Autobahn’s of Germany and the Motorways of France was strangely uneventful. By the end of the days drive I found myself becoming quite at ease with the speeds on the roads, the motor home’s unique handling and driving on the right hand side of the road. I must however admit that it is imperative to continually remind yourself to drive on the right, stay on the right hand side of roundabouts and look the wrong way first when coming to intersections. I am sure by the time this trip is over, or at least by the time Lone and Grahame Langford come to meet us for our month in Italy together, driving on the right hand side will very much be second nature.

Lone, if you are reading this - I know there is only about 28 sleeps to go!!

After a long days driving, and plenty of time for Jane and I to reflect on the trip thus far, to discuss our respective families and friends and to marvel at how fortunate we are to be doing this trip, we arrived in a small place named Dardilly which is just outside Lyon. We pulled into a camping place called the Indigo International Camp and it is fantastic – exactly what Anna had recommended to us and more. We immediately arranged to stay for 2 nights and after settling in to a site of our choice, hooked the power up, wound out the awning on the side of the motor home and sat ourselves down to a dinner of French bread, about 4 varieties of stuffed olives (yes Judy, Jane is actually eating olives with me) and an assortment of dips.

Sitting under a cloudless French night sky with a table full of fine foods, peaceful surrounds and a fully equipped motor home, I really could relate to Michael Caton as the father Kerrigan in “The Castle”.

Ah, Serenity!!

This morning, “little legs” and I, small back packs in place, hoofed it up the street to actually do some grocery shopping, but first, a quick café stop for juice, coffee and croissants. Feeling fully refreshed after a good nights sleep and duly fortified by our French breakfast, Jane and I entered shopping nirvana.

The shopping centre we found less that ½ a mile from our camp ground is absolutely enormous. After quickly taking in the vastness of it all, Jane and I agreed we would engage in this mission like the finely drilled soldiers that we are, adopting a military approach of conquering the objective using a dual assault from both flanks. We rolled up our sleeves, high five’d each other and entered the quagmire from opposing directions.

Having been tasked by Jane to attend to the acquisition of washing powder, I busied myself in the relative department by picking up each and every clothes detergent available and on offer. This consumed almost the first hour of my shopping tour of duty. Bordering on surrender, I was forced to engage the enemy and sought the assistance of a shelf stacking French man who appeared sympathetic to my plight. Unfortunately, although he spoke English, he had no clue about matters such as washing clothes! After all, he explained to me, “theeees is wooomans wooork – I cannot know theeess theeeeengs”! I agreed wholeheartedly, and after we both let out a spontaneous “Sacre Bleu”, we went in search of a “woooman” who knew of such trivial theeeengs.

3 male shop assistants, a check out girl and the senior female supervisor later, all who wanted to argue in French, complete with hand gestures and raised voices, which washing powder was in fact the best for my purposes, I left the aisle in question armed with a box of OMO, much to the disgust of my congenial shelf stacking mate who felt the whole exercise was below me and that I should let my wife do “theeess theeengs” whilst I occupy my time on more important things (like drinking coffee, eating croissants and spitting somewhere I guess??)

I finally managed to track down Jane some time later and armed with my box of OMO, saw that she had vanquished the enemy and in fact gathered all the necessary groceries and associated bits and pieces that we needed. I innocently, in conversation, explained that I had been through a fairly trying time acquiring the washing powder and won’t reprint here what she told me I could do at that point of time with my washing powder!!. I took this as indicative of the fact she may have had some trouble of her own getting the shopping trolley of goods she had acquired over the one and a half hours I took to get the powder.

Anyway, I put the whole thing down to Jane being a little home sick and perhaps not understanding the way we men in France do things so I bit my lip and dutifully carried the groceries back to our campsite. Jane unpacked the groceries and I attended to more masculine jobs including sweeping the dirt, straightening up some weeds I found behind our motor home and responding with a “yes dear” each time Jane told me to do something!

This evening, we have spent a most pleasant time just sitting around talking, reading back over some of our collected brochures and daily travel journal entries and again feasting of fine French delicacies like smoked meats, cheeses and sipping on some excellent locally produced wine.

Tomorrow, we head off to Montpellier on the south eastern coast of France and intend to spend a couple of days there soaking up the sun and swimming. From there, we will be heading to Perpignon, then hugging the Costa Brava coast all the way to Barcelona.

We both hope this blog is entertaining to all of you who are reading it. We really enjoy reading your comments so please keep them coming and if there are any specific things you want to know or if you have any travel advice regarding places to see or go to around the areas we are travelling, please let us know. We have lots of time and only a general plan on where to go based on what we have seen or heard about places.

Hope you are all well – be assured you are in our thoughts and the subject of many discussions.

More photos coming - we promise.

Love to all

Madame Jane and Monsieur Rick