Author: mckillop_vfr@yahoo.ca

August 8: A week has now passed at our rented “summer home” in Velleron, France. What was once an idea and a dream has now passed into experience as we all move on to the next adventure. I’m off to Paris with the running room ladies: Christy, Sava and of course, Kate. During our stay here old friendships have been refreshed, new friendships formed, and relationships given new dimension. Herewith, some tales from Velleron.

When the idea of a group vacation emerged more than a year ago, we scouted destinations including (mostly) Italy and France. Since this was a group of 11 people including only (then) 2 couples, our house had to have a large number of bedrooms. And bathrooms. People really want their own bathrooms. After much scouting around and advanced math trying to figure out the bedroom / bathroom conundrum, we settled on Velleron. It’s  difficult to describe, being part restored farmhouse and part “modern” addition.

In this case, modern is a relative term. There is a date scratched into the facade of the house showing 1929 but that may not be when it was built. It’s been completely renovated and has modern touches like air conditioning ( which we have not used ), and a pool. Two large dining tables – one indoor, one outdoor – are big hits and constantly being used. Eating has been a communal affair with different tastes and skill levels combined at each meal. We’ve also been out to a few of the local restaurants, as seen here in Venasque.

Velleron is in Provence, a lush and lovely part of France. We’ve spent most days touring the back roads and seeing the sights. Many of the oldest towns here and in the Luberon to the south, were built on hilltops for protection and to place the seemingly mandatory church at the highest point of land. This means that many of the towns are spectacularly beautiful. Gordes, seen here, is the superstar and attracts thousands of tourists. It’s Yorkville in the Luberon. Others like Rousillon, seen below are similarly picturesque but less crowded.

I’m off the motorcycle for the week, and that has been a small relief. However, I have had to spend time getting out of its’ resting place and off to a Honda dealer to replace the right mirror which was broken off by a Yamaha rider backing in to a parking space. Interestingly, the entire process cost the same amount as replacing the left mirror in Mannhiem (225 Euro), but took about a quarter of the time.

All things considered, I think our week here has been a great success. Predicted strangulation and mayhem have been avoided and much laughter heard. So we are all off to new adventures and the next stage of our collective journey.

 

 

August 29: I was last in Le Puy en Velay in 2015, on my first major trip to Europe in many years. At the time I wrote that it felt like a pilgrimage of sorts. I had set out in search of experiences that would expand my horizons and, hopefully, to discover a few things about myself. I was sufficiently happy with the outcome of the trip that I came back again last year.

Frequent reader(s) will know that the first few days of this trip were quite challenging: a crash and a misplaced passport to name two highlights. It seemed that every day brought some fresh disaster that I needed to sort through while travelling alone. For the last few days I’ve been travelling with my cousin James and best bud Chris. It’s been wonderful having them along, not only for the company and entertainment, but for the personal support and energy they bring.

On his arrival in France last week, Chris tried to prove that I hadn’t cornered the market on disasters when he filled the gas tank on his rental bike with diesel fuel. It was a valiant effort to make me feel better about my mistakes that succeeded beyond his expectations. And James has gone to heroic lengths to ensure that we wake up every morning with a slight hangover. Something for which I will be eternally grateful.

We have travelled mostly in the southwest part of France, having decided not to head for the Pyrenees due to the length of the trip and impending poor weather. We have enjoyed the bikes, the roads and long chats over dinner. I believe we share the realization that we are very fortunate to be able to travel as we do, and where we do. We are healthy and wealthy enough to be able to indulge a passion for motorcycling into our seventh (soon to eighth) decade.

And this is where I have started to wonder when these pilgrimages should end. Although I am very proud of being able to make these trips in my 68th year, I realize that they can be stressful for those around me – especially those who help fix my problems from afar. As well, I have begun to feel that my mental acuity has diminished slightly, and that I am less certain of my ability to ride a bike at a high level of expertise. This is certainly a product of aging, and I know that many people would ask why I continue to ride, never mind ride alone in Europe.

To be honest, I am not sure that I have a good answer. I have had moments on this trip (and the last) where I would have preferred to be home with a coffee and a good book. There are certainly times when I feel that I have “been there and done that” and proven that I can do this sort of trip alone. My ego expands with that thought, but perhaps the time has come to consider more carefully whether further pilgrimages are really necessary at all.

August 24: I recently stayed in a small hotel in St. Agreve. It was adjacent to the train station, which appeared to be closed. However, on closer inspection, I found that it was one of five stations on the Velay Express Railway which turned out to have a long and interesting history.

In 1878, the government of France decided to construct more than 11,000 KM of rail lines linking the major centres and attractions across the country. Some portions of the railway system, including the Velay  were built with a narrower gauge and steeper inclines which permitted sharper corners and climbs better able to adapt to rugged terrain.

When the ultimate cost of the entire system was found to be prohibitive, it was decided that individual departments within the country could manage their own portion of the network. So, like many parts of the system, the Velay lines do not connect outside the department. Ultimately about 200 KM of narrow gauge rail was built and service continued until 1968 when it became uneconomic. An association was then formed by local residents and businesses with the objective of operating the remaining rail lines as a tourist attraction.

Today they operate two engines including a steam engine dating from 1890, and an autocar dating from 1949. The morning after I arrived, the autocar emerged from its’ shed, clattering and banging amidst a cloud of blue diesel smoke. It sat idling, occasionally farting a backfire that threatened to stall the motor, while various guys wandered around apparently getting ready for the morning run. In due course, amidst great fanfare and blowing or whistles, passengers were invited aboard and it ambled off down the track toward Le Chambon.

The schedule is set up so that you can travel out on the autocar, and return an hour or so later on the steam train which started out at the other end of the line.  On this day, disaster struck when the steam train, or one of it’s cars (it really wasn’t very clear) derailed. That occurred at a place where the autocar could not pass, which effectively meant the entire system was shut down and the passengers marooned until the association members could figure out how to get the machinery back on track.

Although the whole business had a Rube Goldberg air to it, I was impressed by the ingenuity these guys showed in restoring the line and the equipment, and then operating a tourist attraction that drew about 18,000 people in the last 2 years. I have no idea how they were going to fix this particular problem, and I couldn’t really hang about to find out. But I left admiring the determination, the idealism and the commitment these guys showed in continuing to operate their trains.

August 19: For those who just like to watch, a few random shots and thoughts:

Locarno is a lovely lake-side town in the Italian sector of Switzerland. It has a pretty promenade along the lake and an older quarter further up the hill. In the centre of town is the Grand Place, where they recently held an outdoor film festival. As in many European squares, it is ringed with handsome buildings and outdoor cafes and shops. But what I found really interesting is the streetlights. They are strung on a grid of wires across the square and, when they come on at night, they give a sense of enclosure and the effect of being in a huge room with overhead lighting. The film festival must have been like watching movies in a giant living room with 300 friends.

I left Locarno following the Swiss Riviera south along Lago di Maggiore. The reference to the Riviera is apt; the villas and vistas are very similar to the Cote d’Azur. Moving through this kind of scenery, it’s easy to imagine that everyone must be living perfect lives of quiet indulgence and extravagant parties. Even smaller towns are so picturesque that it’s possible to forget that they are not fairy-tale recreations. They are, in fact, places where people live real lives, full of all the pressures and joys and sorrows that we feel in our own lives.

The next night, I stayed in Pre St. Didier at the foot of Mont Blanc – seen here to the left of the picture. At breakfast I sat outside and the woman who brought the coffee commented on the vista of the mountain from the restaurant. She said that as a girl, her bedroom had a small window that looked directly at the mountain. When she married a man from Courmayeur – about 2 km up the road – she missed the view so much that they had to move back to Pre St. Didier. She works as a server in a restaurant, is married and has 2 kids, but her daily reality includes one of the most breathtaking views in Europe.

I find mountains interesting: they are so massive that they affect climate. Weather around them is constantly changing and difficult to predict. Looking at mountains is fascinating because the view is always changing: crystal clear skies and razor sharp or shrouded in clouds, it’s never the same look twice.

And then there’s the problem of getting through them. I come here to ride some of the mountain passes (like Petit St. Bernard seen here), but frankly, they are not my favourite riding experience. Virtually every pass combines a set of tight hairpin turns with short runs through a pasture or forest. At my mediocre skill level, I find uphill, right-hand hairpins to be extremely stressful. Riding a high pass is never a relaxing affair for me; it’s more of an accomplishment than a pleasure.  However, because of their elevation, mountain passes are always cool (7 to 10 C is not uncommon in the summer) and that has come as a welcome relief during this, one of the hottest summers on record.

August 10: When I traveled on vacation I usually hated “taking a day off” and doing nothing because the days were so valuable. With only 2 or 3 weeks to see what I wanted to see, the thought of standing still for even a day was upsetting. One luxury of having 2 months here is that I can take a day off and not feel that I’m “wasting time” .

Today is such a day; it’s a day to remain in place and do no travelling. I’ve been here for 4 days now, and that’s a bit unusual. Typically I will move every day or so, but what I realized about this particular place is that could use it as a base for exploring southern Austria without actually moving to a new hotel every day. So for the last couple of  days I’ve been running passes near here and then returning for the night. It helps that it’s a family-operated hotel with a good restaurant in a pretty village called Kappl. I spotted it by chance and it has been a happy accident of the trip – a discovery that I will remember for a very long time.

I happened upon Kappl as I was descending the Silvretta Hocchalpenstrasse in the very southwest corner of Austria. Like some other roads in the Alps, there’s a fee (12 Euro for motorcycles). Construction was started in 1938 to serve a hydro complex at the top of the pass, and there are 35 hairpins in its’ 22 km length. The next day I did a loop west of the hotel through the Flexenpass, the Arlbergpass and the Hochtannbergpass and yesterday I added a couple more to the east: Hahntennjoch, and Fernpass. In total, the distance I covered was probably less than 400 km over the two days, but I was on the road for at least 4 hours each day before coming home to the Posthotel. So I was quite happy to take a “day off” today to get in a run up the mountain and back, do  a little laundry, and wander around town a bit.

The wonderful thing about this has been that I have been travelling for each of the last 3 days without actually moving. No packing and unpacking, no searching for a place to stay, no stress that I’m wasting time by “not moving”.

August 9: I wish that I owned the geranium franchise for western Europe. Virtually everywhere I go there are planters and window boxes stuffed to overflowing with the things. There are millions of them. And these are not your emaciated, straggly specimens that occasionally adorn Toronto’s gardens. These are flourishing, healthy plants that bespeak careful maintenance and continuing care. I think those geraniums tell us that Europeans interact with public spaces in their towns and cities differently than we do in North America.

North Americans generally aspire to home ownership. Sociologists might tell you that this reflects the “pioneering” mentality that was established when our country was young: As immigrants, we all wanted a piece of land to call our own, after being denied that opportunity in Europe (or where ever we came from). A home is paramount to many people and it has become a focal point in their lives. It’s where we live, but it’s also usually where we entertain and gather with friends. Our rallying cry is: “Come over for dinner. We’ll have drinks and a barbecue”.

On the other hand, Europeans have a rich history of gathering with friends outside their home. The restaurants and cafes are where you go to meet your friends and neighbours, to see and be seen. Public spaces are heavily used and there’s a certain formality to gathering. Friends are acknowledged, hands are shaken or cheeks air-kissed before sitting down. Gossip ensues. When I came into this square in Bretten Germany, the chattering was so loud and consistent that it reminded me of a hen house.

Even young children seem to grasp that this is a different place where acting out is not acceptable. It seems to me that they are treated more like small adults when in public places, unlike many North American children who seem to be allowed to run amok, as if wait-staff are also part-time babysitters.

If my thesis is correct, the North American focus on socializing in private means that we attach little significance to our public realm (streets, parks and space around buildings) and generally have low expectations for what it should be. The result is that we are given low quality design, and poor maintenance which has allowed much of our public infrastructure to become shoddy and unkempt.  As tourists, we love to sit in the cafes and restaurants, but as citizens we are undemanding. As a result, there are few really excellent public spaces in Toronto: Berczy Park in the St. Lawrence neighbourhood is a notable exception.

Europeans live outside their homes and have higher expectations of public spaces and are more aware of good design and the things that make for really comfortable public spaces. They know that they make a contribution to life in the streets when they do even modest things – like plant a beautiful window box full of geraniums.

August 4: A theme that I didn’t include in the following post for the sake of brevity was the role strangers have played in helping me solve many of my problems. The woman at Lufthansa who gave me the name of a competing private operator; the woman selling the SIM card for my phone who spent a half hour trying to reassure me that the card would work in other countries; the guys who stopped when I crashed and, of course, friends and family at home who have been uniformly thoughtful and supportive as I stagger from one “adventure” to another, Many people pitched in with help or answers that got me on my way even though they could have chosen not to do so. This is something I’m going to try to remember next time I see someone in Toronto staring at a map and trying to figure out where the hell they are.

*  *  *  *  *

The mirror mentioned below is now installed. It did indeed take more than two hours because I waited almost that long for the work to begin. Although I had an appointment for 2:00, work didn’t actually start until closer to 4:00. I left the dealership around 5:00 about 250 Euro lighter, and started looking for a room. When one did turn up I unpacked my toiletries only to discover that some moisture had gotten into my prescription bottle of Crestor and turned it into a soggy pink goop. Sigh.

August 1: Old goofs like me may remember a TV program called That Was The Week That Was. It was a British satirical news program, originated by folks like David Frost and ultimately cancelled because it was seen to go beyond the bounds of good taste. I liked it. Herewith, then, a brief review of my week that was:

Thursday: On arriving at Frankfurt Airport and doing the usual procedural thingies, I set out to find the Lufthansa shuttle to Heidelberg. Walking across the terminal I did find a Lufthansa bus, but only to Strasbourg. On inquiring at their counter, helpfully located on the other side of the terminal, I was told that there was no shuttle to Heidelberg. It had been cancelled. After discovering that I was 5 minutes late for a train to Heidelberg, I was directed to another shuttle bus which, with genuine Teutonic efficiency, departed the airport and sat in a 35 minute traffic jam. In the afternoon I collected my bike and discovered that the gear I had stowed in the saddlebags last autumn (Helmet, boots, bag liners) had been slightly damp and had grown a modest colony of mildew. Scrubbing ensued at the hotel to limited effect.

Friday: After 4 attempts, I found the Honda guy who serviced the bike last autumn. He was in the next village and it took 70 km of gas going back and forth to finally find the shop. I needed to buy a rain jacket, but his shop had none, and he wasn’t there. I could have just called…

Then I attempted to find a Lycamobile shop to buy a new SIM for my phone. First guy says I need a new SIM in every country. Second guy says no, I need to log in to the company and have them re-set the phone every time. Third person, a kind and open woman from Laos, made 3 phone calls and confirmed that it would work in every country. She even directed me to Vodafone to see if they had a better card and when they didn’t, I bought the SIM from her.

Saturday: I started my first “real” day on the road with a trip to Mannheim to buy a rain jacket. That accomplished I headed south and crashed about a half hour later. I was attempting to cross from an off ramp back onto the highway and assumed that the grass verge was level with the road. It was not. Physics took over and down I went, breaking a mirror in the process. Thankfully there was no traffic on the highway, and a couple of guys stopped to make sure I was okay. So back to the Honda shop where they removed the mirror (after 4 hours of dicking around) and I discovered that my debit card did not work.

Sunday: With a new mirror ordered and time to kill, I took a “day off” and did a short run, some sketching and reading.

Monday: Headed further south in the morning, through the wine areas of Alsace and the Vosges mountains. At the end of the day I logged in to this computer and got a message that Windows could not be opened without re-installing the operating program which, not surprisingly, I wasn’t carrying around with me, or by resetting the programs and losing all of my personal data. I picked door number 2 and after an hour or so of cursing and watching data be cleansed, I have a computer which is mostly operational. For now …

Then I called my Credit Union to sort out the debit card and was told that they could find nothing wrong. The fact that it still didn’t work when I tried again and called back, was a mystery that remains to this day.

Tuesday: Started heading north through the Black Forest in anticipation of the mirror arriving in Mannheim. Stopped for gas a short time later and on arriving at the hotel that night, discovered I had left my passport at the gas station. After calling the Consulate and finding it closed (it’s open Monday 8 to 1 and Wednesday 1 to 6) I managed to find a number for the gas bar and called only to be told that yes, indeed, they did have the passport.

Wednesday: What looked to be about 125 km on the AutoRoute back to the gas bar was in fact longer because the kind woman at the hotel sent me to the interchange by way of Stalingrad.  Four hours and 3 traffic jams later, I was home with passport in hand. And the thunderstorm I went through wasn’t really that bad.

So that was the first week that was, and it already feels like a month. I’m hoping to actually get the mirror done tomorrow but the verdict is still out. The service guy wants to disassemble the fairing and that “might take 2 or more hours”. We are negotiating.

July 20: With only a few days left before my departure for Europe, “end stage panic” has set in. Admittedly, all of the big pieces – the flights, the trains, the apartment-sitting and so forth – are all in place. But there’s always the nagging fear that something will fall through the cracks. Discovering what that will be is one of the unknowns we face when travelling and – I’m told – solving those problems is all part of “the adventure”.

When I say that I am leaving for two months to ride my motorcycle in Europe I can see the thought bubble form over peoples’ heads: “I wish I could afford that !” And indeed I’m in the fortunate position of having the money to be able to travel, due mostly to my parents’ financial acumen and part of a City pension more than my own monetary ability.

After the cost issue is covered, the next question is usually “Where are you going ?” While I do have a very general route in mind, I don’t have a specific timetable or itinerary to follow ( other than meeting friends on specific dates ). I’ve learned that my enjoyment is really all about seeing what’s around the next corner. I follow my nose and although some days it’s not rewarding, others provide pleasant surprises like here in Brantes, with Mont Ventoux in the background. And a loose schedule provides the opportunity to “take a day off” when it’s raining or my butt just can’t stand another 300 km day. In my view, the greatest benefit to travelling for an extended time is the ability to just take a day and relax, rather than rushing from place to place to fit it all into a 2 or 3 week “vacation”.

The risk of travelling (mostly alone) by motorcycle is another issue which frequently arises. Each of us accepts a level of risk in everything we do. Sadly, as we found out earlier this year, we can be killed walking down Yonge Street. It seems pretty obvious that I am prepared to accept a higher level of risk than some people simply because I ride a motorcycle. That risk exists whether I ride it here or in the French Alps. Admittedly, Yonge Street is not bordered by a low wall and a 500 meter drop into a canyon, so that is why I ride well within my safety envelope when those conditions exist.

Toward the end of the trip, my friend Kate and I will be joining a bigger group at a  rental house near Avignon, and then spending a few short days in Paris. It’s been some time since she was last in Europe, so I’m looking forwards to sharing some time and adventures with her as she reacquaints herself with the “European experience”. For now though, I just need to finish my “to-do” list.

June 30: Age has a way of sneaking up on us. Time passes without us noticing and suddenly, we are decades older than we believe. I remember my own Father saying that he didn’t feel 60, and I now understand what he meant. While there are markers along the road, like birthdays and retirement, we change in imperceptible ways and incrementally over time so it’s not a sudden and jarring event: Now I am old.

These thoughts went through my mind as my friend Kate and I went to Massey Hall last week to see Mavis Staples. Massey Hall is a lesson in aging in itself: What was once state of the art is now a relic of bygone days. It’s about to undergo a major renovation, overseen by KPMB – the architects who did Koerner Hall – so I’m really hopeful that the end result will be really special. The artist’s renderings of the project seem to point in that direction.

Mavis Staples is now 79 years old. She began singing almost 60 years ago as part of a group – the Staple Singers – with her Father and sisters. During her show, she mentioned that they were on the march to Selma with Martin Luther King in 1965. Romantically linked to Bob Dylan at one point, she has been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (1999) and the Blues Hall of Fame (2017), so this is a woman who has clearly had a “full and wonderful life”. But time marches on, and at one point in the show she left the stage, with a little help, for a short intermission.

That said, she still has a great set of pipes, and amazing stamina for someone in their eightieth decade. I was impressed and began wondering if I would be capable of something similar in my next decade. I remarked to Kate that it was pretty impressive for someone “just 10 years older than me” – practically a contemporary.

A couple of younger voices emerged from behind as we walked along Shuter Street. One kid said that it had been a great show but that Mavis “reminded him of his Great-grandmother”. Kate and I had a great laugh, and I thought about the old expression that you are as old as you think you are. Perhaps as age creeps up on me, I could do worse than follow the example that Mavis sets: live with principles, commit wholeheartedly to worthwhile things, and do something you love passionately.

 * * * * * *

The following week, Kate and I took in a performance by jazz musician Herbie Hancock. He’s “only” 78 years old and, like Mavis, has been involved with music since he played with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra when he was 11. He too plays with passion and a commitment to exploring new areas of jazz. Perhaps there’s a fundamental truth here ….