Author: mckillop_vfr@yahoo.ca

September 20: The French have a well deserved reputation for loving their dogs. While pooches are pampered and taken everywhere, sadly, cats don’t seem to enjoy the same privilege.

Many of the small towns I visited had groups of feral cats. I am sure that for every cat I saw on the street, there are many more safely at home behind closed doors, yet it was surprising to me that there were so many strays. Some, like this guy, seemed to have figured out how to live reasonably comfortably. They seemed to be fed (if not well-fed), but they would mostly scramble away if I tried to approach them.

I stayed in a small hotel in Entraygues.  There was a small grey and white male in the lobby when I entered. He was very scrawny and had obviously suffered some sort of injury to his hind quarters, yet he hung around the fringes of the action, never far from the owner. She told me that he had been “her first customer every day for three years”. He was at the door every morning expecting breakfast – which he got –  and then he wandered around for the day. She then said to me that, in all that time, she had never been able to pat him or touch him in any way. In spite of her care and attention, here was an animal so damaged that he could not bring himself to trust someone who obviously loved him.

Like humans, cats are social animals. They need to interact with other cats to have a full and rewarding life. It broke my heart to think of this poor guy being so alone and isolated because he could not overcome the fear created by circumstances that were, in all likelihood, not of his making. And it was not lost on me that I too lived alone. Like many others of my demographic, I ran the risk of diminishing  personal support and contact with others. It was something of which I was mindful, but had pretty much accepted as being part of my future.

And so it is somewhat ironic that I am now paterfamilias and chief caretaker of my Mum’s cat Duster. To be honest, before my Mum died, I had often thought that I would wind up with her; everyone else had kids, cats or allergies, so I was the logical recipient.

There has been a period of acclimation. Places have been found for feeding, sleeping and the litter box. The 3 AM yowling has (mostly) subsided, and we have settled into a routine of feedings and pettings and cleaning up that seems to work for us. I am perhaps less lonely, but that benefit has to be balanced against the commitment of having an animal in my care. An invite to my Sister’s cottage is now followed with a question of what to do with Duster. Still, she has wormed her way into my affections, and I may just have to accept that this small animal will make my life richer and more fulfilling. And hopefully, I hers.

September 6: The time around Labour Day always reminds me of a somewhat unhappy period in my life. In September 1964, I began attending North Toronto Collegiate (NT). I had been at Deer Park Public School where I was a pretty good student. I was happy and involved with friends, I got good (enough) grades, took part in extra-curricular activity, and found the whole experience enjoyable. As the time approached to make the transition to high school, I began to experience a certain amount of uncertainty about leaving this comfortable place behind.

One evening I rode my bicycle up to NT to have a look around. I peeked in the windows and saw the usual rows of desks, yet it did nothing to calm my anxiety. On the first day I was singled out and reprimanded because I had worn shorts, which was against school policy. The friendly faces of Deer Park disappeared in a torrent of much older and more mature students. Instead of the “Archie and Veronica at the Malt Shop” scenario I had imagined, I suddenly felt like a little kid again, and completely out of my depth.

For reasons I have never understood, I started in class 9A, a music form full of very bright kids. Although it was never acknowledged explicitly, the classes seemed to be “sorted” by academic choice (music or art) and by ability. So 9A was pretty competitive. My progress in that environment can be divined by my telling you that I was asked not to play my instrument at the year-end concert. I was in 10F the following year. Then 11H and 12G. Throughout those years I felt quite intimidated and had little motivation to apply myself and try to improve my performance. I really couldn’t understand how declining Latin verbs, learning differential calculus or analyzing the Merchant of Venice was going to help me in later life. I doubt they have. There were long periods when I was deeply unhappy and had effectively given up.

Then came Grade 13. As I have written elsewhere, I was sent, against my wishes and in spite of my feelings for North Toronto, to the Canadian Junior College in Lausanne, Switzerland. The College modelled itself on the Neuchatel Junior College and allegedly had set high standards for its’ students. Since I got in with a solid 60% average, I suspect there was a certain amount of “putting bums in seats” during that first year. Call me “cash flow”.

We arrived at the school in early September, and I remember very clearly waking up the first morning in the house where I was billeted and looking out the window to see cows (with large bells around their necks) grazing around a wooden chalet. I was clearly not in Moore Park anymore.

In any event, in what was an even more intimidating environment than North Toronto, I blossomed. I signed up for the yearbook committee, I wrote a humour column for the weekly student newspaper*, I found new friends, I played and sang in a band and – lo and behold – my grades improved. Perhaps it was the implicit understanding that nobody knew much about my awkwardness at North Toronto that gave me “permission” to just be myself, have fun, work hard(er) and try new things. The experience truly changed my life.

I have really mixed feelings when I look back to those first early-September days at North Toronto. Those were not happy times for me, and I often wonder how different my life might be today if I had been able to more fully seize the opportunity the following four years presented, as I did in Switzerland. Looking back, they feel pretty much lost and wasted.

* * *

* If you look closely at this picture of the Expatriate gang, you will notice that one of the staff has a subversive finger raised which just happens to line up with the chair leg. The Yearbook editor didn’t realize it was part of the picture until I pointed it out to him – after the Yearbook (from which this picture is taken) – had been distributed to everyone at the school. Panic ensued….

September 1: Although I never met him, Skip Prokop was a recurring presence in my life, surfacing at some significant moments, only to disappear and reappear after a while.

Prokop was a drummer and a founder of the Toronto rock band The Paupers. I first encountered them when I attended my “first concert” at the North Toronto Community Centre. It was probably 1966, and in the age of bell-bottom pants, I remember Prokop having to roll up his pant legs so that they wouldn’t get caught in the kick drum or high hat. It was a small room, and the volume must have been roughly equivalent to a 747 idling in a basement rec-room, but I remember the speed and flash of Prokop’s playing. In an age when the human metronomes of Ringo Starr and Charlie Watts were considered “great drummers”, Prokop was in a different league. Like others I have found subsequently (Neil Peart, Keith Moon, Steve Gadd, Buddy Rich to name a few), he brought texture and punctuation and rhythms not usually heard in a rock and roll format. To my then 16 year old self, he was the drummer I had always wanted to be, as I pounded away on the couch cushions with my Mother’s knitting needles.

When The Paupers folded, Prokop did studio work with Al Kooper, Carlos Santana, Janis Joplin and others, before returning to Toronto and forming Lighthouse, a 13-piece band which included keyboards, drums, guitars and a brass line, along with an amplified string section. Early members included Howard Shore and Russ Little who have both gone on to be stars in their own right. I first saw Lighthouse in the early 70’s at the Electric Circus on Queen Street East. It was a big venue and it was packed that night. I remember it as a rabbit warren of halls and rooms and windows and doors looking onto the stage where they performed under the de rigeuer “psychedelic” light show. It all felt very subversive. There may have been some form of recreational narcotics involved…

I saw Lighthouse many times including a gig at Convocation Hall in Toronto, a club on the docks in Port Carling (the Surf Club ?) and a dance at Vic Park Secondary School. I loved their music since it was essentially an evolution of the big band music that my parents played at home. There was something very appealing about the big band format, playing loud enough to part your hair, while allowing for improvisation and solos from everyone. I loved watching Prokop’s energetic contributions. It’s a jazz format I still enjoy today.

Lighthouse re-emerged from time to time in different formats in subsequent years, and Prokop went on to do some work in radio. He died on August 30 of a heart condition. I will not remember that date the way I remember hearing that John Lennon had been shot. Still, it feels like the loss of a presence that played a role at significant moments in my life. I’ll miss that.

https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/arts/music/lighthouse-co-founder-skip-prokop-made-rock-history/article36218827

August 24: I’ve been home for a week now, and the introverted, contemplative, analytical person that I am has done some calculating and assessing. Herewith, some conclusions:

The trip lasted 60 days (June15 to August 15), excluding August 15 which I spent getting home. I include June 16, the day of arrival, as a full day because I did travel to the first hotel, and spend time in the afternoon doing various things to try and stay awake, including this sketch. I had 52 days with the bike, and I actually rode 42 days. Total mileage on the bike was 7,600 km or roughly 180 km per day. Of those days, I only had 3 days of real rain and unfortunately, one was the last day back to Heidelberg. It rained all day in 12C temperatures, so not a really pleasant way to end that part of the trip.

Total cost for everything was roughly $17,500 (excluding the motorcycle). This includes airfare ($610), shipping the bike ($1400), travel connections like renting the car and taking the train four times, renting the house in Sablet ($900), all fuel, food and accommodation. This works out to be roughly $290 a day all in. Some things are obviously more expensive – gas was roughly 1.45 Euro a litre, and I probably bought a tank of fuel every other day – while others are comparable with Toronto prices. I found Switzerland most expensive, but not by a wide margin over Germany. Food and fuel were most expensive, but that might be a reflection of staying in a bigger city like Lausanne with a preponderance of Swiss bankers.

In the end though, the cost is almost irrelevant; if you want to do certain things, you have to pay for the privilege. I will still look for better value in things like hotel prices (since I see them as essentially places to sleep and little else), but I’m more ready now to spend a bit more for a good meal, another glass of really good wine, or the efficiency of a taxi rather than walking. As I have said before: “Why not…?”

I actually found the eight week duration of the trip to be too long. The fairly constant moving, packing and being alone took a toll. As well, I realized early in the trip that my efforts to write in my journal every day; to sketch as often as I could; to run every other day (I managed to run 24 times); to update this page frequently; and, to deal with daily e-mail and messages from home was too much to expect, and I often took a day off from all of that. At times I felt that taking a day to rest in a hotel with the bike parked was “wasting time”, but of course it was a perfectly appropriate response and a way of preserving my focus and sanity.

I went where I had planned and saw most of the things I hoped to see. There were some rough patches – particularly at the early stages of the trip – but no disasters so I am happy about that. Highlights would include a seven-course gourmet meal in Waldau, Germany; celebrating my birthday in Lausanne; sitting on the patio of my room in Talloires with a glass of rose; the wine bar in Tain l’Hermitage; the Corniche des Cevennes at St Jean du Gard; and, the view off the top of the Col. Any Col.

Until next year, then.

August 14: As I near the end of this little adventure, I find myself once more in Paris. I do love this place and chose to begin and end the trip here. So far, it has been wonderful: I was fortunate enough to be given a room upgrade that means I can see (the towers of) Notre Dame, and (parts of) Sacre Coeur, la Tour Eiffel and Pantheon from the small balcon outside the window.

That said, I find it a bit of an odd situation. I am a visitor to the city; that much is pretty obvious. But I’m here to visit France, and to try and learn something new about the country and its’ people. I do speak some (lousy) French, and try to deal with people in that language if I can. Yet, whenever I approach a restaurant or store counter the staff usually start out speaking English. Most menus are translated into English, and often other languages, and the food on offer is largely the same generic boeuf bourguignon, soupe a l’oignon, and salads. Many now offer Fish and Chips. So it feels very much like the French are trying hard to water down their identity, to find favour with tourists.

The hordes of people around Notre Dame testify to the power of tourism to France and the money it generates. France is the most visited country in the world, so it’s meaningful. It became meaningful because it was a distinct culture, yet France, and other European countries, seem caught up in the race to “sameness”. My friend McCart and I were in Brampton when he made a very astute comment: “Look at this street. We could be anywhere…” He was pointing out that the whole streetscape was chain stores that were identical to the same stores in other cities. The banks, the gas stations, the Swiss Chalet, the Starbucks are the same whether they are in Toronto or Ottawa – or Paris. I passed two Starbucks on my run this morning. And there is a Subway directly opposite Notre Dame.

Granted, Paris is among the most-visited cities in the world, and this particular quartier is likely ground zero for those who visit, so it is not entirely representative of the entire country. Still, it’s a bit disappointing that I’m offered something I can get at home – whether in food or language – rather than the andouillette I had to hunt down at dinner last night. Strong, pungent, and worth every bite….

August 6: I have had the good fortune to see many cathedrals, forts, castles and chateaux on my visits to Europe. Many times, these are the most memorable highlights of the trip. It’s almost mandatory to visit a new city and visit the cathedral. Visit Paris, see Notre Dame.

So this is Notre Dame de Strasbourg. Some would say it is among the finest examples of high Gothic design, and I spent a very long time, along with dozens of others, admiring its’ beauty. I’ve seen a good number of cathedrals over the years, but this one is truly remarkable. The reddish stone is distinctive, but what really stood out for me was the feeling of “lightness” the façades convey. The columns and statues create a sense of openness and delicacy that make the whole building seem less ponderous than most of the other cathedrals I’ve seen. The astounding thing for me is that each of those statues and columns is solid stone and a product of human hands, a hammer, and a chisel. No wonder it took more than 400 hundred years to build.

This is Le Fort de Tournoux which I discovered just east of Barcelonnette. It’s absolutely unexpected and spectacular. Constructed over a 40-year period and completed in 1863, it was built in 4 stages which rise 700 metres up a rocky spur in the L’Ubaye valley. It was intended to guard against the incursions of those sneaky Italians from the south through the Col de Larche and the Col de Vars. It last saw action during the Second World War, was occupied by the German army during 1944, and was recaptured by the French in 1945. It was decommissioned in 1948.

These are both magnificent buildings in their own way. Both represent the culmination of decades of planning and work to achieve a specific purpose. Notre Dame is awe-inspiring because, in its’ day, it was intended to remind peasants of the power and authority of the church over their lives. The Fort was built at a time of increasing paranoia over military invasion by men on horse-back. In spite of the significance for those who built them, the context changed and even though they are both spectacular and worth visiting in their own right, they are now little more than artifacts from a time long past.

http://www.ubaye.com/le-fort-de-tournoux.html

August 2: When planning my route, I am inevitably drawn to the yellow squiggly lines on the Michelin maps I use. They denote local roads, which I always imagine to be flowing, well-engineered and recently paved. Some turn out well, like this one on Col de Braus north of Nice. Others turn out to be narrow, gravel-strewn donkey tracks that leave me muttering into my helmet about my sanity for having chosen so poorly. Picture a poorly maintained road in the Kawarthas with a 100 metre drop-off on one side and no guide rail…

The thing is, so many of those roads lead to places like Roubion, seen here perched above the Vionene River. Towns of this period were built to be inaccessible to a certain extent; people needed to defend themselves from attack. And the roads likely developed from the paths that meandered between towns. So accepting the challenge of riding less-than-comfortable routes has the reward of visiting someplace special.

Seeking to avoid a torturous ride through Nice yesterday afternoon, I happened upon a yellow squiggly one that ran through the hills north of the Riviera. Some of these can be very rewarding, if for no other reason than you are not stuck in downtown Nice in 34C heat wearing full riding gear. This particular road had the added reward of leading to La Turbie, where you are rewarded with this special view of Monte Carlo.

Today I start moving north into the Alps. Most of the roads there are yellow squiggly ones and I know from experience that they are challenging. My reward will be the satisfaction of  motorcycling through them. And some truly special scenery.

July 26: My cousin James and I would stand on the dock at our cottage assessing whether the wind was strong enough to be boardsailing. We were adept enough that without a strong wind, it just wasn’t challenging enough to justify rigging up and going out; we needed sustained whitecaps. And so, this morning, I found myself considering a trip over Mt. Ventoux, a very well-known stage of the Tour de France and the tallest mountain in this vicinity.

The issue is that the mistral has been blowing for the last 3 days. I would guess that the average speed is 35 to 40 km/hr and the gusts more like 60 km/hr. Being on the north side of the village, my little apartment (toward the right edge of the village in this picture) has been taking its’ full force. Cracks around the front door have been howling, and it’s impossible to open any of the windows for fear of them smashing against the wall. I’m told that the belfry of the church is made of wrought iron so it is easier for the wind to pass through, although that may be a story for gullible tourists…

The top of Ventoux is open and exposed. There’s nowhere to hide and the prospect of being on a motorcycle in a 60 km/hr cross-wind less than thrilling. So I elected a trip to the north of the mountain, through the Ouveze and Toulourenc river valleys. It’s wonderfully scenic country, with many towns suspended in unlikely places. (This picture is of Brantes, with Mt. Ventoux in the background.)

Since I still have 3 days remaining, I will continue to figuratively stand on the end of the dock and consider my options while watching the whitecaps in my wine. For now though, it’s just too windy.

July 23: After 5 weeks, and roughly 5,300 km, I’ve arrived at my little cottage in Sablet. This is a milestone that a small yet persistent voice said I would never reach – that some disaster would befall me, and the reservation would all be for naught. And early on there was a series of disappointing problems that were easily overcome as part of the adventure of travelling. So it was with a small amount of celebratory expectation that I unpacked last night.

The house is literally at the gate to the medieval quarter. The owners, a couple from England, live upstairs. Although I’ve spent little time with them, they seem friendly an generous, and they both ride motorcycles, so we have some interests in common.

After settling in for a bit, I headed down the street for dinner. Along the way I made a couple of new friends who greeted me this morning as well. They too seem friendly and generous, although there is  language barrier that I fear is unsurmountable. Dinner was good – a huge salad and some rose – but if there is a drawback that is becoming evident, it is that this is such a small town that there are only 2 restaurants, 1 grocery store, and 1 butcher. Choice is scarce and I don’t really want to be going from town to town on the bike. Of course, on the positive side, there are about 10 wineries right in town…..

After dinner I came home for a glass of rose. I drank that on the doorstep, since there is really no outdoor space with the unit. Being a hill town, Sablet has the advantage of looking down on its’ surroundings and out across the vineyards, and I spent more than an hour watching a thunderstorm roll across the Rhone valley. It was fascinating watching the lightning shooting between the clouds and occasionally striking the ground from a perspective I seldom have.

And later, a phalanx of little brown bats came out for their evening meal. They seemed to be particularly attracted to the arch outside the doorstep, so I suspect this may be a nightly performance. Such a memorable and enchanting way to start my visit here and perhaps to build a reserve of positivity against problems yet to come..

https://www.vrbo.com/8018582ha

July 16: I have come to understand that I am really a traveller, as opposed to a tourist. I don’t really visit the chateaux, the galleries, the cathedrals or the museums. I’m more about going from place to place; seeing what’s around the next corner. That said, there are times when I make a detour to visit specific places and I become a tourists like so many others.

This is Rocamadour. Although there remains some debate, the hermit priest Amador is reputed to have established a missionary near the site around 1100, and constructed a small. chapel. In time, a number of miracles were attributed to a small carving of Notre Dame, believed to have been carved by him, and the site became a pilgrimage destination and a stop on the Santiago de Compostela. A larger chapel was constructed (the largest building near the centre of the shot) and  inns, and then hotels and all the other trappings of modern tourism sprang up. Today there is a small village rising in steps 120 metres up the face of a cliff and it is among the most visited sites in France. It is also crawling with tourists, so many that it is easy to lose the religious significance of the site in the carnival atmosphere that prevails.

On the other hand, there are places I visit simply because they are unlike anything I know in my daily life. This is the gorge of the Tarn river, not far from Rocamadour. Although it is truly spectacular, it’s not, in my view anyway, the most picturesque of the many canyons in France. But it is remarkable, and the road along the bottom is lots of fun on a motorcycle or in a performance car. It too is crawling with tourists, especially campers, and mobile homes are a constant menace on the road. This picture is taken from the Pointe Sublime where I sat alone for a long while and absorbed the view.

In the end perhaps it doesn’t matter whether I am a tourist or a traveller. I visit what I like and take whatever meaning I attach to heart. And that, in the end, is the most significant.