Author: mckillop_vfr@yahoo.ca

September 29: I have a friend who appears once a month like clockwork. It’s entirely predictable and he’s been doing it for years. He shows up for a few days, and then quietly leaves. We’ve been on long walks, driven way too fast on a deserted road and even, a few years back, taken a late-night skinny dip at the cottage. He visited me when I was in Europe during the summer, arriving just when I felt I needed him most, as only a true friend will do.

I’m not really sure when I realized we had become so close; certainly he’s been a part of my life for many years. I’ve spent many happy nights in his company, and some perhaps not so happy too. He’s relaxing and contemplative and he inspires that feeling in me too, although conversations can be a bit one-sided.

My friend brings reflection, tranquility, thoughts of what has passed and hope for what is to come. I trust him with my secrets, my fears and aspirations. We have shared a lot over the years and unburdening myself with him releases me from many of those fears and gives hope to my aspirations. He provides continuity when my life is changing; certainty when I am unsure.

He is spiritual. There is something in his presence that connects me to things larger than I can fully appreciate. He has gravitas. But the thing I think I value most in him, and in my other important friends, is the certainty that he will always be there for me. Every month when he leaves, I  look forward to the day when he reappears and our friendship is renewed.

September 27: Last Sunday morning I went for a run along the Seine. It was not really very beneficial to my health because the cobblestones made for lousy footing so I ran slowly, and the cross-streets meant that I had to stop frequently. But I got in a few kilometers and I have another memory of that wonderful city.

And I do love Paris. The aging, decrepit city planner in me understands what makes it so great: the wide sidewalks with a coherent plan for street trees, benches and bus shelters; an integrated and extensive transit system; block after block of mid-rise buildings packed with people and cafes and shops and offices spilling out onto the street; public spaces with fountains or really great public art and vistas along the main streets tying them together; the intensity and congestion of the streets. Public buildings and heritage that isn’t an after-thought. I have a particular fondness for old churches ….

The last night I was there, I went for a walk and tried to savour some of that for the last time. It was bittersweet for me since I knew I didn’t really want to come home. It’s been a wonderful adventure with new places and experiences virtually every day for two months. I didn’t want it to end, but I knew that there were things waiting for me at home that will be equally wonderful and challenging – like becoming a grandfather to twin girls….

 

 

 

 

 

This morning I went for a run in Mount Pleasant Cemetery. The pavement was smooth and there was no traffic, so I have no excuse for a slow performance. The contrast with Paris could not have been more extreme, and I found myself thinking about the lessons I’ve learned from being away for so long….

September 20: Who knew a tuna sandwich could do 300 km/h ? I sure didn’t until yesterday when I had lunch on the high-speed TGV train between Avignon and Paris. There was really no sensation the sandwich was moving that fast. Things were going by the window pretty quickly but I would have thought we were doing something like 180 km/h. It’s amazing technology, and it allowed us to cover the 700 km distance in just over 3 hours.

So now I’m in Paris. I had dinner last night with my friend Harlene who was also at Le Beaucet. She left this morning for Toronto and I’m forced to wander the streets alone. Such a hardship. The hotel is about 3 blocks from Notre Dame on the Left Bank. After spending 2 months virtually alone and out in the country, coming into the heart of a large city is pretty intense.

This little square is at the end of the street. It’s remarkable that a few trees and a bit of grass can make such a difference to the character of the street. The space feels cooler and more relaxed, and the fountain splashes just enough to drown out some of the traffic noise. I spent some time people-watching at the café over a glass of  Tavel rose. The complimentary dish of spiced olives disappeared a lot more slowly than the 300 km/h tuna sandwich.

September 17: Last Saturday I arrived at Le Beaucet, a pretty little town not far from Avignon. I’m sharing the house with 10 others including the bhoys, their wives or partners, and some new friends. The village is really just a collection of homes, 2 restaurants, and a very old church and chateau. Our home is on the pilgrimage route of St. Gens about 200 metres from the edge of town.

The house itself sits on the edge of a small ravine. There are 4 large bedrooms on the main floor and 2 on the lower level. . Each has a bathroom and the remainder of the main floor is the living / dining area and kitchen. I have a smaller bedroom on the main floor which is unique because it has no window and an “Italian shower” which means I have to squeegee the bathroom floor every morning. There’s a pool in the back which is unheated, and the weather hasn’t been great for swimming, so it hasn’t seen a lot of use. Overall, we’re really impressed with the high quality of the house, the furnishings and the location.

We have been off exploring Provence. There was a convoy to Chateauneuf du Pape and a second to the Ardeche gorges.  Although it threatened rain and was unbelievably windy, we went to St. Remy and Les Baux de Provence yesterday. There are plans for the Cotes du  Rhone wineries and Mt. Ventoux if the weather co-operates.

I have often daydreamed about living in France. Having been here for an extended time I feel that I’ve adapted in some measure to the lifestyle. But there’s an obvious and real difference between “holidaying” and “living” in a place. As my Sister pointed out yesterday, the first couple of days going to town for a baguette can be fun, but when you have to do it everyday it can become tedious.

My trip has been a success because I have had the time to do as I please. Staying in a new home for a longer time would take that to the next level, and it’s something that really appeals to me. Worth considering…

https://www.airbnb.ca/rooms/2188271

September 9: No, not a typo. Many years ago, I learned from my friends David and Ed that “the bhoys” is a nickname given to followers of the Glasgow Celtic Football Club. They co-founded the Etobicoke Bhoys Club for Planning Department staff. Membership required a good deal of beer drinking and male bonding – although many women ultimately joined as well, something I attribute to the kindness, charm and good humour of both those fine men.

I’ve been thinking a good deal about male bonding for the last few days since my cousin James, brother-in-law Joe, and long-time friend Chris have joined me for a week of motorcycling. To say that expectations were high might be an understatement; I’ve been imagining what this part of the trip could be like for many months, and of course, it has been completely different from the outset. It’s been difficult for me to let go of the preconceptions I had of what I thought could happen, and allow the trip to unfold in it’s own way. I wanted everyone to have a great time, and saw it as my responsibility to make it happen.

We are now 5 days into the adventure and it hasn’t been perfect but it sure has been fun. Today we climbed Col du Lautaret, Col du Galibier, Col de Telegraphe and the Lacets de Pontamafrey, all in about 100 km. Other days haven’t been as vertically challenging, but they have all been an adventure in one form or another. Discussion over dinner is inevitably scatological and hilarious, since Chris is an expert story-teller and all-round kibitzer. Joe has overcome his fear of hairpins and continues to try and convince us that Our Glorious Leader deserves another term in office, while James has been busy organizing routes, expensive wine and hotel rooms for us all. We have all contributed something special and essential as the days unfold. With good food, good wine and good friends in equal measure; how could I go wrong ?

I am sure that my friends David and Ed could offer many insights to male bonding. They were experts. Leaving aside for a moment the many wonderful women I am privileged to have as friends, this part of my little adventure has reminded me that I am indeed fortunate to have so many fine bhoys in my life; men of humour and strength and character and insight. Men that help me to be a better man. Thanks bhoys.

 

September 2: And by “the French” I really mean “Europeans” because of course, these are things you see pretty much everywhere.

I was riding in the Pyrenees when I found a tiny col that connected to a road I wanted to follow. A short distance up the road I found this little village – really just a few houses and a church. The house in front of the church was tended by a man and wife – perhaps a retired farming couple – and they had a beautiful garden along the little river’s edge. The French plant gardens everywhere. The church bells were just chiming noon as I arrived. A lovely little vignette.

It seems that the French – and Europeans generally – live more of their life in public spaces. There are markets and shops, and of course the cafes. I stayed for a couple of days in Castellane. There are 4 or 5 cafes along the north edge of the main square and they are busy from noon until well into the evening. If you look closely, you can see Notre Dame du Roc keeping an eye on things from 600 metres up. It makes me wonder why it’s such a struggle for us to create really high-quality public spaces of our own when Europeans do it so consistently.

Similarly, the French are known for their food. Street vendors are part of the scene in every market and every town. You can eat pretty well with a bit of hunting around. In Toronto we just about killed off the street food sector with unworkable and expensive standards. Having just suffered through a bout of traveller’s malaise, I’m totally supportive of good public health standards., but somehow we manage to come down on the side of bland and mediocre. Imagine cooking several kilos of escargots at Bloor and Yonge like this guy in Puy en Velay…..

In Germany I was totally impressed with the network of local trains and busses. It seemed that every town had a train station and a little 2-car shuttle that departed 3 or 4 times a day. Picture Bracebridge connected to Orillia and Huntsville, Barrie and Toronto…Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have the population and the money to make it work for us?

And finally, one thing they do that drives me wild: smoking. It seems that smoking is still fairly popular in France, and it is allowed on patios, in cafes and other public spaces. Having gotten used to being without cigarette smoke in Toronto, it is surprising -shocking, even – to find it so widely accepted here.

 

August 30: Lately I have been wondering about pilgrimages. This is partly because I suppose I am on one of my own making, and partly because I am now near Pau, and as close as I will get to Compostelle, in Spain.

The St. Jacques de Compostelle route has interested me for many years. Not because I want to walk the route, but rather because it ties together so many fascinating and beautiful places in France (and elsewhere). On this trip I’ve encountered it several times already and reminders are everywhere in this part of the country.

One of the “hubs” of the route is the cathedral in Puy en Velay. It’s built on top of a puy – essentially the core of a volcano after the cinder cone has eroded away. The cathedral sits atop it’s puy and can only be reached by walking up from the city below. The streets are steep enough to require steps every meter or so. The entrance to the cathedral is at the top of a flight of stairs so steep that they arrive in the middle of the church, not at the front door. You can see the altar from the bottom of the stairs, so it’s in front of you all the way up, and gradually revealed as you get closer. For a peasant in the middle ages, it must have been an incredible experience.

To make the walk from your home, arrive in Puy and climb to the church. To be in a building unlike any you had ever seen before, soaring to the heavens on stone columns that couldn’t possibly hold it up. To see statues of the saints you had heard about in your own church for years, in colour and adorned with gold and jewels. To be surrounded by the power and beauty of the church and believe that accomplishing this task would bring you the blessings of your God must have been overwhelming.

What I find disturbing is that so many people seem to have lost the spiritual nature of the pilgrimage, and see it as a “bucket list” item to be “done”. Everest, Kilimanjaro, St. Jacques…. As I sat in the cathedral trying to make sense of it all, at least 4 “pilgrims”, identifiable by the scallop shell on their pack, came through and barely paused for a picture before they were on their way. Of course, the nature of a pilgrimage is ultimately personal, an perhaps they were reflecting on the spiritual side of what they had accomplished in other ways.

The outcome of my own pilgrimage will take some time to determine. I have come to understand some things about myself and the lessons I have learned much more clearly. Every day is a challenge – just like at home – and I know I have continued to grow by dealing with those challenges.  But it will take the perspective of time and distance to really allow me to see the impact of my own pilgrimage.

These would be the French equivalent of speed bumps. I encountered these guys on the ride this morning. They seemed fascinated by the bike and my red jacket and we had a staring contest for a couple of minutes. Being a city kid, I wasn’t sure what to do next. Finally a guy on a bicycle came downhill and just rolled between them. I left the motor off and did the same and the cows didn’t seem to mind one bit. Lesson learned.

August 23: Things have been conspiring against me for the last few days, and I think I “hit the wall” (metaphorically speaking – thankfully) and needed a bit of down time. Five weeks of travel sounds like great fun until you pack and unpack 35 times in a row.  But I’m sure my protests fall on deaf ears.. Here’s some random stuff with the promise of something more thoughtful soon.

This is a shot of the north shore of Lac Leman just coming into Montreaux. At the right edge of the shot is Chateau Chillon where Lord Byron and Mary Shelley hung out. She wrote Frankenstein here in 1816. * Next is the main rail line from Geneva to Italy, and points south. Some vineyards, a few houses and the auto route running up the Rhone valley. The former city planner in me is amazed at the land use relationships people tolerate. There’s not a lot of room and they sure make use of every inch.

This is a shot from just west of L’Alpe d’Heuz (Alp Dooez). The Alps are used extensively by the Tour de France: long runs down the valleys and climbs over the Cols. L’Alpe d’Heuz is frequently a finishing stage because it is a ski town atop 29 switchbacks and effectively, the end of the road. It was on my “bucket list” of places to see but was strangely disappointing. Without men in spandex (OK, there were quite a few trying to prove they could ride the Tour), no crowds, and no excitement, it really is just a ski town and not a very pretty one at that.

This is St Martin Vesubie just about an hour north of Nice. This is where I stayed when I exchanged the car / bike. I left headed west and along the way went further up the mountain to a small town called Rimplas. There, I met a 91-year old man who remembered when there were no cars, no road and no electricity in the town. He went on to work for Air France and had flown on the Concorde. A much younger 82-year old told me about collecting milk and mining salt for sale in Nice. Having to haul it down the mountains and 100 or so kilometers into town was quite and ordeal. People have amazing stories if you have the patience to hear them.

And finally, this is St. Martin’s church in Donzenac where I have been for the last 2 days fighting off a case of Delhi Belly. Not fun, but then nobody said that travel was always fun. Hopefully, some potions and a couple of days and I can get “over the wall” and back to some good eating.

 

• When I was in Germany, I would frequently find myself remembering bits from Mel Brooks’ version Young Frankenstein, or his other classic Blazing Saddles. That tells you everything you need to know about my appreciation for the arts….. Frau Blucher.

August 15: When the BEST part of the day is a 30 Euro, ten minute taxi ride, you know you’re in trouble.

It started well enough. The usual continental breakfast and on the road from St Martin – Vesubie to Nice earlier than I had hoped. Pretty much straight into town and down to the airport which is like Pearson, only a bit smaller. And they speak another language. And they follow practices that nobody but them understands. But that aside….

I went round the terminals (both of them) twice looking for the TT Car drop-off. When that proved futile I decided to follow the signs for the rental returns, although there was no sign for TT Cars. That should have been my first clue. Of course, you pass through an automatic gate to get into the rental car return parking garage. There’s no escape route for idiots looking for TT Cars. Once inside, I parked and walked a brisk 10 minutes to the end of Terminal 2 where I found the empty TT Cars booth, with a helpful sign directing me to, essentially, the far end of the parking lot. (Lest you think I’m a complete idiot, I DID look online for the location but found nothing but the address of the airport, which proved to not be that helpful.)

Once in the TT Cars trailer, I discovered that I was supposed to return the car to Paris, not Nice, and that it was impossible for me to be in the rental garage. After some more time waving arms, I’m told to get the car and follow the signs for the bus depot. Go right to the end where there’s a sign that says you must not enter under penalty of being shot and pissed upon from a great height. “Just ignore it and come through.”  And you will need a ticket to get the car out of the rental lot, and we can’t give you one of those…

After a further 10 minute walk back, a kindly rental guy from the company in whose lot I had illegally parked gave me said ticket and I escaped the lot. Two signatures later and the car was back in the hands of Peugeot. Two suitcases out of the trunk and a further 5 minute haul across the parking lot to the taxi stand leads to the high point of the day mentioned off the top.

Arriving at the bike rental place I’m told that the guy will be there soon. With the bike. Soon. In the meantime we do some paperwork which essentially involves signing forms printed in French and thrust across the counter with a helpful “La et la.” While we wait, I change in the basement storage room.  The bike arrives and it’s not the one I ordered – it’s a BMW 800 with small sport bags and a top box. When I ask about the tank bag I specifically requested, I’m told that they don’t work on the plastic gas tank (in a tone one uses on a first-grader…).

There being no other option, I mount up and ride back to St Martin. In the rain. Did I mention the rain? Showers actually, but still, another element of stress. An hour of that, including a nice side slip on a metal grate in the road and I get back to the hotel where the key for the top box breaks off in the lock. (By the way, the top box comes fully loaded with a 20 lb. chain lock which, in addition to weighing 20 lbs. takes up the better part of half the top box – kind of defeating the purpose of the additional piece of luggage.)

The guy at the bike shop takes a bit of time but finally calls back with the name of a locksmith who can make a key. He’s 20 minutes down the road. And by God he does make a key from the two pieces that seems to work fairly well.

So day one has not been entirely fun. But on the bright side, I have 27 more, including 7 with my best buds. And if this is the worst, then I have a lot to look forward to… Tally ho.