Author: mckillop_vfr@yahoo.ca

August 7:  I will leave the whole metaphysical / mythological thing for someone with a taller forehead than mine and simply say that I have a thing for mountains. It started when I was in Lausanne many years ago because I would see the French alps on the other side of Lac Leman on my way to school. The view changed every day; one day clear, one day with the tops in the clouds, and at night, little twinkling lights from the homes and villages.

So here I am back in Switzerland watching the mountains. I like the way they change colour and shape as the sun moves across them. I like the way they change the weather. It can be clear and sunny lower down and foggy up top because the passes are always cooler. I like the fact that horizontal and vertical are concepts rather than reality; that place you are standing isn’t flat at all. And of course, the views are sensational.

I’m not sure how many I’ve taken so far, but if I had a dollar for every picture of a village on a far mountain slope, I could pay for my trip. I include a few random shots here as part of my apparently futile attempt at a “weekly” batch of pictures.

This is on the Gerlospass east of Innsbruck, Austria and I’m headed toward the Grossglockner Hochalpenstrasse.

 

And this would be the view from there. The Grossglockner was built as a private road in 1935 and remains so to this day. That means that you pay 34 Euro for the privilege of using your gas to go up and over. It really is a fantastic bit of engineering and ultimately, I found it worth doing – but then, I am biased.

On the road between Pieve and Cortina, there is a series of “perched” towns hanging over the rim of the valley. They all have churches, and a certain “artistic” look to them. It was impossible to go more than a few kilometers without spotting another one, so here’s a sample.

There’s a “figure 8” of passes just west of Cortina, and this is from the Falzarego. Despite my best efforts at keeping up a good pace, between stopping for pictures and a picnic lunch, it took the whole day to do them all.

Another look from a pass, this time the Jaufenpass.

 

 

 

Here’s the grand-daddy of them all: Stelvio. This is  looking down the south face where the climb takes 35 hairpin turns, all of them numbered. A truly great experience but pretty busy between tour busses, cars, motorcycles and those men in spandex that I wrote about.

And finally, a gratuitous shot of Lake Como. There IS a mountain in the background. I can see why George Clooney lives here….

 

 

August 3: I have always preferred predictability. Consistency is comfortable for reasons I now think I understand more clearly. A friend calls it fear, and he may be right. Whatever the reason for my frame of mind, predictability is not usually associated with travel. Things go wrong, and that’s part of the adventure. But I add stress to the situation by thinking that I have to fix it – to make it perfect again.

I can – and have been known to – drive myself crazy trying to force things to happen in a certain way. I drive past restaurants and hotels thinking that there’s a better one just down the road. But recently I’m trying a different approach.

Every day I write directions for where I’m going. Obviously, I need some sort of guide to see the things that I want to see. So following the route I planned today got off to a good start with a quick trip up and over Falzarego and Pordoi Passes. I missed the turn for the Sella Pass, although it was really pretty obvious if I had been attentive. Lunch in a small medieval town and some fiddling around in Merano wasted a good bit of time.

My directions ended with “4km south turn Grampenjoch Pass etc.” Normally I would target a specific destination not ”etc.” So after turning onto Grampenjoch at about 4:00 I felt like it was time to quit, and I took a turn for a town off the main road even though there were no signs for hotels or pensions. About 1.5 km later down a one-lane street with buildings crowded along the edge, I turned up the Gasthof Schwartzer Adler founded, if the sign is to be believed, in 1659. It has been in the current owner’s family for more than 80 years. Nice spot, good meal, a comfortable bed with a down duvet and all for 58 Euro.

This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened on this trip. When I stop trying to make it perfect and just listen to my gut, sometimes, maybe even often, things turn out for the better. It’s fascinating that letting go of control can make things happen for the better. When I focus less on perfection and simply trust that the right thing will happen I am truly in a better place.

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I wrote that last bit yesterday afternoon. I found the hotel partly by heading for the church that turns out to be just across the street. What I didn’t know is that the church bells toll the time: one every 15 minutes and then the hour.

All. Night. Long.

July 29: Cass Eliot passed away in London on this day in 1974 of a heart attack. Cass was one of the Mamas and Papas, a band that was unusual for the 60’s since they were all singers. (OK, I lied: John Philips played guitar.) Cass was a big girl and she had a strong voice that really anchored the band and gave it a unique sound. I’ve been humming “This Is Dedicated (To The One I Love)” all day. She was recording her own stuff after the band broke up but could never seem to get away from being Mama Cass. Gone at age 33.

On a happier note, Elton John is celebrating 25 years of sobriety. Many of his songs are part of my sound track from the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s.  He was a bit “out there” and with his performance costumes, and his lifestyle was subject to speculation for a very long time. It seemed to me that he was set to crash and burn, or parody Liberace in Las Vegas . Fortunately he got his act together and has become a role model, not only for sobriety, but for gay men and women. Thanks to (Sir) Elton we now have a growing LGBTQ community in Toronto and across the globe. And that’s a pretty wonderful thing. His openness about both his sexuality and his addictions is remarkable and courageous.

And he continues to make history one day at a time.

July 25: I have not travelled widely in Germany. I am finding a beautiful and friendly country with a strong culture and lots to share. At least part of the reason I haven’t spent more time here is the language. There’s something about words like thisisthedoortocomein that put me off. But I have found that people are generally kind; if you make the effort, there’s usually a shared vocabulary and pantomimes that get me what I want.

What is harder to accept is the loss of self that having no language brings on. Language is a powerful tool to convey who we are: our views, our experience and our sense of humour all convey important aspects of our character. Without a way of taking part in that social interaction through language we are isolated and cut off. I may get lunch and the outlines of what is going on around me but without a way to take part, I’m essentially an observer, and probably a bit suspect at that.

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Where are the police ? Admittedly, I am travelling a little off the beaten path but I think I have seen perhaps 3 police cars in the last week. Living in a busy city and having been fed a constant stream of nonsense about imminent attack by radical weirdo’s by our beloved leader, I’m accustomed to routinely seeing police on patrol and in cars. Not so here. That said, there is an obvious and strong belief in the rule of law. When driving in the country, traffic moves at the limit and usually not a lot more, and when coming into even the smallest town, all of the traffic slows to bang on the 50 km/h limit (in some cases 30 km/h). There are no gangs roaming the streets and armed thugs driving Citroen Traction Avant aren’t robbing banks. People seem to be going about their daily lives in a peaceful way and society seems to accept that they can do that without the police watching their every move. Refreshing.

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This part of Germany is quite agrarian, a fact with which my nose becomes intimately familiar several times a day. I can now say with certainty that cow shit smells the same here as in Canada. Like the old debate about whether German dogs would  understand Canadian dogs, I expected it to somehow smell different. If the French have terroir to describe how the growing conditions affect their wines from one clos to the next, wouldn’t the same be true of cow shit ? Cows eat terroir after all. Maybe my nose is not yet adequately attuned to the subtleties between one cow and the next.

July 20: Many people call this area the “bread-basket” of France, and it’s easy to see why. The wheat fields extend to the horizon in all directions. A tennis ball dropped at your feet would go nowhere. So it’s easy to see why the invading Germany army expected a fast passage to Paris when they invaded in 1914.

For the first while, it went well for them (as wars go), and then the French battled back. At the Meuse they held a line and the long war of attrition began in earnest. As a boy I never understood “trench warfare”. If armies were constantly moving, when did they find the time to dig a 2 metre deep trench?

In fact, the front line barely moved during the 4 years of the war. The enemies confronted each other across no-man’s land and the slaughter continued throughout that time. It is said that this was the first “industrialized war”. New weapons appeared including machine guns, grenades, poison gas, tanks and gigantic flame-throwers. There is a very poignant photo in the museum at Albert showing troops going “over the top” standing fully upright, walking straight into machine gun fire. One wonders about their ability to follow orders when it had been clearly demonstrated that it was a deadly approach. One also wonders about the morality of continuing to send men to a certain death for days in a row, repeating a strategy that was obviously futile.

It is said that 4 million men – for it was virtually all men at that time – died during the war. A generation of scientists, artists, doctors and teachers lost forever. One wonders what they might have accomplished for the world had they lived.

Canada lost about 60,000 men. The names of the battles are familiar: Ypres, Beaumont Hamel (where all but 68 men of a battalion of Newfoundlanders were killed), Courcelette, and of course Vimy. Each of these sites has it’s own monument and cemetery. It seems that there are cemeteries and monuments everywhere.

Canada’s national monument is at Vimy. It is tremendously emotional to visit the monument and see the names of these men inscribed on it’s four outer walls. Something I will not soon forget.

July 16: Well Toto, we’re not in Kansas any more. Sorry, in my sleep-deprived state, I couldn’t resist.

After talking about it for more than a year, after imagining what it will be like, after trying to contain my excitement and focus on the here and now, it feels a bit strange to actually be here. No more talk, no excuses.

I am still bemused by the fact that more people don’t see airline travel as something more than a cattle-call. It would all be so much more comfortable if people just treated each other with a bit more class and consideration. I thought of the old black and white photos of women in dresses and men in suits boarding a Super Connie as I watched one guy in a tank-top tee shirt and shorts, cut in front of a bunch of folks already  in line without the slightest bit of concern or shame. Class.

Much is familiar about France. I guess not a lot changes when your building stock is several centuries old. Somehow it seems more prosperous than when I was here last, but that may only be due to proximity to Paris. Something to consider as the days unfold.

View from the hotel -first night.

July 7: OK I’ll admit it: I have an on -going fascination with sweaty men in spandex. It happens every year about this time. Dozens of muscular bodies in peak condition pushed to the limit. For reasons I can’t fully explain, I find myself spending endless hours watching them; sharing their hopes, feeling their pain.

Yes, it’s time once again for the Tour de France.

I struggle to explain the fascination to anyone who has not watched the live coverage. I was initially drawn in by the scenery. By it’s very nature, it becomes a travelogue as the race wanders across France – and in recent years Britain, Belgium, Netherlands and others too. The shots are lush and flattering to a beautiful country, and the commentary usually provides some basic information about the significant sites as they are shown.

But the deeper fascination is with the pure physical reality of the race itself. This year it covers 3600 km more or less, in 19 days of riding. About half of those days will be stages where the riders literally climb mountains. A British rider famously died of heart failure on the climb up Mont Ventoux many years ago. This year the race started with an individual time trial in which each rider goes flat out over a fixed distance against the clock. It was won by Rohan Dennis who covered 13.8 km at an average of 55.44 km/hr. – the fastest time trial recorded to date on the Tour. Try doing that on your Schwinn…

And every year a rider, or riders, will dramatically break away from the peloton and establish a sizeable lead. Many times those riders are lesser-known or complete strangers to the limelight and they can ride at the front, enjoying the exposure that brings, for most of the stage. They are racing for the glory and for the recognition of a stage win – something they may never see again. In their struggle to stay ahead of the peloton I often see the “everyman against the machine” drama – will individual courage and hard work triumph over the masses? Usually, no. Virtually every break-away is caught, most often in sight of the finish, and the riders are denied their reward as they are swallowed up by the rest of the field with only meters to go.

It sounds trite but the human drama of the race makes for fascinating viewing. The fact that the actors are all wearing spandex only makes it more interesting – if you like that sort of thing…

http://www.letour.fr/us/

June 25: I have an abiding memory of my Mum hanging laundry in the yard at our home on Inglewood Drive. It was a sunny day in June and I had come crunching up the gravel drive after school to find her draping sheets in the breeze. I’m sure there is a deep-seated psychological reason that I remember the day: its association with the happiness and security of our home, the love I feel for my Mother – that sort of thing.

But I think the real reason I remember it so well is that it was the last day of school, and by extension, it was the first day of summer vacation. I had the whole summer to do exactly what I wanted. Time was infinite and the promise of the summer unlimited.

Today I was reminded that we have now passed the longest day of the year. The trees that were in bud not long ago now have leaves, and the blossoms on the chestnut tree have been replaced with miniature spiky nuts. The tomato plants that were seedlings 3 weeks ago are now waist-high. The birds that were staking territory not so long ago are now in a furious race to raise their young and get ready for migration.

Sly Stone had it right in his song Hot Fun in the Summertime. In 7 short verses and about 3 minutes flat, summer comes and goes:

End of the spring and here she comes back
Hi, hi, hi, hi there
Them summer days, those summer days

That’s when I had most of my fun back
High, high, high, high there
Them summer days, those summer days

I ‘Cloud nine’ when I want to
Out of school, yeah
County fair in the country sun
And everything, it’s true, ooh, yeah, yeah

Hot fun in the summertime
Hot fun in the summertime
Hot fun in the summertime
Hot fun in the summertime

First of the fall and then she goes back
Bye, bye, bye, bye there
Them summer days, those summer days

‘Boop-boop-ba-boop-boop’ when I want to
Out of school
County fair in the country sun
And everything, it’s cool, ooh, yeah

Hot fun in the summertime
Hot fun in the summertime
Hot fun in the summertime

Youtube version here.

Summer is still the best time of the year for me, but it does go by in a flash. It already feels half-over even if it just “officially” started last week. The kids are now out of school, and this year especially, I’m going to try to find that time in my childhood when school ended and summer was a time of unlimited possibilities, a time for fun and excitement and wonder. You remember that time too, don’t you ?

June 21: When I was growing up, Father’s Day was always a bit difficult. My Dad was an Accountant and a passionate golfer – that much was obvious. But he kept his passions, if there were any, pretty much to himself. Trying to find “the right thing” for him on Father’s Day proved problematic. I remember a bunch of awkward cards and repetitive gifts. There are only so many times you can buy golf balls. And I’m sure my daughter Marisa would say the same about me.

But this year was different. In addition to it being Father’s Day, and the longest day of the year, Marisa and Joel chose today to get married.

Several times during the day I found myself staring and admiring her; a beautiful woman, so fully comfortable in the moment and just being herself. And it struck me, forcefully, that she is no longer my child. She will always be my daughter, but she is now setting out on a new life with Joel, and she will soon have children of her own. We have turned a page and our relationship will never be quite the same again. And that will be hard to top on Father’s Day next year.