All posts by cl@rks

Travelogue EE 5: Dubrovnik

DUBROVNIK

15 – 17 August 2010

Caught a taxi to the airport, which took us past the less pretty side of Zagreb. The side that was what we’d expected to see – brown and grey apartment blocks, grimy shop windows and grafitti everywhere (seemingly the bane of this side of the world). We were tickled by a particular series of spraypainted messages which went through the usual logos, profanities, proclamations of devil worship, metal bands, to end on The Jesus And Mary Chain (very long compared to the usual Slayer, Megadeth, Metallica stuff), basketball, La Coste. La Coste? Really?!

A 45-minute flight later, we landed in Dubrovnik at 13h00 on Sunday. Beautiful coastal town, no stranger to tourists judging by the fact that every second house advertises itself as accommodation to rent. We dumped our stuff at our very neat little apartment and headed out to explore.

Dubrovnik has an Old City, literally the original city from medieval times within the old city walls etc. It was a bit disappointing as it was really just restaurants (no surprise mostly pizza, pasta and seafood) and souvenir shops, but we did enjoy wandering the narrow, winding cobbled streets at the top of the town where people still live in the little ramshackle units all one on top of the other, with original little doors and windows).

We’d decided we didn’t want to do dinner in the Old City as the restaurants were all expensive and dime a dozen), so headed for the Dubrovnik Port where we expected to find bars and restaurants lining the waterfront. No such luck. Oddly, there was very little entertainment there. We managed to find a nice enough place for some sundowners and cards, but all they served food-wise was pizza and ‘sendvices’, so we were once again on a mission to find an eatery.

We walked the full length of the waterfront to literally the edge of town (across the road from the bus station) and found a place that had a lasagne and chicken pasta thing we’d have settled for, but they were out of stock (a very common, very frustrating occurrence) and the waitress suggested we have the… Pizza.

No dice.

We left in a huff and luckily soon stumbled upon a little bistro where we were delighted to find they had awesome seafood pasta options. The waiter was very confused when we greeted him with asking what they DIDN’T have, meaning what was out of stock and whether they didn’t serve pizza. Astoundingly, they had everything on the menu (and a few specials that weren’t) and didn’t even serve pizza at all! We shared a salmon tagliatelle and a tomato/seafood pasta, which were both perfect, alongside a switch to the local brew, Osujkvo. Nice. The only marring of this perfect formula was getting my first bee-sting ever. Not allergic though. Phew.

MONDAY

Monday we took a ferry from the port in the Dubrovnik Old City out to a nearby island, 10 minutes to Lokrum. We trekked around to the olive groves, the monastery and the fort, dotting our mission with dips in the ocean on all sides. First time in the Adriatic for both of us! It’s bluer than blue and refreshingly cool and very salty. Pity they’re not sandy beaches though – rocky coastlines make for tricky entry and exit and the big rocks under the water have left parts of our feet a bit shredded. 🙁

Still, a great day out. Caught a bus outside Old City so as the see the remainder of the peninsula – and see if there was anywhere else to dine. We took the bus a full circuit, so are satisfied that we’ve seen everything Dubrovnik has to offer – and found a spot on the opposite side of the marina to where we’d been the night before.

Settled in for a few sundowners on a bar that serviced a little jetty with 4 or 5 tables and entertained ourselves with views of our little piece of paradise and a man in a speedo(n’t) coming into port and mooring his little boat called ‘Tina’ right in front of us.

We had the perfect dinner at a little spot across the road called Bistro Riva. Unable to choose (and not having to), we shared a calamari and rice, mussels (which were peculiarly battered and deep fried – unusual, but good) and lasagne, which turned out to be layers of thin pancakes with mince between and cheese melted on top (not what we were expecting, but also nice).

We had planned on walking off our dinner to go home and pack, to get an early night for this morning’s bus ride to Split (4.5 hrs so figured we’d try get out early), but got sucked in by a warm and inviting bar called Cavello’s a few minutes from home). The barman took a fancy to us and plied us with Jagermeisters (also served in tumblers, so probably fascinated by us throwing them back) and brought out his guitar and played us sing-along English songs (mostly classics like Stairway to Heaven, Beatles, Hotel California etc) and sang some Croat songs to us, and was delighted when Christian showed him how to play Wonderwall.

TUESDAY

We had gotten home much later than expected, which made the morning quite a challenge. Could certainly have used a good old chicken and mushroom pie. No such thing in Croatia. They didn’t seem to do any savoury pastries (loads of pancake, croissant and doughnut style things stuffed with sugars, jams and fruit though) and the supermarkets didn’t do our typical deli or bakery things, so no pies, subs etc (not even pizza slices which is odd around here!). The locals (according to one of our tour books, which we didn’t believe until we saw it) seem to favour eating dry rolls. No butter even!

We ended up sourcing our usual picnic pack and getting on the bus for our long journey.

So, first thing on the agenda in Split would be to find something (non-pizza) to eat with a view over the magnificent port and azure ocean.

Travelogue Namibia 6: Windhoek

WINDHOEK

2 October 2021

Very quickly not used to early mornings and waking up to alarms, it was a necessary evil in order to get our Covid PCR tests done in time to get the results before our flight out the next day. Deemed mandatory for us to get home again, the labs would take anywhere between 6 and 48 hours to produce results – depending on what you’re prepared to pay. With Namibian towns being as spread out as they are, and the nearest testing station to our camp at Okaukuejo being 3 hours away (and in the wrong direction), we reasoned that it made sense to get up a bit earlier and get to Windhoek in time for the 14 hour one, at the R900 per person rate.

We kept to time, bidding final farewells to the watering hole and its exhibitionist wildlife residents just after 07h00, and still had time for a buffet breakfast (and the now-obligatory tyre check) before departing at 07h30.

It was tar road all the way, so the 4 hour estimate was accurate, and allowed for a leg-stretch midway.

We had booked our Covid tests at a “roadblock” station and, not sure exactly what we were looking for, we were fortunate that the little pop-up shop in a shipping container was both exactly where we expected it to be on our online map and adjacent to a matching pop-up Police station with loads of signage or we might have blinked and missed it.

Despite having completed the laborious online booking forms, the attendant was not expecting us. It didn’t matter though, there was no queue and so a quick clipboard and form later, he was poking swabs up noses and down throats, as per preference.

30km later we arrived at the APS Guesthouse on Robert Mugabe Avenue in Windhoek. We had lovely big en suite rooms… Not that we needed them for much since we left almost immediately.

We walked to the Heinitzberg Castle, a beautiful old building from the turn of the last century. Count von Schwerin had built the elegant castle in 1914 for his fiancee, Margarethe von Heinitz, and it would serve as a great location for our welcome drink, with its panoramic views over Windhoek and its old-world charm.

Our next stop was quite the opposite; a very down-to-earth locals’ pub called Andy’s, where we had to line the stomach with the chips platter with its thick cheesy, garlic and bacon bits sauce. 

Our highlight for the day was a trip to Joe’s Beerhouse, which by all accounts was a ‘must do’ when in Windhoek, for its combination of bric-a-brac decor and delicious menu. Inspired by both German and Namibian influences, the secret sauce in the menu was traditional favourites with a twist, like the Eisbein burger (that Michele had), the game lasagne (that Chris had) and the Oryx schnitzel (that I had, obviously). With great service and a very relaxed atmosphere, it was easy to pass more than a couple of hours relaxing at our table in the gardens. 

It started getting a little chilly in the evening, so we headed back to our guesthouse, which had a lovely pool deck and some very exuberant guests who kept us entertained as we shamelessly eavesdropped into their conversation.

SUNDAY

On our very last morning of what had been a very eventful week or so, we were able to sleep in a bit, and still get in a run before breakfast.

Having made no effort on the previous day, we felt it worthy to do a short circuit of some of the basic sights, that were fortunately all very easily accessible on the grid of landmark roads where we were staying.

We ran down Jan Jonker Street, named after a Namibian tribal leader from the 1800s, far enough to be able to cut across and back to our road to see the famous Christuskirche (built in 1896) and some monuments to Namibian government. A very easy 5km loop, nice and flat.

Breakfast was a treat with the a la carte menu offering both French Toast and Canadian Flapjack options, among others. With the long journey home ahead of us, we filled our boots to see us home.

Travelogue RWC 2023 5: Perpignan

PERPIGNAN

02 – 04 October 2023

A 3 hour train ride south from Marseille – and right in the heart of Catalan country – we’d picked Perpignan to be our eye in the storm between the Rugby World Cup game in Marseille and our Blink 182 concert in Barcelona. Home to USA Perpignan rugby union and the Catalan Dragons rugby league teams held appeal for the chaps. The historical significance appealed to all of us.

Though settlement in the area goes back to Roman times, the medieval town of Perpignan seems to have been founded around the beginning of the 10th century. Shortly afterwards, Perpignan became the capital of the counts of Roussillon. It then became French in 1659, by the Treaty of the Pyrenees. Perpignan was a city of refuge in the 20th century – after 1936, for refugees from the Spanish Civil War.

Meanwhile, back in La Ciotat we were managing battles of our own. Having returned home in the early hours of the morning following the 9pm South Africa vs Tonga game in Marseille (and the ensuing traffic jam to get out of the city and back to La Ciotat) the previous night, it was less than optimal to be awoken by a message that our morning train connecting us back to Marseille for our connection to Perpignan was cancelled due to strike action.

We sprang – relatively speaking – into action and started reviewing other options. If we either caught the next train from La Ciotat or caught the bus from the Tourist Office at the end of our road straight into Marseille, we would be just too late for our connection. We tried calling the taxi from Saturday but struggled to get commitment on availability of a car. Our plans were up in the air and we were too tired to worry…

Distracting ourselves with making mega sandwiches with the last remaining groceries (a whole baguette, packet of bacon, thick country ham, sliced cheese, butter, sauce sachets), the plans made themselves when John the Taxi Man called and confirmed he could collect us from the Tourist Office in 5 minutes.

Timing was tight, but he was up for the challenge. Putting foot and swearing ‘Bloody Frogs’ (comically, as a local pure Frenchman in his thick French accent) out of the way, he got us to the Station in Marseille with 11 minutes to spare.

Relieved, we sank into our reserved seats on the train, ready for the next stage of our tour.

Our Airbnb host had advised that she would be dispatching her parents to meet us at the apartment since she’d be at work. Not wanting to keep them waiting, we emerged at the Perpignan Gare with Google Maps at the ready to guide us through the 10 minutes walk.

Our fantastic apartment was situated alongside a canal, which made for an unmissable landmark. Les Parents were waiting at the doorway to our building, ready to welcome us.

Trundling up 3 flights of stairs to our penthouse apartment, we were impressed by our spacious and tastefully decorated home for the next 2 nights. Besides the open plan living area that overlooked the canal, there was a bedroom with small outdoor terrace for Robbie and a massive loft room for Chris and I that ran the length of the apartment.

Les Parents gave us some very basic instructions (to suit our very basic French) and pointed us towards the Old Town.

Following the canal, we were only a few minutes from the historic centre. We would need to self-navigate because there were no walking tours on offer in Perpignan. We easily located the Tourist Office thanks to excellent signage, and procured a trusty city map.

A cursory review of the map told us that our tour would be a quick one. The centre ville is very small and majority of the sights are churches, which for us means a quick photo of the beautiful building and move on. Enough to entertain us for the remainder of the afternoon, but certainly not a two-day affair.

We chatted to the tourist office agent for suggestions for the next day. Of the recommendations, we liked the idea of a short bus ride to a nearby coastal town the most. Armed with info and the bus schedule, we began our city tour of Perpignan.

The agent had warned us that Monday in Catalan country is like a Sunday and not to expect too much to be open. Combined with siesta time, the town was very quiet. Consequently, our walking tour was concluded exceptionally quickly!

Never at a loss for things to do when a meal could be had, we followed directions to the central Place where we’d been told that restaurants serve all day everyday.

We’d worked up quite an appetite, so were sold on the first approach. The host at Hippopotamus only had to get eye contact to seal the deal thanks to the illustrated menu boards at the entrance that promised it to be an excellent grillhouse.

Being a ‘Sunday’ warranted a fantastic roast chicken and roast potatoes feast served in a hot skillet with a rich savoury gravy. And with fresh bread and butter, obviously.

After our leisurely late lunch, we headed in the other direction to explore the new town. Now toward the end of the working day, there was a lot of traffic and people on the move.

Once we’d visited places of cultural interest, we indulged in a visit to the local Irish pub, O’Flaherty’s. En route we noticed – Monday or no Monday – how the city had come back to life again.

Sign boards outside pubs showed operating hours to commonly be 5pm to midnight or beyond every night of the week, so Perpignan clearly has a vibrant and social nightlife culture. Nothing rowdy; mostly tables of 2 or 3 people, sipping drinks and nibbling tapas.

It was really pleasant to pass a couple of hours soaking in the atmosphere and planning our next steps. And it was always appreciated to be able to walk home, taking the long way around to walk along the canal.

Almost home, we walked past a Tibetan sidewalk cafe (of no more than 4 tables) that smelled so good, we had to stop.

The owner effortlessly convinced us to try his dumplings and sushi. Although the menu was a combination of traditional Tibetan fare and other Eastern crowd-pleasers, the owner  was completely authentic. He’d been a monk in his homeland, Tibet, before he made his way as a refugee to Perpignan in the late 90s.

He told the story quite casually and was more interested in us enjoying the dumplings and a good glass of rosé than being impressed by his life story.

TUESDAY

As advised, we would be spending the day in Colliore, some 30km away on the coast. Situated in the Roussillon province, the area had been of consequence as a medieval administrative court and been home to royals from 1659 to around the 1790s.

There was a bus every hour or so that could be caught at the Gare. We made our way up to the station in good time to catch the 11h15 bus. It was only when the wrong bus arrived at the bus stop that we realised we were at the wrong bus stop entirely. Fortunately I’d checked with the driver as we boarded the bus or who knows where we would have ended up!

The driver directed us to a bus terminus on the other side of the train station and we killed the remainder of the wait with a coffee in the station.

After a very scenic bus trip – a bargain at €1 each! – we alighted in a precious seaside town. With a selection of seaside eateries, we set about the now-urgent business of lunch.

Mussels and calamari and prawns were the order of the day to match the setting. Collioure being in the heart of Catalan country and very close to the Spanish border, the menu had influences from both countries. A great combo!

From our vantage point on the promenade we could see the bowl of mountains that cupped Collioure, just as the agent described. We could also see the impressive Royal Castle that stretched around the left side of the harbour and hid the old town behind its massive wall.

Finishing up our lunch, we took a stroll around the old town, down to the harbour and along the jetty to the entrance of the port. This allowed a wonderful view back on the charming hamlet and the mountain range backdrop.

Mission accomplished with our relaxing afternoon, we caught the bargain bus back to Perpignan. We disembarked in town to gather some supplies and allow for a stroll back to our apartment.

Having procured a bottle of wine and a bottle of cava, we enjoyed sundowners on the small terrace adjoined to Robbie’s room.

We would probably have been there for a lot longer had it not been for the neighbour cooking up a storm. The delicious wafts of onions and garlic teased us to the point of action and motivated us to find something cheap ‘n cheerful for dinner.

We’d seen signs for naan kebabs on our travels and were curious about the combo since we loved both but had never experienced them together.

Not hard to find, we finally solved the mystery at a place called Cheese Naan.  The result was a soft round naan rolled into a cone and piled high with delicious fillings ranging from tandoori to kebab to cordon bleu. A real mash of cultures!

It was still relatively early so there was time for a spot of Cava in the Catalan Dragons’ home bar and bistro. And, of course, making a little time to stop in for a final glass of rosé with our Tibetan friend.

Travelogue RWC 2023 4: Marseille / La Ciotat

MARSEILLE & LA CIOTAT

29 Sep – 02 Oct 2023

Our drive from Montpellier to Marseille was particularly festive because Chris had prepared a playlist of Blink 182 songs. This was intended to warm us up for the impending concert we would be attending on the last night of the trip. He’d based it on the set list of one of the previous concerts on the same tour, so it was a good indication of what we could expect!

We chatted and sang along, admired the countryside and the little towns dotted on either side of the motorway. Chris gave accolades to the sensible toll system that dispensed a ticket at origin and then tailored the charge for you when inserting the ticket again at your destination toll booth. All fully automated, super-efficient and a fair fee for just the value you’d enjoyed on the perfect roads.

Arriving in Marseille’s St Charles Station, we completed our Awesome Foursome group as we reunited with Michele, who had emigrated to London some 6 months prior.

We put the 30 minute train journey to La Ciotat to good use, catching up on what had been happening on our respective ends of the ocean.

Robbie had recommended our stay in the seaside town just outside of Marseille based on a previous visit he’d made to his friends who lived there. One of the friends, Ricky, was even at the train station waiting to greet us. He packed all our suitcases and selves into his station wagon with a smile.

He dropped us at our Airbnb apartment, in prime location one road in from the seafront, with the new town to the left and the old town to the right.

Our apartment was quite mysteriously architected, opening into an ample dining room / kitchen combo with 2 mismatched arches at the back leading to a twin room and lounge that in turn led to a slender bathroom at the back. Chris and I would be staying upstairs, accessed by narrow steep wooden steps on the right of the dining room into a loft that required us to crouch from the waist because the roof was so low. It was quite entertaining trying to figure out how this apartment had been constructed – or deconstructed from its neighbours.

Slip-slops on, we hit the beach. It was very pleasant to enjoy the warmth of the late afternoon sun while soaking in the glistening sea with all the yachts and sailboats bobbing along merrily. The beach was soft sand that you could see disappear into the clear waters.

We were easily able to walk the manageable couple of kilometres on the new town side, and rewarded ourselves with cocktails and cold beers in the tented shade of a sidewalk restaurant at the far end.

The return journey saw us overshoot our house to go onto the old port side. Also lined with bars and restaurants, we couldn’t resist going into O’Bullrock to gauge the price of a local Guinness. The usual €8 was marginally less shocking but no less frightening as we acclimated to life in Euros!

Hopelessly distracted from our French Seafood dinner mission by a few pints and a cheeky charcuterie board, we somehow ended up back at our house having a picnic and tucking into our supplies of sparkling and red wines instead.

Arrangements had been made to meet up for the 9pm Italy vs New Zealand game. We made our way back to O’Central in the Old Port (no more than a couple of hundred metres from our house) and arrived just before Ricky, his lovely wife Marjorie and their friend Marine. Clearly regulars, the owner moved people from the rockstar front tables to make space for our group.

The Kiwis easily took the game, so we decided on pizza for our midnight snack to commiserate Italy’s beating. The Crown Pub had an adjoined annex still serving fresh-from-the-oven pizza. A few minutes later we were happily munching on fresh crusty pizza with lavish portions of ham and pepperoni on top.

SATURDAY

Chris had booked us on a Marseille free Walking Tour with the same company as we’d had in Montpellier. Ricky arranged a black van taxi to come and collect us and drop us off in town to minimise the guesswork under pressure to meet for the excursion.

We met Angie (and about 50 of her guests) at the Metro Station at the fish market. It was very noisy next to the Rugby World Cup Fanpark, so we set off on our way as soon as Angie was happy the group was complete.

According to Angie, Marseille is the oldest city in France – some 2600 years old – and was founded by traders from Greece who pulled into the port to escape the infamous Le Mistral which brings up to 80kmph winds.

We properly started the tour at the Greek ruins. There are very few remains from its early history because, as a sought after trading point in the Mediterranean, it’s seen more than its fair share of conflict. Consequently, the city has been destroyed and rebuilt countless times by conquerers and settlers.

The point where we were standing had actually been part of the original port which the Greeks had built, with city wall and towers. Further, Grand Rue is the oldest street in France, which you can still walk down today. Authentic Starbucks ‘n all.

Moving along the road, Angie shared how Marseille was rebuilt into 1851 under Napoleon in order to insert a sewerage system, widen roads (for lifestyle and army access) and trees to line the roads. And, most importantly, connecting the old port with the new port, required to manage the volumes of traffic now coming to Marseille. Having struggled with epidemics like Black Plague and Cholera, the buildings were built with lots of long high windows to maximise light and ventilation.

Not all the stories were of glory and progress though.

During the Second World War, the Vichy Government collaborated with the Nazis in the form of an agreement that the south of France would remain free while the North was occupied. However, once the Allies collected in North Africa with intention to enter Europe via Marseille, the Germans broke the agreement and moved down to the city to defend the territory that they had gained.

Marseille was a cesspit and known as the Sty of Europe. In January 1943, by way of collaboration with the Nazis a large troop of French policeman cleared all the residents out of their houses – some 20 000 people – and gathered them on the port. The majority were trained to a transition camp for a week. A couple of thousand (mostly Jewish) people were taken to Poland and executed. The few that returned arrived back to rubble; the policeman had blown up 1500 buildings with dynamite as a radical solution to clean up the city. Only 7 buildings remained standing. This has been recognised quite recently as a Crime Against Humanity.

One of these surviving buildings, a beautiful old Renaissance structure built in 1535, was actually slowly (very slowly, over 3 months) moved 10 metres and pivoted 90 degrees in order to better fit the new city planning for Grand Rue!

Modern Marseille has been depicted as a dangerous place. While it has had a notorious criminal element from as far back at the 1950s (‘The French Connection’) there had been a concerted effort in the last decade to clean up the city and restore a more attractive connotation.

There are than 2000 Pétanque strips around the city – and even a nightclub that has 7 Pétanque strips inside where ravers can exercise their one arm with the boules and the other with Pastis.

Marseille is also famous for its olive oil soap, crafted since the Middle Ages. Constituting 72% olive oil, it is traditionally presented as an unscented cube in the natural olive green colour. The soap is supposed to be all you need to keep your skin clean, youthful and hydrated. Angie (who couldn’t be more than 30 years old) joked that it was all she, as a 72 year old, had been using for the last 50 years.

Concluding the tour at the majestic Byzantine Cathedrale de la Major, we broke from the group to grab some lunch. All 4 of us had earmarked the same place for different reasons as we’d walked past so it was an easy choice.

We had a veritable feast of local-flavoured goodness. Charcuterie boards to start, with salmon tartare and tuna steak for mains. Lots of fresh baguette and butter too, of course. We’d earned it, having done a good few kilometres in the baking Mediterranean sun on this perfect day.

Marseille was heaving with all the tourists and rugby fans in for the weekend, so we decided to head back to our neck of the woods for a slower pace. Public transport is easily accessible and inexpensive so catching the train back to La Ciotat and connecting with a bus to drop us off at our door was a lot simpler than expected and cost less than 5 Euros apiece.

Somewhere along the way we uncovered that Robbie had never had a Katemba; a refreshing mix of equal parts Coca-Cola and red wine. We popped into our local supermarket to get some Coke and the cheapest red wine available. Less than 20 minutes later, another First was chalked up on our adventure scorecard!

Keen to make the most of the sunshine, Michele and I grabbed our flops and went for a walk along the promenade to dip our toes in the sea. Such a beautiful stretch of coastline and the perfect time of day, with sun on our backs and clear cold water on our legs.

The chaps meantime were watching Fiji vs Georgia. We’d managed to miss most of the match by the time we got back at sundowner o’clock.

Tucking into a selection of cold meats, we sipped on some of the nicer red wines (sans Coke) that we’d brought from Beaujolais. Never short of conversation, we shared stories and laughs around the kitchen table for hours in our homely home.

Time, in fact, ran away with us and we were caught by surprise when Ricky and Mark arrived at our front door to ‘pick us up’ (on foot) to go watch the Scotland vs Romania game at the pub.

Resuming our positions in our now-local O’Central, our group delighted as their home nation team easily took the game from the Romanians. The Scots went on to celebrate into the early hours of the morning while the Saffas went home to get a good night’s sleep in prep for the big game the next day.

SUNDAY

It had been a long week of festivities and we were glad we’d left the Sunday open, as a free day with no arrangement.

Chris and I went out for a morning run and saw there was a market open all along both ports. The streets were buzzing with vendors and shoppers. Noting there were a lot of clothing and accessory stores, I encouraged Michele to do a return visit with me assuming it would be of little interest to the chaps.

We ambled along, browsing the silky cottons, light wools, fluffy angoras and soft leathers. The clothing stalls were punctuated with food vendors encouraging us – me with little resistance – to sample their meats, cheeses and Mediterranean accoutrements. Delicious!

Lured out by the taste for a coffee, Chris and Robbie had settled at the local Tabac and were sipping on espresso. Admiring the yachts and watching the day go by, we unfolded our plan for the afternoon.

Far from ambitious, we picked a seafront seafood restaurant and had spectacular salmon and cod fish ‘n chips. This left enough time to get dressed and take the patio furniture out onto our stoep to share the last of the wine while we waited to be collected at 5 to go to Marseille for the rugby game.

Marjorie collected us and as an avid rugby fan was very excited to be attending the game with our South African contingent for authenticity. She chatted animatedly as she drove, pointing out things of interest as we passed. She had grown up in La Ciotat so had lots of interesting information to share.

Marseille was pumping! There was a sensory-overload of activities; French pub anthems booming out of speakers, people everywhere, beer flowing, flags flying. It was strange (and awesome) to see so many Springbok shirts in the hordes of people streaming up and down the Main Street that led up to the Stadium.

We knew of a few people that were also attending the game, one such a friend from Joburg who had emigrated the year before and now lived in Manchester. We’d been messaging back and forth over the weekend in an attempt to catch up but our paths had not yet crossed. This was our time!

We found Justin and his friends outside the Stadium and spent the next couple of hours together, reminiscing with our old friend and making new memories with the new ones.

Stadium access was very well organised and it was a pleasure to share the South Africa vs Tonga experience with 59996 the other spectators the Stadium was designed to hold. Sitting next to a Frenchman who was wearing an old Boks jersey, I managed to practice a little of my French as we exchanged stories of how he’d come by his jersey on a trip to SA and what my friends and I were going in France.

Cherry on the cake was our team winning the match and getting the bonus point required to move us closer to being promoted from our group into the quarter finals.

Travelogue RWC 2023 3: Montpellier

MONTPELLIER

27-29 September 2023

Our holiday was going much too quickly, but the one advantage was that it was now time to meet up with our friend Robbie. We’d be in Montpellier for a few days before going to Marseille for the South Africa vs Tonga game in the Rugby World Cup 2023.

Robbie was coming in by train from London and would meet us at our shared Airbnb apartment just outside of the Montpellier city centre. We were driving from Nimes and had chosen an apartment with a garage so we could stow the car and explore with more freedom on foot.

We pulled into the road to see Robbie on the doorstep; we could not have timed it better!

Our host came down to greet us. Jean-Pierre spoke less English than we did French, so we slipped into Frenglish to get the basic instructions (keys, wifi, city map) and headed towards town. Walking and talking to catch up with our old friend.

We were all very pleasantly surprised, having done very little research on Montpellier, when we arrived at the one recommendation that Jean-Pierre had made that I had recognised – La Place de la Comedie. A vast pedestrian square surrounded by ornate buildings and with the obligatory fountain, we knew at first sight that we were in for a treat for the next few days!

We did a rudimentary lay-of-the-land check and decided that since we had already booked a walking tour for the next morning, there was little point duplicating efforts. It was too busy for comfort on the bustling square, so we randomly picked one of the roads that lead off it and agreed to stop at the first shady area that offered a welcome beer.

An easy ask, it would seem. We found ourselves on a more intimate square with shops along the left side and a long tented seating area in the middle, servicing the row of restaurants and cafes along the right. Picking one at random, we sat down, barely taking a breath on the conversation that had started at home.

Once seated and acclimating, we noticed the radical difference in price for a pint of beer… and so began the quest to beat the price. With an opening of 7.50 Euros, there was a lot of room for improvement. By the time we moved on from the square a couple of hours – and a few cafes – later, we had already slimmed down the price tag to 4.50 Euros!

With the sun a little lower in the sky, the temperature was far better suited to sight-seeing, so we did a loop of the old town and made our way up the hill to the obviously-important arch at the top of the slight incline that didn’t quite qualify as a hill.

Consulting the map, it was discovered to be Montpellier’s very own Arc de Triomphe. The gate was dedicated to Louis XIV The Sun King with emblems that have the King standing on a lion (the English) and an eagle (the Germans). This symbolised how he’d concluded the 100 years of wars ‘with difficult neighbours’. And made for most excellent photographs.

Our valiant effort on the culture front was rewarded when we spotted the proverbial black swan – walking down the incredibly elegant high street, we spotted a 3.90 Euro pint in a dingy pub just off one of the side roads. Small round tables squeezed under the shade of an umbrella of a tree, we simply could not refuse Le Foch.

The waiter – yes, one waiter for the whole bar – was a young Zimbabwean chap. Information he volunteered on hearing our accent, which he said was not very common in these parts. We were just happy to be here together and having a wonderful time.

With a well-kitted Airbnb apartment at our disposal, we decided to do a quick grocery shop at the local supermarket for a picnic-style charcuterie dinner of roast chicken, hams, cheeses and baguettes to wash down with some of the wines we had brought with us from our wine route. Delicious!

THURSDAY

We’d bought enough supplies to start the day with a homemade bacon baguette sandwich, anticipating it would be a vigorous day with the walking tour and satisfying whatever other curiosities we had for the city.

We met our guide, Luis from Venezuela, at the fountain at La Place de la Comedie and minutes later were off on our way.

As is commonplace, the tour began with a history of the town. Montpellier is relatively young in European terms, having been formed in 985 AD and not having the ancient Roman Empire background that the nearby cities had. The settlement was founded by the Guilhem family, a feudal dynasty from Toulouse, who built a castle and defensive walls and ruled it until the 12th century. Two of the towers are still surviving and we saw both.

By the 13th century, Montpellier had established itself as a centre of trade, thanks to its fortuitous position on the route between Spain and Italy. It was also established as a centre of education because of the schools of Law and Medicine that had been set up in the late 12th century by Willam VII.

In 1349, Montpellier came under the control of King Philip VI of France. It was thought to be one of the most important cities in France at that time in history, although towards the end of the 14th century, life became very difficult for those who lived and worked here. Successive plagues killed many people, perhaps as many as a third of its population. By the start of the 15th century, however, Montpellier had managed to recover some of its former status and economy.The city is still known for its Faculty of Medicine and is applying for UNESCO City of Heritage which will help fund the renovations for their bid for Capital of Culture in 2028.

Luis shared some interesting facts with us:

  • The local language is Occitan, which was almost extinct but is trying to be revived through the school system.
  • There is no mountain in Montpellier, despite the ‘mont’ in the name.  Clapas is an Occitan term meaning pile of rocks and refers to the origin of the site where the city of Montpellier was developed around the 10th century, on elds of stones covered by Kermes Oak.
  • In the Middle Ages, Montpellier was an important city of the Crown of Aragon (and was the birthplace of James I), and then of Majorca, before its sale to France in 1349
  • La Place de Comédie used to be known as ‘the Square of the Egg’ because of its oval shape around which cars would pass through into the city. Now it’s pedestrian in the city centre to be quieter and more eco friendly.
  • St Roch is the patron saint and is always depicted with a dog. There is a shoe shop in town called Erbe Chausseur which is opened each Holy Day, 16 Aug, so that pilgrims can come and taste water from the well from which St Rich drank, which is still intact today and happens to be at the back of the shop.
  • The Jean Monnet Square (where we’d begun our beer quest on the first night) commemorated the achievements of its namesake; a Socialist who introduced the separation of church and state, the right to Sundays off and the concept of paid leave.
  • The Amphitheater of Anatomy was revolutionary in its time. Designed for observation, it is octagonal on the outside but circular inside with 8 windows around the circumference to prevent shadows. Condemned were dissected for students to watch and learn (like the Gallery in Gray’s Anatomy).
  • Montpellier is currently a mix of 40% students and 30% retirees, thanks to the legendary education credentials and the 300 days a year of sunshine.
  • The city has their own street artists. Their most famous are Mr BMX who affixes parts of bicycles onto city walls and Invader, who makes Space Invader mosaics above street names… and if you plot all the Space Invaders onto a map of Montpellier, they are all in the shape of a Space Invader!
  • One of the surviving towers has 2 pines on top. Michel de Notre Dame (Nostradamus) was at the University of Montpellier but flunked out. It was when he left and went to Italy that he started writing his prophecies. He predicted that when the pines die, the city of Montpellier will be destroyed. Since he had already correctly forecast the fall of the French kings 300 years after his death, the city hires two full-time gardeners to tend to the pines… just in case.

The tour concluded within spotting distance of the Best Bakery in France 2015, which seemed like a sign. I joined the queue and agonised over what to order as the long string of people in front of me edged closer to the door and disappeared into the small shop to get served. I got us each a feuilleté saucisson (sausage roll) and we wasted no time tucking into the layers of flaky pastry with porky herby centre.

With map in hand, we plotted a route to cover the sights not included in the tour. This led us back to the Aquaduct we’d seen on the tour that had brought water to Montpellier from St Clements some 18km away though the aqueduct and then 17km of lead pipes. We walked along the full 800m length of the impressive aqueduct structure before turning back to visit the Jardin du Plante (Botanical Gardens).

The Botanical Gardens are the oldest in France, founded by Henry IV in 1593. They are now owned and run by the Medical faculty, thus are a collection of plants that are useful rather than the conventional, largely superficial landscaped beds. Sort of disappointingly, one of their accomplishments is a large collection of grasses and succulents from South Africa. A long way to travel to see a garden from home!

We worked our way back around into the Old Town through the Arc de Triomphe, which was thirsty work and warranted a stop-in at the trusty Le Foch pub. It was already buzzing, and again, remarkably, there was a single waitress managing all the tables.

Last stop was to cross to the corner of town to investigate the archaeological site. A bit ordinary compared to the splendour of the rest of the Old Town.

We had booked dinner on The Fork at a steakhouse just around the corner from Le Foch. Conspicuously early it would seem, based on the fact that the host was at the door of the empty restaurant waiting to greet us. I finally got to try the steak tartare I had been after the whole holiday, opting for the Parmesan and sundried tomato variant. Delicious!

The chaps wanted to watch the rugby at 21h00, which was a bit late to be out on the town with an early start the next day. So we made our way home and enjoyed the game with a very civilised glass (bottle) of red (or two) from the comfort of our wonderful apartment.

Travelogue RWC 2023 2: Wine Route, Avignon, Nimes

BEAUJOLAIS, AVIGNON, NÎMES

25 – 27 September 2023

Our hearts sank as we arrived in the rental car depot.

We had efficiently traversed Lyon on the public transport and navigated pour way around the Part Dieu Gare to find the car rental company with whom we had pre-booked the car for our wine route roadtrip… but the queue was snaked around the lobby and out the door!

More than an hour’s wait threw us off course a little, but we still had the afternoon to make our way slowly up North to our resting place for the night in Chenas, at the top end of the Beaujolais wine route.

Beaujolais was the Kingdom of Beaujeu from 950 AD. The people were devoted to kings of France and planting of Beaujeu vineyards for clergy as ‘vines of the Lord’. But these magnificent grapes did indeed lead into temptation and they soon became ‘vines of the Lords’.

Our first stop en route to Beaujolais was Villefranche-sur-Saône, for lunch. Running a bit behind schedule we arrived for lunch just after 13h00… as the good people of Villefranche were closing for lunch. Although it made for a very efficient walking tour of the town, able to whip up and down the high street in record time, it would appear that lunchtime was the worst time to arrive for, well, lunch.

All was not lost though and we found an open supermarché where we bought some local wine (we could do a self-guided wine tour later). We also found an open sandwicherie and were, as always, enchanted with the quality of bread, butter and meats that made a simple sarmie (as the French would say) génial.

On our way out we found the tourist office was open and popped in to get a map of the Beaujolais wine country. The lady behind the counter penned a few circles on the map for us and, with several brochures for wine farms in hand, we took comfort from her loose instructions (to be said in a French accent) ‘you just follow the red route and zere is wine everywhere’.

I learnt from the map that Beaujolais was recognised as a UNESCO Global Geopark for its geological diversity and its preserved natural and cultural sites. Wines were intimately linked to local terroirs and there were more than 12 appellations, including 10 Crus.

An appellation is a geographical indication identifying where the grapes for wines were grown, although other types of food use appellations as well. Cru is a wine term used to indicate a high-quality vineyard or group of vineyards and its wines. And yes, there were vineyards and caves (tasting rooms, where you enjoy a degustation) everywhere in Beaujolais country.

We stopped in at the recommended Cave de Clochemerle. Famed for its historic public ablution (‘la pissotiere’), it is also highly photo-worthy with the fresco mural wall of colourful characters from Gabriel Chevallier’s famous (in these parts) novel ‘Clochemarle’, painted onto the balconies and pretend-windows.

We tried the flight of red wines and the bubbles in the cool cellar, piecing together the story of each from the attendant in our becoming-familiar Frenglish. We bought of a bottle of our favourites of each, quite chuffed with the Beaujolais experience.

A bit behind schedule we took the scenic route and soaked in the sights along the way. The hilly Beaujolais vineyards stretched 55km northward encased by the foothills of the Massif Central in the west and the Saône in the east. The landscape unfolded like a painting as the route took us through wine country and pretty little Beaujolais-Villages where we imagined a simpler life for ourselves.

Our destination was one of the pre-planned highlights of our trip; an overnight stay on a working vineyard in the heart of the Beaujolais wine route – in a town called Chenas – with farm-to-table pairing dinner.

All we knew about Chenas was what the map had told us ‘Chenas stretches across rolling hills and valleys. Its wine is generous, tender on the palate and intended for laying down.’ That didn’t give much away.

We climbed steadily up to Chenas, which allowed spectacular views over the winelands and pretty little villages dotted in the distance. Soon we were crunching our way up the gravel path to our destination, Auberge des Hauts de Chenas. It was almost 18h00 but still very light so we were able to soak in the view before unpacking and making ourselves at home.

Dinner was to be served at 19h15, which allowed enough time to explore the wine museum. Chris was disappointed that the exhibition was more about farming implements than wine itself… but that would come with dinner.

We were seated in the cosy dining room. Filled to capacity, our host had 13 guests including us to take care of for the evening. Astoundingly the one lady – owner of the wine farm, having inherited it from her founding grandfather – did the cooking, serving, clearing and wine-tasting duties for all of us!

She prepared us with a paddle of 6 of the vineyard’s wines and presented course after course. Soup, charcuterie and sun-dried tomato relish; fish goujons and samoosas; snails in a white wine sauce and puff-pastry cap; bœuf Bourgogne and veal medallions; chocolate fondant, caramel slice and crème brûlée; cheese platter. What a treat!

TUESDAY 

With a relatively long drive back from Chenas through Beaujolais to Avignon (3 hours), we had the quandary of how to leave early enough for a leisurely drive… without endangering our passage with (too much) wine-tasting.

Our solve was to start with a little cultural excursion to see us through until the proverbial planes flew overhead, which we had a feeling might have to be earlier than usual for us with all the temptation in Beaujolais.

Château de Corcelles fit the bill; a medieval castle 18km down the road and only 7km from the A6 freeway, with an English audio guide so we’d know what we were looking at.

It was built as a fortified house in the 11th century for Beaujolais from Burgundians. The rebuild in the 15th century added the turrets and towers which would make it all rather fairytale if it weren’t for the lethal ramparts with arrow slits and canon holes.

Originally more than 200 hectares, the estate was now 90 hectares requiring 150 handpickers to harvest the variety of terroirs. Le Chai – where the grapes are stored – was built in the 1800s and still has its original freestone wall and wooden roof frame. From there, Crus Brouilly, Fleurie and Morgan are the most famous wines produced on site – although it was still a little early for a tasting with quite some road ahead.

We had decided to break the drive with a stop in Vienne, 35km south of Lyon. The city was steeped in history, having been transformed into a Roman colony in 47 BC underJulius Caesar and becoming a major centre in the Empire thanks to its prime trading position at the confluence of the rivers Rhône and Gère.

Remains of the Roman constructions are widespread across modern Vienne making it an ideal candidate for our preferred ‘open air’ and ‘living history’ excursions.

First order of business in Vienne was to find parking. We’d learnt from previous trips that it was a fool’s game to trawl for free bays, so we followed the signs to the Gare (train station) paid parking figuring that they’re usually central in these smaller towns.

Greeted with the ratecard signboard at the entrance advising that parking was charged at €1 per half hour, thoughts of leisurely strolling through Vienne evolved into ideals of a flash speed-walking tour.

We followed the signs to the Tourist Office, hoping to procure a map to rationalise our choices and cut out uneconomical dilly-dallying. We arrived at 12h41… 11 minutes into the Tourist Office’s 2-hour lunch break.

Not sure why the French need all this time to make a sandwich, but quite envious of the lifestyle nonetheless. Joie de vie in France indeed.

We took a photo of the map encased at the shut-tight entrance and set upon our way.

There were 8 points of interest on the map. First was the World War II commemorative Garden, which we’d already walked through as a shortcut to the Tourist Office. Bonus!

As tends to be the case in relic towns, the sights of interest are heavily religion-skewed.

Even the archeological museum (Sight 3) was an ancient building that had begun as an abbey in the 8th century. It was the primary burial place of the bishops in the 12th century and only in 1867 became a museum (presumably when they started digging up all the Roman stuff). Signboards outside illustrated a massive restoration and addition to the currently-dilapidated building that would soon make it a worthy visit.

Happy-snapping a trifecta of cathedral, temple and chapel (Sights 4-6), we made record time across the suspension bridge (Sight 7). We saw the Valois Tower (Sight 8) and, oddly not on the tourist map, the Museum with the actual open-air digging site of the ancient ruins. Since it wasn’t even on the map and was €10 each to get in, we opted for a quick gander from the free viewing deck above the ticket office.

And then a bee-line back to the car.

And there you have it, folks. That’s the 1-hour €2 tour of Vienne!

Chris wanted to check the tyres before hitting the road again; a warning light had flashed up briefly and we have a long history of bad luck with tyres so worth being cautious.

He dispatched me to get us some bottled water for the journey and, of course, since the shop adjoining the petrol station was a Boulangerie, I added a discretionary sandwich to the shopping list. Saucisson and Brie in a crunchy baguette. Mmmmm.

We’d done well with our Avignon accommodation. The A7 deposited us right at our doorstep as we took the turn-off from the freeway. Added bonus that there was a free parking bay right alongside our hotel, Au Saint Roch. And then, stars further aligning, there was an entrance to the old town right there too.

This was remarkable because medieval Avignon’s original walls are still in place (so highly unlikely that the primely-located gated arch had been planned for our convenience).

Our receptionist had a tourist map at the ready so we were out like a shot.

Into the old town, along the boulevard on the interior of the city wall and onto the main drag. The Rue de la République was spectacular! Old school elegance in a high street, with crazy history on every façade and hinted from side streets and narrow arcades, peeping over the rooftops.

With 8 cultural sites, 11 religious heritage buildings, 13 museums and monuments – and almost every other building something ornate or quaint – all contained in a 4.3km ancient wall, Avignon is a square kilometre of jam-packed tourist value for money! And, as Christian proved, easily doable in flip-flops, cobbled streets ‘n all.

We’d been directed that the piece de resistance was the Palais de Papes (Palace of the Popes). Pope Clement V (a Frenchman) moved the Papal residence to Avignon in 1309 on invitation of King Phillip of France because he refused to move to Rome. It remained the seat through the next 7 Popes.

Understandable that the ensuing Popes were happy to stay in Avignon. The Palais was beyond palatial; it was freaking enormous! 15 000 square metres under roof! 1.5 hectares of absolute opulence! This was a result of 20 years of building through the first 3 Popes, with Clement VI (Pope #3) forceably removing peasant housing surrounding the palace to improve defences through visibility around the borders.

A lousy thing to do to the peasants in the 1300s, but once they started clearing the rubble from the demolition (some 250 years later) and laid down the smooth stone pavers and whatnot, it made for a cracking square! Seemed fitting to have cafés and restaurants on the square for today’s mere minions to admire the largest medieval Gothic palace in the world.

On a high from some premium sight-seeing, it was high time to tackle the Guinness Index. We’d seen an Irish bar called O’Collins on our way into the Old Town so we retraced our footsteps and were delighted to find they celebrated Happy Hours – from 4 to 6pm daily – and we were smack-bang in the middle of the slot. We procured ourselves a pair of pints for 6 Euros apiece and secured Avignon #15 on the Index (which would have been a #4 had it been any other of the Unhappy Hours!)

We left our dinner plans in the hands of fate, saying we would trust The Fork app to choose our meal, based on the highest ratings in a 1km radius. This chose a burger joint for us, called Maimana. We stucks to our guns and booked a table for 19h00 to allow time to amble the cobbled streets to get there.

It was one of a few sidewalk eateries side-be-side on a narrow street. There was a pleasant atmosphere in the cool evening with a light breeze carrying the mixture of languages and laughter towards us on arrival. Once our respective steak and chicken burgers were served we could see what the fuss was about and how this humble hole-in-the-wall restaurant had earned a 9.5 from so many people. Yum!

We walked back to our B&B along the wide (maybe 5 or 6 metres wide) sidewalk path on the outside of the city wall. It was incredible that this medieval structure was still standing, let alone in such perfect condition. It stretched on along side us, with 8m high smooth walls topped with ramparts and interjected with square towers.

We Googled when we got back and discovered that the wall was over 1000 years old and, granted, had had maintenance done… mostly in the 15th and 18th centuries!

WEDNESDAY 

We had traded our night in Nîmes for the whirlwind wine route tour. Less than 45 minutes from Avignon and directly en route to Montpellier, there was still time for a stop and quick self-guided walking tour.

Emerging from the parking lot, we saw our first site, a regal statue in a beautiful square. The signboard revealed him to be Antonin who was from Nîmes, the son and grandson of Senators and who became one of the Emperors of Rome.

From there, we could also see signposts indicating the direction of sights of interest with the distance to each marked alongside. We chose the direction of the tourist office first.

By the time we had gotten a map of the town, we had already happened upon marvellous things!

It was such a pleasure just walking around Nîmes. Everything is beautiful. Everywhere is so clean. The buildings are elegant and magnificent. The pavements are smooth, honey-coloured stone. The roads are tree-lined and it is welcome to walk in the shade as the sunlight mottles through the trees while you move through one spectacular sight to the next. Truly awesome in the most literal sense of the word.

We stumbled upon the Maison Carrée, built in the first century A.D. and one of the best-conserved temples of the Roman world. Very impressive with its stature, elegant columns and Corinthian capitals on the facade decor. It was mind-blowing to see student-types casually lunching on the steps and on the ledge around the building, dangling their legs and chatting away like it was an everyday thing to lounge on an ancient monument (which for them, I suppose, it was).

We were also caught by surprise by the Arena, which was also built in the first century A.D. shortly after the Colosseum in Rome. It could entertain more than 24 000 spectators enjoying the likes of gladiator fights. It was converted to a fortress in the 6th century, when some of the arcades were bricked up. But that does not detract from the architecture, and it is still considered one of the best-conserved amphitheatres from the Roman world. It is now used for bullfights, congresses, concerts and sport events.

Procuring the tourist map, we filled in the gaps. We made our way back to the top of the town to see the Castellum aqueduct. Amazing that in the first century they were already able to transport water 50 km via aqueduct into this circular basin, from where it would be dispersed to thermal baths, fountains and districts around the town.

We wrapped up the walking tour with a visit to the Temple of Diane on the far side of the tranquil Jardin de la Fontaine. The first inhabitants of Nîmes had settled near this spring in the 6th century BC and the Romans had beautified the area as a sanctuary in 1AD. The current magnificent formal gardens were designed in the 18th century to respect the layout of the archeological remains, and were added to in the 19th century to finish off the gardens as they can be enjoyed today.

Travelogue RWC2023 1: Lyon

LYON

22 – 25 September 2023

With Christian’s passion for Rugby and our shared love of France, it was a fait accompli that we’d do the World Cup in 2023 and we’d been discussing it for years.

With 3 options on Emirates, we thought we’d give landing in Lyon a try since we’d already done Paris and Nice. A quick Google that revealed Lyon as the eating and drinking capital of France sealed the deal and the planning began!

We’d be spending the first week sightseeing in Lyon and then touring the Rhône Wine Route on our way down to Montpellier to meet RoRo. Then we three would drive to Marseille to meet another friend, Michele, from London and attend the game we’d booked, South Africa vs Tonga. We’d close off the tour with a breather in Perpignan before closing with a bang; a last night in Barcelona to attend a Blink 182 concert.

Quite used to the usual pre-vacation pressures and anticipating the expect-the-unexpected work crunches leading up to departure, we were thrown by our Airbnb host cancelling our Lyon accommodation the day before our departure in the midst of our last-minute mayhem! With a big game (Australia vs Wales) in Lyon on the Sunday, accommodation was in short supply – and a small fortune. Chris managed to get us a hotel room booking… and at the time of this writing had yet to have the courage to share the price tag with me.

Nonetheless, we were excited for our trip and the downtime of the flights actually helped quell the anxieties of the last-minute challenges. We were in full holiday mode by the time we cleared Passport Control at Saint Exupéry Airport, named after the Lyon-born author of famed fable novella, The Little Prince (which had been one of my high school French class setwork books).

Having travelled relatively light (one shared suitcase), we decided to brave public transport to get to our hotel. All our research had spotlighted the ease of navigating Lyon on the train, tram and bus network so there was no time like the present to dip proverbial toes in the water.

It was easy enough to manage the French on the ticket machine (thanks Duolingo!) and to find the train station outside the airport… like everyone else. There were so many people on the platform that we didn’t fit into the first 3-car train that arrived 10 minutes later. Several waiting would-be passengers (not travelling on the Rand, clearly) abandoned the wait in favour of Ubers and taxis. We stuck it out and deftly manoeuvred to the front of the platform to ensure our spot on the next train.

It was starting to rain as we arrived in the city centre at the Part Dieu Station, bustling with end-of-day commuters. Overwhelmed and under-ambitious, we caved and joined the short taxi queue to get door-to-door service.

The Hill Club hotel was a welcome sight, as was our economically-sized (but not priced) room.

Eager to get the party started, we dumped bags and began the intro tour we’d planned on the flight thanks to our downloaded offline Google Maps.

Lyon is shaped like a hotdog, where the Part Dieu station is on the edge of the right bun, old Town is on the left bun and an island sausage is in the middle separated from the bun by the ‘sauce’ rivers on either side. We were based in Confluence; at the bottom of the sausage, so to speak.

Even though it was Autumn, the day was still bright and warm when we emerged from the hotel around 17h00. Eager to see as much as we could, we ambled along the promenade of the Saône River (left of the hotdog sausage), taking in the areas of Saint Georges, Saint Jean and Saint Paul in our quest to experience the Old Town.

As is typical, at the farthest point of our walk, it started to drizzle. Fortunately, the French aren’t very literal about Happy Hour being an actual hour, so we were able to enjoy pints discounted (between 17h00 and 20h00) in one of the many pubs (with rugby on a big screen).

SATURDAY

Chris had had the foresight to book a 10h30 walking tour in advance, so with little to think about and an hour to kill, we took a morning run to soak in the fresh morning air along the river. The good people of Lyon shared the sentiment and there were many runners and cyclists moving along in either direction in the demarcated pedestrian lanes along the banks.

Having the rivers on either side helped enormously with getting us oriented, and our tour guide Jean-Davide (JD) opened the walking tour with expanding the mental picture for the group.

He explained that Lyon is also called Presqu’île, which literally translates as ‘almost island’ because it feels like an island but is actually a peninsula. Essentially, the rivers on either side of the sausage are La Saône in the west (on the left) and the Rhône in the East (on the right), which flow from North to South and meet at La Confluence, which is where we were staying.

We had met JD and the group outside the City Hall, commissioned by Louis XIV but adorned with Henry IV, who had famously been married in Lyon. There was also the equally notable Bartholdi Fountain landmark, built by the same sculptor as the Statue of Liberty. It was meant for Bordeaux in 1888, but they couldn’t afford it so Lyon snapped it up.

JD animatedly relayed the history of the landmarks at our meeting place and then broadened perspective to the greater lay of the land (bafflingly using compass points rather than my hotdog analogy).

Lyon, as a City more than two thousand years old, had a long and fascinating history. The Romans had split Gaul into 4 and called the capital (Lyon) Lugdunum. It was the capital of Gaul and even had its own mint. It is the second oldest Christian community in the world (behind Rome), which explains the concentration of churches and cathedrals – and sadly also the extent of the Christian persecution.

JD impressed that a large part of Lyon’s (slightly more recent) history was embedded in the silk trade and that we should explore the Working Hill (top of the sausage) where the silk trade was largely conducted and the Praying Hill (top of the left bun) with the cathedral and concentration of churches.

He also introduced us to the traboules of the city; a unique network of thoroughfares through the buildings in town that allow shortcuts. Invisible to the uninformed, a door from the street – that looked like any other door – allowed access to a passageway through the ground level of a building. These were used for centuries to first aid local residents to move from East to West in the town to get to the rivers for water, and later from North to South to allow workers to more easily move their silk wares from Working Hill to town.

The silk workers, or ‘Canuts’ as they were called, were overworked and under-paid, exacerbated by fluctuating silk prices. In French fashion, they protested. They petitioned three times to fix silk rates but only succeeded in 1848 when Paris revolted against the monarchy and formed the Second Republic (which didn’t last long, thanks to Napoleon).

There are more than 400 traboules around the city… which again provided value in modern times to the Resistance fighters in the Second World War since the passageways are unmapped and provided opportunities for nimble movement.

As we navigated the city, JD pointed out Street Art along the way. Although technically illegal, the art has become an accepted subculture as long as it was not painted directly onto the ancient and protected buildings. Consequently, artists like ‘Zorm’ have started affixing little 3D moulds of monkeys, bears and penguins onto walls around the city, ‘In the Whoop’ does mosaics of characters and superheroes, and ‘Britt’ is known for her political art decals about women and children rights. Another artist known as ‘Ememem’ (an onomatopoeia sounding like the revving of his scooter as he speeds away from his illicit creations) makes mosaics in potholes and where sidewalks have chipped. He would have his work cut out for him in South Africa where the potholes are plenty and the law enforcement flaky at best!

We ended our tour in Old Town, where JD pointed out and explained the Renaissance and Gothic architecture, as well as the nuances like painted windows (in olden times residents were taxed on how many windows they had so they bricked them up and painted windows in their place).

His parting advice was to try as much Lyonnaise food as possible since Lyon is the modern gastronomy capital of France. He showed us pictures of the dishes we had to try and those to avoid – like a crumbed and deep fried veal stomach that looked unsettlingly like a delicious schnitzel!

We were starving by this point – since it was early afternoon and we’d only had hasty chocolate pastries from the boulangerie en route to the walking tour – so leapt at the idea of spending a generous portion of the afternoon on a multi-course ‘cultural immersion’ in a local bouchon (restaurant that serves traditional food).

We got a recommendation – encouraged by the address on Rue de Bœuf (Beef Street) – and spent the next couple of hours working through a 3 course set menu:

  • Œuf et meurette – poached egg in red wine, bacon and shallots sauce
  • Gratinée Lyonnaise – French onion soup with melted Emmenthal
  • Quenelle de brochet – fish souffle with lobster bisque sauce
  • Saucisson Lyonnais – local sausage served with potato dauphinoise bake
  • Cervelle des Canuts – creamy garlicky cheese
  • Saint Marcellin – small wheel of gooey cheese that kicks Camembert and Brie’s ass!

Grateful to be in a walking town, we emerged from Bouchon Rouge full and happy, and with endless streets to wander down and a river on either side to walk along to aid digestion.

We made our way back to the hotel, stopping for a Happy Hours special for a short siesta to prepare for the big rugby game that evening.

Surfacing again, we stuck to our neighbourhood, La Confluence, and were drawn into a pub called Peaky Blinders Tavern, which had fun barstools with pedals attached to them.

Sadly, Ireland took our Springboks for 13:8 so the less said about that the better.

SUNDAY

What a blessing to wake up on a Sunday with no chores to do. We went for a gentle jog up La Saône and then across through the town to meet up with the Rhône. There was a market operating along the riverbank so they were plenty people out and about getting their weekly fresh produce shopping done as we nipped past, stopping here and there to take snaps.

We planned to take JD’s advice and climb after ‘Working Hill’ to Croix-Russe. In no particular hurry, there was time to stop in at the local boulangerie for our daily fix; a creamy, chewy, buttery roast chicken baguette.

Quite used to the lay of the land, we easily navigated along the wide pedestrian shopping street – which must have been more than a kilometre long – to get back to Place de la Terreaux where we had met JD the day before.

We re-traced some of the footsteps until we were sure of our way, and then shortcutted up the hill to our destination.

JD had made the recommendation for the weekly buzz of the market stalls along the street in Croix-Russe and had shared that the locals joked that there was no need for them to come down from the hill since they had everything they needed right up there.

They might have been right. We kept ourselves both entertained and well-fed by shopping for snacks along the market stalls. To top it off, it was a beautiful sunshiny day, so all of the Cafes and restaurants were heaving with customers, enjoying the sunshine on the plateau.

Highlights for us were sampling the local delicacies – Saucisson Brioche (sausage in buttery pastry casing that JD rightfully said was ‘not a f***ing hotdog!’… but could have been cousin to a sausage roll) and Pate Crouté (pork + pate + brine combo encased in pastry as a meatloaf and served in thick slices, either hot or cold).

Top experience was navigating the automated public bathroom pod. I almost stepped into the booth as the previous occupant was leaving, but a gentlemen grabbed my arm and pulled me out. Startled at first, it took a few exchanges in our shared Frenglish for him to explain that as the occupant leaves, the door automatically closes so that the pod can self-clean before indicating with the green light at the door that it’s ready for the next person. I could have had an unwelcome shower in the space-age Lav!

Relieved (in more ways than one), we enjoyed a bit of a sit at the park and lookout point, absorbing the view of the city and glistening rivers below as we tapped into the conversations around us to try and improve our French.

By the time we made our way back down to old town, it looked like Little Wales. With the Wales vs Australia game being played in Lyon at 17h00, all the many patriots were out in their red-shirted glory, and warming up in the pubs and restaurants. If the outcome of the game was going to be determined by quantum of fans, Wales would be giving the Wallabies a thumping.

Next was to find a pub in which to celebrate Happy Hour (where we could get a pint of lager for the manageable sum of €5) and the start of the Scotland vs Tonga game.

With the concentration of pubs, cafes and restaurants, we substantially narrowed the choice to those (few) offering free Wi-Fi. This led us to L’Alert Rouge (Red Alert), which surprised and delighted us with a hard rock soundtrack as we caught up on what was happening in the online world and on the field.

Since we had done more than 20km on foot over the course of the day and we were close to our neck of the woods, we decided to have dinner in the ‘Californian’ restaurant in our hotel with far-from-traditional cheeseburgers, loaded fries and mac ‘n cheese on the side.

MONDAY

Our morning jog ritual paid off, with some unexpected celeb-spotting and planned boulangerie-stopping.

Christian recognised Mils Muliaina who had more than 100 caps for the Kiwis and was in their team who took the 2011 Rugby World Cup victory. More notably, ‘Milsy’ is a rugby presenter on a sports show so his voice is quite a regular feature in our lounge in the weekend roundups. Chris, bless him, played it very cool with a double thumbs-up as we sashayed past.

We celebrated our aloof celeb engagement (very easy for me since I didn’t recognise him sans commentary) with baked goods. With a run behind us and a long day of wine-routing ahead of us, we upped the pain au chocolat ante with a Suisse as well.  It had the same buttery-pastry-choc-goodness as the pain but also a sort of custard centre. Definitely to be repeated!

On leaving our hotel, we passed Andy Ellis, another capped (but much less famous) Kiwi. We didn’t pay him more than a passing glance because we were off to catch a tram to Part Dieu station and our next adventure awaited us!

Travelogue N. Ireland 2: Giant’s Causeway

GIANT’S CAUSEWAY

13-15 March 2023

We arrived at the airport in Castletown, Isle of Man, with plenty of time to spare.

For a small airport, there were five gates servicing an impressive variety of destinations. Sadly, our flight to Belfast was delayed, so we hunkered down in the waiting room with a surprising number of other people also waiting, also with delays.

Our flight was a mere hop (about 100km according to Chris) and we had barely completed ascension when we began our descent into Belfast.

We collected our rental car, a spanky new Ford Focus (quite a step-up on our usual entry-level rentals – and twice the car for half the price compared to Isle of Man!) and headed to our first destination, Castle Carrickfergus. We hoped the detour would not be in vain since we were quite far behind schedule.

Driving into the dusk, the Irish countryside was a sight to behold. Puffy white clouds on the horizon with endless green fields rolling to meet them.

On arrival in Carrickfergus, we drove right up to the Castle and were able to take some very nice snaps from a few key aspects. Worth noting that it didn’t look like we would have been able to go inside even if we had arrived earlier.

On to our home for the night, Larne, which the Vikings had used as a safe harbour for their long boats as they returned home from raiding the rich monasteries up the Irish coast. They named it “Ulfreksfjord”, which is the origin of the town’s other name, “Olderfleet”, and we’re finally defeated In 1018 by a llocal King, Connor.

We had booked at the Harbour Inn, thinking that being a seaside town it would be where the action was. It was right on the harbour, but more of a working port than the waterfront we had imagined.

Nevermind, the only agenda for the evening was a fish ‘n chips dinner, and our hostess proactively recommended we visit the Olderfleet restaurant around the corner, known for their great seafood.

Happy to oblige the recommendation, we were soon seated at a cosy table right next to the fireplace to dry off and warm up from the short but wet walk between the B&B and the restaurant.

Our waitress told us that their establishment – a local legend apparently – was famed for its Chowder, so we compromised and ordered a large bowl of the creamy seafood goodness to share alongside a crunchy battered Cod on a bed of hand cut chips. Perfect fill for a chilly night!

TUESDAY

With a vigourous day ahead of us, we decided to have a rest day on the running front. We awoke to an abnormally clear, blue-skies sunshiny day.

We filled our tanks with a sumptuous Full Irish breakfast (that included both potato bread and soda bread) and set out to do the walk along the promenade that our hostess had recommended.

The weather gods rewarded our good decision, and the Sun kept us company on our walk. Not that it provided any warmth, but it was a novelty for our commemorative pics as we did a quick lap of the promenade and got snaps of the memorials that were the noted landmarks along the waterfront.

Then it was off to Giant’s Causeway.

Timed just about perfectly, the sun disappeared as we were driving out of town. It started sleeting and minutes later the temperature had plummeted to zero degrees! Not so bad in our comfy car with the heater belting.

We stopped as planned in Ballycastle. We had not banked on more snow, so it was slow-going as we trudged up the hill on the signposted Historic Walking Trail. We did not get as far as the castle before deciding to turn back to resume our road trip.

True to form, by the time we were back at the car the snow had stopped and the Sun had come out. We satisfied ourselves with a photograph of the memorial in the Town Square to commemorate the moment with a shrug and a laugh, and got back in the car.

We then made our way to The Dark Hedges, a notorious and eerie film set from the TV series Games of Thrones. We realised we must be in quite a temperamental micro-climate, as we got out of the car in sunshine, walked a few hundred metres to the start of the hedges where it was snowing, got caught in a splash of rain as we trudged along the eerie avenue, to wash-rinse-repeat on the reverse journey. One can only put one’s hood up and roll with the punches.

On to Giant’s Causeway!

60 million years in the making, the Causeway was formed when Europe was starting to rip away from North America, in doing so creating huge rifts in the earth’s surface. These produced cracks and later erosion caused rivers to form, resulting in the distinctive hexagonal basalt stones.

If you believe in Science, that is.

Legend has it that an Irish giant named Finn McCool created the Causeway to get across the Irish Sea to face his rival, the Scottish giant Benandonner. Following their fearsome meeting, Benandonner ripped up the causeway as he fled back to Scotland, leaving behind the trail of hexagonal stones.

We kitted up and followed a group of people who looked like they knew where they were going. They had joined the Blue Trail, which led down to the water’s edge and the photo-friendly peninsula of hexagonal stones with backdrop of raging seas on 3 sides.

There were a lot of people posing for pictures and capturing the sight, but fortunately it was a GIANT’s causeway, so there was room for everyone to create spectacular photos that probably – like ours – looked like they were the only people there enjoying a desolate location.

Keen to see more of the coastline, we followed the Red route along the cliff face on the other side of the bay to get to the ‘Amphitheatre’. With the wind whipping around us, and the narrow and muddy trail, it was easy to understand when the trail came to an abrupt stop, with the thick wooden barriers citing caution of treacherous conditions including falling rocks.

Scaling back up to the top, we looked down on the trail and marvelled at the magnitude and magnificence of this natural wonder.

Looking behind us, the contrast of emerald green farmland and lazy sheep was just as breathtaking.

Our parking ticket had cost £10 on arrival but was redeemable at the Causeway Hotel for equivalent value. We traded our ticket for a pair of Rockshore pints and a caramel cheesecake, while our fingers and toes thawed out.

And then on to Bushmills, for our overnight stay.

Bushmills village dates from Norman times (1150–1520) and was originally known as Portcaman but as water powered industries developed from the 1600s, so did the village name. At one time there were seven mills working the river Bush and five distilleries.

With the discovery of the Giant’s Causeway by the wider world in the 1700s, Bushmills became the gateway for visitors, eager to see the mysterious grandeur. By the mid-1800 much of Bushmills had been re-developed and boasted at least three hotels, a busy livestock and produce market, a courthouse and a thriving distillery.

Today Bushmills is still regarded as the gateway to the Giant’s Causeway. With nearly 90 listed buildings, Bushmills is officially designated as a Conservation Village.

We had booked to stay at Finn McCool’s, a cosy B&B hosted above a local pub and easy walking distance to Old Bushmills Distillery.

Chris was so keen to get to the distillery, that we didn’t even unpack our bags, and shot straight up the road after parking the car at Finn’s.

Since Chris has already experienced the “how whiskey is made” tour before (and I’m not interested) we bypassed the usual organised events, and headed straight for the tasting room.

Chris ordered the single malt flight which comprised of three whiskeys, a 12-year-old reserve, a 16-year-old single malt and a 21-year-old single malt. Not a whiskey fan myself, I was delighted to be offered a whiskey-based cocktail called a Daisy that was mixed with all sorts of citrus and apple liqueurs, and barely tasted like whiskey at all!

Chris was enamoured with the 12-year-old reserve, and since it is only available for sale at the distillery, was compelled to order another to celebrate the experience. As an added bonus, when he ordered from the bar, the barman served the whiskey but said he was unable to charge for it since they had already cashed up.

Having immensely enjoyed our excursion, we supported the merchandise store by purchasing a T-shirt for Christian and a Hoodie for me. Another delightful bonus, Chris was told at checkout that his T-shirt was half price!

Chris was feeling quite heady as we retraced back to Finn McCool’s, checked in, and ordered a Pint of Guinness to settle into our new home. Interestingly, a pint of Guinness costs the same price as a pint of beer, which is quite unusual and quite a treat.

We enjoyed a lengthy chat with our host, who was generous with information about Bushmills, Northern Ireland, and the world in general, and was full of questions about our experience of life in South Africa. A regular glued to the bar weighed in periodically with an ‘aye’ or a ‘nay’ to nobody in particular.

By now it was nearly dinner time. Oddly, none of the pubs that we had been to in Northern Ireland so far served food. Our host did invite us to source takeaways from anywhere along the High Street and return to eat them in the pub.

Intent on taking him up on the offer, we exited onto the High Street to see what else was in town. We walked the length of the street and popped into Bushmills Inn to enjoy a beer in the glow of their fireplace.

With limited options on the short High Street, we decided to deviate from our traditional fish and chips to branch out to a Chinese meal (not something we do very often at home either), which we then took back to Finn’s and again enjoyed conversation with our host – with footie on the telly there was all-new conversation about the world of sports – and the regular who was still valiantly propping up the bar.

WEDNESDAY

We were up early enough to get in a quick run before the (inevitably giant) Full Irish breakfast that was included in our room rate. We ran through town, down to aptly-named Runkerry Beach, around the golf course and back along the High Street.

Only when we returned and were waiting at the bar counter for a warm-up tea and coffee did our hostess think to mention that we could actually have run along the tramlines all the way to Giant’s Causeway, only 2 miles away. That would have been epic!

While we were showering and packing, our hostess prepared a feast for us. And while we worked through the table full of goodness that she’d served, she gave a few hints and tips about sightseeing in the area.

It was obviously still cold but there was an icy wind taking real-feel temperature below what we were prepared to bear to visit the Rope Bridge at Carrick-a-Rede. Our hostess told us that with £10 parking fee and £13.50 each to access and cross the bridge, if we weren’t going to make a meal of it then it was best to overshoot the landmark and take the next (free) parking entrance, where there was a pathway to look-out points from where you could see the Rope Bridge.

Great compromise and we did exactly that as we drove out of town.

Last stop on the Giant’s Causeway coastal route was Dunluce Castle, ruins positioned dramatically on a sheer cliff face between Giant’s Causeway and Port Rush.

Even though we’d learnt to be more or less waterproof by now, the light drizzle was still a factor in the cost:benefit of £6 each to wander around the castle ruins. Figuring we would never beat the private tour of Rushen Castle a few days earlier (Castletown, Isle of Man) we satisfied ourselves with the pretty-legit observation decks.

The info on the display boards revealed that while the area had been inhabited for more than 1500 years, the Castle had been finished in 1608 by the MacDonnells, with an entire little town of Scottish-settler subsistence farmers feeding it.

The area was invaded in 1680 and the town burnt to the ground, with the remnants of the Castle bookmarking the story.

Travelogue N. Ireland 4: Belfast

BELFAST

17-19 March 2023

With an extravagant multicourse breakfast on board from our hotel in Enniskillen, we hit the road for the final leg of our Northern Ireland road trip; the drive to Belfast.

With our sights set on attending the Saint Patrick’s Day parade in the Belfast city centre in the early afternoon, Chris put foot and we went straight to drop off the car.

So concluded our 316 mile road trip of Northern Ireland as we pulled into the car rental drop off in Belfast Airport.

With heavy luggage and no time to waste figuring out the buses and whatnot, we got a taxi to take us door-to-door to our B&B in Belfast. All of the taxi cars at Belfast Airport were fancy, so we were soon nestled in the back of a Mercedes-Benz feeling like first class passengers.

Our driver was chatty, telling us all about how wonderful Belfast is and how friendly the people are, and was quick with recommendations for all of the items on our To Do list.

He also revealed that the route we were taking into the city was part of the Ulster Grand Prix motorbike race circuit, and shared the hair-raising speeds that the motorbikes would be taking on the various twists and turns that we were cautiously taking in the comfort of our luxury vehicle.

Our B&B, Gregory by the Warren, was a converted Victorian mansion, delightfully decorated in muted, earthy tones that complimented the double volume and preserved the feels of the pressed ceilings, ornate cornices, embossed wallpaper et cetera.

Consulting Google Maps, we hit the road on foot and found quite a direct route into the city that was merely a mile from our digs.

The walk into town went past Belfast University and explained how the majority of pedestrians were of student age. In their hordes! I shivered at how scantily-clad a lot of the girls were; dressed up for St Paddy’s Day in lots of bright green (of what little clothing they were wearing). 

Getting into town, there were already long queues outside quite a few pubs. We were concerned, thinking we may have missed the full show and that we had only arrived in line with the after-party.

Fortunately this was not the case and, as we rounded the corner to where the City Hall was, we realised that it was the students that were pre-gaming, and found ourselves in more like-minded company on the High Street waiting for the parade to start.

Of course by now, being Ireland, it was raining.  Just a light drizzle though, so not enough to dampen (literally) the spirits of the patient onlookers.

The crowd cheered as the first float came into sight; a massive model horse, with a booming fella, riding high and cheerleading the crowds to welcome the parader. Hot on his heels was a giant Neverending Story-looking Dog float… and then another float… and then another…

The crowd cheered and whooped and clapped for the procession of floats, bands, dancers, drummers, stilt-walkers, hula-hoopers and participants of all shapes, sizes and ages. Lions International members formed part of the stream of paraders, each carrying a sign showing where in the world they were from. Anywhere and everywhere! A true indication of how cosmopolitan modern Belfast is.

I was keen to get out of the rain, and even keener to clock our first pint for the Guinness Index… on Saint Patrick’s Day… in actual Ireland! We indiscriminately entered the first pub with a Guinness sign and no queue outside. The former being simple but the latter a challenge on arguably the busiest day of the year in this city.

The Hercules was very busy inside, but the skilful bartenders, managing multiple customers at the same time, kept the drinks flowing. Most of the patrons were watching that Cheltenham festival (horseracing) and furtively glancing back and forth between their race betting stubs and the screen, hoping to have picked a winner. 

Noting that a pint of Guinness was “only“ £4.30, and seeing on the menu that they served the ever-elusive pub pie, we pencilled in a return visit for the following day.

With no particular plan in mind, we next found ourselves at The Crown Liquor Saloon, lured in by the historical façade. In operation since 1860, and with largely the original fittings, it was incredible to be in a living Museum, with its heavy oak bar, individual gated stall booths, and all the original wood, panelling and embossed wallpaper you would expect of a Victorian watering hole. It came in at a price though; a big jump to £5.55 for a pint!

Interlacing sightseeing with our mini pub crawl, we found ourselves back outside the pub that we passed on our way in that had the queue all the way around the corner. By now the pavement was even busier, with new people queueing and already-serviced young patrons purging their St Paddy’s indulgences. Unprompted, the doorman gestured us a silent invite as we passed by, cocking his head toward the entrance, offering for us to jump the queue; we couldn’t help but oblige. 

Lavery’s was prepared for their student patrons, and was serving the bustling barful drinks by the dozen in plastic cups. The TV screens were also showing the horseracing. It was receiving far less attention than in The Hercules, but a very very drunk student did press a “£1 off a pint” voucher into my hand saying that she was sharing her “wee winnings” with me. How nice.

Chris has already been served so we couldn’t use it. I paid it forward by giving it to a mousy and sober girl alone at the bar, who’d been waiting ages to be served, quite bewildered and very out of place. She beamed at the gesture. I wonder if she’s been served yet…

Between our intermittent sightseeing and nursing each of our drinks (paying in Pounds is no joke!) time was moving on and we needed to think about dinner.

Heading towards the Queen’s Quarter, we set our sights on The Parlour which had good reviews for food and atmosphere. Hardly surprising since it was nestled in between the university buildings.

We had a fabulous time for a couple of hours, starting with a £5.10 pint of Guinness, benefiting from the power of observation of the  (not-on-the-menu, absolute bargain £4) cheesy garlic pizza and even having a bolshy English student insist we try a Baby Guinness shot (Kahlua and Bailey’s), as his treat because he was (allegedly) half-Saffa (certainly not the tallest of the tales he’d told us).

As a last blast on the way home, we stuck our head in at the pub around the corner from our accommodation, Ryan’s. With the aromas of dinnertime still hanging in the air, the pub smelt great, and sounded even better with the traditional fiddler-dee band playing and the hum of people enjoying each other’s company (in a calmly fashion).

What a treat to be have experienced a genuine Irish St Paddy’s Day!

SATURDAY 

Thinking it a clear morning, we started with a jog around the neighbourhood to get our bearings. Typically, as we approached the farthest point of our pre-planned circuit, it started to rain so we had no choice but to grin and bear it on the return journey. 

By the time we were showered and dressed, it was dry again. But of course once we left home and headed into town on foot, it started raining again. Properly.

The first order of business was some necessary banking at Halifax. We arrived at the branch bedraggled and – speaking for myself – in no mood for the admin uphill that inevitably lay ahead.

The upside of the next hour is that it was warm and dry and there was free Wi-Fi in the branch. The downside is that being Halifax Bank, I once again achieved nothing.  The safest bank account in the world, since not even the account holder, try as they might, can access it. Talk about ‘forced savings’. Pffft.

Desperately in need of a mood-lifter, we made a beeline back to The Hercules for that ever-elusive pie. 

Thank heavens they were open and serving, had a table for us, and were sharp-sharp with bringing out the lightest, fluffiest Chicken and Ham (me) and Beef and Bushmills (Christian) pies. I had champ on the side, to be authentic. Mash with green onions. Yum!

In far better spirits and ready to tackle Belfast again, we set about with the order of the afternoon: explore the Titanic Quarter. Extensive signage along the quayside helped immensely with creating a self-guided walking tour.

According to a board, when Queen’s Quay opened in 1877, it provided much-needed berthing space for the numerous sailing colliers. This vast Port of Belfast was once the heart of the world’s largest shipbuilding industry, and it was from a nearby slipway that the ill-fated Titanic was launched in 1911, later to set out on her maiden voyage in 1912.

The sailing ships have long gone, but Queen’s Quay still plays a vital role as a portal into Titanic Quarter – the largest waterfront development (residential, commercial and entertainment) in Europe, at 185 acres with a mile of water frontage. 

There are many monuments and landmarks to visit along the river, not least of which a collection of bridges, the leaning clocktower (built on top of a river, eroded its foundations), a giant blue and white tiled fish, and of course the multi-million Pound Titanic Museum our taxi driver told could be an afternoon’s investment all on its own.

We paid a visit to Hill Street, popular to Belfast’s good-timers for centuries and we’re amused by the names of the pubs. The Thirsty Goat… The Dirty Onion… The Dark Horse. All in buildings aging from 1680 and up! 

In retrospect, I think we may have chosen poorly; it was only once we’d ordered and were seated that we realised that The Harp, based on wall-to-ceiling Bushmills paraphernalia, was a whiskey bar. No mind, it was nice anyway in our velvet wingback chairs in the window.

Well-rested, we took a walk ‘across the tracks’ to hunt down Falls Road to see the famous mural of Bobby Sands, an IRA volunteer who was jailed for a bombing of a clothing factory in Dunmurry and the ensuing gun battle with the police. 

Whilst in prison, Sands was elected as an MP, the youngest at the time. He succumbed to a 66 day hunger strike less than a year later, protesting against the removal of special privileges that  “political” prisoners had but ordinary criminals didn’t. He never took his seat in the House of Commons and a bill was passed preventing people who have served a term in prison from being voted into parliament, in order to prevent any of the other strikers from running to replace him.

We got more than we bargained for; well worth the almost 2km trek to see several murals and sombre tributes to the violent and turbulent times this city has seen, as well as those in other parts of the world like Gaza, Catalonia and our very own South Africa.

Chris was keen to catch some of the Ireland vs England game but we were quite intimidated at the bars in Fall Road which were Irish to the point of having no English signage. Rugby spectating being loud and rowdy by convention didn’t help to make us feel any more welcome as we tested the waters.

We were also reluctant to get drawn into another student fiasco so needed to pick our pub wisely.

We rationalised that downtown would be a dog show and we’d fare better in the ‘burbs. By now familiar with our surroundings, we cut through the Botanical Gardens thinking that the Botanic Inn sounded sedate.

Boy, were we wrong!

There was a fan park of sorts erected between the hotel and the Chicken Wings pop-up street-food restaurant next door and you could hear the roaring crowd from all the way down the street!

We slipped into Plan B and were pleased to find that the The Jeggy Nettle was, although festive and spirited, more age-appropriate.

Exhausted from almost 20km of on-foot mileage over the course of the day (!!) I asked a group of 4 at a table next to the door if we could perch on the end of their booth seat. They smiled and obliged, and we were grateful to squeeze in.

With a resounding victory for the Irish, the patrons were giddy when the game was over and the traditional band started seamlessly as the commentators started their post-match autopsy.

A band of 4, the young lads fiddled and fluted and squeezed on the accordion like life depended on it. An inspired rendition of Fields of Athenry raised a chorus from the customers (including us) and I swear there would have been jigging happening if there was an inch to spare on the heavy-wood ancient floorboards!

With little wind left in our sails, we opted for a quick n easy takeout (but eat-in) type meal. We simply had to go to the Thai-Tanic to fit the theme of the day! 

SUNDAY 

Hard to believe it was home time already!

We had sights set on a walking tour at 11am (a bit backwards ending off with it, but so be it) and a quick roast lunch before needing to be at the bus station for our 15h30 departure for Dublin International Airport to fly home.

We were at City Hall spot on 11am to meet the guide with the yellow umbrella. He started his patter with the usual go-round of who is from where. When we offered “South Africa”, he shared that our Durban City Hall was built off the same plan as the magnificent Belfast City Hall! I don’t recall ours being as grand, but will have to refresh my memory when next I’m in Durbs.

Our guide was a wealth of knowledge, threading the story of Belfast through the ages from a political, religious and economic perspective as he pointed out places of interest to illustrate the story. As someone who had lived through the latter half of the twentieth century in this troubled city, he spoken sincerely, passionately and often poignantly, padding the sometimes sterile timeline of events with his personal experiences. 

He repeated what we’d learnt in Derry about the Plantation of 1609 and was emphatic that those early days of banning Irish and Catholicism were the seeds of the Troubles, seen centuries before and festering through the ages, with Rebellion through the 1700s to remove the British rule.

He spoke of the devastating potato famine of 1845-1852 and how the Irish people not only received no aid from the UK, but how the British actually exported food from Ireland under armed guard. Some 1.5 million people starved to death and a further estimated 3 million left the country. Apparently 15 US presidents have claimed proudly to be from this Irish stock (including Joe Biden), so who know what a powerhouse Ireland could have been without that brain-drain (sound familiar, South Africa??)

Ireland picked itself up and dusted itself off and by 1880 had a thriving Economy and was an industrial powerhouse for linen, whiskey and its shipyard. The graphic illustrations around the quayside had shown an elegant society with beautiful buildings and horse-drawn carriages, which must have been this heyday.

It was in these grand times that the City Hall was finished (1888), and no expense was spared in the magnificent fittings and fixtures inside. The building is open and free to access, which is also pretty remarkable.

The gardens contain a 30 metre plinth tribute to the Titanic. 

The story as told to us is that Thomas Andrews announced he would build the biggest, fastest, most luxurious, most expensive and ‘unsinkable’ ship. The Titanic was then built by experts with the finest materials. The downfall was wanting to be the the fastest crossing to the US; Titanic was warned by other boats about icebergs, but kept going. The rest is history and almost 2000 people perished.

Our guide’s perspective was that the ship was perfect when it left Belfast and that the proof was in the arrogant and negligent navigational pudding. Nonetheless, the disaster hit Belfast’s ship-building reputation. 

The beautiful design of the Victorian City Hall sparked further discussion on the architecture downtown.

Sadly, Belfast very heavily bombed in World War II over 3 nights in April 1941 because of their well-known contribution to ship and air building for the English. Between the World War and the raging IRA bombings – multiple daily, according to the guide’s personal recollection – many great buildings were destroyed and replaced with functional and boring successors. This explains the eclectic mix of architecture in the inner city. 

Fortunately, buildings of historical value are listed and protected. One such being the majestic The Crown pub that we’d happened upon the previous day. 

Originally called The Railway Inn (because it was opposite old railway), the owner negotiated with a group of skilled Italian artisans who were in the city decorating a church to facelift his bar at night and on weekends. They obliged, hence the ornate work and the rename to the more regal and befitting The Crown.

It sits opposite the Europa Hotel which has the dubious honour of being the most bombed building in Dublin. A victim of poor timing, the hotel was opened at the start of the Troubles. The terrorism caused tourism to tank so the hotel was largely populated with press coming to cover the unrest. The IRA bombed it 33 times.

The IRA no longer exists but Shin Fein is now the leading party. According to a census two years ago, Northern Ireland is now majority Catholic, so could be headed for their first Catholic Prime Minister. And with all the contention around Brexit and having to get special dispensation because having EU borders between Northern Ireland and the Republic breaks the Good Friday Agreement… Watch this space indeed!

The tour ended at the Salmon of Knowledge (the Big Fish we’d seen the previous day) on the banks of the River Lagan, which flows through Belfast and into the Irish Sea. 

On the far side is the Titanic Quarter, with the museum and the minor ship building activities, mostly fitting luxury cruise ships. The addition of the residences, business and light industrial bits make it the biggest waterfront development in the world.

The Big Fish was erected to celebrate the return of salmon to the River of Lagan in 1999 for the first time in 200 years, with pollution having previously driven them away. A bridge had been installed to clean the the river by raising the level of the water and keeping it fast-moving. It not only brought back the fish, but also removed the smell, the eradication of which had stimulated development and tourism in the area. 

The Big Fish is filled with time capsules about life in Belfast in 1999 and with instruction not to open them for 100 years.

Who knows what the contributors chose to preserve. They would have been fresh off the end of the Conflict, in the Good Friday Agreement in Easter 1998. The militarised  borders and checkpoints would just have been removed. Tony Blair had just apologised in parliament for the treatment of the Irish people in the famine. They would no doubt speak of a city divided by religion, with peace walls gated at either end, locked every night at 7pm. (Still in place and locked nightly, and if placed end to end, stretch 21km). They would not yet have seen the population finally reach 7 million, as it is today, only now reaching the same as 1840s! And couldn’t predict that 3/4 of the population lives in the 200 mile strip between Belfast and Dublin! 

The parting shot was some advice on pubs and restaurants. Our guide said that one of downtown Belfast’s novel features is that pubs are required to be in back lanes so families can go about their business in the high streets undisturbed. 

We were delighted to already have visited some of his recommendations and – I couldn’t help it – asked for the cheapest pint in Belfast so we could pay a quick visit and add it to the Index.

That’s how we ended up having our last pint in Belfast as Wetherspoons, for £3.75.

It was a very quick one because we still had a roast lunch to squeeze in.

We got to Maggie May’s at 13h40, just 10 minutes off schedule. We were greeted and seated in the 9-table parlour room of this beautifully preserved Victorian house and served a steaming hot plate of roast beef, with mash and roast taties, carrots and parsnips, drenched in thick brown gravy.

And they lived happily ever after.

The end.

Travelogue N. Ireland 3: Derry & Enniskillen

DERRY & ENNISKILLEN

15 March 2023

Driving in from Bushmills and with only one night in Derry, we prioritised convenience and location for our choice of hotel. The City Hotel, on the banks of the River Foyle and with its view of the Peace Bridge, was perfect for our purposes.

Arriving around lunchtime, our room wasn’t ready yet, which was no problem as we had to speed off to our walking tour anyway. We dashed across town, and met our tour guide, Pat, a few minutes into his intro speech. 

He was telling the group that the name Derry derives from the old Irish word for Oak Grove, and that the original Oak Grove and its settlements were all located on a small hill, which was formerly an island in the River Foyle.

Turns out that he was responding to a common question “is the town called Derry or Londonderry?”; a short question with a long and complicated answer.

From 1541, when Henry VIII became King of Ireland, the English crown steadily sought to assert its control over Ireland.

From the 1550s, areas in the south and west of Ireland were planted with English settlers in the hope of establishing colonies and ‘taming Ireland’s most unruly provinces’.

This ‘plantation’ – newly planted citizens who were given land that often saw Irish farmers losing the land that they’d been working – had changed Ulster (the province that houses the 6 counties that make up Northern Ireland as we know it) beyond recognition.

In the space of a generation they had seen their social order crumble, their culture decline, their religion come under attack, and the landscape radically altered. Although 30,000 British planters had come to Ulster, they had not not been successful in displacing the native Irish in converting them to Anglicanism. 

Part of the Plantation budget was used to secure the town, which had now been renamed from Derry to Londonderry. Construction of the city’s walls began in 1613 and was completed in 1619 at a cost of £11,700. This was a mammoth sum back then!

The walls were designed to cope with recent advances in warfare, particularly the introduction of artillery. Ten metres wide, they consisted of an eight metre thick earthen rampart built with soil, dug from an encircling ditch, and clad with another 2m deep stone face. This meant that even if the outer wall was hit with cannon fire, the compacted earth still provided solid defence AND there was still the second inner stone wall to deal with even if there was time to wreck the outer wall and tunnel the earthen filling. Proper solid!

The walls contain four gates with rectangular towers rising above the city walls. The city within was laid out in a grid pattern at the centre of which was an open air diamond shaped meeting area (what would be the town square, in essence).

The walls were in astoundingly good condition for having stood for more than 400 years and the only adjustment that has been made in modern times, is to lay tarmac on top of the compacted dirt so that the wide walkway is no longer muddy and is more convenient for everyone to enjoy. We had been walking slowly along the wall from one Gate to another as Pat pointed out things of interest and historical significance.

The bulk of the story tells of the endless wrangles between the Protestants and Catholics. The second half of the 1600s was one of the bloodiest eras in Irish history, including the 105 day siege of 1689, where the Protestants closed the city doors, not only leaving the Catholics on the outside of the wall, but also having to wait them out without starving.

Similar standoffs continued to rage right until The Troubles in the late 20th century. There are still living relics, reminding us how recently this struggle happened in Derry. There are still high metal nets dotted along the walls, designed to protect some of the historically significant buildings that were the regular target of petrol bombing from other factions.

Concluding the tour, we went into the Guildhall, which is a free-access exhibition that tells the history of the town of Londonderry, with fun interactives. It also displays John Hume’s awards; the only person to have received the Nobel, Martin Luther and Gandhi peace prizes for his role in orchestrating the peace treaty.

Christian is particularly good at pinning on a mental map, so we then went to fill in the gaps of things he’d seen on the tour that warranted a closer look. Quite easily navigating the city, using the city wall as our guide, we found the mural of the Derry Girls from the popular TV show of the same name that we enjoyed immensely. 

On a more sombre note, we went to pay homage to the site of the Bloody Sunday massacre, with the memorial that now commemorates the landmark. According to Pat, it took years and years to formally evaluate what had happened that day, and it was finally found that the police had overreacted, and the bloodshed was avoidable. Short of the acknowledgement, no further action has been taken; sounds very familiar in light of how similar things are handled back home in South Africa.

By now on the hunt for dinner, we thought the evening’s arrangement would be an easy one since the oldest pub in Derry, which we had spotted on our way to meet the tour, had Chicken and Ham Pie on the menu, which were another box on the To Do list.

Of course, nothing is ever simple. We arrived at the restaurant, had a Guinness and found that we still had another 40 minute wait to get a table because there were two events happening in this venue. Unable to even order until we had secured a table, we would have been eating well after nine, which would not do.

We slipped into Plan B, which was a Dinner for Two set menu offer at our hotel restaurant with two 2 course meals and a bottle of wine for £50. We were unlikely to do much better. 

The hotel did us proud and the French onion soup and crispy bread was served quick and hot; appreciated after an afternoon of walking around in the rain. A roast dinner to follow washed down with an Italian merlot was just a bonus.

THURSDAY 

It seems that the best Irish weather is first thing in the morning.
Filling our boots from the hotel buffet, we checked out, but left the car in the parking lot as we went out to make the most of the sunshine. We took a walk across the Peace Bridge and a loop around the outer city wall, through the ‘West Bank Loyalists’ Protestant enclave with its red-white-and-blue painted enclave… at which time it started to rain, which was our cue to hit the road.

Today’s drive would see us covering 70 miles to see what the South West of Northern Ireland had to offer.

Enniskillen is a Fermanagh House county town 400 years in the making, founded by a charter of King James I in 1612, and grown as a plantation town under the guidance of Captain William Cole.
The name Enniskillen comes from the Irish ‘inis’ meaning island and ‘Cethlenn’ which is believed to be Kathleen (Queen of the Formorians) who, after being wounded in battle, took refuge on the island and died.

The island, chosen as a strategic site, was formally a McGuire stronghold, one of the medieval chieftains of Fermanagh. It is the only island town in Ireland. As well as houses in public buildings, there were wooden bridges, built at the east and west into of the island. These bridges have, of course, long since been replaced with modern concrete versions. The main street of Enniskillen runs the full length of the island, from one bridge to the other. We managed to keep ourselves entertained for the full afternoon on the small section of island.

We made a visit to Enniskillen Castle, which sits on the banks of the river just before the far bridge. Signboards outside the castle speak of how the Meadows make for a great meeting place to enjoy the day going by, assuming there is ever a day when it doesn’t rain.

We enjoyed a slow stroll along the length of the High Street, window shopping and reviewing the menus displayed in the many pubs and restaurants, looking for the ever-elusive pie.

The rain picked up a bit so we were forced to seek refuge in the Horseshoe & Saddlers pub to have a pint in a window table from where we could people-watch.

Being such a small town, we’d already ticked off all the landmarks so when the rain abated we returned to our hotel for some downtime. We’d booked in the motel section of the Enniskillen Hotel, so had 4 star amenities at our disposal for a 3 star price tag!

Having had a lighten than usual day, our massive breakfast lasted longer than usual and when dinnertime rolled around, it was more of a precaution than a requirement.

We decided to wander into town to see what grabbed us, starting with a pint of Guinness at the landmark Victorian pub, Blake’s of the Hollow.

Still not madly hungry, we were drawn to the more modern Firehouse to share a ridiculously good pulled pork and caramelised onion pizza.