All posts by cl@rks

Europe, France

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.

Europe, France

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!

Europe, Northern Ireland, United Kingdom

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.

Europe, Northern Ireland, United Kingdom

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.

Europe, Northern Ireland, United Kingdom

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.

Ireland, Western Europe

Travelogue Ireland 2023: Waterford

WATERFORD

5-10 March 2023

With a charged start to the year that produced a fleeting home-appearance of Brother from Ireland, the usual invitations were laid (“you must come over to Ireland for a visit!”) and promises made (“sure I will! Soon!”). 

For once, there was follow-through. Sister-in-law’s 50th birthday in March was the perfect excuse.

With leave to burn, I booked a week to spend on my own with the family (just outside Waterford) over the half-century celebrations before joining Chris to do a weekend in Isle of Man, and a quick loop around Northern Ireland, culminating in what would no doubt be a very festive farewell in Belfast over St Patrick’s Day weekend.

Waiting the few weeks between booking the tickets and beginning the shenanigans was torture! 

Packing the suitcase equally so. It’s always tricky packing for the season alternate to the current at home. One’s wardrobe always seems so foreign, even though it was a staple just a few months earlier. I didn’t cut any corners and packed everything I may possibly need, in anticipation of the crazy cold I knew I’d be facing on the other side, thanks to almost daily updates from the weather app that revealed plunging temperatures.

It was a very long journey, travelling on my own which is very rare. I managed to use my time wisely, getting unusually good sleep on both flights and utilising the two-hour stopover in Dubai in the middle to get a 5km walk in (by covering the length of Terminals B and C) to keep the blood flowing.

Exiting Dublin Airport, I was grateful for the detailed instructions I had been given on where to find the bus terminus and which bus to catch because not only was I travel-weary, but the bracing cold in my too-light travel wear meant there was no time to dilly-dally if I intended not to freeze to death (a bit dramatic, but it truly was flippin’ cold!).

Half an hour later, I was ensconced in a nice warm coach and enjoying the view from the big windows as we hurtled towards Waterford. 

Anthony met me at the bus station and loaded my incredibly-heavy suitcase into his van to take me back to the family home, where my sister-in-law and nephew were eagerly awaiting my arrival.

I got the lowdown on the lay of the land as we drove out of Waterford, took the bridge over the river and headed up to their suburb, Slieverue.

It was a fantastic reunion, aware of how long it had been since we had last seen each other… and yet fitting back hand-in-glove like no time had passed at all!

I was given the tour of the very spacious home and shown to my very lovely suite; instructed to make myself at home, with a kickstart pack on the bed – fluffy winter pyjamas, a gown and even a pair of slippers!

Returning downstairs to the kitchen, I presented all the treasures I had brought from home. Nothing sophisticated; a selection of favourites that could not be sourced in Ireland so were met with the anticipated and desired level of glee.

In return, I was gifted my first Guinness of the trip and we settled into the lounge to catch up on what we’d missed over the last few years. With conversation flowing, more Guinness on hand and a very cold Ireland outside the front door, we agreed that my arrival celebration would be an in-home one with a delicious pasta meal and the very best company.

I did an admirable job of staying captivated until about 10pm, when my stamina failed me and I simply had to go and test those fluffy jarmies. Yawn. My weary bones were asleep as my head hit the pillow…

MONDAY 

Being Luanne’s birthday, special effort was made for everyone to get up a little early to commune in the kitchen and do well-wishes, presents – and even a quick video call with the parents in South Africa – over a very civilised cup of tea, before Luanne needed to get Connor off to school. 

Anthony and I popped down to the supermarket to get some goodies for breakfast and were soon whipping up a selection of the Birthday Girl’s favourites, to get her day started right.

With bacon and pancakes in the fuel tank, we kitted up nice ‘n warm and took a walk around Slieverue. It was a treat to be able to walk out of the driveway and cross the road into the countryside, ambling down narrow lanes and appreciating the greenery that came from all the Irish rainfall.

Just over an hour and 6km later, we appreciated the return to our warm nest, where we spent most of the afternoon debating what we would do that evening to celebrate the Big Birthday. We were still discussing it when Luanne had to go and fetch Connor from school, so I decided to ride along for company and to play lookout for anything that might catch our fancy for the evening.

Poor Connor wasn’t feeling brilliant, staving off a bit of a cold and with a nagging cough that was taking the wind out of his sails. Consequently, he asked permission to be excused from any celebrations, either home or out. We suspected that he had ulterior motives, to self-medicate with his online games! And his absence spurred his parents to decide on curry for dinner since this was something that Connor would not eat and so a rare opportunity for them (and, of course, no arguments from me!).

We got a taxi into town and walked along the quayside, settling on Cafe Goa thanks to the only remaining table in the cosy little restaurant being a warm and welcoming table-for-four summoning us through the bay window. 

As the only server in the restaurant, our hostess-cum-waitress welcomed and seated us, and proceeded to bustle gracefully between the tables delivering us menus, water and poppadoms while deftly managing the rest of the patrons. She filled our glasses with wine, efficiently took our order and returned with bowls of piping hot food before we’d made a dent in our drinks. 

The curry was spicy and delicious and we scooped it all up with the sticky rice and crunchy fresh naan bread, washed down with the delightful Chilean Cab Sauv.

Fed and happy, but not ready to return home quite yet, we walked to the corner for a nightcap in the Timbertoes Bar off the reception of Treacy’s Hotel. Traditional pub with a sturdy and polished wooden bar as the focal feature, and a fireplace on each end cosying up the place, we indulged in a pint of Guinness from the tap (at 6.50 Euros a pop, which would have to be recorded on the Index!)

Our taxi picked us up right outside and we marvelled at our luck since although it had been raining intermittently over the course of the evening, we’d had the good fortune for it to be dry each time we had needed to be out on the street moving from place to place. Forget the luck of the Irish; this was properly the luck of the South Africans!

Bleeding the special occasion for all it was worth, we opened a bottle of red at home to see out the last of Luanne’s birthday. Despite an endless stream of conversation all day, there were still untold stories that saw us to bedtime.

TUESDAY

A late start thanks to the late evening, I only surfaced after Connor had been taken to school. Not even attempting to rush the day, I produced myself downstairs in the kitchen in my holiday gear (fluffy jarmies, gown and slippers), ready for my mug of tea and a close-out decision on what we’d be doing for the day. Much of our decision-making depended on the weather and even though it would be barely 5 degrees by lunchtime, the sun was out and the day needed to be appreciated.

We had a leisurely brunch of pork bangers, scrambles and pancakes and then slowly prepared for the outing.

Luanne and I led the charge, with a walk around the Village Loop, which started at our gate and circled the enclave of houses behind us. Luanne then walked a second loop while I ran it twice to complete my required 30 min heart rate boost. With the hint of sunshine, we even managed to break a sweat!

Smug at our commitment to good health, we earned ourselves an afternoon of sloth. 

Anthony, encouraged by how invigorated Luanne and I were from our adventure, dabbled with the idea of repeating the exercise while Luanne was out fetching Connor. Of course, we spent so much time procrastinating about whether or not to do it, that Luanne was back before we’d left.

Changing tactics, we decided that we’d just walk the route instead, all the way down to Miler pub, where we would reward ourselves with a pint for completing the 2k downhill – and prepare for the corresponding 2km uphill return. Brilliant to enjoy the fresh air and good balance to spend as much time on the journey as the destination.

On the way back, we were compelled to stop off at the local pub, Stapleton’s, a couple of hundred metres from home, for a pint of fresh-pulled Guinness (5.20 Euros; definitely getting onto the Index!)

Once home, we did a team effort of making dinner an event, with Anthony managing the food, Luanne sorting the music and me providing little more than moral support.

Homemade Alfredo was exactly what we needed to replenish the resources we’d used on our forays around the neighbourhood, while the spirited family dinner and jovial conversation nourished the soul.

WEDNESDAY

Needing to see what all the fuss was about, the plan for the morning was to track down a traditional Waterdford Blaa for breakfast after dropping Connor off at school.

It was freezing – literally, since light snow had started falling that morning – so we parked the car and started the search for a breakfast blaa in earnest, with hands wedged in gloves and in pockets, heads down and chins nested in scarves.

Not flying completely blind since we’d done a notable amount of Googling on the subject, the first open place we recognised from the online searching, was a big bakery called The Granary.

Although quite a big shop, the warm glow of the entrance and the glimpse of the shiny glass counter displaying baked goods that we could see from the door drew us in like a moth to a flame!

We knew we had chosen the right place when we asked the chap behind the counter if they served Blaa with sausages or bacon or eggs and he said all 3, in one! We ordered 3 of those and topped up with hot beverage selections at the cashier.

We’d barely completed the payment transaction when the Blaas were brought to us. A stack of fry-up goodness on a soft white powdered bun. We were invited to try the complimentary tomato relish, which rounded off the gooey (egg), crispy (bacon), and crunchy (sausages) melt-in-your-mouth (blaa) combo perfectly. Unforgettable breakfast bun, well worth a repeat visit!

Being a very chilly day and with the icy wind howling outside, there would be no ambition of walking or running in the wilds. Anthony had skipped gym for a few days while playing host, so we decided we would go to gym together around midday to try and work through the blaa and make space for lunch, which was planned as a reheat of butternut soup that Anthony has previously made from scratch. Breakfast had been such a mouthful that without some attempt at moving it, there would be no space to do justice to the chunky soup that was so perfectly suited to the grey day!

Never able to stick to a schedule (and with no intention of rushing unnecessarily while on holiday), we inevitably left late for gym, which resulted in an awkward amount of time on the tail end of our workout. So, instead of returning home, Anthony dropped me off in town, where I met Luanne and we did a bit of To Do list shopping before picking up Connor from school.

The bright side of the dreary weather is that there is little better than a medicinal hot chocolate when you get home! Melting marshmallows to warm the cockles!

With the grown-ups having some work to do, Connor and I filled the gap with making a cake, belated for Luanne’s birthday which had passed early that week while Connor was a little under the weather. Cheating a bit with a box mixture, we were still very chuffed at the result – and coated the top and sides with a thick layer of cream cheese icing and used chocolate drops to spell out ’50’ in the middle. As chuffed as we were with our masterpiece, Mama Bear was double-chuffed with our combined efforts!

THURSDAY

With the worst weather of the week forecast for Thursday, we woke up to a bleak and raining day. The upside, however, was that the cloud cover holds the warmth in and we were forecast a balmy 8 degree high. At some point during the day. If there was one thing I’d learnt so far it was that Irish weather is all over the place. As Anthony said, “If you don’t like the weather now, wait 10 minutes” because it was bound to swing!

Also great weather for comfort eating, so why not have delicious Alfredo leftover for breakfast?!

Devoid of ambitions for the day and very happy to continue using the weather as an excuse, it was a long and leisurely morning in jarmies and gown, glued to the Lazy Boy and passing the day with book, tea, internet, travelogue, Facebook, book, Rooibos, yawn, WhatsApp, wash-rinse-repeat. Very busy doing nothing.

So busy doing nothing, in fact, that we were half an hour late for our only intended excursion. Another visit to the gym. 

No mind, we did a shorter workout so that we were on time to fetch Connor, which was essential since it was raining quite heavily – and of course quite cold, but a little warmer than you’d think with the the cloud cover keeping in what little warmth there was.

We had the final Choc O’Clock (hot chocolate and marshmallow egg) when we got home. I would miss this daily ritual, which was always a warm welcome home.

Retiring to my recliner while the family took care of their respective work and homework, I basked in the dusky light through the bay window, enjoying the novelty of having nothing to do and nowhere to be.

We finally got around to having our pate on melba and brie on crackers as a little sundowner treat (we had been meaning to all week) and had a special guest appearance by Connor, who had swapped his computer games for our fun and games for the evening (no mean feat for a teenage boy!)

Celebrating the time together and commiserating at how quickly it had gone, we outsourced the cooking and ordered pizzas for dinner. Lots of antics and laughs in the lounge as we created new memories that we’d be able to relive the next time we were able to meet up.

FRIDAY 

With best intention of an up-and-out, we inevitably faffed our way into leaving about an hour later than intended. 

Luanne had dropped Connor at school and returned with fluffy sausage rolls, still hot from the oven at Asda, which had taken the urgency out of hitting the road for brunch on the way to the airport in Dublin.

We’d been fearing a slow passage since the weather apps all reported snow overnight in Dublin meaning the roads could be wet and icy, slowing our movement and raising the risk for accidents and such things causing traffic.

With the luck of the Irish still on our side, none of these things transpired, and we made good time getting to Avoca Cafe just outside Dublin for our morning meal.

We probably could have spent double the time there since the ground floor was a market of infinite browsing potential, with a full service and self service restaurant upstairs. 

But we were on a mission and so efficiently ordered delicious things, enjoying our last meal together with the usual peppering of tales and teasing… which I would so miss until we were next reunited.

Europe, Northern Ireland, United Kingdom

Travelogue N.Ireland 1: Isle of Man

ISLE OF MAN

9-13 March 2023

Having spent the better part of a week with the family in Waterford, it was an easy connect to hop to Isle of Man for a weekend.

Christian had flown into Dublin Airport to join me and the family had graciously offered to drive me to Dublin, so we left Waterford at 10am in order to synchronise the meet-up (including a quick stop-in for a brunch snack at the heavenly Avoca Café en route.

It was bittersweet; sad to leave the family behind but pleased to see Chris again and to be embarking on a new adventure.

Despite well-oiled logistics seeing our plan executed perfectly, we were delayed in Dublin by our plane arriving late. 

Surprisingly, even though we only landed in Isle of Man just before 6pm, it was not yet sunset and we were able to get our rental car sorted and hit the road while it was still light.

We had booked to stay in the capital, Douglas, for 3 nights. Since the island is so small, it was easier to unpack and make one hotel our homebase and then explore the length and breadth as satellite trips.

Having downloaded offline Google Maps, we found our accommodation very easily. Arrandale House, a modest and well-priced hotel in the city centre opposite Hutchinson Square park, had easy access to the promenade, shopping streets, as well as the main artery road that would link us to the other towns.

There was snow everywhere, so we kitted up before heading out to explore our new surrounds. Hats, scarves, gloves, jackets… not the usual seaside outfit!

Down to the Promenade which, even in the dim evening light, looked impressive with its long crescent of Victorian facades lining the land side of the blue orb of the natural bay.

It was that witching hour of the evening when you get the best mix of people doing their thing in public places. While there were still some people jogging and cycling (in this weather, gasp!), there were others who had already had a ‘long day’ and were (hopefully) headed home, and others (like us – heading in, bearing in mind this was Friday night and a seaside holiday destination) on a mission to get fed and/or watered.

We walked from one end to the other to get our bearings and earmark things we wanted to see in the light of day, and then headed to the top-rated chippie for a fresh ‘n delicious seafood feast of bacon and garlic scallops to start, with crunchy battered flaky cod and salted vinegary chips as the main event to warm the cockles.

It had been a long day of travels – especially for Chris – and we had Netflix in our hotel room, so we opted for a movie night in so we would be fresh and ready to road trip the next day.

SATURDAY 

One of our criteria for accommodation was an inclusive breakfast package. Being largely stomach-driven, it adds immeasurable admin to have to source breakfast before the day can even start.

The Arrandale did us particularly proud with cereals, yoghurts, fruits and juices self-serve while the hot breakfast you choose off the laminated menu on the table is prepared. A hot bevvie of choice is also served almost immediately. Rare but appreciated, hot chocolate was an option… and served as a whole pot, which is usually a decadence reserved for tea!

With a full day ahead, the Full English was the only smart option. We’d barely had time to neck our starters and first cup of coffee/chocolate (respectively) when the plate of fried deliciousness was served to us.

Ready to take on the world, we packed all our warm gear into the rental car and hit the road, headed north.

Although Chris had prepared me with the knowledge that Isle of Man is 32 miles from north to south and 12 miles across at its widest point, I still had “road trip” in my head, so boy was I surprised when we got to our first stop, Onchan, in six minutes. 

It was so sudden that we didn’t even stop. It really felt like an extension – a suburb – of Douglas, so unlikely to produce any new adventure.

Soldiering on, at a leisurely 40 mph, we were still in the next stop, Laxey, in 20 minutes. 

We parked the car close to the primary landmark: the Great Laxey Wheel. 

Built in 1854 to pump water from the Great Laxey Mine complex, the ‘Lady Isabella’ (as it was fondly dubbed, after the wife of the Governor who commissioned it) is a feat of Victorian engineering. It was constructed as a power source; while the rest of the world was moving to steam power, Isle of Man had no coal so decided to use the abundance of running water as a hydro power source rather than being reliant on importing coal. It is still the largest working water wheel in the world today.

We returned to the car via Ham and Egg Terrace, so-named because the enterprising ladies who lived in this row of terrace houses – the longest under a single roof on all the island back then – served tea and refreshments to the stream of tourists who flooded in from the UK to have their holidays on Isle of Man and came to see Lady Isabella. One of these tea rooms still exists; Brown’s, established in 1906.

Having walked Laxey from end to end, and with nothing open even though it was midday on a Saturday, it was time to move on.

Again a short hop, Ramsey looked a lot more lively. We took a walk along the quayside and what looked like it must be an important bridge at the harbour, when the wind picked up and cut through us with its iciness.

With a sign outside The Commercial Hotel promising Guinness at £4.20 a pint, a short stint in front of the fireplace (and a logging on our Guinness Index) was exactly what the day needed.

The pub was already quite busy, so we occupied ourselves with eavesdropping the colourful conversation being passed between the bar lady and the (clearly regular) patrons that covered all sorts of things ranging from politics to very domestic situationships!

Plucking up the courage to resume our tour, we returned to the car and continued the journey to the north, to Point of Ayre, with its famed lighthouse called ‘The Winkie’.

It was so cold and windy that we did little more than nip out of the car, take some snaps and jump back into the car like we’d escaped an ice age!

It was very rewarding sightseeing, thanks for the super-short travel distances and easy access to points of interest so we felt the levels of achievement for the day warranted an early return to Homebase.

We got back to Douglas just in time. The rain had started to set in and the temperature had plummeted. Since our hotel room had Netflix, we took a couple of hours out to relax and hole in from the inclement weather outside.

Being Saturday night in Douglas, we needed to at least put some effort into trying one or two of the acclaimed pubs on the promenade.

It was a bit hit-and-miss, as we realised there were some pivotal sporting events that had the more popular bars full to bursting. Never shy of an Irish pub, we settled in O’Donnells in the shopping street for a pint while we planned next steps.

Following online recommendations, we tried the Thirsty Pigeon next, where a local called Finney adopted us, having seen my curiosity at the open entertainment section that he had discarded on the communal bar counter in front of him. 

I showed interest in the crossword blockbuster and asked the waitress for a pen; he introduced himself and joined in the game. We spent a couple of hours talking to him about the island while we populated the brainteaser games in the newspaper together. 

It was very definitely past our dinner time and Chris was highly motivated for an Indian meal so we headed back in the direction of home to hit up the curry den we’d earmarked on our way out.

Almost as if Finney had conjured the weather to illustrate the story he’d shared of Life on the Island, it was blowing a gale of cold air from the sea, exacerbating the light rain. Like a novice, I had our holi-brolly out, thinking it would combat the elements. On the contrary, the wind kept catching it and concaving it so forcibly and repeatedly that the poor thing didn’t stand a chance; the spokes buckled and it was soon sent to an undignified final resting place, rammed into Her Majesty’s bin.

A couple a few steps behind us chuckled good-nature fly as they witnessed my surrender. Clearly locals who knew better than to even bother. Tightening my hood and shoving my gloved hands deeper into my pockets, I joined the ranks of Grin and Bear It.

We arrived at a warm and dry Flavours restaurant ready to commit. Unfortunately they were not. “Fully booked”, they said.

Pfft.

Not skipping a beat, we went around the corner to Taste of Bengal. Also fully booked. We should have thought to reserve ahead as soon as we noted the drunken Stag parties and very very drunken Hen do at the Pigeon.

Sticking to theme, we resorted to a kebab instead, having passed one that smelled particularly alluring on our curry-hunt.

Quick, fresh and tasty, we were not disappointed! 

SUNDAY

Mixing things up a bit, I had the kippers – an Isle of Man speciality – for breakfast. Served in place of the sausage and bacon on an otherwise Full English plate, it was a bet well-placed. Yum!

The quest for the day involved crossing the island to Peel, on the West Coast. What may sound like a massive undertaking was in actuality only a 17km journey.

We were soon parked in the Old Market and picking a direction to explore. Drawn by the Castle, we headed quayside. 

On closer inspection, the castle was not open for access so we made do with a walk around the castle wall and imagining what had gone on inside.

We then took a turn through the Cathedral gardens. With the building boasting having occupied its position since the 4th Century, the gardens had been cleverly crafted into a timeline of exhibits of relics commemorating the bishops who had made their mark on it over time. 

Making use of the good weather, we added Port Erin onto our itinerary for the day. Although our origin and destination were both coastal, Google Maps took us on an inland route.

Despite not having fresh snowfall for days, the exposed hilltops combined with the icy winds had preserved the snow and made for a white-knuckle drive over the (fortunately) short distance.

Christian was forced to steer the little rental Noddy car to where mightier vehicles had forged tyre trails, and periodically give way to motorists from the other direction. Fortunately, the drivers in Isle of Man seem to be very unhurried and polite so it wasn’t difficult to negotiate oncoming traffic.

Arriving in Port Erin, we parked the car and struggled to find something to do. Town was shut tight for the weekend, so we did a bit of window shopping along the main street, and then walked along the quay side to the building at the end, which we hoped would be something interesting. It was not.

On the return journey, we did a stop-in at Bushy’s in the Bay Hotel to warm up, and have a swift pint. With the blazing fire, and a good playlist, it made for a very relaxing ‘excursion’.

On the way back to the car, we were horrified to see that there were people swimming in the sea.  Clearly not all locals were that crazy though, since there were friends and onlookers on the beach, dressed pretty much the same as we were with jackets, scarves, hats, gloves… Exactly what you would expect under these conditions. 

As now-seasoned tourists, we cleverly checked the curry house times upfront. We planned our evening around it so as not to be caught short again. 

We had a last few things to see in Douglas, so dropped off the car and hoofed along the promenade to the old town.

Masterfully ticking off the end of the To Do list, we were at Taste of Bengal in time to be their first table for the evening… We smugly worked our way through multiple courses with our bottle of red (from the dingy Off Licence downstairs) as the tables filled up around us. Fool me once, indeed! 

MONDAY 

We awoke to sunshine on our last morning. Well, sort of sunshine. It was bright and not raining.

… Until we were half way through our run on the promenade!

Fortunately we were dressed for it so didn’t get too drenched. And nothing that a hot shower, a pot of hot chocolate and a full English breakfast couldn’t cure.

Ahead of schedule, we enjoyed a leisurely drive down to Castletown. We had a couple of hours to wander around before getting to the airport for our flight to Belfast.

With no particular agenda, we made our way to the main attraction, Castle Rushen, first. The large wooden entrance door was shut tight.

While we were reading the information board and reviewing the open times, the door opened and a man appeared. He told us we were early for opening. And not just a few minutes; the castle was only opening for viewing for the season from 1 April. We were weeks too early!

Seeing our disappointment, he told us he had some business to attend to but to come back in half an hour and he would then let us in to have a quick look. 

It was easy to wile the time away, doing a quick circuit around the old town and reading the monument boards on the various historical landmarks.

We learnt that Castletown was once the ancient capital of the Isle of Man and the House of Keys across the road from the Castle was home to the Manx parliament between the years 1821 to 1874. It was at the centre of 19th-century political life and has been restored to its former appearance of 1866, a milestone in Manx history because the self-elected house took its first steps along the road to modern democracy by becoming a popularly elected Body, in essence forming the first parliament in the world.

Returning to the Castle at 11:30, the door was again shut tight. We pressed the bell, and another man greeted us at the door. He introduced himself as the Pest Control Guy and inviting us in. He directed us to our original host, who was in his office.

We were treated to a full hour of private tour into every nook and cranny of the castle, with commentary along the way as to how the castle had grown and provided service for more than a millennium.

Our host guided us through a couple of dining rooms, decorated to illustrate the very different eras that had enjoyed the space. We saw the Lord’s Chambers, the vault, the banquet hall, and got to see spectacular views from the castle battlements, right at the top of the building, with clear view as far as the eye could see in every direction.

Our host narrated the tour throughout, complimenting the living history exhibits with information about modern Manx, the people, the language, the economy and even his experience of the most recent plight, the Covid pandemic.

Thanking him profusely for his time and being so accommodating, we tackled the final strait to the airport to conclude our weekend.

We had seen and done everything on our list – and a few things that weren’t – and still only done 108km in total!

Corsica, Europe, France

Travelogue Corsica 3: Bastia

BASTIA

01 – 04 October 2022

Mapping our route around Corsica, we had stuck mostly to the coast, picturing a beach holiday and visiting most of the main cities which must have been built around the commercially-necessary ports.

The exception was our final leg back to Bastia where we would be traversing the island through the mountains, through a town called Corte, which was reviewed to be a lively town thanks to the University and resulting energy of the student population.

What we hadn’t realised (basing our itinerary on blogs and reviews rather than a contoured map) is exactly how mountainous Corsica is. The majority of the island is one big mountain range, save for a relatively narrow strip around the coast.

Thus, our journey from Ajaccio to Bastia started almost immediately with a climb into the mountains and a corresponding change in scenery and in climate.

Soon back in the ‘head of broccoli‘ (as I had likened the terrain; florets of dense green forest), the roads were so windy it was as if their architect had dropped cooked spaghetti onto a map and then built the tarred road accordingly. Twists and turns as we climbed up one side of a mountain and then descended down the other, our little Fiat 500 feeling every inch in both directions.

The view was sublime. So picturesque. Very hard to describe in words how epic the vastness of the panoramas were. Climbing walls of mountains from where you could see an endless green blanket of forest and a hazy horizon, the blinking blue ocean.

We passed through a few small towns, with welling excitement as each approached; a collection of multi-storey stone symbols of civilisation, staked into the rocks and poking through the trees. Again, hard to describe adequately since ‘old buildings’ and ‘tightly packed enclaves’ hardly sound worthy of any emotional attachment. And yet the views weren’t getting tired and the little towns not getting stale, and we still had the compulsion to point out every single boulangerie we saw, as if gathering points on a treasure hunt.

Corte was immediately noticeably different from the other little towns. It was multiple times the size and as we entered the town there were sports fields and other telltale signs of the university campus. Driving through the Centre Ville, there were countless cafes and restaurants doing a roaring trade.

Being model citizen tourists, we ticked off the sites first – most notably the famous Citadel, built on the edge of a crag that as a literal cliffhanger allowed it to oversee its dominion in all directions – before rewarding ourselves with lunch.

Normally struggling with choosing a restaurant with so many options and usually only a single meal in each town, we were instantly drawn to a place called A Casa Di L’Orsu (House of the Bear, or similar) which had numerous wild boar meals on their menu display board outside. Being a speciality in Corsica and especially inland, we were sold!

With a bargain set menu (no doubt intended to appeal to a student clientele), we were able to sample a number of dishes including the peasant soup, a wild boar pasta dish, wild boar vol au vent (really just a fancy open pie; stole the show) and local cheeses and fig jam for which the inland is also famous.

Fed and happy, we finished off the journey, with Romesh for company until we were descending into Bastia and needed our GPS to guide us to our hotel. 

We had booked 3 nights at Hotel Le Bastia so were very pleased when it exceeded our expectations. Besides having secure and spacious basement parking, our room had double French doors with wooden shutters to keep out the light and with a magnificent sea view when they were open! The hotel also had a fitness gym room and a large basement swimming pool that was heated and enclosed so it doubled as a sort of sauna vibe with loungers.

After our quick tour of the hotel, we hit the streets. 

On arrival, while pleased for the view from our ridge, I’d been concerned that we may be a bit far from the action. N’est pas! We discovered that while it would be quite tiresome trekking up and down the zigzag roads to the promenade, there were stone step alleyways at regular intervals that allowed us to descend more directly, taking no more than a few minutes to get to the town square or the Old Port.

Bastia was preparing a Beer Fest in the town square which I am almost ashamed to say that we did not attend thanks to our lengthy no-sundowners the night before, the cross-country mountain-climbing traverse of the day and the knowledge that the next day was to be a long one.

We did toast our new homebase though, with a jug of sangria (the most fruit we’d had all holiday) and some croquettes, calamari and nachos tapas.

SUNDAY

Sunday was designated for our road trip around the Cap Corse, dubbed ‘an island with in an island’ because it is an index-finger peninsula poking out of the top of Corsican mainland fist.

We approached the road trip in an anticlockwise direction, as per most of the itineraries we had reviewed online. The rationale was to drive from east to west, following the Sun. 

The first stop was a mere 11km from Bastia, a tiny town called Erbalunga, which was no more than a small ring of buildings hugging to a miniature marina on the sliver of flat(ish) land carved out of the mountains behind.

Within 20 minutes we’d covered the town end-to-end, enjoying the character of the narrow alleyways, steep stone staircase and random low archways that melded together the tatty-chic apartments in which people still went about their daily lives (as many generations had before them).

With a surprisingly lively town square with 7 or 8 restaurants, a handful of the essential shops on the high street and so close to Bastia (and its airport), Erbalunga would make an ideal Work From Anywhere town! 

We got out for a quick trot around the next two or three towns and beaches, but it was quite windy so we didn’t stop for very long in any one place. Ironically when we stopped at the landmark Mattei Windmill it wasn’t moving, while we very nearly got blown off the koppie by a gale force gust of wind!

Any collection of words would not do justice to the spectacular panoramas – both inland and out to sea – to which we were treated as Chris zigged and zagged us along the coastal road.

Some parts were very steep and narrow with no barriers to the sheer drops beside us. Chris noted that if this trail was at home in South Africa there would be railings, warning signs, speed cameras and who knows what else, where in Corsica it was left to the driver to self-regulate in order to avoid tumbling off the cliff to a fiery death. 

He negotiated the ups and downs valiantly as I click-click-clicked photos out of the passenger seat window, capturing at least some of the essence of the experience that I anticipated I would not be able to verbalise. View the Facebook album.

We had pencilled the idea of lunch on the road but not defined where we would like to stop. While we had looked at a few menu boards, nothing had grabbed us; too windy, too sunny, too busy, not busy enough. It had gotten to mid afternoon and we resigned ourselves that we’d missed the boat, everywhere would be on siesta and we’d have dinner on our returns to Bastia instead.

Then, best left in fate’s hands, we rounded a random bend between Centuri and Nonza and were faced with the perfect scene: a small wooden deck terrace with dainty wrought iron furniture, hanging so far off the steep hillside that it looked to be floating on the endless azure ocean on the skyline. 

Chris parallel parked the car like a local, ie single smooth twist of the steering wheel to place our little Fiat 500 inches from the stone wall on the passenger side, and right in the middle of the cars in front and behind with no more than a half metre either side. THAT is how much motivation our little terrace provided!

The waitron at L’Auberge du Chat Qui Pêche (The Inn of the Chat who Fishes) welcomed us and ushered us to a table right at the edge of the terrace, from where we could see the terraced gardens (citrus and veg) below and of course the massive magnificent ocean that stretches as far as the eye could see in either direction.

Expecting to pay a premium (which is saying something considering the normal price of things), we were surprised when the daily menu board was presented to us and left on an easel for our inspection. Everything was easily €5 cheaper than in the cities, which is crazy since the view alone was worth multiple times that!

We shared a juicy 300g pork chop with sautéed potatoes complemented with fried calamari for a sort of surf n turf combo, washed down with a (small) beer to toast our good fortune that this slice of heaven had presented itself so clearly to us.

Wishing we could stay to enjoy the sunset, but knowing how treacherous the remainder of the drive would be in the dark, we called for our bill. Shock, horror, the restaurant didn’t accept credit card! Only cash and cheque. Cheque? In 2022?! Anyway…

With our broken French and the landlord’s broken English, we found a third option of mutual benefit. PayPal. Jumping onto their wifi I attempted to transfer the Euros from my PayPal account. The transaction required an OTP delivered by SMS, which was proving troublesome since we were in stone building in a thicket in the middle of nowhere.

The landlord didn’t even raise an eyebrow at my raindancing like a mad thing on the terrace, waving my phone at the sea trying to get the damn OTP. When it eventually came, he gave us a warm and friendly “Merci. Bon journée!” which is exactly what we’d had. A good day!

MONDAY 

As the last day of our trip, we’d left the itinerary completely open so we could fill in the gaps for anything we’d not gotten to.

Since the sun was shining and the sky was as blue as the day is long, we decided to drive across to Saint Florent, a little coastal town at the westerly base of the Cap Corse route we’d driven the day before (but cut slightly short having spent extra time at our terrace restaurant).

Saint Florent as a seaside holiday resort town offered a stretch of beach, a marina with a broad selection of restaurants and, of course, a citadel. We figured we could easily entertain ourselves for a couple of hours with the combination of walking tour, sea-slothing and/or eating something delicious.

We easily managed all 3 in Saint Florent with a courtesy nod to culture by way of photos of the square, monument and citadel + delicious ice cream cones (from a store that had more than 50 flavours so it was very hard to choose) + a couple of hours of soaking up the soft Mediterranean sun and splashing around in the warm Mediterranean Sea.

We had seen some vineyards on the way in so fancied our chances of a wine tasting and light late lunch / charcuterie board on the way home.

Finding the wineries was very easy; they were lined up along the road through Patrimonio. Choosing was a bit of a crap-shoot since we hadn’t heard of any of them. We stopped in at a few, muddled through the obligatories with the hosts (none of whom spoke English; clearly this is not a big tourist activity) and didn’t find anything that tickled us (especially not the sweet muscat wine!) nor any with a kitchen or snacks of any sort.

By the time we got back to Bastia we were ravenous… but still had an hour to wait until any dinner restaurants opened at 18h30. We passed some time having a glass of wine on the town square before going for dinner at a grill house famed equally for their magnificent rotisserie chicken and their large portions. Parfait!

At least doing everything on foot means that each activity is equally about the journey and the destination and we soaked up our last sunset as we walked hand-in-hand along the promenade past the Old Port and the citadel for the last time.

Corsica, Europe, France

Travelogue Corsica 2: Ajaccio

AJACCIO

29 September – 01 October 2022

We checked out of the lovely Grand President Hotel in Olbia needing to retrace our footsteps back to Corsica. We would drive to Olbia Airport to return our Mini rental car, catch the 10h40 bus to Santa Teresa at the Airport terminus and, on arrival, expected to be just after 12 midday, would need to hightail down to the port to catch our pre-booked 12h30 ferry.

Empowered by predictable and efficient public transport, we disembarked the ferry in Bonifacio just after 13h30.

We were a bit nervous as we walked along the promenade in front of all the shops and the hotel we had stayed at the week before, as we approached the parking lot, hoping and praying that our car was still there in one piece.

Hallelujah! It was still there.

Absolutely delighted, we exited the parking lot and hit the road in the direction of Ajaccio.

Since we still had the Corsican Sim card we were able to do some googling to decide on our stops along the way. Knowing we would not make it all the way through to dinner time on our early hotel breakfast alone, we decided to stop in Sartene, which had great reviews on a few sites we checked .

It was a very scenic drive as we drove inland from the coast and with the blue sea minimising behind us we became engulfed in the greenery of the mountainous terrain we were traversing.

Arriving in Sartene at around 3pm, we anticipated parking to be an issue, so we took the first available spot we saw, at the base of a steep hill at the entrance to the town, and advanced on foot. 

The reviews never really give a sense of magnitude and everything in Sartene was smaller and closer than anticipated. 500m later we were at the central Piazza Petro photographing the panorama, crudely translating the inscription on statues and looking for somewhere to offer a quick bite.

As with most piazzas, there were sidewalk cafes dotted around the edge. We were keen to get back on the road though, so not in for the long haul matching the existing patrons in their lounge chairs watching the day go by.

We thus picked the low-key take away kitchen at the entrance to the square which, with its couple of barrel tables and chalkboard offering panini and burgers, seemed like they’d be able to turn us around fast and happy.

We ordered kebab galettes – a choice made infinitely more simple since it was all they had left of the list of lunch specials on the board – and were soon chomping away happily on fat, neatly stuffed wraps, and commending ourselves on the sensible choice since the crunchy fresh garnish was the closest we’d come to veg in days!

Fuelled and motivated to complete our journey, Chris negotiated the narrow and winding road down through valleys and up around hillocks while I admired the Vistarama and remarked at the pinhead-sized towns that popped up here and there on the hillside. 

With sturdy grey stone structures hinting at a lot of history behind those walls, we wondered how those random settlements had come to be, who lived there… and whether it would be worth planning a Work From Anywhere trip to really test the ‘remote’ in remote working.

The surrounding area was so thick and green and so contoured and textured – only punctuated with brown splashes where steep rock faces broke through the forests – that I suspect that if you were looking down on this area, zoomed in from the satellite or something, it may like a head of broccoli!

Our route (The Only Route between Bonifacio and Ajaccio) wove us back to the coast and past a small town called Propriano that we had seen on reviews while we were planning our itinerary and had been a strong contender for an overnight stay. We could see the appeal of the magnificent clear blue bay with cheerful multi-coloured buildings cuddled onto its coastline and yachts bobbing around the marina, willing holidaymakers to take to the seas.

I kept looking over my shoulder and out the back window to catch a glimpse of the little bay, vowing that should we return to Corsica, we would add this to our future itinerary.

All the while, with Romesh for company, we were making headway towards our ultimate destination, Ajaccio.

It was a stark dose of reality, after being on holiday for a couple of weeks already, to get a taste of the real world again; approaching Ajaccio we got caught in the end of day traffic!  Worsened by an accident on the marina close to our final destination, movement had slowed to such a point that we were estimated to require 26 minutes to cover the last 2 km of a journey. We were tempted to leave the car (again) and walk the final distance!

Nonetheless, with nerves of steel, Chris got us to where we needed to be. Our patience was rewarded when as we were checking in to Le Dauphin, a car pulled out of the parking bay right in front of the hotel, providing us with a free parking bay that would save us €10 of paid parking per day, as well as the 200 meter walking to and from the parking lot. 

Eager to see a little of the town before it got dark, we headed straight out and directed ourselves along the water’s edge and citadel wall, through the old town and up to the Place Charles de Gaulle and its statue of Napoleon Bonaparte, who was famously born in this town. 

After a cursory wander around to get our bearings, we happened upon an Irish pub, where we could continue our quest for culture by adding a listing onto our Guinness index.

Since we had had such a filling and late lunch in Sartene, and with no compulsion to force a dinner we rather enjoyed soaking in the old town atmosphere, browsing the restaurant menus and stopping in here and there for a drink.

FRIDAY

Waking to a grey sky, we wasted no time donning our runners and doing a lap the full length of the promenade to the beach at the far end; the same section we’d first walked the previous evening. 

Ajaccio really was a picture postcard coastal city, that looked very tropical with all its tall mature palm trees along the promenade. It had a lot of old world charm with its restored and renovated pastel buildings curving along the shoreline and must have been a heavenly sight for the weary sailors coming in to port for the last few hundred years, looking for a good meal and a night on the town.

We had decided to forgo the breakfast at the hotel since experience had told us that they were all the same very continental offering with a hot drink, a cold drink, a pastry and jams. We decided instead that we would pop our heads in ear one of the many boulangeries we had seen and leave the menu in the hands of fate.

Heading up into the old town, we skipped the first bakery because there was a long queue at the door and there was no shortage of boulangeries so a wait unwarranted. We went into the second shortly thereafter and grabbed a pain au chocolat and a sugar crested brioche to get us started. 

At literally a couple of Euro, we applauded our adventure as well as our economy, as we chomped on the fresh and light baked goods.

On a good wicket and not quite sated, we thought we’d stop in at the next boulangerie, and were soon trying another local store where we ordered a ham and cheese pie. With a smooth cheese sauce filling and lumps of diced ham, the pie was light and flaky and would have been a perfect 10 if only it was heated.

Still talking about how clever we were to have found two great boulangeries, we stumbled across a third, emitting such fabulous aroma that we could not help but enter. This one had pizza sub sandwiches on crunchy French loaf (probably just called ‘loaf’ in Corsica), which we had to sample. With great restraint we ordered one to share.

By now we’d walked almost to the other end of the promenade and were approaching the docks so there was little more to see. With the weather still miserable our initial thoughts of beaching the day away were also dashed. As it started to drizzle, we sought solace in a massive Carrefour supermarket.

It was very easy to wile away an hour of grocery tourism in the store that was so big it has TWO wine sections, each a double sided aisle running the length of the store!

Chris also got to demonstrate to me all the self service checkout technology in this store that he’d experienced on his visit to Paris a few weeks prior. Such clever tech and so user friendly!

Thinking we’d out-waited the rain, we emerged from the store. We were about halfway back home when the clouds opened properly and we were absolutely drenched in a flash cloudburst! 

This time we hibernated back to our hotel and didn’t come out again until we were surer than sure that the rain had dried up.

Emerging again, we made our way up to Old Town for some sundowners, feeling perfectly justified at starting early since the sun hadn’t actually had the good grace to come out in the first place. 

We used the downtime to research dinner options; a mean feat since there were SO many restaurants to choose from. We eventually settled on one recommended by our trusty travel aid app, The Fork, and then settled in for the wait until our reservation (19h30, earlybirds special by Corsican standards) rolled around.

Committed to having anything but pizza and pasta, we enjoyed a fabulously French snails to start, with Corsican sausage bangers ‘n mash and a beef joulet for mains and a cracking bottle of local Red to wash it all down.

Europe, Italy, Sardinia

Travelogue Sardinia 2: Oristano to Olbia

ORISTANO TO OLBIA

25 – 29 September 2022

We awoke to pouring rain in Oristano which was a bit of a thorn in the side of our plans. We were destined to go to Alghero via the town of Bosa, mentioned more than a few times as being one of the most beautiful towns in Italy. 

As several rows of Smartie-box townhouses embedded against a steep hillside, neatly placed between a wide river at its entrance and an ancient castle overlooking the town, it was not the ideal excursion for a rainy day.

Not keen on canning the plan completely, we decided to lay low for a bit and check-out of our hotel at the latest possible time to give the rain a chance to blow over. This also gave us a lot more time to enjoy the breakfast buffet which, as per the previous we’d experienced in Sardinia so far was a gluttonous mix of charcuterie, cheeses, pastries, eggs, yoghurts, juices, cakes and puddings. Heaven for a sugar junkie like me!

Leaving at 11 (the hotel, not the buffet; I would have literally burst if I spent any longer in the breakfast room) we made our way 40km up the coast and, fortunately, seemed to drive through and ahead of the rain. By the time we got to Bosa it was grey but clear.

We started our self-guided city tour at the Bosa Marina to have a closer look at the tower at the water’s edge. Unfortunately it was closed to the public so it was just a case of going up to the tower, taking a snap and repeating the return journey back to the car to proceed to Bosa town. 

We took a walk up to the Castello Malaspina, which made a brilliant vantage point to overlook the town below. Much like what we had seen in Cagliari old town, it was a dense packed community of mostly 3-storey tall buildings very close together, winding their way down the hillside on cobbled streets.

While we had been efficient in taking the steep steps up to the castle, we opted to take a more leisurely zigzag down from the castle which proved to be an interesting activity in itself. 

We had noted that the Sardinians were generally a nation petite in stature, but were still surprised and tickled by how many of these old houses had really tiny doors – to the point that they were barely wider than my shoulders and took me up to my chin. We also commended the locals on their managing the bumpy and slippery cobblestones which were even tricky in our top-end trainers! 

We also noted that Bosa, wise to being a tourist town – clearly evidenced by the number of fellow tourists who were speaking English, French and German, had several restaurants bucking siesta conventions and serving a roaring trade of pizza, pasta and seafood.

Some of the restaurants were no more than a handful of tables; all that could fit in the narrow alleys and small apertures at their disposal. 

If Julia’s story was true about these towns being purposefully built as a labyrinth with narrow winding rows to slow down and confuse enemies, then it would have taken a highly motivated army of Lilliputians with instinctive better-than-modern-Mini GPS and Nike-level sandals to even bother with Bosa! Maybe stop in for a pizza en route to raiding the next village though…

The last leg of our journey was 60km to Alghero. We had begun an audiobook called ‘As Good As It Gets’ by a British comedian called Romesh Ranganathan and the three of us made our merry way. 

It was a very scenic drive through the countryside with parts where we climbed up and through mountain roads that gave spectacular views across the green fields and to the hint of the sea on the horizon. At other parts it was dense greenery, obscuring anything that lay beyond.

Entering Alghero it was very clearly a seaside holiday town. Double lanes on either side for the nobody-in-any-hurry cars, holiday flats lining the inland side with restaurants and shops selling holiday tack below. 

On the beach side, there was a palm tree-lined 3 or 4 metre wide smooth walkway, with demarcated bicycle lanes. Bubbles of cafés and kiosks serviced the  visitors, either seated to face the beach or spilling onto the beachsand. The sea glistened and shone, gamely gently bobbing the yachts and washing some of its crystal blues waters up the sand to give everyone something to watch.

Great spot for a couple of days’ downtime.

We had rented an apartment for our stay. Even though we were a bit early for our 4pm check in, we made our way to our neighbourhood such that we could park the car, have a walk around and worry about the admin later. 

When we arrived though, the receptionist was there and we were able to check in and offload.

We were on the opposite end of the beach to the old town, so the obvious plan was to amble our way back along the beachfront road we’d come in on, all the way to the citadel.

You’d think that by now these historic fixtures would be getting a bit like wallpaper to us… but no. The same fascination at being immersed in an open air museum! 

It helps that Alghero has many exhibits along the battlements so you can freely touch and snap catapults and cannons as you walk along the battlements. 

Of course it was thirsty work, so one must stop for an ice cold Ichnusa every now and then to keep motivated! 

The evening trade was just coming to life. We Googled to find somewhere opening at 18h30 and found a delightful rock bar cafe called L’Anfora down a side street. We were standing in their doorway when they opened…

Although the restaurants open later, there seems to be a tapas culture on this side of the island, which we assumed to be a latent Spanish influence. Assumed and applauded, that is, as we tucked into the basket of chips that was served along with our beers.

By the time we left all the tables outside the bar were full; most patrons enjoying charcuterie boards with their drinks. Perhaps that was the way to survive the fasts between meals, but in our state a few slices of cold cuts and a wedge or two of fancy cheese would not have gone far!

We moved on to dinner – again the first arrivals at the place. We’d chosen a place called El Pultal because it had a rooftop terrace. Not that it had a view of the sea or anything, but it was quite novel to be among the rooftops with the fresh air and the soundtrack of the streets below.

Ordering a simple Diavola pizza and penne Ragu (bolognaise back home), we marvelled at how the quality of the Italian process made the meal more about the dough and the pasta than the sauces. Not just a delivery mechanism for a laundry list of toppings.

We were still talking about it when we took the long walk back along the beach to get home. The beachfront was still busy, with people just arriving for their evening’s entertainment. We again wondered if we were better off squeezing a secret mealtime in during siesta so that we could integrate… or if we’d like it too much and that would create havoc for our schedule when we got home!

MONDAY

We had the luxury of a leisurely start to the day before donning our runners and putting takkie to tar to run the same loop we’d ambled the night before, and fill in the photo album gaps where we’d been unable to get good snaps because it was too busy.

Even though we set off after 9, we had the place to ourselves. Besides a few cafes lapping up the tourist breakfast trade, the seaside was still sleeping and we were able to clock 7.5km or so with photo stops in well under an hour.

Not that there was any rush. With a lazy day ahead, we weighed up our options on things to do and decided to hunt down a seafood lunch and then do a bit of wine tasting.

Reassured from our Sardinian experience thus far that there was no such thing as a bad beach, we decided on the closest out-of-town, Spaggia del Lazzaretto with a restaurant called La Torre that had good reviews.

We only had 6km to drive, which was a win since we were nothing short of literally starving. 

Paying the very least passable amount of homage to the majestic ocean, we moved briskly to a seaside table in the restaurant and, with necessity being the red-headed step child of intention, we poked like Neanderthals at the menu so that the waitress was clear about our predestined spaghetti vongole and calamari platter order. Getting a strawberry granita (grown-up Slush Puppy) for an additional fingerpoint was an unexpected win.

The lunch was delicious and plentiful. We debated the latter. Just because we were full, should it really be described as plentiful? we certainly would have gotten more or paid less at home. Was that a quality / standard of living / forex rate debate? Or were we adjusting; getting indoctrinated? Would we start making micro meals in the middle of the night when we got home?! 

Clearly a week into the holiday we were decompressing and our contextual barometer was calling the shots on what should be blown out of proportion!

What a perfect time to add vino into the mix!

We tootled down the road to a wine farm called Sella & Musca (named after the attorney and engineer who had founded it in 1899). Although the wine tasting and tour for 3pm had already been fully booked, we’d decided to wing it with an unannounced arrival, figuring our lack of Italian would both be a good reason and a good excuse not to bother with the tour.

Turns out that our hosts were as chilled as their wine, and we were able to take up a table on the terrace and sample their sparkling brut and rosé options.

We were so delighted with our experience that we thought we’d pair it with the other farm a few kilometres down the road. It was not to be, however, since we found on arrival that they are not open on Mondays. Oh well.

With the sun still reasonably high in the sky, we returned to our own home Beach for a dip in the sea before opening our own bottle of Red that we’d had to excuse-buy in Bonifacio.

Despite Chris having to pull some quite fancy moves to remove the cork with the broken opener in our apartment, we were soon(ish) sipping on an absolute quaffer, enjoying the last of the afternoon sun, overlooking our swimming pool and (one of us at least) catching up on a bit of traveloguing.

TUESDAY 

Being a driving day, we had had the foresight to plan an in-home breakfast. Sourcing from the large supermarket in front of our holiday apartment block, we had intended a simple ‘eggs on toast’ sort of formula.

Procuring the two requisite items had triggered some grocery tourism though and we found ourselves engrossed in how different even the staples were from our choices at home. 

There was an entire aisle – both sides, from end to end  of the shop – of pasta options of every conceivable shape, size, colour and dietary requirement! More biscuits than you can imagine, with the vast majority looking like butter cookies / shortbread rather than the rainbow we are presented at home. 

By contrast, the eggs were tricky to find because the display was a small stack of a single brand in two sizes plus a free range option, where the Sardinians would be shell-shocked by the wall of options they’d be faced with if they shopped in South Africa.

While browsing we spotted a rotisserie chicken at the deli which completely outshone the eggs idea and would make for a splendid sarmie.

Filling sorted, we now needed bread of some sort. From the bounty of choices, the most odd was a loaf of 12 slices, packed as 3 side-by-side rows of 4, rather than the conventional straight loaf. There was a long row of baskets with rolls made on-site; easily a dozen or more options of round white rolls. We poked and prodded a few and picked a bag of 3 buns, each big enough to cover my hand with fingers extended.

Breaking our West to East coast journey with a stop in Sassaria (which we figured must be important since it’s the city after which the province we’d been in for the past few day is named), we set off. 

We barely had time for a chapter of our Romesh audiobook before the 32km had whizzed by (relatively speaking, with a 70km speed limit most of the way).

On arrival, we underwent the now-expected exercise of finding an available parking bay somewhere we were allowed to park. Opting for a residential area, which we rationalised was only reserved for resident’s overnight parking pleasure since they would surely be out at work during the day, we parked and set off on foot to see the sites of Sassaria.

We were just arriving at the Palace – stated as ‘Open’ on Google Maps – when suddenly the clouds opened. Stepping into the foyer, thinking we’d miss the cloud burst by taking the tour, our hopes were dashed when the security guard told us the guide would only be arriving at 12 and there was no entry until then.

He did give us a tourist map and we asked many unnecessary questions, didn’t vaguely attempt to prompt the gaps in his English, and showed great enthusiasm for his engagement just to sustain our place in the foyer while the rain pelted down.

Too late to turn back to the car (where we had a brolly and a raincoat, I might add) and drenched already, we darted from side to side across the narrow streets in the old town as we made our way toward the other palace the guard had suggested. 

It had all but stopped raining by the time we sought solace in a shop doorway across from our desired destination. No more than a few minutes later, when the rain had abated, we set off to take our walking tour and get slightly bedraggled photographs along the way.

Perhaps it was just our literally dampened enthusiasm, but Sassaria didn’t manage to hold our attention. 

We were very happy to keep on moving and get to Olbia, where we would be spending the next two nights.

Accommodation in Olbia had been quite expensive, with no clear low-end options, so we’d thrown caution to the wind a bit committing to the Grand President Hotel right on the Marina and at the base of the main drag. With free breakfast and free parking, the total cost evened our with some of the budget options that would potentially leave us logistically scrambling on arrival.

WEDNESDAY 

Having had a marathon session at the hotel buffet (how can you not when it includes everything from starters to desserts?!), we headed out to find somewhere pretty to work off our breakfast.

Chris negotiated the 11 short kilometres to get us to Porto Rotondo, where we easily found parking for the car (hooray!) and headed out on foot to explore a bit.

We walked down to the marina which was deserted, hardly a surprise these days since it was barely midday and nothing happens until the sun is overhead. We admired some of the more impressive yachts and the jetskis that were parked at the quayside.

Following the signs, we visited a few of the local beaches, with 5 or 6 options a few hundred metres from each other on various sides of the small peninsula. But, as per What Julia had told us on our tour in Cagliari, the wind is a make or break for a beach experience – and we found the current gusty weather to be quite impractical for stopping to sit on any of the beaches. We made do with the on-the-go scenery since even when the sea was choppy, the view was spectacular.

Opting to return to the car on the inland route we passed through the charming hamlet of Porto Rotondo, which had some delightfully modern appeal. 

There was a new church (in stark contrast to all the centuries-old ones we’d seen so far), as well as the wide pedestrian walkway that runs through the town which has been embedded with modern artworks including steel fish and whales that playfully guide you along the route.

With the usual smattering of pizza and pasta places to service the holidaymakers, Porto Rotando also offers wine tasting…which might have caught our attention if the threatening rain hadn’t been rushing our road trip or, conversely, had in fact come to fruition.

It didn’t rain though so good sense said to us that it was best to get our sightseeing done while the going was still good.

Onward to Golfo Aranci.

With 5 beautiful beaches around the bay, this would have made for a glorious day of beach-hopping if it was sunny. Each with its own merits, we could have easily spent a whole day shifting from one to the next, sipping and snacking on delights from the kiosks as we slothed.

In the wind, it was nowhere near as much fun, so we reminded ourselves of how much we had already seen and done in Sardinia and how there was nothing wrong with having a down day to just relax.

With that we returned to the hotel for a lazy afternoon; a marathon sitting of Friends, fuelled by the complimentary cakes biscuits and sweets from the hotel bar and a cappuccino station in our room. 

Our last spurt of ambition was to take a walk up the main pedestrian shopping street to find somewhere for dinner. Walking the full length and back we decided that there was nowhere better than the brilliant restaurant we had visited the night before, so with plan in hand we were able to hibernate back to our room with a clear plan and to countdown until our last supper.

A couple of hours later we headed to the restaurant, where we were again surrounded by tourists since it was way too early for any self-respecting Sardinian to be having their evening meal.

Despite being sorely tempted to reorder the exact same meals as the evening before (they had been that good!), we complimented our previous evening’s selection with the alternatives we’d tussled with, reasoning that if we were not going to be exciting in our variety of restaurant, we were at least going to show some variety in our order.

We languished in the extravagance of ordering a pizza to share as a starter when the main courses should have been enough to sate the largest of appetite, and then still, being our last night, had no choice but to end off with a dessert. Our last unticked box was one of Julia’s recommendations – a deep fried pastry filled with cheese and covered with warm honey.

What a sweet ending to sweet trip.