Sutherland Adventures

Bonnie and I opted for the mountain route out of Spain, straight North through the Pyrenees. Five hours through tunnels, along rivers and mountain ledges transported me out of dry Spain and back into verdant France. It didn't take me long discover that the inhabitants of Southern France speak less English than those in the North (due to the fact that the North interacts in business more with Britain). This fact worked against my advantage immediately after crossing the border when I tried to dine shortly after my successful mountain pass. I believed a celebration was in order and settled down for a feast in Limoux, a small town 50km from Spanish territory. Long story short I left with only a salad in my stomach, embarrassed that I couldn't communicate to the waitress that I was hungry for some meat of some sort. I don't know why I retreated so easily, I was surrounded by locals and I guess my pride took a hit. My new goal was to set up camp before i burned the calories from the salad. I settled for a grassy plot on the river bank outside of town, semi-legitiment, but comfortable. I was awakened early in the morning by a shouting French Fly Fisherman. I was on his turf. Content for an early start, I hit the road for the walled village of Carcassonne with hopes of a hardy breakfast. Four small crepes at a local cafe only proved that no one breakfasts like the Americans. I dream of IHOP Pancakes.

Bonnie at rest after a push over the Pyrenees

Carcassonne has Roman history dating back to 100BC. Ramparts are scattered around the town and the giant fortress hovers on the hill above. The settlement changed hands countless times first between the Romans and Moors later the French and Spanish.

Typical Provence at dusk

An push east through out of the foothills and through the wetland Bouches - Du - Rhone region brought us to the area of Southeastern France known as Provence. The region is known for a few things: first Provence of Italy -hence the name; Prehistoric, Greek, and Roman history; the romantic landscape; fields of Lavender; temporary headquarters of painters Cezanne, Van Gogh and Renoir. A small campsite occupying a wooded plot wedged between two fields served as my home base for three days. When i was ready to leave, I paid the retired farmers the balance of my campsite plus the amount of baguettes and croissants that i consumed each morning for breakfast. I have started a retirement wish list this week. Camping Bois De Sibourg is at the top of the list.

Clock tower above the market in Reilianne

Provence was one old town followed by another older town, most of them atop hills overlooking rolling hills, from some the snow capped Alps trick your eye into thinking the peaks distant clouds. One morning I stumbled upon a market passing through a town called Reillanne - Got a nice peppered 'dry sausage.' I went to buy one tomato to compliment the meat. I gestured to the guy that I wanted it but he wouldn't take the money: 'Bon Appetite' he says. 'What a classic thing to happen' I think to myself.

A few more things to spit out from my time in Provence:

I was a return customer at the same restaurant Cereste, the small town closest to the campsite. The Plat de Jour - a lamb pastry, scalloped potatoes and a vegetable quiche sold me on attending dinner a second time where upon this occasion i was treated to dinner by four sophisticated Australian travelers. I had reccomended the resturant to them earlier in the day over a wine picnic not knowing that I would reap the rewards of my suggestion by chance later that evening.

William and Thea, respectively a surgeon's assistant and a self practicing lawyer, both from Holland, were my unofficial happy hour mates at the campsite - wine, cheese, and talk of surrounding hikes, motorcycles, and baseball were all ingredients. Also met an English harmonica player/tv commercial music producer from Hong Kong. He retreated to France after the Bird Flu hit his former city apparently thinning out the population quite a bit. He lives in Provence now and is pretty up on the surrounding historical sites. He explained to me the tower that I saw everyday on the drive up to the campsite was built by the Romans over 1000 years ago as a lookout to protect its military camp which was stationed in the very valley we were standing in.

Using old fashioned navigation around Provence

This entry is being written from Nice, where I have spent the last two nights in the comforts of the Bracco house. Patrick and Veronique and their daughter Marie and son Antoine are friends of the Gentils, my host family in Paris. Both families have convinced me that that French hospitality gives Southern hospitality a pretty good fight. Meals began with an apertief of orange flavored red wine and finished with a homemade lemom liquor. Bonnie and I are leaving for the Italian border now, but thanks to Marie's private tudoring I will not leave France deprived of the basics of French grammer.

Normandy, a region of green landscapes, narrow roads sandwiched between 15th century timber and mud houses covered with vines and moss, apple groves and the cider to go with it. You could see that the war has been here. It wasn't difficult to notice a lot of the historic buildings had been repaired from the fighting the Americans, British and Canadians waged with the Germans who used the small towns as headquarters. The whole region smelled like manure. If farming ever had to be invented I would guess it was born in this region of North France.

Weather in Normandy changes pretty quick

A top the beach at Omaha is one of the larger of the American cemeteries. While walking along the beach below a few days ago, I can,t say I felt any vibes at all. Very few of the German bunkers remain and not a trace of the barricades that people visualize when they picture the D Day beaches.

Cruising the back roads I found the sun setting over a small town called Coutances. Municipal camping signs in the town brought me to a cozy plot right on the fringe of the village. Right away Bonnie attracted attention and I met some good friends because of her. Pierce is a native to England but a traveler at heart. He,s helping his mother Jillian, a writer with classic British wit, find a permanent home in Coutances. Having explored much of Europe on his Triumph, Pierce tipped me off on some local scenic touring roads down South and pointed out that I could save up to 10cents/liter by using the supermarket gas stations. The bottom line is, he told me, It,s all about smiles per miles.

I got a real taste of the local flavor at this joint Pierce and Jillian knew about that had 4 course daily lunch specials. It just so happened that across the street was a bridge blown up by the allied forces to stop the German retreat. I was told the French have great respect for the monuments left after the war

I,m writing from a small town in Normandy called Coutances and am three days outside of Paris via the beaches at Normandy.

My first two hours in Paris was a lesson in the daily life of French truck drivers and the in,s and out,s of the Paris airport importation process. Needless to say I got a lot of looks from the very French looking truck drivers (smaller, more sophisticated version of US truck drivers) when the forklift delivered Bonnie at the foot of the wearhouse entrance.

I wasn,t prepared to like Paris as much as I did: The Seine river meandering through it,s heart, the bridges, the uniformity of the old buildings, the Eiffel Tour peaking through an alleyway when you;re not expecting it. The famous museums, well manicured parks and clean streets all added positive vibes.

I don,t think Paris would have gotten the same rave reviews if it wasn,t for my host family, the Gentils, friends of my Aunt Amy and Uncle Dan Martineau who set it up for me (Arizona hosts, X_Country Arctic Expedition ,06). With this opportunity I was able to experience a little of the daily habits of a Parisian family for example, eating. Dagmar, my temporary mother, prepared scalloped potatos and breaded veal one night. My farewell meal was very informal and included assorted cheeses, sausages and baguettes from the Sunday market...classic. My host Father, Philippe, aside from being the breakfast chef, took me out on night cruising the streets of Paris finished off with a beer at a bar inside the Lourve.

Below, a picture from the Gardens at Versailles, former home of the Sun King Louis the 14th and short afternoon trip from Paris

On Saturday the Martineaus arrived from the western coast of France where they were researching their family roots. My cousin Grace turned 16 that night and in celebration we had an elegant dinner a place named the Crystal Palace. It;s a little of a let down knowing I will never eat a fancier meal this whole trip.

Much thanks to The Gentils, Aunt Amy and Uncle Dan. Without them I surely wouldn,t have loved Paris so much.