Author: mckillop_vfr@yahoo.ca

August 2: When planning my route, I am inevitably drawn to the yellow squiggly lines on the Michelin maps I use. They denote local roads, which I always imagine to be flowing, well-engineered and recently paved. Some turn out well, like this one on Col de Braus north of Nice. Others turn out to be narrow, gravel-strewn donkey tracks that leave me muttering into my helmet about my sanity for having chosen so poorly. Picture a poorly maintained road in the Kawarthas with a 100 metre drop-off on one side and no guide rail…

The thing is, so many of those roads lead to places like Roubion, seen here perched above the Vionene River. Towns of this period were built to be inaccessible to a certain extent; people needed to defend themselves from attack. And the roads likely developed from the paths that meandered between towns. So accepting the challenge of riding less-than-comfortable routes has the reward of visiting someplace special.

Seeking to avoid a torturous ride through Nice yesterday afternoon, I happened upon a yellow squiggly one that ran through the hills north of the Riviera. Some of these can be very rewarding, if for no other reason than you are not stuck in downtown Nice in 34C heat wearing full riding gear. This particular road had the added reward of leading to La Turbie, where you are rewarded with this special view of Monte Carlo.

Today I start moving north into the Alps. Most of the roads there are yellow squiggly ones and I know from experience that they are challenging. My reward will be the satisfaction of  motorcycling through them. And some truly special scenery.

July 26: My cousin James and I would stand on the dock at our cottage assessing whether the wind was strong enough to be boardsailing. We were adept enough that without a strong wind, it just wasn’t challenging enough to justify rigging up and going out; we needed sustained whitecaps. And so, this morning, I found myself considering a trip over Mt. Ventoux, a very well-known stage of the Tour de France and the tallest mountain in this vicinity.

The issue is that the mistral has been blowing for the last 3 days. I would guess that the average speed is 35 to 40 km/hr and the gusts more like 60 km/hr. Being on the north side of the village, my little apartment (toward the right edge of the village in this picture) has been taking its’ full force. Cracks around the front door have been howling, and it’s impossible to open any of the windows for fear of them smashing against the wall. I’m told that the belfry of the church is made of wrought iron so it is easier for the wind to pass through, although that may be a story for gullible tourists…

The top of Ventoux is open and exposed. There’s nowhere to hide and the prospect of being on a motorcycle in a 60 km/hr cross-wind less than thrilling. So I elected a trip to the north of the mountain, through the Ouveze and Toulourenc river valleys. It’s wonderfully scenic country, with many towns suspended in unlikely places. (This picture is of Brantes, with Mt. Ventoux in the background.)

Since I still have 3 days remaining, I will continue to figuratively stand on the end of the dock and consider my options while watching the whitecaps in my wine. For now though, it’s just too windy.

July 23: After 5 weeks, and roughly 5,300 km, I’ve arrived at my little cottage in Sablet. This is a milestone that a small yet persistent voice said I would never reach – that some disaster would befall me, and the reservation would all be for naught. And early on there was a series of disappointing problems that were easily overcome as part of the adventure of travelling. So it was with a small amount of celebratory expectation that I unpacked last night.

The house is literally at the gate to the medieval quarter. The owners, a couple from England, live upstairs. Although I’ve spent little time with them, they seem friendly an generous, and they both ride motorcycles, so we have some interests in common.

After settling in for a bit, I headed down the street for dinner. Along the way I made a couple of new friends who greeted me this morning as well. They too seem friendly and generous, although there is  language barrier that I fear is unsurmountable. Dinner was good – a huge salad and some rose – but if there is a drawback that is becoming evident, it is that this is such a small town that there are only 2 restaurants, 1 grocery store, and 1 butcher. Choice is scarce and I don’t really want to be going from town to town on the bike. Of course, on the positive side, there are about 10 wineries right in town…..

After dinner I came home for a glass of rose. I drank that on the doorstep, since there is really no outdoor space with the unit. Being a hill town, Sablet has the advantage of looking down on its’ surroundings and out across the vineyards, and I spent more than an hour watching a thunderstorm roll across the Rhone valley. It was fascinating watching the lightning shooting between the clouds and occasionally striking the ground from a perspective I seldom have.

And later, a phalanx of little brown bats came out for their evening meal. They seemed to be particularly attracted to the arch outside the doorstep, so I suspect this may be a nightly performance. Such a memorable and enchanting way to start my visit here and perhaps to build a reserve of positivity against problems yet to come..

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July 16: I have come to understand that I am really a traveller, as opposed to a tourist. I don’t really visit the chateaux, the galleries, the cathedrals or the museums. I’m more about going from place to place; seeing what’s around the next corner. That said, there are times when I make a detour to visit specific places and I become a tourists like so many others.

This is Rocamadour. Although there remains some debate, the hermit priest Amador is reputed to have established a missionary near the site around 1100, and constructed a small. chapel. In time, a number of miracles were attributed to a small carving of Notre Dame, believed to have been carved by him, and the site became a pilgrimage destination and a stop on the Santiago de Compostela. A larger chapel was constructed (the largest building near the centre of the shot) and  inns, and then hotels and all the other trappings of modern tourism sprang up. Today there is a small village rising in steps 120 metres up the face of a cliff and it is among the most visited sites in France. It is also crawling with tourists, so many that it is easy to lose the religious significance of the site in the carnival atmosphere that prevails.

On the other hand, there are places I visit simply because they are unlike anything I know in my daily life. This is the gorge of the Tarn river, not far from Rocamadour. Although it is truly spectacular, it’s not, in my view anyway, the most picturesque of the many canyons in France. But it is remarkable, and the road along the bottom is lots of fun on a motorcycle or in a performance car. It too is crawling with tourists, especially campers, and mobile homes are a constant menace on the road. This picture is taken from the Pointe Sublime where I sat alone for a long while and absorbed the view.

In the end perhaps it doesn’t matter whether I am a tourist or a traveller. I visit what I like and take whatever meaning I attach to heart. And that, in the end, is the most significant.

July 11: Living in Toronto, I accept traffic congestion as a way of life. It’s a big city, and there’s a lot going on. Life is hectic. People are rushed and need to move around. Sadly, the preferred method is the car. With the  summer construction program well underway, there are bound to be delays. And with delays there are real costs to drivers, urban life, and our health through increased emissions.

The last thing I expected when coming to rural France was traffic congestion, but it happens here too. Like Canada, there are construction projects , detours, and  delays everywhere. But this morning, congestion was far worse. We trundled along at a walking pace for the longest time while this convoy made its’ way to work. The road was jammed and the emissions were terrible. Finally, it turned off, leaving only the gentle reminder of a different pace of life.

And those emissions….

July 9: Fun is where you find it.

This is a Laverda. It is an Italian motorcycle, and this particular one is more than 40 years old. It is sitting in the pouring rain at the top of a pass called Le Markstien, not far from Colmar. After this picture was taken, I got on my bike and headed out. The rain intensified and then the fog rolled in, so thick that I could see perhaps 10 metres. It was like that most of the way to the bottom of the pass, and probably the worst conditions I have ever ridden through. And that covers a lot of territory….

On the other hand, this is a picture from the top of Col de le Forclaz. It runs along the east shore of Lac d’Annecy, which you see in the picture. The Col was used by the Tour de France a couple of years back. It ends (or begins, I suppose) in Talloires, which is pretty much in the centre of the picture, where I stayed for the night. I got lost 3 times trying to find the Col, and hit a patch of gravel on the way to the bottom that had me momentarily sideways.  It gave new meaning to the phrase “pucker factor”. As you can see, the lake is not that large – perhaps 10 km long and certainly smaller than Lake Muskoka for instance. But every inch of the shoreline is developed with towns, private homes,  and roads, with only an occasional public park or beach. Little wonder that many Europeans think our northern lakes are “unspoiled wilderness”.

The city in the distance is Grenoble. You can tell from the haze that it is very hot, perhaps 40C. I came down a secondary highway which started out as a really fun ride, but gradually deteriorated as the afternoon wore on. Finally I hit a stretch of 5km of pea gravel on hot asphalt where they were resurfacing the road. Some of my friends enjoy the sensation of sliding a bike round some corners – I do not. And just as I was thinking things couldn’t get much worse, the dogs appeared. Two of them. Full charge toward the side of the bike. Much cursing and a few well-aimed swipes of the boots and I escaped unbitten.

Every day brings some new form of “fun”. If I persevere, I know I will find a comfortable hotel room, perhaps not always as nice as this one looking out on the Rhone in Tain L’Hermitage. There I can have a hot shower and  reflect on the day. The challenge of riding, dealing with the weather, avoiding large dogs… With that comes a satisfaction that is hard to describe. As the old axiom says: “For those who understand, no explanation is needed. For those who don’t, no explanation is possible”. Call it “fun” if you will. It certainly keeps me motivated to see what tomorrow will bring.

July 4: In many ways, Lausanne is like an old friend. I’ve known her for a long time. I was a student here nearly 50 years ago – yes, 50. And I’ve been back several times in the meantime. I’m familiar with her character: She’s dependable and punctual and respectful in an old-world manner, not prone to radical outbursts but willing and able to change with the times.

And indeed she has changed. The Lausanne of 50 years ago was pretty white and pretty middle-class. There are now many more people of colour, most seemingly fitting in well but some – unheard of in years past – begging on the streets. Lausanne is a very wealthy city, and a very expensive place to visit or to live. I have no doubt that the Swiss are well-paid, but I am less certain that everyone is well treated.

I was in Lausanne for my birthday. I celebrated with a great meal and some vino at a restaurant in Place de la Palud, across from the City Hall. I visited the Cathedral and walked through Rue de Bourg where we used to hang out. All interesting in a “been there done that” kind of way. Really, when you think of it, how radically can a centuries-old city change?

And that I think is my conundrum: I take comfort from familiar things and places yet they can become routine – boring even. Old friends provide continuity and perspective on the past and they certainly play an important role in my life. I need to remember though that new friends bring energy and different interpretations to my life.

June 25:  Time to pass along some bits and pieces from the first ten days of my travels:

I feel  very much at home here in France. I came here for the first time almost a half-century ago and thought that France was a poor cousin to Switzerland, where I was attending school. Since then, it’s grown on me to say the least. And while going to a different part of France is hardly a stretch for most travelers, I am quite comfortable with coming back to explore it some more..

Perhaps I am a naïve traveler, or, put differently, I’m lazy. Looking through the Michelin maps for twisty Alsatian roads, I spotted Le Struthof and Mt. Ste. Odile perched together atop a sinuous network of roads west of Strasbourg. They looked like perfect targets for a brisk drive, and held the prospect of fantastic views across the Vosges  mountains. What I did not know, but would have found out with a bit more effort, was that Mt. Ste. Odile is a monastery.  Le Struthof is a former concentration camp where prisoners mined the pink granite so beloved of architects of the Reich, or were subjected to “medical experiments” before being executed. It was jarring to visit both in one morning and be confronted with the pure evil of one, and the loving acceptance of the other. One wonders how they co-existed during the war with such different purpose and yet in such close proximity.

A few days back, my day started with a dash to the bank because the hotel could not accept cards. Despite repeated attempts the Wi Fi would not connect. No big deal, these things happen. The banking issue sorted, I then headed into Alsace, following a route through Heidelberg, Speyer and Landau,  thinking that there would be directional signs to each of these large centres. What signs there were, didn’t really help, and I wound up going around the downtown of each several times before getting directions on to the next town. Then the bike started running like shit, stalling at a traffic light and stumbling badly. When I stopped to see what the problem might be I discovered two things: 1. the battery was not connected. (I don’t mean loose, I mean not at all.) why it was running I have no idea… and 2. While reconnecting the battery, the zipper on my jacket touched the exhaust and, being plastic,  it melted. So that means the jacket has to be rebuilt with a new zipper…

So today I headed into the Black Forest with no expectations and found a lovely little gasthouse in an historic town on a river with a garage for my bike. I am looking forward to a good meal, and a good night’s sleep with the rush of the river outside my window.

June 25: This is a bit odd I suppose, when I should be writing about the wonderful adventures I’m having, but I found the following quote on my laptop, and it seemed particularly relevant to my Mum’s passing, and perhaps to the motivations for my trip. It’s from the book “A Man Called Ove” by Fredrik Backman, Hodder and Stoughton, London, England, 2014.

“Death is a strange thing. People spend their whole lives as if it does not exist, and yet it is often one of the great motivations for living. Some of us, in time, become so conscious of it that we live harder, more obstinately, with more fury. Some need its constant presence to be even aware of its antithesis. Others become so preoccupied with it that they go into the waiting room long before it has announced its arrival. We fear it, yet most of us fear more than anything that it may take someone other than ourselves. For the greatest fear of death is always that it will pass us by. And leave us there alone.

…. And time is a curious thing. Most of us only live for the time that lies right ahead of us. A few days, weeks, years. One of the most painful moments in a person’s life probably comes with the insight that an age has been reached when there is  more to look back on than ahead. And when time no longer lies ahead of one, other things have to be lived for. Memories, perhaps. Afternoons in the sun with someone’s hand clutched in one’s own. The fragrance of flowerbeds in fresh bloom. Sundays in a café. Grandchildren, perhaps. One finds a way of living for the sake of someone else’s future. ….. “

June 15: After a difficult and emotional month, my sister Nancy and I are both focussed on travelling. She and her family are off for a “family vacation” on PEI, and I am off for 2 months to Europe on a motorcycle. Given the list of things I needed to accomplish during the month, there have been many times when I felt like Wylie Coyote chasing the Road Runner, only to find himself hanging in mid-air having run off a cliff, legs pumping furiously before realizing there is no ground beneath him, falling further and further down before landing with a faint “puff” at the bottom of a canyon.

Now comes the opportunity to shift gears – figuratively and literally. I am trying hard to remember the times when, as a child, summer was full of the infinite promise of days to be spent just having fun. There were always new adventures just around the corner and I need to re-learn the child-like ability of “just letting it happen” and enjoying the ride. So for the next while I hope the focus will be on “little David”; being present in the moment enjoying whatever it brings, rather than chasing some elusive, never-to-be-caught dream off a very tall cliff.