Chapter 4 1968 - Europe continued.
{After this section, maps show the route taken and overnight stays are underlined}
Germany - land of contrasts
A highlight of the clean and modern ferry from Rodbyhaven to the northern coast of Germany was a full breakfast for less than $1. In no time we were on our first real autobahn headed south for Lubeck and Dusseldorf.
Even at speeds in excess of 120kph we were passed by the larger, more powerful cars with their headlights flashing to warn us of their approach as we drove through or around some of the industrial centres of Germany. The rest areas [combination service station, motel and restaurant] were clean, efficient and spaced every 25km or so with easy access to and exit from the autobahn. The non-scenic driving brought us to the beautiful city of Dusseldorf, on the busy Rhine River.
We dined at the apartment of two Mensa contacts that night and the next, adjourning afterwards to sleep in a campground near the river, just out of the city. The downtown core of Dusseldorf impressed us with its traffic flow eased by two one-way city streets, pedestrian underpasses, and enlivened by a canal complete with birdlife, fountains, and flanked by the many cultural buildings.
The contrast was evident the following day as we by-passed Bonn and Cologne with their concentration of heavy traffic, arriving at the small city of Remagen where our hotel overlooked the Rhine. Despite the haze which hung over the highway and river as we finished our drive for the day, the prettiness of the riverside villages and wooded areas between them was evident, and punctuated by castles, ruins, vineyards and tourist hotels on both banks.
In dining rooms on terraces with a view, we ate and drank very well in this area - various sausage dishes, ubiquitous potatoes, house wines of Moselle, Rhine Reisling, Piesporter, Leibfraumilch in carafes or by the glass. We were puzzled by how light-headed we felt after lunch one day given that we had shared only three glasses of wine in the special green and clear glasses that seemed to be in use everywhere. Finally we understood - the ‘plimsoll line’ on these particular glasses marked a quarter litre, and the glasses were always filled to the rim which was considerably above that line. Just three glasses indeed!
After two days of wandering around on side roads to visit the Moselle River, exploring more of the beautiful scenery along the Rhine and sitting on terraces with coffee or wine, we drive on again, reluctant to leave this idyllic region. Our only regret was that despite three attempts we never found a table after dinner in any of the huge beer cellars, so we were not able to join the ‘sing-along’ conviviality - or drink the beer from steins.
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Autobahns crammed with trucks, buses and cars signaled our approach to Heidelburg and then Stuttgart, but we continued past both of these famous cities. Our next campground was outside Augsberg, and it was crowded with bikini-clad Germans lounging in the sunshine, and singlet-wearing English men preparing their campfires and drinking beer as we claimed a tent-space for our Citroen.
Unfortunately our guidebook neglected to mention that the open air opera theatre in Augsberg was dark on Mondays. However, we enjoyed our strolling in the old town that evening and again the following morning before it was time to head to our second major German city - Munich.
In contrast to delightful Dusseldorf, in Munich we experienced a city in flux. Major road [and subway] work disrupted traffic for cars and pedestrians, and though we enjoyed the sunset from Maximilian’s Castle and dining in the oldest cellar restaurant in the city, the noise from the 24 hours a day roadworks was very loud everywhere we went. Even with the window closed at our small hotel, it was noisy. Consequently we cut our planned stay short and decided to make for Austria early the next day.
Austria - Switzerland - no Hungary
The scenery began to change as we drove east. Soon after a perfunctory border crossing check, we saw hayfields being cropped, some by hand, but the rural scene soon changed to the spectacular view of Salzberg with blue lakes, mountains, castle ruins and then the Danube with a sunset at Melk.
After breakfast the next day we strolled to the Benedictine Monastery with its long corridors and art collections. The peace of the monastery was soon behind us as we left the idyllic setting there and were on a freeway bound for Vienna where a Mensa contact was to meet us in a rest area on the outskirts. Freddy was there - on his scooter - and we were soon valiantly trying to keep pace with him as he was our pilot through the confusing streets to the hotel he had booked for us. Freddy was our guide that evening too as we walked from our hotel to an old Austrian restaurant, and then all around the charming old city.
The next day, Friday, produced an incident which we later interpreted as the travel gods smiling, though we did not realize this until three days later. Our plan was to visit the Hungarian Embassy that morning and secure visas so that we could cross into Hungary early Sunday morning. Freddy persuaded us to wait until the afternoon when he could accompany us and help with languages if necessary, so we spent the morning visiting the gardens and several museums - Vienna had a wonderful core area for strollers like us. After lunch Freddy arrived and we three discovered that the Embassy was closed after 11am on Fridays so we would have to wait until the next week to apply for our visas. Thinking quickly and creatively,
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Freddy put together a fun weekend for us instead. Plan B that afternoon involved a laundromat, a nap, and a decision not to wait for the Embassy to re-open but to drive back to Salzberg on Monday instead.
That evening we drove Freddie and two friends to Grinzing so we could experience an authentic Austrian tradition. They took us to their favourite ‘heuringer’ - a vineyard/wine-cellar/restaurant where there was a garden with spreading trees, vines, tables, simple food and quantities of the owner’s most recent vintage of white wine. It was served in 1/4 litre steins - fresh, fruity, somewhat sour, but with the simple food it was a good pairing. As the evening progressed, a piano-accordionist complete with lederhosen livened up the crowd and the German and Dutch tourists soon sang lustily. The Austrians just tapped their feet. Freddy told us that the Austrians turn sad when they have been drinking. We are very different from the other nationalities, he said.
The balance of the weekend included a visit to Schonbrunn Palace with its fabulous grounds and gardens, a tour, with Freddy and friend, of the Vienna hills, Esterhazy Castle, the old town of Rust with its storks nesting on chimneys, and a performance of the operetta Countess Marizza on platforms on a lake with the audience seated on blankets in a natural amphi-theatre on the shore. This was complete with fireworks to end the long night.
We said our farewells to Freddie back in Vienna and packed ready for our departure on Monday morning, feeling spoiled by four nights in a very comfortable but affordable hotel. As we drove west from Vienna that afternoon, we realized how lucky we had been with the early Friday closing of the Hungarian Embassy. The radio announced that Russian tanks had crossed into Hungary, and that all borders had been closed to traffic both ways. If we had followed our original plan, we would have already been in Hungary with no idea of how long we would be forced to stay there. Later we read stories of stranded tourists who waited as long as two weeks to leave the country.
If the travel gods smiled on us with our accidental avoidance of the Hungary invasion problem, they certainly frowned over the next few days. We were eagerly anticipating the Austrian and Swiss alps with the views to rival or surpass what we knew from the Canadian Rockies. However, a cold front arrived, the clouds were low, and our driving through the alps meant we enjoyed no views at all. We knew it was still alpine country - we could hear cowbells ringing in the fog when we stopped at a campground and a guesthouse while travelling west into Switzerland, passing Zurich en route to Basel where we arrived at night and found a convenient campground.
After two days in the intriguing company of a retired journalist who lived in an apartment in old town Basel, arranging another required service for the car, dropping off and collecting dry cleaning, and frequently dodging the heavy rain showers, it
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was time to hit the road again. The low clouds and rain spoiled our chances of views of the lake at Lucerne, but we did manage occasional glimpses of the scenery after passing through the tunnel to Andermatt, over the Oberalp Pass, and down through rich green pastures. The views below us were picture postcard material complete with cows with bells, pigs, as well as villages with churches but the rain returned as we reached Ilanz near the Italian border and chose a simple hotel for the night.
Italy - full of surprises
During the week we spent in Italy, there was a roller-coaster of highs and lows. We did not find the campgrounds very inviting, so after one attempt in the north we switched to using inexpensive but much cleaner motels such as AGIP and a lovely pensione later in the week. The weather at the outset was not conducive to sleeping outdoors either as the clouds and rain from the alps followed us down until the skies cleared briefly in beautiful Verona.
This city was very attractive, and so were the surrounding rural areas complete with cypress trees, vineyards and orchards with roadside stands selling luscious, ripe peaches for about 8c a kilogram.
We took time before our sightseeing in Verona to go to the Roman arena to buy tickets for the outdoor performance of Aida - the posters were everywhere boasting of live elephants and horses. Next on the agenda was Juliet’s house and balcony, Dante’s statue, and a walk past the many lovely palaces which were every shade of white, pink and grey. Rain forced us indoors again so our plans for a dinner with a view of the city and the river were shelved.
Skies cleared as we walked along with thousands of visitors and Italians going to the arena for the spectacle of Aida. We found our seats but they proved to be on simple stone steps used by the Romans centuries ago, so we immediately rented two cushions to protect us from the cold and damp of the seating. Our neighbours snacked from baskets and shopping bags they had brought with them. By eavesdropping on conversations we learned that the performance would not start until the arena was dark enough for the candle tradition to be effective.
The tradition was that, just after dusk, all lights in the arena and on stage are turned off [except on music stands for the orchestra], and the patrons light candles for the duration of the overture. Our neighbours, who spoke little or no English, realized we were foreigners visiting Verona, and produced extra candles for us to light when the time came. Some time after nine o'clock the sky was dark enough; it was now well after sunset and some heavy clouds had appeared as well, so the conductor entered the pit.
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The set for Aida in the Verona arena
The lights were turned off, 15,000 candles were lit [including ours] and the overture began. What an impressive sight, and all the more exciting given that we knew what a spectacle was ahead. The first two scenes were equally impressive, but around the mid-point of the next scene, I noticed a cellist stand and head to the pit exit. He was followed in quick order by other string players; first a few, then a steady stream of musicians. We realized that the rain had begun again, starting on the stage side of the huge arena. As the rain reached us, the other audience members around us pulled out their plastic bags and ponchos for protection.
After about 10 minutes of showers, the audience around us drifted down under the seating area to the shelter of the stone building. Our seat neighbours came up to us, and with gestures, my French, their English, we understood that the performance could begin as late as midnight. It was just a matter of patience. So we smiled, offered to buy a bottle of wine at the concession, but our seat-mates pulled out their baskets and bags with sausage, bread, cheese, wine and fruit and insisted we share their supplies. Merriment, as far as was possible, was the order of that part of the evening.
Just after 11.30, an announcement was made that the performance had been cancelled. Tickets could be exchanged the next day for 'rain checks' to be used for future performances. We hopefully looked at the posters for the dates for future Aidas and realized it was not going to work for us. To see Aida there in the arena we would need to spend over a week in that part of Italy. That was definitely not possible given our limited time in Europe. So we 'gifted' our tickets to the family whose company we had enjoyed and they were very grateful. Almost with tears in our eyes, we walked to our motel, slept well, and drove the next day to Venice.
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In hindsight, we realized that what happened that morning was due to our lack of research on this famous city. We reached the outskirts of Venice, parked in the gigantic garage, and set off armed with a walking tour map to find the Grand Canal.
Immediately we were impressed with the wide range of different vehicles on the water; gondolas, barges, water-taxis, vaporettos, hearses and more. But, the over-riding sensations of heat, smell and crowds of tourists in a bad mood were a complete contrast to our experiences in Verona. Even mid-morning we encountered queues of visitors at each of the sites recommended by Frommer, and our survey of prices in the cafes around the famous square confirmed our impression that this area was an almighty ‘rip-off.’
We continued our walk, crossed the Rialto Bridge using elbows to create a path between the hundreds who stood four deep at the railings to photograph the famous view, then wandered the back alleys to avoid the crowds. Being off the beaten track we saw hundreds of stray cats, many with obvious sores or wounds, but we also found a delightful cafe for lunch that was well within our budget and was pleasantly not crowded. While eating, we agreed that Venice was not for us, so we returned on foot to the garage and drove off at around 2pm just as heavy rain began.
The plan to visit nearby Ravenna and see the famous mosaics was abandoned due to the weather and replaced with a routing to Florence instead. A twisting road, continual rain, and our disappointment with Venice made us feel that our good luck in Europe had run out.... until on the western side of the hills, the sun returned, and we caught our first sight of Florence.
“Europe on $5 a day” recommended against trying to find accommodation in Florence without reservations made months in advance. The alternative in the guide was to go to Fiesole, a small town a short drive up into the hills to the east of the famous city. We found a room there at Villa Comelli where, for less than a quarter of the prices quoted for Florence, we paid for two meals a day and a comfortable room.
We made a holiday of our three nights there. The Citroen has a rest because we parked it in the garage of the Villa and took the local bus down into Florence to do our sight-seeing each day. We returned on the bus both days just in time to rest and prepare for the dinner served in a family room with welcome ceiling fans.
There were many highlights of this little holiday. To begin, Fiesole was a delight with its friendly residents, regular shops, the Roman theatre ruins and a monastery with a low wall from which sunset views of Florence could be had each evening. The Villa meals served were simple, but Italian without the tourism influence.... hearty minestrone or wonderful antipasti to start, always followed by a pasta course with just a hint of sauce, a main course of veal, chicken or fish with local vegetables, and cheese and ripe, ripe fruit for dessert.
At other tables, we noticed Italian families would dilute the local red wine with the carafe of water provided. Each father had just a little water, the mother a little
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more, but varying amounts were added to the wine glasses of the children, depending upon their ages. The first night, when the Madame of the Villa served our wine, and gestured with the carafe of water, we shook our heads. She immediately made quite a fuss as she smiled broadly, said “Oooo, solo! -- bravo,” and the others dining gave us a round of applause. On subsequent nights, the regulars watched to see if we were going to go ‘solo’ again, and of course, we did.
Florence was everything the guidebooks promised. There were crowds, but without the smell and heat of Venice [and the rip-off prices in cafes] we found everyone in a much happier mood, and we found this infectious and enjoyed every minute in the city. Pat, using another Frommer recommendation, found a small shop on a back street away from the regular tourist path and bought the genuine Italian leather gloves she had promised herself. She still uses them more than 40 years later.
We went to the ‘must see’ locations which included the Campanile, the Duomo, David, the cathedral as well as the markets and bridges over the river. We enjoyed cannelloni and gelato for lunch on the first day, and the local traditional pizza on the second and felt we had found the real Italy here.
We left, reluctantly on a Saturday morning after farewells from the Villa owners. We drove through the vineyards of the Chianti region before taking a short stop in Pisa with its tourism junk shops and a quick walk through the glorious church with its baptistry and bell tower.
Next in heavy traffic we headed to the north/south autostrada. During a long day of driving we counted over 50 tunnels, some almost a mile long, and very high bridges in between as the freeway cut through the hilly countryside and over and around Genoa. A campground of sorts was a great come-down after our Villa, but it was cheap and convenient to the route we were taking out of Italy towards France.
On Sunday, we sprinted along the Italian Riviera before the crowds had reached the beaches and crossed into France and turned our clocks back an hour.
Southern France at the height of summer
Almost as if on cue, the sun came out, the sand shone, the water of the Mediterranean Sea turned blue so we concluded that the French Riviera was more impressive to look at than the Italian one we had just left behind.
After enjoying a baguette again at lunch, we sat with a view of Monaco and its incredible set of hotels on cliffs and of course the yachts of the rich and famous in the harbour. As we drove inland to the Canyon of Verdun, we noted the similarity with parts of Australia - eucalyptus trees, low hills, sandy soil, strong sun and, as the wind grew stronger, dust! Once we reached the canyon, all similarity with our native
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land vanished and we drove along steep cliffs with rocky outcrops, looked down on a twisting waterway more reminiscent of Idaho and Montana than Australia.
When we emerged from the canyon, we found a plateau with a variety of crops including vast fields devoted to lavender. The colour drew our attention, and the aroma swamped the car as we drove past to reach Aix-en-Provence, with its tree-lined boulevards and locals strolling in the evening sunshine. The campground that night had a swimming pool and a little restaurant. So we refreshed ourselves in the pool after that long day [had we really started back in Italy that morning?] and strolled over to the restaurant where we had a quintessential French set of experiences that made us realize how much we had missed France since we left it as we drove north several weeks previously.
First, we used the playing cards provided and entertained ourselves while enjoying a beer and a vermouth. The meal was a menu fixe but included cress soup, coq au vin, fresh beans and croquettes of potato, a salad, then a cheese platter with fresh fruit. The price include a carafe each of a rough but fruity local red wine..... probably the same one in which the chicken had been cooked? Meanwhile other campers played cards, watched an old movie on TV, ate dinner, and all looked up when, between scenes of the movie, the TV showed highlights of that day’s stage of the Tour de France. We counted at least five members of the family providing the service in the restaurant - and there was even a Siamese cat on the window ledge to complete the picture.
We slept very well that night, but could not resist returning to beautiful Aix the next morning to breakfast on coffee and croissants at last, to explore the shops on the boulevards, and to buy provisions for a picnic lunch which we enjoyed on a beach after passing Arles and Montpelier as we drove further west. All along the local roads were stalls selling fresh grapes and offering tastings of the Muscat wine of the region. In no time after a nap we were in the very south west corner of France, and found a recommended campground situated in the grounds of a church near Adges.
The facility served as an orphanage during much of the year, but was converted to a campground for the summer to raise money to support the orphanage. The little office was staffed by Bryan and Joe, two young men from the US who were budding priests studying in Belgium, but assigned here for the summer. They recommended that we drive up the hill to the old WW II fort to watch the sunset then come back and join them for dinner. It was a fascinating affair with lots of simple food, more wine than we four needed, and then we adjourned to a table in the campground, drank more wine and discussed everything from the Pill to the future of the priesthood to problems with population growth and the Pope’s view on contraception. They gave sound advice on what to do and where to go in Spain and Portugal as our travels continued.
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Bryan insisted on showing us the ‘caves’ of the orphanage early the next morning. Those in charge of the enterprise had started a winery many years previously, and using contributions from local vineyards made a variety of wines to sell. We spent the balance of the morning driving south west through never-ending vineyards, enjoyed our lunch [complete with Grenache provided from the caves by Bryan and Joe] and crossed the border into Spain.
Iberian adventures
One of the hints Bryan and Joe had given us was to avoid campgrounds in Spain for a variety of reasons. Additionally, over lunch, we decided we needed a rest from the pace of travel we had maintained during the first five weeks of our European journey. We dipped into Frommer and discovered some recommendations for pensiones on the Costa Brava. We were lucky enough to find a cancellation for six nights at Pensione Goya in Lloret del Mar complete with locked garage, pool, bar and restaurant - the equivalent of $7 a day for the two of us, with three meals included.
Our holiday within a holiday began that night. We discovered that the Costa Brava was a destination of choice for travellers from the UK on package deals including flight, accommodation and meals. We shared our table at dinner with two such tourists for whom it was the last night in Lloret and we were given tips on where to go and what to do during our stay.
The next days were relaxing and nothing like the ones which preceded them. We dropped into a routine of sorts with activity in the morning, back to Pensione Goya for lunch, a siesta, then more, but slower activity, dinner, then out again for the evening. Our morning exercise was either walking around the town or renting a pedaloboat and together powering it out into the bay and north or south along the coast a short way before returning it. We did sit on the beach, or around the pool at Goya but found the August sun very hot and penetrating, though our tans did improve quickly.
After our siesta we often walked the waterfront watching the UK tourists gathering for their fix of fish and chips and British beer. We managed to avoid eating at any of these ‘pretend’ London or Irish pubs or any of the British Tea Rooms which seemed to be on every street. After all, we had paid for three meals a day already, though on the advice of the table companions from the first night, we sometimes skipped one or two courses at dinner so we could enjoy the fare at a little cellar bar, Tipic, just around the corner from Goya, and drink good quality wines economically.
Tipic did not open until late, and we think made its profits by selling jugs of sangria to the large parties of tourists who then sang along with the piano accordionist/singer who entertained there. We found a quiet corner on our first visit,
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refused the automatic jug of sangria and asked instead for “copa” - a wine glass. This resulted in two glasses being brought to the table. In the cellar off to the side were barrels with spigots.... sherries, white and red wines, muscats, brandies and ports. Having ‘rented’ a copa for 60 pesetas each, we had un-limited access to the whole range of self-serve barrels.... and we did sample many on our several visits.
Around 11pm, again from advice from the first night, we went into the shop in front of the night club, and ordered steak. This was accomplished by having the cook bring the piece of beef out of the refrigerated case, and we gestured with our fingers to indicate how thick we wanted the steak. The cook cut it, placed it on the grill and waved us back inside. Soon our plates and cutlery appeared, and not long after the steaks with country potatoes were devoured along with one of the Rioja wines from a barrel. As we enjoyed our midnight snack, we saw fish and chips rolled in newspaper appearing for the large groups merry from their sangria jugs which kept coming and coming.
We varied our routine one night after dinner at Goya by following the crowd of locals and tourists to the Lloret stadium to watch the town’s football team play a visiting 2nd division team in an exhibition game under lights. None of the locals seemed to mind that their team lost. One other night, when we went to order our steak, the cook [who was now referring to Pat as ‘my good woman’] indicated that we should try his special roast chicken. We allowed him to persuade us, and instead of the waiter serving us, the cook brought our plates with a half roast chicken on each. Our bill that night included our usual copa each for 60 pesetas and a half chicken for the same price - total bill 240 pesetas or a little over $3. Europe on $5 a day was easy at these prices, and the chicken was memorable too.
But, with laundry done, letters written and mailed, and a Spanish suntan we had to leave our holiday, and over the next nine days we were very glad of the rest that Pensione Goya and Lloret del Mar had provided.
As we headed off towards Madrid, we first skirted very busy Barcelona and then drove up the side of a mountain to the monastery at Monserrat where the location and views were simply breathtaking. The commercialization of the monastery was somewhat disappointing, but understandable. We did not buy postcards, wine, religious beads or crosses, or the LPs of the various choirs and their chants. As we marvelled at the view we ate a lunch provided by our Lloret Goya hosts - and continued towards Madrid.
Two other comments our priests-in-training had made about Spain were related to driving. They suggested we always allow more time than expected to reach a destination because the road conditions, road maintenance and traffic congestion would surprise us after northern Europe, and they advised against driving in Madrid. How right they were!
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As we drove west from the coast, the road was rarely straight, slow trucks outnumbered cars, road works produced frequent one-lane alternating traffic and at times the procession of traffic was slowed behind a horse-drawn [or donkey-drawn]cart. It took almost 40 minutes to pass through Zarazoga with its weird skyline. Later, clouds gathered quickly, and a wild strong wind made driving difficult. Near Catalayud the storm broke. Lightning and thunder accompanied by the heaviest rain so far in Europe sent us scurrying for accommodation for the night. Hotel Roglio was on the roadside, rates were inexpensive and included dinner, so we decided to stop for the night and drive to Madrid the next day. We parked the car in the parking lot [there were no spaces in the open-sided but covered parking garages] and relaxed with Spanish white wine, an appetizer of tripe and a main dish of lamb chops which we finished just as the wind roared and the power failed. It was still off when we went to sleep having used the candles provided.
The next morning we discovered that power had been restored but the wind had collapsed the structure which provided covered parking slots - heavy beams and thatched roofing were now resting on top of the cars, all with dented roofs. Out in the open ours was not damaged, and after breakfast which included the best orange juice so far in Europe we resumed our battle with the highway and its traffic.
About 30km before we reached the outskirts of Madrid, we pulled into the parking lot of a tourist kiosk which offered information and reservations for accommodation in the capital. We asked if they could recommend a motel in the outer suburbs with bus service to downtown. As a result we had a booking made for us at Avion Motel and we reached it in time to check in, and eat lunch. We should have known that with a name including Avion it would be beside an airport, but the flight path did not seem to go over the motel.
Travel gods were smiling again, though at first we did not think so. As we reached the bus stop after lunch for our first trip to downtown Madrid, we saw people trying to board a bus already at the stop. It was jammed with passengers and left about a dozen of us waiting as it pulled away. The next bus came only 10 minutes behind the first, and was almost empty. Less than 5 minutes along the journey into Madrid proper, we saw the bus we had missed had had an accident and was now sitting at a very strange angle in a ditch beside the road, with passengers filing off and arguing with the driver who was menacing the driver of the other vehicle involved in the accident.
The bus terminus we reached was some distance from the Prado, our planned destination, but the advice from that tourist kiosk was that taxis were plentiful and cheap so we climbed into the first taxi in the rank at the terminus. However, on our short ride to the famous museum, a car veered right suddenly, clipped the left fender of our taxi, but did not stop. Our driver turned off the meter, apologized to us [at least we think that is what he said] and drove off quickly in pursuit of the culprit’s car. We
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had a hair-raising ride as our angry driver pursued, caught, passed and cut off the other driver. When both vehicles had stopped, the two men had a short argument, but instead of an exchange of insurance and registration details, some money changed hands and our driver returned with a smile. He drove us back to where the accident had occurred, turned on the meter, and took us to the Prado as if nothing had happened. The predictions of Bryan and Joe were proving very to be very accurate!
After hours in the Prado, especially enjoying the huge canvasses of the Spanish painters, we emerged to discover that the shops were all opening for the evening after the siesta closure. As we strolled the very chic shopping district, we remembered that Frommer had advised that buying suede clothing was a bargain in Madrid, and we quickly found a tailor offering 24 hour service for made to measure clothing. Their skilled staff soon had us measured. We placed orders for a jacket for Les and a skirt and cape for Pat, and paid a tiny deposit. In other stores, Pat was tempted by the elegant shoes [suede for the equivalent of $3], but the sizing was not appropriate so we returned to the motel by bus - without incident - to enjoy dinner.
The following day included a return to downtown by bus and taxi - no accidents to us, but we witnessed several others while we were sitting on the bus. We enjoyed our sightseeing, had a fitting for our new clothing, and returned to the motel for siesta after an obligatory Madrid tourist lunch of gazpacho, paella and melon all washed down with sangria.
After our two nights in the Avion, we took our lives into our hands and drove into Madrid, carefully and slowly. While Les waited in the parking lot with the car, Pat collected and paid for the suede items, and we continued west through seemingly interminable suburbs, dodging slow trucks and detours until about 30 km out of the city when we found some clear driving on a highway with a much improved surface.
This being our second week in Spain, we had begun to acclimatize ourselves to the Spanish eating routine of light breakfast, snack mid-morning, a full lunch and a light dinner late at night. A roadhouse restaurant provided partridge and duck as main dishes for lunch - siesta followed in a grove of eucalyptus trees surrounded by huge wheatfields..... very like Australia, except for the food and the siesta.
Late that day we attempted to secure a room at one of the highly rated paradors [National Inns situated in castles or other heritage buildings] in Merida, but there was no room at the inn, so we continued and checked into a motel in Badajoz, almost within sight of the border with Portugal. Over a jug of sangria we agreed that Spain after the Costa Brava had been just a little too exciting, and we pored over the map and guidebook of Portugal and planned a route hoping it would be more relaxing.
Portugal - a small country - for us it provided some interesting adventures in less than four days. We experienced fog before we reached delightful Lisbon with its
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bridges, wide streets and glorious views. We sampled Vinho Verde with our lunch before striking north to a recommended small hotel in Nazare on the coast.
The traffic heading out of Lisbon was even worse than that in Spain; more trucks, more donkey carts, more roadworks. But when we drove down to the coast from the highway, the stresses of driving all disappeared. The tiny fishing village was the most picturesque so far.
The women we saw on the streets and at the beach were barefoot, had colourful skirts with at least seven petticoats, and they carried their belongings on their heads, often without using hands to steady them. The men, almost all with black, woollen sock caps, kept busy mending nets, sleeping on the beach in the shade of their fishing boats, or guiding oxen as they pulled their fishing boats out of the water.
All along the beach were small white tents which were used as change-rooms by families enjoying a day at the beach. We discovered later that some villagers slept in them at night too.
Our dinner at the three star hotel included the local fish, and we have one indelible memory of the end of the meal. A young boy of around ten was assisting in the dining room, and one of his jobs was to clean the table of crumbs of the crusty bread with a small hand-held carpet sweeper gadget. When we finished our fish main course and all of our plates had been cleared, the young lad appeared, smiled and began to roll his device across the table - right into a small patch of red sauce which had been spilled off one of our plates. As the stain spread across the cloth, he frowned, and then reversing direction with the sweeper, ran over the patch again, and again. This had the effect of spreading the remains of the sauce until the cloth looked like some work of abstract art. He bowed and left sheepishly as the real waiter arrived with dessert.
We did not think traffic could be worse than from Lisbon to Nazare, but from Nazare to Porto we encountered bicycles, scooters and motorcycles which seemed to have a top speed of 25kph, as well as the usual congestion. Consequently we arrived at a time when the Port Houses all were closed for siesta, so we continued hoping to reach the northern Spanish coast that night.
The highway northeast from Porto to the border was just over 200km in length but though we left Porto at 1.30pm, the road wound its way through hills and cork tree groves in such a way that by 7pm we were almost sea-sick from the constant left turn, right turn driving, and we had not reached the border.
As our car crested a hill overlooking the town of Braganca, a large red light began flashing on the dashboard, then stayed lit. We stopped, consulted the manual, and found a severe, capitalized warning that we should not drive but should immediately stop and have a Citroen mechanic check the car. There were several possible reasons for this ‘do not drive’ red light, the most likely a major leak in the
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hydromatic suspension, or a brake failure. A quick check of the reservoirs under the hood showed that we had no brake fluid left - so no brakes!
Our collective blood pressure soared, our pulses raced as we considered our situation. In the very north west of Portugal, where would we find a Citroen mechanic to remedy the situation? How would we reach the north coast of Spain if we had no brakes? Should we turn back? After several deep breaths, we reached for Frommer and [smiling travel gods?] found that Braganca sported a ‘pousada’ or Portuguese National Inn. Driving very slowly and changing gears and pulling on the emergency hand brake to slow down, we followed the winding road into the town.
It was nerve-wracking, but fortunately the pousada was on the south west outskirts so Les drove straight into the parking lot. With fingers crossed we parked the car and went in to book a room for this, a Saturday night, so that we could rest and try to resolve our problem that night or the next day. The young lad at the desk spoke some English and quickly checked us into a lovely room with a spectacular view of the town with its 12th century castle complete with ramparts dominating the skyline.
We were very hungry after our frustrating day and fortunately the dining room was still open and we almost forgot our dilemma as we had soup, fish with rice and vegetables followed by a local special custard, all accompanied by Vinho Verde. Les then approached the desk clerk to ask if there was a nearby garage where we could buy some brake fluid to put in the car. The cook came and took over the desk duties and the young chap and Les walked and jogged to a service station only to find it was closed for the weekend and would remain closed until Tuesday because it always closed on Sundays, and Monday was a feast day - a holiday!
Though the thought of being stranded for an extended period was not very calming, we were so tired that we really slept well that night. Our alarm clock the next morning was a mixture of bells, guns [fireworks?] which were apparently announcing the holiday or feast day celebrations. Les approached the morning desk clerk, a studious older man this time, to arrange to stay at least one more night, and here was the luckiest stroke of fortune. After a bit of jockeying to find a common language [passing through Spanish, Portuguese, German and settling on French - he was the French teacher at the local high school!], Les explained the reason for the need for one or two more nights. With a big smile, the desk clerk could not wait to tell us that his cousin was the ‘chief’ of the big local garage, and that he had certified Citroen mechanics who could do warranty work - but not on Sunday. What a relief! He made a phone call to his cousin, and arranged for the mechanics to come to the pousada parking lot on Monday morning - despite the feast day holiday.
Now free to be tourists, we enjoyed our Sunday in Braganca with the pousada as our base. We strolled into the surrounding hills and laughed at the long haired black goats and the antics of their kids and returned for a wonderful lunch - more
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Vinho Verde of course. While Pat slept, Les walked through the town to the castle, being stared at by everyone he passed, especially the hundred or so men who were dressed in very sombre clothes as they did a ritual type of promenade around the square. Once inside the fortified walls, the surprise was the original village for the castle complete with dilapidated stone houses, no plumbing, poorly dressed children playing in the streets. The castle itself was very well kept, and from the tower, the 360 degree view was well worth the climb.
Dinner that night included sausage rolls, and a Dao red wine instead of Vinho Verde. To celebrate the feast day, there were more fireworks that evening.
As promised, the car was attended to early on Monday. A van arrived with the ‘chief’ in a suit, four very attentive mechanics, and all the necessary equipment. A large jack was produced, the split in the line was repaired, litre after litre of brake fluid was produced and poured into the reservoir, and the garage owner took our Citroen for a test drive. When he returned he pronounced the car safe and ready to drive and did not present a bill because the car was under warranty!
View of Braganca Castle, ramparts and village inside the walls.
After loading our car, we said farewell to the teacher/desk clerk with the right connections, drove away to the east and were in Spain in just a few minutes.
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Our drive for the rest of the day was full of contrasts. Australian type bush landscape, then steep hills and green valleys as we climbed through and over the Pyares Pass and finally an ugly mining area leading to Orviedo. As we drove down to the coast at Gijon we scoured our Frommer guide and the Spanish tourist information as we looked for nearby accommodations for the night.
Nothing in our paper resource material, nothing in sight as we passed into and out of Gijon towards Colunga to the east on the coast. The need for a toilet and food brought us to park in the square of the small village of Villaviciosa where we ate a very welcome dinner at a cosy restaurant.
After the usual language switching, we found one waiter who was able to understand us and inform us that there was no hotel or campground within at least two hours driving, but, he had a cousin who could rent us a room for one night. We paid our bill and were led into the kitchen to be introduced to Pedro, a small boy of about eight or nine. He took Les by the hand and took us out to our car. Pedro sat in the back seat and tapped Les on the left shoulder for a left turn, the right shoulder for a right turn. A short drive and he pointed to a parking spot in a small square and once we were parked, Pedro gestured to the trunk of the Citroen. With a bag each, we followed our little guide to the front door of an impressive old building on the edge of the square. Pedro pushed the bell. When the door opened, there appeared a lady, perhaps in her early 30s, dressed completely in black. We turned to thank and tip Pedro, but he was nowhere in sight.
The first floor apartment was almost palatial with its very high ceilings, ornate woodwork, and a strong smell of Vim from the bathroom which had a huge bath on clawed feet as its centre-piece. Our bed had four posts, a canopy and heavily embroidered sheets and pillow-cases.
Our hostess for the night spoke no English, but she had written the number 100 on a sheet of paper and showed it to us when Les asked in Spanish and French how much to stay one night. After a soaking bath, we slept like two heavy logs after yet another exciting day with an unexpected ending.
We sneaked out of the very quiet apartment just before 8am the next morning, and found a cafe for coffee and croissants. We shared our thoughts on the previous night - amazed at how trusting we had been of the waiter’s offer, the help of Pedro, and the generosity of the widow in whose apartment we had slept. We started to speculate on what might have happened and how we could have been robbed, or worse. Resolving to plan more carefully in future, we were soon on our way along the coast as we felt the draw of France again.
On Tuesday September 3rd, recalling that school returned for the new school year in BC on the first Tuesday in September, we resolved to have a little rest to celebrate the fact that neither of us was at work for the first September in years. We turned off the main highway into St. Vicente de la Barquera, and discovered there a
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fishing village with everything two tourists could want to see. A quaint settlement on a quiet bay, net menders working in the shade, fish visible in the water from the waterfront pier, gulls, whitewashed buildings with terra cotta roofing, smiling villagers, outdoor cafes and vendors, a castle and mountains as a backdrop, and a little further around the bay, children swimming from a perfect sandy beach.
Our celebratory rest consisted of time sitting on the beach, a local lunch of crunchy fried sardines wrapped in paper, and Spanish beer, as we toasted the return to work we were missing. Later we drove east again. Santander and Bilboa, two large and smoggy city areas as seen from the highway, were skirted, and then the scenery changed to gorgeous as we found the coast again at Zumaya. Having made good progress in our sprint for France, we pulled up a hill from the highway at Geteria towards Frommer’s recommended Hostel La Prudencia, and on the way there we passed a flock of nuns complete with a Mother Superior shepherding them along the road.
San Vicente de la Barquera, Spanish lady and
north coast of Spain, September 1968. her kittens.
The hostel proved to be a religious retreat where they rented us a simple room for 120 pesetas, and the dinner complete with fresh fruit and wine was another 90 each. Frommer works! The facilities were bare, simple, clean and so quiet that we slept very well. Early the following day, the views amazed us, even in San Sebastian where traffic and parking made stopping impossible, but the detour up Mt. Igualdo was worth it for the best aspect seen in our time in Spain. From there a short drive to the border - France again.
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France for the third time
Something about France, perhaps the combination of life-style, food and wine, country roads, our greater confidence with reading and speaking the language, the friendlier people, meant that we seemed to relax when crossing back into this central component of our three month stay in Europe. This despite the battle we had with the numbering of the road system; the map numbers and the sign-post numbers always seemed out of sync.
On our first France day this time we had a fast drive to Bordeaux and a leisurely one along the Wine Road, reading names as we passed chateaux we had known from years of looking at vintage charts of French wines - Margaux, Pauillac, Rothschild and more. We did not visit any of the famous wineries given that many of them had closed gates, and required appointments for visits. Next followed a small ferry across the Gironde, and up into the hills of Cognac country.
We spent part of the following day right in Cognac at the house of Martell, where, on a guided tour we learned the story of cognac and its making, of the “angel’s share” that locals and visitors to the city breathe [the scent of spirits evaporating from the thousands of oak casks in storage in the various cognac firms], and finished the tour with pre-lunch tastings of Martell’s VSOP.
Continuing north we noticed the emergence of grey slate and stone used for all buildings. We realized on this trip, and had it reinforced on later visits, that various regions of France have a distinct look depending upon the local quarries used centuries ago. Along the Loire, with the small towns all featuring a castle or palace from as far back as the 11th century, this was evident, especially where we stayed the second night, Chinon.
Names such as Richard the Lionheart, Jeanne d’Arc, Borgia, Rabelais were on plaques on houses and some statues in this small town; the historical figures had lived here, died here or visited. For the balance of the Loire valley, which we drove along the next morning, we saw a chateau at almost every turn in the river.... with the fortress-like one at Angers being the most striking. Unfortunately rain had set in, and our plan to go north to walk out to the famous Mont St. Michel on the coast was deemed unwise [it was put on the lengthening list for another visit?] and we aimed for Dieppe so that we could cross the Channel.
Before leaving this short section on our third visit to France, some mention must be made of the evening meals at two small family operated hotels; the Union in Mirambeau and Gargantua in Chinon. At both establishments, when Les went in to enquire about accommodation, the first question was “mangez ici ce soir?” When Les smiled and replied “certainement,” the desk clerk relaxed and began the registration process having determined that they would have our business in the restaurant as well as the hotel. In both cases, the restaurant was very much an
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important part of the family business, and both families were justifiably proud of the cuisine and service provided. The family resemblance was clearly visible in the two or three generations preparing, cooking and serving in both places.
At the Union, Pat swooned over soupe de poisson, steak tartare, salade de tomates and the fresh fruits for dessert. Les was equally impressed with an hors d’oeuvres platter, truite meuniere, oie garnie [goose casserole], then a cheese trolley [10 local products on offer]. The owner recommended a small carafe of the local Rose wine to begin, then a not so small one of a red wine from a relative’s vineyard nearby. Naturally, cognac was served with our coffee. The waiter served the cognac in what we came to discover was a local tradition. He gently tipped the snifter on its side till it was resting on the table top, inserted the neck of the cognac bottle into the open glass and poured until the liquid in the glass was just about to spill out of the glass. He stopped pouring and set the snifter upright. After the food and wine and cognac, we slept well in Mirambeau despite the trucks changing gears as they turned a corner under our bedroom window.
Dinner in Chinon was at least the equal of the previous night. This time Pat ordered the pate de maison, escargots, then coq au vin; Les began with a local melon with sliced sausage, fresh mussels in white wine, then coq au vin. Given that we had ordered the same main dish, it was presented in a large casserole with a lid and serving spoons so we could serve ourselves. Local cheeses and fresh fruit completed the meal which was accompanied by the very local Chinon Blanc 1967 and its red equivalent but from 1964.
Maybe it was just as well we enjoyed such fine cuisine on these two nights because our last night in France before leaving for England was nowhere near as civilized as these two.
When we arrived in Dieppe expecting to make a reservation for the ferry to cross the Channel the next day, we found a port area in a state of chaos. One of the ferries was out of service with mechanical difficulties - at the start of the weekend! Although this was the 12th of September, the first reservation we could make was for the 17th. We had some tentative commitments to meet with some Mensa contacts in Worthing on the south coast of England, so our only choice was to pull into the long line of cars, and wait our turn.
One ferry was loading, so we were asked to ensure that, at all times, one person was with the vehicle so it could be moved forward as required after each ferry left. As usual, when there is a crisis, other tourists try to make the best of the situation. Other waiting travellers shared information on where to go for fish and chips, beer, tea and other things British; some recommended the 10 francs dinner at a very French seafood cafe. So Pat walked there to eat first. Les attempted to nap while Pat was dining, and it seemed ages before a very relaxed Pat returned raving
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about the moules marinieres - the 10 francs menu had included some wine as well as three courses with the mussels featured as the main course.
Pat did have to move the car while Les was dining on his moules [the waitress taught him how, instead of a fork, to use an empty mussel shell to remove and eat the other mussels from their shells], trout with almonds and some very distinctive cheese. Our car was one of the last on a ferry which loaded at 12.30am and left for Newhaven at 1.15am. We had hoped to put down the seats and sleep in the car, but for safety reasons all passengers had to leave the vehicle deck. Trying to ignore the loud partying Brits who seemed to be everywhere on board, we managed about one hour of fitful sleep as we sat in uncomfortable seats for the three and a half hour crossing.
{Maps on the following pages}
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