Its Thursday morning here in Bantry, a delightful little town with a wide selection of shops all living in what appear to be gingerbread cottages painted bright colours. We are exploring the local area, and on our way to the Beara Peninsula, one of three or four which extend out into the atlantic off the south west coast of Ireland. Next stop is a coffee shop and then on into the wind, rain and fog which seems ubiquitous and ever-present here. Hopefully the conditions will jsut add to the scenery.
We are staying in a wonderful cottage overlooking the atlantic ocean just ourside the town of Schull, which the maritime charts list as Skull. Unfortunately, I am sick with the flu, so have not been able to get out and about as much as we would like.
One compensation has been that I can get some reading done. Highlight has been Marilynne Robinson's extraordinarily moving novel Home, but have also been delving into a couple of Ian Rankin crime books.
Next step is not clear. We head off from Schull on Saturday, maybe towards the Dingle Peninsula. General direction is to head north along Ireland's western coast. While we may not be living dangerously, we are gradually coming to rely more on serendipity as a guiding principle.
Apologies for the brevity, but I am not up to a longer account!
mike
Friday, October 29, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
short update from Kinsale
W have been busy, and have not had much access to the internet, so apologies for the lack of updates
Our last day in Dublin was terrific, we walked to the docklands, a sort of mini darling harbour which was pleasant, and good excercise, then to the national gallery which was unexpectedly terrific, with a great selectin of renaissanace paintings: Bosch, Velasquez, Titian and Caraveggio amongst many others, yet not overwhleming like the Prado or Louvre. Next on the list was a visit to the National Library, and a splendid exhibition of W.B.Yeats manuscripts, photographs, films, and poetry readings. The day finished with a guided Literary Pub Crawl, which was both highly amusing and entertaining, and informative to boot.
Friday saw us driving to Cork, the main attraction being the Cork Jazz Festival. Boronia had amazingly booked us last minute accommodation in the very centre of Cork, it was almost too good to be true, and after an hours fruitless searching, we discovered it was too good to be true, and was in fact in Ballycotton, a mere 42 kms away. In Boronia's defence, the google map on the booking confirmation was highly misleading! Nevertheness, the Bayview Hotel in Ballycotton was four stars, had great views over the bay and the atlantic, a cliff walk and enabled us to explore the surrrounding area and have a great time. Serendipity at work!
We still managed to take in a fair bit of the jazz festival and to explore Cork. The highlights were a concert by the Tord Gustavsen ensemble - I have three CDs, but the live performance was extraordinary. Also a more energetic, but less nuanced concert by the Omar Sosa quartet, afro-latin jazz in extremis! I highly recommend Tord Gustavsen for anyone looking for some laid back and very svelte scandinavian jazz.
We are now heading to Ireland's wild south west. We have only managed an hour's driving before Boronia was diverted by a market day in Kinsale, the gourmet capital of Ireland according tothe various brochures and guide books we have managed to get our hands on. Sounds like a good place for lunch!
So we are surviving! We managed to walk ten kms yesterday, and have done a fair bit of walking around Cork, but the waist lines must be expanding!...the next week should offer plenty of oportunities to remedy this. All I am missing is the New Yorker, a regular hit of Australian newsprint, and my own home made meusli....otherwise, life is perfect! I cant help thinking the good times are bound to end soon!
Top of the day to all our readers
mike
Our last day in Dublin was terrific, we walked to the docklands, a sort of mini darling harbour which was pleasant, and good excercise, then to the national gallery which was unexpectedly terrific, with a great selectin of renaissanace paintings: Bosch, Velasquez, Titian and Caraveggio amongst many others, yet not overwhleming like the Prado or Louvre. Next on the list was a visit to the National Library, and a splendid exhibition of W.B.Yeats manuscripts, photographs, films, and poetry readings. The day finished with a guided Literary Pub Crawl, which was both highly amusing and entertaining, and informative to boot.
Friday saw us driving to Cork, the main attraction being the Cork Jazz Festival. Boronia had amazingly booked us last minute accommodation in the very centre of Cork, it was almost too good to be true, and after an hours fruitless searching, we discovered it was too good to be true, and was in fact in Ballycotton, a mere 42 kms away. In Boronia's defence, the google map on the booking confirmation was highly misleading! Nevertheness, the Bayview Hotel in Ballycotton was four stars, had great views over the bay and the atlantic, a cliff walk and enabled us to explore the surrrounding area and have a great time. Serendipity at work!
We still managed to take in a fair bit of the jazz festival and to explore Cork. The highlights were a concert by the Tord Gustavsen ensemble - I have three CDs, but the live performance was extraordinary. Also a more energetic, but less nuanced concert by the Omar Sosa quartet, afro-latin jazz in extremis! I highly recommend Tord Gustavsen for anyone looking for some laid back and very svelte scandinavian jazz.
We are now heading to Ireland's wild south west. We have only managed an hour's driving before Boronia was diverted by a market day in Kinsale, the gourmet capital of Ireland according tothe various brochures and guide books we have managed to get our hands on. Sounds like a good place for lunch!
So we are surviving! We managed to walk ten kms yesterday, and have done a fair bit of walking around Cork, but the waist lines must be expanding!...the next week should offer plenty of oportunities to remedy this. All I am missing is the New Yorker, a regular hit of Australian newsprint, and my own home made meusli....otherwise, life is perfect! I cant help thinking the good times are bound to end soon!
Top of the day to all our readers
mike
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Deliberative democracy in Dublin
I wont comment on the defamations in the previous post.
We have been exploring the city on foot, always a pleasant experience. Unfortunately, I doubt that the excercise involved will offset the calories we are taking on board as we go. Highlights have included the Dublin City gallery, with an interesting exhibition which includes the entire contents of Francis Bacon's studio, transported from London after his death; the Chester Beatty Library which houses a terrific collection of Islamic, East Asian and Christian art and artefacts - reminiscent of the Gulbenkian Museum in Lisbon; and the Gallery of Photography with an excellent exhibiiton of early Irish photographs from a private collector's collection. Disappointments were the Irish Museum of Modern Art, for which I had high expectations, and the Trinity College art collection for which I didn't expect too much. Of course, there are no highs without the lows, and even the mediocre galleries incude the odd gem.
I also managed to attend a lecture at Trinity College by a Canadian academic, Prfessor Carty, on a citizens' assembly process undertaken in British Columbia in around 2004 to assess BC's First Past the Post electoral system. The lecture was quite straightforward, delivered well, and enjoyable, essentially arguing that the randomly selected citizens' assembly process worked very well, even though the subsequent referendum failed. The key points made were that there had been increasing frustration with politics and politicians in BC, and the then Opposition committed to the process as part of its then election platform.
When it won Government, the process was initiated along with a commitment to implement whatever the Assembly proposed should it pass at a Referendum. The bar was set at 60%, and more than 50% in a majority of districts. In the event, the Assembly recommended a Single Transferable Voting system over the status quo. At the subsequent referendum, the BC community voted in favour of the Assembly's recomendations with a 58% support level and a majority in 75 of 77 districts. As the previously set benchmark had not been met, the proposal failed. There was a subsequent referendum which also failed, though Prof Carty didnt go into why.The thought occurred to me that there was a paradox at the core of the process - it was built on voter dissatisfaction with politicians and politics, but was essentially aimed at finding a better way to elect politicians and determine politics. It didn't really question the underlying assumptions of the electoral system and politics generally.
I found the lecture quite stimulating, not so much for what it says about British Columbia or deliberative democracy, but because it highlights that the so called democratic deficit is widespread, even ubiquitous, in democratic societies. It seems to me that whatever the merits of citizens assemblies and deliberative democracy, our electoral systems are increasingly archaic and ill-suited to the the pace, demands and broad cultural ethos of modern societies. Our electoral systems are based on 17th and 18th century technology. Representative democracy no doubt will continue to have a place in democratic societies, but where in the political marketplace do voters and citizens have the purchasing power they have in commercial markets? Why can't we devise ways to allow for this? What might those ways be? I feel an essay coming on, so will spare you all.
Best wishes from Dublin
mike
We have been exploring the city on foot, always a pleasant experience. Unfortunately, I doubt that the excercise involved will offset the calories we are taking on board as we go. Highlights have included the Dublin City gallery, with an interesting exhibition which includes the entire contents of Francis Bacon's studio, transported from London after his death; the Chester Beatty Library which houses a terrific collection of Islamic, East Asian and Christian art and artefacts - reminiscent of the Gulbenkian Museum in Lisbon; and the Gallery of Photography with an excellent exhibiiton of early Irish photographs from a private collector's collection. Disappointments were the Irish Museum of Modern Art, for which I had high expectations, and the Trinity College art collection for which I didn't expect too much. Of course, there are no highs without the lows, and even the mediocre galleries incude the odd gem.
I also managed to attend a lecture at Trinity College by a Canadian academic, Prfessor Carty, on a citizens' assembly process undertaken in British Columbia in around 2004 to assess BC's First Past the Post electoral system. The lecture was quite straightforward, delivered well, and enjoyable, essentially arguing that the randomly selected citizens' assembly process worked very well, even though the subsequent referendum failed. The key points made were that there had been increasing frustration with politics and politicians in BC, and the then Opposition committed to the process as part of its then election platform.
When it won Government, the process was initiated along with a commitment to implement whatever the Assembly proposed should it pass at a Referendum. The bar was set at 60%, and more than 50% in a majority of districts. In the event, the Assembly recommended a Single Transferable Voting system over the status quo. At the subsequent referendum, the BC community voted in favour of the Assembly's recomendations with a 58% support level and a majority in 75 of 77 districts. As the previously set benchmark had not been met, the proposal failed. There was a subsequent referendum which also failed, though Prof Carty didnt go into why.The thought occurred to me that there was a paradox at the core of the process - it was built on voter dissatisfaction with politicians and politics, but was essentially aimed at finding a better way to elect politicians and determine politics. It didn't really question the underlying assumptions of the electoral system and politics generally.
I found the lecture quite stimulating, not so much for what it says about British Columbia or deliberative democracy, but because it highlights that the so called democratic deficit is widespread, even ubiquitous, in democratic societies. It seems to me that whatever the merits of citizens assemblies and deliberative democracy, our electoral systems are increasingly archaic and ill-suited to the the pace, demands and broad cultural ethos of modern societies. Our electoral systems are based on 17th and 18th century technology. Representative democracy no doubt will continue to have a place in democratic societies, but where in the political marketplace do voters and citizens have the purchasing power they have in commercial markets? Why can't we devise ways to allow for this? What might those ways be? I feel an essay coming on, so will spare you all.
Best wishes from Dublin
mike
Sunday, October 17, 2010
post from dublin
We arrived in Dublin two days ago. It is a real thrill typing on a normal keyboard (rather than the French keyboard) and being able to turn on the TV and understand what's going on. The latter doesn't seem to affect Michael so much - he can watch an entire movie in French, as long as it's a shootemup movie with lots of car chases and so on - in fact if he doesn't get a fix of this in some language he seems to become rather woebegone.
We are booked to stay in Dublin for a week, and have been pleasantly surprised by the richness of Irish cultural life - great bookshops, and lots of theatre and many galleries.
I think there must be some index of a city's focus that is based on the number of square metres of the CBD that is dedicated to particular functions. In Paris, there seems to be a coiffure in every block and a boulangerie. In Dublin, a quarter of the metreage seems to be dedicated to pubs or drinking outlets of some kind. We can testify to the after-effects, as our apartment is on the third floor over the Millennium Walk, close to the city centre. People seem to rage in our neighbourhood until about 4.00 am in the morning. This morning we (and the rest of the neighbourhood) were serenaded by some young man the worse for wear, with a song of yearning about Ouma from lovely Sligo.
We have discovered that there is a big jazz festival in Cork next weekend, so we have booked to go there. There is also some wild countryside in the county, in which we are planning to do some walking. The hills in Ireland are nothing compared to the haute alpes in southern France, so the walking shouldn't be too difficult. It will be good to walk again.
We are booked to stay in Dublin for a week, and have been pleasantly surprised by the richness of Irish cultural life - great bookshops, and lots of theatre and many galleries.
I think there must be some index of a city's focus that is based on the number of square metres of the CBD that is dedicated to particular functions. In Paris, there seems to be a coiffure in every block and a boulangerie. In Dublin, a quarter of the metreage seems to be dedicated to pubs or drinking outlets of some kind. We can testify to the after-effects, as our apartment is on the third floor over the Millennium Walk, close to the city centre. People seem to rage in our neighbourhood until about 4.00 am in the morning. This morning we (and the rest of the neighbourhood) were serenaded by some young man the worse for wear, with a song of yearning about Ouma from lovely Sligo.
We have discovered that there is a big jazz festival in Cork next weekend, so we have booked to go there. There is also some wild countryside in the county, in which we are planning to do some walking. The hills in Ireland are nothing compared to the haute alpes in southern France, so the walking shouldn't be too difficult. It will be good to walk again.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Toulouse
Greetings to all.
We are in Toulouse, essentially to catch a flight to Dublin tomorrow. We had hoped to do some walking along the canals which cross southern france and pass through Toulouse, however Boronia has been quite sick, and I have been unwell. Consequently, we have only managed to explore the city itself, which is much larger than we had realised, and quite charming.
Yesterday we spent a couple of hours in the Musee des Augustines, a beautiful old monastery and church converted to a museum in the eighteenth century. It includes a large selection of roman sculptures, some more recent 18th century French sculptures, a terrific selection of stone argoyles which look even more dramatic up close, all located in a beatiful setting , the galleries surround a square cloister, now converted to a luscious vegetable garden. As well we sought out the contemporary art gallery which was located in an old abbatoirs revamped into a very avant garde space, and which was interesting, but limited in terms of the art on display. Made me realise how lucky we are in Canberra - a city of comparable size to Toulouse I suspect - to have a national gallery at our disposal.
Today, we explored more of the city, observed a very noisy strike parade of students and unionists - there is a national industrial campaign underway across France at the moment - and undertook some important but time consuming tasks like attending to posting items to our grandchildren and so forth.
mike
We are in Toulouse, essentially to catch a flight to Dublin tomorrow. We had hoped to do some walking along the canals which cross southern france and pass through Toulouse, however Boronia has been quite sick, and I have been unwell. Consequently, we have only managed to explore the city itself, which is much larger than we had realised, and quite charming.
Yesterday we spent a couple of hours in the Musee des Augustines, a beautiful old monastery and church converted to a museum in the eighteenth century. It includes a large selection of roman sculptures, some more recent 18th century French sculptures, a terrific selection of stone argoyles which look even more dramatic up close, all located in a beatiful setting , the galleries surround a square cloister, now converted to a luscious vegetable garden. As well we sought out the contemporary art gallery which was located in an old abbatoirs revamped into a very avant garde space, and which was interesting, but limited in terms of the art on display. Made me realise how lucky we are in Canberra - a city of comparable size to Toulouse I suspect - to have a national gallery at our disposal.
Today, we explored more of the city, observed a very noisy strike parade of students and unionists - there is a national industrial campaign underway across France at the moment - and undertook some important but time consuming tasks like attending to posting items to our grandchildren and so forth.
mike
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Arles
Hallelujah.
We have finally arrived at Arles.
I last posted just after arriving at Cavaillon, a pleasant town madu unpleasant by the loudspeakers blasting commercial radio into the main square and streets. We found a two star hotel in the centre of town, run by an amiable man slightly past his prime sporting cowboy boots. So too was the hotel. Our room included a non-descript painting which was slightly askew, so Boronia felt obliged to attempt to straighten it, whereupon it fell off the wall. The shelf in the bathroom, above the toilet, tilted downwards at an alarming rate. The curtins were fashionable pre-war and the furniture featured chipped paint, a reminder of the gilded age. Boronia's immediate comment on taking full stock of the room was that everything in the room had brewers droop. It wasn't clear to me if I had been included in the assessment.
From Cavaillon we crossed the Durance and tramped through pine forests and vinyards towards a chain of mountains which we learned went by the name of Les Alpilles. Suddenly we had arrived at Eyglieres, a very pretty little village set on the edge of the hills. Medieval church, ruins, stone houses, it was truly charming. After a drink to quench our thirst, we found a room, and went exploring. The only downside was that it had been discovered by many tourists before us which meant that every cafe, restaurant and shop in the town charged a considerable premium. But even so, we enjoyed ourselves and felt totally relaxed.
Boronia's joy was unlimited when we awoke to the sounds of a local market being set up in the street below. After an hour or so wandering amongst the stalls, the discipline of our backpacks exerting enough superior force to just, by the merest margin, overwhelm the natural inclination in some quarters to spend, purchase and buy (name not mentioned to protect the guilty).
From Eygalieres, on Friday, we climbed through the forests of Les Alpilles to St Remy de Provence, the site of Vincent Van Gogh's stay in a local sanitarium in 1889//90 and a notable roman archaelogical site. We avoided the tourist trail, walked around the town, and found a wonderful Italian inspired restaurant.
From St Remy, we had planned a short day walking to St Etienne at the western end of Les Alpilles. An hour out of St Remy, we reached the 400 km mark by my ongoing calculation. This obsession of mine is looked down upon in some quarters as overly bureaucratic, for reasons I find hard to fathom....something incoherent about the process of journeying, the meditative reflection made possible by the step by step progress, not the destination, being the point of the trek. Of course, without knowing how far we have come, we wouldnt really have any means of evaluating progress, assessing the likely time of completion, or even the likelihood of completing the trek. These are clearly important strategic considerations in advancing along any route or path, and clearly ought not to be underestimated.
We arrived to find St Etienne to be a quite strange town, modern, strung out over a kilometre or more along a quite busy road, with nothing open - it was Saturday afternoon afterall - and our projected accommodation booked out by a wedding party...We faced a long six plus hour walk to Arles, some alfresco camping, or a night huddled in a bus-stop. In the end, we decided to take a bus to Arles, only some twelve kms away by road, or twenty by the path we would have taken through the western end of Les Alpilles. After a two hour wait, most spent in a roadside bar, our bus arrived and within fifteen minutes we were in the centre of Arles. Not the triumphant entry I had planned in my mind, whereby the weary pilgrims walk up to the roman amphitheatre perched on the edge of the Rhone, but we have learned to accept the inevitable and to avoid the evitable.
Arles will perhaps require a post of its own. Our first night was spent in a hotel which displays a magnificent bronze of a naked man shooting a bow and arrow into the air. This prompted a degree of commentary comparing -adversely - my physique to the statue's, and a suggestion that we might have fallen into an interesting part of town. The photo on the wall in the room, clearly taken in the foyer, which showed a man descending the stairs, the statue in the foreground, a matador in very tight trousers about to meet him, and a woman wearing matadors trousers, but not much else, seemed to confirm the fears. They turned out to be totally unfounded. the room was excellent, the hotel quiet, and all was well. in any case, we had previously decided to reward oursemlves by upgrading to a three star hotel, so we will see what that brings.
For now, au revoir
mike
We have finally arrived at Arles.
I last posted just after arriving at Cavaillon, a pleasant town madu unpleasant by the loudspeakers blasting commercial radio into the main square and streets. We found a two star hotel in the centre of town, run by an amiable man slightly past his prime sporting cowboy boots. So too was the hotel. Our room included a non-descript painting which was slightly askew, so Boronia felt obliged to attempt to straighten it, whereupon it fell off the wall. The shelf in the bathroom, above the toilet, tilted downwards at an alarming rate. The curtins were fashionable pre-war and the furniture featured chipped paint, a reminder of the gilded age. Boronia's immediate comment on taking full stock of the room was that everything in the room had brewers droop. It wasn't clear to me if I had been included in the assessment.
From Cavaillon we crossed the Durance and tramped through pine forests and vinyards towards a chain of mountains which we learned went by the name of Les Alpilles. Suddenly we had arrived at Eyglieres, a very pretty little village set on the edge of the hills. Medieval church, ruins, stone houses, it was truly charming. After a drink to quench our thirst, we found a room, and went exploring. The only downside was that it had been discovered by many tourists before us which meant that every cafe, restaurant and shop in the town charged a considerable premium. But even so, we enjoyed ourselves and felt totally relaxed.
Boronia's joy was unlimited when we awoke to the sounds of a local market being set up in the street below. After an hour or so wandering amongst the stalls, the discipline of our backpacks exerting enough superior force to just, by the merest margin, overwhelm the natural inclination in some quarters to spend, purchase and buy (name not mentioned to protect the guilty).
From Eygalieres, on Friday, we climbed through the forests of Les Alpilles to St Remy de Provence, the site of Vincent Van Gogh's stay in a local sanitarium in 1889//90 and a notable roman archaelogical site. We avoided the tourist trail, walked around the town, and found a wonderful Italian inspired restaurant.
From St Remy, we had planned a short day walking to St Etienne at the western end of Les Alpilles. An hour out of St Remy, we reached the 400 km mark by my ongoing calculation. This obsession of mine is looked down upon in some quarters as overly bureaucratic, for reasons I find hard to fathom....something incoherent about the process of journeying, the meditative reflection made possible by the step by step progress, not the destination, being the point of the trek. Of course, without knowing how far we have come, we wouldnt really have any means of evaluating progress, assessing the likely time of completion, or even the likelihood of completing the trek. These are clearly important strategic considerations in advancing along any route or path, and clearly ought not to be underestimated.
We arrived to find St Etienne to be a quite strange town, modern, strung out over a kilometre or more along a quite busy road, with nothing open - it was Saturday afternoon afterall - and our projected accommodation booked out by a wedding party...We faced a long six plus hour walk to Arles, some alfresco camping, or a night huddled in a bus-stop. In the end, we decided to take a bus to Arles, only some twelve kms away by road, or twenty by the path we would have taken through the western end of Les Alpilles. After a two hour wait, most spent in a roadside bar, our bus arrived and within fifteen minutes we were in the centre of Arles. Not the triumphant entry I had planned in my mind, whereby the weary pilgrims walk up to the roman amphitheatre perched on the edge of the Rhone, but we have learned to accept the inevitable and to avoid the evitable.
Arles will perhaps require a post of its own. Our first night was spent in a hotel which displays a magnificent bronze of a naked man shooting a bow and arrow into the air. This prompted a degree of commentary comparing -adversely - my physique to the statue's, and a suggestion that we might have fallen into an interesting part of town. The photo on the wall in the room, clearly taken in the foyer, which showed a man descending the stairs, the statue in the foreground, a matador in very tight trousers about to meet him, and a woman wearing matadors trousers, but not much else, seemed to confirm the fears. They turned out to be totally unfounded. the room was excellent, the hotel quiet, and all was well. in any case, we had previously decided to reward oursemlves by upgrading to a three star hotel, so we will see what that brings.
For now, au revoir
mike
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Cavaillon
We have arrived in Cavaillon, some forty kms south of Apt, after two days of quite pleasant walking, though by the end of the day we are both quite tired.
Boronia finds it impossible to walk past any walnut tree, blackberry bush, fig tree, pear tree, apple tree, grape vine, rocket plant, almond tree, melon patch or other source of fresh food without sampling the wares. I live in fear of being accosted by an irate landowner, or worse still, the gendarmerie, but we seemed to have survived so far. If necessary, no doubt she will claim the pilgrim's right to forage, though whether this is an accepted rationale I am not sure.
Boronia is resting in our hotel room, I have been checking emails and the newspapers from Australia, but promised I wouldnt be away too long so will keep this short.
We have essentially been following the path of the roman road between Spain and Rome built some two thousand years ago. Many of the towns along the route were established as staging posts by the romans. In places, the remnants of the actual road are still visible underfoot, along with three or four quite beautiful bridges.
All this imperial history underfoot leads me to wonder what will remain of our cities,work and lives in two thousand years? The answer is probably not much, but what is important is the cultural foundations which we continue to build on our forebears own cultural contributions, and which will in some way continue to find expression in the quality of life of our descendants. One of the very positive things we have noticed in France, apart from a general friendliness, a sense of community politeness and formality which engenders and promulgates respect amongst all, is something which we will try to bring back with us to Australia, namely, a concern to respect and appreciate quality and the value of personal contributions. This has been most apparent in the way the French prepare and present their food, and is perhaps more apparent to us given the time we are spending in small farms, gites and so on where the values of personal contribution are emphasised and are still strong. Nevertheless, it is a noticeable difference overall, and worth emulating in all parts of life.
Enough philosophy for one day.
Regards to all our friends and family
mike
Boronia finds it impossible to walk past any walnut tree, blackberry bush, fig tree, pear tree, apple tree, grape vine, rocket plant, almond tree, melon patch or other source of fresh food without sampling the wares. I live in fear of being accosted by an irate landowner, or worse still, the gendarmerie, but we seemed to have survived so far. If necessary, no doubt she will claim the pilgrim's right to forage, though whether this is an accepted rationale I am not sure.
Boronia is resting in our hotel room, I have been checking emails and the newspapers from Australia, but promised I wouldnt be away too long so will keep this short.
We have essentially been following the path of the roman road between Spain and Rome built some two thousand years ago. Many of the towns along the route were established as staging posts by the romans. In places, the remnants of the actual road are still visible underfoot, along with three or four quite beautiful bridges.
All this imperial history underfoot leads me to wonder what will remain of our cities,work and lives in two thousand years? The answer is probably not much, but what is important is the cultural foundations which we continue to build on our forebears own cultural contributions, and which will in some way continue to find expression in the quality of life of our descendants. One of the very positive things we have noticed in France, apart from a general friendliness, a sense of community politeness and formality which engenders and promulgates respect amongst all, is something which we will try to bring back with us to Australia, namely, a concern to respect and appreciate quality and the value of personal contributions. This has been most apparent in the way the French prepare and present their food, and is perhaps more apparent to us given the time we are spending in small farms, gites and so on where the values of personal contribution are emphasised and are still strong. Nevertheless, it is a noticeable difference overall, and worth emulating in all parts of life.
Enough philosophy for one day.
Regards to all our friends and family
mike
Monday, October 4, 2010
An idle day in Apt
Today we're having a day off in Apt - Michael says it's OK. The walking is improving - we really enjoy the mornings, then something happens to my pilgrim spirit at the 10 km mark - when it becomes indignant and non-compliant. It recovers somewhat with food - usually bread and sardines or bread and cheese. Then the spirit goes into a dormant and dogged state until we get to our destination. I remember someone saying that you can always tell who the pilgrims are at Santiago de Compostella because they walk like Groucho Marx. That's me at the end of the day!
Two days ago we arrived in Reillanne. Exhausted- we ask around for the location of our Gite, an ancient Chateau and then walk down the road following the directions we were given. Some Gites are very coy about their location, and this Gite is apparently one of those. It's not so bad when your in a car, but when you're on foot at the end of a long day's walking, one gets despondent if it's not easy to locate. I sit down with the packs beside the track next to a sign that says Chateau but with a 'properte privee' sign and without the usual Gite D'etape emblem, while Michael goes on a reconnaissance mission. A bloke in a truck turns into the track - I ask him in my broken French - Gite ici? He looks non-plussed and repeats 'shit ici?' and says 'Non!' in an emphatic way and quickly puts his foot on the accelerator. An English couple walk up to us, and we ask them, and they point to the sign next to us, as if to indicate we really should open our eyes!
So, we walk down the track.
We arrive at the Chateau, which is very old and crumbling in parts, in a rambling garden. It has obviously been very grand in its day. There is a small sign pinned on the door on a piece of A4 paper that says in biro 'Gite', with an arrow to the back of the building. Relieved, we follow the arrow, down a crumbling flight of stairs, and are greeted by an assortment of dogs and honking geese, not used to the sight of weary pilgrims. A voice from the vegetable garden quietens the managerie and is followed by a woman emerging from the shrubbery, with a welcoming smile.
We are shown to our room inside the building, which seemed at first sight like something from the set of Cold Comfort Farm or Wuthering Heights. Our room looks out from the third floor into the tops of huge plane trees, and onto a large pool, strewn with autumn leaves and surrounded by a ruined Italianate fence.
The Gite is run by a woman, with the help of her daughter. We join them for a very pleasant meal later. Their English is as good as our French, so the conversation swings between french, english and spanish, with much gesticulation.
After a good night's sleep, and breakfast, our host kindly walks with us up to the village, telling me the names of various wild herbs along the way, and stuffing a bunch of something that she tells me goes well with fromage into a pocket on the outside of my backpack.
We walk to Cereste. Our Gite is easy to find and very pleasant. Our host is very friendly, and when we leave in the morning, tries to press a jar of homemade fig jam into our hands. I point to my gammy knee and thank her, but explain that it would be too heavy to carry.
The next morning we set off again, for Apt. Unbeknowns to us, Sunday morning is when a man takes his dog and his shotgun and goes out into the countryside for a spot of shooting. They blaze away on all sides. We hope it's not to pot a pilgrim. They wear brightly coloured orange hats and armbands, but I'm in my sparrow browns and Michael is not much easier to spot in his regulation blue outfit. As we walk through a thicket, close to where we can see a hunter but uncertain that he has seen us, I think I should break into a desperate and hopefully life-preserving whistle, choosing the zulu song, 'we are marching in the light of god' for the tune. Michael asks 'why are you whistling?' I tell him it's so I don't get shot. When we emerge from the thicket, we see the bemused hunter, who gives us a wave. We survive.
Two days ago we arrived in Reillanne. Exhausted- we ask around for the location of our Gite, an ancient Chateau and then walk down the road following the directions we were given. Some Gites are very coy about their location, and this Gite is apparently one of those. It's not so bad when your in a car, but when you're on foot at the end of a long day's walking, one gets despondent if it's not easy to locate. I sit down with the packs beside the track next to a sign that says Chateau but with a 'properte privee' sign and without the usual Gite D'etape emblem, while Michael goes on a reconnaissance mission. A bloke in a truck turns into the track - I ask him in my broken French - Gite ici? He looks non-plussed and repeats 'shit ici?' and says 'Non!' in an emphatic way and quickly puts his foot on the accelerator. An English couple walk up to us, and we ask them, and they point to the sign next to us, as if to indicate we really should open our eyes!
So, we walk down the track.
We arrive at the Chateau, which is very old and crumbling in parts, in a rambling garden. It has obviously been very grand in its day. There is a small sign pinned on the door on a piece of A4 paper that says in biro 'Gite', with an arrow to the back of the building. Relieved, we follow the arrow, down a crumbling flight of stairs, and are greeted by an assortment of dogs and honking geese, not used to the sight of weary pilgrims. A voice from the vegetable garden quietens the managerie and is followed by a woman emerging from the shrubbery, with a welcoming smile.
We are shown to our room inside the building, which seemed at first sight like something from the set of Cold Comfort Farm or Wuthering Heights. Our room looks out from the third floor into the tops of huge plane trees, and onto a large pool, strewn with autumn leaves and surrounded by a ruined Italianate fence.
The Gite is run by a woman, with the help of her daughter. We join them for a very pleasant meal later. Their English is as good as our French, so the conversation swings between french, english and spanish, with much gesticulation.
After a good night's sleep, and breakfast, our host kindly walks with us up to the village, telling me the names of various wild herbs along the way, and stuffing a bunch of something that she tells me goes well with fromage into a pocket on the outside of my backpack.
We walk to Cereste. Our Gite is easy to find and very pleasant. Our host is very friendly, and when we leave in the morning, tries to press a jar of homemade fig jam into our hands. I point to my gammy knee and thank her, but explain that it would be too heavy to carry.
The next morning we set off again, for Apt. Unbeknowns to us, Sunday morning is when a man takes his dog and his shotgun and goes out into the countryside for a spot of shooting. They blaze away on all sides. We hope it's not to pot a pilgrim. They wear brightly coloured orange hats and armbands, but I'm in my sparrow browns and Michael is not much easier to spot in his regulation blue outfit. As we walk through a thicket, close to where we can see a hunter but uncertain that he has seen us, I think I should break into a desperate and hopefully life-preserving whistle, choosing the zulu song, 'we are marching in the light of god' for the tune. Michael asks 'why are you whistling?' I tell him it's so I don't get shot. When we emerge from the thicket, we see the bemused hunter, who gives us a wave. We survive.
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