I had intended riding to Geneva in Switzerland, but I got a police escort from just outside of Dole, and found a much more interesting road to follow down to Nyon on the shores of Lake Leman instead. It wasn’t really a police escort of course, just a couple of gendarmerie on bikes that I decided to ride with for twenty miles or so, and got so caught up in the ‘Seven-Mary, Three-Four and Five’ thing, that I missed the turn off completely. To make matters worse, I accidently waved to someone riding a scooter; and that’s an absolute no-no; scooters aint real bikes!But even with that, it was the most exciting riding I’d done so far, with waterfalls, rocky cliffs, crazy winding roads, and mile after mile of smooth beautiful tarmac. I even realised I can ride on the wrong side of the road now and think nothing of it.The road wound around and down, and up and down again. At some point I officially entered Switzerland, but there was no –one there to shake my hand, or wave a flag, nor check my passport. It’s at times like that I can’t help but think smuggling could be a good way to make a living, I’m just not too sure what I’d smuggle, or even if I’d enjoy being smuggled myself?! More high rocky crags led to even more beautiful waterfalls. The air was crisp and smelled of pine and Nordic shampoo, the road was black and smooth, and long and curvy like a Massai woman’s legs.Soon the Pine forest cleared and I could see water stretched out before me. It was Lake Leman, -or Lake Geneva if you prefer; even though technically it’s not-. I could see the Alps lazing in the distance across the other shore, but they were so shrouded in mist that they may well have been Toblerones for all I knew.I stopped at a vantage point and tried to get some photos of my very first view of the majestic Alps, but it just wasn’t going to happen. Between the mist, the glare and my fumbling inability to get the right exposure, the pics came out like whitewashed lime-stain on a patchy, grey marble wall.I put the camera away and rejoined the road
By now it had become something worth having a whole lot of fun on. It ess’d it’s way downhill steeply and without pause for thought of danger, and twisted and turned on cambered bends that pulled G-forces right through my socks, and made my adrenal glands sing ‘Oh Praise the Lord, Jesus says oo-rah!’.I pushed the bike harder than I’d ventured before, and leaned it lower and tighter to the road. Any moment I thought I was going to get the holy grail of scraping leathered knee on tarmac, but the closest I got was being hit in the face by a bee just as the twisties began torun-out, and the sensible people came out play near the edge of the town called Nyon. I dropped the bike back a gear or two and coasted into town, hunger burning at my guts, and my sphincter puckering to perfection; right on cue a McDonalds appeared, and I pulled in to relieve both of my renal needs.
As I stood at the counter of Macca’s, looking at the menu deciding which of the incredibly nourishing and appetising culinary delights to have, I heard an English voice, actually it was American, but I was prepared to forgive them that.Their names were Merve and Ken, and they were from Detroit, or possibly Chicago. They were both househusbands, who spent their days playing golf and wandering around, and eating at McDonalds. Their wives were the breadwinners, being accountants at some large US firm that had it’s headquarters nearby. I noticed the particularly delicious-looking Big Mac meal deal was priced in Swiss francs, in fact the whole menu was; I hadn’t thought of that, I only had euro’s on me. Ken came to the rescue and offered to exchange 20 euro’s for 25 Swiss francs. I didn’t know if that was a good deal or not, but having been guilty in the past of ripping off unsuspecting Americans, I figured it’d all come out in the wash one way or another; so I decided to deal, and got myself some food.
The guys were on their way to see the grave of Richard Burton who was buried nearby, also the house where Charlie Chaplin used to live.They told me that Switzerland, being the tax haven that it is, has attracted only the best kind of money to it’s lake Geneva shores, and includes such luminaries as Formula one ace, Michael Schumacher, and formula one rising star, Lewis Hamilton. Country singer Shania Twaine also has a house near Lausanne, along with Phil Collins and probably countless other rich, famous and noteworthy.After I’d finished oo-ing and ah-ing at all the appropriate places, they told me about a campsite further along the shore towards Lausanne called Rolle. It was right on the water and by all accounts a seriously worthwhile place to stay for the night or even a week.I took their photo, wrote down their e-mail addresses and shook their hands goodbye.Half an hour of going full guns along the smooth and well-heeled Swiss foreshore road, I was pulling into the entranceway of the Gondwana campsite.The Alps were still heavily misted over, but I caught glimpses here and there of snow-capped peaks tantalising me through breaks in the cloud and haze. I booked myself in and found a site to pitch the tent just meters from the waters edge, and a stones throw from this crazy-looking campervan with pictures of Snails all over it.
A 70-odd year old woman named Manja from Brazil owned the van. As I approached her to say hello, she was painting another snail with a fine brush and a palette of oils; but these weren’t just any snail paintings, but rather comical representations of snails in various form. Clowns, cats, Father Christmas; a snail riding a bike, playing cards around a table, etc, and they weren’t rough and ready either, but finely detailed and lovingly done.I asked if I could take some photos of her van, and she said of course I could, and then invited me in for a glass of wine and a chat.Over a bottle of sweet white I learned she was fluent in 8 or 9 languages. She couldn’t remember how many herself actually, and wasn’t entirely sure if a couple of them even counted, as they were Swiss/ German, Swiss/French and Swiss/ Belgian, all of which are different in their own peculiar way.She did tell me however that her favourite language was Italian, as it was all about sensuality and passion for living. In her day she’d been a Genealogist and an artist, but nowadays she was retired, and was only visiting Switzerland for a week to take care of her ex-husbands estate, as he had recently died and his affairs needed attending to. I said I was sorry to hear of her recent loss, but she just laughed it off.“Don’t be sorry” she told me, “I’m not, he was hard work and I’m glad to be free of him”. She went on to say that, her husband saw the world in black and white, with no room for colour in between, and now she feels that her coming of age ‘is to be savoured like a well matured Wine’ and her painting is all about ‘the domestication of colour’. “It should make you smile on the inside”, she told me.She’d been married four times, and all four husbands had died…que Sera. I left her to her thoughts on life and death, and went for a walk along the lake-shore to see what I could see.
Some ducks were squabbling over a piece of bread. A beautiful white Swan was nesting on three eggs.A boat was moored just offshore with a guy and his girl barbequing on board.The Alps were a misty temptress still, and the sky above was azure, reflecting like a Sapphire on the sparkling diamond surface of the lake. I started walking into town until I discovered it was a lot further than I realised, and defeated, I turned around and headed back to camp where I again found Manja, busy with her paint-pot, while the smell of something tasty cooking oozed from inside her van. “Would you like to join me for dinner”? She asked. Would I?I thought to myself, what have I got planned for dinner?Let me see. A tin of Sardines, and a stale slice of bread that I wrestled off a duck. A half-eaten tomato with some questionable cheese; a cup of instant coffee with some broken biscuits, or a packet of crisps and a cup of luke-warm water. “That sounds lovely Manja” I told her, “I’d love to”.
She’d made something with shredded potatoes, cheese and sausage meat, ‘Roasties’ I think she said they were called, but this I’m sure was just some generic name similar to the Scottish ‘Stovies’. It was beautiful though, a real taste sensation, especially when washed down with a vintage red wine and more than one shot of something much stronger.
“What the hell is that? I asked her as fire burned in my eyes, throat, nose and mouth.“It’s Damassine” She said “from the Jura mountain region of France”. Jesus wept, and so did I. Snot ran from my nose, tears streamed from my eyes and something strange moved around inside me.It reminded me of rancid Tequila but much, much worse. It was made from wild plums that had frozen while still on the tree, Manja told me, and when you swill it in your mouth you can taste the fruits and the flavours come to life.I didn’t agree, all I could taste was something akin to kerosene, that had been lit just as I swallowed it down. “Have another” she told me, filling up my shot glass. “The first one is always difficult”.So I did, and the night came and went with red-wine, white wine, fire-water and food. The conversation was eclectic and charming, and the hangover already starting by the time I crawled into my tent at nearly two o’clock in the morning.
Wednesday 19th May 2010
As far as hangovers go, I’ve had worse, but even so, when the alarm woke me at just after seven, the best I could manage was to lean over and turn it off. By the time I woke properly and cleared the fuzz from my brain it was getting on for ten-thirty, and I was in no state to consider packing up and getting on the road. Once I’d made the decision that I was going to stay another day, everything began to brighten and I felt much happier about myself. I walked over to the reception and told them I’d be staying another day, and that was no problem at all. Why would it be, the place was only half-booked, and they stood to extract another exorbitant amount of money from my credit card.With that sorted I went and had a shower, got myself vaguely humanised, and sat in the café and gobbled down some breakfast.
Since yesterday had been bit of a washout as far as my writing was concerned, I decided that now I was staying for another day I must be strict with myself and get some done; and with that, I spent the majority of the day in the Gondwana bar, listening to Bob Marley and other chilled-out funky music.
It wasn’t a bad place to be either, a very laid-back joint with Cane furniture, throw rugs and large comfortable cushions scattered all over the sea-grass matted floor of an open-sided gazebo.I sat there writing, drinking wine, drinking coffee, eating cheese, writing some more, drinking more wine, eating salmon baguettes with Avocado and fresh salad fillings. In between it all, I sent and received text messages, checked my e-mails and got thousands of words written down. I thought that maybe this is how Ernest Hemingway enjoyed his days, but then I remembered he’d also been a frontline war correspondent during the Spanish civil war, and saw the best of times along with the worst of times too. Nevertheless, aside from that bit, maybe this was what it was like for him. It was almost cavalier, and definitely decadent; awesomely satisfying and more than just a little bit self-indulgent.
Sunday 16th May 2010. Chatillon sur marne to Dijon
My skin has long since lost it’s bronzed Aussie tan, and has turned white from lack of substantial sunshine. So when I awoke to a blazing golden orb pumping out vitamin D in excess, I was quick to strip down to my bare essentials and frolic in the life giving heat and the clear, lustrous daylight.I broke camp near naked, then thought better of my state of undress as I went to visit the pope and his nearby souvenir shop. Here I bought the required postcards and memorabilia of my stay.The route today I thought would take me through Troyes or Twah as I now knew, and onto Dijon, the home of Mustard, and probably lots of other things too I’m sure.
I wound my way back down the windy-windies, through the small and empty commercial sector, past my campsite for the night, and out onto the road to Epernay, and the Champagne trail.
I’ve never been a great lover of the bubbly stuff, it just seems to get up my nose and make me sneeze a lot, after that I get all wobbly, can’t stop giggling like a fool, and then I fall over and have weird dreams…actually, in hindsight, maybe it’s not so bad. I never really knew how champagne grew either, I guess I knew it was on a grapevine like other wines of course, but never really gave it any dedicated thought. Even now I’m probably none the wiser actually, except for the knowledge that the Champagne region is called that because the whole area is crammed with champagne vines. The road to Epernay and beyond is like a living, breathing excerpt from a travel magazine.Chateau’s and vineyards appeared at every turn… literally every turn. My friend Lyndal would have been in a state of divine rapture riding through here. The hills were covered as far as I could see in great long grids of grapevines, and wooden-shuttered houses of whitewashed stone and red-tiled roofs dotted the landscape like pictures from a lonely-planet travel book.I wished I was more attuned to the appreciation of bubbly grape-juice as I rode on through, maybe I would have been tempted to stop and sample the local produce, but as it was, I wanted to reach Dijon today, if for no other reason than to get some miles under the wheels.
I left the sun-kissed hills of the Champagne-Ardenne region behind me at Epernay, and again found myself on the A26 heading towards Troyes. Soon enough though I turned off the motorway and wound my way onto the D671, which in turn became the D971, a picture postcard road through sleepy Siene-side villages leading all the way into Dijon.
The 80-odd mile route was nothing short of glorious, with too many photo opportunities to possibly stop at. I stood for a while and watched fly fisherman casting their whispy lines into a clear, greeny coloured Siene that flowed rapidly beneath the road; and cascaded out the other side in a wide arc of white water, before settling into a deep emerald-coloured pool surrounded by willows and other lazy-looking, sleepy trees.
As I rode on I became totally enchanted with where I was, and soon found myself singing into my helmet “No, non regret, je ne regret rien’. I again stood up on the pegs as I coasted down through the pine and firs that started to appear road-side, and threw my arms out wide as I burst in rapturous voice. ‘’Non regret rien…’ when a bug of French design flew straight into my mouth, punching it’s weight into my tonsils and almost instantly choking me. As I struggled to breathe and regain control of the now careering bike, I thought about the woman who swallowed a fly…I don’t know why.
Near Chanceaux I had the opportunity to travel five miles off-course to see the source of the Seine, but I didn’t take it. ‘Non regret rien!’
The Vineyards of the Champagne-Ardenne had given way to lush cereal fields, and then at St. Marc, the landscape changed again, becoming forested with high rocky crags, as I began an ascent into the clouds. It became much colder too, and the switchback roads at Val Suzon gave me a taste of what must lay ahead. I noticed the bike felt heavy up the long winding ascent toward the sky, and anything under three thousand revs in top gear became a shuddering twin-cylindered revolt into a lower gear.I reached the top of the climb, and then without prelude or celebration, Dijon appeared below me like a huge concrete lake. Time had got on without me even noticing, so I found myself a campsite quickly and got settled in for the evening. T decided I’d take tomorrow off the bike and spend the day in Dijon at a café where I could get my journal up to date and possibly enjoy some decent food and a leisurely walk around town. That night, as the sun again set on my journey through France, I wrote a postcard to my girls in Melbourne; but they didn’t even know I was on this trip did they? so what to say and how to say it was agonising. I made a hot drink and went for a walk through the forest, trying to ease the pain that throbbed in my chest.
Monday 17th May 2010.Dijon to Dole.
I had intended taking today off the bike and spending it in Dijon; one of the reasons being that I really needed to get my camera and computer powered-up, and get online to do my internet thing.But try as I might I couldn’t find an internet café for love nor money. I wandered around the old town marvelling at the wooden-beamed building with their multi-stories, and getting all turned-around and lost amongst the winding maze-like cobbled laneways and streets.After an hour or so of local shops, coffee houses and mustard souvenirs, I decided that I really did need to get plugged-in, and started riding towards Geneva to see what would happen. Thirty-five miles later I was in Dole and booking myself into a hotel for the day and night.
The Hotel de la cloches means the hotel of the bells, and I could see why, or actually, I could hear why. It was because the nearby church bells sounded every quarter of an hour and lasted for about ten minutes per chime, so really, there was only about five minutes between each deafening peel of bells. I parked the bike and carted all the gear up to my room in a lift just big enough for me and a couple of bags at a time, after what seemed about fifteen trips, I had a long hot shower, and went for a walk around town. Beautiful though the bells were, after the first hour I was all hunched over and calling out “the bells Esmerelda, the bells”. I hobbled away through the tiny back alleys and twisting laneways that always headed steeply downhill to escape them.Suddenly I was next to a canal with four, five and six storey building abutting it’s length. Many were beautifully painted and renovated in tasteful period guise, but just as many were vacant, and looking for all the world like they were fit to collapse at any moment; they were the Tannery buildings, and had stood here for centuries.
Dole made it’s money from the tannery trade, and the area I was walking through had once been the beating heart of town. The seedy, prostitute-ridden and underworld heart of town mind you, with just as many brothels as tanneries, and just as many pick-pockets, thieves, rascals and rapscallions to boot. Nonetheless, the walk I took was picturesque, with the Roach-filled canal charming and sparkling it’s way along the quay, and the cool, underground grotto stretching out beneath several streets.I alighted from the grotto and was met by a sign advising me that the famous Louise Pasteur had been born just up the road at number 24.Excellent I thought, I can’t remember what he painted, but I’m sure I’ll know it when I see it.Imagine my disappointment when after paying 5 euros to get in, I learned that he wasn’t a French renaissance painter or anything remotely similar or interesting like that at all. He was a world renowned chemist and micro-biologist who saved the world from such blights as Cholera, Scabies, Rabies, Typhus etc, and gave us such gifts as pasteurisation, inoculation and something worthy to aspire to..I did get to see his accoutrements though, and that made me happy, as I’ve always wanted to use that word somewhere.
I met a homeless guy named Kurt, and his dog named Kessel, or was it Dirk and Vassel? Either way, he was sitting cross-legged on the pavement with a margarine tub in front of him, with a sign reading, ‘Stop Global warming’.I tossed him 0.50 Euros and asked if he minded me joining him, soon I was sitting next to him, patting his dog and making uncalled-for social judgement on his predicament. He was a nice guy though, fluent in both French and German, and very well educated in Munich. When I asked how he got to be in his position, he simply replied. “I walked here”. Then he gave me a knowing grin and shook my hand firmly goodbye.
Dole was quaint and possessed a real easiness about itself, even the bells after a couple hours didn’t seem quite that noticeable anymore. I smoothed out my hump, and left Kurt to his Global campaigning and wandered back up the narrow, winding streets to the hotel; stopping here for coffee, and there for Croissants. A girl named Helena sold me a quiche that I really didn’t want, but she was way too lovely to say no to.
