Living Better Longer

Our journey by train from Cinque Terre was rather uneventful.  The only exception was that we arrived at the French border thirty minutes after our connection to Nice had left the station.  For a moment I thought that a slight oversight on my part in the same location thirty years previous, had come back to haunt me.  On that occasion the Italian conductor wanted a king’s ransom, my passport, and quite possibly my crown jewels on the basis that I had neglected to get my ticket stamped.  He got nothing.

On this occasion, the Italian conductor was most helpful and we were soon on our way to Nice.  By the way, Nice was Nice.  I just had to get that in.

The train journey up to St Andre Les Alpes, and the commencement of our walk was also uneventful, except for the start.  I always like it when we get allocated seats.  In that way, Karyn doesn’t have a choice.  When seats are not allocated, she likes to move around a bit and try a few out before finally getting settled.  It is just a good thing that I am not inclined to excesses with strong drink.

The train was small, the platform crowded and the passengers were in their starting blocks.  Seats were up for grabs.  I suggested to Karyn that it would be a good idea to make our choice of seats quickly, and then stick with it.  Otherwise we could be on our feet for the whole journey.

We boarded the train, stowed our large packs in the appropriate compartment, grabbed two seats and temporarily placed our small backpacks on the two seats opposite.  I was settled.  I then turned and Karyn had done a runner.  She was up the front of the train and was busy trying out another seat.  I was left with two back packs on two seats and an empty one beside me.  Experience has taught me to wait a bit before moving house, just in case there was another change in plan.

Right at this point the conductor arrived and he let loose.  I thought he was going to want a king’s ransom, my passport and very definitely my crown jewels.  Before he had the opportunity to go for the knife, I was up and away with back packs trailing behind.  Once finally settled, I told Karyn what a joy she was to travel with.  Well something like that anyway.

The first day of our walk was from St Andre Les Alpes to Castellane.  We were hiking by ourselves and depended on some travelling notes, signs on the track, a map, a watch to time distances between way points, and a compass.  We didn’t get lost.

Two things caught my attention.  The first was a warning in our notes not to touch the electric fencing used extensively throughout the area.  That is of course, and I quote “unless you are wearing asbestos underwear”.  Having neglected to include a pair when packing for the trip, I stayed well clear of the potential attack on the unmentionables again.

The second was a sign on a tree warning about the big dogs that protect the sheep out in the fields.  It suggested that if approached, one should stand perfectly still, so that the dog can sus you out.  It was much the same advice as given in Canada to warn about bears.  I am afraid that I felt no comfort in either of these messages.  We certainly heard some dogs, saw them in the distance, but thankfully they were never close enough to test out the theory.

Further along the track on the first day we arrived at a place called Mandarom.  It had lots of 10 metre high silver structures, like spikey hollow dumbbells, that marked the boundary of the complex.  It is apparently a strange religious group that incorporates and displays symbols from various different religions.  Some of the statues were enormous.  The notes suggested, and I quote again “We don’t recommend that you accept an invitation to visit the centre in case you are tempted to stay too long and MISS THE REST OF YOUR LIFE”.  Now there is a warning that could well be applied to a much broader range of religious locations.

And so it went on.  Every day, after Karyn did her hunting and gathering for sustenance, we would head off with our small back packs, and walk for 6-7 hours.  However, choosing an appropriate spot for lunch was often as challenging as getting a seat on a train.  I will say no more.  In the evening, we would arrive at our designated hotel, pick up our large back packs and settle in for the night.  It was just wonderful.

One of the best days was day three.  On this occasion we were to traverse much of the Grand Canyon du Verdon.  It is the deepest in the whole of Europe, where the cliffs can reach as high as 700 metres.  Apart from hiking, it is an absolute mecca for climbing.  There are lots of metal ladders and stairs as well as tunnels through the rock to enable the many walkers to travel through this amazing location.  By the way, we found that the tunnels were as black as a bats ass when the once trusty torch failed to ignite.

The sound of a helicopter in the canyon was initially greeted with some disdain, as we thought it was just another tourist venture spoiling the tranquillity of our day.  And then we saw it hover and lower a rope down the side of a cliff.  One by one, a total of ten tiny specks of climbers were snatched from the sheer rock face.  Some in stretchers some not.  From their height, it was obvious that they had been stranded all night.  I tried to think of an appropriate word to describe what I was witnessing.  Apart from the SKILL and BRAVERY in relation to the chopper pilot, the other had five letters and started with C and finished with Y.

After several days of constant ascending and descending and travelling through some of the most beautiful scenery imaginable, we finally cleared the Alps and were out into the rolling hills of Provence.  It also coincided with a marked increase in temperature.  The long stretches over dirt tracks finally started to take their toll and I ended up with blistered feet.

On our final day we did not get to walk at all.  Well not much anyway.  It was time to take another train journey for the short trip into Aix en Provence.  I have a feeling that the French conductors were on the look out to see if Karyn could break the seat changing record.

Tomorrow it will be back on the bikes for a crack at Le Tour.

From my perspective, the only heaven of interest is right here on earth.  While Noosa comes close, I think we have just found a slice of it in Italy.  It just takes a bit of effort to get here.

I have always said that stairs are your best friend.  I used to run them in the high rise buildings in my days working in the city.  It was a great way to stay fit and break up the monotony of the sometimes mind numbing nature of the public sector.  Why choose the lift when stairs are available?  There are no lifts in Vernazza, just lots of stairs.

We are in Cinque Terre, characterised by extended terraces whose edification started in the 12^th century, and five villages that cling to the cliffs on the West Coast of Northern Italy.  The area has been declared by UNESCO as a patrimony of Mankind.  It is also a National Park and a very special place visited by millions each year.  Just think, eight million in August alone.

For centuries the only transport between the villages was by track and lots of stairs.  The tracks and stairs are still there, well some of them anyway, but most of the millions are ferried in by train and boat.

We arrived by train, walked down the main street with our packs on our back and were greeted by our host outside the local gelato shop.  Roberto is as brown as a berry and has a cigar permanently attached to his mouth.  Not sure whether the sun or the smoke will get him first.  Then we started to climb.  It was at this point that I was very grateful for the back pack.  You should see those with their wardrobe on wheels trying to negotiate the climb.  Up through the back alleys of Vernazza, in through a large green door, more stairs and then out onto an open balcony.  We were right on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Med.  We had arrived at our apartment.  Well almost.  To get to our abode, we went through another door, climbed down a cross between a ladder and a staircase and arrived in a room built into the rock face.  It was fantastic and was to be our home for the next five days.  Karyn said she never wanted to leave.

But leave we did.  Every day we would venture out into the mountains, climb lots of stairs and then drop down into a village for a swim in the ocean and a taste of the local food produce.  The weather has been absolutely perfect.  We are in heaven.

The view from our balcony is straight into the Med.  If I was stupid enough to jump, I would hopefully land in the water at least 30 metres below.  There are a number of boat moorings just outside the small Vernazza harbour that I have taken some interest in.  Just for old times sake.  They are the locations where cruising yachts tie up for varying lengths of time.  As I watch, I go through the tasks to be performed in the process.  It is a long list.  I then go through the process of what it would take for the inhabitants of the yachts to come ashore.  It is another long list.  The possibility of getting very wet is high.  The swell from the sea has been increasing each day and the yachts lurch about like pendulums.  I am thankful we are on dry land and all I have to do is walk down a few stairs to have a bite to eat and a beer.  Karyn is not so sure.

It finally came to our last day to go for a walk.  We decided to head up the hills into the mountains and take the high alternative track.  This is the non tourist trek and it was absolutely wonderful.  We were alone in the mist and the beautiful vegetation.  The return journey from Monterosso via the much used coastal track was like a conga line.  Cinque Terre is in danger of being loved to death.

The other problem is that Cinque Terre is in danger of falling into the water.  In October 2011 a wild storm lashed the coastline and much of the landscape was washed away.  The main street of Vernazza became a river of mud and rock and lives were lost.  It is still in recovery mode and many of the tracks are closed.

It is now time to pack and leave this little slice of heaven.  We are heading back into France for another adventure in the Alps.  I think we are going by train, though the way Karyn keeps looking at the yachts, she may have an alternative plan.

As we depart our little hole in the cliff face, I notice that the harbour has turned into a washing machine from the increased swell in the Med.  All the tiny boats have been stored on dry land in the market square.  There is not a yacht in sight.  Yes! we are going by train.

Doing the laundry while travelling is just one of those undertakings that is essential, but generally unwelcomed.  I like to save it up and give it one big hit.  In contrast, Karyn washes as she goes.  Quite often, I arrive at the basin to do the shave or teeth thing and find wet ones occupying the space.  She also has this special expanding clothes line that straddles the length and width of our accommodation and transforms into a lethal weapon for unwary wanders of the night.  We actually left it behind in one of our hotels.  But, quick as a flash, the basic ingredients were acquired and another garrotte was created in its place.  A skill Karyn apparently learnt in primary school?  I always thought Acacia Ridge was a tough area.

We were in Brugge, following our epic biking adventure, and the time had come to cleanse the kit.  Thankfully, Karyn had some technical stuff to do on the computer, so I made a dash for the local laundry.  I usually find these places quite daunting, though on this occasion managed to get the washing on its way with a minimum of fuss.  Feeling quite chuffed, I sat back and leafed through the local junk mail.

“Excuse me, but do you speak English?”  I turned and found that I was being greeted by another Australian.  This was amazing, a woman asking a man for directions on what to do in a laundry.  What was also amazing was that within a few minutes we had not only sorted out her washing but told each other our total life story. Isn’t it funny how that just seems to happen sometimes?  Well it does to me anyway.

She was originally from Phillip Island and went to Boulder, Colorado to study Karl Jung, and never left.  I can understand that, as Boulder is known as one of the great wellness cities of the World.  She was travelling through Europe with her partner.  When I mentioned that we had just finished a bike ride through the Western Front, she told me that her father had been in WW2 and was a veteran of the Tobruk campaign – a rare breed indeed.

The tears welled as she recalled the pain of a childhood living with the secrets of war.  Her dad was an obsessive stickler for being on time.  It wasn’t until his latter years that he revealed that if he was late, soldiers lost their lives.  I wonder how many other people are out there still living the wars of their family members.

Washing completed, it was time to move on.

The airport in Brussels was packed and Karyn and I were sitting at gate 51 awaiting our departure to Florence, via a brief stopover in Rome.  The Alitalia flight attendant at check in had assured us that the plane was on time.  We were warned to check this, as Alitalia airline, like many things Italian, was not known for its efficiency.  At the allotted time and on the call of the PA, we rose to take our place in the line up.  It was at this point that Karyn noticed that ROME had been replaced by NICE on the sign above our gate.  Confusion reigned and would be passengers started wandering around in all directions scratching their heads.

When in doubt, ask.  So I decided to approach the young attendant at the desk and seek some clarification.  She was busy.  I waited.  She was still busy and continued to ignore me.  I waited.  Eventually, she sighed and gave me this look.  It wasn’t a good one.  “Excuse me, but is the flight to Rome still departing from gate 51”?

“YOU SEE THE SIGN? WHAT DOES IT SAY? DOES IT SAY ROME? NO, IT SAYS NICE.”

As she returned to her work, I thought I detected a quick gaze to the heavens and a whispered “sweet mother of Jesus!”  I was going to enter into a deep theological discussion about the sense of appealing to someone who hadn’t been around for a few thousand years, or who may not have existed at all, but decided to leave it for another day.

The problem was eventually sorted by the lovely attendant who we met on our check in, and we were herded into a sardine tin with wheels for the quick journey to our flight.  I think I was still recovering from the onslaught and without looking, sort solace in Karyn’s hand beside me on the bus rail.  As I stroked her fingers, I was quite surprised to find the hand withdrawn rather quickly.  Somewhat miffed, I turned and found that the withdrawn hand actually belonged to a young Italian gentleman in a suit and a three day growth.  We both coughed and spluttered a bit, and did that macho thing of a few deep Haw Haws!  I was also just about to reveal my true masculinity and discuss the results of The State of Origin football game when we were rescued by the end of our journey.  Karyn just cracked up and was no help whatsoever.

Eventually we did arrive at our destination in Florence, but the planned encounter with our hosts at the apartment was somewhat delayed.  After the shuttle from the airport to the train station, we couldn’t find the right local bus stop and wandered aimlessly around with packs on back for what seemed hours.  It was at this point we debated the merits of having a driver stand at the airport with our name plastered all over a white board.

Following frantic text messages, we finally made our connection and were eventually delivered into the loving arms of our hosts, Allesandro and Azadeh.  They were just wonderful and showed us the ropes of the apartment as well as advice on anything and everything in relation to Florence.

As a result, Karyn is now planning an encounter with ‘The David’ tomorrow at the Galleria dell Accademia.  I have told her that she shouldn’t bother as she gets to see the equivalent on a daily basis.  For some reason, she just cracked up again.  So I guess that there will be no chance this encounter will be missed.  I might have to go along as well and see what all the fuss is about.

Oh, and by the way, our apartment in Florence has a washing machine.

Rod