She is the passenger - by Theo

Before we left for Cathy & Jean's, a 1000km journey, which, sticking to Spanish and French speed limits, is about 9 hours, Kate started a thread on Facebook which got a swift and speedy response. She asked how Rosie, on a scale of 1 to 10 with 1 being the infanta Jesusina (no crying she makes) and 10 being the sister of Satan, would cope with the trip.

Most respondents figured we'd get an hour of quiet reflection followed by 10 to 11 hours (allowing for stops) of the kind of hell on four wheels usually reserved for Chevy Chase movies.

But it turned out that Rosie is basically the world's best infant passenger (in our humble opinion). Sure, she whinged a bit, but no more than she would have done out of the car, and thanks to Kate's tireless entertainment efforts Rosie napped, ate, laughed and chortled most of the way there, and most of the way back. Hurrah!

Hats off, Cravats on

How on earth did we come up with "Croatia" as a pronunciation for the country actually called by the people who live there "Hrvatzka"? A pretty poor approximation, really - the word we use for the Croatia-created necktie, "cravat" is much closer. Not that the Croatians - the Hrvatski - seem to mind, the English rendering - or should that be mangling? - of their country's name is used almost interchangeably with the Slavic version.

Theo and I spent a little under three days in Croatia - just enough time to get thoroughly lost, stressed out and fed up trying to find a campsite close to the capital, Zagreb; a day to wander around and see its main sites; and another day extricating ourselves in the direction of Slovenia. Incidentally, Slovenes do pronounce their land as "Slovenia", so we were closer with that one.

Most would agree that Croatia's strongest suit is its incredible coastline, with more idyllic Islands to boast of than Greece and the dual jewels in its crown of Split and Dubrovnik. But Zagreb is not without its charms by any means.


The Dolac fruit and vegetable market was well worth a visit and there we got some of the sweetest plums and mandarins I've ever tasted - for a very decent price, too, although Croatia isn't nearly as cheap as, say, Slovakia ("Slovenske"...hmm).

The snappily named Cathedral of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary was also of interest, although its most intriguing feature was the prone effigy of a Cardinal on his way to sainthood and currently celebrating ten years since his beatification. He could be seen laying in state in a glass coffin and the brass emblem on its front was shiny from the number of hands reverently (superstitiously?) placed upon it by the people paying their respects.

That same ritualistic approach to Croatia's Roman Catholicism could also be seen at the Holy Virgin icon contained within a shrine at the 13th Century Stone Gate. Inside the gate, all was a-flicker with candles, there were a few people praying in the three pews placed before the shrine and the walls surrounding it were crowded with plaques proclaiming the grateful thanks of the faithful. As we watched, a crowd of noisy teenagers passed through the gate, but almost all of them crossed themselves as they approached the shrine, although they continued their conversations as they did so.


A final hats off to the splendid restaurant, Kaptolska Klet. Despite specialising in indigenous dishes and Zagreb specialities like strukli (a sort of savoury boiled cheesecake, which is much tastier than it sounds), it also offered the most extensive list of vegetarian options Theo and I have yet come across outside an exclusively vegetarian eatery. We were spoiled for choice and as a result, over-ordered and both had to leave half our very tasty main-courses uneaten.

Travelling Top Trumps

Well, we already knew that we hardly ranked alongside Phileas Fogg or even Michael Palin in a Travellers Top Trumps set, but we didn't think we were doing too badly at being adventurous. Not just in where we've been and where we're going, but the lifestyle change it has meant for both of us, the huge down sizing required to live out of the van which has been our home for 5 months now.

Today though we met the Millers. This American couple with their FOUR children aged 6 to 12 have sold their house and quit their jobs to travel around Europe and North Africa for 15 months. By bicycle. Wow! We are in awe. Check out their website: www.edventureproject.com

It made a fantastic contrast to the (very friendly) antipodean types who rolled in to the Viennese campsite on the Kontiki Express. 22 countries in 46 days - made us feel knackered just thinking about it.

INTERMISSION

We're on a break.

Yes, we've returned from our European adventures for a short (4 week) English intermission before we plunge back into the continental backwoods.

We came back for two weddings - The Rargs (which was ace!) and Kate's sister Anne-Marie this coming weekend, before getting the Dover to Calais on Auguist 11th. Meanwhile we've been to Bristol to see all our friends (well, not all, sadly), Gloucestershire to see Theo's folks and Cornwall to see Kate's. We took in WOMAD which was hot, fun and entertaining, and Sheena has a new, sparkling radiator and carpet.

Bulletins begin in Belgium. Tune in then.

Love,

Kate and Theo x

the big send off

It was very nice of the French to arrange not one, but two, huge firework displays to mark our departure from the continent. So sweet of them! The first, at Courseilles-sur-Mer, was on the Sunday night and was preceded by some psycopathic amateur attempts by local teenagers on the beach - throwing bangers, firing mortars and rockets at odd angles, often narrowly missing each other. Seeing as the beach in question was Juno beach, stormed successfully by Canadian troops during World War II's D-Day landings there was a strange echo to such antics. Then, at about 11, the municipal offerings kicked in, firing off from the town pier over the water for a good ten minutes. It was impressive, not least because we'd only decided to come here the day before, seeking some sun after overcast Paris skies, so they didn't have much time to put the show together! Indeed, we nearly missed it ourselves, catching it only after electing to take an evening stroll along the beach after a day of lazing about reading, playing games, swimming and sun bathing.

We took the scenic route to Cherbourg and followed the coast past the other D-Day beaches of Gold, Omaha and Utah and various memorials and cemeteries. Seeing these long stretches of sand that would have provided the allied forces with no cover at all from enemy fire as they disembarked from their pontoons was a sobering moment for us both.



However, after a beer in the fishing port of Barfleur and a crepe in Cherbourg, we were more than ready to appreciate Cherbourg's firework display before we made our way to the Ferry car park to await our passage home. Our ferry back to England from Cherbourg was early on the 15th and had been booked for some time, so the port town had had plenty of warning to plan their cordite reception for us and the send-off fireworks didn't disappoint. We have grown very fond of France, and it would seem France has grown fond of us - unless we're missing something.

Vive La France!


(Note: July 14th is Bastille Day and is celebrated across France with public firework displays. Mere coincidence, of course.)

One day in Paris....

Despite having a long lie in and not leaving the campsite until 12pm we managed to cram a fair bit into our first day in Paris. Buying a travel card at Porte Malliot we hopped on the metro and then wandered past the Tuillery gardens and the Louvre to the Isle de la Cite. Crossing Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge, we made it to the very centre of Paris, an island in the Seine where this great city began in 300 BC.


Paris is full of parks so we stopped off in one to eat our lunch and watch the river traffic go by, before heading on towards Notre Dame, with its twin towers, three ornate doors and massive organ (which was in the process of being cleaned as we entered - the result sounded like the intro to a song by Crippled Black Phoenix).

After wandering through the Latin Quarter - clearly the place for cheap eats and outrageous view taxes on the drinks - we made it to the Luxembourg gardens, admiring first the exhibition of Le Figaro photos (that's photos from the magazine Le Figaro) on the railings outside. All beautiful, many moving and compelling. Inside the gardens the activity of choice was clearly playing with toy sailing boats in one of the fountains; it seemed like fantastic fun. Somebody had got really ambitious and had built a huge, stately, but slow, marine creation out of rubbish - the result was somewhere between a galleon and a junk that was quickly colonised by ducks while all the little ships whizzed about in the breeze.


A metro trip later and we were in Pigalle, the red light district, before mounting the hill to Montmatre to admire the view, watch the buskers, have a drink, play some backgammon (which never fails to attract curious comments) and check the menus. We eventually plumped for a Tibetan restaurant - partly out of curiosity, partly because, as usual, veggie options were thin on the ground. It was very nice and very filling.

Finally we ended up at Champ des Mars to see the most famous Parisian landmark of all, La Tour Eiffel. It was quite beautiful, all bathed in blue light, and quite staggeringly huge. Even though I'd seen it before not all that long ago, I was still taken aback by how massive it is. There's something about the thin top and the squat frame that makes it seem so out of perspective and yet so very THERE.


It had got quite late by now, so we headed back to bed.

The coeur de Nancy

Being with someone almost every minute of every day is pretty intense, even when they're your much beloved husband. We're learning more about each other all the time, including what presses our buttons and how best to deal with the odd moment of irritation when it arises. I'm happy to report that we're as mutually besotted as ever and navigating the odd little choppy patch has been relatively easy.

But it's great to socialise with other people and step outside that little knot of dual intimacy now and again, especially while travelling. Thus, I think the highlights of our European tour so far have tended to be when we've had the chance to hang out with a few mates, whether we're meeting up with old friends or making new ones.

Which is why we had such a great time in the French Lorraine town of Nancy. It has a charming old quarter and a magnificent, newly-restored central plaza, Place Stanislas, which is decked out in white and gold. During the summer, the town also puts on a nightly son-et-lumiere in Place Stanislas, making beautiful and colourful use of the elegant frontage of the Hotel de Ville, which was transformed with clever, creative and thought-provoking projections as we watched in the square.

But what made it really special for us was seeing our old friends from the band, Crevecoeur, who all live in Nancy. Fanny and Roman have a flat right beside the Place Stanislas and with generous use of their internet facilities and a playful cat for added entertainment, we felt right at home. Best of all was the chance to catch up on what everyone was up to (CC have a new album coming out later this year, have recently completed a second successful UK tour and are planning a European tour in the Autumn) and to simply enjoy their company.

We stayed for two nights, on the first Fanny cooked us a lovely vegetarian version of the local classic, Quiche Lorraine and on the second we made them a lentil casserole with mash, for which we were joined by the other member of Creve Coeur, Luc and his girlfriend Stephanie. It was all highly convivial and we were sorry to leave them. We were also sorry to leave Roman's superb record collection, which shows a broad and excellent taste in music, we were both quite envious. Still, at least we have the new Creve Coeur album to add to our on-the-road CD collection, something to remember an excellent sojourn in Eastern France. Next stop, Paris.

On tourists

Tourists...we're a funny lot, aren't we? Like many a middle class Englisharian I am uncomfortable with the business of being a tourist - it so easily places you in a universe of tackiness and I take on board Jarvis Cocker's pronouncement that "everybody hates a tourist." Growing up in Cornwall has also given me a dread of being instantly identified with "the emmets" - the Cornish word for ants, so generously bestowed by the Duchy's natives on those who butter most of their turnips.

Yes, tourists are big business and places like Cornwall or Bath - both areas where I have lived and/or worked - would not prosper without them. At the same time, as Mr Cocker points out, tourists tend to be despised. Especially foreign tourists.

So here are a few observations on tourists I have made while sightseeing in France (main traps visited: Mont St Michel, Carcassonne, Pont du Gard); Spain (the Bilbao Guggenheim, Salamanca, Seville, Cordoba, the Costa del Sol); Portugal (Porto, Coimbra, Lisbon) and Italy (Rome, San Gimignano, Florence, San Marino...so far).
1. Most tourists are German, Dutch or North American. Apart from on the Costa del Sol, where they're almost one hundred per cent British.
2. A large proportion of tourists only see these incredible cultural hotspots through the lens of their digital cameras.
3. Tourists are seen as fair game to be ripped off by everyone, from third-class, overpriced restaurants, to retailers selling souvenirs of gob-smacking poor taste, the hawkers with their counterfeit handbags, the buskers with their dreadful backing tracks and the (usually Romany) beggars. And let's not forget the living statues, no self-respecting historical centre should be without one.
4. There is a tourist uniform consisting of knee-length shorts, short-sleeved shirts, bum-bags and sensible shoes (usually walking sandals). It is worn by both men and women, who are often hard to tell apart.
5. Even if the above symptoms haven't been noted, the regular unfolding and peering at free city plans should give any hitherto unnoticed tourists away.
6. Most tourists want to experience something "authentic". But ironically, their own presence invariably leads to them getting the exact opposite.
7. Locals are usually most welcoming to tourists in places which receive the least.
8. When it comes to "doing the culture", tourists tend to be incredibly keen to learn as much as possible about the place they're visiting. Consequently, they love multi-lingual, pedagogic guides (especially the sort with commanding voices that stride purposefully to the front of long queues waving an easy-to-spot umbrella); audio guides (so they can wander from exhibit to exhibit with something resembling a large phone clamped to their ear); open-top tour buses (with pre-recorded commentaries) and guide-books.

Yes, I don't like being seen as one of the faceless visiting hordes - but I don't regret joining the throngs to see The Colisseum, The Sistine Chapel, Michaelangelo's David, Seville Cathedral, The Mezquita, Carcassonne citadel or any of the other places we've been to. In fact, I feel privileged, they're all amazing things to have seen. But I really could have done without the crowds, the queues and the con-artists.

Town, Gown & Fado

We loved Porto, but mindful of our limited time in Portugal before going to the Rocket Festival (and that there are a lot of places in Spain we still want to visit before the end of May), we decided to push on towards Lisbon. Our guidebook recommended Coimbra as an interesting city to see and as our new South American friends had also given the place their thumbs up, we decided to call in on route.

The city only has one campsite, but it was easy to find, very reasonably priced, has good, clean facilities and a regular bus into town - perfect. It also had the biggest European mix of clientale we'd encountered so far, with fellow campers including Dutch, French, Spanish, Portugese, German and another English couple. AND the young woman on reception spoke some English, so that made everything much more straightforward.

It was very hot in the afternoon - Theo chose to spend it snoozing in Sheena while I mooched around doing domestic things like the washing up and wrestling unsuccessfully with the campsite clothes washing machine. Eventually, I gave up, went and got my three Euros back from reception, only to return and witness one of the Dutch women sticking a load on in nary a blink of the eyes. I've noticed Dutch people seem to be very efficient campers (well, motorhome enthusiasts) - next time I want to do some laundry I think I will lassoo a Netherlander first. It could save me a lot of frustration.

We took the bus into Coimbra for the evening after the inevitable confusion buying tickets - not only does every country have its own system, but as we've discovered in Portugal, every city and individual bus firm does the business of ticket buying and stamping (or not) and return issuing (or not) in a different manner as well. Rather baffling to the unwary foreign traveller, but don't let that put you off. Without taking the bus, how would you get to see the scruffiest suburbs and lowliest housing estates of all these proud cities? It's also cheap and you can get all the thrills of a fairground ride with some of the more gung-ho drivers.

Coimbra is a city with a university at its heart. King Dinis gifted his Coimbra palace to the institution and it's been established in the city since the early thirteenth century. The buildings are crumbling but still impressive, with the university precincts dotted with statues and steeped in a long, proud history.

The town itself has a multitude of steep, narrow streets, lined with tall appartments, many of them tiled in patterns of blue and green and festooned with their residents' drying clothes. We spent a happy hour or so wandering round (after the obligatory cafe pingo and cup of hot chocolate taken outside a cafe beside the Santa Cruz monastery, itself a rather beautiful converted chapel) before going to the Restaurante Jardim da Manga for some food. We were greeted by a very friendly, English-speaking waiter, Diago, who guided us through the vegetarian options at the cafeteria-style sevice counter. We ate our huge platefuls outside beside the water garden, formally laid out with heavily-laden citrus trees dropping their fruit into the quartet of fountains. We got complimentary glasses of port (yay!) and the whole thing cost less than fourteen Euros.

While at the top of the town during our walk, we'd noticed what looked like a festival laid out in the city's riverside park. It turned out Coimbra was midway through it annual student extravaganza, Queima das Fitas. Essentially, ten days of each faculty celebrating that year's graduation with an eclectic mix of live music, beginning after midnight and ending with traditional Portugese Fado.

Having encountered Fado already through seeing Mariza at WOMAD (the stylish young Fado singer, who has almost single-handedly opened it up to the rest of the world) and then Dona Rosa (who I preferred), I was interested to catch some live. Coimbra's most succesful bar is aCapella, where they put on shows every night in a fourteenth century monument. For ten Euros a head you got three shows, explanation and background to the music in Portugese and English and a drink. We got a jug of sangria, which lasted us the night and watched two young guys, one on Portugese guitar, the other on English classical guitar, deliver a beautiful and intricate set of ballads, serenades and dances. They had a singer with them, who was less impressive - not bad on the more uptempo numbers, but tended to confuse emotion for volume on the slower more melancholy songs and had all the over-bearing vibrato of the lead tenor in a small town, church choir.

Nonetheless, it was an enjoyable couple of hours and I was interested to learn that every year each faculty at Coimbra university composes a new fado song so the students can say their farewells. Some of these have become incredibly well-known throughout Portugal and the finale was the 1958 Medical Faculty fado, which had the Portugese members of the audience all singing along...a lovely moment.

When we got outside, this year's graduates had filled Coimbra's streets, many of them still wearing their black graduation gowns with badges sewn on, scout-style. We contemplated joining the celebrations and going along to the party in the park, but all that sangria and dolorous Fado had made us feel sleepy, so we got a taxi back to the campsite. Tomorrow if it's hot, we decided, we would get our laundry done and go canoeing while it was drying and maybe head to the beach later on.

We woke this morning to the familiar sound of raindrops pattering onto Sheena's roof. Nah, we'll get on the road to Lisbon and the laundy will have to wait.

where we've been and where we're going

An update then, for regular readers, and for others a quick summary to avoid trawling through the past 19 odd posts.

We caught the ferry at Poole at the beginning of April, and drove down the West Coast of France - Cherbourg, Mont Saint Michel, Dinan, Carnac, Nantes, La Rochelle, Ile de Re, Rochefort - to Montcuq in the Lot region. We've been here for two weeks now drinking and eating far too much at Cathy & Jean's - Kate's mother and her French-of-Italian-extraction boyfriend. We've been relaxing, washing clothes, shrugging off colds, taking day trips to Carcassonne, Toulouse & Cahors, learning Spanish, doing odd bits and bobs to Sheena, and playing lots and lots of card games. This Sunday there's a big party for us that is basically a second wedding reception for those French friends who couldn't make it to Bristol.

Where to next?

We're both looking forward to getting off - it's been great chilling out here and being spoiled, but we're itching for the road. Bilbao, probably via Biarritz, is our first stop - we've met some people through Global Freeloaders there who are going to let us park up and use their kitchen and bathroom, while we find out whether we've learnt any Spanish at all. Then Madrid, Salamanca, Porto, Lisbon and Seville are the next stops on our rough itinery, before we rock up at the Rocket Festival outside Grenada on May 16th. Afterwards we plan to check out Granada itself then head up towards Barcelona for the Primavera Sound Festival, both of us having secured press passes, which starts on the 25th - SJ Esau, Portishead and Fuck Buttons on our 'to see' list. Then back to France - probably via Andorra - and on, via the French Riviera, to Italy, where we plan to spend most of June, before heading back to Cherbourg via Slovenia, Switzerland and Paris to catch a ferry back to take our turn as wedding guests.

Oh to be in Audeland, now that spring is here...

Neither of us has been in France during April before, and the landscape is thus a surprise to us, and a very pleasant one at that. Whereas in summer or autumn, when we are both used to visiting, we would expect to see fields of flourishing vines laid out in stringent rows, we find gnarled, bare stumps strapped to their wires, starting to wear the merest of green garlands as the first buds open.

In the past we've been greeted with golds, browns and dusky greens as sun burned fields give way to parched forests; instead the lush greens of young wheat fields are broken by the bright yellow of rape and the nut-brown of ploughed soil, freshly drenched by spring downpours. The French don't go in for fences, so while in England our roadside views are impeded by high stone walls or hedges, here the long, straight avenues allow us vistas of many kilometres across fields and orchards, often catching sight of beautiful buildings as we drive, sometimes covered with frothy mauve wisteria or surrounded by sprinklings of needle pines.

On the drive south to Carcassonne on the river Aude we had an added pleasure; the snowy ridges of the Pyrenees rising up like a glowing white wall in the distance. It's so easy to imagine how, to superstitious folk in times past, they must have seemed like the edge of the world.

In the hills, where sightlines are more restricted, the winding roads take us through woods that are just at their turning point, with acer, alder and poplar racing ahead, sprouting pale green and yellow leaves, while oak, ash and birch lag behind, still brown and winter-spindly.

It really is a wonderful time to visit and while the occasional downpour or drizzle make it nice to have an interesting city to visit, or a warm fire to sit by, generally the spring sunshine and emerging plantlife make the journey just as exciting and fulfilling as the arrival.

Lo! The flat hillsides of this country...

...as that great diarist Adrian Mole might have written;

We're in the flatlands - Nantes to La Rochelle we drove through endless marais, land reclaimed from the sea, flat fields without fences, bordered by ditches and canal, tiny little villages perched on marginally higher grounds and virtually nobody else on the roads.

That night we stayed on the beautiful Ile de Re, where the dense vegetation, boggy sea-board, low slung whitewashed houses and huge expanses of sand at low tide reminded me strongly of the coastline around Malindi or Diani in Kenya.

Today we're heading south over more fenlands - I've never been to Norfolk but I imagine it to be like this - it's a bit too empty to be the Netherlands. We've stopped in Rochefort, originally created as a military town based around grids and squares, now with a slightly dilapidated air. It has an interesting corderie royale and a beautiful centre, falling tenderly into decay and swamped by an unattractive urban sprawl.

It's such strange country, with that odd familiarity I often find in France, reminding me of so many places at once, but also of nowhere else that I've been. It is such a huge and varied place, our near neighbour, La Belle France.