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dispatches from europe: france (via rhona)

The trouble with following rivers, I decide, standing astride my bike on the banks of the Rhône, somewhere a just little north of Lyon, is that you are always at the lowest point in the landscape. And, without a moment of subsequent regret, I turn my back on the river and abandon the ViaRhona.

But, actually, it isn’t just the topography, there are a few other things that mitigate against enjoyment of this cycle route that is being aggressively promoted in tourist information offices across France.

The ViaRhona cycle path is said to run all the way from Sète, on the Mediterranean coast, to Geneva, in the foothills of the Swiss Alps, loosely following the Rhône which flows through areas like the Camargue famed for natural beauty and such charming historic cities as Arles, Avignon, Valence, and Lyon. It looks convincing on paper and even somewhat tempting especially since, as I only have 90 visa-free days in the Schengen Zone, I am a little pushed for time.

However, the sad truth about the major rivers of Europe is that they are primarily industrial zones and transport routes, hemmed in by flood walls and tamed by countless locks, with hulking factories and power stations squatting gracelessly on their banks belching out menacing clouds of smoke and steam. But that said, industrial landscapes can have their own grimly impressive grandeur. So, no, the real problem with the ViaRhona lies elsewhere.

To explain properly, let me digress momentarily.

Once years ago when I lived in Prague and taught English, a student proudly announced in one of my classes, “We Czechs have beautiful mountains,… but…(sotto voce)… they are in Slovakia.” Now, the problem with the ViaRhona is similar. Everyone says, “We have a beautiful bike path along the Rhône, …(and then, sotto voce)…but we haven’t built it yet.” There is some fundamental failure here to grasp reality as it stands.

In many places even where it does, ostensibly, exist the cycle path runs alongside busy highways. Sometimes, only marginally better, it runs along the top of a dyke parallel to the river but more often than not without a view of the water. And then without the slightest warning, without shame, it can terminate, as it did at a point not long before I finally decided to abandon it, in three massive flights of stairs under a bridge. What kind of cycle path does that? And at the top of the stairs, nothing! A tangle of busy roads with not a signpost, not an arrow, not a hint, nothing. You’re on your own.

Forget it.

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dispatches from europe: france (the camargue)

Sitting in a seedy-ish cafe on the outskirts of Arles drinking coffee and recharging my camera and laptop batteries is a welcome moment of relaxation. It’s all go go go, my European cycle touring style. ‘Stealth’ camping in these densely populated unfriendly ‘developed’ countries requires late stops and early starts and cheap eating means bleak windy excuses for picnics.

And I’ve been sleeping out, tentless, next to mosquito infested canals. But I can’t begin to explain how much I like sleeping on the ground just any old where – wind, rain, mosquitos – all of it good when every time you turn over you can open your eyes to the sky above. It is the very best kind of home there is.

Yesterday, I cycled across the Camargue, a swampy wetland, which is France’s and possibly all of Europe’s biggest ‘wilderness’ area. All sea walls and dykes to stop winter floods, crawling with people and crossed in a couple of hours, it’s something of a sorry kind of wilderness, but despite all that it does remain a huge nesting area for birds migrating between African wintering sites and European summering areas.

A little ornithological park I visit seems more zoo than genuine wildlife reserve with a series of dreary cages housing birds of prey, stonily unblinking owls and aloof eagles, so still and expressionless that it’s hard to believe they are breathing. The storks and herons and egrets are that used to people I could get close enough to clearly see the downy young in the nests.

And thousands of flamingos. Whoever would have imagined flamingos in the south of France? Not me. But there they are and they even have a nesting colony which I see later in the day in the distance in a wilder more inaccessible part of the nature reserve. But these ones in the park are unfazed by people and I can see the pupils of their beady little yellow eyes. They are weird ungainly birds walking around with their heads underwater sucking up stuff like demented aquatic hoovers. They are at their best when they fly, normally at dawn or sunset, in those long v-shaped lines, honking in melancholic tones with their long legs trailing behind them.

An ornithologist in the nature reserve gives me chocolate biscuits and water and listens to my stories. He is convinced I must be world famous for the simple act of riding a bike here and there. I am charmed by his attentions, even though in the end he says he can’t offer me a room in the lighthouse – yes, a real lighthouse! – for the night because he isn’t single. I mean, really! Who does he think he is? There are so many things wrong with his statement I can’t even muster a sigh but cycle off into the wind scoured dunes to look for somewhere out of the way to sleep.

And so that is how this morning I woke to a real Van Gogh sunrise. Truly. The clouds were exactly like that. I don’t know if it is a Van Gogh painting that I’ve ever seen or even exists and maybe if I hadn’t been 20 km outside of Arles I wouldn’t have seen it that way at all. But the clouds were crazy pink swirly curly lines, visibly brush stokes, and the poplars trees were waving back and forth against the wild sky and the canal was right there.

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dispatches from europe: spain

Spain. Spring. The time of orange blossom and nightingales and rapidly changing weather.

I’m travelling hobo style, sleeping under bridges or creeping into the inadequate shelter of orange and olive groves. My tent and sleeping bag have fallen, via Australia Post, into the hands of the Spanish customs and no appeal to reason or compassion is capable of moving that authority, it seems.

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But the weeds flowering amongst the garbage on the verge may as well be a garden planted for my pleasure: red poppies, sunny dandelions, dog rose, and all those I cannot name, delicate arrangements of fragile purple and white stars, a scattering of tiny yellow pom-poms on spiky twigs.

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And if the highway is a torrent of fierce energy, a constant to and fro too fast to contemplate, old stones stand sentinel on the hills and a boarded up farmhouse stares across the valley as it has done for centuries. It gazes blindly back at an ancient hilltop town, the city walls guarding an empty heart given over now to sight-seers and souvenir sellers, a ghost town animated only by a group of fractious teenagers playing pakour on the historic monuments. (A youth hangs Christ-like from the metal railings above a wall, drops down to the pavement in front of a stolid señora brandishing a menacing umbrella. He strides across the road, measures up a pillar, scales it with a bound, steadies himself a moment and then leaps the gap, landing with only a minor adjustment. But by now I have passed this unfolding scene and the señora, too, has moved on, ambling up the road with her umbrella.)

Back in the hills, the wind mills are still here after all this time, multiplied and transformed by modern aerodynamic lines. They congregate on mountain ridges, like a row of crucifixes, the three pointed stars spinning atop their pedestals, waiting there for some new kind a martyr, for a reborn Don Quixote.

And everything arises from the same silence, the thundering trucks and the startled meadowlark singing in frantic ascent.

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I wonder, maybe, if Frans and Fans, the two old Dutchmen on bicycles I met this morning on a freezing mountain top, wreathed in sodden clouds, might have been some kind of angels with their improbable names and welcome gifts of coffee, cake and maps.

Now the sun shines brightly, lingering until almost 9 o’clock, and after a long twilight hour, the stars light up one by one gathering into constellations that swing wildly overhead all through the chill of the night as dew drops on my unprotected sleeping bag*.

 

*The alert reader will note that my real sleeping bag is actually in the hands of Spanish Customs along with my tent but my kind friend, Atma, who I was staying with in Forna, passed on an old one of hers that henceforth will be referred to as my sleeping bag until such a time as I may be reunited with what is really my sleeping bag.

 

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the blog

Hmmmm. Well, it’s been over a year since my last real post. The one where I packed up my bike and flew from Uruguay in South America back to Australia. That was in the beginning of March 2015 and now it’s mid-August 2016.*

A few things have happened since then. I spent a year without really riding my bike. There was six months in Australia where I did most of my general commuting around the various places I visited by bike but that was it. And then there was six months in Scotland where I didn’t really go anywhere at all.

But now I’m back on the bike in Bulgaria. Somehow or other the bike ended up a little south of Valencia, in an unassuming village called Forna, in Spain while I was in Scotland and so my European sojourn started there. Don’t worry if you’ve never heard of it – there’s no real reason why you should have – and I don’t really believe in beginnings or ends so it doesn’t really matter anyway. My current destination is Turkey and after that I’ve got a few plans but they’re not laid in stone yet.

So… it’s kind of old news by now, but let me state it publicly. I’m back on the bike.

In fact, I’ve been back on the bike since April. And now, it’s September. And since I got back on the bike I’ve been thinking about this blog, and blogs and blogging in general. I’m just media savvy enough to know that we are probably in a post-blog world by now. Blogs are old. It’s all about Twitter, Instagram, and things that I’ve never ever even heard of. So I’ve been wondering if I should continue to blog. Do people read blogs anymore? And what are blogs for anyway?

I suppose I should also mention that I’ve never really had a clear idea of what this blog is about. I’ve got a few ideas of what it’s not about. It’s not about cycling, exactly. And I don’t think that it really is a travel blog. I would hate for it to be primarily about me. So what is it about?

It’s a question that dogs me and I don’t know the answer. So, if anyone reads this — and there really isn’t much reason to suspect that I have a huge audience just waiting for me to upload another post after all this time — but nonetheless, if anyone reads this, maybe you could give me a hint as to what you think this blog is about?

But actually, it’s more fundamental than that – I’ve even been wondering about photos and the nature of the whole photographic enterprise. I’ve been pondering the place of images in society. The rise of selfies. All those visual updates of everyone’s every move. And I’ve been asking myself, do I want to be part of all that?

I’ve been on a bit of a photographic strike and I’ve only gotten out my camera half a dozen times or so since April. It’s a bit annoying really because I’m carrying a DSLR at the moment and a couple of lenses and that’s a hefty load for someone who’s not taking photos. There was a mountain pass somewhere early on, in Spain, where I thought, “I should just dump all this electronic stuff on the side of the road!” But I didn’t. It all cost good money and now that I don’t earn good money there would be no way to replace it if I changed my mind later.

But it’s a thought that I can’t quite shake.

Maybe I really should dump all this electronic stuff by the side of the road.

 

*Since I have now decided to continue blogging, to keep the time line more of less intelligible, I’ve backdated this post and I’ll date subsequent posts to more of less reflect the date when the various incidents and anecdotes took place.

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adventure cycle-touring handbook

Authored by the inimitable Harriet and Neil Pike, with contributions from lots of other experienced cycle tourists*, the all new updated version of the Adventure Cycle-Touring Handbook is finally out.

 

*Including me!

 

turns and returns

Some people know exactly where they’re going and some don’t. I have never ridden with a plan and and so I don’t have any real way to know if things are running according to it.

I had thought for a while that I might ride my bike north from Brazil, via Argentina and Paraguay, ending up in Venezula, perhaps by way of Suriname, Guyana and French Guyana. That would have given my America experience a superficial air of completeness. But when my time finally came to leave Brazil, I found that it wasn’t what I really wanted to do.

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And so I ended up retracing my steps to Uruguay, instead,..

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… to spend my birthday on horseback…

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…on a four day trek in the Sierra Rocha…

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… with my good friends, Lucie,…

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… and Santi.

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And then, I spent four days in Montevideo…

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…exploring out of the way corners…

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…with Mara, a young German volunteer at Caballos de Luz, over coffee.

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Montevideo’s faded glamour is reminiscent…

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…of Cuba…

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…with colourful…

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…retro cars…

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…and glimpses of intriguing courtyards…

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… and the interiors of dusty shops…

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…inhabited only by the birds.

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Colonial juxtaposed with modern.

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Another coffee in the afternoon.

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People crowd into the centre of Montevideo to bid Pepe, Uruguay’s beloved President, goodbye. Pepe is famous for his blue VW beetle and other humble ways. Unlike most populist South American presidents he hasn’t tried to cement his power and seems content to hand over the reigns after his allotted time – Uruguay’s constitution only allows for power to be held for a single presidential term and Pepe is happy to honour that.

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Bye bye, Pepe.

You’d be right in thinking that you haven’t seen much about cycling here on this blog for while. And I guess we might have to talk about that eventually. But trust me, bicycles and the people who love them are still an important part of my life.

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After Mara returns to Caballos de Luz I too leave the faded glories of the run down hotel by the docks. My new hosts in Montevideo are the charming, Carlos, and his partner, Ruth, who I contact through Warm Showers. Carlos here is posing as a typical Uruguayan with maté clutched in tight proximity – but in reality the maté equipment had to be dusted off especially for me. Carlos and Ruth aren’t fans of this stereotypically Uruguayan beverage. (Yes, I know, the Chileans, the Argentinians and even the guachos of Brazil all imbibe maté but none with quite the same demented addictive fervour of Uruguayans.)

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Carlos examines my bike with a somewhat critical eye. His and Ruth’s stable of bikes are more stylish steeds.

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Carlos runs a bike organisation that uses volunteer labour to refurbish donated bikes to sell to people who are interested in starting out on a bike at affordable prices.

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And then finally I put my bike in a box and flew to Sydney.

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change of address

a thousand turns can now be found at athousandturns.net

For the moment the old address – wishfish.org – will still bring you here but please update your links and records.

the howling

Howling.

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baby birds

Staying still allows a different view of the world. You get to watch plants growing, for example. And when a slightly misguided pair of sparrows decides that under a lettuce in the kitchen garden is just the right place for raising a family then you get the chance to watch baby birds hatch and fledge.

18/01/2015: Three eggs...

...with Mama or Papa keeping them safe.

22/01/2015: Day 1. Just hatched. Two chicks.

23/01/2015: Day 2.

24/01/2015: Day 3.

25/01/2015: Mama is still on the job but away from the next hunting a lot of the time.

25/01/2015: Day 4.

26/01/2015: Mama (or Papa) with the chicks.

Day 5.

27/01/2015: Day 6.

28/01/2015: Day 7.

29/01/2015: Day 8.

30/01/2015: Day 9 - Mama...

... and the chicks.

30/01/2015: Day 10...

... by the afternoon the babes have abandoned the nest.

31/01/2015: Day 11 dawns on a empty next and I am somewhat heartbroken but later in the day I find one fledgling hidden in the rosemary bush after watching Mama and Papa bird to-ing and fro-ing from there.

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my gaucha boots

I don’t have the words to try to explain any of this.

My gaucha boots.

Horse paddock.

Horses.

House.

Kitchen garden.

Kitchen.

Feijão.

Sourdough.

Sourdough.

Kitchen.

Fireplace.

Kitchen.

Windowsill.

Dog. (Luci.)

Amorous toads.

The forest.

Aracauria.

Horse. (Poema.)

...

Poema. Atalibu. The horse with no name.

The stables. Enio, with maté.

The farrier. (With Appaloosa.)

Dilan.

Atalibu. (With Dilan.)

Dilan, with Pretinho sedated for treatment of a leg injury.

Girico.

Enio's horse. (Pokatoa.)

Dogs. (Mon and Café.)

Enio. Dogs. The big house.

The windmill.

Muddy horse.

Saddle.

Poema. (Photo: Enio.)

Dilon. (With baby hares.)

Baby hares.

Baby hare.

Baby hare (or jackrabbit or lebre). (Photo: Enio)

The horses. (Poema and Atalibu.)

Poema. (Meu amado.)

Salt.

...

...

Evening light.

Morning light.

...

Views from the Big House.

Views from the Big House.

Inside the Big House. Enio with abandoned telescope.

Crioula.

A room of my own.

...

Enio.

River. (Photo: Enio)

Evening light.

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