Tuesday 29 October 2019

Challenging ourselves in China

I'm home, finally. And, I have to admit, a little reluctantly. Tour Leader has been back in his happy place for the past fortnight, planting the vege garden and riding his beloved Picton trails, while Suzanne and I were adventuring in Asia.

How to best describe our week in China? An incongruous metaphor, I know, but I feel as though I’ve been dipped into a vat of wondrous experiences and then hauled out, dripping wet but seasoned with exotic new flavours. And I'm not just talking about the food.
Our first day on the Wall, with fellow trekkers

It was a giant leap into the unknown when we landed at Beijing airport late at night. The arrangement with the tour company was that we would be met by a driver who would then deliver us to the rest of the Great Wall trekkers.

The airport proved to be the first challenge. Let's just say there was no welcoming vibe in the cavernous arrivals hall. We walked. We queued. We pressed thumbprints onto a screen. We queued. We handed over our passports with necessary visas. We pressed our thumbs again and, this time, various other digits onto a screen. We waited and waited for a train then shuffled to the luggage carousel and through customs.

The excitement of emerging onto the public concourse and scanning faces to find our names on a board was tempered by the fact that it was now well after midnight, not at all a sensible time to be embarking on an adventure in the Middle Kingdom.

Sun, our driver, was inordinately chatty for the time of night. In return, we could only offer a drowsy wakefulness as the kilometers ticked over.  With the rest of China sensibly asleep, Sun had the roads to himself and made the most of the 120 km/hour speed limit.
A Great Wall 'restaurant', with elderly dog.
We were always the only guests at our evening meals

We met the four other trekkers at breakfast in the guesthouse the next morning. Having joined the tour late (our original challenge trek had been cancelled), we were happy to be amongst congenial Aussie company. That first breakfast became the pattern for the remainder of the week. It was plentiful and fresh, it involved rice and vegetables and jasmine tea and it required chopsticks. No matter where we ate, and how impoverished the surroundings, the food was always delicious.

Our first day of trekking saw us climb innumerable steps to reach the top of the wall at Gubeikou. On this quiet, unrestored part of the Wall there were few other walkers so we made good progress, despite regular photo stops.  It was a day of wild beauty, open skies and breathtaking vistas of the Wall snaking across the ridges behind and in front of us.

Lunch on the first day was
served in an ancient tower
As our group neared the more populous sections of the Wall, especially around Jinshanling, the watchtowers became insistent and we spent more time and energy clambering up and down steep staircases than actually moving forward. By the third day, the mission was to navigate through the crowds of day-tripping wall walkers and past the sellers of tee-shirts and trinkets camped at each watchtower.
We shared the Wall with many, many Chinese in festive mood 

So it was with a sense of great achievement that we finished our trek on day four with a steep climb from our campsite in the valley up to Wang Jing tower at the summit of Mt Simatai.
Here, we found ourselves the only foreigners amongst a cascade of Chinese day trekkers who streamed onto the summit from a ruinous section of the Great Wall, officially closed to the public. They were just as excited as us about reaching the tower, not surprisingly given that they'd disobeyed a number of signs prohibiting climbing that route,  and were keen to record the experience with the nearest Westerner. A frenzy of picture-taking ensued.

It was hard not to admire these agile young things who could nimbly climb great heights along broken walls then promptly light a cigarette to celebrate.

Respect, though, to the slightly older chap who managed to negotiate a long stretch of the prohibited section of wall with a cigarette in his mouth the WHOLE way. He was using both hands to stay alive, of course, so where else could he park it? (Away from Australia and New Zealand, smoking in public is at epidemic levels, even amongst the young and fit. In Croatia, our mountain bike guide Marko would regularly disappear for a quiet smoke. His colleague, a super-intelligent history teacher who moonlighted as a bike tour guide, could be seen on deck at night having a surreptitious vape. In French cafés, we were generally driven indoors in the summer heat because the outdoors was owned by smokers.)
With my imperial guardian lioness
at the end of our Great Wall trek

Our return to Beijing had the advantage of daylight this time but the obvious disadvantage of congested roads. It was late afternoon before we reached the Dong Fang hotel, home for the next few days.

The Dong Fang opened in 1918, and has had a long association with China's political leaders. It was at the Dong Fang, for instance, that a group of scholars gathered to develop pinyin, the system of converting Chinese characters into the Latin alphabet. Or so they claim. Wikipedia research suggests a longer timeline and a broader range of personnel were involved. But why spoil a good story? I can safely say, though, that the hotel's décor has barely changed in its 101-year history.  After two nights in tents in the shadow of the Wall, Suzanne and I were very happy to indulge in its period charm. The shower was especially popular.

Beijing was a blur of temples, palaces and vast open spaces. With our guide, we navigated the crowds to explore the Forbidden Palace and Tiananmen Square. With fellow trekkers Cathy and Steve, we enjoyed the delightful Summer Palace, the Emperor's wee bach on the outskirts of the city. On our own, Suzanne and I used the modern metro system to broaden our shopping parameters.

Walking the length of Tiananmen Square, we observed thousands  of people (for once, I'm not indulging in hyperbole) dutifully queuing in the heat to shuffle past Mao's tomb. It was too easy to recall the events of April 1989 when mass resistance resulted in a massacre, and the image that conveyed the story to the rest of the world. But that's China: a country of complexities.
Tiananmen Square

China has been good for us. This adventure was never going to be easy travelling.  But Suzanne and I signed up for the Great Wall trek in order to be challenged. We signed up, too, because we both wanted to support the work of the Mental Health Foundation. Our fundraising challenge was to Conquer the Wall. And thanks to so many of you now reading this blog, we did just that.






Thursday 24 October 2019

Crumbling walls


I've been thinking about walls lately, no doubt influenced by my impending trip to China and the greatest Wall of all. But here we are in the former Yugoslavia, enjoying a stay in Dubrovnik, an ancient  city that’s defined by its walls. I'm with Suzanne, who joined us in Zurich for this trip to Croatia.
Laundry lines, Split

In the mid-eighties, our Kombi van trundled down the Yugoslav coast, having recovered from an engine transplant in Munich. My memories of that drive are vague but I do recall being dazzled by the beauty of Split and Dubrovnik and the coastline in between.

Oh wait. Back home, Bruce has found our old travel journal and sent me a photo of the relevant pages. It seems we were also preoccupied by bathroom facilities and house-building styles. Really? And my final comment - "The Yugoslav red wine slips down smoothly but what will we feel like in the morning?" Sadly, the next day's entry failed to answer this burning question.

So much has happened in the world since. Only five years later, cracks began to appear in the Wall dividing west from east. As the Soviet Union crumbled, Dalmatians broke away from Yugoslavia, which led to civil war and then, in the aftermath, redefined borders. From socialist state to tourist mecca, Croatia has undergone a remarkable transformation.

Back to the future. It was a shortish Saturday morning flight from Zurich to Croatia on the delightfully named Edelweiss Air service, though sadly there was no sign of a husky-voiced Captain von Trapp and his beloved guitar on board.

Our destination was the port of Trogir where we were met by an array of handsome looking boats. Ours was the San Snova, a gleaming 30 metre wooden motor launch, which, once we three were on board (apparently, we were the last to make it to the ship), upped anchor and headed out to sea.
The San Snova, berthed at Stari Grad

You may be wondering how in the world I had managed to entice Biker Boy offshore. Well, it turns out that it’s possible to cruise and cycle in Croatia. Island hopping it’s called, and just about every boat on the Trogir wharf that afternoon was loading bikes as well as passengers.

The San Snova had a point of difference though, in that it offered both mountain biking and touring options on the same cruise. Some months ago when booking the tour, I had been forced to choose between spouse and sister-in-law.  Would I sedately ride the tarseal with Suzanne, or take up my accustomed place behind Tour Leader on the more challenging rocky trails?

Opting for off-road excitement, I was rewarded with a pretty blue bike, with all the bells and whistles. Well, no actual bell, because mountain bikers don't do frills, but there was full suspension, along with a dropper post and reassuringly knobbly tyres.
Of the 30 passengers aboard the San Snova, we mountain bikers (five Swiss, two Kiwis) were a tight group of seven, led by the irrepressibly cheerful and fearless Marko. On Day 1 he challenged each of us to ride down a flight of stone steps. I chickened out. On our last day of riding, another set of steps presented itself. Marko saw that I needed to do this, gave me some technical advice (“No brakes!”) and sent me down. Legend.

Another hill climb done and dusted
There are 1,200 islands off the Croatian coast. We ticked off only a few on our seven-day biking cruise but each village we cycled through turned out to be another colourful jewel set against the deep blue Adriatic sea.

The week was a blur of dusty trails, steep (“undulating”) hills, beautiful villages and timely beer and coffee stops. And, on board, good company and hearty (read, meat at every meal) Croatian food.

Here's a video created by a talented couple onboard the San Snova, Wilma and Chris. It captures our week beautifully: Southern Dalmatia Tour 2019

When our floating hotel berthed a week later, Suzanne and I saw Bruce off to the bus station – the first stage of his long journey back to New Zealand. For we girls though, still on a post-cycling high, there was fun to be had in Split. Our bijou apartment – aka a tiny room with kitchen – was nestled right into the walls of Diocletian’s Palace.

Diocletian, a Roman emperor who built the palace as his grandiose retirement villa in 300 AD, surely loved his walls. The old town is a delightful labyrinth of narrow alleyways, each with their own enticing waiters and cajoling retailers. We enjoyed an afternoon and evening strolling through the old town's pedestrian streets, honing bargaining skills and gate-crashing wedding parties.
Split nuptials

A day later, we took to the water again, catching a fast cat ferry to Dubrovnik. It was a challenge to discover that our apartment was at the top of the old town, almost right on the city wall. To be precise, we were 122 ancient stone steps above the main street. But we were in training for our Great Wall trek and were not to be deterred.

Dubrovnik has been around in some  form since at least the 8th century and is no stranger to conflict. At various times, it has had Byzantine, Venetian, Serbian and Ottoman rulers. In 1991,  the collapse of Yugoslavia saw the emergence of the new nation of Croatia. In the ensuing conflict,  the city was besieged for seven months by the Jugoslav National Army with the loss of many lives.

Marking a life lost during the siege of Dubrovnik 

Today, though, the invaders are tourists. Ironically, Dubrovnik's walls, which were built as a defence against invaders, now attract an annual invasion of hundreds of thousands of visitors, most of them from the 500-plus cruise ships that berth here each year. It's a city under siege once again.
Old port


We did our best to avoid the waves of humanity flooding through Pile Gate each morning, by kayaking around the perimeter  of the walls one day and climbing 500 metres up to Napoleon Bonaparte's fortress the next.


My lasting memory of this beautiful World Heritage-listed city is of the pre-dawn limestone-paved Stradun (main street). Deserted but for two Kiwis towing suitcases – on our way to catch an early flight. Before the hordes of visitors breach the gates.
Early morning Dubrovnik


Sunday 6 October 2019

Dordogne delights

 We have just spent four fabulous days in the Dordogne region of France. And while we’ve wandered through any number of photoworthy villages and enjoyed stunning rural skylines, it is the interactions with other humans that leave lasting memories.

Our hosts Jill and Brian, pulled out all the stops to welcome us.  Our reception at Le Buisson station on Saturday morning really needed only a red carpet, brass band and  bunting to make it a full civic occasion. Having been kept up to date with my daily journal (well, since you ask, https://www.cycleblaze.com/journals/peeps/ ) Brian had even scoured the shelves of local stores to produce a welcoming array of red, white and rosé. What more could we ask?
The grounds of the gîte on a foggy autumn morning

Next morning, the Kiwi peloton set off from the gîte for an impressive (in terms of the hilly terrain) 30-plus kilometre loop of this beautiful countryside, crossing the Dordogne river twice and calling in on two villages, Limeuil and Tremolat. We were riding our trusty touring bikes, blissfully without panniers, while Jill and Brian had rented a couple of nice-looking Treks.

After the generally flatt(ish) greenways and canal paths that Tour Leader and I have encountered in previous weeks, the Dordogne landscape is consistently undulating. Translate that as you will, but it would be fair to say the ride was a good challenge for three of us. It was a relief, then, to pedal over the bridge and into Limeuil for our first stop.

We did it ...uphill

Limeuil is a medieval hillside village that rolls down to the confluence of  two languid rivers, the Dordogne and the Vezère. Beauty oozes from its warm tiled rooflines and stone walls.  We stayed in this village for a fortnight on our way to the London Olympics in 2012 so we're looking forward to this morning’s visit. And it does not disappoint.

Morning coffees and pastries at a café overlooking the two rivers inspired a flurry of social media activity of the hashtag-how-cool-is-this ilk. And you’d have to agree, if you were sitting in the sun there with us, it was a magical moment.

After caffeine, we climbed the narrow street, past so many photo opportunities, to the open square at the top of the hill.  Here we could take a peek at our 2012 home, a 16th century magistrate's house, complete with a cellar which once doubled as a lockup for drunken sailors.

Cheeky fellas, Mirabeau
Back on the bikes, our next stop was Tremolat, a mere two hills or so away. We enjoyed lunch there and a great chat with four English travellers who were intrigued by our Kiwi accents. Wearing her NZ Tourism hat, Jill even roughed out a few itineraries for the couple who were keen to head Down Under.

The Dordogne region is a popular destination for the English and has been since forever.  Who hasn’t watched an episode of that TV show “English couples trying to buy a bargain in the French countryside and meeting many obstacles in the form of reluctant tradesmen and red tape”?

OK, I may have made that up but you know what I mean. Which explains why, after a month of greeting people in French, I have felt rather odd saying bonjour to all and sundry since arriving here. The chances are that those sundry saying bonjour back are English. Just too weird!

Back in Limeuil this morning, we had chatted to an older English couple who'd noticed the Kia ora on the back of my bike. They spend five months in their Dordogne home every year and were on their way back to the UK, along with their wee dog, to see the winter out in a warmer house. When I commented on the ubiquity of the English here, Mrs Brit replied in a flash, “Well after all, this was our first colony”. And yes, there was a certain sense of entitlement in her response.
Jill and Bruce in a-maze-ing Campagne. Sorry.

Another day, another ancient church. We were in Le Buisson de Cadouin, a popular tourist destination because of its 12th century abbey. And what remains of it is indeed a fine landmark. The French Revolution six centuries later saw its possessions looted and the library burnt down. Progress eh?

But plenty of visitors still flock to the large square in the centre of the town to admire the church building that still stands. The drawcard for us, though, after an afternoon of exploring by car, was the ice cream sign spotted in a quiet corner. It was 3pm, right on opening time.

So we ordered. And sat outside. And waited. Monsieur mimed and gesticulated to suggest that the ice cream was in the freezer and needed to soften. The afternoon unfolded further. We sat and softened a little ourselves. Monsieur whistled and sang, ignored instructions from his wife in the window upstairs (“I make ice creams!”) And gave us regular updates on the state of the ice cream.
Le Buisson ...beyond ice creams

 I can't recall the exact order of events – it played out over some time – but by the time we had our treats in hand,  a bond had been forged over rugby. Monsieur Rashid was from Toulouse, Jerome Kaino now plays for Toulouse. So, to illustrate this connection Rashid needed to borrow Brian to demonstrate a Kaino tackle. Pure theatre!

Reading the signs, Belvès

Of course we had to go back. On the pretext of buying some gorgeous pottery from the studio next door, we found ourselves outside the café dead on three o'clock a couple of days later. Things unfolded much as before. This time, we were asked to perform a haka in exchange for free ice creams. Brian gave it his best shot mais non, we fell short of the expected standard. A mere 35 minutes later, defrosted ice creams finally in hand, we farewelled footy-loving Rashid and the Abbey of Cadouin.

Our final day's outing was to Domme, an ancient fortified town (bastide) perched 150 metres above the Dordogne river. En route we stopped to explore the fairytale Château de Mirabeau. As beautiful as it is, the history of this castle is eclipsed by the story of its celebrated owner, Josephine Baker. Wikipedia labels her as a French entertainer, which barely does her justice. This talented black American performer taught herself to dance, left home at 16 to find fame in France in the 1920s, joined the Resistance during the war and later became a civil rights activist. Oh and adopted 12 children. Her life was a compelling and ultimately sad story.

Château Mirabeau
On to happier things. Ascending to Domme’s highest point, we enjoyed a convivial lunch in dramatically stormy conditions as a weather front passed overhead.

I've written more than usual in this blog – there seemed so much to say, and so much I still haven't said – but this return trip to the Dordogne was something special. And again, it was very much about the people. Thank goodness for characters like Rashid, and the English colonisers. Thank goodness for friends like Jill and Brian.



Think I left a piece of my heart in Limeuil

Challenging ourselves in China

I'm home, finally. And, I have to admit, a little reluctantly. Tour Leader has been back in his happy place for the past fortnight, plan...