WEDNESDAY 22^nd JUNE Posted 3 weeks later

Martigues – Arles – Béziers – Narbonne – Leucate – Argelès – Port Bou – Figueras – Girona – Madremanya. 408 km / 254 miles.

Downhearted? Us? Never! In the morning Milo & I went to collect the mercifully undamaged car and brought it back safely to the now vacant hotel car park. Passing a boulangerie I bought a baguette from the stunned, seated and grimacing woman inside— no artisanal loaves in this woman’s bakery — for our picnic. Then Von & I set about the hotel’s buffet breakfast — I got three big cups of café au lait. I do like my tea / coffee in the morning. There was no point in moaning to the receptionist about the car park or anything else, so we just left.

We drove across the Camargue towards Arles — no white horses, black bulls or pink flamingos. We did see a field of black cows and a single white horse later that day, but by then we were well out of the Camargue. It rained fitfully (Gwyn driving) but it was always the intention to stop and buy picnic stuff because the forecast said it was going to clear up later. There were Dégustation / Vente signs all along the road throughout the Corbières so when I saw I was going to be stuck behind a particularly lumbering tractor I swung violently off the road and we found ourselves proceeding down a long, stately avenue of old plane trees. I got out of the car just as it began to rain quite heavily, and ran to the Dégustation gate where a notice stated quite clearly that the times they were ouvert were 0900 – 1200 and 1500 – 1800. It was ten to one. There was a small nut brown woman holding a bottle of wine and locking the gate, and I cried “Est-ce possible d’acheter un ou deux bouteilles de votre vin?” “Certainement”, she replied and unlocked the gate. There were cats everywhere in the picturesque courtyard. We hurried through the rain to the chai which smelt magnificent, like all chais. I said rather apologetically “It’s just for a picnic” as she brought down the €200 Specialité du Chateau, and she replied “Then this will do perfectly,” handing me a bottle of 2006 Chateau de Java. “I make it myself,” she said proudly, “I’m the vigneron.” With a good grasp of English, as well. “I’m from Oxford,” she added, “and my husband’s from Stoke-on-Trent. His family are potters.”  I bought two bottles of the Java and a bottle of her Merlot, and very good they were too. So if you’re looking for a sound AOC Corbières we can strongly recommend Chateau de Java, made by Penelope et Paul Dudson, SCEA de Haute Fontaine, 11100 Prat-de-Cest, Narbonne. Tel 04 68 41 03 73.

First audio book finished — Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go. I didn’t much care for it.

We stopped at a super to buy the other picnic necessities and I spotted a Gillette Mach 3 razor, the type for which I have been regularly buying blades for years without actually having one, so I was forced to buy it. Marketing, eh? It was getting warmer and Von was scanning the map for green bordered (Michelin maps = picturesque) roads. She selected one between an étang and the sea at Leucate and we stopped again for some reason at another super in the new village then we pulled off the road onto the old, abandoned route départemental and turned into a field of maquis. Cosseted by good air-conditioning, we hadn’t noticed the temperature climbing and when we opened the doors, two things hit us — the heat and the clamour of crickets. The Mediterranean at last.

Picnic with the crickets

Milo went exploring, so did Von, who came back with dill, rosemary and thyme. Just walking through the brush released so many scents. And Penelope’s wine was delicious.

We carried on down the coast, Von driving, and went through a succession of indistinguishable beach holiday villages, ending up at Argelès Plage where 45 years ago Gwyn and 13 other students including Heather “I know” Moffat slept on the beach having driven down from London non-stop. We had had a camp site booked inland at Laroque but it was too hard to find after 24 hours driving so we all crashed out on the beach. Nobody minded — at least no one who wanted to disturb fourteen tired but healthy 20 year olds.

We chose the winding, picturesque route over the border through Banyuls and Port-Bou, past immense marshalling yards on both sides of the now abandoned border (well done Schengen, bad luck Milo who once again didn’t get his passport stamped). Once in Spain the road improved dramatically, winding through spanking new tunnels and immaculately restored villages. If Spain is a country in deep financial doo-doos at least they frittered the money away on infrastructure and home renovation, so they’ll have somewhere comfortable to live while they pay back the bankers.

We stopped at the third super of the day in Figueras, once again finding parking impossible. Bought Spanish dog food, BEER and GIN as well as comestibles.

From Figueras we took the autostrada because I had forgotten to buy a map for Spain and Frieda, our 10 year old satnav, only covers Ermine Street and Watling Street. We had to come off at junction 6; we sailed past the sign but there was no trace of an exit. Von had clearly missed it in the roadworks, or while I was weepily singing along to Don Henley’s magnificent and moving “A Month of Sundays”. It was miles to the next turning and we’d have to schlep all the way back on the autostrada to get the right turn off, and pay double the toll, and there was the dream of a cold beer in the sunset getting more and more distant — and then there was Junction 6. The sign to the exit was posted at least 15 miles before the junction. Very confusing. Once off the fast road La Bisbal d’Emporda was clearly signposted, as was the turn off to Madremanya. Then at the village we found the one track lane to Mas Caterina, set on a hillside south of Madremanya. Von had booked it for 5 nights, and I hadn’t shown much interest, knowing that she rarely puts a foot wrong.

Mas Caterina, Madremanya

She well and truly plonked both feet in it this time — both feet completely right. Mas Caterina is lovely. A rabble of dogs greeted us, jumping up on the car, dying to attack Milo which of course they did as soon as we let him out. Milo’s first steps in Spain! Poor boy. We were met by Jenny, one of the owners, who walked with me and Milo up to our shack while Von drove. Jenny was monosyllabic and disinclined to chat. “How long have you lived here?” I asked brightly. “Long,” she grunted. The shack is great. Huge bed, living room, bath, shower, two loos, kitchen with all the necessary implements, terrace facing north and east with lovely views of the countryside. Just what we wanted.

The view of the village of Madremanya from our shack

Next to the cold beer I had planned, of course. We unpacked, glad of the respite from daily travel. Milo was pleased, as well. We asked about local restaurants and were told of three — La Riera, which we’d been to with Shaunagh a few years back, a tapas-y bar in Cellins, and La Plaça in Madremanya itself — very elegant and pricey. Travel stained and weary, we opted for the tapas bar. When we got there the village was shuttered and deserted. Very clean though. Immaculately restored. But closed. So we turned round and went for La Riera. Closed.

Third choice, La Plaça. Yes, it was posh, with immaculate roughstone vaulting throughout. But it was open, and we could just have one course. Von had magret with a fruit sauce and I had fish with topinambour (no, you’ll have to look it up too). Delicious, topped off with a fresh Rosado. Interesting to hear a party of Brits and Dutch loudly discussing the financial problems of the Grampian NHS in one of the more expensive Spanish restaurants.

We slept soundly.

TUESDAY 21 JUNE Posted 3 weeks later.
Aix-les-Bains – Grenoble – Sisteron – Chateau-Arnoux –  Aix-en-Provence – Martigues. 363 km / 226 miles.
Hot, sunny. Snaffled two free cups of coffee from the breakfast room and headed into town for our breakfast. Aix-les-Bains is a smart, prosperous resort, with the main centre some distance from the lake. As we parked the car I spotted the sort of drinks shop that might sell Arquebuse — and it did. The perfect present for Nick Kennedy, even at €31.20 the bottle. There’s a long story about Arquebuse. Some other time. Suffice it to say that it used to be used for curing shotgun wounds — and it says so on the bottle. An arquebus was a blunderbuss.

“L’Arquebuse était autrefois une remède pour les blessés des “Arquebuses”. Elle fut qualifiée de VULNERAIRE, ce qui signifie “propre à guérir des blessures”.

Had café au lait at a little bar on the main street — when I asked for two croissants Madame sent me over to a bakery on the other side of the street. While I was there she told me to get a Croix de Savoie as well, a sugary brioche with a touch of almond paste. Pleasant, but not as earth-shattering as she made out. We bought two slices of ham and a Tomme de Savoie for our picnic. Fantastic ruined mansion at the south end of town, high on the hill.

We decided to take the autoroute round large conurbations and stick to the old straight roads for intercity travel. Bogged it in Grenoble and did the opposite, becoming quite lost in a housing project in the south east of the city. Eventually made it through. We’re using a 23 year old Michelin map, and all the road numbers have been changed.

Gwyn very snuffly with hay fever. Gwyn is allergic to flowering privet, so this was a good time to be out of London — but Von spotted we were driving through a grove of what appeared to be privet trees.
Driving through one village there were cartoon-coloured statues of children just about to run across the road at a zebra crossing. I automatically wanted to slow down even though Von was driving. Clever idea.

Picnicked from the back of the car on a road leading up from the old N 75 to the Col de Grimone. Side of the road stuff. Clouding over.

Driving through the gap at Sisteron

We drove through Sisteron and down the Loup d’Or. Oh, another story. We can never redecorate the lavatory now. Amazing bridge piers from a demolished bridge over the Durance — or was it the Sasse? French Wikipedia was not helpful. Joined the autoroute just before Aix-en-Provence and sailed through to Martigues. Came off a junction too early and couldn’t find the road to the little church among the pines where Milo was to have his run and ended up in a coach park. He was whimpering by now as he had decided not to have a crap at lunchtime, so he catapulted out of the car and exploded in the coach park, far too much to clear up effectively. Ach-y-fi, ach-y-fi.

Hot and steamy evening. Found the hotel in the southern part of town. Car park at back. Tiny room, minimal air-conditioning, but another second little bedroom upstairs! We used the stairs as shelves. Drove into town and it was SEETHING. Never seen so many people. Traffic inched along but worse still it was becoming very clear that it was going to be impossible to park. Every parkplatz, every street was solid.

A welcome sight at the end of a long drive

We finally left the car parked illegally on the quayside in this ‘Venice of Provence’ and went to have a beer in front of deafening loudspeakers pounding out Portocario and Baby Dance. I haven’t encountered these dance steps before. Then off we went to get a good fish supper, perhaps a bouillabaisse. Our first choice restaurant, Le Bouchon d’Or, was packed. No chance. The second one, Quèi dou Traou dou Mast, looked hopeful. We sat on a terrace over the canal in a line of three ranks of tables. That was at 8:55. At a quarter to ten, not even having had the chance to look at a menu, we assembled our hungry dignity and left. They had one waiter and one cook to serve, what, 50 or 60 people? And of course Madame, who was above such trivialities as customer service. What a crappy place. Remember the stupid name and avoid at all costs.

Everywhere else was either full to bursting or refusing to take any more orders. So we threaded our way through the packed revellers — it was the first day of summer, and possibly the last for many of the participants — and Milo was very badly spooked by a man lit up like a Christmas tree and singing bad rock & roll at deafening volume, loud enough to fill Wembley, in a tiny echoing square. We made it back to the car which hadn’t been booked, merely hemmed in by fishermen, and got back to the hotel. The car park was locked and shuttered. Nowhere to park. So I dropped Von & Milo and went off to find somewhere. After 15 minutes I found a pavement down a dark cul-de-sac half a mile from the hotel and left it there, acutely conscious that I was leaving a LOT of stuff in the car.

Back in the room, we had two hardboiled eggs left over from our picnic, a quarter of a loaf of bread and a glass of wine. Such was our Night Out In Martigues.

MONDAY 20 JUNE Posted 3 weeks later.
Zuerich – Luzerne – Hergiswald – Grimselpass – Chamonix – Aix-les-Bains. 356 km / 221 miles.
Saw David before we left in any case. Shouted goodbye to Nina, who didn’t come down to see us. She has an exam this morning, but had seemed a little preoccupied all weekend. Not her usual lively self.

The Pilgrimage Church at Hergiswald

Von driving, we headed to Hergiswald outside Luzern to see the rococo Pilgrimage church with its wonderful ceiling. We had the place to ourselves, so I photographed the interior of the church from every angle. I should have used the tripod. Lovely weather. Von finds she has left her terracotta rainjacket in Zuerich.

On our way to the Grimselpass we passed the Reichenbach Falls. I thought it was a Conan Doyle fiction but it really does exist. A vintage car rally was taking place over the pass — Alvis, Ford, Rolls-Royces but mainly BMW 328s. And bikers of course, bikers everywhere. The top of the pass was frankly rather disgusting, with a huge car park, fast food outlets, litter, oips milling about, so we pressed on down César Ritz’s long home valley. Stopped to buy apricots, a mere €8 a kilo, but they were special. Not as good as the ones from the Auvergne all those years ago, but pretty good nevertheless.

The César Ritz Memorial Chapel — not

We picnicked by a little roadside chapel, i.e. at the side of the road. Gwyn took over driving as we climbed out of the valley towards Chamonix. The autoroute from Chamonix is twisty and tight, and drivers who know it better than I delight in hammering down it full pelt while I attempted to veer out of their way.

We arrived at the Auberge St Simond on the outskirts of Aix-les-Bains around 6, nestled between the main road and the main line. A pleasant, shady place with a garden for Milo to run in. And a good pool, too. I’d have been in there like a shot 20 years ago. Sad that things change.

We reserved a table in the garden right under our balcony, so Milo could see us as we ate. It was a hot, balmy evening; a gorgeous day. We went for a walk along the well-hidden lake front and had a beer.

Finally found the lake at Aix-les-Bains

When we came back there was a couple sitting at the table we had reserved. Irritating. I had brochets and entrecote on the Menu Touristique (29€) and Von had foie gras and entrecote (30€). The place had a red M, but the meal, although very pleasant, was not memorable. Large leftovers put in doggy bag – much enjoyed for breakfast by M.

SUNDAY 19 JUNE Posted 3 weeks later.
ZuerichRain. We take the bus and tram to the Hauptbahnhof where a full Viennese orchestra is playing, then tickets to the steepest conventional railway in the world up the Oetliberg, Zuerich’s “house mountain.” The ticket for Milo was an eye-watering 32 SFr so I declined to pay it and we had to smuggle him on without Von noticing.  Die Chris was tardy in taking her seat, so I called her ‘Frau Langsam’ which made an Indian couple sitting nearby burst into sudden gales of laughter.

Die Chris, der David und die Von

At the top of the hill there were hundreds of people walking, enjoying the great views over Zuerich and the lake, and a large restaurant. The new bits had apparently been added without planning permission and there was an ongoing battle between the miscreant and the city. There was an Aussichtturm looking like a pylon or a pyramid made of scaffolding. I didn’t climb it. We walked down a steep set of steps in the hillside and set off for a five mile hike along the Planetenweg to the cable car at Felsing.

Milo in clover on the Oetliberg

The Planetenweg starts with a great yellow globe representing the Sun, then along the way are placed the planets in proportional size and distance from the Sun. Mercury is a pinprick a few hundred yards along the path — we reach Neptune, the size of a tennis ball, after and hour and a half’s walking. Fascinating and educative. And simple enough to copy anywhere.

The cable car coming to take us down

We came down from the ‘house mountain’ by cable car. So that’s Milo’s first tram, train & cable car. Shopping at the Hauptbahnhof on return; Von & Milo waiting outside the shop were greeted with ‘how beautiful, how cleeeean’ about Milo. Purr.

David printed out Google map directions (in German) for each stage of our onward journey. Milo volunteered to visit the bantams in the garden and returned up two storeys with an undamaged egg held carefully in his soft mouth.

Five of us played noisy, lovely Pit in the evening, then watched ‘Across The Universe’. Why hadn’t I heard of this film, a bleaker, Beatles version of Mama Mia? Milo was content. There we were, sitting and watching telly. Life back to normal.

Forget to photograph the beautiful Fritz daughters. Your loss. We said our goodbyes on Sunday night because the house would be emptying early Monday morning. Crime is low in Zuerich so don’t bother to lock up, said David. Blimey.

SATURDAY 18 JUNE Posted 3 weeks later.
Zuerich
After a brief burst of sun it’s much colder today, grey skies. Walk with Milo down a river valley through residential Zuerich to the lakeside. They have free shit bag dispensers for dogs every 200 yards. Great souvenirs for Milo. Walk up the lakeside into town, then Chris takes Milo home on a tram. David, Von & I walk round the old town. Far more attractive than I expected. I’m more used to Germany, where the old town centres have been rebuilt after the war — of course Zuerich was never bombed. Die Chris sends a text with a photo of Milo safely back at the house to reassure us. Beer at the Arsenal Hof, with an Oerlikon placed above the entrance porch. Walk up to the old Citadel, where there was a pre-Roman camp, admire the Chagall stained glass in the Fraumünster, attempt to climb the tower in the Cathedral but it closes at 4:45. St. Peter’s down the road has the largest church clock face in the world, right next to one only fractionally smaller. I wonder which one came first?

We go down to Paradeplatz and look — only look — in the expensive shops along Bahnhofstrasse. The Lindt & Sprüngli shop is a real temptation, a chocolate palace, and I am captured by a veritable haystack of chocolate in the window. David insists on going in to buy it for us for supper. And a box of pralines for the journey, too. There is no shop like this in London.

I’m now beginning to feel my age so we get a tram and a bus back to the house, to be greeted by an ecstatic Milo. I go for a zizz.
Later Ella takes Gwyn to see the bantams. The new chicks are going to be named after Beatles songs: Lovely Rita, Eleanor Rigby, Sexy Sadie, Dear Prudence, Martha My Dear etc. etc.

Difficulties plugging in to the Swiss electricity supply, but David provides adaptors. We can send and receive emails! Nice to be in a Mac house.

The standard Swiss 650 volt direct current ten pin socket

It brightens up in the late afternoon and I drive with David up to the FIFA headquarters a mile or so away, not for the chance of shooting Sepp Blatter but just to snap the lavish building. Of course it’s all underground and hidden behind a giant security fence (which we vault over) but there’s not a lot to see from the outside.

Der Fritzen Haus

Another delish supper. Taboulleh and pitta toasted with mozzarella and baba ganoush, and of course great slabs of delicious chocolate cake. The Fritzen have their nephew Tom living with them. He walked out on his family in February after a furious row and hasn’t been back. Despite being Swiss he wants to join the British Royal Marines so he can get an injury and attract the girls. Then he wants to make lots and LOTS of money (a more conventional ambition for a Zuericher) so he can attract more girls. Fair enough. I just relied on my natural charm, wit and intelligence. But his spoken English is staggeringly good, even though he has never lived in England.

FRIDAY 17 JUNE. Posted 3 weeks later.

Hilden – Cologne – Wiesbaden – Darmstadt – Heidelberg – Karlsruhe – Baden Baden – Freiburg in Breisgau – Titisee – Schluchsee – Waldshut-Tiengingen – Döttingen – Gerolsdwil – Zuerich. 600 km / 373 miles

Walk Milo in the Benrathwald before breakfast.

Von & Barbara — Frühstuck in Hilden

Meet Ba for breakfast at konditorei before going to see Chris’s car decal and screen printing firm. He calls to say he’s broken down on the autobahn. So instead we go and buy sunglasses for the Swiss maids in old Hilden, stuff for a picnic lunch and a map of Switzerland. Sunny, dry, no memory of last night’s torrential storm.

Altstadt Hilden

A long way to go today and we’re expected in Zuerich at 6pm, so it’s back through a big stau to the north of Hilden to reach the autobahn going south. Von driving. Get off the autobahn and head uphill till we find a car park in lovely woodland at the start of various serious walks. Tiny bathing pool with (allegedly) health-giving waters. We picnic in sunny solitude at an old picnic table where we wrap the sunglasses for presents.

Stop in Freiburg. The Cathedral is under scaffolding, preparing for the Pope’s visit in September. Had coffee, Sachertorte and Schwarzwälderkirschtorte (of course) in the cathedral square. Yum. Yum. Yum. Freiburg very proud of its open sewers in the streets. They look v clean.

Gwyn drives on ordinary roads to Titisee. Rain starts falling heavily. Big detour. David texts to ask where we are. Rain slackens off as we enter Switzerland.

Von map reading into Zuerich. Visit Oerlikon by mistake. Cross the Hardbruecke by mistake. Completely lost. Drive in circles. Finally find the lake. Then it’s easy to find the Fam. Fritzen in Hirslander Strasse. They look fit and well and genuinely pleased to see us. Milo’s first steps in Switzerland! The girls have grown into young beauties. Delicious supper of saltimbocca and Swiss potato spaetzle. Take Milo for a late night walk in the hot rain up to the posh hotel restaurant with a view over Zuerich in the rainy night time. All I needed was to go to bed.

This is MBLOG!

A note of explanation: three weeks ago Yvonne and Gwyn took their first proper holiday in a little over four years. When we used to go on holiday every year we used to (OK, Gwyn used to) keep a journal in which we meticulously recorded the non-events that happened to us, simply as a record, purely for us, of where we went, what we did and what we saw.

As one of our earliest holidays was in Greece, I bought a stout pad in which to record these precious pearls of wisdom. Emblazoned on the cover in the Greek version of Rockwell Ultra Bold was the word MPLOK.

As the modern Greeks don’t have a functional letter ‘B’ (beta is a ‘v’) the only way they can reproduce the sound needed to say ‘BLOCK’ — their name for a pad of paper — is to use ‘MP’. So our journal became known as MPLOK. In this digital age it was quickly converted to MBLOG, so here, for no other reason than we can, is What We Did This Summer, a day-by-day account posted three weeks late. Comments, as always, are welcome.

THURSDAY 16 JUNE

London – Dover – Seafrance to Calais – Dunkirk – Adinkerke – Gent – Antwerp – Turnhout – Aalst – Venlo – Mönchengladbach – Düsseldorf – Hilden. 582km / 361 miles.

Early morning is not my best time of day. Up at 5, leave at 6:10. Already knackered. Gwyn driving.

Arrive at Dover at 07:40. Drive straight on the boat, no waiting.

Why does Milo have to be left in the car on the ferry? For that we pay £20 extra. He is uninterested in the tempting bone we leave for him.

Boat leaves 5 mins early, arrives 10 mins early. As a result we miss the onboard shop and fail to buy perfume for the Swiss maids.

Type Ray Davies blog on boat. Must remember to publish it.

Stop for Milo pee at Aire on road to Dunkirk. His first steps in France!

Milo inspects a French Aire

Stop at Adinkerke for nasty little Café Crèmes and Jim Beam — 1L €15.

Stop in Ghent for chocolate. Milo’s first steps in Belgium!

Flash of naked bum in window walking down Belgrade Straat. I was startled. Then I noticed many women of varying attractions sitting on white plastic seats in windows and smiling at me. One black lady had ‘ganz Holz vor der Hütte’ as our German friends say — I was amazed she could stand up unaided. I do declare, I took no comfort there.

Find Van Hoorebeke, very chic and expensive pralinerie. 1 kilo of pralines, €44. But yum yum.

The Importance of Eating Chocolate — van Hoorebeke in Ghent

Baguette and beer for lunch in Sint Baafsplein, the main square. Cloudy and threatening to rain.

On towards Venlo. Von driving. Pee stop in Netherlands. Milo’s first steps in the Netherlands!

Gwyn takes over in Germany. Arrive at the Etap in Hilden. Buried in an industrial estate. Milo’s first steps in Germany! He pees in the car park. The hotel is clean but utterly, utterly lifeless. What do you expect for €50 for 2? Monoglot receptionist. WiFi can just about receive, can’t send.

Go for a beer in old Hilden centre. Lovely evening. Strange rustling sound. Sudden high wind. Look up, and we can see the rain coming down in one single black block. Two or three seconds later it hits, bouncing 4 feet back up from the cobbles and we run uselessly for the car. We are soaked before we get 20 yards. Hailstones pepper the roof so loudly we can’t hear each other. Driving is impossible. We wait it out for 10 minutes, then set off along the river that once was the road. Branches all over the place, blown down by the force of the rain.

Dinner with Barbara at her flat. Tagliatelle with pfifferlinge. Delicious. Milo is well-behaved. Guilio and his girlfriend Cory arrive. Giulio now as tall as me. Hugs all round. He is teaching special needs first year primary children. Superb work. I mutter something inappropriate about no male teachers in primary schools in the UK because of sexual allegations and compound it by blundering into the story of Bob getting sacked for slapping a 14 year old harridan on a school trip to France. He stares at me politely.

Jutte, Siegfried and Chris arrive for pudding. More big hugs. We sit and talk and drink Sicilian wine made by a friend of Ba’s. I glance at Von and see she is as zonked as me. We leave, too late, and crash out in the shack.