Todd Inlet, Vancouver Island.
Leica Cameras For Travel
Ditching the hustle and bustle of Victoria was easy; the city practically begged us to leave with a vibrant display of blue skies, sunshine, and the cast of zombies from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller Video” waving to us in our rear view mirrors.
These are they who wander Victoria’s streets in an attempt to adversely effect & disrupt both young and old. With a healthy disdain for the current situation downtown, we embarked on an odyssey to the illustrious Todd Inlet to escape our seemingly dystopian post-apocalyptic city.
Hiding under the ample bosom of the Gowlland Tod Provincial Park, this overlooked haven has the uncanny ability to make you forget the world's clamor, possibly a result of its scenic beauty, possibly due to the patchy cell reception.
As we journeyed north, every winding turn of the bucolic treed roads teased our senses with a new spectacle - an extravaganza of nature's flamboyance. From the verdant forests to the rocky cliffs, everything was drenched in morning sun. We half expected David Attenborough to pop out from behind a tree and begin narrating our journey into the wilderness.
The first spectacle of Todd Inlet was a gentle trail with such well-thought accessibility that even a wheezing porker like me could explore with ease. We walked past meadows and wetlands, serenaded by what seemed like a unionised choir of unseen birds and insects, providing the perfect soundtrack to our nature-infused documentary.
History lurks in the shadows of this scenic getaway, its quiet whispers permeating the air. The Vancouver Portland Cement Company once stood here, proudly spewing smoke and industry into the pristine air. Now, it's reduced to a half-remembered ghost, its presence marked by weathered buildings and rusty machinery, standing in quiet resistance to the passage of time.
Soon after arrival, early morning, said goodbye to golden hour, and as sure as the earth is flat (kidding!), the rising sun graced Todd Inlet with a postcard-worthy spectacle. The Inlet was awash in a melange of hues that could make any half-decent landscape photographer weep with joy or weep for forgetting their tripod and long telephoto lens at home (for the 5th time in a row). Meanwhile, Butchart Gardens, nearby, erupted in a cacophony of diesel tour bus engines. These climate crisis deniers, packed with witless drones from the cruise ships, echoed around the inlet like an over-enthusiastic drum solo.
Now, don’t let Todd Inlet’s subtlety fool you. It may lack the cosmopolitan charm of the big city, but that’s akin to comparing apples with a relatively quiet, introspective pear. And here's a thought, could it be that Todd Inlet intentionally downplays its grandeur to keep M.J.’s MTV video dance troop away? Maybe, maybe not. Breakfast at the nearby Cafe Zanzibar was excellent, and thank you, Trip Advisor, for the gold medal tip.
As we bade farewell to this pocket of tranquillity and began the trek back to Victoria, our hearts filled with memories and our SD cards filled with photos (well, those of us who remembered their tripods and long lenses, anyway). A trip to Todd Inlet might just seem like a footnote in the grand scheme of things, but it certainly holds the charm to ink its own chapter. Call it a hidden gem, a treasure trove, or an excellent spot for a quiet coffee – it doesn’t care; it's just Todd being Todd. It's a place that offers a symphony of nature, a pinch of history, a dash of culture, and a good chunk of serenity. Just bring your camera.
Please leave a comment if you have moment.
All images captured with a Leica SL2-S and a 24-90mm lens.
Live Well!
M.
The Magic of Casa Julian in Tolosa.
As you wander through the cobbled streets of Tolosa, a charming Basque town nestled in the verdant Oria Valley, you'll find an unassuming gem that has been serving gastronomic delights for over six decades: Casa Julian. Established in 1954 by Julian Arrieta, this family-run steakhouse has become legendary among steak connoisseurs and food enthusiasts alike.
Tolosa lies about 30 minutes south of the foody capital & coastal city of San Sebastián, easily reachable by train or bus. But it's not just the ease of access that draws you to this enchanted town; it's the magnetic allure of the famed Casa Julian. Stepping into the restaurant feels like entering a time capsule, with its rustic stone walls, smoky aroma, and the heartwarming sight of the family tending to the grill. The menu may be simple, but it has been perfected over generations. The pièce de résistance, of course, is the Txuleta, a succulent, bone-in ribeye steak cooked to perfection on an open wood-fired grill. The dining experience is rounded out with traditional sides, such as roasted piquillo peppers, fresh salad, and crusty bread, all paired impeccably with local Basque wines.
As you savour each bite of the heavenly steak, soaking in the convivial atmosphere and animated conversations, you'll be struck by the genuine warmth and passion of the family who keeps Casa Julian's culinary legacy alive. Matías Gorrotxategi, Julian's son, now helms the grill, while his sister, Pilar, tends to guests with a heartening smile. The unpretentious ambiance, punctuated by the sound of sizzling steaks and the clinking of wine glasses, is nothing short of intoxicating.
Once you've basked in the glow of Casa Julian's culinary wonders, it's time to explore Tolosa and let the sumptuous meal settle. The town's picturesque streets and plazas provide the perfect backdrop for a leisurely post-meal stroll. As you amble along the Oria River, make your way to the 13th-century Church of Santa Maria, a stunning example of Basque Gothic architecture. Continue to the colourful Plaza de Euskal Herria, where weekly markets and vibrant cultural events breathe life into the heart of the town.
Your enchanting walking tour of Tolosa would not be complete without indulging in the town's famous sweets. Pop into a local pastelería to sample the delectable Xaxus, almond-based pastries that are the pride of the town. As you relish these sweet treats, you'll find yourself reflecting on the delightful marriage of tradition and culinary prowess that defines both Casa Julian and the charming town of Tolosa. The magic of this Basque haven will leave an indelible mark on your heart, beckoning you to return to its enchanting streets & alleyways time and time again.
And now to walk it off!
Strolling through Pamplona with Hemingway's Ghost"
Hola, Amigos and photo enthusiasts. This week, we're taking a leisurely saunter through Pamplona, Spain - a city so steeped in history, charm, and adrenaline that even Ernest Hemingway couldn't resist its call. If you have followed along on these journeys for some time you will recall my fascination for E.H. So much so that I made Harry’s Bar in Venice more important to visit than Venice itself. So, now grab your red bandana, channel your inner matador, and let's follow in Papa's footsteps as we explore this captivating city.
Pamplona is famous for its annual Running of the Bulls, the San Fermín Festival. But, let's put a twist on it: what if we walked the route instead? With spring's delicate touch in the air, We found ourselves meandering along the narrow, cobblestone streets, retracing the path typically thundered upon by hooves and pounding hearts. As the crisp morning air brushed our cheeks, We couldn't help but wonder if Hemingway, too, had once walked this path, his pen itching to immortalize the wild energy of this ancient tradition.
As we strolled along, we could almost hear the echoes of Hemingway's typewriter clacking away, his tales of Pamplona inspiring readers for generations. "The Sun Also Rises," the novel that etched the city into literary history, painted a vivid picture of bullfights and drama, with the Plaza del Castillo as its pulsing heart. A visit to this bustling square and its quaint cafes is a must for any Hemingway fan, providing a glimpse into the world that enchanted the author so.
While Pamplona may be synonymous with bull runs and Hemingway's prose, this city is so much more. The enchanting Old Quarter, with its medieval walls and stunning Gothic cathedral, is a testament to the passage of time. We leisurely wandered through these streets, letting our imaginations conjure images of days gone by - knights on horseback, merchants hawking their wares, and of course, Hemingway nursing a drink, contemplating his next adventure.
So, as we wrap up our casual jaunt through the streets of Pamplona, we raise a glass to this remarkable city - where the spirit of Hemingway and the thrill of the bulls collide, leaving a lasting impression on all who visit. And as we toast, remember this: sometimes, the most profound experiences are born not from the rush of adrenaline, but from the quiet moments when we truly connect with the essence of a place.
Salud and Live well!
M.
All photos captured with the Leica Sl2-S and the Leica Q2.
THE STREETS OF EUROPE.
Where would I be without a camera and the streets? Most often, my travels are a mix of city and village life. I suspect this tried and tested formula has evolved over many years as the most effective way to enjoy my time on the road. The energy required for pounding city streets is substantial; however, the energy necessary to sip Rose' at a cafe in a provencal village might be less of a commitment (or so I've heard).
I am happy to travel or live in any such setting. London, Paris, Rome, and Barcelona are just a few of my favourite things. It always takes a little while for me to feel like a local in any of them, but sooner than later they become home away from home. As a traveller, you will undoubtedly enjoy your stay in any major European city for a few days, weeks, or even longer. The energy of these cities, their people and day-to-day life is intoxicating. Step out of your door regardless of rain or shine, because a day on the continent will rarely disappoint. The aromas of local eateries, bakeries and cheese mongers waft through the air with purpose. If you want peace and tranquillity, get up with the birds. If electricity and mojo is your thing, then go wandering after dark.
Communal spaces in Europe are great places for aspiring photographers: parks, museums, and markets ooze charm and provide the visitor an insight to the lifestyles of locals. Photographically, I always arrive with some compositions in mind. However, I have learned to keep the camera away from my eye until I have studied my surroundings and observed long enough to feel the local vibe.
People are often the subjects of my photography. I love to capture moments between strangers, friends and families. Moments that may have never happened before or may never happen again. Style and presence isn't everything, but it certainly catches my attention. If I am quick enough, the person with both is my camera's order of the day.
Sometimes a cafe can be the best starting place for a photo walk. Also, a glass or two of wine can lower the inhibitions that can hold me back from getting in tight with a subject or composition. However, to be clear, two glasses of wine does not turn me into a paparazzi capable of skulking through people's garbage or hiding in the bushes for the right time to snap the money shot. That's weird, and I suspect "but can't say for sure" the telltale signs of an apprentice sociopath.
Back to Europe and my fondness for its photographic locations and people. This blog is dedicated to my travels and my cameras. Two things that make me content and centered. So many places and things don't, but this has become and will always remain what puts the jam in my donut.
Live well!
Mark.
Please leave a comment if you have time. I love to hear from you!
AN UNDERGROUND LAIR TO REMEMBER.
A couple of days ago, we returned to a place that is fast becoming one of our favourite stops for a quick shot of culture. As we all know, culture comes in many forms, but in this particular case, it comes in the form of visual art. Margaret Wolfe Hungerford once said, "art is in the eye of the beholder." Along with past visits to such awe inspiring places as the Accademia, the Uffizi, the L’ouvre, the Tate Modern and the Rijksmuseum, we are beholding to this art.
We love to frequent this venue when we are near Avignon, not just for the exhibits but, frankly, the experience of just being in such an amazing and unique environment. I will provide web links for hows and whys at the end of this post, but for now, I will try to do it some justice from my point of view.
Carrières des Lumières was a once-thriving stone quarry in the village of Les Baux-de-Provence. By the hundreds of thousands, people flock here to visit the village and the ruins of its hilltop chateau built in the 12th and 13th centuries. We were tipped off to this wonder about 7 years ago and are now indebted to those that shared it with us. It can be a challenge to find parking upon arrival, but patience and persistence usually win the day. The whole reason to make an effort to drive the serpentining narrow roads and hunt for parking becomes immediately apparent after your ticket is scanned and you are welcomed into this art lovers Aladin's cave.
You can line up at the door to buy tickets with so many others or purchase them online and arrive and enter without waiting. On your first visit, it is hard to comprehend the scale of this place. Not often have I used the word cavernous for its intended purpose, yet I feel I have it bang on this time. Moving past the entrance into this vast dark space can feel daunting, and I was just a little hesitant on my first visit. However, when the exhibition begins and the music paired with perfection plays, you are cast away to another dimension. It is your choice to find a place to sit or wander to your heart's content. Over the years, we have enjoyed Van Gogh, Kandinsky, Cezanne, & Klein exhibitions, to name a few. Enjoy the collection not once but twice. Maybe take a break for an espresso or glass of wine at the underground cafe and then return to enjoy it again. This experience will live with you, so make sure you get as much of it as possible. I hope there is a time when you get a chance to visit Carrières des Lumières. I would really like to be the one you remember fondly for the tip!
Please leave a comment if you have a moment; I am always happy to hear from you.
Live well!
Mark
Link to the venue. https://www.carrieres-lumieres.com/en
A LUBERON LUNCH.
I have been back in the south of France for nearly a week now. Uncharacteristically, at no time since I arrived have I even thought about taking a camera out from my bag. This trip has been different. This trip has been more about regular meetings with our interior designer and driving from nearby village to nearby village to tour and consider some of her most recent commissions.
A wonderful byproduct of these little adventures has been the opportunity to sample some of the most wonderful local lunchtime cuisine. Each meal has been clearly prepared by a highly skilled and experienced gastronomic professional. As with every Provençal restaurant, the experience begins when you are greeted at the door by the front of house staff. Their smiles, courteousness and impecable manners are exactly what you hope for every time you dine out, no matter where or when. It’s always best to choose your meal by what is suggested by table staff. It seems only a fool (and I have been a fool many times in the past) would fail to accept a suggestion that ensures only the freshest and most in season choices find their way to your table. I hope to find time for my camera later in the week, but for now I leave you with the memories of a late lunch or two.
Going forward, we have a couple of lovely day trips planned. Then on Thursday we take our leave from Bonnieux and travel north from Avignon by train for 36 hours of jam packed fun in Paris. Until then, I wish for your week to be as full and enjoyable as ours hopes to be.
Please leave a short comment if you get a chance. I am very happy to hear from people far and wide!
Live well!
Mark.
THE VENETO.
Venice can be all things to everyone. Look past the sad, tired & sweaty faces. Look past those who think that immersive travel means making sure they get back to the Carnival cruise ship before the buffet closes. Train yourself to ignore the conversations about how much a coffee costs in Saint Mark’s Square. Cleanse your mind of the lemmings wearing audio guides while following blindly in single file behind the walking tour rep with that “shoot me now face”.
Then and only then you will see Venice for what is and not what Venetians fear it has become. In fact, if you focus you will see what the Venetians are desperately trying to restore and protect. This is definitely one of the most beautiful, awe inspiring and unique places on this planet. The people are striking. The sun warms your bones. The food is that of a hybrid, representative of the cultures that have traded, visited and settled at this seafaring crossroads for over a thousand years.
Never take the word of anyone who says it smells bad, it is too expensive, or you have to walk everywhere you want to go. Never trust the lazy. Never trust anyone who dismisses a genuine historical and geographic wonder because they went to the one in Las Vegas and “that was good enough”. No sir, these are the people you immediately ignore after you have sold them what they need. Tupperware, Mary Kay, a K-Tel Patty Stacker, a book by L. Ron Hubbard or swampland in Florida. It’s business not personal! Remember, if they wear camouflage to dinner at Red Lobster and remove “their tooth” before bed, take a wide birth. As a friend recently remarked, “Its all about gratitude” (Thanks Gary!). Be grateful for difference! Embrace change! If you expect where you travel to be the same as where you live, you may be wasting the money you could have spent on a staycation.
Arrive in Venice by train via Santa Lucia Station. Take a Vaperetto to your hotel. Do yourself a favour and stay on one of the islands in the lagoon. Stay on Burano or Murano. Sit canal side and drink an ice cold Peroni. Go to Harry’s bar and have a Bellini on a bar stool that Hemingway once wouldn’t give up until closing time. For more tips about how to leave Venice with no regrets and a return trip already in the planning stages, leave your email address below so you don’t miss the next blog post.
Live well!
Mark
ONLY MAD DOGS & ENGLISHMEN.
I am writing todays blog while hunkered down inside a fully shuttered Provençal village house. Outside, the wind is gusting at a swift measure of knots. This is my first really nasty “Mistral”. Rudyard Kipling was the man responsible for today’s title. It is the passage from his book “Kim” written in 1901 which refers to devils, madness and Englishmen that proved timeless. Kipling’s words later prompted Noël Coward to use them along with going out in the noon day sun as lyrics for his 1931 musical cabaret number. What is left to explain now is why I have stolen it for this tale of misadventure. The simple answer is, yesterday, this Englishman (by birth) felt like a wee bit of a physical challenge. So, just before noon, I put on my bright red wind breaker (more on that later) and left the house on foot bound for the village across the valley. There are several tracks that one can take to get from Bonnieux to Lacoste. Given yesterdays weather, I thought staying off the trails and sticking to the road might be best to keep out of ankle deep mud. Along with wearing the bright red jacket, staying out of the trees was the second life saving decision I made without even realizing it.
I may have mentioned in earlier blogs that it is wild boar hunting season in the Luberon. Unlike back home where the vast majority of hunting goes on far from any population or paved roads, here in France safety does not come first. First comes having enough wine for the after party. Second comes having enough diesel in the white Renault Kangoo mini-van for the hunter, his weapons and a first class lunch. Third and most importantly is having enough mad dogs to scent, chase, and run down these not so elusive Sanglier (wild boar). Now, when I say mad dogs, I don’t mean rabid or distempered, I mean really fucking angry. These dogs have seen how aggressive and offensive these boars can get and what kind of damage their tusks can do when the chips are down.
I was not even 100 meters along the road from Bonnieux when I was nearly run down by a speeding Kangoo. It was not more than 200 meters further when I was deafened by the packs of hunting dogs. I never quite laid eyes on them but they seemed to be moving in the same direction I was. Every 30 seconds or so their incessant barking became quite high pitched. Those changes were typically followed by one or more rifle shots and then moments of silence. The French hunters all wear bright orange. The wild boars are the colour of the bush and scrub. I was thankfully dressed like a shitty dollar store Santa in bright red. Next time I make fun of Donald T. I will have to remember his genius & consider using the orange spray tan myself. It certainly has prevented him from being shot in any wayward hunting accidents.
My return journey was near enough 17 kilometres. For all of it, save my time wandering in a very quiet and coffee free Lacoste, the dogs bayed and gun shots rang out through the valley. I do love Lacoste. The art college and its student galleries. The former home of both the Marquis de Sade and Pierre Cardin is a very cool place. Sadly, both cafes in Lacoste were closed for refurb and I was forced to turn back to Bonnieux through bandit country. This unfortunate decision had to be made much too soon and without even the whiff of a double espresso.
Just over an hour later I was home and stretching. I popped into Apt for a few groceries an hour or so later and returned to use the air fryer to prepare a dinner fit for a survivor. It’s not easy making it across miles of open country under fire. It is these kind of harrowing stories that fill the pages of dozens of books by former SAS commandos. The stuff of Chris Ryan or Andy McNab. I’ve always fancied the life of Ernest Hemmigway. I realize running with the bulls in Pamplona is not even close to briskly walking aside mad dogs in the Luberon, but you have to start somewhere. My last stolen quote from Kipling is as follows, “This is a brief life, but in its brevity it offers us some splendid moments, some meaningful adventures.”.
Please leave a comment if you have a moment.
Live well!
Mark
Here is a link to a recent article regarding hunting in France! https://www.rfi.fr/en/france/20211204-tribute-to-victims-of-hunting-accidents-as-french-senate-begins-inquiry
p.s. all images except the last two taken with the Leica Q2
BONNIEUX, FROM THE ROAD TO LACOSTE
THE TOP CHURCH THROUGH THE TREES.
THE BAT CAVE HAS NEVER LOOKED SO SCRUFFY.
IMAGE BORROWED FROM GOOGLE.
IMAGE BORROWED FROM GOOGLE
BACK IN BLACK AND WHITE (BONNIEUX)
This has not been easy. We planned a family Christmas here in France several months ago. We watched for flights and made sure to create itineraries that worked for all six of us. There was no such thing as Omicron when we were all booked and the arrangements were made. Life was as normal as it could be in November. Even though the two year long Covid nightmare was still haunting us, there was no reason to cancel what we imagined to be a perfect way to meet and enjoy the trappings of an understated provencal Noël.
And then the latest and greatest variant was thrust among us. We were left in limbo to see how things would evolve and what that was going to mean for those of us in Canada with plans to travel to France. Each of our sons had different work and school commitments, and with those came pressures around being covid free upon return to Canada. All of these issues needed to be addressed, but I also felt the importance of getting over here to check on the house and make sure all was well. I know that seems frivolous to some, and I could have probably assumed, given the place is well over 250 years old, it was probably going to be just fine. I had not been back to France since the end of September, so the distance and the change in seasons kept me worrying that something with the house could have gone wrong. I have not slept well for the last couple of weeks, tossing and turning & thinking that putting off this visit was tantamount to throwing away our retirement investment.
So off I went. I stood in line at YVR to get my must-have antigen test. Next, I spent a few hours in the Air Canada lounge. Then, I boarded my Lufthansa flight to Munich where I ate, drank & slept like a baby for the entire duration. My connector to Marseille was not for six hours after I arrived in Germany, so I wandered duty-free and then took up residence in the Lufthansa business lounge. There, I ate and drank a little bit more of every German food and wine on offer. It was lovely and I am now a huge fan of Spätzle.
My flight to Marseille was late leaving Munich but with a good tailwind over the Alps we arrived almost on time. I ran to passport control (they never asked for my covid passport or negative antigen test) and then I hustled to Avis to pick up my Renault Megane. For those of you that followed my adventures on this blog last summer, rest assured that I am going to need to see about my psychiatric condition ASAP. It was just 15 minutes until Christmas day became official, and three smiling Avis employees were waiting for me to pick up my keys before they closed. They all yelled Joyeux Noël Mr. Catto as I ran in the door, and that was an awesome greeting after such a long trip.
I loaded the car and set off with the Sat Nav screaming at me in French. I had a couple of small redirects along the way, but overall it was a fantastic festive and pretty drive through several small villages on my way to Bonnieux. To be the only car on the very narrow mountain roads was a new experience for me. The summer is drastically different around here. But it was one in the morning on Christmas day, and I was nearly home.
https://youtu.be/EvDxSW8mzvU (Journey’s soundtrack)
As I arrived in our village, I was treated to lovely silver decorations strung across the village lanes from the rooftops. There was no mistaking the season and what it clearly means to the locals.
The house was freezing when I got the shutters and front door open. I made my way through every room, turning on the new electric heaters we had installed in the new year but never had the reason to turn them on last summer. It has taken nearly two full days to warm this old stone village house, but now I am toasty and enjoying the place to the fullest. Yesterday was slim pickings for any kind of food. Thank god for France's most civilized of laws ensuring that every french citizen can not be deprived of their baguettes etc on any day of the year. I confirmed that the local Boulangerie was open for 3 hours on Christmas morning. A massive carb coma ensued, and it has taken me well over 24 hours and a ton of exercise to ward off the effects of pain au chocolat.
I slept well on Christmas night, and this morning, I was woken by the phone. After a workout, and a quick shower I jumped in the car to find out if the Sunday farmers market in nearby Coustellet was still going on, given the holiday. The sun was shining, and the diesel fumes from the Renault were vaguely familiar and marginally intoxicating. Fifteen minutes later, I was pleasantly surprised to find several farmers selling their produce in the local market parking lot. I hit the goat cheese stand like a Mac truck and left with quite a selection. As I wandered to the next stall for some Mediterranean treats, I failed to see that the lady's stall awning was about 5'11", and as I am 6'2', the ensuing head gash stopped bleeding around 15 minutes later.
I shook off the concussion as best as I could and then moved on to the nearby Super U grocery store for some bits for dinner. I am now safely home, and the fridge is no longer empty. I went out with my camera for a few hours this morning and and then again later this evening and as a result put on a few thousand steps. The weather was fantastic, and the coffee at Cafe Bonalis was even better. I made a reservation there for tomorrow night at 7:30. The menu outside convinced me that truffle and duck ravioli followed by tiramisu could be the OMAD of the week. I wish Deanna, Mac, Angus, Liam and Allistair were here. Unfortunately, FaceTime will just have to do over the remainder of these holidays.
Provencal life is still good!
Live well and leave a comment if you have a moment.
Mark
MY 8TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES. OUR CLOSEST NEIGHBOURS TO THE SOUTH.
Even though I have driven through both of these villages countless times since I arrived in Provence, I had yet to stop, park, and wander. Both towns are on a route clearly marked as a road that will provide access to some of the most outstanding Castles and medieval architecture in the south of France.
The first on the list today is the village of Lourmarin. There is a spectacular chateau that dominates the skyline no matter which direction you approach from. This chateau is in fantastic condition and lived in by local nobility. Not only can you wander around outside its walls, but if you arrive at the correct times, you can tour the inside as well.
For several years now, the chateau has been used as a venue for classical concerts all the way to modern-day music festivals and most everything in between. This clearly indicates a place that appeals to an extensive age range. From a Chopin recital with a chilled flute of champagne in the garden to an electronic trance concert with ecstasy tabs in a field (I would assume).
The history of this village dates back at least a thousand years and was probably a Neolithic campsite before that. A fortress was first built at the current site in the 12th century. It was rebuilt by Foulques d'Agoult in the 15th century on the foundations of the earlier castle. It was restored in 1920. In 1545 the town was burned down because its population was predominantly Protestant. I did my research before arrival. That homework certainly provided a different scope of understanding as I wandered about trying to put into perspective the where's and whys from both a visitor's and neighbour's perspective.
Lourmarin has a luxury vibe about it. Not unlike Menerbes, which I visited several weeks ago now. My senses were placed on overload as I took an opportunity to drop in to dozens of artisan galleries and boutiques. The sights, sounds and smells were fabulous. Each seemed to compliment the other so that as if by magic, I felt relaxed, content and generally in my happy place.
The village is easy to wander because it is one of the very few I have visited this year that was built on flat ground and well below the ramparts and fortifications of the chateau. I arrived just after sunrise, I expected to enjoy a physical challenge before the temperature made it uncomfortable. The terrain guaranteed I could have stayed in bed for a couple more hours and still not felt any effects of the heat.
Before leaving Lourmarin, I stopped for a beautiful espresso, and people watched for a while. As time pushed on, it seemed as though I was witnessing a 1960's straw fedora convention. One in six men (tourists not locals) that crossed my bow seemed to fancy themselves as Rat Pack impersonators. Before you think I am confusing these hats with their Panama cousins, I am not! I take issue with this. It's clearly a bugbear of mine. Those hats are to be accompanied by 60's style well tailored suits and pencil-thin ties. They are not, repeat, not to be worn with sandals, board shorts and muscle shirts no matter how good or bad shape you are in. Don't, just don't! You look ridiculous. Buy a ball cap for christ's sake. Buy a stetson, buy a bucket hat. Switch on man, switch on!
More narrative below!
Cucuron is the next village along from Lourmarin as you travel southeast. I must admit that we have had a couple of lovely meals here at L’etang in the past, but the remainder of Cucuron needed to be explored as well. Arriving at noon precludes the opportunity to visit any shops or museums as it is lunchtime. Most everyone knows time stands still in France at lunch. The only places open will be serving food. No matter if your appetite says just a nibble or the local's preferred combination of the "formule" (entrèe, plat du jour and dessert or frommage).
You will sit and enjoy whatever your choice may be, and you will sit for at least an hour and a half to ensure digestion and satiety. You will most likely begin with a glass of Pastis, followed by a Monaco and then a good bottle of local plonk with your meat, poultry, or fish choice. No one leaves the table until the obligatory espresso is finished and restful smiles are on faces.
This lifestyle seems to contribute to the life span of locals because the percentage of octogenarians or older is very high. Sitting on benches, walking their dogs, chatting with neighbours, all the while chain-smoking yellow-papered cigarettes. I am actually getting used to the smell and don't nearly despise it as much as I once did. Perhaps these local darts are in fact an ingredient in their elixir of life??
I don't plan on starting this very expensive habit, but it seems to compliment the Mediterranean diet and remaining active. I am almost 100% sure that none of these local seniors needed to go to the gym before work in their day and similarly would never even think to utter the word yoga. If you go into business in Provence, don't choose to be a funeral director. A distinct lack of work and the inability to charge more for XXL caskets will keep you from a comfortable retirement.
I thoroughly enjoyed my visit to Cucuron. The quiet cafe culture is dotted all over the village. It provides even more opportunity to lower my blood pressure and centre my chi (I looked it up and now know what it means). I hope this episode finds you in your happy place?
Please leave a comment if you have time.
Live well!
Mark
All the images in this blog were captured with the Leica M10-R.
MY 7TH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES.
Ansouis was built in the 10th century! Many of you weren't even born then. Does Ansouis suck? The answer is a resounding no! No, it doesn't suck. I can guarantee that when I am 1100 years old, I won't look or smell this good, and neither will you! This village of just over a thousand people (not in the winter) is a gem in the Southern Luberon. On the approach to Ansouis, you predict the future. You predict the kind of morning you are going to have. You predict what you’ll see as you wander the streets and alleys of one of France's “Beau Villages”.
Sure, Ansouis is old, but regardless of age it looks in better condition than 99% of the pink stucco castles built in the 1990s in Richmond, Surrey or Gordon Head. Sorry for assuming most readers live in British Columbia. What do they say about assumptions? A quick check of Squarespace's analytics tool tells me that readers visit this site from all corners of the globe. Lately, readers in places such as the Seychelles, Uganda, Singapore, Switzerland and New Zealand to name but a few have stopped by to have a look. I do appreciate all of your precious time!
Once parked and geared up, I left the most recent rental (A silver Renault Captur, no psychiatrist's note required) all locked up and began my walk to the castle and later the abbey. Once again, I was taken by the feeling inside the castle’s chapel. The colours were incredibly warm. I remained alone while wandering the nave. To be fair, I was alone most of the morning. The tourists are all gone. School is back, and local villages are turning like the leaves. Cafe's, bars and restaurants are shortening their hours. However, skeleton crews remain to continue providing outstanding food and drink for the locals. There are no worries that you will be overlooked or forgotten. I thoroughly enjoyed my double espresso at the Anouis "Sports Bar" while resting my feet. I can't say that I understand how they came to name it the Sports Bar? All of my fellow patrons looked far from participating in any sport other than the chain-smoking 15 meter dash.
I like the colours here. I like the warm stone hues. I like the quiet. I like Ansouis. It doesn't suck!!!
Please leave a comment if you have time.
Live well!
Cheers,
Mark
The following photographs were taken with my Leica M10-R and Leica Q2.
I HAD A SNEAKY FEELING I WOULD END UP IN AN ASYLUM ONE DAY.
Rather than self-medicate, because we all know that's not ok! I decided to go and see what life in an asylum was all about. Most of you are now thinking to yourself; it's long overdue. Well, hold on a minute, in my former life, I had to visit these facilities somewhat often to speak to those who may have done something naughty to someone else. But my adventure today is not one of those asylums for “mischievous” folk. This one is in Saint-Remy-de-Provence, and it was home to Vincent van Gogh for quite some time. Vincent suffered with his mental health (thus the missing ear), mainly due to the underlying problems that were exacerbated by a shit ton of Absinthe consumption.
Absinthe was, to most, a very slippery slope. But, from what I gather, it affected those who took part in a wee dram (or 10) in ways that mimic today's street drugs. Vincent seemed to be a big fan, and as such, he stumbled from time to time. Vincent's brother Theo was very close to him and decided the best way he could help was to fund Vincent's hopeful recovery at Saint Remy.
Treatment was not cheap, but the facilities were thought of as well run and successful for the time. For fear of sounding like a broken record, I left home at 8 a.m. My journey was supposed to take 46 minutes, and it wasn't far off that. If not for a few tractors pulling trailers full of cantaloupes in front of me, I would have been spot on.
I had never been to Saint-Remy-de-Provence before, and even though I had done a quick search for the historic bits around the town, I was not prepared. The city is stunning. Another gem that, if not for van Gogh, I would have probably never visited. I arrived about 20 minutes before the market day officially kicked off. There were so many stalls with such a variance of goods I was taken back. There are some massive market days near us, but this one in Saint Remy takes the cake.
I wanted to be in time to wander the grounds outside the walls. Still, with enough time to be in line for my ticket as the doors opened at 9:30. You can park in the shade of the plane trees adjacent to the 20 foot stone walls surrounding the facility. The asylum is still operating as such, and the noises I heard while wandering in the olive grove indicated business as usual. Currently, the wing that once was home to Vincent has been annexed off as a museum of sorts, and the remainder is still staffed and operating like any other mental health hospital.
I was all alone as the gates opened to the museum. I was confused as to why given the gravity of the place and beauty that surrounds it. I supposed a hundred years ago that you would have rarely born witness to a lineup to get into an asylum.
The ticket cost six euros, and after showing my pass Sanitaire to prove vaccination, I was in and walking towards the imposing building at the end of a beautiful tree-lined lane. You are treated to many reproductions of Vincent's paintings hanging on the garden walls as you meander along. They are hung perfectly in amongst a veritable cornucopia of local flowering plants. Many of these plants are seen in the paintings on show.
Some intermixed sculptures provide juxtaposition. After taking it all in, you come to the chapel. It is of considerable age but in beautiful condition. The origins of this place come from the Catholic church, as this was a monastery for many years. I try to stop and appreciate the architecture in every case such as this. Once inside the chapel, even a devout atheist may be moved. I spent some time inside until my little voice said, you better move on into the asylum to take in Vicent's room, the view from that room and the remaining facilities before more tourists arrive.
A young man working in the building gave me directions, and I climbed up the stairs to the second floor. There, on the left, was the tortured master's quarters. The room is laid out as it was in his day. The view from his window is supposed to play a small role in "A Starry Night " and many others.
I was there alone, and alone I stayed for just over 20 minutes. I sat in the room, trying to absorb the enormity of the opportunity and the experience. I suppose the right word is surreal. When I eventually heard voices on the floor below, I stood up and wandered across the hall to look at the other facilities. You will recognize in the photograph below that if you were not acting appropriately at bath time, you may be placed in the tub and then have the board resembling medieval stocks set over you. In addition, several burly staff may have to take a seat on that board until you had finished your required ablutions.
I'm unsure if my 18'" neck would have allowed my head to rest above the board. Nightmares are absolutely coming my way. Still no sign of other visitors, so I slowed my roll and read every bit of information I could on the walls. Eventually, it was time to go out into the walled (prison-like) garden to see the grounds and more of the places Vincent used for inspiration.
It never got old, and I had no reason to leave. If the prices were right perhaps, I could check-in. Maybe Blue Cross would assist with the bill payments. All things to ponder while I sat in van Gogh's garden. Eventually, one or two visitors appeared. I took that as a sign not to be greedy and make my way back to the gates like an escaping lunatic.
The unhinged screams from next door at the real deal continued as I walked across the road to the tiny Citroen I currently drive. What a wonderful morning. For me, of course, not so much for the tormented next door. Maybe a move to the asylum isn't what it is all cracked up to be. Not as I imagined while sitting alone in Vincent's room. It's for people that need some help to keep both their ears attached. Perhaps not for me. I know what you're saying under your breath! Bye for now.
Please leave a comment if you have time.
Live well!
Mark
p.s. All the images below were captured with the Leica M10-R and the Leica Q2.
MY FIFTH EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES, IT’S NICE TO HAVE NICE NEIGHBOURS!
Thank you for stopping by. If this isn't your first visit, thank you very much for returning to the Luberon. But, if this is your first time, then what you will find here is a snapshot (pardon the pun) of where I go and what I see as I settle into life here in the south of France.
I write in a chair on the top floor of our home in front of a large open window. The view is an expansive one that takes in the entirety of the north side of the Luberon valley. It is much later tonight than I would usually be up. So, from time to time I stop typing and peer out to the North, gaze at both the stars and the village lights of Gordes and Roussillon in the distance.
In this episode, I have focused on one of our neighbouring villages to the Southwest. Menerbes was named in honour of Minerva, Roman goddess, daughter of Jupiter. Menerbes, like many other villages in the area, traces its roots back to Romans times. But, like many other local villages, it seemed to really establish itself in the middle ages due to the crusades and the resulting influx of Carmelites. They built many of the priories and abbeys in the surrounding area.
History states that Ménerbes and its citadel was the site of a significant battle between Huguenots and Catholics called the siege de Ménerbes, which lasted from 1573 to 1578. This period was known as the French war of Religions. Protestants intentionally aggravated Pope Pius the 5th by settling 150 soldiers in Ménerbes, led by Scipione de Valvoire, Gaspard Pape de Saint-Auban.
As time marched on, Menerbes has become better known for the finer things in life. Many artists and poets have called this place home for years. In the latter half of the last century, Picasso's girlfriend (Dora Maar) would take long sabbaticals from Antibes and came here to rest in Menerbes to use her camera as inspiration for her painting. The British novelist Peter Mayle was the latest celebrated author in the area, but sadly he is no longer with us. If you have never had the opportunity to read Peter's books about his life in France but more specifically, his life in and around Menerbes and Bonnieux, please give "A year in Provence" or "A good year" a thorough read.
Couple his words to the following images, and I'm sure you will soon be transported to the sights, smells and tastes of this region. For those who have had the privilege to read his books, you will be keenly aware that his work reflects life in this valley and how he and his wife renovated their home, learned the language and wove themselves into the fabric of the valley. I am a massive fan of all his collection. Mr. Mayle was singularly responsible for igniting a tourist frenzy here, much to many people's chagrin; however, it goes to show the power of his storytelling.
The Brown Foundation Fellows Program based at Dora Maar's former home in Menerbes provides residencies of one to three months for mid-career professionals in the arts and humanities to develop and grow their craft.
I like Menerbes. It is unique in this valley. The home prices in the real estate agent's windows reflect that. The people here are happy, and it seems impossible to feel unwelcome. You are really spoiled for choice in Menerbes. If you feel like a Michelin star meal or just a coffee, simply follow your nose. This village must have one of the highest ratios of restaurants and cafes with spectacular views from a terrace in France. I am yet to visit in the evening, so I can't begin to imagine which restaurant to recommend. Still, I have had coffee on several stunning patios that have all been unbelievably smooth and exceptional in quality. Yesterday morning I happened to notice a well-healed gentleman enjoying a pastis while overlooking the valley to the east at around 8 o'clock. I am not judging; it was obviously 5 o'clock somewhere.
Please leave a comment; I love to read them!
Live well,
Mark
p.s. All my images below were captured with the Leica M10-R and the Leica Q-2.
MY THIRD EPISODE OF THE VILLAGE DIARIES. IF YOU DON’T LIKE DUCK, YOU’RE RATHER STUCK
Yesterday was jammed packed with opportunities to just follow our nose with no set plan. My initial thoughts on the village diaries was to keep each post specific to one place and cover it well enough that readers would get a relatively detailed look at a place with enough information to make a decision as whether to include it or not on their next visit to the South of France. Yesterday was so busy and varied that this post will be more of a roundup of three separate places so as to give each just a smattering of exploration.
Today we drove into Apt, which is our hub town. We filled our cooler bag with groceries for the next couple of days and filled the car with petrol. As we drove Eastbound of the Leclerc grocery store we were actually heading into uncharted waters as neither of us have spent any time towards the area known as the Alps-de-Haute-Provence. As the name suggests the terrain changes from undulating hills to deeper valleys and a more mountainous vibe just 15 minutes or so East of Apt. Our first stop was actually the furthest east we drove on the day. We had decided a little earlier that if we saw somewhere along the route we would commit to visiting on our return.
Upon arrival in Manosque we found a very well preserved medieval walled town with four distinct gates enabling entry to what lay inside. In my opinion if you are happy to be a window shopper then Sunday is the day to visit here. We were left alone to our own devices. This place would have been packed with tourists any other day but thankfully nothing is open on Sunday save a few cafe’s.
The streets, as you expect are narrow and all of them will eventually deliver you to a square with a small fountain and a shady place to sit and contemplate life under a plane tree or two. We took these opportunities as they presented themselves because it was so quiet and peaceful. We visited the local church and wandered from place to place recognising all the way how well preserved this place is.
The following are a few images of Manosque taken as we wandered the streets aimlessly. This is a working town but with a feel that says local people are proud and keep their homes in nice condition and with a certain flair.
We left Manosque the better for visiting and with lots to discuss in the car as we backtracked to our next stop in Reillane. Not by design but good luck did we arrive as market day was well under way. This was our first market day in a different region and as such I felt a little different vibe about the vendors, villagers and visitors. Prices were noticeably cheaper for very high quality products. I observed my first gaggle of dreadlocked and scullet wearing shoeless modern hippies and minstrels. The kind you would have encountered on the streets of Victoria several years ago from Quebec. The ones who were in the business of selling the “HERB” and other pharmaceuticals without a pharmaceutical licence (before Trudeau made that ok)!
Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t find this off-putting. I found it to be just a tad refreshing given that the market goers in our village and those surrounding it have different challenges. Challenges such as not knowing where to park their customarily brand new black monster SUV’s with Belgian, Dutch and German licence plates. Reillane was a market town clearly just a bridge too far for your average well healed owner of a beautiful stone summer home with pool occupied for 27.5 days a year.
From Reillane we headed to Saint-Martin-de-Castillon just back across the border in Vaucluse. This is a village that we looked at with a lot of interest when we first started the process of buying over here. Sadly we didn’t have much experience of it and most of our “deep diving” was done on the French version of Realtor.ca. Today’s visit was a great way to truly acquaint ourselves with St. Martin and in my case a time to regret making hasty decisions. Don’t get me wrong, I love where we live but this place is like our village with a third of the residents and 1/4 of the pace. This is a medieval hilltop village with everything you need and nothing you don’t. You can eat off the ground. This village is pristine. I love it here!
That brings yesterday to a close. Three villages, three wonderful visits. Each village with its own charms and its own nuances that go a long way to promote the Mediterranean / Provencal lifestyle. Before I leave you I just want to include a small amount of bonus content regarding our lunchtime visit to the village of Cucuron and our foray into the world of Canard! As one is best advised to do here, we sat down lakeside and asked our waiter if we could each have the Plat du Jour. We were rewarded with roast duck breast and frites and a lovely Aioli plate with muscles, salt cod and various seasonal vegetables.
Neither of us were disappointed and in fact absolutely loved both dishes. I will be writing a Village Diary post about Cucuron later in the summer but for today I hope you enjoy a couple of food centric images until we return.
It was so good that last night I tried it at home. Scored duck breast, added some olive oil, scattered herb de Provence and then let marinate in a ziplock bag with a healthy pour of Merlot. The accompanying frites later cooked in duck fat. Not Michelin Star worthy but not too bad.
Please leave a comment if you have time.
Live well!
Mark
Images taken using the Leica M10-R and Leica Q2
SMOKE ON THE WATER
Well, it seems like our cousins to the South have decided that “Gender Reveal” parties (whatever that means) are more important than the wellbeing of not only their own countrymen, but all of us poor schmucks up here north of the 49th as well . Before you begin to turn to typing comments such as “lower Vancouver Island is further south than that”, I know & I’m just keeping it simple.
I swear to god for the last 4 days we have been enduring horrific air quality and very limited visibility. The smoke from the massive forrest fires in California, Oregon and Washington have blown north and we are in it big time. I am not kidding when I say I had to go to Google this morning to search what a gender reveal party is. When I sat back to watch several videos of these shenanigans on CNN, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Who am I kidding, this should not come as a surprise. Orange Man Bad is the President and QAnon is a thing.
I have watched a man do donuts on a quad bike that was pumping baby blue exhaust smoke into the air. I have watched a man force a balloon into an alligators mouth so as to pop it revealing pink confetti. I have watched a man announce the birth of his daughter with a shot gun loaded with pink paint cartridges. I understand the cause of the worst fire in California currently was a man (presumably named Cletus) lighting off pyrotechnics into a dry canyon. No big deal, just horrific death and destruction because “Karen” told him to. On the bright side the hundreds of prison inmates sprung to fight these fires have all been promised early parole for their efforts (if they live).
This morning I grabbed my Covid / Smoke mask and went out to see what I could see. Spoiler alert, I could see f#*k all! Anyway, here are a few shots from todays adventure along the coast. Try to keep in mind that when they aren’t causing massive forrest fires down south I can actually see for a very long way in all directions. Meanwhile, north of the border the last image in this series will illustrate what we think about clearcutting old growth forrest. If we cut them all down, what are our cousins to the South going to buy from us when their government decides to stop imposing softwood lumber tariffs. As time marches on, I am becoming more and more of a religious man. I know this because at least 3 times a day I utter the words “please god make it stop”.
Cheers!
Mark
ISTANBUL NOT CONSTANTINOPLE.
This place is unlike anywhere I have ever been or likely anywhere I will ever go. Sixteen million people live here. It is all things to everyone. We are beginning our journey here just as the US are evacuating from Syria and the Turkish military is attacking the once protected area of the Kurdish people by air and land. We are visiting a country at war.
You must have a visa to enter Turkey so we paid for one prior to going through passport control. We were stamped and made our way through into the arrivals lounge and chaos. We negotiated the bank of hundreds of smokers just outside the airport doors to find a cab.
Job done and towards the Bosporus we hurtled. Istanbul is perhaps the biggest contradiction in terms I have ever visited. The suburbs passed through on the way from the airport are very very modern. Huge skyscrapers lit up like Vegas. Outlet malls everywhere you gaze. Chain restaurants and all the standard Hotel brands.
It takes an hour to get into the centre of Istanbul and the longer you watch out the window the more it becomes clear that western media portrays Turkey so much differently than it actually is. This place does not need propping up. It is not destitute and it appears to be thriving in every way conceivable.I am so glad I came here because it has set me straight on what Turkish life is really like.
Our Airbnb is about 20 meters from the Galata Tower. That remarkable building sits proudly like a beacon on the European side of the Bosporus gazing across to Asia.
Upon arrival we were greeted warmly by our host Jamil and we got a lay of the land. We soon got out on to the street to find a cafe (not hard) and enjoyed some Turkish cuisine.
We wandered about after that in the local area and eventually shut it down around 1:00 AM. Back up at 6 to have a Turkish coffee and find a cab to the Blue Mosque.
You don’t need an alarm clock in this city. A call to prayer is sung from the minarets to wake the weary so that they can start their day the right way. A few minutes later and we were screaming across the Galata bridge while locals fished on either side.
Getting anywhere early is the right thing to do but in this case it provided us an opportunity to tour the mosque at opening. As a special bonus we were incessantly pestered to buy a carpet by at least a dozen different men who were curiously all English students to begin with. Then they all funnily enough either had visited Halifax or had cousins in British Columbia.
Of course if we said we were from Iceland they would have all visited Reykjavik too.
What are ya gonna do. There are thousands of carpets to be sold and you gotta hustle to get them gone. After the Blue Mosque we strolled over to the Hagia Sophia and wandered around with jaws dropped. Amazing place, of that there is no doubt.
After a morning with the prophets we wandered on to the Grand Bazaar for some retail therapy. We didn’t buy anything but we were seriously bowled over by the experience.
Do you want a Bolex or Bugo Hoss suit? Are you interested in knock off everything? You are in the right place.
It’s massive it’s busy and it is one of the oldest shopping malls in the world. From there we wandered the streets jammed with tourists and Turks alike passing literally thousands of shops eventually arriving at the Egyptian spice bazaar. Smells and colours and people selling anything and everything you can imagine.
We had a seat at the other end of the market near the river to take a load off and consider the remainder of the day.I won’t go on and on. I would recommend this place to anyone. It changes you. It helps you understand. It breaks down walls and it teaches you that what you are used to is no better or worse than what you seeand experience here.
I will be the first to say that what has been depicted by the Western media most of my adult life is skewed. If you are interested in putting things straight come and see for yourself. You will initially feel betrayed by what you have been led to believe but let this place and these people sink in. You will be doing yourself a massive favour.
Istanbul expands the mind!
M
Images taken with Leica Q-P
I CAME FOR THE GOULASH, I LEFT HUMMING CULTURE CLUB.
Arriving in Budapest is a no nonsense experience. The Customs folk are a stoic lot.It seems that they are just a little sick and tired of British 20 somethings posing as Love Island wannabe’s. Their fake tan, skinny jeans, puffy bomber jackets with fur lined hoods and masterfully groomed eyebrows.
Sadly I describe just the male of the species. The females take it to the next level with everything I mentioned above but on steroids. If Prague is for stag and hen parties, Budapest is for Instagram Influencer hopefuls that believe simply in keeping their bedazzled fashion runners as white as the driven snow.
We made it through passport control and out to baggage claim. Bags in hand and just outside the door we found the FO’ TAXI stand where we got our taxi chit and waited for number 1627. In mere seconds 1627 arrived & the driver was a quiet man with the look of someone who endured the Russian occupation and hasn’t been too outwardly happy ever since. We put our bags in the trunk and we were away.
Not since we took our lives in our hands on the airport bus in Rome 4 years ago have I felt the same sense of terror. Our not so smiley driver was somewhat of a formula one fan. He drove his bright yellow Ford Mondeo at least 3 times the speed limit and weaved in and out of slower traffic with the ease of Nico Rossberg and the calculated calm of a Hungarian executioner. I must admit I felt a tad uneasy.I like to drive fast.I like to weave through traffic. I just don’t grip the steering wheel so hard that I leave marks in it while grinding my teeth.
It was at the 10 minute mark of the journey that I thought we were not going to live long enough to walk the banks of the Danube.And then it happened. It was a liberating moment for both us and the driver. The radio volume bumped up a notch or two and at just that moment the golden tones of Boy George took to the air waves to change all our moods with Culture Club’s smash hit Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chameleon.
They say music calms the savage beast, well George calmed our driver.A cheeky smile and a new attitude.Just 5 minutes later we arrived in the Astoria area of Budapest.It’s a Hotel heavy neighbourhood with an uncanny number of Lebanese Shawarma restaurants.I came for the Goulash but all we could find as we wandered the streets was meat roasting on a vertical spit.Meat being lovingly shaved to the plate below by olive skinned men who prefer to call all their customers “Boss”.
So a few local beers accompanied by some gyro and felafel and that fuelled a healthy after dinner stroll through some of old Budapest.It’s a strong sturdy town with a mix of French, Spanish and Soviet architecture.Not a ton of people on the street at this time.We attribute this quiet to the bars being full of manicured eyebrows.
A bit of a life saver really. We took the opportunity to end the night with Hungarian Apple schnapps and that worked very well as a “natural” sleep aid.
This morning we headed to store our luggage and then did the most out of character thing we have ever done.We bought two passes for the Hop on Hop off bus with the river cruise add on. It was really what the doctor ordered.We saw it all. Both by land and by sea.Now I know that this flies in the face of my get away from the tourist hordes mantra, but today it was worth taking the chance.
Now we leave Budapest well travelled but without trying any goulash.We came, we saw, and Culture Club raised all our spirits. Thank you George! Always loved the Hat!
Viszontlatasra and catch you in Athens tomorrow.
Mark.
Images taken with Leica Q-P
p.s. Just kidding, of course I found the goulash!
VIC WEST AND MY SECOND INSTALMENT OF THE COFFEE DIARIES.
When did it become a rule that every thirty something male "barista" who works on the left coast must look like a wizard. To be fair its not just limited to pouring coffee, they could just as easily be entrusted to monitor cycle lanes or restock the organic produce bins at whole foods.For me its not what they are doing really, its the dismissive and grumpy way they accomplish these seemingly simple tasks. It's the little things. Why do they greet you with "what can I get you man?". Am I to assume that they learned their lacklustre manners from other disingenuous millennials.
Why do they use the word "LIKE" several times in every spoken sentence, even though it is never used properly or even required?Let's just hypothesize for a moment that you don't have the energy or the will to order an extremely complex multi ingredient beverage that at some point includes the use of oat milk or cao cao butter. Let's say for instance that all you want is a medium drip coffee.What would you do if the wizard with the perfect pony tail pauses to wrap that tail up into a "man-bun" while he looks at you in disbelief? You sense he's thinking I've never encountered this dialect of language before.
This is clearly a challenge for Dumbledore as you just know he has recently returned from Nepal, Bhutan and Vietnam. He is obviously a cunning multi linguist and the proud owner of a backpack adorned in prayer flags and friendship bracelets.The silence is broken with Dumbledore's first question. "Drip coffee"? Yes I replied "just a drip coffee thanks". With that he turned 45 degrees to his female colleague and said with disgust, "this guy wants a filtered coffee". Oh I see, I ordered drip and I am clearly so far out to vegan lunch that I hadn't realized at this local chain, wizards refer to drip as filtered. Where's my head?
What have I done? How many wizards have I unknowingly vexed of late?Several minutes later I watch in awe as Dumbledore majestically poured my filtered coffee. He is clearly a finely honed barista with the sixth sense of an Olympian . Unfortunately his right arm must have experienced a twinge of exhaustion and he stopped pouring much sooner than expected.Dumbledore had only half filled my ethically sourced paper cup at the time he placed the pot back down on the counter. Even with his assumed catastrophic injury he was still able to summon up super human strength and painfully grunt "the coffee condiments are over there man". All I could think is this wizard is a living legend. His extra effort was astonishing. Not too long after I snapped back to reality.
If I had wanted to be made to feel even less worthy of oxygen, I could have asked Dumbledore to take it back & fill it this time. Alas he had me under his spell. The kind of spell that makes you stop giving fucks.I dragged one leg behind me (knee injury at the moment) over to an open table and set down my diminutive half cup off Ethiopian Bronze. After getting sorted I opened my iPad to read about the third mass shooting in the US this weekend. The usual thoughts run through my mind. What is wrong with those people? What makes them do this?It was then I began to sense the room starting to hum. It seems as though there are triple the amount of customers in line now and Dumbledore was not in his happy place.Call me demented but I was seated close enough to experience what was sure to be Dumbledore's day go for a shit.Too many hilarious negative interactions to describe. My favourite was the successive seemingly unrelated customers each wearing one of those stupid hats that Sammy Davis Jr. would have worn with Dean Martin in the Rat Pack movies of the 60's.
Dumbledore was clearly not into these retro 1st world Walmart copied abominations and as such I watched intently as he tried with great success to treat each witless drone with ever increasing distain.It was at this point I didn't think I could have had any more pure old fashioned satisfaction by remaining in my seat.It was time to venture off to Vic West to take a few photos and enjoy the fabulous weather. Vic West is not beautiful nor is it hideous. I felt like throwing caution to the wind at one point and even crossed the line into Esquimalt.I have a friend who described his time serving the people of Esquimalt as like working in 10 square miles of little Chicago. Who knows really. I made it in and out unscathed and better for it. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.I hope you enjoy the photos. I have recently taken receipt of a different camera. I find it somewhat inspiring.Best wishes from E-town (The Place of Shoaling Waters)!Images captured with Leica Q-P
EASTBOUND AND DOWN, CROSSING A FEW MORE OFF THE BUCKET LIST.
As time tics over, I find myself asking more and more questions. Questions about what I have done and where I have been. Though I should consider myself blessed for the experiences I have had to date, I sense that we got a long way to go and a short time to get there. Those of you born in the last century will recognize the blatant theft of lyrical gold from your favourite Smokey and the Bandit theme tune.
Unlike Burt Reynolds I don't crave a balls out drive across Texarkana, but I certainly fancy another trip abroad to several more classic and hopefully challenging destinations. I think my focus has a lot to do with getting to places that are doable now but perhaps a bridge too far as I advance in years. I foresee a time that my ability and resilience will dissipate to the point where I would actually entertain a Carnival Cruise with 2000 other witless drones (many of whom I assume will be adorned in camo ball caps).
Each drone competing for the shore excursions with the "best guided bus tour". Don't get me wrong, I am well known for my love of an all you can eat dessert bar longer than the straightaway at the Daytona 500. I just don't think its time to go full Ricky Bobby quite yet.With all of this in mind, today I find myself in the throws of trying to make some headway with AirBnB reservations for the early fall. This years annual buddy trip has been a long time in the making.
Yes it was just over a year ago that Dale and I returned home from London, Munich, Salzburg, Venice, Sicily and Barcelona. And so the use of the phrase "long time" may not be the best choice of words, however this year's final destinations came together after a smidge of negotiation.As usual, I often start off a bit too big for my britches. I look at 17 days of travel and immediately try to figure out how to better Phileas Fogg in every conceivable way. Several planning meetings in and we are going to achieve travel fame & notoriety for the experiences accomplished in the time provided.
So what started out as India, Nepal and several other sub-continental destinations has now been reworked and massaged into an altogether fantastic adventure with the chances of a little less Delhi belly along the way. This year's Grand Tour will be an excellent opportunity to visit places that I have always dreamt of going. Since the first time I heard of them mentioned by Sean Connery in Bond films of yore, my intentions of getting to all of them has never faltered.
As England is an awesome first stop to avail yourself of dozens of European discount airlines, this is where we kick off proceedings. Luckily we have the opportunity to include a couple days in the Lake District of Northern England first before we continue on to the continent. In 2019 we are using Manchester as our gateway to Budapest. Hungary is described as a beautiful country and its capital represents its history and hospitality in spades from what I gather.
From Budapest we continue on to Athens and all that the ancient Cradle of Western Civilization provides. I assume that we will have to pick and choose our arrival times at the big tourist destinations wisely. I intend to be at the Acropolis before sun up and hope that everyone else needs a good lie in. There are so many things to see and do in Athens, and I am hopeful it all works out with our limited time to enjoy the city.From Athens we travel to Istanbul or Constantinople if you please. The Mosques and Cathedrals.
The Bazaars and cafes. The hustle and bustle of the countries biggest city. I cant wait to cross the Bosporus into Asia and genuinely experience the life of a Turk (minus any nasty scenes from Midnight Express or a visit to the Saudi Embassy). Of course we are mindful of the local tensions and plan to limit our exposure in potentially iffy environments. From Istanbul we continue on to Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. I know only about Israel and the West Bank by what I have read and seen in the news over the years. I look forward to being exposed to life in the Holy land.
My hope is to meet local people from both the Jewish and Muslim faith with a view to making friends along the way. Our intentions are to learn as much as we can about the lay of the land and the daily challenges to both sides of the wall.It is at this point we change directions and fly to the fashion capital of the world. Most of you are assuming that my chances of landing gainful employment as a runway model for Versace or Armani are limited. Not so hasty now! If we were honest, we have all eaten a sandwich that might have been a little past its best before date. Dale however is the king of repurposed or "vintage clothing retail". I expect great things from Dale as we wander the stradas and piazzas of Milano. There is a very good chance I have to leave Dale behind as he happily assumes a new identity (Gian Lucca) in order to appear “Italiano” on the cover of GQ for possibly months and years to come.
Hauling business be damned! Lucky for you I now bring this rambling post to an end. There are many fine details to iron out for this trip but the most important ones are a fait accompli.
I have a few more posts in me prior to take off but for those who have no interest in photography, photography gear or my substandard writing skills, I suggest you give them a miss no matter how much I woefully try to add comedic value.
Don’t miss this link!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v_sB6gFenUg&w=560&h=315
Cheers!Mark
FERNWOOD SUNDAY AND MY FIRST INSTALMENT OF THE COFFEE DIARIES.
Sunday mornings come and go, but when you know that fall is here and winter is just around the corner you tend to make the most of the now. This morning brought beautiful dark blue skies and the warmth of the autumnal sun. In our household one of us is a newly converted yoga fanatic and one of us isn’t. So while I happily waited for my life partner (when in Rome), I strolled around the neighbourhood with my camera looking for rich colours and contrasting shadows in the bricks and mortar.
What used to be turn of the century historic buildings are seemingly now bill boards for trek Thailand this, or paddle Borneo that. A little while later I stop to gaze at another poster for holistic healing and the power of the African drum. Next to that appears information on the numerous advantages of using crystals in your day to day life. Where am I? I love to travel, but here is here and the power of that is what I come home for.
Away is away and that change of scenery and custom is what I travel for. Distinction and difference makes travel better. I don't want to travel to the other side of the earth for an afternoon of micro brew & Fanny Bay oysters, however I imagine a traveller from far away might just enjoy a restful afternoon at Spinnakers Brew Pub while on a well thought out tour of Victoria. With that said, I enjoy Fernwood Village in the morning. The business owners are opening up their doors and sweeping their sidewalks. The din is no longer that of last nights pub goers but that of the locals who are now flocking to Gladstone Coffee.
I see them carrying their own ethically sourced mugs for their ethically sourced beverages made by a myriad of female baristas wearing the jeans their mom’s wore in grade 10. Most also wear repurposed eyeglasses once worn by a 73-year-old lady named Marge back in the times when Gerald Ford was the laughing-stock of the world press. Look how far we have come? If you can’t beat them, join them, I approach the young girl behind the counter. For some reason the new fashion trend is to readjust your waistline from your waist to somewhere just below your collar-bone.
I swear to god that if she had to get her iPhone 4 (retro) from her back pocket she would have to reach over her shoulder like Mrs. Incredible to get it. And how counter productive would that be when she has but a moment to check Used Victoria for recently posted vintage fur lined trench coats. My barista remarks that she likes the camera slung over my shoulder. I thank her. She says she only works in film. I think to myself “of course she does”.
We exchange further pleasantries and I walk off with my hipster coffee for $4.00. That’s cool!I perch on a stool in the window facing Fernwood Road. Across the street a man arrives in a truck. He soon hops out and walks to its rear to grab his tools. Like magic he begins to dance from tag to tag removing the week’s recent graffiti from local buildings. We are not talking Banksy here. We are talking about single words or symbols that mean nothing to 99.9 % of us and in my opinion should be transposed on to the faces of the half wits who decided to bust out their spray can in the first place. What was actually more satisfying than seeing the tags being removed was the pride in the face of the man who was doing it. This guy looked pleased with himself and that speaks volumes.
Deanna arrived and we set sail for a quick grocery shop. From the frying pan in to the fire. What I have been describing for the last 10 minutes just got exponentially more intense at Whole Foods. “Dude, can I interest you in a creamy matcha with a double shot of wheat grass?” I just nodded and he jumped aboard his Boosted Board to harvest my ingredients! I can’t wait until Amazon delivers Whole Foods groceries by drone just so I don’t have to try to "like" wander up and down the isles " like" trying to understand the meaning of life anymore "dude".
Until next time......
Cheers,
Mark