Pembrokeshire Cycle and PUFFINS!

In October 2008, I booked one night’s accommodation on Skomer Island, where Atlantic puffins return each year to their cliffside burrows to breed, before returning back to the deep sea in late July.  I spent 3 hours the first morning that bookings to the general public opened, phoning and phoning until I got through. When I did get through, we only had two choices: one early in the season and one late. I chose late – mid July 2009.

I have never, ever been so committed to booking anything. Even tickets to the Tom Waits concert we saw in Dublin last year only took me one hour of hitting the ‘refresh’ button on TicketMaster’s website.

The set off point for the island, Martin’s Haven, is about 3 miles from the nearest village, which itself is miles from a town of any consequence.  We dithered about how we would get there and didn’t find much in the way of public transport options.  After considering renting a car and hiking, we eventually decided to cycle around Pembrokeshire – the south-western-most county in Wales.

Nic found a few cycle routes that would cover the area: specifically, Sustran’s National Cycle Network routes  47 and 4.  I booked us train tickets to Carmarthen, using National Express East Coast’s website, which handily allows us to book a place for our bikes as well.  Wales has been Nic and Oanh’s 2009 Most Visited Country.  Have we mentioned that we love Wales?

We’re writing up the blow-by-blow account elsewhere, at the Crazy Guy on a Bike website.  We’ve been using the CGoaB website for lots of information about cycle-touring, so we’re giving back a bit by telling our own cycling stories there.

We cycled about 320kms over the 8 days, with many ups and many downs (approximately 3,244m of them, to be specific) and almost always into a headwind.  The weather, too, was not very pleasant.  I think of our total 9 day trip (including the one day on Skomer Island), we had 2 days of nice and dry weather; one of which, annoyingly, was our last day (involving mostly of train travel back to Southampton).  Even so, we had an excellent time.

Our route was planned around a few key stops: Pwyll Deri YHA Hostel, the town of St David’s and, of course, Skomer Island.  The rest we let happen as we cycled, which gave us great flexibility for rest days, lazy mornings hiding from the rain or longer stops to explore excellent Welsh castles.

Highlights of the trip were:

1. Pwyll Deri YHA – the hostel with the best view, ever.  Here we escaped from the rain after a drenched, cold miserable and grumpy (but short) cycle ride (see Lowlight #1 below).  We cooked up a delicious feast of rice and curry, and were even fed cake by one of our fellow hostellers.

Oanh photographs Nic photographing the view (after the rain has passed!).

2. Without a shadow of a doubt, the puffins on Skomer Island.

PUFFIN!!!

3. Serendipitously turning into the Druidston Hotel for a delicious lunch (when we discovered our bodies must have really needed fat as we have never eaten so much buttered bread in one sitting), and then spending the next 2 hours waiting out a downpour.

Coastline near the hotel at Druidston Haven, shortly before the rain hit.

4. The coastal scenery and gorgeous sunsets almost every night.

Sunset near Martin's Haven.

5.  The Welsh have really good castles.  Most have roughly the same history – built as strongholds for Norman and/or English overlords, generally named William, who wanted to subdue the Welsh ; were usually Royalist strongholds during the Civil Wars of the 17th Century and eventually slighted by Parliamentarians to become the picturesque ruins that Nic and I love.

Laugharne Castle

6. First Great Western’s carriage just for bikes.  Brilliant!  If only all the train providers would have such a thing.

(Ummm… nice as it was, we didn’t take a photo of this.)

7. The Welsh accent.

Lowlights of the trip included:

1. Me meandering slowly around a warm grocery store while Nic grew colder and colder as he had waited outside with the bikes, in the wind and rain.  Our cycle after was tense and grumpy for a bit, until Nic warmed up and I stopped feeling guilty for being so thoughtless.

2.The stupidest “cycle” path ever:

From Johnston to near Pembroke, there is an approximately 8 miles long traffic free bike path, which is great.  However, it ended, without warning, by turning sharply up a narrow gravel track, which shortly became stairs.  Even mountain bikes can’t tackle stairs.  We both grunted and grumbled as we struggled up with our bikes.  To add insult to injury, at the top of the path, toxic smelling black plumes of smoke (a factory burning off car tyres?) welcomed us to a dual-carriage motorway (with the bike lane on the opposite side of the road) which took us into the drab, charmless town centre of Pembroke Harbour.  I was so glad when Nic told me that Pembroke, our destination for the evening, was another five kilometres past Pembroke Harbour.

3. The hideous campsites at Tenby, which was expensive and had rubbish facilities, and Laugharne, which charged us the same amount as a car and four people, and directed us to a tent pitch  in between enormous caravans that seemed larger than our house.  All our other campsites were lovely.

But enough moaning!  Go read the whole story at Huffin’ & Puffins!

*****

All of our Skomer Island photos are here.

All of our Pembrokeshire Cycling photos are here.

 

Cycling the Kennet & Avon Canal path

One common feature that unifies most of the big cycling trips we have done so far is hills.  Obviously, given our location, we’re not talking about mountains.  Even in Wales, we never really surpassed more than about 300 metres above sea level.  Low altitude does not necessarily equate to flat however; you can squeeze a lot of upping and downing into 300 metres of altitude.  And, be it in the Isle of Wight, the Cotswolds or Pembrokeshire (still to be posted!), that’s pretty much what we’ve tended to do.  Up.  Down.  Up.  Down.  etc.

For a change, we decided to cycle along the Kennet & Avon Canal path, between Reading (just west of London) and Bristol (near the west coast of England).  Canals, much like railroads, were designed to be as flat as possible.  Sure, locks allowed boats to be raised and lowered up and down hills, but that required a lot of effort (to construct) and water pumping (to operate); therefore, the idea was to lay them out as flat as possible.  Should make the cycling a breeze, we thought.

So, the weekend before the Summer Bank Holiday long weekend (hoping to avoid the crowds and inevitable bad weather of the long weekend itself) we set off for Reading at a ridiculous hour of the morning.  Our train journey up was cramped nonetheless, and left us standing by our bikes in the (overloaded) bike carrying bit of the train, wondering why on earth people who were unable to locate a seat insisted on wandering from one end of the train to the other (necessitating much rearrangement of bikes on our part) rather than just staying put.  Oh well, eventually we emerged into a gloriously sunny day at Reading and the hardships of the journey were soon forgotten.

Cycling through the centre of town to the canal, we stopped for a coffee.  The barista asked me how far we had cycled as I ordered, and I had to rather shamefacedly admit that so far we had only cycled about 150 metres from the train station, but that we planned to cycle a whole lot further, hence our need for sustenance.

Reading city centre is a pleasant enough place (for a British high street full of chain stores) – I have meetings here occasionally and have developed a fondness for the Ethiopian restaurant where we eat lunch and the characterful pub where we go for a post-meeting drink.  Not really a place to linger when the countryside beckoned though, and we quickly located signs for the cycle path and set off.

We did encounter a little bit of grief trying to escape the city: I’ve probably ranted about this before, but Sustrans (the cycle path authority) do have a rather annoying habit of over-signing perfectly obvious parts of a route whilst not placing any signs (that we could spot) at critical intersections.  Their signs also seem to get reoriented fairly frequently (presumably by mischevious goblins).  Eventually, after detouring through an industrial estate, being dumped by the path on the wrong side of a highway, and negiotiating the most fiendishly designed traffic calming device I’ve ever seen (evidently designed to keep anything other than bicycles and pedestriants off the path, it was so narrow we had to remove our panniers and lift our bikes over it) we found ourselves by the canal.

Immediately, the stress of town lifted off our shoulders.  The still waters of the canal reflected overhanging trees and clear blue skies, the birds were singing, and the M4 was but a distant roar of traffic.  Apart from the occasional jogger, we had the path mostly to ourselves and revelled in the freedom of not having to worry about traffic, not having to huff and puff up hills, and not having to make any difficult navigational decisions.

The canal, near Newbury

However, by early afternoon, we had to admit to each other that, actually, we were finding this all a little bit boring.  You see, part of the excitement of cycling is struggling to the top of a massive hill, taking in the views from the top, and knowing that you have several minutes of glorious descent ahead of you.  By the end of the day, you are knackered, ready to replenish your energy with a massive meal before collapsing into unconscious sleep.  By contrast, we’d barely even felt the need to pause for a muesli bar today.  The views, whilst “lovely”, were a little unremittingly samey.  And really, it was all just a little bit too sedate.  [Seems like we can't ever be pleased, no? - Oanh]

Some respite was offered by the middle third of our journey.  The canal towpath has not yet been “improved” along this section, so the route diverts onto conutry roads for 30 miles or so.  All of a sudden we began climbing hills, winding down through sleepy villages and gazing across bucolic rural vistas.  This was more like it.  At one point we even had some navigational challenges, as our map and the signs disagreed.

Our destination for the evening was The Golden Swan, a pub that had a field for camping in the village of Wilcot, just outside Pewsey.  We spent a little bit of time in Pewsey looking for the Times, as I had become a little bit addicted to their cryptic crossword (now reformed, thank you) and wanted to check my previous week’s solutions.  Unfortunately, it seemed that everybody in Pewsey read the Times, and every single shop had sold out.  On our way out of Pewsey, we passed by, and spent  a little while exploring the grounds of, this incredibly cute church:

Cute little church, guarded by yew trees, at Pewsey

On arrival at The Golden Swan we dumped our bikes in the field and went looking for someone to sort out camping with.  A large group of people seated out the front of the pub chastised us (jokingly) for jumping the queue as I approached the door, and informed us that we’d have to wait in line for the pub to open, just like everybody else.  Fortunately, it was a brief wait, at which point everybody graciously allowed us to get the low down on camping (pitch your tent anywhere you like, toilets are out the back) before they put in their drinks orders.

We had an extremely pleasant evening dining at the pub: we both ate rabbit pie followed by plum and blackberry crumble (all freshly made from local ingredients).  The dining room was rather small, and we ended up chatting with most of the other people there, the ice being broken mostly by the staff’s fairly continual inability to associate the correct meals with the correct table (and eventually, the correct bill with the correct diners).  After dinner, we took a brief stroll down along the canal, passing one boating family moored up and dining quite cosily by candlelight on the bank, before turning in.

We packed up in record time the next morning, but any early departures ended up being delayed by further conversations with fellow campers, mostly about other pleasant locations for cycling, camping and canoeing in the south of England.  I’m sure there is a bit of selection bias going on, but I really do think you see the nicest side of English people on campsites out in the countryside.

The morning was brisk and clear, and our route took us through some stunning rural landscapes.  The fields had recently been harvested, and the massive bales of hay created an odd atmosphere, at once man-made and somehow prehistoric, a little like the stone tors on Dartmoor.

Picked Hill, in rural North Wiltshire.

Dragonfly, patiently taken by Oanh.

Etchilhampton Hill, with hay bales.

We were banking on passing through a village equipped with coffee shop (or at least tea room!) at some point, and so hadn’t bothered bringing our own coffee; however, it ended up being 30km of uncaffeinated riding before we located a cafe just outside of Devizes, at Caen Hill, where a sequence of approximatley 30 locks that carried boats up and down 72 metres of altitude over a distance of 3.2 kilometres.  It doesn’t sound like that much, but it was certainly an impressive sight: apparently it takes about 5-6 hours to take a boat over the whole distance (by comparison, on bikes it took us about 10 minutes!)

The cafe, while pleasant, was one of those that confuses me utterly: it had approximately 40 tables, of which four were occupied.  There were five staff working, yet they all seemed completely flustered and run off their feet.  At 10% capacity.  How on earth do they handle a full house?

Happily caffeinated, we continued on down Caen Hill and past a relatively nondescript stretch of canal that reinforced our preference for hills and valleys.  Things became a bit more interesting after Bradford-on-Avon, where the canal winds its way through steep, wooded valleys before emerging in Bath (we had previously walked this stretch).

Purple wildflowers - Meadow Crane's Bill.

Maxwell (& Daughters') Silver Hammer

Beyond Bath, we entered the realm of the Bristol & Bath Railway Path, an old disused railway line that has been converted into a state-of-the-art cycle facility.  And my, it certainly allowed us to fly.  We kept up an average speed of about 25km/h the entire distance.  Except for the hour in the middle, where we realised that we were on track to reach Bristol approximately 3 hours before our train left, and detoured to lie in the shade of a tree down by the river for a quick siesta.

Bristol was a bit of a navigational nightmare, as cities are wont to be.  Eventually we found our way down to the Quays, a large pedestrianised area with lots of (rather unexciting looking) eating options.  We settled on the cheap and cheerful option of (absolutely massive) falafel rolls (Falafel King, you rock!)  Actually, checking out their reviews, it seems like everybody agrees.  Fully sated, we navigated our way back to the station and settled in for the journey home.

Verdict: a thoroughly enjoyable weekend, but we’ll stick with the hills thanks all the same.

See the rest of our photos at our SmugMug gallery here!

 

Symonds Yat

Another active Summer outing with our friends, Rob and Simon (actually, looking back, I note that we never wrote a blog post about 2008’s active Summer outing, although the photos went up here).  Simon lives in the North and the rest of us live in the South, which presented the challenge of locating a mutually convenient venue.  The centre of England being rather short on wild mountainous terrain, we rapidly settled on the Brecon Beacons as a suitable target.  Adding to the convenience, Simon’s Mum lived just near the border at Symonds Yat, and we would be welcome to camp in her yard.  Actually, we were welcome to stay in her house, but just how much of an active outing would that be?

A succession of delays (the guy ahead of Oanh in the car rental office having had an accident, freak thunderstorms, sensibly slow driving down dark, narrow and windy country lanes, that sort of thing) led to us not arriving at Symonds Yat until well after 11pm, making it an easy decision to leave the tents packed and seek out beds in the rambling house.  Hardcore, we are.

The next morning, after a fantastic breakfast cooked by Simon’s Mum, we set off for the Beacons.  Although initially heading for the more remote western Black Mountain region, the fantastically clear weather induced us to change our minds and target the main ridge.  We had walked here earlier this year, but been clouded in at the top, hampering views.  I’d had a similar experience about 10 years ago, when I spent an entire day seeing nothing beyond about 10 feet around me.

The central region of the Brecon Beacons is shaped something like a hand laying flat (palm down) on a table.  The main ridge links a series of peaks (the knuckles) while a series of subsidiary ridges stretch off to the north (the fingers).  In between each of the fingers lie steep-sided valleys, carved out by glaciers many thousands of years ago.  Our plan was to climb up the index finger, cross two or three knuckles, and then descend along the middle or fourth fingers, as the mood took us, before making our way back to the car.

Clear blue skies, lush green grass, abundant sheep and good company made this a highly enjoyable walk.  I finally got to see the (stunning) views from the top of Pen y Fan (the highest peak) in good weather, as well as reaching Cribyn, the central peak, which I had never visited before.

Cribyn.

Us on the summit of Pen y Fan, in the sun!

Nic takes in the view from the summit of Fan y Big.

The low point of the walk (quite literally) was the yomp along the roads back to the car at the end of the day.  One positive aspect of this particular section however, was that we noticed a sign advertising camping on one of the farms.  Still with ample daylight, but sensing that our chances of locating a pub dinner were steadily diminishing, we decided to drive back here, pitch up and hit the nearest village.

Pentwyn Farm was a beautiful camp site: a gently sloping field rolling down to a stream, with views out over the surrounding farms and hills.  Also pleasingly casual, we were the only guests and the farmer was happy to recommend the pubs in several of the nearby villages.  We opted for the closest, The White Swan, in Llanfrynach, which we were informed was “a bit smart” but came well recommended.  Pulling in to the car park, we were a bit concerned that “a bit smart” might not appreciate our rather dishevelled and muddy state, but were relived to find ourselves greeted warmly and led to a table with nary a glance at our boots.

A quick survey of the menu made us realise that we were not in the domain of “cheap pub grub” (words like jus, coulis, boudin and confit abounded).  Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers, so we decided to ignore the price column and enjoy our meal.  Fortunately, the quality of the food met and exceeded our expectations (and the price tag) and we all enjoyed marvellous dinners and desserts, along with several (well deserved) pints of Brains (a Welsh brewer).

Oanh's dessert of raspberry mascarpone.

The following morning we made a relatively early start, and after juggling two sets of crockery and cutlery between four of us over breakfast, packed up the tents and continued westwards towards the Black Mountain.  The weather had closed in a little and clouds were skimming along the tops of, and occasionally obscuring, the peaks.  Nonetheless, it remained dry (for now).  Our plan was to walk a loop out from Glyntawe, heading first along another ridge to a mountain called Fan Brycheiniog, before striking off the path to meet up with a bridleway running through what our OS map described as “an area of shakeholes”, which would lead us back to Glyntawe.

The initial ascent was remarkably steep for the first few kilometres, but we trudged steadily upwards, pausing only to argue about whether a collection of stone piles labelled on the OS map as a “stone age settlement” was in fact a stone age settlement, or rather, just a pile of stones over-interpreted by eager archaeologists.  To be fair, the ruins had clearly seen better days.

The reach of our views extended rapidly as we ascended, and we began to draw even with the peaks that had previously towered over us.  The speed of the wind increased as well, and we were relieved to find a low circular wall on the summit within which we could shelter (accompanied by two men and a dog) to eat lunch.

Having taken in the view, Rob, Simon and I depart the summit cairn; rather offending Oanh, who had just arrived (we didn't mean to, honest!)

Llyn y Fan Fach (try saying that ten times quickly)

Continuing on, we saw the much more familiarly moody face of the Brecon Beacons, though the scenery remained spectacular.  As we descended from the ridge across pathless grassy slopes, the skies opened and a gentle rain began to fall.  The bridleway that we were aiming for was evidently little used and proved rather elusive, leading to much conferring over the map and compass and speculation about the identities of the various rocky protuberances that offered themselves as landmarks.

After several interesting river crossings, the path became much clearer and we were able to pay less attention to the map and more to our feet, on which the considerable ascents and descents were now beginning to take their toll.  We spent the last few kilometres convinced that the final descent back to our car lay just beyond the next hill, only to find yet more sodden, boggy, rocky terrain ahead of us.  While lacking the charm of our morning’s walking, our surroundings definitely possessed character: the sort of character that you migh associate with Mordor, in Tolkein’s Middle Earth.

At long last we made our final descent back into Glyntawe.  We staggered the last couple of hundred metres to the pub, peeled off our wet waterproofs and decided to settle in for dinner (a decision aided by the friendly hospitality of the landlord and open fire).  We were now back in the cheap and cheerful pub grub, but by no means went away unsatisfied (i.e., we were satisfied).

Saturday provided us with yet more doubtful weather, and we decided to explore Symonds Yat, guided by Simon, who grew up there.  Symonds Yat is divided into two villages by the River Wye, which curves a sinuous path along the English-Welsh border.  The wooded banks of the river slope steeply up to 150 metre hills, on top of one of which we were camped.  We descended from here to the river along a dripping forest path, expertly chosen by Simon to avoid the weekend crowds, stopping briefly to locate a geocache.  After pausing at a riverside teahouse for tea and cake, we crossed over a footbridge and I suggested a relaxed amble along the bank of the river, as opposed to charging straight up the side of the next hill.  People were persuaded, and we left the mist covered hills for another day, choosing instead the more relaxed challenge of deciding what type of sandwhich to order for lunch at The Saracen’s Head.

Our return journey back across the river was, rather excitingly, by hand ferry.  A large punt was attached to an overhead cable by rope and one of the barmen came out periodically to haul it and a load of passengers from one side of the river to the other.  A bit of a break from pulling pints I suppose.  The rain cleared away over the rest of the afternoon and we spent the evening drinking scrumpy around a campfire under the glow of millions of stars that don’t exist in the city.

See all the photos at our SmugMug gallery.

 

Cinque Terre

As mentioned, our Italian sojourn began with an unfortunate ankle-twisting incident that put paid to our plans of trekking in the Apennines (To give away to a good home: one Grande Excursione Apennino guidebook. Unused.)  On one of our outings to Florence, we spent a little time in an internet cafe, scoping out possible alternatives.  Our criteria were basically relaxing, not too hectic, enough to do that we wouldn’t be bored out of our brains, but not so much to do that we wouldn’t actually end up having a holiday.  Several friends had recommended the Cinque Terre to us and it certainly appeared to be an appealing option: authentic fishing villages tumbling down cliff faces into the azure waters of the Mediterranean, all linked by a spectacular walking path.  We had some reservations however, as the term “tourist hordes” had also been used and, to be honest, we were a bit fed up with the crowds of Florence.

Nonetheless, as the end of our hour on the internet approached, a decision was made and we scribbled down the details of a few likely looking cheap hotels.  Back outside in the heat and bustle of Florence, we crouched in a dusty alleyway away from the traffic and managed, in halting Italian-English, to book two nights accommodation at Locanda dalla Compagnia in Riomaggiore.

Several days later, we were ready to move onto the second part of our holiday.  In a fit of excessive organisation, we had pre-purchased our rail tickets the day before, so merely had to show up and navigate the sequence of train changes that were required to deposit us in Riomaggiore.  As we journeyed north from Pisa to La Spezia, the train lines ran alongside the very mountains in which we had hoped to be hiking, and I did feel a pang of regret that we weren’t to be escaping the heat of the plains for the cool of the mountaintops.  I was hopeful that the cool of the seashore would prove equally refreshing.  Our hearts did sink a little though, as our train from La Spezia to Riomaggiore gradually filled with scores of loud, sunburned Americans.

Spilling out of the train at Riomaggiore, we obtained a rough map of the town and phoned the hotel for clearer directions.  The railway line burrowed through rock beneath the town, with the station in a narrow valley at its foot.  All roads led up.  As we ascended, our spirits lifted in line with the altitude.  Our fellow passengers rapidly dispersed, and we passed a succession of inviting restaurants, cafes and alimentarias (grocers) all displaying an abundance of fresh fruit and vegetables in front of their windows.  Sure, half the signs were in English and the restaurants were full of American and Australian accents, but there were just as many elderly Italians sitting conversing in the shade or watching the world go by from their windows.  As filled with tourists as it was, Riomaggiore was clearly big enough to handle them.

The higher we climbed, the more the streets emptied out, and we eventually reached our hotel, set in the back of a small square beside one of the town’s two churches.  Our room was unremarkable, with a single window facing, about a metre away, the dripping stone of the hillside into which the hotel had been cut.  It was however, air-conditioned and enabled us to shower, cool off and change into more suitable attire for exploring a coastal town.

Our first priorities were purchasing thongs (or “flip-flops” if the idea of shopping for thongs makes you snigger) and lunch.  Both were rapidly obtained and we sat down to a marvellous feast of pizza, salad and a remarkably cheap and drinkable house white.  The remainder of our day was spent exploring the town: wandering aimlessly through narrow winding lanes that would suddenly emerge onto stunning views over vivid blue water and steep cliffs.

It did occur to me that this (self-timer) photo may well lose us our camera to thief unable to believe his luck.

He did jump, eventually...

The town of Riomaggiore.

For dinner, we picked up bread, tomatoes, olives, and a selection of cured meats (salami piccante and prosciutto crudo) and cheeses (parmesan and peccorino), and carried it up to a lookout just outside of town at Torre Guardiamo.  The path leading to the lookout first descended to a small, rocky beach, and then climbed rapidly upwards towards the point, clinging precipitously to the cliff face thirty metres above crashing surf.  Once there we found ourselves the sole inhabitants of a closed cafe and so plonked ourselves down at one of their tables to eat good food and watch the sun set.

Antipasti dinner at Torre Guardiola.

Unfortunately, as we made our way back to town at sunset, Oanh turned her ankle again; not as badly as the previous time, but no doubt hampering its recovery

The following day, however, Oanh judged her ankle fit for light walking and we decided to set off on the coast path joining the five towns of the Cinque Terre.  The first stretch of path is known as the Via dell’Amore, and like the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, the railings were adorned with padlocks.

The first town we reached was Manarola, which, lovely though it was, confirmed to us that we had made the right choice in picking Riomaggiore (a larger and livelier town) to stay in.  We sat down at an empty cafe for espressos and obviously looked like we were enjoying ourselves, as the cafe soon filled to the brim (predominantly due to the arrival of a large and loud group of German women… how it is that Germans can happily sit down to a beer with breakfast at 10am I really don’t know).

Beyond Manarola, the path became narrower and steeper, the day became hotter and shade became scarcer.  We arrived at the foot of Corniglia to find a rather large number of steps separating us from the town centre, which was located on a cliff top rather than by the water.

A rather vivid flower along the Via dell'Amore.

Fortunately, we were greeted at the summit by a water fountain, and the narrow streets of Corniglia were pleasantly cool.  Spurning the several perfectly nice looking cafes and restaurants we opted for takeaway pizza from La Gata Flora, which we consumed sitting on the steps of a nearby buliding (along with several other happy pizza-eaters).  Italian pizza is soooo good!  After gelati for desert (a day in Italy without gelati is a day in Italy wasted) we decided to call it quits and catch the train back to Riomaggiore, so as not to overtax Oanh’s ankle.

Our hotel was full up the following day, so we spent a little time contemplating alternative accommodation options.  Fortunately, such spontaneity was well catered for, our request at an accommodation agent being met with : “double room, 80 euros; studio apartment with ocean views, 90 euros)”.  A bit of a no brainer, especially given the possibility of having our own kitchen with which to cook up some of the incredible produce we had been salivating over in the local alimentarias.  I was a bit sceptical about the sea views however, anticipating a situation where if you leant out the window and craned your head around the neighbour’s satellite dish you might just catch a glimpse of blue.

Sunset over Riomaggiore harbour.

That chore dealt with, we went for a swim (Nic) and paddle (Oanh) at the beach, and then dined on stuffed mussels, vegetable tarts and seafood pasta at Il Grotto.

We checked out and dumped our luggage at the accommodation office the next morning, being instructed to return after 11am to check in.  After a morning sketching and reading down by the harbour, we returned back up the hill.  The little old Italian lady met us, locked up the office and immediately set off back the way we had come.  Soon we were being ushered into an airy first floor apartment, the windows of which provided uninterrupted 180 degree views of the sea, cliffs, harbour and town.  We were unable to believe our luck!

The view from our window!

Resisting the temptation to simply not leave our brilliant accommodation for the remainder of our stay, we caught the train to Monterosso al Mare, the northernmost of the five towns, with the intention of walking back to Corniglia, at which point we would have walked the entire coastal path.  Monterosso was a large, bustling town with a rather garish beachfront.

The rather colourful beach at Monteross al Mare (private, you had to pay just to access the beach!)

After more pizza for lunch (a day in Italy without pizza is a day in Italy wasted) we began walking into the heat of the day.  The paths at this end of the coast were significantly more rugged than those near Riomaggiore.  Before long we were gasping up steep and narrow flights of steps between terraces packed with olive trees and grape vines.  Passing oncoming walkers involved much backtracking and standing aside in safe locations.  It’s impossible to put into words the views however, they were absolutely beautiful and well worth all the huffing and puffing and sweating.

Oanh adds: On the path from Vernazza to Corniglia, we passed a few construction sites and marelled at how a bulldozer could have got to its place on the edge of the cliff.  At one point, there was also a large rock on the path and no evidence from where it had fallen, but there was definite evidence that it had fallen, as it had taken out part of a barricade in its fall.

Descending to Vernazza.

The next day dawned overcast and rainy.  After a brief stroll around town, we decided to make the most of our accommodation, and lazed about resting, reading and watching the stormclouds outside.  In the late afternoon, the sun returned, with the rain having cleared away all the haze from the air and leaving behind stunningly clear views.  Across the sea, mountains were visible that I speculated must have been Corsica and the Maritime Alps.

We returned to the beach.  Unfortunately however, the change in winds had resulted in what was previously a calm, flat sea turning into a considerable swell.  Given the rocky and uneven nature of the foreshore, entering the water became something of a challenge.  Watching other people attempt to enter the water became a huge source of amusement.  Watching the front rows of sunbathers get caught by a particularly high wave was downright hilarious (for all involved, I’m sure).

Oanh adds: With the change in the weather, a storm came across and our evening’s entertainment was a lightning storm over the sea.

Sunset from our apartment.

Our final day, we checked out and, having some time to kill before our train back to Florence, returned to Corniglia, purely for the purpose of returning to La Gata Flora, our favourite pizza place.  Unfortunately, it was closed on Mondays, so we made do with sandwiches at a cafe in the piazza.

Back in Florence, we met up with Alessio and Barbara, who had arranged for us to spend our final night at Barbara’s uncle’s hotel so we could make an early start for the airport the following morning.  The Hotel Duomo was, true to its name, located adjacent to the Duomo, and the entire view out of our window was taken up by the black and white marble panels of its exterior.  We were super grateful for the continued hospitality shown to us!  After showering off sea salt and travel grime, we went for a stroll around Florence – much quieter, cooler and more appealing in the evening.  Barbara managed to talk our way into the (closed) rooftop terrace of the La Rinascente department store, from where we had awesome views of the sun setting over Florence and the surrounding hills.  One last meal of pizza and gelati (blueberry for Oanh, Mexican chocolate and chilli for Nic) brought our time in Italy to a satisfying close.

See all of the photos here.

 

Florence & Poggiolino

When I was a little girl and Coi still lived in Italy, I told him that I would come visit him in Europe, hoping to do so when I finished high school.  I was so angry with him (briefly) when he migrated to Australia and I was only 8 or 9.  My opportunity to spend time with an Italian family and swan around Europe gone.

Kieu, also, had wanted to spend time with Coi and his Italian foster family; so, we arranged to meet and stay with Coi’s foster parents, the Galimbertis, in Florence.  As a bonus, Alessio, who visited Australia in about 1990 (?), lived nearby Coi’s foster parents and we got to catch up with him, as well.

Kieu & Tien were already in Italy and they travelled by train from Venice to Florence, arriving the same day that we planned to arrive but in the late afternoon.  Our plane was scheduled to arrive at 11pm, but with delays etc, we ended up arriving shortly after midnight.  Luckily, we had declined the Galimberti’s kind offer to collect us from the airport and booked ourselves into a hotel for our late night arrival.  The following morning, we took a train to their home on the outskirts of Florence.

Day 1 – Arrival at Poggiolino

Alessio met us at the train station and it took me a moment to recognise him – his hair was no longer blonde and he was not as tall as I remember.  As we walked to Alessio’s car, I stumbled on the cobbled pavement and twisted my ankle.  It would not have been such a bad sprain, except that I was carrying my backpack, weighing about 15kgs.  Worse luck for me, I had just declined Alessio’s offer to take the backpack off me.  I was hopeful that some rest and ice would fix the ankle, but it was actually rather painful and swelled up very quickly.  This did not look good for our holiday – we had planned to hike in the Apennine Mountains north of Florence.

When we arrived at the property, named Poggiolino, only Kieu and Tien were there.  Everyone else had set off to church (it was Sunday).  We made ourselves at home in the kitchen, where we gorged ourselves on freshly picked cherries and caught up with Kieu and Tien and their travels.

When the Galimbertis came home, we had a riotous introduction and I was quickly told off for spraining my ankle then just as quickly cared for and admonished if I tried to do anything beyond sitting down with my foot up by Signora Galimberti.

We also met Barbara, Alessio’s wife; Diana, the eldest sister, and her partner, Miguel.  We had great fun communicating – or, rather, trying to – with everyone: Nic and I muddled our way through Italian with a phrase book; Diana was a master of many languages – French, Spanish, English; Signora Grazia Galimberti’s English was excellent but she was adamant we had to communicate with her in Italian; Signor Gianfranco Galimberti’s technical English was excellent but he faltered in everyday English (though he fared better than we did with Italian!)  There were lots of looking around at somewhere else and saying, “How do you say …?” (or it’s equivalent in Italian or French).  Luckily, Italians have a very tactile way of communicating and Nic and my exuberant hand gestures became even more exaggerated as we did our best to converse.

After a delicious Sunday lunch in the Italian way: pasta to start, bread, cheese and meats to follow and chased with dessert of ?? , all accompanied with olive oil and wine made by the Galimbertis from the trees and vines we had driven past on our way to their idyllic property in the Tuscan countryside.

The afternoon was spent lazing about in the hazy siesta time.  I would have loved to explore the property, but also wanted to rest so that the ankle could heal properly.  It was good for Nic and me to wind down and it seemed like my ankle was forcing us to do so!

Nic relaxing on the front steps at the Galimbertis' home.

Day 2 – Rest day at Poggiolino

The next morning, my ankle was still painful and very swollen, so Nic and I decided to just hang around Poggiolino instead of joining Kieu and Tien on their trip to visit Pisa and its famed leaning tower.

Nic’s and my day was filled with very little activity.  I mostly lay around reading, resting and napping. Nic explored Poggiolino, taking photos and drawing, and also occasionally reading and resting.  It was incredibly warm and very sunny in Italy; much of our time was spent trying to keep cool in the shade, marvelling at the beauty of the surrounding landscape and enjoying the abundance of cherries on trees (by helping them make their way into our tummies).

Not going anywhere fast.

Butterfly on lavender, in the garden at Poggiolino.

The main house, as seen from the garden.

In the mid afternoon, Kieu and Tien came back exhausted by their day in the heat at Pisa. They succeeded, however, in their goal: to take a typical tourist photos (as one must) of holding up the leaning tower.  Naturally, they then joined Nic and me doing very little under the shade of some old grapevines.

That evening, we had another fabulous feast with the Galimbertis, as it was Alessio’s birthday.  For dessert, we had eight different flavours of gelati.  Heaven.  We were joined by Alessio’s mother, Liliane, Eliana, the Galimberti’s youngest daughter and Hector, who also lived in the house that we were staying in, though we did not realise it until after dinner that evening, when he gave us a lift home (it wasn’t far, but people were very solicitous of my ankle).

Day 3 – Into Florence (Firenze)!

The next day, my ankle was healed enough that we decided to head into Florence and visit some of the sights.  Gianfranco drove all four of us into the centre of town, suggesting to Nic that we visit San Lorenzo church as it was one of the oldest in Florence.  While looking for the entrance to the church, we accidentally went into the Cappelle de Medici instead, only realising it was not the church after we had already paid to go in and ascended to the first floor exhibit about the Medicis.  That’s when we realised where we were: The Chapel of the Medicis.  Silly us.

I feel a bit naughty admitting this, but I do not find the Medicis very interesting.  Nor does medieval Florence, with its patrons, artists and religious fanatics capture my imagination in the way that Rome and its much older history did.  Even in Rome, I much preferred the artefacts of classical times than the artefacts of medieval times (e.g. the Villa Borghese).  And all the religious artefacts just make me cold with the ostentation and expense.  There were many reliquariums at the Capelle de Medici – overwrought boxes intended to house the bones of saints – of varying degrees of ostentation but pretty much all covered in gold gilt.

From the Cappelle de Medici, we decided to wander around Florence.  We did not get very far before the heat drove us inside another building.  This time, we had entered the capacious ground floor of Florence’s famed Duomo (cathedral), where the geometric tiles combined with high ceilings gave us wonderfully cooling respite from Italian sunshine and warmth.

Geometric tiling.

We could see the inside of the cupola and decided we were here and we had to ascend to the top, sore ankles aside.  It took us a while to find from where, exactly, we could climb to the cupola as it was a separate entrance from the one we had used to get inside.  After checking that the stairs would be wide enough for someone to pass me if I was going too slowly, Nic and I began the long, slow climb to the cupola.

We had two levels at which we got to see the frescoes on the inside of the cupola up incredibly close and marvel at the detail and clever perspective put in to make the central part of the painting look like it extended even higher than it actually did.  What’s more, the images of hell became even more viscerally disturbing up close.  The fresco was a depiction of the world in ‘levels’ as seen, I suppose, by an imagnative Catholic: the lower levels were vivid pictures of hell where men and women were being torn apart and eaten by demonic red creatures with bulging eyes.  Next, was life on earth, with some people slipping towards hell and others exalting with the angels in the level above.  Above the angels were saints, surrounding God who was in the highest, central part of the cupola.

So close, you can make out the paintstrokes.

From the top, we had fantastic views of Florence and the mountains we would probably NOT be climbing.

That evening, Tien had agreed to cook up a Vietnamese feast for our hosts, so after finding a cafe to have lunch of calzone in, we hurried back to the train station to return to Poggiolino, go grocery shopping and then cook.  Tien had planned the menu: goi ga (chicken salad); squid san choi bao (lettuce wraps); sup mang (asparagus soup); beef and zucchini stir fry and, of course, rice (steamed and fried).  Tien did almost all of the cooking, but Kieu, Nic and I all helped with the preparation.

Our meal was a great success (even if I say so myself).  People liked nuoc mam lam (dipping fish sauce) so much that they drank it out of their bowls.  I was too slow to stop them.  For dessert, Grazia made cherry sorbet from the many cherries growing on their property.  We had set the table beautifully, as it had been lavishly set every other meal.  I did laugh, however, when Grazia asked if all our family meals were like that. Definitely no – they are much, much more chaotic!

Dinner setting by Nic and Kieu.

Day 4 – Firenze again!

On Wednesday, all four of us went into Florence again to explore, splitting up to explore separately and at our own pace.  Nic and I found the heat so enervating that we just wandered aimlessly.  We ended up on the Ponte Vecchio (old bridge), Florence’s oldest bridge and the only one not destroyed by Nazis in their retreat at the end of World War II.  It is famed, now, for being the only bridge still with shops on it (mostly jewellers), which was common of bridges in medieval times but no longer.  Amusingly, we ran into Kieu and Tien who had actually intended to go to the Ponte Vecchio.

View of river Arno from Ponte Vecchio.

The back of the shops on the Ponte Vecchio.

From the Ponte Vecchio, we walked to the Uffizi gallery but decided not to go in as the queue for tickets was very long, as was the queue to actualy enter once you had tickets.  We did more aimless wandering, resting for a while on the steps of  a church, eating gelati and making plans for the weekend that did not involve climbing a mountain.

After lunch of lasagna (me) and salad (Nic) at some forgettable touristic ristorante, we went into the Palazzo Vecchio (old palace).  Initially, this was a good idea as it was cool inside.  But as we went further into the building and higher up, there was less and less air.  We listlessly passed from room to room, half admiring the artwork but I, anyway, was desperate to get out again just so I could breathe.

Our next move was a more suitable one for our moods and the heat: we sat ourselves down in a cafe for due espressi and fruit salad.  From there, we moved closer to the train station and plonked ourselves down in another cafe, before returning to Poggiolino for another feast.

Sadly, the heat must have got to me, as I was quite unwell that evening and took to bed early.  I felt a bit bad about this because I only got to meet Nicolo, Alessio’s younger brother, briefly and I did not get the opportunity to say goodbye to everyone before we all set off the next day.  I slipped away from dinner because I did not want anyone to worry about me.

We all left early the next morning (me much recovered after a good night’s sleep) – Nic and I to the Cinque Terre; Kieu and Tien to Rome.  I was sad to leave Poggiolino and would have loved to have stayed there longer and help out around the farm, picking olives perhaps!

All the photos of Poggiolino here.

All the photos of Florence here.