Download ebook with full colour photos (larger size - Travel Magpie
Download ebook with full colour photos (larger size - Travel Magpie
Download ebook with full colour photos (larger size - Travel Magpie
You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles
YUMPU automatically turns print PDFs into web optimized ePapers that Google loves.
White Van Acting Suspiciously<br />
<strong>Travel</strong>s in Eastern Europe <strong>with</strong><br />
Suzanne Middleton<br />
Photography<br />
John Robilliard<br />
Publisher Suzanne Middleton<br />
www.travelmagpie.com<br />
Copyright © Suzanne Middleton 2011<br />
ISBN 978-0-473-18290-8
Contents<br />
Map of the Journey .................................................................................................................... 4<br />
Chapter 1 France, Belgium, Netherlands ................................................................................... 5<br />
Chapter 2 Germany .................................................................................................................. 15<br />
Chapter 3 Germany, Czech Republic ....................................................................................... 28<br />
Chapter 4 Czech Republic, Germany ....................................................................................... 45<br />
Chapter 5 Poland, Slovakia, Hungary ...................................................................................... 60<br />
Chapter 6 Romania ................................................................................................................ 104<br />
Chapter 7 Bulgaria, Turkey .................................................................................................... 149<br />
Chapter 8 Turkey ................................................................................................................... 199<br />
Chapter 9 Greece.................................................................................................................... 247<br />
Chapter 10 Italy, Croatia, Bosnia-Hercegovina, Slovenia ..................................................... 302<br />
Chapter 11 Italy, Austria, Switzerland, France ...................................................................... 343<br />
Epilogue ................................................................................................................................. 395<br />
Bibliography .......................................................................................................................... 396<br />
Photos of Suzanne and John .................................................................................................. 398<br />
Thanks .................................................................................................................................... 399<br />
3
Map of the Journey<br />
4
Chapter 1 France, Belgium, Netherlands<br />
31 July – 16 August 2008<br />
Known Unto God<br />
In Dover we ceremoniously record the van‟s mileage - 155,576 - before driving into<br />
the hold of the Norfolk Line ferry in a state of exhilaration. A glorious year of freedom<br />
stretches ahead of us, loosely defined and unpredictable.<br />
We‟re off to Eastern Europe, Turkey and Greece in an old builder‟s van <strong>with</strong> a<br />
mattress, gas cooker and toilet in the back, knowing that the trip will change us forever.<br />
Unable to resist a moment of cliché we go up on deck and take pictures of the receding white<br />
cliffs.<br />
An encounter <strong>with</strong> a Romanian Big Issue seller in Dover the day before has added to<br />
our elation. He was blown away to hear that we were driving to his homeland and wished us<br />
an emotional farewell.<br />
With dozens of travel guides and road atlases stashed away, a compass on the<br />
windscreen, some jars of curry paste and New Zealand Marmite in the pantry, if we‟ve<br />
forgotten anything it‟s too late now. Our lack of suitcases, bookings and satellite navigation<br />
is liberating.<br />
In Dunkirk we park for the night on the promenade at Malo-les-Bains. Low tide has<br />
exposed wide sand flats where a rugby team is training. It rains off and on from a black sky<br />
as the locals promenade and cycle past.<br />
All our planning and lists are history. We have no commitments. We‟re on fire.<br />
By the next morning we‟re unwinding. After a leisurely breakfast we head south east<br />
into Belgium towards Ypres, through summer fields of wheat, barley, potatoes, maize and<br />
Brussels sprouts. We travel past white cattle, mares and foals, along avenues of oaks and<br />
maples. It‟s a flat, green and orderly landscape of shuttered farmhouses and canals.<br />
We have a sense of trepidation about Ypres, a medieval town which was completely<br />
destroyed in WW1, but we discover that it‟s been lovingly rebuilt, <strong>with</strong> a leafy car park in the<br />
centre of town where we can stay. The wide city ramparts incorporate sections of moat <strong>with</strong><br />
lawns, beautiful trees, and gardens.<br />
First of all we visit a tiny Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemetery which<br />
has the graves of fourteen Kiwi soldiers, including eleven from the Maori Battalion. The<br />
headstones of unnamed soldiers have the words “A Soldier of the Great War ... Known Unto<br />
5
God”. A father <strong>with</strong> a Manchester accent explains the meaning of this to his son, then points<br />
to one of the graves and says, “He‟s a Maori”.<br />
The Menin Gate is a huge Roman style triumphal arch erected by the Brits on the site<br />
of the town‟s medieval east gate, on the road where thousands of soldiers marched on their<br />
way to the front, as a memorial to honour fifty five thousand British and Commonwealth<br />
soldiers whose bodies were never found. Their names are all there, so many Canadians and<br />
Australians, and some Indians. There is only one New Zealand name, in <strong>with</strong> the British. At<br />
8pm there‟s a crowd of a few hundred to hear five buglers play “The Last Post”, a nightly<br />
ritual since 1928, suspended only during the German occupation in WW2. The solemnity<br />
and sadness of the occasion are a fitting start to our journey. We will be constantly reminded<br />
of grim historical events in the months ahead.<br />
Next day we drive into the country and visit Tyne Cot cemetery. Tyne Cot was the<br />
name that homesick Northumbrian soldiers gave to a little farm building on the site. The<br />
cemetery is enclosed by walls of flint and contains 12,000 graves, including those of 520<br />
named and 1,166 unnamed New Zealand soldiers. Like all the Commonwealth War Graves<br />
Commission cemeteries, it has immaculate headstones, and abundant flowers and shrubs.<br />
Dwarf junipers mark the end of each row of graves, <strong>with</strong> roses, daisies, alliums, heather and<br />
dahlias in front of the headstones. A huge curved wall is inscribed <strong>with</strong> the names of soldiers<br />
whose bodies were never found. We‟re intrigued by the names of some of the regiments:<br />
London Cyclists, London Artists.<br />
Tyne Cot Cemetery<br />
6
Inside the new visitors‟ centre, the floor to ceiling windows look out over Ayrshire<br />
cows knee deep in grass, and further away, a field of maize, and yew, willow and poplar<br />
trees. An interminable soundtrack accompanies our visit. A young English woman‟s voice<br />
recites a list of soldiers‟ names as each one‟s photograph flashes up on a small screen. As<br />
well as a display of twisted and rusted metal shell cases, cans, shovels and water bottles, there<br />
are soldiers‟ personal things such as <strong>photos</strong>, letters, medals, and a pay book; also chilling<br />
official letters informing the family of the death of a soldier. It‟s a particularly heartrending<br />
reminder of the loss of each single life.<br />
An even grimmer place is the Langemark cemetery where 44,000 German soldiers<br />
were buried, 25,000 in a common grave, and many unknown. Oak trees overshadow the<br />
graves and the only light point is a beautiful life <strong>size</strong> sculpture in bronze by Emil Krieger, of<br />
four mourning soldiers. Some school pupils from Horley in Surrey have placed a wreath <strong>with</strong><br />
a quotation from Einstein: “I know not <strong>with</strong> what weapons WW3 will be fought. WW4 will be<br />
fought <strong>with</strong> sticks and stones”.<br />
At every crossroads there are road signs pointing to Commonwealth War Graves<br />
Commission cemeteries. If that isn‟t enough of a reminder to the local farmers, the two<br />
hundred tons of WW1 ammunition (twenty tons of it filled <strong>with</strong> chemicals) thrown up by<br />
ploughs and other implements each year surely is. They leave it by the roadside to be<br />
collected by bomb disposal experts. Apparently avid private collectors are occasionally<br />
killed trying to dismantle bombs illegally. We visit memorials to New Zealand soldiers at<br />
Gravenstafel and Messines, remembering our visit to the one in Longueval in France two<br />
years earlier when we bandicooted potatoes from a farmer‟s field <strong>with</strong> our army surplus<br />
shovel.<br />
It‟s been a melancholy couple of days but it feels right to come here and pay our<br />
respects. Flanders these days is a thriving and peaceful place. The local Oud Bruin beer goes<br />
down a treat at the end of long hot days, and the bread and tomatoes are out of this world. I<br />
luxuriate in the old cotton duvet cover and pillowslips we brought from home, and John is<br />
thrilled <strong>with</strong> the little shortwave radio. I‟m reading “Great Expectations”, and, best of all,<br />
we‟re completely anonymous.<br />
We head to the coast, just a few miles from the border <strong>with</strong> the Netherlands, and<br />
spend a peaceful night in Knokke Heist, a popular seaside town <strong>full</strong> of well dressed and<br />
orderly folk. Beach huts, kites, buckets and spades, and all the paraphernalia of the European<br />
beach experience are laid out along the shore. An array of pedal powered contraptions is<br />
available for hire and people pedal around <strong>with</strong> whole families on board. We take advantage<br />
of the densely packed apartment blocks on the sea front, pull out the laptop and easily get<br />
online.<br />
The seven weeks we spent in the van in Italy and France two years ago were a great<br />
rehearsal for this trip in every way and John has easily slotted back into driving on the right<br />
7
hand side of the road. French drivers are impeccable: attentive to the rules and hugely<br />
courteous, while the Italians take a more edgy and intuitive approach. But, the driving habits<br />
of different countries aside, there‟s always an extra level of complexity involved in driving a<br />
UK vehicle over here as we‟re at a distinct disadvantage <strong>with</strong> the steering wheel on the right.<br />
John has to remember to keep his right shoulder to the kerb when setting out on an empty<br />
road, a risky moment when it‟s easy to revert to old habits. And I have to look out the<br />
passenger‟s window whenever we overtake or change lanes. Long days of driving can be<br />
exhausting.<br />
Gaasperplaas<br />
Our next night is at Zoutelande across the water in the Netherlands where the beach is<br />
vast at low tide and there are stone defences to deflect the waves. Way off to the west is the<br />
port of Zeebrugge <strong>with</strong> massive cranes and wind turbines. We pass a Dow chemical factory,<br />
then plunge into a long undersea tunnel to enter the Delta.<br />
The Rhine Delta consists of islands and peninsulas that make up the province of<br />
Zeeland. It was a lonely and isolated place until tunnels and bridges were constructed there.<br />
High sand dunes keep the North Sea at bay and we park in a sheltered car park in the sun.<br />
The local beach goers have popped their children and dogs into carriers on their bikes and<br />
ridden home. John cooks up a curry in the back and I open the laptop <strong>with</strong> a glass of wine in<br />
the front seat. We tune in to the BBC World Service. There are a few other camper vans:<br />
German, Dutch and French. Next morning we have a cold wash and shampoo in the hand<br />
basin in the public toilet. Luxury.<br />
As we set out towards the storm surge barrier which was constructed to prevent<br />
floods, and the artificial island Neeltje Jans, people are out biking past fields bordered <strong>with</strong><br />
wide areas of wildflowers and sunflowers. We stop for coffee <strong>with</strong> toast and Marmite and<br />
watch a family training some border collies to herd sheep. Then we drive onto the<br />
breakwater which is two miles long, <strong>with</strong> Neeltje Jans in the middle. It‟s a theme park <strong>with</strong> a<br />
fantastic museum explaining the history of the area, a whale information section, plus an<br />
aquarium, performing seals, lots of information on wildlife, play areas, and no signs telling<br />
you what to do.<br />
A disastrous flood here in 1953 killed 2,000 people and caused 75,000 to be<br />
evacuated. The defences against the sea had been allowed to run down in the post war<br />
recovery and the Cold War, so they were unprepared for the flood. The protection scheme<br />
took several decades to complete, <strong>with</strong> state of the art engineering, and environmentalists<br />
ensured that it incorporated features to protect the marine and bird life. Today, beautiful<br />
families are exploring the sights, the little girls dressed in stylish but pleasingly childish<br />
clothes.<br />
8
We exit the storm surge barrier, cross the rest of the Delta and then skirt Rotterdam on<br />
huge motorways <strong>with</strong> frightening cloverleaves. Immense port and industrial areas stretch<br />
into the distance. It‟s a relief to arrive at Delft and find a spot for the night in a car park<br />
beside a shopping centre. It‟s the most beautiful little town, all canals and quaint old<br />
buildings. Unfortunately even though this is where Vermeer lived and worked (and where<br />
the novel and film “The Girl With The Pearl Earring” are set), there are no original Vermeer<br />
paintings held here. We visit the Oude Kerk where he is buried. Again it‟s all bicycles, <strong>with</strong><br />
children carried in unorthodox ways including babies in front packs. The cyclists are so<br />
relaxed, texting and eating, <strong>with</strong> not a helmet to be seen. The canals have cute little bridges<br />
over them and abundant moorhens <strong>with</strong> chicks, plus we see a duck nesting box which<br />
consists of a woven wicker house <strong>with</strong> a ramp. When I buy a couple of pieces of battered<br />
fish for lunch, I ask what sort of fish it is. In perfect English, as always, the guy says “Hake,<br />
a cousin of the haddock”. The Dutch will be the most perfect English speakers we come<br />
across on our trip.<br />
Trying to leave town we get tied up in canals and one way streets and stop to ask a<br />
young man for directions. He tells us about his trip to New Zealand when he went bungy<br />
jumping, skydiving and swimming <strong>with</strong> dolphins. We see birds flying high and decide that<br />
they must be storks.<br />
Next stop is Aalsmeer a small peaceful town of canals, and a lake where people are<br />
out boating in a variety of craft. We park by the lake, cook and eat dinner outside, boil the<br />
Kelly kettle (thermette) for the dishes, and spend a pleasant evening <strong>with</strong> the moorhens,<br />
swans, ducks, geese, thrushes, pigeons, crows and magpies. But as often happens when we<br />
park on the edge of a town, there are a few too many people coming and going in the night,<br />
so about midnight we drive into town and find a spot in a car park.<br />
Next day it‟s my birthday and we‟re up at 6.30, driving back to our spot by the lake<br />
for a lovely breakfast outside. Then in a state of great excitement we head to the<br />
Bloemenveiling flower auction, the largest in the world, covering 600,000 square metres or<br />
one hundred and forty five football fields. Twenty one million flowers are auctioned there<br />
every day, <strong>with</strong> a daily turnover of six million Euros, and nearly two thousand people are<br />
employed. It‟s a cooperative of six thousand growers from Europe, Africa, South America<br />
and the Middle East. The price starts high and comes down: a Dutch auction. The flowers<br />
are delivered at night, auctioned during the morning, then shipped out. We stroll along<br />
elevated walkways above the action and beneath us is a frenetic scene of people <strong>with</strong><br />
barrows, trolleys and bikes, and trains <strong>with</strong> carriages laden <strong>with</strong> flowers, all busily moving<br />
the most glorious blooms here and there <strong>with</strong> little fuss and lots of good humour. We look in<br />
at the auction rooms where the buyers sit in a tiered theatre at computer terminals, <strong>with</strong> the<br />
flowers at the front, and computer displays track the sales. Quality is everything and the<br />
flowers are examined in a testing area <strong>with</strong> the title of “fleur primeur” awarded to a select<br />
few. The most popular varieties are roses, then tulips, chrysanthemums and gerberas. From<br />
9
above it seems like a glorious ballet, or a metaphor for the Netherlands and their ability to<br />
organise things <strong>with</strong> such efficiency and flair, while appearing casual and relaxed.<br />
Bloemenveiling Flower Auction<br />
Afterwards we take the motorway to Amsterdam in a thunderstorm. The morning is<br />
dark <strong>with</strong> rain and we manage to take a couple of wrong turns. After a quick recovery we<br />
find the Gaasperplaas camping ground on the outskirts of the city, and wait in the queue<br />
outside the gate. They put us in an area <strong>with</strong> the other camper vans then we go to the camp<br />
cafe for a coffee. The mostly male young customers in the cafe seem sullen and rude, and the<br />
woman behind the counter is tough and stressed. Then there‟s an altercation at the next table.<br />
A young man is rolling a joint, the manager appears and has him out the door so fast his feet<br />
barely skim the ground. He is read the riot act then one of his friends, very Bob Marley in<br />
appearance, joins in the argument, and starts accusing the manager of being a racist. We‟re<br />
shocked. They leave shortly afterwards and we chat to the manager who tells us that it‟s<br />
illegal to smoke cannabis in the bar. He‟s not concerned about what they might do on their<br />
camp site, but <strong>with</strong> children around, any public smoking of drugs is forbidden. We get the<br />
impression that the cannabis laws mainly suit the tourists, and that the locals are unhappy<br />
about what goes on.<br />
By the time we get settled it‟s midday and bleary eyed and sullen young men are<br />
lurking everywhere. Most emerge from tents in a field, and <strong>with</strong> the rain we feel like we‟re<br />
in a Woodstock time warp. The car park is <strong>full</strong> of cars from all over the EU. One is called<br />
Babylon Van. We suddenly feel very old and bored <strong>with</strong> it all, but the meaning of<br />
Gaasperplass is clear.<br />
10
In the camper van area the Italians never stop talking. Some are very jolly but there<br />
are a couple of peevish women who lock themselves in their campers, leaving the husbands<br />
to circle pathetically and knock on the doors and windows. It‟s very entertaining.<br />
The Potato Eaters<br />
We catch the train from the camp into Amsterdam, and the centre of town is a bit of a<br />
disappointment <strong>with</strong> crowds of young men on stag dos, endless cannabis cafes, and party pill<br />
and porn shops. We console ourselves <strong>with</strong> Irish stew in an Irish pub and watch some of the<br />
Chinese Olympics Opening Ceremony. Needing inspiration, we decide to spend the next day<br />
at a museum.<br />
The van Gogh Museum is a great choice, a wonderful antidote to the hedonistic<br />
tourism we‟ve seen so far. “The Potato Eaters”, which shows the dark interior of a house and<br />
peasants eating a meal of potatoes, and “Almond Blossom” (white blossom against a bright<br />
blue sky) are highlights.<br />
We go for a long walk through streets of apartment blocks designed in the style of the<br />
Amsterdam School of architecture. This is Old Dutch combined <strong>with</strong> Art Nouveau, from the<br />
years 1910 to 1930. The apartments were built for working class people and they look as<br />
good to live in now as they were then, all curving lines <strong>with</strong> lots of detail, none higher than<br />
four stories. We walk along canals lined <strong>with</strong> boats. Surprisingly a number are sunken and<br />
semi submerged.<br />
Next day we go into town again and have a look at a group of beautiful old two<br />
storied houses built side by side in the 19 th century, each in the style of a different country:<br />
Germany, Spain, Italy, Russia, Netherlands, France and England. It‟s such an orderly and<br />
civilised city in so many ways. Then we stumble upon the Hollandse Manege, an indoor<br />
riding school built in 1882 and run today <strong>with</strong> fifty horses. From the street we can see ponies<br />
in beautiful old stalls remarkably similar to the illustrations in my childhood copy of “Black<br />
Beauty”. Inside, from a viewing platform on a mezzanine floor we watch a class of eight<br />
adult beginners walking for fifteen, then trotting for thirty minutes. I find it fascinating.<br />
As a pedestrian in Amsterdam it‟s a challenge to stay alert for the cycles, scooters,<br />
trams, buses and cars whizzing past. Children are carried in every way imaginable on cycles,<br />
including standing up on the back. We go to Vondelpark, a big inner city park <strong>full</strong> of people<br />
enjoying themselves, and come across a stage <strong>with</strong> musicians performing. The audience<br />
contains all ages including tiny children climbing onto the stage and homeless men grooving<br />
up the front. It‟s a very tolerant and relaxed group of people. Afterwards we walk to the<br />
Riaz restaurant for delicious Surinam curries <strong>with</strong> roti.<br />
11
Seeing wonderful sights day after day can get exhausting so we spend the next day in<br />
the camp reading travel guides, looking at maps, and grappling <strong>with</strong> the washing machine and<br />
drier.<br />
We‟ve been on the road less than two weeks and still have a lot to learn. In hindsight<br />
we should never have wasted money on a camp in Amsterdam. In all the big cities we visit<br />
after this we go it alone in car parks or parked on the street. At this early stage we‟re still<br />
hung up on showers and laundries.<br />
Next day we queue in the rain outside Anne Frank‟s house for an hour <strong>with</strong> people<br />
from all over the world, mainly teenagers. It‟s the building where her father had his business<br />
and where the family and some friends were hidden for two years in an annex at the back.<br />
When they were betrayed and taken to concentration camps, all the furniture was stripped<br />
from the rooms. It hasn‟t been replaced but the rooms now contain <strong>photos</strong>, writings, and film<br />
of Anne‟s father Otto Frank, and the women who worked <strong>with</strong> him, talking about what<br />
happened. There are detailed models of the rooms showing the layout. Even the pencil<br />
marks on the wallpaper showing the children‟s heights are still there. The concealed entrance<br />
to the annexe is shown <strong>with</strong> a bookcase jutting out from the wall. We find it all quite<br />
overwhelming. I hear a young American woman say “The diaries are really good. It‟s kind<br />
of like an early Big Brother”.<br />
We take a walk past some of the places of significance to the Dutch Resistance.<br />
Jewish people hid in animal enclosures in the zoo to keep safe, and some non Jews chose to<br />
wear yellow stars in solidarity <strong>with</strong> their Jewish friends. Apparently the Nazis confiscated<br />
people‟s bikes, and years later, in the 1960s, one of the Dutch princesses married a German.<br />
As they paraded down the street people called out “Give me back my bike!”<br />
Leaving Amsterdam we decide to take the slow route to Arnhem and drive the back<br />
roads past Hilversum, Amersfoort and Scherpenzeel, getting lost at times but enjoying the<br />
houses <strong>with</strong> their thatched roofs, canals and countryside. Horses and small dairy herds stand<br />
in lush pasture. Massive silage heaps sit close to houses. The Brits and Europeans seem to<br />
have a higher tolerance for muck heaps and silage than Kiwis do.<br />
We drive through fabulous areas of beech forest and miles of tree-lined avenues <strong>with</strong><br />
cycle paths beside the road. We want to see the Rhine so we stop at Oosterbeek, now a very<br />
wealthy little town, where the Battle of Arnhem was fought in WW2. We talk to a guy <strong>with</strong> a<br />
very old camper, and he tells us that taxes are very high, people have to work hard to make<br />
any money, everyone is watching you, and a disabled person only gets 430 Euros a month to<br />
live on. He also says that we shouldn‟t attempt to sleep the night in the car park as the Politie<br />
will come and move us on. We ignore his advice and stay the night parked opposite a hotel<br />
where casualties were treated during Operation Market Garden in September 1944, when the<br />
Allies launched the largest airborne operation of all time aiming to secure bridges in German<br />
12
occupied areas. Mindful however of the possible interest of the Politie, I cook a discreet meal<br />
of curried kidney beans, instant mash and green beans <strong>with</strong> the windows and door closed.<br />
A Bridge Too Far<br />
Next morning we drive down to the wide Neder Rijn, a branch of the Rhine, to have a<br />
coffee, and watch the little ferry taking people and bicycles across. The river is very busy<br />
<strong>with</strong> big barges and all sorts of pleasure boats passing.<br />
We visit the Airborne Museum which has a memorial <strong>with</strong> the following heart<br />
stopping inscription: “To the people of Gelderland 1944. 50 years ago British and Polish<br />
airborne soldiers fought here against the odds to open the way into Germany and bring the<br />
war to an early end. Instead we brought death and destruction for which you have never<br />
blamed us. This stone marks our admiration for your great courage, remembering especially<br />
the women who tended our wounded. In the long winter that followed your families risked<br />
death by hiding Allied soldiers and airmen while members of the Resistance helped many to<br />
safety. You took us into your homes as fugitives and friends, we took you forever into our<br />
hearts. This strong bond will continue long after we are all gone.”<br />
The museum tells the story of the ill fated Operation Market Garden, where Polish,<br />
American and British troops parachuted and glided in, in an attempt to capture bridges on the<br />
Rhine and other waterways. At the same time British ground troops advanced from the<br />
Belgian/Dutch border. Once the Rhine was crossed, the intention was to surround the Ruhr<br />
and advance on Berlin. The operation was unsuccessful, leaving 17,000 dead from the<br />
Airborne Corps, and 10,000 from the ground forces. The bond forged between the Allies and<br />
the local people is legendary. For me the most poignant items in the museum are old<br />
ampoules of morphine and tablets of Benzedrine in a first aid kit.<br />
We walk through the forest surrounding the museum and hear the ricocheting bullet<br />
call of nuthatches as they walk head first down tree trunks looking for insects. Then bizarrely<br />
twenty soldiers <strong>with</strong> weapons march along the road.<br />
The Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemetery in Oosterbeek has the graves<br />
of 1750 soldiers, including two New Zealanders. It‟s surrounded by beautiful old oak trees.<br />
Feeling devastated by the particularly savage history of this area, we retire to the river bank<br />
to boil the Kelly kettle, have a cup of tea, cook sausages over the embers, and eat them <strong>with</strong><br />
instant mash, green beans and left over curry sauce. A few men are fishing further along the<br />
river. We decide to investigate a bridge in the distance and end up on a motorway driving<br />
across the main branch of the Rhine on what turns out to be a massive new suspension bridge.<br />
Mesmerised by it all we miss the exit and continue to Nijmegen past a sprawling industrial<br />
area and canals. It‟s been raining, and the black sky contrasts beauti<strong>full</strong>y <strong>with</strong> the intense<br />
green of the vegetation.<br />
13
The last bit of sightseeing we have time for in the Netherlands is the Hoge Veluwe<br />
National Park. On the drive there John comments that the roads here are so smooth that he<br />
can drink a mug of apple juice while driving and not spill a drop. In three months time we<br />
will experience the complete opposite in Romania, where it can be smoother to travel off the<br />
road.<br />
The Hogue Veluwe National Park covers an area of twenty one square miles, made up<br />
of heathlands, sand dunes and woodlands. A wealthy couple, Anton Kroller and Helene<br />
Kroller-Muller, developed the land and acquired an important art collection here in the early<br />
20 th century. It was subsequently taken over by a trust. It‟s a wonderful place to visit, <strong>with</strong><br />
paths and roads throughout, and beech, Scots pine, and silver birch forest. Because of over<br />
farming in previous centuries there are also large areas of sand.<br />
The art museum has floor to ceiling windows which look out onto the forest. It‟s a<br />
fabulous setting to appreciate paintings by van Gogh, Picasso, Monet and Mondrian. Also<br />
sculptures by Rodin, Dubuffet, New Zealander Chris Booth and others are displayed on<br />
undulating land among fabulous trees and lawns.<br />
We end our visit by cooking dinner on the heath, then spend the night in nearby<br />
Otterlo, at the side of the road between a cemetery and a field of maize. It‟s a peaceful rural<br />
scene <strong>with</strong> just a few mildly curious people walking their dogs past us the next morning.<br />
Heading to the German border via Appeldoorn and Almelo we realise that we‟ve<br />
forgotten to take the classic photo of a cow by a canal! And we‟ve bypassed the town of<br />
Rectum, a lost photo opportunity.<br />
14
Chapter 2 Germany<br />
16 August – 3 September<br />
Vitriolic<br />
We cross into Germany on a scorching hot day and the only difference is the dairy<br />
cows are replaced by cereal crops and potatoes. At the town of Lingen we buy a dictionary,<br />
and stay the night, slightly tense to be in a new country, letting the language wash over us.<br />
Next day the landscape is <strong>full</strong> of oak and beech forest, factory farms <strong>with</strong> vast fields<br />
and few fences, wind generators, massive brick barns <strong>with</strong> solar panels, and horses. The<br />
roads are beautiful and empty. We‟re looking for a pool and a shower and end up at Bad<br />
Fallingbostel, in the Netto supermarket car park for the night, eating a tired travellers‟ dinner<br />
of baked beans on instant mash followed by custard and banana.<br />
The pool has a curious sign outside: “Groups of British children <strong>with</strong>out an adult will<br />
not be allowed to enter the premises”. John is initiated into what will become a familiar<br />
activity – exchanging morning greetings <strong>with</strong> the other nude blokes in the communal shower.<br />
I‟m pathetically grateful to find a private cubicle in the women‟s area.<br />
What‟s brought us to this part of the country is the Vogelpark (bird park) at Walsrode,<br />
and by the time we arrive it‟s busy <strong>with</strong> bird lovers in spite of the rain. It‟s a huge botanic<br />
garden of beautiful trees and plants in immaculate order, <strong>with</strong> enclosures for the birds, and<br />
mature conifers, rhododendrons and roses attractively laid out and well tended. As we enter<br />
the humid rainforest enclosure we discover a demister for spectacles. That German attention<br />
to detail! The penguins are very popular, being so far from home, but we love the exotic<br />
roadrunners, toucans, hornbills, shoebills, hyacinth macaw, flamingos, scarlet ibis and blue<br />
crowned pigeon.<br />
We decide to take the fast autobahn south to Goslar, through a picturesque rolling<br />
landscape of forests and farms <strong>with</strong> crops. The motorways have frequent picnic areas <strong>with</strong><br />
toilets and parking, as well as commercial rest areas <strong>with</strong> cafes. The van‟s cigarette lighter<br />
dies, a catastrophe as we use it to charge everything, but fortunately John has the correct fuse<br />
on board and manages to fix it.<br />
In Goslar we walk through the rain to the main square which is made up of perfect old<br />
timber framed buildings restored to the nth degree. Many are decorated <strong>with</strong> bricks,<br />
<strong>colour</strong>ful carvings, friezes, and writing in golden script. The town boasts eighteen hundred<br />
buildings in this style, <strong>with</strong> the old part now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Goslar, part of<br />
the Hanseatic League, was founded in the 10 th century after silver was discovered in the<br />
nearby Rammelsberg mountain.<br />
15
The Rammelsberg Mine was worked continuously for over a thousand years then<br />
closed in 1988 when the reserves of silver, lead, zinc and copper were exhausted.<br />
Archaeological evidence shows that there was mining on the site as far back as three<br />
thousand years ago. We visit the old mine and museum, and take the underground tour <strong>with</strong><br />
a female guide who gives us great explanations in English, after she‟s given the spiel in<br />
German.<br />
The ore all came from the same rock, and <strong>colour</strong>ful vitriol, which was formed by<br />
water dripping over elements like copper and zinc, was used for medicines. In the Middle<br />
Ages the miners descended eighteen hundred feet into the mine on narrow metal ladders<br />
carrying fifty five pounds of gear. It took them an hour to get down and probably longer to<br />
ascend. They worked for part of the year, and were paid only for what they extracted. Prior<br />
to the 1800s when explosives were introduced, big fires would be lit in the mine on a Sunday,<br />
causing the rock to explode, then in the following days the miners would enter and extract the<br />
ore while the temperature was still high. Because the rock was incredibly stable, formed by a<br />
long extinct volcano, there was no need for props and never any cave ins. Waterwheels were<br />
also introduced in the 1800s, and this enabled the miners to work all year and increase their<br />
income. We see the old water channel and two waterwheels (thirty feet in diameter), one to<br />
take water in, the other to take the ore out. We learn that tin was brought over from Cornwall<br />
to make bronze.<br />
The museum has extensive displays of old mining equipment plus photographs and<br />
explanations of the mining process. For us the most fascinating part is the information on the<br />
miners in the 20 th century. During WW2 people were brought in from France, the<br />
Netherlands, Belgium and the Ukraine (many young women) as forced labour, and Italian<br />
officers and soldiers were sent there after the fall of Mussolini. There is film footage of Nazi<br />
meetings in Goslar, and a folder of pages of documentation for a Ukrainian man taken there<br />
as forced labour. The words of a song sung by Ukrainian forced labourers (to the tune of a<br />
popular Russian folk song) say it all:<br />
“Fate has cast so many to this place, There is no way back home, The road towards<br />
the East is closed, Thus dwindle the years of our youth.<br />
Every morning I get up, Half starved and very homesick, The Germans have made me<br />
a slave, I view them <strong>with</strong> anger and wrath in my heart.<br />
Sirens are wailing, it is midnight, Our nerves are on edge, The English Air Force<br />
sends in squadrons, To make life difficult for the Germans.<br />
Over there where the east is ablaze, There the long way leads back home to mothers<br />
and brothers, They struggle hard for their freedom, While here we slave for the hated<br />
people.”<br />
16
From the 1960s men from Spain worked in the mine, and Turks from 1971.<br />
Sometimes old or injured miners would make a model of the workings of the mine which<br />
would be displayed at fairs and gatherings. We see a perfectly crafted one from 1904 <strong>with</strong><br />
tiny figures performing tasks on several levels. There is also a miners‟ banner from 1787,<br />
and pages from a book on mining called “De Re Metallica” (“On the Nature of Metals”)<br />
published in 1556.<br />
That evening we have a drink in the square and watch the world go by. We take our<br />
washing to the laundrette where they offer to put it in the drier for us so it will be ready to<br />
collect in the morning. We spend a peaceful night in the car park <strong>with</strong> a few other camper<br />
vans and next morning visit another excellent pool for a shower.<br />
As we head towards Quedlinburg we see that the leaves on the chestnuts are turning<br />
yellow. Swifts are performing their crazy airborne antics. Haybales crouch like wildebeest<br />
in a huge field while buzzards circle above.<br />
Quedlinburg is a little town <strong>with</strong> cute old timber framed houses, many of them<br />
rundown, similar to Goslar but visibly lacking the UNESCO funding. It has the oldest timber<br />
framed house in Germany, built about 1300, now a museum. The local children are having a<br />
flea market in the village square <strong>with</strong> books and toys spread out in front of them on the<br />
cobblestones: dolls and plastic castles alongside action figures. Colourful geraniums in<br />
baskets adorn many of the buildings. John buys me an antique ring made of seventeen little<br />
Czech garnets (Granat in German) set in silver.<br />
Two Beavers and a Weasel<br />
We work out the route to our friend Rieke‟s address on the outskirts of Halle by<br />
looking up Google maps and Mappy. In the back of the van we‟ve brought a carton of her<br />
gear from when we lived and worked together in Surrey. We‟re looking forward to staying<br />
<strong>with</strong> her family for a few days, after meeting them when they came to visit in England a few<br />
months ago. We travel on empty motorways past endless wind turbines.<br />
It‟s wonderful to find their place at last and a big thrill to see friends after two weeks<br />
on the road. On the first night we eat a delicious traditional German dinner of<br />
Schweinebraten (pork) <strong>with</strong> Klosen (dumplings), sauerkraut and potatoes, and for dessert<br />
Rote Grutze (made by gently cooking mixed red berries like red currants, raspberries and<br />
cherries, adding fruit syrup and sugar, then thickening the mixture <strong>with</strong> cornstarch, before<br />
setting it in the fridge).<br />
We go for a walk around the neighbourhood, past fabulous vegetable and flower<br />
gardens. A former electricity substation, a tall narrow brick building, has been converted into<br />
a bird house where the birds can feed and collect nesting material.<br />
17
Rieke‟s mother produces wonderful German breakfasts for us each day <strong>with</strong> beautiful<br />
bread rolls, various sausages and salamis, fishy things, jams, tea, coffee and other drinks. On<br />
this day we really need it as we‟re heading off on a canoe trip on the Saale/Unstrut River<br />
through an area famous for its wine.<br />
We enter the river in our open Canadian style canoes at Grossheringen, and<br />
immediately relax as we glide past willows at the water‟s edge, and oak forests and vineyards<br />
on steep hillsides. It‟s a wide slow flowing river <strong>with</strong> swallows, nuthatches, ducks, herons,<br />
and pigeons. A couple of nutria, little beaver like creatures <strong>with</strong> thin tails, pop their heads out<br />
of the water, and we see a black weasel. There are old stone bridges, and a big gorge <strong>with</strong> a<br />
couple of castles. We stop for a traditional German lunch at Bad Kosen: bratwurst <strong>with</strong><br />
mustard, potato, sauerkraut, and salad. We portage the canoes at this point because there‟s a<br />
low dam which used to run a water wheel. For a couple of centuries it powered pumps to<br />
take salty water from a spring, six hundred feet uphill, to a huge wooden post and beam<br />
structure (the graduation) about five hundred feet long and thirty feet high, filled <strong>with</strong><br />
bundles of sticks, which propelled the water into the air in a fine concentrated spray. People<br />
used to go there to breathe it to improve their health. The engineering is quite incredible.<br />
Two parallel pistons slowly jerk back and forth providing power to the pump while the water<br />
is carried in a trough between them. It still functions perfectly.<br />
After a relaxing day on the river we eat a delicious dinner in the garden: bread,<br />
sausage, tomatoes, gherkins, sardines, horseradish, liverwurst, and white wines from the area<br />
we canoed through. As we sit under an old willow we look up and see two owls looking<br />
down at us. They‟ve been nesting here for two years now. At nine o‟clock one of them<br />
soundlessly flies away. I think they‟re tawny owls.<br />
Next day we visit Halle <strong>with</strong> Rieke‟s father as our guide, and Rieke the ever patient<br />
interpreter. We walk around the old cemetery which fell into disrepair in the days of the<br />
GDR (Communism), but is now being restored <strong>with</strong> money from an American woman, the<br />
daughter of a Nobel Prize winning scientist born in Halle. We go past the house where<br />
Handel was born and into an old church where we see the death mask of Martin Luther,<br />
whose funeral procession passed through the town. Halle‟s wealth was founded on salt<br />
which was produced here for centuries, and later it was the centre of the chemical industry.<br />
We see a sculpture of a religious figure grappling <strong>with</strong> another person. Because it was<br />
created in the GDR days, the religious figure couldn‟t be shown <strong>with</strong> his high hat and was<br />
given a bouffant hairdo instead. We also see a house where a senior Catholic cleric lived<br />
<strong>with</strong> his girlfriends. A modern mural shows various figures including the girlfriends, and a<br />
rascal who was put to death after seducing one of them.<br />
We lunch on Kartoffelpuffer mit Apfelmus (potato fritters <strong>with</strong> applesauce) then head<br />
home for coffee and cake in the garden <strong>with</strong> all the family. We cook three curries for dinner<br />
and they go down very well <strong>with</strong> everyone. It‟s fun using our few words of German,<br />
especially <strong>with</strong> the wee four year old, but mainly Rieke interprets for us all. It‟s our last night<br />
18
and we ask so many questions about the GDR days and German history. When we fall into<br />
bed and John tries unsuccess<strong>full</strong>y to tune in to the BBC, the only station he can get is Radio<br />
Russia <strong>with</strong> news about their actions in Georgia and how many medals they won at the<br />
Olympics.<br />
The Gingham Glider<br />
Sadly we leave Halle and head south east towards Dresden on the motorway, stopping<br />
at a rest area <strong>with</strong> lorries from Slovakia, Poland, the Czech Republic, Hungary and the<br />
Netherlands. At Grimma we visit a supermarket to buy fish fingers which we eat for lunch<br />
on heavy bread <strong>with</strong> mayonnaise and sauerkraut, washed down <strong>with</strong> a deliciously syrupy malt<br />
drink. We stop in the village of Colditz, tidy things in the back of the van, and look out the<br />
window to see a Ford Escort <strong>with</strong> GB on the back parked nearby. We don‟t see the owners<br />
but it‟s always a slight thrill to see another Brit vehicle, not at all surprising in such close<br />
proximity to Colditz Castle, the infamous WW2 prisoner of war camp for Allied officers <strong>with</strong><br />
a history of escaping.<br />
We walk up to the castle not knowing what to expect and discover that there‟s a tour<br />
in English about to start. Apparently they have twenty thousand visitors a year from all over<br />
the world, including many Brits who are mainly interested in the escape attempts. In our tour<br />
there are two young Brit guys and a Danish/Spanish couple. The castle dates from the 16th<br />
century and had been used as a workhouse for the poor, then from the early 1800s as a mental<br />
hospital. Now it‟s part museum, part youth hostel, and a large area is being restored for a<br />
music centre. It‟s situated on a hill above the town, <strong>with</strong> a high terrace overlooking the river<br />
and surrounding countryside. One former Olympic medal winning prisoner managed to<br />
escape off the terrace by miraculously climbing down the outside of the windows, only to be<br />
caught in the garden.<br />
The tour guide mentions the Geneva Convention frequently, making the place sound a<br />
bit like “Hi de Hi”. Most of the successful escape attempts were from the park or the kitchen<br />
and it seems that the tunnelling may have been good for morale but not much else. The<br />
French made a painstaking and ingenious attempt where seventy would have escaped through<br />
a tunnel if they hadn‟t been discovered. A special section housed the relatives of high profile<br />
Brits who were watched extra closely. They included two Churchills and the son of WW1<br />
commander Field Marshall Haig.<br />
The most intriguing object on display is a replica of a glider (the Colditz Cock) that<br />
the Brit prisoners made in secret at the top of the castle. They never got a chance to use it but<br />
it was photographed by the Americans when they arrived to liberate the camp, and<br />
subsequently destroyed. It‟s one third the <strong>size</strong> of the original glider, made of recycled<br />
materials, and covered in blue gingham from bedding, giving it the rounded form of a soft<br />
toy.<br />
19
Gingham Glider<br />
The stories from Colditz are fascinating. One prisoner used to reproduce maps by<br />
making up a jelly from a food parcel, forming a large rubbery stamp, then using it to print<br />
thirty copies. Someone else sent a letter home to his father asking him to go to the British<br />
Museum to see if he could find the plans to Colditz Castle, then send them over, which he<br />
did. There‟s a chapel <strong>with</strong> galleries on three levels where the inmates of the workhouse were<br />
sent to church <strong>with</strong> a memorial to the workers in the mental hospital who died in WW1.<br />
The Allied prisoners made two dummies which they used to take outside for the roll<br />
call when anyone escaped, to trick the guards into believing that everyone was present. Two<br />
replica dummies now stand in the yard, one bearing a remarkable resemblance to Rowan<br />
Atkinson. The tour and the museum are presented in a “Boys‟ Own Annual” style which is<br />
probably what the punters want.<br />
Back in the van we have black bean stir fried vegetables <strong>with</strong> sauerkraut and watch<br />
the boy racers revving it up along the main street in their flash cars. John says he‟s noticed<br />
we‟re the only ones who leak oil in car parks.<br />
The Freital Position<br />
Next day, back on the motorway heading to Dresden, we drive past ploughed fields<br />
and wind turbines, and see a kestrel, buzzards, and flocks of starlings. An old red Skoda <strong>with</strong><br />
the top down and three men huddled inside overtakes then leaves us for dead. We search for<br />
a place to park on the edge of Dresden, preferably a car park beside a railway station. We<br />
end up driving down a narrow valley and check out Tharandt, a little village of cute old<br />
20
uildings, like a mountain resort, <strong>with</strong> steep forest on both sides. We decide it‟s not ideal and<br />
drive on to Freital, a bigger town and find a park by the railway station and bus terminal <strong>with</strong><br />
a toilet, internet cafe, and lots of sun and space. It‟s one of our best parks.<br />
Walking along the main street Dresdenstrasse for the length of the town, we see many<br />
abandoned factories and newish apartment blocks. The visitors‟ centre has information in<br />
English and we discover that Freital is a former coal mining town, and the main industry is<br />
now a steelworks. The museum is a small castle, the home of the former coal mine owner,<br />
which reminds us of the Welsh valleys and Merthyr Tydfall. We swoon over the old enamel<br />
and cast iron cookware, and enamel street signs and house numbers in a second hand shop.<br />
John buys an enamel number one, white on a blue background and I find an old enamel onion<br />
container <strong>with</strong> “Zwiebeln” written on it in German script. There are also army hats<br />
emblazoned <strong>with</strong> the hammer and sickle. When we tell the charming woman behind the<br />
counter that we‟re from New Zealand, she becomes quite animated and shows her boss where<br />
it is on an old globe.<br />
In the evening we walk past the steelworks lit up for the night shift. It‟s near a street<br />
of stylish four storeyed houses from the early 1900s, some run down and others in perfect<br />
condition <strong>with</strong> lovely gardens and huge trees. Back home, over a year later, I discover that<br />
Allied prisoners of war in Freital witnessed Allied bombing raids on factories there. Between<br />
1946 and 1990 a company called Wismut mined uranium near Freital, extracting four<br />
thousand tons, and many miners died of lung cancer.<br />
Next day we drive to a pool up the valley for a shower, and discover a peaceful car<br />
park beside allotments where people have their summer houses, <strong>with</strong> <strong>colour</strong>ful gardens <strong>full</strong> of<br />
roses and sunflowers, and happy people out in the sun tending them and talking. We have<br />
toast and Marmite <strong>with</strong> coffee and read in the back of the van in the sun. I realise that I‟m<br />
reading a copy of the Sunday Times which is a month old. We hear Crowded House and<br />
Johnny Farnham on the local radio station. One night we pick up a Polish station and hear<br />
about David Beckham and a double decker bus. We wonder if it‟s the closing ceremony of<br />
the Olympic Games in Beijing.<br />
Public sculpture is abundant in the former East Germany, and Freital has the most<br />
joyous examples: a square pool <strong>with</strong> just the partial heads and shoulders of happy people<br />
poking out, a topless woman wearing a serious expression washing a man‟s hair over a large<br />
bowl, and some dwarves drinking and dancing while a fiddler plays.<br />
21
Sculpture, Freital<br />
We‟re astounded to see alcohol on sale at petrol stations, cheap cigarettes in vending<br />
machines on street corners, and huge advertising billboards showing young people having a<br />
great time while smoking. When we asked Rieke about whether the government intervened<br />
in public health matters here, she said that post GDR, everyone was understandably very keen<br />
to avoid anything resembling a nanny state.<br />
At the local petrol station I have a lovely exchange <strong>with</strong> the woman attendant who<br />
speaks no English but manages to tell me that her son is on a cycle trip from one end of New<br />
Zealand to the other.<br />
Dresden is the birthplace of several important inventions: the coffee filter, bra, SLR<br />
camera and toothpaste tube. We travel into the city on the train three days in a row and only<br />
on the last day do we get the tickets right! Even then we probably pay too much but at least<br />
we‟re legit. The locals whose help we enlist at the stations clearly have only slightly more<br />
idea than us when it comes to choosing the correct tickets from the machine. The guards on<br />
the trains are polite and forgiving. The train trip takes nine minutes, past enormous<br />
contrasting new and abandoned factories and apartment buildings.<br />
On the first day we walk around the old part of town <strong>with</strong> lots of German tourists,<br />
climb the tower of the Kreuzkirche, and get an expansive view in all directions. There‟s a<br />
superb wind trio playing classical music outside the recently restored Frauenkirche. The<br />
quality of the buskers here is astounding. We visit the huge bookshop Fachbuch, and in the<br />
three bays of books in English I find Kurt Vonnegut‟s “Slaughterhouse-Five” (a novel about<br />
22
the Allied bombing of Dresden, which he witnessed as a POW), Gunter Grass‟s<br />
autobiography “Peeling the Onion”, “Emma”, and “David Copperfield”. Oh joy!<br />
Back in Freital we have a long session at a LIDL supermarket, then dinner of salad<br />
made <strong>with</strong> very cheap and delicious salted salmon in oil and dill, salad greens, red onion, a<br />
can of corn, tomatoes, gherkins and mayonnaise. Deciding that we no longer need two<br />
folding chairs, John puts the <strong>larger</strong> one in the middle of the large grassy area next to our car<br />
park, as an installation. It has its back turned towards the bus and train stations. The next<br />
day when we return to the van someone has moved it a couple of meters and turned it round,<br />
and the following day it disappears. It‟s come a long way from a church fair in Newcastle<br />
three years ago.<br />
Next day we find another huge bookshop <strong>with</strong> an even better English section, and<br />
John buys “Firestorm: the Bombing of Dresden”, a recent collection of articles by academics<br />
which covers every aspect of the bombing. Our eyes are opened by a passage on<br />
reconstruction which compares architectural plans to a musical score. If a building is<br />
destroyed it can be rebuilt. There‟s a discussion of different philosophies of reconstruction<br />
under the Russians and post 1989. We buy postcards of the destroyed city which show miles<br />
of random walls <strong>with</strong> gaping holes where the windows were, and no roofs.<br />
We also visit the Zwinger, the most famous building in Dresden, built in the early 18 th<br />
century and consisting of a series of galleries, pavilions and gates surrounding a huge<br />
courtyard <strong>with</strong> lawns and fountains. The scale of the place is its most attractive feature for<br />
us, as the cherubs and highly decorative style of the architecture are not our cup of tea. We<br />
visit the Old Masters Gallery and see paintings by Titian, Vermeer, Durer and Velasquez, and<br />
tapestries by Raphael. We especially enjoy some paintings of Venice by Canaletto, and the<br />
paintings he did of Dresden when he was younger. The cityscape of the Elbe River below the<br />
Augustus Bridge is just the same now as it was when he painted it in 1748. The restored<br />
buildings have blackened stone next to new stone and we wonder if the original stone was<br />
blackened by coal smoke as in Newcastle, or by the bombing and subsequent firestorm.<br />
The buildings beside the river <strong>with</strong> the Augustus Bridge and promenade are a<br />
wonderful sight. They flow in a way quite unlike anything we‟ve seen before. The Allies‟<br />
decision to bomb this beautiful city is very hard to understand.<br />
My favourite sight in Dresden is the Furstenzug, a mural made of twenty four<br />
thousand Meissen porcelain tiles, showing a procession of the Saxon rulers over nine<br />
centuries, on horseback, <strong>with</strong> horses and men dressed in period costume. It‟s one hundred<br />
and eleven yards long, and towers above the goggling tourists on the street below. The detail<br />
is quite breathtaking. Apparently it was not damaged in the bombing.<br />
23
Furstenzug, Dresden<br />
On our walk from the station to the old town we pass many tacky hotels, modern<br />
buildings, and enormous building sites <strong>with</strong> cranes everywhere. It‟s a seething mass of road<br />
works and diversions as the city transforms itself. We‟re astounded to discover that the<br />
rebuilding of the old Dresden has only recently been completed.<br />
In the heart of the tourist area we see a stretched Trabant car and there are tiny toy<br />
Trabants for sale. Back at Freital there‟s a Trabant ambulance <strong>with</strong> a red light on top, and<br />
one up a pole. They were the main vehicle in East Germany in the Communist era, tiny cars<br />
<strong>with</strong> two stroke motors. Now they seem to be symbolic of the nostalgia some people feel for<br />
the GDR (Ostalgia).<br />
On our last day in Dresden it rains and we visit the Grosser Garten, a park <strong>with</strong> a<br />
palace, miniature railway and a zoo. We wander past beds of enormous dahlias and under<br />
beautiful trees. At the market we buy peaches and three little salamis which we hang in the<br />
back of the van.<br />
Next day we drive over to Neuestadt on the other side of the Elbe. We discover later<br />
that it was the Jewish quarter prior to the 1930s. We do three loads of washing and drying for<br />
ten Euros in a state of the art laundrette <strong>with</strong> twenty washing machines and a central control<br />
panel. Then we set out on the smooth concrete motorway for Weimar.<br />
24
So It Goes<br />
Motorway construction in Germany is impressive: thick pads of concrete. This one is<br />
being expanded, and we stay in fifth gear for miles, through flat to rolling country. We pass a<br />
strip of solar panels fifteen feet wide and at least half a mile long beside an industrial area,<br />
and lots of buzzards.<br />
We find a hospitable looking car park in Weimar, near an eighty year old outdoor<br />
pool. When we ask about a shower, John is shown into the men‟s changing area and I get<br />
taken to the sauna which isn‟t being used. It has a bar, spa pool, showers, and a large wooden<br />
bucket near the ceiling <strong>with</strong> a rope attached, which I‟m careful not to activate.<br />
Beautiful trees and a garden of sunflowers make this a very attractive place for<br />
camper vans. Sitting in the front seat that night, drinking a German Riesling from a bottle<br />
<strong>with</strong> a glass stopper and a label describing it as dry and mentioning limestone, we see a great<br />
spotted woodpecker on a larch tree just a few metres away.<br />
Next day we walk into the town centre which is a series of beautiful old squares, and a<br />
wide avenue, Schillerstrasse. The gardens and trees are exceptional. Outside the Bauhaus<br />
Museum a flower bed fifteen feet wide is densely packed, and every so often there‟s a<br />
fabulous transparent grass which is translucent like spraying water. A vacant patch of land is<br />
planted <strong>with</strong> white and purple flowers. The gingko tree is the town‟s emblem, after a famous<br />
poem by Goethe, and there‟s an avenue of young ones by the Bauhaus University. The place<br />
is packed <strong>with</strong> German tourists as there is both a cultural and a wine festival. We have a very<br />
cold glass of Riesling in a square at 11.30am then a picnic in the beautiful botanic gardens<br />
beside the Ilm River. There are many fabulous trees, mainly green beech and copper beech.<br />
Later we visit the site of the former Gestapo headquarters for the region. Some of the<br />
buildings have been demolished and the crushed building materials have been spread on the<br />
ground as part of the memorial.<br />
Weimar is famous for its cultural heritage, <strong>with</strong> a long list of writers, composers and<br />
artists resident in the 19 th and 20 th centuries, and the Bauhaus school of architecture founded<br />
here by Walter Gropius in 1919. It seems to be a Mecca for older Germans.<br />
Enjoying the hot weather we sit in the square <strong>with</strong> glasses of Federweisser (young<br />
wine <strong>with</strong> a low alcohol content, made from freshly pressed grape juice), and listen to a jazz<br />
band. Later, we walk back to the van and drive a short distance to the edge of town to the<br />
hundred year old German Bee Museum which shows the history of beekeeping <strong>with</strong> old<br />
hives, honey extraction machines, and information for the bee enthusiast, namely John. Our<br />
favourites are the very old hives made from hollow tree trunks carved and painted to look like<br />
<strong>larger</strong> than life people, <strong>with</strong> openings to let the bees in and out. A particularly risqué one<br />
from 1800 is in the form of a naked woman.<br />
25
Old Beehives<br />
The site of the Buchenwald concentration camp is just up the road from Weimar, on<br />
Ettersberg Hill. It‟s on limestone, looking out over flatter land to the south which reminds us<br />
of the North Downs in Surrey. John walks around a large part of the camp but I just look at<br />
the tall stone memorial. Nearly a quarter of a million people were brought here by the<br />
trainload, through Weimar, from 1937 until liberation in 1945. Over fifty thousand died in<br />
the main camp and its one hundred and thirty satellites, from overwork, disease, starvation,<br />
and execution. The sheer scale of it is overwhelming. We ponder the involvement of the<br />
people of Weimar. It must have intruded into their consciousness. From 1945 to 1950 the<br />
Russian occupiers imprisoned over one hundred and twenty thousand people in the camp, and<br />
over fifty thousand died.<br />
Driving back to town we stop at an outdoor shop to buy some cooking gas from a<br />
Canadian woman and a German man. They say a lot of their German customers are<br />
travelling to New Zealand, but they have never had New Zealanders in the shop before. They<br />
are very warm and friendly, in fact all the German people we talk to are outgoing and kind<br />
towards us.<br />
We can‟t leave Weimar <strong>with</strong>out visiting the small Bauhaus Museum which has some<br />
very fine pieces of furniture, and kitchen items like coffee pots and cups from that era of<br />
German design (1900 to 1930). Some items look quite contemporary.<br />
26
Later when I‟m in the back of the van making salt salmon and avocado salad, John<br />
reports that a camper bigger than our beach house in New Zealand has just driven into the car<br />
park. It‟s called Concorde. We always wonder what people do inside these vast vehicles<br />
Next morning when we get up there‟s a Polizei van parked nearby and by the time we<br />
return from our shower at the pool there are twelve Polizei vehicles in the car park,<br />
intermingled <strong>with</strong> the camper vans. It looks like one of our fellow travellers is giving some<br />
of them a coffee! They wander around in their overalls, very relaxed, and we assume that<br />
they‟re on some kind of exercise.<br />
We head southwest on motorways through Scots pine and fir forests which are being<br />
logged, enormous tunnels (the longest is five miles), and across massive viaducts. We‟re on<br />
our way to Stuttgart and our friend Vera Maria who we last saw a year ago when we lived<br />
and worked together in Surrey.<br />
27
Chapter 3 Germany, Czech Republic<br />
3 September – 20 September<br />
Marzipan Potatoes<br />
The number of lorries on German motorways is astounding, and probably an<br />
indication of the strength of German industry. South of Wurzburg we sit in a queue miles<br />
long, crawling slowly for an hour and a half. At one point we‟re sandwiched between a lorry<br />
from Slovakia and one from the Netherlands. It‟s a novel experience and we pass the time<br />
eating beautiful Gravenstein apples and watching buzzards and kestrels. But we decide to<br />
take more notice in future of the understated warning in the road atlas: “traffic jams<br />
possible”. We stop at Backnang, an hour‟s drive from Vera Maria‟s, and wander around in a<br />
state of shock after the tough drive. It‟s a beautiful town <strong>with</strong> the usual <strong>colour</strong>ful old timber<br />
framed buildings amongst modern shops. People are sitting outside at cafes enjoying the<br />
beautiful evening. We eat a delicious Chinese meal and chat to a man at the next table, an<br />
Iranian who has been in Germany for twenty years, unable to return home. The next day he<br />
will see his brother for the first time since he left Iran.<br />
Sculpture <strong>with</strong> Graffiti, Backnang<br />
Next day we‟re in a landscape where apples dominate. Old trees heavy <strong>with</strong> fruit,<br />
some <strong>with</strong> branches propped up, appear to be growing wild, and there are numerous orchards.<br />
It‟s beautiful green rolling country <strong>with</strong> steep volcanic hills and the occasional castle. The<br />
fields and orchards have little huts, and jays are about.<br />
28
As we approach Vera Maria‟s she phones us to give directions. Then suddenly there<br />
she is by the side of the road on a bicycle, waving. It‟s fantastic to see her after more than a<br />
year.<br />
She leads the way by bicycle to her parents‟ place in Beuren, a little town of gorgeous<br />
old houses in perfect shape. It‟s a converted stable, on four levels, <strong>with</strong> beams several<br />
centuries old. A pair of swallows has a nest over the front door, returning each year on the<br />
same day. Vera Maria‟s mother gives us coffee in the garden, then takes us to her orchard a<br />
couple of minutes drive away: five acres of very old cherry and apple trees, <strong>with</strong> ten<br />
beehives, flowers, herbs and vegetables. There‟s even a shed and a campfire. We love it and<br />
could happily stay the night in the shed and cook on the campfire! She and John have a long<br />
discussion on the ways of bees.<br />
After a delicious lunch in the garden Vera Maria takes us to the local castle Burg<br />
Hohenneuffen, high on a forest covered hill, where there‟s a falconry display. The falconers<br />
are in Medieval costume, <strong>with</strong> a red and white striped tent. The birds sweep low over our<br />
heads as they fly in to catch pieces of meat, resplendent in their leather harnesses and hoods.<br />
The view from the castle is amazing, over cultivated land, forest and towns. It reminds us of<br />
the panoramas we‟ve seen from the town hall towers in Tuscany, a patchwork of land that has<br />
been cultivated for centuries, so different from the raw frontier landscape of home.<br />
That night we go out for a traditional Schwabian meal at a little restaurant called<br />
Brunnenstube a couple of doors away from Vera Maria‟s place. It‟s run by a husband and<br />
wife and appears to be in their lounge. John and I both have Zwiebelrostbraten mit<br />
Sauerkraut und Schupfnudeln, very tender roast beef <strong>with</strong> sauerkraut and a special potato<br />
dish. Huge servings and we eat well.<br />
Next day Vera Maria takes us into Stuttgart, and on the way we visit her old riding<br />
school where she learnt to ride cute little shaggy-maned Icelandic ponies. We also have a<br />
look at her old school Waldorfschule Uhlandshohe Stuttgart, the oldest Steiner school in the<br />
world, <strong>with</strong> its lovely buildings from several different eras.<br />
We eat a delicious lunch at a cafe, smoked salmon for me, and for John special white<br />
sausages from Munich which come floating in a tureen of hot water. He shows admirable<br />
self control when they appear. After that we‟re off to the State Gallery which has Picassos<br />
and also beautiful local paintings from altar pieces. That‟s when the unfortunate wheel of<br />
fortune incident occurs....<br />
Vera Maria and I are sauntering into a gallery a few paces behind John when an<br />
ominous clunking reverberates around the place. John has reached out and given a wheel of<br />
fortune style sculpture attached to the wall a quick twirl. Little blocks of wood or marbles<br />
rattle as they change position, just as the artist intended. As Vera Maria and I converge on<br />
John I notice a sign on the wall saying “Bitte ... something”, so I work out that it must say<br />
29
“please do not touch”. Immediately two guards appear, looks of horror on their faces. John<br />
does a very good job of looking contrite. Vera Maria talks fast, in German of course, and we<br />
pick up the word “Englander”, like this is his “Get out of Jail Free” card! The guards stand<br />
their ground, and one says that she doesn‟t know how she is going to tell her boss what has<br />
happened. It‟s very tense. Vera Maria persists <strong>with</strong> her explanation and manages to smooth<br />
things over, very impressive for a twenty year old, and we are so grateful. We make a quick<br />
exit to the next room and John explains to us that he‟d read the write up in English where the<br />
artist said that he intended for it to be spun to change the pattern. Since the guards are so<br />
upset, Vera Maria decides to go back and apologise to them again. The senior guard confides<br />
that she‟s always wanted to give the sculpture a twirl herself!<br />
We all calm down <strong>with</strong> a walk around the Schlossplatz a glorious square <strong>with</strong><br />
fountains and trees, surrounded by old buildings. Then we sample some high end German<br />
consumer culture <strong>with</strong> a visit to a fabulous department store <strong>with</strong> a mezzanine floor crammed<br />
<strong>with</strong> desirable household items, and on the ground floor a wonderful food market.<br />
That night over a tasty pancake dinner Vera Maria‟s father patiently answers all our<br />
questions. We find out that Danzig in Gunter Grass‟s “Peeling the Onion” is now Gdansk in<br />
Poland, and that Germany lost a large chunk of territory to Poland after WW2. The borders<br />
in Europe seem so arbitrary, even temporary.<br />
That night John picks up a radio station from the huge American military base we saw<br />
on our drive south. The announcer says “If you look after the eagle, the eagle will look after<br />
you”.<br />
Our visit <strong>with</strong> Vera Maria‟s family is over all too soon, and next day we set out <strong>with</strong> a<br />
delicious packed lunch, jars of honey, and apples, and memories of melt in the mouth apple<br />
strudel. Our goal is to travel west towards the Black Forest. In a field I see a kite which has<br />
a sharp fork in the tail, very different and distinctive in its flight compared <strong>with</strong> the<br />
ubiquitous buzzards. It‟s only an hour‟s drive to Calw on the edge of the Black Forest, a very<br />
old town famous for the writer Herman Hesse who spent the early part of his life there. It‟s<br />
in a valley surrounded by forest, mainly conifer <strong>with</strong> some deciduous.<br />
We park beside the railway line, beneath cliffs covered in tall slim conifers which<br />
tower above us. I see a spotted woodpecker and hear a nuthatch. Our clean laundry is still<br />
slightly damp so we put up a clothesline and hang it all out in the sun and wind. There are a<br />
few people around but no-one seems to care about our Gypsy ways. We‟re trying to avoid<br />
the composting washing situation that John discovered a few days earlier. Reaching into his<br />
clean clothes he discovered that they were hot and moist, put away damp from the drier then<br />
sweating in the heat of the back of the van.<br />
30
The Gypsies Arrive in Calw<br />
We buy some supplies at the supermarket and I discover marzipan potatoes, delicious<br />
little soft balls of marzipan rolled in cocoa. That night I read that Gunter Grass had marzipan<br />
potatoes shortly after signing up <strong>with</strong> the army at the age of seventeen.<br />
A Walk in the Black Forest<br />
Next morning we get up early to go to a car boot sale which turns out to be pretty<br />
basic - <strong>full</strong> of bad taste junk. We explore Calw while we wait for the Herman Hesse Museum<br />
to open. The Nagold River runs right through town, parallel to the main street. It‟s crossed<br />
by the Nikolaus Bridge, Calw‟s most important landmark, built around 1400 and renovated in<br />
1863 and 1926. The tiny chapel of St Nikolaus is built on the central pillar. This was<br />
Herman Hesse‟s favourite place, and there‟s a bronze statue of him looking towards the<br />
chapel.<br />
The town is <strong>full</strong> of old stone buildings and little nooks and crannies to explore<br />
including one house <strong>with</strong> a living roof of grass and cacti. Herman Hesse is the main tourist<br />
drawcard but unfortunately the Museum has captions in German only. We enjoy the<br />
fascinating collection of <strong>photos</strong>, letters, manuscripts, paintings, furniture and memorabilia,<br />
and the serene atmosphere. John is absolutely thrilled to make the pilgrimage here and poses<br />
to have his photo taken <strong>with</strong> the statue of a kindly Hesse, in a suit, tie and waistcoat, <strong>with</strong> his<br />
hat in his hand.<br />
Making the decision to come south and visit Vera Maria has really paid off as we„ve<br />
been able to explore a very beautiful part of Germany, unlike anywhere we‟ve been before.<br />
31
One guid<strong>ebook</strong> describes it as overpriced cuckoo clock territory, but we‟ve found it easy to<br />
avoid the tour bus path.<br />
It‟s late summer and we‟ve noticed cut flowers sold in a novel way. A big sign says<br />
“Blumen” next to a large patch of gladioli, sunflowers and other flowers in a field. You pick<br />
what you want then leave the money in a tin. It would be so lovely to pick our own flowers,<br />
but we have no vase, table, window sill, or any flat, still surface to put them on!<br />
I see a little bittern on the edge of a pond and a flock of ravens.<br />
We‟re now in Hansel and Gretel country. Rolling fields end abruptly in tall dark<br />
conifer forest. The cows are large and <strong>colour</strong>ed a reddish gold and the farmhouses are huge<br />
<strong>with</strong> massive roofs and balconies cascading <strong>with</strong> red geraniums. It‟s picturesque to the max.<br />
We park by the roadside and go for a walk in the forest where moss, ferns and fungi<br />
abound. Tracks, bike paths, and old roads snake through the trees. We spot a very large deer<br />
hoof print. Yellow leaves are falling from silver birches and there‟s an autumn tinge on some<br />
trees, but the rest is dark conifer. Men are out in leather shorts. The woodpiles outside<br />
people‟s houses are works of art, stretching for forty yards or so and stacked in perfect<br />
patterns. The fairytale occupation of woodcutter makes great sense here.<br />
We find a peaceful place for the night in a car park on the outskirts of Furtwangen<br />
beside the Mountain Rescue headquarters. It rains solidly.<br />
A clear sky greets us in the morning as we drive south past white horses, red cows,<br />
and people out Nordic walking <strong>with</strong> poles. The forest becomes darker, there are ski lifts,<br />
guesthouses <strong>with</strong> restaurants, and massive cuckoo clock shops. We climb three thousand<br />
feet. The trees are covered in lichen. We head south to Freiburg im Breisgau to see the<br />
university‟s botanic gardens, in particular the conifer collection.<br />
On the way we stop in a gorge for coffee <strong>with</strong> thick bread and even thicker salami.<br />
We walk back onto the viaduct and look down over beautiful undulating forest in so many<br />
shades of green. As we descend towards Freiburg streams of camper vans and cars come<br />
towards us up the steep hill. In Freiburg we cruise the streets near the university and<br />
immediately get online then park in an avenue of young limes, where a nuthatch appears on a<br />
trunk a few feet away.<br />
The university‟s botanic gardens are easy to find and John greets the trees there like<br />
old friends. The most memorable are a huge Turkey oak, an American oak, picea, cedrus<br />
deodara, and abies. There are fabulous groups of dawn redwoods and swamp cypress, alpine<br />
plants, and several different dwarf pines. John asks two men collecting tadpoles from a pond<br />
what the principal tree of the Black Forest is. They say it‟s picea.<br />
32
We find a hospitable car park in the middle of town, and I cook up my latest cheap<br />
concoction: new potatoes from a jar sautéed <strong>with</strong> red pepper, onion and garlic, <strong>with</strong> a can of<br />
Erbseneintopf (50p) which doesn‟t look anything like the picture on the can, but turns out to<br />
be heavy pea soup <strong>with</strong> bacon. I‟m in the back when John announces the arrival of a very<br />
eccentric camper van: an ancient Mercedes, khaki, brown and silver, driven by a woman <strong>with</strong><br />
bright red hair, <strong>with</strong> a younger woman in the passenger seat. She backs, drives forward,<br />
backs again and rams a tree, then they get out and walk off. She drives <strong>with</strong> such conviction!<br />
Such a contrast to most others who go from one parking spot to another, unable to make a<br />
decision.<br />
Then we exchange places and John falls asleep in the back. I‟m in a little bubble <strong>with</strong><br />
the glow from the laptop, looking out at the dark university buildings, the cars in the car park,<br />
and the beautiful old trees above. The two women return to their camper and drive off.<br />
Central Freiburg has tree lined avenues and underground car parks. There are nuns,<br />
and many homeless men. We buy the English papers at the railway station: the Times, Daily<br />
Telegraph, and the Spectator, which keeps John amused for hours, especially a snobby article<br />
about how the cash strapped middle classes have taken to shopping at Aldi and LIDL, the<br />
budget supermarkets.<br />
The huge Munster cathedral, built in the 13 th century using dark pink local stone, was<br />
partly destroyed in WW2, but is now restored. It stands in a picturesque square of houses<br />
from various periods. We really enjoy Freiburg and can‟t believe that we‟re virtually on the<br />
French border.<br />
Curry on Constance<br />
We leave town the same way we arrived, back up the hairpin bends, <strong>with</strong> John going<br />
on about the g-force, and the gear sliding around in the back. The forest is picea, Scots pine<br />
and larch <strong>with</strong> hazelnuts beside the road, and we see buzzards and a couple of kites. We pass<br />
a field of ploughed red soil and one of freshly mown grass. I‟m desperate to wash my hair<br />
and since both swimming pools we‟ve stopped at have been closed, it‟s time to improvise.<br />
We use a rest area picnic table, John pouring cold water over my hair while I do the shampoo.<br />
Bliss.<br />
At Lake Constance, we try to find access to the lakeside so we can have a swim and<br />
stay the night, down ever narrowing country roads, along an avenue of walnuts, past a superb<br />
little hedge of identical conifers, and a tractor <strong>with</strong> a smiling farmer, all so picturesque. The<br />
conifers in people‟s gardens are flawless due to the perfect growing conditions.<br />
An unpromising narrow road leads to a car park, a large grassy area and a fabulous<br />
beach. People are swimming, sunbathing and reading. You can walk out into the lake on a<br />
long concrete path <strong>with</strong> a handrail, or on the pebbly lake bottom. We have a swim and it‟s<br />
33
cold but lovely. Two big swans approach from a starboard direction at top speed and a few<br />
ducks and moorhens swim by. We can‟t believe our luck in finding such an idyllic spot. We<br />
carry our dinner down to a park bench and John cooks a curry.<br />
People come and go having swims and getting changed discreetly on the foreshore.<br />
They seem like locals and it‟s all very laid back. Our van in the car park is backed up against<br />
an overgrown hedge of field maple, hazel, hawthorn and ivy. At night it‟s completely dark<br />
and there‟s not a soul around.<br />
Next day we drive from our park at Litzelstetten to Mainau, a huge garden dating<br />
from the 1870s, on an island that you reach via a causeway. At the turn off there‟s a traffic<br />
island covered in tall wildflowers <strong>with</strong> poppies including the blue Mecanopsis. As we arrive<br />
at the gardens busloads of people pour in. I read that it‟s the most visited garden in Europe.<br />
Our introduction to the garden is an avenue of eighty enormous dawn redwoods. We<br />
walk down the avenue and find a gardener who‟s happy to answer questions. He tells us<br />
there are thirty five gardeners, plus ten extra in the summer. Pollution and dry weather cause<br />
problems for the trees. Later I ask the same gardener about the birds of prey in the area and<br />
he writes down the names: Bussard (buzzard), Turmfalke (kestrel), Wanderfalke (peregrine<br />
falcon), and Habicht (goshawk).<br />
The setting of the Mainau garden is superb. It‟s virtually surrounded by the lake,<br />
which means there are beautiful vistas <strong>with</strong> glassy water in the background. Seats have been<br />
placed in peaceful spots where you can rest and relax. We sit down to read and have a picnic.<br />
The middle of the island is an arboretum of old rare trees, and the perimeter has vast borders<br />
and collections of plants including a couple of acres of stunning dahlias in flower. They use<br />
standards of many different plants. Our favourite is the lantana. We visit the castle, play<br />
areas for children, farm animals, a model railway set among alpine plants, fountains, and a<br />
huge butterfly house. Everything is in the most perfect condition, <strong>with</strong> huge attention to<br />
detail. Even the cafes have pots of flowers on the tables.<br />
Exhausted after a fabulous day in the sun we head back to our lakeside spot, lie on the<br />
grass, have a swim, and read. John cooks a Chinese meal for dinner. Later we strike up a<br />
conversation <strong>with</strong> an interesting couple. He‟s Canadian and she‟s German and they live in<br />
the city of Konstanz a couple of miles away. They have lived in both countries, and recently<br />
returned to Germany. They tell us about the local area and he tells a story of seeing a bird of<br />
prey chasing a flock of sparrows in a field of sunflowers. He also says he knows the spot<br />
where Herman Hesse sat and watched the River Rhine flow, as described in his novel<br />
“Siddharta”. They say they will return for a swim the following night, but we leave the next<br />
morning as it‟s raining.<br />
We head up the northern shore of Lake Constance, looking back across to where we<br />
parked for the two nights, and to Mainau. We see a stork by a creek, and a huge pink church<br />
34
surrounded by grapevines. The whole area slopes to the south and it‟s covered <strong>with</strong><br />
vineyards, hops, and apple and peach orchards. Wildflowers are in abundance on the<br />
roadside, pink on one side, yellow on the other. We stop at Meersburg a beautiful town right<br />
on the lake. Further along there are pretty cows, darker than Jerseys, some <strong>with</strong> cowbells.<br />
We‟re now in Bavaria, very close to Austria. We find a huge hardware store and spend a<br />
long time there, finding the odds and ends we‟ve been looking for. It‟s hard to keep John out<br />
of these places whichever country we‟re in.<br />
We pass massive farmhouses attached to even <strong>larger</strong> barns, some <strong>with</strong> cows poking<br />
their heads out the windows. The grass is extremely thick and green and the smell of cow<br />
manure is all pervasive. They spray it on the pasture. Fences are replaced <strong>with</strong> ditches, and<br />
the gardens have big sunflowers. We drive through miles of forest <strong>with</strong> hairpin bends, and in<br />
the distance there are jagged mountains but no snow. Ski lifts are everywhere. John‟s<br />
wearing a t shirt <strong>with</strong> VINTAGE across the front, and I take his picture next to the signpost to<br />
Wank.<br />
We stop for the night at Buhl near Grosser Alpsee. I make potato dumplings from a<br />
packet mix and they‟re perfect. John eats six! There are another couple of camper vans and<br />
a middle aged couple emerges from one, dressed in evening wear, and they walk along the<br />
path to the village. We hear singing and wonder if it‟s a church choir.<br />
Silage and Sauerkraut<br />
We head towards Sonthofen <strong>with</strong> five layers of scenery backed up in front of us –<br />
hills behind more hills behind more hills. We see our first braided river on this trip. The<br />
rivers are very clean in Germany. An election is coming up and someone has drawn a Hitler<br />
moustache on a candidate‟s poster. We drive down an avenue of young silver birch. Solar<br />
panels are everywhere including on farm buildings and a large sawmill. This seems to be<br />
palomino horse country.<br />
Eventually we arrive in Fussen and discover that there‟s no laundrette for miles. But<br />
on a mountain surrounded by forest we see the two magical castles that make this area such a<br />
tourist magnet: Hohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein. We need a quiet night before we face<br />
the crowds of tourists, so we find a secluded car park in the forest right by the lake Bannwald<br />
See, and have a quick swim. Two very large birds <strong>with</strong> a distinct seagull appearance are<br />
circling above. They have very white underbellies and are unlike any of the birds of prey that<br />
I‟m familiar <strong>with</strong>. The book tells us that they‟re ospreys.<br />
We take our dinner down to the lake where it‟s peaceful, but suddenly it gets darker<br />
and the sky is black. We rush back to the van and get everything inside before a huge<br />
thunderstorm hits. It lasts a couple of hours. We‟re safe and dry for the night under a large<br />
maple tree in the forest.<br />
35
Next morning we get up early to arrive at the two castles before the legendary crowds.<br />
First we visit Schloss Hohenschwangau (Castle of the High Swan Country) which was built<br />
in the 1830s. We‟re guided around in a group and we each have a gadget like a mobile phone<br />
which gives a commentary in our own language. Apart from the spectacular setting of this<br />
castle, on a forest clad hill at the foot of steep mountains, the best thing about it is the wall<br />
paintings depicting romantic scenes from German sagas. Painted in egg tempera directly<br />
onto the walls, the <strong>colour</strong>s are wonder<strong>full</strong>y rich. We can see the other castle through the<br />
leadlight windows, perched beneath high rocky crags.<br />
We walk up to Schloss Neuschwanstein (New Swanstone Castle), through silver<br />
beech forest. It has the distinction of being the most photographed building in Germany, one<br />
of the most popular tourist attractions, and the inspiration for the Sleeping Beauty Castles at<br />
Disneylands around the world. It really is the archetypal fairytale castle, in pale grey stone,<br />
all towers, turrets, gables and balconies, <strong>with</strong> rows of tiny windows. Like Schloss<br />
Hohenschwangau, it was built as a fantasy castle.<br />
Schloss Neuschwanstein<br />
The views from the windows down to farmland, Schwansee (Swan Lake), forest and<br />
the other castle are spectacular. The interior features paintings directly onto the walls of<br />
Prince Ludwig‟s favourite opera “Tristan and Isolde”, by Richard Wagner, and there is a<br />
huge grotto, as well as an area for concerts. I ask the guide whether Ludwig‟s life was as<br />
operatic as the castle and she says that he suffered from a chronic illness, and took morphine,<br />
and created the castle as an escape from the real world. We hear an American woman say<br />
“It‟s just like Disneyland you come out of the castle and the shop‟s right here.”<br />
36
Swifts go crazy overhead as we walk up to the Marienbrucke Bridge high above a<br />
series of waterfalls where the water cascades from one huge pool to the next, surrounded by<br />
sheer cliff faces and forested mountains. We head back down through the forest on a track<br />
where you can ride in a coach pulled by a pair of part draught horses, and in the winter a<br />
horse drawn sleigh.<br />
Then we set out on the Romantic Road north through brilliant green fields <strong>with</strong> small<br />
dairy herds, where solar panels stretch for several acres at a time. Buzzards are standing in<br />
fields and I spot a very elegant bird of prey <strong>with</strong> curved wings which I work out is a<br />
peregrine falcon. By now we‟re desperate for a laundrette so I phone ahead to the Augsburg<br />
Visitors Centre. Yes they have a laundrette and it‟s right near where we were intending to<br />
park for the night, by the canal. Church bells ring at six o‟clock and the dogs start barking. I<br />
lie in bed and read The Spectator. There‟s been a contest to write poetry or prose in the style<br />
of a famous writer. Some brilliant entries are published including one in the style of Chaucer<br />
describing Amy Winehouse as a “wylde wyf”. Reading takes on a new intensity when you‟re<br />
away from your own language for a long time.<br />
We‟re up early the next morning and do three loads of washing. Much to my<br />
amazement a very old lady in the laundrette tells me that she used to have a New Zealand<br />
social worker. Next door, outside a large church, there‟s a WW1 and WW2 memorial, the<br />
first one we‟ve seen in Germany. After exchanging texts <strong>with</strong> Kerry, a friend visiting Paris,<br />
and hearing that an Irish bar there is showing the All Blacks versus Wallabies rugby game, I<br />
call the Visitors Centre and ask if there‟s an Irish bar in town. I get the directions to one<br />
called Murphy‟s Law. When the washing is done we rush there on foot, arguing over the<br />
map on street corners. Eventually we find it shortly after kick off time. True to its name the<br />
bar is closed. Back in the van we cruise the streets, get online, John finds New Zealand<br />
Radio Sport, and we catch the last half of the game. Victory to the All Blacks!<br />
On a mission to get to the Czech Republic we keep moving, off to the east across a<br />
wide hop growing area on a long stretch of motorway through beautiful forest, very fast and<br />
easy, stopping in the little town of Nabburg to buy diesel. It has steep narrow streets similar<br />
to hilltop towns in Tuscany. On top of a tall church steeple we see a stork‟s nest. A van and<br />
a lorry from Romania pass us.<br />
Our stop for the night is at Waidhaus, just before the Czech border. Following signs<br />
through the village for a camper van park we end up in a farmer‟s field, and pay five Euros<br />
for the night to an old crone in a headscarf who could be straight from the Brothers Grimm.<br />
It‟s a welcome change to be able to cook <strong>with</strong> the side door of the van wide open. An<br />
admiring circle of animals turns up: a little black dog like a fox, two cats and a kitten. It‟s<br />
peasant food for dinner: fagioli bean stew <strong>with</strong> bacon and vegetables, plus sauerkraut.<br />
There‟s a strong smell of silage. A few yards from the van there‟s a slim tree trunk<br />
embedded in the ground <strong>with</strong> various symbolic objects hanging from it and a few small<br />
branches sticking out of the top. It‟s a mystery to us but it adds to the fairy tale atmosphere.<br />
37
Tomorrow we‟ll be in Prague, not<strong>with</strong>standing the impenetrable lingo. The<br />
phras<strong>ebook</strong> tells us how to say “I‟m from New Zealand”, and, from the border crossing<br />
section, “That‟s not mine”, presumably that‟s for when they find the drugs in your vehicle.<br />
When we wake up at Waidhaus and head to the Czech border it‟s six degrees. The<br />
Czech Republic joined the E U in 2004, and the lanes and empty booths at the border look<br />
like they pre-date this. There are no border guards and all we need to do is to buy a vignette<br />
to give us a week‟s use of the Czech motorway system. We spot a sign advertising a<br />
restaurant <strong>with</strong> showers so we check it out. You have to go to the bar and pay for the key to<br />
the shower, but it‟s occupied, so we have a coffee while we wait. Eventually the sullen bar<br />
staff beckon us over and we pay our four Euros for two showers. We unlock the door to the<br />
shower room in front of a passing group of amused Asian tourists. We‟re not really prepared<br />
for the sight that greets us once inside: slime, mould, and filth. We grit our teeth and cross<br />
our fingers, trusting our immune systems to look after us as we get under that glorious hot<br />
water.<br />
The countryside over the border is flat and featureless, <strong>with</strong> huge farms on depleted<br />
looking soil. Some of the conifers in the forests have damage from acid rain. We see<br />
massive logistics centres, many of them new, where lorries unload and fill up <strong>with</strong> goods.<br />
The usual kestrels and buzzards are overhead, and there are abandoned factories, and<br />
concrete rubble in fields.<br />
On the outskirts of Prague we stop at a shopping centre and buy a map of the city,<br />
then manage to navigate our way to the suburb of Stodhulky <strong>with</strong> its forest of tall apartment<br />
blocks, metro station, bakery, three enormous supermarkets, and resident kestrel. It‟s Sunday<br />
evening so there are spaces in the car parks. We find a good spot for the van, and since it‟s<br />
raining, we get into bed and read.<br />
38
Outskirts of Prague<br />
Next morning it‟s cold and rainy so it‟s merino tops, socks, coats and scarves. On the<br />
metro into the centre of Prague the young women clutch large tacky handbags and read<br />
celebrity gossip magazines just like you‟d see anywhere. The metro system is a Soviet one,<br />
very fancy and cheap, and we discover that the trams likewise are modern and inexpensive.<br />
In the old city we walk around in the rain and admire the beautiful architecture. We find the<br />
Hare Krishna restaurant and have a lovely curry lunch, then an internet cafe to do emails and<br />
read the English papers. Luxury. We pass a travel agency advertising a cruise which stops<br />
off at Dunedin, our home town!<br />
In the main square we line up <strong>with</strong> the other tourists to watch the Gothic astronomical<br />
clock on the Old Town Hall, where on the hour a skeleton pulls a cord to ring the bells, while<br />
the Apostles revolve at the top. With that out of the way we can relax!<br />
Elegant horses <strong>with</strong> immaculate carriages wait in the square for customers, the drivers<br />
wearing long Grim Reaper cloaks. The horses‟ shoes have heavy elevated heels, I guess to<br />
stop them slipping on the cobblestones. An Asian couple are getting married, the bride in six<br />
inch white high heels <strong>with</strong> socks, black thermals, a white bouquet, and a white fur. The<br />
police are there <strong>with</strong> a sign saying “Your dog can have a drink here”. There are quite a few<br />
homeless people <strong>with</strong> their gear in wheeled suitcases, and we see a couple of men eating food<br />
out of rubbish bins.<br />
We head home to Stodhulky, hoping for a cheap meal in the local bar, but there‟s no<br />
food tonight, just men watching the footy on tele. The grumpy barman doesn‟t seem to<br />
appreciate me ordering the beers, or my lack of the lingo, or something. We go for a walk,<br />
39
and discover a German Kaufland supermarket nearby <strong>with</strong> a tiny caravan in the carpark<br />
selling mulled wine, and inside sardinky, ryslink (Riesling), chipsy, musli, chokolady and<br />
limonady. Then we walk across some rough ground to the gargantuan (and empty) Tesco,<br />
past lots of very fat and confident rats. John even gets a photo of one. We head back to the<br />
van via a Chinese takeaway.<br />
Next morning it‟s colder so we put on woollen scarves and thick woollen socks. We<br />
walk around the enormous Prague castle complex, <strong>full</strong> of grandeur and tourists. St Vitus<br />
Cathedral, which is the centrepiece, is very similar to Westminster Palace. We‟re freezing<br />
and hungry, so we go to the restaurant and have an overpriced sausage lunch, where each<br />
sausage is cut into a curling doglike shape. They‟re delicious. Warm and revived, we head<br />
off to see the changing of the guard. The soldiers are wearing pale blue uniforms, and one<br />
gets the giggles.<br />
Walking down the steep hill back to the river, we pass terraces of grapevines. At the<br />
Wallenstein Palace (the parliament building) the garden has a fake stalactite grotto <strong>with</strong><br />
grotesque faces hidden in it. We spend a long time looking at an exhibition of photographs of<br />
past troubles, including demonstrations, and the Russian tanks in 1968. It‟s so recent, we‟ve<br />
seen these things on television, and it hits us hard.<br />
Unlike some other beautiful Eastern European cities, the buildings and streetscapes of<br />
Prague were virtually untouched by WW2. Tiny old houses and shops peer out from the<br />
skirts of their huge neighbours, and ancient squares are surrounded by centuries old churches,<br />
theatres, museums and government buildings. There‟s a lot of embellishment <strong>with</strong> friezes,<br />
little sculptures, and paintings adorning the exteriors of ancient buildings. Shop windows are<br />
<strong>full</strong> of Bohemian glass, Czech garnets, amber, and blue and white pottery. It‟s a consumer<br />
society <strong>with</strong> many malls and shops, but I notice that in the supermarkets people buy the<br />
basics: meat and vegetables. So the art of cooking is still alive.<br />
We find the Czech people attractive, <strong>with</strong> high cheekbones and fine features. The<br />
young couples we see are very demonstrative <strong>with</strong> each other. After months of being<br />
strangers in strange lands, we bump into two women we know from back home in Dunedin.<br />
We pick up some brochures of guided walks and decide to do the Communist Walk<br />
the next day. The brochure says that the guides are older men who have lived through all the<br />
upheavals of the last seventy years. We go to bed <strong>with</strong> a high sense of expectation.<br />
The Four Jans<br />
We add thick jumpers and gloves to our layers on day three and meet Jan our guide<br />
near the Jan Hus monument in the Old Town Square. It‟s just the three of us. He tells us that<br />
he loves doing these tours because for over forty years under Communist rule he was unable<br />
to meet anyone from the outside world, and he takes great pleasure in talking to foreigners<br />
40
now. (Things have changed so much: his six year old granddaughter has already been skiing<br />
in France three times.) He was born in 1941, and blows us away <strong>with</strong> a photo of himself<br />
sitting on his father‟s knee surrounded by Russian soldiers, on a Russian tank, when Prague<br />
was liberated in 1945.<br />
Jan tells us about Czech and Prague history over the centuries and shows us various<br />
places of significance like the monument to Jan Hus, an early anti Catholic religious reformer<br />
pre-dating Martin Luther.<br />
Then he talks about 1938 and beyond, how the Brits and French agreed to let<br />
Germany take some of the Czech Republic, then the Germans invaded, and they were<br />
occupied. He points out that in the photo he looks well dressed and well fed, and that the<br />
Czech people didn‟t suffer too badly in that way during the occupation. After the war ended,<br />
there was a strong Communist party, and the other political figures couldn‟t agree, so the<br />
Communists were voted in. They became a totalitarian regime, and the Czech economy went<br />
from being one of the strongest in Europe, to a disaster. Under Communism people were sent<br />
to prisons inside the Czech Republic if they protested, and many university people and<br />
intellectuals were killed or imprisoned.<br />
Jan‟s father was an accountant in the Agriculture Department at the time and his<br />
mother‟s family had their farms confiscated and collectivised. He describes many situations<br />
in recent Czech history as being paradoxical, and I think he means ironic as well. For<br />
example, the French supported Germany taking some of the Czech Republic in 1938, but then<br />
they were subsequently occupied themselves.<br />
Jan has a wonderful sense of humour and a great way <strong>with</strong> English. He answers all<br />
our questions very seriously, and manages to convey the complexity of many situations as<br />
well.<br />
The Czech people were very grateful to be liberated by the Russians in 1945 but felt<br />
quite differently when the Russian tanks came in 1968. He shows us where the students had<br />
a standoff <strong>with</strong> the police in the first demonstration in November 1989, known as the masakr,<br />
when many were hospitalised but no-one died. Jan and his wife were at the demonstrations<br />
that escalated during the week of 17 November 1989. He takes great pride in the lack of<br />
violence, and quotes from Vaclav Havel‟s speech telling the police where their priorities<br />
should lie. We see the memorials to Jan Palach and Jan Zijic, young men who set themselves<br />
on fire in 1969 in Wenceslas Square. The square is at the heart of the Czech people‟s sense<br />
of themselves as a nation. He tells us it‟s like a barometer of how things are. On the day<br />
we‟re there, teenagers are hanging around taking <strong>photos</strong> of each other. What could be more<br />
normal than that? When the Russian tanks came in 1968 in the early hours of the morning,<br />
protest posters were hung all around the square. They were destroyed by the Russian soldiers<br />
but not before photographers had recorded them.<br />
41
Wenceslas Square is a long wide avenue similar to the Champs Elysees, <strong>with</strong> a statue<br />
of St Wenceslas on a horse, outside the National Museum. Today there‟s also a Russian tank<br />
on display, left over from an exhibition for the 40 th anniversary of the 1968 invasion. Jan<br />
tells us that he did his compulsory military training in the early 1960s, and he was a tank<br />
technician, so he knows all about its specifications.<br />
He tells us that he had some Kiwi farmers on a tour once, and they told him they had<br />
Czech tractors. John tells him he used to drive an old Skoda in New Zealand and he loves<br />
that. He says his brother in law still has one from the 1960s which he maintains himself.<br />
Czechs are very good at fixing things, and we tell him that Kiwis are too.<br />
Apparently the Czech language and Russian are eighty per cent the same. When the<br />
Russians invaded in 1968, Jan‟s Russian workmates wept. They preferred living in the Czech<br />
Republic to life in the Soviet Union. We ask about the Czech Republic‟s relationship <strong>with</strong><br />
other European countries. They aren‟t keen on Austria and Hungary, but like Slovakia,<br />
Poland and Germany, especially the Euros from the German tourists. He confirms our<br />
observation that the country is highly industrialised, and tells us that they manufacture cars<br />
and trams.<br />
The tour takes two hours and fifteen minutes and at the end we‟re absolutely<br />
exhausted. We take our <strong>photos</strong> <strong>with</strong> Jan and sadly bid him farewell. He has such a lovely<br />
smile and such a sense of pride in his country, yet such a deep concern and awareness of<br />
where things have gone wrong in the past.<br />
We find a cafe nearby where I have beautiful thick lentil and bean soup, while John<br />
has an undrinkable high viscosity black coffee. Then we high tail it back to the van and crash<br />
for the night.<br />
Pepr<br />
On our fourth day in Prague the sun comes out. We explore an antique shop and<br />
amongst the Nazi matches, Russian helmets, old postcards, <strong>photos</strong>, dolls and enamel<br />
cookware I find a little old lidded china pot labelled PEPR. We‟re looking for some braces<br />
for John because he‟s finding it hard to keep his trousers up. We catch the funicular railway<br />
up Petrin Hill. When it was opened in 1891 there were two carriages fitted <strong>with</strong> water tanks,<br />
and these were alternately filled at the top and emptied at the bottom. The Czechs had the<br />
technical knowhow even then. We visit the Strahovsky Klaster high up on the hill, a<br />
monastery founded in 1146 <strong>with</strong> one of the finest libraries in Bohemia. It functioned until<br />
shortly after the Communists came to power, when it was closed and most of the people there<br />
imprisoned. The monks returned after 1989.<br />
The monastery is huge but we just visit the two small libraries, starting <strong>with</strong> the<br />
Philosophical Hall built in the 1780s and holding forty two thousand books on philosophy<br />
42
and science. It has walnut bookcases, ten rows of shelves, then a mezzanine <strong>with</strong> six more<br />
rows. The narrow mezzanine walkway is reached via secret corner spiral staircases. There‟s<br />
a ceiling painting called “The Struggle of Mankind to Know Real Wisdom”, so not a lot has<br />
changed. We‟re only able to peer through the doorway and “ooh” and “aah” at this most<br />
magical of libraries. Next door is the Theological Hall, the same <strong>size</strong>, <strong>with</strong> ceiling frescoes<br />
surrounded by ornate white plaster, much lighter, and containing only Bibles. In the lobby is<br />
the library‟s oldest book, the “Strahov Evangelistary” from the 9 th century, its cover<br />
decorated <strong>with</strong> jewels, little Biblical figures, and enamel ornaments. The most curious<br />
exhibit is a collection of rare books about trees, each one bound in the bark of the tree it<br />
describes, some of the covers fuzzy <strong>with</strong> lichen.<br />
On our last day in Prague the sun shines again. We decide to visit Vysehrad, a<br />
fortress on a hill in one of the suburbs, very old and <strong>full</strong> of history. We walk around the brick<br />
ramparts <strong>with</strong> fantastic views of the city, down over the river and the bridges, and towards<br />
forests of high apartment blocks on the skyline. Huge chestnut trees are shedding chestnuts,<br />
the leaves are changing <strong>colour</strong>, and we see a bright red squirrel. We visit the Vysehad Slavin<br />
cemetery where many of the most distinguished Czech writers, composers, artists and<br />
scientists are buried. Each headstone is unique, many made by famous sculptors, <strong>with</strong> a<br />
singular lack of angels or sentimentality. We recognise the names of Dvorak and Smetana.<br />
Vysehad Slavin Cemetery, Prague<br />
We take a walk across the famous Charles Bridge which was built in the 1300s. It‟s<br />
made of stone of course, and very beautiful <strong>with</strong> many arches underneath, and thirty statues<br />
from around 1700. It‟s packed <strong>with</strong> tourists, and we look out over the Vtlava River which<br />
has islands, tourist boats and the odd barge. We decide that we‟ve seen as much of Prague as<br />
43
we have time for even though we‟ve only scratched the surface and there‟s always so much<br />
more to see. The Communist Walk <strong>with</strong> Jan was the highlight. We felt a connection <strong>with</strong><br />
him and began to understand his life.<br />
Living in the car park we‟re able to observe the lives of ordinary Prague people. They<br />
seem to be happy and busy, the children look really well cared for, and many people smoke.<br />
Even though people don‟t look poor, we‟ve seen several people going through the huge<br />
rubbish bins in the car park, pulling out bags of flour and other food. Capitalism is in <strong>full</strong><br />
swing <strong>with</strong> cars, factories, huge industrial parks and malls. The beer is fantastic, alcohol is<br />
very cheap, and unemployment is only five per cent. People who have helped us have been<br />
very kind and tuned in, and some know a little English. Czech is a melodious language but<br />
unfortunately we only manage to squeak out a few words ourselves.<br />
We leave our cosy parking spot next morning and visit two supermarkets to stock up<br />
on the essentials: Fisherman‟s Friend cough drops, chocolate, sardines, red peppers, onions,<br />
big salamis, beer, wine, dumpling mix, and olives. I‟m hoping to boost our immunity by<br />
putting onions, garlic and red peppers in most meals. One supermarket has a litre of milk for<br />
eight kroner, twenty five pence in the UK or sixty cents in New Zealand. Amazing since we<br />
haven‟t seen a single dairy cow, whereas you see nothing else in New Zealand and milk costs<br />
four times as much.<br />
We exit Prague on the motorway which is challenging, <strong>with</strong> a spaghetti maze of<br />
options. Just before Ricany a bird of prey is directly overhead, and, completely baffled as to<br />
what it is, I long for a few hours <strong>with</strong> a bird expert.<br />
On the edge of a field we see two deer. The roads are lined <strong>with</strong> old apple trees, and<br />
there is sugar beet by the mile. The roads are rough and the towns plain, no dazzling flower<br />
gardens like in Germany. We‟re on our way to Kutna Hora, a UNESCO World Heritage site<br />
<strong>with</strong> a famous cathedral, an ossuary <strong>with</strong> the bones of forty thousand plague victims, and the<br />
largest cigarette factory in Europe.<br />
44
Chapter 4 Czech Republic, Germany<br />
20 September - 6 October<br />
The Enemy of Observation<br />
In a month old copy of the London Times I read a review of Paul Theroux‟s latest<br />
book “Ghost Train to the Eastern Star” and I‟m impressed by these words quoted by the<br />
reviewer: “luxury is the enemy of observation”. I would also say luxury is relative.<br />
After living in a car park for six nights in Prague, we‟re ecstatic to upgrade to the<br />
Santa Barbara Camp in Kutna Hora. We arrive in the early afternoon and I immediately put<br />
on loads of washing, while John strings up some clotheslines. We have the camp to<br />
ourselves: about an acre of grass and large trees <strong>with</strong> very basic facilities. There is such<br />
liberation in opening the van doors and spreading everything out, after keeping a low profile<br />
and trying not to attract attention in public car parks. I commandeer a small table in the<br />
men‟s toilets, plug the laptop into the power, and type three emails on Word. John brings me<br />
a glass of wine, and bread <strong>with</strong> dip. Not the most convivial of surroundings but I‟m not<br />
complaining. He works on the rust in the van, and cooks a pork curry for dinner. The camp<br />
manager comes for a chat and tells us that he had a New Zealand pen friend for years whose<br />
husband was a coalminer in Ohai.<br />
Next morning the washing is almost dry, and John sets the van up as a drier <strong>with</strong> the<br />
heater on <strong>full</strong>, the clothes spread out inside, and the doors open wide. It‟s finished off in no<br />
time.<br />
Kutna Hora‟s heyday was from the 14 th to the 16 th centuries, when its wealth was<br />
generated from silver mining. The old town is intact, <strong>with</strong> delights such as a 15 th century<br />
intricately patterned dodecagonal sandstone water reservoir. Our favourite is the Cathedral of<br />
St Barbara, who is the patron saint of miners. It has crazy, pointed, tent like towers, and<br />
inside, frescoes of Italian minters crafting the silver coins which were European currency<br />
until the 19 th century.<br />
45
Minter, Saint Barbara Cathedral<br />
The most bizarre sight is the Sedlec Ossuary which has an intriguing history. In 1278<br />
the abbot of Sedlec was sent on a diplomatic mission to the Holy Land, bringing back a<br />
handful of earth from Golgotha (the biblical name for the place where Jesus was crucified),<br />
which he scattered in the Sedlec monastery cemetery. It quickly became a popular place for<br />
wealthy people from Central Europe to be buried. It was enlarged during the 14 th century to<br />
take the bodies of people who died from the plague, and in 1318 thirty thousand people were<br />
buried there. In the 15 th century All Saints Church was built <strong>with</strong> a chapel underneath. It<br />
was here a century later that a half blind Cistercian monk arranged the bones removed from<br />
the graves. From 1870 a wood carver arranged the bones as they are now displayed, in bell<br />
shaped pyramids, chandeliers, and adorning the architectural features of the interior of the<br />
church. Many are arranged in the classic skull and crossbones design, and there are strings of<br />
skulls hung like Christmas streamers. It‟s all very strange, and there are busloads of Polish<br />
tourists having a look. The Philip Morris cigarette factory next door is a sick joke.<br />
46
Sedlec Ossuary<br />
Navigation Error<br />
We find John some braces in a market, then head north past the massive Chvaletice<br />
coal fired power station, and a huge Panasonic factory. People are selling what looks like<br />
wine in plastic soft drink bottles by the roadside, and the roads are lined <strong>with</strong> laden apple<br />
trees. We see a seagull chasing a crow and a kestrel as we drive along the Elbe River, where<br />
there are no fences or farm animals for miles, and avenues of poplars beside picturesque<br />
apple orchards. There are many old Skodas, massive abandoned factories, and vast apartment<br />
complexes. As we head towards the Adrspach Spaly near the Polish border, my navigation<br />
skills desert me and for about an hour I can‟t find our location on the map. The town of<br />
Nachod features on sign posts but I can‟t find it. I curse the map for being so poor and we<br />
press on, but it slowly dawns on me that we‟ve taken a wrong turning. I haven‟t looked at the<br />
compass on the windscreen for a long time and we‟ve travelled east instead of north. Then I<br />
find Nachod in a place on the map where I haven‟t looked before. It‟s late in the day and<br />
we‟re heading into the mountains, not what we wanted.<br />
The little mountain style houses have huge piles of firewood, snow catchers on the<br />
roofs and smoke rising from their chimneys. The farms are reminiscent of the ones in the<br />
Black Forest but the cows are white and the soil pink. It‟s a relief to stop at Batnovice in a<br />
quiet car park for the night.<br />
Next day as we head north we could be in a Welsh mining valley. Villages appear out<br />
of the forest, some <strong>with</strong> grand old public buildings. The deciduous trees are starting to<br />
change <strong>colour</strong>, before they give way to conifers. A green pipeline has followed us for miles<br />
47
and we wonder what it carries. There‟s always industry, abandoned and functioning<br />
factories, astonishing to us in an area which feels remote. The severity of the winters is<br />
apparent when we see double glazed windows in old houses <strong>with</strong> a foot between the two<br />
layers of glass. Ducks are on the river and swifts go crazy in the sky. A man cycles past<br />
towing a gas bottle. Then we see a ski lift, big flower gardens, wooden houses <strong>with</strong><br />
geraniums on the balconies, silver birch, larch and picea. It‟s misty and a good wind is<br />
blowing. The moss and grass are beautiful. There‟s selective logging in the forest, never<br />
clear felling. We feel like Asian tourists in New Zealand, screeching to a halt to take <strong>photos</strong>,<br />
gobsmacked by the stunning scenery.<br />
When we see ravens circling towering stone pinnacles we know we‟re at Adrspach<br />
Spaly. We‟re the first into the car park but later it fills <strong>with</strong> Polish and German buses and<br />
cars.<br />
We spend two hours walking through the sandstone rock formations which are<br />
adorned <strong>with</strong> slim conifers, small deciduous trees <strong>with</strong> yellowing leaves, grass and moss. It‟s<br />
a ravishingly beautiful and peaceful landscape, the stuff of 1970s posters. The tallest of the<br />
pinnacles is three hundred feet high, and they‟re popular <strong>with</strong> rock climbers who secure their<br />
routes <strong>with</strong> fixed metal rings. We climb a wooden staircase to reach a wedge shaped gap<br />
between rock walls where there‟s a skinny lake. Two men sit beside a roaring coal fire in a<br />
small hut, like characters from a fairy tale or myth. They pole little boats <strong>full</strong> of tourists from<br />
the tiny wharf along a lake.<br />
Adrspach Spaly<br />
48
Everything here has a soft fuzzy outline, from the moulded grey lines of the pinnacles,<br />
through the fuzzy foliage of the trees, to the moss on the rocks, and the sandy soil.<br />
Adrspach Spaly<br />
At the end of the walk there‟s a miniscule outdoor chapel in the rock, a memorial to<br />
fifty of the Czech Republic‟s best climbers. We think they must revere this place.<br />
As we leave and drive to Treplice, another popular tourist spot <strong>with</strong> its own similar<br />
rocks, we see some deer at the edge of a field. While we‟re having lunch a black squirrel<br />
walks round the van. I‟m also very excited to see what looks like a black redstart, a small<br />
black bird resembling a robin <strong>with</strong> a red tail, the first I‟ve seen. In the post office, the woman<br />
behind the counter has fake nails, alternating pale blue and pink. Czech women seem to have<br />
embraced the commercial aspects of beauty to a marked degree, <strong>with</strong> beauty parlours and<br />
tanning salons everywhere.<br />
We just revel in being in the country again after the big city tourist experience. Berlin<br />
is coming up and we decide to plan it better than we planned Prague, which was not at all.<br />
We read up the guide book and work out which sights we really want to see. Unfortunately it<br />
always seems to be a process of elimination in the end, deciding what not to visit.<br />
Bohemian Rhapsody<br />
We head west, parallel to the Polish border, through more mountain towns. Some of<br />
the houses are constructed of logs split in half lying one on top of the other, caulked <strong>with</strong><br />
rope and plaster. There are lovely gardens, apple trees, and factories <strong>with</strong> brick chimneys, a<br />
49
legacy of the industrial past. We spend a night in Trutnov which has a large town square that<br />
could be straight out of Italy or Spain. We realise that we haven‟t seen any idle youth in the<br />
Czech Republic.<br />
From Trutnov it‟s west again through forests and farms, the road lined <strong>with</strong> old forest<br />
maples <strong>with</strong> red, orange and yellow leaves; then down an avenue of green trees which meet<br />
over the road. The gardens are rustic and rambling <strong>with</strong> asters and dahlias amongst the<br />
vegetables. Beautiful brightly <strong>colour</strong>ed houses line the road, and ski fields are hidden up side<br />
roads. We see our first onion domed churches then drive under a line of buckets suspended<br />
on cables, shown on the map as running for several miles. It must take coal from the mine to<br />
a power station. Advertisements for adventure sports flash past, along <strong>with</strong> people selling<br />
sacks of onions, apples and potatoes beside the road. It‟s the first sunny day for a while and<br />
the jays are busy everywhere. We drive through a wide forested valley then it narrows along<br />
the Jizera River <strong>with</strong> its brown peaty water. This land has been fought over for centuries and<br />
the place names are in Polish as well as Czech. The roofs of the houses are made from a kind<br />
of bitumen material, and lots of people are doing renovations. There are massive woodpiles<br />
and the window boxes are <strong>full</strong> of begonias and geraniums. The mysterious green pipeline is<br />
still following us.<br />
We cross the border into Germany at the point where Poland, the Czech Republic and<br />
Gemany meet, and <strong>with</strong> the huge history these countries share it feels momentous.<br />
In Zittau it‟s strange to be guten Tagging again, and we experience a couple of days<br />
of linguistic confusion. We discover a large fenced off parking area for camper vans, <strong>with</strong><br />
one already there, and, strangely a small herd of goats in a corner. We don‟t bother too much<br />
<strong>with</strong> signs and rules, just park by a picnic table and have a brilliant few hours of cooking<br />
outside, and lighting the Kelly kettle, <strong>with</strong> not a care in the world. Getting up late next<br />
morning, John bursts out the side door of the van right into the arms of a council official who<br />
is unamused at our lack of a parking sticker. He takes John to the machine and oversees the<br />
purchase of one for seven Euros. Damn. If only we‟d been up half an hour earlier.<br />
50
Our Spot in Zittau<br />
Zittau turns out to have many fascinating sights including a grand municipal<br />
swimming pool complete <strong>with</strong> columns, built in 1873, which for a time served as a women‟s<br />
prison, particularly for women accused of the crime of rumour mongering! We find a very<br />
welcoming cafe <strong>with</strong> wifi and send lots of <strong>photos</strong> and talk on skype to people back home.<br />
The unique thing to see in Zittau is the Lenten Veil, compared <strong>with</strong> the Bayeux<br />
Tapestry, and housed in the 14 th century Church of the Holy Cross Museum. The staff are<br />
very conscientious, including Rowan Atkinson‟s doppelganger who shows us around. The<br />
Lenten Veil was made in 1472, tempera painted on linen, about twenty by twenty five feet, a<br />
veil to cover the choir of the church during Lent, to make the mystery physical as well as<br />
metaphorical. It‟s made up of nine squares across and ten down, <strong>with</strong> a wide border. Forty<br />
five of the squares illustrate stories from the Old Testament, and forty five from the New<br />
Testament, like a gigantic comic strip. Its history is intriguing. At one point when there was<br />
a fire it was rescued by the town‟s librarian, then in WW2 it was taken to a monastery on Mt<br />
Oybin for safety, by POWs including a Brit called Ernest Hall, only to be used by Russian<br />
soldiers as a curtain for their sauna in the forest. It was restored in Switzerland in the 1990s<br />
and its beauty is striking in spite of fading and blank patches. To stand before such an<br />
ancient textile is quite breathtaking.<br />
We head north through stunning towns of substantial timbered houses, many of which<br />
have tiles in beautiful patterns covering the top of the exterior walls. It‟s rolling unfenced<br />
country of ploughed fields, apple trees and good looking soil. As we get onto the motorway<br />
north towards Berlin we wonder if we‟ll make it to Spreewald for the night. We pass a<br />
massive BASF factory covering hundreds of acres then a major distribution centre for Netto<br />
51
supermarkets. Making good progress we‟re nearly at the turnoff to Lubbenau in the early<br />
evening, when a Polizei van overtakes us in the slow lane, then changes lanes into the middle.<br />
The outside lane finishes so we change lanes into the middle as well after goggling at the<br />
police car, and, I must admit, taking a sneaky photo. Then we‟re shocked to see a message<br />
flash up on the back of their van saying “Please follow” in German! So we follow them to<br />
the shoulder where we both stop. Having seen a few American movies and knowing the form<br />
in New Zealand we both jump down from the cab but they order us back into the van and ask<br />
to see our passports and John‟s license. After scrutinising these they ask us to open the back<br />
of the van so they can have a look. It all seems quite routine until the one in charge says we<br />
have to pay some money. They say that they can‟t speak English but they seem to understand<br />
a lot of what we say. In the back of their van there‟s an office <strong>with</strong> a table, chairs, computer<br />
and printer, and John is ushered in there while the other cop stays <strong>with</strong> the van. I get in the<br />
back of the police van as well and we‟re shown the road code and lots of motioning of<br />
blending <strong>with</strong> the traffic from one lane to the other. It turns out that we‟re charged <strong>with</strong> not<br />
changing lanes quickly enough behind them, and the instant fine is thirty Euros. We pay up,<br />
take the receipt, and get back into the van muttering, mystified at the crime and wondering<br />
why they bothered. Thank goodness they didn‟t catch John taking a photo of them while<br />
driving!<br />
Busted by a Sprinter<br />
Fischadler<br />
Exiting the motorway to Lubbenau we find a spot for the night right beside one of the<br />
many waterways. Spreewald is a large marshy area <strong>with</strong> hundreds of little rivers, canals,<br />
lakes, walking and cycle paths, and four million visitors a year. It‟s only an hour south of<br />
52
Berlin on the train, and a World Biosphere Reserve. People travel on the water in old flat<br />
bottomed punts which are poled along, while they eat and drink seated at tables <strong>with</strong> brightly<br />
<strong>colour</strong>ed tablecloths and flowers. Or you can hire a canoe and paddle yourself. It‟s all very<br />
jolly.<br />
Our first priority is the washing as the bedding hasn‟t been washed for a few weeks.<br />
The visitors‟ centre tells us that there‟s a laundry in Cottbus half an hour away so we go<br />
straight there next morning. Strangely it‟s in the railway station, Anita‟s Wasch Salon. The<br />
woman running it, not Anita, is charming and very helpful. We put on a couple of loads and<br />
she says she‟ll dry it for us. We go back to the van and John cooks a big lunch of sausages<br />
and eggs. We discover that there‟s a wonderful park in Cottbus and decide to visit it later.<br />
When we go to collect the washing it‟s all folded and we‟re so grateful. Anita the boss is<br />
there and she is as charming as her worker who we give an extra five Euros and a tiny paua<br />
shell.<br />
Then we head to Branitz Park which is the former estate of Hermann von Puckler-<br />
Muskau. He was an aristocrat who was born there in a small castle, and began landscaping<br />
the property in 1846. It‟s in the landscape tradition of Capability Brown <strong>with</strong> trees and lakes<br />
strategically placed to create beautiful vistas, some up to three hundred yards long, <strong>with</strong><br />
nothing left to chance. Many of the trees are planted on small mounds, some on their own<br />
but many in groups - the trees of the British 18 th century grand tradition: alder, oak, scarlet<br />
oak, beech, copper beech, forest maple, Scots pine, swamp cypress and chestnut. The most<br />
remarkable features are two grass covered earth pyramids. One is in a lake and covered <strong>with</strong><br />
grass and a low growing red leafed plant. It‟s the burial place for von Puckler-Muskau and<br />
his wife. The trees are in perfect condition and it‟s a wonderful place to visit, <strong>with</strong> locals<br />
walking and cycling through and lots of wildlife. We see a bright red squirrel, a beaver in the<br />
lake, and a big raven circling and cawing.<br />
53
Branitz Park<br />
Back in Spreewald we get lost a couple of times but eventually find a place to spend<br />
the night. We can‟t find any car parks but there‟s a picnic table <strong>with</strong> a roof by the side of the<br />
road, <strong>with</strong> enough room to park the van alongside. We spend a pleasant evening cooking<br />
outside and boiling up as people cycle past. Next morning we go for a leisurely stroll along<br />
the road then find ourselves on a cycle path which leads to a small lake. We walk most of the<br />
way around the lake and can‟t believe our eyes when we see two ospreys circling, hovering,<br />
then dropping into the water. They are Fischadler in German, birds of prey <strong>with</strong> a wingspan<br />
of five feet which dive down from the sky and catch fish <strong>with</strong> their feet. There are also lots<br />
of white whooper swans and cygnets, cormorants, ducks, white herons, a red kite, frogs,<br />
butterflies and hornets.<br />
54
Boiling the Kettle<br />
Whooper Swans<br />
After that we drive to the White Stork Information Centre, and while John works on<br />
the van‟s rust in the car park of the building supplies shop over the road, I have a long session<br />
55
<strong>with</strong> some bird experts finding out what birds are in the area. They hardly speak any English,<br />
but we have a dictionary, and they have some great reference books. I mark my bird book<br />
<strong>with</strong> the German names of the various birds of prey. Their centre works to improve the lot of<br />
storks, which are endangered, mainly because they fly into transmission lines. They migrate<br />
to Africa in August and return in March/April when they nest in the crazy messy nests up<br />
poles that you see everywhere. Their eggs are about the <strong>size</strong> of hens‟ eggs.<br />
Boat, Spreewald<br />
We drive back into the country to a peaceful corner of a ploughed field under two<br />
huge oak trees by a creek and John paints the parts of the van where he‟s sanded the rust, then<br />
we lie in the sun and watch jet trails in the sky. With a soundtrack of loud squawking two<br />
white swans fly overhead then land on the field in perfect unison. Then more arrive, and a<br />
short while later they all fly away. The movement of birds is constant. The sun is<br />
approaching the horizon so we drive a short distance down the road and park beside a lake<br />
<strong>full</strong> of jumping fish, great crested grebes and white herons. There are swirling flocks of<br />
roosting starlings as well. It‟s so peaceful.<br />
We go to bed looking forward to waking up in the morning beside the lake, and<br />
spending the day lounging around in the sun .... but it‟s not to be. Shortly after midnight we<br />
hear a voice outside the van and lie there trying to figure out what‟s going on. It comes and<br />
goes and there‟s a soft light moving around as well. Eventually it stops. We work out that<br />
it‟s someone talking into their mobile phone. There‟s no car and we wonder if someone<br />
walking or biking home saw the van, became suspicious, and called the police or one of the<br />
farmers. We lie there for a while wondering what to do then decide it would be best to drive<br />
the two miles to Raddusch, the closest village, and park there, rather than have to deal <strong>with</strong><br />
56
the police or whoever might come to investigate us. John has drunk some beer so I drive, in<br />
my pyjamas, the only time I get behind the wheel in Europe. We find a place to park in a<br />
street of houses, and the local dogs go berserk, barking like crazy. It‟s a bit of a worry. We<br />
get into the back and lie low and they quieten down straight away so that‟s a relief.<br />
After a restless night we get up early and drive to Lubbenau, parking in the railway<br />
station car park for four Euros. We spend the day reading, John the latest Newsweek and<br />
Herald Tribune and me Dickens‟ “Hard Times”. We walk into town and see people in punts,<br />
lots of gherkins for sale (the local speciality), and have a beer, very pleasant.<br />
3 Oktober Tag der Deutschen Einheit<br />
We leave Lubbenau and head towards Berlin early on the Sunday morning, and it‟s<br />
worth it as there‟s no traffic. There‟s heavy forest on both sides of the motorway for miles,<br />
and we see a deer. Wind generators loom out of the fog and there are lots of Polish vehicles.<br />
From the road atlas we‟ve worked out possible places to park for free close to the railway line<br />
and a swimming pool, and it pays off as we end up at Lankwitz on the outskirts of Berlin to<br />
the south, a fifteen minute train ride from the centre. It‟s a fabulous place to stay, safe and<br />
easy, <strong>with</strong> a pool and shops and quiet leafy streets to park in when we need to move from the<br />
market square for the weekly market. I get a haircut and the delightful hairdresser has a<br />
typed sheet translating German-English hairdressing terms like “fringe” so we can discuss<br />
what I want. The Germans are so organised. We spend one night in Steglitz the next suburb<br />
because there‟s a laundrette there, and to our relief a fabulous outdoor and travel store called<br />
Globetrotter where we stock up on our old fashioned little cylinders of cooking gas.<br />
The day we arrive in Berlin, we catch the train into the city in the afternoon, and walk<br />
smack bang into the finish of the Berlin Marathon, <strong>with</strong> the runners racing up the famous<br />
avenue Unter den Linden, finishing at the Brandenburg Gate. It‟s a big thrill. Then we‟re<br />
lucky to be still in town on 3 October which is the national holiday to celebrate the<br />
reunification of Germany which happened nineteen years earlier, Tag der Deutschen Einheit.<br />
That day there‟s a wonderful happy atmosphere <strong>with</strong> crowds of people our age celebrating<br />
<strong>with</strong> music, food and drink.<br />
We pretty much overdose on depressing history in Berlin, exhaust ourselves into the<br />
bargain, and really only scratch the surface. We visit the Museum of German History which<br />
covers the build up to WW2 in detail, but the main thing I remember is Napoleon‟s<br />
handkerchief, yellowing linen and neatly folded. The Pergamon Museum has a mind<br />
blowing array of antiquities, the meaning of which really sinks in when we visit Bergama in<br />
Turkey three months later and see where some of the treasures came from. Our favourite<br />
museum is Checkpoint Charlie on the site of the former border crossing between East and<br />
West Berlin. It contains a huge amount of social history from the Cold War. There is every<br />
imaginable form of escape and attempted escape on display including cars hollowed out to<br />
hide people, two long surfboards between which a girl hid on a car roof rack, and digging<br />
57
tools. So much bravery and ingenuity is documented in <strong>photos</strong>, film footage, personal items<br />
and official papers. It gives a chilling picture of what life was like for people, and their<br />
desperation.<br />
A climb up the Siegessaule is a highlight. It‟s a triumphal column giving fantastic<br />
views over the surrounding parks, and straight down to the Brandenburg Gate.<br />
We enjoy the huge modern public buildings in the centre of Berlin. Glass is a major<br />
feature, and their contemporary elegance provides a contrast to the traditional beauty of the<br />
older buildings. The most arresting modern construction is the Memorial to the Murdered<br />
Jews of Europe, two thousand, seven hundred and eleven concrete stelae or rectangular<br />
shaped plinths of varying heights which form a kind of maze. They cover a large area, laid<br />
out in a perfect grid pattern. On 3 October lots of people are there, particularly children<br />
jumping from one column to another.<br />
Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe<br />
Leaving Berlin we drive out to Potsdam and on our way come across a Google Street<br />
View car <strong>with</strong> cameras on the roof, photographing the street! How we love Google Earth and<br />
Google Maps when we‟re planning our arrival in big cities.<br />
Potsdam is very hospitable <strong>with</strong> a new railway station complete <strong>with</strong> cinemas,<br />
supermarkets, bakeries, shops and English newspapers. We spend the night in the station car<br />
park. We walk through the park and past the castle Schloss Cecilienhoff where Churchill,<br />
Roosevelt and Stalin, then Attlee, Truman and Stalin, had the Potsdam Conference in<br />
July/August 1945, which set up occupation zones, planned the punishment of war criminals,<br />
58
and other vital components of how Germany was run for the next forty five years. The<br />
tattered flags of the three countries are still visible through the window. After that we high<br />
tail it to Poland, <strong>with</strong> a sense of excitement to be venturing into largely unknown countries<br />
from now on, but also sadness to be leaving Germany which has been so very hospitable,<br />
cultured and beautiful.<br />
59
Chapter 5 Poland, Slovakia, Hungary<br />
6 October – 11 November<br />
Nie Polski<br />
As we cross the border near Frankfurt an der Oder, heading due east, rural Poland<br />
looks very attractive after eight days in Berlin. There‟s no border checkpoint, and the<br />
oncoming traffic is literally hundreds of lorries bumper to bumper, <strong>with</strong> German, Polish,<br />
Lithuanian, Romanian and other number plates. We suddenly become aware that Poland has<br />
borders <strong>with</strong> the Czech Republic, Lithuania, Russia, Slovakia, Ukraine, Belarus and<br />
Germany. The narrow Polish motorway is in terrible condition compared <strong>with</strong> the new ten<br />
inch thick concrete one back in Germany.<br />
We see forest, a few deer here and there, and some graffiti in English “NOBODY<br />
NEEDS FASCISM”. Turning off the motorway we head south and stop at the little town of<br />
Swiebodzin for the night. It feels so very foreign, in spite of signs pointing to a Tesco<br />
supermarket nearby. We decide to say “Nie Polski” when we speak to people, meaning that<br />
we don‟t speak Polish, rather than asking them if they speak English, which has an arrogance<br />
which we want to avoid. It turns out that most people here know a bit of English, and we<br />
know the basics in Polish (hello, goodbye, thank you), so it works out fine.<br />
After a quiet night in a car park beside the hospital we head south to the banks of the<br />
Odra River, near Pomorska where the trees have the first touches of autumn <strong>colour</strong>. We park<br />
beside the wide and slow moving river and watch the car ferry which crosses on a wire, back<br />
and forth all day. Fishermen are dotted around amongst the willows. A tiny disposable<br />
barbecue bought in Newcastle a couple of years ago now has its moment of glory. We cook<br />
up tandoori chicken and fried potatoes. It‟s bliss to be just hanging out in the country<br />
watching the locals on the ferry <strong>with</strong> their cycles, cars, and motorbikes, <strong>with</strong> the odd sleek<br />
barge gliding past.<br />
The ferrymen work hard, pushing and pulling at the start and end of each trip to move<br />
the boat out into the current. When they stop for lunch, they make a fire and boil water in a<br />
stainless steel bucket. Two swans fly low overhead and towards the end of the day the crows<br />
start gathering to roost. We make a move at five thirty and take the ferry across the river.<br />
A road sign indicates to look out for horse drawn vehicles. People have their coal<br />
fires burning. We stop for the night at Zielona Gora, a city first settled in the Middle Ages,<br />
and part of Germany before WW2. Walking around the town we‟re amazed to see three<br />
handsome All Blacks in an advertisement on the side of a bus.<br />
60
Road Signs<br />
Later we‟re gutted when we turn on the laptop and rainbow <strong>colour</strong>s fill the screen.<br />
Next day the local komputery tells us that the nearest Toshiba agency is in Krakow so we set<br />
off as soon as we can, taking the back country roads south through Zagan, then a motorway<br />
southeast, where the concrete surface is so rough we have to slow below our usual fifty miles<br />
an hour. People are selling little piles of different fungi beside the motorway, there are yards<br />
<strong>full</strong> of concrete gnomes for sale, and no fences as far as the eye can see. We see a red kite<br />
above the road, a buzzard and a flock of lapwings. South of Wroclaw we pass a vast<br />
industrial complex <strong>with</strong> IKEA and Tesco. We eventually figure out that the women standing<br />
alone on the roadside are prostitutes.<br />
Not far from Opole we see eighty massive advertising hoardings one after the other<br />
and we‟re left in no doubt that Poland has embraced Capitalism. We‟re wondering where to<br />
sleep the night when we see a sign for a truck stop <strong>with</strong> a cafe and shower. In the morning<br />
it‟s foggy and three lorries are parked beside us. We head off past a military barracks and big<br />
advertisements encouraging young people to join the army. Hideous cast concrete fences are<br />
everywhere.<br />
At Krakow we negotiate the ring road and various motorways to reach the old Jewish<br />
suburb of Kazmierz where the Toshiba agent is located. We leave the van in the care of a<br />
guard in a tiny car park. Usually our security consists of a padlock on a heavy chain across<br />
the front seat, linking the door handles. We do the same at night when we go to bed.<br />
The address we‟ve been given for the Toshiba agent isn‟t correct, but they direct us to<br />
another computer business nearby where they enter the latop‟s details into their database, and<br />
61
ingo, our worldwide guarantee is good. That‟s a relief. They tell us it will take at least two<br />
weeks to fix and they‟ll call us. That comes as a bit of a shock but there‟s nothing we can do<br />
about it.<br />
John has been worried about the spare tyre which has been slowly deflating. We find<br />
a tyre repair shop, and roll the tyre along the footpath. The guy there speaks no English but<br />
he immediately sees what‟s required, tests the tyre in a bath of dirty water, spreads some<br />
gunk near the rim, dips it into the water again, and it‟s fixed. Another huge relief.<br />
We decide to head south into “Poland‟s Tuscany” which turns out to be a fabulous<br />
place to visit in the autumn, <strong>full</strong> of <strong>colour</strong> and rural goings on.<br />
Outside of Brzesko a farmer is making his way along the road <strong>with</strong> his horse and farm<br />
cart, his dog sitting up <strong>with</strong> him. There are solitary house cows, people out spreading straw<br />
and manure on strips of cultivated land, and old ladies in headscarves cutting fodder beet. At<br />
Czchow near a hydro lake <strong>with</strong> forest down to the water‟s edge, we stop for the night in a car<br />
park over the road from a truck stop. This is one of the main roads south to the border <strong>with</strong><br />
Slovakia so there are lots of huge lorries going past. Men are fishing in the lake and little<br />
holiday houses run up the hillside.<br />
When we set off again next day we‟re surrounded by forest on all sides, some conifer<br />
plus deciduous turning yellow, orange and brown. We notice that there are many vans<br />
identical to ours, exactly the same model even, and it feels great to blend in so well. There<br />
are also fabulous tiny Fiat cars of 650cc <strong>with</strong> the motor in the back.<br />
In the middle of the countryside we suddenly come across cars parked on the roadside<br />
and people getting out and walking into a farmyard. It looks interesting so we stop and<br />
follow them. It turns out to be the day when the poultry farm sells off its surplus hens and<br />
people come from far and wide to take home sacks of them, half bald and wriggling. It‟s a<br />
grim business and the people look quite hard. But it‟s a reprieve for the hens and we see lots<br />
of them running free everywhere in the countryside, healthy and happy.<br />
62
Liberated Hens<br />
It‟s a horticultural area <strong>with</strong> glasshouses, apple orchards <strong>with</strong> harvesting underway,<br />
and a huge juice factory <strong>with</strong> lorryloads of apples outside. This part of the world seems to<br />
live off apples and potatoes.<br />
The cemeteries are immaculate, the graves covered in artificial flowers, <strong>with</strong> perfect<br />
cypresses around the outside. Special shops sell plastic flowers and the candles in glass<br />
bottles that people place on the graves here. It‟s big business.<br />
We arrive at Nowy Sacz in the Polish Carpathians, a market town since the Middle<br />
Ages, and pick up brochures from the visitors‟ centre where a young man answers all our<br />
questions in perfect English. We spend a wonderful couple of hours at the Ethnographic<br />
Museum where they have reassembled a range of typical old buildings and set them up as a<br />
museum, just like the National History Museum at St Fagans near Cardiff.<br />
63
Ethnographic Museum, Nowy Sacz<br />
It‟s a beautiful tree clad site <strong>with</strong> enthusiastic guides to explain each building. There<br />
are old barns, houses where the people lived in one end and the animals in the other, an old<br />
wooden church <strong>with</strong> a beautiful painted interior, a 17 th century manor house, old beehives, a<br />
windmill, wonderful iron and enamel cooking pots, an ingenious machine to grind grain, a<br />
loom, and the huge tiled heating and cooking stoves that we will see in Romania as well.<br />
The key features of the wooden architecture in this part of Poland are everywhere:<br />
wide wooden floorboards, elegant carved verandahs and overhangs on the exteriors, log cabin<br />
construction, roofs of wooden shingles, and wooden onion domed churches. It‟s very<br />
exciting to see such beautiful buildings in unpainted wood.<br />
That night we go out for a meal to the Prowincjonalna Cafe, for beer and bigos, which<br />
is a delicious stew <strong>with</strong> sauerkraut. The cafe is <strong>full</strong> of beautiful young people. Polish people<br />
are very slim, and women of all ages are elegantly dressed.<br />
The next day is gloriously sunny and we spend most of the afternoon beside the river<br />
where the locals are hanging out as well. We cook fish fingers and have them on bread rolls<br />
<strong>with</strong> mayonnaise for lunch, and boil up for tea and to wash my hair. We‟re too miserly even<br />
to go to the pool now! We spread everything out in the sun, airing the bedding, then get out<br />
the maps and work out where to go next. A couple in their fifties stop for a chat. He has no<br />
English but she has a few words plus fluent Italian and Russian, and a smidgen of French. I<br />
drag out the Italian dictionary and we talk for ages. They have a son who is an engineer in<br />
London, and her sister is a professor of English. As they are leaving a huge flock of crows<br />
starts gathering.<br />
64
We drive back to our car park and John cooks a green curry. A carriage <strong>with</strong> two<br />
chestnut horses goes past then a bride and groom pose in front of the old synagogue, now a<br />
museum.<br />
Our favourite guide book “On the Loose in Eastern Europe 1993” by Berkeley<br />
students, has a quote from a dissident who left Poland in 1981which describes how Poles<br />
have learnt to live together in order to cope <strong>with</strong> external threats. A Polish saying sums it up<br />
“Death brings brotherhood”.<br />
These are very turbulent economic times and we‟re already feeling the drop in the<br />
value of the pound versus the Euro, but we‟re also impressed to hear from New Zealand that<br />
the government has guaranteed all bank deposits.<br />
I‟m reading Kapka Kassabova‟s “Street Without a Name” which is a fascinating<br />
account of growing up in Bulgaria under Communism, then revisiting the country much later<br />
as an adult. I think it probably gives a typical picture of the bleakness and deprivation of<br />
urban life in Eastern Europe in the 1970s and 1980s. I have this in the back of my mind as<br />
we devour Poland in 2008, four years after it joined the EU, where tradition and Catholicism<br />
appear to co-exist <strong>with</strong> burgeoning Capitalism, a strong work ethic, and a sense of optimism.<br />
Next morning we walk around town and discover that the Catholic churches are<br />
overflowing, <strong>with</strong> a large part of the congregation outside and participating via loudspeakers,<br />
and people even dropping to their knees in the street. The worshippers are a complete cross<br />
section of the community. Poland is a homogeneous society <strong>with</strong> virtually everyone white<br />
and Catholic, Catholicism providing a powerful solace and binding agent.<br />
As we head south next day through Stary Sacz, the landscape becomes ever more<br />
rural. Small horses are hard at work pulling carts on the road and ploughs in the fields. This<br />
is peasant agriculture where the land is cultivated in strips about seventy feet wide and a<br />
hundred and fifty long. It‟s a patchwork of strips, <strong>with</strong> the earth turned this way and that,<br />
<strong>with</strong> different crops, and the worked soil at various stages of cultivation.<br />
65
Rural Poland<br />
There are no fences for miles, not even around people‟s houses. In the Poprad Valley<br />
autumn <strong>colour</strong>s blaze from the avenues and forested hillsides, beech and maples the most<br />
brilliant mix of orange, yellow, brown and red, <strong>with</strong> scattered conifers in shades of green.<br />
Rural Poland<br />
66
Polish Builders<br />
We stop in Andrzejowka to look at the wooden Church of St Mary from 1860. Each<br />
of the three separate parts is topped <strong>with</strong> an onion dome, and wooden shingles clad the walls<br />
and top the immaculate fence. Two women are plucking geese in front of a house on the path<br />
leading to the church.<br />
We drive through Muszyna <strong>with</strong> its mineral water factories, then Krynica an old spa<br />
town where people come to drink the unsavoury looking water. We see people walking<br />
around the town <strong>with</strong> special mugs <strong>with</strong> long spouts, knocking it back like their lives depend<br />
on it. We‟re not tempted, but decide to spend a couple of nights in Krynicka <strong>with</strong> its glorious<br />
old wooden buildings, described by the Rough Guide as “redolent of fin de siècle central<br />
Europe”. We park on the promenade beside the river and join the strolling Polish tourists<br />
who are all our age. The buildings here are works of art, made of wood and up to four<br />
storeys high, often brightly painted and <strong>with</strong> verandahs, gables, painted decorations and<br />
onion domes.<br />
Krynica<br />
Another popular art form is the large rough-hewn wooden sculptures made from tree<br />
trunks. They are everywhere, often outside a front gate or shop. Most are of people,<br />
beautiful and elegant. Wood rules in this part of the world.<br />
67
Folk Art, Krynica<br />
We hear about Nikifor, a Lemko (a small ethnic group from the Polish Carpathian<br />
mountains) artist who painted in a primitive style: local buildings and landscapes as well as<br />
fantasy scenes. We visit the museum devoted to his life and work, though not much of his<br />
work survives as he used very cheap materials and tended to give pictures away to people on<br />
the street. The pictures are in water <strong>colour</strong> and <strong>colour</strong>ed pencil, simple and beautiful. He<br />
was hardly able to speak, had an intellectual impairment, and he was penniless, yet in spite of<br />
all this Nikifor had a strong sense of his own importance as an artist.<br />
I go to a posh hotel <strong>with</strong> a swimming pool for a shower then we take a trip on the<br />
funicular train to the top of a two and a half thousand foot mountain. It travels through<br />
gorgeous golden brown beech forest, and at the top we have a beer in the bar and enjoy<br />
watching the local over-sixties having fun dancing to folk music. The menu is fascinating:<br />
wild boar chops and steak, stewed elk in vodka, roast pheasant, and deer. There are several<br />
kinds of the dumplings called pierogi which are like ravioli, and I take one of the menus for<br />
future reference as it has translations. We walk back down to the town through the wonderful<br />
beech forest which has subtle variations of gold and brown.<br />
We exit Krynica past a ski field, old wooden houses and new log cabins. Then we‟re<br />
into steep forest <strong>with</strong> massive road works where the hillside is being stabilised. At Berest we<br />
visit a church <strong>with</strong> dark brown wooden shingle walls and three silver onion domes. There‟s a<br />
black squirrel eating in a tree, a jay digging in the soil, a horse and cart, cows, ploughed land,<br />
and low hills covered <strong>with</strong> yellow, gold, brown and orange deciduous trees mixed <strong>with</strong><br />
conifers. It‟s all smoky and hazy like Tuscany. The farms have old barns, hens, wells,<br />
beautiful orchards, grapes, and berries. Then at Kammiana which is isolated and rough,<br />
68
Muscovy ducks are sitting on a muck heap, there‟s a perfect little log cabin, and a beekeeping<br />
centre <strong>with</strong> displays of beautiful old painted beehives, one a wooden church. These rural<br />
scenes appear idyllic when seen from the road at this time of year, but it must be a hard life.<br />
Church of St Kosma and Damian, Berest<br />
I discover that I‟ve packed “Wild Animals of Britain and Europe” and I read that all<br />
the squirrels here are called red squirrels even though the fur of the ones living in some parts<br />
of Europe is black. They live off pine nuts which they extract by chewing off the outside of<br />
the pine cone. They need two hundred seeds a day, and they don‟t hibernate.<br />
Wood is the material of choice here for sculptures, crucifixes, tepee like structures<br />
where hay is dried, and to prop up verandahs. We‟re in our element in this landscape,<br />
gasping over each farmer <strong>with</strong> a horse drawn plough or old lady in a headscarf <strong>with</strong> a cow.<br />
When we stop to make coffee at a picnic area <strong>with</strong> a tiny cafe John goes in <strong>with</strong> the<br />
phras<strong>ebook</strong> and emerges <strong>with</strong> delicious fresh bread rolls. The sun comes out.<br />
69
Polish Haystacks<br />
Everywhere we see big new houses of brick and plaster, in every stage of<br />
construction, and many abandoned, half built. There are builders everywhere so the Polish<br />
builders can‟t all be in Britain. The men here seem to work very long days. Many of the new<br />
houses are empty or <strong>with</strong> only the bottom two floors occupied, leaving the top storey open to<br />
the weather. We ask people about this building boom and they don‟t seem to understand our<br />
questions, though we do work out that many of the houses are for people who live in the<br />
cities or overseas.<br />
We take a back road south west following the Dunajec River, <strong>with</strong> the hills in blue<br />
grey layers. We see an egret on the river bank and an old woman gathering watercress. The<br />
older women work very hard, always out <strong>with</strong> the cow or the fodder beet, or tending the<br />
garden.<br />
70
Autumn, Dunajec River<br />
We overtake a cart loaded <strong>with</strong> sacks of apples, <strong>with</strong> a disgruntled looking woman<br />
sitting on the top. It seems like paradise as we stop to take <strong>photos</strong> of the rust/primrose/russet<br />
hillsides, some <strong>with</strong> patches of perfect peaked conifers. We boil up for lunch, then stop at a<br />
sawmill and walk through a shower of yellow maple leaves up a side road to Grywald, to see<br />
a 15 th century church.<br />
Church of St Martin, Grywald<br />
71
Further on in a dark gully we see Gypsy houses. Two children are walking along the<br />
road towards us and when John toots the horn and waves they wave back like crazy.<br />
At Lake Czorsztynskie, a hydro lake, we walk around inside a ruined 15 th century<br />
castle and get fantastic views along the lake. It was a customs point for trade <strong>with</strong> Hungary<br />
which used to be just over the river, in what is now Slovakia. Back on the road we end up in<br />
a long queue of traffic at a standstill behind a tiny horse and cart. Then we see shepherds in<br />
traditional dress rounding up a flock of sheep. A man is spreading seed by hand while his<br />
horse waits. The big wooden houses have barns and farmyards attached. There have been no<br />
birds of prey for days, just crows.<br />
Then we‟re in Nowy Targ (new market) and John sits up the front listening to the<br />
Polish radio while I make slow cooked sausages <strong>with</strong> leeks in apple gravy, remembering the<br />
Waitrose recipe I used in Surrey.<br />
Next morning we‟re up early for the famous market which has taken place weekly<br />
since 1487. Markets have a magnetic pull for us, and this one is described in the guide book<br />
as farmers selling their wares, <strong>with</strong> a recent influx of Russians. It‟s vast and all outdoors <strong>with</strong><br />
people dotted everywhere selling little sheep‟s milk cheeses. Long queues of women wait at<br />
the butchers‟ vans. The wares consist of an abundance of leather and fur coats, clothes,<br />
baskets, furniture, air rifles, horse shoes, knives, iron work, tools, bearings, buckets, harness,<br />
fruit and vegetables: the necessities of a tough rural way of life.<br />
Best of all are the animals – a dozen horses, a few litters of weaner pigs which send<br />
John into raptures, cows, and puppies. Farmers stand around talking, probably discussing the<br />
weather and the prices. There are busloads of Slovakians, who‟ve travelled the thirty or so<br />
miles across the border, buying up large.<br />
We head off towards Debno, past a man cutting grass <strong>with</strong> a scythe while a woman<br />
rakes it into piles <strong>with</strong> a wooden pronged rake. The St Michael Archangel Church at Debno<br />
is the high point of our church viewing in Poland. Built in the 15 th century out of larch, <strong>with</strong><br />
no nails, it has a steep grey shingle roof, a witch‟s hat steeple, brown shingle sides, and an<br />
immaculate log fence topped <strong>with</strong> a shingle roof. Trees tower above it. Inside we‟re quite<br />
overwhelmed by the superb painted wooden interior and carvings. Virtually every surface is<br />
painted in great detail, and there is an intense sense of intimacy and meaning. The ceiling is<br />
painted in a series of long strips each a foot wide, each in a different pattern, reminiscent of a<br />
Maori meeting house. The beautiful <strong>colour</strong>s of the paint have lasted for five hundred years.<br />
There‟s a painted wooden crucifix carved in 1380 <strong>with</strong> the cross taken from a tree <strong>with</strong> two<br />
branches conveniently pointing upwards. A very kind and gentle young man shows us<br />
around.<br />
72
St Michael Archangel Church<br />
Feeling quite overcome <strong>with</strong> the intense beauty of this church, we press on towards<br />
Lopuszna where we see a glorious 17 th century manor house all decked out <strong>with</strong> household<br />
items and clothing, and a little cottage. On a back road in search of little villages we pass an<br />
old lady in a mauve dress bent double, digging <strong>with</strong> a mattock. Slovakian cars loaded to the<br />
gunnels <strong>with</strong> market booty overtake us.<br />
For the last few days we‟ve been seeing rhus plants <strong>with</strong> their bright red leaves<br />
everywhere, a beautiful addition to the autumn <strong>colour</strong> scheme.<br />
73
Strip Farming<br />
A flock of geese is enclosed by a low wooden fence, in a village of old log houses<br />
<strong>with</strong> long lean tos at the back attached to huge wooden barns. As usual there are many<br />
unfinished three storey brick houses. It‟s raining a bit but we get our first glimpse of the<br />
Tatra Mountains, high and snowy. John has just read that serfdom ended here in 1931! That<br />
explains the strip farming. We‟re on a back road passing through tiny villages like Lapse<br />
Wyzne and Trybsz, where the houses and adjoining farm buildings are quaintly dilapidated.<br />
We drive down an avenue of glorious yellow poplars, and as always there are little shrines<br />
beside the road.<br />
74
Rural House<br />
At last we arrive in Zakopane, Poland‟s premier mountain resort. It‟s inundated <strong>with</strong><br />
hikers in summer, skiers in winter, and <strong>full</strong> of Polish high school pupils now. So many of<br />
them are out on school trips that we wonder when they ever go to school! We find a laundry<br />
which will do two loads of washing for fifty zloty (twelve quid) and we can pick it up the<br />
next day. We park on the outskirts of town near the ski jump, exhausted after such a<br />
stimulating time.<br />
Next day we have our worst public pool experience of the whole trip. It‟s at the local<br />
state of the art pool Aqualand. We pay the exorbitant price of four pounds each to get in,<br />
discover that the control freakish staff outnumber the swimmers, (surprise, surprise!), and<br />
realise that the wristband we are issued <strong>with</strong> has a chip in it to record the length of your stay.<br />
If you stay for more than an hour you have to pay for each extra minute before you can leave!<br />
I bet it was never like this under Communism. We‟re only there for a shower and I get told<br />
off right at the start for not using a locker. We have a quick shower and scarper.<br />
Our car park is in one of the few free parking areas in town opposite the mountain<br />
rescue headquarters. We see lots of people coming and going from there and builders toiling<br />
long hours reroofing a house next door.<br />
Zakopane is at 3200 feet. To the south are jagged, sheer mountains which remind us<br />
of the Remarkables back home. On our first morning they have a dusting of fresh snow on<br />
top, and by the third morning it‟s zero degrees inside the van and there‟s ice on the metal on<br />
the ceiling. We take the funicular to the top of Gubalowka Hill on a perfect day for superb<br />
views all around. Layers of blue mountains are framed by spiky conifers in the foreground.<br />
75
The highlights of Zakopane are the wooden buildings, and carved wooden headstones<br />
in the old cemetery at St Clements Church. The cemetery has a stone fence protected by a<br />
shingle roof all the way round, trees, plants and bunches of flowers. Each headstone is<br />
different, and most are carved in wood. Many consist of a hollow tree trunk <strong>with</strong> a peaked<br />
roof, and inside a carved crucifix, or a sculpture of Jesus in a reflective pose <strong>with</strong> his chin<br />
resting on the palm of one hand, and his elbow on his knee. This contemplative Christ is<br />
traditional in the Tatras. He has the troubles of the world on his shoulders.<br />
Contemplative Christ<br />
We visit Willa Koliba, the first house designed by Stanislaw Witkiewicz, father of the<br />
Zakopane style, the very distinctive wooden architecture of the area. He seems to have been<br />
a Polish William Morris. It‟s now the Museum of the Zakopane Style, complete <strong>with</strong> carved<br />
wooden beams, doors and lintels, and displays of the intricately carved furniture he created.<br />
The house is two storeyed and beauti<strong>full</strong>y proportioned, built of larch in 1894.<br />
76
Willa Koliba<br />
Willa Koliba<br />
Then we walk along Koscieliska Street which has fine examples of the characteristic<br />
gorgeous wooden houses, many built of logs <strong>with</strong> wooden roofs. After that we make our way<br />
back to our parking spot but we‟re stopped by the police as the roads are closed for a big<br />
parade to celebrate Zakopane‟s seventy five years as a city. Most people in the parade are<br />
wearing the local costume of white woollen trousers and black hats for men, and floral<br />
77
dresses for women. Horses are pulling everything from old fire engines to carriages. There‟s<br />
a large contingent behind the Solidarity banner. Later, back in our park, we see a display of<br />
fireworks.<br />
House, Zakopane<br />
Detail on House<br />
78
We can‟t get enough of the houses so next day we head to Chocholow, a little village<br />
famous for some of the finest. To my great excitement we see some new birds, a flock of<br />
fieldfares in an apple tree. It‟s Sunday morning and the locals are all walking to church,<br />
many in traditional dress. We visit the little museum which is set up like a typical highlander<br />
house of old. As always the domestic tools of the past are fascinating: wooden churns, a<br />
wooden sauerkraut holder the <strong>size</strong> of a washing machine, a loom, and a large wooden bowl<br />
and spoon which the whole family would have eaten from. The woman looking after the<br />
museum tells us that some of the family would have slept on the floor in the straw, and that<br />
thirty degree frosts and waist deep snow are common. The horses, pigs, cows and sheep<br />
would all sleep under the same roof as the family.<br />
Modern Wooden House<br />
79
Timber Stack<br />
In the tiny village shop which becomes packed after church, I buy some frozen<br />
pierogi and hang them up in the van to thaw. We drive through an area <strong>with</strong> beautiful forest<br />
and big piles of logs, often numbered, sitting there ageing in preparation for a new house.<br />
John is quite beside himself <strong>with</strong> the wonderful houses and piles of timber and we have to<br />
stop and take lots of <strong>photos</strong>. We love the shepherds‟ huts, tiny and basic <strong>with</strong> outdoor clothes<br />
hanging from a peg, smoke coming from the chimney, and a dog tied up outside.<br />
80
Shepherd’s Hut<br />
Eventually after driving through Wadowice the birth place of Pope John Paul II, we<br />
arrive at a fishing lake at Graboszyce and decide to spend the night there. There are a few<br />
fishermen, the fish are jumping, and the pierogi are delicious.<br />
In the morning greylag geese and cormorants fly past and a grey heron lands nearby.<br />
We drive through rolling country of big ploughed fields and down an avenue of oaks in<br />
fabulous autumn shades. Near Stary Monowskie we stop at a series of lakes which are for<br />
carp fishing. I go for a walk and see swans, cormorants, a blue tit, some deer prints and<br />
shotgun cartridges. It‟s beautiful and misty. We‟re on our way to Oswiecim, which Hitler<br />
renamed Auschwitz.<br />
When we get there we park in a large truck stop which by the morning has twenty<br />
four lorries lined up. One has a blowup doll in the passenger‟s seat.<br />
A Kestrel Over Birkenau<br />
We approach Auschwitz <strong>with</strong> trepidation. We‟ve heard that birds don‟t sing there,<br />
but that‟s not true. Our large group of English speaking tourists is guided by an articulate and<br />
intelligent young man who care<strong>full</strong>y gives us the Polish perspective. For example when the<br />
Nazis decided to build the camp, they turned the locals out of their houses and cleared the<br />
countryside for a wide radius. Then they tore apart the houses in the area to use as building<br />
materials to construct the camp. After the war, when the locals returned, they took apart<br />
many of the prison camp buildings to rebuild their houses. Poland lost twenty five per cent of<br />
its population during WW2. I keep reminding myself of this when I look around at Polish<br />
people.<br />
Large numbers of young Poles are visiting and our guide estimates that the proportion<br />
of visitors is about sixty per cent young to forty per cent older people. Some of the children<br />
are as young as ten and I struggle to understand what is achieved by bringing them here. I<br />
don‟t have any faith in the idea that they will somehow be inoculated against racism, anti<br />
Semitism, fascism or participation in mass murder by being exposed to this place. The<br />
causes are far too complex, and human beings are far too vulnerable to changes in their<br />
environment for this to be achieved easily. But perhaps they are brought here to understand<br />
their own history.<br />
A group of Israeli teenagers gives us more things to ponder. They appear to be very<br />
nationalistic, waving large Israeli flags and wearing hoodies decorated <strong>with</strong> the Star of David.<br />
It makes us feel uncomfortable in this sombre place.<br />
Apart from a crushing feeling of desolation at being there, the things that really hit<br />
home for me are connected <strong>with</strong> the individuals who died. In one of the washrooms there are<br />
paintings by prisoners on a wall, memories of happy times: cats, two little children, and men<br />
81
on horses in a river. Many people sent to the camps believed that they were about to begin a<br />
new life, and brought their cooking utensils <strong>with</strong> them. There‟s a huge room filled <strong>with</strong> old<br />
worn enamel cooking pots. There‟s also a room <strong>full</strong> of human hair which was made into<br />
fabric, and many hand knitted children‟s jumpers.<br />
In a book of short stories by Tadeusz Borowski, a non Jewish Polish survivor of<br />
Auschwitz, “This Way for the Gas Ladies and Gentlemen”, the main characters are prisoners<br />
who work on the railway ramp moving the newly arrived people to the gas chamber, and<br />
running a black market in their less valuable property. The portrayal of dehumanisation and<br />
betrayal at all levels is enlightening. Tadeusz Borowski , a brilliant and very influential<br />
writer, committed suicide aged twenty nine in 1951, deeply disillusioned <strong>with</strong> Communism.<br />
The visits are an industry and the complex is massive, <strong>with</strong> constant busloads of<br />
people and cars from the Netherlands, Italy, Slovakia and Germany.<br />
We‟re wiped out by it all and when we get back to the van we‟re gutted to discover<br />
that the lights have been left on and the battery is flat. John approaches a couple of taxi<br />
drivers and after some discussion one of them offers to drive back into town to pick up<br />
jumper leads and start the van for twenty zloty which is less than five pounds. While he‟s<br />
gone John has a few words <strong>with</strong> another taxi driver. When he hears that we‟re from New<br />
Zealand he just says “Poland fifty years of Communism, New Zealand no Communism”, like,<br />
what more is there to say? It takes a few turns to get the van going and we grate<strong>full</strong>y pay<br />
thirty zloty.<br />
We need to drive for an hour or so <strong>with</strong>out stopping to charge the battery so we head<br />
to a camping ground on the outskirts of Krakow, Camping Smok. Fortunately we‟ve already<br />
phoned them to ask if they have a laundry, first texting Zoe in Sydney to ask her to find their<br />
number on the internet, and she texts a friend who does it on his laptop on the way home<br />
from work on the ferry. The joys of travelling in 2008!<br />
The camp is nearly empty. We do the washing and dry it outside then spend the rest<br />
of the day sorting out the back of the van. I cook dinner in a pleasant outdoor kitchen and<br />
talk to a Dutch couple in a camper who are travelling in the same style as us. There‟s also a<br />
charming couple from Norfolk in their thirties <strong>with</strong> a lurcher and a mongrel, in a large<br />
camper, who‟ve been away for the same length of time as us. They‟ve been to Norway,<br />
Sweden, Denmark, Finland, Latvia and Estonia, and have seen white tailed eagles and a<br />
golden eagle, so we have a lot to talk about. The women in both couples have been to<br />
Romania and tell us it‟s fabulous. We‟ve been reading the Rough Guide and getting very<br />
inspired about Romania. Even the language looks great for understanding signs, because the<br />
vocabulary is very similar to Latin.<br />
82
Chez Tesco<br />
After two nights at Camping Smok we drive into Krakow and find a twenty four hour<br />
Tesco supermarket <strong>with</strong> a mall attached. We go grocery shopping then decide to spend the<br />
night in the car park as there appears to be no limit to how long you can stay. Next day we<br />
catch the tram into the centre of the city and discover that young people give up their seats to<br />
older people here.<br />
Chez Tesco<br />
Krakow is the only major city in Poland that wasn‟t damaged in WW2. The vast<br />
main square is paved <strong>with</strong> flagstones and surrounded by glorious ancient buildings. The huge<br />
14 th century cloth hall which forms the centrepiece now houses a market for tourists. It‟s all<br />
very grand, but <strong>with</strong> the feel of a working city getting on its feet, rather than a museum for<br />
tourists. Classy horses pulling carriages come barrelling along and we have to jump out of<br />
the way to avoid being run down. There‟s a pair of Appaloosas, a couple of half draughts,<br />
some similar to Welsh cobs, and a few large grand white carriages. English papers and<br />
magazines are available at a bookshop in the square and we fall upon them greedily. The<br />
bookshops have books by a celebrity chef who‟s a nun! We discover a market selling fruit,<br />
vegetables, flowers and strange fungi from the forest, and a few older women on the street<br />
selling their own eggs, garlic and walnuts, <strong>with</strong> one elderly lady holding up a dozen<br />
enormous bras. We buy two large synthetic blankets for the cold nights to come, and warm<br />
up <strong>with</strong> beetroot soup and frytki (chips).<br />
83
Bras for Sale<br />
On the Sunday we drive around looking for a pool and find a brilliant cheap one on<br />
the western side of the city. We also find a fabulous flea market <strong>with</strong> dolls, military and<br />
Russian gear, clothes, tools, air rifles, horse collars, silverware, books, all sorts of antiques,<br />
coins and medals. I find a fabulous old train driver‟s hat which will be great for the dress ups<br />
back home.<br />
Flea Market<br />
84
Many of the buildings have crumbling facades but there is beautiful detail in the<br />
decorations. Large hoardings advertise a new TV programme: a Union Jack is divided into<br />
sections containing the faces of young actors, possibly a drama series about young Poles in<br />
Britain. We also see more of the army recruitment billboards.<br />
We‟ve heard of Nowa Huta, a massive steelworks and suburb on the eastern outskirts<br />
of the city, and drive out there to reconnoitre. It was built in the 1950s as a model socialist<br />
industrial town, a gift from the Soviet Union, <strong>with</strong> the steelworks originally named after<br />
Lenin. It‟s now owned by Arcelor Mittal the largest steel company in the world. Apparently<br />
the original intention was to counteract the conservative Catholic belief systems of the people<br />
of Krakow <strong>with</strong> this shining example of a harmoniously functioning utopia for workers.<br />
The population is currently two hundred thousand and <strong>with</strong> the industrial complex of<br />
steelworks, cigarette factory, and power station, plus apartment blocks, it covers a vast area.<br />
We drive around some of it and John takes lots of <strong>photos</strong> in spite of the “NO PHOTOS” sign<br />
on the fence of an abandoned mill. The pollution problem <strong>with</strong> acid rain and smoke was<br />
huge until the 1990s when it was partly cleaned up. The trees are now quite large but their<br />
bark is black.<br />
We‟re fascinated by the lines of uniform apartment buildings stretching into the<br />
distance. The town was designed to provide everything people needed, and we try to imagine<br />
what it would have been like to live here in the decades after the 1950s when the community<br />
was developing. We decide to do some research before we come back for more exploring,<br />
and head back to Tesco, our home away from home, choosing a different spot to park for the<br />
night to avoid looking too permanent.<br />
Next day it‟s a beautiful hot Sunday and we catch the tram into town to promenade<br />
<strong>with</strong> the locals by the river and around Wawel Castle, followed by a delicious dinner at cheap<br />
and cheerful Gospoda Koko restaurant. I have vegetable soup, and mushroom and cabbage<br />
pierogi, and John has chicken soup and roast pork. In the square a band of three<br />
accordionists plays classical organ music and we feel like real tourists listening to them after<br />
the luxury of a meal out.<br />
I‟d broken a filling a few days earlier and phoned my dentist back in New Zealand for<br />
advice. He reassured me that Eastern European dentists are excellent and suggested a high<br />
quality temporary filling would last several months. Luckily I‟ve managed to find an English<br />
speaking dentist who can see me. We duly turn up for the appointment and after sitting in the<br />
waiting room for a while we‟re amazed when they tell us that the clocks have been put back<br />
so we‟re an hour early. We retreat out onto the street and watch the spectacle of new tram<br />
tracks being laid <strong>with</strong> countless men hard at work. Polish men seem to be either builders or<br />
road workers.<br />
85
The dentist specialises in dental tourism and also rents out apartments. He speaks<br />
good English (“We will make anaesthesia”) and fixes my tooth effortlessly, for which I am<br />
very grateful. This eventuality wasn‟t in our plans and it doesn‟t seem worth claiming on our<br />
travel insurance. It‟s a change of mindset to just take care of it ourselves like this, quite a<br />
confidence boost!<br />
The receptionist tells us that Poland has only 4 per cent unemployment, and we read<br />
in the paper that 400,000 Poles are expected to return from the UK following the economic<br />
downturn, since they can now make reasonable money back home. We‟re feasting on the<br />
English papers and read that Google reports fewer searches for city breaks and Spanish<br />
property, <strong>with</strong> searches for apple crumble recipes up forty per cent on a year ago! Hard times<br />
in Britain.<br />
We trek back to the komputery in the old Jewish section Kazmierz and they tell us<br />
that the laptop will be at least another two weeks. It‟s pretty hard to take and we have to<br />
calm down <strong>with</strong> a beer outside in the sun. We‟ll be forced to spend longer in Poland than<br />
we‟d planned but we can now disappear into the countryside again, a wonderful prospect<br />
<strong>with</strong> the hot sunny autumn weather we‟ve been having. With no fixed itinerary and no<br />
bookings whatsoever, a couple of extra weeks here and there won‟t cause a problem. We just<br />
need to keep moving south ahead of the winter.<br />
Back in the van and after my latest creation, Tesco Salad (rotisserie chicken, salad<br />
greens, grapes, red pepper, red onion, grated carrot and mayonnaise), we‟re in bed reading by<br />
six o‟clock! It‟s a worry but it‟s completely dark by five these days. John looks up the atlas<br />
and discovers that we‟re on the same latitude as Cornwall.<br />
I‟m keen to cast a special vote in the New Zealand election and I manage to download<br />
a voting form in an internet cafe, complete it, and post it to our embassy in Warsaw. For<br />
some reason it feels very exciting!<br />
Next day we visit the Wieliczka Salt Mine which is seven hundred years old and a<br />
thousand metres deep, a warm and salty place. Most of Poland‟s salt is still derived from<br />
salty water extracted from here. Our guide is the third generation of his family to work here,<br />
<strong>with</strong> his father and grandfather both miners, for forty and forty five years respectively. He<br />
tells us that salt mining is very safe <strong>with</strong> no cave ins. The last people to be killed there died<br />
in an explosion caused by their cigarettes. He says that coal miners consider salt miners to be<br />
wimps. Polish miners being very religious, there are thirty six chapels <strong>with</strong>in the mine and<br />
many religious carvings. The piece de resistance is the fifty four metre long St Kinga chapel<br />
which has a salt relief of the Last Supper five inches deep.<br />
86
The Last Supper Carved in Salt<br />
Horses worked in the mine until the 1960s, living down there for a year at a time. In<br />
the olden days they were raised and lowered on rope slings, along <strong>with</strong> the miners. In the<br />
1970s there were seventeen hundred workers. The underground museum is fascinating <strong>with</strong><br />
old plans, maps, books, accounts, and a rope from 1495. After all that excitement we spend<br />
the night in a different Tesco car park on the other side of town but it isn‟t half as good, not<br />
being twenty four hour. In our regular one we see accidents and dramas every day.<br />
We need to do the washing again so we catch the tram into town <strong>with</strong> our bags of<br />
laundry and find a great laundrette <strong>with</strong> a computer, board games, a couch, table, chairs and<br />
coffee. I notice three young Spanish guys folding their clean laundry to perfection. Any<br />
mother would be proud of them!<br />
We do some searching on the internet, trying to find a supplier for the chemical we<br />
use in the van‟s toilet because it‟s about to run out. We‟ve had no luck <strong>with</strong> any of the<br />
outdoor shops and it can be quite a hard thing to mime if no-one speaks English. We get a<br />
few leads off the Yellow Pages but we‟re not hopeful.<br />
Back at Tesco after a nightmarish drive through heavy traffic, detours and wrong<br />
turnings down no exit streets, I go shopping for dinner: fish to poach, broccoli, roast potatoes<br />
from the deli, and a jar of beetroot.<br />
Next day we return to Nowa Huta to do some exploring and visit the central square,<br />
originally named after Stalin, then post 1990, renamed Ronald Reagan Central Square! It‟s a<br />
87
strange mix of architectural styles, <strong>with</strong> solid four storeyed apartment blocks above, and at<br />
street level stylish arcades apparently modelled on a sixteenth century market square.<br />
Ronald Reagan Square<br />
One of the bizarre things we learn about Nowa Huta from the brochure is that it was<br />
constructed to <strong>with</strong>stand an attack by NATO forces, <strong>with</strong> a labyrinth of passageways,<br />
entrances to buildings concealed behind curved walls, and special security devices. This<br />
made it very difficult for the police when there were many anti-government demonstrations<br />
here during the period of martial law in the 1980s. Far from being the socialist paradise of<br />
the communist leaders‟ dreams, Nowa Huta was a hotbed of dissent, starting <strong>with</strong> a long<br />
campaign by the people for the right to build churches, and ending in the eighties as an<br />
important Solidarity stronghold.<br />
Back home over a year later I look up Nowa Huta on Wikipedia and discover a<br />
popular song <strong>with</strong> its own video clip of the newly built town, <strong>with</strong> pedestrians, old cars, and<br />
fantastic aerial shots which give an idea of the scale and order of the place.<br />
The apartment blocks are from several different eras and styles, the earliest ones on a<br />
far more human scale <strong>with</strong> mature trees. Small shops, supermarkets, chemist shops, medical<br />
centres and schools are dotted around everywhere. It‟s a grim and windy day and everyone is<br />
walking. The Poles seem to walk everywhere, even little children. The footpaths are in very<br />
poor repair <strong>with</strong> bare dirt and large holes and in the rain it would be a nightmare. The roads<br />
have ruts as deep as eight inches in the asphalt and holes in the cobbles. People say you need<br />
a neck brace to drive in Poland, but this is nothing compared <strong>with</strong> what Romania has in store<br />
for us.<br />
88
Nowa Huta<br />
The Ark of the Lord, Mother of God, Queen of Poland Church was consecrated in<br />
1977, twenty years after a cross was placed on the spot in preparation for the building of the<br />
first church in Nowa Huta. Years of struggle and protest followed by ten years of<br />
construction culminated in the building of this striking church, designed by a Polish architect<br />
in the shape of Noah‟s Ark landing on Mount Ararat. Its lines are beauti<strong>full</strong>y curvaceous and<br />
the interior very unusual <strong>with</strong> eyecatching works by Polish sculptors. We find it a very<br />
powerful place, symbolic of people‟s commitment and faith in the face of oppression. It has<br />
a close association <strong>with</strong> Pope John Paul II, as he staunchly supported its construction at each<br />
stage of his ascendancy through the ranks of the Catholic Church. The square in front was<br />
the venue for many confrontations between demonstrators and the military during the time of<br />
martial law in the early 1980s.<br />
89
Ark of the Lord Church<br />
Chinski Meets Polski<br />
On our drive back to Tesco, still working on the vexed question of where to get some<br />
toilet chemical, I have a brainwave. If we see a Polish camper van we could write down the<br />
phone number from the side of the camper then phone the company. Unbelievably ten<br />
minutes later we see a car go past <strong>with</strong> ABM Campers written on it. Back at the mall I visit<br />
the travel agent where there‟s a public internet computer and find their address online. But<br />
we can‟t find the street on any map so decide to ask a taxi driver in the morning. John cooks<br />
a delicious dinner: three different types of pierogi dumplings, Tesco roast potatoes,<br />
mushrooms cooked in a Chinese sauce, broccoli, and sauerkraut.<br />
Next morning John asks a taxi driver and a delivery driver where the street is and they<br />
point us in the general direction. But Google Maps comes to the rescue again and we write<br />
down the lengthy directions, turn right, turn left, and so on. We drive through a vast<br />
industrial zone <strong>with</strong> factories and small businesses spread over a wide area along a maze of<br />
rough roads <strong>with</strong> no signposts, and ask a guy sweeping the road who points the way. We are<br />
so relieved to find ABM Campers at last <strong>with</strong> ten beautiful new campers lined up outside,<br />
amazing since we‟ve hardly seen ten campers in the whole time we‟ve been in Poland. They<br />
have to summon the boss as he‟s the only one who speaks English and he sells us all the toilet<br />
chemical he has, enough to last us a few months. He‟s absolutely charming and warns us to<br />
watch out for heavy traffic at the weekend as its All Saints and a big holiday.<br />
We leave town and head east towards Tarnow along the same road that we drove on<br />
to leave Krakow three weeks ago. This time the beeches have finished their autumn display<br />
90
and the oaks are a glorious yellow. Tarnow is a gorgeous old town <strong>with</strong> a Medieval square<br />
and centre. Before WW2 the population was forty five per cent Jewish. All of the Jewish<br />
people in the town died during the war, mostly at Auschwitz and Birkenau. We walk down a<br />
street where three thousand were shot at the start of the war. It‟s very chastening and<br />
chilling.<br />
We park in a suburban car park surrounded by shops and apartment blocks and lie in<br />
bed reading while it rains. The following evening we emerge to take part in the All Saints<br />
festival, celebrated in Poland, as in many other Catholic countries, for centuries.<br />
For the previous few days there‟s been a frenzy of people buying candles, plastic<br />
flowers and huge potted chrysanthemums, and they‟re still on sale outside the cemetery.<br />
People have been placing lighted candles on the graves all day, to help the departed souls to<br />
find their way in the darkness. We walk around the cemetery <strong>with</strong> hundreds of people, up<br />
and down the rows of graves. On most there are up to twenty burning candles in glass<br />
containers five to twelve inches high, some of the glass red, green or yellow, and some plain.<br />
There are huge chrysanthemums of all <strong>colour</strong>s, and artificial flowers. Some of the graves<br />
have been decorated very artistically.<br />
People are standing silently or talking amongst themselves and there are lots of<br />
children involved. It‟s very beautiful <strong>with</strong> the glowing candles, old trees mostly bare of<br />
leaves, and a strong smell of candle wax. Outside is a large memorial inscribed <strong>with</strong> the<br />
names of concentration camps, <strong>with</strong> more candles and people standing in contemplation.<br />
After our stay in Krakow we‟re desperate for some time in the country, so next day<br />
we drive to a fishing lake and spend a blissful day lying in the sun reading, boiling the kettle,<br />
making toast over a fire, drinking tea and coffee, eating, and tidying up the van. Absolute<br />
bliss.<br />
Next day we park in a supermarket car park and have lovely pierogi for lunch in an<br />
old fashioned cafe. When we get back to the van we discover that you have to pay for the<br />
parking and we owe twenty one zloty (five pounds). The machine won‟t take my twenty<br />
zloty note. A man appears and goes to the office to change it into two tens. Still no joy from<br />
the machine. So he goes back inside again and gets a much used bent paper clip to retrieve a<br />
coin that is stuck in the machine. At last! But then it will only take one note and I have to<br />
put in two five zloty coins. Too much excitement. We drive to a quiet street and sleep for a<br />
couple of hours.<br />
We‟d called in at the Ke-Moro Gypsy Restaurant earlier and they told us there would<br />
be Gypsy music at eight, so we return at seven, our usual bedtime, and order the traditional<br />
dish, potato cakes <strong>with</strong> stew. Absolutely delicious. We‟re virtually the only guests. There‟s<br />
just a large table <strong>with</strong> the owners (a couple in their fifties), and two couples in their thirties<br />
91
who must be their family, an older man on his own, and a guy <strong>with</strong> a disability who is served<br />
<strong>with</strong> a meal as well.<br />
The decor is perfect, draped fabric, a little cartwheel, paintings of Gypsy scenes, horse<br />
collars, and on the tiny stage a double bass and other instruments, <strong>with</strong> guitars hanging on the<br />
wall. The women are beautiful and look Indian. The men are very distinctive looking <strong>with</strong><br />
heavy faces. Gypsies originate in India which they left in the 10 th and 11 th centuries, arriving<br />
in Europe in the early 13 th century. Adam Andrasz (who we discover next day at the museum<br />
is the leader of the local Gypsy community) goes on stage and plays an electronic keyboard<br />
and sings Gypsy songs. The others sing along and dance and we get up and dance as well.<br />
It‟s wonderful music and we feel like we‟re part of a very intimate party. They put on a<br />
special track and dance Gypsy style in couples but separate and it‟s fantastic. At the end of<br />
each song Mr Anrdasz puts on the applause track of loud clapping and everyone has a good<br />
laugh. It‟s like the keyboard is his new toy.<br />
We feel very welcome and they keep coming over to us to check that we have<br />
everything we need. The lone guy who isn‟t the <strong>full</strong> quid gets quite excited at times joining<br />
in the dancing, but gets a little over the top. The matriarch and the men gently but firmly get<br />
him to sit down and behave. It‟s an impressive display of tolerance.<br />
Cygan<br />
Next morning we visit the botanic gardens where the large trees are named, the usual<br />
deciduous ones plus a huge gingko <strong>with</strong> brilliant yellow leaves. We see two black squirrels<br />
gathering chestnuts and chasing each other and also rooks foraging in the deep autumn<br />
leaves. The park is open from seven in the morning till nine at night. That‟s four and a half<br />
hours of darkness. The Poles are not really flower gardeners. There are lots of trees around<br />
but no flower beds or landscaping anywhere especially at people‟s houses where they just<br />
plant the ex cemetery chrysanthemums in the backyard, if anything. Everywhere men are<br />
raking leaves into plastic bags then the leaves are collected <strong>with</strong> old tractors and trailers <strong>with</strong><br />
not a leaf blower to be seen. There are also lots of men digging by hand on road works <strong>with</strong><br />
no heavy machinery.<br />
We visit the Ethnographic Museum to see the Gypsy (Cygan) exhibition, the only one<br />
in Europe. The local museum director is a champion of the Gypsy cause. Each year in<br />
Tarnow they hold a memorial procession of Gypsy caravans and modern vehicles <strong>with</strong> people<br />
camping out along the way in memory of the Gypsies who were killed in the holocaust. In<br />
Poland they were reduced from fifty thousand to fifteen thousand, and in Europe the Gypsy<br />
population was halved by the holocaust. In the 1850s many were slaves in Europe.<br />
92
Old Photo of Gypsies at Tarnow Museum<br />
The exhibition consists of paintings, drawings, photographs, clothing, cooking pots, a<br />
tent, tools, horse gear, little magic charms (chicken bones wrapped in hair), maps,<br />
concentration camp records, and a dulcimer. Outside there are several wooden Gypsy<br />
caravans that are used in the annual trek. Many of the collection items are from Bulgaria and<br />
Romania <strong>with</strong> a few from Britain. Prejudice and discrimination towards Roma in Poland<br />
now is also discussed. It‟s very sad but impressive to see such a wonderful collection. We<br />
feel very tuned in to the old Gypsy way of life.<br />
93
Gypsy Caravan<br />
The countryside calls again and we spend the next day beside the Dunajec River<br />
reading and looking at maps and atlases, <strong>with</strong> John working out our route into Romania. A<br />
couple of fly fishermen in waders walk into the river and cast up and down. Seagulls are in a<br />
feeding frenzy diving into the river. There are lots of rooks as well. We drive back into<br />
town, park by the theatre, and John cooks dumplings, green curry, rice and Brussels sprouts.<br />
It‟s another very foggy night.<br />
Next morning we head north of Tarnow towards Zalipie and pass a few people sitting<br />
on the roadside on the outskirts of town selling what looks like milk in plastic soft drink<br />
bottles. We drive through flat country down avenues of bare beech trees past ploughed fields<br />
and unfinished houses. There‟s a big tractor <strong>with</strong> a massive plough, then fifty yards further<br />
along a man is standing sharpening a scythe.<br />
We follow a tiny sealed road only the width of one car through a field to a village.<br />
The silver birches are yellow. The villages have old houses <strong>with</strong> hens, Muscovy ducks, mud,<br />
old wells and barns. There are huge piles of sugar beet and factory farms of pigs and<br />
chickens indoors. We stop at a WW1 cemetery <strong>with</strong> over five hundred graves of Russian,<br />
Austrian and Hungarian soldiers, huge oak trees, and a hen and rooster pecking around. A<br />
pile of oak leaves is against the outside of the cemetery fence, then ten yards away a long<br />
mountain of mangolds, and behind that an old barn <strong>with</strong> a pile of manure next to a stack of<br />
firewood.<br />
We arrive in Zalipie a spread out little village famous for its painted houses. Over a<br />
hundred years ago, before they had chimneys, the women whitewashed the smoky walls of<br />
94
their houses <strong>with</strong> lime wash. This developed into decorating the inside and outside walls<br />
<strong>with</strong> <strong>colour</strong>ful folk art flowers, some of the painters became famous, and house painting<br />
competitions began. The competition is still held each year and about twenty houses in<br />
Zalipie are freshly painted for it. They are immaculate and beautiful.<br />
Painted House, Zalipie<br />
Best of all is the museum, formerly the house of the most famous painter who died in<br />
1974. Her granddaughter lives over the road and she shows us around the museum, <strong>with</strong> its<br />
painted floral patterns on the walls and ceilings, floral pottery, religious paintings, and best of<br />
all paper lace curtains made from heavy semi transparent paper cut on the folds to make<br />
flower patterns when unfolded, like paper doilies. They hang over the top third of the<br />
windows. Back on the road we see painted barns and letterboxes, a painted jetty and a<br />
painted well. Amongst the <strong>colour</strong> there‟s mud around the houses, no concrete paths,<br />
ferocious dogs, and flocks of geese. I wonder to myself if the women need those lovely<br />
painted flowers to cheer themselves up!<br />
We set off again past strawberry fields where men are weeding by hand. We‟re<br />
heading to Pilzno looking for the doll museum but we get lost on the rough back roads. We<br />
eventually find it and when I go into the town hall to ask for directions I encounter a lovely<br />
woman <strong>with</strong> no English. She takes me next door to the chemist, they tell her what I‟m<br />
looking for in Polish and she leads me across the square and points in the direction of the doll<br />
museum. I say thank you then go back to look for John, but she comes chasing after me<br />
pointing in the direction of the museum, then asks someone she knows who is sitting in a car<br />
to take me there. Oh dear! I can‟t explain anything to her. I‟m scared in case she sees me<br />
going in the opposite direction from the museum. Eventually I find John and we head to the<br />
95
museum, but we are quickly overtaken by a young man. Are we going to the doll museum?<br />
He will show us the way, his mother runs it. It‟s just a few metres from where we parked the<br />
van! It costs twenty zloty for the two of us. That‟s a lot. It‟s only two tiny rooms, actually a<br />
tiny doll factory rather than a museum. We head home to Tarnow on an incredibly rough<br />
road, exhausted.<br />
Polish Cemetery<br />
Back in Tarnow John checks his email and there‟s one from the computer shop saying<br />
the laptop is fixed. It needed a new motherboard. Overjoyed, we drive to Krakow, park at<br />
Tesco and have rotisserie chicken, bread rolls and a bottle of Asti to celebrate.<br />
In the morning we pick up the laptop, do the washing at the laundrette, go to the pool<br />
for a shower, and spend up large on the Times, Independent, Daily Telegraph, Herald<br />
Tribune, and Newsweek, catching up on Obama‟s victory. This may be our last chance to<br />
buy English papers for a while. We need to keep in touch <strong>with</strong> the news in case the Foreign<br />
Office advises against visiting one of the countries on our route. With our UK plates we‟re<br />
always aware that we could be the target of anti British feeling.<br />
After our final night chez Tesco we head south on a Saturday, <strong>with</strong> the heater on,<br />
windows down, and merino tops drying in the back. We gain height quickly and soon we‟re<br />
in conifer forests <strong>with</strong> wooden houses. Texts are coming through from New Zealand about<br />
the election, and we‟re stunned to hear that National has won. We drive through a smooth<br />
glaciated landscape and enter Slovakia at Lysa Polana where it‟s all mountains, conifer<br />
forests, ski fields and tourist villages.<br />
96
Houses of all ages are of a similar style to the ones in Poland, the loveliest built of<br />
logs <strong>with</strong> two <strong>colour</strong>s alternating between the logs and the caulking. There are logs and<br />
wood everywhere <strong>with</strong> huge piles of firewood, and also beautiful mountain streams, strip<br />
farming and lone cows. It‟s very sunny and windy and we can see for miles. We hope to<br />
avoid getting any Slovakian money as we only expect to spend one night passing through and<br />
have everything we need.<br />
We come to a bleak area of felled trees <strong>with</strong> some regrowth, smooth and flat, <strong>with</strong><br />
hotels and restaurants for miles. This is the high Tatras, and it‟s desolate, but there are car<br />
parks <strong>full</strong> of walkers‟ cars. Golden larches are leaving a trail of orange leaves at the edge of<br />
the road. With virtually no other deciduous trees at this altitude they make a vivid splash of<br />
<strong>colour</strong>. Then we‟re descending to ploughed fields, Stary Smokovec, and the city of Poprad<br />
which is ugly and industrial <strong>with</strong> endless apartment blocks.<br />
Tatra Mountains, Slovakia<br />
We notice that the farms in the area look as if they were previously collectivised. A<br />
man is driving along the side of the road on a rotary hoe towing a tiny trailer. We go down<br />
an avenue of beautiful trees <strong>with</strong> tiny brown leaves and black trunks. A lorry from the<br />
Ukraine overtakes us, then we have Scots pine forests on both sides. We round a corner and<br />
the beautiful medieval walled town of Levoca is laid out below us. It‟s all yellow and cream<br />
buildings <strong>with</strong> orange tiled roofs, and church spires, very much like Italy. The woodpiles<br />
beside the houses are works of art.<br />
The town was built in the 1200s by Saxon Germans who came to mine in the area.<br />
The town square is crammed <strong>with</strong> Rennaissance and Gothic buildings, and the decorations<br />
97
and details are superb. Some have their original paintings on the exterior still visible, and we<br />
see a painting of a knight in armour. We‟re so pleased to be in such a beautiful little town,<br />
and even more thrilled when we discover wireless internet in the square. John manages to<br />
tune in to the BBC on the radio. Next morning we call home on skype and walk around the<br />
square <strong>with</strong> the laptop, showing the family the sights through the computer‟s camera.<br />
Levoca<br />
We‟ve managed to avoid getting any Slovakian money, and next day we drive south<br />
towards Hungary through dense Scots pine forest a hundred feet high. We need to identify<br />
some lovely brown leafed trees <strong>with</strong> black trunks, so we stop to pick some leaves. I see a<br />
bird of prey on a haystack some distance away so I walk into the field to get closer to it,<br />
stepping over the remains of a deer. The bird slowly flies off, flap flap glide, flap flap glide,<br />
and lands on the top of a tree. I think it‟s a black kite. We consult the tree book and work<br />
out that the trees are probably Caucasian limes.<br />
Then in the middle of the countryside we come across a car park beside a mineral<br />
spring, and on the top of the hill, a tiny church. We stop to have a look. The police suddenly<br />
arrive and ask for our passports. Their reaction is intense, even aggressive. “What are you<br />
doing here?” We tell them we‟re tourists. They become quite friendly and point in the<br />
direction of the must see local castle. Then another police car pulls up and some very serious<br />
armed police get out. We leave fast.<br />
We stop at Spisski Kapitula a 13 th century completely walled religious village.<br />
There‟s a service on in the cathedral and through the open windows we can hear the sung<br />
liturgy, beautiful gentle male voices. Since the end of Communism it‟s become a religious<br />
98
community again. There‟s a <strong>size</strong>able vegetable garden <strong>with</strong> rich dark soil turned over. We<br />
walk down the main street and back and pass some beaming nuns getting into their car.<br />
We drive past Spisski Hrad a massive castle in ruins on a hilltop, but there‟s no time<br />
to stop, we‟re on a mission to get to Romania. We pass huge barns of cattle and forests of<br />
lime trees, and Gypsies who smile and wave. In a Gypsy settlement of squalid shacks, piles<br />
of rubbish, and lots of tiny children, refuse is burning in a skip.<br />
Gypsy Settlement<br />
A small river has a line of plastic bags caught up in trees at flood height, and there are<br />
huge barns from the Communist era. We drive down a valley where the hillsides are covered<br />
in green pine and orange larch, and past more Gypsy settlements of wrecked houses, <strong>with</strong><br />
washing hanging outside, and smoke coming from the chimneys. The number of destitute<br />
people we‟ve seen in this tiny part of Slovakia is high and much of the rural housing is very<br />
poor. We‟ve also seen two more police cars. We pass a huge steelworks, fishing lakes <strong>with</strong><br />
canoes, campfires, shelters, boatsheds and jetties, and waterways littered <strong>with</strong> rubbish.<br />
After a steep drive through bare beech forest we reach the city of Kosice, get lost on<br />
the outskirts and see huge rows of ugly apartment blocks crowded on the skyline, the most<br />
depressing ones we‟ve seen. It‟s a Sunday and we‟re shocked to see people our age out<br />
chipping weeds and sweeping leaves <strong>with</strong> brooms on the roadside in a work gang. We pass a<br />
steelworks and other huge factories plus posters for Vanessa Mae and Seal. Back in the<br />
country the soil looks like it‟s been brutalised by heavy machinery. But there are abundant<br />
birds of prey as we drive across a vast ploughed area.<br />
99
Suddenly we‟re at the border crossing, the roughest we‟ve come across, <strong>with</strong> old<br />
checkpoints and chaos, and lots of lorries. Some are parked <strong>with</strong> the drivers asleep, and there<br />
are a couple of Russian ones parked together, <strong>with</strong> their drivers at the back sitting at a little<br />
table covered <strong>with</strong> a red and white checked tablecloth, eating, at two in the afternoon. There<br />
are no checks, and we drive straight into orderly Hungary.<br />
Kiss Albert<br />
We drive across a vast plain <strong>with</strong> a few sheep, small plots of vines on a hillside,<br />
cemeteries decorated <strong>with</strong> flowers, and long cultivated backyards. Such order. It‟s<br />
interesting to see a tiny cemetery in a field, unfenced, <strong>with</strong> not even a tree. There are<br />
cabbages, cows, vast orchards, berry fruit, and lots of little smoky fires burning off stubble.<br />
A bird of prey hovering then dropping into a ploughed field looks like a marsh harrier.<br />
We see a hillside of small allotments, and lots of little towns. An old lady in a head<br />
scarf is dragging a huge log for firewood at the edge of a field. Russian and Ukrainian lorries<br />
pass. There are transmission lines and industry everywhere. We stop at a money machine<br />
and get cash, ten thousand forints in one note, about thirty pounds. Then we‟re at Miskolc<br />
following the signs to Tesco. We‟re exhausted so just eat a Chinese meal in their cafe, drive<br />
into a leafy suburban area, and find a car park near some apartment buildings. We get<br />
straight online.<br />
Next morning we head for the famous wine growing area of Tokaj, past two women<br />
sitting by the side of the road selling witches‟ brooms (made of willow switches stuck onto a<br />
stick), and baskets. There have been grapevines in Tokaj for several centuries as it has an<br />
ideal microclimate <strong>with</strong> volcanic soil.<br />
We drive up to the top of the highest point Tokaj Hegy, (fifteen hundred feet), via a<br />
rough narrow road lined <strong>with</strong> tiny plots of vines <strong>with</strong> little huts. The leaves are a brilliant<br />
yellow and some of the vines still have grapes. Then it turns into bare beech forest, and<br />
towards the top a tiny ski field. At the very top there are huge communication transmitters<br />
and a strong wind. The view is great but it‟s a bit obscured by the haze from all the burn offs.<br />
A few groups of walkers come and go and a couple of car loads of parapenters keep<br />
us entertained running down the slope in front of us, then flying in zigzags all around,<br />
eventually coming down to land on some farm land <strong>with</strong>in view. The windy conditions are<br />
just perfect for them. Some friendly walkers who tell us they are from Debrecen give us<br />
some grapes that they‟ve picked on their walk up the hill. The grapes are very sweet. I<br />
manage to boil up some water and wash my hair in the back of the van in the midst of all the<br />
excitement, and after a pleasant afternoon up there we drive down into the town of Tokaj.<br />
The slopes of the hill near the town are covered in large plantings of vines plus scrub.<br />
It reminds us of Central Otago in New Zealand. We park the van in a large empty car park<br />
100
eside the river and walk around wondering whether to spend the night there. We hear a clip<br />
clop and along comes a man driving his horse and cart, talking softly to the horse. He stops<br />
and lights a lantern, hangs it on the back and sets off again. We move to a better car park<br />
right in town and go for a walk along the main street where there are lovely old buildings,<br />
and lots of restaurants and wine shops. We go into a grocery store and buy a bottle of the<br />
local white wine and a bottle of red from Eger the other famous wine growing area of<br />
Hungary. This area is famous for its sweet wines. In the night lorries roar past constantly<br />
and a dog barks dementedly.<br />
In the morning the sun is streaming in and there are blue tits in the tree in the garden<br />
behind us. The backyards here remind John of the back gardens of his childhood, a bit rough<br />
but functional <strong>with</strong> fruit trees and vegetables. At morning tea time I‟m making coffee in the<br />
back when I hear a clip clop and along come two men on a cart <strong>with</strong> a matching pair of<br />
chestnut horses, each <strong>with</strong> a star. We‟re parked right beside a beautiful statue of Kiss Albert<br />
a local hero from the 1600s <strong>with</strong> a couple of swords, no armour and a feather in his hat. His<br />
horse is small, fine and alert <strong>with</strong> all its hooves on the ground.<br />
Kiss Albert<br />
The last thing we do before we leave Hungary is to take pictures of their beautiful<br />
money, notes <strong>with</strong> images of dashing moustachioed men and birds of prey. We leave Tokaj,<br />
crossing the Tisza River <strong>with</strong> its silver birches and willows, past a vast freshly ploughed field<br />
gleaming in the sun, and we‟re immediately overtaken by an ancient yellow Lada.<br />
Everything is smogged out.<br />
101
Hungarian Money<br />
We stop in Rakamaz in search of camping gas and spend our last forints on a fabulous<br />
toaster for a camp fire, made of metal plate and mesh, and an enamel pan <strong>with</strong> two little<br />
handles, also perfect for a fire. Then at a greengrocer I buy a little butternut and a pumpkin.<br />
We notice that the Hungarians are very responsive and keen to make contact, unlike the Poles<br />
who tended to be more self contained.<br />
Enamel Pan<br />
102
It‟s a smooth road <strong>with</strong> little traffic, and there are the usual old ladies in head scarves,<br />
a herd of milking cows, hens and guinea fowls. All the way from Germany we‟ve noticed<br />
that there have been lots of women <strong>with</strong> hennaed hair.<br />
The hawthorns have black trunks and red berries, and rooks and crows are flying and<br />
fossicking. As we drive into a town we see that there‟s a large market and since we‟ve got no<br />
forints left we find a cash machine. In the car park a friendly guy gives us his pay and<br />
display ticket.<br />
The market has all the usual clothes, blankets, air rifles, and tools plus fruit and<br />
vegetables, and fishing nets that would catch anything that swam. The turnips come in red,<br />
white or black, and there‟s a sparrow walking in the pecans. We buy some beautiful big<br />
shallots, rough garlic and little red peppers. Then it‟s Chinese food for lunch, MSG and fat,<br />
very satisfying. I have a sudden flash of inspiration as I realise that markets always have<br />
water so we search around and find an old hand pump to fill our water container. Busloads of<br />
Ukrainian people are heading off laden <strong>with</strong> shopping. It‟s all very fascinating.<br />
We set out again on a very smooth road and are amazed to see men working on the<br />
edge spreading shingle and dirt off a lorry, then smoothing it <strong>with</strong> flat bladed wooden tools<br />
and a witch‟s broom. They are also lopping off branches <strong>with</strong> mattocks. We drive through<br />
flat and featureless farmland where people are burning leaves, a shepherd is moving his<br />
sheep, and prostitutes wait beside the road.<br />
It‟s a straight run to the Romanian border, past herds of cattle, big feedlots, stubble<br />
fires, rubbish dumped in parking areas, an egret, a new Tesco being built in a small town,<br />
flocks of sheep, tractors towing huge trailers of loose corn, and Romanian lorries coming at<br />
us. We‟ve been in four countries in four days but we‟re getting better at it.<br />
We slip into Romania very easily.<br />
103
Chapter 6 Romania<br />
11 November – 13 December<br />
Good Morning Romania<br />
At 5pm I‟m sitting in the passenger‟s seat <strong>with</strong> a glass of Polish wine. The sun goes<br />
down behind us in a blaze of red, and as darkness falls the almost <strong>full</strong> moon rises in front of<br />
me. Clear and cold outside, it could be a frost. We‟re parked in a truck parking space just<br />
inside Romania, beside a petrol station. There are money exchanges and restaurants spread<br />
along the road and a constant stream of huge lorries in both directions. We‟re here for the<br />
night and it feels very safe: plenty of activity and police.<br />
The guards on the Romanian border laughed when I said we were from New Zealand,<br />
then took away our passports and van ownership papers for a look. They returned them <strong>with</strong><br />
a smile and told us to buy a motorway pass at the petrol station. The guy in the petrol station<br />
was charming and spoke good English. The first thing I noticed, apart from all the wine for<br />
sale was the amazing array of chocolate: Mars, Snickers, Kinder Surprise, Toblerone, Ferrero<br />
Rocher, Raffaello.<br />
A wolflike dog jumps into the wire rubbish containers one at a time looking for food.<br />
A family of Gypsies stands next to their car, the women wearing classic wide floral Gypsy<br />
skirts.<br />
We‟re excited to be in Romania at last. The weather is still hot during the day and we<br />
can‟t remember when we last had rain or felt cold. On first impressions the Romanians are<br />
very appealing, warm, open and laid back. The guide book says it has a Mediterranean feel.<br />
Just the signs relax me as they all have familiar Romance language words, dating back to<br />
when the Romans were here. The written and spoken language here won‟t present too much<br />
of a barrier. We‟ve bought a motorway pass for a month.<br />
Next day we park in the main street of Oradea, a few miles from the border, <strong>with</strong> the<br />
traffic moving behind us and trams in front. Beyond the tram line there‟s a tree clad park. It<br />
costs just over a pound to park all day. We explore and find an internet cafe where we can<br />
use our laptop. The young guy there speaks great English and is happy to chat and answer all<br />
our questions.<br />
104
Oradea<br />
Coming back to the van at the end of the day is heavenly. It‟s like retreating into a<br />
padded cell <strong>with</strong> zero stimulation and all our familiar things. Meanwhile people rush past<br />
outside, catch the tram, talk on their phones, go home for dinner or out for the night, meeting<br />
friends and deadlines, the things we never have to do.<br />
I scrutinize the new Romanian/English dictionary and the language is easier than<br />
most. I‟ve got the basics sorted already. The phras<strong>ebook</strong> tells us how to say “This pillow<br />
isn‟t clean”. Quite true, but in our case there‟s no-one to complain to!<br />
John says if anyone ever asks what it‟s like on this trip tell them it‟s like living on a<br />
double bed in a tin box in the town square. It‟s very easy for us now and we feel like we<br />
could live this way for years.<br />
Next morning we spend a few hours in a cafe emailing <strong>photos</strong> and chatting on skype<br />
then retire to the back of the van for lunch and peace and quiet.<br />
As we‟ve zigzagged eastwards from the most highly developed and wealthy countries<br />
to the least developed and poorest we‟ve been surprised. We had imagined that it would be<br />
more stressful, dangerous and difficult, but it‟s quite the opposite. The Eastern European<br />
countries seem to have fewer rules, it‟s been more rural, and everyone is more laid back. The<br />
van blends in and our riverside campfires are cool. We haven‟t felt afraid and people seem<br />
kind and honest. Many Romanian people speak English and they often overflow <strong>with</strong><br />
warmth.<br />
105
The cars are another story. They are the filthiest we‟ve seen. It‟s like they‟ve never<br />
been cleaned, perhaps it‟s the pollution. Many leak oil and some belch the blackest smoke.<br />
The local make is the Dacia, first manufactured in 1968 in association <strong>with</strong> Renault. They‟re<br />
everywhere.<br />
We explore the old area of Oradea where the grand secessionist style buildings date<br />
from the early 20 th century when the city was part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. Most<br />
appear to have had no exterior maintenance since they were built, <strong>with</strong> crumbling paint and<br />
plaster, and the odd piece falling off. The most spectacular is the Vulturul Negru (black<br />
eagle) a hotel of several storeys <strong>with</strong> an arcade through the middle. We also visit the Moon<br />
church, the main Orthodox Church from 1792. It has a spherical yellow moon under the<br />
clock which rotates to show the phases of the moon (<strong>full</strong> for us). The inside of the church is<br />
intricately painted. There was a lot of money around from mining in the early twentieth<br />
century and it shows. A small, modest two storied building has a relief on the pediment. It‟s<br />
of two women in robes <strong>with</strong> garlands in their hair, eating grapes.<br />
Oradea<br />
We stop at a bar for a beer in the sun. A classic thing happens which is repeated<br />
many times during this trip. I go inside and ask for the toilet in Romanian (toaleta). The<br />
young barmaid replies in English – “upstairs”. The women‟s toilets are marked femeie, and<br />
for men barbati (barbarians? bastards?).<br />
On the way back to the van we encounter some very persistent young Gypsy children<br />
begging, the oldest no more than ten and holding a tiny baby in her arms. We feel quite<br />
unnerved but stand at a discreet distance to watch their modus operandi. The little girl <strong>with</strong><br />
106
the baby approaches people, and if anyone gives her money, then the other two children<br />
immediately advance on that person as well.<br />
Later we set out after dark to find a place to eat, a rare occurrence on both counts as<br />
we‟re usually tired after long and stimulating days, and keen to save money by cooking our<br />
own food. After tramping the streets for an hour, one of the crumbling old hotels, the<br />
Astoria, seems the best option. When we ask at the bar for the menu they take us upstairs,<br />
along endless corridors to a dining room <strong>with</strong> just a few local men in it. The loveliest<br />
waitress looks after us. She is fortyish, <strong>with</strong> a smattering of German and English. I order<br />
ham and beans, John a mixed grill.<br />
Romanian food is very heavy on meat. It‟s absolutely delicious, a rare treat.<br />
Next day we trek south from Oradea, stopping off at a vast Carrefour (French<br />
supermarket) to stock up on a few things, including smoked sardines which turn out to be<br />
exceptionally dry, salty, bristly and strong. Next stop is Praktiker, an enormous hardware<br />
store <strong>with</strong> Rod Stewart blaring forth, where we look for cooking gas. Then Baile Felix, a spa<br />
town <strong>with</strong> ugly hotels, one <strong>with</strong> plastic palm trees. We‟re in search of a thermal pool. We<br />
track one down at the President Hotel and have a swim in a hot indoor pool followed by a<br />
shower. The showers are becoming scarce and we‟re grateful for every one.<br />
When we continue our journey south on the main road the fun really starts. If we<br />
thought Poland was exciting, Romania has mind blowing sights around every corner. Strip<br />
farming, hens on the road, old ladies (and not so old) in headscarves, horses, old grapevines<br />
at the front of all the houses, tethered cows, wells <strong>with</strong> buckets, geese, loose dogs, army<br />
lorries. We take a break at a picnic area and John cooks Szechuan pork and vegetables for<br />
two dinners. Meanwhile I struggle to make the sardines palatable for lunch. A beautiful<br />
black German Shepherd cross adopts us and sits quietly by, waiting for treats. She loves the<br />
French sardines. We hang our towels and swimming togs in the trees to dry in the sun.<br />
On the road again, we round a corner and see the police and several cars pulled over.<br />
A lorry has crashed into a house, the cab buried in a pile of rubble. Further on we see a car<br />
<strong>with</strong> its wheels off over an improvised vehicle pit at the side of the road. The pit is just a<br />
ditch <strong>with</strong> two concrete walls, and a guy is working in it underneath the car.<br />
Some of the houses have the front entirely covered in beautiful <strong>colour</strong>ed tiles.<br />
Everywhere there are posters advertising suspicious looking politicians, the same the world<br />
over. It‟s the bare unfenced rural landscape we love: an old lady working in a cabbage patch,<br />
a shepherd <strong>with</strong> his flock, horses and carts, and two men <strong>with</strong> stout sticks watching over a<br />
herd of twenty water buffalo, a new double cab Toyota Hilux parked nearby. A new Nissan<br />
Navarra overtakes us.<br />
107
Further on there are sawmills and the landscape is dotted <strong>with</strong> round haystacks in the<br />
traditional style, <strong>with</strong> a pole protruding out of the top. I‟m frustrated when the dictionary<br />
won‟t tell me the word for hay or haystack! Hamlets fly past us one after the other, washing<br />
lines in orchards and washing on fences, rubbish everywhere. We drive down an avenue of<br />
walnuts and see a shepherd picking up a few while his sheep graze. Signs explain that the<br />
EU is funding various projects. The forests are beech mixed <strong>with</strong> oak, and low Scots pine.<br />
We pause in a village where about twenty cows are ambling down the road followed<br />
by an old woman. Three of them go home to their different farmyards, and each has a gate<br />
open for it. We think they must all be taken out for the day together, then delivered back<br />
home in the afternoon.<br />
Cows Going Home<br />
We arrive at Beius, park, and go for a walk, discovering a place that looks like a<br />
laundry. The dictionary confirms it, “spalatorie”, but it‟s closed at the weekend. We always<br />
keep our eyes open for a laundry as it may be the last one we see for a while. Luckily we‟re<br />
not too desperate yet. We haul out the laptop, get straight on line and open up the weather<br />
forecast. Full sun for the next few days. Woodsmoke in the air. We skype our families and<br />
hold the laptop out the window so they can hear the church bells ringing.<br />
The night is filled <strong>with</strong> barking dogs. They all seem to live on the street and have the<br />
same short legged father. One has made a nest of leaves on the edge of the footpath and<br />
sleeps there for most of the day, except for trips to forage in the rubbish bins. Next morning<br />
John helps a nun who has managed to lock herself out of her iced up car. He has to climb in<br />
over the back seat. She rewards him <strong>with</strong> multiple blessings.<br />
108
Dog in Autumn Leaves<br />
Aurel Flutur<br />
Romanian (limba Romana) is described in the guid<strong>ebook</strong> as “a Latin island in a Slav<br />
sea”. Part of the current Romania was a Roman province from 106 to 271 AD. It was<br />
conquered by Emperor Trajan, then Marcus Aurelius held power from 161 till 180 AD. We<br />
come across the names Traian and Aurel frequently. Most of the vocabulary and grammar<br />
are Latin in origin. Other influences are Slavic, Greek, Turkish and Hungarian. It‟s very<br />
similar to Italian. It‟s is “este”, where is “unde”, entrance is “intrare”, and morning is<br />
“dimineata”. The letters a, s and t all have two different forms, distinguished by accents<br />
above or below.<br />
Next morning we‟re ready for some sightseeing and set off towards Chiscau to visit a<br />
cave <strong>with</strong> ancient bear skeletons. There are no fences, and the houses all have apple trees in<br />
the backyards. Little Orthodox churches <strong>with</strong> silver onion dome spires gleam in the distance.<br />
The air is hazy from burn offs and industrial pollution. The count of dog road kill is high.<br />
We wave to people sitting outside in the sun in front of their houses. They seem much keener<br />
to engage than the Poles and wave straight back to us.<br />
109
Romanian Countryside<br />
In Chiscau we park in the cave car park as a tractor <strong>with</strong> five men on it crawls by,<br />
towing a trailer laden <strong>with</strong> manure and five shovels. There are old trees that look like<br />
damsons <strong>with</strong> a few <strong>with</strong>ered plums hanging and the last leaves falling. The souvenir stalls<br />
are very tacky, and there are others where old ladies sell walnuts and fruit syrup.<br />
We enter Pestera Ursilor the bear cave <strong>with</strong> a group of students from all over Europe<br />
who are studying together <strong>with</strong> the Erasmus scheme in Oradea. The cave was discovered<br />
when a worker called Traian noticed an opening while blasting at a marble quarry in 1975.<br />
The cave turned out to contain the skeletons of one hundred and forty cave bears which died<br />
twenty thousand years ago when an earthquake trapped them inside. We file past creamy<br />
butterscotch and hokey pokey <strong>colour</strong>ed stalactites and stalagmites, then the culmination of<br />
the tour is a <strong>full</strong> bear skeleton laid out on the floor. It‟s the same <strong>size</strong> as a modern day bear,<br />
<strong>with</strong> a very thick skull and long upper and lower canine teeth. The bones have turned brown<br />
and green but the teeth are white. There‟s a scattering of coins surrounding them on the<br />
floor.<br />
Heading back down the road we stop at a private ethnographic museum owned by<br />
Aurel Flutur and his wife. They have been collecting objects related to local crafts and<br />
farming for the last forty years. There is all manner of farm equipment: an old thresher,<br />
grindstones for flour, wooden ploughs, a shoemaker‟s tools, a little portable bread oven<br />
which was towed by a husband and wife, looms, spinning wheels, beautiful pieces of fabric<br />
and woollen clothing, cowbells, furniture, a smithy‟s workshop, and coalmining gear.<br />
(Months later back home in New Zealand we discover that the museum is on youtube.)<br />
110
Ethnographic Museum<br />
Ethnographic Museum<br />
Mr Flutur is very keen to talk and leads the way out the back to show us their house<br />
and self sufficient farmyard. A cow is tethered, there‟s a flock of turkeys, geese, and a pond<br />
<strong>full</strong> of fish. The house has carved wooden furniture and the walls are decorated <strong>with</strong> icons.<br />
The kitchen is separate from the house, a large square freestanding room <strong>with</strong> a bread oven,<br />
and food bubbling on the wood stove.<br />
111
The Flutur’s Kitchen<br />
The cow barn has pride of place. It has a deep pile of beech leaves for a bed, a stack<br />
of straw and high quality hay, and a couple of puppies asleep in the corner. The cow (vaca),<br />
a Holstein which Mr Flutur tells us gives a lot of milk, is clearly a precious member of the<br />
household. Mr Flutur knows a little English and German, and it‟s possible to work out a lot<br />
of what he says in Romanian, so we have a very animated conversation. We return the<br />
favour and show him our home in the back of the van and he‟s impressed. He tells us that<br />
people from Romania go all over the world to work, and people come to Romania to look.<br />
We certainly can‟t stop looking, at a rural way of life long gone in Britain and New Zealand.<br />
Back in Beius for another night we walk up through the cemetery for a view over the<br />
town and discover benches beside some of the graves where people can sit in contemplation.<br />
We join the locals at one of the public taps and fill our water container. It seems to be as big<br />
an obsession for them as it is for us, and they carry their bottles home on trolleys.<br />
Next morning it‟s Sunday and several different church bells are ringing. Gypsy<br />
women walk past in their ankle length permanently pleated skirts, jumpers and headscarves.<br />
The little girls are dressed the same but their skirts are shorter. The women are always <strong>full</strong> of<br />
purpose. We haven‟t seen many Gypsy men but this morning they are strolling to church in a<br />
group, wearing black suits <strong>with</strong> wide black felt hats which give them a Mexican look.<br />
Radio Transylvania<br />
We quit Beius and make our way back through the ghastly industrial outskirts of<br />
Oradea. There is a vast abandoned factory <strong>with</strong> rusting pipelines, and the road is rough <strong>with</strong><br />
112
huge holes and cracks in the concrete, so we slow to seven mph along <strong>with</strong> all the lorries.<br />
Then, oh bliss, a new road on a high plain heading towards Transylvania, past a Pentax<br />
factory on one side and a Coca Cola factory on the other. The traffic is crazy and John<br />
comments that they drive on a two lane highway as if it has four lanes. People are constantly<br />
overtaking then ducking in front of us, and the approaching traffic does the same!<br />
We stop for lunch in a picnic area and the traffic screams by as we devour our bacon,<br />
eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes. The terrain is completely flat <strong>with</strong> distant hills in all<br />
directions. There are little farms, huge old barns, and a couple of man-made lakes, one <strong>with</strong> a<br />
power station. People are selling grapes and apples outside their houses and there are public<br />
water taps everywhere. A flock of several hundred sheep, a donkey, two horses pulling a<br />
farm cart, white sheep dogs and two shepherds come into view. The carts we see everywhere<br />
are the same as the ones in Poland - long, wooden and narrow, <strong>with</strong> four car wheels, for<br />
carrying manure and produce. They look very uncomfortable but quite a few people travel to<br />
town in them.<br />
A guy is lying on the grass in the sun watching three tethered horses and a cow. We<br />
realise that the cute little haystacks are cunningly designed so that rather than taking the hay<br />
inside to the animals, the animals are taken out to the haystack, and they eat their way around<br />
it. There‟s ribbon development along the road, usually just one house deep.<br />
The countryside becomes hilly <strong>with</strong> bracken everywhere, then we drive up through a<br />
gorge <strong>with</strong> forest. We see a statue of an eagle <strong>with</strong> a sign in Latin “nihil sine deo”, “nothing<br />
<strong>with</strong>out God”. Some old ladies are sunning themselves and watching a cow eating. The<br />
steep hillside is covered <strong>with</strong> brown forest. Even the leaves underneath are brown. There‟s<br />
an enormous quarry <strong>with</strong> huge conveyors above the road. We‟re relieved to stop for the night<br />
at a large truck stop. A friendly resident dog is feeding pups and we give her some bread and<br />
a can of fish. We open the Tokaj wine from Hungary and it‟s syrupy, golden and smooth.<br />
During the night the dog barks and lorries come and go.<br />
113
Lonesome Van<br />
In the morning when we set out it‟s raining and the truck stop is a sea of mud. We see<br />
two shepherds sitting down and having their morning tea while several white dogs and a<br />
flock of sheep wait nearby. The town of Huedin has some new unfinished brick houses four<br />
stories high <strong>with</strong> elaborate shiny silver roofs, gables, turrets and intricate guttering. We hear<br />
later that they are being built by wealthy Gypsies. We stop to take <strong>photos</strong> and a man comes<br />
to the driver‟s window to talk. We tell him we‟re from New Zealand and he points to his<br />
stomach saying “comida”, obviously hungry. We give him ten lei and he‟s all smiles.<br />
114
Intricate Guttering<br />
There‟s a strip of shops for a mile along the roadside, selling tablecloths, baskets and<br />
woollen rugs, some of which look imported. The thing I covet (purely to possess, not to<br />
wear) is one of the vests made of sheepskin, embroidered so beauti<strong>full</strong>y, and finished off <strong>with</strong><br />
fabric. There are old ones on sale for eighty pounds.<br />
A little further on when it‟s getting higher and hillier we see the aftermath of an<br />
accident <strong>with</strong> the police and an ambulance attending. A small lorry has gone into the side of<br />
a car and other cars are involved as well. It‟s not surprising the way motorists overtake. It‟s<br />
rolling land that was terraced years ago <strong>with</strong> unofficial rubbish tips along the roadside. We<br />
pass a small cart carrying four people pulled by one thin little horse and another even tinier<br />
one.<br />
Next stop is Cluj. We park on a hill beside the botanic gardens and walk into town to<br />
check out the laundry and visitors centre. It‟s a very steamy old fashioned serviced laundry<br />
<strong>with</strong> demure women sitting down working amongst vast piles of neatly ironed white bed<br />
linen. The visitors‟ centre was opened only four months ago and the young attendant is an<br />
absolute cracker. He‟s studied abroad and had considered continuing his study in New<br />
Zealand but thought he was better off staying in Romania. He speaks perfect English, charms<br />
us <strong>with</strong> his willingness to answer our many questions, and gives us a pile of glossy<br />
publications and maps. We have a grill for dinner in a sports bar where the waiter is<br />
delightful and a waitress makes a point of talking to us also. She tells us that she spent the<br />
summer in New York, but she disliked the superficiality of the people and the lifestyle there,<br />
and longed for Romania <strong>with</strong> its familiar food, and people <strong>with</strong> heart who would do anything<br />
for you.<br />
115
Next morning it‟s two degrees when we wake up but quite cosy <strong>with</strong> a blanket<br />
hanging in the gap behind the front seats. We take our washing to the laundry and fill up on<br />
various snacks sold in little holes in the wall, all very heavy on the pastry. Our least favourite<br />
one consists of sauerkraut wrapped in pastry. Our next stop is the Aquina health club (<strong>with</strong><br />
the motto “mens sana in corpore sano” – “a healthy mind in a healthy body”) for a swim. We<br />
have to sign a two page contract to enter. There‟s a young guy on the counter wearing a<br />
black t-shirt <strong>with</strong> a silver fern. John asks him if he‟s been to New Zealand and he<br />
enthusiastically tells us he played rugby for Romania in the World Cup in Australia in 2003<br />
but didn‟t visit New Zealand. Then we go to Agape, a traditional cafe <strong>full</strong> of men in overalls,<br />
for mashed potato, pork stew, gravy, and a beer. It‟s a self service place where you choose<br />
your meal from a bain-marie. The food is absolutely delicious and there‟s a constant stream<br />
of customers.<br />
Around the main square of Cluj there are circular stalls selling second hand books.<br />
We need to give away our Hungarian and Polish road atlases and guid<strong>ebook</strong>s so we approach<br />
a guy on a stall and offer them to him. It turns out that he‟s been to New Zealand. We have a<br />
chat and he asks if there is anything he can do to help us. He has a spare room. Would we<br />
like to stay? We decline his kind offer. We‟re just a little too comfortable in the van, and a<br />
bit nervous about security.<br />
A small river of grey and frothing water runs through Cluj. Bubbles rise to the<br />
surface and there‟s a horrible sulphurous smell. Clearly some kind of chemical reaction is<br />
going on. There is a huge hole in the footpath where a manhole cover is broken and no<br />
barricades or signs. The “mind the gap” culture is nonexistent here. We see a couple of<br />
people getting around <strong>with</strong> white canes; it must be very challenging.<br />
The English sections in two of the bookshops have excellent selections of<br />
contemporary and classic fiction and nonfiction in very cheap editions. I buy “Little Dorrit”.<br />
There are old ladies in headscarves but also some very elegant older women, all hair dye and<br />
fur coats, some even complete <strong>with</strong> dogs, who could be straight out of Paris. Walking home<br />
in the main square on a cold dark evening, we come across a tiny bent elderly lady selling<br />
some ratty chrysanthemums, essentially begging. We give her twenty lei (four pounds) and<br />
shortly afterwards two young cops aggressively move her along. We often watch people<br />
begging to see how the locals treat them. Not surprisingly, many give this old lady money.<br />
After two nights <strong>with</strong> cars speeding past my head, shaking the van, I can‟t take any<br />
more and we move to a quieter street. Nothing runs smoothly though and in the evening a<br />
guy drives up and tells us that we‟re in his park. We don‟t argue. Later we tune in to the<br />
local station Radio Transylvania and it plays the usual familiar pop music.<br />
Cluj used to be part of Hungary and there are lots of signs in Hungarian. Seventy<br />
thousand students live here and it shows <strong>with</strong> young people everywhere. We speak to a guy<br />
116
from Mauritius and some young women from Sweden. The town square is bursting <strong>with</strong> wifi<br />
cafes.<br />
Next morning it‟s minus two in the van. Butane gas struggles to burn at this<br />
temperature so we‟re always on the lookout for a mixture of propane/butane as propane will<br />
burn at very low temperatures. This morning it takes a while to make toast out of the<br />
delicious thick white bread. We walk into town to the tiny Flowers cafe which sells only<br />
coffees and teas and has a clientele of young people who all smoke. The morning disappears<br />
in a happy daze of skyping and emailing <strong>photos</strong>.<br />
After lunch we visit the Ethnographic Museum which has a superb display of the<br />
traditional life and craft of the local people. We‟re fascinated by the wooden felting<br />
machines, butter churns, fishing nets, traps for wolves, bears and martins, looms, religious<br />
items, masks, bed linen, clothing, and all manner of ingenious inventions made out of wood.<br />
The traditional masks are made of skins and fabric, very macabre. The staff are kind and<br />
motherly women. In the shop they bustle around checking off the latest load of local<br />
handcrafts and having a good gossip.<br />
Not accustomed to buying souvenirs, we agonise over the treasure trove of textiles<br />
and ceramics and end up buying a good selection. We‟re thrilled <strong>with</strong> our purchases and it<br />
gives us a new challenge, how to store the pottery in such a limited space. It‟s amazing how<br />
many things can be hung from the walls of the van. By the time we get back to the UK we‟ll<br />
hardly be able to move for hanging bags. We pick up our beauti<strong>full</strong>y washed and ironed<br />
laundry and walk back up the hill like a couple of packhorses. We‟re pretty fit. John has lost<br />
lots of weight but I wouldn‟t say the same about me. He‟s more of a thoroughbred,<br />
responding to the stress of the constant driving.<br />
As in Oradea the buildings in the old part of Cluj are beautiful: ancient churches,<br />
crumbling old hotels, a fabulous theatre, the restored 15 th century Tailors‟ Bastion in the<br />
corner of the old city walls (which the tailors defended), and a lovely small statue of St<br />
George on horseback slaying the dragon, made in the 14 th century by two local sculptors, a<br />
copy of the one at Prague Castle. Many inner city streets have names which show a French<br />
influence: Strada Louis Pasteur and Strada Emil Zola are obvious ones. Further out the usual<br />
forests of high rise apartments, factories and industrial sites abound.<br />
It‟s very cold next morning so we idle the engine <strong>with</strong> the heater on. After breakfast<br />
we drive off and disappear in a cloud of exhaust smoke like the new Pope has been chosen!<br />
John turns a whiter shade of pale. We decide that it was probably the prolonged idling that<br />
allowed oil to sneak into the cylinders. We decide not to use the heater again on cold<br />
mornings.<br />
117
We visit the botanic gardens which have some lovely old trees and a few jays busily<br />
pecking in the undergrowth. A worker is gathering autumn leaves into a basket using his<br />
hands. The leaves are piled over pots in the cold frames for winter insulation.<br />
On our way out of town we call into Carrefour to stock up. We find the special blue<br />
windscreen washer liquid that works to minus thirty. We‟ve been puzzling about antifreeze<br />
and whether the van needs topping up, even though it has coped <strong>with</strong> several minus eight<br />
frosts back in Surrey. By good fortune there‟s a young guy also browsing the antifreeze aisle<br />
who turns out to be an expert. He explains everything very well and we decide that we don‟t<br />
need to top it up as what‟s there will work for years. The supermarkets have tables at the deli<br />
counter where people stand and eat. We consume some of the local delicacies, mainly<br />
consisting of mushrooms in various guises, then set off late in the afternoon, south towards<br />
Turda (pronounced Torda).<br />
Time Out At The Turda Truck Stop<br />
We discover a large truck stop on the outskirts of Turda, high above the road,<br />
complete <strong>with</strong> a resident dog feeding pups. We open a can of sardines for her and throw her<br />
some bread. A guy saunters up to the cab and asks for money. Thinking he‟s the guard John<br />
hands over ten lei, but is gobsmacked when he trousers it and walks off <strong>with</strong> a grin from ear<br />
to ear! When the real guard approaches we don‟t take much notice of him until we realise<br />
who he is. John hurriedly communicates <strong>with</strong> him in sign language and it‟s fine for us to stay<br />
for the night.<br />
Turda Truck Stop<br />
118
A flock of goats goes past <strong>with</strong> their bells clanging. A lorry pulls up near us followed<br />
by a car. After some discussion, the lorry driver siphons some diesel from the lorry into the<br />
car, money changes hands, and they both drive off! In the morning our van is surrounded by<br />
lorries. John visits the daytime guard in his kiosk and he says we can stay for no charge if we<br />
have a meal at the restaurant.<br />
We‟re beside a large garage, three petrol stations, and a busy road <strong>with</strong> constant<br />
traffic twenty four hours a day. Some of the houses are near derelict <strong>with</strong> dirt roads leading<br />
up to them. I spend the entire day in the van reading “Little Dorrit”, washing my hair and<br />
writing on the laptop. John plans our next few days driving, sorts out things in the van, and<br />
reads “The Lucifer Effect : How Good People Turn Evil” by Philip Zimbardo, which<br />
describes how people are driven to bad acts through the conditions they find themselves in,<br />
based on the 1960s Stanford University Prison Experiment. He bought it in Krakow. We‟re<br />
finding it impossible to ignore the centuries of mayhem in Europe, and decided some time<br />
ago to try and seek some explanation of how ordinary people do such horrible things to each<br />
other.<br />
The park holds about forty lorries and it‟s in demand at night when they all back in to<br />
park tightly together <strong>with</strong> only inches to spare. The new night guard asks us to move to a<br />
different section to free up more space. Later we eat a delicious dinner in the restaurant,<br />
watch footy on TV, and have a peaceful night‟s sleep.<br />
Next morning John has a long conversation <strong>with</strong> the daytime guard who has little<br />
English but conveys a lot of information. He once had a holiday at the Danube Delta and<br />
spent the week catching and eating fish and it was fabulous.<br />
We set off for Sighisoara in sleet which turns into snow. A lot of the vehicles coming<br />
towards us are covered. I look up the word for snow in the dictionary – zapada. Next to the<br />
word for snot – muci! We drive past huge factories, a power station, an aluminium smelter,<br />
conventional hay barns, lots of people walking in the snow, and an old lady hitchhiking. The<br />
brown landscape is dissolving into white. Suddenly a lorry stops in the middle of the road in<br />
front of us and we come to a grinding halt <strong>with</strong> only inches to spare. We‟re shaken up but it<br />
turns out to be our only near miss in thousands of miles. We see a little Dacia station wagon,<br />
its back seat filled <strong>with</strong> bags, and sacks of walnuts four deep tied on the roof! There are lots<br />
of very old Dacias still on the road plus new models as well.<br />
119
The Word for Snow<br />
Dacia <strong>with</strong> a Big Load<br />
We‟re in hillier country now <strong>with</strong> deep snow but fortunately the snow plough is out.<br />
People are driving fast <strong>with</strong> no chains. The conifers are beautiful <strong>with</strong> snow covered<br />
120
anches, and the deciduous trees are bare. In the middle of nowhere Gypsies are selling<br />
strings of red onions by the roadside. Dogs are everywhere and we spot a kestrel plus a big<br />
flock of yellow birds. We pass a skifield just before Sighisoara, a completely walled Saxon<br />
(German) town <strong>with</strong> many buildings from the 14 th century. As the snow falls more heavily<br />
we find a car park outside the city walls. I make a pot of pork, leek, mushroom and<br />
applesauce stew, and then we climb into bed for a couple of hours sleep.<br />
At about four in the afternoon we get up and go for a walk. It‟s a wonderland from a<br />
Dickensian Christmas card! Snow covers everything including the branches of trees. The<br />
buildings are tall and old, <strong>with</strong> narrow alleyways. A little boy on a rooftop tosses snowballs<br />
at us. We throw some back. Romanian teenagers seem to be on holiday. We hunt around for<br />
a pub that might show the All Blacks vs Wales rugby game. Sometimes a friendly barman<br />
will oblige <strong>with</strong> a Sky channel, but no joy today. Everything is freezing. The few cars that<br />
come into the car park crunch over the ground. Our night is disturbed by people walking<br />
home past the van and boy racers doing wheelies on the ice in the car park! We peep out the<br />
back window aghast and will them to lose interest and go somewhere else!<br />
Sighisoara<br />
In the morning there‟s some ice on the inside of the van but it‟s not too bad. After a<br />
morale boosting breakfast of toast <strong>with</strong> ham and mustard we head to a lovely warm cafe <strong>with</strong><br />
wifi. We‟re beginning to wonder whether the winter will force us straight down to Greece,<br />
leaving Turkey till later. The painted monasteries of northern Romania are definitely out.<br />
121
Casa Medievala<br />
On our last night in Sighisoara we explore the walled part of the old city and the<br />
bastions, where each tower was built and defended by a different guild of craftspeople. We<br />
climb up the Scholars‟ Steps, built about three hundred years ago to make it easier for<br />
children to walk to school on the upper level. There are one hundred and seventy nine steps<br />
plus landings, <strong>with</strong> walls, and a roof covering the walkway. The surrounding landscape is<br />
blanketed <strong>with</strong> snow, and all the surfaces in town are also covered. We never planned on<br />
being in such cold temperatures but we have enough merino and possum clothes, and hats,<br />
gloves and scarves <strong>with</strong> us.<br />
Back in the car park we find three Gypsy children still begging. The two boys have<br />
scarves tied around their heads and the little girl has a very old face. We give the girl a<br />
packet of biscuits. The mother is sitting on a park bench some distance off and taking the<br />
money they collect. As we drive from the car park to a quiet suburban street there are a<br />
couple of horse and cart combinations heading home. One horse has a matted mane and both<br />
are being driven really hard. Gyspy horses often wear red tassels on their harness, a<br />
traditional talisman. We put the gas bottles up the front by the heater to warm up. There are<br />
long icicles everywhere.<br />
Gypsy Horse <strong>with</strong> Traditional Red Tassels<br />
Next morning it‟s minus three and the gas won‟t flow so it‟s bread and Marmite for<br />
breakfast. There‟s ice on both sides of the windscreen, on the uncarpeted parts of the ceiling<br />
at the back, and in the water bottles! We drive out through depressing areas of old apartment<br />
122
locks. The Medieval centres of these towns are invariably surrounded by modern shops and<br />
houses then acres of ugly apartment buildings. The van smokes again after idling to defrost<br />
the windscreen and those cold fingers of worry creep in on us again.<br />
Ice in the Water Bottle<br />
It‟s the most perfect sunny day and there‟s snow as far as the eye can see, on the plain<br />
we‟re crossing and the hills that slope down to it. Cows are being driven out of old stone<br />
barns to be fed outside in the snow. A goatherd is minding a couple of hundred goats. A<br />
brown and white bird of prey is standing in the snow. We see a farmer <strong>with</strong> a flock of sheep<br />
<strong>with</strong> long tails and his half dozen dogs are scavenging through the rubbish bins at a picnic<br />
area. High stone walls surround fortified Saxon churches. The Saxons, who were invited to<br />
come from Germany as colonists in the 12 th Century, built these fortified churches to<br />
<strong>with</strong>stand sieges. The invaders were Tatars, and later Turks. After the fall of Communism in<br />
1990, most of the Saxons returned to Germany.<br />
123
Shepherd and Flock<br />
The snow clad mountains are beautiful. As vehicles pass, snow is blown from the<br />
bare branches of beech trees. Signs drip <strong>with</strong> icicles. We pull up for a major pit stop in the<br />
pass at Bogata, make coffee and wash the dishes. On the road again we drive past workers<br />
moving logs <strong>with</strong> a skidder in the snow. Tractors are pulling logs for firewood up steep<br />
slopes. The smooth wide highway is <strong>full</strong> of lorries. We go through a series of massive<br />
hairpins then come across a flock of sheep. The shepherd is wearing a <strong>full</strong> length sheepskin<br />
cloak <strong>with</strong> the six inch fleece to the outside. The fleeces on the sheep are tangled <strong>with</strong> burrs.<br />
In Maierus the tiny rough houses look like they belong to Gypsies. We‟re driving on<br />
a big plain <strong>with</strong> pale blue snow covered hills in the distance. Two men are travelling the<br />
other way in a cart pulled by a very lame little horse. We see a kestrel, semi frozen fishing<br />
lakes, crows by the hundred, and as usual magpies everywhere. Spindrift is blowing off the<br />
tops of a steep mountain range. Surprisingly we pass a massive factory.<br />
Suddenly we‟re in Brasov <strong>with</strong> dirty grey snow piled up three feet high on each side<br />
of the road. There are huge ugly apartment blocks crammed in for miles. We go to a<br />
Kaufland supermarket to stock up for a few days. Its enormous car park is covered in snow.<br />
Then we head out to Darste because the guid<strong>ebook</strong> says the camping ground has cabins. The<br />
camp is closed and Bran which is twenty miles to the south is suggested as an option. We<br />
retrace our steps through Brasov, the mountain recreation capital of Romania. It has famous<br />
old buildings but we just see hideous suburbs of apartments and people trudging through the<br />
snow. There are snow covered trees dotted around including rowans <strong>with</strong> big bunches of red<br />
berries. We‟re eating coconut chocolates from the supermarket, tired, hungry and desperate<br />
to find a haven for the night.<br />
124
After Brasov we enter a plain <strong>with</strong> deep snow except for the road which has been<br />
ploughed. A strong wind blows spindrift across the road in the sun. Some horses are towing<br />
a cart <strong>with</strong> a large load of hay. The driving is treacherous if you venture off the cleared<br />
middle of the road as the edge is completely snow covered. No-one has chains on.<br />
On the Road to Bran<br />
John suddenly notices that the temperature gauge has gone right to the top so we pull<br />
off to the side as best we can and lift the bonnet. The engine is not boiling or overheating.<br />
It‟s very puzzling. We decide to keep going but stop another couple of times and keep the<br />
heater on <strong>full</strong>. The engine is still not overheating and we continue to Bran, past skifields,<br />
mountains and holiday towns.<br />
We‟re very relieved when we get there and park in the main street. The young guy<br />
we pay for parking reaches out and zips John‟s jumper up to his chin in a very touching<br />
gesture. We‟ve forgotten to put our coats on and we must look a bit wretched. Walking back<br />
down the main street we find a pension, Casa Medievala, <strong>with</strong> parking in an enclosed front<br />
yard and a very pleasant woman sweeping the snow. She tells us it‟s one hundred lei a night<br />
(twenty pounds) and there‟s a kitchen. We have the place to ourselves, a refuge in the snow.<br />
It feels like some kind of turning point as we realise that we‟ve been living in the van for 4<br />
months.<br />
Inside the front door of Casa Medievala the main room has a six foot high traditional<br />
tiled corner fireplace (<strong>with</strong> an oven). In the middle of the room is a huge table <strong>with</strong> tree<br />
trunks one foot in diameter for legs and seating for at least twelve people. The chairs are<br />
made out of thick saplings. The table is laid <strong>with</strong> a linen cloth, plates and cutlery. It also has<br />
125
two carved bowls made from what looks like the trunk of a walnut tree. Fake medieval<br />
weapons and beautiful old carved wooden spoons similar to Welsh love spoons hang on the<br />
walls. Two smaller tables are thick slabs of wood. The base of one consists of a single tree<br />
trunk fifteen inches in diameter <strong>with</strong> six radiating branches each cut to one foot, so the table<br />
top is supported by a squat little tree. The floors are polished wood <strong>with</strong> traditional woven<br />
woollen mats. There‟s a sideboard <strong>with</strong> crockery and everything else for a large number of<br />
guests plus a little kitchen <strong>with</strong> everything we need. Upstairs there are bedrooms <strong>with</strong> en<br />
suites and mountain views. A woven woollen rug leads up the middle of the polished<br />
wooden stairs and there are sheepskins on the floors and chairs. The beds and furniture are<br />
made from thick tree trunks and saplings.<br />
Casa Medievala<br />
We luxuriate in it all and discover that there are lots of TV channels including Euro<br />
sport, and even some in English. Next morning we call the owner and she gives the phone to<br />
her daughter who speaks English. I ask about washing our clothes. She says to put our<br />
laundry outside in a bag and a lady will wash it, no extra charge. The problem <strong>with</strong> the van‟s<br />
temperature gauge is hanging over us and I ask where to find a mechanic. She tells us there‟s<br />
one fifty yards along the road and John goes to see him <strong>with</strong> diagrams and hope<strong>full</strong>y all the<br />
appropriate words written in Romanian on a piece of paper. He can‟t do the work but says to<br />
try the auto electrician just by the church.<br />
126
John Explains the Temperature Problem<br />
We do a few trips back and forth to the van for food and clothes to last a few days in<br />
case it has to spend time in the garage, then walk into town to find the auto electrician. John<br />
brings out the diagram and the Romanian words. Yes he can fix it, bring the van in now. We<br />
grate<strong>full</strong>y oblige.<br />
Standing in the snow the guy looks under the bonnet <strong>with</strong> a couple of older helpers.<br />
After a few commands of “Contact! No contact!” to John in the driver‟s seat, he shows us<br />
that a wire connected to the temperature gauge has worn, fixes it and asks for thirty lei (six<br />
pounds). His friends are jubilant and each gives an explanation in Romanian. We hand the<br />
auto electrician fifty lei and he initially wants to give change but John says “Have a beer!”<br />
and he replies <strong>with</strong> a grin “Ten beers!”<br />
Thank goodness we kept going and didn‟t succumb to panic and call for help on the<br />
drive in. Hugely relieved we go to the tiny hardware shop next door and each buy a pair of<br />
shiny blue Wellington boots. We desperately need them <strong>with</strong> the slushy snow and water<br />
running everywhere. The guy serving John is so pleased <strong>with</strong> the exchange that he shakes<br />
him by the hand <strong>with</strong> a big smile. We just love the Romanians. They are so warm and<br />
unaffected.<br />
We spend the afternoon reading and John names <strong>photos</strong> on the laptop, listens to music<br />
and plays Solitaire. If the van is the mother ship the laptop is the life support. We store our<br />
127
<strong>photos</strong> on it, I type emails on Word, and when we manage to get online we send and receive<br />
emails, and chat and make phone calls on skype. We keep it hidden under the seat, and<br />
charge the battery <strong>with</strong> an inverter plugged into the cigarette lighter. It‟s enhanced our travel<br />
enormously.<br />
I cook chicken stew <strong>with</strong> mushrooms and pull out a packet of instant dumpling mix<br />
from Poland. The snow is thawing and the guttering off the roof streams all day. From our<br />
bedroom we look to the east onto the steep Bucegi Mountains <strong>with</strong> the highest peak eight<br />
thousand feet. The clouds over the mountains are constantly changing. There‟s a drama<br />
unfolding on the TV news <strong>with</strong> an avalanche in that area and two tourists missing. Rescuers<br />
are probing the snow <strong>with</strong> sticks, and rescue dogs are helping as well. We never hear the<br />
outcome.<br />
Casa Medievala has a large flat backyard <strong>with</strong> old apple trees. We see great tits,<br />
fieldfares, magpies, crows and jays. Bran Castle is visible from the front door. There is also<br />
a covered barbecue area and best of all a circular summer house <strong>with</strong> a table and chairs. The<br />
interior walls are covered <strong>with</strong> beautiful woven woollen rugs. A pity it‟s too cold to eat out<br />
there.<br />
On our second day things are thawing and the roads and footpaths are streaming from<br />
piles of slushy snow. The following day it snows heavily again. We just read and take it<br />
easy. We venture out in the middle of the day in search of an internet cafe but no joy. It‟s a<br />
tourist centre, mainly because Bram Stoker‟s Dracula was set in Bran Castle which is in the<br />
middle of town and beautiful today in the snow. Tacky souvenir stands are everywhere. I<br />
buy a bowler hat off a chap who looks like a farmer, selling astrakhan hats, sheep‟s cheese,<br />
and mutton which he slices off on the table in front of him. There are only a couple of little<br />
shops and nowhere to buy food.<br />
128
Bran Castle<br />
Then I discover that the Wolf supermarket is back on the road into town. John goes<br />
home and I walk to the supermarket. When I get back I see that Stella the owner of Casa<br />
Medievala has turned up <strong>with</strong> a TV crew. John has already been interviewed and they want<br />
to interview me. I pull off my coat and hat and try to look less dishevelled, and then I‟m<br />
answering questions in front of the camera about why we came here and what we like about<br />
Romania. It‟s not difficult but I wonder if we are quite the kind of tourists Stella wants to<br />
attract! Anyway the film crew leaves and we have a quick talk to Stella who hugs us both.<br />
She seems very entrepreneurial. I notice when she‟s gone that she has left some Christmas<br />
lilies in a vase on the table and the perfume is fabulous.<br />
Next day we take the van for a drive up the road to make sure it goes OK after first<br />
scraping then melting a vast quantity of ice on the windscreen. The snowploughs are on the<br />
go constantly and people are shovelling and sweeping everywhere. The footpaths are too<br />
slushy to walk on and even school children and old people are walking on the road dodging<br />
the lorries. Men are digging ditches, and putting roofs on buildings. We go to the<br />
supermarket and John asks if they have any empty wine boxes as we need to replace the ones<br />
we use as a pantry behind the driver‟s seat. The guy brings out <strong>full</strong> boxes of wine! Clearly<br />
tourists never usually ask for empty boxes.<br />
There are dogs on the cadge everywhere, often bitches <strong>with</strong> pups. The horse and cart<br />
combinations we‟ve seen in Bran have been a pleasing example of harmony where the drivers<br />
have kind hands and the horses‟ heads are at a comfortable height. It‟s a rare sight.<br />
129
The tele comes up trumps <strong>with</strong> a repeat of the New Zealand vs Australia league final,<br />
Oprah, the World FEI show jumping from Stuttgart, and a series of New Zealand<br />
programmes about survival, where brave hunters recount their struggles to stay alive <strong>with</strong><br />
horrendous injuries in the bush. I make mashed potatoes from real potatoes, and mashed<br />
carrots. Life is sweet. A temperature of minus nine is predicted overnight. The guard in the<br />
truck stop told John that minus twenty nine is common.<br />
We plan our next moves: first of all to quit this alpine area when we feel rested, then<br />
to head to the Danube Delta and down the Black Sea coast. Places we‟ve talked about for so<br />
long.<br />
Crossing the Danube<br />
Next day we get the bum‟s rush from Casa Medievala as Stella has a large number of<br />
new guests arriving. We have about an hour to pack up and fortunately we‟ve already sorted<br />
out the van so it‟s not too bad. It‟s a glorious day and we set out about midday, back through<br />
Brasov then south into the mountains. It‟s the Friday of their big holiday weekend for 1<br />
December, the Romanian national celebration of being one country. The road is <strong>full</strong> of<br />
lorries and it‟s lined <strong>with</strong> steep hillsides covered in beautiful tall snow covered tsuga trees.<br />
There are amazing alpine scenes, and cold looking people selling honey on the roadside. We<br />
go past a WW1 cemetery and pass through the outskirts of Sinaia.<br />
Slow Driving<br />
As we head downhill the snow disappears. Bumper to bumper traffic heads north,<br />
people getting away from Bucharest for the holiday weekend. We‟ve already decided not to<br />
130
visit Bucharest <strong>with</strong> its excesses from the Ceausescu era. We pass beautiful old houses <strong>with</strong><br />
carved and painted balconies like the ones in Poland. Then the landscape changes completely<br />
and we‟re travelling on a fantastic motorway across prairie land, <strong>with</strong> huge bright green fields<br />
of new crop beside big stock barns and silos.<br />
When we turn east near Poiesti there‟s chaos <strong>with</strong> lorries and buses driving down the<br />
wrong side of the road and a car on the footpath. Then we see a horse and cart on the<br />
motorway. At Chitorani there are vineyards and bags of grapes, cabbages and perfect yellow<br />
quinces for sale. The road is completely flat and straight for miles. The soil is beautiful and<br />
black. A dead animal by the roadside looks like a fox but John says it has a face like a cat.<br />
We learn later that they have an animal called a wild cat that <strong>size</strong>. Then we drive through<br />
Mizil and the side streets are mud. We‟re travelling north east <strong>with</strong> a flamingo pink sun in a<br />
ball behind us. The road is an avenue of walnut trees. We park next to a Turkish lorry at a<br />
truck stop near Stalpu which has showers and a laundry. We have a meal in the restaurant<br />
before climbing into the back of the van for the night.<br />
Not for the Faint Hearted<br />
Next day we head through heavily industrialised Buzau. We see the usual new and<br />
abandoned factories, and a steelworks. There are always dead dogs by the roadside and stray<br />
dogs hanging around every car park. Then it‟s farm land vast and flat <strong>with</strong> no fences. The<br />
enormous feedlot and silo complexes contrast <strong>with</strong> the horses, carts, and shepherds <strong>with</strong> their<br />
flocks. Strip farming and market gardening flourish on the black loamy soil.<br />
131
We stop at a level crossing for a train that‟s a long time coming. Cars are pulled up<br />
on both sides and people occupy themselves by looking under their bonnets and tinkering<br />
<strong>with</strong> their engines. Four dogs are begging and we feed one.<br />
Some of the houses look poor and derelict yet there‟s washing on the line. Some have<br />
satellite dishes as well. Out on the vast empty plain the occasional shepherd‟s yards have<br />
teepees made from cornstalks. The road is lined <strong>with</strong> bare trees the entire way. Some people<br />
are gathering firewood <strong>with</strong> two horses and carts. The horses are contentedly eating grass,<br />
coats thrown over their backs to keep them warm. We spot a flock of birds in the distance<br />
and stop to look <strong>with</strong> the binoculars. They‟re geese. We‟re getting near the Delta.<br />
The towns often have no footpaths, just mud, huge abandoned factories, and<br />
crumbling apartment blocks. There are oil wells <strong>with</strong> pumps everywhere. We see a woman<br />
driving a horse and cart, a first. All the backyards are <strong>full</strong> of mud, <strong>with</strong> poultry and stacks of<br />
cornstalks. Signs tell us that various projects are financed by the EU. We see mobile<br />
irrigation sprayers and a helicopter. This is the first time we‟ve seen agribusiness in<br />
Romania. Surprisingly some trees are still in leaf: willows and chestnuts.<br />
We arrive in Braila and stop at a massive new Carrefour. In the car park we talk to a<br />
young couple who tell us the election is at the weekend but they won‟t be voting because<br />
there is so much corruption among the politicians. Unemployment benefits are very low as<br />
are pensions and it‟s a constant struggle for people. Many want to emigrate to Australia or<br />
New Zealand but it costs a lot of money and takes a long time. We park in a car park in<br />
town, get straight online and listen to the rugby on New Zealand‟s Radio Sport.<br />
Our Park in Braila<br />
132
Ladies in Braila<br />
Next morning it‟s foggy. A hearse drives by and it has “Memento Mori” painted on<br />
the side. We drive around some of Braila to charge the laptop. Beside the Danube River it‟s<br />
a huge mess of abandoned industrial buildings, mud, dogs, dead rats, and rubbish. Some<br />
parts are being renovated but in general the buildings are crumbling. We get the feeling that<br />
there‟s no money for the most basic infrastructure. Everywhere people are trudging through<br />
the mud. Why are there so many dogs? We drive down to where the ferry crosses the river<br />
(there seem to be no bridges) and decide to cross to the other side today.<br />
133
Crossing the Danube<br />
On the east bank of the river the houses and farmsteads are poor. It looks like a<br />
purely subsistence existence. We stop by the side of the road and see a forest of poplars <strong>with</strong><br />
the roots buttressed from growing in wet conditions. Then there are vineyards, often <strong>with</strong> no<br />
trellises holding up the vines. It‟s a flood plain <strong>with</strong> ditches, and the road is on a higher level.<br />
We drive down an avenue of walnuts. A guy drives his horse and cart flat out downhill on tar<br />
seal. As always, shepherds and their flocks creep across the landscape. The country reminds<br />
us of Central Otago <strong>with</strong> its rocky hills and worked terraces. The fog clears and we‟re in the<br />
sun and what do we see? More rubbish and stray dogs! A Humvee is parked outside a house.<br />
There are fences made of reeds which look like bamboo. Luncavita is a nice little town<br />
where people are out walking, very Russian looking <strong>with</strong> fur hats and big coats. The Ukraine<br />
is just across the river.<br />
Then we‟re above thousands of acres of reeds, like a vast golden wheat field. They‟re<br />
in flower, eight feet tall, like skinny pampas grass. It‟s a captivating landscape. We also see<br />
a narrow lake <strong>with</strong> reeds on both shores, so beautiful. Every roof is made of reeds, and every<br />
shed has reed walls as well.<br />
134
Reeds, Danube Delta<br />
At Isaccea the Ukraine is just a stone‟s throw away. There‟s a building made of mud<br />
bricks, and tiny carts pulled by ponies. A couple of expensive motor boats on trailers pass us<br />
going the other way. We drive down an avenue of oak trees that goes on for miles and the<br />
fog descends again. It must be off the Danube. We see a stunted oak forest <strong>with</strong> cows<br />
grazing underneath. The sun comes out and there are little beech trees and hawthorn <strong>with</strong><br />
berries. A bridge is being renovated, <strong>with</strong> plastic over the concrete, and bundles of reeds<br />
holding the plastic down. Reed boats are pulled up on a lake shore. The countryside is<br />
terraced and in grass.<br />
People are always hitchhiking, not <strong>with</strong> the thumb, just waving the palm of the hand.<br />
We‟re far too cautious to pick anyone up. We reach the outskirts of Tulcea past massive<br />
steelworks and pipelines, then find a park right beside the ferry wharf. It‟s a perfect spot.<br />
We go for a walk and John is amazed at the scaffolding on buildings – just random planks<br />
nailed together.<br />
On our second day in Tulcea we check out the Natural History Museum. There‟s a<br />
display of stuffed birds from the Delta, a stuffed raccoon dog, and an aquarium <strong>with</strong> carp,<br />
perch, and sturgeons which are skinny and elaborately patterned. They come to lay their eggs<br />
in the Danube in August and September. Some are caught and the eggs taken for caviar.<br />
The car park is very pleasant. Taxis spend a lot of time there. When the drivers have<br />
to move up the queue they get out and push the taxi to the next position. All along the wharf<br />
area in front of us, ferries and other boats come and go. We‟re amazed that expensive motors<br />
135
are left on small boats. People must be very honest. We try to work out which of the three<br />
branches of the Danube we should explore by ferry and end up choosing the Sulina arm.<br />
It‟s very hard leaving our precious van and all our gear in the car park for a couple of<br />
nights. But we catch a fast ferry to Sulina, travelling the seventy five kilometres in ninety<br />
minutes. The windows are cloudy and you can‟t go on deck so we don‟t see as much as we<br />
would have liked. The passengers are all locals, very Russian looking <strong>with</strong> high cheekbones.<br />
They‟ve been to Tulcea to do their shopping and the boat is packed <strong>with</strong> those large red,<br />
white and blue striped bags used by poor people everywhere. The Danube is blue, there‟s no<br />
driftwood, but always plastic flotsam and jetsam. We see donkeys pulling a cart,<br />
transmission lines, trees <strong>with</strong> exposed roots, houses <strong>with</strong> reed roofs and satellite dishes, logs<br />
on barges, little skinny black boats pointed at both ends, and little jetties. A ship passes us<br />
heading upstream. Cattle and herds of horses are grazing. Reeds are growing out of the water<br />
and a big bird of prey is cruising above them.<br />
View from the Boat<br />
At Sulina we find the Perla Pension which has wifi! We take a room on the second<br />
floor looking straight out on the river and all the action. It‟s a frontier town. There are men<br />
in boats everywhere just like in Venice. The temperatures are in double figures.<br />
136
Sulina<br />
Water For Chocolate<br />
The Danube Delta covers four thousand square kilometres of reeds and marsh and the<br />
guid<strong>ebook</strong> describes it as the youngest, least stable landscape in Europe. Every year forty<br />
million tonnes of alluvium are dumped into it. Fishing communities have lived here for<br />
centuries, including Lipovani, blonde haired Russians who came here in the 1700s to escape<br />
religious persecution. Ceausescu, the notoriously repressive Communist leader from 1969 to<br />
1989, planned to drain it for agriculture. After the revolution in 1990 it was declared a<br />
Biosphere Reserve, <strong>with</strong> five hundred square kilometres strictly protected, and in 1991 a<br />
UNESCO World Heritage Site. It‟s a very important area for birds, particularly when they<br />
migrate in autumn and spring. It also has wolves, bears, mink and otters, and forests of oak,<br />
poplar, ash and willow. There are three main channels from Tulcea to the Black Sea, and a<br />
maze of canals, lakes and swamps. In the summer it‟s plagued <strong>with</strong> mosquitoes and horse<br />
flies. According to the guid<strong>ebook</strong> the Cousteau Foundation has a base at Uzlina where the<br />
Biosphere Reserve has an information centre in Ceausescu‟s former hunting lodge.<br />
137
House <strong>with</strong> Reed Roof<br />
Apparently Sulina was described as a port by a Byzantine scribe in 950 AD and it‟s<br />
been one ever since. Currently the population is five thousand, but Sulina‟s best years are<br />
clearly in the past. A promenade runs for a mile along the river‟s edge, and ferries, plus the<br />
little motor boats <strong>with</strong> fancy outboards so loved by the men, are tied up everywhere. There is<br />
no road access, so there are just a few vehicles, <strong>with</strong> rundown houses, pensions, restaurants<br />
and food shops. Dogs are sprawled everywhere in the sun. The three main streets are called<br />
Strada 1, 2 and 3 - very Communist and dehumanising; shades of Kapka Kassabova‟s book<br />
“Street Without a Name” about growing up in Sofia, Bulgaria in apartment block 328, and<br />
going to school 81. We have dinner in the pension restaurant – fish roe on toast <strong>with</strong> red<br />
onion, followed by carp cooked in a stock <strong>with</strong> tomatoes and peppers. Delicious, but bony<br />
and expensive. At night the town is completely blanketed in fog.<br />
138
Sulina<br />
Next day we go on foot in search of the Black Sea, stopping off at the cemetery which<br />
has Jewish, Turkish, Orthodox and Anglican sections. In the tiny Anglican section the graves<br />
are mostly of drowned sailors from the mid 1800s. One is from North Shields, another from<br />
South Shields, and one from Hull. There are also some English children who died of typhoid,<br />
and an English man who “died from the effects of climate”. One has the inscription “Boy,<br />
erected by his shipmates”. An old horse drawn hearse <strong>with</strong> large carved wooden angels on<br />
top is being given a spruce up by the sexton.<br />
139
Hearse<br />
We walk across the salt marsh which has grass and grazing cows, past some new<br />
houses, and we‟re at the beach. The Black Sea at last, four months after heading inland from<br />
Dunkirk. We‟re thrilled to have come so far. It‟s very sandy and there‟s even a tower for the<br />
lifeguards. I find a couple of black ram‟s horn shells. The river mouth which the ships<br />
navigate is far away. A dead raccoon dog, just like the one we saw at the museum in Tulcea,<br />
lies on the road.<br />
After a couple of nights at Sulina we catch the ferry back to Tulcea <strong>with</strong> the Beatles<br />
on the radio, and lots of locals, one <strong>with</strong> an outboard motor under his arm. Back at the car<br />
park our precious van is safe and sound. We take our washing to the laundry and I get a bit<br />
worked up when the young woman starts picking our clothes out of the bag and laying them<br />
on the counter, charging for each item separately. The combination of seeing our knickers<br />
spread out along the counter and the escalating cost pushes a few of my buttons. John calms<br />
me down, and they get the boss, who works out a much better price based on the weight. We<br />
pay up and leave. At the market we buy garlic, carrots, parsnips and spinach, and some flat<br />
bread that we gnaw on as we sit in the park <strong>with</strong> all the old men in their fur hats. Three<br />
Gypsy children stride past <strong>with</strong> sacks of empty bottles over their shoulders, on a mission.<br />
We head off to the Ethnographic Museum where a helpful young man gives us a tour.<br />
There‟s an exhibition about some of the twenty different ethnic groups who‟ve lived in the<br />
area: Romanians, Turks, Tatars, Italians, Greeks, Slavs, Bulgarians, Lipovani. All are<br />
distinguished by their religion, but many of their handcrafts appear very similar to our eyes.<br />
Our guide tells us that the people in the Delta are Slavs and speak half Russian and half<br />
Romanian. He says the houses are often made of clay which is mined from twenty feet under<br />
140
the sand. Since the metalwork factories closed down many people are unemployed and<br />
subsist only. They are allowed to catch ten kilos of fish per day. He tells us that most of the<br />
locals opposed the creation of the Biosphere Reserve as it hasn‟t brought any benefit to them<br />
at all. In its heyday, Sulina was a thriving free port, a bit like Amsterdam today.<br />
Next we visit the Museum of Archaeology and History where there are artefacts<br />
dating back to the 11 th century BC. We see ceramics, jewellery and daggers, plus lots of<br />
Roman, Turkish and Byzantine coins. Everything has been found <strong>with</strong>in a fifty kilometre<br />
radius of Tulcea. The town is quite Turkish in some parts <strong>with</strong> a mosque from the middle of<br />
the 19 th century, and there are mosques in several villages. We walk back along the river and<br />
see a ship being moved by two tugs from the ship building yard. A tiny ferry bringing people<br />
from the other side of the river sets off at an incredible lean. The bottom is fouled and it<br />
doesn‟t look seaworthy. Some passengers have parked their horse and cart near the jetty on<br />
the other side.<br />
I visit the Delta Biosphere office and buy licences to enter protected areas. It seems<br />
very casual and they don‟t appear to have any requirements for visitors but we want to be<br />
legit. I also pass a fish shop which smells and has heaps of small fish in a pile under the glass<br />
counter, selling for fifty pence a kilo. Fishing gear, boats and outboards are for sale<br />
everywhere.<br />
The following day we drive a little way out of town and park on a hill to watch the<br />
birds over an area of reeds and wetland. A peregrine falcon flies over the top of us. There is<br />
also a herd of goats <strong>with</strong> goatherds. A donkey trots past pulling a cart of cabbage leaves. A<br />
Gypsy family going to town <strong>with</strong> their horse and cart slow down when I wave and a young<br />
boy runs back and comes up to the window. I give him a few lei and he beams then races<br />
back to the cart and jumps over the back while it‟s moving.<br />
We arrive in Malcoci looking for water. There are public water pumps beside the<br />
road and we stop and try a couple but no water comes out. I notice a woman over the fence<br />
beckoning to me. Then her neighbour comes out waving and indicates in sign language that<br />
she can give us water. I carry the container to her front yard and she insists on holding it<br />
under the garden tap then helps me to carry it back to the van. John gets out to thank her and<br />
she clasps both his hands in hers and looks into his eyes <strong>with</strong> intense goodwill and happiness.<br />
It‟s an emotional moment. She would be in her fifties, neatly dressed <strong>with</strong> a headscarf, and a<br />
lovely kind face. You can only imagine what difficulties she has experienced in her life. We<br />
feel quite overwhelmed.<br />
The Delta being such a birdwatchers‟ paradise, we‟re keen to see some unfamiliar<br />
birds so next day we head to Murighiol. We park beside Lake Saraturii, after driving along a<br />
sandy track. There are a couple of flocks of sheep in the distance, each <strong>with</strong> a shepherd, a<br />
rubbish dump on a hill <strong>with</strong> a low fence around it, and plastic bags being blown all over the<br />
countryside. The shepherds are quietly moving their flocks along, letting the sheep graze on<br />
141
the very meagre plants. One of them casually heads towards the van and John waves to him.<br />
He comes to the window and they communicate a bit <strong>with</strong>out words; how many dogs he has<br />
and such like. He asks John for a cigarette. I‟m in the back making coffee and since we<br />
don‟t smoke I suggest we give him some chocolate. John hands him a block of caramelised<br />
hazel nut, our favourite. He stands looking at it, turning it over in his hands, then indicates<br />
<strong>with</strong> a chopping motion that he‟ll share it <strong>with</strong> his friend. He walks towards the other<br />
shepherd some distance away, turns, and blows John a kiss. We love the Romanians.<br />
We‟re excited to see a hen harrier, red breasted geese, and swans. A car appears in<br />
the distance. It‟s the ranger and he tells us we‟ve driven too far along the track to the lake<br />
and we must leave. No mention of our passes.<br />
Our next destination is the Roman ruin at Halmyris which was continuously inhabited<br />
from the 6 th century BC to the 7 th century AD. Two Christians from Asia Minor (Turkey),<br />
Epictet and Astion, were tortured and executed there in 290 AD after refusing to renounce<br />
Christianity. Excavations uncovered their crypt in 2001. The site we walk around covers<br />
two hectares and apparently the excavation has only just begun. We‟re shocked that there are<br />
no restrictions at all and it would be easy to souvenir pieces of stone or tiles.<br />
Halmyris<br />
Later we find a car park <strong>with</strong> a guard in a little hut. We spend two nights there in the<br />
rain. Stray dogs hang around outside and we read all day long. I make girdle scones.<br />
Thoroughly rested we head south past various lakes and waterways, spotting a male<br />
hen harrier as we drive past Lake Saraturii. There are huge ploughed fields, young crops,<br />
142
cows and sheep outside, vast abandoned factory farms, and strip farming. We cross a plain<br />
through an avenue of walnut trees, followed by an avenue of poplars <strong>with</strong> the trunks<br />
completely covered in moss and lichen. The houses are white plaster, probably over mud and<br />
straw bricks, <strong>with</strong> bright blue front doors and window frames. At Sarichioi the men have<br />
long whiskers and an old chap is walking along the road pulling a cart loaded <strong>with</strong> reeds.<br />
Enisala has a fantastic citadel high on a hill, built by Genoese merchants in the 13 th century.<br />
There‟s mud everywhere. We come across a vineyard of old vines covering hundreds of<br />
acres. No tanalised posts, all concrete.<br />
Village Road<br />
At last we arrive in Babadag where we plan to stay the night. It‟s very Turkish <strong>with</strong><br />
the oldest mosque in Romania – 16 th century. The Turks have been here since the 1200s.<br />
We‟ve already heard the call to prayer. Babadag is a big enough town for us to park<br />
relatively anonymously in a car park beside some shops. There are lots of Gypsies and<br />
women wearing baggy Turkish trousers. As we travel east the Turkish influence increases.<br />
The borders between these countries have changed constantly over the centuries. By the time<br />
we get to Turkey we will be quite tuned in to mosques and Turkish ways.<br />
The Minions Go Soft<br />
In Babadag we see a man <strong>with</strong> two artificial arms. He has pink plastic hands hanging<br />
from his sleeves and his arms don‟t move at all. We also see two other men who are unable<br />
to walk. One is on a tiny wheeled trolley pulling himself along <strong>with</strong> his hands, and the other<br />
one has plastic protecting his knees and hands, and drags himself along the street. You don‟t<br />
see disabled people often unless they are begging.<br />
143
We leave Babadag and head towards Jurilovca, through country that resembles a<br />
moonscape. Here the carts have number plates. We pass one going quite fast, pulled by a<br />
horse in big shoes <strong>with</strong> raised heels. The horse is in good condition and the whole set up is in<br />
harmony, a rare sight. They head into a field towards a forest and we think they are going to<br />
get firewood.<br />
Well<br />
Reeds are in abundance, so beautiful and mysterious. The dark spaces between them<br />
have a beguiling depth and beauty. Low oak trees grow on grass, and further on the remnants<br />
of an ancient oak forest cover a hillside. Some army vehicles roar past.<br />
The road surface is the worst we‟ve been on and John can‟t get out of second gear.<br />
The holes are so enormous and take up so much of the road‟s surface that at times we have to<br />
travel on the wrong side. Fortunately there‟s hardly any traffic. A car comes towards us in<br />
the field and we realise that there‟s a parallel universe where the locals travel. We join them<br />
for a while <strong>with</strong> one set of wheels on the very edge of the road, and the other set in the field.<br />
There are no fences of course.<br />
144
A More Challenging Road<br />
Just before Salcioara we see huge flocks of birds on the horizon over Lake Razim. In<br />
a village where the road is riddled <strong>with</strong> pot holes an old lady in a donkey cart <strong>with</strong> steel<br />
wheels is working hard to get her tiny donkey moving. The police are lounging around but<br />
they never notice that we‟re driving a foreign vehicle.<br />
We drive down to the wharf at Jurilovca to have coffee. Boats of all sorts are tied up<br />
and nets are laid out alongside long poles. Information boards describe the wild creatures<br />
that live here: mink, otters, sturgeons, and the huge Dalmatian pelicans. Two Gypsy guys<br />
drive up in carts, park, and put blankets over their horses‟ backs. We saw them racing each<br />
other on the road into town earlier. A rooster crows and a donkey brays. There‟s a factory<br />
supported by the EU and a boat called Moana 2 which reminds us of New Zealand.<br />
You can catch a boat from here to Gura Portitei on a narrow strip of sand at the mouth<br />
of the lake where there‟s a resort. The guide book says that in Communist times it was one of<br />
the few places where people could escape the attention of the Securitate. We see wells in<br />
town <strong>with</strong> signs “Apa Potabila”, “Apa Nepotabila”.<br />
Then we‟re back in the country again <strong>with</strong> a huge empty sky, and on the horizon a<br />
lake and distant hills. In Visina a guy is beating carpets <strong>with</strong> a stick. Juri and Visina are very<br />
neat <strong>with</strong> nice footpaths, a rarity, but off the main road the streets are still mud. Interestingly<br />
the schools and playgrounds are always immaculately kept. The only birds around are crows<br />
and pigeons. We‟re in fourth gear for the first time today! In Lunca a woman is in her front<br />
yard beside a well, washing clothes in a bath.<br />
145
The farms are huge <strong>with</strong> big complexes of stock barns and implements but no farm<br />
houses. We think they must all be owned by companies <strong>with</strong> the workers living in the<br />
surrounding villages. There are stacks of conventional small hay bales, and wind generators<br />
on the horizon. We go past Baia and see a mine <strong>with</strong> vast tailings, then an enormous factory.<br />
A flock of <strong>colour</strong>ed sheep and goats graze on the remnants of a cabbage crop.<br />
We drive out on a causeway across reed beds to the coast to see Histria, an ancient<br />
citadel <strong>with</strong> a museum. There are two pelicans flying high and crested larks feeding on the<br />
ground. The museum has a map of the archaeological sites in the area – Neolithic, Greek,<br />
Roman, Byzantine, Medieval. The oldest artefacts in the museum are from 5000 BC. There<br />
are marble and stone columns, remnants of buildings, inscribed burial stones, and Roman<br />
water pipes. Lots of Greek pottery of all types is also displayed including some from Lesbos,<br />
plus beautiful Roman glass bottles, and from a later era little glass lamps from the Christian<br />
basilica. The two thousand year old Greek and Latin inscriptions in stone are always<br />
compelling, even if we can‟t understand them. Outside we walk around the excavations and<br />
see walls, wells and pillars in marble and stone.<br />
To the south a vast oil refinery sits on the edge of the Black Sea. It‟s the<br />
petrochemical complex at Navodari. We drive past it on the road to Constanta, along a strip<br />
of land about two hundred yards wide <strong>with</strong> a lake on one side, the Black Sea on the other, and<br />
the resort town of Mamaia in the middle. It has about seventy hotels, mostly ugly monolithic<br />
structures which date from the Communist era. The restaurants and shops are all closed, as<br />
it‟s the off season, but the tourist information and accommodation office is open. We go in<br />
and five startled staff stare at us. They‟re like the cast of some young and beautiful soap<br />
opera. They can only suggest one hotel and are very vague on the issue of wifi. We drive<br />
past a wharf on the lake side where about fifty men are fishing shoulder to shoulder. John<br />
watches them for a while before we park close by for the night.<br />
In the morning there‟s ice inside the van, and we‟re ready for some luxury! We check<br />
out a couple of camping grounds <strong>with</strong> cabins then find the Hotel Minion towards the<br />
petrochemical end of the town. Twenty pounds a night, everything brand new, a view of the<br />
sea, and wifi that doesn‟t work - it suits us fine. We go to the supermarket and our progress<br />
towards Turkey is rewarded <strong>with</strong> Turkish delight, dried figs and halva. We carry all our food<br />
up to the room plus the little gas cooker and coffee pot. The sheets are white. Paradise. We<br />
watch the World Chopping Champs on TV and a Kiwi wins everything! Next day we stroll<br />
down to the beach past half built houses and low apartment blocks. Many have been<br />
abandoned half way through construction. There are dogs, puppies and rubbish galore, and<br />
on the beach, mussel and clam shells.<br />
146
Pothole<br />
Next day we drive into the port of Constanta where ships are anchored in the bay. We<br />
park on the sea front and discover that a massive swell is pounding the shore. It‟s so<br />
dramatic that the locals are there taking <strong>photos</strong>.<br />
Roman and Greek ruins stand alongside ugly old apartment blocks and crumbling<br />
buildings. In 8 AD the Roman poet Ovid was exiled here by Augustus who didn‟t like his<br />
“Amores” poems. Poor Ovid hated the place and died here. We visit his statue then come<br />
across a noisy demonstration of young men that appears to be about car tax. The Gendarmes<br />
are in riot gear <strong>with</strong> a huge paddy wagon, and the fire engine has its hoses laid out ready to<br />
use. We find a laundry where it will take a week to do our washing. We decide to leave the<br />
next morning, then spend a great night by the sea <strong>with</strong> the waves crashing. We‟re parked<br />
close to the Chinese embassy which has a police guard, and feel very safe.<br />
One of the funny things about driving a right hand drive vehicle in a left hand drive<br />
world is that the passenger gets eyeballed by cops and other drivers, because from a distance,<br />
looking into the van you can‟t see the steering wheel. This happens as we travel down a busy<br />
boulevard leaving Constanta. I‟m on the receiving end of a very disapproving stare from a<br />
cop directing traffic, because of some minor transgression.<br />
We continue down the Black Sea coast and across the Danube-Black Sea Canal which<br />
was begun in 1949. It came to be known as the Canal of Death as about 50,000 workers died<br />
on it, most there as forced labour, sentenced <strong>with</strong>out trial to six months work. These<br />
unfortunate people included Uniate priests, peasants who resisted collectivisation, and people<br />
147
caught trying to flee the country. The canal was abandoned in 1953 as the chosen route was<br />
unsuitable. But it was resumed <strong>with</strong> a new route in 1975.<br />
We travel past various tacky resort towns then Mangalia which has a port <strong>with</strong> ship<br />
building beside the road. We check out the tiny beach of Vama Veche as a possible place to<br />
stay the night. It‟s covered in rubbish and stray dogs so we decide to drive across the border<br />
into Bulgaria instead. We‟re sad to leave Romania, land of cows, dogs, carts, and wonderful<br />
people, our favourite country so far. But winter keeps catching up <strong>with</strong> us. Turkey and the<br />
Aegean are calling.<br />
Adio to Romania<br />
148
Chapter 7 Bulgaria, Turkey<br />
13 December – 11 January<br />
Rose Petal Jam<br />
The border crossing into Bulgaria is in the middle of nowhere. We hand over our<br />
passports and van ownership papers and the guard has a look in the back. Then we buy a<br />
motorway vignette, change our remaining lei into leva, ask the woman in the money<br />
exchange how to say hello, goodbye and thank you in Bulgarian, and get out the Bulgarian<br />
road atlas.<br />
The scale of the atlas is so good, we‟re a couple of towns further along before we<br />
realise that we‟ve already passed the place we‟d picked out to spend the night. So we stop in<br />
Kavarna and drive around looking for a place to park. During our search we drive into a<br />
Gypsy area where people are crowded over the road watching some teenage girls performing<br />
on a stage. We end up in the car park at the bus station between two defunct Skodas. I make<br />
chicken and vege stew, we get straight online, and then turn in at six thirty. A new country is<br />
always exhausting and here their Cyrillic alphabet is an added complication, although street<br />
signs have our alphabet as well.<br />
I finish “Portrait of a Turkish Family” by Irfan Orga (born in 1908) which has<br />
demystified Turkey for me somewhat. It tells the story of a family living a comfortable and<br />
traditional life in Istanbul at the end of the Ottoman Empire, only to be plunged into financial<br />
disaster and instability <strong>with</strong> WW1 and Mustafa Kemal Ataturk‟s new order in the 1920s.<br />
Next day we drive through flat and fertile country <strong>with</strong> huge agribusiness, and it‟s<br />
very green, <strong>with</strong> no fences and no stock in sight, only massive barns and silos, and long<br />
shelter belts. We‟re still beside the coast and there are some small estuaries <strong>with</strong> reeds, a<br />
vineyard, and lots of cabbages. The villages are much tidier <strong>with</strong> better footpaths and roads<br />
than in Romania, and there‟s virtually no traffic. The potholes of Eastern Europe have<br />
reminded us of something that happened when we lived in Surrey. One day we were driving<br />
along the very busy country road where we lived and we saw a woman by the side of the road<br />
taking a photo of a pothole. She told us she‟d driven into it and ruined her suspension, and<br />
she was taking a photo to show the council. The next day the pothole was filled in.<br />
When we get to the coast, the town of Balcik is hilly <strong>with</strong> white cliffs like Dover, <strong>with</strong><br />
lots of new apartments for sale, the advertisements in English. It has a Mediterranean feel.<br />
Then along the coast, Albena the newest Black Sea resort town has seven kilometres of beach<br />
<strong>with</strong> golden sand. The hotels are new and attractive, and the place is completely deserted.<br />
We have our lunch parked beside the beach then get lost finding our way back to the main<br />
road, through a maze of streets, hotels and dead ends. Back on track we drive through oak<br />
149
forest, then trees growing out of swamp, and we look down steep roads that lead to resorts on<br />
the coast.<br />
We drive into Varna a big city <strong>with</strong> a port and fifteen ships anchored in the bay, and<br />
look around for a cheap hotel. We find the Hotel Relax right in town, twenty quid a night,<br />
croissants and short black coffees for breakfast, and fantastic reliable wifi in the bedroom.<br />
Next day I go out for a haircut and one of the female hairdressers is shaving a male<br />
customer <strong>with</strong> a cut throat razor. I walk past real estate agents <strong>with</strong> advertisements in<br />
English, aimed at the Brits who buy apartments here. One of the spinoffs is that I can buy the<br />
Times, Newsweek and Time magazines at a newsstand. We spend three nights at the Hotel<br />
Relax skyping, looking on google earth, reading maps and guid<strong>ebook</strong>s, and planning Turkey.<br />
We even find a website <strong>with</strong> all the TIR truck stops in Europe. It seems appropriate as we‟re<br />
getting closer to Greece to have souvlakis for dinner.<br />
The hotel staff speak English and couldn‟t be more kind and attentive. They send our<br />
washing off <strong>with</strong> their laundry and it‟s done beauti<strong>full</strong>y and cheaply in a day. We go for a<br />
walk on the beach and find a fragment of black willow pattern china, a fitting souvenir from<br />
the Black Sea. We make the decision to drive down to Gallipoli and the Aegean coast to<br />
acclimatise, before taking on Istanbul.<br />
I start “A Tale of Two Cities” and Dickens‟ classic opening sentence about it being<br />
the best of times and the worst of times makes as much sense now as it did then.<br />
As we leave Varna I get distracted by a kestrel, there are no signposts where we<br />
expect to see them, and we get lost, always stressful. We‟re just remarking on how good the<br />
roads are when we drive into an area of potholes, shanty houses and huge piles of rubbish<br />
slipping down hillsides. Then we see the aftermath of an accident <strong>with</strong> several police cars<br />
descending on the scene. Fewer people seem to drive cars in Bulgaria <strong>with</strong> just a few old<br />
Ladas and some new cars, not like in Romania where so many people had old Dacias<br />
breaking down all over the place. We pass what looks like a Gypsy camp <strong>with</strong> caravans, then<br />
low oak forest, the trees black silhouettes <strong>with</strong> just a few tan <strong>colour</strong>ed leaves clinging on or<br />
lying on the ground. There are lots of vineyards and beautiful conifers.<br />
We arrive at the new town of Nesebar then drive across a causeway to the tiny old<br />
town, formerly an island. Its ancient Greek, Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman history make<br />
for a fascinating architectural mix. Wonderful ancient churches are constructed of stone and<br />
brick, a pleasing combination, while many of the old houses have wooden upper stories that<br />
jut out over the stone ground floors.<br />
It‟s dominated by the sea <strong>with</strong> fishing nets everywhere and boats ranging from<br />
dinghies to small ships. Stalls are hung <strong>with</strong> beautiful glittering fish, and we see herrings and<br />
piper in bins, jars of chopped fish in brine, little rays, and a flatfish eighteen inches across.<br />
150
We park right by the wharf to watch all the action, and eat delicious Bulgarian rose petal jam<br />
on toast.<br />
The car park attendant gives us an apple and a big snail shell. When we say we come<br />
from New Zealand he mentions Captain Cook. That night the light from the lighthouse<br />
flashes on our back curtain all night. In the morning when we‟re leaving our friend gives us<br />
another couple of apples and sprinkles water from a Coke bottle in front of the van,<br />
explaining in Bulgarian that it‟s a local custom. Bon voyage. Very touching. As we drive<br />
back across the causeway a tiny donkey is pulling a cart carrying two fat men.<br />
Nesebar<br />
Light rain is falling, the Black Sea is aquamarine, and the sky is grey. Ruffled birds<br />
of prey are hunched in trees. The Bulgarian Black Sea coast is very beautiful <strong>with</strong> cliffs,<br />
forests, and dramatic beaches. Some of the buildings have Turkish roofs. Bulgaria exports a<br />
lot of wine and there are vineyards <strong>with</strong> old vines right beside the sea. We‟ve bought a few<br />
bottles to take into Turkey.<br />
We arrive in Sozopol, a gorgeous little ancient fishing village <strong>with</strong> remnants of the<br />
old town walls towering high above the waves crashing below. There are ancient fig trees<br />
and men going fishing everywhere. Roses are still flowering and the last of the pomegranates<br />
hang from trees. We park by the wharf and open a carton of delicious quince juice.<br />
151
Sozopol<br />
Next morning as we‟re about to leave, John asks a man walking his dog which is the<br />
best way to the Turkish border, down the coast or down the middle. He‟s very friendly, a<br />
seaman for thirty years sailing all over the world. His advice is to take the inland route. We<br />
retrace our steps, after watching two men head out in an old open boat <strong>with</strong> a diesel engine,<br />
on a beautiful calm sea.<br />
There are pelicans on Lake Mandra then we move to high rolling country <strong>with</strong> grass,<br />
and oak forest. The road is rough and bouncy but there are no potholes and no other traffic.<br />
We see a flock of sheep <strong>with</strong> a shepherd, a herd of horses <strong>with</strong> a minder, then a young Gypsy<br />
cantering bareback on the grass at the edge of the road, <strong>with</strong> another horse on a lead. As we<br />
drink our coffee beside a forest of lichen encrusted trees we realise that our favourite<br />
guid<strong>ebook</strong> “On the Loose in Eastern Europe 1993”, bought from the Newcastle Public<br />
Library a few years ago for fifty pence, is of no further use as it stops at Bulgaria.<br />
It‟s a perfect sunny day <strong>with</strong> just the odd car passing and a lone cowbell. We are now<br />
entering the Strandja National Park which Kapka Kassabova describes in “Street <strong>with</strong>out a<br />
Name”. In the Communist era pre 1989 the border zone here between Turkey and Bulgaria<br />
was known as the Death Triangle. It was a very lonely and empty place where only the<br />
hundreds of border guards lived. Virtually no-one was allowed to cross into Turkey, and<br />
many young Eastern European people (particularly East Germans) were shot as they tried to<br />
escape across the border, evading the guards, then swimming the Resovska River. It makes<br />
us feel uneasy even now.<br />
152
We go through Zvezdec a desolate village of crumbling apartment blocks, then forest.<br />
At the turn off to Brasljan there are deserted apartment blocks and two policemen are leaning<br />
on the bonnet of an old Lada, watching the traffic go by. At Malko Tarnovo there‟s a sign for<br />
Istanbul, the first indication that this is the road to Turkey. Women are out sweeping the<br />
footpaths. Then there‟s forest of beech, alder and birch and lovely little vineyards and<br />
orchards <strong>with</strong> tiny cottages. The road is extremely windy and we begin to wonder if we‟ve<br />
taken a wrong turning. A light rain begins to fall.<br />
We‟re relieved when we see a sign saying that it‟s three kilometres to Turkey. There<br />
are huge beech trees and old street lights from a previous era. At the checkpoint we stop for<br />
the police and hand over our passports and vehicle ownership papers. They give us a<br />
memory stick and tell us to hand it in at the next checkpoint. We drive past a statue of<br />
Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the father of modern Turkey, not realising that we will see an army<br />
of them in the next few weeks. Altogether our documents are processed at six checkpoints,<br />
all <strong>with</strong> barricades. At one of them a large army lorry is coming the other way and John has<br />
to back up round the corner so it can get through. The guy who checks our vehicle insurance<br />
looks in the back of the van and grimaces. Then at the final check the guard says “Have a<br />
nice time. Do you know the way? Do you have computer navigation?” We have an A1<br />
<strong>size</strong>d map.<br />
Turkey at Last<br />
It couldn‟t be more different from the Romania to Bulgaria border crossing where the<br />
Romanians park their Dacias, show their passports, walk to a Bulgarian shop, buy things,<br />
then walk back to their cars and drive home. It‟s a good introduction to the military side of<br />
Turkey.<br />
153
The road is beautiful and smooth and there‟s not another car, just an avenue of bare<br />
birch trees. We pass a vast area of stacked metre lengths of beech firewood. Then the road<br />
surface suddenly deteriorates. We‟re beginning to think that countries try to impress<br />
newcomers at the border <strong>with</strong> a couple of miles of very good road, before the potholes and<br />
bumps begin.<br />
Our first Turkish village is Derekoy, and we see old ladies in headscarves, huge piles<br />
of firewood, beehives, small market stalls selling vegetables, rubbish in a stream, and our first<br />
Turkish bird of prey. It could be Romania, apart from the numerous marble fixtures<br />
supplying water on the side of the road both in towns and in the country - perfect for us to<br />
replenish our supplies whenever we wish. Every village has a mosque and the people look<br />
very poor. As we descend the weather clears, and in the distance we see a thermal power<br />
station <strong>with</strong> cooling towers. It‟s a new rocky landscape of red soil, small oaks, and pines.<br />
We look down over vast open country reminiscent of a scene from a Western.<br />
We pass grapevines, a horse stud, a big flock of sheep and goats, a pony pulling a<br />
little flat cart, crows, magpies, concrete aqueducts in fields, and stray dogs. At Kirklareli we<br />
see a sign back to Bulgaristan. There are huge new petrol stations, something we will see<br />
wherever we go in Turkey, and diesel is expensive. We wonder if the most expensive fuel in<br />
Europe is what keeps the roads so empty. Texts now cost us fifty pence, further evidence that<br />
we‟ve left the EU.<br />
We drive onto a toll motorway, so much more adept now than on our first encounter<br />
<strong>with</strong> one in Italy two years ago when we bungled every aspect of it and spent a couple of<br />
hours stressed and lost, <strong>with</strong>out a ticket, and unable to go forward or escape. The rest areas<br />
are large and empty, as if the motorway system has been designed for a far greater traffic<br />
volume. We turn off at Havsa and head south.<br />
It‟s all very familir <strong>with</strong> lots of motorbikes, cabbages for sale, and mud in the<br />
villages. We arrive in Osmanli at one o‟clock when the men are emerging from the mosque.<br />
The women are wearing baggy pants <strong>with</strong> the crutch virtually at ground level, very<br />
comfortable and hiding a multitude of sins. A shepherd is walking along the roadside <strong>with</strong> a<br />
small flock of goat like sheep.<br />
As we arrive in Uzunkopru two fighter planes fly over. The minarets of the mosques<br />
are like needles on the skyline. We drive along the main street and it‟s an intimidating flow<br />
of cars and pedestrians, <strong>with</strong> an untethered horse standing <strong>with</strong> a cart in the middle of it all.<br />
We‟re shaky and tired, quite unprepared for pedestrians to be mingling <strong>with</strong> traffic to this<br />
degree, so we find a quiet suburban street as soon as we can. There‟s an empty section and<br />
we park beside it, near low apartment buildings which have chimneys issuing coal smoke,<br />
and wood fired barbecues on the balconies.<br />
154
A woman comes out onto her balcony, throws a Coke bottle onto the grass below,<br />
then stands looking down at us for a while. At about six o‟clock a large lorry <strong>with</strong><br />
“Masallah” written on the front (“what Allah wills” – protection from the evil eye and traffic<br />
accidents) parks eyeball to eyeball <strong>with</strong> us. We‟re in the back of the van. The driver gets<br />
out, walks over to the van, looks in the front, goes back to the lorry, backs up a couple of feet<br />
then locks up for the night.<br />
At about two in the morning I‟m lying awake when there‟s a thump that shakes the<br />
van, and the tinkle of breaking glass. John is instantly awake and up beside the bulkhead, in<br />
time to see a man walking past the passenger‟s window. Then there‟s silence. We lie there<br />
wondering what‟s happened and who it was. We think the headlight has been smashed but<br />
stay inside the van for safety. It can all wait until the morning.<br />
Scene of the Crime<br />
After a broken sleep, next morning we discover that one of the front headlights has<br />
been smashed. Fortunately it still works. Luckily we have a thick sheet of magnifying<br />
plastic A5 <strong>size</strong>, and John cuts a piece to fit. He tapes this onto the light <strong>with</strong> gaffer tape,<br />
binding bits of broken glass in place as well. Kiwi ingenuity saves the day. Cars in this part<br />
of the world have far bigger defects so we hope that this won‟t attract the attention of the<br />
police. As it turns out, it lasts for the next six months.<br />
155
All Fixed<br />
John sweeps the broken glass off the road and we leave as fast as we can, feeling quite<br />
shaken and thinking that we must have upset the lorry driver by parking in his place. We<br />
decide to downplay this incident in our communications home as people will probably think<br />
we‟re in danger. Before leaving New Zealand four years earlier we worked out a policy to<br />
cover situations like this. We decided that we would allow ourselves only a few minutes of<br />
grief, before moving on <strong>with</strong> a positive attitude, trusting in the essential goodness of people.<br />
The Wine Dark Sea<br />
We drive south, through crops which are much further advanced than the ones in<br />
Romania; and we‟re thrilled to see our favourite umbrella (stone) pines. There are also dwarf<br />
oaks and low scrub in the poor soil. Large areas of reeds have been harvested, and we see an<br />
egret and some marsh harriers.<br />
We arrive in Gelibolu, stop on the roadside beside a marble merchant, and get straight<br />
online. We take turns to skype our families back home in New Zealand. A pony and cart go<br />
past, a plastic sheet over the pony‟s back and two men on the cart, one standing up holding a<br />
motorbike. We need to look for a place to stay. Gelibolu is on the Sea of Marmara at the<br />
beginning of the Dardanelles, the narrow strip of water that leads to the Aegean Sea to the<br />
south. It has a beautiful port area <strong>with</strong> ships, ferries, fishing boats and nets galore.<br />
All of the shipping to and from the Black Sea has to pass this piece of coast and<br />
there‟s a fascinating procession of ships coming and going. There are military sites <strong>with</strong><br />
156
armed guards everywhere. We park near a small pillbox occupied by an armed soldier,<br />
figuring that the van will be safe there, and walk into town.<br />
Happy Ponies<br />
It‟s mostly men who are about, <strong>with</strong> some younger women. The women my age all<br />
wear headscarves. We enter a market where ponies are resting <strong>with</strong> their little carts,<br />
nosebags on, and old Turkish carpets over their backs. The owners are in a cafe. In fact the<br />
cafes are <strong>full</strong> of men. I spot an old building <strong>with</strong> the sign “Hamam Turkish Bath”. It‟s just<br />
what I‟ve been looking for. I drag John in (he keeps muttering something about “Midnight<br />
Express”), and a male attendant shows us around. We go back to the van to get our gear and<br />
when we return we have the bath house to ourselves.<br />
157
Hamam<br />
The attendant tells me to undress in the same room as John which will mean I have to<br />
walk across the foyer in a sarong. I‟m not keen to do that so I undress in a room close to the<br />
bathing area. It‟s a small stone bunker, old and basic. The attendant turns on the hot taps<br />
above deep basins attached to the wall at knee height. You dip the water out <strong>with</strong> a plastic<br />
bowl and tip it over yourself. They even have a hairdrier for me to use at the end. We just<br />
love it and it feels like we‟ve left the headlight smasher far behind. Nothing will stop us!<br />
158
Glorious Hot Water<br />
We buy kebabs and walk around the wonderful shops which sell every kind of nut,<br />
dried fruit, flour, vegetable, and fish. We see no alcohol for sale. With the warmth and the<br />
palm trees we suddenly feel like we‟re on holiday! It‟s almost Mediterranean. Turkey seems<br />
to have a lightness, contrasting <strong>with</strong> the lingering trace of oppression in all the former<br />
Communist countries we‟ve visited.<br />
The scenery on the drive down the Gallipoli Peninsula to Eceabat is all red soil,<br />
cabbages, leeks, lettuces, olives, irrigation and cypresses, and on the water, big ships, and<br />
little fishing boats flying the Turkish flag. The military are everywhere. Young Turkish men<br />
are required to do fifteen months military service, or less if they have a university degree.<br />
Conscientious objection is illegal, and it‟s illegal to publicly criticise conscription or the<br />
military.<br />
Umbrella Pines<br />
Turkey is one of a select few countries which grow all their own food, plus it has<br />
enough to export as well. Agriculture dominates the landscape and the range of crops is<br />
huge: hazelnuts, quince, chickpeas, apricots, figs, pomegranates, tomatoes, almonds, olives,<br />
pistachios, wheat and lemons, plus cotton and barley. One of the things we love already is<br />
the rich patchwork of crops, and the obvious fertility of the soil.<br />
At Eceabat we find TJ‟s Hotel right beside the wharf where the ferry departs for<br />
Cannakale over on the Asian side of the Dardanelles. A room <strong>with</strong> wireless costs thirteen<br />
pounds a night, and the large breakfast included in the price consists of thick white bread,<br />
159
olives, cucumber, tomatoes, cheese, honey, jam and tea. There turns out to be no heating or<br />
hot water and we‟re the only guests. Electricity is very expensive and most people use solar<br />
heating for hot water.<br />
It‟s December 20 th and we‟re extremely grateful to find this cheap home away from<br />
home at Christmas in the middle of winter. We live off canned dinners from Eastern<br />
European supermarkets heated up on our little gas stove, skyping our families and spending<br />
lots of time on the internet, occasionally looking out the window to check on the van parked<br />
on the street two floors below.<br />
Making Ourselves at Home<br />
Our breakfast is served in the large rooftop bar which has a wooden Maori tiki,<br />
Australian memorabilia, WW1 shell cases, and a panoramic view over the Dardanelles and<br />
all the shipping passing by. A sign in the toilet strikes fear into our hearts: “Please put toilet<br />
paper in bins provided, not down the toilet! Turkish septic pipes are very small, you may not<br />
only block our hotel, but the whole of Eceabat!” After reading this we‟re never quite sure<br />
whether this applies to every toilet in Turkey, and we‟re nervous about it.<br />
160
That Scary Sign<br />
Delicious Turkish Breakfast<br />
Sitting on the street outside are concrete planters about four feet high, in the shape of<br />
kangaroos, <strong>with</strong> a plant in the pouch. Down the road is the Hotel Crowded House, another<br />
161
indication of the huge influx of Kiwis and Aussies that occurs every Anzac Day on 25 April.<br />
The Turks hold their Gallipoli commemoration on 18 March, the day they defeated the<br />
British Navy in the Dardanelles.<br />
Kangaroo Planter<br />
Next day we read in bed. It‟s very cold and we ask for a heater. The young men<br />
running the place respond quickly, removing the heater from the reception area, and taking it<br />
up in the lift to our room. It‟s too large and gets stuck in the doorway, quite entertaining at<br />
the time, but disappointing. We become accustomed to having cold showers.<br />
Later, John goes into a shop to buy some beer and strikes up a conversation <strong>with</strong> a<br />
tour guide who seems to know all about New Zealand‟s record of following Britain and the<br />
U.S.A. into war. He reels off a list: the Boer War, WW1, WW2, Korea, Vietnam, ticking<br />
them off on his fingers. John retorts “But we didn‟t go to Iraq” and he replies “You people<br />
may be starting to learn”. He concludes by saying “Politicians bullshit” a number of times<br />
and indicating that ordinary people don‟t want war. John agrees. The legendary bond<br />
between the Anzacs and Turks is very apparent. Later on John names <strong>photos</strong> on the laptop,<br />
and I read “The Iliad” in preparation for Troy.<br />
When we get a fine day we head towards the cemeteries and memorials on the<br />
Gallipoli Peninsula. A jay sits in a huge ancient fig tree and an elusive bird of prey keeps<br />
flying just out of our reach. Big forests of umbrella pines soften the landscape, and thick<br />
162
stands of cypress make a spiky contrast. At the national park headquarters the museum is<br />
closed for renovation. Some souvenir stalls are open and we buy “Gallipoli: a Turning Point”<br />
by Mustafa Askin, who is from a village near Troy, just across the water. He draws parallels<br />
between the Gallipoli campaign and the Trojan War, both fought on some other pretext, but<br />
really about who controls the Dardanelles. The man selling souvenirs asks where we‟re from<br />
then gives us two pieces of shrapnel and a British 303 cartridge case.<br />
There‟s a poem on display by the Turkish poet and politician Bulent Ecevit, written in<br />
1988, which draws a parallel between the Ottoman and British Empires:<br />
GALLIPOLI A POST WAR EPIC<br />
“What land were you torn away from what makes you so sad coming here”asked Mehmet the<br />
soldier from Anatolia addressing the Anzac lying near<br />
“FROM THE UTTERMOST ENDS OF THE WORLD I come so it writes on my tombstone”<br />
answered the youthful Anzac “and here I am buried in a land that I had not even known”<br />
“Do not be disheartened mate” Mehmet told him tenderly “you share <strong>with</strong> us the same fate in<br />
the bosom of our country<br />
You are not a stranger anymore you have become a Mehmet just like me”<br />
A paradise on earth Gallipoli is a burial under the ground those who lost their lives in<br />
fighting lie there mingled in friendly compound<br />
Mehmet then asked an English soldier who seemed to be at the playing age “How old are you<br />
little brother what brought you here at such an early stage”<br />
“I am fifteen forever” the English soldier said “In the village from where I come I used to<br />
play war <strong>with</strong> the children arousing them <strong>with</strong> my drum<br />
Then I found myself in the front was it real or a game before I could tell my drum fell silent<br />
as I was struck <strong>with</strong> a shell<br />
A place was dug for me in Gallipoli on my stone was inscribed DRUMMER AGE FIFTEEN<br />
thus ended my playful task and this is the record of what I have done and what I have been”<br />
A distant drum bereaved of its master was weeping somewhere around as drops of tears fell<br />
on it <strong>with</strong> the soft rainfall on the ground<br />
What winds had hurled all those youthful braves from four continents of the world to the<br />
Gallipoli graves Mehmet asked in wonder<br />
163
They were English or Scotch they were French or Senegalese they were Indians or Nepalese<br />
they were Anzacs from Australia and New Zealand shipsful of soldiers who had landed on the<br />
lacy bays of Gallipoli not knowing why climbed the hills and slopes rising high digging<br />
trenches cutting the earth like wounds to shelter as graves those who were to die<br />
Some were BELIEVED TO BE BURIED in one cemetery or another some were IN GRAVES<br />
UNKNOWN all had ENTERED INTO REST in the language of the tombstone at the age of<br />
sixteen or seventeen or eighteen under the soil of Gallipoli<br />
Thus their short-lived stories were told as inscriptions on tablets of old<br />
Buried there Mehmet of Anatolia <strong>with</strong>out a stone to tell consoled them saying “brothers I<br />
understand you so well<br />
For centuries I also had to die in distant lands not knowing why<br />
For the first time I gave my life not feeling sore for I gave it here for my own in a war<br />
Thus the sultan’s fief tilled for ages <strong>with</strong> my hand has now become for me a motherland<br />
You who died in this land you did not know are no more foreigner or foe<br />
For the land which you could not take has taken you to her bosom too<br />
You therefore belong here as much as I do”<br />
In Gallipoli a strange war was fought cooling off the feelings as fighting became hot<br />
It was a ruthless war yet breeding respect in heart-to-heart exchange as confronting trenches<br />
fell into closer range<br />
Turning foe to friend as the fighters reached their end<br />
The war came to a close those who survived returned to their lands and homes leaving the<br />
dead behind<br />
Wild flowers wave after wave replaced the retiring soldiers<br />
Wild roses and mountain tulips and daisies were spread as rugs on the ground covering<br />
trench-by-trench the wounds of fighting on the earth<br />
The sheep turned the bunkers into sheds the birds replaced the bullets in the sky nature <strong>with</strong><br />
hands holding the plough instead of guns captured back the battlegrounds <strong>with</strong> its flowers<br />
and fruits and greenery<br />
And life returned to the soil as traces of blood were effaced<br />
164
Turning the hell of the battlefield into a paradise on earth Gallipoli now abounds <strong>with</strong><br />
gardensful <strong>with</strong> nationsful of burial grounds<br />
A paradise on earth Gallipoli is a burial under the ground those who lost their life in fighting<br />
lie there mingled in friendly compound<br />
“Lying side by side”as “friends in each other’s arms” they may “sleep in comfort and<br />
peace” in the land for which they died.<br />
We see a large statue of a Turkish soldier carrying a wounded British officer in his<br />
arms and there‟s a story that goes <strong>with</strong> it. At Chunuk Bair when the trenches were only about<br />
thirty feet apart, a ceasefire was called after a bayonet attack. A badly wounded English<br />
captain lying between the lines cried out for help. The Turks hoisted a piece of white<br />
underwear as a signal to cease fire, and a brave unarmed Turkish soldier walked out, picked<br />
up the wounded man, carried him to the Allies‟ trenches, then returned to the Turkish side.<br />
This is a legendary and often repeated image, as is the one of an Anzac soldier giving water<br />
to a wounded Turk.<br />
We hear the rumble of thunder, eerily like guns. The snowy mountainous islands of<br />
Samothraki and Limnos (Greek), and Gokceada (Turkish) lie to the west. The rolling hills of<br />
the Gallipoli Peninsula have been planted in a range of plants all less than three metres high,<br />
like a huge garden.<br />
Vegetation on the Gallipoli Peninsula<br />
165
In Anzac Cove at the Lone Pine cemetery and memorial we find our friend Kerry‟s<br />
great uncle‟s name. He was twenty two, an Australian. It‟s very peaceful there <strong>with</strong> just the<br />
tapping of a stonemason‟s tools echoing up to us from a new monument being built some<br />
distance away.<br />
Lone Pine Cemetery<br />
Next is the Turkish memorial, <strong>with</strong> its tribute to Mustafa Kemal Ataturk whose<br />
bravery and brilliant leadership were an essential element of the Turkish victory over the<br />
Allied troops. The famous speech he made to his soldiers is quoted here: “I am not asking<br />
you to attack, I am ordering you to die. In the time which passes until we die, other troops<br />
and commanders can take our place.” In that particular battle virtually all of his 57 th<br />
regiment was killed, but they won the day. The monument is a tribute to the bravery of the<br />
Turkish soldier. After his inspired decision making and leadership during this battle, Mustafa<br />
Kemal Ataturk was immediately promoted.<br />
While we‟re visiting Chunuk Bair, the scene of the Allies‟ big defeat on 1 August<br />
1915, we hear the call to prayer from a mosque. The view down the coast from Anzac Cove<br />
to North Beach is breathtakingly beautiful in the light rain. We‟re tempted to stop and have a<br />
fossick in a sloping bank two metres high <strong>with</strong> bare soil and exposed strata. A derelict<br />
pillbox stands on the hillside.<br />
We stop to have bacon sandwiches and fruit cake for lunch and John gathers pebbles<br />
and sand from the beach. We get our first view of the Aegean and Greece. The sky is<br />
dramatic - grey, blue and black, <strong>with</strong> shafts of light, above a strip of silver sea. Dwarf holm<br />
oaks dot the landscape. The Sea Cemetery has Australian and New Zealand graves, <strong>with</strong><br />
166
some of the fallen “believed to be buried in this cemetery”. We look up to Chunuk Bair and<br />
it‟s spectacular, steep and impenetrable like “badlands” or mine tailings.<br />
Chunuk Bair<br />
We pass a flatter terrain <strong>with</strong> laden olives, orchards, walnut trees, the odd tiny house,<br />
and a small bird of prey which could be a merlin, holding something in its feet. The soil is<br />
beautiful and there‟s a second crop of sunflowers, <strong>with</strong> a row of Lombardy poplars. We drive<br />
through Buyuk Anafarta village and there are roses, tractors, a spotted woodpecker, and<br />
Turkish flags flying everywhere. We see a hen harrier then two big birds of prey cruising<br />
along the sea front landing on conifers. They‟re white tailed eagles. As usual not many<br />
women are around. We realise that it was at this time in December 1915 that the Allies<br />
evacuated Gallipoli.<br />
167
Farm, Gallipoli Peninsula<br />
The Trojan Owl<br />
Searching on the internet for a reference to Lord Byron swimming across the<br />
Hellespont (Dardanelles) in 1810, I come across an annual swimming race from Eceabat on<br />
the European side to Cannakale on the Asian side. All shipping is halted for one and a half<br />
hours, but small Turkish boats accompany the swimmers who are advised to swim west then<br />
south, rather than heading straight to Cannakale, thus avoiding the current which would<br />
sweep them towards Greece. Apparently the current is normally about six miles an hour, but<br />
when the snow melts and the rivers that empty into the Black Sea flow through the Sea of<br />
Marmara into the Dardanelles, it can reach ten miles an hour, especially if there‟s a prevailing<br />
northerly. To us it seems like a giant river mouth, and the ships heading up towards Istanbul<br />
always seem to be moving more slowly than the ones heading out <strong>with</strong> the current.<br />
On Christmas Eve we drive around the Dardanelles side of the peninsula, past<br />
Kilitbahir Fortress, built in 1453 by Mehmet the Conqueror, one of two, <strong>with</strong> its counterpart<br />
on the other side of the water at Cannakale. As usual there are ships and fishing boats galore.<br />
We see a vineyard <strong>with</strong> beautiful blue marcocarpas (Arizonica) on the boundary, then pine<br />
and juniper forest, olives, plane trees, and holm oaks, all in different shades of green and<br />
varied textures. We arrive at the top where there are beautiful fields of crop. In a private<br />
museum of WW1 artefacts, we see a gruesome collection of shrapnel, shell cases, <strong>photos</strong>,<br />
skulls, teeth, buckles, glasses, cups, and money: the minutiae of war. There‟s a lot of French<br />
and British material but nothing obviously Australian or New Zealand.<br />
168
Museum Exhibit of WW1 Buttons<br />
When we head out on the road again shepherds <strong>with</strong> enormous sheepdogs are minding<br />
flocks of sheep <strong>with</strong> bursting udders. Stray dogs are plentiful and we‟re ready for them now,<br />
feeding a can of dog food to some puppies in a car park.<br />
Mucking Out<br />
169
On 19 February 1915 the British Navy (<strong>with</strong> Winston Churchill as First Lord of the<br />
Admiralty) sailed into this narrow strip of water <strong>with</strong> eighteen warships. Mustafa Askin<br />
draws a parallel <strong>with</strong> the Greeks‟ “thousand black ships” carrying a hundred thousand<br />
soldiers to fight the Trojans three thousand years before. One of the British ships was even<br />
named Agamemnon. The Ottoman Empire was in its final years, isolated and weak, <strong>with</strong> the<br />
armed forces under equipped and in need of modernisation. The Turks were totally<br />
outclassed in terms of equipment but the ancient forts on each side <strong>with</strong>stood the attack. On<br />
18 March when the British and French sailed into the Narrows, they were forced into the<br />
mined area offshore by the Turks firing from the shore. Several ships were blown up and the<br />
Turks were victorious. This was their first military victory for many years.<br />
They then set about fortifying the Gallipoli Peninsula in preparation for an invasion.<br />
The five weeks of preparation while the Allies delayed ended up giving the Turks the<br />
advantage. The Gallipoli campaign lasted until January 1916 when what was left of the<br />
Allied forces had been evacuated, defeated by poorly equipped but courageous Turks<br />
desperate to defend their homeland.<br />
Mustafa Kemal Ataturk was promoted to general on the strength of his superlative<br />
leadership. Turkey came of age at Gallipoli fighting off the invader, in spite of suffering<br />
nearly ninety thousand deaths out of a quarter of a million casualties, in comparison to the<br />
Allies‟ forty four thousand deaths out of a hundred and forty one thousand casualties.<br />
Mustafa Kemal was the man of the hour, spending the years following WW1 fighting for<br />
Turkey‟s independence, and uniting and modernising the country. On the Ataturk Memorial<br />
his conciliatory words from 1934 are engraved: “Those heroes that shed their blood and lost<br />
their lives ... you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace,<br />
there is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side<br />
here in this country of ours ... you, the mothers, who sent their sons from far away countries,<br />
wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having<br />
lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.”<br />
Our overwhelming feeling about the Gallipoli campaign is embarrassment that New<br />
Zealanders came here and attempted to invade Turkey. It seems unthinkable. We look out<br />
over the dark sea then head back to the hotel and skype our families for Christmas.<br />
On Christmas morning we notice that a market is being laid out in the streets nearby<br />
so we go exploring. There‟s a glorious display of every kind of fruit and vegetable, bread,<br />
clothes, plastic containers, shoes, material, homemade olive oil, quinces, and coriander.<br />
After wandering around and taking <strong>photos</strong> we catch the ferry across to Cannakale on a<br />
perfect still sunny day. It‟s Christmas in our heads, but in Turkey of course it‟s business as<br />
usual. To celebrate, we have lunch at the Yalova Liman restaurant upstairs above the port,<br />
and watch the ships, ferries, and men fishing off the wharf.<br />
170
First we choose our meze. It‟s cold – scallop salad, a nettle like green vegetable in oil<br />
and balsamic vinegar (very necessary after the canned concoctions we‟ve been living off!),<br />
potato salad, delicious roast red pepper, and a luscious aubergine dish, all eaten <strong>with</strong> bread.<br />
Following this John has meatballs and I have a lamb kebab, served <strong>with</strong> chips, rice, tomato,<br />
and a lovely char grilled pale green pepper. For dessert we have Kabak Tatlisi (pumpkin<br />
which has been marinated then simmered in sugar, served <strong>with</strong> walnuts, absolutely delicious).<br />
Meze<br />
171
Kabak Tatlisi<br />
We walk around Cannakale looking at the shops and markets, and buy a<br />
Turkish/English dictionary. It‟s been a great day out, and we return to Eceabat on the ferry,<br />
skype our families again, then, to quote The Iliad, “they lay down and took the gift of sleep”.<br />
Cannakale<br />
After another day of reading and planning our trip from Greece to Croatia, we get sick<br />
of the cold showers and no heating, and decide to continue on our way, taking the van across<br />
on the ferry and heading towards Troy. When we check out one of the young guys at<br />
reception asks if we‟re on our honeymoon!<br />
We visit the Cannakale Archaeological Museum which is <strong>full</strong> of artefacts from Troy<br />
and the surrounding area: marble pillars, burial stones, garlands of fine gold leaves, terracotta<br />
storage jars, and beautiful glass objects.<br />
Then we drive to the Troia Pension close to Troy, desperate to do the washing. It<br />
costs a bit to park in their camping area but we have the use of a hot shower and toilet, plus<br />
the washing machine in the house. A lovely couple in their eighties are in charge <strong>with</strong> a<br />
younger woman helping, as the family who run the place are on holiday. The man is an artist<br />
and when he finds out we‟re Kiwis he tells me that he has drawn our Xena. He also tells me<br />
that Mustafa Kemal died of cirrhosis of the liver from drinking raki.<br />
His wife is very lame and pain<strong>full</strong>y struggles up from the shop to the house to light<br />
the fire and help me <strong>with</strong> the washing machine. I do two loads of washing and end up<br />
hanging it out in the dark on their porch in the sleet, feeling sure it will be wetter in the<br />
172
morning. Amazingly, in spite of the bitter cold and sleet, next morning it‟s dry enough to<br />
finish off in the van <strong>with</strong> the heater on.<br />
The pension has a large shop <strong>with</strong> all sorts of souvenirs and I buy some fabulous<br />
traditional Turkish hats plus a book on Troy by Mustafa Askin who was born at Hisarlik, a<br />
village nearby. When we leave, the old man tells us that he really enjoys meeting people<br />
from other countries who are interested in Turkey.<br />
Next day we put on our thermal underwear and visit Troy in the sleet. After<br />
devouring “The Iliad” every night it‟s a real thrill for me. Archaeological and other scientific<br />
investigations are ongoing, and it may or may not have been the site of the Troy of “The<br />
Iliad”, but lots of evidence points towards it. Five or six distinct areas of settlement have<br />
been discovered, from about 3500 BC to 600 AD. We see walls, wells, the remains of<br />
towers, gates, houses, a temple to Athena, a parliament, theatre, and Roman baths.<br />
The enormous and notorious Schliemann trench is deep and wide. It‟s where the<br />
German Heinrich Schliemann made the discovery in the 1870s that this site could be the Troy<br />
of legend. A roof has been built at the very top of the site to indicate the height of the soil<br />
before the digging started.<br />
Levels of Occupation at Troy<br />
Troy is on a hill at the entrance to the Dardanelles, a very strategic location, like a<br />
Maori pa site in New Zealand. The surrounding area is fertile farmland. The shore where the<br />
Greeks pulled up their ships is no longer there as the sea has receded. Because of the weather<br />
we can‟t see Mt Ida (Kaz Dagi), where the gods spent time while watching the trials and<br />
173
tribulations of the mortals fighting the Trojan War, on occasion intervening on behalf of their<br />
favourites.<br />
At the entrance to the ruins of Troy they‟ve built a wooden horse about fifty feet tall,<br />
and we climb up inside it to get a view of the area. Back on the ground we look up and see<br />
an owl sitting on the edge of an opening at the top of the horse. It‟s a tawny owl, just like at<br />
Brownies. Mustafa Askin writes about the owls in the area. He tells the story of guiding an<br />
Australian at Gallipoli and hearing from him that his relation who fought there talked about<br />
angels flying around. Mustafa Askin believes that these were the local owls. We also see<br />
jays in an umbrella pine, lots of doves, and a robin in a puddle. The site is beautiful, <strong>with</strong><br />
Turkey oaks, fennel, and the odd wild fig.<br />
I‟m loving “The Iliad” in spite of its gruesome subject matter. The writing is<br />
beautiful, and the references to shepherds and sheep, storms, the landscape, human nature, the<br />
love of horses, the foibles of humans and gods, and the tragedy of war, all come shining<br />
through for me. It seems very contemporary.<br />
Nearby at Kalafat we see two happy little boys out in their storm gear and we throw<br />
them a couple of bouncy balls. They‟re delighted. As we head south we pass farmyards<br />
enclosed by old stone walls, many <strong>with</strong> coiled black irrigation pipe lying in piles. Turkey is<br />
clearly a country of expert gardeners and farmers.<br />
I see a redstart, a little bird <strong>with</strong> a red rear end, and goatherds out <strong>with</strong> their flocks.<br />
Snow lines the road, and forms vertical lines on the north side of the trunks of some old olive<br />
trees. It‟s very fertile ploughed land <strong>with</strong> small hills. We‟re heading round the minor coast<br />
road towards Assos (Berhamkale), and everywhere farmers are out on their tractors. The<br />
houses all have solar panels. We see tunnel houses of lettuces, stork nests, women in<br />
headscarves smoking, hillsides of olives, and a cemetery edged <strong>with</strong> perfect cypresses.<br />
The Turkish Army To The Rescue<br />
The drive from Troy to Assos is spectacular and slow <strong>with</strong> intensive agriculture, steep<br />
rocky mountainous areas, and the Aegean Sea, <strong>with</strong> beaches, boats, and olives right down to<br />
the water‟s edge. We pass through the village of Kumburun where everything is completely<br />
functional, <strong>with</strong> no attempt at beautification. Sheep are in walled enclosures off stone barns,<br />
the walls made of mud brick laced <strong>with</strong> straw. Just out of Geyiki we smell the sea, before we<br />
get to the coast at Iskelesi where there are many empty two storied holiday villas and a wharf<br />
<strong>with</strong> large boats and ferries to Bozcaada Island. Three storied houses have the top floor open<br />
on three sides, for a barbecue and dining area. Apartment complexes line the coast.<br />
We see an old couple under an oak tree milking two cows <strong>with</strong> a milking machine.<br />
Snowdrifts lie beside the road, alongside large chunks of marble that look like they‟ve been<br />
ploughed up from ancient sites by farmers and tossed aside. At Tavakliskeli we stop for the<br />
174
night on the edge of a low cliff in a car park next to an empty hotel. It‟s very cold, <strong>with</strong> light<br />
rain, and there are little boats and nets on the beach below.<br />
Tavakliskeli<br />
The next day is fine <strong>with</strong> a dark blue and turquoise sea. As we head south we pass the<br />
path of a recent flash flood where the soil has been washed off an olive grove across the road<br />
and onto the beach. There‟s a massive field of cauliflowers between the road and the sea,<br />
stretching into the distance. A milk can is sitting on a wheelbarrow beside the road. It must<br />
be sheep‟s milk out for collection.<br />
175
Sheep and Barn<br />
As we drive through the village of Kosadere there are tractors everywhere and as<br />
always, men in cafes drinking tea. The scrub here looks different and when I pick some I see<br />
that it‟s a spiky thyme. An open sided barn has the roof held up by old tree trunks. Some of<br />
the animal enclosures are built right into the hillside, and there are flocks of sheep <strong>with</strong> big<br />
udders and tails, and one <strong>with</strong> a bell, which I know from Homer is the lead sheep. We stop to<br />
give a shepherd driving his sheep along the road a Snickers bar. Steam rises from red mud<br />
and a rock face is <strong>colour</strong>ed purple, orange and red. At Gulpinar we visit the huge site of the<br />
Temple of Apollo Smintheus dominated by pillars, walls, and chunks of marble. Apparently<br />
it has extensive friezes depicting scenes from “The Iliad” which are in the museum, but<br />
unfortunately it‟s only open in August and September when the site is being excavated. The<br />
excavation is sponsored by the local beer Efes Pilsen.<br />
176
Temple of Apollo Smintheus<br />
The countryside gets steeper and rockier, <strong>with</strong> snow and stunted vegetation. There<br />
are quarries of golden <strong>colour</strong>ed rock, and beautiful stone walls <strong>with</strong> brushwood along the top.<br />
At Kocacoy the puddles are covered in ice. As always water fountains set in stone appear<br />
beside the road every few miles. We climb to where the vegetation runs out. Bademli hilltop<br />
village has sheep and skinny cows on the road, followed by Koyunevi <strong>with</strong> solid houses and<br />
immaculate stone work. We stop in the middle of the road to take amazing <strong>photos</strong>.<br />
177
Stone Work at Koyunevi<br />
A donkey <strong>with</strong> a wooden pack saddle lies beside the road, then there‟s a bull in a<br />
field. At Balabanli the walls of the houses are two feet thick, and there are numerous fig<br />
trees. Large sheep <strong>with</strong> very fine wool eat grass in a snowy field <strong>with</strong> their spotted lambs.<br />
The land is divided into sections <strong>with</strong> stone walls, and there are narrow races for access. The<br />
rock sheep shelters here are very basic, about three feet high and twenty feet in diameter <strong>with</strong><br />
two entrance holes, and the roofs covered in vegetation. Then a beautiful wide valley lies<br />
before us, <strong>with</strong> grey Lombardy poplars at the bottom, and stunted Turkey oaks. Far away we<br />
see a high hill <strong>with</strong> what looks like a castle on the top, and wonder if it‟s Assos.<br />
Low Barn<br />
178
Winter Landscape<br />
From a rise we see the Greek island of Lesbos <strong>with</strong> the shining sea in front of it, the<br />
houses of Assos running down the hill, and the minaret of a mosque. We drive up the steep<br />
cobbled streets, each cobble a foot across. When the road gets too narrow we park and<br />
continue on foot. There are honking geese and we‟re followed by a pointer dog <strong>with</strong> a bell<br />
around its neck. The call to prayer starts and the dog howls in sympathy. Steep lanes take us<br />
to the ruins of the Temple of Athena perched on the cliff top, <strong>with</strong> one hundred and eighty<br />
degree views over the sea and Lesbos, and the ancient port far below.<br />
Back in the village fig trees are everywhere. The roof of one house is made of Pink<br />
Batts covered <strong>with</strong> shingle. Aristotle had a school here and his statue stands at the<br />
crossroads. There‟s a lovely steep 14 th century Ottoman bridge. From a tiny shop we buy<br />
beautiful simit bread rolls, a loaf of bread, and a Turkish newspaper in English which is <strong>full</strong><br />
of the latest Israeli bombing in Palestine.<br />
179
Aristotle<br />
We walk down to the houses and hotels at the old port which is a manmade harbour.<br />
The place has the feel of a very busy tourist spot but right now it‟s deserted. There‟s a<br />
jandamerie <strong>with</strong> a young armed guard. We watch a fisherman go out in his boat and throw<br />
his net in an open spiral, a delicate process where he turns off the motor to prevent the net<br />
getting caught in the propeller. We park high up between the cliff top ruins and the sea and I<br />
make a stew of lamb neck chops <strong>with</strong> leeks, pumpkin, red wine, mushrooms, red pepper, and<br />
parsley, while John sleeps across the front seats in the sun. Later the Turkish flag appears<br />
before us in the sky, a new moon rising over the sea <strong>with</strong> a tiny star right beside it.<br />
180
Long Line, Assos<br />
Next morning the spray is whipping off the sea. I look at the clock on the dashboard<br />
and casually comment to John that it says 4.30. With a war cry fit for “The Iliad” he leaps<br />
out of bed and over into the front seat as he realises that the lights have been left on and the<br />
battery is flat. (The Turkish law requiring motorists to drive <strong>with</strong> the lights on has been<br />
tough for us because we invariably arrive somewhere late in the day and just collapse in the<br />
van, not even getting out and walking around to notice the lights left on!) Some quick<br />
thinking is required. We decide that the jandarmes down at the port will be the ones to help<br />
us out so John heads off to see them, first of all writing down the relevant words in Turkish<br />
from the dictionary, and drawing a picture of the van <strong>with</strong> its lights on.<br />
He approaches the armed guard on duty and explains our predicament as best he can.<br />
The guard summons other soldiers until eventually they move up through the ranks to a man<br />
in a beret who comes out and takes command. He and two other handsome young chaps put<br />
John in their blue minibus and arrive back at the van in no time. They all stick their heads<br />
under the bonnet. I get out and they put me in their vehicle <strong>with</strong> Turkish music on the radio.<br />
The problem is that there are no jumper leads.<br />
With all of us piled into their minibus we travel back up to the village on the hill, past<br />
Aristotle, no seatbelts and hell for leather. We stop at a restaurant and they go in and talk,<br />
then one of them walks up an alley <strong>with</strong> one of the locals. He comes back empty handed, no<br />
jumper leads. Then another local appears and they commandeer the battery out of his car!<br />
Back at the van they take out the battery, put the other one in, John starts the van, then they<br />
take out the borrowed battery, and put our one back in. Amazing. We are so grateful. John<br />
181
offers to pay them and I offer chocolate but the officer won‟t hear of it. So John gives them a<br />
big salute and they all salute back and laugh as they drive off.<br />
The motor‟s running and we can‟t turn it off for for some time so we get going inland.<br />
We‟re thanking our lucky stars, <strong>with</strong> Mt Ida in the distance, driving through a beautiful area<br />
of olives, when we see a tiny woman walking up the hill in front of us carrying an enormous<br />
load on her back. We stop and wave to her. She wants a lift. I help her put her incredibly<br />
heavy bundle of green feed into the back, then settle her in the passenger‟s seat, still holding<br />
her little sickle. She‟s very grateful and warms her hands by the heater. No Turkish and no<br />
English as usual. There‟s snow by the road and it‟s very cold. She appears to be in her<br />
fifties, about five feet tall, wearing layered scarves, cotton trousers and a windbreaker, <strong>with</strong> a<br />
lovely face. I give her a chocolate bar and she puts it in her pocket. We both say a lot that<br />
neither understands but I show her that we sleep in the van. We think that she invites us to<br />
her house but of course we have to keep driving. We continue for a couple of miles uphill<br />
where she asks us to stop. This must be where her goats live. We all get out, John lifts out<br />
her bundle, she adjusts her scarf, and we take her photo. She hugs us and blows us kisses.<br />
It‟s quite emotional.<br />
The Lady <strong>with</strong> the Bundle of Grass<br />
We head along a very icy patch of road in first gear, through beautiful snow covered<br />
countryside <strong>with</strong> stunted oaks, stone walls topped <strong>with</strong> brushwood, lambs in the snow, and a<br />
lingering goaty smell in the van. We‟re elated. The Turkish army got us moving, and now<br />
we‟ve been able to help this tough little woman.<br />
182
Winter Driving<br />
Patchwork Columns<br />
When we return to the coast, Ayvalik Peninsula and little islands appear, sitting in a<br />
gleaming sea. Stopping to make coffee, we‟re watching a procession of lorries roar past<br />
when there‟s a loud bang. We see a car on the roadside <strong>with</strong> its side dented and windows<br />
smashed. The lorry that crashed into them hasn‟t stopped. We can‟t help them so we hit the<br />
road again, along the coast, through steep hills covered <strong>with</strong> ancient olives.<br />
At Kucukkuyu there are holiday apartments for miles, all <strong>with</strong> solar panels on the<br />
roof. Mt Ida is hiding behind cloud, but we‟re beside the dark turquoise, sparkling sea, <strong>with</strong><br />
laden orange and mandarin trees all around. Then, much to my delight, the mist clears and<br />
Mt Ida (Kaz Dagi, nearly six thousand feet) clears, <strong>with</strong> big rocky bluffs and snow on the top.<br />
There are coppiced olive trees <strong>with</strong> trunks two feet in diameter, and we‟re surprised to<br />
see gum trees. It‟s a major area of horticulture <strong>with</strong> an olive nursery and old peach orchards,<br />
and birds of prey.<br />
We arrive at Ayvalik (which means quince orchard), a picturesque old fishing town,<br />
all beaches and boats and beautiful views. I go into the visitors‟ centre and a gorgeous,<br />
elegantly dressed young woman <strong>with</strong> perfect English gives me great maps and brochures of<br />
the area. We park for the night above the harbour <strong>with</strong> wonderful views in all directions. It‟s<br />
so cold that John has taken to sleeping in a hat and gloves.<br />
183
Next morning we drive to Saramsali and we‟re thrilled to see pink and white<br />
flamingos wading in the estuary. As we move towards them they walk away, elegantly<br />
picking their feet up out of the water.<br />
We see a mix of beautiful expanses of sea, hollow old olive trees, resorts, and areas of<br />
holiday apartments. At Altinova a field of cotton has little white tufts still on the plants.<br />
We‟ve come for the traditional market, and it takes our breath away. There is everything you<br />
can imagine for sale. We wander around in a blissed out state admiring the quinces,<br />
coriander, celeriac, garlic, axes, sickles, enamelled wood stoves, and fabrics, and eat big<br />
crunchy bread rolls stuffed <strong>with</strong> meat and salad. We buy traditional women‟s head scarves,<br />
animal bells, garlic, broccoli and huge apples. Unfortunately quinces take a long time to<br />
cook and it would consume too much gas, so I can only look at them longingly.<br />
Scarves at the Market<br />
The women at the market are wearing baggy trousers <strong>with</strong> elastic at the ankles, and<br />
some of the younger ones have them made from velvet <strong>with</strong> silver patterns. Their head<br />
scarves are covered <strong>with</strong> sequins. Some men and women wear distinctive scarves wound<br />
tightly around their heads. We don‟t see many men and women together, just a few<br />
contented looking couples our age. The women are in very intense groups and the men are<br />
drinking tea in cafes. Somehow their exotic clothing doesn‟t match the ordinary looking<br />
apartments they return to.<br />
Driving back to Ayvalik we see a man leading a laden camel on the other side of the<br />
motorway. We stop to take a picture and he turns his camel to pose for us. Wild lavender is<br />
in flower beside the road and the bougainvillea is out.<br />
184
Next morning we tidy the back of the van, open it up to the sun, and John takes a<br />
video of everything for posterity. He also takes a photo of the essentials of our life: stovetop<br />
espresso, gaffer tape, inverter, compass, clock/thermometer, paper towels, hand sanitizer,<br />
mobile phone and wet wipes. It‟s very hot, and we walk along the sea front where fishermen<br />
are selling their catches laid out on the decks of their twenty foot boats. None of the fish are<br />
over a foot in <strong>size</strong>, and one guy has seven different species. We wander down the back alleys<br />
and see wonderful hardware and horse gear, plus as usual lots of stray cats and dogs. Two<br />
ponies attached to carts are resting, and their covers consist of two chaff sacks stitched<br />
together down the long side. We find an internet cafe for wireless and have cups of cay<br />
(pronounced “chy” - beautiful black tea served in little glasses <strong>with</strong> sugar lumps).<br />
Essentials of Life in the Van<br />
185
Hardware Shop<br />
Selling the Catch<br />
After a few days parked in the same spot we‟re surprised one evening when a police<br />
car pulls up beside us. I‟m in the passenger seat reading and John‟s in the back, and they‟re<br />
in a plain car <strong>with</strong> no identification, so I‟m not happy talking to them. I get John, they show<br />
their badges, and ask if everything is OK, or if we‟ve broken down. John tells them we‟re<br />
fine and they drive off. It‟s only later that we realise the lights have been left on and the<br />
186
attery is flat again! Next morning John goes on a mission in a taxi to an auto electrician,<br />
comes back <strong>with</strong> a mechanic who tests the battery and puts in a new one, goes back into town<br />
to pay, then returns again in a taxi. We vow to never let this happen again.<br />
John’s Turkish Diagram<br />
Next day we take the back road inland via Kozak, towards Bergama. It‟s steep and<br />
rocky, but very green. The rock is white like marble, and there are tiny umbrella pines, and<br />
low stone walls forming terraces <strong>with</strong> ancient grapevines between them. Beautiful lichen<br />
covered rocks are scattered everywhere, <strong>with</strong> gorgeous <strong>larger</strong> pines, and lots of undergrowth.<br />
187
On the Road to Bergama<br />
Grapevines<br />
As we get higher, Turkey oaks <strong>with</strong> bright brown leaves appear. The old umbrella<br />
pines have dark grey and brown bark like snakeskin. Old snow lies beside the road and the<br />
little stock enclosures have stone walls, brushwood fences, and gates made of branches.<br />
Then at Ayvatlar it‟s like a huge natural rock garden <strong>with</strong> snow everywhere but the road, and<br />
piles of neatly stacked lengths of firewood. There‟s a stone merchant nearby <strong>with</strong> all his<br />
188
stone cut to <strong>size</strong>, hooded crows, and cows. We head down steeply in heavy rain, following<br />
the river to flats <strong>with</strong> olive groves and orchards.<br />
Our first inkling that we‟re approaching Bergama is an ancient stone aqueduct on a<br />
hilltop. We park in the town square and it pours <strong>with</strong> rain all night.<br />
After it stops raining the next day we drive up a winding road above the town to reach<br />
the ancient acropolis high on a hill. This is Pergamum, settled by the Greeks in the 8 th<br />
century BC, and by the 3 rd century BC one of the ancient world‟s main centres of learning. It<br />
was given to the Romans in 133 BC and became the capital of the Roman province of Asia.<br />
We walk around the huge site in the rain for over two hours <strong>with</strong> just a handful of<br />
other tourists. All the ruins are stone of course: temples, an arsenal, a palace, and lots of<br />
patchwork columns where the pieces have been put back together. The most amazing thing,<br />
apart from the description of how the Greeks brought water here from twelve miles away via<br />
aqueducts and pipes, is the theatre which dates from the 3 rd century BC. It‟s on a very steep<br />
slope and seated ten thousand people <strong>with</strong> rows of seats running around the hillside. When I<br />
stand at the bottom in the centre of the stage looking up, and call out, my voice is amplified<br />
around the site. It‟s fantastic.<br />
Akropolis<br />
189
Theatre<br />
There was great rivalry between the Pergamum Library (established in the 2 nd century<br />
BC) and the Alexandrian Library in Egypt. The Egyptians wouldn‟t give the Greeks any<br />
papyrus, so they invented their own parchment here (calf, sheep or goatskin). Ironically most<br />
of the library‟s collection of two hundred thousand scrolls was given to the Alexandrian<br />
Library by Mark Anthony when he married Cleopatra in 41 BC, after the destruction of the<br />
Alexandrian Library‟s collection.<br />
There‟s a three hundred and sixty degree view when the clouds clear, and we look out<br />
to flooding in the distance, and beautiful terraced hillsides <strong>with</strong> olives and stone walls. On<br />
the way out I see a blue rock thrush, my attention captured by its fantastic warbling call.<br />
We do a bit of book sharing of our own later. We‟re walking around the old part of<br />
Bergama when a man sitting outside a cafe hails us. He asks where we‟re from, invites us to<br />
sit down, orders cay for us all and tells us his story.<br />
Ali is sixty two and grew up in Bergama. His father was the local postman, delivering<br />
the mail on horseback, and they were very poor. He had only five years of schooling and<br />
later worked for four years in Germany before returning to Bergama to work as a tour guide<br />
for groups of German tourists. He taught himself English from a book, and also listened to<br />
the BBC on shortwave radio. He tells us that sometimes tourists give him books in English<br />
that they‟ve finished <strong>with</strong>.<br />
I‟m so happy to hear his story and thrilled to find a good home for the books I‟ve read<br />
so far on the trip. I go to the van and get him “Hard Times”, “Great Expectations”, “A Tale<br />
190
of Two Cities”, “Slaughterhouse Number Five”, “Portrait of a Turkish Family” and “The<br />
Brooklyn Follies”. He‟s very pleased, looks at “Hard Times” and says “All people have hard<br />
times”.<br />
He tells us that not many German tourists come now. Many of the people in the town<br />
are unemployed. He shows us a picture of his beautiful twenty year old daughter who works<br />
in tourism. I ask him about shepherds and goatherds as I‟ve been wondering whether they<br />
own their own flock or work for someone else. He says they own their own flock and that<br />
one sheep is worth about forty pounds. Someone <strong>with</strong> seventy sheep (such as his brother in<br />
law) is wealthy. They make cheese and butter from the milk and sell it. He also tells us of a<br />
huge market about a mile out of town.<br />
Never Found out the Name of This Vehicle<br />
Back in the van I pull out “Mediterranean Wildlife: a Rough Guide” published in<br />
1990, picked up in a wonderful British charity shop. It has detailed descriptions of insects,<br />
butterflies, birds, wildflowers, grasses, trees, soils, rocks, and animals. We‟ve now travelled<br />
far enough south to be in the right zone for this book. Of course there are no flowers or<br />
basking lizards at this time of year but it covers the southern Turkish coast plus Greece and<br />
Croatia. We realise that we‟ve driven seven and a half thousand miles and visited eleven<br />
countries, <strong>with</strong> three thousand miles and seven countries to go, more or less. Our favourite<br />
Turkish treats? Apricot nectar, pistachio chocolate, and halva.<br />
191
Artemis and Apollo<br />
After another night of extremely heavy rain, thunder, and lightning that lasts for<br />
hours, we have trouble starting the van. John is unsure what the cause is, but at least it‟s not<br />
the battery. There‟s always the worry that the van won‟t make it back to Britain...<br />
We visit the huge market that Ali told us about, newly built and thriving. They‟re<br />
selling the most enormous cabbages, caulis and squash, and everything is very cheap. If you<br />
buy just one small thing like we often do, they give it to you for nothing. We keep hearing<br />
the plaintive bleating of a baby kid that someone has on a stall <strong>with</strong> them. There is fabulous<br />
thick woollen underwear (longjohns and tops) in all <strong>size</strong>s plus felt jerkins, ideal for goatherds.<br />
Everywhere people are drinking cay and a man is providing refills <strong>with</strong> a big metal pot. One<br />
chap finishes his cay then slips the glass back into a packet of glasses for sale on his stall.<br />
On the drive south towards Izmir the coast is all lovely inlets <strong>with</strong> islands and boats.<br />
As usual there‟s intensive market gardening, orchards and vineyards and we see women in<br />
<strong>full</strong> Turkish dress squatting in a field picking spinach. Gums are the favoured roadside tree<br />
for miles. As we drive through the outskirts of Izmir there are hillsides covered in apartment<br />
buildings and a flock of a hundred or more pelicans flies over in strict formation.<br />
In Selcuk laden orange, lemon and olive trees line the streets. It feels very warm and<br />
Mediterranean. We spend one night in a car park then move into the Monaco Hotel, thirteen<br />
pounds a night, wireless in the bedroom and a huge breakfast included. There are no other<br />
guests, and hot water only if the sun shines. The only electric socket in the room is very<br />
loose so John uses duct tape to keep the plugs in, the toilet cistern leaks so he tapes it up and<br />
we fill it <strong>with</strong> our kettle, and the light switch is very shaky so that gets the duct tape treatment<br />
as well. It feels good to be so self reliant, right down to taking our little gas cooker up to the<br />
room, and eating cans of dolmas for dinners. Next time we‟d probably bring a little electric<br />
heater as well to surreptitiously plug in to the power.<br />
The van is parked two floors below on the street outside and we can see it from our<br />
balcony. Mumin runs the place, <strong>with</strong> his Canadian girlfriend Jo who tells me that in the<br />
summer, the women working out in the fields in their heavy clothing are sometimes taken to<br />
the hospital <strong>with</strong> sunstroke. This is while the men sit drinking tea and talking. She does two<br />
loads of washing for us and dries it outside on the roof, which gives it a faintly smoky smell.<br />
We feast on the internet including the eternally fraught process of making our homeward<br />
bookings. We end up spending four nights at the Monaco, before we tear ourselves away<br />
from the big breakfasts of bread, boiled eggs, olives, tomatoes, cucumber and jam, <strong>with</strong><br />
copious quantities of cay.<br />
We‟re heading to the ancient city of Ephesus when we‟re captured in the car park by a<br />
van driver from Yuksel Carpets who takes us back to the carpet shop, then drives us to the<br />
192
top entrance, so we can walk the length of the ruins and return to the van <strong>with</strong>out having to<br />
retrace our steps. A cunning and successful ploy as I‟d been considering buying a carpet, but<br />
had been intimidated by the hard sell approach of every shop we passed. The salesman<br />
explains that young women are trained in carpet weaving here for a year, then set up at home<br />
<strong>with</strong> a loom and a market for the carpets they create. It‟s an attempt to prevent the art from<br />
dying out.<br />
They have four thousand carpets for sale and show us a few. They are like the most<br />
beautiful works of art, made of wool, angora and silk, and all different <strong>size</strong>s. The carpets are<br />
made <strong>with</strong> a double knot, and the kilims are woven flat. We watch an expert young woman<br />
knotting the wool and cutting it off <strong>with</strong> scissors, then someone else skimming the silk off<br />
cocoons floating in a tub of water and spinning it. The dyes are all natural, made from onion<br />
skins, walnuts and such like. We look at a few carpets, including some particularly beautiful<br />
ones sold on behalf of Kurdish people from the east of Turkey. It‟s just fantastic. We<br />
manage to escape the sales talk but I get hooked on the idea of taking one home. I decide two<br />
things, firstly that if you had a lot of money, these carpets would be a wonderful way to spend<br />
it, and secondly, if I was to buy a Turkish carpet, this would be a good place to do it.<br />
Carpet Detail<br />
Ephesus is fabulous. It‟s a beautiful sunny day and there are only a few other tourists,<br />
bougainvillea in flower, dogs, cats, tethered horses, and a brilliant blue rock thrush.<br />
It‟s a vast site which was on the edge of a harbour until the sea receded, <strong>with</strong><br />
archaeological evidence showing settlement in the area as early as 6000 BC. A site nearby<br />
was a Greek settlement from 1000 BC, later taken over by the Persians, then the present site<br />
193
came to prominence as the most important port on the Aegean, a Roman city of a quarter of a<br />
million people. In the early days of Christianity it was an important place, <strong>with</strong> St Paul<br />
working there, and John the Baptist and the Virgin Mary reputedly living there, and important<br />
Councils of the Church held in the city in 431 and 449 AD.<br />
The fabulous Library of Celsus is spectacular <strong>with</strong> its two storied facade featuring<br />
columns in two layers. There are gates, pillars, houses, baths, latrines, beautiful wide streets<br />
paved <strong>with</strong> smooth slabs of white marble, and best of all, the theatre. It‟s built into a very<br />
steep hillside and seated twenty five thousand people. In later times the Romans used it for<br />
gladiatorial fights, and not surprisingly the Christians subsequently destroyed parts of it.<br />
Like many of these sites, what has been excavated is only the tip of the iceberg.<br />
Library of Celsus<br />
194
Theatre<br />
We drive past fields of globe artichokes to Pamucak beach which is a beautiful<br />
expanse of brown sand and blue sky. We‟re alone except for packs of big dogs, always scary.<br />
The camel wrestling festival is to be held here in a few days and we decide to return for it.<br />
Back in Selcuk there are the usual Massey Ferguson tractors and trailers trundling through the<br />
streets. Late in the day the trailers are often <strong>full</strong> of women who look exhausted after a day<br />
working in the fields.<br />
The Selcuk Museum has a fascinating collection of artefacts excavated at Ephesus<br />
from all the eras of occupation. The most beautiful is an intricate marble statue of Artemis<br />
from the Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. The cemetery<br />
where gladiators were buried was discovered in 1993, and it has provided fascinating and<br />
macabre information, <strong>with</strong> the skeletal remains analysed by medical experts. There‟s an<br />
exhibition showing what their life was like, their weapons, and what injuries they sustained.<br />
We find it quite sickening.<br />
Next morning we go to the huge Selcuk market. People are selling what look to us<br />
like weeds that they have gathered, a plant akin to a geranium. To keep warm lots of stall<br />
holders burn paper and sticks inside old olive oil tins. A very old lady is selling beautiful<br />
handmade socks and slippers. The socks are cream <strong>with</strong> tiny <strong>colour</strong>ed flowers in a line up the<br />
middle, and the slippers brightly <strong>colour</strong>ed. We end up buying most of her socks and her<br />
grandson on the stall next door helps to clinch the deal.<br />
195
Selcuk Market<br />
Socks<br />
Then we head down the coast past Kusadasi and lots of coastal resorts. The orchards<br />
have alternating rows of citrus and peach, <strong>with</strong> broad beans growing under the trees. We‟re<br />
heading towards Bodrum, the Mediterranean, and warmer temperatures. The water tanks on<br />
the roofs of the houses are brightly <strong>colour</strong>ed, and we see McDonalds, Starbucks, and label<br />
clothing outlet stores. Everywhere people are harvesting olives <strong>with</strong> tarpaulins laid out under<br />
196
the trees. We return to the coast at Didim. It‟s twenty degrees and it feels like we‟ve<br />
escaped from the winter at last. We‟re fascinated to see a few old Dodge, De Soto and Fargo<br />
lorries as we drive to a glorious bay <strong>with</strong> a small port at one end called Altinkum. Ferries go<br />
from here to the Greek island of Kos.<br />
Slowly it dawns on us that this is a Brit enclave <strong>with</strong> real estate advertisements and<br />
menus in English (English breakfast, roast beef, scrambled eggs on toast, tomato soup, fish<br />
and chips). We buy a copy of The Sun. The Bank of England has set its interest rate at 1.5%,<br />
the lowest since its inception in 1694. That can‟t be good news for the thousands of ex pats<br />
who live around here. We spend the night parked beside the beach <strong>with</strong> a <strong>full</strong> moon rising<br />
and the bluest sea you could imagine.<br />
Next day we visit the Temple of the god Apollo, who had prophecy written into his<br />
job description. Built by the Greeks in the 7 th century BC, it was the second most important<br />
oracle for the ancient Greeks, after Delphi. The temple was rebuilt several times, and<br />
eventually destroyed by an earthquake in 1493, by which time it was a Christian church. In<br />
its heyday there were one hundred and eight columns, but only three remain standing. One<br />
has been left where it fell, propped up, <strong>with</strong> each piece overlapping like fallen dominoes. A<br />
carved relief of the head of Medusa, <strong>with</strong> thickly twined curls, is still beautiful after two<br />
millennia.<br />
Medusa<br />
The main walls of the temple are all intact and look original. Often sites like this one<br />
have been cannibalised over the centuries to build other structures, and the small pieces of<br />
metal that held the big chunks of marble together have been crow barred out. But this is the<br />
197
most intact site we‟ve been to. It‟s stunning. We‟ve seen so much of the Greeks and we<br />
haven‟t even got to Greece yet!<br />
198
Chapter 8 Turkey<br />
11 January – 8 February<br />
The Gender Gap<br />
From Didim we head inland past Lake Bafa <strong>with</strong> craggy mountains, flocks of coots,<br />
orange rock, and olives right down to the water‟s edge. The olive harvest is in <strong>full</strong> swing, in<br />
an area where the countryside is completely covered in olive trees. Women hit the branches<br />
<strong>with</strong> sticks then squat to gather the olives off tarpaulins spread underneath the trees. We<br />
wonder how long it takes to do each tree, or a hillside.<br />
Olive Harvest<br />
The conditions are perfect for mid winter - hot and sunny. We notice that the olive<br />
trees on the steep rocky parts are small, and the ones on the flatter, more fertile land are huge.<br />
As we drive past small factories the aroma of olive oil just hangs in the air. A horse and<br />
donkey <strong>with</strong> pack saddles are resting after the arduous job of delivering sacks of olives to the<br />
roadside.<br />
Some trees on the steepest hills have little stone walls built around their feet to protect<br />
the soil from erosion, and there‟s the odd fire of prunings and scrub. Little houses are dotted<br />
around and on the flat there are citrus orchards, cows, cabbages, sheep, and potatoes. No-one<br />
should ever go hungry in Turkey.<br />
199
Back home a year later I read that wild olives originated in Turkey (Asia Minor), and<br />
people there were harvesting them as early as 7000 BC.<br />
Driving into the town of Milas, beside a river we see a Gypsy camp of large tents,<br />
their walls anchored <strong>with</strong> stones, and washing pegged out. We head south, towards distant<br />
blue hills and islands, to Bodrum, planning to soak up the Mediterranean heat for a few days<br />
before turning round and beginning our homeward journey.<br />
Bodrum was known as Halicarnassus in ancient Greece. Herodotus, believed to be<br />
the first historian of the Western world, was born here in about 484 BC. Nowadays it‟s a<br />
very popular tourist destination, <strong>with</strong> its beautiful climate, beaches, boats, ancient ruins and<br />
historic buildings. We find a place to park on a hill above the marina then walk down to a<br />
bar for chips, koftes and beers, and watch Manchester United beat Chelsea on the tele. The<br />
other punters are all locals, one woman knitting beside her husband.<br />
Next morning we go in search of a picnic table where I can type an email and John<br />
can cook a curry for dinner. We find one at a high point where the locals stop for a break at<br />
the start of the Bodrum peninsula. A couple of jolly women in their fifties pull over for a<br />
smoke and ask us for a coffee when they see our stovetop espresso in action. We make them<br />
one and have a faltering conversation. They speak German, having worked in Germany.<br />
They tell us that the huge holiday mansions on the hillside, <strong>with</strong> their pools on the cliff face,<br />
and the houses in the distance, are all owned by Brits. Later we hear that seventy thousand<br />
Brits live in Didim, and twenty thousand Turks.<br />
The View from the Kitchen<br />
200
How the Other Half Lives<br />
Back in Bodrum we find a great place to park right beside a quiet beach near the<br />
deserted cruise liner terminal. The occasional person walks past and there are a few stray<br />
cats. In the evening as it grows dark John watches a couple of men head out in their boats.<br />
Next day we visit the huge indoor clothing and textile market and have a great trawl<br />
through the tablecloths, shawls and clothes. Most interesting are the women sitting on the<br />
path leading into the market, selling their own olives in jars, vegetables, dried figs, flowers,<br />
sewing and knitting. We buy some dried figs which are moist and delicious <strong>with</strong> an almond<br />
inside each one. At the news agents we have a feast of papers, <strong>with</strong> Newsweek, the Herald<br />
Tribune and The Times available, plus two Turkish papers in English, Today‟s Zaman and<br />
Daily News offering a fascinating insight into Turkey.<br />
A column written by an ex pat woman points me in the direction of the World<br />
Economic Forum‟s “Global Gender Gap” report. I find it online and Turkey‟s results are<br />
sobering. Out of 130 countries compared in 2008 on the basis of the status and health of their<br />
women, Turkey comes in at 123 rd , while New Zealand is 5 th . The indicators cover things like<br />
literacy, school and university enrolment, political power, number of women in parliament,<br />
employment, and whether women giving birth have a trained health professional present.<br />
The results don‟t surprise me as women here seem to be invisible a lot of the time. It‟s rare<br />
to see a woman driving. This gives me a lot to think about. It‟s one thing to be a tourist in<br />
Turkey, but quite another to be a Turkish woman living here.<br />
Bodrum is <strong>full</strong> of little narrow streets <strong>with</strong> gift shops and cafes catering to the huge<br />
summer tourist influx. There‟s an area on the beach where the cafes put their tables and<br />
201
chairs on the sand. It‟s consistently warm, <strong>with</strong> the temperature in the back of the van in the<br />
heavenly range of sixteen to nineteen. Boats dominate the waterfront <strong>with</strong> everything from<br />
the tiniest dinghies and fishing boats, to huge motor yachts <strong>with</strong> enormous masts, just like<br />
Cook‟s Endeavour, available to take people for cruises. Turkish flags flutter from most of<br />
them. Fishermen‟s nets are left lying on the wharves, and garden centres leave their plants<br />
outside overnight. It says a lot about theft in a Moslem country.<br />
Development at Bodrum<br />
The whole area seems to be built on brightly <strong>colour</strong>ed rock, a mixture of orange,<br />
yellow and brown, <strong>with</strong> hillsides excavated to create building platforms for brilliant white<br />
houses. Huge gums <strong>with</strong> silvery trunks and tiny leaves are the dominant trees. The houses<br />
are immaculate, but on the flat there are still muddy backyards <strong>with</strong> hens and ducks, and the<br />
ubiquitous tractors. The bays and islands emerge from the bluest sea.<br />
After a few nights parked beside the beach, we decide that we may be becoming too<br />
much of a fixture, so we move to Gumbet a couple of bays along, and park in an area where<br />
small boats are moored. Just before midnight we‟re woken by a police car pulling in behind<br />
the van <strong>with</strong> its lights flashing. They shine a torch into the cab then hit the side <strong>with</strong> a<br />
truncheon. John climbs into the front, winds down the window and talks to them. When he<br />
asks to see their identification, one explodes in anger. There‟s no mucking around as they<br />
order him out of the van in his t-shirt, boxers and socks, and ask to see our passports. Once<br />
again “Midnight Express” looms large in his thoughts. Meanwhile I lie in the back hoping<br />
that they won‟t want me to get out. John tells them we‟re tourists, and the English speaking<br />
policeman says “I can see that!” and laughs. He says that they check out all vehicles parked<br />
in the area. They become quite friendly before driving away. After that I can‟t get back to<br />
202
sleep, <strong>with</strong> the resident geese carrying on, and one of the stray dogs whimpering round the<br />
van, so I read the chapter about the killing of the suitors in “The Odyssey”.<br />
John‟s not worried about the occasional difficulty starting the van now which is good.<br />
Also the problem of leaving the lights on has been solved by attaching a large dangling “evil<br />
eye” key ring to the car keys, and writing the word “lights” in black felt pen by the keyhole in<br />
the driver‟s door. The keys are now very awkward and it‟s a great reminder to turn off the<br />
lights. But our beloved compass, a sphere floating inside a clear ball of liquid, stuck to the<br />
inside of the windscreen, has stopped working. Some of the fluid has evaporated or leaked<br />
out. John manages to fix it by making a hole in the outer ball and topping it up <strong>with</strong> CRC so<br />
the compass floats again.<br />
We visit the Bodrum Underwater Archaeology Museum, housed in the 15 th century<br />
Castle of St Peter, which was built by the Knights Hospitaller (Crusaders) when they<br />
captured Bodrum. It‟s on a rocky peninsula enclosed by the sea on three sides, <strong>with</strong> five<br />
towers, each built by a different country (England, France, Spain, Germany and Italy). We<br />
walk around the ramparts and look down at the wild sea, now washing underneath all those<br />
groovy cafes on the beach. Virtually everything in the museum was recovered from under<br />
the sea in the Bodrum area, the first finds made by sponge divers, <strong>with</strong> later expeditions and<br />
the establishment of the museum coordinated by the Institute of Nautical Archaeology<br />
(U.S.A).<br />
At the start there‟s a collection of amphora, the shipping containers of the ancient<br />
world, dating back to the 14 th century BC. These ingenious narrow necked pottery storage<br />
vessels, each <strong>with</strong> a pointed bottom, were stacked in the holds of ships. Most are the <strong>size</strong> of<br />
two wine boxes one on top of the other. They were used for centuries to transport wine, oil,<br />
grain, milk, meat, poultry, fish, cheese, beans, fruit, herbs, nuts, sugar, kohl and gum Arabic.<br />
When amphora are discovered on a wreck it makes it easier for archaeologists to work out the<br />
date the ship sank.<br />
203
Amphora<br />
The best exhibit is the wreck of the 14 th century BC ship the Uluburun which was<br />
discovered off Kas: the oldest shipwreck to have ever been excavated. It was discovered in<br />
1982 at a depth of forty four to sixty one metres. Since the divers could spend only about<br />
twenty minutes at a time under the water, it took twenty two thousand dives and eleven years<br />
to bring everything to the surface. There‟s a <strong>full</strong> <strong>size</strong> replica of the ship lying on the seabed,<br />
plus exhibition cases displaying some of the eighteen thousand items recovered. The cargo<br />
included ten tons of copper ingots (probably mined in Cyprus) and one ton of tin ingots<br />
(probably mined in Afghanistan or Iran).<br />
The wonderful exhibits from the Uluburun include a little hinged wooden writing<br />
tablet containing wax, amber beads, bronze fish hooks and chisels, stone mortars, axe heads,<br />
lead fishing net sinkers, tiny weights in the shape of a lioness, sphinx, cow, frog, duck and<br />
fly, ancient seals, flat golden pendants three inches across, and purple glass ingots. All seem<br />
that much more magical after three millennia under the sea.<br />
It‟s hard to tear ourselves away from the Mediterranean ambience of Bodrum and<br />
head back north into the winter. After heavy rain and thunderstorms overnight it‟s a beautiful<br />
clear morning as we reluctantly hit the road. The distant hills appear sharply volcanic in the<br />
clear light and a couple of little Turkish naval vessels sit at the wharf. Back at the Gypsy<br />
camp we see that the tents have chimneys, and the fires are going. It‟s cold, but people are<br />
out harvesting olives. We take a different route, inland from Milas towards Yatagan.<br />
204
We Three Kings<br />
The countryside is steep and stony at first <strong>with</strong> pines and shrubs growing out of rock,<br />
and olives growing on the flat parts at the bottom of the valley. We pass two areas where<br />
bees are fed over the winter: hundreds of blue and white hives laid out in rows. Minarets and<br />
houses peep out of the forest. It‟s an extremely picturesque landscape that reminds us of the<br />
Lake District - all moss, rocks and beautiful trees.<br />
Forested Landscape<br />
Stone walls run for miles, and also marble walls, <strong>with</strong> chunks of marble littered<br />
everywhere and even marble shingle on the road. Little containers of milk have been set out<br />
at the roadside for collection by a lorry <strong>with</strong> large plastic containers on the back. We see a<br />
woman tipping her tiny container into one. We arrive at Eskihisir and there‟s an open cast<br />
lignite mine stretching for miles. A couple are harvesting a huge olive tree while their<br />
donkey waits patiently.<br />
On the next leg of the journey we pass through a spectacular landscape of huge rocks<br />
where even the culverts are made of marble. There are very deep ditches at each side of the<br />
road and a lorry coming the other way has ended up in one. The driver is leaning against the<br />
median barrier looking embarrassed. Smooth rocks the <strong>size</strong> of lorries sprout like butterscotch<br />
mushrooms out of the hillsides. The rocks and vegetation contain all shades of green, peach<br />
and grey. It‟s very grand, like the backdrop to a Western.<br />
205
Mushroom Rocks<br />
The landscape then morphs into agriculture <strong>with</strong> olives, cattle, stone walls, wild<br />
lavender, a cowshed, and the odd car parked beside the road while people harvest their olives.<br />
We enter the lower Menderes Valley <strong>with</strong> cotton fields and a cotton mill. There are old<br />
functioning brickworks, horticulture, and fig orchards. All the towns have heavy smog from<br />
coal fires.<br />
Harvesting Olives<br />
206
Patient Donkey<br />
When we arrive back at the Monaco Hotel in Selcuk we‟re told that Mumin and Jo are<br />
out “catching mushrooms”, but they have a room for us. We sit down for a chat <strong>with</strong> an older<br />
man at reception. When we discuss safe parking while travelling he says there‟s a Turkish<br />
saying “Tie your horse up well then it‟s up to God”.<br />
In the square there‟s a parade of twenty camels decked out in <strong>colour</strong>ful felt blankets,<br />
decorations and bells. They have a harness, a wooden frame on their back, and a large bell<br />
<strong>with</strong> a smaller one inside it at the front by their <strong>with</strong>ers. Each time they take a step the bells<br />
clang. Their fur is very thick, their feet huge and fat, and the ones wearing muzzles are<br />
foaming at the mouth. Some have a major attitude problem and lunge forward unpredictably,<br />
making the crowds of people scatter. Most are led by two men <strong>with</strong> ropes but some have a<br />
leg chain as well. Bulls on parade at an A & P show are passive in comparison.<br />
207
Patient Camel<br />
Foaming Camel<br />
There are two bands, each <strong>with</strong> loud drums, a kind of clarinet and a loud wooden<br />
recorder. Some teenage boys perform a traditional dance in navy blue outfits <strong>with</strong> bloomers.<br />
The town is packed <strong>with</strong> people and you can pick the few tourists by their cameras. We go<br />
out for lunch: roasted meatballs in tomato and onion, thick meat pizza, and a kind of naan<br />
bread. While we‟re sitting outside eating, the cafe staff keep shooing away a young woman<br />
208
egging <strong>with</strong> a baby. Later, outside the mosque, John gives her some money, and as he‟s<br />
reaching into his pocket a man puts his hand out for money as well. The woman immediately<br />
goes to a stall to buy fish.<br />
Boy Dancers<br />
The camel wrestling the next day is like an old fashioned country sports day <strong>with</strong><br />
Biblical overtones. Something about the sight of a line of camels all following each other,<br />
and especially a group of three camels, has Christmas card written all over it.<br />
We arrive by dolmus (minibus) <strong>with</strong> the locals and are deposited into a huge crowd,<br />
<strong>with</strong> vehicles and people for miles. Soldiers on the gate are directing everyone past a metal<br />
detector, and others patrol the perimeter <strong>with</strong> AK47s. A very steep hill looks down onto a<br />
flat area, forming a natural amphitheatre. There‟s forest at the top of the hill, and like a battle<br />
standard, a huge banner flaps in the breeze. It‟s painted <strong>with</strong> the image of Mustafa Kemal<br />
Ataturk‟s head.<br />
209
Our Big Day Out<br />
Under the Eye of Mustafa Kemal<br />
Our first impression is the wonderful smell coming from the thick haze of smoke<br />
hanging over everything. People have brought their barbeques and fired them up <strong>with</strong> wood<br />
from the forest. Everywhere meat is sizzling. There‟s hardly a woman to be seen and no<br />
other tourists in sight.<br />
210
Barbecue Fires<br />
Seventy camels are decked out in their finery, <strong>with</strong> words emblazoned across the<br />
back. We‟re told that they are not working camels but owned by rich men, so perhaps it‟s a<br />
bit like owning a racehorse. They parade in the ring in groups then fight one on one. They<br />
mainly wrestle <strong>with</strong> their necks. There aren‟t a lot of clear victories, and a couple of times<br />
one makes a dash for the exit, <strong>with</strong> its opponent in hot pursuit. The announcer builds up the<br />
tension, and the stewards scatter. The camels are loose cannons and seem to be only<br />
grudgingly domesticated, like they‟re just biding their time. They sit and lie down a lot if<br />
they get the chance, in a passive aggressive kind of way. They don‟t smell very good at all.<br />
There‟s lots of food for sale but no visible betting although it apparently does take place.<br />
211
We Three Kings<br />
We meet a couple our age, she a Canadian, he a Kiwi. They‟re retired and have been<br />
living on a thirty five foot yacht for seven years, <strong>with</strong> no house back home, just living off<br />
their pensions, <strong>with</strong> trips back to Canada and New Zealand. We find that we have a lot in<br />
common to talk about including the joys of the simple confined life, and the indispensability<br />
of wet wipes. Well that‟s the women. The men discuss safety at sea and the economics of<br />
our style of travel.<br />
On the subject of wet wipes, we‟ve become dependent on them as showers are<br />
infrequent. Everything is relative though as I discover back home at New Year 2010 when<br />
we hear that women on the Commonwealth Antarctic Expedition, who have just skied to the<br />
South Pole, were rationed to one wet wipe each per day for thirty eight days. Respect!<br />
On our way back to the hotel we get the dolmus to stop at Yuksel Carpets where we<br />
buy two Turkish carpets made of lambswool, both <strong>with</strong> a red background and little flowers,<br />
very traditional and beautiful. The shop arranges postage of them back to New Zealand for<br />
us. Little do we realise that this is the beginning of a very intense love affair <strong>with</strong> carpets and<br />
kilims which won‟t let go of us until we‟re well into Bosnia, or to be really honest, it will<br />
probably never leave us.<br />
212
Our First Carpet<br />
Back at the hotel we drink beer, eat crisps and canned dolmas, and blitz all our<br />
internet searching, emailing, skyping and downloading of <strong>photos</strong>. Next morning we have an<br />
early start, heading towards Bursa.<br />
We retrace our steps north on smooth motorway, across wonderful fertile agricultural<br />
land. There are vast fields of red cabbages, and we see women harvesting leeks and<br />
arranging them in beautiful upright bundles a foot across. The buzzards are out as we head<br />
inland from Izmir through steep forest.<br />
Whenever we drive up behind someone in a headscarf driving a tractor I think it‟s a<br />
woman, then when we pass we see that it‟s a man <strong>with</strong> the black and white scarf giving that<br />
distinctive Yasser Arafat look.<br />
We come across thirty stands selling terracotta pottery, many <strong>with</strong> tents and chimneys<br />
attached. A man in a suit is driving a tractor, and a man on a donkey comes towards us on<br />
the other side of the motorway. Coming into Balikesir we see a large army compound <strong>with</strong><br />
watchtowers, bunkers, and soldiers, as three birds of prey circle together. We pass through<br />
Susurluk then stop for lunch and see two big black shiny ravens. Then a vast stud farm <strong>with</strong><br />
beautiful riding horses stretching as far as the eye can see on both sides of the road <strong>with</strong> at<br />
least twenty brick stable blocks, each the <strong>size</strong> of two or three houses. Is this the Sultan‟s stud<br />
farm we wonder. Onion stalls line the roadside for miles, <strong>with</strong> a few of last year‟s rotten<br />
onions swinging in the breeze.<br />
213
At three in the afternoon, after a mammoth drive of two hundred and forty miles, we<br />
park at a truck stop <strong>with</strong>in striking distance of Bursa. I unpack the gear from our hotel stay,<br />
make the dinner (vegetable salad of canned beans, onion, parsley, red pepper and avocado),<br />
and put the mattress down. John lies across the front seat facing north, looking towards the<br />
sunset over Lake Ulubat Golu, <strong>with</strong> a welcome can of beer. It‟s peaceful and relaxing in<br />
spite of the line of lorries driving past on the road beside us, and the noise of all the comings<br />
and goings from the truck stop. There‟s a mosque and we hear the call to prayer.<br />
New Glow Plugs<br />
We wake to a glorious morning and feel very safe when we see enormous lorries on<br />
three sides. In front of us there‟s a fence and a view over a hillside which slopes towards us,<br />
a patchwork of green crop, ploughed earth, olives and a few houses. At this most excellent of<br />
truck stops there are shops, a restaurant and a barber, as well as the mosque. John speaks to<br />
the Turkish driver next door and when he tells him we‟re from New Zealand the guy says<br />
“sheep”. We do have that in common <strong>with</strong> the Turks.<br />
At Bursa we park in a supermarket car park and catch the bus into town. No tickets?<br />
No problem to the bus driver. We visit the statuesque old hans which used to provide shelter<br />
and accommodation for the camel trains, have a look in a posh shop, and buy some lovely<br />
scarves to give to people back home. There‟s a photo of the Queen on the wall. She shopped<br />
here last year!<br />
The beautiful mountain right beside the town, Ulubat (8000 feet), suddenly clears and<br />
we see thick snow on the top. We catch the bus back to the supermarket <strong>with</strong> the help of<br />
Murat, a charming young man who comes over when he sees us looking confused at the<br />
ticket counter. He sits <strong>with</strong> us on the bus and as we chat we discover that he lives in Kadikoy<br />
in Istanbul, the suburb where we‟re planning to stay in a few days‟ time. We exchange phone<br />
numbers.<br />
John‟s worried that the van is getting harder to start first thing in the morning, so he<br />
goes looking for a garage. At the first garage the mechanic insists on escorting him to<br />
another place round the corner. The next mechanic insists on driving him to a third garage<br />
which specialises in Mercedes and other German makes. With a diagram and a few words<br />
written in Turkish John explains the problem. All the men in the garage converge and hang<br />
around watching <strong>with</strong> great fascination and laughter. The mechanic says he can fix it, John<br />
indicates his watch, asking when, and he says to bring it in now. No-one speaks English up<br />
to this point.<br />
We drive along the road to the garage. The mechanic comes out, looks under the<br />
bonnet surrounded by a flock of apprentices, and works out very quickly that we need two<br />
new glow plugs. He can get them straight away and have the job done in a couple of hours.<br />
214
He jumps into the driver‟s seat and drives into the garage <strong>with</strong> me in the passenger‟s seat.<br />
They all have a good laugh at the steering wheel on the right hand side.<br />
When the parts arrive he shows them to John to verify that they are legit Mercedes<br />
parts. We‟re in there for over an hour, and a lovely smiling headscarfed woman keeps<br />
bringing rounds of cay on a tray for the workers and customers. One customer who has lived<br />
in Germany and speaks a little English does some interpreting but mainly John and the<br />
mechanic sort things out together. He quotes 140 Turkish lira and that‟s how much it costs.<br />
When John goes into the office to pay, he offers 160 Turkish plus 50 Turkish for the workers.<br />
The man in the office insists on giving 10 Turkish change and suggests that he give the extra<br />
to the mechanic in charge of the job. The guy holds the note up above his head and waves it<br />
around <strong>with</strong> a big smile. They are all very charming and laid back and it‟s been a very<br />
entertaining time for all of us.<br />
Fixing the Van<br />
We park for the night along the road from the garage, and look back on how many<br />
different people have helped us in one day. First of all the bus driver was quite relaxed about<br />
us not having a ticket. Then when we got off the bus a man saw us looking confused and<br />
took us to the visitors‟ centre. Later when we returned to the visitors‟ centre to ask where we<br />
could find a shop selling camping gas, another man took us a long way down back streets to a<br />
hunting shop. Then when we were ready to catch the bus back to the van, Murat caught our<br />
eye, bought the tickets for us, introduced himself, came on the bus <strong>with</strong> us, and told us he<br />
lived in Istanbul and could show us around when we got there. Then there were the men at<br />
the first two garages who got John to the correct garage. It‟s been quite a day.<br />
215
Next morning we‟re sitting in the front seat when the mechanic drives up and stops<br />
beside us. He winds down his window and <strong>with</strong> a wry smile mimes turning the key. John<br />
gives him the thumbs up as he‟s already cranked up the motor to test it out. More laughs all<br />
round.<br />
We catch the bus into town and sit down by the huge statue of Mustafa Kemal on his<br />
horse. In Turkish towns directions are often given in relation to the Ataturk statue. But there<br />
is usually more than one. We sit there eating our home made sandwiches and a cay seller<br />
circulates taking orders. We signal our order.<br />
A couple of boys of about eighteen come over to us for a chat. When we tell them<br />
we‟re from New Zealand they mime the haka. One is very fluent in English and they‟re keen<br />
to hear how we like Turkey. We discuss President Obama (they are very pleased <strong>with</strong> him<br />
and seem to take it quite personally), Israel and Palestine (they are unhappy that the Turkish<br />
government is so friendly <strong>with</strong> Israel and does nothing to help the Palestinians), music (they<br />
love Coldplay and Travis), football (one Manchester United fan, one Chelsea), the recent<br />
game between the two teams, and how Turkish women fancy coach Jose Mourinho just like<br />
the Brit ones do! They‟re studying for their university entrance exams. One wants to do<br />
computer engineering, the other veterinary science. One wants to go to England one day.<br />
They tell us that people in Turkey don‟t have material wealth but they have other qualities.<br />
Honesty and friendliness are mentioned. It‟s an intense conversation.<br />
They go back to class and we catch the Telerific up Mt Ulubat. We get off in thick<br />
snow and complete stillness and we‟re not surprised to find the fundamentals of Turkish life:<br />
a mosque, a stray dog, and someone selling simit, the delicious sesame encrusted buns.<br />
When we arrive back in town again we go into a tiny supermarket to buy mince and<br />
spinach for dinner. There‟s a public address system <strong>with</strong> a man‟s voice speaking. It‟s not the<br />
specials but a broadcast from the local mosque. We‟re in bed by seven that night.<br />
For two nights we park outside a school and on both mornings the children are<br />
hanging out the upstairs windows waving, laughing and calling out to us in English. As we<br />
drive out of town we call into a huge new mall <strong>with</strong> a Kipa (Tesco) supermarket. There are<br />
guards and a metal detector on the door, not a good atmosphere for shopping.<br />
We head towards Mudanya a port on the Sea of Marmara. As we drive into a suburb<br />
of apartment blocks right on the water‟s edge we discover a market spread along a few<br />
streets. We buy some pumpkin and pieces of lace, and enjoy a complimentary glass of cay.<br />
Then we drive through steep country <strong>with</strong> olives right down to the sea, and stop for the night<br />
at Kursunlu on the waterfront.<br />
A family is parked nearby at a picnic table <strong>with</strong> a fire burning. The man comes over<br />
and speaks in German, proudly introducing his grandson who is fishing. When we light the<br />
216
Kelly kettle later he brings us over some woodchips which are the perfect fuel. They have<br />
their lunch and we have ours, very companionable, looking out over a wonderful expanse of<br />
glassy water. When I start washing the dishes in a bowl on our picnic table the woman next<br />
door catches my eye <strong>with</strong> a sisterly look.<br />
They drive off and it‟s very peaceful, just the sea, empty holiday apartments, and the<br />
odd car passing. There are coots and terns in the sea and huge flocks of starlings. The<br />
evening call to prayer is amplified across the water.<br />
Ancient Olive<br />
I start reading “A Time of Gifts” by Patrick Leigh Fermor, an account of his walk<br />
from Rotterdam to Slovakia, en route to Constantinople (Istanbul), in 1933 at the age of<br />
eighteen, written forty years after the event. It‟s fascinating, beauti<strong>full</strong>y written and<br />
pleasingly <strong>full</strong> of detail. Interestingly he describes numerous acts of kindness from the<br />
people he meets.<br />
Kadikoy<br />
In the morning it‟s peaceful and warm <strong>with</strong> a calm sea. A heron flies overhead, and<br />
shags are sitting drying their wings in the sun. We fill our water container from one of two<br />
wide pipes spilling water, by a huge trough. Apparently there are water problems and<br />
droughts in Turkey but you‟d never know it. We drive over beautiful river flats <strong>with</strong> rich<br />
soil, where peach, fig and olive trees are being pruned then past the massive port of Gemlik<br />
and a Mittal steel works. As we get onto the motorway we see old snow on the hills in the<br />
distance and feel very lucky to be travelling in such fantastic conditions in the middle of<br />
217
winter. We‟re pulled up by the police who are checking seatbelts, then see huge textile and<br />
silk factories, and a petrochemical plant.<br />
The ever present military has a naval base <strong>with</strong> high watchtowers on the water‟s edge.<br />
In a built up area, big wharves and ships contrast <strong>with</strong> a horse and cart carying four people.<br />
Then we see a couple <strong>with</strong> a horse and cart on a six lane motorway. We stop to make a<br />
coffee and see another cart <strong>with</strong> two Gypsy women on board. We wave to them and they<br />
wave back and smile.<br />
Woman Driver<br />
As we follow the island studded coast on an eight lane motorway north west towards<br />
Istanbul, we see factories, massive piles of coal, cranes, ship building, shipping and smog.<br />
As well as the lorries there are slow vehicles and people overtaking fast on the inside.<br />
Eventually we see signs for Kadikoy and we‟re tense as we drive down busy streets, but end<br />
up in a cheap car park where a solicitous young attendant manages to find some schoolboys<br />
who speak English to interpret for us. With the van safely parked and guarded we go for a<br />
walk and buy a map of Kadikoy. It‟s an old suburb on the Asian side of Istanbul and we‟ve<br />
chosen to base ourselves here to avoid the hurly burly of traffic and tourists on the European<br />
side.<br />
218
Fish Market<br />
We get some English papers and read an article in the Guardian about the trial in<br />
Turkey of policemen charged <strong>with</strong> the torture and murder of a young protester in custody.<br />
He had been protesting about the injury of someone else held in custody. It‟s seen as a<br />
landmark trial.<br />
The car park empties out at ten and some boy racers arrive to do wheelies. I get<br />
nervous and wake John up, and we move the van to a safe corner. Strangely, at the same<br />
time, a little car containing three elderly people repeatedly drives forward then reverses, and<br />
we realise that someone is having driving lessons!<br />
Early next morning we go exploring for a better place to park and find the perfect<br />
spot, a small private car park on a narrow cobbled street that leads steeply down to the port<br />
where we‟ll catch the ferry across to the European side. It‟s very peaceful <strong>with</strong> a derelict<br />
building at the rear, and deserted backyards on each side. The two attendants seem happy to<br />
have us park in the back corner, never dreaming that we‟ll stay for two weeks! Crying<br />
seagulls and ferry horns are a constant background. If we walk for two minutes towards the<br />
port, past cafes, old apartment buildings and the odd little hotel, across the water we can see<br />
the famous Sultanahmet quarter of old Istanbul <strong>with</strong> its exotic Turkish roof lines.<br />
219
European Side of Istanbul<br />
We spend the day exploring the shops, especially the second hand ones. There seem<br />
to be no tourists in Kadikoy, the shopkeepers don‟t speak English, and this makes it very<br />
relaxing. One shop run by a very old man has a narrow walkway down the middle <strong>with</strong> old<br />
things piled up to head height on each side. Whenever we ask the price of something he tells<br />
us a high price as though he can‟t bear to part <strong>with</strong> anything. One thing that fascinates me is<br />
a tailoring apprentice‟s sample piece - different pocket styles done on cream silk.<br />
220
Junk Piled High<br />
On the street we‟re befriended by a seventy five year old man who speaks English and<br />
used to be in the Turkish navy working on submarines. Then we find a bookshop <strong>with</strong> a<br />
great collection of books in English and I buy three books about Turkey: “Memet My Hawk”<br />
byYasar Kemal, “In Jail With Nazim Hikmet” by Orhan Kemal, and “Birds Without Wings”<br />
by Louis de Bernieres.<br />
Simit Seller<br />
Next day we catch the ferry across the Bosphorous to Eminonu on the European side -<br />
fifty pence each way, past ships, ferries and fishing boats. There‟s a relaxed attitude towards<br />
safety <strong>with</strong> the passengers jumping off onto the wharf while there‟s still a gap and the<br />
gangplank isn‟t in place. John loves that.<br />
221
Don’t Mind the Gap<br />
Exploring the pet shops near the Spice Bazaar we see beautiful tropical fish, quail,<br />
hens, geese and turtles, and some desperate looking puppies. We‟re fascinated to see leeches<br />
for sale in the garden shops. Back outside wherever we look there are minarets. We walk up<br />
the hill towards the Aya Sofia, stopping on the way to look in a carpet shop where John does<br />
some haggling over a piece of embroidered silk <strong>with</strong> a man who speaks excellent French.<br />
John ends up not buying but it‟s a very pleasant experience.<br />
The Aya Sofya was built by the Byzantine Emperor Justinian in the 6 th century AD<br />
and it was regarded as the greatest Christian church for centuries. After 1453 when the<br />
Ottomans, led by Mehmet the Conqueror, took over Constantinople (the old name for<br />
Istanbul), the Aya Sofya was turned into a mosque <strong>with</strong> the addition of minarets, tombs and<br />
fountains. In 1935 Mustafa Kemal Ataturk made it a museum.<br />
The main dome is nearly two hundred feet high, creating a wonderful sense of<br />
openness. The exterior is a subtle combination of brick and stone, while the interior has awe<br />
inspiring Byzantine mosaics in gold from the 9 th and 10 th centuries, plus walls decorated <strong>with</strong><br />
intricate Ottoman era tiles from the 16 th century: flower patterns in blue, white, red and green.<br />
It‟s a glorious mix of the best of Christian and Moslem architecture and design.<br />
222
Young Women<br />
On the way home we sit outside on the ferry next to a family who are feeding the<br />
gulls which trail behind. As the bread is thrown up into the air, the gulls which are only a<br />
few feet away at head height, swoop down and catch it. If one misses, another one grabs it.<br />
It seems to be a local tradition, hugely entertaining.<br />
We spend the next day in Kadikoy and discover a carpet shop that‟s having a sale. I<br />
buy two cheap and beautiful forty year old carpets, a small brown one and a large pink and<br />
green one. As we leave the shop after a lot of bonhomie and hand shaking the young<br />
assistant (there‟s always a young assistant) calls out “I love Turkey!”<br />
We take our laundry to the Daisy Laundry around the corner, then in a back street<br />
junk shop we find an old round metal tray <strong>with</strong> three brass supports leading to a ring at the<br />
top where you hook your finger. It‟s used to deliver cay and we buy it <strong>with</strong> great excitement.<br />
We notice that Kadikoy has lots of young people and not many women in head scarves.<br />
After a rather strange lunch of a thick square of spinach topped <strong>with</strong> a rubbery egg from a<br />
tiny cafe, we see a man on a street corner <strong>with</strong> a little photocopier on a trolley running off a<br />
generator. We stash the carpets back in the van, laid out flat under the mattress.<br />
223
Home for Two Weeks<br />
We‟re determined to find the local market and go on a wild goose chase walking for<br />
miles, but it‟s elusive. We ask an older man for directions and he asks us if we would like a<br />
cay. We sit down and have a glass, then when we offer to pay he makes that lovely Turkish<br />
gesture of “from me to you” touching his heart and then flourishing his open hand towards<br />
us. A man who speaks English joins us and he turns out to have an outdoor shop down the<br />
road where we spend up large on cooking gas for our stove.<br />
Back at the van a film crew has taken over the car park <strong>with</strong> their vans, electricity<br />
generators and glasses of cay. It‟s a glorious sunny day and we walk in to the main street of<br />
Kadikoy to meet up <strong>with</strong> our new friend Murat who helped us in Bursa. He takes us to the<br />
Balloon cafe on the waterfront where we sit outside, drink cay, eat delicious food, and talk.<br />
We‟re fascinated to hear about Murat‟s life and family. He‟s a Kurd from near<br />
Tunceli in the east of Turkey. When he was young and still lived there he used to take the<br />
family‟s sheep out to grass before school. They had to be brought back by six at night<br />
because after that the army shot at anything that moved. His family moved to Bursa (where<br />
his parents worked in factories) for the children‟s education and a better life. He went to<br />
university in Kayseri and qualified as a cameraman. Last year he made a film about his<br />
friend‟s grandfather who lives in the country in Eastern Turkey. The <strong>photos</strong> he took of the<br />
old man are exhibited in a gallery nearby and he takes us there to see them and meet his<br />
friends.<br />
Murat tells us that he and his family belong to a branch of Islam called Alevi which<br />
has twenty million followers in Turkey. They don‟t go to mosques. I read later that their key<br />
224
eliefs are: love and respect for all people, tolerance towards other religions and ethnic<br />
groups, respect for working people, and the equality of men and women. Murat is a shining<br />
example of these beliefs, and he tells us that he believes in the goodness of people. He says<br />
that if there had been time after we met in Bursa, he would have taken us to meet his family.<br />
We walk back to the car park and show him inside the van. He‟s quite blown away<br />
and says that it‟s given him a lot to think about, us living in the back of a van for six months.<br />
In Turkey when people are our age they just want to rest and watch television. It‟s not<br />
surprising <strong>with</strong> the hard lives they lead. We show him the second hand carpets and he says<br />
they are genuine. It‟s the icing on the cake to have a friend in Istanbul.<br />
Cocaine Carpets<br />
Next day we head back to Eminonu on the ferry, and John buys a piece of beige fabric<br />
embroidered in subtle shades of red, brown, yellow, green and blue silk. They are called<br />
suzanis, traditional embroideries made by women of central Asia like Uzbekistan and<br />
Turkmenistan.<br />
Then we visit the Blue Mosque which takes its name from the tens of thousands of<br />
patterned blue and white Iznik tiles which cover virtually the whole interior. It‟s tile heaven.<br />
The mosque was built in the 17 th century, a thousand years after the Aya Sofya, and it has the<br />
same awe inspiring height and airiness. The atmosphere overwhelms us and we just stand<br />
there gazing around. It‟s a functioning mosque and men are face down on the floor, while the<br />
women are giggling and whispering after prayers in their own section at the rear. On the way<br />
out a small boy smiles at John and says “Welcome to Turkey”.<br />
We meet Murat and he takes us around the cheap shops of Eminonu where there is<br />
everything from rope, clothing and animal harness to pots and pans. Perhaps it‟s our rural<br />
backgrounds but for some reason we can never get enough of ropes, sacks, animal bells,<br />
machetes and bridles! After the ferry ride home and feeding the gulls, we all go out for a<br />
delicious macaroni dinner.<br />
Next day is quiet as it rains heavily. It‟s easy to spend hours at the internet cafe<br />
where they serve rounds of cay, then I go to the cafe next door and bring back a beautiful<br />
lunch on a tray. People are always delivering meals on foot, on those trays <strong>with</strong> metal covers<br />
used for room service in old movies. The Turks are experts at good food, in the warmest and<br />
most laid back fashion.<br />
We pick up our perfectly folded laundry from the Daisy Laundry where the workers<br />
give us big smiles, buy some bottles of water as there‟s no tap in our car park, and retire to<br />
the van where I make traditional chicken soup. We‟re in bed at seven <strong>with</strong> the gas light on<br />
and cats fighting outside. It‟s a very relaxed way of life.<br />
225
Next day Murat takes us to the elusive Kadikoy market by bus. There are the usual<br />
wonderful fruit, vegetable, nut, spice, and fish stalls, but also wigs, clothing, fabrics, zips,<br />
elastic, and buttons. I buy an Indian dress and some pieces of fine transparent curtain fabric.<br />
We warm up in a little cafe <strong>with</strong> a liver stew. Murat tells us later that the Kurdish waiter<br />
gave us mates‟ rates on the bill.<br />
You‟re never far from the sea in Istanbul and there are always boats, bridges, men<br />
fishing, gulls and activity. We‟re keen to explore the Golden Horn, the long estuary which<br />
flows south east into the Bosphorous, and we catch the bus along the southern shore <strong>with</strong><br />
Murat the next day. We stop off at Balata a poor area <strong>with</strong> lots of Gypsies, and walk around<br />
the narrow streets <strong>with</strong> their exotic shops.<br />
Bakery, Balata<br />
We discover a tiny second hand shop like an Aladdin‟s cave stuffed <strong>with</strong> textiles,<br />
carpets, ancient kaftans, felt toys, bags, jewellery and ornaments. It‟s run by two charming<br />
gay men, <strong>with</strong> a cat and kittens under the desk, and a miasma of cat pee. After care<strong>full</strong>y<br />
scrutinising their wares we finally buy two old carpets, one a huge embroidered kilim called a<br />
cicim from the Karapinar tribe (Konya), very rare and special, which they tell us is eighty to a<br />
hundred years old.<br />
226
Cicim<br />
Another of the joys of travelling by van is being able to take large things home so<br />
easily. We also buy two old suzanis, one yellow from Uzbekistan and a red one from<br />
Kyrgyzstan. We seal the deal <strong>with</strong> a round of cay, perched on the furniture in the tiny<br />
cramped shop. We feel very lucky to have found this place as these two have an eye for<br />
beautiful old things.<br />
We catch a taxi to Eyup, where we sit <strong>with</strong> the locals at the Pierre Loti cafe <strong>with</strong> cay<br />
and toasted sandwiches. Murat tells us about his six month spell of compulsory military<br />
service (two years in prison if you refuse) stationed in eastern Turkey near the Iraq border,<br />
being pursued by the PKK (the Kurdistan Workers‟ Party which is seeking cultural and<br />
political rights for the Kurdish people in Turkey).<br />
We read later that Leyla Zana a Kurdish politician was jailed for ten years in 1994 for<br />
making a speech in Kurdish, then again in July 2009 for making a speech in May 2008 at the<br />
School of Oriental and Asia Studies at the University of London where she said that Abdullah<br />
Ocalan, the jailed PKK leader was “as important for the Kurdish people as the brain and soul<br />
are for a human being”.<br />
In that western corner of the city it‟s very Islamic <strong>with</strong> lots of headscarves, some<br />
women all in black, old men <strong>with</strong> whiskers, many mosques, bath houses, old broken walls,<br />
and the smell of wood smoke from food vendors. We return to Kadikoy for another macaroni<br />
dinner and Murat tells us about his family‟s move from eastern Turkey to Bursa when he was<br />
seven. Three families shared an apartment. They went from a self sufficient peasant lifestyle<br />
where they had sheep, ground their own flour, and grew their own food, to living in the city.<br />
227
On our next trip across in the ferry we bring bread to feed the gulls, and enjoy a<br />
wonderful synchronicity <strong>with</strong> them as they take turns to swoop down and catch it in the air.<br />
We walk up to Beyazit to a flea market, the Book Bazaar, and the grand old buildings of<br />
Istanbul University. It‟s Saturday and Turkish people are out strolling. We buy a small old<br />
carpet from Cappadocia at the flea market then have lunch in a cheap restaurant resplendent<br />
<strong>with</strong> carpets and textiles. There are soft comfortable benches to sit on and a charcoal brazier<br />
keeping the place warm. An old lady is sitting near the entrance <strong>with</strong> a rolling pin like a<br />
broom handle, waiting patiently to roll out the dough for someone‟s meal. People are playing<br />
backgammon and some are smoking nargile water pipes flavoured <strong>with</strong> fruit and lit <strong>with</strong><br />
charcoal from the brazier.<br />
Prayer Beads<br />
Back at Kadikoy there‟s a circle of thirty young happy people dancing on the wharf,<br />
and a man in the centre playing bagpipes <strong>with</strong> a red velvet bag similar to Irish pipes. Murat<br />
tells us that the dance comes from up near the Black Sea.<br />
We spend the next day in Kadikoy and buy two more old carpets. Late in the day we<br />
wander into a shop that sells mainly nargiles and there is a tiny old carpet for sale. John falls<br />
in love <strong>with</strong> it. Then we go into an antique shop that John‟s been into a couple of times<br />
before, and the shopkeeper calls out “Amigo!” as we enter. John can‟t keep away from a<br />
gorgeous fifty year old red embroidered kilim from Iran, and finally buys it. The shopkeeper<br />
orders cay for us and we sit in the cramped shop and chat. We‟re getting better at balancing<br />
the little tea glasses and saucers on stacks of fascinating old Turkish junk. He speaks German<br />
but no English. With the help of the dictionary and a bit of German he tells us that his<br />
228
grandfather fought at Gallipoli. The German comes from his twenty years working at a<br />
factory in Nuremberg. Then he takes us to meet his son at a shop a few doors along.<br />
Embroidered Kilim from Iran<br />
We love Kadikoy. Let me describe a typical evening there. On this particular<br />
evening I think that I could stay forever. I walk from the car park to the shops fifty yards up<br />
the hill. The narrow bustling streets contain butchers, bakers, greengrocers, hardware shops,<br />
cake shops, cafes, and a couple of small supermarkets. I buy some chicken and fresh<br />
vegetables for dinner, some dried apricots and bottles of water. The people in the shops are<br />
always polite. It‟s growing dark. A man on the corner has a handcart containing assorted<br />
junk and some chaps are picking through it. The cafes are <strong>full</strong> of men smoking and playing<br />
cards. It feels exotic yet comfortable. I walk back down Uzunhafizi Sokak to the car park at<br />
number thirty two and the sea at the bottom of the street is glassy. I keep my eyes down as I<br />
pass the two car park guys. One of the advantages of being a woman travelling in Turkey is<br />
that you can completely ignore all men.<br />
The Subterraneans<br />
It‟s a momentous day when we visit the Istanbul Archaeological Museum, built at the<br />
direction of archaeologist Osman Bey in 1891 to house his finds. Osman Bey was also<br />
instrumental in the passage of the 1884 Act of Antiquities which made all antiquities the<br />
property of the state, so they couldn‟t be removed from Turkey. Visiting the museum is an<br />
overwhelming experience as the collections are vast and of a very high quality.<br />
229
First of all we look at the collection of things discovered under Istanbul during the<br />
current excavations to extend the metro line. This is a huge and ongoing excavation and the<br />
finds include: Ottoman pottery from the 15 th to the 17 th century (intricate, in blue and white,<br />
like Iznik tiles), a sewage system and a bath house, a mosaic floor from the 6 th century (partly<br />
destroyed, and under it eighty one skeletons from much earlier), 7 th century pots <strong>with</strong> human<br />
faces, ivory game pieces which are probably chess from the 7 th century, wooden and leather<br />
sandals from the 7 th century displayed in water, bone dice from the 7 th century, an ivory chess<br />
piece from the 11 th century, and a shipwreck from the 11 th century. Twenty one shipwrecks<br />
have been discovered from an ancient port dating back to Roman times, uncovered at<br />
Yenikapi in 2006.<br />
There‟s a vast collection from the Roman and Byzantine periods, glass bracelets,<br />
relief sculptures, so many perfect things. A life <strong>size</strong> bronze sculpture of a wild boar is there<br />
from the 5 th century BC, <strong>with</strong> every hair perfect. Other things that we love are very beautiful<br />
thick gold bracelets from the 7 th and 11 th centuries, a 6 th century bronze bucket, and 6 th<br />
century stone pulpits from Salonica. On the more gruesome side are Egyptian mummies and<br />
coffins, one mummy exposed to show the skull and bindings. The skeleton of a king <strong>with</strong><br />
tissue still clinging to it is a great hit <strong>with</strong> some young women who take lots of <strong>photos</strong>.<br />
The museum was built to house the finds from the Necropolis of Sidon from 500 BC,<br />
dug up in Lebanon, which was part of the Ottoman empire in the 19 th century. The <strong>photos</strong> of<br />
Osman Bey‟s expedition show bullock carts <strong>with</strong> wooden discs for wheels transporting huge<br />
stone items to be shipped to Turkey. It‟s astonishing that in the late 19 th century they were<br />
able to move stone burial chambers (up to six feet high and ten feet long, intricately carved<br />
<strong>with</strong> horses and battle scenes) thousands of miles, <strong>with</strong>out causing them any damage. The<br />
piece de resistance is the Alexander Sarcophagus which shows Alexander the Great beating<br />
the Persians in a battle, intricately carved around the outside of a large stone burial chamber.<br />
There‟s also a stone sarcophagus collection from Crete, Salonica, Ephesus and<br />
Lebanon, and some decorated lead coffins from Roman times. A stone coffin standing on its<br />
end is decorated <strong>with</strong> a small painted sphinx, horses and chariots, and dogs.<br />
Many of the finds from Troy are housed here: tiny pottery heads, vessels, lamps,<br />
knives, needles, large pottery jars, and gold jewellery. The Iron Age Anatolia collection has<br />
ancient bits for horses, axe heads and the moulds for making them. From the ancient city of<br />
Nippur (in present day Iraq) there are beautiful green glazed clay coffins from the 1 st century<br />
BC <strong>with</strong> relief decoration.<br />
It‟s all so old, exquisite and perfect, we‟re quite overwhelmed and ruined for any<br />
other museums.<br />
The Tiled Pavilion is in the same complex as the museum, built in the 15 th century<br />
and looking a bit like a mosque. It contains small galleries where the lower walls are covered<br />
230
in dark blue hexagonal tiles <strong>with</strong> white between them. It houses a collection of pottery <strong>with</strong><br />
some exquisite pieces in blue, white and turquoise from the 15 th century. There‟s also an<br />
early 18 th century lemon squeezer in blue and white. One gallery has walls lined <strong>with</strong> fine<br />
turquoise and gold hexagonal tiles interspersed <strong>with</strong> triangular plain dark blue, and blue and<br />
gold ones. There are even blue tiles on the outside of the entrance. I just can‟t get enough of<br />
them.<br />
Tiled Pavillion<br />
231
Lemon Squeezer<br />
The chap collecting the rubbish outside has “Istanbul European City of Culture 2010”<br />
emblazoned on the back of his overalls and John tries in vain to discreetly take a photo of<br />
him. There are cats everywhere. Outside, random stone sarcophagi, statues and imperfect<br />
marble sculptures are on display, the usual overflow seen outside Turkish museums. We look<br />
down onto huge trees in the botanic gardens. Pale green parakeets <strong>with</strong> long tails, red beaks<br />
and spots of red on their wings fly around, and a heron flaps past.<br />
Less Important Ancient Marble<br />
We walk down a street of textile shops where a lorry is unloading and twenty men<br />
<strong>with</strong> wooden pack frames on their backs carry rolls of material to shops along the street. The<br />
men are older and it looks like back breaking work. We turn down a little street of clothes<br />
shops and see men‟s ties displaying the image of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk. I now realise why<br />
he was so important: he destroyed the power of the Ottomans, nationalised their property,<br />
sent the remaining sultans into exile, and set about turning Turkey into a modern country.<br />
Not bad for a few decades work.<br />
Murat told me you can tell which political party a man supports by the style of his<br />
moustache. Also a young woman may not be able to tell a young man that she loves him, so<br />
she may wear a particularly beautiful head scarf when they meet, and let him know in that<br />
way.<br />
232
Hello Nice Couple<br />
We‟ve been looking forward to the boat trip up the Bosphorous, ignoring the men<br />
selling the two hour trip, and holding out for a fine day and the six hour trip on a large boat.<br />
We queue up <strong>with</strong> all the local tourists plus a few Americans, Brits, and a young Korean<br />
woman, then rush on board to get really good seats in the stern on the outside. The boat takes<br />
ninety minutes to get from Eminonu to Anadolu Kavagi near the entrance to the Black Sea,<br />
where we stop for three hours for lunch. Winter is a quiet time for tourism and the<br />
restaurants look like they‟re dependent on tourists <strong>with</strong> money to spend. We‟re accosted by<br />
touts trying to entice us in for expensive fish meals. We eat our homemade sandwiches in a<br />
courtyard near the sea then walk most of the way up to the old castle Yoros Kalesi, and stop<br />
for cay in the sunshine looking down over the Bosphorus. It‟s gloriously sunny and the sea is<br />
glassy, <strong>with</strong> big ships moving from the Aegean to the Black Sea. Many are tankers riding<br />
high in the water. At Anadolu Kavagi there are fishing boats of all <strong>size</strong>s, <strong>with</strong> the little ones<br />
stored in cavernous areas under the houses which are built right on the water‟s edge.<br />
Fishermen are sitting mending their nets and sorting out their lines.<br />
Anadolu Kavagi<br />
On the return journey the boat zigzags back and forth between the European and<br />
Asian sides. The Bosphorous is only about sixteen hundred feet wide at the narrowest point<br />
and there are forts on each side from the 14 th and 15 th centuries. It has a Venetian feel, <strong>with</strong><br />
gabled and shuttered mansions right on the water‟s edge, small palaces from the Ottoman era<br />
dotted around, and houses up to six stories high layered back up the hills. We sail under two<br />
233
enormous suspension bridges, one of which we‟ll be on in three days time when we exit<br />
Istanbul and head for Greece. We‟re not looking forward to that at all.<br />
Mansion on the Bosphorus<br />
As usual there are military installations. Murat tells us they always have the best<br />
pieces of land. He also tells us about his time working at Antalya on the Mediterranean coast<br />
for a year photographing German and Russian tourists on holiday, then selling them the<br />
<strong>photos</strong> they chose. Digital cameras killed off this kind of work.<br />
Next day we‟re hard at it again, off to the Topkapi Palace. Going across on the ferry<br />
we see at least thirty ships anchored in the distance. Walking up through Sultanahmet in the<br />
heavy tourist area, <strong>with</strong>in twenty yards we‟re hailed by two men outside shops, each saying<br />
“Hello nice couple”. All we can do is laugh. We walk through the Spice Bazaar, a 17 th<br />
century covered market, then into narrow streets where you can buy haberdashery, clothes<br />
and curtains. Men <strong>with</strong> carrying frames are lumping huge loads of textiles. I find some of<br />
the baggy women‟s trousers <strong>with</strong> the crutch below knee level that I‟ve been searching for.<br />
Murat tells me they are from the east of Turkey. We stop for the first cay of the day and<br />
watch a man bent double carrying load after load of cardboard up numerous steps to a van. A<br />
passing local greets us <strong>with</strong> “Guten Morgen”.<br />
234
Back Breaking Work<br />
The entrance to the palace is along a wide footpath lined <strong>with</strong> plane trees on each<br />
side, <strong>with</strong> a bed of pansies and polyanthus of different <strong>colour</strong>s under each tree. In the<br />
courtyards inside the palace there are planes, cabbage trees, cypress, magnolia and yew.<br />
There are lots of school groups and Turkish tourists, and two Japanese women take each<br />
other‟s picture beside a flowering japonica.<br />
First we visit the former stables where there‟s an exhibition of some of the Ottoman<br />
treasures: jewel encrusted objects, towels <strong>with</strong> golden thread, and such like. The Ottoman<br />
rulers lived in the palace from 1459 to 1839 and it was an era of great excess, <strong>with</strong> enormous<br />
privilege for a few people. Mustafa Kemal nationalised it in 1924 and turned it into a<br />
museum.<br />
The palace consists of several separate buildings <strong>with</strong> trees and gardens in between,<br />
designed like a nomadic campsite. The buildings have domed roofs and big verandahs<br />
supported <strong>with</strong> ornate stone pillars, <strong>with</strong> even the interior of the verandahs lined <strong>with</strong> tiles.<br />
It‟s the prime spot in Istanbul, on a high promontory where the Bosphorous meets the Golden<br />
Horn, <strong>with</strong> views across to Kadikoy and Beyoglu, and down the Bosphorous. Iznik tiles <strong>with</strong><br />
ornate flower patterns decorate most surfaces inside. The library is especially beautiful: tiled,<br />
<strong>with</strong> internal window shutters lined <strong>with</strong> mother of pearl. In the Treasury, where the mantle<br />
of Mohammed is stored, we see “John the Baptist‟s arm”, encased in silver, <strong>with</strong> a bit of bone<br />
showing.<br />
235
Topkapi Palace<br />
Topkapi Palace<br />
Next we visit the Basilica Cistern which was built in the 6 th century by the Emperor<br />
Justinian. It‟s an underground water reservoir about five hundred by two hundred and fifty<br />
feet in area, and twenty six feet high, <strong>with</strong> three hundred and thirty six stone columns holding<br />
up the roof. It has the capacity to store one hundred thousand tons of water which was<br />
carried twelve miles here by aqueduct. There are two huge stone heads of Medusa each at the<br />
236
ase of a column, one upside down. The water in it now is only a few feet deep and you can<br />
walk around on a walkway while classical music plays, enjoying the shadowy interior <strong>with</strong> its<br />
subtle lighting. It‟s been restored several times and apparently the Ottomans didn‟t use it as<br />
they liked flowing water. It was unknown to people from Western Europe until the 16 th<br />
century when a Dutch scholar ventured inside and mapped it, having heard from the locals<br />
that they lowered buckets through their kitchen floors to get water.<br />
Turkish flags are for sale everywhere and we find the ultimate one to take home, red<br />
background, white crescent moon and star, and <strong>with</strong> a black and white photo of Mustafa<br />
Kemal‟s head and shoulders superimposed over it.<br />
The Best Job in Turkey?<br />
237
Turkish Flag <strong>with</strong> Mustafa Kemal<br />
On our way to the Grand Bazaar we have an interesting experience. We‟re walking<br />
along and a man <strong>with</strong> shoeshine gear is walking in front of us. He drops one of his brushes,<br />
and John taps him on the shoulder, tells him he‟s dropped it, then keeps walking. Very<br />
quickly the shoeshine guy starts talking to me, then offers to clean John‟s shoes in<br />
appreciation, even though John protests. He says he‟ll just brush them but ends up cleaning<br />
them properly.<br />
We manage to let slip that we‟re off to the Grand Bazaar, and he says he has a friend<br />
there who sells carpets and starts leading us along the street to show the way. When we don‟t<br />
follow him he comes back to get us and starts to get aggressive when we won‟t go <strong>with</strong> him.<br />
Then he wants to be paid for cleaning the shoes, and demands the equivalent of fifteen quid!<br />
He says this as I‟m handing him about a pound, and he keeps saying “No, paper money!”<br />
We‟re gobsmacked and keep saying “You can‟t be serious, it doesn‟t cost that much!” He<br />
starts shoving John who says “I think we need to call the tourist police”, and that has the<br />
desired effect. It‟s quite funny in hindsight but a bit unsettling at the time. We realise that<br />
it‟s all a scam, as it‟s happened to us twice before, once when we were out <strong>with</strong> Murat, and<br />
the guy then cleaned all our shoes for a reasonable price, and another time when I picked up<br />
the brush then refused to have my shoes cleaned. By the way, our shoes are battered and long<br />
overdue for a clean.<br />
238
We‟ve put off going to the Grand Bazaar because it‟s quite stressful being in places<br />
that are purely for tourists. The shopkeepers all seem to think that you‟re there to buy things,<br />
and we‟re usually not interested. The Grand Bazaar was built in the 15 th century and has four<br />
thousand small shops, like a series of interlinking Victorian arcades, surely the prototype for<br />
all shopping malls. It‟s very beautiful <strong>with</strong> arches everywhere disappearing into the distance<br />
like an exercise in perspective. We only visit a small corner because it all gets too much<br />
fending off the shopkeepers, but it‟s been fantastic to see another example of glorious<br />
Turkish architecture: beautiful, functional, and <strong>with</strong> such exquisite style in the details.<br />
Grand Bazaar<br />
That night there‟s drama in the car park. Incredibly, the two men who run the place<br />
where we‟re parked can‟t drive. Not many people in Turkey have cars so it‟s not surprising,<br />
but it would be really useful if these two could drive. The tiny section holds a dozen cars<br />
squeezed in like sardines, and if someone wants to take their car out and there‟s another one<br />
in front of it, then someone has to move the car onto the street to let them out. A man wants<br />
his car which is behind another one, and the attendant comes to ask John if he will drive the<br />
other one out.<br />
John has to put on his shoes so will be a couple of minutes, but meanwhile the car<br />
park guy flags down a lovely young Turkish woman (no headscarf, and wearing a mini skirt)<br />
and her French boyfriend and asks them. She‟s keen, jumps into the big Audi and is just<br />
backing over the kerb when John reckons she drops the clutch too fast because there‟s a big<br />
bang and it completely loses power. She gets out and the men all scratch their heads. The<br />
car has to be moved so she gets in again and steers it while the men push it backwards uphill<br />
239
and into a spot against the curb. We‟re left wondering how the attendants will explain to the<br />
owner of the Audi why his car won‟t go.<br />
Moving the Audi<br />
Yun and Yeni<br />
Next day we catch the ferry <strong>with</strong> Murat to Beyoglu on the northern side of the Golden<br />
Horn. We go up the Galata Tower which was built in wood in the 6 th century as a lighthouse.<br />
In the 14 th century the Genoese rebuilt it in stone, and in the 17 th century someone flew from<br />
it <strong>with</strong> home made wings four miles across the Bosphorous to Uskudar.<br />
It‟s a sunny day and we get fantastic views all over the city. In Istanbul they have gas<br />
central heating so there‟s no coal smoke. We‟re walking along a narrow street <strong>full</strong> of little<br />
shops when two old men come towards us <strong>with</strong> plastic bags hanging off sticks slung over<br />
their shoulders. They have very distinctive faces and look like they‟re straight out of the<br />
pages of a fairy story. I ask John to take a picture of them, and they stop and ask us if we‟d<br />
like to buy carpets. We say yes and they put down their bundles and take out little old beaten<br />
up carpets that look like they‟ve come from someone‟s rubbish. They also want to sell us<br />
bunches of chrysanthemums from their bags. We don‟t buy anything but they let us take<br />
their picture.<br />
We walk to Taksim Square where Murat tells us he has been to May Day<br />
demonstrations. In 1977 forty people were killed when five hundred thousand demonstrators<br />
turned up, shots were fired, the police used water hoses, and people got crushed. It‟s been a<br />
very contentious issue, a battle between the unions and the government, and on occasions the<br />
240
demonstrations have been held in a square in Kadikoy where there were four deaths in 1996.<br />
Politics are never far below the surface in Turkey. Taksim Square is in an area of lovely old<br />
buildings and old embassies from the days when Istanbul was the capital.<br />
We look in a few antique shops which are completely out of our league then come<br />
across a crowded little shop where the owner is sitting outside mending an old wool plying<br />
machine. Hanging in the doorway is an antique woman‟s dress <strong>with</strong> a very <strong>full</strong> skirt and a<br />
heavily beaded top. The shop is a goldmine of old Turkish things: little lightshades, clocks,<br />
tiny clock faces, jewellery, swords, daggers, pictures, pottery, and at the back, rolled up<br />
carpets and folded kilims.<br />
The shopkeeper shows us his carpets, throwing them onto a growing pile on the floor,<br />
explaining the origins of each one. Murat translates, and tells us that he is another Kurd.<br />
Eventually there are about twenty five carpets on the floor making a pile nine inches high.<br />
There are a couple that we would like to buy, but we don‟t, because frustratingly, the prices<br />
he has quoted us are only if we buy all six carpets which we‟ve shown an interest in. If we<br />
only take two, the price increases by fifty per cent.<br />
We‟re in the shop for two hours and it‟s a wonderful experience, <strong>with</strong> Murat<br />
translating and explaining. For the last hour a man stands quietly watching what‟s<br />
happening. He turns out to be an Italian who is a regular customer, buying carpets at this<br />
shop and selling them all over Italy. The carpets and other woven things in this shop are the<br />
most beautiful we‟ve seen. The shopkeeper has an eye for beautiful things and such intensity<br />
when telling Murat the origin of each one.<br />
Murat must be worn out <strong>with</strong> it all, but interestingly the Turkish words we‟ve picked<br />
up, apart from “hello” and “thank you” are related to carpets. “Yun” is wool, “pamuk” is<br />
cotton, “yeni” is new, “antika” is old, “yil” is year, and “ipek” is silk. Also the places where<br />
the carpets are made are now becoming familiar: Konya, Van, Kayseri, Cappadocia, Iran,<br />
Turkmenistan.<br />
For me the textiles in this shop are even more wonderful than the carpets, and there‟s<br />
one which raises the hairs on the back of my neck. It‟s a reversible piece of finely woven silk<br />
and wool one metre square in an intricate striped pattern. It came from the old area of<br />
Mesopotamia near the border <strong>with</strong> Iraq. He shows us how it is worn, folded into a triangle<br />
then into a strip about eight inches wide, laid across the stomach and tied at the back. A<br />
narrow pouch is formed at the front where money can be hidden, and a pouch at each side<br />
could conceal a small gun. It would be very warm. The price? About three hundred pounds.<br />
There‟s also a long strip of finely woven cream <strong>colour</strong>ed wool about twenty inches wide and<br />
fifteen feet long. You would wrap it around yourself to keep warm, or if you were injured.<br />
He tells us that people still wear them in Iraq.<br />
241
By this time it‟s getting late and we thank the shopkeeper for his patience and Murat<br />
for his painstaking translations, and walk back across the Galata Bridge past all the<br />
fishermen. We‟re amazed to see that they put all their tiny fish in containers <strong>full</strong> of water and<br />
sell them to passers by. There are also people selling hooks, sinkers and little wooden<br />
contraptions <strong>with</strong> bungees which they use to secure their fishing rods to the railings.<br />
Fishing on the Galata Bridge<br />
We queue up at the turnstiles waiting for the ferry back to Kadikoy where a television<br />
is showing news of a big snowstorm in England <strong>with</strong> airports and roads closed. The three of<br />
us go to a cheap cafe back in Kadikoy for a delicious dinner, all aubergine, peppers and<br />
mince.<br />
242
Women on the Move<br />
The next day is our last in Istanbul and our second to last in Turkey. After seven<br />
weeks we‟ve put down roots and it‟s going to take a lot of momentum to get moving into<br />
Greece. It‟s hard to contemplate leaving Murat and all the sights, smells, sounds and tastes of<br />
Turkey behind. It feels like no other country can compare <strong>with</strong> what we‟ve experienced here.<br />
To console ourselves we do one more circuit of the Kadikoy second hand shops and<br />
buy a couple more old carpets. I find a wonderful old quilted jacket in a paisley pattern<br />
trimmed <strong>with</strong> red velvet, very Turkish. I buy it from the old man in the shop where we saw<br />
the tailor‟s sample pockets, and he remembers us and gives me the piece of fabric <strong>with</strong> the<br />
pockets sewn into it as a gift. We meet Murat for cay and to sadly say goodbye, exchanging<br />
the many addresses that we have at our disposal. We‟re hoping to meet up <strong>with</strong> him in<br />
London in a few months if his student visa application is approved.<br />
With all the Turkish takeaways in the world it‟s easy to see that the Turks are experts<br />
at fast food. People often eat on the job here, <strong>with</strong> trays of meals accompanied by salads and<br />
crusty bread delivered around the town. There‟s every variation of kebab for sale, plus raw<br />
mussels <strong>with</strong> lemon, barbecued corn on the cob, pottles of corn kernels <strong>with</strong> chilli, and<br />
roasted chestnuts half peeled and piled in little pyramids. On the ferries there‟s a constant<br />
parade of cay, juice, toasted sandwiches and sweet things for sale. Then there are simit, the<br />
delicious chunky golden rings of bread laden <strong>with</strong> sesame seeds, stacked twelve inches high<br />
on baskets balanced on vendors‟ heads. They‟re popular for breakfast on the move, and<br />
we‟ve become hooked on them as a substantial snack.<br />
243
Takeaways<br />
Simit<br />
It‟s a Sunday when we leave Istanbul, always the best time to exit a big city. We<br />
farewell the car park guys who must be sad to lose their best customers. Amazingly it‟s<br />
seventeen degrees in the back of the van when we quit Kadikoy, get on to the motorway then<br />
skirt around the edge of Istanbul, crossing the Bosphorous on the second bridge. Everywhere<br />
244
there are huge areas of high rise apartments, something we haven‟t been aware of in our time<br />
here.<br />
The Suburbs<br />
We follow the northern coast of the Sea of Marmara from Gumusyaka. When we fill<br />
up <strong>with</strong> diesel we get a car wash from a guy <strong>with</strong> a high pressure hose, washing off the dirt of<br />
so many countries. The sea is rough and we see ships anchored offshore. There are<br />
buzzards, and after Tekirdag vines, ploughed fields, big bare oaks, fruit trees and rain, <strong>with</strong><br />
the motorway pretty empty. Then there‟s the most enormous factory farm, scattered houses,<br />
a patchwork of cultivated fields, huge prunus in blossom, and an old brick factory pouring<br />
out smoke. With the rain, the soil is a bright reddish brown, the grass and young crop<br />
brilliant green, the trees dark, and the sky grey. Signs begin to appear saying Yunanistan,<br />
Greece in Turkish.<br />
245
Yunanistan Sign<br />
When we arrive at the border, lorries are queued up for miles but we can use the car<br />
lane. After the Turkish authorities clear us to exit at four separate checkpoints we‟re<br />
processed by a sullen young Greek woman then wait in front of a barrier <strong>with</strong> the resident<br />
beardie dog for an hour at the head of a queue of cars. It appears to be a change of shift.<br />
Guards come and go, drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, and talk endlessly to each other. John<br />
knows a couple in New Zealand who met and fell in love at this border crossing more than<br />
thirty years ago, he a Greek guard, she a Kiwi backpacker. You can see how it could happen,<br />
there would be enough time to go on a date together!<br />
Eventually a friendly guy looks in the back of the van, asks us how many cartons of<br />
cigarettes we‟ve got, how far we‟ve driven in Turkey, and says “Welcome, have a nice time”.<br />
We‟re in Greece, and the sun is shining on us.<br />
246
Chapter 9 Greece<br />
8 February – 9 March<br />
Wine Syrup Cake<br />
We know we‟ve left our beloved Turkey behind when we see an Orthodox church at<br />
Feres, but the landscape is much the same, <strong>with</strong> ploughed fields, small oaks, and shepherds.<br />
The border between the two countries has been elastic for centuries, and this area has been<br />
Greece only since 1923.<br />
Our first stop is Alexandropoulos where we discover that diesel is much cheaper than<br />
in Turkey. At LIDL we buy cheap wine and beer, a big jar of delicious black olives, and bars<br />
made of honey, sesame seeds, pistachios and almonds in various combinations. They also<br />
have frozen roasts of New Zealand lamb. We park by the port and buy a Greek/English<br />
dictionary. The Greek alphabet is going to be a challenge but at least we have a dictionary in<br />
case of illness or problems <strong>with</strong> the van. We find the camping ground, and park right on the<br />
beach, on concrete <strong>with</strong> a shade roof above us. There‟s only one other camper there. It‟s<br />
very peaceful and hospitable <strong>with</strong> huge trees everywhere, a good place to gather our thoughts,<br />
sort out the van, and gradually wean ourselves off Turkey.<br />
I hand wash all the merino clothes and hang them under cover. John starts reading the<br />
guid<strong>ebook</strong> to Greece and watches the occasional fishing boat and swimmer. The woman in<br />
the office is charming and lets me me plug the laptop in to their power and type at a desk for<br />
a few hours. When I hear her speaking Greek it sounds beautiful.<br />
We drive in to town and I manage to accidentally leave my card in the money<br />
machine. I don‟t realise for another thirty minutes and rush back to the bank. When I show<br />
them my passport they give me the card even though their protocol is to send it back to the<br />
country of origin regardless. They clearly don‟t want to be difficult and I‟m so grateful .<br />
Next day we check out of the camp and visit the Ethnographical Museum of Thrace in<br />
a grand stone house built in 1899. The area known as Thrace used to extend as far as<br />
Istanbul, a fertile land producing tobacco, grain, sesame, and olives for centuries. It‟s also<br />
been very diverse ethnically <strong>with</strong> Turks, Armenians, Jews, Gypsies, Greeks and Pomaks<br />
living in the area. At various times whole populations have been forced to relocate, for<br />
example the exchange of Greeks and Turks in 1924. The museum is privately owned by a<br />
woman who has collected costumes, musical instruments, cooking and farming equipment,<br />
and photographs, and set it up <strong>with</strong> videos and written information. There‟s a shop, and also<br />
a cafe which serves us delicious cake made <strong>with</strong> wine syrup, and no eggs or butter, from a<br />
secret recipe which they tell us is hundreds of years old.<br />
247
The museum owner is giving a tour to some tourism students and the assistant takes<br />
us to listen in, and translates for us. The owner is small, dark and elegant in a long black<br />
dress <strong>with</strong> heavy and dramatic jewellery. She passionately explains Thrace‟s past<br />
importance. The museum assistant is from Cyprus <strong>with</strong> excellent English and great<br />
enthusiasm for the museum, the new world order of the E U, and the subsequent breakdown<br />
in nationalism. The young people we‟ve met on this trip have been an inspiration.<br />
There are large Orthodox churches everywhere and it‟s strange to hear bells chiming<br />
again. After a night parked in a quiet corner of Alexandroupolos, we head west along the<br />
coast and look south to the island of Samothraki which we last saw from Gallipoli. It‟s a<br />
warm fifteen degrees. We take a wrong turning to the beach and drive through ancient olive<br />
trees <strong>with</strong> trunks three feet thick. In Makri someone is selling potatoes and apples from the<br />
back of a utility, <strong>with</strong> a loudspeaker, and pigs lie under the olive trees. We stop at Dikela to<br />
make coffee and buy bread and the place is swarming <strong>with</strong> soldiers.<br />
We‟re following the new highway called Via Egnatia which goes from Igoumenitsa<br />
on the northwest coast of Greece to the Turkish border, running parallel to the old Roman<br />
road of the same name for a short distance. It has a perfect camber and there‟s no traffic. We<br />
pass through red soil, small oaks, maqis scrub, and pines. I look up a guide book to see how<br />
to say New Zealand in Greek. It‟s Nea Zelandia, and apparently the stresses are very<br />
important. There are buzzards and kestrels, cotton fields, a massive power station, a shepherd<br />
<strong>with</strong> his flock, and a mosque. We‟re heading straight towards the Rodopi Mountains which<br />
form the border <strong>with</strong> Bulgaria.<br />
As we drive in to Komitini we see that the river is <strong>full</strong> of rubbish. Among the graffiti<br />
is one in English “F... authority” <strong>with</strong> the stencilled image of a soldier <strong>with</strong> a rifle, similar to<br />
the ones on the fences of military installations. We‟re looking for a Turkish market but don‟t<br />
find much to interest us until we discover a brand new carpet shop three stories high <strong>with</strong><br />
fifty per cent off everything. Uh oh, just when John was going cold turkey.<br />
It‟s a family business started by the charming proprietor‟s Turkish grandfather. The<br />
carpets are all from Iran, Turkmenistan and Afghanistan. It‟s a slow day in spite of the<br />
reductions, and we spend a happy hour or so enjoying the carpets. We buy an embroidered<br />
kilim from Iran, a kilim from Afghanistan in brown tonings <strong>with</strong> almost Aztec patterns and a<br />
few tiny Persian carpets. The proprietor gives us a ride <strong>with</strong> our carpets back to the van,<br />
crossing himself every time we pass a cemetery. Back at the van it becomes even more “The<br />
Princess and the Pea” as we lift the mattress to lay the new carpets on the thick pile.<br />
On the drive south we see buzzards then egrets as we get into the wetlands. We stop<br />
at Porto Lagos beside a river where the boats are weighed down <strong>with</strong> fancy outboard motors.<br />
There‟s an electrical storm <strong>with</strong> heavy rain for hours and neither of us can sleep. We‟ve got<br />
over excited <strong>with</strong> all the carpets, just when we were getting weaned off them.<br />
248
In the morning, birds are on the lake and diving in the river, and the buzzards are just<br />
sitting. Fertile plains of olives and crops stretch to the snow covered mountains in the west.<br />
There are always doves, and now we see stork nests on power poles, then rooks and a<br />
peregrine. It looks like the people here are quite affluent as the houses are fancy. We drive<br />
up a spectacular viaduct above a hillside of cypress, umbrella and ordinary pines. There‟s<br />
lots of rosemary in flower beside the road and out to sea so many shades of blue.<br />
On this immaculate new motorway there hasn‟t been a picnic area or petrol station for<br />
a hundred and eighty miles so we‟re thrilled when we reach Veria. We park outside the<br />
cemetery which has death notices stapled to the trunks of trees. It‟s time to do a stocktake of<br />
the carpets, labelling and rolling them, and we end up sleeping on three only.<br />
Someone’s Pride and Joy<br />
Next day we visit the Byzantine Museum in a beauti<strong>full</strong>y restored and converted 19 th<br />
century flour mill. It‟s <strong>full</strong> of wonderful paintings of saints from as far back as the 15 th<br />
century, plus a couple of mosaic floors from the 5 th century. We walk past the small 12 th<br />
century cathedral, since converted into a mosque, and now looking derelict. Over the road is<br />
a hulk of a plane tree from which the Ottomans hung the archbishop in 1430. Boy racers are<br />
at it all night around the town.<br />
Tomb Raiders<br />
We‟ve come to this area to visit Vergina, an archaeological treasure trove on the site<br />
of the ancient Macedonian capital Aegae. It‟s possible to visit the site of the old city, but the<br />
royal tombs from the 3 rd to the 4 th century BC are enough excitement for us. We visit the<br />
249
Great Tumulus, an ancient man made burial mound approximately forty feet high and three<br />
hundred feet in diameter. The builders used the broken gravestones of ordinary citizens<br />
buried a century before, for fill, and broken clay pots and bronze items from the 7 th to the 10 th<br />
century BC were scattered amongst it as well. These are on display in the museum, which is<br />
completely under the hill.<br />
We walk down the ramp, looking at treasures in glass cases, then lower down we<br />
come to the grand entrances to the tombs of King Phillip II (Alexander the Great‟s father),<br />
and the prince‟s tomb (Alexander the Great‟s son). There is also the tomb of an unnamed<br />
woman who was part of the family.<br />
“For the first time I felt a shiver run down my spine, as if an electric shock had passed<br />
through me. If the dating ... these were the royal remains ... then ... had I held the bones of<br />
Phillip in my hands? It was astounding, too much for my mind to take in.” These are the<br />
words of Professor Andronicos, one of the archaeologists to discover the tombs in the late<br />
1970s. We feel pretty excited too, down there underground, looking at the beautiful objects<br />
from the tombs, then walking down to the entrance of each one.<br />
The mouth of Phillip‟s tomb is guarded by two pillars and a metal door, <strong>with</strong> a faded<br />
mural of a hunting scene above. The woman‟s tomb had been plundered but the wall<br />
paintings remain. One clearly shows the abduction of Persephone by Pluto in his chariot.<br />
In this era when a wealthy person died they were cremated along <strong>with</strong> their chariots,<br />
horses and other animals, weapons, wreaths, fruit and jars of perfume. Their bones were then<br />
washed, wrapped in a purple and gold cloth (on display) and placed in a golden box. The<br />
bowls and jugs used to wash the bones were sealed in the tomb, and they are displayed along<br />
<strong>with</strong> each of the golden boxes which held the bones. The charred remains of fish and animal<br />
bones, nails, weapon heads, bits of iron and bronze, an iron bridle, clay and fruit from the<br />
funeral pyre are also on display.<br />
The most awe inspiring objects are the finely worked bronze, silver and gold pieces.<br />
There‟s a tiny silver bowl <strong>with</strong> a relief head of Dionysus in the bottom, an extremely delicate<br />
and shiny golden garland of tiny oak leaves and acorns a foot in diameter, bronze shin guards<br />
(some gilded), a fine golden wreath of myrtle, and a big silver strainer for decanting wine,<br />
<strong>with</strong> a swan‟s head and neck forming a loop on each side. We feel extremely lucky to be<br />
looking at these things, well over two thousand years old and in mint condition, and to be<br />
standing near to where these ancient kings were buried. It‟s quite unreal.<br />
When we head off again we see our first Greek police car after six days in the<br />
country. Compared <strong>with</strong> Turkey there‟s hardly a flag to be seen. We drive on the edge of the<br />
hills, looking down on countryside which is a patchwork of intensive agriculture. To the<br />
north there are high snowy mountains on the border of what used to be called Macedonia.<br />
250
There‟s limestone in the soil and in the little villages all the houses have hens. We‟re pleased<br />
to see lots of vans identical to ours, always a good thing if we need spare parts.<br />
As we pass Katerini heading towards big mountains a kestrel is hovering, and then at<br />
Dion a peregrine is chasing another bird. People have tiny refrigerated stainless steel milk<br />
vats in their front yards, about the <strong>size</strong> of a forty four gallon drum and <strong>with</strong> the name of the<br />
dairy company written on the side. They park their tractors in the basements of the houses.<br />
We see a shepherd <strong>with</strong> a flock of sheep and goats <strong>with</strong> big udders, a vast quarry, a<br />
huge army camp, and then we‟re in Litohoro right by Mount Olympus. There‟s a spectacular<br />
ravine right next to the town. Snow is falling like dandruff as I go into a shop to buy juice.<br />
The guy is very friendly and shows me a map <strong>with</strong> all the ways to get up Mount Olympus by<br />
car, before asking me to sign the visitors‟ book.<br />
On our way back to the van we come across a wedding. Most people are dressed in<br />
black and the bride is wearing a layered dress in off white <strong>with</strong> a white fur stole. She‟s<br />
escorted from the car to the church by two men playing an accordion and a clarinet, followed<br />
by the wedding guests.<br />
In Litohoro the houses are modern, one <strong>with</strong> a grapevine growing up the side for<br />
three stories, then shading the rooftop deck. We park for the night beside an army camp in<br />
the town.<br />
Next day we drive up through the houses then walk for twenty minutes into the gorge.<br />
Forest clings to the rock walls and a beautiful clear mountain stream runs along the bottom.<br />
On the way down we see two large birds of prey circling high above us, and in town our first<br />
Greek robin.<br />
We take another route up the mountain in the van, past a monastery, and see a little<br />
blue iris at the side of the road. The lower slopes are covered <strong>with</strong> forest: holm oak, oak, and<br />
finally conifers. As we drive through the conifers fine snowflakes begin to fall. As we get<br />
higher there are swathes of beech interspersed <strong>with</strong> pine. The snow is white and patchy on<br />
the fallen beech leaves and the rocks are white marble. The locals are driving up through the<br />
falling snow <strong>with</strong> gay abandon as we turn and head back down. On the way back we get a<br />
great view along the coast.<br />
In the morning the sky has cleared and we can see Mount Olympus <strong>with</strong> just a small<br />
amount of cloud and fresh snow on the lower slopes. One of our tyres has gone down<br />
overnight and a garage repairs it for us. The cloud is coming and going on the steep<br />
mountain slopes. It‟s an amazing spot, between the sea and Greece‟s highest mountain, the<br />
legendary home of the gods.<br />
251
Mt Olympus<br />
Greek Gods<br />
Fighter planes fly overhead as we drive through the spectacular Pinios River gorge.<br />
Mount Ossa, a sharp volcanic peak, is between us and the sea. Larissa is totally covered in<br />
smog, as we enter beautiful countryside <strong>with</strong> high hills, big escarpments, flocks of sheep, and<br />
rough stock shelters. It‟s layered: rich fertile plains, shingle hills, then to the west, high<br />
snowy mountains in the distance.<br />
252
It‟s an area of huge quarries, and tiny roadside caravans called “kantina” selling food.<br />
The edge of the road is strewn <strong>with</strong> cotton for miles, and the occasional dead badger. As we<br />
get closer to Meteora there are dramatic high mesa like formations which John says are<br />
volcanic plugs. Again it reminds us of all those Westerns we grew up on. It‟s a lovely sunny<br />
day, and the crested larks are out enjoying it.<br />
The Meteora (rocks in the air) are pinnacles sixty million years old, the highest at<br />
eighteen hundred feet, formed in the Tertiary period, then moulded into their current shape by<br />
wind, rain and extremes of temperature. Perched on these natural wonders are phenomena<br />
created by humans: monasteries dating back as far as the 10 th century. The difficult access<br />
and cosy nooks and crannies in the soft stone made the area attractive to hermits.<br />
Monasteries grew from these religious beginnings. The guid<strong>ebook</strong> tells us that a German<br />
rock climbing guide describes virtually all the routes here as advanced, even <strong>with</strong> the latest<br />
gear.<br />
The monasteries are all several stories high and seem to grow out of the rock. We<br />
spend a fascinating couple of hours driving and looking, but even though it‟s possible to walk<br />
in and visit them, we decide not to. It‟s the most spectacular spot on a glorious day and just<br />
being there is enough. On the flat ground there are goats and cows <strong>with</strong> bells and lots of well<br />
fed cats. The only birds are crows though our Mediterranean wildlife book tells us that it‟s a<br />
great place to see eagles and vultures.<br />
Monastery of St Nicholas Anapausas<br />
253
Meteora<br />
Monastery of Rousanou<br />
We drive south to Karditsa and there‟s rubbish everywhere. To the west the scenery<br />
is all layered mountains, dark blue at the front, and lighter and snow covered at the back.<br />
Rice and cotton grow side by side. We park on the edge of Karditsa outside the hospital. I<br />
cook three dinners: a double quantity of bolognaise sauce, plus sausage, courgette and apple<br />
254
juice stew. I put the bolognaise sauce on the step inside the sliding door (the coldest spot) to<br />
chill overnight. We discover that the tyre has partly gone down again.<br />
Next morning it‟s minus two outside and the bolognaise sauce has frozen. The gas<br />
stove struggles under the breakfast. Luckily there‟s enough air in the tyre to get us to the<br />
garage just along the road. They pump it up and send us a few miles further along to a tyre<br />
repair place. The guy there breaks the ice on his water bath, dunks the tyre to test it, and<br />
inserts a plug in five minutes. It‟s a gloriously sunny day as we head south east towards<br />
Lamia, <strong>with</strong> high snowy mountains to the north and west.<br />
After observing that the housing seems excellent, we drive past an area like a shanty<br />
town <strong>with</strong> small lean to houses and mud yards. Then there are three huge cotton mills. For<br />
the last few days we‟ve been seeing lots of small power lines crisscrossing fields to pump<br />
sheds for irrigation.<br />
The Road to Delphi<br />
We climb through a series of hairpin bends as police cars and a police bus go past.<br />
After stopping for coffee we keep climbing through more snow and tight corners, <strong>with</strong> a<br />
panorama of snowy mountains to the south and west, and a glimpse of the sea.<br />
Taking a wrong turning off the motorway we end up on a mud road past rice fields,<br />
then in a construction area where a massive EU funded roading project is underway. After<br />
another wrong turning we‟re on the road to Athens, driving past the sea. We‟re trying to get<br />
to Delphi.<br />
We perform that driving manoeuvre that Kiwis love, the U turn, then we‟re on our<br />
way south west past huge flocks of goats and wild plane trees. We pass beehives, and look<br />
down over a spectacular valley of grass, scrub, cypresses and rough country, <strong>with</strong> mountains<br />
behind. We stop at the Bralos British War Cemetery <strong>with</strong> about a hundred immaculately kept<br />
WW1 graves. There are a few Russians as well and they all died between December 1918<br />
and January 1919.<br />
255
Bralos War Cemetery<br />
At Gravia we go through spectacular forested snowy mountains <strong>with</strong> steep bluffs all<br />
around us. The trees are dark green against the white of the snow. A vast open cast mine has<br />
entrances dotted along the roadside for miles. The prunus is flowering then we‟re thrilled<br />
when we realise that a large tree <strong>with</strong> pink blossom is an almond. Suddenly we‟re looking at<br />
the sea, <strong>with</strong> the snow covered Peloponnese peninsula in the distance. There‟s blossom<br />
everywhere, wild sage, and women out picking wild greens. At last we‟re in the hilltop town<br />
of Delphi and we park on a cliff top looking over a valley of olives <strong>with</strong> spectacular Mount<br />
Parnassos in the background.<br />
256
The Road to Delphi<br />
Next morning we‟re up early to visit the ancient site of Delphi. From about 1200 BC<br />
for over one thousand years people went there to consult the oracle - seek advice and find out<br />
about the future. The advice given out was quite reliable, because the woman who acted as<br />
the oracle was backed up by a bureaucracy of well informed advisers.<br />
The site covers several acres on a steep hillside. It used to have thousands of statues<br />
plus huge marble buildings, but its treasures were plundered for centuries. Now there are just<br />
ruins and trees, towering cliffs above, and a beautiful wide valley <strong>full</strong> of olives below. It‟s a<br />
very popular tourist spot, and we‟re visiting at the same time as a large group of French high<br />
school students who look very cool, some smoking.<br />
257
Polygonal Wall<br />
Delphi<br />
It‟s inspiring to be in this legendary place and to experience the atmosphere. There‟s<br />
something about the setting and the history that make it very special. High up on the site is a<br />
stadium <strong>with</strong> stone seating for seven thousand people. It was used for athletics and chariot<br />
races. We explore the rest of the site <strong>with</strong> its marbles ruins, and visit the Castalian spring<br />
along the road where people coming to consult the oracle used to wash, and the Sanctuary of<br />
258
Athena, which was called the Marmaria from the Middle Ages, as people used to go there to<br />
get marble for their building projects.<br />
Stadium<br />
Sanctuary of Athena<br />
There are wild flowers, peregrines, rock nuthatches, robins, thrushes, and also several<br />
resident cats and dogs basking in the sun.<br />
259
We visit the splendid museum <strong>with</strong> its sculptures, friezes, pottery, fine gold jewellery,<br />
and best of all “The Charioteer” in bronze, nearly six feet high, made in the fifth century BC.<br />
His lips and eyelashes are copper, and his eyes are onyx. He stands erect, proud yet modest,<br />
holding the reins in his hands, at the moment when he has brought his chariot and four horses<br />
to pose in front of the crowd after his winning performance. It‟s hard to find superlatives to<br />
describe such a work of art. It‟s unforgettable.<br />
The Charioteer<br />
As we leave Delphi there are olives from the edge of the road to the horizon on one<br />
side, and towering smooth rocky bluffs <strong>colour</strong>ed grey and orange on the other. We<br />
eventually arrive at the famous crossroads where in Sophocles‟ play “Oedipus Rex” (written<br />
in the 5 th century BC), Oedipus kills his father, not knowing who he is, thus setting in motion<br />
a tragic chain of events.<br />
We‟re heading to the Hosios Loukas monastery, down a back road which takes us<br />
past a glorious almond grove on a hillside. Some of the trees are twenty feet tall and all are<br />
covered in beautiful pink blossom. There are bees galore. We stop and I make a salad of<br />
avocado, sardines, pear, tomato, corn and beetroot for lunch. Some fighter planes fly over.<br />
The locals who drive past all smile and wave, and one old guy stops, and says “Two<br />
kilometres”.<br />
260
Almond Blossom<br />
The landscape reminds us of the Burren in the west of Ireland, <strong>with</strong> grey rock<br />
providing a base for all sorts of vegetation.<br />
The monastery sits on a hill overlooking a lovely valley. A handful of monks live<br />
there and look after the old buildings which include two famous churches. The biggest and<br />
best, the Catholicon, was built in 1040 <strong>with</strong> walls made of stone then layers of brick. The<br />
windows consist of a circle <strong>with</strong> a six inch diameter, the circumference scalloped <strong>with</strong> eight<br />
half circles. These quaint outlines form high windows that look exactly like pieces of pastry<br />
left behind after being pressed out <strong>with</strong> a cookie cutter. Inside are beautiful mosaics, the best<br />
one, high up in a corner, showing a naked Jesus being baptised in deep water, <strong>with</strong> a<br />
marvellous 3D effect. It‟s another of those very memorable works of art that jumps out and<br />
hits us. There are also the relics of someone wrapped in a black cape <strong>with</strong> an ancient hand<br />
showing. In the crypt every surface is painted <strong>with</strong> Byzantine frescoes, many fading and<br />
some strangely modern in style.<br />
261
Frescoes in the Crypt<br />
Then we‟re on the road to Athens, past a shepherd sitting cross legged among the<br />
rocks <strong>with</strong> his flock of goats spread out behind him. We go back through Dhistomo <strong>with</strong> its<br />
large and striking memorial to the two hundred and thirty two people shot by the Nazis here<br />
in WW2. We stop for the night at the Schimitari motorway rest area which has a restaurant,<br />
shower, large parking area, and a slow internet connection. We buy a map of Athens and<br />
work out which way to drive in and where to park when we get there.<br />
262
Memorial at Dhistomo<br />
God’s Letterboxes<br />
After a peaceful night parked <strong>with</strong> the lorries we head to Athens on the motorway,<br />
relieved that there‟s not much traffic. As we exit down an off ramp we notice that the<br />
barriers have a bit of damage. It must be from cars crashing into them - a bit disconcerting.<br />
Then on the overbridge facing south we see a big rocky hill in the distance. It‟s the<br />
Akropolis!<br />
The gum trees are huge, orange trees line the streets, and lots of the cars whizzing past<br />
us have dents and scrapes along the sides. After a nightmare thirty minutes when we get lost,<br />
go down a one way street the wrong way, and creep through impossibly narrow gaps, we end<br />
up at the Olympic Stadium which has a huge free car park.<br />
We make coffee and devour the last piece of fruit cake (baked in Surrey a year ago)<br />
then collapse in the back. Our homemade supplies have a calming effect but they‟re<br />
dwindling now after six months on the road. Happily we still have an unopened jar of Seville<br />
orange marmalade and one of mostarda di Venezia (quince chutney).<br />
Everywhere we‟ve been in Greece we‟ve seen little glass fronted roadside shrines<br />
containing an odd assortment of objects: half a bottle of Coke, food, lit candles, plates,<br />
<strong>photos</strong>, mementos. We‟ve started calling them God‟s letterboxes.<br />
263
God’s Letterbox<br />
We discover that our new car park is only one metro stop from a huge new mall <strong>full</strong><br />
of restaurants, upmarket shops, internet cafes and movie theatres showing movies in English.<br />
The car park is mainly empty and it‟s used by driving instructors teaching people to drive<br />
cars, lorries and buses. It‟s very warm and clear and it doesn‟t get dark till after six so we‟re<br />
happy. I‟ve nearly finished “Birds Without Wings” Louis de Bernieres‟ enormous and<br />
wonderful novel on Turkey, Greece, Gallipoli and Mustafa Kemal.<br />
We go to see the film “Doubt” and find it simultaneously relaxing and stimulating to<br />
have a film to focus on. It‟s wonderful to hear English spoken after over six months in<br />
Europe, and it gets us out of our self absorbed world.<br />
When we eventually venture into Athens we walk around staring at things trying to<br />
get our bearings, then ride on the tourist Noddy Train for an hour. When we get back to the<br />
van crowds of people are arriving for a footy game at the stadium. We have a peaceful night<br />
apart from the boy racers doing wheelies.<br />
Next day it‟s into town again and we stumble upon a fascinating big flea market <strong>with</strong><br />
people who look Turkish or Gypsy, <strong>with</strong> the women‟s head scarves tied in a distinctive way.<br />
We see some very interesting old kilims and also a guy selling silk embroidered suzanis and<br />
little round silk embroidered men‟s hats, all from Turkmenistan. Among the fascinating junk<br />
is a Nana Mouskouri record!<br />
We now feel ready to take on the Akropolis, a huge rock sticking up in the middle of<br />
Athens, a couple of football fields in <strong>size</strong>, and home to stray dogs dozing in the sun. On it are<br />
264
massive ruins of various ancient marble buildings, now being restored to undo the damage<br />
done by previous restorations. An example of this is the little pieces of metal which hold the<br />
slabs of marble together, which will in future be made of titanium. We‟re fascinated to see<br />
the original home of the marble relief frieze we‟ve seen at the British Museum (known as the<br />
Elgin Marbles), taken by the British ambassador in Constantinople Lord Elgin in the early<br />
19 th century, and bought by Britain in 1816.<br />
Parthenon<br />
265
View from the Akropolis<br />
That night the boy racers in the car park start early and they‟re competing <strong>with</strong> the<br />
learner drivers. We presume that the men <strong>with</strong> remote control cars have been squeezed out<br />
and wonder where the police are. The Greek police are the most arrogant and aggressive<br />
we‟ve ever seen. Some wear leather jackets, they smoke, wear dark glasses, and always seem<br />
to be focused inwards towards each other, like a small elite group. They seem to show<br />
contempt for everyone. We begin to understand the student riots.<br />
Next day there‟s fresh snow on the hills as we catch the metro to Marousi a very<br />
pleasant suburb close by, in search of a dentist, because I‟ve broken another filling. A<br />
chemist gives us the business card of one nearby and we discover that dentists here can‟t<br />
afford receptionists or nurses. The seventy six year old father of the dentist welcomes us to<br />
the surgery and says his son will be there in an hour. He grinds off a bit of my tooth and lays<br />
out the instruments, explaining that he‟s a retired dentist.<br />
Then we sit in the waiting room and chat. He speaks German and not English, but<br />
this doesn‟t stop us from covering a lot of ground. He was a little boy living near Mount<br />
Olympus during WW2, and his father was a shepherd <strong>with</strong> five hundred sheep. He<br />
remembers the kindness of the Kiwi soldiers who in 1940/41 fed the hungry children in his<br />
village <strong>with</strong> sandwiches of white bread and jam. A New Zealand officer who was a dentist<br />
gave his pliers to the village when he left.<br />
He‟s keen on ancient history so we talk about some of the sites we‟ve visited: Troy,<br />
Bergama, Ephesus, Vergina and Mycenae. He tells us that he loves tourism. In the early<br />
1960s he trained as a dentist in Hamburg and knows about the Beatles being there. His wife<br />
is German. It‟s a wonderful conversation, the nicest encounter we have <strong>with</strong> a Greek person.<br />
The son arrives and does a great job on my tooth, telling me about training as a dentist<br />
in Bucharest just after the end of Communism. I get a haircut from a young woman who<br />
speaks English <strong>with</strong> an accent which sounds like Birmingham to me. She grew up on Rhodes<br />
and spent a lot of time <strong>with</strong> Brit tourists, then went to Staffordshire for four years and trained<br />
as a hairdresser.<br />
When we emerge from the metro at our local mall it‟s sleeting. We go to the film<br />
“Frost/Nixon” and have a meal, amazed at the number of people in the mall at night. People<br />
have even brought their babies and toddlers along, giving them an early lesson in consuming.<br />
Next morning we catch a crowded commuter train into town. As usual the cleaner at<br />
the station has the place so immaculate that I wonder if I should tell her about the dead bee on<br />
the staircase. In town we track down a cheap laundry in the student area and drop off two<br />
loads of dirty washing. Then we head to the National Archaeological Museum which was<br />
established about 1890, the same time as the one in Istanbul. It has the most enormous<br />
collection of unbelievable artefacts.<br />
266
There are Neolithic pottery and tools, and lots of objects from Schliemann‟s<br />
excavations at Mycenae (14 th and 15 th century BC): fine gold funeral masks (including the socalled<br />
“Mask of Agamemnon”), fabulous jewellery, and stone seals. There‟s really nothing<br />
new under the sun when it comes to jewellery. We see pieces in gold and bone set <strong>with</strong><br />
amethyst and amber that could be found in a contemporary jeweller‟s studio. We love the<br />
hearth and bath tub made of pottery, and the Cycladic figurines (the first known human<br />
representations in marble) which also have a modern look. Among the endless sculptures our<br />
favourite is the Little Jockey of Artemission, a <strong>full</strong> <strong>size</strong> galloping horse in bronze <strong>with</strong> a tiny<br />
boy on its back. It was found in a shipwreck.<br />
“Mask of Agamemnon”<br />
267
Little Jockey of Artemission<br />
Amazingly there are beautiful ancient frescoes from the island of Santorini, plus cruel<br />
bits, bridles, and metal parts from a chariot. As usual we‟re thrilled to see so many perfect<br />
and ingenious ancient objects. I particularly like the gallant horses and bulls in the friezes<br />
and sculptures, and a lovely octopus on a pot.<br />
Greek children from about four to eighteen are being shown around, and we watch<br />
some little ones who are in rapt wonder as their enthusiastic teacher holds forth in front of a<br />
marble sculpture of a naked woman <strong>with</strong> an angel on her shoulder being grabbed by a satyr.<br />
I‟d love to hear her explanation.<br />
We visit the Bazaar area <strong>with</strong> its huge meat and seafood market. There‟s absolutely<br />
nothing left to the imagination when it comes to animal anatomy there. Likewise the fish<br />
section is mind blowing <strong>with</strong> huge unrecognisable fish heads, squid, octopus, and mysterious<br />
large white fillets <strong>with</strong> a little piece of backbone or cartilage attached. We have lunch there<br />
in a traditional old restaurant <strong>full</strong> of older men all eating alone. John has stifado which is<br />
meat and shallots slow cooked, absolutely delicious, and I have tiny macaroni <strong>with</strong> tomato<br />
and lamb shank. I manage to buy the same macaroni later and it‟s great to add to a stew.<br />
We pick up our washing and head back to the van exhausted. Our car park is on a<br />
busy road and at the lights there‟s often a young black man selling flowers to people in their<br />
cars. What a long hard day he‟s had but he still smiles.<br />
268
The Busy<br />
Next day we leave Athens <strong>with</strong> its dented cars, aggressive drivers, and bus drivers<br />
<strong>with</strong> their mobile phones glued to their ears. We head towards Corinth and from the<br />
motorway we can see the old port of Piraeus <strong>with</strong> ships anchored. We pass the ever present<br />
gum trees, ship building, beautiful bays, a mussel farm, fishermen in dinghies, and stalls<br />
selling shellfish by the roadside. Greeks must eat a lot of fish.<br />
We‟re stopped by a cop <strong>with</strong> a cigarette in his hand. He wants to see John‟s licence.<br />
He glances at it, hands it back and walks away. John says, “Is that it? Can I go?” and he half<br />
heartedly says yes, then three of them leap into the police car laughing and race off<br />
somewhere.<br />
We‟re heading southwest towards the Peloponnese along a spectacular rocky coastline<br />
<strong>with</strong> beautiful little beaches. The water is transparent turquoise close to the shore then further<br />
out the blue of the sea is ruffled by wind and there are layers of blue islands. We stop at the<br />
Corinth Canal which was built shortly after the Suez Canal in the early 1890s, after a false<br />
start by the Roman Emperor Nero in the 1 st century AD, using slave Jewish labour from<br />
Jerusalem. It‟s in a very strategic location, a narrow neck of land that connects the<br />
Peloponnese to the mainland.<br />
269
Corinth Canal<br />
John buys a corn dolly off an old Gypsy lady then a couple of young Gypsy women<br />
<strong>with</strong> children ask us for money. We give them some cash plus give the children a ball and a<br />
bar of chocolate. John also gives the little boy (who has deformed hands) a small radio that<br />
we don‟t need, and the mother immediately takes it off him. We wonder if he ever heard it<br />
play.<br />
The canal is carved in rock, and it‟s a spectacular sight: nearly four miles long, about<br />
seventy feet wide, and the sides two hundred feet deep. It‟s right beside the old town of<br />
Isthmia on a narrow neck of land. This must be the origin of the word isthmus. Some days<br />
we learn so much that the trip seems like an interminable school outing!<br />
Thyme Out Of Mind<br />
After the Corinth Canal we head south round the coast, through lemon orchards,<br />
towards the ancient theatre of Epidauros. It‟s very stony <strong>with</strong> steep hills forested in pine,<br />
olives, and almond in blossom. We see a rough corrugated iron structure <strong>with</strong> smoke coming<br />
from the chimney and wonder if there are sheep inside. There‟s snow on the mountains<br />
ahead, then goats under olives and what look like fish farms in circular enclosures in a bay.<br />
It‟s a beautiful sunny day and we stop on a cliff top to look at the view.<br />
We‟re pleased to be in Greece in the winter when there are very few tourists. We<br />
have Epidauros almost to ourselves, the better to enjoy the theatre‟s magical atmosphere and<br />
perfect acoustics. For five hundred years the whole complex was an important sanctuary,<br />
honouring Asklepios the god of healing. The theatre was built in the 4 th century, amazingly<br />
270
only rediscovered in the 19 th century, and required little restoration. It has fourteen thousand<br />
wide and roomy stone seats, the ones for the wealthy highlighted in a reddish stone. If you<br />
stand in the centre of the beaten earth stage and speak, your voice echoes back to you from<br />
several directions. In the summer the plays of Classical Greek playwrights like Sophocles are<br />
staged here.<br />
Ancient Theatre at Epidaurus<br />
We drive to Nafplio through olive trees in a carpet of wild flowers and discover that<br />
it‟s a charming town of beautiful old Venetian buildings. The many restaurants, hotels and<br />
apartments are virtually empty now, so we can park anywhere along the waterfront. Octopus<br />
tentacles hang drying in the sun.<br />
271
Drying Octopus<br />
It‟s the final weekend of the big pre Lent festival (the Orthodox church has Easter at a<br />
different time from us) so children are out in fancy dress, and at night the adults are dressed<br />
up as well. There are events in the old square <strong>with</strong> lots of confetti, streamers and excited<br />
people.<br />
Young Gypsy children are weaving in and out of tables where families in fancy dress<br />
are drinking hot chocolate. It provides a sad contrast. The Gypsies have parked their vans<br />
and cars further down the wharf, <strong>with</strong> washing hanging on a fence, and a fire burning one<br />
night. We give money to some of the women and children and a ball to a little boy.<br />
We have eleven days in the Peloponnese before we sail from Patra to Bari. We start<br />
to relax into it, but not before I have a cooking disaster. I‟m making a mince stew, saving gas<br />
by not lighting the gas lamp, and I manage to knock the large heavy pot off the cooker so half<br />
the stew goes down the side door. It has no wooden lining so some of it ends up inside the<br />
door. Oh dear.<br />
272
Vitamin C<br />
We have a quiet day catching up <strong>with</strong> people on skype and getting the oil changed in<br />
the van. We do our emails and hear from Murat that he has his student visa and is off to<br />
London so we‟ll see him when we get back there, very exciting. We decide to rest here for a<br />
couple of days. The sun goes down <strong>with</strong> flashes of gold.<br />
We buy the British papers and we‟re shocked to hear that there is now a BNP<br />
representative on the Sevenoaks Council. Then in a Greek paper we discover that during the<br />
past week various terrorist attacks in Athens have failed or been averted, one attack on a<br />
bank, and one on a left wing group. Also two notorious criminals escaped from prison by<br />
helicopter, using exactly the same modus operandi as in a previous escape from the same<br />
place. The incompetence and corruption of the prison service are blamed. We‟re even more<br />
relieved to be out of Athens.<br />
273
Nafplio<br />
Various camper vans arrive and take up residence in the car park. The weather is<br />
glorious and the glassy sea stretches to snowy mountains in the distance. We‟re loving the<br />
opportunity to relax. Then we have the pleasure of meeting Daniela. She‟s Italian, from the<br />
Dolomites, retired, and travelling alone in a comfortable old camper. She spends every<br />
winter away from home, usually in Croatia, and she‟s been in the Peloponnese for three<br />
months, arriving by ferry from Ancona. She speaks perfect English, having lived in England.<br />
Someone has parked too close to her door and she can‟t get in to her camper. She asks for<br />
our help and John manages to squeeze in the side door and let off the handbrake so the<br />
camper rolls forward and she can open the door. (“Bravo John, bravo!”) She invites us in for<br />
a grappa. It‟s amazing to be inside a real camper and to sit at a table. Daniela has<br />
documented her trip well and she has lots of books and maps. We have so much to talk<br />
about.<br />
Next morning we have a coffee <strong>with</strong> her, served in tiny elegant disposable cups, and I<br />
give her “Birds Without Wings” because she wants to travel to Turkey next winter. She<br />
convinces us that we should drive north via the Dolomites on our homeward journey and<br />
gives us a book on the area in Italian, plus a fabulous detailed map of the Mani Peninsula.<br />
She‟s worried because she can smell gas in the camper so John checks it out for her and<br />
tightens the valve. We‟re sorry to say goodbye, but we‟ve got lots to see, and decide to head<br />
off inland to have a look at Mycenae.<br />
The route from Nafplio to Mycenae is through citrus orchards <strong>with</strong> snowy mountains<br />
in the background. It‟s spring at last and there are red anemones everywhere. As we arrive at<br />
Mycenae two big birds of prey are circling. The site is alive <strong>with</strong> almond blossom, dark blue<br />
274
grape hyacinths, daisies, huge cacti, and birds going crazy. A rock nuthatch sitting on a stone<br />
wall sings so loudly that everyone has to stop and look. I hear a woodpecker.<br />
Mycenae<br />
Mycenae is like a classic New Zealand Maori pa site. It‟s a fortified palace <strong>with</strong><br />
views in all directions including straight down to the sea at Nafplio. This is where<br />
Agamemnon, who led the Greeks in the war against Troy, had his kingdom. We‟ve seen the<br />
treasures found in the tombs here in the National Archaeological Museum in Athens.<br />
We walk through the Lion Gate to enter the hilltop citadel. Its massive stone walls<br />
and lintel are an impressive example of engineering in 1550 BC. For us the most spectacular<br />
construction is a vast circular underground tomb which you enter via a ramp and through an<br />
arched doorway. It‟s lined <strong>with</strong> stone and consists of a circular interior <strong>with</strong> a domed ceiling.<br />
My footsteps echo as they crunch on the pebble covered floor. There‟s an even bigger one of<br />
these called the Treasury of Atreus. The lintel over the doorway is formed by two huge slabs<br />
of stone. One is thirty feet long and estimated to weigh a hundred and eighteen tons. The<br />
Rough Guide describes it as “a beehive-like structure built <strong>with</strong>out the use of mortar”.<br />
275
Lion Gate<br />
Tomb<br />
We set off for Argos down an avenue of old white trunked gum trees then head south<br />
around the spectacular coast road. We pass Astros and see a mule, then rivers <strong>with</strong> no water,<br />
one <strong>with</strong> just little black oily puddles and a terrible smell. An old man is crossing the road<br />
<strong>with</strong> a donkey carrying a hay bale on each side. The valleys are fertile and the hills are<br />
276
covered <strong>with</strong> grey and orange rocks and scrub. Grey slabs of rock extend into the sea like<br />
fingers.<br />
We end up near Paralia Tyrou parked beside the road on a cliff top looking out to sea.<br />
It‟s peaceful and warm, and we sit outside eating our dinner of mashed potato, fried eggs,<br />
spinach, mushrooms and onions. We can hear geese and a blackbird, and a little creature<br />
keeps buzzing past us in the air. We realise it must be a bat and consult the wildlife book.<br />
It‟s probably a pipistrelle <strong>with</strong> a body the <strong>size</strong> of a mouse, chasing flying insects.<br />
We settle down for the night‟s reading. For me it‟s“Orhan Kemal in Jail <strong>with</strong> Nazim<br />
Hikmet” by Bengisu Rona, about two Turkish writers who were political prisoners in the late<br />
1930s/early 1940s, sharing a prison cell in Bursa for three years. It‟s fascinating.<br />
Next morning it‟s perfectly still. A man is rowing around towing a line from his<br />
dinghy. Someone else is snorkelling in the bay. A guy goes past on a motorbike carrying a<br />
wetsuit and a spear gun. Driving up from the village and the beach we look up to high bluffs<br />
a mile ahead, forested on the lower slopes. We‟re on our way to the Mani, a rugged and<br />
remote area <strong>with</strong> a history of feuding and bloodshed.<br />
We enter an area where there are steep hillsides of olives, a hundred and eighty<br />
degrees of sea, holm oaks, cypresses, almonds, red anemones and a peregrine. Then we pass<br />
an old lady riding a donkey side saddle <strong>with</strong> empty crates tied on the other side. We pull over<br />
above Sambatiki and look down at the dark turquoise water enclosed by a breakwater<br />
sheltering a dozen little fishing boats. A rooster crows and a dog barks. It‟s so warm I‟m<br />
wearing a summer dress.<br />
277
Hard Working Donkey<br />
Further on the gorse is in flower and we see a valley of tunnel houses, orchards and<br />
market gardens right down to the sea. We head inland to Leonidio through spectacular<br />
orange bluffs. Leonidio is all white walls, terracotta tile roofs and olives, and John manages<br />
to squeeze the van through the tightest winding streets for what seems like at least a mile.<br />
He‟s sweating!<br />
Squeezing Through Leonidio<br />
As we head up a narrowing valley of olives along a dry riverbed we get a text telling<br />
us that our old dog Bianca has died back in New Zealand. It‟s very sad news. We console<br />
ourselves <strong>with</strong> the thought that she was very happy in her new life on a huge farm <strong>with</strong> other<br />
dogs and people who loved her.<br />
278
Old Olives<br />
We stop for coffee and see hundreds of goats running down the hillside followed by a<br />
goatherd who uses a few well aimed stones and his voice to keep the goats on track. A<br />
donkey and a white pony are having a roll in the riverbed and we see two donkeys <strong>with</strong> pack<br />
saddles and a dog tied up in the shade beside the road.<br />
Stone shelters, caves and stock enclosures run up the hillside above a dry riverbed.<br />
The bees are out and a hundred blue beehives zigzag across a hill. Old stone bridges and<br />
huge nettles catch our eye, and on the other side of the river a cleared flat dirt area <strong>with</strong> feed<br />
troughs. The predominant <strong>colour</strong>s are green, grey, orange and pink. An old monastery<br />
perches high on a ledge. Another branch of the river comes into view flowing <strong>with</strong> beautiful<br />
clear water. We wonder if we could climb down and have a swim. Stopping to read an<br />
information board we learn about the local birds: short toed eagle, peregrine, Bonnelli‟s<br />
eagle, kestrel, tawny owl, eagle owl and the blue rock thrush. The locals who drive past all<br />
wave to us. We pick some wild thyme <strong>with</strong> thick leaves.<br />
279
Birds in Latin and Greek<br />
Bats on the Beach<br />
As we continue on our journey we see a farmyard on three levels. At the top is a big<br />
cave <strong>with</strong> a steep frontage where there are two baby kids, lower down is a little house and a<br />
flat area <strong>with</strong> trees and someone standing outside, and on the bottom level is a stone shed.<br />
Each level is fifty yards apart. We stop the van to take <strong>photos</strong> of the whole set up and hear<br />
the distant clang of goat bells, then pass the turn off to the monastery. It‟s been there since<br />
the Middle Ages and now has only three nuns in residence.<br />
280
Upper Level Farmyard<br />
Middle Level<br />
281
Lower Level<br />
We climb steadily through broom and small conifers dotted <strong>with</strong> sheep shelters and<br />
caves. At Kosmas village it‟s very steep and the houses have roofs made out of thick pieces<br />
of stone. There‟s a beautiful village square <strong>with</strong> huge plane trees, their trunks covered in<br />
moss. It‟s a spectacular place in the melting snow, but a nightmarish labyrinth to drive<br />
through. It‟s Lent Monday and someone is flying a kite, the local custom at this time.<br />
Winter Again<br />
282
We look across to snow clad Mount Parnonas which is six thousand feet high, then<br />
down through snow, rocks and fir trees. It‟s hot and sunny so fortunately the snow on the<br />
road is soft.<br />
We reach the town of Gythio where there‟s been a rubbish strike and garbage is piled<br />
up beside the road. Every available bit of parking space on the streets and the wharf is <strong>full</strong>,<br />
because people are eating out in the restaurants, celebrating the holiday. We eventually get<br />
everything we need at a couple of shops: juice, wine, beer, bread and diesel. The bread is a<br />
special flat rock hard kind that they bake only on this day, a real tooth breaker.<br />
We stop at Mavrovouni Beach, and park for the night beside a line of little gums on<br />
the edge of the sand. It‟s mid afternoon and the children are out flying kites. People come<br />
and go, and eventually we have the place to ourselves. There are no houses, just a few empty<br />
holiday apartments. It‟s warm and absolutely quiet apart from the lapping of the water. At<br />
dusk we see two bats catching insects.<br />
Mavrovouni Beach<br />
Next morning the sun‟s shining when we open the side door. The sea is calm and a<br />
commercial fishing boat <strong>with</strong> three men on board anchors offshore where they put out a line<br />
and catch a fish. We eat breakfast on the beach, rock hard toast made from the special bread.<br />
Another boat ties up alongside the first one and another fish is caught.<br />
283
Home<br />
From Gythio to Skoutari it‟s all olives, olive oil factories and stone walls. They‟re<br />
burning olive prunings, and some of the hillsides look like they‟ve had fires that have spread<br />
out of control in the past. It‟s all under a mackerel sky.<br />
At Kotronas we arrive at the sea again, deep turquoise by the shore and dark blue<br />
further out. For the first time, spread across the steep hills we see derelict stone houses <strong>with</strong><br />
the characteristic fortified towers of the Mani. The people here fortified their houses in this<br />
way because they were constantly feuding <strong>with</strong> each other.<br />
Near Koarnas we see three big birds of prey, one whistling and one showing flashes<br />
of silver as it flips around. One lands on a bush and another one disappears over a hill. I<br />
think the one <strong>with</strong> the silvery underbelly is a Bonnelli‟s eagle.<br />
Stone walls criss cross the hills up to about two thousand feet, and small terraces have<br />
been created for olives. We get a sense of the ingenuity and tenacity of the people who have<br />
farmed this incredibly inhospitable country for hundreds of years.<br />
New houses have been designed to look like the old ones. On the top they have a<br />
mock tower <strong>with</strong> a rough jagged corner. They are all in stone <strong>with</strong> terracotta tile roofs,<br />
blending in perfectly <strong>with</strong> the surrounding rocks and vegetation. They have tiny windows,<br />
presumably to keep out the sun, and no exterior ornamentation or gardens. The word grim<br />
springs to mind. Every so often we get an acrid whiff of stock kept indoors. A group of<br />
older tower houses rises straight out of the rocks on a precipitous hill.<br />
284
Houses in the Mani<br />
We stop to take <strong>photos</strong> and hear constant loud birdsong. A six inch lizard runs across<br />
the road into the wild fennel.<br />
As we climb away from the coast the hillsides are all stone. At Lagia the village<br />
clocks have stopped. The towers on the houses look like real battlements on a castle. The<br />
cars are all late models.<br />
When we come to a turn in the road which takes us off our southern path, due west,<br />
we realise that this is the furthest south we will go on the entire trip, and we will now be<br />
wending our way back north and west. We stop at the top of the ridge in a sunny and windy<br />
spot for lunch, and spot two ships out at sea. There are lots of abandoned stock shelters <strong>with</strong><br />
no roofs. The stone walls have been built <strong>with</strong> impressive precision.<br />
After the village of Tsikalia we head steeply down to the west coast where small gum<br />
and pine trees are dotted beside the road. Lovely euphorbias grow wild here. The Mani<br />
seems to be racing by very fast. Daniela‟s map is one and a quarter inches to the mile, and<br />
it‟s inscribed <strong>with</strong> her comments: “Bellisimo”, “No con camper!”, “Fontana in piazza”,<br />
“Difficolta”.<br />
On the west of the peninsula there are stretches of flat country and tower houses<br />
everywhere, and as we head north, big snowy mountains in the distance. Olives stretch for<br />
miles, <strong>with</strong> grass and bright wild flowers and geraniums forming a carpet underneath.<br />
285
At Areopoli where we turn off to Kalamata there‟s a huge oak tree. Then we climb<br />
out of Tsipa and look across to the walls of Kelefa Castle, built by the Turks in 1670.<br />
According to the guid<strong>ebook</strong> this area was the most notorious for piracy and trading in slaves<br />
from the 16 th to the 18 th centuries. The people here sold Turks to Venetians, Venetians to<br />
Turks, and the women of their Mani enemies to both.<br />
The olives here are like bonsai, small and rigorously cut back, enclosed in solid stone<br />
walls. John takes a photo of a bull in the olives, and cypresses spiking the skyline.<br />
My mind is on Patrick Leigh Fermor, the most intelligent of travel writers, who has<br />
written a book on the Mani, and lives here somewhere in a house he built <strong>with</strong> his wife Joan.<br />
I look for their house in vain.<br />
Beware Greeks<br />
We eventually drive down the hill to the coast and the town of Stoupa where Daniela<br />
has told us there are a lot of ex pat Brits. It‟s a nightmare maze of narrow streets <strong>with</strong><br />
nowhere to park so we back track to Aghio Nikolaos along the coast. We find a beach <strong>with</strong><br />
grass and trees and a couple of campers parked on the road. We get out of the van and stand<br />
on the beach, enjoying the peace and beauty of the place after the long and arduous drive.<br />
Suddenly a man comes up to John and starts yelling at him in Greek that we can‟t park there.<br />
In his diatribe he also mentions the police. A couple <strong>with</strong> a young child join in and the<br />
woman tells us in English not to take any notice and of course we can park there. Then she<br />
really gets stuck into the guy. She tells us it‟s ridiculous and we (the Greeks) are not like<br />
this! We‟re impressed <strong>with</strong> how she takes him on as he‟s a nasty aggressive type, and we<br />
quickly decide that it would be better to leave. We say that we‟ll move the van onto the road<br />
but decide to drive off. A huge black bee <strong>with</strong> purple wings has got inside the van. It‟s<br />
bigger than a bumblebee, a carpenter bee.<br />
We drive back into the village and park by the small manmade harbour. We watch a<br />
little boat laden <strong>with</strong> nets, and <strong>with</strong> hardly any freeboard, heading out to sea. In one of the<br />
cafes a group of people <strong>with</strong> Lancashire accents sits outside in the sun. The shop has English<br />
papers. Martins are flying back and forth to their mud nests under the eaves of an old<br />
building.<br />
286
Aghio Nikolaos<br />
About seven o‟clock we hear a loudspeaker <strong>with</strong> a woman‟s voice and John gets out<br />
of the van to have a look. A small lorry has pulled up next to us in the port car park, followed<br />
by two utilities <strong>with</strong> canopies on the back. All have rows of battery hens in cages inside. We<br />
think they must be for sale as we‟ve seen lots of people driving around selling things off the<br />
backs of lorries like this. These people look like Gypsies.<br />
287
Hen Hell<br />
There‟s a young child asleep in the cab of the lorry, another one awake, and an older<br />
woman. A young woman gets out of one of the vehicles and opens a door between the cab<br />
and the hens, gets things out from a locker by the wheels, then climbs in the back where she<br />
starts cooking a meal on a gas ring. We‟re intrigued. The older woman does some washing<br />
in a bowl on the ground. The three men stand around and talk, then feed the hens. They‟re<br />
here for the night like us.<br />
Around midnight we look out and realise that the utilities have moved and our exit is<br />
blocked. We always like to have a clear exit at night. John gets out and taps on the window<br />
where the guy is sleeping in the cab, and asks him to move, which he does. We park further<br />
along. Much later on people emerge from a bar nearby and direct a tirade of abuse at the hen<br />
vendors‟ vehicles.<br />
In the morning the hen people are still asleep when we move round the bay to have<br />
breakfast and sort out the van. I go down to the rock pools and discover they are <strong>full</strong> of kina<br />
(sea eggs – spiky sea urchins). We see the overloaded boat from last night returning. It‟s<br />
been gone for fourteen hours. The sea is perfectly calm and the waterfront is lined <strong>with</strong><br />
tamarisk trees.<br />
288
Fishing Boat<br />
We go to the post office for stamps. In front of us in the queue is an ex pat British<br />
couple who the post office staff treat as rudely as they treat us. They‟ve already bought their<br />
copy of the Daily Mail and they sit <strong>with</strong> it at a cafe drinking coffee. They look decidedly<br />
miserable. We speculate on what it must be like living here in the current situation. The<br />
interest rate back in the UK is virtually zero, so no income off your investments, and the<br />
political situation in Greece is unstable. You‟ve left the UK because of immigration (among<br />
other factors) and you end up a disliked immigrant in another country. Depressing.<br />
Apparently there are eleven million people in Greece and seventeen million tourists<br />
visit here every year. That‟s the largest ratio of tourists to local people in the world. No<br />
wonder the locals seem a bit jaded when they interact <strong>with</strong> us.<br />
On the way to Kalamata we see huge cabbage trees and a dark bird of prey. As we<br />
drive round the rocky coast there are some beautiful houses several stories high. We arrive in<br />
Kardamyli a lovely little town <strong>with</strong> huge gum trees in the square. Mt Taygetos at eight<br />
thousand feet towers above us. Two anchor shaped birds of prey are easily recognisable -<br />
peregrines. There are ancient olives and red anemones galore plus mauve, white and yellow<br />
wild flowers. The beautiful village of Prosolio sits on a hill and there are lambs <strong>with</strong> black<br />
spots, and kids as well.<br />
289
Spring<br />
Just before Kalamata we come upon a glorious bay <strong>with</strong> white sand and palm trees.<br />
As we drive along the waterfront the sea and sky merge. Someone is out snorkelling in the<br />
turquoise water. We have a quick swim and it‟s delicious. A fishing boat comes to <strong>with</strong>in<br />
fifty metres of the shore and hauls in a net.<br />
On the outskirts of Kalamata we see a Gypsy camp under plastic, another one by the<br />
Pamisos River, then more permanent looking dwellings which have plastic walls and roofs,<br />
<strong>with</strong> glass windows. They are beside olive farms and we think they must be where the<br />
workers live. A fighter plane flies overhead. We stop for lunch, watch some marsh harriers<br />
and pied wagtails, and John feeds a resident stray dog. Oranges, potatoes, lemons and<br />
strawberries are for sale at the roadside. I see two big birds of prey <strong>with</strong> square wings, a<br />
large diamond shaped tail, and some white feathers. They are some kind of eagle, possibly<br />
Bonnelli‟s.<br />
Irises are out everywhere. An old man is working among low vines, an old lady<br />
stokes a bonfire, and a donkey waits for them in the wild flowers. At Soulinario a couple are<br />
going to town on a large rotary hoe <strong>with</strong> a trailer. We later see more of them parked in town.<br />
At last we arrive at historic Pylos which has a fabulous natural harbour. It was the<br />
scene of important battles in the Peloponnesian War, then again in the Greek fight for<br />
independence from the Ottomans in 1827. The town square is shaded by an enormous one<br />
hundred year old plane tree. We park on the wharf and notice that there are a couple of other<br />
campers. One of them is driven by a taxi driver from Salford in Manchester who tells us he‟s<br />
wintering over mainly on his own. His wife flies back and forth, not wanting to spend too<br />
290
long away from the grandchildren. He invites us into his immaculate camper for a beer.<br />
He‟s been to lots of places and has a few stories to tell. He and his wife went to Istanbul and<br />
after six hours driving round they still couldn‟t find the camping ground. Eventually they<br />
went to the police who escorted them there <strong>with</strong> lights flashing. He‟s a big LIDL<br />
supermarket fan as well, and has a chain across his front seat at night like us.<br />
John loves it parked on the wharf and drools over all the boats from tiny dinghies to<br />
large yachts.<br />
When we leave next day it must be raining mud because the van and all the cars are<br />
covered in a beige film. It‟s a mystery to us where it‟s come from. We visit Nestor‟s palace<br />
which was excavated using the latest techniques so it hasn‟t been ransacked. A roof has been<br />
built over the site where there were previously olive trees. The walls are all clearly visible<br />
and large storage jars are embedded in the dirt. The best thing is a gorgeous terracotta<br />
bathtub which links up perfectly <strong>with</strong> the scene from “The Odyssey” where Odysseus‟ son<br />
Telemachus visits Nestor to ask if he has any news of his father, and Nestor‟s daughter gives<br />
him a bath. There‟s also a small tomb like the ones at Mycenae. I‟m very happy to have seen<br />
this place as Homer‟s stories have really got into my head.<br />
Nestor’s Palace<br />
291
Terracotta Bathtub<br />
We drive into Hora and a man is standing in the road, having just hosed down his car.<br />
We indicate to him to wash our van as well which he does, but he won‟t accept any payment.<br />
In Hora we visit the museum and see fabulous objects from Nestor‟s palace and other sites in<br />
the area, a lot of it unbroken pottery including a big pot <strong>with</strong> a fabulous octopus decoration.<br />
Octopuses dominate the fish markets and supermarket freezers even now.<br />
We set off through rolling countryside and the van gets covered in brown rain again.<br />
At Gargaliana olive trees grow on a flat plain of red soil, all irrigated, right to the sea. At<br />
Kyparissia we have lunch in the LIDL car park in a thunderstorm.<br />
The turn off to Olympia takes us inland through pines and cypresses. In this part of<br />
the Peloponnese the soil must be better because the vegetation is lush. We park for the night<br />
in a little car park in the middle of the town. I start reading “Between the Woods and the<br />
Water”, the next stage of Patrick Leigh Fermor‟s walk to Istanbul.<br />
The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea<br />
Two big rivers meet at the town of Olympia, and we can see the blackened evidence<br />
of extensive bush fires. The town is small and <strong>full</strong> of souvenir shops, and like all the tourist<br />
places we visit, the capacity in terms of restaurants and accommodation is huge. It‟s virtually<br />
empty now.<br />
The site of Ancient Olympia is very large. It was the Sanctuary of Zeus and now<br />
consists of the remnants of temples, places of accommodation and other large constructions<br />
292
plus areas where statues were displayed. We wander through low walls showing the outlines<br />
of buildings and the stumps of columns. The stadium, which was only uncovered in the<br />
1940s, is a very small part of the whole complex.<br />
The site is covered in trees and we‟re interested to see unpruned olives which have<br />
grown to a height of thirty feet. Old plum trees are blossoming among silver poplars, oaks,<br />
pines, daisies, irises, and red and purple anemones. Blackbirds, sparrows, chaffinches and a<br />
black redstart live here as well. The atmosphere is electric for us as we walk on ancient slabs<br />
of marble which were laid several centuries before Christ.<br />
The stadium is the best part. It‟s the oldest athletic race track in the world, about two<br />
hundred and ten yards long, <strong>with</strong> the original start and finish line still there plus the judges‟<br />
area. The remains of the tunnel where the athletes entered the stadium is still standing, just<br />
an archway now. Beside the track is a small hill where the women and slaves would sit and<br />
watch. We‟re quite overcome <strong>with</strong> emotion to be here. In Greece we find the origins of so<br />
much of Western society.<br />
Stadium Entrance<br />
As if that‟s not enough, the museum has an incredible collection of sculpture in<br />
bronze, clay and marble, plus bronze cauldrons and tripods (those staples of “The Iliad”). It<br />
also has the largest collection of ancient weaponry in the world including a dozen bronze<br />
helmets, shields, shin guards, and the helmet worn by the Athenian general when they<br />
defeated the Persians at the Battle of Marathon in 490 BC. There‟s an endearing display of<br />
tiny bronze animals laid out like a child‟s farm set, and a huge statue of Nike the ancient<br />
293
Greek goddess of victory. Everything at the museum is from the Olympia site and burial<br />
grounds nearby.<br />
Lion’s Head<br />
Helmets<br />
294
Cauldrons<br />
High as kites we get on the road again, unsure where we‟ll be spending the night. The<br />
countryside always has a calming effect and the driving on the Peloponnese has been<br />
peaceful after the mad drivers of Athens. On the outskirts of Pyrgos we see a herd of goats<br />
on a rubbish tip, then further along a huge white dog standing on a pile of rubbish watching<br />
over a flock of sheep. It‟s a flat plain all the way to Patra, <strong>with</strong> market gardens and adjacent<br />
Gypsy camps.<br />
As we get closer to Patra we see beautiful Mt Panachaiko to the east, then the Rio<br />
Andirio Bridge linking the Peloponnese to the mainland, a spectacular cable stayed<br />
construction nearly ten thousand feet long, opened in 2004. We could have driven over it to<br />
get into Albania through northern Greece and then up to Croatia, but we‟ve decided to take<br />
two ferries and go via Italy instead.<br />
Our year long third party insurance policy for the van was hard to find and it doesn‟t<br />
cover Albania. We would need to buy more insurance at the border for the two or three days<br />
it would take to drive through to Croatia. We‟re a bit nervous about sleeping in the van in<br />
Albania so we‟d need to stay in a hotel. It seems quicker, safer and no more expensive to<br />
catch the ferry from Patra to Bari in Italy, and from there to Dubrovnik in Croatia.<br />
Unfortunately ferries are expensive. That‟s the reason we‟ve decided not to visit Crete which<br />
is a disappointment.<br />
As we drive into Patra we see the high rocky mountains of the mainland up in the<br />
north, then the road funnels us to the wharf where we find a park by a marina <strong>full</strong> of beautiful<br />
yachts. We immediately notice lots of men walking along in groups. They‟re not Greeks and<br />
295
we realise that they‟re the asylum seekers from Afghanistan and Iraq that we‟ve heard about.<br />
They come here to stow away on lorries going to Italy, and once they‟re in Italy it‟s easier to<br />
get to the UK. Many have a good look at us and we feel very conspicuous <strong>with</strong> our UK<br />
plates and steering wheel on the right. We pick up our ticket at the ferry company office. It‟s<br />
Saturday afternoon and lots of locals are sitting outside at cafes. It‟s an uneasy combination,<br />
the cool Greeks, all sunglasses and groovy clothes sitting in the sunshine, and the desperate<br />
wannabe stowaways walking past.<br />
Asylum Seekers<br />
A small parking area on the wharf beside where the ferries dock looks like a safe<br />
option to park. We move the van there and back up to a position six feet away from a high<br />
fence laced <strong>with</strong> razor wire. In front of the van it‟s about a hundred and fifty feet to a ferry<br />
which is tied up loading. About thirty men look hungrily through the fence behind us, the<br />
odd one climbing over and making a vain attempt to get in the back of one of the lorries on<br />
the wharf.<br />
296
Home for Two Nights<br />
Police guard the entrance to the wharf day and night, and when a ferry is there the<br />
place is swarming <strong>with</strong> port police and the army. Beyond the ferry is a small breakwater,<br />
ships anchored and coming and going, and beyond that the glorious deep turquoise blue sea.<br />
It feels like we‟re between the devil and the deep blue sea.<br />
There‟s an area where the lorry drivers park to sleep, but we feel that we would be<br />
too conspicuous there, as we‟ve got two nights to fill in before our ferry leaves. Buses,<br />
lorries, cars and passengers all load and unload in front of us. Security guards search the cab<br />
and undercarriage of every vehicle. They also search inside the lorries. It‟s as if all this is<br />
happening on a stage and we‟re in the front stalls.<br />
I go for a walk and find it very unnerving going past so many desperate men. They<br />
call out and try to engage. I locate a laundry for Monday morning, hoping to get our laundry<br />
washed and dried before we catch the ferry on Monday evening. That night we have a very<br />
unsettled sleep due to the noise of the midnight ferry loading and unloading. We notice that<br />
whenever a ferry is tied up, the men behind the fence try to climb over, and the police are<br />
constantly telling them to get away from the fence.<br />
Next day when a ferry is about to leave we see a black man <strong>with</strong> a suitcase being<br />
removed and thrown into an army vehicle by soldiers. We wonder what‟s going on since<br />
none of the asylum seekers have any gear <strong>with</strong> them and this guy looks different. We see a<br />
guy on the other side of the fence being hit by a policeman <strong>with</strong> a baton. I type an email, put<br />
it on the memory stick and we walk in to town.<br />
297
In the Athens Today English language paper I read the background on the asylum<br />
seekers who are mainly from Iraq and Afghanistan. A few days ago a lorry driver drove<br />
forward and hit a man trying to climb into the back of the lorry in front. The man is now in a<br />
coma. There was also a blockade of the port by lorry drivers protesting about the asylum<br />
seekers. We seem to have turned up at a point where the police presence is very high and<br />
there‟s no chance of anyone stowing away success<strong>full</strong>y.<br />
Recently a driver got to Italy and a body dropped from underneath his lorry. The<br />
paper describes how the men live in a shanty town at the northern end of Patra. Local<br />
immigrant groups have come out in support of the asylum seekers. We see posters around<br />
town about the issue, <strong>with</strong> <strong>photos</strong> of people climbing over a fence, and one of them has these<br />
words in English “Freedom of movement and residence for all immigrants and asylum<br />
seekers. Abolish the return directive.”<br />
We go for a walk around the town and climb up to a high point by the old castle to<br />
look at the view. In the distance, over the rooftops, we see very steep hills falling into the sea<br />
on the mainland. Way beyond that will be Albania <strong>with</strong> a similar rocky coastline. We‟re<br />
very relieved to be leaving Greece by ferry. It‟s been a difficult decision, but the plight of the<br />
illegal immigrants has been unnerving, and it feels good to be heading for Italy. It‟s illogical<br />
when viewed on a map, but sensible in terms of risk.<br />
Patra<br />
We have lunch and read the papers in the ferry terminal then go for a walk north to<br />
see the asylum seekers‟ camp. Some of the men are hanging out in a playground and further<br />
along we come across two washing clothes in a bowl beside a hosepipe. But what really<br />
298
amazes us is a large unfinished apartment block six stories high, just concrete floors and<br />
internal walls, which is home for lots of these men. Underneath the building they have<br />
cooking fires, and on all levels there are men and their gear. Many are also on the beach.<br />
Asylum Seekers’ Home<br />
The paper says that the locals are very unhappy <strong>with</strong> a shanty town where a thousand<br />
or so illegal immigrants live, and that the authorities agreed to build accommodation for<br />
them, but this hasn‟t happened. We don‟t walk as far as the shanty town, but I learn a year<br />
later that it was bulldozed by the authorities. Greece has the lowest approval rate for asylum<br />
seekers in the EU, so virtually all of them have to leave.<br />
When we get back to the port John asks a few of the guys by the fence where they<br />
come from. One speaks English - Afghanistan. They have some kind of a permit to be here<br />
for a month and they‟re trying to get to Italy. There is so much we want to ask them, like<br />
how they got here, but the last thing we want is for the police to think we‟re fraternising.<br />
We notice that one of the men has climbed over the fence and is running around<br />
between the lorries <strong>with</strong> a cop on a little motorbike in hot pursuit. It looks ridiculous. Our<br />
contempt for the Greek police increases. We‟ve never seen police <strong>with</strong> such an<br />
unprofessional attitude. They smoke, drink coffee and socialise <strong>with</strong> each other constantly.<br />
A group of a dozen men is jogging along the road behind a lorry heading to the wharf,<br />
trying ineffectually to open the door at the back. The average age would be twenty, <strong>with</strong> a<br />
range from fourteen to forty. Strangely they look Asian to us <strong>with</strong> wide faces. We sneak<br />
back to the van when the police are otherwise occupied.<br />
299
Trying it On<br />
Next day we take the washing in and they have it all done by eleven which is<br />
fantastic. We find a cafe <strong>with</strong> nice gentle staff and have coffee and talk on skype. On our<br />
way back we see men climbing the fence in spite of the razor wire. We also see the strangest<br />
level crossing. When a train comes, a woman walks out <strong>with</strong> a red flag, blows a whistle and<br />
manually puts down a barrier to stop the traffic.<br />
We check in at the ferry office and discover that we‟re travelling on the oldest ship in<br />
the Super Fast fleet. We drive down the wharf and park ready to drive on board. There<br />
seems to be no gate at this point and the asylum seekers are casually walking through and<br />
hiding in the shrubs. A couple actually walk into the hold of the ship which is already open.<br />
Some others are hanging around an unattended lorry and when we see a guy‟s feet under the<br />
middle of it we realise he‟s climbed up inside from underneath. Later he emerges onto the<br />
wharf. It‟s all so casual and the police are nowhere to be seen. Then the lorry driver<br />
(German) comes back and one of the guys asks him if he can get in the back. He gets a no.<br />
Then a couple of them come over to our window to talk to John. They‟re from Somalia and<br />
Palestine. John says, “Somalia and Palestine, big trouble”, and the Somalian guy slumps<br />
visibly and says, “Thank you, thank you”, grateful to have it acknowledged. He politely asks<br />
if he can hide in the van. John tells him no because they search all the vehicles and we‟ll get<br />
into trouble. He accepts this. We give them fifty Euros. We make a mental note to<br />
remember all this when Kiwis complain about how hard their lives are.<br />
A police four wheel drive arrives <strong>with</strong> one cop in it. He drives around the lorries<br />
chasing one guy. Then he gets out and runs after him and kicks him as he gets away. It‟s<br />
300
unbelievable. The cop is puffed. It‟s obvious they are incapable of dealing <strong>with</strong> the<br />
situation. No wonder the lorry drivers are so dissatisfied.<br />
It‟s a perfect calm day and we can board our ferry, the beautiful Blue Horizon, at four<br />
thirty, an hour and a half before departure. We‟re hugely relieved to get on board. With the<br />
van safely parked in the hold we go up onto the top deck and look out over Patra to the hill<br />
and castle and snow covered mountains at the back. We look down at all the lorries driving<br />
on board. We had wondered why the stowaways didn‟t climb on top of the lorries and<br />
spreadeagle themselves there, but we realise now that they would be visible from the ship.<br />
As we sail out we get a fabulous view of the Rio Bridge and notice that the tug is<br />
named Hermes. How Greek is that? Relieved to be leaving Greece, we order Heineken and<br />
crisps and have a meal in the self service restaurant. It feels so luxurious, like we‟re on a<br />
cruise. There aren‟t many passengers: lorry drivers, locals, a school group, and a handful of<br />
tourists. Lots of them have cabins and we decide to abandon our aircraft style seats for the<br />
comfortable couches. Apart from a bit of a roll it‟s very calm.<br />
301
Chapter 10 Italy, Croatia, Bosnia-Hercegovina, Slovenia<br />
10 March – 8 April<br />
Is Not Bin Laden<br />
The ferry berths in Bari at eleven in the morning Italian time after an eighteen hour<br />
journey. Expecting to arrive at eight, we‟re a bit taken aback, and console ourselves <strong>with</strong> a<br />
fried breakfast in the ferry cafe. By the time we get down to the hold the truckies are revving<br />
their motors, and we have to squeeze through a labyrinth of lorries <strong>with</strong> clouds of diesel<br />
fumes, as we try to find the van. It‟s so tight that I have to take off my small backpack to<br />
pass between them, and it feels like one of those scary car park scenes in a movie. It‟s the<br />
only time on the whole trip when I feel afraid.<br />
Once we‟re on Italian soil it‟s warm and easy and we have time to catch up on some<br />
sleep as our ferry to Dubrovnik doesn‟t leave till ten the next night.<br />
We explore Bari‟s tiny medieval streets and buy big red garlic, bok choi, little<br />
broccoli, and tomatoes in an old arcaded market.<br />
After a quiet night parked on the wharf we spend the next day reading in the van. I‟ve<br />
just started “Oliver Twist”. We learn a few words of Croatian which reminds us of Czech.<br />
Several ferries are lined up for Montenegro, Albania and Greece.<br />
Boats at Bari<br />
302
When it‟s time to drive on board we‟re at the head of the queue and lead the way<br />
along the wharf to our little ferry. The Croatian guy checking us in doesn‟t want to see our<br />
passports when he hears we‟re from New Zealand and says, “Is not terrorist. Is not bin<br />
Laden. Welcome!” We drive to the stern and notice that there‟s room for just one line of<br />
vehicles.<br />
There‟s a glorious <strong>full</strong> moon. We settle down <strong>with</strong> a can of beer, a blanket and pillow<br />
each on adjacent couches. The few cockroaches on the floor don‟t upset us too much<br />
although I‟m careful to keep the blanket tucked in. To introduce a family of cockroaches into<br />
the van would be too much. Only eight passengers are <strong>with</strong> us in the lounge <strong>with</strong> the rest<br />
sleeping in cabins, so it‟s pretty easy. It‟s a very old fashioned little ship <strong>with</strong> a large dining<br />
room <strong>full</strong> of tables covered <strong>with</strong> starched white tablecloths.<br />
After a peaceful crossing we go up on deck at six thirty and discover that we‟re<br />
heading along the Croatian coast between islands and the land. It‟s steep and rocky, <strong>with</strong> the<br />
loveliest blue water. When we land at seven the female official who inspects the back of the<br />
van looks inside <strong>with</strong> undisguised contempt. We‟re getting used to this! We drive into<br />
Dubrovnik and find a spot in a car park just outside the city walls. We spend the next couple<br />
of days exploring the old town on foot, while trying to conceal the fact that we‟re living in<br />
the van. Who knows what the car park attendants think.<br />
Dubrovnik is a perfect walled medieval town, meticulously restored since the war in<br />
the early 1990s but <strong>with</strong> a few bullet holes still visible. It‟s right on the sea. We walk around<br />
the two miles of walls, a fantastic experience on a perfect sunny day. The views are<br />
marvellous – across terracotta tile roofs down into the old town, up to the steep hills at the<br />
back (still harbouring landmines according to the guid<strong>ebook</strong>), and out across the smooth sea,<br />
which looks like slightly wrinkled blue foil. People have tiny vegetable and flower gardens<br />
on patches of flat land inside the walls. At a little market where people sell their own<br />
produce we buy some tiny purple broccoli. Later the cooking water turns the instant mash an<br />
interesting shade of mauve.<br />
303
City Walls, Dubrovnik<br />
We visit the Dubrovnik Defenders‟ Memorial which has photographs of soldiers who<br />
died defending the town in the recent war. It has a visitors‟ book where John is amazed to<br />
read comments like “Thanks for defending this beautiful city so I can come and visit it.”<br />
Only one person mentions that they were fighting for their freedom.<br />
Dubrovnik<br />
304
On the way out of Dubrovnik we stop at Port Guza and visit both the supermarket and<br />
outdoor market and buy dried figs and wild asparagus. There are very cheap oysters in the<br />
shell, and black squid ink drips onto the floor. The range of greens is fantastic, lots of<br />
variations on broccoli and kale, plus home grown Kiwifruit.<br />
Croatian Fish<br />
We drive around a large inlet <strong>with</strong> <strong>with</strong> steep limestone hills, and a marina <strong>with</strong><br />
massive launches and yachts. To the west are islands and sea of the deepest blue. Beside the<br />
road are steep terraced hillsides <strong>with</strong> olives, and a bird of prey is right there by the sea,<br />
manoeuvring like a kite.<br />
We decide to stop at the Trsteno Arboretum, five hundred years old, and planted <strong>with</strong><br />
seeds from exotic trees brought back over the centuries from all over the world by seafarers.<br />
It has a five hundred year old plane tree at the entrance. It‟s wonderful to be in the familiar<br />
and peaceful atmosphere of an old garden again. We wander along all the paths and down to<br />
the beach, and strike up a conversation <strong>with</strong> a friendly couple from Canada. He was born in<br />
Croatia and they spend long periods here. They‟re visiting the arboretum to check on the<br />
progress of a little banyan tree which they brought over from Florida a year ago. We talk<br />
<strong>with</strong> them for a long time and he tells John some of the history and politics of Croatia.<br />
Apparently mass graves of people executed under Tito‟s rule are now being uncovered. They<br />
also tell us that it‟s nearly impossible to find people to work as shepherds here. It‟s a nice<br />
outdoor job, all living expenses paid, good money, and European sheep seem much better<br />
behaved than New Zealand ones.<br />
305
Next we head out on the Peljesac peninsula, past mussel and oyster farms. People are<br />
out planting vegetables, pruning olives and grapevines, and tending bonfires. Large areas of<br />
hillside have been newly terraced <strong>with</strong> grey limestone walls. The grapevines are short, squat,<br />
gnarled and twisted, severely cut back, and <strong>with</strong> no supports. There‟s virtually no topsoil.<br />
The wild almond is in blossom, and at Ponicve, weeping willow has fine new green leaves.<br />
Stone Walls, Peljesac Peninsula<br />
We park beside the water at Drace. Apart from a couple of men doing things <strong>with</strong><br />
nets and a little dinghy, it‟s utterly still and silent. We have frittata made <strong>with</strong> onion, bacon,<br />
red pepper and wild asparagus, and watch the men set out in the dinghy <strong>with</strong> a big gas bottle<br />
and a large light. Perhaps they‟re fishing for squid. They putter off in the dark and we can<br />
hear their little two stroke motor disappearing into the distance. A chef comes down to the<br />
edge of the wharf and hauls up a kind of craypot on a rope. He takes out several small bags<br />
and returns to the tiny restaurant over the road. Two cars pull up and people go in to dine.<br />
We‟re in bed by seven.<br />
306
Drace<br />
In the morning we see the two men in the dinghy returning. John reckons they set<br />
nets and have been out to pick them up. A woman and another man are on the wharf cleaning<br />
squid and small fish. After hauling up a crab pot in the bay, the men in the dinghy pull up at<br />
the wharf and one of them spears two fish <strong>with</strong> a long four pronged spear.<br />
It‟s sunny and the water is rippling silver. Other dinghies are out. I open the side<br />
door and have breakfast in the sun. John just has to go and watch the fishermen. He talks to<br />
the father of one of them who tells him they‟ve caught bream. They‟re back home for a<br />
weekend of fishing. When John tells him we‟re from New Zealand, he‟s surprised. He tells<br />
us Croatians have gone to New Zealand, South Africa, California and Australia to make<br />
wine. He indicates why would you want to go to South Africa? John says, “Why would you<br />
leave here?”<br />
Further along a man arrives back in a little dinghy and he proudly displays a small<br />
swordfish he‟s caught, about three feet long. I walk around the little concrete manmade<br />
harbour and look down into the clear deep water. There are black sea slugs about ten inches<br />
long, and in the shallows, clams six inches across. Cats are hanging around the wharf.<br />
Moufflon Country<br />
At Janjna there are more short ancient gnarled vines, red soil, and rigid terracing on<br />
the hillside. New vineyards have been carved out of the steep hills <strong>with</strong> new white stone<br />
terracing. We pass through Trstenik a beautiful little village on a bay. Everything is green<br />
and there‟s wild heather and rosemary in flower. We head inland through steep pine forest<br />
307
and stop at a WW2 memorial at the highest point on the peninsula. It‟s a curved bronze relief<br />
sculpture six feet high and twenty five feet long telling the story of the Croatians fighting the<br />
Nazis, overcoming them, then Communism making everyone happy. It‟s a beautiful work of<br />
art but it‟s got bullet holes in it. On the back are the names of four hundred and fifty soldiers<br />
from villages on the Peljesac peninsula who died in WW2. A Croatian guy pulls up in a car<br />
and comes over. He tells me he visits this beautiful spot, looking down over the land and out<br />
to sea and the islands, every day. I ask him about the bullet holes. He says that in the 1990s<br />
war, soldiers returning from the front twenty five miles away vented their anger about<br />
Communism on this sculpture.<br />
We lift the mattress, bedding and all the carpets out of the van and put them in the<br />
sun to air. It‟s exciting to see all the carpets again as we haven‟t had a chance to put things<br />
out in the sun like this for months. We spend a couple of hours sorting everything out. A big<br />
glossy black raven flies overhead croaking loudly. Another one croaks from a rocky bluff.<br />
We wonder if she‟s on a nest.<br />
The next place is Pijavicino where there are native golden pines. It‟s a flat plain <strong>with</strong><br />
red soil, long lines of compost, and solid <strong>with</strong> grapes. Then we could be in a traditional<br />
Chinese garden of little pines and other stunted trees growing out of grey rock. Fine mare‟s<br />
tails are in the sky. The coast appears again and we travel through spectacular hairpins, then<br />
stop at a lookout to gaze down over about twenty islands, <strong>with</strong> the town of Orebic in the<br />
distance.<br />
On the edge of Orebic we drive in to a petrol station to get water. I leap down from<br />
the van <strong>with</strong> the big plastic water container and start filling it from an outside tap.<br />
Unfortunately I‟ve forgotten to ask the proprietor, who I actually thought was a customer as<br />
he didn‟t come over and greet me. He gives me a good telling off. I apologise but give him<br />
some arguments back and we drive off <strong>with</strong> our container only half <strong>full</strong>. A few choice<br />
comments spring to mind as we get down the road.<br />
In Orebic, tamarisk trees line the sea front, the magnolias have pink flowers, and we<br />
see cacti, daffodils, tulips, and broad beans in flower. We set off up steep hairpins inland,<br />
looking down on the sea, <strong>with</strong> Korcula and other islands in the distance. To the north east are<br />
the snowy mountains of Hercegovina.<br />
Closer at hand the landscape has been cultivated for centuries, <strong>with</strong> stone walls,<br />
olives, and the odd big fig tree. At Loviste, minute seaside gardens have stocks, tiny olive<br />
trees, and huge white irises. Cyclamens are flowering outside. We drive along the sea front<br />
looking in vain for somewhere to park. We decide that our favourite Croatian surname is<br />
Bonkovich.<br />
308
Peljesac Landscape<br />
Heading back the way we‟ve come we stop at a lookout and watch a kestrel hovering<br />
above the cliff. We drive down into Viganj which is famous for its steady wind every<br />
afternoon along a fifteen hundred foot stretch of beach, making it the perfect venue for the<br />
world windsurfing championships. At the moment the place is deserted <strong>with</strong> all the holiday<br />
accommodation empty. We find a quiet spot to park by the water‟s edge and look across to<br />
Korcula Island which was settled by the Greeks in the 6 th century BC. We go for a walk past<br />
a mix of old and new houses, little jetties, boats, pine trees, lemon trees in blossom, and<br />
daffodils. An older man is filling a wheelbarrow <strong>with</strong> driftwood from the beach and he stops<br />
to talk. He says that the place becomes too crowded in July and August. He tells us that the<br />
wind is the mistral, and now is a good time to catch squid since it‟s cooler. We tell him about<br />
the swordfish at Drace. He says there‟s not much money around and people make a bit off<br />
tourism, olives, grapes and fishing. Some villages near here closed down in the 1960s when<br />
all the inhabitants moved to places like New Zealand. Over on Korcula there are parts where<br />
Croatians who emigrated to Australia and New Zealand have come back <strong>with</strong> lots of money<br />
to build big houses. He also tells us that in the steep rocky mountains behind us (three<br />
thousand feet) there are wild sheep called moufflons which come to <strong>with</strong>in six hundred feet<br />
of his mother‟s house. There‟s also a small animal like a fox.<br />
We have a peaceful night but in the morning we wake up at six to find people coming<br />
and going all around us because we‟ve parked at the bus stop. A ferry arrives at the wharf<br />
beside us and takes the high school students to Korcula. We wait till everyone leaves, then<br />
creep into the front seat and drive to a quiet spot for breakfast.<br />
309
In the past, grapes from the Dignac terroir (a narrow four mile strip of extremely steep<br />
land) were carried from the vineyard to the winery by donkeys. It‟s an area that looks<br />
impossible to cultivate, but the conditions are perfect for grape growing – a southwest facing<br />
slope where the calcified soil holds the heat, <strong>with</strong> the added benefit of sunlight reflected off<br />
the sea. Access is difficult and we have to drive it in two chunks. It‟s a patchwork of little<br />
plots and terraces of different <strong>colour</strong>ed soils, most <strong>with</strong> short old vines very close together.<br />
Somehow they manage to rotary hoe between them. We head towards Podobuce on the low<br />
road and see people digging holes <strong>with</strong> crowbars to plant vines. A few olives are growing<br />
here as well. We drive down a twelve hundred foot long unlit tunnel which was hand dug by<br />
the locals in the 1960s. Before that everything was taken over the top. Vines grow on the<br />
cliff above the sea and it‟s so steep that sometimes the lowest terrace is concreted at the base.<br />
There‟s a range of plants clinging on here: heather, viburnum, rosemary, thyme, macrocarpa,<br />
holm oak, pine, tsuga, juniper, and sage. If another vehicle comes we have to back up to let<br />
them pass. A high fence runs down from the top of the hill to the tunnel and we wonder what<br />
it‟s for.<br />
Dignac Vines<br />
Safely back at the other end of the tunnel we decide to pay a visit to Matusko Wines<br />
where a lovely young woman gives us a tour. We taste a couple of the red wines and she tells<br />
us about the winery. First of all, the fence on the hill is to keep out the moufflons as they like<br />
to come down and eat the vines and grapes. The wine is kept in barrels of Croatian oak for<br />
six months and they also use oak barrels from Portugal and France.<br />
There are two wine growing areas here, the continental (inland, where this winery is)<br />
and coastal which is the Dignac terroir. The wine from the continental part is ordinary, and<br />
310
from the Dignac it‟s very intense and concentrated. In the coastal part the vines are planted<br />
about three feet apart and they produce a couple of pounds of high sugar grapes per vine.<br />
The grapes are the small Mali variety and the coastal ones fetch forty kuna for over two<br />
pounds. The continental ones are planted further apart and produce double the quantity of<br />
grapes which sell for a quarter of the price. The reason why the vines are kept short is to<br />
allow the leaves to protect the grapes from the sun.<br />
The Dignac red won the prize for the best Croatian red wine in 2008. The guide<br />
shows us an old donkey pack saddle like we‟ve seen being used in Turkey. The grapes are<br />
picked by the families of the people who own the small plots of vines. The harvest lasts for<br />
twenty days. The reason why there is so much planting of new grapevines at the moment is<br />
that if Croatia joins the EU, there will be restrictions on what they can plant, so people are<br />
getting in early. Like many Croatians our guide doesn‟t think joining the EU would be a<br />
good thing for Croatia as they aren‟t keen to be told what to do by anyone. Only a small<br />
amount of wine is exported from this area, to their near neighbours. We buy some of the<br />
delicious Dignac red.<br />
Feeling confident after a few days in Croatia, and realising how close Sarajevo is to<br />
the coast, we make the big decision to visit Bosnia – Hercegovina. For our generation<br />
Sarajevo will always be defined by the notorious siege by the Bosnian Serbs from 1992 to<br />
1995, so we want to visit some of the places we saw on the television news, and begin to<br />
understand the people and their history.<br />
Retracing our path back down the peninsula, past Drace and through bluebells and<br />
grape hyacinths, we‟re in a haze of woodsmoke from the pruning fires. We head north where<br />
the road goes though Bosnia for nine kilometres, a concession to the Ottomans who wanted<br />
sea access. The border guard has one hand on his gun as he asks for our passports. We go<br />
through a stretch of beaches, holiday apartments and hotels, then we‟re back in Croatia again.<br />
We see the snowy Hercegovina mountains in the distance before reaching the delta of the<br />
Neretva River. It looks like it‟s been drained for productive land, <strong>with</strong> many ponds and<br />
waterways breaking up the citrus orchards, tunnel houses and crops.<br />
As we follow the river inland we see whitebait stands, and then, oh joy, a Romanian<br />
haystack, a cow, and huge stacks of firewood beside rough dwellings on the riverbank. We<br />
stop at the town of Metkovic, just inside Croatia, on the border <strong>with</strong> Bosnia and Hercegovina.<br />
After driving around and finding a spot where we can get on line and talk on skype, we park<br />
on the wharf by the river for the night. Bats are flying over the water catching insects. We<br />
have smoked sausages, onions, instant mash and silver beet for dinner and go to bed <strong>with</strong> a<br />
mix of anticipation and nervousness. Tomorrow we‟ll be in Sarajevo.<br />
311
Breakfast in Bosnia<br />
Next morning a crow is fossicking on the ground in front of the van and willow<br />
catkins are floating on the fast flowing river. At the border crossing, the guard is bored <strong>with</strong><br />
us and quickly returns to his crossword. The Neretva River is beautiful, wide, deep and<br />
turquoise, reminiscent of the Clutha in New Zealand. The river flats are covered <strong>with</strong><br />
gardens, orchards and tunnel houses. We see mosques and Mercedes vans, a relief on both<br />
counts. The hillsides are stony and crisscrossed <strong>with</strong> rock walls, and there are little groups of<br />
stone houses <strong>with</strong> walls but no roofs. We wonder if they‟ve been bombed. There are also<br />
Moslem cemeteries <strong>with</strong> their slim pointed headstones.<br />
The road takes us through numerous tunnels under rocky bluffs. People are moving<br />
rotary hoes around on trailers, magnolias are in flower, and the cherry and plum blossom is<br />
out. We pass abandoned feedlots from the Communist era. Geese fly overhead, beating their<br />
wings as they switch places. We‟re overtaken by the Bosnian army and notice that the road<br />
signs are in the Cyrillic alphabet. Lucky for us they give an English version as well.<br />
Neretva River<br />
At the edge of Mostar we see bombed out buildings and shell damage on the ones that<br />
are still standing. In fact everything is riddled <strong>with</strong> bullet holes, and even some rusted old<br />
cement hoppers have big shell holes. We see some nuns, and cemeteries <strong>with</strong> graves from<br />
the recent war. Crows are building nests, and big bags of potatoes and chrysanthemums are<br />
for sale at the roadside.<br />
312
The railway line is on the other side of the river from the road and it looks like it<br />
would be an exciting train trip from the coast to Sarajevo. The escarpments are spectacular<br />
and the map shows mountains over six thousand feet high. We come to a long hydro lake<br />
and go through a dramatic series of tunnels. They raise salmon in fish farms on the lake <strong>with</strong><br />
pontoons to access them, and there are houseboats as well. The cliffs are covered <strong>with</strong> bare<br />
trees and the place has quite a sad and desolate feel, but the road has new seal making driving<br />
easier. A train goes past and it‟s a mishmash of different rolling stock, then we see a hydro<br />
dam <strong>with</strong> the EU logo on it.<br />
At Jablanica there‟s a subtle change in the houses as they become more alpine.<br />
There‟s strip farming in the valley and Romanian haystacks, then beautiful green velvety<br />
strips of grass running up the hillside. We see women in Moslem dress. It‟s like the rural<br />
countryside in Romania <strong>with</strong> beehives, piles of firewood, and structures built for the new<br />
season‟s hay, a pole up the middle <strong>with</strong> a rough wooden platform on the ground. In the<br />
village of Bradina snow lies beside the road and we see more bullet holes and blown up<br />
houses. The sky is cloudy and snow is predicted in two days time. We drive though Tunnel<br />
Ivan, two thousand feet long, then we‟re at the top of the pass where there‟s pussy willow and<br />
a patchwork of grass and trees. Further down, the rivers are <strong>full</strong> of rubbish. There are<br />
crocuses, piles of mucked out straw, sheep and hens by a barn. Wooden houses and carvings<br />
remind us of Zakopane in Poland.<br />
We turn off at Ilidza, where soldiers stand beside the road, and the police stop us and<br />
check our passports and John‟s licence. We find the Hotel Bosna beside the Bosna River. A<br />
guy in Dubrovnik gave John some advice on Sarajevo, where to stay, what to eat, and he<br />
suggested staying at Ilidza on the outskirts, and catching the tram into town. We check in<br />
and the price is reduced because the internet connection isn‟t working. It‟s a flash hotel by<br />
our standards <strong>with</strong> hot water and heating. We go to the shops and get Konvertible Marks<br />
from the ATM. The local currency is tagged to half the value of the Euro. Then we go to the<br />
post office where they are very nice and patient <strong>with</strong> us.<br />
We look at a stall selling books on Islam, prayer beads and DVDs. There‟s a<br />
documentary on Guantanamo Bay in English, and this leads us into chatting <strong>with</strong> the guy on<br />
the stall, in his forties <strong>with</strong> a traditional Moslem beard. He was born in Dubrovnik, fought in<br />
the recent war for the Croatian army, got a serious injury, still owns a house in Dubrovnik,<br />
but feels uncomfortable being a Moslem there. So he moved his family to Sarajevo and<br />
started off the stall by selling his own books. He tells us he makes a good living now. People<br />
weren‟t allowed to discuss religion in the Communist era and now there‟s a hunger for these<br />
books. He says legally he has the same rights as anyone else in Croatia but he experienced<br />
discrimination there.<br />
We catch the tram to town and it follows the infamous “Snipers‟ Alley” where snipers<br />
on the surrounding hills shot at anyone travelling the route during the siege. There‟s a<br />
multitude of Communist era apartment buildings, large and ugly, most <strong>with</strong> damage from the<br />
313
war. On the surrounding hills we can see the tree line which formed the front line. For three<br />
desperate winters people crept up from the town and took all the trees below this line for<br />
firewood.<br />
Holiday Inn, Sarajevo<br />
The tram goes around the National Library, a large beautiful ornate stone building in<br />
terracotta and beige stripes. It was built in the late 19 th century when the country was part of<br />
the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The Serbs deliberately bombed it in 1992 on its centenary,<br />
destroying a large chunk of the country‟s archives and cultural history. The guid<strong>ebook</strong> tells<br />
us how the residents risked their lives to rescue its treasures, but most of the collection was<br />
lost. The exterior has been restored but it‟s boarded up.<br />
314
National Library, Sarajevo<br />
We go to the Turkish area for a nostalgic look at kilims, carpets and scarves. One<br />
small shop sells only old and antique kilims made in Bosnia. The guy is very keen to tell us<br />
about them and he shows us one from the 19 th century which is very fine and beautiful. He<br />
shows us <strong>photos</strong> of a carpet factory set up by a wealthy Viennese man in the early 1900s<br />
where women were employed to weave beautiful kilims. His grandmother worked there for<br />
forty years. He explains a couple of the images woven into the kilims to us: the spider<br />
protects the house, and turtles mean long life.<br />
315
Bosnian Metalwork<br />
Then we have a look round a large shop in an old han <strong>full</strong> of beautiful cheap Persian<br />
carpets and kilims. They also have a large woven bag which nomadic people would use to<br />
carry their clothes and linen when they moved around. We have a cay and walk around<br />
enjoying the old Turkish buildings including a mosque from the 1500s. The people are tall<br />
and friendly, ninety per cent Moslem, and not many of the women wear head scarves. We<br />
have a delicious lunch of stew <strong>with</strong> the fluffiest flat bread. We see only two other tourists. I<br />
buy some crocheted teddy bears which look very like Mr Bean‟s teddy, made by refugee<br />
women.<br />
Back at the hotel we turn on Aljazeera and catch up on the news. As it gets dark all<br />
the crows roost in one tree outside our window. John takes a picture of them and when the<br />
flash goes off they scatter, startled. Sarajevo crows, so it‟s not surprising. They‟re back the<br />
next night.<br />
When we get up next morning it‟s snowing. We have breakfast of the tastiest bacon,<br />
fried eggs, bread rolls, cranberry jam, nutella, honey, juice, and Bosnian coffee which comes<br />
in a tiny copper long handled jug. You pour it into a little bowl <strong>with</strong> sugar cubes. It‟s very<br />
thick and gritty, <strong>with</strong> a delicious flavour. You can imagine it warming people in some very<br />
tough times. It comes <strong>with</strong> a small piece of Turkish delight. When we look out the window<br />
it‟s stopped snowing and the conifers on the hills are now covered.<br />
316
Stari Stari Most<br />
We catch the tram in to Sarajevo again and notice that the primroses are out. The city<br />
runs along a valley <strong>with</strong> the Miljacka River in the centre, and the small hills on each side are<br />
covered <strong>with</strong> the most beautiful houses. They all have terracotta tile roofs and come in many<br />
<strong>colour</strong>s: turquoise, brown, yellow, white, pink, beige, green, and lime green. They look like<br />
storybook houses, three or four stories high, <strong>with</strong> lots of windows and balconies. Of course<br />
the vast majority of people live in the gargantuan scarred apartment blocks. As we ride on<br />
the tram we think of New Zealand camera woman Margaret Moth who was shot and<br />
seriously injured on Snipers‟ Alley during the war.<br />
We visit the History Museum and learn that Bosnia went from being an independent<br />
state, to part of the Ottoman Empire for four hundred years, to part of the Austro-Hungarian<br />
Empire, then part of Yugoslavia, briefly an independent state, then mayhem, and finally now<br />
independent again. There‟s a huge exhibition on the siege of Sarajevo by the Serbs. It<br />
includes <strong>photos</strong>, words, ingenious home made devices to make light and cook food, home<br />
made weapons, and the possessions of people who were killed. It‟s extremely depressing but<br />
we learn so much.<br />
People lived <strong>with</strong> erratic electricity and little water or fuel. They grew vegetables on<br />
their balconies, and patches of land near apartment blocks were turned into vegetable<br />
gardens. Nettles became an important food. Schools, factories, museums, and hospitals were<br />
targeted by the Serbs. Twelve thousand people died, eighteen hundred of them children;<br />
fifteen thousand children were injured, and one hundred and fifty thousand people fled the<br />
city. This was from a population of about four hundred thousand people. Many new<br />
cemeteries were made to cope <strong>with</strong> the dead. Adults lost an average of nearly twenty pounds<br />
each in body weight.<br />
It‟s all still so fresh, and the items on display are a fascinating illustration of the<br />
realities of daily life for people. One of the ways in which their spirit came through was in<br />
the many cultural performances which took place during the siege, including a concert by the<br />
Sarajevo Philharmonic Orchestra in the burnt Town Hall.<br />
On the way out we talk <strong>with</strong> the man in the ticket office. He tells us he‟s very<br />
unhappy <strong>with</strong> the government, and Bosnians are unhappy <strong>with</strong> the Dayton Accord (the peace<br />
plan at the end of the war). He asks why it took so long for the outside world to intervene,<br />
believes that the EU is against Bosnia, and that Bosnia has no allies. Serbs who live in<br />
Bosnia cheer for the Serbian football team, and likewise the Croatians who live in Bosnia<br />
cheer for the Croatian football team. He becomes quite upset when talking about the hell of<br />
the siege, and the older woman <strong>with</strong> him is visibly distressed, weeping and nodding.<br />
317
It‟s an exhausting visit and afterwards we feel gutted. We take a taxi up to a high<br />
point to get a view over the city, then walk back down to Imat Kuca, a little restaurant that<br />
just serves Bosnian food and plays Bosnian soul music. We have burek which is mince and<br />
very thin pastry in a gigantic spiral. It‟s great ribsticking food, and we need it because it<br />
starts snowing. The restaurant is right on the river in a little three storied Ottoman house<br />
called the Spite House, which has been shifted twice. The first time was when the Austrians<br />
wanted to put up a government building on the site where it stood, and the owner insisted that<br />
it be moved. Then again when the new site was required, it was moved again. It‟s a very<br />
charming old building <strong>with</strong> exposed wooden beams, and little windows and staircases,<br />
looking across the river towards the National Library.<br />
Burek<br />
Later, at an internet cafe, we meet Joe, a young Kiwi travelling on his own from<br />
Scandanavia to Israel, couch surfing and catching trains, and particularly fascinated <strong>with</strong> the<br />
Balkans. We have a cay <strong>with</strong> him and swap stories. He tells us that the Croatians are said to<br />
be the least friendly of the Balkans people, and the Serbs the friendliest.<br />
We go looking for the Land Mine Action Centre and can‟t find it but end up at a large<br />
building site which turns out to be the site of the new American Embassy. We ask a<br />
charming American for directions and he asks his Bosnian workmates, but no joy. Near<br />
where we‟re staying at Ilidja we‟ve seen the Lady Di cafe. She visited Bosnia and<br />
Hercegovina <strong>with</strong> the Landmine Survivors‟ Network in 1997.<br />
It snows overnight and the trees are covered. We have to clear the van‟s windscreen<br />
before we drive into town along Snipers‟ Alley just for the hell of it (past the Holiday Inn<br />
318
where journalists were holed up during the siege) and take some more pictures. Sarajevo is<br />
beautiful in the snow, <strong>with</strong> the houses on the hills covered and the countryside beyond<br />
blanketed, a patchwork of white fields, bare deciduous trees, white conifers and hills, all<br />
different textures.<br />
Sarajevo Houses in the Snow<br />
As we head back towards Mostar we see snow covered mountains, warmer grassy<br />
slopes, and a few sheep. It‟s picturesque on such a sunny day. It‟s all downhill retracing our<br />
steps back towards the coast catching sight of the railway line as we go. Joe told us that the<br />
train trip from Mostar to Sarajevo was spectacular, following the river, through tunnels and<br />
hairpin bends, under rocky bluffs, and across viaducts, <strong>with</strong> the most stunning scenery.<br />
319
Winter Landscape<br />
We‟re pleased to reach Mostar, a medieval settlement which came under Ottoman<br />
rule in the middle of the 15 th century, then Austrian occupation from the late 19 th century.<br />
The tiny ancient section of the city clusters around the banks of the Neretva River, <strong>with</strong> the<br />
famous Stari Most (Old Bridge), at the heart. The bridge was built by the Turks, designed by<br />
a famous architect from Istanbul, completed in 1566, and destroyed by the Croatians in 1993.<br />
Its rebuilding was completed in 2004. It has a magnetic attraction, <strong>with</strong> its beautiful and<br />
gravity defying arch over the icy river eighty feet below. The name Mostar means bridge<br />
guardians, and clearly a bridge on this spot has been extremely important for centuries. In the<br />
summer, young men dive off it (a tradition that is hundreds of years old), and there‟s an<br />
annual diving contest. It‟s surprisingly steep to walk across, <strong>with</strong> thick raised bands of stone<br />
every fourteen inches to stop your feet slipping. Quaint Ottoman era buildings cluster at each<br />
end of the bridge. Of course the whole place has been rebuilt, <strong>with</strong> one reference referring to<br />
the look of the place after the war as similar to Dresden.<br />
320
Mostar<br />
Stari Most<br />
Mostar, like Sarajevo, had been a model of peace and harmony between people of<br />
different ethnic groups and religions. Then, some months after fighting alongside Moslems<br />
when the city was besieged by the Serb and Montegrin soldiers, the Croats attacked the<br />
Moslems, moving them to detention camps on the eastern side of the river. Huge destruction,<br />
including the destruction of the famous bridge, tragedy, and bitterness were the result. After<br />
321
the war, the city was divided, <strong>with</strong> Croatians (Christians) on one side, and Moslems on the<br />
other. There were two separate systems of government. They are now becoming integrated,<br />
and it‟s unclear to us how far that process has gone, but the guy in the bookshop is very sad<br />
about it all.<br />
We find a safe car park on the western side beside the rebuilt Church of St Peter and<br />
Paul <strong>with</strong> adjoining Franciscan monastery. Later a man emerges from the direction of the<br />
church and indicates that it will cost us five Euros a night to park here. Then he takes me<br />
over to the immaculate toilet block, unlocks it, and turns on the water at an outside tap for us.<br />
We have a very peaceful night after an exhausting few days of challenging driving on steep<br />
roads, snow, and being confronted <strong>with</strong> such sad history.<br />
It‟s reassuring to hear the call to prayer from the mosques, as well as the bells from<br />
our church. Sometimes they go off <strong>with</strong>in a couple of minutes of each other. The streets in<br />
the old area are lined <strong>with</strong> shops selling souvenirs <strong>with</strong> a Turkish design. Turkish style is like<br />
a dominant gene, its visible everywhere.<br />
Next day we walk down to the river‟s edge and around the old town. We find a great<br />
supermarket and a bakery. I can now say “Hello, two mince pies please, thank you,<br />
goodbye”, in Croatian. For two nights running we have burek (mince pie in a spiral), instant<br />
mash, and frozen vegetables for dinner. John‟s in heaven.<br />
Only a few tourists are around, older earnest ones like us, and a few small busloads<br />
from Italy who park near us. We return to the van for a cup of Earl Grey and watch the<br />
robins bobbing around the car park.<br />
There are cemeteries <strong>full</strong> of young men killed in 1993 – 1995. We‟ve also seen a<br />
couple of men <strong>with</strong> only one leg getting around on crutches - land mine casualties.<br />
Next day we walk up the hill on the Moslem side where there‟s an old Christian<br />
cemetery. We realise that the split of the town must have separated people from their dead.<br />
We get a great view over the area but don‟t go right to the top because there‟s a group of men<br />
up there sitting around a fire.<br />
We visit the museum where the traditional costumes are very similar to Romanian<br />
ones. The best part is a silent movie from the 1960s which shows the beautiful old bridge<br />
<strong>with</strong> children jumping and men diving off it, then the same scenes in the 1980s. The<br />
shocking footage of its destruction follows, then the retrieval of stone building blocks from<br />
the river, and its reconstruction. The final part shows the reopening of the Stari Most <strong>with</strong><br />
fireworks and fantastic night diving. Unsurprisingly, at the ceremony, when various<br />
politicians are walking across the bridge, Franjo Tudman, the president of Croatia, is booed<br />
and people call out “Murderer!”<br />
322
The wind has been blowing for days now. John buys “The Fall of Yugoslavia” by<br />
Misha Glenny and we learn some of the background to the conflict. We notice that the<br />
houses and other old stone buildings including mosques, which have been restored after<br />
bomb damage, have been given new stone roofs.<br />
One day we‟re surprised and delighted to discover some old Bosnian kilims in a tiny<br />
shop. The ones we buy are long and narrow, <strong>with</strong> large geometric patterns in red, pink,<br />
yellow, orange, lime green and blue.<br />
Bosnian Kilim<br />
323
Bosnian Kilim<br />
As usual, living in the car park we see lots of comings and goings. Gypsy beggars<br />
come into our car park and accost the tour groups, and two disabled men wait patiently<br />
outside the church when there‟s a service. Nuns and monks arrive and depart in cars, and<br />
there are large congregations at certain times.<br />
On Sunday we go for a walk into the more modern Christian area. Young people are<br />
out everywhere having coffee in cafes. We try to find the Partisans‟ Memorial Cemetery<br />
(honouring resistance fighters who died in WW2) but it‟s up an unkempt hillside and there<br />
are a few groups of young men around so we decide to leave it. Perhaps it‟s not such an<br />
important site to people these days. We stop at a tiny fast food place and have cevapi the<br />
local takeaway, little meat balls in spongy flat bread (somun) served <strong>with</strong> a red pepper paste<br />
and chopped raw onion. Later we get some groceries in a little dairy and the lovely Moslem<br />
woman tells me that things are very bad in Mostar.<br />
324
Mostar<br />
Back in the van I‟m reading Patrick Leigh Fermor‟s “Roumeli” about northern Greece<br />
plus reminiscences and observations on Greece in general, and John plunges into Misha<br />
Glenny‟s “The Fall of Yugoslavia”. At quarter to six the car park suddenly starts to fill up<br />
<strong>with</strong> young people going to church. The men are nondescript as they are the world over, but<br />
the women uniformly have long straight hair, skin tight jeans or tights, and high heeled shoes<br />
or boots. One is in lime green tights. The huge church is packed. At six when the service is<br />
starting, the call to prayer goes out from a mosque.<br />
Snakes and Land Mines<br />
We realise that we‟ve been in Bosnia and Hercegovina for a week. We‟ve had some<br />
very warm encounters <strong>with</strong> people here and it‟s hard to tear ourselves away from beautiful,<br />
tragic Mostar. I discover that I‟ve developed thick callouses on my knees from all the<br />
kneeling in the back of the van. Likewise John‟s body is suffering from long hours driving.<br />
We set off on the main road towards Stolac, past a large aluminium plant from the<br />
Communist era which is still operating. It‟s a glorious day and people are out planting their<br />
gardens in the six foot deep river soil. The properties have small vineyards, small gardens<br />
<strong>with</strong> grapevines around the edge, and fruit trees <strong>with</strong> their trunks painted. When we turn off<br />
the main road we see our first land mine warning sign, a white skull and crossbones on a red<br />
background, <strong>with</strong> the word “mine” in four languages. We look down a valley which is a<br />
rough patchwork of trees, cultivated soil, terracotta tile roofed houses and cypresses, <strong>with</strong><br />
Mostar in the distance, and snowy mountains behind.<br />
325
Land Mines!<br />
The hills are rock and there‟s rubbish everywhere. Perhaps it‟s too dangerous to<br />
collect the rubbish. Later we come to a little valley <strong>with</strong> winter sweet, plum blossom and<br />
brown oak leaves. There‟s the odd old stone wall, and at Hodovo, new basic concrete block<br />
houses. We pass through a flat area <strong>with</strong> blackened trees, beauti<strong>full</strong>y cultivated soil under<br />
small fruit trees, and sheep and lambs liberated from their barn. Then we‟re at Radimlja<br />
Necropolis, a flat area beside the road <strong>with</strong> about fifty big rectangular tombstones, graves of<br />
followers of the Bosnian church, from the 15 th and 16 th centuries. Some of the tombstones<br />
have very distinctive carvings: a huge hand, medieval figures, and moving horses.<br />
326
Radimlja Necropolis<br />
Stolac is in a gorge, and we see our first tethered cow since Romania, strips of<br />
cultivated land, a loquat tree, and a flock of goats on a steep hill. The town was badly<br />
damaged in the war but there are beautiful new mosques, a lovely old restored Turkish house<br />
and three famous Ottoman bridges, some of which had mills incorporated into them. The<br />
town is surrounded by steep rocky fire blackened hills.<br />
We return to the country and drive past land mine signs for miles, through a rugged<br />
landscape of grey stones, scrub, the odd patch of red soil <strong>with</strong> grass, and crested larks. We<br />
pass a group of abandoned stone houses riddled <strong>with</strong> bullet holes. We‟re taking the back<br />
road to Hutovo Blato National Park and it seemed like a good idea but the road‟s getting<br />
narrower and there‟s virtually no traffic. The constant land mine signs make us a bit uneasy,<br />
though it‟s only a problem if you walk across country. We wonder how they can graze sheep<br />
here, and how they could clear the mines, since the ground is almost completely covered in<br />
rocks. The only trees are stunted oaks and conifers, but there are lovely euphorbias. The<br />
winding road is very narrow but the seal is excellent.<br />
We‟re relieved to find ourselves looking down on a lake and wetland at last, and<br />
descend steeply to a pretty valley <strong>with</strong> tunnel houses, orchards, vineyards, hives, vegetable<br />
gardens, houses, and pale brown reeds. On our way to the main road and the national park<br />
we come across the Klepci Bridge, built in 1517 over the wide and fast flowing Bregava<br />
River. It‟s very similar to the Stari Most, damaged in the war but still functional. The EU<br />
has thought<strong>full</strong>y provided a seat and rubbish bin.<br />
327
The Huoto Blavo National Park was created in 1995. It‟s very low key and at the<br />
headquarters the director tells us in halting English that he and his staff are just back from a<br />
visit to a national park in Spain. There‟s not much money for wages as it‟s not a priority for<br />
the government, so they tend to lose their good staff overseas. He loves his job and lives<br />
nearby <strong>with</strong> his family and parents, having returned after studying in Zagreb. He tells us to<br />
look out for snakes as he‟s had one in his office. We go for a walk along the flood bank and<br />
cross a military type bridge. We see three big egrets, and a black grass snake about eighteen<br />
inches long <strong>with</strong> a big frog in its mouth. John pursues it <strong>with</strong> the camera and it turns around<br />
and faces him. Driving out of the park later and looking down on the lake below, we see two<br />
marsh harriers.<br />
Back on the main road we head to Poticelj which we missed on our first day in<br />
Hercegovina when we were so focussed on getting to Sarajevo in one piece. It‟s a very cute<br />
little village clinging to a cliff, all grey stone, ancient mosques, Turkish bath houses, towers<br />
and fortifications. It‟s been restored after being badly damaged in the war, and the people<br />
have now returned. A few of the last deep pink pomegranates are clinging to the trees, and<br />
we see a blue tit.<br />
After crossing back into Croatia we drive straight back to our old riverside park in<br />
Metkovic. Some men are lowering a boat into the water off the back of a lorry <strong>with</strong> a crane,<br />
and the bats are at it again over the water. We subsequently learn from John‟s book that the<br />
Serbs wanted to occupy everything on the east side of the Neretva River.<br />
Next morning we drive across the river to Vidd where there‟s another smaller river,<br />
the Norin. Between the two rivers there‟s an area of reeds broken up <strong>with</strong> canals, rectangles<br />
of water, cultivated soil, grapevines and orchards. The reeds have been burnt off in a few<br />
places. Nidd is a cute little village which we discover has a new archaeological museum<br />
displaying artefacts from the ancient Greek and Roman city that was here. We walk up the<br />
external staircase onto the roof from where there‟s a fantastic view of the surrounding area,<br />
and down to a Roman mosaic below. A trade route used to pass by here, following the<br />
Neretva River from the Adriatic, and up into the inner Balkans. We see two serious looking<br />
men and two women <strong>with</strong> books and papers set off in one of the flat bottomed tourist boats in<br />
the direction of the ancient site and we think they must be archaeologists.<br />
We head back to the delta and Plotce on the coast. The river is a beautiful wide<br />
turquoise strip bringing fertility and irrigation, as it must have done for thousands of years.<br />
We see citrus orchards and little villages on the water‟s edge, and boats tied up to the<br />
concrete strips which line the bank. The hillside is solid rock <strong>with</strong> cypress and pine. The<br />
horticulture is extensive and ingeniously managed, <strong>with</strong> orchards on strips of land between<br />
long rectangular tongues of water and canals.<br />
Plotce is a large port <strong>with</strong> little bays and villages. Steep grey stone covered slopes run<br />
down to the sea, like natural rock gardens sheltering a multitude of shrubs and grasses.<br />
328
Old Clothes and Cold Porridge<br />
It‟s beginning to feel like we‟ve been wearing the same old clothes for years. John<br />
doesn‟t find it a problem but for me it‟s just like wearing the same maternity garments for<br />
months and longing to quit them. We‟re not eating cold porridge yet, our dinner is a<br />
vegetable stew <strong>with</strong> white beans, macaroni and a tiny bit of bacon.<br />
As we continue up the Dalmatian coast we pass the beautiful town of Gradac<br />
alongside a turquoise sea, <strong>with</strong> blossom and new leaf everywhere. An animal similar to a<br />
possum lies dead beside the road. We look out to the island of Hvar and the light makes<br />
silvery patches on the water. Everywhere they are pruning the olives, taking out the tops.<br />
We pass Drasnice, a town of empty houses, then deserted villages high up on the cliffs. Low<br />
down on the water‟s edge there‟s new tourist friendly housing. We see a new vineyard just<br />
like in New Zealand <strong>with</strong> neat rows of posts, then beautiful little towns of apartments,<br />
beaches and marinas.<br />
After Brela the hills become even more dramatic <strong>with</strong> a diagonal seam of grey rock,<br />
and cliffs dropping to the road. Elaborate stone terraces line the steep hillsides, and wire<br />
mesh structures on the cliffs keep falling rocks off the road. We‟re taking the old road that<br />
hugs the coast rather than the motorway which runs inland. We drive down an avenue of<br />
loquats, then later one of plane trees, and amazingly, we see tamarisk trees growing out of the<br />
sand on the beach. Boats of all <strong>size</strong>s are tied up all along the coast, plus windsurfers, and<br />
classic wooden sailing ships for tourists.<br />
At last we reach Split which has a population of two hundred thousand people, and a<br />
port where ferries depart for the islands and Italy. We find the car park near the yacht club<br />
which Daniela recommended to us, go exploring on foot, and discover a laundrette <strong>with</strong><br />
internet where we can take the laptop. After heavy rain overnight the next day is beautiful<br />
and sunny. We do three loads of washing at the laundrette, talk on skype, and meet the<br />
owners who are an Australian couple <strong>with</strong> Croatian connections. They‟ve come here from<br />
New York to run their own businesses, and they are less than complimentary about the local<br />
attitudes. They‟ve found the bureaucracy a nightmare and there‟s not much understanding of<br />
customer service or how to encourage tourism. Later I go to the supermarket and I find every<br />
woman there grim and unsmiling; or perhaps I just see them that way after hearing from the<br />
laundrette owners that the locals can be harsh, suspicious and aggressive.<br />
329
Split<br />
We spend the afternoon in the van reading. I start “Crime and Punishment” and John<br />
is engrossed in “The Fall of Yugoslavia” which describes a tangled web of psychopathic<br />
leaders, dishonesty, treachery, easily led hotheads, heavily armed citizens, and a general lack<br />
of discipline. He discovers that Hotel Bosna, where we stayed in Sarajevo, was the scene of<br />
an abortive meeting of political leaders very early on in the conflict.<br />
Next day we walk around the Roman Emperor Diocletian‟s vast retirement Palace,<br />
built in 300 AD. A lot of it is still standing and over the centuries houses and little alleyways<br />
have been built inside. It‟s all very Italian <strong>with</strong> cafes, beautiful oddly shaped squares, old<br />
stone shops, arches, pillars, and houses of several stories looking down on it all. There are<br />
excellent bookshops <strong>with</strong> lots of books in English. The fish market has shrimps, shellfish,<br />
sprats, flatfish, and a monster multi<strong>colour</strong>ed eel.<br />
The streets of downtown Split are pristine <strong>with</strong> a large waterfront area set up for<br />
tourists. At the market we buy a cooked chicken and some real potatoes to have for dinner.<br />
Such luxury. I‟ve become a bit disgruntled about all the E numbers in the instant mash we‟ve<br />
been buying<br />
Leaving Split the next day we discover a huge LIDL supermarket and buy six jars of<br />
our favourite cooked little potatoes. The crab apple is in blossom, as is the elm, and there are<br />
gorgeous public beds of ranunculus, plus white hyacinths <strong>with</strong> blue pansies, and blue<br />
hyacinths <strong>with</strong> polyanthus. We drive to Trogir, a little town on an island, connected by<br />
bridges to the mainland and peninsula. The Dalmatian coast has plenty of these little semi<br />
island towns. It‟s very Italian, like being on the set of “Romeo and Juliet”. We have a look<br />
330
at the lovely cathedral which has 13 th century sculptures at the entrance - Adam and Eve in<br />
fig leaves.<br />
Trogir<br />
Next day we push north again past olives, dark red soil, big broad beans in flower,<br />
terraced hillsides and gnarled grapevines. We see marinas <strong>full</strong> of expensive yachts, little<br />
turquoise bays <strong>with</strong> tiny boats, beautiful small pines, little islands, and whole hillsides<br />
ravaged by fires. Lots of the stone walls are very wide and have almost a ramp of stone on<br />
each side. We spend a very windy night parked beside the sea at Sibenik where the boats are<br />
trying to break free from their moorings. We walk around the picturesque medieval walled<br />
town then admire St James Cathedral from the outside.<br />
John has just finished “Into the Blue” by Tony Horwitz about his journey <strong>with</strong> another<br />
chap retracing Captain Cook‟s explorations. We see parallels <strong>with</strong> our own voyage. We stop<br />
to take on water and food, do repairs to our craft, hope the natives are friendly, and remark on<br />
the similarities between people everywhere. But we know we haven‟t given anyone a disease<br />
as we haven‟t been sick once.<br />
We leave the coast and head inland to visit the Krka National Park, to see Skradinski<br />
Buk, a seventeen step series of cascades, which is viewed from a boardwalk. The water is<br />
running high after all the rain and it‟s a spectacular mix of rushing water, moss, trees, pools<br />
and little waterfalls, all seen at close range. A power station was built here in 1895 and the<br />
whole place is strictly protected because the travertines (creamy <strong>colour</strong>ed calcium carbonate<br />
deposits) are very easily damaged. Some of them are a hundred and twenty five thousand<br />
years old! There are rare plants as well as wolves, badgers, turtles, frogs, snakes, fish and<br />
331
irds. We see swallows and martins and meet a charming couple from Seattle and have a<br />
long talk <strong>with</strong> them. He makes an analogy between the Balkans and the USA and says that<br />
even now the south is not totally reconciled <strong>with</strong> the north. They tell us that the clocks have<br />
gone forward an hour. It‟s a shock to realise that it‟s six months since the clocks went back<br />
in Krakow.<br />
Back on the coast we pass camping grounds and holiday apartments. We stop at<br />
Sukosan on the outskirts of Zadar and park by the sea near the marina. John fits a new blade<br />
to the windscreen wiper.<br />
Next day we go into Zadar and discover what a lovely city it is. The old part has<br />
water on three sides, a tongue of land where cruise ships, ferries to the many nearby islands,<br />
and a myriad of little boats are tied up. It‟s walled, <strong>with</strong> medieval churches, including the<br />
circular St Donat‟s which was built in the 9 th century. In the middle of the town are the ruins<br />
of the Roman forum. The best thing is a wide promenade along the sea front, where every<br />
fifty feet or so there‟s a ladder down into deep water. It must be an amazing place to swim.<br />
Where the promenade forms a right angle there are two spectacular works of art, the Sea<br />
Organ and the Monument to the Sun. The Sea Organ is underneath wide steps leading<br />
seductively from the promenade to the sea, and its haunting sounds emerge from holes<br />
resembling whale blowholes on the promenade. The energy of the swell and waves creates<br />
the sound through underwater pipes. The Monument to the Sun is a circle of light seventy<br />
feet in diameter embedded in the promenade, <strong>with</strong> ten thousand tiny light bulbs which<br />
operate from solar power. At night it lights up in wonderful patterns.<br />
Zadar<br />
332
The sea is flat and glassy out to the islands in the distance. We find an excellent<br />
bookshop and John buys “The Death of Yugoslavia” by Laura Silber and Allan Little. We go<br />
to the movies and see “Slumdog Millionaire”, exciting, but somehow unsatisfying. I‟m<br />
reading “Three Men in a Boat” by Jerome K Jerome, light relief from the sense of unease we<br />
feel in Croatia.<br />
The Cypresses of Opatija<br />
We head inland from Zadar, and cross from the peninsula back to the mainland.<br />
We‟re close to the Paklenica National Park but decide not to visit it. We read about special<br />
stones (“mirila” meaning measures) you can see there, which are memorials for deceased<br />
people. From the 17 th to the 20 th centuries, people carrying a corpse to the cemetery (through<br />
steep rocky mountains) were allowed to stop only once for a rest to put the body down.<br />
Stones were placed at the head and the feet, giving the measure of the person, <strong>with</strong> paving<br />
later filling the space. The stones were a more important memorial than the grave.<br />
Coastal Houses<br />
It‟s flat by the coast <strong>with</strong> stunted oaks, hawthorn in flower, and olives. Beautiful pear<br />
trees are covered in blossom, and there are hens everywhere. Black clad old ladies <strong>with</strong> head<br />
scarves are out <strong>with</strong> wheelbarrows, and the wild asparagus harvest is on. To the west behind<br />
the azure sea the peninsula is bare and low, and of a grey so pale that it looks like sand dunes.<br />
At Lisarica we stop to get a closer look at a rough circle a hundred and twenty feet across,<br />
just offshore. The water appears to be boiling, and as we watch, it changes, and smaller<br />
circles appear. It seems to be a feeding frenzy of small fish. The water‟s crystal clear at the<br />
edge and we see shoals of little fish, a big piper and lots of sea urchins. Then we hear a very<br />
333
distinctive bird singing from a macrocarpa treetop. It‟s like a blackbird <strong>with</strong> a white breast<br />
but behaving very unlike one. I think it‟s a ring ouzel. We also see two red admiral<br />
butterflies and a big butterfly whose wings make a noise as they touch.<br />
Tiny coves a couple of hundred feet wide <strong>with</strong> one or two houses and little boats tied<br />
up are a feature of this stretch of coast. The hillside is solid rock <strong>with</strong> no vegetation except<br />
the odd stunted tree. The prevailing wind here is called the Bura, flowing down the valleys<br />
from snowy mountains inland and reaching extremely high speeds at times. The islands of<br />
Pag and Novalia are a white moonscape to the west. We see a blue rock thrush, now one of<br />
my favourite birds, <strong>with</strong> their iridescent blue feathers and long beak.<br />
We stop for lunch on the side of the road where we‟re on top of the world <strong>with</strong> half<br />
the horizon taken up <strong>with</strong> sea and the pale grey of the islands, and the other half stony hills.<br />
The people here must have been compulsive wall builders because for miles there have been<br />
high stone walls, a maze of them marking off tiny areas <strong>with</strong> no crop or stock. Perhaps the<br />
people who farmed here have left. We‟ve started seeing a few campers from Austria, Italy<br />
and Germany, travelling south. Many of the camping grounds open today, the 1 st of April.<br />
At Bakarac the sea is deep and there are fantastic cantilevered diving boards a hundred feet<br />
high.<br />
At large and industrial Rijeka we take the motorway bypass and all is going well until<br />
we come to a tunnel which is closed and we have to go on a tricky and unsignposted detour<br />
through the city, always stressful. We arrive at Opatija exhausted and park on the wharf near<br />
the yacht club and some cafes. It‟s a very formal place and we feel conspicuous and<br />
uncomfortable but we‟re too tired to find anywhere else to spend the night. Opatija is a<br />
beautiful town of 19 th century Austrian buildings and huge old trees especially cypress and<br />
other conifers. The magnolias are flowering and there‟s new leaf on the deciduous trees. A<br />
walkway follows the water‟s edge for miles <strong>with</strong> steep steps up to the town streets every so<br />
often. Ladders for swimmers lead down to the sea, and flat rocks and concrete platforms<br />
beside deep water look great for diving. The tall and heavily ornamented holiday villas of<br />
wealthy 19 th century Austrians are now hotels and holiday apartments. It has a totally<br />
different feel from anywhere else in Croatia, and Austrians are still the main tourists. I start<br />
“David Copperfield”. This trip has been the best opportunity for reading that we‟ve had for<br />
years.<br />
We‟re now at the start of the Istrian peninsula which has an Austrian, Italian and<br />
Yugoslavian history, but is now part of Croatia. As we head south the beautiful houses and<br />
trees continue for a few miles. It‟s raining and the soil is a rich red <strong>with</strong> creamy rock coming<br />
through. From high up we look down on the sea and islands, and back towards Rijeka. At<br />
Plomin we pass a massive coal fired power station, a legacy of the Communist era, <strong>with</strong> a<br />
tiny medieval village on the hillside above it. The tall red and white chimney in the valley<br />
seems to follow us for miles.<br />
334
As we approach Pula the countryside is almost English <strong>with</strong> hedgerows, fields,<br />
patches of oak (some of it coppiced), and hawthorn in blossom. We navigate our way<br />
through the town and park on the water‟s edge, <strong>with</strong> a road and railway line behind us, and<br />
behind that, beautiful crumbling 19 th century houses several stories high, all <strong>with</strong> a round<br />
tower in the front. Various little boats are tied up in front of us and men come and go looking<br />
at them. In the evening, young people glide across the glassy water in rowing sculls. On two<br />
sides of the sea there are low wooded hills, and directly in front of us half a mile away is a<br />
massive shipyard which seems to operate twenty four hours a day. Once a day, a train loaded<br />
<strong>with</strong> steel passes us on its way to the shipyard. Close by is the old town of Pula dominated<br />
by the huge Roman amphitheatre which was used for gladiator spectacles from the 1 st to the<br />
5 th centuries AD, holding twenty thousand spectators. The Venetians subsequently used it as<br />
a stone quarry to build other structures. The outer walls are almost completely preserved and<br />
it dominates the skyline. It‟s now used for opera, theatre, rock concerts and a film festival.<br />
Parts of the movie “Titus” were filmed inside it.<br />
Roman Amphitheatre<br />
We walk up the hill in the centre of town to the Venetian castle and get a great view<br />
in all directions, then visit the old Roman forum where there‟s a tiny intact Temple of<br />
Augustus. Various Roman triumphal arches adorn the place as well. Pula was the base for<br />
the Austro-Hungarian empire <strong>with</strong> an arsenal built here in 1856. The Italians had possession<br />
of it in 1918, it was heavily bombed by the Allies in WW2, and after the Allies handed it to<br />
Yugoslavia in 1947, it was industrialised by Tito. The Roman presence is still very strong in<br />
spite of all this. The streets have two signs, one in Croatian and one in Italian. James Joyce<br />
335
taught English here in the winter of 1904-1905 and apparently described Pula as “Siberia by<br />
the sea”. There‟s a lovely statue of him.<br />
Roman Temple<br />
Our Spot at Pula<br />
Our synthetic blankets, bought in Poland in the chill of autumn, are now overdue for a<br />
wash. They can‟t go in a drier so we need to wash them at a camping ground and hang them<br />
336
on a line. We drive to Camping Stoja on the peninsula near Pula. It‟s a grand place <strong>with</strong> a<br />
security guard on the gate. Today is the first day they‟re open for the new season, but they<br />
tell us that they don‟t open the laundry for another month! We can‟t believe it. We drive<br />
past a cemetery densely packed <strong>with</strong> huge cypresses and stop for coffee beside a beach. Then<br />
we head up the west coast, knowing that one of the many camping grounds will surely have a<br />
washing machine. It‟s all stone walls and pasture, and some of the walls have grass growing<br />
on the top like in Wales. The jays are busy. We stop at another camping ground at Rovinj,<br />
part of a chain, large and fancy, <strong>with</strong> two laundries. We buy tokens for the laundry then find<br />
a nice place to park. The first task is to get the blankets into the machine. In the first laundry<br />
we can‟t get the washing machine to work, and when John gets the battery charger to check<br />
the power, there is none. So we go to the other laundry. Same story. Back to the office<br />
where they tell us the electrician will be in at six tonight to fix the problem. We can‟t see the<br />
point in paying nineteen Euros a night and not be able to do the washing so we get our money<br />
back and check out. They‟re quite nice about it.<br />
Down the road we come across Camp Oaza run by a lovely Croatian woman Stenka,<br />
and Gerhard her Austrian partner (“I‟m the lover boy, she‟s the boss”). She will wash the<br />
blankets for us as there‟s no camp washing machine, and they have free wireless. We‟re<br />
thrilled, and they are very friendly as well. They aren‟t connected to the power system but<br />
turn on a diesel generator for the washing machine, use solar panels, and have gas hot water.<br />
It‟s very relaxing apart from the model car Grand Prix in the next door field. Again it rains<br />
heavily in the night leaving everything bright and wet in the morning. A little white cat<br />
comes to visit us for chicken, bread and cornflakes. We hear pheasants.<br />
We have to visit Rovinj, the most perfect of the coastal Istrian towns. The old part is<br />
on a tiny peninsula, and seen from across the water, the centrepiece is St Euphemia‟s<br />
Cathedral <strong>with</strong> its stunning tower. We climb the Cathedral tower on a series of glorified old<br />
timber ladders and get a spectacular view. We notice that the locals are all carrying bunches<br />
of olive sprigs as it‟s the Sunday before Easter. The newer part of town is <strong>full</strong> of beds of<br />
pansies and there are also lovely beds of blue and pink forget-me-nots.<br />
337
Rovinj<br />
The shutters on the houses in Istria are intriguing, the perfect invention to keep out the<br />
sun while letting in the breeze, and romantic into the bargain. They consist of thin wooden<br />
louvers which can be tilted in various ways depending on the direction of the wind and sun,<br />
all flung open now, but essential in the summer heat.<br />
After two nights we leave the camp <strong>with</strong> our clean blankets and go to the Rovinj<br />
laundry to get the rest of the washing done. We park beside the sea and read in the sun until<br />
it‟s time to collect it, then head north on the motorway towards Lipica in Slovenia and the<br />
Lipizzaner horses.<br />
Maestoso and Favory<br />
It‟s twenty five degrees as we leave Rovinj and cross the four thousand foot long<br />
Mirna bridge, over a lush farmed valley <strong>with</strong> a canal running through it. Winter storage for<br />
caravans and boats is big business here <strong>with</strong> hundreds parked on fields. On the road we see a<br />
camper from Finland. We stop at Buje to send postcards, spend our last kuna at the<br />
supermarket, and get our passports and van documents ready for the border crossing which<br />
turns out to be very cruisy as they just stamp our passports. We‟re now back in the EU. We<br />
look up the Slovenian words for hello, please, thank you and goodbye and discover that<br />
they‟re the same as in Croatian. There‟s a steady stream of campers from Italy and Germany<br />
coming towards us. We get out our Greek Euros and head north on the motorway through<br />
tunnels and across viaducts, finally stopping for the night at a truck stop before the turn off to<br />
Divaca. We‟re not impressed to discover that we have to pay thirty five Euros to use the<br />
338
Slovenian motorway system for six months, and it‟s not possible to buy a vignette for a<br />
shorter time. It stays light till after seven.<br />
Back in the EU<br />
It‟s a relief to be out of Croatia <strong>with</strong> its recent and oppressive bloody history. John‟s<br />
bought a third book about the troubles, “They Would Never Hurt a Fly” by Slavenka<br />
Drakulic, covering the war crimes. Slovenia managed to extricate itself from Yugoslavia in<br />
1991 <strong>with</strong> a ten day war and only sixty people dead, quickly became a democracy, then<br />
joined the UN in 1992 and the EU in 2004.<br />
Next morning we drive to Lipica (diminuitive of lipa which is Slovenian for lime tree)<br />
to the original Lipizzaner horse stud which was established in 1580 by the Austrian<br />
Habsburgs. We drive in through beautiful rolling fields and trees, and come to a huge car<br />
park, hotel, casino, spa, pool and golf course. They‟ve diversified <strong>with</strong> activities to entertain<br />
non horsey people. We hear woodpeckers tapping and discover that we‟re just in time to<br />
watch the two hour training session which is held in a large indoor arena <strong>with</strong> tiered seating.<br />
To a soundtrack of instrumental Elton John and Strauss waltzes, five men and one<br />
woman on white horses work out in front of a small audience for forty five minutes. The<br />
horses are all stallions, four have double bridles and two have snaffles <strong>with</strong> dropped<br />
nosebands. They prance and float, mainly at a sitting trot, the riders‟ backsides never moving<br />
from the saddle. The concentration is intense as they glide past each other <strong>with</strong>out a break in<br />
their stride, passaging across and doing tiny circles. Sugar lumps and pats are dished out<br />
liberally. It‟s a wonderful sight. The horses are very keen to get to the exit when the lesson<br />
is over, and we head outside to watch twenty or so mares and foals which have been let out of<br />
339
the barn. The foals are all black and quite plain, and the mares are <strong>full</strong> bodied, white and<br />
curvaceous. A very obstreperous mare is on the lunging rein, going in tight circles. We chat<br />
<strong>with</strong> a young couple from Sydney who are here for a week‟s riding holiday <strong>with</strong> a lesson<br />
morning and afternoon. They tell us that it‟s very challenging and humbling because <strong>with</strong> the<br />
horses being so superbly trained, they can never be blamed when things go wrong. When the<br />
rider does the right thing in the correct way, the horse will instantly do what is required. So<br />
any failure is the rider‟s. Such a lesson in taking responsibility sounds cheaper and more fun<br />
than therapy!<br />
Mare and Foals at Lipica<br />
We return to the arena and watch another forty five minutes of training, this time<br />
<strong>with</strong> less experienced riders plus some experts. One canters sideways then turns on a<br />
sixpence. One rider dismounts, then using the reins held beside the saddle, and the whip, gets<br />
the horse to dance on its hind legs.<br />
Later we go on a tour <strong>with</strong> a guide who has excellent English and a formidable grasp<br />
of the history and deeper concepts of the Lipizzaner training. He tells us that there are<br />
Lipizzaner stud farms in several other countries including the Czech Republic, Austria and<br />
Romania. During various wars over the centuries, the horses have been evacuated to safe<br />
locations. There were six original stallions: Pluto, Conversano, Neapolitano, Maestoso,<br />
Favory and Siglavy, whose bloodlines are still going, and sixteen families of mares. The stud<br />
receives twenty five percent of its funding from the government and generates the rest of its<br />
money from revenue; hence the casino which has been controversial. The soil is limestone<br />
and poor, and consequently the foals grow quite slowly in spite of the fourteen litres of milk<br />
each mare produces per day. They are handled from birth, weaned at six months, and the<br />
340
colts and fillies are separated at one year. They aren‟t broken in until they are three and a<br />
half or four. The foals are born black or brown, and gradually lose their pigment to become<br />
white. Some of the stallions show a natural propensity to perform certain movements, and<br />
there are culls at four, five and six years, when the ones not good enough to do advanced<br />
training are gelded.<br />
We visit some of the stallions in their barn, and close up they are gorgeously rounded,<br />
<strong>with</strong> black skin under their white coats. The guide tells us they have excellent hearing and<br />
can recognise the step of their trainer at six hundred feet. He also tells us that the farrier<br />
gives the horses a pedicure and I‟m impressed at his ability to make a centuries old practice<br />
sound modern.<br />
We watch the performance back in the arena. First of all four horses come in to the<br />
“Cancan”, at a trot and extended trot, weaving in and out, their riders dressed in top hats and<br />
long green coats looking straight out of Dickens. Next they do a collected canter to a Strauss<br />
waltz. Then two very fine horses come in for a Pas de Deux at a very collected canter,<br />
changing the lead on every second stride then every stride. Next is a carriage <strong>with</strong> two<br />
beauti<strong>full</strong>y matched horses at a trot making lovely patterns <strong>with</strong> the carriage wheels in the<br />
freshly raked sand. They are wonder<strong>full</strong>y controlled and elegant. Finally there are three<br />
stallions, two led by two men, and one by a woman. They perform several different<br />
movements, like lifting their front legs high and stretching them out, high kicks <strong>with</strong> their<br />
hind legs, rearing, and bouncing on their hind legs. It‟s fantastic.<br />
Precision Riding<br />
341
I buy a beautiful book written and photographed by the children of the local primary<br />
school to commemorate the visit of Queen Elizabeth II in October 2008. She was presented<br />
<strong>with</strong> a stallion, Favory Canissa XXII, and she left him there for them to train and look after.<br />
The book is <strong>full</strong> of photographs of the horses, the children‟s impressions of the Queen‟s visit,<br />
some lovely horse drawings, and romantic poetry about the Lipizzaners. Clearly they are<br />
idealised and adored as a national treasure for Slovenia.<br />
We head back to the motorway through karst country, cultivated valleys and wooded<br />
hills, before turning off to the west towards Italy. The new leaf in the distance is screaming<br />
lime green, contrasting <strong>with</strong> the whitest blossom. The grass is deep and the countryside is<br />
unfenced, <strong>with</strong> lots of little cultivated terraces.<br />
We park for the night at a motorway rest area at Vogrska alongside what seems like a<br />
mini EU of lorries. They come and go all night including one <strong>full</strong> of baaing sheep. The<br />
drivers are very diligent and attend to maintenance when they arrive, then always run their<br />
engines for ten minutes before they leave. We‟re joined by pied wagtails in the car park.<br />
Next morning we drive across the wide turquoise river Isonzo and enter Italy <strong>with</strong> no<br />
formalities at all.<br />
342
Chapter 11 Italy, Austria, Switzerland, France<br />
8 April – 1 May 2009<br />
Edelweiss<br />
We set off to the west, on a mission to get up into the Dolomites for the night, <strong>with</strong><br />
Daniela‟s highlighted map showing the best spots. In Lucinico we see a huge mimosa tree<br />
dripping <strong>with</strong> yellow flowers then the cherry Kanzan covered in heavy blossom. At Mossa<br />
there‟s a traditional British pub called Mr Jack Ale House complete <strong>with</strong> a painted sign. It‟s<br />
flat agricultural land <strong>with</strong> grapevines growing out of shingle, supported on rigid fences. The<br />
sky is grey and smoggy, and there are factories for miles. We stop at LIDL and Eurospar,<br />
thrilled to be back in Italian supermarkets, make coffee in the car park and devour focaccia<br />
<strong>with</strong> onion, and croissant <strong>with</strong> prosciutto. On the road again we see swallows by the wide<br />
braided Tagliamento River. This area is very developed <strong>with</strong> industry, a huge Electrolux<br />
factory, malls, and lots of traffic. We spot a very rare sight in Italy, the New Punjabi Indian<br />
Restaurant.<br />
Morning Coffee Ritual<br />
343
At Veneto Vittorio we drive along an avenue of limes <strong>with</strong> bright green spring leaves.<br />
Beyond the town it‟s all mountains, forests and castles. We stop at gorgeous old Serraville<br />
and I text Zoe in Sydney and ask her to look up the weather forecast. She texts back such<br />
good news: sun for the next two days! In Serraville the buildings all seem to be from the 15 th<br />
and 16 th centuries as apparently there has been no demolition. It‟s beautiful, <strong>with</strong> many<br />
buildings decorated <strong>with</strong> pictures and words.<br />
Serraville<br />
Back on the road as we look north we see snowy mountains, and the road becomes<br />
steeper as we follow a river. A raven flies past, then a Moslem woman in a dressing gown<br />
and headscarf is hanging out her washing, and she gives us a lovely smile when we wave to<br />
her. The houses have wooden upper stories and verandahs <strong>with</strong> window boxes. The railway<br />
line snakes through tunnels, people have huge stacks of firewood, and men are out training on<br />
their bikes, always a common sight in Italy. We come to the braided river Piave, <strong>with</strong> forest<br />
on the flats, and see some seriously high mountains peeping through on our right, about eight<br />
thousand feet according to the map. We‟re astonished to see factories way out here in the<br />
mountains.<br />
We head west towards Cortina d‟Ampezzo, on a winding narrow road. Snow basins<br />
alternate <strong>with</strong> patches of conifer forest, <strong>with</strong> towns dotted right through on a narrow strip<br />
between the mountains. Even though we‟re surrounded by snow it‟s not cold. In Vado<br />
Cadore two policemen stand beside a police car wearing Mussolini hats, one holding an<br />
automatic weapon across his chest. It‟s not a good look. In San Vito di Cadore the churches<br />
and houses have wooden shingle roofs. Mt Antelao at ten thousand feet has abrupt cliffs<br />
from halfway all the way to the summit. Amazingly some of the rock here is pink. The snow<br />
344
drifts by the road are two feet deep now. We arrive at Cortina d‟Ampezzo which held the<br />
Winter Olympics in 1956 and still has the ski jump to prove it. My head is <strong>full</strong> of lonely<br />
goatherds, edelweiss and val-deri val-dera!<br />
We follow the signs thorough the town to a large car park where we park the van<br />
beside piles of snow seven feet deep. Other campers turn up for the night and some mothers<br />
bring their children to the car park for bike riding lessons. A couple of helicopters come and<br />
go, and when we wake up in the morning an army lorry is unloading soldiers <strong>with</strong> cross<br />
country skiing gear.<br />
Our Park at Cortina d’Ampezzo<br />
It‟s a gloriously sunny day as we set off on a twenty mile scenic drive along a road<br />
which is free of snow but lined <strong>with</strong> snow banks four feet high. Thin yellow and black poles<br />
ten feet tall line the road on both sides and we work out that they‟re marker poles for when<br />
the snow is very deep. Every few miles there are old buildings which look like roadmen‟s<br />
houses from a past era.<br />
345
Dolomites<br />
Old Mountain House<br />
We‟re surrounded by the highest mountains, and close by the road, spruce trees. At<br />
Carbonin there‟s an elegant hotel several stories high, always a surprise to us Kiwis in such a<br />
remote place. We‟re driving in a circle around Monte Cristallo whose summit is over ten<br />
thousand feet. We can see where trees have been uprooted and broken by snow, and the<br />
avalanche paths have big protective fences. We drive on a gradient of twelve per cent in and<br />
346
out of mist past mountain bluffs of pink rock and beautiful little semi frozen streams. Then<br />
we enter a wide valley <strong>with</strong> a groomed cross country ski track. The snow is very deep all<br />
around but the road is perfect. A small building has four feet of snow on the roof like thatch.<br />
At Misurina the frozen lake is covered in snow and a pair of ducks is sleeping standing up.<br />
As we drive towards a particularly spectacular peak it feels like we‟re in a mountain force<br />
field, such is the power of the place.<br />
Deep Snow<br />
347
Hotels in the Mountains<br />
After we go over Tre Croce Passe we‟re amazed to drive under a chairlift carrying<br />
skiers across the road.<br />
Back at Cortina d‟Ampezzo we turn west to Passo di Falzarego, and everything is<br />
thawing in the sun. We stop at a tiny military chapel made of golden wood <strong>with</strong> columns in a<br />
Classical style. The mountains are breathtaking, some so steep that the top half has no snow,<br />
just sheer pink rock cliffs. We‟re amazed to see cable cars operating across vast areas.<br />
Where’s My Car?<br />
When we reach a height of six thousand feet everything except the road is covered in<br />
snow four feet deep. Spruce and larch trees are dotted around, and we hear blackbirds<br />
singing. We drive through a tunnel in an area where the snow plough has blown the snow on<br />
each side of the road to a height of eight feet. The leg of a small deer lies beside the road.<br />
Skiers are flying past and we‟re surprised to see them ski to the side of the road, take off their<br />
skis, walk across, then put their skis on and disappear. The ski runs seem to all link up and<br />
go for miles. The snow is beauti<strong>full</strong>y groomed, there are no queues, and even tiny children<br />
are skiing. It looks like everyone‟s having a wonderful spring day out in the snow.<br />
At eight thousand feet we see small avalanches and fencing higher up to catch the big<br />
ones. Protective tunnels cover the road at the most dangerous spots. We pass rock bluffs that<br />
must be seven thousand feet high, then descend steeply through endless hairpins on a gradient<br />
of thirteen per cent. Piles of timber lie neatly stacked beside the road. We see fences but no<br />
animals, and an old stock barn <strong>with</strong> mucked out manure and straw piled outside. At Arraba<br />
348
there are beautiful hotels <strong>with</strong> wooden balconies and steep roofs, little log cabins, and flowers<br />
painted on the walls of some of the buildings. We also notice lots of little wooden huts <strong>with</strong><br />
no windows and wonder if the shepherds stay in them in the summer. Campers are parked at<br />
some skifields and we also see snow mobiles towing stretchers. It‟s hard to get used to<br />
driving along the road <strong>with</strong> people racing alongside us on skis.<br />
Avalanche Protection<br />
We come to a stretch of road where every hairpin is numbered, counting down from<br />
twenty two. There‟s hardly any traffic even though it‟s the Thursday before Easter. We turn<br />
off towards Ortisei where rock cliffs three thousand feet high tower above us on both sides.<br />
We get into first gear and see dandelions and pink heather, then three goats sitting in the sun.<br />
We‟re in an area where there are big wood carvings for sale, old farm houses on high<br />
meadows, ravens, and at Ortisei a cheese factory <strong>with</strong> a shop and a milk museum. There‟s a<br />
pervasive smell of cow manure. Lower down there are intensive vineyards, then new willow<br />
leaf, blossom and espaliered fruit trees.<br />
Three Countries In One Day<br />
It‟s been a massive day‟s driving through the most unbelievable scenery and we‟re<br />
hoping to make it into Austria for the night. On the motorway towards the Brenner Pass there<br />
are miles of lorries but it‟s very fast. We‟re in the Easter traffic, <strong>with</strong> lots of campers. There<br />
are acres of hydroponic strawberries, factories, big wooden stock barns, tiny churches <strong>with</strong><br />
tall steeples, small castles, waterfalls, and a train. We drive straight across the border at<br />
Brenner Pass <strong>with</strong> no formalities. On the other side it‟s just the same <strong>with</strong> high meadows,<br />
houses, forest and Scots pine. We make it all the way to a motorway rest area on the edge of<br />
349
Innsbruck. It‟s frenetically busy <strong>with</strong> cars from Germany, Italy and Austria, but we have a<br />
very peaceful night parked by the fence, after a shower at the petrol station. The view north<br />
through the windscreen is the spectacular mountain range called Karlwendelgebirge.<br />
John finishes his book about the war crimes associated <strong>with</strong> the 1990s war in the<br />
former Yugoslavia. The punch line is that the people currently awaiting trial on war crimes<br />
at the court in the Hague, from Croatia, Serbia, and Bosnia, get on famously. They are proud<br />
of how harmoniously they live, even down to having ethnic food nights where they sample<br />
each other‟s cuisine. As the author Slavenka Drakulic asks, what was the war all about?<br />
Next morning we drive into Innsbruck and park on the street outside the Hofgarten,<br />
the old gardens. We‟re greeted by birdsong. The city is in a fantastic location, surrounded by<br />
high snowy mountains <strong>with</strong> frozen streams in gullies. We walk into the town which has<br />
many gorgeous old buildings and narrow lanes. The souvenir shops are <strong>full</strong> of cuckoo<br />
clocks, lederhosen and Tyrolean felt hats, and the European tourists we see are very elegant<br />
and relaxed. It‟s an orderly society. We tell ourselves we‟re here to relax, not sightsee. We<br />
have a salad for dinner on a park bench in the gardens, and people smile at us as they walk<br />
past.<br />
We walk into town next day and buy a motorway vignette to get us to Switzerland.<br />
We decide to try to get to France in one day‟s drive starting early Easter Sunday. The<br />
weather is glorious and we take the Nordkettenbahnen, a futuristic cable car, to a high<br />
plateau, and Hungerburg, a suburb of beautiful old carved wooden houses <strong>with</strong> big balconies.<br />
We love the panoramic view over Innsbruck, the river and the mountains. Back down at the<br />
cable car station we see two water pipits at the edge of the river.<br />
350
Innsbruck<br />
As it‟s the Saturday night before Easter Sunday, church bells chime all over the place.<br />
They start up again at five forty in the morning which is good for us, as we leave just after<br />
seven on our big push northwest into France. We‟re looking forward to the rural peace and<br />
familiarity of France after so much excitement and novelty over the last eight months.<br />
We head west up a wide flat valley, past horse farms <strong>with</strong> big barns and post and rail<br />
fences. The river is hard up against the hills to the north, and to the south flat rich farm land<br />
slopes gently up to wooded hills <strong>with</strong> few houses, then steep snow covered mountains. We<br />
see lovely old white churches <strong>with</strong> tall wooden spires and small black creosoted barns <strong>with</strong><br />
big plastic covered hay bales outside. We can see the old road clinging to the cliff on arches<br />
made of stone. CCTV cameras observe the motorway everywhere. The rest areas are very<br />
fancy <strong>with</strong> nice restaurants, and we can see that a bit of money‟s being spent in Austria<br />
compared <strong>with</strong> most of the other countries we‟ve visited. We find the endless tunnels quite<br />
disorienting and nauseating and have to resort to a bag of crisps. We pay to go through the<br />
nine mile long Arlberg Tunnel which take us through the pass. Very high pastures are<br />
interspersed <strong>with</strong> patches of forest and John explains to me the concept of transhumance,<br />
where stock is grazed on high pastures during the summer then returned to the lowlands in<br />
winter. I read later that one quarter of Austria‟s farm land is alpine pasture used in this way.<br />
We‟re seeing a lot of German cars, big factories, then stacks of aluminium ingots<br />
three feet long. By the time we get to Bregenz the country has flattened out and there are no<br />
mountains, just people having picnics, magnolias, primroses, and silver birch, and a field of<br />
pretty cows that look like Jerseys.<br />
At the Swiss border a guard dressed in elegant pale khaki microfleece doesn‟t even<br />
open our passports. We pay thirty Euros to use the Swiss motorways for a year and then<br />
we‟re off again. We see a big redwood tree then a copper beech. It‟s all huge trees, steep<br />
hills, sheep and horses. I spot three birds of prey above a forest then a field of leeks, and cute<br />
three storied houses. We‟re very close to Lake Constance in Germany where we had a swim<br />
at the end of the summer. It‟s all so immaculate <strong>with</strong> not a weed to be seen in the fields.<br />
We drive past huge apartment blocks on the edge of Zurich, and at Basel massive<br />
chemical plants and a vast Carlsberg factory. We get lost at this point and go round in<br />
circles, there‟s no obvious border, and suddenly we discover that we‟re in France. We stop<br />
and ask some people for directions and they show us the way, but the road‟s closed. We<br />
follow the deviation and eventually end up on the road to Belfort. It‟s perfectly neat and<br />
floral in France <strong>with</strong> no fences, no traffic, rolling countryside of pasture, pale ploughed soil,<br />
coppiced trees, and wild flowers. A buzzard flies right over the top of us. Some of the<br />
houses are timber framed, and there‟s a timber framed barn. We drive down an avenue of<br />
plane trees planted by Napoleon and I realise that we‟re back in the territory that Dickens<br />
described as interminable avenues and dreary plains. It‟s agribusiness, <strong>with</strong> huge farms, and<br />
351
very dry. We end up in the cute little town of Altkirch in a big empty supermarket car park.<br />
I start “Oliver Twist”.<br />
Back in France<br />
Frittata Sur Loire<br />
Our parking spot faces a canal, <strong>with</strong> a road and railway line beyond that, and there are<br />
constant trains. At nine, when we‟re in bed, a van pulls up beside us and someone shines a<br />
torch in the front windows, then we hear them talking into a phone or radio and laughing,<br />
then they drive away. We assume it‟s the police or a security guard but we‟re honestly<br />
beyond caring, and past experience has taught us to feel relaxed in France. We have a<br />
peaceful night‟s sleep.<br />
I‟ve been sneezing for the last couple of days and it dawns on me that it‟s hay fever<br />
<strong>with</strong> so much pollen around. Fortunately we‟ve brought a good supply of antihistamine from<br />
Britain. It‟s a novelty to open the first aid kit which we‟ve hardly touched.<br />
Next morning we set off in fog down an avenue of Norway maples <strong>with</strong> chartreuse<br />
<strong>colour</strong>ed new leaf. A grey heron flies over. There are ploughed fields, spring crops, big<br />
patches of deciduous forest, and perfect little towns of timber framed houses painted pink, red<br />
and blue, some <strong>with</strong> barns attached. To complete this idyllic rural scene, the cows are red,<br />
white and bonny, and carrion crows cruise around. At Belfort we‟re dazzled by <strong>colour</strong>ful<br />
displays of tulips, pansies and poppies. We‟re using the 1987 Michelin Road Atlas of France<br />
which we bought at a car boot sale in Surrey, so the road numbers don‟t always match up, but<br />
it has fantastic detail, for example all the little forests are named. We‟re driving alongside the<br />
352
Rhone to Rhine Canal. It‟s raining and there are wild flowers, old fences <strong>with</strong> the posts made<br />
from rough tree trunks, and good old New Zealand Taranaki gates. Everywhere there are<br />
vast stockpiles of firewood. We travel through coppiced beech forest <strong>with</strong> snowdrops and<br />
stacks of firewood. We‟ve come to find Ronchamp and the Chapelle Notre-Dame-du-Haut,<br />
sitting on a hill, a place of pilgrimage and churches for centuries.<br />
The site has been privately owned since the late 18 th century, and when the chapel<br />
was badly damaged during WW2, it was decided to engage Le Corbusier the architect to<br />
design a new one, <strong>with</strong> a futuristic theme. It was completed in 1955. It‟s a very simple<br />
design made almost entirely out of white concrete, <strong>with</strong> gently curving lines, a roof similar to<br />
a mushroom, and tiny square windows designed to let light in from all directions. It‟s foggy,<br />
so there‟s no sunlight, but lots of atmosphere. A little statue of the Virgin Mary from a<br />
previous chapel is positioned high up in a window, visible from inside and out, and there‟s an<br />
outside pulpit <strong>with</strong> a large area for the congregation to gather. It‟s a fascinating Modernist<br />
statement designed by an atheist to be a place of peace, meditation and reconciliation.<br />
European larch, Norway maples and chestnuts cluster around in a lovely rural setting. In the<br />
car park we talk to a French family in a camper, Mum, two teenagers and three dogs.<br />
Notre-Dame-du-Haut in the Mist<br />
We head off again and the soil is pink. We see calves, big lambs, a hovering kestrel,<br />
and road kill consisting of a hedgehog and a red legged partridge. Yellow flowered oxlips<br />
are everywhere plus Scots pine. Then we know we‟re back in France because we see the<br />
very characteristic big stand of spindly poplars in rows, very picturesque.<br />
353
Taking the turn off to Thivet, we cross the railway line and stop beside the Marne<br />
River and Canal. The two storied brick lock keeper‟s house is dated 1873. We make tea and<br />
have French bread rolls <strong>with</strong> slices of our long Italian salami, and the last of the quince<br />
mostarda di Venezia. It‟s wonderful to be back in France <strong>with</strong> the van still going strong. It‟s<br />
picturesque, familiar and relaxing, almost as easy as being back in Britain. It‟s incredible to<br />
think that a few years back France seemed utterly foreign and exotic to us.<br />
Marne Saone Canal<br />
We spend the night at Bar sur Aube, a peaceful little town, in a neat landscaped car<br />
park <strong>with</strong> trees, and choruses of birdsong at dawn and dusk. I go for a walk and see the<br />
beautiful market hall, plus a dog beauty parlour, “Chien d‟Aujourd‟hui” (Today‟s Dog), <strong>with</strong><br />
a list of prices for different breeds.<br />
Next day we end up driving through the middle of Troyes where there are endless<br />
timber framed buildings, all different, and wonderful beds of tulips, forget-me-nots,<br />
polyanthus and pansies.<br />
354
Troyes<br />
We stop for the night at Chateuneuf sur Loire and park on the cobbled levee which<br />
runs for about half a mile beside the river Loire. Above the levee is a sloping flood bank <strong>with</strong><br />
marks showing the height of the floods of 1790, 1825, 1846, and a memorial to the bargees<br />
who died in the 1846 flood. The river is what I imagine the Mississippi must be like, very<br />
wide and flowing slowly, <strong>with</strong> swallows, starlings and black headed gulls.<br />
On the Levee at Chateuneuf sur Loire<br />
355
Distances by Water<br />
When I go for a walk along the wide riverside path, under chestnut trees and beside<br />
wild violets and white daffodils, I hear a woodpecker and a nuthatch. Slender sailing boats<br />
are tied up, and the ducks and butterflies are busy. The town is dripping <strong>with</strong> lilac and<br />
wisteria. It‟s very easy to see why people love France. It‟s so beautiful and empty.<br />
Loire Riverside Path<br />
356
For dinner I make Frittata sur Loire. First sauté onion, garlic, cooked potatoes and<br />
bacon. Season <strong>with</strong> salt, pepper and dried thyme, then break four eggs into the pan. Cover<br />
and cook on a low heat until the eggs are just set. It goes nicely <strong>with</strong> an Alsace<br />
Gewurtztraminer out of our charity shop wine glasses which have survived the trip wrapped<br />
in charity shop damask napkins.<br />
Frittata sur Loire<br />
Next morning we cross the river and pass a house <strong>with</strong> a mark on the wall showing<br />
the height of the notorious 1846 flood. Carrots and potatoes are planted in the fine fertile<br />
river soil. We see Kanzan flowering cherries and the rhododendron Christmas Cheer. The<br />
terrain has been flat for a few days <strong>with</strong> numerous cycle paths.<br />
357
Loire Boat<br />
As we drive through a large area of forest which includes an exclusive hunting estate<br />
<strong>with</strong> private roads and signs we see a dead rabbit, the first since leaving England. There‟s a<br />
large brick house <strong>with</strong> extensive outbuildings and an old brick and tile works which is still<br />
operating, along <strong>with</strong> a 19 th century forge <strong>with</strong> black smoke pouring from the chimney. In<br />
Ligny-le-Ribault we see timber framed buildings and tiny old brick cottages on large<br />
sections, each <strong>with</strong> its own well in the front lawn. The houses are beautiful, some <strong>with</strong> a strip<br />
of <strong>colour</strong>ed tiles to give them an extra finish. In the forest the signs are entertaining.<br />
“Risques de traversees des grands animaux” (Risk of large animals crossing), “Private<br />
property you might get hit by a bullet”, and “Attention animaux en liberte” <strong>with</strong> a picture of a<br />
deer and a wild pig.<br />
358
Private Hunting Land<br />
We arrive in Chambord where the Chateau dates from 1537. Leonardo da Vinci had a<br />
hand in its design and after it was completed in 1685 the French kings lived there. The road<br />
goes through oaks, white poplars, spruce, hawthorn, hazel, and Lawson cypress. We notice<br />
pig rooting in the bracken. The castle is very ornate, a creamy <strong>colour</strong> <strong>with</strong> a grey roof and<br />
about thirty little towers. A couple of horses are grazing in a field outside, and there‟s a small<br />
settlement of workers‟ cottages <strong>with</strong> lilac and apple blossom.<br />
359
Chambord Castle<br />
As we enter more beautiful forest we see pied wagtails. A convoy of police cars<br />
passes us going the other way, and in Huisseau sur Cosson children are lined up on the<br />
roadside like they‟re awaiting the arrival of an important person. John gives them the Royal<br />
wave as we slowly drive past. I ask them what‟s going on and they tell us a cycle race is<br />
coming through. This is France after all. We go past more beautiful houses and gardens and<br />
realise that we haven‟t seen one unfinished house in France, and hardly a new one.<br />
People are lined up all along our route waiting to see the cyclists. We stop in Vineuil<br />
as a dozen gendarmes and officials on motorbikes, then sponsors and more officials in cars<br />
come through. The atmosphere is electric. Then about a hundred cyclists swish past in a<br />
tight bunch. All the locals clap. John takes a movie. Finally more gendarmes, cars <strong>with</strong><br />
spare bikes on top and ambulances roar past.<br />
When we get to Blois (the guid<strong>ebook</strong> help<strong>full</strong>y suggests “blwah”) we manage to get<br />
online <strong>with</strong> our laptop. The French seem to be exceptionally security conscious and there are<br />
virtually no unsecured networks for us to tap into. There‟s a castle, timber framed buildings,<br />
and lots of campers. We park beside the river where there‟s an island just offshore, a<br />
gathering place for the black headed gulls. John feeds the ducks. At dusk bats fly around,<br />
and I see a beaver heading downstream. There are lots of pied wagtails, swallows, moorhens,<br />
starlings and blackbirds.<br />
Our Spot in Blois<br />
360
Next day John stays in the van reading and I go into town and get a haircut from a<br />
lovely woman who tells me that because she owns the salon she can never take a holiday. I<br />
go back to the van for lunch and we read the English papers then I head back into town and<br />
buy three dresses and some perfume. It feels like my feral phase is drawing to a close.<br />
Blois<br />
For dinner we have white asparagus tips, potatoes, onions, and pate de campagne <strong>with</strong><br />
fresh bread. In the evening there‟s a hatch of flies, and John feeds the same pair of ducks<br />
again. The drake always waits for the duck to get the bread first. I wonder if this is a<br />
metaphor for French males. A large fish rises.<br />
361
Dinner<br />
My bar of delicious French cooking chocolate has a nutrition section on the packet<br />
suggesting that before you eat the decadent chocolate dessert you are about to make, you<br />
should have a light meal rich in vegetables, for example grated carrot <strong>with</strong> eggs Florentine<br />
and spinach. We read the local property newspaper and discover that the gorgeous old down<br />
at heel houses on the Loire aren‟t cheap.<br />
The Loire<br />
362
Lingerie Masculine<br />
The mist is rising when we leave Blois to drive northwards. A kingfisher flashes past<br />
- the shy European kind, not the cocky New Zealand one we‟re used to. We drive past a<br />
futuristic looking rubbish treatment plant on the outskirts of town more like an office block.<br />
It has something that resembles smoke issuing from the chimney so the process must be<br />
incineration. The farms consist of vast unfenced areas of wheat, and oilseed rape <strong>with</strong> yellow<br />
flowers. We love the huge lilacs and rough hedgerows made up of several different trees.<br />
We see no road kill, weeds, birds or people, but there‟s a sign warning of wild pigs and deer.<br />
Flat French Farmland<br />
At last we see pheasants, crows and a kestrel, then at Chateaudun we stop at the war<br />
memorial to look down over the river flats where there are trees, gardens and houses, <strong>with</strong><br />
oilseed rape yellow in the distance. To the left is a little castle <strong>with</strong> blossom trees. It‟s a<br />
glorious day and we hear great tits and woodpeckers. We‟re overtaken by two campers <strong>with</strong><br />
GB on the back, one a left hand drive. They don‟t even wave! We drive past a maize storage<br />
system a hundred and fifty feet long, like a large art installation. It‟s made of wire mesh,<br />
eight feet high and one foot deep, <strong>full</strong> of maize cobs. It has hay spread along the top. Way<br />
out in the middle of this vast agricultural plain there‟s a council van and three men in<br />
fluorescent gear picking up rubbish from the ditch. We haven‟t actually seen any rubbish<br />
since we‟ve been in France.<br />
We find the municipal camping ground in Chartres, beauti<strong>full</strong>y laid out <strong>with</strong> lots of<br />
trees and birds. The only negative thing is the sour woman in the office whose attitude never<br />
gets any better, even when I ask about her precious dog. Several other Brit vehicles are there,<br />
363
campers and caravans, <strong>with</strong> the obligatory bicycles strapped on the back. We‟re amazed to<br />
see a massive motorhome <strong>with</strong> a Minnesota number plate. An English man and his French<br />
wife who are camping in a tiny tent tell us that the French fishermen have blockaded Calais<br />
and Dunkirk in a dispute about their quotas being cut by the EU. You can always rely on the<br />
French workers. An article in an English paper tells of industrial action at Caterpillar in<br />
Grenoble where the workers took the bosses hostage. Apparently a majority of French<br />
workers believe that it‟s OK to take the boss hostage in an industrial dispute. We do the<br />
washing including our woolly jumpers and mon Dieu they‟re in a bad way. John does a trial<br />
pack of the carpets and kilims in preparation for shipping them from England to New<br />
Zealand, and he‟s delighted to discover that they pack very easily <strong>with</strong>in the shipping<br />
company‟s specifications.<br />
The next day we drive into Chartres which is truly picturesque <strong>with</strong> the River Eure,<br />
timber framed houses and shops, and little gardens everywhere. The most eye-catching<br />
flowerbeds contain tulips, white and pink forget-me-nots, asters, pansies, daisies, white<br />
daffodils and polyanthus. The <strong>colour</strong>ful heads of tulips above a sea of forget-me-nots always<br />
make us smile. A wonderful line of swamp cypresses runs down a street beside the river.<br />
The French really know how to use plants.<br />
Chartres<br />
The fabulous market includes dressed geese, oysters, globe artichokes, asparagus,<br />
flowers, smelly cheeses and all kinds of fish. We manage to find the Herald Tribune in one<br />
of the newsagents but in one shop when I ask if they have any papers in English, the people<br />
behind the counter all laugh. I take John‟s photo outside a shop called “Lingerie Masculine”.<br />
364
Somehow the words don‟t have quite the same ring to them in English as they do in French. I<br />
buy a black cardigan, and a tiny old woman milking a cow made out of lead.<br />
Duck Pie<br />
Butcher’s Shop<br />
We spend a long time in the Cathedral which the guid<strong>ebook</strong> describes as the greatest<br />
Gothic cathedral in Europe, rebuilt after a fire in the early 13 th century and <strong>with</strong> few<br />
365
alterations since. On the outside it‟s rugged <strong>with</strong> the roughened surface of the stone showing<br />
its age. Various porches and portals hold beautiful statues including some very elongated<br />
figures. The design was innovative at the time <strong>with</strong> flying buttresses letting in more light.<br />
Inside it seems very dark at first, <strong>with</strong> no paintings or tombs, just a vast carved choir screen,<br />
and 13 th century stained glass windows covering large areas. The windows are extremely<br />
detailed and in tiny segments, <strong>with</strong> two huge rose windows. A large Virgin Mary in blue<br />
glass dates from the previous 12 th century Romanesque cathedral which was almost<br />
completely destroyed by fire. The windows were removed to safety during the two world<br />
wars. In the centre of the stone floor there‟s a circular labyrinth which the pilgrims followed<br />
on their knees, a length of eight hundred and fifty feet. It‟s a very beautiful and atmospheric<br />
place, made even better by an organist giving a recital - a centuries old “wall of sound”.<br />
Pilgrims’ Labyrinth<br />
366
Chartres Cathedral<br />
Next we visit the International Centre of Stained Glass in the old tithe barn of the<br />
Cathedral, and a cellar dating from 1200. There‟s an exhibition of the work of contemporary<br />
women stained glass artists from all over the world. From the back of the Cathedral there are<br />
wonderful views over the surrounding town, trees and gardens. Lots of smartly dressed<br />
locals are out and about, plus French tourists.<br />
Walking back to the van via paths along the banks of the Eure we see one of the old<br />
wash houses right on the water‟s edge and try to visualise the washer women scrubbing<br />
clothes there over the centuries. Back at the camp absolutely exhausted our dinner consists of<br />
the second sitting of a stew made <strong>with</strong> chicken legs, celery, onions, potatoes and smoked<br />
ham. The entertainment is provided by two sets of French people setting up camp. One poor<br />
guy backs a caravan hard up into a tree while his hard faced sister in law runs around giving<br />
directions. Our favourites are a tiny caravan <strong>with</strong> a tiny car and a tiny couple to match. Back<br />
in the BBC‟s magnetic field we listen to the first half of Chelsea versus Arsenal in the FA<br />
Cup semi final.<br />
367
Old Wash Houses<br />
About now it dawns on John that we‟ve driven close to Villandry Castle and Garden<br />
but somehow not realised. He‟s read a lot about Villandry and always wanted to go there, so<br />
we make the easy decision to retrace our steps to Blois in preparation for a visit to the castle<br />
the next day.<br />
We take a different road south this time and we can see why this area is called wheat<br />
country. Vast expanses of wheat a foot high and <strong>full</strong>y grown oilseed rape dominate the<br />
landscape. There are no fences, and lots of chaffinches, crows and starlings. Light rain is<br />
falling and the irrigation is turned on. It‟s fascinating when we get back onto the road we<br />
took north, seeing everything in reverse, and this time we manage to take a photo of the big<br />
maize storage rick. There are pheasants and kestrels and a field of grass which has gone to<br />
seed, a rare sight.<br />
At Chateaudun we turn onto the Vendome road and pass large piles of manure like<br />
giant mole hills. We cross the Loir (<strong>with</strong>out an “e”) a beautiful slow river, and pass through<br />
patches of forest, one <strong>with</strong> slopes of bluebells. In the rain everything is grey and misty, <strong>with</strong><br />
bright yellow and green expanses of crop bursting through. A big hare sits on a ploughed<br />
field, then a flock of starlings. People are out running and cycling.<br />
Back in Blois the wisteria is still dripping mauve, and huge Judas trees are covered in<br />
purple flowers. Next day we drive down the Loire and see white geese on an island and<br />
beautiful houses and gardens on the river terrace. As always in France there are so many<br />
places for a pique nique. We stop for terrine Solognoise on bread <strong>with</strong> coffee. At the turn off<br />
to Chaumont Castle on the other side of the river, the roundabout is planted <strong>with</strong> grape vines.<br />
368
It‟s Terraine Meslande, Vin d‟Aoc. There‟s also a sculpture in braised stainless steel of three<br />
figures pruning and harvesting grapes. We see the castle on the river terrace on the other<br />
side, all little turrets, in cream stone <strong>with</strong> a dark grey roof. On the river level there‟s a street<br />
of three storied old houses, a beautiful sight. We see creamy cows, sheep, and old stone<br />
barns <strong>with</strong> steep roofs. A crow and a bird of prey are having a mid air fight.<br />
On the outskirts of Amboise is a large Gypsy camp of white vans, big caravans, and<br />
washing lines. Amboise castle, where Leonardo da Vinci is buried, is small and compact.<br />
Further on there‟s a beautiful wooded island in the river. A white swan is swimming, men<br />
are fishing, and a huge apple orchard is covered in blossom. At Vouvray as we drive across<br />
the Cisse River we notice that the bridge railings are decorated <strong>with</strong> pots of pansies. We<br />
follow a cliff face of yellow tufa rock which has wine cellars tunnelled into it from the 10 th<br />
century. In the foreground there‟s mauve wisteria and purple Judas trees, then grey and white<br />
three storey houses, and behind that yellow cliffs.<br />
Wine Cellars in the Rock<br />
The various villages and towns have a star rating for floweriness: Ville Fleurie. The<br />
best wisteria flowers have a drop of fifteen inches - unbelievable. All the way from Blois to<br />
Tours flowers have lined the river‟s edge. The houses are all stone, old and picturesque,<br />
some very narrow and tall. At St Etienne some of the houses are built <strong>with</strong>in the cliff <strong>with</strong><br />
the front door at the cliff edge, and some are even layered up the hillside. At Langeais we<br />
cross the Loire and we‟re deep in apple orchards bursting <strong>with</strong> blossom, white lilac, and<br />
purple irises. It‟s such a fantastic time of year to visit this area. We arrive at Villandry, the<br />
last of the Loire Valley castles to be built, and spend the night in a peaceful, dark car park,<br />
under some trees, <strong>with</strong> a couple of other campers.<br />
369
Flowery France<br />
The Trogs<br />
John is absolutely beside himself when we visit Villandry castle and garden next day,<br />
as it‟s the fulfilment of a dream for him. The keep is from the medieval castle which was<br />
demolished, <strong>with</strong> the new castle being built in1536. The gardens and castle have had various<br />
incarnations over the centuries as different owners made changes according to the fashion of<br />
the day. In 1906 it was bought by the great grandparents of the current owner, a scientist and<br />
an American heiress <strong>with</strong> a vast fortune. They set about restoring the castle to its original<br />
style and completely changed the gardens, which had previously been transformed into a park<br />
<strong>with</strong> trees dotted around in the style made popular by Capability Brown in the 18 th century.<br />
The grounds were returned to how they would have been in the 16 th century, <strong>with</strong> a series of<br />
ornamental gardens enclosed in box hedges, and vegetable beds enclosed in box as well in the<br />
style of monastery gardens of the same era. None of the other castles in this area have these<br />
intricate gardens any more.<br />
The castle is small and intimate <strong>with</strong> amazing views over the gardens, particularly<br />
from the keep which also gives a view of the Loire and Cher valleys. The ornamental<br />
gardens are designed to be viewed from above. Two of the bedrooms look straight down on<br />
them, and the curved and scalloped green segments of box look like pieces in a puzzle,<br />
enclosing brilliant oddly shaped clusters of red, yellow, pink and white flowers. We‟re also<br />
thrilled to see some old Persian style carpets on the floors, very worn and threadbare, so<br />
much rougher than most of the second hand ones we‟ve bought. There‟s a moat around part<br />
of the castle <strong>full</strong> of large carp which make the hordes of school children very excited.<br />
370
View from the Bedroom<br />
Knot Garden<br />
The whole complex backs onto a hill where a couple of belvederes give a different<br />
view of the ornamental gardens. The first four represent an allegory of love <strong>with</strong> heart<br />
shapes, fans, horns, and the shapes of masks worn at balls. Inside these outlines created from<br />
box there are tulips and forget-me-nots in <strong>colour</strong> combinations of yellow <strong>with</strong> blue, pink <strong>with</strong><br />
pink, red <strong>with</strong> blue, and white <strong>with</strong> blue. They are all in absolutely perfect condition.<br />
371
Knot Garden<br />
Pink on Pink<br />
Between the church and the vegetable garden a long herb garden is laid out in the<br />
medieval tradition <strong>with</strong> low box hedges and tulips along the edges. There‟s also a wonderful<br />
maze of yew and box, and a newly developed sun garden <strong>with</strong> yellow flowers and young<br />
maples.<br />
372
Massed Espalier<br />
The kitchen garden, in monastery style, is enclosed in nine squares of very low box<br />
which the gardeners are in the process of cutting <strong>with</strong> electric hedge clippers and a line of<br />
string. Each square has different geometric shapes made of box and in the very centre a large<br />
pot of pansies. In spring and summer forty different varieties of vegetables are planted out<br />
inside the squares, rectangles and other shapes. Right now they have small lettuces, red and<br />
green cabbages, carrots, broad beans and rhubarb. Water is supplied by an underground<br />
irrigation system, and standard roses, pansies and tulips are planted as borders and<br />
decoration. It‟s all absolutely perfect, symmetrical and ordered.<br />
373
Vegetable Garden<br />
Vegetable Garden<br />
The statistics for the whole garden are inspiring. There are thirty two miles of box<br />
hedge, plus one thousand, two hundred and sixty lime trees lining the paths, pruned by four<br />
men over four months. A quarter of a million flower and vegetable plants are raised on the<br />
premises, and all the gardens are weeded by hand.<br />
374
Thirty One Miles to Go<br />
Pleached Lime Trees<br />
After Villandry we take the motorway back through Tours then drive north through<br />
Chateau-Renault along an avenue of planes. It‟s a fine, hazy day, and lots of French campers<br />
and caravans have taken to the road. At Vendome we go west past large plantations of<br />
different kinds of poplars, evenly spaced, a beautiful sight. We arrive at the village of les<br />
Roches-l‟Eveque which has the words “Habitations troglodytiques” next to it in the road<br />
375
atlas. I look up “troglodyte” in the dictionary and it means “cave-dweller”. We‟ve been<br />
following the lazy Loir again <strong>with</strong> white cows knee deep in grass. It‟s the most glorious lush<br />
spring landscape and we make a perfectly idle mental note that this would be the place in<br />
France to buy a house.<br />
At les Roches-l‟Eveque some houses are backed up into the cliff, others are in the<br />
cliff, and above them trees and wild lilac grow. Today a peregrine flies above it all. A tiny<br />
camping ground on the river bank offers “calm, rest and relaxation”. The crows and<br />
swallows are busy. We take a back road to Lavardin on a bend in the river, and it‟s a glorious<br />
jumble of hedgerows, trees, gardens and beautiful old houses, plus a ruined castle, and an<br />
11 th century church <strong>with</strong> murals in reds, browns and yellows.<br />
House in the Hill<br />
We reach Troo then follow a sign “Troglodyte Cite” down a side road where there are<br />
irises, a peony six feet high covered in pink flowers, stone ruins, and a cemetery <strong>with</strong> a<br />
peregrine. There‟s a church beside a tiny hill which we walk up to see the view. A family<br />
shows us where to find the troglodyte houses, along a path saturated <strong>with</strong> the perfume of wild<br />
lilac, <strong>with</strong> huge old wisteria, and clematis. On the lower side of the path the odd chimney<br />
pokes up through the lilac from the cave dwellings below. On the uphill side of the path<br />
there are front fences and gates, and behind them small gardens <strong>with</strong> tables and chairs, plants<br />
in pots, hammocks, barbecues, trees and flowers. Where the front yards end there are stone<br />
frontages, doors, windows, and French doors straight into the cliff, and that is the house.<br />
They all have at least one chimney coming out of the wild lilac on the cliff above. All are<br />
different and some have a small sloping roof or a lean to jutting out. BBC‟s Radio 4<br />
murmurs discreetly from one front garden.<br />
376
Troglodyte House<br />
Troglodyte House<br />
377
Path to Troglodyte Houses<br />
We set off again and at Souge sur Braye marvel at the old farmyards right in the<br />
village, a very endearing feature of farming in Europe. We pass two more massive peonies<br />
then stop at Pont de Brayes picnic area where we hear a cuckoo calling over and over. We<br />
pass two more castles, wineries, and flat country <strong>with</strong> fences and old stone barns, before<br />
turning to the north at Chartre sur le Loir. After passing a Gypsy camp on the outskirts of Le<br />
Mans we get lost and confused on the bypass and end up in the Super U supermarket car park<br />
for the night. Dinner is new potatoes from a jar, fried mushrooms and onions, a pork chop,<br />
applesauce, and beetroot. We‟re relieved when the security guard gives John the thumbs up<br />
as he leaves at eight.<br />
Next day we decide to take the motorway north and it‟s a smooth trip through rolling<br />
countryside of ploughed fields, tall crops and forest. Nature is less constrained here <strong>with</strong> old<br />
hedgerows, single trees in fields, beautiful horses knee deep in grass, and broom and gorse<br />
growing wild. After one and a half hours of smooth driving our trance like state is harshly<br />
interrupted by a motorway toll booth. The charge is seventeen Euros. We‟re in the credit<br />
card lane where you insert your card, it‟s ejected immediately, and you drive off.<br />
At Argentan a roundabout has a dozen crab apple trees in <strong>full</strong> flower enclosed in a<br />
white post and rail fence. We go past Falaise where William the Conqueror was born. It‟s<br />
completely flat from there to Caen <strong>with</strong> crops and lots of big cherries <strong>with</strong> pink blossom. We<br />
arrive at Bayeux in search of the aire that the Lancashire taxi driver in Greece told us about, a<br />
parking area hospitable to campers. We visit the tourist office to get a map, and come away<br />
<strong>with</strong> lots of information in English. Clearly the Normandy beaches are a huge attraction for<br />
English speaking tourists, not to mention the Bayeux Tapestry. We find the aire and it‟s a<br />
378
huge car park <strong>with</strong> water and toilets. We find a nice spot on the edge and as usual all the<br />
other campers get in a huddle like they‟re circling the wagons.<br />
Apple Blossom Time<br />
Unlike its much <strong>larger</strong> neighbour Caen, which was levelled by the Allies, Bayeux<br />
wasn‟t bombed in WW2. It was the first French town to be liberated from the Nazis in 1944,<br />
and later we see a newsreel of Charles de Gaulle walking in to cheering crowds then making<br />
a speech. It‟s packed <strong>with</strong> gorgeous buildings from as far back as the 15 th century, huge<br />
trees, a canal, and a cathedral.<br />
Bayeux<br />
Normandy is physically close to England, close historically because the Norman<br />
soldiers who invaded England in 1066 came from this area, and also because the big event in<br />
living memory is the D-Day Landings in June 1944, when British, American and Canadian<br />
troops landed on the beaches. I‟m struck by some of the similarities between French and<br />
English when we see a sign at the hospital for the “Reanimation” department (does Dr<br />
Frankenstein work there?), then in a dress shop I notice a “Grandiose” (<strong>size</strong> 18+) section.<br />
We enjoy hanging out for a couple of days in Bayeux. We do wifi (pronounced<br />
“weefee”) in two different cafes, explore the streets and shops, and I buy chipolatas from a<br />
butcher and cook them in white wine and applesauce <strong>with</strong> onion and garlic, then serve them<br />
<strong>with</strong> instant mash and Loire Valley peas.<br />
379
Magnificent Notre Dame Cathedral dates from 1077, but to be honest we are now<br />
cathedralled out. The Bayeux Tapestry was commissioned for the Cathedral by Bishop Odo,<br />
William the Conqueror‟s brother, for the edification of the congregation, most of whom were<br />
illiterate, and that is what we‟re really here to see. In French, William the Conqueror is<br />
called Guillaume-le-Conquerant, another great example of the closeness of the two<br />
languages. That‟s how it seems to me anyway, back happily speaking French after months<br />
drowning in unfamiliar Eastern European languages.<br />
The Tapestry Museum is well set up for the crowds of people from many different<br />
countries. We‟re each given a headset in our own language which provides a lively<br />
commentary while we slowly shuffle past the tapestry. One of the more memorable<br />
observations is that the horses are smiling as they travel in the small open boats from<br />
Normandy to France. It‟s actually an embroidery, not a tapestry, worked in woollen thread in<br />
ten <strong>colour</strong>s using four different stitches, on a linen background. It‟s roughly eighteen inches<br />
high and two hundred and thirty feet long, a witty comic strip complete <strong>with</strong> a commentary in<br />
Latin. Of course it gives the Norman slant on the invasion of England, not the Saxon<br />
viewpoint. The main message is that the oath Harold swore on reliquaries while in<br />
Normandy, to be loyal to William in his claim to the English throne, should not have been<br />
broken. The intent was to make the faithful church goers of the time reflect on the concept of<br />
loyalty. But of course another interpretation is that Harold was a statesman who perjured<br />
himself for his country.<br />
The tapestry tells the story of the Norman Conquest, starting in 1064 <strong>with</strong> King<br />
Edward sending Harold to Normandy to inform William that he is to succeed to the English<br />
throne. Upper and lower bands provide background information <strong>with</strong> scenes from the rural<br />
life of the time, illustrations from “Aesop‟s Fables”, and images of creatures such as dragons,<br />
griffins and lions. Horses feature in three quarters of the story, and there‟s a real sense of<br />
their walking, trotting and galloping. My favourite parts show the men from both sides<br />
getting in and out of their Viking style boats and wading in the water <strong>with</strong> bare legs, the<br />
transparency of the water depicted <strong>with</strong> six single threads spaced out across their legs. The<br />
way the water is drawn reminds me of the mosaic of the baptism of Christ that we saw at<br />
Hosios Loukas monastery in Greece.<br />
380
Bayeux Tapestry<br />
After that we visit the British War Cemetery which has the characteristic symmetry<br />
and beauty of Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemeteries, <strong>with</strong> tulips, polyanthus,<br />
star magnolias, big chestnuts and lots of flowers. A huge memorial to the unidentified dead<br />
has an inscription in Latin which translates as “We who were conquered by William have<br />
liberated the homeland of the conqueror”.<br />
Then at the Memorial Museum of the Battle of Normandy the vast scale of the<br />
Normandy landings hits us. It‟s all tanks, guns, uniforms, <strong>photos</strong>, small items owned by<br />
soldiers, and newsreels. There‟s a photo of Field Marshal Montgomery <strong>with</strong> his two little<br />
dogs, named Hitler and Rommel. On our way back to the van we visit the Place de la<br />
Liberation where there‟s a plane tree which was planted in 1797 after the Revolution. We‟re<br />
exhausted.<br />
Next morning we visit the outdoor market and we‟re amazed to see handmade carpets<br />
from Kashmir, Pakistan and Turkey, supposedly reduced by seventy per cent, but <strong>with</strong> the<br />
cheapest priced at sixteen hundred Euros. There are the usual oysters and cheeses and lots of<br />
live rabbits, ducklings, hens and chickens. Lengths of lilac in boxes are very cheap, and there<br />
are untold flower and vegetable plants, including bare rooted beetroot. As usual the smallest<br />
stalls belong to old women sitting <strong>with</strong> a basket of eggs, a couple of dressed hens, parsley,<br />
thyme, and vegetables from their gardens. I sometimes wonder if that will be me in my<br />
seventies. We buy some vegetables, then go to an internet cafe and make our booking <strong>with</strong><br />
Freedom Shipping to send our boxes of Turkish carpets and other treasures back to New<br />
Zealand from Surrey in twelve days time. It‟s all coming to an end very quickly now.<br />
381
Lilac for Sale<br />
We drive to Arromanches Beach where the remains of one of the artificial harbours<br />
towed from England for the D-Day Landings can still be seen sticking out of the water.<br />
There are many plaques placed by various groups, and so many tourists in campers, our age<br />
and mainly French. We need diesel so we head back into Bayeux as it‟s Sunday and petrol<br />
stations are scarce <strong>with</strong> not many open. In fact virtually nothing is open on a Sunday apart<br />
from bakeries in the morning.<br />
Following the coast to Courseulles-sur-Mer we try to imagine the devastation that<br />
followed the Allied invasion of this area, when so much was destroyed. Nowadays it‟s a<br />
peaceful rural scene of hedgerows, horses, cows, crop, apple orchards, and stone farm houses<br />
and buildings. Old military jeeps are for sale, and lots of other military memorabilia. Beach<br />
huts run along the coast <strong>with</strong> resorts, yacht clubs and casinos, the typical European beach<br />
experience. Most towns have a military tank on display. At Bavent we stop for a cup of tea<br />
and John follows the sound of loud croaking to discover two big frogs in a pond. We pass a<br />
thoroughbred stud farm where there are foals, an avenue of huge copper beeches, and lovely<br />
old stone buildings.<br />
After that it‟s all wide banks bordering the road <strong>with</strong> trees along the top, hedgerows<br />
<strong>with</strong> laburnum, white cows in deep pasture, little thatched cottages Tudor style <strong>with</strong> bulbs<br />
growing out of the roof line, and white broom in flower. It‟s like Surrey, then the Cotswolds<br />
as we pass through dinky little villages <strong>with</strong> old houses and shops in brick and stone. It‟s<br />
overgrown <strong>with</strong> lush weeds on the verges and in the fields, hedgerows in flower, old blossom<br />
covered apple trees, and big patches of forest. It‟s so different from the immaculate but<br />
sterile factory farms we‟ve driven through. We drive down a tunnel of green leaves as the<br />
382
trees meet over the road, then see irises along the ridge of a long thatch roofed house, and<br />
bluebells on the grass verge. An avenue of tall chestnuts <strong>with</strong> trimmed sides runs down the<br />
hill into Honfleur, <strong>with</strong> a fuzzy layer of white wild flowers and yellow dandelions<br />
underneath.<br />
Thatched Cottage<br />
A very picturesque old port town, Honfleur was popular <strong>with</strong> 19 th century painters. In<br />
the historic port area, distinctive narrow 17 th century houses six or seven stories tall painted<br />
charcoal, brown and grey cluster together. We find a gargantuan car park for campers where<br />
there must be a couple of hundred all lined up, mainly French but also German, Dutch,<br />
Belgian and British. We can‟t get out of there fast enough, and find a car park where<br />
campers aren‟t allowed right beside the port. We have a peaceful night there, beside the<br />
circus which is camping nearby, complete <strong>with</strong> a few moth eaten camels and ungroomed<br />
horses tethered outside happily eating the long grass.<br />
383
Honfleur<br />
There‟s a garden show on at the botanic gardens, a wonderful spectacle of<br />
hydrangeas, rhododendrons and clematis. In the distance we can see the massive suspension<br />
bridge which was completed in 1995, taking traffic over the estuary of the Seine to Le Havre.<br />
After another busy day we‟re exhausted and climb into the back of van where I make<br />
Normandy Salad: first sauté mushrooms, garlic, onion and cooked potatoes, and season <strong>with</strong><br />
dried thyme and black pepper. Then cut up a leek and steam <strong>with</strong> small pieces of broccoli.<br />
Add to the other vegetables <strong>with</strong> some small pieces of roast chicken, chopped parsley, a<br />
couple of spoonfuls of mayonnaise, and freshly ground black pepper. After dinner John gets<br />
the BBC on the radio and there‟s an item about ANZAC Day in Australia.<br />
384
Our Neighbour<br />
From Honfleur we go south and inland towards Lisieux. It‟s rolling country <strong>with</strong><br />
foals, Tudor barns, cherry orchards and castles. I begin to realise that in my obsessive emails<br />
home I‟m falling back on repeated phrases: “turquoise sea”, “beautiful deciduous forest”, “an<br />
avenue of planes”, “apple blossom”, “white cows”. Homer has “the wine dark sea”, “<strong>with</strong><br />
steadfast spirit”, and “mighty destiny”. This trip has turned into an odyssey.<br />
At Lisieux we see posters advertising a big antique and collectables fair <strong>with</strong> sellers<br />
from all over France and the UK, but we decide not to go as it‟s too stimulating and we‟re<br />
desperately trying to wind down. Antique and junk shops are everywhere including one<br />
advertising English junk. As we go east the countryside flattens out, the road is straight, and<br />
there‟s no traffic. The windscreen is always covered in flattened bugs these days but<br />
fortunately we have fancy green windscreen washer to clean it. The temperature has risen to<br />
twenty two degrees. At Evreux a flower bed of white stocks, blue forget-me-nots and yellow<br />
daisies divides the road in two, then in Pacy sur Eure a roundabout is covered <strong>with</strong> pansies,<br />
tulips and white forget-me-nots, and raised flower beds are enclosed in woven hazel. Earlier<br />
today we‟ve seen a roundabout planted <strong>with</strong> deciduous azaleas, heather, daffodils,<br />
rhododendrons and small pines. The floweriness of France is wondrous to us and we haven‟t<br />
even got to Monet‟s Garden yet.<br />
Blue Birds Over<br />
We decide to stop at Vernon on the banks of the Seine. It‟s Sunday, and Monet‟s<br />
Garden is closed on Mondays, so we‟ll have a day off. We drive in past a well organised<br />
Gypsy camp across the river, almost turning in there by mistake, then find a peaceful, free,<br />
385
tree lined car park right on the river. It feels very relaxing to know we‟ll be there for two<br />
nights. It‟s been a big day and John relaxes across the front seats <strong>with</strong> a beer, the Times and<br />
the BBC, while I‟m in the back <strong>with</strong> the laptop and a big bottle of two per cent local cider.<br />
Vernon<br />
We read in the papers about the persecution of Gypsies in Hungary, where former<br />
soldiers and police are suspected of murdering people and setting their houses on fire. We<br />
also hear the latest on swine flu on the BBC and wonder if it has any implications for us. Our<br />
ferry sails to Dover on Friday, then on Wednesday we pack most of our belongings ready to<br />
be shipped back to New Zealand. After that we‟ll have a month to visit friends and explore<br />
some new places in England, before flying to Sydney and home to Dunedin. We‟re starting<br />
to feel a glow of satisfaction to have got this far all in one piece but it‟s also sad that our epic<br />
journey will be finished in less than a week. We notice that we‟re very brown because we<br />
live outside most of the time. It can‟t all be dirt from the lack of washing!<br />
Big barges laden <strong>with</strong> containers glide by on the Seine. It pours <strong>with</strong> rain all night.<br />
Next day I have some French <strong>colour</strong> put in my hair in preparation for our return to<br />
civilisation.<br />
386
We drive across the river to Giverny where Monet lived for the second half of his life.<br />
From the bridge to the village the road is edged <strong>with</strong> trees and yellow and purple irises which<br />
certainly get the horticultural adrenalin flowing! French and English tourists are mobbing the<br />
place and we join them.<br />
The Road to Monet’s Garden<br />
The long, narrow house backs onto the road, and one of Monet‟s former studios, a<br />
large room, is now a shop selling a vast range of books, art prints and other souvenirs. A<br />
verandah runs the length of the house <strong>with</strong> two big yew trees right in front of it. Long flower<br />
beds lead away from the house. Each year all the flowers are planted according to <strong>colour</strong>:<br />
tulips (many in long rows inspired by the tulip farms in the Netherlands), pansies, forget-menots,<br />
stocks, irises, lilies, cinerarias, hyacinths and daffodils. There‟s the odd flowering tree,<br />
clematis over arched trellises, peonies, azaleas, rhododendrons and wisteria. The overall<br />
impression is the blazing <strong>colour</strong> and density of the planting. Heavy rain overnight has<br />
intensified the <strong>colour</strong>s.<br />
387
Spring in Monet’s Garden<br />
Tulips<br />
Apparently Monet planted what he wanted to paint and created the three acre garden<br />
accordingly. Later he made ponds to create the water garden where there are beauti<strong>full</strong>y<br />
placed weeping willows, azaleas and rhododendrons around the ponds. We follow tradition<br />
and pose on the Japanese bridge under the wisteria. Two men in little boats are skimming<br />
weed out of the pond <strong>with</strong> nets. The water lilies aren‟t in flower yet. Monet was a fanatical<br />
388
gardener who didn‟t like to go on holiday in case he missed something coming out in the<br />
garden, an endearing quality that lots of gardeners can relate to. There‟s a frenzied<br />
atmosphere in the garden <strong>with</strong> everyone frantically taking <strong>photos</strong>, a wonderful buzz of<br />
enthusiasm and appreciation.<br />
Pond<br />
Azaleas<br />
389
The house is cosy, homely and on a very human scale, <strong>with</strong> several rooms looking out<br />
onto the garden. We enter the dining room first and I like it the best as it‟s a blaze of yellow -<br />
walls, chairs, dressers, cupboards and fire surround. The kitchen walls are blue and white<br />
tiles, and there‟s a large black coal range. Apart from a room downstairs filled <strong>with</strong> Monet<br />
reproductions, all the art in the house is Japanese prints.<br />
Monet’s Dining Room<br />
Monet’s Kitchen<br />
390
We drive north east via les Thilliers en Vexin through beautiful forest, small castles,<br />
crops and ploughed fields, <strong>with</strong> light rain and a dark sky. As we pull into a supermarket car<br />
park we see that an accident has just happened. Some young people have driven over a small<br />
tree which had its base protected by pieces of concrete. The concrete is broken, the tree bent<br />
over, and the car has lost part of its front. They must have been moving pretty fast to cause<br />
such damage. The young woman who‟s upset and being hugged by the others must be the<br />
driver. For some reason it‟s always more fascinating being a spectator in a foreign country!<br />
Florists here often use props in their displays and a florist in this town has placed a<br />
large old fashioned pram filled <strong>with</strong> a basket of flowers on the footpath outside their shop.<br />
Tulips rule here, they could be the national flower of France. The houses are large, old, solid,<br />
and many have shutters. There‟s no end to the charm fest out the window, and once we‟re in<br />
the country again we drive down an avenue of chestnuts <strong>with</strong> white flowers. It‟s all apple<br />
blossom, horses, picture book sheep and cows, wild flowers, lush grass, forest, hedgerows,<br />
wisteria and lilac for the next hour or so, then we take a wrong turn and travel on a back road<br />
through a fabulous forest, all moss, fallen brown leaves, beech, birch, maple, oak, silver birch<br />
and conifers. The countryside here is more like what it used to be like in New Zealand before<br />
the relentless march of vast factory dairy farms, <strong>with</strong> barbed wire fences, creeks, implements<br />
outside, and a general rough atmosphere. We come across the first clipped hedges we‟ve<br />
seen in Europe.<br />
We park for the night in Neufchatel a typical peaceful French town <strong>with</strong> old houses<br />
and lots of trees. We have a look at a memorial erected in 1930 on the centenary of the<br />
conquest of Algeria - a relief sculpture of an Arab woman holding a large storage jar like the<br />
ones we saw in the underwater archaeology museum in Bodrum.<br />
After a night of rain we leave Neufchatel in sunshine and climb a large hill of<br />
deciduous forest to look down onto undulating pasture, trees and houses. At Abbeville we<br />
come to the Somme Canal where we see a Morris Minor, men fishing, and a lock. There‟s<br />
always so much to look at, and now we notice that we‟re back in WW1 Commonwealth War<br />
Graves territory. It flattens out as we head towards Dunkirk, and there‟s the odd old<br />
windmill, then we get onto the motorway and it‟s all lorries and industry.<br />
We park in our old Dunkirk parking spot at Malo-les-Bains, exhausted and hugely<br />
relieved to have made it back safely, and ceremoniously take the mileage: 167,359. It‟s<br />
exactly nine months since we left and we‟ve driven 11,783 miles. After a few calculations<br />
John tells me proudly that all that driving in the slow lane has pushed our diesel consumption<br />
to thirty three miles per gallon.<br />
391
Back at Dunkirk Beach<br />
Hugely contented we just slump in the front seat, have a celebratory drink and watch<br />
the people rollerblading, biking, running, and walking past on the wide sea front path <strong>with</strong><br />
their children and dogs. Little yachts are sailing, and later when the tide goes out leaving a<br />
wide expanse of sand, people go fishing and collect shellfish.<br />
We feel very safe and secure at Dunkirk, probably because this is actually the fourth<br />
time we‟ve spent the night on this spot. Our booking to Dover is in two days‟ time, so there‟s<br />
no pressure. After a peaceful night we check in to the camping ground and spend the<br />
afternoon organising the back of the van and reading in the sun. John cooks a green curry for<br />
dinner, and the BBC is coming in loud and clear.<br />
Next day is May Day and nothing is open except the bakeries. We buy slices of<br />
French apple pie from one that‟s been going since 1862. We see a guy <strong>with</strong> a rolled up<br />
banner, off to a demo, and everywhere people are out selling bunches of lily of the valley and<br />
bluebells. We head to the port which is to the west of the town. After the formalities we get<br />
in the queue <strong>with</strong> all the Europeans who are taking advantage of their public holiday and<br />
strong Euro to have a holiday in the UK. They are French, German, Dutch, and Belgian, <strong>with</strong><br />
hardly a Brit vehicle in the queue. A Dutch family has a four wheel drive and an empty horse<br />
float and later on the ferry when I ask them where the horse is they tell me that they‟re<br />
heading to Devon to pick up three alpacas. Six young people from the Netherlands or<br />
Belgium are practising a circle dance <strong>with</strong> fake swords where they cavort around, ending up<br />
in interesting formations and entanglements, accompanied by a guy playing the accordion. A<br />
French family sit on the ground around a cane picnic basket and eat baguettes. It‟s all very<br />
jolly in the sunshine.<br />
392
Speaking English Again<br />
Head of the Queue<br />
The crossing to Dover is calm and we sit inside absolutely engrossed in the Times and<br />
the Guardian which cost the normal price rather than the four or five Euros we‟ve been<br />
spending in Europe. Fog at Dover delays our arrival and we strike up a conversation <strong>with</strong> a<br />
lovely English couple returning from their twenty eighth and final holiday at a guest house in<br />
393
Bruges, run by a group of nuns who are now too elderly to continue. We feel a bit rough and<br />
socially phobic to say the least!<br />
In Dover the cherry blossom‟s out, and as usual in the early afternoon, it‟s <strong>full</strong> of<br />
young men drinking and scary women. We put the van in our old car park and head off down<br />
the high street. It‟s indescribably wonderful to hear people speaking English. Rook and Sons<br />
the butcher (“Quality Kentish meat”) has shoulders of New Zealand lamb in the window. We<br />
do the charity shops in a feverish state. Have we missed any bargains in the last nine<br />
months? The French tourists are in there foraging as well. We can‟t resist buying “The<br />
Lady” magazine for old time‟s sake, and there are lots of jobs advertised. At The Eight Bells,<br />
a Wetherspoons pub, we have pies and mashed potatoes. The pies have been in the oven<br />
about an hour too long but we don‟t mind. We‟re back!<br />
Journey’s End<br />
394
Epilogue<br />
We spent five happy weeks in England, visiting friends and living in car parks,<br />
exploring new places and revisiting favourite haunts. Then, as planned months earlier, we<br />
handed the van over to our friends Liz and Ian who live on their narrowboat Clarissa. It was<br />
wonderful to be able to leave it <strong>full</strong>y equipped, and to know that they would use what they<br />
needed, and easily dispose of the rest. We knew the van was going to a good home.<br />
A few weeks later we were back living in our beach house at the entrance to the<br />
Otago Harbour, a very popular route for camper vans visiting the Royal Albatross Colony at<br />
Taiaroa Head. Late one night I looked down towards the road and noticed a vehicle parked<br />
outside <strong>with</strong> a light burning in the front seat. Next morning, leaving home early in the dark<br />
of midwinter, we discovered that a rental camper van had parked outside overnight, <strong>with</strong> the<br />
telltale sign of condensation on the windows. We immediately felt a warm rush of emotion, a<br />
combination of protectiveness and camaraderie. John found a pen and a piece of paper, wrote<br />
a note, and tucked it under their windscreen wiper: “Welcome to New Zealand”.<br />
Six months later we heard from Liz and Ian that the van was starting to need a few<br />
repairs and they‟d managed to sell it on ebay for 300 pounds. We were impressed. We‟d<br />
bought it in Gateshead four years earlier, off a chap who‟d used it to carry house demolition<br />
rubbish to the tip when he renovated his house, for 900 pounds.<br />
395
Bibliography<br />
Askin, Mustafa. Gallipoli a Turning Point. Keskin Color Kartpostalcilik, 2002.<br />
Askin, Mustafa. Troy. Keskin Color Kartpostalcilik, 2007.<br />
Blacker, William. Along the Enchanted Way a Romanian Story. John Murray, 2009.<br />
Borowski, Tadeusz. This Way for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen. Penguin, 1967.<br />
Burford, Tim and Norm Longley. The Rough Guide to Romania. Rough Guides, 2004.<br />
De Bernieres, Louis. Birds Without Wings. Vintage, 2004.<br />
Dickens, Charles. Pictures from Italy. Penguin, 1998.<br />
Drakulic, Slavenka. They Would Never Hurt a Fly. Abacus, 2004.<br />
Fermor, Patrick Leigh. Between the Woods and the Water. John Murray, 1986.<br />
Fermor, Patrick Leigh. Roumeli. John Murray, 1996.<br />
Fermor, Patrick Leigh. A Time of Gifts. John Murray, 1977.<br />
Firestorm. Edited by Paul Addison and Jeremy Crang. Pimlico, 2006.<br />
Glenny, Misha. The Fall of Yugoslavia. Penguin, 1996.<br />
Grass, Gunter. Peeling the Onion. Vintage, 2008.<br />
Homer. The Iliad. Penguin, 2003.<br />
Homer. The Odyssey. Oxford University Press, 1998.<br />
Horwitz, Tony. Into the Blue. Allen & Unwin, 2003.<br />
Hume, Rob. Birds of Britain and Europe. Dorling Kindersley, 2005.<br />
Kassabova, Kapka. Street Without a Name. Portobello, 2008.<br />
Mitchell, Alan. A Field Guide to the Trees of Britain and Northern Europe. Collins, 1978.<br />
On the Loose in Eastern Europe 1993. Fodor, 1993.<br />
Orga, Irfan. Portrait of a Turkish Family. Eland, 2002.<br />
396
Orhan, Kemal and Bengisu Rona. In Jail <strong>with</strong> Nazim Hikmet. Anatolia, 2008.<br />
Ovenden, Denys. Collins Guide to the Wild Animals of Britain and Europe. Collins, 1979.<br />
Raine, Pete. Mediterranean Wildlife. Harrap – Columbus, 1990.<br />
Rough Guide to Greece. Rough Guides, 2006.<br />
Salter, Mark and Jonathan Bousfield. The Rough Guide to Poland. Rough Guides, 2002.<br />
Silber, Laura and Allan Little. The Death of Yugoslavia. Penguin, 1995.<br />
Vonnegut, Kurt. Slaughterhouse-Five. Dell, 1969.<br />
World Economic Forum. “The Global Gender Gap 2007”. World Economic Forum.<br />
https://members.weforum.org/pdf/gendergap/report2007.pdf (3 Jan 2011).<br />
Yasar, Kemal. Memed, my Hawk. New York Review Books, 2005.<br />
Zimbardo, Philip. The Lucifer Effect. Rider, 2007.<br />
397
Photos of Suzanne and John<br />
Suzanne Middleton and John Robilliard<br />
398
Thanks<br />
Special thanks to<br />
John for being the perfect accomplice<br />
Dan Clark for internet services<br />
Andrew Sullivan for help <strong>with</strong> Word<br />
Amber Moffat for the cover design<br />
Francis Kumar for the suggestion to publish electronically<br />
Everyone on the big email list for their interest<br />
399