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... international travel had been promised to my bride to be.  Above: Fulfilling the promise in the palatial Parador in Hondarribia[1], two-and-a-half years after our nuptials. The banner above continues to display the love that cemented our decision to spend our lives together. We had had an initial hiccough over an agreement between two Shelley-anns (actually one was Shelley-Anne) to spend a year or two travelling post tertiary education. So I really had to don some kid gloves to do this thing but there were complications. Europe, including Greece, was a bottom line. For me to fulfil my side of the bargain I had a lot to do. Despite being older I was also putting in some post-school studies, having misbehaved during my first attempt a decade earlier. I was also working to make ends meet and was theoretically restricted to three weeks annual leave. I therefore had to persuade my employers to allow me to go without holidays during 1982 and concatenate it with the time allocated to 1983. They weren't keen (it probably wasn't even legal) but I needed 6 weeks (more actually) to cover our European aspirations. Eventually a plan emerged involving both 1983 and 1984 in which the 1984 holiday would focus on Greece and be the subject of another blog. So the UK, France, Luxembourg, Switzerland, Italy, Andorra and Spain were getting visits from us. A friendly travel agent helped with our itinerary and strategic bookings but left most days free for us to follow our noses. Our basic plan was to spend two weeks touring the UK in a hire car after a quick sojourn in the great capital City. London never disappoints but we were on a mission to see as much of Europe as possible. Above (l-r): first half of UK loop with a few Home Counties bits at the end: second half of UK loop; first half of mainland Europe loop; second half of mainland Europe loop. First, a whistlestop tour of London. Above (l-r, top-bottom): London mews as they were in the early 80s; Shan at the Tower of London; Kings Road, Chelsea x2. We charged around the sites taking in the architecture and places of historic interest but the King's Road grabbed our attention in the early post-punk era. Boutique/cafe combos were pretty alluring then and casual posters for blues, heavy rock and new wave bands that we'd coveted back in Durbs, but were omnipresent in London, were mouthwatering. But we were on a mission ... Our compass was set for the South West of England to start with. Shan was caught up in Arthurian legend and she had absorbed everything Mary Stewart had to say on the subject, especially the Merlin Trilogy. Then I was (and still remain) a bit sceptical about swords being extracted from rocks and stuff like that but Shan's enthusiasm was contagious. Also, there was evidence of ancient earthworks at Cadbury Castle in Somerset and rumours of Arthur being fathered at Tintagel in Cornwall. In between Cadbury and Tintagel was another place of immense literary interest, i.e. Lyme Regis, in the writings of, inter alia, Jane Austen (Persuasion) and John Fowles (The French Lieutenant's Woman). Sadly no photograph by Shan nor me of the Cobb has survived so the colourful harbourside houses had to suffice to recall Louisa Musgrove and Sarah Woodruff. Above l-r, top-bottom: Arthurian quest; Lyme Regis; Dartmoor ponies; railway bridge at Calstock on the Tamar in Cornwall; Calstock street from our hotel; visiting the castle in Tintagel; health and safety a bit less of an issue in the early 80s as you plunge into a ravine to access the main part of the castle; ruins are spread over a wide area of the headland overlooking the Atlantic; tunnel down to the sea; Clovelly's picturesque path down to the seafront; a view of the seafront and launching pad for fishing boats; South African friend Barbi had moved to near Exeter in Devon. So Somerset, Dorset, Devon and Cornwall were on our map for South West England and our chosen stops took us over Dartmoor, another attraction we wanted to see, with its bleakness in the midst of seas and lush greenery. Turning Eastwards again we were able to visit Clovelly and spend a night with Barbi, an old friend from South Africa, then living near Exeter. Then we were headed to attend the wedding of another friend from South Africa, Phil Duff, to Ali Allan. Beforehand, we would be spending a couple of nights in Solihull with friends of my parents, Reg and Angela Bedding. We arrived to a warm welcome from Angela, who warned us that Reg was driving down from Yorkshire and didn't speak to anyone until he had read his evening newspaper and downed two G&Ts. After that he would be sociable. And sociable he was, inquiring about our journey the following day to Shropshire for the wedding. Now Shan and I had navigated our way through a significant chunk of England without any hiccoughs ... "I'll just ring Trevor, he has maps and should be able to give you directions," Reg announced. Trevor was Angela's stepson. I responded that there was no need but Trevor arrived the next morning, anyway, thankfully aware that Reg didn't speak to anyone in the mornings until he'd read his morning paper. We got to the wedding, as the following photographs testify but not before Angela took a photo of Shan's brassiere and my bowtie. Seems the fabric in my wife's posh outfit was less than impervious to the camera's flash that also created massive beehive shadows on the wall behind, necessitating some pretty vicious cropping. Above (l-r): n early experience of the tranquil lanes of the Cotswolds; off to a wedding in Ryton in Shropshire; groom and bride depart the church on horseback; Menai Bridge over the Menai Strait; Wrynose and Hardknott Passes; lone farmhouse in the Lake District of England; Heading North "Where are you headed next?" Reg inquired the next morning after downing his paper. "Inverness," Shan replied, "stopping overnight in the Lake District." Reg responded with some references to insanity and exited the room to phone Trevor. We suspect that Trevor provided some sound advice and we were soon on our way with instructions as to how to get to the M6. Angela just grinned. She had a wonderfully wry sense of humour, was an awesome businesswoman and knew when to speak up and when not to. We forgot to mention to Reg that we were taking a detour through Wales up to Anglesey[2]. Above (l-r, top-bottom): if you close your eyes and use your imagination this could be a picture of Ben Nevis; a random shot of Loch Ness; some random Scottish ruins overlook the Loch; lonely farm road just South of Inverness; well-stocked bar in the Richmond Arms hotel in Tomintoul; hello m'deer. In Reg's defence, we had descended upon the UK in what was probably the wettest weather for ever. He was a racehorse owner and unable to race his horses because just about every course in the country was waterlogged. And so it was as we climbed and descended the Wrynose and Hardknott passes in the Lake District with the roar of every mountain spring adding up to a deafening thunder that became a little scary and, at the same time, a bit exciting. We had to make an early start the following morning to fulfil our promise to Reg; to cover the more than 300 miles to Inverness. We managed it with a brief pause to say hello to Ben Nevis. Once we reached the North Eastern city and I had double-parked outside a local newsagent Shan rushed in, bought a card and a stamp (after a confusing conversation in what seemed to my wife to be Gaelic but was, in fact, heavily accented English) and quickly posted it back to Solihull. Heading South Only then could we set about finding a place to lay our heads for the night. We struck out in a Southerly direction and found more or less what we wanted 50 miles down the road in Tomintoul. Unreliably reputed to be the highest village in the Scottish Highlands at more than 1,100 ft, it sported a couple of hotels and more than its fair share of whisky shops. We chose the Richmond Arms hotel that was offering rooms (bed only) at that stage of the evening for a reasonable rate despite its apparent luxury. We managed to grab a sandwich in the well-stocked bar, which was empty as all other residents were in the dining room eating the catch of the day. Evidently someone had caught a decent sized salmon in the River Avon or Spey. Residents fishing from beats provided by the hotel (at some cost) didn't get to keep their catch ... it was shared with other residents who'd paid for dinner in their packages. I sampled some of the local whisky while Shan sipped whatever white wine they had. The other guests filtered in after their meals and a bit of a party began to develop so an easy night was a bit out of the question despite our intinerary taking in Edinburgh and culminating in York the next day. Another 350 miles. Before we set off I had to buy my Dad a splendid bottle of single malt in one of the local shops! And then we hit dense fog, slowing us down to a walking pace across the Cairngorms. We eventually emerged into a spectacular valley at Balmoral that followed the River Dee and then followed what must surely have been a glacier millennia previously. We must have found some sustenance during a brief sojourn in Edinburgh otherwise we would surely have starved. Above: (l-r, top-bottom): views of Edinburgh Castle looking formidable (x2); me on Hadrian's Wall; was this the first time Shan and I had witnessed spectacular rape crops? I doubt we had more depressing accommodation in the entire six weeks than the B&B we were booked into in York. We doubted the windows had been opened for decades causing a rancid, musty smell. The room was minuscule and a bed with pretensions to being a small double and had those ribbed nylon sheets that were fairly common at the time and set off electric sparks the moment one climbed between them. The landlord and landlady appeared to have grudges against anyone who was not York born and bred. It was left to the Ouse and the Shambles to raise our spirits a little before hitting the M1 the next day ... hipAbove (l-r, top-bottom): Ouse River, York; Shambles, York; Magdalen College, Oxford; West Kennet long barrow featuring Shan; our cute lodgings for the night, Henley-on-Thames; Thames at Henley; Eton boy in traditional uniform, Eton; Windsor Castle; deer in Richmond Park. Believe it or not, I managed to get the little grey Fiesta hire car up to a ton[3] on the M1. Songs had been written about this but, if I remember correctly were more about doing it on a Vincent Black Shadow than in a humble saloon with a similar sized engine. Anyway, it helped us make it down to Oxford for a bite of lunch so that Shan could be delivered to West Kennet Long Barrow, Avebury, with a smile and allow us some time to get back to our hotel in Henley-on-Thames in time to see a bit of the famous town and its riverside in daylight. The following day we paid a quick visit to Windsor/Eton and Richmond Park before returning our hire car and catching a train to Dover for the Hovercraft to France. At the time there was a slogan that went something like "It's less bovver on the hover ". That was NOT the case on our inaugural journey to Calais in high seas! There were even screams from the more timid on the "flight" as the craft attacked the waves that the Channel was notorious for. It was a double whammy as the craft was unable to reach anything like its cruising speed and was substantially delayed reaching the destination. Nonetheless we got there in daylight, caught a train to Paris and set about finding our arranged accommodation on the Île Saint-Louis. Paris But first we had to get there on the Metro. Shan was walking a little ahead of me when she heard a commotion and turned to see me shouting at a cute little girl. The truth of the matter was this child had approached me purporting to show me a picture she had painted. As she pushed it into my abdomen I felt a tiny motion pressing my hip. I jumped back smacking the "painting" out of the way. It had been a ruse to get her hand into my pocket and remove my wallet. She and her small gang disappeared into the metro crowd in a thrice leaving my wife believing I'd taken to accosting children. We reached the hotel where we had a booking. I pulled out the booking confirmation and greeted the concierge handing the paper over ... "Non," he retorted. When pressed he refused to be engaged or respond to my admittedly gauche attempts at pidgin French. "Pas de réservation!" was his only refrain. There didn't seem to be much point in pursuing the conversation so, making a mental note to chastise the travel agent on our return, we left the building wondering what to do now. We had been lugging our luggage for some time by then and I ended up carrying both lots up what I half remember to be the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. How we had established there was accommodation up there and what it was like I can't remember. It was any port in a storm. A fair way up the rue we found our destination and, phew, we had somewhere to lay our weary heads, but ... everything you heard about Paris in the early 80s was turning out to be true. Above (l-r): Montmartre with pictures for sale; Au Lapin Agile where food and cabaret meet, famed for it's 19th century rogues but sadly closed for refurbishment when we were there; discrete view of the Eiffel Tower; rowing the bride across the lake in the Bois de Boulogne; impromptu musicians in the Quartier Pigalle; Shan lighting up the Seine. Our hotel was high-rise for that part of Paris and we had been allocated a room on the sixth floor. There were no lifts and the lights were controlled by that type of switch prevalent in France at the time ... i.e. spring loaded so that, unless you were really quick, the lights would go out between landings. If I'd thought the luggage was heavy while striding up the Rue Cardinal Lemoine, it had now become a challenge for a weightlifter. No sooner had we reached the room and Shan decided she needed a shower. En suite was a bit beyond our budget in those days and we didn't know where the shower was. My beloved went down to the ground floor again and was given a key to a bathroom on the 7th floor. The facilities had no towels so another trip down to reception ensued. I think they apologised, saying there should have been towels in our room. Equipped now with towel, Shan made a further assault on the staircase, gained entrance to a large room with shower but which was unable to be locked from the inside. She took her speediest shower ever and we eventually launched ourselves into the Latin Quarter where we were able to eat VERY tasty food for almost nothing. Having had an extraordinarily tiring day we retired to our bed fairly late only to be awoken by jackhammers in the Rue down below ... Actually it didn't get any worse and we explored the obvious places in the pictures above and even got to go to the Moulin Rouge where our faith was completely restored. We couldn't afford the posh tickets but we had been equipped (by my Mum I seem to remember) with information about sitting at the bar. For a much smaller sum we were able to sit behind the balustrade in a slightly raised bar area at the rear of the theatre. The gérant de bar was most solicitous, even treating Shan's now pretty grubby cream jacket with the same reverence he would have used on a fur coat. We then had two glasses of champagne each which our host was determined we'd spread over our evening and brought the first immediately and the second at half time. Posh snacks were included. Not all French people were rude, after all, and Shan left at the end of the evening feeling like a celebrity. Heading for Southern Europe But first we had to go a little North to pick up our hire car, another Fiesta, for the month ahead. We caught the train to Luxembourg and checked into another fairly grim hotel with a fairly sinister proprietor who sat in the reception/lounge with a friend or two, making remarks in German that we couldn't understand but were pretty confident were not polite. We got out of there as soon as we could the next morning, picked up our car, visited a supermarket as Luxembourg's duty arrangements allowed everything to be significantly cheaper than elsewhere in Europe. We bought a case of litres of Coke and some bread rolls and a block of butter. We set off for Lucerne, a distance of 500 km, which was about the same as the 300+ miles we'd been used to while whizzing around the UK. We stopped along the route for a picnic and found that the Coke was already warm and the butter was almost runny. We had failed to engage in what my Dad often referred to as the 7 Ps: Proper Prior Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance. Another day in the car with the heating on and the butter had become a splurge on the carpet. We spent the night in a big airy Swiss hotel in Lucerne that had a capacious dining hall which, at breakfast, was stacked with everything one could imagine from a continental breakfast. The serving tables were groaning with pastries, every fruit you could imagine, different Swiss cheeses, yogurts galore and beverages including tea, coffee and fruit juices. B&B was very reasonable for Switzerland and we could eat as much as we liked. Sated, we relaxed with coffee and gradually became aware of a fracas developing. A staff member was trying to placate a loud American woman at a table halfway across the room. A younger woman was also sitting at the table and was obviously cringing. "I want a reg'ella breakfist," the older person shouted. The younger woman, now obviously her daughter, was explaining that the feast on sideboards was a "regular breakfast" in Europe. As were the waiting staff who were politely pointing out that there were even hard-boiled eggs and toast on offer. "I don't want boiled eggs; I want two fried eggs over easy, grits, hash browns, fried sausages, bacon and waffles with syrup. My daughter wants those too 'cos she's going off backpacking." At no point was there a please or a softening of tone and the daughter was now reduced to tears of embarrassment. I think at that stage a waiter was suggesting some "American" establishment in Lucerne that might be able provide this and apologising for the fact that this wasn't possible in our hotel. At this point, as we recall, an escalation of hostilities was imminent and felt desperate for the daughter. We were driving to Lake Como along the back roads over the Alps to avoid Swiss tolls so left before the denouement, hoping that the daughter's holiday hadn't been completely ruined and that the rude woman took an immediate return flight to wherever in the USA she came from. What we saw of Switzerland was lovely by the way! Above: Switzerland - Lake Lucerne and Brunnen, Gotthard Pass 1 avec bride and snowball, Gotthard Pass 2 (closing in); Belaggio (Italy) courtesy of a postcard purchased in situ. Italia The journey was lake to lake between two of the grand stretches of water in Europe, Lakes Lucerne and Como. We had accommodation booked in a pensione on the outskirts of Belaggio that turned out to have a view over Lake Como. It was a time for strolling around and relaxing between bouts of persistent rain that seemed to have followed us from the UK. Returning from an excursion, our landlady met us in the entrance of our pensione and tried to explain to us that there was a wedding being held in the dining area that evening but that she had made up a table for us in the middle of the wedding party. We were a little nonplussed at the idea of gatecrashing a wedding and I tried to explain this to our hostess and tell her we were happy to eat out. Unfortunately, in the circumstances, my "fluent" Italian came out in Zulu and wouldn't revert to any language a self-respecting Italian would grasp. After trying to reassure us, I think she gave us the name of a restaurant and we freshened up and headed out. Our experience at the restaurant was our first encounter with the rip-off Italy that was prevalent at that time[4]. We encountered a cover charge for the first time and then service charge on top of the meal AND cover charge. Feeling a bit disgruntled we returned to our hotel after coughing up a small fortune and found that the wedding was still in full flight and everyone was dancing. We kinda wished we'd stayed put for the evening at our little table for two. Everyone was so friendly. Above (l-r): steep rainy street in Belaggio; caduta massi on lakeside road while attempting to get from Belaggio to Florence. Not long after we had set off in our trusty Fiesta from our pensione in Belaggio than, some kilometres down the coastal road of Lago di Lecco (a branch of Lago di Como) we encountered a massive rockfall, almost certainly the result of the continuing wet Winter and Spring and blocking our progress. We weren't going anywhere along that road and had to retrace our steps and track inland via Valbrona. In those days there was no satnav and a flurry of paper maps ensued to work out the significant detour needed. Florence   Above: Ponte Vecchio over the river Arno. Florence had been one of our most desired destinations on our European epic and turned out to be one of our biggest disappointments. The primary reason for going there was to see the Michelangelo artefacts in the original. I have always felt I let Shan down on this occasion! A combination of poor planning and the seedy state of the city in the early 80s contrived to spoil our visit. The place was filthy with litter and it seemed as if there must have been a rubbish strike over that period. A dead kitten thrown into one of the bins outside the entrance to our pensione left a bitter taste on top of the detritus shoved into every nook and hedge. It was a time when Italy in general also contrived to rip tourists off at every turn so that the total bill at every cafe or eating place was also significantly in excess of the menu prices[4]. While sitting at a café in the process of being ripped off for lunch beside the Cathedral of Santa Maria del (Duomo) partially visible above Fiore a tour bus pitched up and disgorged one very angry American fellow who punched the side mirror, shattering the glass. He then stormed off pursued by the driver on foot. The latter retreated quickly to his vehicle when his ex passenger turned to face the music. . The final disappointment was finding, when we attempted to visit the Galleria dell'Accadamia di Firenze, that it was closed on Mondays. We returned early the next day on the rainy morning of our departure, particularly to see the Michelangelo statue of David, and found that there were already huge queues around the block. The lack of prior planning was up to me and I've regretted it ever since. We agreed to leave Florence and head for the French Riviera, our next destination. Côte d'Azur We had booked a hotel for a few nights in Nice that would give us access in our little red Fiesta to the stretch of the Côte d'Azur from Monaco to Cannes. Much of our appreciation of this area was what one would expect: access to the Med and its beaches. It was a little chilly in late May for beach bunnies from Durbs but we enjoyed the sightseeing. It was also sunny at last but that didn't prevent my wife from continuing to wear her signature red tank top wherever we went. Evidently I was a little more enthusiatic in my sightseeing than Shan, who expresses embarrassment to this day of the fact that I walked along the edge of the promenade in Nice hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous topless bathers. White females in Durban would have been arrested immediately for taking such a liberty in our Calvinistic Afrikaner police state. If I remember correctly, topless bathing was one of the few Apartheid freedoms accorded to black females so long as it took place at a beach displaying "Swartes alleenlik[5]" signs. I can attest that topless female bathers on the beaches in Nice and Cannes were also few and far between. Shan retained her red tank top for warmth the entire time we were on the Côte d'Azur and we probably need to introduce a version of "Where's Wally" to see if you can spot her in the crowd shots.  Above (top-bottom, l-r): Nice borrowed from a postcard and toned down a little; The view from our window in the rather pleasant hotel we had for a few nights; the colourful market in Nice; Monaco already had its fair share of super yachts; plebs' free beach in Cannes; toffs' (almost definitely not free) beach in St Jean; Shan surveying the scene in Cap Ferrat. During our short stay on the Riviera we wandered over to Cannes and flitted about the edge of St Jean Cap-Ferrat. The atmosphere in the latter was a tad intimidating with large locked gates preventing access to the amenities enjoyed by the super rich of the day so our experience of the pretty little cape remained confined to the writings of the likes of Somerset Maugham, David Niven, Picasso and Nietzsche. We won't mention the Knights of Malta. Southern France and a tale of deux ponts Who hasn't sung the song Sur le Pont d'Avignon at some stage in their lives? We were looking forward to an in situ performance following our ramblings around the beaches of the Côte d'Azur, which, as can be seen from the photo above, were fine for the locals but a tad chilly for those of us from sultry Durban. We made a brief stop in Saint-Tropez but were not impressed. It seemed to have lost its sparkle in the intervening 8 years since I'd been there before. Maybe it was a bit early in the season and would recover its lustre in a month or so but we didn't have time on our side. For the first time on our journey we got lost in a city. Avignon seemed to have more one-way streets than most and we went through a number of circuits before finding our accommodation for the night. Remember, no satnav, and paper maps were a little unwieldy in a car. Not sure how many friends still remember it but in both Shan's and my childhoods the song/ditty Sur le Pont d'Avignon was ubiquitous. From Cape Town to Skarsvåg via Paris and Avignon (obviously). Our plan had been to take an evening's stroll over the Pont Saint-Bénézet (a.k.a. Pont d'Avignon) to the opposite bank of the Rhone. Only, one look from the central "square" above demonstrated that "Sur" in this case meant "on top of" rather than "over" (see pic below). Evidently the authors of the song were suggesting dancing on the remains. The two of us did have a short debate about whether it was supposed to be Sous le Pont d'Avignon, which might have been a lot more clandestine, but we decided that the wine and beer sur le place was fine enough. Our next day took us to an arguably complete bridge, i.e. le Pont du Gard Above (l-r, top-bottom): the pont at Avignon; the charm of the main square in Avignon x3 (see if you can spot Shan in a crowd somewhere); Pont du Gard from down there; Pont du Gard 40 years later in a picture grabbed from Unesco[6]; River Gardon from up there; farewell to a remarkable edifice. The Pont du Gard is a Roman aqueduct built in the 1st century AD to carry water as part of a channel from Uzès to Nîmes. It is 160 ft high and when we visited it there was very little restriction, if any, to walking across. Shan, as yet not a mother, was completely unafraid of heights and merrily strolled along the water retaining walls on the edge. I was happy to walk down the middle of the bits where the roof was still in tact (seen in the modern day picture above) but vertigo prevented me straying as close to the edge as my beloved. She wanted to traverse the whole edifice but I drew the line at clambering from the water channel on to a bit of roof, where there was one, all the way across and then having to do it again in reverse. We eventually went half way and back! Apart from its self-evident grandeur and the bridge being a phenomenal piece of engineering, the channel from Uzés to Nîmes needed to be gravity fed for something like 37 km; another stupendous bit of design and execution from the Romans 2000 years ago. Spain - Andorra - France - Spain i.e. along the Pyrenees Before we could get to Spain, we had to urge our little red Fiesta another 300 km to Cerbére on the Mediterranean coast. The stretch of road from Collioure to Platja Grifeu crosses the border into Spain on one of the most spectacular coastal roads we'd ever seen; where the Pyrénées meet the Mediterranean. A little way along that road we stopped at Banyuls-sur-Mer for a late afternoon beverage and sat on the waterfront looking at the sea. While we were gazing out at the empty beach and the Med beyond, a young woman strolled out in front of us, casually crouched down also facing the sea, lifted her skirt and proceeded to wee on the sand. After a minute or two she stood up and wandered off. Maybe as naīve young South Africans we were unduly surprised by this. Above (l-r): a short interlude in Tossa Del Mar; finally some pukka sangria on the waterfront - Shan still wearing her tank top to ward off the cool air. . We swung inland where it continued to be cloudy and raining. Heading for Andorra we encountered flooded rivers and then a fair bit of snow still lying around in June. Exiting Spain at la Seo Urgel we followed the raging La Valira river to Andorra la Vella where we stayed the night in relative luxury and Shan enjoyed her first paella and remembers it to this day. We were also encouraged to ask the barman for "uno bano bino blanco secco por favor". Miraculously my wife received and enjoyed what she'd asked for even though the sentence doesn't really mean anything in the local language, Catalan, or any other we can come up with. Translated, we'd asked for a whole bath of dry sherry. Our next sleep in a truck stop in France was a whole different affair. Possibly our worst accommodation and we'd already had one or two horrors ... Above (l-r, top-bottom): massive floods in Northern Spain; also in Andorra x 2; then snow in the bleak mountains; a bit more now entering France; Foix overhanging the L'Ariege river and backed by its castle and church; back into Northern Spain to Olite and its splendid parador backed by the Spanish plains. So much so that neither of us can remember where it was. Our mission was to explore the Pyrénées as much as possible and follow the roads least travelled. I recall bypassing Lourdes, so probably somewhere between there and Mifaget we needed fuel and came across a truck stop. We'd had a longish stop in Foix to enjoy the old city and travelled more than 300 km on lesser roads and the sign offering accommodation AND FOOD was appealing. It was probably the cheapest dinner, bed and breakfast we had during our six weeks. There were no ensuite facilities but we'd endured that before, notably in Paris, amongst other places, and we were hungry so repaired to the dining room. It was very basic, long trestle tables with unprinted newspaper and occupied by ... truckers. The food was delicious, though, as was often the way in French artisan facilities. We also ended up sitting with a French couple of our parents' age. They were friendly but spoke no English whatsoever and our French soon ran out after exchanging pleasantries. But all was not lost. We were able to draw on the newspaper and managed to establish that he'd been in the French army during WWII and then seconded to Bloemfontein in South Africa for a few years. In recent years he'd been employed as a mechanic and it had been impossible to remove the blackened lines from his hardworking hands. Carafes of country wine kept coming and we had a jolly evening scribbling away on our "tablecloth". Sadly we eventually had to do battle with our sleeping and toilet facilities. Not much sleep was had but we did manage to splash our faces when the loo cupboard became available. Two days after leaving Spain we reentered at Col du Pourtalet, now more than two thirds of our way through our six-week expedition. Forty years ago (before extensive skiing in the Pyrénées) the border post was a basic hut with officers who were unable to speak a word of English. Probably a little suspicious of two young people pitching up at this remote location, our passports were scrutinised in the finest detail. They seemed particularly bothered by a detail in Shan's passport and the one guy disappeared with it for at least half an hour and eventually returned still baffled. He pointed to an item in the opened document and gesticulated to Shan to explain this detail. She was able to point at her eyes and emphasise the word "blue". There was great relief on both sides and we resumed our journey across the arid, windswept plain of Sallent de Gállego. Something like 3 hours later we were happy to arrive in Olite and discover our magnificent parador (picture above). In a period of three days we'd traversed the Pyrénées twice and taken in a significant tract of the Northern plains of Spain (and taken in a fair bit of the rain of May Fair Lady legends). Above (l-r, top-bottom): the formidable facade of the 10th Century fortress guarding the entrance to the Bidasoa river, now a luxurious Parador; the hotel retains the features of its heritage; Shan and me appreciating the space; Shan sitting in the window showing off the thickness of the walls. Another day another Parador. After a relatively leisurely drive of around two hours we were parked outside the formidable edifice that was our accommodation in Fuenterrabia/Hondarribia[7] - in those days they were incredible value. The accommodation was sumptuous but the kitchen of the parador was being refitted and we were farmed out to a restaurant on the waterside where Shan had her second paella, this time in appropriate surroundings. I'm not sure we were aware how vast and sparse, and sometimes featureless, parts of France can be. We set off from Hondaribbia after a latish gosaria[8] and were almost immediately in France at Hendaye and aiming for Oléron. Why Oléron? With zero knowledge of that bit of France it seemed like a fun/romantic idea to visit a French island and this one had a long bridge from the mainland. Our island was approximately 5 hours away via Bordeaux, which we bypassed 3 hours later. It would be safe to say that Oléron was not a high point in our 1983 tour of Europe. It was dingy and stank of oyster beds (in fairness some of the best in the world) and the people were unimpressed by our halting Franglais. We found a bed for the night, grabbed some food and headed off for Bretagne (Brittany). A long drive with a destination featuring many places of interest including parts of the German WW2 sea "wall" of defences. We'd hoped to be able to stop for lunch in some town or village along the way. The "way" we'd chosen was the A83, which bypassed towns. About three hours up the road and Shan was beginning to feel a tad peckish. I tried to reassure her that there'd be somewhere to stop soon but the peckishness was increasing exponentially every 10 minutes. Eventually we saw signs for Nantes. This was a city of a decent size and I had visions of a cornucopia of French cafes and restaurants. How foolish can one be? Especially as it was a Sunday. Eventually we came to what was probably the city centre and what appeared to be a large food market. The relief was tangible ... until what was rather a large market turned out to be only open for fish on that day. Raw fish. My dear (newish) wife threw a hissy fit. We'd discovered a fundamental difference between us. Whereas I could go for hours staving off hunger, Shan would have a chemical reaction. We needed to exit Dodge. We eventually found a small shop alongside the road that sold bread. As far as food went, only bread. A big round loaf with an all but impenetrable crust. Thankfully we did have a rather blunt knife purchased in Luxembourg for picnics that never really happened. Desperation prevailed and Shan's hunger was staved off for a while. We only had another 3-4 hours to travel to our hotel with a splendid sea view in Crozon/Morgat. And then we were off to the gun emplacements on the Brittany coast. Above (l-r, top-bottom): the monochrome pictures of the emplacements themselves (x3) seemed appropriate as a counter to the emerald sea in the cove below; Morgat beach from our hotel window; Saint-Malo and Grand Bé from Dinard Plage and from St Malo itself. After the rather macabre experience of the German WW2 bunkers and gun emplacements we resolved to push the boat out a little and stay in a comfy hotel in St Malo Intra Muros (inner city) after traversing most of Brittany East to West and then West to East. We ate out at a buzzing little restaurant in the city wall, starting out with bigorneaux (periwinkles) in their shells and in a huge bowl. We'd probably have still been sitting there in the morning had we determined to finish off the bowl with the fiddly process of removing the mollusc with a barbed pin. It was one of the very few times we failed to finish a dish. We were then introduced to coquilles Saint-Jacques like we'd never had before. We'd been used to our cockles being smothered in cheese and served in a large shell but these had a far more subtle sauce and were finished off with breadcrumbs soaked in wine and then toasted into a crisp crust. Exquisite. Apparently Mademoiselle, our server, was rather attractive and I had welcomed her visits to our table with excessive alacrity. I might debate this but it was too long ago and Madame's memory is better than mine. What is not up for debate is that Madame (having finished her coquilles) stormed off around the very real battlements of the city with yours truly a little way behind, having had to settle l'addition before setting off. It was raining and I was minded of Emily Brontë. It would have been a bedraggled pair that finally kissed and made up. Above (l-r, top-bottom): approaching Mont Saint-Michel x3; Versailles (x2). A short journey took us out of Brittany and into Normandy to take a took at Mont Saint-Michel, which is pretty remarkable and does raise questions about its possible relationship with St Michael's Mount in Cornwall, separated by just 200 miles as the crow flies. The comparison is a little complicated but intriguing. Both appear to have entertained religious activity since the 8th Century. Major construction on the French site took place between the 11th and 15th centuries whereas the major Cornish edifices appear to have been constructed between the 12th and 15th. By the time of the Norman Conquest in 1066, the St Michael's Mount island had come into the possession of the Benedictine abbey of Mont St Michel in Normandy. So, there is quite a parallel path ... Our last "must do" on mainland Europe was to visit the Palace of Versailles and the Baroque-style Hall of Mirrors and sweeping gardens, after which we had to hotfoot it to central Paris to return our trusty red Fiesta. We hadn't bargained on a death defying stretch on the notorious Peripherique but we managed. We never did manage to clean the molten butter off the footwell carpet. Happily the rental company didn't seem concerned. The next morning it was the train to Calais to catch the return hover. After the hair-raising outward journey this one was as smooth as a board and took around about half the time. Definitely less bovver on the hover. Above (l-r, top-bottom): Outside Phil and Ali Duff's cottage in Boar's Hill, Oxford; a couple of views of Oxford and its surroundings from the tower of University Church of St Mary the Virgin; Shan's cousin Charles Murland. A couple more trains later and we were at Oxford Station where we stayed briefly with the newlyweds from Shropshire, now ensconced in their pretty cottage in Boars Hill. Phil spent a day taking us around the city and its surroundings which started a love affair with Oxfordshire that has persisted for 43 years. Our last bit of excitement was finally meeting Shan's legendary cousin, Charles Murland. Charles treated us to a splendid lunch near his home in Knightsbridge. She had not met him before and we enthused about returning to see him before too long. And then it was the tube to Heathrow with all our luggage but we were young and strong unlike Charles who died not long afterwards. RIP Charles Murland. Coming Soon: The Greek sojourn we'd had to lop off the end of the more Western parts of Europe. Endnotes:
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