The Grand Canyon - Blue Mountains N.S.W.

I’d viewed a photograph once, a lovely panorama of the Nepalese foothills, and in the caption it cautioned to always look back when you have a camera because you see things differently, which goes to explain I guess why I always like to walk a scenic trail both ways.  That, and the fact that I’d lost my previous set of pictures of the Grand Canyon in a computer glitch, led me to the Neates Glen carpark once again.

                                     

Low cloud and fog had delayed my departure and I didn’t set out till 2.30 on the trail.  I was only 15 minutes down when I realised I’d left my tripod trackside while taking my first batch of shots and had to spend another quarter of an hour retrieving it.

     

Off the escarpment and into the slot canyon, suddenly surrounded by ferns and hearing the sound of water instead of the rustle of open woodland.  It never ceases to surprise me just how quick the vegetation changes; in the space of 50 metres it’s a whole new world.

Trundling down through Neates Glen, passing waterfalls and gazing down the ever deepening slot canyon my pleasure levels rose.  I reached the spot where the canyoners abseil out of sight, suspended only by a rope affixed to three bolts embedded in the rock, and then, just a few minutes later, sixteen of them came walking back from their excursion, understandably a little wet still.  I didn’t envy them but would love to get into some of the places just to take some pictures.

                                     

On I strode, up and down stairs and beside streamlets, dreaming of a place I call the shower.  I’d tried to photograph it every time I’d been here and managed to not get it right; hopefully today would be my day.

                           

It’s a curtain of water that seeps from an overhang in the section where you have to criss-cross the river several times; often losing the trail momentarily because, when the river is running as it was today, there are no markers to guide you, just a worn track on the other side and it’s not always visible. 

                       

I was also constantly shocked by the damage the recent weather had wrought; trees falling as the moist soil no longer supported their shallow roots and they’d crashed down in numerous places, taking other smaller ones with them and smashing track railing in one spot.  In others they’d formed log jams in the river and altered its course.

                                                 

And there it was, just up ahead, that mystic beam of watery light dancing off the shelf past drooping ferns and into the swollen stream.  The overcast sky was just perfect for pictures and I snapped off half a dozen before moving on to the turn where you can either descend into Grose Valley or head back up to the plateau. 

It pays to wear waterproof shoes because the crossings involve splashing in shallow water on numerous occasions; it’s no place to be if you’re unsteady on your feet. 

                                       

Climbing out I wondered why I had bothered to bring all my macro gear until I spotted a cluster of fungi in a narrow gap in a tree and spent the next ten minutes just trying to set up the tripod and get a focus before I even took the first couple of shots that were totally useless though eventually I managed a couple after another five minutes.  At times photography can test your patience!

                                           

By the time I reached Evans Lookout I had taken two hours over the 2 ½  the walk is supposed to take but emerged smiling, knowing that at last I’d had a good day with the camera.

Looking for Rock Dolls - Gorge du Tarn, France

“Just 10 minutes down the road”, he said, indicating walking time with his fingers.  He came back minutes later and said, “Maybe 20”.  Our waiter was very helpful, always trying to please with a wan smile on his face but his command of English was about as good as mine is of s the French tongue so sign language was often employed.

“Just follow the river”, he managed to blurt out.  Excellent I thought, the chateau I sought was just down the road. 

Next morning, with my adrenalin rushing out of control, I stepped out into yet another crap day.  There are only two kinds of weather in France, raining or windy.....actually, make that three, sometimes it’s windy and raining.  Today was such a day.

I walked past the car a short distance and thought I might go part of the way with it so I returned and drove.  Drove a surprising distance until I got to a dirt, sorry, mud, carpark and pulled up.

There was a sign I’d dreamt of indicating Roquedols, the reported ruin of a chateau that I wanted to see.  I looked down the road at a farm house, obviously not it, and turned onto the trail that led uphill, steeply uphill until I came to yet another carpark with a Roquedols sign and a road with a gateway that was open.  I headed off, light of foot, checking the time.

In addition to our waiter, I’d also read somewhere that it was 40 minutes and had a picture in my mind of a zig-zag road up a hill.  This must be it; so I splashed on my way until I had to ford a stream that was running across the roadway.  I was well over 10 minutes by now and carried on in the misty rain; carried on for another half hour, frightening some local deer before I finally reached the conclusion that maybe this wasn’t it after all.

So I turned around, disconsolate at not having achieved my goal.  Two thirds of the way back I stepped off onto a narrow well worn side path that I thought might offer a photo opportunity or two.  I had walked but a few hundred metres when there, almost hidden by the shroud of dampness, was the chateau.  It transpired that the “farm house” I’d seen earlier was an outhouse of the chateau and I had parked, unknowingly, just 300 metres from the front gate!

After breakfast I took the girls there before we climbed the road to Dargilan, a highly rated cave system not far from Meyrueis.  Quite apart from what turned out to be a memorable limestone cave taking nearly 90 minutes to tour, the view from the site was also yet another fabulous vista down the Jonte Gorge.

Across the canyon was a mysterious ruin set beside a cave at the base of a sheer cliff.  We imagined someone living there staying awake all night waiting for rocks to fall; extraordinary.

Then it was off to Peyreleau, quite the cleanest and well maintained village I’d seen in all of France.  Every dwelling was spick and span and I took much joy wandering the narrow lanes that seemingly wanted to try all directions in a random manner; no doubt dictated by the solid rock they were built on.

Then it was time to drop Cheryl off on the train that looked remarkably like a bus and went on the road.  Apparently the service to Montpellier isn’t that well patronized out of Millau so they've substituted a coach.

Perhaps not surprisingly, no sooner had we waved goodbye than the weather started to improve.  In fact it turned into the best afternoon all trip.  Cloud breaking up, big patches of blue, it was almost like spring.  Shame it had taken three weeks to happen.  I knew we shouldn’t have had a Victorian along for the trip, they always bring their weather with them.

We drove home back along the Dourbie Gorge.  All gorges are named after the river that cut them and they all flow into the Tarn making the system one of the most dramatic on the planet.

The Dourbie was no exception and we never tired of seeing stunningly sited villages perched on cliffs or against sheer rock faces or raging rivers beneath us.  The prize winner though was a house built, literally, on the riverside.  It even has its own place name, Le Moulin de Corp.  We stood on an ancient stone bridge beside it (you have to walk through their backyard to get to the bridge) and marvelled at the volume of water constantly rushing past the foundation brickwork.  Still can’t work out how they waterproof it.

LE PETIT JAUNE

                                        A LITTLE TRAIN RIDE

Le Petite Jaune (the little yellow) is a tourist train that I’d like to say huffs and puffs its way into the Pyrenees, except it’s electric, from a place called Villefranche de Conflent, itself a special place with fortifications started back in the 11^th century and enlarged over the years.  However, it was vulnerable so Fort Liberia was erected high (734 steps up) on the side of the steep canyon in 1679 to overlook the situation when Vauban was in charge.

Villefranche reeks of authenticity and its narrow streets, once the province of tradesmen, today house craft and tourist shops with the odd restaurant.

We were there for the train ride though and the anticipation built during our half hour wait for the train that leaves at odd times about every hour.  Once on board the three carriage affair we moved slowly out of Villefranche, deeper into the gorge cut by the river Tet, a rushing torrent that was never out of sight until near the end of our trip.

The catabatic wind whistled down the gap, bending branches here and there and introducing the chill from the snows on high.  We photographers who braved the elements on the balcony outside may have gotten better photographs but had to pay a price.

All the way to Villefranche in the car and during the early stages of the train trip the supreme snow-capped peak of Le Canigou rose majestically skywards making it easy to understand why the locals hold it in such reverence.  At every slight gap in the canyon walls, there it stood, clouds gathering as if to pay it homage while the spring thaw drained its mantle of snow to expose its lower slopes.

After well over an hour we reached the ski resort of St. Louis where the man behind the desk at our timeshare had advised us to alight.  There’s nothing to eat there, no coffee, no alcohol, despite a steady stream of tourists.  The train goes on further but he had said it was just “more of the same”. 

The wind didn’t do us any favours except make the air clear during our 45 minute stay there; just enough time for a short walk and then back to the station where we attacked the snack and drink dispenser with gusto.

On the return journey two of us were nodding off, a reflection on the fact that we exhaust ourselves every day, wanting to extract every last morsel from the plate of our holiday, never getting back to the accommodation before 10.00 p.m. and often after 11.

We savoured Villefranche and the lovely quirky shops, 12^th century bridge and ramparts before leaving for lunch by the sea, the first time we’d seen the Mediterranean this trip.

The plethora of medium rise apartment blocks, the coarse sand and the lack of surf meant it was awaiting the summer holiday season when you would be lucky to find a plot of sand to put your towel on.

We dined at a restaurant that night at Canet Plage that was run by a guy from the tiny Caribbean island of St. Martins.  He and his wife had split and she’d moved back to Perpignan but his son kept ringing him so he came to France and bought the cafe.

Another day had passed.

A holiday in France

BETWEEN HEAVEN AND HELL

We’d packed up and were organized, even managing time to take pictures of our hosts, the effervescent Mary-Rose and the unflappable ex-eye doctor George, in their pleasant garden.

Mary-Rose had lost her number one ranking on tripadvisor and was continually stressing out about that fact because her one low ranking was written by a New Yorker who’d never actually stayed there.  Apparently the American had not been able to pay a deposit and Mary-Rose had booked someone else.

Mary-Rose was pleading with us to rank her highly even as we lurched out the gate with our suitcases to catch a cab to the airport to get our rental car.

We found our rental car place but no-one was there so I raced off to another location 15 minutes away but was told to go back, someone would be there.  Imagine my shock when not only was there no attendant, but Rosemarie, Cheryl and the luggage were all in absentia.

Then I saw someone heading underground down a chute into a well lit space so I followed.  Lo and behold, there was the desk, the girls and the luggage.

Only half an hour lost, not to worry, get the keys to the Citroen Picasso and we were on our way........except, that is, for the GPS.  My Garmin, that I’d spent a reasonable sum on downloading European maps, wouldn’t work out of the Citroen’s cigarette lighter point.

So I went and had spit at the hire car counter and, after I calmed down, they very kindly offered me one for nothing.  I was pleased until I tried to type in the address and found the lower row of keys didn’t work; well, not in the car anyway, because when I took it back to the counter it worked fine.

I returned to the car and it wouldn’t work again, despite everyone trying it so it was back to the counter once for the same result.  Eventually, after wearing a path up and down the chute I got the girl to come and try it in the car.  Amazingly, it didn’t work for her either.  No-one has any idea why this should be so but she kindly replaced it and, one and a half hours late, we finally started moving...well, that was after we got the handbrake off.  You see, Citroen have found some weird way of making it electronic and putting a button on the dash and you have to have everything in the right order before it releases.  That only took us five minutes.

Paris was surprisingly busy with traffic because it was Sunday and we wasted more time bypassing a minor accident and other traffic snarls before finally reaching the flat verdant countryside, interspersed here and there with sparkling yellow fields of canola.

The miles drifted by in smooth comfort and we managed a food stop with ease, sampling some local cooked ham that was delicious before stepping out again into the freezing cold of spring.  Don’t believe me?  Minutes later we had a flurry of snow on the windscreen.

I turned off the motorway, aiming for Flavigny, an historic village but, en route, just 8 kilometres short, we stumbled on something even better.  A ruin of a town lay before us; across the river were two crumbling towers that would have been condemned in Australia.  A frightening vertical crack had split the brickwork apart and the demise of the towers seemed imminent yet they stood, albeit with warning signs attached.

The rest of the buildings seemed in various states of decay as we braved the freezing conditions to see these ruins.  I was in photography heaven except the light, what little there was of it, barely made it through the European haze.

It was about this time we lost Cheryl.  Rosemarie was ill attired for the conditions and required more clothing from the car but, as we turned around and recrossed the Pont Joly, Cheryl was nowhere to be seen.  We walked back to the car and got the extra layers and then moved the car across to the main part of the town in an obscure carpark.  Still no Cheryl.

We made our way to the main square but Rosemarie was desperate for coffee....actually, anything warm would have done, while I went searching for Cheryl.  In and out of alleys, stumbling over cobblestones, gazing across the river but Cheryl was nowhere to be found.

I knew I’d have to return to where the car was parked and could almost see the exact spot from where I stood but she wasn’t there.  Eventually I walked all the way back anyway, just to be sure and, lo and behold, there was Cheryl on the other side of the street, stressed out as she had never been before on a holiday; her only comfort was that she knew I always returned to where we’d last seen each other.

The relief on her face was palpable and she vowed never to stray with her camera again but, truth be known, both parties were at fault.  But now it was all rejoicing as we enjoyed our repast in the cafe and recklessly attacked a lemon crepe.

The town, Semur-en-Auxois, was actually on my list of things-to-see, so when I was offered a half hour free while the girls finished their chatting, I bolted out of the cafe and was away, the rugged architecture of this ancient town unfolding before me in a wondrous variety of angles, antique ironmongery, bas reliefs, half timbered shops, wonky tiles and unkempt cobbles.

“The people of Semur take great pleasure in meeting strangers.”  This wonderful sentiment, inscribed in 1552 on an archway leading to the oldest part of the village, purportedly emphasizes the attitude of the residents of Semur-en-Auxois.  The city itself was incorporated in the Duchy of Burgundy in 1050.

Narrow lanes curved here and there and well worn staircases twisted in seemingly ridiculous directions until you saw the even more ridiculous situation of some of the houses.  It was all centred around the river though, and charming brick bridges forded the stream but, in the distance, a towering viaduct type structure that spanned the river Armancon seemed at odds with their profile and drew my attention.

The icy wind hurried me along as I sought an optimum viewpoint but failed to take the warmth out of my enthusiasm for the task.  Every ten metres another aspect emerged, colours flaunting themselves before my eyes, emerging from gardens or draped over walls until it was sadly time to return to the car.  I marked this as a place to one day make another pilgrimage to when the weather afforded a kinder face than I was experiencing.

So we pushed on to Flavigny, the original village I’d meant to visit but we only had a couple of minutes here before we decided to head for Dijon and our accommodation for the night.  Unfortunately we misunderstood “Miss Direction”, our GPS, and took a wrong turn but we got to see some countryside that hardly any tourists ever get to see before we got on track again.

It was dusk when we arrived and booked in and night had arrived by the time we left for town to have some dinner and parked in an underground carpark.  The bitter wind was relentless as we searched for a restaurant that was open and were glad to get inside the first one we encountered.

In transpired that English was a bit of a problem here but the ever so happy waiter did his best and his constant smile seemed to overcome the language barriers.  The girls ordered a beef dish while I went with the duck.  While they thoroughly enjoyed theirs the duck was appalling, putting up a determined effort not to be scarred by the knife I continually drew across it.  “Tough” was a word I used many times with selected adjectives until I finally gave up half way through the repast.

Not only that, they didn’t have hot chocolate which was another disappointment.  At least we’d put something in our stomachs though and so we headed off to get the car.  As we rounded the corner and looked down into the bowels of the carpark it was hard not to notice the metal shutter screens blocking the entry and exit.

In the cold reality of a freezing night, we wouldn’t be able to get our car out it seemed, so we went off searching for a cab, despite Rosemarie constantly suggesting we get our restaurant to call us one.  Eventually we lucked out with a local driver who spoke not one word of English and, despite giving him the wrong address initially, sanity eventually prevailed and we made it home around 11 o’clock.  It had been awful on the streets of a town you don’t know trying to find a way home.  It was a night when we found that hell doesn’t have to be a hot place!