THE 2014 EUROPEAN BIKE RIDING AWARDS

 

As you know, traveling through countries other than your own, whether it be by bike or more conventional means, brings inevitable comparisons with one's homeland to the forefront. In my experience, the more one travels, the less comparisons are made about objects - think public transport, rubbish collection, the price of this and that - with more focus on how locals go about their daily lives, what the politics of the day is doing to them, and how they respond. Which brings me to the first award, that of civil disobedience.

art protest, Strasbourg

Kurdish protest, Strasbourg

France, after all, would not be France, if the streets were not the stage for demonstrators to shout their cause and thrust their banners. On our arrival in Strasbourg, we were privy to two street demos - one about disappeared Kurds, the other about funding for a public arts space. Different protests, certainly different protestor demographics, standing and chanting only metres apart. And then of course the wildcat strike that left us stranded in Marseille because ferry operators needed to press their cause. Democracy at work. But in the home of democracy, Greece, even though beggars dot the streets of Athens, beds crafted from cardboard and old blankets and riot police with semi-automatic weapons line Syntygma Square, the people were not protesting anywhere about anything, except in private about the cuts to pensions, the high unemployment and the stagnation of the economy. Perhaps the Greek government's response over the last few years has left them too battered and too weary to indulge in the street politics that brought death and depression to their country. But despite all this, the Greeks win hands down for food.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our best meals were had at a shabby but spotlessly clean taverna perched above a stony beach at Charamida on the south coast of Lesbos. Grandma in the kitchen, grandpa clearing tables, son serving and daughter-in-law taking orders, while Maria the curly-haired four year-old treated us to winning smiles. Grandma's cooking is sublime. Delicately stuffed zucchini flowers, tzaziki zesty with herbs, baked stuffed eggplants, hand-made fish croquettes, salads and more, glorious more. No dish more than five euros. Cold Fix beer served in iced glasses, complimentary watermelon to cleanse the palate, and even more surprising, passable wine and ouzo. (Grandma asked us to take her to Australia. Her pension had been reduced to 400 euros a month. She would make a killing if the business licencing administration, food-handling and OH&S regs didn't get her first.)

Grandpa and young Maria in Taverna Charamida, Lesbos

On the topic of wine, the best - nothing else even came close - was the Nierstein riesling. What a drop. It is worth visiting this village just to sit in a shady Weingut courtyard and sip whatever the waiter suggests. You can of course wander the village, eat good Italian gelati beside the Rhein at Eis Morano, and fill the belly with a finely cooked schnitzel after a bike ride through the countryside.

tractors take guests on a wine tasting ride around Nierstein's 50 Weinguts

Of course Germany also wins the bike riding award. Beautiful vistas, well-marked paths, variations in gradient and surface enough to keep every rider happy regardless of experience and ability. Oh, she cries, why can't the rest of the world be like Germany. Zipping through woods, climbing hills on the Weinstrasse and zooming down into picture-book villages where a Konditorei or two might offer slabs of apple cake or black cherry tart. Perfect, as our friend Michael from Mannheim would say.

view over Heidleberg

Maggie and Barb on a woodland path

Why not France for the food, wine and bike riding awards I hear you ask. Well, we had our worst meal ever in France, an inedible mash of something purporting to be a fish pie served with a few scraggled leaves of wilted slimy lettuce. Wine - definitely good, but because our purchases were mainly supermarket-sourced, I guess it couldn't win on those grounds alone. And bike riding, even though it's the home of Le Tour and Phil Liggett always paints superb word pictures as the chopper flies low over picturesque landscapes, cannot win either. See my previous letter to M. Hollande. I need say no more.

But is does win the soft cheese and bread award. German bread is of course up there - thick and wholesome, sturdy and businesslike, but the French baguette reigns supreme. As do the creamy blues, the washed rinds and the hard chunks of unpasteurised dairy pleasure.

So what about poor old Italy? Tomatoes that taste like sweet bombs from heaven, so delectable that the palate cries out, 'More, more!' Great handmade pasta for sale that only needs a touch of oil, garlic and Grano Padano - sublime.

fresh pasta shop, Pula, Sardinia

Italy also wins the crowded, hot, inhospitable for pedestrians, riders and drivers village award. Where were the town planners when places were re-built after WWII? Not in Sardinia, and certainly not in Sicily. I'd like to think that the spatial relations skill of Italians is better developed as a result of squeezing through passages narrower than an average hallway, but the bashed in sides, fronts and backs of cars speaks otherwise. But road rage? Nowhere. Maybe the odd horn, but nothing shouted or threatened. Patience always won out.

On a similar theme, it is hard to decide on the recipient for the Acts of Random Kindness award. Several times in Italy strangers drove us, lead us, helped us, as they did in Greece. Germans were always smiling and helpful, as were the French. What beautiful manners. No abusing people on public transport because they cannot speak the language.

Nor is there any abuse meted out to our canine friends. But on balance, the street dogs in Greece seem to have it made. They may look unkempt, but they are well-fed by supporters and seem to find the coolest spots to stretch out and catch a nap. The Italian dogs were leaner and keener on packing and barking up an argument. Not so with the lumbering giants of Greece, great Collosi striding the doorways and cooling vents and laying beneath fans wherever they could be found.

Making the most of it, Lesbos

And so in summary:

Best Tomatoes: Italy

Best Wine: Germany

Best Bread: France

Best Cheese: France

Best Civil Disobedience: France

Best Meals: Greece

Best Street Dogs: Greece

And what we all came for, Best Bike Rides: Germany

 

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Sardinia in Pictures

coast at Capo Cachia, North-west Sardinia

 

 

 

ancient necropoli - 2500 - 3500 BC ner Alghero, Sardinia

Machiato helps pack

 

Bikes tied on

 

Rosie says goodbye

fishing in Calasetta

the lovely ladies of Oristano

sunbathing in Sardinia

 

dinner in Calasetta

lunch

watching in Pula, Sardinia

 

cats and mice do play in Cagliari

they eat horses, don't they

 

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The three-legged island (as depicted on the flag)

 

In 1992 I sat on the Brindisi railway station and pondered whether to travel to Sicily or Rome. It was my first time in Italy, and although Sicily called wantonly, Rome won, simply because the train to Sicily wasn't due to depart for some time whereas a train heading north was leaving within the half hour. An easy decision. And so it took another couple of decades before I finally visited the southern island. I don't know what it would have treated me to back then. But I can tell you a little about Sicily today, or at least a small corner in the south-east, from the perspective of a disappointed bike rider. It is no accident that eighteen men riding in the 2014 Tour de France, including the yellow jersey rider Nibali, hail from Sicily. Anyone who can cope with extreme heat, skinny roads, erratic drivers, scenery consisting of endless olive and citrus groves and weeds and household rubbish, and the violent rises and dips of the island's mountains, is certainly made of stern stuff. Much sterner than me and my riding buddies. And so it is with regret that our bikes have left us, bound for Istanbul and London to be picked up prior to departure and carried home on a plane, which hopefully will not fly over the Ukraine, but that's another story altogether as I know you know.

Arriving in Palermo we just kept driving until we found somewhere that did not hem us in. The density, ugliness and relentlessness of Palermo and Catania kept us moving. A stop at the pretty Fontane Bianche on the shore failed to yield accommodation, Siracusa looked too fearful to even attempt to enter, and Ragusa and Modica, UNESCO cities, were to be kept for a day of relaxing sightseeing. And so, that is why we ended up in was Noto, a baroque city in the south-east.

the falconer in Noto

the passiagata in Noto

strolling bride and groom in Noto

Wide streets in the old city, honey coloured stone, some twenty churches and almost as many grand palazzos set the scene for an evening of graceful passiagata Italian style. A couple of brides with their grooms wandered along, personal papparazi snapping their moves and poses. Men and women, children, babies and dogs put on their finest and strolled the thoroughfare, stopping to purchase pastel gelati or a toy or a balloon from one of the many street vendors. Des was offered a falcon, but fortunately it was only for a moment or two. Musicians and a magician entertained for those wanting more than the passage of humanity to keep them interested. In short, a cornucopia of the best of Italian life.

Rocco the dog at the villa

beachside on the south of Sicily

Then to Avola and a villa almost impossible to find along the narrowest of country roads. A garden and a swimming pool to keep us cool, and comfortable beds. Our host offered her thirty-six year wedding anniversary glasses and pulled the cork from some passable Italian sparkling and we breathed out.

Sicily is poor. Dirt poor. The landscape is rugged, arid and inhospitable. People have clung to the land wherever they could, stone walls marking off tiny allotments which in the main are now weed beds. Dusty olives and citrus and disused greenhouses by the thousands, although somewhere the delicious Sicilian tomatoes must be grown. Men younger than me with few teeth in their heads set up a couple of boxes of grapes or tomatoes to sell. Other men sit around in the streets, smoking and talking. Kids do blockies on their bikes, that is if they haven't joined the ranks of the seriously overweight, something not seen to the same degree elsewhere.

volcanic stone cottage on the slopes of Mt Etna

Everywhere we went, the cry goes up from the locals, 'Sicilia is bella'. But we couldn't agree with much enthusiasm as for us, it was molto brutto and we couldn't wait to catch the ferry to Calabria.

the ferry to Calabria

 

 

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Eucalyptus and oleanders

 

Old port, Marseille

Leaving Marseille proved more difficult than expected as because striking French workers meant our ferry was cancelled. Hours later, we were booked on a ferry from Genoa and had purchased train tickets for three of us to travel the more than 400 kms there. Needless to say, our time in Marseille was not spent sightseeing, but hunched over various devices. Fortunately, we had an apartment with a view over the old port marina, home to billions of dollars worth of boats. Where does this wealth come from, we wondered. From exploiting the poor, of course, we answered.

Des getting in some riding in Marseille

We landed in Porto Torres, Sardinia's north-west port, and immediately set off for Alghero to begin biking the island. Garis, Barb and Mick rode the 30 kms to the house - Des and I lucked out as drivers in the early morning warmth, ducking along the narrow main road occasionally festooned with abundant white, cream and pink oleanders. On the road to Villa Stella Maris (where we had chosen to stay) stands of eucalypts were everywhere - lining the roadside, acting as wind breaks and as clumps in the once productive farm paddocks, now mostly abandoned. The villa, situated on eleven acres, sported a small olive plantation and orchard, outhouses for milking and keeping animals, and a large and airy house surrounded by a generous verandah, which we were grateful for on the almost 40 degree days. Gery and his family from Budapest ran the show, welcoming us with Hungarian pastries and grappa, and cooking us dinner on the first night, a feast of local foods and vegies from their garden. Of course, we all fell in love with Rosie and Machiatto. Well, perhaps not Garis...

Spiagge Bombarde, Alghero

And so the riding began. We started small, opting to ride into Alghero to do a few messages. Funnily enough, we never really got bigger. Heat was the first factor, followed by busy narrow roads, then more heat. Instead we opted for scenic drives and swimming in the warm Mediterranean waters - superb. We were introduced to Nuraghi, three thousand plus year-old stone villages built on the principle of a castle-fort - small in stature, and surrounded by small stone houses. An ancient necropolis of more than fifty tombs, irregularly shaped, as situated not far from the Villa. But it was the beaches which drew us in the end - refreshing Mediterranean waters and lots to look at, respite from the heat and winds. Needless to say, our bike riding ground to a halt.

Barb needs those calves in her new role as hairdresser

Setting off further south we determined a route through reportedly flamingo-dense wetlands, on towards the coast, circumnavigating a couple of islands and finishing at Pula. Umm. Towering mountains, cruel peaks, narrow roads everywhere we looked. As Robbie Burns wisely penned, 'the best laid plans of mice and men oft gang astray'. The roads were not ridable. The hills were not rolling, coming in at more than ten per cent gradient. The wetlands were not wet and there wasn't a flamingo in sight.

We stayed in Oristano for a night and re-planned - onwards to the southern island, Sant'Antiocco, and some local rides there perhaps. A fisherman's cottage in Calasetta, a beach directly below our home, local shops, a harbour with shipping and fishing to observe, and at last, a couple of rides. Not long, but do-able. A great few days. However, by this stage we tended to question the wisdom of our Italian riding choices, pondering the words of several women we chanced upon in Oristano who wondered why we would come from 'bella' Australia to 'brutto' Sardinia to do anything, let alone ride bikes.

A night in Pula being entertained by the locals in the square, and an afternoon in Cagliari awaiting our ferry to Sicily rounded out Sardinia. Great flag, friendly and hospitable people, good food and wine. But not a place for us to ride bikes. But we did get to see flamingos.

Sardinian flag depicting four Catalan pirates

flamingo!

 

boat at Calasetta

 

 

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Pictures Galore

 

Maggie in the sunflowers

 

Mick on the goat track

 

Des and Mick celebrating a 121km ride

 

 

 

 

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