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| coast at Capo Cachia, North-west Sardinia |
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| ancient necropoli - 2500 - 3500 BC ner Alghero, Sardinia |
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| Machiato helps pack |
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| Bikes tied on |
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| Rosie says goodbye |
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| fishing in Calasetta |
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| the lovely ladies of Oristano |
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| sunbathing in Sardinia |
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| dinner in Calasetta |
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| lunch |
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| watching in Pula, Sardinia |
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| cats and mice do play in Cagliari |
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| they eat horses, don't they |
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.
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| the falconer in Noto |
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| the passiagata in Noto |
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| 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.
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| Rocco the dog at the villa |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| the ferry to Calabria |
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| 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.
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| 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...
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Sardinian flag depicting four Catalan pirates |
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| flamingo! |
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| boat at Calasetta |
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| Maggie in the sunflowers |
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| Mick on the goat track |
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| Des and Mick celebrating a 121km ride |
Some more about where we have ridden, how far, and when.
Monday June 16: Neustadt to Wissembourg (in France) along the Weinstrasse. A fantastic day's ride, if a trifle exhausting, as we climbed more than 900 metres over the 65kms dipping in and out of picturesque villages. Our climbing legs, except for Garis of course, were strained by the last of the 17 or 18 hills. Weinguts and Weinstubes provided lots of choice for tasting different wines and enjoying lunch, not that we did either. Stupid, in retrospect. If you decide to ride this route, take in the entire 120kms or so and do it over three days. Great signage and surface.
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| a village along the Weinstrasse |
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| Storks nesting |
Tuesday June 17: Wissembourg to Rastatt (back in Germany). Quiet roads and paths through woods and farmland for 50kms of flat riding. Some gravel, benign quality, and a ferry crossing. At one point we riding on the Rhein embankment, it appeared as if it had snowed, such was the cover of cottonwood (poplar) floss. We stayed in a former convent in Rastatt, quiet, beautiful and roomy.
Wednesday June 18: Rastatt to Strasbourg then onto Colmar via train. A beautiful day's ride of about 65kms along the Rhein through woods and along quiet roads into Strasbourg, which is home to a mammoth cathedral.
A break in proceedings which included a 55km loop ride from Farges-les-Chalons to St Leger-sur-Dheue along the Canal de Centre.
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| along the Canal |
Sunday June 22: Farges-les-Chalons to Macon Sud. We set off finding la Saone at Chalon-sur-Saone, then through farm and woodlands along a former rail line to Cluny where we had lunch. Then the climbing began - short and sharp - to reach the Tunnel de Bois Clair, 1.6kms in length and home to bats and other animals, not that we saw any. The 85+ day finished with a bit of totuous navigation to locate our hotel on the outskrts of Macon, a veritable desert where our only dinner choice was the Buffalo Grill. Suffice to say, Texas is better. Actually, anything is better.
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| Garis emerging from the Tunnel de Bois Clair |
Monday June 23: Macon Sud to Lyon. Our first drop of rain, not that it lasted very long, nor was it very fierce. We began the 75+ day on the Saone then diverted onto farm paths as the gravel along the Saone was NOT benign. In Trevaux we joined the Rhone. Garis' detour to avoid some of the gravel took us climbing and descending, paths so steep I chose to walk down. A highlight was stopping in a tiny village at a cafe that had been around for many a year, rutting donkeys out the back and a regular propping up the bar with his morning glass of rose. Riding into Lyon seemed to take forever as we clung to the banks of the Rhone.
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| morning tea with the regular |
Wednesday June 25: Lyon to Chanas. A difficult exit of 30kms to find ViaRhona, the bike route to take us to Marseille. Finding it was delicious relief, but no shade and tree roots made it less appealing but still enabled speeds of 30+kmph. An 80km day, ending up at another out-of-the-way hotel that managed to serve the worst meal we have eaten thus far. Ye, even worse than the Buffalo Grill.
Thursday June 26: Chanas to Ste-Peray. In contrast to the day before, the ViaRhona path was brilliant and we sailed along for 70kms with a tail wind through shady groves and farmland hugging the Rhone until Valence. Ste-Peray, a short ride across the river, is a small village and shopping area. We dined outside in the lee of a rocky hill topped with an ancient castle. Swam in the municipal pool with our bathing caps purchased from Decathalon nearby, regulation wear in French pools.
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| bicycle police in Valence |
Friday June 27: Ste-Peray to Suze la Russe. A personal best day for all - Barb and Maggie notching up 109kms and Des and Mick doing a staggering 121kms. I drove and missed the action, shopping at the village market and plunging into the hotel pool instead. The first of the sunflowers and lavender fields adjacent to a nuclear power station, a sustained climb after lunch, good and rough paths, farmland with tractors - Des and Mick's favourites, a bash through wheat fields, and a hot afternoon. I take my hat off to them!
Some choice pics
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