The blurb continues!

So, excuse my reticence – any opprobrium is deserved because it emanates from a man who has become (if possible) more feckless and hedonistic in his approach to the effluxion of time.

I write to you my copains from our little pied-a-terre in Marseille, an intriguing city, in more ways than one, on the fringe of inter alia Provence.  But more of that later; metaphorically speaking what has happened between drinks (apart from same)?

Let us return to our return to the old dart following our Caledonian pilgrimage.  We are at the simply wonderful Yorkshire Dales village of Carlton, indeed the simply wonderful Yorkshire Dales in its grand entirety.  Perhaps not your quintessential English countryside the people of the Cotswolds will sell you in an attempt to validate their desire to emulate the Ponsenby-Snape faux snobbery, but close.  The Yorkshire Dales is rolling hills, pretty dales, quaint villages and a seemingly charming country lifestyle.

It is horse racing territory where your old school esquire meets the bourgeois farmer meets the scroungers seeking to eke out a living by servicing the locals and tourists alike, just to be there.  The landscape vistas are a panorama of simple beauty!  The highlights being the Ingleton Waterfalls Trail, Malham Cove, Hardraw Force, Aysgarth Falls and, well, any sweep of the landscape.  We also meet some lovely and very hospitable locals and thoroughly enjoyed their company and a couple of tete-a-tetes at the local rub-a-dub-dub.  By the way, did I previously mention the country’s penchant for a narrow road?

Reluctantly we leave our quaint and comfortable accommodation with a feeling it is a place you could easily call home.  We head south-east, firstly for a one night stopover in a Suffolk town with the highlight being Chelsea’s loss in the Community Shield and then to the port town of Harwich to embark on a (not quite) Magellan like voyage to The Hoek of Holland.  We are necessitated to drop off the admirable triton (the beast of burden in the form of a Ford Mondeo) at that last bastion of corporate capitalism, Hertz.  Unfortunately this requires a trip to Ipswich where a seemingly simple transfer of 10 minutes to Manningtree and another of same to Harwich takes some 4 hours – lucky the boat didn’t sail until 10pm so we had time to burn (apparently that’s what happened to the railway infrastructure in the heatwave of 28 degrees).  And here’s me thinking only Melbourne had this crapulous excuse for providing a third world transport service.  Anyway, we all appreciated the adventure (and sense of what is real) and via an interesting pub in Parkeston we arrived at the Harwich wharf in plenty of time to board the Stena Hollandica.

De Boot!  Had visions of either a Poseidon Adventure style crossing with Sammy needing more Pringle boxes than otherwise available, or an African Queen like boat with a barrack-style poop deck for comfort and an unknown ETA because they have never actually completed the trip!  Wrong!  Like staying in a hotel that moved we floated across the flat, cheerful sea in comfort that afforded a good albeit brief night’s sleep in a well appointed private cabin.  A great way to travel overnight but I wonder if this satisfaction is duplicated every day on a lengthier cruise…

We arrive thus in The Netherlands at the Hoek of Holland; our destination a bus trip, a train trip, a tram trip and a walk to somewhere in Bos en Lommer Amsterdam.  I know the old man is Dutch but he never really passed on the nuances of the language and the words kroket, bier, snel and kapot only get you so far; as does a downloaded Google map!  Luckily I have my keen sense of direction and razor sharp wits about me as by some miracle we find the correct bus, platform at Schiedam station, our stop (Sloterdijk – one of the locals put me right on the pronunciation), tram (done by semaphore) and eventually our accommodation.

Let me say one thing about Amsterdam – they love a bike!  If we saw one we saw 15,000, and that was just at the train station (apparently 15,000 is also the quantity per annum pulled out of the canal system – wonder what the fishing is like).  Everyone, everywhere is riding a bike – if the Pushbike song was written in Amsterdam it would have 7,000 verses!  But…

what an amazing city that you have to see to appreciate.  We absolutely loved the place, and that was without even exploring the nooks and crannies of the red light district and the magic mushroom dens (estopped by Julie – she thought it was a Dutch word).  Saw the country villages of Edam, Volendam and Markem; a local market with the best ever krokets (Oma Bob’s) and fries bar none; and the tourist spots of the canals, the Rijksmuseum (a highlight) and the van Gogh museum.  Getting around the city (if you can avoid being mowed down by a seemingly disorganised but well drilled velocipede army whilst remembering these cheese-heads ride on the right side of the road) on public transport makes me think Melbourne’s system has not moved beyond the horse and cart.

I continued to work on the delivery of my four-word vocabulary whilst in Amsterdam and by the time we left I think the locals understood where I was coming from and what my basic requirements were!   In short, Amsterdam is great!

Who was it that said they ain’t got time to take a fast train?  Must have been aeons ago as the contraption we travelled to Paris on seemed to get there before we had left Amsterdam Centraal.

Gay Paree, the city of love (and of late the wafting smell of urine – Julie put it down to the of late lack of rain, I thought the 70cents to use the public ablutions was perhaps prohibitive to the people in most need).  How to get from Gare du Nord to Les Gobelins without meeting anyone who understood my excellent French with accompanying hand movements?  Easy, operational from around 1900 and though with some 300 stations the Paris underground is intuitive to use (though requiring a strong opposition to gag reflex – refer to previous comment re micturition).  Also, I will point out here Rue Ted is not a roadway found anywhere in Paris.  Our billet is spacious and comfortable albeit requiring the ascension of five floors of stairs; this is first class Paris apartment living!

For fear of sounding like a bucket-lister, the Eiffel Tower is simply gobsmacking – like probably a few sites/sights around the world (I can name Uluru) you simply cannot draw your eyes away from it!  I think it makes Paris, Paris, more than anything else by a very, very long way.  It is one of those places where you can easily ignore the crowds and imbibe it’s spectacle in your own way (by climbing or otherwise).  Enough said!

Being the kind hearted soul she is Julie thought the boys would enjoy a day at Paris Disneyland and had booked tickets months ago (yes, people actually go there).  After I recalled we still had the boys in tow I was in charge of getting us outside the metro system to Marne la Vallée Chessy (apparently it is not a second rate horse racing facility).  Fumbling around on the google machine (it translates every fourth word) but again using my excellent French I managed to identify some service disruptions but a useable workaround.  Wasn’t sure what to expect but I must confess to thoroughly enjoying the day (even after my near Sammy experience on the first roller coaster that left me feeling like Vic Toweel after a round with Jimmy Carruthers)!  What a wonderful place for young and old (just don’t attempt the hyper-space ride – still feeling the effects a week later).

Other stuff.

Whilst standing in front of the Arc de Triomphe Sammy asked (I initially thought facetiously) “so where is this Arch of Triumph?”.  A boy not well versed in linguistics, history or geography I can forgive him this obvious sense of being underwhelmed.  Whilst grand and significant, l’arc and the Champs-Eylsees need to get over themselves (and the mass of somewhat mindless pilgrims to these tired “must see, must do’s”).  Plenty of other spots around Paris deserving of sharing the accolades apparently only reserved for the chosen.

Whilst being “chosen” the Notre Dame is an impressive edifice (we didn’t go inside as there were some 200,000 people in the queue ahead of us).  I was happy to admire the grandeur from outside and respect those that were there to pay what form of homage was required at that moment.

Far be it for me to interpret Warren Zevon I was left with the impression the Louvre ain’t that pretty at all!  Harsh?  Some of you will have been there and formed your own opinion; some of you will go there in the future and form an opinion and some of you will never get there.  Like the bum-hole analogy, this is only my opinion and should not be used to influence either the second or third categories mentioned.  Firstly, these blokes should take a lesson from the Rijksmuseum and moderate the numbers allowed entry (I have a theory on who should be debarred but this is not the forum for that).  Second, if these blokes need the money or are just greedy they should organise the traffic flow and customise the audio guide around the more popular exhibits (turns out your average garden variety art lover thinks there is only three there, so it should be easy).  To be fair, once you move away from the cafes, foyer showing the glass triangle above and the Mona Lisa (in that order) the museum can be enjoyed in relative peace (the audio guide is still a piece of dung).

The other thing that detracted from the visit, and perhaps overly influencing my mood, was the temporary closure of the rooms displaying Rembrandt, Rubens and Vermeer.  Nevertheless, a disappointment bordering on a waste of time; indeed the views of the grandiose building from the outside were more pleasurable.

Apart from the above we ambled around a hot and dry Paris to view the wide impressive Boulevards, the tranquil Seine, les Jardins and the Latin quarter, whilst eating pastries, cheeses and drinking second rate beer.  Thanks to Julie rising early we were also able to visit the fascinating catacombs to see the old underground quarries and mass ossuary (no dogs allowed) without having to queue for four hours.

There is nothing inherently wrong with Paris and a visit is definitely a must-do on, at least a first, European visit but as I mentioned it needs the Eiffel Tower!  Also mentioned to a few locals that they aren’t the first and won’t be the last average side to win a World Cup.

We boldly head south to Marseille and it is here I find myself sharing my stream of consciousness with you.

Put simply, Marseille is a hot bed of iniquity heaving with locals and summer tourists alike.  We stay in the centre of town not far from the port and, like Amsterdam, absolutely loved the place.  I remember reading a travel book on France some months ago and was slightly worried when Marseille failed to rate an entry, let alone a mention.  Okay the beaches aren’t great but the atmosphere and coastal scenery are amazing; it’s low-brow south of France and a veritable melting pot of different cultures but it’s real and it works!

Toured the picturesque Calanques National Park on e-bike and took the waters of the Mediterranean to soothe our weary legs.  Also took the petit train from the port, up the hill to the impressive Notre Dam that overlooks the city and coast – worth it just for the view.