Adding a two week tour of a developing country to the end of 5 week itinerary was always going to have its moments. When we turned up for the meet and greet at the hotel in Casablanca. I realized I was old enough to be the mother of all of my co travellers. This made for a dynamic which was at times a little testy. So, this is Morocco part 1.
A comment on my arrival first of all. Casa Blanca airport is not as chaotic as some facilities in Europe. Secure with the knowledge i had paid for a transfer – once the suitcase was screened (again) I emerged into the bright Moroccan sun fully expecting someone to be holding up a card bearing my name. No one to be found – despite the best efforts of volunteers to assist. No help with the language barrier either . What was most concerning was having absolutely no phone service. No cheerful notice from Telstra telling me I had an active day pass. At least it was broad daylight – people everywhere. All other options exhausted, i decided to head back to the airport terminal and once close to the entrance , WhatsApp fired into action. My driver – where was I – what did I look like.
Just a word of advice to my fellow adventurers . Make sure you either have an eSIM or are within WiFi coverage of an airport precinct if you have a transfer booked . WhatsApp is the platform of choice pretty much everywhere and it works well. Especially with countries not covered by an international day pass. My trip notes advised a driver would display my name somehow but the communication had not passed this on to him.
So luggage loaded and first impressions of Morocco as it’s quite a drive to the hotel. Once formalities were completed, the meeting with our chief expedition officer was underway. I manhandled the stuff upstairs made a bee line to the meeting room where I met Yusuf, our CEO, and my travel companions, Dakota from Chicago, Kim from Calgary, and Manisha… Indian born, but now lives in Vancouver.
These briefings are much the same across companies. The punters are prepped on the amazing experiences that await us. Followed by the first night dinner – which we pay for. After a long travel day , I wasn’t mentally or physically up to walking the streets – however amazing the food .Instead a delicious tagine dinner at the hotel bar.
So day 2/1 and the luggage stowed – with only 4 on the bus plenty of room t0 spread. Canadian Kim had already shared her migraine susceptibility and it seemed the back seat was her domain given her claiming it most of the time .She seemed to suffer from a migraine every other day. Our first stop was in Tangier, where the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea collide.
We enjoyed a guided tour of the old city and its Medina, with our guide Abia.
Tangier
Back on the bus to Cheffchaouen or the Blue City for the first night on the road,
Some locals…….
It’s not hard to see why its called the Blue city
On the way to Chefchaouen, our talk turned to hotels. We were booked into the Madrid hotel, a cousin I am sure to the infamous Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. The chaotic entry to Chefchaouen involving navigating all manner of livestock and machinery. Our hotel was perched precariously on a bend in the main thoroughfare where an army of handsome young strong men emerged to help with the luggage. The colour scheme for my room – all shades of green. The hot water was dodgy, the view over the street always entertaining, teeming with noise until well after midnight. Hotel choices for tour groups such as this are selected for the experience , the nightly tariff modest.
My rather green room and the colourful foyer of the Madrid Hotel.
So that first afternoon involved a quick tour of the Medina with Yousef and a drink at a pub! The second day offered a hike. I would have joined happily but research indicated the terrain might not be as kind as the travel notes suggested. Manisha was up for the hike – she climbs mountains and is half my age. So time for my very first Hammam, a Moroccan bathing ritual whereby you are exfoliated and scrubbed in a hot steamy room . Then a massage – lovely. The final component – a compulsory cup of mint tea.
The tour notes that day recommended a climb up stairs and a track to the Spanish mosque to watch the sunset. Kim,who had been in bed all day with a migraine ,and Manisha who had successfully completed her morning hike, joined me and we made our way up the mountain side along with a large crowd, young and old.
The actual sunset was somewhat of a non event. “ Is that all there is?” Manisha commented. Afraid so .
The Spanish Mosque for a ho hum sunset.
I think it was on that walk to the Spanish mosque that really made me realize how little Moroccans, generally speaking, respect their environment. I honestly don’t think they see the sea of plastic that proliferates quite literally everywhere. With so many iconic attractions in this North African country listed as world heritage, there must surely be a way in which authorities can do something. That evening , I raised the issue with some G Adventures CEOs and a nice young man who apparently was quite important. He promised me action was possible. I wonder……..
Mona, Redwin, and the guy who promises to do something about the rubbish.
The bit about getting to Verona has had some coverage in the train story . So no further repetition needed! Save a sigh of relief once deposited on the platform. The taxi fare was reasonable , although it’s only a couple of k at the most – 10 euro. I am amazed to learn my apartment had once been home to lords and ladies in the 14th century. Hence its name – Residence Palazzo Negri – right in the heart of the historic pedestrian precinct . This of course means teeming with visitors – the ever present tour groups following their leader with the flag aloft.
Having checked in , and the suitcase deposited, I decided to hit the streets and find out just what a sunny August afternoon in Verona offered. Round the corner to Piazza Bra – a huge expanse right in front of the equally impressive Arena Verona . One entire side of the Piazza taken up with wall to wall restaurants where throngs of holiday makers do the menu rounds. I love people watching – so just the place to stop and make my selection from about 10 variations of Spritz listed and watch the world go by .
Most important job – to find the supermarket – the fridge in my apartment needed stocking . Note to others , Aldi is strategically located on the other side of the arena , just outside the Citta Antica. The ladies from my ‘residence ‘ had given me a couple of names neither of which were Aldi but finding one was not hard . However, my return journey turned into one of my ‘lost in Verona ‘ moments of which there were a few .
Getting lost in Verona is easy , so a word of advice for travellers – telecommunication is great, and most of the time it works really well. For some unknown reason, maybe the limited connectivity in the mountains impacted on the capacity or the network availability. I was fully expecting the Telstra Day Pass to kick in upon arrival in Verona but this turned out not to be without some help. I only realised the problem when I pulled out the phone to navigate back to Residenza Palazzo Negri from the grocery store .
In Santa Cristina I had no network other than Wi-Fi. I had not bothered with an e-sim at that point, largely due to my ignorance in that department. As I later learned , all it takes is downloading an app, making payment , and you are as they say ‘good to go’.
With some off line coverage by Google Maps, not Apple Maps, I finally find my residence . The streets in the old town tend to run in directions best known to themselves. Despite the Roman penchant for the construction of straight roads , the Citta Antica does not have parallel streets. I walked around in circles for a bit.
A gentleman of Verona
One discovery timed to perfection in my favour – Verona’s opera festival. Staged in the magnificent Verona Arena night after night over the summer, the classics are performed without a single microphone such are the natural acoustics of the venue. Here was I , in Verona never having sat in the audience for an opera . Why not take a quantum leap into this feast for the ears and the eyes? Aida no less. The opera festival was first staged in 1913 – and the first production was Aida. My ticket secured for the evening of my second night , and preparing, listening to various performances of Aida courtesy of Spotify whilst meandering through the streets of the Citta Antica
A 9 p.m start meant that it was well after midnight when the final curtain fell. It was a spectacle, and I’m so glad I went. The couple beside me are from Melbourne. They come every year and attend night after night. Given the venue, the seating isn’t especially comfortable and my Melbourne friends found it somewhat challenging . After four hours , my backside was also talking to me . All in all an amazing spectacle. I made my way back along the deserted streets to my apartment , not seeing a soul, and feeling really safe. On the definitely worth coming back to list.
Aida Arena Verona
Verona is just the right size for a combination of shopping and sight seeing . Warm and busy but not crazily so . The city is known for the its legendary citizen Juliet (not to mention Romeo) – the tragedy of their lives inspired not only Shakespeare but Shakespeare’s tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. Not to mention the many and various clones based on the same sad tale .
Armed with an online ticket I completed the mandatory traipse through- wondering just how many subjects of soon to be Instagram posts at the famous window would have any idea of the story let alone actually read the play. Still, the whole precinct is on the bucket list for the mass majority of visitors to Verona and tourism is a major contributor to Verona’s economy .
My final day in Verona – with which to do whatever took my fancy , so why not another train encounter. This time a brief journey to Peschiera – a town on the shores of Lake Garda, the biggest lake in Italy. It seemed very easy, but of course the irregularity of the Italian train ended up playing a hand.
The train ticket to Pesciara set me back about 3 times what it cost to return . All because it was the very fast train. Being none the wiser, I fell into the tourist trap of buying the very fast train ticket for 20 euro plus . That ticket was issued by the fast train operators. My ticket to come back was the slower service and was issued for $3.40
The town of Sirmione sits on the southern peninsular of the lake and is home to glamorous establishments such as Terme di Sirmione Spa and Thermal garden. Hypothermal water from the Boiola Spring is used for indoor and outdoor pools. It has amazing restorative powers apparently. One day ! I elected for the boat ride out to Sirmione and back . I’d not have time to explore the town properly .Still a beautiful hour on a sparkling blue lake.
Time to give some time to Como – the Italian resort town on the lake that bears its name . Another battle with Milano Centroid train station, involving up and down escalators and whatever else. Mission accomplished and out the front straight to a taxi. I observed many people around my vintage with large amounts very expensive luggage struggling even more than me . No doubt returning to their fabulous Como residences as the heat and the crowds abate .
It wasn’t long before I had my first experience with ‘Como prices’ a taxi drive of less than five minutes set me back euro 18. My destination – another pedestrian precinct in the old town . The driver deposited me and the suitcase and pointed to a building in the distance – I corralled the luggage and manoeuvred my way through the throngs of tanned holiday makers looking for the entrance to ‘Rumi Rooms.’ The entry a restaurant with a totally different name.
The ‘roomy’ room came with a fridge ! The supermarket beckoned – a short stroll to the Carrefois . This seems to be the ubiquitous grocery outlet – certainly in Italy and even Morocco. The Como store overflows with all my favourites repeated all over the store – especially cheeses, pancetta , Parma ham fruit and veg . Not to mention the wine department . The cost of eating out and being on my own tends to put a dampener on fine dining . I slipped into a routine of one restaurant meal a day, a chance to sample the local cuisine without breaking the bank.
So two full days on Lake Como . What to do ! I recalled advice -in order to appreciate the size and scale , one needs to get up and look down on the city and surrounds. So to the funicular – the destination Brunate – with magnificent panoramic views over Como and the lake . I wandered ( let’s make that slogged) up to the Volta Lighthouse. For me the surrounds are somewhat disappointing – a bit tired and littered , they could have done with some TLC . Along my way to and from , I shared the road with some very cool looking convertibles, driven no doubt by someone rich and famous.
I am sure the driver is famous for something An equally important Brunate resident
The Volta Lighthouse and view of Como from the top of the funicular .
Like so many iconic places on the planet , Como is a tourist magnet. If crowds aren’t your thing , the lake precinct and surrounds in August are to be avoided. For me , adding Verona and Como worked in well . Crowds or no . Having checked out the view from above, my next day was on the water . Long queues at the ferry terminal were daunting but an attempt to buy tickets for the next day was unsuccessful.
So the plan was to hit the counter bright and early to beat the ticket queue – a day pass was the go . My first choice – Bellagio . However it was also the agenda for most of the passengers . Plan change – up the lake to Varenna . I soon discover this’sleepy’ village is also popular with the masses . Undaunted, I push through and past the sauntering throngs – along a narrowish boardwalk from the terminal to the town centre . It’s lunch time and the Hotel Royal Victoria is just one of the many glamorous ***** establishments with the lake on their front step. This particular hotel commands a tariff of anywhere between 1€k and 2€ K a night depending on the season . It was stretching my budget to afford an appetiser let alone a glass of Prosecco ..
It was charming .charmingly expensive .
The botanical grounds at Villa Monestero are a few metres further along . There’s a small entry fee, but well worth a meander along the terraces and stairways to admire the collection of huge Cypresses, agave and others species that are very familiar . Including something that looks suspiciously like hedged lantana !
Magnolia grandiflora .
The afternoon evaporated as did the throngs of day trippers .
It was hot even by my standards.
I have encountered some curious behaviour never before experienced along the way .
I don’t understand how it is possible to generate income simply by being represented on social media .
???????
However , it is a strange new world out there most certainly .
There may be a few revisions but for now, this is pretty much Verona and Como 2026.
The hour-and-a-bit taxi ride from Bolzano up to Santa Cristina was fine – once I found the taxi stand.With time marching on, I wondered whether the hotel shut its doors at a certain time. When we pulled in around 9:20 after a silent journey courtesy of the language barrier, Matteo was waiting to meet and greet me. How delightful to be welcomed by a smiling face on what, in the scheme of things, had been quite a difficult day.
It was way too late for dinner and I was probably a bit past it anyway, so off to bed with a large Negroni under my belt and ready to do whatever one did in this part of the world. My room was delightful, the bathroom (with a bath) super – a traditional hotel – tiny, up the top of St Christina near the Col Raiser cable car station. I obviously had no idea what was to amaze me given my late arrival. Opening the curtains in the morning was a definite wow moment. The photos on the booking platform did not do it justice.
Matteo is a third-generation hotelier , telling me the Villa Martha Vintage Hotel has been in his family since its establishment by his grandfather . Many of his beautiful carvings are featured in the foyer and the totally charming living and dining areas.
The beautiful entry to the Villa Martha Vintage Hotel
Hospitality is his middle name making all the guests feel so special – he does everything – all the cooking -all the serving. His daughter is part of the team, and he is hopeful that she will carry on the family tradition when he decides he’s had enough.
My first morning in the spectacular Dolomites and the arthritic inflammation in my right hand was becoming more than just an inconvenience. It had been bad pretty since I left home – somewhat weird given my concerns had been my left knee and neck – both of which have not given me a moment of trouble.
All the usual remedies – nurofen, heat, cold, liniment have had marginal impact.
With increasing discomfort forcing my hand (no pun intended), and being of the belief that that there was a reciprocal Medicare arrangement between Australia and Italy – I called on my AI travel buddy to recommend a medical practice. Matteo told me I would need to take a bus to the Tourist Medical Centre suggesting instead I walk down to the St Cristina ‘medical ‘ centre where there was a doctor and a dentist.
Good to know.
‘Just down the main street’ was probably the best part of 1.5 km straight down. This is Italy, where, like France, everything shuts at midday for 2.5 hours while they go home, have lunch, and sleep. Anyway, I rolled in with not long to spare and the sweet English speaking receptionist told me I could see him shortly. Haleluya ! A lovely man – I think his name was Giovanni – there are a lot of Giovannis. He looked at my hand, and listened as I explained that I’d been having this problem for quite a while, and it was swollen ridiculously. Anyway, €140 and a prescription later, I tracked back to the pharmacy, (he was waiting for me because the doctor had said he was a workaholic and he would not close until I’d been to see him ) €88 lighter, cortisone, more ibuprofen, and cooling pads.
That really cut into my first day. The weather was divine, the town was divine, and the scenery was divine. I was in that new visitor phase of finding my way and getting to know where to go. I contemplated catching the Col Raiser. By this time it was 3.30 – way too late. Still walked to the terminus-it’s all uphill. My lungs have had somewhat of a a reality check since the start of the week. I’ve never been to an alpine resort in summer. I haven’t been to many alpine resorts anywhere, but I have been to Aspen, and I’ve also been to the French Alps, I think, once, and the Swiss Alps, perhaps. The impact of high altitude on your blood oxygen levels is very much a thing.
I’m reasonably fit. I can’t run a marathon, but for my age, I’m not too bad. Here as soon as the incline is up – (it’s either up or down) my oxygen levels would drop so lots of deep breathing required. The message on the blood oxygen levels smartwatch app inform me the reading is ‘impacted by high altitude’.I know why elite sporting teams make a point of training in high-altitude situations. Not sure how much exercise in this type of environment improves your oxygen availability, but it’s over 2,000 meres high here, more than that, and it does impact. Back to 97% now helped I am sure by the the wine.
Anyway, I didn’t really get very far that first afternoon, still a lovely high hike up near the Col Raiser terminus. I wandered up a trail and came across Vila and Adriana headed down for milking. I followed them down – a nice walk. I had made a reservation at the pizzeria around the corner – starting that evening in a much more relaxed frame of mind than the night before – helped by a couple of Matteo’s sumptuous cocktails and a nice chat with one of the guests , a youngish gentleman from Portugal .
Day 2 and my hand was certainly less swollen. Still painful, but not nearly as bad. The weather perfect, it was time to head for the hills . Col Raiser Cable Car statione is about 500 m from the Villa Martha Vintage Hotel. I bought my return ticket to the top of the mountain and arrived in paradise.
Not being sure of where to go or what was the best option for me, I followed the two legged sheep and went on a really lovely hike with plenty of ups and downs.
Gorgeous donkeys
Four legged creatures today – donkeys . I am a little nonplussed when I see donkey on the menu in some restaurants. I consider walking down to Santa Cristina but after shelling out 34 euro for a return ticket I needed to get my money’s worth.
So time to chill out at Café Col Raiser for a well-earned 5 euro glass of Prosecco and a complimentary glass of potato chips, which seems to accompany every drink in that part of the world.
Eating drinking and chilling Santa Cristina
The weather did unfortunately impact my third and fourth full days in this extraordinary part of the world. Despite intermittent showers forecast for the day, it was time to get to know the buses. The local 358 mini bus runs all day around Santa Cristina. It is hairy in places because the roads are so narrow and steep – something coming the other way usually means one or the other has to back up until there’s room enough to pass. Like the roads in high parts of Norway.I can’t begin to imagine how tricky it would be in the icy winter but the drivers all drive carefully and safely. Visitors to Val Gardena are given a complementary bus pass all bus travel is free for the duration of your stay .It’s actually worth just hopping on the 358 and doing circuits of the town because it is just lovely.
So on a not so nice weather and time to explore the valley a little further, so I caught my 358 down to the main square and then stood in wait for a bus to Otisie . Matteo had mentioned the 350 or 360. but as it turned out, I ended up on the 354, which did take me to Otisie albeit standing room only. It was a very slow traffic- stop start into the town – much bigger and much busier than Santa Cristina. I’d seen the funicular as we crawled in so went off looking for it and ended up going in entirely the wrong direction. Anyway, I turned around and made it back to the cable car depot just as the storm broke, with thunder and lightning aplenty . Storms in the alps announce themselves differently to those we are accustomed to at home. It seems there’s one large thunder clap , preceded one assumes by barely visible lightning , then down it comes.
Anyway, return ticket secured, it was a long way up to the top, where visibility was zero. A strategic dive into the cafe for a nice bowl of hot soup, a glass of red wine and coffee, and wait the weather out. It was obvious it wasn’t going to change – but abated enough for a short stroll before heading down . It’s actually quite fascinating to experience the mountains bathed in sun and covered in cloud.
A word on food – on night one it was the nearby pizzeria with about 100 different pizzas on the menu. I’m not much of a pizza eater. I should have only ordered a half because I think most of it went back to the kitchen – and it isn’t cheap. €15 at least plus a drink, so that’s $40-50 Australian dollars.
My second night, I didn’t have dinner at all , making do with some grocery store purchases . To me , to go out to ‘dinner ‘ on one’s own , when not especially hungry is a waste of both time and money .
On night three , somewhat weather battered, Matteo and crew were in the foyer . Looking at his pre ordered set course menu, I inquired about the structure . His reply – ‘ Don’t worry, come down around 7.30 and I will do for you a small plate .’
Seriously, how could I refuse.
Delicious food and the most attentive professional service . Thank you Matteo and the Villa Martha Vintage Hotel!
When I presented myself at the most prominent table , he in turn presented me with a very small plate of reindeer cappuccio, and that was followed by another small plate of the most delectable fresh homemade ravioli. I am not much of a pasta eater but in Italy , it is quite simply superb.
The last day upon me and again it was all about the weather. I sought Matteo’s council . So no expensive gondoliers – rather the free bus to Cristauta and a hike across to Col Raiser . There were places where, it was wet, slippery, and quite steep, but still well defined.
The hike along Route 4 – the ascent much steeper than it looks
From there, back down the mountain but not without a stop at the Col Raiser Cafe for a bowl of minestrone soup accompanied by the mandatory large basket of bread. So it was either walk or pay the €17 one way down the mountain. The sweet waitress clarified the situation – parts of the descent are steep and slippery. I had clocked up 5 kms and my feet were talking to me . €17 for a one-way trip down the mountain.
So I was able to walk every day, some days further than others. The stunning landscape and Matteo’s 5 star hospitality. Dinner on my last night – his scrumptious homemade spaghetti.
Santa Cristina is smaller and less crowded than Ortesei but there are still throngs of visitors all doing exactly what I had been doing. German, Swiss, French a smattering of old and young Chinese. A melting pot of nationalities, kitted out in designer hiking gear from head to toe.I didn’t hear another Australian accent in the time i was there .
When I was planning this trip and fine tuning the stays , I questioned myself when I was locking in the Dolomites. Would I be keen to move on , was the stay too long. I was wary of the hotel – a booking.com find. I told Matteo the platform doesn’t do his establishment justice. I could have happily stayed on for another 5 nights. Maybe a good thing that he doesn’t generate more business- he says he’s pretty much full all year.
From the start of this trip, my biggest concern all along has been managing the trains and the luggage. This was one of those red flag days. As was Reykjavik to Brussels followed by three trains to Osnabruck. However – I’m pretty good now at getting people to help me. Looking helpless at the top or bottom of stairs or entry/exit to the carriage has worked well.
Monday, the 17th of August – and an early check out of my fabulous Airbnb, Anastrasse #2. An attempt to book a taxi the night before to Bahnhof for the 7:38 train to Frankfurt had not been confirmed . So on a rainy Monday morning in Aachen ,the extra money for Leo ((another night I hadn’t accounted for) left on the table, I managed to forget to leave him the key. My apology messaged – his response- keep the key – come back again. Excellent. Minutes tick by and still no taxi – time to tackle the phone numbers . A couple of failed attempts later, an English speaking receptionist had a taxi at my pedestrian only precinct within seven minutes.
So to the train – all went without a hitch to Frankfurt where it was easy enough to find the platform for the train to Munich. This train was delayed by 10 minutes . Things started to go somewhat pear-shaped from there – with the Frankfurt-Munich service already late, the delay extended as the train stopped and started crawling at snail pace into the enormous Munich Hauptbahnhof.
According to my ticket information, I was to head to platform 12 to connect with the train to Bolzano . By the time the doors of the train actually opened the transition time was a minute. I was not the only one in this predicament – there were several anxious travellers also likely to miss connections . Another hurdle – platform 12 was now platform 5 – presenting a whole new set of challenges . It was clear that I wasn’t going to make it.
So to a place where people were arguing with other people behind counters, presumably over problems with their tickets. I showed mine to a nice young woman who said, “No, you need to go to xyz” I was able to change the now-defunct ticket to the next service, in about an hour. Time to chill out with the luggage so over the road to a nice-looking, typical German restaurant which was very busy, for some soup, wine and a chat with the guy opposite while he polished off a huge plate of delicious looking Goulash.. He informed me this place has four and a half-star reviews, and he he always checks reviews. Armed with this essential information – I showed off my worldly knowledge to my affable waiter. His response – not 4.5, 4.6! The business was certainly brisk.
My waiter in Munich
Back to the station and to the platform # 5 again. It seemed trains crossing country borders were assigned to these other platforms at Munich. Trains are crisscrossing Europe at breakneck speed 24/7 and things change in the blink of an eye. My reassigned platform hadn’t been communicated to the documentation that I had.
This blog is all about train travel and it’ssuper important to use whatever means you have to stay up to date. Use the Train number as a starting point – that is what comes up on the electronic display. Also, handy to check the direction of travel if your destination is before the train’s terminus, unless your geography and local knowledge is a whole heap better than mine.
Already far too late for the last bus from Bolzano to Santa Cristina, a taxi was my only option. Once outside, taxis were continually going past with no response despite my frantic attempts to flag one down .
A significantly nervous moment . This is where travelling solo can get hairy. With no idea where to go and night falling fast, thoughts of finding a hotel to spend the night, then catch the bus up in the morning became the plan. Grappling the luggage , I set off around a corner only to find all the taxis waiting in a taxi rank. Which of course was where they were headed when they sailed past me.
Somewhat desperate by this time, and having checked the likely cost, it would still be a lot cheaper than staying a night in Bolzano. The taxis in Italy and no doubt most European countries, are generally ethical and I was directed the fellow first in the queue. Showing him where I needed to go, out came a little book revealing the cost. It was €119 all up in the dark.
(2) Bolzano to Verona
With my train to depart from Bolzano at 11:38 Matteo and I discussed the bus options, The bus, for which I didn’t have to pay, departs from down the bottom in the central part of Santa Cristina. I was quite happy to catch the 358, which is the Inter-St Cristina bus, but Matteo insisted that he drive me down the hill in his car, which was just amazing. He’s got a hotel full of guests for whom he is making his amazing breakfasts yet and he is happy to drive me down.
Anyway, farewell and hugs later, to waiting with a lot of other people and ridiculous amounts of luggage for the next service down the mountain to Bolzano. I played my ‘old lady helpless card ‘ to a lovely young ‘strong’ Brit. who manhandled the suitcase into the luggage compartment .
With both sides of the compartments packed full of suitcases, We funnelled onto the bus and headed off – I was feeling satisfied that the Santa Cristina hill had been conquered with minimal stress . Down the mountain we went, seemingly with no problem, until we had one…Hastings Street Noosa like traffic . Being Saturday, an hour trip turned into at least an hour and a half, with many of us looking at our watches and counting down the kilometres to Bolzano.
There should have been plenty of time theoretically to make the connection. My train was due at 11:38. Pouring off the bus into the station, time evaporating. The train station a good 200 metres from the bus stop and the initial encounter with a railway station requires orientation not to mention some skills at bolting with a large suitcase.Most things are now in English, as well as Italian, German, French, and every other language along the way. Thank goodness for modern technology, with English being the recognised global language. Along with the EU big differences to communication and transport communication services are so welcome.
I had approximately a minute to make it to some random platform- a direct service to Verona -a first class ticket, but no time to find the first-class carriage. The suitcase went down the stairs pretty much by itself and up the stairs with some assistance. There was a lift -I made a dive for the first open door, hauled the suitcase in, plonked it down, drew breath, and then thought, “Right, well, I’m in second class. I was supposed to be in first class.” The suitcase had a spot, which was a bonus. Despite this journey being only an hour, I decided to avail myself of my first-class privileges which account for little in reality. One of the conductors I encountered asked me about the business of my suitcase being located in a second-class carriage and my ticket being in a first-class carriage. I thought he was concerned that there might be valuables in my suitcase but now thinking back , I think he was warning me to be aware of possible problems accessing it.
I continued to wonder why no one checks tickets. Having made my way to first class, in a seat with my two heavy carry-on bags, time to check on the suitcase . On the way back -I ran into the same conductor and inquired “Should I get off the train at the next stop and move my suitcase?”
He basically said, “Well, no, no, no, don’t do that because it only stops for a minute or something,” the final stop before Verona . So with 10 minutes out from Verona, and I’m three or four carriages from the suitcase. Getting through became an absolute rugby scrum. Seemingly everybody has luggage or babies in prams so the aisles are virtually impassable .I think I managed to bullock my way through one or two carriages before a fellow passenger said, “The train actually stops in Verona for 10 or 15 minutes.” Time for some deep breathing , and once at Verona Station, with the train disgorging people dogs babies and suitcases , I had the freedom to reunite with my case.
Bongiorno Verona .
(3) Verona to Como
The next instalment covers Verona to Milan and then Como on Tuesday, the 24th of August. It’s a 10:02 departure on a 9718 – fast train service from Verona to Milan. Taking what had happened with Munich and also Bolzano into consideration, I decided to be early, ridiculously early as it happened, given the station was a five minute drive from Palazzo Negri . €10 later, only to find the train has been delayed by about 55 minutes.
Off to the cafeteria for a coffee and a croissant, before a message from the team at Palazzo . “We have found some things in the cupboard.” Leaving something behind usually happens at least once to me . With the delay , I still had half an hour so a taxi was summoned, more euro handed over , and the items turned up – and were stuffed where I could find space .
My service departed from platform 6. At the big stations, an electronic board displays where your carriage will stop. An observation – many of the very fast trains have really easy on-and-off access , great for those in wheel chairs, prams and me, while other trains have two steps . Why?
So I’m on the train, on the right carriage, with limited luggage storage space. With the case manhandled towards the cafeteria in search of a spot, I found another case and parked mine beside it . Back to my seat, actually across the way from my seat – the young girl in it already looked comfortable. She offered to move but I told her to stay put.
Anyway, this train, already delayed by an hour, was running very speedily from Verona to Milan, with only one stop at a town I whose can’t remember. I’m there with my two big bags andmy laptop using the time to developing stories like this one.
This is where it gets really awful. At some point, I think it was probably in the minutes either before or during the train’s only stop out of Verona (the name of the town escapes me), I noticed and caught a glimpse of a man walking swiftly through the carriage, as though he was looking for something. As he walked straight past me, I saw him put his hand up and take a black carry bag from the overhead locker across from me and keep walking.
At the time, I didn’t think anything of it. I thought maybe he was in the wrong place or needed to change carriages. I did see him. I could answer questions like:
• Was he Caucasian? Yes. • Was he male? Yes. • How old was he? Roughly 35. • What colour hair did he have? I think it was sort of light brown to red. • Was he wearing a cap? Maybe. I can’t remember that. • Had a bit of stubble. • Pretty normal-looking person, definitely Caucasian
Nearing Milan, the young girl asks me “Did you happen to see anybody take a black bag from here?” (pointing to the luggage rack).
My response – “Oh my God, yes, I did. I did see him. I saw the person do it.”
That was the start of that. Only 20 minutes to go before Milan. The woman behind me with no English had also lost items I understood to be documentation her about to be interrupted holiday . The young girl and her boyfriend had a few clothes in his bag nothing special but still infuriatingly inconvenient.
Anyway, there’s a lot of kerfuffle, a lot of Italian being spoken very loudly. I described what he looked like. It was only a passing glimpse but I could definitely say he was Caucasian, male, and roughly 35-ish, Maybe wearing a black cap and moving quickly. Ginger-brown hair and a bit of stubble. Nothing particularly distinctive about him. That much I could recall.
I thought at the time that maybe he was still on the train, although a search by the officials who also spoke to me certainly indicated that he probably wasn’t. Nearing Milan, and the necessary retrieval of my suitcase – the first time that I was really conscious of the dangers associated with travelling. The suitcase had been having a nice time in the buffet car. Getting to the exit involved negotiating a young family: Mum and Dad and two little kids. My luggage caravan made slow progress towards the exit.
The mum in pretty good English informs me they’d had their suitcase taken. Me – “Well, I know. I saw the person take somebody’s bag.”The officials took notes, but I don’t know what they can do . Disembarking the train in Milan and a quick chat with the father of the family, “Did you lose anything valuable?” He replied “No, just really clothes, because we were going on holiday with clothes.” They were headed off somewhere in Switzerland on holiday, so considerable inconvenience. “ We’re going to have to find a store to buy new clothes.” There were a lot of people affected. I felt bad for the woman behind me who had lost valuable documents for her holiday . I assume there are cameras so maybe he will be tracked down . A salient lesson for me.
I have to say that I have only really seen people be super casual on these trains, particularly young people. They just sort of sprawl over the seats with their phones and their earphones in. In another world altogether. For this guy to do what he did so quickly in a carriage that really wasn’t crowded just shows how easy it is for them to, if that’s their intent, be on that train and, the minute it lands somewhere, fly through carriages, (especially first class) grab whatever they think looks easy, and get off and go. Whether or not they actually pinch anything is worth doing anything with, like, who wants young babies’ clothes and undies for a holiday?
My final note on train travel concerns the monstrous metropolis that is Milano Centrale. Transiting in Milan twice – from Verona to Como then Milan to Milan Airport was somewhat stressful , although again , people are usually happy to help . There are lifts but they take some finding . There are also 2 lots of ticket counters .
Trenitalia is the local state owned company , and Italo, the private high speed only company . Seeking clarification on your service may involve checking in with one or both of them and they are not side by side – two floors seperate them . Lifts may or may not be working – platform 16 with my Como to Milan service wasn’t. I had no choice but to use the stairs . A couple of times where there is no threat to anyone or anything, I have simply let the suitcase go ….. it works particularly well. I had to resort to this tactic from platform 16 at Milano Centrale. And finally, received wonderful help from a lovely young guy on two occasions as I sorted the transfer to the airport. Definitely a place in heaven for him.
My transition from Iceland to Aachen required an extra couple of nights accommodation . I had neglected to confirm these with my Aachen host who was by now booked. So with a couple of nights up my sleeve it was either book something else in Aachen and use my direct train ticket from Brussels or invite myself to Sam and Chris’s at Hagen.
Apart from catching up with these good times expats and their gorgeous dogs, I landed in Hagen the night before the Young Horse World Championship Finals at Verden. I don’t spend much time these days pouring over dressage social media but the hype around Charlotte du Jardin’s exciting young 7 year old that had blitzed the field in the first round had filtered down to me. Secret Agent – by Secret. So needless to say, Sam’s invitation long the way on that long travel received a very joyful reaction.
Every overseas adventure that spans countries, especially travelling on one’s own has days that are basically just commuting from beginning to end. I was somewhat nervous heading into that day . From the hotel in Reykjavik, I had a taxi ordered for 4am. Then back on the flybus – flight to Brussels, followed by 3 trains to get to Onsabruck. I found the Brussels airport/train station nerve wracking but fortunately made it on to the correct train courtesy of ChatGTP . I do find AI to be enormously helpful where there is wifi and I need information speedily. Particularly with trains, where platforms and times can change in the blink of an eye. It’s also super easy to be confused by the language issues and names. What we use in English is not necessarily what is used in German, Italian or French.Having made it onto the train from Brussels to Liège, I wasn’t sure of the disembarking station and had a couple of quick AI checkins for reassurance . Liège (in Belgium)goes down as the worst train station so far with both the lift and the down escalator out of action. Fortunately, a nice chap came to my aid before I actually tossed the suitcase down the stairs!
There was also an element of confusion with my last leg (Liège to Cologne was with Eurostar) Cologne to Osnabruck had delay issues and platform changes . Again, a quick pic of the electronic screen allows AI to come back with a yes or no .So another long day of travel accomplished without mishap! Tick for me.
So -to Verden and a totally unplanned but serendipitous day. Amazing , I did attend the World Young Horse Finals way back in 2011. Not a lot has changed – the quality of the horses certainly has . For the better. Charlotte’s lovely boy was caned for his walk – it might be his weakness at this point but it deserved a mark higher than 7. Great to meet up with Tayla and her mum Donna – They very kindly offered me a lift to Aachen. When I last attended this event all commentary was in German – now and apparently sanctioned by the FEI- the commentary on the horses is in English and German ! Much more civilised .
Always treats for Sockey!Cooling down in Verden.
Very happy to avoid the train to Aachen – so we set off for the roughly 3 hour trip with Phil flying along the autobahn . My address safely in the gps, it was only when we got near the city that it became obvious my Airbnb was in the car free old town precinct. I sensed Phil being a little worried- so parked , left Donna in charge of the car and set off to find Annastrasse 2 . Which was easy as it happened and totally delightful. We managed to move the car to just around the corner (actually vehicles are allowed into the precinct for pick up and drop off) but it was all easy really and Phil graciously hauled the horrible suitcase up the stairs. I was so grateful for their kindness with the transport – it made for a stressless start to my 2026 World Equestrian Games Aachen experience. Time for a quick dash to Aldi for wine and more wine – I realised a couple of days later that I had walked the long way to find it only after a day or so improved orientation!
Priorities from the supermarket
With Queen Mary first to ride for the Australians on day 1 of the team competition, I elected to delay my first sortie to the venue till a little later. I knew there were shuttle buses and again utilised the services of AI to find the stop and bus number to transport me on my maiden voyage to CHIO Aachen – the most outstanding equine competition venue on the planet.
Having been to the World Equestrian Games in 2018 and in 2010, the convention was that in the teams competition the lesser ranked riders (a team consisting of maximum 4, minimum 3) were to ride on day 1. Today, Australia had Mary Hannah riding first followed by Simone – the boys on the second day.
Mary’s test was a bit of a train wreck. With all her experience, she managed to add a couple of extra one time changes – so a possible 69 dropped back to 67. On the other hand Simone did a fantastic job on a young Grand Prix horse that the judges loved.
I am a dressage judge, qualified. I might not be of a very high level but it’s enough to know what is good and isn’t. Our riders on day 2 were subjected to the expert scrutiny of the Judges’ that the sport requires . Making a mark on the world dressage stage is a quantum leap from achieving qualifying for world scores. Unfortunate but true . Nice horses. But they need to be ridden well.
Enough said on that topic . It is what it is. Simone’s results saw her take her place in the elite field of 30 for the Grand Prix Special – and the test was super. The horse is honest and willing and her marks were consistent across the board. She was in the top 10 for most of the day, and as it happened headed for a place in the freestyle . It took me back to 2010 – the year another black stallion was king – Elliot and I in Kentucky – when Brett Parbery went through to the freestyle with Victory Salute.
That Friday was all about the heat. Before the start of the Grand Prix Special Individual competition, the event directors made changes to the time table . There was to be a break of 2.5 hours from 12.30 to 3. Somewhat random given that the worst of the heat was 3-4.30 . Go figure!
Anyway , the extended lunch time proved a great chance to catch up with Sam, Chris and crew. John P also able to join us in the well named ‘Paul’s food and drink’ for a glass of bubbles – it was marginally cooler there too.
Laughs and bubbles in Paul’s Food and Drink tent .
The remaining afternoon afternoon sizzled with extraordinary dressage vying for supremacy over the revolting temperature. Ultimately it was all about Glammie and Lottie. Lottie Fry and Glamourdale . Mistakes from Catherine de Falfour and Isabel Werth may have had an impact but not enough .Catherine took silver , Katharina Hemmer and Denoix PCH , the final combination to enter the arena, scored a tick over 80% for bronze. I loved Denoix ,he was regretfully but sensibly withdrawn from the freestyle as connections were concerned about his recovery from an old injury that might be aggravated. Sensible. A lovely combination. It was by my standards, insufferably hot particularly up the top of the Mercedes Benz stand so we bolted for a place cooler once the final halt had been given.
The gold and bronze medalists turned up for a meet and greet signing in the old town square . Lottie hadn’t had time to change out of her joddies!
Fortunately the temperature assumed a more civilised level the next day so I headed out to the Eventing Cross Country course armed with the old Canon.
Cross Country Action – Andrew Hoy – still top of his game!
So time for a small rant. It was surprising to me to encounter so many CHIO officials who were inclined to go over the top stamping their authority. Especially early on when things weren’t so busy. I always made sure to sit in my bought seat – but there was one officious individual who must have seen me enter and exit on any number of occasions – yet still insisted that I place my food and drink down (where?)while I fished for my ticket .
Then , cross country day – I roll up to the usual check point only to be told I had to walk basically the best part of 2k to another admission point . Mission accomplished, I had been told it was ok to exit through the village . A relief because I had intended to hand over a few euro for leather fancy collars and leads for the hounds at home and do my bit for shopping at the trade stands .
So cross country great – time to head back via Aldi and prep for the Dressage Finale – the Freestyle. However , not without a discussion with another uniformed would be if he could be who told me I could not enter the Village. I had a valid ticket for the Cross Country and another for the Freestyle – oh no – sorry that’s not valid until 6pm. By this time, my patience was wearing thin – however, I knew I was in a losing argument . Change of tactics and sought out another uniformed person , who immediately waved me through ! Off to the dog collar and lead stand . I ran into Mary Seigfried as I exited the grounds and we had a lovely chat. “This is Aachen” she explained. Yeah, go figure.
It was an amazing experience – the freestyle has been well documented and dressage history rewritten – never before has a combination defended 2 world championship titles in consecutive world equestrian games.
I also found the judging to be so much more consistent. Discrepancies of more than 5% were rare throughout the show. I certainly will never see anything like this again. Hard as it was for me at times, I sat in the magnificent Aachen stadium and soaked up the atmosphere. A tad disappointed that the horses were not part of the presentation ceremony – instead the two legged athletes were driven into the stadium in beautiful carriages . I have been indeed privileged to have been in the audience of some 40,000 at Aachen for WEG 2026 Welcome Home.
The weather really stepped in and played its hand for our last 2 days. We departed Akureyri relatively early on that last but one day. A quick check in at the Botanical Gardens , then it was pretty much a day on the road . With the rain.
After our fun at the lagoon the afternoon before, it was a little disappointing that time couldn’t be found for a quick detour back there to retrieve Miki’s special water bottle . As it happened we spent most of the day on the bus. There seemed to be a lot of time spent driving – and the with the weather being somewhat damp we arrived quite early . Our final destination before Reykjavík and a farm stay of sorts where there were droves of Icelandic ponies
Had the weather not been quite so miserable, I may have hopped on a pony for a trot along the beach. I have done enough riding in the rain in my time to rule that out !
Still it was interesting to check out the barn and chat to a girl who was Austrian and working presumably on some sort of holiday visa basis .
As we made our way along roads good and bad, I was constantly intrigued by the sheer numbers of Icelandic horses – a google search suggests at least 80,000 +harking back to a time around 1000 AD when the Vikings imported the now iconic breed to the island . They needed these resilient, strong little people to carry the warriors and goodness knows what else over Iceland’s forbidding and treacherous terrain.
Today, no other breed of horse is permitted to set foot on Iceland and if native ponies are transported elsewhere, they cannot return. Apparently , at some point in the past, horses of different breeds did infiltrate the indigenous population and huge numbers contracted a fatal disease. So what are these adorable equines used for today ?
The better stock are educated to saddle – there are hundreds of horse riding holidays all over Iceland and as we drove, I would have seen more horses than sheep ! They have a long lifespan according to my Austrian informant – up to 40 . Many mares do not start breeding until well in their teens.
The not so desirable often run in herds high in the farmland and are bred specifically for human consumption . Again , this practice goes back to Viking times. In fact, it is only relatively recently that Icelanders began eating chicken and pork. Cultural norms are just that – cultural. What is abhorrent to some is perfectly normal to others. I did do a bit of research – the slaughtering is governed by very strict rules and regulations. Abattoirs are frequently inspected to make sure best practice is followed.
Repugnant though this practice may be to horse lovers, I did not see any horses looking neglected or light in condition. Our last night stop has over 100 riding horses all of which are shod and cared for . I met a couple of their breeding stallions – gorgeous .
That final night saw us billeted in a couple of cabins . We handed over more Kroner to the local Vinbuden (wine shop) and armed with supplies settled in for a bit of a girl’s in cabin night out. Miki and Laurie were with the boys but Jade, Trina, Kirsty and I shared stories as we polished off our wine and the remaining snacks from the bus.
Dinner was delicious – the home cooking was fortunately not horse .
I would not usually mention the weather again but the next morning it was front and centre . The Icelandic Vindur had arrived . Whistling and roaring – everything shaking .
I absolutely hate wind . In Iceland there are many words for it – this may have been a gentle breeze by their standards but it was enough to keep me on the bus . The weather alert has colour coded warnings and whilst we were not actually in danger , the force of the wind could be felt as we made our way back towards Reykjavik . Over the trip, Heidrun had recounted tales of hapless travellers coming to grief by ignoring the warnings.
One final stop that was fortunately protected from the wind , was at a pebble beach with an unpronounceable name. Again amazing lava now rock formations but we came across this little guy who must have not long exited the nest.
Emmanuel identified him as a juvenile Black Guillemot, a close relative to a puffin. When first spotted, we were somewhat concerned that he might be injured. That worry soon dispersed – he must have not long left his nest -by the time we left , he took to the skies and headed to the ocean.
So it was back to our hotel in Reykjavik, and to disperse. Emmanuel had set off whale watching , Miki to a museum . Many were staying on for a few days – taking in the Pride Festival . I will share some of Kirsty’s amazing whale pics to round out my last thoughts from Iceland.
I mentioned early on that group tours may not be for everyone , but in an environment such as this , I would 100% recommend it. Heidrun , though a little pushy at times, was most knowledgeable , approachable, and understanding. As a small Intrepid group, we all got on really well . I was the oldest by far but really enjoyed the company of everyone. We will no doubt continue to keep in touch through our WhatsApp group.
And as for Iceland – if you love amazing scenery especially waterfalls, puffins and icebergs, it has to be on your bucket list !
The taxi driver who took me from the hotel to the Fly Bus at 4am on my departure morning under grey and threatening skies, responded to my comment on the weather gods turning nasty : “The weather in Iceland is like my ex-wife – cold and unpredictable “.
I actually thought that was pretty funny – and true.
Overall, we had been blessed with the weather on its best behaviour. By now at the half way mark it was time for a spin in an amphibian conveyance to get up close and personal to the ice bergs in a pea soup fog.
Who needs to go to Antartica ! Cruising on Jokulsarlon Glacier Lagoon between jagged icebergs shrouded in fog was surreal.I have never watched Game of Thrones but was intrigued to learn that Iceland was the location for much of the infamous series. A cue to binge watching perhaps.
Slightly cool!The crewChecking out icebergs
A comment on our accomodation . Simple but comfortable . I loved the farm village of Modrudalur. The guide says (quote) “At 469 metres (1539 feet) above sea level, Modrudalur is the highest inhabited place in Iceland, and snow can be seen almost year-round. “
The farm has a quaint, beautiful church built in 1949 by farmer Jon Adalsteinn Stefansson in memory of his wife. The dinner menu was intriguing – made all the more so by the preparedness of most to try out just about every local delicacy, including reindeer.
Rescue reindeerLocals
Is there any other country on the planet that offers more natural wonders than Iceland?
We were all agreed that the first couple of days were gob smackingly amazing yet – there was more to come. Waterfalls everywhere.
Godafoss
Dettifoss – Europe’s mightiest waterfall.
Altogether we marvelled at a total of 5 waterfalls , two thermal lagoons, extraordinary lava fields, black sand beaches as well as the diverse animal and bird life .
Namaskard – fossicking – what is this stuff? Steam everywhere from the sulphuric terrain.We could be on Mars .there’s a whole lot of sulphur here ..The volcanic Lake Myvatn
At some point along the way, someone commented on the lack of insects on Iceland. That is until we pulled into the car park at Lake Myvatn only to be greeted by swarms of lake midges after which the lake is named.
Annoying – I added a midge/fly face protection net to my collection of souvenirs. I am used to bugs – I think Intrepid could have warned the group.
Some of the earlier arrivals before our tour got underway had been to the Blue Lagoon near Reykjavik. The Secret Lagoon earlier in the tour had been a hit so most were keen to indulge in the Forest Lagoon at Akureyri. It was quite something – especially the cocktail bar serving drinks in the water. By our standards expensive ($80 AUD) – that doesn’t cover the cocktails , but not hard to see why lounging in a lagoon is very popular with Icelanders.
The changing rooms are an experience on their own!
And so we came to the last two days before returning to Reykjavik and going our various seperate ways .
Group tours aren’t for everyone. You can’t choose your travelling companions and there’s a lot of getting on and off buses and observing departure times. However, having quite enjoyed 50 degrees north small group tour of Norway in 2025, I was keen to have an Intrepid expedition experience of Iceland. First impressions can be misleading – whatever mine were at the conclusion of day 1 , they certainly for the most part had changed by day 8.
I mentioned Heidrun, who multi-tasked as Tour Guide, Tour Leader and Bus driver. A lot. Some of us were a little non plussed by her tendency to do things on her phone as she drove. Very fast. There were deadlines to meet but sometimes I wondered if the suspension on the bus was up to the speed with which we bounced over the not so good roads. She bombarded us with information – geology, history, geography, even Icelandic ghost stories .
We were also warned about the shady aspect of a crowded tourist destination. Hordes of Romanians infiltrating the popular and therefore busier attractions. These ‘pickpocketers’ are very well organised – often enlisting the gypsy travellers to join them.
She was clearly not a fan of people who choose to travel around Iceland on their own – citing many examples of fool hardy visitors who come to grief because they were either ill prepared or didn’t listen. At Reynisfjara beach with its stark back sands and bizarre, rectangular rock formations ,we are warned to never take the seemingly benign waves for granted. There’s a sad a story of a family of German holiday makers. Apparently, the father decided to ignore advice and took his family across the rocks to a beach without a buffer against the waves. His daughter , a strong, cold water swimmer was swept off and into the ocean. Her body was retrieved but by all accounts many hapless travellers meeting the same fate are not. The beautiful smooth round black beach stones exemplify the force of the ocean. These were, of course, originally lava fragments and would have been anything but smooth when first they became part of the ocean floor. Another anecdote from Heidrun – a body retrieved from the ocean was discovered to have pockets full of these stones – an example of the powerful ocean and its constant tumbling movement.
Those first two days were absolute standouts – our senses packed to the rafters with the majesty of Mother Nature . Just when we didn’t think we could be anymore amazed, we start Day 2/3 with the Seljalandsfoss waterfall, followed by Skogafoss waterfall. At 25-metres wide with a 60-metre drop, this waterfall roars. And this creates the most amazing waterfall rainbow. The sun shone on a picture perfect day.
Can there be a more amazing rainbow?
We certainly covered some territory in a short space of time – managing visits to all three National Parks in Iceland . It was a fascinating glimpse into the post ice age when we pulled up at Snaefellsjokull- a compact mix of coastline, lava fields, and a glacier-capped mountain range on the horizon.
Snaefellsjokull
The best was yet to come – not on the official itinerary but we found the puffins ! Most, if not all of us could have spent all day marvelling at their antics but we were reminded that this was an add on extra. We all rather hoped another unscheduled puffin stop could be added but that was unfortunately not to be. At the Reynisfjara Beach stop there were also puffins congregating but high above us and covering the ocean close to the shore with their frantically beating wings.
Moving on to the last scheduled stop of the day and the Jokulsarlon Glacier Lagoon. Icebergs everywhere – all shapes and sizes – many washed onto the black beach sand. Such a cool (pardon the pun) contrast – the black sand and whiter than white icebergs .
We were certainly given copious quantities of information. My age probably impacts on my capacity to remember everything. Heidrun had asked if we would like to participate in an extra activity -a walk on the mottled blue, grey and black face of one of the tongues of Europe’s largest glaciers, the epic ice cap of Vatnajokull. Having walked on a New Zealand Glacier over 20 years ago , I was wary of my limitations. Especially when a wild looking mountain man of a guide greeted us with “ If you had trouble getting into the car (I did) you will have trouble with the rocks and steps.”
It was a bit late to bail out so I gritted my teeth and resolved to not make a complete fool of myself. After about 40 minutes bouncing along in a rather uncomfortable but purpose build conveyance , we came to a halt and our man of few words guide Parvon (Czech – with a name I am not sure of ) hauled out spikes for or shoes and a harness – the purpose of which became clearer as we made our way up the glacier.
Parvon was filling me with confidence when he commanded us to not take selfies or be distracted by anything other than looking where we were going . He informed us that the glacier changes every day and if we did not follow him exactly we could be in danger of falling down a fissure.
Doing as he commanded we made our way to a couple of points of interest both of which I politely declined to get closer to.
As it turned out , he became more convivial as the hike progressed. Even to the point of volunteering to go with me on the scary thing where we attached to a rope and looking down into an abyss . Not enough to convince me though!
Dinner that night was well received! And a good night’s sleep needed. Our accomodation below!
Okay, this is going to be my introduction to Iceland – and whilst I had intended to write anecdotally and not clog up everyone’s devices with spectacular , technically perfect, pictorial content , most of the time the pictures do tell the story.
Ever since the infamous volcanic eruptions in 2010, the world started looking a little closer at Iceland . I enjoy exploring parts of the world where Mother Nature reigns supreme – the element of the unknown which starts as the aircraft (or train) comes to a halt . A brand-new country – new language, new traditions, new everything. Here I am – in Iceland !
The dreaded luggage was there to greet me and a nice, handsome Icelandic person helped me haul it off the carousel. I found my way to the Flybus, for which I had a ticket, and it was to be 45 minutes to the city centre. Another bus was still required to get to the hotel.
The boss of the Flybus was a troll like creature with more metal on her face than flesh . “What hotel?” I scrabble for the itinerary . “The Foss Hotel.” I reply. She looked at me like I had two heads “Which one?” Another examination of the itinerary reveals that is the FossHotel Raudara.
This bus journey was to be followed by asmaller bus where I elected to stand and corral my suitcase. Everybody’s else’s was rolling around like out of control billiard balls. I knew I had to get off at stop 13 but had no idea of the signage. My stop was the end of the line as it happened but still a 200 metre walk and the driver took pity on me and dropped me much closer to my FosshotelI .
It had been a long day of travel – train, plane and buses and I was well and truly ready for a sundowner as I staggered through the doors of the hotel with 10 minutes before the meeting was due to start .
On hand at reception tour guide/bus driver/tour leader, Heidrun, who seemed amicable and friendly. I must have looked like something the cat dragged in by that point of the day.
My first and continuing priority was to ditch the suitcase. I asked Heidrun if we were travelling on the one bus and if so could I please leave my case on the bus, to which she said, “Absolutely.” That was great. With the meeting about to start , I hauled the clobber into the elevator before racing down to join the rest of the group . Heidrun is delivering the basic background briefing on what to do and not do in Iceland. Then there’s the part where we all say who we are etc and why we have chosen Intrepid and Iceland .
We had: – Ken and Laurie from the States, friends or cousins I think – Emmanuel, who’s from Basel in Switzerland, born in France – Shane from British Columbia, who’s got the loudest laugh of anybody I’ve ever heard – Trina, who’s also Canadian – Kirstie, who is from the Falkland Islands but lives and works in the UK. – Miki from Japan – Jade from the Gold Coast – me
Two Australians and we live about an hour from one another.
The meeting concluded and we all traipsed off for dinner where the first of the many hip pocket raids take place. Like Norway, Iceland has its own currency. It’s disgustingly expensive, the Icelandic krona.
We’re all running around converting frantically into US dollars, Australian dollars, or euro -regardless it is very expensive. I think I had some €2,000 in my Wise travel bank when I started this trip. A few days in Iceland will knock that around, at least €100 a day, and that’s not spending money on anything frivolous really. Norway was expensive, I think Iceland is just as bad.
We were ready for an 8:00 start the following day, day two technically although it was really day one for us. The majority of the time to be spent in the precinct of the Golden Circle. I confess that I really didn’t have that much time to study carefully the background or the itinerary itself. The names of the places are impossible to pronounce and one of the great things about a group tour is having a leader. Heidrun is very knowledgeable having worked in the travel industry, pretty much all her life.
So the impossible to pronounce highlights of the day ahead include
Strokkur Geysir Gullfoss Waterfall Thingvellir National Park
And these were to be followed by a dip in The Secret Lagoon.
At the risk of boring anyone who takes the time to read this , I think it best to flip to the photos from what was a pretty much picture perfect day !
Above and below Thingvellir National Park.Gullfoss waterfallSecret Lagoon
I am lured by the mystery and challenge of discovering new places as a solo traveling lady of advanced years. And I question my judgement at times . Firstly, there’s the prep. A countless and seemingly never-ending list of jobs which would normally be spread over a year or more – all to be ticked off in a few short weeks. Interspersed with packing and purchasing the bits and pieces deemed to be essential.
On my last European adventure, I had elected to take a largish Katmandu back pack – with the totally impossible idea of carrying it on my back. It was a pain in more ways than one . Difficult to wheel along old cobble stone streets , heavy, and cumbersome to manoeuvre on and off trains. Totally impractical, I sold it for what I paid for it pretty much.
So my departure date looms .
This trip almost twice as long as last year’s. Seven weeks and five countries – two continents. My constant worry in the lead up was luggage. Especially when my choice of destinations span the extremes of cold to hot . I have had Iceland on the bucket list for a while now and as I write this , I am on an Icelandic Air flight bound for Reykjavik, having travelled from Poitiers to Paris by train , cab from Gare Montparnasse to CDG, and then joining the throngs of Parisians escaping their hot, dry city for the annual summer vacation.
So more about luggage . A couple of sherpas would be handy. I had no choice but to pack the large Samsonite and with Iceland on the itinerary, all the winter gear . My ridiculously heavy Super Dry jacket that has served me well in Tasmania and Norway had to go in. The weighin on departure at Bne was 26kg – not that heavy for a young able bodied person but I was very happy to surrender it at the Singapore Airlines bag drop. But then , there’s the bloody hand luggage . I had every intention of making do with one back pack and a largish hand bag. No – make that two back pack thingies.
So we land at CDG T3 on time and then starts the waiting game at baggage collection. Having replaced the faulty AirTag in my old suitcase , I was looking forward to a cheerful message in the “find my” app telling me Angela’s luggage was at CDG T3. Instead , “Angela’s luggage 57 k away at an unknown location “. Great……..
I run through various scenarios in my mind whilst watching everyone’s suitcases obligingly roll on to the conveyer belt. I had my essential meds and electronic devices with me in the 2 back packs but anxiety does start to bubble away on the back of the random unknown airtag location. I note a woman of my vintage who is also waiting . In a broad Manchester brogue she asks me “So you come from Singapore then?” Well , yes but technically Brisbane . Could that mean my trusty Samsonite had found its way somewhere else in the vicinity of the airport? So we strike up a conversation as everyone else’s luggage is claimed and it turns out we are both on the same train later in the day to Poitiers! Well , she was catching a train from CDG and had to change at St Pierre des Corps whilst I, wary of the 26 kg (if it turned up) , was cabbing across Paris to Gare Montparnasse and the direct service .
No sooner had we laughed about the coincidental nature of our journey , than our suit cases – hers then mine followed one another on to the carousel! So we went our separate ways , and we did bump into one another on the platform at Poitiers as I wrestled the 26 kg into the minute lift that serves weaklings such as myself!
So off to Chez Wenn and time to chill out with Rick , Sara , Camilla and Louis the cat . We stock up on food , wine and gin at the E.Leclerc on the way home.
The wild fires that continue to rage in the south of France , particularly around Bordeaux, are international news. As used as I am to Australian droughts, I was shocked by the degree of damage on show as we drove the Roman Road from Poitiers to Azay. Trees dying, very little in the way of green of any sort. But the worst was yet to come . Rick and Sara have the most beautiful garden – a vast expanse with Rhododendrons, Peonies, Hydrangeas, wonderful and quite ancient apple and pear trees, Grape vines as well as a fabulous collection of Acers, roses,dahlias and iris. On all my previous visits, I have enjoyed very much, hours of labour, weeding, trimming, and planting. This time not a weed in sight, save for some droopy dandelions still hanging on in parts of the lawn.
There has been no rain for months , and none imminent . Sara tells me a long time village resident has likened this season to another quite like it – an age ago- no rain through summer at all , then the heavens opened in October. To compound the situation, Rick and Sara’s well which was the beneficiary of a new pump etc to access underground water , is quite literally dry. And there is now a ban on any form of hosing with drones apparently monitoring ban breakers. Much of the visible damage has been inflicted by the ghastly 40+ days which simply fried tender temperate foliage. I feel sure that most plants will recover but it is a very testing time .
So we decided to head to la merl- specifically La Rochelle where a long time friend of Rick’s has a holiday house – she is happy for special friends to just turn up and use it! It’s a pleasant drive – about 90 minutes. The swimming destination is actually Il de Le Re – one of the many islands that hug this section of French coastline . Getting to the Il is interesting – Le Pont de Re is an enormous structure that is apparently privately owned and commands a toll fee of 16 euro just to drive across ! Sara and Rick tell the story of a previous attempt to pay the enormous toll with une carte – only to not have it accepted . By this time , there were any number of cars queueing behind them . Backing out and crossing three lanes of queued traffic to access a cash toll was somewhat stressful.
So , forewarned this time , the toll gate was happy and we made our way to a car park for a walk around this fascinating and of course historical precinct. The Fort and its surrounds were constructed in 1626 under the reign of Louis XIII to consolidate royal power against the Protestants of La Rochelle.
Rick and I needed hydrating so a pit stop at one of the many cafes with a lovely harbour view was in order!
La RochelleIl de Re
Such a popular destination for French families ‘en vacances’ – bicycles everywhere . I wish I could ride a bike properly.
So Rick had a plan that , at first , didn’t go to plan, which involved heading to a particular beach. La mer didn’t eventuate at first but fortunately all was well once we discovered La Couarde-sur-Mer. A beautiful stretch of not quite beach as bordered by a concrete wall. A google search tells me it is an anti-submersion marine defence structure boot to protect the village and low lying areas from rising sea levels etc. The water was amazing!
Our night at the fabulous beach house in La Rochelle was interrupted by a good old fashioned thunder storm. Despite reports from Azay that the village had also benefitted there was almost no evidence of precipitation. La Rochelle is a delight – so much history, ancient buildings that are all so clean , cafes , fabulous shops, and families enjoying a post storm milder summer day.
My final day with my wonderful hosts included a trip to Domaine de la Berthonniere – La cueillette, c’est ici!
I have never seen a market garden operation on this scale that encourages people to come – pick what they want – and pay for it obviously. Apart from the sheer size, the quality is without peer! What fun . I could do some serious preserving were I living nearby.
Sara often makes observations on the cultural aspects of the French. She and Rick have made Azay their home for some years now – yet were never made aware of the market garden until one of their friends happened to mention it just recently. And the French are socialist to the core – no one is allowed to earn an income from any endeavour whatsoever unless it is declared. Navigating their bureaucratic methods takes enormous amounts of patience . Sara has mastered so much French – yet there are copious numbers of Brits who have acquired their ‘house in France’ with a vision of some idyllic retreat , who simply refuse to learn the language at all .
Sundowners at La Rochelle!
Eccentricities aside, there is something quite unique about the French . Opening and closing hours , doing business and navigating the medical system etc requires lots of local knowledge . Yet all and sundry are welcomed into the country regardless of their ethnicity. As I write this there is a good deal of press about some 1000 minors who have walked across tidal flats from Morocco (apparently) . The coffee is appalling their steak is tough but the wine is cheap and la fromage delicieux !
