The House Husband

Anyone who has been to Italy will know how noisy the traffic is. Italians are a loud lot – not that there’s anything wrong with that and it clearly shows great passion. This translates easily to the road where their cars seem to make more noise, they use the horn for basic conversation rather than warnings and they yell a lot. Sometimes you really can’t be sure whether they’re yelling because they’re angry or because they’re pleased. Don’t take that as criticism because it’s not meant that way at all. I love the Italians so much I wish I was one and the passion is big part of it.

The thing with Venice is, of course, there’s no cars. Absolutely none. There’s a big carpark at the end of the causeway and then nothing. Apart from trolleys, we have seen only one wheeled contraption and that was a mobility scooter which, given the steps everywhere, can only have limited range. But does this vehicular lack make Venice quiet? Not in the least.

The flat we rented is a building away from a side canal. It can’t be seen from the windows which look out over a small courtyard on one side and the internal well of the building on the other. And yet, you’d think you were living in a houseboat right on it. The boats honk, the engines rev, the drivers yell and whistle and laugh. It goes on all day with brief periods of silence just long enough for your body to think it can relax. And then it starts up again. Still, I really like the lack of cars and trucks and not having to look every which way when crossing a road.

Today we were going to attempt to visit the Doge’s Palace but the crowds were so awful we changed direction and visited a few churches instead. The first was one that was closed when we originally went. It is the Basilica of Saints John and Paul. It was not only beautiful it was also virtually empty.

The church was built after Jacopo Tiepolo (the doge) had a dream in which God told him to build it. By sheer coincidence, he had the dream at the same time as he decided to assign some land to the Dominicans. Originally it was dedicated to St Mary but for reasons not entirely made clear by the guidebook, it ended up being changed to John and Paul (nothing whatsoever to do with the Beatles, I should add). Strangely, this double dedication gets changed to the contracted name of St Zanipolo.

It was started sometime in the 1200s and was held up for a bit by the plague (which decimated the Venetian population by a third in 1348) to be finally completed (which is never really the case) in 1430 when it was consecrated.

Outside the church there’s a big statue of a guy on a horse. Who he is, isn’t really important but the artist who created the statue was Leonardo da Vinci’s old master, Andrea di Francesco di Cione. The mannerisms of the statue reflect the gestures of many of the sculptures in the church.

Inside, it is, basically, a huge empty space which houses some remarkable paintings and statues. Among them is a wonderful St Sebastien by Giovanni Bellini which forms part of an altarpiece dedicated to Tommaso Caffarini, founder of the Dominican Tertiary Order.

Saint Sebastien by Bellini

There are many wonderful pieces in this church. Rather than go through them all I’d just like to point out two of my favourites (after the St Sebastien, of course). Firstly the ceiling in one of the aisles is gorgeous if you lie down on your back and look up through a telescope. If you lay your camera down and shoot using a timer it works a bit better.

Ceiling by Piazzeta

The other is the wonderful marble floor which, as you’d expect, is everywhere.

A section of the marble floor

We spent a lovely time wandering around this magnificent church in a solitude guaranteed by the fact that the hordes of tourists where pushing and shoving each other over at St Mark’s Square. Funnily enough, as we approached the exit, a big crowd of tourists were stood behind the rope (you have to pay a measly €2.50 to visit) trying to peer in without having to pay. I’m not sure of the point of this as they wouldn’t have been able to see very much (it is a vast space and all the monuments are around the walls) but then again, I was quite happy for them to stay away and leave us to it.

Back outside we wandered down to the water to check out the vaparetto stop, deciding that tomorrow would be our water day, before wandering back into the alleys in search of a nice non-tourist restaurant. We found a lovely place called La Colonna in the Campiello del Pestrin, where we had pasta in amongst the cooling shade of vines. As we sat, we counted the number of non-tourists walking by – we were in a small square. Suffice to say, we didn’t see many tourists though I did spot a guy (surely English) wearing Capri pants, sandals and socks. Made me shudder.

After a delicious lunch (highly recommended if you’re in Venice looking for lunch) we set off again, just wandering, and found a lovely little chapel full of gorgeous carvings and a painted ceiling. It also housed an American couple who, it would appear, have no idea how to behave in church. To begin with, he was sitting in the front pew reading aloud the laminated sheet given to him by the guy at the entrance while she was up the stairs, too far to hear him. I figured he wasn’t able to read in his head because unless she had the hearing of Spiderman, the recitation surely wasn’t for her.

While the reading out loud was odd, it wasn’t as peculiar as their sudden love-fest. There were a fair few people in the church doing what most people do in these places, but that did not concern these two. Like a couple of school kids (they were a good deal closer to retirement than school) they fell into a clinch and started on a prelude to what I can assume would end up in a bed somewhere, hopefully not in the chapel. It was very odd and quite disconcerting. I’m not in the least religious but I do think I know a bit about the etiquette of these things. Having a big, middle-aged pash before the high altar in a chapel, surrounded by lots of other tourists can’t be right. Or, maybe I’m being a bit stodgy. Though, to be fair, Kate and Wills didn’t.

Shocked to the core, we left the little chapel though not before snapping a lovely little carving of Adam and Eve set at the base of one of the pillars holding the place up. Sadly I didn’t get a photo of the Americans when I so wish I had.

Adam and Eve in the Mary of the Miracle chapel

This was all too much for us so we headed back to the flat for our afternoon rest (we are getting so Italian) before heading out again, this time towards the area around the station. We didn’t have the map but we just followed the day-trippers and they led us straight to it.

We finally bought a 24 hour vaporetto pass each and took a long journey to St Mark’s Square via the less than romantic docks, and the lovely length of Giudecca.

Venice looks lovely from the water. As you watch it move by, you realise how it was designed to be seen like this. While it looks beautiful, the buildings seem to be leaning, giving evidence that Venice will eventually return to the Adriatic.

We eventually left the boat (with many others) and headed towards the now less but still essentially crowded St Mark’s Square. Bits of it are beautiful but so much is covered by hoardings (including both sides of the Bridge of Sighs which featured the odd vision of tourists snapping away at the big advertising boards and the tiny bit of bridge in between; hardly the romantic vision they were hoping for) that it detracts a lot from it. A lot of the Venice we have seen is not under construction and has been a lot more beautiful for it.

The weather here is quite changeable. For instance, last night we wanted to eat outside so we plonked ourselves at a table against the suggestion of the waiter who insisted it would rain. Still, he shrugged, if it rains we could move inside. We weren’t the only brave diners as there was a table of four chaps and a table of two women as well as us.

We perused our menus and had decided on our choices when Mirinda felt a few big drops on her head. She suggested we move inside, which we did and the waiter was nice enough not to say he told us so. The other outside eaters remained for a bit longer but then the heavens opened and we watched from our seat in the window as the others made a dash for the dryness within.

Apart from the fact that the waiters then had to pack everything up what the rain did was bring out a whole bunch of umbrella salesmen. They just sprung out of nowhere. Some on foot, some on bicycles with the brollies hanging over their handlebars. It was like they were just waiting. Clearly everyone in Como knows when it’s going to rain.

Once we were safely back in the flat, it poured down. There was torrential rain and lightening. Not that we cared.

And then, this morning, the sky was blue, the sun was shining and apart from the ashtrays full of water, you’d not have known there had ever been any rain. The perfect day to take the funicular up to Brunate but first, a wander around town.

Our first stop was the duomo. A magnificent structure in the middle of Como. According to the Rough Guide it is the best example of “…Gothic Renaissance fusion…” in Italy. They certainly have that right. It is magnificent. The statues are wonderful, including a spectacular St Sebastien in the front.

St Seb outside Como Duomo

Inside is almost as good as outside. Typically Catholic, there are a lot of gorgeous paintings and statues as well as a sign indicating what you can and can’t wear in the church. Short skirts and low cut tops are a complete no-no. And there was me thinking Jesus was happy for anyone to come and pray.

We had a lovely wander, getting separated as usual, and I was after buying a guide book. I approached the little desk but as I was about to ask for one, the chap behind the desk sprung to his feet, grasping a little brass bell in his hand, and shook his head followed quickly by a shake of the bell. I figured he wanted me to leave.

I looked around and saw no fire. I then looked at my watch and realised it was God’s lunchtime. I left the duomo and filmed this:

Having been ushered from the cathedral in no uncertain terms, we wandered down to the lake. We headed towards the funicular and took the short (7.5 minutes) ride to Brunate where we had a quite expensive but delicious lunch.

While the food was good and the special beer fantastic, the view is really what made the lunch so special. This is the view that Mirinda had.

Having lunch at Brunate

And this was the view that I had:

Lunch view from Brunate

Sitting at the next table was a bunch of people from Melbourne who were having a lovely time discussing their hotel rooms and how they were so small that you couldn’t actually open the door. One of them told a story about going to a Vietnamese restaurant in Richmond on ANZAC Day night, which surprised them all. Actually, we keep hearing Australian accents. It must be an invasion.

After lunch we went for a wander around the hilltop town, up and down narrow lanes, by typically Italian houses, avoiding typical Italian drivers. I know they’re insane but you have to marvel they don’t have more accidents. Does that make them better drivers? This is the sort of lane where they regularly drive huge articulated lorries.

Narrow Italian road

Back at the funicular stop we tried to board the next one down but Mirinda’s ticket would not be accepted by the automatic gate. Actually, the whole system is automatic, except for the guy who sells you the ticket in the first place. I’m surprised this process isn’t automatic as well.

Anyway, just like at Waterloo, the ticket reader refused to acknowledge Mirinda’s ticket. We looked around for a human to help. Generally at Waterloo you’ll eventually find some accusatory person, but not here. Another couple had the same problem which they solved by climbing over the barrier. Clearly this was the proper solution and Mirinda followed suit. I thought she was going to have to walk.

The trip down was very similar to the trip up apart from two things, the direction and the lack of a pushy man who annoyed Mirinda by pushing and shoving, sitting down, then standing up in order to get in everyone’s way. I’m hoping someone shoved him off the top.

Relieved and back in Como we had another wander around, taking in the marvellous Basilica San Fedele which has a wonderful St Sebastien painted as one panel of a triptych. It was painted in 1504 but I have no idea who by.

Painting of St Sebastien in Basilica St Fedele

Completely worn out by all the walking and sightseeing, we popped into a handy supermarket before heading back to our apartment for a well earned rest.

Lovely blue skies over snow white land and quite chilly.  Paths slippery!

Today we were due to journey into London (Mirinda being off work over Christmas) to meet Karen and Nigel to see the new wing at the V&A.  Last night, Mirinda started coughing and hacking and generally sounding ill which could have had something to do with the lack of buttons on her coat and getting covered in sleet and snow.  All that added up to me going into London and leaving my sad and sorry wife snuggled up in bed as I ventured forth into the freeze.

I had watched a feature on the new gallery on The Culture Show a few weeks ago and was really keen to see it.  When I mentioned it to Karen, she suggested we all meet and see it.  A sort of final day out I guess.  It is fantastic.  For someone like me who is into just about everything but particularly religious iconography, mythical sculpture and St Sebastien, it was pretty much close to heaven.  As we strolled through the rooms, I mentioned to Nigel that it was exactly like any of our tours of Europe – me and churches!

Karen, it seems, does not like religious iconography, finds it unpleasant to look at.  I told her it was because she didn’t know how to read them; didn’t know the stories behind the images.  I described a few of them to her but she remains unconvinced.  I, however, loved every minute.  Well, except for the carpets.  I really cannot get particularly excited about carpets.

The were two Saint Sebastiens though!  One glorious little statue in silver and gilt by Hans Holbien the Elder.  Here’s a picture of it.

San Sebastien

The fine detail is wonderful.  It only stands about 300mm high.  It is exquisite.  It was my favourite piece in the whole gallery.

In saying that, there were a couple of honourable mentions for best in gallery.  The first goes to the oddly named Bartmann Jugs.  I thought the name was a joke and had something to do with The Simpsons but no, these things came first.  They were vessels which depicted bearded men, looking quite serious.  The head was generally at the top, beneath the neck of the jug, and the body of the jug was the man’s body.  They were generally of quite generous proportions!  Clearly very well fed with the contents of the jug.  They seriously looked quite odd.  I’ll post them on the site later along with the other V&A photos I took.  I have and they’re here.

The other honourable mention and equally odd, was a carved tufa fireplace decoration.  It showed hunting scenes and had lots of animals and people doing all sorts of hunting things.  Nothing unusual there at all.  Until you looked really closely.  One of the men had the bottom of his trousers ripped off and was showing his pants which, on close inspection, appeared to be a pair of frilly French knickers!  I kid you not.  It was made between 1510 & 1530 in Padua, Italy.

We spent quite a long time in the gallery so it’s possibly a good thing Mirinda stayed in bed!  About half way through Karen popped off to see another exhibit while Nigel and I finished.  It was then off for lunch.

When I used to visit Karen at work and we’d go for lunch, we had taken to visiting a nice little French place, not far from the V&A.  It served vast quantities of salmon and scrambled eggs and the staff were always pleasant.  We decided this would do for lunch.  Imagine our surprise when we discovered it had changed into an Italian place with a window full of cakes.

According to the manager, it was originally the Italian place then changed to French and has now returned to what it should be.  They now have pizza.  I was once more in heaven.

Karen told us a funny story as we ate.  They, naturally, have been extremely busy packing up, cleaning, selling and generally dispersing their worldly goods to all manner of places, in preparation for their return to Australia.  One box of stuff was destined for a charity shop and was safely situated in a cupboard, waiting for it’s trip downstairs.  On Sunday, Karen and Nigel came over, bringing with them their last bits and pieces, wine for Christmas day and Christmas presents.  I didn’t put the presents under the tree as Carmen was a little too interested in them.  Apparently, there are no present for me in the bag.  They were taken to the charity shop by accident and distributed to the ends of Wimbledon.  Because Karen always buys me odd things from odd places around the world, she couldn’t possibly re-buy them.  They are likely to be quite rude so I’m a tad concerned about some frail old volunteer opening the box and getting a fright

It was sort of a sad day, really.  Though we’ll see them on Christmas day, I realised today how much I’m going to miss Karen.  Still, she’ll only ever be an email away!

Yesterday Claire sprained her ankle so today we planned not to incur a lot of walking. Initially we were to visit an abbey but, instead, we figured a trip back to Amboise when it is open would be better.

Under the usual starter’s orders, we were ready to go at 10. The car was turned on for an hour to defrost it – the temperature was a lovely -5 – but still needed the application of a credit card to allow vision. Then we were off.

At Amboise we once more stopped at the café. This time, Mirinda decided to confuse the girl serving us and so we ended up with three small cups of mud and one mug of coffee. She then further complicated matters by asking for a weak cup of mud. Of course, it was all the poor girl’s fault.

And so onward and upward. I was sent on a scouting mission to find some sort of pressure bandage at a pharmacy. I found four pharmacies but none were open. I then put on a spurt of speed to catch the others as they trudged the length of Victor Hugo street towards Cos Luce.

Cos Luce was where Leonardo da Vinci retired. King Francois I invited Leonardo to come and live there and he did in 1516. He never left and, in fact, is buried in the château down the road. Apparently when Leonardo came to Cos Luce, he carried with him the Mona Lisa. This could be a lie, of course.

The house was built in 1471 by Etienne le Loup who worked for King Louis XI. It was built upon the 12th century foundations of an earlier building. In 1490 King Charles VIII bought it and it became the favoured vacation spot for the French court for a bit.

All that remains of the original fortified house is the end tower which starts the tour of the house. It has the smallest steps I’ve ever seen in a tower. So narrow, one has to assume they would be very easy to defend. Unless your enemy had a bow and arrow.

The house is very warm and inviting – so unlike most of the stately and historical houses we visit. Outside there is rather new looking St Sebastien while in a small chapel inside, there rests a rather faceless version. Unless you’re Japanese, there is no photography allowed in the house, so I have no image of the faceless one. I should have asked the Japanese guy to quickly get one for me but didn’t think of it.

Statue of St Sebastien outside Cos Luce, Amboise, France

Most poignant was Leonardo’s bedroom, where he died, having only lived at Cos Luce for three years. On the wall by the bed is the famous Ingres painting of Leo dying in the arms of Francois I. Apparently a few days before he died, a sickly sparrow sat on Leo’s window watching him. The great man took hold of the sparrow and decided they’d die together. Sadly that’s as far as the story goes. Though Leo died, there is no record of the sparrow’s death or its miraculous recovery. I’m thinking that maybe he rolled over in bed and squashed it.

In the final room of the house is a collection of da Vinci’s machines which someone at IBM built according to his drawings. Amazingly he built a car jack before the car was built and a tank to replace the elephant! As there’s still elephants, we have to assume this didn’t catch on*. Possibly his greatest invention was the pipe wrench. Anyone who has used one on a recalcitrant pipe will attest to this.

He was a pretty amazing guy and, as Claire pointed out, probably incredibly boring to spend any time with. This didn’t phase Francois I as they would sit around and chat all the time but I reckon Claire has a point. Somehow I can’t see old Leo going down the pub with a few mates and talking about the football.

Leaving Bob amid the inventions, we sat ourselves in the small restaurant and waited in the sun. The woman came over and said something to me which I thought was ‘do you want to order now?’ but was actually ‘do you want to wait for the fourth member of your group before ordering’. I replied ‘yes’. Which means she walked away. I tried to attract her attention but I had suddenly become invisible as usual and was duly ignored.

She eventually came over when Bob had joined us and we ordered our usual galettes. Actually Mirinda tried to order soup but was told there wasn’t any. I ordered a local beer but was told there wasn’t any and had a general one instead. The woman then came over and explained to us that there was no soup or beer because of the holidays. For some unreasonable reason, this made Mirinda very cranky. We ate and drank and then left.

Making a plan to meet Bob and Claire at the Bigot Patisserie, Mirinda and I made our way down to the Château d’Amboise.

Amboise was a favoured place by Julius Caesar as he trounced Gaul. Before he arrived and set up shop there, it had a highly successful iron age hill fort – oppidum. Traders criss-crossed the region using the rivers as a form of early road, long before the Romans built some of their own. The Roman town was called Ambaciacum and took advantage of the island that sat in the middle of the Loire. Seeing a great way to make some extra money, a tollgate was set up. This being the only crossing of the river meant it was a successful enterprise.

Amboise square below the château

In the 9th century, it was fought over by three lords and the successor, Foulques Nerra the Count of Anjou decided to make it stronger than its nearest rival, Bloi. He was responsible for the church which I couldn’t get in to see – St Florentin. It didn’t last for long in his control and in 1106, Bloi took it over. After the Hundred Years War, Charles VII decided he liked it so he stole it from the Lord of Amboise. There followed lots of kings who called it either home or THE place to holiday in the summer months when the poor were busy slaving away in the fields.

A few odd things happened in and around the Château over the years but my favourite has to be poor old King Charles VIII. He took over the crown when only 13 and loved the château so much he devoted years to its improvement. He traipsed across to Italy (trying to regain Naples) and stole lots of lovely art to use in it. Then, on the eve of planning another trip in 1498, he hit his head on a door frame and dropped dead. Weird, eh. But that’s French history for you. His widow, Anne of Brittany, ended up marrying the next king because he fancied her enough to annul the marriage she’d already had foisted on her after Chuck’s death. He also annulled his own marriage to Joan because he didn’t like her any more. And history says bad things about Henry VIII!

Anyway…enough of that. We strolled up to the doors of the château to discover that it was closed for lunch until 2pm. So we strolled around the streets for 20 minutes and then returned.

What a fabulous place. The château is only a quarter the size it was at its greatest but this doesn’t matter. Most of the area is grass and gardens and very peaceful. It is all built very high above the town so the views are incredible and on a blue sky day, you can see for months. In fact from one of the viewpoints I spotted Claire and Mirinda gave out a loud ‘coo-ee’ which was answered, scattering a small group of French people who were foolishly standing around Claire at the time.

Box balls in château Amboise, France

There is a lovely chapel in the grounds where Leonardo da Vinci is buried. The carvings are exquisite and, frankly, a bit disturbing. There’s a rather cheeky pig’s butt peeping out from within a small cave, to name but one!

We wandered the grounds and the buildings, admiring everything there was to admire and ended up in the shop, of course, before wandering down to the Bigot Patisserie to meet Bob and Claire. We had a lovely cake and coffee – actually my cake was awash with calvados which was very nice – then left to walk back to the car.

As we were about to leave, Bob started to search for the release for the petrol cap. As he did, a car full of French people pulled up and he decided to ask them. They gathered around the petrol cap, giving advice, shaking their expressive shoulders until one said that it was a German car. This explained everything, of course, and he added “Next time get a French car!”

We finally found it and managed to get petrol on the way back to the château where we sat around chilling until it was time to once more go outside into the freezing night to find a restaurant in one of the next towns. We found it. It looked open. Lots of lights were flashing and it appeared to be open. The door was locked and no-one answered our knocks. It was very cold. Someone looked out a window and still ignored us. We went back to the car and, after driving through another deserted town, went back to the château for a lovely dinner of leftover bits and pieces, which was fine by me.

* In case anyone thinks I’m stupid, I do realise this meant replacing elephants in war and not wholesale! I’m pretty certain Leonardo didn’t dabble in genetic manipulation. Though, interestingly, he seems to have re-invented the water screw which Archimedes originally stole from the Babylonians.

Up even later, making breakfast at about 9:45 then off to the Metro. We wisely purchased a book of ten tickets. This works out cheaper and is more convenient. I recommend it for anyone thinking of using the Metro.

We took the train to Pont Neuf, emerging by the river, not far from St Chapelle, our intended destination. Naturally we had to sit and have a coffee within viewing distance of the Tai Chi group. Mirinda insisted we try at the restaurant but were quickly turned away towards the café. Here we settled down to a mid morning cup.

A couple of restaurants near the Palace de Justice, Paris

It was odd watching a group of older people try to copy a man dressed as a waiter as they swirled and dipped in slow motion but it was somehow slightly soothing. As they stopped for a break, we settled our bill and left.

St Chapelle was originally built to hold the relics of the passion. Louis IX founded it in the 13th century, building a parish church on the ground floor and a magnificent stained glass chamber above. It stood beside the royal palace on the Ile de la Citie, the original starting point of Paris.

Originally such relics as the crown of thorns and a fragment of the true cross were deposited in the chapel. A lot of gold and silver objects were collected over the years and the chapel must have looked fantastic with glinting metal. Then the French Revolution happened and the precious metals were melted down, the other relics were moved to other places.

The guide book claims that the actual crown of thorns was moved in 1793 to an antiques cupboard and then handed to the archbishop of Paris in 1804. It is still, supposedly preserved in the treasury of Notre Dame. It is displayed every Good Friday. I find this hard to believe. Not that it’s displayed, of course, but it’s a bit rich to expect a crown made of thorns to last 1200 years without turning to dust.

Anyway, that’s all by the by. You enter the chapel by the small parish church at the bottom. This room is richly decorated with painted columns and some lovely religious paintings of various heavenly hosts. It also houses the shop. This isn’t as tacky as it sounds and it’s a nice introduction to St Chapelle itself.

The top floor of the chapel is a magnificent room full of the most intricate stained glass I’ve ever seen. The walls are all coloured glass. The room is also full of tourists making too much noise and taking flash photographs with digital cameras that make that annoying little electronic click because they have no idea how to turn it off. This all creates a sort of strobe effect, ruining the true and natural effect of light on glass. A shame. Most other places have a ban on flash photography – actually the evolution museum did yesterday – why not here? The photo is ruined with a flash anyway. And these people don’t actually experience the glass or the space, they just click and whirr around it then leave.

I must say that I found a St Sebastian. Around the walls, beneath the stained glass are quadrifoils, pictures painted in small areas in the form of a four leaf clover, and one of them is of his martyrdom. I didn’t need a flash to take a pretty good photograph.

St Sebastien in a quadrifoil, St Chapelle, Paris

We left the chapel and wandered next door to the Conciergerie. It was part of the royal palace up until the end of the 14th century. Charles V’s father had a few advisors who were the victims of assassination and this freaked out Chuck so much, he fled the island and settled in the Louvre – that’ll be before it was an art gallery. When this happened he appointed a steward to look after the place. This guy was the concierge. He was in charge of keeping the place looking good as well as lording it over the prisoners in the jail.

A lot of famous prisoners have been incarcerated here at one time or another but it’s most famous was Marie-Antoinette who spent her last few days here before going off to meet Madam Guillotine. Her original cell is no longer there but it has been reconstructed on part of the actual site. The place is rather sobering when you consider it was used by the French Revolution for its tribunal and more than 2,700 people were tried before Fouquier-Tinville until he was also tried and executed. The Terror was a crazy time. In one room, there is a list of over 2,000 victims.

The place is a lot more sober than the chapel next door. There are no bright paintings or stained glass windows. Fewer flashing cameras. The original buildings above ground have been removed and all that is there now are reconstructions. However, it does not stop the women’s courtyard from having its own feeling of poignancy. In one corner of this courtyard is the ‘Corner of Twelve’. It was here, in groups of 12, that prisoners would wait before joining the cart that would take them to the scaffold.

As we left it was with great relief that we spied the huge and growing queues for both St Chapelle and the Conciergerie. There’s a lot to be said for getting out early on a Paris weekend!

We sat across the road in a brasserie and had a simple lunch of omelette (me) and chicken (Mirinda) with the famous Parisian frites (we call them fries…or chips). We spent most of the time watching the oddly dressed groups wandering by. It was with interest that I noted the new Japanese fashion for young girls. Having already given the world the shorts over tights thing, they are now wearing wrap around dark skirts over three quarter leotard-like cut off tights and ballet slippers.

Japanese tourists in Paris

We sat opposite an interesting family group. At a glance you would think they had stepped right off a trailer park. He looked a bit like Earl, but without the moustache, she was a brunette version of his ex-wife. The son had a wonderful mullet and looked every bit the hick red neck. What made the image all rather confusing was that they were, firstly in Paris, and secondly drinking red wine. They were a jolly threesome, nonetheless, and enjoying each other’s company enormously.

Apres dejeuner, we set off down towards the Ile de Louis as, apparently, this is now a tradition. A huge queue was lined up waiting to climb the tower at Notre Dame while being entertained by a mime artist in a rubber mask. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Suffice to say, we walked on by with merely a chuckle.

Two lovely ice creams were purchased in a parlous where the ice cream is fashioned into gorgeous flowers upon cone stems. I had pistachio, Mirinda hazelnut. Both were wonderful.

Rather than suffer like yesterday, we hopped on the Metro at Sully-Morland and were back in the hotel in time for a rest before dinner.

A delicious dinner was had at an Italian restaurant just up the Blvd Gobelins called Romains. Lovely pasta, lovely Chianti, very high pitched but lovely waitress. Unfortunately they were out of baba so my limoncello sorbet was sans baba. I think it made all the difference. It was very refreshing.

I should state that it has been very hot in Paris this time. I’m talking sweaty hot not your English warm. Farnham Park in the wind is looking pretty damn pleasant at the moment. Mirinda wishes she was a bird. Presumably a swallow as there’s a few about at the moment.

I was awoken in the middle of the night by a very loud dog! There is a sign on the door into our wing of the château which gives a warning about the bizarre dog within. I think it was out hunting snarks. Anyway, it went off into the woods and the night soon returned to stillness and silence…apart from the owls.

Dog sign

Breakfast at the Château du Guilguiffin takes place a very long dining table in the very big farmhouse kitchen. The table seats 16. When we entered at 9.30 it was almost full. We took the last two seats. Lots of chatter, particularly between a young couple (there was a wedding at the château the previous day and they may have been the newlyweds) and the master of the house. They serve delicious coffee, I just feel compelled to say.

After breaky, Mirinda read while I wandered the grounds – well the woodland bit at the front and a few fields. One of the fields had an odd hydrangea hedge. Hidden in a small hollow there’s a small concrete pool (now unused) with a small niche before it. All very romantic.

Hydrangea hedge, Château Guilguiffin

We left at about 12 for Pont l’Abbe. (In the car I had a text from Dawn asking if the Gaz Help desk still operated in France. As usual I was unable to fix her PC problem. I blamed BT instead.) Naturally, seeing as it was between 12 and 2, Pont L’Abbe was closed and virtually deserted. I say virtually because the bars and tabacs held in their depths, crusty miserable old and young men of dishevelled and slightly threatening demeanour. Ok, I’m exaggerating but they didn’t look appealing at all.

We managed to find a café (actually a slightly better bar which had women sitting outside) which, oddly, had Breton translations for French on the back of the menu. After a drink we strolled over to the TiC to find it, also, was closed till 2. And so we wandered around some more, finding ourselves at the huge tourist shop near where we parked the car.

We were enticed in by the tins of biscuits and other lovely things. It was awful. We bought up big, transforming the Pont L’Abbe economy in one fell swoop. As well as biscuits, I bought a bottle of Breton single malt whiskey especially for Nicktor to try.

After buying out the shop, we wandered along the water channel which was slowly filling up and spotted the very poignant war memorial with the Breton women in traditional garb, crying over the loss of the men of the town in the two world wars.

War memorial Pont l'Abbe

From the memorial we found a church, the 14th century Notre Dame des Carmes, which holds a very odd St Sebastien. He had wavy hair and looked quite serene. Obviously a product of the time when he was made. Actually there has been a lot of St Sebastiens in the churches this trip. It seems he’s a bit of a Breton standard. Not sure why. Him and St Roch, the one with the little dog.

One of the things that is everywhere in Brittany (and which Nicole had when she lived in France) is the little breakfast bowls with names on them. Last time we managed to find a bowl for Mirinda which was spelled incorrectly. We found the correct spelling this time but I’d been searching for a ‘Kelly’. Pretty difficult! Then I asked a guy who was putting out his stock and he said “Sure! Of course! We have all names!” Actually he said something rapidly in French but it sounded like this. I should have asked for Nicktor as well!

I followed him into the store and waited while the girl he’d instructed vanished into the depths up the back – all the shops in Pont L’Abbe have very long depths to them. Just when I’d abandoned all hope and figured the press gangs would grab me, she returned holding a bowl with ‘Kelly’ written on it.

Something I hadn’t brought with me this trip (mainly because they’re in Dawn and Nicktor’s garage) are my thongs. Pretty annoying when you visit a lot of beaches, I can tell you. As we were wandering up to the TiC I spotted a shop with thongs in a display out the front. Grabbing my size I went inside and presented the girl with my money. Ah, comfort at last.

Meanwhile, Mirinda had managed to get lots of info about boat rides on the Odet all in French. Not the information but she managed to make herself understood and vice versa, the woman behind the counter.

We decided today was a drive along the coast day as there were no boats from here. We popped into the Four Seasons Creperie for lunch with Cider.

We eventually collected the car and drove to Penmarch which is about as desolate as you’d want to be. The tumbling tumbleweeds attest to that. Our guidebook promised a coiffe to rival Marg Simpson’s hair but the old woman who generally hangs out around the place is either dead or on holidays, because she wasn’t. This was very annoying because we’ve wanted to see her since 2002! Disgusted, we drove on to Eckmühl to see the lighthouse.

The temperature was almost 30° and the sun was mercilessly beating down. We walked around lighthouse – we could have climbed to the top but there was a long queue without shade and only 20 people at a time were permitted – took a cheeky photo of someone’s backyard with menhirs and dolmans rather than the usual gnomes and then dipped our toes in the water but the stench of some out of sight outflow pipe drove us back on shore. Actually, after this, my thongs constantly squeaked so I’m assuming some sort of connection. The place was starting to come alive with a market day atmosphere filled with tables and produce. Mirinda didn’t like the loo so we drove on.

Smelly bit of Eckmühl beach

We stopped at a very popular beach just outside St Guenole and right opposite the Prehistoric Museum. Our guidebook describes the museum as really, really bad, so we didn’t visit. Mirinda visited the loo instead and then we paddled the length of the beach. It’s a fantastic stretch of soft white sand with many French families enjoying themselves with buckets, spades, bats, balls, bits of driftwood, seaweed or just themselves. Very summery. It felt like Avoca at Christmas many, many years ago…without the French families though.

We then drove on to the Pointe de la Torche where huge signs order people not to swim.

Forbidden swimming sign, Pointe de la Torche

Unless you are young girls in white bikinis, of course. The point itself is very dangerous in bad weather but is bordered either side by amazingly long beaches of beautiful white sand. Again, there were lots of families enjoying the weather. One particular family was flying a kite that looked exactly like a seagull. It dipped and soared, then dipped and buried itself into a granny’s head. The day was so fantastically cheerful that she just smiled, wiped the blood from its beak and handed it back.

We walked to end of point. Along the sides are lots of amazing little cairns – Mirinda reckons they are made by lots of people after some initial inspiration by an artist. They look pretty odd but somehow in keeping with the natural rock formations. There seems to be a bit of a competition with the placement of the most precarious. Some defy gravity, sitting on the ragged edge of huge boulders.

Pointe de la Torche scultpure

After buying a giant bottle of water, we drove on to the Calvaire Notre Dame de Tronoën. This calvary was carved around 1450 and is showing a lot of weathering from its position near the sea. The smooth edged figures take on an ethereal quality. The figures are also liberally coated in lichen. It reminded me of a sandcastle slowly being reclaimed by the sea. Suffering from a different type of weathering, the big church has become a bookshop, the number of chairs diminished to accommodate the now tiny congregation.

On the way back we stopped at the Champion supermarket in St Jean Trolimon for dinner groceries. Firstly the checkout girl annoyed Mirinda because we hadn’t put a price sticker on the two apples and then she thought we were stealing the shopping basket! The problem stemmed from our not having a 10c piece for a trolley – this is the equivalent of around 7p! – and the store not supplying plastic bags. Naturally I was going to return the basket but when the girl came running after us, Mirinda saw it as a personal affront on our integrity.

We were eventually back at the Château by 7pm where we set up our little feast of ham, cheese, tomato and baguette at one of the picnic tables on the lawn and enjoyed the slowly setting sun.

I think I managed to get a bit of a tan today.

After breakfast Mirinda went for her usual read and I went for a walk along the beach in the opposite direction from yesterday to see if I could reach the big green thing on the beach across the bay. The drunk woman had gone.

The tide was very low and it was pretty easy walking all the way around to the other side. The beach is very wide for most of the way and though there is no town, a large caravan park lines a long stretch of it. The amazing thing is the number of mussel pickers. It seems that scores of French holiday makers come down to the beach for a free feed. Bags full of them they take home. Quite amazing.

Big green thing round the bay from Locquirec

As I approached the big green thing, I was greeted by the sight of a woman in a wheelchair, reading happily while a couple dug for mussels not far from her. Her wheels were a few inches into the sand. It must have been a right pain to get her there and back and hopefully they returned home long before the tide turned.

Back at the hotel we popped into the patisserie for lunch then set off to see some more parish closes.

Inside Saint Thegonnec's church

There’s a sort of Parish Close Trail not far from the hotel so we headed off towards our first one at St Thegonnec. The church steeple is very impressive and the church, huge and the calvary tremendous. But inside the church is unbelievable. An incredible display of wood carving lines the walls from ceiling to floor. Stories from the Bible, saints painted bright, crucifixions scattered hither and thither. The thing that strikes you most is the colour. The carvings are bright and new. I do not think I’ve ever seen a more ornate pulpit.

St Sebastien in St Thegonnec's church

There was also a rather pained and oddly cross-eyed St Sebastien. It was also odd in that he only had two arrows and three arrow wounds. Generally he looks like a porcupine but this sculptor had spared him the usual excess.

After this incredible experience we stopped in a small park and ate our lunch along with a French family who had arrived first and claimed the picnic table. Halfway through lunch a mad puppy came bounding over and started befriending the kids. We were then treated to the sight of a dressing gown clad local woman calling and whistling for it to come home. She looked a bit rough. It could have been the drunk woman from last night but I couldn’t be sure.

Next on our list was Guimiliau which is very famous for its calvary. The thing itself is massive with almost 200 figures carved around it. It’s made of granite and was carved from 1581 to 1588. The figures are very much of their time with men in codpieces – hardly the height of fashion in 34AD.

Along with all the Biblical scenes is a rather odd depiction of a woman being dragged off by a bunch of demons. After some digging I have discovered that this is a local moral tale for local immoral people. It is based on the story of Lost Catherine (or Katel Golled). She was a pretty young thing who was not satisfied with the strict life and wanted to go out dancing and playing bingo and just being generally naughty. One night she met a dark handsome stranger who promised her everything if she came dancing with him. Naturally she agreed and naturally he turned out to be the devil. After her date he collected and she was hauled down to the fiery depths of hell by snarling, growling demons.

Calvary at St Guimiliau

This stone story served as a warning to people who could not read. Sitting near other more serene scenes of Christ and his followers, Catherine’s tortured face and the grinning demons look very different and something best avoided. So remember, be as naughty as you like but if some dark handsome stranger promises you everything, there is going to be a catch! This scene is only present on two calvaries, Guimiliau being the best. There’s a picture of it in the album here.

Our final close was at Lampaul-Guimiliau. From the outside it isn’t much to look at (apparently it was struck by lightening in 1809 and hasn’t been quite the same since) but the interior of the church is extraordinary. Across the aisle, high above is a beam which contains a massive crucifixion as well as statues of the Virgin Mary and John the Baptist – they all look life size. The beams that stretch from side to side are also carved with faces or Celtic puzzle shapes.

I’ve included a picture of one of the saints (I’m saving you having to look at another St Sebastien, for there was one). This is St Roch. We encountered him in a number of the churches and he always had this little dog with him. The dog always appeared to be returning something; a frisbee or, as in this one, a ball. At the same time the saint is lifting his robe to show a wound on his leg. We thought it all a bit odd until I discovered that St Roch was a hermit who hurt himself, crawled into a cave and was fed by a dog who regularly brought him bread.

St Roch at Lampaul-Guimiliau

Similar carvings around the walls depict other saints with small panels of stories beneath them. There is one rather modest set of Adam and Eve and the serpent and even Salome gets in with John’s head on a platter as she dances for Herod. Not usually shown with this story is the headless body of John with blood gushing out the neck. Truly graphic and equally gross.

We then drove back to the hotel for a lovely last supper. During our short stay at the Hotel des Baines we have been joined by an interesting assortment of fellow guests. Among the most interesting…

There was an English pair with two small children. He was some sort of orthopaedic surgeon and she was an obedient little stay at home Surrey mother. They had an au pair (or nanny) to look after the kids while they went off and enjoyed themselves (I assume). His idea of a holiday was to listen to his mp3 player most of the time with big headphones on. At first Mirinda thought he wasn’t the father of the children but I think he probably doesn’t see them very often so they are unsure whether to call him dad or doctor. Her dinner dress sense was about 20 years younger than it should have been.

There was the old American couple that always sat in the same place. We noticed them mainly because on our first night the wife changed her order upon seeing Mirinda’s dessert. They seemed very nice and acted like they stayed there every year and had done for centuries.

There was the tall Frenchman who was always looking for a friend. I was a bit concerned because he appeared to keep forgetting what he was doing. I noticed him one morning at breakfast. He would get to the buffet and stand and look, pick up a bread roll, stand and look, then wander around a bit then replace the bread roll. This took quite a while because he also had to chat to everyone who came near. He was about 100 and moved slowly but seemed perky enough. It turned out that he has a serious back problem. This did not stop him wandering the town each day wearing his hat at a very jaunty angle.

And worst but not least, in the room beside ours there were two women and a man who smoked on the terrace then went into the room to cough themselves silly. I thought they were awful but when they left, one of the women seemed very pleasant and bid me a fond farewell when we met in the car park as I was packing the car.

Up at 8. The celebration of Easter appears very muted around these parts. Actually our hostess at the Gradlon Hotel hadn’t actually known it was Easter until yesterday when she accidentally spotted a couple of Easter eggs in a nearby chocolate shop window. I guess it’s the public holiday thing: if you don’t get one there’s no natural reminder, especially now that church is no longer mandatory. If Christ died for our sins what does that say about the sin of forgetting the fact that he died at all? Maybe it’s because the date changes every year. Imagine if your birthday was determined by the movement of Mars. I’d forget mine! Actually I forget mine anyway so let’s just leave it there.

Breakfast was the usual bread, butter and coffee. Very nice bread, butter and coffee. Mirinda rang Bob and Claire for Easter so I went for a walk around town. Quimper starts to wake up from 10am so it was like strolling through yawns and stretches.

The guy who invented the stethoscope was called Laennec and the café in the piazza is Café du Finistere – Finistare being the area of Brittany we are in. I sat next to the impressive statue of Laennec while lots of little kids screamed with mixtures of delight and abject fear on the Jules Verne Carousel to the accompaniment of two boys terrorising pedestrians on their micro scooters. Actually the 7 year old was teaching the 6 year old HOW to terrorise.

Laennec

Looks like another lovely blue sky day with a cool breeze, keeping the temperature bearable. One little kid sitting in the cockpit of the slightly bigger Jules Verne bi-plane had vanished as the carousel completed a rotation and his father freaked. He leapt heroically onto the spinning contraption then, relieved beyond belief, dragged his child up by the shoulders, out of the hollowed insides of the ride. It was hilarious…but perhaps you had to be there.

At 11:15 the cathedral bells went crazy, the massive doors opened and masses of mass goers poured forth. Suddenly the quiet, deserted Quimper was noisy and full. Then after 10 minutes, the bells gradually stopped; like an ocean liner trying to brake, it took quite a while.

Mirinda joined me at about 11:30 and we went to see the cathedral – finally. By the way, all well at Dural – Mirinda told her nanna we were in France to which she said “Ah, yes, I’ve been to Florence.” Mirinda then corrected her saying, “No, France.” Her nanna then replied “Yes, Florence. I’ve been there.” in true Monty Python fashion. Think of the secret service sketch.

The cathedral has to be the lightest we have ever seen. It is painted with light colours, has acres of stained glass and even electric lights. It made a very pleasant change from the usual dim and dark places we tend to find. The cathedral is dedicated to St Corentin who, legend has it, was sought out by king Gradlon who, on finding him, begged him to become the bishop of his capitol, Kemper (Quimper). Interestingly Corentin was a hermit who caught the same fish in the same well every day, ate half and threw the rest back which miraculously reformed for the next day and for this he was canonised. I guess he was the compleat angler. Anyway, Corentin became the first Bishop sometime between the 5th and 7th centuries.

The construction of the cathedral started in 1239, stopped for a bit during the French Revolution in 1793 then continued well into the 19th century with the construction of the marvellous twin bell towers. An amazing sight is the dog’s leg down the middle aisle. From the doors you cannot see the back wall. I guess that’s what happens when you ask for tenders and the construction work covers centuries. There’s no explanation for this kink so I put forward the theory that the person responsible for the drawings folded them wrong.

There’s a lovely statue of St Joan in one of the alcoves along the side as well as countless (actually you could count them but I didn’t) stained glass windows of glorious Biblical stories. There’s a little altar to Santik Du, a Franciscan monk from Quimper who would give bread to the poor with a little table by his statue and people leave bread there every day, anonymously and other people (presumably poor ones) equally anonymously take it.

Joanie

After church we popped next door into the Musee Departmental Breton. Lots of great old stuff in a wonderfully set up building. It was originally the bishop’s palace…I have no idea where he lives now. Included was a wooden statue of our old friend St Sebastien, from the 16th century. He had 7 arrow holes but only 1 arrow was intact. It was the one through the heart so pretty much the fatal blow. The museum included lots of dummies dressed in Breton outfits through the centuries. All very interesting and interestingly, free.

Afterwards we went outside and climbed the ramparts to walk round the city walls ala St Malo. After about 100 metres it was over. Not a lot left!

We retired to a café then back to the room for a break. Mirinda put the BBC on and I argued with the Dateline team about the US in Iraq situation.

We had our usual 7pm dinner, this time at one of the only restaurants open on Easter Sunday: an Italian/French place with a very friendly maitre’d who spoke excellent English. And he didn’t care what we wore or that I drink beer. The meal was lovely and I’d recommend it if I could remember the name. Actually I found the name on the bill. It’s La Villa F (like Christiane without the heroin). We had slivers of veal (they call it minced) in sauce and pasta preceded by a green salad (grass and olive oil for the uninitiated) followed by pavlova (Mirinda) and tiramisu (me of course). Afterwards had our last stroll around Quimper.

It was a lovely night, spoilt only by the unlicensed motorbikes, buzzing around the cobbled streets. One day, if a whole bunch of Garys get together in Quimper, we will pounce on one of these putt-putt bikes, throw the rider and his moronically grinning pillion passenger to the cobbles and proceed to kick the noisy thing to death. Call me unreasonable (Mirinda does) but I hate them! We had one in Aldershot, mosquito boy I called him. I know they don’t care. I know they’re just kids with little (if anything) to do with their time. I know their parents have no idea where they are and what they’re doing. And I now realise everyone else is a lot more tolerant of them than I am though I have no idea why. But I have to ask: why have such a lovely old cobbled town with narrow streets and pretty painted buildings if you’re just going to fill it up with cars, buses and pesky motor scooters????? Quimper seems massive beyond the old city walls so WHY DO THESE IDIOTS NEED TO ANNOY ME? Grumble, grumble.

Ok, enough of my political scariness. We made our way back to the hotel and bed. Early start tomorrow as our train leaves at 8:40!!

Went down to the terrace for breakfast. Plenty of coffee and carbohydrates. Mirinda remained asleep. I’d written about 10 words of my journal when my only pen ran out. A lessor mortal may ask why I didn’t have a spare. I would tell this smart arse that I was using the spare because the other one ran out of ink in St Malo! Surprisingly Mirinda didn’t pack a pen for herself. So, my first impossible task for the day was to track down a stylo noir.

I did quite well, actually. In Le Tabac opposite the cathedral, I managed, in appalling French, to buy two.

Back at the hotel Mirinda woke at 9.30, gently easing into the day.

Gradlon, for whom this hotel is named, was an ancient king of Brittany who, legend has it, threw his sister to the devil in order to save himself. Sounds a lovely sort of chap. On top of the cathedral is a statue of him astride his horse. In the past some guy would get on the horse, behind the king, offer him a drink, wipe his mouth and throw the cup to the crowd gathered 400m below him. It was claimed that anyone catching the cup in one piece would be rewarded with lost of dosh but no-one ever managed it! This probably explains why the French do not play much cricket.

Our first stop of the day was to be the cathedral but a service was in progress so we crossed the piazza to the Musee de Beaux-arts de Quimper (or in Australian, The Museum of Quimper’s Beaut Art) instead. There’s some beautiful paintings of rural Brittany on the ground floor. One in particular called Adieu! (Alfred Guillou 1892) is deeply moving (and massive). I have ‘nicked’ a copy from the website but if you’d like to read more about it (and have a MUCH better hold of the French language than I do) try here.

Adieu! Alfred Guillou, 1892

Upstairs are some older paintings including, I’m happy to say, another of our old friend from Tuscany, St Sebastien or He of the Arrows. This version has only 5 arrows and 2 of those missed! His attackers can be seen fleeing as he beseeches into the heavens, his clothes in a neat heap beside his cross.

St Sebastien

It was painted by Francesco Albani from 1605-10. I’ve surfed the net but can’t find the exact painting but it appears he painted the same subject in Italy! It’s very similar so I’ve put it here to give an idea of what it looked like.

The whole museum was excellent and highly recommended but be sure to arrive with plenty of time to visit as, like everything in Brittany, it closes at 12. Because of this, we had no time to trawl the shop and, instead, retired to the bar next door, which spills out onto the piazza. Mirinda had a civilised cup of tea while I had a less civilised but tastier Leffe.

Now, I know the French stand for liberty and believe man (and woman) should be free in most things but I thought they were religious and they held the church in pretty high esteem. At least until today. As we sat drinking our refreshments a drunk, in broad daylight with people scattered hither and thither, proceeded to piss on the outside wall of the cathedral. The most amazing thing is that there are heaps of free public toilets in Quimper. No-one did or said anything. Quite frankly I thought it was disgusting and should be discouraged. They’ll be pissing on Le Petit Train next! Mon Deiu!

We then, once more, tried to see the cathedral but it was now closed for lunch (or possibly a hosing down) so I decided to climb the hill that overlooks the town while Mirinda wrote some postcards in the park at the bottom. After a steep rise of 80 metres I could not see Quimper for the trees.

View from Mont Frugy

Glimpses of the town showed how dull and grey it appeared from above – it is actually quite colourful at ground level. I descended a surprisingly litter strewn Mont Frugy, picked up Mirinda and we headed towards the pottery world further down the river.

The Pottery Museum of Quimper is in the Loc-Maria area of town. It is located on the site of the original Porquir Factory. As you could imagine, it’s full of pottery. Because of the quality of the clay and the river, production started here back with the Romans but the Quimper-ware began in 1690 when Jean-Baptiste Bousquet installed his kiln there. Suffice to say, the whole place was very interesting. There’s a Wikipedia entry about Quimper faience here.

Afterwards we visited the shop. This, in contrast, was very scary. So much beautiful stuff, so many euros! As I say, and probably stole from some American tourist, “Travel broadens the mind and reduces the wallet.” We now own 2 little tiles for the outside wall of the cottage and 2 plates for the wall inside the cottage. The cost is not important. I figure if I keep repeating this mantra, everything will be fine.

We were then decidedly ready for crepes and so headed back to town to find masses and masses of people but all the creperies closed (for lunch?). It seems that from some time after lunch, the word ‘savoury’ has no meaning in Brittany. You can get plenty of sweet pastry items but if you want a proper late lunch you have to go to the food market and try and buy 2 batons and some slices of delicious honey smoked ham and make your own! Which is what I had to do.

We ate our ham rolls in our room and watched a heated debate on BBC World. Dozed and read till about 7, then popped out for a coffee at the café opposite the cathedral. No way were we hungry (there was a LOT of ham) so, instead, we went for a stroll, looking for the normal people’s homes of Quimper.

Just outside the old walled town and along one of the three rivers we found grey buildings, flats and box-like living spaces. Also drunks and a very large car park. The river was very nice to look at and full of surprises, especially when a plastic bag suddenly turned into a big white duck. It’s probably some sort of prey catching device developed over the aeons in order to fit in with it’s environment. It’s interesting that you don’t have to go far out of the old town to find litter, graf and the homeless.

Or, if you are desperate to see the homeless there is one particular chap who seems to just wander through the town in circles. Catch his eye and his lunacy shines out like a directional beacon to the asylum. Walking back through town we passed him a number of times. I think he was a smack addict on his own private roundabout. You’d say it was sad but he was very happy and cheerful looking, smiling and chuckling maniacally.

Back at the hotel, Mirinda spent sometime flipping, trying to find some English TV. In doing so I managed to catch the unfortunate and depressing news that Aston Villa had beaten Chelsea 2-0!! Subsequently I didn’t sleep well.

Woke up at 7 then at 10. Bob and Claire have gone.

An interesting fact about Italian bread – it appears to have no salt. This makes it quite tasteless! The sliced stuff (“Ideal for toasting“) is also a bit sweet and tastes like cake when it’s toasted.

We had coffee/tea on the balcony then walked around the ‘estate’. The place has a rosemary hedge. Extraordinary. The swimming pool is in a lovely scenic spot but just a tad cold for use today!

Jump in, the water's fine

There was lots of men with shotguns making big bangy noises – I think they were hunting small aquatic mammals called underwater friends but Mirinda tells me these aren’t actually real. It was probably pheasant. Ho hum. On our walk we dropped in and visited Farelli who, like us, had a nice long, well earned sleep.

She had an odd dream about Tuscan earthquakes, saving Mirinda and meetings with scud missiles, which seems to indicate she’s concerned about the impending war, Mirinda and the movement of tectonic plates. Or maybe it was just her bed, I don’t know.

Bob and Claire got back at about 12 bearing pizzas and croissants for lunch.

Bob & Claire had spent the morning in San Gimignano (from here on in called San G) where we wanted to spend the afternoon so Mirinda (bravely) said we’d take the car but Bob was concerned so ended up driving us there. He dropped Farelli, Mirinda and me at the lower part of the city, right by the robot toilet.

Woman eating robot toilet

We agreed to all meet outside the cathedral at 7:30 with a restaurant booked.

What a gorgeous town. It’s called ‘The town of beautiful towers’ and it is. The guide book spouts a lot of history but I think the final paragraph sums it up:

Today San Gimignano has it’s own personality and is renown world-wide as a town of art, under the protection of UNESCO. But there is more. It’s atmosphere, comparable to that of a large legendary and enchanted castle, awakens in visitors dreams of bygone days and distant places, believed to have vanished, but the existence of which is instead still tangible.

Tea with Mussolini was set in Florence and here (this is where the women are moved to), with make believe Germans flying through the tiny medieval streets.

There are two piazzas which form the central focus of the town and they are joined via an arch. Piazza Duomo is the highest and is fronted by the old cathedral. We went and had a squizz in the Museum of Sacred Art then into the cathedral. What amazing frescos! The whole bible (virtually) is painted on the walls from the creation leading up to the resurrection…OK that’s not the whole bible, but it’s a lot of it! Each of the frescos is a story and they are so beautiful (in Tea with Mussolini, these are what Judi Dench is trying to save). We had fun spotting the stories we knew.

There was one distinctly confusing picture of some dude tied to a stake with a load of archers turning him into a hedgehog. He had the circle round his head and a beard so we naturally assumed it was Christ but none of us remember the ‘trial by having arrows stuck into you’ section of the New Testament. It turned out to be St Sebastien who was used as target practice by someone horrible.

The series with God making man had a cartoon quality that I found appealing. In the first we find God swooping down, fingers first, bursting forth with faint little tracer-like white lines from which emerges a naked and sleeping Adam. The next panel sees Adam standing by the animals seemingly saying to God “Like all this is pretty cool, but I really need someone to…well, I haven’t worked out a name for it yet but watch the horses long enough and you’ll get the idea!”

In the third panel Adam is once more lying down with God looming large over him, fingers again held out. From Adam’s lower rib area, a naked woman is rising out of him. It all looked a bit raunchy as God had not yet invented pubic hair. However, before any more happiness can occur the fourth panel finds God and a few evil looking angels round his feet, showing the couple the door for eating the forbidden fruit. A nice touch in this panel is the artist has Adam & Eve covering themselves with their hands but not having a lot of success. It would have looked silly with the traditional fig leaves.

From the cathedral we went to the Civic Museum which has access to the only tower you can climb – the Grosse Tower. It was a long and windy climb with see-through steps that left you a bit woozy, but at the top it was fabulous. Because San G is on a hill, the addition of a high tower makes for the most amazing views. My apologies for the photograph, however, as the weather was crap!

View from the Grosse Tower

I was very proud of Mirinda who, despite her fear of heights, managed the climb (particularly the little ladder at the end) to join us at the top. From here you can see the higgledy piggledy streets and rooftops that feature on countless gift shop offerings. There’s a big broken bell up there too. It obviously had the clanger bashed out of it at some stage and was replaced with a working one. I assume the guys who hauled the new one up couldn’t be bothered lowering the old one so it’s just sitting there, prey to graff artists.

There are signs at the bottom of the tower forbidding access during thunderstorms because of lightening strikes and the top of the tower has copper running all over it, presumably to save the bell being struck (again?). The climb down was pretty awful but the views had been worth any vertigo or wobbly legs. Of course Farelli suffered longest with the wobbles as she has such long legs.

From the tower and the museum we stopped at a café for coffee and cake as we decided what to do with the extra two and a half hours we had before Bob and Claire met us. Once we found the main street and it’s bright lights, it was not a problem but as we sat in the café, Mirinda busily planned the revised timings for later expeditions.

As we left the café we were greeted by the arrival of Babba Natale, an old bloke and two lolly laden donkeys. Soon a festive crowd gathered and a marching band appeared seemingly out of nowhere and struck up a few Christmas carols. Now here’s an interesting thing, this band was very good and tuneful and rousing when it played it’s signature tune but inexplicably fell into a heap of ill struck notes when it attempted Silent Night or any other vaguely recognisable song or, in fact, the strange inclusion of Happy Birthday.

Farelli’s perfect pitch was suffering numerous torturous deaths, so we set off for the shops. Lots of pottery, wine and wild boar salami but no kettles or toasters. We found a restaurant in a hotel the name of which translated to ‘Good Day’ so we figured this sounded Australian and inviting so we booked in.

After a good stroll up and down (then up again) the bright but not-very-but-nice-enough-ly crowded streets, we stopped at the Snack Bar for a beer or two, while we waited for Bob and Claire.

At about 7:20 I went out to meet them but was stopped by this rather trendy looking guy and his equally groovy female companion, who asked me, in rather broken Italian, if I knew the way to the Hotel Good Day. They obviously mistook me for a local, what with my swarthy good looks and Roman nose, an obvious and understandable confusion, so I started to answer. I got as far as “Si” and pointed down the street. then I realised I wasn’t actually Italian and had no idea how to say “Just down this road and on your left“. So I interrupted my barely started answer and asked instead “Do you speak English?“.

He suddenly looked relieved and said “Yes!” so I then told him where the hotel was.

“You’re Australian!” he said.
“So are you,” I replied.

He was from Malloolabah and shook me by the hand, saying “I like your work” before drifting off into the night. What lovely people we Aussies are.

I then found Bob and Claire and we all set off for the restaurant, where a scrumptious and very big meal was consumed with an abundance of local wine. I had the wild boar and truffles. Loved the pig, not sure about the fungus.

We decided to try for a shortcut back to the car rather than climbing back up and over the town again. Big mistake! After travelling for a few days through some of the toughest terrain known to Tuscans, we eventually turned back. Without our machetes it was useless.

Of course, the extended walk meant the wine wore off, some of the food was digested and we saw an awful lot of dark San G. Eventually we all piled into the car and Bob drove back through the light rain.

We had a bedtime drink at Farelli’s place then all retired for the night.

Bob and Claire have decided to buy San G.