Europe Travel Stories

In Val d’Isere, Late Season Skiing Has Old World Charm

by Gelu Sulugiuc

At the top of the 9,275-foot Rocher de Bellevarde peak on a crisp day, surrounded by the majestic panorama of the snow-capped Alps, I looked down the slope where Jean-Claude Killy entered his name in the annals of ski history and it didn’t seem so daunting. During the 1968 Winter Olympics, the Frenchman won the downhill race here in just under 2 minutes, riding on skis that were prehistoric compared with today’s high-performance gear. So how long could it take me? A taxing, 20-minute descent on the aptly named Face Olympique de Bellevarde slope left me gasping for breath and my ego cut down to size. But one doesn’t have to be a world-class skier to enjoy Val d’Isere — the creme de la creme of the French Alps and one of the best late-season ski resorts in the world.

Nestled between regal peaks close to the Italian border, the tiny village of Val d’Isere is home to what the locals proudly call le plus bel espace de ski du monde (the most beautiful ski area in the world).

And this might not be an exaggeration. From the top of the slopes skiers can take in the tallest peak in Europe at 15,774 feet, the elegant Mont Blanc, rising to the northwest. The downhill view is equally picturesque, with sparkling slopes that lead to a dammed lake.

kids cycling val disere Val d’Isere was first settled by a Celtic tribe in a valley that later became a main thoroughfare for commerce during Roman rule. It earned its current name in the 17th century, when locals built a church whose octagonal spire still stands as a landmark. With the installation of the first ski lift in 1936, so began Val d’Isere’s transformation from hunting station to a mecca for winter sports.

The resort features two ski areas – Val d’Isere and Tignes – which together comprise Espace Killy, named for Mr. Killy, who grew up here and won three gold medals at the 1968 Olympic Games. There are 90 lifts, including an underground funicular, which take you to 196 miles of downhill slopes and 27 miles of cross-country trails. Travelers could ski for a week without visiting the same route twice.

off piste skiing valdisere Val d’Isere is also renowned for offsite skiing with a range of terrain and exposures. Not all options offer safe conditions on the same day, but the place is so big that skiers will almost always find a good spot. Make sure you have the right equipment and know the snow and weather forecasts before venturing on unmarked runs. It may be wise to hire an experienced mountain guide.

This year the season runs between Nov. 26 and May 8, but skiing on the 11,335-foot Grande Motte glacier begins a month before and ends a month after the rest of the area. The resort gets an average of 20 feet of snow a year and plenty of sunshine. The high altitude all but guarantees good snow early and late in the season, which allows travelers to take advantage of better prices.

Although Val d’Isere is in France, American skier Lindsey Kildow is a local darling and the proud owner of a cow she received from local cheese farmers after winning a World Cup downhill race in Val d’Isere last year.

World Cup events are yearly affairs in the village, which will also host the World Alpine Skiing Championships in 2009. (The resort now has two Olympiads under its belt, having hosted races in 1968 and 1992.) Val d’Isere is nearly as celebrated for its nightlife as for its mountains. Revelers choose between posh nightclubs – techno music reigns here, as it is, after all, Europe – and rowdy bars such as Dick’s T Bar or a beer-and-pool joint staffed by Danish women, Le Petit Danois.

The resort offers accommodation choices for everyone, from cozy chalets at the foot of the slopes to luxury hotels on the main road to no-frills hostel-style establishments sprinkled throughout the village. For those who can afford the $500 a night for a double room, the best hotel is Christiania, although the luxury chalet the Eagle’s Nest has its fair share of fans.

Variety is also le mot du jour when it comes to culinary offerings, which range from upscale restaurants to pizza joints.

For a lunch break on the mountain, sample local cheese at La Fruitiere or sausages cooked in white wine at Trifollet. In the village, try Le Canyon’s fondue — beaufort cheese that is slowly heated on a tabletop grill and eaten with small bits of bread.

But don’t arrive at restaurants minutes before the posted dinnertime in an attempt to snag the best table. Although the staff will be on the grounds and ready to receive customers, they will typically refuse even to serve drinks at the bar and invite you to wait outside in the snow until the precise time advertised.

The only downside to Val d’Isere is that it is not easily accessible to those departing from North America. The most convenient route is a flight to Geneva, followed by a 4 1/2-hour bus ride.

A still longer, but more fun, route is to book a flight to Paris, and then board the overnight Snow Train ($415 through RailEurope), which is legendary for its disco carriage, where passengers can dance while the train speeds toward the mountains. The train goes to Bourg Saint Maurice, where travelers transfer to a local bus for a 30-minute trip to Val d’Isere.

You will congratulate yourself for overcoming the grueling journey when you finally get up the mountain, point your skis or snowboard downhill and feel the crisp Alpine air caress your face and your heart pump faster as you follow in Mr. Killy’s immortal tracks racing down Face Olympique de Bellevarde.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Gelu Sulugiuc, who makes his home in Denmark.

Photos by Val d’ Isere Tourism:
1: Overview of the Val d’Isere area
2: Summer fun is also enjoyed throughout the area
3: Back country in winter

An Italian Cooking Festival

by Theresa Perenich

Puffs of soft, fluffy clouds caressed my mouth. The tiramisu flowed down my throat like liquid silk. My friends stared as I licked my lips. Reluctantly, I offered a sliver to Ann, Dan and Phil. Immediately, they ordered their own. I knew I should have started lunch with dessert. We were in the mountain village of Villa Santa Maria in Abruzzo, Italy on the last day of the three day Festival of the Cooks (Sagra dei Cuochi). Each October hundreds of world famous cooks descend upon the cooking institute, Instituto Professionale Alberghiero di Stato, Marchitelli to create culinary masterpieces that compete for prestigious awards.

The Abruzzo region in central Italy stretches from the Apennine Mountains to the Adriatic Sea. Rare Apennine wolves and the endangered Marisican brown bear inhabit ancient forests that have been designated as national nature reserves. The region is blanketed with vast national parks. Indeed, over one-third of the territory is environmentally protected.

Abruzzo is a province that still clings to age-old traditions and superstitions. The culture of the land is reflected in its distinctive cuisine – hearty, earthy dishes infused with aromatic herbs and spices.

Saffron and hot peppers are used liberally. Roasted and grilled meats, particularly lamb and boar are found on menus throughout the mountain towns. The seaside villages along the Adriatic Sea feature a spicy seafood stew, brodetto. The region is known for its maccheroni alla chitarra, square spaghetti that is made on a wooden box strung with steel or plastic wires like a guitar and served with a meat ragú.

From our agriturismo (working vineyard and farm), La Capezzangna, near Pescara on the Adriatic Coast, we sampled the foods of Abruzzo and explored its villages and countryside.

According to an ancient chronicle, Villa Santa Maria originated in 828 with the construction of the Sanctuary of the Madonna in Basilico. In the 14th century, the town was burned down because it rebelled against its feudal lords. It was later rebuilt and was ruled by the Caracciolo princes.

With less than 1500 inhabitants, Villa Santa Maria sits in the arms of a craggy rock formation, La Penna. The village extends into the shallow floodplain of the River Sangro that empties into the Adriatic Sea, 30 miles away.

Rugged, vertical cliffs forced the town’s early residents to build their stone houses and domed medieval church into and around the jagged obstacles. Houses jut out of the cliffs at odd angles into narrow, steep, passageways.

On Via Roma, the rocky, main street of Villa Santa Maria, booths displaying Abruzzo’s regional products – necklaces of salami, rounds of cheeses, aged prosciutto and herb infused sausages – lined the street. Aromas of garlic, fish, and spices drifted towards us from tents with tables that sagged under huge caldrons of food.

Chefs in tall white hats dished out garlicky fish soup, rosemary scented pastas, and spicy stews to the crowd waiting in lines. “Manga, manga (eat),” they yelled. The customers laughed, joked with the chefs and took their plates overflowing with food to tables and benches nearby.

A statue of San Francesco Caracciolo, the patron saint of Villa Santa Maria and protector of Italian cooks stands near the Church of San Nicola in Villa Santa Maria.

According to one legend, in the 16th century, wishing to escape the summer’s heat, Francesco Caracciolo, a cook from Naples, settled in Villa Santa Maria. He brought with him a love of cooking and a custom of the Neopolitan nobility – a cooking competition that has continued here for four centuries.

Another story claims that the culinary tradition of Villa Santa Maria started in 1560 when Lord Ferrante Caracciolo organized the first cooking school in his castle. He learned the secrets of good cuisine during his travels to Florence and taught these to the youths of the area. By the 1800s, cooks from Villa Santa Maria worked for royal families throughout Europe and now are found in restaurants worldwide.

It was late afternoon and throngs of people vied for vantage points along Villa Roma from which to watch the grand finale, the parade of the chefs. We were wedged in between families with children perched on their shoulders and teenagers in tight jeans.

Chefs and their assistants emerged from the culinary institute clutching pallets holding their creations. Promenading slowly down the street, they carried tray and platters filled with appetizers shaped into roses, tulips, plants and trees.

The crowd cheered as a reproduction of St. Peter’s Basilica in white cream, its dome lighted by candles, passed by. Applause followed a white and dark chocolate replica of the Coliseum.

Food was sculpted into medieval castles, ponds with swans and villages with bell towers. Peppers, tomatoes, cheeses and eggs were fashioned into birds, frogs and ducks. An ocean scene replete with carved lobsters, clams, squid, and fish floated by.

A section of Via Roma had been transformed into a massive outdoor buffet almost a half a mile long. Music filled the air as the chefs made their way to the buffet tables assembled under a white canopy. Gently placing their masterpieces on the tables, the cooks bowed to the applause of the crowd.

Lines of people, waiting to taste the chefs’ creations, formed at the entrance to the buffet. The cooks and their assistants stood behind the tables, knives and forks in hand; ready to serve pieces of their masterpieces to the guests.

As St. Peter’s Basilica was being carved into slices, my friends and I decided to leave. We wanted to remember the culinary works of art in their entire splendor.

On our way out of Villa Santa Maria, Ann, said, “I don’t know how any of those desserts could top the tiramisu we had earlier.” “Let’s come back next October and see,” I said. “Only if we stop and get some tiramisu first,” my friends responded.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Theresa Perenich who makes her home in Athens, Georgia, USA.

About the photos:
1: The village of Villa Santa Maria.
2: Culinary masters on parade.
3: A pastry model of the Vittorio Immanuel monument in Rome.

Holland’s Anne Frank House

by Lauren Kramer

If there’s one place that you visit in Amsterdam besides the famous Red Light District, let it be the Anne Frank House. Chances are that you’ve heard of the young girl who was sequestered with her family in the hidden annex of an Amsterdam building during World War Two. With the publication of The Diary of Anne Frank, her voice was released to the world long after the Nazis discovered the family’s hideaway and hauled them away.

Imprisoned in a concentration camp, she perished mere months before the end of the war, leaving as a legacy to the world, a diary of her thoughts and dreams. It is an account of human tragedy that has touched the hearts of thousands and still haunts us, fifty-seven years later.

Nothing brings Anne Frank to life more vividly than a visit to the annex where she spent two years prior to being arrested. Located at 263 Prinsengracht, it’s a tall building in central Amsterdam—one in a long row of the city’s canal houses.

Once the business office of Anne’s father, Otto, the annex became a hideout in 1942, when the Franks went into hiding with the Van Pels family and Fritz Pfeffer.

Otto constructed a doorway to the annex concealed behind a moveable bookcase, and with the assistance of his office personnel, who knew of the hiding place and supplied its eight occupants with food and news from the outside world, they survived until August 1944. That month their hideout was betrayed and the family members deported. The only one to survive the war would be Otto.

Now a museum, the rooms have been barely touched since the Franks resided there, though after their eviction, the Nazis threw out the furniture that once filled this small space.

I wait in line for 45 minutes just to get in, for the annex’s tiny rooms and cramped passageways can accommodate only a handful of visitors at a time. Around me is the buzz of many languages as tourists from all over the world queue patiently in an attempt to understand Anne’s tragic story in a more tangible way

In 2005, 965,000 visitors tiptoed silently through the Frank hideout. Yet despite the number of people who make their way through this space, the annex feels haunted; it’s atmosphere raises gooseflesh and reduces your voice to a whisper. We enter through the secret door guarded by a swinging bookshelf, a heavy piece of furniture—one you’d never think would slip easily aside.

Here, at a small desk in a room covered with postcards of once-famous personalities, Anne sat sketching her hopes and feelings in the pages of her diary. Despite her circumstances, she maintained an optimism that was truly amazing. Confined, frustrated and ever cautious of being discovered, she dreamed about her future unaware that she would never get to live it.

Reading her diary, you soon realize that Anne was a young girl with high morals and social conscience. The preservation of the Anne Frank House exists to propagate her ideals not just in relation to the times in which she lived, but also in terms of their significance today.

In a time when neo-Nazism, racism and xenophobia are rife, the organization’s goal focuses on “the realization of a pluralistic democratic society in which every human being is seen as a unique individual with equal rights under the law.”

In the front section of the house, which Anne’s father Otto used as his office before the war, the cabinets display parts of her original diary, photographs, salvaged documents and a few odd possessions of the eight people who once hid here.

Anne’s story is told all too evocatively, with excerpts from her diary, videos and personal documents. In the multimedia area, visitors can go on a “virtual journey” through the Anne Frank House, obtaining background information about the people in hiding and about World War Two.

There’s hardly a dry eye as I get ready to leave, and it could be because in the confines of this building on Prinsengracht, Anne Frank is still very much alive.

You feel her watching you as you move slowly through the house, and you know that this is one museum you will never forget.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Lauren Kramer, a professional writer who lives in Richmond, near Vancouver B.C., on Canada’s west coast..

Photos courtesy of Allard Bovenberg, Anne Frank Houses:
1: Exterior of the Anne Frank House.
2: The swinging bookcase, which hid the entrance to the annex.
3: Anne Frank’s room where she wrote her diary surrounded by pictures of then famous people.

For more information:
The Anne Frank House is located next to the Westerkerk, one of the city’s large historical churches. It’s a 20-minute walk from Centraal Station, Amsterdam’s main train station, or take a bus or tram to Westermarkt, a block from the museum’s entrance.
For further information click on http://www.annefrank.org or call 31 (0)20 5567100

Bucharest in 24 Hours

by Rita Cook

Think of Romania and almost instantly your mind will wonder to Transylvania and visions of Dracula. However, that’s not all that Romania is about and on a recent trip to this historical country, visions of garlic and crucifixes were far from my mind as I did 24 hours in Romania’s capital of Bucharest. I arrived in Bucharest by car after having toured the countryside for a week getting a real feel for the Romanian landscape. Bucharest was quite different than I expected and it was not long before I learned that this city had once been called “Little Paris.”

It’s not hard to understand why with the wide, tree-lined boulevards, the Belle Époque buildings and the classical architecture just about everywhere — only interrupted because of the unfortunate Communist rule, which therefore stunted the growth of just about everything.

Nowadays, it seems that Bucharest is moving into the future at an unbelievable speed and on my first night there I attended a concert at the Opera House. It turned out that my guide’s uncle was giving a piano recital and the music was amazing, old and timeless.

The atmosphere in the Opera House was divine and even as I sat in the velvet upholstery chairs with years of wear I realized that I was just one of thousands who had sat in this exact same place enjoying the same sort of satisfaction.

The following morning I was off to the Palace of the Parliament, the National Art Museum, the Romanian Peasant Museum and a few more surprises.

The Palace of the Parliament is about as unbelievable a place as any that one will find in a European city on the continent. It speaks of the Communist rule in the worst sort of way even though it was called “The House of the People,” by those in charge at that time.

It is, amazingly, the world’s second largest building after the United States Pentagon and it daily serves to remind the people of Communist rule in Romania. The building was actually commenced during that time period, however, amazing art graces the walls, balconies look toward the city and 1000 rooms inside reflect the work of Romania’s best artisans and architects.

Over at the National Art Museum I found there were over 70,000 works both in the national gallery that exhibits Romanian artists and a world gallery exhibiting western masters such as Rembrandt and Renoir.

The Romanian Peasant Museum has a collection of folkloric agricultural tools, household appliances and apparel and it’s a must see. After the museums I headed to lunch at a small neighborhood café across from the Spanish Embassy. The neighborhoods in Bucharest are quaint and nice and each street tells a story from long ago or, in some cases from much more recent times.

Bucharest was said to have be named after a shepherd named Bucur who could apparently play a mean flute, thus dazzling locals way back when so much that the city was named after him. In the 19th century the city was remodeled by French architects, and thus, this is where it gets its “French feel.” In fact, you can even find the Triumphal Arch on Soseaua Kiseleff, which is a boulevard in Bucharest that is even longer than the Champs-Elysees.

My final stop before going to bed that evening was at a Gypsy’s house where I told my guide I wanted to spend no more than $20 on my fortune. However, it doesn’t work that way in Romania and before I knew it I was out of the car and we were sitting in this woman’s parlor where she was telling me it would cost $100 for a reading.

After I stopped laughing I told her I was out of there and then she countered her offer and made it, surprise, $20. However, my guide got ill (from the evil eye he presumed) and we had to leave anyway and me without much of a reading.

I did learn that my love life was in shambles and a curse had been put on me by a bad person who did not like me. I decided to take my chances instead of pay her the $200 she requested to turn my love life around. I figured I could do my own spells and expect a better outcome.

The Gypsy fortune telling is a gas, but buyer beware. Of course, that’s another thing I love about Romania – the Eastern European feel, the fact that Gypsy’s really do still drive down the road in horse-drawn caravans and people really are still nice and genuine and always willing to help.

Bucharest has 37 museums, 22 theaters, opera houses and concert halls, 18 art galleries and an innumerable number of main attractions for the visitor.

No, I couldn’t do it all in my short time there, but I tried. So can you and believe me, it will be well worth it to have the chance to enjoy this eastern European city before it is teeming with western tourists and touting the new currency of the Euro, which will happen too soon in the future when the country enters the European Union.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Rita Cook who makes her home in North Hollywood, California.

Photos courtesy of the Romania Tourist Office:
1: Front view of the Palace of Parliament.
2: The National Theatre.
3: The new overlooks the old in Bucharest.

Lapping It Up In Norway

by Margaret Deefholts

I’m standing on a bluff located deep within the Arctic Circle, wishing I could strip off my clothes. Well, some of them anyway. Expecting to be chilled to the bone, I’m wearing a thick fleece jacket, and leggings under my jeans. Flannel-grey clouds hang low in the sky, but there is no wind and, considering it is late August, the temperature is surprisingly mild.

This is Norway’s Nordkapp (North Cape) situated at a latitude of 71o 10’21” N. Although not quite the most northern point of Europe (that’s slightly west at Knivskjellodden,) it is as far north on the planet as I’m likely to go, and, like many visitors who are here today, I gleefully mark the occasion by posing in front of a monument displaying a huge sextant and globe.

Also, playing the typical tourist, I can’t resist mailing a card that will eventually be delivered to my home, bearing the postmark of this northernmost post office on the Continent.

Nordkapp, on the island of Magerøya, was, until modern times, almost inaccessible. The only ones who ventured there were rock climbers, determined to scale the steep cliff face towering 307 metres above sea level.

However, by the middle-to-latter half of the nineteenth century, it became quite the ‘in’ thing to clamber up to Nordkapp, particularly after Norway’s King Oscar II visited it in 1873.

Rugged Norwegian mountain guides carried women (hooped skirts, frilly pantaloons and all!) on hammocks strapped to their backs, all the way up to the top. Thrilling as that might have been, (particularly if the guy was a drop-dead good looking dude), I’m relieved that we can travel today in comfort along a well-paved road.

Earlier that morning, we’d disembarked from our ship, the MS Polarlys at the small fishing village of Honningsvag to board our tour bus. The journey along a two-lane highway snaked between compromisingly fierce crags, some of them covered with emerald lichen and starry white “cotton grass” flowers.

There isn’t a tree in sight along this route-a strange thing for me, accustomed as I am to our British Columbia coastal forests. Fjords, their waters glinting in the pearl-grey morning light, curl between mountain ranges with their summits wreathed in wisps of cloud.

I am struck by the harsh, brooding quality of this Arctic landscape, so evocative of an introspective Ibsen play, or one of Edvard Grieg’s haunting minor-key melodies. It is a lonely beauty, where nothing stirs except an occasional eagle riding the thermals.

But I’m wrong in thinking that the Arctic is barren of life. Hanne, our tour guide points out an island known for its population of tens of thousands of puffins:

“They are chubby black and white birds with yellow parrot-like beaks,” she explains, and goes on to say that these waters are also host to guillemots, Arctic skuas and a variety of cormorants, not to mention families of seals. And then, of course, there’s the most famous four-legged inhabitant of all-Rudolph and his ilk.

We run into-almost literally-a herd of his buddies within the first half hour of our journey. The driver rounds a hairpin bend and brakes violently. Smack in front of the bus, is a gang of about fifteen reindeer sauntering along the centre of the road, unfazed by the traffic piling up behind them.

Cameras at the ready, we catapult towards the front of the bus, and grab several shots before the animals eventually trot off onto a nearby field. One of them, with an enormous brace of antlers turns his head majestically towards us, pausing as if to take a bow. His nose, however, isn’t red.

Hanne tells us, to our surprise, that reindeer in this part of Norway aren’t really “wild” animals. Although they are permitted to roam freely, the animals belong to Sami herders, the indigenous people of Finnmark-sometimes referred to as “Laplanders”.

Originally the Sami were nomads, and their traditional occupation was breeding reindeer for their hides, antlers, meat and milk, and using them as sled pack animals. Today, the Sami, of Finnmark (whose cultural identity and language is now enshrined within the Norwegian parliamentary system), still herd reindeer and sell the venison to commercial outlets.

En route to Nordkapp we meet a colourfully dressed Sami and his wife, who run a small roadside souvenir shop, when not attending to their herd of reindeer. He obligingly poses for a photograph, and I take a peek into their “wigwam” style tent. It has a log fire going inside and I stand at the entrance, blinking the smoke away, while a friend obligingly clicks a shot, which she suggests should carry the caption, “Our luxury overnight accommodation in Nordkapp.”

While we’ve been on our bus tour, the MS Polarys has travelled on to Hammerfest, the world’s most northerly town, and to rejoin the ship, we spend almost four hours on the road.

It edges past slate cliffs, and burrows through tunnels which are feats of engineering. The Nordkapp tunnel which links the island of Magerøya to the mainland, for example, dives to a depth of 212 metres under the sea, and runs for 6.9 kilometres. It cost a billion dollars to construct, the cost of which is now recovered by rather expensive tolls. It is, however, far preferable to using the slower ferry system.

As we near Hammerfest, we drive past small fishing hamlets with houses painted bright red, yellow and blue. Boats lie at anchor along the shore, and every now and then the waters sheen to silver as unexpected sunbursts break through the low cloud cover: a charming finish to an unforgettable day.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Canadian author and freelance travel writer who lives near Vancouver on Canada’s West Coast.

About the photos by Margaret Deefholts:
1: Bus traversing the austere Arctic landscape en-route to Nordkapp (North Cape) Norway.
2: Rudolph’s buddies sauntering along the highway on their way to Nordkapp.
3: A Sami (Laplander), at his farm In Finnmark en-route to Nordkapp deep within the Arctic Circle.

If You Go:

Hurtigruten (Norwegian Coastal Voyage) operates a fleet of sixteen comfortable cargo-cum-passenger ships (including the HM Polarlys) through Norway’s fjords all year round. The winter voyages offer the opportunity of viewing the spectacular Northern Lights. Click on www.norwegiancoastalvoyage.ca for itineraries, costs and booking information.

Nordkapphallen (North Cape Hall) is a Visitors’ Centre on the Nordkapp promontory that offers a riveting video documentary and historical displays. Also worth seeing is the world’s oldest ecumenical chapel. On site is a souvenir shop, a post office, a restaurant, snack-bar and café. Champagne and caviar are served in the Grotten (“Cave”) bar.

Crete’s Samaria Gorge

by Keith Kellett

In the old Venetian part of Hania, in Crete, I saw a pair of shoes I really liked. Or rather, one shoe … the left one! The other one was in a shop on the second floor, at the top of a steep flight of stairs. That particular day, I was trying to avoid stairs. But they were really nice shoes, so I lurched up them with all the grace of Frankenstein’s Monster. The shop assistant was all concerned, until my wife, Lorraine explained everything with one word. Samaria!

At about 18 km. long, Crete’s Samaria Gorge is the longest in Europe. Its floor is stony, and strewn with gigantic, flood-borne rocks. But, it’s fairly easy going, and can be managed by all but the most unfit.

Nevertheless, Lorraine took one look at pictures of the gorge, and decided to explore another, the Therissos, in the comfort of one of the many ‘land trains’ that ply the island.

In spite of the aches and pains, I was glad I’d ‘done’ the Samaria Gorge, because, almost exactly a year before, I was in hospital, wondering if I’d ever walk any distance again. And, I couldn’t have managed those shoe-shop stairs if there’d been a willing brunette with a six-pack at the top of them.

The trouble with Samaria is, once you’ve descended into the gorge, the only way out is by way of Ayia Roumeli, at the other end, either on your own two feet, or, in emergency, on the back of the Ranger’s donkey. Unless you’re prepared to climb back up the steep, stony zigzag path up the side of the gorge. A daunting prospect, which is why most people choose to walk the gorge downhill, to the sea.

I joined one of the tours operated by the many tour companies and hotels on the island. Independent travellers can catch the ordinary service bus to Omalos, at the start of the walk. You can only get from Ayia Roumeli by boat, but you can get a bus back to the main holiday towns from either of the ports to which the boat will take you.

But, a plus side of the organised tours is a guide. Our guide, Patricia, wearing a bright green T-shirt, so we could easily recognise her if we saw her, followed about an hour behind, equipped with a first-aid kit and a radio.

Our party bused to the start at Omalos, high in the Lefka Ori mountains. At the Ksiloscalo (Wooden Steps) Patricia bought tickets to enter the gorge, and handed them out. We needed to show this at the other end; it’s the authorities’ way of checking everyone is out of the park by nightfall – and they told us that if we lost it, we’d have to go back and get another.

Then, down the steep Ksiloscalo, through pine forests, down to the floor of the gorge. The wooden steps are, actually, logs laid across the path, to prevent the stones from washing away. And, those stones are stony!

Once at the bottom, the path winds along the riverbank for most of the length of the gorge. The river itself is clear and potable, but the bone-white boulders in its bed gave some idea of the force with which it can flow in the wet season – naturally, the gorge is closed at this time.

The worst navigator in the world couldn’t get lost in a ravine, I thought … although one family group I saw were trying their best.

By the trail, I saw something familiar yet alien. The ‘Dragon’s Tongue’ flower is so obviously a relative of the cuckoo pint, but this one has a striking, deep purple leaf. Another familiar shape was close to hand; the wild cyclamen – an easily recognisable shape, but much smaller than the variety you buy at the garden centre.

About halfway along the route lies the abandoned village of Samaria. The villagers were moved out and rehoused at Ayia Roumeli, at the mouth of the gorge in 1962, when the Lefka Ori area was declared a National Park.

Some of the houses remain, although in a ruinous state; here there’s a spring and toilets. And here many people, arriving about midday, like to eat their sandwiches in the overgrown but tree-shaded plateia, or village square.

The spring and toilets are only one of seven of each along the route. You can, in emergency, drink from the river, too. But, to keep it so, please don’t use the river in lieu of the other facility!

The Iron Gates are the narrowest part of the gorge, and as we approached them, we began to meet people who had taken the easy option of a short out-and-return walk from Ayia Roumeli. They’re so called because of the iron in the rocks, which turns them a distinctive red colour.

At Ayia Roumeli, we were to meet up with Patricia in one of the many cafés, where she’d issue our tickets for the boat, which left at five o’clock. That left me over two hours to kill, and there isn’t much to do in Ayia Roumeli. But Carl, with whom I had been having a sporadic conversation all day as we passed and re-passed on the way down the gorge, solved the problem.

‘Two beers, please!’ he said.

I thanked him.

‘Get your own’ he grinned ‘These are both for me! And, the first one, I’m going to pour over my feet!’

About the author:

Keith Kellett is a freelance travel writer/photographer who makes his home in England. Visit Keith at his website www.travelwriters.com/keithkellett

Photos by Keith Kellet:
1: Ayia Roumeli, the village at the mouth of the gorge, and the end of the walk.
2: The abandoned village of Samaria half way down Samaria Gorge.
3: The ferry Samaria to Sougia. Ayia Roumeli is not accessible by road.

Samaria: Details
Frequent flights to Heraklion (Nikos Kazantzakis) airport and Hania airport from Athens and most major European cities.

Ferry services from neighbouring islands call at these places and at Rethimo. Regular ferries from Athens (Piraeus) to Heraklion. See www.gtp.gr for details.

Cars and scooters can be hired fairly cheaply, and a good bus service (KTEL) serves most of the island. Since Crete is a popular holiday resort, there’s no shortage of all kinds of accommodation, mostly along the northern coast.

Samaria Gorge
Organised tours are offered by most hotels, or the many travel agencies. Don’t accept the first one you’re offered … shop around. If you want to travel independently, KTEL operate a public bus service to Omalos, at the entrance to the gorge; you can catch a bus back to your accommodation from Sougia or Hora Sfakion, where the boat from Ayia Roumeli, at the mouth of the gorge will take you.

Be advised the only way out of Ayia Roumeli is by boat or on foot! If you’re not planning to stay the night, be sure to complete your gorge traverse in plenty of time for the boat! Camping in the gorge is not permitted.

Vienna – Austria’s Jewel in the Crown

by Caroline M. Jackson

Situated on the river Danube, Vienna is the ideal place to experience a cornucopia of culture. We based ourselves in a Benedictine monastery bordering the inner city and from here we were able to walk or take the underground train (U-Bahn) to the city’s finest attractions.

Number one on our sightseeing list was Schloss Schonbrunn, the former summer palace of the Habsburgs. Second only to Versailles, it boasts 1,400 rooms. Fortunately our self-guided tour encompassed only forty of the opulent staterooms.

After all this exercise, we followed a horde of German visitors down to the cellar where mouthwatering apfelstrudl was being baked on the spot and sold to hungry patrons. Afterwards we wandered around the magnificent gardens and climbed up to the Gloriette which afforded us a beautiful view over Vienna and the famous Vienna Woods.

As dusk encroached upon the city, we visited the famous Naschmarkt. This long market is a drawing card for the “after hours” chic business crowd. Young people stand at counters or perch on tiny bar stools sipping wine. Others intent on restocking their larders, buy exotic cheeses, and choose from a selection of dates, fruit and spices that would surely compete with the markets of Marrakech.

Having worn through a layer of shoe leather on our first day, we decided to go at a slower pace the following day which happened to be a Sunday. Being mid-October, we managed to purchase a couple of last minute tickets to hear the Vienna Boys’ Choir singing at Sunday Mass.

It certainly was a treat to sit on the balcony of the 13th century Royal Chapel and hear the angelic voices hit the high notes. An interesting quirk is that the tickets allow most patrons to hear, but not necessarily see the choir, except on an overhead screen.

Having read much about Vienna’s famous coffee houses, we decided to splurge on a visit to Café Mozart which was established c. 1794. Surrounded by gilt-framed mirrors which reflected the crystal chandeliers, we sipped our coffee from delicate china.

Vienna is well served with an excellent public transport system. To orient ourselves with the centre of the city, we took the number one red and white tram around the Ringstrasse – a wide, tree-lined boulevard which follows the circular perimeter of the old city walls.

Following a recommendation in our trusty travel book, we headed to the Café Restaurant Palmenhaus for lunch. Built in 1882, it is a replica of the one in London’s Kew Gardens. It has a relaxed ambience and we sat outdoors overlooking the palace garden while tucking into chestnut crepes followed by Sacher Torte – a chocolate cake with a layer of apricot jam in the centre.

Feeling well rested, we headed for one of Europe’s finest museums, the Museum of Fine Arts. The building itself is magnificent with elaborate murals and its walls resplendent with famous paintings by Rembrandt, Rubens, Bruegel and Canaletto.

On this, our third day, we decided to see one of the world’s finest Baroque palaces, Schloss Belvedere, which was home to Prince Eugene of Savoy. The upper and lower palaces are linked with a long baroque garden laid out in Classical French style.

While strolling along one of the paths, a young music student with powdered wig, talked us into returning the same evening to enjoy a musical concert evening in the adjacent Orangery. We were not disappointed.

One of the most popular daytrips from Vienna is a visit to Melk Abbey. Just one hour by train west of Vienna, our daytrip ticket included our train journey, a self-guided tour of the monastery and the return trip by boat along the Danube. Perched on a hill, the magnificent Benedictine Monastery dominates the town of Melk and offers a splendid view of the surrounding countryside.

After visiting the ornate Abbey church, we wandered through the lovely formal park and tarried in its Baroque pavilion. The two-hour return boat journey along the Danube meanders through an area known as the Wachau. Reputed to be one of the most beautiful stretches of the river, we passed picturesque wine growing villages, terraced vineyards, ruined castles and churches.

On our last day, we ventured east to visit Bratislava, capital of the Slovak Republic. The train journey should have taken just over an hour, but border controls delayed us for quite some time as an émigré without the right papers was found in the adjacent carriage. Eventually he was brusquely escorted off the train and left standing in what looked like a frozen turnip field. It would be a long walk back to Vienna.

Bratislava’s train station is over a kilometer north of the city’s historical centre, so rather then struggle with the foreign currency (Slovak crowns), we walked into town. En route, we were joined by a delightful university student who wanted to practise her English skills and became our impromptu tour guide.

The old part of town is compact with interesting Gothic churches, museums and alleyways. We found the little guided red tram tour was by far the best way to see everything in a short time.

For some refreshment, we headed to a Slovak pub. Warmed by an upright wood stove, we sat at a wooden table adorned with beautiful hand-embroidered table cloths. The menu offered us a choice of tripe soup, pirogi dumplings with bryndza (Slovak sheep cheese) or sausages. I caved in after a few forkfuls.

Towards dusk we took a grinding tram ride back up to the train station. En route, we passed grey uniformed police huddled in the lee of large communist-era monuments.

Office buildings were now shrouded in darkness and street lights were sparse. As I paced the stark train platform and munched on a small bag of hot chestnuts, it seemed incongruous to think that within an hour I would be once again walking along the palatial streets of Vienna.

About the author:

Caroline Jackson, and her husband Hamish, are a Canadian travel writer/photographer team living in North Vancouver B.C. on Canada’s West Coast. View their website at www.crestlynn.com

Photos by Hamish Jackson:
1. Even art flourishes on building facades in Bratislava,
2. Music students sell concert tickets in Vienna.
3. Old Town Tour of Bratislava.

Lucerne to Leukerbad Switzerland: in the Footsteps of Mark Twain

by Caroline M. Jackson

Intrigued by the exploits of Mark Twain in his novel A Tramp Abroad, I decided to follow the Swiss section of his footsteps and travel from Lucerne in Central Switzerland south to the alpine spa town of Leukerbad.

My first quest was to find the Lion Monument which Twain described as ‘the most mournful and moving piece of stone in the world’. From the lakeside town of Lucerne, my husband and I walked across the famous covered wooden footbridge which was thronged with tourists photographing the overhead paintings. With map in hand, our self-guided walk took us through the medieval Old Town with its narrow alleys and 15th century buildings, then uphill to the Lion Memorial. Hewn from sandstone to commemorate the Swiss soldiers who died in the French Revolution, the dying lion with a spear embedded in its left flank is indeed a poignant sight.

The next morning after feeding the swans by the quayside, we boarded one of the old-fashioned paddle steamers for a half-day trip to Fluelen at the south eastern arm of Lake Lucerne (Vierwaldstattersee).

Sitting on the top deck, we had a perfect view of the breathtaking mountain scenery. As our boat zigzagged in and out of the picturesque lakeside villages I had to agree with my 19th century protagonist that ‘a trip on that lake is almost the perfection of pleasuring. The mountains were a never ceasing marvel.’

On our return boat journey, we disembarked at the tranquil lakeside village of Weggis which is dwarfed by Mt. Rigi, an impressive escarpment which stands at 1800m.

An aerial cable car whisked us above Weggis and over pristine alpine meadows dotted with Simmental cows. Mark Twain took three exhausting days to make the same uphill trip along a leafy mule-path.

En route, he was pestered by Alpenhorn players looking for tips and when he finally reached his destination at the Rigi Kulm Hotel, he overslept due to the ‘opiate of Alpine pedestrianism’ and missed the sunrise. The next morning, heavy cloud further thwarted his plans.

Over a century later, our experience was less wearisome. The refreshing mountain air was perfect for hiking and we had crystal clear views over the Alps and Lake Lucerne with its steamers looking like toy boats below.

Backtracking by boat to Lucerne, we took the train via the scenic Brunig Pass to Interlaken. As we sped alongside the turquoise waters of Lake Brienz, I thought of Twain making the same journey in a four-horse carriage with a driver who traveled through villages on a furious run with ‘a frenzy of ceaseless whip crackings’.

Our destination was the imposing Victoria-Jungfrau Grand Hotel which dates back to 1865. From our balcony, like Twain, we had unimpeded views of the majestic Jungfrau Massif which is home to the highest railway station in Europe.

From the Bernese Oberland, Mark Twain hiked over the Gemmi Pass to Leukerbad. Not being quite as fleet-of-foot, however, we cheated and instead took a southern route from the town of Leuk.

The precipitous journey by Post Bus was a little less scary when a snowstorm blotted out the plunging views down into the Rhone Valley below. At an altitude of 1,400m, Leukerbad is one of the highest and largest mountain spa resorts in Europe.

With the snow falling as gently as feathers, we ventured out to luxuriate in the warm waters of the elegant Lindner Alpentherme spa. Surrounded by this walled mountainous amphitheater, Twain’s graphic description of the pools is still true today: ‘Those baths remove fat, and also skin-diseases. The patients remain in the great tanks hours at a time.’

On our last morning the sun shone from brilliant blue skies and the barren face of the Daubenhorn looked almost naked now that its cloudy petticoats had dispersed.

In 1880, my protagonist had been awed by the same view and written: “It comes down out of the clouds in a succession of rounded, colossal, terrace-like projections – a stairway for the gods.”

At that moment it seemed that little had changed in the intervening 130 years.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Caroline Jackson who lives in North Vancouver, B.C.

Photos by Hamish Jackson:
1: A paddle steamer on Lake Lucerne.
2: Atop Mount Rigi near Lucerne.
3: The classy Alpentherme Spa in Leukerbad.

If you go:
Switzerland Tourism: www.MySwitzerland.com
Rail travel: www.raileurope.ca

Hérens Cattle of the Swiss Alps fight with Udders – and that’s no bull

Story and photos by Tom Douglas

It’s not the kind of sport Ernest Hemingway would have extolled in one of his adventure novels. In fact, the macho author would probably have snickered into his margarita at the thought of attending the cattle fights in the Valais canton of Switzerland.

You see, the animals that take part in the annual “Combats des Reines” to determine the top dog, as it were, are all actually, well, girls!

Your first clue is the udders that sway with each footstep beneath the bellies of the beasts as they walk into the 5000-seat Roman amphitheatre in Martigny, the French-speaking district capital situated at a crossroads between France, Italy and Switzerland.

The wicked looking horns, the throaty bellowing and the pawing of the ground beneath the hooves of these specially bred Hérens cattle would make the casual visitor think of the running of the bulls in Pamplona or a bloody corrida between matador and El Toro in Madrid.

But instead of death in the afternoon, what you have here could best be described as a bit of pushing and shoving on a glorious fall morning. Little, if any, blood is shed and the only thing hurt is the losing cows’ feelings.

The main event takes place in early October and the owners of Hérens herds all over the canton anxiously await this final showdown of their prize cows.

The winner will be declared “Queen of the Queens” since each of the contestants in this ultimate battle have been crowned queen in regional competitions throughout the spring and summer. Champions and their calves fetch astronomical prices at subsequent cattle auctions.

This “mad cow” obsession begins each year in May when the cattle are released from their winter barns and herded up to the rich grasslands of the canton’s many alpine meadows. Cranky after being cooped up indoors for several months, the cows instinctively pick a fight with each other to see who will be the alpha female – and thus enjoy the best grazing land.

The wily Swiss have capitalized on this bovine bitchiness and hold competitions in a number of alpine villages. Townsfolk as well as breeders and cowfighting enthusiasts from afar flock to watch the tussles, bet unofficially on their favourites and wash down mounds of cheese and basketfuls of bread with flagons of local wine.

While the cows have faces only their owners could know and love, the crowd keeps track of the competitors by the numbers that are whitewashed onto their hindquarters.

The entrants, sporting tough-guy names like Lion, Tarzan, Bandit and Turbo, fight in various classes according to their age and weight. The winners are awarded ornate cowbells the size of soccer balls, and the beast that stands her ground against all challengers is declared Queen of the Herd.

The story of the fighting cows of Switzerland literally poked me in the back while I was visiting the picturesque little village of St-Luc, about 1650 metres (5415 feet) above the town of Sierre.

I had joined a mixed bag of tourists from Poland, Germany and Bolivia on a white-knuckle postal bus ride that negotiated more hairpin turns than a hyperactive hairdresser up a mountain road to a parking lot just below the village.

Next came a brisk walk to a funicular railway that crawled its way up an alpine slope to a grassy area where a large herd of what appeared, at first glance, to be fighting bulls was grazing peacefully in a flower-strewn meadow. As we got closer, even we city slickers could tell that these animals were definitely female.

Two of our other fives senses had alerted us to the presence of the cattle before they actually came into view. Each of them was outfitted with a large bell around its neck and the combined clatter as they moved from one tasty floral patch to another sounded like all the churches in Bedlam celebrating a festival day at the same time.

In addition, the smell of the beasts on the hot summer air announced their presence with authority.

Assured by our guide that the critters were harmless, we all sauntered among them to take photos. I was focusing on one behemoth whose hindquarters had been painted with white numbers that reflected the last two digits of my birth year (none of your business) when a rather forceful nudge from behind almost knocked me off my feet.

Turning around to confront whoever it was who had pushed me – probably one of the playful Poles, I imagined – I came nose to muzzle with the largest animal I’d ever encountered. The thought of being butted in a high arc over a nearby mountain peak had me scrabbling for the high ground as fast as my climb-weary legs would carry me.

Once our guide had stopped guffawing at my antics, he recounted the story of the fighting Hérens cattle of the Valais canton, assuring me that they were docile now that they had determined the pecking (goring?) order of the herd.

Battling cows? Tell me another one, I thought, like alpenhorn-playing mountain goats or tap-dancing swans. Obviously the seemingly staid Swiss enjoyed relating tall tales to gullible tourists.

But I checked my guidebook when I got back to my hotel and, sure enough, those battling cows are the “true gen” as Papa Hemingway would have put it.

Perhaps I could pay for the trip by taking in some of the championship battles staged by the fighting cattle of the Valais and writing a book along the lines of something old Ernie would have churned out (no pun intended). I already have the title: A Moo-vable Feast.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes military author and freelance travel writer Tom Douglas who lives in Oakville, Ontario.

About the photos:
1: Some of the fighting Swiss cattle do lunch together among a group of photographers
2: The prize for winning one of the pushing matches billed as Swiss Cow Fights
is a bell the size of a soccer ball.
3: One of the participants in a battle for supremacy among the cattle, munches
contentedly on Alpine grass.

For more information, contact: www.myswitzerland.com or www.saint-luc.ch

Tastes of Sicily

by Theresa Perenich

What a surprise! A heavy box arrives in the mail. I thought I ordered a book on the history of sea salt but when I opened the box, it was sea salt from Trapani, Sicily. In September 2010, Phil and I visited Sicily using Palermo and Taormina to explore the surrounding areas, including Trapani.

Roman mosaics, Greek temples and archaeological sites dot the island of Sicily whose history can be traced back over 2000 years, dominated by Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Norman and Spanish. The sun drenched island is filled with fragrant citrus groves, stark granite mountains and magnificent ruins. Sicily’s shores are washed by the Ionian, Mediterranean, and Tyrrhenian Seas.

The Grand Hotel Wagner, named for the composer Richard Wagner who once lived on the street is in the heart of Palermo. Built at the beginning of the 20th century in neo-classical style, Phil and I stayed there while we were in Palermo. Nearby was the Teatro Massimo (Opera House) opened in 1897 with elegant Corinthian columns gracing its entrance. Also within walking distance was the baroque Quarto Canti (Four Corners) Square that has the Piazza Pretoria Fountain. Sandra, our guide told us that when the fountain was unveiled in 1575, the people of Palermo were outraged because thirty naked or near naked figures adorn it and. in time, the fountain became known as the Fountain of Shame.

Monreale is a hilltop town five miles from Palermo, renowned for its Norman cathedral. Built in 1174, the cathedral’s gold detailed mosaics depict scenes from the Old and New Testaments, including Noah’s ark and the life of Christ. The gleaming mosaics, completed in the 12th and 13th centuries, completely cover the cathedral’s interior.

In the evening, Phil and I went to dinner at Taverno Siciliano in Palermo where I chose a Sicilian specialty, Pasta alla Norma. Named for a 19th century opera composed by a Sicilian, Vincenzo Bellini, eggplant portions were combined with a robust, herb infused tomato sauce served with spaghetti. Phil enjoyed his calamari (squid) and a fresh tomato salad. The smooth red Sicilian wine, Nero d’Avola, complemented our dinner and as we walked back to our hotel we were accompanied by warm sea breezes.

On our way to Marsala, located on the western tip of Sicily, we went by the salt pans of Trapani, home of our surprise box of salt. In the middle ages, windmills irrigated and drained the salt lagoons. By the 19th century, an international trade in Sicilian sea salt had developed as the salt’s reputation grew. The salt works continue to produce the salt known for its delicate flavor that is high in iodine and magnesium and low in sodium chloride.

Marsala’s name originated from the Arab “Marsa Allah”, port of Allah. Our guide told us the history of Marsala wine. In the late 1700’s, John Woodhouse, an Englishman, was sailing to Sicily’s southern shore when a violent storm forced the ship to take shelter in Marsala’s port. The crew went into town to dine and at the restaurant Woodhouse was given a sample of Marsala wine. He was so impressed with the wine that he bought vineyards there and started his own company. In 1833, Vincenzo Florio, a Sicilian, began exporting Marsala throughout the world.

We chose Cucina Papoff for dinner on our last evening in Palermo. Named for its Bulgarian founder, the restaurant is housed in an 18th century building with high stone walls and graceful arches, offering Sicilian dishes of stuffed rice balls and rabbit in wine. We were less adventuresome, choosing caponata, an olive based Sicilian specialty of eggplant, capers and celery tossed with tomatoes. The food was flavorsome and our usual bottle of Nero d’Avola wine appeared at the table.

Situated on a bluff above the Ionian Sea is Taormina, known as the “Jewel of Italy”. Visible in the distance is Mount Etna, Europe’s largest active volcano. Phil and I stayed at the Grand Hotel Timeo for four nights, enjoying the view from our balcony of the third century Greek Amphitheater (Teatro Greco-Romano) and Mount Etna looming in the distance.

Syracuse, located in the southeastern corner of Sicily, was our next stop. Jutting out on the Ionian Sea, Syracuse was the birthplace of the mathematician and engineer Archimedes. For 2700 years, the city was a major power in the Mediterranean world and for a time it rivaled Athens, Greece as the most important city of the Greek world.

In Syracuse we walked to the largest theater in the ancient world, the Greek Theater (Teatro Greco) and to the Ear of Dionysus, an artificial limestone cave recognized for its perfect acoustics. Shaped like a human ear, legend says that Dionysius I of Syracuse used the cave as a prison for political dissidents to eavesdrop on their plans. From Syracuse, we went to Noto.

One of the finest Baroque towns in Italy is Noto, known for its bold, opulent houses, piazzas and churches. In 1693, an earthquake reduced the town to rubble. Restoration began in the late 1800’s and in 1996 Noto was declared a World Heritage site by UNESCO. At Noto’s elaborate main square (Piazza Municipio), Phil and I stopped at the Caffe Sicilia for a granita. The flavorful, semi-frozen ice made with sugar, water and flavoring is based on the Arab art of sweetening fruit juices with ice from Mount Etna. Phil had a smooth pistachio and I chose a lemon granita. Refreshed, we returned to Taormina for dinner.

On our last evening in Sicily, we went to La Buca Restaurant for dinner, sitting at the outdoor terrace, with the sea and mountains in the background. Warm sea breezes accompanied our dinner of risotto with seafood and our usual bottle of Nero d’Avola wine.

Back home we use the salt from Trapani regularly to enhance our food and remind us of our Sicilian trip. The wine connoisseur, Andre Simon, said, “Wine makes every meal an occasion, every table more elegant, every day more civilized”. We enjoy the Nero d’Avola wine at home with dinner and friends often recalling Simon’s words.

Photos taken by T. Perenich