Like a whirlpool that never ends.

So, dear friends, the inevitable has happened. Within a week of one another, my betrothed and I have both fallen ill. Not seriously so, just enough to ruin sketchy plans and annoy us.


Mick just has a cold.


Pfft.


My childhood motion sickness has reared it's ugly head and joined leagues with a bout of gastro. Unpleasant. Combine the two with a rather insensible ride on the Grand Canal water bus in Venice and the result has been three days of constant dizziness and "whirlpool" gut.


Not ever having suffered from motion sickness before, Mick asked what it feels like. I replied "You know when you've had FAR too much to drink, you lie on your bed and close your eyes and the world starts moving around you." "yeah, that's the feeling". Maybe I'll look into psychiatric treatment or hypnosis therapy when we get back. In my (medically educated*) mind, motion sickness indicates a weakness of character. Why can't my stomach, brain and the horizon just sort it out?


Onto more pleasant things. Lake Como was stunning, much larger than I imagined and we found ourselves once again in the good graces of Zeus. On Tuesday we took to the Greenway del Lago di Como, walking about 8 kilometres along the curving coast roads of the west bank. The paths take you down steep cobbled alleys, past crumbling stone piers and extravagant villas (George Clooney has a place on the lake).


On Thursday we drove east, through Lombardia to the region of Veneto. Veneto covers most the northeast corner of Italy, including Verona (where they laid their scene), Padova and most famously Venice. Somewhere in the middle of all that is the hillside village of Arqua Petrarca, a spot that has been inhabited since the Bronze Age. It is currently (the locals have their fingers crossed, or the Italian equivalent) on it's way to becoming world heritage listed.


Venice was one of those places that fell on my "Should probably visit, but can be sacrificed if necessary" list. I'm super pleased we didn't sacrifice it. Despite the tourist throng and the nasty tourist targeted shops, the city itself was lovely. Slightly worn looking, in a pre-loved way, the buildings lining the canals looked warm and sun drenched in spite of their cool blue roadways.


Taking a hand drawn map our host made for us, we headed off the beaten track and wandered through the Jewish Ghetto, visited Madonna dell'Orto (church with divine frescoes) and hunted down an antique jewelery store in the Dorsoduro. We sipped Spritz; prosecco, Aperol and soda (I think) while munching tiny tiny single ingredient panini's in a Campo for lunch.


Gaja Sperss 2000 (nebbiolo, half bottle)- C- deep purple, with a garnet edge, N- surprising rose petals and smokey oak, P- amazing length, liquorice and herbs


*high school biology

Spreekt u Engels?

Goedeavond!

We crossed a border; well at least we think we did. There was no line in the sand, no customs and no passport control. Only ghostly stands of abandoned booths. Quite unnerving really. This is now the norm across the EU and for us, our crossing from France to Belgium could have almost gone unnoticed, if not for the sudden change in language on road traffic signs.

We drove to Belgium today. It’s only an hour from Lille (north east France) and is a UNESCO world heritage listed town. We haven’t had time to explore yet, so I won’t go on too much. Only to say that as we arrived in town the sun was shining down on the biggest antiques fair I’ve even seen. I think I’m going to like it here.

Back to Champagne for a minute.

On Thursday we were hosted by the generous people at the Martel Champagne Group at their winery in Reims. They own the likes of Pol Roger, Taittinger, Ruinart and two big local brands Casanove and Martel. Not having heard of Martel in the Champagne sense (there is a non-related Cognac of the same name) we weren’t sure what to expect.

We were welcomed by the Asia Pacific brand manager Renaud, the wife of the group’s owner Angeline and the facility manager Thierry (a cellar-master-esque role). A surprisingly illustrious trio for two lowly office types (no baby, your role is not lowly, I was just making a point).

As the introduction was made through work, there was a fair bit of shop talk. Highlights for non-industry types include a tour of their expansive underground cave system, a taste of whatever we wanted (I wanted the delicious oak aged (it works) premier cru Victoire) and a walking tour of Reims by Renaud.

The caves under Reims are an astonishing reminder of grand feats of the past. The ones we visited were up to 18 metres under the heart of the city and parts of them date back to the third century. The caves were dug out for the mining of chalk which forms the subsoil of the region. This chalk is also attributed to the mineral tang often found in Champagnes finest.

On our tour of the streets with Renaud, he pointed out the Reims Cathedral. Reims was the capital of France for a while (I have no idea how long for, or when) and the Cathedral was the largest in the country. When Paris was made the capital in (insert your researched date here.) a replica of the Reims Cathedral was built in Paris. Now the more famous and larger of the two, Paris’s Notre Dame was built in part, in the image of Reims Cathedral (don't quote me).

It was breathtaking and awesome (in the traditional sense of the word) and I was particularly taken with the Chagall windows in the back. His work always reminds me of a book I read as a child- The Thief and the Blue Rose.

Renaud recommended we try a local delicacy for lunch, so we headed to a local Bistro for a late meal. We ordered Andouillette, a pork sausage that is a speciality of Troyes (see previous post). I won’t go into to it too much; the thought of it alone makes my stomach churn. Only to say, to our untrained, close-minded Australian noses, the sliced sausage smelt of a particularly disgusting pig transport truck on a stinking hot day. Another awkward French to Aussie conversation ensued about why we didn’t eat it. Le sigh.

Wrackin' Frackin' Varmint

What a day. It's almost as if we have crossed something off our bucket list we didn't even know existed.

Yosemite National Park.

The national park is approximately 750000 acres and the main tourist area is the Merced River Valley. It sits about 5000 feet above sea level in the Sierra Nevada ranges. Originally home to the Ahwahnechee Native Americans. Who, according to Wikipedia, were evicted from the valley numerous times by the US federal government as recently as 1969. We walked the valley floor covering about eight kilometres of moderate terrain.

We were amazed at the bustle of people coming and going throughout the day. Day-trippers, picnickers, walkers, hikers and rock-climbers. Hundreds upon hundreds. Interestingly most visitors we saw seemed content with just catching the shuttle to and from the key sights and taking a few happy snaps. We were virtually alone on the walking trails. Thank God.

Home to the famous giant Redwoods (Sequoias) the scenery was absolutely spectacular. The river valley was bordered by staggeringly beautiful rock faces and waterfalls, which dwarfed the gargantuan trees. Although we didn't see any bears *tears* (but also "phew"!) we managed to spot deer, squirrels and a number of different bird species. Squirrel!

Exhausted (but elated), we staggered back to the car and joined the queue of day-trippers winding their way out of the ranges.

Dinner was at a road side Taqueria (boy, does the Melbourne restaurant scene have some holes). CC's on HWY 108. Cheap tex-mex style. I ate a Supreme Burrito, shredded beef and rice in a tortilla with guacamole, fresh salsa, beans and rice. $7.95. Mick had a Pork Chimichanga, basically a deep-fried burrito (as above) with cheese and salad. Muy bueno.

I don't think this post has done Yosemite justice, however I am so tired I just can't put anything more into it.

We don't actually have a bucket list by the way. I was just making a point.

Peace.

Chanterelle, what a nice name.

Our long drive yesterday took us to Mendocino. A very quaint (read- so cute it hurts) seaside town. We found shelter and bedded down for the night.

Up early this morning we made our way to the Sub-Surface Progression Dive Shop where we met our host for the day. Ryane Snow is a sixty-something localtarian (only eats food from within a 100 mile radius). An ex-chemist and school teacher he is now a retiree who makes his way in the world by foraging the local forests, diving for abalone, surfing the coast and travelling the world (most recently China) hunting for mushrooms. Not a bad way to get by if you ask me.

The plan (in our minds) was to have Ryane guide us through the forest, collecting wild mushrooms along the way. Having only been in contact with him via email up until yesterday evening, we were a little unsure of what exactly to expect. My sensible girl alarm bells started ringing when he said "we might have to be a little sneaky... I'm a bit of an outlaw" but, i'll admit, the thrill of adventure was enough to get us up and out of bed before midday.

From the dive shop we excitedly followed Ryane in our car inland to our first stop. Now I'll stop for a second and warn you. This next part could get gushy. It could develop into spontaneous bouts of sacchariferous prose.

My heart skipped a beat at our first sight of the Red Wood Forests. The trees were majestic and the scent of the forest uplifting.

As we started out he warned us that the recent weather on the coast (summer heatwave coming late in the season) meant that the forests would most likely be crisp and not very mushroom friendly. We remained optimistic.

It turns out Ryane doesn't really like paths, so for the next four hours we traipsed along behind him, up hill and down dale. All the while he regaled us with his knowledge of the local forest and it's bountiful harvest.

And bountiful it was, we ate huckleberries (both red and black) and dogberries along the way. Both tasting somewhat like blueberries crossed with currants. We wondered what link there might have been between Huckleberry Hound and the two different species... My post-adventure research came up blank.

But where are the mushrooms? Well he had been right, there weren't many around. Chanterelles were the only edible mushroom on offer this soon after summer. The "potato chip" crackle of the forest floor his give-away of a too-dry location. We did hunt them out however and a hefty three pound (guestimation) sack of them was our reward.

He told us (teased us) that if we'd been out there in a month or two's time the forest would be "popping" with mushrooms. Morels, Pine, Beefsteak (which when you cut open looks like a bloody piece of meat) and Porcini to name a few.

I could go on, but I must cut this long story short. We farewelled Ryane, a little disappointed we hadn't been asked to do anything too illegal (trespassing is okay, right?) and jubilantly took our prize to a local picnic ground for our lunch. We cooked the chanterelles in a little butter and enjoyed their sweet nuttiness with salad, cheese etc for lunch.

Epic day, epic blog post. I feel all conquistador-y.

We now find ourselves in the heart of Californian wine country. Until next time.

xo