Postcard from the Olhão - Postmarked 28 September 2021

 

"It seemed like a good idea at the time!" I had been overheard saying later in the day.

Earlier in the day, things were progressing swimmingly! I took a train from my home base in Olhão to Vila Real de San Antonio, the last Portuguese town before the border with Spain. As soon as I step onto a train, it feels as if I am Marco Polo, off to discover another part of the world. And so I was about to do just that!

Speaking of Olhão, I've been living here for two weeks. It's a beautiful tourist spot with tons of old world restaurants and cafes, nestled along meandering, cobblestone alleys, mixed in with a handful of more modern shops and boutiques. The restaurants' tables spill out onto the narrow alleyways, filling the air with delicious aromas and lots of Portuguese chit chat. The summer rush of tourists, sun worshippers and riff raff have cleared out by mid-September, leaving a pleasant mix of locals, regulars, and the odd wanderer. Did you know that all of the many kilometers of sidewalks here are laid down by hand, piece by piece, made up of millions of off-white coloured fragments of more-or-less square-shaped flat stone tiles? The sidewalks are therefore consistently uneven, making it interesting to simply go for a stroll. I stumble at least once every few minutes of walking. I think this is why I am not the only one who has decided to walk on the road, just a few inches over from the sidewalk! Worse, the sidewalks are not limited to pedestrians: Bikes, scooters, motorcycles and sometimes even cars treat the sidewalks as their own ticket to freedom, to be used whenever practical so pedestrians must simply dodge the many moving and parked obstacles.

I cycled the first ten kms of today's 80 km ride out of Vila Real, heading west, through a nature reserve which I admit was spectacular. I saw some hundreds of flamingos in the marshes, not quite as pink as the plastic ones in your neighbour's front yard. Still, they are rather majestic the way the stand around on one leg and chat with one another, oblivious to their amazing pink plumage. In fact, these flamingos become shockingly pink when they fly -- this is the real eye candy.

No, the fun started, when the digital navigator on my phone directed me onto a marshy area ten kms beyond the nature reserve's end. There are a lot of marshes along at least half the length of the Algarve, so I wasn't too concerned. It was mostly packed dirt, ochre in colour with lots of bushes and cactus growing all over the place. I saw hundreds of crabs, mostly all having a white stripe on one claw. They'd very quickly scurry away when sensing my presence, crawling sideways of course, before finding their subterranean homes and then dropping down inside them. About 100 km of the Algarve coastline, Olhão included, is protected by barrier islands. The waters between the coast and these islands are known as the Ria Formosa. Much of this area is mostly underwater at high tide, and half of it dry at low tide. It was low tide at the time so I was able to follow the supposed route that my cell phone application was indicating. It seemed like a good idea at the time... though it was then that I began considering that I was possibly no longer on a bike trail at all.

Soon enough, pedaling through the sandy marsh and shallow pools of water gave way to pedaling slightly uphill on what became a cliffside trail, more likely a trail for hikers, not cyclists. I quickly became a hiker, too, and dismounted my bicycle as riding a bike on such a narrow trail had become risky business: one slip to the left meant tumbling down a hundred feet to a hard landing below. 

Given the littoral geography, Olhão's beach fanatics have to take a short ferry ride over to the nearest barrier island, Culatra Island, which actually has a small permanent community with its own little school, some makeshift cafés and beachside restaurants. The streets that the houses are set on, are really just walking paths as there are nearly no vehicles to be seen. There is a thin layer of sand everywhere underfoot when walking about. Robinson Crusoe would feel right at home! The island's entire perimeter is covered in fine, beige sand, no rocks or pebbles anywhere. The south side of the island is exposed directly to the Atlantic Ocean where the water is cool and the waves are wonderful. However on the north side, facing Olhão, the water belongs technically to the Ria Formosa, and is always warmer.

Pushing forward, I navigate the cliffs and end up back on a beach. But very soon arrive at a small river that must be crossed. The alternative is to follow yet another dirt terra cotta-coloured path uphill a bit to hopefully intersect a real road which likely had a bridge to cross this river.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, and I am now crossing the river by jumping from stone to stone all the while carrying my bike. The presumed path on the far side appears to be camouflaged as all the gaps between the tightly spaced thorny bushes and prickly cactus look like paths to me. There is no apparent way to proceed and after ten minutes of being prickled from all sides, but barely making any forward movement, I finally conclude that it's time to retrace my steps. Dragging my bike back through the dense brush took twice as long as I couldn't find my way! A half hour later I am back at the little river. But guess what? The tide has been coming in and the river was flowing backwards, upstream! The water deeper, the river wider, the jumping stones are submerged now, invisible. No challenge is too great and off come my shoes so I can wade across to the side I started from.

If you think I am stressed out or frustrated, think again. The fun is just beginning... I climb the aforementioned trail, jump on my bike and start pedaling, remember I am on a mountain bike! It feels very difficult to move forward. Maybe I am stressed and fatigued after all!? Wrong again: the cause is a flat tire, likely due to a cactus thorn that pierced right through my thick treaded tires! When I finally exit the dirt path, I am miles from a bike repair shop on a quiet road, under a broiling hot mid-day sun, running low on water, and now must either walk my bike for at least an hour or sit down and cry. What would Marco Polo do?

To find out... stay tuned!

Barry the wanderer.

Postcard from the Costa Brava - Postmarked 08 October 2019

Consider this: you are outside and it is completely silent, no wind not even a breeze. Unearthly sensation. Silence.
The sun is just now rising at the horizon far away to the east. When you look down, you get an eerie feeling in the pit of your stomach... because you are 3,000 feet above the ground, nothing below but space, you are floating freely in a basket suspended below a massive hot air balloon!

The feeling is magical, as you and the balloon are indeed floating horizontally about 20 km/hr, exactly at the speed of the wind. Thus the air is perfectly still inside the basket as you drift along within the current of wind.
If you think that this feeling is no different from staring out of an airplane window midflight, think again. Firstly, you are outside -- there is no window! And, you can very distinctly see all the details below: the trees that make up the forest, the streets, houses and people that comprise the towns, the farms, the cows and even the chickens. You can even hear the cows mooing, the roosters cock-a-doodling, and especially the dogs barking. It seems the dogs get spooked by us above and respond as all mutts do.
As exciting as the flight is, it pales in comparison with landing this huge contraption! First a large field or meadow must be identified ahead amongst the forests and farms, altitude lost just so, structures, power and telephone lines avoided at all costs, and finally plenty of margin for error as the actual point of impact can only be estimated. And... surprise... the basket will bounce, become airborne again and bounce again a few metres downwind. Depending on the pilot's skills, there may be two or three bounces before we stay put. Once the immense balloon is deflated and rolled up, out comes the obligatory bottle of champagne, glasses are filled, clinked together and then quickly emptied!

The network of hiking trails in this part of Spain is impressive. The trails are poorly marked, unfortunately typical almost everywhere round the world, however intersecting trails here are well identified with signposts giving the distances in each direction to the next towns, as well as the "names" of all the trails. What has impressed me is that there are so many trails criss-crossing Spain -- some of them are hundreds of kilometers long -- that these identifying signposts are very helpful. The Grande Route, or GR trails cross all of Europe and most are thousands of kilometers long. We drove up to a tiny town in the Spanish Pyrenees, Queralbs, which was literally the end of the road. Then took a cog railway 6 km uphill to, of all things, a ski resort. Naturally, there was no one skiing yet, but still there were people about everywhere to enjoy the views, mountain air, and excitement of being at the end of the line. We started on a hike uphill into the Nuria Valley, a spectacular range of Pyrenees' foothills, with enough criss-crossing trails that we could adjust our course to allow for more or less time available. Missing the last train downhill would have necessitated an additional 8 km of trekking back down. Still being a little jet-lagged, we elected to avoid the extra stroll.

A cog railway is one whereby a column of teeth is bolted into the ground midway between the two steel rails for the entire length of the track. An electric motor (or likely two) turns a gear under the car which exactly matches the stationary teeth. And so the railway cars climb up or down the steep mountain. There is no chance of slippage as when steel wheels are pulling the cars on steel rails. As I mentioned, the hiking here is magnificent. Being above the tree line, the entire hike affords incredible views of the mountains, varying with each twist and turn in the contours of our path. With the additional chance arrival of fog here and there, now and then, our views often arrived at random intervals, revealing awesome sights to the faraway peaks. Hiking uphill in nature has been proven to be beneficial to both our mental and physical health, but I can now add one additional collateral advantage: it cuts a couple of days off of jet lag recovery!

The raison d'être of my adventure is about to start: seven days and 500 km of cycling starting from the idyllic French port village of Banyuls-sur-Mer, then south across the border and along the Spanish Costa Brava, ultimately to Barcelona. In summertime, thousands of tourists flock to Banyuls-sur-Mer to spend a week or two. Aside from its beautiful Mediterranean beach, the many local wineries and the charming outdoor seaside restaurants, the town is the starting point of the trans-Pyrenees Grande Route, the GR10, which ends at the Atlantic Ocean, 875 km to the west. It boasts 48,000 m of elevation gain over its route! As probably half of those brave GR10 backpackers start at the other end, we can see small, sometimes confused groups of tired, dusty, but excited hikers arriving in Banyuls-sur-Mer at the very end of their month-long hiking quest! Alas, our stay here is but for 24 hours as we collect our bicycles and start out in the morning. The first two days witness us traversing the Pyrenees, too (but from north to south) with lots of long steady and tiring uphill cycling, always followed by exhilarating stretches downhill at speeds that even the cars cannot match, thanks to the many tight curves that favour us cyclists. The photo opportunities are unique and numerous so we stop often to capture the sea views framed by the craggy shorelines, the waves smashing against the rocks below and in the distance. Often a spray of sunlight pierces the clouds like the spokes on our bicycles, radiating down to Earth, as our first day of riding is thankfully not blue sky. I say this because all the following days of riding and beyond greet us with exceptional500cloudless days and a broiling hot sun, thoroughly baking us below. Applying sunscreen twice a day turns out to be insufficient as my arms and legs evidently require even more protection from the strong Catalunyan sun!

I have written you previously about the sheer pleasure and joy of leaving one seaside village in the morning on a bicycle, riding into the mountains passing through random picturesque towns, stopping in one of them for a tasty lunch outdoors, then continuing on back to the coast, again cycling through one amazing port village to another similar village before ultimately, 80 km later, arriving at our destination. I would be ecstatic to spend a few days visiting any one of these villages, it is almost sad to say hello and goodbye so quickly as we cycle on. At home, an 80 km ride takes between three and four hours, including the odd stop for a snack. Over here, the same distance invariably includes so many photo stops plus the deserved lunch that even as we depart at 9:30am each morning, we usually arrive at the day's destination only after 4pm.

Still, plenty of daylight left to head to the beach for a refreshing swim in the cool salty waters and a stroll through the Old Town before returning to our hotel to prepare for the evening's tour of castles, stores and restaurants. When we say Old Town at home, we think of buildings and streets dating back a couple of hundred years. In Catalunya, or anywhere in Europe, the Old Town's stores, apartments and churches date back 500 years and more. The streets are narrow, winding, often made of stone. I find every one of them, mesmerizing in its unique charm. I suppose if ever I move to Europe, I will choose to live in the Old Town neighbourhood of whatever city attracts me.

I am presently finalizing this postcard to you from my comfortable living room back home and am already longing for my next adventure overseas!

Postcard from Lyon - postmarked 13 March 2019

I last wrote you from Lyon over a decade ago. France's second largest city -- some say its third largest -- hasn't changed much in 200 years let alone during the last decade. I remember then recounting to you about this amazing experience I had. With the tap of an icon on his phone, my French friend, Christophe, liberated two public bicycles from their stands, and he treated me to a two-hour bicycle tour of his town. I remember writing how I must inform Montreal's mayor about this bicycle sharing concept. True to Canadian form, the city invested, created and mismanaged Bixi until it went bankrupt. But Lyon is not resting on its laurels. Once again I am charmed by the latest: there are little electric scooters left about everywhere. I really do mean everywhere. On every block, in every park, at random places there is a scooter perched on its teeny kickstand. Anybody with the app simply scans the QR code affixed to its handlebar, steps on the tiny platform, accelerator on the left handle and brake on the right, and scoots away, always standing while riding. They are such popular means of transportation that you can see somebody scootering this way and that every minute or two, anywhere you may be, day and night. Some of the more brave, or more stupid, not sure which, can be seen weaving around in traffic at 30+ km/hr sans helmet, rather than sticking to the bike lanes and the usual cycling speeds.


In spite of the charm that this city offers, there is one aspect of this year's version of Lyon that I find troubling. I have never had to breathe in so much side smoke as here. It seems that every second Lyonais is a smoker. A chain smoker, likely. As France has finally caught up with the rest of the world and banned smoking in restaurants and cafés, smokers here have to double down on their addiction by puffing away on every city street and sidewalk. In other words, I am nearly always downwind of somebody's cigarette smoke. By design, I normally refrain from reporting on negative experiences however I believe I am marked now, and cannot shake this trauma from my thoughts. I am racking my brain for a solution which I would gladly pitch to the local authorities.

Thinking back to a time in my early 20's when I first visited France, I note another big change in French culture. Back then, most everybody bought a fresh baguette at the bakery, tasty cheese at the fromagerie, meat at the boucherie, and voilà lunch was ready to be eaten during a break from work. These days, the average Lyonais will stop instead at a local café, eat a ready-made sandwich, have a coffee and cigarette, while seated outside regardless of the weather. Twice the price and half as healthy since the sandwiches are mostly bread and mayonnaise. I know this firsthand as I had to eat one to learn about their popularity. It seems to me that the culture here is in decline. Healthy food appears to be out of financial reach of the average French citizen. Unless they make wine cheaper than water, as the Russians have engineered with vodka pricing, I understand why the population continues protesting in Lyon, Paris and elsewhere every Saturday -- you can Google gilets jaunes for the latest news. When the day comes that a single banana costs 60 cents at home, too, we may yet see Canadians marching in the streets demanding affordable groceries.

Every place you visit invariably has its pros and cons. One lovely aspect of Lyon is its nightlife. Sprinkled around town are concentrations of clubs, lounges and bars. The weather in March is already warm so many of the revelers are seated or standing outside in front, the easier to smoke for sure. Vieux Lyon is one of my favourite areas. I am the first to admit that, like Old Montreal, it is somewhat touristy, although less so at night. Unlike Old Montreal, however, Vieux Lyon is very old. The streets are uneven, narrow, nowhere even close to being parallel or perpendicular, laid down as cobblestone. The buildings are 300, 400 years old, two or three stories high, mostly. What I find appealing is that the shops, bars, etc., are inside these antique structures. Normally, there are multiple rooms, connected at odd junctures, ancient brick walls, thick wooden beams holding up the low ceilings. Depending on the decor, it all comes together as being one establishment. Easy-going the Lyonais are, no bartender or shopkeeper is rushing you to buy something. It's rather a pleasure just to breathe it all in, relax, and enjoy the evening over strong European beer or a renowned French wine.

Here's to us all sitting back to relax sometimes, no matter where in the world we may be.

Barry from Lyon

Postcard from Puglia - postmarked 03 October 2018

Although I had been daydreaming about, and subsequently planning a group cycling tour of Puglia -- this is the southeast region of Italy, or "the heel of the boot" -- for almost six months, I am hesitant to admit that what has had me amped up was the high-altitude high-speed zipline experience that I had also booked for the very first day after the week of cycling.
And it was a bit fortuitous that it would be realizable at all as the zipline is only operational on weekends after mid-September. Our cycling week ended on Saturday with a celebratory dinner that same evening in the historic old town of Polignano a Mare, a fascinating port city on the Adriatic coast. Every old town shares many similar, arguably romantic attributes: very narrow, often twisting streets, not paved but assembled from stone, even sometimes from marble in fact, laid centuries ago when not yet invented cars could not exert any design influence on their layout; ancient stone buildings now housing resplendent restaurants, cafés and boutiques; and of course a church or two, often magnificent in stature replete with the most detailed artwork adorning their vaulted ceilings and brilliant stained glass windows punctuating their walls, but as well other churches rather understated lacking any splendor at all, out of favour perhaps. When a town is considered historic in Italy you can be sure that most of its buildings were constructed four or five hundred years ago, and the remainder even older and still standing, too, in contrast to our much newer buildings and roads at home in continual need of repair or replacement. I find it frankly amazing that we often enjoyed our dinners in restaurants that were built even before the concept of a restaurant came into being, where the original centuries old wooden beams still hold up the ceiling; where the electric wiring had to be added to the structure only after electricity had been invented and become available so the hall could be illuminated for us all to see our tasty pizzas, risottos, pastas and our friends' smiling faces, too; where the plumbing needed in a modern kitchen (and lavatory) had also to be added decades ago once this became common practice, too

As we were cycling outside of the summer high-season, we always had good luck in being seated all ten of us at one table, hastily arranged from smaller tables by the waitstaff eager for the business. Somewhat bittersweet our last dinner was as we all knew well that Sunday would not be another glorious day of cycling, no longer were random surprises awaiting us as we rode our daily 90 km track along the coast, at least once a day through a zombie village where I imagine several thousand summer residents had completely filled the town but a month earlier, crowded the beaches with reverie, swelled the cafés and bars their coffees and beers noisily consumed, emptied the stores of beach paraphernalia, sunscreen and bathing attire, only to be totally deserted by early September, leaving ghost cars and bicycles behind, silent and motionless; windrifts of sand blown in from the beach accumulating at random corners and on streets (risky business for a cyclist!) possibly to be swept away by next summer's returning residents. My first zombie village experience made me imagine the aftermath of a neutron bomb, where supposedly all life is obliterated yet no harm befalls the homes and other structures. At first I decided that it must be siesta time, that period from 2pm to 6pm when even today, in the high-tech 21st century that we all inhabit, all commerce ceases so that workers could return home for a home-cooked pasta meal and a nap. But no, a siesta it is not. The houses are closed up tight, their windows shuttered and the town's population drops to zero! I half-expected to see tumbleweeds blowing through the deserted streets. I suppose tumbleweeds don't blow outside of Arizona very often. Or is it New Mexico?

Other villages, the larger ones, remain alive and vibrant all year long as one might expect. Of course it was in these towns that we spent our evenings. The one town I must reveal to you as being perhaps the most amazing is Matera, km 0 for us out of 525 km ultimately cycled over six days. I fear that I will spoil the surprise that awaited me by sharing this, however for you who will likely never visit, read on: the Old Town of Matera, much like all the others, is accessed by passing through ancient gates, under giant stone archways, leaving behind modern buildings and paved streets for the charm of all that is antique. But there's more: the center of Old Town Matera appears to be dug out of the surrounding city, a hole about 400 metres in diameter. It is nestled deep within and down below. Steep stone staircases cut into the walls of this depression allow us to descend to its very centre. I have never seen a city with a hole in its center, and in this hole another city is built, with homes clinging to the steep walls leading down surrounding the tumultuous cacophony of commerce and restaurants and cafés at the bottom. Close your eyes for even a moment and imagine old square stone houses with their ubiquitous orange-coloured clay roofs 360 degrees around the edge of a bowl 400 metres across, and down the sides of this bowl, more houses, all the way to the bottom. Add this town to your bucket list, it is unique for other reasons, too, for you to discover without my guidance.

The celebratory dinner behind me -- as tasty as any dinner in Italy -- my next challenge was to get my ass an hour north to Bari, Puglia's largest and only city where a car can be rented. Two cycling friends and I were finally, comfortably seated in a rented Panda en route to Castelmezzano, one of the ten most beautiful mountain villages in the world, it has been written. Google it and you will see that I kid you not. An hour of highway followed by ninety minutes of narrow, winding roads, a few wrong turns thrown in for good measure, slowly climbing mountainsides as we closed in on our mountaintop destination. Castelmezzano's buildings are built into the mountainside with barely room for anything motorized to get through beyond the village's entrance. So parking our car along its access road's shoulder is normal practice and dragging our luggage 500 metres uphill along pedestrian passageways to our B+B is also normal, drawing no stares from townsfolk. One really has to see this village to understand how it justly earned its reputation for amazement. The first view of it from a bend in the approaching road -- there is only one way in -- left me speechless. I admit that finding myself speechless is a rare treat, a feeling that I relish. The townspeople live in houses basically uphill and downhill from each other. A deep valley separates this village from its neighbour, Pietrapertosa, which is similarly built on top of its own mountain, two kms south. A few years ago somebody decided to build not one, but two ziplines connecting the two mountain villages. One zipline zips downhill in one direction from the top of one mountain, and the other returns the customer back to his or her starting point from the top of the other. Did I forget to mention that we zip along at over 100 km/hr? Yep, you read this correctly, over 100 km/hr on a zipline which is more than 1,500 feet above the valley floor below!! I knew these statistics when I reserved our 4:30pm time slot three months ago and it has been weighing on my mind until this Sunday when we ultimately arrive in Castelmezzano. Not as you might guess on my mind due to trepidation but to anticipation of the expected euphoria to come. I am certain that the 100 km/hr speed metric had not been what was exciting me all this time, but rather it was the altitude: zipping 1,500 feet above the trees below me, in effect flying like an eagle, being secured only by a cable above me and a couple of hooks. Unimaginable. A shuttle takes us up a narrow road, one switchback after another and deposits us at a footpath above the village. Anticipation grows further, as I have roped my two brave cycling friends into joining me, and we walk uphill another 25 minutes, chatting nervously about who will go first, who will go last and who will change his mind and bail, to arrive at the mountain's peak and the starting point. Like most thrills (and fears) in life, the very thought of what follows can be more terrifying than the event itself. Not so in this situation. The excitement continues to build for the experience to come. I slip into a harness and tighten it, don a helmet, and allow the attendant to clip me to the cable. I remain uncertain as to the utility of the helmet however it occurs to me only now that I could slam into a bird at full speed. I am asked to lie horizontally suspended and a second clip is attached to the cable, I grab the straps behind my back to secure my arms and next a little sail is fitted between my back and the roller above which will prevent me from gaining too much speed as it catches the wind and acts as a brake. After months of expectancy a catch is released and I accelerate horizontally into space somewhat downhill faster and faster, the wind rushing towards me, my eyes start to tear -- from joy or from the wind I do not know. I look left, right and down and I am in denial that this is real. To be frank with you, it is surreal. Picture me: I am flying! I am an eagle. A very fast eagle!

This I know: a huge thrill it was, it was over too quickly (about 75 seconds) and my Strava app logged me at 103 km/hr for nearly the whole time. Add Castelmezzano to your bucket list. You can thank me later.

Cycling/zipping Barry of Puglia

Postcard from Portugal - postmarked 25 June 2018

One morning last week I got out of bed and went for a walk on the beach. This, in the town of Porto Covo. It is a quaint, if not beautiful, village on the Atlantic Ocean, an hour's drive south of Lisbon. Like all towns sprinkled around southern Portugal's Atlantic coast, its houses are all whitewashed with either white paint or amazing, muted hues of turquoise, mustard, salmon and so on. I am reminded of a box of crayons that we had as kids. Can you think back to your own crayons and picture these houses? There's no mistaking that I am no longer in Canada (although I remember seeing photos of Newfoundland fishing villages similarly colourful).

If this weren't enough, the streets of the entire town -- and as I later learned, of all Portuguese cities -- are constructed of coarse chunks of black stone, each uniquely shaped, roughly cubic, the size of apples... they look to me like volcanic lava after having cooled down and solidified. Each of the thousands or perhaps millions of individual rocks must be placed one by one on a bed of sand with a space between on all sides. Then, later, sand is spread everywhere to fill in the spaces and voilà, no heavy, expensive equipment needed, just a lot of manual labour, and a road is born. I guess the system works in a country with high unemployment. The progress is slow but no potholes to be seen. On the other hand the sidewalks are made from glossy marble-like, white stones chips which are also placed manually in a random array. They appear to be cemented into place. In both cases, all the streets and sidewalks are uneven, easy to trip on, or stub a toe, even twist an ankle in a crack, with the one upside of them being beautiful, a highway of mosaic object d'art. Speaking of which, in a country with high umemployment, the artistic creativity of the Portuguese is heavily fueled by being unconstrained by gainful employment. As the streets are laid out in random fashion, not Cartesian at all as we are accustomed to in Canada, surely due to the roads having been created long before cars first appeared, many, if not most intersections are at odd angles, resulting in spits of land, too small for a house, but just so for either a beer stand, café, or a sculpture, sometimes life-size, other times humongous. I have come to believe that, either way, it is either an unlicensed commercial activity or an unsanctioned sculpture that simply one day appears. In one case we came upon a series of plush sofas on a wide sidewalk which looked soft and comfortable but were in fact crafted from stone. Comfortable to sit on but far from soft as they appeared to be.

At the risk of repeating myself, I am again surprised by the artistic creativity of the Portuguese. Aside from the interesting graffiti on display everywhere there is a fence or wall, in many cases entire houses have become the canvas for an artist to express him or herself. Almost always brilliant (I only once spied a large wall painted in black and white) with bright colours employed and remarkable definition rendered, I became nearly addicted to photographing the art from an interesting angle or with some contrasting distraction, people walking in front, or a street sign in the foreground providing a clue as to where in the world I was at the time.

As I was saying, I went for a walk on the beach one morning. Five days later I stopped walking and checked the app on my phone: 125 km clocked! Hard to believe isn't it? Harder still was carrying my 30-lb backpack the entire way. While it is true that a small part of the hike was indeed on the beach, the greater part is spent two or three hundred feet above the Atlantic ocean along the cliffs and dunes that parallel the shoreline all the way to Sagres, the town that is at the extreme southwest corner of Portugal, indeed of all of Europe! Each day is spent walking south, and my being overwhelmed by the neverending and spectacular views of the ocean and rocky shoreline ahead seen from high up. I have to tell you that there is very little in life more rewarding than getting out of bed in the morning, having a delicious calorie-dense breakfast and then going for a 25-km walk! Especially when the views are similar to the one you see on this postcard. There is a certain freedom to traveling from town to town without the silly requirement of using a car, or taking a train. A bonus: Ten or twenty secluded, pristine beaches are spotted below each day, one of which we choose to hike down to for a swim and a rest on a daily basis. These beaches are flanked by rocky barriers at either end making our approach down the cliffside somewhat challenging and ultimately the only way to access the sand and surf. Normally, we own the beach as they are all difficult to access, plus there are no roads cut through the brush and cactus to our clifftop hiking trail. 

Although the waters along the famous Algarve on Portugal's south coast are quite warm and enjoyable, here the sea is very cold, any swim is short, very short for me at least. Picture me running in before I could change my mind, and 30 seconds later running out before my lips turn blue and my fingers numb! Fortunately the sun then warms me up and dries both me and my hiking shorts soon enough. We walk for five to six hours a day, plus time for breaks, lunch, photos and a swim. And finally stroll into the next seaside town to discover its cafés, architecture and art. Each village has its character, but being beach towns they all share the convention of concentrating its commerce on one or two streets for the tourists to congregate and buy tchotchkas, sip on sangrias and ultimately spend the entire evening on a terrasse for dinner and drinks. The biggest stress of the day is choosing what to eat: grilled sardines, octopus or squid, or maybe a local delicacy of seafood catalana, basically a paëlla without the rice getting in the way. The entire month of June is sardines month in Portugal, don't ask why, and grilling them on a charcoal BBQ is ubiquitous. You may be surprised to learn that a great many of the restaurants do their grilling outside beside or behind the terrasse where we sit, even sometimes on a tiny hibachi. 

One of the pleasures of hiking the entire 125-km rota vincentina (the fisherman's walk) is that the seaside villages which dot the route only see Portuguese tourists (with a handful of Canadian exceptions). The foreigners flock to the Algarve where they take over those villages which have by now lost their original character. The Algarve experience really deserves its own postcard so stay tuned. In contrast, I imagine that these smaller villages that hosted us during the late afternoons and evenings along our hike have changed very little over the decades. Small restaurants and cafés adorn the main street and it seems that somebody's mama is cooking up a storm in each of their tiny kitchens. No need for five-star chefs here! Now, dining in a Portuguese restaurant back in Montreal will always bring me back to these enchanted evenings.

Here's hoping all your evenings are enchanted, too!

Barry from Portugal

Postcard from St-Moritz, Switzerland - postmarked 11 March 2018

There are precious few experiences more magical or more mystical, than starting my morning at the top of the world, above the scattered wispy clouds, the cold air tickling at my nostrils and the sun brilliant against the rich blue sky straining to warm my face, before skiing back down to reality, 2,000 metres below.
But, let's rewind the tape a bit as we must first get to the top of the world, which requires rides up a series of massive cable cars sprinkled with a dose of unabashed anticipation, if not outright excitement.
The cable cars connecting the ancient storied Swiss village of St-Moritz to its majestic Piz Nair, the highest peak far above, are huge, each holding 120 skiers and snowboarders. I have heard of even larger ones that have two floors, yes, a double-decker, but have yet to see this with my own eyes. These literally whisk us upwards at high speeds, paralleling the slopes below, where we can easily see the early morning skiers shushing down on piste beneath us. Even when speaking English everybody here says 'on piste' and 'off piste,' a touch of franglais (or is it frenglish?) that we are accustomed to at home.
I have come to St-Moritz for a week of off piste skiing. All that is required are the technical skills for skiing far from the tame, groomed trails in the deeper, fresh, untracked powder; an experienced guide to keep us from skiing straight off a hidden cliff or into a field of rocks; and finally an individual radio beacon strapped to my torso and a backpack containing a fold-up shovel and an extensible rod for prodding through the packed snow in the unlikely -- yet possible -- event of a life-and-death search to locate an unfortunate fellow skier buried below thanks to a freak avalanche occurring right here right now. Our leader, an affable, tall, heavily accented Swiss Italian named Giacomo, has been guiding for six seasons here and has yet to ever rush to the aid of anybody caught in avalanche. One of his skills is knowing the areas to avoid where an avalanche is likely to occur, due to its orientation to the sun, the quality and quantity of snow that has recently fallen, the pitch of the slope, the changing temperatures and other factors.
Reaching the summit by cable cars is insufficient. The off piste slopes easily accessible from the cable car's arrival point are quickly skied on leaving the snow 'used up' by early risers. No, we late risers who have slept in until 7:30am and finally arriving at the summit by 9:30am, have to traverse in one direction or another, remaining high up on top of huge bowls and couloirs of snow below. Often, for 15 or 20 minutes of traversing of perhaps a kilometer, or, even more taxing at this elevation: climbing higher still in boots, skis slung over one shoulder, breathless, arriving, at the very top of a steep pitch with an even steeper and narrow entry point to the mountain of fresh powdery snow awaiting us below.

Depending on one's character, I can see it clearly in the concerned faces of my fellow skiers, the adrenaline rush we all feel is either painfully scary, or simply delightfully exhilarating! No need to be deposited here by helicopter, the climb was exhausting and worth it, the view from the top of the world, is, well, otherworldly.
Strange how the snowy peaks directly across the other side of the valley beckon, it feels as if I can stretch out my arm and scoop a handful of snow in my glove even though I know that gloveful of snow is 10 kms away. And so the dream starts with blue within blue skies above, faraway rugged mountains at the horizon that I caress with my mind's fingertips, rarified cold air that will sadly not luxuriously fill my lungs as at sea level. Most important the first turn that I will soon take over the small cornice, a drop of less than ten feet, into a mountain of snow below. That first turn beckons the second, and the rhythm is then set, for better or for worse for the next minute. I know that I will be breathless by then and my legs will stop responding to the music playing in my brain, that helps me keep the beat. No, I never ski with earphones, but yes, I do hear the lyrics of my favourite tunes, keeping my skis on beat or getting them back on beat when I fumble and miss a turn. When the pitch is not terrifying, nothing can stop me, my skis react instantly to every contour below my feet, I feel like a God, something like that life-size Popeye stand-up inflatable doll I had when very young, no matter how I punished it, it always landed on its feet. In these conditions I manage to impress my ski colleagues. At the top, however, when the pitch feels nearly vertical, I do my very best to ski, pretending as though the powdery expanse is not steep, as though I am still a God, and I freely admit it is very challenging, however I also relish in telling you that it is always exhilarating to ski down from so high up, in an expansive bowl of powder untracked by others, with the belief that the perfect run is always inside me... waiting to get out!

But I know you want to hear about St-Moritz, enough about skiing and its accompanying exhilaration, what about the town of St-Moritz? Is it true that it is here that the most valuable real estate in all of Switzerland is located? Yes, this is correct. It may also be true that St-Moritz is the first ski village in the world, where apparently the sport first came into existence. However the village is centuries older, with its narrow cobblestone pedestrian streets winding their way up through the heart of the central shopping area. Dotted with wine bars and famous chocolateries, more obvious are the most expensive branded stores in the world lining the sidewalks: Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Bottega Veneta, you get the idea. We know there is no upper limit to the price tags of jewellery and watches, however when I see $3,000 jerseys, $7,500 sweaters and $15,000 jackets, I understand. The bus driver that drove us back to Zurich at the end of my week told me that one day last year he was asked to go to the airport to collect the luggage for a client and transport them to the hotel. The client was the uncle of the king of Brunei and arrived, alone, in a 747, with 195 pieces of luggage in tow. Purchasing a $7,500 sweater for him is likely equivalent to my purchasing a $2 fridge magnet: neither of us is the poorer for the purchase. The few five-star hotels in and around St-Moritz have rooms that start at $2,000 per night. Breakfast not included. Royalty and the very wealthy have been coming to St-Moritz for centuries and thanks to them, the common folk (me?) can browse the most incredible fashion shops unparalleled anywhere else on the planet, try on an article of clothing that may be more expensive than a small car, and gaze at ourselves in the mirror. St-Moritz, like most Swiss villages, features a tall clock tower at the top of the town. No Swiss citizen can be excused for arriving late to an appointment as the clock towers are visible from all parts of town. On one weekend in January the world-famous horse races take place on the large frozen lake at the town's base, an event I am informed that must be added to my bucket list. Fortunately, I did witness (again) the Engadin ski marathon, a 42-km race that attracts over 40,000 Nordic skiers, which passes right through lower St-Moritz at kilometre 15. If you enjoy skate-skiing, it's a sight that will turn you green with jealousy for not having decided to participate. A ribbon of thousands of XC skiers, as far as you can see, dressed in all colours and patterns of skin-tight outfits, visible from far against the snowy white background, races by, the strain of their efforts clearly visible on each racer's face.

No strain on my face, for now my blissful week of action is behind me as I relax, finally, on my flight home.
Cheers!
Barry from Switzerland xx

Postcard from Chamonix (postmarked 10 March 2017)

This week has been an epic week, one for the record books, in particular for my personal Guinness Book of Records. I'll start at the end where all great beginnings have their roots...

The last ski run of the day started at the summit of Grands Montets, one of six distinct ski areas comprising Chamonix-Mont Blanc, accessible by first riding up a gondola from the base, then a chairlift and finally a large cable car that holds up to 50 excited skiers, each one either staring silently out the hard, plastic windows, all scratched up by thousands of ski tips having rested against them over the years, at the slopes far below, hypnotized by the expansive barren terrain, or, debating intently with his or her ski buddy about the perfect ski to use for today's conditions, or of a recent alpine experience, frequently in some foreign tongue. As we ascend it slowly becomes evident how high above sea level we are: the sky gradually becomes deeper blue, blue within blue -- I am reminded of how the astronauts get to witness how the sky becomes deeper blue, then still darker until it finally morphs into black after they blast off from earth into orbit! The cable car finally arrives at the very peak, over 3,300 metres above sea level, and we all must, unusually, trudge down over 150 metal steps in ski boots, braving the fierce, bitter wind at the peak, carrying our skis and boards, to the actual beginning of the trail, below the arrival station. Before doing so however, nearly everybody pulls out their smartphones to take pictures and selfies despite the howling wind: at this elevation, we can see over all of the nearby mountains to the faraway peaks and even over many of those to the horizon where there are still more snow-covered peaks, most of them very rugged and craggy in this section of the French Alps. Only Mont Blanc, a few kilometres away is much higher than our vantage point on this precipice, majestic against the rich blue within blue sky, usually sporting its own personal wispy, lenticular cloud, as it is at the moment, shrouding its very peak from sight. It is awesome, if not overwhelming, a sight that I will never take for granted, as so very few people ever get here to witness the panorama.

There are now two options for your pleasure: option one is skiing down the expert trail, groomed and well marked to keep skiers from getting lost on the way down. Because we are far above the tree line, there is little difference between the marked trail, which is all covered in snow and perfectly safe to ski, and off-trail which is also all covered in snow but quite risky as it may lead to gullies, cliffs and dangerous crevices. Those people turn right once they've arrived at the bottom of the long noisy flight of aluminium stairs. We choose option two by turning left and traversing over to the top of the Argentière glacier. With our guide in the lead, we know that the way is safe as long as we follow him down, more or less. The slow continual downhill advance of all glaciers does result in numerous crevices forming, sometimes as deep as 300 metres, I am informed, so following the guide is advised. Not only is the sky deep blue and the sun brilliant above us, not only is the frozen icy glacier beneath me covered by a three-metre thick layer of soft powdery snow, not only is the slope steep but not too steep, but it is also wide, so wide that I cannot see from edge to edge, it is a dream. 

I take my first turn and then my next and then I realize I can competently keep my rhythm but am entirely unconstrained as to how long or how wide my turns can be. Fluffy snow kicks up behind me, blinding anybody who foolishly chooses to follow me as I slalom down the huge expanse of freshly fallen snow, sometimes veering way left as I please and other times right, with little forethought or reason, feeling childlike as nothing else (nor anybody else) in the world matters at the moment. The fresh brisk dry air tickles my nostrils as I inhale and it fills my lungs, but my breathing soon becomes more laboured partly due to the rarefied air at this elevation, partly from the effort demanded by my legs. I am mindful of the soft snow sliding under my skis with every second's advance downhill. I feel rather proud as this hors-piste descent is apparently never-ending and I am managing the ride with more skill than usual, which adds further to my delight! It is as silent as it is breathtaking up here on top of the world and time appears to be ticking by slowly for me which I notice and which I appreciate. Of course I stop to catch my breath every minute or two, but these rest stops afford me the added pleasure of gazing around and performing a reality check: am I really here? I do not answer. Before too long I have mastered the summit and have indeed enjoyed one of the longest runs of my life, eventually rejoining the groomed trail for the last section and arriving at the base, over 2,200 metres below, probably a 6 km ride, never to be forgotten.

La Mer de Glace snaking its way through the Vallée Blanche behind me

Yesterday was altogether different: the town's inhabitants awoke to a thick fog which obscured all the surrounding mountains. In fact, the visibility at ground level was not fantastic either so the decision was to take the day off from zero-visibility skiing and instead visit the Vallée Blanche glacier, la Mer de Glace, the largest in France. It is 6 km long and 200 metres deep and is located on the northern slopes of Mont Blanc. An interesting train ride from Chamonix up a steep climb brings us in twenty minutes' time to a spot 400 metres above the glacier's leading edge. I had read that this glacier, in the distant past, filled the entire valley, up to and above the point at which we disembarked from the train (see the picture, above). It was over 700 metres thick at the time! The train itself is powered by electric motors which turn several gears positioned vertically under the train's carriage. These gears interlock with large metal teeth that are secured to the railroad bed from beginning to end. As the motors turn the gears, the train advances uphill.
I apologize for the mechanical details (which fascinated me!) and will now return to the glacier. I am sure that many of you reading this postcard have seen glaciers first-hand if not having at least seen photographs. In this case, we took a gondola down 300 metres along the valley's wall, and then still had to walk 400 stairs further down to the glacier's edge. This is where the fun begins: every winter, a team of engineers spends over a month drilling out an ice cave by digging horizontally into the glacier. The cave is more like a tunnel shaped like a loop which is burrowed 75 metres into the glacier! And into this cave I enter. The ice walls inside are so cold that when I touch them and rub my fingers over them, the ice will not melt -- my fingers remain dry. Can you imagine, I am literally inside the glacier, surrounded by many tons of ice possibly frozen for thousands of years, barely lit by several hidden lights, giving the entire length of the ice cave an eerie shine, deep blue in colour. If you are the least bit claustrophobic, you will likely not be venturing inside. For the rest of you: Add this experience to your bucket list!

Here's hoping you are checking items off your own bucket list!

Ski bum Barry