The Hall of the Dead

Posted on by under Europe, Germany

There is a bandwidth of cities that meet the ‘equidistant from Berlin and Luzern’ criteria we’ve put into place when catching up with Tim’s sister and her partner. It’s taken us to Nuremberg, and this weekend saw us descend upon the otherwise not-particularly-noteworthy town of Regensburg. About an hour from Munich (more, if you factor in the Oktoberfest festivities, which we did not) the town also doubled as our viewing point for the Australia Football League grand final, in which Tim and Dommie’s team was playing. While our Berlin buddies made the trek into town, Tim set up our (oddly furnished; check out Mr No Pants below) AirBnB in a style only a true fan could love.

regensburg-0318-20161001The game aired first thing in the morning and despite a loss for our team was an exciting way to start the weekend (that, and the champagne breakfast concurrently consumed). We then took off into town to explore the 150,000 people strong medieval city. There was a lovely gothic cathedral, an ancient bridge over which we strolled, the ‘insert a bunch of caveats to ensure it’s the oldest’ wursthaus and the rapidly flowing Danube.

We stopped for lunch in a Bavarian beer garden and feasted on dumplings, pork knuckle and of course beer. I was obviously not on the turps, so I can confirm that the bizarre light fittings were not a figment of drunk-eyed imagination. regensburg-0377-20161001That afternoon saw Laides work on her frisbee and Scandinavian chess skills while her Tante, Oncle and Papa worked on their ‘end of season drinks in sun’ skills. (I spent some time in a hideously large mall performing that most depressing of duties: maternity wear shopping. Ugh.)

The following day somebody flicked the switch to Autumn; it was cold, wet and grey. We took a boat ride down the Danube, heading to the last place one would expect to visit in rural Bavaria: Walhalla, the Viking’s Hall of the Dead. regensburg-0361-20161001As half a scenic hour flowed by, we kept our eyes peeled across the cow-studded landscape for the Hall. There was no missing it as we approached. regensburg-0669-20161002Inspired (obviously) by ancient Grecian architecture, the Walhalla was built to honour distinguished speakers of the German tongue (you might guess that neither Tim or myself have a place there). We walked up the hill, climbed the cascading stairs and found ourselves outside the hall of greatness past.

The hall of kinda odd greatness past. A single room lined with busts and plaques commemorating over 2000 years of German speaking history, there were some familiar names (Einstein, oddly looking like a cartoon version of himself) through to some that were not-so-familiar (the dude who invented the pocket watch. I assume his normal watch broke and he popped it away for safe keeping?).

We marvelled at hairstyles and the lack of female representation (only four bust-worthy birds from the last two centuries) while Addie worked on choosing ridiculous Walhalla-inspired old school names for her little bro (Erasmus? Albrecht? Burchard? Nein, danke.).regensburg-0649-20161002regensburg-0660-20161002One of the oddest monuments (likened by Motsy to this) we’ve ever experienced ticked off, we made our way for another beer hall lunch. We were also not above bribing the lass to learn two new words: ‘Dom’ and ‘Roh’, something achieved surprisingly simply when the sweet lure of ice-cream was promised to her.

Monday was a public holiday in Germany – Reunification Day – so we made it home in time for Tim to work with relative ease. It was our last planned adventure before little Erasmus / Albrecht / Burchard arrives, and I’m looking forward to taking it easy (I’m finally watching Breaking Bad…totally appropriate maternity leave viewing, no?) and doing some serious nesting prior to his arrival as well some minor administrative tasks, such as actually committing to a hospital in which he can be born. That’s not to say itchy feet won’t strike again, but they are currently a trifle too swollen to be taken terribly seriously.

The Syndrome

Posted on by under Europe, Scandinavia, Sweden

While I still have a small amount of lap real estate, and airline travel remains free for the lass, we wanted to squeeze in one last pre-newborn flight. Destination: Stockholm. None of us had ventured to Scandinavia before and other than a sketchy knowledge at best (meatballs, pickled fish, IKEA, the Dragon Tattoo lark) had little idea what to expect. Happily, the apartment we arrived at late Thursday evening played up to my stereotype-loving heart nicely.

stockholm-0002-20160926We spent Friday exploring the city. (Peppered with a whole bunch of rookie errors. We’ve been parents for almost two years – why would we ever want to bring wipes with us? It’s my second time knocked up – why in the world would I think my feet might swell to elephantiasis proportions if walking on them all day? Pre-packed food for the toddler – who’d want that?) We made our way to the island-based old town, Gamla Stan, which was fairly accurately described by a friend as ‘Diagon Alley on steroids’.

We had assumed Sweden would be bitterly cold and slightly inhospitable, but were happily incorrect on both fronts. The weather was delightfully mild and autumnal, and access was easy both in terms of traversing the city (other than the sad state of my hoofs, of course) and the friendliness of its people. It was also a super funky town with great food and bars and nooks in the city to discover.

Stockholm is spread across fourteen islands, next to an archipelago made up of approximately 30,000 more. We decided to hop a boat ride to one such island, Vaxholm, about an hour’s sail away. In yet another rookie error, I misread the timetable and we missed our boat, forcing us to the horrible fate of coffee, cake and sunny park time while we waited for the next one (although pregnancy hormones being what they are, apparently it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me based on the irrational and involuntary tears shed).

The archipelago was stunning. It was more densely populated than I expected, both in terms of the wooden summer houses on the islands and the foliage. I’m currently reading a Swedish novel, Blackwater, in which it was stated of rural Sweden: The greenery was obscene. It made her think of bushy pubic hair (seen in bath-houses, before turning away). She hadn’t expected this, but rather some kind of barrenness. This was also my observation – admittedly minus the pubic hair part – as we weaved through islands on our way to Vaxholm. One of our party had no opinion on the matter at all, clearly finding it all somewhat tiresome.

stockholm-0082-20160926We lunched on the island, knocking into the aforementioned meatballs and seafood. We’d intended to explore the island in the afternoon – it houses an old fortress and a small, sweet town – however our (tautologically?) temperamental toddler had other ideas and instead we sailed back to Stockholm.

As well as being an outdoor paradise – there’s loads of water sports, hiking, camping and winter activities – we were delighted with the number of museums and indoor activities available. We barely scratched the surface of these. Tim was keen for the Nobel prize museum, I’m always a sucker for natural history, and we both intended to avoid the Abba museum despite much pushing from a fellow plane passenger (although secretly I reckon we’d both have loved it). Instead, on the recommendation of an ex-colleague of mine who we met for the day, we decided to concentrate on the Skansen. An open air museum and zoo located on – you guessed it – an island, the Skansen recreates traditional Swedish villages and practices.

We strolled to the island through gorgeously manicured Autumnal gardens.

As it happened on the day we visited there was a traditional Swedish folk fair on. This included people in traditional dress playing a range of instruments, dancing, exhibiting handicrafts and preparing food as well as a bunch of old school Swedish funfair games. These included ‘playing in the straw bales’ (a massive hit), a plate smashing stall, and a strong man bell ringing thing, the official name of which I am fairly sure I’ve never known.

We’ve been gushing about the city ever since we returned, and I have gone so far as to say it’s my new favourite place. We’d return in a flash (it’s the lure of the Abba museum, of course). In a disgraceful misinterpretation, we absolutely developed Stockholm Syndrome; the city bewitched us completely. But what’s not to love about a town where the trams have cafés on board, and the slippery dips are super mega slippery indeed?

The Alsace

Posted on by under Europe, France

As many have observed before me, the more one sees the world, the more there is to see. As a general rule, we try not to revisit too many places – this continent is amazing and we are becoming gluttons for travel (and travel-related eats, of course) – but we made an exception for Colmar and the Alsace region. To be fair, only 33% (25%, if you count the lad) of us had been there – Tim visited circa 2012 when he traveled this way for work – but he generously agreed to return so we could experience it together. Just under two hours drive away, it was an easy last minute weekend trip with some friends. A few Fridays ago, we all hit the road after work for a weekend of sun and vino.

We stayed in downtown Colmar but headed out on Saturday to visit some of the vineyards surrounding the town. First stop (while the littles slept away, apparently not too keen on indulging their parents’ drinking whims) was the Haut-Koenigsbourg Castle, perched atop a nearby hill. Built in the 12th century, its purpose was to watch over the wheat and wine routes – half of which task we were more than willing to take on. We grabbed a leisurely Alsace style lunch in a nearby town – despite the hot weather Tim yummed up baekhoffe (a lightly spiced stew he declared delicious) and I’d be lying if I pretended the tarte flambée was only for Adelaide.

There’s about 170km of wine trail throughout the Alsace region, spanning 67 villages across the east of France. It obviously produces a wide range of wine, but is particularly noted for its Riesling, Gewürztraminer and Pinot Noir, as well as my fave – the sparkling Crémant d’Alsace. Somewhat overwhelmed with choice, we opted to visit a winery recommended to us rather than try pot luck. While not entirely to my taste, there was absolutely nothing horrid about sitting in a cool, dark wine cellar among old bottles on a summer’s day in France. Actually – not quite true – it was slightly horrid only to be able to have a tiny tease of a taster due to the belly bulge you can see below.

The drive around the region was stunning. Rolling hills, vineyards, distant smudgy mountains? Yes please.

The following day we thought we’d best check out the town we were allegedly visiting. Colmar is a popular destination – it’s very picturesque with colourful wooden houses lining canals which give the town the moniker ‘Little Venice’. We wandered the streets, soaking in the atmosphere.

The sculptor who designed the Statue of Liberty – Frederic Bartholdi – hails from Colmar, and there’s a much smaller replica of the lady herself on a roundabout on the way into town (which prompted much giggling from our car). The town houses a museum dedicated to Bartholdi in its centre which showcases some of his other work and gives a history of the statue, located in the house in which he was born.

In order to maximise our weekend away we headed to a walled village a short drive from Colmar for Sunday lunch. Riquewihr is ‘Les Plus Beaux Villages de France’ – one of the most beautiful villages in France (based on a fairly tourist-focused application process, I gather) – but it was indeed stunning. Located on a hill flanked by vinyeards, the town centre is closed to traffic and, like Colmar, boasts cheerfully coloured buildings (and, of course, wine aplenty).

Given the Alsace area is so large, and we only visited a small portion of it, I hope we’ll be able to break our ‘no return’ rule on a technicality and make it back there in the future. Because really, with excellent food, wine and gorgeous scenery, what’s not to love? (The ferocious temper tantrum my girl had in the car on the way home is the answer to that question, but I’ll take that to mean she also wants to head back.)

Colmar with Ann, Doru & Seb 0202 - 20160902

Twelve months later…

Posted on by under Europe, Intentional summer, Lucerne, Switzerland

My summer to-do list wasn’t particularly ambitious this year, which is just as well as only about a third of it has been ticked off. While I’m not entirely giving up on the season I have a feeling we’ve seen the back of it for the year, and I’m prepared to let the rest of the list slide until next year. Happily, a few weekends ago the weather was lovely and we were kicking around at home, so we were able to tick off ‘walk the Luzern wall’.

Open only during the summer months the wall skirts the Alt Stadt of Luzern, providing lookout and protection for citizens back in the day. Now, it provides (fairly scary for a clumsy six months pregnant lady) steep stairs and chiming bells.

And, of course, stunning views across the city.

It was a lazy kind of day, enjoying the tourist buzz that late summer in Luzern brings. There was undoubtedly ice cream (not anything unusual; although beautiful, Luzern is also fairly culinarily conservative so pistachio is about as avant-garde as it gets), a stumbled-across farm cafe on the outskirts of town and some sprint training, in honour of the Olympics.

Last Saturday marked our one year annualversary of arriving in Switzerland. I remember, when I was quite small, visiting one of my great-grandmothers in her nursing home. She was sitting on her bed, crocheting small squares for a blanket, and offering us the large, chalky peppermints that I always associate with her. Being young and rude I asked her if she was bored all the time, just sitting around and knitting. She replied that every year of her life had gone faster and faster, and sitting around and knitting was about all she could manage to fit in any more. I couldn’t comprehend it at the time, but she was right – every year has flown by increasingly quickly, and this was no exception.

We’ve had a ball. We’ve met – exceeded, actually – our ‘go-away-once-a-month’ goal which has given us some amazing travel (cough eating) experiences. We’ve managed to settle here better than we’d expected – Tim at work and me as a Hausfrau, something I never thought I’d be doing (and much less enjoying…most of the time). There have been some pickles, sure (adjusting to the expense of Switzerland living has been a bit of a shock, my German remains horrific, and I’ve still not really mastered my recycling game), but overall it’s been a wonderful experience for our wee crew. Prior to coming, we’d mentally signed up to a minimum of two years here. If Nanna Graetz continues to be correct, that’ll be done and dusted before we know it. Guess I’d best dust off my knitting needles.

Snapshots

Posted on by under Lucerne, Personal

There are changes afoot, a shift in our daily gears. Maybe it is in part due to the deteriorating summer – the air is now chill in the mornings, the sun richer and mellow in the afternoons, the leaves starting to look towards the ground. The girl is off to kita – she’s doing her induction at the moment – and for the first time in her little life, and perhaps the most significant part of mine, we’ll be apart. My burgeoning belly is also a visual reminder of all that lies ahead, now impossible to forget or ignore. There are things from now – from this time before – that I want to remember, hang on to.

Her gangly frame, all limbs and enthusiasm, when she sits cuddled on my lap. Her little legs already dangle impossibly to my calves. Those same legs fearlessly climb, run, bruise, scrape, and one day – no doubt sooner than I expect it – won’t tangle with mine anymore.

The murmurs of the new baby; the whispers and wriggles and thumps, unexpected yet so familiar, a reminder that he’ll be with us so soon but until then, for this lovely last time, it’s just me and him.

The late summer lake afternoons, where she has learned to play by herself, fully absorbed in the movement of sand to water to bucket to hand (and, sigh, mouth). The occasional glance to me with a quick smile, the shimmering pride in her little face mirrored against the glassy water, the mountains, the sky.

The abandon with which she runs to her father when he returns home from work, her gasps of ‘Dada!’ shifting the focus of the evening. The giggles as the two of them play – way too energetically before bed time, but how can such a sweet sound be resisted? Her three ‘Swiss kisses’ as he leaves each morning, her cool, soft cheeks the sweetest of all gifts.

While the excitement for the next stage for our little family is mounting, it’s hard to imagine how we could be happier, fuller than we are now, to understand what this shift in our lives will bring. But life before her is unthinkable*, and even though it’s hard to predict how, there’s a comfort and security in knowing that in a few short months, these pre-fourth-Purler times will also become a distant, hazy, inconceivable memory.

*not strictly true. A sleep in every now and then wouldn’t go astray.

 

Dublin

Posted on by under Europe, Ireland

Our final weekend in Ireland was spent in Dublin, my old stomping ground. As I’ve mentioned before much has changed there, as is inevitable with the passage of twelve years, and as it was new for Tim and Adelaide we decided to act as complete tourists and take in the sights.

Said sights started rather early, as our little miss had a shocker of a night (to be fair, the only bad one of the holiday) which resulted in Tim heading down the coast to Dun Laoghaire to take absurdly early morning snaps (note: I luxuriated in bed in a child free apartment. Best).

We carried on with a tour of the city, which took us to Dublin Castle, Christchurch, through Temple Bar and along the Liffey and back through Trinity College and the Book of Kells. The tour was interesting, giving a snapshot of the capital’s history from the Celts through to present day, however our temperamental lass once again showed a deplorable lack of historical interest and preferred instead to ineffectually chase pigeons with her stroller (for which, incidentally, we were accosted by a stranger who accused us of raising our child to abuse animals. Tim respectfully disagreed and given that the pigeons were at no absolutely no risk of being even remotely hurt we let her carry on). The tour was quite different to the ‘Wendy Noller Tour of Dublin’ which I would give guests back in the day, which featured the Body in the Bog (a mummified delight that many Australians learned about in high school history class), trying to locate the deer in the Phoenix Park, then a pub crawl to places I liked to drink at the time. It’s little wonder mine is no longer in business.

Although I am currently off the suds, happily there was someone who was able to enact the Dublin Pub Crawl: Tim hit the town that night with his sister, her partner and another mate from home. Although I confess to being jealous, it was definitely for the best that at least one of us got to hang out and enjoy my favourite classic Dublin drinking establishments (and being hangover-free the following morning for the first time – possibly ever – in Dublin had its smug perks).

The next day was, if not warm, then at least not wet and we hit Howth for a walk along the headland. My mate Lynsey, a keen sailor, tried to help us locate Wales across the horizon (even harder for my sight-challenged peepers given I’d heard whales).

Ireland Holiday 1790 - 20160810The east coast of Ireland lay beyond us, and as we mounted the peak we could see down to Bray and Wicklow. As always, our little love had far more fascinating pursuits (although at least this time the only nature in danger was any and all puddles).

The weekend was also peppered with more catch ups with old friends and colleagues (I realise I refer to my time in Dublin as my ‘fake life’ for a reason, but without fail every single ex-workmate of mine expressed extreme surprise that I had settled down with a husband and kid. By the end I rather think Tim was questioning what exactly he’d gotten himself into), and lots of lovely Auntie Dommie time for Addie (and subsequently Addie-free time for her mama). We left on Monday evening, bidding a fond farewell to friends old and new, and vowing not to eat that amount of butter, sausages and black pudding for a long, long time to come.

The Wild South West

Posted on by under Europe, Ireland

When planning this holiday, apparently I ignored two things: that Tim hadn’t met any of my friends from my time in Ireland, and that we now have a small child in our lives. The resulting itinerary was pretty much a trip down Wendy-memory-lane, done in a style that perhaps suited us better when we were sans child/ren. After our stop in Ballymaloe, we had several days driving along the Cork coastline and the Ring of Kerry, which included visiting a bunch of my old workmates who had very considerately relocated themselves within easy drives of each other.

We followed the coastline through Kinsale (to visit Trish), Clonakilty (Mandy and John), up through the coastal section (debating constantly as to whether it was north or south or east or west or even remotely like a compass) of the Ring of Kerry to Killorglin (Ann), and then across the country via the town of Tim’s forefathers to Kilkenny. We had four nights on the road, in three different locations, and in hindsight probably should have stayed a little longer in some of them as we short changed a few lovely wee towns. However, pre-family Wendy and Tim loved this type of travel, and it was a delight to roam the wild, wet and windy Irish west.

Last year, the south west of Ireland boasted 301 days of rain. This percentage held in our experience, with much of our road trip being splattered by varying degrees of downpour. Whenever it cleared, we’d try and jump out and explore (slash enjoy refreshments).

For two nights we stayed on Caragh Lake in County Kerry, a random internet pick based purely on the neck of the woods in which it was located. An old estate turned into a garden lodge, we arrived in time to take a stroll around the property, glimpsing the lake and easing into afternoon tea (slash gin) and relishing the time off the road.

We continued tripping around the Ring of Kerry…

…enjoying returning to the homestead the following night (and wishing we’d booked longer. I suspect the other guests, once hearing our girl’s piano skills, were relieved we were moving on).

On our way to Kilkenny we decided to swing by Rathkeale, in County Limerick, the town from which Tim’s ancestors hail. Tim was aware his forefather* had arrived on the 17th fleet*, and for years had understood that it was due to having stolen a loaf of bread and being sentenced to hard time in the colonies. However, as his family undertook research it emerged that the crime was actually far more significant: Purtell Senior* was actually part of a rebel group that undertook the Rockite Rebellion*, bombing a series of churches* before being caught, secretly tried* and deported.

* Please note several of these facts are sketchy and somewhat vague; not because of their factualness so much as my listening ability. I’m fairly sure this is how the tale went, but given I can’t even get my beloved’s last name correct in the snap below, I’m not sure how much I can be trusted.

Rathkeale itself is a settled travelling community, and this time of year was quite desolate. We drove through the boarded-up town stopping only to photograph the nearest-to-Purtell sign we could find.

The family history jaunt complete, our final stay in rural Ireland before heading back to the capital was just outside Kilkenny, in an organic apple orchard. Unbeknownst to us while booking it, the farm is also a micro distillery and makes its own apple based gin; something that cheered Mr Purcell no end. He and the little miss wandered the grounds – Motsy sampling the wares and Ads practicing looking nonchalant.

Our road trip over, we made tracks for Ireland’s capital. As we drove the rain cleared, and we got increasingly excited as we approached Dublin where we were due to meet Tim’s sister and her partner for Fun Weekend Times.

Busts, bread and beasts at Ballymaloe

Posted on by under Europe, Ireland

After my lovely solo trip to Ireland I was enthused to return, and to bring my expanding family slash waistline with me. Like many people from across the globe Tim has a dash of Irish heritage and was keen to check the place out, and Addie has never met a potato she didn’t like, so Team Purler was all in. We arrived on Saturday evening, fumbled our way in a manual car on the (now) wrong side of the road to a mate’s house, where we spent a fabulous evening catching up, Tim getting into the spirit by trying some poitín and Adelaide earning her keep by picking raspberries the following morning (and promptly eating them all, undermining any help she may actually have been).

Ireland Holiday 0010 - 20160731

We hit the road the next day to County Cork in the south of the country. For years, I have wanted to visit Ballymaloe House (I’m still not entirely sure why I didn’t when I lived in Ireland. I suspect it was due to the fact that all of my available dosh was spent on propping up the local bar) so we’d planned a night there to kick start our road trip. We arrived as the rains cleared, spying the lovely old house from the road and finding the gardens of the estate dotted with sculptures.

In keeping with the spirit of an organic farm, we let the girl go free-range to explore the surroundings.

And mimic the sculptures (although unlike my lass I don’t think the dude in question is actually smiling).

Following some hide and seek, sand angels and hill rolling…

…we made our way into the house for the famed feast. The spread was made from organic vegetables grown on site, meats and seafoods sourced either from the farm or locally and house made breads and condiments. It was every bit as amazing as I’d anticipated.

Ireland Holiday 0246 - 20160731

Ballymaloe is famous for its cookery school, and the following morning Bread Boy had enrolled in a bread making class bright and early in the kitchen. He arose leaving us to dream of freshly baked goods while he slaved making Irish soda bread and spotted dog for the breakfast buffet (also revealing where his daughter gets her ‘smile face’ from).

The consumption of said bread was even better knowing there was a chance we’d get it again at home.

The farm is over 300 acres, and is home to the afore mentioned veggies as well as pigs, poultry, sheep and cows. Laides was offered a chance to go on tour with one of the farmers to muck in with the chores. Given there was bucketing rain, muddy ground covered in animal poop and left over food slops to feed the animals, I decided the best outfit for the lass to wear was white jeans and white shoes (which are now brown jeans and brown shoes). Addie had a ball. We fed a sow and her week-old piglets (the gestation of pigs is apparently 3 months, 3 weeks and 3 days, making this mama-to-be somewhat jealous….although not of the litter of 11 little ones), bravely touched hens (the most prehistoric of his animals, according to the farmer) and sorted still-warm eggs for the restaurant, which uses over 100 dozen each week.

Our keep earned, we said a fond goodbye to the lovely Ballymaloe, and hit the rainy road for the Cork and Kerry coast.

Le Tour

Posted on by under Alps, Europe, France, Intentional summer

My Motsy, like a lot of guys, enjoys sinking a beer and watching a sport. He’s got three favourites. The Australian Football League, in which his family has followed the Sydney Swans as long as they’ve been wearing super tight short shorts. Cricket, a deeply ingrained true love associated with long summer days and dry witted commentators, a sport he misses dearly since our move. And thirdly: the Tour de France for which he holds, in his words, an academic love. It’s the strategy and tactics, the constantly shifting complexity of the sport – the long game – that he loves.

I used to joke about being a Tour Widow annually when it was broadcast, but his enthusiasm certainly had its benefits. Last Tour, while we were night weaning our lass, Hotel would willingly do the hideous middle-of-night shifts, all the while with the highlights of the day’s stage broadcast through his earphones (serving the dual purpose of masking some of the more hideous of her wails).  For his birthday this year, since I couldn’t convince Switzerland to assemble a cricket team to play against Australia, his gift was a trip to see Le Tour live.

My research was basic: the nearest part of France to us that the riders went through, we were hitting too. As luck would have it, that turned out to be Morzine in the French Alps for the penultimate leg of the race, and the final King of the Mountain stage. We walked from our digs into town on race morning to observe the set up.

The town was bustling with spectators (a frightening number of whom were lycra clad) already lining the streets. The forecast was for rain but it kept changing as to when and how heavy; after much deliberation (cough arguing) we decided to find a spot and settle in for the afternoon. We located a shady nook with a good view of the incoming riders, and full view of a large screen. We bonjoured our neighbours, set up our chairs, played with some rubber bouncy balls….and waited for the cyclists to arrive.

The rain arrived well before they did, and hung around a lot longer. As I may have mentioned, we can be ridiculously stubborn, so having decided to stay we donned wet weather gear and held our spot. Eventually the caravan arrived (to much joy from the crowd, who got disproportionately excited about the crappy free stuff that was thrown their way) and my girl decided to make me even wetter with her revoltingly sloppy (yet always welcome) kisses.

We watched the riders climb several hill sections throughout the course of the day – some of which we had driven (ha!) the day previously, marvelling at their steepness, making the riders’ prowess even more astounding. After the final climb up the Col de Joux Plane, the cyclists descended into Morzine where we were waiting to cheer them in.

For a sighting of cyclists that lasted a matter of minutes, the crowd sure went wild. Even considering the many hours wait in the constantly pouring rain, the thrill as they crossed the finish line was well worth it. Tim happily ticked off one of his dreams, and I patted myself on the back for a (cold and wet) gift well delivered. Naturally once the race was over, the rain promptly finished and we made our way to our chalet as the sun stuck its nose over the mountains.

My organisation was so lazy that once I’d decided on Morzine as our viewing town of choice, I found the first cyclist website that recommended accommodation, and blindly booked it, thinking that Mots would prefer to be surrounded by people actually interested in the race (not saying I’m not but my conversation doesn’t really extend beyond jersey colours and Lance Armstrong). I didn’t know what to expect, but we stayed in a (admittedly fairly rustic) chalet nestled in the mountains, which was fully and deliciously catered – including booze! – for a ridiculously cheap amount per night. I realise I have just outed myself as a cheap birthday gift giver, however we felt we totally scored with our choice of digs (and Tim got to talk bikes to his academic heart’s content).

As an aside, this week’s Intentional Summer Challenge was to ‘name that plant‘. Our walk into town to view the race was parallel to a gurgling stream, the banks of which were clothed by the below large-leaved plant. Initially mistaken for a pumpkin, it lacked the distinctive fuzziness of a gourd plant and was not actually a vine, having more of a tubular stem system (so not a technical term). My best efforts to identify it indicate it might be a mallow; any tips on this front would be greatly appreciated (clearly my plant identification research is as half-assed as my holiday planning). IMG_8228Mystery plants remaining a mystery, we made it home with two thirds of the family sporting TDF merchandise (and provisions for three quarters of us to become so once our little lad arrives). Luckily, there are no more Purler birthdays until December which gets me off the planning hook until at least…December, no?

Rigi Tell Trail

Posted on by under Alps, Intentional summer, Lucerne, Switzerland

After our week of cabin-fever-inducing summer downpours, the ol’ sun reappeared in spectacular fashion this weekend. Which was fortunate, as we’d planned our next installation of the Intentional Summer Challenge: to go on a quest. While the rest of the world seemed to be chasing Pokemon we were significantly less cool and opted instead to follow the historic path of William Tell, the great folk hero of central Switzerland.

My knowledge of Willhelm / Guillaume / Guglielmo / Guglielm Tell (depending on which of the four Swiss languages you favour) was limited. Of course I’d heard about the infamous ‘arrow through the apple’ tale, and the sort-of-related William Tell Overture, but that was my total background on the guy. As we’d chosen to hike a route that reflected the man’s own path, we figured it was time to brush up on a bit of Swisstory.

A legendary strong man, Alp-hiker and expert marksman, William Tell led the Swiss resistance to attempted Austrian domination in the 1300s. Arrested by the Austrians with his son, he was offered a challenge: to shoot an apple from his son’s head in a single attempt, or for them both to face execution. Tell pulled out two arrows and successfully shot the apple. His son was released but when asked why he drew two arrows, Tell replied that had he shot his son he intended to use the second arrow to kill Gessler, the leader of the Austrians. With this he was imprisoned, however en route to Küssnacht dungeon Tell escaped capture and ran cross country through the Alps. His captors followed, and Tell famously assassinated Gessler with the second arrow through a narrow stretch of road cut through large rocks. His act sparked a revolution which eventually led to the formation of the Swiss confederation.

Our hike commenced close to the top of the mountain at Rigi Kaltbad, and followed some of the path that Mr Tell ran as well as marking the point where the famous fatal arrow was shot. The walk itself covered about 12km, and apart from a few straight stretches was primarily downhill all the way to Küssnacht. There was definitely no running from our team, lumbered up with one bambini apiece, but there was plenty of Alp gazing from the top of Rigi across Lake Luzern out to Mount Pilatus on the crystal clear day.

We had teamed up with some friends to do the hike, and we slowly made our way down the sometimes precarious mountain path. We frequently passed people walking the opposite direction and admired their gumption, but after a few hours our knees were telling us that upwards may have been a better game plan. Happily, there were ample scenic distractions as well as the melodious bell ringing of the Swiss cows grazing on Alpine grass.

We stopped for a very Swiss lunch (würst! älpermagronen! anything else on the menu with an umlaut!) in a seemingly middle-of-nowhere farm restaurant. The kids played on swings and trampolines and looked at the ponies, no doubt much like William Tell must have done while he was on the run.

The final descent into Küssnacht town was tough; we’d been walking steadily downhill for about 4 hours and our joints were telling us all about it. So loudly, in fact, that we forgot to note the site of the final showdown between Tell and Gessler, instead fantasising about icy beers and cool lake swims.

Our quest completed, although perhaps not observed as formally as warranted, we hobbled into town and called it a day. A spectacular day, with beautiful views and better yet glorious sunshine throughout the entire walk. For me the trip will be marked by the achievement of another quest of sorts: my lass, after months of pestering on my behalf, finally spat out her first proper ‘Mama’. I have some concerns that it came right after she played with the afore mentioned ponies, but she’ll have to learn full sentences before I’ll acknowledge that particular request.