tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81229626845569340052024-02-07T18:34:03.856-08:00pen at the readyChristine Webb-CurtisPenattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.comBlogger143125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-3039936304668645462018-11-12T23:20:00.003-08:002018-11-12T23:21:35.576-08:00Moving from Facebook to Blog<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Starting today I will begin posting my trip on my blog as I find Facebook to be too unwieldy. I'll always post a link to the blog and hope it works. I'd appreciate hearing from someone to make sure the link is working.</div>
Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-25113114100888749552017-03-25T21:46:00.001-07:002017-03-25T21:46:44.763-07:00Love Urgently, Live Brilliantly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Second son Pat (l), husband Phil, and youngest son Sam (r) </td></tr>
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Today is the beginning of my 70th year. A big deal no matter how you look at it. No matter who's looking.<br />
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It's hard to avoid musing on the past and the future. Not in an ordered way, but rather as the musings come to me. I try to avoid the math describing the difference between my current age and the age of my father at his death--96. The likelihood of living beyond him is slim. And the likelihood of living to his age is daunting. <br />
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I'm working on a new mantra, though. Maybe "Soak it up." That is, learn all that I can. Feel the colors. Taste the wind. Eat the cheese. Make merry whenever. And weep with abandon. <br />
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I have read and re-read a piece written by Roger Cohen in the December New York Times that resonates with me even more fiercely today. He wrote, "Death is the shadow that gives shape to existence, urgency to love, brilliance to life."<br />
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This is my plan: Love urgently. Live brilliantly. <br />
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-66587367873955899332015-11-22T18:21:00.001-08:002015-11-22T18:21:59.154-08:00Too Much Information<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVUBiATLCIdgPPAVNHVCh8ZLC8kqITAklX-aixzLteXnnVuCNoQ_6xnrlq90VrPOAtbxvyMv1zeKzWtBXGVvp2CsiluZuHMpimF0jYDYxaIRapjA0F6cuYNZGeNtITrxP6MFd_hs9Sr6n7/s1600/Phil%2527s+iPhone+photos+351.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVUBiATLCIdgPPAVNHVCh8ZLC8kqITAklX-aixzLteXnnVuCNoQ_6xnrlq90VrPOAtbxvyMv1zeKzWtBXGVvp2CsiluZuHMpimF0jYDYxaIRapjA0F6cuYNZGeNtITrxP6MFd_hs9Sr6n7/s320/Phil%2527s+iPhone+photos+351.JPG" width="240" /></a>Our youngest son, Sam, works at the Sacramento Zoo with animals in the Interpretive Center (IC), which include, generally, animals not able to be on display in the regular part of the Zoo, but many of which are shared with the public through walks around the Zoo or shows in their little theatre. Here's a picture of Sam with the Eclectus and the Thick-Billed Parrot.<br />
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He has worked at the Zoo since he was 14, starting as an intern and, when he turned 18, as an employee. After completing his degree, he began working full time. He's been bitten and scratched and wounded in all sorts of ways, but I haven't had real cause to worry about his job in all that time (13 years)--until now.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlyD4LQd2ykWtrh9Nizuy15-czODVMTzSwTXG2BC1kaxBHH_0UY6G8iowoFfGMG3H1wpMON0Zv-Uu2yKGMSEclfEfI0cl2hOHVQbENb0EOUXwrOzrsfqN9kq7-uvIhYivz0OiUEiUUKiVm/s1600/Phil%2527s+iPhone+photos+364.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlyD4LQd2ykWtrh9Nizuy15-czODVMTzSwTXG2BC1kaxBHH_0UY6G8iowoFfGMG3H1wpMON0Zv-Uu2yKGMSEclfEfI0cl2hOHVQbENb0EOUXwrOzrsfqN9kq7-uvIhYivz0OiUEiUUKiVm/s320/Phil%2527s+iPhone+photos+364.JPG" width="240" /></a>Here he is with Bing, the alligator that arrived at the Zoo at about a quarter this size when he was still quite cute. (Some might argue he's still cute.)<br />
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And here he is showing my visiting cousin the Armadillo. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKuBPzORPd2NC6f66S7Cl7gZANBJ2EZ8PRu-fjXIcLWk1P3U5aXhDk09y9yxDqrMqCONyFBS1fuiwQRqdfaxnHvCMKGmjFjPNvfRC5idUFiw9Lq15LCo77XfZ0P1KpVASWpXlutSPv8HMx/s1600/Phil%2527s+iPhone+photos+374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKuBPzORPd2NC6f66S7Cl7gZANBJ2EZ8PRu-fjXIcLWk1P3U5aXhDk09y9yxDqrMqCONyFBS1fuiwQRqdfaxnHvCMKGmjFjPNvfRC5idUFiw9Lq15LCo77XfZ0P1KpVASWpXlutSPv8HMx/s320/Phil%2527s+iPhone+photos+374.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3z87D0S9ADUgKx4VrLvWkXP1HiOGNaSztfN9G37ZzFjhnh_kLd9k6vJ-q2AIgptdqG1Pt7fFCQejrGEG0AaEsK8lO4Tf_1ZG63Ai-Og_FEYa2pnyaZMZVZIBbIf3YHElMXpowrW1fzNOL/s1600/Phil%2527s+iPhone+photos+379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3z87D0S9ADUgKx4VrLvWkXP1HiOGNaSztfN9G37ZzFjhnh_kLd9k6vJ-q2AIgptdqG1Pt7fFCQejrGEG0AaEsK8lO4Tf_1ZG63Ai-Og_FEYa2pnyaZMZVZIBbIf3YHElMXpowrW1fzNOL/s320/Phil%2527s+iPhone+photos+379.JPG" width="240" /></a>This little guy is as cute as can be. Awww. But Hedgehog habits aren't so cute. Notice Sam is holding him with a glove (OK, to protect himself from the spines) and a towel. Well, never mind that.<br />
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Last night at dinner, our conversation wandered onto the subject of venomous snakes. How we arrived there, I can't remember. But as he explained all about who makes antivenin, how much it costs, how long it lasts, even where it is stored at the Zoo, I said, "You seem to know a lot about the antivenin at the Zoo. There aren't venomous snakes in the IC, are there?" "No," he assured me. "Are there venomous snakes in the Reptile House?" "Yes," he said. "You don't handle those, do you?" "Yes, I do." "But not with your hands?" "No," he said, shaking his head. "Just with snake sticks." <br />
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Now I don't have an inordinate fear of snakes. He left his snake in an enclosure in our family room when he moved out. And I don't mind him. He doesn't
smell. He doesn't bark. He's boring, but pretty self contained.
And since the snake wasn't handled much when he was younger, he will bite, so I
don't ever touch him. And anyway, Sam's forced to come home for a visit every so often to feed him. Venomous snakes are in another category. Those I fear.<br />
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Now I've watched Sam handle the snake with his snake sticks and I wasn't overly comforted by his suggestion that he doesn't use his hands at the Zoo. When he feeds his snake here at home, he moves him from his enclosure to another container. And that snake has a way of slithering right off those sticks and suddenly, there he is on the floor.<br />
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Sometimes mothers can be over-informed. </div>
Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-69875297981578950522015-08-09T23:53:00.001-07:002015-08-09T23:53:49.351-07:00iPhone Iconoclast<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max has pride of place</td></tr>
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Last evening, Max really wanted to go outside after dark. Usually I can dissuade him by inviting him onto my lap. This time, he didn't seem open to such dissuasion. As a result, quite methodically, he used his paw to gracefully swipe item after item from the coffee table by my side. And one by one, I picked them up and put them back on the table. The pencil, the pen, the little tablet, the French grammar book, the tissue box, the iPad. One by one by one. And finally, the iPhone. I didn't give it a lot of thought as the iPhone has fallen to the floor many times from a greater height without adverse consequence. This time, however, it landed precisely on the corner and the front crystal cracked--big time. So today, I've been forced to handle the phone very carefully. The cracks are growing and it actually seems as though there is moisture under the glass. So I am having to implore Siri to help me more than I'm used to and have left the phone on the counter instead of carrying it around in my pocket. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">iPhone crack creep</td></tr>
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With each iteration of cell phone comes more technological dependence and today's incident demonstrates my growing reliance on the convenience. I stepped outside this evening to enjoy some time under the elm tree in the breeze and peruse the Michelin green guide to Provence. At least six times I moved my hand automatically to grab the phone (which wasn't there) to look up a word in the dictionaries--both French/English and Webster's, search for more information on something I didn't know about, look up a spot on the map. Pre-phone I had no trouble doing this kind of research without the convenience of the phone by making a note (using an archaic pen) and then consulting the atlas, my maps, the dictionary, even the modern computer. I find myself relegated to the ranks of the young, which could in other circumstances be quite a compliment. But I'm a little ashamed for so heavily relying on something others mock on Facebook, Comedy Central, the late night shows, cartoons, and other media--all available on the iPhone. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max in sleep mode</td></tr>
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Later this week, I'll be exchanging my phone for an upgraded device because while I respect the value of an old-fashioned hunt for the answer, I have grown accustomed to instant virtual information. Max, on the other hand, would like me to stop focusing my attention on anything but him. As I write this, Max is sitting to the left of the keyboard occasionally swiping at the letters as they populate the screen. He's a sweetheart of a cat, but really, Max, must you?<br />
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-56045430027150392742015-07-25T15:01:00.000-07:002015-07-25T15:01:02.641-07:00Blue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I believe others consider me predictable. I'm not unkind. I know the napkin and fork go to the left of the plate and the knife and spoon to the right--knife on the inside, of course, blade toward the plate. I treat our animals well. I'm usually good for a laugh when the meeting gets tense. I communicate well both verbally and in writing. I'm fussy about my coffee. My drink of choice is gin--unadulterated. I love to eat. I always glance at the river--whatever river that might be--when I pass over a bridge. My friends can count on me in a pinch. I love my family with all my heart. <br />
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So now that I've reached the advanced age of over 65 (no need to be specific) having acted mostly responsibly my entire life, I've decided today to go blue. Blue nail polish, that is.<br />
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After all, what's the use of maturity if you can't act unpredictably once in a while? <br />
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-22908394727182714672015-07-10T18:29:00.000-07:002015-07-10T18:29:15.153-07:00Le bonheur<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
From time to time in the last several months, I find myself suddenly overcome with a feeling of "<i>le bonheur" </i>or "happiness." I can't really explain it and I especially can't ever explain the timing of these feelings. I might be walking around the block, which actually is an understandable venue. But it happens just as often when I'm sitting in front of the t.v. watching the news--the bulk of which is stressful, anxiety producing, makes me angry or at least annoyed, fills me with sorrow, and rarely makes me feel good. And sometimes I'm stuck in traffic watching the light turn red and green and red and green while I sit with my foot on the brake. Or in a more understandable moment, I'm at the table with my boys enjoying a meal. It simply strikes uninvited, but most welcome, at the strangest times.<br />
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I wonder if I am undergoing some kind of metamorphosis--some physical change in the structure of my brain. Or is it that I've reached a point in my life when I can compartmentalize any frustration or sadness in a way that shuts it down before it can grab my soul. I'm not fighting it. I'm enjoying it. But I cannot really understand it. And I don't remember ever having this kind of intense and sudden feeling out of the blue. <br />
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I still ponder morbid thoughts about the endless possibilities that could befall me--especially just as we're ready to leave for France in the fall. But these newfound deep feelings of elation and happiness are a welcome respite. I'm counting on them to comfort me through the drudgery of the already-proving-to-be rancorous presidential campaign, the despair reported about people's lives on the news, the ever-worsening climate change, concern for the ubiquitous terrorist violence, ad infinitum.<br />
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I chose "<i>le bonheur" </i>as my companion any time it drifts my way. <br />
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-86174817035048235782015-06-21T13:53:00.000-07:002015-06-21T13:53:32.043-07:00Father's Day Commandments<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today is my first Father's Day without a father of my own. It's just one more opportunity for me to conjure up some good memories. And that's easy to do. Recently, I came across Dad's hand-written Ten Commandments and sent them to my siblings. My brother, of course, reminded me of the original <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ah-WdAwVg9c">fifteen</a>, and Dad would have loved the association with Mel Brooks.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad at Nantes Cathedral, France</td></tr>
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Here are Dad's Ten. And if anyone lived by these, he did. He never passed up an opportunity to sit down with someone whose views he may not have shared prepared to be persuaded--but only if the other point of view somehow worked better for him. And listen he did--always respectfully, I might add.<br />
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1. Thou shalt open thine eyes to perceive the "round about."<br />
2. Thou shalt create meaning.<br />
3. Thou shalt care deeply and lovingly for thyself.<br />
4. Thou shalt have care and compassion for all other "thous."<br />
5. Thou shalt learn the rules which enable life to be corporate so that creatures may survive.<br />
6. Thou shalt sing and laugh and take great pleasure.<br />
7. Thou shalt be <u>with</u> others <u>for</u> others without "using" them against <u>their</u> interests.<br />
8. Thou shalt gather together with those who share similar attitudes and meanings to reinforce thine own.<br />
9. Thou shalt gather with others who differ from thee to learn from them.<br />
10. Thou shalt create visions of great good.<br />
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Dad was one of a kind. He will always be remembered.</div>
Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-1543846957789204222015-06-16T14:05:00.000-07:002015-06-16T20:20:07.503-07:00Final Days in France<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad in Nantes, France, 2008</td></tr>
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I admit that my last post in October left my readers somewhat up in the air about the rest of the France story--not to mention the many months since. Briefly, just before leaving Canet-Plage (south of France on the Mediterranean), my father, <a href="http://www.sacbee.com/news/local/obituaries/article3335665.html">Theodore Webb</a>, died back home. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Four siblings</td></tr>
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This event colored the last few days of the trip and the months following my return home. Dad was 96 and had lived an accomplished life as a Unitarian-Universalist minister in the upper Northeast and in Sacramento, California. The death of a parent is a sad affair, but fortunately, I have many wonderful memories; and I think of him and my mother every single day. After my return from France, the run-up to Dad's memorial consumed much time and attention. In mid-December, we held a wonderful memorial event that brought together all four of his children and at least some of their families to honor him. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Viaduc de Millau</td></tr>
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On the trek back to Paris for our return flight, we crossed the Viaduc de Millau enjoying that stunner bridge that quite literally takes your breath away. It soars across the valley as graceful as a heron in flight while engineered to ensure the safety of all who touch tire to pavement out in space.<br />
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Our final day in France we visited Chantilly--on the outskirts of Paris. We have driven by on several occasions and never taken the time to enter. This time we enjoyed the riches of art in the Musee Conde, which is reported to be the second museum of old art (before 1850) in France after the Louvre.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Staircase ram's head</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhldP9TDCuKeoPwbiFcZPRgK-rbt6zYuRzVg7Pd9GMBd7SJ6CMxLq-4gafhlEO8wAQdw1sqNG1vsi582iAzoFyrWyjbCJhJSi0QSRVlIrz-fGWiOe-esXk4b59SAr8qcogstx7iyV5CePMg/s1600/DSC_0273.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhldP9TDCuKeoPwbiFcZPRgK-rbt6zYuRzVg7Pd9GMBd7SJ6CMxLq-4gafhlEO8wAQdw1sqNG1vsi582iAzoFyrWyjbCJhJSi0QSRVlIrz-fGWiOe-esXk4b59SAr8qcogstx7iyV5CePMg/s200/DSC_0273.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeanne d'Arc</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNNK4OyeH0ule8BnJmo2ywx53wlKGQbgXdwYOt__8cthbI2NIl4gvuzgbYyKwzeJKk-ch0Oh2q1v3_ge9cREBazCkMJbOLr9NDfFE2NOqa6JzVu0aFiUT8gGEU3vohBS8PuL_AGJwNqmXk/s1600/DSC_0401.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNNK4OyeH0ule8BnJmo2ywx53wlKGQbgXdwYOt__8cthbI2NIl4gvuzgbYyKwzeJKk-ch0Oh2q1v3_ge9cREBazCkMJbOLr9NDfFE2NOqa6JzVu0aFiUT8gGEU3vohBS8PuL_AGJwNqmXk/s200/DSC_0401.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chandelier detail</td></tr>
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The Chateau was built in the 16th century and sits on 20 thousand acres of meandering parkland and includes an 18th-century stable for almost 250 horses and many more hunting dogs. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIkGIa6z4n7U_XUW1FyG1N9c-sEslFuF1nh0peNIsidnGVxy6Fszt0HP3sRSIJmA622ntt_3PhvIt36n5vZXbh4hOG0D7Q7Z0w5V4m6k3gxHHGbHxGMA9NBIxzqW4VOI18s3HZ3bzmcvGu/s1600/DSC_0225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIkGIa6z4n7U_XUW1FyG1N9c-sEslFuF1nh0peNIsidnGVxy6Fszt0HP3sRSIJmA622ntt_3PhvIt36n5vZXbh4hOG0D7Q7Z0w5V4m6k3gxHHGbHxGMA9NBIxzqW4VOI18s3HZ3bzmcvGu/s200/DSC_0225.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hunting dogs statuary</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtEfMEJCBQGXEeG3R_0fR2VHW37BW6sZHJv1OJw-c3UUyIYxpWIpaZgiux8R14T6G9jyoRcZewuXISc66YL3UWQDOoUE8RSzQF_G4vycf_ovt2_hUq8vCmyotxsSjiI_e32Ml89vg3uh_/s1600/DSC_0144.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtEfMEJCBQGXEeG3R_0fR2VHW37BW6sZHJv1OJw-c3UUyIYxpWIpaZgiux8R14T6G9jyoRcZewuXISc66YL3UWQDOoUE8RSzQF_G4vycf_ovt2_hUq8vCmyotxsSjiI_e32Ml89vg3uh_/s200/DSC_0144.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the stables from the Chateau</td></tr>
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It was on our return drive to the airport before sunrise that we discovered our headlights were frighteningly bad. Traffic on the highway toward Charles de Gaulle was horrendous, so we took an alternate route on back roads where there were blessedly few cars but zero ambient light. We avoided any critters that could easily have been crossing the road in our path unseen and arrived at the car lease company relatively unscathed. After an uneventful flight, it was good to be home.<br />
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In the months since our arrival in October, we have already started planning for our next trip in September. Flights have been purchased, the car has been leased, and we have settled on two separate weeks' locations. The remainder of the plans will be on the fly and as the spirit takes us (and the weather is good). When the time comes, I'll post from France again. In the meantime, I'll try to be more communicative. <br />
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-68975648571577411752014-10-11T10:01:00.000-07:002014-10-11T10:01:06.608-07:00Au Revoir, Méditerranée<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After spending almost two weeks waking up to the sunrise over the water, we head north for Paris and parts west--far west.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From our balcony, sunrise over the Mediterranean</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our apartment is just above entrance with green tablecloth</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seaside walk in front of our apartment</td></tr>
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Our host (landlord) arrived exactly on time to check the apartment and was most gracious (and discreet) in checking around at our cleaning job--stellar, I might add. We had spent the early morning cleaning and went for coffee in order to steel ourselves for the day ahead. The lavarie (laundramat) was closed, so I was unable to wash the draps (sheets) and duvet cover, and M. Rigo seemed unfazed by that though his wife may have more to say about it. Right around the corner, we have visited a particular brasserie where we enjoyed either coffee or beer depending on the time of day. We bid adieu to the Madame there, packed the car and carried out the bags of garbage that we Americans accumulate like nobody else. <br />
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After saying goodbye to M. Rigo and leaving him with his keys, we hopped into the car making our feeble attempts at showing energy for the day ahead. We drove north toward Narbonne where the road is often very windy. Fortunately, even the wind generators were still. The last time I drove that stretch, I returned home wracked with pain in my arms and shoulders from clutching the wheel. </div>
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The terrain changed from seaside and oyster beds to scrubby hills. North of Narbonne, we headed toward Millau in the Central Massif where the hills changed to mountains and valleys. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRLRd6n2gbk4G0pZ7RhAvCwSCi6IMAEuFW1smPo31OVjtnllHKyy_IDpLnBBTWcgsmh0Gd-AJCrQ29iwCE9ZhBSohar2-gzRpM8kCwYiXJ7W9ByxMr90UHwqUs3-jie4FxBq3TDEslKIN_/s1600/DSC_0983.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRLRd6n2gbk4G0pZ7RhAvCwSCi6IMAEuFW1smPo31OVjtnllHKyy_IDpLnBBTWcgsmh0Gd-AJCrQ29iwCE9ZhBSohar2-gzRpM8kCwYiXJ7W9ByxMr90UHwqUs3-jie4FxBq3TDEslKIN_/s1600/DSC_0983.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Millau bridge approaching from south</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Millau bridge from north side</td></tr>
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Constructed 10 years ago, the bridge at Millau is the highest viaduct in the world. The road bed is 900' above the River Tarn. It's a magnificent feat of engineeering and construction spanning a deep valley in a way that is both practical and graceful. It's a wonder to look at. <br />
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The skies opened and we were deluged with rain slowing us down and making the driving more challenging. On the péage (toll road), signs are posted, which show that the normal speed limit is 130 kph. When it's raining, the speed limit reduces to 110 kph, which means the 8.5-hour trip is stretched into a 9-plus-hour trip. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Speed camera ahead</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuLcIUtkCp2dR6aTDknyCgilrD6pGwph85XzIDk8EDsZ4HFh3HVCvoOvjZ_3UUoQaBGS_vnqXgzxWpN7ZQaJ7J1CudQo0EG6K5K1MFdXGLkKu-uYR5u9EhlyUrQeIDXnFOXGHY72aKbBCE/s1600/DSC_0129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuLcIUtkCp2dR6aTDknyCgilrD6pGwph85XzIDk8EDsZ4HFh3HVCvoOvjZ_3UUoQaBGS_vnqXgzxWpN7ZQaJ7J1CudQo0EG6K5K1MFdXGLkKu-uYR5u9EhlyUrQeIDXnFOXGHY72aKbBCE/s1600/DSC_0129.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. Speed Camera--box in center with evil eyes</td></tr>
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I've described the speed cameras before, so you know we slow down whether we want to or not. <br />
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As we moved out of the Massif Central to lower hills again, the woods crept up to the road and the trees became skinny and tall the way they are in northern France (because they are constantly harvested). By the time we passed over the Cher River (which runs through the Loire Valley and, in fact, under my favorite chateau, Chenonceaux), the sky lightened and we saw the sun peek through here and there. After the Cher, the landscape changed to flat long fields far into the distance--a little like the terrain in the agricultural central valley of California. But different. . .<br />
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Closer to Paris, traffic became thicker and unpleasant. Already tired, we became resolved to our fate of having to drive the périphérique around Paris at rush hour--in the dark--along with many others not wanting to be there any more than I did. There were no other choices and I found a lane (as far right as possible without being kicked off at whatever the next exit was) where I sat--and I mean "sat," rather than racing smoothly along at my allowed 110 kpm. We finally dumped onto the A6 toward Charles de Gaulle airport and headed for Senlis where we had hotel reservations. <br />
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When we finally pulled into the parking lot of the Hotel IBIS, it was past 8 p.m. We had left at 10 a.m. That 8.5-hour drive somehow ballooned to 10 hours. We checked in, dropped our luggage in the room and had dinner at the hotel--not our first choice. But considering our day, that was the best choice.<br />
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Glad to be here. Well, sort of glad to be here. . . </div>
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-64122437794942183862014-10-09T09:37:00.001-07:002014-10-09T09:37:26.554-07:00Elne<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Southwest from Canet-Plage is the town of Elne. Like Canet, there's the beach Elne and the town Elne--each separated from the other but joined in municipality and in history. Elne was the capital of Roussillon in antiquity. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYqW4t-Pqy0fc5Pn70rXaXojr88vIXJdYI1VByjEtpHclCYcA_w0mSYHKGcXn99r4zEKW5ND7qEaXxfA3MbKUtieSvQueGyh0Np5dEZXmPyqqcvTgHE76BxcG99KtWsH-OfaDNrIwdCDcc/s1600/DSC_0719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYqW4t-Pqy0fc5Pn70rXaXojr88vIXJdYI1VByjEtpHclCYcA_w0mSYHKGcXn99r4zEKW5ND7qEaXxfA3MbKUtieSvQueGyh0Np5dEZXmPyqqcvTgHE76BxcG99KtWsH-OfaDNrIwdCDcc/s1600/DSC_0719.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
And its cathedral--built in the 11th century stands over the town.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopFGL1COLuJWZK4KV4faTpCUm08MzKVXQHcFesv2VUD9-HjnUmjyXX2XI3qtML0YZjW5PrhXhsxZPl5bsYukpAlSud716vF0MRyfoiNPkQKwq56Cp8rznoy2KCv4YlpcZzvYbj6hcv0N4/s1600/DSC_0866.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopFGL1COLuJWZK4KV4faTpCUm08MzKVXQHcFesv2VUD9-HjnUmjyXX2XI3qtML0YZjW5PrhXhsxZPl5bsYukpAlSud716vF0MRyfoiNPkQKwq56Cp8rznoy2KCv4YlpcZzvYbj6hcv0N4/s1600/DSC_0866.JPG" height="320" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking over Roman wall into "new" town</td></tr>
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The cathedral and its neighborhoods are inside the ancient Roman walls with narrow streets--many pedestrianized--and narrow buildings.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8XKsc0E8zFpfSEfDY_nglh-Duk4Dhx5ErfUEhycuMASYX0zC6-6LGwAvhNKkICQJDHh-cxCdIuMVbp7ej7ESdoERX7NEjnfucdUmSS-NxhpXn8cNDNki5cMBdwfmrDDcxTUGbCmoSRAF/s1600/DSC_0876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8XKsc0E8zFpfSEfDY_nglh-Duk4Dhx5ErfUEhycuMASYX0zC6-6LGwAvhNKkICQJDHh-cxCdIuMVbp7ej7ESdoERX7NEjnfucdUmSS-NxhpXn8cNDNki5cMBdwfmrDDcxTUGbCmoSRAF/s1600/DSC_0876.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Narrow houses in old cité </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf1JQf4QZnNEfowoLLMA_AOkQcHW0ZhMTwRPNVCIluq8ust8HmU8oPkg1HYEZT3B13XhdVHl9bn11mfpOh8DKQxZBCNoM2rnG8ZuWLKg1r8nNJQ08GQEbwHSKRm5Sj0hf-gbLks2pt-UAg/s1600/DSC_0731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf1JQf4QZnNEfowoLLMA_AOkQcHW0ZhMTwRPNVCIluq8ust8HmU8oPkg1HYEZT3B13XhdVHl9bn11mfpOh8DKQxZBCNoM2rnG8ZuWLKg1r8nNJQ08GQEbwHSKRm5Sj0hf-gbLks2pt-UAg/s1600/DSC_0731.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Decorative window protection</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZdjPZuEw3yyJFDQiz2VSZ9hFXV48WoQtxFq6qZ94y8mI8cktjHN3M8KyilykY8OkYOGsFPOy9-sw3Nkfil85wwwUb8ISZ9nbLl379IzDhReNWhJOlaKXgq11dUY_YagfNUYWrQIsTj9Ow/s1600/DSC_0869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZdjPZuEw3yyJFDQiz2VSZ9hFXV48WoQtxFq6qZ94y8mI8cktjHN3M8KyilykY8OkYOGsFPOy9-sw3Nkfil85wwwUb8ISZ9nbLl379IzDhReNWhJOlaKXgq11dUY_YagfNUYWrQIsTj9Ow/s1600/DSC_0869.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Narrow pedestrianized street</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMnvfWoYz08UYm0QhkjZ8BVSduL7rZ9lH2EHCjU0g0EzDHI0YlbGEYz5QQXO6ojQENcy-L6THl2F-wcqR1vFIS-6WWgEGySgXV-BDKhUE9ky0cGnxU3vansSkYjPlsxoiOkNxrvO_jR-2/s1600/DSC_0740.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMnvfWoYz08UYm0QhkjZ8BVSduL7rZ9lH2EHCjU0g0EzDHI0YlbGEYz5QQXO6ojQENcy-L6THl2F-wcqR1vFIS-6WWgEGySgXV-BDKhUE9ky0cGnxU3vansSkYjPlsxoiOkNxrvO_jR-2/s1600/DSC_0740.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Through the wall</td></tr>
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Its monument to the war dead of WW I and the South Asia and Algerian wars is inside the walls overlooking the new town below. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKycskqQdm2t2Vr_SeGwHlMucOtDrTvXh0x90pYWdJtrHu668V9G4qTT9PbNbf-FdqvwQ6VTQCd2hKtTOA9pjgib90GAWYSV_AyJWoRsivr9hGTa05AC3sAH66jPAuwn1gQG-592xDP9S/s1600/DSC_0859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKycskqQdm2t2Vr_SeGwHlMucOtDrTvXh0x90pYWdJtrHu668V9G4qTT9PbNbf-FdqvwQ6VTQCd2hKtTOA9pjgib90GAWYSV_AyJWoRsivr9hGTa05AC3sAH66jPAuwn1gQG-592xDP9S/s1600/DSC_0859.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maillol sculpture in memoriam to the war dead</td></tr>
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As in many other towns, the names of the WW I dead outnumber the others with solid lists on three sides to the one short list on the fourth side including war dead from both of the more recent two.<br />
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The cathedral is late Romanesque--large for Romanesque. It was the religious center of Roussillon from the 6th to the 17th centuries. When the center changed from Elne to Perpignan, the Bishop up and took the famous relics with him leaving Elne and its cathedral a forgotten backwater. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8JQnT8IuEhDHoR-QrNYAng2UvZ5BPAHPMo-THflwBpU02ooiimusLprzkU8bRhd85_ExmGsq1W9tYghkmbUbhfGoqoMfqW2hRQNW5VYeFq6PQsEEl6ag4oN6v5nuU_GFSfMl99rLxlISC/s1600/DSC_0801.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8JQnT8IuEhDHoR-QrNYAng2UvZ5BPAHPMo-THflwBpU02ooiimusLprzkU8bRhd85_ExmGsq1W9tYghkmbUbhfGoqoMfqW2hRQNW5VYeFq6PQsEEl6ag4oN6v5nuU_GFSfMl99rLxlISC/s1600/DSC_0801.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Column in cloisters</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJnDyRXm1q4lkvQXdKGeNWu1oa_w1VSg65yYRywhgLZnQmxp9W6qpTNkwneOCdT6Fyt8DpWPzDuCSgSUpbJddj5nANL8QS6oZoz059XXkpG3WtrD8rcYx1gBQhC52HwrrUklZdIXDPWrdV/s1600/DSC_0819.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJnDyRXm1q4lkvQXdKGeNWu1oa_w1VSg65yYRywhgLZnQmxp9W6qpTNkwneOCdT6Fyt8DpWPzDuCSgSUpbJddj5nANL8QS6oZoz059XXkpG3WtrD8rcYx1gBQhC52HwrrUklZdIXDPWrdV/s1600/DSC_0819.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautifully-preserved capitals in the cloisters</td></tr>
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The buildings, however, remain, and are full of well-preserved carved capitals in the cloisters and other stone features.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBeM1JGKo9A72CheAzgGyirpagOJ6-zQnIzM452qwb1xlH1gO7iz5dI97lIGJcPoBnC4NXjafd57dhM2U-YvNpK2cMz_Ge7Rij4pbRIlsCleb1S6eMwsXZkFupzKuB42xhNwzbkJXntWZ/s1600/DSC_0815.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBeM1JGKo9A72CheAzgGyirpagOJ6-zQnIzM452qwb1xlH1gO7iz5dI97lIGJcPoBnC4NXjafd57dhM2U-YvNpK2cMz_Ge7Rij4pbRIlsCleb1S6eMwsXZkFupzKuB42xhNwzbkJXntWZ/s1600/DSC_0815.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The white blue-veined marble in the cloisters</td></tr>
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Elne is also home to La Maternité Suisse (the maternity hospital) that was made famous by the Swiss nurse, Elizabeth Eidenbenz, who took in at least 1000 women and children between 1939 and 1944. Women fleeing the concentration camps survived the war and gave birth here to 597 children.<br />
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A museum dedicated primarily to the work of Etienne Terrus shows their permanent exhibition of his work along with temporary exhibits of other artists. Terrus was friends with Aristide Maillol (from Banyuls-sur-Mer) and Henri Matisse, among others.<br />
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Life here in Roussillon holds endless surprises. It's not all beaches and sunshine, though it's also beaches and sunshine. The entire time we've been here, this has been the warmest and sunniest part of France except for Corsica.<br />
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-76974321941989443842014-10-07T07:21:00.001-07:002014-10-07T07:21:34.980-07:00Cathar Country<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Not far from Perpignan in the foothills of the Pyrénées Orientales (eastern Pyrénées) are several Cathar ruins perched on remote mountaintops in remote countryside. The Cathars, a Christian sect, occupied these parts for about 100 years practicing their nonviolent, vegetarian and celibate way of life. They were all the while in a power struggle with the Catholic church in Rome to whose allegiance they did not subscribe. As a result, the Catholic church gave its support to all who would help to rid the area of those they considered to be heretics. In the 14th century, the Inquisition combed through these parts and slaughtered and burned tens of thousands of Cathars. <br />
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The remains of the Cathar strongholds are impressive examples of both their ability to create sanctuary in a most inhospitable environment and the tenacity of their enemies to root them out. <br />
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We drive first to Força Réal to see l'Ermitage de Força Réal. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-PFZGSK21W-bX4S6ybRm4dtszNiJrVsiFzconHEnqXHJsw8AlqC4F9Q_3eywwupCLoGKitYxE4e4D7Lhrvpj_Lyucm-Ri0RmF0joeESWoiskMXSr9JPe20K_YyHrFxza9rjDHhDD8Ft6M/s1600/DSC_0787.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-PFZGSK21W-bX4S6ybRm4dtszNiJrVsiFzconHEnqXHJsw8AlqC4F9Q_3eywwupCLoGKitYxE4e4D7Lhrvpj_Lyucm-Ri0RmF0joeESWoiskMXSr9JPe20K_YyHrFxza9rjDHhDD8Ft6M/s1600/DSC_0787.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Forca Real</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Força Réal with sculpture</td></tr>
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Built in 1692 as a place of prayer and introspection, it was left in ruins in 1817 after republican soldiers plundered the place. It was then restored in 1899 and remains today the location for periodic religious celebrations. From the top, one can see to the Vermeille Coast (where we are staying), l'Etang de Salses (northeast of Canet-Plage) and le Canigou in the massif des Albères. At this time of year, there are few other visitors allowing us to have a better sense of the peace of the place. While this is not a Cathar ruin, it is in the Cathar country for which this blog is named.<br />
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North from Força Réal lies Quéribus. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNWeSeDk0Z2XyoxIPy67523KnnsM5xEdp8tAgRAL7mkzGLhf8we8cPAQ9Ix-VBtlXwmo3fETXnHGBcgQ4d9IabSyMBZyci0Gf2W1QMkNtITl3RxMekBtBjIf1cZc19agpQ96ttgNP4luXg/s1600/DSC_0882.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNWeSeDk0Z2XyoxIPy67523KnnsM5xEdp8tAgRAL7mkzGLhf8we8cPAQ9Ix-VBtlXwmo3fETXnHGBcgQ4d9IabSyMBZyci0Gf2W1QMkNtITl3RxMekBtBjIf1cZc19agpQ96ttgNP4luXg/s1600/DSC_0882.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queribus from below</td></tr>
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Quéribus is the smallest Cathar château and is perched at approximately 728 meters high. It was built between two valleys where the wind is ferocious and would have made its construction conspicuously difficult and dangerous. The château looks out over the Roussillon valley, and we can see both Força Réal and Peyrepertuse, another Cathar château. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTrPdl-l_AoSywpGYpZtZknvmv-f-gSV6gp8aBAuq6wYCz_Nq0uZJEXbefeCrsbOSng-zUgYhBVMwWuULHFBK-sa1CuK3d6S_YrEMCfseY3TUTK1qCRQZbQ0B6kvBsaBrZOqMv8idHtFwA/s1600/DSC_0887.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTrPdl-l_AoSywpGYpZtZknvmv-f-gSV6gp8aBAuq6wYCz_Nq0uZJEXbefeCrsbOSng-zUgYhBVMwWuULHFBK-sa1CuK3d6S_YrEMCfseY3TUTK1qCRQZbQ0B6kvBsaBrZOqMv8idHtFwA/s1600/DSC_0887.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of Peyrepertuse from Queribus</td></tr>
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When faced with the task of making the climb up to the castle, we opt to commit to the climb at Peyrepertuse as two castles seems formidable.<br />
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We move on to Peyrepertuse by snaking back down the mountain through Cucugnan and snaking up another mountain to arrive at the monumental and remarkable château. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6C8oqZXWJNB1jGESWWJTsXR6eMtVJ7IdHPKWNXeQrhAlEJiyf6XG548aaufDAZ87ONvgIFOWWr1jyEfysJ89Y40Jsx0wHYKgHOq4sw-m5ib07c4NV_pl70NJEJZ0c5MOil9VfpJ__f1Ra/s1600/DSC_0907.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6C8oqZXWJNB1jGESWWJTsXR6eMtVJ7IdHPKWNXeQrhAlEJiyf6XG548aaufDAZ87ONvgIFOWWr1jyEfysJ89Y40Jsx0wHYKgHOq4sw-m5ib07c4NV_pl70NJEJZ0c5MOil9VfpJ__f1Ra/s1600/DSC_0907.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peyrepertuse from below</td></tr>
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From a great distance, the limestone spur is discernible, making it all the more impressive up close. The scale of this castle is oversized. It is at about 800 meters (about 2600') high, 60 meters wide and 300 meters (just under 1000') long. Shaped a little like the Queen Mary, it is a monster.<br />
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We buy our tickets, gird our loins and start the climb. Warnings suggest the need for proper footwear (not that I am wearing any) and extra precautions in the wind (for fear of flying over the precipices to certain death). We need more than girded loins for this climb. We also need psychological resolve. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIp8Ue-gxrnmIU7ULQUerjlU4auT0m49wLAdSo8WIzwpYQpqMjFzrqB50jsoYlemoziW_Pi7XCjhfNK4cH11_RTT0uFNunHt7NmgUGtru_y22iV741A-pubisOPxST9wnOfijKmnfK2JVa/s1600/DSC_0951.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIp8Ue-gxrnmIU7ULQUerjlU4auT0m49wLAdSo8WIzwpYQpqMjFzrqB50jsoYlemoziW_Pi7XCjhfNK4cH11_RTT0uFNunHt7NmgUGtru_y22iV741A-pubisOPxST9wnOfijKmnfK2JVa/s1600/DSC_0951.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The easy part</td></tr>
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Throwing all caution to the wind (no pun intended), we begin our trek down (yes, down) rocky paths littered with roots and mud and here and there a gnarled trunk of a bushy tree blessedly located within grabbing distance for the needed push. Naturally, we have to go up as well. And up. And up. Mostly climbing on paths that take us both close to the edge and hugging the limestone--the position I prefer. <br />
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About half-way there, an English woman passes us going down and cheerily urges us on by saying, "You're almost there." She is lying. There is no "almost" to it. I'm sure her motivation is benevolent. Phil considers it spiteful--likely from years of eating English boiled meat.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We have reached the bottom of the castle.</td></tr>
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Nonetheless, we finally arrive at the chateau itself. On one end of the spur, there are several men doing construction work. One stonemason works by himself in a trench shaping and laying large stones. In other areas in that end, the southeast triangular end, access is denied because of the work. <span style="text-align: center;"> While we are there, we watch a man build a scaffolding out over the end of the chateau with sheer cliff face below. It doesn't seem like something OSHA would have approved. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY8Uu_-WDUI20jrHlkSIMbOkc_eBkmMnD0eoXdviUdNiNBXAyQRGx9ZeRIhVyX7Qw1wKPeQGm3sS8bp5ohWDSpM3mgiq2oVG5mnw8TCXlqMnQbJKhXNfqBwf3JdngmP_hd80eYdZsPSBa4/s1600/DSC_0001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY8Uu_-WDUI20jrHlkSIMbOkc_eBkmMnD0eoXdviUdNiNBXAyQRGx9ZeRIhVyX7Qw1wKPeQGm3sS8bp5ohWDSpM3mgiq2oVG5mnw8TCXlqMnQbJKhXNfqBwf3JdngmP_hd80eYdZsPSBa4/s1600/DSC_0001.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Mary's church</td></tr>
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The donjon and St. Mary's church are in the same general structure, which seems an odd juxtaposition of prison and worship. <br />
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At the other end of the spur is the staircase about which we had been warned below, the "Stairs of Saint Louis" giving access to San Jordi's chapel. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKbzVSS2w_WkgCX7IQxU8fGXFPMRTOg0e15wZXjIckmD2Fz6Oc1lglavPIR8-TjseAvTbbkuMFf1M-6mlsGOPPlBAKhJzK9xOO22n5_kGGvthyQ2OkIY4P4ql8uu0lUQM8rr-W2iDV8NUG/s1600/DSC_0017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKbzVSS2w_WkgCX7IQxU8fGXFPMRTOg0e15wZXjIckmD2Fz6Oc1lglavPIR8-TjseAvTbbkuMFf1M-6mlsGOPPlBAKhJzK9xOO22n5_kGGvthyQ2OkIY4P4ql8uu0lUQM8rr-W2iDV8NUG/s1600/DSC_0017.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking down the stairs</td></tr>
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The staircase comes with a rope "bannister" to assist all but the most confident climb through the howling wind knowing that the consequences of a misstep could be irreparable and what looks like a newly-constructed railing of wood. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the top of the stairs</td></tr>
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At the top of this staircase are a tower, a window and bench and a fireplace in one room, San Jordi's chapel and a view to what seems like the end of the earth. After Força Réal and Quéribus, I thought the view couldn't get any better; and yet, here at Peyrepertuse, I am speechless.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRMsiv83D5d_8jz7uoE_F3gPybn8ob7dYj-wM2mQoex9VKI_RPEw_4T2NhEBU78RyrWJZh6I6AaijngkSiGkzCIc1sTdtrnpzh0q1sEQ3NkmUMvQdZ3oCtmEqioeWUKosv-W3co86mKeqm/s1600/DSC_0068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRMsiv83D5d_8jz7uoE_F3gPybn8ob7dYj-wM2mQoex9VKI_RPEw_4T2NhEBU78RyrWJZh6I6AaijngkSiGkzCIc1sTdtrnpzh0q1sEQ3NkmUMvQdZ3oCtmEqioeWUKosv-W3co86mKeqm/s1600/DSC_0068.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking back to the lower part. </td></tr>
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But then we have to descend the same challenging path on the same inappropriate shoes and the same apparent death wish with which we started the climb in the first place. Phil couldn't help offering his motivational "almost there" to passing climbers. I can only hope those climbers break the chain of that misdirected encouragement.<br />
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These ancient sites were built in impossible conditions and geographically remote areas. But the most impressive site in toto is Carcassonne, near Toulouse and the greatest of Europe's walled cities.<br />
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Carcassonne sits just above the Aude River, and because of its location between the Mediterranean and the Atlantic was a stopping point on the Romans' journeys from Rome and the Iberian Peninsula to parts northwest. The Romans established the town in the 2nd century B.C. and built the inner walls.<br />
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Much later in the 12th century, the town was controlled by Trencavel who built the chateau and the cathedral. He gave sanctuary to the Cathars in 1209; but they were rooted out by the Inquisition in the 14th century. In the 13th century, King Louis IX--the only king to have achieved sainthood, built the outer walls.<br />
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Carcassonne was restored to close to its current glory in the 19th century. And glory it is. As one approaches, the walled city looms out of the land like something out of a fairy tale. Heavily touristic, it is nonetheless architecturally and historically fascinating.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approach to Carcassonne</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside the walls</td></tr>
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The moat is grassy and inviting. The ramparts are complete. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9TkejK-WqHAVSMQR06eAdcTt65KhEC65-IrngScUIgEl8y8TX_FXkeLpauxBpbw4ecT-ZqGLfETodsVfA3OUohjn1k3DVjZdIrGLgCzHu4o4RjK4JpIlASTiNqiDU3fSbk7s9AxZMJhqO/s1600/DSC_0248.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9TkejK-WqHAVSMQR06eAdcTt65KhEC65-IrngScUIgEl8y8TX_FXkeLpauxBpbw4ecT-ZqGLfETodsVfA3OUohjn1k3DVjZdIrGLgCzHu4o4RjK4JpIlASTiNqiDU3fSbk7s9AxZMJhqO/s1600/DSC_0248.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entrance to Carcassonne</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdOFqFhlxPY67ujc44QTLwZvfqLX0ityO1K3nmVKu9ZJcZyI7r6CQO3X6OAFTZPDns9UwhiMBjWKe1j_hO6bo8Fi7nzZGsS2AT772_DFYVKMjmT0dZxM-Qu9_79NV7Xxka8jWCP_dTXTp3/s1600/DSC_0269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdOFqFhlxPY67ujc44QTLwZvfqLX0ityO1K3nmVKu9ZJcZyI7r6CQO3X6OAFTZPDns9UwhiMBjWKe1j_hO6bo8Fi7nzZGsS2AT772_DFYVKMjmT0dZxM-Qu9_79NV7Xxka8jWCP_dTXTp3/s1600/DSC_0269.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Between the ramparts and the outer wall</td></tr>
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On our first visit here, we stayed at Les Remparts hotel, which is inside the walls. We parked our car on the grass and were allowed to drive in after 6 p.m. when the streets were nearly empty. Then in the morning we had to drive out before 11 a.m. in order to miss the crowds. That was my first experience driving along a street narrow enough that the boys could reach out their arms and touch the walls. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNO5vNLuN5IUU_L10geRcvssJqMS5KpA8nhwaZPlVsiiq9BsIryjHHi5Sh6u72ZMzUVGGECg9RtzbOc0sB7HxxaTG7jS6JA2qAe6NM9PGIiJAkRA5-VVCiGtlBt6awnihawmVsv5wY1D8X/s1600/DSC_0390.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNO5vNLuN5IUU_L10geRcvssJqMS5KpA8nhwaZPlVsiiq9BsIryjHHi5Sh6u72ZMzUVGGECg9RtzbOc0sB7HxxaTG7jS6JA2qAe6NM9PGIiJAkRA5-VVCiGtlBt6awnihawmVsv5wY1D8X/s1600/DSC_0390.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sculpture dedicated to person responsible for restoration</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ24AD22II-fX6i3lnrGL-O2DDtPQ1-lpc9MNNFOsYmI3USVtbhK8MfZfCXvH0UFYBffAj573XXWJXZjVZP1CSE7_Ct2gW2-KTXNqJwoi5sqW1j7t7AEFQCX6xCS3MxFOA3_4RCSJisqbO/s1600/DSC_0398.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ24AD22II-fX6i3lnrGL-O2DDtPQ1-lpc9MNNFOsYmI3USVtbhK8MfZfCXvH0UFYBffAj573XXWJXZjVZP1CSE7_Ct2gW2-KTXNqJwoi5sqW1j7t7AEFQCX6xCS3MxFOA3_4RCSJisqbO/s1600/DSC_0398.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Next tour group entering the portal</td></tr>
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Despite the madness of the crowds, Carcassonne is the frosting on the Cathar cake. </div>
Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-15523789979993767812014-10-04T14:38:00.000-07:002014-10-04T14:38:19.216-07:00Roquebrun--Le Petit Nice<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We have two weeks in our apartment on the Mediterannean at Canet-Plage. So each day we look for a new adventure that is within driving distance and promises some discovery. Not difficult, but always a challenge simply to decide which direction to take. <br />
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In an effort to cover a swath of diverse countryside, we started in Narbonne Plage (the beach of Narbonne). The coast from Canet-Plage north is a series of strips of land bordered on one side with the sea and on the other with marshes or inland lakes. Narbonne lies inland from the sea though in Roman times, it was a seaport. The Aude River changed course and the port silted up making the port useless. Nonetheless, it was on the Via Domitia and was an important Roman city between Rome and Spain. The coast of Narbonne is now much like the rest of the seaside resorts in this area. What we discovered was a town with an older village and stretches of newer and some much newer houses and apartments for holiday makers like us. <br />
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Climbing up from the sea, we headed into higher countryside with vineyards and scrubby pines. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIV_gHYDCkEScGzLr_a04RUrr2ZxYYZG4JkXLCjK0UTJ3s6n9wN0QxuGHhOynCbhkdRaCN6dOK7UWfW-r0lO6Gacasm1hGnFyrvyJN6AiBsTb83AhQNBZBC8qnvSEWxKJwuj26YM4NiX8m/s1600/DSC_0152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIV_gHYDCkEScGzLr_a04RUrr2ZxYYZG4JkXLCjK0UTJ3s6n9wN0QxuGHhOynCbhkdRaCN6dOK7UWfW-r0lO6Gacasm1hGnFyrvyJN6AiBsTb83AhQNBZBC8qnvSEWxKJwuj26YM4NiX8m/s1600/DSC_0152.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vineyards and pines</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglDD97nvL_dASKIiTx72j7KY24PGCFj_We1d2br_UxNBsTuI-jHapcHCBNnF4y0qJw-wtpHnH1xu9vZtv8CMwuZKRikUI-fClO6TAgnrPY6lE28KNN7gMqYKFB0uB4OEWEKF5SRM66aS22/s1600/DSC_0160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglDD97nvL_dASKIiTx72j7KY24PGCFj_We1d2br_UxNBsTuI-jHapcHCBNnF4y0qJw-wtpHnH1xu9vZtv8CMwuZKRikUI-fClO6TAgnrPY6lE28KNN7gMqYKFB0uB4OEWEKF5SRM66aS22/s1600/DSC_0160.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View to the Mediterranean</td></tr>
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At a vista point, we stopped to look at an orientation table that was atop what looked like a WW II bunker.<br />
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Moving on, we passed through Colombier which sits along the Canal du Midi. The lock was just in the process of shepherding a boat from one level to another in time for the next boat to arrive for the same treatment. <br />
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Moving on, we passed Capestang where the 9th century tower pushed high up into the sky.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Aa8zVmltdI1z0wsOq43ydEqRsc3R66fWK-Kv4UTzAypy0-SZnNaJOxLXV6xOWcE7Lcz29v3sVg_jcscStgGiPj8Wi2JTDToIE_OU4zH9QVbxWWj7BhyGNPjFiV2n3XR6vKvYxaKxvQHb/s1600/DSC_0171.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Aa8zVmltdI1z0wsOq43ydEqRsc3R66fWK-Kv4UTzAypy0-SZnNaJOxLXV6xOWcE7Lcz29v3sVg_jcscStgGiPj8Wi2JTDToIE_OU4zH9QVbxWWj7BhyGNPjFiV2n3XR6vKvYxaKxvQHb/s1600/DSC_0171.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Capestang</td></tr>
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Our destination was Roquebrun sitting over the River Orb. The town is known for its Nice-like microclimate where wine grapes are grown in great profusions. The town hosts several caves where wine is available for tasting and for sale. Its major sites are the cactus garden (We took a pass on that coming from cactus-laden California.) and the Carolingian tower from the 10th century. <br />
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We stopped for lunch at a restaurant perched on the hillside overlooking the river and bridge. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZGEDRbmlmBxtI7IaryYCa064FtHFkts2nNhe5f8fn1Nur9LP4euJ5OgysIjHjRfHxDHEH4Z9Gk7V8VGXriW79cTuDOXHCdrXJN_vLaSo7jo6Qh7gg59pwtz2TMuoOaecYhU3iyySusxOk/s1600/DSC_0207.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZGEDRbmlmBxtI7IaryYCa064FtHFkts2nNhe5f8fn1Nur9LP4euJ5OgysIjHjRfHxDHEH4Z9Gk7V8VGXriW79cTuDOXHCdrXJN_vLaSo7jo6Qh7gg59pwtz2TMuoOaecYhU3iyySusxOk/s1600/DSC_0207.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Overlooking the bridge and Orb River</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM6-8InEAyTonH-KDcNjhsccmMaFnnz0HxZ99XPzBDZBspGXNPGciQlTolS9bRDibPRIqmJ1L5XZu7h7p6vN1vNYCRG2m7Toz5iVIJlj87kcqrXnG_OTnn0_TIPGL3bB0JIkRJP3xWJCXT/s1600/DSC_0209.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM6-8InEAyTonH-KDcNjhsccmMaFnnz0HxZ99XPzBDZBspGXNPGciQlTolS9bRDibPRIqmJ1L5XZu7h7p6vN1vNYCRG2m7Toz5iVIJlj87kcqrXnG_OTnn0_TIPGL3bB0JIkRJP3xWJCXT/s1600/DSC_0209.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kitchen garden</td></tr>
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Called "Le Petit Nice" like the town's nickname, it was a perfect place to enjoy the river. Below the balcony where we sat was a kitchen garden with a profusion of tomato plants and recently-harvested butternut squash sitting along the stone wall near the river and others not yet harvested along the inner wall. Down the river from the bridge were the remains of an old mill, which in its heyday must have produced flour for the town. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Uy6srpI20ZkIv9BKZI2Zln2xBBywLnUfwQPKx4WNGmzmea-Y5WDhZog6SU6wD4NycE6uWdRLny8S8qLaTmo7T7U054mBfwKsXxoBS03XtD8is9fhfgn5D8GLkfjrPVyj4GS3uqAV_EKM/s1600/DSC_0193.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Uy6srpI20ZkIv9BKZI2Zln2xBBywLnUfwQPKx4WNGmzmea-Y5WDhZog6SU6wD4NycE6uWdRLny8S8qLaTmo7T7U054mBfwKsXxoBS03XtD8is9fhfgn5D8GLkfjrPVyj4GS3uqAV_EKM/s1600/DSC_0193.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Former mill</td></tr>
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Lunch started for me with a kir--white wine with a bit of cassis. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9U2YTDZS57aM6G1nUw43cbHwWmjC1MtLAaL7hKFywXh0L2kaTFUmA0LunAzKTrRYEujdTnbWNadZdZrUXrveNCFIa_dGpu09PSDmts05dx9SB4kNhNT46HwZVohaTM3IVQyYhzJuhBgQa/s1600/IMG_20141004_230639.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9U2YTDZS57aM6G1nUw43cbHwWmjC1MtLAaL7hKFywXh0L2kaTFUmA0LunAzKTrRYEujdTnbWNadZdZrUXrveNCFIa_dGpu09PSDmts05dx9SB4kNhNT46HwZVohaTM3IVQyYhzJuhBgQa/s1600/IMG_20141004_230639.jpg" height="207" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kir</td></tr>
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This was followed with an extraordinary salad of honey-drenched goat cheese toasts over fresh and crispy lettuce and serrano ham. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWxjfkYDMsraX372gkY2In76fsI31wXsi1EC0ICFgCTHgLNBlM3UqoQM0A6Es7YkmrubbEDR9tJuxtBYGv45hmZr8wBuHtRzoAbiWCtjpGy2snht5i_v6DCI1P6kYSyDkoaw1CdWh7Hmet/s1600/DSC_0211.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWxjfkYDMsraX372gkY2In76fsI31wXsi1EC0ICFgCTHgLNBlM3UqoQM0A6Es7YkmrubbEDR9tJuxtBYGv45hmZr8wBuHtRzoAbiWCtjpGy2snht5i_v6DCI1P6kYSyDkoaw1CdWh7Hmet/s1600/DSC_0211.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Salade de miel de chevre</td></tr>
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Every morsel was uimaginably delicious. Phil's plebian pizza was much to his liking along with his crispy beer. Lunch was followed by coffee and a search for what I thought would be a Roman bridge but which turned out to be nothing of the sort. <br />
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Across from the restaurant was a monument honoring the war dead from World Wars I and II and the Algerian conflict. As always, attention was taken to the floral embellishments. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">War monument</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNVi51VNfzS6iQm_0wt0d5VKpNtajZlt840Udr6-bLCDlPw_45yKCyKnAADx89-Ha8XtXgHk6UG10PBxowxaHaWgsmKwefz9Qkk_KYCNQ28g2XMk6jNFfDbOv12ZkMq5buTJ4bOu5KHwO8/s1600/DSC_0223.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNVi51VNfzS6iQm_0wt0d5VKpNtajZlt840Udr6-bLCDlPw_45yKCyKnAADx89-Ha8XtXgHk6UG10PBxowxaHaWgsmKwefz9Qkk_KYCNQ28g2XMk6jNFfDbOv12ZkMq5buTJ4bOu5KHwO8/s1600/DSC_0223.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Honoring those from conflict with Algeria</td></tr>
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We returned to our nest satisfied with our exploration into a present-day world of long ago.<br />
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-71716679404129252272014-10-01T12:48:00.002-07:002014-10-01T12:48:10.248-07:00Canal du Midi--Canal of Two Seas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The day begins with a sunrise off the balcony giving us a clear sign that this is the day to revisit the Canal du Midi. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7y3UIZ-8wb0UgCra_-5VxfnhZGTNmI6sgxfwlLgV7b7B2Lh-vl46EYVjksYzrRgUk1EWHo-FU8BgL-KRY3ly38WEOGNvFevqSSYTplzbwJKW6AkgozcO4Cq4d8LeZnBSZ-xmmBYpsvQoF/s1600/DSC_0536.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7y3UIZ-8wb0UgCra_-5VxfnhZGTNmI6sgxfwlLgV7b7B2Lh-vl46EYVjksYzrRgUk1EWHo-FU8BgL-KRY3ly38WEOGNvFevqSSYTplzbwJKW6AkgozcO4Cq4d8LeZnBSZ-xmmBYpsvQoF/s1600/DSC_0536.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise in Canet-Plage</td></tr>
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Heading northeast from Canet-Plage, we take the peage (toll road) until the sign warns us of a "bouchon" right after "Sortie 41" (exit 41). We must go beyond to exit 38. Just before the exit lane, it's clear that to stay on the highway would be foolish. So we exit at 41 and travel the rest of the way to Bezier on a non-toll road. Looking back at the highway, we agreed the decision was sound.<br />
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As we exit the toll both, we see a gaggle of "Douane" (border patrol) checking the traffic as it enters. While France does not have the police presence we see in the United States, we've noticed more interest on this visit. And since we're near the border with Spain, it isn't unexpected. <br />
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On the southern edge of Bezier and within sight of its cathedral, we veer toward the east and the canal and stop at the Ecluses de Fonserannes, or the Neuf Ecluses. (Please note there are accents belonging to several of these words including "peage" and "ecluses" but which I cannot seem to figure out on the blog, so for you francophones, please excuse.) <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjswzH6Zwf5fzHwP-G2lqwAgqQtxmq_t3xRsXHMyQViFOXcFEwrAdfAJ6fVELeaAz9VlmVrlDhJqrHD2EJ9hVok1r2hQpi_UKblSIvaHQPrUanVWzxNgZ_0I9b-KA0WkU-IEobSaohq-ODJ/s1600/DSC_0562.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjswzH6Zwf5fzHwP-G2lqwAgqQtxmq_t3xRsXHMyQViFOXcFEwrAdfAJ6fVELeaAz9VlmVrlDhJqrHD2EJ9hVok1r2hQpi_UKblSIvaHQPrUanVWzxNgZ_0I9b-KA0WkU-IEobSaohq-ODJ/s1600/DSC_0562.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking up the locks</td></tr>
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The Canal was built during the reign of King Louis XIV in the 17th century and opened for operation in 1681. Originally called the "Royal Canal," it was changed in 1789 by the Revolutionaries to the Canal du Midi--more proletariat in keeping with their political interests. It was considered one of the greatest engineering feats of the 17th century and has been in continuous use since then--for commercial purposes as late as the 1970s. The canal is 360 kilometeres long and drops 620 feet in elevation from Toulouse to the Mediterranean. There are 69 locks that adjust the height of the water between the Canal de Garonne and the Mediterranean. The Canal de Garonne flows into the Atlantic connecting the canal from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic. <br />
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L'Ecluses de Fonserannes includes seven basins and eight gates and the change in height is astonishing to watch. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyED9u9T_V8_7VskF7to4d3bccGWJ_2CNDLZeYbTF-XO7RA14Ip8Ep1lyMFF80VNNqMsF-46PL3yYxRSQzqnxUtpIthLQTKHbrqyBqKkPGxDqyNV4NA6RF3MqNvcXgskxuOMYCuSKCpzqr/s1600/DSC_0580.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyED9u9T_V8_7VskF7to4d3bccGWJ_2CNDLZeYbTF-XO7RA14Ip8Ep1lyMFF80VNNqMsF-46PL3yYxRSQzqnxUtpIthLQTKHbrqyBqKkPGxDqyNV4NA6RF3MqNvcXgskxuOMYCuSKCpzqr/s1600/DSC_0580.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trying to control the boat</td></tr>
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A canal boat operated by a couple from Great Britain was in the bottom basin when we arrived. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9sbHg46vMBuYBUI7vJt8QNfhiYcvAfDbjR5_-BZwT3EqHxKF5F2KNcKIQJxPRN-0GdOUYayZK9RlCJNRrjxWi3zYaGDoxukgMifj6AIoOidrWLQ4z9VcvH7AqVks6HK2dFMwygpGWX8C/s1600/DSC_0613.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9sbHg46vMBuYBUI7vJt8QNfhiYcvAfDbjR5_-BZwT3EqHxKF5F2KNcKIQJxPRN-0GdOUYayZK9RlCJNRrjxWi3zYaGDoxukgMifj6AIoOidrWLQ4z9VcvH7AqVks6HK2dFMwygpGWX8C/s1600/DSC_0613.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The crew tying off the boat</td></tr>
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He handled the boat, she the rope. She walked along beside the boat tying up at each level while he tried to control the boat in the basin against the powerful surge of water flowing from the next gate up. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Filling the basin</td></tr>
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Then the water levelled off and the upper gate opened and he moved the boat into the next basin while she carried the tether to the next tie-off. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Success despite his self-confessed white knuckles</td></tr>
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On the opposite side of the canal, the lock lady shouted instructions and handled the locks. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ72ggap3Spz7f3AovuddXDxA_8kwp2JApXdABfWy5HCCS0zftWY7C6HI33XJI0f2jFKXyZE0QXp9Uy4xuXyqoW5Ljk305sE9VPVK_kkIlAr-XjbcOFXfyXzl7RHrG2XfcB8ITXkyAmgRJ/s1600/DSC_0632.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ72ggap3Spz7f3AovuddXDxA_8kwp2JApXdABfWy5HCCS0zftWY7C6HI33XJI0f2jFKXyZE0QXp9Uy4xuXyqoW5Ljk305sE9VPVK_kkIlAr-XjbcOFXfyXzl7RHrG2XfcB8ITXkyAmgRJ/s1600/DSC_0632.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lock lady</td></tr>
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As spectators, the whole process was fascinating. As lock lady, I'm not so sure. She goes from gate to gate shouting instructions and waiting, shouting instructions and waiting the whole day long.<br />
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At the top we found a plaque dedicated to Thomas Jefferson honoring him for his friendship and appreciation for France and its riches. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thomas Jefferson--friend of France</td></tr>
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He traveled the full length of the Canal when was in France in the 18th century--a hundred years after it was built. This plaque is identical to the plaque facing the Mediterranean in Nice that I discovered on our trip in 2012. I told the woman in the tourist office that it touched my heart. The inscription is so generous, it even got me choked up a bit. <br />
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After that dramatic view, we moved on to the Pont-Canal de l'Orb--a bridge which carries the Canal du Midi over the Orb River. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Canal du Midi over the Orb River</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standing on the Canal bridge over the Orb River</td></tr>
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This bridge was built in 1856. <br />
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The Canal is very muddy and full of debris from the recent significant storms in the Herault area of France not far from Beziers. During our previous trip, the Canal was a whole different color and sat lower on the banks. <br />
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Tomorrow promises to be another sunny day. Perhaps we'll head up into the Pyrenees or pay a visit to Andorra. </div>
Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-10354618756144808662014-09-30T08:07:00.001-07:002014-09-30T08:07:56.222-07:00Mini Cooper Madness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Under a fraying tarp at my home in Carmichael sleeps an old Mini Cooper. That Mini Cooper belongs to my dear son, Seth. It has been "in residence" for a few years now waiting for its real home somewhere closer to San Francisco. Today in Perpignan, France, what should I find on the block where we parked the car but two--not one--Mini Coopers?<br />
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Is this a sign that the car at home has been transported to the south of France? </div>
Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-81772692245092701572014-09-29T09:58:00.000-07:002014-09-29T09:58:48.384-07:00Les Collettes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Our last day on the Cote d'Azur included a trip to the Renoir Museum in Cagnes-sur-Mer. Les Collettes was built in 1907 when Pierre-Auguste Renoir purchased the property and where he spent his summers with his wife, children and friends until his death in 1919. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqp_ZJNo-PFEMpsWnjZP9HFwll2QkvaOC36RjaHTH7Om9wUUoECaoZzc4aSlq2BnGjCaw8dK-ANVSeLWJoNHTh8AoSjhYqClTsItGhWxSeXVndBnbLJN8o7lFiKXukooIEA9pqErVDp1XQ/s1600/DSC_0029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqp_ZJNo-PFEMpsWnjZP9HFwll2QkvaOC36RjaHTH7Om9wUUoECaoZzc4aSlq2BnGjCaw8dK-ANVSeLWJoNHTh8AoSjhYqClTsItGhWxSeXVndBnbLJN8o7lFiKXukooIEA9pqErVDp1XQ/s1600/DSC_0029.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Haut Cagnes in the distance</td></tr>
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The house sits on a substantial piece of property littered with olive trees and grassy spaces to enjoy a picnic or just a rest--or to set up an easel and create something beautiful. We arrived with about 45 minutes before the midday break to see the house and as much time as we wished to linger on the grounds--a perfect way to do the visit. There were very few others "in residence" with us at the time.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTn8g7JaMcENRZCSavb-Fq7-m0ksqnrg6E6GSeHssyFOUjHpsvXlDY1lM_o14u3xOEZgbEuzO9u-TOGLoifs3eSzJf5I8icD_4DGmxfA45b4PdHmlGKjIuuN3HTy5QX9NyQoohyphenhypheneX0MYJ2/s1600/DSC_0035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTn8g7JaMcENRZCSavb-Fq7-m0ksqnrg6E6GSeHssyFOUjHpsvXlDY1lM_o14u3xOEZgbEuzO9u-TOGLoifs3eSzJf5I8icD_4DGmxfA45b4PdHmlGKjIuuN3HTy5QX9NyQoohyphenhypheneX0MYJ2/s1600/DSC_0035.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Renoir's bather among the lime trees</td></tr>
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One of his large "bather" sculptures is in the garden in front of the house.<br />
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In addition to the house, there is a ceramics studio where Renoir worked with his friend, sculptor Richard Guino. Guino worked with the clay per Renoir's instructions since Renoir's rheumatoid arthritis was so debilitating late in his life that he couldn't do it himself.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzznorZBrUFbE0HsmkCfx4vaCYMi8xsqEqlF2ODVQJxCgDz8VqimAD-yXY1QOZEw2v8WoFqBEjDknAzxw1qW2TMthVkdioTRYDiS3n-m51nPIsUK8nl7X24L7Dqk3ojjJt_yrA7R5H2zLp/s1600/DSC_0943.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzznorZBrUFbE0HsmkCfx4vaCYMi8xsqEqlF2ODVQJxCgDz8VqimAD-yXY1QOZEw2v8WoFqBEjDknAzxw1qW2TMthVkdioTRYDiS3n-m51nPIsUK8nl7X24L7Dqk3ojjJt_yrA7R5H2zLp/s1600/DSC_0943.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Renoir's painting of the ceramics studio</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN3npKpomn17C4mBGxsP3IIizOrMzwa8nIAe-8BX9VtW_1XSKn3h55FFAS19CT2qg5G0lWHmVOTKhyHkY4PNeMBuHSoXzf17bCYWwHkDA1g7L0DCawfC0l108tZZL6XblJ5WLQO38Tz-3l/s1600/DSC_0025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN3npKpomn17C4mBGxsP3IIizOrMzwa8nIAe-8BX9VtW_1XSKn3h55FFAS19CT2qg5G0lWHmVOTKhyHkY4PNeMBuHSoXzf17bCYWwHkDA1g7L0DCawfC0l108tZZL6XblJ5WLQO38Tz-3l/s1600/DSC_0025.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ceramics studio</td></tr>
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The house is simple in architecture and, I'm sure, comfortable in its time. <br />
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The rooms have high ceilings and the largest of those have linen wallpaper--either beautifully restored or beautifully replicated. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf7WaObvtv2t6myLFVGqZHf-3HX8MVEnWMD35g-tYYd5Er6Q2CK5R9ps7vljaMmEp-2ntPXfbXz8nQdtpu4adMm6aXKrTyq5uNb9rkxk4Y25ZxeukNlHXWECJmvii2dNmtYGBDrvt0ZAqX/s1600/DSC_0972.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf7WaObvtv2t6myLFVGqZHf-3HX8MVEnWMD35g-tYYd5Er6Q2CK5R9ps7vljaMmEp-2ntPXfbXz8nQdtpu4adMm6aXKrTyq5uNb9rkxk4Y25ZxeukNlHXWECJmvii2dNmtYGBDrvt0ZAqX/s1600/DSC_0972.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Main sitting room with views to the Mediterranean</td></tr>
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The scenes from the windows and the photographs taken inside show how true to the original the house has been maintained. <br />
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The studio where Renoir worked is the largest room in the house and contains an easel, his wheelchair and little else. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaBSY-aYdUjQozA0on55G8yS-JYV3i5SyANwLca7Fi7sJ9UKEG6gVRjbLVzGg0Pi48c4GCSIZDpWwVTpN2R7BjINnb6DflLf_pj_EmhOEUfoaJDVpUP0ogEJ-XfRwVvgMzZuX56HKMH_3c/s1600/DSC_0927.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaBSY-aYdUjQozA0on55G8yS-JYV3i5SyANwLca7Fi7sJ9UKEG6gVRjbLVzGg0Pi48c4GCSIZDpWwVTpN2R7BjINnb6DflLf_pj_EmhOEUfoaJDVpUP0ogEJ-XfRwVvgMzZuX56HKMH_3c/s1600/DSC_0927.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Renoir's main studio</td></tr>
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A smaller studio elsewhere in the house has another smaller wheelchair and easel. <br />
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There are at least 14 original paintings and several sculptures by Renoir and his friends--many of the paintings done while in residence at Les Collettes.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFEkr8CP-ORUZMXSdBYEzfTTqH6PUHQ_I6tahPP7P-6pi2vWvm_RhxJ3EQ5SEm1SEmU1s3MoE5OsEgXj_Gwm7bKNqHHH20mHc1j4hkFnJoZ15ei3XU-HcFyEwm7V6oKKZLkWe1s3DI3tK7/s1600/DSC_0949.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFEkr8CP-ORUZMXSdBYEzfTTqH6PUHQ_I6tahPP7P-6pi2vWvm_RhxJ3EQ5SEm1SEmU1s3MoE5OsEgXj_Gwm7bKNqHHH20mHc1j4hkFnJoZ15ei3XU-HcFyEwm7V6oKKZLkWe1s3DI3tK7/s1600/DSC_0949.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0PTMsqkrw7nQuzo4kcDshS-6cMKylG_2YnC8k-8fnmjwFrRUTDCVmAzJ-_rYFPKzZ4KJQroWbxZfJ5wuGxXo5cEyc-vtp1PhZucUHaJ8mWdN1IeqDQsyynTQDrBKtThbPDDWLcrrUbqtd/s1600/DSC_0987.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0PTMsqkrw7nQuzo4kcDshS-6cMKylG_2YnC8k-8fnmjwFrRUTDCVmAzJ-_rYFPKzZ4KJQroWbxZfJ5wuGxXo5cEyc-vtp1PhZucUHaJ8mWdN1IeqDQsyynTQDrBKtThbPDDWLcrrUbqtd/s1600/DSC_0987.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Claude Renoir</td></tr>
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The property is the location of the first film done by his second son, Jean Renoir, whose career in filmmaking was lauded in the industry. The third son, Claude, model for several of Renoir's work, became a famous ceramicist in his own right. Renoir's wife and children were often the models for his art.<br />
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In the winter, Renoir and his family made their home in Essoyes in the Champagne region of France where his wife grew up. That home is also open to the public.<br />
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The property, the house and the art have been cared for beautifully making the visit most pleasurable. I once read a review of this museum from someone who complained that there was so little to see and that Renoir's studio contained only an easel and his chair. I cannot for the life of me comprehend the reviewer's evident blindness to the richness of Renoir's home on this enormous property in the tightly-built town of Cagnes and the fine display of his and his friends' art. If I return again, it'll be 45 minutes before the midday meal and with a picnic lunch. I recommend any of you do the same thing.<br />
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-50359400199511195692014-09-26T13:27:00.001-07:002014-09-26T13:27:23.880-07:00Mediterranean Hill Towns<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We leave the Dordogne and head to the Cote d'Azur. Not that we had planned to go there, but we have a few days left between Montauban and our rendezvous with the owners of an apartment in Canet-Plage--near Perpignan. France's road system makes it easy to travel considerable distances without much hastle--though not without cost. The autoroute exacts a toll and the cost of travel from Montauban to Nice adds up to approximately 50 Euros. Not a paltry sum. And that, of course, doesn't include gas. But we are longing to be in familiar territory for a few days, and besides, there are things to be seen that we haven't yet seen despite our multiple trips to the area. <br />
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We find a hotel in Sophia-Antipolis, France's equivalent to the Silicone Valley of California. We arrive around time for the evening meal. The hotel is, not surprisingly, full of people in the area for business reasons. It isn't a touristic area and is out of the way of the hot sites.<br />
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In the morning, we make our way up to the hill towns behind Nice. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfdOAa5l41trkmMsGfAgHCwjoFPsdN2KfSK5x8Tfn0E4VSJ2-X_DOiR0DPdQj8a-XNzpXFzlZ1THUPcU9wmvvTvYGGlsVURfXosvbrW-sfCF3o7PJhZBiE6porkvvd3eNtScrC9TjRenWg/s1600/DSC_0760.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfdOAa5l41trkmMsGfAgHCwjoFPsdN2KfSK5x8Tfn0E4VSJ2-X_DOiR0DPdQj8a-XNzpXFzlZ1THUPcU9wmvvTvYGGlsVURfXosvbrW-sfCF3o7PJhZBiE6porkvvd3eNtScrC9TjRenWg/s1600/DSC_0760.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blowing glass in Biot</td></tr>
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Biot is famous for its glassworks and has several glass-blowing studies, including a studio specifically for the purpose of receiving great busloads of tourists and shepherding them through a tour, a museum and a shop. We visit this place for the first time. In previous years, we visited a small studio and shop where we purchased several glass pieces that we continue to enjoy. We move on to the old town high above the glass studios to see Biot's quaint heart.<br />
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Driving through Grasse, we arrive in Fayence for the first time. As a rule, we walk along the streets and alleys to enjoy these towns.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDQKxlAxi8kenSa21MBzF5s-sFSCNaMQBs3LMYKHjU9yieNEYGKycsLeSl4ihpAoroun29115-JM_LJur-ugGGodWuOOsx16ItrsAm0P3qZVG11gluQw_XwknLZIQ_z9hNJ-uQeQp5DWIG/s1600/DSC_0806.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDQKxlAxi8kenSa21MBzF5s-sFSCNaMQBs3LMYKHjU9yieNEYGKycsLeSl4ihpAoroun29115-JM_LJur-ugGGodWuOOsx16ItrsAm0P3qZVG11gluQw_XwknLZIQ_z9hNJ-uQeQp5DWIG/s1600/DSC_0806.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Going upstairs in Fayence</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: sans-serif;">Here, however, instead of walking along from one block to another here, we walk up and down the stairs. At the end of each block, the sidewalk ends and the clear message is "Go up the stairs to the next block." </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_DpDx7WcZtoV7neFnyvslQaNXIWfXDzctDE3OKAyvWinlFQNzrLnHDtr3tW2ySQtYMnMDCCZ-IjW22Y6OBKqu4jaLpFV2eWs2j6FqNdLkVGHI_EI3co9G0vk70mOcb_96RAuX7L2ZYr4K/s1600/DSC_0784.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_DpDx7WcZtoV7neFnyvslQaNXIWfXDzctDE3OKAyvWinlFQNzrLnHDtr3tW2ySQtYMnMDCCZ-IjW22Y6OBKqu4jaLpFV2eWs2j6FqNdLkVGHI_EI3co9G0vk70mOcb_96RAuX7L2ZYr4K/s1600/DSC_0784.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Market is over in Fayence.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: sans-serif;">The market is just in the process of breaking down but provides the clear central square to see the church and the view of the large flat valley, including the aerodrome famous for gliders because of the lift provided by the geographic configuration.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCz9gQZi3JMkn0KM8IQFM2PkRQ-c8t0jk_81yBB8TKpIqhX6GAlNctiVf3FDpDeoZsHnDDmiusFSYxUuyRamH4riIiBbJSU8aR1OyN2G2ZPSTtFckI5mBvKQO3eWOcN6MnUZBhL4BqlY3P/s1600/DSC_0781.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCz9gQZi3JMkn0KM8IQFM2PkRQ-c8t0jk_81yBB8TKpIqhX6GAlNctiVf3FDpDeoZsHnDDmiusFSYxUuyRamH4riIiBbJSU8aR1OyN2G2ZPSTtFckI5mBvKQO3eWOcN6MnUZBhL4BqlY3P/s1600/DSC_0781.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The aerodrome from the main plaza</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_EkVHFDVuplHXdTbXbHtDVnMM9l_WhCLY5rcqesFg8Al-Althk70vXzXHroY-OQ4dlPBLAu0FkL-pWthRxOVu0rGFGVAA5niM6C-LWIwBUU8paUiuD0QDEL1ChfLinvKQz1cKg53TFdJa/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_EkVHFDVuplHXdTbXbHtDVnMM9l_WhCLY5rcqesFg8Al-Althk70vXzXHroY-OQ4dlPBLAu0FkL-pWthRxOVu0rGFGVAA5niM6C-LWIwBUU8paUiuD0QDEL1ChfLinvKQz1cKg53TFdJa/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eggplant salad with ham, walnuts, goat cheese</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: sans-serif;">We find a nice place for lunch and enjoy a delicious meal of eggplant salad with dry ham, pomegranite seeds, goat cheese, arugula and walnuts--not to mention the extraordinary chocolate mousse. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF33XdAkZmDSm4L9SyESBGFBaVtREvwHRa1iydgjl-K2vX-2YbFIh8CgftfjmgKEmFkL8UbYwcc-3LmOqLSmD7hWd_bOVVRNrYCqf9mwyt1F_4JXQSXvipQgYffy__x_w1Oorthf3ck2qX/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF33XdAkZmDSm4L9SyESBGFBaVtREvwHRa1iydgjl-K2vX-2YbFIh8CgftfjmgKEmFkL8UbYwcc-3LmOqLSmD7hWd_bOVVRNrYCqf9mwyt1F_4JXQSXvipQgYffy__x_w1Oorthf3ck2qX/s1600/photo+2.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mousse au chocolat</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: sans-serif;">We then go in search of </span><span style="font-family: sans-serif;">Terre Blanche, a highly-rated golf course in the area. We approach the front entrance of the golf course while passing by a metal fence that surroundeds the entire course. The bottom of the fence is concrete to prevent digging under it. The top of the fence holds both cameras and motion sensing devices. Overkill? I believe so. The guard at the gate instructs us to go to the hotel entrance where his colleague will be informed about our arrival. As we arrive at the hotel entrance, we think better of the visit and tell the "colleague" that we have decided to leave, thank you very much. We turn around and exit--feeling utterly unwelcome and somewhat nefarious. </span><br />
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St. Andrews is probably the most famous golf course in the world followed closely by Pebble Beach. (You notice I don't feel the need to describe where Pebble Beach is located.) Fences? Motion detectors? Colleagues? I think not. Terre Blanche displays an astonishing and oppressive level of security. I'll admit the cars in the parking lot do not resemble our humble little Peugeot. But really? And the chateau on the property was owned by Sean Connery for 20 years or so. But again, really?</div>
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We head for the clean, cool water of the Mediterranean for a cleansing. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhptliIR1hVrunSmscuUxQSdaahAD_Khwy9J6dcXx8sstiwmWjT0opQ22JN2ghOf-7m0dy3qFUiDqIf_aa-pL81yKVFS7xZL_pCs5K_FZL5Apzk2HlHnYQ_KAyI8laj3nCirfn5c1cKgjT/s1600/DSC_0866.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhptliIR1hVrunSmscuUxQSdaahAD_Khwy9J6dcXx8sstiwmWjT0opQ22JN2ghOf-7m0dy3qFUiDqIf_aa-pL81yKVFS7xZL_pCs5K_FZL5Apzk2HlHnYQ_KAyI8laj3nCirfn5c1cKgjT/s1600/DSC_0866.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello from La Napoule</td></tr>
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We feel welcome at the beach in La Napoule where we have visited on several occasions. The beach is surprisingly busy for a Thursday afternoon. Families, singles and couples. Some fish off the breakwater. A yacht is anchored in the bay. Sailboats litter the water in the distance. We park and put our feet in the water--or at least I put my feet in the water --without raising any eyebrows or calls to colleagues to make sure our motives are pure. We are refreshed and cleansed and head back into the hills, stopping on the way at the Carrefour for some good wine and take-out food for dinner. </div>
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Good day and validation for our decision to visit. </div>
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-12501150686386143772014-09-25T13:31:00.000-07:002014-09-25T13:31:33.808-07:00Albi--Bricks over the Tarn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We drove into the center of the town and were awestruck by the size of the cathedral. We've seen other churches that are bigger--the cathedral in Seville, Spain, and Saint Peter's in Rome. But Albi was built in the 1100s specifically to deliver a lesson to the non- or not-so-sure-believers that the Catholic church was serious. And there's no getting around the clarity of that message--in either 1265 or 2014.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBFd4qGT8G_0intNklXnEYVEOV0Y-85LhE3sobJMAYcRV6XNCrMi7SbkhJuvvRPrwHxxb1e_YSOZiBgN_To14q5hj9ZXmObU85CEQECWRRPpWSCEYQLT5iI_6rx0nP6TzJSar3W-aHfDdt/s1600/DSC_0184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBFd4qGT8G_0intNklXnEYVEOV0Y-85LhE3sobJMAYcRV6XNCrMi7SbkhJuvvRPrwHxxb1e_YSOZiBgN_To14q5hj9ZXmObU85CEQECWRRPpWSCEYQLT5iI_6rx0nP6TzJSar3W-aHfDdt/s1600/DSC_0184.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cathedral de Ste-Cecile, Albi</td></tr>
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We began our visit searching for the Toulouse-Lautrec museum. On the street, I stopped a woman to ask for directions. She pointed the way and said that she had never actually visited the museum despite her Albigensian residency and that for the weekend, admission was free. It was the weekend recognizing France's heritage all over France. Widely advertised, most French historic sites were free to the public. Lucky us.<br />
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Toulouse-Lautrec was born in Albi of a privileged family. His parents encouraged his artistic talent--especially during his long periods of convalescence. The museum had many of his pieces, including some of the initial drawings in preparation for the posters about the bawdy Parisian nightclub life and prostituion for which he became famous worldwide. He also had a fondness for horses and painted many images--both realistic and impressionistic during his short career. <br />
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While in the basement of the museum looking a collection of regional artisan pieces, I gazed through a glass case to find the Madame who had given us direction. I said, "Vous etes arrivee, Madame!" (You came.) She admitted that it was only because we asked for directions. And she said she was glad she did. A nice exchange.<br />
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We left the museum for Cathedral de Ste-Cecile. <br />
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Approaching the structure, I was careful to photograph it when people were walking by to provide the perspective needed when comparing the person to the building. Built using the red brick of the area, it is an imposing size. Inside, the ceiling appears to be miles away, the walls soaring above. It was impossible to honestly capture but it remains fixed in my memory.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Without flash, not perfect. But the size!</td></tr>
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Outside, we visited the Bishop's sculpted garden overlooking the Tarn, which was red as the brick, the bridge in the background.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the Bishop's garden, view of the Tarn</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Weirs on the Tarn taken from the old bridge, Albi</td></tr>
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The cathedral stands at the top of the hill overlooking the small city like a guard standing over the vulnerable. </div>
Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-754194107404329012014-09-24T11:01:00.000-07:002014-09-24T11:01:50.548-07:00Truffles and Wine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Cahors is famous for both truffles and wine--both available at the local market. While those are consumable products, the historical sites are more permanent. <br />
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The Pont Valentre, which spans the Lot River, was built between 1308 and 1360. You can't eat it, but the view is stunning. <br />
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On the road to Compostela de Santiago in Spain, we found many pilgrims from whose backpacks hung an identifying cockle shell <br />
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and whose hands gripped walking sticks--a pretty important accoutrement when walking over 1000 kilometers (638 miles) in the name of faith.<br />
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While on the bridge, we watched a pleasure boat in the canal. Six people on the boat took turns at the locks.<br />
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One peed off the back, two turned the cranks to let the water out. Another two turned the cranks to open the lock once the water level had stabilized. One held the rope the entire time to keep the boat from bumping around and so others could get back on the boat. One steered when the time to move arrived. <br />
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All but one person had a purpose. The one purposeless participant simply enjoyed the entire circus. On they went down the river to the next lock. I wish them some automated locks from time to time. Those cranks did not look easy to turn. <br />
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At the end of the bridge is a "secret vineyard" where wine grapes are planted. It appears to be a "token" vineyard, not the real thing, which is not found in the same profusion as I remember. <br />
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Corn, as I've mentioned before, has overtaken the production of wine grapes. And judging by the paucity of wine in the supermarket, I'd say the corn producers have won. We are accustomed to three and four solid aisles of wine. Now there is one in all the supermarkets we have visited. What the h***? We are crossing our fingers for vineyards in the most southern areas. I will report. </div>
Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-17296986823013717072014-09-23T12:36:00.000-07:002014-09-24T01:20:01.652-07:00The Hundred Foot Journey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Months ago, I read the book <i>The Hundred Foot Journey </i>by Richard Morais. A hard-core francophile and foodie, I loved it. When it became a movie, I headed for the theatre the day it opened. I went back a week later to see it again.<br />
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Yesterday, we made a detour to see St.-Antonin-Noble-Var to witness for ourselves the town where some of the film was shot. We drove from Albi to St.-Antonin along the crest of the chain of low mountains above the Aveyron river at the confluence with La Bonnette. We descended into St.-Antonin at the river and crossed the bridge into the town itself. <br />
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The medieval town is at the heart of the Gorges de l'Aveyron on the edge of the Quercy region. A limestone ridge--le Roc d'Anglars--dominates the town from above. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Le Roc d'Anglars</td></tr>
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The bridge across the river is lined with flowers as are so many bridges in France.<br />
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Across the bridge is the old town where the movie was filmed in the little alleys and streets. The town can be traversed on foot in about ten minutes.<br />
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Many of the streets are only accessible by pedestrians--not that this fact ever prevented a Frenchman on a mission to arrive at the other end of the street in a car. </div>
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St. Antonin was built around a Benedictine Abbey from the 8th century. The Roman house, which was built in 1150, is one of the oldest in France. It is now the city hall. Tanneries began in the 12th century because of the availability of water from the two rivers. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the edge of L'Aveyron. </td></tr>
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The town is at the meeting point of three ancient departments--Quercy, Albigeois and Rouergue. Thermal baths from the 20th century offer respite from aching bones and healthy cures. </div>
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It's hard for me to separate the movie from the town and the local theatre makes the most of it with posters and photos promoting the film whose title is translated to Les Recettes du Bonheur--Recipes for Happiness. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsdYUFg3EPcgwXEeO5xGkYlkbSxZ01ShipDKZA_8oEHVPdk3sp9-SsO9kkfAymTIP8VJnc1eHZ9MFPpDprBqdcMvvskMs5mFdKEMvnzjoI_BOHwBhPxxe6dWUigZDw39ioH8E0kT60MpI0/s1600/DSC_0374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsdYUFg3EPcgwXEeO5xGkYlkbSxZ01ShipDKZA_8oEHVPdk3sp9-SsO9kkfAymTIP8VJnc1eHZ9MFPpDprBqdcMvvskMs5mFdKEMvnzjoI_BOHwBhPxxe6dWUigZDw39ioH8E0kT60MpI0/s1600/DSC_0374.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Advertising at the theatre</td></tr>
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The town, however, is a lovely place in its own right. Stone buildings, half-timbered houses, cobbled streets, a beautiful river and tree-lined streets make a visit a pleasure. </div>
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-28165393848063111522014-09-21T14:45:00.000-07:002014-09-21T14:45:14.224-07:00Perigord--Land of Ancient People and Tasty Geese<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Perigord is inland from the Atlantic and north of the Pyrenees. Archeological digs here have uncovered many cave sites carved into the rocks along the river, including the ancient Lascaux cave with its prehistoric paintings. We installed ourselves in Perigueux to explore the area better.<br />
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We headed out to Sarlat to its weekly Saturday market and encountered the largest mass of tourists I remember outside of Paris. French, German, American, Dutch and more. It was one of the most overwhelmingly touristic experiences of my travels and completely unexpected. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5XmhuXjdIM3hUpSe-TgiUDySz8SrDEysKSGr9fB28BpH-rLC00C6F6J_2Ivh4DjAmEkjGxeq_4OE_0UX_vEsCnOmyIvUTZ5e3S604cMxH1LwkJz_MXRcLa_pi91Dyd4wB0CadY0kmCjdL/s1600/DSC_0758.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5XmhuXjdIM3hUpSe-TgiUDySz8SrDEysKSGr9fB28BpH-rLC00C6F6J_2Ivh4DjAmEkjGxeq_4OE_0UX_vEsCnOmyIvUTZ5e3S604cMxH1LwkJz_MXRcLa_pi91Dyd4wB0CadY0kmCjdL/s1600/DSC_0758.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cheese and sausage truck</td></tr>
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Of course, blended in with the tourists were the ever-patient residents of Sarlat struggling to buy their fruits, vegetables and what-have-you necessary for their daily lives. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt179bUiPA0TIUUOJd33YcHPQeDODOVLpM9hmZE6u8RPRatF7zxV7y331r7-jQTMr4XvzOVXafR_rj1TOU75zem2tbXQ7QfjZqAn3kr3OMka-fhsDfJj4iDXc63vP22Cdgjh1OfW1DQ8Da/s1600/DSC_0777.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt179bUiPA0TIUUOJd33YcHPQeDODOVLpM9hmZE6u8RPRatF7zxV7y331r7-jQTMr4XvzOVXafR_rj1TOU75zem2tbXQ7QfjZqAn3kr3OMka-fhsDfJj4iDXc63vP22Cdgjh1OfW1DQ8Da/s1600/DSC_0777.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Garlic for sale in Sarlat</td></tr>
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The high point for me was a taste of the local foie gras. Lovely. We ended our stay there with a delicious coffee and pastry and headed off to partly retrace our steps to Sarlot from Perigueux.<br />
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Stopping at La-Roque-Gageac along the Dordogne River, we discovered the town is just as it's portrayed in many a photo--houses built into the hill and above, what appear to be holes in the rocks where families lived in ancient times--and some not so ancient times. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTaNIeDm5w2eoGMjIg8_PHg_9SxrQmkdF_29G4wVVJQUCZ3kqNYWO9H2Txq6pCCy8tRLa343bzuglI98j0GUE70duSipHPUboWWVsjScyx7guAG4YJ-pL3mjTxbdQgGONHjgWu7QyC2oPW/s1600/DSC_0845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTaNIeDm5w2eoGMjIg8_PHg_9SxrQmkdF_29G4wVVJQUCZ3kqNYWO9H2Txq6pCCy8tRLa343bzuglI98j0GUE70duSipHPUboWWVsjScyx7guAG4YJ-pL3mjTxbdQgGONHjgWu7QyC2oPW/s1600/DSC_0845.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Roque-Gageac on the Dordogne</td></tr>
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Birds have found homes there and as I looked up above the houses, they soared around in great numbers. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikntVFSs5zUZpthDZCkFijFIOIYLBv-hoaS0ChHHQMUBiUzmmM8B7PapxmxbQVIOnxDf0x4MVGZIMLHmkm7-B5k-Vsa4ijzrWCJV6rY75rSwN4854Nbqwvse4bI3_7hy2ErYXoZq5Hivd1/s1600/DSC_0860.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikntVFSs5zUZpthDZCkFijFIOIYLBv-hoaS0ChHHQMUBiUzmmM8B7PapxmxbQVIOnxDf0x4MVGZIMLHmkm7-B5k-Vsa4ijzrWCJV6rY75rSwN4854Nbqwvse4bI3_7hy2ErYXoZq5Hivd1/s1600/DSC_0860.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birds and caves in La Roque-Gageac</td></tr>
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Groups enjoyed the river in canoes and kayaks as well as a boat that accommodated many people motoring up the river and down. It looked most inviting in the heat. <br />
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From La-Roque-Gageac, we climbed up to Beynac, one of the finest chateaux in the area. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTPODqWveRabXKhff5hPlNNsGOyuS7c3z9Ztf3g3Yu8W983AT_LH6Yc3B6AFCYrh52WlKws895gi08EJ8QDC3924wpOI8REYmQ8PvYoXJ6sBRTXWAw77ljfAWAKaYfDeZyEh_VEcEitcIa/s1600/DSC_0888.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTPODqWveRabXKhff5hPlNNsGOyuS7c3z9Ztf3g3Yu8W983AT_LH6Yc3B6AFCYrh52WlKws895gi08EJ8QDC3924wpOI8REYmQ8PvYoXJ6sBRTXWAw77ljfAWAKaYfDeZyEh_VEcEitcIa/s1600/DSC_0888.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beynac Chateau</td></tr>
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During the Hundred Years' War (1337-1453), this chateau was alternately occupied by the English and the French. Starting in 1429 Joan of Arc was able to rally the troops; and though she was burned at the stake in 1431, the momentum of the French had taken hold and the war ended in 1453.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijtsErKiDmcHFnTDZGGqCwviVKuZfxgErOyh15Q6tK52MuyJwztFGF-S_gPrawXvmYZkc56suGECYbwRRuLOBTZ63T2GSQd0OlqE3Q520xQWuNFPJ7aIrJ-ahgPZfxCfvsm11wU5Cmi36I/s1600/DSC_0976.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijtsErKiDmcHFnTDZGGqCwviVKuZfxgErOyh15Q6tK52MuyJwztFGF-S_gPrawXvmYZkc56suGECYbwRRuLOBTZ63T2GSQd0OlqE3Q520xQWuNFPJ7aIrJ-ahgPZfxCfvsm11wU5Cmi36I/s1600/DSC_0976.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dordogne River from Chateau de Beynac</td></tr>
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Across the valley from Beynac is a chateau that had been owned by Josephine Baker who lived there with her 12 adopted children of global origin (Korea, Venezuela, Morocco, France, Japan, Colombia, Israel, Algeria, Ivory Coast and Finland) until she moved to Roquebrune, near Monaco. <br />
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Driving back to Perigueux, we passed through Les Eyzies and St. Christopher to Thenon. Our final stop was a goose farm where we watched the flocks move around after their leader like a flock of sheep or the gaggle of geese that they were. What a kick.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXtMOPVtDQ_alMlad9yTJVw9UYysXz3Hpzr0z3O1wgUoCwdviayqIrV0RFZXErB4RkUuZ-Vm41QQddV3B5Wu_5w7xEWAFQtyRRcaGO-nQezQ8ZVaGOlyBmfqe8qE9mYiUMXM_h6n5s-5Rj/s1600/IMG_1316.MOV" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXtMOPVtDQ_alMlad9yTJVw9UYysXz3Hpzr0z3O1wgUoCwdviayqIrV0RFZXErB4RkUuZ-Vm41QQddV3B5Wu_5w7xEWAFQtyRRcaGO-nQezQ8ZVaGOlyBmfqe8qE9mYiUMXM_h6n5s-5Rj/s1600/IMG_1316.MOV" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
They were probably on their way back to the barn to be force fed so their livers would fatten up to be eaten later by the likes of me and other foie-gras appreciators. Gory as it sounds, it didn't appear to me that these animals were under any stress in the process. <br />
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This area is where we have to remind each other that it's impossible to see everything there is to see and that it's a damned good excuse to have to return. We'll be returning. . . </div>
Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-21605201728365238002014-09-19T11:28:00.001-07:002014-09-19T11:28:29.168-07:00France Observations<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Travel is adventure and discovery of things new and even after multiple trips to France, there is still something new. </span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">The last time we were here, we watched the confused election of the leader of the center-right party, Union pour un Mouvement Populaire (union for a popular movement) or UMP, the party of the former president, Nicolas Sarkozy. It was an entertaining election as the winning candidate was not clear for weeks--and it was never clear--period--to many. But it was amusing to watch from an outsider's perspective--an outsider who was spotty in the language but understanding enough to be entertained by it. </span></b><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Each trip promises a political diversion. This time, Nicolas Sarkozy is making a bid for the same leadership of the UMP. His return into the fray, so to speak. </span></b></div>
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<b>In northwestern France, it appears that all the vines have been pulled up and replaced with corn. Corn fields are everywhere. Whatever happened to the wine grapes? As we head more to the south, we hope we find the vineyards of old rather than the fields of cattle feed and ethanol. </b><br />
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<b>As I may have mentioned in previous posts from the last trip, I hear more and more English--not that I hear people actually holding conversations in English, but English phrases here and there. On the radio, I heard a woman say, "pas trop, pas too much." Translated that is "not too much, not too much," half in French and sort of half in English. The t.v. commercials are replete with English words and expressions--in print, on radio and on television.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyHn_6j_LFrgNcfriycV5XcB7SvJ1PDeSsU3H0lkIEaWbsxE05nx4pdGAQAEkHvJYOklDuHlWZDfT55epKcPstSfxYgASWq3aFLagQf1NPBDv2pppZvy-UwkixgjG5tHD4Ry15Q4zXAlq/s1600/IMG_20140919_195406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyHn_6j_LFrgNcfriycV5XcB7SvJ1PDeSsU3H0lkIEaWbsxE05nx4pdGAQAEkHvJYOklDuHlWZDfT55epKcPstSfxYgASWq3aFLagQf1NPBDv2pppZvy-UwkixgjG5tHD4Ry15Q4zXAlq/s1600/IMG_20140919_195406.jpg" height="320" width="270" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Century 21! Nothing French about that. Taken from outside my hotel window.</td></tr>
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<b>In the supermarket, I see more shopping carts with bags of chips, bottles of soda, prepared meals. Said carts are more often pushed by women who have long ago passed the lithe/obese balance--and many are accompanied by children who have seen a little too much of the inside of a candy bar wrapper. </b><br />
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<b>I see more signs that prohibit the four-legged variety of friend from entry. That includes supermarkets, the occasional restaurant, even at a hotel. </b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwgswWkP_Kr4mmwjFF8beq1l6N8voB-wMHIymiq1UJpAQIZEWCSpHvQDG1boBzUbLpaD9n3Z2R4n9n51_3KM-huAsXXHsX_33IeJepxOWAR_kCLixSYd6yC3eymeB0Kh3OztiR8Cm6KmV/s1600/DSC_0212.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwgswWkP_Kr4mmwjFF8beq1l6N8voB-wMHIymiq1UJpAQIZEWCSpHvQDG1boBzUbLpaD9n3Z2R4n9n51_3KM-huAsXXHsX_33IeJepxOWAR_kCLixSYd6yC3eymeB0Kh3OztiR8Cm6KmV/s1600/DSC_0212.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who could deny entrance to these three?</td></tr>
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<b>From what seems like time immemorial, dogs have been welcomed in restaurants, museums, stores and anywhere else their human companions go.</b><br />
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<b>Speed cameras have grown completely out of control. They are everywhere. Small roads, highways, city streets, country lanes. First there's the warning: Speed cameras ahead. Then there's the actual speed camera looking like something out of a Stephen Spielberg movie--daring you to exceed the speed limit. And what's more surprising is that the French are obeying the speed limit and its constant changes. I picture some bureaucrat sitting with a map and a stylus: "Here's a long stretch, let's make it 90 kph. But here's a little corner so let's stick 70 kph there." It's like a game. In the town, it suddenly changes to 50, then 30 where there's a speed bump. A 100 kilometer trip is a lesson in vigilance. I've become obsessive about finding the speed limit signs. Without them, I'm lost--and edgy.</b><br />
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<b>As a constant reminder, every evening, I have seen an hour-long program featuring accidents, their victims, the emergency responders, the consequences both to the victims and the perpetrators. It's like sitting in traffic school every evening--not that I've ever been to traffic school, but I can imagine. </b><br />
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<b>But some things remain the same. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGHbUFUTVIP7UpAXDNkcdYwyaN2EAak7wwjUCtx-QMjl5VEiAR68ZZAqZd46_WB5YjAVwVERysvFYpPDjbpDZ80Tm3BK-tyAJdHbvsKLjnRpBKNMYH0rfoKVEc_a3p48dxPZguOMQHyntT/s1600/DSC_0475.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGHbUFUTVIP7UpAXDNkcdYwyaN2EAak7wwjUCtx-QMjl5VEiAR68ZZAqZd46_WB5YjAVwVERysvFYpPDjbpDZ80Tm3BK-tyAJdHbvsKLjnRpBKNMYH0rfoKVEc_a3p48dxPZguOMQHyntT/s1600/DSC_0475.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chauvigny</td></tr>
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France loves its flowers and gardens. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5yUT8MIxo5afatwk71Z9WQ8hUHlrZ6XqsgILnR-t9UWW9IblrA79N9k2msnZpf2YBS6kSZMGVZlVNvP15zvjehyphenhyphen3a8GknLEemRDyo08e_BYgpFPDOyGjbqIzOgqz9wROuPSNRIk10BAc/s1600/DSC_0579.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5yUT8MIxo5afatwk71Z9WQ8hUHlrZ6XqsgILnR-t9UWW9IblrA79N9k2msnZpf2YBS6kSZMGVZlVNvP15zvjehyphenhyphen3a8GknLEemRDyo08e_BYgpFPDOyGjbqIzOgqz9wROuPSNRIk10BAc/s1600/DSC_0579.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Montmorillon</td></tr>
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In great profusion--winter or summer, the roundabouts, the flower boxes, the planters, the bouquets are artfully arranged like a beautiful artist's palette of contrast and blending that occurs in nature. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP841F-NboMMOWk41Z_qsI9f7rBR2S9jZMO2G_KWG1ghEm7IjlGnomHsP-1a30nPQsUhrS7B340LWUukpCMzi-QaML7iXWu91rnHO7iLg1odjqsYzu20i5Dfvwyc8vV6nzCR0Ch0yU90Wf/s1600/IMG_20140915_222836.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP841F-NboMMOWk41Z_qsI9f7rBR2S9jZMO2G_KWG1ghEm7IjlGnomHsP-1a30nPQsUhrS7B340LWUukpCMzi-QaML7iXWu91rnHO7iLg1odjqsYzu20i5Dfvwyc8vV6nzCR0Ch0yU90Wf/s1600/IMG_20140915_222836.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Concarneau old city</td></tr>
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Thank goodness for adventure. May it never end.</b>
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-30571213287229857152014-09-17T11:22:00.001-07:002014-09-17T11:23:17.997-07:00Pink Granite<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On my desk at home sits a basket woven by the Penobscot Indians in Maine. Inside is a piece of red granite taken from Red Beach near Calais where my mother lived. I thought of that basket of granite and my mother as we took a drive along the Breton coast at the most northern point to enjoy the craggy pink granite jutting out to sea.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pink granite rocky shore</td></tr>
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The rocks protect lovely beaches and marinas. And islands dot the watery landscape all along the coast. Farther out to sea lies the Ile de Brehat. At the most remote end toward the north is the La Jument lighthouse, which was made famous by the photograph showing the monstruous wave engulfing both it and the keeper--but for his quick move to return to the safety of the interior of the tower.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beach community protected by pink granite rocks</td></tr>
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Here the tides draw the water far out to sea revealing sand and in some beaches grass-like growth that is collected in huge piles and lifted into dumptrucks that then carry the grass elsewhere to fertilize the fields. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnnCvnSp-C-IGI4WYvjEaZCX86nWEhKcrv4-s_aYV2GpxN0RAI6Mqci6PzhlYJ_dKoXIM3y3Zqd31QycrmlvtC_sF7ogaYvuSVTjbk2IkMe3nLHSd4qaKBPQZCZb2bXASrMlrVQAtEvtdg/s1600/DSC_0370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnnCvnSp-C-IGI4WYvjEaZCX86nWEhKcrv4-s_aYV2GpxN0RAI6Mqci6PzhlYJ_dKoXIM3y3Zqd31QycrmlvtC_sF7ogaYvuSVTjbk2IkMe3nLHSd4qaKBPQZCZb2bXASrMlrVQAtEvtdg/s1600/DSC_0370.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beach grass awaiting harvest</td></tr>
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On our way to the beautiful drive along the granite coast, we stopped at Pleyben to visit the parish close there. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCeFZEj7xuhV0j0IfYeJdf5vN7XMav9xfCFEczIItki5K7XUtuK05WOuDHaMNvI1kdMY04g_ktY2TfWp2nfAFZfsBxKQnCpRUvmj8vSUOa9w2Y5AQPFBVnDeT9ocqtE4xIhWD1gHa-_vXT/s1600/DSC_0256.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCeFZEj7xuhV0j0IfYeJdf5vN7XMav9xfCFEczIItki5K7XUtuK05WOuDHaMNvI1kdMY04g_ktY2TfWp2nfAFZfsBxKQnCpRUvmj8vSUOa9w2Y5AQPFBVnDeT9ocqtE4xIhWD1gHa-_vXT/s1600/DSC_0256.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The parish close at Pleyben</td></tr>
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There are several parish closes in the area that were built between the 16th and 18th centuries. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBlbC3eLBA0PP_bT4dSrcl7vBq71OM05ShxFT7ksQfpQJrqbXrbx9pXjGM-_cfVDg0ygrZwjHIyfv9Dur58Eaq4nvSSt1hevNzEOJRHnjddA_HKtyCQz5IUh6jco10mAzWS7hyphenhyphenTRhrWfyQ/s1600/DSC_0270.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBlbC3eLBA0PP_bT4dSrcl7vBq71OM05ShxFT7ksQfpQJrqbXrbx9pXjGM-_cfVDg0ygrZwjHIyfv9Dur58Eaq4nvSSt1hevNzEOJRHnjddA_HKtyCQz5IUh6jco10mAzWS7hyphenhyphenTRhrWfyQ/s1600/DSC_0270.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The last supper</td></tr>
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At Pleyben, the triumphal arch depicts thirty scenes from the life of Jesus. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP8xqZbfFnNCw2C794uSJYM0S1Gu7ydq25cu8hpOeZQt3dAJw_jf3fzToZXultoeMJmOIjtacaJg77VG-_DRiRz_dS2CmyvPcR1Fn94Fr6I7wPRxlgK-jcP8UmphP30qT72i0ME0oSgqa-/s1600/DSC_0272.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP8xqZbfFnNCw2C794uSJYM0S1Gu7ydq25cu8hpOeZQt3dAJw_jf3fzToZXultoeMJmOIjtacaJg77VG-_DRiRz_dS2CmyvPcR1Fn94Fr6I7wPRxlgK-jcP8UmphP30qT72i0ME0oSgqa-/s1600/DSC_0272.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cleaning the feet of John the Baptist--or is it the other way round?</td></tr>
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It's a remarkable piece of sculpture--fashioned in granite, of course. <br />
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-9523374217420879132014-09-16T12:53:00.001-07:002014-09-16T12:53:12.223-07:00Gauguin and his buddies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Paul Gauguin, one of a group of French artists in the late 19th century, spent several of his productive years in Brittany. He lived at La Maison de Marie Henry, an inn in Le Pouldu for about four years along with other artists. The three-bedroom house was owned by Marie Henry whose own life was somewhat bohemian as an independent single mother.<br />
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While there, Gauguin and his friend painted over the walls, ceiling and windows of the dining room. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblcEjuYcMp4Mzp-snBF2mv1tDe1SHySteK8GvOcoIA-pZp5QY5qEyAHVRfNOWhe4u-v2w36Mhgt9qvlctqGNd3ScdRBOGS2ZbvgS-mHtoDLtVXzl77uBC9QPtP470S2N5G1Nmi_2_Y6RB/s1600/DSC_0105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblcEjuYcMp4Mzp-snBF2mv1tDe1SHySteK8GvOcoIA-pZp5QY5qEyAHVRfNOWhe4u-v2w36Mhgt9qvlctqGNd3ScdRBOGS2ZbvgS-mHtoDLtVXzl77uBC9QPtP470S2N5G1Nmi_2_Y6RB/s1600/DSC_0105.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gauguin panel above fireplace</td></tr>
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The painting was discovered when wallpaper was removed in the 1920s. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Xak87SmC4jzWjzSLnodEGSO_cTPNW_ykxyM1OTcn44zzKXJ4zHQZvgXsbleDlwCj5g6AFpx9RKG1A7MgeNe8uhnP-7RWakNb5pxag0LBbLhYZnhVd4g4LS2f1Pa2K28ZdR_qBocLH2lr/s1600/_20140916_211439.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Xak87SmC4jzWjzSLnodEGSO_cTPNW_ykxyM1OTcn44zzKXJ4zHQZvgXsbleDlwCj5g6AFpx9RKG1A7MgeNe8uhnP-7RWakNb5pxag0LBbLhYZnhVd4g4LS2f1Pa2K28ZdR_qBocLH2lr/s1600/_20140916_211439.JPG" height="320" width="314" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Self-portrait on back of door</td></tr>
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Now a museum, we walked around with an iPad in our hands reading the information and listening to the piped-in atmospheric sound effects (gurgling child in the Madame's bedroom, orders for wine in the bar area, kitchen noises, conversations in the dining room). <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp0z5ZuDCyG2AT0bEtHL7lWJWvJcWldah-K1pj8CtyaTFQ2R9vM5Z3-m9jy3IxXUHF4Aj64uW5PedXy8EiJ5SeTsHaESVz-_7IiC2M7DTJZPd8zyPucuTfU-LJnVvw793DiL3aQpszkPNq/s1600/DSC_0098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp0z5ZuDCyG2AT0bEtHL7lWJWvJcWldah-K1pj8CtyaTFQ2R9vM5Z3-m9jy3IxXUHF4Aj64uW5PedXy8EiJ5SeTsHaESVz-_7IiC2M7DTJZPd8zyPucuTfU-LJnVvw793DiL3aQpszkPNq/s1600/DSC_0098.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Window panel</td></tr>
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Gauguin left his wife and five children in Denmark to pursue his art in France and beyond and collected several illegitimate children in other parts of the world--especially Tahiti where he died in 1903. <br />
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We moved on from Le Pouldu to visit Pont Aven to explore this lovely flower-laden town made famous by the Pont-Aven School, which promoted "synthetism," the style of art practiced by Paul Gauguin.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgImQNolZGsGCri8hx9zD4rdeJD5KloY7OILjKq4VLbdS-chJ7XWuggLESm87ox0LesAETIVgCtPa3Cm4aWqPGtY9rcfzgELx5BNCXAf9lKuAaOhX9w9xCMWpVsreqzRjOdE4aRXxUhQDbG/s1600/_20140916_212811.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgImQNolZGsGCri8hx9zD4rdeJD5KloY7OILjKq4VLbdS-chJ7XWuggLESm87ox0LesAETIVgCtPa3Cm4aWqPGtY9rcfzgELx5BNCXAf9lKuAaOhX9w9xCMWpVsreqzRjOdE4aRXxUhQDbG/s1600/_20140916_212811.JPG" height="255" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the River Aven</td></tr>
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Pont Aven was crawling with tourists--mostly over 50, many galleries, lots of watercolor painters set up around the Aven river.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC9y4Gy1iG-76ASeRQQiyzDzgF9Tm0l_hq2H4qWu7MXE3239e6g9t2Uf6h-vK39HnFENXbv49BFjtR8wUpdfudMC5-Z-4s4YrtuqiQhClMxxN9z9EJARqlr8jeYCscQ3TB3O5WC1FP-HgB/s1600/IMG_20140916_212742.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC9y4Gy1iG-76ASeRQQiyzDzgF9Tm0l_hq2H4qWu7MXE3239e6g9t2Uf6h-vK39HnFENXbv49BFjtR8wUpdfudMC5-Z-4s4YrtuqiQhClMxxN9z9EJARqlr8jeYCscQ3TB3O5WC1FP-HgB/s1600/IMG_20140916_212742.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flowers everywhere</td></tr>
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Once again, the tidal flow of the river is extreme with boats in the water when we arrived and leaning on their side or sitting up straight on the mudflats when we left.<br />
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There were many houses "en vende" (for sale), which made us fantasize (as a fantasy it would be) about living in one of them.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLIvPlDjPt4ZrtfCBAG1LelsaF7TmKeaBKYTFvMWxaDvDoRHJMFhYAuu8zBnQ-gRQqxNpKhSYbvgmJjDvtyHFJGhS4IakIErjv_NLLDy78LBvsiXhcBpRqFWjV15-06isSJWbdux8JzTVK/s1600/IMG_20140916_213007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLIvPlDjPt4ZrtfCBAG1LelsaF7TmKeaBKYTFvMWxaDvDoRHJMFhYAuu8zBnQ-gRQqxNpKhSYbvgmJjDvtyHFJGhS4IakIErjv_NLLDy78LBvsiXhcBpRqFWjV15-06isSJWbdux8JzTVK/s1600/IMG_20140916_213007.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boats in the mud</td></tr>
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The photos tell the story. <br />
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-28980735352618786322014-09-15T13:18:00.000-07:002014-09-15T13:18:24.855-07:00The Savage Coast<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The Breton Coast, la côte sauvage, is much like the coast of northern California--craggy rocks, wind, spectacular views bordering the edge of the water, swaths of green right to the edge. The tides surpass northern California's in their extremes. I have read that the tides in Brittany are the highest in Europe. And they are at their highest in March and September. The reach of the tide can be as much as 39 feet. At low tide, the beaches are vast. <br />
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We arrived in Larmor-Plage in time for lunch and innocently pulled into the last parking space in a very small lot with perhaps 12 spaces and walked blithely away from the car as if that space had been specially reserved for us. On Saturday at around noon there was a sprinkling of people on the beach--some small children with their parents, some couples with dogs, some sitting, some playing. But the beach was not crowded. The view out to sea, the island L'Ile de Groix is small but busy. We watched the ferry returning to Lorient across the river. </div>
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We enjoyed our first bona fide French lunch seated facing the sea and loving the view. Our neighbors had finished a dessert that looked wonderful and I coudn't help asking if they enjoyed it. Their enthusiasm clearly cast a "yes" vote and we decided to order the same thing at the end of our meal. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Ukc12S6ARZVubQF3QCYoygwqbJVUVuR1elE4qpmidhrV_l2dqy62XCKDOa3S7YLlL8TQYmowG0sCqjQHCXIT6BeTLDjWpTTLR7v-BAhhJccLFy9kHREgq0aA4Cuy_A2LpY9CBY8fVvJa/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Ukc12S6ARZVubQF3QCYoygwqbJVUVuR1elE4qpmidhrV_l2dqy62XCKDOa3S7YLlL8TQYmowG0sCqjQHCXIT6BeTLDjWpTTLR7v-BAhhJccLFy9kHREgq0aA4Cuy_A2LpY9CBY8fVvJa/s1600/photo.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chocolate mousse, crème brûlée, apple tart, chantilly, coffee</td></tr>
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This couple was full of information about the area, including facts about the WW II German submarine base that is up the river just a bit. The base has been featured in some films, including the Highlander series. After lunch we drove up the river and viewed the base from the other side. It's a behemoth of a structure and looks all the world like something built in East Germany during the cold war. </div>
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As the afternoon waned, we watched people streaming to the beach and when we left the area, the beaches were covered with bodies. Perhaps their weekends didn't start until late afternoon on Saturday. The weather was warm and the sun shone, making the beach most appealing. But we were looking forward to a good night's sleep to catch up on the jet lag and instead returned to the hotel to be ready for the next day's adventures.<br />
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Penattheready.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08036036258111436847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8122962684556934005.post-16561486281656014812014-09-12T21:45:00.000-07:002014-09-12T21:45:19.335-07:00Arrival in France<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEispVP5Pehti26dUHM-MDtWQnD4DfsCTxsF1YKtpvsUJ_Ax31hJ9MJDYtgjXsDs5S0qxZ8WT9hvDTOer2xL0CWxEtmeH6pj2gjNwiIgXxmRYbd68pzsgsJwTA7T8cctxCIzfz2y26DwxfkS/s1600/France_Flag_Map.svg.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEispVP5Pehti26dUHM-MDtWQnD4DfsCTxsF1YKtpvsUJ_Ax31hJ9MJDYtgjXsDs5S0qxZ8WT9hvDTOer2xL0CWxEtmeH6pj2gjNwiIgXxmRYbd68pzsgsJwTA7T8cctxCIzfz2y26DwxfkS/s1600/France_Flag_Map.svg.png" height="195" width="200" /></a><span style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;">France has beckoned us back again for a visit that started upon our arrival yesterday in Paris' CDG airport. Our day was so long, we were too tired to make the six-hour drive to our destination near the coast of Brittany, so we stopped at Alencon, a quaint town with a northern-France architectural look. Alas, there will be no photos as we spent our time in the car only looking for a hotel where we could lay our heads and had no energy left for wandering. </span><span style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;">The day started in the Sacramento airport with a minute of silence in memory of the September 11 of 13 years ago. I looked around as men removed their hats and the whole terminal fell silent but for the soft sound of the t.v. A few minutes later, airport security cleared a path for an honor guard that entered, stood at attention briefly, then moved on to the next terminal. It was a very moving affair and all around were visibly touched. </span><span style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;">Today we move on to Brittany--France's spectacular savage coast--with travel vigor and enthusiasm. I'll be armed with my camera and promise more colorful posts in the future. </span><span style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /></span><span style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
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