One of our learnings from travel  – you know that you love a city when you find yourself planning your next visit – even before your current  stay has been completed. As our train hurtles through Alpine villages of southern France to Bergamo via Milan, it’s easy to be sentimental. Yet, this has certainly been our experience of this small slice of France. Whilst we’ve taken root in Lyon, predominantly, we’ve also poked our noses into Annecy and, on Tuesday, Avignon: once the city of popes (well seven popes and two anti popes, just to make the story more interesting.)

Avignon is a cobblestoned, narrow alleyed, wandering type of place – renowned for its arts – music and theatre,  as well as its chequered, papal past. The Mediterranean feel is strong through its olive trees, lavender, and the fusion of Italian and Franco fare. We even managed to find gelato with ease … a must on a 34-degree day, resplendent with hot breezes. I tried in vain to find that bridge … the one we sang about in Mrs Moneypenny’s Year 8 French class. Instead, I found Lucca-esque city walls and more eateries than one might find on a stroll through our beloved Grand Central. Ironically, we were drawn to a Vietnamese cafe in a narrow alleway –  craving fresh salads and the flavours of the east … a reprieve from those delciously rich creamy cheeses and must-have pastries of which we have had more than our fill.

Yet, the highlight was walking in the footsteps of those religious giants, through their papal enclave, imagining, as one does, the pomp, ceremony, and power that inhabited those walls in the 14th century.  It was King Phillip IV of France who forced the move of the papacy from Rome to France. Phil number four had previously arrested and ‘mistreated’ Pope Boniface VIII, causing his death.  The next pope, Benedict XI conveniently died after only a few months, (a bit like Vladimir’s generals who keep falling out of windows), so Phillip then forced his own nominee Clement V to be elected.  Clem had a French girlfriend and refused to move to Rome, so he and Phil moved the whole papal enclave to Avignon in 1309, where it remained for the next 67 years. By then, Phil had passed away, and they all moved back to Rome. Except for the two anti popes, they stayed in Avignon.

Our final day was spent in Lyon’s old town, ascending and descending its many long and relentlessly steep staircases.  My children, if only you had seen your father bounding up the 1,253 steps to the Basillica – then descending those same stairs with such athletic grace and prowess.  It would have been a proud moment for both you and my Rosewood cricket coach – Arnold Reick had you seen me – enough to bring a tear or two.

Our delerium caused us to stumble down more stairs – a steep spiral staircase (of course), which led us to a cellar restaurant for lunch.  Here we dined on Lyonnaise specials – pike quenelles, coq au vin, and french onion soup – because when in Rome (or, in this case, Lyon), one simply must. Myrl would have been impressed. After our meal, we staggered up onto the cobblestones streets, amid the silk shops where one could spend a small fortune – we resisted. It proved to be photographic heaven – with the bluest of skies and the fast running Saone River, adjacent. To complete our last hours, we snuck back to La Boite a Cafe – the scene of some seriously good coffee and the spot where we have wiled away an hour or so, most mornings. The crew are as committed as those at our local coffee haunt, Banter, we enjoyed their insights into France – and their emphatic views on why Lyon is so superior to Paris. Good old-fashioned parochialism doesn’t just exist in State of Origin matches.

Recently, a journalist called Rosewood, ‘a suburb of  Ipswich’, I must admit it raised my ire and my parochial eyebrows more than a tad.  Now, that particular scribbler would probably prefer Paris to Lyon , the Brisbane Ekka to the Rosewood Show, calamari at a fancy Mooloolaba Esplanade restaurant over Johnny Cassimatis’s fish and chips wrapped in the hallowed newsprint of ‘ The Queensland Times’, and eaten in the park at Mason’s Gully: sacre bleu! Perhaps reading the Cunnington-Smythe oracles might be just what this clearly delusional chap needs????

Adieu belle Lyon, we are missing you already…

Farley and Lady C-S

The Michelin brothers started making rubber tyres in 1899 when there were less than 2000 automobiles in France.  In order to encourage car drivers to get out more (and to wear out their tyres faster), every purchase of Michelin tyres came with a free guidebook.  Initially, it consisted of a range of travel tips – road maps, repairing your car, how to start it in cold weather, etc.  It also included a guide of good places to eat around Paris.  In 1920, just as driving was really catching on after the war, one of the brothers noted one of their guides being used to level up a workshop bench.  He immediately went back to the printers and from that day onwards all guides cost seven francs.  And from that day onwards, sales of the Guide (and the brothers’ tyres) boomed – the Michelin Guide had to be paid for. Therefore, it had value!

Michelin hats (toques) are like gold to a restauranteur.  The inspectors ALWAYS travel incognito for the first visit and rarely alone. The restaurant is booked at least twice by different teams if it is judged good enough to be awarded a hat, and only the food is graded, neither the decor nor the service can contribute to the rating.  There is a famous tale from the 1970s of a cat being partly responsible for a Michelin hat.

The story goes that a chef in a small town somehow heard rumours that two inspectors were arriving for a second visit to his establishment.  He became anxious, and of course, the night was an absolute disaster.  His timing was off. He had an argument with his wife, so she left and went home. He was frustrated and yelled at his staff – he even kicked his beloved cat that always hung around him in the kitchen.  (A Fawlty Towers episode was partly based on this story). At the end of the evening, the chef realised that any chance of a Michelin toque had gone – but he could at least make it up with his cat.  He promised her that he would prepare a special meal with a secret recipe – it would be just for the two of them to eat, and the recipe would be one that he would never share. With one chicken and the remainder of the ingredients leftover, he set about cooking this meal for himself and his precious moggie.

Just as it was about to be plated, a dishevelled couple arrived.  They knew they had missed their booking, they knew that the kitchen was closed, but they begged to be able to purchase some food. The chef explained he only had one cooked chicken and some vegetables left – but they could share this with him and his pet cat. They were overwhelmed by the quality of their simple meal.  After paying, one of the patrons revealed that she was a Michelin inspector, this was the company’s second visit to his place, and that she would gladly pay money to obtain the recipe for the meal they had just eaten.  The chef refused.  She offered to award him a second hat in her review in exchange for even just a list of ingredients.  The chef refused, explaining he had made a promise to his faithful cat to keep the recipe secret – and he had to keep that vow. So the visitors left to return to Paris without finding out how this special dish was prepared. In the next Guide, the chef was awarded a single toque – he could have had two if the chef had inulged the secret ingredient in his chicken creation – it was cat-mint, of course!

Many years ago,  the Cunnington-Smythe family dined at a Michelin-hatted restaurant in Budapest – a wonderful experience indeed. Now, post-Covid, one needs to book months in advance for a seat at any eatery that is awarded a gong in the latest Michelin Guide.  However, as a service to my three followers, I promise that I will continue to research local places to eat – just in case one of you makes it to this wonderful food city in the future.  Such is my willingness to sacrifice my own time and money finding good tucker for my readers!

Tomorrow – Avignon.  I just want to see that bridge – and check out their food of course….

F C-S

France gets 39 million visitors a year,  38 million of them were in Annecy yesterday  They were there to see this stunning little city beside a lake at the base of the French Alps. And we were part of that 38 million.  Sometimes when travelling I am made acutely aware of my own hypocrisy – yesterday was one such day.  I wished that Annecy had  fewer tourists, that it was less crowded, and yet I was part of that crowd…

Annecy is two hours north-east of Lyon by train and the journey itself is worth the cost of the fare. This part of France is made up of such a variety of micro-climates – it means that the city’s markets have easy access to the widest range of fruits and vegetables – dry land rice, wheat and livestock, temperate citrus and vine products, alpine berries, stone fruits, and dairy products. When this is combined with a French obsession with fresh food, generally, you get the type of food we are experiencing on this leg of our journey.  However, as locals also tend to shop at outdoor markets for fresh ingredients, and then you add tourists like me, the end result is a crowded small city .

I don’t believe I have seen better markets than those in this part of the world.  The cheese stalls in Annecy were obviously always going to appeal to someone like me.  The area is dotted by caves and tunnels, some of which are used to store and age their products – both cheese and wine. Quite a few of the stalls were being run by the family that made the cheese on offer.  Some vendors only sold one or two varieties of their own hand-made fromage (far more addictive than tobacco or heroin for your scribe) – no prize for guessing what we had for dinner last night. (Mind you, the Spar Supermarket in Rosewood also only sells two varieties of cheese – Kraft cheddar and Spar’s own-brand Grated Italian.  A similar passion for excellence, I guess?)

Lunch was at a restaurant beside one of the many streams that run through the city – again, it featured local produce – lamb, freshwater fish, and the best of salad vegetables. More wandering, more wondering, and more hypocricy made up the rest of our day before the journey home.  If the train trip to Annecy was worth the fare, we got even more value for money on the way home – we managed to miss a connecting train at one of the small stations on the way back to Lyon. It added an extra hour to our return journey…c’est la vie.

I read today there is a movement starting called ‘Slow Travel’ – akin to the Slow Food movement that began in Italy.  It is described a a form of travel where people stay put for a time and travel ‘deeply, rather than widely’, As our barista said today, it means staying long enough to take a photo you would put on your wall at home rather than simply taking a single selfie in front of the major landmarks in a town, posting it on Instagram or TikTok, then moving on. I agree with the philosophy entirely – my fear, however, is that 38 million tourists might want to stay put in Avignon – possibly our next day trip. Selfish bastards….

Farley

PS – I am beginning to wonder if Mr Putin might be thinking of sneaking into Avignon with those 38 million tourists for a bit of quiet time….

I think an excellent example of incongruous juxtaposition would be three Queenslanders and two New South Welshmen watching the State of Origin live in the lounge of a British pub in Lyon, and being served drinks by a Frenchman who learnt to speak English whilst growing up in Bali. This is the first time I have watched State of Origin on television with a New South Wales supporter in the room with me. The experts say that travel is a great educator and can make you more tolerant of those from other cultures. Sharing time and a hotel lounge with two Blues supporters wasn’t so bad at all, so there may be truth in that – pehaps travel has made me more tolerant of those from a different culture?

From my youth onwards there was always the caricature of the aloof Frenchman, one who would be sullen and would ignore rather than assist the traveller in need. So often the mantra was around the food being wonderful – but the locals so rude. This is only the second French city we have stayed in, and in our experience the opposite has been true. We have found the locals to be always ready to assist and to attempt to understand our awful attempts at speaking French. I have managed to say ‘Je ne parle pas francais’ quite fluently, which helps. Sadly, I suspect that it may be more likely that many Australians have been rude and ignorant travellers …

Lyon has been a wonderful city to stroll around. There are medieval walls behind our accommodation, a Roman road on the opposite side of the Rhone river that runs past our Air BnB, and the city is made up of such diverse districts. Our neighbourhood appears multicultural, but the history of migration to France is interesting. France has taken in a huge number of migrants and refugees – paticularly in the last 25 years. However, unlike Australia’s policies around multiculturalism, the emphasis in France since Jacobin-Republican times has been one of assimilation. Despite some more recent “The right to be different” movements since 2010 onwards, the older paradigm remains tenaciously fixed in French attitudes and laws.

If you wish to celebrate the country of your birth, you mustn’t be truly French. There are very few multicultural festivals. There are no government funded foreign language radio or TV stations – no French SBS. If you wish to be French, you must speak French. You have the right to religious freedom – so long as it doesn’t affect your ‘Frenchness’. There was a festival in the city centre last night – the food stalls were all serving French food, there was no evidence of other cultures being celebrated- even though a large proportion of the crowd were obviously of Central or North African heritage. Sadly, this policy of assimilation and integration probably played a large part in the Charlie Hebdo attacks of 2015.

My experiences in Lyon so far have certainly caused me to challenge my own thinking around multiculturalism, especially with regards to New South Welchmen. The guys we met in the pub yesterday actually seemed quite OK. Some Queenslanders I know have even migrated to Sydney and Melbourne, and the Sunshine State has gradually opened its borders to New South Welshmen since Covid. Now that Queensland has tied up the whole State of Origin series, perhaps we could have a festival in Toowoomba that celebrates the lesser states of Australia – particularly New South Wales and Victoria? I’d quite enjoy trying some of their food and listening to some of their music. In fact I think I might even put that proposal to our mayor when we get back home.

Farley

We farewell Vienna today – it was meant to be a brief stopover in order to recover from jetlag, but instead has become high up on our list of cities to revisit and to stay far longer than a few days days. Vienna in summer is very special in that it ticks a number of Farley boxes – its museums and art galleries are sensational. The streets are wandering streets – they are filled with cafes, bars, and small shops – in fact most of the centre of the city is now pedestrian only.  Yesterday was high on the list of great Cunnington-Smythe days.

We had the choice of at least 10 exhibitions at art galleries or museums within a 1km radius.  We had excellent coffee and pastries in the same coffeshop we went to in 2017 – always an important criteria for a good day ahead!  The history of the place was on display and accessible for all kinds of tourist  – even a lad from Rosewood. After lunch on our walk home we listened to an outdoor concert of Mozart opera pieces, watched buskers in action and spotted a hundred more things that we want to come back to see.  Next time.

Soon we have a flight to Lyon.  We have only ever visited two towns in France and stayed in one so there is a level of excitement indeed.  However there is an equal determination to return to Vienna.  Can’t have it all I suppose

Farley C-S

Last night we arrived in Vienna – just a brief stopover to shake off jetlag on our way to Lyon.  Lady C-S and I have visited this city twice before – both times in winter. Even when covered in snow Vienna is a beautiful city.  But on a perfect summer day, one can really appreciate everthing Vienna offers – a museum quarter like no other, great food and coffee, easy walking, and ….. lots of green horses.

The Viennese had a resounding victory over the Ottomans in 1529 which broke the seige of the city and led to the creation of croissants to celebrate – I knew that.  I knew that the Habsburg were big on building magnificent palaces that later became some of the Western world’s most important museums and art galleries.  But until this trip, I didn’t realise they also celebrated victory by littering the city with statues of men on green horses!

This day of enlightenment started as we tend to begin every day when travelling – a walk to the chosen coffee shop for a couple of flat whites to plan the day ahead.  We then decided to head to the Albertina Museum in order to purchase tickets for an exhibition of painting masterpieces from the Impressionists through to Picasso. On the way one could not help but notice the extrordinary number of statues in this part of the city. Rosewood once had one statue/monument at the Mason’s Gully crossing before it was toppled after being clipped by a passing coal truck. Vienna has more than one piece of statuary and most are raised (in order to protect them from coal trucks perhaps? Although, as a past student of mine once said, “I’m not some kind of statue expert…”) Green men on green horses everywhere.

The Habsburg monachy began in 1282 and continued until 1918 – the end of WW1.  I have only now realised that much of their success in battle must have come about through their clever use of camoflage – of man and beast. Keep in mind that this was a time when other armies wore the most colouful uniforms and insignia – not the clever Austrians Because of this success they gathered sufficient wealth to become great architects and builders, great art collectors.  No wonder they also celebrated this development in military strategy that allowed this success to occur

It would be easy for us to go on guided tours and listen so-called ‘experts’ tell you about the history of this building or that monument.  But as every teacher knows, it is far better if the learner is able to develop a deep understanding on a topic through gathering evidence, then using their own observation, insights and intuition to establish the truth. I certainly have the teachers of Rosewood to thank for passing me this gift, and I intend to share knowlege with you, my readers..

Better let you go Farquar, I’ve just spotted a green statue of a poet!    

Farley

My three readers will know how much I have loved the food in Japan, and this trip is no different. In my childhood I was taught by my mother about the five major food groups in the Rosewood food pyramid – bread, butter, vegemite, roasts, and overcooked veges. In Tokyo, I have also tried to balance my diet, but with five major Japanese food groups – tonkatsu, udon, tempura, gyoza, and rice of course.

The eating highlight was without doubt a meal we had at a local tempura restaurant – it was sensational! The restaurant seated about 12 people – we got to sit at the bench next to their open kitchen. There were only three staff on duty – a 60-year-old floor manager/waiter, a 70-year-old chef, and an 80-year-old kitchen hand. None of the three had any English – but each of them obviously had enormous pride in their craft. The meal started at 7 pm for every table – and finished at 8:30 for everyone. I can think of very few meals I have enjoyed more in my wanders – ever.

Yesterday, the travel was by Shinkansen to a small coastal city called Odawara. There, we were met and shown around by two of Linda’s ex-students. Chi (the eldest) is a trained teacher but gave up teaching to help on the family farm – although the term ‘farm’ may be a bit generous, at least by Australian standards. We were shown around the city by Chi and her sister Saki, and then we were taken back to their house to meet her grandparents and to see their fields. The whole property is half a hectare. They grow a range of veges and have two rice paddies that have just been planted out – after that tour, it was lunch at a noodle restaurant.

I know that I am not good at sitting still, but in Japan, I am not good at sitting per se. At a Japanese table, one must sit on the floor with your feet behind you as it is impolite to position your feet toward other guests. However, I believe it would also be impolite to scream in agony and weep copious tears because of the damage being done to one’s knees and hips,even before the soba noodles are ordered. My knees would have exploded had I tried to adhere to Japanese etiquette, so Rosewood rules were applied, and my arthritic legs were extended under the table.

Tomorrow, we head for Vienna. The tables will have chairs, the restaurant staff will probably be young and sprightly, and the pastries will be divine. But I doubt that we will have a meal that comes close to tempura pepared by octogenarians or have a guide that even minutely compares to Chi or Saki. I doubt that I will taste seafood anything near the quality we have enjoyed here. But at least I am taking my knee caps with me to the land of the croissant, even if I did offend my hosts by saving myself from excruciating pain. Can’t have it all, I suppose. Better let you go Scotty, time to pack my bags for the next leg of the trip.

Farley

Lady CS and I are back to Japan for the 10th time – this time on our way to Lyon and Bergamo. As always, we are struck by the juxtoposition of old and new – sometimes very, very new. 

We journeyed today to the Imperial Palace and spent time there wandering the gardens.  Many of the structures in the grounds are more than 700 years old and built by hand – old indeed. Our main form of travel, however, has been on Japan’s high-tech railway network. Between the railway station and the gardens, there is an innovation centre – it provides a glimpse of future technologies.  I enjoyed the AI pet thingo – about the size of a decent rat, it will sense your mood – when you are anxious, it strokes you.  If you are sleepy, it will become lively in order to wake you up.   I was told by my companion that I didn’t need one – it was too costly, and Charlie would kill and bury it.

Rinai makes a cooktop and smart saucepan device.  Once the recipe is entered via your phone, the saucepan will heat to the exact temperature required, then send a message with instructions back to your phone or a speaker step by step.  It is impossible to burn anything in one of their saucepans – however, I was told that it would be best if I didn’t buy one as I would excede my luggage allowance and I didn’t need one.  I also didn’t need smart jewellery  – rings that are fitness sensors, gold or siver chains and earrings that carry and transmit data or shoes that calculate steps and track your weight.  However, I did need a toilet.

When it comes to technology, all of the aforementioned are high-tech, but Japanese toilets can be hyper tech. I have already tried out many of their functions – sometimes by accident.  There are butttons that can cause a drenching and severe fright to those from Rosewood who are less travelled than this scribe. Most modern Japanese toilets play the sound of a gently bubbling stream in order to disguise more human noises – although I am yet to find the button that plays the sound of a fierce thunderstorm as a means of concealing more extreme toilettting events. 

However, yesterday, I did find another feature of our hotel toilet that took even me by surprise. My reader should note for future reference that the yellow triangular button on Japanese toilets have absolutely nothing to do with flushing or rinsing. In fact, it did not appear to provide any useful purpose at all.  However, within one minute of  it being pressed, hotel staff arrived with enough first-aid, rescue and resuscitation equipment to deal with a local catastophy. Even I was embarrassed enough to be tempted to feign an injury……

Tomorrow, it’s back on a Shinkasen for a day trip south of Tokyo where we will visit one of Fairholme’s ex students who manages her parents’ business near the base of Mt Fuji. We will see ancient sites from the most modern of trains. We will witness some of the most cutting edge technologies and age old tradititions. But there is no way in the world I will ever press another yellow button.