gerardcarey
Veteran Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- CFx2, CPx1
PART 1.
It was in 990AD that Pope John XV announced that Ziggy was to be appointed the 27th Archbishop of Canterbury. So, over 1000 years ago, and there had been 26 Archbishops already....Blimey.
Ziggy had been educated at Glastonbury Abbey, where he eventually became a monk. He went on to become Abbot of St Augustine’s Abbey in Canterbury. Going up in the world was our Ziggy. His next step was to become the Bishop of Ramsbury. And now he was to be the Archbishop of Canterbury!
Sigeric the Serious, as he was more respectfully known, must have been pretty chuffed that he’d scored such a good job.
A good CV always helps right?
In those days, any new Archbishop of Canterbury could not exert his full authority until he had received a special article of vestment from the Pope. Called a Pallium, it was a narrowish band of cloth that was worn across the shoulders then down onto the chest, forming a Y shape.
But Ziggy had to go all the way to Rome to collect it!
Seems a bit strange that. But those was the rules!
I can be a bit slow sometimes, and now, after some consideration, it seems pretty obvious that the compulsory trip to Rome, and the having to wear the Pallium, was to show all to and sundry that the wearer had been specifically appointed by the Pope. In short, it indicated to whom he was primarily and indisputably answerable.
The current head of the realm was thereby kept in his/her rightful place when it came to decisions on matters of a serious religious nature.
And it all worked pretty well.
Until Henry the 8th upset the apple-cart.
Anyway, it was now incumbent on Ziggy to head off asap to pay his respects to the Pope. He did get to have lunch with the Pope, and visited 23 churches during his stay in Rome.
The trip was not as unusual as it seems because by this time there had already been many journeys by royalty and religious folk from the British Isles to Rome, or ‘The City of St Peter’ as they called it. The Pope was in those days considered to be the actual personification of St Peter on Earth.
Hard to get more important than that eh?
But what Ziggy did that is so valuable, and so memorable, was to meticulously record the journey in a journal. Some say he got a cleric in his entourage to do it for him. Whatever, good on Ziggy, because it now forms the basis for what we know as the Via Francigena.
By 990AD, the already traditional pilgrim route to Rome started in Canterbury, crossed the channel to Calais, then proceeded across France, Switzerland and Italy. Ziggy’s journal included details of each of his 79 stages between Calais and Rome.
Churches on the way to Rome no doubt took up a bit of time, some having relics that needed to be venerated and services that needed to be attended.
Then there was the Christian hospitality to be enjoyed along the way.
Good tucker, fine wine, comfy beds = good times.
Just be impolite to refuse that, wouldn’t it?
Presumably Ziggy and his entourage travelled on horseback, tho I saw one report stating he set off on foot. They no doubt proceeded along at a leisurely pace. Sounds a bit like the pilgrims in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. But what a right bunch of oddballs, eccentrics, and malcontents they turned out to be.
Pilgrims eh?….Just like us!
So, all in all, Ziggy’s journey sounds like just the kind of pilgrimage we’d all like to go on right?….Except for the horse riding maybe. It also seems likely that most, if not all of the places that Ziggy’s party stayed at were donativos, and rather exclusive ones at that. Monasteries and suchlike. How lucky were they!
Peasant style pilgrims were also admitted, but they probly considered themselves lucky to get the peasant style donativo. That consisted of a pile of straw to sleep on, a bowl of soup and a chunk of bread for dinner.
So. A comfy bed and a nutritious dinner for them too....Yeah right.
Ok then! I reluctantly agree! It was better than nothing!
So what does all this mean for us, for our own Hospitaleros, so generous with their time, and not forgetting Rebekah, our fantastical, mystical, mysterious woman who lives in Moratinos on the CF.
Well, what it means is that donativos have a basis in tradition.
It means we must respect their right to exist!
And to all you who are attempting to help carry on this tradition, I say, “Well done to you lot”!
Now don’t get too downhearted about the bludgers.
There is always going to be some of those.
Perhaps what we should be doing is offering bludgers the traditional donativo.
Yes!!! The pile of straw on the floor! The bread and bowl of watery soup for dinner!
I’m getting excited!….If they don’t like it, they know what they can do!
Should I suggest that to Rebekah? She wouldn’t get mad at me would she?
I think she might! But blimey, I just don’t like bludgers.
And you know me. Noble by nature aren’t I? Even if I do say so myself.
And I have to say so myself, cause nobody else ever does.
Anyway, I’d only take an inordinately small amount of pleasure in seeing the bludgers get their comeuppance.
It’s only a slight retribution Rebekah. Fairs fair I reckon.
Enough of the blather already….Gerard's off, following Ziggy down the Via Francigena.
The VF, after crossing the border from France into Switzerland, continues for a few daily stages before arriving lakeside in Lausanne. Tucked into the inside bend of the boomerang that is Lake Geneva, Lausanne is Switzerland’s 4th largest city. It is splashed across the face of a well-settled hillside that first rises gradually, then steeply from the lake’s edge.
I’d arrived yesterday after a stunningly beautiful 4 hour paddle-steamer journey up the lake from Geneva. If you ever get the chance, just do it. The paddle-steamer docked at about 2 pm, and I walked a k or two along the lake path, just to stretch the legs, then headed back to Lausanne for the night.
I’d had an interesting night in Lausanne, but today is supposed to be my first day of serious walking!
And I’m not doing so good!
I’ve spent the first few hours lazily sauntering along this wonderfully scenic, well tended pathway that sweeps gently around the edge of the lake. I pause, lean forward, rest down into my pacer poles, gaze out over the lake. Ahead, across the water in the misty distance, the Rhone River valley opens expansively onto the far shore of the lake.
Thru the plane window, as I’d approached Geneva, I’d a great view of the Rhone River emptying into Lake Geneva. The moraine stained water formed a precisely defined, chocolate milky pool, extending out into the calm blue waters. Today, from this lakeside view, the Rhone valley, at some distance across the water, exudes a deeply misty, somewhat mysterious appearance. The Swiss Alps, in their majesty, give a heavy looming background, a framing to the valley.
Now I’m looking up the valley’s right flank. I’m looking for an empty space amongst the mountains, somewhere not far up the valley.
There’s a space! That must be it!...well....it could be it! My vivid imagination fills that space with its version of the mountain that I surmise once stood there.
Now my imagination has me feeling the rumbling.
Folks back then, living and working in the lower Rhone valley and along both sides of the lake, wouldn’t have been aware of what the rumbling signified. It was the noise of instability deep within the earth, a warning of things to come.
The mountain fell out of the sky.
At my boyhood home in New Zealand they were reasonably regular visitors. They gave an unmistakable rumbly-rattling warning as they approached from under the Tasman sea. That’s the part of the Pacific Ocean that separates us Kiwis from the Aussies. I greet the earthquakes imminent arrival with great excitement.
Up and down the coast the under-monster swarms ashore. The ground starts its movement.
I stand, spindly boyhood legs astride, holding one-handed onto the couch for balance. The energy pulses through, way down down in the deep. The intruder is getting stronger. He’s climbing my legs. Now he is rifling at my midriff. I grasp the couch tighter, with two hands now, looking up eagerly to watch the lights sway.
Knees wobble, light, loose household items rattle, cupboards and doors bang shut.
Just scary enough to thrill.
Now, down in his underworld, he moves on, away into the distance, leaving me still excited but also somewhat sad that he is leaving.
I remember the old-timer’s stories of how the expansive grass farmlands moved like waves on the sea as the intruder passes thru. That would be a sight to see.
I really enjoyed earthquakes.
Still do.
This then, my first day of ‘serious’ walking, if not quite proceeding according to my 'stride-out' plan, is at least fulfilling all the hopes I’d had of having a beautiful scenic walk in Switzerland. My intention is to walk around the lake, turn up into the Rhone Valley, then continue, following the VF trail up and over the Alps. I’ll stay at with the St Bernard priests at their hospice up the top for a couple of nights, hopefully the dogs will be there and I can have a play with them. I’ll then then head down the other side, that's only two days walking, dissected by a one night stopover, after which I’ll finish my walk in the Italian town/city of Aosta, the first place on the way down that offers access again to train and bus services.
But for the moment, here’s me, haphazardly sauntering along, in a space of my own, soaking in the magnificent scenery, absolutely oblivious to time or distance. And that, my friend, is more than ok with me.
“Hello Mr Carey!....Mr Gerald!....Sir!”
Jolted from my dozy reverie, I quickly turn to ascertain from whence this unexpected greeting comes.
A happy, noisy group of teens, waving enthusiastically, is approaching from behind, along the lakeside pathway.
First year University Students. We’d stayed in the same place in Lausanne last night.
They were enjoying holidaying wanderings around and about the edge of the lake.
I’d left before them this morning, but they had caught up due to my dozy dwardling.
I greet the students somewhat nervously. I had good reason to.
We’d met late yesterday afternoon in Lausanne. We had been lazily relaxing in the secluded garden attached to our accommodation, bathing in the weakening autumn sunshine. Our discussion had centered around the possibility of obtaining a reasonably priced evening meal. From a student viewpoint, the cost of restaurant food in Lausanne appeared to suggest obtaining a cheap meal was an impossibility.
A Big Mac, it was in horror attested by several, cost 15 Swiss francs in Switzerland!
However, some of these students were staying close by in a rented house, where a fully outfitted kitchen was available for them to prepare their own meals if they so desired. After some discussion, during which it was ascertained that I had some experience in culinary matters, it was agreed we would prepare our own meal and that I would lead forth an expeditionary force to obtain the necessary ingredients.
We sallied forth in all haste to a small local supermarket.
My dinner choice? Rosti.
Being a Swiss favourite, many brands of this ubiquitous, large, foil packed, grated potato pancake are available in Swiss supermarkets. You bang it in a frypan, then, when cooked to golden brown on both sides, combine a good wedge of it with a fried egg, some hot bacon or cold ham, slices of tomato, and a some greenery. Finish it with salt and pep and a liberal sprinkle of cheese. A tub of ice cream and a few cans of fruit provided our dessert.
Yum. A good feed, even if you’re not that concerned about conserving your finances. Only fizzy drinks and cordials for drinkies. Hard to believe I know, but I can be a good example on occasion.
Whatever, it was in this kitchen that my elementary culinary skills ensured I attained a position in which I was held in very high esteem indeed. It was one of those very enjoyable, eaty, chatty, friendly, never to be forgotten evenings we pilgrims so enjoy.
Breakfast time the next morning in our dining area.
On approaching the table at which my young student friends were seated, I immediately proceed to cause alarm and create confusion, as sometimes appears to be a precondition of my life.
I call to the staff and point towards my young friends.
Theft! Stealing! Nefarious criminal activity is taking place over here!”
My young student friends were engaged in that age old criminal activity...nicking sandwich ingredients and fruit from the breakfast buffet. It was a case of….‘Get yourself a free lunch why don’t you’.
You’ve done that right? I have.
In the immediate guilt-ridden alarm and confusion somebody’s leg solidly bumped the table.
It abruptly shuddered on the floor.
Agitated apples and oranges, as tho aware that their ultimate fate was to be ripped apart then voraciously devoured, took the escape opportunity offered. They leapt to the floor then bounded away multi-directionally. Sandwiches, being furtively constructed on laps under the table, were immediately de-constructed, as the result of the abrupt stop to they were subjected to on meeting the floor.
Meeting the students again, here on the path, I was concerned that my embarrassing intrusion into their breakfast crime spree had caused a rift in our relationship. Apparently not. All is well!
“Come walk with us Mr. Carey...Mr Gerald...Sir. We saw you ahead of us and we need your input on some important matters,” asks a lass from the midst of the posse.
Young faces look up expectantly.
“I tentatively agree with your request,” I reply, “but this Mr. Carey, Mr Gerald, Sir, nonsense, has got to stop! In questionable modern parlance, it's not culturally appropriate! Where I come from, such an address to an undeserving person such as myself, is rightly regarded as a serious insult. I’m just an ordinary bloke, of no particular renown, and therefore absolutely insist on being addressed simply as Gerard.”
Agreement having being reached, we set off again around the foreshore which also accommodates a busy road, initially entitled the Route de Lausanne, then the Rue du Lac, now something else. We admire the swift little red trains that sweep in along the other side of the road, before disappearing into a mountain troll hole, away into the never-never once again.
I had thought of doing the wine trail through the Terrasses de lavaux, not far up to our left. The area is renowned for good hiking, fine vintages, and wonderful scenery especially as it is viewed from on high, out over the lake.
nerdyfootsteps.com
The need to put some kilometres under my feet on this my first day had ensured I took the lakeside path. I have since found out that the wine trail is 11k's. If I knew that back then I probably would have walked it. Those photos on the link are pretty stunning eh?
Please excuse my having split the story into two parts. But on attempting to post it I found it was over the allowable limit. Maybe I'll post the second half next weekend. Or maybe the mods have some different idea.
Anyway, hi to all!
Regards
Gerard
It was in 990AD that Pope John XV announced that Ziggy was to be appointed the 27th Archbishop of Canterbury. So, over 1000 years ago, and there had been 26 Archbishops already....Blimey.
Ziggy had been educated at Glastonbury Abbey, where he eventually became a monk. He went on to become Abbot of St Augustine’s Abbey in Canterbury. Going up in the world was our Ziggy. His next step was to become the Bishop of Ramsbury. And now he was to be the Archbishop of Canterbury!
Sigeric the Serious, as he was more respectfully known, must have been pretty chuffed that he’d scored such a good job.
A good CV always helps right?
In those days, any new Archbishop of Canterbury could not exert his full authority until he had received a special article of vestment from the Pope. Called a Pallium, it was a narrowish band of cloth that was worn across the shoulders then down onto the chest, forming a Y shape.
But Ziggy had to go all the way to Rome to collect it!
Seems a bit strange that. But those was the rules!
I can be a bit slow sometimes, and now, after some consideration, it seems pretty obvious that the compulsory trip to Rome, and the having to wear the Pallium, was to show all to and sundry that the wearer had been specifically appointed by the Pope. In short, it indicated to whom he was primarily and indisputably answerable.
The current head of the realm was thereby kept in his/her rightful place when it came to decisions on matters of a serious religious nature.
And it all worked pretty well.
Until Henry the 8th upset the apple-cart.
Anyway, it was now incumbent on Ziggy to head off asap to pay his respects to the Pope. He did get to have lunch with the Pope, and visited 23 churches during his stay in Rome.
The trip was not as unusual as it seems because by this time there had already been many journeys by royalty and religious folk from the British Isles to Rome, or ‘The City of St Peter’ as they called it. The Pope was in those days considered to be the actual personification of St Peter on Earth.
Hard to get more important than that eh?
But what Ziggy did that is so valuable, and so memorable, was to meticulously record the journey in a journal. Some say he got a cleric in his entourage to do it for him. Whatever, good on Ziggy, because it now forms the basis for what we know as the Via Francigena.
By 990AD, the already traditional pilgrim route to Rome started in Canterbury, crossed the channel to Calais, then proceeded across France, Switzerland and Italy. Ziggy’s journal included details of each of his 79 stages between Calais and Rome.
Churches on the way to Rome no doubt took up a bit of time, some having relics that needed to be venerated and services that needed to be attended.
Then there was the Christian hospitality to be enjoyed along the way.
Good tucker, fine wine, comfy beds = good times.
Just be impolite to refuse that, wouldn’t it?
Presumably Ziggy and his entourage travelled on horseback, tho I saw one report stating he set off on foot. They no doubt proceeded along at a leisurely pace. Sounds a bit like the pilgrims in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. But what a right bunch of oddballs, eccentrics, and malcontents they turned out to be.
Pilgrims eh?….Just like us!
So, all in all, Ziggy’s journey sounds like just the kind of pilgrimage we’d all like to go on right?….Except for the horse riding maybe. It also seems likely that most, if not all of the places that Ziggy’s party stayed at were donativos, and rather exclusive ones at that. Monasteries and suchlike. How lucky were they!
Peasant style pilgrims were also admitted, but they probly considered themselves lucky to get the peasant style donativo. That consisted of a pile of straw to sleep on, a bowl of soup and a chunk of bread for dinner.
So. A comfy bed and a nutritious dinner for them too....Yeah right.
Ok then! I reluctantly agree! It was better than nothing!
So what does all this mean for us, for our own Hospitaleros, so generous with their time, and not forgetting Rebekah, our fantastical, mystical, mysterious woman who lives in Moratinos on the CF.
Well, what it means is that donativos have a basis in tradition.
It means we must respect their right to exist!
And to all you who are attempting to help carry on this tradition, I say, “Well done to you lot”!
Now don’t get too downhearted about the bludgers.
There is always going to be some of those.
Perhaps what we should be doing is offering bludgers the traditional donativo.
Yes!!! The pile of straw on the floor! The bread and bowl of watery soup for dinner!
I’m getting excited!….If they don’t like it, they know what they can do!
Should I suggest that to Rebekah? She wouldn’t get mad at me would she?
I think she might! But blimey, I just don’t like bludgers.
And you know me. Noble by nature aren’t I? Even if I do say so myself.
And I have to say so myself, cause nobody else ever does.
Anyway, I’d only take an inordinately small amount of pleasure in seeing the bludgers get their comeuppance.
It’s only a slight retribution Rebekah. Fairs fair I reckon.
Enough of the blather already….Gerard's off, following Ziggy down the Via Francigena.
The VF, after crossing the border from France into Switzerland, continues for a few daily stages before arriving lakeside in Lausanne. Tucked into the inside bend of the boomerang that is Lake Geneva, Lausanne is Switzerland’s 4th largest city. It is splashed across the face of a well-settled hillside that first rises gradually, then steeply from the lake’s edge.
I’d arrived yesterday after a stunningly beautiful 4 hour paddle-steamer journey up the lake from Geneva. If you ever get the chance, just do it. The paddle-steamer docked at about 2 pm, and I walked a k or two along the lake path, just to stretch the legs, then headed back to Lausanne for the night.
I’d had an interesting night in Lausanne, but today is supposed to be my first day of serious walking!
And I’m not doing so good!
I’ve spent the first few hours lazily sauntering along this wonderfully scenic, well tended pathway that sweeps gently around the edge of the lake. I pause, lean forward, rest down into my pacer poles, gaze out over the lake. Ahead, across the water in the misty distance, the Rhone River valley opens expansively onto the far shore of the lake.
Thru the plane window, as I’d approached Geneva, I’d a great view of the Rhone River emptying into Lake Geneva. The moraine stained water formed a precisely defined, chocolate milky pool, extending out into the calm blue waters. Today, from this lakeside view, the Rhone valley, at some distance across the water, exudes a deeply misty, somewhat mysterious appearance. The Swiss Alps, in their majesty, give a heavy looming background, a framing to the valley.
Now I’m looking up the valley’s right flank. I’m looking for an empty space amongst the mountains, somewhere not far up the valley.
There’s a space! That must be it!...well....it could be it! My vivid imagination fills that space with its version of the mountain that I surmise once stood there.
Now my imagination has me feeling the rumbling.
Folks back then, living and working in the lower Rhone valley and along both sides of the lake, wouldn’t have been aware of what the rumbling signified. It was the noise of instability deep within the earth, a warning of things to come.
The mountain fell out of the sky.
At my boyhood home in New Zealand they were reasonably regular visitors. They gave an unmistakable rumbly-rattling warning as they approached from under the Tasman sea. That’s the part of the Pacific Ocean that separates us Kiwis from the Aussies. I greet the earthquakes imminent arrival with great excitement.
Up and down the coast the under-monster swarms ashore. The ground starts its movement.
I stand, spindly boyhood legs astride, holding one-handed onto the couch for balance. The energy pulses through, way down down in the deep. The intruder is getting stronger. He’s climbing my legs. Now he is rifling at my midriff. I grasp the couch tighter, with two hands now, looking up eagerly to watch the lights sway.
Knees wobble, light, loose household items rattle, cupboards and doors bang shut.
Just scary enough to thrill.
Now, down in his underworld, he moves on, away into the distance, leaving me still excited but also somewhat sad that he is leaving.
I remember the old-timer’s stories of how the expansive grass farmlands moved like waves on the sea as the intruder passes thru. That would be a sight to see.
I really enjoyed earthquakes.
Still do.
This then, my first day of ‘serious’ walking, if not quite proceeding according to my 'stride-out' plan, is at least fulfilling all the hopes I’d had of having a beautiful scenic walk in Switzerland. My intention is to walk around the lake, turn up into the Rhone Valley, then continue, following the VF trail up and over the Alps. I’ll stay at with the St Bernard priests at their hospice up the top for a couple of nights, hopefully the dogs will be there and I can have a play with them. I’ll then then head down the other side, that's only two days walking, dissected by a one night stopover, after which I’ll finish my walk in the Italian town/city of Aosta, the first place on the way down that offers access again to train and bus services.
But for the moment, here’s me, haphazardly sauntering along, in a space of my own, soaking in the magnificent scenery, absolutely oblivious to time or distance. And that, my friend, is more than ok with me.
“Hello Mr Carey!....Mr Gerald!....Sir!”
Jolted from my dozy reverie, I quickly turn to ascertain from whence this unexpected greeting comes.
A happy, noisy group of teens, waving enthusiastically, is approaching from behind, along the lakeside pathway.
First year University Students. We’d stayed in the same place in Lausanne last night.
They were enjoying holidaying wanderings around and about the edge of the lake.
I’d left before them this morning, but they had caught up due to my dozy dwardling.
I greet the students somewhat nervously. I had good reason to.
We’d met late yesterday afternoon in Lausanne. We had been lazily relaxing in the secluded garden attached to our accommodation, bathing in the weakening autumn sunshine. Our discussion had centered around the possibility of obtaining a reasonably priced evening meal. From a student viewpoint, the cost of restaurant food in Lausanne appeared to suggest obtaining a cheap meal was an impossibility.
A Big Mac, it was in horror attested by several, cost 15 Swiss francs in Switzerland!
However, some of these students were staying close by in a rented house, where a fully outfitted kitchen was available for them to prepare their own meals if they so desired. After some discussion, during which it was ascertained that I had some experience in culinary matters, it was agreed we would prepare our own meal and that I would lead forth an expeditionary force to obtain the necessary ingredients.
We sallied forth in all haste to a small local supermarket.
My dinner choice? Rosti.
Being a Swiss favourite, many brands of this ubiquitous, large, foil packed, grated potato pancake are available in Swiss supermarkets. You bang it in a frypan, then, when cooked to golden brown on both sides, combine a good wedge of it with a fried egg, some hot bacon or cold ham, slices of tomato, and a some greenery. Finish it with salt and pep and a liberal sprinkle of cheese. A tub of ice cream and a few cans of fruit provided our dessert.
Yum. A good feed, even if you’re not that concerned about conserving your finances. Only fizzy drinks and cordials for drinkies. Hard to believe I know, but I can be a good example on occasion.
Whatever, it was in this kitchen that my elementary culinary skills ensured I attained a position in which I was held in very high esteem indeed. It was one of those very enjoyable, eaty, chatty, friendly, never to be forgotten evenings we pilgrims so enjoy.
Breakfast time the next morning in our dining area.
On approaching the table at which my young student friends were seated, I immediately proceed to cause alarm and create confusion, as sometimes appears to be a precondition of my life.
I call to the staff and point towards my young friends.
Theft! Stealing! Nefarious criminal activity is taking place over here!”
My young student friends were engaged in that age old criminal activity...nicking sandwich ingredients and fruit from the breakfast buffet. It was a case of….‘Get yourself a free lunch why don’t you’.
You’ve done that right? I have.
In the immediate guilt-ridden alarm and confusion somebody’s leg solidly bumped the table.
It abruptly shuddered on the floor.
Agitated apples and oranges, as tho aware that their ultimate fate was to be ripped apart then voraciously devoured, took the escape opportunity offered. They leapt to the floor then bounded away multi-directionally. Sandwiches, being furtively constructed on laps under the table, were immediately de-constructed, as the result of the abrupt stop to they were subjected to on meeting the floor.
Meeting the students again, here on the path, I was concerned that my embarrassing intrusion into their breakfast crime spree had caused a rift in our relationship. Apparently not. All is well!
“Come walk with us Mr. Carey...Mr Gerald...Sir. We saw you ahead of us and we need your input on some important matters,” asks a lass from the midst of the posse.
Young faces look up expectantly.
“I tentatively agree with your request,” I reply, “but this Mr. Carey, Mr Gerald, Sir, nonsense, has got to stop! In questionable modern parlance, it's not culturally appropriate! Where I come from, such an address to an undeserving person such as myself, is rightly regarded as a serious insult. I’m just an ordinary bloke, of no particular renown, and therefore absolutely insist on being addressed simply as Gerard.”
Agreement having being reached, we set off again around the foreshore which also accommodates a busy road, initially entitled the Route de Lausanne, then the Rue du Lac, now something else. We admire the swift little red trains that sweep in along the other side of the road, before disappearing into a mountain troll hole, away into the never-never once again.
I had thought of doing the wine trail through the Terrasses de lavaux, not far up to our left. The area is renowned for good hiking, fine vintages, and wonderful scenery especially as it is viewed from on high, out over the lake.
Terrasses de lavaux: Everything you need to know about the gorgeous Swiss wine trail
Terrasses de Lavaux, the UNESCO heritage vineyards are Switzerland's well-kept secret. Get this complete guide (with Lavaux vineyards hike map!) for the best views of Swiss Riviera.
nerdyfootsteps.com
Please excuse my having split the story into two parts. But on attempting to post it I found it was over the allowable limit. Maybe I'll post the second half next weekend. Or maybe the mods have some different idea.
Anyway, hi to all!
Regards
Gerard
Last edited:
