Fri 19th April - Wed 23rd April 2008
Our very first t-shirt and shorts day today! I have been praying for this weather since the very moment I peaked out the window and saw snow on April 6th. It's perfect - we're surrounded by other campervans all tucking into either their dinner or dessert cookies, sitting outside next to their aluminum dinner tables, burning citronella candles. I'm even still in a t-shirt and shorts and it's 8:36pm. You'd think it was mid-summer and we're oh so very appreciative of finally experiencing some proper "summer weather".
I'm giving up on trying to blog every single day of this trip. An ideal for later in my life if I want to read back on what I was doing but I doubt any of you are even the slightest bit interested in some of our more boring days... such as today. It was strictly a house cleaning / regain sanity day which I'm finding surprisingly soothing instead of feeling like a chore.
The best news since my last blog was Porto, Portugal - a really wonderful city that we almost skipped due to the bad weather in northern Portugal. My good friend Davina did almost the exact same road trip 2 years ago and said one of her favourite cities was Porto. As you may have read in my earlier entries, we were plagued by bad weather in northern Portugal and discovered the many, many leaks in the van. Everything was soaked by the time we pulled into Porto, including our spirits. That bulky hair dryer that Bevan scoffed at when he saw me packing it was a god send, as we spent nearly 3 hours on Fri, 19th April trying to blow-dry all of the seat cushions, towels, walls and plywood in the van to avoid getting mold. Instead of a constant down-pour, we were blessed with slight showers that only turned up when we were inside port tasting or sitting at an internet cafe. We even had a furry friend who stopped in for regular visits at the campsite, but unfortunately still no English speaking friends.
For those of you in London, I definitely recommend a weekend visit to Porto. I looooove Lisbon, and Porto is right up there as a very beautiful town with plenty to do on a quick city break. The city is situated along the River Duoro with the historical centre along one side, and an enormous bridge connecting it to the port cellars on the other bank. We spent day 1 in Porto just walking around the very steep narrow streets, climbing the tower to get an anxiety-attack view of the city and a slow meander down the river banks.
Any tourist guide will tell you the typical places to visit, but I think I'll always remember the tower. I've always had an issue with vertigo, but I've only ever had 2 anxiety attacks over it. If you're anxious about heights, you might want to skip this one as I completely embarassed myself at the very top by freaking out yelling "I have to get down! I have to get down!" clutching the sides of the staircase and finally landing in a small huddled heap of panicked breathing until I was able to regain my composure. And yes, unfortunately there were other tourists up there who witnessed it. OH WELL. I can handle most things, including the terrifying Monument in London but this pushed me over the edge.
Our 2nd day in Porto, we focused on the port cellars - which is why I think Davina loved this city so much. I looooove port and they are very generous with their free samples which ultimately ends in drunken chatter with any other English speakers and the purchasing of several bottles according to how closely they correspond with your birth year -- not an overly cheap day out afterall if over-sampling inspires you to purchase. But since it's only the cellars that are located here, there's none of that hassle of travelling long distances from vineyard to vineyard. There are literally 5 within the same block so it's just a quick trot to the next location and you're tucking in all over again.
Despite the fun of our indulgences, we did pay a very heavy price. Here is a photo of what happens when you sweeten your blood with port, then sleep outside in a van without any mosquito repellant.
Let me show you that again...
BEFORE
AFTER
Let's just say that the teenagers at our latest camp here in Sevilla, Spain keep mistaking me for either being in their age group (yay...I think) or feeling great pity for me that the acne never cleared up before adulthood.
Porto, Portugal
Campo du Geres, Portugal
Thurs 17th April & Fri 18th AprilRight now the whole morning process is probably my least favourite part of the day. We’re pretty far south, just north of Porto in Portugal, so we both figured we’d be in T-shirts and shorts by now. But it’s still pretty damn cold. Crawling out from under the blankets takes every ounce of will power you can muster, then it’s off to the shower blocks which are all mostly open air facilities with no heating and barely any water pressure. You strip off to nothing, then stand there shivering until the warm water finally pours out of the shower head, only to have it shut off every 15 seconds until you press the button again. I gave up shaving my legs on day one, as the hair grows back from the freezing cold by the time my razor has reached the top of my calf. I can’t stop shivering from the whole process until I’ve finished my cup of instant coffee back at the van. Watch England have a record breaking summer of heat while Europe suffers from a cold freeze and downpours.
So back to today. It was another comedy of mishaps, which we’ll probably laugh about fondly in a few months but it’s certainly not easy when you’re living through it. As I was walking to the shower block about 100 metres from our van, a number of workmen pulled into the campsite. We were the only people in the campsite, so I decided to shut the entrance to the women’s showers for a bit more privacy. OOPS – I will not be doing that again on this trip. After my shower, I decided to set my shoes outside to dry off and discovered that the door was locked. I started pounding on the door yelling, but there were no windows facing the outside so I had no idea if anyone was in the vicinity. Twenty five minutes of yelling “No saida! Ayudame!!” at the top of my lungs, Bevan finally heard me from the van and opened the door. It was a mix of broken Portugese and Spanish, which may explain why no one else came to my rescue but it was certainly not a nice start to the morning.
Already a dramatic morning and we still hadn’t resolved the tire situation. Yes, the tire was definitely flat but fortunately the campsite reception spoke English and was able to draw us a rough map to the nearest tire shop about 8km away. We made it to the shop, but the mechanic spoke no English and unfortunately our guide book had no phrase section for auto repair questions. So I called our good friend Tania, knowing her office is probably the most diverse workplace in London and one of her colleagues was bound to know Portuguese. It was soooo good to hear a familiar voice again that it immediately lifted our spirits, especially since she could help us laugh about the whole situation.
Our van is an old Royal Mail delivery van with plenty of quirks, one of which includes 4 tires at the rear of the van – two on either side. The right rear exterior tire had gone flat, but when the mechanic removed it for repairs, he found the second tire in a state that words can not describe. (See adjacent photo). Damn that Aussie b*s!&%d who sold us the van!
So we were now down two tires and shocked that we had been driving such precarious roads on a
tire that was literally worn down to the steel wiring! Expecting a very hefty bill and our budget for the week to be completely blown, we sadly asked in broken Portuguese how much it would cost. “Sheenchwo” is all I heard, and figured it was around 50 euros. Not bad at all for two tires! As I reached for the 50 euro bill in my wallet, thankfully Bevan asked him to repeat it again, and the mechanic pulled out a 5 euro bill, pointing to it. We were absolutely floored! FIVE EUROS to fix two tires?? I’m starting to think Portugal is pretty wonderful after all, despite the pouring rain.
tire that was literally worn down to the steel wiring! Expecting a very hefty bill and our budget for the week to be completely blown, we sadly asked in broken Portuguese how much it would cost. “Sheenchwo” is all I heard, and figured it was around 50 euros. Not bad at all for two tires! As I reached for the 50 euro bill in my wallet, thankfully Bevan asked him to repeat it again, and the mechanic pulled out a 5 euro bill, pointing to it. We were absolutely floored! FIVE EUROS to fix two tires?? I’m starting to think Portugal is pretty wonderful after all, despite the pouring rain.Now onto Porto for some port tasting!
Braga, Portugal
Wed 16th April
It’s been a doozy of a day and to make matters worse, our campsite is 5km from the nearest shop and we’re down to our last 2 beers.
We attempted our longest drive yet, from Segovia, Spain to Braga, Portugal. The TomTom said it’d take just over 7 hours, but 12 hours later we finally pulled into our campsite. We can’t really blame it on the GPS - just really bad luck with finding a campsite, and then further bad luck once we finally got there.
The day started earlier than I’d ever get up for work but we wanted to get on the road and crack through this 7 hour drive to have enough time to set-up camp on the other end. At one point, the TomTom even said we’d even be in by 2:30pm. Oh how wrong TomTom was indeed.
The drive into the Minho Valley of northern Portugal was stunning and the last few hours to Braga flew by as we stared out the window at the steep pastures filled with long-horned bulls and old wrinkled faces chucking their hoes into the cliffside vineyards.
Then the trouble started. We pulled into Braga around 5:30pm and discovered that this city was not built for brutes like our purple. TomTom kept leading us through tiny narrow streets where either pedestrians or seemingly parked cars darted out at us from every direction. After 20 minutes, we decided that even if there was a campsite in the centre of the city, we certainly didn’t want to find it.
So on to Gueriemas, where according to our campervan book, there was a beautiful well-kept campsite that opened on April 1st at the very tippy top of the mountain overlooking the city. Switchback after switchback we climbed a hair-raising narrow cobblestone drive until we found the car park and the front gates shut. Not a single other caravan in site. One of the guards appeared from behind the bushes after we rang the number posted to the front door and confirmed our fears – the campsite was not open yet. Fortunately he had a Portugal camping book and pointed us in the direction of a 3rd campsite. I wrote down the phone number just in case and we took off in hopes that 6:30pm wasn’t too late to find someone at reception.
It’s been a doozy of a day and to make matters worse, our campsite is 5km from the nearest shop and we’re down to our last 2 beers.
We attempted our longest drive yet, from Segovia, Spain to Braga, Portugal. The TomTom said it’d take just over 7 hours, but 12 hours later we finally pulled into our campsite. We can’t really blame it on the GPS - just really bad luck with finding a campsite, and then further bad luck once we finally got there.
The day started earlier than I’d ever get up for work but we wanted to get on the road and crack through this 7 hour drive to have enough time to set-up camp on the other end. At one point, the TomTom even said we’d even be in by 2:30pm. Oh how wrong TomTom was indeed.The drive into the Minho Valley of northern Portugal was stunning and the last few hours to Braga flew by as we stared out the window at the steep pastures filled with long-horned bulls and old wrinkled faces chucking their hoes into the cliffside vineyards.
Then the trouble started. We pulled into Braga around 5:30pm and discovered that this city was not built for brutes like our purple. TomTom kept leading us through tiny narrow streets where either pedestrians or seemingly parked cars darted out at us from every direction. After 20 minutes, we decided that even if there was a campsite in the centre of the city, we certainly didn’t want to find it.
So on to Gueriemas, where according to our campervan book, there was a beautiful well-kept campsite that opened on April 1st at the very tippy top of the mountain overlooking the city. Switchback after switchback we climbed a hair-raising narrow cobblestone drive until we found the car park and the front gates shut. Not a single other caravan in site. One of the guards appeared from behind the bushes after we rang the number posted to the front door and confirmed our fears – the campsite was not open yet. Fortunately he had a Portugal camping book and pointed us in the direction of a 3rd campsite. I wrote down the phone number just in case and we took off in hopes that 6:30pm wasn’t too late to find someone at reception.
By far the worst drive of the day, as TomTom chose the narrowest, bumpiest and terrifyingly steep roads, eventually claiming we’d reached our destination at 2 dirt tire tracks leading into a thick eucalyptus forest. We decided to brave it and eventually the dirt road led out into another neighbourhood where we found our saviour. A lovely man around 50-years old was standing in the street talking to a neighbour and even though he didn’t speak a word of English and we didn’t speak a word of Portuguese or French, he jumped into his car and guided us to the campsite.
After checking in at 7:30pm, we settled down for a beer to calm our frustration and listened to the rain start to pummel away on the rooftop. Just when we felt relaxed, we heard drip…drip…drip. The sunroof was leaking and quickly getting worse! There was no way to plug it with the roof being so wet so we turned the van around to change the slope of the car, which is when we noticed that the rear right tire seemed awfully low. So the fun will continue into tomorrow. This is the part of the trip that builds character, right?
Segovia, Spain
Mon 14th & Tues 15th April 
I’m writing this sentence a few days after we actually visited Segovia, but earlier today I asked Bevan what his favourite part of the trip had been so far and we both agreed – Segovia.
The city sits just an hour north of Madrid but appears to have minimal impact from tourism so far. 
Either that, or they’re doing a damn fine job of preserving the city from the many cheesy tourist shops that normally infiltrate highly beautiful cities. Don’t get me wrong, the tourist shops definitely still exist but you’re just as likely to find a balance of high quality shops filled with locally produced items tucked down some of the less travelled streets as you are to find ceramic plates painted with “Segovia” on the main high street.
Our campsite was located just north of the town and we could easily catch a bus into the city centre, which terminated at a 2-storey Roman aqueduct hovering over the city. From this point, a number of pedestrianised cobble stone streets fan out with most of them leading to the grand cathedral that sits at the very top of a large rock. Walking the narrow streets behind the cathedral leads you to a massive fortress that looks more like Cinderella’s castle than a real-life Spanish alcazar.
You can easily spend a day wandering the city on foot, but the real treat is viewing the city from afar. We took the city tourist bus for 5.35 euros and were stunned at how much there was to see just outside the city walls. Tiny villages with ancient monasteries were tucked into the valley just beneath the rock, plus many stunning views from the surrounding suburban neighbourhoods.
If we had known the torrential downpours that awaited us in northern Portugal, we probably would have stayed in Segovia for a few more days. A real treat to visit if you happen to have a day or two free in Madrid.
San Sebastian, Spain
Sun 13th April
We had about 20 minutes in San Sebastian before the rain started pouring down. Managed to sneak in 3 photos, before dashing into a nearby bar where we decided to drink beers until the rain let up. The rain didn’t let up, so that’s about all I have to say about San Sebastian. My sister, Teresa, and I visited the beachside resort in 2000 and I have very fond memories of the place, but my advice would be to visit in mid-summer when it’s sunny. Otherwise there’s a great little pub called Fuego Negro just next to the cathedral with 2.50 euro beers where you can hide out until it stops raining.
We had about 20 minutes in San Sebastian before the rain started pouring down. Managed to sneak in 3 photos, before dashing into a nearby bar where we decided to drink beers until the rain let up. The rain didn’t let up, so that’s about all I have to say about San Sebastian. My sister, Teresa, and I visited the beachside resort in 2000 and I have very fond memories of the place, but my advice would be to visit in mid-summer when it’s sunny. Otherwise there’s a great little pub called Fuego Negro just next to the cathedral with 2.50 euro beers where you can hide out until it stops raining.
St. Emillion, France
Sat 12th April
I’m quite the fan of Napa Valley in northern California but the beauty of St. Emillion simply outshines Napa hands down. There’s nothing quite like tiny winding roads through acres of sloped vineyards, dotted with massive stone chateaus and not a major highway in sight. But one point that Napa does win is the fact that the vineyards are open.
Yes, we made the tragic mistake of visiting St. Emillion on a Saturday. Most vineyards are open Monday – Friday but pretty much all of them are closed on weekends and/or require you to book an appointment. The tourism office in the centre of town will not make bookings for you and considering our tight budget, we decided to save our roaming calls for the family instead of wine drinking.
Despite the main purpose of our visit being defeated, we still had an amazing time. Our campsite was conveniently located about a 10 minute cycle from the centre of the old village and we were completely surrounded by vineyards. So after a mid-morning breakfast and a brief stint feeding the local campsite ducks, we hopped on our bikes and started to pedal.
Town itself was stunning and worth the stop with or without wine.
Narrow, steep cobblestone roads wind up the hillside with cafes and wine shops on literally every street. The place is simply gorgeous and after a short cycle, we decided to treat ourselves to a glass of the local wine at one of the cafes in the central plaza. I’m not normally a red wine fan and neither is Bevan, but once again we managed to polish off a bottle back at the campsite so it must have been good. Tomorrow I’ll remember my liver… I promise.
I’m quite the fan of Napa Valley in northern California but the beauty of St. Emillion simply outshines Napa hands down. There’s nothing quite like tiny winding roads through acres of sloped vineyards, dotted with massive stone chateaus and not a major highway in sight. But one point that Napa does win is the fact that the vineyards are open.
Yes, we made the tragic mistake of visiting St. Emillion on a Saturday. Most vineyards are open Monday – Friday but pretty much all of them are closed on weekends and/or require you to book an appointment. The tourism office in the centre of town will not make bookings for you and considering our tight budget, we decided to save our roaming calls for the family instead of wine drinking.
Despite the main purpose of our visit being defeated, we still had an amazing time. Our campsite was conveniently located about a 10 minute cycle from the centre of the old village and we were completely surrounded by vineyards. So after a mid-morning breakfast and a brief stint feeding the local campsite ducks, we hopped on our bikes and started to pedal.Town itself was stunning and worth the stop with or without wine.
Narrow, steep cobblestone roads wind up the hillside with cafes and wine shops on literally every street. The place is simply gorgeous and after a short cycle, we decided to treat ourselves to a glass of the local wine at one of the cafes in the central plaza. I’m not normally a red wine fan and neither is Bevan, but once again we managed to polish off a bottle back at the campsite so it must have been good. Tomorrow I’ll remember my liver… I promise.Cognac, France
Fri 11th April
After the number I did on my liver in London, I figured it’d be a few weeks before I could muster up the strength to stomach alcohol again. But it would be a crying shame to be worrying about something as trivial as the liver while passing through some of the finest alcohol producing regions in the world.
First up was the magnificent cider in Normandy. This stuff puts Strongbow and Scrumpy Jack to shame (which let’s face it - isn’t hard to do). The alcohol percentage is lighter than what you’d expect at the pub, but the stuff is damn drinkable making it just as lethal. On the drive back from the D-day beaches, we stopped off at what looked to be a massive castle/chateau that had a cider sign out front. The place was gorgeous with a moat through the front yard and a large stone arch guiding you into the courtyard. It must have been quite a sight watching our purple beast pull into such a posh setting. Can’t believe I didn’t jump out to take a photo. Inside the courtyard we were greeted by a man who politely asked if we’d mind waiting a few minutes for his son to finish. I looked past him onto the stone paved terrace where his 2-year old son was sitting on a potty trainer looking very determined. So the purple beast would fit in just fine here! After sampling a few of the varieties, we opted for a drier version and promptly headed to the campsite to finish 2 bottles. Delish.
Second stop was Cognac, a town just outside of Bordeaux known for producing… you guessed it! Cognac. Who knew it was also a town? Turns out the place is just like Champagne, in the sense that producers of the spirit can’t call it cognac unless the grapes are actually grown in the Cognac region. We didn’t stay for long, as the drive from Normandy had already taken us over 5 hours and we were keen to find a campsite for the night. Oh – did I mention that we discovered our top speed in the purple beast is 50mph and more like 35mph on a hill? Painful, but we’re learning to appreciate that slower speeds mean you really do see more of the countryside.
But I digress… for 9 euros, we toured the world famous Hennessey estate, which even includes a quick jaunt across the river to see where their cognac is aged. After a quick explanation of how the spirit is produced, the most fascinating part of the tour was one of the aging warehouses, where some of the finer barrels sitting behind a very strong gate have been aging since 1803. We snapped a few photos and headed into the 2nd best part of the tour – tasting! I soon discovered cognac isn’t really my thing and I’d prefer more of the Normandy cider so no souvenirs were purchased.
Final stop of the day (and third stop on the alcohol tour) was a wine region just outside the city of Bordeaux called St. Emillion.
After the number I did on my liver in London, I figured it’d be a few weeks before I could muster up the strength to stomach alcohol again. But it would be a crying shame to be worrying about something as trivial as the liver while passing through some of the finest alcohol producing regions in the world.
First up was the magnificent cider in Normandy. This stuff puts Strongbow and Scrumpy Jack to shame (which let’s face it - isn’t hard to do). The alcohol percentage is lighter than what you’d expect at the pub, but the stuff is damn drinkable making it just as lethal. On the drive back from the D-day beaches, we stopped off at what looked to be a massive castle/chateau that had a cider sign out front. The place was gorgeous with a moat through the front yard and a large stone arch guiding you into the courtyard. It must have been quite a sight watching our purple beast pull into such a posh setting. Can’t believe I didn’t jump out to take a photo. Inside the courtyard we were greeted by a man who politely asked if we’d mind waiting a few minutes for his son to finish. I looked past him onto the stone paved terrace where his 2-year old son was sitting on a potty trainer looking very determined. So the purple beast would fit in just fine here! After sampling a few of the varieties, we opted for a drier version and promptly headed to the campsite to finish 2 bottles. Delish.
Second stop was Cognac, a town just outside of Bordeaux known for producing… you guessed it! Cognac. Who knew it was also a town? Turns out the place is just like Champagne, in the sense that producers of the spirit can’t call it cognac unless the grapes are actually grown in the Cognac region. We didn’t stay for long, as the drive from Normandy had already taken us over 5 hours and we were keen to find a campsite for the night. Oh – did I mention that we discovered our top speed in the purple beast is 50mph and more like 35mph on a hill? Painful, but we’re learning to appreciate that slower speeds mean you really do see more of the countryside.
But I digress… for 9 euros, we toured the world famous Hennessey estate, which even includes a quick jaunt across the river to see where their cognac is aged. After a quick explanation of how the spirit is produced, the most fascinating part of the tour was one of the aging warehouses, where some of the finer barrels sitting behind a very strong gate have been aging since 1803. We snapped a few photos and headed into the 2nd best part of the tour – tasting! I soon discovered cognac isn’t really my thing and I’d prefer more of the Normandy cider so no souvenirs were purchased.
Final stop of the day (and third stop on the alcohol tour) was a wine region just outside the city of Bordeaux called St. Emillion.
Day 5 - Mont St. Michel
Thurs 9th April
I´m quickly running out of time at this internet cafe, so this entry is going to be a very quick one!
Mont St. Michel is just a few hours down the road from Normandy and feels like you´re stepping into a fantasy land, with a touch of Disney. An 11th century abbey and cathedral have been precariously perched atop a large boulder in the middle of the bay, which at low tide you can easily walk around its base to snap photos. But beware of the many warning signs about the incoming tides, as the rock is almost completely surrounded by water at high tide.
We arrived just in time to set up camp about a 10 minute cycle from the rock. Quite a stroke of luck, as the hotels in this area appear to be pretty pricey and much further away than our campsite! We even had a view of the abbey on the walk back from the toilets!
The abbey itself has a historical tour, but unfortunately the rest of the site is mostly a tourist attraction. The steep winding road to the abbey & cathedral are built to resemble an 11th century village, but the shops are filled with the usual tourist bric-a-brac and creperie shops. A bit of a disappointment, but not all that surprising I suppose.
Check out the rest of the photo album for some of Bevan´s supreme shots.
Day 4 - D-day beaches of Normandy
Wed 8th April 2008
If you´re ever in Northern France, a stop at the D-day beaches in Normandy is definitely worth your while, especially if you´re from any of the countries who fought here. My cousin, Shane Armendariz, shipped off to fight in Iraq literally 3 days before we left London so seeing these battlefields and the cemetary really hit home, knowing the danger that he´s facing as a U.S. soldier every day. Shane, if you´re reading this - please stay safe!
Bevan & I started our tour of the battlefields from the eastern end of the coast at Juno Beach, where the Canadian troops had landed. Driving up to the beach front, I was struck by how normal the town around this area appeared. Despite the area holding so much historical significance, it’s clear that the people of Normandy were keen to strike a balance between remembering the horrific events of June 1944 and carrying on with their lives along this gorgeous coastline. It looked much like a beach promenade you’d see in New Hampshire with hotels and apartments lining a boardwalk, only broken up by a large museum and memorial to the 21,400 Canadians who fought and 304 men who died on this beach. With only a day to explore this area, we decided to carry on to Arromanches before stopping.
The village of Arromanches was home to the famous temporary British port called “Winston” that was built to provide supplies to the Allied troops as they advanced throughout Europe. Expecting an invasion, Hitler had destroyed most of the ports along this coastline, so the American and British built a temporary port in Southern England and floated it across to Normandy, reassembling it at Arromanches within 3 weeks of D-day. Driving over a large hill as you approach the town, you get an amazing view of what’s left of the structure. It’s one of the few places along the coast where you can still see evidence of the war, so I definitely recommend stopping. There’s a small museum that explains how the port was built so quickly, which really brings the structure to life.
After a quick lunch stop in the back of the van, we carried on to the American cemetery at Omaha Beach. Let’s just say that a wee bit of cash has been spent honouring the thousands of American troops who died in Normandy. We were visiting in early April, so there only appeared to be about 100 cars in the car park, but the parking lot could easily have held several thousand cars. I can only imagine what this place must be like in early June.
The cemetery itself overlooks Omaha Beach, which is ironically a very beautiful setting. Funny how something so tragic can appear so peaceful and serene 60 years later. Over 10,000 American soldiers are buried across the 70 acre plot on pristinely manicured lawns, each with a white cross. Gazing across the thousands of crosses really brings home the magnitude of how many men were killed here.
Our final stop of the day was Pont du Hoc, a clifftop that held a number of powerful German guns overlooking Omaha & Utah beaches. The story goes that the Allies bombed the clifftop in preparation for the invasion, but there was no certainty that the guns had been destroyed. D-day morning, approximately 225 American rangers climbed the clifftop to ensure the Germans wouldn’t fire further hell down on the landing troops. Upon climbing to the top, the rangers destroyed the remaining guns but were ambushed by German troops hiding behind the main gunnery field. Thinking the Ranger mission had been successful, backup troops were not sent to Pont du Hoc for 2 days and by the time the Germans on the hill were defeated, only 90 Americans remained.
The site is now a popular stop for tourists as it holds the most visible ruins from the invasion. The hilltop is pocked with large craters, and you can still walk through a number of the large cement bunkers here.
Right, I’ve written a tour book entry rather than a blog today! But I hope I´ve convinced you to check out Normandy.
Bevan & I started our tour of the battlefields from the eastern end of the coast at Juno Beach, where the Canadian troops had landed. Driving up to the beach front, I was struck by how normal the town around this area appeared. Despite the area holding so much historical significance, it’s clear that the people of Normandy were keen to strike a balance between remembering the horrific events of June 1944 and carrying on with their lives along this gorgeous coastline. It looked much like a beach promenade you’d see in New Hampshire with hotels and apartments lining a boardwalk, only broken up by a large museum and memorial to the 21,400 Canadians who fought and 304 men who died on this beach. With only a day to explore this area, we decided to carry on to Arromanches before stopping.
The village of Arromanches was home to the famous temporary British port called “Winston” that was built to provide supplies to the Allied troops as they advanced throughout Europe. Expecting an invasion, Hitler had destroyed most of the ports along this coastline, so the American and British built a temporary port in Southern England and floated it across to Normandy, reassembling it at Arromanches within 3 weeks of D-day. Driving over a large hill as you approach the town, you get an amazing view of what’s left of the structure. It’s one of the few places along the coast where you can still see evidence of the war, so I definitely recommend stopping. There’s a small museum that explains how the port was built so quickly, which really brings the structure to life.After a quick lunch stop in the back of the van, we carried on to the American cemetery at Omaha Beach. Let’s just say that a wee bit of cash has been spent honouring the thousands of American troops who died in Normandy. We were visiting in early April, so there only appeared to be about 100 cars in the car park, but the parking lot could easily have held several thousand cars. I can only imagine what this place must be like in early June.
The cemetery itself overlooks Omaha Beach, which is ironically a very beautiful setting. Funny how something so tragic can appear so peaceful and serene 60 years later. Over 10,000 American soldiers are buried across the 70 acre plot on pristinely manicured lawns, each with a white cross. Gazing across the thousands of crosses really brings home the magnitude of how many men were killed here.
Our final stop of the day was Pont du Hoc, a clifftop that held a number of powerful German guns overlooking Omaha & Utah beaches. The story goes that the Allies bombed the clifftop in preparation for the invasion, but there was no certainty that the guns had been destroyed. D-day morning, approximately 225 American rangers climbed the clifftop to ensure the Germans wouldn’t fire further hell down on the landing troops. Upon climbing to the top, the rangers destroyed the remaining guns but were ambushed by German troops hiding behind the main gunnery field. Thinking the Ranger mission had been successful, backup troops were not sent to Pont du Hoc for 2 days and by the time the Germans on the hill were defeated, only 90 Americans remained.
The site is now a popular stop for tourists as it holds the most visible ruins from the invasion. The hilltop is pocked with large craters, and you can still walk through a number of the large cement bunkers here.
Right, I’ve written a tour book entry rather than a blog today! But I hope I´ve convinced you to check out Normandy.
Day Three - Baguette turn signals
Tues 7th April 2008
Thankfully it’s getting a tad better! Yesterday we spent 6 hours driving from Calais to the town of Le Havre Bernieres, found a fab little campsite literally 200 metres from the beach and cycled into town to find food. The day was long, but the evening was just as I had envisioned as a typical night on our trip. Granted we were both still wearing winter jackets and hats but at least there wasn’t a pile of snow in sight!
After wandering around the shop trying to interpret food labels, we walked out to our bikes and realised we had more food than could fit into our tiny backpack! Clearly we had a lot to learn and I think it showed, as Bevan cycled home with a huge box of pasta in one hand and I carried a very long French baguette that did come in rather handy when making turn signals. The locals must have thought we’d already tucked into the local Normandy cider.
After a delish dinner of sausages & pasta, we strolled down to the beach to watch the sunset. Not a bad day at all.
Now is probably a good time to point out that Bevan has been doing tracking our route by uploading the coordinates from our GPS on to his website www.bevanthomson.net/roadtrip. So if you’re curious to see where we are and where we’ve been, plus some of the better photos from our adventure (since he took them) check out his site throughout the next 6 months!
Day Two - Train delays in the UK
Mon 7th April 2008
Peeled back the curtains and thankfully the snow was only a few inches deep. I wouldn’t have even prayed for a school snow day back in Colorado over such a fluttering, but then again this is the UK and snow is treated as more of an oddity than the norm, so we should have known it would be a chaotic morning.
We arrived at the Eurotunnel just under an hour early in hopes of grabbing a quick breakfast before boarding the train, only to discover that the snow had caused a major power outage in the tunnel and they were estimating a 3-hour delay. Somehow this trip didn’t seem to be getting off to the best start. Between the broken fridge, broken oven, a max speed of 50 mph, the worst snowfall of the year and now a 3 hour train delay, perhaps someone was trying to tell us to turn around and beg for our jobs back.
After 3 hours of waiting, they announced we were better off transferring to the ferry. So a quick dash over to Dover and we managed to catch our 9:20am crossing at 2:00pm. Slightly behind schedule, we opted for a campsite in Calais instead of journeying on to Normandy. It’d already been a very long day… what should normally take about 4 hours of effort had just taken us 2 days!
The temperature was still freezing and after parking up in a deserted campsite, we attempted to plug in the mains to switch on the heater. No such luck and the gentleman who directed us to our pitch had disappeared. We quickly cooked up dinner, put our new flashlights to good use fumbling around the van to get the bed set up, then dove under the duvet for what I hope will be the coldest night of the trip!
So at what point does this camping malarkey get fun?
Peeled back the curtains and thankfully the snow was only a few inches deep. I wouldn’t have even prayed for a school snow day back in Colorado over such a fluttering, but then again this is the UK and snow is treated as more of an oddity than the norm, so we should have known it would be a chaotic morning.
We arrived at the Eurotunnel just under an hour early in hopes of grabbing a quick breakfast before boarding the train, only to discover that the snow had caused a major power outage in the tunnel and they were estimating a 3-hour delay. Somehow this trip didn’t seem to be getting off to the best start. Between the broken fridge, broken oven, a max speed of 50 mph, the worst snowfall of the year and now a 3 hour train delay, perhaps someone was trying to tell us to turn around and beg for our jobs back.
After 3 hours of waiting, they announced we were better off transferring to the ferry. So a quick dash over to Dover and we managed to catch our 9:20am crossing at 2:00pm. Slightly behind schedule, we opted for a campsite in Calais instead of journeying on to Normandy. It’d already been a very long day… what should normally take about 4 hours of effort had just taken us 2 days!
The temperature was still freezing and after parking up in a deserted campsite, we attempted to plug in the mains to switch on the heater. No such luck and the gentleman who directed us to our pitch had disappeared. We quickly cooked up dinner, put our new flashlights to good use fumbling around the van to get the bed set up, then dove under the duvet for what I hope will be the coldest night of the trip!
So at what point does this camping malarkey get fun?
Day One - SNOW??
Sun 6th April 2008
Waking up on Sunday morning with a nasty hangover was bad enough, thanks to the copious amount of Frulli pints and tequila shots consumed on our last night in London. But staring out the window at London’s heaviest snowfall of the year on the very same day that my life moved into the great outdoors was downright panic inducing. Did the purple beast have a heater? Did I pack my Boston University hoody, or is that in a box on its way back to Colorado? How exactly do you camp in the snow??
Over the past day I’ve learned the answers:
- Yes – the purple beast does have an excellent little portable heater that will literally cook you if left on overnight. Yay! We are saved!
- No—I did not pack my Boston University hoody and it IS on its way back to Colorado. Damnit.
- And finally, camping in the snow is not an option – keep driving south as fast as you can.
We made it as far as Folkestone and set-up at a small campsite not far from the Eurotunnel. With the snow coming down so heavily, the owners advised us to stay in the car park instead of driving out on to a grass pitch. Our first night and we were already starting to feel more like vagrants rather than tourists. Could be worse I suppose. Some poor bloke with two kids is planning to spend the night in a tiny tent and keeps shaking the snow off every hour. After a can of chili con carne and watching movies on the laptop, our van is feeling pretty cozy and flash actually.
Our last week in London
Sat 5th April 2008 
Saying goodbye to London isn’t easy, as all of the friends who have left before me have sworn up and down while packing their bikini for a round the world adventure. No one ever believes that this can actually be a really sad time, but no matter how excited you are about an upcoming adventure, it’s never easy to say goodbye to the life & friends you loved, even when you know in both your head and heart that sometimes change is necessary.
For one, Bevan’s UK visa had expired and new immigration laws introduced earlier this year meant that he was no longer eligible to renew. Well, not without a hasty trip to the altar or a very expensive trip back to New Zealand to apply for a defacto visa. Both journeys involved a lot of money to do properly and neither really appealed on such a short time scale. But more importantly, we had one purple beast of a campervan sitting out front of the flat literally itching for a good tour around Europe. Think about it… what would you do?
So last week Bevan and I reluctantly said goodbye to the many friends and colleagues who opened our eyes to the other worlds outside the United States and New Zealand, and packed a 2 bedroom flat into our purple 1992 Leyland DAF campervan for a 6 month tour around Europe.
The last week in London was one of the most stressful and tiring weeks of my life as we dashed around the flat throwing our lives’ contents into piles according to their final destinations of van, USA, donation bins or ebay, then spent our final evenings in the pub with friends to drown our sorrows at leaving through multiple pints of lager.
For one, Bevan’s UK visa had expired and new immigration laws introduced earlier this year meant that he was no longer eligible to renew. Well, not without a hasty trip to the altar or a very expensive trip back to New Zealand to apply for a defacto visa. Both journeys involved a lot of money to do properly and neither really appealed on such a short time scale. But more importantly, we had one purple beast of a campervan sitting out front of the flat literally itching for a good tour around Europe. Think about it… what would you do?
So last week Bevan and I reluctantly said goodbye to the many friends and colleagues who opened our eyes to the other worlds outside the United States and New Zealand, and packed a 2 bedroom flat into our purple 1992 Leyland DAF campervan for a 6 month tour around Europe.
The last week in London was one of the most stressful and tiring weeks of my life as we dashed around the flat throwing our lives’ contents into piles according to their final destinations of van, USA, donation bins or ebay, then spent our final evenings in the pub with friends to drown our sorrows at leaving through multiple pints of lager. I was drunk for literally 3 weeks straight and running on empty but we made it, and our new address is:
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