Tyrolean week

A couple of weeks ago I would have word-associated “Tyrol” with Austria, sausages, lederhosen, flower-drenched chalets, folk dancing and brass bands. And “Dolomites” would have conjured stark, monolithic limestone cliffs and high-level refuges linked by precipitous via-ferrata trails. Putting the two together, and discovering that the South Tyrol is in fact in Italy, and that the Dolomites bear little resemblance to my pre-conceived image, has been a revelation. 

After driving 7 hours from Juan's CH flat (via Innsbruck) we arrived at Val di Funes – or Villnösstal, 45 minutes NE of Bolzano, almost as far north in Italy as you can go. A light goes on and I begin to understand my Googling confusion: Val di Funes and Villnösstal are the Italian/German versions of the same place. Even Juan – better historically educated than me – is surprised that the language and culture of this corner of Italy is quite so evidently Germanic. How come? (Skip next four paragraphs if history isn’t your bag.)

The South Tyrol was part of the Austro-Hungarian empire until 1918. After the First World War an agreement brokered by the US gave Italy 150,000 Tyrolese German-speakers. Until the 1920s the Italian authorities didn’t interfere with Tyrolese cultural activities, traditions or schooling. But, in October 1922, the new Fascist government implemented an Italianisation program, decreeing:

• exclusive use of Italian in the public offices
• closure of the majority of the German schools
• incentives for immigrants from other Italian regions.

Then, in 1939, Hitler and Mussolini gave the German-speaking population a choice: they could emigrate to neighbouring Germany or stay in Italy and accept complete Italianisation. After the War the Allies decided that the province should remain a part of Italy, with German and Italian both made official languages, and German-language education permitted.

After a large of argy bargy, cut to… a new agreement signed in 1969. Since 1972 the Tyrol has had a considerable level of self-government and is the wealthiest Italian province. It has strong relations with the Austrian state of Tyrol, especially since Austria's 1995 entry into the European Union, which has led to a common currency and a de facto disappearance of the borders.

In a nutshell: the German-speaking population is in the majority and it feels as though you’re in Germany. For the entire week I think I heard Italian spoken just once. This was all very good news for Juan, who lurves the language. (And bad news for Rebecca, who doesn't speak a word...)

As we drove up Villnöss valley the peaks of the Geisler range gradually emerged above the emerald pastures, and forest. Many of the vast farmhouses have been converted into tourist accommodation. But agriculture is still very present, and haymaking – largely unmechanised on the steep meadows – was in full swing. At our destination, “Putzerhof”, the air was perfumed with the sweet smell of drying, flower-rich grass. We were welcomed by our hosts, Herbert Fischnaller and family (settled at that site since 1258). 

The stunning view from our flat faithfully replicated the website images. We enjoyed it in all weathers, the rock colours changing according to temperature and time of day. The flat was to prove an ideal location for exploring the ridges and valleys of the Puez-Odle Nature Park.

The UNESCO status conferred on the Dolomites in 2009 has strengthened the conservation movement. It seems unlikely that the desire by some in the community, to open up the area to skiing, will have a future. And how refreshing that is – coming from the French Alps – to see no ski infrastructure whatsoever: no ugly seventies blocks of flats or ski lifts, none of the associated scarring of the landscape. There isn’t even a campsite. The view across the valley from our eagle’s eyrie can’t have changed in centuries.

The Dolomites… are not, as I had assumed, a single coherent massif. But nine mountain systems spread across five Italian provinces, comprising part of a national park and several regional and provincial nature parks. “Dolomite” is a dense, white-to light-yellowish rock that takes its name from the French naturalist Deodatus de Dolomieu. In 1789 he was the first to describe the chemical composition of the rock. In 1864 the name was coined by English writers in a travel book entitled The Dolomite Mountains.

The variety of spectacular vertical forms (pinnacles, spires and towers), and contrasting horizontal ledges and plateaus; the constantly changing rock colours; and the completely bare mountain crags rising abruptly from the gentle contours of the meadows have lead to claims that the Dolomites are “universally considered the most beautiful mountains on Earth”. I could quote at length our tourist literature on the early travellers, the romantics, and notions of the sublime. (And at even greater length about the geology – how hundreds of millions of years ago the Dolomites were islands in a tropical sea.) But the short story is: accessibility. You can gaze at the jagged, other-worldly rock faces from the comfort of your own balcony, “reassured” by familiar agricultural scenes. There is no arguing: the Dolomites are drop-dead gorgeous. And – unlike our French Alpine stamping ground – you don’t need to make much of an effort to get to the most idyllic spots. 

The result? The paths were not as crowded as you might expect, because the network is extensive and walkers were well spread out. So on some days it was possible to be alone for several hours without encountering another person. Within range of the car parks was another matter: hoards of (mostly elderly) trekkers would typically walk a kilometre or two to a mountain hut and enjoy a hearty lunch of cured ham, cheese, dumplings, and apple strudel.

So here’s a summary of our week in the South Tyrol (most photos © Juan as I’m a cable short of being able to get them off my camera, but can claim © photo-editing!):

St Magdalena and St Johann church 

an idyllic route through traditional hamlets to St Magdalena and St Johann, probably the most-photographed scene in the Dolomites: 

from Russis Kreuz along the flank of the Aferer Geisler range to Würzjoch

From Würzjoch we hitched back to our starting point:

circuit from Zanseralm

via the Gampen Alm and Schlüterhütte/Genova refuges and down via Medalgesalm:

Bolzano – beautiful, but impossibly hot

It was thrilling to see Ötzi, the 5000-year-old mummy, displayed in the archaeological museum. Curious to view the video of him being retrieved in 1991, hauled amateurishly onto a stretcher. The text explained in the politest possible terms how forensic scientists had been thwarted from gaining a full interpretation of events by those who got there first:

wet-day walk from Puzerhof to Munt Weisen

and lunch at Herbert's little restaurant:

Mt Tullen

I didn’t make it to the top – handicapped by my footwear (sandals helped me cope with damaged toes but they have their limits…):

around Der Peitlerkofel

a popular route with constantly changing panoramic views:

On our last day we drove back to Switzerland through a smorgasbord of scenic areas, starting with the wine-growing areas on the border, then through charismatic Glurns, an unexpected bonus...

Then up hill and down dale for the rest of the day… finishing with a tour of big-name CH ski resorts and back south of Zurich and Lucerne, foot firmly on the pedal. Switzerland is a bigger country than I realised – over 5 hours from the Italian border to Yverdon. Phew.

It’s time to stop and find a lake. I’ve been way too long on the computer today.

in my grandmother's footsteps

I have been travelling again. Down obscure self-development paths, and more conventional tourist routes in the Bouches-du-Rhône département, of which Aix-en-Provence and Marseille are the best known cities.

In addition to attending an introductory craniosacral therapy weekend organised by the shiatsu school near Aix that I'd been wanting to discover for a while, I had been hoping to pick up the trail blazed by my maternal grandmother, AKA grannie. A photo album of the trip she made with two friends, in the winter of 1935, recently surfaced at my parents'.

grannie's vist to Cavalaire-sur-Mer

For a month the trio visited the coast between Marseille and Fréjus, car-touring and painting – or at least that's what "the artists" in grannie's captions did. And how did my mother cope with her ma jaunting off for so long, at the tender age of eight? And my grandfather – who had to make the drive from England, to rescue one of the friends who fell ill mid trip.

Back to self development, and the "yoga of the vagina" workshop. What can I say without freaking you out... Probably nothing, but I'm going to press on. Skip the next three paragraphs if this is already more than you want to know!

So there we were: nine brave souls willing to (discretely) explore our most intimate body part. In a group. But in fact being in a group wasn't the problem; we were lying horizontal, well covered with skirts and throws. All self exploration was out of view. Almost. (The fact that it wasn't quite, was exceedingly disturbing for a brief period!) The difficulty was more to do with the jade egg. Check out jadeeggs.com. According to multi-orgasmic.com (yes, you read about it on Rebecca's blog), the use of the egg evolved in ancient China. So we have a long history of disassociating ourselves with this potential source of power... And, by the way, it's not just about improving sexual function; using the egg on a regular basis can help with all manner of gynae issues. So go for it, girls...!

But, alas, I didn't make friends with my (obsidian) egg, and ended up at the familiar psychological wall. Plenty of time to try again, in the comfort of my own home, however...

The next day I hit the road, using the car-sharing website, blabla.fr for the first time. And it worked a treat. So if you can commit to a departure time, and have space in your car, why not take an extra passenger? It's sociable, ecological, economical, and makes sense in every way.

I was dressed for the 30 degree forecast, so the squalls and 14 degrees driving south were a surprise. But the afternoon shaped up, and I was able to enjoy a rapid skim over the newly refurbished old port area in Marseille in warmth, as the storm clouds gathered.

The tourist veneer – an imaginative blend of restoration and elegant new museums, linked by high-level walkways and with pockets of garrigue-style planting – was impressive, the ambiance reminiscent of Bilbao, Liverpool, Newcastle... which have received similar make-overs. Of course, there's an inauthenticity around "sanitising" big bad Marseille in this way. But you don't have to go far – just a block – to get the feeling of the real city: narrow streets, washing hanging to dry from flats in an uncertain state of repair.

Everything was going well. I was about to drive back to Trets, the little town just east of Aix where I was overnighting with an ex-student at the Aix shiatsu school, when suddenly, my wallet wasn't where I expected it to be. My handbag and rucksack are scoundrels for hiding things, with their myriad pockets. But I searched everywhere. Nothing. I jogged back to the shop where I'd bought some wine for my host, in a lather of sweat, just in case... Nothing. OMG. How am I going to get the car out of the car park? Let alone navigate the weekend cashless, chequeless and cardless. It's so obvious – Marseille – what do you expect... Trying to avoid panicking I phoned my host to ask her to cancel the cards, which she efficiently did. And then I found the wallet, in an unlikely pocket in my rucksack.

At the car park, stress seemed to have blown a fuse in my brain: I had no idea where I'd parked (yeah, I know, where had all that mindfulness gone?!). Running in ever-diminishing circles I couldn't even locate the reception office reputed to record an image of the number plate of every vehicle entering the car park. Half an hour later I spot the Megane. Oh joy. But oh no. The payment machine doesn't accept cash. Now I really do have to find the reception desk. And, by now, my parking fee has escalated to 10 euros. Dam. But I'm out. And grinding into the Marseille rush hour in the mother and father of a storm. I don't think I've ever driven in such conditions. As the monsoon descended, cavalier drivers cut in from right and left, throwing up tidal waves of water that completely block all visibility for seconds at a time. Utterly terrifying.

I arrived at Annick's, joining her and her husband Jean Paul late, but they had waited for me and we had an enjoyable supper. Being based there worked well for the weekend. I was superbly looked after.

But the course assured my stress levels were maintained. The craniosacral therapist, David Kanner, was a patient, intuitive teacher. But he didn't hide the fact that trying to bring something meaningful from a four-year training into two days was a challenge for him, too. The combination of extreme subtlety – feeling the movement of the different skull bones, dense theory (with no physical skeleton to demo on, no 3D software), and everything of course being in French, guaranteed that I had a difficult time. This is the first shiatsu-related training I have done in France and there were many cultural differences, both in terms of shiatsu style, and traits of nationality: passivity in receiving, bossiness, and a tendency towards Il faut... (and yes, I know all about projection!). I was close to ducking right out of the second day. But decided against, following David's advice. So I stuck it out, finally clutching to a handful of simple techniques that I might be able to integrate into my shiatsu.

That second evening I felt light, truly on holiday. I drove towards the Mont Sainte Victoire, the ridge peak north of Trets and east of Aix, and walked up to the hermitage on its flank. Seated there I enjoyed a pleasant contemplative moment, the late-afternoon sun lighting the vineyards and lines of hills receding south.

After the weekend I extended my trip a couple of days, taking advantage of my current lack of commitments. Beyond curiosity about much-lauded Cassis, I had no agenda. But I wanted to savour the flavour of the rolling, craggy, wild, garrigue countryside. So I took the most off-beat route I could find: using sat nav to drive minor roads, climbing and descending the west-to-east chains of hills. It's a lovely, unspoilt part of Provence, a far cry from the tourist traps of chintzy St Remy (virtually my only other experience of the region); cyclists more in evidence than cars.

view towards the Mont Sainte Victoire

The same cannot be said of Cassis – obvious at the first "car park + shuttle bus" sign. It's undoubtedly a place of great charm, full of delights – if classy shopping is your bag. But retail is not my therapy so I headed for the jetty and jumped on the first boat trip to the Calanques, the fiords and inlets that are the major tourist draw. This is arguably the best way to get a perspective on this beautiful and relatively inaccessible area. Having one's own boat would be even better!

From the boat we could see the quays used until the twentieth century for exporting the cement and limestone used to build the Mediterranean ports of Alexandria, Algiers and Marseille, as well as the Statue of Liberty. More recently, tourism and wine making have taken over. Cassis was one of the first three vineyards to profit from the appellation d'origine contrôlée introduced in 1936.

Still avoiding the town itself I strolled around the top of the first calanque for a different view...

Actually getting into the sea was bizarrely difficult – if you wanted to avoid the mega crowds on the shingly town-centre beach. But I found a place where the limestone slabs tilted towards the sea, allowing a way in. Perched above the sea, along with a bunch of tourists and locals, I nerved myself to jump in. The water was delicious, but the sucking and propelling of the waves alarming. And getting out was every bit as difficult as I had anticipated. After a few abortive attempts I allowed the waves to whoosh me up onto the ledge, from where I could make an ungainly exit, walrus-style. A local asked me if I was ok, and commented on the danger – he had hurt himself getting out.

From Cassis I drove along the spectacular Route des Crêtes, Cap Canaille giving vertiginous views over the bay.

... to La Ciotat, a real fishing port with a picturesque, oleander-bordered harbour and active dockland area.

Having been eating a rice salad made in Vaulnaveys for the previous three days I decided to treat myself to a restaurant meal (bad choice – an absurdly over-priced, over-cooked stir-fry) before driving east along the coast, looking for a possible camping spot. I am naive, having no idea how grim coastal camp sites in the populous Cote d'Azur can be. I couldn't see myself spending the night in any of them. The sun was going down and I was running out of time...

Hastily snapping the shot above I continued to a car park in a forest near a beach near Port d'Alon. Carefully driving to its furthest extremity I waited for night to descend before unrolling my sleeping bag and bedding down next to the car. For a while I feared being discovered as the headlights of the last visitors left the area. And then a vehicle seemed to be passing right next to me, entering an adjacent property. But all quietened down and I was left with just whining mosquitoes for company.

It wasn't a great night, I admit. But I was happy to have made my choice – and survived it! At 5am I was off and out, sadly renouncing the early-morning swim that had been the reason for being there, but intimidated by the presence of a vehicle that had appeared during the night, and the possibility of law and order catching up with me (it would be hard to pretend "no overnight parking" was ambiguous).

Back at La Ciotat I used the facilities of one of the camp sites I'd rejected the previous day, then spent the morning tanking up on coffee, and blogging, in a quayside café. Pure happiness. Then, just as I thought I was going to leave La Ciotat – which, you will gather from the large number of photos posted above, was the highlight of my trip – I tumbled on a little bit of paradise: Plage du Mugel. And there I spent the next couple of hours, swimming in its glorious, crystal-clear water and watching the primary-school geography lesson taking place nearby, grandparents playing with their water-pistol-toting toddlers, girlies taking snaps. Now I understand why everyone goes to the coast for their holidays. This was truly heaven.

But all good things had to come to an end. It was time to leave. I wanted to make the most of my trip by camping somewhere between the coast and Vaulnaveys. So I took a sinuous, non-motorway route via Manosque to Sisteron. Here I found myself once again turning my nose up at the camp-site possibilities. After extensive touring I found an acceptable spot between a cornfield and a stream.

I was about to snuggle into my sleeping bag when I had a moment of panic: what was I doing the following morning? Oh the limitations of a digital diary. I was out of charge, so no way of finding out… I looked at my camping spot and made a quick decision. Home it had to be. And, probably for the best – rain later fell in copious quantities.

So now I am home, having not made it to Cavalaire-sur-Mer, but grannie very much in my thoughts as I wove around the many other wonderful places.