June 2024.
While hiking with my brother on the GR 36 Tour du Morvan, I catch sight now and then of strange rectangular markers fixed to tree trunks. Against a bright orange background, a deep black Greek tau topped with a white dove. My first encounter with the Assisi Way.
The Way of St. Francis: a pilgrimage route linking Vézelay in Burgundy to Assisi in Italy, covering nearly 1,800 km.
It felt like an obvious next step—I immediately knew I’d take it on, attempt the adventure solo.
In the months that followed, I talked about my project to everyone—family, friends, my partner. An avalanche of comments, more or less the same but varying depending on each person’s character and life experiences. But deep down, it all boiled down to one legitimate question: why?
And the answers?
Hesitant, awkward, partial, even confused. I quickly realized they weren’t so easy to find. It was as if my project seemed more like a whim, a kind of intimate caprice, rather than a well-thought-out plan.
Of course, I knew the reasons that pushed me to leave—you always have to give some. Loved ones need to understand to feel reassured, and that’s understandable.
But I fear that when I list them, they’ll sound like the same old checklist anyone embarking on this kind of journey might give.
Of all the reasons I could mention, I’ll highlight just one here: the call of the road, the solo adventure that brings a powerful sense of freedom.
A bit like Monsieur Seguin’s goat, who from her comfortable pen gazes longingly at the unconstrained horizon of the mountain.
But if I’m being honest, I think I didn’t really know what I was looking for—or, more importantly, what I’d find. Deep down, when I reflect on it, one word keeps coming up that explains nothing and everything at once: desire.
Now well past sixty, I know that when I ask myself who I am or where I’m going, two things bring me fully back to myself: hiking and writing.
And my intention was also to anchor this adventure through words, day by day. Writing down my feelings, emotions, discoveries, and reflections each evening. The famous travel journal that grounds the daily experience in reality.
When I discovered the app "Polarstep," which was initially just meant to keep my loved ones updated and reassured, inform them of my progress, and maintain a connection, I found an opportunity to do it a little differently than usual.
No retrospective notes polished up after returning, but spontaneous writing—recounting everything that crossed my mind during the day and publishing it immediately. A journey lived in real time.
This text is the exact transcription of my daily writings. Rereading them, I didn’t change a thing—just corrected a few mistakes and tweaked some awkward phrasing here and there. Short texts, fitting the format imposed by this kind of app. Writing as if addressing others.
Now, all that was left was to walk.
April 18, 2026 – Vézelay.
Oh no! In my rush to get from Gare de Lyon to Gare de Bercy, I took a nasty spill at the entrance of the building. My backpack went flying over my head. A reception agent kindly helped me up, asking if I was okay. Yeah, I’m fine—more embarrassed than hurt. But also more angry and worried when I felt a slight but nagging pain in the back of my thigh...
Nagging, just like the thought spinning in my head: what if this forces me into a rushed and pathetic return to Narbonne?
Needless to say, I didn’t see or appreciate anything in Vézelay. I even missed the visit to La Cordelle with the Franciscan brothers, which would’ve been so meaningful before starting my pilgrimage.
Already lost before even setting off?
Hopefully, a good night’s rest will heal my body and calm my mind.
The vivid worries of the day before quickly faded after the first few kilometers from Vézelay. As always at the start of a long-distance hike, there’s that strange feeling of being like a child learning to walk. Steps are unsteady, as if afraid to press down on the ground—this foreign, composite surface that will need to be tamed before it becomes familiar.
Arrival in Chastellux-sur-Cure (pronounced Chatlu-Sur-Cure in the local dialect). A lovely first stage following the amber waters of the Cure.
The accommodation is quite basic—a former stable converted into a dormitory—and the welcome is nothing special. First encounter already with Mathilde, another hiker like me, planning to push on to Cluny.
Between Chastellux and Dun-les-Places, you pass through a quirky little village with a funny name: Crottefou! Along the river, there’s a truly "extraordinary garden" à la Trenet. Flowers everywhere—in flowerbeds, borders, and lush bouquets. And colorful signs with poems, proverbs, and aphorisms that are incredibly witty and inventive.
In Dun-les-Places, on the church square, a monument honors the 27 civilians executed by the German army in June '44. Two very different vibes...
So when I hear talk of a "special operation" or "peace through force," I’d rather remember "the old pal’s garden" or "it’s forbidden to break dreams."
Anyway, I’m continuing on "my path of peace."
A beautiful hike, mostly through the forest. The trails are often rutted and muddy due to agricultural or logging machinery, but also—and this is really annoying—quad bikes that are increasingly used just for fun!
I made a lovely discovery at the "Saut du Gouloux" waterfall, walking with Mathilde for a good part of the day. Hiking with someone you don’t know requires quite a bit of subtlety and know-how. It’s not about sticking to the other person but rather respecting each other’s pace, desire for privacy, and being able to connect and chat depending on the stage of the journey. Accompany without intruding. Like me, Mathilde knows how to hike.
Tonight, I’m sleeping in a small cabin-room by Lake Settons.
A blister on your foot is to a hiker what remorse is to a moral man or woman. Nagging, it bites and bites again. It fills your thoughts; it’s all you can think about. It disappears for a moment, and you think you’re free, then it sneaks back to remind you it won’t be easy to get rid of.
I should’ve anticipated and put a bandage on before setting off this morning. I hope it’ll be okay and I won’t have to "call it quits."
Otherwise, this morning, I spent two magnificent hours alone around Lac des Settons, with only the cool morning breeze brushing my face as company.
That’s all for today. Tomorrow’s a big stage—26 km—I’ll set off early.
P.S. I’ve covered 88 km in four days. Not bad at all.
This morning before leaving, I stopped in front of the World War I war memorial in Anost. I counted 160 victims! 160 young men, aged 20 to 40. A real demographic hemorrhage! And I thought about life afterward in these villages bled dry, deprived of their vital forces. Widows, orphans, families, shattered by grief.
I always have this thought whenever I pass by these memorials that stand in village squares… "Cursed be war!"
Far from these rather dark reflections, the day was beautiful, though, walking through this rural Morvan, in bloom and wooded, even if you can tell life can be tough in this very isolated rural France.
Everything went well, then. My blisters have cleared up, I treated a slight ankle pain, and I’m staying in a three-star guesthouse all to myself for 30 € a night.
See you later. Kisses.
As I walked, familiar memories came back to me, like Charles Trenet would say.
I remember my parents telling us about the "chemineau" when we weren’t well-behaved. A kind of vagabond, a bogeyman who’d snatch away overly rowdy kids.
"If you’re not good...!" I pictured him as scruffy with a black beard and a face covered in soot. Enough to make anyone obedient, really. But in my mind, I mixed him up with the "cheminot" (railway worker). And I couldn’t understand why those men from the railways were so mean and dangerous.
So, my retrospective apologies to my fellow railway workers, whether CGT members or not...
Another beautiful hike today, still in the Morvan region, under a sky just as clear, between forests and pastures.
It’s a lovely green area, though a bit austere, with rolling hills that are still quite gentle at the edge of the Massif Central. Still, it’s a fairly isolated region, one you can tell is in agricultural and rural decline.
That’s all for today. See you tomorrow for the next part. Kisses.
The 13 km that morning were really pleasant through a rural setting—hamlets, pastures, lovely woodland trails—even if the last hour was a bit tough along a straight little road under the blazing sun.
To mix things up from the usual picnics in the great outdoors, I decided to stop in a pretty village by a pond, Saint-Sernin-sous-Bois.
I popped into the bakery to grab a sandwich and sat down at the village café, "Le Bar des Amis."
About ten guys and a few women were having an apéritif. The scent of pastis filled even the terrace.
A big, jovial-looking man approached me with the usual questions, "You going far like that?" I briefly told him about my journey, my struggles, when a guy a bit more dressed up than the others—linen pants and boat shoes—muttered under his breath, "Calimero, get out of that body." I ignored his remark, and when the jovial guy asked if I planned to go all the way, I answered, I don’t know why, "Yes, God willing" (and I didn’t say what I often do, "Insh’Allah"). The older, elegant guy the others called "the colonel" threw out another jab like, "Yeah, the faith of a martyr." I could feel my temper rising and replied without really looking at him, but slightly lifting my chin toward his pastis-and-mint, "Well, to each their own pleasures!"
Take that, colonel!!!
But this little sparring match went unnoticed by the others, and I decided to head inside the bar to order. "A cold glass of milk, please!"
Blasphemy! A few muffled snickers, and the smirking owner shot back, "The pharmacy’s up the road!" "Yeah, I know, but they were out," I retorted, unfazed.
I took my glass of white (the milk) at the counter, weaving between the bellies, and went back outside to calmly devour my snack.
Just then, a giant with laughing eyes and a handsome face—think Ibrahimovic—approached me with a strong Eastern European accent.
"I’m from Georgia, and where I come from, we know how to welcome strangers." Georgia! I mentioned Kavra, the PSG player, and the wines from his country.
"Yes, back home we have magnificent churches and the best wine in the world! It’s the land of origins!"
We chatted a bit more, and he told me he’s a roofer and that there’s no shortage of work with all these houses needing repairs. Then he left me with a friendly goodbye and went to sit next to the colonel.
After finishing my lunch, I went back inside to pay, and before leaving, I called out a loud, "Have a good day, everyone!"
And then, miracle! A collective "Thank you!" and smiles—I was almost adopted, and they nearly offered me an apéritif.
As I left, I warmly shook Ibra’s hand while pointedly ignoring the colonel. I set off with my backpack, straight as an arrow. Slice of life. That’s also "the real France," as Kamini would say...
Tonight, I’m staying in a well-equipped parish hostel with everything I need to eat. It’s a "donativo"—you give what you want. I’m all alone. See you tomorrow.
Big stage today—27 km—so I decided to set off early at 7 a.m.
I’m leaving the Morvan region now, and I can sense it in subtle changes in the landscape. The rolling hills are gentler, the slopes softer, the space more open, and farming seems more intense. Still livestock, but among the herds, some cows have swapped their Charolais white coats for a beautiful reddish-brown that stands out against the green pastures.
The settlements, though, are still just as scattered. Few towns, and often far apart. Mostly hamlets and farmsteads, guarded by unfriendly dogs that bark fiercely before, during, and after I pass.
I definitely prefer cats…
In Écuisses, by the Burgundy Canal, I spotted a lovely building with a double sign: “Épicerie du canal” and “Bar de la mairie.” I was about to settle in when the man sunbathing on the terrace told me it was closed and had been turned into a home. Disappointed, I started to leave, but he stopped me with a gesture and offered me a coffee. I gladly accepted.
We spent a little while chatting about this and that—the weather, his house, which he kept calling “atypical” with obvious pride. A really nice break that helped me forget yesterday’s colonel episode.
The afternoon was pretty tough. Aside from a lovely stretch of woodland, I mostly walked through fields and country lanes under oppressive heat.
Tonight, I’m sleeping in a little cabin with some wonderful people. It’s another *donativo*—accommodation hosts offer to pilgrims for free. You give what you can, based on your means.
Well, I’m off to eat in my little cell, then head to bed. There’s definitely a routine to these long treks—early rise, backpack, sleep. See you tomorrow.
Page by page, step by step, retracing the paths where time is starting to erase the tracks.
Going back the way you came, your perception changes (maybe). Because the descent is a slope, depending on which side you see...
If the wonder (and the pride too ;-) ) remains... what about the hardships—the blisters, the dreary plains, the heat, the grimy hostels, and the Colonel Mustards?
Word for word, closing the loop and receiving, here as if live, praise for the performance and for the story.
Then, with a heart grown larger, smiling in the knowledge that no matter how far the path takes you, doesn’t it always lead you back to yourself?
End of the first leg. I made it to Cluny in 10 days of walking from Vézelay, crossing Burgundy from north to south.
A few fleeting encounters, but not many people on this pilgrimage route—it’s much quieter and more intimate than the Camino de Santiago.
Tomorrow, I’ll take the time to share some of the thoughts and reflections wandering through the mind of a solo walker.
I’m pretty happy with myself. I handled the long stretches of solitude well, and I’m pleased to see my body gradually getting used to the effort.
The only issue was my blisters, which had a field day torturing my toes every step of the way.
Today, I finished the day in flip-flops, and that’s got me a little worried about what’s next…
Here I am in Cluny.
Cluny, whose abbey once headed the most powerful network of monasteries in the medieval West, with branches across Europe.
Cluny, an essential religious and intellectual center of Christendom, a major political power—and now, nothing remains. « Sic Transit Gloria Mundi ».
See you tomorrow.
What goes through the mind of a long-distance solo walker?
Seven or eight hours on the trail with only yourself for company.
Some moments—most of them, in my opinion—boil down to simple sensations or purely instinctive thoughts: the pleasure of sustained effort, the caress of a light breeze on your cheeks, the gulp of cool water sliding down a parched throat, the throbbing pain of a squeezed toe, the oppressive heat, just like the weight of your pack, the sounds that soothe or alert you, the worry of a lost path, the mix of exhilaration, fatigue, and impatience on that final kilometer—the one that takes you to the end, to your goal. The list goes on and on.
At other times, your mind wanders on its own, drifts, dreams. It’s a very pleasant feeling, but sometimes risky because you become less vigilant, less attentive—and that’s when you can get lost.
I also find myself thinking a lot about past events, friends, loves, family. Sometimes, I even catch myself smiling or laughing out loud.
Then there are moments when reason takes over: I’ll go this way to avoid the mud, I can’t see the markers anymore—let’s check the map, pace yourself, the climb is steep, I’ll take a break in 30 minutes…
What about that famous "inner journey," introspection, the intimate dialogue with yourself?
Well, I have to admit that so far, my inner self and I haven’t said much to each other. Maybe deep down, we’ve already said it all at 66 years old, or maybe it’s just not the right time. There won’t necessarily be a "revelation" or a "Road to Damascus" moment.
The rest of my wanderings might bring surprises. But we shouldn’t expect the trail to have more power than it does.
What I’m taking away for now is this powerful sense of freedom that comes with long-distance walking. Fleeting, partly illusory—I’m not naive. But it’s that illusion of nomadic freedom that I love the most.
This afternoon, I had some deeply rewarding intellectual moments visiting the ruins of Cluny Abbey.
Once, it could boast of having the largest church in all of Christendom. Then it was sold as national property during the Revolution and dismantled stone by stone to serve as a quarry.
"Vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas."
Until tomorrow. I’m back on the trail.
I had a bit of trouble getting going again this morning. It wasn’t so much physical as psychological. Like I’d strayed a little from my “right path” after that welcome and so pleasant break in Cluny…
Speaking of paths, I just crossed the one taken by schoolchildren. All those high school and middle school students scattered through the streets of the little town, heading toward their respective schools.
The relaxed ones, the nonchalant ones, the ones still half-asleep, the anxious ones, the ones in a hurry, the ones who aren’t, the well-dressed, the well-made-up, the ones who look like they just threw on whatever… The loners and those who walk in groups, the ones checking their notes one last time before a test and those who don’t care. The ones smiling because their first class is with a teacher they like, and those for whom it’s the opposite. I know them well, and I watch them go. I feel like wishing them good luck, because if a teacher’s life is tough, a student’s is just as much. It’s the schoolchildren’s path—straight and comfortable for some, winding and bumpy for others.
I leave them there… To each their own road. Mine winds today through the gentle undulations of the green hills of the Mâconnais.
Tomorrow’s a big stage with steep climbs to tackle the Beaujolais… the region, not the wine.
See you tomorrow.
Page by page, step by step, retracing the paths that time is starting to erase along the way.
Thanks Kola!
For me, just like for others, keeping a travel journal is exactly what meets this need. It anchors the memories of past experiences in our minds so they don’t fade away.
The Chemin de Saint-François: a pilgrimage route linking Vézelay in Burgundy to Assisi in Italy, covering nearly 1,800 km.
I just discovered this—I’d never heard of it before.
It takes real courage to set off alone on such an adventure. Hats off to you!
In a similar "style," if you can call it that, I’ve only walked the Chemin de Saint-Guilhem, from L’Aubrac to Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert (Hérault)—just two weeks, and not alone, either...
Still, I’ve never been able to stick to a standard route on any trail. I always need variations—the urge to go "poking around" for a menhir, a stele, a cave, to follow a gorge, climb a summit, etc. That constant desire for "discovery."
I’ve often thought about the Camino de Santiago but could never bring myself to start that kind of adventure—maybe a bit too "structured" for me. Afraid of monotony, but also afraid of not finishing, and since I hate leaving things unfinished...
Of all the reasons I could list, I’ll mention just one here: the call of the road, of solo adventure, which gives a powerful sense of freedom.
That’s the only one I’d keep too: that feeling of freedom I knew so well on mountain trails.
It’s really well thought out and well written. In your shoes, I wouldn’t have the words—I have no talent for writing. I loved the encounter with the villagers in the café😏 And your moments of introspection too.
As a long-distance hiking lover, I’ll be following your journey’s stages closely...
Today’s stage was really tough, crossing the Beaujolais Mountains under a blazing sun. 25 km, 900 meters of cumulative elevation gain, and an endless descent. I’m exhausted—I finished the last kilometers in sandals and don’t have the energy to write anything coherent. But since I’m determined to post every day, I’ll dig into my reserves.
Here’s a little series of aphorisms and sayings from my wandering thoughts.
Random, straight from the bag…
« The pilgrim’s cloak is the pilgrim’s companion. They love it when it rains. »
« The sedentary produce, the nomadic dream. »
« When snorers (or snorettes) steal your sleep, earplugs guarantee a fresh wake-up. »
« Hiking is often: early rise, backpack, bedtime. »
« No to aggressive dogs! Solidarity between pilgrims and mail carriers. »
« Tendinitis (or blisters) is the pilgrim’s burnout. »
« The inventor of hydrocolloid bandages (compeed) is a benefactor of humanity on the move. »
And the last one, the most beautiful, is from Pascal Quignard: « Every morning in the world is without return. »
See you tomorrow.
I’ve often thought about the Camino de Santiago but could never bring myself to start that kind of adventure—maybe a bit too "structured" for me. Afraid of the monotony, but also afraid of not finishing, and since I don’t like leaving things unfinished...
Hey Jean-Michel, thanks for your comments! If you follow along, you’ll quickly see that this Assisi trail is very different from the Camino. It’s a solitary path with minimal signage, and that’s what drew me to it. As for the fear of failure, I’ll let you read to the end of the travel journal. 😉
A beautiful day today hiking through the vigorous hills of the Monts du Beaujolais, below which the villages with their pink-tiled roofs spread across the slopes or in the Saône plain.
To the west of the ridge, lush pastures abound. There, the white coats of Charolais cattle coexist with the red-and-white patches of Montbéliarde cows.
But on the sunny eastern slopes, it’s the vineyards that shape the landscape and give it its identity.
All my encounters today, in fact, revolved around wine—enough to make my head spin.
First, at breakfast, when the hostess’s husband came to chat with me. He told me about his job as an oenologist, the challenges faced by today’s winemakers after the golden years, and the reduction in vineyard areas.
Next, I met an early-morning walker taking her daily stroll before heading to work at the hospital in Villefranche. She showed me her husband’s vineyards and mentioned their son, who was taking over part of the estate. She also explained that Beaujolais wines are made from a single grape variety, Gamay.
And just before I arrived, on the lovely terrace of a bar overlooking the Saône plain, I met a family having lunch under the trees. They were curious and interested to know where I was headed with my big backpack.
A family of winemakers… And so, the conversation quickly turned to vineyard work, the local wines, and those from my home region—Corbières, Clape, Minervois—which they seemed to know and appreciate.
In short, I don’t think I’ve ever talked so much about wine while staying so sober…
Tomorrow, I cross the Saône at Villefranche and move to the left bank into the Ain and the Dombes region.
A gorgeous morning spent wandering through the vine-covered hills gently sloping down toward the valley.
But it was under a light drizzle—the first since Vézelay—that I crossed the Saône to find myself on the left bank in the Dombes region.
A radical change of scenery. I’m walking through a low, dreary landscape of fields and plowed land, leaving behind the cheerful undulations of Beaujolais.
I arrived in Ars-sur-Formans in the early afternoon, the village of the famous curé (parish priest) Jean-Marie Vianney, canonized by Pope Pius XI in 1925. The Curé d’Ars is known for his piety, the miracles he performed, and especially for the relentless and terrible torments the Devil inflicted on him to force him to renounce his faith.
Nocturnal noises, moving furniture, and even the bedding of the poor priest catching fire. Terrifying!
And what a strange way for the Devil to recruit… It seems to me the Tempter was more subtle in the past—with Adam and the apple trick, or even with Jesus in the desert (though that didn’t work out for him).
In any case, the priest held firm and thus achieved sainthood. His heart is preserved as a relic in the massive, oversized basilica of this small village. Ars-sur-Formans has become an internationally renowned pilgrimage site.
Where is the Devil hiding today?
In the details, as always. Or perhaps inspiring the actions of those warmongering leaders who set the world ablaze while paradoxically invoking God’s name. The Devil’s revenge?
Either way, as far as I’m concerned, I prefer the Devil when he’s dressed in Prada…
The sky poured a fine, steady rain onto my hood and backpack all day.
It’s only when you’re hiking that you truly realize just how wet rain can make you. After several hours of walking, it eventually trickles down your face and hands before soaking through your clothes, spreading over your whole body—feet, legs, torso—and seeping deep into your skin right down to the bone. Hence the well-known (and perfectly accurate) saying.
I walked like this for five hours without being able to stop, lacking any shelter, head down, through a clay landscape dotted with ponds.
When I arrived at the hostel, I felt like I should’ve wrung myself out before drying off...
Still, it was a great day for frogs and snails.
I set foot in the Dombes region for two days, walking through this very rural area under almost continuous rain, despite its proximity to the Lyon metropolitan area.
A flat land with clay soil, dotted with countless ponds. It was the medieval monks who developed them to drain surface water and create fish reserves. All the ponds are connected by ingenious systems of canals and sluices that regulate water levels as needed. Some plots are drained every two or three years and then used for farming.
That’s how I crossed ponds turned into fields and fields turned back into ponds this morning! Fascinating transformations.
I’m still amazed by human ingenuity when it comes to shaping nature to meet our needs.
A bit like in the Poitevin Marsh, this technique has created a unique ecosystem, developed a local economy combining fish farming and agriculture, and fostered a set of skills and traditions that have shaped a true cultural identity carried by this "people of the ponds."
There you go—that was Professor Andrieux’s lecture live from the Dombes. Thanks for listening.
Though I did spot two or three of you dozing off at the back!
While passing under the highway overpass at 4 km/h, I realized that the vehicles driving above me were going 35 times faster than I was walking. For seventeen days now, I’ve been navigating a different space-time. Another mental universe as well.
I’m often very alone on this pilgrimage path, entire hours without crossing paths with a soul. A few fleeting encounters while passing through villages—"hello’s," little hand waves—and a bit more interaction on weekends with walkers.
The only moments of deeper exchanges come at the end of the day, especially when I sleep at someone’s home. Aside from the "donativo" (donation-based) options, most of the time it’s parish hostels, accommodations with "hosts" as they call themselves, offering very affordable prices for a pilgrim. Between 30/35 euros per night, including dinner and breakfast.
To give you a sense of the mindset of these somewhat unique hosts, I’ll briefly tell you about my encounter with Louise, where I stayed at her "Maison de Béthanie."
In the Gospel, Bethany is the small village in Palestine where Jesus often goes to escape the fatigue of his preaching, staying with his friends Lazarus, Martha, and Mary.
I knock on the door after six hours of walking, soaked and muddy. Louise opens the door. A small, frail woman with a piercing yet kind gaze, a slightly flute-like voice, well-spoken but with a slow, drawn-out way of talking.
What a strange lady—seemingly both very young and very old at the same time.
Her house looks like a church, entirely decorated with religious images, statues of the Virgin and saints, photos of popes, and prayer formulas.
We chat a bit. She tells me that, aside from welcoming pilgrims, she graciously hosts all the "broken" people of life—the precarious, the lost souls, the stray dogs without collars.
For many years, she’s been housing Philippe, a sixty-year-old man with no family or children, but who works and helps her a little with the house.
The evening I arrived, an Albanian woman and her mentally disabled son ate with us. A strange feeling at the table—I felt like I was on the planet of the disinherited! But I didn’t feel uncomfortable, even though before starting the meal, everyone recited the "benedicite" while making the sign of the cross.
Louise’s existence, also marked by life’s hardships I think, revolves around welcoming these lost people, her parish activities, her prayers, and her absolute, naive (in my eyes) but infinitely respectable faith in the One who guides her life and serves as her compass.
This morning, she offered to take me a bit closer to the path so I could visit the lovely medieval village of Pérouges. She waited for me and then dropped me off a few kilometers further along the right route.
Thank you, Louise—may the God you believe in so strongly protect you.
And as I set off again under pouring rain, I thought about how we usually only live with people who resemble us: family, loves, friends.
The beauty of these unexpected encounters is that they let us glimpse other lives that aren’t our own, other universes we may or may not understand, accept or not.
As for today’s stage—mud, mud, and more mud. But I arrived in the early afternoon in a magnificent village under a finally re-emerging sun.
After the low landscapes of the Dombes, today I rediscovered the more vigorous rolling hills of the mid-mountain region.
The stage was tough, not so much because of its length—22 km—but because of the elevation gain, over 1000 meters.
I arrived pretty exhausted and I’m really starting to dip into my energy reserves.
Tonight, I’m sleeping in Ordonnaz, a small town in the Bugey area of the Ain department, located on the plateau at 850 meters above sea level.
When I think that I went to summer camp here when I was 11 or 12 years old! I didn’t recognize anything, not even that venerable "Sully’s tree," planted in 1601 to celebrate the Bugey’s attachment to the Kingdom of France.
But maybe it remembers me. Who knows?
My four favorite moments while hiking. Today: setting off at dawn...
This is the moment that, for me, holds the most emotion and sensation.
If the night’s been good, your body feels washed clean of the previous day’s fatigue. Still lingering in bed between wakefulness and sleep, but you’ve got to get up. The movements that follow are precise, almost ritualistic, like a ceremony.
First, your feet—taking care of them with attention. A quick wash-up. Packing your bag, making sure nothing’s forgotten.
If I’m alone, breakfast in absolute silence; if I’m with a host, a few words exchanged out of respect and courtesy. But my mind’s already elsewhere, focused on the departure.
Final gesture, final test: putting on my shoes. Okay, my toes seem to accept this new confinement. Stepping out of the lodge, backpack on, walking stick in hand.
The door opens, and you step into a “morning of the world,” fresh, as if purified by the night, magnified by the pink-orange hues of dawn. Your body, still a little stiff from sleep, slowly starts moving, but all your senses are already wide awake. It’s a powerful emotion—the fleeting feeling of being alone, face to face with the world...
A few words to wrap up about my host from yesterday in Ordonnaz. Another quirky character. A real pro of pilgrimages! Two Compostelas under his belt, a Mont-Saint-Michel route, and the Way of Assisi, which he completed in 2018 almost entirely by bivouac.
He welcomed me with warmth and simplicity into his cozy, lovely home.
A handsome man in his sixties. A long, fine face, closely trimmed beard, deep blue eyes with a frank and direct gaze, a voice with a deep timbre.
We had dinner together—just the two of us. A great meal between men. He talked a lot; I mostly listened. His career as a gendarme, retirement, his passion for pilgrimages as a way to seek or give meaning to his life. A love from his youth, thwarted by circumstances, whom he’s just reconnected with, hoping to finally walk a shared path together. A beautiful evening that ended with a tasting of his homemade liquor. Jean-Louis the pilgrim, who, like the monks, makes his own liqueur!
Otherwise, today I descended the plateau and finished in Saint-Bois, still in the Bugey region. From time to time, along the paths, I glimpsed the elegant, sharp line of the nearby Alps. I looked at them, but only quickly, sideways and from below. I’m not ready yet...
I walked like that for five hours without being able to stop for lack of shelter, head down, through a clay landscape dotted with ponds.
With the feeling upon arriving at the hostel that I should’ve wrung myself out first before drying off...
A rain cape is lightweight, doesn’t take up space, covers your backpack, and you might look like Quasimodo, but at least you stay dry. If you’ve also got waterproof pants, even better! 😉
My four favorite moments while hiking (2).
Today: the picnic.
When you're hiking, you never walk in silence. The countryside is filled with the most diverse sounds, nothing like those of the city. And above them all, there’s the sound of walking, which partly drowns them out. The creaking of your backpack, the pounding of shoes on the ground, the *poc-poc* of your walking stick, the "ahh" of breathing and effort. It’s the rhythm that accompanies the hiker and guides their thoughts.
But after 4 or 5 hours of effort, when fatigue sets in and your body demands its due, it’s time to stop.
That’s picnic time.
The sounds of walking fade, making way for all the echoes of the countryside. You sit wherever you want, like a free nomad. On a rock, a tree stump, right on the grass, sheltered under the porch of a church, a washhouse, a market hall, a shed, or a gazebo.
No more effort required. It’s time for the knife pulled from your bag, a piece of bread and cheese, an apple, and a square of chocolate.
And while chewing this simple food, satisfied with having covered half the distance, you think of nothing—or almost nothing. Just happy to be there, settled, at peace.
There we go, I’m in Savoie. Tomorrow, I’ll finally reach Chambéry. One more push, but it won’t be easy—30 km, I couldn’t do it any other way, and the weather’s supposed to be rainy.
Well, we’ll see. "Step by step," as the app says.
See you tomorrow.
To avoid the 24 km of departmental road between Yenne and Chambéry, I had to extend the stage by climbing the slopes along the country lanes.
Beautiful Savoie even in the rain. Small, tightly packed, flower-filled villages in the heart of pastures teeming with Montbéliarde cows with udders full of milk.
Before reaching Lake Bourget, I passed under the mountain through the "Cat’s Tooth" tunnel, reserved for bikes and pedestrians—a kilometer and a half under a concrete vault. I’m not claustrophobic, but I’ll admit I wasn’t entirely at ease.
To brighten up the crossing, the tunnel was covered in original murals depicting everything that defines the region’s identity: historical figures, built heritage, old trades, local wildlife and flora, traditions, gastronomy, tales, and legends… Savoie is a land with a strong identity and a striking past. Once a duchy and then a kingdom, it was a true autonomous regional power from the Middle Ages to the 19th century, until its annexation to France under Napoleon III.
The second part of the day was fairly easy since I covered the remaining 11 km by following a greenway into Chambéry. Easy but tedious, especially the last hour along an endless stretch of factories, warehouses, and stores on the city’s outskirts.
We often forget that Savoie isn’t just about alpine pastures, gentle cows, fondue, and ski slopes. It’s also a highly industrialized area.
Here I am in Chambéry after 21 days of walking from Vézelay. I’ll take advantage of these two days I’ve given myself to rest and think about whether or not to continue my journey. I think it’ll all depend on the podiatrist’s diagnosis—I have an appointment on Tuesday.
See you tomorrow.
Today, nothing! That’s what Louis XVI wrote in his journal at Versailles on July 14 while Parisians were storming the Bastille. People used that story to mock the king and laugh at his stupidity. In reality, it was his hunting journal where he recorded the day’s kills. Just a little anecdote…
For me, it was mostly: grocery shopping, pharmacy, maps, photocopies, laundry, and all the rest. A bit of Chambéry too, in the rain.
See you tomorrow.
Spent the morning getting treatment. The podiatrist let out "Oh wow!" and "Oh yes, definitely!" when she checked the state of my toes.
But she took her time to treat me as best as she could and advised me (which I suspected) to change my shoes. I did that this afternoon, hoping the problem is finally solved. So I'm ready to hit the road again, though still a bit apprehensive before tackling the Alps and crossing into Italy in about 5 or 6 days.
While waiting to resume my journey tomorrow, I’ll share the next part of my mini-series "Four Moments I Love While Hiking."
Today, episode three: the last kilometer.
It’s a pretty delicate moment with mixed feelings. Depending on the day’s challenges—the trail’s nature, fatigue, pain, and weather—it can feel like a "royal walk" or a "path of suffering."
Body and remaining energy are focused on one thought: reaching the end, the goal. More than the call of the stable, it’s the almost mystical desire to finally spot the oasis in the desert, the Promised Land. Especially the hope of finding an open bar when entering the village. Disappointment and frustration if there isn’t one—or worse, if it’s closed on its day off. Joy if you glimpse the little terrace with its umbrellas on a square.
That’s when I sit down, set my pack aside, and sip my Americano while blissfully puffing on my e-pipe. Pure hedonistic pleasure, not exactly in line with Franciscan values and rigor. But Saint Francis knew neither coffee nor nicotine. So...
The Chemin de Saint François… But what exactly is it? I think it’s time I tell you a bit more about it.
Its official name is the Chemin d’Assise. It stretches 1,800 km from Vézelay in Burgundy to Assisi in Umbria. Unlike historic pilgrimage routes such as the Camino de Santiago, this one isn’t ancient. It was created in the early 2000s by a group of lay believers deeply influenced by Franciscan pastoral care.
The monastic order of the "Friars Minor," founded by Francis of Assisi in the 13th century, is defined by the need for these monks to spread the word of God outside monasteries, mingling with ordinary people. For the time, this was a groundbreaking shift—even a revolution—in clerical practice.
These monks were, by necessity, walkers, nomads who delivered the divine message in towns and countryside. Francis and his followers traversed the hills of Umbria and all of northern Italy. Others crossed the Alps and established communities throughout Europe, particularly in France. The first community was founded in Vézelay in 1217.
Hence the bold idea of creating a path linking Vézelay to Assisi, passing as often as possible through places tied to Franciscan preaching.
So this is a very recent route—some might even call it artificial. Still very niche, it lacks the historical depth of the Camino de Santiago. Poorly marked and lightly traveled, it’s instead a path of intimacy. Yet the network of accommodations that has gradually formed offers pilgrims a truly authentic welcome, far from the commercialized, high-priced services of the Saint-Jacques.
And where do I fit into all this? Or rather, *on* this path? Am I truly a pilgrim? To be or not to be…
I’m giving myself time to answer that question, which may—or may not—find its meaning along the way.
Today, I walked through the Combe de Savoie and its hillside vineyards under bright sunshine, though the air turned noticeably cooler. Tomorrow, I enter the Maurienne Valley. The Alps and Italy are getting closer. Mama mia!!!
I didn’t see much of note today in the relentless rain, except for a small herd of rustic cows that looked prehistoric—like they existed before livestock domestication even began!
Rain... I hate it while hiking because it soaks everything and makes daily life way more complicated.
But watching a little group of kids having fun in the downpour made me realize how much *they* love the rain.
I think they notice things we’ve forgotten, things we can’t access anymore with our slightly shriveled adult imaginations.
Opening their mouths to catch raindrops, jumping into puddles with both feet for the thrill of splashing, chasing snails like they’re collecting Easter eggs, enjoying the guilty pleasure of getting scolded by parents—“Stop! You’ll be soaked!”
Yeah, that’s what growing up is: grumbling about rain that gets you wet.
Though I do know one adult who kept that childlike joy—he’s a fictional character from a movie.
Gene Kelly in *Singin’ in the Rain*. Flic, flac, floc, dadada-dadada... I am happy again!
But that’s probably because he’s in love...
The official route of the Assisi Trail goes through the Chartreuse massif. It’s supposedly stunning, but still impassable in early May. So I had to stick to the Maurienne Valley instead.
These Alpine valleys, carved out by Quaternary glaciers, form vast corridors where all modern transport routes have taken root: roads, highways, railways, and high-speed rail.
Sticking to the valley floor isn’t always pleasant, so this morning I opted to take the mid-slope route through forests and pastures along the backroads.
With my new trail-running shoes, I decided to pick up the pace since the forecast called for thunderstorms in the early afternoon.
I stopped for a picnic around 11:30 AM at the foot of the Belleville Chapel, perched picturesquely on a green promontory.
Around the building, an abandoned cemetery dotted with small, fenced grave plots—common in the early 20th century.
I paused for a moment at the grave of Louise Vernay, who died at 17 in 1917. A metal heart commemorates her short life with the inscription, “A sweet memory.” It reminded me of Baudelaire’s dark and beautiful poem, “The Servant.”
The servant with the big heart, of whom you were jealous,
Who sleeps her sleep beneath a humble patch of grass,
We ought to bring her some flowers,
The dead, the poor dead, have such great sorrows…
You see, little Louise, someone thought of you today.
After nibbling on a crust of bread and a piece of cheese, I resolutely set off on the trail known as “La Pierre du Mort,” as the guidebook indicated.
1.5 hours of sheer terror! The path was rough—I could tell from the start. Sloping, half-collapsed from landslides, covered in a thick layer of leaves, and littered with trees felled by some storm. Moving forward was tough: dodging dead trees, climbing over or under them, trying to pick up the trail when it disappeared for stretches.
My anxiety grew as the path narrowed and the slope to my left dropped sharply into the void. On my right, a few metal railings to grab onto—hardly reassuring. A little farther on, a sort of monkey bridge. The ground was slippery, so I moved carefully, leaning heavily on my walking stick.
Then, right in front of me: a three-meter stretch along the cliffside, directly over the drop, no wider than my shoes.
No way to pass or go around, and turning back wasn’t an option—the valley was too far behind. I’d have to take the risk, backpack and all…
I took a deep breath and stepped onto the narrow ledge. One foot, then the other, my right hand pressed against the rock. “Hail Mary… Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour…”
I made it! My legs still shaky, I crossed myself, thanked Mary, and let out a big sigh before slipping back into my usual irreverence.
I’m joking, but I swear I’ve never been so scared in my life…
Anyway. Safe and dry in a cozy hostel, alone once again.
Today I faithfully followed the valley floor under a low, overcast sky that cleared up a bit in the early afternoon.
A long, straight, and monotonous route squeezed between the A43 highway, the railway, and the river. Nothing too exciting, except for discovering the old center of Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne.
I had plenty of time to explore it while waiting for the welcoming couple who lived a few kilometers away to come pick me up.
A magnificent cathedral dedicated to Saint John the Baptist, which is said to house his relics: three fingers!
The building is a mix of styles—Romanesque, Gothic, Renaissance, and Classical—but it holds artistic treasures that I enjoyed admiring here and there as I wandered, in complete chronological disorder for a Prévert-style inventory.
A delicate Renaissance statuette, finely carved walnut choir stalls, a 15th-century fresco, a moving remnant of a Romanesque tympanum, a flower-filled cloister nestled in the mountains...
Alright, I’ll leave you for tonight since I’m a bit tied up with this kind couple who’s generously hosting me on a "donativo" basis. I feel I should be present for them.
Rain... I hate it when hiking because it soaks everything and makes daily tasks so much more complicated.
But watching a small group of kids having fun in the rain, I realized how much they actually love it.
I think they perceive things we’ve forgotten, things we no longer have access to with our slightly shriveled adult imaginations.
So I’m reminiscing about my childhood in the suburbs...
Walking in the rain for five minutes with you
And watching life while it’s still here
Telling you about the Earth while eating you up with my eyes
Talking about your mom, just a little
And jumping in puddles to annoy her
Ruining our shoes and laughing
And hearing your laughter like you hear the sea
Stopping, going back
The official route of the Assisi Trail goes through the Chartreuse massif. It’s supposedly stunning, but still impassable in early May. So I had to stick to the Maurienne Valley.
I know the Chartreuse well. It’s a lush limestone massif, quite rugged—I often hike there, especially in summer (during heatwaves) when it’s cooler than in the Vercors. There’s the Grande Chartreuse monastery. Worth a visit! The museum especially, because unlike Orthodox monasteries, which are always free to enter, you can’t go inside this Catholic one. Don’t want to disturb the monks😉
In the mini-series "moments I particularly love while hiking," the fourth and final episode: bedtime.
Some people dread this moment, which fills them with anxiety. Fear of not falling asleep and spending a sleepless night, reluctance to let go by losing consciousness, fear of the night...
For me, it’s the complete opposite—I see bedtime as a reward, with that reassuring feeling that nothing more can happen to me. The night will isolate me from social constraints, cleanse my body and mind of the day’s fatigue, and project me into another universe: the world of dreams.
I think I inherited this love for going to bed from my mother. I can still see her in the last years of her old age, settling into bed with childlike delight, savoring the sheets, and reciting her mischievous twist on an old ad: "Some people love their bank—I love my bed."
I actually think this joy of bedtime helped her live a long and healthy old age. And I believe I’ve benefited from this happy hereditary trait.
On a hike, this moment takes on even greater importance. It marks the end of a long day where the body has made a sustained effort, all senses have been fully engaged, and thoughts have raced nonstop to the rhythm of the walk.
Once the last practical or social obligations are done, it’s time to slip into bed with the satisfaction of having completed another stage and getting closer to the goal.
Of course, the moment is even more delightful when the bed is comfortable and the accommodation isn’t too basic.
And sometimes, for one reason or another, sleep just won’t come. The promises of bed aren’t always kept! But that doesn’t change my enjoyment of this special moment.
That’s it. Tomorrow’s a big stage with lots of elevation gain (over 1,000 meters) to reach Modane, where I’ll rest for a full day before crossing the Alps and heading into Italy.
This stage in Haute-Maurienne turned out to be less difficult than I’d expected. The elevation gain was certainly significant, but it was very gradual, which made it easier to manage my effort.
After three days crossing the valley, I’m starting to get a better sense of its spatial organization.
First, the valley floor, carved along its entire length by the powerful Arc River. This is industrial and industrious Maurienne—the one of factories, metallurgy, hydroelectric power, transport networks, and the massive Lyon-Turin high-speed rail construction site. Noisy, rather ugly, but it’s the valley of work, production, and probably innovation too.
On the slopes, clinging to the mountainside, a more traditional Maurienne with its villages of schist houses, churches and numerous chapels, pretty fountains, and old washhouses. But from what I’ve seen, agro-pastoral activity seems quite limited. Many beautifully renovated buildings, but they’re mostly used as homes for peri-urban populations or as second residences for others.
And then, higher still, Maurienne as a recreational space—the playground of city dwellers with its ski resorts, mountain bike trails, and hiking circuits.
So this isn’t quite the Savoie you might imagine—wooden chalets, lush pastures, cowbells ringing in the peaceful evening air.
And I’ll admit that arriving in Modane, in this ugly town under a gloomy sky, left me feeling a bit down.
That’s it for the May 18 update. May 18… Exactly a month ago, I left Kate’s cozy bed to head out, backpack on, into the warm, humid night in Béziers, making my way to the station without really knowing what lay ahead…
Tomorrow’s a rest day and time to prepare for the next leg toward the Alps and Italy.
Some people dread this moment, which fills them with anxiety. Fear of not falling asleep and spending a sleepless night, reluctance to let go and lose consciousness, fear of the night...
It seems to me that after a full day of walking, you pretty quickly drift off to sleep. 😏 There are always exceptions, though.
A rest day in Modane? For the body, yes, but not for the mind.
The route and accommodation options I’d planned fell through—or into the snow. The Petit Mont Cenis pass is open, but the road is temporarily closed to traffic for roadwork. No point in the "Gran Scala" hotel opening its doors, then. No accommodation possible at the top of the pass.
I spent the whole morning calling around to find a solution.
I finally found an alternative, but it significantly changes the original breakdown and throws off the stage lengths a bit.
Tomorrow: Modane – Suffet refuge (20 km)
Thursday: The refuge – San Pietro Abbey in Novalesa, Italy (24 km)
Friday: Novalesa – Susa (10 km).
Once there, I’ll take a full day to explore this pretty little town in Piedmont and decide whether to continue or not.
Starting tomorrow and for the next two days, I’ll be in a dead zone with no signal.
A little break for you all.
See you Friday in Susa.
This morning, leaving Modane, I walked past the gigantic Lyon-Turin high-speed rail construction site once again. A project long opposed by environmentalists who see it as a destruction of nature, but rather supported by local officials who expect new economic dynamics for the valley. The few locals I spoke with seem resigned, though still hoping that, in the end, the region will benefit from it.
But what is it really about? Connecting Lyon to Turin with a high-speed rail line for both passengers and freight, tunneling under the mountain.
At first glance, it’s a controlled development project since, in the long run, trucks will no longer travel through the valley, allowing it to breathe again.
Opponents, however, denounce the brutal construction site that damages and pollutes the soil, disrupts waterways, and destroys ecosystems.
Another rather negative consequence: the need to house the many construction workers has reduced housing availability and driven up rental prices.
Let’s hope that by digging so brutally under the mountain, humans won’t awaken some dormant telluric force.
By mid-morning, I finally started my ascent toward the peaks, following the trail called « The Little Happiness ». A lovely, well-marked path, soft underfoot with its carpet of needles in a mixed coniferous forest of spruces, Scots pines, and larches. I love larches. They’re the only conifers that shed their needles in winter, only to dress themselves in new, soft needles come spring.
Tomorrow, the high mountains toward the Petit Mont-Cenis pass—a millennia-old route that has seen all kinds of humanity pass through. Neolithic shepherds, peddlers, smugglers, Franciscan monks, refugees from troubled times, migrants of every era, armies… And even a Carthaginian general with his elephants (Hannibal, of course).
That’s today’s post, which you won’t receive until later since there’s no signal in this cozy little refuge at the bottom of a valley. Tomorrow’s a big, big stage that will take me into Italy. I’m a little nervous, but I’m ready.
How hard it is to turn back! Yet that’s exactly what I had to do this morning after more than an hour of walking toward the Petit Mont Cenis pass.
Everything was going fine—the slope was quite steep but steady, and the path was pretty comfortable—when, around a bend, a shapeless mass of rockslide debris and uprooted trees blocked my way. No need to panic; I’d been in this situation before.
I climbed over the trunks, clung to the rocks, all while trying to spot the path in my field of vision. Ten, fifty, a hundred meters of tough progress halfway up the slope, sometimes recklessly. I wandered—there’s no other word for it—for an hour on the scree, searching for the lost trail above or below. Nothing…
With a heavy heart, I finally decided to turn around. For a moment, I even wanted to throw in the towel, head back down to Modane, take a train, and go home…
No one at the lodge. Couldn’t reach Céline, the caretaker—no phone signal. What to do?
I decided to head down into the valley where I’d have a connection and then see if there was a way to get to Susa by bus or train.
What frustration!!! The idea that my journey might end here, buried under a pile of rocks, was unbearable.
On the way down, I realized I had a signal. I called Céline, feeling a bit defeated, and explained the situation. I asked if she could help me find the route later that day. “OK. I’m finishing up some errands in Modane, then I’ll come back up, and we’ll figure it out together. Wait for me at the lodge.”
After lunch, we both went back up the path to scout the passage near the landslide. I needed to turn right—I’d gone straight, convinced the path was a straight line. But it wasn’t obvious in all that chaos…
Second night at the Suffet lodge, then. Tomorrow, no false starts. I’ll still say a little something to Saint Francis, just in case.
Comme je suis devenu grand-père au début du mois de Juillet, mon épouse Mauricette pour les fans qui me suivent, a décrété que nous étions en alerte de niveau…
Très heureux de la réouverture du forum au mois d'octobre dernier!!! J'ai recommencé à lire (des messages, des carnets de voyage) et j'ai envoyé des réponses…
Carnets de voyage › France › Rhône-Alpes / Italie · 28 replies
Les grands projets se préparent, et souvent bien en avance. Plus le temps du départ approche, plus les doutes se font prégnants. Est-ce possible, est-ce que je…
J'entame enfin l'écriture de ce voyage de 20 jours dans le sud de l'Italie: nous n'étions pas partis cet été et, par chance, avons trouvé là, fin septembre,…
Hi everyone, I’m Patrick, 67 years old, a seasoned traveler (already 22 trips outside Europe).
In autumn 2025, I took my first 3-week trip to Japan, with stops in Tokyo, Kamakura, Matsumoto, Kamikochi, Takayama, Kanazawa, Kyoto, Nara, Osaka, Koyasan, Tokyo again, and Nikko.
I wanted to go back in May 2026 and explore some lesser-known places to complement my first trip.
Last year, there were four of us traveling together to discover Japan (a fairly classic itinerary). This time, I’ll be traveling solo for part of the trip and with a couple of French friends for the rest.
The weather was gorgeous in May, averaging around 25°C, with two very hot days in Kyoto and only two rainy days.
As usual, I organized everything myself, gathering plenty of information from various sites, including this one.
Transportation:
An ICOCA card is essential.
I got a 5-day Kansai-Hiroshima pass because I took the shinkansen between Hiroshima and Osaka three times, and it paid for itself quickly.
Accommodations:
Mostly through Booking. No issues at all. Average cost was 46 € per night.
Meals:
For breakfast, I alternated between buying food at a konbini to eat in my room or on the train and grabbing something at local cafés.
For lunch and dinner, I tried to vary my meals as much as possible—lots of sashimi, sushi, and ramen.
Okonomiyaki in Osaka and Hiroshima.
Oysters in every form (raw, grilled, fried) in Onomichi and Hiroshima.
A variety of seafood (shrimp, shellfish) in Hiroshima and Matsumoto.
Fish whose names often escaped me, but notably mackerel and eel (unagi).
Tempura and gyoza.
Chicken skewers (yakitori) and one teppanyaki meal.
One omakase meal (9 different dishes).
In the end, not much meat aside from a few yakitori skewers. No splurges on super expensive wagyu or Kobe beef.
Average dinner cost: 4,800 yen, drinks included.
The Itinerary:
Day 1: Departure from Brussels
Day 2: Arrival in Osaka
Day 3: To Himeji, then Kurashiki
Day 4: To Fukuyama, then Tomo no Ura, then Onomichi
Day 5: Cycling the Shimanami Kaido
Day 6: To Takahara, then Hiroshima
Day 7: To Kyoto to attend the Aoi Matsuri parade
Day 8: To Miyajima
Day 9: Hiroshima, then Kyoto
Day 10: Southern Kyoto
Day 11: Northern Kyoto
Day 12: Final day in Kyoto, then to Nagatsugawa
Day 13: Start of the Nakasendo Trail (Magome to Tsumago)
Day 14: Second day of the trail (Kiso Fukushima)
Day 15: Third day of the trail (Narai), then Matsumoto
Day 16: To Mt. Fuji (Kawaguchiko)
Day 17: To Tokyo
Day 18: Excursion to Enoshima and Kamakura
Day 19: Flight home, with a 10-hour layover in Hong Kong
Day 20: Arrival in Brussels
With my girlfriend Christelle, we’ve chosen South Africa for our first trip to Southern Africa, focusing on safaris—after a long debate with a Cape Town/Kruger combo.
But that would’ve meant cutting out St Lucia, which would’ve been harder to fit into another trip.
And St Lucia—thanks to Michel and all those travel journals—we really wanted to go there.
So our 11-night itinerary ended up like this, mostly shaped by school holidays:
- 3 nights in St Lucia
- 1 night in Hluhluwe
- 1 night at Mkhaya Game Reserve (Eswatini)
- 1 night at Hlane Royal National Park (Eswatini)
- 3 nights in Kruger (Berg en Dal / Satara / Tamboti)
- 1 night at Shindzela Tented Camp in the Timbavati private reserve
- 1 final night in Kruger at Lower Sabie
All of this in the off-season and rainy season, just a month after catastrophic floods that killed over 150 people and seriously damaged Kruger’s infrastructure.
I’ll jump straight to St Lucia and skip the loooong journey to get there (with a layover in Frankfurt, landing in Johannesburg, a domestic flight to Durban, and the rest by rental SUV—First Car Rental, perfect, no complaints).
To motivate readers—especially some familiar faces here—I’ll drop in a first photo.
Si je ferme les yeux et pense au sultanat d’Oman, je sens d’abord un léger parfum d’encens, la chaleur d'un rayon de soleil sur ma peau, avant de sentir le sable couler dans ma main… J’ai sur la langue le goût et le moelleux d’une datte, véritable bonbon, puis celui du café avec une pointe de cardamome et d’eau de rose.... J’entends le vent du désert siffler à mes oreilles, au loin l’appel d’un muezzin, puis le murmure de l’eau. J’ouvre les yeux, je vois des sourires, des signes de bienvenue, je vois une mer turquoise, des roches allant de l’ocre au pourpre, des wadis profonds d’où jaillissent des torrents, des dunes oranges, des plages de sable blanc où de petits crabes filent à toute allure. Je vois des oasis incroyables qui surgissent entre les montagnes arides. Je vois des villages abandonnés que l’on rêverait pleins de vie, des forteresses imposantes dominant des vallées, et des souks animés où la proposition est délicate et la négociation une politesse mutuelle…
Tout cela, et bien plus encore.
C’est ce que j’ai essayé de traduire dans mon carnet de voyage dessiné, que je complèterai çà et là de photos.
Ce carnet, je l’ai dessiné « à froid », après mon retour (en fait je l’ai réalisé cet été alors que notre voyage date de cet hiver). Il est d’un format assez spécial je l’avais acheté au japon, sans trop savoir ce que j’allais en faire. Et bien il a trouvé son usage ! Voici ci-dessous une photo de ce carnet, en mode accordéon : là, il n’est que partiellement ouvert, car tout déplié cela fait 5 mètres de long !
Pour les amateurs de dessin : Le format en accordéon est à la fois une contrainte (chaque feuillet fait un format 9 cm X 27 cm), et une liberté (on peut faire une fresque). Le papier est aussi un peu spécial : il n’offre pas une grande finesse de trait, mais il prend bien l’encre (feutre liner). En revanche, tout doit être fait presque d’un jet (avec une esquisse très légère au crayon) car il se gomme très mal. Il boit trop l’eau pour colorer au feutre ou à l’aquarelle (ou alors sans utiliser la détrempe), en revanche il porte bien le pastel à l’huile et son utilisation au pinceau avec de l’essence. Tirant sur le jaune, il m’a permis de créer des contrastes y compris avec le pastel blanc.
A droite, le "marqueur" de l'accueil, ces dattes qu'on vous offre partout en signe d'hospitalité. A gauche, un hommage à ces sublimes portes usées par les temps, qu'on admire un peu partout dans les quartiers anciens, y compris ceux qui sont abandonnés.
Oman est un des grands producteurs de résine d'encens. Les brûleurs d'encens sont partout, du plus simple en terre au plus précieux en argent ciselé...
L'hospitalité vous conduira à accepter aussi souvent un petit café, un "omani café", très léger, parfumé subtilement avec de la cardamome, pourquoi pas un peu de safran, et éventuellement un peu d'eau de rose.
J'ai ici représenté un homme dans l'habit commun usuel de tous les omanais : la dishdasha, majoritairement blanche (en semaine, en journée, la couleur est davantage pour le soir ou le vendredi et le samedi). Même si l'on voit des hommes habillés à l'occidentale, ils sont très peu nombreux. La dishdasha blanche est vraiment l'habit commun partagé par tous les hommes. La dishdasha, qui n'a pas de capuche, se distingue par un petit pompon accroché au col, la furakha, qu'on imbibe de parfum. Et croyez moi, les omanais en abusent! "ça sent le pompon" est une expression qui est maintenant passée dans notre langage commun, à mon mari et moi.
Autre incontournable de la tenue masculine, la kuma, ce petit couvre-chef rond, la plupart du temps blanc rehaussé de motifs aux couleurs vives. Le keffieh est aussi porté (mais sans le cordon appelé agal dans les pays arabes), et il est plutôt arboré par ceux dont les racines sont dans le désert, de ce que j'en ai compris.
Et les femmes, me direz vous? Voilées, pour certaines en noir intégral (mais pas la burka, plutôt le chador + Abaya), du fait de l'influence de l'Arabie et des émirats arabes unis, alors que le vêtement traditionnel était auparavant plutôt une superposition de robes très colorées. La plupart des femmes que nous avons vues portaient plutôt une tenue neutre, un voile uni sur les cheveux, mais le visage découvert. Nous avons vu aussi beaucoup de saris et de voiles colorés, il ne faut pas oublier que 40% de la population est constituée d'immigrants indiens, népalais, bengalais, qui travaillent beaucoup dans le tourisme, l'hôtellerie et la restauration, les services, mais aussi tous les travaux ouvriers.
Je précise qu'en tant que touriste il n'y a aucune pression pour porter un voile, jamais de regards désapprobateurs d'aucune sorte. Bien sûr, on gardera pour la terrasse de l'hôtel les mini shorts, les décolletés plongeants, les épaules et ventres dénudés, mais j'ai envie de dire que c'est pareil pour les hommes et les femmes et que le soleil étant vif c'est aussi meilleur pour la peau.
Voici pour cette introduction ! Au prochain post, je vous parlerai de mon itinéraire et on pourra se lancer!
Bonjour tout le monde, nous voici rentrés d'un RT USA organisé par nos soins du 31/07/2026 au 26/08/2026.
La destination : Le Sud-Ouest USA avec le Texas, l'Arizona et le Nouveau-Mexique. 7000 kilomètres effectués à la louche.
L'Auto : Une Chevrolet Equinoxe pour deux en passant par BSP Auto et Avis. Et dedans 2 valises, un sac de voyage, deux valises cabines, la glacière de chez Walmart, le matos photos et les bouteilles d'eau (pack de 40).
Le trajet : Dallas DFW, Fort Worth, Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Alpine, El Paso, Tucson, Sedona, Albuquerque, Amarillo et Dallas pour finir avec départ sur DFW.
Les voyageurs : Deux séniors bien avancés dans l'âge (73 et 75) mais toujours en activité (pas épuisante physiquement) (pour rester vivants et financer les voyages), autonomes physiquement à 100%, intellectuellement beaucoup moins, passionnés des USA, pays où tout est possible, plus marcheurs que randonneurs, plutôt hôtels à partir de 3 étoiles que motels de bord de route, plutôt restos Italiens que nourriture US, adeptes des arrêts fréquents pour les photos, plutôt musées que rien, Plutôt sieste que marches forcées. Pas trop râleurs, juste ce qu'il faut pour rester français au pays du grand Satan qu'ils disent.
Pas trés doués pour les langues, Anglais des rues (mais bien pratique), Espagnol nul pour moi hormis : " Hola ! Una Cerveza por Favor ! " Cela fait court. Madame comprend tout mais refuse de parler.
Le coût du RT : Environ 12 000 euros avec les vols AF, Auto, Essence, cadeaux, visites et tutti quanti. Bien maitrisé puisque 13500 euros prévus au départ.
Le bilan positif : Un régal avec les longues routes à perte de vue. Des Musées à découvrir. Le constat de la présence Hispanique et de son Histoire importante dans ce secteur de l'Amérique. Des locaux adorables. Des touristes plus ou moins sympas. Un accent Texan abominable et difficile à comprendre. Des stations Gas qui sont de véritables magasins avec nourriture préparée et autre alcools vendus en Arizona et Nouveau-Mexique et des employés au top ! Toujours prêts à rigoler !
Le bilan négatif : La chaleur tout au long du séjour...43° sur Dallas en fin de séjour. Impossible de sortir dans les rues. Beaucoup de "Homeless" dans les rues de l'Hyper Centre de Dallas. Les breakfasts Hôtel toujours les mêmes. On s'y fait.
Donc, positif certes mais le concept commence à fatiguer. Il se pourrait que le modèle RT autonome soit repensé pour le prochain. SI celui qui est en haut nous prête vie.
Pour la suite, attendons les premières photos triées et passées à la moulinette.
I could have titled my travel journal like Carmen: "Some trips are born twice." Indeed, we had considered this destination back in February 2020. However, an honest tour operator advised us against traveling at that time due to the climate. So, we gave up and opted for Guatemala instead (see "On the Mayan Lands" on this site).
So, why this title? When I was in primary school, over 65 years ago, the illustrations in my history books (Machu Picchu) and geography books (Lake Titicaca) made me dream, and those images stayed in my mind. It took until 2026 to finally make this dream come true!
We prepared our trip with Tout Pérou, a French-speaking "agency." Everything was handled via email and WhatsApp exchanges with our contact: Laurent, who was both competent, friendly, and full of good advice.
For 200 €, Tout Pérou provided us with drivers and guides whenever we wanted, helped us buy our domestic flights (cheaper when purchased in Peru), booked shuttles between airports and hotels, and got us a discount on the train ride to Aguas Calientes, as well as on the buses between Chivay and Puno and between Puno and Cusco. In short, Laurent took care of all the logistics and the Machu Picchu tickets. It was up to us to book our hotels. Tout Pérou provided a list, but we weren’t obliged to follow it. Another advantage of the package: we didn’t have to pay in advance; we paid the service providers directly day by day.
We didn’t meet Laurent in person because he was on vacation in Europe. Before his departure, he gave us a briefing, provided a summary table with the entire program, the service providers, their phone numbers, their fees, the schedules, and gave us plenty of advice (money, exchange, safety, etc.). After returning at the end of our stay, he kept checking in on us.
Lastly, we had also gathered information from Arnaud Lagadec, who runs a hotel in Cusco and offers tours of the region. He gave us a lot of useful information. Another contact: Thomas Montaigne, very friendly, who runs an agency in Arequipa (Agence Pérou Exclusif).
Day 1 – Paris to Lima
Foreword
I’ll share our trip without any pretension—I don’t have the talent of some contributors on this forum—and I’ll illustrate it with a few photos (taken with an ordinary smartphone). My comments are personal and only reflect my own views. So, please be kind! Feel free to comment on my story as you like, but let’s avoid pointless debates.
Even though we live in the south of the Paris region, true to our habits when the flight is in the morning, we chose to spend the night before our departure in a hotel near CDG and parked our car in a parking lot in Garches. This way, we avoid the stress that often comes with traveling around Paris (accidents, roadworks, traffic jams, etc.).
Check-in and border control went smoothly on that Sunday morning. Our Air France flight was uneventful. In Lima, border control took a particularly long time, and for the first time, we didn’t get an entry visa stamped in our passports.
As planned, a driver took us to the Miraflores district, where our hotel was located. We were surprised by the numerous signs about possible tsunamis, having forgotten that Peru is prone to such events and regularly experiences earthquakes. We’d see the consequences of these during our journey.
Exhausted from the early wake-up, the 13-hour flight, and the 7-hour time difference, we had dinner at the hotel before a restful night.
Note that this day was Peru’s presidential election day. As a result, we weren’t served beer—the sale of alcohol was banned that Sunday.
Come along, I'm taking you to this country where it's so nice to wander and slow down...
This trip was in 2023, but when I wanted to write my travel journal, VF was still closed to contributions...
So, now that I've just finished my Japan travel journal here, I figured it was high time to honor this destination we came back from so enchanted.
Disclaimer 1: This is a written travel journal. There’ll be text! Too much, for some!
Disclaimer 2: This is an illustrated travel journal. There’ll be photos! Too many, for some!
I have to say, every time I try to discipline myself, to keep it shorter, to include fewer photos... I end up adding more. It feels like my dear Aunt Nicole, who exhausted us with her slide-show evenings in the 70s/80s, decided to take her revenge. The upside for you, readers, is that you can slip away anytime without offending Aunt Nicole. I won’t even notice!
Anyway, since I love maps, here’s one to give you an idea of where I’m taking you. As you can see, we only saw a tiny part of Laos (the areas circled in red); we only had 3 weeks for ourselves (my husband’s newly retired, I still work), and we prefer taking our time over rushing around like crazy.
In broad strokes, it was very classic:
First, we “settled in” at Luang Prabang (8 days), because we wanted and needed to.
From there, we took three days to venture a little further north—not far in kilometers, but as we know, distances aren’t just about km!
Then we flew south to Paksé, letting ourselves drift down to the 4,000 Islands while stopping by the pre-Angkorian archaeological sites.
We wrapped up with the Bolaven Plateau.
A few practical notes: We arrived via Bangkok, then took a Bangkok-Luang Prabang flight, having picked up our luggage in Bangkok to check it in for Luang Prabang. No issues—the Bangkok airport, which many of you know, is very well organized.
We got our visas on arrival in Luang Prabang. Quick, but to be fair, we were on a “small” plane, and the big flights had arrived earlier, so we weren’t too crowded in line!
At the end of our trip, we didn’t fly out of Paksé but from the nearby airport in Thailand, Ubon Ratchathani (a 2.5-hour drive from Paksé), then Bangkok and Paris.
You’ll notice we skipped Vientiane to stay longer in Luang Prabang. That said, there’s now a high-speed train between Vientiane and Luang Prabang—good to know—and soon the (Chinese) train will go all the way to Bangkok and even Kuala Lumpur!
With that intro out of the way, let’s dive into the heart of the matter.
To be continued: Slowing down the pace... in Luang Prabang
C’est une ville ancienne qui respire, c’est une source qui vit.
Ici, pas de pancartes kitsch du genre « Tu me manques à Fengyu », ni de faux objets anciens fabriqués à la chaîne.
Les maisons centenaires portent encore les traces du vent et de la pluie；le matin, on entend les coqs chanter，et au crépuscule, la fumée s’élève doucement des cuisines.
Cette ville n’essaie de plaire à personne：comme l’eau de source qui la traverse, elle continue simplement de vivre, à son propre rythme.
Située dans le comté d’Eryuan, dans la préfecture de Dali au Yunnan, la ville ancienne de Fengyu est classée ville historique et culturelle nationale. On la surnomme la « terre des lettrés et de l’encre »：sous la dynastie Qing, l’académie Fengxiang a formé quatre jinshi et onze juren aux examens impériaux. Les familles bai y ont fait de l’étude et du travail de la terre un véritable héritage. Même les jours de marché, on y trouve des étals de calligraphies et de peintures, tandis que les linteaux et les murs-écrans sont couverts de maximes familiales.
Fengyu était aussi une étape importante de l’ancienne route du thé et des chevaux. Elle conserve le deuxième plus grand ensemble architectural bai de Chine, juste après Xizhou. Le célèbre voyageur Xu Xiake y a passé sept jours et l’a comparée au « paradis des fleurs de pêcher ».
After as many weeks as I have fingers on my right hand, we're hitting the road again, fully recovered from our pharaonic adventure. Back in France to drop off our daughters (sorry, girls!), this time it's just the two of us, ready to be welcomed by a new destination. They say it offers one of the richest cultural heritages in the world for those willing to put in the effort. It's the land of the ancient Silk Road, where we'll follow a journey steeped in history and discoveries straight out of *One Thousand and One Nights*. A former Soviet bloc region independent only since 1991, we'll be walking in the footsteps of Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, Alexander the Great, Marco Polo...
Another fun fact about this country: it's strictly forbidden to import porn on your phone. True story. The same goes for painkillers! Unless it's about sodomy—though the two don’t seem connected, that’s just how it is. Don’t ask me why! Anyway, I’m getting off track. Here’s the big question: Where do you think we’ve just landed?... To give you a hint, the locals are known for being incredibly welcoming. No sooner said than done—our first taxi driver, proud to transport French travelers, refused to let us pay for the ride. Great vibes for these two weeks ahead. So, any guesses?
Uzbekistan!!!
I’m inviting you on a stroll through my drawings—a completely subjective, far from exhaustive, and totally personal take, since it’s based on my own sketches. I put this travel journal together after returning in late 2024, mostly using felt-tip pens and pencils, with a few collages thrown in. I worked from our personal photos.
Let’s start with the shotengai...
Our first "wow" moment came as we stepped out of the subway in Asakusa, the Tokyo neighborhood where we’d booked our hotel for our first five nights. Exhausted after our long flight, we finally arrived and took an exit that led straight into a shotengai—one of those covered shopping streets that pop up in city centers and flourished between the 1950s and 1980s.
It was an instant aesthetic shock, like a close encounter of the third kind between the modern city, a typical Asian market with its street stalls, the vintage vibe of the arcade, the sheer abundance of goods, and the bustling crowd—a mix of tourists, pilgrims (thanks to nearby Senso-ji Temple), and locals (it’s a very working-class area).
In the end, it set the tone for a feeling we’d experience throughout the trip. Wherever we went, shotengai turned out to be fantastic spots for finding little restaurants, shops, or even fresh produce. Some are like real mazes, like in Kyoto, where we spent ages trying to relocate a restaurant we’d loved ;-)
In Kanazawa, the Omicho Market:
And in Kyoto, Nishiki Market:
Le dernier carnet sur le Turkménistan date de 2019. Voici donc un court retour sur ce vaste pays désertique qui se visite un peu plus facilement qu'auparavant.
C'est mon premier carnet. Si vous avez des questions, n'hésitez pas. Le pays s'ouvre lentement mais il est possible de visiter des sites où vous serez tout seul. En 5 jours, j'ai vu 2 hongkongais, quelques allemands et un chilien au cratère, 10 chinois dans un bazar de la capitale, et c'est tout !
Il est possible de visiter le Turkménistan depuis l'Ouzbékistan. Le plus simple et le plus économique est de se rendre en taxi jusqu'à la frontière depuis Boukhara. Le trajet prend un peu plus d'une heure.
Le passage de la frontière est assez long puisque de nombreux Turkmènes ramènent des objets achetés en Ouzbékistan afin de pouvoir les revendre au Turkménistan. Par exemple des couches, des produits pour bébés ou des produits de beauté.
Il m'a fallu plus de 2h30 pour franchir la frontière. Il est obligatoire pour visiter le Turkménistan d'avoir un guide et de passer par une agence de voyage. Les agences britanniques proposent souvent des séjours de trois, cinq ou sept jours à plus de 1 500 ou 2 000 euros.
Mais si votre budget est plus limité, il vous suffit de contacter quelques agences turkmènes directement par mail qui vous feront une proposition entre 700 et 1 300 euros pour trois à sept jours. J'ai pris un séjour de 5 jours de Turkmenabat dans le Nord-Est du pays jusqu'à Dashoguz dans le Nord. L'objectif est de visiter les principaux sites classés à l'Unesco, dont Merv, et les sites archéologiques comme Nisa ou Gonur Tepe.
Votre guide sera également le chauffeur. Il viendra vous chercher à la frontière. Les formalités sont très longues car les douaniers doivent multiplier les tampons et l'obtention du visa que vous avez préalablement demandé à votre agence de voyage nécessite plusieurs contrôles. Mais le passage se fait relativement aisément même si chaque étape est assez longue.
Une fois de l'autre côté, première surprise, l'autoroute est très récente jusqu'à Turkmenabat. Une très longue file de camions s'étend sur plusieurs kilomètres du côté turkmène afin de pouvoir passer la frontière et aller en Ouzbékistan. En effet, selon mon guide, les camions turkmènes transportent du gaz, du coton (pas à cette saison puisque la récolte a lieu en septembre), mais ont surtout un réservoir plein car le prix du carburant est beaucoup moins cher au Turkménistan. Un plein pour une voiture vaut à peu près 3 euros, ce qui est défiant toute concurrence.
Depuis le poste frontière de Farap, l'objectif est d'atteindre la ville de Mary qui abrite dans sa banlieue, à une trentaine de kilomètres, le site classé à l'UNESCO de Merv. Cette cité est connue comme étant une fondation d'Alexandre le Grand au IVe siècle avant Jésus-Christ sous le nom d'Alexandrie de Margiane. Plusieurs forteresses sont visibles.
Après plus de trois heures de route, nous déjeunons dans un restaurant turc qui s'appelle Aladdin. Plusieurs citations du président sont visibles sur l'autoroute, mais la route est de qualité et on avance aisément. Ce sera de loin la meilleure route du pays. ça se gâtera largement par la suite.
Les ronds-points sont particulièrement intéressants puisqu'on y retrouve des emblèmes de la culture turkmène, soit le chien, soit un tapis, soit le cheval Ahal Teke soit des symboles musulmans, même si la présence d'artefacts islamiques est assez réduite.
Preamble:
Africa was calling to me, so a year ago, with our usual travel companions, we decided to return to the continent we love so much.
Where to go?
Uganda quickly caught our attention—wildlife we’re used to seeing, plus gorillas and the shoebill we missed in Zambia.
We got in touch with Paul, who’s been mentioned several times on the forum back in September, booked our flight tickets, secured the gorilla permits, and by early October, the most important things were done.
We still had plenty of time to hold our "prep meetings" for the final itinerary.
Three days before departure, I sprained my ankle (my weak spot, as you’ll recall from our Colombia trip).
I wasn’t in great spirits, but after a year of waiting, nothing was going to stop me.
We’d see how it goes!
Off we went for our new adventures
It was winter, a winter with beautiful weather,
A season that only exists in the southwest of America,
I remember very well what I told you that morning
A month ago... A century ago, an eternity ago...
We’ll go... wherever you want, whenever you want...
Well, yeah, back from our adventure in our enchanting American West just a month ago, we’re already taking a bite out of one of its lesser-known competitors. "Flo, if you had to pick just one reason to justify your love for the U.S., what would it be?" The greasy, dripping burgers? No, I don’t think I’m going out on a limb by saying it’d be the wide-open spaces... And that’s exactly what our new quest is taking us to—a land on the other side of the globe where the horizon also seems endless, where silence tastes like salty wind and sand, where freedom is measured in kilometers of desert tracks, where the GPS is mostly there to confirm you’re lost in the middle of nowhere... Add to that magic formula the fact that you’ll see more zebras, giraffes, wildebeest, and elephants than people per square kilometer, and you can imagine us setting foot in Southern Africa for the first time, more precisely at the small airport in Windhoek, capital of... of...? Brush up on your geography, damn it! We’re landing in Namibia!!!
To be honest, Namibian landscapes have been flirting with me for ages. So how did I resist this island of temptation for so long? First, the budget. Let’s just say that for the same amount of effort (and kidneys), the bank lets you choose two other adventures almost anywhere else on the planet. Then there were my girls. Yeah, back then, they were too little to dose up on Malarone, the only malaria remedy at the time... Long story short, ten years later, all the planets have aligned. First, I won the Euromillions! Well, almost... Let’s just say my girls are now old enough... not to take Malarone, but to stop following me on all my adventures! Jackpot! "Flo, how about a little two-person caprice, just the two of us, tackling the Namibian tracks?"
As we landed on the runway, first wow effect: The horizon is immense. It’s flat as can be, incredibly flat... So much flat space! Did I mention it was flat?... Looking into the distance, it feels like your gaze could circle the Earth without hitting a single obstacle—until you end up staring at your own backside. "Oh, what a nice view!" Well, it’s the first time I’ve seen my butt from this angle! Touching moment... Sorry, I’m rambling—must be the exhaustion from the three-flight marathon we just powered through via Ethiopia and South Africa... And yet, no time to philosophize about my anatomy. As usual, we want to rack up our first kilometers to be front and center at dawn tomorrow. After wrapping up the tedious Namibian immigration formalities and meeting the 4x4 that’ll be our companion day and night for the next fifteen days, we’re off! We’re not exactly fresh, but we’re ready to tackle the next five hundred kilometers in night mode, cruise control set due south! Just outside Windhoek, the local wildlife—a jackal—welcomes us with a smile: "Welcome to Namibia!" That’s what it said! Honest... Okay, first endless straight road, first flaming sunset, first corrugated dirt track, first Milky Way with zero light pollution... You get it—it’s definitely the day of firsts... First night camping, too, in the big trunk of our Toyota Fortuner parked by the side of the track... The real adventure, the kind that smells under the arms, can finally begin...
Last October, we landed in Marrakech to spend a few days with family exploring Morocco’s roads.
Transport: a rented Dacia.
Accommodations: small guesthouses.
Our first stop was just a few kilometers from Marrakech, at a lovely house perfect for relaxing and recharging before continuing. It’s called Bleu House, a little paradise on the outskirts of Marrakech. The welcome was very warm, with a beautiful pool and a lovely garden.
Next, we headed toward the Tichka Pass. The road has really improved in recent years—it’s much easier to drive now. No more getting stuck behind trucks, and today, the construction is practically finished.
Morocco has turned green after the recent rains. It’s a joy for the herds and shepherds.
When we started looking for a summer destination a few months ago, our first criterion was to avoid extreme heat and heatwaves. We had already been to Norway two years ago and are considering going back in the future for other occasions. So, we had some fun asking ChatGPT which destinations enjoyed a mild climate during the summer without going too far. Among the list provided by the AI were the Canary Islands... The idea of a place we wouldn’t have thought of first, both not too far away and exotic enough, appealed to us: “Hmm, why not?”
This destination had never really attracted me, though Magali was a bit more interested. Five years earlier, COVID had caused a short break in my professional activity, and I had planned a trip because the flight price was attractive, and I was looking for a destination different from what usually appeals to me, more than out of deep interest. From a distance and with a social judgment I acknowledge (it’s not great, but it’s not completely wrong), I had the image of a destination for party-goers enjoying the sun without the slightest interest in local culture, with concrete coastlines and denatured landscapes—everything I detest the most. Still, I had done some quick research on the different islands and spotted Lanzarote for its beautiful volcanic landscapes, hiking trails, beaches, and the impression of a good balance between activity and fewer crowds than Tenerife or Gran Canaria. Then I dropped the idea of going, without ever reconsidering traveling to the Canaries...
Until now! Because we started researching the different islands of the archipelago to see which ones might appeal to us the most. It was La Gomera, the third smallest island of the archipelago, more praised for its hiking trails and preserved nature than for its beaches, away from mass tourism (fifty times fewer tourists than Tenerife) but still a bit more developed than its wild neighbor El Hierro, that caught our attention. Contrary to what might be suggested later, I’m not at all addicted to AI, but I use it from time to time to synthesize quick research or simply for experimentation. Since ChatGPT had started anticipating my tastes lately as if it had become my buddy (often successfully, sometimes off the mark), I asked which Canary Island would suit me best for a trip with my family. The tool answered first with... La Gomera. So, I tested it and teased it a bit to see if this suggestion was well-founded, as the method sometimes makes it contradict itself. But no luck: “You’d appreciate the wild nature of El Hierro, but with family, you’ll find little activity for the kids. You won’t like the touristy vibe of the big islands like Tenerife, Gran Canaria, Lanzarote, and Fuerteventura. You could consider La Palma, but it’s really La Gomera that will suit you best, based on your interests and the criteria given.” So, we dug deeper into our research and were convinced without a shadow of a doubt that this island was the one waiting for us.
Without knowing it, we had Canarians in our circle who revealed their origins when they heard about our travel plans. One from Tenerife insisted we’d be better off choosing Tenerife (obviously...) because it also has preserved spots and that La Gomera, “you can explore it in two or three days, you’ll get bored quickly...” The other, a colleague from Gran Canaria who had never visited La Gomera, still recommended it without hesitation because it turned out her parents had just gone there on vacation: they loved it and had encountered few tourists. She also tended to think this destination was usually the subject of short stays, but according to what her parents told her, taking your time there was also a great idea. However, in our research, the idea that La Gomera is an island you can explore in three or four days max kept coming up. So, we considered combining its visit with La Palma or El Hierro, the other two that caught our eye. But hopping between islands by ferry represents a significant budget for non-Canarians, even more so for a family of four. Then, scrutinizing Google Maps, it seemed obvious that two weeks were too short to discover two islands as they deserve, and that there seemed to be plenty to see in La Gomera, given its very unique culture. After all, we read that some people spend several months a year there, others never even leave... Finally, these landscapes and this atmosphere, which seemed to us a mix of Europe, North Africa, and Latin America, tempted us. So, it would be two weeks in La Gomera, deal!
La Gomera is therefore the second... well, the third smallest island of the Canaries since La Graciosa was recently recognized as a fully inhabited island. It has the shape of a rough circle about 20 to 25 kilometers in diameter and has just over 20,000 inhabitants, half of them in its capital, San Sebastián de la Gomera, the only real town. Like its Canarian sisters, La Gomera is a volcanic formation that rose about 10 million years ago. The island is very mountainous and rugged, covered with red and black rocky landscapes. Geological activity has shaped, between the sprawling massifs that end in steep cliffs in the ocean, six coastal valleys with tropical vegetation that have favored human settlement. They divide the island like slices of a cake; from the north clockwise: the agricultural Vallehermoso, the rustic Agulo, the green, humid, and fertile Hermigua, the sunny capital San Sebastián de la Gomera, the southern and isolated Alajeró-Santiago, and the seaside Valle Gran Rey. They constitute the six municipalities (more like cantons to our French understanding) of the territory.
The large solidified magma massifs that shape the heart of the island have created a large depression more protected from the sun at its center, allowing the growth of a vast laurel forest, today grouped within the Garajonay National Park, La Gomera’s green lung, which has earned it the status of a World Biosphere Reserve. Its completely European appearance contrasts sharply with the rocky and tropical landscapes of the rest of the island. Thus, the climate varies greatly from one point to another on the island: in summer, you can quickly go from a dry and sunny valley at 35°C to a humid forest area at altitude at 18°C.
La Gomera was populated late. As with the rest of the Canaries, human presence is thought to have begun about 2,000 years ago. Groups of animist Berbers, probably fleeing persecution, gradually populated the archipelago, especially the western islands and La Gomera, becoming its small aboriginal population: the Guanches (or later Gomeros). The animist and pastoral civilization of the Guanches thrived until the Spanish takeover in the 15th century, which, after a short period of harmony and mixing with the indigenous people, suddenly ended in bloodshed... La Gomera later became the “Columbus Island” after Christopher Columbus’s stopover, increasing the blending of populations. In the 20th century, many Gomeros emigrated to Cuba and other Latin American countries in search of a better life, bringing back a mix of cultures and traits quite palpable in today’s Gomeran culture. It is, however, in La Gomera that the vestiges of Guanche culture seem to have left the most traces, in the language, gastronomy, social practices... Moreover, most Gomeros, especially in remote villages, have a particular identifiable type and proudly claim their ancestral roots, even making La Gomera a bit exotic in the eyes of other Canarians.
Perhaps that’s why it has never really wanted to develop its tourist infrastructure too much. If we set aside the tourists who visit for the day by bus or boat from Tenerife on a marked itinerary (and whom we ultimately rarely encounter), La Gomera has remained a hidden gem, a destination focused on nature discovery that attracts hikers, nature-loving divers, and scientists for its fauna and flora, and to a lesser extent, beachgoers who don’t seek overly developed coastlines. Tourist activity is therefore limited. Roughly speaking, you’ll find a majority of Spaniards, including a substantial number of residents from other Canary Islands, many Germans who have a particular fondness for La Gomera and spend long stays there or own second homes, to the point that the German cultural footprint is clearly noticeable in some places (it’s said to be Angela Merkel’s favorite holiday spot), and still quite a few French. The presence of other nationalities seemed negligible to us. Most travelers come mainly for hiking, but it’s also a prime spot for whale watching. Additionally, the seaside resorts of La Gomera—San Sebastián, Santiago, and especially Valle Gran Rey—are well-known destinations for hippies, especially German ones, ranging from chic boho hippies to old-school hippies who’ve been there for decades, quite similar to those you’d meet in India in Goa, Rishikesh, or Paharganj. Thus, practices like naturism, vegetarianism, and local organic production are quite well established in some areas.
Some practical info:
- The round-trip flight from Paris to Tenerife cost us 365 € per person (outbound with Transavia, return with EasyJet), including checked luggage and three seats reserved side by side.
- We chose two bases to explore the island: one week in Valle Gran Rey, reputed to be the most pleasant of the three seaside resorts, and one week in Hermigua, more mountainous and close to the natural park. We booked two houses with balconies and views: the first at 120 € per night, the second at 99 €.
- The round-trip ferry between Tenerife and La Gomera cost us 270 € with the company Baleària Canarias, including discounts for children aged 4 and 12, but I don’t have the exact details. It was a bit cheaper than with the other company, Fred Olsen.
- Finally, we rented a car through the agency Cicar for 360 € for 16 days, which comes to 22.50 € per day.
- Apart from that, we didn’t plan anything and decided the day before or even the morning of what we wanted to do. We didn’t invest in any paper guide on the Canaries, as information on La Gomera was scarce, but we used the very comprehensive site La Gomera Travel, a travel guide published by the Canary Islands Tourism Council, a real goldmine of almost exhaustive information on the island.
Alright, off we go for 16 days of adventure discovering La Gomera!
If you're looking for great tips and offbeat spots, if you love exploring uncharted parts of a country, if the exotic is your adrenaline, then move along!
Our 15 days in early May in this part of Turkey (a country I first discovered during a city trip to Istanbul in 2017) will only tread well-worn paths and revisit popular routes. Simply because I kept hoping until the very end that our flight to Jordan wouldn’t be canceled. Events in the Gulf proved me wrong, so we left with:
Zero preparation.
Not a single hotel booked (well, except the first one), no visits planned, just a flight ticket bought three weeks earlier. No guidebook, no app—just the desire to explore southern Turkey and Cappadocia, whose images and the chance to stretch our legs had caught my eye.
Oh, wait—I did bring along a new guide: Gemini! Yes, my friends, generative AI was my chief advisor throughout the trip for sites to visit, accommodations, routes, and even restaurants! An experiment I wanted to try to form my own opinion on using this new technology. And what better way to test it than a Turkish getaway?
The verdict? You’ll have to wait for the trip recap to find out!
The main idea of the trip is also relaxation.
So, the plan is Antalya for a few days, the Turkish Riviera for a few more, Cappadocia as the highlight, and a return via Antalya to wrap up the trip. And it was all planned by AI!
So, if you're ready, fasten your seatbelts—cabin crew, doors to automatic and cross check—boarding for Turkey now!
Il arrive souvent qu'on nous demande quoi visiter en Belgique .
Et les réponses ramènent le plus souvent à Bruges , Gand, Anvers et Bruxelles , avec raison , ces villes valant la peine d'être visitées 😉 .
Toutefois, la Belgique, bien que petite , ne se limite pas à ces 4 villes .
J'habite l'une d'entre elles ( Bruxelles) , passe avec plaisir du temps dans les trois autres , mais j'ai envie d'aborder d'autres coins moins connus , qui pourront compléter le séjour de ceux qui ont envie d'en voir un peu plus , ou de voir autre chose .
C'est qu'entre deux voyages , j'aime bien visiter l'un ou l'autre coin du pays où j'habite .
D'où l'idée d'un carnet de balades .
La plupart des endroits dont je vais parler peuvent être visités en faisant l'aller-retour le même jour , au départ de Bruxelles , que ce soit en transports en commun ou en voiture .
Dans l'ordre chronologique des sujets abordés :
- Le barrage de la Gileppe ( province de Liège) -message 2 , page 1
- Le domaine de La Hulpe ( Brabant wallon ) - message 3 , page 1
- Malines ( province d'Anvers ) message 4 , page 1
- La côte - message 5 , page 1
- Le Westhoek , au départ de La Panne - message 6 , page 1
- Le Zwin, au départ de Knokke - message 7 , page 1
- Lier ( entre Malines et Anvers ) - message 8 , page 1
- Mons (Hainaut) - message 9 , page 1
- La région de Florenville . - message 12 , page 1
- Les Cantons de l'Est - message 13 , page 1
- Dinant - message 18 , page 1
- Le jardin japonais d'Hasselt - message 24 , page 2
- Louvain message 29 , page 2
- Louvain-la-neuve - message 32 , page 2
- Ostende - message 42 (page 3) et message 166 (page 9)
- Les floralies de Grand-Bigard . - message 43 , page 3
- Le bois de Halle -message 44 , page 3
- Les pralines - message 54 , page 3
- Charleroi - message 68 , page 4
- Namur - message 92 , page 5
- Le Bois du Cazier ( Marcinelle) - message 95 , page 5
- Les couques et les gozettes - message 96 , page 5
- Liège - message 99 , page 5
- Tournai - message 115 , page 6 .
- Audenarde ( Oudenaarde ) - message 121, page 7
- Jardin botanique de Meise - message 124, page 7 .
- Tongres ( Tongeren ) - message 125 , page 7 .
- Château de Beersel ( Brabant flamand) - message 126, page 7 .
- Bruxelles confinée ( messages 150 et 154 , page 8 )
- L'hôpital Notre Dame à la Rose , à Lessines ( messages 161 et 162 , page 9 ) .
- Westende ( message 167, page 9)
je complète cette liste au fur et à mesure de l'avancement du carnet ...
This travel journal is therefore intended solely for my photos, to present a consistent style.
All the shots were taken with a simple Samsung Galaxy smartphone and with whatever was at hand.
All stays combined, I’ve spent the equivalent of a year at most in Thailand, and I’m no great expert.
However, after many trips, lots of reading on VoyageForum and other sites, and conversations with many locals as well as expats, my view of the country is becoming clearer, though it’s constantly evolving. You never stop discovering and learning.
I guess I wanted to deliver a puzzle, mainly for those who want to get an idea of the country here and for those who feel nostalgic about it.
I don’t know if this minimalist sharing will interest anyone, but it’ll do me good to put it together. After so many months without traveling and then these other long months with VF closed, there’s plenty of material available.
There’ll be a mix of places, periods, and subjects, but it might well be intentional.
I suspect many Thais have dogs because they make excellent guardians for the home. Nothing better to deter burglars or to signal the presence of a snake. You’ll often see Thais tapping the top of their dog’s head, but don’t be fooled: it’s a sign of affection from them. Judging by the dogs’ reactions, they’re used to it.
Thailand is one of the countries on the planet where rabies is still present, so keep that in mind. It’s not just bites that can be dangerous, so don’t let just any dog lick you. Especially on a wound, of course.
Even though dogs often fear humans—this dangerous and unpredictable predator—we still need to stay cautious.
Be careful when walking into alleys because the dog will defend its master’s big yard. Be careful at night, and be careful when they’re in packs.
It sometimes crosses our minds that Thailand isn’t all that made for walking around, and dogs are one of the reasons.
That said, it’s not uncommon to see them chasing bikes or scooters. Cars, though? Much rarer—they’re too big.
It seems Thais prefer to give their dogs freedom by not locking them behind gates. Though sometimes the gate is closed, the little side door is wide open. Oh, and sometimes there’s no gate in front of the property, or it’s been full of holes for years.
You’ll often see dogs sleeping on the roadside, sometimes right on the road. When you approach, they move aside nonchalantly—or not at all. It’s less funny when they suddenly appear from thick vegetation, reminding visitors not to drive too fast. As a result, you’ll notice that dogs with injuries or missing legs aren’t that rare.
Since they believe in reincarnation and respect for all forms of life, they don’t chase dog packs away too much, and they don’t sterilize them enough. When you see a small pack roaming freely in the countryside, you think twice about running into them at the edge of a field.
A darker side of this is that euthanasia isn’t often practiced. Twice, we saw dogs at death’s door in temples, enduring terrible suffering with no one to help. The image (and the smell) of one of them, agonizing and exuding the stench of death, still comes back to me sometimes.
Some of you may have seen the YouTube vlog of a French woman living in Phuket who was given a little pig by her Thai friends. The animal, well-fed, quickly became a happy and enormous beast with its own garden. Yet it didn’t take long for it to fall seriously ill and become incurable. In her video, the French woman described how difficult it was to find a vet willing to perform euthanasia.
You’ll often see bowls by the side of the road. Thais leave food and water there for stray cats and dogs. Overall, they have a big heart for animals.
If you ever pop into a shopping mall, you might see people pushing their small dogs in strollers. It’s not just for fun—these strollers are provided for customers to put their pets in, otherwise you can’t bring them inside. It looks a bit odd when you expect to see a baby.
This trip had been on my mind for about fifteen years.
But the discomfort of overnight stays, the difficulty of communication, and the prices of the few car rental options kept making me postpone the project.
And then, everything suddenly fell into place—I told myself, it’s time!
The preparations took longer than usual; the destination is still far from mainstream.
A bit of Kazakhstan?
Not in the end.
The south or not the south?
Yes, in the end.
Pre-book or go with the flow?
Only two stops were a leap into the unknown.
To help me find the ideal route, I made great use of this forum (thanks to everyone for patiently answering my questions!), pored over travel journals and blogs (Christian, Jeff), zoomed in on Google Maps and Yandex, and bought the guide published by OunTravela about this destination (the guide has been updated since).
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You’ve got your passport, international driver’s license, bank cards, and euros?
Off we go to Lyon—just one night left before our early morning flight.
Tomorrow night, we’ll be sleeping in Bishkek!
(Steak for my partner’s mischievous nephews...)
You’ll find here a post with some practical information.
And here, the version of the travel journal without comments.
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As a supplement, the route track.
Not necessarily ultra-accurate since Google has serious gaps for this destination...
January 2026
Here we go again for new adventures and the pleasure of sharing them with you here! First of all, I’d like to thank everyone who helped me with the preparations, even with some last-minute improvisations just days before departure. Thanks to Montagnard74, Jojoone1, Songsam, Attila, Dennis2, NadegerFERM, and the authors whose travel journals about Laos inspired me (Montagnard74, Muriel18, Mavietongs...).
In this story, written by Richard and illustrated by me, we’ll tell you about the journey of four friends: Catherine, Richard, Nathalie, and Bruno. A reinvented but overall successful trip, filled with discoveries and surprises, the scents of spices and frangipani flowers, (too) spicy food, sunsets, and... one big mess.
I’d been wanting to discover Sulawesi for years. But then life happened—COVID, the cost of flight tickets, you name it. Long story short, years went by, but we finally set off as a family for a three-week trip in southern Sulawesi: Rammang Rammang, Rantepao, Sengkang, Bira, and Selayar.
I like to spend a good amount of time in the places I visit, giving myself the chance to really get to know the area and meet locals. So no island-hopping this time—just the south. But when I say "just," it’s not restrictive at all, given how rich this island is in landscapes, little encounters, and magical moments.
Wednesday 07/08 - Thursday 07/09:
We left Montpellier for what was supposed to be five flights, though we only took four to start, landing in Jakarta.
We picked up our luggage there to catch a flight to Makassar the next day. That’s the only way we could get an affordable ticket (702 €).
I won’t bore you with the flight details—there’s not much to say. We arrived at 7 PM and considered heading straight to Makassar that evening. But we opted for a recovery night before taking off again. Good thing we did, because my son’s suitcase was missing...
First contact with the locals was a bit stressful—a trip without your luggage isn’t exactly fun. But right away, a woman reassured us: the suitcase was just enjoying some extra time in Singapore. Maybe it was doing some last-minute shopping. Anyway, nothing serious—it was supposed to arrive at 9 AM the next day. That gave us some breathing room since our flight wasn’t until noon.
So off we went to our hotel (Days Hotel & Suites) near the airport. It was cheap (40 € for three rooms—my kids are older and need their space), but it wasn’t worth much more. The place had definitely seen better days. But no big deal—we were only there for the night, and... we got to watch France beat Morocco in the World Cup live at 3 AM. That’s what really mattered!
Friday 07/10: In search of the lost suitcase
First challenge of the morning: finding our missing suitcase. They sent us to the airport basement, to the staff entrance. We were greeted with smiles, and an airport employee led me through the underground corridors back to the baggage claim. Right on time at 9 AM, the suitcase arrived, just like they’d promised. We were finally complete!
Off we went to change terminals, grab a well-deserved meal, and board our fifth flight to Makassar.
Little side note: I struggled for a while trying to book domestic flights directly on the airlines’ websites with no luck. Without meaning to advertise (though I guess I am a little), I realized it’d be easier to use sites like tiket.com or Traveloka. That turned out to be a great choice—I even ended up booking hotels through them later in the trip.
12:40 PM: We were on our way to Makassar. First good news: we were the only tourists. Well, the only European tourists on the flight, anyway.
No, you’re not dreaming—the bag is full of... potato chip packets.
To each their own souvenirs, I guess...
When we arrived in Makassar, a driver was waiting to take us straight to Rammang Rammang: 250,000 IDR (12 €) to our guesthouse (Rammang Rammang House). Forget about meeting people on the bus—we were headed straight to the first stop of our trip, and it was already stunning.
My kids’ guesthouse:
Ours:
View of the little lake:
But not everything is straightforward around here.
I wanted to get a local SIM card for internet and calls. I found them expensive at Jakarta’s airport (20 € for 20 GB), so I decided to wait. Well, no luck in Rammang Rammang either. You can’t just buy one from the local shop—you need a Telkomsat store (they have the best coverage). So we’d have to wait for Rantepao to get Wi-Fi... When I say "local shop," I mean the little shack around the corner. No big deal—we’d find one easily in Rantepao for 5 € and 25 GB. So there we were, offline, just the four of us enjoying the amazing view.
Saturday 07/11: Rammang Rammang
We woke up early to the sound of wedding music blasting through the village (everyone’s invited!). Off we went to explore the area.
A little walking, a little boat ride (shared with a French tourist and a Polish one—yes, there *are* tourists here, just not many; 750,000 IDR for up to 8 people) through a lovely canal, and we discovered the karst site. It was peaceful and beautiful.
The river:
The karst site:
I hesitated about writing this travel journal...
This summer, we only did the classics (the 3 northern parks and Zanzibar) and let a local agency take care of everything from start to finish.
No craziness, no risks, no sleeping under the stars, no self-drive, no venturing off the beaten path, no incidents, and not even any delays in the pre-planned itinerary...
But don’t think we were disappointed!
The whole family (there were 6 of us) came back with smiles and memories of great moments spent together.
So, if you're looking for a "classic" way to discover Tanzania, this is the place to be.
Our 2-week itinerary:
- Arusha (1 night upon arrival)
- Tarangire (1 night)
- Ngorongoro (2 nights in Karatu then Irmisigiyo)
- Serengeti (3 nights in Robanda, Togoro Plains, and Seronera)
- Zanzibar Stone Town (1 night)
- Zanzibar Matemwe (3 nights)
- Zanzibar Jambiani (3 nights)
Okay, Palermo—we know it. We go there to marvel at the architectural wonders born from the Arab-Norman-Byzantine-Gothic mix. And rightly so. We also go to treat our taste buds to all kinds of delights, both savory and sweet. Again, rightly so. We go to succumb to the charms of Palermo’s women, their sun-kissed skin glowing with golden highlights. Still, rightly so. And all while fantasizing about a mafia we’ll never actually see. Anyway.
But you’ll also find street art everywhere, even in the historic center. Sometimes, you just need to step a few meters away from the main tourist highways like Cassaro, Via Maqueda, or the main arteries of the Ballarò, Capo, or Vucciria markets to stumble upon some amazing murals. Duck into one or two slightly grimy alleys, weaving past trash and crumbling walls, and you’ll find real gems.
For example, just 50 meters south of the main artery of the Mercato del Capo, there’s a great spot with dozens of murals in a tiny neighborhood of run-down mini-houses. You’ll find plenty more south of the Mercato di Ballarò, in the Albergheria (the grittier side, not the one near Cassaro). There’s some in Ballarò itself too, but it’s hard to spot when the market’s in full swing with stalls everywhere. La Kalsa isn’t left out either, nor is Vucciria—just step away from the restaurant-packed streets.
Here are a few examples that really caught my eye.
(In the heart of Albergheria, on a street every visitor walks down—lovely message from an unidentified artist)
We landed in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, and headed straight to Kasane in Botswana to pick up our car.
Our vehicle is a 4x4 because in Zambia, it's practically impossible to use anything else, especially in the national parks. I’ve already had the pleasure of visiting South Luangwa National Park—it’s one of the reasons for this trip, the main one being to travel in Africa with one of my sons.
First stop: Livingstone on the banks of the Zambezi River. Along the way, we discovered a lovely restaurant at Socrates with a super-friendly owner (we’ll actually stop there again on our way back). We spent our first night in the rooftop tent after a stunning sunset, accompanied by the grunting of hippos in the river.
The next day, we set off early, heading to Kafue NP. In fact, we’ll always leave early—waking up between 5:00 and 5:30 AM and hitting the road an hour later. Kafue is a lesser-known park, mostly forested, and the animals are skittish because they’re not used to human presence. We crossed the park from south to north and came across various antelopes. Near Lake Itezhi-Tezhi, there are plains where wildlife is easier to spot.
After Kafue, we headed to South Luangwa. This journey requires stops in Mumbwa and Petauke. Two pleasant stops where we found lodges (a nice change from the rooftop tent) at affordable prices and met welcoming people.
For me, South Luangwa is Zambia’s most beautiful park—the river is stunning, the landscapes are gorgeous, and there’s a wide variety of wildlife, including, of course, big cats. A tip for those, like us, who aren’t with a guide: if you’re staying near the park for several days, don’t hesitate to do a "game drive" to scout out where the animals are so you can return the next day with your own vehicle. Of course, in the dry season, you’ll want to focus on waterholes to see the animals—and you’ll need a bit of luck too. The elephant population is growing, and we were lucky enough to see around sixty elephants crossing the Luangwa at dawn, spread across several groups. South Luangwa is the westernmost point of our trip, and we’re now heading east to Lower Zambezi.
Lower Zambezi is Zambia’s side of Mana Pools on the Zimbabwe side. We took a boat ride on the Zambezi to see elephants, hippos, crocodiles, and a multitude of birds living along the water and on the river’s islands. The sunset there is also magnificent.
To explore the park, we followed the waterways parallel to the Zambezi, mostly on the western side (see our route). Lower Zambezi is the last park we visit, and the final leg of our trip will be Victoria Falls.
Victoria Falls—or Mosi-Oa-Tunya ("The Smoke That Thunders")—are truly impressive, even during the dry season. We saw the falls from both countries: in Zambia for the overall view and the bridge that serves as the border, and in Zimbabwe to get as close as possible to the most spectacular parts of the falls.
This marks the end of our trip, which, despite a blown tire on the road, went off without any major issues. Zambia is a beautiful country that immerses you in wild, still-preserved nature.
From Southern Shikoku, between land and sea, to the blue waters of Miyakojima and finally Tokyo’s megacity
Hi everyone,
I have to admit, I really hesitated before deciding to write this travel journal... Writing one takes a lot of time and energy, and since this is my 4th trip, I wondered if it would actually interest anyone other than myself (both for the discovery and the writing). But after a few "Are you going to write a journal?" requests and especially the renewed pleasure from reading other travelers’ travel journals about Japan or elsewhere on this forum or elsewhere, I’ve decided to share this 4th installment in the Land of the Rising Sun here.
The itinerary:
27 full days, from late May to late June 2025, right in the middle of the rainy season, including:
-->13 days in Shikoku, from Kochi (Kochi Prefecture) to Matsuyama (Ehime Prefecture)
-->7 days in Miyakojima (Okinawa Prefecture)
-->7 days in Tokyo
The trip was decided on fairly last-minute this year, as usual.
I regularly check flight prices to track fluctuations for this destination, even without concrete plans. Finding a slightly cheaper direct flight (900 €) than what I’d seen in previous months (around 1,200–1,400 € on average) for a Paris-Tokyo route with Japanese airline ANA was too tempting to resist the urge to return to this enchanting country. After long hesitations between exploring the San’in region (Matsue, Tottori, Yamaguchi) and southern Shikoku, the decision was made—I took the plunge! The tickets are booked: Paris to Kochi with a layover in Tokyo, all with ANA, the airline I’d been dreaming of... for 1,120 € per person. Okay, it’s not cheap, but it’s still better than in 2023.
We leave in 2 weeks!! Now it’s just a matter of getting everything ready!
Intense work ahead in these 2 weeks to:
finalize a more precise itinerary and reach an agreement—yep, because even though we both love Japan, our preferences differ slightly, and we have to choose between exploring new places or taking time to revisit beloved spots...
decide how much time to spend in each selected area without rushing while still exploring
research places that might interest us and watch videos about Japan
book accommodations: yes, it’s possible to do this on the spot as we go, but last year, we noticed that last-minute options were pretty expensive, so we’re booking ahead—even if it means keeping a few options open while we decide or see if better deals pop up later
reserve rental cars
order yen
check the weather regularly and wonder if choosing the *tsuyu* (rainy season) was really a good idea—and whether we’ll be stuck in non-stop rain???
What a tough job, right? Traveling to Japan for a month—such a hard life!
Despite this being my 4th trip, the excitement is just as intense as the first time.
The only small downside is that when we booked the flight tickets, there were only a few seats left, so we’re only sitting together on the international return flight. Plus, on the outbound flight, we’ve got the middle seats.
Another lingering question: what French-language films will be available? According to the internet, the selection seems limited.
Oh well, these are just minor details—it’s almost time to fly!
PS: I’ll be posting slowly and irregularly... so for those interested, be patient or maybe set an alert...
Before Our Departure
Preparing for this trip started 9 months before our departure in June. For those planning a similar itinerary, it’s important to book accommodations well in advance, especially in the Okavango and Savuti campsites—otherwise, you might not find any availability.
Introduction
After visiting Zambia three years ago and Namibia and western Botswana a year and a half ago, this year we chose Zimbabwe (Hwange NP) and the northern half of Botswana.
Our flight from Paris was to Victoria Falls with Ethiopian Airlines, with a layover in Addis Ababa. We rented a 4x4 from Bushlore in Kasane, complete with two rooftop tents since there are four of us on this adventure. Bushlore picked us up from our guesthouse to collect our 4x4 and, most importantly, gave us a rundown of the vehicle and its equipment. Pay close attention to what they tell you—it could be crucial if something goes wrong, as it did for us during the trip.
Our Itinerary
We arrived on June 12th at noon. At Victoria Falls Airport, we got our double-entry visa right away—I’d already pre-booked it online on the site https://www.evisa.gov.zw/.
Since our vehicle was in Botswana, we had to cross the border from Victoria Falls into Botswana for the first time.
The next morning, Bushlore picked us up from our guesthouse to collect our 4x4. After completing the formalities, we headed toward Zimbabwe and the town of Victoria Falls.
We woke up early the next morning to be at Victoria Falls at sunrise. The scenery was stunning, but since it was the start of the dry season, the Zambezi was still high, so the falls had a strong flow. This made it hard to fully appreciate their beauty.
In the early afternoon, we left for Hwange NP, where we stayed for 4 days. Two days at Gwango campsite near Dete, followed by two days at Robins Camp. We expected to see more animals at Robins, but that wasn’t the case. In Hwange, we didn’t spot any predators, but we did see plenty of mammals (buffalo, elephants, giraffes, zebras, and antelopes).
After a few days in Zimbabwe, we crossed back into Botswana at Pandamatenga. We stopped at Nata Lodge for a good night’s rest—driving on the dirt roads is exhausting.
We left Nata and headed toward Nxai Pan. The road was sandy but manageable. We made a small detour to admire some beautiful baobabs at "Baines Baobabs." Then we continued to our campsite, Nxai Pan South Camp. Keep in mind that many campsites in Botswana aren’t fenced (except for the shower/toilet areas), so animals can roam freely within the camp. Take precautions, especially after dark.
After our stop in Nxai Pan, we headed to Maun. We decided to break our journey in Maun before heading to Moremi and the Okavango Delta for three reasons: first, we needed to stock up on supplies and fuel for the next 5 days; second, our fridge had broken (luckily, Bushlore has a branch in Maun); and third, the drive from Nxai to our camp in Xakanaxa in the delta would’ve taken too long. I always avoid driving after dark.
We arrived at our Xakanaxa camp on June 21st in the early afternoon. Not wanting to waste time, we booked a boat ride on the Okavango Delta, leaving at 4:00 PM for a 2-hour sunset cruise. For those interested, to the right of the Xakanaxa X1 site, there’s a sign for boat rides. The organizer is very professional and offers prices that are nothing like those of the lodges.
It was a beautiful ride through the delta with a stunning sunset. Being on a boat is much more relaxing than driving on the dirt roads. That didn’t stop us from doing self-drive safaris the next morning and late afternoon, though.
Then came the time to leave the delta and head toward Savuti, a much drier region. And that’s when the toughest part of our trip began. First, we decided to go up via Khwai. The rainy season was over, but the area was still marshy. We had to cross a few small water patches, testing the depth to make sure we could get through. Luckily, a sign on the road pointed us toward a drier route. We reached Khwai without any issues, but then we made a major mistake. Instead of taking the main track toward Mababe Gate to reach Savuti Camp, we took a straight path north and then a right turn to get to our camp. Bad call—we got stuck in the sand, with one rear wheel buried halfway and a front wheel off the ground. We were genuinely scared we wouldn’t get out, especially since we were on a deserted track, 20 kilometers from our destination, with night falling in two hours. This is where paying attention to the vehicle instructions really paid off—we had to use the jack to get out of the mess. The result: we arrived at Savuti campsite just before dark (Distance: 146.3 km, Duration: 9 hours, 56 minutes, and 3 seconds, Average speed: 14.7 km/h, tracked with Osmand). At reception, the staff couldn’t understand how we’d gotten there—we hadn’t passed through any of Savuti’s reserve entry gates.
The next morning, no one felt like driving, so we did a game drive with a guide. I don’t know if it was some kind of reward, but the outing was amazing. We saw three lions and, best of all, a pack of African wild dogs that we had time to admire and photograph. The next day, we did a short self-drive and found one of the lions from the day before drinking at a waterhole. That was the end of our Savuti adventure.
Now we’re heading to Kasane. We returned our vehicle and settled in for our last two nights there. The next morning, since we no longer had a car, we decided to do one last early-morning game drive in Chobe NP. It turned out great—we followed two brother lions and saw plenty of other mammals. The only downside of Chobe is the number of tourists, which was a change from the other parks we’d visited. That said, we’re tourists too, so...
In the evening, we took one last boat ride on the Chobe River to end on a high note with a beautiful sunset.
After a good night’s sleep and plenty of wonderful memories, landscapes, animals, and emotions, it was time to leave. We left early in the morning with the same taxi company as before to cross the border into Zimbabwe one last time and head to the airport, where we took off to return to France.
We all have two lives. And the second one kicks off the day you realize you only have one, with the determination to spend the time you have left on what truly adds sparkle to your life, Kevin! I like to elegantly introduce a trip with a philosophical quote. First, it gives you the illusion that I’m some kind of deep thinker, and second, it lets me fill up the first few lines of my blank page when I don’t know how to tell you I’m diving back into what really lights up my life: another adventure beyond the horizon! And nearly every other year, like a toxic relationship, my horizon tends to take shape in Uncle Sam’s backyard. And this, despite his cousin Donald calling the shots. Speaking of which, it was partly that impulsive guy who pushed us to be just as impulsive and snag our four flight tickets at a ridiculously low price—a direct result of foreign tourism taking a hit from BetaMax’s repeated antics... Four tickets? Who are the other lucky ones? In this case, our lucky ones are actually lucky ladies: My Flo, always up for exploring the world with me on foot, camelback, or scooter, is obviously in on the fun. The other two seats went to our daughters, Sasha and Luna, both thrilled to be part of this new American adventure...
But what’s the American West like in February?... A gamble. Let’s call it Russian roulette since we’re not landing during peak weather season. That’s why we encouraged our transportation and accommodation to get cozy and produce a little camper van, so we can stay ultra-flexible in the face of any weather tantrums. We’ll be roaming in Kara the van with the motto "Follow the sun!" Bad weather? We bolt. Snow? We speed up. Sunny? We act like it was the plan all along and soak it up.
"Okay, but why keep coming back to the same corner of the globe? After ten American adventures, you must be tired of seeing the same things, right?" But I’m not crazy, you know!... The American West is like making love to your gorgeous wife over and over, always enjoying it just as much. And contrary to what you might think, the American West isn’t just the Grand Canyon, Monument Valley, Las Vegas, and Bryce Canyon. Proof is, after ten trips to the U.S., my retinas are still untouched by three-quarters of the places I scribbled on a napkin for this adventure... Oh, and add to that my wife, who I’ve easily converted to my religion, and boom... relapse is even easier! Because yes, we’ve landed in Los Angeles after a sunny flight over Greenland, still under Danish flag for now. And we’re already heading east through the XXL traffic of L.A.’s eight-lane highways, eager to dive into our first discoveries. But first, night is taking over the sky, and second, we’ve been officially awake for 24 hours, so I suggest wrapping up this intro. I’ll tell you more tomorrow morning. Sound good?
This travel journal aims to help future travelers (well, I hope so!), since there’s so little information available about this remote archipelago. Big thanks to Lolodesiles and Ayis for answering my questions while I planned this trip!
Context
This is our fourth trip to Indonesia as a couple—after Java-Bali in 2011, Flores-Komodo in 2013, and Sulawesi in 2016—each time for three weeks. It’s also our tenth trip to Southeast Asia overall.
We’re traveling like we have in previous years: with a rough itinerary that often changes based on who we meet, tips from other travelers, how tired we are, or what we’re feeling in the moment. In the Moluccas, it’ll change constantly, mostly depending on transportation.
Our only accommodation booking: the first few nights in Ambon when we arrive.
Planned route (to be refined on the spot): Ambon - Banda Islands - Lease Islands - Ternate - Tidore - Halmahera (between Sofifi and Tobelo) - Morotai and the neighboring unnamed archipelago.
Flights: Lyon-Paris-Singapore on Air France (428 € round-trip), with good meals, champagne, and wine (we like our little comforts when going on vacation 😏). Then Singapore-Jakarta-Ambon on Air Asia and Garuda.
Return flight: Ternate-Jakarta-Singapore on Lion Air, with a 3-day stopover in Singapore before heading home.
Episode 1: Ambon to Banda
Our guesthouse, booked two days before departure, is 45 minutes from Ambon Airport, near Natsepa Beach (northeast of Leihitu). It’s a pretty average beach—quiet on weekdays but packed on Sundays (we saw the difference). It’s lined with warungs.
This rainy day helps us readjust to the atmosphere of this country we love so much.
Our “Solim Guesthouse” is a lovely house with a living/dining room and garden, costing 15 € per night for two, including a hearty breakfast.
Dinner is at Gaba Gaba, a great restaurant just a short walk away, right by the water, recommended by our host. Fun fact: it’s in the Lonely Planet, and it might be the only LP-listed spot in the Moluccas that actually matches the description (the others either don’t exist or have nothing to do with what’s advertised 😠).
For the next two days, the super-friendly owner lends us his scooter. We set off to explore the coastal villages in northern Leihitu (the western part of Ambon Island, which has a weird shape).
Laundry and trucks washed in the same stream.
Liang Beach, described as the island’s most beautiful, is almost gone (climate change or something else?), but the colors are magical.
We continue 25 km toward a snorkeling spot our host recommended, taking a gorgeous, deserted little road through tiny villages in clove plantations (oh, those unforgettable scents!), stunning coves, and dense forest.
We’re greeted dozens of times with “Hello Mister”—a daily routine in the Moluccas. Every time we stop, we pose for photos to be saved on locals’ smartphones. They don’t see tourists often.
We ask for directions to the snorkeling spot (not easy—we only know basic Indonesian like *Selamat pagi*, *siang*, *sore*, and other polite phrases). Not many people know where it is (especially since we never know which village we’re in), but we eventually reach a small village that seems to be the right place. 🙂
We ask a local to take us there by boat (it’s not reachable by land).
The spot is at most 100 meters long, but the coral is in good condition (apparently not dynamited by fishermen, unlike in other parts of this beautiful country where fishing methods are destructive and nature pays the price 😠). The fish are plentiful and diverse. It’s a great start before heading to Banda. We’re happy to have the place to ourselves… though we don’t yet realize we won’t see a single tourist for the rest of the trip!
After two days of rest, we head to Tulehu Port in the morning, aiming for the Banda Islands. We know the journey is often tricky: the Pelni ferry runs twice a month but doesn’t match our dates, the 10-seat Suzi Air plane is always full (you can’t book—you have to show up on Mondays and Fridays), and it’s often canceled due to weather. So we opt for the Tuesday speedboat (which also gets canceled if there are waves or wind), with the next one on Saturday.
We’re used to Indonesian ports—crowded, rusty boats, no English speakers—but we still feel lost. When I ask about the speedboat to Bandaneira, people gesture wildly, someone takes me to the “harbor office,” then tells me there’s no boat, others try to sell me tickets, and some just say, “No boat.”
Luckily, an English-speaking local approaches us and confirms the speedboat is broken. The next one will be Saturday *if* it’s fixed—otherwise, even later. 🤪 😠
We’re crushed. We came here for the Banda Islands… 🙁
We decide waiting five days for a maybe-boat isn’t an option, so we decide to head straight to North Moluccas, which was planned for later. We’re so disappointed we don’t even want to stay in the area. The Lease Islands don’t appeal to us despite what we’ve read, and Seram would deserve its own trip with its remote mountain tribes.
Huge disappointment—we’d been dreaming of Banda for months, with its incredible drop-offs like Bunaken, its islands covered in nutmeg trees, etc. I’d read that Banda is in the world’s top 5, alongside Bunaken (amazing—we went in 2016), Komodo (incredible—we went in 2013), Sipadan, and another spot I’ve forgotten.
We take a taxi back to Ambon (45 minutes) to a travel agency to buy plane tickets to Ternate. There’s a daily ATR72 flight at noon—perfect timing.
Ambon is the capital of South Moluccas (or Central, depending on who you ask!) with 300,000 people. The city doesn’t seem unpleasant, but we don’t stop.
On the plane, there are only about ten passengers for 72 seats. The flight attendants are stunning, as always with Wings Air—clearly, they’re hired for their looks. 😊
Stopover in Bacan—a runway in the middle of coconut trees serving a tiny town—then we fly over countless volcanoes, the last one towering over Ternate.
Bonjour,
De retour sur le forum - et première rédaction d'un espèce de carnet de retour de notre 4ème voyage en Indo.
Contexte : une trentaine de jours, en scooter et en duo, sur Florès (et une petite incursion dans l'archipel de Solor, plus précisément à Lembata (chut, faut pas trop en parler !!!), qui donne envie d'en faire beaucoup plus là bas malgré les infrastructures sporadiques), en partie dans des destinations déjà bien connues du forum (la classique Ruteng / Bajawa / Riung / Moni voir baie de Maumere) ... et qui ne parlera pas du PN de Komodo ou de Wae Rebo, puisque nous n'y sommes pas allés 🏴☠️.
Texte en anglais (issu d'une autre plateforme). Sans nul doute, des traducteurs intelligents ou pas marcheront à merveille en cas d'anglophobie 🤪.
Disponible à toute fin utile pour des détails ou infos.
Equippement : Yam' Nmax 155 ; 2x saccoches cavalières (25L) + sac de selle (30L) + saccoche tunnel (15L pour le matos photo) ; casques et vêtements d'enduro amenés depuis la France.
Itinéraire : boucle depuis Labuan bajo jusqu'à Pulau Lembata ; juillet-août 2026
Road conditions graded from A (excellent) to D (very bad, at least for a Scooter… a CRF/KLX or even honda ADV would do better on that)
D1 : Labuan Bajo – Reok via Ranggoe, Rego & Tagol (130km ; 5hrs). Section LBajo – Rego (90 km ; B) is quite good tarmac, despite a lot of elevation with many small valleys and passes. Rego – Tagol (10km ; D) is a stone road (not gravel), some ascents & very poor condition ; necessary to lower tyre pressure. Tagol – Reok port (22km, quality depends considerably from D to B). Reok port – Towncenter : B. Night @Iffah Homestay (100k for fan room, mandi attached, no breakfast), simple but clean. Notes : path to danau Sano Limbung was closed ; access to Tiwu Pai & Wae Kuli (waterfalls) not permitted in july 2026.
D2 : Reok – Riung via Pota (105km ; 3h-3h30). The road is very narrow in some part, thanks to the uncut bushes (lowering visibility hence extra caution as animals/people can suddenly appear in a turn…) but generally good condition except many eroded sections and some unpaved ones. Grade C/B. 2 nights @Mentos (285k for AC room)
D3 : Boat tour in Riung (booked directly with a captain, 800k for two for private boat incl. lunch and NP fees) + sunset from Watu Mitong Riung (should not be missed).
D4 : Riung – Muku Saki via Mbay (around 100km ; 3h30). Quality varies from A in the vicinity of Mbay to eroded sections (C) in secluded places. Night @Sao Paolo Homestay (250k for fan room with mandi, maybe overpriced but nice house and great food). Note : if you happen to pass by Mbay on Saturday, the market is well worth a stop (cheapest Ikat on the trip : you’ll be asked normal prices providing you’re OK in Bahasa…)
D5 : Muku Saki – Tanjung Kajuwulu (near Ndete) (90km, 3h). Many patholes, eroded (C). Night at Déjà Vu Homestay (220k for a matress on the floor & outside mandi/toilets ; I woud define this as a tourist trap – the quote we had for food was double priced too…)
D6 : Tanjung Kajuwulu – Waiterang (east of Maumere, 55km , 1h30). Pathholes till maumere, then All good (TransFlores), C/A. Night at Sunset Cottage (new concrete room, very serene place ; 270k for AC with bathroom ; much prefered Sunset over Lena House (more customers, more built up).
D7 : Waiterang – Larantuka via Boru and Eputobi (TransFlores ; grade A ; 115km / 2h40). Particularly liked the drink stalls (marked as Rest Area Eputobi) and the out of order aquatic park just before Larantuka (obyej wisata waiplatin). Night @ Dewy Onong Homestay, which is not advertising itself as Larantuka Beach Homestay as some contributor signals here and on goole maps review. Best breakfast of the trip (Cumi Cumi !!!) ; 275k for AC room with bathroom.
D8 : Local Boat (Kapal Kayu) from the main port to Lembata (Lewoleba). Departure 8am ; price 60k/head + 50k for the bike. Stop enroute on Adonara (where we did not stop due to fights between communities). Night @Elmany Homestay (275k for AC room with bathroom, fan room with shared bathroom also available). Whole afternoon at Pantai Hadakewa, fantastic place (good snorkeling, great views of Ile Api aka Gn Lewotolo). Road condition : A (did not expect the TransLembata to be that good…).
D9 : Loop around Ile Api (50km, 2hrs), anticlockwise. Stops enroute at Situs Tulang Paus (whale squeletton), pantai Jotona, pantai Wena (we expected to snorkel from there, but wind was very strong that day), situs Watu Nale, Selat Sonia. The western coast is far less interesting. Road conditions : bad (C) on the eastern side (up to Riangbeda), good (B/A) afterwards. Night @Elmany Homestay.
D10 : Lewoleba – Lamalera via the western and south coast (70km, 2h30). Good road (B) for roughly the first 55km (up to Tapobali), then eroded track for the last 15km (in some parts steep and dangerous) up to Lamalera (D/C). Notes : 1/ Kuma resort denied us the entry for some drink ; 2/Pantai Waijarang « complex » is abandonned but closed with fences ; you can still sneak in ; 3/ some reports advise to skip Bukit Cinta (foreigner entry fee) for Bukit Doa Watomiten (stations of the cross) ; well Bukit Cinta has also been abandonned (well spent money…sic) but remains opened with structures falling (quickly) appart. Night @Lamalera Inn (200k per head including meals ; very basic fan room + attached mandi). Planned 2 nights, spent only one, as it’s the only tenant I had difficulties with (only interested in money, initially stated crazy prices, starts loud music at 6am … and drinking moke at 8am…)
D11 : Trip to Wulandoni for the Barter Market (Saturday only). Bad road (C) along the coast. Had to report at the Kantor upon arrival, which quite surprisingly asked 100k per person (foreigner) to go inside the (outside) market. Other « local » tourists (a group from Jakarta) were not asked to pay. Well, since a market is a public space and not a zoo, we refused payment and enjoyed the activity from the kopi stall next to it. Returned then to Lamalera for the catches of the day, then to Lewoleba via the mountain road (45km, 2 hours). First 10km to Puor is in very bad condition and uphill (D/C). The remaining is on a newly constructed road (A). Note : Air Panas Sabutobo is abandonned and falling apart (again…) but there are still some water pipes along the river that you can enjoy (depending how lucky you are, just with the forest sounds as companion). Night @Elmany Homestay
D12 : Chill day alond the northern coast (Batu Payung, Pantai Hadakewa with lot of snorkeling, drove till Wailolong and backtracked to Pantai Lewolein for more snorkeling (nice canyons there !) and another fantastic sunset over Ile Api (see GMaps pictures)). Night @Elmany Homestay
D13 : Monday weekly market at Pada, southwest of Lewoleba. Renowned but honnestly dont plan any itinerary specifically for it, just an ordinary Kampung weekly market. Returned to Larantuka and Flores with the 12pm local boat (the same boat that leaves from Larantuka at 8am). Same prices as the first leg. Night @ Dewy Onong Homestay
D14 : Larantuka – Waiterang along the northern coast (100km, 3h) via Pantai Kawaliwu, Tewuk Lewokluok (trail is easy to find, very nice snorkelling in a lagoon), Pantai Lato (to my opinion the most beautiful beach on Flores and you’ll be the only visitor, as opposed to Pantai Koka) and Pantai Hia, until rejoining the TransFlores near Nebe. Grade C on the costal eroded road / track. 3 nights @Lena Guesthouse (booked ahead as it fills up quickly, but we prefered its neighbour Sunset Beach Guesthouse)
D15 : Snorkeling trip organised by Lena Guesthouse (200k per head excluding NP fees and lunch)). The drop-off near Pulau Babi is a very nice spot.
D16 : scooter day trip around the Egon Range (too lazy to hike it…), through nice Sikka villages (route : Watublapi, Umauta, Bola, pantai Doreng, Nakatoli, foot of Gn Egon, Air panas Blidit). The track from Natakoli to the foot of Gn Egon is very steep, damaged and wet (with moss) ; I would recommend not to attempt that in case of bad weather.
D17 : Waiterang – Moni (130km, 3h30, transflores grade A/B) via Pantai Koka (refused to pay the mafia entry fee…) and Jopu (some rumah Adat Lio). Stopped at Museum Bikon Blewut, south of Maumere. Very nice artefacts (especially wooden statues from Papuan, great ikat collection) although very disorganized and sadly non-visited (hence masterpieces fall into oblivion). 2 Nights @Liahz Lodge (150k for fan room, basic bathroom… but right next to Air Panas Liasembe (free, no closing time) !!!).
D18 : Sunrise from Kelimutu with a nice weather (stayed until 8.30am). I don’t know if the sunrise is really worth it (lot of people ascending and watching the sunrise – a lot but nothing compared to e.g. Gn Bromo), nearly everyone going down around 7am, then there is virtually nobody. Trip (20km one way, good road B) to Kampung Adat Nggela (Lio). Although the village is habited and mostly out of the beaten path, I have mixed fillings due to the fact that most ladies (some are pushy) try to sell you (bad) pieces of ikat.
D19 : Moni – Ende via Detusoko paddy fields, Kampung Adat Saga (Lio) and Puncak Ndona ; 75km 2h30. We really liked Saga (nice setting on the mountain, friendly villagers, no selling, mix between traditional and more modern houses in that lively village). Sunset from Bukit Raja, on the peninsula with a 360 view on Gn Iya, Gn Meja Kota Ende and the mountains behind. Note : at the end of the road (search for Gunung Meja Tourist Info Center), there is a (sand) track leading to the path. 1/ only intend the track if you have off road driving experience ; 2/ dont trust the walking time stated by Maps.me. Took us 45mins on a steady pace to reach the summit. Night @Hoja Homestay, 300k for a comfortable AC room with bathroom.
D20 : Ende – Bajawa, via Air Panas Mengeruda ; grade A, 120km, 3 hours. Note : don’t plan to short in Mengeruda (Soa), very easy to spend a half day there, especially if playing with local kids. Stay @Cinnamon GH, 250k for double with fan and hot shower (cheaper options with shared hot shower availlable).
D21 : First day in Bajawa : Watu Nari Wowo (Avatar Hill, sic…), Kampung Adat Ngada Tololela & Gurusina (very very friendly people, complementary views of Gn Inerie & Wolo Deru). Sunset from Puncak Manulalu (well… Heaven’s door Bar & Restaurant)
D22 : Second day in Bajawa : Kampung Adat Ngio (hardly visited, best view on Gn Inerie), Air Panas Malanage, Kampung Adat Bena (the most visited Ngada village (after Bela ?) in the area, we went there at the end of the afternoon to avoid tours, early morning would be fine too), and Gunung Wolobobo for a terrific sunset
D23 : returned to Gunung Wolobobo for sunrise with Gn Ebulobo in the distance (search for a track on the eastern slope, near the communication antenna). You can circuit the rim to the usual viewpoint (westside, sunset spot), the path is easy to find. Then took again the road to Aimere, visiting Kampung Adat Belaraghi enroute (the setting is maybe less rewarding than all the previous villages). 56km ; 1h30. The road to Belaraghi is fine, except the final part.
D24 : Aimere – Ruteng (105km, 3h30). Nice detour by the paddy fields of Wodo (southwest of Golo Loni) of Sunset from Golo Curu (nice encounters with locals). Night @Tange GH, 130k for room with outside (private) bathroom, no breakfast.
D25 : Surroundings of Ruteng (paddy fields north and east of ruteng ; Maps.me has funny tracks starting from Kenda), and the rather pleasant city itself (pasar, churches, lapangan). We finally skipped Liang Bua.
D26 : Ruteng - Labuan Bajo (130km, 3h30). No visits of the waterfalls close to the TransFlores (entry fee (with bule prices) + mandatory guide etc…). Sunset from Bukit Hercadi with very few locals (Bukit Sylvia & Bukit Amelia, just south, were packed). 2 nights @Wellamas Homestay, away from the harbour and its advantages/disadvantages. 230k for comfortable AC room with hot shower.
D27 : New road to Golo Mori Convention Center (another big money well spent…), with nice views on the strait separating Flores from Pulau Rinca. Some empty beaches (e.g. Pantai Pasir Pajang ; we were there on a weekday perhaps frequented by people from LBajo only). 30km (40 mins) one way, perhaps the fastest road of Flores…
D28 : Morning on the peninsula north of Labuan Bajo before taking a flight to Jakarta in the afternoon. On Google maps, the asphalt road only goes to Teras Langit ; it now (august 2026) continues to Puncak Basok and is still in progress towards the eastern part of the peninsula. On the way back, two other nice Bukit where you can enjoy nice views on the bay (and the resorts…) : Bukit Lontar & Bukit Beta. Note : we only found one public (and nice and quiet) beach in the area ; tagged as Sunset Point Beach on Gmaps. All the rest was closed by fences ; they are privately owned (although the Indonesian consitution grants the coastline as public space).
We're a family of five: one dad, one mom, and three kids aged 10, 15, and 18.
Before diving into each stop in more detail, here are a few general thoughts:
We wanted to sample a bit of everything Japan has to offer in terms of landscapes, accommodation, and transport. We were after walks, temples, restaurants, shopping, and some downtime—but no "all-inclusive experiences" or museums for this first visit.
Three medium-sized (60x42x25) canvas suitcases, plus a duffel bag and a few small backpacks. 23 kg in the hold on the way out, 60 kg on the way back. 36 kg of shopping, without even trying. I think this is the maximum suitcase size if you don’t want to stress on the Shinkansen: they fit easily in the overhead racks.
Round-trip with Cathay Pacific, layover in Hong Kong: no need to collect luggage in Hong Kong—we checked it in at departure and picked it up in Tokyo, and the same on the way back (checked in Osaka, picked up at our final destination). This let us explore Hong Kong without worrying about our bags. Food and entertainment were pretty good—meals included a little Häagen-Dazs on each flight, and the entertainment had way more Asian cinema than you’d find on a Western airline, which was a nice way to see how much weight Western culture carries in Asia.
The original plan was to fly directly from Ishigaki to Hong Kong, but due to Typhoon Dolphin, we had to cancel the Ishigaki leg. Cathay didn’t bat an eye about swapping the Ishigaki-HK flight for an Osaka-HK one, even though it was twice as long.
We were a bit too attached to the idea of ending the trip with some beach time and replaced Ishigaki with Shirahama. It was a mistake—we should’ve visited Hiroshima or spent a little more time in Tokyo instead.
Last February, I made a trip using "public transport" from France to southern Senegal via Spain, Morocco, Western Sahara, and Mauritania.
It’s a journey of about 5,000 km, where I took trains (as far as Marrakech), ferries (to cross Gibraltar and then to reach Casamance from Dakar), and mostly buses on the long desert straightaways. I hadn’t planned any stops in advance or booked any hotels, except for the very first train to Spain, which left plenty of room for the unexpected.
Why travel by land and sea? In recent years, flight-free travel has been gaining popularity. On social media, posts explaining how to cross Europe by train as quickly as possible go viral. Traveling without flying—and making sure people know about it—has become a great way to earn a badge of eco-responsibility: an essential totem for anyone wanting to prove both their dedication to the ecological cause and the wisdom of slow travel.
I haven’t flown in years, and this journey to West Africa could easily be filed under "responsible travel." But it wouldn’t be honest to say that: in reality, it wasn’t really my aversion to flying that motivated this long trek. I see overland travel primarily as a way to experience the world’s geography at a grounded, earthly pace—the pace of the locals. Besides, I’ll be flying back, which disqualifies any claim to being a model of sustainability.
So no eco-badge, and no adventurer’s badge either: you won’t find any heroic tales of camel rides in lost lands or mineral train wagons in this account (popular with influencers, the Mauritania iron ore train now attracts tourists from all over the world, turning "the experience" into something you "have to do at least once in your life"). This five-part story, written on the road, has no other ambition than to recount a journey through places and people, and to share the thoughts they inspire in me. As simply and, I hope, as humbly as possible.
I’m posting the episodes here, which you can also find on my blog (with more photos) at the following links:
Episode 1: Spain, from Avignon to Algeciras
Episode 2: Morocco, from Tangier to Tarfaya
Episode 3: Western Sahara, from Tarfaya to Guerguerat
Episode 4: Mauritania, from Guerguerat to Nouakchott
Episode 5: Senegal, from Rosso to Saloulou
To help those who might want to make the same trip, I’ve also put together a summary of the route with recommendations—you can read it at the end of the story and on the blog:
From France to Senegal Without Flying: Route and Itinerary Recommendations
A droite, le "marqueur" de l'accueil, ces dattes qu'on vous offre partout en signe d'hospitalité. A gauche, un hommage à ces sublimes portes usées par les temps, qu'on admire un peu partout dans les quartiers anciens, y compris ceux qui sont abandonnés.
L'hospitalité vous conduira à accepter aussi souvent un petit café, un "omani café", très léger, parfumé subtilement avec de la cardamome, pourquoi pas un peu de safran, et éventuellement un peu d'eau de rose.
J'ai ici représenté un homme dans l'habit commun usuel de tous les omanais : la dishdasha, majoritairement blanche (en semaine, en journée, la couleur est davantage pour le soir ou le vendredi et le samedi). Même si l'on voit des hommes habillés à l'occidentale, ils sont très peu nombreux. La dishdasha blanche est vraiment l'habit commun partagé par tous les hommes. La dishdasha, qui n'a pas de capuche, se distingue par un petit pompon accroché au col, la furakha, qu'on imbibe de parfum. Et croyez moi, les omanais en abusent! "ça sent le pompon" est une expression qui est maintenant passée dans notre langage commun, à mon mari et moi.
Autre incontournable de la tenue masculine, la kuma, ce petit couvre-chef rond, la plupart du temps blanc rehaussé de motifs aux couleurs vives. Le keffieh est aussi porté (mais sans le cordon appelé agal dans les pays arabes), et il est plutôt arboré par ceux dont les racines sont dans le désert, de ce que j'en ai compris.
Et les femmes, me direz vous? Voilées, pour certaines en noir intégral (mais pas la burka, plutôt le chador + Abaya), du fait de l'influence de l'Arabie et des émirats arabes unis, alors que le vêtement traditionnel était auparavant plutôt une superposition de robes très colorées. La plupart des femmes que nous avons vues portaient plutôt une tenue neutre, un voile uni sur les cheveux, mais le visage découvert. Nous avons vu aussi beaucoup de saris et de voiles colorés, il ne faut pas oublier que 40% de la population est constituée d'immigrants indiens, népalais, bengalais, qui travaillent beaucoup dans le tourisme, l'hôtellerie et la restauration, les services, mais aussi tous les travaux ouvriers.
Je précise qu'en tant que touriste il n'y a aucune pression pour porter un voile, jamais de regards désapprobateurs d'aucune sorte. Bien sûr, on gardera pour la terrasse de l'hôtel les mini shorts, les décolletés plongeants, les épaules et ventres dénudés, mais j'ai envie de dire que c'est pareil pour les hommes et les femmes et que le soleil étant vif c'est aussi meilleur pour la peau.
Voici pour cette introduction ! Au prochain post, je vous parlerai de mon itinéraire et on pourra se lancer!
Come along, I'm taking you to this country where it's so nice to wander and slow down...
I’m inviting you on a stroll through my drawings—a completely subjective, far from exhaustive, and totally personal take, since it’s based on my own sketches. I put this travel journal together after returning in late 2024, mostly using felt-tip pens and pencils, with a few collages thrown in. I worked from our personal photos.
And in Kyoto, Nishiki Market:
Les ronds-points sont particulièrement intéressants puisqu'on y retrouve des emblèmes de la culture turkmène, soit le chien, soit un tapis, soit le cheval Ahal Teke soit des symboles musulmans, même si la présence d'artefacts islamiques est assez réduite.
Last October, we landed in Marrakech to spend a few days with family exploring Morocco’s roads.
Transport: a rented Dacia.
Accommodations: small guesthouses.
The large solidified magma massifs that shape the heart of the island have created a large depression more protected from the sun at its center, allowing the growth of a vast laurel forest, today grouped within the Garajonay National Park, La Gomera’s green lung, which has earned it the status of a World Biosphere Reserve. Its completely European appearance contrasts sharply with the rocky and tropical landscapes of the rest of the island. Thus, the climate varies greatly from one point to another on the island: in summer, you can quickly go from a dry and sunny valley at 35°C to a humid forest area at altitude at 18°C.
A little sneak peek?
The karst site:
(In the heart of Albergheria, on a street every visitor walks down—lovely message from an unidentified artist)
Laundry and trucks washed in the same stream.
We’re greeted dozens of times with “Hello Mister”—a daily routine in the Moluccas. Every time we stop, we pose for photos to be saved on locals’ smartphones. They don’t see tourists often.
