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,…
March 2nd — Departure by bus from Latour at 6:50 AM. The journey isn’t direct: we pass through Elne then Corneilla. In Perpignan, I switch to a BlablaBus heading to Barcelona’s northern bus station. Before reaching Le Perthus, French police stop us to check IDs. Several people aren’t in order, but after about fifteen minutes, we’re on our way again. We’re checked again at La Jonquera: this time, the wait lasts almost forty-five minutes while police identify those in violation and wait for a vehicle to pick them up. The driver then tries to make up for lost time; we finally arrive at our destination half an hour late.
I quickly head to the Arc de Triomphe metro station, located 200 meters away: you have to cross the bridge along the bus parking lot, then walk through a large garden; the station is on the right before the garden entrance. The trip to the airport isn’t direct: I have to change at Tomasso and take the line to the airport, where I arrive at 1 PM.
At the Emirates counter, I learn my flight was just canceled due to the war in Iran; they offer me another flight for the next day. I have to wait at the airport until 7 PM before being taken to a hotel; the next morning, I’ll take a flight to Vienna (with an 8-hour layover), then an Air India flight to Delhi, and finally a flight to Kolkata. I agree: I don’t know Vienna, so it’ll be an unexpected discovery.
At 7 PM, a small group is taken to the hotel, 35 minutes from the airport, where we’re served a light dinner upon arrival.
March 3rd — A taxi picks me up at 6:30 AM; the flight to Vienna takes off at 9:30 AM and arrives at noon. I’m free until 7 PM; the metro is direct to the city center. The weather is pleasant and not too cold, luckily, since my clothes are light.
When I exit the metro, I spot the St. Stephen’s Cathedral tower in the distance and approach it: the roof, made of glazed tiles, is remarkable.
Entry is free, and the interior, a mix of Gothic and Baroque styles in the center, is stunning.
Not far from there is St. Anne’s Church
, also Baroque, adorned with beautiful frescoes
—a music concert adds an enchanting atmosphere to the visit.
I continue my walk at random through the pedestrian streets lined with magnificent buildings: I’m charmed by the city.
Before heading back to the airport, I stop at a lovely tea salon. My flight will eventually leave with a delay.
Wednesday, March 4th — Delhi and a little luggage scare
We arrive in Delhi shortly after noon. Immigration is quick, and good news: my bag was checked through from Barcelona to Kolkata. I head to the connecting terminal and arrive half an hour before boarding: the flight goes smoothly. Upon arrival, the luggage comes out quickly… except mine. After filing a report, I’m told my bag is in Delhi—I have to retrieve it before taking another flight. I didn’t know (or had forgotten): with the delays, I wouldn’t have had time to pick it up and make the connection.
I take a taxi to the Ichamati Hotel. The welcome is warm, and the room is clean but very small. Without my bag, I feel a bit lost—I have nothing to change into.
Tonight, I’m dining with Raja and his friends at a beautiful restaurant, an old colonial house turned into a hotel.
We’re happy to see each other and have a comforting evening together.
This travel journal summarizes a trip I took in March to Argentine and Chilean Patagonia. It starts in El Calafate and ends in Ushuaia. During my planning, I considered looking into the Australis cruise from Punta Arenas to Ushuaia, as well as the W trek in Torres del Paine National Park. In both cases, I was put off by the prices. Instead of the cruise, I found two interesting wildlife excursions from Punta Arenas: whale watching in the Strait of Magellan and observing king penguins in Tierra del Fuego. The journey to Ushuaia was by bus. For Torres del Paine, things were a bit confusing, so I reached out to two agencies. In the end, I went with a rental car option, overnight stays on-site, and day hikes. I shared my full itinerary with the agency and ended up being taken care of by a local Argentine agency and a Chilean one.
So, here we go...
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 rentals kept making me postpone the project.
And then, everything fell into place—I told myself, now’s the time!
Preparations took longer than usual; the destination is still far from mainstream.
A bit of Kazakhstan?
Not in the end.
The south or not?
Yes, in the end.
Pre-book or play it by ear?
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 on this destination (the guide has been updated since).
---/---
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!
(‘Beefsteak’ for my partner’s mischievous nephews...)
Here’s our account of our trip to Malaysia from September 11th to 27th.
I hope our tips can help others as much as this forum has helped us!
Day 0:
Departure from Nantes with a transfer in Amsterdam via KLM (720 €).
Day 1:
We arrive at KLIA1 in the early afternoon.
First challenge: figuring out where to pick up our luggage. Turns out the answer is right under our noses—we need to take the airport’s internal metro!
Once we’ve got our bags, we withdraw some cash from a Maybank ATM right there.
Next up: SIM card! Just outside the arrivals hall, several kiosks offer them. We go for a Celcom 5 GB card (70 RM).
Then it’s taxi time to get to KL, in the Bukit Bintang area—about 85 RM in a slightly old taxi with weak air conditioning.
We check into our Airbnb apartment, which is clean, more spacious than a hotel room, and—best of all—has a charming balcony with a gorgeous nighttime view!
We end up hanging out on that balcony, reviewing our plans for the next day. After dark, we take the monorail just a short walk away to enjoy our first evening on a rooftop at the 34th floor: Hélipad (Raja Chulan station—you have to enter the Menara Tower at the base of the station) with a panoramic view of the city and its iconic towers.
Finally, we head to Jalan Alor to grab a bite in this super busy street.
Big sleep ahead! 😴
After the summer of 2022 left me with a sense of unfinished business, here I am back in Swedish Lapland for the summer of 2024, ready to attempt the Sarek crossing again—and this time, tackle part of the Kungsleden too.
After much hesitation, my companion Jean Marie and I decided to start with the Kungsleden, which, from what we’ve read, is stunning but very crowded (and it really is!!), and finish with the wilder option: SAREK! This park is known as Europe’s last wild space—I think it’s incredibly inspiring!!
The downside of this choice is that there are no resupply options in Sarek, and the Kungsleden isn’t exactly set up for long treks either, so we’ll have to carry a lot of food for the first part with Sarek in mind.
But hey, we’re motivated!
Our plan is to start in Abisko (classic), head to Vakkotavare (also classic, but with some variations to avoid the official route and the crowds), then continue the Kungsleden from Saltoluokta. Before Aktse, we’ll set off on an east-to-west crossing of Sarek (weather-dependent, since aside from the Skarja hut in the center of the park, there’s no shelter if conditions turn bad).
At least we’ll be on the right side of the park to climb Skierfe and enjoy the jaw-dropping view of Rappaladen if we have to abandon the Sarek crossing.
That adds up to 17 days of trekking, including 1 rest day + 1 buffer day for weather delays.
So if you’re interested, I invite you to follow our overstuffed backpacks!
08/03 - Abisko – 5km before Abiskojaure
Some info (guides used for prep, SFT map, sending food to Saltoluokta)
08/04 – 5km before Abiskojaure - on the east shore of Lake Alisjavri
08/05 – East shore of Lake Alisjavri – just before Tjaktja
08/06 – Just before Tjaktja – above the Salka hut via Nallo
08/07 - Salka – just past Singi + side trip to Djalson Lake
08/08 - Singi – Teusajaure
08/09 - Teusajaure - Vakkotavare (end of the first section of the Kungsleden)
08/10 – rest day in Saltoluokta + round trip to the Sámi village of Pietjaure
08/11 – Saltoluokta – Sitojaure
08/12 - Sitojaure - Skierfe - So, Sarek or no Sarek?
08/13 – Skierfe – somewhere above Rapadalen
08/14 – Somewhere above Rapadalen – above the Skarki hut
Coming up:
08/15 – Above the Skarki hut - Skarja
After a pretty disastrous weather-wise trip to Gran Canaria, we’re hoping this time the sun will shine in Puglia.
It’s not a sure thing, though—the weather’s been awful all over Europe in early May.
For those who’d like to (re)read the story without the digressions, it’s here.
Saturday, May 16:
This time we’re flying out of Charleroi (Brussels South): the ticket prices, flight times, and proximity all worked for us.
The airport (Ryanair) was recently renovated... but it’s still not very well organized. There are hardly any seats in the boarding areas, and... the restrooms cost money!!!
The flight goes smoothly, though, and we land in Bari a little late.
We quickly pick up our rental car, a very local-looking Pandina (even more so than the Fiat 500 in this region), and hit the Italian roads... and their unique driving quirks (like the fact that the countless road signs along the streets and in towns are purely decorative 😏, and that Italian cars don’t have turn signals 😮... except for rental cars).
About an hour later, we arrive at our first accommodation, right in the middle of the countryside near Monopoli.
The owner isn’t there, but they’ve left us a ton of info via messages and even turned on the space heater, which is a nice touch.
We explore the property:
And the next morning before breakfast, its immediate surroundings:
Sunday, May 17:
After our "seaside" experience in Gran Canaria last weekend (packed with people and locals), we decide to start inland.
After a hearty breakfast,
we head toward Alberobello, a super touristy village famous for its trulli—those stone houses with conical roofs.
We easily find a free parking spot on a street near the Aia Piccola district, where some trulli are still lived in year-round.
We almost immediately come across the Trullo Sovrano (the only two-story one), which you can visit (but we skip it—it’s opening time, and there’s already a line).
From there, we head down toward the Basilica of Cosma e Damiano... but we don’t go in because there’s a mass.
Now we’re on the main Piazza del Popolo, which connects the two districts of Alberobello: Rione Aia Piccola and Rione Monti, the more touristy one.
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
Here’s a little story about my first trip to Japan with my partner.
We went for our first visit from October 29 to November 13, 2024.
I had planned this entire trip back in November 2020, but given the health situation at the time, I had to cancel...
Here’s the classic route we took:
We booked everything ourselves and got a regional pass for the area from Kyoto to Hiroshima.
The hotels were reserved 3 months in advance on Book... and Agod... (1030 € for 2 people for 13 nights = 80 €/night).
For the flight, we chose a Qatar Airways flight with a layover to break up the long journey (950 € per person).
We also got a pass on the same site (Japan-Experience) to take the train connecting Narita Airport to Shibuya Station (the N'EX Narita Express).
Since the airport is 75 km from central Tokyo, we opted for this mode of transport, even though there are cheaper alternatives.
After reading various posts on VoyageForum, I understood how important it was to have a Welcome Suica card to pay for public transport (subway, tram, bus, boat throughout the country), and we were able to buy one at Narita Airport.
It turned out to be super useful!
After a long but smooth journey, we found ourselves at Narita Airport in the evening.
Even though we had a pass for the Narita Express, we had to go to a counter to make a reservation for the train (mandatory).
Then, once we arrived at Shibuya Station, we took the subway for 2 stops and finally reached our hotel, exhausted (Hotel Asia Center of Japan – 270 € for 3 nights with breakfast included).
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:
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.
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!
We went to Albania in August 2025.
Our itinerary included adventure (sporty activities, site visits), naps on the beach interspersed with swims, incredible natural sites, and a bit of culture.
I booked all our accommodations on Booking.com. Note: almost all places ask to be paid in cash!! You can obviously withdraw from banks, but the fees are pretty high. Luckily, we had plenty of cash, and the country is very safe. You can pay in euros most of the time, which avoids exchange fees.
We started in Tirana. I’d read a really interesting post about Albania’s bunkers (link in my profile). We chose to visit Bunk’Art with a guide from the agency that wrote the post. It was fascinating—not only to better understand the country’s history but also because her grandfather was repressed by the regime, and she shared her family’s experience with us.
Bunkers are everywhere! In Tirana, Bunk’Art is the most interesting and largest. You’ll see the dictator Enver Hoxha’s office, where he would’ve taken refuge in case of an attack on the country. Bring a sweater—it’s really cold in the underground tunnels and their huge corridors.
You can visit other bunkers around the country, in Tirana and elsewhere. Almost all are just abandoned.
The cable car up Mount Dajti is right next to Bunk’Art. The view is stunning—you realize Tirana is so close to the mountains and the sea... But otherwise, it’s not that exciting for older teens (17 and 19) and their parents.
We picked up a rental car in Tirana—it’d be ours for the next three weeks. We used Goalbania’s agency to avoid any hassles. First, there aren’t many cars available in Albania in summer. Second, French credit cards can be a nightmare abroad. So we preferred to sort that out in advance.
After Tirana, we headed to Permet. Just a heads-up: the roads are in great condition except in the mountains. And Albanian drivers aren’t stressful to deal with. Though you might suddenly encounter a herd of goats crossing the road—haha—but if you’re not going too fast, it’s fine.
In Permet, I’d been dreaming of rafting on the Vjosa, one of Europe’s last wild rivers. And we did it with a local agency! It’s beautiful, accessible to everyone, not too physical but still a bit lively—just how we like it. You can even jump into the river in some spots.
In Permet, we also hiked through a canyon and visited a lovely little church.
And we took a workshop to make their local culinary pride: gliko. It’s a jam with whole fruits inside. We’d seen it on Goalbania’s site, and it was really fun. We were with a family where the secret to making gliko has been passed down for generations...
Next, we headed to Gjirokastër. A city we loved: its old traditional houses (Skendulli and Zekate), its grand castle, the Ali Pasha Bridge. Along the way, we stopped for artisanal ice cream at a little shop run by a grandmother who’s been making it herself for ages.
One afternoon, my husband *had* to go to the coast in the south, to Ksamil (he’d read it was better than Sarandë). Verdict: we didn’t like it. Parking is a nightmare, the beaches are super noisy and crowded. The sea is packed with jet skis, boats, pedalos, and ropes. Avoid it.
On the other hand, we really liked Himarë, where we went next. We stayed at a campsite where we rented tents with mattresses and sheets inside. Right by the sea, on a low cliff (about 2 meters high). You can hear the waves at night... Magical!! To swim, you either jump straight into the sea (almost from the tent) or climb down a ladder, which you’ll need to climb back up to get out.
I was a little worried the campsite wouldn’t be very comfortable, so afterward, I’d booked a small place in Gjilek. Turns out, the place was really tiny (one room for four, no kitchen) and pretty expensive (over 100 € a night). We’d drive to the beach or restaurants—it’s on a steep slope, so not very accessible. Parking near the sea is tricky. But the (private) beaches were nice—we’d rent an umbrella not too close to the music and spend the day there. We also went to a wilder beach, harder to reach, via a long path. Behind the beach, there’s an amazing canyon where we’d sometimes climb using ropes (already in place, no need to bring your own) over big boulders rolled around by the stream, which must swell a lot in spring.
So, the sea in Albania: it’s nice if you like swimming and relaxing, but it’s not the most interesting part of the country. There are so many other amazing things to see and discover—so many stunning sites! Maybe an agency could’ve helped us find more practical accommodations and avoid Ksamil and its surroundings.
We left the coast to head to the beautiful city of Berat and its "thousand windows." We explored the city, its fortress, and its icon museum.
Then we discovered the Osum Canyon—it’s incredible. The view from the top is breathtaking. And at the bottom, it’s magical. There’s little water in summer, so rafting isn’t an option. We weren’t tempted by the big-tube descent offered by an agency—it looked fun, but the group had 40 people. We preferred hiking on our own as a family of four. We scouted the area on Google Maps... and found where to descend. We walked in the water, then it rose to our waists, then our shoulders... We weren’t moving fast. And how to get back up?? Eventually, we followed a group with a guide—the path was hard to find.
After that unforgettable hike, we visited the Bogovë Waterfalls. It’s pretty, and we swam, but the water was *really* cold.
We passed through Tirana again and then headed to Shkodër. We explored a bit—its charming little streets, the Rozafa Fortress. There’s a tiny museum where you can see *huge* Ottoman stone cannonballs. And they tell you the (charming) story of the young woman who was walled alive in the castle’s foundations to ensure its strength...
Shkodër is mostly a stopover to head into the mountains and discover Theth. Our goal: hiking in the Valbona Valley, from Valbona to Theth. We organized the trip ourselves, without an agency, but it took some time to figure everything out. So I’ll save you the trouble—haha. Book your tickets on the Komanilakeferry website. The ticket includes:
🙂 minibus transfer from downtown Shkodër to Koman
🙂 ferry ticket from Koman to Fierze. This ferry ride is *gorgeous*—between mountain slopes covered in pine trees, and sometimes a little house with a few fields...
🙂 minibus ticket from Fierze to Valbona. Now you’re in the mountains! The minibus drops you off near your accommodation—pick one as close as possible to the start of the hike (if that’s your goal!). The ones at the far end of the village add up to 1.5 hours of walking. Our choice: Guesthouse Dioni. The host is really lovely, it’s in the woods, and it’s basic but great.
After a day of hiking, we arrived in Theth. What beautiful mountains! Then we explored Theth and the surrounding area. It’s pretty busy, but you can still enjoy the Blue Eye of Theth and its swim. It’s *so* cold! But so beautiful!
🙂 minibus ticket from Theth back to Shkodër.
After a night in Shkodër, we drove to Kepi i Rodonit. A guidebook (I forget which one) raved about its beauty. And it *is* beautiful!
But the view is ruined by plastic bottles and other trash in the bushes, along the paths, and of course on the beaches. The only peaceful spot: the private beach at Kepi i Rodonit, which is cleaned. You can rent an umbrella and have lunch there. That’s where we spent our last few days—very relaxing.
In short... Albania turned out to be perfect for us and our teens!
I’m diving into a recap of our loop—pretty classic, really—Denver-Yellowstone-Denver this past summer, from July 24 to August 17. Given the sheer number of trip reports already out there (or in the works), and since I don’t have the writing chops or the photography skills of many of you, I’ll keep it practical—well, I’ll try, at least—to share our take on some of the less-visited parks and spots.
First off, a huge thank you to everyone whose trip reports, blogs, websites, comments, and more helped us put together this itinerary. Looking back, it could’ve been even better optimized: a few disappointments when we missed out on some great discoveries, often because we were short on time. Plenty of reasons to come back to the area!
We’re traveling with our four (almost) teens—18, 16, 14, and nearly 12 years old. To keep the trip enjoyable for everyone, we had to make compromises on both sides: cutting a visit short to spend more time swimming, waking up at dawn, and so on. But logistics also played a big role—things like laundry, grocery shopping, and keeping luggage organized could’ve quickly become time-consuming without a little planning.
And honestly, I think we visited every Walmart along the way! Blame it on the lack of fridges in some accommodations and, more importantly, the *very* limited space in the car, which made it impossible to bring a proper cooler. I’ll come back to the car saga later.
For accommodations, this year we alternated between basic cabins in KOA campgrounds and Yellowstone (when staying more than one night in the same place) and hotels. Always with a pool (except in Yellowstone, of course), which let the kids burn off energy—because they always have reserves, even after packed days!—and, let’s be honest, gave us a chance to relax. No Wi-Fi issues either; we all had plans with 25 GB of data (a big thanks to Gilles for the amazing deal at 0.99 €). It worked perfectly, even for texts and calls between phones—no extra charges.
Now, onto our route: as I mentioned, a classic Denver-Yellowstone-Denver loop. To avoid rushing through the parks or spending all our time on the road, we prioritized staying as close to them as possible, with at least two nights in each place. And I’ve got to say, it’s really nice to settle in, even if it’s just for two nights. It also helped us deal with the weather, which wasn’t always great during this trip. The trade-off? With vacation time being limited, some driving days ended up being long. We knew that going in, but since we kept a relaxed pace with no time constraints (don’t ask me for timings—I don’t keep track of the clock on vacation, except in the morning to get everyone up before noon!), we sometimes ended up with marathon days.
With that said, I’ll dive into the trip itself in the next post.
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?
And we still haven’t seen everything!
Before setting off for new horizons at the end of this year, it’s time for me to share my trip to Cape Verde this summer 2025.
I particularly love these spontaneous trips, and our stay in Cape Verde is one of those because it was only at the beginning of April that we decided on this getaway, which had been catching our eye for a while, given our love for the mountains.
As always—well, when it’s open—I turned to VF, and I want to immediately thank Marie, aka ptitortue, who helped me a lot in planning this trip through her travel journals and our exchanges!
Because Cape Verde is both small and vast! We decided not to rush from one airport to another, to enjoy the places and the people, but also to relax, since the work backlog from being stuck in May (see my previous travel journal 😅) had to be caught up on in June.
So, 4 islands will be our winners from 06/28 to 07/19:
Santiago first for logistical reasons, as round-trip flights from the capital Praia were the cheapest (650 €/person from Lyon via Lisbon with TAP, still!)
São Vicente, because it’s the gateway to the next one but ultimately more than that...
Santo Antão, pretty much the main goal of the trip since Marie (and the photos) had really sold it to me.
And finally, Sal Island, for some rest—a non-negotiable condition for my other half—and we’ll see that I should’ve listened to Marie...
That said, what a chatterbox I am—buckle up, flight attendants at the doors, off we go on new beautiful escapes! (Thanks to Sophie for the easy loan)
Last note for my eager fan club 😏: yes, there will be alcohol—how could there not be in the land of grogue!
Hello,
Since I enjoy not only the countryside but also everything related to rail travel, I’m starting this photo thread dedicated to trains in Thailand (I’d guess most of us have taken one at some point...).
Feel free to post your pictures here as long as they fit the theme: rolling stock**, stations**, platforms, tracks (even without a train on them), technical equipment, engineering structures (bridges, viaducts), etc.—all in Thailand.
For each photo, I’ll (or you can) note the station or line where it was taken.
Comments and questions are welcome.
As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I inherited my love of travel from my parents and some of my grandparents. A strong passion, but one that was unfortunately limited by our family’s modest resources. Back then, living in northern Alsace, a simple trip to the southern part of the region—with the Wine Route as our destination—felt like an extraordinary journey to a land of plenty for the little boy I was in the late 60s and early 70s.
Everything seemed so huge when you were still just a kid.
Back then, I was overwhelmed by countless sensations—I was already highly sensitive, with a keen mind and a nose and taste buds that were developing like a pro’s. Which, as I’d later realize, wasn’t always an advantage.
Those magical days always began with a gentle late-spring or midsummer morning. The interior of the white Peugeot 404, license plate 210 LZ 67, had already soaked up the sun before the engine purred to life, and the cabin gave off a scent I could still recognize today—a fragrance I found so pleasant. Back then, I had no idea it was just the smell of warm plastic from the car’s interior.
Yes, the scents of the 404 on sunny days became my madeleine de Proust...
What’s more, the whole family was unusually cheerful because those moments of relaxation and leisure were rare. Everyone worked, and no one had an easy job or was well paid. Without the *Trente Glorieuses*, these experiences might never have happened.
Once we crossed the canton’s borders, I felt like I was light-years away from my everyday surroundings, and every kilometer plunged me deeper into *terra incognita*. It was thrilling. Far from my so-called "medium-sized" town, wheat fields, cornfields, and cabbage patches stretched out, punctuated by tall poles connected by long wires and topped with vegetation—like giant clotheslines without laundry, where magical beanstalks might grow to touch the sky. Back then, I was still far from tasting their product, which was simply beer. At the time, there was still a significant local hop production. Fun fact: it wasn’t until 2002 that Anglo-Saxon scientists proved hops and cannabis belong to the same biological family.
After the fields, the landscape took another step up as it rolled past the little boy’s eyes, often glued to the windows. First came modest hills, then a succession of rolling slopes that soon formed an unbroken chain. Their 700 meters in altitude felt like Himalayan peaks to me—impressive, inert giants, a whole new world. Gazing at them, an intense emotion welled up somewhere between my stomach and lungs, nearly taking my breath away. What mysteries, what treasures did these heights hold?
And then there were the cherries on top—the crowning touch that made the scene even more magical: proud, majestic castles perched on the summits like impassive sentinels. Monuments from the past, yet firmly rooted in the present on their rocky spurs.
The little boy’s eyes sparkled—he’d been given a castle for Christmas, complete with battlements, towers, a drawbridge, and fully armed knights. He’d watched and lived *Ivanhoe* on the only French TV channel that existed back then.
Only once did my paternal grandfather join us on one of these trips. A tall, intelligent man with a face that could shift from stern to mischievous, clearly full of humor and charisma. Sadly, his relationship with alcohol had taken a toll on his life and, by extension, those of his loved ones. He had a strong personality—if his boss crossed the line, he wouldn’t hesitate to punch him, which meant he went through a lot of different jobs. Back then, you could quit one job and easily find another. It was quite something to see him in his final stages, hallucinating pink elephants and even drinking perfume when he had nothing else left. The last time I saw him, he’d slipped away from the doctors and nurses while hospitalized in pretty bad shape—at least, I assume his liver was the issue. We were sitting down for a family lunch when the door burst open, and there he stood in his pajamas, eyes twinkling with mischief, clearly pleased with the dramatic entrance. That theatrical moment didn’t spare us from burying him a few months later at the age of 71. One day, my mother told me the family doctor had quietly remarked that it was a shame—with his robust constitution, he could’ve lived to be a hundred. Yes, the family doctor—this was the man who’d come treat you any day, at almost any hour, just for a phone call. It really existed, it’s not a myth!
That day, his wife—my paternal grandmother—was also along for the ride. Everyone agreed that Jeannette was a good woman. She worked as a waitress at *Le Tigre*, the biggest brasserie in town, right in the center. Most customers preferred to be served by her, including local dignitaries and even the mayor. As a kid, I didn’t find her very fun, open, or warm—she seemed a bit stern. Back then, women in their fifties already had the face and build of grandmothers. Same went for men, don’t get me wrong. I had no idea about the struggles she faced because of her husband. I didn’t know that 30 years earlier, she’d had to flee Alsace while pregnant, under threat from Nazi fighter-bombers. I didn’t know she’d had several miscarriages, and that my father—her only surviving child, born prematurely in March 1940 at the other end of France—weighed less than a kilo at birth and was so tiny he could fit in a shoebox. Hard to imagine he’d grow into a strapping man nearly 1.80 meters tall, tipping the scales at 100 kilos.
When you come back from summer camp in early August and ask why she didn’t pick you up with your parents, and they gently tell you she’s "in heaven," you don’t realize she passed away at 54 after suffering greatly from stomach cancer that had spread.
Back to that family outing, that enchanted parenthesis. I even remembered where we’d had lunch when I passed through Dambach-la-Ville decades later. One of those charming, flower-filled towns Alsace produces in abundance—and preserves so well. This one sits high on a hill, and I was a bit stunned on the parking lot because the view stretched far, revealing the Alsace plain below—its fields, villages, hills, and forests. The world seemed so vast and enticing that day, even though I was only glimpsing a tiny fraction of it.
The region was already very touristy, but I wouldn’t notice the downsides until much later. That Sunday noon, I discovered a large restaurant filled with diners. I can still see the enormous piece of meat they served me, decorated with a little wooden skewer topped with a flag. I kept that one for a long time. Those were the golden days of rich, flowing, thick sauces—so flavorful—and the era of the world’s best fries, made on the spot with the best potatoes. To top it off, I was *exceptionally* allowed a small bottle of apple juice, Orangina, or—even better if possible—Sinalco. Yes, Sinalco—like Orangina, but better. A brand that must’ve disappeared in the 70s, but why, and what a shame! Since then, Orangina’s little bubbles have taken the brand to the other side of the planet—it’s now Japanese.
Year after year, I’d eagerly await that ecstatic moment when the most beautiful castle in Alsace, the Haut-Koenigsbourg, appeared in my field of vision. The perfect model, the archetype that blended into the landscape at the height of a child’s dreams.
The trip home always felt like a reality check—less jarring than an alarm clock, but more diffuse and melancholic. From then on, there was only one wish: *When do we leave again?*
Hi there,
Here’s a recap of a trek through the Balkans covering three countries: Albania, Montenegro, and Kosovo. I was with a friend, and we didn’t do the full route (only one day in Kosovo).
It was a wonderful trek through snow-capped mountains and vast flower-filled meadows, meeting incredibly welcoming people.
At the end of the travel journal, I’ll share what I loved and what I liked less.
Day 1: Flight from Paris-Beauvais to Tirana with Wizz Air.
Since Albania isn’t part of Europe when it comes to phone service (at least not yet! :-)), we had to buy a physical SIM card—otherwise, the bill would’ve been sky-high if we’d used our French plan! We got one from Vodafone AL at the airport. You can buy online before leaving with a virtual SIM (e-SIM) for compatible phones, so you don’t have to swap cards. But given the uncertainty about choosing a plan online, we preferred buying one directly at Tirana Airport. Cost: 31 € for 100 GB. That’s way too much—100 GB is overkill. For 40 GB, it’s 27 €, and the plan lasts 21 days. The price difference isn’t huge, and it was cheaper than online. This plan covers all the countries along the Balkan range.
Money tip: All guesthouses and accommodations accept euros. The local currency in Albania is the LEK. In Montenegro, it’s the euro. Bank fees for withdrawing money from an ATM in Albania are pretty steep: 8 € for a withdrawal of 600–700 LEK (about 200 €)! So it’s better to withdraw cash (euros) in France. Oh, and we booked all our accommodations before leaving, but payment is always in cash. Budget around 400–500 € for 9 days of trekking.
Then, a transfer the same day to Shköder, about a 2-hour bus ride. Cost: 10 € per person. Tickets bought directly on the bus. We spent the night in Shköder at a very clean guesthouse, Open Doors B&B. It had a small balcony overlooking the city.
I really liked Shköder, especially its pedestrian street lined with restaurants and lit up at night. It’s a great place to stroll and eat. The food isn’t expensive—two big salads and two beers: 14 € :-) . Fruit prices are also very reasonable: 3 € for a kilo of cherries, compared to 9–10 € in France.
Religions coexist peacefully in these countries—Catholics and Muslims. From our balcony, my friend heard the call to prayer for the first time, coming from one of the city’s mosques.
Day 2: Bus ride to Theth, about 1,100 meters in elevation gain, the starting point for our hike the next day.
The trip took 2 hours and 40 minutes with a break in the middle. The bus was affordable, but taxis also make the trip—though they’re very expensive.
We slept in the heights of Theth at a new guesthouse, "Mountain Vista Shkafi," with an amazing view.
The family was adorable. The husband is a handyman and built almost everything himself. Their baby is named "Sky"—such a cute name, right? :-) Throughout the trek, I found the guesthouses very clean, and the hosts think of everything—no need to bring soap or shampoo; they provide it.
Lunch in Theth at a traditional restaurant on the main road. We tried "Tave Dheu," an Albanian dish with beef, cabbage (very common), and cottage cheese. Delicious but not quite filling enough. For dessert, a honey cake that was perfectly moist—such a treat! Desserts like this are rare; sometimes they serve watermelon instead.
We took a small private bus for 5 € to the "Blue Eye" parking lot, then walked for about 45 minutes to reach a stunning natural site—a kind of lagoon with incredibly blue water. The bravest can swim, but the water’s freezing!
That evening, we dined at "La Montagne Blanche"—excellent! A delightful mix of grilled meats with potatoes and grilled peppers. Some watermelon slices (which I’m not a fan of) and the famous Raki, a brandy served in Turkey and the Balkans! It was my first time drinking brandy "bottoms up." 😉
I’d like to share my family trip to Colombia with kids aged 8. After spending hours browsing the forum and only having two weeks there, we decided to focus on two regions: the Coffee Zone for one week and the Caribbean coast for another. We traveled from August 8 to 23.
Day 1 – First stop: Bogotá
We arrived in Bogotá in the evening on an Air France flight—nothing to complain about, decent service, comfortable, and on time. However, the first night was a miss. We’d booked a hotel near the airport (Abitel Prime) for convenience, but the soundproofing was almost nonexistent; we heard planes as if we were on the runway. Luckily, exhaustion helped us sleep well anyway.
Day 2 – Off to the Coffee Zone and Salento
The next morning, we headed to the airport for a domestic flight to Pereira with LATAM. No issues: punctual and efficient, and in 30 minutes, we landed in Pereira. The landing already set a different mood: lush valleys, endless plantations, and humid air.
We picked up our rental car from Localiza. Unfortunately, the experience wasn’t smooth—the paperwork took forever, and the wait tested our patience. Finally free, we hit the road to Salento, one of Quindío’s gems.
We arrived in the late afternoon and discovered a colorful village bustling with artisan shops and cafés. Our first stroll helped us soak in the atmosphere before dinner at Bambú restaurant—a great surprise with careful cooking and local flavors. We spent the night at Casa Serafín, a charming little hotel, nicely decorated and well-located… but unfortunately very noisy.
Day 3 – The magic of Cocora Valley
This was one of the trip’s highlights. We set off early for Cocora Valley, famous for its giant wax palms, Colombia’s emblem. We chose the 12 km loop recommended by the *Routard*. The landscapes were spectacular: towering palms, rivers, suspension bridges. It felt like walking through a postcard. The weather was perfect.
That evening, we dined at Barnabé restaurant—pleasant setting, decent food, but the bill was a bit steep for what it was. Back to Casa Serafín.
Day 4 – Coffee and panoramic views
The plan was a visit to Finca El Ocaso. For 1.5 hours, we followed a passionate guide who explained the entire coffee process, from harvest to cup. Very educational, accessible for both kids and adults, all in a stunning setting. The tour was in English for us, and we translated for our kids, who aren’t bilingual yet.
In the afternoon, we climbed to Salento’s viewpoint. The valley view was superb. That evening, we ate at Veggie Garden, a simple and pleasant spot that was a nice change from the heavier meals of previous days.
Day 5 – Horseback ride to Santa Rita Waterfall
We booked a horseback ride with Cocora Magic. It was a real success: calm horses, a beautiful trail, mountain and meadow landscapes, and finally the refreshing and wild Santa Rita Waterfall. Without a doubt, one of the best moments of our time in the region. We even got a bonus ride up a 300-meter hill.
We then headed to Filandia, less known than Salento but just as charming. We spent the late afternoon enjoying the pool at MuchoSur Filandia. The hotel is beautiful, in an idyllic setting. However, we also had soundproofing issues and could hear our neighbors.
Day 6 – Rainy detour through Filandia and Manizales
Rain caught up with us in the early morning: torrents of water made it impossible to go out. We stayed at the hotel, reading quietly. By noon, the rain let up: a quick walk in Filandia, a quick lunch, then off to Manizales. We chose to stay at El Otoño hot springs. Great choice: as soon as we arrived, we plunged into the hot pools, perfect after hours on the road.
Day 7 – Hiking and hot springs
In the morning, we hiked the Camino de Super Coco (found somewhat randomly on Google). A pleasant trail with mountain views and a peaceful atmosphere. The afternoon was spent in the hotel’s thermal pools, with a short marked hike down to the river. Dinner on-site at the hot springs’ restaurant. A simple but very relaxing day.
Day 8 – Rain, jacuzzi, and games
We continued to Finca Los Alpes. The rain greeted us again, but this time it turned into an asset: nothing like a steaming jacuzzi with a view of the misty mountains. The kids enjoyed the facilities too: mini-golf, ping-pong, billiards. Dinner and night at the hotel, cozy vibes.
Day 9 – Off to the Caribbean coast
Back to the airport to return the car (still a bit long). Flight to Cartagena with Avianca: punctual and comfortable. Upon arrival, we picked up another car and headed straight to the Hyatt Regency, a modern hotel with a pool. That evening, we dined at the hotel—practical after a travel day.
Day 10 – Colonial Cartagena
We set off to explore Cartagena’s old town. It was enchanting: colorful facades, flowered balconies, colonial charm—just magical. However, the heat was stifling and very humid. Afternoon relaxation by the pool. Dinner at Gestlani, a good restaurant in town.
Day 11 – Road to Barú
A hearty breakfast, then one last swim in the pool before heading to Barú. We checked into Las Islas Hotel. The setting was enchanting: wooden cabins nestled in the vegetation, a private beach, turquoise sea, impeccable service. Dinner at the hotel’s restaurant.
Day 12 – Beach and relaxation
A full beach day in Barú. Warm water, white sand, coconut trees, peace and quiet. A real postcard scene with iguanas and birds.
Day 13 – On to Santa Marta
Another morning at the beach before hitting the road to Santa Marta. The drive was a bit long (6 hours), especially with traffic jams in Barranquilla. It was the longest car ride of the trip. We spent the night at Villa María Tayrona, a beautiful place near the park.
Day 14 – Tayrona Park
We left early for Tayrona Park. We entered through **El Zaino**, parked the car, and set off on a hike to La Piscina (about 2 hours). We stopped along the way at Playa Arenilla, a stunning little beach, to rest. Lunch on-site, a swim, then back by 4 PM. The hike was a bit tiring, but the nature was spectacular: dense jungle, the sound of waves, and even a monkey encounter along the way. Evening and dinner at the hotel.
Day 15 – Last swim and return flight to Bogotá
Our last morning was split between the pool and the beach (the hotel has direct access via a 7-minute trail through vegetation and flowers)—hard to leave this paradise. We drove to Santa Marta’s airport to return the car, then flew back to Bogotá. We spent the night at Casa Dann Carlton, a comfortable hotel. We simply ordered room service, arriving too late to go out.
Day 16 – Bogotá and the end of the trip
Our last day in Colombia. After a good breakfast, we explored La Candelaria. Its cobbled streets and colorful houses were worth the visit. We visited the Botero Museum (free) and the Gold Museum, both fascinating. Back to the airport for our 11:55 PM Air France flight.
That’s a wrap on a varied trip—lush mountains, colorful villages, dream beaches, and tropical jungle.
The pace was pretty relaxed, well-suited for our kids. They absolutely loved the trip to Colombia.
Driving in Colombia was very easy, and we didn’t regret renting a car at all—it gave us more freedom to get around.
If I were to do it again, here’s what I’d change:
- I’d spend less time in the Coffee Zone to stay a bit longer on the Caribbean coast, which was more relaxing for the kids. Or I’d head to Medellín, but I didn’t think the city was very kid-friendly.
- Bogotá is a city that deserves a day’s visit, but it’s not a must-see. Maybe I’d have taken the KLM flight from Cartagena to Amsterdam instead.
Since I didn’t have time to write a proper travel journal, I thought I’d share a few photos of Bologna—a really lovely city I discovered in 2017 while stopping on my way to Tuscany.
Around Piazza Maggiore, which was packed with a stage and chairs for a show, stands the Basilica of San Petronio, massive and Gothic in style, with an unfinished façade (a common sight in Italy).
Another building near the square:
But Bologna’s real charm lies in its porticoes, which were added to the UNESCO World Heritage list in 2021: 62 km of arcades running along buildings, letting you walk sheltered from the sun or rain. Back in 1288, the city required houses to include private arcades for public use. In the city center, you can stroll under 32 km of porticoes in all sorts of styles—some plain, some ornate—with a strong presence of red tones.
Okay, it wasn’t a total disaster either. Actually, I hesitated before starting this travel journal: is it even worth writing about a holiday that won’t leave an unforgettable memory?
In the end, I went for it (there aren’t many recent travel journals about this destination).
So, read on... or don’t .
Every time we’ve been to the Canary Islands, it’s been by default (basically: where can we go in winter or early spring when we only have a week—so not too far, not too much jet lag, but with decent weather?).
This time, we had two weeks, but the winter plan kept changing: first Thailand (dropped for personal reasons), then Martinique (dropped because of work leave dates that weren’t up to me), and finally, the Canary Islands.
We’ve already been to Tenerife (which we really liked) and Lanzarote (which we liked a little less).
This year, two options: Gran Canaria or one of the smaller islands west of Tenerife (La Palma, or even La Gomera or El Hierro).
We chose Gran Canaria... not sure it was the right call!
Whose fault is it?
Storm Thérèse’s!
Yes, Storm Thérèse followed us on arrival, and its effects lasted quite a while. We had to adapt, cancel visits, change activities...
But even without Thérèse...
Saturday 21/03
Departure from Orly at 6:10 AM with Transavia.
The plane took off on time and landed a little early, tossed around by strong winds before touching down.
It had just rained, but it was (almost) no longer raining.
We quickly picked up our luggage and then the car at the Cicar counter.
We got a Seat Arona instead of the Corsa we’d booked. Well, while the driving position didn’t feel great at first (I got used to it), the engine’s smoothness and power were much appreciated on the island’s winding and sometimes steep roads.
It was only 10 AM, and we couldn’t theoretically check into our accommodation until 3 PM (the owner promised to message me if it was ready earlier).
So, we headed to the (big) *Jardín Botánico Viera y Clavijo*, where we planned to spend a few hours.
We found a huge parking lot... empty.
The passenger in the car in front of us (yes, we weren’t the only ones at the closed gate—there was a car in front and one behind) went to ask for info: it was closed due to the storm 😕.
So, we calmly headed toward Puerto de las Nieves, on the northwest coast of the island.
The plan: go to a restaurant, visit the village, and do some shopping while waiting for early afternoon.
As soon as we got out of the car, it started raining... we took shelter under the awning of a shop, waiting for it to pass. But the rain turned into a downpour, and within minutes, awning or not, Gore-Tex or not, we were soaked!
Since we were already wet, we might as well go to the restaurant—they weren’t far! But here’s the thing: contrary to what Google Maps said, they all opened at 1 PM, not noon!
Back to the car, wading through 5 cm of water because all the village streets were flooded .
The rain let up, we did some shopping, went to eat, and I got a message from the owner saying the accommodation was ready 🙂.
So, off we went to La Suerte, a few kilometers north of Agaete.
The downside of the place, especially with luggage, is that you have to climb several flights of stairs via an outdoor staircase (after parking more or less far away on a steep street) to get there 😛).
Of course, on the way from the car to the apartment, it started pouring again—the bags got soaked!
Enough rain for today! We settled in quietly, and by late afternoon, we could (finally!) go admire the view from the terrace.
Trip Planning
My partner and I are heading to the Canary Islands for a week at the end of September, specifically to Lanzarote. We chose this island over the more crowded ones for its volcanic landscape and the variety of hikes it offers.
I booked everything through Expedia: our hotel stay, car rental, and Ryanair flight tickets departing from Marseille. It was the only way to get a direct flight. To make getting around easier during our stay, I picked a hotel located in the center of the island from the wide selection available. It’s part of the Barceló chain, specifically the "Barceló Teguise Beach Adults Only" in Teguise Beach, which turned out to be an excellent choice.
The Trip
Sunday, September 21 - Monday, September 22
Departure
It’s 2:15 PM, and we’re at the Avignon TGV station. Danielle picked us up earlier due to the weather—thunderstorms and heavy rain all the way to the station. The TGV was on time, and it only took 30 minutes to reach Marseille Saint-Charles. The shuttle to the airport is quick and convenient, right behind the station.
The bus leaves for the airport in the middle of the storm, with flooded roads and cars stuck in some spots.
We get soaked making our way to the terminal. Two hours to wait before the flight. The plane finally takes off at midnight, but just before landing, the pilot announces that the destination airport is closed, and we’re being diverted to Tenerife. Ryanair will re-route us as soon as possible.
We end up waiting 2 hours, and Ryanair kindly gives us a 4 € voucher.
We re-board around 5:15 AM and take off at 6:00 AM. About 45 minutes to reach Lanzarote. After collecting our luggage, we head to the car rental desk. The counter in the terminal is closed, and we’re directed to parking lot P4—it takes us a while to find it.
I’m a bit worried about the rental company’s reaction since the car was supposed to be picked up 7 hours earlier, but it’s not a problem. A woman next to us is furious because she’s in the same situation, and her rental was canceled. Anne-Marie translates for her, but nothing changes.
We pick up a brand-new Toyota Aigo and head to the hotel.
After checking in, we cross the garden, walking alongside the large pool to reach our room.
A lovely first-floor room with a jacuzzi and a sea view.
It’s early, so we head to breakfast—a generously stocked and varied buffet with everything you could want.
Afterward, we drive to Cueva de los Verdes, but it’s packed with people and a long wait. We decide to come back another day.
Next, we visit Mirador Del Rio. This rocky viewpoint at the edge of the island has breathtaking cliffs plunging 500 meters into the ocean. The view is stunning and impressive.
A panoramic bar lets you cool off while enjoying the scenery.
We return to the hotel for a short walk around the neighborhood and enjoy the beautiful pool with its pleasant water temperature. Relaxing by the pool, sun loungers, and all.
In the evening, a very varied buffet at the restaurant. Then early to bed to recover from the sleepless night before.
Tuesday, September 23
After a restful night, we enjoy another varied and hearty breakfast. The terrace seating is very pleasant. We take an inland road leading to Timanfaya National Park.
The road near the park runs alongside vineyards where the vines are surrounded by lava stone walls to protect them from the prevailing winds.
Our first stop is at the visitor center, where the island’s volcanic activity is well-documented. Next, we stop at an area where you can take a short camel ride—two seats are installed on either side of the camel’s hump. This little ride offers a great view of the volcanic landscape from a higher vantage point. A fair price of 11 € per seat for a 20-minute ride.
We then head to the park entrance via the road leading to the parking lot, where only authorized buses can take the winding route inside the park.
It’s crowded, and we wait about 45 minutes with several stops before reaching the parking lot.
We board the bus, and the route offers beautiful views of this volcanic area and its many craters. The journey is very interesting, with several stops for photos.
At the parking lot, a guide shows us how the heat from the rocks beneath the surface can ignite dry vegetation. Water poured into holes in the ground immediately creates geysers and jets of steam.
The building next to the parking lot has a restaurant where meat is cooked using the heat from a well dug into the volcanic rock.
On our way back, we drive to Playa Blanca, a seaside town with a small sandy beach.
Back at the hotel in the late afternoon for dinner.
Wednesday, September 24
We wake up early and have a quick breakfast—few people are around at this hour. Two days ago, we booked a 10:00 AM visit to Los Verdes, lava tunnels created by eruptions and lava flows from the La Corona volcano, which extended all the way to the coast.
When the lava came into contact with the air, it solidified on the surface while continuing to flow underneath. The lava tunnels stretch for 8 kilometers to the volcano, but we only walk one kilometer.
The inside of the tunnel is impressive, with narrow passages and larger chambers.
You can see traces left by the flowing liquid lava—varied colors and twisted shapes.
At the end of the path, a large chamber has been turned into a concert hall with perfect acoustics.
Next, we visit Jameo Del Agua.
This is a continuation of the lava tunnel, developed by Manrique.
There are beautifully designed bar and restaurant areas, as well as an underground lake where you can see small blind white crabs—a protected species in this very pure water.
Higher up, there’s a lovely space with a central pool that could double as a swimming area, surrounded by beautifully designed white pathways that contrast with the blue water.
Further on, you reach a large space inside the lava tunnel, set up as a performance hall with perfect acoustics.
Stairs let you view this beautiful space from above. A gap in the lava landscape reveals the ocean on the horizon.
We head back toward the village of Yé, at the foot of the La Corona volcano.
A 160-meter walk from the church, a path crosses vineyard plots and then climbs to the top of the volcano’s crater in about 30 minutes. It’s the island’s highest volcano.
When you reach the edge of the crater, you see how deep it is, with steep slopes inside forming a large circular opening. The place is breathtaking and awe-inspiring.
We drive back to the hotel via a road that climbs quickly, offering a beautiful view of the island’s northern part.
Thursday, September 25
After another enjoyable and varied breakfast, we head to the center of the island toward the volcano park and stop at a roadside parking lot where a path leads to the Montana Cuervo volcano.
This is a crater that opened on one side. During an eruption, an explosion created a breach in the crater.
Huge blocks of rock were thrown dozens of meters away. The path goes through the breach and descends into the crater, allowing you to walk around it. It’s impressive, and you really feel small and fragile in this environment.
The crater walls, with their different colors, highlight the rock formations. The crater is surrounded by a sea of lava with sharp, jagged rocks.
You can walk around the outside of the crater, but it’s not very interesting. We then head to the west coast, stopping at a spot with a small green lake next to a beautiful black sand beach.
Next, we stop at Salinas de Janubio, a lovely viewpoint overlooking the salt marshes with different water colors. A small shop sells various local products.
We then head to the famous Papagayo beach.
The road ends at a booth where they charge 3 € to continue.
From here, the land is private, and you have to pay to drive down a 3-kilometer rocky dirt road.
Quite a few cars are driving along it, kicking up clouds of dust. The car gets a dusty makeover.
We arrive at a large parking area, with several paths leading to different small beaches.
We go to Papagayo, a small blonde sand beach surrounded by red rocks.
The beach slopes gently into the water, which is a pleasant temperature. The setting is charming and peaceful.
We stay for a while before heading back to the hotel.
Friday, September 26
We start with a visit to the César Manrique Foundation in Tahiche. This was originally one of his homes. The modern construction spans several levels and is integrated into the lava flow, using the gaps to create living spaces. Large windows make the rooms bright and open to the scenery. The place is pleasant, with flower-filled gardens outside. It’s well worth a visit.
Next, we drive to Las Grietas, where a path leads to a narrow crack in the volcanic rock, forming a tight passage where only one person can walk at a time.
The passage isn’t very long, but progress is slow due to the endless selfies being taken here.
We then stop at Casa Del Camposino, a renovated farm that houses several artisan shops.
We taste a local wine recommended by a charming woman and buy two bottles of Lanzarote red wine on her advice.
Now, we head to Tamara beach, a beautiful and wide beach at the foot of high cliffs. There are always great waves here, making it a surfer’s paradise.
On the way back to the hotel, we stop at the cactus garden, César Manrique’s final creation. Designed with a great sense of aesthetics around an old windmill, it features 4,500 varieties of cacti in various shapes, all in a beautiful setting.
We return to the hotel in the late afternoon for the evening.
Saturday, September 27
After another hearty breakfast, we head north to Haria. We stumble upon another of César Manrique’s homes, where he lived for a long time. This house is more traditional than the previous one but still has large, modern, and very pleasant rooms. At the back of the garden is his large studio, where he created his works.
Next, we visit the craft market—this was our original plan. Various stalls offer local items, and it’s very crowded. No room at the café terraces to sit down.
We then return to Famara beach for a long stay. There are always great waves here, much to the surfers’ delight. The water temperature is pleasant, and we enjoy it.
On the way back to the hotel, we stop at a gas station to refill the car, which has been very fuel-efficient. Gas is also much cheaper here than in France—1.16 € per liter of SP95.
We also wash the car, which was very dusty after the long dirt road to Papagayo beach.
At the hotel, we enjoy a farewell cocktail before dinner.
Sunday, September 28
We spend the morning by the hotel pool before checking out at noon. For lunch, we go to a restaurant called "Dona Lola," near the hotel, with a terrace offering a view of the coast. We order tuna carpaccio, which is delicious.
We then head to the airport, just 15 minutes away.
We return the rental car and go to the airport.
A long line to check in our luggage.
The return flight is on time.
A shuttle bus takes us to Saint-Charles station.
We then head to our overnight rental. The boulevard slopes down, making it easier with the suitcases.
The rental is between the old port and the train station.
Once there, we pick up the keys and make one last effort to carry the luggage up to the third floor.
The studio is nice, clean, and simply equipped—perfect for one night.
I’m a newbie to this forum, passionate about wildlife, the landscapes of East Africa, and Tanzania in particular.
This June 2024 trip/safari is our 7th visit to Tanzania and our 5th in the south, which has drawn us more than the north ever since we discovered it in 2015.
In 2024, the entrance fees for the reserves and services have gone up again since our last visit.
I chose to return first to Mikumi Reserve, which was the very first one we visited in the south. Then, we’ll head to Selous (J. Nyerere N. P.) as usual.
Initially, we wanted to spend 2/3 days on Mafia Island at the end of the trip, but it made the total cost too high, so we gave up...
We usually go to Ruaha and Selous, but I wanted to mix it up a bit—also to save some money...
As for the timing, June is a new experience for us. I thought it might be interesting to come just after the lodges reopen... hoping for some great wildlife encounters??
The trip starts in Marseille with our first flight on Ethiopian Airlines to Addis Ababa, then continues to Dar es Salaam, where we’ll finally set foot on Tanzanian soil again.
In Addis... "our" A-350.
.....
After arriving in Dar, we spent one night at a hotel near the airport. The next morning, we headed to the domestic flights terminal, which hasn’t changed in years.
By mid-morning, we boarded a Cessna 208B Caravan with Safari Air Link, heading to the Kikoboga bush airstrip in Mikumi, which we reached 45 minutes later.
Fun fact: the pilot was the same one as on our return flight two years ago.
Welcome on board:
Of course, a driver/guide team from our chosen lodge was waiting for us upon arrival:
I was surprised to see so many aircraft parked there... even twin-engine Embraer Brasilias??
As a fan of vintage planes, I loved it...
On the other hand, the light was incredibly harsh.....!!
Our guides only speak English. We knew that in advance. In the south, it’s very rare to find someone who speaks French. This’ll force us to dig into our high school English memories... from 60 years ago... at least.
It’s noon, and we head toward the lodge.
Near the airstrip, next to the Mikumi rangers’ base, there are quite a few herbivores. They find a bit more peace here—the big cats don’t venture this way...
Our first encounter was a group of Masai giraffes.
Rarer (for us), a savanna monitor lizard basking in the sun right in the middle of the track...??
A large gathering of impalas (mostly males) along with a few blue wildebeest:
Also unusual: a African crowned hornbill taking a dust bath in the middle of the track...!!
When it comes to identifying mammals or birds, I don’t know everything... so I might make mistakes. Please forgive me.
I’m counting on my friend Blesl’s active participation... 😉
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
This time, I landed in Monastir on a direct flight from Nice, again with Tunisair. We left about ten minutes late, and the flight lasted around 1 hour 30 minutes. A meal was served on board (cucumber salad with Edam-like cheese, carrots, and two small portions of dishes I couldn’t identify—semolina with peppers, olives, and parsley, two small rolls, a square of processed cheese, and a chocolate cake). It’s worth noting because it’s not common on flights this short.
In February, France and Tunisia were in the same time zone, but now Tunisia is one hour behind. This time difference and the flight duration work perfectly for a short 15-day trip since it takes me a few days to adjust to jet lag.
Luckily, I’d asked my hotel about the taxi fare from the airport because the drivers (there were several around me) didn’t hesitate to quote outrageous prices. The actual fare is 20 dinars, but one asked for 120 dinars. I refused, and another offered 60 dinars. I replied, "That’s too expensive—I’ll take the metro!" (Having tried the Tunis metro, I had no desire to repeat the experience in Monastir with a suitcase!). I started walking toward the metro, and one of the drivers caught up with me, saying, "20 dinars is fine!" I’ll skip the details, but the negotiation took a little while.
When I arrived at the hotel, I told the receptionist someone had asked for 120 dinars. He put his hands to his head and said, "They’re awful!" He remembered our phone call two days earlier when I’d booked (he’s the one who told me I could take the metro).
The Mezri Hotel isn’t expensive. I got a sea-view room for 75 dinars (22 €). (I’d booked a balcony room for 90 dinars but wouldn’t have had time to enjoy it.) It’s well-located but noisy because there’s no double glazing.
The receptionist is a very kind older gentleman. He called a friend whose wife is from Tozeur to find out if I should take a bus or a *louage* tomorrow and what time.
I arrived at the hotel around 7:00 PM and had time to stroll along the corniche to the ribat. Despite some run-down buildings, the seaside seemed livelier and cheerier than Sousse’s.
Monastir is the hometown of former president Bourguiba. I passed his mausoleum by taxi. There are Tunisian flags along the avenue by the sea because every year on April 6—the anniversary of Habib Bourguiba’s death—the president of the Republic visits the Bourguiba Mausoleum in Monastir to pay respects.
The taxi driver mentioned other Tunisian presidents. He complained about rising prices and insecurity, blaming President Kaïs Saïed (I’d already heard that security was better under Ben Ali).
At the end of my stay, I’ll take time to explore Monastir, but tomorrow morning, I’m off to Tozeur—a long bus ride awaits me.
Just back from two weeks in Andalusia, and I wanted to share this experience with you—maybe it’ll help with planning a trip. I’ll start with a quick recap in this post and try to add photos and day-by-day details later (still sorting through them). Hope I don’t bore you too much! 😎
Trip details:
April 20 to May 4, 2019:
7 days on the Costa de la Luz (El Puerto de Santa María) in an Airbnb,
4 days at the junction of the Costa del Sol and Costa Tropical (Salobreña) in an Airbnb,
3 days at Cabo de Gata for some rest at a campsite in Los Escullos.
Two families of four, each with our own car: three 9-year-old boys and a 6-year-old girl. One family was more into city exploration (not us, but we’re working on it), and the other preferred relaxation and nature (that’s us). We speak a little Spanish.
Over 5,000 km, including 2,500 km for the round trip from Carcassonne.
The weather: Variable, but we expected better for this region in late April. The first week on the Costa de la Luz was sometimes chilly (< 20°C), and the second week was warmer but not excessive (< 25°C). At least we didn’t get much rain!
Our budget: Around 2600 € per family:
700 € for accommodations, about 50 € per night,
1000 € for meals and restaurants. We usually spent around 50 € per family at restaurants—we ate out for lunch (except for 2–3 picnics) and cooked at home in the evenings, trying to be back by 6 PM.
600 € for activities: Río Tinto, a flamenco show, visits to the Alhambra, Giralda, and Alcázar, Oasis Park with meals, and a kayaking trip.
300 € for gas and tolls.
Preparation: A few months ahead with bookings for accommodations and tickets for the Alhambra, Giralda, and Alcázar. We used a few travel guides—I like the *Évasion* guide for initial planning. *Géoguide* was okay, but our friends’ *Routard* was the most useful. We also spent three months brushing up on Spanish with Mosalingua (a great spaced-repetition method, max 10 minutes a day). Downloaded Maps.me and the Andalusia map in advance—essential. And we used Tricount to track shared expenses with friends—super handy.
What we did/saw:
3 city visits (Seville, Granada, and Cádiz) + Málaga for our friends (we vetoed Córdoba—too many cities for us).
4 white villages (Vejer de la Frontera, Arcos de la Frontera, Grazalema, Ronda) + Tarifa for our friends.
Beaches (Tarifa and Bolonia, Matalascañas, Nerja, Cabo de Gata).
Nature and fun moments: Doñana National Park, a kayaking trip along the rocky coast near Nerja, and the Wild West/animal park in the Tabernas Desert.
A little culture: Río Tinto mines, the archaeological site of Itálica, Columbus’s caravels, Nerja Cave for us, and the Picasso Museum in Málaga for our friends. Plus, seeing the ham-drying process in the Alpujarras (for our friends).
Our highlights
Nerja and the surrounding villages: The rocky coast was amazing, and we loved the kayaking trip, even if the water was freezing for snorkeling. The beaches are sheltered from the wind, the town is charming, and the cave is incredible.
El Rocío and Doñana National Park. El Rocío has a timeless, almost Wild West vibe—we could’ve stayed a day or two. The quiet and pine scents reminded us of the Landes region.
What we didn’t love as much:
Río Tinto mines: Not super exciting, and the guides’ nonstop chatter kind of ruined the "nature" experience.
Our little regrets (for next time):
Forgetting our passports and missing a day trip to Tangier from Tarifa.
Not having an extra day around Nerja to go snowboarding in the Sierra Nevada—just 1.5 hours away (the kayak guide suggested it).
Not spending at least one night in El Rocío to explore Doñana National Park at dawn.
Antequera with the Guadalhorce reservoir and the Caminito del Rey (but it would’ve meant 2 more hours of driving, and we didn’t have the energy).
My general impressions of Andalusia and Spain
Landscapes: A feeling of extreme concentration of a single activity in some areas—endless olive groves, wind farms on the Costa de la Luz (which I thought were well-integrated), rows of buildings along the Costa del Sol (yikes, glad we didn’t stop there), greenhouses around Almería (a shame to have frozen the coast for so many kilometers), and the massive industrial port of Huelva.
What surprised us compared to France was the lack of small hamlets—villages are clearly defined, and people cluster there, leaving vast landscapes without human presence. In France, you find houses scattered everywhere.
Roads: Relatively few tolls. Sure, rest areas aren’t as nice as in France, but the roads are in good condition, and our wallet was happy. The roads are pretty straight with countless bridges and tunnels—the upside (besides fast travel) is that there aren’t many secondary roads disrupting the scenery.
Tourism and activities: A huge variety and richness. Feels like everyone can find something they like, and 15 days barely scratched the surface. It’s amazing how quickly you go from the coast to snow-capped peaks (Sierra Nevada) or from farmland to desert (Tabernas). And the mix of European and Arabic architecture in the same city is really special.
One small regret: Not interacting more with locals. We didn’t luck out with our Airbnbs. But shopkeepers were great—very patient with my broken Spanish! :-)
Overall, I think our choice to stay on the Costa de la Luz and then near Nerja worked well. We could explore pretty easily (even if we logged a lot of kilometers), and the settings were fantastic. The 3 days of total relaxation at Cabo de Gata were perfect.
If you prefer shorter stops, you could try staying in El Rocío (easy access to Seville and great for an early visit to Doñana National Park) or maybe Grazalema for a hike in the mountains (weather-dependent). And of course, Tarifa for a day trip to Tangier or Gibraltar.
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:
A little sneak peek?
Since Albania isn’t part of Europe when it comes to phone service (at least not yet! :-)), we had to buy a physical SIM card—otherwise, the bill would’ve been sky-high if we’d used our French plan! We got one from Vodafone AL at the airport. You can buy online before leaving with a virtual SIM (e-SIM) for compatible phones, so you don’t have to swap cards. But given the uncertainty about choosing a plan online, we preferred buying one directly at Tirana Airport. Cost: 31 € for 100 GB. That’s way too much—100 GB is overkill. For 40 GB, it’s 27 €, and the plan lasts 21 days. The price difference isn’t huge, and it was cheaper than online. This plan covers all the countries along the Balkan range.
Money tip: All guesthouses and accommodations accept euros. The local currency in Albania is the LEK. In Montenegro, it’s the euro. Bank fees for withdrawing money from an ATM in Albania are pretty steep: 8 € for a withdrawal of 600–700 LEK (about 200 €)! So it’s better to withdraw cash (euros) in France. Oh, and we booked all our accommodations before leaving, but payment is always in cash. Budget around 400–500 € for 9 days of trekking.
I really liked Shköder, especially its pedestrian street lined with restaurants and lit up at night. It’s a great place to stroll and eat. The food isn’t expensive—two big salads and two beers: 14 € :-) . Fruit prices are also very reasonable: 3 € for a kilo of cherries, compared to 9–10 € in France.
Religions coexist peacefully in these countries—Catholics and Muslims. From our balcony, my friend heard the call to prayer for the first time, coming from one of the city’s mosques.
We slept in the heights of Theth at a new guesthouse, "Mountain Vista Shkafi," with an amazing view.
But Bologna’s real charm lies in its porticoes, which were added to the UNESCO World Heritage list in 2021: 62 km of arcades running along buildings, letting you walk sheltered from the sun or rain. Back in 1288, the city required houses to include private arcades for public use. In the city center, you can stroll under 32 km of porticoes in all sorts of styles—some plain, some ornate—with a strong presence of red tones.
