Après avoir livré sur ce forum mon carnet d’un stage infirmier au Cambodge, je récidive pour partager avec vous mes notes prises sur le GR20, ce sentier qui coupe la Corse d’un trait de crayon et qui s’est acquis la réputation d’une des randonnées les plus rudes d’Europe. Classé au top 20 des meilleurs treks au monde selon le National Geographic et numéro un des 10 plus belles randonnées pour le Lonely Planet, il me tardait de me frotter moi aussi à ce trail et d’aller vérifier de mes yeux de quoi était faite la légende. C'est ce que j'ai fait en juin 2013.
Sur cette piste qui escalade et dégringole la montagne sur près de 180 kilomètres et plus de 13000 mètres de dénivelé positif, j’ai vécu des moments de grâce et d’autres où j’aurais voulu me coucher par terre et mourir. Partis à trois amis pour terminer ce trail, nous avons connu des hauts et des bas et… oh ! après tout, vous saurez bien assez tôt si nous sommes allés ou non au bout de l’aventure…
L’affaire n’est pas neuve et bien d’autres voyageurs ont livré le récit de leur GR20. Pourtant, chacune de ces histoires est unique et vaut la peine d’être vécue et racontée. Je vous propose donc de vous narrer la mienne, sans prétention, comme si nous avions le cul posé sur le banc d’un refuge ou sur la pierre dure d’une plaine chauffée au soleil méditerranéen. On y parlera vertus du nomadisme, esthétique de la randonnée, ascétisme de la marche, écologie sauvage, philosophie de bord de chemin et marche ultra-légère, entre autres choses…
Vous en êtes ? Alors pardonnez d'avance mes coquilles et chaussez vos chaussures de rando, nous partons sur ce chemin qui s’étire entre Conca et Vizzavona, en oscillant entre terre et ciel.
Allez, histoire de mettre le récit en branle, voici déjà le premier jour de marche.
Je m'excuse pour le nombre restreint et la qualité des photos : marche légère oblige, nous n'avions emprunté qu'un appareil compact aux qualités techniques toute relatives et sans batterie de rechange.
II Premiers pas
Lundi 24 juin 2013, Conca – Paliri
Le GR20, puisqu’il traverse la Corse en longueur, peut s’entreprendre de deux façons : du Nord au Sud ou inversement. Traditionnellement le plus emprunté, le premier a également la réputation d’être le plus difficile. Le départ du Sud, avec ses premières étapes moins pentues et la garantie d’un soleil dans le dos le matin, remporte les faveurs de ceux qui, comme nous, veulent d’abord se mettre en jambes. Pour rejoindre Conca, notre ville de départ, il nous faut donc commencer par traverser l’île en largeur. Notre budget ridicule d’étudiants fauchés nous oriente vers l’auto-stop mais les chauffeurs providentiels sont rares. Les heures s’égrènent dans le vide, comme les Ave Maria d’un chapelet, alors que nous arpentons les trottoirs surchauffés d’Ajaccio en espérant vainement qu’une âme charitable s’arrête pour nous embarquer. A la fenêtre d’un café, une coupure de journal jaunie par le soleil parle des bretons, « ce peuple frère ». L’heure est venue de vérifier si la sympathie des corses à notre égard est à la hauteur du mythe. Cérémonieusement, Guillaume hisse le drapeau régional sur un bâton de marche et l’agite fièrement tandis que j’attrape des crampes au pouce à force de faire signe aux voitures. Le résultat est à peu près celui escompté. A la vue du Gwenn-A-Du faseyant au-dessus de nos têtes, les parisiens en vacances nous dévisagent comme s’ils assistaient à une manifestation des Femen, les Bretons nous hèlent avec de grands sourires mais sont déjà trop nombreux dans leurs voitures et les Corses, voyant en nous des compagnons de lutte indépendantistes, s’offrent de nous avancer de quelques kilomètres. Ils s’imaginent peut-être que le FLB continue à envoyer des balles de 9 mm sous enveloppe aux élus locaux et fait toujours sauter des antennes relais. Nous décidons de ne pas les détromper et profitons de leur sympathie. De voiture en voiture, nous faisons connaissance en douceur avec le célèbre trek qui nous attend. Le regard vers les montagnes qui ceinturent le paysage, nous discutons avec nos chauffeurs d’un jour. Ici, tout le monde connait quelqu’un qui a trainé ses savates sur le GR20. Un ami, un cousin, un collègue… nous rencontrons même certains de ces fadas qui l’ont emprunté plusieurs fois, comme s’il s’agissait d’un film d’auteur complexe qu’il faut visionner plusieurs fois pour en comprendre tous les rouages. L’un de nos bons samaritains, au visage dévoré par une barbe buissonnante, a même parcouru le chemin sous la neige, en plein hiver. Dans sa camionnette pétaradante qui grince de tous ses boulons dans les virages, il nous traite de fous en nous regardant d’un œil attendri. L’après-midi glisse tranquillement sur les versants de l’île de beauté. La fournaise de la journée laisse déjà place à la douceur du soir, qui rentre par les vitres baissées comme un sirop en nous apportant des senteurs de garrigue et d’herbes sèches. Grâce à ces sauts de puce de sept lieux, nous arrivons finalement au pied de la montagne. Abasourdis et excités, nous débarquons à Conca, là où tout commence.
En vue du gîte d’étape, nous mettons notre étendard en berne : les hermines ont fait leur boulot et il nous faut maintenant trinquer à l’aventure autour d’une bière de châtaigne bien fraiche.
_ « Alors, ça y est ? », nous lance la serveuse d’un air absent en déposant le saint-breuvage.
Puis, levant les yeux :
_« Ah non, vous partez, pardon. »
Un coup d’œil à la ronde suffit pour comprendre. Barbes de trois jours, godillots défoncés et bronzage Tour-de-France : nous sommes encore loin de ressembler aux baroudeurs ayant crapahuté deux semaines dans la montagne. Surexcité, je passe une nuit à rêver de l’étape du lendemain, impatient à l’idée de laisser au niveau de la mer les myriades de moustiques qui se dévouent pour nous alléger de quelques millilitres supplémentaires. A l’aube, nous sommes réveillés par un branle-bas de combat général. Le concert des fermetures éclairs et les popotes qui s’entrechoquent nous donnent l’impression que la trentaine de randonneurs présents la veille lèvent le camp en même temps. Dans un demi-sommeil, j’envisage un instant l’hypothèse d’une attaque de sangliers, avant de comprendre la leçon : sur le GR20, on se lève tôt pour éviter de marcher sous le cagnard.
Bon gré mal gré, notre trio s’ébroue, aboie un cri de guerre pour la forme et se met en marche. Les premières heures de progression sur le sentier sont laborieuses. Muscles et ligaments sont pris au dépourvu, en flagrant délit de manque d’entrainement. Notre préparation physique bâclée ne laissera pas d’autres choix à nos corps que de muer pour ne pas rompre face à l’effort. Nous grimpons inlassablement, projetant nos silhouettes quadrupèdes – deux jambes et deux bâtons – sur la falaise que longe la piste. L’effort se prolonge, n’en finit pas et s’étire comme un cours de solfège austère. Péniblement, j’apprends mes gammes en crevant d’envie d’entendre la symphonie de la marche qui efface le souvenir des courbatures et des articulations endolories. Les heures passent et le refuge n’apparait pas : un peu groggy par l’effort, je me persuade que nous l’avons dépassé sans le voir et que nous allons commencer notre périple par une marche forcée à la frontale pour atteindre le suivant. En piétinant dans la rocaille, je me dis qu’on n’a pas fini d’en voir. Sur la carte, la distance à parcourir pour terminer l’étape tient entre deux doigts et il me parait invraisemblable de peiner autant pour avaler quelques malheureux centimètres de papier. Une réflexion pour les cartographes : tant que vous utiliserez des échelles si petites, les rêveurs continueront à s’imaginer pouvoir engranger les kilomètres sans se fatiguer.
Alors que l’enthousiasme général décline en même temps que le soleil, le sentier s’élargit et débouche finalement sur une plaine boisée où fleurissent les tentes quechua. Nous sommes arrivés au refuge d’ I Paliri et nous avons officiellement abattu 7% de notre parcours total… La vue sur la montagne est à couper le souffle. Je reste longtemps à observer les alentours, comme si mes rétines devaient s’imprimer de ces pentes abruptes et de ces sommets lointains avant de passer au panorama suivant. Les yeux hagards, je prépare alors des quantités de pâtes invraisemblables pour apaiser notre faim pantagruélique. Un peu effrayé devant l’effort qu’il nous reste à fournir, je repense au corse rencontré hier qui nous traitait de fou avec un demi-sourire. Avait-il raison ? Etait-ce bien raisonnable de partir pour cette randonnée si particulière ? Ce soir-là, en allant jeter ma carcasse rompue sous le tarp qui nous sert d’abri, je repense à une phrase de Tesson : « En voyage, le premier jour on se demande pourquoi on est parti, les autres jours on se demande comment rentrer."
Je m'étais déjà régalée avec ton carnet cambodgien en étant restée silencieuse mais là, c'est pas possible, je ne peux plus me taire ! T'es trop fort 🙂 !
Un magnifique écriture qui fait qu'on se passe parfaitement des photos (en plus je ne suis pas fan des carnets avec photos, alors ça tombe bien...) et qui nous fait voyager avec originalité entre sourires et soupirs... Un vrai plaisir de lecture.
Et puis quand on fait référence à Sylvain Tesson... Je ne peux qu'accourir 😇.
J'ai bien hâte de parcourir ce G20... en te lisant, ce sera parfait pour mes mollets !
Dolma
un chemin et la caresse du vent, alors je pars en voyage...
Bravo encore pour ce texte! L'écriture est vraiment top! C'est un vrai feuilleton.
A la vue des récits qu'on trouve sur ce site et aux belles randos que j'ai eu la chance de faire, on se rend compte que la planète est pleine de "petits coins de paradis". En fait, tous ceux qui voyagent traversent le paradis, même si de temps en temps il faut passer... par le purgatoire, amen.
Parcourir ce fameux GR20 derrière mon écran sous ta si belle plume, ce n'est pas fatigant et c'est un vrai régal...
Bravo pour ton écriture, surprenante pour ton jeune âge.
J'espère qu'il y aura encore beaucoup d'étapes ...😏
" Nous ne saurons jamais tout le bien qu'un simple sourire peut être capable de faire."
Mère Teresa
Merci à tous pour vos commentaires !
J'en profite comme à mon habitude pour répondre à certains d'entre vous, en attendant le prochain épisode...
Quelle plume ! Tu es étudiant en quoi pour écrire de la sorte ?
A l'époque de cette odyssée corse, je terminais mes études en soins infirmiers, avec un parcours un peu particulier, certes, car après un bac littéraire... Aujourd'hui je suis infirmier pour de bon !
Un vrai plaisir de lecture.
Et puis quand on fait référence à Sylvain Tesson... Je ne peux qu'accourir
Merci pour ce beau compliment, c'est d'autant plus encourageant quand cela vient de quelqu'un qui écrit soi-même et avec qui j'ai des références en commun.
En fait, tous ceux qui voyagent traversent le paradis, même si de temps en temps il faut passer... par le purgatoire, amen
Je ne te le fais pas dire : tout l'intérêt est dans cette alternance entre souffrance et moments de grâce. Et la fessée n'est pas finie...
J'espère qu'il y aura encore beaucoup d'étapes ..
Merci, ça veut dire que ce n'est pas trop pénible à lire. Pour ce qui est des étapes à venir, tu te doutes que je vais garder le suspens ! tout au plus puis-je te confier que la fin de cette aventure n'est pas celle que j'avais imaginée en pensée avant le départ...
Il y a de la magie à l’œuvre dans une bonne nuit de sommeil. Vidé de mes forces et le moral en berne après une première journée à suer ma motivation sur les pentes du GR, je me réveille avec une féroce envie d’en découdre. Un coup d’œil aux mines réjouies de mes compagnons de route accueillant le lever du soleil suffit à me confirmer qu’ils partagent mon sentiment. A défaut de déplacer les montagnes, la journée à venir s’annonce assez belle pour les arpenter avec ardeur.
Sur le sentier et au bivouac, les échanges avec les autres randonneurs étoffent notre connaissance du sentier. Ils nous parlent avec déférence de ce monstre bicéphale qu’est le GR20, détaillant les longues étapes bucoliques du Sud ou la plainte du vent dans les cols glacés plus au Nord. Comme la tragédie et ses masques, notre marche est affaire de dualismes : Terre et Ciel, Sud et Nord, Euphorie et Souffrance. Pour le moment, je me contente d’apprécier ces premiers kilomètres qui nous font traverser plaines d’altitude et vallées boisées dans une succession de lacets imprévisibles. Les géologues, ces poètes qui s’ignorent, nomment cette région au sous-sol granitique la Corse cristalline.
Peu à peu, j’en viens à prêter au chemin des propriétés surnaturelles. Manifestement, il s’amuse à me faire grimper et redescendre aussitôt, trotter puis marcher au pas comme un bourrin obéissant. Chaque heure apporte son lot de changements subtils. En s’élevant vers les cols, les forêts de pins laissent place aux fougères arborescentes, puis viennent les arbustes, les plantes rases, les prairies et enfin, quand s’annonce la crête chauve d’un passage frôlant les 2000m, même l’herbe rechigne à pousser dans un royaume dévolu au minéral. Sur ces sommets fouettés par les bourrasques, seuls les lichens tiennent compagnie aux pierres, en humbles ambassadeurs d’un monde végétal qui prospère dans les vallées. Et dire que dans les Alpes, les vaches broutent à la même altitude !
A force de dénivelé, on en vient à parcourir plusieurs fois la distance qui sépare à vol d’oiseau le départ de l’arrivée. Un genre de lapalissade qui se traduit par de longues heures de marche à méditer sur les vertus de la ligne droite. Sur le chemin qui mène au refuge d’Asinao, des crêtes couleur de brique nous toisent. Avec leurs airs de montagnes américaines, les Aiguilles de Bavella contemplent les nuages comme si elles avaient l’éternité pour le faire. A leurs pieds, de petits insectes avancent péniblement en levant la tête et envient ces épines immortelles qui tutoient le ciel. Une définition à proposer aux anthropologues : les hommes sont à la planète ce que les plantes sont au flanc des montagnes, des opportunistes qui cherchent à se faire une place au soleil.
Au fil de notre trait de crayon sur la carte IGN, j’ai tout le temps de méditer sur mon nouvel emploi du temps. La randonnée ramène l’homme à des verbes d’actions archaïques : marcher, escalader, boire, manger, dormir, se chauffer. Intransigeante, elle nous renvoie à l’essentiel à grand coups de pied dans le fondement en nous dépouillant du superflu. Quand vient le moment de rallier l’étape, la vie ne se conjugue plus avec avoir : enfin déconnectés d’un monde où il faut être constamment occupé et partout joignable, le chemin rend l’Homme à lui-même. Le temps qui passe d’ordinaire si vite s’épaissit tout à coup, coagule et me laisse libre de remplir les minutes et les heures au gré de mon imagination. La fatigue aidant, chacun laisse son esprit vagabonder au fil de la marche. Le mien est comme un chien mal dressé : je lui jette au loin des idées qu’il rapporte ou pas selon l’humeur. Pour tromper son ennui quand la marche se prolonge, tous les moyens sont bons. J’occupe souvent mes matinées à discuter et chanter de vieux folk songs, pour ensuite passer l’après-midi dans la contemplation et la réflexion. Dans ces paysages de la démesure, même la plus petite occupation demande qu’on y consacre une énergie disproportionnée. Ce matin, j’ai débattu pendant plus d’une heure avec Guillaume de la stratégie militaire britannique en Afrique du Nord durant la deuxième Guerre Mondiale. En trébuchant dans les montées, nous nous sommes finalement mis d’accord pour conclure que les choix tactiques des anglais étaient les bons mais que si Rommel avait été correctement approvisionné durant tout le conflit, les allemands leur auraient infligé des pertes autrement plus sévères.
L’aire de campement apparait soudain derrière un monticule boisé. Comme de juste, les derniers mètres à franchir sont les pires, peut-être pour mieux faire apprécier la joie indicible qui consiste à s’asseoir contre une pierre et ne plus bouger d’un pouce ?
Allez, fidèle à mon rythme d'un épisode tous les deux jours, je vous livre une nouvelle journée de marche sur le GR.
Mercredi 26 juin, Asinao – Usciolu
Levé de bonne heure, je m’affaire en maugréant contre le froid matinal et les prix indécents pratiqués par les gardiens de refuge. A Paliri, le gardien un peu rêveur nous avait fait payer le prix de l’emplacement occupé par notre toile de tente mais à Asinao, la déconvenue est de taille. Le gérant, un Ours à l’œil dur et aux cheveux gras, s’est montré intraitable : peu importe le nombre de tentes, chaque randonneur doit payer sa place. Notre budget bivouac vient d’être multiplié par trois ! Devant mon air défait, le gardien se sent d’humeur carnassière et m’explique qu’il se doit en plus d’encaisser la différence de prix liée à l’erreur de son collègue d’hier. La coupe est pleine et je pars sans céder au chantage, en lui suggérant à voix basse d’aller chercher son argent dans un endroit où le soleil ne brille jamais. Je me souviens alors des commentaires de certains randonneurs aigris devant l’évolution récente du trek . La fréquentation du sentier de Grande Randonnée ayant explosé, le Parc Régional de Corse a en effet interdit le bivouac hors des refuges pour éviter la pollution et les départs de feu accidentels, servant ainsi un monopole sur un plateau aux auberges d’altitude qui en jalonnent le tracé. De plus en plus encadré, de plus en plus accessible, le Fra Li Monti devient une sorte de parc d’attraction pour classes moyennes en mal de sensations fortes. Des forfaits tout compris proposent le portage des sacs, les nuits en refuges et les repas chauds : certains se paient ainsi un GR20 comme d’autres une semaine en cinq étoiles à Djerba ou une croisière sur le Nil. Partis en autonomie, notre trek me parait bien plus authentique et surtout beaucoup moins onéreux mais après tout, l’essentiel est de prendre la route.
J’improvise un conseil de guerre avec Guillaume et Camille : au train où vont les choses, nos finances ne tiendront pas une semaine. Il faut trouver une voie détournée ou se résigner à rentrer la queue basse par manque de liquidités. Je plaide la cause du bivouac sauvage qui, bien que passible de fortes amendes en cas de flagrant délit, présente l’insigne avantage d’être gratuit le reste du temps. Guillaume se montre réservé, redoutant les montages de tente « commando » et les réveils matinaux par une paire de gardes forestiers corses dépourvus de sens de l’humour. Cependant, lui aussi est malade à l’idée de devoir débourser tous les soirs une petite fortune pour poser la tente que nous avons-nous-mêmes portée toute la journée. Pour finir, nous tombons d’accord pour limiter le racket des refuges avec une ruse éculée. Au lieu de nous présenter tous les trois pour régler la note avant de s’installer, nous arriverons désormais à deux. Le troisième larron arrivera en douce quelques minutes plus tard et fera en sorte de ne pas trop sortir de la tente avant la nuit tombée. La cohue sur les aires de bivouac devrait faire le reste.
Sans nous laisser abattre, nous tournons le dos au campement et commençons notre journée par l’ascension d’un « mur » qui nous propulse en moins de deux heures au sommet du Monte Incudine, le premier 2000m du parcours. Sur la tête de ce géant, la vue est splendide. Les cimes alentours dessinent un labyrinthe torturé dont les vallées sont les chemins et impasses. Au loin, la Méditerranée n’est plus qu’une simple tâche d’un bleu céruléen, comme figurée en fond de tableau par un peintre inspiré. Nous redescendons ensuite pour traverser des prairies verdoyantes entrecoupées de cours d’eau. Le paysage est si féérique qu’on s’attendrait presque à voir surgir un hobbit au sommet d’une butte pour nous demander ce que nous faisons dans son jardin. Le soleil, joueur, dessine des figures géométriques sur les corps en utilisant la mélanine comme pigment et les vêtements comme pochoir. Aux heures les plus chaudes, il suffit d’oublier sa montre à son poignet pour la voir imprimée en négatif pendant plusieurs jours. Monts et vallées se succèdent, les pics dominant le sentier écrasant de leur majesté ceux qui l’empruntent. Les rivières, ces femmes fatales, font de l’œil aux marcheurs en surchauffe lors de la pause méridienne. Faut-il succomber à l’envie de plonger dans leur eau glacée ou bien renoncer et poursuivre sa route sous un soleil de plomb ?
Petit à petit, la vie que nous menons au fil du trek vient abroger celle d’avant. Les gestes du bivouac deviennent des automatismes, les bâtons de marche un prolongement des bras et le pied commence à sentir d’instinct où il peut se poser sans risque. La faim, cette vieille tortionnaire qui nous court après toute la journée, finit par devenir familière à défaut d’être sympathique. Quand chaque gramme compte, la nourriture emportée est rationnée et l’organisme peine à s’adapter à ce nouveau traitement. Paradoxalement, nous mangeons moins qu’en temps normal, alors que nous brûlons beaucoup plus de calories. Il me reste à m’habituer à cet estomac qui gronde et à cette boule qui me tord le ventre, une heure ou deux seulement après avoir englouti un repas.
Dans l’après-midi, le temps se gâte. De gros nuages sombres s’amoncellent à l’horizon et se dirigent dans notre direction. Nous hâtons le pas mais l’orage a tôt fait de nous rattraper. Des trombes d’eau s’abattent soudain, nous obligeant à trouver refuge sous notre toile de tente, dans les jupons d’un grand chêne planté dans la prairie. L’air se rafraichit sensiblement, tandis que nous attendons la fin du déluge en repensant aux ponchos que nous avons refusé d’emmener (trop lourds !). La pluie ne s’arrête pas mais faiblit suffisamment pour que Guillaume reparte en nous entrainant à sa suite. Sur le sentier, quelques salamandres que ce temps ravit nous regardent passer d’un air étonné. Les mains emmitouflées dans mes chaussettes de rechange pour les protéger du froid – les gants aussi étaient trop lourds -, je piétine au milieu de notre file indienne en espérant à chaque sommet apercevoir le toit du refuge. Nous marchons plusieurs heures sur des crêtes battues par le vent et la pluie. Détrempé, le chemin suinte une boue qui adhère aux semelles et leur ôte toute propriété antidérapante sur les dalles rocheuses glissantes. Régulièrement, il faut ranger les bâtons pour désescalader une paroi abrupte où il ne ferait pas bon dévisser. Alors que je commence à me demander si nous sommes suffisamment équipés pour faire face à ces conditions, je me fais dépasser par un garçon d’à peu près mon âge, vêtu d’un short et d’un t-shirt. Il avance tranquillement, hésitant parfois une seconde quand ses tongs humides dérapent en couinant sur la roche lisse. Sur son dos, un duvet d’été se balance vigoureusement au bout d’un petit sac en toile minuscule. Vexé, je redouble d’effort et nous atteignons enfin le refuge d’Usciolu, vissé à 1750m sur le flanc de la montagne comme un piton sur un mur d’escalade.
Les premiers arrivés étant les premiers servis, notre apparition tardive nous condamne à planter la tente sur un minuscule emplacement parsemé de crottes de chèvres et d’affleurements rocheux. Déterminé à tenter notre nouvelle combine, je vais payer ma place avec Camille en prétendant que nous voyageons en couple. Sans nous regarder, le gardien encaisse sa dîme et nous tend un panneau marqué d’un « 2 » bien visible, à placer devant notre tente. Il m’explique d’un air blasé que lui et ses collègues passent dans les rangs le soir pour les relever et s’assurer qu’il n’y a pas de resquilleurs. Trop fatigué pour m’inquiéter, je jette le panneau devant notre tarp et part nous chauffer de l’eau. Complètement gelé, j’avale des nouilles debout en tentant de me réchauffer contre la flamme du brûleur. Puisque Camille grelotte aussi, je lui laisse mon sac de couchage, prévu pour une température avoisinant les 10°C et prend le sien, un 15°C. Cette nuit-là, il gèle et je suis si transi de froid que je dors en position fœtale, tout habillé et enroulé dans la couverture de survie. Le sol est très pentu et malgré mes efforts pour rester immobile, je glisse continuellement à l’extérieur de la tente et doit me tortiller comme un ver pour retourner sous l’abri. Dans le ciel d’un noir d’encre, les étoiles semblent des diamants dans leur écrin de nuages. Indifférentes aux affaires des hommes, elles luisent dans la nuit tandis que dans mon crâne s’entrechoquent des rêves de gueuletons et de bains brûlants. A intervalles réguliers, mon corps s’agite de tremblements incontrôlables tandis que mon cœur bat à tout rompre. J’ai déjà eu froid dans ma vie mais là, je n’en mène pas large. La bonne nouvelle c’est que l’hypothermie légère n’est pas dangereuse pour un sujet jeune en bonne santé. La mauvaise c’est qu’avec elle, les nuits sont longues. Comme disait Monod, « on n’en meurt pas mais ça pique quand même » ! A un moment, j’entends des gens marcher autour des tentes et s’arrêter pour ramasser les petits panneaux numérotés. Devant notre abri conçu pour deux adultes de petite taille, le gardien n’a heureusement aucune idée qu’à l’intérieur sont entassés trois randonneurs avec leurs sacs. Somnolent par épisodes, j’atteins finalement l’aube avec l’impression d’avoir été roué de coups.
Merci encore pour cette journée si joliment racontée ...
Des trombes d’eau s’abattent soudain, nous obligeant à trouver refuge sous notre
toile de tente, dans les jupons d’un grand chêne planté dans la prairie
N'est ce pas dangereux de s'abriter sous un arbre ?
J'ai entendu dire que la foudre frappe souvent les montagnes corses...
" Nous ne saurons jamais tout le bien qu'un simple sourire peut être capable de faire."
Mère Teresa
N'est ce pas dangereux de s'abriter sous un arbre ?
J'ai entendu dire que la foudre frappe souvent les montagnes corses...
C'est vrai que ce n'était pas la meilleure idée pour laisser passer l'orage ! Durant l'averse, je guettais les nuées avec un regard anxieux, prêt à déguerpir au moindre éclair suspect. Finalement la foudre n'est pas tombée cet après-midi là...
Bonjour Benji ! les conditions étaient plus que spartiates !! marcher en ayant faim et mal dormi.... pas terrible !
je dormais sous ma tente mais je faisais au moins un bon repas le soir ce qui me permettait d'avoir aussi, des contacts. J'ai toujours su que le premier arrivé = premier servi, donc je partais à l'aube, sans bruit... (pas de queue aux sanitaires à l'arrivée)...
Un peu de bruine au départ de Capanelle un ciel menaçant en arrivant à Usciolu, Prati et Manganu ; un sol détrempé à Petra Piana, mais jamais une averse ! je n'ai donc pas testé les dalles pentues et glissantes. Je suis partie 5 jours avant vous.
j'ai juste eu à traverser des névés glacés le matin en partant de Pietra Piana et se transformant en soupe (pas plus rassurant) l'après midi.
Vous auriez dû, pour les campements, vous arrêter dans les bergeries (par exemple Asinao) l'accueil y est excellent m'a t-on dit, reste à vérifier les tarifs... si c'est à refaire...
J'attends le prochain épisode pour refaire l'aventure mentalement !!
merci d'avance...
On ne voyage pas pour se guérir de soi, mais pour s'aguerrir, se fortifier, se sentir et se savoir plus finement... Michel Onfray
Comme quoi, à cinq jours prêts, on se seraient croisés aux refuges ! Ceci étant dit, je n'avais pas ton courage pour les levers à la première lumière... Merci pour tes encouragements à continuer mon récit, en tout cas !
les conditions étaient plus que spartiates !! marcher en ayant faim et mal dormi.... pas terrible !
Deux réponses, tout de même, pour aborder une question qui me passionne pas mal.
Déjà, tout est relatif. Selon qu'on le compare à une randonnée dominicale par grand bleu dans le bocage normand ou à une marche forcée à travers le Népal en carburant aux nouilles instantanées, le GR20 tel que je le décris dans ces premières pages apparait soit comme une expédition engagée, soit comme une belle tranche de rigolade. Le fait est que pour nous, la gifle a sonné longtemps à nos oreilles !
Ensuite, si on veut bien admettre que les conditions de notre randonnée étaient raisonnablement spartiates, c'est-à-dire plutôt rustiques malgré tout, il y a à mon sens trois raisons qui l'expliquent.
1) La nature du projet. La marche en autonomie ou semi-autonomie, associée au bivouac, reste une activité à part en ce qui me concerne. Elle signe une volonté de s'affranchir de temps à autre, non pas de tout confort, mais de celui dont on peut se passer sans pour autant rentrer dans la survie... Randonner avec tout son appareillage électronique et les panneaux solaires pour le recharger se fait, mais je le comprends assez mal, un peu comme j'ai du mal à cerner le projet de ces personnes qui vont à la plage mais cherchent à se protéger par tous les moyens du sable, du vent, du soleil et de la marée montante.
2) La marche légère. Loin d'être simplement un moyen de marcher plus loin, plus vite et plus agréablement (ce qui n'est déjà pas mal en soit), il s'agit d'un principe auquel je suis attaché, car il oblige à la réflexion. Chaque objet emporté doit être absolument indispensable, compter parmi les plus légers de sa catégorie et remplir plusieurs usages. Dans notre cas, il devait être aussi bon marché. Par exemple, mon chèche pouvait servir de protection contre le soleil, de bonnet contre le froid, de vêtement, de manique pour me saisir de la popote brulante (le manche était trop lourd), de serviette de toilette ou encore de filtre à eau... Il s'agit donc d'un concept qui mêle pragmatisme et philosophie et que je trouve très stimulant. Ceux que ça intéresse peuvent aller faire un tour sur http://www.randonner-leger.org/
3) Les imperfections de nos checklists et de notre entraînement, enfin. Sans entrer dans le détail, ce sont des éléments qui jouent dans la perception des aléas du voyage et donc dans la manière de les relater. Nul doute que cette nuit à Usciolu, l'une des pires de ma vie, n'aurait pas ému pour deux sous certains des auteurs dont j'ai lu les récits de voyage !
Après un petit-déjeuner pris à la hâte, nous reprenons la route afin de nous réchauffer au plus vite. Je me fouette mentalement pour avancer, un peu honteux au souvenir de mes émois de la nuit passée. Camille a mal dormi elle aussi et doute de notre capacité à mener le périple à son terme. Notre belle assurance des débuts a pris froid et le doute, sournoisement, s’est installé. Si nous n’y prenons pas garde, il peut nous miner complètement et nous arrêter en plein élan plus surement que ne le ferait la fatigue ou une blessure. Guillaume, quant à lui, doit avoir du sang viking dans ses veines de breton car il avance la tête haute et sans émettre une plainte. Marchant à quelques mètres devant nous, il prend le rôle du guide et c’est à lui que revient la tâche de repérer les balises du chemin. Je me contente d’avancer, la tête complètement vide, en guettant les moments où sa tête surgit derrière un rocher pour m’élancer à sa suite. La beauté terrible de la marche réside peut-être dans son honnêteté : impossible de se soustraire aux obstacles du parcours à moins de jeter l’éponge. Comme aimait à le rappeler le même Théodore Monod : « on ne triche pas avec les kilomètres, il faudra les avaler intégralement. »
Petit à petit, la répétition du mouvement distille son opium. Marcheurs, pagayeurs, cyclo-voyageurs et surfeurs connaissent bien cette hypnose qui s’empare de l’esprit et le dissocie d’un corps qui semble fonctionner en pilote automatique. Puisque mes jambes avancent toutes seules, j’en profite pour essayer de trouver les raisons qui m’ont poussé à vouloir réaliser ce trek. Quand on passe entre 5 et 8 heures par jour à marcher, on a le temps de se demander pourquoi. Au fil des kilomètres, des éléments de réponse se profilent comme des mirages. Peu à peu, je comprends que l‘immobilité m’effraie. J'éprouve une trouille déraisonnable devant ces existences cloisonnées, ces vies occupées à travailler pour rembourser les crédits et à s’endetter pour s’évader du travail, tout en essayant de se convaincre que les trimestres accumulés finiront bien par aboutir à une retraite méritée. J’ai vu trop de jeunes et de moins jeunes fauchés en plein élan par l’accident ou la maladie pour pouvoir tracer des plans sur la comète et parier sur l’avenir. Travailler dans un hôpital, ça tue le procrastinateur qui sommeille en vous. Comme les cyniques grecs et les moines errants du bouddhisme, j’aspire à me réapproprier le temps présent afin d’en presser le jus, de me repaître de cette essence vitale qui habite les plaisirs simples. A l’école du vagabondage, la lenteur et l’effort sont une philosophie qui permet d’entrevoir ce qui a du sens et de reconnaître les fausses pistes qu’on nous présente trop souvent comme des voies d’accès au bonheur.
Au fur et à mesure que la journée s’avance, la brûlure du soleil se fait lancinante. Les frissons de la nuit passée sont déjà bien loins et je n’aspire plus qu’à une chose : m’étendre à l’ombre et boire un litre d’eau fraiche. Au lieu de ça, j’avance mollement sur un tapis de pierres incandescentes en prenant garde à ne pas vider trop vite mon camelbak. Le silence se fait peu à peu, seulement rompu par le bruit de nos pas et de nos respirations. Notre file indienne s’étire imperceptiblement, comme si chacun reconnaissait aux autres le droit de se retrancher dans une solitude nécessaire.
En traversant de grands espaces desquels l’homme semble absent, la nature se voit personnifiée par ceux qui se remettent à son bon vouloir. Je comprends sans peine pourquoi les Hommes ont peuplé leurs sous-bois de créatures fantastiques, des korrigans de la lande celte aux kamis des forêts nippones. Il existe des géographies si tourmentées, des pays si impressionnants, que les croire habitées d’êtres surnaturels est une affaire de logique.
Pour désigner un col, les corses parlent de bocca. Le terme est bien choisi tant ces gueules béantes dans les parois semblent se repaître des humains qui s’y engagent en les engloutissant un à un. Nous franchissons ainsi les cols de Laparo et de Rapari, cheminant toujours un peu plus loin en suivant les méandres du sentier. Au terme d’une énième ascension, l’horizon se dégage subitement. Le refuge de Prati trône sur un plateau perché à 1800m d’altitude. Au loin, la vue se perd dans une forêt d’éperons rocheux piquetés de neige, qui virent à l’incarnat à mesure que le soir s’avance. Après mes ablutions sous le filet d’eau froide de la source, je m’assois sur l’herbe et m’abîme dans la contemplation de ce tableau vivant. La brume remonte doucement de la vallée contre le flanc de la montagne, portée par des courants ascendants. Quand le soleil a finalement disparu derrière les cimes, je pars me coucher sans bruit, comme si le spectacle offert imposait un silence de messe.
"Il existe des géographies si tourmentées, des pays si impressionnants, que les croire habitées d’êtres surnaturels est une affaire de logique. "
yesss, 🙂
2 jours d'attente??
Je n'ai pas pu m'empêcher de retourner sur mes photos pour te suivre à la trace et revivre des moments forts...
- en partant de Conca, la première brèche
- sur le Monte incudine, super panorama
- promesse de refuge, mais Usciolu se fait désirer
- j'ai mérité le ciel !
- Prati et son tour d'horizon...
On ne voyage pas pour se guérir de soi, mais pour s'aguerrir, se fortifier, se sentir et se savoir plus finement... Michel Onfray
Dis, Benjamin, as-tu, à un moment ou à un autre, aimé être là où tu étais et aimé faire ce que tu faisais 😮 ?
Non non je ne me moque pas, je m'inquiète juste pour ta santé physique et mentale sur ce GR20 qui semble n'être à ce point que souffrance 😛 !
Je plaisante (quoique...), ton récit palpitant, ton écriture magnifique et tes réflexions entre sagesse et inconscience (si si parfois) montrent qu'il n'est pas toujours facile d'aller au bout de ses choix...
J'ai hâte de mettre encore mes pas dans les tiens (en lecture, c'est parfait pour moi) 🙂.
Dolma
un chemin et la caresse du vent, alors je pars en voyage...
Dis, Benjamin, as-tu, à un moment ou à un autre, aimé être là où tu étais et aimé faire ce que tu faisais ?
Et bien, vous n'y allez pas avec le dos de la cuillère, mes cochons !
Bien sûr que j'ai aimé ce que je faisais, même après une longue journée à en baver dans la caillasse... c'est tout le paradoxe du trail : il vous rend la vie impossible et on en redemande... Il y a de tout, sur la piste : des moments de joie précieux, fugaces (patience, vous en aurez...), des révélations, parfois, et aussi beaucoup de petits désagréments que la fatigue vous rend moins facile à supporter que d'ordinaire.
Bien sûr, une fois qu'on est rentré à la maison et qu'on y repense tranquillement au coin du feu, les moments difficiles nous apparaissent bien moins terribles qu'au moment de les vivre. Moi, j'ai repris mes notes avec candeur et j'ai refait mon voyage en pensée, bien décidé à vous le livrer tel quel.
Peut-être que mon écriture maladroite ne relate pas avec autant de clarté que je le voudrais tous les bénéfices du GR, cependant. Attendez, encore quelques étapes avant de vous décider !
Je trouve géniale l'idée de royal evasion de poster ses photos du trail : je retrouve les lieux par lesquels je suis passé. En plus, ça cadre bien avec mon idée de départ : vous raconter mon histoire et qu'on puisse échanger, que chacun y aille de son anecdote...
Je vous poste deux journées de marche d'un coup, bande de veinards, pour vous consoler un peu !
Vendredi 28 juin, Prati-Vizzavona
Réveil au-dessus des nuages au bivouac de Prati. Les cumulus viennent laper les limites de l’aire de campement comme le ressac d’une mer mystérieuse et donnent l’impression de se trouver sur une île. Le lever du soleil est d’une pureté qui laisse coi. Alors qu’il s’extirpe peu à peu de sa couche, les rochers alentours s’embrasent et irradient en réponse une douce lumière orangée. L’air se réchauffe comme à regret et l’astre divin, dans un dernier effort, s’élance dans le ciel sur son char de feu.
Une fois prêts, nous repartons battre les chemins, déterminés à doubler une étape pour arriver à Vizzavona avec un jour d’avance. Sagement alignés, nous cheminons à flanc de montagne. Au loin, les nuages s’accrochent aux pics enneigés et s’effilochent comme de la ouate. Comme souvent en quittant les refuges, j’ouvre la marche, suivi de Camille et de Guillaume. Grisé par cette sensation de puissance et de liberté qui m’envahit le matin, j’avance sans même m’en rendre compte. Au bout de quelques kilomètres, nous laissons derrière nous les crêtes stériles pour redescendre dans la vallée. Là, à l’abri des courants violents qui soufflent en altitude, le printemps explose dans des senteurs de jardins de Provence et d’humus, tandis qu’un ruisseau invisible chante tranquillement dans les bosquets. Entouré par une nature restée sauvage, sans autre inquiétude que de boucler l’étape avant la nuit, chacun peut s’échapper dans ses pensées. Ici, le rêveur n’est pas un sous-doué végétant près de la fenêtre et à qui on jette des craies pour le ramener à la réalité. Dans ces contrées, avoir la tête dans les nuages est une seconde nature et l’on peut sans culpabilité donner carte blanche à une partie de son encéphale menacée d’atrophie par la vie trop sage dont on nous vante les mérites dès le collège. Ces journées rythmées par la marche, la contemplation et l’écriture sont placées sous le signe de la simplicité, de l’évidence. Richesse, honneurs et situation confortable ne constituent plus des ambitions valables. Pour se mettre au diapason de cette expérience, il faut s’accorder sur la partition d’Epicure et tirer sa satisfaction des « plaisirs simples et nécessaires » : manger, boire, dormir… Libéré du carcan social qui fustige la modestie de telles aspirations, l’homme accède enfin à un monde par-delà le monde. Elimé au papier de verre de l’effort, il n’a qu’une obligation : puiser en lui les ressources nécessaires à son déplacement.
Le chemin poursuit sa trajectoire par monts et par vaux, les forêts alternant avec les arêtes rocheuses dans un cycle immuable. Malgré la fatigue et la pluie qui s’est remise à tomber, nous ne nous arrêtons pas à Capanelle et poursuivons comme prévu jusque Vizzavona. Un peu avant d’y arriver, nous dépassons un panneau marquant symboliquement la frontière entre les moitiés Sud et Nord du GR20. Le plus long est encore devant nous mais l’entrée symbolique dans la seconde partie de notre périple nous met un peu de baume au cœur. Encapuchonnés comme des moines mendiants, nous dégringolons jusqu’au gîte avec une motivation qui prend l’eau. Il devient urgent de marquer une courte pause dans notre odyssée pour lécher les blessures qu’elle nous a infligées et nous préparer à ce Nord qui ne se laissera pas marcher dessus aussi facilement.
IV Solitudes fertiles
Samedi 29 juin, Vizzavona-Bergeries de Porteto
Vizzavona, petit village de fond de vallée encerclé par les sapins, donne l’impression d’avoir été déserté après une catastrophe. Un ancien hôtel particulier ouvert aux quatre vents, témoin de jours meilleurs, achève de tomber en ruine dans l’indifférence générale. Même les colonies de vacances n’ont pas eu le cœur d’investir les lieux. Devant un café miteux, quelques routiers corses aux visages burinés sont attablés en silence, comme s’ils attendaient que leur pinte de bière lance un sujet de conversation. Les bâtiments lépreux du bourg se serrent autour de la gare, miraculeusement rescapée de cette bérézina grâce à l’emplacement stratégique de ce hameau à mi-parcours du célèbre chemin. Certains randonneurs partis de Conca et croisés au gré des étapes en profitent pour décamper, laissant à d’autres le soin de finir le Trek, à court de temps ou de motivation.
De notre côté, nous partons en stop jusqu’à Vivario, où nous attend un colis de ravitaillement. Rater les heures d’ouverture du bureau de poste signerait la fin de notre raid : notre billet retour étant déjà pris, impossible d’attendre le lundi suivant pour repartir. A dix euros l’assiette de ravioli dans les refuges, nos économies ne s’en relèveraient pas. Une fois la précieuse cargaison récupérée, notre trio fait face à un dilemme. Refroidis par la fraîcheur des nuits corses, Camille et moi insistons pour pousser jusqu’à Corte afin d’y dégotter un sac de couchage plus épais, comme nous l’a conseillé un randonneur. Cette digression n’a pas les faveurs de Guillaume, qui dort en sous-vêtements dans un duvet aussi chaud que le nôtre et considère d’un œil amusé nos caprices d’enfants gâtés. Il a toutes les caractéristiques de ces celtes qui peuplaient autrefois l’Armorique : tignasse blonde et regard océanique, il sait se montrer aussi têtu que dur à la tâche. Le genre de personnage qui inspira à Tolkien la robustesse des nains de son Seigneur des Anneaux. Premiers éclats de voix, premières engueulades sur le bord d’une départementale déserte flanquée de conifères dédaigneux. Malheureusement pour lui, Guillaume fait les frais d’une règle d’or : dans un groupe de trois, l’opinion minoritaire a toujours tort.
Un homme s’arrête pour nous prendre en stop. Les yeux écarquillés, je reconnais un des chauffeurs providentiels qui nous ont amené d’Ajaccio à Conca il y a quelques jours. La Corse est petite ! Alourdis de nos treize kilos de victuailles, nous atteignons donc Corte, ville de trek où les magasins de randonnées sont au coude à coude pour vendre leur matériel d’expédition. Déambulant devant les vitrines, je détaille, rêveur, des duvets aux prix prohibitifs, avant de trouver mon bonheur dans une échoppe bon marché dont le propriétaire bedonnant vend aussi des cannes à pêches et des souvenirs. Les affaires reprennent ! Avant de partir, je parviens à convaincre mes deux compagnons des vertus d’un vrai repas dans un restaurant du centre-ville. Mes arguments, portant à la fois sur la conservation de nos forces physiques et de notre santé mentale font mouche, et nous nous octroyons tous trois un déjeuner de rois. Repus et rassurés, nous repartons en train à Vizzavona, pour reprendre la piste où nous l’avions laissée.
Hésitation sur le quai de la gare. Pas franchement enthousiastes à l’idée de passer une nouvelle nuit dans cette bourgade fantôme, nous envisageons de reprendre la route malgré le jour qui décline déjà. Espiègle, la carte nous aguiche avec la mention d’une bergerie à quelques kilomètres de là. En marchant bien, nous devrions pouvoir l’atteindre sans avoir à allumer nos frontales. Malgré ses indications parfois fantaisistes, nous décidons de faire confiance à notre topo IGN et repartons dans la forêt. Sur le sentier que nul n’arpente à cette heure, je retrouve avec une joie sourde cette « solitude douce, fertile » célébrée par Tesson. Malgré des toponymes prometteurs – comme ce Cirque de la Solitude dont on parle tant -, il est rare de marcher seul sur le GR durant la belle saison. Le chemin charrie des flots de randonneurs qui s’entassent dans les refuges le soir venu. Loin des veillées passées entre voyageurs à écouter un vieil ermite râblé évoquer ses souvenirs, ces chalets de parc d’attraction n’ont rien de l’image romantique que je m’en étais faite. Gardiens patibulaires, nourriture hors de prix et brouhaha permanent me font parfois regretter de ne pas avoir choisi un itinéraire plus secret. Il était temps de prendre mes distances avec ces gîtes officiels pour ne pas céder à l’aigreur des espoirs déçus, la pire des plaies du voyageur.
Entre chien et loup, nous nous engageons dans un ravin creusé par un puissant torrent. Nous grimpons le long du sentier boisé qui longe l’eau vive, les oreilles bourdonnant de cette musique des premiers temps. Parfois, je crois entendre une cloche tintinnabuler dans le lointain, adoucie par l’écho de la forêt. Soudain, dans une trouée de feuillage, la fumée rectiligne d’une cheminée apparait, comme la prière d’une âme vagabonde s’élevant vers le ciel. Aimantés par ce signe, nous cravachons en dérapant sur des racines traitresses qui jaillissent du sol comme autant de mains décharnées dans un film d’épouvante. Au sommet du tertre, nous tombons face à face avec un âne aux pattes entravées dont la cloche carillonne joyeusement quand il hoche la tête pour nous saluer. Son maître, un homme trapu et jovial, apparaît presqu’aussitôt et s’avance vers nous, un chien de berger a sa suite. Cet exilé volontaire m’explique sobrement venir ici de temps à autre, avec son chien et son âne, pour goûter un peu à la montagne et à la solitude. Parce qu’il doit déceler en nous les mêmes aspirations, il nous accueille à bras ouverts et nous propose immédiatement de planter la tente dans le pré adjacent.
Quelques cabanes en ruines posées sur un pâturage secret, un muret qui s’écroule doucement et une petite maison de pierres ronde : voilà ce que notre carte désigne fièrement comme les Bergeries de Porteto. La dernière brebis à avoir connu les lieux n’est probablement plus de ce monde depuis longtemps mais la perspective d’un bivouac au calme me console vite de ne pas pouvoir ajouter de fromage à notre menu. L’obscurité tombe comme un drap sur la vallée, tandis que les pentes enneigées du Monte d’Oro s’emmitouflent dans les brumes. Alors que nous prenons notre repas dans l’herbe, je médite tranquillement, tourné vers la cabane de notre hôte. Sur sa porte entrebâillée, les lueurs vacillantes d’un feu dansent tranquillement, phare rassurant dans la nuit. J’aime à imaginer cet anachorète d’altitude assis près du foyer, son chien à ses pieds, perdu dans la lecture d’un livre à la couverture élimée. J’envie un peu ces hommes qui fuient les villes et qui trouvent leur bonheur dans une vie qui « n’est faite que de verbes d’action », comme disait Tesson. Lassé par une société où la quête de soi est un argument avancé avec beaucoup de sérieux par des publicitaires pour vendre des voitures, le wanderer avide d’essentiel attrape son couteau et ses carnets et s’en va quérir dans la verte ce que la compagnie des hommes ne pouvaient lui apporter. A l’image de Démocrite, de Tesson ou du corse serein qui règne sur cette vallée, je pressens vaguement qu’un jour il me faudra moi aussi tirer quelques mois de cabane au milieu des forêts. Sous ses poutres mal équarries, je disposerai une hache pour fendre le bois, un poêle pour l’y jeter, une brassée de saines lectures et une caisse du meilleur single malt que je pourrais trouver. Entre cet intérieur et le paysage qui s’offrira à ma fenêtre, ce sera bien le diable si je ne deviens pas tout à fait cinglé ou écrivain. Les deux, avec de la chance.
Ragaillardi à l’idée que la figure de l’ermite ait survécu au XXIème siècle, je rejoins mes deux comparses déjà blottis dans leurs sacs de couchage et me laisse bercer par la rumeur diffuse du torrent en contrebas. En fermant les yeux, j’ai l’impression d’entendre mon sang sourdre dans mes artères.
Salut !
Je comprends Dolma, à un moment ton récit laissait planer un doute...
2 d'un coup : Royal !!! je suis sur la piste avec toi...
Prati/Vizzavona j'en aurais été incapable (on ne peut pas être et avoir été !🙁) 11h30 tout de même... mais, 24 ans !
Et puis, dans mon cas, j'étais suivie visuellement par les autres qui étaient sensés donner l'alerte si je n'étais pas au campement le soir... Etant seule, on en avait convenu au cas où !! et il est vrai que j'étais fort contente d'être saluée à mon arrivée... par un geste, une exclamation et qq fois nous nous tapions la bière ensemble !
Je partais toujours la première, aussi pour être certaine que j'aurais toujours qq un derrière.. car la plupart me doublaient durant les premières heures souvent en me demandant si tout allait bien (c'est comme ça que j'ai eu les quelques photos...)
Après mon saut à la Charlie Chaplin... La bière était la première chose que je demandais, à mon arrivée... je trouvais que je l'avais bien méritée !!!
ainsi après, j'appréciais la douche froide (la lessive quand le temps le permettait) et le repos avant repas où il était bon de mettre les doigts de pieds en éventail avant de passer à table !! Communiquer avec les autres me paraissait, à ce moment, essentiel !! contrairement à toi, je n'ai aucun mauvais souvenir de gardien de refuge... en dehors d'Asinao...
Je pense comme toi, des E Capanelle, Vergio, Ascu où les touristes débarquent en voiture, vont faire un tour à la journée et repartent comme ils sont venus... Sans intérêt ! trop bruyants souvent... et cherchant le confort... comme à la maison... ça m'a fait rire !
1- levé de soleil à I Paliri
2- à Asiano
3- à Prati
4- à Capanelle
5- à Petra Piana, le camp est encore endormi... en dessous...
6- et mon saut de bonheur... de l'avoir fait... à l'arrivée !!!😎
On ne voyage pas pour se guérir de soi, mais pour s'aguerrir, se fortifier, se sentir et se savoir plus finement... Michel Onfray
Quand le lis tous les récits et vois les photos du GR20, je me rends compte que - sauf les paysages et la dureté de la rando - ça a bien changé en quelques années ! Surtout niveau refuges qui sont devenus de véritables petits gîtes (pas toujours accueillants côté humain et hygiène) et aussi pour le nombre de personnes qui sont sur ce sentier (on dit 25 000 par an !). Et les 60% qui abandonnent : souvent faute de temps pour une journée de repos sur le sentier (il faut toujours faire vite maintenant !) ou faute de bonne préparation (physique et poids du sac).
"Celui qui a atteint son but a manqué tout le reste"
salut Benjamin, alors là moi je dirais, mais c'est qu'un avis de lecteur, prend ton temps et amuse toi avec l'écriture et les mots, ils sont là pour dire ton rapport au monde (ce que tu fais très bien), pas pour te prendre la tête; à chacun son univers, tesson c'est tesson et toi c'est toi.
au plaisir de lire la suite , bonne continuation à toi
ba je ne connais pas Tesson, mais le Benjamin il a l'air de bien aimer les gens dans ce qu'il ecrit faudrait pas qu'il s'exile dans une cabane on sait pas ou pour pleurer sur sa condition humaine🤪
Tu pourrais peut-être nous raconter la fin de son GR 20 à la place d'Audentes, aussi ?
😕 heu ! snif !
je reconnais que tout de suite j'ai eu envie de broder, moi aussi, mais de fort moins belle manière !!!!!
je me suis sentie encouragée par Benji, lui-même !!
Je trouve géniale l'idée de royal evasion de poster ses photos du trail : je retrouve les lieux par lesquels je suis passé. En plus, ça cadre bien avec mon idée de départ : vous raconter mon histoire et qu'on puisse échanger, que chacun y aille de son anecdote...
On ne voyage pas pour se guérir de soi, mais pour s'aguerrir, se fortifier, se sentir et se savoir plus finement... Michel Onfray
salut Pat !
le livre que j'ai préféré Tesson et Poussin : La marche dans le ciel (5000 km à pied à travers l'Himalaya)
fêlé, tu crois ?
Je pense "fêlé" dans un bon sens : combien de fois je dis que les gens fous (ceux qui se lancent dans des petites ou grandes aventures, ceux qui sortent des sentiers battus, ceux qui se plaisent à ne pas faire comme les autres) sont des gens plus heureux, plus "riches" que les nombreux "bofs" !
Je n'ai rien lu de Tesson, pas encore ; je dois avoir une bonne vingtaine de livres en attente et j'en lis 2 ou 3 à la fois, c'est selon mon humeur, comme avec la musique (calme, entraînante, classique, jazz, berbère, chanson engagée...).
"Celui qui a atteint son but a manqué tout le reste"
bonjour , je suis vraiment desolée Benjamin si j' ai ete un peu à l'emporte piece mais à te lire ta derniere phrase etait violente reste à savoir pourquoi dans la suite de ton recit, pour ma part Marie christine je prefere "le poisson scorpion" de Nicolas Bouvier dans le genre petage de plomb en voyage 🤪 parceque il reste dans l'humour
mon ordi plante donc bonne journée
Je pense "fêlé" dans un bon sens : combien de fois je dis que les gens fous (ceux qui se lancent dans des petites ou grandes aventures, ceux qui sortent des sentiers battus, ceux qui se plaisent à ne pas faire comme les autres) sont des gens plus heureux, plus "riches" que les nombreux "bofs" !
je pense que tu as raison, pour ma part je me suis affranchie des codes, tardivement. B. MOITESSIER avec le long sillage d'un homme libre... m'a laissé imaginer que je pouvais moi aussi m'affranchir d'une certaine façon, du carcan des habitudes de la famille, etc... j'ai enfin lâché prise ! (enfin je l'espère)...
et je rencontre ici, d'autres qui le font bien mieux que moi et sans doute depuis plus longtemps que moi ; c'est ce qui m'attire...
On ne voyage pas pour se guérir de soi, mais pour s'aguerrir, se fortifier, se sentir et se savoir plus finement... Michel Onfray
La Rochefoucauld a écrit "qui vit sans folie n'est pas aussi sage qu'il le dit". Et "la jeunesse est la folie de la raison".
J'ai lu aussi "la vieillesse vient trop vite et la sagesse trop tard" (de qui?) : alors soyons fou pour repousser au plus tard la sagesse des vieux !
"Celui qui a atteint son but a manqué tout le reste"
Entre cet intérieur et le paysage qui s’offrira à ma fenêtre, ce sera bien le diable si je ne deviens pas tout à fait cinglé ou écrivain. Les deux, avec de la chance.
Tu es sur le bon chemin, tant mieux et pour toi et pour les lecteurs 🙂 !
Benjamin, reviens vite, j'ai plus hâte de te lire que lire les discussions adjacentes et je suis impatiente de partir sur tes chemins...
Dolma
un chemin et la caresse du vent, alors je pars en voyage...
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If I close my eyes and think of the Sultanate of Oman, I first smell a light scent of incense, feel the warmth of a sunbeam on my skin, before sand slips through my fingers. I taste the sweetness of a date, a real candy, then the flavor of coffee with a hint of cardamom and rosewater... I hear the desert wind whistling in my ears, the distant call of a muezzin, then the murmur of water. I open my eyes to see smiles, welcoming gestures, a turquoise sea, rocks ranging from ochre to purple, deep wadis where torrents burst forth, orange dunes, white sandy beaches where tiny crabs scurry at full speed. I see incredible oases emerging between arid mountains. I see abandoned villages that I’d dream were full of life, imposing fortresses overlooking valleys, and lively souks where offers are delicate and negotiation is a mutual courtesy.
All that, and so much more.
This is what I tried to capture in my illustrated travel journal, which I’ll fill in here and there with photos.
I drew this journal “cold,” after my return (actually, I made it this summer, while our trip was last winter). It’s a pretty special format—I bought it in Japan without really knowing what I’d do with it. Well, it found its purpose! Below is a photo of this accordion-style journal: here, it’s only partially open, because when fully unfolded, it’s 5 meters long!
For drawing enthusiasts: The accordion format is both a constraint (each sheet is 9 cm x 27 cm) and a freedom (you can create a fresco). The paper is also a bit special: it doesn’t allow for fine lines, but it takes ink well (liner pen). However, everything has to be done almost in one go (with a very light pencil sketch) because it erases poorly. It absorbs too much water for coloring with markers or watercolors (unless you avoid soaking it), but it works well with oil pastels and their use with a brush and solvent. Since it’s yellowish, it allowed me to create contrasts even with white pastel.
On the right, the "welcome marker"—those dates offered everywhere as a sign of hospitality. On the left, a tribute to those stunning doors worn by time, admired all over the old quarters, including the abandoned ones.
Oman is one of the world’s largest producers of frankincense resin. Incense burners are everywhere, from the simplest clay ones to the most precious handcrafted silver ones...
Hospitality will often lead you to accept a small coffee, an "Omani coffee," very light, subtly flavored with cardamom, maybe a touch of saffron, and occasionally rosewater.
Here, I’ve depicted a man in the common everyday attire of Omanis: the dishdasha, mostly white (during the week and daytime; colors are more common in the evening or on Fridays and Saturdays). While you’ll see some men dressed in Western clothes, they’re very few. The white dishdasha is truly the shared attire of all men. The dishdasha, which has no hood, is distinguished by a small pom-pom attached to the collar, the furakha, which is soaked in perfume. And believe me, Omanis go overboard with it! "It smells like the pom-pom" is an expression that’s now part of our shared language, my husband and I.
Another must of men’s attire is the kuma, a small round head covering, usually white with brightly colored patterns. The keffiyeh is also worn (but without the cord called an agal in Arab countries), and it’s mostly worn by those with roots in the desert, from what I understood.
And what about the women, you might ask? Some are veiled, some in full black (but not a burka—more like a chador + abaya), due to the influence of Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, whereas the traditional outfit used to be a layering of very colorful dresses. Most of the women we saw wore neutral clothing, a plain veil over their hair, but with their faces uncovered. We also saw many saris and colorful veils—don’t forget that 40% of the population consists of Indian, Nepalese, and Bangladeshi immigrants, who work a lot in tourism, hospitality, restaurants, services, and construction.
Just to clarify, as a tourist, there’s no pressure to wear a veil, and never any disapproving looks. Of course, you’ll save the mini shorts, plunging necklines, bare shoulders, and midriffs for the hotel terrace—but I’d say that’s the same for men and women, and with the sun being strong, it’s better for your skin too.
Here’s the introduction! In the next post, I’ll tell you about my itinerary, and we can dive in!
After as many weeks as I have fingers on my right hand, we're hitting the road again, fully recovered from our pharaonic adventure. Back in France to drop off our daughters (sorry, girls!), this time it's just the two of us, ready to be welcomed by a new destination. They say it offers one of the richest cultural heritages in the world for those willing to put in the effort. It's the land of the ancient Silk Road, where we'll follow a journey steeped in history and discoveries straight out of *One Thousand and One Nights*. A former Soviet bloc region independent only since 1991, we'll be walking in the footsteps of Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, Alexander the Great, Marco Polo...
Another fun fact about this country: it's strictly forbidden to import porn on your phone. True story. The same goes for painkillers! Unless it's about sodomy—though the two don’t seem connected, that’s just how it is. Don’t ask me why! Anyway, I’m getting off track. Here’s the big question: Where do you think we’ve just landed?... To give you a hint, the locals are known for being incredibly welcoming. No sooner said than done—our first taxi driver, proud to transport French travelers, refused to let us pay for the ride. Great vibes for these two weeks ahead. So, any guesses?
Uzbekistan!!!
"So, my little wanderers, back at the decks? What’s this mystery destination you’ve got in store for us at the start of the year?"
Yes, the schoolyard bell’s ringing again! We’re hitting the road... or rather, the skies! At first glance, our destination might surprise more than a few. First off, simply because I was here exactly twenty years ago, and I don’t usually like retracing my own footsteps. Secondly, because the name of this place screams mass tourism—basically the opposite of what Flo and I look for.
Despite that, in this land of backsheesh, I’d promised myself I’d come back one day to experience it my way. And since Flo told me, during our wanderer chats, that this destination straddling Africa and the Middle East was in her top 2 travel dreams, the stars aligned for this roots-style trip to quickly make it onto our pharaonic festivities program! Unless you’re totally clueless in general knowledge, you’ve probably guessed by now—we’re off to Egypt! Of course, a few classics will be on our itinerary, but above all, we want to soak up a culture that can’t be appreciated in four-star resorts or on a Nile cruise boat. And let’s be clear, these next two weeks won’t be a walk in the park—neither for our two daughters who are joining us, nor for our bodies!
And that’s clear from the get-go: after our first flight, eight hours of trying (and failing) to sleep on Milan airport’s metal seats, our second flight, landing, passport stamps, our Uber ride, and our first Cairo kilometers, we finally drop our exhaustion at the little guesthouse we booked in Giza. Doesn’t all that energy deserve a little reward?
Oh, absolutely! And here it is: a full-on slap in the face for everyone! But just look at this view from our hotel terrace? For 20 € a night for four, even with this incredible view, I figured the room must be pretty shabby, right? Nope... Is the staff rude, then? Nope... Okay, so what’s the catch? You’re gonna tell me breakfast is included too? Well, yes! Honestly, this Egypt trip is off to a great start.
And the rest of the afternoon, spent rubbing shoulders with locals, only confirmed this vibe. After digesting our pyramid view, we dove into the hustle and bustle of our neighborhood with the goal of exchanging money, eating at street stalls, and testing the hospitality of the locals. Ten out of ten!
Eight little sun breads with baba ganoush and falafel? 80 pounds, or 1.5 €. A dozen Middle Eastern pastries? Same! 80 pounds! Two hawawshis, those little pita breads stuffed with meat and spices? 10 pounds each, or about twenty cents! Not to mention all those smiles and free "welcomes" left and right!!!
What a welcome! We end this first day with a sunset over the three sisters of Giza—where we’ll obviously be gawking tomorrow...
"How about a Christmas market this year, huh? A little romantic weekend getaway...
- Yes! That’d be cool! Strasbourg? Colmar?
- Feels a bit déjà vu, doesn’t it? Plus, slim chance of snow there... And I’d love something a bit more exotic with a touch of originality..."
"Okay, Google, give me the list of the five most beautiful Christmas markets in Europe.
- In fifth place, the Christmas market in Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania.
- Save your breath! Lithuania, here we come!"
We wanted cold, and cold is exactly what we got the moment we set foot in this new, unknown land. As for landscapes, forests and lakes stretch as far as the eye can see across this vast plain, its vegetation scorched by the frost of a winter that’s clearly already well underway here.
Lakes, in fact, set the scene for our first visit to Trakai Castle, whose brick-red towers and walls rise proudly against the azure sky of our first day. Lakes, because this castle was built on an island and is only accessible on foot via a series of walkways spanning half-frozen lake offshoots. I couldn’t have picked a better spot to build my castle! Translation: We’re totally sold! Proof is we spend two hours hiking around the area, alternating between forests, reeds, and cozy houses tastefully decorated for Christmas.
I’m sharing a little recap of this new 4-week trip to China—nothing fancy, just my experience.
We’re taking advantage of the extended visa exemption to return to China for the 4th time. I loved last summer’s trip so much that I’m a bit worried about being disappointed this year. Plus, I’ve had a few hiccups before this departure: my WeChat account got blocked, and I couldn’t recover it (luckily, Alipay still works fine); I couldn’t verify my 12306 account for weeks; Trip.com failed to book our second train; and I’ve got an injury that’ll slow me down during the trip... Ugh, I hate starting a trip with these kinds of issues. Then, oh surprise! Just before leaving, my 12306 account got verified! Super easy to use from that point on—I could book a few train tickets without fees.
We’re sticking with Free’s e-SIMs, which work great in China.
August 2–3
Anyway, on the morning of August 2nd, we took the RER to CDG. As usual, we couldn’t check in online. It’s always a bit frustrating, especially since we didn’t have any checked luggage. We flew with Air China. We arrived at the check-in counter at 9:50 AM, 2 hours and 40 minutes before the flight. The line for our check-in stretched 300 meters across the airport in both directions. What a joke!! We spent 1 hour and 45 minutes in that line just to reach the counter and get our boarding passes. By then, it was 11:35 AM, and boarding had already started at 11:20 AM. The screens showed a 25-minute walk to our gate—on the other side of the airport, of course—plus we had to go through passport control and security... Long story short, the plane didn’t leave without us 🙂 We boarded among the last passengers, and we took off at 12:30 PM. We’d flown Air China four times before, but this time, it felt *really* low-cost. The check-in chaos, the cramped seats (12 seats per row), no music by artists known outside China, mediocre food, and a boarding area at Beijing Airport with only 10 seats—worthy of Ryanair or EasyJet. And yet, the price was sky-high. Again, D.’s vacation requests were denied outside of July and August, so we’re traveling from August 2nd to 30th. We couldn’t have picked a worse time for inflated prices, and with the situation in Iran, we got hit with a 390 € fuel surcharge. I’ve never paid so much for flights—I felt like I’d bought business class, but nope, far from it!!
We landed in Beijing around 4:15 AM. It was 28°C with thick fog. We drove and drove and drove for 20 minutes, as usual in Beijing. Then we went through a first check, a second check, a third check, and waited for our connecting flight at 6:40 AM. A small Airbus A320, but way more space than in the Boeing 777 from the first flight. We landed in Kunming, Yunnan, around 10:15 AM in the rain.
We headed to the subway. You can’t pay at the machines with Alipay here either, so we set up the transport QR code directly in Alipay to scan at the subway gates. The process is a bit long the first time if you haven’t entered your info before, but once it’s done, it’s *so* much easier! We took Line 6 to the terminus for 6 yuan each.
We’d booked a hotel nearby, on the 16th floor. It’s actually studios on different floors of a huge residential building. The view’s pretty nice from here. We settled in quickly—back to those wooden beds, or rather, mattresses as hard as wood, which we *hadn’t* missed...
Then we went out for our first bowl of noodles of the trip and wandered through the shopping streets of the old town.
It was crowded, and the weather was cool—around 19–20°C. We tried a local specialty: milk skin, thick, dried, then grilled with rose jam. Yeah... we won’t be having that again. The taste and texture of the milk skin... no thanks.
We saw a lot of wild mushroom hotpot too. It’s on our list for later. We also passed through the Jinma and Biji gates, where I played with reflections in puddles. I *love* doing that 🙂
At the end of the day, we headed to a temple advertised as open 24/7 on Amap. Of course, when we got there, it was closed. We’ll go back tomorrow. That was the first of many disappointments with Amap this trip—I hadn’t had that issue on previous visits.
We were exhausted after that sleepless flight. Night was falling, and we decided to grab a quick bite without much appetite. We shared a delicious vegetable fried rice for 12 yuan—we even left half of it. The portions are *huge*.
After a couple of small purchases, we headed back at 9 PM, wiped out, after walking 17 km between the airports and these first steps in Kunming. I expected to see quite a few Western travelers here, but we didn’t spot a single one. Instead, we met lots of curious Chinese people, many of them super friendly and helpful—almost *too* eager, like when they’d run to serve us as fast as possible. It’s a bit much, but it’s great to be back!
Hi everyone, I’m Patrick, 67 years old, a seasoned traveler (already 22 trips outside Europe).
In autumn 2025, I took my first 3-week trip to Japan, with stops in Tokyo, Kamakura, Matsumoto, Kamikochi, Takayama, Kanazawa, Kyoto, Nara, Osaka, Koyasan, Tokyo again, and Nikko.
I wanted to go back in May 2026 and explore some lesser-known places to complement my first trip.
Last year, there were four of us traveling together to discover Japan (a fairly classic itinerary). This time, I’ll be traveling solo for part of the trip and with a couple of French friends for the rest.
The weather was gorgeous in May, averaging around 25°C, with two very hot days in Kyoto and only two rainy days.
As usual, I organized everything myself, gathering plenty of information from various sites, including this one.
Transportation:
An ICOCA card is essential.
I got a 5-day Kansai-Hiroshima pass because I took the shinkansen between Hiroshima and Osaka three times, and it paid for itself quickly.
Accommodations:
Mostly through Booking. No issues at all. Average cost was 46 € per night.
Meals:
For breakfast, I alternated between buying food at a konbini to eat in my room or on the train and grabbing something at local cafés.
For lunch and dinner, I tried to vary my meals as much as possible—lots of sashimi, sushi, and ramen.
Okonomiyaki in Osaka and Hiroshima.
Oysters in every form (raw, grilled, fried) in Onomichi and Hiroshima.
A variety of seafood (shrimp, shellfish) in Hiroshima and Matsumoto.
Fish whose names often escaped me, but notably mackerel and eel (unagi).
Tempura and gyoza.
Chicken skewers (yakitori) and one teppanyaki meal.
One omakase meal (9 different dishes).
In the end, not much meat aside from a few yakitori skewers. No splurges on super expensive wagyu or Kobe beef.
Average dinner cost: 4,800 yen, drinks included.
The Itinerary:
Day 1: Departure from Brussels
Day 2: Arrival in Osaka
Day 3: To Himeji, then Kurashiki
Day 4: To Fukuyama, then Tomo no Ura, then Onomichi
Day 5: Cycling the Shimanami Kaido
Day 6: To Takahara, then Hiroshima
Day 7: To Kyoto to attend the Aoi Matsuri parade
Day 8: To Miyajima
Day 9: Hiroshima, then Kyoto
Day 10: Southern Kyoto
Day 11: Northern Kyoto
Day 12: Final day in Kyoto, then to Nagatsugawa
Day 13: Start of the Nakasendo Trail (Magome to Tsumago)
Day 14: Second day of the trail (Kiso Fukushima)
Day 15: Third day of the trail (Narai), then Matsumoto
Day 16: To Mt. Fuji (Kawaguchiko)
Day 17: To Tokyo
Day 18: Excursion to Enoshima and Kamakura
Day 19: Flight home, with a 10-hour layover in Hong Kong
Day 20: Arrival in Brussels
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.
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.
Hi everyone, we're back from a DIY USA road trip we organized from July 31, 2026, to August 26, 2026.
The destination: The Southwest USA, including Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico. Roughly 7,000 kilometers covered.
The car: A Chevrolet Equinox for two, rented through BSP Auto and Avis. Inside, we had 2 suitcases, a travel bag, two carry-on bags, a Walmart cooler, photo gear, and water bottles (a 40-pack).
The route: Dallas DFW, Fort Worth, Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Alpine, El Paso, Tucson, Sedona, Albuquerque, Amarillo, and back to Dallas to finish with a departure from DFW.
The travelers: Two seniors well advanced in years (73 and 75) but still active (nothing too physically demanding—to stay alive and fund our trips), fully independent physically, though a bit less so mentally. Big USA fans, a country where anything is possible. More walkers than hikers, preferring 3-star hotels over roadside motels, Italian restaurants over US food, frequent stops for photos, museums over nothing, naps over forced marches. Not too whiny, just enough to stay French in the land of the "great Satan," as they say.
Not great with languages—street English (but handy), and my Spanish is non-existent except for: "Hola! Una cerveza por favor!" That’s about it. My wife understands everything but refuses to speak.
The cost of the road trip: Around 12,000 €, including AF flights, the car, gas, gifts, visits, and everything else. Well managed, since we’d budgeted 13,500 € initially.
The positive side: A delight, with those endless open roads. Museums to discover. The realization of the Hispanic presence and its important history in this part of America. Lovely locals. Tourists who were more or less friendly. A terrible Texan accent that was hard to understand. Gas stations that were like real stores, with prepared food, alcohol sold in Arizona and New Mexico, and employees who were always up for a laugh!
The negative side: The heat throughout the trip... 43°C in Dallas at the end. Impossible to walk the streets. Lots of homeless people in downtown Dallas. Hotel breakfasts that were always the same. You get used to it.
So, it was positive overall, but the concept is starting to wear us out. We might rethink the DIY road trip model for next time. If the man upstairs grants us more time.
Next up, we’ll wait for the first batch of sorted photos to go through the wringer.
Here we go!!!
I left home at 4 AM on October 31st and headed to Barcelona. Driving through Barcelona on the ring road stresses me out a bit, but at 6 AM the traffic is smooth, and I arrive at the airport without any issues. I call the valet, who quickly comes to pick up my car. He takes photos of it from all angles before letting me go.
Baggage check-in hasn’t started yet, and there are already several of us waiting.
Once free, everything happens very quickly. The flight to Abu Dhabi is on time and goes smoothly. I’ve never had any problems with this airline, which I’ve been using for several years.
The flight to Bangkok arrives at 7 AM as scheduled. This is my first time in Thailand and Bangkok. I’m used to traveling in India, and I notice that everything here is well organized—the customs process is quick, and the luggage is already on the carousel.
I booked a taxi on Booking. All I have to do is find the right exit and door based on the agency’s instructions. A large sign with the names of people who booked is posted on a wall. A hostess greets me and calls the taxi, which arrives 5 minutes later. I booked one night at the Lost Inn BKK hotel in the Phra Nakhon district, and we arrive at 9 AM. The welcome isn’t warm, and I have to wait until noon, sitting on a chair, before I can check into my room. I’m exhausted, and sleeping sitting up isn’t ideal. Noon finally arrives—the room is small but clean, which is fine for one night. I quickly take a shower to wake up because I plan to spend the afternoon visiting the Grand Palace. First, I need to exchange some money, and the banks are all close together on the same street, which is very convenient. When I enter one, a hostess gives me a ticket and invites me to sit down. There are about twenty counters, and I wait quietly until my number is called. The exchange is quick, so I can head out to find the Royal Palace. It’s actually very easy, and the walk is pleasant.
Entry to the Royal Palace (500 baht).
It’s magnificent and grand, and there are quite a few of us visiting. The sky is gray, it’s very humid, and a shower interrupts the visit. It’s a vast complex of temples and palaces. The buildings are colorful and sparkling, with a great sense of serenity (without the tourists, of course). I quietly enjoy the place and try to take photos without tourists, which isn’t easy.
Very close to the Grand Palace is Wat Pho, one of the oldest Buddhist temples in the capital.
It’s very famous for its 46-meter-long reclining Buddha statue.
Walking around the temple, you can see different representations of Buddha, all covered in gold leaf.
Inside the temple, on one side, monks recite their prayers, while the other side is reserved for tourists who come to meditate in silence.
Before returning to the hotel, I have dinner at an Indian restaurant. I go to bed early because tomorrow’s wake-up call will be very early again.
Saturday, November 2nd
Wake-up at 4 AM, departure from the hotel at 4:30 AM. The taxi I booked via Booking is waiting for me and takes me to the airport. The trip is fairly quick—he takes small roads, and at this hour, there’s no traffic.
The flight to Phnom Penh is on time. Before boarding, I realize I left my fleece jacket on the carousel, but it’s too late to go back for it.
The flight goes well, and customs is quick.
At the exit, I take a tuk-tuk to Julieka’s GH near the museum. The welcome is friendly. I won’t be able to check into my room until noon, so I take the opportunity to exchange some euros on the market street. The street is lined with restaurants, and I’ll have my first meal there.
The museum is right across the street, so I don’t waste any time visiting it.
The representations of Hindu deities are very different from those in India, and I don’t recognize them. Many beautiful Buddhas are on display.
The museum is very pleasant, and there aren’t too many people, which is a plus.
At the exit, I return to the GH, settle into my room—which is decent and clean.
The Royal Palace is 1 km away. I walk along a garden, and at the end of the street is the Tonlé Sap, but I turn right. I arrive at a large esplanade and see the buildings with tiered roofs and glazed tiles. The entrance to the palace is a little further away.
At the entrance, I notice there isn’t the same crowd as at the one in BKK.
Khmer architecture is magnificent. The complex consists of gardens, palaces, pagodas with golden roofs, and slender spires.
The Silver Pagoda houses the small Emerald Buddha, which is actually made of jade. The silver flooring is covered with carpets. Photos are not allowed.
The walls surrounding the pagoda are covered with frescoes depicting scenes from the Ramayana.
My partner and I traveled from Sunday, July 5, 2026, to Wednesday, July 22, 2026.
We spent a long time debating whether to rent a car or use public transportation. In the end, after reading so many posts about travelers getting scammed by police or rental companies—even those recommended by blogs and reviews—we decided to stick with public transport. It worked out really well. Sure, we had a little less freedom to go where we wanted, but it was way less stressful for us.
Sunday, July 5:
Arrived at Cancun Airport. Withdrew cash from the ATM in the terminal just before exiting. The ADO bus counter (they pronounce it "A-Jee-O") is right behind you when you're facing the ATM. Bus to downtown Cancun cost 145 pesos per person.
Stayed at "Rose 5," booked on Booking. The studio was super clean and perfect for one night. The owner’s instructions for accessing the place were very precise, with photos included. Check-in was self-service with a code. The ADO bus terminal isn’t far, and there are shops and restaurants nearby. We really appreciated that the AC was already on when we arrived. By the way, I’d recommend always booking places with AC—it’s *really* hot in Mexico.
Monday, July 6:
Bought a SIM card with data from a TELCEL store. My partner, who’s on Free Mobile, was able to use her regular plan. Just so you know, I found the network pretty unstable. As soon as we left the cities, neither of us—me with TELCEL or her with Free—had any signal.
Another thing to watch out for: roaming charges. I had to turn my SIM back on for less than 30 seconds to get a bank SMS code, and my phone apparently connected to the internet—resulting in an 8-euro roaming fee.
Left on an ADO bus to Chiquila for 278 pesos per person. During our trip, ADO buses were always on time, comfortable, and clean. The AC is *cranked* though, so bring something to cover up with—it gets cold. Some routes were fully booked even in the low season, so try to reserve 1 or 2 days in advance either via the app (when it works) or at the counter.
When we arrived at the ADO terminal in Chiquila, the ferry company counters were right next to it. Ferries leave every 30 minutes, alternating between companies, so no need to book ahead. Just take whichever one is leaving next (330 pesos per person).
When we got to Holbox (pronounced "Hol-bosh"), we’d booked a place via Booking called "Casa de Nana." It was a huge studio with a fridge, cooking plate, and utensils. The best part? The *location*. It was 100 meters from the beach and 200 meters from a Chedraui supermarket. They provided bath towels and beach towels, and the AC worked perfectly. There’s a key box so you can leave your keys inside when you go out. The only downside was that no one was there to let us in when we arrived, so we had to wait a while. The Wi-Fi was good, which was lucky because during our 4-day stay in Holbox, the phone network *never* worked. According to locals, that’s pretty common in Holbox, along with water outages.
Luckily, I’d had the good idea to download an offline map, which helped us find our way back to the place more easily. You can walk there from the dock.
The restaurant next to our place (La Barracuda) was great if you like seafood—I’d recommend their octopus dishes.
Tuesday, July 7:
We did a kayak tour in Holbox’s mangroves at 6 AM. We were looking for a sunrise kayak tour with a French-speaking guide. That’s exactly what we got with "Kayaking Holbox," where Diego, the owner, speaks English and French. He was joined by Gustavo, another guide.
We’d booked for a group tour, but we were the only ones. Diego still went ahead with it instead of canceling due to lack of participants, so we got a private tour at the group rate—really professional of him. They showed us this amazing ecosystem for over 3 hours. We saw all kinds of birds: pink flamingos, pelicans, egrets, frigatebirds... rays, a horseshoe crab, and a little crocodile that was *so* well hidden. Diego and Gustavo have a real eye for spotting animals—I could’ve passed by the crocodile 100 times and never seen it, it blended in so well. Their explanations about the flora and fauna were super interesting. We also got a little break where we tasted mangoes and bananas that taste *nothing* like the ones in France. A real treat—those little Mexican yellow mangoes! I’d definitely recommend Diego and his agency for a French-language kayak tour (1000 pesos per person).
In the evening, we walked to Punta Coco to see the bioluminescence. No need for a guided tour—if you really don’t want to walk, you can take a taxi. At Punta Coco, you have to pass the beach bar/restaurant and then go left into a kind of inlet that forms a lagoon. You have to wiggle your feet or move your hands in the water to create movement, which makes the light appear. Just don’t expect the kind of photos you’ve seen online—they’re all edited! It’s fun to see, but you won’t be dazzled by the light...
Wednesday, July 8:
Whale shark tour with "My Holbox Tours." Why recommend this agency over others for swimming with whale sharks? Simply because Valérie surrounds herself with top professionals to make your experience unforgettable. We were with Captain Fernando, who does everything to position the boat perfectly and make your swim easier. In the water, we were with Humberto, who also goes above and beyond to make sure you have an incredible time. He doesn’t just "supervise" like some guides from other companies who leave you on your own. No, Humberto reads the whale shark’s trajectory and guides you—all you have to do is follow him. He really puts in the effort, even holding your hand to guide you through this quick but intense encounter. Humberto also films the moment and will offer to show you the videos and sell them to you. His footage is really high quality.
Fernando and Humberto also prepared food for us. Special mention for their guacamole! Valérie is there to make sure everything goes smoothly on the boat and to answer your questions in French, English, or Spanish about these animals. If you choose My Holbox Tours, you can be sure you’ll get a top-notch experience.
About the tour itself: before you go, you should know that the sharks can be *really* far away. The day we went, it took 3.5 hours by boat to reach them. The boats are small, and let me tell you—on the way there, when we weren’t going with the waves, it was *rough*. Out of 9 passengers, 4 got seasick. But once you’re face-to-face with the shark, you forget all about that. Even if swimming with a whale shark isn’t exactly a walk in the park—they swim pretty fast, so you need some endurance to keep up. You’ll usually get 2 turns. Our first swim lasted a little over 4 minutes, and the second about 2 minutes because the shark was moving fast and we were still tired from the first swim. It might seem short, but when you’re swimming, it feels *long*. Either way, it’s an experience you *have* to do—but choose your company wisely. On the way back, there’s a stop at Cabo Catoche. Honestly, the snorkeling is pretty disappointing if you’ve done it elsewhere in the world. But the lunch stop at Cabo Catoche is really nice for relaxing (white sand and hammocks).
Thursday, July 9:
Short morning walk to Punta Mosquito at 6 AM. Really nice.
Ferry to Chiquila (330 pesos per person) + ADO bus to Valladolid (300 pesos per person).
In Valladolid, we booked "Casa Lucia" via Booking. The hotel is gorgeous, with a colonial style, and very close to the ADO bus terminal and downtown. It’s super quiet and clean. There’s a shared kitchen you can use with a fridge, microwave, and water dispenser, plus a big table by the pool and a nice indoor terrace. Breakfast was simple but included. The only small downsides were the tiny room and bathroom, no mirror in the room, and a noisy fan.
Friday, July 10:
Not far from the ADO bus terminal is the colectivo station for Chichen Itza. They offer a round-trip to Chichen Itza with an option to stop at Ik Kil cenote on the way back and then drop you off in Valladolid for 370 pesos per person (Ik Kil entrance included).
For the Chichen Itza visit, we’d booked a tour with a guide often mentioned in groups—his name is Juan Pat. He’s a Maya who lives near the site and speaks excellent French. He reserves spots in advance for you and queues up to be the first on-site. It cost 500 pesos per person + entrance fees. His tour lasts 2 hours and focuses mainly on the main pyramid and the ball court. He’s passionate and fascinating, even if some of his claims, as a Maya, might be a little biased. I think it’s *really* important to have a guide—otherwise, you’ll miss so much. You can contact Juan Pat on WhatsApp at +52 985 121 2381.
Afterward, we went to Ik Kil cenote (showers and life jackets mandatory, lockers available). It’s *very* crowded, but still really beautiful with its lush vegetation.
Saturday, July 11:
Since we didn’t have a car but still wanted to visit other cenotes that seemed hard to reach by public transport, we decided to book a taxi for the day. We agreed on 1200 pesos to take us to 3 different cenotes and wait for us at each one. (To find taxis, just look where they park near the ADO bus station.)
He picked us up at Zaci cenote, which we’d walked to. We got there at opening time and were the first ones there—had the place to ourselves for a while! 150 pesos per person. A pretty cenote in the city center with lush vegetation. It’s a bit like Ik Kil but without the deep cylindrical effect.
Cenote Xcanahaltun: the most beautiful cenote we visited. Entry 250 pesos per person. It’s a closed cenote with a hole that lets light in—a cave-like setting. You can kayak inside. There are little fish at the edge that nibble dead skin off your feet. Since it’s closed, the water is *freezing*!
Cenote Palomitas: entry 250 pesos per person. Another stunning closed cenote, even more enclosed than Xcanahaltun. The hole in the ceiling is smaller, so it was pretty dark when we arrived—kind of an eerie vibe. But when the staff turned on the lights, it looked like a "Gothic cathedral" full of bright stalactites.
Cenote Sac Aua: entry 290 pesos per person. The ticket includes a guided cave tour (tip-based). This cenote is really unique with its central island and way less crowded than Suytun. Just so you know, the water is *really* cold in cenotes. In these three, in July, we had the place to ourselves for a while and never saw more than 2 families at once—so peaceful!
Sunday, July 12:
ADO bus to Bacalar (536 pesos per person).
In Bacalar, we stayed via Airbnb with a host named Luli, who offers several rooms with shared bathroom and kitchen.
The room is nicely decorated in a pleasant setting. It’s ideally located near the lagoon and downtown. The shared kitchen is handy. The mosquito net over the bed is useful because there are *a lot* of mosquitoes in Bacalar. Luli provides a water jug, which is really nice. The only big downside is the lack of water pressure in the shower—we had to rinse off by filling a bucket. Also, there’s no real door separating the room from the bathroom. We never met Luli in person, but she was very responsive via messages. The terrace in the middle of the vegetation is lovely.
From the ADO terminal to the place, we took a taxi for 40 pesos. Since this driver was honest about the price (we’d checked beforehand), we decided to use him every time we needed a taxi in Bacalar. Here’s his WhatsApp: +52 983 184 3585.
Monday, July 13:
We did a boat tour on the lagoon with "Bacalar Francophone Activities." Since we were just the two of us, it cost 3500 pesos. If we’d managed to be 4 people, it would’ve been 1000 pesos per person.
We had a private 4-hour tour on the lagoon with Steeve and his very comfortable boat. He’s from Quebec, so his French is perfect. During those 4 hours, Steeve showed us the lagoon’s iconic spots *and* places other boats don’t go. He told us about the lagoon’s history and gave great tips on where to go and where to eat. As a little bonus, he gave us a video taken with his drone during our swimming break.
Tuesday, July 14:
We went to Los Rapidos by taxi (400 pesos round trip) and entry was 225 pesos per person. It’s *very* touristy but really beautiful. You can eat there (expensive), relax, and go down the "rapids" as many times as you want. It’s worth it if you spend a few hours there. You can’t bring in food or drinks—you leave them at the entrance and pick them up on the way out.
Wednesday, July 15:
On Wednesdays, navigation is banned on Bacalar Lagoon, so we’d planned another excursion.
Visit to Calakmul from Bacalar with ABCtours (WhatsApp +52 983 319 8359).
This agency organized a trip from Bacalar to Calakmul with a French-speaking guide. Communication beforehand via WhatsApp was smooth. Mr. Checo, the driver, and Fernando, the guide (who spoke great French), picked us up on the day. Mr. Checo drove very carefully on the long road and always made sure we were comfortable. Fernando is passionate about flora and fauna—he’s a biologist with a degree in ornithology, so he knows *everything* about animals. The slightest sound or song, and he knows what it is. He’s got an eye for spotting them, from the biggest to the smallest.
During the trip, we stopped at km 27 for a short forest walk, then went to see the two main pyramids on the site. On the way back, we stopped at the bat cave for the magical spectacle of millions of bats flying out at dusk. In the end, we saw or glimpsed (some briefly) spider monkeys, howler monkeys, a toucan, 2 tapirs, turkeys, 2 deer, and lots of birds. If, like us, you’re more into flora and fauna than archaeology, I’d *highly* recommend this agency and tour with Fernando.
It’s not cheap, but the road between Bacalar and the site is *long* (3.5 hours). Price: 3900 pesos per person for 2 (3500 for 3, 3200 for 4).
Thursday, July 16:
ADO bus to Playa del Carmen (614 pesos per person).
In Playa del Carmen, we stayed in an Airbnb. The building is on the town hall square, next to the casino.
The best thing about this place is the *location*—super close to Fifth Avenue (La Quinta). The kitchen is pretty basic, but the fridge works well. There are supermarkets nearby. The rooftop pool is really nice. The two big downsides, though, are the soundproofing (you can *hear* the neighbor’s alarm and all the events on the square) and the *total* lack of water pressure in the shower. We had to fill a trash can with water to pour over ourselves. When we told the owner, he said it wasn’t normal and someone would come fix it, but we never heard back. Based on previous reviews, this seems to be a known issue that never gets resolved.
Playa del Carmen is *very* touristy on Fifth Avenue, but in a fun, musical vibe—we never felt unsafe. There are *tons* of little souvenir shops for tourists on this street. There’s a beautiful monumental sculpture on the beach (the two figures meeting in the air), next to which you can see the Voladores show (men climbing a pole, tying themselves with ropes, and descending headfirst while "flying" around the pole). The show is tip-based and happens several times a day. In our opinion, Calle 38 is prettier than Fifth Avenue—it’s lush, green, and quieter, with the sea at the end. Great for an early evening stroll. We had really good meals at great prices at "El Tio Noy" tacos, just a few meters from Fifth Avenue in a side street.
For souvenirs, we’d recommend going to Walmart instead of Fifth Avenue—you’ll find skulls, tequila, mezcal, keychains, mugs, glasses... at good, fixed prices.
Friday, July 17:
We did the excursion to Isla Contoy. Isla Contoy is an uninhabited, highly protected island. Only 200 people are allowed to land per day on a rotating basis, so only a few companies have permission to dock there. Most agencies subcontract the day to a third-party company.
We booked through VRM (Viviendo Riviera Maya), but it was Ocean Tours Mexico that handled the tour. Contoy is a little paradise. We were accompanied by multilingual guides, including French speakers, throughout the day. Steffy gave us info about the island during a short walk on the marked trails, and Leño Tlatemoa kept the mood up on the boat rides with music and dancing. Isla Contoy is *truly* stunning, and the lunch was delicious: grilled fish and chicken, guacamole and tortilla chips, rice, fruit, drinks (everything is brought and taken back by the guides). The snorkeling part was pretty disappointing if you’ve done it in Cozumel, though. The stop at Isla Mujeres isn’t very interesting either—it’s too short to explore, and the island is *extremely* touristy. Still, the excursion was very well organized, and we had a great day (2970 pesos per person).
Saturday, July 18:
We wanted to go snorkeling in Cozumel but thought the prices from French-speaking agencies were too high. Plus, for snorkeling, we figured we didn’t *need* a French-speaking guide.
So we found a much cheaper solution by taking the ferry from Playa del Carmen ourselves and choosing an agency in Playa. The round-trip ferry cost 663.50 pesos per person. Then we took a taxi to the snorkeling boat (100 pesos). The agency we chose is called Mystic Snorkel—they don’t have a physical office. The tour cost 1400 pesos per person. It was a small boat, but that day we were the only ones, so we got a private tour at the group rate. We stopped at 4 different sites, all very different and beautiful. We saw all kinds of fish, corals, a nurse shark, and turtles. El Cielo, with its huge starfish, is *exceptional*. If you’re going snorkeling in the Yucatan Peninsula, this is *the* tour to do—the other sites are pretty "poor" in comparison.
Sunday, July 19:
Morning dive with Triton Diving. I chose the Cozumel dive option. Great experience.
Booking via WhatsApp was easy. On the day of the dive, Selene, who speaks French, was our guide. She’s *very* attentive to the group’s safety. The briefings are clear and precise. In Cozumel, we did 2 very different sites: the first was a drift dive with lots of life—beautiful corals and fish. The second was a wreck, the C53, a 56-meter boat you can enter. Not much marine life, but a beautiful wreck intentionally sunk for divers—still in great condition. An unforgettable moment. Selene even took videos during the dive, which the club sends you for free afterward. I’d *highly* recommend this club.
Just so you know, in Playa del Carmen, the beaches were full of sargassum during our stay, despite barriers and daily cleanup. Locals told us the problem is getting worse and the sargassum is arriving earlier in the season. Tourism has taken a *big* hit this summer, and they’re wondering if tourism can even survive the sargassum season anymore. A lot of tourists are heading to the islands—Isla Mujeres and Cozumel—to enjoy the beaches, as the west side of those islands is sargassum-free.
Monday, July 20:
Colectivo to Puerto Morelos. First, a colectivo toward Cancun that drops you off between Puerto Morelos town and Puerto Morelos beach (40 pesos per person), then another from that junction to the beach (10 pesos per person).
In Puerto Morelos, we’d booked a room via Airbnb at "Piedra del Caribe." *Best* place we stayed in Mexico. It’s an aparthotel. Our room was ready before check-in, so they let us in early. The place matched the description—spacious, with a comfortable king-size bed. The shower had *great* pressure, which isn’t a given in Mexico. The staff was super friendly and welcoming. They let us use the pool, restrooms, and rooftop shower after check-out while we waited for our ride to Cancun Airport. They even kept our luggage. I *highly* recommend this place.
In Puerto Morelos, there was *way* less sargassum than in Playa del Carmen—it was actually swimmable.
We did the snorkeling tour with the fishermen’s cooperative for 450 pesos per person for 2 hours. The reef is close to the beach (you’re not allowed to swim there), so the boat ride is short. It’s not as pretty as Cozumel, but it’s nice and affordable. On Puerto Morelos’s page, you can also access a small, not-very-well-preserved reef. There’s also a cenote in the sea where fresh water mixes with saltwater—the water is murky there. We had a great dinner and excellent cocktails at "La Choza del Puerto."
Tuesday, July 21:
Wandered around Puerto Morelos (check out the church and read everything—it’s entertaining!), relaxed by the hotel pool, and left for Cancun Airport by taxi (400 pesos) booked via InDrive to head back to France.
Our highlights:
- Holbox
- The whale shark tour
- The cenotes
- The local flora and fauna (so present!)
- Isla Contoy
- Cabo Catoche (except for the snorkeling)
What we liked least:
- The bioluminescence (barely visible despite good conditions)
- The food—we found it not very diverse in taquerias
- The constant tipping
- The lack of water pressure in showers (fixed, wall-mounted, no hose or showerhead)
Don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions while it’s still fresh in our minds.
Traveling with just one spare pair of underwear, considering a hot shower a miracle, never staying in the same place too long by sleeping wherever night catches us, taking whatever local, improbable, and rickety transport we can find—this is the DNA of us wanderers. Except this time, the script for our movie is going to be a whole different genre. On paper, the destination doesn’t exactly scream epic adventure: Réunion! And what’s more... we won’t be two, or four, or even ten. We’ll be a solid thirty. All from the same family. Yes, thirty. At this point, it’s not just a trip—it’s a summer camp on the move! Why inflict this on such a peaceful island? Because my brother decided to get married there with his lovely bride. A great idea, you might say... especially when it involves relocating the equivalent of a small Ardennes village 10,000 kilometers from home for three weeks! So who’s stepping up to be the guide and wave the little flag?
So, for an exceptional trip, exceptional stories! Don’t worry, the debates at the supermarket over whether to choose plain chips or roast chicken chips, the beach picnics washed down with ti’ punch, and other rougail sausages to digest by the pool will only make it into the family archives. Here, I’ll stick to the tales of our beautiful escapes, the ones where we explore the wild corners of this little volcanic rock planted in the middle of the Indian Ocean. So where exactly are we headed?
For the first week—the subject of this first installment—we’re taking it easy. We’ll start by rediscovering the coastline, from the Souffleur in Saint-Leu to the Hermitage lagoon, before a little trip to the Cirque de Cilaos and its legendary road with 400 turns, just to get our legs warmed up.
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 three years at most in Thailand, and I’m not a big expert on the country.
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 piece together a puzzle, mainly for those who want to get an idea of the country here and for those who miss 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 guards 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 property, be careful at night, and be careful when they’re in packs.
It sometimes crosses our minds that Thailand isn’t really 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, are 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 broken for years.
You’ll often see dogs sleeping on the side of the road, sometimes right on the road. When you arrive, they move aside nonchalantly—or not at all. It’s less funny when they suddenly appear from thick vegetation, which reminds 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. Seeing a small pack roaming freely in the countryside, you might think it’s best not to cross paths with them at the edge of a field.
A darker side of this is that euthanasia isn’t often practiced. Twice, we saw dogs at temples on the brink of death, enduring terrible suffering. No one did anything about it. The image (and the smell) of one of them, dying and emitting 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 well-fed animal quickly became a happy, 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 in them 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 a gimmick—it’s just that 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.
It was winter, a winter with beautiful weather,
A season that only exists in the southwest of America,
I remember very well what I told you that morning
A month ago... A century ago, an eternity ago...
We’ll go... wherever you want, whenever you want...
Well, yeah, back from our adventure in our enchanting American West just a month ago, we’re already taking a bite out of one of its lesser-known competitors. "Flo, if you had to pick just one reason to justify your love for the U.S., what would it be?" The greasy, dripping burgers? No, I don’t think I’m going out on a limb by saying it’d be the wide-open spaces... And that’s exactly what our new quest is taking us to—a land on the other side of the globe where the horizon also seems endless, where silence tastes like salty wind and sand, where freedom is measured in kilometers of desert tracks, where the GPS is mostly there to confirm you’re lost in the middle of nowhere... Add to that magic formula the fact that you’ll see more zebras, giraffes, wildebeest, and elephants than people per square kilometer, and you can imagine us setting foot in Southern Africa for the first time, more precisely at the small airport in Windhoek, capital of... of...? Brush up on your geography, damn it! We’re landing in Namibia!!!
To be honest, Namibian landscapes have been flirting with me for ages. So how did I resist this island of temptation for so long? First, the budget. Let’s just say that for the same amount of effort (and kidneys), the bank lets you choose two other adventures almost anywhere else on the planet. Then there were my girls. Yeah, back then, they were too little to dose up on Malarone, the only malaria remedy at the time... Long story short, ten years later, all the planets have aligned. First, I won the Euromillions! Well, almost... Let’s just say my girls are now old enough... not to take Malarone, but to stop following me on all my adventures! Jackpot! "Flo, how about a little two-person caprice, just the two of us, tackling the Namibian tracks?"
As we landed on the runway, first wow effect: The horizon is immense. It’s flat as can be, incredibly flat... So much flat space! Did I mention it was flat?... Looking into the distance, it feels like your gaze could circle the Earth without hitting a single obstacle—until you end up staring at your own backside. "Oh, what a nice view!" Well, it’s the first time I’ve seen my butt from this angle! Touching moment... Sorry, I’m rambling—must be the exhaustion from the three-flight marathon we just powered through via Ethiopia and South Africa... And yet, no time to philosophize about my anatomy. As usual, we want to rack up our first kilometers to be front and center at dawn tomorrow. After wrapping up the tedious Namibian immigration formalities and meeting the 4x4 that’ll be our companion day and night for the next fifteen days, we’re off! We’re not exactly fresh, but we’re ready to tackle the next five hundred kilometers in night mode, cruise control set due south! Just outside Windhoek, the local wildlife—a jackal—welcomes us with a smile: "Welcome to Namibia!" That’s what it said! Honest... Okay, first endless straight road, first flaming sunset, first corrugated dirt track, first Milky Way with zero light pollution... You get it—it’s definitely the day of firsts... First night camping, too, in the big trunk of our Toyota Fortuner parked by the side of the track... The real adventure, the kind that smells under the arms, can finally begin...
Here we go—finally, the big day has arrived! A trip the whole family (my two kids, my husband, and me) had been looking forward to for so long.
To keep it short, we left from Nice, arrived in Namibia on June 25, 2025, and left again on the 21st—four weeks later.
We used an agency for all the camping reservations, activities, and the car rental. At least that side of things was taken care of. Michaël was our contact throughout the planning and the trip itself.
We spent our first night at Londiningi BB. A bit out of the city center but very quiet. The rooms were spacious and clean, and we could eat on-site that evening. Perfect for recovering from the flight.
This travel journal is our second on VoyageForum, following last year’s where we recounted our four weeks in Vietnam.
The goal remains the same: since some members on this site share tips, experiences, and great deals that help us prepare for our trips, we do the same after returning—both to give back a little and in the hope that our experiences might be useful to others in some way.
Our route was as follows: Bangkok, Siem Reap, Krabi, Suratthani, Koh Phangan, Koh Tao, Chumphon, Bang Saphan, Prachuab Khiri Khan, Sam Roi Yod, Hua Hin, Phetchaburi, Bangkok.
Beyond rediscovering Bangkok, our objectives were the long-held dream of seeing Angkor and exploring southern Thailand, much of which isn’t overly touristy.
A quick big thank-you to Barbot, who took the time to answer several of our questions.
12/07/2013
The cheapest flight we found earlier this year was a Paris-Bangkok route with a layover in Moscow for 1440 €, total for two people.
So, this time we tried Aeroflot. Airbus A318 for the first leg, A330 for the second. Nothing particularly annoying to report—the passengers were very calm, the cabin temperature was comfortable, and we had enough legroom.
That said, the quality of the meal trays was pretty mediocre, and the flight attendants weren’t exactly comedians.
We’d like to remind everyone that it’s best to exchange as little money as possible at the airport upon arrival, since the rate is about 5% worse than at city banks.
Of course, we made sure to take the airport exit where you can catch official taxis to avoid getting scammed. So, we queued up, a little lady gave us the ticket, and off we went with the driver.
Generally, this system works well because these drivers are registered, know their duties, and the risks they face if they break the rules. Except that day, right off the bat, we got the scammer of the day. His first move was to snatch the ticket from my wife’s hands—the one you’re supposed to keep in case of a complaint. My husband saw it, but after a full day of travel, we were a bit out of it, and honestly, there was no reason to be suspicious. But once we started driving, the guy refused to turn on the meter. We insisted more and more firmly, but nothing. So, I used the famous method of opening the door and starting to step out of the car. At 40 km/h, that scares the driver more than the passenger. He finally turned on the meter, but that didn’t calm him down—quite the opposite. For the next half-hour, he ruined the ride by demanding extra fees here and there. Having dealt with several scam attempts last year in Vietnam, this wasn’t exactly new, and we were proud of ourselves for staying pretty zen. Still, this guy was a little scary—he was completely wired and aggressive. Honestly, it was hard not to think he was on something. He’d be perfect for a *Scarface* remake. When we finally arrived at the hotel, he followed us to the entrance. We paid the two tolls (25 and 45 baht), gave him the usual 100 baht extra for the ride, and stayed polite but firm. So, meter: 245 baht + 100 baht + 25 and 45 baht for tolls—we paid the exact amount, no way we were tipping this guy. He left furious, but he was already like that before picking us up... Anyway, avoid Mr. Chartree Chidchen, number 089 826 7308, car E2663!
We were so relieved to finally settle in at Feung Nakorn Balcony hotel in the temple district. 42 € per night, great reception, all the staff is friendly. The AC works fine, the bed seemed hard at first but turned out to be comfortable. The hotel is quiet, away from the nightlife, but at this time of year, many places are less crowded than in high season. Even with a nice fish pond and outdoor breakfast area, it’s a decent hotel, though we felt we could’ve found something better.
After a night on the plane, the first afternoon is always a bit of a slog. We napped for a few hours, and when we woke up—guess what—we were starving. We visited a temple across from the hotel (nothing special) and then decided to take the Chao Phraya Express, the river shuttle that serves many piers along the river. It was a really enjoyable experience. The steel gangway wobbles when you board and disembark, the boat sits low in the water, and sometimes you get splashed. During peak times, you’re packed in like sardines, but most of all, there’s that exotic urban landscape passing by, especially the temple rooftops.
At that exact moment, the boat was packed. We didn’t see a ticket booth at the pier, and we tried in vain to pay the few baht for the ride. The cashier on the boat was too busy, and another employee we called didn’t have time to help us. Oh well, we weren’t going to force the issue. Still, this mode of transport is super practical for avoiding traffic, and at the piers, the lines with station names are clearly marked, with colors matching the flags on the boats. Combined with a map like the *Routard* guide, it’s easy to navigate.
We easily made it to the restaurant *Harmonique*, located near one of these piers. It’s a unanimous favorite on this forum, and let us tell you—it’s well-deserved. What a wonderful experience that evening! We only saw the outdoor gazebo because there was no way we were dining inside. It’s not flashy, so those looking for a luxurious setting should look elsewhere.
That night, the staff was a bit slow, and we had to track them down several times to move things along. But oh, my friends—what a feast on the plate! Start with the appetizer platter for two at 250 baht, featuring four specialties, each more tempting than the last, followed by their famous crab curry for 200 baht. There’s *so much* crab in there! The dish is so delicious and rich that when you finish, you feel—how to put it—like it was almost *too* good, to the point where you’re almost put off eating for days. And also, oh yes, we *will* be back. Their satay chicken is just as amazing, and it would be a crime not to mention their generous dessert with ice cream, warm banana, and chocolate, plus their *excellent* almond milkshake.
Later, we took a taxi to Kao San Road, mainly to book a Ko Tao-Chumphon trip for 600 baht per person at the Lomprayah counter. In hindsight, we should’ve booked all three of our trips there right away.
Kao San Road is *ultra*-touristy—better for younger crowds, but it’s still worth seeing. There’s rock ‘n’ roll, hippies, and crowds everywhere.
We walked back to the hotel, and when we got a little lost near a canal, a really nice older Thai man spontaneously appeared out of the night to kindly point us in the right direction.
Finally, a real long night of sleep ahead—we cranked up the AC. Sweet, the vacation has begun!
Hi there,
I just got back from a trip to Sri Lanka from December 18th to January 1st with 2 adults and 2 kids (12 years old).
If it helps, here’s my itinerary.
We left on December 18th from Madrid with Qatar Airways. No complaints. I booked my tickets back in March for 800 € per person. (I flew from Madrid because I live near the Spanish border and was too worried about strikes in France.)
We arrived on December 19th at 4 PM (local time). Before leaving France, I’d booked a taxi through MyTransfer for 59 € to Sigiriya. A van was waiting for us at the airport exit.
A never-ending 3-hour drive to Sigiriya. We stayed at Samana Guesthouse—very simple, clean, with a pool and an excellent Sri Lankan breakfast. Shower and straight to bed.
Friday, December 20th: Beautiful weather, but very humid and hot. We visited Lion Rock (36 € for adults) and then Pidurangala.
I loved both sites—they’re a must-do in my opinion.
Spent the late afternoon by the pool.
Saturday, December 21st: Another gorgeous day. The guesthouse manager offered us a free 2-hour tuk-tuk tour. We first visited a lake, rice fields, the temple, and the Sigiriya market, plus the usual tourist trap—the botanical garden (no pressure to buy anything at the end).
Then we took a tuk-tuk to Dambulla Temple, the Golden Buddha, and the wholesale market.
Sunday, December 22nd: Still beautiful weather. I’d booked a taxi for 8 AM. We did all the long trips by taxi to save time. I’d ask for prices from 2 or 3 WhatsApp taxi agencies 2 days or the day before—super responsive, always got replies within 5 minutes. We headed to Ella (4-hour drive) for 22,000 LKR.
Arrived in the afternoon at Rest Full Homestay—a small, family-run guesthouse. Clean, cozy, and an amazing Sri Lankan breakfast.
In the afternoon, we went to Nine Arches Bridge. It was a Sunday, a Sri Lankan holiday, so it was *packed*—mostly locals and very few white tourists! Even though it was crowded, it was cool because it was all Sri Lankans. We waited an hour for the train. It’s worth seeing, but honestly, I didn’t think it was that amazing.
Then we headed to the station to check if we needed to book tickets for the train to Haputale—turns out, no.
Monday, December 23rd: Beautiful weather. We hiked Ella Rock—a gorgeous trek. The final stretch is steep but shaded, so it wasn’t as tough as I’d read. The whole hike is stunning from start to finish. We saw the train pass twice (one blue, one red) and lots of women picking tea.
After that, we did Little Adam’s Peak. It’s not hard, but it was *packed* with tourists—meh. Luckily, at the top, you can walk a bit farther (down one side and back up) to get some space to yourself.
What I *didn’t* like was the commercial vibe at the big café/restaurant with a pool at the entrance of Little Adam’s Peak. Loud music, all that money being made right next to little souvenir stands run by Sri Lankans or tea-picking women. Felt off.
Ended the day buying souvenirs at one of the few shops we found during the trip.
Tuesday, December 24th: Beautiful weather. Took the train to Haputale. We got to the station 30 minutes before the 9:30 AM train. We could’ve taken 2nd or 3rd class—I went with 2nd (160 LKR per person).
It was crowded, but we managed to get seats—first 2, then 3. Only a 1-hour ride, but I *loved* it—windows and doors open the whole time.
Arrived in Haputale around 11 AM, and the mist was already rolling in.
We walked to our guesthouse, The Mist Holiday Bungalow. Simple but clean, with a great view of the tea plantations. The owner’s wife is Vietnamese and used to work for French tour operators, so her French is still pretty good—helpful for us since our English is terrible. They booked us a tuk-tuk for 4:45 AM the next day (2,000 LKR) to Lipton’s Seat.
Spent the afternoon wandering around Haputale. Not much charm, but there’s a nice fruit and veggie market and a short walk through the tea plantations.
Wednesday, December 25th: Beautiful weather. The tuk-tuk was on time to take us to Lipton’s Seat. We were the first ones there—the sky was just starting to turn pink. In the end, only about ten of us watched the sunrise. The guesthouse had packed us breakfast, and we walked back down (half on the road, half through the plantations). Didn’t see any tea picking since it was Christmas, but the walk was still incredible. We took detours through villages full of kids.
After that, we visited the tea factory. The tour was really interesting, and we took the bus back down to Haputale. Such a great moment—whole families were heading to mass, dressed up and made up. All so beautiful.
At noon, we left for Udawalawe National Park. Taxi for 14,000 LKR. Stayed at River Inn Safari Cottage. *Warning*: It’s the same place as Eagle Safari Cottage. I don’t recommend it. We’d always stayed with families before, but here it was just staff—totally different vibe. The pool was nice but not very clean (water was murky). The bungalow was big and fine, but it was brand new—so new the asphalt floor wasn’t fully dry. It’s in the middle of nowhere, so we had to eat on-site. Couldn’t leave a review on Booking because they never confirmed we’d stayed, and they canceled our reservation the next day.
Thursday, December 26th: Beautiful weather. I’d booked a safari through the hotel for 5:30–10 AM for 54 USD. Honestly, yes, there are a lot of jeeps, but it was great. The kids loved it—we saw everything there was to see.
Left by taxi at 11:30 AM for Welligama (12,000 LKR).
We didn’t stay in Welligama city but at Coconut Beach, between Welligama and Midigama. *Total crush* on the guesthouse: Sky Mountain Café with View. Such a lovely family. The mom makes amazing meals at reasonable prices. The view from the hill over the sea is unreal.
Spent the afternoon walking along the beach.
Friday, December 27th: Beautiful weather. My kids are surfers. Unfortunately, there weren’t any boards their size to rent at Coconut, so we took a tuk-tuk to Welligama Bay (1,000 LKR). They surfed from 8 AM to 5 PM—rental was 5,000 LKR for the day. Meanwhile, we walked the beach and swam. Water was 29°C.
Saturday, December 28th: Beautiful weather, rain from 4 PM until midnight. Same surf day. They were so well-behaved the whole trip, so this was their reward.
Sunday, December 29th: Beautiful weather. Beach day at Coconut. *Warning*: It’s a reef break. For surfers, there are three spots (Coconut Left, Middle, and Right). The boys bodysurfed (with fins) all morning, and at 1 PM, we took the bus to Hikkaduwa.
Stayed at Hotel Universal Beach. Nothing special—right on the water, but the rooms were dark even though they were clean. The manager was super nice, but the rest was meh, and breakfast was mediocre compared to what we’d had before (2 eggs and 3 slices of toast). Plus, it was late—8 AM.
First impression of Hikkaduwa wasn’t great—way too many Russians for our taste.
Monday, December 30th: Beautiful weather. Spent the whole day exploring. Turtle Beach, then the other side of the beach (toward Galle) near the fishing port. The beach there is much wider, with scattered hotels and super quiet. It’s beautiful—I should’ve booked somewhere in that area. Ended up having a great day away from the crowds.
Tuesday, December 31st: Overcast, then beautiful, rain at 4 PM. Had to end the year (and the trip) with some surf. Rented boards for the kids (3,000 LKR per board for the day). Bad luck—the waves were on a reef break but small. Not great for them, but no big deal. They still got out of the water by 2 PM. Walked the beach (which is gorgeous), had a juice, and went for a swim. Then back to surfing in the rain at 4 PM.
Wednesday, January 1st: Left by taxi at 5 AM (18,000 LKR). Flight at 10 AM. Arrived in Madrid at 8 PM.
I could have titled my travel journal like Carmen: "Some trips are born twice." Indeed, we had considered this destination back in February 2020. However, an honest tour operator advised us against traveling at that time due to the climate. So, we gave up and opted for Guatemala instead (see "On the Mayan Lands" on this site).
So, why this title? When I was in primary school, over 65 years ago, the illustrations in my history books (Machu Picchu) and geography books (Lake Titicaca) made me dream, and those images stayed in my mind. It took until 2026 to finally make this dream come true!
We prepared our trip with Tout Pérou, a French-speaking "agency." Everything was handled via email and WhatsApp exchanges with our contact: Laurent, who was both competent, friendly, and full of good advice.
For 200 €, Tout Pérou provided us with drivers and guides whenever we wanted, helped us buy our domestic flights (cheaper when purchased in Peru), booked shuttles between airports and hotels, and got us a discount on the train ride to Aguas Calientes, as well as on the buses between Chivay and Puno and between Puno and Cusco. In short, Laurent took care of all the logistics and the Machu Picchu tickets. It was up to us to book our hotels. Tout Pérou provided a list, but we weren’t obliged to follow it. Another advantage of the package: we didn’t have to pay in advance; we paid the service providers directly day by day.
We didn’t meet Laurent in person because he was on vacation in Europe. Before his departure, he gave us a briefing, provided a summary table with the entire program, the service providers, their phone numbers, their fees, the schedules, and gave us plenty of advice (money, exchange, safety, etc.). After returning at the end of our stay, he kept checking in on us.
Lastly, we had also gathered information from Arnaud Lagadec, who runs a hotel in Cusco and offers tours of the region. He gave us a lot of useful information. Another contact: Thomas Montaigne, very friendly, who runs an agency in Arequipa (Agence Pérou Exclusif).
Day 1 – Paris to Lima
Foreword
I’ll share our trip without any pretension—I don’t have the talent of some contributors on this forum—and I’ll illustrate it with a few photos (taken with an ordinary smartphone). My comments are personal and only reflect my own views. So, please be kind! Feel free to comment on my story as you like, but let’s avoid pointless debates.
Even though we live in the south of the Paris region, true to our habits when the flight is in the morning, we chose to spend the night before our departure in a hotel near CDG and parked our car in a parking lot in Garches. This way, we avoid the stress that often comes with traveling around Paris (accidents, roadworks, traffic jams, etc.).
Check-in and border control went smoothly on that Sunday morning. Our Air France flight was uneventful. In Lima, border control took a particularly long time, and for the first time, we didn’t get an entry visa stamped in our passports.
As planned, a driver took us to the Miraflores district, where our hotel was located. We were surprised by the numerous signs about possible tsunamis, having forgotten that Peru is prone to such events and regularly experiences earthquakes. We’d see the consequences of these during our journey.
Exhausted from the early wake-up, the 13-hour flight, and the 7-hour time difference, we had dinner at the hotel before a restful night.
Note that this day was Peru’s presidential election day. As a result, we weren’t served beer—the sale of alcohol was banned that Sunday.
We did the Langtang trek (hike) from September 10th to 17th, with the first and last days being the trip from Kathmandu and back—so 6 days of actual walking. It’s a fairly well-known trek but certainly not as famous or crowded as those in the Annapurna or Everest regions, which is why we chose it.
In theory, it’s mandatory to have a guide for this trek. In reality, it seems there are ways to bypass the regulations: we met at least two people hiking without a guide—a South Korean, a New Zealander, and possibly also a couple of English women and an American couple, though we’re not sure if they had a guide.
The agency we booked with had told us it was an affordable trek for relatively older people in good shape—which is our case (I’m 72 myself). I have to say upfront that we found it quite challenging, maybe because we didn’t have good weather—it was the end of the monsoon season. To be clear, no matter your fitness level, I’d say doing this trek in the middle of the monsoon season would be suicidal.
Day 1 – Journey from Kathmandu to Syapru Besi
On Monday, September 8th, there had been violent protests in Kathmandu against the government, which had, among other things, blocked access to social media and been accused of nepotism and corruption. There were 19 deaths. The situation was very tense on the day of our departure, Wednesday the 10th. The agency warned us that public transport was very unreliable. So, we decided to take a jeep, at an additional cost of $100 ($160 minus what was already budgeted for the bus).
We left a little before 7 a.m. and it took us a good hour just to reach the outskirts of Kathmandu. Along the way, we saw several houses and vehicles set on fire by protesters.
The road to Syapru Besi is only 120 km, but it’s frankly awful. It’s always narrow, winds through endless mountains, and the shoulders range from bad to confusing to nonexistent. Several sections are just dirt tracks. We didn’t regret opting for the jeep, as we could stop several times at our convenience—if only to let Y (my Thai partner) throw up everything she had. She’d taken her usual motion sickness medication, but the constant turns, accelerations, and braking eventually made her terribly carsick.
In Nuwakot, we stopped for breakfast at a nice little restaurant, Jimbu. It was around 8:30 a.m., and we’d barely covered 60 km. The restaurant has a lovely garden overlooking the Trishuli Ganga, the river flowing down from Syapru Besi. First photo: the river in the bottom right corner, mist and clouds over the mountain on the other side.
An hour later, my second photo: the hills along the Trishuli Ganga. You can see the different crops—lush green rice paddies in the lower right and corn, already yellowed and likely harvested, in the foreground on the left. And of course, the mist and clouds through which you can glimpse the mountain on the other side of the river.
When we started looking for a summer destination a few months ago, our first criterion was to avoid extreme heat and heatwaves. We had already been to Norway two years ago and are considering going back in the future for other occasions. So, we had some fun asking ChatGPT which destinations enjoyed a mild climate during the summer without going too far. Among the list provided by the AI were the Canary Islands... The idea of a place we wouldn’t have thought of first, both not too far away and exotic enough, appealed to us: “Hmm, why not?”
This destination had never really attracted me, though Magali was a bit more interested. Five years earlier, COVID had caused a short break in my professional activity, and I had planned a trip because the flight price was attractive, and I was looking for a destination different from what usually appeals to me, more than out of deep interest. From a distance and with a social judgment I acknowledge (it’s not great, but it’s not completely wrong), I had the image of a destination for party-goers enjoying the sun without the slightest interest in local culture, with concrete coastlines and denatured landscapes—everything I detest the most. Still, I had done some quick research on the different islands and spotted Lanzarote for its beautiful volcanic landscapes, hiking trails, beaches, and the impression of a good balance between activity and fewer crowds than Tenerife or Gran Canaria. Then I dropped the idea of going, without ever reconsidering traveling to the Canaries...
Until now! Because we started researching the different islands of the archipelago to see which ones might appeal to us the most. It was La Gomera, the third smallest island of the archipelago, more praised for its hiking trails and preserved nature than for its beaches, away from mass tourism (fifty times fewer tourists than Tenerife) but still a bit more developed than its wild neighbor El Hierro, that caught our attention. Contrary to what might be suggested later, I’m not at all addicted to AI, but I use it from time to time to synthesize quick research or simply for experimentation. Since ChatGPT had started anticipating my tastes lately as if it had become my buddy (often successfully, sometimes off the mark), I asked which Canary Island would suit me best for a trip with my family. The tool answered first with... La Gomera. So, I tested it and teased it a bit to see if this suggestion was well-founded, as the method sometimes makes it contradict itself. But no luck: “You’d appreciate the wild nature of El Hierro, but with family, you’ll find little activity for the kids. You won’t like the touristy vibe of the big islands like Tenerife, Gran Canaria, Lanzarote, and Fuerteventura. You could consider La Palma, but it’s really La Gomera that will suit you best, based on your interests and the criteria given.” So, we dug deeper into our research and were convinced without a shadow of a doubt that this island was the one waiting for us.
Without knowing it, we had Canarians in our circle who revealed their origins when they heard about our travel plans. One from Tenerife insisted we’d be better off choosing Tenerife (obviously...) because it also has preserved spots and that La Gomera, “you can explore it in two or three days, you’ll get bored quickly...” The other, a colleague from Gran Canaria who had never visited La Gomera, still recommended it without hesitation because it turned out her parents had just gone there on vacation: they loved it and had encountered few tourists. She also tended to think this destination was usually the subject of short stays, but according to what her parents told her, taking your time there was also a great idea. However, in our research, the idea that La Gomera is an island you can explore in three or four days max kept coming up. So, we considered combining its visit with La Palma or El Hierro, the other two that caught our eye. But hopping between islands by ferry represents a significant budget for non-Canarians, even more so for a family of four. Then, scrutinizing Google Maps, it seemed obvious that two weeks were too short to discover two islands as they deserve, and that there seemed to be plenty to see in La Gomera, given its very unique culture. After all, we read that some people spend several months a year there, others never even leave... Finally, these landscapes and this atmosphere, which seemed to us a mix of Europe, North Africa, and Latin America, tempted us. So, it would be two weeks in La Gomera, deal!
La Gomera is therefore the second... well, the third smallest island of the Canaries since La Graciosa was recently recognized as a fully inhabited island. It has the shape of a rough circle about 20 to 25 kilometers in diameter and has just over 20,000 inhabitants, half of them in its capital, San Sebastián de la Gomera, the only real town. Like its Canarian sisters, La Gomera is a volcanic formation that rose about 10 million years ago. The island is very mountainous and rugged, covered with red and black rocky landscapes. Geological activity has shaped, between the sprawling massifs that end in steep cliffs in the ocean, six coastal valleys with tropical vegetation that have favored human settlement. They divide the island like slices of a cake; from the north clockwise: the agricultural Vallehermoso, the rustic Agulo, the green, humid, and fertile Hermigua, the sunny capital San Sebastián de la Gomera, the southern and isolated Alajeró-Santiago, and the seaside Valle Gran Rey. They constitute the six municipalities (more like cantons to our French understanding) of the territory.
The large solidified magma massifs that shape the heart of the island have created a large depression more protected from the sun at its center, allowing the growth of a vast laurel forest, today grouped within the Garajonay National Park, La Gomera’s green lung, which has earned it the status of a World Biosphere Reserve. Its completely European appearance contrasts sharply with the rocky and tropical landscapes of the rest of the island. Thus, the climate varies greatly from one point to another on the island: in summer, you can quickly go from a dry and sunny valley at 35°C to a humid forest area at altitude at 18°C.
La Gomera was populated late. As with the rest of the Canaries, human presence is thought to have begun about 2,000 years ago. Groups of animist Berbers, probably fleeing persecution, gradually populated the archipelago, especially the western islands and La Gomera, becoming its small aboriginal population: the Guanches (or later Gomeros). The animist and pastoral civilization of the Guanches thrived until the Spanish takeover in the 15th century, which, after a short period of harmony and mixing with the indigenous people, suddenly ended in bloodshed... La Gomera later became the “Columbus Island” after Christopher Columbus’s stopover, increasing the blending of populations. In the 20th century, many Gomeros emigrated to Cuba and other Latin American countries in search of a better life, bringing back a mix of cultures and traits quite palpable in today’s Gomeran culture. It is, however, in La Gomera that the vestiges of Guanche culture seem to have left the most traces, in the language, gastronomy, social practices... Moreover, most Gomeros, especially in remote villages, have a particular identifiable type and proudly claim their ancestral roots, even making La Gomera a bit exotic in the eyes of other Canarians.
Perhaps that’s why it has never really wanted to develop its tourist infrastructure too much. If we set aside the tourists who visit for the day by bus or boat from Tenerife on a marked itinerary (and whom we ultimately rarely encounter), La Gomera has remained a hidden gem, a destination focused on nature discovery that attracts hikers, nature-loving divers, and scientists for its fauna and flora, and to a lesser extent, beachgoers who don’t seek overly developed coastlines. Tourist activity is therefore limited. Roughly speaking, you’ll find a majority of Spaniards, including a substantial number of residents from other Canary Islands, many Germans who have a particular fondness for La Gomera and spend long stays there or own second homes, to the point that the German cultural footprint is clearly noticeable in some places (it’s said to be Angela Merkel’s favorite holiday spot), and still quite a few French. The presence of other nationalities seemed negligible to us. Most travelers come mainly for hiking, but it’s also a prime spot for whale watching. Additionally, the seaside resorts of La Gomera—San Sebastián, Santiago, and especially Valle Gran Rey—are well-known destinations for hippies, especially German ones, ranging from chic boho hippies to old-school hippies who’ve been there for decades, quite similar to those you’d meet in India in Goa, Rishikesh, or Paharganj. Thus, practices like naturism, vegetarianism, and local organic production are quite well established in some areas.
Some practical info:
- The round-trip flight from Paris to Tenerife cost us 365 € per person (outbound with Transavia, return with EasyJet), including checked luggage and three seats reserved side by side.
- We chose two bases to explore the island: one week in Valle Gran Rey, reputed to be the most pleasant of the three seaside resorts, and one week in Hermigua, more mountainous and close to the natural park. We booked two houses with balconies and views: the first at 120 € per night, the second at 99 €.
- The round-trip ferry between Tenerife and La Gomera cost us 270 € with the company Baleària Canarias, including discounts for children aged 4 and 12, but I don’t have the exact details. It was a bit cheaper than with the other company, Fred Olsen.
- Finally, we rented a car through the agency Cicar for 360 € for 16 days, which comes to 22.50 € per day.
- Apart from that, we didn’t plan anything and decided the day before or even the morning of what we wanted to do. We didn’t invest in any paper guide on the Canaries, as information on La Gomera was scarce, but we used the very comprehensive site La Gomera Travel, a travel guide published by the Canary Islands Tourism Council, a real goldmine of almost exhaustive information on the island.
Alright, off we go for 16 days of adventure discovering La Gomera!
Last October, we landed in Marrakech to spend a few days with family exploring Morocco’s roads.
Transport: a rented Dacia.
Accommodations: small guesthouses.
Our first stop was just a few kilometers from Marrakech, at a lovely house perfect for relaxing and recharging before continuing. It’s called Bleu House, a little paradise on the outskirts of Marrakech. The welcome was very warm, with a beautiful pool and a lovely garden.
Next, we headed toward the Tichka Pass. The road has really improved in recent years—it’s much easier to drive now. No more getting stuck behind trucks, and today, the construction is practically finished.
Morocco has turned green after the recent rains. It’s a joy for the herds and shepherds.
I hesitated about writing this travel journal...
This summer, we only did the classics (the 3 northern parks and Zanzibar) and let a local agency take care of everything from start to finish.
No craziness, no risks, no sleeping under the stars, no self-drive, no venturing off the beaten path, no incidents, and not even any delays in the pre-planned itinerary...
But don’t think we were disappointed!
The whole family (there were 6 of us) came back with smiles and memories of great moments spent together.
So, if you're looking for a "classic" way to discover Tanzania, this is the place to be.
Our 2-week itinerary:
- Arusha (1 night upon arrival)
- Tarangire (1 night)
- Ngorongoro (2 nights in Karatu then Irmisigiyo)
- Serengeti (3 nights in Robanda, Togoro Plains, and Seronera)
- Zanzibar Stone Town (1 night)
- Zanzibar Matemwe (3 nights)
- Zanzibar Jambiani (3 nights)
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
It’s an ancient city that breathes, a living spring.
Here, no kitschy signs like “I miss you in Fengyu,” nor mass-produced fake antiques.
The century-old houses still bear the marks of wind and rain; in the morning, you hear roosters crowing, and at dusk, smoke gently rises from the kitchens.
This city doesn’t try to please anyone—like the spring water flowing through it, it simply keeps living at its own pace.
Located in Eryuan County, in the Dali Prefecture of Yunnan, the ancient town of Fengyu is a nationally designated historical and cultural city. It’s nicknamed the “land of scholars and ink”—during the Qing Dynasty, the Fengxiang Academy produced four *jinshi* and eleven *juren* in the imperial examinations. The Bai families made studying and farming a true legacy. Even on market days, you’ll find stalls of calligraphy and paintings, while lintels and screen walls are covered with family mottos.
Fengyu was also an important stop on the ancient Tea Horse Road. It preserves the second-largest Bai architectural complex in China, just after Xizhou. The famous traveler Xu Xiake spent seven days here and compared it to the “peach blossom paradise.”
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:
The latest travel journal about Turkmenistan dates back to 2019. Here’s a quick update on this vast desert country, which is now a bit easier to visit than before.
This is my first travel journal. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. The country is slowly opening up, but it’s still possible to visit sites where you’ll be completely alone. In five days, I saw two Hongkongers, a few Germans, and a Chilean at the crater, ten Chinese people in a capital bazaar, and that’s it!
It’s possible to visit Turkmenistan from Uzbekistan. The easiest and most economical way is to take a taxi to the border from Bukhara. The trip takes a little over an hour.
Crossing the border takes quite a while because many Turkmen bring back items bought in Uzbekistan to resell in Turkmenistan. For example, diapers, baby products, or beauty products.
It took me over 2.5 hours to cross the border. To visit Turkmenistan, it’s mandatory to have a guide and go through a travel agency. British agencies often offer three-, five-, or seven-day trips for over 1,500 or 2,000 €.
But if your budget is more limited, you can contact a few Turkmen agencies directly by email, and they’ll make you an offer between 700 and 1,300 € for three to seven days. I took a five-day trip from Turkmenabat in the northeast of the country to Dashoguz in the north. The goal was to visit the main UNESCO-listed sites, including Merv, and archaeological sites like Nisa or Gonur Tepe.
Your guide will also be your driver. They’ll pick you up at the border. The formalities are very long because customs officers have to stamp multiple documents, and obtaining the visa you previously requested from your travel agency requires several checks. But the process goes relatively smoothly, even if each step takes a while.
Once on the other side, the first surprise is the brand-new highway all the way to Turkmenabat. A very long line of trucks stretches for several kilometers on the Turkmen side to cross the border into Uzbekistan. According to my guide, Turkmen trucks transport gas and cotton (though not this season, since the harvest is in September), but they mainly fill up their tanks because fuel is much cheaper in Turkmenistan. A full tank for a car costs about 3 €, which is unbeatable.
From the Farap border post, the goal is to reach the city of Mary, which is home to the UNESCO-listed site of Merv in its suburbs, about thirty kilometers away. This city is known as a foundation by Alexander the Great in the 4th century BC under the name Alexandria of Margiana. Several fortresses are visible.
After more than three hours on the road, we have lunch at a Turkish restaurant called Aladdin. Several quotes from the president are visible along the highway, but the road is in good condition, and we move along easily. This will be by far the best road in the country—things will get much worse later.
Roundabouts are particularly interesting because they feature emblems of Turkmen culture, like the dog, a carpet, the Ahal Teke horse, or Muslim symbols, even though the presence of Islamic artifacts is quite limited.
Preamble:
Africa was calling to me, so a year ago, with our usual travel companions, we decided to return to the continent we love so much.
Where to go?
Uganda quickly caught our attention—wildlife we’re used to seeing, plus gorillas and the shoebill we missed in Zambia.
We got in touch with Paul, who’s been mentioned several times on the forum back in September, booked our flight tickets, secured the gorilla permits, and by early October, the most important things were done.
We still had plenty of time to hold our "prep meetings" for the final itinerary.
Three days before departure, I sprained my ankle (my weak spot, as you’ll recall from our Colombia trip).
I wasn’t in great spirits, but after a year of waiting, nothing was going to stop me.
We’d see how it goes!
Off we went for our new adventures
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!
It often happens that we're asked what to visit in Belgium.
And the answers usually point to Bruges, Ghent, Antwerp, and Brussels—and rightly so, as these cities are well worth visiting ;).
However, Belgium, though small, isn’t just limited to these four cities.
I live in one of them (Brussels), enjoy spending time in the other three, but I’d like to highlight some lesser-known spots that could add to the trip for those who want to see a bit more or something different.
Between trips, I like exploring one or two corners of the country where I live.
Hence the idea for a travel journal of walks.
Most of the places I’ll talk about can be visited as a day trip from Brussels, whether by public transport or car.
In chronological order of the topics covered:
- The Gileppe Dam (Liège province) - message 2, page 1
- The Domaine de La Hulpe (Walloon Brabant) - message 3, page 1
- Mechelen (Antwerp province) - message 4, page 1
- The coast - message 5, page 1
- The Westhoek, from De Panne - message 6, page 1
- The Zwin, from Knokke - message 7, page 1
- Lier (between Mechelen and Antwerp) - message 8, page 1
- Mons (Hainaut) - message 9, page 1
- The Florenville region - message 12, page 1
- The East Cantons - message 13, page 1
- Dinant - message 18, page 1
- The Japanese garden in Hasselt - message 24, page 2
- Leuven - message 29, page 2
- Louvain-la-Neuve - message 32, page 2
- Ostend - message 42 (page 3) and message 166 (page 9)
- The floralies of Groot-Bijgaarden - message 43, page 3
- Halle Forest - message 44, page 3
- Pralines - message 54, page 3
- Charleroi - message 68, page 4
- Namur - message 92, page 5
- Le Bois du Cazier (Marcinelle) - message 95, page 5
- Couques and gosettes - message 96, page 5
- Liège - message 99, page 5
- Tournai - message 115, page 6
- Oudenaarde - message 121, page 7
- Meise Botanical Garden - message 124, page 7
- Tongeren - message 125, page 7
- Beersel Castle (Flemish Brabant) - message 126, page 7
- Brussels in lockdown (messages 150 and 154, page 8)
- Notre-Dame à la Rose Hospital in Lessines (messages 161 and 162, page 9)
- Westende (message 167, page 9)
I’ll keep updating this list as the journal progresses...
This trip had been on my mind for about fifteen years.
But the discomfort of overnight stays, the difficulty of communication, and the prices of the few car rental options kept making me postpone the project.
And then, everything suddenly fell into place—I told myself, it’s time!
The preparations took longer than usual; the destination is still far from mainstream.
A bit of Kazakhstan?
Not in the end.
The south or not the south?
Yes, in the end.
Pre-book or go with the flow?
Only two stops were a leap into the unknown.
To help me find the ideal route, I made great use of this forum (thanks to everyone for patiently answering my questions!), pored over travel journals and blogs (Christian, Jeff), zoomed in on Google Maps and Yandex, and bought the guide published by OunTravela about this destination (the guide has been updated since).
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You’ve got your passport, international driver’s license, bank cards, and euros?
Off we go to Lyon—just one night left before our early morning flight.
Tomorrow night, we’ll be sleeping in Bishkek!
(Steak for my partner’s mischievous nephews...)
You’ll find here a post with some practical information.
And here, the version of the travel journal without comments.
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As a supplement, the route track.
Not necessarily ultra-accurate since Google has serious gaps for this destination...
On the right, the "welcome marker"—those dates offered everywhere as a sign of hospitality. On the left, a tribute to those stunning doors worn by time, admired all over the old quarters, including the abandoned ones.
Hospitality will often lead you to accept a small coffee, an "Omani coffee," very light, subtly flavored with cardamom, maybe a touch of saffron, and occasionally rosewater.
Here, I’ve depicted a man in the common everyday attire of Omanis: the dishdasha, mostly white (during the week and daytime; colors are more common in the evening or on Fridays and Saturdays). While you’ll see some men dressed in Western clothes, they’re very few. The white dishdasha is truly the shared attire of all men. The dishdasha, which has no hood, is distinguished by a small pom-pom attached to the collar, the furakha, which is soaked in perfume. And believe me, Omanis go overboard with it! "It smells like the pom-pom" is an expression that’s now part of our shared language, my husband and I.
Another must of men’s attire is the kuma, a small round head covering, usually white with brightly colored patterns. The keffiyeh is also worn (but without the cord called an agal in Arab countries), and it’s mostly worn by those with roots in the desert, from what I understood.
And what about the women, you might ask? Some are veiled, some in full black (but not a burka—more like a chador + abaya), due to the influence of Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, whereas the traditional outfit used to be a layering of very colorful dresses. Most of the women we saw wore neutral clothing, a plain veil over their hair, but with their faces uncovered. We also saw many saris and colorful veils—don’t forget that 40% of the population consists of Indian, Nepalese, and Bangladeshi immigrants, who work a lot in tourism, hospitality, restaurants, services, and construction.
Just to clarify, as a tourist, there’s no pressure to wear a veil, and never any disapproving looks. Of course, you’ll save the mini shorts, plunging necklines, bare shoulders, and midriffs for the hotel terrace—but I’d say that’s the same for men and women, and with the sun being strong, it’s better for your skin too.
Here’s the introduction! In the next post, I’ll tell you about my itinerary, and we can dive in!
The large solidified magma massifs that shape the heart of the island have created a large depression more protected from the sun at its center, allowing the growth of a vast laurel forest, today grouped within the Garajonay National Park, La Gomera’s green lung, which has earned it the status of a World Biosphere Reserve. Its completely European appearance contrasts sharply with the rocky and tropical landscapes of the rest of the island. Thus, the climate varies greatly from one point to another on the island: in summer, you can quickly go from a dry and sunny valley at 35°C to a humid forest area at altitude at 18°C.
Last October, we landed in Marrakech to spend a few days with family exploring Morocco’s roads.
Transport: a rented Dacia.
Accommodations: small guesthouses.
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:
Roundabouts are particularly interesting because they feature emblems of Turkmen culture, like the dog, a carpet, the Ahal Teke horse, or Muslim symbols, even though the presence of Islamic artifacts is quite limited.
A little sneak peek?
