Due to iPhone user incompetence all the posts I've sent since Disney seem to have disappeared into the ether. So, to recap, a miscellany of photographs suitably captioned with fatuous and barely relevant information.
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| Gill with the morning croissants by the Marne |
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| Impressionist style reflections |
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| Maisy takes a lunch-time breather at the top of a pass in the Vosges |
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| What do you see when you visit The Vosges? |
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| We take a breather in the Alsace wine village, Kayserberg |
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| It's drop-dead gorgeous |
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| I wonder if M. Sick ever wonders why his lovely wine failed to sell well in the UK? |
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| Parked up in Oberried Campsite, the steep stony track just off camera made backing in tricky, but I did get a round of applause from by-standers when I made it! |
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| It's difficult to believe that the village of Oberried is less than 12km from the busy city of Freiburg |
1. Topping a low ridge, the seemingly endless plains of Champagne stretching out before us, slowly four or five lime green, locust-like combine harvesters trundle across the prairie sized fields trailing plumes of dust behind them. A mile or so to the north on top of a grassy hillock three huge wind turbines revolve slowly, each at an imperceptibly different speed so their long winglike blades conspire to catch each other but never quite do. As I drove along I found this hypnotising. The autoroute curved slightly and a minute or two later I caught a final glimpse of the three from a different angle in my wing mirrors, more distant now and distorted slightly by the convex glass. They dominated the flat landscape like a monumental modern calvary.
2. Next day, after an overnight stop in a campsite on the banks of the Marne near Toul, Maisie chugs. slowly up the long incline which signals the transition from the plains to the hillier uplands of the Vosges. I assist her progress by accompanying Steely Dan's. ' Don't Take Me Alive' in a tuneless, but spirited baritone.
'Pete's in his happy place,' I announce to the world in general. The band break into a guitar solo. I continue, 'Blue skies in the wing mirrors, Danny Dias kicking shit out of his Strat.' I let the comment hang there as Danny proves my point, ripping through a series a breakneck runs alternating power chords with quick arpeggio scales that cut across the song's mid-tempo backbeat. Mr Fagen breaks into the final chorus:
"I've a case of dynamite
I can hold out here all night,
I left my old man back in Oregon
Don't take me alive."
I continue my previous train of thought, 'Might have been Jeff 'the skunk' Baxter, even after all these years I can't always tell who is who. Walter Becker is always recognisable though, much jazzier, though he played bass more often than not back then'.
Maisy changes down into third, the road becomes bendy and tall evergreens overhang each side, I end my short Danorak epistle with an appropriate summary, 'Royal Scam is such a great album,' then concentrate on driving, much to the relief, no doubt, of my travelling companions.
3. Later that day, or more accurately very early next morning I am lying in bed thinking about how the late afternoon light in the Black Forest turns the upland meadows a bright, veridian green, contrasting with the dark conifer forests of which cover the rounded hill-tops. The colours look hyper-real, as if they've been enhances by CGI.
I open my eyes, the dark square of the van's skylight is filled with stars. They look stitched onto black silk fabric, close enough to touch. Otherwise it is utterly dark and utterly silent, except for the sound of Gill breathing quietly next to me. I fall asleep thinking now lucky I have been.
Sent from my iPhone
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