enjoy.
Oft-Confused Yank Crosses Atlantic to See Singer from Canada
written & submitted by: chuck schulkins
chapter one:
After a rather limited 2007, travel wise, I'd been yearning to cover some new ground this summer. News that Loreena McKennitt would be touring Europe served as a catalyst of sorts, and I was hoping to see her in France or Spain. Spanish dates did not appear for quite some time, and Quimper, in Brittany, loomed as a distinct possibility, as she was doing two shows there and it would place me in the general vicinity of a castle I'd always been fond of due to its inclusion in an old Kirk Douglas movie, The Vikings. European tour news from another band led me to compare a couple of itineraries, and I eventually settled on plans to see Ms. McKennitt in Cologne and Sigur Ros in Arras, France, followed by a couple of days in Brittany and a couple of days in Paris. After extensive flight shopping, Luxembourg closed the loop, as for some reason, it was several hundred dollars cheaper to fly there than to Cologne, or Paris, or anywhere else in the general vicinity.
July 4, 2008
And so it came to be that I found myself in a parking garage at Luxembourg's Findel Airport, loading my stuff into a diesel-powered Mercedes along with a thick stack of "drive-alive.uk" directions, a couple maps, a guidebook, and two concert tickets, pondering the task I'd set for myself in the name of "relaxation": Hundreds and hundreds of kilometers on the road, through four countries and numerous strange cities, with a working vocabulary of "Hello", "Goodbye", "Thank You" and "Do you speak English" in a handful of languages. Make no mistake, though, I was counting heavily on most folks speaking at least a little English, and for a gregarious and affable visitor, that's plenty. In addition, I've had a fair amount of seasoning on European roads, having been mildly or badly lost in half a dozen countries.
I'd taken an overnight flight with two stopovers, so I was pretty tired, but thanks to the purchase of a nifty pillow, I'd managed to get two or three hours of sleep on the plane, and felt pretty fresh. On the way to Cologne, I stopped for lunch in Vianden, a small town in the middle of Luxembourg on the Our River, with a fine looking castle atop a ridge dominating the landscape. A riverside snack of smoked trout salad and a Diekirch (a Luxembourg beer, I believe) was quite idyllic. You can drive up to the castle, or, as I did, you can ride a chairlift from the river to a ridge overlooking the castle, which offers fantastic views on top as well as on the way up and down. If you're ever in Luxembourg, check it out. It can't be too far away.
I didn't have directions or even a fixed route to Cologne, but I figured I'd merely follow the Our for a piece, then veer off East by Northeast, and meander my way with the sun over my left shoulder until I spotted signs for Cologne (perhaps I should say Koln). I really couldn't get too badly lost, for sooner or later I'd run into either the E29 or the Rhine river, than follow that to Koln. The drive took me through lovely rolling countryside and little villages, and I pretty much had the roads to myself, which was a good thing, considering how narrow they were.
It was pretty easy to get oriented in Koln, what with the Rhine River and a couple of very large bridges defining the layout. A short time after entering the city, I was checked in, and although it wasn't at all late, the overnight travel caught up with me, and I slept like a dead man for about 10 hours.
July 5, 2008
I spent the day wandering around Koln. The weather was great, although it was a bit on the warm side for all the footwork I undertook. The twin-spired cathedral was very impressive. The views of the city as one walks over the Rhine are quite impressive, but the city itself is somewhat nondescript in some respects, being flat and straight, with few of those tight, curving, hilly streets that make exploring so fun. Still, there is much to admire. I visited the Museum Schnutgen, which features medieval religious art and furnishings, an odd choice for me to visit, but certain ivory carvings, memento mori, were alone worth the ticket price.
After crossing back over the Rhine for a reconnaissance of sorts (I wanted to make sure I knew exactly where the concert venue was) I went back to the hotel to rest up a bit. Later, I was quite glad that I did so, as it turned out that for those of us with general admission tickets, it was standing room only. Luckily, I'd arrived early enough to get a spot behind the last row of seats (not terribly far away), almost directly in the center, quite near the soundboard.
I'm sure the outdoor nature of the show added to the existing challenges faced by the sound engineers, i.e. mixing the sounds of various combinations of ten performers, many of them playing rather subtle instruments. At times, the wind swept a bit of nuance away, but by and large, the sound was quite fine. In lesser hands, the mix of European and middle Eastern sounds could easily slip into a sort of "easy-listening" mish-mash of styles, but Loreena and her band have the depth to pull it off in grand fashion. The arrangements varied from quite delicate numbers that prominently featured the cello and harp, to lively percussion-heavy songs that made me glad I was on my feet. Likewise, Loreena sang at times with great subtlety and at other times, with great power.
The band and setlist were quite similar to what I'd seen last fall. Stolen Child was slated as the opener, but was not played, which was a shame, as I'd never seen that song performed. I was delighted, however, that Beneath A Phrygian Sky was substituted for the last encore. I'd never seen that one before, either, and it is one of my favorites from the latest CD. There were a few changes to the band, as well. Hugh Marsh was not there, and I missed his fiery violin (not that Zolton Lantos was bad by any means, just a different style). Caroline Lavelle was along for the tour; I'd have missed her terribly had she not been there. All in all, it was a fine show, on a cool, breezy, cloudy evening.
The rain held off until the show was over, and I didn't know if it would be possible to greet Loreena again, but I hung around a bit waiting for the rain to subside before the fairly long walk to the bus stop. I'd also seen a rather nice poster for the event, and was looking to see if any were up for grabs, but to no avail. As it turned out, a group of us who had stuck around were ushered in for a brief meet and greet. As always, Loreena was very charming.
Brian Hughes - acoustic and electric guitar, oud, bouzouki
Ben Grossman - hurdy gurdy, percussion
Rick Lazar - percussion
Clive Deamer - drums, percussion
Simon Edwards - acoustic and electric bass, marimbula
Stratis Psaradellis - lyra, lute
Donald Quan - viola, keyboards, tabla, accordion
Caroline Lavelle - cello
Zolton Lantos - violin
The Gates of Istanbul
The Mummer's Dance
Bonny Portmore
Marco Polo
The Highwayman
Dante’s Prayer
The Bonny Swans
Caravanserai
Raglan Road
The Mystic's Dream
Santiago
The Lady of Shalott
The Old Ways
Never Ending Road
Huron Beltane Firedance
Beneath A Phrygian Sky
My body had yet to adjust to the time change, so I hadn't been hungry when suppertime came around, but after the show, a nice snack of good cheese and bread, washed down with a couple glasses of a local beer (Koln has more breweries than any city in Germany!) really hit the spot.
July 6, 2008
After a sound sleep, I set off on the four or five hour drive to Arras for the Main Square Festival. Figuring the town to be jammed with festivalgoers, I'd planned on taken advantage of the camping grounds arranged by the festival organizers, and this proved to be a good move. Even if I'd reserved a room, the town was so overcrowded, I don't know where I would have parked the car. The organizers also did a great job placing signs showing the way to the campground, and there was a free shuttle to the festival.
What a zoo! Imagine a very large town square jammed with people, and more pouring in every minute. Vampire Weekend had started by the time I arrived, and although I listened to them for a while, they didn't really grab me. The square seemed to slope slightly down towards the stage, and the stage was fairly high, so you could see fairly well from quite far away, and the sound was pretty good, except towards the far end of the square, where it fell victim to echoing. The only place you could sit was on the square, in the street, or, if you were lucky, on the curb. I grabbed a quick sandwich (very nice, actually) and a Coke, then hit the bathroom. (A badly inadequate number of portable johns, which I did not require again for the evening, which was fortunate, as the lines grew to astounding length). As the Wombats took the stage, I wandered around, seeking a Holy Grail of sorts, that is, a comfortable spot where I could see and hear well. The Wombats, a Liverpool band, did not appeal to me, and frankly, I did not want to be there. It was easily the low point of the trip, and I did not see how I could possible enjoy Sigur Ros in such circumstances.
I worked my way from the corner of the square near stage left, back towards the far end of the square and around to the corner near stage right, when I happened upon a bit of "luxury", an open spot where I could sit and lean back against a tarp-covered fence. It'd been a long day, but I caught my second wind, and when The Do took the stage, I decided to through myself into the fray, and wormed my way through the crowd to a decent vantage point. The Do consist of Olivia (vocals, guitar) and Dan (bass, keyboards) [sorry - can't seem to find their last names] and were joined by a drummer. They really perked me up - the rhythm section was very lively, and I enjoyed Olivia's singing. I can't really describe them too well, but I was reminded a bit of Bjork, more of the Sugarcubes days than her latter material. They played about 45 minutes or so, quite a nice set.
The crowd got a bit tighter, and I followed a "current" more towards the center by the time Sigur Ros took the stage. I wasn't sure how they'd work in this setting, having seen them twice before in nice theatres full of rapt fans, but they played a great set that emphasized more of their occasional thunder rather than their often ethereal sounds. As I expected, they were again augmented by the charming string quartet, Amiina, and during the third song, I was surprised and delighted to see a brass quintet (two trombones, two trumpets, sousaphone) joined them. (Amiina and the brass quintet, the Horny Brasstards, also played other instruments, and in fact, at one point, practically everyone on stage was playing some sort of percussion.) It was the perfect set for the circumstances, not the ideal Sigur Ros show in some respects, but thoroughly enjoyable nonetheless.
Sigur Ros "proper":
Jónsi Birgisson - vocals, guitar, keyboards
Georg Hólm - bass
Kjartan Sveinsson - keyboards
Orri Páll Dýrason - drums
Amina:
Hildur Ársælsdóttir
Edda Rún Ólafsdóttir
Maria Huld Markan Sigfúsdóttir
Sólrún Sumarliðadóttir
The Horny Brasstards
(sorry - I believe Helgi Jonsson was one of the trombone players; no further info)
svefn g englar
sæglópur
við spilum endalaust
hoppípolla
með blóðnasir
inní mér syngur vitleysingur
hafssól
gobbledigook
popplagið
I'd made an effort to learn more about Radiohead in the weeks leading up to this trip, soliciting opinions, then buying three CDs and borrowing three others. I liked some of their material, particularly OK Computer, but I just couldn't really warm up to them, so I awaited their headlining set with a wait-and-see attitude.
Somehow, as the crowd surged again as they took the stage, I was pushed closed, right behind a crop of short people, and had a great view of the band for the next two hours. We were jammed so tight it was hard to raise your arms to clap, but it was all in the name of fun, everyone seemed content, if overly "cozy". Right from the get-go, I enjoyed Radiohead's show. It was a magnificently varied and paced set, and about halfway through, I wondered what had happened to all those songs I was indifferent to. I guess it shows that you just can't force feed yourself music. I can't really offer much in the way of commentary beyond the preceding, but if you google "Radiohead" and "Main Square Festival", you can find some fine reviews by some uberfans.
Thom Yorke - vocals, keyboards
Ed O'Brien, Jonny Greenwood - guitar
Colin Greenwood - bass
Phil Selway - drums
15 Step
Airbag
There There
All I Need
Where I End And You Begin
A Wolf At The Door
Nude
Pyramid Song
Weird Fishes/Arpeggi
Climbing Up The Walls
The Gloaming
Faust Arp
No Surprises
Jigsaw Falling Into Place
Reckoner
Exit Music (For A Film)
Bodysnatchers
Cymbal Rush
Videotape
Paranoid Android
Dollars & Cents
Idioteque
House Of Cards
The National Anthem
Street Spirit (Fade Out)
As the main set ended, I faded back through the crowd - by then I was quite dehydrated, and knew I'd wake up in my tent mad with thirst and with no where to turn unless I stocked up on some water, and I feared the concession stands might close soon. I bought three bottles of water, drank one in about three swallows, then turned my attention back to the stage for the encore. As luck would have it, I found a spot with a fairly clear view of the stage, and although I was now much, much farther away, the sound was still very good. The first encore was OK; the second, accompanied by a second bottle of water, was great.
By the time I made it back to the shuttle bus, I'd been on my feet for five straight hours (mainly cobblestones!), and it was well over eight hours since any part of my body had rested on anything that wasn't either sedimentary, igneous, or metamorphic in origin. Naturally, there were no seats left on the bus, but I knew I'd soon be able to lie down, and perhaps get on speaking terms with my angry feet again. The campground was rather odd at night; lit up brightly from one corner to the other, with guards walking muzzled dogs along the perimeter - summer of love, it wasn't. I was so tired, I crept into the tent and except for airing out my feet, dropped off to sleep without even bothering to undress. Props to The Do for kick-starting me, and to Sigur Ros and Radiohead for vanquishing my fatigue. ROCK AND ROLL!
July 7, 2008
I'd have liked to have slept in much longer, but I woke up fairly early, having to visit the facilities, which were about a hundred meters away. I figured if I had to go to that much trouble, I might as well break camp and hit the road. So, for the third straight morning, I had to set out for the day without my morning coffee, and it was killing me.
The drive to St-Malo was a pleasure, more beautiful countryside unspoiled by billboards. The good thing about the lack of sleep was that I arrived there many hours earlier than anticipated, almost too early as it turned out. As I followed my detailed directions into town (drive-alive.uk is great!), I noticed all sorts of people lining the streets, many of which were blocked off. I belatedly remembered that the Tour de France was departing from St-Malo that day, which I'd dismissed as I anticipated that they'd be gone long before I hit town. As it turned out, I saw them whizzing by in the opposite direction. The crowds and detours had thrown me off my course, so after nearing the walled city, I luckily found a place to park on the street, then walked around to orient myself. This wasn't too hard, as the walls of the city and surrounding inlets are quite easy to match with the map, and soon after returning to my car, found my hotel, which was conveniently located near free street parking. I caught a big break, as I was able to extend my stay there from two to four days, not a given anywhere near St-Malo in peak season. (I'd decided to skip Paris and extend my time in Brittany - it was a great feeling to park the car and know I'd not have to drive for 72 hours!)
My room was right on the English Channel, well, on an inlet of the English Channel, anyway, with sailboats and the gentle lapping of the surf right on hand. It was only a kilometer, or perhaps a bit more, from the nearest city gate, and I had the whole afternoon, so I walked into the old town.
St-Malo is a very cool place to visit. You can walk all around the walled portion of the city, and walk atop the ramparts or along the beach as you please. A couple nearby little islands are accessible when the tide is out, offering nice views back to the city. Tight streets and staircases up and down the walls are very picturesque. A spit of rain drove me inside long enough to happen upon a couple of cycling Brits who'd followed the Tour de France for a few days, and were killing time waiting for their ferry back to Jersey. While we chatted, I had a hard cider, which I learned is quite popular in Brittany, and this suited me just fine. The rain lasted about two ciders, after which I wandered about the charming town and had a decent supper of paella, followed by some more wandering and cider.
July 8, 2008
I had breakfast at the hotel, which included my very own whole pot of coffee (bliss!). Now, I've always adopted to the local customs as much as possible, but I have to tell any Europeans who may be reading that you're getting ripped off with these "Continental" breakfasts. A baguette or croissant, coffee or tea, and juice, is merely the preliminary to breakfast. Meat, potatoes and eggs should follow. Ah, well, I'll shut up.
More idyllic ambling occupied the day, and I sought out the open air market to stock up on some cheese (and what cheese!!) and other goodies for the next day's planned visit to Mont St. Michel. I also walked out to the little island, and at around supper time, while getting a bus schedule for Mont St Michel (I decided to let someone else drive so I wouldn't get lost), there ensued a sequence of good fortune, confusion and more good fortune that sometimes make travel memorable. I happened to spot a brochure in the tourist office for the 37th Annual Sacred Music festival, and it seemed that the first concert was in the nearby Cathedral St-Malo in about 10 minutes, and was free. Choir music isn't among by favorites, but when it's well done and accompanied by a grand church organ, it can't be bad, and I couldn't pass it up. I hurried over to the cathedral, but it appeared to be closed. I wandered all around it, and was ready to abandon the idea, but was lucky enough to encounter a pair of likewise confused would-be concertgoers. They solicited my help (in French!) and we quickly determined that English might work better between an American fellow and a British couple. The man spoke French pretty well, and took a look at my brochure, and his knowledge enabled him to clear things up. The 7pm start time I'd noticed was for only some of the shows, and the show that night was at 9pm (he and his wife had been somehow misinformed as well). Had we not run into each other, me with the info and he with the understanding, we all would have missed out. After our fortuitous meeting, I went off to have dinner (great scallops, so-so salmon, very fine sundae) and returned a couple of hours later.
The concert, by the choir "Maitrise d'Antony", university students if I puzzled through the brochure correctly, was conducted by Georges Bessonet and accompanied by organist Beatrice Piertot. The program they handed out included their repertoire, which drew from a wide variety of composers, but the actual works performed that evening were announced by the conductor. Aside from the single organ-only piece midway though the show, which sounded like something by Bach, I had no idea exactly what they played. It was all quite enjoyable, especially the second half.
…more to come later, including an exciting tale of gendarmes and teenagers!
chapter two:
July 9, 2008
Deciding to leave the driving to others, I hopped on a bus mid morning, bound for Mont-St-Michel, the small island dominated by an abbey surrounded by ramparts and battlements, in nearby Normandy. The early part of the drive, right on the coast, was very picturesque. I was quite surprised to see glimpses of the Mont from a striking distance.
On the way, a woman sitting across the aisle struck up a conversation with me, and we chatted for the rest of the trip. After several stops, nearly everyone got up to get off the bus. I assumed that was our stop, but the pair of Canadians in front of me, who were also bound for the isle, remained seated, and my new friend Zhou, after questioning the driver, also stay on board. Well, it became apparent a few stops later that we had screwed up and missed our stop. Zhou spoke pretty good English and French in addition to her native Mandarin, but apparently she and the driver didn't quite understand one another. After some consultation with the driver, we ended up getting off the bus to see if we could somehow find other means of getting there. At worst, however, we had merely to wait for the next bus (quite a long wait), but Hannah, Guy and Zhou decided to give hitchhiking a try. I was pretty well convinced that the chances of finding a driver who happened to be going to our exact destination were very remote, and knew we'd be worse off if we ended up only partway.
An American tourist is led astray by a pretty, young, exotic female. She suggests they hitchhike, and an obliging car soon arrives. The next thing he knows....
- Hostel 3 - at theaters everywhere this Friday -
Eventually, we all decided to bow to the inevitable and have a seat at the bus stop. I broke out some nice cheese and odd, football-shaped strawberries and passed them around. We had no knife, so I gnawed away on a hearty morsel of tasty sausage all by myself. At this point, I mentioned to my companions, as I'd written earlier, that I had a perfectly good rental car back in St-Malo but I'd opted for the bus so as not to get lost. Gotta luvvvv irony.
The delay made the sight of the Mont all the more exciting. It has an almost surreal appearance. It was quite, quite crowded, but there were still many opportunities for nice photos, and considering the crowds inside the walls, there were very, very few people wandering the sands. Zhou and I enjoyed sharing the visit with one another, and in the end, we had enough time to tour the abbey and do a fair amount of walking on the surrounding sands. The only thing I missed was the chance to walk far enough out on the sands to get a shot of the full island jutting out from the flat expanse of sand. It takes a while to walk far enough out, and you've got to be careful, as it's very hard to tell merely wet, but firm, sand, from muck that could steal a shoe, or worse. I did get some nice pictures of various profiles of the island, though. If I ever return there, I'll try to do it in the off season, and visit as near dusk or dawn as I can.
July 10, 2008
By this point in my original plan, I'd have been riding the Metro to visit Paris for the day. Further explorations of Brittany were too alluring, though, so instead I was bound for Fort La Latte, west of St-Malo. The change in plans left me without exact directions, merely an AAA road map of France. I figured I'd just hug the channel until I saw signs for Cap Frehel or Fort La Latte. As it turned out, the route was well marked, and the drive featured nice views of the English Channel, fishing boats, and little villages.
The present structure of Fort La Latte essentially dates back to the late 17th century; the central keep is several hundred years older. This particular castle came to my attention via The Vikings. The castle and its surroundings were beautifully used in the film, mainly during an attack at the films climax. Norsemen mount a huge log on wheels to use as a battering ram to break through the first gate, then toss axes at the second (raised) drawbridge, imbedding them to form a ladder of sorts for Kirk Douglas to ascend to the to mechanism and lower the drawbridge. A duel between Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis takes place a the very top of the keep, no finesse and witty banter a la Errol Flynn and Basil Rathbone, and no physics-defying acrobatics of latter day movies, just two bitter enemies clanging broadswords at each other with a stunning stretch of coastline as a backdrop. Ever since I learned the castle's actual location several years ago (in the movie it is set in North Umbria), I was waiting for the opportunity to visit it. Now, I've never been one to seek out Hollywood locations, but for some reason, I'd been very interested in the particular one, and it was more fun being there than I'd imagined.
After passing by the main entrance, a wide dirt path eventually veers to the right, while a smaller trail goes off to the left. I opted for the path less traveled, and was rewarded a few minutes later with a great view of the castle from just the right distance. The trail snaked further west, away from the castle and toward Cap Frehel and a lighthouse, before switching back to the east for more great views of the castle and the rocks below. (The views from the other approach are nowhere near as fine.) Once at the castle, I was delighted to learn that you can explore virtually every bit of it, including the very top of the keep. They've added steps to the outer tip of the keep, but nicely done, so that you wouldn't really notice something new. I suppose it was rather childish, but I couldn't resist the impulse to spurn the steps and scramble up the side. I darted all around the castle, snapping photos of and from just about every part of it.
(A note about the weather - I'd stumbled upon a BBC weather report a couple of days before, and it was supposed to be raining steadily on that day. However, my charmed luck with the weather on this trip continued. It was a beautiful, warm, mostly sunny day, with just enough clouds to add interesting texture to the pictures and check the heat a bit. Through much of my trip, in fact, ominous clouds lurked, and a solid day or two of rain could have easily mucked things up. As it turned out, it only rained for a few "coffee-break" length interludes.)
Thoroughly sated by the visit to what will always be my favorite castle in the world, I hit the road for Landerneau and the Kann-Loar Festival. I couldn't get too badly lost, as all I had to do was keep the channel on my right and look for signs to St. Brieuc, then Brest, then look for a turnoff to Landerneau as I approached Brest. As it turned out, Landerneau was a "straight-shot" off the highway, which in European terms meant three straight roundabouts entered are 6 and exited at 12, followed by one entered at 6 and exited at 9, thus last one featuring posters for the festival. (Up to this point, I couldn't help but ponder the faint possibility that I'd made some horrid mistake and the festival was actually in some far off town with a similar name.) Finding open, free parking a short down the road, I set out on foot for a piece and spotted a Kann-Loar merchandise booth as I neared one end of the festival. They spoke virtually no English, but I remembered the appropriate French word, "billet?", and after one of the nice ladies spoke at length accompanied by several vague gestures, I gathered that I could purchase a ticket somewhere east of where I stood. East it was, then, and I encountered a tourist office not long after, and cheerfully walked out a few minutes later with a ticket in hand for that evening's Karen Matheson concert. I decided to celebrate with a glass or two of cider, and picked a bar that had a Kann-Loar Festival poster in the doorway, thinking I might be able to talk them out of it. (I'd brought a tube across the Atlantic with me and would have hated to bring it back empty. I'd struck out on the Loreena poster, but I've already got a German concert poster, so I was really hoping for something from France. Happily, I got a poster from the concert at Cathedrale St-Malo.)
I had a nice chat with another bar patron. I'm told that many in Brittany identify more with Celtic people than with the French, and it seems that this feeling is stronger the farther west one gets. In fact, the main street of Landerneau is lined with various flags of Celtic countries such as Wales and Ireland, as well as regional flags from various other countries (Spain, for one) where Celts are predominant. (The patron also helped out a fellow Celt (part Celt, anyway) by pleading with the bar owners for the poster, which is now safe with the rest of my collection.)
After my second cider and a walk to confirm the venue site, I suddenly got very hungry and I picked the first place that looked inviting and selected from the "fixed menu". The first course, "crudites", was a plate full of delicious vegetables, nothing fancy, just dice beets, grated carrots, corn, beans, etc, but served cold. Normally, I like my vegetables steaming, but I enjoyed these very much. Broiled mackerel and rice made up the main course, followed by chocolate mousse and coffee.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with her, Karen Matheson is a Scottish singer from the traditional Gaelic band Capercaillie. Oddly enough, when this trip was nothing more than a loose plan involving Loreena McKennitt, Sigur Ros and Fort La Latte, I was pondering other musical possibilities, and had thought how remarkable it would have been if Capercaillie had somehow timed a visit to Brittany with mine. Too remarkable to actually happen, of course, but Karen Matheson's "solo" appearance was good enough, and eventually lured me from a planned visit to Paris. (I even swallowed a modest hotel deposit!)
Now, I'd have preferred a Capercaillie show, what with the fiddles and pipes, and all, but this show was very, very enjoyable. Aside from a bit of the "mouth music" that sounded like it had appeared on a Capercaillie CD, I knew none of the material, which was drawn from Karen's three solo CDs. Her four piece band, including some of her colleagues from Capercaillie, was fine, and the material, a mix of English and Gaelic lyrics, was beautiful. I'm going to have to buy some of her CDs very soon. Special guest Dan Ar Braz joined for a few songs, adding a wonderful display of loving dexterity on his electric guitar.
I was able to get a setlist from stage, otherwise I wouldn't be able to provide much in the way of a setlist. The titles on the setlist were sometimes scanty and I had trouble with the handwriting, so I was glad I'd scribbled a few notes during the show. Even so, I struck out completely on the specific names of the "mouth music".
The opening act was the trio of Marthe Vassalo, Annie Ebrel and Nolween LeBuhe, who sang Breton music a capella. They were very skilled and talented, but the music was a bit difficult at times to my unaccustomed ears; I didn't take to it as readily as I did years ago to Capercaillie's Gaelic sounds.
James Mackintosh - drums
Donald Shaw - keyboards, accordion
Ewen Vernal - bass
James Grant - guitar
special guest - Dan Ar Braz - guitar
Gleann Baile chaoil
Bonnie Jean
"mouth music"
Calbharaigh
Luadh an Toraidh
O nach eisdeadh tu'n sgeul le aire
All the Flowers of the Bough
Goodbye Phoebe
"mouth music"
Mi Le M'uilinn (With Dan Ar Braz)
Crucan na bpaiste (w/Dan)
Moonchild
One More Chance>>"mouth music"
There's Always Sunday
At the End of the Night
Rithill Aill (w/Dan)
Two hundred and thirty kilometers awaited me after the show. By that time, I should have been able to find my way through the tight streets of St-Malo directly to my hotel, but I opted for the inelegant approach of following the signs to the walled city, then doubling back along the roads I'd walked on a daily basis for the last few days.
chapter three:
July 11
A splendid four days in Brittany was winding down, and I faced a long, long drive. Driving in unfamiliar areas of Europe isn't necessarily difficult, but there are a few things to get used to. For one thing the highways rarely say "North", "East" (or the equivalent), and you rarely have the opportunity to simply stay on the same roads for hours and hours on end. For a trip like I had in store for me that day, I had to commit a string of cities to memory, then stay reasonably alert. (Back home, of course, I can get on, say, I-75 and drive from the Canadian border to within a hundred or so mile so Cuba.) On the plus side, and it's a big plus, you hardly see any billboards, and I've rarely been bothered by slowpokes clogging up the left lane.
The weather was nice, as was the scenery. A pair of bridges in the vicinity of Le Havre, near the mouth the Seine, are particularly striking - there was a particular view I wish I'd had the chance to shoot a picture of - ah well, I can still see it in my mind for now...
The planned St-Malo/Caen/LeHavre/Amiens/St.Quentin string was as smooth as could be, but as I neared St. Quentin, I was forced to choose between "Centre" and "Sud" before I'd spotted any signs for my next link, Guise. I ended up entering the city and passing through at least five roundabouts, all choices leading either somewhere I knew I didn't want to go or somewhere I couldn't seem to locate on the map. It was all very frustrating, then suddenly, "Guise" appeared on a roundabout sign (accompanied by a fanfar and choir of angels, I swear!). Quite relieved, I turned to reenter the highwya, and chanced upon a pack of hitchhikers; four girls and one guy. What the hell, I thought - navigators! The group of young Belgians, all teenagers as I later found out, had been hitchhiking around France for a week or so, and happily piled into the car. The drive was quite the milk run, with numerous villages (and the occasional farm vehicle) slowing things down substantially, but it was a good time, Martin up front providing directions from time to time as we shot the breeze about music and other topics, the charming lilt of Flemish chatter flowing from the back, and Margo Timmins singing "Black Eyed Man".
An American tourist is lured into picking up a group of pretty Belgian girls. Suddenly...
- Hostel 4 - opens everywhere this Friday! -
I'd only seen one other hitchhiker during my vacation and wondered how common it was in Europe these days. Not very, according to Martin: "Our parents weren't too happy with the idea."
Once I got a round a couple of plodding trucks hauling bales of hay, we made decent time, but you had to be careful, as the speed limit would quickly vary from 90 to 70 to 50 each time a little town came up. I was reminded of this as we passed several gendarmes standing at the side of the road, and again more forcefully, fifty meters down the road, by the one who stepped out into the road, right palm facing me and left finger pointing to the shoulder, where I pulled off to a chorus of Flemish dismay pouring from the back.
The police officer approached and began speaking in French, naturally, and all I understood was to turn off the ignition. I waited for a pause, then placed my hand over my chest, fingers spread, and said ”pardon…no parlaiz francais”. I was glad that I had some translators on hand if necessary, but the officer spoke English pretty well. As I handed him my Ohio driver’s license and rental car papers, I explained that my International Driving Permit and Passport were in my luggage, then sweated it out in the car. France has a mandatory seat belt law, and we were clearly in violation with six persons in a small car. I had no idea if there were any laws against picking up hitchhikers, not the mention the perceived impropriety of a middle-aged man in the company of several minor females, no matter how innocent the situation was. I didn’t know if he’d make our lives miserable by unloading and searching the car (not that I had any contraband of any sort), or if I could pay any potential fines via credit card or a trip to an ATM.
After a short time, the officer returned to the driver’s side window, and I was stunned, even shocked, to hear him say, “Please be careful, the speed limit is 50, not 70.” I was afraid to utter a peep at first, not wanting to somehow spoil things like a batter who ticks off the umpire by taking a premature step towards first base before they ump makes his call, then ends up getting called out on strikes. I was safe, though, and after pause, I simply thanked him and told him I would indeed be very careful. After holding me up as a couple cars passed by, he waved me on my way, and I suffered through one more bad moment, wincing as my wheels spun out a bit on the loose gravel on the shoulder. (I’m sure he understood it couldn’t be helped.) Around the first bend, Martin and I grinned and shook hands, and after I asked the girls if they knew what “high five” meant, I reached back for a slapping of hands. They laughed about how they were trying to squeeze down and look as inconspicuous as possible. One of them told me that it probably was a good thing that I was able to speak at least a little bit of French to the officer, even though I had “a very strange accent”. I’m still surprised that he had no questions for us; apparently a speeding American in a car full of Belgian teens is business as usual in out of the way French villages.
I was indeed careful for the remainder of the drive, and we saw a car directly in front of us get pulled over a bit later. Ours paths diverged at Charleville-Mezierer, and with a handshake from Martin and a group hug initiated by one of the girls, we bid adieu to one another.
I’d had some castles visits planned, but it had been a long day and I stuill had a ways to go, so I bypassed the road to Bouillon Castle in Belgium and headed towards Luxembourg. I did take a detour through “The Valley of the Seven Castles”, though. The castles were somewhat anticlimactic after what I’d seen that last few days, and I missed a few a couple and skipped the last one, but it was a worthwhile detour. Some of the castles were fairly cool, and the drive itself, on winding roads through the valley floor, past villages, and at times up and down hilly roads in dense forest, was quite enjoyable. By the time I arrived in the city of Luxembourg, parked my car, and checked in to my hotel, I didn’t feel like venturing very far, so I merely grabbed a sandwich nearby, then had a couple Diekirch’s at the hotel bar.
July 12, 2008
I spent the full day and evening wandering around one of the most picturesque cities I’ve ever visited. (Keep in mind, I’ve never been to London, Paris, Rome, Prague, etc.) Luxembourg is situated on ridges over the Alzette and Petrusse Rivers; one can cross the rivers at various points, and also climb and descend between the two levels at numerous places, offering no ends to vantage points with striking views up, down, or across the ridges and valleys. A bit of rain sent me inside for a tour of the Pretusse Casements, tunnels and steps carved out of solid rock in the 17th and 18th centuries. The tour was fairly interesting, but the tunnels were quite clammy, and I grew a bit impatient for the end. By then it was lunchtime, a starter of minestrone took the chill out of my bones. (Their veal was also very good, as was the sundae I had for dessert. Hiking up, down and around the various parts of the city took up the afternoon. A leisurely late dinner consisted of a hearty seafood platter with half a lobster, a couple large prawns, a pair of langostinos, many, many small prawns, a few dozen snails, and various raw mussels, clams and oysters on the half shell. Everything had to be pried out of its shell with one of the many special utensils arrayed before me. I’d have preferred that the lobster was warm, with melted butter on hand, and the raw mussels were a bit hard to take (for that matter, raw oysters have never appealed to me), but the quality of the food was superb. I liked the snails more than I thought I would (my limited experience with escargot has always been of the warm variety steeped in garlic butter), but I filled up before I could finish them. I left a few oysters as well, but I made room for every one of the prawns.
A couple more Diekirch’s wound up my vacation.
July 13, 2008
Had a pretzel dog at the airport in Philly waiting for the last leg of my flight.
chuck,thanks for sharing this adventure.
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