Germany, and Austria come together. From Lake Constance we would follow the Romantic Road into Germany and the Danube River. The Danube would take us all the way to the Black Sea. The shores of the Black Sea would take us right to Istanbul.
Our first night in Switzerland was spent in Bouveret, camping where the Rhone River flowed into Lake Geneva. Looking up river we could see the narrow Rhone River valley with cliffs towering above the clouds. But it was the sailboats with their gleaming white sails set against the blue sky and blue lake that spoke to my wanderlust. Where were these boatsâ captains, and why werenât they taking us out on the lake? Even though we didnât go sailing, I couldnât imagine a more beautiful place.The following day we put Bouveret behind us and entered the narrow valley that was cut by the Rhone.
In the near term we were heading for Zermatt, about three daysâ ride from Bouveret. High in the Alps near the Italian border, Zermatt wasnât exactly along the Rhone River cycling route, but it wasnât too far afield. We would simply follow the Rhone River cycle path to the city of Visp, then take a cog-wheel train up to Zermatt for a few daysâ diversion. Then we would continue on to our apple tree and beyond.
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Jordanâs Journal, July 8
Today we rode our bikes for a long time. We didnât mean to ride our bikes for so long, but we were looking for a campsite. We had a map and a guidebook that told us where some campsites were, but when we got there, they werenât there anymore. We were so sad. Then we found a campsite with miniature golf. I hit Mom in the face with a golf club accidentally. Dad says her blackeye looks âsmashing.â
Our guidebooks, maps, and well-meaning but misinformed people sent us off to no fewer than six campgrounds that had recently closed. As sunset approached, I said in desperation, âI vote we go into Martigny-Ville and look for a campground. If we canât find one, letâs grab a hotel.â September wouldnât have been hard to convince but the kids were another matter. To them, sleeping indoors was a cop-out, and they were infused with a fervent penny-pinching zeal. In an effort to sabotage a whine-fest about sleeping indoors I mumbled in their direction, âI am at the end of my rope.â After six weeks of togetherness, this was a code they now knew only too well.
A grandfatherly gentleman with two young children was cycling along the same path we were. They pulled up beside us just as I was planting the hotel seed in the kidsâ minds. He spoke very little English, which complemented Septemberâs very little French so that we could communicate very little.
He nonetheless patiently communicated that Martigny-Ville did indeed have a campground, and it was on the far side of town. That was the most we could understand. As we prepared to go our way, to our surprise he followed us. As dusk approached he dropped off his grandchildren near what we presumed was their home and led us about seven miles through town and to the campground. Eternally grateful, we said good-bye to our new friend as he made his way back home in the dark.
This was another example of a complete stranger helping us in a pinch, but it was significant for another reason. It had been a long and tiring day. The promise of a place to stay had been dashed time after time, often after weâd gone veering down side roads, only to find a dead end with no place to camp. Through it all the kids complained not once. It was a breakthrough. I recorded in my journal later that night:
Â
Johnâs Journal, July 8
We knew there would be hard days when we started. Maybe we underestimated just how hard. But we have been able to clear each and every hurdle thrown at us. Katrina and Jordan have started to see the adventure in every little thing. Jordan has changed the most in the last six weeks. For example, when we were in
Our first night in Switzerland was spent in Bouveret, camping where the Rhone River flowed into Lake Geneva. Looking up river we could see the narrow Rhone River valley with cliffs towering above the clouds. But it was the sailboats with their gleaming white sails set against the blue sky and blue lake that spoke to my wanderlust. Where were these boatsâ captains, and why werenât they taking us out on the lake? Even though we didnât go sailing, I couldnât imagine a more beautiful place.The following day we put Bouveret behind us and entered the narrow valley that was cut by the Rhone.
In the near term we were heading for Zermatt, about three daysâ ride from Bouveret. High in the Alps near the Italian border, Zermatt wasnât exactly along the Rhone River cycling route, but it wasnât too far afield. We would simply follow the Rhone River cycle path to the city of Visp, then take a cog-wheel train up to Zermatt for a few daysâ diversion. Then we would continue on to our apple tree and beyond.
Â
Jordanâs Journal, July 8
Today we rode our bikes for a long time. We didnât mean to ride our bikes for so long, but we were looking for a campsite. We had a map and a guidebook that told us where some campsites were, but when we got there, they werenât there anymore. We were so sad. Then we found a campsite with miniature golf. I hit Mom in the face with a golf club accidentally. Dad says her blackeye looks âsmashing.â
Our guidebooks, maps, and well-meaning but misinformed people sent us off to no fewer than six campgrounds that had recently closed. As sunset approached, I said in desperation, âI vote we go into Martigny-Ville and look for a campground. If we canât find one, letâs grab a hotel.â September wouldnât have been hard to convince but the kids were another matter. To them, sleeping indoors was a cop-out, and they were infused with a fervent penny-pinching zeal. In an effort to sabotage a whine-fest about sleeping indoors I mumbled in their direction, âI am at the end of my rope.â After six weeks of togetherness, this was a code they now knew only too well.
A grandfatherly gentleman with two young children was cycling along the same path we were. They pulled up beside us just as I was planting the hotel seed in the kidsâ minds. He spoke very little English, which complemented Septemberâs very little French so that we could communicate very little.
He nonetheless patiently communicated that Martigny-Ville did indeed have a campground, and it was on the far side of town. That was the most we could understand. As we prepared to go our way, to our surprise he followed us. As dusk approached he dropped off his grandchildren near what we presumed was their home and led us about seven miles through town and to the campground. Eternally grateful, we said good-bye to our new friend as he made his way back home in the dark.
This was another example of a complete stranger helping us in a pinch, but it was significant for another reason. It had been a long and tiring day. The promise of a place to stay had been dashed time after time, often after weâd gone veering down side roads, only to find a dead end with no place to camp. Through it all the kids complained not once. It was a breakthrough. I recorded in my journal later that night:
Â
Johnâs Journal, July 8
We knew there would be hard days when we started. Maybe we underestimated just how hard. But we have been able to clear each and every hurdle thrown at us. Katrina and Jordan have started to see the adventure in every little thing. Jordan has changed the most in the last six weeks. For example, when we were in
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