THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, March 19, 1995 TAG: 9503180042
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY STEPHEN HARRIMAN, TRAVEL EDITOR
LENGTH: Long : 374 lines
WE AMERICANS are often guilty of making the ``Grand Tour'' of Europe in headlong fashion - the ``If it's Tuesday, this must be Brussels'' school of travel.
I mean, as long as we're over here - and who knows when we'll make it back - why don't we just slip over to . . . ?
We collect passport stamps - which are growing passe now that most European Union countries have opened their borders. Last summer, I saw a young American girl reduced to tears when she was told by an officious border guard to move on, the stamp was too much trouble.
We can't get enough. We always want more. Our appetite for countries is like our appetite for Italian gelato, or Swiss chocolate, or French champagne, or German beer, or Austrian Sachertorte (mit schlag, naturlish!), or maybe even Swedish smoked reindeer . . . but most certainly NOT British sausage.
Let's call it a culture quest. There, now, there's nothing wrong with that. I've done it myself. But. . . .
A healthy alternative to rushing through the cities on some version of a grand tour is to book a cottage in the country - well, just pick any place, a single place - and go there and relax. That, after all, is what you're supposed to do on vacation.
Here are a few of my European favorite places - one city, for a very special reason, and four places if not off the beaten track at least in the countryside. (I did all five, rather thoroughly I think, last summer over about three weeks.)
Island of Gotland, Sweden
Erik Bloodaxe did not think I could hurl the heavy, double-edged weapon from which he took his name, much less cleave the round target hung on the large wooden butt perhaps 15 yards away. That much was clear.
Interesting fellow, Mr. Bloodaxe. He was large and blond and, well, rather furry in his ninth century costume of animal skins topped off with a pointed metal helmet that did NOT have horns sticking out of it. Very Viking looking. Which is what he was.
He had taken us into his home, a great rectangular wooden lodge, that is part of a living-history museum called Vikingabyn on this island in the middle of the Baltic Sea. Lit only by torches and a large fire in the center of the earthen floor, the lodge was dark and very smoky.
Now, though, Mr. Bloodaxe wanted to play. Ax-throwing is a favorite game. It's a guy thing - a BIG guy thing. And I am, not to mince words, puny.
Mr. Bloodaxe demonstrated: Grip the handle with both hands, swing it back over your head (being careful not to split open your spinal column), then fling it forward, bending slightly at the waist. Nothing to it. Great way to kill an enemy. Then he thrust the thing toward me.
I gave it a try.
Back over the head, fling it forward and release. The axe sailed through the air . . . end over end over end . . . and then, THUNK! Right in the center of the target.
There was silence . . . Mr. Bloodaxe and the rest of them staring at me in disbelief . . . then a smattering of applause. I shrugged and allowed myself the slightest of smiles.
Could I do it again? In a hundred tries? That's for me to know. Let me just say this:
In yo' face, Erik.
The town of Visby, the principal settlement of the island, has one of the more interesting histories in Europe.
Visited by German merchants in the 11th century, Visby became one of the first members of the Hanseatic League and enjoyed great wealth and prominence as the commercial center of northern Europe. Today it is called the ``town of roses and ruins'' - a living-history museum of another sort.
The ruins of 10 fine churches and the restored Cathedral of St. Mary's (1225) are reminders of its former wealth. Taken by the Swedes in 1280, sacked by the Danes in 1361 and returned to the League in 1370, it became a pirate stronghold for the next two decades. It finally passed to Sweden in 1645.
Visby's medieval wall, nearly two miles of which survives, is considered one of the best-preserved in Europe. It makes an interesting backdrop to the modern cruise chips that dock in the harbor. Almost a half million outsiders stroll its narrow cobbled streets and view its ancient stone buildings during the summer. The city is also home to the Fornsal Museum, which contains medieval artwork and silver hordes from Viking days.
During eight days in early August, everyone dons medieval costumes and Visby once again becomes a Hanseatic town from 1361. It's the big celebration of the year.
Outside the city there are 92 churches still in use that date from the 12th and 13th centuries - Gotland's great commercial era.
Gotland is about 100 miles long by 30 miles wide with 400 miles of mostly rocky coastline. It is 50 miles off the Swedish mainland.
The flight from Stockholm southeast to Visby takes 40 minutes and is offered by three airlines: Scandinavian Airline Systems, Skyways and Malmo Aviation. On SAS there are up to five flights a day from Monday to Friday and three a day on Saturday and Sunday. During the summer there is a ferry twice a day to Stockholm; the trip takes about five hours.
Info: Swedish Tourist Board, 655 Third Ave., New York, N.Y. 10017, (212) 949-2333.
The Cotswold Hills, England
On the crest of one of these rolling hills, we lay in the grass and toyed with a picnic lunch. The Cotswolds contain some of the finest English landscapes. This was a feast mostly for the eyes.
These are some of the enduring images: fields of rapeseed in fluorescent yellow . . . sky blue flax blossoms rising on pastel green stems; from a distance, these flax fields appear to be ponds of water . . . blood-red poppies amid lush green alfalfa . . . amber fields of grain undulating in the gentle summer breeze . . . white sheep grazing on the rolling hillside . . . the aroma of new-mown hay . . . purple foxglove lining the narrow country lanes.
``You know, the hedgerows make this all orderly and special,'' my friend said. ``Otherwise it would look a lot like the American Midwest.''
Honey-colored stone cottages and mellow manor houses - some with roofs of lichen-covered, split stone, others covered with thick, gray-brown thatch - seem to rise out of the earth as if they were still as part of it and huddle around honey-stone churches with steeples that reach toward heaven.
No, Toto, this doesn't look like Kansas to me.
The Cotswolds are an ancient rural region only about a 2 1/2-hour drive west of London, roughly bounded by Oxford on the east, Gloucester and the Severn Valley on the west, Bath on the south and Stratford-upon-Avon on the north.
It is impossible to overstate the importance of sheep to this area. Here, the sheep is called the Cotswold Lion, and this lion always has been king of this jungle. The conquering Normans were quick to recognize the commercial value of Cotswold wool: 20 years after the Domesday census of 1086, sheep outnumbered people by four to one, and the prosperity weaving brought to the Cotswolds is reflected in the handsome manor houses and churches.
The power looms of the Industrial Revolution shifted the focus to the cities, leaving the Cotswolds as a backwater unscarred by industry.
The Cotswolds are the very picture of a perfect England - a dream of rural England all English people want to share.
And that's the difficulty. Pretty Bourton-on-the-Water is swamped by coach parties for much of the day and Bibury - William Morris' perfect English village - and Stow-on-the-Wold can sometimes be slow-moving traffic jams. Despite the midday crowds, one should experience some of the Cotswold villages.
Castle Combe - not a castle but a village - is delightful, almost like a movie set, which it was, in fact, for the popular children's film, ``Doctor Dolittle.'' It is situated on the banks of a small stream, and there are lots of Old-World touches: a stone bridge, a well in the center of the town and ancient cottages covered with gnarled tree branches groomed into twisted designs.
Bourton-on-the-Water sits beside a larger stream and is enhanced by quaint walking bridges, willows hanging over the water and ducks striding about on the shore. It has the usual wool shops, as well as a perfume museum.
Chipping Campden is another town with a unique character. The narrow High Street is lined with 17th century townhouses and the 14th century Woolstaplers Hall. Look for the gold and silversmith shop on Sheep Street run by the Hart family. Four generations have been designing and making specialized pieces here since 1902. Ask for David Hart or his sons, William or Alastair.
Other villages worth a stop: Upper and Lower Slaughter (tour bus stops), and largely overlooked Northleach, which had its boom period between 1340 and 1540 and really hasn't changed much since.
Best of all, abandon your car, even if only for a short stroll. This landscape is laced with well-marked footpaths, ancient ways followed for centuries by salt traders, packhorses and pilgrims. Enthusiastic walkers can follow the Cotswold Way, which runs for 107 miles from Bath to Chipping Campden.
Info: British Tourist Authority, 551 Fifth Ave., Seventh Floor, New York, N.Y. 10176, (212) 986-2200.
The Grand Louvre, Paris
Paris and I came to terms last summer. Most agreeable terms. She proved to be a most beguiling mistress . . . and I fell in love with her.
In all my travels, I had not been to Paris. Actually, I had avoided Paris except for occasional airline stopovers or plane changes. Frankly, I was slightly intimidated by the perception that Parisians had little time for the linguistically challenged - which is everybody in the world who does not speak their language the way they do.
French is prominent on the list of languages I do not speak at all.
Let me say this about that: The French, even Parisians, like citizens of other cities that are popular with American tourists, are growing accustomed to the fact that English is now the world's lingua franca. Most of them, especially those who deal with tourists, speak some English.
If you can learn at least a few simple phrases of French, though, you may find you get a warmer reception. I felt comfortable this time because I was traveling with a friend I had met in London who did not mind at least attempting to speak French.
I was determined to visit the Louvre, arguably the greatest art museum in the world. And my choice of a place to stay, the Hotel du Louvre, turned out to be a stroke of genius, if I do say so myself.
What a location! - in the heart of the 1st arrondissement, which is itself the heart of Paris. The french windows of my fourth-floor chamber opened onto a square called the Place du Palais-Royal.
To the right, just across Rue de Rivoli , was the Louvre itself, specifically the newly renovated Richelieu wing. To the left, the Palais-Royal built between 1634 and 1639 by Cardinal Richelieu for himself, later used for royal widows and presently seat of the French Council of State. Straight ahead at the opposite end of the square is the Louvre des Antiquaries, a block of antiques shops.
The Hotel du Louvre was inaugurated in 1855 by Napoleon III as the first of the grand Parisian hotels. In 1897 the impressionist Camille Pissaro took up residence here and painted several of his most prominent works of Paris from his window.
The Louvre was first transformed into an art repository in the early 16th century, when King Francois I revamped the fortress to accommodate his acquisition of antiquities and paintings, which included works by Titian and Raphael as well as Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa.
The Mona Lisa, along with the late-third-century B.C. Winged Victory of Samothrace and the late-second-century B.C. Venus de Milo are unquestionably the Louvre's most popular attractions.
Subsequent royalty expanded the collections, which grew immeasurably during the reign of Napoleon Bonaparte, who demanded ``tribute'' from the countries he conquered. The Louvre remained private until the French Revolution, then by mandate was opened to the public in 1793.
By evicting the Ministry of Finance from the Richelieu wing of the erstwhile palace, the museum has almost doubled its exhibition space. The vast project, costing a vast sum ($1.3 billion by the time it's complete) will make the museum even more vast.
The Louvre still has 360,000 objects in its stores. Even when the Grand Louvre, as the expanded complex is called, is complete there will be space to show only 30,000 pieces of art. Which is at least 29,900 more than you can absorb in a day, even if you're really paying attention.
If your time is limited to, say, a day instead of the six months this museum really would take, pay attention: The Denon wing (the old part of the Louvre running along the Seine) houses Greek and Etruscan antiquities, along with the Mona Lisa. The Sully wing contains Egyptian and Roman antiquities and French paintings of the 17th to 19th centuries as well as Venus and Victory.
The new Richelieu Wing features Islamic artworks on the lower level, French sculpture and Oriental antiquities on the ground floor, European decorative arts and the opulent Apartments of Napoleon III (last French ruler to reside in the Louvre) on the second floor, and early French and Northern European paintings on the third.
Info: French Government Tourist Office, 444 Madison Ave., New York, N.Y. 10022, (900) 990-0040 (50 cents a minute).
Musee National du Louvre, Pyramide-Cour Napoleon, 75001 Paris, is open 9-6 daily, until 9:45 Mondays and Wednesdays; closed Tuesdays and major holidays. Admission: $7. Half-price after 3 and on Sundays; free anytime for under 18.
Up into the Alps, Switzerland
James Bond and I have at least this much in common: we both reached the summit of the Schilthorn in the Swiss Alps with some difficulty.
In the movie ``On Her Majesty's Secret Service'' Bond became engaged in a pitched battle with a bunch of dastardly and wicked people in the building - a revolving restaurant called Piz Gloria in real life - that sits atop this 9,748-foot, snow-covered peak.
My trouble came in getting there in the first place. There was a ``little problem'' with the cable car that climbed the final 900 feet from the cable-car terminal and restaurant on another rocky outcrop called Birg.
While the fog swirled and masked my final goal, I listened as the loudspeaker at Birg announced in several languages: ``Just to inform you there is a little problem with the lift. It may be 10 minutes or a quarter of an hour or a half hour. You may wait in the restaurant.''
No, I want to watch and see if I can determine how little the problem is. What happened several times in succession was that the empty cable car left the terminal, went out several hundred feet and . . . stopped. Just stopped. At least it wasn't a frayed cable. Or gunfire up at the Schilthorn.
I went back to the balcony outside the restaurant to wait. From here the view of the massive, snow-covered peaks across the Lauterbrunnen Valley - the 13,642-foot Jungfrau, 13,339-foot Monch and 13,026-foot Eiger - is marvelous.
Think of Glacier National Park or Yosemite or the Canadian Rockies. Or all three together. Now, compact them, add more waterfalls and some lakes. That is what this area outside Interlaken is like. It's grander, I think, than the Grand Canyon; fewer earth tones, more green and gray and white.
``Daddy, are we on top of the world?'' asked one little girl.
``What did we come here for?'' her brother wanted to know.
``Daddy, do airplanes go higher than this?'' she wanted to know.
Finally, the cable car was operating. It had taken maybe a half-hour. With some trepidation I boarded and rose to the top. The Schilthorn was a disappointment; thick fog made it impossible to see a thing. But there are continuous excerpts from the Bond movie showing at a small theater.
This entire Lauterbrunner Valley is an adventure to explore, whether you like to hike or whether you abhor physical exercise as I do. What I do like are Swiss trains and Swiss funiculars and Swiss cable cars, and there was plenty of each on this day trip. I even hiked a bit (downhill), because there was no other choice.
My excursion consisted of a short train ride from Interlaken, along a rushing river the color of skim milk from the quantity of ground ``glacier flour'' it contained, to the village of Lauterbrunnen in the steep-walled, U-shaped, glacier-carved valley of the same name. The word means ``with many fountains'' - or waterfalls. One of the most spectacular is the Staubbach at the edge of the village.
From Lauterbrunner, I took a funicular car 267 feet up - seemingly almost straight up - the valley wall to Grutschalp. Along the way, at the edge of a steep meadow, I saw a bushy-tailed red fox pause to watch the funicular go by.
At Grutschalp I caught a one-car electric cog-wheel train to Murren. This is one of those no-automobile villages that are not uncommon in Switzerland. Here in 1922, Sir Arnold Lunn set the first slalom and later (1931) organized the first world championship in downhill and slalom ski racing.
From Murren you can see across the valley to the tourist-popular village of Wengen and the Jungfrau and friends beyond. Here the cable car rises to Birg and the Schilthorn, and here it returns.
After going to the top and back, I hiked the short, downhill distance to Gimmelwald, then took another cable car down into Stechelberg on the valley floor. From there it was a post bus - the only transport covered by Eurail Pass on this excursion - back to Lauterbrunner and then the train back to Interlaken.
Great day trip and worth the price: about $60.
Info: Swiss National Tourist Office, 608 Fifth Ave., New York, N.Y. 10020, (212) 757-5944.
Hallstatt, Austria
For a country that includes the baroque splendor of Vienna, Salzburg and Innsbruck, all the opulence that the Hapsburg dynasty could muster, it may come as a surprise that Austrian tourism posters feature the little lakeside village of Hallstatt.
Unless you've been there.
Located about 50 miles southeast of Salzburg on the edge of the Salzkammergut - Austria's fabled Lake District - Hallstatt has a captivating character and beauty all its own.
Perched beside the Hallstatter See, a fjord-like lake with mirror surface, the village is dominated by a pair of baroque churches, slate-roofed stucco houses of many pastel hues and dark wooden chalets that climb up the hillside. Balconies and window boxes hold cascades of flowers. A waterfall rumbled down the cliff just above the cobblestone marketplace in the center of town.
There, one evening, I watched a uniformed company band, established by a nearby salt mine more than a century ago, play oom-pah-pah music as women strolled through the crowd passing out little glasses of schnapps.
It claims to be Europe's oldest continually inhabited place. About 4,500 years ago, humans first settled here to mine salt, the white gold that was then a rare commodity. Archaeological finds, including the corpse dubbed the Salt Man and numerous bronze and iron items, gave rise to what is now called the Hallstattan Period, the early European Iron Age (800-400 B.C.).
In time, the Romans came, of course. Some well-preserved ruins from that age are covered by glass in the floor of the Dachsteinsport shop, which also carries some museum-quality rock specimens for sale.
Hitler's goons came, too, in the last years of the war and dumped a lot of loot, mostly gold bars, into the lake in hopes of retrieving it later. Instead, the good guys got it back.
I found it hard to draw myself away from the lakeside, away from the cozy, family-run hotels and restaurants where I could spend, well, maybe forever, eating and drinking and talking . . . and just looking at the surrounding beauty.
Evening time is best when the white granite of the mountains, flecked with dark evergreens, glows in the late afternoon sun.
Across the lake the train from Salzburg - red diesel engine and three red and white cars - skirts the water at the foot of the mountains. Watching that train that appeared to be just a tiny toy, I realized just how large those mountains are.
In less than an hour I would board a little boat that would take me across the lake to the station beside those tracks to catch the train bound for Salzburg. My European feast had almost run its course. This was dessert.
It would be sad parting, leaving friends behind, but there was consolation: looking back at Hallstatt from the stern of the boat, taking in that almost surreal setting, was a scene I would wish to remember forever.
Info: Austrian National Tourist Office, P.O. Box 1142, New York, N.Y. 10108-1142, (212) 944-6880. ILLUSTRATION: [Color Photo]
STEPHEN HARRIMAN PHOTOS
SWEDEN
Sweden's Gotland Island in the middle of the Baltic Sea is like a
time capsule: the Romanesque Stenkyrka ("church od stone"). with
medieval murals inside, is one of 92 churches still in use that date
from the 12th and 13th centuries.
SWITZERLAND
James Bond and I have at least this much in common: We both reached
the summit of the Schilthorn in the Swiss Alps with some difficulty.
Mine was merely a "little problem" with the cable car.
AUSTRIA
I would like Hallstatt to be my secret - my perfect hideaway - but
that connot be. Nestled beside a mountain lake, this little village
that claims to be Europe's oldest continually inhabited place is
featured on Austrian tourism posters.
FRANCE
I was determined to visit the Louvre, arguably the greatest art
museum in the world, and I was finally prepared to endure Paris and
Parisians if that's what it took. How silly that seems now. Like so
many visitors before me, I fell in love with Paris.
ENGLAND
The 14th century open-air wool market at Chipping Campden is an
age-old symbol of the commercial importance of sheep to the bucolic
Cotswold Hills. Prosperity id reflected in the handsome manor houses
and churches in this picture-perfect part of England.
The Jungfrau Massif rises above the Lauterbrunnen Valley in the
Swiss Alps.
by CNB