By day four in Port Douglas, I was getting antsy for a change of scenery. I’m not much of a shopper and I don’t load up on purchases at the beginning of a trip, especially if it means buying more luggage, and we still had three weeks of travel ahead of us. And I’m definitely not much of a lounger—beach, poolside, or even at a sidewalk café. But on day four I found myself doing all four. I told myself it was a good way to refuel, but I wasn’t convinced.
We started the day with a beach stroll, followed by browsing the shops, and later a long walk on the wharf and through town, stopping at Payless Rental & Tours to inquire about a rental car for Sunday, before we browsed more shops.
We lunched at Cafe Ziva, people-watched for quite some time, and then returned to our hotel to lounge poolside for the afternoon. David read while I jotted notes for a future Darcy and Bullet thriller to be set Down Under and updated my travel log.
For dinner, we ate at Bucci. Besides loving duck as an entrée, I am also a big fish-eater, as I was spoiled by fresh seafood caught by my father, an avid fisherman. I ordered Mooloolah River swordfish char-grilled on lemon leaves and served with a fresh tomato and herb salsa, and David had the pan-seared Cone Bay barramundi with a chili-pickled beetroot salad with whipped feta, onion confit, and walnuts. For dessert, a snifter of grappa, guaranteeing we would sleep soundly that night.
Early Sunday morning we collected the keys to our rental vehicle from the shopkeeper next door to Payless Rental and found our Mitsubishi SUV parked on the street, just as the rental owner had instructed. There was no way, he had informed us when we filled out the paperwork, he would be working that early on a Sunday, but he was willing to make other arrangements to accommodate our wishes. We offered to pick up the car on Saturday, right after we signed the contract, but he said there was no reason to pay for an extra day, and besides he had no rentals available. He concluded our transaction with a smile and a question: “Why do Texans always carry guns?” I replied, “Well, we don’t always carry guns. We aren’t carrying them now.” I smiled and left David and the owner to their discussion of surf fishing and moseyed over to the adjacent shop, curious as to what models of ten-speed bicycles they were selling.
Shortly thereafter, we arrived back at our hotel to gather a few things for our day trip to Daintree National Park, the largest rainforest in Australia. We spent hours in this tropical wonderland, hiking and snapping photos as we visited Mossman Gorge and the Daintree Village, a laid-back rural town situated on a bend of the mighty Daintree River, where we spotted two crocodiles skimming the waters. Although we were warned, we didn’t see any cassowaries. Cassowaries are large flightless birds. They resemble emus and are shy, but when provoked can inflict serious, sometimes fatal injuries. The warning reminded me of a similar one about ostriches many years ago when I lived in Africa. If cornered, the frightened bird can deliver dangerous kicks capable of killing a lion. Rule: Don’t provoke the wildlife, any wildlife.
Back in Port Douglas, we dropped off the rental car and headed to our hotel for a short nap to reenergize before we walked across town to the docks to find our boat for a sunset sail around the harbor. On board, we sipped wine, nibbled appetizers, and watch the sun sink on the blue horizon.
Our conversation turned to the Daintree Rainforest, and what we might do if we revisited it. Maybe a guided fine feather tour? Australia has so many beautiful birds. Or a river cruise, getting up close and personal with the crocodiles. We had done something similar more than once in Florida, but saw no crocs, only alligators, and in a much smaller boat. Yikes! We also enjoyed the Mossman Gorge and the aerial walkway on our way up to the Canopy Tower. As suggested, we kept our eyes open, hoping to spot a cassowary, but only saw an amethystine python camouflaged in the foliage of an Australian fan palm that towered over McLean’s Creek.
For dinner that night, we decided on Thai food and ate at Siam by the Sea. Most of the reviews were four or five stars with a few twos and threes. Our seafood meals were delicious, and I loved the pineapple fried rice.
Our first stop in the Côte de Nuits was the Clos de Vougeot, a wall-enclosed vineyard (clos) with a 125 acres under vine. It is the largest single vineyard in the Côte de Nuits that’s entitled to the grand cru designation; a wine of the most superior grade. The vineyard, like so many in the region, was created by the Cistercian monks. The land was either purchased or donated. In 1336 a wall was built around the vineyard, and in 1551 a château was added. During the French Revolution, all vineyard possessions were confiscated and sold to private buyers. In 1818 the château and vineyards were purchased by Julien-Jules Ouvrard and remained a monopole until his death. A monopole (monopoly in French) is an area controlled by a single winery and can be as small as a vineyard or as large as an entire appellation. An appellation is a legally defined and protected geographical indication used to identify where the grapes for a wine were grown. Also note that, unlike in most of the world’s vineyards, single ownership is rare in Burgundy.
Late in the afternoon our guide dropped us at our hotel, and we immediately prepared for our drive from Beaune back to Dijon, about a fifty-minute trip, as we had dinner reservations at Abbaye de la Bussière. As we wound our way through the Ouche valley, the countryside picturesque and unspoiled, we were glad we had our GPS to guide us. We turned onto one, then another country crossroad and kept going until I was certain we were hopelessly lost, but we soon spotted the Burgundy Canal and knew we were on course. We followed the river, and before long there appeared before us a grand gateway. The drive curved past willow trees and a duck pond, and Shetland ponies grazed on the grass. We parked and were escorted into a main hall.
Abbaye de la Bussière is a Cistercian monastery built in 1131 by Stephen Harding, an Englishman, of the Cistercian Order at Cîteaux. Following the French Revolution, the monks were expelled and the property sold at auction. It remained in private hands until it was returned to the Catholic church in 1921 to serve as a spiritual retreat. In decline and decay, the church decided to sell the abbey in 2005. Today it is owned by the Cummings family and is an exclusive boutique hotel set on fifteen acres of parkland with a lake and a botanical garden. The abbey is surrounded by historic vineyards, Gevrey-Chambertin being one of them. There are sixteen guest rooms, all lavishly decorated, and fine dining is in the main abbey building, a cathedral-like setting with honey-colored stonework, traceries, ornate staircases, and stained glass windows that cast soft turquoise light on the vaulted ceilings and walls.
Early the next morning, I cranked in the pulley clothesline to retrieve our clean laundry, which had spent the night drying on the line that stretched from our apartment window to a stone wall on the opposite side of the alleyway. The fresh scent of lemon soap wafted toward me as I reeled in the garments, still flapping gently in a soft, morning breeze. Years ago, I had learned to pack hand-washable, quick-dry clothing, and such items certainly came in handy on long trips.
After a few challenging moments at the photo shop, when the owner couldn’t figure out how to print our tickets, he called in his young son, who was working in the back of the store. I turned to Dave and smiled. He, too, had a smile on his face, as did the owner. In five minutes flat, the son printed our tickets and left without saying a word.
Unfortunately, on a bus trip you can’t stop whenever you’d like for a photo op, the first being the bridge. And, shooting through glass can certainly diminish the quality of your pictures. We tried to open them, but the windows wouldn’t budge.
We hugged the coastline until we reached the Neum corridor in Bosnia and
Back on the road, our driver motored along a series of small back streets for about forty minutes until he sped onto the A-1. With nothing much to see scenery-wise, we napped. When we woke, the bus was climbing along a rather steep rise. Below stretched a verdant valley with water ditches channeled into the rich, dark earth. As an avid gardener, I was drawn by the fertile farmland. I snapped a few pictures and checked the time. We had been riding for five and a half hours. Surely, Split had to be nearby.