We asked CATHERINE MACKto go donkey trekking with her sons in the hills above Nice – and EDEL MORGANto report back on taking her three under-sixes to Disneyland Paris
I SECRETLY always wanted to be Julie Andrews, writes CATHERINE MACK, leading children merrily across Alpine pastures, with songs to fix every dilemma, and Christopher Plummer hanging on my every note. So walking in the Alps in late May – albeit in France, not Austria – with my husband and two sons, the snow-capped peaks glistening in the distance and edelweiss-covered meadows underfoot, I was, at last, given the chance to become a Von Trapp.
These hills were alive with the sound of a rather different sort of music that week, however: that of our faithful companion and protector, a donkey. His job was to carry our bags from gite to gite, and ours was simply to follow a map and walk. Before we left, my six-year-old son, Hugo, was horrified by the very idea of it all. We are not regular ramblers. Camping, cycling and a walk in the country, yes, but hiking across the Alps for a week, no. This was new territory for us, and as I packed blister plasters over beach towels, and hiking socks over sexy sarongs, I wondered if a week of nothing but walking and talking was going to make or break us.
Our instructions were to find our way to Entrevaux, about 60km north of Nice. We took the quaintest of trains out of the city, following the River Var through its valley of mountain villages. As we gasped at the landscape, poor Hugo looked down at the turquoise Mediterranean disappearing into a mere puddle far below. We were met in Entrevaux by Christine Kieffer, one of the owners of the hiking company that was hosting us. It’s a stunning medieval town, with a drawbridge over the Var and a maze of tiny streets leading up to the ancient citadel or down to the river.
Villeplane, the company’s base, was about 40 minutes’ drive away, giving us plenty of time to take in the dramatic gorges of red rock and tumbling waterfalls. This was to be our home for the next few days, but first we had to meet our donkey – one of about 50 owned by Christine, her husband, Gerard, and their sons. (As well as breeding donkeys, the family are also expert mountain guides, conservationists, chefs and, most of all, hosts extraordinaire.
As we drove up the dusty path to her stone-and-timber farmhouse, Christine pointed out our home for the first night, a splendid yurt in the middle of a shady field. Shade was already becoming an issue, as we had arrived just in time for a heatwave. The yurt was genuine Mongolian, painted in bright traditional colours, and was the most divine way to start our week’s adventure.
All the food is provided – and, judging by the extraordinary meal laid on for us that night, we were not going to go hungry. Using local ingredients and showing off their region’s cuisine are priorities for the Kieffers. Villeplane was setting a high standard, starting with an amazing aperitif fortified with some home-made marmalade that hadn’t set properly.
“Nothing goes to waste in the mountains,” says Jeremie, one of Christine and Gerard’s charming sons, who had prepared a refreshing radish-leaf soup, a lasagne like I could only dream of making, four local cheeses and a fruit salad with sprigs of mint (which he popped down to pick in the garden below). The boys wolfed it all, and we downed a delicious digestif, this time fortified with thyme.
After a fine sleep we got to work early the next morning. Christine showed us maps and talked us through our walking routes, explaining that most of the time we were following the GR52, one of several walking paths which cross Europe. Following it is easy, as there are red and white markers along every route, as well as corresponding numbered signposts. We felt in safe hands. The GRs wind mostly across France, Spain, Portugal, Belgium and the Netherlands, and in a wonderful pan-European way their initials work in most languages: Grande Randonnée in French, Grote Routepaden in Dutch, Grande Rota in Portuguese and Gran Recorrido in Spanish. In France alone the trails cover about 60,000 km. This suddenly made our trek from village to village seem relatively easy.
Our donkey was called Iznogoud, after a French cartoon character. In English it’s pronounced Isnogood. He looked very good to us, however, as he calmly let us prepare him for the journey. Gerard showed us how to brush him, wipe juniper oil on all his tender parts – yes, all – to keep the flies off and, finally, put his blankets and beautiful handmade saddle on. Christine and Gerard were careful to include the children in all the instructions, pointing out that if the donkey got even one little stone caught under his saddle he would be in great pain, so keeping him smooth and clean was vital. The boys were hanging on their every word by the end, particularly Louis, our 10-year-old, who vowed to look after him until our return. “Get to know him,” Gerard said. “When you walk he mustn’t eat; he must work. But when you stop, give him all the cuddles he deserves.”
We had transferred our luggage into two military-style bags the night before; they were then placed on either side of the donkey, having been weighed to make sure he was never lopsided. Christine gave us our picnic, which we tied on top, and off we headed, the children taking turns to lead Iznogoud down the country lane to find our first marker of the day. We were only taking on eight kilometres that day – although, as Christine had warned us, “We never talk in kilometres in the mountains; only ups and downs.” We tackled our first down almost immediately, descending the woody slopes of the Cante Valley.
A couple of hours later we hit our first major obstacle, at the bottom, where we stopped by the voracious Var, following instructions to unload the donkey, give him water and eat copious amounts of delicious picnic food. The river was terrifyingly fast. One of the children decided to put some of our water bottles in the river to cool them, only to watch them be swept away into the torrents. The danger made me see red, and a screaming match that must have echoed all the way back to Villeplane began. I knew then that this holiday was going to test us in ways we hadn’t imagined.
French food, sunshine and a good rest heal all, however – and there was plenty of all that in supply. Hugging Iznogoud did the trick, too; he went on to lead our reunited team of mountaineers over the steepest climb of the trip, along stony paths of wild thyme, gorse and Alpine flowers galore. As the wooden signpost for Sauze, our bed for the night, came into sight two hours later we all cheered, and in a hamlet we found the confidence to knock on a door and ask for water. A lovely couple saved the day – and soaked the boys’ T-shirts, so they had a cool last couple of kilometres.
When we arrived in Sauze we met our host, Bernadette, who runs the village auberge. She showed us the donkey’s field for the night, as well as where to store the bags and saddle, and took our picnic basket from us, saying she would have it replenished for us in the morning. Then we were taken to our simple, clean family room. After a shower we came down for aperitifs and dinner by 7pm. This was to be our evening routine for the week.
One of the most striking aspects of the holiday was one of the most unexpected: the food. I assumed it would be bistro-style steak et frîtes. I couldn't have been more wrong. We were presented with a huge plate of charcuterie, followed by baked rabbit and home-made ravioli, followed by a vat of crepes. The highlight was a vast array of home-made sauces, all Bernadette's specialities, based on traditional recipes: dandelion-flower syrup, elderberry jam and even pumpkin jam.
We continued at this pace for the next few days, following Christine’s itinerary. Some days were tougher than others. From Sauze we walked across two valleys to Bouchanières, during which the terrain seemed to change every 20 minutes. For some stretches we felt as if we were in lush Irish meadows, then suddenly the path changed direction into sprawling larch-filled woodland. It sometimes felt as if our moods varied as much as the landscape. When it was dry, hot and dusty we tended to fall into a silent determination. Then we would be soothed by shady forest, with a soft pine-needle floor, which brought the spring back into our steps. When the children needed motivating we did quizzes, sang songs and gave ourselves targets. “When we get to that rock at the top of the hill we’ll have a sweet and a break.” A giant bag of sweets is a must for this trip.
Every evening we collapsed into the arms of a different family, such as the lovely Jeanne-Marie and Andreas, in Bouchanières, who made the best hot chocolate in the world, according to Hugo. We, however, will never forget the fine local veal, the best pasta salad ever for our picnic the next day, and the warmest welcome you could imagine from a couple who love sharing their magnificent views and lifestyle.
Farther on, at the village of Péone – another mad maze of medieval architecture perching delicately on the side of a cliff – we stayed at the laid-back family-run Col de Crous. The next day was a shorter walk, so we could spend the morning looking around the village. The nomadic influence must have been starting to take effect, however: we were all keen to hit the hills again and retreat back into our peaceful wanderlust.
This holiday confounded all my expectations. It was much tougher than we had expected, yet we rose to the occasion and pushed ourselves beyond limits we had never set ourselves before. As Hugo approached one of the final numbered signposts on the last day he said: “This holiday was like a treasure hunt without the treasure.” “There’s our treasure,” I shouted, pointing out our beloved yurt peaking through the trees on the other side of the gorge. He smiled and shouted “Allez, Iznogoud!” while I basked in pride at what we had achieved and took in one last exhilarating view of the majestic mountains we had climbed together.
We arrived back in Villeplane hot, filthy, exhausted and on top of the world. We announced our arrival with Ireland's Call, which echoed rather beautifully around the valley. The hills really were alive with the sound of music, and I, at last, had got my Von Trapp moment.
Go there
Irish Ferries (irishferries.com) sails from Rosslare to Cherbourg and Roscoff. Brittany Ferries (brittany ferries.ie) sails from Cork to Roscoff. From there you can take a TGV to Nice via Paris (sncf.com). For Irish Rail’s European reservations, call 01-7031885 or visit irishrail.ie. Aer Lingus (aerlingus.com) flies to Nice from Dublin and Cork. Ryanair (ryanair.com) flies from Dublin. Entrevaux is served from Nice byChemins de Fer de Provence (trainprovence.com).
'They're already asking to go back'writes
EDEL MORGAN
OUR EXPERIENCE OF Disneyland Paris with three small children is, I'm guessing, very different from that of families with older children. It was strange, on our first day at the theme park, to see children aged from four upwards being wheeled around like little lords and ladies in poussettes, pushchairs you rent by the day. But when you realise how vast the place is, how easily little legs tire and how big the potential for meltdowns is, you see the logic.
At the beginning of the holiday we put ourselves under pressure to arrive early at the theme park each morning, to avoid long queues and to cover as much ground as possible. It can be frustrating when you’re shuffling along at a snail’s pace, trying to persuade two boys, aged five and three, not to wander off while families with older kids stride past.
Between chasing them out of toyshops, taking breaks for meals and making excursions to the toilets and what pass for baby-changing areas, progress was slow. By day three we decided to go with the flow rather than try to see everything.
Disneyland Park is divided into five lands. Fantasyland, on the far side of Sleeping Beauty Castle, has lots of attractions for younger children, including the beautiful Carrousel de Lancelot, a Dumbo the Flying Elephant ride and Alice’s Curious Labyrinth. You can’t bring babies or buggies on many of the rides, so one of us would wait with our one-year-old while the other queued with the boys.
We were allowed to bring her on the Mad Hatter’s Tea Cups – spinning cups big enough to fit us all in and gentle enough for a baby – and on It’s a Small World, a boat through caverns featuring animatronic dolls dressed as children of the world. You can get Fastpass tickets for some of the more popular rides, which can save you an hour or more of queuing. The attraction that captured their imagination most, and which they kept going back to, was the dragon’s cave in Sleeping Beauty Castle. There were no queues: you walk into the cave to see the smoke-blowing dragon, then come out the other side.
The great thing about going with small kids is their wonder and excitement at seeing their favourite characters in the stage show and parade down Main Street USA. The Town Square and Main Street are supposed to look like a typical small American town at the turn of the 20th century – very quaint except that behind the facades lurks the temptation of Disney merchandise. My abiding memory is of us in hot pursuit as our three-year-old made off down Main Street USA with a Buzz Lightyear toy he’d effectively shoplifted.
We knew our five-year-old wouldn’t be allowed on Big Thunder Mountain, the roller coaster in Frontierland, because of its height restriction, and should have avoided it, as when he was refused entry he burst into tears under the measuring stick, wailing: “But it looks really fun.”
You can’t escape music in Disneyland. It’s everywhere, all the time – even in the toilets. For frazzled parents who want to escape the constant assault on the senses for a while there are oases of relative calm around the park. Pirates’ Beach, a playground beside the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, is perfect if you want to sit back and let them play.
Walt Disney Studios Park, next door to Disneyland Park, provides another welcome break for parents: Playhouse Disney – Live on Stage, where we sat for half an hour and watched the kids dance in a contained environment. With rides such as the Tower of Terror and the Rock 'n' Roller Coaster, there wasn't a lot in Walt Disney Studios for small children except Toon Studio.
Disney Village is a change of pace from the relentless jollity and saccharine sweetness of Disneyland Park and, I’d imagine, a welcome refuge for visitors who don’t have children. It’s loud, with blaring 1980s music, and has bars, restaurants – including Planet Hollywood – a cinema and, of course, a Disney store. When you come out of the village you see one of the only business activities in the area not controlled by Disney: street traders selling nodding dogs off rugs. Armed soldiers patrol this area, which jars with the fluffy Disney image.
We stayed at the Santa Fe, a two-star Disney hotel. The first thing that greeted us when we turned on to its driveway each day was a huge billboard painting of Clint Eastwood in his The Good, the Bad and the Uglyera. This turned out to be fitting, as there were elements of all three at the Santa Fe, a series of flat-roof low-rise buildings that were supposed to look Mexican. In its favour, the accommodation, although basic, was clean and cheerful enough, and the hotel had a bar, restaurant, games room, play area and obligatory Disney store, which also stocked milk, nappies and wine.
We were less impressed with the baby-changing facility, a marble counter with no strap or ledge to stop a baby falling off. In fact none of the changing areas we came across at Disneyland had straps, which is fine if you have a tiny baby who doesn’t move. Our room, with two double beds and a cot, would have been fine for a smaller family with older children, but with only a tiny strip of circulation space we were constantly tripping over each other. We couldn’t let the baby crawl around because of the room’s huge brown furniture.
After a few futile phone conversations with hotel staff, asking if we could get a bigger room, I phoned Abbey Travel, tour travel agent, but they said they had no contacts at the hotel, as they book through a central website. When I asked the point of using a travel agent if there’s no back-up when something goes wrong, they called the Santa Fe, which agreed to remove some furniture from the room.
The kids are already asking when we can go back to Disneyland Paris. We think we’ll wait for five years, until they’re old enough to go on Space Mountain:
Mission 2 and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Peril. By then, with luck, we’ll have progressed to at least three-star accommodation and be the smug family with older children charging around the park while harassed-looking parents with young children trail in our wake.
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Our five-day package to Disneyland Paris (disneylandparis.ie), which cost €499 through Abbey Travel (abbeytravel.ie), included entry to the parks and a room at the Santa Fe. The total cost, with flights, was about €1,300. We flew Air France (airfrance.ie) to Paris Charles de Gaulle, 40 minutes from the resort. It would have been cheaper to fly with Ryanair (ryanair.com), but the trip from Beauvais put us off
Catherine Mack was a guest of Itinerance-trekking (00-33-4- 93055601, itinerance.net), which organises your accommodation, food, donkeys and itinerary. A week costs €595 for adults and €516 for children aged between seven and 12, both excluding flights and other fares
