Gibraltar Journal......

This is my journal of a recent trip. Mike Hyde (Boxertools), Dave Horton (Sgt Bilko) & I visited Gibraltar for their National Day on the 10th September. Mike Hyde’s mother is Gibraltarian and both he and his wife hold joint citizenship. The plan was to cover the entire distance off dual carriageways and Motorways (with the exception of getting to Dover and clearing Calais). Bilko had less time, so planned to join us at the Spanish border and would also depart early. Mike's wife, Caroline, would fly out to Gibraltar and ride back with Mike. Bilko & I have both got GS Advs and Mike has a R1100S.

That was the plan – but plans change……….



Weds 3rd September 2003

Woke at 2.23am. TWO TWENTY BLOODY THREE! Tried to get back to sleep (never works, but I’m an optimist). Eventually (0400) got up, watched TV for 10 minutes & had a bowl of wheaties, back to bed at 0430. Dozed fitfully until the alarm went off at 0630.

Got the bike (fully packed the night before) out of the garage, then put the Scabalier on the driveway, leaving the battery on trickle charge (battery’s been less than reliable lately). Left the house at 0703….

Picked up Mike at 0715, on the road at 0720. Mike can hear me on the bike-to-bike radio, but either his mic or my receiver appear to be defective. Because of his tank bag - he's unable to see his GPS..... Made our way down to Mildenhall via Brandon – beautiful morning. New riding kit (Tiger Angel) is quite comfortable, except that the trousers are not high enough in the waist (they only arrived yesterday - perfect timing ). 'Ultimate Earplug' monitors seem OK so far – Roxy Music takes me to the M25 – Betty (Bitching Betty – GPS) clearly audible.

Very light traffic at Dartford, sees us arriving at Maidstone Services with an hour to spare. Time for a fat-boy, heart-attack-on-a-plate full English breakfast, then off to fill up with petrol. Arrive at Dover & experience a very easy check in (I’m always a little nervous turning up somewhere with just a reference number, but P&O did us proud - that was after Mike tried to pull me over because he was sure we were booked on Norfolk Line…)

An hour and a half transit found us in Calais and on the Péage towards Paris, Reims etc. First fly in the ointment – the GPS came up with a dialogue box I’d not seen before when I loaded the route we’d planned weeks ago in Mike & Caroline’s kitchen. I think it’s because there are too many waypoints in it. I try to persevere, not, to be honest, aided much by Mike’s ‘I’m just following you’ attitude. I explained that I didn’t consider I was leading this trip – it seems to have had the desired effect….

Eventually get off the Péage (€9.90!) and start a game of hide & seek through every village in Northern France



– trying to keep up with the GPS which seems to be guestimating its way around. I’m tired now, and getting ratty & inattentive. The bloody earplugs aren’t keeping the noise of the bike out and I’ve got ringing in my ears. After doing a U turn using a junction, I find myself on the wrong side of the road before correcting myself. We stop & agree to find somewhere to stay for the night.



We consult Betty & are directed to the hilltop town of Laon – or rather we would’ve been if the French Traffic Commissioners hadn’t decided to re-surface & close every road between us and the town….

Eventually got in and spent about an hour vainly searching for an hotel with vacancies before Mike has the brilliant idea of following our corrected route and looking for an hotel on the way out of town. Bingo, we arrive at a ‘Campanile’ (a bit like a Travel Lodge) at the convergence of 2 major roads and a railway line. To be honest, I’d given up caring, so long as it had a bed and a shower.

Well the shower did the job, indeed, it was so powerful it almost put me through the wall. Sufficiently cleansed Mike & I went down and Franglaised our way through the menu and had a passable meal (although Mike still reckons the cold beef was more likely equine in ancestry….) washed down with a couple of beers. Later we re-plan the entire route from Laon to St Gaudens (our RV with Bilko) and load it into both GPSes – Hurrah – it works! Last coffee before hitting the sack at about 2200 (that’s only 2100 BST, but we were tired). French Pop Idol is called ‘Dans un Instant’…………….

Thurs 4th September 2003

Woke at 0730, feeling much refreshed. It’s a beautiful day, without a cloud in sight. Mike apparently got up at 0900, opened the door to find:
1. It was dark
2. It was 0330, not 0900
3. He’d looked at his watch upside down….

Had a continental breakfast. There’s nothing quite like a load of cheese, hard boiled eggs and smoked pig served in various ways to remind you that you’re on the continent. Paid the, very reasonable, bill and departed. One reason the bill was very reasonable was that they’d neglected to charge us for last night’s meals & drinks. Hey-ho…..

Almost immediately the GPS threw a bloody fit! As we turned onto the main road it threw in a quick auto-recalculate, leaving me to guess which way to turn. Naturally I turned the wrong way. Never mind, a 180 deg turn got us on the right road, that is until we failed to turn left 2kms later. We failed to turn because there wasn’t a road there. For a while the GPS display showed us proceeding along our road, while the imaginary one paralleled us some 100m to the left. It then took off across some cornfields (still completely invisible!). A bit of dead-reckoning, guesswork & luck allowed us to make our way across country to intercept the route again.

We’re in Champagne country now, with every south-facing slope dedicated to the vine. Hundreds of people are picking the grapes and lorries are loaded so full that they often leave a slick of grapes and juice when they turn out of junctions. As a riding hazard, it has a whole lot more class than diesel, though, don’t you think?

Soon we were on the hunt for petrol. Mike’s R1100S gets uncomfortably low after 130ish miles, which means we start looking for petrol at 100 or so.



Eventually found some (with a sigh of relief) at 145, actually on our route, having stopped to ask some locals in dreadful Franglais. GPS is now behaving itself, but I’m having more problems with the earplugs. The problem seems to be that they just don’t fit. I can hear the GPS etc through them, but they don’t cut out extraneous noise and I’m concerned for my hearing. They are OK to begin with and then loosen and ‘fall out’ of my ear, at which point, around town at least, the Remus is bloody loud (road legal, yer honour, honest). I persevere, but am not optimistic.

We start making excellent progress along some very fast sweeping roads. There’s very little traffic – how do the French afford to have such a varied and well maintained set of roads?



On many of the sections, you can keep a realistic 90mph up, slowing for the villages – it doesn’t do to take the piss. Eventually, at midday, we cross a major N class road and stop at ‘Le Transport Café’ for a spot of lunch. Plate load of hors d’oeuvres and Lasagne & frites. After an hour, we waddle back to the bikes and press on South. It’s starting to get quite warm now, thought the new jacket is dealing with the heat admirably (I’m now wearing my Hood armoured jeans). We keep up a good pace and are soon entering the Chablis region (wouldn’t do to slip on cheap grapes here, having avoided them in Champagne). Stop for a breather in some woods and take the obligatory pix.



I give up on the earplugs – they bloody hurt & I’m unimpressed. I continue with disposables (ah - bliss, what comfort & quiet), monitoring the GPS’es screen. I keep my mic connected in case of a need to talk to Mike. Mike keeps listening to his GPS (he still can’t see the screen) in case we go off route and I don’t notice. Although it sounds like the set up line for a joke, it works remarkably well.

The problem with using the GPS here is that the ‘main’ road, very often branches off without the Mapsource mapping being aware of it. You therefore relax thinking ‘I’ve got 8.5km on this road’, only to find that you miss a junction when the road went 90 deg off to the left, or something. It’s particularly difficult when in medium sized towns which seem to have market squares full of hidden & unmarked junctions – except for the one you’re looking for, of course, which is clearly marked with a ‘No Entry’ sign…..

Soon we’re hurting for petrol again. I’d forgotten how few and far between are French garages. In the end, with Mike already riding 10miles with his light on, we ask Betty, who directs us very efficiently to an Avia station 19km away. Arriving with a sigh of relief, we work out that Mike most probably had about a gallon left… Never mind, from now on we are going to find fuel at 100 miles….. The pump attendant is very impressed by the GPS – especially when I show him that it directed us specifically to his garage.

We manage to stumble further South, stopping for a fruit juice (don’t ask me what fruit – it tasted strangely unfamiliar…) in some arbitrary town square before pressing on looking for a Chambre d’Hote (Bed & Breakfast). I’ve always preferred to stay at these where possible, because you actually get to speak to some locals. They haven’t the first fucking idea what you’re saying, of course, but I find it’s worth the effort.

We eventually find a B&B in the village of Molphey, in the Bourgogne region.



It’s way off the beaten track (almost literally – I didn’t envy Mike his 1100S for the gravel road leading up to the house). Yes, they have 2 rooms for single occupancy for a single night – they make it fairly clear that they’d prefer us to be 2 married couples staying for a fortnight, but there you go. After an excellent shower, we relax with a water (no coffee, nor evening meal available, but not really hungry after gargantuan lunch). Another good day’s riding…..An early night after watching a couple of video clips I’d got on the laptop, including a spectacular deer vs GSXR one from the ‘states.

Fri 5th September 2003

Slept OK – not brilliantly. Mike complains of having nightmares about deer strikes…. Reasonable breakfast (Bakerman would’ve liked it – current & walnut baguette). Mike (who is a carpenter) tours the owners carpentry workshop speaking the international language of men – power tools.



On the road by 0930. Agree to stop for more pictures today, as we’ve been pressing on fairly hard the last 2 days. The weather is fairly cloudy and, as we set off, we get a few drops of rain on the visor. The shape of things to come….It soon becomes apparent that the hills we’re heading for contain rain. We stop on a forest road to change into waterproofs which, for me (the eternal optimist) means taking off my boots & jeans before putting on my new Aussie kit. I expect there are woodland creatures who will be in therapy for years after what they saw that morning…. After a brief leg-stretch and a chat, we continue through the light drizzle south through the hills. Mike is a little slower here, as he explained he is uncertain of the amount of grip his loaded bike has. We agree to do a bit of instruction later in the trip to try & improve this. We settle into a routine of Mike leading for most of the day, interspersed with my going in front for navigation through towns where necessary. Because of the poor weather, we have few good photo opportunities, but manage a few snaps.

With 85-odd miles on the trip meter, I set Betty off to look for fuel, which she does with her usual efficiency. We’re soon back on route and making reasonable time as the weather improves – most of the roads are now dry.



We stop in Chazelles–sur-Lyon for lunch, which comprises two dog-turd shaped fish polenta thingies in a cheese sauce. They tasted much better than that sounds - but then they’d have to, wouldn’t they? No-one we’ve met speaks any English yet, so they’re having to put up with O level French. Very few of them care where la plume de ma tante is.



Riding on towards the 11th century abbey at St Romain Le Puy , the clouds start looking threatening. We wisely stop and get togged up again, experiencing a severe squall of heavy cold rain as we climb the mountains. We then return to some switchback D roads down the mountain and up the other side.

When we planned the route down & up these tiny wiggly roads, it was with the thought of doing them in scorching sunshine. The reality - cold rain, lousy road surfaces and silt being washed across the roads from the adjoining fields, is somewhat less enjoyable. We stop for petrol (again) and agree to stop early (it’s 1715) and make an early start tomorrow to rendezvous with Bilko in St Gaudens - still over 500km south west. We find a Tourist Information office with a girl who speaks English (hurrah!) and she directs us to the Hotel Universal. Universal in that they’ll let anyone stay there….. Still, it’s cheap and has a secure garage for the bikes, so it’s a done deal.



The town, Retournac, is right on the Loire. Tomorrow we ride down the Loire Valley. Tonight, however, we try to find a level floor or a straight wall anywhere in the hotel – without success. Never mind, several beers later we have achieved flying speed. Our command of French has become so impressive that we end up eating exactly the same meal we had at lunch! Kenzer, the owner's dog, keeps an eye on our food.



Several more beers follow, as does an umbrella stand full of Pernod (for Mike) & Cointreau (for me). Stagger off to bed with promises to meet for breakfast at 0730 so we can make an early start. Try to access 2 messages which have been left on my voicemail, to find that O2, whom I rang especially to arrange voicemail access with, have actually given me a number which merely allows me to leave messages on my own ‘phone. In desperation I send a text to Bilko, the only member of the Amish community ever to serve in the Royal Marines, to tell him to text me with any info he needs me to have. Optimistic I am not….. And so to bed (2300 – pissed)….

Sat 6th September 2003

Up at 0700, breakfast at 0730. Layers of mist are hanging over the Loire valley, and there is a light drizzle.



After a fairly sparse breakfast, we set off along the Loire, doing some training on the way - surely there is no better road to teach the principles of cornering on. As we arrive at Le Puy, the weather clears, so we take off the waterproofs and carry on. We make good progress on the excellent sweeping curves of the D roads south. Although still not warm, the road surface is now dry. We stop to take some pictures from the top of the hill of the mist filling the Loire Valley.



Visibility in the valley is never really poor – just not really good enough for pics. We continue south through the ‘Route de le Bete’ or Road of the Beast. Took a picture of this local sculpture of the chap himself…



Made a fuel stop and then regained the route, up through several hills and down the other side. Stopped at a picturesque bridge and took some pics, before pressing on up some quite steep switchbacks.





Came across a boulder field – remarkable, they are all a result of volcanic basalt being systematically frozen & thawed over several hundred thousand years.



We press on (over 500 km to do today to stick to the route). The GPS is behaving itself and we have only one or two missed turns – quickly corrected. Spying a restaurant/bar overlooking a lake, we stop for a bite only to find that, with typical Gallic efficiency, it’s closed for lunch (open again at 1400 m’sieur).

In the next village, quite out of the blue, Mike says he wants to go straight to Saint Gaudens (our pre-arranged RV with Bilko) – he doesn’t like the type of riding we’ve been doing, his back hurts & he wants to get to the hotel ASAP. I’m surprised because he’s been leading for most of the day on excellent D roads, keeping up a steady 70/80mph. The last few miles I’ve been leading through windy farm tracks and switchbacks. He says he doesn’t want to spoil mine or Bilko’s fun, but if the roads planned in Spain are like that, he’ll go solo from St Gaudens to Gib. I suggest we discuss it later. We recalculate & knock 90mins off the ETA and set off along some storming roads (which were on the original route), before joining the Peage and numbing our minds for an hour and a half at 130kph.

Eventually got into the town centre at St G – try to follow the signs for the Tourist Info Office – no chance, they’ve hidden it. We follow signs to it from every point of the compass before giving up. We eventually find the Hotel de Commerce, where the smiling concierge assures me we won’t find a room in town as there’s a festival on. I walk across the road and book 3 rooms in the next hotel I see….. Text message to Bilko to give him the location – he rings back within the hour to say he’ll be here at about 2230. Shower and change & off to the bar for, no doubt, an uncomfortable discussion. I’m a bit bemused as the only reason I’m going to Gib is to keep Mike company (I’m not in love with the place, but really wanted to do the journey to & from). Ah well, there’s always beer to fall back on….

Had a good chat with Mike & sorted today out. We’ll be following the route for the first day in Spain to see how it goes, before deciding what to do. We go to a Vietnamese restaurant for dinner, becoming ever more aware that they seem to be closing off the main road outside….. It seems it is Saint Gauden’s annual festival tonight and all routes into the town are closed off. My thoughts go to Bilko, riding through torrential rain north of Toulouse, heading this way, to the promise of a warm, dry hotel room – unable to get there because the rendezvous we’ve decided on is grid-locked by festival floats. Then I think ‘Bollocks’ and we order another beer.

Against all expectation, Bilko manages to dodge the road blocks and bluff his way through to the hotel by 2250. We meet up and much too much beer is imbibed. To bed at 0145 (pissed), promising to meet at 0800 for breakfast (somewhat unlikely, I feel….). And so to bed – Spain tomorrow!

Sun 7th September 2003

My pessimism was unfounded – we’re all up for breakfast at 0800. The problem is that it’s raining. Hard. Bilko helps calm any worries Mike may have about riding in these weather conditions by recounting details of every bike accident he’s ever had or seen. Eventually (2hrs later!!) we get mobile. We quickly get onto the N230 which leads to the Spanish border. It must be a beautiful road to ride when the weather’s good, but it’s pissing down and progress is slow. We eventually cross into Spain at 1035 and the weather starts to relent slightly. The road is spectacular, even in this weather, clinging to the side of a mountain valley and passing through several tunnels. It’s immediately apparent that the problems we had finding petrol at regular intervals in France are in the past – there are service stations available at regular intervals in Spain.



By 1200 it’s actually quite pleasant, in an overcast-but-not-really-raining sort of way.



We stop for lunch (Paella – natch) and, while we are eating, the rain starts again – only much heavier. Light relief is provided by Bilko holding 3 fingers up to the waitress when ordering coffee, and insisting he wants ‘Dos!’. We wimp out and cower over coffees in the dry, before deciding it’s not going to stop and we may as well get on with it.



I lead off in heavy rain, which, as we climb into the hills, becomes a torrential thunderstorm. I see several vehicles travelling in the opposite direction have pulled off the road to wait out the storm. I plough on at 35-40mph, trusting that Mike & Bilko are somewhere behind me. As we descend from the hills, the weather clears and, in remarkably short space of time, the roads are dry. We stop for petrol for the second time that day and compare notes. Bilko’s Tuareg Goretex liners have leaked, as has the front of his jacket. Mikes boots & gloves are soaked, and he has a wet front to his T shirt; my trousers leaked (left leg – filling my left boot) and I have wet sleeves (having tried the gloves both inside and outside the sleeve with identical results). My left BMW waterproof glove isn’t. I later find that my RH pannier let in some water, enough to make my socks & T shirts damp. Hey ho….

We decide to press on to Teruel, where Mike has stayed previously and can recommend an hotel with secure parking & a decent restaurant. After our soaking, it sounds very attractive, so we press on down the main road, which occasionally becomes a dual carriageway.



The single carriageway sections are excellent for practising fast riding and overtaking and we keep up a decent average speed in (thank God) fine and dry conditions.



We eventually arrive in Teruel and Mike takes the lead to the hotel. We ride around some of the most threatening and insalubrious places I’ve yet seen in Spain. As we pass a burnt out car on the pavement I sincerely hope that Mike cannot remember where the hotel is, because I’m not stopping here….. Thankfully this is the case and we find the Hotel Oriente by retracing his route when he last visited. Had we known, we could’ve located it by following the smell of the BO of the hall porter, which is eye-watering. Having parked the bikes and showered in what has to be the smallest bath in the world, I repair to the bar…….



We eat ‘mystery meat’ as we (as usual) cannot fully understand the menu – we’re happy these days if the meal is anything other than fish flavoured polenta dog turds. We meet up with an ex-pat Brit Terry & his wife Sandy. They’re living in Queensland Australia, having left Hong Kong prior to handover. He’s done everything, it appears, particularly to do with sponsoring bike racing. He tells an interesting and entertaining tale. At about 2300, I plead tiredness & got to bed. Forecast on the what appears to be the model for the Fast Show’s ‘Channel 9’ is for the weather to be ‘Scorchio’ - at last…..

Great Stuff Mike..........

Keep it coming.........

CC

Mon 8th September 2003

Wake to find that the forecast is correct and it promises to be a beautiful day, with hardly a cloud in the sky. I manage to completely spook Mike by asking him when he last checked his tyre pressures. Cue a long conversation about what the pressures should be (the sticker under the seat is in Bar, but Mike, like me, thinks in PSI …). We eventually work out that he needs an extra 2 ½ psi in the front and we leave to use the air line at the garage next door. It’s knackered. Never mind, Bilko lights another tab and we plan the route.



We decide to ride to Toledo and duly depart. Mike & I take a wrong turn, Bilko, bringing up the rear, doesn’t and presses on. We attempt to catch up, assuming that he’s gone ahead, but Mike drops back, apparently unhappy with the pace. It’s a beautiful morning, with the sun low to the left of the road, which is definitely in ‘GS country’ – twisty with an excellent road surface, I make good progress before catching Bilko after about 20km. Mike’s along in under a minute – he’s had a bit of a wobble on a bend, which explains his dropping back. He rides to the filling station over the road and puts some air in the front tyre.



We continue to a small café near Cuenca where we sit outside the ‘Disco Bar’ which is decorated with an illustration of a man with his pants on fire. Good coffee though. Press on down excellent roads, fast sweepers which we are all enjoying. We fill up again at Toledo and decide to cut through some smaller roads South West towards Cordoba.



Turning off the main drag, we’re onto some very rough roads and I’m mindful of Mike’s back and the effect this is having on him. We stop for fuel again and he says he’s fine, but I feel that we need to be on better roads sooner rather than later.



The local crop here is clearly olives – the countryside is a patchwork of olive groves and cypress trees. The roads get narrower and the road surfaces rougher......



Bilko takes the lead and, after 20km or so, the road is suddenly transformed into a smooth, wide single carriageway which we press on at about 80-90mph. Bilks is clearly enjoying himself and is dealing with the hills and bends in a fast, smooth manner, as if he rides here every day. The Civil Guard patrol we pass on the side of the road wave (well, that’s what it looks like….). We pull over in Castilblanco, which is notable for its lack of a white castle, and then continue towards Cordoba. It’s been a long day, we’ve already covered more than 350 miles and I’m getting tired. Bilko’s rhythm begins to falter and he runs wide on a couple of bends.



I signal a pull in and say I’m too tired to continue at this pace. Mike & Bilko both agree and we plan to stop at the next town and find an hotel. Fiscal prudence overcomes fatigue when the lady with the only rooms available in town wants to charge us €65 each, not including breakfast. On the way out of town we are pulled over by the Police. As soon as they realise we don’t speak Spanish, they wave us through.

We press on South – the sunset to our right is stunning – God’s paintbox. We eventually arrive, completely exhausted and in dire need of a beer, at the Cesar Hostal at Alcaracejos. €15 each for a room. We re-check the price – yes, €15 per room. Sounds to good too be true – can we see a room. They are the best rooms of the trip so far, modern, clean and air-conditioned! We have an excellent, simple meal of chicken & chips, several large beers and turn in. At 400+ miles, the best day’s riding so far, by a long chalk…..

Tues 9th September 2003

Up early to get to Gibraltar. Mike’s wife, Caroline, is arriving at 1930, and we plan to be in Gib just after lunch. Some low cloud threatens to the South, but the ‘Scorchio’ lady insists that there will be no rain, so we stay in dry-weather gear and set off. The plan is to get to Gib ASAP, but to include a trip down to the coast from Ronda, which is an extremely scenic route.





We somehow get separated on the motorway and I continue on minor roads towards a new RV at Ronda. Arriving there at midday, it takes me 10 minutes just to find somewhere to stop to send Bilks a text saying ‘don’t bother – we’ll never find one another’. The place is heaving, like a combination of Petticoat Lane and Blackpool – thousands of holidaymakers jostle in the roads and pavements. I set course for Gibraltar and begin the long winding descent to the coast. The road is breathtaking, cut into the side of the mountain valley. The drop from the Armco on the right must be 1500ft, and the mountain rises nearly sheer to the left. The smooth surfaced wide road runs for miles, with spectacular views opening around every bend. Eventually the Mediterranean comes in sight and I notice the temperature starting to rise. By the time I get to the Peaje, it’s hot. I pay the extortionate toll (€5 + for under 30 miles!) and make fast work of the remaining 30 miles to Jebel Tariq.



After negotiating the queues for the border crossing (expeditious filtering), I enter Gibraltar and fill up with Unleaded at 41p a litre! Cigarettes are 80p for 20 (Bilks wanted me to point that out). I’m eventually re-united with Bilks & Mike in Tesco’s car park (no, really – it’s called ‘Checkout’ here, but still sells Tesco Value Baps ), before we make our way to Safeway (couldn’t find Sainsbury’s ) for something to eat. Mike departs to arrange to meet his wife. Bilko provides the goods – the keys to a flat on the 7th floor of ‘The Waterfront Gardens’.



We take our kit inside, secure the bikes and collapse into our (respective) chairs. An ablute later and we’re ready for the town. We’ve had to leave the bikes on the street, but can see them (& operate my remote alarm!) from the balcony.



As I type my journal, Bilks is stealthily watching bullfighting on TV. Tonight we’ll go out for a steak…..

Or rather, for several too many beers, a cheeseburger and a guided tour of some of the (many) historical military sights in Gib. Bilko is keen to spend money and tomorrow I’ll do my best to help him choose a digital camera. We spend the rest of the evening watching porn interspersed with bullfighting – a disturbing combination, before turning in. Thankfully, the one-bedroomed flat has separate beds – Bilko admits this is the first time he’s slept with an officer…..

Weds 10th September 2003



Wake to a beautiful day – it’s Gibraltar’s national day. Bilko talks in his sleep (we both snore like elephants). It’s like listening to half of a telephone conversation – he even does accents…..



We stroll through the thronged streets – everyone is wearing red & white, sporting face paint, blowing whistles and waving flags. I get the impression this would be a bad day to choose to have a Spanish flag anywhere on your person. Everyone is good-natured, though – it’s like they’ve just won the World Cup or something. All the camera shops are closed, so Bilko’s wallet is safe for another 24 hrs at least…….



After a short siesta (an excellent idea – we should adopt it in the UK), we hit the town – to find it all but closed down.. We eat dinner at the Horseshoe pub on Main Street and then stroll down towards the harbour to watch the firework display. It starts at 2300 and lasts for 15 minutes and is very spectacular. Back to the flat for an early night – a plan completely at odds with that of the rock band in the park 300m away……Eventually drift off to sleep around 2ish.

Thurs 11th September 2003

Wake to a normal day in Gibraltar. The weather is beautiful, the pneumatic drills are sounding, traffic is moving, scooters filtering at impossible speeds and, apparently, any hangovers are being dealt with. We find the alternative to adventurous travel…..




Tonight Mike has arranged for us to go to O’Hara’s Battery, a restricted military site at the top of the rock which promises spectacular views. Bilko & I are going to ride the bikes around the rock this afternoon, doing some sight-seeing and generally being tourists. Tomorrow we head North again, this time with Caroline riding pillion with Mike. Oil levels in both Bilks bike and mine are at ¼ on the sight glass, so we put in half a litre in each.





We spend a couple of hours touring the rock & taking pictures of the bikes with the rock in the background.



It’s pretty warm and looking out for low-flying scooters is really quite tiring. We meet up with Mike & Caroline at their (very nice) hotel and are escorted to O’Hara’s Battery, a gun emplacement on the extreme southern peak of the rock.



Flavio, our guide, who used to be a member of the gun crew here, shows us around the 9.2” gun, overlooking the Straits of Gibraltar.



The guided tour is excellent – informative & amusing and given by someone clearly both comfortable and very enthusiastic about his subject.









After many pictures and questions, Bilks & I return to the flat before going out for a couple of beers and an excellent meal. We’re leaving tomorrow at about 1100, and will be staying at the Cesar Hostel in Alcaracejos. Mike’s cousin rings the hotel for us & books the rooms. We plan to re-trace my route from a couple of days ago – it should be a good ‘break in’ for Caroline as pillion. I text Spanish Bob to tell him we plan to be in the Pamplona area on Saturday if he can meet up. No reply yet…..

Fri 12th September 2003

Clean up the flat and pack up. 225 mile day planned, starting at 1100ish. Mike & Caroline arrive from the 4 star splendour of their hotel at 1110 and we’re on the road at 1125 (after Bilko has briefed us all on what to say if he gets pulled at Customs with four times the limit of cigarettes). We’re swiftly through immigration and customs – ‘Anything to declare?’ - resist the urge to say ‘Yes, that beard looks ridiculous on you’ and we’re back into Spain.




We stop and pose the bikes for a few shots with the rock in the background (the cloud which ‘hangs’ on the rock is called the ‘Levant’) and then retrace my route from Tuesday.




Traffic going up the Ronda road is quite heavy and slow moving, but, after a couple of miles, overtaking opportunities appear and we start to make progress.






We stop at the spectacularly sited restaurant I spotted on the way down and are disappointed to discover that it’s a pretty ordinary seedy café. The scenery is anything but ordinary, however. As we climb further up toward Ronda, the temperature starts to drop pleasantly. We arrive in Ronda to find that Betty is directing us up a pedestrian-ised street. In trying to adopt a parallel route to get through, I manage to lead everyone up a one way street (‘but I was only going one way, officer’), much to the amusement of the locals. We eventually escape from Ronda and start descending again. Away from the coast, the temperature is very high. A hot wind blows steadily from the East and it’s uncomfortably warm even at a reasonable speed.





I overtake two cars and, while alongside the rear one, notice that the leader has 3 aerials, a white cap lying on the parcel shelf and 3 male occupants all wearing white shirts. Hmmmm. I slot in front of them and maintain 10% over the posted limit to see if they’ll do anything. They don’t, so I continue more rapidly, concluding that they’re car park attendants. Bilks & Mike both stay behind the car, having also spotted the worrying signs. That’s the trouble with running a criminal gang – just a single one-way street can spook them…..


We soon turn off into more hills, heading towards the motorway to Cordoba. We stop for petrol in a small village and straight afterwards park up at a café for a late lunch. As we sit in the restaurant, the café owner comes in and mimes that my bike is venting fuel. I’m not concerned, as I’ve just filled it and it’s on it’s side stand and it sometimes drops a little in those circumstances(it’s also in the high 30s Centigrade, which won’t help). To allay his worries I go out to the bike, to see that there is a fair sized damp patch beneath it and that petrol is coming out at the rate of 3 or 4 drips per second. I put the bike on the centre-stand and the venting stops immediately. A customer at the café comes up to me and mimes that the petrol leak could be dangerous if someone smoked near it. Since he is miming with a lit cigarette, directly over the spilt petrol, I mime to him that there’s a chance that he’s a mindless git and that he should move back into the bar………

After an excellent (& very reasonable) meal, we press on. Caroline sits on the back of Bilk’s Adv and I strap her rucksack to the rack of mine (an act she – how can I put this…..over- supervises). We set off across the plain to the motorway and it’s seriously hot.





No-one in our party has a thermometer, but I’d guess it’s at least 40 deg. Opening the visor on my helmet is like opening an oven door and it’s much more comfortable with the visor closed and all the vents open. I’m riding with sunglasses on and the Schuberth’s dark visor down and I’m still squinting in the bright sun, which seems to be directly overhead, casting minimal shadows. An hour’s blast along the motorway, followed by 40 minutes up the N502 and we’re refuelling at Alcaracejos. 10 minutes later we’re having our first beer and switching on the air-con in the rooms. Text & voice-mail from Spanish Bob – he’s not going to be able to make it – bugger.

Sat 13th September 2003

Start early – so early in fact that the duty barman hasn’t turned up yet. Never mind, he soon arrives (on a dirt bike, sans helmet etc – natch). We pay our modest bills and take to the road at 0850. We’re heading for the Pamplona region to cross the Pyrenees the next day. Pamplona’s too far, but we’ll get as close to Soria as is comfortable before stopping. This will be Bilko’s last day with us – he’s got an earlier ferry to catch and will be parting company somewhere North of Madrid. Forecast is for 27 deg today, so none of yesterday’s drama…..



I slept very badly last night, not sure why. However, the N502 North from Alcaracejos is well surfaced, and in the low morning sunlight it’s a pleasure to ride. We make good progress but, inevitably, join the NIV (Motorway) towards Madrid. Although we’re able to keep a good speed up, this is about as far from my idea of good motorcycling as it’s possible to get. We eventually leave the Motorway at Guadalajara and push North East towards Soria and Pamplona.



Good fast, well surfaced roads, leading down some spectacular switchbacks and past a beautiful hilltop fort at Jadraque.



We suddenly run into 10miles of roadworks just short of Soria. For stretches of several hundred metres at a time, the road turns to dust & gravel. Mike is leading, and I don’t envy him on a sports bike with a pillion – but at least he can see where he’s going.



We all get through without incident, but stop at the next café for a drink to wash the dust out of our mouths. This has been 20 minutes – how do desert enduro riders put up with it for hours? They must spit mud out!

At Soria, Bilks says his farewells and departs, intending to make it over the French border before stopping for the night. He’s been a good riding partner and we’re sorry to see him go. Mike suggests we push out of town to find a cheaper hotel. Despite my lack of sleep the previous night, I’m happy to go on for a bit. Here starts what will become a nightmare. Trouble is, there’s nowhere to stay.







We ride excellent roads, well populated by the local bikers, on a variety of sportsbikes (on the whole pretty well ridden and, unusually, by riders wearing all the kit, rather than the shorts and Tee shirts we’re used to seeing). We get as far as Logrono – still no room at the inn…. We eventually get to Pamplona, a city stuffed with expensive 3* hotels, at 2200. I refuse to pay €97 + tax for a single room without breakfast, but I can tell Mike & Caroline need to stop no matter what the expense. Cutting the Gordian knot, I enter ‘Bordeaux’ in the GPS and bid them a good night’s sleep at their 3 * hotel – I’m off & we’ll meet somewhere on the road. I experience a great feeling of responsibility being lifted from me as I head North. After a while, the GPS seems to lose the plot (I don’t think I’ve got the Bordeaux map loaded) – so I do a Luke Skywalker and turn it off, relying on the Force….

Bingo – 10 minutes later I’m having a beer with John Doe (no, really) in a Hostel at Zubiri, just South of the French Border - €30 for a room! I text Mike & Caroline to have lunch with me here, after which we can do the wiggly roads through the Pyrenees and up into France. After a baguette and several beers with John (who rides a Triumph Sprint and is spending a couple of weeks ‘doing’ the Pyrenees solo) and Mark (who is a New Yorker and runs the bar), I repair to my pit, intending to sleep very well indeed – 487 miles today (albeit with 120 miles on Motorway) – 130 more than the maximum in the original, quite ambitious, plan -

Got a text from Bilks – he’s stopped at Erro, just the Spanish side of the border – less than 10 miles away!

Sun 14th September 2003

Wake at 0845, feeling much better. Decide to have a chat with Mike & Caroline about how to avoid a repeat of yesterday’s fiasco (if they get here – no reply to my text as yet). Looking for accommodation earlier would be a good start – avoiding large towns/cities would also make for a better ride and the riding distance has got to be more realistic. Solo, the trip yesterday would be achievable safely (with evenly matched bikes and riders – which we definitely aren’t) – but with a pillion, you’ll never do it. I reckon 300 miles is the limit for our circumstances. Other than the last bit into Calais on Thursday, I don’t intend to do any more Motorway. It’s not fun and it’s the complete opposite of what I want from this holiday (and of what we planned back in the UK). I’ll discuss it with Mike & Caroline later – if they want to keep doing Motorways & dual carriageways, I’ll suggest we go our separate ways and meet on the ferry…..

Have an excellent breakfast of ham roll & extremely strong black coffee. Mike & Caroline’s phone is turned off (no voicemail facility). I text them again, saying that I’ll be leaving, heading for Bordeaux, at midday if I’ve not heard from them. Bordeaux is 250ish km in a straight line, but there are very few straight lines around here. I reload the Garmin chip with a map of the whole of France (excluding Paris – not enough memory & I’ve no intention of going there on this trip).While I’m waiting for the off, I plot a route and save it into the GPS. It takes me from Zubiri, avoiding any dual carriageways, to Riberac, South East of Cognac. It’s 230 miles, but is just an aiming point, so I can stop when I feel like it. After last night’s experience, I decide to leave the choice of accommodation completely to chance and see what happens – if it doesn’t feel right I’ll keep looking until it does.



Midday comes and goes and so I pay my bill and depart, immediately entering some serious twisties. I climb steadily up a series of switchbacks, before reaching the village of Erro, where Bilko stopped last night.



It’s then time to get into the hills for real, although the highest summit I went over was only just over 1000 metres. The roads are very twisty, with little room on the straights for much braking, so low gear is the order of the day. I’d hate to drive a lorry down roads like this – your brakes would be on fire long before the bottom of the hill. The area has a real alpine feel to it, reflected in the architecture. Loads of motorcyclists are having their Sunday morning fix – by far the most common bike is the BMW F650. Didn’t see another GS the whole day!



Going through one of the villages, I must’ve entered France, though when I don’t know – no signs or border post. I press on through warm sunshine along good quality D roads and eventually arrive at the town of Orthez – which I think sounds like it should be in Spain. Here in the border regions, there’s a certain blend of cultures and Orthez has a bullring. I carry on, crossing the Dordogne at Toulenne, where a modern bridge has taken over the role of the medieval one it replaced. It’s starting to get warm now, but bearably so. The bike’s running well (better since I started using Super Unleaded) and it's pleasant not to have to start searching for petrol every 100 miles or so, especially on a Sunday, when France closes its garages, leaving you to use a credit card machine. Unfortunately, it seems that UK cards won’t work in these machines (that’s what my bank told me, anyway). Still, with 31 litres available, it won’t be a drama. At 185 miles I find a manned pump and fill up anyway – I can forget about fuel until tomorrow now…. The terrain is reasonably flat now, with the local economy apparently being dependant on the pine forests I’m riding through, interspersed with fields of sweet-corn. The cool of the wooded sections is pleasant, but brings out all types of flying insects. I’ve got to stop at least 3 times an hour to clean the visor – I take a picture of the state of it after 25 miles…..






In the afternoon heat, I ride through the village of Prechac, where the local men are playing Boules in the shade of the trees in the square. They are about the only people moving, in the heat of the afternoon – apart from me, of course. I arrive at Riberac and have a walk around the square. It’s a quiet, dull place and I’ve no great desire to spend the night there. After a good drink of water, I look at the map and work out it’s only another 70 or so miles to Oradour-sur-Glane. I plot a route and decide to stop if I see a Chambre d’Hote that looks nice anywhere along the way. Of course, having seen signs all the way from the Spanish Border, I don’t see one!



Eventually, on the D708, I see a small 15th Century Chateau on the left with the requisite sign. Yes, she has a single room - €35 for one night, including breakfast – will that be alright? It certainly will. She recommends a local restaurant, which turns out to be a good deal more sophisticated than I need. The hell with it. 2 ½ hours later, replete with foie gras, smoked duck, lobster and about 6 different types of cheese, I ask for the bill. After a short delay, the waiter brings me a glass of Baileys with ice. I don’t drink & drive, but take a few sips so as not to appear rude, as he’s bought me a drink. When I get tired of waiting, I get up to pay the bill – to find I’ve been charged for the Baileys. I’m about to protest when I realise my cod-French has been mis-interpreted yet again and he thought I’d ordered a Baileys when I’d asked for le billet…… I waddle back to the bike.

It is quite the strangest restaurant I’ve eaten in, even by French standards. At one stage there were more dogs in the restaurant than diners – and there were 8 diners. Later, a bat flew into the room, flapped about a bit and flew out. ‘Ah yes’ said the waiter, André (no, really) ‘ that is Kiki, our pet bat’. Surreal

Back to the B&B – no word from Mike & Caroline. I try to text them to ask them to leave a message on my voicemail to tell me their intentions, but I’m out of coverage here. Looking out of the window, there’s not a light to be seen – it could almost be the middle ages, if it wasn’t for the laptop on the desk…..

come on mike get typing some more
love the pics of Gib hows the food in the Horse shoe

Mon 15th September 2003

I’m up at 0730 and, after a light breakfast, I’m on the road for 0830, the other residents watch my departure.




I’m heading North East and the low sun makes riding very difficult. I’ve got to slow right down as I approach areas of shade, which worries me, with the habit of French drivers being to follow you very closely. No combination of sunglasses and dark visor help much, so I press on steadily and carefully. It’s a beautiful cool morning and I’m on another good road.



I fill up at Rochechquart, which boasts a spectacular Chateau overlooking the Western approach to the town. I arrive at Oradour at about 1000. After touring the visitor centre type entrance, which includes a detailed background history of the village and the war, I walk out into the village, which has been left very much as it was found on 11th July 1944.



On the 10th June 1944, the war visited Oradour –sur-Glane. 4 days after D-Day, the Waffen SS units in the area were instructed to sweep the Tulle-Limoges region and create a state of terror to counter the perceived rise in resistance fighting. They chose Oradour, an ordinary little town, as the focus of their campaign. They rounded up the men and shot them in a barn, then drove the women & children into the church, where they burned them alive.



In total, they killed over 600 civilians, including 139 children. The troops then looted the village and burned every building. I took some pictures, including one of probably the most redundant sign in the world – no-one talks here…..



You can probably find all the information you need on the outrage at Oradour on the internet. If you get the opportunity, I strongly advise you to go there. Not everything worth doing has to be entertaining or fun. If you are not profoundly moved by your visit, you probably cast no reflection in a mirror…….

Riding out of the new town (where did 3 hours go?), I’m in a melancholy and reflective frame of mind. At the edge of town, a young boy of about 5, playing in a garden on my right, mistakes my cleaning my mirror as my waving and waves back, with a huge gap-toothed grin. I wave back, my mood lifted.

Near Confolans, I stop and buy some food at a supermarket. Further along the road, I stop at a picnic area and enjoy the quiet. I‘m joined for lunch by a stray kitten.



He clearly survives (just) on scraps from picnickers. He’s lucky today, and seems to enjoy his smoked ham. After an hour, I set off again. I suddenly feel very tired and can’t concentrate enough to make any real progress. Eventually I give up and stop at a small hotel on the outskirts of Niort. It’s 1600 and I’ve a job keeping my eyes open. An early night beckons.

Where now? I’m due at Calais on Thursday at 1845 for a 1915 sailing. I plot an off-motorway route from here – it’s a total of about 12 hours riding, which I have 3 days to complete. The route I’ve chosen broadly follows the line of the coast, but 20-30km inland. I think I’ll just follow the route for a while and see how it goes, stopping when something looks interesting. Got a text message from Bilks – he’s on board his ferry heading for Poole & will be home by 0100 tomorrow morning. Still nothing from Mike & Caroline, so I’ll give up trying to contact them and meet them on the ferry.

Tues 16th September 2003

Wake to a cool morning and a moderate dew. Go without breakfast & I’m on the road for 0845. Where to go…… On a complete whim I decide to head North for le Mont-St-Michel, near Caen. As ever, I’m going to avoid dual carriageways as much as possible and keep to small D roads. I give up using the GPS after a while, as it keeps trying to get me back on to major roads, and just use it as an expensive compass, steering me North. Dodging flocks of sheep, I wend my way towards the Northern coast.



I manage to resist breakfast at Macdonald’s (it’s the little things that are different – a drive-thru is called a McDrive) and stop for a drink at the side of the road, finishing off the bread and cheese I bought yesterday.



Near Saumur, I see some trees at the side of the road have been broken like matchsticks. It's such an odd sight, that I wonder for a second if an aircraft has crashed there recently. Further down the road I find more similarly damaged, alongside others which have been uprooted. It seems to be a method of felling, though how they do it and what they use the wood for afterward is a mystery to me.
I’m getting quite concerned about the life left in my camera battery. I brought 2 fully charged batteries plus a ‘car charger’ with me. Unfortunately, the lead for the charger seems to be the wrong one & won’t charge. One battery is dead already and the battery symbol is flashing on the other. At lunchtime, I stop at a huge superstore called Geant in Angers and spend an hour hunting down a universal charging lead. After feeling very pleased with myself for having been successful, I plug it into the bike, the LED comes on for about a second, then goes out. I unplug it and re-connect – same result, one second & then off. I check it’s set to the correct voltage – still no joy. The shop assistant comes out and we try another – nada. Ever the optimist, I leave it plugged in as I ride off, hoping it’s charging anyway (it isn’t – natch).
The afternoon temperature is very high (note to self – get thermometer) and everyone except me has taken to the couch for a snooze. In the village of Beslé, I buy an ice-cream and stop in the shade to admire the River Vilaine.



I press on, heading steadily North East, by my reckoning. I eventually consult Betty, who points me a little further East and suddenly, Mont-St-Michel is there on the horizon.



The Abbey has been a pilgrimage site for centuries and, like these venues everywhere, a local culture has gradually evolved to ‘assist’ the pilgrim. All the local Hotels are full, and there is an abundance of the worst kind of tat & religious trinket shops. In truth, Mont-St-Michel is better viewed from a distance (when it is a spectacular sight) than up close. I set course for Calais and soon find a small farmhouse Chambre d’hôte and get an early night. I spend the evening planning a coastal route back to Calais – I’ll try and fit in some of the D Day sites as I travel.

I’ve always preferred to stay at these where possible, because you actually get to speak to some locals. They haven’t the first fucking idea what you’re saying, of course, but I find it’s worth the effort.

Click to expand...

Spilt me coffee

I know that garage! We stopped there on the now infamous Morocco trip earlier this year! Cracking roads & views round there!

Weds 17th September 2003

I’m up at 0730 to another cool & slightly misty morning. I breakfast on fresh bread, home-made jam and freshly ground coffee, spoilt only by the ghastly re-constituted orange juice…. On the road for 0830 and en route to Normandy. The route takes me down well-surfaced and winding roads. The sun is low in the East, but I’m heading North now, and it’s rarely a problem. My camera batteries are completely shagged now, so I buy a disposable Agfa in a local shop and take some snaps, planning to get them developed and scanned onto disk on my return. In the village I buy the camera, there are adverts for ‘Un Weekend du Vents’ this weekend. A Weekend of Wind. Hmmm – probably about time I was leaving….



As I reach the North coast, I follow the signs for ‘Omaha Beach’. If I remember correctly, this was the site portrayed in ‘Saving Private Ryan’ to such shocking effect. It’s a huge wide bay, with few signs now of what happened there 59 years ago. There are a few gun emplacements left and a National Guard Memorial, styled to look similar to a bunker, near the steps leading down to the beach.



I press on East and soon come across the American Cemetery. I meet up with two GSers from Northern Ireland, Guy and (I would insert the other name if I could remember it). They’re both on Advs, doing a tour of battle sites. They’ve been to the Somme & Menim Gate and are departing this evening from Cherbourg. We walk around the immaculately kept grounds until we come across the cemetery itself.



Spookily, it’s exactly midday as we arrive at the memorial and the bell starts to toll as we stop. The number of crosses is immense – most killed in the first 24 hours. I’m particularly moved by a cross simply inscribed ‘A Comrade in Arms – Known Only Unto God’.



There are many like this, but someone has put a flower on the arm of the cross. There are lots of people here. I hear all sorts of accents – principally American, but also, surprisingly, German. I meet up with Guy again and we muse on the fact that they’ve just come from the Somme graveyards, which dwarf these and were only filled 25 years before them. I guess the human race will never learn from experience.

I leave the Cemetery, bidding Guy and is anonymous mate farewell (and leaving them with the UKGSer web address) and continue to follow the coast towards the distant port of Calais. Many of the roads I travel down are named for Roosevelt, Eisenhower and other famous names from WWII – I guess they feel they’ve got a lot to be grateful for. There are all sorts of D-Day museums here, often just a salvaged landing craft or tank dragged into someone’s farmyard.



My prize for the venture in the most dubious taste goes to the Omaha Beach Golf Club. Hmmmm…..

Weather is now getting warmer – 27deg on the side of a building in an anonymous coastal village. There’s no breeze, not even near the coast, and I’m not usually travelling fast enough to cool down. I stop at a (can’t believe this) Macdonald’s and have a Royale with Cheese (it was an air conditioned restaurant and I was hot etc etc). I’m not going to make that mistake again.



I press on along the coast until I suddenly happen across a tiny (3 rooms) hotel on a cliff-top overlooking Le Treport. Yes, says the surly barmaid, they have a room, do I want to see it? It’s extremely basic, but only €28 & I’m knackered, so I take it. After a surprisingly efficient shower, I repair to the bar for a large beer. I walk out to a picnic table overlooking the beach and, as the sun goes down, type my journal. Last night in France, eh? This time tomorrow I’ll be on the ferry (but will Mike & Caroline? – tune in to find out!) and tomorrow night I’ll sleep in my own bed.

Thurs 18th September 2003

Another sunny and slightly misty morning. After a modest breakfast, I load the bike and set off. I’m wearing my Tiger Angel trousers rather than my jeans today, as I don’t know what the temperature will be by the time I get home. I’m also wearing my electric waistcoat for similar reasons. I head up towards Calais with no particular agenda.

I see that Abbeville is on the route Betty has planned and remember this was where a particularly successful Luftwaffe Bf109 unit was posted during WWII. As the thought occurs to me, a single Mirage 2000 appears, giving a spirited low-level aerobatic display. I wander off-route to try to find where his display is centred, perhaps Abbeville Air Base, but without success. Whilst in Abbeville, I try to fill up with petrol. I say try, because the first 3 garages I come to are unmanned and equipped with a credit card / PIN number system which only, I’m told, works with French cards at present. I eventually find a supermarket with the grunting semblance of a human being willing to take my inferior foreign card.

Heading out of Abbeville, I head towards St Omer, then on towards Calais. Along the wide tree planted road (planted, it’s said, so that German soldiers can march in the shade), I see several wooden cut-out figures of knights and archers. Soon I see a signpost for Azincourt - could this be Agincourt?



It certainly could. I turn off into the village to find an excellent little visitor centre, the entrance for which is styled like a series of English longbows. The informative displays explain how Henry V destroyed the French nobility in 1415, despite being outnumbered 3 to 1. It is slightly bizarre that a museum in France should celebrate this event - can you imagine the Germans building a museum commemorating the Battle of Britain? Still, no finer way, surely, for an Englishman to finish a tour of France…..

I find myself in Calais for lunch, which I take in an American Steak House (of course). As I ride into Calais I wave to groups of bikes – none wave back. A check of their number plates confirms what I’ve already guessed – they’re Brits. I’ve earmarked the afternoon to look for one of those crash helmets the Gendarmerie wear, the front bar of which opens sideways to convert the helmet to open face in hot weather. I find one in the first shop I enter - it’s rubbish – the demo model is falling to bits and the quality is so poor, I’d never wear it. Hey-ho.

Anyway, it’s now 1430 and I don’t have to check in for my ferry until 1845. I wonder if they’ll let me take an earlier sailing? For £7 they will. I pay up & we’re at sea at 1530. On the ferry I meet Dave Hill, from Motor Cycle News (MCN) who has just ridden a new MV Augusta Brutale from Milan direct. He shows me the seat, which is no more than a piece of leather. He’s put his waterproofs and two Tee-shirts on top of it to try and make it bearable. He looks with envy at my sheepskin. The MV is going to be road tested sometime soon in MCN. When you read the article, you may notice all the shots are taken from the right side. This is because the right side looks best (it’s got the twin cans on), and has nothing to do with the fact that Dave’s tank-bag has marked the other side of the tank…..

Arriving at 1620 (local, 1hr behind) at Dover, I get used to riding on the left again. What I find it more difficult to adapt to is the amount of traffic. As I filter down several miles of M25 (accident) and then several more of the M11 (car on fire), I’m struck by the fact that I’ve not had to filter at all during the entire trip through France & Spain – there just isn’t the need with the relative lack of traffic.

Waved to every bike – not one waved back (EVERY biker in France & Spain waved). At some point along the M11, the GPS clicked up 4000 miles. The fuel light comes on in sympathy. I ride past the F-15E base at Lakenheath – they’re still open for business and the circuit is full.

Pressing on towards home, I get my first wave returned – it’s a Police bike!

Eventually get home, to find that my painter/decorator has done an excellent job & my house looks superb. The Scabalier starts first time (as it should – the battery’s been on charge for 15 days!) and I unload the bike, before sinking back into the sofa with a large brandy and opening my mail. The GPS says I’ve done 4068.9 miles, at a driving average of 47.3mph. The Max speed recorded (in Spain, I think, catching Mike & Bilko up after stopping to take a picture of a castle on a hill) is 113mph. Most importantly, it says I’m home.

Excellent...

journal Mike, have been reading it slowly as you entered new posts, it seems as if you enjoyed yourself...but like anything, god is it nice to be back home where you can sit and relax in the comfort of your own home.....

Many thanks for sharing your journal with us all.

Mick