My son, Ollie, has just started a year living and working in Barcelona as part of his degree. What better excuse to go for a ride? 
I left home after work on Wednesday night, the bike pre-packed with my gear, and the stuff that he had either forgotten, or not realised would be useful. The trip down to Folkestone was cold enough for me to switch my heated vest on, and I pulled up at the Premier Inn just after 10.00pm, ready for a brew.
Now I have turned up at the wrong Hotel before, so made doubly sure I was in the right place. Pity I didn’t double check my booking though, as I was a month early.
They were fully booked, unfortunately, but sent me on to the A20 Premier Inn up the road, which I took a wrong turning for and ended up in Dover. After some faffing about, I managed to get perfect telephone directions off the lady on reception, and finally crawled into bed at 11.30.
Whilst lying there, on the verge of sleep, I had a sudden thought. Surely I wouldn’t have? Would I?
Yes, I had. My tunnel booking was for a month hence as well. 
Pleading stupidity at the gate at 5.00am the next day didn’t help, I got stiffed for an extra £90.00. I was feeling particularly uncharitable towards Eurotunnel at that moment, but I can blame no one but myself.
The good news was that my train was already boarding, so straight on, straight under, and straight out onto the roads of La belle France.
When I had been “planning” this jaunt, I had looked on the Via Michelin website for inspiration. I took my Michelin route map, set my Zumo for “avoid tolls”, and pointed the bike generally south to see where I would end up. As I travelled on, I realised that I was heading very much towards Paris. Zooming out the satnav showed that yes, it intended to take me round the peripherique. How bad could it be?
When in doubt, tag behind a local, and ride like they do. There’s nothing more dangerous than being out of synch with the norm.
Duly energised, I took my exit and picked up the A6 and left the city behind.
The roads became quieter, the villages quainter, my progress swifter, but more relaxed.
Nemours
A quick sandwich at a petrol station and onto the N7 as I trundled south, until the evening rush hour slowed me down. Taking the A75at Clermont Ferrand was an error, as a couple of miles on there was an accident which closed the road for a few minutes, but at least after it I had an empty dual carriageway to play on.
By 6.00pm I was feeling peckish and looking forward to a beer, so I turned off the motorway at the nearest sign of habitation and went hunting for somewhere to stay. At the side of the traffic lights in St Flour, this Hotel caught my eye, so here I stayed.
The manageress spoke little English, and I spoke little French, but we managed to sort out a room, garage for the bike, food and beers with what we remembered from school.
After a simple supper and a couple of drinks, I spread the maps out on the bed to plan the route for tomorrow.
Mark
I left home after work on Wednesday night, the bike pre-packed with my gear, and the stuff that he had either forgotten, or not realised would be useful. The trip down to Folkestone was cold enough for me to switch my heated vest on, and I pulled up at the Premier Inn just after 10.00pm, ready for a brew.
Now I have turned up at the wrong Hotel before, so made doubly sure I was in the right place. Pity I didn’t double check my booking though, as I was a month early.
They were fully booked, unfortunately, but sent me on to the A20 Premier Inn up the road, which I took a wrong turning for and ended up in Dover. After some faffing about, I managed to get perfect telephone directions off the lady on reception, and finally crawled into bed at 11.30.
Whilst lying there, on the verge of sleep, I had a sudden thought. Surely I wouldn’t have? Would I?
Yes, I had. My tunnel booking was for a month hence as well.
Pleading stupidity at the gate at 5.00am the next day didn’t help, I got stiffed for an extra £90.00. I was feeling particularly uncharitable towards Eurotunnel at that moment, but I can blame no one but myself.
The good news was that my train was already boarding, so straight on, straight under, and straight out onto the roads of La belle France.
When I had been “planning” this jaunt, I had looked on the Via Michelin website for inspiration. I took my Michelin route map, set my Zumo for “avoid tolls”, and pointed the bike generally south to see where I would end up. As I travelled on, I realised that I was heading very much towards Paris. Zooming out the satnav showed that yes, it intended to take me round the peripherique. How bad could it be?
When in doubt, tag behind a local, and ride like they do. There’s nothing more dangerous than being out of synch with the norm.
Duly energised, I took my exit and picked up the A6 and left the city behind.
The roads became quieter, the villages quainter, my progress swifter, but more relaxed.
Nemours
A quick sandwich at a petrol station and onto the N7 as I trundled south, until the evening rush hour slowed me down. Taking the A75at Clermont Ferrand was an error, as a couple of miles on there was an accident which closed the road for a few minutes, but at least after it I had an empty dual carriageway to play on.
By 6.00pm I was feeling peckish and looking forward to a beer, so I turned off the motorway at the nearest sign of habitation and went hunting for somewhere to stay. At the side of the traffic lights in St Flour, this Hotel caught my eye, so here I stayed.
The manageress spoke little English, and I spoke little French, but we managed to sort out a room, garage for the bike, food and beers with what we remembered from school.
After a simple supper and a couple of drinks, I spread the maps out on the bed to plan the route for tomorrow.
Mark
are your clocks a month out of date now too Mark? 
