Morocco April 07 - The "You had to be there" tour

[earthmover]

Ever since I was pointed towards this forum, “Morocco” seems to have been part of the fabric of the site. Everyone, it appeared, was either going to, or had been to Morocco. As a long time fan of the Dakar, deserts, and the weird and wonderful rock formations therein, have fascinated me as they passed across my TV screen. The riding looked enjoyable too, especially if you had the luxury of not having to try and attain 3-figure speeds!
So why did I hesitate when Tim’s message came? Not the three weeks away from the kids, not the prospect of disappointing mates who had another Europe trip in the pipeline, certainly not the cost.
I was concerned about leaving the comfort zone of “civilised” Europe. Wary of unusual situations, afraid of not being able to cope, worried about letting others down, or of them letting me down whilst in the middle of nowhere. Scared of the bike dying with something un-repairable (it is a 1200 after all! )
“But I thought that was the idea?” said my kid sister, “To do something more challenging. You should do it now, while you can.”
The last three words hit home. I rang Tim, and posted a cheque to him before I changed my mind.
Which explains why on Wednesday 11th April, I came to be at Plymouth docks for 9.30 am, with five other blokes I barely knew, waiting to board a ferry to Spain in the glorious early morning sunshine.

Day 1

My day had started at 3.30am, when I checked that I had packed everything, then checked again. Setting off at 4.15am, I had plenty of layers, a balaclava, and my I-pod on against the chill and boredom of the M6. I had arranged to meet “The other Mark” at Strencham services on the M5 at 6.15am, and was “making progress” as I passed a white air-head, and a Dominator, also heading south.
I wondered whether they were heading the same way, as they looked similarly loaded. (I later found that they were the riding companions for Garry Holloway’s trip). Just as I finished my coffee at Strencham, Mark’s lights appeared across the car park. Greetings exchanged, we decided on the next stop, and set off south.
No drama for the remainder of the trip down, brief patch of coastal fog as we passed Clevedon, then a disconcerting wet strip down the A38 that turned out to be water from a bowser with a busted tap. We met Tim, Rick, Adrian and Ian in Plymouth on the hard standing before the ferry entrance. Half an hour later all the bikes were loaded on, tied down, and we were trying to find our cabins. Mark and I had the twin, so that we could “bond” as we would be returning together, the others were squeezed into a 4 berth cabin, which sounded quite cosy!
The ship left bang on time, in glorious sunshine, and on calm seas. There were plenty of other bikers on the ferry, a lot of who were heading down to Valencia for the MotoGP, but there were also a few more Morocco bound. Garry Holloway and his two companions joined us on deck for a beer and a chat for an hour or so, swapping routes and GPS tips.
A few hours into the crossing, there was an announcement that owing to a medical emergency, the ship would alter course to allow a helicopter to land on the aft deck. This he did, about six times, which added to the interest!
It was suggested that we catch a film on board, to break the afternoon, so we watched “Blood diamond” with Leonardo Di Caprio playing an unscrupulous diamond and gun smuggler. It wasn’t a bad way to while away an hour or two, and came up with one of the contenders for “title of the trip”. In the film, a disgruntled Di Caprio spits at the sexy female journo trying to make a story: “T.I.A! This Is Africa!” and storms off in a huff. Ian remembered this for later.
After a meal and a couple of beers, an early night was called for, to compensate for the lost hour, and in anticipation of tomorrow’s riding.

Day 2
I woke early, but the sunrise over the rear of the ship was too hazy for a photo, so I made do with a full breakfast. One by one, the others appeared, and we reconvened on the truck deck to load the bikes back up and ride off the ferry. As well as Garry’s group, there were a few big KTM’s heading for the pistes of Morocco, and some couples who were intending to go the tarmac route. We all wished each other luck, and tried to escape the maze of Santander’s road works to head for Burgos. Within a few miles, the road, the 623, started to climb and get twistier, and the smiles started to get wider! The first fuel stop was just before the city, where we got superb coffee and toasted Rick’s birthday. My tank range of 240 miles was the deciding factor for petrol stops, but happily it wasn’t an issue for the whole trip. Passing Burgos we joined the motorway to put some miles behind us. Lunch was at a truck stop near La Asperilla, where we started the omelette diet, whilst listening to “the Simpsons” in Spanish. Unbeknown to us, a thunderstorm had crept up while we were eating. This was rumbling away ominously as we filled the bikes, and let loose a hailstorm as we tried to leave it behind. It took all of two minutes to out-run it, which is equivalent to the time it takes to fill a pair of Tech-8’s with water . Madrid was our next waypoint, and the traffic separated us long enough for Rick to take the correct route, while the rest took a guided tour of the new tunnels beneath the city.
Once back on the correct route, we headed south again toward Valdepenas, our intended stopping point for the night. Towards the end of the day, it started to drizzle, and by the time we sailed blissfully past Rick waiting at a garage, it was raining steadily. Valdepenas wasn’t inspiring, so we rode a few miles further to Santa Cruz de Mudela, and what looked like another truck stop. I pushed my bike under the porch while beers and room keys were sorted. The rooms were further from the road, fairly new and very clean. There was a covered parking area for the bikes, and a surprisingly large restaurant, for a truck stop. As our gear was damp, Mark and I spread as much as possible over the radiator and turned it up. Whilst arranging my gloves, I nearly caught the high mounted TV with my head. “Must watch out for that” I thought to myself……..
A couple more beers to celebrate Rick’s birthday, a couple of bottles of the local red to go with an absolutely fabulous meal in the restaurant, and all was well with the world.
Bidding the others goodnight, Mark and I went back to the room at just after midnight. As I walked into the bathroom, there was a crash, and a yell. I guessed that Mark had caught the TV with his head, but the truth was he had actually knocked it off its bracket, 6ft up, and had broken its fall with his face! As rugby commentators are apt to say, the claret was well and truly flowing!
I thought he had broken his nose, but thankfully it wasn’t quite that bad. It bled pretty well though; the room looked rather as though we had been performing a ritual sacrifice! Suffice to say, Mark’s youthful good looks weren’t affected.


Part 2, and pics later.
Mark

 

[Timolgra]

Come on hurry up

 

[earthmover]

Part 2

Day 3

Mark was a little de-tuned this morning, but fit to ride. We couldn’t get the TV to go back on the bracket, so left it on the floor. We did at least clean all the blood off it. The conditions were still damp, and the twisting motorway around Santa Elena was fairly slick, but we were soon heading into sunshine on our way to Ronda. Mark had opted to go the more direct route, while Tim led us down some of the more GS-type roads. Sadly road works halted our progress, and the translation from the nearby garage attendant was that we would get a ticket if we rode through them.
Ronda came as something of a surprise to me. We had been riding empty roads in the middle of nowhere, and suddenly we were in a traffic jam! I had never heard of the place before, but can see now why it is such a tourist attraction. As we parked the bikes, Mark rejoined us, and we walked up to the famous bridge, before finding a café for lunch.

Fed and watered, the equally famous road down to San Pedro was next on the agenda. With 45 Km of sweeping bends following the hillside down towards the sea, and warm tarmac, this was a chance to forget how loaded up the bikes were! Ian swooped past me on the approach to one left hander, then heeled his bike over so far I thought the panniers were going to ground! I didn’t think I had been pushing hard, but as we jokingly compared “chicken strips” at the café halfway down, I was surprised to see very little clean rubber. Must be the extra weight!
Another Brit on a CCM came over to say hi, he lives nearby and had just come out for a ride. Lucky git! We rode the second half of the twisties down, and joined the dual carriageway along the coast to Estapona, where Mark had generously offered to put us up for the night. On the way, it took me a couple of minutes and some hand signals to adapt to a Spanish style of driving, which I had so far not encountered. I took exception to the Alfa Romeo sat one inch from my back tyre, he took exception to me taking exception, and so we waved at each other in our respective languages until we hit upon a universal gesture that was mutually understood. As I was riding backstop at the time, I waited till there was room for him to pass all six bikes before pulling over, and he didn’t appreciate that.
While Mark was sorting out beds and hot water and other such domestic niceties, I emptied my panniers and rode up to the garage nearby to refill them with San Miguel, as it had got warm now, and we were thirsty. Plan “A” had been to go to a fish restaurant nearby, then onto Porto Benus to look at Totty, sorry Yachts. Plan “B” soon won over, that being to stay where we were, drink beer, and get an Indian takeaway! We did have an early start to consider.

Day 4

The balaclava had been packed away since Plymouth, the fleece since Santa Cruz. At Mark’s I took out the Fog mask from the front of my helmet and swapped my road gloves for my MX ones. All of these decisions I regretted as we rode down to Algeciras before daybreak with my heated grips on full! The sun was just rising as we drew into the ferry terminal, and Tim got tickets for the first crossing of the day. As we were on the smaller of the fast ferries that run across to Cuerta, loading took only a few minutes, and by the time Rick had bought the most expensive coffees of the trip, we were on our way. Smoking on the aft deck, squinting into the bright sun, I had my first glimpse of another continent. Just then, a stewardess came out and babbled something in Spanish at us. When she saw our blank looks, she pointed at the notice on the door which read “No access while underway”, or similar, and ushered us back inside.

Highlight of the crossing was Rick accidentally dropping his braces in the toilet bowl, thankfully before, not after! By the time we had completed the immigration paperwork, the ferry was coming alongside the dock wall in the small part of Africa that is still Spain.
Stopping at a petrol station to fill up with fuel and water, I was horrified to find that they didn’t sell cigarettes! With only 3 left, the border crossing had better not be stressful. Thankfully, it wasn’t, and we were soon riding on towards Tetouan and breakfast.
My first impressions were of a tremendous amount of construction going on, and plenty of police roadblock/speed traps! The roads were no worse than in Spain, and the scenery looked very similar.
After croissants and coffee at a roadside café, we turned off towards Chefchaouen, and here the road started to twist and turn more as we climbed the foothills of the Rif mountains.

Tim led us off the tarmac after Chefchaouen and onto our first dirt of the trip. 40 klicks of track, which passed through numerous small villages, and introduced me to the workhorse that is the Merc van. These appeared to outnumber houses, and in varying states of repair. Small children would wave as we passed, and most people smiled, which the cynic within me struggled with.

The dirt gave way to tarmac again, only single track though, and we continued south to Atillal, where we stopped for lunch. Omelettes all round, with chips. These arrived with a very nice looking salad, which caused quite a discussion about what you should and shouldn’t eat over there. Adrian had already eaten half of his, and shrugged at any concern. I couldn’t resist the onions and tomatoes, and so most of us were looking forward to gastric trouble later. This was also my first taste of “Mint tea”. Nettles in a glass, with hot water poured on them? What’s that all about then? Didn’t do too much for me. Also, my introduction to the Moroccan sanitary ware. Hope I won’t need to use one of those!
Riding on towards Meknes, the tarmac varied between very good, to downright atrocious! One pothole nearly launched me off the seat, and I had avoided the worst one!
Filling up on the outskirts of Meknes, where my fuel light had just come on, Tim told us of the view point before Azrou, looking from the top of the hills. We rode the surprisingly busy main street through the town itself, and then out and onto some more twisty roads towards El Habib. Here I was struck for the first time by the deep red of the earth, something that we would see a lot of as the trip progressed.
As the road started to descend, I wondered where this view point could be. Traffic had split us up, and I had sailed past Tim and Rick, waving from the car park. Not realising this, I continued into Azrou, and pulled up outside the hotel. There was no one else there, so I had a smoke, while a young man offered to “show me the town”. I declined his invitation, and shortly after confirming that I was indeed at the right hotel, I thankfully heard the others riding down the road.
After a refreshing (i.e. cold) shower, Mark and I went down to the bar, where the others commented on how hot their showers had been. The plumber had played a little trick on us, by putting the taps on the wrong way round. A few beers later we wandered into town to tour the souk and find something to eat. At a small, roadside café, I ordered a beef tagine, while the others had chicken. I made the better choice, the chicken having been added later, rather than cooked with the vegetables on this occasion. The mint tea tasted better too. As we ate, what appeared to be a wedding procession passed noisily by, half the town crammed into a quarter of the cars!

Mark

 

[Rushy]

Keep it coming Mark...its raining outside

 

[earthmover]

Part 3

Day 5

Breakfast this morning was at a petrol station just south of Azrou, where fresh pastries and coffee kick-started the day. The route for today didn’t appear to pass any settlements of any note, so we filled the tanks and sorted supplies for lunch. Ian had the most room in his panniers, so became the chuck wagon for the day. Shortly after the garage, we turned off onto a single track, tarmac road, which wound through forest that seemed very Mediterranean.

Through the trees we could glimpse the High Atlas Mountains, a distant smudge on the horizon at first, but getting ever closer. The roads we were following varied from poor tarmac (by European standards) to good, smooth dirt. Nothing too taxing and a perfect way to ease us in to the riding to come. Climbing some of the foothills we again came across some of the deep red earth that so struck me yesterday. At one point there was considerable evidence of previous flash floods, great red swathes cut out of the hillside, and turning one corner we were confronted by the lushest green meadow, growing from the crimson of the soil, the contrast was startling. So startling that I didn’t stop to take a picture, but if I had done that every time, we would never have got anywhere.
Lunch was taken by a bridge over a small river, in a steep sided valley. Brash had been set alight before the bridge by someone, but there was no sign of them, and the smoke not intrusive. Ian’s panniers doubled up as our picnic table as we tucked into French bread and Swiss cheese triangles.

A movement in the trees caught someone’s eye, which turned out to be a couple of monkeys, what type I know not. A far greater thrill than seeing them in a zoo though. A heavily overloaded logging truck broke the silence, and we watched him cross the bridge with apprehension, as it certainly didn’t look as if it was rated for anything heavier than a donkey cart. Of course, the silence was soon broken further by the combined ranks of Messer’s. Remus, Akrapovic and Bos, as we set off out of the valley and on towards Midelt. The mountains were very much to the fore now, as we rode directly towards them on a deserted road, their snow covered peaks standing in stark contrast to the blue sky.

Riding into Midelt, Tim led us to the Kasbah Asama, instantly recognisable from numerous photos on the UKGSer site. A be-suited gentleman cheerfully waved us into a corner of the mosaic floored courtyard, and a few of the current occupants looked on as six dusty bikers unloaded their gear. This duly deposited in the rooms, we were soon back down for a beer or two, sat on low couches around a table open to the courtyard. This looked like the kind of thing you would see on a tourist brochure, albeit without the six dusty bikers!

Day 6

An early start today, breakfasted and away by 8.30, and onto piste almost immediately. Crossing one rather dilapidated looking concrete bridge, I narrowly avoided some rebar sticking out of the ground. Ten minutes later, we were stopped with our first puncture of the trip, Rick’s rear tyre seemingly found the rebar. Tyre plugger, compressor, job sorted in five minutes and we’re on our way. The track was stonier and narrower than the previous day, and soon gained altitude. This of course gave better views, but steeper drops to concentrate the mind! As we cut across one valley, the track at the bottom had been washed away, leaving a step of around a metre. Vehicles had passed this way since, but it was a little daunting nonetheless. I had made the mistake of passing Tim, while looking for a flat place to stop and weigh up the situation. This meant I would be first to try the route! On an enduro bike, this wouldn’t have required any thought at all, but on a laden GS, I didn’t want to get it wrong. Needless to say, it looked far worse than it actually was, and the bike took it all in its stride.
On the outskirts of one village, the correct piste wasn’t obvious, and as we were deliberating a herd of small boys gathered to offer advice. They all seemed to point in different directions, though I think the main objective was for us to let them ride on the back past all their mates. Tim made an executive decision, and rode through the village and onto the correct piste. Instinct, he said.
We met a lone GS coming the other way, Firebird, whom Tim had spoken to the previous evening. Sadly we met up at the worst possible place, in the middle of a village. Twenty or so kids crowded round us, then twenty or so teenagers. It became quite oppressive, and was one of the few times I felt uncomfortable about the attention we received. It did mean that we left Firebird sooner than seemed polite.
The piste at this point had been recently graded, and we passed numerous places where repairs were being made to the damage done last year by the floods. I felt very much at home, as it seemed as though we were riding through a quarry!

At the top, there were small traces of snow in sheltered hollows, and the piste became narrower and rougher. Following a narrow river bed, we crossed and re-crossed it twenty or so times as we descended into a tree lined valley. The temperature had risen somewhat, and it was great to splash some cold water on my face and hands at the next cig stop. The going started to level out, and settlements began to appear. In one of these we met a Bedford coming the other way on a single track, with a wall on one side, and a four foot drop on the other. The lower level was cultivated, and the Bedford driver indicated to Mark to ride down a ramp to let him past. Mark duly did, and got stuck. I managed to squeeze past by leaning my elbow against the wagon side, as did Ian and Adrian. Sadly, they extracted Mark before I could get my camera out! The next couple of miles looked like Welsh fire roads, but without the precipitous drops. Well, it would be rude not to, so I did! Slowing for a stream crossing, I chose the left hand rut, which was the wrong choice. Thankfully, I just found enough grip to get across, and stopped to direct the others to the right hand rut. We reached tarmac a few minutes later, a couple of miles from Imilchil, and noticed the dark clouds heading our way. We set off in an attempt to beat the rain, but that hardly ever works, does it? It wasn’t more than a shower, and just dampened the dust. Imilchil was rather un inspiring, a one horse town, where the horse has recently died. Tim conferred with one of the locals, who sent us 4 km further down the road. As we rounded a bend, the most fabulous turquoise lake appeared before us, on the shore of which sat the Auberge Tislite., our destination for the night.
The place seemed deserted, but a figure appeared at the top of the steps to welcome us. Mint tea appeared from nowhere, rooms were sorted and the boiler turned on for hot water. Tim had a nail in his tyre, and Adrian had commented on my left pannier flapping about, so minor repairs were affected before anything else. The shower was interesting, consisting of a spray head over one of the standing stalls in the communal toilet! It was hot at least, and we all managed to get cleaned up and changed, then put in our order for the evening meal. Shortly after, a number of 4x4’s turned up, and before very long the place was full. The bar was sadly lacking in anything alcoholic, as we were now in a devout Muslim area, so reserve stocks were retrieved from the luggage. I hadn’t given this a thought, so had to prevail upon the generosity of others to liven up my glass of coke. The main room was now packed with people who had also brought their own drinks, and there was quite an atmosphere, although there was a distinct shortage of female company to be had.

Mark

 

[Timolgra]

although there was a distinct shortage of female company to be had.

Mark

you're too fussy

 

[earthmover]

you're too fussy

That isn't what you said that night!
Mark

 

[earthmover]

Day 7
After breakfast, we headed back through Imilchil and on towards Tinehir. The piste here was more rutted than previous, not too deep thankfully, but quite capable of determining the direction of travel with little regard for your intentions. At Agoudal we stopped for a coffee, this being one of the places Tim had stayed at before. From here the piste turned to gravel as it followed the path of a small river. We had to cross this a number of times, and Mark H fell foul of a patch of marbles just after one such crossing.

No damage done, more of a slow let down than a drop, Mark’s feet not quite reaching the floor soon enough! On one of the faster sections we passed a gaggle of KTM 450’s going the opposite way. They were stood on the pegs, travelling quite swiftly, and waving a greeting, as we were. A few minutes later another group, though they were sat down, a little steadier, but still waving back. The next group were sat down, and were barely able to lift their hand off the bars; such was the death grip they appeared to have of the controls. I was just wondering how many of these there were, when I saw Tim come to an abrupt halt, followed by Rick. As I slowed behind them, the dust cloud settled to reveal another KTM, inches from Tim’s front wheel. You still need to ride on the correct side of the road, even in the middle of nowhere! At roughly the same time, Ian had stopped to help a rider stuck in some loose gravel just off the main track. A few hundred metres further, we met the Land Rover support vehicle for the KTM’s, along with one bike with a split fuel tank. Talking to the organiser, he told us that the group was quite a mix of abilities, the more competent riders were at the front, but some of the others hadn’t really done any off-roading before! This explained a lot, and after some banter (Tim had met the guy a few times), we headed on our way.

Leaving the piste for tarmac, I realised that we were heading into the Todra Gorge, about which I had heard so much. I stopped and dug out my video camera to film our descent, not realising just how long that would be. I let the others ride ahead, so that I would have advance warning of any oncoming traffic, and rode one handed with the video. This gave reasonable results, but required a lot of editing. The road narrowed down to single lane in places, where the river had reclaimed its track. The trickle of water occasionally visible gives no indication of the ferocious torrent that must have torn through here but months ago. Small rocks at the side of the tarmac serve as an indicator of the edge, and a vertical drop awaits those who miss it. In some places the tarmac has disappeared completely, and a rough track has been bulldozed through the debris. This was quite passable in a family car, and we did see a number of these, along with the ever present Merc van, heading up the gorge as we rode down. At the bottom, the road turns left through a cleft in the rock, and here the tourist industry starts in earnest. Brightly coloured scarves line the sides of the cliffs, looking like washing. A wide concrete strip had luxury coaches parked along one side, and a mass of people on the other. Ian rode ahead at a steady speed, parting the walkers so that I could ride behind still filming. The rest of the group were parked a little way ahead, in the shade of an outcrop, and Ian and I stopped to join them. The scale of the cliffs is quite breathtaking, and none of my photos do it any justice.

The buses were unable to go any further, so they had to turn round before the cleft and head back out. We followed them a short way and stopped at a restraunt for a late lunch. Sat under an awning we chatted with a German couple while waiting for our order, and watched the procession of coaches squeeze by. The Berber omelettes were the best of the trip, cooked on a Tagine base so absorbing the flavour, with plenty of chips.
We set off for the last few miles into Tenehir, and got stuck behind one of these tour buses, who didn’t seem keen on letting us past. Ian and I had to take to the dirt at the side of the road to get away from the fumes belching from the exhaust. Once clear, the view from the road away from the gorge was magnificent, but popular picture spots were crawling with hawkers so we rode on. Tim led us into the town of Tenehir, then pulled up next to a small archway, which was the understated entrance to the Hotel Tomboctu. After depositing our gear, the bikes were left in a secure compound across the road. The hotel had a small swimming pool in a sunlit courtyard, which Adrian and Ian sampled almost immediately. I decided to try the fridge in the bar first, and was joined quite swiftly by everyone else!
That night, Mark and I were woken at around 1.00am by smoke coming from under our bathroom door. This was quite concerning at first, but turned out to be coming from outside the hotel, getting in through a high window that we couldn’t shut. Thankfully no one noticed me wandering round the hotel in my underwear, looking for a fire that wasn’t there.

Day 8

After collecting the bikes from the compound to load up, I found that none of the local shops sold cigarettes. This meant me having to go native, and beg one off a French couple, to much hilarity from the rest of the lads.
Riding out through the main streets of Tenehir, Tim led us onto a nice easy run for a few miles. We stopped at a café just before the turning for Erfoud for our mid morning caffeine injection, and for me to stock up on cigarettes!
The manager of the café, a gentleman of some mature years, decided that Tim looked like Eric Clapton. We struggled to see the likeness, but then perhaps we had seen a more recent photo!
Some of the other customers were very easy on the eye, and it was with great regret that we got back on the bikes.
We stopped to look at the mounds of earth piled up by the side of the road, marking the path of the underground waterway dug many years ago. As if by magic, some hawkers appeared on push bikes carrying trays of trinkets for sale. As we marvelled at the haphazard nature of the earthworks, two GS’s passed the opposite way, and stopped a little further up. We wandered over to chat, and recognised them from the ferry. They had stayed on the tarmac, as they were both two-up. I wrote their names down, but lost it. One lad had been offered 500 camels for his girlfriend, but only 2 for his bike. I offered 550 (for the g/f), and wasn’t sure which of them was going to hit me!

Riding along the main street in Erfoud, a moped rider was doing his best to flag us down. He was wearing a turban, bright blue robes, aviator sunglasses and a very shiny watch. Typical Berber, for tourist photos. After a brief discussion, he wheeled round, and Tim indicated for us to follow him. I suspected that we were being led to a carpet shop, a thought that Tim made me pay for later in the journey, but he brought us to a restaurant, as asked. The inside was fabulous, but in our current state, we opted for a pavement table, and ordered the usual. One of the waiters recognised Tim from last year, and different circumstances, which was quite surreal. In conversation, he told us that the Auberge Erg Chebbi, which Tim had been told was being renovated, was in fact open for business. As this had been the first choice of accommodation for the next two nights, plan “B” was swiftly put into effect with a couple of phone calls.
Lunch finished, we rode out of Erfoud and into the desert. The tarmac finished abruptly, and piste stretched ahead to where the dunes of Erg Chebbi could be seen on the horizon. Tim warned us that the dunes were massive, and that it would take longer than we thought to get there. Our first taste of sand occurred a few minutes later, Tim taking a bit of a wobble, then “leaning” his bike over while he got out his camera to photograph our attempts at a stretch of all of twenty yards. Knowing the required technique doesn’t explain why I rode through it like a rank amateur, legs flailing, but upright.

Further patches were dispatched with ease though, as we all got the hang of it. The worst conditions for me were the “corrugations” which rattle your fillings loose at anything but the right speed. Finding the right speed is trial and error, and doing anything but you think the bike will fall to pieces!
Skirting the edge of the dunes, we came to the Auberge, looking for all the world like the fort in the film Beau Geste. At the rear, there was a courtyard, where two Ural sidecars were parked who appeared to be the only other occupants for the evening. Mark entered into negotiations with one of the staff to acquire some beers, before he and Adrian set off for a camel ride to the top of the dunes.
Sat in the courtyard, watching the suns last rays disappear, I felt totally relaxed for the first time in months. I also realised that my cynicism towards the people we met had eased, which probably explains how I came to be the owner of a Berber rug the next day!
Mohammed arrived with the beers, and stacked them in the communal fridge with a sign saying “English biker beer”. Later in the evening, he and some of the other staff sat around smoking and playing hand drums. I think you had to be a drummer to appreciate it though, I certainly did! A thoroughly chilled evening.

 

[Tim Cullis]

Great write-up and pics. I'll add the thread to the list on the Knowledgebase.

I'm interested in the hotels you stayed in and would appreciate your feedback on them, i.e. would you recommend them...

Cedars (?), Azrou
Asmaa Kasbah, Midelt
Tislite Bride, Imilchil
Tomboctou, Tinerhir
Erg Chebbi Auberge

I don't have a waypoint for the final one, is that the proper name?

Tim

 

[yamonda1]

Good read and pics

By the time I ever get there it'll be like Blackpool I expect

 

[TheWarlock]

Excellent write-up. Really enjoyed reading it. One of these years ...........

 

[Timolgra]

Excellent write up Mark and well worth the wait keep it coming mate. I love the little details of encounters which are all too easily forgotten

The final Auberge that Tim Cullis was asking of is the Auberge Erg Chebbi
N 31 10.759 W 4 01.936 I have stayed there four times and it's much more rewarding to arrive there all the way by piste from Erfoud rather than Merzouga which is much closer.

 

[earthmover]

Apologies for the delay!

I've been busy
Few more "days" to go, may get it done before Christmas!
Mark

 

[earthmover]

Day 9

We would be staying another night, so all excess baggage was left at the hotel. In my case, this meant my panniers could stay in the room, more so that I didn’t have to worry about breaking them, should I have a “horizontal” moment.

We rode around the dunes to Merzouga, and the coffee and coke stop for the morning. We were entertained by Ali, the manager of the café, and his inept waiter, who managed to spill three separate bottles of coke. In conversation with Ali, who spoke 17 languages (or he could say, “Hello, do you want to buy a carpet” in 17 languages) he promised us the best omelettes this side of Erg Chebbi if we came back that way at lunchtime. He also promised to show us a “museum” of local Berber crafts and history. Can you see where this is going?
We carried on south to Taouz, where Tim had hoped to show us some local musicians who performed every day. But sadly there had been a recent death in the village, and no music was played as a mark of respect. On the way to the village we had passed a dry lakebed, so we headed off there to play. The surface was completely flat, and incredibly grippy! I tried to powerslide the bike on it, but couldn’t get the back end to break free without having to try far harder than I thought prudent.

The low rocky hills at the edge of the flats made a good backdrop for pictures and the small sand dunes were great for pretending to be a Dakar God. Some of them were softer than others, as Adrian found out, very nearly to his cost! Ian had a great idea for a photo-op though, as you can see.

Returning to Ali’s café, we had lunch, then followed him to the “museum”. This closely resembled a carpet shop, funnily enough. We were offered mint tea, and then Ali set off on his spiel, explaining how each rug was made, and the history of the tribe, and the symbolism of the markings. It was all very interesting, and managed to distract me for a few minutes from the fact that we were actually in a carpet shop. I turned to look at Tim, who was smiling. Git!

One of the rugs did catch my eye, which was fatal. As soon as I asked how much it was, I was dragged into another room and force fed mint tea until I agreed to buy it, and have it shipped to my address! Only joking, I did actually want a rug, and I thought this would be as good as any. It now adorns one room in my house, and is coveted by the dog. Perhaps he likes the smell? Heading back to the Auberge Erg Chebbi, I thought I would be clever and ride around the back, and down the gravel road alongside. Cresting the rise before it, I found the road to be completely blocked by around twenty 4x4’s, leaving me no option but to ride down the deep, cut up sand to the side for 100 metres or so. With an audience this was an opportunity for failure, but I managed without incident. Ian challenged me to ride back up. Well a dare is a dare isn’t it, and there were plenty of people to help if it went tits up. Turning gently at the bottom, I clicked up into second, straightened up, and wacked the throttle on. The bike floated up the sand effortlessly, but then gripped and launched forward towards the edge of the dune and a six-foot drop! Needless to say, that was enough pratting around for the day.
With so many guests to cater for, dinner that evening became a set menu, but this wasn’t a problem as the food was delicious. There were a few more ladies in the crowd, giving us more to look at than the usual view. After the meal, some local musicians had been employed to “entertain” us. After a few minutes of this entertainment, we found ourselves moving further and further away. I much preferred the drumming!

Day 10

The next morning we set off for Alnif, taking the piste across to the tarmac, enjoying the odd “wriggle” on the way as we found odd patches of softer sand. Ian thought one such wriggle was going to see me off, but I had it under complete control (!)
After a few miles of admiring the scenery, I spotted a road sign that made me think. A round white sign, with a red border, with a picture of an AK 47 with a line through it. So what does that mean?
In Alnif, we stopped for a drink at a café, and admired the visitors’ book where plenty of other riders had left their names. Turning onto the piste, we found that what Tim remembered as a nice, technical track had been bulldozed. We were riding on a graded surface for most of the time, done well enough to be ready for tarmac in the near future. This made for an easy ride, most of the time. Some parts were very loose, where the stone hadn’t bedded in yet, and was like marbles.

The upshot of this was that we would be into Tenehir at midday, so Tim opted for a loop around the Dades Gorge as a bonus. Lunch and refuelling at a garage before Skoura, we saw some world news on the TV, but sadly we couldn’t understand a word the presenter was saying. The piste we followed took us up a well-worn track, which most of the fine aggregate had washed out of, leaving a hard rippled surface, which rattled your teeth. After half an hour of rough climbing we stopped at a lay-by for a photo and a smoke, to be overtaken by a Karoo van. It felt rough on the bike, what must it have felt like in that?

The ride down was accompanied by some more fantastic views and terracotta hues. Some of the hairpins were quite buttock clenching, as you tried to balance engine braking and brakes against loose gravel and gravity. On the way out of one village, an innocuous looking patch of sand caught Rick. As I was right behind him, I got a grandstand view as he reached the point of almost saving it, just before abandoning ship! The dismount would have been perfect, had his right toe not clipped his tankbag on the way over, thus pitching him head first. I had been accelerating with him, to beat the sand myself, but now had to anchor up hard to avoid ramming the prone GSA. Rick jumped to his feet to try and lift his bike before five cameras could be brought to bear. Happily, he failed, although my hand fell on my video camera, which is still to be edited. Pride the only casualty, we rode on, the landscape doing a passable impression of the surface of Mars at this point. The piste dropped down to tarmac near Boumalne-du-Dades, where a roadside stall provided Coke and the chance to relax wrists and arms. The run back to the Hotel Tombucto was roughly 50km, and we took the opportunity to fill the tanks ready for the next day.
Mark and I were both running short of Dirham, so I kept an eye open for a bank with an ATM as we rode through Tenehir’s main street. After unloading and parking the bikes, a quick shower and change, Mark and I walked back, taking the time to look into some of the shops on the way. The instructions on the ATM were in Moroccan, and changed to French when Mark inserted his card. After a couple of mis translated button pushes, we hit upon the correct sequence, Mark withdrew his cash, and the alarm went off! Now I’m not sure what the decibel level was, but I can assure you it was pretty damn loud. Mark and I stood rooted to the spot, me with my card ready to go in the machine, Mark with a bundle of notes, wondering what was going to happen next. I saw a man in overalls run to an open electric panel inside the bank, and the alarm stopped. Deciding that we weren’t in the middle of a raid, I quickly got my cash, and we hurried away. Mark also wanted some socks, so we went into a small clothes shop. All around the walls were dummies of the female form, wearing slinky, European style underwear. So is that what is worn under the Burkah? I think we should be told.
An excellent meal, and possibly too much alcohol, reminded me of a few “funny” anecdotes with which to regale my travelling companions. One particularly amusing tale (was it about the goldfish, or the camper van, I can’t remember) drew blank looks all round, then Tim uttered the immortal line “I suppose you had to be there”. When we had all recovered our composure, it was agreed that this would be the title of the trip, at least up to the point where Mark and I left.

 

[Tim Cullis]

Lunch was taken by a bridge over a small river, in a steep sided valley. Brash had been set alight before the bridge by someone, but there was no sign of them, and the smoke not intrusive. Ian’s panniers doubled up as our picnic table as we tucked into French bread and Swiss cheese triangles.

A movement in the trees caught someone’s eye, which turned out to be a couple of monkeys, what type I know not.

I'm guessing your lunch spot was about N32 54.746 W5 14.714 ?????

The monkeys are macaques, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barbary_ape

The bulldozed piste from Alnif, was that the one heading north?

Great stuff, keep it coming...

Tim

 

[Timolgra]

The bulldozed piste from Alnif, was that the one heading north?

That's the one, 12 months earlier we had been turned back by a washed out piste during a flash flood. I guess it then became a priority for the road builders

You can still enjoy the first part from Alnif then keep right on the old piste until it joins the new one.

A good read Mark, glad the dogs enjoying your carpet

 

[earthmover]

Day 11

Sorry this is taking so long folks, keep finding other things to do!
No pictures in this paragraph, because they would only be the same ones from Tim's earlier report.

We rode out of Tenehir heading for Nekob on one of Tim’s favourite pistes, over the Tiz n’ Tikkit and Tiz-n-Tazazert. Ian remembered one stretch where there was a hairpin bend that had caught someone out on a previous trip. He got out the video camera, and stood just uphill of the bend. You know what comes next, don’t you? Mark H got distracted by the camera, missed his line on the hairpin and went down. Tim, Rick and I were further up the track, but Ian and Adrian pitched in to help Mark back up. No damage done, but I think it knocked Mark’s confidence a little. We rode on, each at our own pace. A nomad family, complete with two fully loaded camels, a herd of sheep, a couple of goats, four dogs and numerous small children were heading towards me on a narrow stretch of piste. Tim and Rick had passed them, I stopped to wait, but they shepherded the whole caravan off the road and waved me past, closely followed by Ian. Around the next bend we all stopped for a cig and photo break. Adrian rolled up within a few seconds, but Mark still hadn’t shown by the time I had finished my smoke. I volunteered to ride back, and had caught up to the nomad family when I saw the approaching bike. Just as well, as the patriarch was looking at me as though I was having a laugh. I waved Mark on, and set about turning round. This was not as easy as I thought; the track was narrower than my turning circle, with a step on one side, a drop on the other, a loose surface, and sloping downhill. I got off and held the bike vertical, doing a seven point turn off the clutch and front brake, while standing on marbles! I was drenched in sweat in seconds, more through concentration than exertion, and became very aware of just how heavy a fully loaded GS can be. I found the weight hardly noticeable while underway, but that manoeuvre brought it home with a vengeance.
Back with the others, and in need of another smoke, I found that the reason Mark had been delayed was another tumble, again with no damage, but he had manhandled the bike back up on his own, rather than wait for someone to come back and help. First his confidence, and now his energy had taken a knock, this was the start of a tone for the day.
A regular sight in towns and villages was “specialist” vehicle repairers. These would be identified by numerous donor vehicles parked in close proximity, and states of dismantlement. Land Rover, Bedford and Merc were popular marques for such outlets. At Ikniounn we passed one such “specialist”, which dealt in Yamaha mopeds! Just outside the village, as we had a breather before ascending the highest part of the Tiz-n-Tazazert, two locals rode up on an FS1E. One, the rider, was wearing a twenty year old French ski school jacket, a knitted hat, and a huge grin. The other, an ancient brown blazer and a slightly less huge grin. They looked at our bikes, then down at the Fizzy with exaggerated amusement. The rider made a show of revving the engine and grinning even more, as we smiled back and made admiring gestures towards his machine. Biker camaraderie observed, the pair droned slowly away ahead of us. Ten minutes later we caught up to them, the gent in the suit walking up a steep part of the piste, the Fizzy and rider waiting at the top. Smiling and waving as we passed, we continued up the loose, rocky track until we reached a small, neatly kept café near the top. Tim was recognised by the woman who runs the cafe, and the rest of us marvelled at how she and her family eke out an existence. The surrounding area had been tended and turned into as much of a garden as is possible at that altitude, and a small circle of stones set into the ground for seats. As we sat and drank mint tea, the unmistakeable drone of a small two-stroke came to our ears. Looking round for a microlight, we were surprised to see the FS1E, complete with his pillion passenger. Leaning the bike against a wall, he treated us to an even bigger grin than before. The woman had walked over to greet him, and he unzipped his ski jacket to reveal two trays of two dozen fresh eggs, which he duly handed over. He then reached into a pocket of the jacket, and took out six yogurts, followed by another six from the other side. These he gave to the son, who had been riding his pink bicycle round the entire time, making engine noises through the cereal bar Tim had given him. Put our endeavours to shame.
From here, the piste was mainly downhill, with some quite sharp hairpins to contend with. Again balancing the brakes against the engine braking of the higher geared 1200’s, I had Ian sat right behind me. (I could tell from the rattling noise his half full panniers made!) My bladder had been suggesting a stop for a few minutes, so after one right hand hairpin, I tucked tight in against the side and stopped. As I switched the engine off I heard a clatter behind me, and turned to see Ian’s bike on its side and Ian himself rolling to a halt in the middle of the track. At first I was horrified to think I had been the distraction that had caused the fall, but then I saw Ian holding up his camera to check if it still worked. He had been filming, one handed, behind me. Sympathy turned to laughter, but stopped when we saw just how close to the edge his bike was! One cracked indicator, and some minor scratches was the only damage to the bike, don’t think the camera fared as well.
Without further mishap, we arrived in Nekob for a much needed rest and food. The petrol station had a large, clean restaurant, so we filled the bikes and ordered lunch. The proprietor must have been a football fan, as there was a huge mural of what I guessed to be Real Madrid on one wall, complete with a badly drawn David Beckham! A stiff breeze had got up, which was welcome as it was now quite warm, but there were black clouds forming over the peaks behind us.
We left following the R108 towards Tansikht, on a fairly narrow tarmac road. A Portuguese 4x4, towing a trailer full of Yamaha dirt bikes, travelling at a steady 50mph, took up the entire road. He either couldn’t see in his mirrors, or wasn’t looking in them. It was only a few miles though, before we turned off the tarmac to join the piste which followed the Oued Draa, in the Vallee du Draa, obviously. Tim had told us that this was a beautiful, easy piste through the date palm plantations, which was much more appealing than the boring tarmac route running parallel. The scenery was certainly dramatic, verdant plantations to the right, bare rocky escarpment to the left. Leaving one village after a fag stop, I realised I hadn’t fastened my tank bag and stopped again. I was quickly surrounded by kids on push bikes, indicating that I should pull a wheelie for them. Now I can’t wheelie my 250, so the GS on gravel wasn’t ever going to be a good idea. I smiled and nodded at them as I zipped everything back up, then started the engine with a blip on the throttle. The kids all fell about laughing, which I thought was odd, until I realised that one poor lad had been stood right by the exhaust, and had fallen off his bike in shock when I fired her up. Not wanting to be sued for damages, I rode off after making sure there was nothing broken. I did try a wheelie, but thankfully no one was watching.
Out of the villages, the piste was in a poor state of repair, possibly because there was a tarmac route so close. In several places, wash outs had been left, or only loosely filled with large rocks. Ian and I were treating some of these as trials sections, but Mark wasn’t so fortunate and went down twice in quick succession. Tim suggested that we should head for the road for the last few miles, so we could get to the bar sooner, no one disagreed! First stop was the tourist sign pointing the way to Timbuktu by camel, for the obligatory photos, then a gentle ride to the Hotel Fibule du Draa in the company of a very mad moped rider.
The beer tasted good that night, it had been a long day. As I lay floating on my back in the swimming pool, palm trees fringing the twilight sky, I was contemplating life, the universe and everything, when Rick shouted.
“Oy, Daniel effing Craig, put some clothes on, you’re scaring the women away!”
I was so going to miss this.
Mark

 

[earthmover]

Day 12

Mark H. and I had now gone as far south as we were able. Tim had planned the itinerary so that we could head back for the ferry a week earlier than the rest of the group, and the time had come for us to depart. It was with mixed feelings that we loaded up the bikes, we were heading for home and our loved ones, but there were adventures that we would miss. Bidding Tim, Adrian, Rick and Ian farewell, Mark and I rolled out of the car park, turned left and set off North West for Marrakech.
We would be on tarmac all the way, although there were tales of the N9 being a very poor road. Just outside of Zagora there was a commotion in front of us, from which emerged a donkey at full tilt. A small boy was giving chase, which was rather futile, as the creature had smelt freedom. I had previously seen two men struggling to lift a large sack, which they had just taken off a donkey, so had an idea what it was running from. Thinking I could help, I tried to head it off, but to no avail. It simply galloped down the bank at the side of the road and disappeared into the plantation.
Mark and I continued at a steady pace, which ate up the miles without much fuss. I would occasionally speed up for a few minutes, then stop for a smoke. Mark not being afflicted with such an addiction would catch up before I had finished. Our first of these stops was after an enjoyable run up the Tizi-n-Tinifft pass, pulling in at 1600m where there was a viewing point over the valley we had left. Riding down the other side towards Oarzazarte, there were some very suspect barriers on the edges of the bends, and quite a lot of debris to watch out for. As we descended the roads became straighter, and less interesting. On the outskirts of Oarzazate, we saw the sign for “Bikershome” which I have seen described on here more than once, but our first concern was for fuel. Tanks brimmed, we rode on, until half an hour later Mark indicated the village to our right.

I stopped to look, wondering why it looked familiar, until Mark reminded me of the film “Gladiator”. This was the location for some of the filming, and a little further as we headed towards Tamssint, huge sound stages dominated the horizon, looking very out of place in this landscape. As we continued, once again the road started to climb.

Stopping for coffee and a snack for lunch at one of the largest “fossil” emporiums I had ever seen, one of the bus drivers came over for a chat. He was Swedish, and had been driving coaches to and from Morocco for years. He had done it by bike himself once, “But then I got married!” he smiled, ruefully. We were at around 2000m on our way up the Tiz-n –Ticha, in glorious sunshine, and 14 degrees. “It snowed here yesterday,” said my Swedish friend, “Not much, but snow all the same!” I hoped it wouldn’t happen today, my warm clothes were at the very bottom of my panniers.
A large group of Harleys went past, followed by a support van from a German dealership. Mark and I were getting ready to leave, and I wondered if the couple of Buells in their midst would be up for a bit of a play . Shortly after the road began to deteriorate/improve, depending upon your viewpoint. The tarmac was cracked badly in places, edges had fallen away, barriers twisted and bent, loose gravel on bends etc. A pair of Harleys were parked at the side of the road, and I slowed to see if they were ok. They indicated that they were, so I carried on, cautious now as the result of a mistake here could be painful!

Riding into one of the villages that straddle the N9, there was a mini traffic jam where the remaining Harleys and their van had stopped. A Mitsubishi “Canter” box van (Sprinter size) on Moroccan plates was trying to get round them, as they were waiting for the two stragglers I guess. When he got past, he set off at an alarming pace (for a van), taking blind bends on the wrong side of the road and rocking from one side to the other quite violently . I sat behind him for a few minutes, but didn’t dare try to overtake. After his second near miss in as many corners, I decided that if this was for my benefit, I would have no more of it, and backed off. When Mark caught up, the road had opened out and was too good to miss, so we wound it up again. As I came up behind the van, this time he indicated for me to pass, and wary of any tricks, I squirted past with an eye for escape routes. None were needed, so I waved my thanks and enjoyed the last of the twisties.

Stopping at the viewpoint just before Touama, we were surprised by a couple of fossil hawkers who appeared from nowhere, but when Mark licked his finger and went to rub the offered stones, they swiftly backed off. A transit van laboured up the hill towards us, somewhat overloaded with passengers, one of whom was hanging off the side door. We shook our heads in disbelief, and rode on the last few miles towards the city.
Mark had been here before, so he led us to the city walls, where every entrance had a no entry sign. How’s that work then? A group of teenagers pointed out to us that no one else was taking any notice of the signs, so we thanked them and rode into the maelstrom. It was not yet rush hour, so the traffic was heavy, but moving. I don’t particularly mind riding in close proximity to others, which was just as well, as there were pushbikes, scooters, donkeys, cars and buses all trying to use the same piece of tarmac at the same time! Riding past the main square, Mark indicated to pull over, and I watched the bikes and had a smoke, while he had a scout for a hotel on foot. None near the square inspired him, so we travelled a little further out and chose the Hotel Zagora, which looked a little upmarket, but wasn’t too expensive. Showered and changed, and my last lot of washing done, we walked back towards the square for food and entertainment, Mark choosing us a cosy little Italian, as he had reached his Tagine limit. We then wandered around the Souk and the square, enjoying the hustle and the hawkers, until around 8.00pm, when we decided to head back to the hotel.
The roads at this time of night were truly astonishing! Words cannot describe the chaos that we saw, and we were on the pavement!eek At least half of the vehicles had no lights, and half of those that did weren’t good. How there were no accidents is beyond me, I can only think that it’s because they all drive/ride the same way. Whatever reason, Mark and I were very glad that we weren’t in it.
Our hotel had no beer, so we walked across to the Hotel Marrakech and partook of its bar facilities, whilst admiring some of the other guests.

Day 13
We had decided on an early start, not wanting to get caught in the morning traffic, so after the worst breakfast of the trip we were on the road at 8.00am. Crawling along at first, we soon picked up speed as we travelled further from the city, and joined the start of the new motorway just to the north. Some sections of this were only recently completed, and occasionally we could see gangs working at the sides, no barriers and lane closures here! One peculiarity was seeing men in orange overalls, carrying a black bin bag, at one mile intervals. If they were litter collectors, they would have very little to do, given the lack of traffic. Most odd!
As my fuel gauge showed 20 miles until empty, we pulled off the motorway at Settat. Neither map nor GPS showed any services on the motorway, but we could see a petrol station on the old road, that we doubled back to. As they hadn’t card facilities, I spent the last of my dirham, and we totted up how much we had left between us. Not much, but it should be enough for the tolls. Heading back onto the motorway, we had gone only a couple of miles when a brand shiny new service station hove into view.
The traffic increased as we travelled further north, along the more developed west coast. The standard of driving was no longer slow and careless, but fast and aggressive. We skirted Casablanca, which looked very unappealing from the motorway, and stopped for a snack lunch at a petrol station. Here I changed some euros into dirham as I bought cigarettes, for the toll booths were now coming thick and fast. Riding along the A1, the countryside opened up again, the traffic dwindled, and the landscape became more cultivated. Various aromas drifted across from the fields and orchards, including one that I couldn’t recognise. This was something of a contrast after the sparse greenery of the previous few days.
At our penultimate toll booth, the temperature had got up to the mid 30’s, and we glad of the breeze that moving caused. Our dirham was all but gone, so I dug out some more euros ready to haggle when we left the motorway. Stopping just before the barrier, I had a smoke while Mark outlined the plan. We both rode up, and I offered all the dirham we had, which wasn’t enough for two bikes. The gatekeeper wasn’t having any of that, so I offered plastic. Doesn’t do plastic, so I offered euros. Doesn’t do euros, not even at a sympathetic exchange. He suggested that the garage down the road may swap euros for dirham, and if I leave him my passport, I can go and try. Not surprisingly, I decline, but Mark offers to stay and wait. I ride to the garage, but while I am haggling with the owner, Mark rides up, having persuaded the guy to let him through!
We rode along the R417, which is a more interesting road, but as we came up to Tetouan, it almost got too interesting. Heavy traffic, and a convoy of tipper trucks, conspired to variously slow, scare and surprise us as we passed. Sat behind one such truck, I could see huge chunks of tread missing from his tyres, so I backed off in case any more came away. Thankfully we left them behind as we turned onto the N13 for the last few miles in Morocco. The border crossing was uneventful, and Mark and I were sat in the queue for the ferry with 45 minutes to spare. A calm crossing followed, and a glorious sunset, so that when Mark and I rode onto mainland Spain it was in darkness. This didn’t concern us, until we joined our first unlit road. We were both wearing goggles that hadn’t had a good clean in days, because we hadn’t needed to. Also, both our headlights were encrusted with a million dead bugs, topped off with a layer of sand. We could barely see six feet ahead of ourselves, so it was a very cautious trip into Estapona! Mark led into an expensive looking marina complex, and to a splendid restaurant where we had to convince the manageress that it would be better for us to eat at a table outside. She obviously had no sense of smell, but we didn’t want to be accused of putting her customers off. A slap up meal finished the day off nicely, and at 11.00 Moroccan time, we gratefully pulled into Mark’s apartment complex.

 

[Timolgra]

Day 12

It was with mixed feelings that we loaded up the bikes, we were heading for home and from our loved ones, .

Nice one Mark, 'You had to be there' and I'm glad you were

 

[earthmover]

Finally, the last few days!

Day 14.
Today was to be something of a rest day for us, Mark having convinced me that we would have plenty of time to get to Santander and the ferry. After a relaxed lie-in, we were going to ride along the coast to Tarifa for a couple of hours. No one else in that part of Spain seems to bother with riding gear, so we “went native” and wore jeans, t-shirts and trainers. I felt incredibly vulnerable, and won’t be rushing to repeat the experience! Once in Tarifa, we did some shopping for things to take home to our kids at the beachwear shops. I hadn’t seen anything in Morocco that I thought suitable, and Mark had told me that I would be able to find something here. We then had a relaxed lunch in a pavement café, with two very dusty GS’s attracting attention from the locals in the square where we had left them.
Back at the apartment, Mark had some domestic business to attend to, so I spent the afternoon snoozing on the sunlounger, reading, and sorting out my panniers.
Mark had spoken of the back street bars of Estapona, where smoked hams hang on the walls, and are sliced in front of you. This was to be our appetiser before the fish restaurant he had promised me all week. The bar which Mark was particularly looking for proved difficult to find in the maze of back streets, but I have to say was well worth the wait. There were a few other people sat eating at tables, and Mark wasn’t entirely sure the barmaid had understood his request. She had, and a plate of wafer thin slices duly arrived, served with olives and pickled onions. I understand now why it’s regarded so highly, delicious!
The fish restaurant didn’t disappoint either, but after eating so much, we weren’t that interested in going on the town drinking. Another early night!

Day 15
A relatively early start, on a cool hazy morning. I had already switched back to my “road” gear, and was glad of it, as we joined surprisingly (to me) heavy traffic on the motorway heading towards Malaga. After just over an hour of riding, I serenely rode up the wrong sliproad, watching as Mark sailed on, gesticulating that he was on the correct route. I had assumed, wrongly, that I knew where I was going. Somewhat annoyed with myself for not concentrating, I accelerated onwards, looking for the next junction. Of course, it was miles away, and as I came rather over enthusiastically to the top of the off slip, there were three Spanish police motorcyclists opposite looking at me! I nodded to them as I circled the roundabout and headed back the way I had come, a little slower this time, hoping they were in a good mood. After catching back up to Mark, who had been dawdling along waiting for me, we stopped for breakfast, halfway between Malaga and Granada.
Half an hour after breakfast, the sky growing darker as we rode northwards, the first spots of rain fell. Cars travelling the other way had their lights on, so we felt it prudent to pull into the first available shelter and put wet weather gear on. We had reached Albolote, just North West of Granada, and were just about to join the A44 to take us towards Madrid. The rain varied from steady drizzle to torrential for the rest of the day. Pleasant weather for riding it was not. Settling into a sort of groove, Mark and I ploughed onwards, feeling the first trickle of water down my neck as my jacket reminded me that it needed re-proofing. At the next fuel/fag stop I switched both my cigs and my Ipod to the inside, waterproof pocket. Surreal moments included passing a pick up carrying an enormous circular saw blade, at head height, and stopping for fuel at a particularly bleak, rain-lashed services to hear The Scorpions “Wind of change” blaring out of the tannoy as I tried to light a soggy cigarette with a damp lighter.
Mark successfully led us through the nightmare that is Madrid’s ring road, and out the other side heading for Burgos on the A1. The rain still hadn’t eased, and we rode into the city just short of twelve hours and 540 odd miles after we had set off, very wet and very hungry. Keeping our eyes open for “Hotel” signs, Mark pulled up outside the 4 star Corona de Castilla. I looked at the marble steps and glass foyer, then down at my filthy wet gear, but Mark just shrugged. I took my gloves off to reveal blue dyed hands. “You had better go and ask, I look like I’ve robbed a bank!”
Mark came out seconds later, gave me the thumbs up sign, and pointed to the roller shutter door that was opening to reveal an underground car park. The attendant led us to a corner where there was a huge heat exchanger of some sort, next to which we parked the bikes, before squelching through the lobby to the lift and our room. Gear draped over radiators, showered and changed, we headed out to the square by the cathedral to find food. A couple of the restaurants looked promising, but when we came to one that seemed a lot busier than the others, we went in. The food on other patron’s plates looked wonderful, and we were not disappointed, I had a slab of veal that nearly over faced me, and a few people may understand just how difficult that can be! Thus fortified, we wandered back to the hotel for a nightcap before bed, but got distracted by an English tour guide who insisted on buying us drinks to keep him company. He must have been very lonely!

Day 16
A relative lie-in saw us on the road for 9.30, after a very poor (by 4 star hotel standards) breakfast. Most of my gear had dried, but my boots were still damp. No matter, as the rain hadn’t finished with us yet, and continued to persist down on us all the way. We turned off to keep on the original N623, rather than the N627, to enjoy the twisties, but low cloud put paid to that. Stopping for a coffee at a café halfway to Santander, we met a couple of British riders, a father and son who had ridden over in search of sun. Boy were they in for a disappointment! We arrived at the ferry terminal in good time, and joined the queue of bikes ready to embark. In the loading bay, the bikes were being crammed in tightly, and strapped down securely. “This doesn’t bode well!” suggested Mark. It was a definite contrast to the outgoing leg, expectations were for a rough crossing.
Finding our cabin, and arranging our gear for maximum drying potential, was our first priority. Mark and I then wandered around the ferry until we bumped into Garry H and his companions, and spent a few hours comparing notes about our respective trips. A slap up meal in the aft restaurant finished the day off nicely, and Mark and I took to our beds as the ship rolled its way through the night.

Day 17
Plymouth looked gray, but dry, and after waiting for what seemed like an age, we were allowed onto the lower deck to load up. The humidity was quite oppressive down there, and I had made the mistake of leaving my Quest locked onto the bars. The screen was completely blank, but the power light was on, so I was hopeful that normal service would be resumed. That’s my excuse for leading us on a brief detour through a shopping centre in the middle of Plymouth anyway! Once out of town and onto the A38 we made steady progress, joining the M5 up until the services at Taunton, where my fuel gauge showed me to be running on fumes. After refuelling, I bade Mark farewell, hoping to reach the M5/ M6 interchange before the rest of the Friday traffic. No such luck, but being on a bike helps, and I filtered my way through the miles of traffic, stood on the pegs to give my backside a rest and help see over all the cages until the flow took me back up to 50mph again.
I turned the bike up my driveway at 4.30pm, it was nice to be home, but it would have been even nicer to turn around and do it all over again.

My eternal thanks must go to Tim, for the organisation, and to Mark, Adrian, Rick and Ian, for being the ideal travelling companions.
Until the next one..
Mark