This is going back a few years to 2007 when I ventured on my first motorbike tour. It was something of a turning point for me, and something that has become a passion. I though it might make some light Sunday afternoon reading, but I'd put the kettle on first, it ain't short!
For years after passing my bike test I’d wanted to go motorcycle touring and day dreamed of riding in the Alps, but over the years, all my mates who’d ridden bikes in their youth had given up. My cousin’s husband Howard, or ‘H’ as he’s come to be called, also rode but had gotten into the ‘biking’s become boring’ commuting rut. It was decided that we should organise a long weekend away in Wales, a route was plotted and several months later off we went. The mid May weather was scorching, too hot if anything, but helped make this the best riding we’d ever done. And so, after that sunny, weekend in Wales, and a subsequent freezing cold, icy November weekend in the North West of England that we committed to the Alps. Rich, a friend of H’s, with bike test recently passed had come on the second trip and was up for doing the Alps too. By Easter, the trio had increased to seven but a few weeks before departure, we were down to the final five, me, H, Rich, and the unknown Anton and Phil, riding a Ducati 900 Monster, a Yamaha R1, Triumph Tiger, BMW R1200ST and R1150 RT respectively.
The plan:
A Friday evening crossing on Le Chunnel, stop overnight in Boulogne, a day’s hack across France to near Geneva, over several passes into Switzerland, head east over more passes until we reached the mighty Stelvio. From there, we’d then head back via more passes, to Blighty. 10 days, nine nights, 2250 miles, five countries and twenty mountain passes. I couldn’t wait.
None of us had done bike touring on the continent but before we knew it, we were gathering on H’s driveway in mid-Bedfordshire ready for the off. The weather turned out for the ride to Folkestone and it was all starting off very nicely until we hit the M25 just in time for the Friday evening rush hour…numpty! Good planning Donnie! It wasn’t so bad for H and me with our throw-over panniers, but the others struggled through with their more bulky hard cases. Several trains late, we arrived in Calais and blasted down to Boulogne. We had to loiter for some time around the hostel we’d booked which, at midnight, was now closed. After much frantic window knocking and skulking about in the dark, we caught someone’s attention and were let it. Fortunate as park benches appeared to be the next choice.
Next morning, day 2, we hit the auto-route for a dull day’s ride, lifted only by the adrenaline of what was to come, well, that and larking about trying to reach top speed on my bike, not helped by me being a barn door 6’8” on an un-faired, 10 year old Duke. Lying across the tank, my backside on the pillion seat and chin resting on the headlight, I managed a woeful 110mph
We stopped periodically to refuel and for the obligatory jambon et fromage, service station baguette and oodles of coffee as we made for the Auberge de Croix Blanc in Beaurepaire-en-Bresse which was really nice. After several recuperating beers on the terrace, we had a very good meal washed down with plenty of the red stuff. We’d ridden 450 miles that day, the most I’d covered in a day and I was pleased at that…then two brummies on 1150 GSAs turned up. They’d ridden from home, some 200 miles further.
Today, Day 3, was what it was all about, reaching the Alps. Our first pass was the Col de la Faucille and it didn’t disappoint. The road twisted and turned its way up the forested Alpine mountain side, the silky smooth tarmac oozing with grip. We’d never ridden roads like this and if this was the first pass...what was to come??!! Nearing the last bend to the peak we we’re greeted by…
Blimey…what a view. My first sight of the snow capped Alps. We pulled over for a coffee at one of the restaurants and listened to other bikers wind their machines up the ribboned tarmac before jettisoning out of the trees then plummeting down the other side. You could tell the locals from the tourists before you could see them.
Just before Geneva at a set of lights, we lost H. This momentary lack of observation turned into a 2 hour nightmare of trying to find him in the middle of Geneva, a city none of us knew. Well, Anton claimed to, but as they say, a little knowledge can be a bad thing. It didn’t help. After an episode of, ‘we’re standing next to a sculpture next to the lake, can you see it’, ‘yes, but I can’t see you, where are you again?’ We finally got him back and headed south over the Col d’Aravis, Saises and Cormet de Roselend, three passes even better than the first, perfectly strung together and each quite different. The scenery was mind blowing too and we had to stop regularly to look, that or face careering off the road through lack of concentration.
At Flumet, we took the Col de Madeleine and the weather changed as a thunder storm closed in on us.
The rain lashed down and the lightening appeared increasingly close but it mattered not. Other bikers dived for any cover available, and the overhanging chalet roofs appeared a popular choice, but we carried on. Well, we’re British god damn it! I was grinning from ear to ear and I remember shouting from my helmet, ‘come on then…bring it on!’ At the foot of Madeleine we reached La Chambre where we happened upon a nice little biker’s café on the main street. We took a rest for coffee and some local cheese...I know, an odd combination that didn’t work at all but it was a good spot nevertheless with motorcycles and biking memorabilia hanging from every inch of wall.
A hour later we reached our hotel, Relais Auberge ‘Les Glaciers’, at Termignon where the owner let us park our bike in his stone barn just down the road. He was most hospitable and treated us well but what a day, the best riding I’d ever experienced and we were totally knackered and opted to stay put and dine on pizza and beer and talk bollocks about the day’s ride.
Next morning I woke with a smile thinking, today I’m going to ride my bike all day, in the Alps...brilliant! We headed up the Val d’Isere...
...and over the Col de l’Iseran, the highest pass on the trip and 2nd highest surfaced pass in the Alps. The old Duke coughed and spluttered the last half mile or so to the top with it’s normally aspirated engine struggling for oxygen. Snow banks lined the road and provided a perfect backdrop for a photo opportunity…and the chance for a snowball fight! Kids... honestly...big kids.
In Val d’Isere, we stopped again, for coffee and crepes. The weight of Phil’s RT momentarily got the better of him and it dropped to the ground with a crunch, but with no harm done we soon had it upright again.
At Bourg-St-Maurice, we turned up to La Rosieres and found a lovely restaurant for lunch overlooking Les Arcs and the valley below, (you can tell food and coffee stops play a significant role in my trips!).
After lunch saw the Col du Petit St Bernard as we crossed the border into Italy, then at La Thuile, H, Anton and I lost the other two on a side road. We waited and waited but they didn’t return so we progressed over the Col du San Carlo, a lovely little, rather tight pass that was empty and, looking back, was one of my favourite ones of the trip. Coming down the other side, we were met with rain, HEAVY rain so we pulled over to shelter. Phil and Rich made contact and would go straight to the hotel and get the beers in. Due to the rain, they’d opted for the fastest possible route option through the Grand St Bernard tunnel, we decided to stick to the planned route over the Col du Grand St Bernard. Having gotten a little lost in Aosta…but we won’t go into that… we climbed the south side of the pass. There were road works a plenty as the winter’s damage was being repaired and we reached the top to find thick cloud obscuring any views.
The decent to the north looked ominous and as we dipped into the cloud the heavy rain started. With no options available, we pressed on getting wetter and wetter by the second. Visibility was almost zero, sitting behind trucks, not daring, or even having opportunity to pass but like on the Col de Madeliene, I didn’t care. Riding with my visor open and the ice cold, prickly rain driving in through the opening I was still riding with a smile for I was still biking in the Alps and I thought to myself, ‘this is all part of it Donnie, this is all part of it, you’re riding the dream’. By the time we reached our hotel near Chamonix we we’re so soaked that not a single part of my undies were still dry. Fortunately, the hotel had a drying room for our kit and at least I’d double bagged my clothes in bin bags inside my throw over panniers. H had not and had, at best, damp clothes to wear. He was not a happy.
Phil and Rich had been on a rekey and found a nice place to eat. The owner, mad as a March hare, had just closed the kitchen and said he didn’t have much buy, with a hefty sigh, would open up again. He tutted and winged but one coarse after another was brought out of the kitchen. His mood was all an act played out very convincingly, music he said he didn’t have appeared ten minutes later without announcement by accompanied by a wry smile. It was one of the best evenings of the trip as it turned out. Our host was a really good laugh and treated us very well indeed. (We returned there a couple of years ago only to find he’d closed down a month or so after our first visit. Shame).
Day 5 was met with the joy of having dry biking gear as the drying room had done its job brilliantly. Back on the bikes we immediately tackled the first pass of the day, the Col de la Forclaz, now drier and much more enjoyable than the previous day’s wet southerly navigation of it. We crossed back from France into Switzerland following the Rhone valley to Sion, Sierre and then Brig, before the main artery narrowed for the road to Gletsch. From there the road started to climb up to the Furkapass and onward to the biking mecca of Andermatt, just in time for lunch.
After rostis and schnitzels...
...we climbed the Oberlapass which afforded great views of Andermatt and the valley below and followed the valley through picturesque Alpine towns and villages sitting in the lush green meadows.
We stopped for the night in a hostel in the village of Parpan, a stones throw from Chur. It’s not somewhere I would rave about as it was a bit lifeless and the hostel was at best mediocre but it was clean and comfortable enough for a night. We ate in the restaurant of the Hotel Stätzerhornand and had a right hoot with some of the locals who’s English was very good. The owner, who was spot on, thought we were crazy English people due to us ordering a traditional cheese fondue...’but its summer time, that’s winter food’. This clearly wasn’t the dish to eat in July but it was very good and helped get us merry. Another good night was had.
Despite plentiful drink the night before, were up early the next morning with a spring in our step, the sun was shining and…it was Stelvio day. Yippee!
From Parpan, we headed south to one of the prettiest passes we rode, the Albulapass.
On the climb up, the road passed through lush green meadows with pine tree lined bright blue lakes, then at the top, the valley widened to an almost Andean altiplano.
The cafe at the top proved all too tempting once more and in the distance we could hear the military practicing shell fire in the next valley. We continued onward to Pontresina, up the Passo del Bernina, down the Valle di Livigno and on to Bormio in Italy for lunch. The roads were superb but the increasing numbers of cyclists meant keeping your wits about you.
After lunch, we mounted our bikes in preparation for the climax of the tour, riding the Stelvio pass.
The accent started gradually at first and increasingly steepened as we neared the end of the valley until we reached the famous series of switch backs climbing the near vertical mountian side. As we neared the top, we were buzzing. What an experience. Not in fact the best biking road by a long way, all those hairpins on the way up, don’t make for an exhillerating ride, many of the passes we’d navigated had been better, but for the sheer experience, the others didn’t come close and the view from the top was spectacular and worth the effort alone.
Looking down the north side, the road snaked it’s out of sight way down the valley. A further forty eight hairpin turns awaited us as we set off negotiating the slow moving buses and cyclists. Actually, the cyclist aren’t that slow, and cornered quicker than we could. It was hard to try to develop any kind of rhythm to this, better to sit back and enjoy the surroundings. By the time I reached the last few corners, I’d boiled my rear brake fluid so had to rely solely on the Dukes front brake and engine braking. Poor ol’ girl. Much pessimism had ensued about the reliability of my bike, ‘it’ll never make it, pile of Italian junk’ was the general gist…but it had, me and my old bike had just ridden half way across Europe and ridden one of the most famous passes in the world, I was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
The last few miles were more leisurely, especially with my rear brake under scrutiny. We headed for the small town of Santa Maria, just over the Swiss border where we’d booked into the hostel. Santa Maria was a very pretty place with beautifully ornate painted decoration on the buildings and cobbled streets.
The hostel was also the most charming and characterful I’ve ever stayed in. We had to ourselves, an oak paneled room accessed through a very small door via small ladder...and a bargain at just £10 a night.
Dinner was hard to find that night, most places were closed so we were left with only one place to go that was run by a very odd couple, or brother and sister…or both. Weird. It seemed a disappointing end to a brilliant day until we stumbled upon The Smallest Whiskey Bar in the World.
Yes, I kid you not. This bar was about 3 metres square including the bar which was just about big enough for the barman to stand behind. The five of us and two locals filled it. We got talking to one of them, well, not talking exactly. He could only talk Romancsh, a very old language that I believe the peasants in Roman times spoke. This old man of eighty or more years sang and laughed and joked with us, or maybe at us...we’d never know. This was a enjoyable and fitting end to the day.
Day 7 was upon us and Anton, Rich and Phil were to part company and head home. It had been a fantastic week, far exceeding my expectations and the company had only made it better. Howard and I had an extra day or two so after riding the Ofenpass and Fluelapass to Davos together, we said our goodbyes and they took to the motorways.
H and I headed back over the Oberalpass to a hostel at Hospental, just west of Andermatt. After a quick shower, we headed out for a wonder about. It was a pretty quiet village with the ruin of a castle tower on a hill above, and a beautiful but tiny church.
We were on the look-out for somewhere to have dinner but only found one place open. The aging owner, a nice fellow, said they we’re closed but offered to drive us to another restaurant outside the village. After some discussions between him and his wife, it was decided that we could eat there after all. We were brought menus and each ordered something different. Fifteen minutes later, two identical plates of food were placed on the table, neither resembling what we’d asked for. After a couple more beers and having finished our supper it was clear we were out-staying our welcome so we moved on. There was nowhere else open so we headed back to the hostel to find that about fifty children had descended on it with their teachers. An early night was had.
After breakfasting with the kids, we loaded up our bikes and headed off, back to Andermatt first then turning west over the Sustenpass. I reckoned it to be one of the best passes we’d ridden in the Alps and having ridden this pass three or four times now, I still think so. We headed to Interlaken next and Lauterbrunnen, valley of the waterfalls.
It’s beautiful, more for sightseeing than biking fun, but well worth a visit. We rode as far as we could up to Murren and stopped for lunch. What a perfect spot, sitting on a cafe terrace, looking down the valley, watching the waterfalls and a paraglider floating on the thermals above.
After lunch, we left Lauterbrunnen behind and headed to Vevy on the shores of Lake Leman/Geneva. The hostel, right on the egde of the shorefront market square was really pretty good.
It was nice to be in a livelier place for a change and we made the most of it, straight out for a few beers at a pavement bar overlooking the lake. It was Friday night so the locals were out for an after work drink and the restaurants were filling up. We had a choice...a choice. We now faced having to agree on where to eat, this seemed something of a novelty after the past few days. We opted for the busy one, well, you can’t go wrong if the locals like it...and good it was too.
For forks sake...who left that there.
We woke early the next morning to the sound of stall holders setting up for the Saturday morning market on the square below our window. We breakfasted at a cafe watching the Vevians, or whatever they’re a called go about their weekend business.
We were heading for Lille, so wasted little time in getting going. It was painfully slow getting out of Vevy and away from urban sprawl around the lake, but once at Nyon, the road opened up and we progressed well and taking in our last pass of the trip, the Col de la Savine. By 6pm we were in Lille and lost. A local pulled up to help and told us to follow him. He took us, out of his way I might add, half way across Lille to our hostel. We were most grateful indeed...although not quite so when we saw the hostel. Now it’s rare that I’d say this since, after all, sometimes a bed is a bed right? But I would never, never stay in that place again. It was very grim, feeling like a converted 1960s office building, awful beds, office blinds on the windows and the parking...well...suffice to say I was surprised to see our bikes still there the next morning. We did find a nice restaurant close by though and enjoyed a very pleasant last night’s supper though so all was not lost.
The last day was upon us and the ride back to Calais uneventful but presented the opportunity to reflect on the week’s adventure. It had truly exceeded all my expectations. The riding had been brilliant, just brilliant, the scenery mind blowing and I’d had some great company. We’d enjoyed a lot of laughs with some guys that have now become friends and I was hooked on motorbike touring and was already thinking about where to go next.
For years after passing my bike test I’d wanted to go motorcycle touring and day dreamed of riding in the Alps, but over the years, all my mates who’d ridden bikes in their youth had given up. My cousin’s husband Howard, or ‘H’ as he’s come to be called, also rode but had gotten into the ‘biking’s become boring’ commuting rut. It was decided that we should organise a long weekend away in Wales, a route was plotted and several months later off we went. The mid May weather was scorching, too hot if anything, but helped make this the best riding we’d ever done. And so, after that sunny, weekend in Wales, and a subsequent freezing cold, icy November weekend in the North West of England that we committed to the Alps. Rich, a friend of H’s, with bike test recently passed had come on the second trip and was up for doing the Alps too. By Easter, the trio had increased to seven but a few weeks before departure, we were down to the final five, me, H, Rich, and the unknown Anton and Phil, riding a Ducati 900 Monster, a Yamaha R1, Triumph Tiger, BMW R1200ST and R1150 RT respectively.
The plan:
A Friday evening crossing on Le Chunnel, stop overnight in Boulogne, a day’s hack across France to near Geneva, over several passes into Switzerland, head east over more passes until we reached the mighty Stelvio. From there, we’d then head back via more passes, to Blighty. 10 days, nine nights, 2250 miles, five countries and twenty mountain passes. I couldn’t wait.
None of us had done bike touring on the continent but before we knew it, we were gathering on H’s driveway in mid-Bedfordshire ready for the off. The weather turned out for the ride to Folkestone and it was all starting off very nicely until we hit the M25 just in time for the Friday evening rush hour…numpty! Good planning Donnie! It wasn’t so bad for H and me with our throw-over panniers, but the others struggled through with their more bulky hard cases. Several trains late, we arrived in Calais and blasted down to Boulogne. We had to loiter for some time around the hostel we’d booked which, at midnight, was now closed. After much frantic window knocking and skulking about in the dark, we caught someone’s attention and were let it. Fortunate as park benches appeared to be the next choice.
Next morning, day 2, we hit the auto-route for a dull day’s ride, lifted only by the adrenaline of what was to come, well, that and larking about trying to reach top speed on my bike, not helped by me being a barn door 6’8” on an un-faired, 10 year old Duke. Lying across the tank, my backside on the pillion seat and chin resting on the headlight, I managed a woeful 110mph
We stopped periodically to refuel and for the obligatory jambon et fromage, service station baguette and oodles of coffee as we made for the Auberge de Croix Blanc in Beaurepaire-en-Bresse which was really nice. After several recuperating beers on the terrace, we had a very good meal washed down with plenty of the red stuff. We’d ridden 450 miles that day, the most I’d covered in a day and I was pleased at that…then two brummies on 1150 GSAs turned up. They’d ridden from home, some 200 miles further.
Today, Day 3, was what it was all about, reaching the Alps. Our first pass was the Col de la Faucille and it didn’t disappoint. The road twisted and turned its way up the forested Alpine mountain side, the silky smooth tarmac oozing with grip. We’d never ridden roads like this and if this was the first pass...what was to come??!! Nearing the last bend to the peak we we’re greeted by…
Blimey…what a view. My first sight of the snow capped Alps. We pulled over for a coffee at one of the restaurants and listened to other bikers wind their machines up the ribboned tarmac before jettisoning out of the trees then plummeting down the other side. You could tell the locals from the tourists before you could see them.
Just before Geneva at a set of lights, we lost H. This momentary lack of observation turned into a 2 hour nightmare of trying to find him in the middle of Geneva, a city none of us knew. Well, Anton claimed to, but as they say, a little knowledge can be a bad thing. It didn’t help. After an episode of, ‘we’re standing next to a sculpture next to the lake, can you see it’, ‘yes, but I can’t see you, where are you again?’ We finally got him back and headed south over the Col d’Aravis, Saises and Cormet de Roselend, three passes even better than the first, perfectly strung together and each quite different. The scenery was mind blowing too and we had to stop regularly to look, that or face careering off the road through lack of concentration.
At Flumet, we took the Col de Madeleine and the weather changed as a thunder storm closed in on us.
The rain lashed down and the lightening appeared increasingly close but it mattered not. Other bikers dived for any cover available, and the overhanging chalet roofs appeared a popular choice, but we carried on. Well, we’re British god damn it! I was grinning from ear to ear and I remember shouting from my helmet, ‘come on then…bring it on!’ At the foot of Madeleine we reached La Chambre where we happened upon a nice little biker’s café on the main street. We took a rest for coffee and some local cheese...I know, an odd combination that didn’t work at all but it was a good spot nevertheless with motorcycles and biking memorabilia hanging from every inch of wall.
A hour later we reached our hotel, Relais Auberge ‘Les Glaciers’, at Termignon where the owner let us park our bike in his stone barn just down the road. He was most hospitable and treated us well but what a day, the best riding I’d ever experienced and we were totally knackered and opted to stay put and dine on pizza and beer and talk bollocks about the day’s ride.
Next morning I woke with a smile thinking, today I’m going to ride my bike all day, in the Alps...brilliant! We headed up the Val d’Isere...
...and over the Col de l’Iseran, the highest pass on the trip and 2nd highest surfaced pass in the Alps. The old Duke coughed and spluttered the last half mile or so to the top with it’s normally aspirated engine struggling for oxygen. Snow banks lined the road and provided a perfect backdrop for a photo opportunity…and the chance for a snowball fight! Kids... honestly...big kids.
In Val d’Isere, we stopped again, for coffee and crepes. The weight of Phil’s RT momentarily got the better of him and it dropped to the ground with a crunch, but with no harm done we soon had it upright again.
At Bourg-St-Maurice, we turned up to La Rosieres and found a lovely restaurant for lunch overlooking Les Arcs and the valley below, (you can tell food and coffee stops play a significant role in my trips!).
After lunch saw the Col du Petit St Bernard as we crossed the border into Italy, then at La Thuile, H, Anton and I lost the other two on a side road. We waited and waited but they didn’t return so we progressed over the Col du San Carlo, a lovely little, rather tight pass that was empty and, looking back, was one of my favourite ones of the trip. Coming down the other side, we were met with rain, HEAVY rain so we pulled over to shelter. Phil and Rich made contact and would go straight to the hotel and get the beers in. Due to the rain, they’d opted for the fastest possible route option through the Grand St Bernard tunnel, we decided to stick to the planned route over the Col du Grand St Bernard. Having gotten a little lost in Aosta…but we won’t go into that
… we climbed the south side of the pass. There were road works a plenty as the winter’s damage was being repaired and we reached the top to find thick cloud obscuring any views.
The decent to the north looked ominous and as we dipped into the cloud the heavy rain started. With no options available, we pressed on getting wetter and wetter by the second. Visibility was almost zero, sitting behind trucks, not daring, or even having opportunity to pass but like on the Col de Madeliene, I didn’t care. Riding with my visor open and the ice cold, prickly rain driving in through the opening I was still riding with a smile for I was still biking in the Alps and I thought to myself, ‘this is all part of it Donnie, this is all part of it, you’re riding the dream’. By the time we reached our hotel near Chamonix we we’re so soaked that not a single part of my undies were still dry. Fortunately, the hotel had a drying room for our kit and at least I’d double bagged my clothes in bin bags inside my throw over panniers. H had not and had, at best, damp clothes to wear. He was not a happy.
Phil and Rich had been on a rekey and found a nice place to eat. The owner, mad as a March hare, had just closed the kitchen and said he didn’t have much buy, with a hefty sigh, would open up again. He tutted and winged but one coarse after another was brought out of the kitchen. His mood was all an act played out very convincingly, music he said he didn’t have appeared ten minutes later without announcement by accompanied by a wry smile. It was one of the best evenings of the trip as it turned out. Our host was a really good laugh and treated us very well indeed. (We returned there a couple of years ago only to find he’d closed down a month or so after our first visit. Shame).
Day 5 was met with the joy of having dry biking gear as the drying room had done its job brilliantly. Back on the bikes we immediately tackled the first pass of the day, the Col de la Forclaz, now drier and much more enjoyable than the previous day’s wet southerly navigation of it. We crossed back from France into Switzerland following the Rhone valley to Sion, Sierre and then Brig, before the main artery narrowed for the road to Gletsch. From there the road started to climb up to the Furkapass and onward to the biking mecca of Andermatt, just in time for lunch.
After rostis and schnitzels...
...we climbed the Oberlapass which afforded great views of Andermatt and the valley below and followed the valley through picturesque Alpine towns and villages sitting in the lush green meadows.
We stopped for the night in a hostel in the village of Parpan, a stones throw from Chur. It’s not somewhere I would rave about as it was a bit lifeless and the hostel was at best mediocre but it was clean and comfortable enough for a night. We ate in the restaurant of the Hotel Stätzerhornand and had a right hoot with some of the locals who’s English was very good. The owner, who was spot on, thought we were crazy English people due to us ordering a traditional cheese fondue...’but its summer time, that’s winter food’. This clearly wasn’t the dish to eat in July but it was very good and helped get us merry. Another good night was had.
Despite plentiful drink the night before, were up early the next morning with a spring in our step, the sun was shining and…it was Stelvio day. Yippee!
From Parpan, we headed south to one of the prettiest passes we rode, the Albulapass.
On the climb up, the road passed through lush green meadows with pine tree lined bright blue lakes, then at the top, the valley widened to an almost Andean altiplano.
The cafe at the top proved all too tempting once more and in the distance we could hear the military practicing shell fire in the next valley. We continued onward to Pontresina, up the Passo del Bernina, down the Valle di Livigno and on to Bormio in Italy for lunch. The roads were superb but the increasing numbers of cyclists meant keeping your wits about you.
After lunch, we mounted our bikes in preparation for the climax of the tour, riding the Stelvio pass.
The accent started gradually at first and increasingly steepened as we neared the end of the valley until we reached the famous series of switch backs climbing the near vertical mountian side. As we neared the top, we were buzzing. What an experience. Not in fact the best biking road by a long way, all those hairpins on the way up, don’t make for an exhillerating ride, many of the passes we’d navigated had been better, but for the sheer experience, the others didn’t come close and the view from the top was spectacular and worth the effort alone.
Looking down the north side, the road snaked it’s out of sight way down the valley. A further forty eight hairpin turns awaited us as we set off negotiating the slow moving buses and cyclists. Actually, the cyclist aren’t that slow, and cornered quicker than we could. It was hard to try to develop any kind of rhythm to this, better to sit back and enjoy the surroundings. By the time I reached the last few corners, I’d boiled my rear brake fluid so had to rely solely on the Dukes front brake and engine braking. Poor ol’ girl. Much pessimism had ensued about the reliability of my bike, ‘it’ll never make it, pile of Italian junk’ was the general gist…but it had, me and my old bike had just ridden half way across Europe and ridden one of the most famous passes in the world, I was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
The last few miles were more leisurely, especially with my rear brake under scrutiny. We headed for the small town of Santa Maria, just over the Swiss border where we’d booked into the hostel. Santa Maria was a very pretty place with beautifully ornate painted decoration on the buildings and cobbled streets.
The hostel was also the most charming and characterful I’ve ever stayed in. We had to ourselves, an oak paneled room accessed through a very small door via small ladder...and a bargain at just £10 a night.
Dinner was hard to find that night, most places were closed so we were left with only one place to go that was run by a very odd couple, or brother and sister…or both. Weird. It seemed a disappointing end to a brilliant day until we stumbled upon The Smallest Whiskey Bar in the World.
Yes, I kid you not. This bar was about 3 metres square including the bar which was just about big enough for the barman to stand behind. The five of us and two locals filled it. We got talking to one of them, well, not talking exactly. He could only talk Romancsh, a very old language that I believe the peasants in Roman times spoke. This old man of eighty or more years sang and laughed and joked with us, or maybe at us...we’d never know. This was a enjoyable and fitting end to the day.
Day 7 was upon us and Anton, Rich and Phil were to part company and head home. It had been a fantastic week, far exceeding my expectations and the company had only made it better. Howard and I had an extra day or two so after riding the Ofenpass and Fluelapass to Davos together, we said our goodbyes and they took to the motorways.
H and I headed back over the Oberalpass to a hostel at Hospental, just west of Andermatt. After a quick shower, we headed out for a wonder about. It was a pretty quiet village with the ruin of a castle tower on a hill above, and a beautiful but tiny church.
We were on the look-out for somewhere to have dinner but only found one place open. The aging owner, a nice fellow, said they we’re closed but offered to drive us to another restaurant outside the village. After some discussions between him and his wife, it was decided that we could eat there after all. We were brought menus and each ordered something different. Fifteen minutes later, two identical plates of food were placed on the table, neither resembling what we’d asked for. After a couple more beers and having finished our supper it was clear we were out-staying our welcome so we moved on. There was nowhere else open so we headed back to the hostel to find that about fifty children had descended on it with their teachers. An early night was had.
After breakfasting with the kids, we loaded up our bikes and headed off, back to Andermatt first then turning west over the Sustenpass. I reckoned it to be one of the best passes we’d ridden in the Alps and having ridden this pass three or four times now, I still think so. We headed to Interlaken next and Lauterbrunnen, valley of the waterfalls.
It’s beautiful, more for sightseeing than biking fun, but well worth a visit. We rode as far as we could up to Murren and stopped for lunch. What a perfect spot, sitting on a cafe terrace, looking down the valley, watching the waterfalls and a paraglider floating on the thermals above.
After lunch, we left Lauterbrunnen behind and headed to Vevy on the shores of Lake Leman/Geneva. The hostel, right on the egde of the shorefront market square was really pretty good.
It was nice to be in a livelier place for a change and we made the most of it, straight out for a few beers at a pavement bar overlooking the lake. It was Friday night so the locals were out for an after work drink and the restaurants were filling up. We had a choice...a choice. We now faced having to agree on where to eat, this seemed something of a novelty after the past few days. We opted for the busy one, well, you can’t go wrong if the locals like it...and good it was too.
For forks sake...who left that there.
We woke early the next morning to the sound of stall holders setting up for the Saturday morning market on the square below our window. We breakfasted at a cafe watching the Vevians, or whatever they’re a called go about their weekend business.
We were heading for Lille, so wasted little time in getting going. It was painfully slow getting out of Vevy and away from urban sprawl around the lake, but once at Nyon, the road opened up and we progressed well and taking in our last pass of the trip, the Col de la Savine. By 6pm we were in Lille and lost. A local pulled up to help and told us to follow him. He took us, out of his way I might add, half way across Lille to our hostel. We were most grateful indeed...although not quite so when we saw the hostel. Now it’s rare that I’d say this since, after all, sometimes a bed is a bed right? But I would never, never stay in that place again. It was very grim, feeling like a converted 1960s office building, awful beds, office blinds on the windows and the parking...well...suffice to say I was surprised to see our bikes still there the next morning. We did find a nice restaurant close by though and enjoyed a very pleasant last night’s supper though so all was not lost.
The last day was upon us and the ride back to Calais uneventful but presented the opportunity to reflect on the week’s adventure. It had truly exceeded all my expectations. The riding had been brilliant, just brilliant, the scenery mind blowing and I’d had some great company. We’d enjoyed a lot of laughs with some guys that have now become friends and I was hooked on motorbike touring and was already thinking about where to go next.
[glad you enjoyed for first tour]
