Bed for the bikes
Vercelli - Italy
It was probably 1984 when I first took a bike across the channel. I was young… …even France was a big adventure. Two-up on a Suzuki GS850G, we packed “light”, containing everything we needed in a pair of Krauser panniers and a big tote bag on the rack. Our route: South. Our destinations: Well that depended on what it said in the Michelin Red Book. For France, this wonderful hard-back guidebook was all you needed. We simply aimed for places on our unplanned route that had a one or two star hotel with a red “R”, which denoted “good food at moderate prices”.
Bearing in mind this was the 80’s, we had grown up in a United Kingdom with a, how shall we say, less than welcoming attitude to bikers. France was a breath of fresh air, in every sense. People waved! Drivers would make room for you to pass. Hotels even welcomed bikers; one particular little hotel, hanging over the banks of the Dordogne (Lalinde, if memory serves me correctly), even noted on their menu by the front door, “Garage parking for motorcycles”.
The following year, elsewhere in France, we had ridden late in to the evening to try, unsuccessfully, to evade the rain. Presenting ourselves at the reception desk, wet through, totally bedraggled and dripping all over their pristine floor, we were greeted with sympathy, compassion and the keys to a good room. Returning outside to our bikes to get our luggage, we realised we were being watched by a small, rotund chef, complete with a white chef's hat and the blue and white stripy apron stretched around his midriff, smoking a quick Gauloises, sheltering from the heavy rain in the doorway to his kitchen.
“Moto, là-bas”, he gestured rather gruffly, pointing to the other side of the parking area. We were worried; what had we done wrong?
“Bonsoir”, we said, “but it is just as wet over there; they’ll be fine here, won’t they?”.
“Non, non”. He was clearly a bit frustrated at our incompetent French. “Là bas”, he pointed with his cigarette.
Worried that we’d parked in the wrong place, we moved the bikes…
The chef was getting animated now. “Non, Non. Pas ici; là bas; dans la grange”.
“I think he is telling us to put the bikes in the barn”, said my wife.
I was concerned now… “Won’t the owner mind…?”.
The chef pulled a deep last drag on his expiring ciggie and discarded the dog-end with a deft flick in to the rain. He puffed out his chest, pointed to it with his stubby index finger and said “Je suis le propriétaire! Moto va dans la grange”…
“Ah! Merci, monsieur”, we called back. The bikes spent a very wet night tucked up in a dry and friendly barn and we enjoyed a great meal.
Fortunately, as I have discovered on all my more recent trips through Europe, including this one with Maxxx, this experience is neither dying out nor limited to France. We enjoyed entertainingly decorated German garages to dusty Slovenian barns. The accommodation for the bike might not always be the most salubrious or by the front door, but never have I been charged for this type of overnight garage. By contrast, where I have had to put the bike in a parking place where the hotel charges for cars, they have quite often expected me to pay too. But then again, as often not…
Over the years the bike has benefitted many times from helpfulness of various proprietors: from both a garage for the bike and a room discount in the Czech Republic (because the B&B I had randomly picked belonged to the organiser of the local Harley Davidson club); a private garage down the road in the Dolomites; a courtyard in Hungary (the owner insisting the bike was covered in blankets to protect it from the cats); under the garden guest house eaves in France, to name just a few.
My conclusion? Good will towards bikes and bikers is alive and well throughout Europe. They want your business too…
With Maxxx safely in Split and reunited with his family (well, for a week, before he spent even longer returning back to the UK than I did, but that is another story and his to tell), I headed south to the Pelješac peninsula, further down the coast.
With all the passport excitement, I needed a couple of days of R&R.
Tolmezzo - Italy
Joinville - France
Vercelli - Italy
It was probably 1984 when I first took a bike across the channel. I was young… …even France was a big adventure. Two-up on a Suzuki GS850G, we packed “light”, containing everything we needed in a pair of Krauser panniers and a big tote bag on the rack. Our route: South. Our destinations: Well that depended on what it said in the Michelin Red Book. For France, this wonderful hard-back guidebook was all you needed. We simply aimed for places on our unplanned route that had a one or two star hotel with a red “R”, which denoted “good food at moderate prices”.
Bearing in mind this was the 80’s, we had grown up in a United Kingdom with a, how shall we say, less than welcoming attitude to bikers. France was a breath of fresh air, in every sense. People waved! Drivers would make room for you to pass. Hotels even welcomed bikers; one particular little hotel, hanging over the banks of the Dordogne (Lalinde, if memory serves me correctly), even noted on their menu by the front door, “Garage parking for motorcycles”.
The following year, elsewhere in France, we had ridden late in to the evening to try, unsuccessfully, to evade the rain. Presenting ourselves at the reception desk, wet through, totally bedraggled and dripping all over their pristine floor, we were greeted with sympathy, compassion and the keys to a good room. Returning outside to our bikes to get our luggage, we realised we were being watched by a small, rotund chef, complete with a white chef's hat and the blue and white stripy apron stretched around his midriff, smoking a quick Gauloises, sheltering from the heavy rain in the doorway to his kitchen.
“Moto, là-bas”, he gestured rather gruffly, pointing to the other side of the parking area. We were worried; what had we done wrong?
“Bonsoir”, we said, “but it is just as wet over there; they’ll be fine here, won’t they?”.
“Non, non”. He was clearly a bit frustrated at our incompetent French. “Là bas”, he pointed with his cigarette.
Worried that we’d parked in the wrong place, we moved the bikes…
The chef was getting animated now. “Non, Non. Pas ici; là bas; dans la grange”.
“I think he is telling us to put the bikes in the barn”, said my wife.
I was concerned now… “Won’t the owner mind…?”.
The chef pulled a deep last drag on his expiring ciggie and discarded the dog-end with a deft flick in to the rain. He puffed out his chest, pointed to it with his stubby index finger and said “Je suis le propriétaire! Moto va dans la grange”…
“Ah! Merci, monsieur”, we called back. The bikes spent a very wet night tucked up in a dry and friendly barn and we enjoyed a great meal.
Fortunately, as I have discovered on all my more recent trips through Europe, including this one with Maxxx, this experience is neither dying out nor limited to France. We enjoyed entertainingly decorated German garages to dusty Slovenian barns. The accommodation for the bike might not always be the most salubrious or by the front door, but never have I been charged for this type of overnight garage. By contrast, where I have had to put the bike in a parking place where the hotel charges for cars, they have quite often expected me to pay too. But then again, as often not…
Over the years the bike has benefitted many times from helpfulness of various proprietors: from both a garage for the bike and a room discount in the Czech Republic (because the B&B I had randomly picked belonged to the organiser of the local Harley Davidson club); a private garage down the road in the Dolomites; a courtyard in Hungary (the owner insisting the bike was covered in blankets to protect it from the cats); under the garden guest house eaves in France, to name just a few.
My conclusion? Good will towards bikes and bikers is alive and well throughout Europe. They want your business too…
With Maxxx safely in Split and reunited with his family (well, for a week, before he spent even longer returning back to the UK than I did, but that is another story and his to tell), I headed south to the Pelješac peninsula, further down the coast.
With all the passport excitement, I needed a couple of days of R&R.
Tolmezzo - Italy
Joinville - France


However, as we parted at the aptly named Croatian city of Split, Maxxx went back a different way and so will have another story to tell! 
