Weather forecast the day before is the usual over the top dire warning of heavy rain. In fact, there is rain but only a light muzzle during to drizzle now and again as I make my way on the bike, which has been unridden for the last 3 years, to Dover. Not ideal riding conditions especially after such a long period of lovely dry summer days and nights, however, I grow increasingly less unsure from a state of great to one of calm trepidation.
Dover in 3 hours from Wymondham which is not too bad arriving 11:45. All goes easily but I am still surprised that one no longer needs tickets, just a printed out reservation number does the trick, but I am old hat as the person in front merely shows his booking on his mobile phone screen. On the way I am overtaken by a silver BMW ridden by a rider in a fetching green jacket and rather lurid green helmet who is exceeding the speed limit by some margin and gives me a superior and leisurely wave as he passes by. This it turns out was Jony. Later, when we have met up in France, I note that the clothing effect is slightly marred by the fact that Jony's jacket still has a hood attached which is not quite the proper biking style.
No sign of Jony or Charlie though. Charlie is late - lost or overslept? I fiddle about with bike putting black tape over headlamp high beam and have interested party of 4 other bikers of similar age to me who are on new and smart bikes but demise about their old ones. I am recommended an interesting sounding place to stay in Belgium. A converted factory for bikers only where the bikes are parked in a ring on the ground floor and rather basic sounding accommodation above. As Jony remarks later it sounds like a sort of 'throw your keys on the table party'?
Jony and Charlie arrive just as my bike is being strapped down and about 10 minutes before the ferry departs. Charlie has a promising career beckoning in industrial production (the just in time process we were told about during my engineering course 30 years ago - perhaps replaced by what?).
The weather brightens as we approach Calais which is promising. Not so promising is that I get separated from Jony & Charlie right from the start. Fortunately we had decided which junction we were making for and J&C had spent most the voyage fitting fancy new Bluetooth intercoms to their helmets so I was able to speak to J using my phone while he was charging down French roads in search of petrol for Charlie.
On the way to meeting up I feel something brush against my ankle while doing 130kmph. This turns out to have been one of my bike's side panels German engineering does not always get it right as the panel fits on from the bottom rather the top and so is engineered to fall off rather than stay on when the retaining screw works loose. Hmm. Wonder if BMW in Munich will have a replacement part for a 22 year only bike and in the right colour.
After some motorway we move on to normal roads passing through the not so Belle France then we appear to be running down the Western Front. We stop at a large British war cemetery by Vimy Ridge. Many unnamed soldiers and one unknown officer of the Norfolk Regiment catches my eye as I leave. Further on a large German cemetery with small grey crosses rather than our larger white headstones. I am struck by the difference. We ride through the middle of large fair in the centre of Cambrai which is en fete I feel we could offer rides to the children alongside the house of mirrors etc. Trying to extricate ourselves from the fair, I manage my first ride the wrong way up a one way street hopefully not too many to come.
It is getting late and we are having difficulty finding somewhere to spend the night. The farm rooms recommended by petrol station and bar combined are shut. J fulminates that it is high season and what are thinking. I suspect that it is because they are harvesting.
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| It doesn't look much like Palestine but three weary travellers found an unexpectedly warm West Bank welcome in this out-of-the-way bar. Not our last Middle-Eastern eaterie either! |
We arrive at small village of Ors where we are lead to believe is a Chambres d'Hote. Charles, the patron of the empty village bar tells us it closed some years ago. Oh well! We have a beer, then another, then he offers to cook us steak frites. We accept. We decide to camp illicitly on the village boule playing field at our landlord's reluctant suggestion and provided that we do not go there first and then back to his which would implicate him with the Marie Agreed. Steak frites is good especially washed down with 3 glasses of wine of which I have 2. Charles asks us to join him and a number of other village men for what appears to be a regular poker night, apparently due to start sometime between 9&10 and finishing maybe 4am. Although this sounds interesting, I believe that I will end up with no money and no bike either. Tents are put up by the light of our headlamps and as it gently mizzles on us and so to bed.
140 miles from Calais to Ors.
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