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| Day 1-14 Across France to the Black Forest, across Germany with Patrick |
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| Day 15-19 A dash through Austria & the Dolomites, across northern Italy to Switzerland, back into France and down to lovely Cipieres to stay with Pam RR. |
Wednesday 25 September 2013
The route
Sunday 15 September 2013
Day 29. The old cold shower, hot shower routine, with a minor detour on kit
In the event, Friday 13th hadn't been that terrible - my get-you-home plan had more or less worked out. There were no obstacles that significant amounts of patience, hard work, money, energy and optimism couldn't overcome. But of course the gods had one last little joke to play: the weather.
"Welcome home stranger, they said, we're going to piss all over you for five hours. You won't be able to see where you're going, you'll get thoroughly cold and miserable. And it'll hurt."
It didn't start like that of course. I was just raining when I got back to Dover and set off up the M2. And it didn't stop. It got heavier as it got dark. And, it being Friday evening, there were roadworks around much of the M25 to occupy and divert the homeward-bound commuter and Radio 2 Traffic Team alike.
By the time I got half way round the M25 my gloves and feet - neither properly attired for biking I have to admit - were both completely soaking. As I hit the M4, I was already beginning to cheer myself up by singing little scraps of Loudon Wainwright III:
And so on. You have to fill the time some how and keep the mind focussed. Riding in clouds of spray, being thrown around by winds and passing lorries, and dazzled by lights on all sides takes a lot of concentration and, to be honest, not a little courage. I was pretty anxious much of the time and sing partly to keep my spirits up and partly to keep myself calm.
So look out mum, look out dad
Your bundle of fun will not be had
If the blanket is blue or if the blanket is pink
You'd best watch what you do, watch what you think!
I hollered as I wobbled past Heathrow.
At about Reading, I started to feel twinges of pain in my right shoulder. It was probably from holding on to the throttle for over 12 hours, possibly from gripping on too tightly. Despite some sodden attempts to loosen the muscles by juggling about at 60mph, the pain increased steadily and I found myself singing Dylan's "Masters of War"-
Come you masters of war
You that build the big guns
You that build the death planes
You that build all the bombs etc
Never a good sign!
The last 50 miles were, shall we say, not easy. At about 11.00pm I turned off the motorway and progressed slowly and painfully along the A46 towards Nailsworth, uncertain whether I'd be able actually to get off. Stopping at traffic lights produced a spasm that had me yelping with pain. Keep calm and carry on, eh? Thank heavens there was no-one at home to witness my arrival: sodden clothes were awkwardly peeled off in a haphazard line of ouches that led towards the bathroom and the much-looked-for hot shower that - glory of glories - brought the relief that I had hoped. Long, hot showers are, I believe, the first thing that the Terry Waites of this world usually have and I'm 100% with them.
So that's where the trip ends: in the shower with bits of kit in puddles on the kitchen floor. It's not perhaps the most elevated conclusion and I'm sure that a more balanced perspective will prevail soon.
A word about kit
In the meantime I hope I'm allowed another short digression. This time on the subject of 'kit'. It may not interest you non-bikers out there but it is essential and it's probably kept me alive, so hang on in there.
The most important thing is the bike. Imagine driving along the M4 in the howling rain with the bonnet of your car open. Apart from being about the level of visibility I had at times, it's pretty much what the bike is exposed to all the time. A car would soon stop, wouldn't it? Water would get into the generator/plugs/alternator or whatever and it would seize up. I've had loads of cars that didn't like rain and I saw several by the side of the road, last night, flashers on, miserable owners poking around under the bonnet.
Patrick's bike wasn't mad about the Munich rainstorm ("...it's a recognised problem witjh the HT leads" he was told when it wouldn't start next day).
But mine did not miss a single beat - it purred with damnable germanic efficiency for hour after hour of soul-drenching madness. And started first time next day.
And, although I couldn't actually see the tarmac, I was extremely grateful that I was making contact with it via some fancy new bits of rubber. Never were €270 better spent than on the tyres that ploughed sure-footed through the flooded lakes of the British motorway system.
And finally let's hear it for the lid. The next time you pass a biker in the rain, remember s/he's probably got about 10% vision due to the spray you're throwing up, to droplets on the outside of their visor and misting up inside. For years this has been the bane of bikers: cold rain outside, warm breath inside = water vapour. The skiers among you will recognise the problem.
This trip was the first real outing for my new BMW helmet: an absurdly overpriced bit of plastic that features a variety of daft gimmicks, including something called a pin visor. This is essentially, a second inner leaf to the visor that the marketing people claim stops it all from misting up. Smoke and mirrors I say.
It wasn't until I was somewhere near Woking that I realised it was working (ha ha): yes, the visor wasn't misting up! What price visibility eh? Wish I'd paid similar attention to my hand and footwear....
"Welcome home stranger, they said, we're going to piss all over you for five hours. You won't be able to see where you're going, you'll get thoroughly cold and miserable. And it'll hurt."
It didn't start like that of course. I was just raining when I got back to Dover and set off up the M2. And it didn't stop. It got heavier as it got dark. And, it being Friday evening, there were roadworks around much of the M25 to occupy and divert the homeward-bound commuter and Radio 2 Traffic Team alike.
By the time I got half way round the M25 my gloves and feet - neither properly attired for biking I have to admit - were both completely soaking. As I hit the M4, I was already beginning to cheer myself up by singing little scraps of Loudon Wainwright III:
Be careful there's a baby in the house
And a baby is better than smart
It can waddle through, all the stuff you do
Never mind your big head start.
And so on. You have to fill the time some how and keep the mind focussed. Riding in clouds of spray, being thrown around by winds and passing lorries, and dazzled by lights on all sides takes a lot of concentration and, to be honest, not a little courage. I was pretty anxious much of the time and sing partly to keep my spirits up and partly to keep myself calm.
So look out mum, look out dad
Your bundle of fun will not be had
If the blanket is blue or if the blanket is pink
You'd best watch what you do, watch what you think!
I hollered as I wobbled past Heathrow.
At about Reading, I started to feel twinges of pain in my right shoulder. It was probably from holding on to the throttle for over 12 hours, possibly from gripping on too tightly. Despite some sodden attempts to loosen the muscles by juggling about at 60mph, the pain increased steadily and I found myself singing Dylan's "Masters of War"-
Come you masters of war
You that build the big guns
You that build the death planes
You that build all the bombs etc
Never a good sign!
The last 50 miles were, shall we say, not easy. At about 11.00pm I turned off the motorway and progressed slowly and painfully along the A46 towards Nailsworth, uncertain whether I'd be able actually to get off. Stopping at traffic lights produced a spasm that had me yelping with pain. Keep calm and carry on, eh? Thank heavens there was no-one at home to witness my arrival: sodden clothes were awkwardly peeled off in a haphazard line of ouches that led towards the bathroom and the much-looked-for hot shower that - glory of glories - brought the relief that I had hoped. Long, hot showers are, I believe, the first thing that the Terry Waites of this world usually have and I'm 100% with them.
A word about kit
In the meantime I hope I'm allowed another short digression. This time on the subject of 'kit'. It may not interest you non-bikers out there but it is essential and it's probably kept me alive, so hang on in there.
The most important thing is the bike. Imagine driving along the M4 in the howling rain with the bonnet of your car open. Apart from being about the level of visibility I had at times, it's pretty much what the bike is exposed to all the time. A car would soon stop, wouldn't it? Water would get into the generator/plugs/alternator or whatever and it would seize up. I've had loads of cars that didn't like rain and I saw several by the side of the road, last night, flashers on, miserable owners poking around under the bonnet.
Patrick's bike wasn't mad about the Munich rainstorm ("...it's a recognised problem witjh the HT leads" he was told when it wouldn't start next day).
But mine did not miss a single beat - it purred with damnable germanic efficiency for hour after hour of soul-drenching madness. And started first time next day.
And, although I couldn't actually see the tarmac, I was extremely grateful that I was making contact with it via some fancy new bits of rubber. Never were €270 better spent than on the tyres that ploughed sure-footed through the flooded lakes of the British motorway system.
And finally let's hear it for the lid. The next time you pass a biker in the rain, remember s/he's probably got about 10% vision due to the spray you're throwing up, to droplets on the outside of their visor and misting up inside. For years this has been the bane of bikers: cold rain outside, warm breath inside = water vapour. The skiers among you will recognise the problem.
This trip was the first real outing for my new BMW helmet: an absurdly overpriced bit of plastic that features a variety of daft gimmicks, including something called a pin visor. This is essentially, a second inner leaf to the visor that the marketing people claim stops it all from misting up. Smoke and mirrors I say.
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| One of these keeps out the rain (note inner 'pin' visor); the other doesn't |
Day 27-28. Reasons to be cheerful, part 3
Although I don't really agree with the aphorism that 'What doesn't harm you makes you stronger', Jack and I have been exchanging thoughts about how life's vicissitudes can, at the least, make excellent fodder for entertaining traveller's tales. And why is it that tales of woe make better reading than stories where it's all gone rather well? I suspect it's something to do with providing your (comfortably sat) armchair reader with evidence that confirms the wisdom of their decision to stay at home. Here's just what you need folks.
At about 6.00am on Friday morning I gave up the doomed battle for sleep and started fumbling around in the pre-dawn light for some clothes. My hand fell on the squidgy remains of the previous night's banana, which had somehow been genetically engineered to require ripping apart, rather than the more conventional peeling. I felt it was not going to be a good day. (It was only later that I discovered it was actually Friday 13th.) Still, I reasoned as the trousers went on backwards, there were plenty of reasons to be cheerful: I didn't have any crying babies or young children to cope with, I didn't have any stressful deadlines, I had some money in the bank and, even if it was dark, it wasn't raining. Much.
The previous day had also required some positive thinking. I had also risen early from my municipal campsite in Santander in order to try and get emergency documentation from the British Consulate in Bilbao. I had an address. How hard could it be? When I eventually tracked it down (floor 8 of a grotty unmarked building) some hours late, it was shut. The sign on the door gave a couple of phone numbers but, of course, I had no phone.
So I did what any self respecting american tourist would do, I walked into the poshest hotel I could find and asked to use their phone and wifi. Of course, sir, no problem. The helpful person at the FCO Madrid embassy explained that I would have to present myself in person at their Madrid office to collect my emergency travel docs (herein after known as the ETD). Alternatively, if it would be more convenient, I could go to Barcelona.
This choice of equally distant, equally unhelpful locations left me temporarily gobsmacked. I actually thanked the woman for her help and rang off. Then it struck me: why travel 400 km in the wrong direction (west or south) only to return and get on an expensive ferry? Surely north was, at least, vaguely towards home? And besides, the French have always been our allies in times of trouble, n'est pas? (As I said, my logic was temporarily out of action....)
Before embarking on this gesture of international defiance, I popped out to the strikingly ugly Bilbao ferry terminal to see whether they would reconsider their decision to turn me away. No go. Also v pleasant. But no can do can señor. So, at abouit 12.00pm, I pointed the bike towards the Pyrenées again and set off without a map, passport or clean pair of socks for Paris, about 900 km away.
Not much to report about the next bit; motorways are pretty much the same the world over - not pretty and very boring. I followed the N10 for some distance in order to save tolls and get slightly more east. I was hoping to find a nice little campside by the side of the Loire, with a view of one of the fabulous chateaux and a little home-cooked steak frites, natch.
Wild over optimism Russell. As night fell, I was indeed on the outskirts of Tours, on the Loire, but had no idea where to stay. I considered a wild camp and also went into town to look for a hostel, until I remembered to check my list and found there was none. However I did spot one in Vierzon, which I had, by complete chance, just gone through so I went back to find it and saw a sign for a campsite instead.
I arrived too late and left too early to identify its exact location (or to pay) but I can say it was close to some sort of busy road junction and had a very well lit laundry room where I did battle with GM bananas and the remains of some chocolate. I set up the tent by the beam of my headlight and curled up for a good night's ceiling watching.
As I reached the 8th arrondissement I started searching hard for a photo booth since this was the one missing bit of paper I knew would cause problems, especially on a Black Friday like today. (I actually had some passport-sized photos but, of course, they were in the lost wallet.!) However, when I eventually found the Consulate, there was a machine in the corner!
Forms were completed. Money changed hands. Understatements were made. EMDs were produced. By 12.30 I was heading north for Calais, still hogging the motorways which, conveniently, give discounts for bikers. I reckon it cost about €60-70 to do most of France south to north on motorways - that's over 1000km. I hit Calais by 3.15, got through passport control by 3.16 and got a place on a very reasonably priced ferry at 6.00pm.
Home and dry eh? Not!
Before moving on am I allowed a short diversion into Paris? Why not, it's my blog. Paris was pretty bloody awful. I used to really like the place and, don't get me wrong, I still think that strolling along the walking through the Jardins des Tuilleries in the springtime is one of the most romantic things one can do. Paris is blessed with loads of charming restaurants, some cool buildings, great art galleries and ....err, that's about it.
The problem is the traffic. They haven't even begun to tackle it so the whole place is clogged up. Much worse than London. Scooters are everywhere. Buzzing along the pavements, diving into the bus lanes, sitting all over the pedestrian crossings, filling every gap and generally being utterly selfish and rude.
I saw hardly a single bicycle and the Parisian pedestrian's lot is not an 'appy one. Granted I was not in the most forgiving frame of mind but, even so, I was saddened to see how messy and ugly parts of this glorious capital had become.
At about 6.00am on Friday morning I gave up the doomed battle for sleep and started fumbling around in the pre-dawn light for some clothes. My hand fell on the squidgy remains of the previous night's banana, which had somehow been genetically engineered to require ripping apart, rather than the more conventional peeling. I felt it was not going to be a good day. (It was only later that I discovered it was actually Friday 13th.) Still, I reasoned as the trousers went on backwards, there were plenty of reasons to be cheerful: I didn't have any crying babies or young children to cope with, I didn't have any stressful deadlines, I had some money in the bank and, even if it was dark, it wasn't raining. Much.
The previous day had also required some positive thinking. I had also risen early from my municipal campsite in Santander in order to try and get emergency documentation from the British Consulate in Bilbao. I had an address. How hard could it be? When I eventually tracked it down (floor 8 of a grotty unmarked building) some hours late, it was shut. The sign on the door gave a couple of phone numbers but, of course, I had no phone.
So I did what any self respecting american tourist would do, I walked into the poshest hotel I could find and asked to use their phone and wifi. Of course, sir, no problem. The helpful person at the FCO Madrid embassy explained that I would have to present myself in person at their Madrid office to collect my emergency travel docs (herein after known as the ETD). Alternatively, if it would be more convenient, I could go to Barcelona.
This choice of equally distant, equally unhelpful locations left me temporarily gobsmacked. I actually thanked the woman for her help and rang off. Then it struck me: why travel 400 km in the wrong direction (west or south) only to return and get on an expensive ferry? Surely north was, at least, vaguely towards home? And besides, the French have always been our allies in times of trouble, n'est pas? (As I said, my logic was temporarily out of action....)
Before embarking on this gesture of international defiance, I popped out to the strikingly ugly Bilbao ferry terminal to see whether they would reconsider their decision to turn me away. No go. Also v pleasant. But no can do can señor. So, at abouit 12.00pm, I pointed the bike towards the Pyrenées again and set off without a map, passport or clean pair of socks for Paris, about 900 km away.
Not much to report about the next bit; motorways are pretty much the same the world over - not pretty and very boring. I followed the N10 for some distance in order to save tolls and get slightly more east. I was hoping to find a nice little campside by the side of the Loire, with a view of one of the fabulous chateaux and a little home-cooked steak frites, natch.
Wild over optimism Russell. As night fell, I was indeed on the outskirts of Tours, on the Loire, but had no idea where to stay. I considered a wild camp and also went into town to look for a hostel, until I remembered to check my list and found there was none. However I did spot one in Vierzon, which I had, by complete chance, just gone through so I went back to find it and saw a sign for a campsite instead.
I arrived too late and left too early to identify its exact location (or to pay) but I can say it was close to some sort of busy road junction and had a very well lit laundry room where I did battle with GM bananas and the remains of some chocolate. I set up the tent by the beam of my headlight and curled up for a good night's ceiling watching.
Friday 13th
As Friday 13th dawned I was already on the A10 motorway, which, it turned out, was about 8 feet away from the campsite. I had over 250km to get to Paris and the ETD office closed at 11.00am (?early lunch). But I made good going and got into Paris about 9.00 and then spent an hour working out where to go. Fortunately the French bus stops all have maps showing where you are so finding the Rue d'Anjou was a simple matter of hopping off my bike every few minutes and nodding wildly at those in the bus queue as I consulted the map.As I reached the 8th arrondissement I started searching hard for a photo booth since this was the one missing bit of paper I knew would cause problems, especially on a Black Friday like today. (I actually had some passport-sized photos but, of course, they were in the lost wallet.!) However, when I eventually found the Consulate, there was a machine in the corner!
Forms were completed. Money changed hands. Understatements were made. EMDs were produced. By 12.30 I was heading north for Calais, still hogging the motorways which, conveniently, give discounts for bikers. I reckon it cost about €60-70 to do most of France south to north on motorways - that's over 1000km. I hit Calais by 3.15, got through passport control by 3.16 and got a place on a very reasonably priced ferry at 6.00pm.
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| Would you let this man into your country? |
Home and dry eh? Not!
Before moving on am I allowed a short diversion into Paris? Why not, it's my blog. Paris was pretty bloody awful. I used to really like the place and, don't get me wrong, I still think that strolling along the walking through the Jardins des Tuilleries in the springtime is one of the most romantic things one can do. Paris is blessed with loads of charming restaurants, some cool buildings, great art galleries and ....err, that's about it.
The problem is the traffic. They haven't even begun to tackle it so the whole place is clogged up. Much worse than London. Scooters are everywhere. Buzzing along the pavements, diving into the bus lanes, sitting all over the pedestrian crossings, filling every gap and generally being utterly selfish and rude.
I saw hardly a single bicycle and the Parisian pedestrian's lot is not an 'appy one. Granted I was not in the most forgiving frame of mind but, even so, I was saddened to see how messy and ugly parts of this glorious capital had become.
Wednesday 11 September 2013
Day 26. In which it all falls ever so slightly apart....
Tuesday 10 September 2013
Day 25. Chocs away - Vielha to Jaca
Squadron Leader Charlie 'Chocs Away' Russell made an inspired choice as we were firing up the machines this morning. 'Don't like the look of that cloud over Frenchieland,' opined Chocs. 'Let's head south. It worked before when we were in Austria and, by heavens, it might just work again.'
By heavens, he was right. We followed our leader through a damn fine Spanish tunnel and emerged, blinking, into sunshine. And there before us was a bally dam, just ripe for the old bouncing thingy. What japes!
With the black clouds consigned to our rear view mirrors, we headed west-south-west on the N260 without serious incident until we came to an out of the way place called Campo. Now these Spanish flies had been buzzing busily all along their riverbeds, making and mending from what was obviously some serious recent inundation to judge from the amount of debris along said river banks. But the river in Campo was in a league and a setting all of its own and instantly earned first place in our 'finest gorge of the trip' list (Ginger having made a bit of a bosh with the coordinates of the Canyon du Verdon): vertiginously narrow, bally tall and winding enough to satisfy even the bravest young pilots in our midst.
Shortly thereafter we found ourselves bearing down rapidly on Jaca (that's J as in 'hacking cough') where Chocs instinctively led us to a tourist info spot and immediately cracked their secret wifi code - the man's a genius! This enabled us to identify our billet for the night, in a jolly nice place called Canfranc, though your's truly had a minor role to play, spotting the casa rurale in which we're bedded down for the night. Chocs away what!
Why did the squirrel cross the road? Dunno but we saw one of these blighters too, but a bit darker than this one. In fact he was just about black!
Day 24. Back to the mountains - Mirepoix to Vielha
Had it not been for a bit of pfaffing about in Les ( just Les) trying to find a hostel, and having to retrace our journey by a few km in order to discover that the sign for a 'hostel' Charlie had seen earlier was in fact a sign for a hotel, albeit a very modest, ie crapppy, one, today would have been a triumph. Or maybe a Ducati. Whatever the model, it would have enjoyed the sweeping bends along which we raced for about 30-40km after grinding through tax-though-not-traffic free Andorra.
It was good to get back into mountains. The sun came out. We crossed a few borders and bought a picnic lunch at an exotically different supermarket somewhere. And we found the biking roads again. Spain did us proud: excellent bends where I worked hard on the chicken strips of my new tyres, goodish road surface, blinding sunshine (it had been overcast when we left Mirepoix). And lots of other bikers, which is always a sign that you're in the right place (if you're a biker; not otherwise).
At the end of the day we had reached Vielha in the heart of the mountains and popped into local town for a tapas. We found it in full carnival mode - parade of children, old tyme dancing in the village square, chaps dressed up as women...the usual stuff. Had forgotten how the Spanish love to party, to parade in the street, to eat and drink together. Wish we could have joined in but....
Tomorrow we'd hoping to zig zag our way along the Pyrenees, north back into France, west a bit then south back into the National Park and up towards the ominously named Mount Perdido, maybe taking in some of the classic cycle cols
Still no idea about the passport: will they let me back into the UK without one?
It was good to get back into mountains. The sun came out. We crossed a few borders and bought a picnic lunch at an exotically different supermarket somewhere. And we found the biking roads again. Spain did us proud: excellent bends where I worked hard on the chicken strips of my new tyres, goodish road surface, blinding sunshine (it had been overcast when we left Mirepoix). And lots of other bikers, which is always a sign that you're in the right place (if you're a biker; not otherwise).
At the end of the day we had reached Vielha in the heart of the mountains and popped into local town for a tapas. We found it in full carnival mode - parade of children, old tyme dancing in the village square, chaps dressed up as women...the usual stuff. Had forgotten how the Spanish love to party, to parade in the street, to eat and drink together. Wish we could have joined in but....
Tomorrow we'd hoping to zig zag our way along the Pyrenees, north back into France, west a bit then south back into the National Park and up towards the ominously named Mount Perdido, maybe taking in some of the classic cycle cols
Still no idea about the passport: will they let me back into the UK without one?
Monday 9 September 2013
Saturday 7 September 2013
Day 21. Maubec to Mirepoix
You don't want to know this.
Why would you want to spend your life reading about how we spent our 21st morning searching for a motorbike dealer in Avignon who could fit me some new tyres?
What possible interest could you have in the fact that we then managed to rendezvous with Pam Ryder Richardson for lunch in a tiny, out-of-the-way village, while she was heading west and we were heading east?
Surely you have better things to do than hear how we covered many miles towards Carcassonne and arrived in the setting sun in Mirepoix for a fabulous roast duck dinner and a couple of days' R&R?
Battle will recommence on Monday 9.00am sharp.
Why would you want to spend your life reading about how we spent our 21st morning searching for a motorbike dealer in Avignon who could fit me some new tyres?
What possible interest could you have in the fact that we then managed to rendezvous with Pam Ryder Richardson for lunch in a tiny, out-of-the-way village, while she was heading west and we were heading east?
Surely you have better things to do than hear how we covered many miles towards Carcassonne and arrived in the setting sun in Mirepoix for a fabulous roast duck dinner and a couple of days' R&R?
Battle will recommence on Monday 9.00am sharp.
Thursday 5 September 2013
Day 20. Retracing one's steps - Cipieres to Maubec
Is it possible to miss the Eiffel Tower? Can one fail to see the Matterhorn? Well, we somehow failed to find our way to the Canyon du Verdon, one of France's most spectacular natural attractions, though we skirted round it admirably and came across the exit of the river into the Lac du Croix at its foot.
'You should see it once before you die,' I explained to the already frustrated Charlie, '...but maybe today is not that day.'
"Doesn't look like we're going very far," opined my youngest. And it wasn't far compared to the previous leg. But I had allowed for us getting lost, for detours and, to some extent, for a longish pause during the hottest part of the day. And it was hot.
As we were preparing to depart after a very enjoyable picnic lunch , I glanced at the dust on Charlie's front wheel - a thick, even, white layer covered the tyre area. Then I looked at mine and it was quite different. Closer inspection revealed that there were quite a lot of metal threads showing through on the curved edges of my front wheel - that's where there should be nice thick sticky rubber. Gulp.
There followed a rather tedious, slow journey past the chateau of the Marquis de Sade and on to a camp site at Maubec - both places that I had been to before on my bicycle tour. In fact most of the day's ride was a reversal of my former route, which gave it a special piquancy for me, quite apart from the natural attractiveness of the Luberon area.
Tonight we are holed up at the cheapest campsite in France: €3 for a motorbike and tent. Bargain. Mind you, we'll need every cent because tomorrow morning, we head to Avignon to find some tyres...
'You should see it once before you die,' I explained to the already frustrated Charlie, '...but maybe today is not that day.'
"Doesn't look like we're going very far," opined my youngest. And it wasn't far compared to the previous leg. But I had allowed for us getting lost, for detours and, to some extent, for a longish pause during the hottest part of the day. And it was hot.
As we were preparing to depart after a very enjoyable picnic lunch , I glanced at the dust on Charlie's front wheel - a thick, even, white layer covered the tyre area. Then I looked at mine and it was quite different. Closer inspection revealed that there were quite a lot of metal threads showing through on the curved edges of my front wheel - that's where there should be nice thick sticky rubber. Gulp.
There followed a rather tedious, slow journey past the chateau of the Marquis de Sade and on to a camp site at Maubec - both places that I had been to before on my bicycle tour. In fact most of the day's ride was a reversal of my former route, which gave it a special piquancy for me, quite apart from the natural attractiveness of the Luberon area.
Tonight we are holed up at the cheapest campsite in France: €3 for a motorbike and tent. Bargain. Mind you, we'll need every cent because tomorrow morning, we head to Avignon to find some tyres...
Wednesday 4 September 2013
Day 18. Autrans to Cipieres
A short post to cover a long (450km) day.
I thought that the journey to Die would provide plenty of suitably punning opportunities ('roads to Die for' etc) but, in fact, whereas Fi and I came across the dramatic Death Valley-type landscapes of this part of France from the relatively gentle hills of north-western Italy, Charlie and I had already been spoiled by the super drama of the Swiss alps. So it was less dramatic though no less beautiful.
If you're looking for drama I'd recommend the Pra Loup: a death-defying series of unprotected bends that snake their way up a vertiginous mountain somewhere near Barcellonetta. If you're into your Tour de France history, you'll know that this is the spot where Eddie Meryx did something pretty special back in the days when Lucozade was considered to be a performance-enhancing cocktail. If not, take it from me that we were seriously considering this as France's late entry to the 'Best Road of the Tour' competition.
With a lot ground to cover, we just made it to our next stop, Cipieres, as dusk was falling. We're a few miles north of Nice, staying with a friend who is lucky enough to live here all year round. This is the most south easterly point of our trip. Day off tomorrow. From now on, we're heading west and then north, largely retracing the path that I took by bicycle last autumn.
I thought that the journey to Die would provide plenty of suitably punning opportunities ('roads to Die for' etc) but, in fact, whereas Fi and I came across the dramatic Death Valley-type landscapes of this part of France from the relatively gentle hills of north-western Italy, Charlie and I had already been spoiled by the super drama of the Swiss alps. So it was less dramatic though no less beautiful.
If you're looking for drama I'd recommend the Pra Loup: a death-defying series of unprotected bends that snake their way up a vertiginous mountain somewhere near Barcellonetta. If you're into your Tour de France history, you'll know that this is the spot where Eddie Meryx did something pretty special back in the days when Lucozade was considered to be a performance-enhancing cocktail. If not, take it from me that we were seriously considering this as France's late entry to the 'Best Road of the Tour' competition.
With a lot ground to cover, we just made it to our next stop, Cipieres, as dusk was falling. We're a few miles north of Nice, staying with a friend who is lucky enough to live here all year round. This is the most south easterly point of our trip. Day off tomorrow. From now on, we're heading west and then north, largely retracing the path that I took by bicycle last autumn.
Day 18. Some of Charlie's iPhoneography
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| I do wish he wouldn't do this! While I am concentrating in the tunnels, Charlie is steering with one hand and is taking photos with the other. |
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| No, this doesn't look remotely like it did when we lost Charlie. It's the same junction but in benign weather. |
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| This is the landslide that swept away the road in the Dolomites. Were there trees to hold back the mud originally? |
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| God's own country. Trouble is, I can't remember where it was! Think Austria/Italy and you won't be far wrong. |
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| Dad riding off into Shangi-la... |
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| Great composition! Almost certainly Switzerland. |
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| Just before we hit the Oberalp Pass we were up there in the summer snowfields. In the distance you can see a glacier. In Andermatt, they are literally wrapping up part of their glaciers during the summer in order to slow their rate of melt. |
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| Who needs the Grand Canyon when you've got this stuff? |
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| A pretty bike picture. Isn't Instagram clever? |
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| This is Charlie's half-Russian cousin, Katia, who showed remarkably good taste when choosing which bike to pose on.... |
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| Completely out of order, this is one of the many dragons that we saw in Metz, on the way through Germany. Not really sure what they meant... |
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| And last, but not least, a giant caterpillar! As I hurtled down a long series of hairpin bends in, was it?, the Hautes Alpes I suddenly saw Charlie standing in the road. 'Oh thank heavens, ' I said to myself, 'He's obviously come off his bike again but is ok.' As I turned the corner slowly, expecting to see a badly damaged Yamaha, Charlie was pointing to a blob on the road, indicating that I should steer clear. It was this caterpillar that, somehow, he had managed to spot, avoid, dismount, photograph and flag me down before I even turned up - I was that far behind him! |
Tuesday 3 September 2013
Day 17. Near Geneva to near Grenoble
Bit of a mixed day travelling from Tik's place to a campsite at Autrans in the Parc Vercours which is just close to Grenoble.
We had a late start after a Facetime call with the ageing parent, a frustrating coffee with Olga, mum of Charlie's over-protected cousin Katia, and the continued non arrival of my passport.
We headed south towards the Digne and Sisteron area, where Fi and I first discovered some of France's impressive mountainous scenery all those years ago. Charlie found some nice back routes along wooded alpine valleys, though the roads were not great and we had to take things slowly after encountering some of the loose gravel that we have come to fear.
Charlie's mood not improved by continuing issues with the erratic charging of the satnav even after we had tried some hotwiring. However we managed to find a Decathon and to get him an inflatable mattress since camping looked likely today. I also eventually found some maps and managed to lead us up off the flat, boring plain that leads to Grenoble into the hills where we found a really nice camp site, with a pool.
Yet more pizza for supper and rather too much pfaffing around in the dark was the prelude to a rather unsatisfactory night's tossing and turning next to my darling son.
But, hey!, only a few hours later, another day dawns and the sun has just popped his hot little head above the scenic hills that definitely need exploring. Don't get me wrong but I'm pretty sure that today we're going to Die...
We had a late start after a Facetime call with the ageing parent, a frustrating coffee with Olga, mum of Charlie's over-protected cousin Katia, and the continued non arrival of my passport.
We headed south towards the Digne and Sisteron area, where Fi and I first discovered some of France's impressive mountainous scenery all those years ago. Charlie found some nice back routes along wooded alpine valleys, though the roads were not great and we had to take things slowly after encountering some of the loose gravel that we have come to fear.
Charlie's mood not improved by continuing issues with the erratic charging of the satnav even after we had tried some hotwiring. However we managed to find a Decathon and to get him an inflatable mattress since camping looked likely today. I also eventually found some maps and managed to lead us up off the flat, boring plain that leads to Grenoble into the hills where we found a really nice camp site, with a pool.
Yet more pizza for supper and rather too much pfaffing around in the dark was the prelude to a rather unsatisfactory night's tossing and turning next to my darling son.
But, hey!, only a few hours later, another day dawns and the sun has just popped his hot little head above the scenic hills that definitely need exploring. Don't get me wrong but I'm pretty sure that today we're going to Die...
Sunday 1 September 2013
Day 14-15. Grand old Duke of York stuff on the shore of Lake Geneva
Another triumph for Charlie's nav skills. After a great stop over in Switzerland's very own Shangri-la, he took us via a lovely back route over the [insert any unused superlative here] Sustenpass, down to Interlaken and on to my brother in law's near Geneva, where we arrived in time to help out for a couple of days with some house moving, packing and general back-to-earth stuff.
But, in an inspired choice of location, Tik's new place at St Cergues, is situated at the top of yet another wonderful biker's road, on the route that runs from Nyon, near Geneva, towards Paris, via a series of 48 wonderful hairpin bends that attract serious bikers from far and wide. And, if you continue up the hill for a couple of kilometres, you get to a ski resort! I always knew Tik was clever but he's surpassed himself here!
Charlie and I have spent a couple of days doing our own domestic chores while helping Tik with his. In between cooking some excellent meals for us, Charlie seems to have found time to pop off down the hill in order to turn round and come up it again,à la GODOY (or should that be 'au'?)
It's been a pleasure to watch some of the fantastically skilful bikers who can take corners at much faster speeds/angle of dangle than I could every dare. Mind you: most are all of 18 or 19 and even Charlie lets them past when he spots them zooming up in his rear view mirror. The accepted way of acknowledging this is for the passing biker to briefly wave one of their feet (presumably because the hands are otherwise fully occupied)!
Tomorrow (Monday) we hope to head off towards...well, you'll just have to wait and see! Unfortunately we have to wait for the post to arrive just in case my passport catches us up. Oh - didn't I mention that? Can't imagine why.
But, in an inspired choice of location, Tik's new place at St Cergues, is situated at the top of yet another wonderful biker's road, on the route that runs from Nyon, near Geneva, towards Paris, via a series of 48 wonderful hairpin bends that attract serious bikers from far and wide. And, if you continue up the hill for a couple of kilometres, you get to a ski resort! I always knew Tik was clever but he's surpassed himself here!
Charlie and I have spent a couple of days doing our own domestic chores while helping Tik with his. In between cooking some excellent meals for us, Charlie seems to have found time to pop off down the hill in order to turn round and come up it again,à la GODOY (or should that be 'au'?)
It's been a pleasure to watch some of the fantastically skilful bikers who can take corners at much faster speeds/angle of dangle than I could every dare. Mind you: most are all of 18 or 19 and even Charlie lets them past when he spots them zooming up in his rear view mirror. The accepted way of acknowledging this is for the passing biker to briefly wave one of their feet (presumably because the hands are otherwise fully occupied)!
Tomorrow (Monday) we hope to head off towards...well, you'll just have to wait and see! Unfortunately we have to wait for the post to arrive just in case my passport catches us up. Oh - didn't I mention that? Can't imagine why.
Day 13. In which we storm the Citadel
After leaving Lake Como, we travelled to Andermatt where I have some lovely, welcoming distant relations who seemed genuinely pleased to see two hairy bikers rolling up on their immaculately clean doorstep. Andermatt itself is apparently known as 'The Citadel' of Switzerland - a sort of last-ditch stronghold, surrounded by many mountains that are as hollow as swiss cheese and filled with nuclear-powered cuckoo clocks. Irony of ironies, the town has actually been taken over by a canny property developer who is changing the face of this old-time resort in ways that leave the locals shaking their heads in disbelief.
I can't omit a brief note on how we got here because, although a couple of weeks travelling at high speed around some of the most scenic bits of europe seem to have maxed out my ability to take in any more mountains, valleys, lakes and view, this was simply the best bit of biking road we have found so far. Sorry Germany. Apologies Italy. The Swiss get the thumbs up on this occasion, though with one important caveat.
For those with a map to hand the route tto take runs north of Como towards Lugano and touches Lake Maggiore at Locarno. Then head towards the St Gottard Pass and turn right at Biasca up along the Val Blenio and down along the Val Medel - it's a road of about 62km on my map and, believe me, you won't find a better more scenic bit of road this side of Watford Gap.
Or will you? You arrive at a strange, middle-of-the-mountains place called Disentis where you can catch your breath before continuing because this is the start of the Oberalppaass: 32km of heaven-sent road that leads down into Andermatt and, on the afternoon we road it, was surreally beautiful. Perhaps it was something about the afternoon light, the sweeping cloud,the chilly wind that made this an unsettling stretch of road. We stopped more than once to take our bearings, take photos or just get our breath. You get the idea.
And the caveat? The 'best' biking roads are not necessarily the most scenic. In some ways, the A500 in the Black Forest was the 'best' road because it snaked its high-speed way majestically through an apparently endless forest which was hardly distracting at all.
Whereas the stretch of road between Disentis and Andermatt or the section preceeding it along the Val Blenio is actually so challenging, so long, and so visually scenic that I almost found it 'too much'. It was hard to concentrate knowing that on every side were ooh-ahh waterfalls, 'look at that!' glaciers, drop dead gorgeous alpine views and OMG precipitous edges, that you couldn't afford to look at for more than a nanosecond lest you ended up going that way.
Yet, when I stopped the bike to take a photo, it was as if the film had come to a stop on a rather boring frame. I had either just missed the moment or it had yet to arrive. Maybe that's why you can find endless video biking clips on Youtube: it's something best seen in motion.
Jony
I can't omit a brief note on how we got here because, although a couple of weeks travelling at high speed around some of the most scenic bits of europe seem to have maxed out my ability to take in any more mountains, valleys, lakes and view, this was simply the best bit of biking road we have found so far. Sorry Germany. Apologies Italy. The Swiss get the thumbs up on this occasion, though with one important caveat.
For those with a map to hand the route tto take runs north of Como towards Lugano and touches Lake Maggiore at Locarno. Then head towards the St Gottard Pass and turn right at Biasca up along the Val Blenio and down along the Val Medel - it's a road of about 62km on my map and, believe me, you won't find a better more scenic bit of road this side of Watford Gap.
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| That diagonal line running up towards the left is a rare bit of straight road. I would occasionally see a small black dot racing along miles ahead of me. That's Charlie. |
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What can one say about this amazing scenery? The roadside snap doesn't begin to do it justice. |
And the caveat? The 'best' biking roads are not necessarily the most scenic. In some ways, the A500 in the Black Forest was the 'best' road because it snaked its high-speed way majestically through an apparently endless forest which was hardly distracting at all.
Whereas the stretch of road between Disentis and Andermatt or the section preceeding it along the Val Blenio is actually so challenging, so long, and so visually scenic that I almost found it 'too much'. It was hard to concentrate knowing that on every side were ooh-ahh waterfalls, 'look at that!' glaciers, drop dead gorgeous alpine views and OMG precipitous edges, that you couldn't afford to look at for more than a nanosecond lest you ended up going that way.
Not actually us but some other bikers trying hard to concentrate on the corner
and not be distracted by the scenery!
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Yet, when I stopped the bike to take a photo, it was as if the film had come to a stop on a rather boring frame. I had either just missed the moment or it had yet to arrive. Maybe that's why you can find endless video biking clips on Youtube: it's something best seen in motion.
Jony
Day 15. The end is nigh (for Patrick)
> Firstly, I apologise for the odd words that the iPad keeps chucking in in past posts and probably in this one as well. You, and I, will just have to guess what I meant.
>
> Anyway, the last day. I try and find the citadel and what I think is a major memorial to the wars but again Arras defeats me and I depart. Then the rest of Northern France defeats me. I intended to go by A roads but there is not a direct one to Calais. I suspect that the French Government either got rid of it back in 1558 (when the English lost possession) or have more recently just built the peage autoroute over the top of it. Both have there merits but the latter has the added benefit of positive economics to which I contribute as I give up and go onto the peage. At the toll gate, I drop the ticket, have to stop the bike, get off it (which is not easy with the tent on the back) all to pay €3.50. Wish they would let bikes go free as they do for the Dartford Crossing.
>
> I get to Calais early but this is not a disaster as I just slip onto an earlier ferry with about 3 minutes to spare. My impressions of the UK? Well, surprisingly rather positive - lots of trees, difficult to remember to drive on the left and, very surprisingly, I didn't see a sign to tell you so. I wonder what the accident rate is near Dover on the inward going road. There is an accident at the Dartford Crossing and a huge tailback which I meander through (legal in UK but not in Europe). Driving in UK is of a lower standard than experienced in Germany.
>
> Now I am home and my total mileage was 2,656.
>
> That's all, folks!
> P.
>
> Anyway, the last day. I try and find the citadel and what I think is a major memorial to the wars but again Arras defeats me and I depart. Then the rest of Northern France defeats me. I intended to go by A roads but there is not a direct one to Calais. I suspect that the French Government either got rid of it back in 1558 (when the English lost possession) or have more recently just built the peage autoroute over the top of it. Both have there merits but the latter has the added benefit of positive economics to which I contribute as I give up and go onto the peage. At the toll gate, I drop the ticket, have to stop the bike, get off it (which is not easy with the tent on the back) all to pay €3.50. Wish they would let bikes go free as they do for the Dartford Crossing.
>
> I get to Calais early but this is not a disaster as I just slip onto an earlier ferry with about 3 minutes to spare. My impressions of the UK? Well, surprisingly rather positive - lots of trees, difficult to remember to drive on the left and, very surprisingly, I didn't see a sign to tell you so. I wonder what the accident rate is near Dover on the inward going road. There is an accident at the Dartford Crossing and a huge tailback which I meander through (legal in UK but not in Europe). Driving in UK is of a lower standard than experienced in Germany.
>
> Now I am home and my total mileage was 2,656.
>
> That's all, folks!
> P.
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