I arranged (agreed) to take Dave for a run today on the bike, whether I was staying the night or not, but somehow it never happened. Candy went off to work and when he got back around 11am, we sat with Dave explaining the day’s events to him. Dave then spent most of the morning apologising, and when Candy went back to work Dave and I really had the chance to catch up. The day flowed and we talked for hours about the years passed and work done.
I didn’t get to ride, and I didn’t get to ride with Dave and that was a shame, but at least there will be other occasions. I will go back and visit Dave he is a friend and someone I respect. We can have a laugh, a drink and yes Dave, if you ask very nicely I will even let you beat me at pool. I stand no chance of winning anyway, between you and my brother, the pair of you always could fleece just about anybody, so sorry not for cash. Hahaha.
I said goodbye to Candy and Dave, I wasn’t sure when I see either next, but at least when I was ready to go I was leaving on good terms and with those memories which really make the whole trip really worth it. The road beckoned and just as last year when I had stayed with Nick and his family, lovely though it was to meet people, say hello to people, at some point you get that itch and know it’s time to move on.
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Day 8: 17th July 2010
Today by contrast has been more than a little difficult, a little strained at times. However, that does not do justice the laugh that I have also had with (C)Andy when he is around. O.K. in the first place, I am sick to death of putting the ‘C’ in a bracket, so from now on, please refer to him as Candy – it also prevents any confusion when I’m in the room as well.
So; last night I arrived at the pub (The Royale), and we sat and downed a very nice, very cold beer together. The party had started well before I got there, primarily because I didn’t know when I would arrive and nobody likes to sit and stare at beer. The evening consisted of beer, wine, Guinness (cheers Dave), and a BBQ in the garden, followed by a game or two of Backgammon. Now I have never played it, so was more than happy to watch, listen and learn. We chatted, I got confused by some of the moves, and we ate. In all it was a damned fine evening, which ended in the early hours of the morning. Candy had work, and I was just plain exhausted. It was the first night that I had not slept in a bed for more than a week and as soon as my head went down, the lights went out. Sleep found me very easily.
Dave is a special kind of a guy and I really like him for all manner of reasons, not least that we have history from our childhood. But there comes a time when you begin to get concerned for someone. (I know he’ll hate me for mentioning it, but Dave get your kidneys checked out mate.) He had been up all night in his own little party and it hadn’t finished by mid-morning when I finally surfaced. That in itself can be a little disconcerting, but more so is what happens when things really deteriorate. I sat with coffee in hand and chilled for a while, Dave with his cocktail (it wasn’t really a cocktail, but it’s really the best way to describe it at that time of the day). We talked and talked and talked for hours about the plans for the house (and the one next door), Dave tried to get me to understand household circuitry, and I tried to help him understand that I could work it out even after he’d explained it for the 3rd, 4th, and 5th times. He laughed. In all, up to that point it had been a bloody good laugh.
Then something changed, I can’t remember if he said something, or I said something, but evidently something really pissed him off. For about the next hour he spoke to me in a mix of French and English and became more and more frustrated the more I said he needed to be clear and speak to me in English. My French is less than holiday French and the speed that he was talking at and the fact that he would then break into English before roaring back in French really made the whole experience something surreal. The breaking point seemed to come when I said, ‘Sorry Dave, I don’t understand, what do you mean?’ to which he seemed to take great exception and snapped back
‘Why what are you some kind of f#*’!ng psychologist.’ I paused and then he laughed.
The thing is that was the disconcerting point, what followed was. He then began to question me about beliefs, knowledge, understanding, family, and desires. That doesn’t sound like much of a problem you might think, apart from the fact that he really didn’t look like he was taking any of it in and the speed at which the questions came, made it seem that the interest lay somewhere else. And then he picked up his knife.
Now there have been moments in life when I have slapped someone, or knocked the living daylights out of someone, it’s not something I have done for a very long time, but it never involved a blade.
He looked at the blade. He looked at me.
‘Should I be concerned Dave?’ I said.
‘Aren’t you?’ he replied. Then laughed. Put the knife down and picked up his drink. I will admit that at that point I was somewhat confused and being me, drank my coffee and let it stew. Coffee finished, I turned to him and said, ‘What was all that about Dave?’
‘Don’t keep pushing it.’ He said. Fair enough I thought, but before I could do anything about it, I found myself saying
‘No problem bud, but why the knife, I don’t understand.’ That seemed to incense him even more, and the knife was back in his hand (blade open) as quickly as any man I’ve seen. We sat and looked at each other for a time, I don’t know how long and in that moment, I decided that I needed to head home. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his head lolled. I left him like that and made another coffee. The minutes turned into the best part of an hour and then with a swig of Gin, he threw the bottle to the floor and staggered off upstairs. I sat and smoked a cigar, I had a small glass of wine and then I began to write...
It was nearly, 10:30pm when Candy walked in through the door, all smiles and happiness.
‘You alright mate?’ he said ‘How’s Dave been today, bit of a twat?’ and laughed. ‘I knew that would happen when I saw him down here this morning’.
Candy and I sat and talked, we talked about Dave and the history we have from our school days, the connection through my brother and how we got back in contact, and we similarly spoke about how he and Dave had got to the point of sharing (and rebuilding) a house over the last few years. We talked about motorbikes, the project he has in the living room and a whole host of other things as well and the rest of the evening went off very well. Dave joined us at about 1am and had absolutely no recollection of the day’s events, so Candy and I filled him in and he just looked at us (I think in somewhat disbelief).
So that was it, Candy persuaded me to stay – at least for breakfast in the morning – and we sat, talked, and drank another glass of wine.
So; last night I arrived at the pub (The Royale), and we sat and downed a very nice, very cold beer together. The party had started well before I got there, primarily because I didn’t know when I would arrive and nobody likes to sit and stare at beer. The evening consisted of beer, wine, Guinness (cheers Dave), and a BBQ in the garden, followed by a game or two of Backgammon. Now I have never played it, so was more than happy to watch, listen and learn. We chatted, I got confused by some of the moves, and we ate. In all it was a damned fine evening, which ended in the early hours of the morning. Candy had work, and I was just plain exhausted. It was the first night that I had not slept in a bed for more than a week and as soon as my head went down, the lights went out. Sleep found me very easily.
Dave is a special kind of a guy and I really like him for all manner of reasons, not least that we have history from our childhood. But there comes a time when you begin to get concerned for someone. (I know he’ll hate me for mentioning it, but Dave get your kidneys checked out mate.) He had been up all night in his own little party and it hadn’t finished by mid-morning when I finally surfaced. That in itself can be a little disconcerting, but more so is what happens when things really deteriorate. I sat with coffee in hand and chilled for a while, Dave with his cocktail (it wasn’t really a cocktail, but it’s really the best way to describe it at that time of the day). We talked and talked and talked for hours about the plans for the house (and the one next door), Dave tried to get me to understand household circuitry, and I tried to help him understand that I could work it out even after he’d explained it for the 3rd, 4th, and 5th times. He laughed. In all, up to that point it had been a bloody good laugh.
Then something changed, I can’t remember if he said something, or I said something, but evidently something really pissed him off. For about the next hour he spoke to me in a mix of French and English and became more and more frustrated the more I said he needed to be clear and speak to me in English. My French is less than holiday French and the speed that he was talking at and the fact that he would then break into English before roaring back in French really made the whole experience something surreal. The breaking point seemed to come when I said, ‘Sorry Dave, I don’t understand, what do you mean?’ to which he seemed to take great exception and snapped back
‘Why what are you some kind of f#*’!ng psychologist.’ I paused and then he laughed.
The thing is that was the disconcerting point, what followed was. He then began to question me about beliefs, knowledge, understanding, family, and desires. That doesn’t sound like much of a problem you might think, apart from the fact that he really didn’t look like he was taking any of it in and the speed at which the questions came, made it seem that the interest lay somewhere else. And then he picked up his knife.
Now there have been moments in life when I have slapped someone, or knocked the living daylights out of someone, it’s not something I have done for a very long time, but it never involved a blade.
He looked at the blade. He looked at me.
‘Should I be concerned Dave?’ I said.
‘Aren’t you?’ he replied. Then laughed. Put the knife down and picked up his drink. I will admit that at that point I was somewhat confused and being me, drank my coffee and let it stew. Coffee finished, I turned to him and said, ‘What was all that about Dave?’
‘Don’t keep pushing it.’ He said. Fair enough I thought, but before I could do anything about it, I found myself saying
‘No problem bud, but why the knife, I don’t understand.’ That seemed to incense him even more, and the knife was back in his hand (blade open) as quickly as any man I’ve seen. We sat and looked at each other for a time, I don’t know how long and in that moment, I decided that I needed to head home. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his head lolled. I left him like that and made another coffee. The minutes turned into the best part of an hour and then with a swig of Gin, he threw the bottle to the floor and staggered off upstairs. I sat and smoked a cigar, I had a small glass of wine and then I began to write...
It was nearly, 10:30pm when Candy walked in through the door, all smiles and happiness.
‘You alright mate?’ he said ‘How’s Dave been today, bit of a twat?’ and laughed. ‘I knew that would happen when I saw him down here this morning’.
Candy and I sat and talked, we talked about Dave and the history we have from our school days, the connection through my brother and how we got back in contact, and we similarly spoke about how he and Dave had got to the point of sharing (and rebuilding) a house over the last few years. We talked about motorbikes, the project he has in the living room and a whole host of other things as well and the rest of the evening went off very well. Dave joined us at about 1am and had absolutely no recollection of the day’s events, so Candy and I filled him in and he just looked at us (I think in somewhat disbelief).
So that was it, Candy persuaded me to stay – at least for breakfast in the morning – and we sat, talked, and drank another glass of wine.
Day 7 (a)
Day 7(a)
I sat with Pepe this morning as I said, I looked at the maps and I drank my water... It was a pleasant start to the day and one which seemed to provide a great opportunity. Today was an adventure, if things went well and if the roads were kind, then I’d be with Dave a little later and a chance for a friendly conversation without the need for a translator.
Now I don’t want this to turn into a moaning session, but bloody hell. The one thing I’d change about France is the road signs and the directions they give (or don’t depending upon experience). For instance, I knew I needed to get to the Marseille – Montpellier highway, if I was going to make it anywhere today, but wherever possible I have been trying to avoid the toll roads. (Not an easy job, because, obviously, they are the one’s best marked and tend to give the most accurate information, not to mention having the most amount of (open) petrol stations and (pause for breath) get you from A-B in a straight line.) It took over half an hour to get from the campsite to the road from Marseille, which to give you an indication, is only (in a straight line) approximately 9 miles. It’s not the mileage that makes the difference it’s actually the fact that there are no road signs!!! Hmm. Did that come across? I think the most annoying thing was going along the same road three times and without actually knowing that it was the right one. The frustration...
Anyway. With that out of the way, the road was lovely to ride once out there. I took the decision that I would not stop in anymore concrete jungles, no matter what I thought would be there (or not). It’s not that the history and culture doesn’t exist, it’s more the point that find it is like searching for a needle in a haystack. For instance, as I rode from Montpellier to Narbonne and onto Toulouse, I passed through the wine region of Chateauneuf Du Pape. For those of you who don’t know, it is a particularly good and favoured wine. The roadside marker gave a depiction of an old chateau and the grapes growing around the vineyards. ‘Excellent’, I thought, ‘I know just the person that would appreciate a photo of that’, so I looked for the signs to the chateau. Now I’m sure they’re there, and I’m sure it is probably me, but do you think I could find my way there? And that wasn’t the only incidence. There were Abbey’s, and Castles upon hillsides or buried in the tree-line, the road signs assured you they were they, you could see them, but you could not reach them. Grrr!!!
I guess the final moment came when riding From to Toulouse to Agens and then on to Bergerac. Dave had been quite explicit in his directions and I thought it best to follow them. So I did. I took junction 7 on off the ‘E’ road and headed to Agens. Perfect, no problems at all. I needed to follow the N21, the signs said N21. The road was moving along nicely, I might even make an early dinner... Then it stopped. Literally stopped. Dead.
In the middle of the road was a sign (with bollards blocking the road) saying ‘Deviation’. Now I’m no rocket scientist, but surely that requires clarification. The road is blocked fine, so where do I go? I spent almost half an hour riding up and down the roads, this way and that, much to the curiousity and amusement of the local kids as I passed them time and again... So with time pressing on I pulled into a garage and explained the situation as best I could, and asked if they had any idea. Well, it was like watching war commence. First the receptionist gave her view, then realising that what she had said was not quite right, the secretary joined in and told her so. As the conversation got louder and louder I would have been happy for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. In stepped a mechanic, then one of the customers and then a second mechanic, it could have been war and I was stuck there cowering in the corner... Rescue came from the most unlikely of people. An old couple sat in the corner, quietly stood up and came over, ‘I have a map in my car. This one is no good, come I will show you the way on my map.’ His English wasn’t brilliant, but it was the best I had heard all day, and he made sense. An early dinner was looking far less likely, but I was on the road again.
The final part of the journey to Dave’s was just as eventful and I am pretty amazed that I made it there at all. Just think, you drive a couple of hundred miles, you see a road sign and it says your destination straight ahead. The next says, turn left, and finally straight ahead. Sounds simple enough. However, it’s not that simple when for whatever reason, the road signs change, not the destination, no. Where you want to go still exists, but the road sign don’t. That’s right folks, I followed the N21 when it reappeared on the far side of Agnes for about 15-20 miles. Then as if by magic, it disappeared... and that was that, sat there at the convergence of three roads and not one sign said N21, not one said St. Mathieu the world had ended in that spot. There was only one thing for it, drink water. So I said, read my maps and drank water... I’m not quite sure what happened after that, but half an hour later with the road well planted beneath me, I began to see signs for St. Mathieu, I screamed with excitement, don’t worry nobody saw or heard me. For whatever reason, the world just shuts and goes home at about 7pm in middle France. Believe me, I rode and rode and rode, and yet in 30km I only saw 3 cars on the road, no sops open, no pubs, restaurants, nobody sat outside their houses, and no picture-postcards scenes of people sat at tables drinking wine, eating cheese and bread and enjoying the world with friends. It was like entering the twilight zone, nothing stirred.
By the time I arrived in St. Mathieu the same could be said, everything deserted. I rode up the main drag toward the church that stands in the centre, on the left hand side is a pub called The Royale and I’d guessed that was the place to meet. I stepped off my bike and turned off the ignition and the doors to the pub opened.
‘Hello’ said the landlady, in broadest English. The shock on my face must have been a picture. Dave had said that the owners of the pub were English, but the shock it gave me was beyond anything I had experienced to that point. Shouts came from behind me, Dave, (C)Andy and Reme were walking up the road and shouting their cheers. I greeted Dave with a hug, it was good to see such a friendly face in such a remote area. That was it. 412 miles in a day and worth every moment of experience. Tomorrow would be a day off and time to experience the French life with friends.
I sat with Pepe this morning as I said, I looked at the maps and I drank my water... It was a pleasant start to the day and one which seemed to provide a great opportunity. Today was an adventure, if things went well and if the roads were kind, then I’d be with Dave a little later and a chance for a friendly conversation without the need for a translator.
Now I don’t want this to turn into a moaning session, but bloody hell. The one thing I’d change about France is the road signs and the directions they give (or don’t depending upon experience). For instance, I knew I needed to get to the Marseille – Montpellier highway, if I was going to make it anywhere today, but wherever possible I have been trying to avoid the toll roads. (Not an easy job, because, obviously, they are the one’s best marked and tend to give the most accurate information, not to mention having the most amount of (open) petrol stations and (pause for breath) get you from A-B in a straight line.) It took over half an hour to get from the campsite to the road from Marseille, which to give you an indication, is only (in a straight line) approximately 9 miles. It’s not the mileage that makes the difference it’s actually the fact that there are no road signs!!! Hmm. Did that come across? I think the most annoying thing was going along the same road three times and without actually knowing that it was the right one. The frustration...
Anyway. With that out of the way, the road was lovely to ride once out there. I took the decision that I would not stop in anymore concrete jungles, no matter what I thought would be there (or not). It’s not that the history and culture doesn’t exist, it’s more the point that find it is like searching for a needle in a haystack. For instance, as I rode from Montpellier to Narbonne and onto Toulouse, I passed through the wine region of Chateauneuf Du Pape. For those of you who don’t know, it is a particularly good and favoured wine. The roadside marker gave a depiction of an old chateau and the grapes growing around the vineyards. ‘Excellent’, I thought, ‘I know just the person that would appreciate a photo of that’, so I looked for the signs to the chateau. Now I’m sure they’re there, and I’m sure it is probably me, but do you think I could find my way there? And that wasn’t the only incidence. There were Abbey’s, and Castles upon hillsides or buried in the tree-line, the road signs assured you they were they, you could see them, but you could not reach them. Grrr!!!
I guess the final moment came when riding From to Toulouse to Agens and then on to Bergerac. Dave had been quite explicit in his directions and I thought it best to follow them. So I did. I took junction 7 on off the ‘E’ road and headed to Agens. Perfect, no problems at all. I needed to follow the N21, the signs said N21. The road was moving along nicely, I might even make an early dinner... Then it stopped. Literally stopped. Dead.
In the middle of the road was a sign (with bollards blocking the road) saying ‘Deviation’. Now I’m no rocket scientist, but surely that requires clarification. The road is blocked fine, so where do I go? I spent almost half an hour riding up and down the roads, this way and that, much to the curiousity and amusement of the local kids as I passed them time and again... So with time pressing on I pulled into a garage and explained the situation as best I could, and asked if they had any idea. Well, it was like watching war commence. First the receptionist gave her view, then realising that what she had said was not quite right, the secretary joined in and told her so. As the conversation got louder and louder I would have been happy for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. In stepped a mechanic, then one of the customers and then a second mechanic, it could have been war and I was stuck there cowering in the corner... Rescue came from the most unlikely of people. An old couple sat in the corner, quietly stood up and came over, ‘I have a map in my car. This one is no good, come I will show you the way on my map.’ His English wasn’t brilliant, but it was the best I had heard all day, and he made sense. An early dinner was looking far less likely, but I was on the road again.
The final part of the journey to Dave’s was just as eventful and I am pretty amazed that I made it there at all. Just think, you drive a couple of hundred miles, you see a road sign and it says your destination straight ahead. The next says, turn left, and finally straight ahead. Sounds simple enough. However, it’s not that simple when for whatever reason, the road signs change, not the destination, no. Where you want to go still exists, but the road sign don’t. That’s right folks, I followed the N21 when it reappeared on the far side of Agnes for about 15-20 miles. Then as if by magic, it disappeared... and that was that, sat there at the convergence of three roads and not one sign said N21, not one said St. Mathieu the world had ended in that spot. There was only one thing for it, drink water. So I said, read my maps and drank water... I’m not quite sure what happened after that, but half an hour later with the road well planted beneath me, I began to see signs for St. Mathieu, I screamed with excitement, don’t worry nobody saw or heard me. For whatever reason, the world just shuts and goes home at about 7pm in middle France. Believe me, I rode and rode and rode, and yet in 30km I only saw 3 cars on the road, no sops open, no pubs, restaurants, nobody sat outside their houses, and no picture-postcards scenes of people sat at tables drinking wine, eating cheese and bread and enjoying the world with friends. It was like entering the twilight zone, nothing stirred.
By the time I arrived in St. Mathieu the same could be said, everything deserted. I rode up the main drag toward the church that stands in the centre, on the left hand side is a pub called The Royale and I’d guessed that was the place to meet. I stepped off my bike and turned off the ignition and the doors to the pub opened.
‘Hello’ said the landlady, in broadest English. The shock on my face must have been a picture. Dave had said that the owners of the pub were English, but the shock it gave me was beyond anything I had experienced to that point. Shouts came from behind me, Dave, (C)Andy and Reme were walking up the road and shouting their cheers. I greeted Dave with a hug, it was good to see such a friendly face in such a remote area. That was it. 412 miles in a day and worth every moment of experience. Tomorrow would be a day off and time to experience the French life with friends.
Day 7: 16th July 2010
I might have woken later than planned, but that did not prevent me from having a play with Pepe (the dog next door). Again, although the family and I could speak little of each other’s language the barrier wasn’t half the problem I had kind of expected, or been warned of. I drank my obligatory half a litre of water and ate an apple. A good way to start any day, but riding in the heat of the south coast, I can think of nothing better (except perhaps a banana). I packed up my kit and looked at the maps one last time. This morning was the ride to Montpellier and then Narbonne; they were just names to me, the tiredness settling in, making me feel edgy and jaded. The one thing I could look forward to was a nice hot shower and a glass of beer when I finally made it to the other side of Bergerac and that always brings a smile to your face. You ride and ride and ride, the sun beating down on you, the hot summer breeze coming up from Africa, searing your throat, and that one bottle of beer, ice chilled just takes your breath away.
Bergerac was not the plan for the day’s ride, the plan was to make it to Toulouse and then see how the day went. If I rode the whole way it was the equivalent of 400 and something miles, a prospect I didn’t relish, but a challenge that I kind of did.
I like to ride and the one thing that I can say about this tour is that the ride has been something else. For me, more than anything else, it’s about getting out there, it’s about the ride, it’s about opening the world up and seeing it the way ‘man’ should. On the road, where you experience life. Far too often we are quick to jump on a train, in a plane or on a cruise liner, happy to avoid the world around us in a desperate rush to reach our destination. For that quick fix in the sun, our happy holiday by the beach, or a pampering at a spa. Yet perhaps the most important thing about all of that is the experience of life which we miss. We like to believe that by eating a little of the food, or drinking the local beer, we have experienced the culture and see the great wonders. We take a day trip in our air conditioned coaches and smile at the quick comments made by the tour guide; we look at a castle, a cathedral, a museum or two and then we return to our world of high speed, high tech gadgetry and believe the world a better place for it. Yet is that really the case?
One memory that I will hold close is the experience of meeting the people. I left home with my prejudices all packed up in my backpack and made for Folkstone. It’s interesting, but let me be clear about this, by prejudices I mean the ideas and understandings that we all have of things without really understanding or experiencing them for ourselves. It’s like the child that says they don’t like potato, what they really mean is they don’t like the look of that potato when it’s first popped out of the ground, but really have no idea what it is, or what it will taste like. So you give them chips... Problem solved, the experience is now enough to convince them that they love potato’s in every form. Simple really, but it’s the lack of experience which dictates the response.
So, back to the story... I had my worries and concerns of the world that lay before me, yet I really hadn’t experienced any of it in any great sense or detail. Sure, I’d travelled, I’d seen some of the places I was to travel through, but never had I really experienced them, so my own prejudices were informed (as for most people) by the media, and or the odd travel page on the internet. Nothing could have prepared me for what was to come. So how does that relate? I pulled into a rest point on the E72 checking the maps just to make sure that I had the correct junction on the road and that I was really heading in the right direction. An old couple were serving a picnic lunch at one of the tables and looked at me with a smile. There was no malice or distrust of this hairy biker, just a genuine smile and a brief ‘Bon jour’. It settles you, you feel comfortable and as the man began to speak French and ask me about the bike and how I was fairing in the heat (amongst 100 other things), I had to admit to him, that a) I was English, b) he was speaking too quickly, and c) I didn’t really understand him anyway.
We did the usual broken conversation, helped and supported by universal sign language and then bid each other au revoir. He returned to his lunch and then, quick as a flash, he turned and said, ‘Monsieur?’ and held a small bottle of beer toward me. Other than being a little early in the day for me to drink, I thanked him and declined. ‘I am sorry; I don’t drink when I ride.’ I said. He smiled. Turned and went back to the lunch he had with his family.
Now that might not sound much, but my first thoughts were, at what point in life, anywhere in Britain have I known that to happen. Guys (and I guess girls) on bikes are often met with some suspicion and distrust. I can say that, I have personal experience after 21 years of riding. My second point is, I have never, nor do I know of anybody that has pulled up on the side of the road and with no knowledge of the person, with no thought of distrust, have I ever had a person offer to share their drinks with me. That, my friends, is the culture of experience that I am talking about. The experience that we all miss, by rushing through life with our blinkers tightly fixed.
I think in general the world is a good place and that for all we try to do; we often miss things by seeing things that really aren’t there. It is our own experiences which should guide our knowledge and not the prejudices of others (We all have enough of them ourselves, without adding those of others).
Bergerac was not the plan for the day’s ride, the plan was to make it to Toulouse and then see how the day went. If I rode the whole way it was the equivalent of 400 and something miles, a prospect I didn’t relish, but a challenge that I kind of did.
I like to ride and the one thing that I can say about this tour is that the ride has been something else. For me, more than anything else, it’s about getting out there, it’s about the ride, it’s about opening the world up and seeing it the way ‘man’ should. On the road, where you experience life. Far too often we are quick to jump on a train, in a plane or on a cruise liner, happy to avoid the world around us in a desperate rush to reach our destination. For that quick fix in the sun, our happy holiday by the beach, or a pampering at a spa. Yet perhaps the most important thing about all of that is the experience of life which we miss. We like to believe that by eating a little of the food, or drinking the local beer, we have experienced the culture and see the great wonders. We take a day trip in our air conditioned coaches and smile at the quick comments made by the tour guide; we look at a castle, a cathedral, a museum or two and then we return to our world of high speed, high tech gadgetry and believe the world a better place for it. Yet is that really the case?
One memory that I will hold close is the experience of meeting the people. I left home with my prejudices all packed up in my backpack and made for Folkstone. It’s interesting, but let me be clear about this, by prejudices I mean the ideas and understandings that we all have of things without really understanding or experiencing them for ourselves. It’s like the child that says they don’t like potato, what they really mean is they don’t like the look of that potato when it’s first popped out of the ground, but really have no idea what it is, or what it will taste like. So you give them chips... Problem solved, the experience is now enough to convince them that they love potato’s in every form. Simple really, but it’s the lack of experience which dictates the response.
So, back to the story... I had my worries and concerns of the world that lay before me, yet I really hadn’t experienced any of it in any great sense or detail. Sure, I’d travelled, I’d seen some of the places I was to travel through, but never had I really experienced them, so my own prejudices were informed (as for most people) by the media, and or the odd travel page on the internet. Nothing could have prepared me for what was to come. So how does that relate? I pulled into a rest point on the E72 checking the maps just to make sure that I had the correct junction on the road and that I was really heading in the right direction. An old couple were serving a picnic lunch at one of the tables and looked at me with a smile. There was no malice or distrust of this hairy biker, just a genuine smile and a brief ‘Bon jour’. It settles you, you feel comfortable and as the man began to speak French and ask me about the bike and how I was fairing in the heat (amongst 100 other things), I had to admit to him, that a) I was English, b) he was speaking too quickly, and c) I didn’t really understand him anyway.
We did the usual broken conversation, helped and supported by universal sign language and then bid each other au revoir. He returned to his lunch and then, quick as a flash, he turned and said, ‘Monsieur?’ and held a small bottle of beer toward me. Other than being a little early in the day for me to drink, I thanked him and declined. ‘I am sorry; I don’t drink when I ride.’ I said. He smiled. Turned and went back to the lunch he had with his family.
Now that might not sound much, but my first thoughts were, at what point in life, anywhere in Britain have I known that to happen. Guys (and I guess girls) on bikes are often met with some suspicion and distrust. I can say that, I have personal experience after 21 years of riding. My second point is, I have never, nor do I know of anybody that has pulled up on the side of the road and with no knowledge of the person, with no thought of distrust, have I ever had a person offer to share their drinks with me. That, my friends, is the culture of experience that I am talking about. The experience that we all miss, by rushing through life with our blinkers tightly fixed.
I think in general the world is a good place and that for all we try to do; we often miss things by seeing things that really aren’t there. It is our own experiences which should guide our knowledge and not the prejudices of others (We all have enough of them ourselves, without adding those of others).
Day 6: 15th July 2010
I made it. After all the travelling from one place to the next, I finally made the south of France. Marseille is a lovely town by the waterfront, which still has an air of grace about it. It was hot, more than that it is bright. I sat by the marina, in a small cafe, drinking a cola and relaxing, the trials and tribulations of the past week behind me. All that remained was to follow the waterfront to Narbonne and from there up to Dave’s.
Aly text to tell me that she had been successful in interview and that the start date had been set for September, in all it was a good day. All that remained was to find a bed for the night and think about the miles ahead.
I made the decision that Monaco was just not going to happen, to do so would mean turning the bike around and heading back east toward Italy, and as I had already experienced the problems of Germany, I decided the best course of action was to avoid that happening again. The roads were hot, the day was late and with over 200 miles to cover (each way); it was not worth the potential harm to the bike. Besides, I had achieved over half of the countries I had set out to see and had perhaps a couple of thousand miles to go.
I took the time to look for a campsite, any campsite which would take me in the right direction and provide a good resting place. Now I’m not fussy. If the showers are hot, and the people welcoming, I can take pretty much anything else that life throws at me along the way. And in Martigues I thought I’d found the perfect place. It is charming, the people friendly and the water warm (not hot, but warm). I lay back in the sun with a bottle of water and looked at the 100 or so photo’s that I have taken thus far. I have got some good memories, from the trip, but something has been missing, the cultural history has been a little less than I had hoped for. The first real signs of that came as I sat outside the cafe in Marseille, I really did feel as though I had travelled. The old stone walls still remain at the entrance to the port and there is an atmosphere of history, just sitting there watching the world go by. I smiled.
You kind of make what you can in terms of eating on the road and after buying the same old, same old in the service station, I really wanted something different. So I left the safety and comfort of my tent and went in search of food. Now, my French is anything but good, but I can buy food, occasionally, keep it simple. What I hadn’t prepared myself for, was the difference in pronunciation between one region and the next, where I had happily ordered a sausage in a roll, a coffee and/or chicken in Lyon, here in Martigues the whole world changed.
‘Excuse ‘em qua. Oú puis-je acheter du pain?’ (I had soup with me, and that seemed quite a logical question. Obviously not.) The guy just stood and looked at me, as if I was speaking the foreign language... Hmm.
‘Du pain (pronounced, do pan)?’ ‘Yes’, I thought, bread...
He just looked. So I did the only thing I could think of and made the sign for eating... He got it. ‘Oh, Du-pain’.
‘Bizarre’, I thought, I’m sure that’s what I asked for, but followed him through the campsite.
We’d walked only a few hundred meters, when I saw the shop, ‘Merci.’ I said, and then I spied a like caravan next to it. ‘Ques ca-sa van (my spelling is rather limited, but you get the idea.)?’
‘la cuisine chinoise.’ In my limited understanding, I got the gist. Chinese. Oh yeah...
The tent looked a much more inviting place as I sat and ate the French version of Chinese food. The rice was dry, served with peas and bacon (?), and the chicken came as a battered roll. I could have waited for noodles, but the amount of time it had taken me to decipher the French code, I was starving to death. It didn’t matter, it was hot, it was food and it tasted really good...
So that was the evenings events, Marseille a beautiful sea front (note that I have begun to describe the rising tower-blocks, the endless building sites everywhere and the nightmare which is rush hour traffic. Hey it had been a good day, so why spoil it).
The campsite was peaceful, the air fresh and the tent warmed by the afternoon sun. All was good... What I neglected to mention was the amount of kids I had noticed when I first arrived. Evidently, it was a school-outing, the scouts, or some other such thing, but as the evening drew on. I happily managed to avoid them. That is until, from out of nowhere came the thundering charge of screaming kids making their way through the tents to the disco which had been set-up for them in the middle of the site. I’m no stickler for a bit of fun, but that must have ruined so many people’s night. I sat there trying to entertain myself as best I could, all the while thinking that it would end. My eyes got heavy, my neck ached and as I thought I could take no more, the midnight hour struck and I fell into a long and deserved sleep. I remember waking at about 1am to the glorious sound of silence. Peace had descended upon the earth and all was well...
Aly text to tell me that she had been successful in interview and that the start date had been set for September, in all it was a good day. All that remained was to find a bed for the night and think about the miles ahead.
I made the decision that Monaco was just not going to happen, to do so would mean turning the bike around and heading back east toward Italy, and as I had already experienced the problems of Germany, I decided the best course of action was to avoid that happening again. The roads were hot, the day was late and with over 200 miles to cover (each way); it was not worth the potential harm to the bike. Besides, I had achieved over half of the countries I had set out to see and had perhaps a couple of thousand miles to go.
I took the time to look for a campsite, any campsite which would take me in the right direction and provide a good resting place. Now I’m not fussy. If the showers are hot, and the people welcoming, I can take pretty much anything else that life throws at me along the way. And in Martigues I thought I’d found the perfect place. It is charming, the people friendly and the water warm (not hot, but warm). I lay back in the sun with a bottle of water and looked at the 100 or so photo’s that I have taken thus far. I have got some good memories, from the trip, but something has been missing, the cultural history has been a little less than I had hoped for. The first real signs of that came as I sat outside the cafe in Marseille, I really did feel as though I had travelled. The old stone walls still remain at the entrance to the port and there is an atmosphere of history, just sitting there watching the world go by. I smiled.
You kind of make what you can in terms of eating on the road and after buying the same old, same old in the service station, I really wanted something different. So I left the safety and comfort of my tent and went in search of food. Now, my French is anything but good, but I can buy food, occasionally, keep it simple. What I hadn’t prepared myself for, was the difference in pronunciation between one region and the next, where I had happily ordered a sausage in a roll, a coffee and/or chicken in Lyon, here in Martigues the whole world changed.
‘Excuse ‘em qua. Oú puis-je acheter du pain?’ (I had soup with me, and that seemed quite a logical question. Obviously not.) The guy just stood and looked at me, as if I was speaking the foreign language... Hmm.
‘Du pain (pronounced, do pan)?’ ‘Yes’, I thought, bread...
He just looked. So I did the only thing I could think of and made the sign for eating... He got it. ‘Oh, Du-pain’.
‘Bizarre’, I thought, I’m sure that’s what I asked for, but followed him through the campsite.
We’d walked only a few hundred meters, when I saw the shop, ‘Merci.’ I said, and then I spied a like caravan next to it. ‘Ques ca-sa van (my spelling is rather limited, but you get the idea.)?’
‘la cuisine chinoise.’ In my limited understanding, I got the gist. Chinese. Oh yeah...
The tent looked a much more inviting place as I sat and ate the French version of Chinese food. The rice was dry, served with peas and bacon (?), and the chicken came as a battered roll. I could have waited for noodles, but the amount of time it had taken me to decipher the French code, I was starving to death. It didn’t matter, it was hot, it was food and it tasted really good...
So that was the evenings events, Marseille a beautiful sea front (note that I have begun to describe the rising tower-blocks, the endless building sites everywhere and the nightmare which is rush hour traffic. Hey it had been a good day, so why spoil it).
The campsite was peaceful, the air fresh and the tent warmed by the afternoon sun. All was good... What I neglected to mention was the amount of kids I had noticed when I first arrived. Evidently, it was a school-outing, the scouts, or some other such thing, but as the evening drew on. I happily managed to avoid them. That is until, from out of nowhere came the thundering charge of screaming kids making their way through the tents to the disco which had been set-up for them in the middle of the site. I’m no stickler for a bit of fun, but that must have ruined so many people’s night. I sat there trying to entertain myself as best I could, all the while thinking that it would end. My eyes got heavy, my neck ached and as I thought I could take no more, the midnight hour struck and I fell into a long and deserved sleep. I remember waking at about 1am to the glorious sound of silence. Peace had descended upon the earth and all was well...
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
Day 5: 14 July 2010
After a great sleep it’s always welcoming to see the sun and hit the road bright and early. So I did. Good to their word, the old couple from the Netherlands were up and away at 5am and so for the next hour I contented myself with broken sleep. By 7am I was packed, a quick breakfast and then sit around and wait for the slowest, smallest most expensive coffee in the world. Almost 3euro for something I’d give to a child. Ah well, it was warm and refreshing. I updated the video diary I’ve been doing over the past few days and then I was off. The sad thing was that through some of the best riding that I have had so far the video camera has not worked and after an hour this evening, it seems that it really doesn’t want to work anymore. It may be the charging unit, but whatever it is, it’s getting so that there are more downs than ups. Every day something is a challenge. What more can I say...
I rode through the mountains of Switzerland and experienced a dry heat I’ve never had before. I’ve been to America and Egypt, Egypt where you’d really expect it, but nothing like this. As you exit a tunnel there it is waiting for you. With the decision made, I rode for Geneva and a cultural centre of Europe, I rode past the United Nations building, but there is nowhere to stop as it is situated by a set of traffic-lights and with the treats of bombings over the past few years, they won’t let you park within 500km of the building without a permit or reason, and a photo is not a reason. That is the one thing I have noted all over Europe thus far; the absence of police, anywhere. Thus far (with the exception of the UN Building), I have seen just 3 officers and that was at a roadside accident in the hills. They all stood, drank their coffee took the occasional photo and chatted. There didn’t seem to be much in the way of crime fighting going on, but I bet the coffee was good.
As I neared the French border I rode through a tunnel which takes you down inside a mountain, for those that have seen Lord of the Rings, all I could think was... ‘You shall not pass.’ It was 3.3km long and had a smooth bend to the left as it ran and the wind rushed up the tunnel to meet you, the cold rock-face cooling the wind as it rose. Truly, truly assume.
I never knew that the French side of the mountains, were as fantastic to see as those on the Swiss side, same mountains I guess, you just don’t think of it in that way...
Still the scenery looked like it had come off a chocolate box (your mum will know what I mean kids) and through all the gritted teeth of the camera not working, it was still assume. If this journey has been an experience of culture then that has really happened. I have seen things and places that were as I had imagined, and yet I have also been regretful of people’s lack of love for the history of their own cultural past. So much has been destroyed, modernised, or discarded, that one city begins to look no different from any other. It’s only out in the valleys and the villages that anything seems to remain, and that is a shame. As much as a ride for charity, the ride is also about learning and experience, and just a bloody good ride, but something else should be there and the only thing that I seem to miss as I ride is the history.
I rode from Geneva to Lyon and on the way saw some wonderful scenery, Lyon itself is a beautiful place, with many old building which line the river down to the port, yet behind this scenic view (one street back) rears the ugly head of capitalism and poverty, modernity and change. I see nothing wrong in any of those things, except when it strips the things we can learn the most from... our past. Still the chateau stands on the hillside as it has for centuries and shins across the sunlit city.
Tomorrow beckons and I ride for the south coast, Monaco, Marseille, Nice and to Perpignan. Well that’s the next couple of days covered, after that, we’ll have to wait and see...
I know there are no photo's but for whatever reason, this campsite has a server that kicks you out if you want to upload photo's to the net... Not annoying at all. Anyway, tomorrow...
I rode through the mountains of Switzerland and experienced a dry heat I’ve never had before. I’ve been to America and Egypt, Egypt where you’d really expect it, but nothing like this. As you exit a tunnel there it is waiting for you. With the decision made, I rode for Geneva and a cultural centre of Europe, I rode past the United Nations building, but there is nowhere to stop as it is situated by a set of traffic-lights and with the treats of bombings over the past few years, they won’t let you park within 500km of the building without a permit or reason, and a photo is not a reason. That is the one thing I have noted all over Europe thus far; the absence of police, anywhere. Thus far (with the exception of the UN Building), I have seen just 3 officers and that was at a roadside accident in the hills. They all stood, drank their coffee took the occasional photo and chatted. There didn’t seem to be much in the way of crime fighting going on, but I bet the coffee was good.
As I neared the French border I rode through a tunnel which takes you down inside a mountain, for those that have seen Lord of the Rings, all I could think was... ‘You shall not pass.’ It was 3.3km long and had a smooth bend to the left as it ran and the wind rushed up the tunnel to meet you, the cold rock-face cooling the wind as it rose. Truly, truly assume.
I never knew that the French side of the mountains, were as fantastic to see as those on the Swiss side, same mountains I guess, you just don’t think of it in that way...
Still the scenery looked like it had come off a chocolate box (your mum will know what I mean kids) and through all the gritted teeth of the camera not working, it was still assume. If this journey has been an experience of culture then that has really happened. I have seen things and places that were as I had imagined, and yet I have also been regretful of people’s lack of love for the history of their own cultural past. So much has been destroyed, modernised, or discarded, that one city begins to look no different from any other. It’s only out in the valleys and the villages that anything seems to remain, and that is a shame. As much as a ride for charity, the ride is also about learning and experience, and just a bloody good ride, but something else should be there and the only thing that I seem to miss as I ride is the history.
I rode from Geneva to Lyon and on the way saw some wonderful scenery, Lyon itself is a beautiful place, with many old building which line the river down to the port, yet behind this scenic view (one street back) rears the ugly head of capitalism and poverty, modernity and change. I see nothing wrong in any of those things, except when it strips the things we can learn the most from... our past. Still the chateau stands on the hillside as it has for centuries and shins across the sunlit city.
Tomorrow beckons and I ride for the south coast, Monaco, Marseille, Nice and to Perpignan. Well that’s the next couple of days covered, after that, we’ll have to wait and see...
I know there are no photo's but for whatever reason, this campsite has a server that kicks you out if you want to upload photo's to the net... Not annoying at all. Anyway, tomorrow...
Day 4: 13 July, 2010
Well it’s actually day 5 now as I’m kind of playing catch up, but I’ll get to that in a minute. Sunny here and oh, so hot, and you wouldn’t believe it.
As the sun went down the evening improved. There was rain and wind and thunder and lightning, but as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared. So, after doing a little reading and planning and contemplating I decided that the best thing to do was call Hog Assist and get the bike checked at best it would put me back and hour or two, at worst it would end the trip. So that was it. I wasn’t going to call then, it was far too late, but the morning would bring another day and then I could take a fresh look.
I made my bed, ate my dinner and drank a coffee and then just as the last light faded, I remembered something, it must of been completely pointless, because as soon as I thought of it, it was gone. But something stirred in me and I looked outside. I don’t know why, but I did...
At the corner of the viaduct about fifteen feet away sat a rat! A bloody rat!!! I laughed; I think everyone around me thought I was mad... Bold as brass it sat ate, and then walked away.
I was up with the sun in the morning and packed by 7am... Trouble is, nothing opens ‘til 9:30am, so I sat with another coffee and watched the world go by on the Autobahn. Mad, doesn’t matter how much I watch it, I don’t understand it. No horns, no shouting, just cars at 120-130mph. Even when you get it wrong and you’re in the wrong lane they apply the brakes and wait for you to get out of the way... Go figure, would that happen in England? Is that how you drive?
I phoned for assistance, and good to their word, they phoned me straight back, so that I didn’t foot a really expensive phone bill. They told me they would be with me within the hour, and they were. They took a look diagnosed the problem and then said they would take me straight to the Harley Davidson dealership. Brilliant. All that for £33! The best thing about it, not only today, but in general, is the fact that the people here in Germany have been fantastic, bending over backwards to make sure that everything that can be done is, and they love to talk. The guy that came out to me knew almost no English and I know less German, but in all the time I was with him, I never thought that he didn’t understand me, or me him. We talked in our own special way the whole way, hardly breaking for breath. For half an hour we talked. Strange, but when you’re in that situation, you can communicate.
The guys at HD Stuttgart just looked at me as if I was mad... A wobble.
‘Yes it wobbles because you are carrying luggage...’
‘’This isn’t my first HD and I ride about 10,000mls a year.’
‘Oh.’ He said.
So he looked at it, took it for a test and then looked at it again. ‘You have a wobble’ he said...
The only problem with road-side assistance is that if there is a job to be done, then they only cover the bike for 3 days work. They also put you up in accommodation if needed, but otherwise, when 3 days is up, that’s it.
They did their best, and to cut a very long story short, they said that if it was the head-bearing then they couldn’t get the parts and guarantee to complete in 3 days... But whatever you say, the German’s are a proud people and they worked flat out for about an hour. The sun was hot and so was the coffee and I waited as they worked. Once done, and they were happy they said, goodbye and safe journey.
‘Thank you’ I said. ‘What’s the fastest way to the Autobahn?’
‘Left out of here, then at the second set of traffic lights take the first junction and you’ll be back in Belgium tonight.’
‘Belgium?’ I said, ‘I’m heading to Switzerland.’ I think it’s the first time I’ve seen so much shock in one moment. The exclamations of madness were heart-warming. But with my new directions and orders not to complete the whole journey, I was off.
It has been very disheartening to think that I will not make it all the way round, but I understand they’re caution. To complete the whole journey now, may push my luck just a little too far. The advice given warned me away from Italy (and the Mont Blanc pass) and Spain. That said, totalling up the miles I guess I’ll lose around 1,800 from the total.
Switzerland was a different story the roads are amazing, and there are tunnels everywhere. But where the Germans were extremely helpful, the Swiss don’t want to know. It does mean that I had to speak French, what little I know, but I made myself understood and on I rode. What I am impressed with is the way they deal with rush hour traffic. Simply put, they dig a great long tunnel under the city, so if you don’t need the city, you just ride underneath. I rode a tunnel today very 1.5km long at 70mph, what a rush...
The campsite was the opposite too all other experiences in Switzerland. The people were nice and the site itself, beautiful. That may be something to do with the fact that the old man was Swiss French and the woman was from Thailand and she spoke impeccable English. I had a pitch next to an old couple from the Netherlands, who reminded me so much of Aly’s grand-parents. She sat and knitted and gave the orders, he just did as he was told (after the occasional grumble), but the love and understanding was still there.
To get on to the site, you have to cross a narrow foot-bridge which has a sign showing a push-bike, a motor-bike, and a car and is split into thirds by red-lines. Now to my mind that means cars, bikes, and motor-bikes are not allowed, and sure enough it does. That is unless you need to cross the bridge (for example, for access), then, with good reason you can cross. Me being me didn’t know that, so I took my valuables and crossed the bridge on foot. The old man looked at me as if I was mad ‘Englisher’ he said and smiled. He’d seen it before. Apparantely, it’s a sign only familiar in Switzerland and the Netherlands... Go figure. So that’s it. The story so far. An adventure that has had some ups and downs, and I’m sure more to come. But that’s it, an adventure. So, on I ride in the heat, in the rain and the occasional draft...
As the sun went down the evening improved. There was rain and wind and thunder and lightning, but as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared. So, after doing a little reading and planning and contemplating I decided that the best thing to do was call Hog Assist and get the bike checked at best it would put me back and hour or two, at worst it would end the trip. So that was it. I wasn’t going to call then, it was far too late, but the morning would bring another day and then I could take a fresh look.
I made my bed, ate my dinner and drank a coffee and then just as the last light faded, I remembered something, it must of been completely pointless, because as soon as I thought of it, it was gone. But something stirred in me and I looked outside. I don’t know why, but I did...
At the corner of the viaduct about fifteen feet away sat a rat! A bloody rat!!! I laughed; I think everyone around me thought I was mad... Bold as brass it sat ate, and then walked away.
I was up with the sun in the morning and packed by 7am... Trouble is, nothing opens ‘til 9:30am, so I sat with another coffee and watched the world go by on the Autobahn. Mad, doesn’t matter how much I watch it, I don’t understand it. No horns, no shouting, just cars at 120-130mph. Even when you get it wrong and you’re in the wrong lane they apply the brakes and wait for you to get out of the way... Go figure, would that happen in England? Is that how you drive?
I phoned for assistance, and good to their word, they phoned me straight back, so that I didn’t foot a really expensive phone bill. They told me they would be with me within the hour, and they were. They took a look diagnosed the problem and then said they would take me straight to the Harley Davidson dealership. Brilliant. All that for £33! The best thing about it, not only today, but in general, is the fact that the people here in Germany have been fantastic, bending over backwards to make sure that everything that can be done is, and they love to talk. The guy that came out to me knew almost no English and I know less German, but in all the time I was with him, I never thought that he didn’t understand me, or me him. We talked in our own special way the whole way, hardly breaking for breath. For half an hour we talked. Strange, but when you’re in that situation, you can communicate.
The guys at HD Stuttgart just looked at me as if I was mad... A wobble.
‘Yes it wobbles because you are carrying luggage...’
‘’This isn’t my first HD and I ride about 10,000mls a year.’
‘Oh.’ He said.
So he looked at it, took it for a test and then looked at it again. ‘You have a wobble’ he said...
The only problem with road-side assistance is that if there is a job to be done, then they only cover the bike for 3 days work. They also put you up in accommodation if needed, but otherwise, when 3 days is up, that’s it.
They did their best, and to cut a very long story short, they said that if it was the head-bearing then they couldn’t get the parts and guarantee to complete in 3 days... But whatever you say, the German’s are a proud people and they worked flat out for about an hour. The sun was hot and so was the coffee and I waited as they worked. Once done, and they were happy they said, goodbye and safe journey.
‘Thank you’ I said. ‘What’s the fastest way to the Autobahn?’
‘Left out of here, then at the second set of traffic lights take the first junction and you’ll be back in Belgium tonight.’
‘Belgium?’ I said, ‘I’m heading to Switzerland.’ I think it’s the first time I’ve seen so much shock in one moment. The exclamations of madness were heart-warming. But with my new directions and orders not to complete the whole journey, I was off.
It has been very disheartening to think that I will not make it all the way round, but I understand they’re caution. To complete the whole journey now, may push my luck just a little too far. The advice given warned me away from Italy (and the Mont Blanc pass) and Spain. That said, totalling up the miles I guess I’ll lose around 1,800 from the total.
Switzerland was a different story the roads are amazing, and there are tunnels everywhere. But where the Germans were extremely helpful, the Swiss don’t want to know. It does mean that I had to speak French, what little I know, but I made myself understood and on I rode. What I am impressed with is the way they deal with rush hour traffic. Simply put, they dig a great long tunnel under the city, so if you don’t need the city, you just ride underneath. I rode a tunnel today very 1.5km long at 70mph, what a rush...
The campsite was the opposite too all other experiences in Switzerland. The people were nice and the site itself, beautiful. That may be something to do with the fact that the old man was Swiss French and the woman was from Thailand and she spoke impeccable English. I had a pitch next to an old couple from the Netherlands, who reminded me so much of Aly’s grand-parents. She sat and knitted and gave the orders, he just did as he was told (after the occasional grumble), but the love and understanding was still there.
To get on to the site, you have to cross a narrow foot-bridge which has a sign showing a push-bike, a motor-bike, and a car and is split into thirds by red-lines. Now to my mind that means cars, bikes, and motor-bikes are not allowed, and sure enough it does. That is unless you need to cross the bridge (for example, for access), then, with good reason you can cross. Me being me didn’t know that, so I took my valuables and crossed the bridge on foot. The old man looked at me as if I was mad ‘Englisher’ he said and smiled. He’d seen it before. Apparantely, it’s a sign only familiar in Switzerland and the Netherlands... Go figure. So that’s it. The story so far. An adventure that has had some ups and downs, and I’m sure more to come. But that’s it, an adventure. So, on I ride in the heat, in the rain and the occasional draft...
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