Part 9. The Alps into Italy

Thursday 20^th May 2010

So Manja had pulled out this map of Switzerland the night before last and shown me the route east through Lausanne and down across the Alps by the Col pass. She said it was a much better visual treat than going through Geneva, and as far as she was concerned, riding through the Mont-blanc tunnel was over-rated anyway; what was I going to see in a tunnel after-all. No, she said, I had to definitely take the Lausanne, Montreux road, it was the only right thing to do.

So I was up before the alarm; and showered, coffee’d, packed, loaded and gone before 8am. By 9am I was skirting the winter Olympic town of Lausanne with it’s lakeside harbour and vast array of expensive- looking cruisers. The day was warming up nicely as I followed the lake around; passing ancient waterfalls that tumbled from the step vineyards lacing the hills beside me. The sky had turned a deep, rich blue, and the snow on the Alps glistened in the sunlight as I rode on steadily past Lausanne, towards the town of Montreux.

You ain’t nothin’ but a hound-dog, was the first thought I had when I pulled onto the pedestrian boardwalk at Montreux and saw the large bronze statue of a rock-star with his fist punched high in the air. I had no idea what Elvis had to do with this place, so I rode the bike through an anxious throng of pedestrians to go and find out. After I’d stood there looking at it for ten minutes or so, I still had no idea what Elvis had to do with this town, as the statue was actually that of Freddie Mercury, the front-man from Queen. Montreux had been where he’d lived for much of his fame-filled years, and the nearby lakeside recording studio had been where Queen had recorded much of their music. The plaque said that the band had acquired the studio in 1978, and that Freddie’s strong links with the town had continued until his death in 1991. In addition, that he appreciated the kindness and discretion of the townspeople that had provided a haven for him, and a setting for his final work. I thought it was a fine looking statue, placed right on the shore looking out at the water and the clearing Alps beyond. Perhaps the voice in my head singing, ‘find me someone to love’ was that of Freddie Mercury himself, but as I continued further into Switzerland, and deeper into a sense of solitude and oneness with the world, I got the distinct feeling that it was actually my own voice all along.

The road began to twist now, and the hills became steeper, ever-upward steeper as I rose closer toward the snow-capped mountains before me. I had entered the Alps proper now, and could see them clear as day rising in great sentinel majesty either side of me as I closed on the alpine town of Martigny; and sought out a desperately needed coffee break.

As I sat at the Café de Alps sipping a tiny strong coffee, a lady who’d noticed the traveller in me, came over and quite proudly announced that this was the route that Hannibal had taken with his Elephants; and Napolean Bonaparte too apparently, but without the elephants. It’s the shortest pass through the mountains from Italy into Switzerand, she also told me; and surely the most beautiful.

Martigny itself was a quaint little town. Narrow streets, kind of medieval in appearance, but also modern with supermarkets and a large office of the Zurich Insurance company. I saw a sign pointing towards an amphitheatre. Roman? I wondered. That could be interestment isn’t it!

When the Romans entered Martigny in about year zero, a celtic type people had already been settled in the area for centuries. After being slaughtered in their thousands however, they were more than happy to stand peacefully aside and allow the roman’s’ another new and exciting place to play with. The Toga’d hoard built villa’s here, and spa’s and a large fort too. They also built an amphitheatre, which I stood in the middle of, listening philosophically to the sound of one hand clapping.

Swish, swish it went. That was pointless I thought, so I tried again, using both hands instead. The echo was phenomenal, it reverberated off the encompassing walls like hi-def surround sound with the volume on eleven. I tried to imagine what must have taken place there. Were Gladiators set at each other where I now stood, did Russell Crowe turn his back on Joaquin Phoenix in this very arena? Maybe Christians were savaged by Lions here, their blind, staring eyes left rotting in the sun, or pecked-out by the murder of Larks that ‘craa-ked’ in the trees nearby. The information board said that several hundred roman coins had been recovered here during the archaeological excavation many years back. I walked around the inside wall, running my hand across the age-old stones, and stepping from time to time into the small, cold cells where prisoners or maybe Lions or perhaps Toblerones may once have been held. One of the inner walls was crumbling quite badly, and a sign stated clearly ‘DO NOT TOUCH’…oh dear. A stone probably laid there two thousand years ago suddenly rolled out of the wall and landed straight in my pocket of all places; I figured it must be a pagan sign, so I left it there and re-entered the main arena. As I continued my circumnavigation of this great historical place, I looked up to the royal box where some Senator or perhaps Emperor of note may once have sat. Thumbs up or thumbs down I wondered, as I held my head towards the ground, awaiting the roar of a blood-lusted crowd intent on the letting of the common thieves life. Then something else took my attention, something had just caught the light, just the faintest glimmer of silver flicked from the sandy soil at my feet; surely not; no way. I kicked the dirt away with my foot and bent down the retrieve a genuine roman coin from the ground. How many years had it sat there un-noticed, how many feet had passed this way before mine? It was stuck solid though, countless generations had trodden it firmly into the ground. I pulled out my Swiss army knife, and selected the ‘Retrieve roman coin from the ground blade’; and then started digging. Was it a Dinari I wondered, or maybe just a Sheckle perhaps? I really didn’t care, it really didn’t matter. After several minutes, the prize was in my hand. I held it up to the light, wet my thumb and wiped a millennium or two of dirt from it’s face and strained my eyes to read the words that hadn’t been seen for who knew how long. ‘Stolle lager’ the words said. As my heart sank, the crowd roared Booooo, the thumbs went down, and the rolling stone continued to gather no moss; the road still beckoned me on.

And it was all about the alps, for there was nothing but mountains and smooth winding roads that went on forever and then some. The grass was so green, and the sky so blue; even the white fluffy clouds that bobbled overhead Simpson-esque were so white that they were actually blue. Mile after mile after mile of striking mountains ranged all around me like I had entered some mythical realm where Unicorns grazed, and big, dopey, one-toothed giants carrying gigantic clubs on their shoulders answered to names like Uunt and Yaar. This was the land of Heidi’s and the Von-Trapp family singers; and the hills were very much alive with the sound of music. I stopped again and again to captured digital celluloid of this remarkable land, and everytime I did, I was front-row patron to the heavenly sounds of Cow-bells that played from the necks of grazing cattle and filled the crisp, clean air with a symphonic note that couldn’t have been more appropriate if it tried. Waterfalls spilled from the side of the road into tunnels that fed out the other side onto ravenous fall-aways that sprinted down hill towards little blue lakes and tiny hamlets of swiss-looking houses and people dressed like an age gone by. Tall pine trees dotted the lush green fields like elegant green soldiers guarding the land they so deeply loved, and all the while the graceful grey road wound around and around and upward but never down. I expected to feel the cold here, given I was riding towards the snow-line ever upward, but the warmth from the sun was incredible, and I ended up taking off my jacket and riding in tee-shirt and jeans. Had I been more Peter Fonda-ish, I would have removed my helmet too, and let the sun and the light and the scent and very feel of the land put the zap right into my head; but I wasn’t that game. Archetypal swiss wooden homes with huge stacks of firewood dotted the route from here to there, with big, bold red flags sporting sharp bright white crosses at their centre; the people who lived here were proud to be Swiss, and I don’t blame them at all. God lives in these mountains, I thought, and I could feel his breath and hear his voice calling out to me, “take another photo Tim, take another photo, show the people back home what I’ve created’. But I couldn’t keep stopping like that, it became insane. I no sooner took one shot and climbed back aboard the bike, then I was pulling in again a mile up the road to do it all again. In the 11 hours it took me to travel through the Alps, I managed to cover less than a hundred and fifty miles. I told God I couldn’t stop yet again, not unless he promised he’d get me a ride BMW GS. There was silence between us for quite a while after that, but then he came back with “God don’t really do deals isn’t it, but if that’s what you really want, then so it shall be”. I jumped off the bike, took a few more pics and then I rode on.

The Col pass sits at about 3000 meters, and at this time of year is closed due to snow. It’s the same pass that Hannibal is believed to have taken; I however came through the St. Bernard tunnel instead, a seven mile ride through the heart of the Alps, protected by little more than a tube of concrete.

Yet as I entered the tunnel, -and as is my usual want in life that I am seldom prepared for the things that come my way- I was stopped very suddenly by a man in uniform standing at a gate house and side-arming a gun, I smiled all crooked and dumb at him and said. “Je suis desolet, je ne parle pas francais”. I’m sorry I don’t speak French. So he said in Swiss sounding English “Passport”? I’d done it yet again, I’d buried my passport under a hundred-weight of luggage in probably the most inaccessible bag I could have possibly found. After tearing the bike apart and many minutes of frantic searching, I came out with a triumphant “here it is”, and he just waved me through without even looking at it, I was gutted, but I was also now in Italy. I came out of the tunnel and was met by the sight of the Italian Alps; just as beautiful as their Swiss cousins, but lower and on the downward side of things. The route towards Turin took me down through tiny towns with fast-flowing rivers of melt-water, and coffee shops to die for. I stepped up on the pegs, spread my arms out wide and flew down through the Alps into the land of Pizza and foccacia.

Friday 21^st May 2010

I had camped for the night beside the river at Verres, near the foot of the Italian Alps amongst what I assumed must have been hobby-gardens; small allotments of vegetables and vines divided by trees and gardening tools and assorted gardeners things and bits. I’d thought best not to actually go into anybody’s allotment as I figured this would probably have amounted to trespassing on someone else’s property, and chose instead to pitch my tent just outside the last of them on a patch of what appeared to be no-mans land. When the sun broke that next morning, the sheer cliff-walls abutting the river’s far bank exploded in blinding light, while my side of the river remained eerily in darkness, still shrouded by the alpen walls behind me to the east. I did the usual breakfast of Tuna, coffee, fag, Tuc biscuits and cheese, then broke camp and headed for Turin, about 40 miles further south where I was all set to visit the cloth of Jesus…the Shroud of Turin.

I rode into Turin in 29 degrees of sunshine and stripped of my riding jacket. Where the hell was this place though, Turin was quite some size, and I really had no idea where I was going. Traffic was all over the place, multiple lanes carrying buses, trucks, cars and those dammed pesky little scooter things that buzz like irritating mosquito’s in the night. I went up one road, down another, across another two, and then ended up back where I’d started. I saw a load of coaches depositing Japanese, Nikon carrying, pink-shirt wearing tourists at the side of the road, and slowed to see what I could see. I got beeped, and tooted and honked and abused in Italian, so in a state of fish outa water agitation I took the next available turn and got promptly stopped by a Baretta carrying cop. He started on me in Italian, so I replied in French; it made no difference, neither of us knew what the other was saying anyway, especially me. I pointed to the massed formation of Nikons and pink shirts and asked. “Is this where the Shroud of Turin is on display”? which in Italian must mean “I’m looking for the railway station’, as he pointed towards a sign saying ‘Stazzione’ with a picture of a train on it. No, that’s not what I mean! I had no idea where to go from there, so I started trying to charade myself into putting on a veil and looking dead, and kept repeating the name Jesus, but I said it “Yay-soos” as if that might make the vital difference. Somehow something happened, and he said the word ‘Sheet’. Yes, sheet, that’s it; the holy sheet. “Si” He said, and pointed past the Japanese to a bunch of Nuns and Monks and various other devoted souls whose obvious presence I’d somehow missed. I turned the bike around, rode along the right way and found a parking spot.

There are certain things that I do, and certain things that I don’t. I don’t do traffic, I don’t do slow, I don’t do crowds and I definitely don’t do queues. So after fighting through scooter infested traffic for half of Turin, to be met by a crowd of people numbering in the thousands; I was stressed enough already. Then, after negotiating my way through this slowly meandering crowd of mumbling Hail-Mary-ing human flotsam, and getting to the main entranceway into the Holiest of Holy’s, just to be told that the main queue was at the far end of this queue, and it’d probably take me about seven hours to get there; I’d had enough. I about-turned and forced my way back through the black garbed, habited hobbits, shouldered Monks in sackcloth outa the way, and forced a bunch of schoolkids wearing “We Love Jesus’ t-shirts’ onto the grassy “Do not walk on the grass’ manicured lawns.

Back at the bike I rang Simon and told him of my fun and frivolous follies in sunny and shroud less Turin.

“It’s a fake anyway” He said. ‘Some kid drew on his mum’s cheesecloth skirt with crayons at the Glastonbury festival back in the 70’s. And it’s definitely not Jesus, it’s more likely the kids dad off his nut on magic mushrooms”.

I rode into town feeling a bit pee-d off, not that I’d missed out on seeing the shroud, but that I’d accidently waved to another scooter thinking it was a real bike. Before long though I found a market square, so I pulled the bike over and set about having a wander.

Turin is kinda like a big square place, with lotsa little square places arranged around the inside of it. This particular square place was actually round though, and was filled with stalls selling fruit and vegies and clothes and sunglasses and cheap tat that no-one really wants, but someone has to sell. I bought myself a Peach there, I thought it was the least that I could do. After some confusing banter with a couple of likely-lads, I managed to order myself a chicken roll and a tiny, tiny cup of coffee, one sip deep, but twenty coffee’s strong.. “Merci” I said in thanks, then realised my mistake and adjusted it to “bongiorno” which obviously didn’t work either. In the end, I settled for thank you, and found myself a table outside and rang my pal Lyndal; at least she’d understand me.

“Oh my god, you’ve developed a really mongrel accent since leaving here”. She said. She was out having dinner in Melbourne with some friends who were her Dubai fixers, and was quaffing vin rouge and having a merry old time. It’d been her last day of work, and she was now officially on holiday, and flying outa there in just a couple of days. I tried to impress her with my brilliant grasp of the Italian language, but my efforts were met with little more than “God you sound so different, aside from talking gibberish I mean”. Enemies are over-rated anyway!

The main centre square of Turin is actually square, a very big square in fact, and here I found the Palace of someone or other, plus all the kings men and some of his horses too; it was beautiful, but more-so, were the people populating it. Wonderfully dark haired, Romanesque-looking young women paraded themselves in front of gladiatorial looking young men; families walked arm in arm through sprinkling showers of gem-like fountain drops, exploded from the ground like crystals, and cascaded back to earth as if diamonds. Tiny little Nuns in tiny little habits walked holding hands in prayer and smiling ‘Au revoir’ or maybe ‘Gratsia’ at everyone who caught their eye, and even the Policia, in their very formal-looking Blue wedding suit uniforms, smiled and walked easily as if crime there were a four letter word never to be spoken in public. The whole place was ablaze with sunlight and laughter as I made my way out along the many narrow side streets that ran tentacle-like, sinewing their way into parkland, grand terraces and riverside walks…where I found a bar, and ordered a strawberry daquari.

Sat there beside the river, I pulled a chair out and lazed in the afternoon heat, sipping on my umbrella’d drink and feeling the sunlight photosynthesizing my flesh into something more than the whiteness it’d become. A stunningly beautiful young woman and her equally handsome young man pulled up on a bright red scooter and began kissing as only young lovers can. Louise Armstrong sang what a wonderful world, and there was nothing I could possibly add. I sent Lyndal a text message saying simply “I wish you were here”.

Pt 8. Into Switzerland.

Tuesday 18^th May 2010

I had intended riding to Geneva in Switzerland, but I got a police escort from just outside of Dole, and found a much more interesting road to follow down to Nyon on the shores of Lake Leman instead. It wasn’t really a police escort of course, just a couple of gendarmerie on bikes that I decided to ride with for twenty miles or so, and got so caught up in the ‘Seven-Mary, Three-Four and Five’ thing, that I missed the turn off completely. To make matters worse, I accidently waved to someone riding a scooter; and that’s an absolute no-no; scooters aint real bikes! But even with that, it was the most exciting riding I’d done so far, with waterfalls, rocky cliffs, crazy winding roads, and mile after mile of smooth beautiful tarmac. I even realised I can ride on the wrong side of the road now and think nothing of it. The road wound around and down, and up and down again. At some point I officially entered Switzerland, but there was no –one there to shake my hand, or wave a flag, nor check my passport. It’s at times like that I can’t help but think smuggling could be a good way to make a living, I’m just not too sure what I’d smuggle, or even if I’d enjoy being smuggled myself?! More high rocky crags led to even more beautiful waterfalls. The air was crisp and smelled of pine and Nordic shampoo, the road was black and smooth, and long and curvy like a Massai woman’s legs. Soon the Pine forest cleared and I could see water stretched out before me. It was Lake Leman, -or Lake Geneva if you prefer; even though technically it’s not-. I could see the Alps lazing in the distance across the other shore, but they were so shrouded in mist that they may well have been Toblerones for all I knew. I stopped at a vantage point and tried to get some photos of my very first view of the majestic Alps, but it just wasn’t going to happen. Between the mist, the glare and my fumbling inability to get the right exposure, the pics came out like whitewashed lime-stain on a patchy, grey marble wall. I put the camera away and rejoined the road

By now it had become something worth having a whole lot of fun on. It ess’d it’s way downhill steeply and without pause for thought of danger, and twisted and turned on cambered bends that pulled G-forces right through my socks, and made my adrenal glands sing ‘Oh Praise the Lord, Jesus says oo-rah!’. I pushed the bike harder than I’d ventured before, and leaned it lower and tighter to the road. Any moment I thought I was going to get the holy grail of scraping leathered knee on tarmac, but the closest I got was being hit in the face by a bee just as the twisties began to run-out, and the sensible people came out play near the edge of the town called Nyon. I dropped the bike back a gear or two and coasted into town, hunger burning at my guts, and my sphincter puckering to perfection; right on cue a McDonalds appeared, and I pulled in to relieve both of my renal needs.

As I stood at the counter of Macca’s, looking at the menu deciding which of the incredibly nourishing and appetising culinary delights to have, I heard an English voice, actually it was American, but I was prepared to forgive them that. Their names were Merve and Ken, and they were from Detroit, or possibly Chicago. They were both househusbands, who spent their days playing golf and wandering around, and eating at McDonalds. Their wives were the breadwinners, being accountants at some large US firm that had it’s headquarters nearby. I noticed the particularly delicious-looking Big Mac meal deal was priced in Swiss francs, in fact the whole menu was; I hadn’t thought of that, I only had euro’s on me. Ken came to the rescue and offered to exchange 20 euro’s for 25 Swiss francs. I didn’t know if that was a good deal or not, but having been guilty in the past of ripping off unsuspecting Americans, I figured it’d all come out in the wash one way or another; so I decided to deal, and got myself some food.

The guys were on their way to see the grave of Richard Burton who was buried nearby, also the house where Charlie Chaplin used to live. They told me that Switzerland, being the tax haven that it is, has attracted only the best kind of money to it’s lake Geneva shores, and includes such luminaries as Formula one ace, Michael Schumacher, and formula one rising star, Lewis Hamilton. Country singer Shania Twaine also has a house near Lausanne, along with Phil Collins and probably countless other rich, famous and noteworthy. After I’d finished oo-ing and ah-ing at all the appropriate places, they told me about a campsite further along the shore towards Lausanne called Rolle. It was right on the water and by all accounts a seriously worthwhile place to stay for the night or even a week. I took their photo, wrote down their e-mail addresses and shook their hands goodbye. Half an hour of going full guns along the smooth and well-heeled Swiss foreshore road, I was pulling into the entranceway of the Gondwana campsite. The Alps were still heavily misted over, but I caught glimpses here and there of snow-capped peaks tantalising me through breaks in the cloud and haze. I booked myself in and found a site to pitch the tent just meters from the waters edge, and a stones throw from this crazy-looking campervan with pictures of Snails all over it.

A 70-odd year old woman named Manja from Brazil owned the van. As I approached her to say hello, she was painting another snail with a fine brush and a palette of oils; but these weren’t just any snail paintings, but rather comical representations of snails in various form. Clowns, cats, Father Christmas; a snail riding a bike, playing cards around a table, etc, and they weren’t rough and ready either, but finely detailed and lovingly done. I asked if I could take some photos of her van, and she said of course I could, and then invited me in for a glass of wine and a chat. Over a bottle of sweet white I learned she was fluent in 8 or 9 languages. She couldn’t remember how many herself actually, and wasn’t entirely sure if a couple of them even counted, as they were Swiss/ German, Swiss/French and Swiss/ Belgian, all of which are different in their own peculiar way. She did tell me however that her favourite language was Italian, as it was all about sensuality and passion for living. In her day she’d been a Genealogist and an artist, but nowadays she was retired, and was only visiting Switzerland for a week to take care of her ex-husbands estate, as he had recently died and his affairs needed attending to. I said I was sorry to hear of her recent loss, but she just laughed it off. “Don’t be sorry” she told me, “I’m not, he was hard work and I’m glad to be free of him”. She went on to say that, her husband saw the world in black and white, with no room for colour in between, and now she feels that her coming of age ‘is to be savoured like a well matured Wine’ and her painting is all about ‘the domestication of colour’. “It should make you smile on the inside”, she told me. She’d been married four times, and all four husbands had died…que Sera. I left her to her thoughts on life and death, and went for a walk along the lake-shore to see what I could see.

Some ducks were squabbling over a piece of bread. A beautiful white Swan was nesting on three eggs. A boat was moored just offshore with a guy and his girl barbequing on board. The Alps were a misty temptress still, and the sky above was azure, reflecting like a Sapphire on the sparkling diamond surface of the lake. I started walking into town until I discovered it was a lot further than I realised, and defeated, I turned around and headed back to camp where I again found Manja, busy with her paint-pot, while the smell of something tasty cooking oozed from inside her van. “Would you like to join me for dinner”? She asked. Would I? I thought to myself, what have I got planned for dinner? Let me see. A tin of Sardines, and a stale slice of bread that I wrestled off a duck. A half-eaten tomato with some questionable cheese; a cup of instant coffee with some broken biscuits, or a packet of crisps and a cup of luke-warm water. “That sounds lovely Manja” I told her, “I’d love to”.

She’d made something with shredded potatoes, cheese and sausage meat, ‘Roasties’ I think she said they were called, but this I’m sure was just some generic name similar to the Scottish ‘Stovies’. It was beautiful though, a real taste sensation, especially when washed down with a vintage red wine and more than one shot of something much stronger.

“What the hell is that? I asked her as fire burned in my eyes, throat, nose and mouth. “It’s Damassine” She said “from the Jura mountain region of France”. Jesus wept, and so did I. Snot ran from my nose, tears streamed from my eyes and something strange moved around inside me. It reminded me of rancid Tequila but much, much worse. It was made from wild plums that had frozen while still on the tree, Manja told me, and when you swill it in your mouth you can taste the fruits and the flavours come to life. I didn’t agree, all I could taste was something akin to kerosene, that had been lit just as I swallowed it down. “Have another” she told me, filling up my shot glass. “The first one is always difficult”. So I did, and the night came and went with red-wine, white wine, fire-water and food. The conversation was eclectic and charming, and the hangover already starting by the time I crawled into my tent at nearly two o’clock in the morning.

Wednesday 19^th May 2010

As far as hangovers go, I’ve had worse, but even so, when the alarm woke me at just after seven, the best I could manage was to lean over and turn it off. By the time I woke properly and cleared the fuzz from my brain it was getting on for ten-thirty, and I was in no state to consider packing up and getting on the road. Once I’d made the decision that I was going to stay another day, everything began to brighten and I felt much happier about myself. I walked over to the reception and told them I’d be staying another day, and that was no problem at all. Why would it be, the place was only half-booked, and they stood to extract another exorbitant amount of money from my credit card. With that sorted I went and had a shower, got myself vaguely humanised, and sat in the café and gobbled down some breakfast.

Since yesterday had been bit of a washout as far as my writing was concerned, I decided that now I was staying for another day I must be strict with myself and get some done; and with that, I spent the majority of the day in the Gondwana bar, listening to Bob Marley and other chilled-out funky music.

It wasn’t a bad place to be either, a very laid-back joint with Cane furniture, throw rugs and large comfortable cushions scattered all over the sea-grass matted floor of an open-sided gazebo. I sat there writing, drinking wine, drinking coffee, eating cheese, writing some more, drinking more wine, eating salmon baguettes with Avocado and fresh salad fillings. In between it all, I sent and received text messages, checked my e-mails and got thousands of words written down. I thought that maybe this is how Ernest Hemingway enjoyed his days, but then I remembered he’d also been a frontline war correspondent during the Spanish civil war, and saw the best of times along with the worst of times too. Nevertheless, aside from that bit, maybe this was what it was like for him. It was almost cavalier, and definitely decadent; awesomely satisfying and more than just a little bit self-indulgent.

Pt.7 Riding through France

Sunday 16^th May 2010. Chatillon sur marne to Dijon

My skin has long since lost it’s bronzed Aussie tan, and has turned white from lack of substantial sunshine. So when I awoke to a blazing golden orb pumping out vitamin D in excess, I was quick to strip down to my bare essentials and frolic in the life giving heat and the clear, lustrous daylight. I broke camp near naked, then thought better of my state of undress as I went to visit the pope and his nearby souvenir shop. Here I bought the required postcards and memorabilia of my stay. The route today I thought would take me through Troyes or Twah as I now knew, and onto Dijon, the home of Mustard, and probably lots of other things too I’m sure.

I wound my way back down the windy-windies, through the small and empty commercial sector, past my campsite for the night, and out onto the road to Epernay, and the Champagne trail.

I’ve never been a great lover of the bubbly stuff, it just seems to get up my nose and make me sneeze a lot, after that I get all wobbly, can’t stop giggling like a fool, and then I fall over and have weird dreams…actually, in hindsight, maybe it’s not so bad. I never really knew how champagne grew either, I guess I knew it was on a grapevine like other wines of course, but never really gave it any dedicated thought. Even now I’m probably none the wiser actually, except for the knowledge that the Champagne region is called that because the whole area is crammed with champagne vines. The road to Epernay and beyond is like a living, breathing excerpt from a travel magazine. Chateau’s and vineyards appeared at every turn… literally every turn. My friend Lyndal would have been in a state of divine rapture riding through here. The hills were covered as far as I could see in great long grids of grapevines, and wooden-shuttered houses of whitewashed stone and red-tiled roofs dotted the landscape like pictures from a lonely-planet travel book. I wished I was more attuned to the appreciation of bubbly grape-juice as I rode on through, maybe I would have been tempted to stop and sample the local produce, but as it was, I wanted to reach Dijon today, if for no other reason than to get some miles under the wheels.

I left the sun-kissed hills of the Champagne-Ardenne region behind me at Epernay, and again found myself on the A26 heading towards Troyes. Soon enough though I turned off the motorway and wound my way onto the D671, which in turn became the D971, a picture postcard road through sleepy Siene-side villages leading all the way into Dijon.

The 80-odd mile route was nothing short of glorious, with too many photo opportunities to possibly stop at. I stood for a while and watched fly fisherman casting their whispy lines into a clear, greeny coloured Siene that flowed rapidly beneath the road; and cascaded out the other side in a wide arc of white water, before settling into a deep emerald-coloured pool surrounded by willows and other lazy-looking, sleepy trees.

As I rode on I became totally enchanted with where I was, and soon found myself singing into my helmet “No, non regret, je ne regret rien’. I again stood up on the pegs as I coasted down through the pine and firs that started to appear road-side, and threw my arms out wide as I burst in rapturous voice. ‘’Non regret rien…’ when a bug of French design flew straight into my mouth, punching it’s weight into my tonsils and almost instantly choking me. As I struggled to breathe and regain control of the now careering bike, I thought about the woman who swallowed a fly…I don’t know why.

Near Chanceaux I had the opportunity to travel five miles off-course to see the source of the Seine, but I didn’t take it. ‘Non regret rien!’

The Vineyards of the Champagne-Ardenne had given way to lush cereal fields, and then at St. Marc, the landscape changed again, becoming forested with high rocky crags, as I began an ascent into the clouds. It became much colder too, and the switchback roads at Val Suzon gave me a taste of what must lay ahead. I noticed the bike felt heavy up the long winding ascent toward the sky, and anything under three thousand revs in top gear became a shuddering twin-cylindered revolt into a lower gear. I reached the top of the climb, and then without prelude or celebration, Dijon appeared below me like a huge concrete lake. Time had got on without me even noticing, so I found myself a campsite quickly and got settled in for the evening. T decided I’d take tomorrow off the bike and spend the day in Dijon at a café where I could get my journal up to date and possibly enjoy some decent food and a leisurely walk around town. That night, as the sun again set on my journey through France, I wrote a postcard to my girls in Melbourne; but they didn’t even know I was on this trip did they? so what to say and how to say it was agonising. I made a hot drink and went for a walk through the forest, trying to ease the pain that throbbed in my chest.

Monday 17^th May 2010. Dijon to Dole.

I had intended taking today off the bike and spending it in Dijon; one of the reasons being that I really needed to get my camera and computer powered-up, and get online to do my internet thing. But try as I might I couldn’t find an internet café for love nor money. I wandered around the old town marvelling at the wooden-beamed building with their multi-stories, and getting all turned-around and lost amongst the winding maze-like cobbled laneways and streets. After an hour or so of local shops, coffee houses and mustard souvenirs, I decided that I really did need to get plugged-in, and started riding towards Geneva to see what would happen. Thirty-five miles later I was in Dole and booking myself into a hotel for the day and night.

The Hotel de la cloches means the hotel of the bells, and I could see why, or actually, I could hear why. It was because the nearby church bells sounded every quarter of an hour and lasted for about ten minutes per chime, so really, there was only about five minutes between each deafening peel of bells. I parked the bike and carted all the gear up to my room in a lift just big enough for me and a couple of bags at a time, after what seemed about fifteen trips, I had a long hot shower, and went for a walk around town. Beautiful though the bells were, after the first hour I was all hunched over and calling out “the bells Esmerelda, the bells”. I hobbled away through the tiny back alleys and twisting laneways that always headed steeply downhill to escape them. Suddenly I was next to a canal with four, five and six storey building abutting it’s length. Many were beautifully painted and renovated in tasteful period guise, but just as many were vacant, and looking for all the world like they were fit to collapse at any moment; they were the Tannery buildings, and had stood here for centuries.

Dole made it’s money from the tannery trade, and the area I was walking through had once been the beating heart of town. The seedy, prostitute-ridden and underworld heart of town mind you, with just as many brothels as tanneries, and just as many pick-pockets, thieves, rascals and rapscallions to boot. Nonetheless, the walk I took was picturesque, with the Roach-filled canal charming and sparkling it’s way along the quay, and the cool, underground grotto stretching out beneath several streets. I alighted from the grotto and was met by a sign advising me that the famous Louise Pasteur had been born just up the road at number 24. Excellent I thought, I can’t remember what he painted, but I’m sure I’ll know it when I see it. Imagine my disappointment when after paying 5 euros to get in, I learned that he wasn’t a French renaissance painter or anything remotely similar or interesting like that at all. He was a world renowned chemist and micro-biologist who saved the world from such blights as Cholera, Scabies, Rabies, Typhus etc, and gave us such gifts as pasteurisation, inoculation and something worthy to aspire to.. I did get to see his accoutrements though, and that made me happy, as I’ve always wanted to use that word somewhere.

I met a homeless guy named Kurt, and his dog named Kessel, or was it Dirk and Vassel? Either way, he was sitting cross-legged on the pavement with a margarine tub in front of him, with a sign reading, ‘Stop Global warming’. I tossed him 0.50 Euros and asked if he minded me joining him, soon I was sitting next to him, patting his dog and making uncalled-for social judgement on his predicament. He was a nice guy though, fluent in both French and German, and very well educated in Munich. When I asked how he got to be in his position, he simply replied. “I walked here”. Then he gave me a knowing grin and shook my hand firmly goodbye.

Dole was quaint and possessed a real easiness about itself, even the bells after a couple hours didn’t seem quite that noticeable anymore. I smoothed out my hump, and left Kurt to his Global campaigning and wandered back up the narrow, winding streets to the hotel; stopping here for coffee, and there for Croissants. A girl named Helena sold me a quiche that I really didn’t want, but she was way too lovely to say no to.

Pt 6 On the road again

Thursday 13^th May 2010. ‘One if by land…’

Thursday morning saw me wake-up feeling more than a little on edge. I got up early feeling a little fuzzy from Matts smoke the night before, and ran around the house in a manic state of getting the last things done. I ran down to Granny Mays place and dropped the big travel bag and tripod off there for Eileen to collect and take back to her place. Then after a quick coffee laced with something soothing I’m sure, I left her place with a promise to be careful, and ran down to Gorebridge post office where I felt sure I’d be able to buy a couple hundred more euro’s just in case. No I couldn’t was the answer I got from the carmudgeonous little freak behind the counter, but the post-office a mile up the road beside the Co-op should be able to help me. I bolted up the road, clock-watching as I went. Five minutes later I was walking out of there with a wallet full of Euros, and an hour and a half left before I had to leave. I ran back to Simons place, gobbled down a couple of rolls and a coffee, then packed the final bits I’d left until the bitter end, and brought the luggage down stairs.

Before too long it was 1.30pm, and time to load the bike and get it on Simon came out with my camera and took some shots of me loading up. Then before I could say ‘I’m finished’ I was finished, and the bike was ready to roll. I hate goodbyes, especially when it’s family. But it’s not like I’m not going back, so it wasn’t a problem really, just that I’ve really enjoyed my time there, and kinda didn’t want it to end; but for the time being it had to, and so we hugged each other manly, shook each others hand strongly and said our see you soon’s. I fired up the bike, revved the engine, kicked it into gear and rode off down the road singing Willie Nelson songs inside my helmet.

On the road again, here I am, I’m on the road again. The life I love is blah-dee, blah-dee blah-dee blah, dum-dee, dum-dee doo-tee doo-tee doo…

I’d forgotten how heavy the bike was when it’s fully loaded, but it sits on the road beautifully, and the luggage packed on all around me forms something akin to a comfy armchair on wheels. I’d allowed an hour to get to the ferry terminal at Rosyth, and another hour on top again just to be on the safe side. I made the trip in a little over thirty minutes, so got there an hour and a half before loading time.

The Rosyth ferry terminal is literally just across the forth road bridge from Edinburgh. I crossed the bridge standing high up on the foot-pegs, with my arms held out to either side of me…I was flying across the forth. The car and truck- drivers loved it, with tooted horns and thumb’s-up friends from both sides of the road. I put my hands back on the handlebars, and took the turn off to the terminal and found myself at the tail-end of some forty or so bikes waiting to board. They were all from Belgium and had just finished a five-day tour of Scotlands highlands and island, and were now heading home. Honda’s, moto-guzzi’s, Yamaha super-teneres, and the obligatory BMW GS 1200’s were everywhere. Big touring bikes; shiny, new, sexy-looking things with customised luggage racks and matching girlfriends in matching helmets and leathery, wet-suit looking gear with long, blonde hair, bright blue eyes and names like Annie from Ostende.

But it didn’t matter how shiny bright and new their bikes and girlfriends were, because they all wanted to talk to me on my dirty little TDM 850, loaded up beyond belief, and sporting an Aussie flag on the fairing. We chatted and laughed and dinky-di’d our way through an hour and a half wait, until suddenly we were being ushered up a ramp, and into the big, hungry mouth of the ferry.

I was right, it was a big boat. I strapped the bike below decks, smiled hello then goodbye to Anna, then climbed the stairs that took me through the seven decks. After realising my deck was actually in Rat-class, I climbed back down to deck five, found myself a reclining Pulman seat and staked my claim. I had no-sooner laid all my bits out on the jumbo-jet styled seat beside me and wondered how I was going to pass the next twenty-odd hours, when a mop of blonde hair lifted from the seat in front of me and turned around. For a moment my heart skipped a beat as the platinum swish of hair filled the air with all manner of Belgian promises waiting to be fulfilled; but then my heart sank just as quickly as a gangly looking 48 year old guy named Al introduced himself. He was from Fife and heading out to Brussells to visit a lifelong friend. After the usual pleasantries, we decided that drinking Guinness would probably be the only sensible thing to do; so that’s what we did….for the next eight hours!

Al was a self un-employed artist who now worked as a cleaner. He had decided early in his artistic career that he was of the minimalist school of art, and at University even submitted a blank canvas as an example of this belief. I told him I was a journalist and writer of such renown and repute that I also didn’t have to bother writing anything anymore, and that I also had a portfolio of blank pages as testament to this fact. We drank to our mutual imminent failure, then for reasons best known to God alone, we thought we’d try our hand at the Casino. We played blackjack for the best part of two hours, where I managed to rack-up the incredible fortune of three pounds, before my steady decline into the realm of losing a tenner. We went back to the bar and drank more Guinness, and talked about writing and photography and art. We wandered from time to time out onto the windswept decks, where we smoked cigarettes and chatted with the likes of Erich from Lyon, a software engineer with a penchant for speed, who owns an MGB, an Austin Healy and an Aston Martin DB7. Out there in the darkness, amongst the briny sting of icy cold north sea air I met Stuart, a truck driver from Arbroath who was on his way down to southern Italy via the train from Germany. He told me he has a girl in every country, and that the current one is a beautiful thirty-eight year old blonde from Belgium. Before that it was a twenty-three year old brunette from Sunderland, and before her there was a nineteen year old with hair as black as a ravens wing; she gave him a heart attack right in the middle of sex. Throughout the twenty minutes we stood talking, he must have smoked a dozen or more cigarettes, but then Stuart believed that life was all about smoking and shagging, and told me he normally smokes 80 plus per day, but also that’s an average, and sometimes it’s upwards of 120.

The so the night wore on; the drinking the smoking, the dreadful cabaret singer who came on stage and sang wedding singer songs. The drunken Belgian biker who opened his mouth too wide and had it filled with someone’s fist. The whole while Al continuously dipped his finger into a bag of Methodrone, and just as consistently asked me if I’d like a dab too. No I don’t think so Al, I told him, but I will have another pint of Guinness while you’re offering things around.

I didn’t see Anna again for the entire night which was a shame, and I ended up hitting the sack at about 2.30am. I’d seen other people laid out on the floor instead of on their seats. That seemed like a good idea to me too, so I slept on the floor laid out like a true traveller, wrapped in a blanket and using my backpack for a pillow; it was like sleeping on a wooden sled being dragged across concrete; fine when your fifteen, not so fine when you’re fifty.

Friday 14^th May 2010. ‘…two if by Sea’

I woke up next morning at about 7.30, stretched the aches out of my sea-tossed body, and went forward into the restaurant for a big breakfast of Bacon and eggs with all the trimmings. I wanted some alone time after last nights follies, some time to get my thoughts together about what was unfolding before my very eyes; I grabbed a coffee, wandered back to my seat and turned on the laptop. My head wasn’t exactly thumping, but it wasn’t really pink and fluffy either, all I wanted was some quiet time to get my slightly disjointed thoughts on paper, or screen as the case may have been.

“Helo Tem” came this husky, come-hither voice from right beside my ear. It was Anna, the 38 yr old honey from Ostend in Belgium. I must have had my ‘tell me all your troubles’ face on, cuz that’s exactly what she did. Turned out she’s not happy with her man; she’s riding pillion with him on this trip, but he’s just too possessive and needs to chill-out she says. Turned out she just lost her job as a fashion designer with over twenty years service to one label. Turned out she’s got three kids too, and a mortgage she can’t afford, and an estranged husband, and a lust for living a life she really can’t afford. That all sounds very familiar I remember thinking, and as she was really quite lovely, I soon found myself searching her out for this mythical Celtic cross that I’ve been told to look out for. Needless to say it wasn’t there, so I guess she wasn’t the one. We exchanged e-mail addresses, phone numbers and ‘Maybe in another lifetime’ smiles. Then she left me and returned to her cabin, and a man she really didn’t want to be with.

I had some thoughts and wrote some words. Then, just like Goldfish and rubber bands, I decided they made no sense, deleted them from the screen and went outside to suck in some fresh North sea air.

“We’re not in the north sea anymore” I was told. “We’re now in the English Channel and Belgian is jus beyond the horizon”. John Daniels was with the Scottish touring group, a ‘Hello, my name is John’ type sticker told me so on his jacket. It also told me he was riding a BMW GS 1200 and that he was carrying a pillion. “It’s the busiest waterway in the world you know”. He also told me, and as if to prove it, a dozen large freighters suddenly appeared out of the mid-morning mist just off the portside. “You look a little rough”. He laughed. “Did you have a good night”? I told him all about it, then asked him about his own night.

“It could have been better” he replied. Aside from a smack in the mouth, it turned out he was with a women who was using him for his money, using him as a surrogate father to her three kids, using him to enliven her own lack-lustre life. Despite her beautiful looks and long sun-kissed hair, when they get back to Ostende, he was going to dump her…!

I swallowed hard, wished him well, and bid him farewell as the ships speaker advised we were porting in Zeebruge in just under twenty minutes, and could we prepare ourselves for dis-embarkation.

I caught a last glimpse of Al wetting his finger and dipping into a bag of white powder; he looked like a shadow who’d lost his human counterpart. A whistle blew, and we walked sheeplike down deck after deck of stairwell to the vehicle landing and my beloved TDM 850 waiting way down below. John and Anna were right there too, not smiling, not talking, just not being very happy together at all in general. I unstrapped my bike, gunned the engine and rode off on the wrong side of the road. through passport control and into Belgium.

Zeebrugge, Belgium to Cambrai, France.

I stopped at a service station just out of the terminal and put in nine Euro’s of unleaded to fill the tank right up. I entered the shop to pay for the fuel and attempted “Une’. The man behind the counter looked at me and said ‘Twah” and rang up thirteen Euro’s on the till. Your kidding, I’d been in the country five minutes and I was already being ripped off. “Non…numero une” I again attempted in half French , half Italian, pigeon-english. “Your on pump number three” He then said in perfect English,”the yellow bike isn’t it”? He was right; the nine euro’s was actually nine liters and it came out at exactly thirteen euros. I paid him, and continued the road into Bruge.

There was a bright and colourful fairground there, with people laughing and smiling, enjoying the clear-blue sky above them, and the medieval landscape around them. I took lot’s of wrong turns and spent a pleasant couple hours getting lost. I had intended stopping properly in Bruge, as Lyndal had sent me a text saying ‘Beautiful Bruge, home of hand-made Lace, and of course, fine chocolates’. But I’d got turned around and confused so many times, that when I suddenly saw the sign pointing to Lille in France, I jumped at the chance to get going in the right direction again, leaving beautiful Bruge in waiting for another day.

The ride to Lille was nothing short of nothing exciting aside from seeing the Police tearing a car apart at the Belgian/French border. I passed through Lille without incident and soon found the signpost directing me to Cambrai where I’d always intended staying the very first night on the continent.

The last time I was in Cambrai I filmed the journey I took to bring my great grandfather home from his resting place on the war-torn Western-front; it was very strange to be there again, the place was so familiar to me, and yet so alien at the same time. I rode through town, remembering landmarks here and there; the Beatus Hotel, the 14^th century gatehouse, the medieval town square with it’s Cafe’s and Tabac’s. On the road to Masniere I stopped at the supermarket ‘Cora’ where I again fell in love with the giant chain store as it shares it’s name with my eldest daughter. There I bought Tuna, butter, a bread-stick, two tomato’s, and some tins of this, and packets of that; then I rode down to the Canal du St.Quentin, unloaded the bike, and set the tent up to the background choir of gently lapping water and nothing else at all. I made coffee on my military issue hexamine cooker, smoked a cigarette and watched the sun go down.

Saturday 15^th May 2010 Cambrai to Chatillon Sur Marne.

The sun again rose, and beamed in through my canvas wall like an angelic wake-up call from heaven itself. I brewed a coffee, and broke camp while barges laden down with cars and tarpaulined loads plied the waterway bound for places unknown. I’d camped beside this canal last time I was here too, and last time I’d dropped the bike trying to get back onto the road over the high kerb that separated the canal-path from the main road it lead off. It was with this painful memory well in mind that I crept up the steep, gravel pathway towards the road proper. At the kerb I gently eased the front wheel up and over, being sure to keep the revs high and the clutch feathered and constantly in contact. With a roar and a bump and a relieved ‘oo-rah’, I eased the bike back onto the road and headed towards the place where I’d collected Walters spirit from the soil in September 2008.

The place looked different now. Last time it had been the site of an archaeological dig, with flat, smoothed out sub-soil dotted with dig-trenches and thrilling with excited archaeologists withdrawing the long-forgotten remnants of a war from a battle-site that many never even knew existed. Now the land here was scarred with the marks of bulldozer tracks; and the perfectly flat-sided trenches, and the smooth, finely-sieved sub-soil had all been filled in and pushed aside to make way for the encroaching housing estate that buzzed just meters away with the sound of power-saws and the hammering of nails into wood.

I walked onto the site where I’d filmed the collection of the sacred soil. There I spoke with Walters spirit once again, and laughed about the journey I’d previously taken here. “Did I do you proud Walter?” I asked him. “Have I now allowed you to rest at peace with the knowledge that your deeds and final sacrifice at this place are known to thousands of your countrymen who had never known you existed?” I stood in silence, contemplating the site and the previous pilgrimage here. Then a voice came loud and clear, like Walter himself were right beside me. “Yes you did me proud Tim, and now you must let me go; let me rest at last in peace”. Emotion rose in my throat, tears welled in my eyes, a warmth enveloped my soul like I’d been hugged by an Angel. I walked from the site, stood at attention and saluted my great grandfather from the side of the road. Then I remounted my bike, and rode away towards Riems, gently releasing him from my earthly grasp, one turn of the wheel at a time.

The road I took to Reims was the A26 motorway, had I taken the time to study my maps more closely I would have realised there were alternate routes that would have given me a much more picturesque journey there, rather than the dull, featureless high-speed drone of motorway travel. I stopped for a coffee break at the St. Quentin services where I met Ray and John, a couple of bikers on their way back to the uk after a week touring through France, Germany and Switzerland on a pair of sexy, black and silver, Triumph RS 900’s. I left there and re-entered the motorway, thinking how it was strange that it all looked so familiar to me, almost like I been this way before. Ten miles later I was turning around to head back the way I should have been going! The road was flat, straight, grey and lacking in anything remotely interesting. The landscape spilled out on either side of me in an undulating tapestry of greens, yellows and browns; and the sky above was Sapphire blue. I saw the sign for Riems and took the exit into town, where I quickly discovered a pedestrian promenade filled with parked motorbikes and outdoor, umbrella’d café’s.

Coffee shops, bars and Tabacs thrilled with the clink of glasses and the chatter of happy-go lucky French-folk. I considered walking into an Irish bar advertising the good word on Guinness, but then, having drank the real thing in the good town of Dublin itself, it seemed a pointless folly; and when in Rome, or France, as the case may be, there seemed little point. I dropped my helmet on a table, pulled a chair from beside it and sat down. A waiter approached, giving me the opportunity to put my atrocious rendition of his language into use. “Bonjour Monsuer” I ventured. “Une Café’ crème si vous plais”. Qui Monsuer”. He replied easily, and set off to fulfil my request. Success, I’d actually manage to order myself a cup of coffee without incident or terrible fumbling or embarrassment. He returned minutes later and placed the cup of hot, creamy coffee in front of me while I rolled myself a cigarette and took in the pantomime unfolding about me.

Street performers dressed in macabre garb of Goths and vampires, vied with men dressed as female nurses, and women dressed as circus clowns for the attention of onlookers drawn into their world of street fantasy and impromptu performance. A clown spied my loaded camera looking at her and made a bee-line for me. “Voule-vous blah, blah, blah in French”? she asked me. “Je suis desolet” I replied “Je ne parle pas francais…je suis Australian”. “Ahh, Australi…” She responded, with a tone of mirth-making intent in her voice. Then followed it up with an exposition of her understanding of what it is to be Australian, including bouncing like a Roo, and standing on one leg like an Aborigine. Her fellow clowns exploded in laughter as she talked to me in pantomime and encouraged the gathered onlookers to join in the piss-take of me without pause for breath. After five minutes she kissed me on both cheeks French-style and asked me to sign her ‘visitors’ book. I returned to my table slightly shaken, slightly stirred, and very un-James Bond like, just as another biker sat opposite and laid his helmet down. His name was Laurent, and he rode a black Honda CBR 900.

Laurent’s english was broken but good, and my French atrociously funny, but nonetheless communicable. I learned some new words as we sat there watching the beauties of France stroll on by in their mini-skirts, high-heels, make-up and great manes of golden and auburn hair; Woman is Femme, and Beautiful, Jolie. We had a coffee or two, smoked about the same in cigarettes, and talked about bikes and travel and beautiful women. I told him I was on my way to Troyes, but he didn’t know what I meant, so I wrote it down for him. “Ahh, Twah”. He exclaimed. “Like the number three…Une, Du, Twah”. He then told me about this campsite he knew twenty miles from there that was on the Marne river and well worth staying at for the night; then he showed me on the map where it was. After many attempts at following an explanation of roads that didn’t actually appear on the map, he said he would take me there himself instead. Minutes later I was roaring along a country road at ninety miles an hour with the warm French wind in my face, and the scent of high-octane fuel in my nostrils.

We blasted along a magnificently winding road through hedge-rowed hamlets with tiny cackling streams, and up long steep hills, and down super-fast straights on the other side again. At the peak of one such hill in the town of Chatillon sur Marne, Laurent pulled his bike to the side of the road and pointed out the high commanding statue of an age-old Pope who had been born there, and the all encompassing view it had over the wide-ranging hills as far as the eye could see. “Champagne” he told me. “Everything you can see around you is Champagne vineyards, thousand of them”. He was right of course; there were thousands of them it seemed, stretching out in all directions except that from where I’d come. I had entered the Champagne region, and was now just minutes away from my campsite for the night.

We wound our way down through vineyards and the small commercial sector of town, then crossed the Marne river and turned off into a large open tract of land bordering it. There were tall bright trees set on little islands of long fine grass that were separated by sweet pathways of twisting gravel. Laurent told me that the place had once been an official campsite, but for reasons unknown to him, had been shut down a couple of years back, and was now open to anyone who wanted to simply arrive there and set themselves up. So that’s exactly what I did, I pitched the tent beside the river, walked to gather some nearby firewood, and settled down for the evening, watching the sun dance on Champagne fruit lazing on the Papal-blessed hills all around me.

Pt. 5 Scotland

Monday 10^th May 2010

My intention had always been to return to Somerset from here to drop off the big travel bag and oversized camera tripod that have been languishing in Gorebridge for the past year or so. I was going to leave tomorrow morning, and having reached Somerset, stay there the night, then ride across to Dover the next day; a total distance not far shy of 700 miles. It’d mean spending 10 hours riding to Somerset tomorrow, and another 3 hours across to Dover on Wednesday. Sod that for a game of soldiers; thirteen hours of motorway riding and I’m still in the uk, I don’t think so. So having come to that decision over a coffee this morning, Simon suggested I board a boat out of Rosyth in Fife, and sail to Zeebruge in Belgium. An excellent idea.

I went online and found the Norfolkline ferry site. A hundred and seventy pound on the visa-card later, and I was booked onto the 5pm out of Rosyth this Thursday. It’s a 20 hour boat trip across the North sea and the English channel; a fair distance really, so I can well imagine what the ferry will be like. Based on my past experience of ‘the further the trip the bigger the boat’ I can only surmise it’s gonna be big, probably half a dozen decks from vehicles to roof. It’ll have a fore, and an aft bar, a restaurant, and a couple of duty-free shops. There’ll be two cinemas, a gaming console play room, and probably a quiet lounge area. Amongst all this will be private cabins running along both port and starboard sides, and hundreds of reclining seats laid out jumbo-jet fashion on at least two of the decks, but I might be totally wrong. Either way, I’m now staying here till late Thursday afternoon, then I’m sailing my way to Belgium. What a brilliant way to begin the European trip.

I made a coffee and went outside. The air was totally still, but the sky was the colour of fish. I thought about the Aussie writer Tim Winton, and mentally thanked him for the use of that line, then I sent Lyndal a text telling her about the boat. She sent me a reply that she was drinking a Heathcote Shiraz right at that very moment, and eating white chocolate Tim-Tams. She said ‘talk about synchronicity’. Personally I didn’t get the synchronicity bit, but she also pointed out I’d have 16 days, and over three-thousand miles of riding before getting any real time off the bike in Paris. That’s gonna make for a very sore arse.

But all inspired by having an extra couple of days up my sleeve, I decided to go through my stuff all over again, and see what I could leave behind. Eileen had agreed to keep the bag and oversized tripod at her place till I get back, cuz Simon simply hasn’t got the space anymore due to the chicken breeding thing. So I sorted through and tossed out more of what I previously thought I’d need. Now I’m down to three Jeans, five T-shirts, two pair shoes, jocks, socks and a jumper. I’ve got other bits too though, like laptop, camera, vid-cam, camping gear, cables, leads etc, but I really do need all of that stuff…I think.

In the afternoon I sat in the lounge with Simon talking about our separate experiences in applied-photography. While I was fisting-around doing News pics for the papers, and the odd family portrait here and there, Simon was hiring hot-looking models, and doing glamour shots either in his own studio, or on-location somewhere funky. He went out to a shoot not too far away from here one day. The model was well experienced and really knew her stuff. She offered various poses and outfit changes and prop ideas. Then she started peeling off her gear and showing off what she got. Her husband then appeared and told Simon that he writes articles for porno magazines. “Show him your framed portrait sweetheart” he told his wife. “Aye, good idea” agreed Simon, “Is it a family shot”? He asked all a fluster and not knowing which way to turn. “Not really”. She answered, then ripped off her knickers, sat on the table and put her ankles behind her head, showing off her perfectly framed muff. It was around about then that Simon choked on his tea, flicked off his camera and said it was time to leave. A week or so later he heard a news report about a police bust not too far away from here, on a husband and wife team who were making home-movies and selling their porn. Conceivably, out-there somewhere there’s an episode in a porn flick about an embarrassed and hapless photographer not knowing which way to look.

Tuesday 11^th May 2010

It really was a nothing day today. I got up way too early, and just felt lazy all day. I sat around most of the morning talking about chickens and stroking the dogs. In the afternoon things weren’t much different, with the exception that I rode down the street and bought some Sizzling steak flavoured crisps. That little bit of excitement lasted me all the way through to about six o’clock, when I wandered down to see that murderous old broad, granny-May for the evening.

Granny May is a sweet little old Scottish lady, with a voice like velvety toffee. She wears Tweed skirts and pullovers made of Aaron or Shetland wool, on her feet she wears what Billy Connelly best described as ‘Scone-eating shoes; flat and brown and with just the slightest hint of Scottish-ness about them. Her hair is grey now, but sometimes it becomes blue, or even pink, depending on her mood. When she walks, it’s with a cane, and when she sits, it’s often with pain. She loves to read Agatha Christie novels, and thinks of herself as a Scottish Miss Marple.

I let myself in and wandered into the kitchen where May was cooking something wonderful. I made us both tea and carried them through to her parlour while she stirred and taste-tested her creation. Then she came through, eased herself into her chair, and sat with a wince then a laugh.

The telly was on, and political dribble was streaming from it like regurgitated boredom. “Och I cannae watch this nonsense nae more” said May, flicking the remote and finding something new. “They all need poisoning the lot of them,” she added with a devilish laugh “I know a few additives that’d shut that lot up”. I drank my tea, looking at the tiny oil-slick floating on top of it. She sniggered quietly, and looked at me over the top of her glasses. “There‘s over one-hundred poisons that are untraceable in the human body.” She told me. “Mind you, people nowadays dinnae realise it, the only one you ever hear about is Arsenic, but that’s so old-fashioned, there are much better ones around than that.” “Really?” I asked, intrigued by her murderous knowledge. “Like what?” “Och never you mind that son.” She answered, tapping the side of her nose. “Now then” She started. “Have you had your tea yet, because I’ve something on the go for you out there if your hungry” Then she let out a huge uproarious laugh that’d wake the dead to hear. “You’re kiddin’ aren’t you May?” I laughed. “Do really think I’m going to sit here and eat one of your chemical poison experiments while you sit idly by watching Antiques roadshow and sniggering fiendishly to yourself?” “but I’ve made Stovies”. She offered.

Now I’m not really sure what Stovies actually is, but it seems to be a mostly potato dish, with whatever meat you decide to add, along with onion, and vegetables and a few other bits and pieces. It’s served as a kind of thick casserole I guess, and is a hearty Scottish food, warming and comforting the body much like porridge does.

I couldn’t refuse, I was hungry after-all. So May hobbled out to the kitchen and returned with a large bowlful of steaming hot, and wonderfully smelling food, accompanied by a couple of slabs of thickly-buttered bread. While I dug into the meaty, tasty dish, May watched me intently. “How is it?” She asked, then followed it with. “Mind and clean the bowl .” Moments later it was. “See and mop up all the juice with your bread mind.” And then finally, “You’ll sleep well enough tonight after eating that.” She delivered with the devil in her voice.

And she was right, by the time ten o’clock came I could barely keep my eyes open. I struggled-on through the ghost stories and the tales of Irish ancestors who possessed the gift of ‘Sight’. I stifled yawns –though not of boredom- as May told of her life through wartime Britain; and I stretched out a pre-sleep rigor that threatened to devour me from the inside-out, whilst the whole time old granny May recited recipes for murder, and opening lines from her favourite books.

As I lay back on the couch at Simons place that night, my body felt warm and satisfied. Soon, the best nights sleep enveloped me that I had enjoyed for days. That night as tales of madness, murder, treachery and lost-love swam in my head, I dreamed of a place called Manderlay, and a woman whose name was Rebecca.

Wednesday 12^th 2010

In 2004 the actor Ewen Mcgregor and his mate Charlie Boreman took off on a trip from London. They rode two BMW adventure bikes 20,000 miles across Europe, Mongolia, Russia, Canada and finally through the USA to New York. They called the trip “The Long Way Round”. Since then, sales of BMW’s GS 1200 adventure bikes have gone through the roof, and every biker with any adventure left in his soul secretly hankers after one…me included.

The day started out sunny and mild. I was up early and doing the coffee and fag thing before the rest of the country had really got themselves going. Since Tuesdays ‘Getting it on Day’ had since become defunct, Wednesday had become the new Tuesday, even though Thursday was when I was actually leaving. Either way there was still some thing’s I had to take care of before boarding the boat for Belgium.

Simon went out for the day at about ten, leaving me at the laptop, tapping away at keys and searching through maps of the Alps. I made another coffee, then looked up the phone number for the Dalkeith branch of Lloyds Bank. A very sexy female voice asked me select option 1, 2, or 3 from her list of recorded alternatives. “I just want to speak to someone” I told her, after jumping through her silly hoops for the half doze-nth time . “I’m sorry” she replied “Was that, Open a new Account? Please press One to continue” Faaaaark!! Eventually she decided I obviously didn’t know what I was doing, and put me through to a living, breathing person based in Glasgow. After a few frustrated but polite words from me, he connected me direct to the Dalkeith branch of the Lloyds Trustee savings bank.

“Hi, I’d like to buy some Euros” I told Katrina when she answered the phone. “I’m just making sure I can get them from you before I come in”. “Are you an account holder here sir?” She asked. “No, my account branch is Oxford Street in London”. I told her. “Just a moment then please sir”. And then I was on hold. “How many Euros were you after sir?” She then asked when she remembered I was still there. “A couple of thousand”. I replied. “Just a moment please sir” Then I was back on hold again, while Katrina checked on the banks available balance. The minutes ticked by slowly, then Katrina came back on the phone. “I’m sorry sir we don’t have that amount here at this time, is there anything else I can help you with?” Anything else? She’s keen I thought, I hadn’t even finished with this inquiry yet. “Yeah, yeah, hang on a minute. How many Euro’s can I get off you then?” “Please hold sir”. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. “I’m sorry sir we don’t actually have any Euro’s here at all, we can get them in for you but we’ll require forty-eight hours notice. When do you need them by...oh really, that soon? Perhaps you should try the Post office”.

I pulled on my helmet and blasted eight-hundred and fifty cc’s of twin cylindered pissed-offness across to the nearby Newtongrange post-office, where my request for a couple thousand Euros barely raised a comment. Within minutes I was Euro-cashed and happy. I span the bikes back tyre in celebration, then headed for the BMW garage in Dalkeith, a couple miles further up the road.

A BMW GS 1200 really is the caff de foo-foo of bikes, a real all round performer that can match it with the sport bikes on a race to the country, then leave them behind when the road runs out, and go across the actual countryside itself; pot-holes, mud, gravel, wet slippery hills an’ all. They can carry an enormous amount of luggage too, and being such torque machines, lugging all that extra weight really doesn’t bother them. Aside from all that they’re made by BMW, so the engineering and reliability are second to none.

I pulled into the forecourt of Dalkeith BMW, parked my bike and went inside. There, in full living colour was the bike I’d come to see. A brand-new, ready to roll machine fresh off the press. I wandered around it ooh-ing and aah-ing, dribbling from the corner of my mouth and generally looking quite pathetic. A young salesman approached me. “Nice bike eh?” Stupid thing to say really, of course it was a nice bike. I wiped the slobber off my mouth and began my practised tale of bullshit that I hoped would get me a test-ride for a couple of hours. “Yeah great bike mate, I used to ride one of these back in oz, took it right across the Nullaboor to Perth and back again”.

“Really? me too”, he fired back immediately. Bugger, that wasn’t supposed to happen, what are the chances of that? I quickly countered with, “But I’m off down to Rome now, then back up along the Rivierra’s before a chill-out week in Paris, can’t wait to get going.” He did something strange with his lips and nodded his head a few times understandingly. “When I get back from this little jaunt though” I went on. “I’m heading back to oz via the middle east and Pakistan, India etc, and the only sensible way to do a trip like that is on one of these…isn’t it?” He couldn’t agree more, fifteen odd thousand miles of good roads, bad roads, and questionable terrain were what this bike was made for. I lifted the big brochure type price tag that hung teasingly from the handlebar. 13,499.00 inc VAT and on-road costs. “I take it that price is negotiable” I told him. “No” he answered simply, “But if you want to put a five-hundred pound deposit on it today, I’ll throw in the panniers, top-box and tank-bag, that’s a saving of nearly eight-hundred pounds on genuine BMW luggage. “Oh that’s pretty good” I said nonchalantly, like these amounts of money were neither here nor there to me. “So if I was to walk in here with a fist-load of cash” I tried again. “You wouldn’t be able to do some sort of price deal for me…really”? Smile, wink, nudge, nudge. “If you want to walk in here with nearly fourteen thousand pound in cold hard cash” he said, “I’ll not only throw in the luggage like I said, but I’ll let you take the bike home with you too” Ha-ha, very bloody funny smart-arse. “Normally I’d offer you a test-ride” he said, “ if your serious about getting one, but since you’ve had one before our policy states that once you’ve ridden one, there’s no need to test-ride another one because you already know how good they are. We don’t need to sell the bike, the bike has already sold itself.” Fuck, fuck, fuckitty-fuck, I’d blown it. I asked him for a business card anyway, and waffled some rubbish about coming back in when I was actually ready to buy. He asked me over to his desk and fished out a card. “What are these?” I asked, pointing to the little plastic things on his desk. “Golf Tees” he replied. “Really, and what exactly do you do with them?” I asked. “Well you put your balls on them when your about to drive-of” He answered. Well fuck me I thought, BMW really do take their driver comfort seriously don’t they?

I got back to Simons place and regaled him with my tale of motor biking woe. He just laughed and called me a dickhead. That night I treated the family to a nosh-up from the local chippy. Then I repacked my stuff all over again, and mapped out my route through France with a highlighting pen. By midnight, the nerves were jangling, and the pseudo-macho ego machine had taken over; I was less than a day away from conquering the world, and wanted everyone to know about it. Matty rolled a joint, took me outside and got me stoned. Within minutes, I was wobbling up the stairs to bed, singing melancholy love songs.