Part 11. Deeper into Italy

Monday 24^th May 2010.

“Where are you from?” Christian asked me as I punched my PIN number into the credit card machine the next morning and gritted my teeth hoping it wouldn’t spontaneously combust or burst into hysterical laughter. “Melbourne, Australia” I answered the hotel manager, hoping that the lull in credit card thought might make it not notice my escalating balance due. “That makes more sense’ he responded, “you do not seem like English people, they are so anxious and in a hurry all the time; you my friend mister Bush are nice, like you are relaxed and happy with your life”. I smiled at that. He was right of course, I was feeling very relaxed and happy with my life, why wouldn’t I be? I was on a journey by motorbike through northern Europe and down to Rome, and then onto France for the second leg and a week in Paris with my mate Lyndal. Aside from some self-set very flexible agenda, I really didn’t have to be anywhere, or be doing anything at any particular time. I was free to come and go as I saw fit, and the way I saw it, that was what it was all about…freedom. The credit card machine went ‘beep’ and thanked me for my purchase, and Christian gave me a map of Siena and told me some of the places I really should try and see before setting off to Rome. Then we shook hands warmly and bid each other Ciao.

I found my way easily into the huge medieval Piazza del Campo. The place was alive with tourists and native Sienese sitting in the shade sipping drinks and people watching. As the sunlight played on old and young alike, strolling in the massive open space, licking ice creams and munching foccacia’s, I snapped many pictures, but try as I might, I just couldn’t get a well exposed photograph of the great bell tower that dominated the square. The sun was directly behind it and no matter my efforts I either ended up with a dreadfully over-exposed shot, or one that came in silhouette form, denying the tower of it’s wealth of beauty and fine artisan detail. Youngsters played and splashed water from the trickling spring, and mothers took photographs of their children looking in awe at the intricate statues adorning the fountains and water filled ponds of the plaza’s northern side. I bought myself a blueberry ice cream and struggled against the suns heat to finish it before it melted as I strolled lazily uphill through the tiny, shadowed lanes to the Piazza del Duomo where the Duomo di Siena, or Cathedral of Siena itself stood in emblazoned sunlit glory.

Sweet mesmeric music drifted to meet me as I climbed the stairs to enter the piazza. A violinist there moved with his music, feeling every note, living every sweet, sweet tone that wept from his strings in tortured ecstasy. I sat on the ground, resting my back against some great column and listened as he breathed in his strings and totally immersed himself in his rapturous passion. I called out ‘Bravo’ and tossed him some Sheckles, then I walked through to the nearby cathedral; a magnificent gleaming white structure filled with the tiniest of details and sculpted by the hand of pure craft. It was medieval Gothic, at least I thought so, but the statues and gargoyles that peered down from it’s highest of high points definitely understood contemporary slob. They laughed and ridiculed me and my efforts to capture there existence on camera, led to Ice cream running down my arm and splattering across my not so white T-shirt and onto my jeans and then my shoes. Did anyone notice that? I wondered as I attempted to clean myself up without being obvious. Of course they did. Children pointed me out to their parents, a Nun walked by and looked me in disdain, a photographer pointed his lens at me and said ‘Messy’; but did I care? no not really, for just like the age old stonework, the peeling paintwork and the rusted iron railings that filled so much of Siena, I was just another part of the scene; and besides, the alluring aroma of Pizza was calling me from not too far away, and my stomach was telling me to eat.

So I paid five euro’s and got a slice of pizza and a small can of coke. The coke was fine as far as coke goes, but the pizza was definitely a little bit dodgy, it really didn’t worry me though, I’d probably eaten worse before. Nor did it worry me as I sat at the side of the road eating it and drinking coke that the local Carbinieri pulled up alongside my bike and told me I couldn’t park it there and had ten minutes to be gone before they came back. I’d done Siena now anyway, and within an easy hours riding I would be seeing the distant hills surrounding Rome. I rode on south to a campsite at the Boisierre lakes, and unravelled myself from the day, typing out my thoughts on a less then fully charged laptop.

“I, for one, have an idea that he will never bring this journey off’. So read the words of Homers Odyssey; and I for one, have likewise thought the same. As I sat in the tent that night, flicking through the pages of a well-loved and much-read book, it occurred to me that tomorrow I’d actually be in Rome, I’d have reached the halfway point of my own odyssey, and that from there I’d be heading back towards the uk again. ‘What, I wonder will be the elixir I shall return home with? I have yet to seize the Golden fleece of my journey’. The almost-full moonlight dancing on the water reminded that the stage of completion was near. Any moment now, I would be entering into the great Ordeal where my resolve would be tested fully, and my reward bestowed upon me should I survive the unknown test. I finished writing for the night, and then walked to the campsites washroom where I could re-charge the laptop in one of the power points lining the wall there. As I stood there with nothing but the sound of insects buzzing in my ear, my stomach began to rumble, and an acid bile rose slowly into my throat.

Tuesday 25^th May 2010 ‘See Rome and die’

I wish I could say that Rome was a the crowning glory of my adventure, that it was everything I hoped it would be, and that the journey to get there simply paled into insignificance when compared to the splendour that was Rome itself; but I cant. Maybe I could blame the rampaging microorganisms that curdled in my gut for my very downhearted opinion of Rome. On the other hand, maybe the Peugeot driver bumping my rear wheel at sixty miles an hour as I rode tourist like along the pencil-pined roadways didn’t help my demeanour either. Perhaps it was the slight ache in my left foot from smashing the Italian drivers’ side mirror off as he pulled up alongside me. It probably had a lot to do with the insane amount of vehicle and pedestrian traffic there, and also the fast-paced, cheap, tackiness of it all I don’t know for sure what it was that made me dislike Rome so much, but that’s simply how it was, and I have no desire to ever return.

I’d bought a map as I entered the city, and had worked out roughly where I was and where I wanted to go. First up was the Vatican, then I’d planned on going to the Colosseum, and from there I figured I’d just make the rest up as I went along. So I started off along this great five lane roadway that resembled the starting grid of a formula one race track. Cars drove at a ridiculous speed, changing lanes with total abandon and zero regard for anyone other than themselves. Scooters in their hundreds zipped in and out, weaving through the tapestry of traffic like a demented bobbin on a loom. Road markings meant nothing and traffic lights even less. Red became Go. Green became Stop, and Amber didn’t exist, and no matter my attempts to move left or right, the traffic simply forced me to follow a route I really didn’t want. After twenty minutes, I found myself near the Olympic stadium, where I managed to pull out of the flow of madness and park the bike at the side of the road. I stood there a while feeling decidedly unwell, and watching this never-seen-the-like-of-before, mass of machinery go by in some kind of orchestrated insanity to which I didn’t possess a score. I rolled a smoke and pulled out the map. I could see roughly where I was, but couldn’t quite rationalise which direction I was actually facing. I stopped a girl in the street and asked for some help in finding the Vatican. I figured it was an important enough landmark for everyone in Rome to know how to get there, so I was quite surprised when she told me in rough English “it’s either up this way or down that way’. Great, I thought, I’ve got a fifty-fifty. She then phoned a friend, but he couldn’t help either. I was two lifelines down and none the wiser; I figured I’d ask the audience, and called out “The Vatican, does anyone have any idea how I get there?” About 75% pointed left, and the rest simply looked at me blankly; that was good enough for me. I thanked the girl and everyone else, then locked in Left, and headed back the way I’d just come. Half an hour later I parked the bike amongst a great stand of scooters and sat at the side of the road holding my pounding head in my hands and feeling vomit rising closer and closer to the surface. I had no idea where I was, I thought all roads lead to Rome, but here they all seemed to take me into one-way lanes that led off in every direction except the one I needed. I guzzled water, I sweated, I spat burning bile from my mouth. My breath tasted rancid as I burped into my hand, and my stomach was bloated and aching; all I wanted to do was find a road to get me the hell out of there. I was beginning to hate Rome, and it wasn’t even Rome’s fault. I strained to find a way through on my map, but it didn’t seem to matter what the map told me, as the reality of the streets was completely different. “Fuck it” I screamed into my helmet, and went straight up a one-way street in the wrong direction. Cars blasted their horns, scooters dared to play chicken with me, but didn’t realise I was past caring, and more than one ended up doing the sidewalk as a last second decision. Suddenly I knew where I was. A sign pointed me to St. Peters square just a hundred meters away. I sideswiped a scooter “get the hell outa my way” and cut across it and up onto the wide footpath where pedestrians scrambled to avoid me and my right on the very edge attitude of, talk to me and die. I leaped off the bike, ripped off my helmet and tried to breath. My guts were foul, I wanted to let rip the tremendous wind that had built up inside of me but nothing would happen; I couldn’t even burp properly. My head was spinning, my body racked in a cold sweat, and I was rapidly becoming dehydrated. I guzzled down water at a stupid rate, but all it did was add to my already bloated and uncomfortable stomach that ached as if I’d swallowed a football. I knew it would pass eventually, that all I had to do was walk it off, drink plenty of water, eat some plain food and soak up the nasties eating me inside out; but I could barely stand up straight, let alone walk in 30-degree heat. I soldiered on though, through a thousand people or more, all jostling for position on footpaths that were way too narrow, I crossed roads, dodging traffic that would rather run me over than slow down or even stop for the red-light in front of them. All I had to do was reach St. Peters square and see the Vatican. At least then, I could find a place to stay the night, work through the sickness that was rapidly devouring me, and tomorrow I could make my way out to the Colosseum and take some time out to enjoy the rest of the glory that was surely Rome.

So I sweated my way up the hell that led me into St. Peters Square, dodging the Hot-dog sellers and the purveyors of everything cheap and nasty. I shouldered tacky tourist bus spruikers aside with a don’t even think about it glare, and ignored the pretty little things in their tiny little skirts who tried in vain to shove all manner of pamphlets into my hand at every crack in the pavement. Eventually the vast columned circle called a square opened up before me. Towering Roman-built architecture surrounded me, dizzying me with its height, dazzling me with its brilliance and bringing gut-turning convulsions to me with its vulgar and tat-filled interior. The Vatican building itself was immense, but so out of reach through the swirling crowd of tourists queuing for miles to get in, that it may as well have been a hundred miles away. Priests stood amongst enthralled, ice cream toting audiences, telling the story of Saint Peter and his execution in the square, and all the while the cry of ‘Hot-dogs, souvenirs, cheap-crap for sale’ filled the area that was the seat of the Catholic church, reducing it to little more than the like of a travelling circus arena. I stood by the fountain and filled my water bottle there. An American woman in a god-awful floral top pointed to me and said to her equally fashion unconscious husband, “Hey Frank, I don’t think he should be doing that, why don’t you go say something to him?” I gazed at them with maniacal eyes while emptying the entire bottle over my head, soaking my shirt, my trousers and everything else around me. “Go ahead Frank, make my day”. I shook the water from my hair, scrubbed at my eyes and let out a huge belch. God it tasty vile, like someone had taken a crap in my mouth and left it to ripen in the sun for a few days; but it relieved some of the pressure in my gut, and the water had cooled my temper a little. I watched Frank walk away with his wife nagging at his tail between his legs, and made my way into the mass of age-old stone columns and sat in the shade for a while, trying to decide how I felt about it all, and what the hell I was going to do about it.

A man was playing in the small waterspout there with his young son. He was chasing after him, and splashing water and making monster faces and sounds. The boy was giggling and laughing hysterically. After a minute or so the mans wife arrived with another two children, they were both girls aged about seven or eight, and dressed in pretty little dresses with their hair done in sparkly tinsel and ribbons. Immediately I thought about my girls in Melbourne, and walked to the nearby Vatican post office where I bought them a nice card, wrote them some loving words and then posted it. The moment I put the card in the post-box I knew my time there was done, and I had to make plans for my escape.

I walked back to the fountain and refilled my bottle yet again. I took a long hard slug from it, put it back in my bag and braced myself for the road back. By the time I got to the bike I was near to bursting, I’d drank nearly three litres of water in the past hour or so and my bladder desperately needed emptying. Now I am not so gauche to urinate in public, but by that time, I’d decided Rome was nothing but a toilet anyway, and had sent numerous text messages to that effect. Even so, I needed to find a proper loo, and I needed to find one quickly; I also needed to a get out of Rome free card. I roared alongside the Tiber River, circled around the town centre time and time again, and crossed the same bridge four times, but Rome wouldn’t let me out. Somehow I got myself onto a ring road that circled the town, and despite my best efforts, I wasn’t getting away without a fight. With my guts on fire and my bladder on the very edge of letting go completely, I darted across three lanes of traffic and into a petrol station where I settled matters with my insides, and filled the bikes tank and re-ordered my thoughts. Somehow, I had to find a chink in Rome’s armour and thrust a sharp pointy stick into it, but its guardians were clever, and re-routed me over and over into a labyrinth of one-way roads that took me only deeper and deeper into the beast’s bone-littered lair.

“So how did you manage to get out of there?” Stephen asked me over a hot cup of coffee and a cold German sausage. “Dogged determination” I told him. “That and playing the beast at its own game and going where I wanted to go, not where it sent me”. I’d forced my way through the traffic, I’d ridden straight through Red-lights, and I’d beeped and tooted and abused and kicked the scooters, cars and pedestrians that got in my way. Eventually I’d made my way onto the Auto route and just kept going as long as I could. By eight o’clock that night I was drained and in desperate need of some food and somewhere to lay my head down. I saw a sign for a campsite near the town of Civvitavechio, so turned off the Auto route and wound my way towards a large Pine forest where I found the camps entrance, set in a woodland clearing.

It was very quiet there, not a peaceful quiet mind you, but an eerie quiet. It was dark too, but not a nighttime dark, more a Stephen King type dark. The woman behind the desk spoke little English, and my Italian had never even got passed Go. I read the Tariffs board and worked out it’d cost me 18 euros for the night, more if I wanted electricity. Fine, I really didn’t care, I just wanted to eat something even though It’d probably make me sick, which wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I handed over my passport and credit card, but the credit card machine wouldn’t work, so I reluctantly handed over 20 Euros, and then had to ask her for the change. I asked where the restaurant was, she said it was closed. Okay, so what about the shop that’s advertised on the front board then? It was closed too she told me. ‘Is there anywhere I can get something to eat here, anything at all?” She shrugged her shoulders, out of either disinterest, or non-comprehension. Bloody hell, if I hadn’t felt so done-in I’d have turned around and ridden straight out of there again, but I was wasted, and really needed to sleep.

“And so here you are now, enjoying a hot drink and eating German sausages”. Stephen said as he pulled a map-case out of his pannier and made his way to the table where I was sitting.

The receptionists’ husband had come out and bid me follow him on my bike to where I should put my tent up. We wound our way past deserted caravans that looked like they’d not seen life for years. I followed him deeper and deeper into the woodland; past the deserted and derelict restaurant, and the boarded-up shop with it’s remnants of long-passed holidays still sitting on the rickety verandah, and its tattered curtains peering out at me through filthy broken windows. It got darker and gloomier the further we went. I thought that maybe I could be murdered here tonight, and my body be buried in a shallow grave and all my belongings sold on e-bay. The track swung left past a pile of freshly felled trees, then right, towards a large washroom complex. The driver stopped his car here and pointed from his window to a large patch of open grass surrounded by a wild-looking hedge. I waved my hand as he drove away, and turned the bike into an opening in the hedgerow and onto the grassy campsite where I saw a man boiling water on a camp stove beside his tent. Parked to one side was a motorbike as laden with luggage as my own. It was a BMW GS 1150, and belonged to a doctor from Hanover in Germany named Stephen.

“And yeah, for sure there were other sights I’d wanted to see” I told him after retelling my tale of horror in Rome, “but after the circus Vatican, I wasn’t about to have my vision of the colosseum blown apart too. I didn’t want all my bubbles burst at once”.

Stephen had arrived at the campsite an hour or so before I had, and had likewise felt uneasy about being there. He said that he had considered packing up and leaving but couldn’t face the prospect of having to find another place at night, and going through the whole breaking camp, and setting up routine all over again. When he’d heard my bike coming along the track though, he’d decided that things were possibly looking up, and had put some water on the boil for what he rightly considered my much-needed coffee. We sat at the table of a long deserted caravan and pored over maps of the Alps, and shared stories and coffee and cigarettes. My guts were still very unsettled, but the sausage meat and the Mars bars that Stephen offered went a long way toward making me feel better. He’d ridden down from Hanover to Trento in Italy, just fifty miles north of Verona on the first day of his week-long trip, a journey of nearly a thousand kilometers, and was on his way to Rome to see the Vatican. Well that had been his plan until he met me and I told him of my experience there. We laughed about where we were, and talked about our respective lives, and why we did what we did; but the day had taken its toll on me, and before too long I had to call it a night with the promise we would talk again in the morning. I fell asleep that night not feeling any better, but not feeling any worse either, and when I awoke in the morning the sun was fully up, and the sinister woodcutters forest seemed less morose, but still a little surreal

Pt. 10 Superbikes to Florence

Saturday 22^nd May 2010

Today I needed to make Florence –the town, not the woman-, but the best laid plans of mice and men etcetera…

I ‘ve spent too much time gawking and not enough time riding, but ‘je ne regret rien’. Nonetheless I needed to make up some time, so I took the high-speed autostrausser to Bologne then turned off towards Florence, but I took the wrong turn, and instead of turning around, I did the only sensible thing I could do; I took another turn to see where it would take me.

Braaaaam-braaaaam, vroom vroom…braaaaaaaaam. Screaming superbikes were everywhere, I’d pulled straight onto a race track with a loaded up touring bike that had the handling ability of a boat in a forest. The road ran from Rioveggio across to Loiano, a distance of about twelve miles give or take a snake-turn or two, and it was where the boys came out to play. If I thought the road through the Alps was a winding wonderland, then I was in for an enormously big ‘HELLO’ from above. It was exhilarating riding, even on a tractor, as the sticky black track swung left then right then left and left again. Harder, harder, tighter, faster, steeper. Left, right, left right, hairpin turn. Downhill, faster, faster, screaming revs. My heart in my mouth. Up gear, down gear, down another gear, brake hard…harder. Screeching tyres, smoking rubber, burning brakes, screaming engine, sphincter twittering, nail-biting edge of the seat, magnificent fucking Oo-rah’s gentlemen! But fast and hard as I was going, I was never a match for those who knew their stuff, and screaming wheels raced past me with sparks flying off their foot pegs and leather shredding from their knee-pads at every turn. Leathered lothario’s diced with Adonis in jeans as Aprilla’s, Buell’s, Bmw’s Cagiva’s, Fireblades and every conceivable make and model of superfast bike that’s ever been born, raced down this madness of track called a road that cars simply knew to avoid. The air was electric, the sound was phenomenal, the stench was addictive and the whole place alive and dynamic. The road reached a junction where even the boldest held their breath. While cars drove sheepishly passed, and their drivers looked meekly away; the racers held their steel, then when the racetrack was clear, they screamed off with one wheel raised high, and raced to the sky up the other side of the valley.

But the thought of doing it all again was too much for me, so I turned off into a pretty little woodland where bunnies and fairy’s lived, and made a cup of tea and had a sandwich, and considered an afternoon nap.

As the water boiled, and steam filled the high-octane air that intruded into the waterside woodland, I could feel the adrenaline being carried away on a fast-flowing stream of fairy-tale lullaby music. Presently serenity returned, and the rush of nervous energy was drained, and I again became as one with the world. I drank my tea whilst sitting on a rock in the water, dangling my feet like a dreamy child into the cool mountain stream. I wondered whether there were any Trout nearby, and sat there with my eyes peeled looking for the tell-tale sign of a feeding fish. Then a rustling of leaves from the other bank caught my attention, and a barefoot woman stepped down to the waterside.

“Dario, Dario”. She called. But Dario didn’t answer, so she slipped out of her jeans, pulled off her top and stepped into the water wearing just bra and knickers. Oh thank you, thank you, thank you. Obviously she hadn’t seen me sitting there in full-view on a rock hiding behind a tree branch, wearing nothing but a camouflaged jacket and my drab khaki greens, and holding a camera in my hand. I remained perfectly still, uncertain exactly of just what to do. The ‘Click’ of the camera would be a dead give-away, but what an opportunity to miss; so I sat there in perfect stillness and silence, enjoying my privileged treat. She started fumbling around her back, nooooo, she was going to take off her bra. Take it off, take it off, take it off, take it off, but then more rustling occurred, and a man arrived and stole the woman away. That was it, the moment was gone and the magic was over; my bubble was burst, and the pricks name was Dario.

I peered down the flow of water. Was that a rising Trout I spied? There it was again, and again. I put my socks and shoes back on, grabbed my affairs, and started back to the bike to get my rod and reel.

I considered setting up camp for the night here, but it was obviously in regular use as Brick bbq’s and litter-bins however discreetly erected, were nonetheless there. I jumped on the bike and sedately rode a mile downstream where I found a track that led to the water’s very edge. There I found a perfect grassy spot hidden from the road, surrounded by trees, the water at my feet, and firewood in abundance. I parked the bike, and without bothering to unpack the rest of the gear, I got my fishing rod together, selected the perfect fly and crept down to the water’s edge. Several minutes went by without tempting a fish. I cast into streams, riffles, eddies and swirling back-flows where large boulders blocked the waters flow, and insects swept round behind into the open mouths of waiting trout…nothing. I walked downstream to where the water divided into two separate runs, and chose the fast gravel one first, leaving the deeper slower pool for when the sun was lower and the Moths came out….still nothing. So the sun wasn’t yet low, and the moths weren’t out, but a caterpillar fly would probably do the trick. No? Maybe a Tadpole pattern then, I’d seen them swimming in the shallows further back. No? How about a Greenwells Glory then, or a Cinnamon and Gold; a Grey hen and Yellow maybe? A cock-y-bundoo, a Black gnat, a bit of bread on a bare hook?…what then? I threw a stone in the water and hoped I’d knock a fish out instead. Down but not out, I walked back to my campsite and set the tent up, and made a cup of tea on a raging fire of driftwood and yesteryears green, green boughs. As I sat sipping my tea and considering what cunning plan to execute next, a movement in the trees caught my eye. What was that I wondered, it did look very big, sorta like a Bear, but surely not in here, not in downtown Tuscany anyway. It was dark-coloured though, and bulky too, maybe it was a Wolf. Did they still have Wolves in Italy? I figured I’d done enough fishing for the day anyway, and quickly gathered as much firewood as I could from as close-by as possible, and built a huge, almost forest-type fire. Then I slipped into the tent, pulled the sleeping bag over my head and prayed that I wouldn’t get mauled before morning…like one time is better than another?

Sunday 23^rd May 2010

I woke up alive and unscathed, which was a good way to start the day I thought. I considered tying on another fly and having a go at the elusive trout again; but then, given my appalling lack of success the previous afternoon I actually wondered whether there was even any point. I made a cup of coffee instead, broke camp and then headed onward towards Florence.

Once again, I found myself entering the racetrack Rioveggio where superbikes played and cars simply didn’t fit in. Within minutes of leaving the babbling brook behind, I was in the heady fuel-injected realm of leathered Lorenzo and his knee-scraping horde of gut-wrenching cornering crusaders. The road now wound its way up the other side of the valley. The engine revved hard in third and second gear corners as I leaned the bike into anti-gravity mode and dared myself lower and closer to the smooth, dark bitumen. The well-versed and infinitely more experienced riders than myself though screamed past me at an alarming rate, leaving me coughing in their exhaust fumes and feeling more than just a bit pathetic and green at this game of ride as fast and skilfully as you can up a road built for speed and high adventure. I pulled into the side of the road at an early opportunity and gave the racers the space and freedom they needed to do what they seemingly did best. I lifted the camera to my face and photographed the madness as they sped adrenaline fuelled into tight, tight corners with knees out wide and dipped down low. The noise filled my senses, the deep, deep strumming of high-tensile pistons pounding inside a fire-filled chamber, and roaring from the machines exhausts intensified and fortified the arena as if a great clamp had been placed around the entire scene and tightened to maximum pressure. I lifted the lens repeatedly as Ducatti’s, Triumph’s, and Suzuki Gixxer’s blurred on by in a mighty rush of power and unimaginable speed and agility. Out of the blue a tourist bus chugged its way awkwardly onto the scene, closely followed by four impatient bikes champing at the bit to get past, and snarling in aggravated impatience. The bus chugged by slowly, and one of the bikes pulled in to where I stood, and parked up. It was a BMW 1200S, a race-built machine ridden by Marco, who regularly races this road

“I had to pull in here for a few minutes,” He told me. “The bus holds us up and so you end up with several bikes all grouped together, wanting to go fast but going way too slow; it’s very dangerous”. I told Marco how Impressed I was with the riders and bikes I’d seen and their ability to handle these insane corners at such high speeds. “Don’t be too impressed” he said, “There are as many bad riders here as there are good ones, and plenty of them come off and end up with very expensive pieces of machinery twisted into nothing but mangled wrecks. Quite a few have died on this road too” he added. “For the likes of Valentino, it is okay, he can afford to go fast, and he can afford to fall off also, but for the rest of us it is still only Sunday, and the sun is shining”. We shook hands and wished each other well, then Marco flicked his machine into life and blasted out of there; the sound of his howling engine still audible long after the sight of him had vanished.

I still had to get to Florence though, that was my goal for the day, so I upped stumps and rode ever upward to the accompanying music of throbbing pistons and snarling exhausts. I reached a plateau quite unexpectedly, and saw Marco’s bike propped up on its stand. Beyond and all around it I saw what must have amounted to over two hundred bikes and bikers, comparing rides, comparing bikes, sharing the thrill and devouring the tales of danger. This was their 19^th hole, the bar at the top of the hill called the Chalet Raticosa. With a constant braaaam-ing of bikes coming and going, I parked my tug-boat amongst the throng and set out with my camera to capture what I could see.

Colours, colours everywhere. Racing Reds, growling greens, blasting blues and fiery oranges. Leather jackets, leather trousers, leather suits. Sponsors names, Agip, Pepsi, NGK, Shell, Playstation, Lucky strike. Helmets and gloves, guys and dolls.. The bar was full and overflowing as I walked up to order myself a beer, and bikers spilled out of there in happy, back-slapping enthusiasm for who they were and what they were doing. Bikes around me everywhere; BMW’s, Buell, Yamaha, Honda, Suzuki, Cagiva, Aprilia, Ducati, KTM’s, Harley’s and Triumphs; virtually every make of bike ever to hit the road had a representative there, and every rider had a story to tell about broken bones, shredded flesh and very-near misses. More than one knew a rider who would never meet them there again, and more than one had attended too many bikers funerals. ‘It’s the rush though’ a young guy on a Ducati 888 told me, ‘when you’re pushing yourself to the very, very edge of where you can go, and you can stay there longer than the other guy, and go faster than the other guy, then there’s nothing else like it in life…except maybe sex of course’.

I pondered the idea of sex on a motorbike for a while, but the thought of clutches, gear levers and throttles somehow tangled with bra-straps, knickers and shoe-laces just didn’t quite cut-it for me; besides, there’d be nowhere to rest an ashtray or a can of beer would there? I came down off the mountain and saw my first of two road accidents involving bikes. Both of them were from too fast, too hard and possibly too deep, and both of them ended in wrecked bikes and bruised but still-breathing riders and pillions. I may not be the fastest or the best rider in the world, I thought as I rode by surveying the carnage and debris-strewn scene, but at least my bike is still upright, with all its bits attached. With time though the mountain became a hill, then in turn a level road. Pine trees gave way to grassland, and then rural became suburban, as the road began to descend again. A river snaked along the valley floor, taking my eyes along with it, and leading me onwards; on towards the city of Florence which had appeared out of the horizon like a crayoned picture before me.

I pulled into the first Piazza I found and parked among a string of buzzing scooters. It was quaint, with a cobbled road and a statue of someone apparently quite important, standing in the middle of the square, looking vaguely imperial and wearing a cloak. I looked around the square a little, then spied a pizzeria and headed towards it.

“G’day. Yeah the one with the Salami on it thanks…cheers mate”

“You’re from Melbourne aren’t you” I said to the young woman ordering the pizza beside me. She was too. Her name was Jenni and she was from Beaumaris on Melbourne’s bayside. She was a law student at Monash spending a couple months on exchange in Florence, studying international law. ‘Aside from that’ she told me, ‘why on earth wouldn’t you want to be in Florence, it’s got to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world’. I said I’d have to take her word for it as I’d only just arrived. The only thing I knew about Florence was that Michelangelo’s statue of ‘David’ was here somewhere, and that it was a stopping place for me on the way to Rome. “David’s right around the corner from here” Jen told me, “but it can be a helluva queue sometimes”. We sat for a while chomping pizza and talking about home, while loud American tourists seated nearby complained about the price of the delicious food but praised its quality equally. “I’ve gotta get going” Jen said after half an hour, “I only came down here to get a quick take away, I’ve got an exam two days from now, and I’m way behind already”. With that she was gone, and I was left with the nasal twanging of ‘the second amendment states that…” Blah, blah, blah….yawn. I finished my meal too, and left the gun-control lobby to their debate, and sought out David.

“Lyndal says Hi Dave” I told the huge towering statue set high on a plinth beneath a vast glass dome. ‘Hi Lyndal’ replied David. “Look at the size of your hands’ I said to him, ‘and your feet too, there not really in proportion are they’. “And oh dear… “ I added. “You’ve got a very small willy for a man of your stature” I looked up at David from way down below. His hands and feet were definitely way too big for the rest of his body, and his head looked like it belonged to the Elephant man on a good day.

“Of course Michelangelo deliberately sculpted David disproportionately to emphasise the magnitude of his strength” I heard a female guide telling her massed audience of wide-eyed American followers. I wandered around him, noting the sling hung over his left shoulder and the stone held loosely in his right hand. Oh, David as in David and Goliath I suddenly realised. “And the reason he was sculpted with such enormous hands” She continued, “was to emphasise this strength even more so, for even as a young and slender man he was able do defeat the giant marauder that was his enemy, namely Goliath. Big hands or not I thought, he’s still got a tiny willy.

I’d seen what I’d come to see in Florence, and although there was so much more to this beautiful city I decided to move on. I walked into a small shop and bought myself some bits and bobs, I got some souvenir postcards, and ate an ice cream beside the bike, then I fired it up, jumped aboard and headed towards Siena where I immediately found the Piccola Villa’s, and booked myself in for the night.

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.