France 2008 - English version - May 2008
Tuesday 13 Wednesday 14
Thursday 15 Friday 16
Saturday 17 Sunday 18
Monday 19
Tuesday
20 Wednesday 21
Thursday 22 Friday 23
Having
ridden down the previous afternoon to my sister and brother-in-law
in Sevenoaks, I had a 4.30 am wake up call so I could catch the
6.50 am ferry from Dover to Calais. This year, MCi had used Sea
France, whereas I usually go Dover/Dunkirk with Norfolk Line. I
chatted to a member of Suffolk Advanced Motorcyclists who rode a BMW
R1200GS, but who today was working driving down to the Champagne
region to collect some agricultural machinery.
Setting
the clock an hour forward, resetting the GPS to metric but leaving
the bike speedo in
 statute (easier to recognise which gear I am in
that way) it was a bit misty, but 50 miles down the road the weather
cleared and it was bright and sunny, about 20 degrees. I went into Cambrai for coffee as suggested by the itinerary, but couldn’t find
a suitable parking place so I pressed on, opting for a roadside café
at about 11.25am. The café dog ignored me completely, until it saw
the coffee arrive, for it knew that with the coffee came a biscuit,
so I started to receive attention then.
 Stopping off in a very warm Reims for an omelette and a beer, I
pressed on to the first nights stop at Rolampont, near Langres.
First impressions of the hotel were not good – no bar and the
bedroom had been tastefully decorated in about 1978. I walked to the
village for a couple of beers on what was a very pleasant evening,
then back to the hotel to eat.
The
food was superb though – cheese profiteroles followed by duck and a
selection of cheeses, washed down with a bottle of Cotes du Rhone.
Back to 1978 for a good nights sleep, having previously parked the
bike in the garage nearby.
When my
alarm went off at 6.30 am I was reminded that I had a long day
ahead; I started to regret the bottle of wine, but I opened my
shutters to be greeted by a beautiful morning. A warm fresh
croissant was the highlight of the usual motley selection of items
that pass for breakfast on the continent.
It was
a long day – 400 miles in the saddle. Thankfully I had had the seat
re-shaped and re-upholstered in winter by Colin Harrison at
Costessey and whilst there was the inevitable numb bum at time,
there wasn’t the really very nasty pain I experienced before, so
that had been £60 well spent.
  There
was a lot of motorway, some on the peage and if I do the trip
again I will take an extra day getting down south and spend less
time on the autoroutes. It is a bit demoralising to see the satnav
reading 1 hr 58 mins to turn off, travelling at a steady 130 (km
that is!). I passed through Grenoble after my first sight of the
Alps. I remember Grenoble as the location for the Winter Olympics in
1967. The town sees the start of the famous Route Napoleon, or N85.
This follows the route taken by Napoleon Bonaparte when he returned
to France in 1815. For over 200 miles it snakes its way to Cannes
and is an amazing rider’s road. The road twists, turns and
switchbacks over mountains, through ravines and sleepy villages.
GPS was telling me I was up to 4,500 feet high, so whilst it was
quite sunny, the air jacket was too airy! This part of the N85 had
changeable surfaces and quite a lot of minor roadworks – the route
from Digne-les-Bains to Grasse is the real jewel, but that was a few
days away just yet.
At
about 5.30pm I was getting quite tired, so after I found a petrol
station in Digne to fill up (I could have got to my hotel, but it
looked a bit isolated, so top up where you can). Petrol was E1.50
per litre, so certainly no cheaper than in the UK this year,
especially given the stronger Euro.
 The
hotel in Bras d’Asse was very small, as was the village, but very
elegant and welcoming. My hosts, John-Jacques and Martyne welcomed
me as I explained I spoke little French. The said they spoke little
English, but between us we would manage, which indeed we did with
great warmth and humour over the next 6 nights. Cooking absolutely
superb and I started a bottle of red wine, reserving the rest until
tomorrow night.
The
problem I have with eating cheese at night is that it makes me
dream; in this case, a particularly nasty nightmare about being
chased by a big black dog. Not too sure about the front tyre either.
Their SHOULD be enough left for this trip, but it is nagging away at
me. I’m sure they sell tyres in France and I have been practising
“Je voudrais un pneu neuf”. 9 am on Thursday and time for
breakfast. It is drizzling outside, so no hurry to go anywhere for a
while.
The
previous evening the proprietors had asked what time I wanted
breakfast and also what I liked. I said anything was fine –
ouefs, jambon etc. Martyne said that they normally just served
toast, coffee, juices and various confitures by agreement
with MCi. Whilst they could get some ham for Friday, normally that
would be extra. I said it wasn’t a problem, pas probleme .
The next morning Jean-Jacques presented a plate with a “j’ai
trouve du jambon” . Delicious local ham and there was never any
additional charge made. Also at breakfast was a fresh homemade
smoothie – kiwi, strawberry, oranges and another I can’t recall,
served nicely chilled. Everything was served with style and class,
the butter came in its own little pottery dish as did the jam and
marmalade rather than those horrible plastic pre-packs.
 Over
the road was a sign up top the old village, the abandoned fortified
village of Bras which the residents had left when it was safe to
move down to the valley centuries before. It was a long climb
through a nature trail and up the twisting track, but after sitting
on the TDM for the previous few days it was some welcome exercise.
Returning to the hotel I had a shower as it was quite clammy and
humid. I fitted the GPS to the TDM and selected the route number 2
which I had pre-programmed from the map supplied by MCi. This was
the “Lavender Trail” , which took me up onto the plateau where it
was too early in the year to see the lavender in bloom, but it is
grown in industrial quantities up there.
 Some
stunning little villages – I stopped at Esparon de Verdon for lunch.
The water in these lakes is a real turquoise, presumably there is a
lot of copper in the water or similar element. I had a Spaghetti
Carbonara, probably the best one I have ever had, served in style
again, with the egg yolk in its shell ready for me to break into the
dish. This and a small beer for about E6.
The
curse of the Extreme Rain Riders club was not far behind as it came
on to rain. I had my airjacket with me, no waterproofs. I did have
my Honda fleece in the topbox, so I put that on underneath the
jacket and theorised that if I rode fast enough, the effect of the
wind would evaporate the rain at about the same rate it fell. That
theory didn’t work. To be fair it was heavy drizzle rather than
torrents.
I was
already feeling a bit of an idiot for not having a new front tyre
too before I left. In a little village I stopped at a crossing for a
pedestrian using the rear brake. A lovely grating sound of metal on
metal. So, now I definitely have to find a Yamaha garage and get it
fixed as I have never liked the front brakes on the TDM. Before I
left the UK I had even stripped out the suspension linkages and
re-greased them, plus the normally safety checks, but didn’t check
the rear brake pads, which had now done 22,000 miles and I use them
a lot.
I
retreated to my room with the phrasebook and dictionary so I could
write down what I needed, hoping that the proprietors could help me.
I went downstairs and gave the piece of paper to Jean-Jacques, who,
after locating his reading glasses (he was always mislaying them)
read the note. Martyne came across to me and clarified what I needed
and got the directory and started ringing. In fact, they spent over
an hour on the phone and internet – “les pages jaune”,
trying to find parts at Yamaha garages. The local one at Manosque
had no pads nor a Metzeler, but the dealer down at Aix-en-Provence
had both, but couldn’t fit them for a month! Martyne went back on
the phone to ask if the Manosque dealer could fit the parts if I
brought them in the next afternoon. All this we did in broken French
and English with the help of a pen and paper, all done with the
utmost kindness with no hint that it was the least bother at all. As
if by magic, they now had a Metzeler front (or avant, as I
now know) and would fit the rear pads too (les plaquettes pour
les freins arriere) tomorrow at 2 pm. I was feeling a bit
stressed, but Jean-Jacques just said “Its cool, cool, OK!”. Which it
was. Now, fingers crossed that I could get the parts sorted out
tomorrow.
Friday.
Awoke after a fitful sleep. My own stupid fault – note to self –
check and treble check everything before setting off next time! I
have calculated that if all else fails I can get home in two days on
the motorways and the tyre will last – just don’t use the back
brake. It is a dull morning, but seems to be clearing slowly. I was
glad I brought the Southern Europe travel plug too as the sockets
are a different size here in the south of France compared to the
north. Soon to set off for Aix-en-Provence to collect the pads. If
they don’t have them then Marseille isn’t much further south and
there are bound to be larger dealers in such a large city. My
clothes had dried overnight. Perhaps I could hire a car and do some
sightseeing as I am this far south?
Last
night’s dinner was cod. It was cooked perfectly – not overdone so it
was dry, not underdone so it was like sushi, but absolutely right
and again so well presented.
Jean-Jacques was playing The Beatles White Album this evening. He
asked me what “Helter Skelter” meant in French. I explained what the
fairground attraction was, then also that it meant “pas de
controle” – out of control, which suddenly gave the song’s
lyrics some meaning for him as before it had made no sense.
Friday
morning arrived and with it the trek to Aix-en-Provence for the
pads. It started off dry enough, but then began raining, fortunately
its heaviest only came on the motorway. I had put the waypoint into
the Garmin and I arrived at the Yamaha dealer and bought the pads. I
rode back in the pouring rain to Manosque and got there at 1pm.
Whilst the showroom was open the workshop shut till 2pm, which was
fine, at least I was in the dry. Little English was spoken but we
managed quite amicably and they brought me put a cup of Coke while I
was waiting. I had thought about asking them to defer fitting the
shiny new front tyre on Monday, when hopefully it wouldn’t be so
wet, but they were shut on Mondays so that rather thwarted that
plan. They gave a very speedy and professional service – I could see
everything being done through the window through to the workshop.
The mechanic even did a brief road test in the deluge and advised me
to take it very easy owing to the new tyre and pads; I had arrived
at the same conclusion myself!
It is
worth mentioning that there seems to be a general antipathy towards
the French in the UK; in my experience I have found them to be
helpful, warm and polite. Trying to start a conversation in their
own language helps I guess and its only polite anyway. The myth
about no roadworks and uncrowded roads is just that though - a
myth.
As the
rain turned into a downpour of Noah’s Ark proportions, I understood
the proprietor of the garage to say that normally at that time of
year it was like a desert down there. The rain was probably quite
good for raising the water table. I’m not sure if there is a
translation for what I was thinking.
Now,
back to the road with the new tyre and pads. Off onto the nadgery
backroads and back to the hotel with no “moments”. My waterproof
boots aren’t anymore and I could have sprayed my jacket a bit more
thoroughly (the main body was dry thanks to the Goretex) but rain
always gets in somewhere. Martyne said she had never seen rain like
it. I said she had never had a member of the Norfolk Extreme Rain
Riders club staying before.
I
retrieved my part bottle of wine from behind the counter and
retreated to my room, strategically hanging things to dry in the
shower room. This evening’s menu is as follows:-
I was
thinking that in future I might reserve my biking to sunny Sundays,
but all in all it was an adventure today and I have had to try and
speak more French than otherwise I would. Given the rain I would
have only stayed in anyway, so its funny how things work out for the
best.
The
rain was abating so I went across to the shop for the only English
language newspaper, “The International Herald and Tribune”.
Hopefully Saturday will be warm and dry so I can blow dry the last
bits of damp from my gear and actually see something! For now I will
sit in the bar, read the paper and try a pastis.
Having
only had two pieces of toast all day I enjoyed my dinner. It was
delicious again and the beef so tender. I was invited over the table
of Bruno and Catherine from Nimes who were trying to improve their
English and we had a really good conversation all evening. He liked
the British sense of humour “Mr Bean, Monty Peeton”. Even they
thought the food was excellent at La Toupinelle, so it wasn’t just
me, the Englishman, who thought that (Jean-Jacque had replied, when
I said “votre cuisine est superbe” - “Ah, mais vous etes
Anglais” – in other words, compared to British food anything is
going to be good!).
I now
found myself holding court in a foreign tongue and I realised that
what I miss most about working from home is the simple interaction
with people. I made an awful pun, which tickled Bruno – and example
of British humour perhaps. Jean-Jacques came to take the cheeseboard
away (I was also known as Mr Fromage such was my love of the
selection) and he asked “You are finish?”. I said “ No, I am
English, you should know that”. Jean-Jacques put his hand on my shoulder and
muttered “Mon Dieu!." The next night he asked how he should say it,
but to add the “ed” as the T sound after a word is alien to the
French, just as many of their sounds are to us. I hadn’t thought
about it that way before.
 Afterwards I went for a walk with my MP3 player and listened to the
new Eagles album. There is one track on there, “Its Your World Now”,
which was really pertinent at the time of my mother’s death this
January; it brought a lot of memories flooding back and I still miss
her and my father a lot. I like this travelling thing, but I would
miss my son and daughter too much to make it permanent just yet, so
I’ll have to keep working till I can afford my castle and moat so we
can all move together.
Saturday started off overcast, but more likely to be showery than a
soaking, so I set off for the Gorges du Verdon after a trip to the
Intermarche in Digne-les-Bains for petrol. Rode a bit gingerly at
first owing to the cold wet French tarmac and the new tyre, or
“pneu neuf”. I soon was starting to look through corners and as
the rain abated so the confidence in the front returned – very well
in fact! Some sharp right hand uphill hairpins were still a
challenge as you are effectively trying to do a u-turn with a 1 in 4
gradient pulling the front wide. Many of the less sharp hairpins
needed a lot of countersteering from the TDM’s wide bars to flip the
bike over.
 The
gorge was incredible and as soon as the roads dried I made very
rapid progress. Late afternoon and I rode back through Digne, topped
up with petrol again and made the most of the nice evening by riding
up to Seyne-les-Alpes. I almost expected cowbells up there – truly
alpine scenery. I rode up in sunshine, but it drizzled on the way
bike and I rode like hell to get back before the thunder and
lightning I could see over the mountains. I was quite amazed at how
fast I could ride in the wet conditions on such a twisty road, but
it was wide, flowing and I could see through 2 or 3 bends at a time.
I got back to Bras at about 6pm and got the bike in the garage just
before the heavens opened. Bruno was in the hotel lounge showing JJ
and Martyne some amazing card tricks (they really were impressive).
Later Martyne was on the internet and said that the next day it
would be sunny. I asked “ou, Angleterre ou France?”. She
laughed and said, no, here in Provence, 24 degrees apparently. I
joined Bruno and Catherine for dinner again. They had been to
Moustiers for the day. We had another nice chat about England,
France and people in general.
After
my evening promenade I went back into the bar, listening to Django
Reinhardt on MP3. There was a French family in their too after their
meal. I asked for a Cognac, but JJ gave me a local brew instead (on
the house I might add). It is probably an acquired taste. Martyne
asked me what I did for a living back in the UK, so I said I was a
Secret Agent. JJ immediately said (in English) “Ah, your name is
Bond, James Bond”. He asked what had happened to my hair and I told
him it was a disguise. Had a great time in the bar with them and the
family, laughing and joking and chatting about various stuff – next
time my French WILL be better! Off to bed – still have a 1” chicken
strip on the new front tyre, so hope to remedy that on the Route
Napoleon in the morning. I told Martyne and Jean-Jacques that I will
really miss this place when I leave on Tuesday. And I will.
 On the
Sunday morning I had another good breakfast, started off with
another great smoothie. The sun was shining, so today it was to be
the N85 south to Cannes, then on to Saint Tropez. I have enough
petrol in my tank for 140 miles, so we’ll see how we go given my
past experience with French petrol stations on a Sunday. As it
happened, several were open, but I may investigate opening a French
bank account just to get a French credit card to work in the
automatic pumps. Every turn on this road was a “wow” and if you
stopped to take pictures you would get nowhere. At the pumps were a
couple of Swiss on a GSXR-1000 and a ZX9R. They had their soft
luggage strapped on, so were obviously touring too. Most bikers will
acknowledge each other, but not the Swiss of course. I’ve never met
a happy or pleasant Swiss yet. I rode off first, then stopped to
take some pictures and a video. They came past, making an awful din
really. Point and squirt to the next corner. Brake. Turn. Point.
Squirt. Reminded me of someone I used to ride with (DM). Later, they
had stopped and I went past – again – no acknowledgement. They
caught up in some slow traffic through a village. I overtook a
caravan on the way out and kept telling myself not to race; I was
here by myself and had no chance against such hardware, so just take
is fast and smooth and link up the corners.
Had a
fantastic dive into a hairpin, looked in my mirrors expecting them
to be full of Suzuki – nothing. This went on for a few miles till I
stopped for another video opportunity. After a few minutes I heard
them again and this shot is on video. Brake. Turn. Point. Squirt.
Brake. Turn. Point. Squirt. Useless – why do some people buy these
bikes when they would probably be faster on a smaller bike?
The
Route Napoleon goes through the town of Grasse. This is the centre
of the perfume industry and you can smell it as you ride through.
You wind down into the town from the hills. I couldn’t see anywhere
I wanted to stop at, so I pressed on for Cannes. The International
Film Festival was on in Cannes, and it was hot and very busy. I
followed a Maybach, saw a Hummer coming the other way and Porsches
were 2 a penny. The place was tres chic and some of the
women were stunning. I am sure that, if I were a woman, or otherwise
inclined, some of the men on their pedal bikes were stunning too,
but I’m not. What was clear was that most people were just posing.
 They
had obviously not yet seen the fashion phenomena that is a bald
middle aged man from Norfolk in his Akito jacket, BMF sale leathers
and muddy waterproof boots cruising down the seafront with the
poseurs on their Harleys. I swear there were more Harleys
between here and Saint Tropez than there are in Milwaukee. I topped
up my tank, just in case, it being a Sunday afternoon. 73 miles done
on 5.23 litres = 62.4 mpg, which includes my spirited Route Napoleon
ride, constant gear changing up and down hills etc.
The
scooter riders here would make kamikaze pilots look cautious . The
drivers have no idea what indicators are for, so they just alternate
between them to be on the safe side. There were many “Tour de
France” type cyclists, some doing incredible speeds and pulling
really tall gears with their shaved legs. I really liked St Tropez,
though I can imagine that in the real height of summer that you
can’t move. Many more gorgeous women, especially the girl in a grey
dress who was crossing the road at the pedestrian crossing. I nearly
fell off.
 France
too has its share of bike posers. Lots of hanging off where there is
no need, totter round the corner then whack the throttle open. Looks
really funny. Anyway, it was now 28 degrees so I substituted my
normal jacket for the air jacket., took some video footage then
headed back across country to Bras via Draguignan and Riez, the
latter looking like a really nice town that you could spend time
exploring. Came across Ste. Croix du Verdon over the lake – what a
picturesque, or sympathetique village that is – another to
explore maybe when I return in a car when you don’t have to lock
everything up but still tramp around with leather trousers and boots
on.
Back
across the plateau where they grow the lavender, then down into the
valley on the D51. Steep, hairpins, but dry today and it was great
overtaking cars between the hairpins before hauling on the brakes,
throwing her over and really feeling the front grip. Back to the
hotel. What a days riding I had. I told Martyne about the bikinis
and that I wanted to live in St Tropez. We all agreed it might be,
like the women, rather expensive!
There
is a Monday market in Forcalquiers and I fancied a light day ahead
of Tuesday and the next few days. Jean-Jacques said that he would
miss me when he said goodbye on Tuesday, but I told him he could
come and stay in my St Tropez apartment when I got it. Martyne told
me that her family live in Paris and Nantes, which is 1000km away,
so she doesn’t see them often. I thought I was hard done by with
mine being about 300 km away.
At
dinner, Bruno and Catherine had left for home; I do wish I’d left my
address for them to keep in touch. An Irish couple who had a house
in the village were in for dinner and after I asked them if they
were English we eventually tuned in to each other’s accents and had
a good natter. He was a retired master baker and just as I was about
to pull off a piece of bread (you are making up your own jokes
aren’t you) to have with my cheese, Jean-Jacques rushed in to the
restaurant and substituted a piece of the bread the Irishman had
baked earlier in the day as it was, in his (and everyone’s) opinion,
better than the village bread. The village bread was about the best
I’ve tasted, so you can imagine. Another truly excellent evening of
food, wine and company.
 I was a
little fuzzy on Monday morning and I topped up with petrol in
Oraison and had done 60+ mpg again. These TDMs are amazing,
especially considering the price. I went to Forcalquier, found
somewhere to park up and walked into town where there was a very
large market selling everything. All the produce looked really
fresh, the cheeses wonderfully diverse and the saucissons
equally varied. France is good at most food things, but they can’t
do bacon or sausage though. A Lincolnshire banger does it for me
everytime. Anyway, I stopped under an umbrella at a pavement café
for a coffee and a bit of people watching. I set back off on one of
the routes which takes you through the old fortified villages of
Provence, but the roads were too steep to negotiate as I could see
what was at the top and trying to turn the TDM at the top may have
been a task too far. Equally, parking up, getting the gear off then
walking up didn’t seem too appealing either, so another thing to do
when I return with a hire car!
I was
accosted by an obnoxious couple from Bolton/Bradford or somewhere
else in eee bar gum land, who told me they didn’t eat the local
food, didn’t speak French nor did they want to try, ate mushy peas
and chips in their camper van and thought the height of conversation
could be had with the German tourists. I took my leave.
 The
atmosphere became quite oppressive and I saw the big storm clouds
across the hills, so I raced back to Bras (funny how something to
focus the mind means you can ride like a loony again). I had a
little afternoon nap as is de rigeur and a nibble from the
patisserie, before wandering over to the shop for the International
Herald & Tribune. The lady proprietor recognised me at once
(there were few George Clooney lookalikes in Bras that week) and
told me, all in French, which I was amazed I now understood quite
easily, that she was really sorry, someone came in this morning and
bought it. She was really sorry, would she like me to keep it to one
side for tomorrow? I told
her that she was very kind, but I would be away to Millau in the
morning and she wished me bon route. As I type I am missing
the place again. She also said that usually May/June/July were hot
and dry and tee shirt weather. I was going to explain the curse of
ERR but thought better of it. Whatever tomorrow brings, I have a 300
mile ride come rain or shine. No option.
That
evening there were few in the restaurant and later I showed
Jean-Jacques and Martyne my website and the pictures from last years
French trip to the Loire. We talked about what I did for a living
and what they had done prior to taking over La Toupinelle some 5
years ago. I think Martyne said she was Italian and used to be in
the theatre. I said I wasn’t surprised and that I bet she loved to
dance, to which she said she did. I told her that I had watched the
way she danced to the background music in the restaurant and explained things (like the miracle of the sun
shining in Provence) and so I thought she had some theatrical
leanings. Jean-Jacques used to work in underprivileged parts of the
cities, which probably explained his natural warmth and amiability.
Sometimes when we would tease each other he would roll up his
sleeves and stand, prizefighter style, in front of me with a big
grin on his face.
I
promised to send a link to them with my pictures and this journal,
which I will get translated into French by Google, so who knows how
it will read then. Maybe one day I will go to France to teach
English, but I think there are restrictions on this unlike most
other European countries, but it may change.
The
weather forecast looks OK for the morning. I might try the 98 octane
petrol tomorrow as it is only 1 cent dearer than 95. Jean-Jacques
collects those little snow globes and asked if I would send him one
from Norwich. This I will gladly do, but he may have to wait until a
little nearer Christmas until I can find them in the shops.
Tuesday
morning was heralded by the birds in the bushes and vines outside my
bedroom window, chirping in the sun in an azure sky. Unfortunately
Jean-Jacques had gone to the market really early, so I just said
au revoir to Martyne. She made sure I had a card with their
e-mail address so I could send them my pictures and meanderings.
 I was
pleased to be on the move again though, much as I loved La
Toupinelle. It became very windy indeed, exacerbated by the now full
panniers. Around Avignon it was a real chore, especially when
overtaking lorries. I found a car park just outside the old walls of
Avignon and tried to remember the route I had taken into the town so
I could retrace my steps later. I had packed the compass in the
panniers, so that was not going to help. I wish I hadn’t and had
taken a bearing, because when I got disorientated in the mediaeval
streets all I could do was to walk towards the sun till I hit the
wall and walked round it till I hopefully came across my bike. I
did, but again, walking around when it is about 28 degrees isn’t
exactly pleasurable in leathers. I had a budget lunch in Avignon,
though it was very satisfying and pleasantly served. The proprietor
spoke English (like I speak French) and he directed me to the
bridge. Its funny, but some things just don’t translate literally.
The French for straight ahead is toutes droites which
literally means “all rights”. So, when he wanted me to go straight
on, he told me I had to turn all rights. I knew what he meant,
otherwise I would still be circulating Avignon.
Found
the famous bridge, but then pressed on to Millau. The excellent
routes provided by MCi take in some nice nadgery roads, although
with the panniers full the right hand uphill hairpins were a
challenge sometimes. Some extra preload on the rear would have
helped, but I found that shouting “Oh shit” when the front wouldn’t
come round worked a treat. Bear in mind this is at about 5 mph,
which is why it was hard. Too slow to lean, too awkward to turn
properly. At least it was dry!
There
were some lovely little villages on the way. The route took me
through Nimes but it looked pretty urban and I thought I’d give
close inspection a miss. Nimes, the home of denim of course,
corrupted from de Nime.
The
wind was still strong but not as bad as before; I wondered quite
what it would be like riding over the Millau Viaduct – higher than
the Eiffel Tower, on my little TDM, fully laden, in such conditions.
There was a diversion posted which took me straight on to the A75
and across the viaduct, so I had little choice other than to find
out! The wind wasn’t too bad, but I was bloody cold in my airjacket
with the windchill factor. I stopped at the viewpoint and took some
pictures and video, then couldn’t find the right exit so ended up
going sooth again until I could find the exit to come back north.
All in all I did the viaduct three times, all of which with the fuel
reserve flashing, although to be fair it didn’t come on until I was
210 miles up. Eventually I got into Millau with 225 miles on the
clock. Filled up and still had 3 litres left in the tank. That
equates to 60.3 mpg. I will admit, mind you, that I would gladly
sacrifice 10% fuel consumption for 10% more power – 86 bhp is
adequate but not quite enough sometimes. Still, with fuel prices the
way they are, maybe I’m on to a winner?
 I would
never have found the hotel without the sat nav – in fact, when it
told me to turn up a sidestreet I thought it was wrong, but I
followed directions and it was absolutely right. Checked in, parked
bike in secure garage and admired the view from the balcony of my
huge room. It was an Ibis hotel and for some reason I had a family
room. This was to come in handy later as the girls from the bar and
reception joined me for an all night orgy. I did dream quite a lot
and I’m not sure if that really happened. OK, I’m sure it didn’t
happen.
The
view from the balcony was wonderful, taking in the old town and to
the right the viaduct in the valley. I washed out a few smalls and
socks, left them to dry in the bathroom and walked into town.
The
thing that car drivers don’t understand is that some days you get on
your bike and it is all fantastic. You hit every corner just right,
in the right gear, line up the next etc. Other days, it just doesn’t
happen. Today had been one of the latter, but in the immortal
closing words of “Gone With The Wind” (how apposite that was today)
“tomorrow is another day”.
I sat
at a pavement restaurant in Millau and had a pizza and a small
pot of red wine.
I have
been in the saddle for 9 hours today, though it didn’t seem that
long.
 Nature
made me rise at 6 am to tinkle in the dawn. The moon was just
setting over the hills across the valley – a managed to capture it
on video but you really could see it disappearing bit by bit with
the naked eye. The Ibis breakfasts are a buffet and they do have a
reasonable selection to be fair. There were some British Harley
riders at breakfast, all the squeaky clean badass biker gear and
paraphernalia. I pretended I was French.
Coffee
stop between Rodez and Aurillac on the way the L’Augette. Aurillac
was way too busy to stop for lunch, so I decided to press on in the
hope of finding a pavement restaurant in village. On the way I found
another spectacular village at Conques, but again, the trawl up the
1 in 4 switchbacks was not an attractive proposition so I carried
on. I spotted a Spar shop of all things, so I thought how nice a
picnic would be. That is, until I realised it was 12.30 and they
closed until 2.30. France is usually shut. If they actually opened
up when people wanted to buy things their teachers and public sector
workers wouldn’t have to go on strike as the economy would receive a
huge input from the tourist Euro. Mais non. Ferme.
The
D922 is a good road. Keep your eye on it because some bends are
sharper than others! Stopped at a really good restaurant just off
the main road in a little village I can’t recall, parked up, sat
outside and relaxed. By now I wasn’t even asking if they spoke
English, so if I was there for 6 months I could be fluent (well,
ish, but would I come home?) I ordered the plat du jour and
had no idea what it was going to be, except I ascertained that
carrots were involved. I nearly wimped out and ordered le
sandwich but when it came the dish of the day was great –
carrots yes, but with a parcel of what I think was minced pork – the
experience exceeding the explanation.
Whilst
it was a bit chilly for May, in the sun it was lovely. I understood
everything the waitress said and she was so pleased to be able to
ask, in English, if I wanted ice cream. The Frenchman on the next
table spoke English and told her he would help if we couldn’t
communicate; we didn’t need his interpretive skills but he smiled
when she said “ice cream” as if to say to her “well done!”
 On the
way to l’Augette I diverted across country and found the castle I
have been dreaming bout. The house was not for sale, but that’s academic
as I don’t have any money, but, one day…………
The B&B
at L’Augette is really in the middle of nowhere, but the two Pauls
who run the place made me welcome and my room was very large and had
a good power shower. I borrowed a book from their bookcase, a Bill
Bryson one about America. I hadn’t the time to finish it but must
get some of his on my return to England. Included in the price of
the trip was a four course meal with wine and as I was the only
guest that night we all ate together and discussed various things,
including the English abroad in France and the standard of French
driving! Starter was a tomato and mozzarella salad followed by
chicken stuffed with mushroom and wrapped in ham. Pudding followed
after a short break as it was a chocolate soufflé which had to be
served immediately on leaving the oven. Finally, some cheese and a
couple more glasses of red.
The
place does look idyllic with its walled garden and outbuildings, but
as they explained, in the middle of February when it is cold and
dark, with no money coming in, it is far from it. They asked me if I
wanted to watch the TV as they had British channels; I declined,
telling them I would wait until after the weekend to depress myself.
Thursday saw the clouds clearing and after a breakfast of fresh
croissant, toast and coffee I was en route to Rouen. Unfortunately,
this part of France has long straight roads and as I wasn’t in a
hurry
 I elected to take the N20 rather than the autoroute towards
Orleans. With hindsight I could have diverted west and gone through
Blois, but I didn’t realise this at the time. I was aware that there
was a cathedral in Chartres, so I found somewhere to park up (and
drew myself a map of the streets I crossed so I didn’t get lost
again!). The cathedral was magnificent and this is a town I would
love to visit again when I have a car and the time to really explore
its mediaeval streets and buildings. I was a little peckish, so I
had a Croque Monsieur in a café near the cathedral. They had an old
Chesterfield cigarette poster on the wall which caused me some
amusement.
 Not
sure if I had parked in a towaway zone I went back to the bike,
although I don’t think I ever saw a traffic warden type person in
France and the police aren’t exactly high visibility. In any event,
it was too hot to trudge around so I decided to get to Rouen,
shower, change and go out there for my last night in France. The
roads up there were straight and boring, but arriving at the hotel
the receptionist, Caroline, spoke very good English. The lift was
broken, so would I prefer a 2nd floor room rather than
the 4th floor one they had reserved for me? I said that I
would as I had the panniers to carry upstairs.
The
underground car park was virtually next door and I ascertained that
in the morning I wouldn’t have to go all the way round the one way
system to get back as I could ride the 20 yards on the pavement. The
entry slip down to the car park was very steep and as a result,
deeply ribbed to stop wheels spinning on the way up in wet weather.
The effect on the bike was akin to riding a pogo stick. Bike parked
and me showered and changed I set off into the town. I like Rouen,
having stayed last year. As this was my last night I ordered a large
Leffe and sat outside the cathedral watching the world go by. Just
along the road from the cathedral is a large church and you can get
a little bit of the sense of wonder that visitors would have had in
the Middle Ages, coming to cities like this from tiny rural villages
to be confronted with these enormous edifices.
 Sitting
outside for dinner I had some wine, an entrecote steak and a crème
brulee. For some reason I was very tired and I walked back to the
hotel and was surprised to see it was only 8.30. None the less, I
was asleep by 9!
The
Ibis breakfasts are quite good. Friday was warm and dry, so after
breakfast and retrieving my bike, I set off for Calais. The booked
ferry wasn’t until 4.45pm, but I thought that I would be able to get
an earlier one if I turned up at the terminal, which was the case,
only having to wait 30 minutes after I arrived. The ferry had a new
bike system consisting of a track with a front wheel “V”, so you
don’t need your sidestand but have to stay seated whilst they strap
you down.
I met a
guy from Aberdeen who worked in Paris, but was returning to the UK
that day on his Trophy 1200 for an MOT. We discussed bikes, as you
do. He has had a number of mods done to his Trophy (Daytona cams and
pistons amongst others) and whilst this resulted in 140 bhp at the
wheel, it also meant fuel consumption of about 26 mpg when pressing
on. I can’t quite see the point of that on what was always marketed
as a touring bike, but each to their own. I’ll happily settle for
the 50-60mpg I get from the TDM.
 Off the
ferry at Dover for a bimble up the motorway to Sevenoaks to spend
the evening with my sister. I will travel home tomorrow morning,
giving me more time to unload, unpack and then face Budgens for
essential supplies.
On the
M20 I planned to stop for petrol at Maidstone services. Just before
the exit I spied Mr Trophy pushing his Trophy on the hard shoulder.
I stopped and sure enough, he had run out of fuel. I offered to take
him to the petrol station to see if he could buy a can, but he was
going to push it there instead. This included the steep off ramp
from the motorway, but as there was nothing else I could do I went
on and fuelled up. I was just wondering if I could buy a piece of
tubing somewhere so I could siphon half a gallon off for him when he
arrived at the pumps. Apparently he had been able to get it to fire,
probably as the tiny bit of fuel left in the tank washed backwards
on the incline and filled the float chambers just enough to get him
out of trouble.
Arrival
at Sevenoaks was greeted with a welcome cup of tea. The usual
splendid cooking my big sis concluded the evening and the next
morning I kept on the motorway home. The UK Bank Holiday traffic was
really heavy and at Barton Mills I took the road to Brandon and
Watton as the A11 was chock a block both ways and it is too narrow
to filter well, especially with the hard luggage.
So,
that was France 2008. The weather could have been better, but it was
an improvement on the weather at home. Thoroughly recommended, I
will soon start planning next years trip!
A full photo album of the trip
can be found
here
Large pictures
Small pictures
The video compilation can be found
here (length, 21 minutes
- quality reduced for downloading)
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