“Fancy a bike ride, dear?”
As faraway grandparents of 10 lovely
grandchildren, we do our best to get together at least once a year. We live in Western
France in the middle of their visiting distances from Wales, London, Majorca
and the east of France. Combining our passion of the outdoors and motorcycling
we had managed to see one family unit when they flew to Thailand and joined us
there for some winter sun. Two other families from London and Majorca had joined
us on a camping trip at the largest sand-dune in Europe near Bordeaux for the Easter
break. So now, almost a year after their last visit, we were longing to see the
fourth family on the eastern side of France.
It is early May and we have no
pressing appointments in the next few days. The answer to my question “ Fancy a
bike ride, dear ? ” is met with an enthusiastic nod. The camping gear is still
lying around the garage and instead of putting it away; we put it on the bike.
“Just in case.”
Motorbike touring in Europe is
rather different to our motorbike touring experiences in the Far East. Over
there we have a 200 cc GPX Racing Legend, modified almost beyond recognition,
to carry minimal clothing and emergency cold/wet weather gear. We sleep in budget
rooms and eat what and where with the locals. In Europe we need to wear
protective gear and carry a change of clothing plus extra substantial cold/wet
gear. We also carry camping/sleeping kit and basic cooking facilities. Our bike
is a BMW G 650 GS Sertao, with custom made aluminium side boxes and a back
carrier added on. We go for the soft luggage option to keep the load light as
2up on these 2 wheels is already pushing the limit.
We deposit the contents of our
fridge and freezer with fabulous friends who understand our impulsive/change-of-mind
approach, invite them to help themselves to a bumper crop of broad beans that
are ready for eating, pack the bike and in a last minute flash of energy, I
give the cork tiles on the kitchen floor a glossy coat of polyurethane varnish.
It will be dry by the time we are back. The sun keeps disappearing behind
clouds making for a pleasantly cool ride heading east across France. Door to
door we can get across France on the Toll roads in about 7 hours, but this is
the start of a camping trip so we ride back roads, keeping an eye on the sky
overhead and aiming for the bluest patches on our northeasterly path. No tollroads
for us. We find that there is no avoiding the clouds and as the late afternoon
arrives they are so dark it’s as if night as fallen early. We reach Vichy, 350
kms from home as the rain that’s been threatening does its best to wash us
away. The raingear we have is useless, the tarpaulin is tied up between two
large trees and we shelter the tent and bike as close to a hedge as possible
under it. We have no provisions, we are wet through, it’s our first night of a combined
camping/European motorbike tour .
We raise our eyebrows at each
other. “Why are we doing this? “
The rain is torrential, the
tarpaulin is blown about by wild winds, the lightning flashes through the red
tent creating strobe lighting effects, and we are desperate for a cup of coffee..
Our budget in Thailand is 30 euros per day, but we realise that Europe will be
more expensive so have calculated about 45euros a day, based on 15 for a
campsite, 15 for fuel and 15 for food. The lovely on-site shop sells us a tiny
bottle of coffee and some croissants for an exorbitant 8euros. Well that’s half
the daily food allowance! Our family is
280 kms away and the rain is still thick, heavy and pounding down. We pack up,
just shoving and stuffing anything anywhere on the bike. It takes ages to pack
as we store our goods in the ablution block and dash between downpours to load
the bike in charges of energy, trying to tie up and tie down and keep as dry as
possible. It’s a near hopeless task but by midday we are set to go. The 280 kms
to our destination take six and a half hours, even resorting to expensive toll
roads to speed up the journey. We normally avoid the toll roads in France as a
motorbike is charged the same as a car, which seems a bit unfair. The budget is
falling apart and so are we by the time we arrive to drench our offspring and
their offspring in very wet cuddles and kisses. The next few days are spent
drying out ourselves and our gear, leather hiking boots taking the longest. We find
our spats in the bottom of one stuff bag, well they would have been useful. We
shop for better rainsuits and check the weather forecast.
“Is it to be Home or Rome, dear? ” We work out the differences in costs between
riding to Rome ( campsites, fuel and food) and two overnight ferries to Rome
via Corsica. The ferry wins on time and costs. The sun is shining, our clothes are dry, the
motorbike is repacked and excess baggage is stored in a large cardboard box. This
bike ride is turning into an adventure, one of the unplanned kind. Refreshed we ride the 210kms to Marseilles
through the French Rhone countryside, marvelling at the ‘tromp d’loeil’
paintings that greet and guide us around the villages.
The overnight ferry leaves at 10.30pm,
we need to be there by 7pm, that’s enough time to wind through the back roads
and mountains passes of Luberon National Park. The warmth and excitement of our
adventure re-emerges in harmony with the sun seeing us arrive at Marseille in
time for an early afternoon beer before
buying a ticket. There are at least 50-60 other bikers all arriving within half
an hour, all waving A4 pieces of paper, pre-booked electronic ferry tickets. As
a rule we don’t pre-book because we are known to change our minds. The ticket
office is closed, it’s a Sunday and everybody else seems to know what’s
happening. Before panic sets in with the thought that we will be camping in
Marseille tonight, or riding further on to Toulon to catch another ferry, I confidently
walk through the barriers at the gate where all the bikers are queued up. It’s
all a fake, I don’t really know what I’m doing. A brief conversation in my best
French with the ferry gateman assures me that the office will open at 6pm and I
can buy a ticket. Whew. Six oclock arrives, the office opens and I overhear
that the ferry to Corsica is full. OK then we’ll go to Sardinia. And that’s how
it is. No plans, because the adventure
takes care of itself.
“ Fancy a bike ride to Sardinia,
dear?”