19 August 2005

The morning after the night before. Around ten in the morning after a night at the campsite near Dax. This morning our neighbours were not assembled watching our ever move; our audience was still asleep and there was no sound from them. A quiet night meant that we had woken both feeling refreshed although I think Tom was still suffering from all of his drinking exploits on the Côte d'Argent two nights ago. A mere three hours after getting up, we had packed the bikes and were ready to leave (still no stirring of our neighbours by this time). Today we are headed for the northern Spanish coast just above Bilbao. The plan is for a short ride south, across the Spanish border and thence to somewhere around San Sebastian.

18 August 2005

This was the day we arrived in Biarritz. The Atlantic coast's most glamorous French resort. Beloved by roayalty, pop stars and French sun seekers alike. With cunning planning on our part we had arrived in Biarritz around during mid-afternoon in the middle of August. With the true motorcyclist traveller's bravado and disregard for for any sort of forward planning we failed to consider whether we would be able to find a campsite (or indeed anywhere) close to Biarritz to stay. After failed enquiries at the L'Hôtel de Tourisme (the cruel irony being the in the name), we realised that the only chance we stood of finding a place to stay was to head inland. Out of Biarritz and well away for the longed for beach, bars, sea front, restaurants etc, etc. The obvious choice was Dax! I'm still not sure why we aimed for Dax. In any event we never made it to Dax. Oh no! We were bound for greater things. We found a campsite instead next to a roundabout, but a stones through from a large shopping arcade (Inter Marché, Brico Marché, a whole host of petrol stations - you get the picture). The campsite was full. Very full. At least I presume that is why we were given the pitch we were. Next to us was a half abandoned caravan. On the other side a reasonably modern, fairly large caravan which looked as though it had been there for a number of summers before. The grass had grown up around the wheels and wood pannelling placed around the bottom to hide the underneath. This in itself was fine. I've seen this a million times before. What was disturbing was the family of three sitting in a row in absolute silence. The mother and father were in their late forites, perhaps even in their early fitfties - it was hard to tell. The son was definatley in his mid to late twenties. They sat in stony silence watching as we, perhaps four or five feet from us, pitched our tents. After a quick swim we ate and retreated into our respective tents to hide from their searcing gaze. No wine to drink that night.

13 August 2005

Tom's tent, his pannier's and the first of many bottles of wine. Having left behind us the incomparable delights of the Boulougne-sur-Mer Novotel with its lingering aroma of fetid water and astonishing resemblance to a prison we hot footed it south and Dieppe with its harbour it was then on to Normandy. Our desire to head south was so great that we averaged over 70mph on N roads and consequently arrived in Calvados towards mid afternoon in a state of utter exhaustion. When planning this trip we had originally planned to be, by the end of the first day, somewhere near St Nazaire. Needless to say, as the day wore on and we became more and more tired, the final destination changed a number of times. Initially we decided that perhaps around Angers was more realistic then, a few hours later, we decided upon Alençon and eventually gave up near Argentan. We rode aimless around the countryside for a while with the afternoon sun setting, the shadows lengthening and us maintaining the all important attitude of the relaxed motorcycle traveller; going with the flow and seeing where we ended up. A short while later as the tiredness set in, our backsides moving rapildy into a world of numbness from sitting on the saddle for so long and our stomachs slowing starting to digest ourselves we stumbled on a campsite. Our tent was pitched between two Dutch families complete with socks and sandle wearing parents and teenage children, Across from us an English family sitting drinking tea and beer alternately. We drank wine. The tents us I unpacked the gleaming new petrol stove. Tom drank more wine. I tossed the instructions for using the stove aside with a contemptuous geesture and turned on the tap to the petrol can and unleashed the lighter. Seconds later and maintaining a calm facade I grabbed the nearest water source in a desparate attempt to out out the burning grass and the towering inferno like stove. The proximity of the stove (and therefore the flames) to my tent made me wary about continuing to cook. I ate my dinner cold and instead turned to the wine.

13 August 2005

Dieppe on the journey from Calais south. Having been split up after leaving the hotel in Boulogne-sur-Mer we then headed down the D925 cost road. As with all other journey's taken so far we somehow managed to push the bikes as hard possible and try to average the most consistently fast speed we could. We would soon learn that this did nothing but make us constatntly tired and defeat the purpose of a journey of this nature. It is worth noting that this also marked the site of our first beer in France of this holiday. Dieppe was a lovely little town (at least arond the harbour) and is a town I would certainly return to to spend a little more time there. As it was, we stayed in Dieppe for long enough to have some food, a beer and a sit down. Checking the map we decided to try for St Naszaire, or at the very least somewhere heading towards St Nazaire. Or maybe Rennes. Or perhaps Caen.We were amazed by how little distance we had travelled in a morning and were already starting to think that perhaps we were being over optimistic in thinking we would be able to get to Spain in two or three days.

13 August 2005

A misty early morning outside the car park at the hotel near Bolougne-sur-Mer which was the location of our first stay. Located in the middle of an industrial estate close to the A16 motorway running from Calais to Amiens, this hotel boasts almost no amenities other than a bed and television in each room. The working commual shower is available to all guests on a first come first served basis and we undersand that it is hoped that at some point in the New Year the cleaning supplies and towels will be taken out of the communal toilet and that it will be available once again to all guests. Leaving the hotel early in the morning we promptly got split up and separated trying to ge back to the motorway (the industrial estate was a tricky place to get out of). Reunited some two hours later, Tom had spent his time trapped on a motorway heading away from me while I was engaged in searching a section of motorway looking for the oil cap of my bike which had somehow come off and wiping the oil off my trousers, jacket and motorbike. Once united we headed south for St Nazaire.

12 August 2005

Waiting for the ferry in Dover after a hurried race from London down the M20 to get to Dover in time for the ferry. I was late leaving work and so arrived back at my flat just as Tom was pulling in on his motorbike, ready for the off. Being an organised and, some may say, fairly anal type of chap I had tried to get myself as ready as possible the previous night. The panniers were ready and waiting in my hallway together with my riding clothes and the few other things I needed. This did in no way stop me racing around like a man possessed while Tom ambled around the car park setting up his video camera to shoot some film of us leaving. It would be wrong to say that I'm unfit, but I'm a larger than average sort of bloke and with my flat being on the first floor and the temperature being fairly warm, I was working up a nice sweat by the time I had eventually finished. Oddly enough the twenty-five minutes I had been running between my flat and my bike (note to self: those short distance sprints between the bike and flat could be the basis of superb personal training regime) did still not seem to be enough time for Tom to take the camera out of its bag, erect a tripod and mount the camera on the tripod. In what could be a scene from a silent movie of the early twenties a casual observer would have been presented with the sight of me, bathed in sweat and with an increasingly wild and dishevelled appearance, dashing intermittently into the foreground of their landscape and carrying a range of objects of varying sizes and shapes while in a slow and methodically manner in the centre of the panorama a puzzled Tom assembles a tripod and camera.

We leave and I take the time to relax as we battle to get free of London. Getting to the M20 it was a straight and simple ride to Dover and the ferry. Time was starting to get a little tight, but we were making good progress and and traffic was good. Tom was about a half mile ahead of me when I glanced at the petrol gauge and remembered what it was I had been meaning to do before leaving London., Depite being the main road to Dover the M20 has remarkable few service stations and it was as I was looking at the petrol gauge that I passed a service station. When Tom disappeared from sight and the orange "low on fuel light" appeared I did start to fret a touch. The sign for the next fuel station came into sight and I impatiently hugged the hard shoulder trying to get the last ounce of fuel out of the tank, while vainly trying to not think of pushing the bike up the exit slip road t the garage. I made it to the station, but was I pulled up to the tank the bike cut out. Maintaining an air of utter calm I re-set the trip gauge, filled the bike with fuel and sauntered up to pay. Upon my arrival at Dover it was disconcerting to see a seemingly unconcerned Tom standing next to his bike at the front of the aisle reserved for motorbikes.