Italy, Switzerland June 2008
Italy, Switzerland June 2008
Route taken :
Coursan, Nîmes, Pont St Esprit, Nyons, Serres, Gap, Briançon, (Italy) Torino, Milano, Lakes Como, Lugano, Maggiore, (Switzerland) Simplon Pass, Brig, Grimsel Pass, Inertkirchen, Interlaken, Grimsel Pass, Furka Pass, Brig, Sion, Martigny, (France) Lac Léman, Evian les Bains, Geneva, Grenoble, Route Napoléon) Gap, Sisteron, Digne les Bains, Castellane, Draguignan, Rians, Cadanet, Avignon, Montpellier, Coursan
I leave Coursan at 10.30am, directly after my clients at Maison St Georges had left
on their motorcycles to head South to Spain.....and we’re talking about five
minutes after! My motorcycle was packed a couple of nights before all ready to
roll, tank filled, panniers and tent all strapped on, so it really was just a
case of throwing on the tank bag, firing her up and away we go. I had fitted a
brand new set of Metzeler Sahara
enduros for the trip, as the others were a bit on the worn side with the rear
having not enough tread left for the 2/3000km
envisaged. I had bought the tires in Germany and shipped them to France
as it is considerably cheaper to do this than to buy the tires here in France
Why? I have no idea, but as the savings are considerable even when freight costs
are calculated in my tires come from Germany.
Weds 25/06/08:
Coursan, France to Vercelli, Italy
The
skies are sunny and the weather is already hot. The BMW fires up easily and I
let her tick over and warm up. No good trying to hurry one of these older bikes,
she just won’t run smooth until she’s warmed up. That’s the way it is and
the way it’s always been so I just allow for it. It’s also the way it used
to be done and it’s the way I learnt. I see many guys jump on their motorcycles
first thing and thumb the starter and away they go. Sure it works and it works
fine for them, but there again nobody these days keeps their motorcycle longer
than a couple of years so it doens’t really matter. The consumer society of
today! My old BMW is nearly twenty years old. She has over 220,000km on the
clock (plus a few thousand more unrecorded) and I do not intend to change her
for a newer fancier model with more options and complicated electronics. Carbs,
a kick start and spoked wheels equals a motorcycle in the true sense of the
word.
The
forecast for the next few days looks good so my heavier jacket and trousers are
strapped to the back ot the bike. I have taken them as I am not sure what the
temperature will offer high in the mountains of Italy and Switzerland. I
would be willing to bet it is considerably cooler in those mountain passes than
it is down here in the South of France where we are looking at the mid to high
thirties during the day. I have checked on the internet (what a useful modern
tool...when it works..) and
all days are good except for rain on friday, which is when I plan to start on
heading back towards Geneva and then down South into france.
Bike
warmed up and we’re ready to roll. I take the péage to Nimes
as around
Montpellier the old route national is a mess, and then exit cutting above
Orange
and across to Nyons (D94). I take
the old roads wherever possible, which are my preferred method of travelling.
The péage is fine for those pressed for time; fortunatley I am not one of
those unfortunate creatures that are prevalent in today’s live fast and furious world.
Good choice, what a scenic route this is and for now very, very little traffic....even
better. The only downside is that there is a stretch of many kilometers where
the road surface has been repaired using hot tar, leaving badly placed wide
banding which is really potential bad news for a motorcyclist. It’s where I
would normally put my front wheel but put your front or rear wheel on this
especailly on a corner or under braking and it will be all over very quickly. It
is made all the worse by the high road surface temperature. I pick my way
very carefully indeed; even so I feel the front wheel slide one time as I cross
banding combined with the steel tracks of a railroad that meets the highway at a
45° angle. Fortunately, I am able to catch the resultant front end slide and we
continue!
The
route continues to Serres and then starts heading upwards in the direction of
Gap (D994). I get my first view of
the Alps , albeit from a distance. There is still snow on the top of the peaks.
It is now around 34°c, which actually is a nice temperature for the old BMW.
Remember she is air cooled so as long as I can keep moving there will be no
problems....not that there really have ever been, even in extreme conditions.
She has an oil cooler fitted as standard and needed in these hotter climates.
This old GS is a real testament to the fact that BMW researched and used only
top quality materials in the making of these machines back then.
As we start climbing towards Briançon ( the second highest town in europe apparently at 1,350 metres) the temperature starts to drop off, but it is still hot. I pull over in Briançon to take a couple of photos and to stretch my legs. I had filled up just before Serres so will have enough petrol to get me well into Italy. The price of petrol has gone through the roof in France recently. It is at present around 1.55 to 1.60 euros per litre and it now costs me not far off 38 euros to fill the tank, over double what it did cost me to fill the same tank some eight years previously...or even two years previously come to that. When you figure the percentage that is tax then the oil companies are not the only ones making a killing at the expense of the consumer.
The old town and fort of Vauban at Briancon
There are a lot of
tourists around Briançon, its old fort is quite spectacular.
The old historical center is based around a strongly fortified town, that was
built by Vauban in the 17th century apparently to defend the region
from Austrians (the Col de Montgenèvre, gives access to the Italian frontier).
The streets are very narrow and steep and very photogenic. I
have seen Briançon before but only via television during coverage of that most
famous world event the Tour de France.
Back on
the motorcycle I take the road out of Briançon towards Cesana in
Italy (N94).
I enter
Italy, no border checks, no customs, no nothing. It feels a little strange
crossing international borders with no checks, but I guess that is the whole
point of the European Union. Still, it would be nice to have the stamps in the
passport and you have to think that surely if it is easier for me to cross
borders, then for illegal immigrants or drug dealers it is just as easy and
far more risk free than before this open borders policy. Progress? I question
it..
I get
onto the old route for Torino and head towards it. I purposefully avoid the
autostrada. The road signs around Torino are actually pretty good and I am able
to navigate around without too much trouble....which is more than I can say
about the signs for Milano on the other side of Torino. Obviously they would far
rather you took the financially lucrative autostrada. I get lost as they planned
and find myself heading out into the countryside, which is beautiful, very green
with woods and small country lanes....shame its not my destination. I pull over
and look at the map and compass and figure I am actually heading North instead of East, so I
head towards the East and finally rejoin the route for Milano. Times like this I
can see the relevance of a GPS unit!
I see a petrol station and decide to fill up with petrol
before I run onto reserve (due to the late hour I don’t want to run the risk
of having no fuel). I can’t help but notice that petrol is considerably
cheaper in Italy than in France. A couple of years back I seem to remember the
reverse being true. Strange that, but it is a good 10 centimes cheaper than at
home per litre.
Back on
to the main route and we continue towards Milano. It is getting late. We pass Chivasso,
Cigliano and as I go to change into 5th gear I find I have
no clutch. The lever is just hanging there but there is no back pressure
whatsoever. Strange. On the outskirts of Vercelli, I pull over, shifting down
without a clutch making for interesting riding...especially in those lower gears.. Night is starting to fall as I
park the motorcycle against a wall (it is too heavy to get on the mainstand, or
more correctly I have loaded the camping gear over the grab handle so cannot get
good enough leverage to get the motorcycle onto its main stand). The toolkit
comes out and I check out the clutch from lever to gearbox. Fortunately a
locking screw has worked its way loose on the back of the gearbox, meaning the
clutch is merely out of adjustment. I will need a couple of spanners....if I
remember right it is a 10mm and a 13mm. I undo the adjuster on the handlebars at
the clutch lever and then take up the slack at the gearbox end, going back to
the lever end to make my final adjustments. I have a clutch. Fantastic. I load
the tools back up and wonder how the locknut came loose. Very probably due to
the tires that I am running on the
BMW. The Sahara enduros are just that...off road biased tires. As such they create
far more vibration than would a conventional road tire. However, the Saharas are
fantastic tires for off road and on road use and suit my riding needs perfectly.
There is definately far more vibration, you can feel it through the handlebars but
it is the price you pay. At sustained highway speeds anything that is not really
firmly bolted down will work loose....just like the old Triumphs of yesteryear I
have owned!
By now
it is dark and I can forget camping, or looking for a campsite. I decide on a
hotel. I ride into the town and start looking. I pass a couple that I would not
let my dog stay in and finally draw up outside one that looks decent......which
I might add is in opposition to myself....I am hot, sweaty and dusty looking as
if I have just crossed the finish line of the Paris Dakar. I park the motorcycle
against one of their cyprus trees and enter. A nice hotel, small with a nice
foyer...very nice in fact.....all done out in highly polished white marble....maybe
they will just turn me away looking as I do...but no my luck seems to be
in.....for a price. The woman tells me they have a room and that I can park the
motorcycle around the back, down in their personal private parking, next to the
normal hotel parking but more secure and out of the way. I go park the bike up,
unload only what I will need and leave her there and go check in.
Moaning
over, I lay back on the bed and chill for a while, before feeling a bit peckish.
I fix myself a sausage sandwich with the good saucisson de l’Auvergne that I
packed in my tank bag this morning. Bit warm but what the heck. I set my alarm and
before I can count any sheep am fast asleep. However,apparently I am too tired to sleep
well and find myself tossing and turning all night long. The room is comfortable
and real class (it should be!!) it is just that I am so tired. I sleep fo maybe
a total of four hours and wake at 4am. I just cannot get back to sleep. At this
point I am glad that I have bought along my donated MP3 player. Donated to my
cause by stepdaughter Stélina when she upgraded to an MP4 player as all adolecents
do. I don’t understand (or even try to) all the technology anymore but
apparently this little device will hold hours of music and there
are no moving parts...oh yes and it is tiny. So on with the headphones
and try to relax.....and maybe nod back again off if I’m lucky.
Thursday 26/06/08:
Vercelli, Italy to Riggenberg, Switzerland via lakes Como, Lugano,
Maggiore, the Simplon Pass and the Grimsel Pass.
I’m
not (lucky that is) and at 6am having listened to Vivaldi’s Gloria (my sleep
music as opposed to my jamming music I should add) in its
entirety via my hand me down MP3 player at least twice I decide to get up.
Outside the sun is already shining and it looks like another beautiful day. Must
remember to check that lock nut on the gearbox clutch adjuster as it was too
dark last night and I was just too tired.
On
todays itinerary are: firstly to bypass Milano (yuk..I hate big cities....especially
on a motorcycle). Hopefully I can bypass it and all its traffic before heading
up towards lakes Como, Lugano and Maggiore and some decent scenery and
air.
After that the plan calls for the Simplon Pass. I intend to follow as far as
possible the route that my father did in 1952 on his BSA Gold Flash. We will see.
I am sure he would be quite flattered if he were alive today. Still, he may not
be here in person but I feel he is with me in spirit. So together we will
revisit his ride of 1952. Quite a feat back then really. I dig through my tank
bag and pull out his old black & white shots that he took on that trip. Film
was hard to come by after the war and so the photographs he took
were all black & whites that he developed himself. The 35mm was advanced for
it’s time and is a small quality fold up model by German company Zeiss. I
rebuilt the camera a few years back (when I was bored one time). I load the old girl with colour film and she’s ready to
go. For my own personal use and to make sure I capture the images for the sake
of posterity I have a Leica digital camera that does the job just fine. It is
so much easier to use, although I really do miss taking the time and effort to set
up the old manual cameras before each shot. There is just something missing with
this modern technology, it is effortless but also a bit bland...but most people
would disagree.
Both cameras
checked and readied, I get dressed go downstairs and start to get everything
loaded onto the BMW. There has been a heavy rain during the night....could be
why I did not sleep very well. Too many broken bones that hurt when the weather
is on the change. I never sleep well even at home under those conditions. The
bike is wet so I brush the water off of the saddle and load my panniers back on.
The sun is now truly up and it is looking good for today. I check the oil. Good, clean and
not a drop used.....just what I like to see, but on these old air cooled twins
it is always worth checking.
I go
back into the hotel and decide to eat breakfast there after all. A good idea for
the capuccino is as good as only Italians can make and only Italians can make it
that good...a serious caffeine jolt......and much welcomed. I grab a coffee
flavoured yoghurt....wondering why I have not seen these in my grocery store in
France, they really are excellent, and a couple of fresh croissants. I finish
up, settle my bill and head out for another days adventure.
The morning
traffic is starting to build up with everyone on their way to work. I find the
road out towards Milano...finally.......and not the autostrada either; those I
avoid like the plague...after a previous bad experiance some years ago that
involved a lost ticket and an attempt at running the barrier. I managed the
barrier but a BMW mounted Carabinieri was faster and came from apparently
nowhere........
I head
towards Milano and looking for the small town of Magenta. Here I intend to turn
North and then head towards Como cutting out Milano itself. There really is a
lot of traffic here, it’s rush hour. Fortunately I am on the motorcycle and
can filter through although I am paying one hundred percent attention to these
mad Italian drivers that are liable to do anything and do everything all without
any warning at all. If you have suicidal tendancies then I would heartily
reccomend a ride through rush hour Milano traffic!
I reach
Magenta and cut off towards Como. I find the road without too much trouble. On
the dual carriage way some 40km South of Como the clutch decides to act up again.
I forgot to check it this morning. I hope that the small adjusting nut hasn’t
worked completely loose and dropped off....that really would cause me problems.
I pull into a service area and check it out. Fortunately the nut is still in
place...... I get out the toolkit and start to re adjust the clutch. This time I
am able to see what I am doing and tighten the locknut fully. That should stay
put. Then I do the fine adjustement at the clutch lever itself. Very efficient
& well though out this German engineering. The correct angles and adjustment
to the mm are given by BMW in the manual....which I always pack on a long trip.
If it is adjusted as stated then it will work. No question. It works.
Back on
the motorcycle and direction Como. I arrive in Como and straight into a traffic
jam. I work my way through the mass of tour buses and cars and look out for
signs for the SS583 or the route that follows the lake. I find it, turn off and
miracle of miracles.....all the traffic is gone. I would have thought it was all
headed the same way but no.....apparently the roads are too small! Brilliant.
A few
kilometres out of Como and the scenery alongside the lake is out of this world.
There are some truly amazing houses here.......houses? Palaces!! Many in the
flamboyant baroque style of the 1600 and 1700’s. They are everywhere. Now I
seem to remember reading recently in one of those gossip magazines the kind that
you find at doctors or dentists one time (and the only time I am forced to read
such clap trap) that George Clooney the american actor had bought a home on Como.
I was thinking normalish house but far more likely it was one of these palaces
complete with bodyguards. I pull over time and time again to take photographs.
Outstanding. The lake is really one of the wonders of the world.....ok....a bit
much ....but definately of Italy ...fantastic. I continue heading North taking
all the smallest roads through the villages that are inaccesible to cars and
vehicles apart from fiat 500’s and those three wheeler Lambretta delivery
vans. Yes...they still exist....and yes they are still in daily use here and not
as rare as you may think....not here anyways.
Lago di Lugano, Italia
Cermobbio,
Moltrasio, Carate Unio, Schignano, Argegno....just some of the small towns on
route. At Argegno I turn off cutting inland and heading towards
Lake Lugano. It
is a shame to ride away leaving Como behind. However, Lake Lugano turns out to
be equally impressive with the mountains towering as a backdrop across the lake
itself. The houses here are nowhere near as flamboyant as those around Como, but
it is still beautiful! I head around the north shore of the lake to Lugano,
eventually slowed by a group of Swiss motorcyclists riding...you’ve guessed
it....Harleys...complete with “faux” bed rolls around the front forks. I
hate to be the one to say so but they seriously look out of place around the
Italian lakes. I overtake them when the chance permits; one by one.....it gets
tiresome as none of them ever seem to look in their rear view mirrors or even
over their shoulders, they are far too busy looking at each other and
complimenting their comarades motorcycles, jackets, boots etc. Finally, I am
clear of these poseurs....or more correctly in modern day French “Frimeurs”
and can ride above 20kph. Within a
few kilometres I see motorcycle headlights rapidly appearing behind me. I am taking my time,
enjoying myself and in no hurry so I pull
closer to the nearside so that they can get by. There must be about fifteen top
quality for the most part Italian vintage motorcycles. The sound and the sight
is incredible. As they pass I see Ducati's, Laverda's and Guzzi's from
yesteryear. Fabulous. They are completely at home on the Italian lake roads. They wave as they
pass and continue on their way at their fast pace the sound bouncing off the
cliffs as they disappear from sight.
I reach the
border and have caught up with the Italians on their exotica. The borders guards
are there but I am waved through
with them, no papers, no checks, no nothing.
I follow the signs for Ponte Tresa and then look for the SP61 that will hopefully take me across to Luino (back in Italy again!) and Lake Maggiore. I find it and pretty soon I am confronted with yet again another stunning lake.
Lake Maggiore, Italy / Switzerland
I head north around the lake towards
Locano and back into Switzerland and then head up into the hills on the
SS337. This will hopefully bring me in
to the bottom of the Simplon Pass....if all goes to plan. So far so
good. The
road is tiny and winds its way up the mountain side. Flowers are out everywhere
and the smell of fresh cut hay is very strong.
I am
riding with my Roof helmet fully open visor and all.....with sunglasses
naturally......the only way to experience such marvelous countryside. It’s
sights and it’s smells. I hate being enclosed. It may not be the safest but
ask me if I care? Not really...in fact not at all if I’m honest. I’m one of
the few, that is sick and tired being told by european bureaucrats, bleeding
heart liberals and do gooders what we can and cannot do. It seems these fat cats
are paid by our taxes to make stupid laws to keep them in a job. Why do we stand
for it?
I
digress.....Much care is needed on this route as there are some large gravel
trucks heading down and when cornering they take up the entire road....so the
closer you can get to the rocky cliff edge the better and safer off you are. I
come to the small town of “Re” domintated by its large cathedral. It seems
to be a place of pilgrimage. The pretty dark haired girl at the village shop
where I bought a well earned cold drink speaks Italian, but then gives me a
price in Swiss francs before converting to euros. I ask and find I am presently
in Italy. I met an angel and she lived high up on a mountain....about right and
about my bloody luck. I finish my ice cream and cold drink sitting in the shade
of an umbrella outside the shop of the angel before continuing.
Finally
I come to a border post that actually is manned by border guards both Italian
and Swiss each in their different uniforms. There are four or five of them in
the middle of nowhere......why? Apparently they are busy discussing worldly
matters whilst standing in the middle of the road blocking my passage with their
backs to me; one of them taps the other on the shoulder to get him to move back
so I can pass through....they didn’t even hear me approaching...... I figure out
that I am now officially in Switzerland and therefore by a process of
elimination Re the city of the angel (well hamlet actually) was surely in Italy (I
had my doubts), which actually figures as the Italians are as well known for
their strong Catholic beliefs, much as the Swiss are for their lack of strong
Catholic beliefs. So....it would seem that big fancy ornate cathedrals are normally
more associated with Italy than Switzerland. Elementary my dear
Watson....
The old
BMW is performing just fine, she hasn’t missed a beat all day long and just
keeps on going and going. My hat off to the engineers who designed the flat twin
many many years ago. Simple and efficient....function over form, the way it
should be.
Finally I am at Domodossola, the foot of the route leading to the world famous Simplon Pass. I have waited many years to be able to follow this route and here I am some 56 years after my late father following in his footsteps...or should that be motorcycle tracks? That would surely be more fitting.
.
The route from Domodossola up towards the Simplon Pass
The Simplon
Pass (Passo del
Sempione) is some 2008m or
6589ft high. It connects Brig in Switzerland with Domodossola in Italy. The pass
itself is in Switzerland. In the early 20th century a tunnel was constructed beneath the vicinity of the pass, known as the Simplon Tunnel
that carries rail traffic (including cars) between the two countries.
I find myself wondering just how much is the same route that my father rode in 1952? The answer is probably quite a bit but by no means all. Many of the corners have been removed and many more new bridges and sections added. As we mount the road starts to narrow and then finally we are there: The Simplon Pass itself. I pull over in the parking area, get off the old BMW and grab my camera. Time for a photo or two. I want to take the same photo from the same angle as my father did in 1952.
The Simplon Pass
As I take a couple of
photographs an old German plated BMW 500 thumps by on its way over the
pass. A glorious sound. The rider is all in period gear, black
racing leathers, boots, open faced helmet and goggles and waves on passing. The
motorcycle is pristine and so is the rider. It is so nice to see an old
motorcycle being used as it was intended to be!
I stroll around looking for the right angle for the shot and find it, or that which lost closely resembles the old black and white and the business is done. I wish my father was here with me right now. I am absolutely sure that he is in spirit.......100%. I hope he is enjoying this as much as I am. I also wish my son Justin was here. He too would really enjoy this trip by motorcycle of that I am sure. He may not realise it but he has many of the same attributes as his late grandfather. It is times like this that I feel almost selfish being here and experiencing all this by myself. Maybe next time?
The Simplon Pass in June 2008 and the Simplon Pass in June of 1952
Then it's back to the motorcycle (after a quick visit to the tourist shop for
those “done it-been there” Simplon Pass stickers for the motorcycle of
course). The
weather whilst far from what we have heat wise back in the Languedoc is not too
bad, far warmer than I would have thought. I am riding with my Bering
lightweight summer jacket with a sweat shirt underneath and am not particularly
cold. I check the temperature and it is 17°......a cool summers morning in
Coursan, but probably quite a heat wave for this altitude.
I continue on my way. Impressed;
really impressed. It was already worth the journey. Then it’s off down the
other side of the Simplon Pass towards Brig. The scenery is out of this world
and the sun is shining, fantastic. What more could you want? The old BMW has
handled it all without effort and
the Metzler tires are a credit to their manufacturer. For off road enduro type
tires they are excellent on the road offering grip under all conditions. The
only fault if it is that is that on hot tarmac they have a tendancy to make a
loud humming noise, but that aside they are perfect.
Across the Ganter
Bridge and its
into Brig, a good clean looking Swiss town if ever there was one. I pull over at
the château Stockalper to take a photo before heading out towards the Grimsel
Pass the second pass of the day. Its higher than the Simplon and I have my
doubts as to if it will be open.
At Brig I turn right and head towards Gletsch. There is virtually no traffic on this stretch of road, all to myself.....fantastic. As I wind my way up higher and higher I leave the small Swiss villages behind me and now there is only me, the BMW and some of the best scenery in the world.
A couple of times
on this route a strange thing happens....I actually mean very strange. I
wasn’t going to relate the events as they seem a little bizarre and the reader
may think that I have become starved of oxygen at altitude! But it would be more
dishonest of me not to relate....so here goes. On a couple of occassions I could
have sworn that there has been a motorcycle thumping away behind me. It sounded
just like an old twin. I could hear it over my motorcycle and with my
helmet on....which is not in itself unusal as the old GS is extremely quiet and
there is no other traffic or noise at all. I thought that it may have been
the old chap on the BMW that passed me earlier on the Simplon Pass, although
this had more of a "raw" sound to the exhaust note. More like an old
Triumph with a set of Dunstall Megaphones. I
pulled over to the right to let it past, and when it never did come past I
looked in my left mirror and glanced over my shoulder and there was no motorcycle there. The
very first time I thought that the motorcycle had dropped back and perhaps just
wanted company as the sound died off a little. But then I could hear it again and assumed that it had
come shooting up close , very close on my inside
right. Too close for my comfort.. I
started to get annoyed at the stupidity of someone riding so close but on looking in the
right hand mirror and then over my right hand shoulder saw absolutely nothing
there
either. It threw me completely. I looked again to the left....no motorcycle,
and then I could suddenly hear it no longer. Strange
I continue onwards and a few
kilometres later stop to take a couple of photographs of the scenery. Absolute
calm, appart from the old bird twittering not sound. I get back on the BMW and
continue and about fifteen kilometres further
on just before Gletsch and the turnoff for the
Grimsel Pass the same thing. Same thumping of a big twin
coming up the mountainside behind me really being wound on as if it is trying to catch me up.
Whatever it was, I use this
impromptu pause for an excuse to whip out a small cigar and fire it up. I ponder
these strange events in my mind, come to no conclusion whatsoever, or no
rational one, so just relax
appreciate the scenery and breathe in the crisp fresh air. Heaven on earth. I
finish and fire up the BMW. I rev it a couple of times before putting my helmet
back on, to see if perhaps I do have a blown exhaust after all, but all is well
with the BMW.
En route for Gletsch and the Grimsel Pass
I ride up past the small
abandoned village (or seemlingly abandoned) of Gletsch, and past the Rhone
Glacier where the famous river Rhone makes it debut as the river “Rotten”.
It is just a small stream of run off water from the Glacier at this point. The
glacier is amazing, and I stop to take a shot of it before continuing upwards.
I am almost at the summit (or assume I am) when I encounter a thin cloud base. I continue onwards and upwards assuming that any moment I will break through the cloud into a bright sunlit cloudscape.....from my flying days obviously! I can see the sun through the clouds so at this point the clouds are not that thick. I continue. The visability becomes worse and worse instead of better. I decide to continue. The temperature drops off rapidly as does the visibility which is now down to a foggy four metres at most. I drop my speed down to maybe 10kph as anything else would be sheer suicide up here. There are very few safety barriers and it is a long way down should I screw up. I figure as I decend that the weather will improve. Wrong. It gets worse, now along with the thick fog there is freezing rain, with the odd snow flurry thrown in for good measure. My fingers are cold and seriously I am beginning to wish I had turned around. Too late now though. I continue.
Slowy does it, a slippery road
surface and bad visability make for taking it easy and taking my time. I am in
no hurry to go over the edge of the Grimsel Pass. Not a good way of getting your
name in the local newspapers.... in the obituary columns! I nearly miss a sharp
turn due to a sudden bank of very dense fog. I brake as much as I am able without locking it up and lean
the bike heavily over to the right. I expect it to go down with me on it (the
other option is over the side and straight down for several hundred metres I
would guess) but much to my surprise the BMW makes it round the corner.....just!!
My riding style at that particlar moment; bike almost on its side, right leg fully
extended keeping the bike upright (or attempting thereof ) would have impressed
even the most seasoned enduro or motocross rider. That was close...far, far too
close.
I only see one car up here, and no motorcycles at all. They all probably
have better sense than I
do....obviously! Piled high by the side of the route (what I can see of the
route) is snow, in places several metres high. It has been here for a while and
looks like being here a while longer. The freezing rain has been replaced by a
light snowfall; I am not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing. My
lightweight jacket and trousers are not totally saturated but there is no way I
am pulling over here to stop and change..I just want out of here.
As I decend the Grimsel, of
which I have seen absolutely nothing, visibility and road conditions are gradually improving and I can now up
my speed to a monstrous 20kph. At this rate I should be down the mountain in
about three hours! I disappear into
a tunnel, a long tunnel. On exiting the tunnel I can now see a good thirty or so
metres and the the snow flurries give way to a cold
persistent drizzle; ah the joys of motorcycling. It’s cold but I can actually
see where I’m going and see something of the countryside around me. The
further I decend the better the weather becomes and I actually start to dry out.
So no photos of the Grimsel Pass
this time. I am rather dissapointed but I will just have to come back at some
point and do it again. Before I rode these passes I had many friends who are
absolutely smitten by riding the passes in Switzerland. For them it is their
“raison d’être”. Until now I have never understood it...or them in this
respect, but I am starting to understand; the feeling of accomplishment;
and the roads (fog,
snow aside) have been fantastic. I decend into Innertkirchen where I am able to
get fuel. It is starting to get dark although night is still a couple of hours
away. I need to find me a place to stay, ideally a campground. I have seen far
more signposted in Switzerland than in Italy where there seem to be woefully few
campgrounds compared to france where they are almost everywhere. I fill the
motorcycle up and run into a band of four Swiss motorcyclists at the pumps who
like myself are soaking wet. It appears that they too got caught on the Grimsel
Pass. They are staying in Interlaken and tell me that there are quite a few
campgrounds and hotels on the route alongside the lakes. I thank them for this
useful information and they wave as
they head off. I finish filling up the BMW and fire her up....direction Interlaken.
I ride alongside the Brenzier lake towards Interlaken. The lake is a beautiful light blue colour, almost a deep pastel seen through the mist that surrounds it. I cannot see the mountain tops that tower above it which is a shame as some of europes most famous peaks would normally be visable from this route, including the Eiger and the Jungfrau.
Still the scenery is wonderful,
Switzerland is such a clean beautiful country. Everything seems to have its
place and everything is in order. All the fences along the route are well
maintained as are the fields, the cattle and the houses. It really is a postcard
in itself. My kind of country.
It is now I suffer my first problem so far
of this journey. The BMW starts to cough and splutter and eventually the engine
dies. I pull in the clutch and freewheel to a stop. I know what the problem is
as I have seen this problem before and fortunately am prepared. In my humble
opinion there is an inherent design problem with regard to the electrics on
these 2 valve twins that was never really rectified. The coil is placed in a
position to allow the maximum of cold air to pass over it; to the front and
just underneath the fuel tank. All very well but not only does all the air pass
over the coil but all the rain as well. There is a bit of plastic to deflect the
lightest rain but after a hard soaking the coil gets saturated and gives
up the ghost meaning no spark to the plugs meaning no engine.
I push the motorcycle off of the road,
into a farm entrance and put it on its main stand. I pay particular attention as
I notice one of the main bolts holding the main stand in place has sheared off, leaving
me just one bolt holding the main stand in place. I wouldn’t trust it to be
underneath the motorcycle whilst working on it, but for what I need the one good
bolt
proves adequate for the job.
Seat off, tank bag off, tank
disconnected and unclipped. Thanks to the functionality of German design
it takes about two minutes to disconnect fuel hoses and unclip the tank...if
that. I lift the tank clear and carefully position it with the taps clear of the
ground supported by my tool roll. Now with the tank removed the electrics are
plainly in view....including the exposed and obviously wet coil. As I look the
coil over I notice there is a hairline crack in it. This is obviously the cause
of the problem. Fortunately I have
packed a can of that good space age invention “WD40”. Where would we be
without it? Old motorcycles, dodgy electrics = WD40, saviour in a can. I
remove the plug leads both at the coil and the spark plugs and give each a good
blast of this magical potion. I then direct the nozzle into each and every
electrical connection in sight, spraying enough in to each that it starts to
flow back out again. I finish with the coil itself pumping in so much WD40 that
is completely saturated. All moisture is sure to have been displaced with that
much WD40....I hope. I then place the tank
back on the motorcycle, hook up the fuel lines and replace the plug leads. I
switch on the ignition, hit the starter.....and we have a running BMW!! Excellent. Total time less
than five minutes. I make a mental note to fix this problem once and foever upon
my return. I had the same problem several years before in Italy but back then it
was of unknown origin and so difficult to track down and caused me much grief. Why BMW never addressed this
problem for the general public I will never know. I have owned several ex
Gendamerie BMW motorcycles over the years and each one has had a specially
fabricated galvanised metal box constructed to house the coils in, evidently to
protect them from this very problem. I will keep my eyes open or construct one
of my own. This is one of the few weak spots on the BMW’s that I have owned,
in fact one of the only weak spots as overall they are probably the best made, best designed
and most reliable motorcycle available, particularly the older air cooled
carburated models.
We are back on the road towards
Interlaken. I am tired and keeping my eyes peeled for a campground. I have seen
severeral on the route but each time have wanted to gain just a little more
ground. Now I am shattered and just want to put my head down. Hopefully there
will be a campground before Interlaken, otherwise I can see a hotel for the
night meaning this trip will start getting expensive. Plus I really want to try
out my camping gear, after not having used it in anger for several years. The
tent has been cleaned and erected recently in my living room to check 1: that it
was all there, 2: that it was in usable condition, and finally 3: that I knew
how to errect it and didn’t look like an idiot on arriving at the campground!!
Just before the small village of
Ringenbberg I see a sign for a campground. Excellent. I turn right along a small
track and enter “Camping Talaker”. It is a small campground, but a nice
looking one, the kind of place I like to camp in. The Gods have smiled on me it
would seem. There is room and the patron a youngish man with a beautiful 9 month
old golden retriever directs me to a space to put my tent. I fill in the
required paperwork, pay my 12 euros ( I have no Swiss francs but this does not
seem to upset him) and start unloading the camping gear.
Tent is erected in a matter of minutes....I am glad that I had a dry run at the house as the campground is full of elderly retired folk, all sitting under their caravan awnings watching yours truly seemingly the entertainment for the evening. I like camping on campgrounds where the clientele is the elderly. They go to bed early and usually by 10pm all is quiet...as I like it. Sad? Maybe, but after a hard days riding the last thing I want to hear are screaming kids running around, disco lights and loud music thumping away until 3am. This campground seems to me my idea of heaven...campground wise that is.
Camping "Talaker" Riggenberg, Switzerland
Everything set up, I head for the
showers. They are immaculate. I have never seen such well maintained facilities,
they would do a five star hotel proud. All the taps, basins and mirrors are
polished up and sparkling. Perfect. Errrr.....just one problem..... The showers
are electric and the meter takes only Swiss francs.......and I have none. Bugger!!
Cold shower time. Still a good refreshing cold shower is better than none..I
guess!! Out of the shower and I am now fully awake if I wasn’t before. It’s
time to fix something to eat. I am starving. What shall it be tonight? I settle
on a nice roast duck with vegetables and a pepper sauce. I fire up the gas stove,
get out the genuine US 1944 Knapp Monarch issued army canteen that my father
used on his trip back in 1952 and that I have used myself for the last 25 years and we are in business. Ok, so I cheat just
a little. You didn’t really think that I was going to cook all that from scratch did you? I bought one of these
"MRE’"s or "Meals Ready to Eat", that you
can now buy on civvy street and in the grocery stores. The good ones are good,
very good in fact. What would you expect in France? A couple of minutes later
and I’m sitting down on my fold out three legged stool in front of my tent
sipping back a nice cold beer (well it was cold on the Grimsel so the beer
didn’t get hot!) and my roast duck with sauce. Very welcome indeed.
All that done, I head over and
wash out the canteen, pack it all away, have a well earned cheroot cigar, relax and
enjoy myself. This is the life!! Then its into the tent, in the sleeping bag and I’m out
like a light within minutes.
Friday 27th June 2008:
Ringgenberg (Lake Brenzier) Switzerland
I awake this morning after a
really good nights sleep to sunshine shining through a light mist. I grab my
towel and head to the wash room. The old folk on the campground are already up
and moving at 6.30am. I head back to my tent
and put somewater on to boil. A good strong Ricoré to start the morning off
right sounds good to me.
Whilst perching on my stool I
ponder where to head to this morning. I love that part of it...no fixed schedule. The sky
to the west is dark and ominous looking, whilst that to the east is showing
promise with some patches of clear sky and sunshine. So that is it decided. I
will head back the way I came and do the Grimsel Pass once again, this time in
the hope of actually seeing something!! A gluton for punishment maybe....we will
see. After the Grimsel it will be back to Brig and then West eventually to
Geneva. Plan for the day agreed....subject to change that is.
I finish my breakfast of cereal (without milk!) and Ricoré.... and then begin the packing up. The tent is rolled up. There is a lot of moisture in the air and the tent is really a little too wet to pack but I do not have the time to sit around waiting for it to dry out. The benefit of modern materials.
All packed up, everything loaded into its proper place on the motorcycle. I put on my jacket, gloves and helmet and fire up the motorcycle. She fires easily and I let her warm up.
Five minutes later, I swing a
leg over, clunk the old BMW into gear, let out the clutch and off we go,
alongside the Brenzier Lake direction the Grimsel Pass....again. I stay off of the main routes and instead
opt for the small country roads. Much more pleasant and besides I have failed (read
opted not) to purchase the sticker that is needed for use on Swiss toll roads.
This is technically a necessity but is for using their autoroutes.
I figure that technically I am not breaking the law (technically??!) by
doing this. My excuse if I get stopped. Twenty or thirty euros for a couple of
days in Switzerland seems a little high to me, just to use their roads; I’ll
take my chances.
I turn off towards the Grimsel pass and retrace my steps of yesterday. The weather is good and the sun is shining but.....as I start to climb higher up toward the Grimsel those dammed clouds start to gather again. A couple of spots of rain and it gets colder the higher I get. Then I’m in cloud again, or in fog. Who knows...but I can’t see anything. I continue upwards and it gets worse. I should be somewhere near the Grimsel Pass but I can see no more that I saw yesterday. Unbelievable!!
The Grimsel Pass 2008 and the Grimsel Pass 1952
I reach the top of the pass
itself...I see the blue sign through the fog... and pull off the road. I can see
the vague outlines of a hotel restaurant and a tourist shop. Apart from that
nothing.....and I do mean nothing. I take off my helmet and can hear talking but
yet see nobody. A lot of voices too. Turns out that about 20 metres away is a
German tour bus that has just offloaded its clients. Out of the fog they come
towards me and the souvenir shop. I decide to enter myself and see if I can
find a sticker for the motorcycle. After all the old girl merits it and can
wear it with pride. I find one. “Grimsel Pass”. Perfect.
Back to the motorcycle. I get
out my hankerchief and wipe away the moiture on the side panel and apply my
newly purchased sticker. Respect for the old girl. Then in zero visability I
start her up and head back down the other side of the Grimsel Pass
towards Gletsch.
I reach Gletch, the sun is out and the sky is blue. Typical. The road to my left is signed up for the Furka Pass. I decide to take this road and have a ride up the Furka Pass. I head up towards the pass and am amazed by the amount of motorcycles that have suddenly appeared today. Is it a public holiday here? Yesterday not a single motorcycle.
Today, the sports bike brigade
are out in force! They are everywhere, hundreds of them...everywhere....all
riding like the devil is on their collective tails! Why? All brightly coloured. There are also a lot of
the new BMW R1200 GS models. Every last one equipped with the seemlingly
required aluminium world tour boxes and looking ready for a world trip. The give
away that they have not been around the world and have just come from their
owners garages is that they are all immaculately clean. As spotless as their
riders, every one of them wearing the “correct” off road kit that must cost hundreds if not
thousands of euros. Too many films....motorcycling has become too stylish. They too seem to be in the utmost hurry to get to their
destination. Must be important enough to be potentially life threatening. One
slip up here and it’s all over but the crying. In many places there are no
protective barriers and a trip over the side will take you to the valley below.......in
places easily a kilometre below..... and guarentee you a one on one meeting with
your maker.
Talking of which, at the side of
the road I see a memorial. I stop. It is a sportsbike wheel mounted in forks and
welded to a metal plate bolted to the tarmac. A name and date are engraved
around the edge of the wheel and fresh flowers placed beside it. A poignant
reminder indeed.
I continue over the Furka
Pass and
stop to take some photographs. It is really amazing. It feels really strange to
be seeing the same scenery that my father saw and visited all those years ago. I
imagine little has changed, especially on the smaller routes. The Rhone
Glacier that you can see from here has
receeded a little further, the roads are now tarmac covered and probably wider
instead of being cobbled, but that aside it is essentially the same. I wish that
he were here today and we were able to share this together.
Then it’s back down the Furka
and down towards Brig. The idea is to head towards Geneva. I want to see the
famous fountain. It may well be crowded as the European Football Cup is in full
swing and Switzerland is the host country. Everywhere are Swiss cars with flags
attatched to the antenas and more flags hanging out or their windows being
shredded in the wind. Nearly every car has two flags. The first being the Swiss
flag, the second depending on region either the Italian (I saw these yesterday
in the Italian Alps), the German (around the Grimsel/Interlaken area) or the
French which I see more of the further west I ride. By the time I
reach and refuel in Martigny at lunchtime it is all french flags. The ride from
Brig to Martigny is boring. Along a plain in a wide valley filled with unending
apple trees it seems to me.
I refuel and it is strange to
have French spoken to me again, especially in Switzerland. I speak French and
with an accent I am sure but to me the French speaking Swiss really have a
strange accent, a kind of very Germanic French, very sharp, fast and clipped
instead of drawn out and rolling as in the Languedoc where I live.
After Martigny I head around Lac Léman or Lake Geneva (depending on where you're from) on the south side towards Geneva. The scenery is fantastic but after what I have seen in the East of Switzerland to me it just does not measure up. Maybe it is just me, maybe I am tired. I cross over into France and am on the South side of the lake as I head towards Geneva. The Spa town of Evian is alive and kicking, there are cars and people everywhere. It seems like a nice clean resort town of the old style.
Lake Léman /Geneva, French side
Then I am back in Switzerland
and before you know it in Geneva. Traffic absolutely everywhere, a motorcylists
nightmare....unless he or she be of masochistic tendancy. I work my way through
the traffic being careful not to hit or be hit by the thousands of scooters that
are being manouvered though the traffic with complete disregard for the riders
or anyone elses life or wellbeing. Sheer madness. I have ridden many times in
Italy, the spiritual home of the scooteristi. The Italians try as they do have
nothing on this lot!!
Where is the bloody fountain? It
is hot, I am hot, traffic is backed up and packed so tightly that a BMW with its
horizontal engine configuration is at a disadvantage and I am unable to manouver
without scratching paintwork......I’m not talking about my own either.
I get to where the fountain should be, or where I think it should be from the old colour photos I have seen......and no fountain. I must be mistaken. Surely? I ride through all the traffic to the other side of the lake, but still no fountain. I pull over and get off the motorcycle leaving it on t he sidewalk. This is acceptable in France and Italy but from the looks I get here it is not the done thing. Do I care? Not really. I am blocking no one. I walk over to the lake and there is the fountain....or at least the base of it. Not bloody working!!! I have ridden several hundred kilometres to visit Geneva purely to see their famous fountain and it is not bloody working!! I am disgusted, get back on the motorcycle and just want to get the hell out of Geneva. I feel shortchanged! I've been swindled!! However, getting out of this overcrowed city is easier said than done it appears! Traffic everywhere and a living hell for motorcyclists....I won’t be in a hurry to get back to Geneva that’s for sure!!
Lake Geneva, Geneva, Switzerland
Seems as if the only route out
is via the autoroute. I dislike autoroutes intensely...but if it is the quickest
way out of this town I’ll take it! I get on to the autoroute, and almost
immediately arrive at Swiss customs. They stop the vehicle in front of me with
some elderly woman driving. The elderly woman is asked to get out of her newish
4x4 and open the back up. What is the point of all this, really? The point
becomes quite obvious as the minute the tailgate is dropped the back is full of
cases of spirits. I cut the engine on the BMW, I am resigned to going nowhere
fast this afternoon. The customs gather around the 4x4 and start unloading and
opening the cases. There must be hundreds of bottles in there. They have
obviously forgotten me so I take a chance take my life into my hands and tap the
horn lightly to get their attention. Just a short blast....don’t want to anger them,
just get their attention. They all look over as if I have interupted a wining
poker hand and then gesture me forward. I
have nothing to declare and after a walk around the motorcycle I am allowed to
continue on my way.
The autoroute is tedious and I
swear that the first chance I get I will exit. I stop at a services and buy a
sandwich and an ice cream and chill for five or so minutes. Beggars cannot be
choosers and I am hungry, having not eaten since this am’s breakfast in
Ringgenberg. I must put Ringgenberg on my list of places to visit again. It will
make a good base for exploring the Alps and the mountain passes further.
Back onto the autoroute
direction Annecy. An exit comes up so I decide to take it. I do not recognise
any of the place names but these days that really does not mean anything.....the
autoroute is in business to sell places on the autoroute and is hardly likely to
post alternative directions to the same destination.
I exit and follow a sign posted
“Cruseilles”, before getting completely lost down some really small back
roads in the country. Extremely scenic and the air smells so good, fresh cut
grass, flowers and wheat. The cattle and sheep smell good too! Don’t get that
in your airconditioned car!
I eventually find my way back onto a small main road and head out South towards Annecy. As I come to a bend in the road I see through the trees what looks like the crenellated towers of a castle. They turn out to be the supports to a suspension bridge. I pull off the road to get a better look and immediately recognise the bridge from old colour slides my parents took whilst on holiday back in 1964.
Pont de la Caille, Haute-Savoie, France in 2008 and 1964
The bridge is the famous Le Pont
de la Caille and was constructed in 1839. During its heyday the largest of its
type in the world. Today it lies retired to all but pedestrian traffic alongside
the newer version ( a nice piece of art deco in itself in use since 1939) on the
N201 between Cruseilles and Allonzier. The bridge is an early example of a suspension bridge,
measuring 192 metres long and 147 metres above the semi dry riverbed below. How
strange to come upon this bridge completely by accident. I knew that it was
somewhere on the route between Le Lavandou and Geneva but I was not looking for
it and I had no idea which road it was on either. I take several photos, trying
for the same angle and place that my father took so many years before. It is
strange to find myself inadvertantly following in his footsteps. The Simplon and
Grimsel passes were planned, this was not; it is as if he is telling me that he
is still here with me. Well I hope he is enjoying this trip as much as I am!
I continue heading South and
start looking for a suitable campground. I particularly like the french
municipal campgrounds in small villages and towns. They generally have all the
amenities and seem to be populated by older retired folks. One of the benefits
of this to me is that after a hard days riding I pitch my tent, take a good hot
shower...or good cold one depending on the weather, fix myself something to eat
just before dusk, then into the tent and into the sleeping bag as night falls.
With these campgrounds you can do just that without fear of noisy kids or loud
radios blaring. The older folks are like the birds; early to roost and up at
first light, which suits me perfectly.
I find my perfect small
campground just outside Annecy at Gresy sur
Aix. I roll in, and there are just a
handful of caravans. There are a few placements vacant and a note on the window
that the campsite manager will be back around 8:30pm and to just install
yourself in any available placement. I find a small spot away from everyone else
and unload the tent. Within five minutes it is up and I fire up the gas cooker.
Tonight cassoulet is on the menu. I am just getting ready to sit down and eat a
well earnt supper when the manager rolls up. I fill out the papers, pay my 8.40
euros and I am left in peace. The cassoulet is good, one of those Super U brand
ones in a can.....ideal for travelling and good quality too. Washed down with a
small bottle of quality red wine that I picked up along with a baguette at a
little store on the side of the road a few kilometres back.
Dessert is a chocolate mousse. Finished, I grab my shower things and make
my way over to the stalls. Perfectly clean. After a good shower its into the
tent and lights out. Tomorrow will be the route Napoléon.
The Route Napoléon
The current Route Napoléon
which opened in 1932, follows the route taken by Napoléon Bonaparte during
March of 1815 from Elba to Grenoble. Napoléon had abdicated in April of 1814
and gone to Elba .However, less than a year later in March of 1815, obviously
unhappy with political events in France, he began his journey northwards with
the intention of overthrowing the french king Louis XVIII.
On the night of 1 March Napoléon
returned from Elba landing at Golfe-Juan, with him his small group staying the
first night in Cannes.
To avoid the Rhone valley and
the kings troops in Marseilles to the west, he decided to head north and cross
the Alps between Digne and Sisteron to get to Grenoble. From Cannes, Napoléon
with now 1200 men went up to Grasse following the small trails and mule tracks
through the hills to St-Vallier, Escragnolles, and Séranon, where they stopped
the night.
The 3rd, saw them leaving Séranon,
marching 24 km to Castellane riding through the center of town in mid afternoon.
Over the Col des Leques (1146 m) and through the Col de Taulanne in heavy
snow, past Senez and on to Barrême, arriving late into the night.
The advance guard left during
the night, by the light of a full moon. Napoléon and his main troop left Barrême
early on the 4th for the 30 km trip to Digne. After lunching in Digne, they
followed the Bléone river to the Durance, where stopping the night at the château
de Malijai.
On the 5th, Napoléon marched
towards Sisteron, where a citadel guarded the narrow gap of the Durance. At
l'Escale, he continued on the east side of the river, through the village of
Volonne. Fortunately Sisteron wasn't guarded; Napoléon hadn't been expected to
make such good time. He stopped for lunch, and continued to Gap.
The 6th of March, they marched
over the Col Bayard at 1248 m, to Corps, 40 km north of Gap.
The following day, the 7th, he
marched another 25 km to La Mure, where the famous confrontation with Laffrey
occured. That same evening, the Emperor made his grand entry into Grenoble.
Saturday 28th June 2008
Gresy sur Aix, Annecy, Grenoble, Sisteron, Digne, Castellane, Avignon, Narbonne
Today the idea is to head south
and join the famous Route Napoléon at Grenoble
effectively doing the route in
reverse and following it down to Castellane where I will branch off and head to
pay my respects at the American Military Cemetery at
Draguignan. One of my
guests (thanks again Ian) at Maison St Georges donated a book last year on “Operation Dragoon”,
the allied landings on the coast of the South of France back in august of 1944.
The book was a true revelation; and a very gripping read and I recommend getting
hold of a copy.
I pack up the tent and get everything loaded on the motorcycle. Check the oil; she’s hardly used a drop since leaving Maison St Georges. Fantastic. I head out of the campsite and hit the road. The sun is shining brightly and although a little on the cool side it will be warmer later. I head towards Chambéry and then hunt out the D523 that runs alongside the autoroute and the old route nationale. A much better bet and a much more comfortable and relaxed ride.
View from the Route Napoléon
I have not covered that many
kilometres when I run into a small village by the name of Bassens. I recognise
the scenery and the mountain forms in the background although I have never been
along this route. I then realise that again I have stumbled onto one of the
villages where my parents camped on their way South in 1964. A strange feeling.
I continue onwards and avoid the
centre of Grenoble before picking up the Route Napoléon. What a fantastic
route; the scenery is stunning the road amazing. I would imagine that in March
which is when Napoléon came by, it could be bloody cold .....much better ridden
at the tail end of June! Mountain backdrops, lakes, clear fresh air.......you
name it, its all around. Gap is the first main stop on the route and I am slowed
down by a wedding procession in the stages of formation and blocking the entire
town centre. Organisation is not a French strongpoint I would add, but the
spectacle of all the parked cars decorated with ribbons and the old 1960's Renault convertible all
decked out is worth seeing. Everybody is smiling and dressed to the nines with
top hats and tails.
I work around the badly parked
(.....no they are not really parked.....nobody could park that badly....surely......badly
positioned would be more correct) cars and continue on south to Sisteron.
I continue onwards to Digne les Bains. By now I am positively starving and looking for something to eat is a priority. It’s also market day. I find myself squeezing down some very narrow streets and end up at the back end of the market. I park outside a restaurant but on closer inspection it looks more than a little seedy. I sit at a table but am totally and puposefully ignored. I can take a hint. Back to the bike and I ride slowly around the square with my helmet on my arm, turn left the wrong way down a one way street...otherwise it will be sending me around a tour of the town (once more). In front of me appears a class looking little Bistro. Perfect!! I park the bike again and head over. Impecable and service with a smile within seconds. The Gods are looking down on me. I am glad that I was ignored by the arabic woman at the tip around the corner (I was hungry but couscous or kebabs are really not my favourites) This Bistro is the place to be. Seems like somethings are just meant to be. There is a great menu. I settle for a beef plate with vegetables with a glass of local house red wine. I could stay here all day long. The meal is a good as it looks and presentation is excellent. I take my time and enjoy. This is followed in due course by a creme brulé to die for. This is what eating in france is all about. I finish up and am almost sad to have to leave but I have a lot of kilometres to cover today so its time to be going.
Between Digne les Bains and Castellane on the Route Napoléon
I head out of Digne and follow
the route to Castellane; another fantastic piece of scenic road. There a re a
lot of foreign tourists around so I take extra care and give them all an extra
wide berth....most of them havent got a clue where they are going and many of
them are navigating using their relatively new GPS navigation systems. It means
they can be lazy and do not need to appy themselves to reading a map....just
typing in their destination. All very well when it works, but if these people
could have a frontal lobotomy and still go on vacation I am sure they would opt for that
too. Anything to avoid a bit of work, be it physical or these days even mental.
I reach Castellane after stopping several times to take photographs of the scenery along the route and wonder why Napoléon didn’t wait until a little later in the year to make his march on Grenoble? I pull into Castellane and take several photos of the old town. It really is rather photogenic with the little chapel perched high above the town on a rocky outcrop. If I had the time a walk up the top would not go amiss. I don’t. Instead its a repair to the BMW. That mainstand bolt has finally completely sheared off leaving only one side held in place. Not great and a bit worrying. I find a cast off metal coat hanger left behind by a morning market stall. With a little help from my swiss army tool I soon have the coat hanger cut to length and several wraps around the mainstand and through the bolt hole should at least hold it in place. It’s not going anywhere. I’ve been worrying about the other bolt sheering off and the stand dropping below the rear wheel. Not a nice thought.
Castellane, Route Napoléon, Alpes-de-Haute-Provence, France
Castellane in 2008 and the same shot taken in 1964
Repair made and I’m on my way.
Its getting really hot now. I am glad of my lightweight jacket. The sleeves open
out in a funnel shape and scoop up the cooler air with a ram air effect, cooling
my underarms and body. A good efficient design. I cut through the back roads
from Castellane towards Comps and get lost. Not to worry there is a Gendarme road block up ahead,
so I stop and ask them. They are friendly, helpful and point me in the right
direction.
Twenty minutes later I am in Draguignan, a larger bustling town with a lot of traffic. Nowhere can I find signs to the Military Cemetery. There are signs for almost everything else but none for the Cemetery. It is only when I am in the very centre of the town that I find a sign pointing me in the right direction. A sad state of affairs if you ask me. Still, one signs is better than none I guess and I follow it. A couple of minutes later and there it is on my left hand side the “Rhone Military Cemetery”. I lean the motorcycle against a handy tree (now having no stand), take off my gear and walk across. The cemetery is immaculately maintained but then again I have never seen an American Military Cemetery that is not. The grass looks as if each piece has been cut to perfection by hand, and all the flowers arranged to perfection just that morning. There is absolutely nobody around anywhere, just me and somewhere around 900 white stone crosses, interspersed with a few stars of David for the fallen Jewish soldiers. Very, very moving and something that moves me deeply. These mostly young American warriors came thousands of miles to fight for freedom that we may have the right in Europe to choose, to think and to say whatever we will. Many of them lay buried here but still many many more have no known grave their names carved in stone in a few inches of space on the wall of remembrance. According to the information panel at the entrance (if I read it correctly...which I think I did, but also am so astounded that I think maybe I did not) there were some 78,000 American soldiers listed as missing in action in europe in World War II, more than in any other war or any other theatre of action.
The American Military Cemetery at Draguignan, Provence, France
I watch as an old man comes out of the house at the entrance to the grounds and walks up the driveway to the twin flagpoles. One by one he lowers each old glory, carefully folding each one with love and attention. He is obviously a veteran and has a very prounounced limp; probably an artificial leg.
I pay my respects, signal
goodbye to the old man who does likewise and then its back to the motorcycle. I
head back into town before cutting across to the other side and stopping for
petrol. Now I have a dilema. How to keep the bike upright whilst fueling and
then where to leave it whist I pay. The mainstand is out of service so I try and
prop the motorcycle on its panniers against the pump, which means I have to
climb off the wrong side of the motorcycle to get off. All very tricky as the
motorcycle is literally just balanced against the pump. I have left it in gear
so it will not roll forwards or backwards and crash to the ground. Fingers
crossed.
I fill her up and then go pay.
Then its back and headed out. I plan on taking the smaller roads that take me to
Carcès and Barjols before getting hopelessly lost and ending up down a dirt
road. Normally I would relish riding such a route, especially such a scenic one
as this but it is now getting late in the evening and within a couple of hours
it will be dark. Eventually I find a road which leads to another and eventually
I find a road that is marked Rians and I know I am on the right track. I cut
across to Peyrolles and then across to Cadenet and
Cavaillon before hitting Avignon. At Avignon I decide to just get on the autoroute and head back to
Narbonne. It’s now 9pm and I am exhausted. What a day. What a fabulous day but
I am shattered. Two hours more and I will be back home. The longest two hours I
have ridden and so hard to keep my eyes open. The dusk sky is full of insects
and I have to stop several times at services just to clean off the bugs from my
visor.At 11pm or just after I roll into Coursan totally and utterly shattered.
1989 BMW
R100GS
Starting
km : 21,241 (3rd time around the clock = 221,241km)
Finish
km: 23,690