F&@k, f&@k and double f&@k!

Today got off to a lovely start.  I woke latish and had a lovely French farm house breakfast then took my time packing and sorting out the bike ready for the ferry while Pierre and Brigitte pottered about the place.  With my kit on I went to see Pierre and Brigitte to pay for the night and say good bye.  They wouldn’t let me pay and we swapped email addresses so we can stay in touch.  Brigitte was insistent that I come and stay with them and bring Harriet and the children.  I hope to be able to take them up on the offer and co-inside the trip with the vintage car rally in Le Puy Notre Dame.

With goodbyes said I set off for the ferry in Le Havre.  

Domaine de l'Enchantoir

I had the whole day to get there as the boat wasn’t due to leave until 2300hrs.  On my way north I passed signs for the Le Mans and thought it would be rude not to visit the museum.  As you would expect its full of amazing exotic cars and the odd bike.  I decided to have some lunch there but the café had run out of baguettes but could still do a croque Monsieur or as I call them a croque Trystan, long story.

Legends from another age.

After my luxurious lunch I took full advantage of the free wifi and facetimed Harriet and spoke to her, Wilf and Alice much to the amusement of the bartender.  There were a few other British bikers in the café and we got chatting about trips as bikes you do.  After another coffee I got back on the bike and headed north, I had the fear of missing the boat and wanted to get to Le Havre with plenty of time.  I managed that all right, I was 5 hours early and the port was closed.  With nothing else to do I went to find a café, get a bite to eat and more coffee.  Post coffee I still had hours and went to find a bench with a view.  This reminded me of a time, years ago, when I was waiting for a ferry in another French port and saw a biker cooking himself something to eat.  I remember looking at his fully loaded bike and thinking that one day I want to be that man.  Well today I became the biker waiting for a boat to take me home at the end of a long journey.  In some small way I had arrived, and it felt good.

I've arrived.  Feeling smug in Le Harve with time on my side.

I had killed some time and the boat was due to leave in 2 hours so I thought that they might open the port soon and rode to the check-in area and found it still closed up, taking advantage of the cool evening I sat on the bike and rested my head on the tank bag and tried to get some sleep.  But something was bugging me.  Surly other people would be here by now, where were they?  I dug out my phone and checked the booking confirmation.  There it was; in small print at the top of the email.  It looked so unassuming:  “Caen to Portsmouth”….. 

Fuck….. Fuckity fuck fuck.  Underneath it said “Last check-in 45min before departure.” (2215hrs).

I quickly turned on the satnav and plumbed in Caen.  1 hour away and it was now 2113hrs.  No time to swear, just get my kit on and ride.  I had packed my back protector ready for getting on the boat, my neck brace was secured to the pacsafe and it would take at least 15 min to get it out and on.  No time for that.  No time to put in my ear plugs, no time for my neck warmer.  The bike was rolling in record time and I turned so sharply in the carpark that the peg scraped down as I shot off. 

What was the best plan of attack?  Do I open the taps and go for it risking being pulled by Plod?  Do I stick exactly to the limit and hope for the best?  I thought that discretion would be best so I stuck to the limits in Le-bloody-Havre.  As soon as I got onto the motorway I hit a toll booth.  This one turned out to be free for bikes and the lady waved me on.  It was now dark and I wished that I had taken the time to correct the headlight for the heavy load.  With so much weight on the back the headlight pointed into the sky like a searchlight trying to spot a bomber.  Allot of use that was!  Ahead was a car that was cracking on at naughty pace.  I fell in behind and used his lights.  At least I had spent that past few hours drinking coffee and the effects where telling.  My eyes were wide open, I could see everything in great clarity and I felt great.  I. Can. Do. This!  The GPS didn’t think so as the clock had ticked on and was now telling me I was going to be 1 minute late for last check-in.  Shit, I needed to make time in the “Withnail and I” sense.  I cracked open the throttle and sat just shy of daft speeds.  It was dark, my headlight was useless, I had lost my pace car, I wasn’t wearing some of my most protective kit, a headache was just starting and the GPS was telling me I was going to miss the boat.  Things couldn’t get worse. 

Then it started raining…. And the fuel light came on with 50kms to go. 

I had to slow down but the GPS was back on side and told me I was going to make it with a minute to spare.  Toll booth.  REALLY FRANCE? ANOTHER ONE!!!? BOLLOCKS!!!!!

I looked at the GPS and saw the road peel off to the south, away from the coast.  WTF are the French playing at?  Why not build a straight road?  The Romans managed it why can’t you?

I was now wet, late, unprotected and getting a little bit stressed.  Finally, I entered Caen.  Where’s the port?  GPS says it’s the other side of the city.  I shot past a junction and saw a sign saying “Car ferry” out of the corner of one bloodshot eye.  It was too late, I passed the exit but the GPS says straight on.  In for a penny…. I carried on and saw another ferry sign this one was on my side.  The GPS said I’m going to make it.   Come on!!!!

Roadworks.  NOOOOO!! I had to slow down, and thought that I had blown it.  Surely I’m done.  I thought about the options.  I could make for Calais and get the tunnel.  But my MoT is booked in Portsmouth at 0830.  I would have to ride to Calais chuck money at the problem and carry on to Portsmouth in time for the MoT in the morning.  That meant an all-nighter, I didn’t want that.  Where have the ferry signs gone?  I must have passed it.  The GPS still had confidence in me, had I set it correctly?  I kept on going into the night, no signs, no other traffic just dark countryside all around and no sign of a port.  I was ready to admit defeat, then I saw a car in front, was it heading for the port?  The numberplate was yellow so it could be a Brit, it looks like he has roof bars maybe I am going the right way after all.  As I closed in on the car I noticed it had something written on the back “Gendrmerie”.  BRAKE, HARD (but not in a noticeable manner).  I slowed to the indicated limit and noticed my dipped headlight was shining straight into the rear view mirror.  Perfect.  The GPS still had faith in me, I wasn’t so sure.  In the distance I saw a caravan.  Everything was colluding against me tonight but at least it had stopped raining.  The bike told me I had 20kms of fuel left as my speed dropped to match the caravan.  With the rozzers in attendance I couldn’t get passed. 

Then I saw it, the unmistakeable shape of a ferry dead ahead.  We crawled through a small town, is this the port?  The caravan went through some lights and they turned red.  The Old Bill slowed to a stop and I pulled up next to them.  As soon as the lights turned I set off, very carefully.  There was the terminal.  Now there was just a caravan between me and the UK.  Sod it, I overtook and pipped him to the check-in.  GPS was right, 1 minute to spare.  I had made it and for my efforts was waved straight onto the boat passed the lines of waiting cars.  Now I know how Steve Macqueen must have felt in the Great Escape.  But I made it!        

Old memories and idiots.

Last night’s camp site was nothing special.  The location was okay and it was undeniably cheap but the facilities weren’t great, hense the price I guess.  

Last nights camp.

So I left without having a shower and opted for yesterday’s clothes, being unshaven helped to complete the image of a smelly biker.

I decided to take the quick route “ooup north” so I got on the toll road wound the bike up to “a little bit illegal” and got on with eating the miles. 

NB, speeding can be broken down into the following categories:

1.     A telling off to 3 points:  *A little bit illegal.

2.     3 to 6 points:  Naughty.

3.     A ban and or jail:  Daft.  

*For the purpose of my definition behaving illegally is quantifiable.

As I sped north I had plenty of time to think, mostly my thoughts turned to how the French, Swiss, Austrians and Hungarians extract cash from motorists:

In Hungary I had to pay about 7 Euro for access to the motorways for 10 days.

In Austria I paid a little bit more than Hungary but less than 10 Euro for 10 days.

In Switzerland I had to pay for the rest of the year which cost 40 bloody Euros.

In France they charge by usage, so far I’m up to about 30 Euros.

In Germany I paid nothing and could go at speeds that would be considered daft anywhere else in Europe.  Of course in the UK Europeans pay nothing and get to park on the M25 or get stuck in traffic anywhere they like.

I like the pay as you go idea.  Bring in a single standard road tax price and turn the motorways into toll roads I say.

A bottle of wine is the French version of the "GB" sticker.

On a different note, I have decided that the French have the wrong idea about motorcycling.  Yesterday and today I have seen a huge number of bikes of all types being moved all over France in trailers.  I’ve no idea why but they have all looked perfectly ridable to me. 

I had been going for a while and was within 3 hours of Sumaur when I caught up with 3 French riders heading in the same direction.  I thought about passing them but they were holding a good speed and I followed thinking that if they are local then they probably know where the speed traps are.  We had been going for a while when the clouds darkened and it started to rain.  The rain was nothing special and I readied myself for it by simply doing up a zip while riding.  The French riders dropped the pace a bit and I overtook, giving a wave as I passed, and carried on by myself. 

With the rain came my fuel light so used the GPS to tell me where the nearest petrol station was and discovered there wasn’t one any time soon.  It would be typical to run out of fuel not only in France, having passed through Eastern European countries without issue, but also for it to happen in the rain. 

I’ve been extremely lucky with the weather, I had rain in Greece for less than half an hour, a shower at a campsite and showers somewhere else.  Not once had it been a nuisance and no I was going to run out of fuel and get wet.  Bugger.

I had just finished playing out the drama in my mind when salvation appeared in the form of a Total garage. 

As I was fulling up there was a roar of exhausts from behind me, my French friends had caught up.

With the bike full I set about looking for something for me.  On the far side of the services there was a “Paul”.  We have one in a local mall in Jordan and it’s one of Wilfs favourite places to ask for something expensive in order to refuse to eat it when it arrives.  I had to go there.  Paul in France is much better than Paul in Jordan.  I had a very good coffee, which I didn’t have to re-order, and a very nice baguette with salad and smoked ham.

Just like being back in Jordan.... Almost.

With both tanks full I re-joined the motorway at the same time as the French trio who let me go first.

A while later I turned off the motorway set up a mortgage to pay the toll and discovered that after riding thousands of miles in the Middle East and Europe I have had to wait until France to find a true motoring idiot.  The gentleman pulled out in front of me on a roundabout.  I used some descriptive hand signals that cut through the language barrier to ensure he knew how I felt while he looked at me and shrugged in a “Pardon monsieur, I didn’t see you.” Type of way.  Bastard, it’s hard to miss 250kg of bike and rider with its lights on when its less than 20m from your face is it?  No, I didn’t think so.

Having dried out and finished cursing Monsieur P. Enis I headed for the back roads along the Loire.  At every turn there where memory jogging places either from family holidays as a child or from my first holiday with Harriet. 

I had to stop and take photos as I went through this strangely familiar area.

The village where H and I shared a bottle of
wine in a boat on her birthday in 2010.

After an hour of riding through the small towns and villages of the Loire I arrived at the Domaine that Harriet I had stayed at in 2010 and where my parents had stayed twice since. I was greeted like an old friend by Pierre and Brigitte.  We sat outside and chatted for a while before I went to sort out the bike, take a shower and change into something smart for the evening. 

Their Donaine is wonderfully charming in the way only the French seem to manage.  It’s a truly lovely house and I sat at the kitchen table and caught up on my diary before I heard the POP of a cork.  I knew this was going to be good and I wasn’t disappointed.  They might have a small vineyard but it is good, very good.  Supper went by in a blur and a flurry of conversation.  Before I knew it it was fast approaching midnight and we were onto a second glass of whisky.  One came from Pierre and one from my hip flask which I hadn’t touched until this point.  Both whisky’s where very good and soon after we called it a night.