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.