Let Her Eat Cake.

Day 116

Mileage 10786

French Pastry, Monaco

With over 100 days on the road, 10,000 plus miles behind us and no idea of how many more lie ahead, it feels as though we have passed our first milestone, the 3 month mark went by unnoticed and as the miles accumulate, each thousand is cause for little remark. We’ve had our ups and downs, good days and bad but, as yet, no major catastrophes. Our intended route has been modified and adapted by suggestions and tips from people we’ve met along the way and it continues to evolve with each day that passes. Ideally we would miss the worst of the wet seasons in Africa but, as vast as the continent is and as unpredictable as the weather patterns are becoming, it is unlikely we will miss them all.

Alhambra tile work, Granada, Spain

Alhambra detail

Alhambra

From Gibraltar we turned East towards Granada leaving behind the cooler, coastal climate for the stifling, dry air of the Sierra Nevada mountains. What looked like a beautiful, winding coastal road on the map, from La Linea to Malaga, turned out to be an overdeveloped strip of endless resorts with countless billboards promising to fulfill our every desire. After living in California for so long we consider ourselves immune to this type of marketing so after a lunch of thirst quenching Coca Cola and a delicious, juicy Big Mac, we turned inland onto one of the most spectacular roads we’ve ridden to date. The SO2, climbing steeply out of Almunecar pierces the Southern side of the Sierra Nevada mountains quickly gaining altitude with each hairpin bend, a well maintained surface and little other traffic had us utilizing every inch of tarmac, leaning the bikes into turns pushing them to the very limits of their intended use. Sparks flew from the underside of Beth’s bike as she tested her nerve and ability, I rode behind balancing equal measures of fear and admiration. 

Alhambra

Entering Granada, we began a fruitless search for the campsite on our map leaving us hot and thirsty, by the time we stumbled across a site on the edge of the city, the camp host welcomed us with the sad news they were full for the night, the brief Spanish holiday season was still in full swing. Disheartened, we turned to leave, but not before we let slip the fact I was from Ireland after noticing a newspaper with a front page dedicated to the Gibraltar dispute. All of a sudden a reshuffle took place and a modest space was provided. After pitching the tent we quenched our thirst with an ice cold beer and raised a glass to British foreign relations. The central purpose for our visit was to explore the Old City and the Alhambra. Eight centuries of occupation by the  Moors have left behind an indelible imprint of the Muslim culture and the twisting narrow streets are home to many a tea house with low tables, lush rugs and plentiful hookah pipes. In the Sacromonte district the gypsy caves are carved out of the soft rock hillsides, quiet and reserved during the day, after dark they come alive with the sultry tones of classical guitar and the provocative moves of the fierce Flamenco dancers. The nearby gritty Albayzín district provides an impressive view of the Alhambra fortress while its narrow, winding streets bring to mind its Medieval Moorish past.

Alhambra detail

Within the Alhambra complex the ancient castles of the Nasrid dynasty overlook the city of Granada, so plain on the outside they reveal an exquisite interior of remarkable beauty and intricate detail. Every carved tile has a story, combined they form a poetry, exalting the achievements of a long dead empire. Intended to represent an image of paradise, the palace blends running water, sunlight, open air and subtle symmetry to create a peaceful oasis while concealing a past tainted with intrigue and bloodshed. We spent a long, hot day exploring the site  before returning to the Albayzin district as night fell to enjoy cold beer and tasty tapas. The following day saw us back in the saddle, moving North through the Sierra de Segura mountains and lakes before pulling over at Alcazar for the evening’s camp and the best paella we’ve ever tasted. 

Riding into Andorra

Torn between the mountains and the ocean we moved towards Andorra, at times hugging the coast before seeking the cooler inland air of the higher elevations. Campsites are more common the closer you get to the Mediterranean Sea but they start to resemble large scale holiday resorts with scheduled events for the whole family to enjoy, we pulled up at one site and asked for their cheapest site only to be told it would cost us 60 euros for a 12 by 12 foot piece of dirt and a tepid shower. I enquired why it was so expensive and was assured it was because this was ‘high’ season, when I asked the receptionist if she was high the irony was, fortunately, lost in translation. Turning our bikes around we discovered a perfect ‘wild’ camp nearby and wandered back later to use their facilities. Sadly, this stretch of Spanish coastline felt, at times, over developed and at others totally abandoned. Prostitutes became a common site every few miles along the roadside, sitting quietly under red umbrellas, wearing silk and lace over tired bodies. 

Olive groves

Another tip from a fellow traveller took us inland towards the paragliding mecca of Ager in the Southern Pyrenees, as we neared the area, countless colorful wings gently soared on the last of the days thermals before drifting down towards a field behind our campsite. Later that evening many eager pilots studied weather charts for the following day while sipping beer at the local bar. At exactly midnight, the town of Ager, which looked as though it couldn’t have been home to more than 2000 people erupted in a festival of dance and music which continued until 6 in the morning, clearly they had heard Beth and I were passing through their community and they wanted us to feel as welcome as possible. 





Leaving Ager we took a spectacular road Northeast into the tiny principality of Andorra, a unique nation famous for it’s skiing and shopping. With its twisting mountain roads and extensive ski resorts it felt as though we were back in Switzerland and we couldn’t resist parking the bikes for a couple of days and exploring the area. Andorra has only three major roads so it took less than a day to ride them all. A vague network of hiking trails allow access to some of the most spectacular scenery in the Pyrenees mountains and before long we were puffing and panting our way up into deserted valleys towards exposed summits of loose rock and chilling winds. Towards the top we noticed a large bird soaring above taking a particular interest in our every step, we had heard stories of the Lammergeier Vulture, a native to this region,  knocking inattentive shepherds off the edges of steep gullies so as to feast on the tenderized carcass after the fall. Whether we were just too sure footed or the odor of several months on the road was not very appetizing the vulture let us pass unhindered.

Ending poverty in Monaco?

From Andorra we descended into France determined to give the Mediterranean coast another chance only to find the region hideously over priced and over used. Turning the bikes inland we found many hidden gems, small towns surrounding impressive strongholds, delightfully empty roads and an impressive landscape. The Verdun gorge provided us with plenty of thrills, the road clinging to the sheer walls of the contorted canyon, castles standing out on distant hilltops and vertigo inducing drops just beyond the road’s edge. No visit to this region would be complete without a detour into the tiny principality on Monaco, a tax haven and, coincidentally, home to some of the richest people on the planet (imagine what kind of a stimulus package it would be if rich people actually paid taxes).  Nestled between the Southern Alps and the Mediterranean sea it occupies a spectacular coastal area which it does its best to spoil with high rise apartment blocks and gaudy casinos, the true potential of the extravagant, luxury sports cars that prowl the streets is wasted on the constant gridlock of this compact state. Super yachts crowd the bay, some too big to dock in the harbor, while helicopters are needed to shuttle their owners to and from the mainland. After half a day marveling over the excess of this upside down country we rode east towards Italy zipping past the growling Bugatis and Bentleys that choked the narrow streets.

Quiet town of Tende, French Italian border

Italy is a fascinating country, our first night at a campground off an obscure road North of Ventimiglia turned out to be one of our best yet, a wonderful Dutch couple introduced us to the quintessential Italian dining experience. Once a week, the locals fire up a huge brick oven and turn out pizzas, two at a time, to feed the crowds of hungry diners who bide their time with good conversation and cheap wine, we had six nationalities at our table that evening and little difficulty communicating. Our new Dutch friends, over homemade cappuccinos the following morning, recommended several routes for the next leg of our journey and, seduced by the prospect of more winding mountain roads, we turned North on the 6204 towards Cuneo. The road meandered between France and Italy while climbing towards the Col de Tende. We stopped for lunch in the tiny town of Tende before crossing back into Italy, wandering its quiet streets intrigued by the warren of alleys and passageways that seemed to follow no logical pattern. Back in Italy we had set our sights on the town of Alba as our goal for the day and as the  road gradually returned to the foothills we entered Italy’s wine producing region. Vineyards stretched off into the horizon and the afternoon clouds had us stopping at every turn to try to capture the magical landscapes. Soon, the clouds which had looked so impressive from afar were overhead and beginning to take on a more threatening appearance, as the sky darkened the first few fat drops of rain fell and we sought shelter beneath an abandoned gazebo. No sooner had we pulled our bikes out of the rain when an immensely powerful lightning storm lit up the darkened skies. We planned to wait it out, we were dry and had all the supplies we needed so we settled down and cooked a delicious meal while bolts of lightning singed the surrounding air. After a couple of hours it appeared as though the storm had settled overhead so we relented and booked ourselves into a hotel enjoying our second night in a bed since entering Europe. 

Leaning bikes in Pisa

Well rested, we made our way South once more and picked up the coastal road towards Pisa, the previous night’s storms had washed out several sections of the smaller local roads and lack of clear signage had us backtracking and following our instincts on several occasions. We pulled into Pisa and enjoyed a late evening walk around the surprisingly small historical centre, as we gazed upon the leaning tower the church choir sang beautifully, their voices carried by the light evening breeze. Far to the North another thunder storm flashed and flickered behind thick ominous clouds silhouetting the entire Plaza. Turning inland we next arrived in Florence amazed to discover that Italy could get more beautiful, we found ourselves wondering if we had found the place where we could end our journey. The people, the architecture, the atmosphere, the food all combine to give this country a unique flavor of how life should be, there is a noticeable passion in the simplest of events, even a conversation can feel like a performance. We’ve attracted many excited enquiries about our motorcycles and our journey, invitations to dinner and advice on the best roads to take. 

Colosseum, Rome

Just when we thought it couldn’t get any better we arrived in “The Eternal City” of Rome, a place so unlike anything we have ever experienced. Every turn reveals a glimpse of an impressive history spanning over 2500 years. Monuments abound, some in ruins, some restored each one with its own fascinating story. We would often eavesdrop on the guided tours and pick up snippets of captivating detail. We spent only three days in the historical city, reminded yet again that our allotted time for this journey will never be enough. We arrived on a Sunday and made our way towards St Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican City as, literally, thousands of people where slowly leaving the area. As it turned out we had just missed the celebration of  Sunday Mass, old habits die hard I guess. The scale of the event and its location is hard to fathom, all the places of worship we’ve seen up to now were dwarfed by the locale, the very heart of the Catholic church. It was also a little unsettling, we could only wonder at what a difference such exorbitance would make to the lives of so many in much greater need. Wandering the floors of the Vatican museum with its overwhelming display of antiquities and masterpieces from throughout the ages and gift shops at every turn left us questioning how the church reconciles this hoarding of priceless treasures with the teachings of its founders. 

Michelangelo Park, Rome

Our whirlwind tour of Rome took us to countless wonderful sites and, no doubt, we blindly strolled past many more. What little preparation we had made before our visit was never going to be enough, Rome would take a lifetime to explore and fully appreciate but we both tossed a coin over our shoulders into the Trevi Fountain hoping to ensure our safe return as the custom dictates. 

Why is there never any toilet paper in Europe?

St Peter's Basilica, Rome

Between The Rock and a hard place.

Day 91

Mileage 8242

The Rock of Gibraltar

Poring over maps each evening, planning the next day’s route, feeling the miles roll by underneath you, absorbing every bump and curve gives you a real sense of scale. The distances we have travelled and those that lay ahead can sometimes overwhelm us, yet, lying in a tent at night, gazing through the fine mesh inner at the stars over head provides a sobering reminder of just how small this journey is. Today we are in Gibraltar, a tiny British enclave on the southern coast of Spain. It feels as though we have come along way but, even though we just caught our first glimpse of Africa, we realize it will be a long time before we set foot on her soil. The temptation to ride aboard a ferry to Morocco is strong but there is so much to see and do on this continent we have to resist, yet with Europe, still so familiar and comfortable it feels as though the real adventure lies just across the narrow straits.

Our stay in Donostia/San Sebastian, though short, was both productive and relaxing. The city is one of Spain’s most popular vacation destinations where the azure waters of the Bay of Bisque  meet golden sandy beaches filled with bronzed locals of all shapes and sizes. Beth and I felt we needed to bring some balance to the picture so we peeled of our motorcycle suits and unveiled our pasty white bodies to overdose on some much needed vitamin D. In less than an hour we added a healthy shade of pink to the colors on display before retreating to a more shaded spot on the beach. We had planned to work on the bikes but it turned out to be a bank holiday (because bankers need more holidays), so we made our way to the ocean for what turned out to be one of the hottest days of the summer so far. After our recent few weeks of inclement weather we were ready for a change so we joined the bankers and had a much needed day off. It felt good to be back in Spain, using a language we feel more comfortable with, though still far from fluent, where the pace of life is a little more relaxed. The city of Donostia/San Sebastian, in Spain, yet so close to France, is in the Basque region where the locals consider themselves neither Spanish nor French. There is a strong desire for autonomy and a noticeable affinity with the Irish which made for a warm welcome and much interest in our bikes and our journey. 

Donostia/San Sebastian

The bikes were due for an oil change and Beth’s rear brake pads were getting thin so we spent part of a day sourcing supplies and completing the necessary maintenance, feeling rather proud of ourselves for having completed these most basic tasks in a foreign country while working around the siesta which is observed religiously. Before we knew it, we were packing our gear and moving on, hugging the North coast of Spain, savoring the empty sandy beaches and sleeping to the sound of the rhythmic rush of ocean waves. Our route was taking us along the Caminar de Santiago, an ancient pilgrimage route to the city Santiago de Compestela, where hikers walk, often over 900 miles, to reach the holy city. Said to have inspired Paulo Coehlo while writing, The Alchemist, the path took us through some of the most scenic regions of northern Spain, shepherds tending their flocks and farmers working their lands by hand, it felt as though we had turned back time. There was an overwhelming feeling of contentment, a sense that if a task couldn’t be completed by sunset then that was okay, perhaps it wasn’t so important after all. As weathered as the locals appeared, smiles came easily, and a warm generosity lay just below the surface. 

The end of a journey, for some, Santiago de Compestela

Picos de Europa

Our route took us further West along the picturesque Atlantic shore, the road hugging the contorted coastline. The weather had improved significantly and now the hot, thick coastal air made the ocean look even more enticing. We spent an evening strolling along the deserted beach outside the sleepy fishing village of San Vincent before pitching our tent nearby. A couple of Dutch bikers we’d met in San Sebastian had suggested we take a detour through the Picos de Europa National Park so we turned inland and upwards for and additional 200 kilometers of driving bliss, the hot tarmac gripping our tires and allowing us to push the bikes, and our abilities, to the limit. Roads like this can be exhausting, requiring all of your concentration as the stunning views compete for your attention, we pulled over several times to allow our heart rates to return to normal and at one rest stop we encountered the very same Dutch bikers who’d recommended this detour. We took the opportunity to thank them for their advice and share a few tales from the road before completing the circuit. It absorbed most of our day but was well worth the effort and as we pulled into camp drenched in sweat and buzzing with adrenaline, we savored an ice cold beer before settling down for a great night’s sleep.

My new mode of transport

As we neared the city of Santiago, the pilgrims became more numerous, as several alternate routes combine for the final leg of this impressive undertaking. The city itself is beautiful, narrow streets create a maze around the main cathedral which overlooks the central plaza, a gathering point for exhausted hikers, each one contemplating the significance of their achievement, some wept, some chuckled, some sat silently, staring at the impressive facade looming above. We felt a little like impostors, our efforts overshadowed by this collection of ragged travelers, but we wondered as to what our emotions will be when we reach our destination which still seems so far away. We spent two days here wandering the streets and exploring the markets before another storm prompted our hasty departure, Southern regions promised better weather and other fellow travelers had suggested we explore the roads of Eastern Portugal so we pushed inland and crossed another frontier. 

Serra da Estrela, Portugal

As soon as we entered Portugal we noticed several changes, although fuel prices climbed, just about everything else became cheaper, there were far fewer vehicles on the roads and signage gave you more of a rough idea than an actual direction, the attitude seemed to be, if you’ve made it this far you can probably figure the rest out by yourself. Overall, the country had a rougher, more rural feel to it, less manicured than where we had come from. The people were no less hospitable and appeared happy to welcome visitors even though we were on the less traveled Eastern side. Our map book road numbers occasionally corresponded to what we found on the ground but we managed to locate the roads we’d been pointed towards and all the frustrations and wrong turns were soon forgotten as we wound back the throttles and snaked our way into the mountains. The empty roads allowed us to thoroughly enjoy every corner without getting stuck behind any oversized camper vans, or road maggots as we affectionately refer to them. Many roads stand out but the routes through the Serra da Estrela are of such a high quality they took us by surprise. We thought we had ridden the best roads in Europe when we criss-crossed the Alps but this region was on a par with those and it was hot, dry and deserted, making it hard to chose a favorite. Add that to the lower cost of just about everything and you have a winning combination. We came in under budget every day in Portugal helping to offset our over stay in Switzerland. Just when we thought it couldn’t get better we stumbled upon three exquisitely beautiful villages and the best campsite of our trip. We rarely learn from our mistakes and had spent yet another day trying to cram too much in, time and distance stretch when you choose the least direct route with the most hairpin bends in ways that defy the laws of physics. We had to abandon our intended destination and settled for following signs that promised a campsite towards the village of Beira, as the roads narrowed and the surface deteriorated we assumed we’d missed a turn and were just about to back track when we stumbled upon the Beira-Marvao Campground where the Dutch owners made us instantly feel like long lost friends. Our only regret is we couldn’t stay longer to explore the region further. After one blissful night under a tremendous starry sky , throughly rested and refueled on the finest coffee we’ve had yet, we set out to explore three nearby towns on our hosts recommendation. 

The streets of Marvao

The towns of Castelo de Vide, Marvao and Elvas were simply fascinating, the narrowest, steepest streets we’ve encountered yet, many only accessible by motorcycle and each one topped with a beautiful castle. Sadly the town of Elvas took us so close to the border with Spain we decided to leave behind the empty Portuguese roads and keep our momentum moving South. With the heat increasing and our patience waning we left the search for a campsite to the last minute and after several false leads we pulled up outside the town of El Coronil and, too exhausted to continue, we settled down for our second night of ‘wild’ camping. Hot and sticky but too tired to care we lay on top of our sleeping pads and had a fitful night’s sleep. At exactly midnight the town erupted into a noisy festival of lights and music with lasted until six in the morning. Clearly they had heard Beth and I were in the area and decided to throw a party just in case we should show up. 

Barbary macaques or 'Rock Ape'

The following morning we quietly left the area and set our sites on Gibraltar, stopping briefly for breakfast in the stunning town of Ronda before climbing our last mountain pass as we neared the coast. A rest stop on one of the summits provided us with our first view of Africa. Through hazy ocean air we could just make out the distinctive shape of the Rock of Gibraltar and the mysterious Atlas mountains beyond, motivated to see more we picked up the pace and by lunch time we were approaching the border between Spain and this old bastion of the British Empire. Security appeared a little tighter here than on any European border we had crossed yet, with passport checks on both sides of the frontier. We suspect each side was trying to identify us before the other so they could throw the bigger party. Across the narrow isthmus, Gibraltar came as a bit of a surprise, suddenly everyone was speaking English and the beer was over priced and under chilled. We tried riding to the top only to find it is prohibitively expensive, at least on our tight budget, so we turned back and vowed to return on foot. The following day, with hiking boots and packed lunches, we arrived again at the base of the rock and proceeded to climb out of the overcrowded city to the top via the Mediteranean Steps, an abandoned, exposed pathway on the South side of the monolith. Hiking up from the sweltering heat of the city below we were soon enjoying a cool ocean breeze and a spectacular view across the Straits of Gibraltar to Morocco. Through the distant clouds on the African side arose the Mons Abyla which, along with the Rock of Gibraltar formed the Pillars of Hercules. In ancient Greek mythology this was once considered to be the end of the known world and gazing out across the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean it was easy to see why. Sadly, it is now an over developed tourist attraction and at every turn there is a charge or a fee and an orderly line of people willing to pay. The resident Barbary macaques nonchalantly watched the crowds go by perhaps contemplating how they can get in on the action.

Africa, the hard place?

Returning to the city by late afternoon, we rewarded ourselves with a beer and watched a parade of lobster red English tourists march up and down Main Street shopping for familiar goods they could easily find at home. There was a certain amount of excitement in the air as tensions over fishing rights in the surrounding waters, and the bigger question of sovereignty, had brought the Spanish and British governments into yet another heated exchange. One fastidiously patriotic older lady explained to us that “as long as the apes remain, the Rock will always be British”, we thought it a rather odd way to refer to your fellow country men. As we prepared to leave we couldn’t help but notice the forlorn faces of off duty soldiers watching the world go by from the tiny windows of their residential barracks looking more like they were serving a prison sentence than fulfilling a vocation. 

Looking East from The Rock

Is it round or square?

With Africa so close we can only wonder at what adventures lie ahead on this journey. All the minor difficulties of our trip up to this point will undoubtably be magnified by the potential hardships that await. One of the lessons we are slowly learning is that effective communication is vital if we are to succeed, not just with the people we meet along the way, but with each other. We are discovering more about ourselves and our relationship with each day that passes. We often assume we are on on the same page when it comes to needs and wants but our expectations are more often out of sync than not. With patience and effort we are beginning to better understand each other and appreciate our strengths and weaknesses. We often smile when we recall a silly disagreement over the description of a shower token used by a campground near the beginning of the trip. The token, pictured below was, in my opinion, most definitely round with two square edges whereas Beth insisted it was, in fact, square with two round edges so when I asked for the round shower token and she gave me a blank stare I couldn’t possibly understand where the confusion lay, trivial but true. How would you describe it?

The hills are alive with the sound of thunder.

Day 79

Milage 6723

Swiss Cheese!

Today we find ourselves just outside the Spanish coastal city of Donostia/San Sebastian in the Basque region. It’s been a testing couple of weeks because of the unseasonably stormy weather but we hope it’s preparing us for the more challenging times ahead. The trip is going well, spirits are high and the bikes are proving to be very dependable. We would like to update the blog on a more regular basis but we have been having a few computer issues and a little too much fun.

Roadside picnic, Switzerland

The road to Interlaken, from Scuol, took us through, yet more, spectacular deep valleys and over incredibly high passes. What locals had advised would take approximately 5 hours took us a day and a half. Each twist and turn revealed a panorama that made it hard to keep our eyes on the road. We made numerous stops along the way to savor our surroundings, snapping pictures and snacking on bread and cheese. The changing weather conditions would tease us with glimpses of the snow capped peaks that flanked our route. By the end of the first day we rode into camp thoroughly exhausted having covered a little over half the distance we’d intended to. A hearty meal followed by a good night’s rest set us up well for the following day’s ride and by 3 in the afternoon we were coasting alongside Lake Brienzer on the final stretch in to Interlaken. This mountain town has become the home of Switzerland’s adventure tourism industry and a magnet for guides from all over the world, many of whom we’ve worked with over our years spent pushing rubber. We set up camp, knowing we’d be here for a few days, excited at the prospect of catching up with some old friends. Faces we hadn’t seen in almost 15 years made our stay a special one, while I was put to work on two of the local rivers guiding and safety kayaking, Beth had a chance to go canyoning in the Chli Schliere gorge. Evenings were spent at the local ‘Irish’ bar swapping stories and raising glasses to guides who are no longer with us. Arriving on a weekend when bookings were high and staff scarce worked in our favor and the added income helped balance our tight budget in this expensive country. On Sunday we couldn’t resist exploring the local roads and found ourselves climbing up towards the town of Grindelwald which provides an impressive view of the North face of the Eiger. 

Find the road.

One thing we’ve always agreed upon with the journey we are taking is, if we find a place we like along the way, we may just stop, for a short time, or possibly for good. Interlaken, in its pristine alpine location, with so much to offer in all the activities we value and enjoy could have been one of those places. Reluctantly, we tore ourselves away to explore further. To end this trip so soon after it has begun, when there is still so much more to see would be disappointing but we both feel as though Interlaken is a town where we could easily feel at home. 

With mountain fever setting in, (we couldn’t get enough) Zermatt, at the foot of the Matterhorn, became our next destination. The direct route, via the drive-on train through the mountains didn’t appeal so we decided to skirt around the edge making a slight detour into the city of Montreux for one night of the two week long jazz festival. An old friend, Neill, and his son Yarin, decided to join us on the ride so we convoyed over the Gsteig pass and down into the Rhone valley, hugging the shore of Lake Leman into a carnival of live music, street performances and every kind of food we could dream of. Yet another festival coinciding with our journey, how nice of the locals of Munich, Garmisch and now Montreux to arrange things so. We can’t wait to see what the rest of the world has to offer. From what limited news we have access to it appears as though the Middle East is in turmoil over how best to welcome us. After a day and night of fine music, great food and sweltering heat we packed up and left Montreux to its revelry determined to reach higher elevations and cooler weather. 

Montreux Jazz Festival

As we rode further into the French part of Switzerland we noticed the landscape subtly changing, hotter and drier, vineyards clinging to the slopes surrounding pleasant mountain villages. Unfortunately, our plans to reach Zermatt were thwarted by the closing of the road at the small town of Tasch. In order to proceed, special permission is required from the local police, forcing those wanting to reach Zermatt to take the overpriced train or hire a taxi service which uses the perfectly adequate road. Only those wealthy enough to own property in Zermatt could use their personal vehicles to proceed so the worn out taxi vans share the road with a dazzling display of Bentleys, Bugattis and Ferraris. Once in Zermatt, however, the streets are so narrow the town centre is reserved for miniature, battery powered shuttle vehicles giving it the feel of a theme park. With the prospect of hiking near the Matterhorn impossible to resist we booked into a campground outside Tasch for three days determined to make the most of any break in the weather. Although hot and humid, a heavy layer of cloud concealed the true scale of the peaks surrounding us. Occasionally we would glimpse a bluish glacier catching the sunlight at the end of an adjoining valley or a jagged peak thrusting through the cloud base, even on our first visit to Zermatt we were denied a view of the the crooked peak that towers over the village. We hiked regardless of the conditions, enjoying the crisp air and the occasional showers, the spring flowers were in full bloom and the steep trails from the valley floor soon had us puffing and panting, thankful for the exercise. Each evening ominous banks of dark cloud would slowly sweep down the valley, distant claps of thunder would precede the first fat drops of heavy rain and we’d huddle in our cosy tent sheltering from the impending storm anticipating the lightning display that never failed to impress.  Only on the third day did the weather clear and we were rewarded with stunning early morning views of the Matterhorn, its surrounding peaks and the enormous glaciers that blanket their bases. We chose a route that led us along the northern shoulder of this postcard peak, craning our necks to fully appreciate its scale and beauty. By late morning the clouds began to return and as we neared the base, the summit became hidden by columns of vapor, occasionally the veil of moisture would slip, seductively, from the mountain’s shoulder revealing a possible route to the summit. We gazed in awe for a long time fully enthralled by the power of its attraction. It took a lot of will power to resist climbing further.

Neill and Yarin guiding us into Montreux

Switzerland had absorbed more of our time and budget than we’d anticipated so, reluctantly, we made the decision to move on. People have often said, living in Switzerland is like living in a postcard and although we did find the native sense of humor a little two dimensional and flat it has certainly been one of the highlights so far. It is simply beautiful, pristine, safe and even though there are multiple national languages it all seems to work very efficiently, at least from our perspective which is more than can be said for our laptop. 

A frustrating problem had been developing with our MacBook Air making it virtually impossible to write so we made a slight detour into the city of Geneva on our way out of Switzerland hoping the local Apple store would have a quick fix. Alas, no, an internet search revealed a multitude of users experiencing the same issues and there are undoubtably support groups out there too for coping with the frustrations. The Apple store, however, assured us that this was a unique, one of a kind, issue and they’d never seen anything like it before. If we could simply leave our laptop with them for a week or so they’d see what they could do. We balked at the prospect of staying in a city for so long so, in our broken French, we contacted a store closer to our next destination, the town of Fontainebleau, outside Paris, in the hope they would be able to source the required replacement parts in time for our arrival. 

Yet another stunning road

Leaving the Alps was difficult, we had become accustomed to powering our bikes into the endless twists and turns, utilizing every square inch of tire tread, exhilarated by the sheer exposure and breathtaking scenery. Now, as we rode West, the terrain flattened and the journey became more about reaching a destination than enjoying what was in between. Alpine forest gave way to open farmland and the horizon stretched further beyond us with each mile. We based ourselves on the outskirts of Paris, hoping to visit the city and resolve our laptop issues at the same time, unfortunately Apple only place their repair centers in or around reasonably sized cities. Our first visit made it clear we’d be stuck in the area for a few more days so we decided to make the most of it and explore Paris. For the majority of the journey we’ve been avoiding large cities but neither of us could resist being tourists for a day or two and our first excursion, on one motorcycle, into the heart of Paris as evening fell began as a wonderful experience. In most European cities, motorcycles are practically invisible. Other drivers don’t see you but, as dangerous as this may seem, it can be used to your advantage, you can get away with a lot more and I couldn’t help reverting to some of the old tricks I had learned as a motorcycle courier so many years ago in London. Speed traps and traffic light cameras typically take pictures of the front of the vehicle and, of course, our license plate is on the rear. Footpaths and opposing one-way streets are now legitimate routes and parking is the easiest of all. Simply pull the bike up wherever you like, lock it to something solid and walk away. As reckless as this seems, it is the norm and the more aggressive the riding the more acceptable it appears to be, even the police turn a blind eye to what some bikers get up to. 

The camera shy Matterhorn

From where we had camped it took just over an hour to reach the centre of Paris. We parked on a side street next to the Eiffel Tower and wandered beneath the intricate lattice of steel that forms one of the world’s most recognizable landmarks, hundreds of eager sightseers formed orderly lines, a rare sight in France, hoping to scale the heights of this iconic structure. We strolled onwards, over the Seine River, towards the fountains of the Esplanade du Trocadero, dipping our feet in the cool waters, enjoying the last of the day’s sunshine. With only and evening to savor the sights and sounds of Paris we found ourselves drawn back towards the river and as we walked along its banks the setting sun turned the sky into a palette of pinks and reds all reflected in the calm waters of the Seine. Later, we meandered along the Champs-Elysées towards the Arc de Triomphe where we stood, in awe, as traffic hurtled around the impressive monument over slick cobblestones without a traffic light in sight. As darkness fell we returned to the Eiffel Tower in time to catch the hourly light display which brings the steelwork to life in a sparkle of a thousand glittering bright flashes. As we watched, with countless others, a full moon peaked out from behind a cloud and completed the show. We left the city centre in great spirits already planning our next visit, undaunted by the hour long drive back to camp. Four hours later after visiting every suburb in Paris, enduring a torrential thunderstorm of lightning, rain and emotions, having almost run out of fuel, we arrived back at camp, exhausted and thoroughly soaked, vowing never to return to Paris as long as we lived. 

After a good night’s sleep and another visit to the Apple store, we realized we would be stuck in the area for a few more days so we moved to a campsite within Paris and decided to give the city another chance. We set out early and made the most of a full day in the city’s historical centre. We returned to the Champs-Elysées but found it oddly quiet for the number of people who crowded the footpaths. We hadn’t noticed on our initial visit but the entire avenue appeared overrun with temples to consumerism and those around us not in a shopping frenzy shuffled along with the glazed eyes of smart phone zombies texting and tweeting their every move while taking arm length images of their heads obscuring the city’s iconic landmarks. It felt a little unsettling to see a street with so much historical significance reduced to an open air shopping mall, I wonder has McDonalds considered adding an arch to the Arc de Triomphe and painting it gold. This wasn’t the Paris we’d come to see so we followed our ears and noses and soon found where the locals gathered, loud, cheerful, sometimes passionate conversations filled the maze of side streets and the smell of food had our taste buds instantly drooling. I’m not sure what we had expected to find but this seemed to fit the bill, we must have stood out like sore two sore thumbs in our smelly biking gear but we couldn’t help join in the cheer and absorbing the atmosphere. All along the banks of the Seine locals gathered to celebrate nothing more than the end of the working day with overflowing hampers of food and wine and as the sun set it looked as though the parties were just beginning.

Champs-Elysees in the evening

Content we’d given Paris another chance but fully aware we’d barely scratched the surface we both agreed we would certainly return. For now, with our laptop in good working order and our rough schedule falling further and further behind, we left the region and made our way towards Spain. Having never experienced the Atlantic coast of France we chose a route to take us West before turning South toward the Pyrenees. Unbeknownst to us, a series of powerful thunderstorms had made similar plans and after several days of blinding rains and exhausting crosswinds our resolve crumbled and we booked into a cheap hotel in the hope of drying our gear and getting a full night’s rest. This was to be our first night in a real bed in over two months and as our dripping gear formed multiple puddles around the room we watched the French news reporting the path of destruction left by the unseasonable weather. The following morning with fresh spirits and dry gear we loaded up and took to the road but within thirty minutes we were completely drenched again. C’est la vie.

Full moon tries to outshine the Eiffel Tower

The pattern repeated itself for several days but, gradually, the further South we went the warmer it became and by the time we reached the Bordeaux region blue skies dominated the grey. We celebrated our first dry day with a bottle of the local grape juice. Before long we found ourselves entering the foothills of the Pyrenees and leaving behind the flat, straight roads of the coast. Careful route selection took us well off the beaten track and a few wrong turns brought us into deserted mountain villages but the rewards were worth it, smooth, snaking ribbons of asphalt took the square edges of our tires. The warmer air penetrated our protective suits and drove out every drop of moisture, the faster we rode the drier we became, for the first time in many days we arrived at our destination without creating large puddles beneath out feet. We entered Spain along the pilgrimage route and have settled for the next few days outside the Basque city of Donostia/San Sebastian.

Mont St Michel, France

Ziggy and the art of motorcycle maintenance.

Day 62

Milage 4735

Well, we are finally on our second visit to Switzerland, we tried leaving Germany only to be drawn back by the exceptionally fine beer , the generous hospitality and the chance to attend the BMW Motorrad Days festival in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, a motorcycle event of epic proportions

Relaxing in camp outside Augsburg, Germany

Since leaving Banberg we followed the advice of our camp host yet again and took the scenic route to Heidelberg. Once more his recommendation took us to a wonderful twisting empty road leading to the novel little city on the banks of the Neckar River. We arrived late on Sunday to explore the city as darkness fell, the cool evening providing a welcome respite from one of the hottest days we’ve had to date. By now the bikes were overdue for some attention, oil needed changing, filters replaced and chains lubricated so we decided to establish ourselves for a few days outside a major city where we could find the necessary supplies. Stuttgart was nearby so we wound our way up into the Black Forest and stumbled upon the village of Hofen which had a comfortable campsite alongside a crystal clear creek.  Here we were able to take care of all our basic bike maintenance needs while having an opportunity to explore the city of Stuttgart. We tracked down a BMW motorcycle store and, as always, felt thoroughly violated after paying a premium for some basic supplies. It was therapeutic to work on the bikes, even when a magnificent thunderstorm broke loose overhead during the oil change, and both machines responded well to the attention. A Hungarian biker, Ziggy Kiss, we’d met in Amsterdam had a different philosophy on the art of motorcycle maintenance. He argued the amount of time spent fixing mechanical failures after they have occurred is far outweighed by the time and effort spent taking preventative action. We have considered applying this logic to one of our bikes and comparing the result but we can’t yet agree on whose bike we want to neglect. It seems strange, even though they are just machines, after riding them for the best part of each day it is hard not to become attached to them.

A bad hair day in the German Alps

The city of Stuttgart turned out to be a little disappointing, aesthetically, when compared to where we have been over the previous few weeks. It felt a little too officious and business like, more impersonal and for the first time in Germany we noticed the extremes of wealth and poverty, the destitute begging for change outside boutique stores selling overpriced trinkets for the uber rich. After a few days exploring the area we broke camp and moved further East. Augsburg became home for the next five days.  A sizable city, close to Munich, it is home to the first ever artificial whitewater course created for the 1972 Olympic kayak slalom event and a great area for getting a feel for the Bavarian side of the German republic. We spent a full day in Munich which coincided with a BMW sponsored marathon, live music and mini beer festival. A party atmosphere filled the streets and we couldn’t resist sampling some of the local beverages. Traditional bands played along as young men in tight lederhosen cracked whips overhead, Beth seemed quite impressed and suddenly developed a new found interest in traditional Bavarian music. 

We followed our visit to Munich with a sombre day at Dachau, exploring the remains of the first concentration camp from the third reich era, a prototype for the horrors that followed. It is hard to imagine how such a place came to be but a chilling museum within the camp reflected on the power of propaganda on a population whose economy lay in ruins. Matin Niemoller’s statement hung over the faded pictures of those who suffered under conditions of sickening barbarity.

"Labour makes you free" Dachau 

“First they came for the communists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.

Then they came for the socialists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.

Then they came for me,
and there was no one left to speak for me.”

As always with motorcycle travel things wear out and need replacing and not just on the bikes. Our next project involved chasing down a new set of tires, four in all, for both bikes. Unfortunately German law prevented us from buying the tires we wanted as these are not rated for autobahn speeds of over 150mph. Luckily, with the help of friends in Switzerland, we were able to order what we needed and have them shipped and fitted there. Another tip from a knowledgable local took us over the Ammersattel Pass through Linderhoff where we stopped to explore one of King Ludwig II extravagant palaces. A chance encounter with a motorcycle tour group leader alerted us to the upcoming BMW motorcycle festival in Garmisch-Partenkirchen from July 5th to the 7th. We had a rough plan of where we’d like to be by then but we often travel with open agendas and follow the advice and suggestions from locals we meet along the way so we decided to return after picking up our new tires in Switzerland. No visit to this region would be complete, however, without a stop at the fairytale castle of Neuschwanstein, the inspiration for the iconic Disney logo. Commissioned by the reclusive Ludwig II as a personal refuge it dominates the landscape overlooking the village of Schwangau and cost him his entire personal fortune and possibly his sanity. Ironically he didn’t live to see its completion. It is still an impressive landmark and we spent the day hiking through the surrounding mountains, taking a much needed break from our long days in the saddle. We are slowly becoming accustomed to the huts which appear at the top of the most impressive peaks, each one a safe haven from the changeable weather and a great place to pick up a cold beer on a hot day. 

Neuschwanstein Castle, Fussen, Germany

From Germany we followed more local advice and rode into the clouds enveloping the Hahntennjoch Pass, the wet roads and freezing temperatures at the summit added to the feeling of exposure as we could only imagine what lay beyond the edge of the road. Cold and wet we dropped into Austria and through to the small town of Scuol, in Switzerland,  where we were greeted by hospitality so warm and generous we soon forgot about our own discomfort. We’d stopped here on the banks of the Inn River to catch up with an old friend and whitewater legend, Kyle Spinney but as he was still entertaining clients in a raft, his friend Hamish Guthrie, opened his doors and made us feel like old friends within seconds. We partied hard and by 3am , still in our motorcycle gear, we called it a night. Two of our tires had arrived but the others were still in transit so we spent the next few days rafting and hiking and enjoying the spectacular village of Scuol. One of the most beautiful in Switzerland, it was established as a health spa and on every street spring water flows from fountains each one with its own unique properties, some are even naturally carbonated. Each one is a source of delicious and refreshing water and we gorged ourselves, trying to rehydrate after weeks on the road. Eventually our tires arrived and it was time to hit the road again. Hamish and his house mates provided a list of recommendations for roads and passes to take us back to Germany and we stitched together a route encompassing seven major Alpine passes, looping down into Italy, back through Austria and North into Bavaria. We had heavy rain on the first day but the sun appeared on the second and we pulled into Garmisch-Partenkirchen on the afternoon of July 4th, exactly ten years after Beth and I first met in a small bar in California. In two days we’d ridden some of the most renowned motorcycle roads in Europe and arrived at the biggest BMW motorcycle gathering we’d ever seen.

Stelvio Pass, biking heaven, Italian Alps

From Friday July 5th through Sunday July 7th the German city of Garmisch-Partenkirchen in the Bavarian Alps played host to the 13th annual BMW Motorrad Days festival. This year BMW celebrated their 90th year in the motorcycle production industry with an event to remember. With an estimated 35,000 riders and enthusiasts in attendance from all over the world ,the streets, campgrounds and hotels were swarming with every model of BMW old and new.  The event site  covered an expansive area becoming its own village of vendors, attractions, exhibitions, beer halls and food stalls. A further 15,000 square meters of fully serviced campgrounds surrounded the site providing a suburb of nylon and canvas. Bikers came from all over the world, a large contingent from Malaysia completed their own overland tour by riding into the event on Friday afternoon, we saw license plates from many different parts of Europe but only two others from the USA, Dawn and Paul, two intrepid travelers on their own journey to Mongolia who we’ve bumped into twice before, in Belgium and the UK. A mere 80 kilometers from Munich, event organizers drew on the expertise acquired over decades of Oktoberfest celebrations and there was enough food and beer to satisfy an army of adventure riders. 

Beth putting the F700GS to the test

An off road enduro park allowed riders to test the GS fleet with everything from the big 1200 Adventure to the 650 single available. Under the expert guidance of the BMW instructors, riders with varying degrees of ability were able to experience what these bike could do in more challenging terrain. We had so much fun we couldn’t help but have a second go. For those wanting to experience how the motorcycles handled on the road the entire current fleet of BMW motorcycles were available for test rides and we’re not talking about a quick spin around the parking lot. 90 minutes of pure joy was had as we raced a selection of bikes through alpine passes, along side pristine lake, past lush meadows and back to the event site. After so many weeks on our fully loaded enduro bikes we couldn’t resist trying something a little lighter and more responsive. The F800R, the K1300R and the breathtaking 193 hp S1000RR provided just the thrills we were looking for. For the more traditional enthusiast a special exhibition of the classic milestones of brand history was housed under the ‘90 years of BMW Motorrad’ tent. The main exhibition tent included all the current models included the new R1200GS and the extended range F800GS Adventure. BMW technicians and mechanics were on hand to answer questions regarding bike performance and suitable modifications.

Camping in Garmisch

Keeping the crowds entertained were a multitude of shows, parties and displays. Gravity defying acrobats sped over the creaking wooden planks of the world’s oldest Motordrom. Stunt legend Chris Pfeiffer performed impossible tricks in the event arena, even putting a 1200GS through its paces and an onsite cinema featured inspiring movies of motorcycle journeys taken throughout the world. Each evening culminated in an enormous party with live bands, motorcycle raffles and a staggering amount of food and beer. For those who preferred a more relaxed evening there was live guitar music provided by the very talented Byron around an open camp fire. By Sunday morning, as the Metropolitan Jazz Band from Prague entertained the breakfast crowds, the weekend event gradually began to wind down and by late afternoon swarms of motorcyclists took to the roads in every possible direction, some beginning, some ending or, like us, continuing their adventures on two wheels. For those who ride and even those who don’t this has to be one of the highlights of the motorcycle calendar and should be considered on everyone’s agenda. Book early though, with an event this good, it’s only likely to get bigger each year. 

Chris Pfeiffer on the 1200GS

We reluctantly packed up on Monday morning and, on the recommendation of several bikers we’d met over the weekend, took and exciting series of Alpine passes down to Innsbruck in Austria. What we’d thought would be a quiet night at a small campsite turned out to be an extension of the party atmosphere we’d left behind in Germany as several bikers joined us from Israel and the UK. A shaky start the following morning saw us following yet more advice and climbing over even more spectacular winding passes back into Switzerland towards the village of Scuol alongside the Inn river. As welcome as we were made to feel we, sadly, had to push on as our rough schedule for Europe was beginning to get pushed further behind so after one night in Scuol and a few too many glasses of fine single malt we fired up our engines and took to the road, this time, bound for Interlaken.

Road testing BMW's fastest on some of Europe's finest roads