Before I die, I want to...

Day 41 .

Mileage 3682.

You want to do what?

We left Bristol on the afternoon of June 5th and made our way East towards London, we’d reserved a campsite near Crystal Palace and were pleasantly surprised to find a small, green oasis amidst the sprawling suburbs of South London. A photographer we’d met at the HUBB gathering in Donnington Park had suggested we check out the Sebastiao Salgado exhibition at the Natural History Museum, a Brazilian photographer famous for his breathtaking landscapes and moody portraits. Hoping to pick up a few pointers, we made our way to the museum the following morning. Coincidentally, it appeared as though every school in England had chosen that very same day to take their students on a field trip to the museum also, so what we’d hoped would be a peaceful, contemplative experience turned out to be something quite different. I’ve often said I love children but I couldn’t eat a whole one, and after a raucous morning, thoroughly outnumbered, we beat a hasty retreat to the Covent Garden district for lunch. We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the West End, somehow stumbling, yet again, into London’t red light district before meeting up with an old Israeli friend from my rafting days in Nepal, whose pseudo-career as an actor makes a perfect cover for her real job as a top secret Mossad assassin. The following morning saw us up bright and early motoring our way towards Dover for a midday ferry to France, fighting fierce crosswinds along the way. A quick stop for breakfast at a road side cafe provided us with a wonderful reminder of the exquisite quality of English cuisine. With full stomachs and thick arteries we rode our bikes into the belly of a cross channel ferry and sailed to France saying goodbye to the white cliffs of Dover over which there was not so much as a hint of blue sky.

Bruges sculpture detail.

An hour and a half later, after a choppy crossing, we rode onto French soil at the port of Calais. We’d made the decision to push North toward the Netherlands and decided Dunkirk would be as good a place as any to spend the night. After making camp and cooking a delicious meal we took a walk along the beach, watching the kite boarders skip across the white capped waves. It was hard to imagine how it must have looked on those fateful days 73 years ago. The next morning saw us plotting a course for Bruges, in Belgium, trying to avoid all the major highways and, without even realizing it, we’d crossed another border, surprised at how Europe has changed. Other than a subtle difference in the road surface and street signs there are few other indicators that you have entered another counrty, no customs officials, no check points, no currency exchange. Finding Bruges proved easy but finding our campsite was a little more challenging. We deliberately decided to exclude a GPS on this trip as we’ve discovered getting lost can sometimes lead to the most interesting places, both geographically and emotionally. We booked our campsite for a couple of days, hoping to explore this fascinating city, once one of Europe’s most important ports. Over silting of the harbor, however, had left it abandoned, destitute and practically forgotten for over 500 years. Today, its narrow cobbled streets, intricate network of canals, grand open plazas and elegant architectural wonders speak of a history interrupted. Organic street plans from a less regulated age provide endless surprises for the inquisitive visitor. We had a delicious lunch at the oldest cafe in Bruges,  the Vlissinghe, dating back to 1515, sampled the locally crafted beers at the Beer Wall and snacked on fantastic waffles from street vendors while sitting on the polished steps of an old town house, listening to the very talented street musicians. As darkness fell, spotlights illuminated the city’s landmarks and the bars and cafes came alive.

In Bruges, at night.

Rotterdam was to be our next destination and, again, we tried to avoid the main highways, meandering our way North through sleepy country villages, fertile farmland, past windmills old and new, over bridges, through tunnels, finally approaching the city via Europe’s busiest port. Rotterdam proved to be a pleasant surprise, little remained of the city centre after World War Two and Dutch architects took it upon themselves to create a lively, tasteful and interesting new centre from what was left. An eclectic mix of innovative styles surround colorful street markets  giving the city a fresh young feel, a radical contrast to our previous stop. There is fierce rivalry between Rotterdam and the capital, Amsterdam, but most Dutch people we spoke to quietly favor the former. 

Rotterdam architecture.

No visit to the Netherlands would be complete without a visit to Amsterdam, the city where anything goes, widely regarded as Europe’s most tolerant metropolis. It seems unfortunate that the relaxed laws on cannabis use and the candid sex industry are what the city is famous for when it has so much more to offer. Tall, skinny houses lean haphazardly against each other along narrow cobbled streets all entwined in a spider web of working canals. In this city the bicycle is king and crossing the street can become an ordeal of dodging two opposing lanes of cars, trams, bikes, scooters and hurried locals on foot. The resident population appear to relish the challenge cycling past at breakneck speeds deftly avoiding the stoned tourists and treacherous tram tracks. Museums and galleries abound and we had a hard time deciding which to visit on our limited budget. Two came highly recommended by fellow travelers so we set aside several days to explore and relax. We spent half a day at the Sex Museum on the edge of the red light district gazing, in wonder, at the endless methods, paraphenalia, art and oddities associated with sex. As it turns out people have been doing it for years, who would have guessed? Thoroughly enlightened, yet surprisingly un-shocked in this internet age we left in search of a coffee shop and had an entertaining afternoon of people watching and picture taking.

Amsterdam

The following morning we set aside for a more refined tour of the Rijksmuseum on the outskirts of the city centre. Relics of Dutch history from the Enlightenment to present day enclosed in the labyrinth of the former, elaborate, city gateway could have kept us engaged for days, if not weeks. Gazing upon the works of the Dutch masters of oil and canvas from Rembrandt to Van Gogh can only fill a person with hope, for as much destruction and aggression as the human race is capable of, there is still the ability to create timeless beauty. As we try to decipher headlines in the local press about conflicts around the world, particularly in regions we are moving towards, the human effort wasted on war seems all the more futile. It’s been argued without war there would be less progress but that all depends on how we define progress. A bumper sticker on a car we followed out of Amsterdam the next day read “A Different World Is Possible”. Eager to leave behind the windswept lowlands of Holland we pushed our bikes onwards into Germany.

Local color,  Amsterdam

We crossed another line on the map and were drawn towards the Rhine Valley pulling over alongside the road outside Koblenz for our first night of ‘wild camping’. We plan to do more of this as the weather improves but to describe it as ‘wild’ is a bit of an exaggeration. We pulled the bikes underneath some secluded trees near a rest stop beside a moderately busy road. As soon as we’s pitched the tent we discovered on the other side of the secluded trees there was a very busy railroad track. Germans have a reputation for punctuality and every thirty minutes, almost to the second, a high speed train would whizz past buffeting the flysheet of the tent and shaking the ground. I have little doubt we’ll get better at choosing ‘wild camps’ but if you are tired enough you can sleep anywhere. Did I mention we could hear airplanes and boats that night too?

After 16 full half hours of solid sleep we rode into Koblenz, home of the Lorelei who, like Homer’s Siren’s, would lure lusty sailors to their deaths on the treacherous rocks of the Rhine River with her sultry singing. After all the rain this region has had of late the Rhine was at full capacity and an impressive sight. Many of the campsites along its shores were closed due to flooding and watching the boatmen maneuver their barges and tour boats with grace against the relentless flow was a sight to behold. After many years of rafting all over the world we have both developed a healthy respect for the seductive charms and deadly potential of big water. Finally, the weather began to change on a journey which, up to now has been dogged by high winds and heavy rain. The sun emerged, blue skies appeared and the roads began to dry. Just in time, as our road twisted it’s way South hugging the banks of the Rhein. We’d read a little about this region and the road had been recommended by another biker but nothing had prepared us for the rugged beauty of what lay before us. Bustling towns and hamlets with lively beer gardens and cafes line the route forcing you to ease back on the throttle and savor your surroundings. It seemed as though every strategic high spot was topped by a castle, fortress or monastery, sometimes all three. Some lay in ruins but the majority did not and many appeared to be still occupied. By the river, at the foot of each was a settlement, its size almost in direct proportion to the fort above. One wonders if the success of the barons and bishops depended upon the village and its people or vice versa.

Rhine Valley, Germany.

Sadly the road, which we were so thoroughly enjoying, became wider and straighter and it was time to start thinking about where to camp. The small city of Wurzburg became home for the next few days and we arrived early enough to set up camp and explore the historical ‘old town’. Perched upon a hill overlooking the city is an impressive monastery once home to the bishop princes of Wurzburg. It is a palace within a castle, within a castle, on top of other castles older still, each destroyed, rebuilt and repurposed over millennia. A medieval footbridge of carved stone statues and cobbles stretches across the river, over a mean looking play-hole, connecting the old town to the steep narrow street which climbs up to the fortress walls. By early evening, after sampling the local food and beer we returned to camp and planned the following day.

Bike security.

Talking to the campsite owner, who was clearly a biker in his youth, he suggested an alternative route to the nearby city of Banberg which would leave us with “big smiles”, it turned out to be one of the best tips we’ve had yet. The B22 is a lonely, two lane, well surfaced road that winds its way through lush countryside, dotted with vineyards and the occasional sleepy village. We stripped all the unnecessary gear off the bikes and feeling lighter and more agile we let the bikes impress, yet again, with their full potential. A long time ago an old friend had told us “you will never, ever, wish you had heavier bikes” and two hours later we arrived in Banberg with big smiles. Banberg turned out to be just as, if not more, impressive than Wurzburg with architectural relics on every street. The city is working hard to restore what remains of its heritage but it is hard to imagine what building codes would apply to structures as old as these. Our only regret in Banberg was not allowing ourselves a sample of their unique local ‘smoked’ beer. With a two hour ride back to camp and a full day of exploring the city, it was a pleasure we’ll have to enjoy another day. 

The trip, so far, has come with its own rewards and challenges, practical, physical and personal. We are still only a short way into our journey but we’ve met some incredible people, seen many beautiful places and had a few thrills and spills along the way. We learn more about each other with every mile travelled and, as overwhelming as the trip appears, we sometimes need to remind ourselves that even the longest journey is simply a collection of small steps. From Germany we plan to push South and into the Alps excited about the twisting mountain passes that lie ahead. Thanks, again, to all who have helped us get this far.

Go South My Boy.

Day 23. 

Mileage 2275.

One of these days, I’m going to stop procrastinating. Apologies to all who’ve been waiting for the latest installment of the blog, it’s been over a month since I’ve had a chance to sit down in front of a computer as we’ve been overwhelmed by the hospitality and generosity of friends and family.

Dad, kickstarting the journey, in Cork, Ireland.

So it is finally underway, the Cork to Cape Town adventure has begun. The past couple of weeks have been a roller-coaster of red tape and false starts but it now feels as though we are making progress. After returning from the Grand Canyon rafting trip and adjusting to a different pace of life we said goodbye to friends and family in California. Maureen and Dan were kind enough to let us use their home as a staging area for the last few preparations before our departure and Randall and Linda threw a farewell party for our last night in the Sierras. With a fixed deadline and pre-arranged flights there was no turning back so anything that was left behind at this stage was deemed unnecessary.   We spent our last night in California in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco listening to eclectic mix of local bands. An early flight the following morning took us to Syracuse, New York via a long layover in Philadelphia and by eleven that evening we were settling in at Paul and Randi’s beautiful home in Ithaca. 

Four days in Ithaca, in beautiful spring weather, saw us sampling the local beer and food, exploring the gorges and enjoying the company of family who showered us with warm hospitality. All too soon it was time to move on and the next leg of our journey took us to Boston where we traced the ride of Paul Revere, stood at the spot where the ‘shot that was heard around the world’ rang out and had a moment of reflection on the shores of Walden Pond. Suzanne and Peggy took time out of there busy schedules to show us around the city and make our last few days in the USA thoroughly enjoyable but, before we knew it, we were boarding our flight to Ireland and saying farewell. 

Thoreau's Cabin, Walden Pond, USA

A smooth flight across the Atlantic took us directly into Dublin and before long we were driving a sporty little rental car North toward my home town of Strabane. It had been almost two years since we’d set foot on the ‘auld sod’ and seen family so the prospect of coming home had kept me awake for the entire journey. As the roads became more familiar and we neared the family home it felt good to return, even the weather welcomed us with a rare sunny day. 

With a fixed base, for a few days, we now had the time and resources to track down our motorcycles which were due to arrive in Dublin on May 6th. However, while we’d been rafting on the Grand Canyon, a customs official in Texas was efficiently making a mess of our shipping arrangements, assuming we were exporting the bikes to sell in Ireland. With Customs now involved in the process, what should have been a simple shipment became a bureaucratic nightmare with multiple agencies demanding their pound of flesh for the ‘importation’ of our own motorcycles which would then be leaving the country again in less than two weeks. Making no progress over the phone we decided to drive to Dublin and talk to the parties involved, in person, to explain our situation. Without the help of Dad, this would have been extremely difficult  as we shuttled from one office to the next, each one at either end of Dublin, but by late afternoon, on May 13th, exactly a week behind schedule, we were riding our reassembled bikes out of a bonded warehouse in Swords, Dublin. 

Unpacking the bikes in Swords, Ireland

It felt a little surreal to be riding our bikes South towards Cork and the beginning of a voyage that’s been no more than a dream for so long, but there we were, Dad with car and trailer towing his fully restored BSA Bantam, Micky on his Kawasaki ER6-F which he had ridden over from Scotland, Beth and I on our bikes, our little convoy riding into the sun at the end of a productive but exhausting day. 

St Anne's Church, Cork

The following morning saw us rise early, pack the bikes, and make our way to one of Cork’s most recognizable landmarks, Saint Anne’s Church containing the Bells of Shandon. Known to locals as the “Four Faced Liar’, each of the clock tower’s four faces tells a different time, it provided an ideal start for the Cork to Cape Town ride. Dad kickstarted the Bantam, Micky pulled up on his Kawasaki and Beth and I officially began our journey to South Africa. We spent the next few days winding our way up the West coast of Ireland, enjoying the tight, twisty country roads, dealing with all kinds of weather. With the delay at Dublin port, however, we were on a much tighter schedule than we had planned for and by Thursday evening we were in Portstewart for the North West 200 motorcycle races.  Thankfully we got to catch three of the races then as all the subsequent Saturday races were cancelled because of heavy rain.

The Cork and Kerry Mountains

We spent most of Sunday drying out, washing and packing our gear and bikes before driving to Belfast to stay with Joan, Shane and Shane Og. On Monday we took our bikes into the Jordanstown School (http://www.jordanstownschool.org) where Joan works as a teacher to give a presentation to some of her students. The afternoon saw us catch up with Gerrie at Ryan’s Bar before it was back to Joan’s and our final night in Ireland. We caught the ferry to Cairnryan in Scotland on Tuesday morning, said our final farewells to Maureen and Dan and took the quieter coastal road up to Glasgow where we stayed with Micky and Carol who kept us well fed while Brendan and Marly kept us thoroughly entertained. From Glasgow we turned North to see a little more of the old stomping grounds and friends from my college days at Jordanhill. An overnight stop in Glen Nevis at the foot of Ben Nevis, Britain’s tallest mountain, left us wondering if we could fit in a hike and still make it to our destination of Findhorn at a reasonable time. Sure enough, next morning, we hoofed it up the Ben in record time and were on the road by early afternoon getting into Findhorn in time to watch the sunset over the bay as we munched on fish and chips. Holly, Ava and Ayla welcomed us in to their beautiful home at the Finhorn Foundation and we drank another night away with a laugh and a joke. 

Paddy's Milestone, Scotland.

Beth getting high on Ben Nevis.

From Findhorn we meandered our way back down through the Scottish highlands into Glasgow for a few more nights with Micky and Carol and a cheeky pint with the contagiously cheerful Tom and Kate before continuing South into England via the East coast. We made a short stop at the Holy Island of Lindisfarne across a tidal causeway before continuing down the coast to Whitby and through to Robin Hood’s Bay. The winding coastal roads took us through quaint villages and rolling farmland with hilltops dotted with crumbling castles. In Robin Hood’s Bay we stayed at the North Cliff B&B run by Callum, a partner in crime from college days, and Rachel before being treated to a fascinating tour of the village by Carrick, Tim and Isla. Tiny houses cling impossibly to the steep coastline with a warren of steep paths and hidden  passageways connecting each dwelling like something from an Escher lithograph and the surrounding area, with the nearby town of Whitby, inspired and feature in Bram Stoker’s classic novel Dracula.

Josh and Beth in Liverpool, UK.

Horizons Unlimited UK 2013.

Yet again it was time to move on and before long we were back on the road, this time to Liverpool to check in with Josh at Active Adventures, a purpose built outdoor activity centre on the shores of the Mersey River. Home to the biggest high ropes course we’ve ever seen with enough activities to bring out the child in everyone it’s tucked away at the edge of the city in a beautiful setting. With a nasty storm chasing us from the North we kept our visit short and pushed South to Donnington Park for the beginning of the 2013 HUBB UK meeting. For the next four days overland adventurers from around the world gathered at a converted farm to share tales and advice from the road. Our trip pales in comparison to some of the itineraries planned by our fellow travelers but it was good to rub shoulders with like minded souls who don’t frown upon what we’ve set out to do. Workshops and presentations covered a variety of topics and destinations, there was even a class on how to prepare and cook road kill. A motorcycle skills course was set up in the grounds, professional photographers came to share their knowledge, established travel writers gave advice on their craft and budding film makers debuted their latest work. By Sunday morning we felt inspired and ready to take on any challenge the road had to throw at us so we bade farewell to our fellow travelers and took to the road. By mid afternoon we were pulling into Bristol to be greeted by Mel and Katie with cold beer and an endless BBQ. After two days of exploring Bristol and the surrounding area with Sean and Kevin as our intrepid guides we are preparing once again to say goodbye and put the UK and Ireland behind us.

From Cabot's Tower, Bristol, UK.

As chaotic as it has been, the one constant on our journey so far, has been the kindness and generosity of everyone we have been with along the way especially our friends and family. We are forever grateful for all you have done for us and we are are well aware none of this would have been possible without your help, we look forward to the day when we can return your hospitality. To my father, Noel, who joined us on the first leg of our journey on the same motorcycle he owned as a young man, you are an inspiration to us, every time we gaze upon the wonders that await us we will look twice, once for us and again for you.

Mel, Kevin and Sean, Cabot's Tower, Bristol.