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