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Germany With Martin and Mark |
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Friday 19th July 2002 (1154 miles on the clock)
Here we are again! Batman and Robin ready to invade
Mark arrived at 10ish and I made two big bacon butties. Gina came home from work just as the last rasher was being laid to rest on the lovely fresh doorstep wedges of bread. I had a whiff of conscience and I gave Gina my butty as I remembered that I was still midway through my battle (and still fighting) with my jelly belly and had to make sure that my leathers still fitted. All grubbed up and successfully squeezed into my biking gear it was getting on for midday and time to hit the trail.
We started our engines and we were off on our big adventure. I love this bit. There’s nothing quite like the thrill of starting out on a long journey, the culmination of several weeks, sometimes months, of planning and discussion. We took the back roads out to Banbury via Edge Hill illHand eventually reached the M25 after ticking off Aylesbury and the A41. The M25, as usual, was a stop, start affair and we found ourselves weaving in and out of traffic to make progress. This really pisses me off because some drivers will pull aside and let you through but some miserable bastards purposefully try and close the gap to make it nigh on impossible to get through. We get the last laugh though because we know that, despite all their efforts, we will be way ahead of them and nowhere near as frustrated – can’t beat a bike.
We got ourselves over the
When we arrived at about 4ish the bar was quite busy and the host, Keith, was entertaining the regulars. Keith was also half pissed, this was due to the fact that with every order from a customer that he fulfilled he would place his glass under the gin bottle and empty another shot into his everlasting drink. We ordered up two cold pints of beer, which triggered another shot for Keith, and the icy amber lagers were put in front of us – it was like the scene from “Ice Cold in Alex” you know, the bit where they get to the bar after crossing the desert. That pint was very welcome. We simply had to have another but we stopped after two as we both agreed that we wouldn’t carry on at this pace or we would be ratted by 9 o’clock.
We were shown to our room by a very happy Keith (who for some strange reason had just finished lighting the log fire in the bar, strange because it was actually a very hot July day). We grabbed the luggage off the bikes and trundled up to our room where we got changed into our jollies. Tired from the mindless tits on the M25 and fuelled by two pints of ice cold Alex we flopped onto our respective beds (yes we had separate beds) and cat napped for half an hour or so.
Refreshed by our little snooze we went down to the bar in search of some food – it was 7.30pm and we were both ravenous. Keith was nowhere to be seen, his place having been taken by his wife, who unlike her husband, was totally sober. Pleading for a meal in place of the bar food she guided us to the spacious conservatory at the rear of the pub which was the restaurant and came with the promise of home cooked steak.
As we munched our way through our dinner we saw that Keith was outside the window watering the garden. The scene that was laid out before us was very comical. Keith was staggering with a cigarette in his left hand and the hosepipe AND a glass of gin in his right hand. He was now very pissed and stumbled his way around the rockery but at the same time he would try and take a sip of his drink but in doing so he would soak either himself or some other inanimate object, but never the garden. Keith worked out that it wasn’t possible to carry out three functions so he decided to put his gin glass down on the conservatory window ledge but not without drenching the window directly in front of us. We ducked instinctively but, luckily, the window was closed and we watched mirthfully as he managed fill his glass with tap water washing away any trace of alcohol. Keith took a drag on his cigarette, espied his full glass, took a sip and then realising it lacked its usual kick he dropped the hose and about turned in a perfect arc which left him facing the exact route back to the bar which would, unfortunately, lead past the entrance to the restaurant. He popped his head around the door and did the classic putting his finger to his mouth and whispering “Ssshh”. He then went on to try and explain to us that he had been banned from the restaurant by his wife who thought that his method of serving wine to the guests by taking a swig from the bottle to make sure that it wasn’t corked wasn’t quite in keeping with the normal way to wait a table. He slipped away quietly back towards the bar and we never saw him again.
We knew that we had an early start the next morning so it was early to bed tonight and we grabbed a coffee each and went to our room having decided to give the bar a miss. Went to bed and watched Tim being evicted from Big Brother House on a television that flickered violently and gave a double vision effect.
Saturday 20th July (start 1370 miles)
I’m must be all excited because I wake up at 3.30 and cannot get back to sleep. I decided to throw in the towel and officially get up. As I sit on the can at this ungodly hour all I hear is a hooting owl, some sheep in the field next door and Mark snoring.
Having downloaded my software I convince myself that it’s too early to get up and I try and get back to sleep but it’s no use so, eventually, at 4.30, I give up and head for the bathroom to freshen up. When I get back to the room Mark isn’t there – he’s in the other shower getting ready. It’s good that we are on the same wavelength and it doesn’t take long to pack away and we do our final checks – tickets, passport - shit!! I can’t find my passport – I only had it a minute or so beforehand but now it was nowhere to be found. Mark joined in the hunt. He turfed out my panniers whilst I checked and rechecked all my pockets, still no luck. Mark and I spent a good hot, sticky, panicky twenty minutes looking for it until Mark found it lurking down the sleeve of my motorbike jacket. God only knows how it got there but, Phew! What a relief.
By the time we ourselves and our luggage down the stairs and out of he back door we were heavy with sweat and the icy coolness of the morning was very welcome. We were also pleased to see that our bikes were still there and it wasn’t long before we loaded up and on our way.
The Pub was only ten miles from the docks so we were there in no time at all but it was no help as we, quite unexpectedly, joined a long slow moving queue for the check in. Our boat was leaving at 7.00am and we were finally checked in at 6.59am – a quick dash and we made it on board with seconds to spare. In fact the boat was well under way by the time we had secured our bikes and made our way from the car deck.
Rolling off at
We did some mile munching on the motorway from
We arrive in Remich and find the hotel after asking a couple of locals – fairly basic but welcoming. I chat a little with the owner and Mark tells me he is impressed with my French. We stay in the bar and have a bit of banter with the locals which had to stop to allow “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” (en francais with a prize of 1m Euros) on the bar TV. Too much for us and because we were whacked and because my French didn’t stretch to TV game shows and because it was 9.30 it was definitely time for another early night.
Sunday 21st July (2675km)
I awoke early and catnapped until it was a half decent time to get up. We had booked breakfast for 9am and tucked into our bread, croissants, jam and cheese. Luckily the hotel had a lift and we were able to cart the luggage up and down to the third floor without much hassle. We checked out and said goodbye to room 308 and thanked Madame for looking after us. A quick pat on the head for Duca the dog who had drooled nearby as we ate our evening meal the night before and again this morning at breakfast.
We drove down through the town of
We carried on up along the Mosel to Koblenz where we caught the 260 to Bad Ems and onwards to Nassau where, after a few false starts, we eventually found the 417 hidden away and continued our journey to Diez. We were tired and, having covered nearly 300km. we are looking for somewhere to stop over. Time is around 5.30 when we arrive in
The shower is a blast and we are soon refreshed and ready to eat. The concierge tells us that there is a Greek restaurant in the road behind the hotel. We soon find the unimaginatively named “Zeus” eatery which is quite busy and we are fortunate as they have a table for two but not so lucky for the couple behind us who are turned away because the addition of us to the diners has rendered the place full. We start with a glass of ouzo which we initially sip but then wham it down the hatch in one – Phwoar!! We opt for a mezza style starter with allsorts – squid, octopus, taramsalata etc etc – it was, to our great surprise and relief, very good. Mark had a mixed grill type main course and I had a pork steak in Bernaise Sauce – and, like the starters, both meals were excellent and far exceeded our expectations. Back at the hotel we have a beer and a Jameson Irish whiskey and then watch a bit of filth on one of the bogus German TV channels – it’s the usual American stuff dubbed into German (usually this is the other way around !) and to make matters worse – I’d actually seen one of them before. In fact I must have seen it several times before because I knew all the words. We limit ourselves to only a couple of minutes so as to avoid the inevitable stiffy and compulsory masturbation. We turn off the TV and turn our minds away from matters of the flesh and the naughty thoughts melt away and we are soon asleep in our plastic hotel.
Monday 22nd July (start 2975 kms)
Waking early was becoming a habit and today was no exception. Breakfast is very welcome and the coffee is good. This is our first caffeine kick of today as we have discovered that there are not usually tea or coffee making facilities in German hotel rooms, sad for us as we like an early morning cuppa. We finish and then go through the daily routine of carting the luggage back down to the bikes. Despite our paranoid fears the bikes are still there tethered together just as we left them the night before. Loading doesn’t take long and we are soon on our way in search of the many towns that lay between us and our destination town of
We had looked at the map the night before and decided that the best way to get over that far east of the country was to cut a mad dash in one day using the motorway system, the autobahn, which in many (although not all) sections is free of a speed limit. We know that we can munch far more miles this way and get some serious distance under our belts. It was a tough choice though as we do much prefer the back roads which give the traveller far more of a flavour for the country and subtle changes from village to village gradually make the journey evolve rather than having a defined start and stop with nothing in between which is what happens using motorways.
The first part of the journey out of Limburg to
Colditz castle is impressive but not quite as we had imagined it to be. For a start, whilst it is on a hill, we had expected it to be much higher up and further away from the actual town of Colditz – I can’t think of a British equivalent but Mont St Michel in France is similar – with the schloss (castle) taking the place of the church up on the mount and the village tucked away beneath it. I just hadn’t given much thought to the fact that the castle would be so much part of the town itself but upon reflection it seems obvious doesn’t it.
We park up in the cobbled town square and have a look around in search of a room. We did see a guesthouse on the road a couple of miles outside Colditz and, if all else fails, we could always go back there.
Well, all else did fail! We couldn’t find an empty hostelry anywhere in town so we headed back out across the river and along Lausickerstrasse on the road heading towards Bad Lausich. Two or three kilometres out of Colditz we rediscover the “Waldhaus” guesthouse. We parked in the car park and made our way in through the main entrance. The place seemed deserted at first but we found a young girl tucked away behind the bar who confirmed that she neither spoke English nor French but that she did have a zimmer free at 60 euros per night for twin bedded room. We booked in for two nights and were pleasantly surprised when shown to our bedroom (room 4 this time). Everything seemed to be brand new, shining like a new pin and actually smelling new. A second look over and we begin to realise that someone has spent a lot of time and effort turning the place into a sort of chic boutique hotel found in the west.
We have a beer in the bar to celebrate our good fortune and try our hand at pigeon German to try and book a table in the restaurant. After a couple of false starts we manage to get our message through and, satisfied that we had a meal booked for the evening, we retire to our room for a shower (after having lugged that bloody luggage up the stairs again!). I have a lovely refreshing shower and Mark is asleep when I come out of the bathroom. I leave him to the Land of Nod and go downstairs to the bar and order a beer and start to write up today’s entry in my journal, but wait a minute, I’ve reached “now” so everything that I write is in real time – I can hear old clocks ticking, old songs being played in the kitchen and the backroom bustle of the kitchen staff as they begin to prepare for tonight’s onslaught to the hotel’s restaurant.
I didn’t mention that the entrance to the hotel opened out into a longish room some 50/60 feet long which has an old wartime motorbike, wine, old local dresswear, a cash register of at least 100 years ago and various knick knacks of bygone years all in a sort of museum display. There is also a piece about Douglas Bader but it is in German so it is lost on me. The bar girl has remembered a couple of English words from school (which guessing at her age she must have only just left – nice bum though) and she tells us that Mr Bader has no affinity with the hotel only that he was holed up in Colditz as a prisoner. We already knew this but couldn’t fathom out why they had picked on him as a specific prisoner when so many others had shared on the same experience. I’m still in real time so I have just left you and gone upstairs to Mark as we are getting close to 7pm and dinner – he is already I the shower when I go up to the room and will be down shortly.
We are now back to reporting on the past time! The dining room was up to the same standard of the room – all rather arty and expensive. The meals were good – I chose a tomato and penne pasta affair whilst Mark had the Colditzer – Holzfaller steak which was pork, onion sauce on top of a kartoffelpuffer – which, we had found out earlier in the day was a large potato fritter. The small garden outside the restaurant window had a large train set which ran comfortably around a large loop but, unfortunately, whilst we were eating the train met with an accident as it went through Hatfield and derailed itself. We ate well, I even had a pudding (most unusual) and we also drank a fair bit of falling over water in the various guise of beer and spirits. This had the inevitable effect of leading us to an early bed at 10 o’clock but we still made room for a Jameson or two before we were out for the count – what martyrs to the cause we are.
Tuesday 23rd July (3408k)
I had a terrible night – I was plagued by mosquitoes and bitten several times – I kept waking up to the noise of the little critters buzzing in my ear and I just HATE that. When Mark woke I told him about the mosquitoes and, in our underpants, we go armed with damp towels in search of them. Lazy with their nightime munching on us they were significantly slowed down and we managed to shoot down seven of the bastards including, impressively, two that were in mid flight. The “thwack” of the towels against the wall as we hit them was made more satisfying by the blood splatter left behind as we burst their greedy bellies. Oh so nice to get your own back sometimes he said with a broad smile.
We went down to breakfast at 8am and found a table laid for us with a sumptuous little feast very well presented. I noticed over breakfast that Mark had been bitten on the ear and it was now very swollen, very big and very red. He was a little self conscious of his glowing body part so I played upon this and told him just how big it looked.
We got our kit on (not leathers today) and rode the couple of miles down into the town and found the schloss (castle) car park. There was to be a tour in English at 10.30 so with an hour or so to waste we brought a couple of postcards in the little tourist office around the corner and sent them home. At the appointed time we met the female guide (who spoke in a very strained high pitched voice) along with a funny little English man in shorts, one or two couples and about fifteen squaddies who turned up at the last moment. The guide started by pointing out to us that unfortunately there was work being carried out at the castle so we couldn’t actually get into the inner court yard where the prisoners were held. She also told us that all were all held under the exact terms of the Geneva Convention and were only shot whilst trying to make good their escape. Whilst the actual tour of the castle was very interesting it was still a little disappointing because there was so much that we didn’t get to see – but we certainly got a feel for the place.
We remounted our steeds and rode down the steep, narrow cobbled street down into the town square where we had a coffee in the schloss cafe. We didn’t do much of our people watching because there simply weren’t that many about but we did manage to buy a large tin of insect spray from the chemist which will be our secret weapon against the mighty mosquito Luftwaffe stationed in our hotel bedroom.
After a quick tour of Colditz town we decide to head back to the Waldhaus Hotel deciding that, apart from the castle, there is little else of interest in Colditz for the tourist. After a beer or two and we were ready for our much missed afternoon siesta which we sometimes have to forgo on this trip because we are on the move and quite often still travelling at “siesta” times
We arrange dinner for 8 o’clock and when we arrive we chat with the waitress who lives just 200 metres up the road. Her sister is engaged to an American GI, a black man, she tells us distastefully. We also learn that Mark’s big red throbbing ear and our near empty bottle of Jameson has caused some mirth amongst the five staff. (we know that they must have been talking about us because the only person who have seen our empty whiskey bottle was the maid)
Tonight I opt for the venison and very nice it is too especially when washed down with a good bottle of Chianti. As the time is getting on we check with the waitress that she’s not in a hurry and she tells us that it is OK – she’s not going home just yet as she has a couple of chores to complete. It doesn’t take long for us to sense that she is soon looming over us with the first of her chores…..“I have a kvestion” she says embarrassedly. “Do you vont to pay your bill now or tomorrow” – please note that the “now” was stressed a far more than the “tomorrow”. Getting the hidden meaning of the message loud and clear we tell her not to worry and we cough up 230 euros – she thinks that this is a huge amount of money but we put her right on the charges made by some London hotels for just one night. We ask if there is still East/West divide some 14 years after unification and she says that there is and that, in any case, the East Germans are far more likeable than their western cousins. We tell her to enjoy her holiday in
Wednesday 24th July 02 (3408kms)
The skies in Colditz are grey again when we awake but, thankfully, it isn’t raining although it is obvious from the state of our bikes that it has been. We fill our bellies at breakfast and say Auf Weidersien and decide to play it dangerous and not put on our waterproofs. The back road out of Colditz to Rochlitz and then onto
We had it in mind that we would stop at
We kept our eyes peeled and eventually espied and stopped at a guesthouse some 5 – 10 km outside Landsberg. There were no twin bedded rooms so we opted for two separate single rooms which at 25 euros each including breakfast was not a bad deal especially for Mark as he would have a night free from my snoring and we could both catch up with some much needed self abuse. As there was very little else in the area we ate at the guesthouse – my pork steak in pepper sauce was very nice – but the combination of a hard days riding, two or three pints of lager and a good hearty meal had left us ready for a good nights sleep. There was not much on the box so we both slipped off to the land of nod.
Thursday 25th July (3885km start)
The heavy clouds from the day before were still with us when we woke in the morning. Over breakfast Mark told me that on the television news this morning he’d heard that a dog had fallen off a ferry and swam 60kms back to
The dark skies were still there after breakfast and we debated whether or not to start with our wet gear on. We were at the point of taking the easy option and leaving them off when we felt the first spots of rain. Oh the joys of motorcycling.
We continued along the 17 which had gradually got more scenic the further south we travelled and at Fussen we crossed the border into
By now it was chucking it down and we stopped in a layby which had an electronic gizmo that allowed us to send an e-mail and we both agreed that we’d had enough. We picked up the scenic A79 and the landscape began to get mountainous – we were in cuckoo clock land. I spotted a turn off that would avoid us having to go through a tunnel further up the road (Mark hates tunnels) but on our way through the first town of
The guest house next door, the Pension Europa displayed a “motorbikes welcome” sign so we booked there instead – no evening meal available – we have to eat in the Hotel Grieserhof next door!.
The Pension Europa is a typical large “Swiss” style wooden chalet with wooden balconies. There is obviously some summer maintenance going on because the whole hotel has the strong whiff of newly applied wood varnish. Fortunately for us this is skiing country and in winter this place is packed with punters who get wet on the slopes and these places have special drying rooms for kit and we made good use of these facilities on our leathers. We settle ourselves in and sit on our balcony and watch the rain lash down over the distant mountain range and onto the road in front of the hotel. We decide to drown our sorrows and we finish of the last of the Powers Irish Whiskey and then move on and complete the set of miniature scotch whiskies that I had carried with me in my panniers. Devoid of any booze I have a shower to warm me up as sitting on the balcony had chilled us to the bone.
There is a small break in the weather and we decide to see what the town of
The balconies at the hotel are shared between 4 or 5 rooms ie it is a long balcony – being first to arrive earlier we had pinched the table and chairs but when we returned from our walk the occupants of the next room had pinched them for themselves. They weren’t around and we moved them back to their rightful place outside our room and debated whether or not to put towels on them in true “Brits on holiday” style. I decided that the best option would be to guard these, our new chattels, and whilst Mark snored himself into oblivion I planted myself on the balcony and wrote up the diary pages.
I eventually came in from the cold and had a small sleep as well. We pottered around and got ourselves ready for the evening meal. We were far too early but we were hungry and couldn’t wait until eight so we sauntered next door to the Hotel Grieserhof and found a table tucked away at the back of the restaurant where we could people watch. There were not many people in the restaurant given that they had told us that the hotel was full. Two tables down from us sat an old German couple who didn’t speak the whole time that we were there and just nodded and grunted at the waiter. We presume that they were taking part in an experiment where old Germans speak to each other using telepathy – it has to be only old Germans as the young ones manage OK with normal speech. Eventually they tire of their prolonged esoteric telepathic conversation and pay for their bill and disappear. Not long after the table next to ours, is homed in upon by a couple in their late 50’s early 60’s who soon reveal themselves to be British. Peter and Wendy are retired school teachers from Liverpool who sold up everything and bought a boat – sailed through the French canal system and out into the Mediterranean where, one day, they found themselves in
Back with Peter and Wendy we discuss the piss poor weather and they tell us that they are en route to
The singles party is getting boisterous with much singing of old German Leibensong and now some dancing which has made it impossible for us to leave our table and get to the exit.. In between music stops we make a break and get through to the outside wall. Our bedroom is indeed warm and I snuggle under my duvet thinking of Peter and Wendy in their damp sleeping bags. The Valpolicella and the beer imbibed at dinner are now taking their toll and with heavy eyes I soon drift off to the patter of the rain and the wet “ssssshhhh” noise that tyres make as they drive past on the wet road outside.
Friday 26th July 02 (4995km)
It has stopped raining but the weather is still overcast and the roads remain damp. Breakfast is over quickly, somehow the Cuprinol smell on the woodwork doesn’t mix at all well with cheese and ham. Mark settles the bill whilst I bring down our luggage (I’m defiantly really sick of lugging these three cases up and down to rooms each time we stop). Despite there being a mastercard/visa sign outside on the boarding the lady refuses Mark’s plastic preferring the crisp feel of cash instead. It’s still cold so we put two layers of clothes on and head out of the guest house. Two minutes down the road and a couple of hundred metres past the place where we gave up walking the day before we discover the real Lermoos – a heaving bustling town with lots going on. We missed this completely and it serves us right for not being more adventurous. We could have been people watching at some warm café instead of being sat on a cold balcony watching the rain.
We agree to take the road to Imst but just a few minutes into our journey we get split up – Mark goes one way whilst I go another. I wait a while to see if he has turned around but there was no sign of him. I left a message on his mobile to say that I was going to continue to Imst and would meet him there (thank God for mobiles). It was strange riding solo for the few miles to Imst but I was soon there and I waited at a vantage point where I could see the road stretching out below. I eventually got a call from Mark and using my directions he eventually came into view and we were reunited.
We move forward into the day taking in the scenery and making regular stops (one near a castle where we see three scuba divers in a surreal mint green lake). The good weather is pushing itself to the fore and the roads are now much drier. It’s around 2.30pm and we decide that the break in the weather has given us the opportunity to go for Stelvio. I have butterflies in my belly as I had hoped that we would be able to have a go at this one and we make good progress towards the magical road. We entered the road leading to the Passo di Stelvio and I was excited by the anticipation of the unknown. The road started on a long straight but soon began to narrow and wrap itself around the base rocks – and then it began – the hairpins were much tighter and steeper than I had imagined and it wasn’t too long before we reached a fair old height. Some of the barriers were very flimsy and at various points along the way it was possible to look back down the hundreds of feet below upon the road that we had taken. We would see the top and (eventually) we arrived there with grins on our faces. I had found it hard – not from riding point of view (although my wrists were smarting a little bit) but more from the vertigo aspect. Yep! We’d done it and the weather held out superbly.
We stayed a while at the top watching the cyclists pedal like mad to move just a few inches – I was glad that I didn’t like cycling. After taking the obligatory pictures we got back on our bikes and carried on. The Passo di Stelvio route going down the other side is nowhere as near difficult as going up from the way we approached it but we enjoyed it nonetheless. One noticeable difference, however, was the heat –
Our room is inevitably at the top of the hotel (which itself is undergoing renovation work) and, oddly, the bathroom is bigger than the bedding area. Not to worry at least they take credit cards here and, now that we are out of
Saturday 27th July 02 (4268)
We lug our cases down the several flights of stairs and saddle up our bikes. We pay our bill and say arriviederci to the pretty receptionist. We edge our way into the busy traffic and say goodbye to Valtellina at about 9.30am and make our way stop/start along the busy superstrada 38 until we reach Piantedo at the very end of
Our aim today, we decide over breakfast, is to go to
This road is good fun and despite nearing driving into the back of a line of stationary cars, I survive. Mark gets bored with the lazy pace that I am setting and decides to take the lead for a few kilometres but has to admit defeat when he takes us onto the swiss motorway and neither of us have a vignette. I have the only swiss money (we forgot when we came across the Italian/Swiss border and I later managed to extract 300 swiss francs (about £150) from a Bancomat in the small village of Castasegna. I trundle past him and lead him back to the main road where I stop in Chur and get out the map to regain our bearings and Mark takes the opportunity to have a fag break. As luck would have it I stopped right outside an IBIS hotel and we decided to take a room rather than to plough on to
We check in, have a shower and head to the bar. Two beers and two gin and tonics later we surf the Net and find a hotel in
By the time I finish Mark is awake and we are feeling peckish. The pyramid shaped hotel IBIS has its own restaurant (as well as the standard
Sunday 28th July 02 (4425)
We leave Chur bright and breezy after our breakfast and we head out on our route to
There comes a time, however, when it is possible to get Alpinitis which is a sickening overdose of scenery and as we got closer to
The hotel that we had prebooked was a four star affair in the centre of
We wolf the pizzas down and make ready to call home – Gina told me that everyone back home has been waiting to hear from us and apparently everyone is looking forward the break away. (Our final destination was a meet up with family and friends at La Devinaie, a house in
Mark had a doze whilst I sat on the balcony catching up with my journal and we later took a walk into the town centre which was absolutely teeming with tourists and the shops were stuffed full of cow bells, cuckoo clocks and other tacky mementos (and of course the obligatory McSwiss McDonalds) we cannot find anywhere half decent to eat, I throw my teddy out and we end up looping back along the railway station. We buy a big bottle of cold water and stand on the bridge near the hotel and people watch. We notice the girl on the bench hasn’t moved since we did our round trip of the town and it became obvious to us that she must be expecting customers.
On our way across the car park next to the station we see that the coaches parked up for the night bear the impressive sign in the windscreen “Baba Tours of Leicester”, now we know where our fellow hotel guests are from. We head back to our room and watch television for a bit then flake out.
Monday 29th July 4620
We wake up really early and get ourselves down to breakfast to avoid the Cosmos and Baba Tours crowds. The breakfast is laid out but there are no staff. Mark finds a cleaning lady but she can only babble a few words in Italian and has no German, English or French skills. She scuttles off and brings back the desk clerk who shows us to a table, we get first pickings and have a hearty breakfast. A Japanese couple arrive (cameras at the ready) followed by two American Japanese. I overhear the desk clerk telling them they can only sit at these certain tables as the others are reserved for Cosmos and a party from
The roads are clear and the weather is good and we make our way out of
As the day wears on we get warmer and warmer – the sun is blisteringly on this summer afternoon.. We survey the map and come to the conclusion that we must slow down or we will travel too far and be at Devinae far too soon.
We enter
We mount our trusty steeds and head off in search of our bed for the night. We soon polish off more superb roads and find a super hotel on the outskirts of the little
We are glad that we have stopped as the afternoon is now torrid and the heat is very severe. Refreshed by our showers we sit out on the terrace and have a beer or two and have a chat with a group of young Germans who are marooned after their car hit a deer on the motorway 20kms south of Dole. They were waiting for the German girl’s brother to appear and drive them back home. They had been staying at their grandfather’s house on the Costa Brava and they were on their way back to
.
We chat with the Germans and of course leer at the girl’s pert little puppies and play with her dog – Repe – a
We eat that evening in the hotel restaurant and have a bottle of wine. Rather foolishly, however, we have another bottle of
Tuesday 30th July 02 (4885)
We have breakfast and Mark pinches the chair that faces towards the German party. The girlie has the same top on as the night before and mark is mesmerised by the orbs. I cannot turn around and look as that would be rude but it is tantalisingly tempting to do so. Mark is now regretting his decision to fully smoke his cigarette last night and is starting to display the twitchiness and shortness of a nicotine starved addict.
Fully fed we leave Dole in search of the N73 via Tavaux but more importantly via Le Tabac in Tavaux where Mark stocks up on some more smokes. We stop for a while so that he can top up his nicotine levels.
We travel up across to Beaune and out through the vineyards to Autun. Along the way Mark sped past me telling me to stop – he had been stung on the neck by a wasp and asked me to find a pharmacist so that we could find some anti-histamine. We don’t see a pharmacy until we reach the centre of Autun. I find a parking space outside the pharmacist but Mark now decides that the swelling has stopped and he doesn’t want medication. As we’re in the pharmacy I buy some pamplemousse shower gel instead as my own Radox is now finished. Two showers a day soon eats through the supplies. We look at the building next door - it is the Hotel St Louis et la Poste and we think that we will try and get a room. The entrance to this 17th century hotel building is impressive and Robert the desk clerk greets us. We ask for a room – yes he has one – he can stretch if for 2 nights? – yes he takes my credit card and begins processing us into his computer – “Oh monsier ! I have made a mistake the tomorrow night is not available” – ok – ok but even worse he says the original room for tonight is not available either – but he does have a suite available for both nights – but, alas, he says looking at both of us “it is very expensive” “. How much” we ask. “115 euros per night” he replies knowing that we couldn’t possibly afford it. After discovering that this is a room rate and not a per person rate we shock him by taking the room. Great news for us – we are now in the centre of town in a four star hotel for 2 nights with secure covered parking. We shower and have a beer and water on the triangular terrace. It’s time to take in some of the sights and sounds of Autun so we go for a little walk around. It is a little bit late to find anywhere still serving lunch so we decide on a do it yourself affair. Close to the hotel we find an Intermarche but it isn’t open until 14.30hrs – 45 minutes away which we waste with another beer it a nearby café.
At the Intermarche we pick up bread, cheese, hams and wine for an afternoon snack. I also pick up a box of OWO which, when I turn the box round the right way I discover is actually OMO – a name from many years ago. “I think that I will do some washing” I tell Mark who really couldn’t give a stuff if I did my washing or not.
Back at the hotel I commandeer the shower and wash my smalls and hang them out all around the room on the various bits of ironmongery that make up the bedroom furniture. It is a bit of a weird sight to see my pants and socks hanging from the lightstand, chandelier, bedstead and other associated ironware. Our snack of bread, cheese and ham is brilliant. We try the local Beaune wine and it goes down well. We sleep off the excess and later in the evening we take another shower, have a beer in the deserted hotel bar. With not much going on we take ourselves back out into the town. It is 9.30pm and there is not much going on, in fact there is nothing going on. We return to our room, strip down to our pants to cool off and crack open the Macon Villages that we left cooling in the sink. I go to close the shutters and but notice that I can see into an adjacent room. I call Mark over . We can see the lady occupant getting ready in the bathroom. In her main bedroom we see the bottom half of her bed which has a man in his bathrobe laying upon it waiting patiently. We can only see her outline through the frosted panes of the bathroom. We close our louvred widows so that we cannot be spotted leering at our neighbour. We stand there in our underpants peeking out through the crack in the lowered windows. We are behaving like naughty school boys but realise we are being dirty old men but we are enjoying every minute of being sneaky peaky pervy old gits. We have to keep adjusting which our height as each louvre of our shut window gives a slightly differing view from the one above or below it. Finally she emerges from the shower and puts on a nightie. She makes her way from the bathroom and we see her emerge into the bedroom. The male occupant makes a move toward her. We are now excited because this is what we have been stood here nearly twenty minutes (yes ! twenty minutes) for. I nudge Mark and he gives me a little grin. She moves sexily towards him and then makes a sideward move… what ! no, no NO - she decides to close the curtains and our fun is over.
I get dressed and despondently go down and ask the night porter for two glasses of ice which we use to cool our nightcap of Jameson (a new bottle found its way into our basket in the supermarket). We drink too much again.
Wednesday 31st July 02
We sleep in and take a late breakfast. We sit and talk for an hour or so out on the terrace with a fresh pot of coffee. We ponder over the guests eating breakfast with us, which one was the sexy lady from last night ? One or two remove themselves from the equation straight away by most certainly not fitting the bill of “sexy” but more one of “woof, woof”.
We have a day to ourselves without riding. It is overcast and we head for a bench in the town square where we sit for a couple of hours and partake in our most favourite of sports, that of people watching. The clouds eventually piece themselves together to form a uniform blanket of grey and not longer after the last bit of blue sky is eradicated it begins to rain. We head back to the hotel and I try and contact Larry, a business colleague of mine who is currently staying at La Devinaie. The idea is to arrive early at the house and spend a couple of days staying out of his way so that he can finish his holiday in peace. However, his phone , as usual, is switched.
We waste a bit more time and then ponder a while on whether we should eat in at the hotel, eat out or just repeat yesterday and make our dinner from goodies brought from the nearby Intermarche. Still unsure, we head for the supermarket and take a look for some foot spray. The shelves of food and wine are singing to us so we think “sod it” we’ll eat in. again. We load up the basket with cheese, ham, wine, gherkins, some potato salad type stuff and all the French sticks have been robbed so we have to make do with the French style sliced loaf.
Back at the hotel we lay out our feast – the lack of a French baguette distracts from the spirit of bread and cheese but we make do anyway. Mark doesn’t like his potatoey, salami type salad so I swap him some port salut cheese. We finish off with bananas, plums and nectarines and then wait for darkness to fall so that we can stand at our window again in our underpants.
By the time the sun finally sets and we close our louvres the adjacent bedroom curtains have been closed so there’s nothing for us tonight. I notice that my phone, put on charge a few hours earlier, is now replenished and I bend down to pull out the UK adapter from the French socket only to discover that one of the pins remained lodged in the wall. I was temporarily put off balance by this dilemma – how the hell was I going to get my electric pin out of the socket without putting a million volts through my body ? Mark came to the rescue as by some quirky coincidence he was carrying a pair of insulated pliers (as you do). He went off to his bike to get his tools whilst I hastily started to learn the French for plug, pin, socket, stuck. Mark returned before I could even find the first of my French words and he was able to tease the missing prong from the socket and I was able to hide the fact that I was stealing the hotel’s electric by plugging back the standard lamp that originally used this source of power when we arrived in the room.
With no other windows to peer into I console myself by reading some more chapters of “McCarthy’s Bar” and Mark takes solace in Channel hopping with the TV. He flicks through several French programmes and then lets out a delighted squeal and I turn and see that he has found XXX, a rude French channel. We watch for five or ten minutes but its all soft porn so, bored, I return back to my book and Mark moves the channel to the CNN news bulletin instead. We don’t drink much tonight because we have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow. A few phone calls earlier in the day to Martin Fendius has cleared the way for us to go straight to Devinaie tomorrow. We don’t have the rights keys but after much toying and froing we eventually come up with a plan that has us collecting the key for the small house , La Petite, from Jean–Claude Maussion – the local builder in Challain-la-Potherie who has a spare set
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I am progressing well through the pages of my book but my eyes are heavy and I am starting to doze. Another squeal and this time, a nudge from Mark has me turning my head to see that he has channel hopped back to XXX but we must now have passed the watershed from soft porn into the hard stuff because the vision before me is worthy of a triple x certificate. We watch for a good while not daring to fumble in case we give ourselves an unwanted visit from the erection police. However, even that didn’t work and I felt the familiar rising from below the sheets and a casual touch was enough to firm the deal. In the end I switched off the TV and light and tried to dream of other things so that I could defeat the dragon of my loins.
Thursday 1st August 02 (4992)
We have a light breakfast and and armed with the surplus bananas and nectarines from the previous day’s bedroom picnic we load our bikes for the last part of our journey. We will soon be reunited with our wives and finish off our break with a two week holiday with them at La Devinaie, near Cande.
We check out and the nice receptionist hands me the bill. The breakdown was interesting as it showed 4 nights parking y charges. I remonstrated with her putting forward our case that whilst we had two bikes we only occupied one space. Judgement came down in our favour and our four star bill was reduced by a fraction. We left an overcast Autun having enjoyed our relaxing break and head out towards the Morvan hills and the town of
We leave Nevers on the D976 and at Guerche Sur L’Aubois we head off down the D920 to Sancoins then along the D951 to St. Amand Montrond. The D925 takes us to Lignieres where we stop for a while next to the river whilst a sullen local pulls up along side us in a Land Rover and gives us a “ Why are you stopping here ?” kind of look. Two minutes later another local pulls in and gives the same sort of look as if we have taken root in his regular space. We take our time and then leave them to it. We eventually roll into
We find our way out of
We blasted into Cande and out past the entrance to La Devinaie and onwards to Challain. Finding L’Oree de Bois was not difficult at all – a lovely half built house which is common amongst builders – but finding Madam or Monseiur Maussion proved far more difficult I radioed my SOS back home to Martin Fendius and but the miracle of different mobile calls he rang me back to say that Jean Claude was on his way. JC arrived screeching around the corner of this road like he presumably had done everyday – perhaps one day I’ll creep up to his house and close his gates – that would really throw him.
He invited me in and opens the wine whilst I apologise for creating such a problem, for him. He says that it isn’t a problem and asks me to join him drink his wine – I politely refuse but he then insists I have a beer. I have to tell him that it isn’t possible because I have to drive my motorcycle. It soon becomes evident that this was a delaying tactic because, by now JC has discovered that his wife has left him the wrong key. He telephones her and berates her much to the embarrassment of JC’s eldest son. We agree to move on to La Devanie and Madame will be along within 15 to 20 minutes with the key. She is and we are finally able to get in. she has been dragged away from the hairdressers to perform this task and I apologise profusely but she is kind enough to say that it is ok. She scurries back to the hairdresser but not before I persuade her to get her son Edward, who accompanied her to turn up the heating in the swimming pool. Edward performs his task well and they are off down the lane.
Larry and his family are already in the other house, La Grande, and he tells me his woes. Ben, his bipolar son back in the
Copyright (c) 2010 by Mark Bushman and Martin Lloyd
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