Through the Alps

The ride north on the toll roads, back into Europe, is mundane but relaxing. ‘Highway Patrol’ I call it. Punting along, curiously detached from the land through which I’m travelling, watching it like a soap opera as it’s reality passes by just out of touch. Curious glimpses of European life sweep by, a farmer stares through a rusting van in a field, a girl sits in an isolated plastic chair with a thermos and a newspaper. Unable to stop and stare at the citadel on the left, with it’s undoubted eons of history. Securely bound by corrugated steel from the rough neighbourhoods in the outskirts of a city. Guided safely and soporifically by the huge blue and green signs , onwards always, because I have a destination again. To Italy.

Near Grenoble I lose the toll roads for smaller, more intimate routes. The Alps rise from the plain like knees in white bed sheets. From a distance the snow seems to blanket their features into anonymity, but as I close in their individuality becomes apparent. Cliffs and corries, rounded shoulders and knife edge arêtes. Every time I come here the size of them astounds me. I have to be careful not to have another ‘vista related accident’. (The Trollstigvien is extremely picturesque and this may have contributed to the demise of my Enfield. Although the road WAS in dreadful condition.)

Near Corp I stop at a fantastic campsite and pitch my tent on a little terrace that looks out on the Grand Tete de L'Obiou, a rugged peak with a shroud of mist that plays around it’s cliffs all evening. I eat my birthday dinner (a tin of Ravioli and a Kitkat) under a brilliantly clear night sky and reflect that not only are there worse places to turn 34, but you ain’t seen the stars till you’ve seen ‘em from the mountains.

Next day the road over the Col du Saint Bernard is shut, so I resolve to go round by Chamonix to get to Courmeyer. Turning a corner near Sallanches, Mont Blanc appears in all it’s massive glory. I’d forgotten how appallingly bloody big it is. I can also see Aguille du Midi and Mont Blanc du Tacul. Nostalgically I pick out my route up Tacul in 1990. ‘Great trip’ I say to myself and look ruefully at Mont Blanc, which defeated me.

I cruise through Chamonix, decide to stay a few days, realise the campsites are still a foot deep in snow so regretfully head on to Courmeyer. Through the tunnel to Italy, Courmeyer is also under a thick white blanket. Eventually I stop down the valley in Aosta.

Italy is very much how I imagined it. From the high Alps with its’ twisting roads and mountainside redoubts, to the plains further south and miles of meticulously farmed agriculture. Square, small windowed brick farm houses with terracotta tiled roofs scatter the landscape. It’s easy to imagine this landscape has changed little since the Romans decided that they didn’t want Scotland after all and they should build a great big wall to keep us out of ‘their bit’ of Europe.

Well times have changed and here I am, and despite the fact I confidently believe I could train a chimp to drive better than the average Italian, the place is spectacular, and when they’re not trying to run me over, the people are warm and friendly. I’m hoping to be in the Apenines tomorrow for a well earned rest and to tick off another mountain range!

Morocco 2

I rode through the evening light, softened to pink by a haze of Saharan dust suspended like fog in the warm Southerly wind. I was nearing Erfoud and the spiritual start of my desert adventures. From here I’d tackle the little country roads and unpaved pistes that network this area on the edge of the Sahara. I was a little apprehensive, I have to admit. Graphic images of Tuareg nomads finding my bleached skeleton, scattered by vultures, far off track, a bony hand clutching onto death an empty water bottle, kept popping into my head.

The next day I headed out to Alnif , and from there left the tarmac and on towards the Jebel Gaiz. Passing through little villages I eventually passed out into the Hamada. The higher the track got the drier the surroundings became. Soon there appeared to be little vegetation of any sort. It got hotter as I gained altitude, but the track was good quality and I made good time. Not far from the top of Tizi’n-Boujou, however, there was a diminutive oasis. A tiny palmerie secreted up here away from the valleys, the sudden green was a shock and a little reminder that life can flourish in the most bizarre places.
The top of the pass afforded fantastic views across to the Atlas and I rattled down the long descent well pleased with the days efforts. Hitting the tarmac again I roared on, jubilant, to Todra Gorge to spend a couple of days relaxing in it’s cool and pleasant depths.

The road to Nekob across Tizi-n’Tazazert was longer, rougher and no less spectacular. Again that cobalt sky soared across the arid mountains which stretched on forever, belying the palmeries and settlements in the valleys, assuring the witness that nothing grew, no rain fell and the sun beat down always.
From the pass the views were sublime, from 2200m I looked down on the desert and, like with all great vistas, felt purely insignificant.
The piste, although mainly good, had it’s tough sections. On one difficult decent, crawling down in first, I lost control. As I toppled I remember looking down, from what seemed an outrageous height, at the rocks in the ditch by the track and thinking. ‘They look hard!’ Then I hit them, and they weren’t too bad.
I was winded and the pannier with my laptop in took a hefty thump, denting the side. (I nervously started the laptop up as soon as I got to my hotel, it seems fine!) I was pretty tired by the time I reached Agdz but hugely satisfied with what I felt was a really amazing day.

South East again and along the beautiful winding road that joins Tansikht and Er-Rissani. The sun beats down and the dust cakes the bike and me, turning us the same colour as the desert. I have to stop to reattach the bash plate that has come loose from vibration and it’s a sweaty affair. Towards evening the high dunes of Erg Chebbi appear on the horizon. I spend the night in a kasbah, the moon is extraordinarily bright, and the stars, as I sit on the roof drinking warm beer (but it’s nectar!) remind me that you ain’t seen the stars till you’ve seen them from the desert.

I ride south of Erg Chebbi, towards Algeria. The trails vary from smooth, hard packed clay, through rocky boulders to soft sand. I get my first taste of real sand riding where the only way through is to power on in a straight line. It’s a bit unnerving at first. As you feel the front wheel sliding sideways the instinct is to hit the brakes, but instead you have to twist the throttle. The bike surges forward and drives the front wheel through. There’s always a bit of a sigh of relief as you hit firmer ground on the other side. It’s all damn good fun and I stop for lunch on an expansive chott (salt pan) about 20km from the border.
Later in the day I head back to Erg Chebbi to explore the dunes and hills. Its great fun exploring off the trails, just riding over the rocky, then sandy desert. Topping out on rises and looking about, seeing what lies on the other side of that outcrop or this dune.
I feel I’ve earned my couscous and Flag Speciale tonight. Tomorrow I head north, away from the Sahara and back to Europe.

Morocco 1

Wow, the last sentence of ‘Spain’ really makes me laugh. And no jolly, heartwarming chuckle either. Rather the hollow ‘Ha!’ of a man for whom the scales have fallen etc.
The ride from Ceuta to Asilah, rather than being the t-shirted cruise over the hot , green Moroccan uplands of my imagination, mentally accompanied by Muddy Waters singing ‘Got my Mojo Working…’ was in fact a tempest of wind and freezing rain accompanied by Carmina Burana at full volume.
A day off in Asilah, my first day without getting on the bike in 11 days and the first day I didn’t actually HAVE to do anything in what feels like months. (Organising a trip like this is a lot harder work than you might expect).

A couple of days of riding in disappointingly Caledonian conditions finds me, soaking wet, in Azrou. The road ahead is blocked with snow and I can go no further.
Next morning the situation is unchanged so I try to get round via Ifrane. The road is clear but for a long way at least a foot of snow lies on the ground. I spend the time between marvelling at the arctic scenery and shivering whilst grumbling about t-shirted cruising and Muddy Waters.
Soon the conditions improve though, as I lose altitude into a valley. The view is lovely as I climb out the other side and I stop for a photo. I pull out again and carry on, happy that the conditions are closer to my dreams. It’s a narrow single track road and I’m cruising along saying things like ‘This is more like it!’ and ‘Ah, that’s a view for you if you like.’ when suddenly I’m aware of a car bearing down on me containing two saucer eyed Moroccans. ‘Aaargh!’ I manage to squeeze out before taking avoiding measures with the reactions of a panther. Unfortunately they are the avoiding measures of a panther who has spent the last decade driving on the left hand side of the road. I realise my error and correct.
‘BANG’
And I’m on my side in the middle of the road.
I pick up the bike and there’s no damage, I’m also amazed to find I’m unhurt. (Although, next day my left knee stiffens up and aches. However, as this happens every time I crash a motorcycle I think it might be psychosomatic.) Saucer eyed Moroccan , however, has now become blazing eyed Moroccan . I’ve ripped some trim off the side of his car and cracked a hubcap, There’s a small scrape too, which may or may not have been me. I apologise profusely (It was my fault, no doubt), and give him some money for repairs. He calms down, is very nice about the whole thing and gives me some of my money back.

Five miles up the road on a steep hill I pull onto the gravel verge to overtake a lorry (common practice in Morocco). The gravel has turned to mud from the rains and I hit the deck at about 30mph. Again the bike is fine (I love my XT!) but my panniers are both dented. However, a few judicious bangs with the round end of an adjustable spanner makes them square again (sort of).

I’m busy cursing my stupidity when I crest a rise and the High Atlas are there in front of me. Caked in snow and cloud and surrounded by a clear blue sky. I stop in a village to buy bread where the people are dressed traditionally and arab music plays from some unknown source. The smells are of spices and sand and sun dried humanity. And my mud caked bike with it’s battered alloy boxes looks like a bike involved in an adventure. Out of the village a thin ribbon of tarmac stretches to the horizon over the Plateau de l’Arid and into the Sahara.
It feels like the adventure is beginning. Suddenly it all seems worth it.

Spain...

Beware, small yappy dogs...


The following night I was in Spain and the weather improved. I sat on the beach near my campsite and stared up at the stars. The scent of the sea mingled with that of the orange grove behind me. Out at sea, in the darkness, the navigation lights of dozens of boats winked like a string of cheap Christmas lights, green, red and orange. Above me Orion, one of the two constellations I can recognise, pointed with his sword into the blackness to Africa. Somewhere over my shoulder I knew the North star would be shining but I didn’t turn to look.

Spain was as ruggedly beautiful as I remembered. Arid mountains seem to rise up, seemingly at random, amongst the plains of vine and fruit tree plantations. The remains of moorish forts scatter the landscape like broken teeth on mountainous gums. The dust makes my throat hoarse and chaps my lips.
Such is the landscape the Spanish drivers habit of not bothering to pull fully out into the next lane when over taking a bike and his assumption that the stopping distance of a VW Golf at 140km/h is six feet do little to dampen my enthusiasm.

Eventually, on my last full day in Spain, I reach the Sierra Nevada. The road climbs over them and suddenly I am no longer in a warm Mediterranean environment. It’s freezing and I haven’t layered up properly. There is snow by the side of the road! Soon I’m riding through a landscape I’d associate with a Canadian winter, not the south of Spain! It starts snowing and I’m laughing out loud in my helmet, trying not to let my violent shivers affect my control of the bike. ‘Fantastic!’ I think, this is what adventure’s all about. Giving you what you least expect and showing you the world is full of surprises! The surrounding mountains are wild and unspoilt and for the first time on the trip I really don’t mind the pain of the cold in my hands and feet.

So, now I’m in Morocco. And , what a surprise, it’s cold, windy and wet! But I’m heading straight for the Sahara, hopefully it’ll be a little warmer there!

France...

I seemed to remember that Morocco was just a hop, skip and jump away. Rosy specs of time and affection for the Citroen I did this journey in last time gave the impression that an early ferry from Dover should see one in Tangier for a late lunch. Ah, not so.

The riding in France was as hard as any I’ve ever done. A week on and the days have merged into a haze of leaden skies; sudden, violent downpours and freezing, blustery winds threatening to throw you under the wheels of the truck in the next lane. One day I did barely 120km before giving it up as just too damn dangerous. One daily pleasure though was the sandwich. Get a baguette from the boulangerie. Carve off a generous chunk with the trusty Opinel and tear it open. A slice of brie, warm and gooey from its’ spot in the ‘lunch bag’ (an old canvas pouch which hangs close to the exhaust). I’m about to snap this king of sandwiches shut when I remember: “Hang on, I think I’ve got some chorizo left.” Yes, there it is, nestled under the emmental in the lunch bag. The king of sandwiches becomes deified.

I was nearing the coast South of Nimes and looking expectantly for the Med to appear, when I was taken by surprise by the Pyrenees. I crested a rise and suddenly there they were, dominating the way ahead. Great shoulders of snow and ice rising pristine above the dull brown of the everyday world. A moment of regret as I realised I wouldn’t get to play in them this time, then I spotted the Med. A deeper blue than I remembered it, the wind whipping it into foam around the rocks and bays near Montpellier.

Tomorrow I should be in Spain.

The Build Up...

Was it the grizzled German I met in Udaipur in 1992, newly arrived on his dust caked Honda from Iran and Pakistan that inspired this trip? Or finding by chance Chris Scotts' "Desert Biking" tucked in between Lonely Planets in a book shop in Edinburgh? Or numerous Christmas days watching Steve McQueen making a dash for the Swiss border while Gordon Jackson and Dicky Attenborough got pinched on the bus? Either that or I just got bored. I've found boredom to be a great motivator!
The two pre-war Rileys I grew up with gave me a love of all things oily and the postscript of the aforementioned trip to India was shelling out for an imported Royal Enfield Bullet 350 which I almost killed in a ditch on the Trollstigvien in Norway. (It survived though and is now waiting to be stripped down and reinvented as a cafe racer!) A climbing trip to Chamonix after leaving school started the whole travel thing. One day the two things would have to come together!
Moto trip number one was a trip to Morocco in my Citroen AX. Fantastic experience! My romantic, T.E.Lawrence inspired dreams of desert adventure did n't include a bout of catastrophic diarrhea coinciding with a remote desert breakdown, but well, I'm not sure it would have been less discomfiting, or catastrophic for that matter, had it happened in busy metropolitan centre.
Number two was a trans-european dash to Slovenia in the same AX with my mate Neil. Apart from breaking down 3 miles from my Edinburgh flat (disintigrating rear brake shoe), a trouble free trip filled with mountains, Zlatorog beer and excessive amounts of camping gear.
Number three was my first on a bike, and...er... well, lets just say two bad earth connections, dodgy CB points, a rapidly expiring drive chain and a spectacular crash into a four foot ditch resulting in flying home sans bike (all in six days!) are perhaps not the glue that holds together the classic joy filled holiday. Although, actually, in retrospect, I had fun!
So, I bought a new bike and started planning the big one. Enough mucking about, do it properly. Hopefully this one will go relatively smoothly! I'm certainly better prepared than usual. The photo above is me practicing in the Lammermuirs. Just part of the huge amount of preparation this trip requires (I thought this would be more interesting than a pic of me applying for a visa), but I get the feeling the preparation will really start when I swing my leg over the XT on the 11th of February...