The Long Way Round
A lighthearted look at one man's attempt to get to France during the French fisherman's blockade in May 2008
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The Great Pretender
I am not really a biker. A real biker has tattoos and enjoys riding come rain or shine. I on the other hand, will always check the weather forecast before going for a spin. And you won't find "Death or Glory" intertwined with a serpent on my chest.
So how did I find myself on a 1000 km, through-the-night, solo bike ride across two countries?
Back in May 2008 we decided to visit my sister in Brittany. A short ferry trip from Guernsey over to St. Malo and then 80 miles down towards the picturesque village of Rochefort-en-Terre. Simple really. Due to work commitments we had to travel separately. I was to take the bike on the 5pm ferry on the Wednesday. My wife, Nikki, and les enfants were to follow in the car two days later. It was all planned.
So how did I find myself on a 1000 km, through-the-night, solo bike ride across two countries?
Back in May 2008 we decided to visit my sister in Brittany. A short ferry trip from Guernsey over to St. Malo and then 80 miles down towards the picturesque village of Rochefort-en-Terre. Simple really. Due to work commitments we had to travel separately. I was to take the bike on the 5pm ferry on the Wednesday. My wife, Nikki, and les enfants were to follow in the car two days later. It was all planned.
Guernsey to my sister's house via St. Malo
Click the picture for a bigger, interactive map
The beautiful village of Rochefort-en-terre
Click the picture for google street view
Bike history
The previous August we had made the same trip on our old, ex-police, BMW K750. It was an enjoyable few days which confirmed that we were 'into' the occasional two wheeled holiday.
BMW K 750 RT + wine
This was our first biking trip away
When back home, I had seen a seven year old 1150GS at a local dealer. I managed to convince myself that this was a wise purchase - the next step in our biking career.
I am informed by my work colleagues that the BMW R1150GS is the Volvo estate of motorbikes. Is this a good thing? I think what they mean is that the bike is not cool. One of them has a 'cool' bike which will can sever your spine with a twist of the throttle. No room for your passports and a bag of toffees though.
I am informed by my work colleagues that the BMW R1150GS is the Volvo estate of motorbikes. Is this a good thing? I think what they mean is that the bike is not cool. One of them has a 'cool' bike which will can sever your spine with a twist of the throttle. No room for your passports and a bag of toffees though.
BMW R 1150 GS
It's not always this clean!
Best laid plans
Back to the plan. With two days to kill before the arrival of the second wave, I was intending to make myself useful at my sister's place. The front of the house needed cleaning and painting. I had a small pressure cleaner. It fitted neatly into the top box, (I said it was small). To that I added a small socket set, (for..... er nuts and things) and chucked on a couple of jumpers to stop it all rattling. I had side panniers but only had to put in a few clothes and a pair of trainers.
I was due to go to work on the Wednesday, leaving early to take the evening ferry. Just as I was leaving the house that morning, my step-daughter yelled down from her window, "you won't be going to France today, there aren't any ferries." "Nice try," I thought, "but you can't fool me, I have made plans." Unfortunately these plans took no account of the activities of the French fishing fleet. They were looking for a fuel subsidy - (aren't we all)? In the absence of this, they considered that blocking all the French ports was a good way to get attention. Well they had mine.
I was due to go to work on the Wednesday, leaving early to take the evening ferry. Just as I was leaving the house that morning, my step-daughter yelled down from her window, "you won't be going to France today, there aren't any ferries." "Nice try," I thought, "but you can't fool me, I have made plans." Unfortunately these plans took no account of the activities of the French fishing fleet. They were looking for a fuel subsidy - (aren't we all)? In the absence of this, they considered that blocking all the French ports was a good way to get attention. Well they had mine.
French fishermen block the ports
Now I quite like the French. Going back several generations, we're sort of related. However, this was now a challenge. I had promised to clean and paint the front of my sister's house. Was I going to be stopped by a few small fishing boats? Well....yes. Apparently ramming them out of the way was just not on. Both the local ferry companies admitted defeat and cancelled their sailings. Lunchtime found me down at the harbour. Nothing was going south - all the ports were blocked. "Okay," I thought, "how about going north?"
Yes of course the ferry to the UK was still running. The girl behind the desk looked at me in a kind and helpful way and said, "but sir, you said you wanted to get to France." I muttered something about 'making other arrangements' and phoned Nikki. Of course Brittany via the south coast of England, the Channel Tunnel, and most of northern France might seem a trifle eccentric now, but at that point it was the only opportunity to beat les pecheurs. To my surprise Nikki said something like, "well you'd enjoy a trip like that wouldn't you!" That was it! Not only was there room on the boat, but I now had Head Office clearance!
Credit card out - departing UK on the Eurotunnel at 9:50pm - perfect. All I had to do was to get there.
Yes of course the ferry to the UK was still running. The girl behind the desk looked at me in a kind and helpful way and said, "but sir, you said you wanted to get to France." I muttered something about 'making other arrangements' and phoned Nikki. Of course Brittany via the south coast of England, the Channel Tunnel, and most of northern France might seem a trifle eccentric now, but at that point it was the only opportunity to beat les pecheurs. To my surprise Nikki said something like, "well you'd enjoy a trip like that wouldn't you!" That was it! Not only was there room on the boat, but I now had Head Office clearance!
Credit card out - departing UK on the Eurotunnel at 9:50pm - perfect. All I had to do was to get there.
The Boat
Now, having gone on the ferry once before with a bike, I considered myself an old hand. Spongy thing over the seat and then a big strap and ratchet to tie it all down. Not this time. "It's a new idea mate - we're trying it out to see if it's okay." My front wheel went into a metal bracket - much like the ones at school where your wheel would buckle if the wind blew. Then the strap went over my handlebars. Seemed to be a good system - and at least the wind wasn't blowing in this corner of the car deck.
Once on board I found my seat. Next to me was an unfortunate spherical lady for whom the ferry seats were not designed. After several attempts to find comfort she eventually disappeared to the cafe/toilets/shop. Across the table was an elderly couple. He fell asleep almost immediately and she attempted a crossword. "Eight letters - means to be watchful - there's an I and an L in the middle. Oh you're no use asleep like that you old fool!"
I wanted to say 'vigilant' but decided against it. I went to get some food and drink. Back at my seat I started to read the on-board magazine. A small girl suddenly popped up over the back of the opposite seat and grinned. I flickered a smile back, and carried on reading, I felt good. I was a biker, on a significant trip. Hey folks, guess how far I'm going today? Cool.
Perhaps it was a crisp, I can't remember, but something tried to go down 'the wrong way' and although I didn't make too much noise about it, my eyes were streaming. The small face appeared over the seat again. "Daddy, that tall man is crying - look!" All at once, dad, mum, older brother and other fellow travellers lost interest in what they were doing and focused their combined attention on me. I closed my eyes and pretended to lean back and get some shut-eye.
Not cool. Not in the least.
Once on board I found my seat. Next to me was an unfortunate spherical lady for whom the ferry seats were not designed. After several attempts to find comfort she eventually disappeared to the cafe/toilets/shop. Across the table was an elderly couple. He fell asleep almost immediately and she attempted a crossword. "Eight letters - means to be watchful - there's an I and an L in the middle. Oh you're no use asleep like that you old fool!"
I wanted to say 'vigilant' but decided against it. I went to get some food and drink. Back at my seat I started to read the on-board magazine. A small girl suddenly popped up over the back of the opposite seat and grinned. I flickered a smile back, and carried on reading, I felt good. I was a biker, on a significant trip. Hey folks, guess how far I'm going today? Cool.
Perhaps it was a crisp, I can't remember, but something tried to go down 'the wrong way' and although I didn't make too much noise about it, my eyes were streaming. The small face appeared over the seat again. "Daddy, that tall man is crying - look!" All at once, dad, mum, older brother and other fellow travellers lost interest in what they were doing and focused their combined attention on me. I closed my eyes and pretended to lean back and get some shut-eye.
Not cool. Not in the least.
Angleterre
Weymouth. Believed to be the place where the Black Death entered England. I hoped I was more welcome. It was about 3:30pm. Plenty time to get to the tunnel. The sun shone and I crept along the seafront. Finally clearing the traffic I headed towards Osmington. This is where the shape of a white horse and rider is cut into a field - it can be seen from a good distance. The Weymouth inhabitants did this to honour King George III who was a frequent visitor. Unfortunately it portrayed him riding out of town and not into town. He was said to be so angry that he never returned. They had made a statue as well but that didn't seem to help.
White horse and rider
Click the picture for a Google satellite view
Along the B3390 and through the picturesque village of Affpuddle - population approximately eighty. House prices must be horrendous in these ‘blink-and-you-miss-it’ villages. Affpuddle sounds a bit of a daft name to me but when you consider that the village is in the Piddle Valley, I suppose it could have been worse. Back in the 1830s a few labourers from this area formed a sort of trade union. This was deemed to be illegal and they were arrested and transported to Australia. Why couldn't they have done the same with Arthur Scargill?
Affpuddle
Click the picture for Google street view
Soon I was riding on bigger roads. I've never really been aware of exactly what the speed limits are in the UK apart from the 70mph motorway one. I plodded along at about 60ish for a while, enjoying the sense of freedom which motorcycling brings. White van man came past me at what must have been 80mph but I didn't take the bait.
I passed through Ferndown. Back in my youth I had represented the Channel Islands at high jump at Ferndown. I stayed with a family who, I later realised, were vegetarians. At the time I just thought they couldn't afford meat! They drove an elderly Morris Minor as their only transport but, on the other hand, had a colour TV with a remote control. This was something new to me. Back at home we were very much in the black and white era where a large dial clunked between BBC and ITV, (but we did have a Hillman Avenger)! Of course I had always considered that after my hosts had paid the significant amount for their TV, they were unable to stretch to a decent Sunday roast or anything else with meat in it.
I came second in the high jump. This doesn't sound too bad until I reveal that when I exited the competition at 1 metre 95 centimetres, my six foot five opponent had not yet taken his tracksuit off. He was a very smiley chap who, having thrashed us in the long jump too, had plenty to smile about.
Just before the A31 turns into the M27, I passed the Rufus Stone. Not visible from the road, it marks the place where, back in 1100, King William, (named Rufus because of his red complexion) was killed when an arrow intended for a stag, bounced off a tree and into his chest. The guilty archer was Sir Walter Tyrell,. He very quickly disappeared off to Normandy, supposedly stopping on the way to have his horse re shod with backward facing shoes to confuse anyone chasing him - ingenious! It seems however that he needn't have bothered as the king was deeply unpopular and nobody was particularly upset about his death.
I passed through Ferndown. Back in my youth I had represented the Channel Islands at high jump at Ferndown. I stayed with a family who, I later realised, were vegetarians. At the time I just thought they couldn't afford meat! They drove an elderly Morris Minor as their only transport but, on the other hand, had a colour TV with a remote control. This was something new to me. Back at home we were very much in the black and white era where a large dial clunked between BBC and ITV, (but we did have a Hillman Avenger)! Of course I had always considered that after my hosts had paid the significant amount for their TV, they were unable to stretch to a decent Sunday roast or anything else with meat in it.
I came second in the high jump. This doesn't sound too bad until I reveal that when I exited the competition at 1 metre 95 centimetres, my six foot five opponent had not yet taken his tracksuit off. He was a very smiley chap who, having thrashed us in the long jump too, had plenty to smile about.
Just before the A31 turns into the M27, I passed the Rufus Stone. Not visible from the road, it marks the place where, back in 1100, King William, (named Rufus because of his red complexion) was killed when an arrow intended for a stag, bounced off a tree and into his chest. The guilty archer was Sir Walter Tyrell,. He very quickly disappeared off to Normandy, supposedly stopping on the way to have his horse re shod with backward facing shoes to confuse anyone chasing him - ingenious! It seems however that he needn't have bothered as the king was deeply unpopular and nobody was particularly upset about his death.
The Rufus Stone
(I didn't actually pass this close to the stone on my bike)!
Big roads
Suddenly I was on the M27. Now motorways aren’t really that much fun on a bike but for us Guernsey folk who – er – stick to the local 35mph limit, it’s at least a chance to use that top gear.
This road was to take me as far as Portsmouth and then the A27 would take over. I sort of knew the route as far as Brighton but from there on, I only had a sketchy idea of the best way. In between junctions three and four was Rownhams services so I stopped there in order to find one of those helpful maps on the wall with a “you are here” label. There was one outside but, to be honest, it only covered the part of the route I already knew.
This road was to take me as far as Portsmouth and then the A27 would take over. I sort of knew the route as far as Brighton but from there on, I only had a sketchy idea of the best way. In between junctions three and four was Rownhams services so I stopped there in order to find one of those helpful maps on the wall with a “you are here” label. There was one outside but, to be honest, it only covered the part of the route I already knew.
Rownhams Services - M27 East
I wandered back into the services and into the shop. Sure enough, they sold maps. Not that I was going to buy one. I already had my free 1994 Peugeot UK map at home! There were two large road maps for sale. One showed the motorways in red and one showed them in blue. I flicked between the two hoping it would look like I was comparing them. I tried to make a mental note of the route beyond Brighton.
“Can’t decide between them my love?” A cheerful looking lady who was stacking the shelf opposite had stopped what she doing and was looking in my direction.
“Er….. well……”
“I’d go for the one on the left if I were you. My husband always said that showing the motorways in red is a silly idea when all the road signs are blue – don’t you think?”
“Yes, yes I’m sure he was right but thinking about it, I perhaps won’t get one at all ‘cos it’s a bit awkward with such a big map on the bike.”
She looked at the bike jacket and the helmet which I had placed on the floor next to me. “Well that’s true enough I suppose. You can’t have something like that blowing all over the place. Where are you travelling to?”
I thought about this for a second. There was no point telling her that I was on my way to Brittany – it was too complicated.
“Um….Manchester.” (Why did I say Manchester??)
“Ooo that’ll take you a while won’t it. Now let me see you’ll need to turn off onto the M3 in just a bit and then after Winchester you’ll have to decide whether you want to go up the A34 or round the M25. Now if it was me…….”
“I’ll take the A34 - yes definitely the A34.” I could see this conversation going on a bit.
She looked at me for a second and I wondered if I should’ve chosen the M25. She glanced around as if to see if anyone was looking and then came right up to me and whispered loudly. “Don’t worry about buying one my love. Why not just memorise what you need to – especially that awkward bit around Oxford. My husband always said that that Oxford bit was tricky – mind you everyone has these satellite things these days – we never had one of those of course. We only had those big fold-out maps”…….
She paused and I saw my chance.
“Well look, thanks very much but I need to be heading off if I’m going to get to…er…Manchester tonight. I’ll be sure to be careful around Oxford and….um…the next bit.”
“Can’t decide between them my love?” A cheerful looking lady who was stacking the shelf opposite had stopped what she doing and was looking in my direction.
“Er….. well……”
“I’d go for the one on the left if I were you. My husband always said that showing the motorways in red is a silly idea when all the road signs are blue – don’t you think?”
“Yes, yes I’m sure he was right but thinking about it, I perhaps won’t get one at all ‘cos it’s a bit awkward with such a big map on the bike.”
She looked at the bike jacket and the helmet which I had placed on the floor next to me. “Well that’s true enough I suppose. You can’t have something like that blowing all over the place. Where are you travelling to?”
I thought about this for a second. There was no point telling her that I was on my way to Brittany – it was too complicated.
“Um….Manchester.” (Why did I say Manchester??)
“Ooo that’ll take you a while won’t it. Now let me see you’ll need to turn off onto the M3 in just a bit and then after Winchester you’ll have to decide whether you want to go up the A34 or round the M25. Now if it was me…….”
“I’ll take the A34 - yes definitely the A34.” I could see this conversation going on a bit.
She looked at me for a second and I wondered if I should’ve chosen the M25. She glanced around as if to see if anyone was looking and then came right up to me and whispered loudly. “Don’t worry about buying one my love. Why not just memorise what you need to – especially that awkward bit around Oxford. My husband always said that that Oxford bit was tricky – mind you everyone has these satellite things these days – we never had one of those of course. We only had those big fold-out maps”…….
She paused and I saw my chance.
“Well look, thanks very much but I need to be heading off if I’m going to get to…er…Manchester tonight. I’ll be sure to be careful around Oxford and….um…the next bit.”
End of the motorway
I made a swift exit and got back on the bike. How difficult could it be anyway - I would reach the end of the M27, carry on along the A27 until Brighton and then look for some more signs. I knew that Eastbourne, Seaford and Hastings were all east of Brighton although I wasn't too sure which order they went in! I imagined that with luck, I would see a sign for the Channel Tunnel once I had passed Brighton.
I reached the end of the M27 where, above the 'end of motorway' sign there was one telling me I wouldn't be able to park for twenty four miles - strange how one remembers useless information - or is it just me?
Some time later I crossed over the river Arun. In the distance was Arundel Castle and, to its left, the cathedral. This was where being on a bike was great. The traffic wasn't heavy so every now and then there were opportunities to pass a car or two without going stupidly fast. Okay so my BMW 'estate car' motorbike isn't stupidly fast anyway but you get the idea.
I reached the end of the M27 where, above the 'end of motorway' sign there was one telling me I wouldn't be able to park for twenty four miles - strange how one remembers useless information - or is it just me?
Some time later I crossed over the river Arun. In the distance was Arundel Castle and, to its left, the cathedral. This was where being on a bike was great. The traffic wasn't heavy so every now and then there were opportunities to pass a car or two without going stupidly fast. Okay so my BMW 'estate car' motorbike isn't stupidly fast anyway but you get the idea.
Arundel Castle
Click the picture for Google street view
A tunnel??
Somehow I had it in my mind that I would go through Brighton city centre. Instead I found myself at the mouth of a tunnel. Now although I had a good idea of how to get to Manchester thanks to 'Mrs. Helpful' at the service station, my study of the two road maps had been cut short and anything further east of Arundel was still a bit of a mystery! The only other tunnels I had been through in England were under the Thames and for a moment I pondered some huge miscalculation on my part. Would I emerge seeing 'Welcome to Essex' signs?
Of course there was no need to worry, this was the Southwick Tunnel, opened twelve years previously and providing a handy bypass so that I didn't have to trundle through Brighton etc. Immediately after the tunnel there was a sign indicating that I could park in a quarter of a mile. I pulled over to assess things. Having assured myself of absolutely nothing, I resigned myself to following the A27 with the idea that, as long as the sun was in my mirrors, I was sort of going the right way.
Of course there was no need to worry, this was the Southwick Tunnel, opened twelve years previously and providing a handy bypass so that I didn't have to trundle through Brighton etc. Immediately after the tunnel there was a sign indicating that I could park in a quarter of a mile. I pulled over to assess things. Having assured myself of absolutely nothing, I resigned myself to following the A27 with the idea that, as long as the sun was in my mirrors, I was sort of going the right way.
Southwick Tunnel
Click the picture for Google street view
I think it must have been towards the end of the A27 that I came across some roadworks. Back in Guernsey, roadworks usually consist of a couple of signs, some barriers perhaps and a small hole in the road. In the UK it seems that roadworks are like a living, breathing thing and their effects can spread far beyond the actual place where the work is being carried out.
There were the signs warning of possible delays. Of course by this time, it was not easy to turn round and choose another route - not that I was going to do that anyway! I was however, pleasantly surprised to find that most car drivers were happy for me to overtake their stationary cars. I wasn't sure if this was legal but I was confident that it was more legal than having to ride at breakneck speed to get to the tunnel on time.
There were the signs warning of possible delays. Of course by this time, it was not easy to turn round and choose another route - not that I was going to do that anyway! I was however, pleasantly surprised to find that most car drivers were happy for me to overtake their stationary cars. I wasn't sure if this was legal but I was confident that it was more legal than having to ride at breakneck speed to get to the tunnel on time.
Where exactly am I?
Much later I came to the Pevensey Roundabout. Here my choices were limited to the A259 towards Bexhill and Hastings and some other local places which I hadn't heard of. I stopped off at the Esso services and bought some chocolate. When I got back to the bike there were two women looking at it. I assume that they worked for Esso, (unless wearing name badges is a cool thing in East Sussex), so I thought I would just confirm my route with them seeing as though they seemed vaguely interested in my bike and also, would probably live nearby and therefore have a bit of local knowledge.
"Er... hi....er would either of you two know if I'm on the right road for the Channel Tunnel?" I said, pointing down the A259.
The older one, who I can only describe as marginally less horsey than Princess Anne, looked up. "Oh you have got a funny number plate - you want to mind you don't get pulled over without no letters on it." Both women were obviously on a fag break and, whilst smoking on the premises was obviously against the smoking ban, it seemed that having a crafty puff outside, (by the fuel pumps)!!?? was okay.
After a careful explanation about Guernsey number plates et cetera, I asked again if the A259 was the best route to the tunnel.
"S'no good asking me, I'm from Seaford, I haven't got a clue," volunteered Princess Anne's mate who then took a step back as if to demonstrate that a Seaford heritage destined one to a lifetime of ignorance. She was short, I mean really short, so I put her unhelpfulness down to the fact she felt intimidated by a six foot-three man in biking gear. I turned back to the Princess.
"Well, my boyfriend, an' he's normally right, he always says the M25 is the quickest an' he works for Kwik-Fit in Eastbourne!" She said this with an air of authority which I really didn't want to disagree with although I realised that the M25 was somewhere many miles north of where I was. I carefully considered the fact that her boyfriend might actually live somewhere where the M25 was on his doorstep and decided to tactfully disregard her advice.
"Thanks very much, that'll save me time won't it." I put on my gloves and helmet and rode back towards the roundabout, carefully taking the A259. Sure enough, looking around, I saw the Princess furiously waving at me and pointing in the opposite direction. Her little friend stood, motionless - well she was from Seaford, and therefore 'didn't have a clue!'
"Er... hi....er would either of you two know if I'm on the right road for the Channel Tunnel?" I said, pointing down the A259.
The older one, who I can only describe as marginally less horsey than Princess Anne, looked up. "Oh you have got a funny number plate - you want to mind you don't get pulled over without no letters on it." Both women were obviously on a fag break and, whilst smoking on the premises was obviously against the smoking ban, it seemed that having a crafty puff outside, (by the fuel pumps)!!?? was okay.
After a careful explanation about Guernsey number plates et cetera, I asked again if the A259 was the best route to the tunnel.
"S'no good asking me, I'm from Seaford, I haven't got a clue," volunteered Princess Anne's mate who then took a step back as if to demonstrate that a Seaford heritage destined one to a lifetime of ignorance. She was short, I mean really short, so I put her unhelpfulness down to the fact she felt intimidated by a six foot-three man in biking gear. I turned back to the Princess.
"Well, my boyfriend, an' he's normally right, he always says the M25 is the quickest an' he works for Kwik-Fit in Eastbourne!" She said this with an air of authority which I really didn't want to disagree with although I realised that the M25 was somewhere many miles north of where I was. I carefully considered the fact that her boyfriend might actually live somewhere where the M25 was on his doorstep and decided to tactfully disregard her advice.
"Thanks very much, that'll save me time won't it." I put on my gloves and helmet and rode back towards the roundabout, carefully taking the A259. Sure enough, looking around, I saw the Princess furiously waving at me and pointing in the opposite direction. Her little friend stood, motionless - well she was from Seaford, and therefore 'didn't have a clue!'
Helpful white van man, (no really)!
I carried on through Bexhill and Hastings and then on to Rye. In Rye I asked for some directions. I wasn’t lost, I was just a bit unsure about the next step. A very helpful Welshman who was loading his van was happy to advise me.
“You know the M20?”
I nodded. I knew that one end was up towards London and the other ended up at Folkstone but that was the limit of my knowledge.
“Well normally you would head for that but not today.”
“No?”
“Definitely not! Apparently it’s like a huge truck park and there’s nothing moving. It’s those French you see? Trucks everywhere with nowhere to go”
This didn’t sound too good. I didn’t have much extra time to get to the tunnel and I definitely didn’t want to miss my train - that wasn’t part of the plan
“Now then.” He pointed to my bike. “You take that bike of yours around the coastal route you see.”
“Er?”
“It’s easy. When you get to the sign which says Channel Tunnel?”
“Yes?”
“Go the other way! It’s very simple really.”
We chatted a bit more and I felt fairly confident as I thanked him and rode off. Sure enough, in ten minutes or so I saw the sign which directed me to the tunnel and the M20. Instead I turned off towards New Romney and the coastal road which did indeed take me towards Folkstone.
“You know the M20?”
I nodded. I knew that one end was up towards London and the other ended up at Folkstone but that was the limit of my knowledge.
“Well normally you would head for that but not today.”
“No?”
“Definitely not! Apparently it’s like a huge truck park and there’s nothing moving. It’s those French you see? Trucks everywhere with nowhere to go”
This didn’t sound too good. I didn’t have much extra time to get to the tunnel and I definitely didn’t want to miss my train - that wasn’t part of the plan
“Now then.” He pointed to my bike. “You take that bike of yours around the coastal route you see.”
“Er?”
“It’s easy. When you get to the sign which says Channel Tunnel?”
“Yes?”
“Go the other way! It’s very simple really.”
We chatted a bit more and I felt fairly confident as I thanked him and rode off. Sure enough, in ten minutes or so I saw the sign which directed me to the tunnel and the M20. Instead I turned off towards New Romney and the coastal road which did indeed take me towards Folkstone.
This way to the Channel Tunnel
Click the picture for Google street view
The Channel Tunnel
I arrived at the tunnel at about 9pm. Check in was at 9:20 so I had cut it fine! There were a few other bikers ahead of me and we had a brief chat. I phoned Nikki to let her know that I had arrived in one piece and agreed that I wouldn’t call again until the morning. “I’m going to enjoy a good night’s sleep - make sure you don’t,” she said.
I must admit that the whole process of loading vehicles onto the trains seemed very slick to me. I suppose this wasn’t surprising considering that, in Guernsey, embarking and disembarking ferry traffic crosses each other due to a bit of a blunder with the design of the harbour roads!
The carriages were brightly lit and had tall, narrow windows. We were told to park our bikes at an angle facing the left side of the carriage. “Make sure you put them on their side stands - no centre stands,” we were told. We looked at each other. “Dunno about that,” said a guy next to me who, like me, had just put his machine on the centre stand. I was a bit unsure too. The panniers each side of the bike were almost empty but there was that pressure cleaner in the top box and to be honest, all I could imagine was my bike toppling several thousand pounds worth of other bikes in a huge and expensive game of dominoes. I glanced over my shoulder at the woman who had shown us where to park. She glared back at me and I took the bike off its centre stand and put it on its side stand.
There were six other bikes and as I looked around, I realised that I was the only one without a pillion passenger.
“Any chance you could just stand next to my bike while I get a few bits out of the top box?” I asked the guy next to me. “No problem - don’t reckon this side stand idea is too clever myself, I got a shed load of weight in there.” He turned to his passenger. “Look after Scooter for a minute will you love?” His wife/girlfriend, (well you can’t tell when they’ve got gloves on eh) moved around to the left hand side of their bike.
“Thanks mate, I won’t be a minute or two,” I said.
“What you got in there then - is that what I think it is?” He peered over the lid of the top box as I took out a second fleece in preparation for the next leg of the journey.
“Er... yep that’s a pressure cleaner. Long story - bit complicated to be honest.”
He looked at my bike. “You don’t keep it that clean,” he grinned.
“Well no actually I’m hoping to do a bit of work on my sister’s property - painting and stuff. She hasn’t got a pressure cleaner and........well this just fitted nicely. Not that I’m going to have much time to do the work now!”
I must admit that the whole process of loading vehicles onto the trains seemed very slick to me. I suppose this wasn’t surprising considering that, in Guernsey, embarking and disembarking ferry traffic crosses each other due to a bit of a blunder with the design of the harbour roads!
The carriages were brightly lit and had tall, narrow windows. We were told to park our bikes at an angle facing the left side of the carriage. “Make sure you put them on their side stands - no centre stands,” we were told. We looked at each other. “Dunno about that,” said a guy next to me who, like me, had just put his machine on the centre stand. I was a bit unsure too. The panniers each side of the bike were almost empty but there was that pressure cleaner in the top box and to be honest, all I could imagine was my bike toppling several thousand pounds worth of other bikes in a huge and expensive game of dominoes. I glanced over my shoulder at the woman who had shown us where to park. She glared back at me and I took the bike off its centre stand and put it on its side stand.
There were six other bikes and as I looked around, I realised that I was the only one without a pillion passenger.
“Any chance you could just stand next to my bike while I get a few bits out of the top box?” I asked the guy next to me. “No problem - don’t reckon this side stand idea is too clever myself, I got a shed load of weight in there.” He turned to his passenger. “Look after Scooter for a minute will you love?” His wife/girlfriend, (well you can’t tell when they’ve got gloves on eh) moved around to the left hand side of their bike.
“Thanks mate, I won’t be a minute or two,” I said.
“What you got in there then - is that what I think it is?” He peered over the lid of the top box as I took out a second fleece in preparation for the next leg of the journey.
“Er... yep that’s a pressure cleaner. Long story - bit complicated to be honest.”
He looked at my bike. “You don’t keep it that clean,” he grinned.
“Well no actually I’m hoping to do a bit of work on my sister’s property - painting and stuff. She hasn’t got a pressure cleaner and........well this just fitted nicely. Not that I’m going to have much time to do the work now!”
Aboard the train
(These are not our bikes but just a random picture from the net)
Awkward Questions
“Where’s your sister live?”
“Brittany - south Brittany.”
“So where you stoppin’ tonight?”
“Er..........Brittany, her house - where she lives.” I felt it demanded a bit more explanation but where to start?
My new found friend and bike steadier looked at me intently. “No I mean tonight, you know, after the tunnel.”
“Well that’s what I mean, I’m off to Brittany tonight.” I noticed a couple of others in the carriage looking at me.
“Tonight? That's gonna take you - well all night - you can’t do that!”
“Well I guess I’m committed now eh, what with me being here and my sister’s place being there.”
I briefly explained to him and most of the carriage who were now listening, that my original intentions had been thwarted and this was a last minute change of plan. Indeed, without the actions of the French fishing fleet, I would have been at 'La Pierre Longue' with a glass of red wine in my hand rather than about to cross under the Channel.
“You can get a room in our hotel - can’t he Mick,” said a woman two bikes down. Her partner looked over at me. “Yeah that’s right mate, we only booked yesterday and they still had plenty rooms. Bound to be one available.”
One by one there seemed to be a consensus of opinion that I was to get off the train in France and immediately find one of several hotels which were sure to have rooms available. What was the point of riding all that way in the dark when I would see so much more if I waited until tomorrow? What if I broke down? What if I got cold? What if I lost my way? What if I ran out of fuel?
I pondered these things one by one. Yes it would be dark - I thought I would cope with that. If I broke down I was pretty snookered, dark or not. I had no breakdown insurance but I did have my socket set..... for nuts and things. I wondered whether I would be warm enough as I didn’t have my winter liner for my jacket. It was true, I could lose my way as the only map I had was a few photocopies of the route from St. Malo to my sister’s place. My route strategy for northern France was pretty much exit the tunnel and turn right! The only thing I felt confident about was not running out of fuel. I had filled up just before the tunnel and the GS has a good range and there were bound to be 24 hour service stations en route weren’t there?
“Listen guys I appreciate your comments but I really want to get to my sister’s place as soon as possible. I’ll drink loads of coffee and take plenty breaks - I’ll be fine.”
I think they could see I was determined (slightly bonkers), so there was a general mumbling of “good luck” and we started to chat about other things.
None of us had realised but as we had been chatting, the train had started moving. One of the lads pointed towards the narrow windows where outside, we could see faint lights passing by at an ever increasing speed.I looked at my watch and saw that it was exactly 9:50pm - what precision!
Approximately forty minutes later, the train slowed and gently stopped. The whole journey had been smooth, quiet and uneventful. We all agreed that this was indeed the best way to cross the channel.
“Brittany - south Brittany.”
“So where you stoppin’ tonight?”
“Er..........Brittany, her house - where she lives.” I felt it demanded a bit more explanation but where to start?
My new found friend and bike steadier looked at me intently. “No I mean tonight, you know, after the tunnel.”
“Well that’s what I mean, I’m off to Brittany tonight.” I noticed a couple of others in the carriage looking at me.
“Tonight? That's gonna take you - well all night - you can’t do that!”
“Well I guess I’m committed now eh, what with me being here and my sister’s place being there.”
I briefly explained to him and most of the carriage who were now listening, that my original intentions had been thwarted and this was a last minute change of plan. Indeed, without the actions of the French fishing fleet, I would have been at 'La Pierre Longue' with a glass of red wine in my hand rather than about to cross under the Channel.
“You can get a room in our hotel - can’t he Mick,” said a woman two bikes down. Her partner looked over at me. “Yeah that’s right mate, we only booked yesterday and they still had plenty rooms. Bound to be one available.”
One by one there seemed to be a consensus of opinion that I was to get off the train in France and immediately find one of several hotels which were sure to have rooms available. What was the point of riding all that way in the dark when I would see so much more if I waited until tomorrow? What if I broke down? What if I got cold? What if I lost my way? What if I ran out of fuel?
I pondered these things one by one. Yes it would be dark - I thought I would cope with that. If I broke down I was pretty snookered, dark or not. I had no breakdown insurance but I did have my socket set..... for nuts and things. I wondered whether I would be warm enough as I didn’t have my winter liner for my jacket. It was true, I could lose my way as the only map I had was a few photocopies of the route from St. Malo to my sister’s place. My route strategy for northern France was pretty much exit the tunnel and turn right! The only thing I felt confident about was not running out of fuel. I had filled up just before the tunnel and the GS has a good range and there were bound to be 24 hour service stations en route weren’t there?
“Listen guys I appreciate your comments but I really want to get to my sister’s place as soon as possible. I’ll drink loads of coffee and take plenty breaks - I’ll be fine.”
I think they could see I was determined (slightly bonkers), so there was a general mumbling of “good luck” and we started to chat about other things.
None of us had realised but as we had been chatting, the train had started moving. One of the lads pointed towards the narrow windows where outside, we could see faint lights passing by at an ever increasing speed.I looked at my watch and saw that it was exactly 9:50pm - what precision!
Approximately forty minutes later, the train slowed and gently stopped. The whole journey had been smooth, quiet and uneventful. We all agreed that this was indeed the best way to cross the channel.
'Scooter'
I turned to the the guy who had helped me with my bike. “Just one question mate?”
“Yep, what's that?”
“Why do you call your bike Scooter, I mean it’s nothing like.......well you know?” I gestured over at his large Yamaha touring bike.
The big grin appeared again. “S’easy mate, I named it after my dog. Not the one I’ve got now, the one I had before. He died a while back.” He looked thoughtful for a second and then looked at me again. “Yeah we called him Scooter cos my missus was into scooters. Not the one I’ve got now. She can’t stand scooters but you can’t go changing a dog’s name can you?”
“I guess not.” (Yes I was confused too)
“So the bike’s called Scooter after a dog I no longer have, named by a missus I no longer have. I s’pose it sounds a bit barmy really.”
“No not at all - really. What’s your ….. er.... new ...er.”
“Alfie.”
“No I meant your ….er...girlfriend.”
“Yeah that’s right, Alfie. Met her eight months ago now. She loves big bikes so we get on well.”
We started to get back on our bikes ready to disembark so the conversation came to an end. Such a friendly and helpful guy and I’ll never know his name, the name of his second dog, or for that matter, his first missus. It occurred to me that during his relationships with two women and two dogs, the one constant thing had been his bike. Perhaps that’s what being a biker is all about!
“Yep, what's that?”
“Why do you call your bike Scooter, I mean it’s nothing like.......well you know?” I gestured over at his large Yamaha touring bike.
The big grin appeared again. “S’easy mate, I named it after my dog. Not the one I’ve got now, the one I had before. He died a while back.” He looked thoughtful for a second and then looked at me again. “Yeah we called him Scooter cos my missus was into scooters. Not the one I’ve got now. She can’t stand scooters but you can’t go changing a dog’s name can you?”
“I guess not.” (Yes I was confused too)
“So the bike’s called Scooter after a dog I no longer have, named by a missus I no longer have. I s’pose it sounds a bit barmy really.”
“No not at all - really. What’s your ….. er.... new ...er.”
“Alfie.”
“No I meant your ….er...girlfriend.”
“Yeah that’s right, Alfie. Met her eight months ago now. She loves big bikes so we get on well.”
We started to get back on our bikes ready to disembark so the conversation came to an end. Such a friendly and helpful guy and I’ll never know his name, the name of his second dog, or for that matter, his first missus. It occurred to me that during his relationships with two women and two dogs, the one constant thing had been his bike. Perhaps that’s what being a biker is all about!
Vive La France !
Now I like to think that I have a reasonable sense of direction. I imagined that when I got off the train, the carriage would be pointing, well - south. Having since consulted Mr Google’s map, I can see that this is far from true. The tracks emerge from the tunnel and turn left, then left again - and then a bit more. Also it was dark. Enough of the excuses, suffice to say that I was well and truly disorientated.
Mr. Google's map
Click the picture for Google satellite view
We rode off the carriage and along the various service roads which led us away from the tunnel. The other bikers were staying in Calais and we went our separate ways. All I knew was that I needed to be on the A16. I approached a roundabout convinced that I needed to turn right in order to go west. I ought to mention at this stage that all of the grass verges were being used as parking for what seemed like hundreds of trucks. Most were closed up with curtains drawn around the cabs although here and there, drivers were chatting next to their vehicles.
This of course meant that any useful road signs (and let’s face it most of them are pretty useful when you’re in a foreign country), were obscured by hundreds of tons of commercial vehicles. How far did I go in the wrong direction? Well I reckon it was about 20km. There was no sudden realisation, just a growing feeling of unease. What finally convinced me of my error was a sign which clearly stated that ‘Bruxelles’ was 185km away in this direction!
Most people seem reluctant to go to Belgium at the best of times, let alone when they're heading for Brittany!
This of course meant that any useful road signs (and let’s face it most of them are pretty useful when you’re in a foreign country), were obscured by hundreds of tons of commercial vehicles. How far did I go in the wrong direction? Well I reckon it was about 20km. There was no sudden realisation, just a growing feeling of unease. What finally convinced me of my error was a sign which clearly stated that ‘Bruxelles’ was 185km away in this direction!
Most people seem reluctant to go to Belgium at the best of times, let alone when they're heading for Brittany!
Oops - wrong way !
Click the picture for Google street view
Let's not go to Belgium tonight.......
I had to ride for another couple of minutes in the wrong direction before I was able to access the westbound carriageway. This done, I then had the frustration of putting another 20km under my belt without actually making any actual progress.
I have to confess to feeling just a little concerned for the first time. If I could make such a fundamental mistake then what hope did I have of getting to Brittany?
Although I had a full tank of fuel, I decided that I would stop at the first service station I came to and buy some sort of map
The right direction
I passed south of Calais once again and saw signs over the motorway for Boulogne and Rouen. This was what I wanted - confirmation that I was at last on the right track. I knew that Rouen was many miles away down near Le Havre so now I could relax a bit and put some distance between me and the Channel Tunnel.
Within ten minutes however, a Total service station appeared out of the gloom. I felt a little frustrated that I had only travelled a short distance and yet here I was, considering stopping only a few miles away from Calais. The thought of finding a handy sort of map persuaded me that it was a good idea though and I parked up in the deserted car park and went in.
Within ten minutes however, a Total service station appeared out of the gloom. I felt a little frustrated that I had only travelled a short distance and yet here I was, considering stopping only a few miles away from Calais. The thought of finding a handy sort of map persuaded me that it was a good idea though and I parked up in the deserted car park and went in.
Total service station near Calais
Click the picture for Google street view
A Map
I appeared to be the only customer. This wasn't a massive service station. To the right there was an area with shelves of various essentials and I instantly spotted a few maps for sale in one corner.
"Bonsoir."
A girl appeared behind a counter and looked up as she spoke. Now to be fair, I was the only customer in the shop and I guess she didn't greet every customer when the place was busy but I do like this French tradition which can usually be found in small corner shops.
"Bonsoir," I replied. Looking at my watch I saw that it was now gone midnight and I still hadn't really travelled that far. I went over to the map section and immediately found what I was looking for. A small spiral bound map for two euros ninety five - perfect.
"Bonsoir."
A girl appeared behind a counter and looked up as she spoke. Now to be fair, I was the only customer in the shop and I guess she didn't greet every customer when the place was busy but I do like this French tradition which can usually be found in small corner shops.
"Bonsoir," I replied. Looking at my watch I saw that it was now gone midnight and I still hadn't really travelled that far. I went over to the map section and immediately found what I was looking for. A small spiral bound map for two euros ninety five - perfect.
A bit of food, a bit of conversation..............
I suddenly realised that I could do with something to eat and drink too. I picked up a large ham, egg and salad baguette and looked around for a drink. I'm not really a fan of these caffeine drinks but seeing a can of Red Bull I thought that if there was ever a time I needed wings, it was now! Satisfied that I didn't need anything else I walked over to pay.
I ought to say at this stage that I have a strange relationship with the French language. Up until I was seven, my parents ran a hotel which was owned by a monastic order, the Brothers St Jean-Baptiste de la Salle. I regularly heard French being spoken and on occasions had to come out with the odd 'bonjour' or 'merci.' In addition to this, my father spoke French and Guernsey Patois before he learnt English so many of his conversations with friends and relatives weren't in English!
All this resulted in me having a reasonable ear for the accent and sounds of French, if not for the actual useful bits, verbs and grammar. Of course I'd like to say that once at school, I was easily able to master fluent French but unfortunately I paid scant attention to Miss Baker and learnt next to nothing!
Don't get me wrong, I can now order food, drink and a room for the night etc, without too much of a problem. It's when the natives try to hold a full conversation with me that I find the actions of talking AND thinking about the next sentence before I say it is just too much like multitasking.
I put the items on the counter. "Cette s'il vous plaît," I mumbled.
"Oui Monsieur." She scanned the items and then told me, in French of course, how much it was. A torrent of numbers hit my ears and I simply smiled and handed over my credit card with only a vague idea of how much it was. Good job she was honest.
"You are English?"
Now this was a tricky one. First of all, I had only spoken four or five words and she had me down as a foreigner - dammit! Also being a stubborn Guernseyman with family roots in France several generations ago, I am no more English than I am Ethiopian!
"No - er - Non. J'habite Guernesey." Thought I'd make the effort with some French but I was anticipating her reply.
"Guernesey? No - sorry, I do not know it."
Using a mixture of French, English and waving my arms a bit, I tried to explain exactly where Guernsey was. I even mentioned that Victor Hugo had lived there for a while.
"Monsieur, peut-être - perhaps this ?"
She tapped the cover of my newly purchased map. I hadn't thought of that!
I pointed out the tiny triangle on page four that was Guernsey and she seemed genuinely impressed. She asked where I was going and using the map and a paper serviette to represent England, I explained my route to her.
I sat down and tucked into the baguette which was just what I needed. Not being too keen on sweet, fizzy drinks, I wasn't that impressed with the Red Bull but regarded it as a sort of medicine to keep me awake over the next few hours. The girl behind the counter busied herself cleaning the coffee machine.
I poured over the map. As I thought, Boulogne was the next place to head for followed by Abbeville. I estimated that Abbeville was about ninety kilometres away. It was then that I looked back at the inside front page of the map and discovered that getting to Abbeville was just a fraction of my journey. Time to make a move!
I stood up and picked up my helmet and gloves. The girl looked over. "Bonsoir," I called out waving at her with my gloves.
"Bonsoir - et bonne chance!
I ought to say at this stage that I have a strange relationship with the French language. Up until I was seven, my parents ran a hotel which was owned by a monastic order, the Brothers St Jean-Baptiste de la Salle. I regularly heard French being spoken and on occasions had to come out with the odd 'bonjour' or 'merci.' In addition to this, my father spoke French and Guernsey Patois before he learnt English so many of his conversations with friends and relatives weren't in English!
All this resulted in me having a reasonable ear for the accent and sounds of French, if not for the actual useful bits, verbs and grammar. Of course I'd like to say that once at school, I was easily able to master fluent French but unfortunately I paid scant attention to Miss Baker and learnt next to nothing!
Don't get me wrong, I can now order food, drink and a room for the night etc, without too much of a problem. It's when the natives try to hold a full conversation with me that I find the actions of talking AND thinking about the next sentence before I say it is just too much like multitasking.
I put the items on the counter. "Cette s'il vous plaît," I mumbled.
"Oui Monsieur." She scanned the items and then told me, in French of course, how much it was. A torrent of numbers hit my ears and I simply smiled and handed over my credit card with only a vague idea of how much it was. Good job she was honest.
"You are English?"
Now this was a tricky one. First of all, I had only spoken four or five words and she had me down as a foreigner - dammit! Also being a stubborn Guernseyman with family roots in France several generations ago, I am no more English than I am Ethiopian!
"No - er - Non. J'habite Guernesey." Thought I'd make the effort with some French but I was anticipating her reply.
"Guernesey? No - sorry, I do not know it."
Using a mixture of French, English and waving my arms a bit, I tried to explain exactly where Guernsey was. I even mentioned that Victor Hugo had lived there for a while.
"Monsieur, peut-être - perhaps this ?"
She tapped the cover of my newly purchased map. I hadn't thought of that!
I pointed out the tiny triangle on page four that was Guernsey and she seemed genuinely impressed. She asked where I was going and using the map and a paper serviette to represent England, I explained my route to her.
I sat down and tucked into the baguette which was just what I needed. Not being too keen on sweet, fizzy drinks, I wasn't that impressed with the Red Bull but regarded it as a sort of medicine to keep me awake over the next few hours. The girl behind the counter busied herself cleaning the coffee machine.
I poured over the map. As I thought, Boulogne was the next place to head for followed by Abbeville. I estimated that Abbeville was about ninety kilometres away. It was then that I looked back at the inside front page of the map and discovered that getting to Abbeville was just a fraction of my journey. Time to make a move!
I stood up and picked up my helmet and gloves. The girl looked over. "Bonsoir," I called out waving at her with my gloves.
"Bonsoir - et bonne chance!
My new map
The next leg
So that was it. Back on the bike and on towards Abbeville.
The bike had plenty fuel and so did I. There was now no need to stop at all until I (a) felt tired, (b) felt hungry again or (c) needed the loo. Bearing all this in mind, I should have felt relaxed and ready to make good progress. In fact the opposite was true.
For some reason I had it in my mind that surely, things couldn't be running this smoothly could they? I had only covered a couple of miles when I had this nagging feeling that I had left my phone at the service station. I tried to dismiss the idea but the more I did that, the more I was convinced that, yes, I had left my phone sitting there for some French truck driver to pick up. It was no good, I had to stop.
Of course I found the phone and, just to be sure, established the whereabouts of my wallet and passport too. While I was stopped on the hard shoulder, I had a go at doing up the very top popper of my bike jacket which, so far, had evaded me. This done, I checked I could still breathe and set off once again.
I settled down a bit and found that my best speed was about seventy five miles an hour. Any more and the wind noise got a bit deafening. Any less seemed pointless - I was on a motorway after all! I have since spoken to other bikers who have commented, "what, all that way with no ear plugs?" Ah well, the benefit of hindsight.
I had been riding for about an hour when that nagging feeling returned. I thought about things. The bike was running well. I didn't feel tired - at all! I was happily coping with the little amount of traffic on the road at one o'clock in the morning. It was a routine of overtaking trucks and being overtaken by cars mainly. As cars had approached me, I was able to see the outline of my top box in my mirrors so I knew that the lid was firmly closed. What about my panniers?
This irrational idea that my panniers had either opened or fallen off suddenly filled my mind. I had a vision of bits of black plastic strewn across the carriageway and my favourite trainers forlornly staring up from under the Armco barrier. These were sudden fleeting thoughts taking up mere seconds so I did the obvious thing and put a hand back to see if I could feel them.
Now I suppose a bit of physics comes in here. I was doing seventy five miles an hour. The wind was buffeting over my screen and creating the sound of a small hurricane in my crash helmet. Therefore it should have been blindingly obvious that raising my hand from behind the handlebar shield would create what I now regard as 'a bit of a wobble.'
I was on the middle of the inside lane and had veered towards the hard shoulder. Bolstered by a small amount of skill and a large amount of self preservation, I managed to control things.
If ever I needed proof that riding around Guernsey all day long at thirty five miles an hour was dangerous, here it was! I had never had a chance to get used to motorway speeds.
With a renewed determination to concentrate more and not do anything silly, I carried on without incident for another twenty minutes until I reached a Shell service station near Abbeville.
The bike had plenty fuel and so did I. There was now no need to stop at all until I (a) felt tired, (b) felt hungry again or (c) needed the loo. Bearing all this in mind, I should have felt relaxed and ready to make good progress. In fact the opposite was true.
For some reason I had it in my mind that surely, things couldn't be running this smoothly could they? I had only covered a couple of miles when I had this nagging feeling that I had left my phone at the service station. I tried to dismiss the idea but the more I did that, the more I was convinced that, yes, I had left my phone sitting there for some French truck driver to pick up. It was no good, I had to stop.
Of course I found the phone and, just to be sure, established the whereabouts of my wallet and passport too. While I was stopped on the hard shoulder, I had a go at doing up the very top popper of my bike jacket which, so far, had evaded me. This done, I checked I could still breathe and set off once again.
I settled down a bit and found that my best speed was about seventy five miles an hour. Any more and the wind noise got a bit deafening. Any less seemed pointless - I was on a motorway after all! I have since spoken to other bikers who have commented, "what, all that way with no ear plugs?" Ah well, the benefit of hindsight.
I had been riding for about an hour when that nagging feeling returned. I thought about things. The bike was running well. I didn't feel tired - at all! I was happily coping with the little amount of traffic on the road at one o'clock in the morning. It was a routine of overtaking trucks and being overtaken by cars mainly. As cars had approached me, I was able to see the outline of my top box in my mirrors so I knew that the lid was firmly closed. What about my panniers?
This irrational idea that my panniers had either opened or fallen off suddenly filled my mind. I had a vision of bits of black plastic strewn across the carriageway and my favourite trainers forlornly staring up from under the Armco barrier. These were sudden fleeting thoughts taking up mere seconds so I did the obvious thing and put a hand back to see if I could feel them.
Now I suppose a bit of physics comes in here. I was doing seventy five miles an hour. The wind was buffeting over my screen and creating the sound of a small hurricane in my crash helmet. Therefore it should have been blindingly obvious that raising my hand from behind the handlebar shield would create what I now regard as 'a bit of a wobble.'
I was on the middle of the inside lane and had veered towards the hard shoulder. Bolstered by a small amount of skill and a large amount of self preservation, I managed to control things.
If ever I needed proof that riding around Guernsey all day long at thirty five miles an hour was dangerous, here it was! I had never had a chance to get used to motorway speeds.
With a renewed determination to concentrate more and not do anything silly, I carried on without incident for another twenty minutes until I reached a Shell service station near Abbeville.
Service station at Sailly-Flibeaucourt (1:30am)
Click on the picture for Google street view
Fuel stop
It was just before one thirty in the morning. This service station was much larger than the previous one but all I needed was fuel. I filled the tank which took just short of twenty Euros worth. I started to feel a bit more relaxed. Yes I had plenty more miles ahead of me but I felt fine and the bike seemed to be going well.
I looked at my map again. I knew that I needed to head towards Rouen which I estimated to be about another hour away at least. I checked the top box and panniers, double checked that I had my wallet and phone - yep, all systems go!
I got on the bike and rode off towards the exit. I was still on the edge of the car parking area when I realised that the cable and plug from my intercom system was loose on my shoulder and not tucked into my jacket collar as it had been previously. I pulled over at the edge of the car park and turned off the engine and lights
This cable had been a bit of a pain to be honest. It came out of the left side of my lid and was about seven or eight inches long. Of course at speed, it would get blown about, sometimes tapping on the side of my helmet. I undid the top popper of my jacket and tucked the cable in struggling to do it up again.
I was just about to start the bike when I had a really odd feeling that someone was behind me. I glanced around and saw no one. This corner of the car park was empty and I would have seen someone approach me surely. I told myself not to be so daft and went to start the engine again. I stopped. There it was again, not exactly a noise just a sense that someone was near - very near. Again I twisted around but saw no one.
There was a low hedge to my left and as I glanced past it in the semi darkness, I noticed for the first time, what I thought was a huge white chimney or ventilation duct. Of course a bike crash helmet restricts one's vision upwards a little so I lifted my head to see how tall it was. It was very very tall! I was looking up almost vertically when suddenly I saw (what I thought), was something being thrown down at me. Instinctively I flinched and with that, nearly toppled the bike over.
Having steadied the bike
I looked at my map again. I knew that I needed to head towards Rouen which I estimated to be about another hour away at least. I checked the top box and panniers, double checked that I had my wallet and phone - yep, all systems go!
I got on the bike and rode off towards the exit. I was still on the edge of the car parking area when I realised that the cable and plug from my intercom system was loose on my shoulder and not tucked into my jacket collar as it had been previously. I pulled over at the edge of the car park and turned off the engine and lights
This cable had been a bit of a pain to be honest. It came out of the left side of my lid and was about seven or eight inches long. Of course at speed, it would get blown about, sometimes tapping on the side of my helmet. I undid the top popper of my jacket and tucked the cable in struggling to do it up again.
I was just about to start the bike when I had a really odd feeling that someone was behind me. I glanced around and saw no one. This corner of the car park was empty and I would have seen someone approach me surely. I told myself not to be so daft and went to start the engine again. I stopped. There it was again, not exactly a noise just a sense that someone was near - very near. Again I twisted around but saw no one.
There was a low hedge to my left and as I glanced past it in the semi darkness, I noticed for the first time, what I thought was a huge white chimney or ventilation duct. Of course a bike crash helmet restricts one's vision upwards a little so I lifted my head to see how tall it was. It was very very tall! I was looking up almost vertically when suddenly I saw (what I thought), was something being thrown down at me. Instinctively I flinched and with that, nearly toppled the bike over.
Having steadied the bike
Esso service station in Alencon
Click the picture for Google street view
My sister's house and gite, (www.southbrittany.com)
Click the picture for Google street view
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