This should really start back in December/January 2000/2001 while
ski-ing in the Pyrenees. The views were fantastic and we decided that we
really had to come back and see it in the summer.
So the decision was made to do it as this years holiday, that was the easy part, next we had to decide on how many bikes to do it ! After some discussion (and disagreement )it was decided to just use the one bike , on the grounds of economy. Next , which bike!
The XJR1300SP was ruled out because Jean wasn't happy with the idea of riding it fully laden and 2 up over the mountains. And by the same token I didn't fancy the GSX750 due to its lack of size. That left the XJ900F , 9 year old fast approaching 50,000 miles.
The XJ may be old, but it was the most sensible choice, a shaft drive for low maintenance , half faired for speed cruising, excellent tank range of ~200 miles before reserve and a full fairing kit. So the planning began, books and maps of Spain, talking to people about good areas to go, ignoring heat warnings. This was intended to be camping holiday but because we intended to pack a lot of miles at the beginning and end of the trip we would be utilising Campanile Hotels as well.
Unfortunately as time got near it cost a small fortune to get ready (approx. £500). This comprised of a new exhaust system, new tyres and a full service. The final piece to be replaced was the battery which failed 2 days before leaving. After much searching, Jean managed to find some lightweight summer leathers in 'real' women's sizes, courtesy of the very helpful staff in Vixen Motorcycles, Ormskirk.
First surprise of the day was that the M6 roadworks had been removed, these were between J18 & J17 with the new fangled speed adverting camera system (SPECS). This had been causing 5 mile tailbacks. We sailed down towards Birmingham steeling ourselves for some long distance filtering ,it had been decided that I should do this stint as I am more comfortable with it than Jean is (note from Jean: the steering was a 'bit' light with 2 panniers, a top box, tent etc. and Bruce's svelte physique on the back).
Second surprise of the day, no hold ups in Birmingham, we carried on at a steady 80-90mph. The rest of the journey down to Poole (via M40/A34) was punctuated with cloud and light showers, not enough to merit waterproofs for 99% of it.
The Newbury bypass cut a swathe through the forest, with lots of new trees planted to disguise the damage caused, and you can see why the protests were staged back in '90s. Further on and much nearer Poole we went through the New Forest and could see ponies/horses roaming wild. It was around here where we first encountered heavy traffic and had to start filtering, also a taste of heavy rain ! If it is possible, try and imagine a wall or curtain of water , no drizzle before it, just a sudden wall. I suppose it must be what walking through a waterfall is like, dry to wet in a flash. Our leathers can cope with around 20 minutes of rain, normal rain anyway, 30 seconds in I had a wet bum. We were not to bothered as we could always dry out on the ferry.
The ferry was one of the new fast Hydrofoils and we were taking the Poole/Jersey/St Malo crossing. The sun was out again, with a bracing wind cut across the decks as the ferry cruised out past tempting beaches and a headland with white chalk needle type rock formation.
After 4 ½ hours we were in France and the real holiday could start, it was of course raining as we made our way to the Campanile, which after a long day is a very welcome sight with its food , hot water and warm bed. But not before we saw the aftermath of a nasty crash at Dinan that looked as if there was at least one dead.
At one fuel stop we met a Spanish man who had seven motorbikes , we chatted about where we were going and he commented on our wearing leathers in he heat of Spain. There was just no telling us, no matter how many people did, we knew best and would be cool enough.
The weather was improving as we went south, although a few clouds threatened rain it was getting warmer and dryer. Its always a nice sight as fields of sunflowers appear around Nantes. What isn't a nice sight is the traffic we encountered! As the A83 joined the A10 the traffic slowed and ground to a halt. It was of course the 1st day of the French holiday period and all the Parisians were heading west . Jean let me ride this section as the Parisians drive like the British and hog the road which calls for some high speed filtering. The heavy traffic continued until Bordeaux when we headed off down the N113.
The road to Pau cuts through the edge of the Girond Forest so I let Jean take over again (after she had sampled some wild blackberries). If you happen to travel to Pau , this is the route to use ( D932 ). It is a marvellous tree lined road , you can smell the pines, and has very light traffic. Through the trees could be seen houses , big ornate houses with lots of land, or occasionally a small one with a bit of working land to contrast with the money. We passed a sign for a fete of Madiran ( a wine I am fond off) but Jean would not let me stop.
At Pau we once again holed up in a Campanile, and as it was a warm evening we sat on the balcony and drank a bottle of wine before and after dinner while planning our route over the Pyrenees the next day , and our first glimpse of Spain.
Back on the road again and into the mountains, some great twisty stuff (A134) as we headed up increasingly steep and hairpin bendy roads to the Col de Somport and into Spain (for the 1st time). I wonder if anyone nearby could see/hear 2 mad English bikers singing "Viva Espana" and bouncing up and down on the bike? Almost Immediately we noticed the difference in scenery from the lush green of the French side , to the dry barrenness of the Spanish side. Strangely the road appeared of a better quality , as if the Spanish treated it as more of a major route.
We road down towards Jaca and felt the heat rise noticeably as we approached . As we rode across the plain, we could not help but feel we were in a spaghetti western We stopped for a drink and the stillness was amazing, no wind, no traffic noise. Just heat and cricket noises.
Our intended finish for the day was Bareges back on the French side, so we headed back into the mountains towards Col Du Pourletet. On the way we passed a dammed and flooded valley with a spooky half submerged abandoned village. The water had to be the deepest aquamarine I have ever seen, presumable due to some substance in the rock. A lot more bikes were using this road, none appeared to be English. We stopped for petrol on the way up and as I paid the attendant , calculating the cost per litre , I realised why we had not seen any petrol stations between Oleron and the border. It is only 55p/litre in Spain ! Even cheaper than France, so I assume a lot of French drive over to fill up.
We stopped at the top and were treated to another sound of stillness, this time punctuated by cowbells, it really made you feel a long way from home. We headed off back down and picked up the D918. On the map this section was a couple of little squiggles, I really should learn to carry more larger scale maps. This road twisted, turned and rose. Getting past cars was a necessity as they tended to panic half way round hairpin bends and braked suddenly! Apparently there were many sheer drops on the bends (no barriers), according to Jean (note from Jean - this was the most twisty road I have ever been on). I just spent my time concentrating on the road/bend/cars/cows that seemed intent on getting me. We went up into a cloud and out the other side back into sunlight. Finally at the top the road dropped down again, I got a view of where the road would be in a few miles and then straight back into more bends.
Eventually we got to Gavarnie, as Jean wanted to see the big waterfall in the cirque. On the way up we got stuck behind a car dithering over a bridge with people crossing, Jean thinks my comments were a touch undiplomatic "Bugger off, you could get a tank through that.... and you should know that because you're German !" shouted at the top of my voice. By now I was shattered and we decided to camp there and go to Bareges and the Col Du Tormulet the following day.
After a loverly supper of Tartifillete, eaten at a restaurant overlooking the waterfall, we retired for the night. As we settled down Jean asked me what I thought of the days ride . "Hill,bend,bend,hill,bend,pretty view,bend,hill,bend ......."
It was interesting to ride up and over the Col du Tormulet seeing the places we had ski-ed down only 8 months earlier now green and lush. In some places the road was the piste that we had skied down. As we came down into La Mongie on the other side of the col we entered a cloud which seemed to go on forever, covering the road down with thick freezing fog.
While riding the day before we encountered a lot of cyclists, but nothing like as many as this morning. The just kept appearing, personally I think they are mad, even the ride down cannot be worth that much pain. It is interesting to note that despite the French drivers being more alert to the presence of motorcycles than our English counterparts, they give even more space to cyclists. Unfortunately this usually meant that they came on our side of the road, on bends ! So an extra obstacle to watch out for.
Next up was the Col De Aspin, according to Jean this was equally precipitous and hairpinny with smashing views , but as usual all I was looking at was bend,hill, bend etc. My main memory was being caught and taken by an XJR1200 (unladen!) and resisting the urge to follow.
Back en route to Spain, down into Saint Lary Soulan and towards the Tunnel de Bielsa. On the way up Jean commented "Not as steep and twisty on this pass is it", hah! The tunnel was like the previous road into Spain, a massive contrast. The French end was pitch black with a rough wet road surface, the Spanish side was well lit smooth and dry. Then back into bright (and it was bright) sunlight,t. The ride down the valley was memorable for two things, our first attempt at ordering bar food in Spanish which resulted in being ushered into the full bifta silver service resturant (at 13:00) , so we upped and left. Secondly the wall of heat we ran into, the temperature had risen gradually but then leaped dramatically to an uncomfortable level.
We stopped at the next town and bought the stock items of bread, butter and cheese from a Spar, and had a roadside picnic under the one tree / shady spot for miles. After consulting the Rough Guide, we decided to head for Llieda as there was a campsite there. Pity we didn't ring to check it was still open , as we passed quite a few sites on the way down the valley. The temperature got hotter and hotter. At Llieda all that was left was the swimming pool. After a heated debate we realised we did not want to try and find a hostel in this town which seemed to have nothing and opted for the beaches of the Mediterranean instead. After a hot ride over some more mountains (and a nifty bit of ambulance chasing) we arrived at Tarragon. What a fantastic site the campsite was, it was about 50 yards from the beach and we just didn't care that the ground was hard (2 lilos solved that) and that we had the main Spanish train line between us and the beach (ear plugs solved that).
Tent up, beach, swim, blow up lilos (thank you for foot pump nice French couple) ,shop for local vino, eat in campsite resturant (£12 for 2 courses and wine) then sleep.
We reflected on our images and impressions of Spain so far .
We went to visit Salador Dali's house, situated in a small fishing village, but it has become quite touristy. We could not visits the house because it was fully booked until teatime Thursday so we decided not to bother. In the evening we walked into Cadaques which is very picturesque, with a nice beach area and promenade that attracts everyone for eating and drinking. I was feeling adventurous and ordered a Plato Combino which turned out to be bacon egg and chips.
Back at the site that evening I was amazed at how laid back the place was , I can only describe it as one of those places where people just go, because it is there. It was if people were just waiting for something to happen. The air was full of pot being blown around on the warm breeze and the sound of guitars being strummed. We went to sleep being crooned by a Spanish/French guitarist.
In hindsight we should have booked in to see Dali's house and stayed another night, I suspect we will be back here another time.
The coast road into France seemed a good idea ( I really must get a larger scale map). 2 hours to do 30 miles. I really was starting to get twistied out. Lots of red roofed villages in coves along the way, very picture postcard.
Across the border again and skirted round Perpignon, then headed up towards Andorra. Probably the best road yet, some sweeping corners for the more relaxing approach, I was able to "flick" the XJ900 around. Scenery was lush and cooler , views over a valley as we neared Font Romeau were breathtaking. We stopped for lunch at the mandatory French lay-by buttie wagon. This was necessary for me as I had just had my first real bottom clincher, right hander that got tighter while the bike was already cranked over . I had to let it drift to the limit of the road before hitting the throttle and going for it.
We never made Andorra, as we came out of the tunnel under the Col De Puymorets all we could see was a traffic jam, so we headed on down. Down into a cloud. One day I will stop being stubborn and put the waterproofs on. It was fine in the cloud, but as soon as we came out it was rain. Mix this with my scenic route to Carcassonne meant we were a bit damp as we got to the campsite.
We last stayed here in 1996 and it is an excellent spot for access to the medieval city. We had happy memories of the large field and swimming pool. Now unfortunately despite it being only 17:30 it was full (well they said it was full but we could see loads of space) and they sent us to another site about 5 miles out of town. We took one look at it and turned away. We returned to Carcassonne and tried to find a hotel, no joy . So disheartened and dishevelled we gave up and booked into a Campanile in Toulouse.
A short ride later (at Jeans full throttle mode) we were warm and dry again. While enjoying another fine Campanile meal our daughter texted us to say the bathroom ceiling was leaking back home, did she really think we would care ?
It was here I attempted to rewrite a well now phrase.
This has to be the best route into Spain, the road goes from Pau via St Pierre de Pied and onto Pamplona. On the French side the twists are not as tight as some we have come across, nor does it go as high. As we passed through villages on both sides the Basque influence could be seen. Here the Spanish side was green for once as we came down and the we were not hit by the same wall of heat.
When we got to Pamplona it was gone 14:00 and everywhere was empty and shut. We had a look around the streets for a hostel but I wasn't happy to leave the bike here overnight so we headed off to find a campsite.
The road out of Pamplona took us up into the mountains a bit and we could see how the city was in a bowl, a very large bowl. I hope we can get the film out of the camera which broke later on. While searching for the campsite we passed a pilgrim hotel , so on the off chance we stopped, and bagged the last room for £35. When I say room I use the term loosely, it was massive more like a bedsit. A double bed, a settee and 2 armchairs. In the loft with skylights for the night sky.
Later we went back into Pamplona for the evening, after walking around and seeing the Bull Ring and streets where they run it started to fill up after 19:00 as bands took to the street. We were amused by Spanish Morris Dancers and a record shop called Liverpool. Good atmosphere, maybe we should have stayed in town.
Planning our route was getting difficult as campsites were not in abundance away from the coast. We considered going to Portugal, but it would involve a long tonk back next week for the Ferry , so we decided to stop around this part of Spain and head for San Sebastian.
The castle was quite impressive with turrets and gardens, but the hanging gardens where in the parador so we never got to see them. After a late breakfast , at midday, we headed north again back down the "yellow" road.
After the road crossed the main pilgrim route by Estella it started to get green, in fact very green, and for the first time in days my visor collected a healthy amount of insects. The road went back up into mountains and through a tunnel which came out on yet another magnificent view of the gorge/valley down. We stopped and watched some eagles hovering about 30-40 feet above us. A sight worth the journey this far, I really must get that film out of the camera. The road down was spoiled by a very poor surface, sweepy bends were interrupted by cracks and lumps in the road.
About 40 miles from San Sebastian we approached the motorway for the last leg, just as we got on the slip road the traffic was stopped by a police man. As we sat there trying to find out what was going on there was a massive squeal of brakes as a car missed us by about ½ an inch. Eventually a bunch of cyclists appeared and we were allowed to move off behind a pace car . Me being me I manouvered the XJ900 to the front. We continued for the next 20-30 miles at around 40-50 miles an hour as the cycle race went on and off the motorway . At times they were parallel and doing 50 miles an hour.
When we got into San Sebastian we were hopelessly lost trying to find the campsite, Rough Guide do not take motorcycles into account when the give directions. Just as we were on the verge of the usual end of day heated argument, I tapped a scooter rider on the shoulder and asked in my best Spanish for the camping. How jammy can I get, he only worked there and showed us the way. I will tell you jammy I can get, the site was full but he "had a word" and got us on the over spill area.
We pootled into San Sebastian for the evening and something to eat (bargain meal £4 each ) including a bottle of wine which Jean drank because I was riding the bike. San Sebastian is trying to be a Barcelona with its street life and artists. Close but not quite a Ramblas. Having bought some wine we headed back to the site before midnight, I had fun following the scooters through the heavy traffic.
Back at the site we got talking to a very "hippie" couple, they had cycled from Devon , through Western France and had been on the road for 6 weeks. Glen played the Mandolin he even demonstrated reggae on it, while Sarah was his head screwed on "muse". There was also a bunch of Italian anarchists here , I find the thought of anarchist paying for a holiday a touch strange. It is amazing how time flies when people are telling their tales of camping under the stars
before we knew it was 02:30 , no wine left so time to crash out.
The beach is quite possibly the best ever, it is situated in a sheltered bay with an island in the middle. The water is crystal clear and above all clean. Between the beach and the island are platforms with diving boards and slides, some people were swimming all the way out to the island but I decided against it in case my leg played up. One problem with beach days is what to do with valuables, so we normally swim alone.
We spent the day slobbing out, swimming and walking down the beach. Late on in the afternoon we saw smoke on the hill and heard sirens wailing, it looked like a bad house fire and seemed to be in the direction of our campsite. After we had got back to the bike and leathered up we forgot all about it until about a mile from the campsite the road was blocked by police turning traffic round, I managed to get him to understand we wanted to go to the campsite and he said we could walk. By the time we had repacked the leathers in the panniers the road was open again, so we decided to ride "native" (shorts and t-shirts). As we got within 500 yards of the site we found the fire, a bus was burned out. According to the camp rumour mill ETA had stopped it at gunpoint , cleared everyone off and then burnt it out.
Somehow our plant to get the bus into town this evening for the start of the fiesta didn't seem such a good idea , and by the amount of people on site we were not alone. We cooked tea on site while Glen played his mandolin into the evening, we went to a local bar and watched the fiesta activities on the TV, fireworks seemed OK.
Biarritz , what we saw of it, was busy and crowded. Not our sort of town, so we headed off up the coast towards Lelandes to see if we could find a ½ decent campsite. This was not a good day, more heavy traffic and crowds. Jean made the decision to head for Arcachon, or more exactly the Dune du Pyla. A quick blat up the N10 towards Bordeaux, not the most interesting of roads but functional, and then west to the Atlantic. We found the usual traffic jam but knew this would clear by Pyla so carried on. Anyone who has ever been this way will have experienced this jam, it is one for motorcycles. At the 1st campsite we were unable to get in, but were given a decent slot at the next one, shady and near the shower block, overshadowed by the Dune. This Dune is BIG, the biggest in Europe xxkm long and xx metre high.
We hit the pool for a cool down , then a play on the Dune, bugger we forgot how much energy was needed to climb it.
Had a good evening watching the sunset over the Atlantic from the top of the Dune while drinking wine, then chatted to some Germans and French camped near us. The German lads spoke excellent English and French so conversation easy if a little confusing at times as it switched between 3 languages.
We slobbed around reading until finally deciding to rent some push bikes for the day, unfortunately they were all out. The only real option left for some exercise was to walk, so we decided to walk along the Dune and into Arcachon. Walking over the Dune is very tiring so we were glad when we came across a beach bar for refreshments. The road from there to Arcachon just seemed to go one for ever, eventually after over an hour and getting bored we decided to head back and try to catch a bus as my leg was playing up.
The buses didn't get any prizes for punctuality ! Thankfully we didn't wait at the bus stop for it as it was over 30 mins late. Unfortunately when it did turn up Jean was off trying to work out where the next stop was when I found it and got the bus. There was only one thing for it, get the bike and head back looking for her.
I decided to go native and not use any leathers, I haven't really done this for over 10 years. It was so comfy, just bimbling along feeling the warm air. I found Jean and we rode into Arcachon to change some Pesetas into Francs.
Back at the site I decided to cook a "plato combino", Merguez sausages, onions, tomatoes, mushrooms in a wine sauce, loverly.
We finished the evening off watching the sunset from the Dune again, so relaxing, with a bottle wine. Afterwards we "swam" down the Dune and then I went for a head over heels "rolly poly". Later that night a Brazilian style drum band rounded up the site and gave a performance at the bar.
Good road, the N13, from the A84 through St Lo and onto Cherbourg, especially after the 15 mile traffic jam we had just filtered through. After 8 ½ hours on the road once again a Campanile was a great sight. After unpacking we took trip into Cherbourg to fill up, suss out the port and have a gander. Usual French town stuff, flowerbeds , restaurants, pretty buildings.
That evening we new the holiday was over, the menus were in English ! Lots of people speaking English around us as well.
I like these Seacats, fast crossings, unfortunately Jean doesn't as they move about much more than the conventional ones and she spent the trip over the back rail. The ferry managed an emergency stop as we entered Poole because a sail boat exercised it "right" by crossing the bow.
We had thought about staying away another day by visiting people down south, but we were both in going home mode and headed off down the A350. Oh look , speed cameras ! After 1 ½ hours we still hadn't got to the M4 so stopped at a buttie wagon and chatted to some locals, the wagon owner was happy to tell us all about being done for selling contraband tobacco.
Had a "near miss" shortly afterwards as a car pulled out on me, the driver didn't see or hear me (despite the horn) until I was along side his window giving him some verbals.
On the M4 Jean took over and we did the Severn bridge loop, getting in the bridge I would not let her do last year because we were on a no motorway tour. On the M5 I was surprised to see a car pass us with the registration S2 0OPY, surprised because I had seen this car just after we got off the ferry and headed up the A350. Bear in mind this was after we had ½ hour stop and done the Severn bridge detour. Mental note, never do the A350 in car.
As we got near Birmingham I took over for the filtering at the M5/M6 junction (13 miles) and then a 90 plus blast up the M6. With 20 miles to go we switched one last time and Jean brought us home.