You know the kind of day that kicks off as classic damp, cold, and grey. Of course you do, because that’s just the standard weather in Britain, and we all love to make a big show of complaining about it. Endlessly. We’re such experts at grumbling that it’s practically a form of greeting for us – we’ll even start whining to total strangers who are also stuck in a soggy-necked limbo until the sun decides to show up on a random Wednesday in May.
Such gloomy, drizzly days tend to inspire feelings of melancholy, boredom, and an insatiable craving for chocolate in even the most resilient of British hearts, prompting us to embark on a quest for sun-drenched and wine-soaked solace in the likes of Benidorm, Torremolinos, or Magaluf. In days of yore, the British would set sail for distant lands, promptly annex them, and then succumb to sunburn, scurvy, and syphilis on mosquito-infested Caribbean islands long before resorts like Sandals transformed them into luxury destinations – albeit now with the added bonus of a gin and tonic at sunset.
On just such a miserable wet day, I found myself standing in my garage with a cup of hot tea in hand, staring wistfully out of the open door as the cold rain drops kept falling nearly upon my head. I stood next to my Triumph Bonneville and my Indian Scout, both now as silent as an England football crowd after yet another loss at a penalty shoot out. I was reminded of Hamlet’s thoughts on just how depressing life can be:
“I have of late—but wherefore I know not–lost all my mirth, forgone all
custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition
that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging
firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears
no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours”.
I stared up at the sky and saw exactly what he meant…a ‘foul and pestilent congregation of vapours’ indeed.
And yet only a few months before, two weeks of glorious sunshine allowed three old gits on motorcycles to tour the sunny hills and valleys of central and western Wales. Adrian, Steve and I were somehow blessed in not having to ride through gales and heavy showers as we left West Cornwall bound for Brecon, Abergavenny and Aberystwyth. Wales is not known for sunshine but we struck gold and I guess this experience set the tone for more two wheeled adventures as the clock ticks down.
God is a cantankerous, capricious bastard. The Reaper can be sent at any moment to do his bidding; which is to sever one’s neck with a quick flick of the scythe wielding wrist. Riding a motorcycle is a two fingered signal to God that we just don’t give a toss for his plans for our petty miserable lives. Cut us down if you will, you desert dwelling commandment giving, self congratulatory, narcissistic sociopath, but not before we ride like bats out of hell into the sunshine.
In France!
That’s the answer. We must go to France.
I’m currently pondering the fact that after defying the odds and basking in the Welsh sunshine, our grand plans for France might hit a few road bumps. The only uncontrollable elements? Early morning grumpiness, touchy stomachs, and Atlantic weather fronts that, even in June, have a knack for crashing our party.
And so, with hearts full of hope, Adrian, Steve, David and I are taking four motorcycles down to south east France. We are joined by Trevor, a Camborne boy, over from Australia. Trevor is hiring a small white Berlingo van as he doesn’t have a motorcycle license. He doesn’t have a British driving licence either, being an Australian resident. But he is the de facto support vehicle, able to pop into the ‘boulangeries, fromageries and charcuteries’ to keep our baguettes, cheese and meaty victualling supplies nice and fresh. Trevor might even get the beers ready for when we arrive on our bikes at the end of each riding day.
Or he might get lost in the French countryside, out of signal, tired and lonely with only a poorly scaled map and regret for company. But we have plans, we have destination locations printed off just in case of technological failures. I know that we can’t rely on simple things such as road signs in the deepest of rural France to help us. We will have to rely on wit, ingenuity and the friendliness of the locals after we leave Nantes. I have Michelin maps that do have the correct scale, but I also note that even these do not show the ‘chemins’ that lead us to our accommodation in both Peyrilhac (day 2) or Marmanhac (day three and our base).
Think of standing in a country lane, as the sun begins its descent and the early gold and orange glow becomes alive, listening to the birds singing (larks, blackbirds, swallows) and the slight rustling of wind in the leaves in the trees as all around is fields and woodland. Perhaps a tractor is working five miles away. French Country folk are popping corks safe in their country kitchens, looking forward to a decent meal of coq au vin and fresh baguette to mop up the sweetly reduced jus infused with garlic and chicken stock. While we hope we can find the house set back off the road, hidden by a hedge, with no signal and only a poorly written address that makes as much sense as a pissed up Parisian on Bastille Day. Someone will have to phone the host and embarrassingly ask in bastardised French, for directions for the final 500 metres.
Or not.
And so the plan is to leave Cornwall on Friday evening and get on board the late night ferry from Plymouth to Roscoff in Brittany. The ship departs at about 2200 hours and arrives in Roscoff at about 0800. The first day’s destination is Nantes, about 190 miles away. If we can get on board early, the beer drinkers among us can get to the bar and start quaffing ale accompanied by loud ribaldry and bawdiness as we sit among the holiday making French and British families with their small children mewling and puking over their hand held screens they refuse to let go off and their parents daren’t take away.
I promise not to fart or snore in the four berth cabin we have booked for the crossing.
Looking After Your Ring. 