Five Go Frolicking…

Imagine getting hold of some old scrap tin which once was in a former life painted green but now has the patina of age. Dented, some of the bare metal showing through, just enough rust for character but not enough to condemn it. Add two small wheels and an engine with just enough power in it to carry an average human being at the speed of a light breeze and you might want to call it a scooter. Well, that’s exactly what rolled off the ferry next to us at Roscoff early in the bright sunshine.  It had a companion, similarly aged and battered but its hint of old paint was red. You  might think that touring on such vehicles would be a challenge akin to discovering the jungles of the Congo in the 19th century, armed only with faith, hope and peanut butter.  If you add panniers and a 5 litre jerry can which was strapped to the frame with a bungee, and which looked like it had been stolen from a Sherman tank rusting on a beach in Normandy, then you might think it impossible. But there they were. Ready to go. The couple riding them indeed were brave or merely insane. Where they were headed for was anyone’s guess, but I would not put it past them to be headed down south to the Côte D’Azure in the far south of France. It might take them weeks but they had the look about them that said time was a commodity they had plenty of, and no strict itinerary. They would ride gently down in the sunshine living on apples, andouillettes and love. 

We saw them next at a cafe in Ste Pol de Leon about 3 miles away. I do hope they got farther. 

Next to our three Indian Scouts and a BMW R1200 they looked seriously underpowered and over aged, a fact that cannot be denied. But here’s the thing. There are no rules for motorcycle touring. Some might say you need a huge BMW GS adventure bike tooled out with gadgetry and technology the likes of which NASA would be envious of. But in truth, if it moves, it can be toured. The defining elements would be the time you have and the goals you set. Other than that…open empty French roads are ready for anyone. Our mission for the next few days will be to travel down to a small place hear the town of Aurillac, over three days. Stop one would be an Ibis hotel in Nantes, day two would Peyrillac. Both days would be about 190 miles. 

Rolling down the ramp onto the jetty and at Roscoff is always thrilling, and enjoyable in the warmer early morning summer sunshine. Of course the queues for passport control are annoying but there is no getting away from them. It took about 35 minutes of waiting but finally we four bikers, and Trevor in the Van, set of for the first stop of the day 3 miles down the road at Ste Pol de Leon and our second coffee. 

Ste Pol is a delightful town with an imposing spiked church spire which can be seen for miles around in the skyline. Upon arrival we parked in the square, for free, and ordered our cafe au laits. Ahead of us was a good days riding of about 197 miles to Nantes. The trip would take us south east down through Brittany. 

One point about touring is knowing where you currently are, where you want to be, what places you would be passing through and should anyone from the party get lost, what plans are in place to find each other. We now have technology supported by GPS and apps which in theory should make it easy. However, as with all technology, the human to tech interface is crucial and only one side of that equation is logical. Having noted that there would be no wives around to make sure things went smoothly, and that all things had been considered, we would be relying on male bravado laced with what is known in our circle as ‘fuckwittery’, which is in abundance. Old fashioned paper maps are available and will if consulted get one out of a hole quite easily. We have all the relevant Michelin departement maps at our fingertips, from Bretagne to Cantal-Lozère. They need to be consulted and understood, which is the problem. One of the certainties in life is that route planning in the comfort of a hotel room over breakfast is easy and the way seems clear enough. Towns can be memorised as can road numbers. But such plans tend to disappear like a fart in rainstorm once the reality of the road arises and the decision has to be made about which of the un-named, unsignposted roads is the right road. Matters are made worse when the technology has not been updated to take into account new road works resulting in your position being marked as if in the middle of a field instead of the road you seek.

This is all grist to the mill of touring and makes for an enjoyable if uncertain journey. Perhaps a simple compass would help, but it really is scary to find oneself on a big motorcycle on a small road with a pitted, rutted and scarred surface rivalled only by the craters on the dark side of the moon. In general though, the roads are, as they have always been, just superb. Very little traffic which means concentration can be focused on good riding rather than being blocked by white van man or a tractor loaded with dung dripping onto the road in front of you. 

Lunch time found us at Pontivy, a gem of a town on the banks of a river. The bistro served excellent food within the earshot of swifts darting over the roofs. We were served ‘l’exterieur’ (outside) delightfully by ‘Trixie Belle’ as ‘Madame Fifi’ worked away in the kitchen and bar.

Mid afternoon, warm blue sky, saw us sitting by the side of the road in a very small village. The silence was tingling, a small boy cycled past and did a ‘bonjour’. Adrian crossed the road, sat down by an old blue village water pump and rolled a cigarette. 

We were all off the road and out of the way, when a car pulled up driven by two women of a certain age. The driver rolled down a window and said something to Steve, who smiled, but understood little. We both thought at first that perhaps we were blocking her entrance to a garage. I engaged her in ‘conversation’ but it was pretty one sided. Her smile and demeanour were not angry, and why would they be?  However it seemed to be that she felt that 4 bikes parked just off the road side and out of the way of what little traffic exists, was an offence to God. In effect she said that ‘this is not a motorcycle course’ and then drove off. Before I could tell her to be on be her way with a two finger salute, they were gone. Very odd behaviour indeed . We were not even in Paris where this level of rudeness is expected. 

We arrived in Nantes to a very welcome beer in the sunshine at the excelllent and very reasonably priced Ibis hotel. Day one. Excellent riding. Navigation was a bit odd at times but nothing too stressful. The petrol pumps do have a habit of rejecting one’s card which in the absence of cash and anyone to pay it to, could cause a ripple of bum squeakiness but it appears to be a single pump and not a whole garage thing. One side of the pump would day ‘non’ but the other side would say ‘oui’. Is this a metaphor for something? A post Brexit grumpiness at the temerity of the English to engage in trade? 

Who knows.