FRANCE BY MOTORCYCLE - Page 3

My first trip was planned with great care I knew where I wanted to go so took great pains to research each area I was to pass through spending hours pouring over maps.

The starting point was Cherbourg, down the Cherbourg peninsular to Granville and stay a couple of nights. Then across to Tours, on to Annecy, the St Bernard pass both the Grand and the Petite and through the Mont Blanc tunnel. That would take in France, Italy and Switzerland in one afternoon. Then into Provence to see the Canyon du Verdun (the French equivalent of the grand canyon in the States). On to the Ardeche Gorge and back through the Cevennes National Park. The journey would then take me up to Oradour sur Glane near to Limoges, (the village burnt to the ground by the Germans and left by the French as a monument) and finally back to Cherbourg.

Well that was the plan but things didnt quite work out that way.

The morning was dry and warm, it was going to be a good run to Portsmouth, which it was until I got a few miles from Winchester where a lorry driver decided to cut across the dual carriageway running me into the barrier along with a couple of cars. I wont dwell on the results but I never have been endowed with a great deal of common sense so after the dust had settled and statements taken, refusing an offer of a lift to hospital, I gave the bike a check over refitted the exhaust and set off for the ferry at a rather subdued rate of knots. By now my shoulder was rather sore but made the ferry with just a couple of minutes to spare.

With five hours on the boat I thought it would give my shoulder time to ease, but I was wrong. It got worse, and by the time I got to Cherbourg it was really stiff and I could only just about get the bike off its stand. Riding very carefully now I made my first stop at a campsite I knew well, just outside Granville.

The next day my arm was completely immobile and a Dutch couple on a Z1000 insisted I go to hospital where a painful but not serious injury was diagnosed. The doctor suggesting I refrain from riding the bike for the rest of my time in France.

After 4 days of rest and lying on the beach I was getting bored and my shoulder was much easier. So I loaded up the bike and set off, what did I say about common sense, once on the bike I hardly felt the injury the bike was a little battered but having checked it thoroughly it appeared to be OK.

I was beginning to enjoy myself it was warm the roads were superb the bike was going well despite its injuries. I then came over the crest of a slight rise to see a gendarme with his arm indicating I should stop, on the spot fine I thought for speeding as there were other motorists there looking very crest fallen. He gave the bike a cursory glance, looking at the number plate inquired if I was English. I reply that I was and he reminded me to keep my headlight on all the time and sent me on my way, luck was at last on my side.

The journey through France was very pleasant other bikers waved, car drivers moved over it was so different from the UK.

The Alps loomed ahead, stopping at a small campsite just outside Annecy with a most impressive view, again I was befriended by a Dutch couple, the Dutch are without doubt the most friendly of people, over many beers that evening it emerged that he also had a bike and had years before toured the UK and was amazed at the intolerance of the British towards bikes. The next morning I said my goodbyes and set off.

The circuit through the Alps was absolutely fantastic, negotiating the St Bernard pass, stopping overnight at a small but disappointing campsite just inside Switzerland. The next day passing through the Mont Blanc tunnel into Italy where bad luck struck once again, leaving the bike parked while I went into a shop for a can of coke my tank bag went missing. The Italian police were not interested but the border guard explained that petty theft was rife and I may find my bag in the ditch not too far away from where it was stolen. I did find it missing only some cash, lesson learned the hard way, its difficult not to leave the bike unattended when travelling alone.

Back into France and now into Provence, Nice is something else, Harleys and Goldwings, bimbos riding pillion in shorts and t shirts no one wearing crash helmets it was difficult to concentrate, stopping at a small campsite in the hills with a superb restaurant I was treated like royalty for four days, even free drinks at the bar.

The Verdun Gorge was simply stunning but time was now pressing on as I said my goodbyes to Jacqueline and Bernard the owners of the campsite and headed North.

The village of St Martin D'ardeche is reached by crossing a very narrow bridge and is at the entrance to the Ardeche Gorge. The road twists and turns along the edge of the gorge passing through tunnels, again the scenery is breathtaking and there is plenty of run off on the bends for those that get it wrong, unfortunately its all vertical. The Pont D'arc is a natural arch over the river as with most natural attractions it tends to be very crowded at peak times. I headed up the N106, which is a real scratchers road, I counted 86 bends before I gave up.

Heading up to Limoges I past just south of Brive-la-Gaillarde and came across a plain with a number of perfectly formed small volcano's (all extinct of course).

The village of Oradour-sur-Glane lies just a few kilometres from Limoges and is now a national monument, walking through the streets with burnt out houses all around its difficult to understand the full horrors of that day in June 1944 when over 600 people were killed, mainly women and children, I have been back a number of times since and it still has that eerie silence that I experienced the first time.

A few years later on a visit with my son we met a chap who had been touring on a bike and was travelling back from Spain, he mentioned that when he got back his wife would kill him. On inquiring why, he replied he should have been back two weeks ago, he was definitely a braver man than I

Now it was back to Cherbourg, behind time I travelled late into the evening stopping at small roadside cafes, I was greeted with the usual friendliness I had experienced everywhere. If the café was quite the patron would sit and talk with genuine enthusiasm about bikes and ask where I had been. Arriving at the port of Cherbourg my trip was over I had trashed the bike in England, been into a French hospital, robbed in Italy but treated by the French and Dutch with such friendliness and courtesy it had been a superb seventeen days, as I settled down on the ferry I was already making plans for the next trip.