A day en Provence. Rode from Villefranch sur Saone to Cavaillon. Simply put, just north of Lyon to near-ish the Med just south of Avignon. It was a stinker, then great then we had to resort to an Autoroute. Lyon confirmed everything that I hate about riding through a city. It was rammed with traffic, queues, filtering, trucks galore, and loonies whipping in and out of lanes like demented Mayflies with an anal fixation. Why do they drive so close? This is not the place to be checking out my exhaust emission or the bike’s. Get me out of here, in one piece please. I rode to survive. As soon as we could we slipped off the Autoroute that slices through Lyon. I thought a trip along the banks of the Rhône would be delightful. How wrong could I be. The Autoroute had been put in probably 50 years ago and all the money had bypassed the area with it. Mile after mile, or Km after Km of filthy dirty old decrepit terraces of houses and factories and not a cafe in sight. In fact there was one, it was boarded up. “That just about sums it up” I yelled at Dulcinea. On previous days I’d admired the charm of run down houses and buildings that abound in France. They have a beauty that only time can create. Not this area. It needed a serious visit from The Luftwaffe and starting again. Then unbelievably ‘A sign, a sign!’ It said Crozes-Hermitage 1km. Faaaantastic. A great world famous wine and I didn’t realise I was going that close to it’s origin. I hadn’t planned this part of the trip as I thought it would be a no brainier. How wrong could I be. Immediate left and into Crozes-Hermitage. I could have a coffee and Dulci could have a glass of the local finest. Oh the disappointment. A run down little village with no cafe, no centre, no celebration of its fame and two roads out the other sides. Admittedly signposting wine routes, hopefully they were good but they were tiny tracks. I turned round and went back the way I came. Long straight roads with truck loads of trucks. Eventually we came across Tain-l’Hermitage straddling the banks of the Rhone. There was an Oasis, a cafe. The owner knew it too and there were prices to match. €14 for an okay-ish salmon salad. Double it for two add two coffee’s and it’s a chunk of money for a snack but what do you do? It was nice to sit there. I edited the TomTom taking us away from the river. Total transformation. Great scenery, great dusty old houses, great roads and a truly beautiful place to stop called Grignan. Coffee, photos, a stroll, gifts for the people we were visiting, the joy of Provence. Back on the bike with plenty of time, but no. The very next village had a total roadup and there was no way through. No warning, except for the demented waving French guy heading in the opposite direction. Along with a few other vehicles we explored the village and surrounding gravel tracks, farm tracks, field edges, dead ends and TomTom total mistakes. Multistrada’s do go off road. Eventually we found some diversion signs and our way out the other side of the village. How come a village that size can swallow 1/2 hour plus? But it had. Now I understand the demented French guy. We had to reprogram and resort to a 40km dash down the Peage. It was worth every cent but boring. We got there, late.
The Wrong Trousers. A classic French tree lined road. I couldn’t find a decent gas station en route and had to resort to a supermarche unmanned station. Rental cars I’ll put supermarche gas in, Ducati’s normalment non. The Multi felt a bit lumpy at low revs the day before so I treated it to 98 Octane to make up for it. The tank bag is perfect except for a sticking zip. Perfect to get the essentials in, glasses, sun glasses, passports, tickets, wallet, cash, credit cards, keys etc. and no more. All the kind of insignificant stuff Bazzer loves to leave 90 miles behind. After a while the sticking zip and getting the key out for the gas cap does drive you crackers. Little repeated inconveniences needle you on a tour. We moved away from the pumps and were sorting things out when this guy comes out of nowhere and says in French, “Are you the person with the trousers”? I blinked, random? Could this have sexual undertones? Heehaw heehaw heehaw. “No, its the wrong trousers”, was my instinctive French reply. Of course it went straight over his head but we fell about laughing. I was standing there in a stupid waterproof black and dayglo yellow pair, by this time I was damn near pissing myself inside of them. Not so fetching but today they were the right trousers, he’d got the wrong trousers. Thanks very much, I’ve got a great title for today’s post. A gift out of nowhere. I didn’t see it coming and I didn’t see him go. At first it was dry rain. The little drops that hit you then dry in the wind because there aren’t many of them. Later there were a lot more. On our way to Sete to visit the George’s Brassen museum, Dulcinea loves his stuff. 38 minutes away we had to take refuge in what I can only describe as Fawlty Towers. A decaying little hotel in the port near Montpellier. Light switches held on with Gaffa tape. Sun blinds in shreds. Literally a port in a storm. Still, the main Monsieur came up with two tasty steak frites as we sat out the monsoon. Dulci had amused me by deciding without any proof whatsoever that her new waterproof jacket was not going to be waterproof at all and therefore required my waterproof overjacket. She had Goretex leggings. Hence I was wearing my rain trousers but not the jacket. I said nothing. A dry pillion is a happy pillion. Later I found out she’d presumed my leather jacket was waterproof. We all know the result. It was an option. Ducbird would like it but non, merci.
The weather and events have made the decision for us. I could see it coming. We’ve turned right and we’re off to meet South African friends who are visiting in Portugal, why not? Croatia is rained off, we’ll have to try it via the Alps later in the year if we’re lucky. Mean time we’ve been to Carcassonne. There was a gap in the rain/snow for a few hours on Sunday so we got up early and went for it. Rather than do the motorway via Perpignan we went over the top of the Pyrenees. It was slow 2nd gear stuff, really tight all the way up on the French side. By the time we reached Formiguères near the border it was 1 degree C. We stopped in a bar to thaw out, put thicker socks on and bought dried champignons from the enthusiastic Monsieur Mushroom who ran the bar. Thank god for heated grips. There was fresh snow below us at one stage but as soon as we were over the border the sun came out, the temperature rose and the price’s dropped. We gassed up. Now in Sitges south of Barcelona. Rewarded with this view this morning.
Thanks Paul, glad you like it. I got a close up of it too. I love the signs painted on the side of buildings in France, they look great. Wish I’d seen more and taken more pics of them. We turned round and went back for that one. Worth it. When it’s that cold it’s a faff getting gloves off to take pics then back on again and arranging all the layers. Only afterwards do you think it’s worth it.
Talking of gloves, when we got south of Lyon the reasonably priced winter gloves from Lidl came off and the Ducati summer shorty ones went on, I was beginning to sweat. The summer gloves felt great. Much more in touch with the bike. When the rain came in, in the Camargue the winter gloves went back on but the heated grips have been fantastic. Never had them before, not on sports bikes. I think the heated grips have made a huge difference on this trip. Must have had them on at some level for 80% of the time. The bike has been fantastic. Effortless riding, modes, cruise control. I’m even enjoying the sound of the standard can. Sounds great. All told it’s doing exactly what it says on the plastic. Multi...everything. Going up some of the slow, tight, nadgery stuff to the French Spanish border I played around with the modes more. Even put it on Enduro for some of the roughest sections. Mostly been in touring though but it slightly wallows. Sport is nicely firm but too firm once the surface gets a bit lumpy. Real easy to change the modes on the fly though. On a 40-50 mile stretch of road heading to the border, two cars and one small van went past the other way. Fantastic. The panniers took a kicking at first but we’re mastering getting on and off the thing. It’s a big bike but even though Dulcinea del Toboso and I both have long legs it’s still a mission to mount it. How shorter people manage I’ve no idea. I’ve taken to parking it next to kerbs or dropping it into Urban mode, you can actually feel the suspension lower itself down, making it that much easier to get on and off.
A horse with no name. I’ve been living like a Gypsy for about eleven years now, work and pleasure. This last stint doing up my own house is the longest I’ve been there since about 2007/8. Today it was good to be back on the road again. Why, I don’t know but it did feel good to be on the road. Did 350km, which was a lot. It sounds a lot but 217 miles doesn’t sound much at all to me. By 5 to 5.30 I was properly done in though. All sorts of terrain, including one section of brand new road. New enough for it to confuse the TomTom. I was lamenting that we weren’t on the old windy road, it looked fun. Then there was another section which was Enduro rough, massive pot holes. I got distracted by the poppies lining the roadside and clouted a real big one. I was preying I hadn’t buckled a wheel and Dulcinea really took a whack to her hip from the impact. Stop, inspect, stretch then photos, all good. Onwards. We took a day off the bike yesterday and I caught up with an old work friend who now lives and works in Barcelona. The latter part of Sunday was nicely wasted with a really long lunch, which wasn’t wasted at all but I was. Proper lunch and the best anchovies I think I’ve ever had. It was with a heavy heart that we chose to head south west. North to the N260 which runs along the south side of the Pyrenees would have been far more interesting. We had to make headway towards Portugal though. El Pont de Suert, Pamplona, Soria, Segovia, Guadalupe and the N502 to Cordoba seemed much more fun but the days and weather just weren’t going to work. This area just isn’t that interesting and I fear tomorrow won’t be much better, we’ll see. The weather was changeable and we got soaked again. The bike’s filthy and it was downright cold this evening. Teruel is a high altitude village/town renowned for its harsh climate and Serrano ham. South west took us past Tarragona and Salou where we’d camped over 30 years ago on our honeymoon. Yup honeymoon in a tent, it was all we could afford at the time. Can you imagine anyone doing that now? Having said that, Sitges was as camp as a row of tents. You were nobody if you didn’t have turned up denim shorts and a handbag dog. It was good to be back on the road again.
