We awake in our four-man coffin, erm I mean cabin, and manfully try to ignore the noises emanating from our en-suite head (I believe that to be the nautical term anyway) as we take it in turn to perform our ablutions. Unfortunately, the noises produced by Stumpy cannot be ignored as it is clear he is chundering in a violent fashion - indeed, it becomes particularly clear when he generously shares the experience with us by leaving the bog door open allowing us to witness in intimate detail the hurl of diced carrot into the chod bin. Wild Man, Doc and I escape this hell, leaving Stumpy groaning on the floor, and partake of a full English/French breakfast. Very good it is too and exceptional value. This sets us up for a day of reading and snoozing but no drinking (other than a bottle of red between five of us at lunchtime). Lunch is to a similarly high standard and again represents very good value, no doubt a reflection of the Euro/Sterling exchange rates.
Despite departing Portsmouth six hours late we eventually dock at Santander only thirty minutes or so late and we then make the short journey to Santillana del Mar, marvelling at the brilliant traffic light system on entering villages whereby a flashing amber light warns you to slow to 50km/h and then 200 metres or so down the road a red traffic light remains red until you are almost upon it whereupon it changes, assuming you are now within the speed limit.
The hotel is easily found, it is a shame that the same cannot be said for the parking.... We park in a car park opposite the hotel and are confronted by a mad local woman spouting Spanish at us (barely surprising given that we are in Spain). We subsequently learn that we are not in the hotel car park but a private one where parking charges are levied by said mad woman. Wide-load Stumpy comes into land and takes out another vehicle with his big-booty panniers, this time an innocently parked Mondeo. The damage is only superficial but Stumpy provides his Acacia Gardens, Burnley address in case there is any comeback.
Our hotel is characterful, crammed with antiques and we receive a warm welcome from the staff and owners. Santillana is an attractive be-cobbled village out of season and we find a welcoming bar/restaurant. Despite being a touristy destination our waitress does not speak a word of English and we don't speak a word of Spanish. Using a dictionary we try to translate the menu but it is slow work and in the end we decide to order the first six starters and the first six mains. As it turns out, this generally proves to be a good move although Bernie is less than impressed with his pickled asparagus. Our choice of menu includes jugs of red wine and from memory pudding as well, all for a price of well below £20 per head (I can't remember the exact price).
Suitably sated we leave the restaurant and wander back to the hotel witnessing the church clock strike midnight twice. We briefly panic on arrival back at the hotel as all doors are locked and the place is in darkness but the night porter quickly comes to our rescue. Stumpy and I are rooming together and chat before retiring - unfortunately our chatting volume, which is not that inconsiderate, agitates the occupants of the neighbouring room who bang on the wall to make us shut up. Thus castigated, we go to sleep.
Sunday, 31 May 2015
It's been a long, lonely, lonely, lonely time..... Friday 15th May 2015
After years of silence the creative juices have been stimulated following an incident-packed trip to Spain and France. In fact the incidents started before we had even left home.... Without the official sanction of the Boys I have christened this "holiday" the M&SH Trash Trip to reflect the general levels of mayhem and chaos that we left in our wake (assuming one can leave a wake when one isn't even moving).
I commence our departure day working in a half-hearted fashion during the morning, the sense of calm before the storm gently interrupted by Doc texting to say that our 17.00 departure from Portsmouth has been delayed to 23.00, and then Koff emailing to say that he cannot get his bike started. Oblivious to Koff's predicament, Doc and I meet for lunch in Shaftesbury and I then go home and load the Caterham. Well, I say "load" but it's more of a case of stuffing as much as I can into all the available nooks and crannies. I speak to Koff who is still struggling with his bike and has got a friendly neighbour to transport it down to the all round super heroes at the Bike Clinic in Gillingham. To my mind, the UK motorcycle trade in general suffers from a lack of professionalism which makes the few honourable exceptions even more exceptional - outfits such as CW Motorcycles and the aforementioned Bike Clinic www.thebikeclinic.com. Indeed, Koff later confirms that Andy at the Bike Clinic did all he could to get Koff's bike going, swapping relays and trying to cannibalise his own Triumph.
Unfortunately this all proves to be to no avail but Koff doesn't escape the pleasures of our company that easily. Doc returns him to Motcombe whereupon we revise our luggage strategy. Koff squeezes into the Caterham replete with his helmet and luggage and we speed up Motcombe hollow to the rendezvous point at Ivy Cross. Koff is relieved of his luggage by the Boys and we then head off to Portsmouth.
We arrive at the ferry terminal minutes behind the others but are greeted with a scene of the aftermath of chaos - Bernie is helmet-less pushing his bike past the check in. We then learn that wide-load Stumpy had brushed past a stationary Doc who had then been pushed on to the stationary Bernie resulting in Doc and Bernie tumbling sideways and effectively not falling over completely due to the fact that the check-in kiosk is adjacent to Bernie!
For some strange reason, Koff isn't permitted to accompany me in the car on to the ferry but must ride pillion on one of the bikes. After checking in I go to start the Caterham but it refuses to do so. My first thought is that this must be the infamous hot-starting problem and removing the bonnet and staring menacingly at the engine results in it starting again. Phew!
We assemble in the queue and I chat to a fellow Caterham owner, revealing my total lack of knowledge of the various types of Caterham, incorrectly referring to my R300 colour scheme when apparently it is an R500 scheme. Anyway, the car starts successfully and we process on to the boat, repair to the cabin where the biker boys are disrobing themselves of their kinky biker gear and then - guess what?! - we go to the bar! We don't partake of what we later discover to be very good catering on the ferry, but sink pints and various sandwiches before eventually retiring. Koff's luggage strategy involves bringing various items of clothing which are at the end of their mercifully short lives - T-shirts and underwear which he then intends to dispose of en route. His T-shirt of choice tonight already sports a large hole under the armpit so we generously assist it on its journey to the T-shirt afterlife by making the hole much larger, in fact so large that Koff can barely cover his man boobs as he staggers back to his cabin.
I commence our departure day working in a half-hearted fashion during the morning, the sense of calm before the storm gently interrupted by Doc texting to say that our 17.00 departure from Portsmouth has been delayed to 23.00, and then Koff emailing to say that he cannot get his bike started. Oblivious to Koff's predicament, Doc and I meet for lunch in Shaftesbury and I then go home and load the Caterham. Well, I say "load" but it's more of a case of stuffing as much as I can into all the available nooks and crannies. I speak to Koff who is still struggling with his bike and has got a friendly neighbour to transport it down to the all round super heroes at the Bike Clinic in Gillingham. To my mind, the UK motorcycle trade in general suffers from a lack of professionalism which makes the few honourable exceptions even more exceptional - outfits such as CW Motorcycles and the aforementioned Bike Clinic www.thebikeclinic.com. Indeed, Koff later confirms that Andy at the Bike Clinic did all he could to get Koff's bike going, swapping relays and trying to cannibalise his own Triumph.
Unfortunately this all proves to be to no avail but Koff doesn't escape the pleasures of our company that easily. Doc returns him to Motcombe whereupon we revise our luggage strategy. Koff squeezes into the Caterham replete with his helmet and luggage and we speed up Motcombe hollow to the rendezvous point at Ivy Cross. Koff is relieved of his luggage by the Boys and we then head off to Portsmouth.
We arrive at the ferry terminal minutes behind the others but are greeted with a scene of the aftermath of chaos - Bernie is helmet-less pushing his bike past the check in. We then learn that wide-load Stumpy had brushed past a stationary Doc who had then been pushed on to the stationary Bernie resulting in Doc and Bernie tumbling sideways and effectively not falling over completely due to the fact that the check-in kiosk is adjacent to Bernie!
For some strange reason, Koff isn't permitted to accompany me in the car on to the ferry but must ride pillion on one of the bikes. After checking in I go to start the Caterham but it refuses to do so. My first thought is that this must be the infamous hot-starting problem and removing the bonnet and staring menacingly at the engine results in it starting again. Phew!
We assemble in the queue and I chat to a fellow Caterham owner, revealing my total lack of knowledge of the various types of Caterham, incorrectly referring to my R300 colour scheme when apparently it is an R500 scheme. Anyway, the car starts successfully and we process on to the boat, repair to the cabin where the biker boys are disrobing themselves of their kinky biker gear and then - guess what?! - we go to the bar! We don't partake of what we later discover to be very good catering on the ferry, but sink pints and various sandwiches before eventually retiring. Koff's luggage strategy involves bringing various items of clothing which are at the end of their mercifully short lives - T-shirts and underwear which he then intends to dispose of en route. His T-shirt of choice tonight already sports a large hole under the armpit so we generously assist it on its journey to the T-shirt afterlife by making the hole much larger, in fact so large that Koff can barely cover his man boobs as he staggers back to his cabin.
Thursday, 13 January 2011
Encore Encore................
Five Ride again (sounds like an Enid Blyton best seller)
The curtain fell and the crowds went home but, quietly in a pub somewhere near you the plotting is underway, monies are being paid into the the Thrift Club Fund, there still might be no agreement on a destination, not even a continent at this stage, but we are definitely going somewhere, you just can't get rid of the two wheeled wanderlust. Back to the good old USofA is a strong possibility, although there are murmurings of a Kiwi tour. There has to be a "MASH II" if only to alleviate the boredom of those who have to live with the continuing tales of the Cali' Dreamin' trip and give us something else to reminisce about.
The curtain fell and the crowds went home but, quietly in a pub somewhere near you the plotting is underway, monies are being paid into the the Thrift Club Fund, there still might be no agreement on a destination, not even a continent at this stage, but we are definitely going somewhere, you just can't get rid of the two wheeled wanderlust. Back to the good old USofA is a strong possibility, although there are murmurings of a Kiwi tour. There has to be a "MASH II" if only to alleviate the boredom of those who have to live with the continuing tales of the Cali' Dreamin' trip and give us something else to reminisce about.
If we take too long about it we'll be researching the rental of mobility scooters!
Saturday, 3 January 2009
The Final Curtain...
Thursday 29th May
Before hitting the highway we assemble by the bikes and take various group and individual photos, knowing that this is the last day with our trusty steeds. We breakfast at Mendocino and then follow the winding road south, stopping for various photo opportunities of the dramatic coastline.
By early afternoon we are in the environs of the Golden Gate Bridge with route 1 rejoining 101. We stop at a viewing point overlooking the bridge and take the inevitable photos. None of us can believe the view nor that we have got this far and seen so much. With a palpable sense of loss, but also fear at the thought of riding through San Francisco, we ride over the bridge with yours truly, the designated city navigator, riding at point. We get to the toll booth and I ask for four motorcycles - the man in the booth correctly points out that there are in fact only three bikes as Wild Man is taking his time riding over the bridge, discreetly taking some hand-held video. We then proceed into San Francisco, following the 101 signs which literally take us to the door of our hotel - it really couldn't have been simpler!
Having checked-in and dumped the luggage, we brace ourselves for the final challenge of riding across central San Francisco to return the bikes. Yet again, I am charged with this pleasure, and after memorising the route as far as possible we dive into the downtown traffic. Fortunately, the grid system simplifies matters and we get to the vicinity of Eagle Rider. At one point I try to turn down a one-way street only to see, before doing so, four lanes of traffic all facing me. We negotiate the one-way blocks around Eagle Rider and ride into the workshop. We have done it! No accidents, not even any bike-dropping, we cannot believe our luck!
The remaining few days are spent visiting Alcatraz and the wine country, shopping, taking in the sights of the city, dining and meeting up with Austin to thank him for his assistance at the start of the trip.
A cliche I know, but this truly has been a trip of a lifetime - amazing sights, brilliant riding, good food, friendly locals and most of all (apologies if this sounds cheesy) the company of some fine friends. The highlights are very difficult to identify but the most pleasant surprise for me was the post-Vegas part of the trip where the majority of the sights had already been done and I was just immersed in the true pleasure of riding a motorcycle down an open road with my mates. Life doesn't get much better than that.
Flipp'
Southward with Heavy Hearts
Wednesday 28th May
All good things must come to an end, and there is a decided sense today that our trip is drawing to a close. We breakfast in the main square, with Wild Man in all kinds of trouble, sweating profusely as he endeavours to expel the toxins resulting from last night's excesses. We head south, grateful that we didn't stop at Eureka instead of Arcata, on the face of it Eureka being a workaday industrial town. Where possible, we follow the old part of Highway 101 rather than the new dual carriageway and stop for lunch in a hamlet which features a "house in a tree", the trunk having been hollowed-out to form a room.
Doc is keen to ride a part of the coast not touched by Highways 101 or 1 and so we split, resolving to meet up at Mendocino, south of Fort Bragg. Taking Highway 1, the three of us head west towards the coast, 101 having taken us inland somewhat. This proves to be another challenging section, climbing up into wooded hills with testing switchbacks. For some reason, I just can't get the "flow" right today and eventually find the testing nature of the route to be tiresome. Having reached the coast, the road then hugs it southwards, taking us through Fort Bragg to Mendocino where we halt. Mendocino is a clearly affluent, comfortable community with almost a New England flavour, and would have been a pleasant place to stop for the night but there is no room at the inn. Ater consulting the local tourist agency, who cannot be helpful enough, we turn around and ride back to Fort Bragg where we find a motel on the main road. Now, we anticipate Doc to be a few hours behind us and obviously bound for Mendocino; we therefore resolve to take turns to stand on the roadside in the hope that we can flag him down. Wild Man takes the first shift and within half an hour has successfully corralled Doc, whose trip off the main drag was reasonably if not wildly enjoyable.
Early evening we walk into Fort Bragg to find an internet in order to book some hotel accommodation in San Francisco. The only internet we can find is in the local library but all the computers are occupied. Walking back towards the motel, we stop at another motel who allow us to use their PC to book a fellow motel in their chain. Job done, beers ensue with a vast meal in a chain restaurant, which again subscribes to the quantity over quality philosophy.
A Lass for Orick...
Tuesday 27th May
Staying in Arcata for two nights, we head northwards up the coast on Tuesday taking in the majestic redwoods and also manage to spot some elk. Inevitably, we find a drive-through redwood and all ride through it with Wild Man thoughtfully filming us. Without the camera switched on, I execute faultlessly a reasonably tight turn on exiting the tree; needless to say, with the camera switched-on, my low speed riding goes to pieces and I end up paddling the blasted thing with my feet!
We go up the coast as far as Klamath, a small village where the Klamath River of yesterday joins the Pacific. Lunch is enjoyed in a diner - the Palm Cafe - in Orick where I get on like a house on fire with the waitress, and have to be dragged away kicking and screaming when it is time to leave. We stop at Trinidad on the way back, a small coastal town which is just how you imagine a small coastal town on the Pacific coast of north California to be. The headlands are wreathed in mist, the pines come down to the shore and the air is decidedly fresh.
Returning to Arcata, we once again grapple with the numerous four-way stops which populate the town. Doc and I go for a late afternoon coffee before meeting up with Wild Man and subsequently Denzil in a bar. Many beers later we take a table at a seemingly swanky restaurant but sadly its image is unfounded. Wild Man and I both plump for elk steak, and the waiter duly takes our order. Some minutes later, he returns to advise that there isn't enough elk to go around so I valiantly change my order to sea bass. On serving the main course, it transpires that the waiter took down the order incorrectly, thinking that three of us were originally wanting elk, and so Doc's order has not appeared. Oh dear.... The accompanying vegetables don't prove to be a salvation either, with a first course of artichokes proving to be inedible. All in all a bit of a disappointment. Needless to say, we get trashed.....
Clamour in the Klamath Valley
Monday 26th May
No breakfast being on offer at the Heartbreak Hotel which is the Best Western on the outskirts of Klamath Falls, we get directions to head westwards out of town and soon leave Klamath behind and climb up into the Cascades through wooded country. We are soon up above the cloud line and this proves challenging as the cloud becomes dense fog, meaning that the steep descent on the western side is taken with care. This is just the start of yet another brilliant biking day.
We eventually reach a breakfast stop adjacent to the north-south I5 and another fine repast ensues with welcoming, attentive service adding to the experience. We then proceed southwards down the I5 for thirty miles or so before turning off and heading west again through the Klamath Mountains following the course of the Klamath river. Our destination for today is Arcata, a small university town on the Pacific coast. The Klamath valley proves to be yet another revelation, almost akin to a 140 mile long version of the Wye Valley, with long sweeping, fast bends with the road regularly crossing the river by means of well-engineered bridges. There is next to no traffic and so we duly enjoy ourselves, going at our own individually comfortable paces and halting at intervals to regroup. At one point, Doc and I are bringing up the rear and Doc edges out as if to spur me on to overtake the others. I do so and the next ten minutes or so witnesses some of my most enjoyable biking, albeit in what I will admit is a very short biking career. Our pants are on fire as Doc and I blat down the valley revelling in the bends and the glorious scenery. On stopping, Doc queries what I was listening to on the iPod to make me ride so fast and I have to shamefully admit to "Especially for You" by Kylie and Jason.....
Mid-afternoon and we pause at a characterful cafe which is adorned on the inside with legion frying-pans, each of which has been individually dedicated by people or clubs. I indulge in a memorable root-beer, ice cream soda. Days with your mates truly do not get any better than this.
The afternoon is rounded-off by us riding over the Coastal Range and into Arcata, whose main square is like something from a movie set and is populated by various gentlemen of the road, all of whom seem to be fairly well lubricated for the time of day. We subsequently learn that this region does have a bit of a reputation for cultivating a certain stimulating weed. A fine 1930s style hotel is on the square and Doc and Denz work their usual magic, negotiating some discount as a certain Professor Webb from the British University of Open is a member of the party..... The hotel has an authentic charm, with the decoration and fittings seemingly little changed from its time of construction, with our bathroom having a standalone bath with an all-encompassing shower curtain.
We repair to a local bar and indulge in the wide selection of beers from the local micro-breweries, reflecting on yet another fine day's motorcycling.
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