Epilogue

Was it worth it? There is a simple answer to this………..YES! Oh, and don’t go touring around Europe in winter.

The end is nigh

I had a decent kip and had my breakfast. I didn’t know whether to make the trip home in one go or stop half way. I had done the same trip a couple of times before so I knew what to expect, coldness, tiredness, hunger. It was 800 miles from here to my front door, I had done it straight off before, 16 ½ hours driving and 1 ½ on the ferry from Dover to Calais, that’s errrrr, 18 hours. I set off and would decide what to do as I got up the motorway. As the time was around 9.30am when I set off, it would mean getting home around 3.30 in the morning, we’ll see kid.

The kilometre signs were counting down quite nicely. The tolls for using the autoroutes were counting up quite nicely as well. I knew there was a decent hotel just outside of Reims where I had stopped before. I decided that if I could see the hotel from the motorway I would break the journey into 2 parts and stay there for the night. Reims came………..and went. I couldn’t see the hotel from the motorway so I pressed on and on and on.

It was foggy, dark, cold and then turned to rain and high winds the closer I got to Calais. The wind was severe; it nearly had me off on a number of occasions. First you have to lean into it, and then when it stops blowing briefly you have to get it into the vertical position rather quick. I knew of a bloke who had come off his bike in just these conditions doing the same thing.

I reached Calais and looked for a hotel. There were plenty of hotels kicking about but I needed one with parking facilities because……….anyway, I was quoted €60 for one in particular. Although I was really cold and shivering a bit, I weighed up the odds. Do I pay €60 and get wet and cold tomorrow, or do I pay nothing and be wet and cold for a few more hours? I decided on the latter option.

The weather by now was really throwing it down. I stood at the side of my bike waiting to get on the ferry. I watched everyone in their nice warm cars looking at me and wondered if anyone of them had the nouse to offer me a seat. I had done this throughout my trip, analysed different cultures and peoples attitudes. I wasn’t surprised in the slightest that everyone just sat and watched, and probably laughed, at me getting wet, British culture? But then again, not everyone in the queue was British, there were all sorts of nationalities, so……western culture? Who knows kid? Anyway, this went on for quite a while until a fellah did ask me if I wanted to sit in his car until we boarded, ‘Cheers mate’.

We boarded the ferry. We didn’t know this as yet but they were experiencing difficulties loading and unloading the ferries in Dover as a consequence of the very rough seas and high winds. We docked about 1 ½ hours late, not later, late, but we were safe. Now let me tell you kid, them theer seas were reet rough.

Coming off the ferry I went through the ‘Nothing to declare’ channel, oops! I later found out I should have gone through the ‘Goods to declare’ channel and paid customs and excise duty on the bike. This was to cause problems later when I tried to register the bike in the UK, but thats another story for when i write my book.

Pulling out of Dover at midnight, I faced the high winds and heavy rain as I wound my way up the hill towards the M20. It was much the same as heading towards Calais, but these conditions were a bit worse. The heavy rain was consistent, but the wind died down a bit. Rivers were flowing across the carriageways; cars were slowing down in order to avoid aquaplaning. Sorry, but i didn't stop to take any photos. I crossed the Dartford crossing, it was free at this time of night, what about that then?

The rain died down after the Dartford crossing so I gave the bike a bit of stick. Once again once again the fuel consumption took a battering but I didn’t really care, I just wanted to get home now. The rain came back, the wind came back. I risked it and just carried on at the same speed regardless. The fuel went onto reserve but I just couldn’t get my fingers to operate the fuel tap as they were that cold. I ground to a halt on the hard shoulder, got off and had to concentrate hard in order just to turn the tap onto reserve, then I was on my way again. I refuelled about 10 miles from home, chilled to the bone, but not really that wet to say I had just ridden in the worst conditions I had ever ridden in for that amount of time. Thank you Mr Thomas and Mr Dianese for making such great motorcycle clothing.

I rolled down the drive to my house around 4am, around 19 hours from when I set off the previous morning. The 10 year dream had come to an end. I stayed in the shower for about 40 minutes until I was warm enough to come out without shivering.

The Italian jobby

Ancona was a bit like Istanbul, surrounded by water and difficult to find your way out of. Eventually I headed north along the coast road, passing through many sea side resorts that I imagine would be packed to the rafters with tourists in the summer time. I found a café that was open, had a cup of tea and a piece of cake then headed for San Marino. I didn’t head to San Marino for anything in particular, just to add it to the list of countries I had visited on the way home.

San Marino is quite high up in the hills/mountains. The mist became thick freezing fog as I climbed higher and higher. Eventually I broke on through to the other side and found the beautiful town sat high on the mountain. I wanted to find the race track but opted for a cup of coffee and a warm instead.

Leaving San Marino, I opted to take the small roads and trails that occasionally appeared as if by magic. I got lost once or twice, and chased by mad mountain dogs now and again, then headed for Pisa. My trusty Garmin GPS 12XL was always sure and steadfast.

The leaning tower was quite difficult to find, but sure enough I eventually found it, but just like Mt Olympus it was never lost in the first place anyway. It was difficult to find a decent place to park up and take pictures, I was always more wary of leaving my bike unattended since In….. Anyways, I found a spot, took a couple of snaps like a tourist would, and then cleared off.

The weather started to deteriorate once again, this time it started to rain quite heavily and was also very cold. I stopped in Torino overnight in a very expensive hotel, but at least the radiators worked so I could dry out my stuff.

After breakfast I headed for the Alps. I had a number of choices from here, I could pays my money and take my chance, around €50 to go through Frejus tunnel, or I could freeze my nuts off and go over the Alps for considerably less than that. Whichever way I went I was going to freeze my nuts off anyway so I may as well do it for free, I went over the Alps.

Signs at the sides of the road warned of ice as I climbed higher and higher up into the Alps towards Sestriere. The bike didn’t like the high altitudes as the air is a bit thinner and the air filter felt like it was struggling to let enough air through. The bike was struggling for breath as I got higher, and colder. I feathered the throttle accordingly so that I didn’t place too much strain on the engine. My hands were freezing by now, I had to stop a few times to warm my hands on the engine and adjust the duct tape I had wrapped round my gloves.

Over the top I went, taking the corners and the bends with extreme caution. I eventually crossed into France near Montgenevre. I had been here on a few occasions in the past and knew the border guys wouldn’t stop me for a spot check. I approached the border post, the guy looked at me………and……waved me through, what about that then?

I went down the road to Briancon, over to Grenoble for a burger and a coffee at McDonalds, and then on to Lyon. I studied in Lyon a few years ago so I called on a couple of people I knew there. I knew where to find the youth hostel in Lyon so I stayed there for the night. I had a wander down to Vieux Lyon and had a few drinks in some of my old haunts, had yet another kebab, then hit the zeds.

Greece is the word is the word is the word is the word

The next day followed the same pattern of the other days in Greece. An expensive hotel, followed by breakfast, followed by scouting out the best roads I could find. I ended up in a place called Meteora (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meteora). Apparently people come from all over the world to see these famous rocks.

I had a quick look, had an expensive cup of coffee and a cheap kebab, put on my jacket, scarves and gloves etc and headed for Igoumenitsa, the ferry terminal on the west coast of Greece. I did originally intend to go down as far as Athens in order to see the acropolis but the weather said I couldn’t go.

I hit the road just as it was starting to get dark. I knew there was a ferry that left the port to get to Ancona about 12 midnight, so I just took my time on the motorway. I got to the docks about 8pm, the ticket seller said that if I’m quick I could get the 8.20 ferry, I was quick. As I waited in the queue I saw a vehicle registration I knew, what about that then? It was a Mercedes van, R *** RHL, it originated from a truck centre not far from where I live in Sheffield.

I boarded the ferry, had an argument with the loading guy because he didn’t strap my bike down, and then went to find my deck chair where I was going to kip. The ferry was an overnight malarky, some paid for bunks, some paid for luxury rooms, and I paid for the deck chair, skint kid.

The next morning the ship pulled into Ancona. I found it hard to believe that I had paid good money for some expensive hotels during my journey but sleeping on the floor of the ship with nothing but the hard floor and no blanket turned out to be one of the best night’s sleep I had experienced up to now, and yes, the floor was more comfortable than the deck chair.

Mt Olympus

The next morning the bike was covered in a decent layer of frost. Obviously, the temperature had dropped so I wrapped up well, only trouble now was the fact that I was quite immobile as a result of all the clothing I had to wear and found it difficult to move. The tape on the gloves helped to keep frostbite away from my fingers.

I went to the local village, had a breakfast, fuelled up and headed for the mountain. I passed through a couple of small villages before I found the road to the top. The road surface suddenly went from smooth tarmac into a very rough track. The trail zig zagged across the front of the mountain, the going was very slow. I stopped now and again to take a few photos, the scenery was impressive.

Mt Olympus was supposed to be the heavenly home of the gods in ancient times. People believed Mt Olympus was the sacred home of Zeus, the king of the gods, his wife Hera, brothers Poseidon and Hades, sisters Demeter and Hestia and children (Apollo, Artemis, Ares, Aphrodite, Athena, Hermes and Hephaestus).

Thousands of visitors flock there from all over the world to tackle the tough trek to the highest peak in Greece. The entire area was declared Greece's first national park in 1937 and consists of eight peaks including the ‘Throne of Zeus’ at 2909 metres and Mytikas, which has the highest summit at 2919 metres. I only reached 2135 metres.

This mountain range is home to around 1700 plant species, many of which are unique to Olympus. The mountainsides are cloaked in dense forests of pine, beech, oak and cedar trees, which harbour various wildlife including wolves, bears and lynx. The slopes are buried beneath two metres of snow in winter and only accessible to the most experienced climbers - even in July the snow lurks in shadowed corners and crevices. It can take 2 days to climb to the summit.
As if by magic the odd farm appeared, complete with cattle or horses. However, the ride to the top got interesting when every now and again aggressive mountain dogs would bark and chase in packs. I didn’t see any wolves, bears or lynx; neither did I see any gods.

Eventually I got to the end of the line. Hard compacted snow blocked my path, trying to tackle this terrain on my own would have been asking for trouble. I stopped and turned off the engine, not a sound and not one person to be seen. I stayed there for a while before starting the decent. I freewheeled down as much as I could, I could hear a strange noise coming from the front of the bike. I had to stop to let the rear brake cool down a bit, I have done this sort of stuff before so I knew the brake would begin to fade sooner or later. The rear disc was blue and smoking quite heavily, caught it just in time.

At the bottom of the mountain I just took the main road and headed off, much the same as the last couple of days, searching out the twisties and trails until I found another hotel towards the end of the day. The noise turned out to be the speedo drive on the front wheel, the rough terrain must have constantly pounded the plastic worm gear until it packed in. Although the speedometer had packed in I still had my gps that read my speed.

Greece is the word is the word

After breakfast I headed out into the sticks, nowhere in particular, but I wanted to head towards Mt Olympus. Instead of taking the main roads I stuck to the twisties again, every now and again I would come across an interesting side road. Being curious I took many of these roads, which more often than not turned into trails. This was how the next couple of the days went, following the many many miles of trails into unknown territory, I didn’t really care where I ended up, as long as I always had a decent amount of fuel in the tank before I started off down the trails.

Some of the trails went through farm land, while others hugged the coast line, others crossed shallow riverbeds, some were very muddy, and others were bone dry. The trails interlinked the many villages that were scattered around the mountains, the occasional 4x4 would come the opposite way, and the drivers always gave a wave. It was a pleasure to ride on these roads/trails legally without the hassle of ramblers and other do gooders that think legal trails are only there for them to use. So, not one confrontation with the do gooders, or police, occurred and everyone I came across gave me a wave and a smile.

Once again once again, the little backwhack roads turned out to be some of the best I have ridden on. Good surfaces, really twisty, almost devoid of traffic, beautiful and sunny, no speed cameras and no coppers waiting to hand tickets out for naughty offences.

Towards the end of a couple of days riding I found Mt Olympus, I couldn’t really miss it as it is the highest mountain in Greece, plus, it was never lost to start with. I was looking forward to investigating the famous mountain the next day; I heard there was a very rough road that led to the summit, we’ll see.

Greece is the word

I felt very comfortable in Turkey but I didn’t spend as much time as I had wanted to there, but I’ll be back. Although I was very impressed with the culture, the roads and the country in general, I felt that I needed to press on. The weather was getting really cold as well now, i only had summer gloves as i couldn't find any really good winter gloves in Australia.

With all the hassle I had getting the bike into Turkey; I wondered what kind of hassle I was going to have getting the bike out of Turkey. I was a bit apprehensive as I approached the first customs control point. The guy looked at my passport, he then came out and checked my registration plate, went back to check his computer, then he waved me through, easy. At the second customs point there was a couple of vehicles waiting, they both had their Carnets de Passage in their hands. A Carnet is basically a passport for your vehicle, you need to have it stamped when you enter a country and then stamped when you leave the country. It ensures that you can’t sell the vehicle whilst you are passing through that particular country.

I can remember asking the customs guys if they wanted to see my Carnet when I was trying to sort my bike out when I first arrived in Turkey, the customs guy had never heard of one. Looking back I think if I had insisted that they use/check my Carnet, getting my bike would have been a bit easier, maybe it would have taken 2 ¾ days instead of 3 days to get the bike, who knows?

Anyways, the second guy checked my passport, he came out and checked………………. seen it all before kid, I thought. He put my details into the computer, checked my insurance documents, didn’t ask to see my Carnet, which was a relief, and waved me through, easy. The third guy checked my passport, and then waved me through. That was it, I was out of Turkey, no problems, no hassle, no ‘gifts’, as the Indians call them, ‘backhanders’ as everyone else calls them.

I was now in ‘No mans land’ between Turkey and Greece. As I approached the Greek side, the passport man checked my passport, no problem there. The customs guy then gave me a quick look, didn’t even stop me, and waved me through, what about that then? After all the problems I experienced in Turkey, it was a relief to be waved through with relative ease within 10 minutes.

It was pretty late in the afternoon now so I pulled in at the first hotel I saw. I pulled my bike into the garage that belonged to the hotel, had a hot shower and went to have a kebab and a pint, sorry, half a litre of beer down at the local while we watched a Greek football match on the TV. The Greek football players seemed to be diving about the pitch trying to cheat the ref into giving free kicks. A Greek chappy said to me ‘Good game init?’ or words to that effect. I said ‘No, they’re diving about on the pitch cheating the referee’, ‘No, No, it’s a good game’, ‘No, they’re just trying to cheat the referee’, ‘No, it’s a good game’, ‘Yes mate, it’s a good game’.

ANZAC Cove

Next day I travelled over to ANZAC Cove. ANZAC Cove is a small cove on the Gallipoli peninsula in Turkey. It became famous as the site of World War I landing of the ANZAC (Australian and New Zealand Army Corps) on April 25 1915. The cove is just 600m long and is bounded by the headlands of Ari Burnu to the north and Little Ari Burnu, known as Hell Spit, to the south. Following the landing at ANZAC Cove, the beach became the main base for the Australian and New Zealand troops for the eight months of the Battle of Gallipoli.

The cove is located in a national park, a one way road winds through the park with monuments scattered all around. Tracks run off the main road where trenches are still to be found. I was glad I had my bike; it allowed me to travel down many of the tracks and see stuff the average tourist probably didn’t have the opportunity to see. I even had the opportunity to go inside a couple of pill boxes that were still there. I read some of the headstones in one or two of the graveyards, very emotional.

I found a hotel and asked the hotel guy if it was ok to park the bike in the foyer, ‘No problem kid’, or words to that effect, came the reply. I called in to a book shop just for something to do. The guy behind the counter looked at me and had difficulty deciding what language he should talk to me in. He said ‘Hello’ in Turkish, ‘Hey up’ I replied. Within seconds I was whisked to the front of the shop and served a glass of cay, Turkish tea, asked if I wanted something to eat, and was the centre of attention to 6 really friendly people. We spoke English for a while before I departed.

The great escape

The next day I got up early in order to hit the road and escape from Istanbul. I had enjoyed Istanbul, I had found a decent and cheap hotel, got to know a few locals, found a traditional café that had the famous water pipes and worked out how to use the public transport system. I also visited the ‘Grand Bazaar’, without buying any magic carpets, and paid a visit to the ‘Blue Mosque’.

Getting out of Istanbul sounded easier that it actually was, the biggest difficulty being the fact that it is surrounded to a large extent by water. My GPS was pointing in all directions, every which way I turned I faced water. Eventually I found a couple of bridges that took me back into Asia. A biker overtook me and gave me a wave; he waited at the toll gate and used his card to get me through. We chatted for a while and went our separate ways.

The weather was very cold now, a stark contrast to what I had experienced so far on the trip, and I knew that it was only going to get colder the further north I travelled. My gloves, which I bought in Australia, offered good protection from the cold but they weren’t exactly winter gloves.

Some of the roads in Turkey were amazing, I grinned from ear to ear as I negotiated some of the twisties, accelerating hard, braking late, hitting the apexes, losing it a couple of times. I know I’ve got to come back to this place. Towards the end of the day I found myself taking a ferry from Canakkale to Eceabat.

After checking in at a local hotel, the guy on the front desk took me to his mates’ garage in order to get my miniature electric compressor working. I carried the compressor around in case of punctures. The guy didn’t ask me for any ‘Gifts’, neither did the guy who mended my compressor, such a contrast to other places I have visited.