A Tour of Ancient Greek Sites by Motorcycle

I've been listening to The Rest is History podcast for years and the subject I enjoy the most is Ancient Greek history. I didn't study any of this at school, and even if I had I wouldn't have listened to any of it because I have always been difficult and awkward and won't do what I'm told to do, and especially not by teachers. Eurgh.

It had to come to me naturally, later in life. So I read some books on the subject and relistened to old TRIH episodes and decided to visit some of these ancient sites myself, by motorcycle.

So I chose a weekend in April and found flights to Athens that were cheap. I would arrive Thursday lunch, and the flight home was midday Sunday. That would give me Thursday afternoon, Friday and Saturday on the bike.

The next job was to find a motorcycle to rent. As always I did my research. I found all the companies renting motorcycles around Athens and checked out their location and reviews.

The company that seemed the best by a large margin was MotoTravel Greece. I contacted them and they were happy to help. They sent me a list of bikes available. I chose a BMW F800GS at a cost of 360 euros for three days hire.

The next job was to plan the route. I like to plan various touchpoints on a trip. The overnight stays, any places to visit, any particular roads. So I bought a paper map, marked Mototravel Greece, Ancient Olympia, Delphi, and Mycenae with a marker pen and started from there. I then marked everything as placemarks in Google Maps which would be my satnav.

My flight was 6am. That meant arriving at the airport at 4am, and an alarm of 3am!

Luckily I managed to sleep a few hours that night, and another hour or so on the plane. I travelled in my motorcycle boots, jeans and jacket, and took my own helmet and gloves in a bag, as well as a rucsac for all my other stuff. Once in Greece I used an app called Freenow to book a cab from the aiport to MotoTravel Greece and was promptly dropped at their shiny new building on the outskirts of Athens.

The welcome was warm and the paperwork straightforward. They offered to look after any luggage I may want to leave with them, but I'd packed efficiently. Kostas, the owner, usually hosts tours using his bikes, and knows the route I had planned well. He showed me round the bike and suggested some places for me to visit and to stop at for lunch and breaks.

I was off! The bike had 20,000 kilometres on the clock but it looked and felt quite new. It had been very well maintained and looked after. It came with a top box (they offered panniers also) and a phone mount and USB point for charging.

The F800GS is very similar to my own F900GS so everything was familiar. This made familiarisation with Greek roads easy as I didn't have to think about alien bike controls. I set Google maps to Thebes and headed off.

The first few miles were out of Athens on the motorway. It was colder than expected (around 14 degrees C) and I rode for two hours.

I had been warned that Thebes is a bit of a dump but it served three purposes. 1) I had read a lot about Thebes. It was a major city state in Ancient Greece and has a rich history, 2) it suited my route as I wanted to travel from Athens to Delphi, and Thebes is on the way, 3) it was a much cheaper and quieter place to stay and eat than Athens.

Thebes did indeed turn out to be a bit of a dump but the hotel was nice and I was happy to leave the bike parked outside overnight. I found a decent restaurant and had a meal and a beer for 14 euros all in. I then found that you can buy cold beers from any grocery store, so I took a couple of nice cold Mythos to my room, read a book, and had an early night.

The next morning I left at 8am for Delphi. It was cold again and I wore four layers and was still a little chilly. It was 80 kilometres to Delphi and the road was great. It was like a very well surfaced and quite wide B-road with plenty of gentle curves.

As the road wound further and further uphill it became twistier, colder and the views ever more spectacular. And then I arrived at Delphi, which was where the Ancient Greeks would go to visit the Oracle to help them decide whether to go to war, who to marry, who to kill, who to avoid etc.

It was a quite spectacular site with some well preserved ruins in a fabulous location on the slopes of Mount Parnassus.

Whilst walking around the temperature rose and as I left late morning it was 21 degrees C, and rose over the course of the afternoon to a high of 26 degrees.

The roads continued to excel. They were quiet, and the views incredible. The route followed the southern coast of the Western Region of Greece. Speed limits were posted but completely ignored by most drivers, including HGVs. However certain cars and ancient pickups, usually driven by older gentlemen with weather beaten faces would drive at half the speed of anyone else.

Luckily the Greeks are adept at overtaking, and do so often and with effiency and speed. And the person being overtaken moves over to allow the manouvre to pass without issue. Completely different to British drivers who fly into a rage should anyone try to overtake.

I noticed more and more stray dogs. This continued to be an issue over the whole weekend. Some on their own, some in pairs, some in packs. It broke my heart to see them. Some were guardian dogs, but most looked like pets that had been abandoned. And plenty were females who were obviously either pregnant or had been feeding puppies. Being on a bike rather than in a car they could see me as a person and would look right into my eyes, pleading for human interaction. Just devastating that they were brought into this world by humans, and then rejected by us. All they wanted was for some company, as well as food and a family. You feel so helpless.

For lunch I stopped in a gourgeous coastal village called Galaxidas and had a toasted sandwich and an ice cream at a cafe on the harbour, at a place suggested by Mototravel Greece.

Mid afternoon I crossed the Rio-Antirrio Bridge, a 2880 metre suspension bridge which took me to the Peloponnese. I had worried about this in advance as I'm terrified of heights. But it's four lanes wide so I was able to stay in the middle and stared straight ahead and just got on with it.

By mid afternoon I was getting pretty tired. I had opted to follow the coast road but this took me through miles and miles of seaside resorts with endless traffic lights. I headed on to the motorway for the final 90 minutes.

At 5pm I arrived in Ancient Olympia. My hotel, the Hotel Europa, was one kilometre from the Olympic site and was utterly fabulous. My room had a vast bed, a sofa, and a balcony overlooking the pool and thousands of acres of mountains.

Showered and in fresh clothes I rode down the hill in jeans a t-shirt, abandoned the bike at the entrance, spent 20 euros on a ticket and walked into the Olympic site.

I've visited plenty of ancient places but was unprepared for how magnificent Ancient Olympia is. Founded in circa 770 BC it is the birthplace of competitive sports. On a warm spring evening with the trees filled with blossom, birdsong filling the air, and with almost no other visitors I was entranced.

Yes, the site is basically ruins. But the importance of it, and the sense of place, of purpose, and of history is tangible. I walked through a tunnel into the stadium. It was silent but for the sound of swifts which flew around as I walked a lap of the 2,800 year old stadium. It was easy to imagine it in its heyday, with horses pounding the dirt, cheered on by 45,000 spectators. Goosebumps.

I ate in the hotel and retired to my room.

The next day was Saturday, my final day of riding. I left Olympia at 8.30am and headed in the direction of Mycanae, to the east. The satnav showed two routes, one north of the mountains, and one south. But I wanted to go through the mountains. So I set a waypoint at a place called Lagkadia. It added an hour to the journey but I could deal with that.

Immediately the roads were completely different to those I'd experienced before. Tiny and winding, and with overgrown bushes and trees either side reducing the width from narrow to very narrow. Every bend was blind due to the elevation and vegetation. It was great fun.

After half an hour it opened out into a valley floor with spectacular views in all directions. I stopped for a photo. A lizard basking on the road scuttled away. The place was dead silent. There were huge cactii growing at the roadside. Fields of olive trees around.

And then a dog in the distance. Tail wagging furiously she trotted in the road towards me. Female and obviously having given birth recently she wanted attention and food. I could give her the former but had none of the latter. A farmer in an ancient dusty pickup who I'd overtaken miles back hove into view and turned into the olive plantation. She must have known him, bade me farewell, and trotted off to see if he had any food, and maybe a pat on the head.

Back on the bike I headed further into the mountains and the views and terror increased in equal measure. Higher and higher I rode, with cliff faces to one side and huge drops to the other. The road was cut into the rock face. It was a challenge to balance my fear of heights with actually riding safely. I adopted a technique (talking to myself basically) I'd created in order to fill my mind with anything other than the fear of falling off the bike, over the barrier, and down the cliff face to certain doom. Fear of heights is anything other than rational.

Mycenae was another brilliant site. Older even than Olympia, it was home to a civilisation right at the start of Classical Antiquity which shone bright for a few hundred years before collapsing due to unknown reasons. Greek entered a dark ages until 800 BC when the Olympic site was constructed and the heyday of the Classical and Hellenic Periods.

After Mycenae I had two hours to get to MotoTravel Greece for 4pm so headed on to the motorway for the final section. I dropped the bike off, got a taxi into Athens centre and enjoyed an evening visiting the Acropolis Museum, eating a decent meal, and sinking a few beers.

I thoroughly enjoyed my long weekend in Greece and would recommend it to any travellers. Bikers especially can rent a bike and tour some of the best and most fascinating ruins in the world.

By Matt Hubbard

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An Amazing Weekend Riding Motorcycles in Spain

I first started talking with multiple F1 race winner and total legend, Heinz Harald Frentzen about motorcycles, not F1.

We both own 900cc BMWs and talked about them. I was then slightly rude about Teslas and Heinz asked me what the world’s best selling car was. I looked it up and replied, bashfully, Tesla Model Y.

Congratulations, he said, deploying a quirky sense of humour. Your prize is a weekend in Spain with Heinz and his friends on motorcycles. He then followed this up with a message with details, asking when I’d like to go. I was gobsmacked. Was this real?

Fast forward two months and I was on a flight with a friend, Maja Kenney, to Alicante one Friday afternoon in November.

We landed at 8pm local time and Heinz picked us up from the airport, in a Model Y of course.

An hour journey, check in to a rural hotel in a beautiful southern Spanish village, dinner with Heinz and Maja, bed at midnight, six hours sleep.

Early the next morning Maja and I were introduced to our bikes for the weekend – Yamaha Ténéré World Rallys. Brand new and bright blue. We each had a mount for our phone and a box on the back for luggage. In the box were drinks and a selection of snacks. Very thoughtful.

Heinz was on his BMW F900GS and we set off for a cafe where we met Heinz’s friends and co-investors in the business this weekend was a trial run for - Transibérica Moto Tours.

Everything I describe here will soon be available for anyone to purchase. Right now they have all the ingredients, and just need to refine the details.

Coffees and greetings over we geared up and headed out into the mountains. Heinz apologised that we were riding some sections of ‘boring roads’ but these actually turned out to be more fun than most British A-roads.

The group rode well with ‘Sir’ Mandi up front, Maja and me, Heinz, and the rest of the team.

It was now 9am and time for breakfast. This being real Spain, rather than British tourist’s idea of Spain, breakfast was an eye opener. We sat outside a café in a town square and were served multiple courses. I speak no Spanish so Heinz interpreted and ordered. The locals drank a little wine and strong coffee and I had a Coke Zero.

After an hour of eating and chatting and laughing we were off again. The roads were awesome. Small mountain roads, twisting and turning. We enjoyed the Yamahas. Light but comfortable. Enough power to pull you along in a brisk manner with a lovely gearbox with an easy, quick action.

The weather was perfect too. Maybe 20 degrees and almost no wind.

After 45 minutes Mandi pulled off the road and onto a small lane. We all gathered. And then we rode maybe seven kilometres along gravel trails. Standing on the pegs, guiding our bikes around cracks and ruts. Easy off roading, fun and fairly fast.

Back on the road and it was obvious our hosts both know the area like the back of their hands and are proud of it. We stopped at a reservoir and a Castle. All picturesque and picture perfect. Photos and chats. Life is good.

It was at the castle I told Heinz Harald that his biking skills were incredible. I’d never seen such control as he has in my life. He makes everything look so easy. He doesn’t even have a technique or use the ‘racing line’, he just relies on his instinct, reactions and natural abilities. And his reply? “Oh I didn’t know?”

For an ex-F1 driver and international sporting star he is down to earth, friendly, chatty and generous.

More winding roads and gorgeous views and it was 3pm – time for lunch.

We ate at the only wooden building in the area (with the dry climate wood is a fire risk). A restaurant perched on the hillside. Multiple courses, wine, coffee, great food, great drink (Coke Zero again for me!) and again we were off.

By this point the group had really gelled. Many of the team spoke no English but we all communicated and we all sparked off each other. They were so friendly and welcoming.

We rode and rode. Great corners and great scenery, views to die for and mountains to climb. All the time Heinz filming us from his bike. He can ride one handed faster than any of the rest of us can ride with both hands on the bars.

Mandi was no slouch either. In fact Heinz asked him to slow the pace a little so he could film us better.

At no time did the group ride too fast. No-one ever felt compelled to push too much, nor did we feel too slow. The pace was about right.

The final hour of the day was again off road. It was a track going up and over a mountain close to where we’d started the day. The sun was low in the sky behind us as we soaked up the vista. We stopped several times to enjoy the views and to take photos.

5.30pm we arrived back at our hotel. We put the bikes away and Maja and I shared a few beers and marvelled at how amazing the day had been. At 9.30pm Heinz and his friend Valero met us for dinner. We spoke about Heinz’ time in F1, about which he’s remarkably candid. We also spoke about their plans for the company. It sounds exciting and interesting. Tours on weekends, the best roads and food. Customers from all over north Europe heading south to enjoy the warm weather and spectacular roads.
Late to bed and early to rise and the start of another day. I won’t go into so much detail but the roads were even better.

The Spanish like to enjoy life. Heinz Harald is German but his mother is Spanish and as a child he spent most school holidays in this area. He has family in the area and he knows the locale as well as any of his friends.

The people we rode with – led by Carlos

on the Sunday – know all the roads and all the places to stop and to eat. And they do like to eat. Meals are a time to enjoy company as much as food and drink. The food is local and authentic and none of it is aimed at tourists.

Heinz, Valero, Mandi and the rest of the Transibérica Moto Tours team are proud of what they have achieved so far. They are refining the website, finalising the prices, and will have a full package to offer to paying customers in early 2025.

Heinz dropped Maja and I at the airport Sunday evening. We sat in our plane seats and could hardly believe what an experience we’d had.

It was a thoroughly enjoyable weekend and one we’ll remember forever.

By Matt Hubbard

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A Solo Tour of the Alps by Motorcycle - Part Two

Why do we ride motorcycles? You get wet when it rains, you freeze when it's cold, and too hot when it heats up. You have to wear all sorts of gear just to ride one. You straddle a tank full of petrol and an exhaust pipe that would melt skin if you touch it. And you have zero protection in a crash, which is easy to do because you only have two wheels and have to lean over to get round bends. 

And, frankly, it's exhausting. Spend five hours in a car and you're usually fine. Spend five hours on a bike and you need a shower and a cold beer just to recover.

Hominids have existed for seven million years, and Homo Sapiens for 190,000 years. And until just a few years ago survival was of the fittest. If you didn't have your wits about you you'd be killed by an animal, other human, or just the weather.

And now we live in an era of welfare state, hospitals, sofas and carpets, worker's rights and touchy feely everything, where the most pain is caused by someone getting your pronouns wrong. For some people that's lovely. For others it's deadly. 

Bikers need excitement. We need to be scared, to straddle the thin line between danger and safety, to experience what it means to be human for a while. We need to understand and embrace our evolution. We want to control a dangerous machine and do so with skill and finesse.

Anyway...back to the trip

Day 5 - Bled to Norge (Italy)

I'd woken early. It was too hot to sleep well. 7.30am I was showered and ready and found that the hotel didn't start breakfast until 8am. Oh dear.

8.30am I was on the road. The temperature had risen to 36ºC as I cruised around the southern part of Lake Bled. I found some lovely spots but nowhere to take a decent photo of the bike in front of the lake.

I knew on my trip I had the opportunity to see the Adriatic Sea at some point. I thought of Venice but that's not something you do on a motorcycle, and it would take at least half a day. Someone suggested I visit Grado, an Italian peninsula some 50 miles east of Venice.

So by 11am and in baking heat I found a bike parking spot in Grado and headed to an air conditioned cafe for cake and coke.

The road out of Grado is a four mile long bridge. The breeze from the sea was welcome but it was still hot. I'd noticed a lot of the local riders - typically younger men on red Ducatis - rode without their protective jacket. 

In danger of overheating myself I decided to remove my jacket. The heat was becoming a genuine cause of fatigue, and fatigue can lead to reduced concentration and reaction times. It wasn't safer to remove my jacket but it did improve my ability to ride safely.

I then headed west along the southern flank of the alps towards a town called Valdobbiadene. Just north of Valdobbiadene is a mountain pass. I'd read about it in a book, but knew very little about it. It just looked fun. Up and over a mountain.

Initially the land was flat as I skirted south of the alps. I then threaded into the mountain foothills through beautiful villages set in lush green valleys of orange groves and vineyards set on perilous slopes.

I stopped to take a photo of as roadsign - Lago. I was the high plains drifter on my steel horse heading into adventures and scrapes - little was I to know...

And then the valleys closed in and the road became tree lined. I was climbing. The road twisted with long bends. I stopped for a while to drink and eat by the side of the road. In ten minutes not a single vehicle passed me.

I remounted and carried on. Climbing, the road twisting more and more. It was narrow and the surface was poor. Gravel, potholes, crumbling tarmac.

As we climbed higher the road surface got worse, the bends tightened to hairpins, and narrowed more. It was exhilarating. But the vertigo was returning.

My eyes were on stalks as I met a car coming there other way. Too fast, too close to me. I was pushed to the edge, an edge with a steep drop and no barrier. One slip and I would be gone. Would anyone find me?

Two, three more cars. Each one too fast and not close enough to their edge of the road and pushing me out to my edge. My breathing was becoming laboured, my vision ever focussed. I was sweating from the heat and from fear.

I rounded one hairpin, I ran a little wide. Ahead of me was a straight section with a gentle curve to the left. Suddenly a car appeared. A BMW X1. He was in the middle. I was in the middle. I glimpsed daylight through the trees to my right. I saw mountain tops beneath me.

I could not force myself too close to the edge. My brain wouldn't allow it. All those years of evolution telling me a fall from height would definitely kill me, but an approaching BMW? He was coming towards me too fast. We were going to hit. My front wheel skipped as the ABS kicked in, he hardly slowed.

Bang, we hit. He missed my arm and leg by centimetres. He'd hit my left pannier. Put a dent in it, and a dent in his car.

The driver was out, arms gesticulating. His girlfriend telling him "Non essere arrabiato. Stai calmo".

I was numb. Nobody had any injuries. The fault was 50/50. He should have been slower, should have got closer to the edge. I should have moved closer to the edge.

We talked and passed details. No Italian from me, no English from them. But we coped. We shook hands and carried on.

I was alone with my thoughts. I was near the top of a mountain pass and I had no choice to carry on and descend the other side.

Ten minutes later I reached the summit. 1400 metres above sea level. An entire world below me. 

I descended cautiously. I could not afford a repeat of the incident. I had to get home in one piece. I enjoyed the ride. I was super focussed. I had to unlearn fear and learn control of my brain - the part that put me in harms way.

It was another two hour ride to my hotel. Mainly autoroutes but the final half hour was another climb, into Trento and up a mountain pass towards a ski resort called Norge. The hotel was beautifully located. The view was spectacular.

Once unpacked and in my room I reflected on what had been a challenging but also thrilling day. I enjoyed an amazing four course dinner that night, and slept well.

Day 6 - Norge to Bönigen (Switzerland) Rickenback (Germany)

A lazy, late start. On the bike at 9.30am. A beautiful crisp, clear day. Views of an entire country, sculpted over millions of years. The satnav took me north and up to yet another summit. I dug deep and improved my skills with every ferocious bend.

This was going to be a long day. 300 miles westward and into Switzerland. Autoroutes and mountain passes. The most beautiful, wonderful place. Hot again but cooling ever so slightly with every mile. 

The fields once again were littered with alpine barns. The writing on the signs turned from Italian to...German? Was I in Switzerland already? In this part of the world it's easy to cross international borders without even realising.

I stopped for lunch at the place in the first photo in this article. A wine shop in Schluderns. I walked in to find three people speaking what sounded like German. They all stopped. A man said "Ahhh motorcycle." He pointed to my bike parked outside. I nodded. He beamed.

I said, "Sandwich?" and was greeted with puzzled looks. "Pane? Prosciutto? Formaggio?"

"Ahhhh" said the jolly lady behind the counter. She walked to a plastic bag on a shelf and pulled out a bread roll. 

"Yes," I said. "Sorry, ja".

"Käse?" she pulled out a huge block of Emmental.

"Ja"

"Schinken?" A massive slab of ham. I nodded.

Sandwich made and paid for I headed outside to a single table in the shade. The jolly German lady sat with me, lit a cigarette and stared as I ate.

I pointed at the ground and said, "Switzerland?"

"Nein," she said. "Das ist Italien, aber wir sprechen Deutsch."

I understood. I'd heard about this place before and that memory suddenly flipped into my mind. In South Tyrol there is a German speaking Italian community. It had been part of Austro-Hungary but after the First World War became part of Italy. Mussolini agreed with Hitler that it would not be subsumed into Nazi Germany during the Second World War. It's remained Italian since, to the chagrin of the locals.

I carried on and into the most beautiful town. Called Glorenza, and still in Italy, I stopped to take the photo below. As I did a BMW M1000XR passed me.

I carried on and headed in the direction of Switzerland and a famous road called the Flüela Pass. 

I passed the BMW, who's rider had stopped to take a photo. He waved, I waved.

Minutes later the BMW passed me. And after he did he undocked his phone from its satnav mount and started filming the countryside around, one handed. I passed, he nodded, I nodded.

A while later I stopped for fuel. The BMW was parked at the next pump. We sat, drank cold cokes and talked for half an hour about travel, families, motorcycles. His bike had 200hp, mine 95hp. I wasn't so upset about him passing me.

We carried on and arrived at the Flüela Pass. We rode hard and fast. My fears vanished as I chased the lunatic on the BMW. It was awesome fun. The road was well paved and absolutely spectacular. It rises and flows up and over and descends down to Davos, where the internal elites and plot and scheme ways of making our lives worse. 

That was possibly the single best ride I've ever experienced.

By 4pm I was exhausted. I continued to ride. The BMW rider was going gone and I was headed for Zurich. I rode through a three mile long tunnel. Once out the other side it was raining. A complete surprise. It had been a beautiful sunny day at the start of the tunnel.

I stopped to change into my waterproofs. I checked my satnav and came to an awful realisation.

I'd been heading to the wrong hotel. I was two hours north of where I needed to be.

I had no choice but to cancel. It was 5.30pm and I had very little energy. I realised I was mistakenly heading towards the hotel in Rickenback I'd stayed at on my second night. It cost me £100 but I couldn't ride another two hours.

Luckily the Rickenback hotel had space. I headed there in the pouring rain. Arrived at 6.45pm, thankful of some familiarity.

After a good meal and some more cold beer I slept well.

Day 7 - Rickenback to Manderen (France)

I won't go into too much detail with the remaining journey. I'll just post some photos. The fun parts were pretty much done. It was all motorway work from hereonin. Nevertheless I did have fun, even on the motorway. I enjoy riding my motorcycle, even in adverse conditions. 

Why? See paragraphs one to five.

Day 8 - Manderen to Ashford (England)

Day 9 - Ashord to Cheshire

By Matt Hubbard

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A Solo Tour of the Alps by Motorcycle - Part One

Every year I just have to get away. To go somewhere on the motorcycle. Somewhere wild, where the roads are good and the scenery epic.

I usually need a reason for my trips and the reason for this one came to me over the winter of 2023. I was watching The Grand Tour: Eurocrash, in which our intrepid heroes take three ridiculous cars across Europe to Slovenia. They park next to Lake Bled, which Clarkson pronounces the prettiest place he's ever seen.

And there and then I decided I had to visit Lake Bled.

And I would have to go on my own. Because my brother was still recovering from his crash earlier that year. Still, not to worry. I had been watching the journey of Noraly Schoenmaker, also known as Itchy Boots.

Noraly has travelled the world on her motorcycle, completely alone. I can't think any of anyone with more bravery and spirit. If she can ride the west coast of Africa on a Honda CRF 300 Rally then I could spin down the autobahn for a week in the alps.

I planned the trip in some detail. My plan is always to decide on where each day should start and end, book a hotel, and any waypoints I wanted to make. I added all these to my Google Maps and would use my phone as a satnav. I can then plan each individual day's route on the fly.

My bike, a 2019 Tiger 900 Rally Pro has done 20,000 miles and suits me down to the ground. I have panniers and a top box so have plenty of room for luggage. I made sure the bike was fully serviced and prepped before the trip. 

Day 1 - Cheshire to Lille (France) via Le Shuttle

The day started at 7am. The bike had been packed the weekend before. One pannier contained all my clothes and things needed for each hotel stay, the other pannier contained all the motorcycle maintenance equipment as well as tools, puncture repair kit, first aid kit etc. The top box was empty except for waterproofs and a water bottle. This was intentional. It's quite handy having a space to stow helmet and gloves when stopping at services.

I was up at 6am, ate and showered. I'd checked and rechecked the weather forecast and could see a mix of rain and heat ahead. My riding gear was armoured jeans, motorcycle boots, and a waterproof, but not particularly warm, jacket. The theory being if it rained or turned cold I could add layers as appropriate. If I was to wear heavy gear it would cause issues when the sun beat down. Heat related fatigue can be particularly dangerous on a motorcycle.

The first five hours across England's motorway network was conducted smoothly. I arrived at Folkestone with plenty of time to catch my train...and then French customs delighted in holding us all up for an hour.

Not to worry. I had been due on the 3.30pm train but ended up on the 4.30pm train, which has half empty as customs was still holding people up for no reason.

I met a fellow traveller on the train. His plan was similar to mine but instead of staying in hotels he was camping - and his Yamaha MT07 was piled sky high with equipment. None of his luggage was in hard panniers. Instead it was all just strapped down. I admired his spirit and sense of adventure and wondered if I'd meet him again (I didn't).

Unloaded from the train and on to the autoroute it was an hour blast to Lille and my hotel where I ate a so-so dinner, drank a couple of beers and collapsed in bed

Day 2 - Lille to Rickenback (Germany)

By 9am I was ready to go. The sky was bright and the temperature just perfect. I hit the road. This was going to be a long day. 430 miles by various Belgian and French autoroutes (top speed 130kph) and a stretch of German autobahn (top speed whatever you can stretch to).

By lunch I had covered 200 miles and was still feeling quite fresh. The Tiger does 200 miles to a tank but once it's less than half full I start to think about a refill, so I was stopping every 120 miles or so to refuel. And at each stop the skies were getting darker.

Finally by mid afternoon the heavens opened somewhere south of Nancy. I stopped to pull on my waterproofs and carried on. 

The rain was ceaseless. But I was still cheerful. I enjoyed the changes in scenery and landscape as I hit Germany. I love the place. In the rain I hit 189kph (118mph) on the autobahn. Once in the hills leading to the hotel I stopped to take a photo by a roadside shrine, a small statue of Jesus. Across all the countries of the alps these statues would crop up everywhere. Catholicism seems to cut across cultures and nationalities.

I arrived at Hotel Ammenhof at 6.50pm. I was completely drenched. I squelched to my room, showered and changed and hung up all my gear. The rain had managed to find its way around my waterproof trousers and my boots were full of water.

The hotel was a delight. Alpine in design and quite simple and rustic. None of the staff spoke English but it was fun communicating with them, and the schnitzel and ice cold Fürstenberg beer were most welcome.

I had taken my iPad on the trip and didn't turn on a single hotel television then entire week. I watched some YouTube videos then slept like a log.

Day 3 - Rickenback to Götzens (Austria)

Today was more promising. 220 miles across the north western alps into Austria. My boots were still wet from the day before, and my jeans still a little moist, but I was ready to go. The day was damp, but not raining hard. More of a light drizzle.

The hotel was close to the border so within half an hour I was in Switzerland. The roads swept through valleys with wide expanses of pasture either side. In the pasture lands were numerous barns with overhanging roofs, designed to allow a space around the walls of the structure free from snow.

These barns lined the roads almost the entire trip. They are an ancient system of grain storage over winter. The locations seem random, and sometimes there are lots of them, sometimes not so many. But they all look quite lovely, and add to the general pleasantness of the alpine landscape.

By lunch the rain had just about gone and I stopped at a cafe in a town called Kressbronn an Bodensee on the northern shore of Lake Bodensee. Again none of the staff spoke English but we got there somehow and I enjoyed the first of many ham and cheese sandwiches of the trip.

After lunch I called in on Lindau, an island in the lake itself. By now the sun was shining and the temperature had risen to 25ºC.

The afternoon was a pleasant ride on great roads through Austria. By this point the mountains were rising higher and higher with each mile. Mile high shards of rock peppered with trees, wildlife and the occasional road twisting up and down. 

I stopped to take a photo by the road sign for Wank and enjoyed the achingly beautiful landscape as I closed in on Götzens, a ski resort in the mountain south of Innsbruck.

The view from my balcony was of a spectacularly craggy mountain to the north. Dinner that night was a local dish of mixed meats along with more cold beer and the F1 highlights on my iPad.

Day 4 - Götzens to Bled (Slovenia)

I was now in the alps proper. And for the first time I was to cross from north to south, meaning I'd cross some of the highest points.

The day's ride was going to be around 230 miles and at some point I'd travel over the Grossglockner, a famous mountain pass. In order not to tire myself out too much I opted to take the autoroute for most of the morning, enjoying the view as I weaved through valley bottoms at 130kph.

By late morning I skirted Zell am See and then plunged south towards the Grossglockner. I'd done no research on it and when I arrived found that it was a toll road. At the entrance to the Grossglockner is a tourist village with various attractions. It was now 30ºC and took lunch at a restaurant and just as I was finished and ready to head to the toll booth the road was closed due to an accident on the mountain.

After a delay of 45 minutes in the baking sun the road was opened and I joined about a hundred other bikers in paying £33 to head onto the 45 kilometre long Grossglockner High Alpine Road.

The road immediately ascended. Higher and higher it wound, initially with sweeping bends. I saw the course of the closure - an old VW had set on fire. From the smell I could tell the brakes had overheated and started a fire which must have spread to the engine bay and then consumed the entire car.

I continued to climb and as I did the temperature dropped. Sweeping curves turned to sharp hairpins. The view was spectacular.

Higher and higher, colder and colder. I have been riding motorcycles for a long time and am quite adept in conditions like this. I'm not so fast I'm reckless but I settle into a pace and my mind sharpens so it takes no effort to push and push, until...

Until vertigo kicked in. I've always been afraid of heights and often on mountain passes I've felt nervous when close to exposed edges, but this was a different level.

My riding started to become more mechanical and when I stopped to take photos and enjoy the view I struggled to knock the side stand down and dismount for fear of falling over and down some slope - even though I was nowhere near the edge.

The human brain can act irrationally at times, and mine was really playing up.

I finally reached the summit, which is 2504 metres above sea level. Bought a fridge magnet and sticker, took a load of photos. And had a conversation with myself about the ride down.

My tactic was simply to look where I needed to go. On a motorcycle it's easy to look at the road immediately ahead. This is called target fixation and can lead to running wide on bends. But I also didn't want to look outside the confines of the road and the huge drop to the side. So instead I focused on the vanishing point of the road ahead.

At one point I stopped to touch a glacier with my bare hands. Large swathes of ice abound around the place, kept frozen by their sheer mass through the summer months.

Down I went and the further down the higher the temperature. It had been 16ºC on the summit and 30ºC again as I reached slightly lower levels.

It was 3pm when I stopped for a cup of tea served by a grumpy Austrian lady.

The rest of the afternoon consisted of a pleasant ride through green lands until at 5.30pm I arrived in Slovenia. By 6pm I was at my hotel. I was a sweaty mess. It was 33ºC by now and the hotel was in town and surrounded by endless roadworks.

I showered and was chased around the bathroom by a wasp for a few minutes.

I walked down to Lake Bled and it is indeed one of the most beautiful places in the world. I enjoyed a meal and a few cold beers on a terrace overlooking the lake. Afterwards I walked around the local area and enjoyed an ice cream whilst watching a spectacular sunset over the lake before heading back to my hotel to reflect on the day.

By Matt Hubbard

To be continued...

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Touring Ireland by Motorcycle

Why tour Ireland by motorcycle? Why not? I'm 52 years old, live only two hours from the port of Holyhead from where ferries leave for Dublin several times a day for a reasonable sum, and yet have never in my adult life been to Ireland.

So, why? I wasn't sure. We're taught nothing about Ireland in English schools. I've learned more about it from Father Ted on the television than anywhere else. The news has nothing good to say about the place. 

I'm quite happy to drive five hours to Calais to cross to Europe but never once thought about visiting Ireland. I suppose the main thing that made me not think about it was the rain. It does rain a lot.

And then I read a book called 'What Fresh Lunacy Is This?' which is a biography of Oliver Reed. The actor spent his final years in Ireland, in a small village in Cork. The depiction of the place interested me enough that I read some more about it, and then I bought a big paper map which I spread out on the floor and started planning a trip.

Four of us regularly travel to places on bikes. Last year we rode to the Pyrenees. We all agreed to do the Irish trip. I roughly planned a route and reckoned we could cover enough ground in four days.

So we all booked ferry crossings, and I planned the trip in more detail. 

When I route plan I set hard points and let us decide which way to go on the day. I plan options so we can make decisions on the fly. I booked three hotels - in Kilkenny, Killarney, and Ballina. And worked out mileages and waypoints.

We were set. Two weeks to go. And then one of us, my brother Colin, was knocked off his motorcycle by a driver who wasn't looking and appeared from out of a junction and into the side of him. He suffered a broken collar bone, every rib, scaphoid and kneecap.

In the hospital the extent of his injuries was identified. Luckily there were no issues with his spine or brain. He would heal. It would take a long time but he would heal.

We discussed what to do. Colin wanted us to go. One chap didn't want to go with Colin out of action, but two of us - Nik and me - decided we would.

NB - Little Col did come on the trip. Take a look at the photo at the very bottom of this article.

Day 1

Nik, arrived at my house at 7am. The ferry was sailing at 10.40am from Holyhead. We left at 8.15am and blasted across Wales and Anglesey on the A55 in two hours. We ate breakfast in a cafe in Holyhead and then halfway through a sausage I realised it was half an hour til sailing and we chomped what we could in thirty seconds, jumped on the bikes and headed for the port.

At 2pm we had unloaded and were in Dublin. The port is the same as any port in any city. Industrial and rather bleak. I wanted to see the GPO and Nik wanted to see Temple Bar so we headed into the city centre.

Dublin's roads are the most anti-motorcycle I've even encountered. Most roads have a wide lane for cyclists, and then another for buses, and taxis. And then another for everything else. So whilst private hire vehicles carrying civil servants on expenses, and bicycles have free abandon the motorcycles are stuck in a single lane so narrow it's impossible to filter past lorries ands coaches and cars. 

And it was hot. Very hot. On a motorbike you need a bit of speed to feel the cool air but for most of the time we were stuck behind some HGV. We stopped a couple of times to take photos, got separated trying to find Temple Bar, and gave up on the city.

To the countryside...

Dublin to Kilkenny is only 125km and just over an hour so we thought we'd head south  and stop somewhere for a cuppa. We duly rode southwards on the M11 for a while and then at a random junction left the motorway and had a look at the map. 

We skirted the Wicklow mountains and stopped in a small village called Churchtown for refreshments, and here it was we encountered our first locals.

We were sat outside and I spilled my tea on Nik's phone, and said 'Shit!' and a woman who had been talking to Nik got the giggles which were contagious and soon enough I was giggling and it wasn't long before tears were streaming down our faces.

Riding though the Wicklow area reminded me of South Tyrol in Italy. Green, mountainous and open. It had the look and feel of the place, only with worse weather.

We arrived at your hotel in Kilkenny and the receptionist said 'Is that you lads with the motorcycles. Oh I love fecking motorbikes and I got a 125 and me da' said you want a bigger fecking bike than that and I said I'd better fecking save up then'

She was a genuine delight, and helpful with where to eat that night. Not until I'd had my first Guinness though!

Day 2

It rained overnight and was drizzling as we packed up and headed out. This day was to be a morning on the motorway followed by an afternoon tour of the Ring of Kerry.

We took the M8 to Cork. Irish roads (outside Dublin) are generally quiet. Speed limits are about the same as in England and are usually adhered to. But there was no evidence of any speed cameras or police, so we thought it safe add a few kph to the limit as a good cruising speed.

We stopped at Sneem, absolutely wet through. It had drizzled heavily all morning. Not quite rain, not quite dry. But wet enough to make us miserable, and for our phones to stop charging. We took solace in a cafe, had some lunch and dried out. A bit.

After lunch we started the Ring of Kerry. The ring is a 100km route around the Kerry peninsula. It's world famous and takes in various sites such as the Skellig Isle, Waterville village and miles of rugged, beautiful coastline. It felt to me like Highway One in California - only more wet.

The roads were busier than any others we'd encountered so far in Ireland, and we saw for the first time something we'd see more of as we progressed - American tourists. They were there in coaches and rental cars en masse.

It was really quite a lovely place but the weather tempered the experience somewhat. At one point we parked at a statue of Mary high up on the cliff at Com an Chiste. It's advertised as a viewpoint but you could only see maybe 100 metres.

We stopped in a place called Rossbeigh to take in the views of the beach before the final hour's ride to Killarney.

Killarney town was larger than I'd imagined. I thought that out here in western Ireland the towns would be small and only populated by locals. How wrong could I be. The rain had cleared up as we walked to town and we ate in a place called Paris, Texas which did great food, and then moved on to a pub called Killarney Grand which did great Guinness and had an Irish band and we talked at length to a chef who was half cut. It was a good evening.

Day 3

The next morning we left early and the weather looked good. No rain forecast. A friend on twitter had recommended we try the Shannon ferry from Tarbert in County Kerry north to Killimer in County Clare.

The ferry crossing was fun. It took twenty minutes and was smooth. One coach, four motorcycles and bunch of cars. The lady who took your money for the crossing was another delightful personality, full of jokes and general happiness.

Once in Clare the trip stepped up a gear. 

The road east from Killimer is an R road, which is the Irish equivalent to the English A road. Only there was no-one on it. The limit is 100kmh but you can safely travel at more than that if you've your wits about you.

Then we decided to find the real Craggy Island Parochial House which is actually a large detached house in the stunning Burren National Park. The road there was an L road which is Ireland's equivalent to the unclassified road. It was narrow, had grass growing in the middle, and bumpy. Huge fun.

At one point we stopped in a place called Six Cross Roads, which was exactly that. A pair of border collies guarded a statue of Mary. I said hello to the collies and Herself and we headed north to Burren. The views were stunning with mountains rising up in the background and seas of rocky outcrops either side of the road.

My Triumph Tiger 900 Rally Pro was perfect on these roads. Stood up or sat down the chassis absorbed all bumps and the ride was comfortable. Nik on his Honda VFR1200 enjoyed them less so.

We found Father Ted's house which provided a frisson of excitement! I took a few photos and we carried on through the spectacular Burren National Park to lunch in Kinnane.

After a great start the day just got better and better. 

We passed through Galway and along the coast to Inverin where we turned north and through the mountains and lakes (Loughs) to Camus Oughter and on to our hotel in Ballina.

But pause, rewind. That afternoon's ride was possibly the best of my life. The dead quiet mountain roads were a revelation. This, in Galway and then Mayo, is where I found the Ireland I loved.

Vast open spaces. Not for the first time was I reminded of America. Western Ireland's roads are well maintained and very quiet. Sometimes they twist and turn and you can flip the bike from one side to the other - my brand new tyres were worn right to the edges - and sometimes they are long and straight and with rocky spaces on either side with mountains in the distance and a view to die for.

And then I started to notice the details. Ireland is a lush, green place. Emerald Isle indeed - must be the rain. And there are cows everywhere. Sometimes tiny fields in between houses will have three for four cows quietly grazing under leaden skies.

Not only cows but donkeys! So many donkeys. At one point on a particular lunar landscape of rocks and not much else stood a lone donkey chewing at a small patch of grass.

The houses tend to be detached and often single storey and line the roads with cow fields in between. White, cream or stone coloured they are rendered and surrounded by sturdy rendered walls often with decorative columns. Some may say this architectural style is twee but in it I saw a proud people who like to take care of their appearance.

As described elsewhere speed limits are generally adhered to, but sometimes drivers stay well under the limit, and find a long train of vehicles behind. It's not unusual to see twenty or thirty cars in a slow moving convoy for mile after mile.

It was fun overtaking them all. And when I did none of them reacted badly, like they do in Wales or England.

Day 4

Dark skies overhead but no rain. We had a few hours until the ferry so we decided to stay off the motorway except for the final section into Dublin.

I set the satnav for a place called Cavan and we were soon whisked into a biker's fantasy of completely empty, perfectly paved, roads. Sometimes miles long which allowed super fast cruising, and then mile after mile of twists and turns. Absolute heaven.

We came across a classic car show as they were leaving a village, and ended up in the convoy, being photographed and videoed by a clapping and cheering populace. Well I had to wave back didn't I?

And then we were on the N3 motorway, which turned into the M3 - though I don't know the difference. Part of this was a toll road and motorcycles were charged 80 cents which I thought very reasonable.

So it was we waited an age at the port for the ship that was late to leave and late to arrive in Holyhead. A two hour blast home and the trip was over.

Over four days we covered 1,000 miles. I know some people like to take life slower and to see more of where they are. But I like to stretch things out. Get into the groove, enjoy the road and see the sights, sounds, smells and action as I pass it.

I loved Ireland. I learned a lot about it and its people. I learned I knew very little about it before I went and that four days wasn't nearly enough to learn much more.

I will be back.

By Matt Hubbard

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The Pyrenees by Motorcycle, or There and Back Again

For an introduction to the trip - who, why, how - see this link.

The day before we were due to leave was one of excitement and nerves. I had bought and packed tools, a puncture repair kit, duct tape, zip ties, chain cleaner and most things required to get a poorly bike going again, should it be needed. We had all bought breakdown cover. Everything was booked and set and sorted. 

We were all experienced motorcyclists. And yet we were all as nervous as you would be heading into an important job interview. Whatsapp messages flew back and forth. Have you packed this? I'm planning to wear this, how about you? The weather looks iffy, what if it rains all the time? Are French toilets still a hole in the ground?

I've driven in France multiple times, including earlier in the year for Le Mans. Colin is well travelled but had only driven in France once before. Nik has been to a few places but had never been to France. None of us had ever ridden a motorcycle in a foreign country.

Even at fifty years old the anticipation of new experiences can make you feel a little lost.

However by the evening of the day before I knew I had prepared as well as I possibly could. I slept like a log.

Nik is a truck driver by trade and as such wakes at 5am. Despite us agreeing to leave my house at 9.30am he arrived at 7.30am. He'd been up for hours and wanted to get going. I had only just stepped out of the shower.

Colin arrived at 8.30am. If you remember from part one my back had gone ping and was causing me a huge amount of pain. Colin helped me pull my bike out of the garage and onto the road. We lined up the bikes for a photo. We all had satnav of some kind - Nik and I were using Google Maps on our phones, and Colin had a posh Garmin satnav (that proved to be pretty useless).

And at 9.03am exactly we were off.

I hadn't ridden my bike with panniers before. They stick out massively and I thought they would be like sails. But after a few miles on the motorway I didn't notice them at all. My back was causing me some gyp but I realised if I twisted and stretched a little, and shifted my weight about it would be just fine.

Our Eurotunnel train was booked for 4.50pm and at 3.30pm we arrived at Folkestone. For some daft reason the M20 had been reduced to 50mph for about ten miles, and lorries were guided into a separate lane and were limited to 30mph. However the weather had been fine and there had been no queues on the motorways and we had all enjoyed a good blast down south.

We were waved through check in and customs quickly and given a place on an earlier train, so at 4.10pm were were wobbling our way onto the last carriage of the train that would take us under the sea and into France.

It was hot in Folkestone and we'd all suffered in the sun whilst loading. The train carriage was empty save for our three motorcycles. It was also boiling hot but thankfully beautifully cooled air was pumped into our carriage.

The crossing was over in just a few minutes. We even had mobile coverage for most of the subterranean trip.

We departed Tunnel sous La Manche and were in France. Where they drive on the wrong side of the road. We had been telling each other repeatedly. WRONG side. Right side, wrong, wrong side.

We left the Eurotunnel complex and immediately filled up with fuel. It cost fifty pence per litre less than in the UK. We were ecstatic. I was even more ecstatic when I bought a bottle of Orangina, my favourite drink.

Our hotel was in Bolougne, a half hour ride from Calais. It was a lovely hotel but the French chap serving drinks was quite surly, and took great delight in underfilling our glasses, and became even more surly when Colin asked for his to be topped up. Well, what did you expect for eight euros for 500ml.

Dinner was a short walk away in the medieval centre of town. Which was a good job because my back was almost totally seized and causing me much discomfort. After some faffing about we decided on a typical French restaurant (they were all typical French restaurants) and enjoyed enormous steaks (pas de cheval s'il vous plait) and frites. I did all the ordering as my smattering of French was more than Colin and Nik were able. 

I had asked for a peppercorn sauce and enjoyed dipping bits of my pas de cheval in it. Colin and I both have a pathological hatred of mushrooms and he was convinced the sauce contained champignons. As we finished and the waitress was clearing our table Colin asked if there were any mushrooms in the sauce. Of course not, I said. Un peu, she said, which none of us understood. But we did understand when she held her forefinger and thumb slightly apart. A little...

Colin was victorious. I had eaten the dreaded trumpets of death - even if it was 'un peu'.

We slept well and I awoke at 5am in pain with my back again. I breakfasted early and found Nik outside, on his second Marlboro of the day. We both decided we should wake Colin and get going.

With clear skies overhead we hit the road. Our destination was a small town called Niort, 410 miles south and about two thirds of the way down the west coast of France.

It was a day of autoroutes. These roads are fantastic but expensive. The limit is 130kph, which is 81mph. Every now and again you stop at a toll booth, take a ticket and carry on. Then later on you stop again and put your ticket in the machine and it charges you for the distance and the class of vehicle. Bikes are the cheapest but if you go in the wrong lane (there can be twenty to choose from) it can charge you the highest rate - as Nik once found to his cost.

The sun beat down all morning and by lunchtime it was 30ºC. Even at 80mph you feel hot. It's like sitting in the blast of a hair dryer. You open vents and undo buttons and it's still hot. The heat makes you weary.

By 5pm we were all exhausted. But we had miles to go. We were all getting a little irritable. Nik had bought a new helmet just before the trip and the buckle was digging into his chin, leaving a bruise. 

We found a place to stop in the shade. He'd had enough of the buckle. I dug into my panniers and found the toolkit. In it was a pair of pliers with a cutting edge. We used this clumsy tool to snip away at the plastic that was causing him the most discomfort. Hurrah! It worked.

At 7pm we finally arrived at our hotel. Weary and still hot we piled into the bar for a beer like we'd hadn't drunk anything for an eternity. Damn it tasted good, even if it cost eight euros for 500ml.

That night we ate at an American style diner which was next to the hotel. Not very French but gloriously welcome after our long day on the road. The three amigos clinked glasses and exchanged stories of our adventures so far.

The next morning Nik and I awoke at 5am and were ready to go for 7am. Colin was still asleep so we bombarded him with Whatsapp messages until he arose, and as the sun rose over a new day we were loaded and ready.

Our destination was Pamplona. Viva Espana!

Day three was half autoroute and half mountain. By lunchtime we were off the autoroute and on to rural French roads.  The sun was really beating down and we stopped at a roadside diner for jambon and fromage baguettes with a cold Coke and a dose of welcome air conditioning. 

We headed towards a place called Saint Palais, purely because the roads looked interesting, and they didn't disappoint. The D933 takes you into the French Pyrenees and at some point it becomes the N135 and the Spanish Pyrenees, only you don't notice until you see road signs and numberplate and realise you've crossed into another country.

That afternoon I rode the best roads I've ever experienced. I was totally in my element. Hairpins and sharp bends on mountain sides. Despite riding an adventure bike loaded with luggage I was braking as late and hard and leaning as much as I dared in corners. And the corners just came at me, one after another. Sharp turn, tyres squirming, short straight, red line the engine and overtake a car or two, brake hard, shift weight a little to aid stopping and then turning. 

On and on they went until the most spectacular vista and an area to stop and take stock. We all stripped off coats and helmets, had a drink and larked around awhile, full of vim from the exhilaration.

The rest of the day continued in the same vein until we came down out of the mountains and into Pamplona's suburbs. All our satnavs said different things and we were all a little grumpy after a hard day's ride. We turned this way and that until we found the hotel. As with all of them I'd chosen it for secure parking and a decent bar nearby.

The area around the hotel felt a little rough but we headed to a restaurant the hotel receptionist had suggested and tucked into simple but delicious food, and cheap, cold beer. The Spanish people were welcoming and friendly but none of us could understand a word they said, though Google translate helped us out.

We sat in an outdoor bar in a town square and drank a few beers and by 10pm were all headed to the hotel and to sleep the sleep of the exhausted once again.

Up early and we spent twenty minutes trying to order breakfast. In the end we pointed at things and this seemed to work. I eneded up with a small egg and chorizo baguette and it was delicious. 

The day's roads were entirely amazing. We headed east out of Pamplona along an autoroute surrounded on both sides by mountains topped with thousands of motionless wind turbines. Within half an hour we had turned off onto a smaller road and stopped to take photos, including the one below.

Then we rode along a valley floor. Mountains miles away on either side. Hot in the sun and cold in the shade. I spotted a few red kites, and a golden eagle. Huge, spectacular birds. I felt honoured to have seen them.

The road climbed and climbed. We were heading for Lourdes, simply to take us south to north across the mountains. Small roads that in the UK would be B roads but with perfect surfaces took us higher and higher, with hairpins to enjoy. I was so focussed and at times had to tell myself to enjoy the view as much as the next corner apex.

By this point I felt invincible. Completely at one with the bike. My inputs were entirely unconscious. The bike and I were mentally entwined, elemental. I was in the zone and nothing, not even the relentless heat, could shake me out of it. 

We'd stop every so often to take photos and chat. The natural order of the ride was me first (partially because I was in charge of the route and partially because I like to ride fast), then Colin, and then Nik. We all understood that we'd stretch out along a stage, but that we'd catch up when a junction or turn off was approaching. 

We arrived in Lourdes hot and pretty worn out from the mental intensity of the morning's ride. We stopped immediately opposite the famous Notre-Dame de Lourdes and as we were on a hill none of us could put our side stands down - and a lady had shouted at me as I reversed to the pavement. 

Nik wanted to stop somewhere in Lourdes but I was really feeling the heat and the place felt like a religious Blackpool. And as it was so hilly there wasn't anywhere obvious to stop, so I rode straight through and on. This didn't go down so well. I should have stopped really, but..ah well.

From Lourdes we headed south and into the mountains again towards our evening's destination.

Vielha is a skiing village during the winter, and a popular tourist venue during the summer. There were no ugly buildings, only rather lovely chalet style houses and hotels. By this point my back was rather less painful so we walked a way to find a dinner venue, had a drink in one place that looked promising but the food was an unappetising looking tapas. 

Finally we stopped at a modern pizzeria and ate and drank well. And once again it was cheap. The differences between French and Spanish prices couldn't be more stark. In France a beer costs eight euros, in Spain it is three. 

We were now halfway through the trip and the next morning headed east and passed through more mountain roads that at times were covered in some kind of animal dung. We soon saw why. Pyrenees horses roamed free. Gorgeous creatures with distinctive sounding bells tied around their necks. We also saw huge flocks of sheep - often round blind corners. You'd see them and slam the anchors on, sit up and slow to a crawl whilst they passed, unphased.

By late morning we hit a border post. We had no idea why. I obviously hadn't researched this part of the trip very well because we were entering a sovereign micro state called Andorra. We didn't have to show our passports but several vehicles were pulled over for inspection and we were waved through.

At lunch we arrived at Lake Engolasters - the reason for our trip. A huge body of water and much busier than I'd imagined. Seeing it from an aeroplane it looked isolated, alone in the mountains. From the ground it is reached via a steep, twisting road lined with houses. We had hoped to lunch at the hotel just off the car park which overlooks the lake but it was closed.

We carried on through Andorra. It felt very strange. A busy city laid out along a winding road high up in the mountains. We needed food and stopped at a couple of places only to find them closed. We were also running late and had a long motorway run ahead of us. We stopped for fuel and bought yet more jambon and fromage sandwiches. 

The rest of the day was motorway. We passed back into Spain and then France and at 6.30pm arrived at Chateau de Lacan in Brive la Gallard. It was a lovely hotel in a suburban area of town. The only place to eat was a pizzeria, but the pizza was lovely. And the beer was eight euros.

The rest of the trip took two days. We covered 780 miles during those two days. Long and tough. The twelve kilometre tunnel under Paris was hot and humid. The channel crossing was a welcome break. Once in England the driving standards were noticeably worse than on the continent. In France people want to get along as fast as possible, and if you are not overtaking you stay in the outside lane.

It also rained on us for the first time in a week. On the content we encountered no rain, no traffic (aside from in Paris), no middle lane hoggers. On our journey back to Cheshire we encountered all three.

Indeed at points the rain was so intense it was difficult to see.

We arrived home late afternoon, seven days after we had left. The bikes filthy and our clothing wet. We were exhausted, but elated.

It had been a fantastically enjoyable trip.

By Matt Hubbard

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