The Gourmet Run
The editor heads south for the sun and eats France
"It'll be no bad thing if you pay for all the tolls on this trip," I told the Brigadier as he pulled up at the first peage heading South. "What?" he asked somewhat petulantly, pulling the fourteenth rollie of the day out of his mouth. "The tolls" I repeated, you can pay for the tolls. "Get stuffed," he replied. Some People eh!
We'd been promised rain and we weren't let down. Blessedly the Brigadier pulled over as soon as it started so I could get my waterproofs on before they simply became devices for keeping me wet. It wasn't long before we were into the old routine of blasting through sheets of spray in the fast lane, cutting past artics that were doing a perfectly reasonable 60mph. Why we can't just sit back 100yards behind a truck and bimble along is beside me. Look straight ahead at the road beyond, don't look at the truck's wheels, don't look into the cloud of spray, target fixation, you'll veer right arrrrggh. Then we're out the front of the cab and a wicked cross wind grabs the bike. Even on a low slung 700 pound Harley this is unnerving, what's it like on a lighter spindlier machine? Up ahead another truck appear and off we go again - why? At last it stops raining and we're off the peage and into the town of Troyes and everything is good.
The pneumatically stunning girl in reception explains that we can park the bikes in the underground garage. She hands us a key with a fob the size of a cosh. "This open the security gate from the outside," she explains, "when inside there is black button on the wall, press it and you can come out." We take her at her word, the gate closing behind us as we roll inside, growling exhausts bouncing off the concrete walls. We chain the bikes up for extra safety and walk up to the serious steel gate.
"Where's the button?" There is no button, it's a trap, our skeletons will be found here in a few years, woe is us. Fortunately Mrs Peel appears and lets us out so we can not only live but also explore a fabulous gem of a 15th century town centre. Wonderful Chitterling sausages eaten at a pavement table. I've never eaten Chitterling sausages before and having now done so I can assure you that they are unlike any sausages I have ever eaten before. comprising, I think a variety of fairly functional body parts rather less minced than is normal with a sausage. Slightly confused by our meal we revel in the familiarity of wine and pay for it the following day.
Day two finds us finally off the peage and on to provincial roads that lead to the fabulous rambling old Chateau de Bardonenche where we are shown to rooms fit for kings before stuffing our faces to the gills on the most marvellous nosebag. As I'm tucking into my second plate of duck avec cheese ravioli accompaniment, something warm and furry presses against my leg as a long legged labrador settles itself beneath the table. From here he gazes at me with baleful eyes. This is great, this is life! To hell with the culture of antiseptic anxiety that banishes animals from places where food is prepared and eaten. If we are to live with animals then let us have them in our homes, in our kitchens in our dining rooms and in our beds. This dog's name was Nelson.
The owner of the Chateau explained. "I have an English friend who's dog is called Napoleon, so I call mine Nelson." Pondering the military equilibrium of this intelligence we order a second bottle of vin chateau which is a mistake as it delays our departure the next day.
Day three and we spend hours chicaning through the Alps along roads obviously designed by the inventor of the motorcycle, magnifique! A sobering sign bears witness to the road's popularity with bikers.
"29 motorcyclists killed this year, already." Though I say it myself, my riding was superb, slaloming around hairpins and gentle curves through some of Europe's greatest scenery. Only a lunatic philistine would have gone faster, though some probably had. The temperature was now nudging 80 which is fine by me. "Bit too hot for riding" grumbled the brigadier. What!
Evening time found us rolling downhill into the Mediterranean resort of St Maxime a few miles up the coast from St Tropez where Harley-Davidson had organised the European Festival of motorcycling, our excuse for the trip. Here we let ourselves into a rented apartment and the Brigadier dropped his Harley against a low wall having walked away from it, not so good. He consoled himself with some local vin rouge which I gave him a hand with as I got the better of a tasty plate of Paella.
Friday and we finally make it to the rally site behind the beech where I meet the ubiquitous Sam Woods, a MAG and HOG member and the first person to buy my picture book 'Motorcycles Forever.' Sam is a master of the tasteless gesture and on this occasion is dressed in beech furniture which is slung rucksack-style across his back. Sam is a rare exception at this bash, being English, the normal Brit invasion hasn't happened and the French outnumber us by a huge majority, what's the world coming to? I thought we'd bought this country?
The ride in custom show at Port Grimaud consumes the afternoon, top honours being taken by an exceptional Shovelhead-engined machine based on the old board racer style if I'm not mistaken. All very pretty but as much use to serious travellers as a Bunny Club membership to the Pope. OK that's not the point and I take nothing away from the builders who probably deserved the Best In Show award that they got.
It was while watching the posing going on at the show that I concocted the idea of a guide to Harley rallies. A kind of a what not to do list of indiscretions and sad indulgences. For the rest of the day I scribbled in my notebook as human prompts reminded us of yet another faux pas worthy of listing.
Blipping the throttle pointlessly, riding with a cigarette in your mouth, putting your feet on highway pegs to cross a car park, wearing Nazis helmets, playing abrasive rock on bike-mounted stereos in town, the list grew as the sun sank and we retired to a quiet back street restaurant in St Maxime.
"What do you advise?" I asked the sultry waitress. She pointed to a dish on the menu, nodding silently as she smiled at me with knowing superiority. I took her advice and did not regret it. More wine.
Saturday lunch time and we fetched up at a waterfront restaurant in St Tropez for omelette stuffing before an afternoon's photography on site. It was here that I made the purchase that has eluded me for 34 years.
'That's a dinky helmet" I thought , turning over a natty little open face lid with a brown leather lining. Small shell size, not too much padding, the kind of helmet that doesn't turn you into Megon man and yet looks as if it might actually be legal. Ever since the cursed helmet law came in and forced me into this strange walk of life I have searched for a helmet like this. Ludicrous impractical variations on the beanie helmet have been around for years but they are bit of a micky take and fly off your head if you sneeze. No-one to my knowledge has ever tried to make a helmet that can be used for practical purposes without enclosing Chesterfield weight padding or earning you unwelcome police attention. Now they have. Step forward Xaver Helmets for you deserve the motorcycle kit award 2007, beautifully modelled as you can see here by Miss St Tropez of the same year. On sale at a special show offer of 50 Euros, about £30, bargain!
Saturday night and I'm stuffing my face with a garlic spinach stuffed Salmon when Mrs Peel's mobile rings. "Speak to your friend." she says to the Brig who oiks the fiftieth rollie of the day out of his mouth to grasps the phone with a puzzled expression. A grin broadens through the ascending haze of smoke. It is Dave French who regular readers of The ROAD may know is really Irish. The half wit has ridden just over one thousand miles in a day from Poland to join us and test out his new BMW GS. Barmy? certaiment! So what do you think of the bike? "Ah it's grand yes to be sure, it's grand." We order more wine to celebrate Dave's effort, a mistake.
Next day we head for home back through the Alps. Not the quickest way of covering distance but great fun. Europe's answer to The Grand Canyon, the Verdon Gorge is breathtaking. Team loony are out on mission suicide but they wave in a friendly manner as they hurtle past us to their fate along the confused Anaconda of asphalt that is D995.
We pull over at a tourist tack cafe where I buy a ceramic cricket and five postcards. "I can't see how you're not grounding out on those bends so I can't" says Dave who is still Irish and baffled by my skill in judging the maximum angle of lean. He pinches an invisible fag paper between a thumb and forefinger before my face.
"Your foot pegs are that much off the road, so they are, he announces with incredulity.
"Skill mate", I reply, "impeccable judgement, you might learn it one of these days."
"It's hardly necessary if you have some sensible ground clearance." he retorts, glancing at the space beneath the GS's frame where a pygmy in a stove pipe hat might comfortably stand upright.
I do keep my suspension on the softest setting at all times in order to get my feet flat on the ground which is far more important to me than any amount of bend swinging agility. If you can't get your feet flat on the ground then it's not your bike is it? You wouldn't walk round in a pair of trousers cut for the Harlem Globetrotters would you? No, exactly. A few miles down the road and the fresh air is getting to the Brigadier who must inhale clouds of smoke to rectify the situation. I decide to climb over the wall protecting the indiscrete from certain death and Mrs Peel howls discouragement. "You'll fall, no, I can't watch" she wails. I don't fall and the image captured is a bit of a gem don't you think? Evening finds us fetching up in the pretty little Alpine town of La Salette where we ensconced ourselves in the inauspiciously named Hotel de la Poste where, after a walk round the town, we indulged the greatest gastonomic indulgence of the trip.
I ordered Dublin prawns followed by Guinea Fowl and sat back with a glass of beer as exquisite aromas caused rivulets of saliva to dribble down my chin. This indiscretion aside I was confused by my dining chair that was holding me beyond the upright so that I leaned forward into my food with an emphasis that strayed to the vulgar side of enthusiastic. Clearly the management demanded full attention from their guests and slouching in the dining room was not tolerated. No matter a huge silver platter of oysters had arrived sur la maison. It would have been impolite to neglect this freebie and I troughed three of them plus a la bouche amusante comprising a vol au vent surrounded by mussels before a reflection in an angled serving dish aroused my interest. What was this running past my shoulder? A padded canvas strap, ah ha, no wonder I was leaning awkwardly forward. For the last twenty minutes I had been sitting in a rather swanky restaurant with a small rucksack on my back. This was a first for me and possibly explained the slightly condescending expression on the waiter's face as he lowered an ocean's worth of seafood before me. I made a great joke of discovering the bag to discourage the idea that I normally ate like this and set to at the crustaceans with a vengeful resolution that shocked the Brigadier. Half an hour on he sat back poised with a rollie unlit in deference to my sensibilities. Smoke is the last thing you want when the temple of Bacchus is in full swing.
"I have never in my life seen anyone get so much out of shell fish" he exclaimed with incredulity as I sucked the last fibre of meat from a crab leg. 'Dublin prawns' in the Hotel de la Poste is something of a misnomer involving as it does, large chunks of crayfish, crab and prawns plus a brace of escargot which I think had migrated from Mrs Peel's plate and had to be teased from their shells with an elegant steel prong. With the sea food finally defeated, the battlefield of evacuated crustacean was cleared to make space for roast Guinea Fowl et pommes duphinois by which time I was beginning to flag. Curiosity led me to help Mrs Peel with her steak however after which a selection of exquisite deserts appeared. I settled for ice cream as being something that you can eat regardless of how full the stomach. Ice cream however meant four portions of different flavours accompanied by a huge twist of pure cream freckled with chocolate dust. Dave French ran about against the stops with his menagerie of tarts.
"This is the richest chocolate cake I have ever eaten in my entire life" he exclaimed with Celtic exasperation.
"Bit of a change from your usual potato diet eh" I jested wittily, spooning the last of his chocolate cake on to my plate.
"Indeed indeed." conceded Dave with a good humoured grin.
And the price for that lot, including coffee, 19.5Euro about £13.50. Viva La France.
The following day was not so good. The terrifying sound of rain outside my window greeted me and though it eased off by the time we left, the roads were wet. I don't do bends in the wet, it ain't natural. Everyone knows you cannot lean motorcycles on a wet road, any more than you can brake in the rain, the wheels will simply slide away from you, I know it's happened to me many times. The ride out of the mountains was err, restrained. Several times I pulled over to let the convoys of cars behind get past. One hairpin proved particularly challenging and with speed down to 2mph I came close to falling off as I wandered across to the wrong side of the road with Dave French half overtaking me on the inside. Over by the edge of the road in a layby, a cloud of smoke betrayed the presence of the Brigadier who had stopped to roll a cigarette and make some phone calls as I caught up. This was le experience terrible but at last it was over and we were on to straight roads and the peage North when things got worse. The rain now was merciless. Dense wind-blown and relentless, it drove through the zips of our jackets, curled around our throats to migrate down our chests and oozed through our gloves, transforming them into sodden sponges with fingers. Trucks sent vast clouds of diesel scented spray into our faces. Blessedly the Brigadier gave up on the overtakes and we sat at 50mph in the slow lane, hunched and freezing.
Pulling over to the rest area at a toll booth I rode into a lake several inches deep, a wave of solid water sweeping over me with a spectacular hiss as the hot engine made steam. We'd lost Dave French in the traffic jam of some road works a little way back and I made a mental note to tell him he's got to learn to ride a motorcycle.
"I've got an idea" announced the Brigadier. "This had better be good" I thought.
He hung his dripping gloves over his handlebars and reached for his baccy, "Let's give up," he announced. "What an excellent idea I agreed, we'll find a hotel and go out for a nice meal tonight.
And so we did, the town of Macon hosting us for the night. With no drying room I hung all my gear over a heater in my room and after Mrs Peel had spent three hours drying her hair we checked the news to find that the whole of France was the same and would be tomorrow. It was then that I came up with the idea of hiring a van, putting he bikes in it and dropping it at Calais. We phoned Eurocar, 900Euros what! Next day, cloudy and unseasonably cold but dry, go for it, on the bikes. Brrrrrrum straight up the peage 75-80mph, stop every hundred miles, quick coffee onwards. Five hundred miles, job done, home. Hurrah!
Mutch
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