Odyssey - the journey to Greece (2011) - Part 5 - ARRIVAL

After 2,200kms of bike riding across 6 countries, I have now arrived Greece.

My day since has roughly gone like this:

1. Coffee & conversation with friends.

2. Beer & nutrition with friends.

3. Shopping to stock up the house.

4. Music, beer and tavli (backgammon) with friend.

5. A brief name day celebration with neighbours.

6. A grilled sea bream, some "local" wine, salads, bread, political analysis of where the world has gone wrong and discussion of the world's third biggest explosion - with friends.

7. Home, bed, rest.

I am hopeful that the rest of my stay will go along similar lines - although with perhaps less shopping...

And now to sleep

Odyssey - the journey to Greece (2011) - Part 4 – Ancona Ferry Terminal - Berlusque-oni

As have I travelled through Italy the last couple of days a recurring set of thoughts had gone through my head relating to the country's identity and how people shape the identity of countries and their reputations.

When I was at University studying Italian, I was truly in love with Italy - and all things Italian. The culture, the language, architecture, music, literature, Italian style, design, the cars and the food. There was nothing I didn't love. To say I was passionate about Italy would be an understatement.

My passion was tempered by reality when I came to live here - first in Florence for a few months and then later for a year in Padua where I went to University for a year.

To say I studied in Padua would be a slight untruth - as in fact the terms of my European Exchange scheme - Erasmus - meant that I had to follow only two courses to graduate the year and pass an exam in only one. I chose English Language (at which I did rather well until being kicked out of the class on a technicality - being English) and International Art House Cinema (only in Italy!). The cinema course - on which I was examined and gained 100%) involved watching a movie every Friday and then attending an optional tutorial / seminar. Tough gig. I did my exam on a Peter Greenaway film - I forget which one - but probably The Belly of an Architect or A Zed & Two Noughts.

Instead of studying I got use to Italian bureaucracy, hung out with girls a lot, travelled all over Italy on my motorcycle and on the train, spent nearly every weekend in Venice, ate a lot of great food, learned to cook better (to impress girls) and worked on my guitar playing. There all seemed to be very good things to do with my time and a valuable education in a young man's life. Much better than slaving over books in dusty libraries.

As my familiarity with the country and its people grew, my impression of Italy became more real, more concrete. My love remained, but became a love borne of knowledge and not just ideas and aspirations.

I moved to Greece shortly after my time in Italy (one of the girls I met in Italy was Greek - and at that age one follows one's instincts and to hell with the rest of it!) and my visits to Italy became sporadic for the next 20 years.

My love for Italy faded, but it always remained a place I was fond of, but not as fond as I became of the country that has been the love of my life - Greece.

Instead Italy became a love of memory - a Proustian collection of moments, events, feelings all washed over with a varnish of time and selective recollection.

This trip I reignited some of those memories but found myself seeing Italy through a prism of headlines and figureheads.

There is a great deal of truth in the idea that people who represent their country become icons and prisms for the view of that country. Their image shapes the image people have of their country.

Luciano Pavarotti, Valentino Rossi, Giacomo Agostini, Max Biaggi, Antonio Carluccio, Luchino Visconti, Roberto Rosselini, Federico Fellini, Marcello Mastroianni, Sophia Loren, Gina Lollobrigida, Zucchero, countless footballers etc. All endow Italy - or endowed Italy with its "brand essence". All reflected good or bad, their country and its people.

However today the face that is synonymous with Italy is its top political official, its holder of highest office, Silvio Berlusconi. Or perhaps better written as Silvio Burlesque-oni - for he really had brought the burlesque and worse to the country's highest office and political affairs.

A billionaire dictator with a problematic hair issue, a libido that cannot be quenched even by the youngest most sordid prostitutes, a business background that keeps several law firms busy 24/7 and an attitude that shames the people he represents - and yet, he is an ELECTED official. The democratic process in Italy has seen him elected repeatedly - only to bring more shame on his country and his office and now, to ruin the economy.

It is sad that Italy's beauty, cultural contribution, spirit and joy can be marred by one man's image and reputation - but it is not an overstatement to say that it has been and is.

Corruption, graft, nepotism, gangster like behaviour - I suppose they have always been associated with Italian politics and the tumultuous post war succession of governments - but previous PMs were discreet and did not publicly exemplify so strongly these faults. Giulio Andreotti - involved with the mafia and murder on a large scale - was a quiet little man and didn't attract the headlines that Silvio does. And didn't bring nearly as much shame on his country until the end of his time.

Italy is still a great country - but it really is time for a new leader who will represent the good that Italy has and not the bad.

Time to get rid of the walking, talking hard-on with a bad wig, worse morals and an arrogance that is astounding. He's not a leader - he's a caricature. And not a very nice one.

And on that happy note - I am about to board the boat to Greece! Hooray!

Odyssey - the journey to Greece (2011) - Part 3 – Urbino

The ride from Stresa was exhausting today. I think my age is catching up with me - in the old days I'd have done this distance (500kms) and change.

I took the motorway most of the way to save time and it was dull and hot.

Eventually I stopped and took off my jacket, stashed it under my luggage sack on the back and headed off a good deal cooler. Now, of course, I have two tone arms...

Eventually I pulled of the autostrada and headed up into the hills to Urbino...and I recalled why I love biking so much...

After 450 plus kms of back ache, sun burn, sore shoulders, numb bum and a face full of insects, I hit a beautiful windy road up into the hills. Single carriageway, tree lined all the way - providing much needed shade - and a handful of cars to pick off with the bike revving through the gears.

Wind in my face, astoundingly beautiful scenery all around me and the feeling of total freedom and excitement that only a motorcycle can provide.

Not only can you feel all the elements on a bike - cold, heat, rain, bumps in the road etc - you can also smell your surroundings - the freshness of pines, the occasional cooking aroma wafting out of a village house, the smell of freshly cut grass, the scent of lemons etc. It is a uniquely intense experience - and incredibly stimulating and satisfying.

Then there is the machine - a hot mass of pistons beating their hardest, the engine thumping a few inches beneath your seat, the grip of the bars as you aim for the next corner, the compression as you brake hard, and then the twist of the wrist to unleash enormous amounts of immediate power straight to one wheel underneath you...and you surge forward with urgency and a hint of danger. The thrill is addictive (I was hooked 25 years ago) and progressive.

I honestly don't think there are many other activities which make me feel quite so alive as riding my bike - whether on the track, on the road, in the woods, the mountains or the desert. I will never be able to give up the combination of total freedom and implicit danger. It's a magical cocktail.

And it is also by far the best way to see the world in locomotion. No windscreens, no metal cage to obstruct the view. When on a bike you are present in the moment and you are fully aware. Totally focused.

Those last 28kms to Urbino made my whole riding day. A grin plastered across my face as wide as the valleys I rode through, climbing to this gorgeous red brick city of the Dukes - once the cultural centre of all Italy and the seat of the biggest contributors to the Renaissance - the Duke of Montefeltro and his successors, the Della Rovere family.

They not only patronised the arts and humanities from the 15th century onwards - they gave them a home. Poets, architects, painters, musicians, philosophers and so on were all welcomed to Urbino and the court developed an international renown. No more celebrated than in The Book of the Courtier by Urbino resident writer and himself a courtier to the Duke - Baldassare Castiglione. His book describes - through conversations - what makes a perfect gentleman and courtier. A manifesto for renaissance man.

I first read that book while studying Italian at University some 20 years ago and it inspired my curiosity in Urbino, its history and the great court and all that it contributed to history and art. Castiglione lived 500 years ago at a time when Urbino was at its zenith and his book is considered a great classic. If you have the time & inclination - it is a great read and available in translation from Penguin.

The city he writes from and the court he writes about stand almost brick perfect today - a sudden burst of buildings appearing as one rounds a hilltop bend. I remember the first time I came here - many years ago on another motorcycle trip - and literally having my breath taken away by its beauty.

I have been here many times since and always make a point of stopping here if I am remotely nearby - and several times have made the pilgrimage especially.

It is indescribably beautiful and possesses both a poetry and a majesty that befits its status in Italian history.

It is highly likely that my next marriage proposal - assuming I am the one proposing! - will take place in this little city. It is a place of great romance, charm and import. Befitting of a marriage proposal and it will be important that the next wife approves of Urbino - although I suppose I can always continue to come on my own!

This trip however I am still between wives so am enjoying Urbino's peace & quiet (it is home to only 15,000 people and approximately another 15,000 attending the university which continues the city's tradition of being a centre for men of letters and learning. And I dare say women too.) - and enjoying being back in a place that is both familiar and magical.

I am staying in the Albergo San Domenico - a converted convent opposite the Ducal Palace - which is really lovely. Simple but very peaceful and comfortable. I am writing this from one of the cloisters in the hotel surrounding a quiet courtyard, sipping Prosecco and unwinding after my ride.

I have done a quick reconnaissance of the town to ensure that my favourite little trattoria is still there - it is and I hope to dine there this evening on traditional food of the area - and to soak up the architecture, the chiaroscuro of the little alleys twisting and turning around the city and to watch the Italians make their "passegiata" or early evening stroll.

As is my habit, the guidebooks and lists of sites stay quietly forgotten in the hotel and I wander aimlessly preferring just to watch life go by and take it all in. I'm not immune to learning - far from it - but prefer to graze and intuit rather than strain and study...that which comes from natural curiosity and fortuitous experience is likely to remain and be more important than that that is forced.

My mild disappointment with Stresa last night - mainly the hotel which has seen better times and the food which was at best average - has been mitigated by my utter delight at being here. I find myself happy and at peace in Urbino - inspired to think of beautiful things and avoid the drudgery of everyday existence.

This is one of "my places" in the world - and I highly commend it. Indeed I highly recommend you make Urbino one of your places too.

Tomorrow I set off early for Ancona and the boat to Greece. Another leg of my odyssey and a chance to relax from the bike riding and prepare myself for the delights of being in Greece for a week or so and changing pace & rhythm to something altogether more Mediterranean and sorely missed....

Odyssey - the journey to Greece (2011) - Part 2 – THE MEAL

Yesterday’s ride from Luxembourg to Beaune was uneventful.

Some lovely roads through rural France and a distinct lack of Neo Nazi skinheads made the journey pleasant – but the weather is hotting up as I head south and I was tired and sweaty when I arrived at the Hostellerie Le Cedre at Beaune. (http://www.lecedre-beaune.com ).

I parked up and went inside to the hotel and announced myself to the lady at reception who insisted on speaking French (and also had a nice disdainful look for the biker who had entered her habitat). I insisted on speaking English – not because I cannot muster basic French, but out of principal. I will speak Italian in Italy (indeed I have done since arriving in Italy this afternoon) and Greek in Greece, but in France I will speak English until desperate.

Having negotiated check-in I enquired about a reservation at the hotel’s quite famous restaurant Le Clos Du Cedre. The reception lady smiled a twisted smile and told with some glee that the restaurant was fully booked. I asked “Surely one person will be fine?” “Non, Monsieur.” I now resorted to French. “Je suis seul! Seulement une personne pour ce soir?”. “Non monsieur. There are other restaurants in the town!”. She resorted to English as she plunged the knife of bad news into my chest with vigour.

That was me told. So I changed, and went to the beautiful garden to drink away my sorrow with some afternoon rose and do a quick conference call for work.

Several glasses of rose later, I retired for an afternoon nap and woke a couple of hours later feeling rested and hungry. I dressed and prepared to leave the hotel.

Another lady was now staffing reception and I thought I would try my luck with her. She turned out to be Dutch – the savior nation of my trip so far. She said they had had a cancellation and I was in. I then enquired if the hotel sold cigarettes (I always return fully to smoking for vacation – it is an indulgence. I have my quitting pills with me for the journey back). She said they did not, but then kindly (I think!) gave me the rest of her packet – an Algerian brand called “Rym”. Let us say simply that Algerians are to fine tobacco what the French are to spreading the use of English…but beggars and choosers, so I headed off to the garden of the restaurant to dine outside and smoke Algerian cigarettes.

Now there are many things which contribute to making a great meal. Atmosphere, décor, service, food, companions, location, timing, great food of course and many more. The meal I enjoyed at Le Clos Du Cedre is one of the Top Ten meals of my life (so far).

In my Top Ten are meals at Le Manoir Au Quat Saisons in Oxfordshire (Raymond Blanc’s Taj Mahal to food), at Cercis Murat Konagi in Istanbul – the dedication to the cuisine of the city of Mardin, at Ramsay’s restaurant at Claridges and so on, but also wonderful meals in tavernas in Greece, tapas in Madrid and others. It is not JUST about great food – although Le Clos was truly excellent food. The chef de cuisine is Kunihisa Goto – a French trained Japanese Chef. You can read about him, the restaurant and the menu at their website: http://www.lecedre-beaune.com/uk/index.php#restaurant-clos-du-cedre.php but in the meantime, let me tell you about my meal . . .

I sat at around 8pm after choosing a nice table under a tree in the garden. The menu and the wine list were duly brought to me by pleasant staff who spoke to me in English (!). I opened the menu first and began to consider what delights to treat my stomach, eyes and taste buds to . . .

Oh what a choice!

I considered the menu with two Algerian cigarettes (they were better than I thought!) and after 20 minutes of deep contemplation I completed my deliberations. I then turned to the wine menu while enjoying a glass of chilled champagne in anticipation.

The French are obviously in a league of their own when it comes to the culture of wine but one of their greatest merits is the production of the “demi bouteille”. A lone diner such as me is loathed to order one bottle of wine for the whole meal, and ordering by the glass seems frustrating and pointless. I made my tentative selections mentally and closed the book. For it was indeed a book of wine.

The waiter came to take my food order, repeated it back to me, nodded with approval and informed me that the sommelier would arrive presently to consult on wine. I like that. And as I am no Master of Wine, a consultation was very welcome. With the prospect of very good food ahead I was suffering from some wine anxiety and the sommelier was just the man to sort me out.

He came and asked me what I was eating. I told him. As all good consultants do, he began by asking me questions, and then gently asked if I had had any thoughts myself. I slightly nervously mentioned a Chablis for my first courses. He nodded half heartedly and told me that the Chablis was indeed a good wine, but perhaps not the optimum choice for my food selection. He commended the 2008 Meursault Javilliers. It came in a demi bouteille. I was sold.

Then we moved on to the choice of red. Now if white wine gets me nervous, choosing red turns me into a basket case. I am blessed with a near photographic memory, so when I drink something good, I memorize it - but nothing in the wine book matched my database of good things to drink that are red and made from grapes…Luckily Gaston (this is how I named him in my head) was there to quietly assist . . . I mentioned a red, casually, almost nonchalantly as though it were not really a serious suggestion. He hid his smirk quite well, but not perfectly. He immediately gauged the level of help required by this client and went for direct advocacy suggesting a heavy duty Burgundy called Gevrey Arlaud – 2009 vintage.

And I was set.

The Amuse Bouches arrived as I finished my champagne. A tiny glass of melon and basil gazpacho and a spoon of spiced bulgur wheat with a tiny slice of cured tuna and a spot of caviar. Delicious and a good omen of things to come – spice, fruit, beautiful presentation and lovely fresh ingredients.

Course #1:

The pre-appetiser.

A “foam” of leek and potato mousse with fish. As I dropped my spoon into the yellow sphere on the plate, it opened and oozed a delicious cream of potato and leek onto the spoon. The first taste confirmed the presence of fish also and the whole flavour combination was both delicate but strong. I had to restrain myself from bending my head to the edge of the bowl and sucking – instead sticking to spoon in, lift up, taste, pause, pause some more, and then another mouthful. I was impressed by both the flavors – a classic combination of leek & potato with a twist – and also the presentation / texture. It was so light as a texture I thought it might actually float, but then so strong and powerful with its flavor – packing a punch that was quite incongruous and counter-intuitive when compared to the texture. Full marks and now my bar was set higher in anticipation of the appetizer.

Course #2:

The appetizer.

Warm Half Blue Lobster, Seasonal Fruit & Vegetables, Raspberry & Lemon Verbana Vinaigrette Sauce

This was simply a stunning dish. Visually it was so pretty my first reaction was to take a photograph. The fruits and vegetables arranged in such a fashion as to look both casual and precise. The lobster was very slightly warm, and incredibly succulent and juicy - a full claw’s worth of meat – lying on one side of the plate with a little of the sauce (a hint of sesame oil in the dressing) and the medley of fruits on the other side. There was pear, white peach, dill, a tiny leaf from the heart of a romaine lettuce, a shaving of carrot and a shaving of black carrot, a hazelnut, an almond and the kicker for me – some dried fig… Wonderful – and the Meursault accompanied it beautifully.

Course #3:

A palate cleanser between courses consisting of a herbed jelly (basil), a tiny meringue –crunchy on top and soft underneath – and a spoon of spiced apricot compote.

The compote was bitter and tangy, the jelly sticky and light and the meringue provided just enough counter balance with sweetness to make this a mouthful of heaven.

Course #4:

The entrée

Fillet of Charolais Beef with potato gratin, truffle sauce and onion cream.

It sounded so simple and classic on the menu when I read it, and indeed it was. But the simplicity belied the incredible flavor of the meat and the sauce – with the onion cream representing the piece de resistance - a warm, creamy emulsion of onions that were sweet, deep and immensely comforting. The beef was robust, cooked slightly on the wrong side of “saignant” for my taste (a little too close to “a point”) but full of flavor. I know this cow lived well, probably lived close to Beaune and enjoyed a full life before giving it up to feed me and others. Well done cow – it was worth the ultimate sacrifice – you were appreciated.

The wine was sensational – a deep, rich red, the colour of bull’s blood and a fine accompaniment to this piece of Burgundy’s finest beef. Magnifique!

Course #5:

Dessert

An apricot sauteed in Sauternes. Tossed with herbs and halved hazelnuts and served warm in its cooking syrup on top of a fresh piece of shortbread with some nougat and nougat ice cream.

The apricot is an often overlooked fruit which is at its best in summer time and lends itself well to poaching or sautéing in wine. It was utterly delicious and “just enough”. The shortbread was crumbly and still warm, the nougat ice cream melting over a slice of chewy nougat on the plate. The nuts and herbs added extra dimensions to the flavor and texture which lifted the dish a notch and created harmony.

I ordered a glass of dessert wine to accompany my apricot – what better than my favourite French dessert wine – Muscat De Beaumes De Venise. A wine I have written about in my gastro-pornography blog - it’s that good. I consider Muscat De Beaumes De Venise as a mistress who is able to totally put me under her spell. It was utterly delicious and I savoured every mouthful.

Course #6:

Coffee and a post prandial sweet

Coffee was thick, black, nutty and heavy. I needed it after the meal and all the wine. The sweet was a very pretty flute glass with a cappuccino of caramel and whipped cream with a macaroon filled with orange. Sublime.

So the food was good – but why did this make the Top Ten meals?

Because everything was good. The service was delightful. The ambience was rested and natural. The sommelier was earnest and caring. The Algerian cigarettes made a great intercourse cigarette. The coffee was just bitter enough. The champagne was lovely. The weather was gorgeous – a pleasant summer’s night. My mood was intensely focused and devoted to the pleasures of eating and most of all destiny which had seemed to deny me all of this when I arrived at the hotel, had suddenly afforded me all of this pleasure on whim.

My only sadness at this great meal in Beaune was that I enjoyed it alone. It was a meal very much worthy of being shared and I thought throughout the meal of various people who I would either like to be talking to at that point, sharing the food with or both.

Which of course means I will have to go back.

I consider these road trips as reconnaissance missions anyway – so last night was a great big note in the travel diary, underlined and marked with “return!”.

Odyssey - the journey to Greece (2011) - Part 1

Odyssey - the journey to Greece (2011) - Part 1

My first day began at around 6am . . . but promptly ended in favour of a couple of hours more sleep. After all – it is the holidays.

When I finally roused myself I was full of very good intentions regarding breakfast.

The day before I had not eaten anything at all until the evening - whereupon I filled myself vigorously with lovely French sourdough bread, a deliciously fresh baked piece of Quiche Lorraine served with a spicy salad of mixed leaves and a mustardy vinaigrette and the added tang of julienned pieces of green apple – giving a contrasting crunch and slight acidity to cut through the warm, soft and unctuous quiche…

I followed this with a classic faux fillet, cooked “saignant” – although it came “bleu” (and all the better for it) with French fries (yes French Fries in France – who knew?) and another green salad . . . washed down with a pichet of rough-ish but pleasant local rose and buckets of San Pellegrino (by FAR my favourite sparkling mineral water, although I confess to warming more and more in my middle age to Badoit – a mineral water that I despised in my youth.)

I knew that a dessert was really totally unnecessary – despite my unwitting fast of the day – but I invoked “holiday logic” once more and dove into a delicious rhubarb “soup” with fresh strawberries and a sharp but tasty blueberry sorbet in the middle. It was slightly spoiled by a large piece of chocolate lattice balanced on the top.

I dismissed the chocolate lattice to the side of the plate, whereupon I felt instant remorse and woofed it down to get it out of the way. Coffee – the incredibly bitter and dark French kind – followed. The French really do food well. They’re famous for it of course, but nevertheless it is good to chow down on some good old fashioned French Provincial Cooking as Elizabeth David termed it. The addition of some chopped chives to a steak, or those apple slices to the salad are the touches that make the French both inventive and sensitive to the delights of the palate. Bravo!

Replete, I wandered out of the restaurant and took a very brief stroll before heading to bed in my not terribly inspiring Reims hotel room and read a little of the marvelous anthology of Seamus Heaney poems given to me just before my trip by my dear friend Steph. Heaney is a Nobel prize winner and this anthology begins with poems from his first publication “Death of a Naturalist” from 1966. Very good stuff.

Sleep followed and preceded my best laid morning plans of abstinence and purity . . .which is where I began this tale . . .

I went to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. I’d thought I would have a little fruit, a nice bucket of café au lait and call it quits. But I made the mistake of investigating the “hot section” of the buffet and stumbled upon half a pig’s worth of gorgeous looking bacon. I steeled myself with self discipline, only to see what looked like my spine and anything else that might keep me on the straight and narrow, disappear from the restaurant like a zephyr.

Bacon, baguette, café au lait. Oh yes. What finer breakfast to fuel up the journeying biker and prepare him for his day ahead. It was then I noticed the noise. The constant tapping sound on the roof and the windows. Rain. Lots of it. Bugger.

Rain is not the friend of any biker I know. And certainly not the friend of a biker from the Middle East who has cunningly brought only one item of “wet weather gear” – a pair of rather pathetic rain trousers that probably belong to the pre-fat bastard period (which in turn belongs to the pre-really fat bastard period and so on…). Bugger. Again.

I considered sitting it out for a while before heading to Luxembourg – and then considered that it might be better to just get wet, get to Luxembourg and then ask the hotel to make all my nice biker clothes warm and dry again. I returned to my room in the Two Seasons of Reims (not the hotel’s real name, and perhaps generous – maybe it should be referred to as the One Season . . .it’s a chain you know. I recently stayed at the No Seasons on the Egyptian North Coast and it was ghastly) and began to gather my things.

Bike travel is quite organized and quite complicated. Organised because one has to have things to hand - warm gloves, fleeces, headphones, wet weather gear, passport, driving licence and so on – and so it requires thought. Complicated because motorbikes don’t have a trunk or boot like a car – they have little bags and cases spread all over the machine, some of which are lockable, some of which are portable and all of which require careful planning and packing.

As I considered this task, the ceiling of my hotel room suddenly started pouring water onto the floor. I felt that this was a sign and decided to just set off in the rain outside and dry off in Luxembourg. I packed, paid (Christ – I know there’s a recession and all that, but when did rural France become so bloody expensive! 200 Euros for a night in a Half Season with a moderate meal and breakfast. Vive Le Euro . . .)

I then noticed that the rain had stopped and the grey clouds had been replaced by nice fluffy white ones in the now bright blue sky. This was indeed good news. A smile made it’s way to my chops and I loaded up the bike and hit the road.

BIKE NERD BIT (1): This trip I’m using my iPhone as both GPS navigator and sound system. I bought a great piece of software called “Navigon” which is a full GPS and navigation system and very sophisticated. Made by Germans, so it works. Efficiently.

It offers many route options, has full 3D views and lots of options in terms of settings for voice, volume, units and so on. I particularly like the route settings which allow you to choose between Fast, Short, Scenic or Optimum. It also has choices for motorways and tolls. “Allow”, “Avoid” or “Forbid”. As I say – very German. I quite liked the idea of Forbidding Motorways and Tolls – so that’s exactly what I did. Verboten in one tap of the screen.

It also allows me to play music and plugs into the 12volt socket on the dash of the KTM 990 R Adventure – making life very easy. When directions are required, it automatically lowers the volume of the music blasting out of the ear buds inside my helmet and tells me in a very posh British accent where to go. Marvellous.

It also alerts you to speed limits and other restrictions, which is helpful for licence retention, but bloody annoying after a while as the music stops and the voice comes on saying “Beware”. Obviously translated directly from the German “Achtung!”. I think I would pay more attention to speed limits if it was in German rather than Eton English which makes the instruction sound a little fainthearted . . . “I say old boy, would you mind terribly? Do slow down old bean – it’s a restricted area and all that . . .”

Top kit and highly recommended.

END OF BIKE NERD BIT (1)

So I set of from Reims (which the French insist on pronouncing “R-en-s” - which is just bizarre) and headed off on some beautiful little country roads towards Luxembourg. Of course there aren’t too many road side stops on little French rural country roads. And even fewer petrol stations. And it is Sunday. And I forgot to fill with gas before exiting the sprawling metropolis that is Reims / Rens . . . and after a little while the “you’ve got almost no fuel left idiot” light lit up on the dash of the bike. Bugger.

I did some sums in my head and worked out that if I rode very slowly and carefully I might completely run out only 20-30 kilometres from civilization and then probably get picked up by a mad French farmer on his tractor, leaving my bike to be stolen by neo Nazi skinheads lurking in the villages of northern France (oh yes, they are there. I saw them. And very odd they look too with no hair, big doctor Martens and living in 15^th century farm cottages in the middle of nowhere).

I immediately reversed my ruling on motorways and tolls believing this would immediately allow the nice English voice to direct me to an enormous petrol station with special sections for bikers and a nice man to come and clean my visor and sunglasses (both covered in insect road kill). But amazingly – this didn’t happen.

Instead I seemed to carry on riding along almost single track country roads for miles and miles, with the “Petrol! You F@ckwit” light blinking at me furiously and with some obvious contempt.

As I was preparing my hitch-hiking strategy mentally (this is not an easy proposition when you are a six foot six, twenty stone English biker in the middle of rural northern France, I can assure you), fate delivered me to the fabulous spot of “Ville De Vouziers” where a petrol station was standing like a beacon just off a roundabout. I pulled in feeling quite relieved, but doing my best to look nonchalant and stopped next to the pump.

No attendants, as this is Sunday, but the pump took credit cards. So, no problem. Except it only seemed to like European credit cards and not Middle Eastern ones. I tried all of mine. Four times. Obviously the light tendency towards neo Nazism in rural France that I had observed passing through several villages filled with “yoof”, had spread to discriminating against cards from Arabia. I considered picking up the nozzle and just sucking really hard to see if petrol would come out, but then had a moderately more intelligent idea. I asked the bloke next to me if he could pay with his card and I would give him cash. Brilliant.

He was an elderly Dutch gentleman and at first I thought he simply hadn’t heard my proposal, so I repeated it. In response the expression on his face made me think that instead of asking him if he could pay with his card and I’d give him cash, I must have inadvertently proposed sleeping with his wife and torturing his grandchildren. He did not look happy nor willing.

So I simply repeated my very simple proposition again. It seems that the rule of “three” from ancient rhetoric does indeed work, especially with slightly deaf old Dutch people. He suddenly figured out I was ok and finished his rather juicy nectarine and leapt across to my aid. Obviously I use the word leap advisedly when referring to an octogenarian from the low countries. . .

Fuelled up, I thanked him profusely in five languages including Dutch (danke well) to which he immediately asked if I spoke Dutch. If I hadn’t been so obliged to this nice old boy, I might have been naughty and pointed out that if I spoke Dutch I would have asked him in Dutch for the card in exchange for money proposal instead of allowing him to think that I might be about to jump his wife and have his grand kids beaten with a rubber hose . . . anyway!

I put on Mick & Keef on the sound system and disappeared down the road passing through lovely fields and villages – only some of them populated by skinheads.

After a burst of the greatest rock and roll band in the world. Ever. No discussion. I went back to another playlist and enjoyed some Floyd, Clapton, Cream, Petty, Mac (as in Fleetwood) and some JJ Cale.

I have a massive soft spot for JJ. He is the man who wrote some of Clapton’s most famous hits (Cocaine, After Midnight, Promises and so on) and is a major influence on my own guitar playing and songwriting.

As I reflected on JJ, I came to the conclusion that he is laconic, sometimes melancholic, dry, concise and mellow. He eschews the rock n roll lifestyle and lives on a ranch in the middle of nowhere in America (where there are no skinheads or neo Nazis) with his wife and writes songs on his porch in a rocking chair. Economical with words and notes, JJ is a man who you can hear in Clapton, in Knopfler, in Waits and in many other troubadours and observational song writers.

I give you the lyrics to one of my favourite road songs ever – which was covered later by Lynyrd Skynyrd – and is a song that gets me tapping my feet and singing along every time. Which is weird and moderately dangerous while riding a motorcycle:

Call Me The Breeze – JJ Cale

They call me the breeze, I keep blowin' down the road

Well now, they call me the breeze, I keep blowin' down the road

I ain't got me nobody, I don't carry me no load

Ain't no change in the weather, ain't no changes in me

Well, there ain't no change in the weather, ain't no changes in me

And I ain't hidin' from nobody, nobody's hidin' from me

Well I got that green light, baby, I got to keep movin' on

Well I got that green light, baby, I got to keep movin' on

Well, I might go out to California, might go down to Georgia, I don't know

Well, I dig you Georgia peaches, makes me feel right at home

Now well, I dig you Georgia peaches, makes me feel right at home

But I don't love me no one woman so I can't stay in Georgia long

Here is the album version: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TlppIdtLw5A

And here is a great live version on Jules Holland's show. This man is mellow! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=21PHsqnG-qI

Magic stuff and such a good road song as it describes the delights of being itinerant and nomadic – freedom, no ties, and easy choices. An existential country blues song. J P Sartre would have been proud of JJ Cale. Probably.

Having left Britain yesterday and got to France, today I nipped through a corner of Belgium before arriving in Luxembourg in the early afternoon.

Here I found a fault with Fritz the GPS – he can’t do pedestrian zones – and my hotel – the magnificent Le Place D’Armes is in the Place D’Armes which is very much a pedestrian area.

Fritz faffed, Fritz fumed, Fritz f@cked up. Repeatedly. And I, moron that I am, followed his every direction, round and round Luxembourg until not only was I dizzy but so were some of the people sitting around watching this giant on top of a big black and orange motorcycle repeatedly ride down one way streets the wrong way and across pedestrian areas.

Eventually I switch Fritz off – before he blew a fuse completely – and stopped the bike, walked to the square, checked in and found out where I could park the bike for the night.

The hotel loves bikers. I could tell this immediately by the look on the receptionist’s face as I walked in. She took one look at a six foot six, twenty stone biker with a face covered in exploded insects, sweaty as hell, carrying helmets, jackets, bags and so on and beamed a welcoming smile that clearly showed the hotel’s love for bikers.

Actually she didn’t do that. Instead she half scowled and half wet herself.

I patiently explained that “I have a reservation” – watching her face as I said it. I am convinced that she heard “I have a criminal record” as she looked around nervously for other colleagues in the hotel.

I showed her my booking reference and got out my credit card. I wasn’t a nightmare that was going to disappear quickly.

She said something about how my card number from the online booking had not worked, a last attempt to see if I would suddenly auto-combust and leave her in peace, but instead I handed over all my cards and told her to try one until it worked. Then she took my passport and opened it a Saudi Visa page. She paled again. I asked her where the hotel’s garage was and she said I could put my CAR in a garage around the corner. Clearly trying to block out the idea of biker from her mind while my big black helmet sat on the counter of her reception area.

After dumping the bike in the garage with the help of a nice Tunisian guy from the hotel (he said he was French, but with dark skin and a name like Saeed, I figured he was probably from just South of France and to the right – and I was on the money. We talked about Dubai which he thought was much better than Luxembourg, while I argued for the Luxembourg defence . . .) - I went to my absolutely lovely room, unpacked and showered. I then went through the bikers ritual of preparing the next days kit – washing visors, cleaning glasses, airing out gloves, hanging jacket etc.

I put on some nice unthreatening clothes as worn by civilians who have nothing to do with motorbikes, put on a cap (sunny outside, bald on top, hat is good) and went downstairs to go and sit in the pavement café outside the hotel. The receptionist smiled sweetly and greeted me as I went past then enquiring if I wanted a dinner reservation this evening. Clearly I was unrecognizable as the same man who had arrived an hour earlier looking like an extra from Mad Max.

I went at least 47 feet from the front door of the hotel and parked up in the café which was fairly busy with lots of Luxemburgers enjoying a sunny Sunday afternoon.

I committed myself to following the wise words of the great guru Ray Davies, who penned the magnificent song “Lazing on a Sunny Afternoon” when leading his slightly dysfunctional band The Kinks. (Waterloo Sunset remains one of the greatest songs written and is a beautiful poem to London).

My lazy afternoon required beer, and possibly some food. My bacon and bread levels had dropped substantially and I didn’t think it wise to wait until dinner to eat or terrible things might happen in the dining room of the hotel . . . so I ordered what turned out to be an utterly delicious Caesar Salad. The common or garden staple of international hotel cuisine the world wide, this one actually tasted incredibly fresh, beautifully balancing the flavours with a just hard boiled egg and some lovely spicy marinated chicken meat. Not orthodox, but nevertheless very good.

Beer number one must have evaporated as I barely recall it. Beer number two didn’t hang around. And beer three while enjoyable, seemed also to be in a hurry. It wasn’t until beer four that I really felt respected by my dear golden coloured companion.

I spent a couple of hours watching the world go by, noting the delightful character of Europe with its dedication to eating, drinking, smoking and what the blues men of the Mississippi would have probably called “rambling” . . . and of course Sunday in Europe is very much a “rambling” kind of day – at least once the trivialities of morning religious rituals have been gone through or even enjoyed.

Walking, chatting, a quick pastry, maybe a coffee? Or a beer, or perhaps champagne as it is 4.45pm and that is as fine a time to drink champagne as any other.

Indeed, I noticed several LOLs (Little Old Ladies) parking up and ordering a glass of bubbly to enjoy for 15 minutes while taking a load off the old feet beneath them, as well as lots of fabulously pretty women in white summer dresses and dramatic sunglasses all sitting around talking about sex, plotting affairs and sipping cappuccinos. (Actually they were just as likely to be talking about tax returns, the cost of school fees and what to feed their husbands that evening – but as they were speaking mainly French my imagination immediately turned to sex. Obviously.)

With the afternoon sun beating down on my neck I pondered at length on another beer or not. To beer or not to beer – that is the question. Indeed I posted this question on Facebook, safe in the knowledge that advice would be quickly forthcoming. And indeed it was from my dear and sometime London based drinking companion Mr. Schroeder (no relation of my GPS, and only German by origin and not demeanour.)

Another beer was consumed and I returned to my room – passing the beaming receptionist who hates bikers – to sit down and write this.

I am now late for my dinner reservation – but I will be forgiven by the receptionist because I am not a biker now – so I will go in five minutes or so. . .

Until then I will conclude with the fact that it is great to be back in Europe, back on an Odyssey to my beloved Greece - the long way down – and wonderful to enjoy the culture into which I was born – or at least born adjacent to and grew up with.

Beer at 3.30pm. Quiche Lorraine. Real croissant.

The inability of all of continental Europe to do anything productive AT ALL before consuming a cup of tar-like thick black coffee (except for the Germans).

The inability of all of continental Europe to do anything productive or efficient once the cork is out of the bottle and the food is on the table – and to devote themselves instead to enjoying life, enjoying living and enjoying their friends and loved ones while breaking bread.

Except for the Germans, they break dumplings I think, and are always efficient no matter what. Except when faced with a pedestrian zone and the need to give directions to prohibited vehicles.

It should be Forbidden!