Western Scotland & Northern Ireland

A plan was hatched to do Scotland properly. I had been once before in 2003 when the Guzzi was in a friend’s barn in Shropshire. At that time, I only had a week and had only made it as far as the Isle of Skye before time ran out and I had to turn around and head south. Still, what I had seen was enough to whet my appetite for more.

A P.M. was fired off to a friend in Scotland, asking for a few route tips. Instead, he went far above the call of duty and provided Google maps and plenty of suggestions on where to stay. He even went as far as to arrange an oil change in Aberdeen for my Thruxton. I hafta doff my chapeau to him. I owe him the equivalent in return. Unfortunately, as I headed out the door to the airport, I left his maps and printed advice on the kitchen counter. D’oh!

After an overnight flight to the U.K., I arrived in Nottingham and loaded up the Thruxton. By 2 P.M., I was on the road and heading north along the A1. At Scotch Corner, I turned westward on the wonderful A864 across the Yorkshire Dales. It was at this point that the team orson photographer realized that he had forgotten the camera’s battery back in Nottingham. He tried to blame it on jet lag but, his actions were inexcusable

At around 6 P.M, it began to rain lightly (this would be a recurring theme) and decided on a nice inn near Hawes. The plan for the following day would be to make time on the M6 motorway in order to catch the final day of the 100th running of the legendary Scottish Six Days Trial held around Fort William. I got lost in Glasgow and ended up heading northeast instead of northwest. I finally realized my mistake when I reached Stirling but, it turned out to be a fortuitous mistake as, the A84 turned out to be a great ride. Ha! Let’s see yer GPS do that!

Back when I was but a wee lad, the Scottish Six Days Trial was a major motorcycling event, dutifully reported on by the U.S. bike rags along with the ISDT and the Motocross des Nations. Sadly, in this day of freestyle MX and stunt shows, the trial has lost it’s luster and like the Daytona 200, lives off its former glory. Still, I felt an urge to witness this unique event in which trials riders cover as much as 100 miles per day over 6 days.

From my hotel, I rode up towards Kinlochleven, not really sure what I was looking for. After riding through the town and seeing no signs of the event, I eventually came across many cars parked alongside the road. A short walk up a dirt road soon had me at one of the sections along a rocky creek bed. It was interesting to see how the different riders tackled the sections, from the apprehensive youngsters to the wiley gray beards. Although the skies threatened to rain, it stayed mostly dry.

I then rode a few more miles to reach the famous Pipeline Section. Since I didn’t have a camera. It’s difficult to convey how long and how steep it is. It’s so long, they separate it into four sections. It was amazing to watch the riders switch from unstoppable bulldozer mode to ballerina mode then back to bulldozer several times.

Later in the afternoon, I rode to Fort William for the awards ceremony and to walk around the pits. A couple of blasts from the past were there with the team Ossa truck as well as the newly reformed Greeves factory. I was hoping to score a 100th SSDT t-shirt but, they were sold out and I had to settle for a beanie.

The next day, I woke up to face of an ominous rainy weather forecast. I was to ride across the breadth of Scotland to meet up with my friend in Aberdeen on the east coast. Amazingly, I rode through bright sunshine all the way up until 2 P.M. when a brief shower finally lashed out at me. Upon reaching Aberdeen, directions from a friendly local soon had me my friend’s front door.

My friend lives in an amazing home, formerly a church. If you’ve ever watched a James Bond film where the protagonist is invited into Dr. No or Goldfinger’s lair, that’s what it was like. A vast open area with a couple Ducatis and a KTM motard overlooked by a huge stained glass window. I think having a Bond villain’s lair is everyone’s fantasy. Impressive!

Following his advice, we agreed to make the fishing port of Ullapool our base of operations on the west coast. We left Aberdeen the next morning headed towards, Edinburgh. As I was just following my friend rather than relying on a map, I had no idea where I was but, the sun was out and the traffic was light so, all was well in the world. The highlight of the day had to be the road on the north shore of Loch Ness. What a magnificent motorcycling road with fast, sweeping curves and lots of places to pass slower traffic.

Looking north from the south end of Loch Ness

After a drenching rain, we finally reached Ullapool just after 7 P.M. A fish and chips dinner from the local chippie, a hot shower, a wee dram of scotch and it was off to never never land to sleep the sleep of the dead.

Sunset over Ullapool

The next day we headed north, using the single track road that hugged the coast.

Heading towards Achiltibuie on the Coigach coast

Continuing northwards

Encountering two other bikers heading south

The coastline reminded me of Norway at times

Despite the threatening rain, we remained dry as we approached the north coast.

Near the north coast, the Highland terrain opened up and offered vast vistas

We reached Durness on the north coast at around 4 P.M. before deciding to return to Ullapool via the main highway.

Views heading south

Dropping down into Ullapool from the north

In Ullapool, we managed to find a shop that sold cheap digital cameras so, apologies if the pictures aren’t up to snuff. We returned to our friendly hosts at our bed & breakfast just outside Ullapool for a hot shower and a nice steak dinner. After a good night’s sleep, we headed south from Ullapool, again following the coast.

The Isle of Skye hoves into view off our starboard

Belach na Ba kind of surprised me. Being so close to the coast, I wasn’t prepared for something that resembled an Alpine pass.

My friend heading downhill on his Ducati

Loch Carron. Somehow, dark and moody seems to fit this location better than bright sunshine

By 5 P.M. we were still on the west coast and my friend had been hoping to make it to Aberdeen that night! At Locharron, we bade our farewells and went our separate ways, my friend back to Aberdeen while I headed back to Ullapool for one more night before catching my ferry to the Outer Hebrides.

Outer Hebrides

The following morning I woke up to more rain. I suited up and made the short ride into town to the ferry pier. Only three other bikes waiting to board. You must really want to go to get there.

By the time the ferry reached Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis at midday, the weather had improved. The rugged Isle of Lewis and Harris contain some of the oldest rock formations in Europe. While the scenery might be stark and bleak, I’ve always been attracted to these “edge of the world” type places.

Desolate isolation on the Isle of Lewis

The standing stones of Callanish whose meaning has been lost in the mists of time.

From Callanish, I turn south along the rugged western coast of Lewis

I continued south until grass started growing out of the asphalt. A sure sign I was getting near the end and would have to turn around

I should note that these aren’t ideal sport touring roads or even motorcycling roads at all but, if you have an itch for remote places, the Outer Hebrides definitely scratches that itch.

Pointing north

I rejoin the main highway and head to the southern part of the island known as Harris which is even more rugged than Lewis

In the town of Tarbert, I find a cozy bed & breakfast run by an elderly woman who reminds me of my mother. I’m struck by the friendliness and warmth of the Hebridean people.

The next morning, I continue south to catch another ferry, this time to the Isle of North Uist. I make a quick detour to the small island of Scalpay where I again reach the end of the road and am forced to turn around.

I’m surprised when the sun makes a rare appearance to reveal some pristine, sandy beaches on South Harris

I reach the ferry port at Leverburgh to find that I am the only motorcyclist waiting in line. You must really, really want to get somewhere to be the only motorcyclist.

The ferry ride to North Uist took about 50 minutes but, it was no simple crossing as the captain had to zig-zag his way amongst a veritable mine field of rocks and islets. He definitely earns his paycheck. Although not quite as rugged as Lewis & Harris, North Uist seems even less populated and remote

A lonely telephone box stands sentinel along a back road

North Uist is connected to the Isles of Benbecula and South Uist by a series of causeways. A local told me that during a bad, winter storm, a car and its occupants were swept off a causeway and out to sea by a rogue wave.

Another squall about to drench me blows in off the Atlantic. The wind was blowing the entire time I was on the Outer Hebrides. I can only imagine what the winter storms must be like

I made it as far south as the Isle of Eriskay off the southern end of South Uist before turning around and heading north. About 10 miles from my hotel, I was hit by yet another drenching squall. Suddenly, the Thruxton sputtered to a stop as if it had run out of fuel. Great! I was stranded in the middle of nowhere, with the rain pouring down. I peered into the gas tank and gave it a shake. I pushed the starter button again and, she fired right up! Hmmm. Maybe the carbs sucked in some rain or sumthin. I high tailed it to the hotel before she changed her mind again. That would be the only hiccup during the trip.

The next morning on the main road on North Uist (seriously, this is the main road), a herd of sheep blocks rush hour traffic. By the time they had been herded to their paddock, a four-car traffic jam had been created

I made my way to Lochmaddy where the MV Hebrides would take me on the 2 hour crossing to the Isle of Skye.

Once again, I was the only motorcycle on the boat. I didn’t see any motorcycles that looked like they were ridden by locals on the Hebrides. The few bikes I saw were obviously touring. With their roads and their weather, you’d have to be serious to be a regular motorcyclist on the Hebrides.

Once on Skye, the weather let lose with a vengeance. The forecast called for two solid days of rain so, I did what every perfeshunal dilettante does and found a nice hotel to hole up in and get some laundry done.

Eventually, the rain let up a bit but, not enuff to give me blue skies. Portree is the main town on Skye

The Cuillin Hills in the distance on the Isle of Skye

Ferry number 4 would take me from Skye back on to the mainland

Argyll

The Morvern Peninsula is an isolated place of wonderfully stark scenery

In the little town of Lochaline, I stumble upon the White House restaurant that serves locally sourced meals. It was here that I had one of the best meals of the trip. These unexpected gems that you happen upon by chance are part of the allure of travel for me.

Heading back north along Loch Linnhe with ever-present threatening skies

Ferry Number 5 takes me across Loch Linnhe

Once again heading south, I make a detour thru Glen Coe. This is one of those places, like Yosemite, whose beauty stands out even in inclement weather

I continue south through the port city of Oban which kind of reminds me of small version of San Francisco. A western port with a slightly seedy underbelly. I make it as far south as Lochgilphead before a bit of rain followed by a strong, cold wind makes me stop for the night.

The next morning I head south along the west coast of the Kintyre Peninsula on the A83. With a good view of the ocean and a salty sea air, it stirs memories of my days in Northern California

At Campbeltown, I fill up with fuel and turn north following the single track lane up the eastern side of the peninsula

At Claonaig, I await ferry number 6 to take me across as the Isle of Arran looms in the distance

Impressive mountains of Arran

I head east across the middle of the island and get a view of the Firth of Clyde with the Scottish mainland in the distance

A one hour ferry ride takes me back to the mainland at Androssan where I make a quick hop south to get a hotel in Troon in preparation for tomorrow’s ferry to Northern Ireland.

I wake up bright and early on Friday and make my way to the ferry terminal. This is the day before the North West 200 race in Northern Ireland and this time, I surely won’t be the only motorcyclist on the boat. I’m one of the first bikes in line and get to watch the bikes accumulate

I soon begin to notice a trend. Most of the race fans are in their 50s or close to their 50s. I see a few riders who might be in their mid-30s and none in their twenties. I’m wondering if high insurance rates are the cause of the lack of youth or maybe it coincides with the birth of the internet some twenty years ago.

Soon the signal is given and the horde of bikes is herded on board. I figure there must be between 200 and 300 motorcycles

Northern Ireland

I arrive in the port of Larne at about midday and am met by fellow Guzzisti, BelfastGuzzi from the V11lemans web site and his friend, both on Guzzis, who have kindly offered to provide me a tour of the northern coast

The North Antrim coast road doesn’t seem to get much press but, it’s a fantastic ride. Much too tight and lined with stone walls for any kind of serious sport riding but, the scenery more than makes up for that

BelfastGuzzi takes me on a road less traveled that hugs the coast and offers spectacular views of Torr Head

The picture doesn’t adequately convey the steepness of the single track lane descending the hillside

Unfortunately, race day dawns with a windy rain. I walk from my hotel down to the grassy viewing area at the Metropole and by the time I find a place to sit, the rain is diminishing

By the 11:00 starting time of the North West 200 race, the rain has stopped although the track remains wet. The 600 Supersport class leads off and Aussie Cameron Donald engages local lad Alastair Seeley in a ding-dong back and forth battle. Donald’s Honda seems to have the ponies but, Seeley’s Suzuki gets him under braking and manages to hold on for the win.

Unfortunately, during the Superbike race, a bike spews its oil on the racing line as it begins to rain again. Cleaning up the track and a bomb threat to the paddock throw a wrench into the works and, by 4 P.M. the organizers decide to call the event in the name of safety. I can’t say I blame them. following a mist of spray at 190 mph is no place to be.

Still, I’m glad I went as I got a good feel for the event and enjoyed the atmosphere. Excuse the crappy hand held photos

Entering the Metropole Section after a 160 mph straightaway

The famous railroad bridge

which leads up a slight rise into a blind right hand kink

I walked further down the coast to get a shot at the top of Black Hill

As luck would have it, the day before and the day after the race were rather nice. I mount up and head west towards Donegal in Ireland

You can hardly tell when you cross the border between Ireland and Northern Ireland. If there were any signs, I missed them. I make my way to Glenveagh National Park against a considerable head wind. I’m surprised by the sparse vegetation, almost looking a bit like New Mexico. Not what I expected of Ireland.

After about 4 hours, I reach the west coast of Ireland

I turn back towards the east and what was once a headwind, now became a tail wind…woo hoo!

A sectarian mural in Northern Ireland. Bobby Sands and Che

I continue eastward on the scenic Barnes Gap scenic route thru bucolic countryside

I had planned to go see the Joey Dunlop memorial in Ballymoney the following day but the weather once again foiled my plans. High winds with gusts up to 70 mph created havoc across Northern Ireland toppling trees and making it generally unsafe to try and ride a motorcycle. The high winds also forced the cancelation of my 5 P.M. ferry so, I had to book for the following day.

The next morning, the winds had subsided and I made my way back to the ferry port in Larne.

I don’t know which is more impressive…this guy riding an Aprilia 125cc two-stroke from Scotland

or this guy who rode a BSA Lightning from Switzerland

I arrive back on the Scottish mainland at Cairnyan and begin to make my way towards England across the Scottish Borders district

After spending the night in Carlisle, I begin my last day on the road with my last bit of two-lane across the scenic Northern Pennines

At Scotch Corner, I grab lunch then hit the M1 Motorway and make the final blast down to Nottingham. Despite all that rain in the forecast, I really only had about four bouts of riding in solid rain. The rest of the times I was dodging rain showers or riding in a drizzle which wasn’t hardly like rain at all and, even had a few spells of sunshine. I had previously rated the Kiwis as the friendliest people I had encountered but, after this trip, I think the Scots and the Irish are on par with the Kiwis. Outstanding hospitality.

Trip stats:

Mileage: 3000 miles
Travel days: 18
Rest days: 3 (due to rain & winds)
Ferry crossings: 9
Police encounters: 2
Police interaction: 0
Midge attacks: 1

Route Maps:

South Wales

During my recent visit to the U.K., they were experiencing unseasonably warm weather for this time of year. In the U.S., they would call it an Indian Summer. I dunno what they would call it in Wales. A Druid Summer?

I arrived in Nottingham and reunited with my Triumph Thruxton after a two year absence. The Trumpet fired right up as if it were only yesterday. We set off towards Wales under cement gray skies but, with an improving forecast. When I say cement gray skies, I don’t mean cement-colored but that, it actually looks like the sky is filled with cement. A thick pea soup mixture that dulls everything it touches. The grayness persisted for the entire first day of the trip so, not many pictures.

After overnighting in Brecon, Wales, day two dawned under similarly gray skies but, the weatherman was calling for patches of sun as I headed south across the Black Mountains. As I crossed over the top of the mountains, the fog was so thick that, I had to slow down considerably and had to allow a car towing a caravan (camper) to pass 😮

By 10:30 A.M., I was beginning to detect some brightness through the mist

Fall colours

Welsh backroads tend to be a tad narrow, down to one lane wide in places with pullouts to allow other traffic to get by

By noon, the sun was out in full force as I approached Swansea on the south coast

After getting through Swansea (a lovely looking city), I made my way to the Gower Peninsula. I stopped at the seaside village of Port Eynon for a lunch of fish & chips. I talked to a couple of local riders, one on a Harley and the other on a beautifully maintained, 30 year old Kawasaki Z900. I continued on to the town of Rhossili where, I found lodgings at a hotel overlooking Worm’s Head

Looking north from Worm’s Head to the wide expanse of beach. The little black specks in the water are surfers. Yes, surfers in Wales…in October

Sunset over Worm’s Head

The next morning, I was so taken by the beauty of the locale that I had to snap a few more pictures

Exploring the narrow roads along the coast. In the U.S. this would either be a bicycle or golf cart path. It’s hard to make out due to the brightness of the sun but, that’s the Bristol Channel on the horizon

On my third day, I left the Gower Peninsula and made my way around the Loughor Estuary, following the coast towards the Pembrokeshire National Seashore. The rugged Pembokeshire coast near the town of Bosherston

Continuing westward, there were many other people out enjoying the fine autumn weather

Looking back eastward along the narrow, coastal road

I spent the third night in Haverfordwest before continuing the next day towards St. Brides Head in far Western Wales

The village of St. Brides is as peaceful and idylic as they come. Location, location, location

Nearby, two fishermen were setting their pots

I continued north along the coast, trying to stay as close to the shore as possible by following the narrow, one-lane roads. Less sport and more touring really. Looking back south along the coast

Approaching the town of Broad Haven

Coastal farms were in abundance

A solitary stroller enjoying the fine day along one of the broad, Welsh beaches near the town of Newgale

Time was beginning to run out and I had to begin to make my way northeast towards Nottingham. The mysterious Preseli Hills from which the bluestones of Stonehenge eminate, hove into view

I rejoin the coast at Cardigan and follow the coastal road northwards past retirement and vacation homes. Near Aberystwyth, I find a nice country hotel with a splendid view and a fine restaurant. I enjoy a nice meal with accompanying adult beverages for my last night on the road. Wales is the closest place I’ve found that matches the beauty of Northern California. Sonoma County or Wales?

The next morning dawns bright and shiney and after a full Welsh Breakfast, I point the bike eastwards back towards England but, not before getting a few final pictures of the stunning Welsh countryside

The roads open up as the terrain begins to change. The Triumph falls into a relaxed pace as if trying to delay the journey’s end. It seems happiest when just puttering along at 65 to 70 mph on a lazily sweeping two-laned roads. A steady, unhurried beat like a Miles Davis composition 🙂

All in all, I couldn’t have asked for better weather. To expect 4 days of continuous sunshine in October is to be tempting fate but, somehow it was as if I flew through the eye of a needle. I get the feeling I may have to pay on a later journey.

Route map:

Trip stats:

Riding Days: 5
Rest Days: 0
Mileage: 800
Police encounters: 0
Deer encounters: 0
Sheep encounters: 1,000,019
Bee stings: 0

2005 Eastern Europe

The loosely knit plan was to go from northern Italy over to Romania, hit the Carpathian mountains and follow them back into Slovakia and the Czech Republic, then continue to the UK. Unfortunately, The Alps were between me & Romania. It’s a tough job but, someone had to do it. From Parma, I headed north to the south shore of Lake Garda.

My route took me along the west bank of Lake Garda. Quite an impressive road as it is dug out of a sheer cliff face. About half the time was spent diving into tunnels dug in the cliffside then darting back out into the bright sunshine.

Continuing north towards Madonna Di Campiglio, I traversed the northern Italian wine growing regions. If there were ever an Olympics for scenery, Italy would be on the podium every time — my favorite European country.

The pic below shows where I will build my house. That will be my driveway and those will be my grapevines and that will be the view that I will wake up to every morning and *pop*…and then I wake up and realize I was dreaming. Especially when I find out a tiny little two bedroom bungalow around here goes for about 800,000 Euros.

I encountered these Germans aboard Italian Aermacchi-Harley Davidsons at a roadside cafe near Cortina. They were just returning from the Giro d’Italia, held the previous week.

Can you imagine pounding the Alps into submission aboard 175cc bikes? YEEHAW! They told me that their top speed was 130 kph… fast enough to make you see gawd when you went to grab a handful of those drum brakes.

On the second day of my vacation, I proceeded to fight my way through the Italian Alps, bypassing the Passo Di Stelvio because I think that 500 hairpins in 11 kilometers is a wee bit much. Passing Bozeno, I made my way to the chi chi Italian ski resort of Cortina D’Ampezzo. I think Giacomo Agostini has a home here.

I got lost, and when I turned around I saw this view. Sometimes it pays to get lost.

No matter how many times you see them, the Dolomites never fail to impress. They shoot out of the earth like giant T-Rex teeth ripping the sky to shreds.

Did I mention I loved Italy? You could spend years between the Alps and the Appenines and never run out of roads to ride. Here’s a typically beautiful Alpine village near the Italo-Austrian frontier.

The Süd-Tyrol region was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire before WW I when it was ceded over to the Italians. Lots of blonde Italians here. Another mountain village.

Austria is like some strange other-world where gas station attendants resemble doctoral candidates back in the U.S. Motorists don flourescent orange vests just to change a flat tire. Every valley offers a picture postcard alpine view. It seems almost too good to be true. It makes you wonder what craziness lies beneath the surface of all this perfection. I often wonder if I’d want to live someplace as perfect as this or some chaotic place like Mexico where you can do pretty much what you want… must strike a balance. Coming from the chaos of an Arab country, it’s a bit disconcerting to encounter such orderliness.

When I arrived in Graz I saw an information kiosk. I stopped and looked it over. On a wall was a map of the city with little lights denoting the locations of different hotels. When you selected a hotel on a touch screen, a light on the map lit up for the corresponding hotel, and a picture with a description of the hotel showed up on the touch screen. It was almost a bit too much for me to take in. In spite of all this orderliness, I managed to make my way to the Hungarian border relatively unruffled.

After Graz, the terrain gradually dissolved into rolling hills… not much to write home about sport-touring wise. From the Alps, the terrain generally settled into rolling hills and then into a lumpy carpet sorta terrain. After you’ve ridden through the Alps for a couple of days, everything else sorta pales… still interesting in that never-been-there sorta way.

Hungarian plains.

The best Hungarian goulash I’ve ever tasted.

It never ceases to amaze me… the scope of the Roman Empire. From Portugal on the Atlantic to Romania on the Black Sea, someone who speaks one of the romance languages can essentially get by. All the languages are that similar. Truly a legacy of the power and influence of the Roman Empire. Quite a heavy police presence, though. They’re mostly parked on the side of the road. I was lucky and avoided detection… hehehehe

Budapest is amazingly beautiful. The architechture is flabergasting. This place must have survived WW II relatively unscathed. Budapest’s famous Chain Bridge.

The architecture is truly mind boggling. So much is lost on modern architecture, though. In reality, nowadays, I don’t think they could afford the craftsmanship that went into these old buildings… sigh.

Overlooking the Danube.

Children prepare to take part in a folkloric dance show in central Budapest.

Hungary is truly in a state of transition. You’ll see the latest Porsche pulled up alongside a thirty year old Trabant at a stop light. They seem to be doing quite well for themselves since the fall of Communism. The only bad thing is… EVERYONE seems to smoke! I guess it’s a carryover from the bad old days of communism when things were so bleak that just a hit of nicotine gave someone something to look forward to.

While I was in Budapest, there seemed to be some sort of biker rally going on. Hundreds of bikers escorted by police, made their way through downtown Budapest, honking and waving as they went. I wish I could have joined in, but my bike was back at the hotel.

One day from Budapest and I was at the Romanian border. I was a bit apprehensive as I didn’t really know what to expect or even whether I needed a visa. I pulled in behind a Swiss couple in a station wagon who were bringing in aid for an orphanage or something. The customs guy was going through their stuff with a fine-toothed comb. I gulped and waited my turn, trying not to think about the movie Midnight Express. He shot me a gruff look as if to say, What da heck do YOU want? He walked behind my bike and saw the Italian plates and told me to go on. OH! thankyouthankyouthankyou! Yes sir! Vroooom! I was in.

Entering Romania.

I’ve never been anywhere that had such beautifully crafted houses of worship, whether churches or mosques. For such a poor country, the amount of workmanship and labor that went into their churches was impressive.

Uhmm…I think I’ll keep moving on.

The terrain was beginning to have more hills. The Carpathians couldn’t be too far off. Approaching the city of Brasov, I saw my first glimpse of the Carpathian mountains. Not as impressive as the Alps or even the Pyrennes, but still impressive, nevertheless.

Romanian roads started out ok, and then steadily deteriorated. My last day in Romania I must have averaged 20 kph. Potholes just waiting to strike. Then it started to rain. Oh woe is me. A double whammy. Oncoming cars in your lane weren’t trying to run you off the road… they were just dodging and weaving around potholes. I was dreading a flat or a bent rim, but the mighty Guzzi escaped unscathed.

I could just imagine bending a rim then having to hole up someplace while waiting for a new one. Relaaaax…stay another night…it wont hurt a bite…errr…a BIT…it wont hurt a bit. Yeah… uh huh.

Actually, the hotels in Romania were easily on par with those in western Europe. I was pleasantly surprised. However, their coffee sucked. If there’s a special hell for coffee lovers, it must be something like Romania. I guess it depends on what you’re used to. Romanians may go to Italy and grimace when they drink Italian coffee. Their orange juice, on the other hand, was excellent… freshly squeezed.

The terrain was gorgeous, reminding me a lot of the Pacific Northwest. I’d say Romania is 40 to 50 years behind western Europe… probably on the same level as Latin America. Once they get their roads fixed it’ll be a great place to tour.

A Romanian lake.

I couldn’t follow the Carpathians into the Ukraine because of visa requirements, so I dodged back into Hungary, then made a quick lunge to the north into Slovakia to rejoin the Carpathians. The High Tatras are the highest peaks in the Carpathian range. This part of the Carpathians is a national park in Slovakia, as well as in neighboring Poland. Unfortunately, the weather still hadn’t improved much, so I didn’t have the opportunity to take any good pictures of the High Tatras.

I had one little incident with a Slovakian bus and a mud hole. There was a section of road that had been flooded by recent rains. Off to the side they had constructed a makeshift bypass. The bypass was also muddy from the rains. I had just about finished negotiating my way across the bypass when a bus appeared on the other side. Rather than waiting for me to exit, the “roads” scholar behind the wheel of this juggernaut decided to proceed. In doing so, he cut off my exit line, leaving me only a huge mud puddle to go through. I wasn’t about to risk seeing how deep that puddle was, so I came to a stop. As he came around me, his rear wheels started coming closer and closer. The sides of the bus started to rub against my left saddlebag.

I tried to hold the bike up, but I was no match for the bus. Over into the mud went the Guzzi. I managed to not join it in the mud. The bus driver is looking at me in his rearview mirrors as if to say, “wtf are you doing in the mud?” While I was looking at him as if to say, “wtf are you doing driving a bus?” I struggled to lift the Goose and finally managed to extricate it onto dry land. Nobody in the following cars came to my aid. I guess they didn’t want to join the fun in the mud. I was fearing a broken turn signal or a cracked fairing, but I was lucky. Nothing more than a liberal coating of mud. The bike now looked appropriately battle-tested.

In all my travels, Slovakia more closely resembled Northern California than any other place I’ve been to. The only thing is, the roads aren’t in quite as good shape. On the plus side, there is less traffic than California. Winding roads going through rugged mountains and following alpine streams make for great motorcycling.

The High Tatras.

From Slovakia I took a last minute detour into southwestern Poland just to say I’ve been to another country. I only travelled for about 100 miles in Poland, but it was nice hilly terrain, making for an enjoyable ride.

I entered the Czech Republic from Poland. I don’t know what it is, but my Canadian passport freaked out the border guards. They had to take it into the main office and confer with their colleagues. I guess they don’t get many Canadians. Fortunately, I haven’t had any troubles. After a few moments, the passport gets stamped and I’m on my way. Unfortunately, I haven’t been as successful in my money management. I have currencies from five different countries in my wallet. I never seem to spend it all before I’m into another country. It reminds me of the days before the Euro.

The Carpathian Mountains are but mere foothills by the time they reach the Czech Republic. They still make for some wonderful motorcycling roads, though. The Czech roads are the best I’ve encountered in the former Eastern Bloc countries. Fast sweeping roads through open hills then darting into dark forests with some occassional tight twisties thrown in… good stuff.

I met an elderly Czech gentleman at my bed & breakfast. He told me that he was 15 years old in 1945 when the Russians came and occupied his country. He fled with his family to West Germany where he lived in Cologne. When Communism fell, 40 years later, he returned to his old home town. He went to his old house and knocked on the door. The man who answered the door recognised him and gave him a hug saying, “this is still your house”. It was wonderful talking to this old man. I reminded me of the old John Prine song, “Hello In There”. I’m sure that same story was repeated all over Eastern Europe.

I made my way to Prague, which is similar to Budapest. Both cities straddle a river… both have enchanting architecture. Prague had a few more tourists, though. I took another rest day in Prague.

After a couple of days in Prague, I continued westward. I pulled up to the German border entry and received a doleful look. I said, “Hi. I’m Canadian.” The border guard said, “Bye. Go away.” Didn’t even ask to see my passport. I guess they’re not too worried about people on sport touring bikes. I laughed and went on my way. It surprised me a bit. I thought that would be the toughest border to cross.

I made my way across Germany to the southwestern town of Freiburg, near the Black Forest. A lot of great riding there. I got lost several times, but didn’t care as the roads were so good. It’s right next to the Swiss border, so it’s in the foothills of the Alps.

Picturesque German town.

Right across the French border I noticed all these squiggly lines on the map, so I figured that’s the place I needed to be. Dang, those French not only know how to cook, but they sure do make some hellacious biking roads. The Germans aren’t too far behind.

Scenic village in the Alsace-Lorraine.

After working my way north thru Alsace-Lorraine, I re-entered Germany near Kaiserslautern. I must have hit the local biking road because there were bikes all over the place. Excellent roads through darkened forests.

From there I worked my way up the Rhine. Great weather on a Sunday… there were a bazillion bikes out. Great views of castles all the way up to Koblenz. There I hung a left and wandered down the Mosel River Valley, famous for its wines. Every tour of Europe should include a ride along the Rhine. There are roads on each side of the river. You can see the castles on the other side easier, but you can’t go wrong on either side.

Cochem on the Mosel

Everyone talks about the Alps, but there’s so much more to Europe than just the Alps. Don’t get me wrong, the Alps are spectacular, but don’t limit yourself to just one area.

I finally found a carwash. The Guzzi looked semi-respectable now. I was drinking a soda outside a convenience store…this woman gets out of her car…takes one look at me and my bike…thinks about it for a moment…then clicks on the burglar alarm on her key chain. I kinda liked that.

I followed the Mosel River into the tiny nation of Luxembourg. I ended up staying an extra day in Luxembourg. I usually blast through the tiny country on my way to something more interesting. This time I decided to spend a day touring within its borders. What a great choice! Wonderful roads along the Mosel River… other roads wandering through forests so thick that no sunlight penetrated the canopy in spite of it being a scorching day. I’ll defintely have to pay Luxembourg more mind in the future!

From Luxembourg I entered Belgium through the Ardennes, passing through many towns whose names recalled the Battle of the Bulge.

The Ardennes Forest, haunted by the ghosts of World War II.

From France to the English Channel the terrain devolves into rolling farmland. Not too interesting on a motorbike, so I got on the autoroute, blasted to the Channel, and hopped on the 5pm ferry to Dover, where I got a hotel room for the night. Met an old timer on a KTM 900 v-twin modified with a sidecar. He was on his way to an enduro event in Wales.

The White Cliffs of Dover.

The last day of my trip… and I wanted to make it count. I blasted west on the motorway all the way to Bristol near south Wales. This took up half a day, so I had another half day to enjoy as much of Wales as I could. At first it didn’t seem all that special, but the deeper I got into Wales the more I was captivated by its beauty and its GREAT motorcycling roads. I may have stopped to take more pictures on the last half day than at any other time on the trip. Maybe it was the realization that the trip was coming to an end and that stopping to take pictures might prolong it indefinitely.

Alas, I reached my friend’s house in Shropshire a little after 6pm, bringing the trip to an end. Here is a shot of the mighty, mighty Goose in the Welsh countryside on the last day of the trip.

I can’t say enough about my mount. As a city bike or an every day ride, yes, it may have shortcomings, but as a dedicated sport tourer it’s hard to beat. The sound of an Italian v-twin in song as it blasts through a series a curves is one of those things in life that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up and make you glad to be alive. If you haven’t made plans to sell your current bike and purchase a Le Mans, please proceed to do so immediately.

Trip Summary:

May 31 to June 22.

7500 km / 4800 miles (it seemed like a lot longer with all the bad roads)

Rest days: 4

Traffic citations: 1, in Romania. I managed to negotiate it from 10 Euros up to 100 Euros. (I should explain. As the policeman was writing the ticket he asked how much my helmet cost. I said it cost 200 Euros. He said he makes 100 Euros a month. We continued talking. It turned out he was a biker himself and asked about getting a helmet from western Europe. I felt sorry for him after hearing what his monthly salary was, so I offered to send him one at no charge. He ripped up the ticket.)

Countries: 12. Italy, Austria, Hungary, Romania, Slovakia, Poland, Czech Republic, Germany, Luxembourg, Belgium, France, England, & Wales.

Bee stings: 0

Pucker moments: Many, many minor ones. 0 major.

Best T shirt seen: In Budapest, a picture of Che with a joint in his mouth with the caption: “fook the revolution”.

Best store name: In Romania I saw a shoe store named Al Bundy Shoes (they get a lot of American TV there).

Wandering Wales

I had some free time so I decided to escape from the summer heat in Saudi for some cooler British climes. As I had never been to southwestern Wales, I decided to make that my destination. I picked up my trusty Trumpet in Nottingham and made tracks towards the southwest, splitting Birmingham & Manchester.

Crossing the Welsh frontier near Newton at midday, I immediately headed south on the fantastic A483. I’ve raved about this road in the past, slicing north to south through Wales, it’s a fun-filled festival of high speed sweepers.

I continue in a southwesterly direction on the A483 under sunny skies, skirting the Brecon Beacons National Park, arriving at Haverfordwest around 4 P.M. After securing a hotel for the night, I decided to make the most of the sunny weather, as the next day’s weather forecast called for rain. I continued west to St. David’s Head, a headland in the Pembrokeshire Coast National Park. Near Solva, I catch a glimpse of St. Brides Bay.

After negotiating several miles of goat trails, I finally make it to St. David’s Head. Looking south along the rugged coastline.

From this point, I turn and head northeast, following a small, single track lane along the northern edge of the peninsula.

a bustling seaport near Abereiddy….ok ok, a sleepy fishing village then…

The Pembrokshire coastline, is the only part of the British coast dedicated as a national park and I can see why. I thought it was nicer than even the rugged Cornish coastline. Another shot of the coast.

From the coast, I began to make my way inland through the Preseli Hills. The Preseli Hills are often referred to as mysterious, haunting or atmospheric. A place where strange things have occurred and where the waters are reputed to have healing effects.

The bluestones used at Stonehenge, have been traced to the Preseli Hills. The stones, weighing up to four tons, were somehow transported some 250 miles to the plains of Salisbury.

An ancient dolmen, Pentre Ifan is also located here, overlooking the Irish Sea. Dating from 3500 BC, this was supposedly a communal burial ground. Originally a small mound surrounded the stones, explaining how the massive capstone was put in place.

It was now getting late in the day, so I began to make my way down the Preselis to the hotel near the coast.

The next day was raining as per the forecast. It’s never good when the weatherman uses words like Biblical and flooding. This was supposed to be fun, so I made a command decision that watching STNG and eating Cornish pastys out of a paper bag was more enjoyable than riding all day in the rain. The rain was supposedly going to taper off late in the afternoon, so I decided to go visit the home of Dylan Thomas nearby.

A bit of a bohemian, by many accounts, Thomas was a bum, a filcher and a drunkard. His only redeeming feature was his booming voice and his writing, and boy could he write. He apparently made an impression on the New York beatnic scene, so much so that rock stars appropriated his name. In 1953, after another drinking bout, he slipped into a coma and died. He was 39 years old.

While in the UK, he lived in the coastal village of Laugharne in a house overlooking as estuary where he wrote most of his poetry. A darkened view of Thomas’ writing shed.

The view from the workshop overlooking the estuary.

Thomas was buried in the village churchyard in an unpretentious grave.

A picture of Laugharne Castle built by the Normans. Wales is dotted with the ruins of many castles, recalling a history etched in violence.

The weatherman lied and the rain continued to come down, giving me a good soaking on the way back to the hotel.

So you want to ride in the UK, Exhibit A:

Day three began with the weatherman calling for “improving” conditions, whatever that means. As I left the hotel, it was still raining but I sought consolation by telling myself “it’s gonna improve”. Three hours later, I was still muttering “it’s gonna improve” as the rain continued to pelt down.

So you want to ride in the UK, Exhibit B:

I was headed back northwards along the western flank of the Cambrian Mountains. A multi-hued Welsh village.

At the village of Cwmystwyth, I cross over the Cambrians along a narrow single track.

Finally, at around 3 PM I get a respite, as the sun peeks through. The motorcycle gods are merely taunting me as an ominous darkness lurks on the horizon.

I’ll be the first to admit that the Thruxton is a bit of a poser’s bike, the Triumph struggling to keep up with faster, more powerful competitors on the open roads, yet when the roads become tight and narrow like this, the little twin mill really enters its own element. The engine’s healthy torque is accompanied by what has to be one of the most enjoyable soundtracks in all of motorcycledom. The twin’s snarling bark never lets you forget you’re on a proper motorbike.

Triumph country:

There’s just something intrinsically right about riding British iron on British roads. The two seem to be perfectly compatible with one another. When you’re out by yourself on a lonely backroad, listening to that lovely rumble, it’s all to easy to imagine that you’re back in the 1960s when the British motorcycle industry ruled the world. It’s a shame the engine doesn’t have about 20 more horsepower.

Fortunately, I play dodge’em with the rain clouds for the rest of the afternoon, only getting a few sprinkles here and there.

At around 4 PM, I pull up and take stock in my situation. I’m soaking wet and right now would be a nice place for a hotel to materialize before my eyes. While staring at the map, I notice a lake with the word “Hotel” written next to it. Strange. It must be nice if it appears on the map. I head towards the lake and, sure enough, there’s a hotel overlooking Lake Vyrnwy. Quite a nice one too. It turns out the Lake Vyrnwy hotel is a former hunting lodge for the city leaders of Liverpool. I get a nice room with a view of the lake. More importantly, the room has a hair dryer so that I can dry out some of my soaked gear.

The Beatles drank from these waters, as the lake serves as the reservoir for Liverpool’s drinking water. Gerry & the Pacemakers also drank from these waters, so make of that what you will.

Day four, my final day on the road, began the same as day three, with the promise of improving, but unsettled conditions, meaning “a roll of the dice”. I head north from the lake taking another scenic single track.

A typical Welsh predator lurks by the roadside. Usually, a blast from the mighty Triumph’s exhaust pipes were enough to send them scurrying for cover.

The single track continued climbing out of the valley…

up and over the top and down the otherside. Somehow, the misty weather in this photo perfectly captures the mystical Welsh countryside. A sunny picture just woudn’t convey the same feeling.

Early morning puttering through a small village as smoke rises from a farmhouse chimney.

I find the B4391 and it takes me towards home. What a nice farewell to Wales!

Wales lives up to all its accolades and more. From stunning, fast sweeping bends, to narrow single tracks, the Welsh terrain encompasses all types of motorcycling pleasure with its majestic natural beauty added as a bonus. The people are extremely warm and welcoming, especially after they hear an American accent.

On the way back to Nottingham, I make a small detour to explore some interesting roads in the Shropshire Hills. Mercifully, I was fortunate and managed to escape any major drenchings on the last day. the motorcycle gods must have had their fill of entertainment.

Fun for the entire family…that is if mom rides a GSXR.

Route map:

Days: 4
Miles: 800 (would have been more if not for the day 2 washout)
Police interaction: 0
Bee stings: 0
Deer encounters: 0
Sheep encounters: about 2 brazillian
Bike problems: 0

The West Country

team orson recently had the opportunity to escape the blistering summer heat in Saudi for some cooler climes in the British Isles. Arrangements were made to meet with ST.N member and fellow Guzzisti, Martin Barret. Martin is entered into the Round Britain Rally which is sort of like a photographic scavenger hunt with landmarks all over Great Britain. So, I would tag along while Martin nabbed a few of the landmarks.

As I left Nottingham, weather was “unsettled” as the English tend to describe weather that can change from sunshine to downpours to sunshine and downpours to sunshine, all within one hour. A late start and a wrong turn meant I was “only” an hour and a half late when I met up with Martin at a rest stop just south of Birmingham. We made our way west towards the Welsh frontier. A missed turn led us into the maw of a torrential downpour for about 15 minutes. Not knowing any better, I thought this was “typical” English biking weather and dutifully followed behind Martin. Shortly after, we were back on the correct path to our first landmark.

We must have paid some sort of penance for afterwards, the skies cleared up and we enjoyed glorious sunshine for the remainder of the day. One small set back occurred when my gloves mysteriously went missing at a gas stop. Fortunately, I had some back up winter gloves to use. Our last landmark for the day was the Blaenavon Iron Works in southeast Wales. This was the spot that marked the birth of the Industrial Revolution. It was here that new smelting procedures were used that led to the widespread use of iron for industrial uses. This would lead to trains, ships, skyscrapers and yes, motorcycles such as Triumph and Nortons.

The remains of the Blaenavon Iron Works

By then, it was getting late in the day. We made our way to Brecon, the gateway to the Brecon Beacons National Park. We sat down for a dinner of fish & chips before Martin began his ride home & I sought out a bed & breakfast.

As I watched the weather forecast the next morning, I saw the weather down south would be much sunnier so, I made the spur of the moment decision to head southwest…to the West Country. This is the term the English use to refer to the finger of land that juts out into the Atlantic culminating at Land’s End.

In the county of Somerset, I passed through the Cheddar Gorge, the largest gorge in the United Kingdom.

While riding with Martin the previous day, the Triumph felt flustered and out of breath as it tried to keep up with Martin’s mighty, mighty Goose. However, riding without the pressure to keep up, the Triumph felt transformed and in its element. trundling along the narrow English backroads at around 70 mph, the Triumph was a joy to ride and that sumptuous soundtrack only added to the enjoyment. After the previous day’s showers, this day was turning into a glorious display of English sunshine.

Somewhere on the backroads of Somerset…

Continuing in a southwesterly direction, I entered the Exmoor National Park which straddles both Somerset & Devon along the Bristol Channel.

rolling terrain near the entrance to the Exmoor…

Turning north, I headed towards the coast and the picturesque village of Lynton, where the Exmoor meets the sea. Lynton is a quaint if not a bit touristy and a nice place to stop for an ice cream made from fresh Devon cream.

The Devon coastline near Lynton

Continuing west along Barnstaple Bay, I ended the day in Horns Cross where I found the delightful Hoops Inn. Built during the 13th century as a traveller’s inn.

Of course I had to partake in the local liquid mead. The Golden Pig ale is guaranteed to pound yer head in the dirt and make out with yer little sister before the night is through.

Followed by a dinner of pan fried duck in a raspberry reduction with some fancy, schmancy potatos and local veggies

The following morning I set out to explore the nearby fishing village of Clovelly, famous for its steep, cobbled streets and picturesque harbor.

The village is closed off to vehicle traffic. The view of the harbor…the white building at the far left is the village hotel.

The view from the weir looking back at the village…

From the coast, I began to make my way south through the rolling countryside of Devon. Again, the Triumph was in its element. Long queus of vehicles stacked up behind slow moving farm machinery were dispatched with ease.

By mid-afternooon, darkening skies were beginning to make their presence felt. I was sprinkled on a few times but continued to enjoy mostly sunshine.

Dodging rain showers in the distance…

I passed through the Dartmoor National Park on my way south…

The arch spanning the middle of main street in Totnes. Saddly, the original Elizabethan arch was destroyed by fire in 1990.

Time was beginning to expire on my journey so I turned and headed north through the pastoral Devon countryside. Again, the Triumph…in its element…narrow country lanes and thatched roof farm houses.

thundershowers threatening the quiltwork Devon countryside…

The beautiful village of Bickleigh. I swear, sometimes I think the English hire Disney Imagineers to make achingly picturesque villages for us tourists.

Leaving Bickleigh…the town church steeple in the distance…

By now it was almost 4 P.M. and the showers continued to try to pen me in. Showers to the east blocked my path so, my only alternative was to head north on the M5 Motorway. I proceeded north, with blue skies ahead yet, the dark, ominous clouds in my rear view mirrors following me all the way. Not wanting to end the trip one day early, I opted to take a hotel room just south of Birmingham in hopes that the weather forecast for the next day was wrong. I was hoping against hope that I might enjoy one last day of riding. Alas, I woke the next day to rains pelting down.

Time to pay the piper for all my frivolity. I suited up and headed back onto the motorway accompanied by steady showers along with the spray thrown up by the lorries. By the time I made it back to Nottingham, the rains had eased up. Down south though, the rains were wreaking havoc. I just made it into Birmingham on the last train before all the trains were cancelled due to the weather…a narrow escape.

Summary:

Total mileage: 950 miles in 3 days.
Puckers: 0
Police interaction: 0
Bee stings: 0
Drenchings: 1

Route map:

The Yorkshire Dales

September ’06

My original plan was to try to make it to Ireland for a quickie tour. However, a poor weather forecast and the airline losing my luggage forced me to drop back and punt. Instead, I decided to focus on three National Parks in the north of England. The Peak District, the Yorkshire Dales and the North York Moors National Parks.

Starting out from Nottingham, I headed to Matlock Bath on the southern edge of the Peak District. Matlock Bath has been a tourist site since warm springs were discovered there. Nowadays, it’s a major Sunday biking destination seeing close to 1000 bikers on summer weekends.

Colorful hotel near Matlock Bath.

Staying on the backroads, I zig-zagged my way north through the Peak District. Apparently, the Peak District isn’t named for its terrain but for its former inhabitants, the Picts. The last time I passed this way, it had been pouring rain so, it was nice to see it in a different light.

Winnat’s Pass

Heading north through the rolling terrain of the Peak district.

The Snake Pass through the northern Peak District has been rated one of the best motorcycling roads in the U.K. and rightly so. Just put your lips together and make vroom-vroom Triumph noises and imagine yourself disappearing over the rise 🙂

Continuing north, I left the Peak District and headed for the Yorkshire Dales. Although the skies were threatening, there was no rain in the forecast. After being in Arabia, where the skies are eternally cloudless, it’s a bit of a welcome sight to see the ever changing skies of England. There’s something about the northern light and the effervescent skies that combine to create an swirling palette of colours.

The southern Yorkshire Dales holds desolate yet beautiful wild heather moors. Again, the ever changing skies provide an almost surreal beauty to the landscape.

Deeper into the dales, the terrain becomes lusher and greener. The omnipresent drystone walls, built by sheep farmers in days gone by, seem to blend into the natural beauty of the terrain.

I stopped in Grassington for fuel. Unlike in the U.S. where gas stations seem to be on every corner, in the north of England you have to search them out. Most locals are amiable types who are more than happy to give directions to the “petrol” pump.

The residents of the Yorkshire Dales are a hearty, hard-working lot as evidenced by all the stone walls. This area produced some of the world’s best trials riders including the Lampkin brothers, famous for drinking their opponents under the table on Saturday nights then going out the next morning and kicking their butts on the trials course.

I picked up the A684 which cuts across northern England from east to west and is another fine motorcycling road. Just keep your speeds in check as the stone walls are rather unforgiving. I head east, leaving the Dales behind, heading for the North York Moors.

A quiet stream near the North York Moors boundary.

The British are known for being masters of the understatement as this road sign will attest to. Why post “Steep Hill Ahead” when a subtle “I say old boy, give your brakes a go” will do?

I find a hotel in Helsmsley and then have a great Italian meal at a restaurant run by real Italians. The next morning dawns with bright, blue skies!

Early morning on a quiet country lane near Rievaulx Abbey

The B1257 north from Helmsley is known to the local riders as the Helmsley TT. I don’t think any more description is needed 🙂 Keep an eye out for the rozzers though, as the road has gained a bad reputation in the press.

Another view of the Helmsley TT

Leaving the B1257 at Stokesley, I head deeper into the moors via the narrow backroads. The sheep are everywhere. Thankfully, they usually stay put when you pass. They even come into town for a pint or two.

The Triumph is well-suited to these backroads. The torquey twin seems to have just the right amount of power and torque. It’s no wonder they continued building them for so long before succumbing to U.S. market pressure for more powerful engines.

Bucolic countryside in the North York Moors.

I continue eastward until I arrive at the coast near Whitby, home of Captain James Cook. I came across this odd looking church. I’m not sure of of its age. The North Sea lies in the background.

The star of this show, the torquey, twin mill. What a little jewel of an engine. Only 65 some horsepower but it more than makes up for it in torque and aural effects. Kudos to John Bloor for bringing it back.

South of Whitby on the coast lies Robin Hood’s Bay. This village was once a smuggler’s haven but its the village’s labrynth of tight, alleyways climbing the cliffside that make it really unique. To say it’s quaint would be an understatement.

Robin Hood’s Bay

I tried to get a picture capturing the essence of the narrow alleys but this was all I could capture before it started to rain.

I rode through a squall for about 30 minutes before I found a pub in the village of Castleton that had rooms to let so I grabbed a room and dried off. A dinner of Yorkshire pudding stuffed with veggies and sausage along with a pint of local ale finished me off.

Saturday was to be my last day and fortunately, the previous day’s showers had blown out into the North Sea and the day started with bright, blue skies. I began to head south towards Nottingham again. I still had a little time to explore the North York Moors though. These moors are a little more harsh and desolate than the Yorkshire Dales but the stark terrain has its own beauty.

Heading toward Egton Bridge, not a car in sight.

An abandoned farm house is all that breaks up the terrain. The narrowness of the road is typical of the backroads in the moors.

More vast expanse of moors.

A scenic bridge near Egton Bridge.

Stopping for a cuppa in the village of Rosedale.

It’s scenes like this that make the North of England seem a world away from the busy south. With the tiny villages seemingly unchanged for decades, it’s all too easy to imagine that I’m a young officer in the service in the 1940s much like my father was, trundling across the countryside on a trusty Triumph (albeit without Lucas electrics).

Reluctantly, I make my way south towards Nottingham. I stick to the backroads and though the roads are still pleasantly twisty, the traffic increases and the views become more modern and industrial. I dodge one last afternoon shower before arriving at my friend’s house and dropping off the bike. The bike performed flawlessly throughout the trip.

A short train ride takes me to Birmingham and I spend the last day of my trip touring the British National Motorcycle Museum.

I couldn’t have asked for better English weather in September. In 4 days, I only encountered about 30 minutes of rain. The temperatures varied from around 70° F/20° C in the sun and down to the upper 40s F/ 15 C when it threatened to rain. While the north of England is no match for Scotland’s beauty, there is still a rustic, timeless charm to the place that I find very appealing.

Welsh Waltz II

March ’06

it had been almost 6 months since team orson had been together…too long. Long months spent gnawing on a mouse cord did little to alleviate the symptoms. Cabin fever is an ugly condition. I arrive in Shropshire and make my way to the dusty barn, hoping a family of mice hadn’t made themselves at home in the goose’s air box. Fortunately, my friend has four cats who patrol the grounds. The barn door creaks open and a ray of light shines upon the beast…looking as if I had just left it. The tension in the air is palpable as I reinstall the battery….I press…an angry roar fills the barn as if to castigate me for my lengthy absence…

Plans are made for the assault across the border into neighboring Wales…the land of endless, fast sweepers and…well, Catherine Zeta Jones :inlove:

I made plans to meet some of the lads from v11lemans.com at the summit of Horseshoe Pass north of Llangollen. Temperatures are in the 40’s…well below team orson’s level of comfort…but we are on a mission. We soon get acclimated if not completely warm. We comfort ourselves with the thought that 40 degree air is worth some extra horsepower.

Someone’s house near Oswestry, Wales

The Welsh town of Llangollen

After another full English breakfast, we take off. Heading west towards the coast, we stop to take in the snow capped Carneddau Mountains including Snowdonia.

Stopping for a dash of petrol

Reaching the coast, we turn south for some fish & chips with mushy peas. The road climbs the cliffside and for a moment, resembles California’s famed Pacific Coast Highway.

After a leisurely lunch, we turn inland towards Lake Vyrnwy. Traffic is light and the Guzzis make good time through the plethora of sweeping bends. Occasional vistas of snow dusted mountains distract us of the task at hand.

We veer off onto the single track. By now, team orson is thouroghly lost and just following the locals.

Snow peaked mountains gave an Alpine-ish aura.

Near the end of the day, we arrive at Lake Vyrnwy. Don’t ask me to pronounce it. It’s a lake 🙂

Heading back across the border into Shropshire.

Illegally parked Guzzi in front of the first bridge to be built out of iron. It was built in 1769 and called…uhmm…Ironbridge…near Telford, Shropshire.

team orson motto 🙂

This trip served to further enhance my opinion of the Welsh highway system. A thoroughly jolly time was had by all. The Welsh roads deserve all the accolades heaped on them by the British motoring press. Some of the best riding in Britain!

Welsh Waltz I

September ’05

Team Orson mounts a cross border expedition into Wales. Wales most definitely lives up to the hype in British bike magazines. We came away thoroughly chuffed about the Welsh roads.

On the first day, I left the Shropshire town of Whitchurch and promptly crossed the frontier into Wales. Before long I was into the Cambrian Mountains with its picturesque towns of Llangollen & Betws-y-coed. From there, I veered north towards the coast to the seaside town of Conwy and its massive Conwy Castle.

Here is a shot of the north coast of Wales. Conwy Bay looking west towards the rugged Isle of Anglesey.

The following day, I had made arrangements to meet some of the lads from the v11lemans.com forum for a tour of some of northern Wales’ finest tarmac. The appointed meeting place was the Ponderosa Cafe at the summit of Horseshoe Pass just north of Llangollen.

The view on the road up Horseshoe Pass to the Ponderosa Cafe.

Parked up before the ride…

After wolfing down a full English breakfast, we made our way with local rider Baldini taking the lead. These blokes don’t dally! They rode quickly but not recklessly, taking good lines through the corners and none of this knee out histrionics 😀 It made things easy for me as I could see their braking points as well as which way the road was turning. We blasted up I-5 towards the Snowdonia peaks. Nearing the coast near Caernarfon, we turned inland through the spectacular Pass of Llanberis.

From there we headed towards the western coast of Wales, stopping for a spot of tea near a classic railroad station. Wales was full of turn of the century locomotives. Here, a flotilla of Guzzis park up for tea (or is that a gaggle of Guzzis?). The sight and sound of 4 Guzzis roaring through the Welsh valleys really made my senses tingle. Whether the Guzzis or the locomotive have the most torque is certainly debateable.

Pious Guzzisti don’t like to make much of it, but the more devout amongst us kneel and pray in the direction of Mandello del Lario 5 times a day. Either praying for the speedy delivery of spare parts or praying that they avoid having one of the Guzzis built on a Monday morning 🙂

Actually, the lads are poring over a map and plotting our route after stopping in the seaside village of Llandfendigaid for another dose of fish & chips. From the coast inland, the terrain really reminded me of the hills of Marin county in northern California. The roads were mostly smooth, fast sweepers which was good since Guzzis & fast sweepers go together like coffee & cream…like Lennon & McCartney…like Godzilla & Tokyo city buses…like…well, you get the picture. The A470 coming from the coast. This is the part that sorta reminded me of Marin County.

After continuing south along the coast to Aberystwyth, we turned inland, making our way to the town of Welshpool. As it was a weekday, traffic was relatively light and we maintained our…ahem…”brisk” pace. Guzzis can be ridden at a rapid clip. Don’t let the antique engineering fool you. The v-twin roar only makes it that much more enjoyable…with 3 other Guzzis…it was bliss. We stopped at a pub at about 6 P.M. It had been a long but exhilarating day for me. While nursing a pint, I marveled that the lads kept such a brisk pace without fear of the rozzers. I had read much about the rabid police enforcement in Wales. They said you had to pick your spots and that most of the enforcement came on weekends. From there, we bade our farewells and made our ways home. I returned to Whitchurch and promptly collapsed in bed without food or a shower.

Pulling into the pub for apres-ride refreshments…

The third day, I decided to make an overnight trip to southern Wales. I made my way south along A483. South of Newtown, the A483 turns into a rollicking rollercoaster ride. BIG fun with more fast sweepers interspersed with the occassional tight bend made for a thrilling ride. South of Brecon I was into the Brecon Beacons National Park. I made it as far south as Cetn-coed-y-cymmer before having to turn and head north if I was to make it back to Whitchurch the next day.

View of the Black Mountains. More fast sweepers to your heart’s content.

When I reached Llandovery, I started looking for a place to stay. Everywhere I stopped was full up! I suddenly remembered that it was Friday. On top of that, this was the weekend that the World Rally Car boys were doing their Rally of Wales. I continued north, stopping at every inn along the way with no success. Finally made it to Builth Wells which was far enough north to be away from the rally fans. I found a decent hotel with a pub downstairs (is there any other kind?).

The following day would be my last. I decided to head back to Snowdonia in hopes of getting some better pictures with sunshine. That was the plan anyway. Unfortunately, as I got closer to snowdonia, the clouds moved in. Still there was no rain, so I wasn’t complaining. I continued north along the A470 through tiny quaint villages with names I couldn’t pronounce.

Heading north from Builth Wells…

Another view of Pass of Llanberis.

I came around the backside of Snowdonia. Impressive peaks with more fast sweeping curves. I’ve always rated Northern California roads at the top of my list, however, I’m going to have to list Welsh roads up near the top along with the south of France. Fast, smooth roads with nice scenery.

All in all, the trip was a smashing success. Though the skies threatened every day, I only recieved a smattering of rain. Got to learn some killer roads with the help of the local lads. About a 1000 miles over 4 days with only 1 cop sighting. I’ll definitely have to go back in the spring for a refresher course.

The Lake District

September ’04

It was a dreary, drizzly morning as I set off from Nottingham in the British Midlands headed for the Lake District on the Scottish frontier. My route would take me through the Peak District & the Yorkshire Dales, both designated as National Parks. My English friend, Bill had supplied me with maps marking all the day rides he takes through the area. The weather forecast called for clearing skies later in the day so, with hope in my heart, I set out, keeping to the backroads. I spent the day meandering through the Peak District hoping the skies would eventually clear. Alas, it was not to be. I snorkeled my way through the day. The Peak District is where the infamous Cat & Fiddle pub is located. You may have read about it in BIKE magazine. I didn’t make it there & with the wet weather, it was just as well. I’ll have to get back & re-ride this section. Sorry, no pictures of the Peak District. I found a hotel in Huddersfield that was right next to an Italian restaurant. Looked like a good place to stop

I woke up the next day to bright blue skies. I guess someone felt sorry for me. After a full English breakfast (I’m finally getting used to the idea of baked beans & stewed tomatoes for breakfast. I’m being assimilated) I headed northwest towards the Yorkshire Dales. You know you’ve really left the busy industrialized southern England behind. The region has fewer roads and filled with buccolic countryside & storybook villages. Here is a shot just north of Skipton.

The Yorkshire Dales are very beautiful. At times it can seem sparse, stark & windswept. Other times, you’d think there can be no more prettier place on the planet. The roads that my friend had mapped out for me were all small backroads seldom more than a car wide. At some places there was a gate across the road where I’d dismount, open the gate, ride through, close the gate, & on to the next gate. It kept the average speed down. Not that I was too concerned. The roarty, torquey Triumph was perfectly suited to these roads. You’d think it was built here. Oh wait…it was.
Here’s a typical shot of the Yorkshire Dales. Note the stone walls. They take great pride in the construction of these walls and it shows.

One of the best features of these back roads were the motocross jumps they had engineered into them. every now & then you’d see a dip up ahead & you just *knew* you could catch some air with some judicious throttle control. Big fun…erm…not that I would condone such activity…it just looked like it would be fun. Yah, that’s my story. Another great feature was the stone walls lining the road provided a perfect echo chamber for listening to the glorious parallel twin exhaust note as you powered out of a corner. I’m sure there was another reason they built the walls, I just don’t know what it is.

It is said that Yorkshire lad David Jefferies honed his craft on these roads. After my brief visit, it’s easy for me to see that riding these roads would tend to make the Isle of Man TT course seem like a super highway! Here is a shot of the Buttertub Pass north of Hawes (Hawes is a big biker meeting place on Sundays).

A secluded waterfall I encountered as I neared the village of Dent, my stop for the night.

another look at the ubiquitous stone walls that line virtually every mile of the backroads. They take such great pride in their workmanship that there’s even books written on the stone walls of the Yorkshire Dales.

West Yorkshire village…

The tiny village of Dent, that my friend had recommended, would be my stop for the night. A quaint little village if ever there was one. The Sun Inn had its own micro brewery so, I fell right to sleep that night (you fill in the rest).

The next morning I was awoken by a loud ray of bright sunshine glaring right thru my window. Someone forgot to close the curtains. Ah well, I was to be blessed with 2 days of sunshine in a row! From the Yorkshire Dales to the Lake District is but a mere hop skip & a jump! After another full English breakfast ( I love black pudding. Don’t wanna know how it’s made) I set off heading northwest.

Main Street in Dent.

The road leaving the village of Dent. Coming from Arabia, I was dazzled by the greenery. Notice the moss on the wall. It was like, 1 inch thick! After staring at the moss for a few minutes, I regained my composure and continued on my merry way.

I arrived in the Lake District via the town of Windermere. As the forecast for the next day called for rain, I figured I’d better ride the famous Wrynose & Hardknott Passes today. The Lake District is arguably even more beautiful than the Yorkshire Dales & the four wheeled traffic attests to that! It kinda reminded me of western North Carolina (kinda sorta). However, the traffic thinned out as I moved west towards the passes.

Stopping to get my bearings in the village of Ulpha…

Stone bridge in the Lake District…

The approach to the Hardknott Pass from the west. The saddle in the upper right corner of the photo is the pass. Yah, that’s how wide the road is.

…over the top of the Hardknott and looking down the other side to the east. I’m glad I rode these roads while it was dry. The road was narrow & steep with lots of sharp off camber hairpin turns. Wouldn’t be prudent in the wet. Thankfully, traffic was light.

After negotiating the Hardknott & Whynot…erm…I mean Wrynose, I made my way back to Windermere via the ferry across Lake Windermere.

From Windermere I headed over the Kirkstone Pass…another fine road that the torquey Triumph took in stride.

to Lake Ullswater…

I must have counted a billion sheep. Unfortunately, time was running out & I had to slab it back to Nottingham in time to catch my plane. I hope to make it back soon! Over 5 days, I covered about 1050 miles with no police sightings. All in all, it was a great trip despite a couple days of rain.

Cornish Zen

April ’05

Journey to Land’s End, Cornwall.

I flew into Birmingham, UK, home to Black Sabbath and Judas Priest but, I was seeking a different kind of British heavy metal. Rain streaked the jet’s window as we came in for a landing. Never a good omen. I hopped on to an east bound train to Nottingham to reunite with my Triumph Thruxton. Together, we set off towards Land’s End at the furthest tip of Cornwall.

It was 3 P.M. when I was finally loaded up and ready to go. I was hoping to get some miles in before dark. I fired up the Triumph and headed southwest. I chose a road built by the Romans now named Fosse Way. As were most Roman roads, this one was built straight and to the southwest. Just the direction I wanted to go. While it looks arrow straight on the map, in reality it does have some nice bends in it. This only proves that Romans enjoyed a good cornering session in their charriots just as much as we do 😀 By 6 P.M. I was well into the Cotswolds. This is the tourist heart of England as it is chock full of achingly quaint villages. I have my suspicions that the English had them purposely built to attract Japanese and American tourists. Here are some pics of the village of Bourton-on-the-Water.

I found a nice hotel in the town of Stow-on-the-Wold. Enjoyed a nice dinner with the accompanying ale. Does anything look more at home in an English village than a Triumph?

The next morning I woke up to more rain. Drat. By the time I had finished breakfast though, the rains had stopped and the skies began to brighten a bit. I rambled a bit through the Cotswold Hills before setting my bearings to the southwest again towards the Roman era town of Bath. Leaving Bath, I took one of my many wrong turns and ended up getting lost a bit but, no worries. After an hour I was back on the way to the West Country.

Entering the county of Somerset, I had been dodging and weaving between rain clouds all day. I was fortunate only to have been sprinkled on for about 15 minutes. I love it when the weather is threatening yet, somehow you manage to get lucky and dance around it. Approaching the town of Minehead, I caught my first glimpse of the ocean…or rather, the Bristol Channel. I could just make out Wales on the other side. I got lucky and found a lovely hotel that was formerly a hunting Lodge. Very friendly staff and they speak the same language…sorta

After a restul night’s sleep, I awoke to a bright blue sky. Things were looking up! I headed out west along the top of the boot tip that is the southwestern peninsula and through the Exmoor National Park. Thatched roof houses? We got yer thatched roof houses buddy right here in the Exmoor.

I encountered a “toll road”. The toll collector must have been off checking on his sheep so, he just put up a sign.

The Somerset coast…

Many English backroads are lined with tall hedges. This makes it impossible to see what’s around the bend…a tractor hauling hay? or an oncoming 18 wheeler? Pick your line carefully and go for it.

It was turning in to a cracking (Brit lingo) day! I continued progressing to the southwest. After the town of Bude, the coastline becomes more dramatic. Unfortunately, the road stays well inland making views of the coast fleeting at best. I guess the Romans or whoever built them didn’t count on tourism, huh? Here is a view of the coast somewhere near Boscastle.

By late afternoon I had entered Cornwall and reached the colorful fishing port of St. Ives. Before the advent of the railroad in the nineteenth century, Cornwall was the most isolated region in England. People here lived a hard existence.

Looking west along the Cornish coast…

I finally reached Land’s End right around 5 P.M. I’ve always had a strong attraction to places like this. Those “end of the world” type places. Going as far as one can go on land makes you all introspective and mushy inside making you look back on where you’ve been and where you will go from here. Unfortunately, someone put up a kitschy theme park right on the tip but, it didn’t blemish the view too much. As it was late and I didn’t have a hotel room yet, I didn’t stick around to watch the sunset.

Here is a shot a little further down the coast looking eastwards.

I got lucky and found a nice friendly hotel in Marazion. Right off the coast was the spectacular St. Michael’s Mount. Originally built as a Benedictine monastery some 800 years ago. There is a causeway to it that is underwater at high tide.

Heading back east along the bottom of the boot toe, I made my way through picturesque fishing villages. I saw a sign for Prince Harry’s Ferry. Instant detour. I always go out of my way for ferrys. Notable among the coastal town was the port city of Fowey. What a charming place! The roads in the old part of town are barely 8 feet wide! Beautiful. I continued eastwards through the Dartmoor National Park. As soon as I entered the park a shroud of mist enveloped me, giving the moors a stark spooky look about them. I loved it but, I didn’t love the 40 MPH speed limit. I sorta went faster than that.

Continued eastwards until Sherbourne where I nabbed another hotel room. The next morning, the weather was still holding up. I timed it perfectly as, the TV news said Land’s End was receiving bucketfuls of rain. I love it when a plan comes together. Heading off northwards now, back towards Nottingham, I stopped by Stonehenge for a few quick pics. This monument marks the spot of the last great battle between the Mods and the Rockers

Here is another typical shot of the roads I travelled. 90% of my trip was on backroads 2 lane roads such as this one. Good stuff…custom made for the Triumph’s parallel twin 🙂

Still continuing north, I couldn’t resist going through the Cotswolds one more time. Beautiful countryside dotted with fairy tale villages.

It’s easy to see why the British bike industry never saw a need to build a more powerful mill. The torquey twin suits the tight twisty English back roads to a T.

mileage: about 1000 miles in 4.5 days.
cop sightings: 1
gatso sightings: 2 (they were these spooky looking things like something out of the prisoner TV show).
pucker moments: 0
wrong turns: 25