Lost in France
A Song for Europe
It’s 11:30 on a Tuesday in mid-June and I’m staring at a purple squiggle on the satnav that shows the course I’m on. I left Tulle, a large town in the Limousin region of central France a couple of hours ago and have managed to lose my companion. Not for the first time, the Alpha Males in both of us have fought for supremacy and in a no-score draw, we end up going different routes. I’ve stumbled across D940 which runs South-North to Bourges, a road not identifiable from the printed map as being remarkable but remarkable it is. Mile after mile of fast, sweeping, faultlessly surfaced and traffic-free roads remind me why it is unthinkable to give up this annual fix of some part, any part of Europe.
Eight days previously, the Portsmouth to St. Malo overnighter has disgorged us into a grey Northern France, the group this year comprising twelve wheels and four vehicles. Our over-enthusiastic descriptions of roads, restaurants and recreation from the previous twelve years have persuaded two friends to join us in a pair of highly desirable and very fast cars. So a Ferrari 360 Spider and an Aston-Martin Vanquish S followed by my regular touring companion, a man of saintly tolerance, on a brand new water-cooled GS1200 Adventurer and me on my three-year old K1600 GT trundle off the ramp while the satnavs struggle to get a fix on the location through the damp and gloom.
The day is the Monday after the 70th anniversary of D-Day and so we considered first going north to Omaha Beach to get some sense of this extraordinary event and, like many of our generation, probably say a silent prayer to our ridiculous good fortune to have not been part of it. To have been born in the UK between 1960 and 1970 with all the benefits of free education, cradle-to-grave healthcare and without ever being shot at might not be first prize in the lottery of life but it’s certainly worth a runners up medal. Not being made of the same fibre as our forbears, we instead head straight to La Rochelle as the miserable weather and reports of road-closures all around the Normandy beaches make for the prospect of a frustrating and unappealing 420 mile first day.
We get to La Rochelle by mid-afternoon and enjoy a stroll round the harbour punctuated by frequent stops for a Leffe pression or two, basking in the rare luxury of having time on our hands and not much to do. Dinner is at Bar Andre, a local institution serving the freshest seafood imaginable and a colossal Plateau de Fruits de Mer followed by grilled fish is wolfed down accordingly.
The faded elegance of Biarritz awaits us some 236 miles south so we skirt Bordeaux, pick up a forest route then head for the coast to avoid the tedium and expense of the peage. With the Atlantic coast on the right, vast blue skies and a late afternoon snack of oysters and White Bordeaux at Hossegor with Davi, skiing instructor by winter, surfing master in the summer and friend of Mr. Vanquish all makes for a contented final run into Biarritz. All very undemanding stuff with bikes and cars travelling harmoniously together. The laissez faire attitude to driving exhibited by most French outside Paris makes for wide gaps sufficient to allow our little convoy to make swift and unobtrusive progress.
From Biarritz to Bilbao is only about ninety miles. Nothing like a full day’s ride but there is a purpose to this. As the culinary high-spot of the trip, we have a reservation for lunch at the distinctly Iberian hour of four o’clock in the afternoon at ‘Azurmendi’, a highly celebrated restaurant, so need to get to Bilbao by early afternoon. More on Azurmendi later but first, another piece of European military history tourism awaits as we stick to the coast and head for Guernica. The road clings to the cliffs and valleys and provide an interesting contrast between competently ridden bikes compared to competently driven cars. There is really very little in it with the bike’s agility and acceleration advantage out of corners counterbalanced by the grip and confidence that four huge tyres give.
History buffs will recall the tragic past of Guernica, a town in the heart of the Basque region. It was offered by Franco to Hitler as a training exercise for his ‘Stuka’ pilots to hone their dive-bombing techniques before turning their attention to Poland and other parts of Europe. The town sits in a narrow valley which intensified the destruction and made escape nigh on impossible as the columns of people fleeing were subsequently mown down from the air. These days, Guernica is a prosperous bustling town with the only memorial being a mosaic of the famous Picasso painting depicting the atrocity.
Azurmendi is the three-Michelin star temple of chef, Eneko Atxa. It sits on a hill about eight miles outside Bilbao and is an oasis of calm and civility. A tour of the kitchen and photos with the great man himself - all rock-star charisma, piratic good looks and Basque charm - precede sixteen perfect dishes with sixteen expertly-paired wines and sherries. The kindness and generosity of the staff, the immense care and skill of the kitchen, and the company of friends I’ve known a long time combine to make this truly the best meal I have ever eaten. Arguably, it was also the best value too. As the bill was bought, we speculated on the damage given we had abandoned any pretence of budgeting as soon as the menus were presented.
We were all way over. Depending on your perspective, €1,100 for four might seem obscene but given the price per head is the same as two tanks of diesel for an estate car these days, I came away thinking it supremely fair. Given the financial and human capital required to attain these heights, I’m surprised it doesn’t cost a lot more. By way of example and a leitmotif of the meticulous levels of care that abound here, one of the staff noticed one of us is left-handed and subsequently amended cutlery settings thereon; a level of unobtrusive perfectionism hitherto not witnessed by this particular group of Sybarites.
Regardless of this detail, the food is peerless and if this is important to you, go while you can still get a table. Azurmendi really does represent the end of the rainbow and value and availability will not be in such perfect equilibrium for long.
I’ve been fortunate to go to a few of these top-end, destination restaurants but rarely want to go back having ticked them off. The warmth and sincerity of Azurmendi make it a different proposition altogether and they haven’t seen the last of any of us, I suspect…
Strolling around Bilbao afterwards in the cool velvet of early evening with the sun glinting off Frank Gehry’s jaw-dropping Guggenheim Museum, it’s difficult to reconcile the meal we have just had with a country in the economic mire that Spain is at present. Likewise, the young, good-looking, confident locals are in stark contrast to the bleak reality of 54% youth unemployment as they jog, cycle, blade and flirt with one another along the banks of the Nervión. Such portentous thoughts can’t detract from the sense though that some days are just perfect and this has been one of them.
The next morning, we return to Azurmendi to take pictures as mementoes. The restaurant manager and sommelier come out in pre-service attire of Juventus shirts and combat shorts to sit in the cars and chat. Away from the formality of the restaurant, it’s clear they both absolutely love their jobs and really believe they are part of something truly great. We assure them they are and thank them again.
Today the cars leave us and head back upstream to the port and overnight to Portsmouth. So we say goodbye and head south towards Rioja and specifically, Elciega. We stay inexpensively in the village at the Agroturismo Valdelana, a lovely combined winery and B&B. I didn’t realise those film roles had dried up for Penelope Cruz as she appeared to be running the place. Along with her sister… Maybe the heat and my monastic life-style is slowly getting to me so as the sun sets, we sip a crisp white before dinner at the Marquis de Riscal winery.
Like the Guggenheim, this building is another Frank Gehry creation and it’s again spectacular with the titanium roof panels intensifying the reflected colours of the surrounding land and sky. But there is evidence of cost-cutting in the details such as the crude-looking steel girders supporting the roof, unsubstantial fittings and scuffed woodwork so the overall effect is slightly marred.
So far, the trip feels more like a relaxing weekend away with good food and a smattering of culture rather than a motorcycle road trip but this is about to change.
To Jaca the next day, we traverse Rioja and pick up the old 2420 from Pamplona, this is a great road but instead of carrying on direct, we divert off north on 178 over the Pyrenees into the Basque country for a little literary pilgrimage. This is my first taste of Pyrenean biking and it’s brilliant. Fast and smooth with good visibility and some excellent switchbacks toward the top.
In the 1970s, Rod Whittaker, a university professor from Atlanta, wrote novels under various pseudonyms to demonstrate his talents as a literary mimic without becoming tied with any one genre. The most commercially successful of these nom de plume was ‘Trevanian’, whose Ian Fleming style ‘airport novels’ sold by the truck-load. The most famous is ‘The Eiger Sanction’ that Clint Eastwood acquired the film rights to and starred in. Whittaker was frustrated that his audience and the subsequent film failed to recognise his subtle parody, so his masterpiece ‘Shibumi’ has never made it to the big screen despite several attempts since publication in 1979. Much of Shibumi is set around Tardets and Etchebar in Le Pays Basque and is so vividly described, I had to go and have a look myself. Rewardingly, the locations are exactly as imagined. Unsurprising perhaps as like much of rural France, it appears completely unchanged since 1979 which then probably hadn’t changed much in the twenty years before that. The route back south though is pure torture and the first twenty miles take nearly an hour. The roads are steep, rutted and occasionally so bad I almost wished I was on a GS. Almost.
So it’s Friday night in Jaca and Spain are about to take on Holland in the first match of the 2014 World Cup. Spain are reigning champions so expectations are high. There is a buzz in the air, le toute monde of Jaca are out in force and little bowls of free tapas are in all the bars in anticipation of a successful first defence of the title. A minor tragedy unfolds as the Dutch romp home 4-1. The little bowls are petulantly swooped up by the bar owners and time called at about 11:30. So it’s early to bed it before setting off to Andorra where we get lucky with the route.
What was simply a case of connecting A to B on the map turns out to be truly epic as roadsigns inform us we've chanced upon the Grande Route de Pyrenees. About ten miles south-east of Jaca, the A1604 soars off into the hills, with a series of wide, flat curves you can attack with gusto and it just keeps on going, getting better and better. Past a ruined village in a deep ravine, snaking our way through one gorge after another, through cooling forests and all with barely a car in sight. And this is a Saturday in June. I’ve not seen this road on any lists of great biking routes but it’s right up there with the very best; nearly on a par with the epic B500 in the Black Forest but much, much longer.
Expectations are low of Andorra as its reputation as bazaar of cheap shoes and pointless electronic gadgets precedes it but we luck-out again in a modish Tapas bar, Bodega Poblot, where we eat brilliantly for a little over €30 a head. Sunday morning sees us plunged back into mid-winter as we make our way back into France in frozen rain. Destination is St. Puy in the heart of Gascony where the local economy would seemingly collapse if it were not for sales of Foie Gras and Armagnac. Easy riding through rolling hills beloved of the many artists who have painted here, we arrive mid-afternoon to find the market square closed to traffic. It’s the annual tango competition, a bizarre spectacle like Asterix meets Strictly but a festival the locals embrace with a devotion approaching the religious. So having checked into the local hotel, run by a slightly pissed middle-aged madame and her ninety-two year old husband we go and meet Terry, a friend of my companion, an ex-pat. artisan builder who lives locally. We sit in the bar and watch the Latin-American dancing draw to its conclusion while the pace of eating and drinking intensifies around us.
The local delicacy of L’Ortolan (roasted baby-starlings, drowned in Armagnac) is not available on account of it being declared illegal on grounds of pointless cruelty -even by French standards - but Pate de Foie Gras is and so we make do. The evening wears on and glasses are repeatedly filled, madame-hotelier turns up (by now really pissed) and kisses everyone. Other women kiss other women and then the men. The men kiss other men, the beer keeps coming, the proprietor sits down and Armagnac is served, complimentaire. Eventually, I go and pay a bill that bears no relation to what we actually had but looks reasonable given the state we are in so everyone sways home happy, like a squadron of listing galleons through the now quiet streets.
Next morning, we go for a coffee at Terry’s heart-stoppingly beautiful farmhouse he has lovingly restored. It really does look like the perfect life: contented, undemanding and stress-free but the reality is also of bone-numbingly cold winters and a highly seasonal income pattern.
Terry explains that the locals are utterly bemused by faddy, liberal Anglo-Saxon attitudes to food and prefer to live to the maxim that the sensation of taste is all. “They’d probably eat you if they thought it would taste any good” is Terry’s conclusion but even my uneven relationship with the French stops short of accusing them of latent cannibal tendencies.
In a brave but possibly flawed bid to show the humane side of the Foie Gras industry, a local farm has even opened up a form of petting zoo where children are encouraged to feed the geese in the, ahem, ‘traditional’ manner. The locals are adamant the geese love it and queue up for the experience. Given how popular Gascony is with affluent, metropolitan Francophiles, I’d pay good money to be at any number of smart North London Primary Schools when Jocasta or Sebastian stand up and read out aloud their ‘What I did in the Summer Holidays…’ piece before their stunned, fruitarian teacher.
St. Puy to Tulle feels stateless with none of the drama of altitude or geography. Just lush rolling hills, deserted roads and a sense of being disconnected from the rest of the world. Tulle is pleasant but nondescript, the only notable feature being a stupendously ugly, brutalist tower in the centre by the river. It houses the local government officials and dominates the town resembling an almost Soviet-style reminder of the power of government over the proletariat.
Which brings us back to where we came in. Lost, alone but not lonely with 120 miles of fuel and a squiggly road ahead in a French forest somewhere south of Bourges. After Bourges, two days through the Loire Valley to take a look at a couple of chareau en route to Angiers.
Chateau Chambord you can at least see without paying but Chenonceau is concealed so unless you are prepared to stump up €15 each or fight your way through the woods on the other side of the river, you won’t even get a brief, tasteful glimpse.
I chose the latter route and it’s not worth it, the structure being much less impressive close up than in aerial photos.
From Angiers to St. Malo via Mont St. Michel completes the trip.
Mont St. Michel is borderline ghastly; a vast parking concession followed by a bus ride or forty-minute walk is the only means of access. Once there, it’s stuffed with bovine tourists waddling the narrow streets in search of tat and home to the worst sandwich I have ever eaten. As George Dubbya might have put it: “The problem with the French is they have no words for …”
In twelve days, we’ve crossed eight borders between two countries and one principality without once showing a passport or being held up by any other apparatus of the state. Whatever the costs and benefits of EU membership, it’s only when you consider the poignant commemorations of D-Day and the horrors of Guernica that you realise that anything is worth preserving the peace and freedoms that go hand in hand with it. To think Nigel Farage and his merry band of curtain-twitchers would subject us all to UC Law (Unintended Consequences) rather than EU ones and risk disturbing this delicate balance beggars belief. I realise the narrow prism of my motorcycling pleasure is no basis for the formulation of foreign policy but how much have we taken these liberties for granted and isn’t it worth 0.7% of Gross National Income to preserve them? Yes, I know these self-serving, Eurocrat mediocrities make the skin crawl and need holding to account for their waste, profligacy and unhinged thinking but to be able to roam unhindered and anonymously across a relatively prosperous continent is a freedom few have and should not be risked lightly.
After a final night in St. Malo watching England get booted out of the World Cup, it’s back to Portsmouth on the daytime sailing and a chance to catch up on the modern day plague of email while reflecting on the tour and the conclusions are clear:
In biking terms, Western France is still just a slog and even the charms of La Rochelle and Biarritz are a poor bargain in exchange. But the Pyrenees are a revelation. I’ve always thought of them as the poor relation to the alps on account of them not being as high but that makes them ideal for fast motorcycle touring. Better still, there is scarcely a Dutch or Belgium motorhome in sight. Central France is curiously anonymous but with some hidden gems. It needs greater study as this region probably holds the key to a great two-week tour to the Pyrenees but without the drudgery of the Aquitaine. The Loire Valley seemingly offers little to bikes and while the chateaus are certainly grand, you’d have to be a Mastermind contestant (specialist subject: pre-revolution France) to get much out of visiting them. If you are thinking about going to Mont St. Michel, my advice is to lie down until the feeling goes away.
As far as the bikes are concerned, the new GS appears to be a significant improvement from its predecessors. This conclusion is observational so not truly empirical but it does seem to have much more vim about it. Cruising motorways at any speed appears easier whereas earlier models appeared asthmatic compared to K’s. Although the K has the edge on fast sweeping roads, the difference is much less pronounced than before.
I rode a standard model GS shortly after returning as I was trying to establish if the new RT is a good replacement for my K1600. All RT’s with ESA are subject to a recall and so unavailable for test rides. I never quite get on with GS’s as I prefer a lower centre of gravity and stability of a sports tourer but what’s clear is this engine has all the power anyone could sensibly want and so begs the question: what will happen to the K1600 series?
In October 1979, the cover of Superbike magazine was a cartoon of the new Kawasaki Z1300, a six-cylinder, water-cooled behemoth with the strap line “Goodbye Golden Age’. The bike was depicted as made of stone, like some antiquity from a lost civilisation and placed on a Doric pedestal. The gist of the editorial was that geopolitics and the imminent exhaustion of fossil fuels had conspired to ensure we would never see the like of it again. This sombre prediction came just before the world embarked on the greatest period of economic expansion ever seen and so proved baseless. Regardless and for slightly different reasons, the same question now needs asking of the K1600.
Before the introduction of the new RT, if you wanted the latest toys, bells and whistles from BMW Mottorad, you simply had to look at the K’s as the RT was clearly targeted at a more traditional audience that valued heritage over innovation. But now the RT is more sophisticated than the K1600 with all the same comforts, more than adequate power but without the bulk and weight of six cylinders.
While the K1600 has been a very good bike, it has it not been without issues. Four replacement switch clusters, new front wheel bearings and a new engine at 24,000 miles (corrosion of the engine block; the internals were fine) have all been dealt with without question under warranty but that’s hardly the point. Rusting of most low-down fasters and blistering paint on the wheels on a bike mainly kept in a garage for three years is not what you expect when you spend nearly £20,000 and see ten-year-old Hondas costing a third of this without a mark on them.
’’m glad the K1600 exists and that Superbike was wrong way back in 1979. I am privileged to have owned one but they need to do something to keep it relevant. Otherwise, it begins to look like an expensive (and not terribly well-made) anachronism.
The mid-term facelift of the 2015 models announced on 4 July are minor revisions only with keyless-go and hill-start options appearing together with three fantastically dull new colours of white, black and silver. So no styling changes then and the same Herculean weight…One can only hope there is also an unheralded return to 1970s levels of fit and finish that remain the apotheosis of BMW build quality.
So with that said and only five emails remaining in my Inbox, sailing back into harbour on a perfect early summer English evening, the world feels in good order.
For the first time since leaving, I’m asked to show my passport at immigration.
“We share the same birthday” smiles the lady in the booth.
“Really, 9th August?”
“No, 9th August 1963” she replies “The exact same day. I’ve been doing this job twenty-five years and that’s never happened to me. Have a lovely evening”
Not for the first time in the last two weeks, the accident of birth and undeserved good fortune pre-occupy me as I head up the A3 towards home.