When September Ends
…and another summer’s promise has almost gone
For the second year, the early promise of a Spring relaxation of pandemic-related restrictions failed to materialise. Depressingly, the much-vaunted Freedom Day of July was but a brief, tantalising glimpse of our past lives. The phalanx, of ill-thought out, contradictory and otherwise baffling restrictions around foreign travel remaining. Many wrote off the idea of a summer getaway, quietly parking the idea until the Covid nightmare was definitely a thing of the past.
But by early September, the window of opportunity was sufficiently ajar to allow the desperate or optimistic to chance their arm. Providing, of course, you were prepared to put up with the cost and inconvenience of whatever testing regime was in force at the time.
So, with this very much front of mind and the very real possibility of needing to make it back to the UK within 24 hours had us scanning the near horizon. Places previously travelled ‘through’ rather than ‘to’; of places not on a bucket list but filed away as somewhere to visit sometime.
Back in 2007, after three months without a government and no enthusiasm amongst the Walloons and Flemings that make up the population for forming one, The Economist concluded that there wasn’t really much point to Belgium anymore. They loftily opined it should cease to exist, given the two tribes have little in common other than “a King, football and some beers”. Predictably, this provoked some lively correspondence from both communities, ironically giving them something to agree on.
But sitting outside the Cafe Leffe in Dinant by the River Meuse, flanked by a towering cliff on one side and the monastery that forms the motif for the label on the beer bottle, I can’t think of a nicer place to be on an early evening in late September. Leffe always tastes better when on holiday and better still when served presion with Leffe-battered fish & chips after a brisk 270 miles from Calais, branching off through the northern Ardennes.
Next morning, we flick back and forth over the Meuse and Semois, through sun-dappled forests and pretty towns before popping out in Sedan, back in France, to pick up the D964. This road traces the line of the Western Front at Armistice in 1918. There are various military cemeteries either side of the road: black crosses on the east commemorating German soldiers and white on the west for the Allied Forces. This polarisation of good versus bad; right and wrong; winners and losers masks the scale of the human suffering and that it’s deserted on a pale autumn morning makes it more poignant still. It remains a tremendous road, no question, and always a destination even if the grim fascination of the ‘Worst Toilet in France’ at the Dun-Sur-Meuse fuel station is no more. I will spare you the grisly details but it was so foul, it became subject of hypnotic fascination for me of how any supposedly civilised country could tolerate such a facility within its borders. Given a recent refurbishment, it’s no longer the counter-cultural tourist destination it once was but that’s progress, I guess…
From Verdun, we head south towards Epinal and then through the foothills of the Vosges mountains and Gerardmer, a low-altitude ski resort perched on the edge of a lake. Greeted at an outside bar, the waitress scans our NHS Covid vaccination certificates on her mobile phone before tucking it back in her jeans and taking our order without any drama. Over the last two days, this has happened every place we’ve been and I’m struck with how well Belgium and France (and Germany later) have come to terms with living with Covid.
Everyone wears a mask, you have to prove your vaccination status and that’s it: life then carries on as normal. I can’t help thinking that had the UK’s hospitality industry taken a similarly pragmatic approach (rather than wailing at the impracticality and inconvenience of it all), they might not have had their businesses shut down for the best part of two years by a government, intent on meddling.
We sit with early evening beers before dinner at La P'tite Sophie, one of two restaurants in the town sporting a Michelin ‘plate’. I have a different touring companion for this trip: someone who supposedly worked for me thirty years ago but who since cheerfully confesses to spending most of his afternoons then feeding the ducks in Regent’s Park. He’s unwisely left the planning and logistics of this trip to me so I explain my tour dining ethos…
After much field research, my conclusion is restaurants with the ‘plate’ are usually the sensible compromise. While those with ‘stars’ are often wonderful, on a price/performance basis they are becoming increasingly unrealistic with many somehow rootless, serving oddly similar dishes wherever in the world they are. Plates on the other hand, tend to be regionally authentic and cooked with a competence and consistency that can’t be achieved in a domestic setting.
‘Regionally authentic’ in France will usually mean Foie Gras making an appearance and so it was at La P'tite Sophie. Being a man of enlightened and liberal credentials La mangeoire à canards en chef raises ethical concerns… He decides that, having never tried the stuff before, he will give it a go in the interests of balance and first-hand experience. He ends up having it three nights on the trot and in full Meg Ryan mode for two of them.
Route Des Crêtes was built as a supply road to the trenches in World War I. The eerie and humbling preserved battlefield at Le Linge is a few miles from where it starts. Previous trips have coincided with so-so weather and before repairs to winter damage have been done so I’ve never realised what a stretch this is. On this day, with perfect surfaces, astounding views and given that it’s well out of the tourist season by now, it’s blissfully free of traffic.
Crossing the Rhine near Neuenberg, we are heading to the Schwarzewaldhochstrasse, otherwise known as the B500 and for many - this correspondent included - ‘The Best Road in Europe’. But on this occasion, it’s with some trepidation…
My son had unearthed various articles online that suggested an unholy alliance of environmentalists, local government bureaucrats and the Bad-Württemberg chapter of Killjoys, Nit-Pickers & Curtain-Twitchers International had conspired to impose 50 Kmh speed limits on this Götterdämmerung of a road. Built in the interwar years as a work creation scheme, it runs from Waldshut on the Swiss border to near Baden Baden about 120 miles to the North. Huge swathes of woodland were cleared where necessary to give the best possible sightlines and the road is mostly wide, racetrack smooth and maintained to an obsessive level of Germanic perfection. Virtually traffic free during the week, it tends to get busy on a Sunday when it appears a local bylaw stipulates every male over the age of forty-five must trim his immaculate goatee beard, don some over-engineered spectacles and saddles up his RT to go out and linger over a coffee before scaring die Hausfrau witless on the way home. I first rode it in 2004. and eighteen years later after a week or two every year of trips to Europe and the US and a diet of Stelvios, Fluelas, Furkas, Galibiers, Route d’Napoleons, Yosemites and so on, it still remains the Gold Standard.
But initial indications were that things have changed. The cafe near Waldau, once bustling with Dirndl-wearing waitresses serving up vast lumps of sachertorte mit kaffee to the throng is now abandoned, presumably another victim of Covid. The new 90 Kmh limits are not too much of an imposition and likewise, the 50 Kmh restrictions around the various lay-bys, hotels and small settlements that dot the route are reasonable. Only out-and-out nihilist psychopaths can have a problem with this. After all, nobody wants to plough, cranked over, into a group of Bavarian octogenarians making their way unsteadily across the road from one of the many viewpoints back to the tour coach and a snooze. Spoils your day…
The routine for the northern section bordered on a religious experience. Pause by filling up with Super Unleaded and a sandwich made with the German bread that resembles cork floor tiles at the quaint, art-deco Avis filling station near Kniebis. Then back up the hill and a right turn before the final thirty miles…
This was a fast, very fast road that could tempt you to the very edge of your abilities but rewarded the smooth and competent by making you feel invincible. Towards the end are still a set of traffic lights heralding a descent of perfect hairpins and twists all of which could be taken at speed before rolling into the pristine town of Baden Baden.
But that was then and this is now and the imposition of a 50 Kmh limit on the entirety of this section is nothing less than an act of cultural vandalism. The Polizei had a reputation for being fair prevails. Regardless, the visual pollution caused by pointless road signs every few yards, warning sentient beings of dangers they are well aware of has ruined the vista for everyone. One of the after-tastes of the pandemic seems to be a pernicious brand of authoritarianism, completely at odds with the concept of public service. Despite all of this, deserted and bathed in a pale late September autumn glow with the leaves beginning to turn, the B500 has never looked better than on this afternoon, even if we can only now imagine what it once was.
Back across the Rhine to the elegant surroundings of Strasbourg and another excellent but sensible-ish (£125 for two) priced Michelin plate dinner at Le Bistrot d’Antoine. It’s a good sign when somewhere is packed with locals by 19:00 on a midweek night, out of season. It’s also something of a miracle that a single waiter (who is also the proprietor) manages to keep everyone served and topped-up, albeit with a manic enthusiasm bordering on blind panic.
To the west lies the town of Molsheim, location of the factory that produces the stratospherically expensive Bugatti cars. I only know this as I was relieving the drudgery of the gym treadmill one morning watching ‘Secrets of the Supercars’ on one of those channels that gets about three viewers. The edition had the presenter hurling a €2 million Veyron round some impressive looking bends with the occasional roadsigns coming into shot.
Remembering a couple of the place names, the area looked to be the nexus of various D roads that converge on Wangenbourg-Engenthal. I didn’t make this name up. We set off the next morning as part of the route back to Calais via Belgium again. Bright, mid-morning sunlight slanting through trees makes for a tricky but engaging hour or so but the roads and scenery leave no doubt that there’s a good couple of riding days to be had here. And so tantalisingly close to home…
Better still is the Lorraine Nature Park, a glorious, undulating run full of gentle curves across open parkland towards Metz on the D27 before picking up the N52 towards Belgium. Running nearly parallel to the D964 used a few days earlier, it’s almost as good and a fine alternative to retracing steps or the efficient drudgery of the peage.
Last night dinner is at Le Gastronome, a restaurant-with-rooms just over the French border by a railway crossing near the village of Paliseul. This one boasts a well-deserved and affordable Michelin Star. While being far from a budget choice, £400 for two including, dinner, well-matched and generously poured wines, various other superfluous drinks, bed and an excellent breakfast is good value, all things considered.
Although overly influenced by a couple of good riding days and two splendid dinners at different ends of the price/sophistication continuum, I couldn’t disagree with The Economist more. Belgium represents the best of Europe and is, in many ways, a model society. A Northern European sense of order and civility but with a contentedness and relaxed way of life to match the South. It’s like the very best bits of France but without the attitude.
As a biking destination for Brits, this near-shore tour of the Ardennes, Vosge, Black Forest and Alsace-Lorraine at this time of year has pretty much got the lot. Viewed on a map, it looks like a muddle of trunk roads with expectations that it will be much like the area around Spaghetti Junction and not the tranquil, dramatic but changing landscape it proves to be. That it’s completely devoid of Dutch motorhomes in late September only adds to the appeal.
The same time last year, I managed to get to the Harz Mountains and Baltic Coast and the Northern/Middling European weather has again been flawless. No rain apart from one evening and the mercury only reaching the mid-twenties rather than the sweltering heights it gets to in June & July. Like many, I’m gagging to go away earlier in the year but if I have to trade one for the other, it’s Autumn every time for me now.
Quality over quantity is a recurring, nagging refrain at the back of my mind and this trip and agenda has it in spades. If you’ve got five days, a machine and arse capable of 250 miles a day, it’s possible to get the sense of satisfaction and discovery I had previously thought only possible if venturing further afield.
PS
I think I’ve taken my various BMW’s over the years for granted… I had originally planned to make this trip on a Ducati V2 Panigale my son convinced me to buy before I ”really get too f***ing old”. Hard but fair advice for a 58 year old and I really wanted to take it on the B500. But on the Sunday afternoon before setting off when I went to fill up with fuel, the engine warning light came on. With no telephone support to be found, discretion won over valour, back in the garage it went, and K1600 No. 3 wheeled out which performed faultlessly as Nos. 1 & 2 did before it.
My friend was on a Triumph ST Sprint and what a fine bike that is. Tremendous engine, supple handling and a nice old-school/mid-tech feel despite the specification. Sadly, the Triumph-branded luggage was not up to the same standard with a case springing open on the M2 as we headed towards Dover with only various DIY fixes keeping things together after that. Closer inspection revealed that the design is frankly - crap - compared with the BMW equivalent and doomed to fail.
On previous trips, minor issues on my K’s or usual companion’s GS have been prioritised, fixed quickly, often at no cost by the dealer network. Combined this with recent experience and it’s a timely reminder why BMW dominate this section of the market. The lure of a Ducati V4S Multistrada, the pinnacle of motorcycling sophistication and versatility and quite brilliant to ride, as a replacement for my current K1600 now looks like a high-risk strategy. I just wish they would put Adaptive Cruise Control on the K’s. After all, this was and should be the Mercedes S Class of the motorcycling world and why BMW have let this crown slip is anyone’s guess.