One last Hoorahh!

There was no need to rush on my last morning. The ferry didn't sail till 12:30 and it was only a 15 minute drive from the hotel to the port. That said, for some reason I started to get nervous as I packed the bike for the last time. Was my watch right? Was the time on the ticket UK time and not Spanish time?

Of course there was nothing to worry myself about and I arrived at the port in plenty of time. There were already 15-20 bikes ahead of me. Lots of gleaming examples of German, American, Italian, British and Japanesse technology glinting in the mid morning sunshine. Their riders were resplendant in their immaculate riding gear. And here was I, the mud monster from Morocco.

My arrival did attract a bit of attention, firstly from a couple of guys ahead of me on Ducatis and later from a guy on the same bike as mine who's wife clearly thought I'd been having too much fun. It was a good ice breaker though and I made a mental note to stop and have a chat with the Ducati riders if I saw them again on the boat.

It's good being a biker on the Pride of Bilbao as they load you first. This means that (other than the foor passengers and mini-cruisers) you're able to get your cabin sorted, have a shower and be in the bar while all the shed pullers and cars slowly load. The down side, of course, is that you're on the boat longer!

With little else to do I sat in the sun at the end of the boat enjoying a couple of Guins whilst reading my book. These seemed to go straight to my head, so after a pannini for lunch and a little look at the whales and dolphins I went back for a snooze and to listen to the last part of the Richard Branson book I had on my iPod.

Later on I grabbed a bit of nosh, read some more and, around 9pm wandered past the 'show' bar. I was beginning to think it'd be an early night when I spotted the Ducati duo at the bar. I wandered over and we got chatting and were soon swapping stories as the drinks went down.

Later we were joined by mini-cruiser who appeared to have been given a pass by the Mrs and was looking like a kid in a sweetie shop. He was a nice enough chap, but he had kinda latched himself on and had spoilt the group dynamic.

The three bikers wandered off to the Casino area where we played a few games of Blackjack. The mini-cruiser's pass clearly did not extend to this area of the ship! However, as we wandered back to the bar for a last drink or two, there he was admiring one of the most hideously dressed women I've ever seen who was on the dance floor. It was hard to know if she was dancing or just staggering about as the boat gently rocked on on the waves.

We got some more drinks but only a short way into them the Ducati boys said they needed a smoke. I'd got a feeling they'd just pulled the rip cord, and so it turned out. Politely chatting with my new friend I finished my drink and headed for my cabin to roll my one-a-day.

By the time I finished my smoke it was gone 3am and the boat was devoid of people save the crew and various cleaning staff. It seemed a good last night of the holiday - one last hoorahh!

I was dreading the headache the next morning, but it turned out OK. Even so I didn't surface till gone midday. The ship wouldn't dock till 5 and there was little to do.

Later in the afternoon I bumped into the Ducati riders and we exchanged emails as the ship slowly slid round the Isle of Wight. They live in south west London so we could meet up some time for a ride.

The ship was a bit late docking due to other traffic, but we were soon on our way. The M27 / A27 was so much busier than many of the european roads and seemed somewhat clostraphobic initially.

Within the hour I was home and starting the unpacking routines, making different piles for the washing machine etc. My bike adventure had come to an end for another year.....

So what is art?

The coming Autumn had left the morning cool and crisp as I wandered the streets of Salamanca. I was looking to get some pounds changed to euros, but ended up using a cashpoint.

The architecture of Salamanca is fantastic (if you like old) and new vistas are around every corner. I'd recommend it to anyone wanting a city break.

I packed and got back on the road by 9:30 as I wanted to get to Bilbao by early afternoon so that I'd have time to visit the Guggenheim museum. Emily guided me towards motorway, but she was playing up. Maybe she's not liked being bounced around for 3 weeks, but she now only talks to me in one ear. If I re-seat her in her cradle she often improves, but music comes and goes. At least her directions are (on the whole) correct.

Then something weird happened. As I was cruising along at about 80 I suddenly had an extreme stinging pain in my left ear. Initially I thought a wasp had got inside my helmet and stung me, but this was not the case - Emily had electrocuted me! I unplugged my earpieces so she couldn't zap me again.

At a petrol stop I took a look at the cable which showed some bare wire. However, the voltage used by the ear monitors should not be enough to have given a shock. All very strange. I put a tab of duck tape over the exposed wires to ensure it didn't happen again. Emily still only spoke in my right ear.

It was enough for me to listen to an audio book I'd downloaded though and as I sped towards Bilbao Terry Pratchett's Thud! was expertly read to me.

I already knew where I'd try to find a room in Bilbao and luckily the Formula 1 had one. It's a cheap and cheerful cell, but it get's me ready for the room on the boat.

I dumped my gear, got changed and jumped back on the bike to go to the Guggenheim. My first parking attempt at the back of the museum was vetoed by an over zealous security guard, so I shot up a side street, parked, and then walked back along the river front.

There's a tremendous amount of building going on here as well as major road construction. The scruffy port city is now getting a very modern, very cosmopolitain district.

Entry to the museum was €8, reduced because the entire second floor was closed. The museum is housed in a spectacular building of glass, titanium and rock. Each material is used to form complex curves that weave together. It is very impressive.

The first exhibit I viewed consisted of waves and scrolls of 2 inch plate steel set in a massive curving hall. The steel formed curving walkways that carried sound a deceptively long way. The steel walls were rarely vertical confusing the senses as you walked between then.

I walked along one large scroll as it wound like a spiral towards its centre. At one point I was sure I could see a large black doorway into a dark cental void. I stepped forwards. BONG! I'm sure I could here the guards sniggering. I'd interacted with this piece more than I'd intended.

I'm sad to say that nothing else in the entire museum (save some video art) even came close to moving me. In fact much of it was just crap. One piece was a bunch of boarding cards sandwiched between two pieces of glass set on top of some bubble wrap. On top of this were cigarette ash trays stolen from the armrests of airline seats. These were then joined by a metalic chain.

The electronic talking guide that your given when you enter bleated on about the artists life journey and how each boarding card and ash tray interweaved with their existence. Wot a load of crap! It was a bunch of nicked ash trays, some steel rope and boarding cards. The glass would be better made into windows and the bubble wrap used to ship the whole lot back to the artist!

I debated ploughing the GS through their glass front doors, dumping it on the floor and writing the blog address in black marker on the stone floor. The mud has been artisticly applied and all the squashed insects depict life's intricate struggle between existance and extinction. I think a quarter of a million sounds about right. I'll await your cheque Mr Guggenheim!

I left glad that the entire 2nd floor had been closed! Perhaps I'm just a philistine?

My hotel is near some of the out of town shopping centres so I've spent the evening grabbing some food and buying a few last minute gifts.

The weather looks set fair for my crossing and also for keeping all my mud stuck to the bike. A bit of Morocco will now be forever in Hove.

Catching Up

As I type this blog entry I'm sitting in the main square in Salamanca, however, the adventure is still a continent away in Meknes. I'm becoming like Ewan and Charlie, they were never where they said they were on interviews - for security reasons. I've just run out of time.

From Meknes we blasted back to the Moroccan border riding some excellent twistys through the Rif mountains near Chefchouen. My excitement inticators were working overtime. These are my boots. A little scrape through a corner - we're having fun. A bigger scrape = lots of fun. A scrape so big you have to move your foot = slow down fool!

The border crossing was no real problem, just a case of finding the correct person to process the various pieces of paper. There was a side show going on to. Some woman had a problem and was wailing and generally creating a scene. The border guards seemed unimpressed and said she was mad. As we left she had attracted a bit of a crowd and was on her side in the middle of the road pushing herself round in circles with her feet like some wannabe break dancer.

A quick beer at the hotel in Ceuta and then we headed down to a bar by the marina. I think we were all, in a way, glad to be back in a European country. Glad our insurance was worth something, glad our recovery service was valid and glad someone would pick us up and try to fix us if we did something stupid.

Back at the hotel Julian did a little presentation over dinner and we all recounted stories and thanked Bill for his backup.

My Berber belly had come back and I had an uncomfortable night.

The following morning Julian had us booked on the 08:30 ferry. This, in hindsight, was a bit keen as we were back in Malaga by mid morning. The group was now splitting. Phil was off to meet his wife's flight while the rest of us had one last night together.

After a lazy afternoon we all met up in the bar before heading to a really nice restaurant called Citron. The chocolate brownie dessert was superb. Shame I was only briefly renting food still! I was not alone, Jim was suffering even more than I.

As the die hard's headed off to a wine bar, Jim, Colin and I headed back to the hotel, unwilling to put our stomachs through more grief.

The Guernsey boys were off at nine the next morning, so when I looked at my clock at 9:30 I figured I'd missed them. Arriving in reception looking like I'd just got out of bed ('cos I had), I just caught Julian who was heading to the airport and said my farewells to the remaining four riders who had not left. They all seemed to be slowly falling out with each other. It'll be interesting to see if they all end up catching the same ferry home!

So all that was left now was Bill and I. He needed some help getting the bikes he was transporting on to the back of the Landy. I rented some breakfast and headed down to the car park to help.

It all turned into a bit of a drama with various Spanish drivers getting irate that we were blocking part of the manouvering area. It all came to a head when Bill offered to drive some woman's car, as she seemed incapable. This went down badly! She could speak English and gave us a piece of her mind Bill told her to tell it to someone who gave a ferk. Ahh, international relations - always a bed of snakes.

With the bikes loaded I packed up my bike, checked out and headed over to Phil's pad to stay the night. He has an underground garage and I used it to put my mudguard back on and give the bike a once over. I was worried about a couple of small oil leaks before I left and these were still visible, the Moroccan red dust sticking to the site of each leak.

Phil and his Mrs were sunning themselves at the beach, but later we got together with some of their friends to go out for a meal on the coast. We had a great time and were drinking fairly late into the night. However, once again my stomach was playing up. I decided I'd ask to try some of Phil's tablets the next day (mine went out of date in early 07. Oops).

After a intermittent night's sleep I wondered if I was ready for my ride from Mijas to Salamanca. I'd planned it to use all the wiggly roads and stay clear of the motorways. Sat nav said it was a 10 hour ride.

With some of Phil's tablets onboard I headed out just after 9 to take the paeage to my first set of wiggles - the famous road up to Rondha. It didn't disappoint, the bends coming thick and fast one after another. Captain health and safety had been at work erecting loads of pointless signs, but the tarmac was superb and I had fun as I climbed into the cool morning mountain air.

However, this was ultimately surpassed by the N502. A superb Spanish road that runs for hundreds of miles and has something for everyone. Forget the Stellio pass or whatever it was Top Gear said was the best road. Go drive the N502!

So here I am in Salamanca, my adventure slowly coming to a close. Tomorrow I ride to Bilbao ready to catch the ferry home. I'm just hoping the weather holds so I can get my bike home in the mud splattered state it is currently in!

Heading home.

The time had come to start heading north. The tour agenda had us crossing the Atlas off road, however, there had been no chance to reccee the route since the rains. It was too big a risk to ride the high pass as there were no roads should we find the route impassable.

We had another problem to solve first though. Mark (also known as Wally or Wol) had a problem. His ignition key would no longer fully slide home. There was a foreign object of some description at the bottom of the keyway. Whether this had been put their deliberately or whether the lock had failed with the vibration was hard to say. Wol felt someone had tried to steal his bike, I felt it was an equipment failure. The debate over this would continue throughout the day, but it didn't alter the basic fact that Wol was going nowhere.

But lady luck (depending on your point of view) was smiling on us. Way back at the Erg Chebi desert we'd run into a bunch of professional riders practicing for the Dakar rally. They also had the fully equipped support truck with mobile workshop. As we had gone from hotel to hotel they to had rolled up. It had become a bit of a joke between the groups, not that they spoke much English or us much Spanish.

But a broken bike is a universal language and they were eager to help. We dragged the bike over to the massive truck and as we did so the side of the truck swung down to reveal the workshop complete with generator and compressor. If the Landy had got a face like all the things in Bob the Builder then it would have looked jelous as we all drooled over their setup.

Their engineer tried initially blowing the blockage out with a compressor but it was wedged too tight. After some trials with other tools there was only one option left. Out came the disc cutter and the entire lock barrel was cut off the bike.

The remaining base part of the assembly could then be operated with a screwdriver. Not very secure, but at least we were up and running once more.

All this drama had delayed our departure, which only added to Julian's pace as he guided us towards Meknes. Not a lot to say about the ride really. It was long and my bum ached. However, there was still the stunning scenery, occasional twisty bit, unseen policeman and near death overtaking experiences to punctuate the time.

Once at Meknes we headed into the Medina to look around the market for some fake designer goods. It was rammed and we had no idea where we were going, just jostling or being jostled by the crowd. After a little while and a few dead ends we found some watch sellers. The fakes were really poor quality though and we left empty handed.

We got a taxi back to the hotel with a mad Moroccan driver who did his best to kill us, but unfortunately for him the other vehicles kept on getting out of the way. We celebrated our survival with a couple of ales.

Delivering memories

I awoke from what had been a spasmodic nights sleep. My Berber Belly had been grumbling away, but was settling down. Walking to breakfast I had to cross the pool area. The view from the hotel's elevated position was stunning in the crisp, clear morning sunlight.

Today was supposed to be Bill's chance to ride with us on a route between the Dadés and Todra gorges. However, once again reports were not good so the day had been replanned. We were now going to ride on road to the Todra gorge, then head back to the area we rode yesterday and finally, if we had enough time ride on road to the Dadés gorge. Julian would accompany us to the first gorge. After that we were on our own.

Leaving shortly after nine we set course for Tinehir and the road up to the Todra gorge. Tinehir was some 30 miles away across a largely flat scrub desert. The roads were largely straight and we blasted the bikes across the bumpy Moroccan tarmac. There's very little traffic till around midday for some reason so the roads were fairly empty.

Having passed through the centre of Tinehir, we turned left and began the climb to the gorge. We had been expecting to be greated by scenes of devistation from the rains, but things were not too bad. The roads in places were covered in some sand and stones and in other areas by a bright red mud. This had now baked hard in places, but still didn't offer that much grip.

At the gorge the imposing walls rose around 1000ft almost vertically. Once again there didn't appear to be too much awry. We rode for some way north of the gorge but even here things were OK. Perhaps our planned ride could have been possible.

Returning to the gorge we parked the bikes up and crossed a small wooden bridge to a hotel on the far bank of the river. It was in the sunlight and offered a stunning view of the gorge. I'm not sure I'd have wanted to stay at the hotel for too long though. It nestled into the overhang of the towering gorge wall with millions of tonnes of rock just waiting to fall on it some day. I'm not sure I'd have slept too soundly!

We hit the road again heading almost back to the hotel to pick up a road into the mountains. From there we would pick up the piste to Nekob and I would get the chance to tie my two trips together by delivering a photograph. For this part of the adventure there would only be four riders. Colin and Julian had decided to go back to the hotel and Mark hadn't left it earlier.

My plan was to tie my two trips to Morocco together by delivering a photograph that I'd taken two years earlier. The photograph was of a small Berber boy sitting on my big GS at the top of a piste from Nekob to Tinehir. This was one of my best memories from my previous adventure and I thought it would make an excellent gift for the family.

Many Moroccans have camera phones nowadays and often whip thwm out to take shots of us as we pass. However, I doubt many get the chance to see them other than on a small screen. It's also hard to get photographs a lot of the time as they are shy or superstitious of cameras.

I knew the boy's family ran a tiny 'hotel' at the top of the mountain called Hotel Tizi. This was now our intended destination.

Shortly after starting the trail Jim started blasting his horn. His sat nav was telling him to go a different way. We tried Jim's route for a short while but it was heading away from my intended destination. After a conflab and at a fag break I discovered Jim was following one of Bill's set of waypoints that I already knew did not go to the hotel. I explained that we were now freestyling and Jim cancelled the route on his sat nav, happy that now we were on a true adventure!

A further 20 or 30 minutes riding and we were there. It was now bigger than I remembered with larger walls and more 'rooms'. We took tea with them and I presented the photo. I'd been expecting a bit of a reaction, but it was muted. The boy (I think his name was Yasif) was not around but was well.

One of the rooms had been turned into a tiny boutique. A couple of us bought trinkets. They were probably overpriced and no different to what we could have found elsewhere, but you knew the money would help the family.

We took a few photos and headed out. Phil and Simon headed back to the hotel whilst Jim and I went to take a look at the Dades gorge. The road to the gorge was flowing and allowed the bike to be ridden. There were more washouts and debris on the road though so caution was needed. At the top of a famous hairpin section we stopped for a coffee.

We were peckish, it now being late afternoon, and bought a couple of chocolate buscuits and the Moroccan equivalent of Pringles, called Kracks. Jim and I sat there giggling inwardly like a couple of schoolboys as we munched away. I bought another tube to show the rest of the lads.

We visited the gorge and then blasted back to the hotel in the fading daylight. It had been a long day in the saddle.

Back at the hotel the boys were congregated around the pool. I asked if anyone would like to try my seafood flavoured Kracks. They tasted awful. Phil said he'd tasted worse.

The Berber Backfire

It was probably around midnight that my stomach began to tell me that it wasn't that happy with either the tea in the market / shop or the Berber pizza.

Always one to save sensitive conversations to the appropriate moment I asked at breakfast fast whether anyone else was suffering with a bit of 'Berber Backfire'. It transpired I was not alone, there were others dreading each backfire lest it turned out to be heavier than air!

This just added to the list of tablets to be taken of a morning! However, undaunted, we set of around 8 for an hour or so's ride to the start of our next off road section crossing the Jebel Sarhro mountains from Afnif to Boumaine Dadés.

We had been warned that part of this route was inpassable and long before we reached the start of the off road we started to see the effects of the recent rains. Just outside Rissani we came across a truck that had been swept off a bridge in the rains. The cab had been teathered to a part of the bridge in an attempt to stop it being washed further downstream.

River bridges in Morocco are often different to the UK. We go for large arches and few, if any, supports. With lots of low lying flat desert liable to flash flooding the Moroccans have a different approach. They build long heavy slab bridges with a few tiny arches only 6-8 inches above the summer water level. In the rains the river just flows over the concrete slab creating a ford.

The one we had to cross was only 4-6 inches deep, but was moving at a reasonable rate. We all crossed it in our own individual style, some riders standing and others sitting and trying to keep their boots dry by holding their legs up. The road also held a few other suprises. Areas of sand that had been washed onto the road had now dried leaving 10 to 20 meter stretches of soft sand. Coming across these at 70 mph led to a few sphyncter constricting moments.

Bill had left before us in the Landy and had arrived at the start of the trail just before us. After fuelling up we headed of after the Landy like seven little ducklings. Following a few false starts we finally found the trail, passed Bill and began to climb into the mountains.

There was blue sky as far as the eye could see but it was not too hot. Nevertheless, the effort of riding a big bike through rough terrain soon had me perspiring. I could feel the dry air striping the moisture from you as it passed through my motocross gear. Keeping hydrated, as always, was important.

We rode for quite some time before finding a place away from any villages to stop, take some snap and let the smokers refuel with nicotine and toxic hydrocarbons. As always a few locals appeared as if they'd stepped out of solid rock. They were OK though.

The next section of the trail took us up to a high upland plateau. The scenery was stunning and I stopped every now and then to take pictures. The Guernsey quadruplets were enjoying the trail and sped off ahead. We'd got the route on our sat navs so there was little chance of us getting lost or separated, particularly as there are very few other trails.

Phil, Julian and I plodded along at a reasonable pace, occasionally having to aid eachother if we overbalanced in one of the dried out river beds. We eventually caught up with the lead group shortly after the trail became tarmac at a hilltop village. The next piece of piste, we had been told, had suffered a landslip. Rather than ride for a couple of hours only to find the route impassable and have to ride all the way back, we took the safe option and headed for the hotel on tarmac.

The hotel is brilliant (again), and has a great pool area. Phil and I had intended to go out and ride some more, but after a couple of coffees we ended up by the pool instead, with alcohol replacing caffine.

Some of the boys tried to ride the afternoon's trail in reverse to see if there was a blockage. After a couple of clicks they found loads of heavy machinery at work and had to turn back. Our decision to take the tarmac had been a wise one.

A day with Mohammed

We left the hotel at Erfoud around 9:30 and headed for the next hotel on the edge of the Erg Chebi dunes. Once again this was a fantastic hotel with lovely rooms and good facilities. After a quick change we all pilled into the back of the Landy to go into Rissani to meet Mohammed.

He gave us a tour of the market and took us to a herb and spice seller. The guy had a small seating area and we all crowded in. He gave us tea with the most elaborate pouring ceremony yet. It involved singing what sounded like a French nursery rhyme whilst pouring the tea from a great height.

It was really comical and great fun. A few of us bought some spices. I bought some of the herbs and spices they add to a regular green tea so that I can try to recreate a Moroccan brew back in blighty.

Mohammed had arranged for some 'Berber Pizzas' to be made for our lunch. As we left the market a chap stepped forward with the pizzas sandwiched between layers of cardboard and tied with string. This was pizza delivery Moroccan style.

We drove to a tourist shop where they let us eat whilst also taking more tea with them. The Berber pizza was a large round flat bread that was filled with spiced beef and onions and then baked. We had two large pizzas between the eight of us, which with Bill observing Ramadam was ample and we didn't finish them.

Once we'd eaten the shop keepers swang into action showing us a whole range of Moroccan merchandise, from carpets to clothing via trinkets and ornate boxes. I gave the others a laugh by dressing in a traditional long robe and with a shesh wrapped round my head. In the end I bought the shesh, but the robe would have been a step too far.

We then visited a workshop where they made fantastic fossil artifacts. Some of the pieces were stunning but would have needed a more space than we have available once securely packed. I couldn't resist making a couple more purchases and can only hope I can find room for them in my luggage.

We gave Mohammed a lift back into town and thanked him for his time and generosity. As we drove back to the hotel I tried to tie my shesh. I as going for the Laurence of Arabia look, but was told it was more Audrey Hepburn!

Back at the hotel I made a couple of minor running repairs to the bike as well as taking a swim and catching up on the blog.

Diner was excellent with a wide variety of Moroccan and western dishes. Over a few beers we discussed the options for the following day. It's an early start, but there's still some debate as to whether the off road section should be attempted. There is also a forecast for more rain. Let's hope not.