Catching up #1: Leaving Blighty

OK I may have already mentioned that The Portland in Folkestone DID NOT serve a full English Breakfast but I thought it best to emphasise the fact: and four chocolate mints on the bed do not compensate in any way.

Still, I camouflaged the stealing of two bananas (from a bowl with less than a full bunch) and in a flagrant breach of the “no pilfering” sign by eating a third banana suggestively in full view of the staff. This, I think, made it very clear to them that i was not to be challenged on the banana front. Top tip for you there.

The pastry, mini Corn Flakes, three slices of toast, two packets of butter, a sachet of jam, a yoghurt and a mini fridge which I also liberated ended up in the bin anyway – but it was the principle of the thing and I think think they got the point.

They had put me on the top floor (of which they had four) so, laden like a Moroccan donkey on loan to a mining prospector seeking his fortune, I squeezed through narrow Folkestone doorways and down about thirty flights of stairs where I thoughtfully assisted the much needed redecorating preparations by stripping the walls of Anaglypta with my steel security-net-wrapped pack that was slung over my shoulder. A product review is due on that by the way.

Once loaded and secured I set off for the local end of the tunnel. Got to hand it to them – they do a pretty good job of getting people out of the country – I don’t know where the immigrant invasion is getting in but it isn’t this place. No, it practically haemorrhages (yes that’s how you spell it) people. I am convinced that the extraordinarily high number of foreigners reportedly walking the streets of Kent and Essex is simply an illusion caused by a  vast quantity of indigenous half-wits who have unwittingly strayed close the the Euro-tunnel entrance and have never been seen again. Result some might say. Not the French I suspect.

I’m directed to the back of a suitable and respectful British queue awaiting embarkation so I take the opportunity to mark the occasion with a pic when I hear a familiar rumble from behind. THEN I hear a big-engined BMW coming my way – only two bikers on this train so we’re herded together much like a rancher would put two wild mustangs in the same pen for mutual comfort.

After the customary admiration and appreciation of what we carry between our legs we get talking. Nic and Jessica ( his girlfriend and pillion rider) are Italians living in London off for a two-day pootle and hoping to make it to Paris.

Of course I authoritatively inform them that they will need a pollution sticker now (see What you need blog) and as you can see from the pic they sent me below they flagrantly ignored”Da Rulsh” (as they say in Holland). I will write to the British Embassy in Paris and complain: this is typical of the other EU states doing whatever the heck they like whilst we do it properly.

Anyway, we are so engrossed in conversation and felt so comfortable with one another that we begin to disrobe: well it’s hot. Some lout, no doubt soon to wander into the mouth of the Tunnel and be lost forever, is shouting and we soon discover that it’s at us. The line of cars has set off for the train and we are left scrabbling to get out clothes back on and join them. Join them we do and not only that but I am delighted when an official actually suggests we filter down the line of (now stationary again) cars to he front! The Italians follow me.

Right at the door to the boarding carriage we get stopped by a non-shouting official. I am reassuringly told (like he’s doing me a favour) that he’ll hold us back and board us into the last carriage. That one, apparently, is the only one where the ABS is working so we won’t get shaken around too much. Thanks.

Well eventually we’re in and loaded and off! Above you will see me and Nic on the train at full steam ahead: please note my obvious discomfort at his inappropriate use of the thumbs up sign but I guess some things are still rightly taught in the process of becoming a British Citizen and Nic and Jess now have two remaining years to put that thumb to good use. Also note that it is not simply a case of perspective that mine is much bigger than his.

Before we know it we’re pulling in to Calais; we dress together once more and then we’re each rumbling and rolling along the train (last on, last off). Bright French sunshine (no doubt regulated) greets us and with a subtle nod that bikers use to communicate anything from “Hello” to “Did you see that Llama by the side of the road back there? Tsk”  we were off – going our separate ways.

Well they were anyway. I did a few loops of the local area deciphering the unclear and frankly slap dash signage but then I too had the wind in my hair.

This was to be a 400km run on the toll roads – for which I had especially purchased a Liber-t electronic tag that would allow me to glide effortlessly through the toll gates without handing anything so vulgar as cash. It bills me in a month’s time: taking the cash directly from my bank account, I therefore have less than one month to correct all of the mistakes it will have made – when I log into that website I’ll blog it.

The toll roads really are fantastic. Having spent about 28 hours in the two days’ prior to departure driving on UK motorways – nose to tail – these were brilliant. There was an occasional safety advice sign suggesting that you maintain a safe driving distance from the vehicle in front. On these roads you rarely see a vehicle in front.

The best things I discovered about them were the “L’Aire”s  – these are beautifully designed and well kept stops that positively encourage you to pull in and stretch your legs, even take a pee or a pooh in the spotless conveniences (they are clean and I suspect you could eat your dinner from them, but don’t. It creates a bit of a queue). It’s a far cry from the old days of the long-drop! Oh how the British have changed Europe for the better.

 

Some of these stops are so sophisticated that they have shops named after their esteemed visitors – here’s one named for me! “L’Archie!”. Ignore the bald midget in the foreground. It’s actually Patrick Stewart on tour of some local art houses doing “the bard” as he describes it – in excruciatingly luvvy detail. It takes ages to ditch him and I only managed that when I said I didn’t like any of the the new Star Trek.

Arrived in Troyes in good time and good spirits looking forward to my AirBnB-booked apartment. Found it! Just need t let the landlord know I’ve arrived – NO! my phone absolutely refuses to connect – despite receiving a call n the midst of my predicament from my lovely wife. The phone needs a WIFI too or it’s not playing so I wander around trying to jack into random WIFI networks but nothing’s working! I and getting hungry and thirsty and I need to get this sorted so I get back on the bike and go searching for a place I can connect. An IBIS Style (very funky) looms into view and they not only have no problem letting me hook up to their WIFI but I also hook up with the loos – again, I’m impressed.

Turns our my host had sent me the code to the entrance door ages ago but it hadn’t downloaded… I got there and experienced the flat. Well, it was a very nice flat but it’s front door (out into a hallway) was an unlockable door… the flat was a kind of room in a large house. One of a large number of amazing houses too… real proper old Tudor houses with the oak and that. What the heck they’re doing in France I have no idea. The Tudors hated the French.

Well I was not happy about the door thing and this was now getting well into the evening and I was tired, hungry and thirsty (no kettle in the “flat”) and I have to say that the IBIS really did look fantastic.

But then I mustered up a bit of Dunkirk spirit – no, wait, that was a retreat – I mean Normandy spirit and ventured off into the Troyes underworld to find a place to eat. Well I fired up TripAdvisor and found a few nice places. But then I discover – not two doors further up the road a pizza place with a couple of lovely lads (one with a moped for deliveries) and they offer me a calzone the size of the moon that comes with a free second calzone the size of half the moon. Well I bought it (them).

I ate half of the big one and wrapped the “smaller” one in foil  – by the way the foil was about the only item of hospitality I found in the flat, obviously left there by a previous occupant – for the next days repast at one of the lovely motorway stops. The remaining half of the big one remains in orbit.

By the time I had eaten as much as I could I was exhausted – I think I may have banged out a short blog after checking my route for the following day to Chambery: I decided to not take the shortest motorway route but to extend it a bit to take me much closer to the Alps. I would graze Geneva without penetrating Swiss air space and then head due south through the foothills to Chambery.

This first night was making me a bit pessimistic about the rest of the trip. Will the B and B in Chambery (oooh that rhymes – yes that’s how you spell it) be another troubled experienced? Why the hell wasn’t my phone working? Why can’t I lock my door? Why did I buy so much calzone?

All (not all) of these questions will be answered soon (not soon).