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The weather as you can see just could not have been better! In fact I won’t see a cloud until I hit Carcassonne (spoiler).

As I leave Montgenevre and taste the tippy-top of France the roads remain amazing and I find my first rest stop after few minutes gawping at the mountains without crashing. This movie clip takes you to that stop and there’s some stills here too.

An absolutely beautiful picnic spot where I enjoyed some snaffled fruit and pastries smuggled over the border from Italia. After a while I noticed the Danger signs: you may have noticed them in the pics.

I’m a keen geologist and as I refocused from the mountain tops to the pad of grass upon which I stood I could quite clearly see some of the tell tale signs of creep. Slippage. There were clues suggesting that this vantage point was in the process of significantly reducing its vantage and advantage of high altitude. At some point the village down below would be significantly less so.

Then of course the danger signs and the red and white plastic tape across the entrance stated to make sense. Those Eurocrats again and their health and safety! It’s all gone mad I tell you.

Still, I had finished my pastries so no point hanging around here. Time to get back on the road and lap up those those twisties and head for Gap!

What the heck is Gap you ask! Well dear readers, Gap is near the top end of Route Napoleon! The french had very sensibly banished their heroic General Bonaparte to the small holiday island off the Italian coast famous for small, dry and mostly pointless toast – the island of Melba. Here, presumably angered by the toast, Napoleon mustered an invasion force of over a thousand Frenchies and marched them up the hill via Grnoble to Waterloo – and we all know how that ended.

That Route is now the N85 and my plan was to pick this up at Gap and head south – a kind of Napoleon Contraflow – towards Cannes. My B&B was booked at crossroads (no, not a motel) on the N85 about 70km short of Nice and the Frenchy Riviera.

And OMG – the bottom half got super twisty! Unfortunately I had burned all my film footage on the top half but oh boy this got exciting and it was full of crazy biker dudes just like me!

There was a bunch of fat bastards on roadhogs that were going hell for leather and they passed me just after Castellane so I gripped hard with my knees, relaxed my shoulders and steered with my arse cheeks to keep up with them… and keep up I did although I eased of briefly when my left toes scraped along the tarmac on a steep bend… but I was soon on their tail again.

I passed my B&B by five miles before I realised I’d overshot and I had to let the fat boys go. Back at the B&B I pull in and go sit down on the veranda where a bunch of degenerate-looking bikers a swilling beers. As it turned out they are all accountants and solicitors from Basildon, apart from the lady who was a local whore. Lovely people – here they are driving off with the prossie.

The owner of the B&B comes out and guesses I am her new guest (they only have three rooms booked that night) – she’s English and very excited as I am the first ever English guest they’ve ever had! They have only been open for a month having bought the place in February. Her and her husband moved from Marseilles: she’s the business brains having done that kind of stuff for years and he was some kind of maintenance man… good combo… until I meet him wearing the chef’s outfit. Nevertheless for dinner that night I choose his special – a kind of beef stew, Provence local dish. I must say it was bloody marvellous.

A couple turned up on an old Triumph that was falling apart on holiday (as it happens) from Marseilles and whilst he was doing some running repairs on it we have a bit of a chat about where to go next. My plans are to visit the Pont du Gard and the Millau bridge at some point but he shows lots of good places in the Pyrenees!

His choice of motorcycle should have rung alarm bells but I get suckered in and the Pyrenees via Carcassonne started to get me all fired up. I would live to regret it but I make a last minute booking for a B&B in Nimes which would allow me to visit the Pont before looking to the next set of mountains down South. I plan the route and sleep well.

Damn it – in the morning I discover I have booked a hotel for the wrong month and have to find something else – which took ages and meant that I was so late setting off that I needed a whole new (shorter) route! Blast, things unravelled a bit… but that’s the next instalment!

Now I am playing with a bit of video from the camera attached to the side of my helmet I’m experimenting breaking this update up to limit your sensory stimulation.

Leaving Francesco and his B&B Beauregard in Susa under an amazingly clear blue sky put me straight onto the mountain pass road that would take me up and over instead of through the mountains.

Here’s the route up to the top and I’ve enlarged a bit to show where the interesting bits of the road come – where it gets really twisty. Although to be honest, going down the other side got really twisty!

The twisty snapshot also shows the main ski runs hereabouts: unfortunately I did not pack my snowboard and so I could not demonstrate my skills, grab some air or embark on a food trick or two.

I was able to capture the detailed high security check system that France now employs at its borders. In this short clip you will observe me on the approach to the fortified border post on the Montgenevre Pass and the heavily armed presence that keeps the West of Europe safe from the Italians and even worse.

Points to note at about 1:14 the surveillance system disguised as a ski lift; 1:42 the extensive checks applied to the car in front of me; 1:51 the tiny nod from the guard with cold hands clasping twin 9mm’s in his fleecy pockets that says to me “yeah go on”; 2:12 the fortified bridge loaded with armed skiers patrolling over the main road and watching for suspicious travellers; 2:40 the Lord Farquaad-esque obelisk that stands celebrating the immense stature of Napoleon Bonaparte at the ski resort of Montgenevre.

Just thought I’d let you in on this variation of the standard snaffle.

Ordinarily one would seek to snaffle whatever is salvageable from the breakfast spread.

But here I have combined aluminum foil snaffled out of spite more than anything from my stay in Troyes and I’m usung it to preserve a couple of tasty pastries for later.

See what I’ve done there? It was a simple double but you try it. Use your imagination and let me know how you get on.

I was just getting stuck in to Maurice’s lovely spread when he asks me where I’m going. Excitedly I explain the pass that I have found: the 6,000 ft pass called Col de Mont-Cenis on the D1006 which comes off the main auto route between France and Italy going through – literally through: with a massive tunnel (not as big as the one the British built under the Channel obviously, but not bad) – the Alps. You can find a description of the road and the pass on “most dangerous roads.com” – it looks absolutely stunning.

I had of course checked all the websites and it was definitely open for business:.

Maurice frowned and got out his phone. Like a trooper he starts calling around cop-shops up in the Alps, starting with the one closest to my expectant pass, “Non. Juin.” – not until June does it open and I will also discover later when I’m in Susa, from a pair of exceedingly dull and old (far older than me) travellers that they themselves tried to drive around the road closure sign on this very road just a few days before because their “Merc” has such good traction control. Yes, he went into extensive detail on the benefits of driving a Mercedes; and the very reasonable prices of the meal he’d had in a hotel up the road; of the very cheap ferry crossing he uses; of the route through Kent he uses to drive home after the cheap ferry crossing; and the benefits of forced euthanasia. No wait, that last one was what I started fantasising about.

No sooner had he driven passed the sign, he found that the infamous traction control wasn’t worth toffee and quite literally shit in his beige slacks inside his brown Merc (merd). They then took the tunnel as I did that day.

I had my maps out and I spotted the Col de Montgenevre – fortunately for you it’s also on Most Dangerous Roads – and Maurice dutifully looked up the number and called the local Gendarmes. It was open! But unfortunately the road I needed to get there from Chambery showed a closure so I was scuppered.

Nevertheless, despite having to take the main motorway route via the tunnel through the Alps it was absolutely spectacular and I loved every second of it.These pics are were I stopped for a weecicle just before getting to the French end of the tunnel (again I have film footage but that’s going to have to wait).

Squirting out on he Italian side was equally beautiful but I have to say, in comparison with what I’d had in France, Italy here did seem a bit worn out. A few miles over the border (by the way it was hard switching from French to Italian in my brain) I stopped at what turned out to be a not-very-friendly and a bit grotty mini-services. The highlight being an obvious motorcyclist was within. The (yet another) BMW GS sat outside so I knew there would be an aged and portly motorcyclist in there somewhere.

Well, by the time the lazy Italian tea-lady had made me my coffee and I’d squeezed through the untidy bunch of layabouts hanging around I spot John who has already prepared a chair for me next to him. Not weird. Friendly.

John is from Belfast and on his way to Turkey where his wife will meet him via a flight on a plane once he’s prepared the place – presumably by “prepared” he means “put the potatoes on to boil”.

His bags, he informs me, are filled with stuff that his wife wanted him to take out to save her carrying it on the plane. Apparently he had everything an Irish lady would need in Turkey – presumably 20 litres of sun bloc and the aforementioned potatoes. He never once took his hand off the potatoes.

Susa, where I was saying, is only 20 minutes down the road so I press on and when I turn off the motorway I experience the mountain roads proper for the first time – wahey! I play for a while then I start looking for my B&B which as luck would have it is up a right twisty road out of the town. I would discover later that evening that this very road is actually the Italian end of the Montgenevre pass! Well now I know what route I’m taking back tomorrow! Forget Turin.

Fancesco was my host and what a flipping brilliant host he (and his family) was too! Here’s a terrible pic of them: his daughter plays the ukele really, really badly.

Maurice was good but Francesco was even lovelier! He is a lawyer but he hates it and he says it’s too dangerous to be a lawyer in Italy – he’d rather be climbing Mount Everest and less risky stuff like that.

He’s just opened the B&B and it is his way out of that grip like vice. The place is great now but will be superb – he wants to cater for weddings and he’s about the get a swimming pool installed!

The journey to Susa from Chambery was not a long one and so I was able to relax a bit in the most amazing sunshine surrounded by the most amazing mountains! Here I found a big stone table to plan out my route for the next day and a right royal knees up it is promising to be!

I’ve already mentioned the pizza place but what I don’t think I mentioned was that Francesco insisted on driving me around on a tour, including Julius Caesars’ pad (yep he stayed there too) and apparently everyone in Susa is convinced that Hannibal brought his elephants through the town. To be honest that would help explain the state of Julius’ place.

He introduced me to the other celebrities of the town (after him and the pizza man they really weren’t that memorable) AND the restaurant phoned him when I was filled to bursting and he collected me! What a mint geezer.

Of course, back at his pad were the two beige travellers I mentioned earlier – so he may have just wanted to get out of the house.

I include above the telltale sign that you have arrived in Italy: every toilet includes the facility to spray ones arse with water.

I am up early the next day to pack up the bike and get on the road for what was shaping up to be a roller coaster. Oh boy that helmet cam got some work done that day I can tell you!

I have been compelled to share the Good News and it can’t really wait.

I’ve just been running around off piste near La Rochelle and bumped into Jesus!

Not the sweet, fun Jesus that’s all about peace and love and that. No. Its the dying, tortured and mutilated Jesus, far more grumpy – no fun in fact – that we really seem to love to celebrate… I couldn’t believe it!

He was just hanging around in the middle of nowhere. Made up for fairly dull countryside. My impression of France – and this is just a general observation you understand – is that the top, right and bottom edges seem quite nice whilst the middle and fair sized chunks of the left edge can be viewed adequately from a safe distance.

Anyway – here’s one for the Captain – using paper! Unfortunately I’ve strayed way off the real maps I bought and so I’m stuck with a road atlas – but it’s the principle of not using sat nave that’s the point! I Have discovered that Post-it notes stuck to the inside of the tank bag “window” work a treat! Top most tip for you there!

I tell you what, catching up is hard when you’re travelling so goddamn fast. Like me: this is being re-enacted from the heart of the Bordeaux region, near Saintes after I suddenly realised that I was in Carcassonne and rapidly running out of days to fit the miles in. Lucky I made some notable notes – thanks Cap.
Having loaded up my hoard of Calzone, strapped everything else to the bike and put all my layers on beneath the bleeding sun ( to quote from Benny Hill – Archie, The Fastest Milkman in the West) I was sweating like a shaking dog – for it was an absolutely beautiful clear blue sky (and it was to remain that way for a which – not a spoiler alert really). I chose a lighter pullover and stuffed my fluffy fleece into my big bag.


Troyes fully loaded

Driving out of Troyes clearly demonstrated to me that I had mastered the art of French Driving. Going around the town the night before in a right strop engendered in me enough indifference towards other motorists that I was driving like a native (of France that is: I suspect a native of Hawaii might have a different style, perhaps Barak Obama-bin-Laden would have struggled… not I).

Despite my brash , confident riding style I was definitely feeling a little trepidatious. My Phone still wasn’t bloody working and my ability to select top most accommodation was falling short of my high expectations: so far 1 out of 1 bookings were not good. Ahead of me was a right long drive: yesterday’s trip was a bit under 400km, this one is 510km. Plus, it is using more that one road!

Out on the highway I discovered that despite the lovely sunshine it was bloody freezing – I was shaking like a sweating dog. I pulled into one of the many delightful services where I did two things:

1. I unstrapped, de-security-netted and unloaded my big bag and found my big cosy fleece and stripped off in the car park, nipples like chapel hat pegs, and re-layered. Ooooh so toasty (then re=packed, loaded etc.)
2. Purchased the most delicious tuna baguette and coffee I think I’ve ever tasted and ate it in the sunshine on at a picnic table where teeny-tiny birds of some description (which I won’t bother with beyond teeny and tiny… and bird) kept landing close by looking for my crumbs. There weren’t any because I was enjoying the baguette so much but they were hopeful to the end. Did I mention that I ordered this in fluent French? Thone (tuna) is the only word I had to repeat to ensured the lady behind the counter understood me. “Ah tuna!” she said eventually making it obvious that it would have been much easier for the both of us if I’d stuck to English. But you know what – I’m talking French at them if it kills them!

I was just getting ready to speed off on my journey when a big 4×4 BMW pulls up in the bay next to me and as the (presumably) wife gets out something is said – some kind of greeting. By this time I have my ear plugs (not butt plugs – yes I have two) in so I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or the Goth in the back seat now just emerging into actual daylight.

Would you know it she was talking to me and they are Ingerlanders. I spend a bit of time chatting – they too are seasoned bike tourers – they are especially keen on the Balkans. We chat about motorcycling – as one does – and before we part ways I discover that they are on route to Sienna where their son (possibly a Goth like their daughter but somehow I doubt it) is getting married! Makes me wonder how far South into Italy I can get. But first things first – I need to get across France.

As previously mentioned, a spent a fair bit of time deciding my route to Chambery. I needed to keep on the Autoroutes to get the distance but Google was suggesting another long slog that looked a bit like the day before’s. So I selected a new route – one that looked like it would get closer to the Alps.

Route Planned

Well I am so glad I planned this route. I started to get a little bit excited when I actually entered the Rhone-Alpes region and could see, on the horizon, some big mountainy-looking shapes. I pulled into one of the many lovely motorway stops to a) take a pic and b) makes sure my helmet cam was ready (no this is not another cue to show me having a wee)!



The pics don’t do it justice but the helmet cam, now set up complete with microphone, captured the moment as I sped out of the Services and yelled “Oh fuck I haven’t got my fucking glasses on!”. Yes, dear gentle fluffy reader, I had left my glasses on the back of the bike to re-instate my helmet and driven off without putting them back on. Again (I‘ve done this before). This time there wasn’t a chance I was going to go back to find them crushed on the road – I’m on a bloody motorway.

Actually the moment of anger lifted quite quickly when I realised how comfortable it was to not have to wear them inside my helmet. Trouble was – I wanted to see. Specifically the mountains were getting closer (although still a way off) and I wanted to see them clearly!

Being highly prepared I had my sunglasses with me (prescription lenses, buy one get one free) and soon I had them on and looked just like Jack Nicholson in Easy Rider.

Well I was a little unprepared for the view that slapped me in the chops when I emerged from a long tunnel. Sweet baby cheeses those hills are big man. My reaction, again caught on helmet-cam was such that I became convinced that the long line of misfortune and technical failures (one dodgy night in truth) were well and truly behind me and that the booking tonight would be wonderful and my phone would be working. In fact one of these things would come to pass – it took ages to discover that my phone had a two-stage data roaming setting: national and international and I hadn’t selected the latter.

At this point I must add that I had not discovered the painstakingly long and drawn out process it is to move HD MP4 movie files around and upload them. Let me tell you boy, I have a shed load of stuff but I’ll have to upload back in Blighty. For now I will leave you a little bit longer for a glimpse of my Alps: the only stills I took were on the next leg of the journey – worth waiting for. Nevertheless, each bend in the road and each tunnel gave me better and better glimpses of proper mountains with white tips.

I fired up the Sat Nav as I got into Chambery to make sure I could find this place – and find it I did, very quickly. As I drove passed it I was scanning for a safe parking space. I went around the block five times and a car park and found no spaces let alone a space where I’d be prepared to leave the bike unattended.

There was a scooter parked on the pavement (of course, we’re in France) right outside the building I wanted but there were railings along the edge forcing me to mount the pavement and ride along it (as the scooter would have done). Just as I did so, a mother with a young child and pushchair (suspected contents being another, younger and/or smaller child) came around the corner and walked at me.

Death and injury did not occur. I (possibly rather too considerately for France) found a gap in the railings and pulled off the footpath for yet another delightful ride around the block.
This time however, as I came to the building again there was a old dude unloading. No, not like a shaking dog. He was taking some stuff out of his car (inconveniently parked I might add) and he kind of looked at me funny as if to say “Monsieur, are you the guest I am expecting?”. I nodded (which clearly meant “Oui! Where the bloody hell am I supposed to park. I asked you about parking by email when I booked and you said no problem, Where the bloody hell am I supposed to park?”

He completely ignored this and took his grocery bag inside, so I stopped near his car and waited for him. And yes, it was Maurice! He owned the place and was to be my host and he was absolutely lovely!

I mentioned the parking using my mouth this time and he pointed to where the scooter had been (now vanished). So did the whole pavement mounting bit again whilst he protected the innocent bystanders and jaywalkers. He helped me by holding my helmet in both hands and together we went upstairs. And upstairs. And upstairs. And upstairs – Jesus it’s like the bloody Portland! No that’s really unfair – these were fancy bid wide old-fashioned stairs that led to his beautiful door and wonderful apartment!


Proud Maurice

Here he is. A trifling spiral staircase from this (pictured) room took me into a most fantastic bedroom that was only marginally bigger than the most enormous TV screen I’ve ever seen and I knew that Troyes (and possibly AirBnb entirely) was behind me.

Maurice drew me a walking tour of the town (very small old centre) and marked good places to eat and he explained features and quirks of the town (one that includes Elephants – hence the title of this blog) as he did so. I followed his map and commentary later that evening and enjoyed every minute. These pics I hope shows the beautiful ancient town centre including the Elephant Fountain (nothing to do with Hannibal although that story does crop up in my next episode!).

PICS

The elephants are in honour of one of the richest sons of the town (they don’t really honour the poorer ones I’ve noticed). This guy was a trouble maker and at 17 he was booted out of the town – he joined the army and became really good at killing on a larger and more efficient scale than most. We ended up in the pay of an Indian Maharaja who had the inclination if not the technique to kill and subdue on a large scale – and that’s where our hero comes in. He served his Maharajan paymaster so well that he became immensely wealthy in his own right and returned to his home city of Chambery to swagger around. The main street in the city wasn’t quite wide enough to accommodate the kind of swagger he was trying to achieve and so be bought it – the whole street – knocked it down and had it completely rebuilt beautifully. The local communist council were rather (uncharacteristically) pleased and in his honour built the Elephant Fountain – a big column with him on the top and four disembodied elephants’ heads around the bottom. The elephants are Indian (clearly smaller ears) and hence commemorate his bloodthirsty suppression of less powerful people. That’s maybe what the local council liked about him. That and the one-third of his wealth that he donated to them.

Anyway, I had a very tasty repast at the Tee Bar before completing my circuit of the town and returning to chez Maurice.

Guess what. I am Maurice’s very last guest (for now). He and his wife Casa (she’s from Chile and makes exceedingly good cakes – unlike Mr Bleeding Kipling) are closing up the B & B and setting off on a World Tour. All around the whole world but pointed flying over Africa without stopping. Heading East, dropping a car off in Kosovo for a farm collective (I suspect he’s a communist, they are in France) all over, Russia, China, India, Indonesia, South America, Cuba – all the communist countries come to think of it. They’ve been planning it for ten years and today Casa has baked a cake for her works party on her last day. Well that’s what they told me as they rapidly locked the door behind me.

I wished them all the best – reminding them of course that I am on a tour of my own, they seem a bit preoccupied so I don’t push it.

My time at chez Maurice was brilliant topped off with a superb breakfast spread… but that takes me to the next day with some Gendarmerie, Alpine driving and a bit of Italian (you’ve already had some record breaking pizza titbits) – but that’s another blogging blog,

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).