“Fancy a bike ride, dear?”

As faraway grandparents of 10 lovely grandchildren, we do our best to get together at least once a year. We live in Western France in the middle of their visiting distances from Wales, London, Majorca and the east of France. Combining our passion of the outdoors and motorcycling we had managed to see one family unit when they flew to Thailand and joined us there for some winter sun. Two other families from London and Majorca had joined us on a camping trip at the largest sand-dune in Europe near Bordeaux for the Easter break. So now, almost a year after their last visit, we were longing to see the fourth family on the eastern side of France.

It is early May and we have no pressing appointments in the next few days. The answer to my question “ Fancy a bike ride, dear ? ” is met with an enthusiastic nod. The camping gear is still lying around the garage and instead of putting it away; we put it on the bike.

“Just in case.”

Motorbike touring in Europe is rather different to our motorbike touring experiences in the Far East. Over there we have a 200 cc GPX Racing Legend, modified almost beyond recognition, to carry minimal clothing and emergency cold/wet weather gear. We sleep in budget rooms and eat what and where with the locals. In Europe we need to wear protective gear and carry a change of clothing plus extra substantial cold/wet gear. We also carry camping/sleeping kit and basic cooking facilities. Our bike is a BMW G 650 GS Sertao, with custom made aluminium side boxes and a back carrier added on. We go for the soft luggage option to keep the load light as 2up on these 2 wheels is already pushing the limit.

We deposit the contents of our fridge and freezer with fabulous friends who understand our impulsive/change-of-mind approach, invite them to help themselves to a bumper crop of broad beans that are ready for eating, pack the bike and in a last minute flash of energy, I give the cork tiles on the kitchen floor a glossy coat of polyurethane varnish. It will be dry by the time we are back. The sun keeps disappearing behind clouds making for a pleasantly cool ride heading east across France. Door to door we can get across France on the Toll roads in about 7 hours, but this is the start of a camping trip so we ride back roads, keeping an eye on the sky overhead and aiming for the bluest patches on our northeasterly path. No tollroads for us. We find that there is no avoiding the clouds and as the late afternoon arrives they are so dark it’s as if night as fallen early. We reach Vichy, 350 kms from home as the rain that’s been threatening does its best to wash us away. The raingear we have is useless, the tarpaulin is tied up between two large trees and we shelter the tent and bike as close to a hedge as possible under it. We have no provisions, we are wet through, it’s our first night of a combined camping/European motorbike tour .

We raise our eyebrows at each other. “Why are we doing this? “

The rain is torrential, the tarpaulin is blown about by wild winds, the lightning flashes through the red tent creating strobe lighting effects, and we are desperate for a cup of coffee.. Our budget in Thailand is 30 euros per day, but we realise that Europe will be more expensive so have calculated about 45euros a day, based on 15 for a campsite, 15 for fuel and 15 for food. The lovely on-site shop sells us a tiny bottle of coffee and some croissants for an exorbitant 8euros. Well that’s half the daily food allowance! Our family is 280 kms away and the rain is still thick, heavy and pounding down. We pack up, just shoving and stuffing anything anywhere on the bike. It takes ages to pack as we store our goods in the ablution block and dash between downpours to load the bike in charges of energy, trying to tie up and tie down and keep as dry as possible. It’s a near hopeless task but by midday we are set to go. The 280 kms to our destination take six and a half hours, even resorting to expensive toll roads to speed up the journey. We normally avoid the toll roads in France as a motorbike is charged the same as a car, which seems a bit unfair. The budget is falling apart and so are we by the time we arrive to drench our offspring and their offspring in very wet cuddles and kisses. The next few days are spent drying out ourselves and our gear, leather hiking boots taking the longest. We find our spats in the bottom of one stuff bag, well they would have been useful. We shop for better rainsuits and check the weather forecast.

“Is it to be Home or Rome, dear? ” We work out the differences in costs between riding to Rome ( campsites, fuel and food) and two overnight ferries to Rome via Corsica. The ferry wins on time and costs. The sun is shining, our clothes are dry, the motorbike is repacked and excess baggage is stored in a large cardboard box. This bike ride is turning into an adventure, one of the unplanned kind. Refreshed we ride the 210kms to Marseilles through the French Rhone countryside, marvelling at the ‘tromp d’loeil’ paintings that greet and guide us around the villages.

The overnight ferry leaves at 10.30pm, we need to be there by 7pm, that’s enough time to wind through the back roads and mountains passes of Luberon National Park. The warmth and excitement of our adventure re-emerges in harmony with the sun seeing us arrive at Marseille in time for an early afternoon beer before buying a ticket. There are at least 50-60 other bikers all arriving within half an hour, all waving A4 pieces of paper, pre-booked electronic ferry tickets. As a rule we don’t pre-book because we are known to change our minds. The ticket office is closed, it’s a Sunday and everybody else seems to know what’s happening. Before panic sets in with the thought that we will be camping in Marseille tonight, or riding further on to Toulon to catch another ferry, I confidently walk through the barriers at the gate where all the bikers are queued up. It’s all a fake, I don’t really know what I’m doing. A brief conversation in my best French with the ferry gateman assures me that the office will open at 6pm and I can buy a ticket. Whew. Six oclock arrives, the office opens and I overhear that the ferry to Corsica is full. OK then we’ll go to Sardinia. And that’s how it is. No plans, because the adventure takes care of itself.

“ Fancy a bike ride to Sardinia, dear?”