Blue Paint Day

Looking at the blue streaks adorning my socks and underpants, I determined there were three options available for me...

Terra Firma date: 25/3/16

It was a cold but bright start to the day, and my Colemans Stove soon had a pot of tea boiled to help us thaw into the day. Since Cameron had becoming frustrated with my slow measured process of preparing for the day’s ride, and I had become frustrated with his increasingly slow progress once on the road, we decided to travel separately.

After some strategic journey planning in the tent we determined that Cameron would proceed at snail’s pace to Zaragoza while I remained to do some laundry and the omnipresent motorcycle repairs. This would afford me the opportunity to have a conversation with a wind turbine engineer, who we shared a meal with the previous evening.

The day’s proceedings went into catastrophic decline at an early stage, even prior to Cameron’s departure. I had headed over to the washroom (and the freshly painted blue concrete sinks) to lather away the journey’s grime from my essential socks and underpants. It was after a short period of vigorous washing I became aware that the blue underpants were a little bluer and the grey socks had started to turn blue. It appeared that the freshly painted sinks had only time to form a dry skin leaving puddles of solvent blue paint underneath, waiting only for the vigorous washing of underwear to spread their colour to the world by way of my pants.

Looking at the blue streaks adorning my socks and underpants, I determined there were three options available for me. Firstly, I could throw the afflicted clothes in the bin, but being 50% of my pants and 75% of my socks, this was a non starter. Secondly, I could clean the afflicted articles in a suitable paint solvent. Thirdly, I could take the risk of wearing the afflicted garments, spreading the blue affliction to my skin. I calculated that in the event I was seen naked in the shower by some aghast Spanish camper, I would proclaim I was of ancient Celtic ancestry from a small but proud tribe who wore their blue woad daubed only on their feet and groin. I settled on the second option as being the best course of action and avoiding imprisonment in a Spanish jail on the grounds of being a practitioner of Blue Magic. I commenced the process of chemically cleaning my underwear and was quite pleased with my environmentally positive decision until I realised the chemicals I was using were precisely the ones Orcaweb had warned were responsible for the chemical pollution of the ocean. It became clear how difficult it was to live in the modern world and make decisions which don’t impact our planet in an environmentally damaging manner.

Having completed my blue rinse wash, I set my mind to resolving the latest technical problem with the motorbike. This was how to prevent the front brake cable from becoming wrapped around the new indicator when the front springs were fully compressed, and locking on the front brakes, as happened on leaving the campsite the previous day.

 While looking for a flat piece of ground for my tent the previous morning, I had made a mental note of a piece of wire in the figure of eight I had seen laying in the dirt. I set about finding this as it was an ideal shape from which to fashion a retainer for the cable to prevent my unintentional braking problems. This was unsuccessful, but I was still concerned at the lack of suspension damping on the front of my bike, which became much more apparent when all the weight of my equipment had been removed from the back. This was possibly due to the use of light oil when we changed the springs during the preparation of the bike—unfortunately the only type available at the time.

I was looking forward to my conversation with Daniel and to some positive news about an area where we appear to be moving towards a more environmentally sustainable way of life. What I heard from Daniel was not the story I was expecting, but sadly it’s a story that is becoming familiar.

It appears that after introducing a premium of 20% for the payment of electricity generated by wind turbines, the industry grew significantly over a period of 12 years to a point where it’s generating around about 18% of Spain’s energy requirements. I asked his opinion if solar and wind energy could ever entirely replace carbon fuels. Daniel said it was possible but there would need to be more research on the development of environmentally friendly batteries for this to be possible.

Unfortunately, it appears that in 2011, after the right-wing Popular Party came to power, the additional premium was removed making the wind power industry uneconomical, which has collapsed to the extent that no new turbines were installed in 2014 or 2015. Further to this, the government introduced a VAT charge on people producing their own electricity from solar panels; this 21% tax had the same effect on the solar generating industry, essentially killing off the growing success of alternative power generation.

I do not have the knowledge to comment on Spanish politics, but Daniel's opinion was not unfamiliar, that of powerful vested interests utilising their money to help promote politicians and influence the environmental future of a nation for their own personal short-term financial gain.

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Patron Saint of Distressed Bikers on Good Thursday

In situations like this, I have always found the best thing to do is sit down, preferably with a coffee and something to eat

Terra Firma date 24/3/16

The following day started cold but with bright sunshine, and none of the expected gale force winds had materialised, although that surprised me, judging by the near gale force wind passing through the toilet during the night.

We pitched our tent and loaded our gear in, ready to be pack free, to explore the delights of the Pyrenees for several days before parting ways. Well that was the plan, immediately upon departing the campsite it was apparent to me Cameron’s bike was showing a distinct lack of power, which to his recollection may have begun after he fiddled with the fuel pipe, cutting it to what he felt was a more appropriate length. That old adage came to mind but I didn’t think he would be in the mood to hear it.

 

We had tried to leave the main road for a short trip up the steep hill to a nearby cafe to get breakfast, but at current speed of Cameron’s bike, it would certainly be off the menu by the time we arrived. In fact when we did arrive, breakfast was most certainly off the menu since the cafe closed down for good. After discussion, it was felt best that we would return up the main road to replenish his small fuel tank and then head to Jaca, where I recalled visiting a motorcycle repair shop with my Suzuki DR 650 the year before (It’s not just Enfields you know). I was pleased with the ease at which I rediscovered my route to the motorbike repair shop, but this was not the same joyous feeling for the Easter skiers, filling the long queue of cars piled up behind us by the time we reached Jaca. The notice on the door indicated it was closed for lunch till 15:00, but as the time was 14:55 this was not a disappointment to us until we discovered the Spanish like to take their Easter early. It was Good Thursday, reason enough for the workshop not to be open for the rest of the day, or tomorrow, and not in fact until Monday.

In situations like this, I have always found the best thing to do is sit down, preferably with a coffee and something to eat, which is precisely what we did in the cafe adjacent to the workshop.

 As luck would have it, the workshop owner appeared briefly in what appeared to be an attempt to sell someone one of his scooters, but we took full advantage of the situation and jumped on him to request assistance. This being Good Thursday, we found the owner less enthusiastic to fix our bike than sell his scooter, however we did obtain a piece of oversized fuel pipe and a couple of zip ties, with which I felt we could dispense fix the problem. While I was attempting this procedure, it became apparent to me that the metal nipple coming out of the back of the fuel stopcock was in fact loose, and from what I could make out, the rough end indicated it was broken. The owner of the workshop once more appeared from inside, following his unsuccessful attempt to sell a scooter, and was in no mood to be charitable. My first request for replacement fuel stopcock, for a 1976 TS 185 was answered with a snort of derision and a curt reply, “you won’t get one of those in Spain”, and when I asked his opinion regarding the stopcock nipple, he contested my conclusion: “no-no that’s normal”, he said before slamming the shutters shut and quickly departing to spend the rest of Good Thursday with his family and sulk about the lack of a scooter sale.

Having zip tied the oversized fuel pipe in place and the nipple to the stopcock to prevent it coming adrift, we felt this repair was sufficient for us to continue back to the campsite but chose a beautiful empty back road. This took us over a small mountain and passed a bikers only campsite. My thinking was that at such a campsite there would surely be some mechanical assistance available to bikers in distress on a Good Thursday — along the lines of a Patron Saint of Distressed Bikers on Good Thursday.

As we turned into the bikers' campsite, the appearance of an overlarge, long-haired, bearded, Hells Angels–attired Harley biker was not entirely as I imagined a patron saint to be. Indeed this was not the patron saint of Distressed Bikers on Good Thursdays. There was no workshop, the only engineer was a visiting ship’s engineer, and the Hells Angel referred to my bike as one of those shit bikes, which I felt was a bit rich coming from someone with Harley written on his denim waistcoat. Due to his size and my lack of Spanish vocabulary for swear words, I did not dispute his claim too loudly but chose instead to drive off  with Seb dribbling oil over his not-too-shiny boots.

Back at the campsite, I enhanced the broken nipple repair on the fuel stopcock by supergluing it into position before reapplying the zip grip. This was my third choice from my available spares: the first would have been metal glue that I didn’t have time to purchase before we left; the second would have been my all temperature silicon, which unfortunately got left behind in the chaos of departure; so RapidFix superglue it would have to be.

It was decided by Cameron that he would not make it to Barcelona, his first chosen midway destination, and still make it to his final destination—not at the current speed he could muster. We decided instead to continue south together, albeit Cameron would start out on the back roads the following day, and I would set out on the subsequent day having caught up with my washing. 

We spent the evening in a cafe adjacent to the campsite, which served wonderful food and gave me the opportunity to talk to the owner of the campsite, Catherine. I was intrigued to know why all the olive trees at the campsite still retained their olives. Catherine explained that olives are green on the trees and harvested before the 15th October to produce green olives. After this, the remaining ones will blacken slowly until they are harvested in December to produce black olives. This year, most went black in just one week before the 15th October, and the old people in the area said they had never experienced this before in their lifetime. Olives on some trees did not go black at all, and despite the strong winds over winter, they still have not fallen from the tree. Locals think it is stronger radiation from the sun that could be the cause.

Because the old people have lived a long time with nature, they can see the changes. 

Twenty years ago, when Catherine first moved here, winter night-time temperatures used to regularly be -5 to -12, and the ice on the swimming pool was 20cm thick. But since 10 years ago, they rarely have night-time temperatures of even -5 or -6. The flowers on the almond trees used to bloom between 15th February and end of March, but this year it was January. In May and June, my white walls used be coloured with black butterflies, and when you'd go out with the horses, you'd disturbed clouds of them. Catherine said now you can hardly see them.

Animals that used to hibernate don’t hibernate, and some birds are not migrating anymore.

When Catherine first arrived in this area from France, everyone had a beehive at their house—it was just there—but now they have to be managed with antibiotics or they die. If the winds come from the south one year, most of the bees die because of the chemicals sprayed on the crops and olive trees, but with winds from the north they are filtered by the forests of the Pyrenees and many more survive.

How will people eat if the weather is changing so many things?

In Pyrenees, we are very connected to the earth, but the problem is that 50% of the world's population lives in the city, and they are disconnected from the earth. So how can they protect what they need to live if they don’t have a relationship with it?


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Hemingway Fought for This

Terra Firma date 23/03/2016

I was beginning to wonder exactly how far “just up there” was

We decided to take breakfast in the square of this town, which is famous for both its bull running festival and as a hold-up for the writer Ernest Hemingway, until he was ousted by Franco. As we walked to the square, we could see how these very narrow streets and steps leading to the square must add chaos to this tradition. It is a beautiful town, and its attraction to Hemingway (and now many others) is clearly apparent.

We circled underneath the shaded terraces of cafes that surround the open square, beautifully ornate in the history of this famous town, and a large blue PVC sign declaring Ernest Hemingway’s bar with a directional arrow beneath. This unfortunately pointed us only to a set of closed shutters so instead we took breakfast in a cafe decorated with elaborate, ornate, cast-iron pillars, a gallery of plants spectating from overhead, ostentatious plaster decorations, and extravagant and energy-consuming lights adorning the ceiling. I could imagine how the sumptuously decorated mirrors on the wall would have reflected morning coffee discussions and political debates in a smoke filled haze, pension cigarettes in the early part of the last century, and I imagined Hemingway’s attraction to staying here. There were few modern adornments: emergency exit lighting obscured by a half torn Jesus sticker with a spray of coke splashed across the high ceiling above, no doubt instigated by a YouTube video about peppermint in a Coke bottle.

At this point, two men entered from the back of the cafe carrying a long wooden ladder between them, stopping at the bar and taking coffee before continuing with whatever work they had to do with that long ladder. I sat contemplating how this wonderful scene might reflect in my book when the ambience was broken by a large crowd of noisy tourists entering with their prepaid guide to order coffee while glued to their phones, informing them of what was happening back home or using them to take pictures and stamp their progress around Europe. I wondered if they had noticed the layers of paintwork on the cast iron pillars and if they wondered how life may have been over those decades of different coloured paintwork. It’s an irony that we are drawn to these wonderful places but simultaneously destroy the atmosphere as we visit in our large numbers.

Cameron left earlier than I did and headed towards Jaca, with its wonderful biking country at the foot of the Pyrenees. He was in search of a campsite, anxious to get back to his preferred style of simple living and community, and away from the town and comfort of the hostelry accommodation that I prefer. It was later than planned when I left, and my attention was commanded by my trip through the winding foothills of the Pyrenees and along a turquoise reservoir, so it had become a little late when I received the text to say Cameron had found a campsite and to turn right on the A132 before Jaca and he’d be just up there.

After about nearly half an hour of riding into the dusk and up into the increasingly underpopulated wooded hills, the wind and cold increased, and as I was beginning to wonder exactly how far “just up there” was, I spotted him by the roadside. A short distance down a track we came across a deserted campsite, and circling around the gravel entrance track we stopped by the toilets. Beckoning me to follow him, he drew me in before explaining that, due to my propensity for frequent trips to the loo at night, this would be the ideal location to pitch our beds. This also turned out to be the recommendation of the campsite owner as the gale force expected that night would be likely to see off our tents. 

So this wasn’t so bad. It was, after all, the beginning of the season, and with the toilet freshly cleaned, we would therefore only have to contend with the permanently lit fluorescent light above the beds, the occasional disturbance from last-minute guests arriving for the Easter weekend, and the gale force wind racing in through the permanently open and plentiful vents before rushing out through the door, which must be left open for the previously mentioned late-night guests.

“Not bad,” I said, and trying to be positive, “it shouldn’t cost a lot.”

“That’s right,” said Cameron, “it is only €10 a night, each.”

I drew my breath: “€10 a night was what we were paying for a room in the middle of Pamplona with soft beds, clean sheets, towels and steaming hot running water in the adjoining bathroom.”

“No dad, that was €15 a night. I got us a 30% discount here.”

I replied with a deep felt sigh.

Bumpy Landings

Terra Firma Date 22/03/2016

no better way to start the Iberian journey than a search for a repair garage.

Ted Simon (Jupiter’s Travels) would certainly have described today as a worthy day. An early start this morning down to the nether reaches of the ferry. I watched the deck hand release the strap—so fastidiously cranked down at the beginning of our sea journey—but the anticipated spring back of the bikes compressed suspension was a disappoint as was its lacklustre return to the near upright position that had been its poise when we left home. A hasty lunge for the back rack prevented it from toppling over completely under its heavily laden condition. Further inspection revealed the side stand bent neatly to a near 90°, and it turned out my sons bike had fared little better. So, no better way to start the Iberian journey than a search for a repair garage. This started with a stop for petrol and a plan for my son to dismount first holding up the back to allow me to clamber off the bike and its Kilimanjaro mound of luggage then lower the main stand. This turned out to be one-shot solution since after he operated his side stand, its spring was quickly dislodged at the petrol station.

The problem facing us did not seem insurmountable, and there was a solution to prevent his side stand from then dangling down limply as we went in search of a repair garage was simple. We would just strap up his side stand I would dismount first allowing him the opportunity to climb off his bike while I held it upright. The sharpest of those amongst you will have realised the two-man Mexican stand-off we were now facing: since once mounted neither of us would be able to dismount our heavily laden bikes to assist the other in a dismount. Therefore, without the slightest semblance of Spanish between us, our best hope was to circle around and around Bilbao looking for a garage hosting an idle mechanic standing outside with a good grasp of English to decipher our pleas to come and hold our bikes up while we got off. Or until we ran out of petrol, where upon, stranded in the middle of nowhere, we would compete to see who fell asleep first, fall over and would therefore by default be obliged, upon extracting themselves from underneath their own bike, to assist the other getting off.

At this point, Karma showed its hand with the arrival of three Spanish motorcyclists.

With the camaraderie of fellow bikers well-known, I left my son holding up his bike and scooted over to obtain directions to a quality motorcycle repair shop. As one would expect, Pedro and his two friends from work, who spend their days off cruising the Pyrennean curves, were only too obliging to assist, and it was not long before the five of us sped off at a first-gear speed they were quite un-used to, en route to the best motorbike garage in town, and with Pedro having received comprehensive instruction from me on how to hold up my bike as I dismounted. Safely ensconced at Alexmotor, a wonderful garage, Pedro and his mate’s sped off in an attempt to clear their choked carburetors.

Alex could have not been more helpful. Wielding the biggest adjustable wrench I have ever seen, he clamped the bent flange of the side stand before straightening, welding and painting it to be as good as new which it had been just days before we left home. A similar treatment was dished out to my son's bike, which also included a respray of anything that looked tatty. We would have been back on the road in no time at all if it hadn’t been for Alex's Spanish upbringing that required numerous intervals to the work for coffee, attempts to sell scooters to half-interested customers, lunch with his mother and various other regular disappearances around the corner, never explained.

Considerate as ever though, he engaged the services of Ralf, who spoke passable English that he’d picked fifteen years earlier in Morocco, to entertain and inform us during his repeated absences. Inform us he did about most of the routes that we should take across Spain and directions on how to leave the town to our next destination of Pamplona. So concerned that we took the correct route, it was repeated like a times table, and when we gave him €10 for the hours of information, he insisted he use the money to show us out of town and to the first mountaintop en route. So slowly and carefully he went for us, it was my turn to get choked up, slowing suddenly for corners, unaware the 60s-designed brakes were not up to his. On numerous occasions, I nearly parked my bike in the back of his van without opening the doors.

Arriving at the top of the mountain, it was time to re-attach my recently detached indicator, loosen Cameron’s chain and tighten mine. Lunch followed, and the three of us were joined by a Basque who also shamed us with his English. Following lunch, we bade our farewells and set off. Stopping at a deserted petrol station run only by a card machine, our reputation for handing out money proceeded us, and an old man pulled up (possibly a distant relative of the Basque). He indicated to Cameron, in sign language, that he had no card, he got us to obtain €10 worth of diesel, following which he walked over, shook Cameron's hand and gave us a €5 note before climbing in his car and driving off with a cheery wave.

Pamplona brought a welcome coffee, to which we later added several large whiskeys following the frustrations of trying to clear umpteen security levels on AirBnB, trying to book a room for the night. Ultimately, we abandoned modern technology and resorted to the old fashioned method: Booking.com.

Now thoroughly fed up, our bikes were determined to ignore the directions of the sat nav and, with what I swear was a throaty chuckles and sideways glance between them, they deposited us in the middle of the pedestrian precinct alongside a police car, the occupant of which wound his window down and, in a stern voice with a perfect command of English, demanded if he could help us. It appears being lost must be against the law as Xavier the policeman insisted on giving us an escort to our lost hotel and watching over our kit and bikes while we unloaded into the accommodation a hundred yards away. Not satisfied, he felt it necessary to give us some wonderful restaurant advice and so a short while later we deposited ourselves at Aralar and in front of the largest vat of local scrumpy I had ever tried to ring dry.

On reflection, as breakdowns go, this was surely as good as it gets. One in the eye for you, Heineken.

Time for Reflection

Terra Firma Date 21/03/2016

Safely ensconced aboard the boat, with our bikes vigorously strapped down by a spotty young deck hand enthused with the over zealousness of youth, we settled into our executive outside 4-berth cabin (the only one available with our last moment booking change) to find we would not have to pay the outlandish €4/ hour to connect to the internet as the cabin came with free atrocious Wi-Fi, we are determined to recoup as much of the excessive change-of-booking fee we incurred. Totally exhausted, I collapsed on the bunk with what I noticed was the latest in prison mattress fashion, while Cameron read the entertainment timetable for the journey and we settled on a talk from the whale watchers charity Orcaweb.org.uk at 3pm the following day. With that, I had just enough energy to pull of my boots, Kevlar jeans and recently acquired second-hand Belstaff Courdura jacket—the only style available for less than £150—and fell fast asleep.

I was up early the next morning, not revived to the fresh flood of youth by my sleep. No, I had been disturbed by my discs over enthusiastic spooning with my spinal column, and my legs now twitched and writhing with cramps. I tried to rise quietly at the unearthly hour of 6:30am without disturbing my son. Kneading the gnarled, knotted muscles, trying to straighten my legs, which eventually paid dividends. With excellent washing facilities en-suite, I turned the shower room into a Chinese laundry, and was surprised by the colour of the water and put it down to leaching colour from new socks as it is not possible we could be so dirty at this stage of our journey.

Time idled away as we were still in the English channel following a nights uncomfortable sailing and then for several hours we were docked at Roscoff for a crew change as I noticed our enthusiastic deck hand depart with a heavily laden case, no doubt illegal contraband of Adele work-out DVD’s though Cameron was of the opinion it was his work-out bench given the way he strapped our bikes down, Gallicly ignoring our protestations. We ate and waited for the highlight of the entertainment schedule: the whale presentation and whale watching, which should be at its best shortly after leaving Roscoff and entering the Bay of Biscay. I was pleased to start this journey with such an interesting environmental story and other regular travellers had availed us of stories of schools of dolphin playing with the bow waves so we were quite looking forward to it.

At 3pm, we sat with a shaven-headed English chap on his way back home to Spain for the talk. I said hello and asked him if he was here to listen to the talk on whales, and he answered with a swarthy tone of indignation, “Apparently so,” then promptly got up to go outside and smoke the roll up he had just finished—no doubt to look for dolphins, I thought. The presentation on whale watching commenced with an introduction to orcaweb.org.uk and an explanation as to how they used the ferries during the summer to monitor the whales and dolphins, which they had been doing for nearly 20 years. On this trip, the whole team was assembled since it was the beginning of the season and they were training, and I thought it interesting to note that all but one were female. As a presentation moved into multicoloured graphics about their preferred feeding locations, I must candidly say the mental exhaustion, lack of sleep and the reminiscences of afternoon college lectures cause me to fall into a deep sleep.

I was woken by my son at the end of the presentation in time for the opportunity to go on decks and view the promised shoals of frolicking dolphins alongside the boat. Our initial experience was a little sobering as we cast our eyes across the miles of open and empty ocean and with the total absence of any form of marine life after half an hour one wave looked like another and it became difficult to tell them apart. 

At this point, I got into a conversation with Yolanda, a young Orcaweb volunteer who, freshly out of college, had landed this wonderful opportunity to engage with the wildlife of our planet. This was her very first trip, with the exception of a weeks training with the ships entertainment team, which had started at the dockside alongside television crews reporting on the cancellation of some sailings due to the force 11 gales. The Orcaweb volunteers, however, are made of stern stuff so with sick bags in hand she commenced training with the entertainment team and my imagination went overboard about the type of entertainment that would be laid on in a force 11 gale. It would certainly be activities requiring only the use of one hand leaving the other armed for the fast action use of a sick bag, which would no doubt come with a hefty price unless you booked a premium cabin as we had done. I was snapped out of this daydream by a sudden Tiggeresque squeak from the young girl, “Dolphins, I see dolphins!” I fumbled down for my camera clumsily finding the on switch and removing the lens cap swinging round into action I got a wonderful shot of—the waves. “They’ve gone, that was quick” commented another Orcaweb volunteer. They’re telling me, I thought as I examined the picture of waves, the very same waves I recognised from earlier on.

With my earlier siesta and the bracing sea air doing its trick, I thought it would be a good opportunity to again try and learn something of the environment and got into a conversation with Lucy who was one of the veteran whale watchers. What she said was both fascinating and disturbing, explaining how they plough these ferry routes from March to September as the Bay of Biscay provides the line between the deep chasms of the Atlantic Ocean and the shallow continental shelf. It is here that the phytoplankton bloom develops at certain times of the year, creating the feeding ground for fish and following their numbers, dolphins, sharks and whales. On the north coast of Spain, a deep canyon is the breeding ground for giant squid growing up to 40 feet in length, which are the staple diet of Beaked whales. Although just mammals like ourselves, these whales have been recorded to dive 3000m and hold their breath for over 2 ¼ hours. I then asked about the impact on these fellow mammals by mankind and wasn’t surprised to learn how overfishing of sand eels is causing breeding problems for puffin’s and harbour porpoises, or that extensive fishing of Anchovies, which are used for food on fish farms that produce less fish than the Anchovies used to feed them in the first place. There is a downloadable Good Fish Guide, not related to cooking but produced by the Marine Conservation Society to guide us towards the most sustainable fish we can eat. The construction of offshore wind farms could, however, be more hopeful for although during the construction the acoustic impact of loud pile drivers interferes with the communication and hunting methods of dolphins and porpoises, once complete these concrete structures provide ideal environment for the schooling fish. Since fishing is also banned in these areas, early research appears to indicate they provide an opportunity for these mammals to flourish.

The most disturbing aspect was moreover the effects of humankind’s pollution. Primarily this comes from discarded plastic in the sea, in the rivers and now apparently down our sinks. Plastics are consumed by the smallest sea creatures and the level of toxicity increases as it goes up the food chain. It is a fact that the Killer Whale population of Scotland has not bred for 20 years, and it is believed they will never breed again. An autopsy on a female Killer Whale washed up on the beach showed the toxins, chemicals and PCBs in her blubber were to such a high level that it had made her infertile. A population of whales off the coast of Canada very rarely have a surviving firstborn calf as the mother will offload the high levels of these toxins stored in her blubber through her milk. Now this had me thinking as I look down at my rotund midriff, these are only mammals who are eating fish and so what is the difference between them and us. Is it the same case for us at the top of the fish food chain that it is impacting on our fertility and our health and I wonder what research has been done into this.

It is frustrating that the solution is so simple: it only requires us not to use unnecessary levels of plastic such as single-use items like plastic knives and forks and to ensure as much of what we do use is recycled. Of course that doesn’t stop manufacturers producing face scrubs with microbeads of plastic that simply wash down the plug hole when the use of walnut kernels on other face scrubs are just as effective. There are also all the products we use in the kitchen: it’s worth a look on the back as many of them say it will hurt the fish in your aquarium yet there is no similar concern for pouring it down the sink where it will have the same effect on your pet fish’s cousins and siblings. So thank you, Lucy, for making me reflect when I look down at my expanding waistline and the declining fertility rates of humans it makes me want to let out a big cheer for the charge on plastic bags.

Chilled to the soul and chilled to the bone, I thought it was time to return inside and get a well needed meal of fish and chips, however I now felt chips were a little easier to swallow. Not content with the amount of free Internet data I had eaten (PCB free), I decided it was time to Skype some people including my friend battling cancer. He was out collecting a prescription but it gave me an opportunity to reflect with his partner on this shocking disease. This is not the first time it has affected me as both my father-in-law and my own father passed away at the hands of this menace. This time, however, is quite different, and I recall times when someone has mentioned to me that their friend has cancer and in a superficial way you pass on your sympathy but then pass on to another subject. This time is up close and personal as I don’t believe there is anyone to whom I’m closer outside my family. We could have been brothers, and growing up were often mistaken for brothers as we were almost inseparable. Distance may have changed the frequency of our interaction but not the closeness of our relationship, and our families grew close on a regular annual caravan holidays together. So for someone who is still in full swing of life this is far more than a physical disease, it crushes who you are and wreaks havoc on people close to that person, pitching you into a helter-skelter of emotion. My pal is an incredible musician, and for the moment it has robbed him of his wonderful talent and changed the essence of who he is for the time being. You can see the security you have in a predefined lifestyle and plans for your future are suddenly stripped away, which must leave a chasm of uncertainty and insecurity. In the fabric of my friend's character is the need to protect the ones he holds most dear, his children. Even this has been stolen from him as every ounce of strength is channelled into overcoming the onslaught of this disease. I can tell you that by the end of our conversation, neither of us was dry eyed.

I am anxious about what lies ahead on this journey, but today’s events have reaffirmed that I need to travel and encapsulate what I find in my children’s adventure book.


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Introductions and Thank-Yous

Terra Firma Date 21/03/2016

Pardon me I have let the euphoria of the moment get in the way of a courteous introduction and Golden Globe–award thank-yous.

I’m travelling with my son Cameron for part of this adventure until we part ways to discover our own destinies. Cameron is in his mid-20s and keen to discover his new chosen path in life, which will be eco-friendly farming using Permaculture methods on an affordable piece of land in Portugal. He will travel to a retreat in the mountains of Portugal, learn skills about eco-friendly living and take the opportunity to see what land may be available for his future. He is riding a 1976 Suzuki TS 185 a sweet trusty little steed, and though a little furtive, it is clear she looks up to my trusty mount although he is much younger.

As for me, my motives are complex and unclear to everyone including myself but I shall try to explain. Perhaps I could start with a phrase coined by a recently acquired acquaintance who is fast taking on the role of my mentor and friend. Martin Wittering has called me “The Shouldn’t Be Traveller” and I confess much of me agrees with him. Firstly, it is fair to say I am not a spring chicken in the fresh flood of youth or quite frankly the summer stream of health. The fact is I’m getting closer to 60 than to 55 these days, and my list of ailments grows rapidly so, starting at the top and working downwards...

An old eye injury requires nightly treatment ointment, otherwise I wake in the morning with a piercing pain as my morning eyelid flutter removes a small part of my eyeballs surface; fortunately being the fastest repairing part of the body it is sorted by lunchtime. A recent allergy test, leaving me with a temporarily swollen red arm, indicated significant allergies to a whole host of natural and unnatural products, requiring daily antihistamine tablets. My heart tired from the life of stress I impose on it requires tablets to reduce my blood pressure morning and night. And those allergy tests indicated the source of my newly acquired asthma, reducing me now to a twice-daily puff of an inhaler, emergency asthma attack pills and ventilator to fill my pockets alongside those other unnecessary necessities of life that now burden the slim line of my hips.

These works cover the top half so starting just below the mid rift line would be my old back injury, leaving a ruptured disc spooning up against my spinal cord when not slept on correctly, so startling to the nerves descending to my thighs, it sends them into a knotted frenzy of a pulsating cramps. This is not only excruciatingly uncomfortable but occasionally occurring in public leaves me embarrassingly writhing on the floor, most noticeably during a local Liberal Democrat meeting—one that preceded the Nick Clegg era, back when Liberal Democrats were both liberal and democratic. The next item of impaired anatomy is fortunately my knee leaving everything between my lower back and this in good working order, unless you consider IBS a condition and not an affliction. The knee is a consequence of a motorcycling accident due to limited experience and a flat footed control neither of which has improved before taking this journey which I suspect is more reason for Martin’s inspired title “The Shouldn’t Be Traveller”.

My motivation, other than to prove an over the hill clapped out machine can still be a world traveller (no, I am not yet talking about the motorbike), have more serious origins. Indeed it is the case that this journey nearly never commenced and was postponed at the last minute for a week, ironically for the same reason that it was inspired. Several years ago I lost a good acquaintance at the young age of 51 from that undiscriminating disease, cancer. This event motivated me to complete several unfulfilled missions in my life, namely to discover unfamiliar places and people on my motorbike and to write that children’s book, long time inside me, bursting to get out. To my total dismay and disbelief, on 1 January this year, my lifelong and closest friend of nearly 50 years informed me he also had this dreaded condition and is currently battling to overcome it. He too is now determined as soon as he is well enough to take his licence so we may travel on the roads of France together and reminisce about the wonderful caravan holidays we took together with our families. It was quite agonising decision as to whether to stay and support him or to travel and inspire him back to good health, but with his blessing I am on the road.

This leads to the book inside me, one of a two teenagers: a bewildered and hesitant hero, Rob, and the feisty firecracker, Jenny. Drawn into a world of mystic and intrigue they understand little about, they commit to each other as they are enlisted to travel the world on a quest to save our planet from catastrophe. I have no claim to make as a great writer but do enjoy telling a story, and for this I need real life experiences. So this is me setting out unsure, uncertain—sometimes outright terrified—but hoping to find great places on the planet, wonderful people connected to the planet and out of the ordinary adventures I can write about.

I have acquired various bike modifications, pieces of kit and clothing that I am trying out, including environmentally friendly BAM bamboo clothing, more of which I shall account for later. Of course what you really want to hear about is my chosen steed the motorbike, which has been unfairly maligned in some quarters. This is a redoubtable Royal Enfield Sixty5 with a cross dressing four stroke 500cc Bullet engine currently masquerading as a two-stroke. It has a tendency to be a little incontinent when put to bed but nothing that Tena or turning off the fuel stopcock won’t cure. A little hesitant on all one cylinder when first started and an inclination to burp and fart throughout the day, in fairness not unlike a lot of us fellas. However with his ego stroked and his rubbers caressed he throbs away happily for hours at a time.

I always felt it was unfair to those people at an award ceremony whose endeavours have elevated their chosen artist to that of nominee to go unrewarded when their star or starlet fails to win; therefore, in the certainty that I never receive an award, I shall take the opportunity to thank those people now. There are various people who have supplied me with work, parts and advice for which I’m grateful: Hitchcock’s, Crooks Suzuki, AW Motorcycle Parts, SCR Racing, Dave Wood Racing. But four people stand out and need a special thank you. Firstly my mate Dave, who kindly offered me the use of his man shed for a few days and in the end loyally turned out every evening after work and one day at the weekend for nearly 2 weeks to help with my planned transformations on the Enfield. My thanks to Glenn with his endless assistance on my wide-ranging computer problems, and despite his horrendous workload, he found time to rig up my own bike charging system for all my communications and filming equipment. Then as previously mentioned Martin Wittering of Torque Racing was a massive help and support, with his endless well of knowledge regarding overland biking, his technical input and practical advice when I was struggling with the hard way to do things. Most of all, when I had my doubts, Martin’s encouragement—with comments like “anyone can do this David, even you”—kept me on the right track. Lastly, the person with no technical knowledge, no understanding of motorbikes and a mild scorn for my idea is of course, my wife. For every person that has a wacky crazy idea to fulfil, there is a grounded, sensible, and hard-working person behind them, which is in this instance my wife.

Our Heavily Laden Departure

The harbour lights reflect across the water while I sit on the ferry and reflect on a classic start to this journey. It was perfect homely beginning with my good friend David and my nephew Darrell joining me and my eldest son as we traversed those quintessential country lanes on the start of our long journey. After such a hectic and draining few weeks of preparation, I wasn’t sure I would even stay awake until we got to the ferry. Fortunately, courtesy of my daughter’s super-sized steaming hot bath, I refreshed myself with an icy cold shower just before clambering aboard my steely mount, no doubt Serena only meant only to use all the hot water to alert me to washing facilities that lay ahead.

So there was my family attentively waiting to see us off, my patient and ever supportive wife with a wave in the driveway as we went down our small gravel lane, turning into the village high street where my other two sons, Taylor and Lucas, stood ready with their cameras poised to record the moment we roared past with the cheerio wave. We were off. The Wellford House lay behind the open road ahead of us.

But in the back of my mind, a nagging feeling—an image wouldn’t leave me, an image of Taylor's camera on the kitchen table as I passed it on the way out. This sat uncomfortably with the image of Taylor holding a camera as I passed him in the High Street until I realised it was my camera, the only instrument required to record the whole journey. There then followed the necessary frantic gesticulations with me trying to relay this epiphany to my son Cameron, over the din of our motorcycles at 50 miles and hour. I lurched into a side road to head home, leaving my son totally confused. A heavily laden motorcycle has the momentum to carry on in a straight line without obligation to your mission to return home, so an abrupt turn is bound to be alarming to others.

Half parked on the road and half in the verge, my helmet blinkering me to the ferraw of angry motorists going about their sane, ordinary lives, I heard those immortal word cut through the mayhem: “Dad! Dad!”, Turning my stiff arthritic neck, there appeared my son, camera in hand having chased me down the road in his 1.2 Peugot, an easy match for the steely cart horse that was my ride.

With the balance of my universe restored, I pulled onto the main road once more only to be overtaken by my wife in the family people-carrier, waving me down with another forgotten piece of equipment. I feel certain that this is a standard departure procedure for world travellers.

So now our friends on their bikes gave us a cheery wave as they turned back to allow us to continue our quest without their presence, but with their immense moral support. My son and I were left alone with the road and our machines, free to plot our uninterrupted journey to the ferry—interrupted only by regular stops to refill my son’s TS185 petrol tank, which carries him a wholesome 60 miles at a time, and to empty my biological tank, designed in these stressful moments only to carry me no more than 60 miles at a time. My frugal mount makes 90 miles to a gallon of petrol but has an irritating habit of burning a pint of oil to the same 90 miles. No matter, I shall pretend it is a two stroke machine and fill it accordingly.

Our first pit stop was only partially successful, as Tesco’s filling station replenished my son’s needs but early Sunday closing thwarted my own. Unrelieved, we entered the mayhem of the M25 on a Sunday evening with its regular speed restrictions down to 60 then 50, coincidentally matching our top speed and denying the other fleet-footed motorists their amusement in passing our two heavily laden motorcycles struggling to attain even the speed restrictions. Not that we didn’t benefit from the same wry smiles as we weaved through their stationary vehicles further down the road until the signs lit up again that unobtainable open speed limit.

It was a glorious first evening of spring, and though mostly overcast, it was a clear focused twilight with the sun casting a delightful warm rose red edge to the skies fading light. As we pressed on with the evening descending into night, it became apparent that my cosy headlight glimmer decided it would not flare into a piercing headlight to illuminate the way ahead but instead stay as a more relaxing sidelight, regardless of how frantically I toggled the switch. Fortunately, it was about the same point that I realised my son’s rear tail light had fused into that incandescent red glow, which can only be brought on by tail light and brake light stuck permanently in the on position. 

We continued, with my son forging the path and with me holding on to the blinding glare of his taillight to act as my unfaltering red headlight. Unfaltering until he stomps on the brake, and the light goes out, plunging me into the inky black of the road and an unseen stationary motorcycle dead ahead. Or when he puts his indicators on, which has the effect of turning a taillight into a pulsating epileptic initiator. Even heavily laden motorcycles have their light quirks.

For now, I can close my eyes to rest for the first time in several weeks leaving me with that image of the day: an incandescent red glow. Even with the temporary blindspot burnt into my eyeballs, I can still see a whole world lying ahead, across the handlebars.