What keeps a man away from his Mog

 A vital update to our buy to let in Exeter. 

Begun just two weeks ago when our tenant vacated in a timely manner allowing a much needed update to the tired Victorian fabric.

Why a Morgan and not a Mazda ?

Open top motoring began for me with a barn find MG PB 1936 two seat red model which struggled to achieve 45% on the G force brake test.
There followed several similar MGs including the 1932 F2 Magna 4 seat six cylinder classic which conveyed Helen and me to Scotland and back and scalded the hand of an AA man who dared to rest his hand on the octagonal radiator cap but failed to enrol me as a member.
In early retirement I briefly took ownership of a Mazda but was disappointed to discover it  failed to wow me at all.
Several years later our dear daughter surprised us with a special anniversary gift.
Waiting for me at the sailing club Sophia handed over the keys to a hired Royal Ivory 4/4 Morgan and sent Helen and I off for the day. It was a delight and we left the gravelled car park with a cheeky grin and a touch of wheel spin.
Just a month later (November 2011) the savings pot was raided and investment made in the form of our 1800cc 2008 4/4.
Minor mods include an air scoop beneath the front number plate, adjustable front shocks, and a discreet little bung of wire wool stuffed into the rear silencer and held in place with two piano wire clips; this serves to tone down the exhaust note into a pleasant burble.

The similarity of the Morgan and MG is striking - both have charisma - if only the Morgan had retained its fold flat screen.

Portugal by Morgan 4/4

Santander felt colder than South Devon on the day we arrived aboard the Pont Aven but the hood of the Morgan stayed down and we wrapped ourselves up multi-layered heading for our first stop at Salamanca. At the end of four hours on the road our night’s stop was at the “Camping Olimpia”, the same hotel used last year. A woodstove was alight by the bar and a Spanish Coffee and a hilarious spaghetti western for me was much enjoyed while Helen rested her head. Unseasonal late snow had fallen here the same day but just melted before we arrived.


By 9.30am next morning we find ourselves on the road heading south through showers and a cold north easterly wind. Over the high plain and mountains west of Madrid there was plenty of snow and not until we approached Huelva did the temperature rise. Turning south west we took a more scenic route through the extraordinary Rio Tinto mining area before linking with the motorway into Portugal. Tanked up with more coffee and a fuel stop with very little traffic we pressed on to Silves, a full eight hours of driving. The ford-engined 4/4 two seater performed well to cover the second leg 450 miles with ease. Oil pressure settled down at three or four bar and engine temperature never raised above 90degC.


From here into the hills our timber chalet is hidden between orange groves and deep little valleys where getting lost would be very easy.


On arrival our hosts Bear and Beth (not their real names) welcomed us to their quiet retreat in the hills. An English couple who had arrived here en-route back from world travels in an old bus. The bus was just visible at the bottom of their own valley beside a couple of beaten up caravans, two tepees and a couple of chalets. Three children now grown, had been raised in that bus and Bear hastened to add that he had replaced its engine before setting out from the antipodes with intentions of returning to the UK.


Three dogs soon made friends with us as did their youngest daughter who is still attending school in Silves.


Bear has a shiny bald pate and stocky frame. He is a man on a mission, has eco-friendly ideals, keeps bees and with this chosen lifestyle is perfectly relaxed. Beth is his stoic long term partner and very welcoming. He assures us security here is not a problem. Any intruders would first need to get past him and his three dogs.


Our first nights’ sleep is enjoyed quietly well away from any town. The brook at the base of the valley is too small to even babble but water is in short supply.


One of the house dogs leads us along a nature trail beside the stream. The valley sides are laden with cork oaks and eucalyptus plus myriad scented plants. All is very much a wilderness.

It’s the 1st of May and we take ourselves off towards Monchique, an historic Spa resort. Bread was being baked in the large outside oven. The baking ladies are identical twin sisters dressed in black. Each as round as the bread rolls which come out of the great domed oven. Their speciality bread rolls contain slices of spicey sausage.



Sagres lies at the south western tip of Portugal and a fishing port similar to Brixham nestles in the shelter of a quarry cut into the cliff. We take a trip Dolphin watching from here. All manner of fishing is highly rewarding off this rich shoreline. The plentiful Octopi are sought out by the whales and the fishermen alike. A string of earthenware pots laid amongst the rocks are soon filled by the octopus seeking refuge. The rib takes us six miles out to sea and the reward is close up contact with common dolphin.


The fish market held each afternoon at 3.30pm swiftly deals with the days catch in Dutch auction style. The price starts high and drops as displayed on a TV screen until one bidder clicks his electronic sender and the job is done. We dine in style at Carlos Restaurant where barnacle comes highly recommended, it was very good.


The Morgan suspension is firm if not harsh on these roads and a cocktail shaker - definitely not a smooth ride. The power of this vehicle to attract attention is a little embarrassing if not irritating at times. Returning back to the chalet we are nobbled by one of the hippy commune number. He was awake and listening out for our recognisable exhaust note and scrambled out from his humble abode waving to attract our attention. His hair is shoulder length, wispy and grey, his skin is nut brown and his build very lean. His grin is toothy but enthusiastic, showing an eager need to get to know the driver of this vehicle. We get an RSVP to visit the camp from this WOOBFF, one invite that is alarming yet just a wee bit tempting. The chance to become an anthropologist for a day, maybe I am the one who needs studying - If you are wondering what the acronym stands for it is this; “works only on bio friendly farms”. How silly of me not to guess!


The little estuary port of Alvor and the much larger thriving fishing / tourist resort of Lagos offer something for everyone including us today. Pleased to enjoy some cooling sea breeze I am eager to find some boats to picture.

Getting to the water’s edge was hampered by blocked off narrow lanes not recognised by our Garmin GPS lacking its updates. Fish restaurants dominate the Alvor waterfront each having alfresco barbecue style grills outside with chimney stacks to waft away the blue smoke. This sleepy little place is another marred by high rise blocks along the seaward eastern approach but the beaches are of soft white sand. I spotted a pile of small crab pots, one with a golf ball inside. The Portuguese seem fond of golf.

There is camper-van compound and we chat to a Canadian and a UK couple parked there. Many of the apartments are on time share of the sort aggressively sold.

Lagos offers a fully-fledged boating scene with replica Caravelle 14th centuary sailing ship of an early type with rounded hull shape. For 15 Euroes there are scenic ventures along the coast to explore grottoes and coves. A busy marina caters for the wide variety of pleasure craft and expensive yachts.

Each time we park the 4/4 the roof has to go up as we chose not to laden ourselves up with a tonneau cover. We select a spot in full public view to deter the light fingered. One German couple we spoke to had unfortunately had their camera stolen from a locked hire car. The time is now arriving for me to grease those king-pins but all is prepared and to hand in the tool kit beneath the spare wheel.
Link to more images of Lagos: https://plus.google.com/photos/109722530072288888502/albums/5874251255750101905




For those mechanically minded followers who may be curious, I shall delve below the bonnet and under the spare wheel today and reveal my tool kit complete with Draper lever action grease gun, essential for keeping those sliding pillars sliding and the steering light. Armed with some rag wipes to clean away the surplus grease, rubber gloves and grease gun, the job is to raise the front end slightly to get some elbow room. Keeping the brake discs clean is vital, hence the wipes.Fortunately this model 4/4 is fitted with thrust bearings beneath the suspension springs and once freshly greased the steering becomes noticeably lighter and driving most pleasurable. At first this light feel at the steering wheel is unsettling because the vehicle seems to have a desire to wander. It is in fact the driver input that causes that light and flighty feel. The magic of the Morgan only becomes apparent after several thousand miles and I have put roughly 13000 miles on the clock in total. The first owner had put in just under 7000 miles.

As well as a basic tool kit we have spare bulbs and fuses, a couple of relays, plastic ties, rope, fire extinguisher, the ubiquitous umbrella and a stout walking stick with which to deter raiders!

En-route to the sea today through the old town part of Silves at the foot of the castle where stalks nest on ancient pinnacles and swifts squeal amidst russet coloured Roman archways and the pink blossom trees.

The 4/4 developed a rattle from the front end and a quick check around the bonnet area revealed two wood screws into the scuttle had worked loose. Also had to replace a bulb in the offside front indicator.




The west coast sea breeze kept us comfortably cool at a little known beach near Aljezur; wandering among sand dunes and a super beach we met a young German couple on two months sabbatical living in their 1970s Mercedes camping bus together with two little ones. A recently installed re-conditioned engine is fitted and the inside is well equipped with all mod-cons. We enjoy a light meal and a very pleasant hour in their company exchanging tales of the unexpected wanderings and some family matters.


Another hot day in prospect so the choice to head west again was made and off towards Arrifana we go to the coastal Nature Park Reserve. Side screens come off the 4/4 in 30 deg C. heat this Monday the 7th of May.


The sea breezes were cooling the coast and we enjoyed stunning scenery and dramatic cliff walks. A surfer’s paradise is here at Arrifana and another at Amada where surfers cafes, hire shops and surf schools are to be found. Aromatic plants thrive all along this coastline and add to the ozone haze which is drifting in today. The coastal foot paths wind through dunes and up onto a complex geological wonderland of red cliffs one minute, grey shale, red and yellow banded slate the next. Wide sandy bays are exposed to the Atlantic Ocean. Fishing for the delicate flavoured Goose Barnacles and Sea Bass is a hazardous pastime for the locals brave enough to take the risk of dodging the waves at the foot of these sea cliffs. Helen spotted a Crested Lark.


The drive leads on through little villages and hidden valleys. Abandoned little round windmills are found dwarfed by the present day wind farm turbines. The road has a lovely stretch through an area of Umbrella pines and another through Eucalypts


There seems to be more retirees here than at home in Devon. We exchange a brief few sentences with a Brummie between sipping coffee at an adjacent table. He says he has enjoyed 7 years at Arrifina. We tease him about his pension prospects but he is not moved or worried in the slightest. His body mass index looks to be a shade on the high side.


We keep getting asked how old our 4/4 is and the whistles and hoots keep coming. Helen often asks me to guild the lily and say that it’s a vintage model but I quit like mentioning it’s only a 2008 model with a very ordinary Ford engine. That’s what Morgans often are – an extraordinary amalgam of fairly ordinary bits and pieces that add up to more than the sum of its parts. However there are some puzzles I would like to solve and the web world has chat forums that are full of enthusiasts offering a variety of solutions to a variety of niggles. This is the way many vehicles have evolved but this is one of the very few to have retained so many original features and survive. Said to be the one and only remaining car marques left in Britain.



The following day began with a wedding invitation at the Silves courthouse. As we drove past we could not help but notice a smartly dressed father of the bride, his arms were flailing and waving a camera at us. It seemed only polite to halt and oblige. The bride his daughter was about to be given away by him to wed her Portuguese boyfriend. He explained that he had recently flown down from Belgium and was waiting outside the building for the rest of the party to arrive. He was in posession of a +4 four seater in a similar cream colour to our 4/4. We had to bow out from his invitation to join the party with the excuse of not being sufficiently well dressed for a wedding. Now with snaps of our 4/4 and mug-shots of its two well-tanned occupants recorded by a total stranger and delighted Belgian it was time for us to move on.


Road going towards Alto, we found a little hilltop village with an interesting church. Because of an allergic reaction to some biting insect Helen had to obtain medication. Fortunately the pharmacist there spoke good English and was able to help.




I forgot to mention yesterday’s surf resort Amado had a cliff top upmarket restaurant where the fish dishes were £40 a head and so we had to settle for a starter and fizzy water. We parked the 4/4 between a “Chelsea tractor” Porsch Cayenne and a Nissan desert vehicle bristling with GPS aerials and promotions for Sahara adventures. As we settled down in the shade of the veranda a foursome straight out of a Poirot murder mystery sauntered past us and settled at the cliff edge table under a sky blue umbrella. One of the four was tall and lean, sporting a straw boater, long cigarette and faded pink slacks that complemented his blush white complexion. A retired Oxford Blue rower perhaps but I had no chance of discovering anything akin to hard fact. The two ladies had that fixed expression that was never going to be challenged, and the fourth gentleman, non-descript over-shadowed by his companion.


To date, we have listened to more varied English accents here in Portugal than ever we hear at home from the BBC - and the characters are real. I took our host Bear out for a spin along the lanes and past one newly built gents des-res with pool tiled on the bottom with Tottenham Hotspur insignia, an English entrepreneur intent on starting up a shooting school.


After two weeks weaving along the lanes and dual lanes of the Algarve we leave the climbing temperatures behind and our rustic chalet buzzing with bees and scuttling geckoes are a happy memory. Going north along the Motorway to Viseu the tolls amounted to over €30 which explains why they are practically empty.


Our second venue is quite different in style; a granite converted farm building appointed with every modern convenience including the important power shower en-suite, ceramic hob and granite work tops and a very helpful host who offered to conduct us back out through the maze of lanes between Viseu the Cathedral city and our retreat in Guimaraes.


Wandering through the narrow shopping streets we chose one little cheese shop where confusion reigned supreme as Helen attempted to buy a quarter cut cheese but left the shop with four quarters. A little further on I spotted some corks – not for wine making but dinghy bungs – they are difficult to find at home. Still Inside the shop an elderly local with walking stick was finding it difficult to make the top step of the entrance door so I gave him a hand and pulled, his free arm shot up into the air, afraid I would pull him over. So began a humorous exchange of sign language, Pidgeon English and Portuguese dialect during which time I was asked if I was American (first accusation), German (second accusation), Dutch (compliment) and finally “Bingo”, I hit the jackpot, an Englishman; wearing a leather kangaroo skin hat and sporting a black umbrella, could I have possibly been in disguise?


Tom and Tomlynn retired here about ten years ago and have no wish to return to the UK. The tiny village has just one little shop and if the lady is there its open, if she’s not there - it’s shut!


The first trip out from here was to the Serra da Estrela granite mountains range. The village of Linhares is topped by a Medieval castle and the streets all cobbled. From here we followed the high road (3000ft) and then onwards between hillsides swathed in the bright yellow flower of broom.


As rain approaches from the North West our next trip out was to be a dash to the coast. The glacier cut valley of Zezere will have to wait for a fine day. First of all I have to get beneath the 4/4 to grease those king-pins once more. By 10am we are on the road, an amazing motorway route through mountains (the Ip5 – E80) from Viseu to Aveiro. About 60miles of sheer joy to drive across a dozen viaducts and several bridges the views along the twisting dual carriageway way are peppered with blossoming yellow broom, forests and deep valley gorges.




First impressions of Aveiro indicate an industrialised built up port and resort marred by motorways and traffic. Once in the old quarter by the water the impression is altered by canals and bridges more akin to Venice. After a wander through the street and arcades beside the water we took to one of the traditional high prowed boats offering scenic trips and ferried by a couple of chatty boatman. A 40minutes crash course in Portugese conducted in the rain beneath the blue umbrellas provided. We passed under low bridges along the waterfront and were shown the redundant ceramics factory and the salt factors where a 50Kilo sack of salt may be had for under €3 but Helen says we don’t use much salt and haven’t the space to cart it back to Devon.


At the Café Greto Prata we rested up over coffee and pastries for a pleasant half hour but I was left alone for ten minutes while Helen visited the ladies powder room. Fiddling with my phone I suddenly received a call and immediately cancelled it thinking I had pressed a wrong key. A second call soon came through and it was Helen on the line to say she had become locked in the loo and please call the waitress to let her out! I made my best attempts to explain but the waitress remained seated at her table enjoying her coffee alongside the waiter. I managed to encourage the waiter to the ladies loo but he promptly returned to his table leaving me to fiddle with the door which had lost its handle. I managed to release Helen by putting the car key through and turning it (much to her relief).


Portugal report 8


At Guimaraes our lodge deserves a fuller description than given so far, so I shall start from the ground floor and work up.


It’s half of a detached barn with meter thick granite walls and ceramic tiled floors. The bedroom en-suite on the lower floor includes a bidet which neither of us is adept at using, a circular mirror with an outer circumference of bright blue LED lights to show up every wrinkle. The replica brass bedstead with bronze lacquered finish has large knobs at each corner. There is a three seat sofa and, in addition, one royal blue plush velvet chase-lounge with foot stool extension that Helen refuses to adorn. Neither of us is much in the mood for chasing or lounging and a photo shoot for posterity is quite out of the question. I threatened to do a risqué studio session of myself on the chase lounge in white sheet Toga; one jesting hint of a Roman grandee that sinks like a lead balloon.


The little windows are fitted with very substantial wooden shutters of red hardwood to match the rest of the woodwork and the very tall wardrobe remains almost empty.


The Lounge and open plan kitchen upstairs is nicely equipped with every accoutrement that a tourist might wish for, including the guide to places of particular local interest. For all its comfort and attention to detail the ambiance is a trifle upset by alarms, fire buttons and glowing red switches designed to alert the management to any distressful occurrence, (a mishap at the bidet for example).


We have freedom to walk extensive gardens surrounding the old farm with its Roman tile roof in terracotta. The wide balcony has views towards the Sera de Estrela mountain range (on a clear day).


Next door lives a retired engineer mariner, a sea dog Dutchman I met while busy on the 4/4, he nobbled me for a natter from over the garden wall and is kind enough to invite Helen and I for a get together any time. He has lived here twelve years and before settling had sailed his own ocean yacht for ninety thousand sea miles before “swallowing the anchor”.


Friday the 17th and we are listening to the gutters, brooks, irrigation channels and lashing rain on red tiles. It does not deter the older generation of growers from tending the land as they carry produce on large baskets balanced on their head while deftly wielding an umbrella.




At Torreria we manage to escape the rain and catch sight of the fishing fleet of small wooden boats of ancient origin resembling Gondalas. There is a lovely waterfront onto the shallow lagoon where the men take out these flat bottomed boats. As the tide drops some wade out from the anchored craft with a long hand held net strung out between them. Others use a pronged rake with trailing funnel net attached to drag along the sand gathering shellfish.


It is here we learn of a sad loss in the family and our travels are to be brought to a close sooner than expected.


A visit to Trancoso with its medieval castle and walled village includes coffee and cakes then a climb up along the ramparts. The beautiful drive and a circular tour home took us through more granite hills, rocky outcrops and dolmens. Searches along forest tracks for those ancient monuments proved fruitless and after three attempts we had to stop at a small café/filling station. Chilly outside here in the afternoon as the cafe owner decides to bend our ear. It’s an ailing business with little prospects of success and too far off the beaten track. He is content to watch his wife behind the bar doing the work while he chats to customers or watches Tv. He has worked in France and Canada but then retired on what he thought would be a good pension but fortune has not favoured him and he would go back to Canada tomorrow if he could. The price of his business is €500,000 but he is trapped in hard times.


Back at the lodge our host invites us to see over the estate. Their pets include a grey parrot and their floors are tiled in polished granite.


The Dutch couple next door invited us across to spend time with them later the same day. We are shown over their very beautiful home and meet their little terrier and three cats, treated to some tasty home cooking and select Koch port wine. The view from the balcony is grand and the Estrela mountain tops are dusted in snow. Next day we head for these snow-capped peaks and explore the Zezere glacier cut valley and get caught in a white out snow flurries while traversing the top in the 4/4. The dramatic climb made close up to the 4,800 foot cloud base. Unfortunately Torre the tallest peak is hidden and the choice to continue on heading north takes us into swirling mist and the drive down into the next valley is blind. A popular Sunday trip to the snow slopes, traffic here is busier than at the coast. Along the way shepherds are seen leading their goats to roadside forage and lower down the local mountain with a local breed of sheepdog, a smaller cousin to the St. Bernard, with golden brown long shaggy coat.


An unexpected treat at Vido was had when we happened on a very local market selling everything from wardrobes to whistles, Sardines to socks and the lorry selling joints of meat included wild pork chops. The cook while you wait barbecue set up was a simple wire mesh grill over log fire and the smoke was blue. No health and safety rules apply here.




A final visit to the motor museum Museu do Caramulo next before we head to Santander and the ferry home. And what a museum this - not only artworks and antiquities but one outstanding motor vehicle collection that includes La Creme de La Creme of motor vehicles. All beautifully presented and in working condition.


Monday dawns sunny and by early Wednesday we must hit the road home to catch the Santander ferry home …

The Grand Canyon du Verdon was seen under an almost cloudless sky and the 4/4 side-screens were discarded, left behind at our chalet near the town of Castellane. This is another of those places which deserved much closer inspection but we did wander through the center and discovered an antiques shop with chaotic heaps of old things including clocks, bronzes, beautiful furniture,   pictures. The building itself seemed untouched, little rooms lead off to larger rooms and surely the chaos was deliberate to suggest the buyer may discover something beneath something else. The old sign outside the front door was a scrappy piece of plywood about 2ft high and 4ft wide just laid on the pavement and would itself have been collectible.
The east side of the canyon was approached first and the road slowly climbs away from the river bed in a series of blind bends, sheer limestone cliffs to our right and sheer drops to our left.  The weight of traffic was not the problem but the type and manner of its driving was slightly hazardous. Buses, lorries, cars and motorcycles pass where possible but are often blocked by narrow sections, short tunnels and the occasional overhanging rock-face. The experience felt like being a big ball skittling through a small bowling alley.
The Lac de Ste-Croix which feeds its water to the Canyon is a vivid azure blue and is still visible from the village of Aiguines where we break for a sandwich. The D71 heads back down towards the south east and reaches a high point through a series of short tunnels cut into a sheer cliff face in spectacular fashion.
A second night was spent at Castallane due to a tummy upset so the Mediterranean and St Tropez was scratched from the schedule. The following day we decided to head for home in leisurely fashion not knowing how Helen might react to a long day on the road. We stopped our final night in France at a little farm campsite called Terra Ferme at Cormoz a few miles north of Bourg-en-Bresse. Run by a Dutch couple who have made this their home and little paradise on the hill. Run as a family site with plenty of space to roam and enjoy. Our night here was marred by a cloudburst and torrential rain found out the weak spot of our aged Kayam tent. The integral waterproof ground sheet was porous.  From here next morning before continuing the treck north we chose to visit a museum and preserved 17^th century farm buildings,  a monument to agriculture at St Trivier-de-Courtes.

The whole village is one rich architectural gems. Several of the timber framed buildings overhang the street pavements and have the open first floor balconies typical of the region. Re-joining the motorway we dash for the port of Calais and manage to catch the 6pm ferry. As for the 4/4 and its performance we needed no tool kit except for the greese-gun which was deployed twice. The spare bulbs, fluorescent jackets, warning triangles, breathalizer kit, tow rope, and those little bits that might be needed “just in case” will do for another day.
“Rev Hang” remains a slight niggle with the Mog. Affecting the way it behaves on twisty mountain roads due to the frequent changing of lower gears and slight delay in throttle response  which I hope to resolve by re-programming its ECU before too long.
Attempting to keep up with a Frenchman familiar with his own road is not a good idea, whether he is driving a twenty ton lorry or a small saloon car, move over and let him pass, enjoy the scenery, not just the pace of travel. Most motorcyclists are polite and give a wave of thanks with the right foot as they go by. There is some satisfaction in counting such foot signals from each happy biker.
Links below lead to five Photo Albums   Best viewed in slideshow mode :

https://plus.google.com/photos/109722530072288888502/albums/5894588651917880961

https://plus.google.com/photos/109722530072288888502/albums/5894948189304298737

https://plus.google.com/photos/109722530072288888502/albums/5895343841140676721

https://plus.google.com/photos/109722530072288888502/albums/5895657317885238273

https://plus.google.com/photos/109722530072288888502/albums/5897171367456330017

Route de Grande Alpes Chapter 3

St-Paul-sur-Ubaye camp site dawned under a clear blue sky and our little cabin was left behind at 8am as we make towards the D64 southwards and the Cime de-la-Bonette. This section of the tour surpassed all expectations as the scenery opened up before us and the climb lead up the highest road in all of Europe. Alpine meadows unfolded along the way, Marmots are frequently spotted as we reach higher and higher. The horizon widens and mountain peaks capped in snow surround us on all sides. June and July are usually the only months in the year when this section is not snow bound.

 We paused to brew tea at a lake where the road loops around in a wide arc. One extraordinary spectacle was that of a long distance running athlete jogging up the road incline, his gait a true study of energy conservation. His legs seemed to carry him effortlessly and bounce him along on springs of elastic tendons in rhythmic form. At the Col a circuit leads off higher still to the conical peak and this is where Helen decided to sit it out by the roadside while I braved the topmost point at 2860 meters. The loop road is canted inwards towards the up slope and so the sensation of dropping off the precipitous edge is much reduced but nothing would persuade Helen to brave the passenger seat. Down the southern side at St-Etienne-de-Tinee we shopped and took a short break. Then onwards to St Sauveur-sur-Tinee through steep sided forest where plentiful Laburnum trees are seen in full blossom. Now heading west onto the D30 and the cliff-top village of Roubion where Crepes tempt yet again. A little further on we head south onto the D28 and the Gges Supres du Cians. The colour Cayanne is a vivid red and the rocky cliffs either side of the gorge are this shade. On and on and deeper and deeper the drive takes us beside a fast flowing torrent. Yet another dramatic scene, more photo stops and more jumping in and out of the 4/4 like a couple of Kangaroos. Late in the afternoon onto the D6202 we head off to Castellane and our timber cabin on wheels.

Chapter 2 Route des Grandes Alpes

At Valloire the campsite is well equipped but internet fails to function for us. Early start next morning sees me greasing the king pins and brewing tea for Helen but just as I complete my messy work beneath the Mog it started to rain and packing the tent and gear had to be hurried along. The road south to the Col du Galibier and the twin Col de Lauteret was overshadowed by the rain but led onwards to Briancon where we spent time wandering the narrow streets of the old walled town. Too much to see and too little time in which to do justice to this historic garrison town, one little discovery was the heights to which French gastronomy reaches with pastry and chocolate. Heading down the central street which has a rivulet running down its center we came across a small café on the right hand side where the tasty morsels on offer tempted us in. The walls are paneled in wood and are adorned with mirrors but the delights to taste here are not to be missed. Three very small tables all occupied meant we are obliged to explore the inner sanctum of this highly decorated chocolatier and patissier. Certificates of prize winning achievements adorn the paneled walls and on tasting the savory little pastries we are in taste bud heaven. On our way out the chocolates are too tempting but not inexpensive so a choice is made of just two and, even so, the white frocked wizard of a prize winning chef is delighted to oblige.  Helen and I wander on down the street sharing the last morsel to come out of a tiny white paper bag. Never mind the chocolate box – none was needed.The Col d’Izard was next on our itinerary and we took photos and met a cyclist as he reached the top too. Pumping the pedals for hour after hour, each rider  that reaches the peak of fitness deserves a medal and this one gets some admiration because he is not a young man; indeed there seemed to be an abundance of older men proudly taking photos and celebrating with one another here. This one we spoke to was a German who did speak English and has a daughter living in Windsor married to an Englishman. He took a photo of us to send to her and we took a photo of him standing by his bike against the Col d’Izard obelisk.
Heading down the other side the scenic picture is a wonderful experience. Through the Combe du Querias and Mont Dauphin Guillestra and the Col de Vars. Along this section the road passes through an amazing fast eroding crumbling rock that was once a sea floor. Vast scree slopes and weird shaped pinnacles are slipping and sliding downhill as fast as they are being raised up by the plate tectonics of this area.
Our next stop for the night is at St Paul-sur-Ubaye and our stay here is in a little chalet and quite comfortable compared to the tent which is soon dried off on the balcony. Then a meal is enjoyed at the nearby rural restaurant where we share the dining room with a retired Englishman now living in Sweden who walks the peaks around here on a regular basis. He declares these places are having a quiet time due to exceptional snow, rain and cold weather. There are other pastimes besides walking that go on in this region but he is oblivious to them.

From Calais to somewhere south of Dijon we stopped the night at a roadside B&B transport café, nothing special but adequate for the purpose. 7am start next morning with breakfast toast and coffee. We set off heading by a tortuous motorway route to Annecy via Frangy. The section heading east and just north of Nantua was amazing if elevated cliff-hanging roads are your passion.

Annecy came as a welcome pause in the journey and we spent a couple of hours wandering the old city charm of its narrow streets beside the canal with its many little bridges and 17^th century tiny shops. The canal opens onto a lake plied by pleasure craft and hire boats.

The road south took us beside the lake to Faverges,  Ugine and then Beaufort where road works blocked our route and forced a detour up winding hairpin back lanes. Three attempts to find the correct route delayed us by about an hour but rewards came with the ascent to the Cormet de Roseland and the steep descent down the other side where herds of cattle were being milked, their hundreds of tinkling bells and clanging gongs filled the air. On the way down we spotted a camp site at the Ville de Glaciers, about ten mile south west of Mont Blank and free, spartan and frequented by climbers and walkers. The evening was alive with the nattering of unfamiliar languages, long into the night and the flickering of camp firelight.

Decamped from the Ville des Glaciers and the Vallee des Chapieux our journey south leads up to Bourg St Maurice through Val-d’Isere and the Col de L’Iseran where we noted motorbikes far outnumbered all other vehicles for photo calls at this spectacle. The route is a right-of-passage for the motorcyclist and a few wear camera head-gear to record their trip for later posting onto YouTube. Whilst exhibiting skilful riding the one that caused me to give a toot of disapproval had chosen to overtake me on the approach to a tight uphill hairpin bend forcing me to slow. With pillion his line through that bend took a dog leg hard braking line across my path. As a biker myself I know his pillion would think twice before repeating that ride.  On the snow slopes opposite we could see tiny figures hurtling down steep ski slopes. Down the far side towards Boneval-sur-Arc we stop for picture postcard views of the prettiest village around and enjoyed Vanilla Crepes and Earl Grey Tea. Further on we came to a deep gorge run through by the A43. This elevated ribbon of motorway raised on slim concrete piers snakes above a fast flowing river of turquoise blue tumbling melt-water. Following this route we head west for several miles until the junction with the D902 to Valloire and a second night under canvas. There can be very few finer roads than these to enjoy the Morgan 4/4 with its nimble handling. Previous to this tour I used 95 octane fuel but have now tried 98 octane and recognize an improvement from the Ford motor - smoother tick over and slightly more power so shall continue to use it.