Fate strikes the fatal blow

Arrive home and the subject between my friend Courtney and me was bees, with the weekend up and coming beekeeping course. By the way he mentioned that there had been a serious accident in Roscoff, where a Plymouth biker had been killed instantly three weeks ago. It dawned on me that this was the same accident we had passed southbound from the port.

While queueing to embark onto the Ferry I had noticed two powerful bikes at the front of the first line. According to the news report, the deceased was a 64 year old experienced biker,  and had ridden this way many times previously. It was most likely his lifeless form seen lying beside the road with someone kneeling down beside it,  in a posture that I shall not forget, reminiscent of some battlefield painting.  Desperately mournful, a still hand reaching down,  her face looking across and into the near distance.

His wife reportedly in hospital in France, with broken bones and brain injuries. 

Sudden loss of loved ones in circumstances such as this, can take many years to recover from.

A tractor turning into a farm entrance was involved, and presumed to have crossed paths with the bike, which ended up about twenty yards into a field.
To speculate on the failing of either the biker or the tractor driver is of little help.
Here, five minutes sooner, and our Morgan might have struck the tractor.

Courtney gave me some bee magazines and pointed out a couple of articles of interest. One about Top Bar Hives and another regarding bee stings, warning of the danger of anaphylactic shock, that can prove fatal to a bee keeper. My brother and I have both been stung, but regardless of that, the immune system can trigger unexpectedly.
I shall take precaution to reduce the risk by wearing my bee suit, hood and gloves, when handling the hive.

Brittany Ferry and the home straight

Roscoff stands beside a natural harbour of a rugged granite  coastline that is a confusion of islands. The enormous tidal range exposes white sand beaches and a sometimes muddy harbour. Welcome relief from the heat of the road yesterday, the cool breeze has rain spitting in the wind.
Mid afternoon and embarkation enables a chance meeting up with another Morgan couple of travellers. Their's is a 2008 model with the 2 litre Duratec power unit and a little more powerful than our own but the year of manufacture the same. Their home just half an hours drive from us on the edge of Dartmoor. Hopefully we shall catch up again soon.

Riding the air-waves this pair of Gannets enjoy the ride north

He watches me watching him look me in the eye.

Gannat. Overnight stop with a great welcome.

Leaving Sanary sur Mer this morning under a cloudless sky the intention was to take the journey in leisurely fashion and cross the Cevennes National Park to glimpse part of the Tarn Gorge. but Florac was one of just three stops before noon. We would have made better progress, but it was not to be.  At least we avoided the coast road south of Marseilles and holiday traffic. The A8, A7 and N113 via Arles was chosen, Nimes and Ales was a fun drive in company with a Triumph TR6 for part of the way. However, confusion delayed us at Ales where we decided to top up the tank at a Super-March. . The escape route was not simple and the GPS and us became temporarily unaware of our exact location. What looked like a short-cut detour might have served us well, but two or three miles down leafy lanes,  being overtaken by several noisy rally cars, we were stopped in our tracks at a narrow bridge by a rally official who refused to let us cross. We had happened upon the start of a hill climb section, where a dozen or so rally competitors were stood about waiting their turn to be given the green light. Re-tracing our route back to Ales we started out again, but this time followed the correct road  beside the river valley to La Grande Combe and the N106.  One long chain of sweeping bends well suited to the nimble Morgan.

Our overnight stop  at Gannat was reached at approximately 5pm via the A75 . The run north was made a little more enjoyable by keeping company with a red classic 1986 Porsche 911, gently driven by an English couple we met at the service station earlier. They were heading for Calais to face a further two hour drive.
Sophia and Max though are already home in Devon after a flight of just 1h 20m.

At Gannat  La-coraline B&B

Our Gannat hosts are so, so obliging, nothing is too much trouble and we felt a warm welcome in their lovely home. Over breakfast we talked to two couples, one French the other Australian and much to Helen's surprise Brexit was an issue given an airing. We now have an open invitation to visit new friends in Sidney and a waterfront home, and access to a yacht, though it's unlikely we shall be able to take up the offer. Graham is heading to the UK with original paperwork regards his pension that he dare not release from his personal possession. his wife is due to fly back to Sidney while he sorts it all out. They have been touring Spain in uncomfortably hot weather for several weeks. Michelle and Claude the other couple are French and he has treated himself recently to a Triumph 1200cc motorbike of the "naked" style, devoid of any of the modern type of fairing. Michelle however is not one to ride pillion with him.
Greasing up the Morgan,  photo calls etc. delayed departure till 10.30 am. and 475 miles later we stretch out in Roscoff before a wander into town for supper of Moules with frites, fish and chips. The Morgan is placed under cover and sheltered from clouds that threatens to dampen the last leg of our adventure - Helen will be glad to sleep in her own bed again. My sights are set on populating the newly made beehive waiting for me in my garage and if previous Morgan adventures are an indicator, the treasured machine will be rested for a while.

Sanary Sur Mer as wedding guests

A visit to the the town hall of the Mairie and a first for us. At high noon not a cloud to be seen in the sky or on the horizon. No rain fell overnight just a powdering of light ochre desert dust from the other side of the Med. A relaxing day by the harbour and a grand restaurant meal to celebrate our lovely holiday this far and its polling day at home. Only the third poll in all of Britain's long history.

The strengths and weaknesses of those that aspire to lead us have been exposed as never before. Big changes are sure to be seen, after this historic vote to leave the EU. Restoration of independence and freedom to control our borders is seen by the majority as vital to the future.  No longer are we to be lectured. Leader Cameron now a "dead man walking". One who ignored the will of his electorate.

Bells, Pyrenean Mountain Dogs and Sheep

Castellan to Sanary sur Mer was a shorter leg earlier today, heading nearer to where we shall attend a wedding party and cavalcade of honking autos, en-route to the ceremony. Hopefully the Morgan twin tone horns function, since one of them stopped working along the Gorge du Verdon, coaxed back alive with a fiddling of connections under the front grill.
Transhumance of this large flock delayed our progress for several minutes but reminded me of the BBC, and "Bells on Sunday".

The second video shows a short section of the Gorge (two thousand feet deep), that cuts its way through the high plateau, where the sheep graze through the summer months.

Chioggia to Castellane and Gorge du Verdon

Eleven hours in the saddle albeit on nice green Morgan leather.  Helen and me did not arrive at Castellane until 4.30 pm damp and exhausted.
Four years since we came here last, where all is well and a friendly welcome at the gate.
We started out at 5.30 am. hoping to get the leg completed by early afternoon, but Padua once again set us a problem due to a couple of missed turns. Verona, Brescia, Milan, Tortona and Genoa were passed without incident further along the autoroute. The coastal E80 was jammed due to an accident causing a long wait. This section has notoriously expensive service stations best avoided.
Heading north onto the Route Napoleon and through Grasse the weather closed in and soon the drive became an obstacle course; avoiding standing and flooding water.
Most of the motorcyclists normally riding this way were seen to be holed up in the roadside cafes. Lightning flashed and vision became blurred, slowing down the pace somewhat. The cabin stayed reasonably dry, since the neoprene strips were fitted to the side-screen edges, and door jams closest to the windscreen.
On startup earlier the orange fault light self cancelled. The thing had come on, descending the high road earlier in the week, and presumed to be due to long descents. Also seen to right itself has been the mileometer trip LCD.  It reads 50,104 - so in my hands this Royal Ivory conveyance has covered about 43,000 miles and counting. Prolonged warmth beneath the dash seems to have successfully dried out moisture from a previous washer tube leak, long since fixed.

Next day dawned bright and the following pictures tell the story as the day unfolds.

The Gorge du Verdon under blue skies.

House Martins feed young in the terrace of mud nests seen at La Palud-sur-Verdon.

1921 Triumph a long way from home.

The gorge where a plentiful supply of Box tree wood fed the village industry at Aiquines. The making of petanque balls.  Seen on a noticeboard outside one of the several restaurants, the English translation describing Boxwood petanque ball manufacture caused me to chuckle. A script that would have graced  The Café René, the fictional café owned by René François Artois, one British sitcom character.

Plenty here to satisfy any spirit of adventure.  Vultures may be seen above the cliffs.

The loop road from La Palud-sur-Verdon D23 with wonderful viewpoints.  Best driven clockwise to complete the circuit one way system.

At Aiguines the sparrows enjoy handouts of jam tart

Aiguines: where the industry of Petanque ball manufacture flourished by use of local wood from the Gorge du Verdon.

Castellane - Explored and appreciated better the second time round

Ferrari 458 Italia Powered by a 562-hp V-8 mated to a seven-speed dual-clutch transmission and riding on an F1-inspired suspension, the mid-engined 458 is as pure a sports car as anything on the road.  We spot a bevy of these in close company following our route.

Chioggia gets my vote.

Leaving this venue on Saturday; having enjoyed a second visit just as much as the year before last. It floats my boat and gets a vote as the most fascinating destination of all those places Helen and me have visited over the many years of  travel together. A place where we find it easy to park and forget the Morgan for the whole duration of our stay, and soak up the maritime atmosphere, day after day in a dozen different ways. The street market, the festival. The fast food bars. The bewildering choices of dish on paper platters. I have not enjoyed filleted sardines with frits quite so much as here sat beside the fishing boats.
Sottomarina is where our room is located, sandwiched between the harbour and a wide beachfront spit. A fifteen minute walk links across two road bridges to the island.

The tendency towards thinking all should visit our Shangri La is one of those failings common enough that no apology need be made here. With Venice on the doorstep and such welcoming people, well fed on a rich diet of fish and sunshine, and somewhere to hopefully return to.  Packing up the Morgan, front suspension freshly greased and tank fuelled, we head for Castellan in a few hours time. Sadly we will miss the height of the Fisherman's Festival. Street party tables set out and costume dressed diners are seen enjoying the mediterranean diet. I am offered a taster, gratis free from a stall holder, of Grilled sardines - plus a plastic cup of the most enjoyable wine tasted for a long long time. I donated a couple of euros and earned myself an extra sardine.

A parade through town, a few sardines, a glass of wine and Helen for company

Overloaded senses and camera sensors

A trio of Venetian islands by ferry included the glass factory, the ancient church and the colorfully painted cottages of Burano.  Dosed in insect repellent the two of us ambled very slowly about all three venues.  Helen sat on a bench and waited for me at the space age latrine of Torcello where a turnstile barred the entrance to the business quarter. An attendant guarded the portico where the charge of 1.5 Euros was desperately paid into the automatic counter, but on the first two attempts rejected the coins. The attendant barked some instruction or other but was ignored. Placing the coins more gently into the machine worked and it permitted me through. What a relief! The ancient church building where the beautiful mosaic was said to lay, was an additional charge we avoided. Instead, the open place of worship next door was cool and more inviting. A place no doubt of great historic interest and merit but we two jaded visitors much preferred the canal side walk on the approach, where every other tree was a Tamarisk and the birdsong from the scrubland round about, delightful.

The glass factory visit was just 45 minutes and emphasis on sales quite a distraction. We watched a mesmerizing performance by the portly overheated artisan, who produced a prancing horse by plucking at a large blob of semi-molten glass with large steel tweezers.  He finally stood it on the work surface beside his station, then held it aloft for all to see more closely. His brow was perspiring and as colourful as his village home - over exposed to the roaring furnace behind him.
Burano was a better place to take photos, though the oriental visitors were seen to be imaging themselves as much as the place itself. Crossing one of the canal bridges I was invited to do the honour of snapping one such image of three young ladies. Quite a giggle!

Venice the magnetic city

Celebrity spotted in Venice

Visiting Venice is especially rewarding when you see a favourite personality;
Francesco da Mosto  pottering about in his little blue powerboat.
Helen and me are on foot today like the thousands of others until the blisters slowed us to a hobble and pleased we are to sit down on the ferry back to our favourite resort.

Venice seen in a good weather window

Waterfront at noon

The Doges Plaace

Bronze horses reigned in from Constantinople

Each bridge has a story to tell

The most photographed city in the world

No life jackets here - No EU health & safety diktat is good

Francesco da Mosto - writer, architect, celebrity and public speaker.  Obligingly looks into my lens.

Goodbye Venice

The fisherman's bike

Now back in Chioggia

From Modena to Chioggia

Before leaving Modena and a light breakfast, I strolled up the lane past a cattle market, beside cornfields and waste ground close to a railway. From a thicket came a chorus of Nightingales - I hope the sound comes through on this video - I can't tell because the speakers of my laptop no longer function. (I need to toss away my Toshiba). Play to listen not to watch !

Near Modena

The stopover accommodation chosen was excellent, but the resultant Motorway Mog north east to our farthest destination Chioggia was hectic with Friday's holiday traffic, and not for those of a nervous disposition. Seriously cut up on a couple of occasions, either one could have terminated the whole adventure. The instinctive sideways glance of this ex-motorcyclist writer led to appropriate avoiding action. At least two wrong turns were later made, despite a map and GPS. One road lead us along beside the river Po but soon we find it barred - under repair. A final upset in efforts to traverse the port to reach our hotel was caused by the busy Saturday street market. Happily resolved with a wide circuit over several bridges and at least half a dozen roundabouts. The Morgan is now tucked up once more against the possibility of thunderstorms.
Here we stop for a few days  

Later we shall make for France and the wedding of Max's sister. Max being the father of our first grandson Leon Joseph - we are missing him already - only 14 months old and still recovering from his first haircut. Meanwhile our ferry trips to Venice are planned subject to a good weather window.

   Bicycle Roulette often sees toddlers and  little children balance behind mum or dad or granddad or grandma, propelled under battery power.

Wake up time after Sunday's siesta

Warm thundery rain heads our way

Tree trunks and mast poles

 Chioggia has many waterways

Weeding out the nets

Briancon to Modena

The scenic exit from Briancon was taken over Col de Montgenevre but the col itself, being a ski resort, is grossly over-developed for such a beautiful mountain location that has green areas of woodland steeply sloping up to snow capped peaks. Across the border the road drops down to Sestriere. A stroll up and down the main street and an interlude over coffee sets us in relaxed mood to enjoy the onward journey.  Helen is apprehensive - with just cause - the further we go the heavier the traffic becomes. The A55, A21/E70 takes us towards Asti, E70 past Piacenza, then A1/E35 to Modena.
The overnight stop at Ai Prati B&B. was a little tricky to find, but with the help of the local fuel station manager the farmhouse was soon located. A far cry from the previous night stop. Nice location, a clutch of  hostelry awards, and a warm welcome with the best of facilities. For some unknown reason the trip adviser booking had not properly registered and we were lucky to find a vacant room.  Modena B&B.

Only another 115 miles to go before reaching our first destination - Licorice and Lemon real flavour Ices at Chioggia, the fascinating working port and resort forming the foot of the lagoon where Venice lies, no more than an hours ferry ride away. 

Sestriere looked inviting and the coffee shop shown left is found to be quite reasonable 

A brisk walk up this hill gets our circulation moving

Spot the beehives on the unguarded balcony.  Sadly no bees seen using them

Close to Modena here we are Overnight - Best of the rest  and where the pair of us have sunk deep into a luxurious suite that can be described as exceptional. There is the sound of fast electrified trains nearby and the farm dogs barking at feeding time but that is more than compensated for by the rural backdrop of cornfields and Walnut trees outside our first floor double window.

Mog away to Italy

Brexit vote already posted  we take the night ferry crossing from Plymouth to Roscoff  arriving at 8am into a damp blanket of low cloud. Within a mile of arrival a sobering sight greeted us. An accident victim was lying on the ground looking very bloodied, being comforted by someone, as a number of onlookers stood by. It appeared that his machine had been struck at our T junction and been thrown off the road into the field to our left. Ambulances sped to the scene as we headed away.
By the time we reached Le Mans the cloud cover and our spirits begin to lift. Then our first stop for fuel and refreshments. No sign of a fuel strike so far.
The Morgan is performing as it should, fully laden and on song.  We are escorted for several miles by a Ferrari which wafts by in gunmetal grey livery looking  good, and driven in gentle manner.  Two or three times we were hampered by heavy goods and only then did the growl of a Ferrari exhaust note tell of momentary frustration.
Our first rest stop is at Gannat and a new venue Hôtel-Logis La Coraline where the Mog is cocooned under a tarp and by early morning a clear sky dawns. Highly recommended is our finding. The charming hosts are Phillipe and Pascale.
Continuing towards Briancon, a more northerly route had to be taken due to closures. Saint Etienne, Chamberry, Valloire and the Col du Galibier gave us a splendid scenic route to Briancon.

As the mountain road ascended we were overtaken by a race-rally of some seriously quick sports machines and the Morgan enjoyed a moment of glory as we passed professional photographer; Griffopix .  Some burbled, others roared, turbo Porsches  drummed and a Lotus of some sort positively screamed by.  Now  here I had better add that the road surface was newly gritted and very dusty. Motorcyclists heading our way were riding well aware they had poor grip on lines of loose raised gravel. A sweeper truck was creating great clouds of dust and as we edged into the grass verge his high up driving cab was totally enveloped in the grey stuff.

  

Stop to admire the view

Heavy snows layered with Sahara desert sand fell this year

Going up and up

A chill wind here but soon  the descent leads into warm air

Photo  session here is halted by a sudden rain shower 

The Galibier tunnel from the south entrance

Brianson  B&B  of a rustic nature and run by a British couple.

La Vieille Ecurie served up delicious food but the greeting was a cold Basil Fawlty while Sybil seemed preoccupied strimming the lawn.  The apologetic young waitress was sweet enough, and it was left entirely to her to explain that there was a heating malfunction and no hot water for our bathroom. Helen was not best pleased  - We both left as dusty as we were on arrival.