aguzziadventure

[aguzziadventure]

Day 15/16/17: From Stelvio to Home - The Final Stretch

A plan takes shape as I determine to cover a colossal 1,000 miles over two days, a journey marked by over 20 hours in the saddle. Starting from Stelvio's outskirts, my itinerary includes Lake Konstanz, a brief jaunt through Austria, Liechtenstein, and Germany, then on to the famous Black Forest and an overnight halt in France's Champagne region.

The first stretch of the day is an arduous three-hour motorway stint. While initially bearable, the constant wind drag from riding a naked bike at high speeds takes its toll. Fighting slipstreams from passing lorries, crosswinds pulling me into other lanes, and relentless wind noise soon make this a grueling task.

My next stop is Lake Konstanz, a sprawling 562 square-kilometer expanse shared by Liechtenstein, Austria, and Germany. Its vast, almost oceanic scale appears more dramatic due to the flat landscape surrounding it. Yachts dot the horizon and shoreline towns enhance the view from Liechtenstein. But time is of the essence, and with another 450 miles to go before my overnight stop, I quickly resume my journey.

The Black Forest of Germany, a recommendation from a fellow rider met at the Guzzi factory, is my next destination. Riding through the forest's broad, sweeping roads is a pleasure, and although dense forests obscure the views, the road design compensates, making every rider appear an expert. Six hours of mostly motorway riding later, I arrive in Châlons-en-Champagne for the night.

While the Champagne region at sundown is beautiful, the reality of mass-production wineries dispels any romantic farmhouse winery notions. Châlons-en-Champagne is a hip yet predictable tourist spot, and after a brief exploration, sleep claims me swiftly.

An early dawn departure from Châlons-en-Champagne turns into an awkward escapade. I push the Guzzi out of the hotel car park, cognizant of the tranquil morning and the sleeping town around me. A tinge of regret tugs at me as I brace to disturb the serenity. With a resigned sigh, I hit the starter button and the Guzzi splutters to life with a boisterous backfire. The sudden awakening echoes through the silent streets, setting off a car alarm, stirring dogs into a cacophony, and drawing irritated shouts from a nearby townhouse window. I make a hasty exit.

The day's journey involves another five hours to Calais, marked by motorways, toll roads, and the physical strain of sustained riding. A near miss with my phone falling from its holster, an essential navigator and ticket holder, reminds me of the fragility of my plans.

Arriving at Calais Eurotunnel six hours later, I face a minor hiccup with my water-damaged passport but make it onto the train. During the short journey back to the UK, I strike up a conversation with a German couple intending to tour Scotland and Wales on their motorbike. Their excitement is a reminder of the beauty of the UK, which apart from the scale and size of which our small island can’t offer, matches the sights seen on my European trip. Offering them some road suggestions for Wales, I disembark, ready to cover the final 400 miles back home.

After visiting family, I arrive home around midnight, my house's cool silence and the surprised mew of my cat welcome me back.

The journey has been educational, life affirming, and, most importantly, instilled in me a desire to undertake more such adventures. Perhaps the exotic landscapes of Africa or the mystical Northern Lights await my presence next.

In preparation for the future, I’ll be leaving some reflections here and suggestions to guide my future journeys, whilst the memory is fresh!

[aguzziadventure]

Day 14: Como, a Return to the Mountains, and a Farewell to High Passes

Awakening to the sunshine in Mandello, I find myself eager to embrace a new day with a fully functioning bike. Starting the day with another visit to the Moto Guzzi factory, I join fellow enthusiasts from across the globe, comparing bikes and exchanging stories of our travels. A few photos in front of the factory's famous red gates offers a memento of our nerdy camaraderie.

Deciding to take a scenic route, I circle more of the lake and journey towards the Ghisallo Pass, a landmark on the Giro d’Italia route. The more common route is Bellagio and back down again, but this way I get so see more of Como. Bellagio itself, perched on a promontory jutting into the lake, offers some of the best panoramic views of the water. As I sit on a lakeside jetty, rehydrating and contemplating my next steps, the decision to head towards home begins to formulate.

It's clear that my homeward journey should include a reunion with the mountains and a brush with the Dolomites. Charting a course that spans the passes of Maloja, Ofen, Umbrail, and finally, the legendary Stelvio, I envisage a great swan song for my alpine exploits.

The journey begins with a short ferry ride from Bellagio to Varenna, thankfully with my luggage on the back of the bike this time. Unhurriedly winding around the lake and through quintessential Italian villages, the bike barks through the peaceful landscape with its fixed exhaust. A hearty Italian meal fuels me for the forthcoming ride as I bid Lake Como farewell.

The Majolapass and Ofenpass serve as a reintroduction to the alpine world. Their wide, friendly roads, devoid of the technical demands of previous passes, are meditative. The scenery is less complicated than previous passes, being monochrome mountains punctuated with dense dark green Swiss pine. I ride visor-up, relishing the chill of the mountain air, readying myself for the impending ride through my final mountain passes.

The ascent to the Umbrail pass, standing proud at 2,501m, marks my farewell to Swiss alpine riding. As it links the Swiss and Italian borders, the Umbrail pass acts as my gateway to the legendary Stelvio and the Dolomites. Despite the sharp cold, losing 1ºc every 100m I’m told, I soak in every detail.

The finale, the Stelvio Pass, presents a serene environment. With only a group of fellow Brits driving BMW M3s for company, we take on the famed ascent together. With a fully functioning bike and some improved skills after completing many mountain passes, the race to the summit is silky smooth. At the top, we wave goodbye and I stop to embrace the sight that meets me - my last mountain panorama.

The Stelvio, the fifth highest road in Europe, famed across the world, offers a fitting conclusion to this roadtrip. This time I feel content in the knowledge that I've lived this journey fully. I’ve seen so much and achieved everything I aimed for, plus a little more. If this is the last mountain pass that I ever do - what a road to bow out on. I descend the pass alone, slowly, letting goafers cross the road and watching birds of prey circle the ice white valley.

Despite the excitement of the remaining journey home, I know that the mountains - the Pyrenees, Alps, and now the Dolomites - will leave a lasting imprint on me.

This evening, I find shelter in a quaint Swiss hotel in Schlinig, where I can still see the mountains looming in the distance. As the sun sets, I offer them a salute of gratitude, promising to cherish their memory as I journey towards home in the morning.

[aguzziadventure]

Day 13 : Reflecting on the bike - A Temperamental Friend

After several frustrating hours on the phone to the AA locating a local mechanic who knows Guzzis, a silver lining emerges. A helpful lady offers to tow to Agostini Srl, a legendary Moto Guzzi specialist nestled in Mandello, close to the Moto Guzzi factory. The back of a lorry wasn't exactly the grand entrance I had envisioned for my bike, but even in this Top Gear like manner, I am ticking off another goal from my trip's bucket list.

My tow arrives at 10.30am but the drop-off isn't until 3pm, and he can’t take me with him. This leaves me to traverse public transport with my hefty luggage in tow. It’s annoying, but the ferry rides and train journey are a great way to get a different view of Lake Como - with stops at Varenna and Lierna.

Arriving at Agostini, tired, I am greeted by Luca, the hospitable general manager who's spent 35 years in the company's service. I spend the waiting hours exploring the treasure trove of Guzzi memorabilia they have on display, including an original V7 sport. The bike finally arrives, late at 4pm, but is swiftly swept away to the capable hands of the mechanics. I sit with them, and they diagnose that most of the noises are normal guzzisms and quite safe. Potentially, there is a corroded spot weld in the muffler, making the baffle loose, that might have been the cause of the lean running and rattling. Since I know I’ll need new mufflers at some point, and as I'm at Agostini, I see it fitting to get some here. The noise seems to have abated, or maybe it's just drowned out by the rumble of the new shortie slip ons. Either way, I am content. They also identify an issue – a crunchy steering rack. It appears the tow man may have ratcheted down it incorrectly, and damaged something that was definitely not there before. It's not an ideal situation, but I can get home with it. My ordeal with the breakdown cover that has proven to be woefully inadequate leaves me with little desire to follow up on it. Frankly, the AA European team are useless.

With the bike back in action, I take it for a spin around Mandello. I pay homage to the iconic gates of the Guzzi factory and ride down to the waterside.

After a day spent without the bike, this moment of respite offers a perfect opportunity to reflect on the role this machine has played on the roadtrip.

It has been a nuisance at times, but despite its eccentricities, or perhaps because of them, we've formed a bond. This machine, a curious blend of charm and quirks, is flawed, even broken in some ways - but aren't we all?

In its own way, it has been ideally suited to the diverse range of roads we traversed. Its generous fuel tank often came to the rescue, stretching the miles between refueling stops. The comfortable riding position and the plush saddle were a boon on long riding days, providing much-needed relief. Its deliberate and twitch-free handling lent a steady assurance on the variety of roads, although speed wasn't its forte.

Its low power has been a strange blessing in disguise. When you've spent hours in the saddle, the bike's forgiving nature ensures that a harsh blip on the throttle or a careless clutch release doesn't spell disaster. Its character-filled engine, with its grumbling and complaining, added a dimension of charm. When you're pushing it near its limit, which is at modest speeds, it comes alive. The whole thing shakes and resonates, as if sharing the excitement of the ride. In contrast, on a more capable bike, I would be barely stretching its legs at these speeds.

On the super technical switchbacks, I had no reason to envy the high-powered sportbikes. It kept up just fine, and when they zoomed away on the straights, I was content taking in the scenery. There were moments, of course, when I did pine for the rush of a sportbike, but the V7 proved to be no one-trick pony. It handled a varied range of roads and surfaces, something a pure sportbike would balk at.

An adventure bike might be the more logical choice for a journey of this kind, but they just feel like a utility to me. They're super competent, but conversations sparked by a BMW GS are often few and far between. The little Guzzi, on the other hand, seemed to draw smiles and stir curiosity as it tackled roads it had no business being on. The affection and nostalgia that Moto Guzzi fans displayed when they spotted the bike was heartwarming, and added a unique element to the experience that other brands simply cannot replicate.

I believe I've bonded with my Guzzi because, in some odd way, its become a living entity. It’s not for everyone, it has its shortcomings and peculiarities, but if you afford it time and patience, it weasels its way into your affections. Despite being a pain most of the time, it has earned my love - a testament to its underlying charm.

So, here's to my plucky Guzzi - a perfectly imperfect partner that has left an imprint on this adventure. I look forward to the rest of our journey together.

[aguzziadventure]

Day 12: Swinging Back In

Yesterday, my journey seemed destined for an early end, but mum knows best. A few encouraging words and I find myself dusting off what felt a little like defeat. So here I am, making a U-turn and pointing my handlebars back south.

Yes, I had the weather conspiring against me and my wallet slowly hemorrhaging funds. But how often do you get the chance to do this? So, the book of sensibility gets chucked out the window this time.

However, one potential hitch that still looms like a storm cloud is my trusty Guzzi’s pesky rattle. This sound, which now feels like an unwelcome road-trip companion, seems to be a symptom of the bike running lean, the sound of 'pinging.' The intermittent backfiring, the overheating, and a wandering idle feel like ominous signs.

Ironically, another national holiday seems to be upon us, leaving me with no open mechanics. So, I put on my thinking helmet and get down to some improvised mechanical work. I scour for an air leak but find none. Left with no choice, I resort to the extreme step of pulling the O2 sensors to force the bike to run richer temporarily. It's an ill-advised move, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

With my mechanical woes in mind, it's only fitting that I head for the destination that was always part of my journey - Lake Como. This region is not just a picturesque corner of Italy; it's the birthplace of Moto Guzzi, located in Mandello. And with Moto Guzzi mechanics likely aplenty, it feels like a pilgrimage of sorts.

Lake Como, accessed via Lugano, is a postcard-perfect Italian tableau. Towering mountains form a backdrop to quaint, traditional buildings dotting the blue-green waters. The Guzzi and I trace the lake's shoreline, weaving through town after town. There's a certain satisfaction in having returned the bike to its spiritual home, nerdy as it may sound.

I finally drop anchor in the glamorous town of Menaggio, with its square abuzz with people exuding effortless Italian style, their eyes drawn to the lake view. The day's been sunny, and I sit back, sipping black tea, awaiting the arrival of the evening clouds.

Tomorrow, my Guzzi will be towed to a mechanic, a story yet to unfold. Tonight, I stay in an area where the price tags make my eyes water, leaving me no option but a hostel. The hostel, with its diverse array of globetrotting guests, is pretty cool. I will be using my sleeping bag instead of the provided sheets, though…

[aguzziadventure]

Day 11: A Bittersweet Farewell to the Alps

Today is my last day in the majestic Alps. Unexpected budget hits and impending poor weather have determined that after today, my journey must gradually start winding back towards home. But I am determined to make it a memorable one.

I start my day in a rustic Swiss wood cabin hotel in the village of Ueberrotten, situated just kilometers away from some of the most iconic Swiss alpine passes. They are the perfect stage for the grand finale of my alpine adventure.

First, I conquer the Furka Pass, a classic route immortalized by a car chase in Goldfinger. At 2429m, it's a testing ride. Thanks to a bit of misdirection and poor planning, I tackle it three times. With each ride, I grow more familiar with its steep switchbacks and slick snow-caked roads.

By the third round, I allow myself to get my head up, and take in in the breathtaking views. Its snow-blanketed peaks and endless hairpins make it a challenging yet rewarding ride that pushes my skills to their limits.

The next pass is the Nufenan Pass, the highest paved pass in Switzerland, nestled between the peaks of Pizzi Galino and Nufenenstock. It presents a stark and isolated landscape that offers an oddly wild riding experience. Afterward, I move on to Oberalp, known for being the source of the River Rhine.

Finally, I arrive at the Grimselpass, a route whose stunning images partially inspired this entire trip. It exceeds all my expectations. Grimsel is the embodiment of a Swiss alpine pass, a microcosm of the country's breathtaking natural scenery, squeezing in snow-capped mountains, tumbling waterfalls, forests blanketing verdant meadows, icy glacier lakes, and remarkable tunnels. Its road, a harmonious balance of relaxed sections and challenging bends, feel like the perfect bow on this segment of the journey.

At the summit, I take a moment to just breathe it all in. Deciding not to photograph anything on this journey, I've opted to imprint every vista into my memory. Staring out over the breathtaking landscape, I realize how much of an impression this part of the trip has left on me. It's a moment of fuzziness, where I’ll be leaving a little bit of myself behind in this landscape. It’s a quiet goodbye to the Alps that will occupy a special place in my heart.

This perfect moment is a stark contrast to my subsequent arrival in Lucerne, a vibrant city teeming with high fashion and travellers thronging towards the lake. Despite its popularity, I’m now sure that cities don’t interest me. I had intended to explore some cities on my return journey, but now, I decide to let them pass.

I find a campsite at the Lido on Lake Lucerne, and as I set up for the night, I can't help but feel a twinge of sadness. Tomorrow, I will be leaving Switzerland and its hefty price tag behind, heading northward on a slightly shortened route home.

It's been an incredible, emotional journey through the Alps, one that I wouldn't trade for anything. Tomorrow brings another day, another ride, but for tonight, I bask in the memories of the majestic Alps.

[aguzziadventure]

Day 10: Start of the Swiss alps

One door closes, but another opens - with the Col de l'Iseran sadly closed due to overnight snowfall, my attention shifts to another impressive pass, the now available Col de la Madeleine. Lauded for its panoramic views of the Swiss Alps on one side and the French-Italian Alps on the other, not to mention the enticing glimpse of Mont Blanc, the ride turns out to be slightly underwhelming compared to some of the lesser-known routes I'd experienced. However, with each alpine adventure offering its unique charm, I'm just grateful for every twist and turn.

After tackling the Col de la Madeleine, my sights are set on a monumental route in the Swiss Alps - the Great St Bernard's Pass.

This journey takes me through the technical challenge of Gorges d'Asby, the bustling town of Chamonix nestled in the foothills of Mont Blanc, and across the Swiss border.

The Great St Bernard's Pass is an awe-inspiring ride, short but abundant with breathtaking views and a touch of history, including the origin site of the famous St. Bernard dog breed. The journey then meanders into the Aosta Valley in Italy. What a morning! Three countries traversed and my appetite for adventure still not satisfied.

My next target is a trifecta of Swiss passes - Grimsel, Furka, and Nufenen. With the day drawing to a close, I'll not manage to reach them, but a 3-hour ride sets me on course for the next day's journey. On the way back towards St Bernard's, Google maps navigates me through the Grand-Saint-Bernard's tunnel. The rain cover through the 5.7 km long tunnel seems a fair exchange for the 20-euro toll.

But the day takes an unexpectedly gruesome turn just after exiting the tunnel, somewhere between Bourg-Saint-Pierre and Martigny. I come upon a recent car accident involving a red van and another car. The scene is chilling. A man hangs still from the window of the van, his body bloodied.

As the magnitude of the situation dawns on me, I filter through the traffic jam, trying to see if I can lend a hand. As I pull up alongside the van, the scene becomes heartbreakingly clear — the man is dead. He is only feet away from me. I ask a lady if they need assistance, but she gestures to me that it's too late for him. With various people on the phone to the emergency services, I beleive that the situation is in hand, and get out of everyone’s way.

I thought I could shake it, but I’ve thought of very little else for remainder of the day. So, I retreat to a modest Swiss hotel for the night, eating traditional cuisine.

[aguzziadventure]

Day 9: Embracing the French Alps

The morning discerned an opportunity - A sliver of manageable climate was snaking its way through the Alpine terrain, creating a window between the French and Italian alps. Although a couple of the passes I'd originally earmarked, the Agnel and Col du Madeline, were inaccessible due to a fatal accident and snow respectively, other spectacular routes awaited.

First up was the Col du Vars, followed by the Col d'Izoard. Rising to an altitude of around 2400m, the Col d'Izoard is a legend among the southern French Alpine passes, and I was thrilled to be finally navigating its winding roads. Despite the biting cold, the ride was nothing short of exhilarating - open roads, unimpeded visibility, and ever-changing scenery from gurgling rivers and roadside waterfalls to climbs by snowy peaks.

Every component seemed to be in sync on this route. The frosty, yet sunny weather was perfect for the Guzzi, which backfired and spluttered acoustically. My riding too was confident and fluid, evidenced by a christened hero blob below my right foot peg and a scratched up side stand on the left. It all converged into a truly memorable ride down an iconic alpine road.

Descending from Col d'Izoard into Briançon, the pleasure was somewhat overshadowed by an emergency vehicle and a helicopter retuning back up the pass. Despite my concern for the people involved in what must have been an accident behind me, I continued my journey, aiming next for Col de Montgenèvre and Susa.

But, the allure of Col de Lautaret and the mighty Col du Galibier, rising to 2600m, was irresistible. I was conscious that tackling these routes would mean bracing for sub-zero temperatures, leading me to a pit-stop at Decathlon for additional thermal gear.

Climbing into Col du Galibier, the landscape became an icy white spectacle. The road was surrounded by towering walls of ice, spiralling up towards the peak. I paused at the summit, taking in the sight of Mont Blanc in the distance. Celebrating my achievement with a cup of camp stove-brewed coffee from melted snow, I toasted the French Alps, readying myself for the next chapter of my journey in Italy.

As I entered Susa, a bustling Italian town, the contrast was stark. I had been enveloped by the tranquil grandeur of the Pyrenees and the Alps, and now, the urban clamor jarred me. That's when clarity struck me - I was not on this journey for cities, which I could always visit by plane. I was traveling for the chance to embrace nature and mountainscapes, something I may never get the chance to see again. This moment prompted a quick turnaround; arrivedeci, Italy. Let’s see what the Swiss alps have to offer instead.

My route took me via the D1006, traversing next to Mont Cenis. This journey offered sweeping views of the Lac du Mont-Cenis and towering mountains. The scale of everything, reminiscent of what my brother described about Canadian roads, was jaw-dropping. It was on this road, winding down from Mont Cenis to val Cenis, that I realise I’m perfectly set up for an ambitious challenge: the Col de l'Iseran.

Col de l'Iseran, the highest and arguably most demanding road in the Swiss Alps, standing at a vertigo-inducing 2,764m, was no joke. For both my rattling Guzzi and me, it’s a big ask.

Herein lay my predicament. While essential, a second night in a hotel was an expense I hadn't budgeted for and honestly, couldn’t really justify. Particularly after forking out €90 on thermal clobber.

In the end, necessity birthed resilience. I took on an unexpected role as a haggler, knocking on hotel doors, awkwardly negotiating with receptionists, until finally striking a deal at the Alpazur hotel for just a quarter of the listed price.

Settling in, I’m eating sweaty leftover sausages from the previous day and prepared for an early night. Big day tomorrow.

[aguzziadventure]

Day 8: Nudging the Alps and Poncho Monte Carlo

The day's plan was ambiguous: in essence, a non-decision. The weather predicted rain whether I chose to head north or continued on my route, so it felt somewhat inevitable. Therefore, I resolved to nudge the edges of the French Alps, aiming for Barcelonnette in the Alpes-Côte d'Azur region. It was a strategic location that sat on the doorstep of the Alps and also provided an escape route towards Italy's marginally sunnier climes if needed.

Setting out, I had approximately 110 miles to cover. Not an intimidating distance, but knowing my propensity for frequent stops and detours, I anticipated it would take up the whole day. My route included passing through Serres and Tallard, but between road closures, rerouting by Google maps, and a few misguided turns, the journey unfolded in unexpected ways.

The morning brought sunshine and scenic roads that were becoming delightfully familiar. By midday, the heavens had opened, a minor landslide had caused a road closure, and I found myself navigating rough, muddy tracks for a while.

I took refuge from the rain in a small café, just before Tallard. Nursing my coffee and tucking into saucisson and bread, I met a group of Irish hill climb enthusiasts who had stopped for a similar respite. Their vintage French cars adorned in rallye liveries piqued my interest. We soon got chatting about our respective journeys - they were touring historic rallye Monte Carlo stages over a few weeks. Curious, I shared my previous routes and detours with them, wondering if I had unwittingly traversed any historic stages.

Much to my surprise and delight, it turned out that I had indeed completed or at least touched upon a Monte Carlo stage! I would love to claim that I cut a cool figure during this inadvertent rallying adventure, but the reality was a bright green Go Car Poncho and what transpired to be women's Bellstaff waterproof riding trousers (a hasty eBay purchase oversight!).

The route between Tallard and Barcelonnette was everything I'd hoped for. The rain had ceased, and the gloomy overcast weather didn't dampen the thrill of my first sight of the snow-capped foothills of the Alps. Each peak, dramatically framed by a cloud inversion against the backdrop of a swirling, dark grey sky, was a spectacle in itself.

Barcelonnette was my final stop for the day. I checked into La Grand Hotel, where the biker-friendly proprietor generously allowed me to hang my damp gear in their laundry room. The hot shower that followed felt immensely comforting.

Parking my bike overnight in this busy town proved to be a bit of a concern. With the bike hidden behind the hotel and several teenagers loitering around, my nerves were slightly frayed. So, I took an extra step and found a secure indoor parking space for my motorcycle, a small price of 5 euros for a night of peace.

Now safely parked, I’m in pursuit of a hearty three-course meal. After all, I figured if I'd inadvertently tackled some historic Monte Carlo stages, I was certainly entitled to dine like a rally legend.

[aguzziadventure]

Day 8: Towards the Alps?

My morning began with a simple breakfast that, while not as hearty as I'd prefer, had me in good spirits, especially with the sun shining brightly - a welcome contrast to yesterday's rain. With a relaxed mood and appreciation for the good weather, I decided to take it slow today.

I began with a thorough inspection of my bike. Using the limited tools I have, I tightened every bolt they could fit. I squeezed in chewing gum and blue tack into potential sources of mechanical rattles - the headlight bevel, the horn mount, the number plate mount, the rubber bracket under the speedo. It looked a patchwork job, a bodge as some might say, but I wanted to ensure none of these were the source of the relentless rattle. Finally, I taped the toolkit together, eliminating another potential innocuous source of noise. I crossed my fingers and set off Gorges le d’Ardeche.

In the mood to take things easy, I soon stopped at a patisserie and savored an amandine - a pastry resembling a Bakewell tart but without the icing. The first stop on my route through the gorges was Belvedere de la Cathedrale, a fantastic viewing spot offering sweeping vistas of the gorge below and the towering cliffs flanking it.

I realised that during my trip, I hadn't really taken the time to pause and take in the surroundings. So, I aimed for P2 Pont d'Arc Meandre with the intent to find a sunny spot by the water. The winding route down to the water's edge, the rte de Gorges, was another stunning riding road, offering excellent views of grottos, caves, and canyons.

At the bottom, I found a spot under the shade of a tree, by a sandy shore. I fired up my camp cooker amidst the bustle of canoeists and kayakers enjoying the crystal clear green waters. I spent an enjoyable hour just relaxing, drinking coffee, and people watching.

At this point I decide I don’t fancy a day in the saddle, and contemplate staying the night here. After exploring the immediate area, I’m told all of the campsites and businesses were closing - most likely forever - as a result of UNESCO and the French government's efforts to protect the environment. It was sad to imagine such a lively place being shut down, and perhaps I was among the last to see it this way.

Eventually, I found a new place to camp, further up the river - Camping de Tunnels. Today was all about taking it slow, so I indulged in some pizza, lounged around, and tried to ignore the nagging thought at the back of my mind: a key goal of this trip was to ride through the French and Swiss Alps and visit Lake Como. However, the two-week weather forecast was ominous, predicting rain, thunderstorms, and even sub-zero temperatures in places. On the other hand, heading north to Germany, Liechtenstein, Austria offered better weather prospects. The dilemma - complete the mission or reroute to better weather - was causing a stir.

In the meantime, I decided to simply enjoy the riverside, making a few short trips to refuel, pop into a cave cafe, and grab another pastry - an apple tart this time. I met a man and his wife, the man's trusty Mille GT his loyal companion since 1989. He declared that when his bike finally gave up, he would be done with biking, a sentiment that made me pause.

With the day's mileage almost nonexistent and crucial decisions looming, I decided to push those thoughts aside for a while.

Today was a day of rest, a day to appreciate the simple joys of the journey, and a day to relish the serenity of the riverside. The dilemma of choosing between the original plan and a detour could wait. Tomorrow will come with its decisions, and I'll be ready. For now, it's just me, my patched-up Guzzi, and the calm river under a warming sun.

[aguzziadventure]

Day 7: Gorges and thunderstorms

I slept well in my first dry bag and bivvy of the trip. Although I did set up shop on an ants nest. An awkward scramble, interspersed with hops and shakes ensued as I moved myself and my belongings away from their domain. My morning routine was disrupted with the unusual task of dislodging the tiny squatters from my gear.

Todays weather forecast dictated a good soaking. Surrounded by predictions of rain in all directions, I resigned myself to a wet journey and chose to proceed towards the French Alps.

The planned route from Laucune through the Gorges du Tarn and Gorges de l’Ardeche held promises of beautiful vistas, but would mean missing (I think) Europe's highest and longest bridge, the Millau.

Among the day's companions was the returning rattle of my Guzzi. Desperate to address it, I chanced upon Languedoc Moto Reno, a nearby mechanic who seemed to have a soft spot for Guzzis. However, upon reaching, the workshop seemed deserted but for two women approaching in an old Mercedes. Turns out, I had just met the mechanic's wife. Language barriers were playfully hopped over as I explained the problem through Google Translate, impressions and gestures. She invited me back to their place, made a call, and tried to help as best as she could. Despite her well-intentioned efforts, it appeared her husband only worked on carbureted v7s. Instead, she suggested Kick Motorcycles in Valence, several hours away. With no other choice, I decided to tolerate the rattle for a while longer and bid farewell to the farmyard workshop and its Guzzi paraphernalia.

The roads leading to Gorge du Tarn made for a fast ride, only to be disrupted by Google Maps’ less than perfect shortcut suggestions.

Passing through Belmont sur-rance revealed ominous rainclouds, prompting a mass exodus of bikers from a roadside stop. They pull out in droves behind me as we race against the approaching storm. We inevitably lost, setting a decidedly damp tone for the day.

Gorge du Tarn itself was a beauty, flanked by a Grand Canyon-like landscape, filled with hairpin bends and impressive views.

For a brief while, the sun graced me with its presence on the D16, a connecting road from the du Tarn. Those sunlit 25kms across undulating hills and fields were a treat and seemed tailor-made to my bike - having it all to myself was the cherry on top. At the end the this road, I descend col de Pierre Plate into Le Point du Tarn. As always, indescribable views. Annoyingly, this euphoria was short-lived as the insatiable rain gods returned with a vengeance.

Wet riding lessons often come uninvited, and today was my day of unplanned learning. With roads quickly turning into ponds, navigation became more about keeping upright than enjoying the journey. The constant threat of aquaplaning, coupled with the uncertainty of what lay beneath the puddles, was a crash course in resilience and patience.

To my disappointment, the Whit Monday holiday (which I'd been blissfully unaware of) meant no food was available for the day, and the rain's persistent drumming dampened spirits. Opting against camping, I booked a stay at the Mas de la Berlusiere Gite. Despite arriving wet, hungry, and cold, I was charmed by my surroundings and was pleasantly surprised to find myself upgraded to their premium suite in the old wine cellar. Though, as wine cellars are, it is quite cold. I am very much looking forward to the promise of sunshine tomorrow and a hearty breakfast.

[aguzziadventure]

Day 6: Balcony roads, heading east

I woke to the sound of cuckoos, my sleeping gear still a bit damp but bearable. I sat in the heart of the woodland, hoping for a break of sunshine to dry it out. Breakfast was instant noodles, with coffee on the stove.

Stumbling upon a renowned balcony road on my way to this campsite got me curious about other similar routes in the vicinity. To my good fortune, I discovered two more nearby – Gorges de Galamus and Gorges de Padern.

The Gorges de Galamus was an unnervingly narrow path, meaning first gear all the way. The sight of the sandy-colored gorge basin in contrast with a radiant blue river and imposing light grey cliffs was captivating. A 1 foot barrier allowed a clear view but served as a stark reminder of the potential risks - a small error, swerving a cyclist or unexpected gravel could spell disaster.

The ride to Gorges de Padern presented a warm, dusty panorama filled with acacia-covered valleys. I took a break at a quaint place called Sport Padern for a homemade artisanal cola beforehand.

Despite knowing my general direction – east across France – I was somewhat directionless. I disliked the idea of motorways and was in no hurry to rush into another forecasted storm near the French Alps. So, I decided to let the road dictate my journey for the day.

I ride several pleasant routes, eventually reaching the serene village of Termes. A stream ran through it, accompanied by a small, casual cafe restaurant. The friendly locals sent their dogs over for greetings; one Shiba mix decided to make my lap its preferred lounging spot. For lunch, I (and my new canine friend) shared a perfectly cooked Pave du Saumon with an orange and pomegranate sauce.

The remainder of the day unfolded in a relaxed manner as I meandered easterly on the D40 toward the D212, even completing another scenic route through Gorges du Tement. I decided to head towards Parc Naturel du Haut-Languedoc, which sounded like it might promise a naturalistic setting.

I forget the next roads, but my exploration was rewarded with the delightful D907, which offered a first taste of the Mediterranean like atmosphere. Driving through vast stretches of vineyards and olive farms, I could feel the Mediterranean like warmth, quite literally, as the day's temperature peaked at 33 degrees Celsius.

This road was the first on my journey that made me yearn for a sports bike. The road was inviting, with each bend encouraging speed and, if I was more talented, knee-down maneuvers.

Eventually, my Guzzi started overheating, leading me to an unexpected encounter with an old van selling pizza in the middle of nowhere. The owner, a fellow biker, was setting up for the day. As we watched a Panigale V4S scream by, he likened the D907 to a TT circuit. Our shared enthusiasm for biking forged a connection, and we ended up chatting for for around an hour. Excited to share his favourite roads with me, he helped me chart a fantastic route toward my destination in the Alps, a testimony to the unexpected rewards of aimless exploration. Sadly, I never got his name.

My campsite for the night is another municipal bargain at 5 euros, the Camping Le Municipal Le Claps. I’m camped in a private little enclave under the shade of acacia trees. Compared to other days, I arrived earlier, relishing the opportunity to finally peel off my riding gear, especially my Kevlar leggings which hadn't seen the light of day in a while. And let's not forget about my underwear...

Currently sat down to plan my next day, equipped with a new route thanks to the friendly pizza van biker. This once directionless day had turned into a serendipitous adventure, leaving me with some memorable experiences and scenic delights.

[aguzziadventure]

Day 5: Heading South

The bivvy bag is swimming. It's not a true bivvy bag, more of a wrapper that you put a sleeping bag in, with a small frame around your head for comfort. Unfortunately, during the thunderstorm, it wicked lots of moisture through, soaking everything including my sleeping bag and making for a restless night.

The morning is thankfully dry, so I leave my gear to air out and plan the day ahead. My phone, doubling as a sat nav, has water in its charging port and won’t charge. More thunderstorms are on the horizon for the next few days, and I plan to head south to outrun the weather. This means bypassing many mountain passes I had shortlisted and curtailing my time in Andorra. However, I aim to include col du Mente and col de la Core on today's route, heading towards Perpignan on the southwestern coast of France.

The start of the day is mostly main roads and open country lanes with a quick pitstop at Saint Bertrand's de-commingles to explore the cathedral. I'm tired today. I had planned on covering a lot of miles, but it seems like it'll be a day of regular stops. A perfect excuse to explore more small towns and villages.

Not long after, I pull over again in Saint-Beat-Lez for an espresso and a coke - a phrase I have learned to muster in French. It’s a Saturday, the roads are bustling with local bikers enjoying their day. At the cafe, I strike up a conversation with some French riders who simultaneously admire and tease my Guzzi, playfully suggesting it won't survive the entire journey through France.

The 1400m ascent of col du Mente is a true wake-up call with its super tight hairpins. At the peak, I encounter a French hill climb club meet-up featuring a range of unique cars I've never seen before, including a Renault 12 Gordini and an original Renault 5 Alpine Turbo. They are quite taken by an MGB that pulls up - a car that's commonplace in the UK, but apparently rare here.

The descent from col du Mente is packed with hairpins. While I still feel I'm struggling with these sharp bends, I manage to catch up with a group of French riders, which boosts my confidence. The wide-open valley suddenly transitions into darkness as I enter a 1 km stretch of road entirely shaded by a tree canopy.

After a refreshing water break by the river near Les Bordes-sur-Lez, I head for col de la Core. The vistas here are spectacular, offering me my closest look at a snowy peak so far. I consider a quick hike in my bike gear but a raindrop makes me reconsider, and I head back down the pass to the small town of Seix.

To my delight, Seix is hosting a motorbike show. The entrance is unmanned, and I seize the opportunity to stick the mud-covered Guzzi right at the front. With live music, food stalls, and plenty of bikes, it's a lively atmosphere. I grab two rhubarb tarts and a kiwi panna cotta for lunch before I meet another V7 owner who runs me through the modifications on his bike, sparking thoughts about potential upgrades to my own.

Leaving Seix marks the end of my Pyrenees leg, which I would have loved to extend by a day. But I need to stay ahead of the impending thunderstorms. The journey out of the Pyrenees takes me through a wide gorge past St Giron.

An hour later, I stop at the nondescript town of Saint-Jean-s'aguies-Vives. Here, amidst the locals playing jaques and veterans in uniform, I suspect a military holiday or celebration is underway in the region. I take a look at campsites to stay in Perpignon, which proves more difficult than anticipated. I’m up against the location’s popularity and a bias against a single male traveler on a motorbike. Not to mention, my fallback option - wild camping - isn't a practical option in the densely populated area. So, yet again I change plan, and head towards the southern Pyrenees-Orienteles.

This new route introduces me to the delightful D177, a valley road that sweeps and swerves at high speeds. One stretch is a straight 2 km shot, where the road is so clear I can see to its end. A closed road leads to an unexpected detour on the lumpy but twisty delight that is the D2. I stop at Quillan for my first substantial meal of the day, though the fact that I have to leave my bike out of sight does make me anxious.

The final leg to my campsite, Camping des Randonneurs, is just half an hour away. The rest of the D177 continues to impress, with sweeping roads, sheer drops, and sections carving through a mountain cleared with dynamite. I didn’t know it at the time - but this was Gorges de la Pierre-Lys - one of Frances most famous balcony roads. The climb on D9 feels like a mountain pass in its own right, the kind you'd see in commercials.

The campsite is nestled within woodland. Here I am, hoping everything will dry before I have to get into it again, pondering about the day's adventures and the journey ahead. Tomorrow might be a long boring run towards the French / Italian border, but I’ll decide in the morning.

[aguzziadventure]

Day 4: Beginning the Pyrenean Cols

The good part of my journey begins today, as I take on the renowned cols, or mountain passes, of the Pyrenees. I've curated a list that includes both celebrated Tour de France stages and offbeat trails shared by fellow bikers.

I begin with Col d’Erroymendi, which I had tried and failed to reach the previous night. Under the bright morning sun, I make a second attempt. The ascent to the pass is utterly different this time; majestic trees, expansive valleys, and glimpses of wildlife offer an awe-inspiring spectacle. However, I have to be careful here. I find out that the white lines, akin to Teflon in slipperiness, can be a hazard if you're too close, especially with logging lorries passing by.

Interestingly, I'm attempting this journey in late May when many passes are usually closed due to the risk of snowfall. They typically open in mid-June. Seeing a closed gate on Col d’Erroymendi, I wait awhile. When I meet a group of British and Irish riders who've just traversed the pass, I feel emboldened to press ahead. My solo adventure seems a curiosity to them, yet they bid me good luck.

With my bike loaded with 30 kg of luggage, getting accustomed to its handling is a learning curve, literally, as I blunder my way through aggressive hairpins. Every bend teaches me more about the bike and presents breathtaking views - silver fir and mountain pine trees give way to valleys abundant with oak, acer, and chestnut trees.

A short while later, I arrive at Larrau and plan more cols. I decide on Col du Soudet, which climbs to around 1500m, followed by Col de Labays, Col d'Ichere, and Col d'Aubisque.

The climb up Col du Soudet reminds me of the Welsh rat runs that I’m used to. Very pretty, roads lined with bracken, but full of blind bends that are interrupted with small hamlets. It’s a mix of road conditions too - some dry and super smooth - others, canopied by trees which hadn't let the previous day's rain dry up yet. The last kilometre, the views open up to a full 360 panorama where I see my first snow-topped peaks. This climb was the first real test for the Guzzi, but it defies my earlier apprehensions about its capabilities against more powerful bikes.

The descent of Col du Soudet towards Col de Labays is smooth, almost too smooth as evidenced by the fresh tar tracks and a construction worker's disapproving finger wag. Confident in the road surface, I open the bike up a little. The sight of a gravel entry to Col de Labays made me think twice, and I chose to continue my descent into the village of Arette instead.

Stopping at a café named Maison Gouaillardeu, I find that English and gesturing don't cut it in this part of the world. Basic knowledge of French and Spanish is vital. It's here I encounter a friendly English couple who assist me in navigating the language barrier and give me some tips about my journey.

Later, I decide to visit the local gîte, where I had intended to stay the night before. The owners, British nationals with excellent knowledge of the area, confirm that Col d'Aubisque is indeed closed due to recent snowfall. We huddle over a map and they assist me in devising a new and safer route that includes Col de Lie, Col d'Ichere, and Col de Marie Blanque.

The climbs to Col de Lie and Col d'Ichere are slow and on a single-track lane, more suited to cyclists, but they do reveal some spectacular views, like the geometrical perfection of pyramid shaped mountains contrasted with green grass on one side and deep green trees on the other. The journey through these cols and onwards to the Parc de Pyrenees is nothing short of magnificent. The open plateau view from Col du Porteigt and what became a real riding road down to Bielle is a joy.

Whilst in Bielle, I'm due for a quick supermarket trip for water and rolling papers. Strangely, no French supermarkets seem to sell tobacco products, but just when I was wondering where to get some, a French lady flagged me down in the carpark.

With a combination of gestures and my limited French, I decipher that she wants me to follow her to a 'tabac', a local tobacco shop. These places I’m told are not just where you get your tobacco; they are the social heart of many rural French communities. On arrival, I found a crowd of locals outside, soaking up the sun and enjoying their drinks.

It seemed like a pleasant place to hang around for a while, so I decided to do just that. But my parked bike had unintentionally blocked some French cyclists, and, with my minimal French, they got a little frustrated. Deciding to avoid causing more inconvenience, I collected my things and swiftly returned to the road.

I hadn’t achieved many miles so far, and needed to make some progress.

Heading south, I jump on a main D road towards Arreau. I'm joined by a group of Eastern European riders on the road. We ride in a loose formation for an hour, the more open roads proving a pleasant break from the challenging twists of the previous mountain passes.

En-route, I check off Col d'Aspin. This col road is wider, with clear lines of sight on its twisty bits. The views from the top were a delightful end to the day. The low evening sun, the distant sound of clanging cowbells, and the sight of snow-capped peaks created a cinematic aura that's difficult to put into words. It was, without a doubt, the highlight of my day.

I’ve set up camp at a surprisingly well-equipped municipal campsite in Arreau. Rain is pouring, and I'm currently writing this in a cramped bivvy bag whilst I hear a thunderstorm roll in. The morning can’t come quick enough!

[aguzziadventure]

Day 3: Setting Sail in Santander

The voyage truly begins today! Sleep eludes me; I am awake at 6 AM, filling up on oversweetened machine coffee before I hit the top deck. Dawn is breaking. Wildlife enthusiasts cluster around, eyes peeled for a chance sighting of whales or dolphins in the Bay of Biscay. Birders, particularly, are abuzz with excitement over the unexpected company of turtle doves onboard.

With a bit of convincing, I manage to get a disgruntled maintenance man to let me into the garage. The sight of my helmet, precariously perched on my bike and miraculously still in place, fills me with relief. With an awkward hop, skip, and jump manoeuvre through the tightly packed bikes , I retrieve it.

After fuelling up on more coffee and pain au raisin, I wait for the ship's 1:15 PM arrival. Disembarkation is quick; passport control is a breeze and before I know it, I'm getting accustomed to Spanish roundabouts.

Conversations on the ferry reveal that most of my fellow passengers are headed to Pamplona, where they'll pause before embarking on their Pyrenees journey. Seeking solitude and eager to beat the crowd, I set my sights on Arette—a six-hour, 400-kilometer ride.

I'd initially intended to avoid motorways but, given the distance, it seemed an impossible goal. I'm glad I took the leap. Contrary to my UK-based expectations, the Spanish motorways are quiet and offer scenic views of the valleys they traverse.

The real treat begins after Pamplona, on the A-21, where open roads meander through verdant valleys offering panoramic views. My sat nav directs me through Larrau towards Arette, France, leading me to my first mountain pass, the Col d'Erroymendi on the NA-2011. Despite the looming, cloud-covered mountain, my excitement propels me onward.

However, the journey quickly turns perilous. As I ascend, I ride into the frozen cloud, visibility drops to near zero, and the temperature plummets from 14 to -2 degrees Celsius. Both the Guzzi and I decide it's too risky, and we retreat down the mountain.

A little disappointed but undeterred, I find shelter in a quaint village called Ochagavía—at the Hotel Puerta de Irati. The restaurant is about to close, so I hurriedly order, ending up with an eccentric mix of an extra-large langoustine pasta starter and duck with chips for my main. An odd mix, but a satisfying end to an eventful day.

[aguzziadventure]

Day 2: Plymouth to Santander – the Ferry Fiasco

My bike is acting up, and there's nothing worse than mechanical worries before a journey. Hopping between two local mechanics (who, as luck would have it, are swamped with work), I glean a disheartening diagnosis—valve clearances. Serviced just a thousand miles ago, it's not a problem I can handle on my own.

Desperate times, desperate measures. I find a tool shop, pick up a 10mm wrench and get to work on the bike, right in the middle of the city. Tightening up heat shields, adjusting headers, and coaxing the clutch cable to give a bit more play. Just then, I'm approached by a charming Finnish lady who's eager to share tales of her travels. It's nice, but time is not my friend today.

Before I can finish up, a traffic warden shooes us away. I manage a quick glance at the sea before setting off for the ferry port. The first attendant I meet sends me off on a wild goose chase. Ends up, I've been directed to a random holding car park instead of the check-in area. Brilliant!

Once I find my way to the actual check-in, things go smoothly. A sticker for the bike, a quick security check, and I'm herded to the holding area.

The boarding process is bit of a spectacle. We're loaded on in groups, twenty at a time, with my bike leading the parade down to the bowels of the ferry. It's hot, it's cramped, and I'm given only minutes to wrestle my stuff from my overly secured roll top bag before being ushered away.

I bungle the evacuation, leaving my helmet perched on the brake lever—a mistake that gnaws at me for the entire 24-hour crossing. The cabin, with its lack of windows, does little to ease my anxiety. Sleep is a fitful affair, thanks to a symphony of car alarms triggered by the swaying ferry.

The ferry, despite its issues, offers plenty of distractions: bars, pools, entertainment, and restaurants. I think it’d be a good laugh in a group. I strike up conversations with fellow passengers, including a biker who, noting my apprehension, kindly offers to ride out ahead of me in Santander ("so the car hits him first"), and a retired couple who had oddly swapped their Morgan for a Toyota Aygo on their annual trip to the Picos.

At this point, one thing nags me - my elusive helmet. The helmet, the bike problems, the fear of the unknown - all these small anxieties are starting to weigh on me. I guess I just want to get going.

[aguzziadventure]

Day 1: The Sprint to Plymouth

Just 14 days before setting off, the Guzzi decided to play its first card - a misbehaving bevel box. I had a rear tire covered in diff oil. Not exactly a minor hiccup, and definitely a potential journey-ender.

The quest for salvation led me to a packed-to-the-rafters garage in Ruthin, where a Ducati specialist agreed to throw me a lifeline. Our savior? A second-hand bevel box, sent over from Italy. The thing about relying on international postage, though, is it turns your life into an episode of 'FedEx Roulette'. Thankfully, the part arrived in time, got fitted, albeit untested, and I collected the bike a mere three days before D-Day.

The ride back seemed promising... until the newcomer also started to leak. Desperate hope led me to convince myself that it was simply due to an overfill and the oil was just settling. Cue an anxious countdown to departure, testing and re-testing, praying for the leak to slow down. So much for my grand plans of a calm and thoroughly prepped send-off.

Left with only a few hours to make final bike adjustments, I learned a vital lesson. Pre-trip panic is a recipe for disaster - like leaving a spanner attached to the inner rear wheel arch. Spotted it at a service station 120 miles later, after a luckily timed service-interval-light stop. Imagine that coming loose on the motorway - potentially fatal and something I'd rather not envision.

Despite these hiccups, the ride to Plymouth wasn't all gloom and doom. The bevel box was holding up, but an unsettling metallic pinging started to echo at high speeds. Forum scrolling led to multiple diagnoses, with the severity scale swinging wildly between 'meh, it's fine' to 'it's the end of the world!'. An anxious night ahead, I feared.

A coffee stop at Hummingbird Cafe in Hereford lightened the mood a bit. Nice little place, nestled in what looked like a refurbished 80s arcade. Met a fellow rider who shared some insider info on local roads worth a spin.

My Plymouth retreat was the luxurious Boringdon Hall. Starving for a good night's sleep and mouth-watering grub, I traded in the upcoming weeks of instant noodles and sachet coffee for a taste of their Michelin star offerings. A bit awkward, admittedly, dragging my roll-top bag through the opulent lobby in my road-weary gear. Despite the polite, if somewhat strained, smiles of the staff, I was gently nudged towards the idea of room service.

A dip in the infinity pool (short-lived when I misplaced my swim shorts!) and a satisfying dinner at the Mayflower Restaurant - sea trout, chard, samphire, and parmesan truffle fries - took the edge off the day's tribulations. The surprise star of the evening? A humble appetizer of fresh focaccia and beetroot butter.

The evening ended with a shared moment of camaraderie with a barman, a fellow rider. He tried to find the elusive 10mm spanner I needed to tinker with my bike - the one tool I’d forgotten. Alas, it wasn't to be. I guess one restless night wouldn't hurt, right?