St Croix de Verdun to Del Ponte
I'm up and away before 10 and head into the Gorges du Verdon. I bid goodbye to St. Croix-de-Verdon. Pretty place it is too with a smashing lake.
Castellane. Bit of a trek to Sunday morning mass. Churchgoers have very well developed thighs I am assured..
The Gorgres du Verdon are magnificent and well worth a visit. It is fantastic.. amazing.. but loaded with Tourists. To be fair, that's wasn't at all unexpected given time of year. It's absolutely tootling scenery though so not all bad and at least the traffic moves freely. Here is a picture without a Vauxhall Zafira or a Renault Megane Scenic in it. Please treasure it.
I quietly kick myself for never visiting before. Wonderful.
Ooops.. a Renault Megane Scenic. Now, where's me photoshop…
I stop at a store and buy myself provisions for lunch by the river later on.
Get behind thee, satan..
'Maniac Grany'...
I have no particular urge to learn more about Maniac Grany, although it describes the store owner perfectly who tells in no uncertain terms (although, I say that, they were actually uncertain because I can't understand the actual words themselves).. that I should get my sorry clogs off of her wet floor. I haven't learned the art of levitation as yet, being of only tender years, so I hop about a bit, a bit like playing the game 'Drogna' in 'The Adventure Game' on BBC2 (I bet none of you will remember that).
I stop for lunch by the river.
I break out of the Gorges area to take a more direct route over to Nice. It is Excellent biking. I'm joined up with a gent on a K1200LT who tags along for a bit and we're riding swiftly and nicely, with some nice overtakes in tricky territory. Flowing and nice. Now. I wear contact lenses. And in twenty years of wearing them I haven't ever had one fall out. Not on the bike, not in the pub, not doing the hokey cokey, not in the shower or the swimming pool, never. And now I do. Not just anywhere, mind. This one departs mid way overtaking a car caravan combi in a pretty tricky little bit, with said LT rider following on and trusting my craft. I blink, fiddle and get on with the incidental part of staying on the road. I succeed, but need to continue down to where it is safe to stop, so for the oncoming few winding KM's it's all a bit like the Monty Python Mountaineering sketch. As we reach a relative suitable place I see it is time to turn off, so I take the road, which no one follows on, and so I keep going, and get a little practice of what it would be like if I had only one clear eye. Manageable once you get used to it, but not recommended. I think I'd need an eye patch actually for any length of time. Yarr.
I stop and fit a new lens. That's better. So off we go towards Nice, with a few more twisty features and rugged terrian.
Soon enough we're on the main med coast road, I decide to have a nose at the glitterati and have a shufty around Monaco.
Off I go into Monaco and head in towards Monte Carlo. Mandatory casino picture. Working in to Monaco is chaos, heavy, heavy traffic, thankfully it isn't too hot and I kind of enjoy the traffic as it gives me time to watch and there's bugger all place to park.
I make my way up to the Casino, where I am flagged down by a policeman. He's athletic, early forties, in a white uniform, a sort of sweaty Richard Gere. 'No motorcycles here' says said plod. I'm directed to the side of the road. 'Passport' he says. He's also flagged a couple on a French registered Maxi Scooter. He deals with them first. There's writing, talking, shrugging of shoulders, animated hand gestures and blowing out exhaling. I get the distinct impression he's giving them the 'You should know better' treatment. After a few minutes of dialogue things conclude. The woman gives me a smile and a thumbs up. I think her charm worked a little, but I ain't got that particular charm set in my locker.
Now he's to me. OK 'Great Britain'.. He says. 'Yes.. Great Britain.. hmmm'. 'Yes' comes the natural reply. 'Well, you can't come here; there is a sign, it's international you know, no motos'. I plead ignorance, and I genuinely didn't see a sign. He looks over the bike, and writes my name and registration number in his book. He walks around the GS looking up and down, it appears curious at just how much shite I'm carting about, and wondering if there is indeed a motorbike under there. He raises his eyebrows and returns. 'OK then, you can go'. He warms up and smiles. My lucky day. If it's 7 Euros for a can of Fanta here I shudder to think what a traffic violation would work out at.
I need no more encouragement and I'm orf.
Casino. Crap pic due to said intervention by le fuzz.
Monaco. Byeee.
I head on to the Autostrada. It is an impressive run along to Genoa. Elevated sections high over valleys, many tunnels, with the customary crazy Italian traffic. Not boring in the least. I stop a couple of times and fill up on Cappucino at the Autogrill.
The Autostrada gets more and more winding as it works it way into Genoa. If it were in the UK, the limit would be 40mph, and it would probably be about right. The traffic wobbles into other lanes at high speed, struggling to take corners in the space available. Freaky.
Some time later and its off of the Autostrada, and time to pay up. EUR 18. eek. Mind you, not bad I suppose when compared to the M6 toll.
Genoa, where GPS directs me to waypoint reference '052' which I had no idea existed, nor why the Zumo has sought to take me to it. Ah. Unfortuantely for me, it's in the port, and even more unfortunate for me, I'm now in the queue for the ferry to Tunisia, which was at no point anticipated. This will take some explaining.
Fortunately I find a cut through and manage to get out. I mingle with the Genovese and it's fun bobbing about in the traffic.
Eventually heading for the hills I decide that a hotel is in the offing for tonight.
I pass a lovely looking place by a river and learn now through so many times of just carrying on and regretting it to actually turn around, so I do. I get a charming room with a balcony overlooking the river, and parking for the GS down the side of the hotel, snugly tucked away. Motorcycle friendly.
Dinner. Wonderful. Pasta, al dente style, with a lovely rich tomato sauce starter, then what is described as 'meat', which turns out to be three large slices of pork with roast potatoes. Three glasses of the local red, some Lemon sort of stuff for dessert, a weeny coffee and then a cheeky large glass of beer to send me off. 20 Euros for all of that tuck.. which is spoiling myself for little cash don’t you think.
Time for a quick call on Skype and a Facebook picture upload, the folks at home are relying on that, if they don't see anything regularly they start to get anxious.
I get back to the room and there's this noise. On and off, on and off. What the hell is that. I watch some of the Olympic opening ceremony on the laptop. Still noise, getting worse. Then I tumble: It's someone snoring in an adjacent room. Jaysus, it sounds like a jumbo jet trying to land on a postage stamp. I play a trick done once or twice before, I shout some loud random tourettes style abuse. It does the trick and I have peace and quiet, which is nice. I'm buggered if I'll be having my worst night of sleep in a fancy hotel.