Mr and Mrs Lunc's Last European Tour (probably)

lunc

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We used to take the bike to Europe every year and enjoyed a tour of all things European but our last tour was almost 20 years ago now. Two up on the @ taking the ferry to Spain and driving back via the mountains, Andorra, the Camargue (Mrs L wanted the see the ponies but I got properly stung on the neck at 60mph and all I remember of it is hopping about in a field swearing a lot) and Nice (which really wasn’t) before coming home through France.

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Me in my youth free climbing the wall of some canyon in Southern France - if you look closely you can just make out my bright red and black Michael Jackson like Texport leathers behind the rear wheel that I’d got cheap at the NEC one year.

If anyone knows exactly where this is please let me know ‘cos we’ve never worked it out and the little booklet map we had for the trip is now lost - the road ran down it for something like 80km often next to a river. We were free spirits then and didn’t really plan routes or stops not having a GPS or the internet to sort every detail in advance; we’d point the bike in the general direction of home or away and wing it.

We’ve been talking about another jaunt since I got the GSA and have done a bunch of day trips but as the extended warranty is up soon and I might not renew we wanted to make use of the European Cover while we had it. :) Also even though we are now both old and knackered (she says that it’s only me, which might be true. I’m certainly knackered and old according to my learned GP who told me so and that he couldn’t help with that so I could basically sod off for a bit until I was actually broken) we were pushed to do it by a story from a seventy year old, who with her friend decided it’d be nice to go to Hong Kong on the train and booked it online and did it themselves in a little over three weeks via Lake Baikal, Mongolia and Beijing. :bow

Right’O I said, let’s jump on the bike this Friday and go to Belgium (the first world war bit and back via Dunkirk as I wanted to see the town hall) and see the sights for a long weekend. OK says Mrs L in her double dare you voice. So now I have to go or I’ll get extra vegetables. Yuck. :barf

We decided on Diksmuide, mainly ‘cos the B&B at Poperinge was full and we choose that ‘cos it was funny sounding (OK so us Lunc’s aren’t high table, nvm it’s all good :rolleyes:). Mrs L booked a couple of nights at a great B&B. Booking.com tried hard to sell us a twin room but Mrs L soon got on to the place direct after I found the website (cos I can surf like a golden haired internet god and she can speak foreign) and we got a double for less than online price.

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We ferreted about for the paniers and the panier bags and I even got some memory foam and cut two handy bits to help take the edge off the rock hard seats of the GSA. As you can see I’ve quickly and expertly fashioned two seat cushions with craftsman-like precision.

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Mrs L can actually pack light and managed to fill only the large panier, leaving me the small and a top-box for rain-suits and food and a bit of space for getting chocolate and booze as is our habit when on the continent.

We set off early on the Friday morning and immediately get stuck in the morning commute to Thetford (who knew it was so popular in the mornings, there’s certainly nowt there worth seeing in the day time) and then behind a massive tractor with the whirly bike-mangler thing on the back, but eventually we reach the A11 and blast along nicely with the sun shining and the GSA being a resplendent tourer rather than my oversized daily commuter.

We zoom though the most excellent new bit around Elveden past the big column with an urn on top, under all the bat hammocks (that aren’t used) and the badger doors (which are all shut and I guess therefore not used either) and reach 5-Ways in no time. Here we get properly held up by various bellends in the fast lane doing 45 and not moving over ‘cos there is a truck somewhere on the horizon. After a lot of helmet ranting, flashing, wild and rude gesticulation and a little mooning (Mrs L takes lane discipline very seriously and will tell you so even if you don’t ask :blagblah :hammer) we get past and are well out of the county after an hour.

The A11, A14, M11 are all pretty dull but arse-numbing and we stop at Birchanger Green services, ignoring the big bit and driving to the coffee place at the back. The two lovely ladies make us posh coffees and as they can see I’m already missing Norfolk mine has a picture of a turnip in the foam.

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There’s only one bog at the coffee place but that’s still quicker than the 10 mile walk through the entire services to reach the, often rank, racks of roped-off shitters in the service building proper.

Here there’s a sign

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Now I know I’m not supposed to go in the sink but the sign is pretty specific that the toilet is only for paper. At least it’s not a number 2. I expect Mrs L is also glad about that ‘cos I’ve gone in first.

Apparently I trick Mrs L in to thinking that I’d rode off by thoughtfully moving the bike 10 yards to find a curb to help her get on. Does BMW even try to see how easy it is to get on the back of a GSA with all the boxes on and with a Tosser already in place? No they do not, the long-legged Teutonic sausage munchers.

We soldier on down to the M25 which appears to have been designed with truckers in mind allowing two to drive next to each other and chat at 56 mph whilst another one, who is in more of a rush, can scoot past in a third lane at 56.5. Not feeling in the mood for filtering between them with the paniers set to the verge mowing position, we pull into the fourth lane as soon as I can spot a gap that’s longer than a bike length. It seems that the truckers are not oblivious to their own horror and have made their left handed mates scapegoats by forcing them to put a sign on the back of their truck so that we’ll all know who’s to blame. I’m not sure why they can’t sort out some left handed knobs but I guess Brussels has decreed that they are only mocked with a sign.

Despite all that we get around the orbital in swift time although not as swiftly as some younger slimmer Tosser on his CBR600R might have 20 odd years before but the variable speed limit put an end to that sort of, er, efficiency. The QE2 bridge is a delight now as I don’t have to wait for other people to pay up. Soon I’m enjoying the M20 so much I forget to stop at the services so we fidget our way down to junction 10 to the delightful STOP 24 place. Certainly you need to slow down to find a not so potholed bit.

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I get 110 New FrankenMurkels for my 100 quid from the teller in the back gaining 6 quid over the ATM they have outside and 7 over the post office and the place at Eurotunnel. I could have got 10 or 11 more if I thought ahead and bought them online and also got £400 more than I wanted. Plus I’d have had to order them a day before I knew I wanted any and I’m not clever enough for that line of thinking.

We do the last few miles to the Chunnel and go straight to an automatic booth and after several hundred screen taps, bangs and the odd thump we get the ticket to hang on our rear view mirror. Although we do get an earlier train we still need to mooch about inside for 15 minutes before we are allowed to queue again.

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We breeze through the part time CBT course they have on during the mid-week quiet period (I guess they forgot to put the cones away but I don’t mind showing everyone how you do it and snake up and down the car park without clipping even one) to the border controls where I drop a glove as we wait in the queue. I’m sat there pondering how I’m going to pick it up without having Mrs L get off or tipping us over when a nice guy hops out the back of a nearby car and picks it up for me. What a nice fellow he was. :thumb

The Kent coppers booth is empty for once so I’m not forced to answer the “Where are you going?” question, with “France”. I suppose I might have said Belgium this time but France is where the train goes so where the hell else can I be going officer? Oh well, I expect Jonny Taliban slips up sometimes and says “To our secret desert training camp in Tunisia” and unleashes the pent up frustration of literally months of twats saying France like it won’t mean a follow up question. I like to think I help put a little pep in his punch.

As I’m in a good mood I remove my helmet without being asked and smile nicely at border dude which saves a lot of time (perhaps he was so shocked that he forget to scan the passports in the incredible slow machine of death which only takes ages so you know that it’s legit) and we head round to the next waiting area, strangely by a route that takes us around the low height barrier but back into the low height section. It’s OK for us to bang our heads on the train just not on the barrier I guess, but I’m gutted to miss the rush gunning though it at top speed egged on by Mrs L.

The guy points us to our lane and another guy shows us that the light is green and another guy makes sure we take the only exit but on the bridge we are allowed to turn down any ramp we like without anyone to point to way. To make up for it there are two people to show us the entrance to the train. Or in our case where to wait while everyone else passes.

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Even though we are almost the first there, bikes have to wait until all the cars are loaded. That takes for-ever but it does mean that you get left in peace at the back of the train. Mrs L elects to walk on which is good because I have to duck to stop my helmet touching the roof and she moans about this on the long drive out of the train later on as she has to lean over all the way. I park in the “against the kerb” position that means that the bike won’t fall over normally but in a sudden braking emergency it’ll flip right over onto the poor bugger in front. So we camp out a little distance away and enjoy the journey from the floor.

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I decide against changing the clock on the GS; mostly because I can’t remember which button it is but also because I never care much about time and anyway my phone or Mrs L will tell me it when I care to ask and then I won’t have to worry if I changed it back or forward and if that’s correct or not.

Mrs L has made a packed lunch so we tuck into that and the train pulls off.
 
That was a very entertaining read. Enjoy and as always ... Waiting for more. Have fun.

Sent from my Redmi Note 4 using Tapatalk
 
The train reaches France and eventually stops itself and after a bit opens all the doors. Is this the time to get on your bike? No. This is the time to wander slowly back to toilets and have a pee. The train is long and there and many cars and so there’s loads of time to sort stuff out, polish helmets, arrange our stuff and ourselves and mount the browning black beast. There are still plenty of cagers waiting to gas us. After a quick look out of the window it tells us that whilst it is still dry it won’t be for long so we decide to blast straight to the B&B and settle in.

Our chat has finally given the last few muppets enough time to find a gear and get going. I let the other biker herd them forward a bit to give me a straight run down the train. I still take it at a respectable speed mind because I’m not often two up with the three tins on and with the suspension on double helmet (I seem to remember there being a 2 helmet with case setting but I couldn’t find that only soft and hard mountains neither of which seemed handy for a Norfolk to Belgium run – I expect I made it up or it was on a previous bike) and the floor of the carriages having become a little sketchy in the last 25ish years so I’m not feeling the need for speed just yet.

We give the dude a nod on the way out, because we aren’t bothered about nodding and waving seemed a bit daft, not to mention strongly contra-indicated as I’m also turning out over the train flap and trying to do a life-saver and not gun us straight off the other side of the platform. The extra bit of CBT pays off and I’m up the ramp like rabbit with a hungry ferret nipping its arse and turning right onto the road to France. Only it’s seriously windy like Norfolk in the late autumn (or me after hot turnip curry and all the local IPA I can drink) and I get gusted across the lane. :eek: This is a mild taster of what was to come later.

We make it past the wackadoodles who think the slow lane is still on the English side and through the new checkpoint Charlie. So named because although there is a mountain of razor wire and concrete things and a big army truck there’s only a little one-man guard room and a port-a-potty behind that so not much protection against the sea of ‘grunts from various war zones. They probably all wait in the nearby bushes and nick by whilst Charlie is taking his regular evening constitutional.

We’re out! (Sit down you Brexit-munchers, there’s nothing about good old blighted Briton for several more instalments so you can go play Bingo for a bit). We start to buzz off towards the A16 direction Bruxelles but wait there is a dithering turbot with a family-sized POS who is getting slower in the other lane. He has poor eyesight and no idea which way he wants. I’ve done this dance before and as there is a very good chance he’ll swap to my lane at the last minute as he finally finds Paris on the list, I hang back to avoid being pushed into the bushes less than 1km into the country. As expected Mr Magoo changes lanes without warning or indication (or even knowing I’m here). He now sees my lights in his mirrors I guess because a get the “I’m sorry I’m a hazard” double flash, but I’m already pulling around him and going on my way.

Yay a French motorway. These are not like the English kind; you can go fast ‘cos the speed limit is high, the tarmac smooth and the number of cameras thin. How wrong I am. The bit between England and Belgium is none of those things. It starts off limited to 90, there’s two speed traps in a short distance and the chickens have not only nested they’ve pecked great cracks between the lanes. It’s like the A11 only with less foreign trucks. It’s a shame because I was looking forward to going more than 70 on the bike for the first time having not driven it abroad before or on a track day and being a reasonably law-abiding citizen. :rolleyes:

It doesn’t matter because there’s a side wind that’d keep a dead man upright. I’m leaning into it OK, but it’s gusting and there are breaks for buildings, bridges and whatnot so it’s a constant battle to stay in the lane and out of the holes. Norfolk is right windy and so it doesn’t bother me greatly but two up with all the tins it’s fairly hairy stuff and I’m glad to have packed extra pants. :yikes I’m also wishing I’d remember to remove the “hard-part” from my old GS and put it on the GSA. It came with the bike and even after I looked it up online I had not the slightest clue as to what it was doing, other than looking like a yellow and, er, hard part. I doubt it would do much if I got blown into the ditch but I expect I’d feel a bit safer if I knew it was there now. But it’s not, so I pucker up and get along without.

Past Dunkirk, which seems about 10 km wide and surrounded with the dirty kind of industrial complexes, the road improves, the wind dies down and the speed restriction are over. 130kph. Oh the joy of those good vibrations. I sneak up past 135 since I’m betting that between German conservatism and the French Laissez-faire-ness I doubt I’m even close to being a marked man. Plus I have the plate of ignorance complete with its little blue and white GB.

Thus it is that we exit France pdq, pausing only slightly at the border to note that the road is closed on the other side and that all the Belgian traffic is being routed off to a roundabout and then back up onto the motorway. I wonder if all border crossings are like that now and decide to go back via the coastal road to find out.

Belgium. Despite living here on and off, I’ve never motorcycled here before so that’s a new sticker that I can paste into my album tonight. There’s a large panel telling me lots of important stuff but all I see is the bit that says that I’m speeding 10kph more than I was in France. Had I known that this is pretty much the only information I’ll get in the entire country about speed limits I might have paid it more attention, but it’s seems that people never need a reminder in Belgium about how fast they can go. They also don’t care to annoy everyone coming north from France by filtering them off at the first junction.

The A16 has turned into the A18 at the border, but as the drivers of the Brussels elite were getting lost they decided to give them both the same name, the E40. Only they didn’t take away the old names and so it sometimes seems like there are more than one road. Oh well, we make it to Junction 2 of the A18/E40 and take the N35 across the fenlands directly to Diksmuide, which we reach in around 15 minutes via a roundabout, a right turn and some long stretches of elevated single carriageway road. It’s a bit blowy again but not so much that I can’t risk the odd gander at the passing countryside.

The Friday rush starts early in Diksmuide and we are straight into a long queue. It takes about 10 minutes to get over the bridge and into the town proper and I get fed up waiting so a take a random left and head towards the church spire which we know is very near our B&B on the main square. I make great time through the back streets and end up at the main square but trapped on the wrong side. The Diksmuide town council are obviously suspicious of tarmac and so have recently invested in a job lot of stones and cobbles and workmen are hard at work replacing one with the other. It’ll look great but right now half the town is a building site and not much of anything is finished. Its slippery sand over dirt, or cobbles or shiny new stone blocks and it is not nice stuff at low speed when you’re not sure where to go. Mrs L spots the B&B but I can’t get there, so she hops off and I weave thought the cars in the square to the other side and then drive along the pavement and park right in-front of the wrong B&B, which looks nothing like ours and is being renovated. :confused: I’m cursing the internet until Mrs L points out my mistake and our B&B next door. It’s lovely stuff as advertised.

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She goes in and sorts out the room and the access to the client parking area and also a garage for the bike. This is accessed from the back of the property, which turns out to be on the main road that’s still full of buses, tractors and cars in an orderly queue. I’m also now of the wrong side of the square again for the one-way system. So I weave across the other half and get to the right road. Mrs L hops on and off we go. I nearly drop the bike at the first junction because it’s a big camber and it’s sandier than a seaside ice-cream. Straining myself in the unmentionables I keep it up. :p

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Another 10 minutes of filtering and traffic and generally being held up we find the cobbled road to the back gate. This is old worn cobbles from before the war and it looks like it got bombed a lot and then flattened out by wonky tank tracks. Thus putting my already strained parts through it again.

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Mrs L opens the gate and it is gravel all over, except it’s got the honeycombs in it so it’s easy to ride across. I drive under the house and switch off. Mrs L opens the garage side doors to a large area for the bike and I push it in for the night. We leave the tins where they are, I stick the lock on, and we just pull out the bags and de-camp to our room on the second floor overlooking the garden and concrete bunker.

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Our room is excellent and comes with top quality fittings, tea and coffee making stuff and also chocolate and wine. Lovely. Pause for resting, changing and drinking of tea. Then we are off to explore the town a bit.

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The square and town hall are nice and the church behind is worth a visit.

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We also walk around the back streets and find the old fish market and take a romantic riverside walk ending up at a bar/café near Lidl. It looks little more than someone’s house but inside it’s very nice and full of old folks having posh coffee, so we do the same and fit right in. The coffees come on little trays with biscuits, milk and sugar. All wasted on me, but I give my biscuit to Mrs L. ‘cos whilst I think them vile she loves ‘um and it’s some easy good-husbanding for me. :angel

The weather is closing in now and it’s getting dark but we walk down to the canal and look at the peace monument. The museum is closed for the day but we decide it’s worth coming back tomorrow.

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We stop off at a little bakers and get some waffles and go back to the B&B to eat some of them, get changed and washed-up a bit before going out for dinner. :bakerman:

There are a bunch of places to eat on and around the main square and we tour around looking to see what looks good and eventually decide on Père et Mère. The waitresses both speak English and one gives us a nice table. It’s sort of an upmarket place and pretty popular. As it is Friday and therefore no-meat-day for us Lunc’s there’s only one choice for starters and main so that makes the menu simple. We get a little cold appetiser; a cube of something horrible in a salty milky cold jus. :barf The chef has tried a bit too hard here. The starter and main are both delicious - all posh stuff but fairly forgettable except for the mash which is very good indeed. The pud was a little brownie with some sort of salted caramel ice-cream and chocolate gravel and a dab of sauce. Tasty but little more than a de-constructed Mars bar really.

There’s no picture of any of this because I’m not keen of photographing my diners because I like to tuck right in as it arrives. During the main we get some great entertainment which I wish I had videoed (because it’d be viral sensation). Next to us is a German couple (let’s call them Hans and Gruber to make it easier). They are babbling on about art and finance and whatnot and generally enjoying their own high-brow cleverness. The waitress doesn’t speak German and only Hans speaks English (but not Flemish or French I guess as he can’t read the menu himself) so it’s getting double translation on the fly. Flemish to English and then English to German. Only it’s not, because the waitress doesn’t know all the English words and Hans can’t speak English as well as he thinks and so is busy miss-informing poor Gruber much of the time. Anyway the waitress gets to the Rabbit dish but can’t remember the word in English and Hans doesn’t get the Flemish. So she starts doing an impression. She young, pretty, blond and fairly well front-loaded and she’s hopping up and down on the spot while making rabbit ears with her hands. Whilst this definitely works for me and it has Mrs L in stitches (it was funny), Hans doesn’t get it so it goes on for a while. Lovely. Wasted entirely on the Germans in every sense. Nvm, it’s not the sort of thing you’ll see in those black-shirted white-aproned gaffs up London. vive la différence and all that.

We’re full to the brim and pay the ruinous bill and exit for a walk only it’s now pissing it down so we hoof it back to the B&B for a quiet night in and dreams of rabbits going hoppity-hoppity-hop. :bounce1 :D
 
The bed as good as it looked and so we’ve had a good night’s sleep, awoken refreshed and we walk over to the main building for breakfast. It pouring down but it’s not far through the garden. We place our order for tea and coffee and take a seat in the breakfast room. There’s all the usual European breakie stuff on offer and also cornflakes and whatnot. The bloke brings the drinks in and I’m still deciding on what I want when he returns with two little plates each with a fried egg on. He puts them down and departs. They look good with runny yolks and lightly seasoned with s and p; A sort of economy fry-up. This is a first for us both and we’re a little baffled :confused:. But we get some bread stick the egg on it and tuck in nevertheless.

Since it’s raining we decide on walking, leaving the bike in the garage for the morning and going to the peace museum on foot. We finish up, collect our stuff and hoof it over there past a little artwork on the quay.

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It’s already starting to clear up but it still spitting as we arrive just before 09h00. The gate is open so we go right in past the, er, exit thing.

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Just then the bells start playing. OMFG what a racket :eh. I like bells. I’ve even been known to ring them myself. But this is utterly dire, tuneless and with the bells stuck on sticks outside it is seriously loud. So we disappear inside fast.

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The curator is surprised to see us because even though he’s opened up, it’s not actually open until 10h00 and he just didn’t expect anyone to come in. He says we may as well go in and takes our 8€ each and suggests that we watch the short film and then take the lift to the top and work down, since that’s how it’s been designed to work. The film is the usual “being bombed in a shit-soaked trench isn’t nice” thing but well-made and we have a private showing to boot. We go up in the lift to the 22nd floor and then take the stairs an extra two flights to the roof.

You know they you are in Belgium because it’s flat and featureless and also there is just a waist high wall and nothing much to stop you jumping, falling or being pushed over. Giving Mrs L my biscuit yesterday has paid off as she doesn’t show the least interest in pushing me over today. It is cold, wet and blowy but there is a good view of the peace gate and the town.

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We go back down to the 22nd floor which is an inside viewing desk with a 360 degree view and perfect for snippering in cold weather although the view is much better from the roof. We start our descent. 22 floors of museum is a lot and I reach my limit after about 10 floors and I think about getting the lift to the café but Mrs L wants to carry on down so we do and actually the last few floors are much more interesting but tbh it’s way too much stuff to take in and any interest I ever had in rusty old German shite has been soaked up almost entirely by my GSA of late. :rolleyes:

Mrs L gets directions to the Trench of Death - this is a real thing but we decide against walking there as it’s a bit far (this turns out to be a good choice) and also a map of all the local sites which is really handy.

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We go back to the B&B via Lidl where we picked up the fixing for lunch. It’s stopped raining and over an early lunch we plan an afternoon tour. We decide on going to a random war grave site, a look around Ypres and a short tour of the countryside via Poperinge and back to Diksmuide via the fenland roads and a couple of sites on the map.

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We gear up and get the bike out and remove the paniers for the day, keeping the top box for rain gear and snacks and whatnot. The wind is drying the rain pretty quickly and the roads are now dry as we turn out of the town and take the N396 to Ypres. Belgium doesn’t appear to be in much of a hurry ever and thus roads aren’t built for speed and are fairly well camera’d up so we set a leisurely pace with the idea of stopping at the first war grave site we come to. We’ve seen one on the map near the outskirts of Ypres that we are heading for but as it happens we reach a small one a few miles before and as it’s in open countryside and on our side of the road I pull in.

Bard Cottage Farm Cemetery is very well kept

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We are the only visitors and as the traffic is light and the wind still blowing it’s a quiet place to wander around and take a few moments of reflection. I know everyone has their own personal thoughts about these places and I won’t bore you with mine. I wanted to go. I went. I’m glad that I did. That is all.

Here’s a few more shots.

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There are not just Brits here but a few other commonwealth folks and interestingly four Germans.

We spend about 20 minutes here before packing up and moving on. We soon pass the one we were heading for on the other side of the road and I’m happy that we found the more isolated place and went there instead. We carry on past and head for the town centre. I take a wrong turn and we end up about 50 yards from the Menin Gate only the road we are on is one-way ahead (and the other way) and the right turn is also no entry. A dead end and nowhere to park up. Grr. I do a u-turn and take the first left and luckily this leads straight into the centre. Only the “fun” fair is in town so we have to scoot all around that and back out behind the town hall and park up next to the church. As luck would have it there’s a WC opposite which is a welcome find, esp. since it’s clean and not full of hobos, weirdos or in fact anyone less normal than me.

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There’s some nut on the bell machine again, but these bells are nice and they are skilled so as I’m waiting, I enjoy the music. Mrs L has scouted out some free bike parking between the cars on the square in front of the church so a re-park and we set off on a short tour of the town.

As the church is right here, we start with it.

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There are some angels in lead, presumably left over from a roof resto

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There’s also a bit of sauce in the stained glass

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We walk back to the town square and then take a back street route past some wall art

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And eventually onto the Menin Gate.

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It seems us Luncs were a lucky bunch

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Although I later realise that the names are by regiment and this lot is one from Liverpool, so maybe it’s only the Liverpool Luncs that are lucky, or more likely they didn’t sign up because there are no Liverpool Luncs. I check a couple of others but decide to leave it since I don’t want to suddenly encounter a whole branch of my ancestral tree.

The monument is a worth a look and they play the last post here at 20h00 each night (which we didn’t hang on for what with it being only mid-afternoon and time for a cuppa). We take the more direct route back to the town square and soon find an empty café on the rhs. We order two posh coffees and install ourselves in the window, piling our gear up on the adjoining table. We sip well-made coffee and watch the world walking by. I’m trying not to nap and dribble into my beard while Mrs L again enjoys a double helping of plastic wrapped biscuit.
 
After a bit we dig out the map and plan a buzz to Poperinge and then a left turn into the fens. It’s comfy here in the cafe but it’s slowly attracting a crowd and so we get out kit on, pay up and get back to the bike.

I have no idea which way is out, so I choose a road at random and as it happens this is the correct one for Poperinge, the N308 which leads to the N38 which we roar down at 90. (No not mph). The outskirts of the town look pretty dull so we elect to leave it and take the ring road north and then the dusty bin ( :) the N321 to some of you guys I guess) to Vleteren.

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Here there is a windmill which we stop to look at and then go across the staggered junction, which they’ve made hard by having dug up the entrance and blocked it off. Not well enough though I’m half way through before I hear Mrs L shouting that it was closed. Too late now and we bump out of the other side on the works, giving a nod to a waiting local, and onto the road we need. We pass a properly decent bicycle shop and then we’re soon onto a little fen road and it’s just like home, so long as we don’t look closely, because it’s actually not really much like the fens except that it’s flat and low down.

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We are heading towards number 12 on our map. Site Drie Gratchen. We’ve no idea what these sites are but we’re guessing that they are historic points of interest or something to do and as it’s in the middle of no-where it’s a handy reference point. Well on the map anyway, because it doesn’t rate a single signpost.

We bimble along Oostvleterenstraat (and it is actually that) admiring the countryside and hoping that it stays dry because the sky is getting darker. We soon reach the small village of Reninge where the road has been dug up and then shut. There’s a diversion around the town so after a short section of green-laning and some back roads we get into the village centre and then drive on to Noordschote. This is another nice but unremarkable place and we don’t stop here either but head on towards the canal since this is where we need to turn left and also where our chosen site is. The left turn is basically a track and a switch back and a descent all in one. Woohoo such excitement. But wait. There’s more. I immediately pull off-road for about 20 meters! I then park up. Our site has been reached and whatever it is we’re supposed to be looking at should be here. Only it's a bit of hard standing, a dilapidated quay that has seen better times and some rusty old crap in the bushes.

A little further up are a couple of big barges, one of which is also a café, although it’s decidedly shut.

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There’s a guy with camera and tripod and stuff of a photographical nature on the road taking pictures of something – I’m guessing one of the boats but it might be our site. Only it isn’t. Mrs L points out that some of the rusty crap seems looks more well-kept and could be what we are here to see. Is there is sign or something? No there’s not, but we think this is it, but what the hell it is we have no idea.

Judge for yourself. Number 12? :nenau

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This is a bit dull so we decide to change our plans slightly and follow the canal route back to Diksmuide and then go on to the Trench of Death, listed as Site 1 on our map (Dodengang) and see that and then afterwards go and look at site 15 Petroleumtanks (which I’m guessing will be rusty old bits of shite too).

We coast along the tiny canal side road past the barges and all the way until in joins the Yser. Here we cross over via a little bridge and go right and alongside the river. The new road is now wide enough for a bike and car to pass but not much else. There’s a big octagon marked on the map, but sadly on the ground you can’t actually see anything. The road takes us all the way back past the Peace Arch where we cross over the main road and head towards the Trench of Death. It’s a fair way up the road and I’m glad that we didn’t try to walk it this morning. I’m doubly glad when we arrive because it’s shut. It’s only open two days a week this time of the year and today isn’t one of them. :mad: It does look good though.

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It runs a long way down by the side of the road almost to the next site. This turns out to be some sort of art work that looks a bit like the skeleton of big petrol tanks. One of those bits of art that aren't well done and took the minimum of skill but that don’t really justify the effort or expense.

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It’s now starting to spit so we drive back to the B&B. By the time we get in park up, shower and get changed it is dark outside and well past beer time. We’ve seen a nice looking pub on the corner of the square called De Mane so we try that.

They look fairly busy but not packed out and we get a table and order Belgian beers - a Leffe Bruin for Mrs L who prefers the dark side and, mostly to reflect on times past up city in the late 1990s, I take a Hoegaarden, which tastes much nicer than I remember it being.

We decide on eating here and so ask about the special. The cute waitress has forgotten what it’s called in English. She gives us it in French but we don’t get it and that’s unusual for Mrs L who speaks like it like a native. I’m all for just ordering it and seeing what we get but Mrs L doesn’t do that any more after getting a plate of sheep brains once. I ate mine, it didn't do me any harm :jibber, but it needed bread. So Mrs L cycles through a list of meats. A soon there is a happy chorus of pork, pork, pork. With a bone. :augie :) Do we also want vegetables? Yes, please. So it sounds like we going to get a chop and boiled veg. Only we don’t. Firstly “vegetables” turns out to be a decent salad and secondly the chop turns out to be a huge slab of tender pork with a thin edge of fat and a tiny sliver of bone. Mine is as big as my hand and well over an inch thick. We also get an enormous bowl of fries to share. Mrs can’t finish hers and so I tuck into another bit. It’s definitely the best chop I’ve had. :drool Lovely.

We chill out in the pub for a while and then turn in and catch a late film on a local channel at the hotel, which is some dire American action film with subtitles. They have a whole lot of UK channels that includes ITV4 but not 1, 2 or 3. And who can blame them for that? It’s soon turned off.
 
After another great night’s sleep and a bit of a lie-in we go down to breakfast. We meet the guy who asks if we want an egg. Yes, one egg please. So he brings us one egg between two. Mrs L lets me have it and opts for meats and cheese and bread.

After lots of hot strong coffee we go back to the room but before we pack we decide on getting some chocolates and having a last walk around the town.

We go back to the bakers where we bought waffles the day before and pick up the chocolates that she was also selling. A bag of the best truffles plus another treat that’s like a sheep.

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All are now long since eaten and I very much enjoyed eating the arse out of my sheep. :D

We decide on a walk over to the other side of the town past the railway station and into a park. We climb up the small hill to find what looks like a pill of old concreate blocks laid out in a curve. On inspection they seem to have piled them over the top of an old anchor and laid a fancy drain cover in-front.

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This turns out to be the memorial to Admiral Pierre Alexis Ronarc'h and his Marine Fusiliers. I’m not sure why they rated a drain lid, but since it was created in the sixties I expect it was considered high art at the time.

The park is pretty big with a little lake in the middle. Here I see my first, and as yet only, black swan.

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We return to the B&B and as Mrs L goes off to pay I go down and get the bike out and park it under the house. Several trips up and down to the room and I’ve got the tins and bags on the bike. I drive out and collect Mrs L in the street and we are off to the dunes.

We take the N35 back towards the E40 but this time we go under it and carry on into Veurne. This is a place of many petrol stations. Don’t buy fuel until you are past the industrial estate where there are two more normal non-truck like places that have some of the best prices around. We drove out of Diksmuide the night before to a small automated place which was only a little more than these but it was worth the trip out of town because the more centrally located places wanted more than 20 cents extra a litre, the robbers.

We go through the town and carry on towards De Panne on the N35. We seem to completely miss any nice bits and sail straight though that and back out again on the N34 turning right at Duinhoek onto the N386 and after a couple of miles, directly into France. There are no cops or anything much except that the houses are a bit less nice. So much for the extra nonsense on the motorway if you can bypass it without any effort by coming off early and using a back road (or so I thought).

We get glimpses of the grassy dunes behind the houses for a long while until a right turn finally comes up which takes us into Bray-Dunes. Instead of heading directly for the seafront, I follow signs to one of the named dunes, through a residential area and down a little side street. In proper Tosser style I ignore the no motorcycling on the dunes signs and drive past the little posts and park about 5 meters off the road for the “Off-road” shot.

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We walk up the dunes, which to be honest aren’t very dune-y, in fact it’s sort of dull grassy bumps.

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At the top of the highest one there is a fenced in box with a cross on top which is a monument to some Nordic sailors. The sign did say what is was about but I’ve completely forgotten it already. It’s a nice spot but as Nordic monuments go this one really doesn’t rate much. :nenau

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We’ve soon had enough and scamper back to the bike and then though the town to the sea front, parking up right on the promenade. We dismount and I start taking seaside shots when a car draws up and parks a few feet away but in the middle of the road. I carry on larking about with the camera and ignore the two dudes for a few minutes. When they are still sat there after five minutes of jumping up and down in the sand I take a closer look and it is two cops in an unmarked car checking out the bike and their computer. They see me looking at them and feck off fast (they aren’t the first to run away at the sight of me and I doubt they will be the last). I can only guess they were passing by but I suppose they might have be sent after any dodgy looking foreign plated vehicles trying to use the back road in – who the feck has time for all that stuff? Anyway, back to the beach.

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We walk down the promenade a little and install ourselves in the window of the only café that’s open. Two coffees at €8.80 a brace later (plus and extra 40cent for milk) and we are watching the few punters walk by and chatting about the trip and how nice it was. Mrs L is even talking about the next one which is a good sign, although I remind her that the motorway bit is still to come. She’s not so bothered and is suggesting a trip back to France and home via Jersey or Guernsey or both. That sounds like fun esp. since I’ve never been, but I’m not raising my hopes up given that we still have a long arse aching drive home yet.

The café doesn’t do food unless you want a horrible pancake but points out a bakers on the corner so after about an hour we pack up and walk over to see what they have got. A big bag of yesterday’s unsold pastries for €2 that’s what. Lovely. :drool We take that and head back to the bike. We decide to eat them in Dunkirk on the water front rather than what I suggested. :rolleyes: We jump on and exit stage right to find the road for Dunkirk.
 
The roadside crag you were climbing looks like Sisteron.

I've had a good look on Google maps (all around Sisterton) and I don't think that is the right place.

It's sort of a little canyon that overhangs the road with a river alongside. I found a couple of shots up and down the road.

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We exit Bray-Dunes on the D947 and after a mile or so turn right onto the D601 which runs alongside a canal for several miles. Rather than following this road all the way into the centre of Dunkirk like a normal person would I decide to follow a sign for the old port and criss-cross though the suburbs and enter the town nearer the coast on the D79. This takes us past an old tower and then pretty much directly to the place I wanted to see; the old town hall. We park up and take a look around.

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After the photos we leave the bike parked up where it is a trundle down a side road to the quay where we choose a sunny spot on the wall out of the wind to enjoy our out-of-date lunch of croissants and apple tarts.

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After lunch we pass a bon moment in the sun before trekking back past the bike towards an old church tower. This is now opposite the church with a road running between them. It’s the Tourist Information centre and a memorial.

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We pop into Église Saint-Éloi after the midday service has kicked out everyone except a few hangers on. There’s a lot of history inside about the bombings and reconstruction and what not and it fills about half an hour.

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Sadly we don’t have time to see any other of Dunkirk’s sights or museums, but I’d like to come back for a weekend and do a better tour of the town at some point. We get kitted up and have a quick check of the route out of town, which happens to be the road we’re on in the direction we’re pointing which almost never happens. :cool:

We spin out of town and join the D635 which takes us up to the A16. We retrace our outward journey and blast back to the tunnel, skip though the ticket check (yes we have one), explosives check (no we’re all out) and the passport check (hairy heavy Tosser, check, long suffering pillion, check). We’re 10 minutes too early to be allowed to skip the passenger building and go direct, so I drive the two extra kilometres up and down to reach the building and park up near the entrance.

The building is basically modelled on an English motorway stop without the fry up. That’s to say, toilets and lots of expensive tat that you wouldn’t buy in a million years if you weren’t trapped there for a bit. We leave it all for other travellers and feck off as soon as the sign tells us we can. Outside I’m confronted by a good candidate for Arsehole Parking of the year. :eh :mad:

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The knob of a van driver has all but blocked me in to the extent that I can’t even get the bike upright. I’m all for scrapping the shit out of his van with the tins but Mrs L has her “be nice or else” face on so I’m forced to man-handle the bike out of the space safely.

We bimble back around the 10 miles to the roundabout and then tackle the free off-road extravaganza that the construction company have invented to allow us to reach the next car parking queueing bit whist they upgrade the building where rich people are able to wait and read how awful the rest of us are in free copies of Town and Country. We’re soon called though to the train where again we get to watch the cars all drive on. Mrs L poses for a rare picture while we wait.

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After an age and more large grey German cars than a large Adli carpark on Sunday mornings we get the nod and filter on to the back of the train and park up on the kerb again. We are the lone bikers this trip and so can relax in comfort for the journey only bothered by the odd weak-bladdered muppets on the hunt for a working toilet.

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We again discuss the merits of another trip and all seems positive, but with 150+ miles of motorway back to sunny Norfolk ahead of us I’m still not planning in very much detail.

It’s an uneventful journey back, broken by a couple of rest stops, which made it bearable, but Mrs L, as expected, is now not at all keen about setting out one another tour and tbh I’m knackered too which is surprising since I ride pretty much every day.

The round trip has come in at 479 miles in just about three days according the bike trip thingy anyway. Immortalised here is Stuart Squirrel who’s been riding everywhere with me for almost the last 100,000 miles. He’s mostly good company and has only tried to kill me the once, so he must like me better than most. :rolleyes:

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The good news is that we both enjoyed it and now that the sun is back out and the trip is a few weeks behinds us I worked out a UK-Guernsey-Jersey-France trip of about 900 miles and when I put it to Mrs L she was pretty keen so it’s a real possibility for later this year. Who’d have thought that? Not me. :)
 
Now change the title of the post - "Mr and Mrs ... last but one ride" . You may have to do that now each time you hatch the plan for a new ride :D .

Welcome back and start prepping for the next ride. :thumb

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