Three months around Europe

The road from Bol Nuevo , Spain to Bari in Italy provided a glimpse some of the worst aspects of society.

It starts pleasantly enough, winding through the hill to Cartagena. From then on it just goes backwards. In the 70's this coast was the premier package holiday destination. To meet demand hotels were built and designed by architects and developers whose catch cry was “ Yes I know it looks cheap and nasty but the money I make from it means I won't have to holiday anywhere near here. “

Block after block of pre stressed concrete buildings with names like Bella Vista, Grande demiturd and Concreto scrotum nudge the area between the beach and the road. There are rust streaks down them and even the cleverest copywriter would be find hard pressed to find words to entice package holidaymakers.. Maybe I can help: Spend an idyllic two weeks in the decrepit Hotel Belle sphincter . Getting back to work will be a bonus.

As you continue travelling the N340, you see what appears to be young women sunning themselves by the roadside. You initially think the beach must be crowded and the poor things are forced up here. Then they wave signs at you with E20 or E30 and you begin to get the picture.
And you won't be spoiled for choice. They are as frequent as the kilometre markings – actually some looked like the markings. For a while you wave back at them , then you think what is behind all this. Why are there so many here. In a word drugs. They are rife here and these ladies , by and large(and there are a few of those) are sadly the outcome. I stopped at a lay by for a drink and was approached by two. From a distance they looked presentable. When they got closer and I looked at their faces you saw the ravages of the drugs and their chosen lifestyle- dull eyes, pitted skin, dark circles under the eyes and a pathetic attempt to ingratiate. At my age I thought I have seen a lot, but the sheer number of these women on this road just upset me at the waste of potential and the cynicism and greed of those behind the trade.

I did not want to tarry on the road, just get on the ferry and let the sea air refresh me.

The ferry was huge, 55000 tonnes with everything a pensioner traveler needs – disco, gym, pool, sundeck.,incontinence trouser boutique.
Indeed they market it as La Mini Cruise – who I understand is a younger sister of Tom. It cost $160 for bike and myself. for 20 hours across the Med from Barcelona to Rome. Good value when you consider 4 hours across cook Strait costs $70. I had booked a reclining chair , but I just plonked Fat Eric on the deck and slept outside in the cool night air. The sea was glassy ,calm and dotted with fishing boats . The stars were out and I tried to work out where Venus was. I couldn't locate her and learned later she spent most of the trip in the disco.

We docked two hours late and I couldn't find my campsite, so decided to push down the A1 to Monte Cassino.

Everything you hear about Italian drivers is true. They pass on blind bends, use the horn incessantly, swerve past you on either side and do their best to stop you passing them . And that is just the grandmothers. Finally when I came across the elite squad of the Italian Army practicing high speed reversing on the motorway, I called it a night.
I found a truck stop ,unrolled Fat Eric and fell under the fly of my tent and tried to sleep. Unfortunately, the truck stop I chose was the Italian branch office of the N340 girls. My sleep was a constantly interrupted by car and truck doors slamming, the revving of engines and whatever is Italian for: of course darling I love you long time.

I gave up on sleep and hit the road again to Monte Cassino. I entered town just to see the sun hit the monastery perched 500 metres above the town. The white stone glared and accentuated the green of the hills. It was hard to imagine this was the scene of one of the hardest fought battles of World War 2.

Cassino is one of those names historians argue make our national identity along with Gallipoli,
the first All Black tour, a small town we liberated in France in 1918. I felt the same feeling of loss , pride and was it futility I had experienced last year in Galippoli.

New Zealanders spearheaded the second attempt to dislodge Mr Jerry from the Monestry. In the lovely
museum, created by the Italian behind the special effects of ET and King Kong, the NZ commander, Freyberg is labelled, rather sneeringly I thought, as the man who ordered the monastery destroyed and the the town of Cassino razed, while the Jerry commander was lauded as a gentlemen for calling a truce on Christmas day and allowing the rent records of the abbey to be taken to Germany for safe keeping.

But it is now all rebuilt , our flag flies from the abbey , you can buy a NZ t shirt and the town makes a good living from the stream of tourists . Well done General Freyberg- another Lion Red?

One middle aged Italian stopped to ask me about my bike and trip and got very emotional when I told him that two of my friend's fathers fought here and that Cassino is branded on the NZ identity..With tears in his eyes he hugged me, but as I towered over him by about 12 inches he couldn't kiss my cheek but I later noticed some slobber on my T shirt front.

I left Cassino , at 7am and headed for Bari for the ferry to Dubrovnick in Croatia. I wandered through the Piedmont hills, passing ancient towns, patchwork fields and row upon row of vines for pinot grizzo wine. The roads were quiet, Granny Schumacher was dusting, so it was a relatively incident free ride..

The wind was pouring onto the Bari foreshore and the waves crashing over the sea barrier onto the road. The crossing was going to be rough.

We left on the dot at 2200. It was an old ferry and she plunged up and down into the short ,steep waves. A warning came over the tannoy. “ tonight my friends, the sea is cruel, you will not be allowed on deck.”

Out came Fat Eric,and my blow up pillow. I found a quiet spot and lay down to sleep, much to the amusement of some Croatian housewives who had been to Italy to buy the chain stores out of what appeared to be skimpy clothing at least two sizes too small. I slept well only broken by the rhythmic retching of some travel sick passengers.

The next morning we sailed into a glassily calm Dubrovnik. The little houses hugged the hills. An American cruise liner, SS Obesity was visiting the port and I was initially blinded by the sun reflecting off the mainly elderly passenger's bling . I was ashore by 0730. I am now in the Balkans, land of mystery, intrigue, vendettas and where there is the highest ratio per head of population of budgie smugglers in the world.

Till next time

Safe riding