Three months around Europe

The plan for the journey to the Spanish enclave of Ceuta on Morocco's coast involved three ferries. The first was from Newhaven to Dieppe, across the turgid and turdy English Channel .
Catching a ferry only 50km into the trip means you can cast aside early along with the mooring ropes your previous routines. You now have to invent, find, refine a whole new set of standards. You have to be more aware, sharper, sometimes cautious and get into a mind set that allows you to accept the vagaries of travel.
I love the anonymity that solo travel brings. You can watch activities without making any judgement and participate without responsibility.
Once on French soil, I had a 450 ride along the top of France to the Atlantic port of Saint Nazaire for the ferry to Gijon. My French journey started in bright clear weather and I quickly got into the groove of driving on the left.

However, just one hour into the ride, it all turned to custard. The wind rose and the trees on the roadside bent with the gusts, the rain sleeted down and the bike was pushed around like a Qantas steward in a rugby scrum. I abandoned riding that day and found a campsite in the walled garden of an old chateau. The storm raised its intensity during the night and although the walls gave me some protection, the noise meant I had to use my earplugs to get some sleep.
The next day I packed up in the rain and gritted myself for an uncomfortable 350km ride. Uncomfortable was an understatement. The wind and rain increased and I was pushed between the white road lines like the cursor in one of those old tennis computor games. I found cowering in the slip stream of a truck and dodging down behind the screen of the V Strom helped but the wind which veered through about 30 degrees, caught the bike broadsides with alarming frequency giving little chance to relax.

I arrived at St Nazaire bedraggled, cold and tired to find the ferry had been cancelled . but I had a priority reservation for the next boat in four days time. The counter clerk told me it was the first time they had cancelled in three years. I considered my options and felt that four days in one place so early in the trip was not appealing. The ferry and flight cancellations had given the hotels a bonus- there was no room at the inn. I had to ride another 40 km to find a campsite , I erected my still wet tent in the high winds, double pegged the lines and crawled into my sleeping bag, made myself a brew and exhausted fell asleep.

The next day, there was no rain although the wind was still high. I packed up and hit the dual carriage way heading through the flat coastal wine growing region of Bordeaux, then Bayonne and across the border into Spain.

The rain and wind picked up as I crossed the Pyrenees, indeed if anything it was the worse of the trip. It was just to risky to continue, so in Burgos I called it a day, found a hotel, stowed my bike in its courtyard, bought a bottle of wine, had a hot shower, toasted the day several times, dried my riding gear and slept for 10 hours.

What a difference a day makes. The next morning was bright, cold with a moderate wind. It was so nice cruising across the plains of Spain at around 120kph, with the bad weather experience behind you. The road was boring, straight and flat. I got in a convoy of Spanish bikers and they made the ride interesting buying me lovely calamari lunch and swapping motorbike war stories.

My friends stopped at Seville, but with only a further 200km to the ferry terminal at Algerciras to go and at least three hours of day light I carried on, refusing their offer of a bed for the night.

I caught the midnight ferry and an hour later I was setting foot for the first time in North Africa. It was warm, dry but everything was closed. No hotels, no restaurants. I found a beach, unrolled my swag, made a brew, had another toast and fell into a deep sleep, the only sound being the waves lapping the shore and the warm wind rustling the tussock grass in the dunes.