Bucket Ride - The Pyrenees, France and Spain

Bucket Ride

May 12 – 20, 2017

The Pyrenees: Spain and France
Part One: Friday to Wednesday

Friday, May 12 – Rendezvous

It was not really a bucket list ride, but I have always wondered about the Pyrenees. After all, Hannibal had to cross them first to even get to the Alps, but you never hear of them in the same breath. We often hear about the Himalayas and even the Rockies, but hardly anybody except an aficionado of World War II spy movies has a clue what countries’ borders are defined by the Pyrenees. I was curious, so I called Brian, an entrepreneur/owner of McTours who had guided me on my ride through Dordogne, and now a friend, to see if he would do the same through Catalunya and Languedoc. He would, if I could put together a critical mass to make it worth his while. So here I was, disembarking from my plane in Barcelona to take week’s motorcycle ride through the Pyrenees with 4 Scots (two of whom I knew from the Dordogne ride) and 4 Americans (myself and two friends, Leslie and Lovett who had never met each other, and David, Lovett’s best friend whom I had never met). It was to be an experiment in multi-national relations through a common love of motorcycle touring.
The beginning was inauspicious. The plan was good: Lovett was scheduled to arrive first, then Leslie and finally me 25 minutes after Leslie. Then the airlines changed their reservations and serendipitously they ended up arriving on the same flight. I was scheduled 25 minutes behind them, and Leslie was going to change some dollars into Euros for me while they waited for my flight so we wouldn’t waste time doing that. We were all experienced world travelers and had exchanged schedules, emails and text numbers. What could go wrong?
My least favorite director, Woody Allen said, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.” My flight was delayed 20 minutes, so now I was 45 minutes behind Leslie and Lovett. Lovett had said rather than wait he might just catch the train to the hotel in Viladecans, so I figured with the extra 20 minutes he would be gone by the time I arrived. I was pretty sure Leslie would still be hanging around because she preferred taking a cab to lugging her bags on a train. When I did finally arrive in the Barcelona airport, my bags came off early, and as I had cleared immigration in Amsterdam, I whipped through customs and immediately started searching for Leslie and Lovett at the exit from customs.
Nobody. I wandered to the left and to the right, up and down among the waiting throngs, no Leslie, no Lovett. I sent a text: “Arrived. Don’t see you.” I had no Euros, and didn’t want to miss them by going to the money exchange, so I just wandered back and forth on the lookout for about 20 minutes. Finally, I spied Leslie, not on the outside looking for me, but exiting from customs with her bags!
“What happened?”
“The passport lines were mobbed. Took me an hour to get through.”
“Where’s Lovett?”
“I don’t know. I saw him on the plane but we didn’t sit together. He should have come off right behind me.”
Ok, so the immigration lines were very long in Barcelona because three cruise ships were embarking that day and there was a Red Bull Formula One car race in town. Because I had cleared immigration at Schipol in Amsterdam, I had skipped all that, and even though I had arrived behind them I was “out” before them. Lovett couldn’t be far behind Leslie, so we waited and watched. 15 minutes. 30 minutes. An hour. Lovett did not respond to any texts. He had told Leslie he refused to use such 21^st century communications devices while traveling, too expensive. Leslie and I decided we had missed him and he must have caught his train, so we grabbed a cab.
The cab driver was very nice, but he explained he was a Barcelona taxi, not a Viladecans taxi, and our hotel was new and did not show up on his gps device. Long story short, we wandered around Viladecans looking for our hotel until we recognized it in the distance from a picture. As we unloaded, a large bearded American approached us looking for a taxi to Barcelona. We were happy to oblige him and our driver was very happy to have snagged the fare. We went inside to check in and check on Lovett.
No Lovett. Oh well, we decided to take a shower, get settled and go out for some lunch. He would show up. Later, Leslie and I met downstairs and asked for some directions to a local restaurant from the young woman behind the front desk who seemed immensely bothered that we had disturbed her. We didn’t speak much Spanish and she clearly wanted to speak less English, but we managed to decipher that Lovett had not yet checked in, there were no restaurants for some distance but we had some vague direction to where one might be found. Coincidentally as we were figuring all this out, the large American who had taken our cab walked back into the lobby. Turns out he is David, Lovett’s best friend and our new found moto companion. No, he hadn’t seen or heard from Lovett, either.
We did manage to find a small tapas bar. Sitting on the sidewalk enjoying some adult refreshment, we ate some things that were not what we thought they would be but were nonetheless pretty good and delivered with many smiles and much laughter. When we returned to the hotel, the semi-helpful clerk told us Lovett had checked in, but he did not answer his room phone. Leslie and I decided to take advantage of the afternoon by taking the train to Barcelona for a little reconnoiter. David would stick around the hotel.
Like the hotel clerk, the ticketmaster at the station spoke next to no English. Unlike our hotel clerk, the he was extremely helpful and friendly. He even came out from his booth and amid much hand waving and gestures, showed us how to buy a 10 ride ticket from the ticket machine for slightly more than 2 one ways, and then how to stick the card it in the slot to get through the turnstiles. Like most trains in Europe (and very unlike the Chicago South Shore Line and most trains in the US), the train service to Barcelona was fast and frequent, quiet, clean and comfortable. Soon we were in downtown Barcelona, with no map and not at all sure about how to get where we wanted to go because we had no idea where we were starting from! After a few misdirections, your intrepid explorers stumbled across Casa Batllo and decided to venture in.
Fantastic! Marvelous! Worth a pilgrimage! I thought I had never heard of the patron saint of Catalan Modernism architecture until I made the connection between our word gaudy and his name, Antoni Gaudi. Most of the major tourist attractions of Barcelona are his work, the cathedral of Sagrada Familia (still unfinished after 100 years), an entire park (Park Guell), and Casa Batllo, among others. It is hard to explain, you have to see it. Most everything is curved, very few straight lines, much natural wood and tiles – tiles and tiles and tiles of bright colorful ceramic mosaics. Casa Batllo is known as the fish house because it was inspired by Jules Verne’s masterpiece Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, as Gaudi imagined what it would be like to live in such a house, complete with fish scale walls. Sounds creepy, but it’s not. Very, very, very cool. Just do it.

After the fish house, of course we were thirsty, so we found a boulevard nearby with open air bars down the middle parkway. We think maybe we were in Mercado la Boqueria, but we don’t really know, just that we were on that side of La Rambla. Whatever, it’s cool so we pick an outdoor cafe and order one gin and one vodka martini. The waiter warned us to remove our smartphones from the table because passersby might steal them with a “grab and go.” We should not have been surprised when we were served Martini and Rossi dry vermouth with a little gin or vodka added and a glass of ice on the side, along with a dish of olives. Worst martini I have had in years, but nonetheless wonderful. Two more such lousy Martinis led to several crepes. With practically all of our carnal instincts satiated, we found our way back to the railway station and with assistance of some fellow travelers, managed to get on the right train seated next to a gaggle of teenage girls. As it turned out, two gaggles, as they both insisted they did not know each other, although both wished to engage us in practice of their English. Two in particular wanted to know about our relationship. They would not believe our protestations that we were “just friends,” but once that was established, the cuter of two announced to the train that she would like to fuck me – her precise words, she definitely understood that English. Hey, my appreciation of Spain immediately went up, random Spanish girls were not quite like the nice Catholic girls I knew at home, and of course it was flattering to a creaky old septuagenarian. Their stop was also ours, and after we went through the turnstile my would-be Lolita took my arm and walked to me our hotel as Leslie abandoned me to my fate. Alas, I disappointed Lolita and declined her kind invitation, but she gave me a nice good bye kiss and hug on the plaza.
I caught up to Leslie in the lobby where lo and behold, we ran into Lovett, on his way out to dinner with David! Lovett complained that he had waited for us for 1 hour and 45 minutes sitting inside the sliding doors that led out from customs and baggage claim, while we were outside waiting for him to emerge. After a few semi-friendly mutual recriminations and mutual apologies and a “discussion” over the merits of cell phones and texting, I went to dinner with David and Lovett (which consisted of a glass of wine for me) while Leslie went to bed. A few hours later I did likewise – in my own room, we are “just friends” – and without Lolita. ;-)  - very tired after an eventful day, and we had not yet even begun our “adventure.” What else could possibly go wrong?

Saturday, May 13 Barcelona

At breakfast, we met the rest of our rider companions. They all fit the profile of the international motorcycle tour rider: well-traveled, intelligent, and comfortable in many cultures, independent with strong personalities, with a sense of adventure and a streak of recklessness, at least modestly successful financially, and mostly but not all male. Brian, our tour leader, the principal of McTours whose real money paying profession is high end hosting of computer data from 5 different data “centres” in the UK (known as “centers” in the US) and building database and e-commerce systems – which would make it especially ironic and funny when he could not get his “sat nav” (a satellite navigation”) system to work on the ride! Mel, an engineer by training who has lived in Canada and Australia, Arthur, a security specialist and consultant, and Douglas, a locksmith comprised the Scot contingent, all experienced riders and international travelers. The Yanks were me, David, a metal fabrication entrepreneur whose true passion is metals art, Lovett, a retired Union Carbide executive with whom I once shared chili crabs at an outdoor stand in Kuala Lumpur, and Leslie, a gynecologist with a wanderlust and no hope of writing off this trip to business development. J This would be Lovett’s first ride of more than 500 miles round trip, and he was concerned about, well, lots of things! Everyone very accomplished with correspondingly strong personalities who were not reluctant to voice their own opinions. Could be an interesting mix.

We were all up for a day of sightseeing in Barcelona. That may be almost the last thing on which we had unanimous agreement! As soon as we emerged from the underground railway station the debate began as to exactly where we were and where we were going. The first thing we did was split up!  We set the rendezvous point as the “north side” of the cathedral La Sagrada Familia late in the afternoon. Leslie and I headed south to wander through the winding cobbled streets and narrow alleys of the ancient “Gothic Quarter” and stumbled into a folk festival. It was hot so we stopped for ice creamed coffee and a pee break. This took quite a bit of time because the woman mopping the floors refused anybody entry to the loos, and very quickly the line was 6+ deep. She did not care, just cross your legs and pucker. Time to head back north toward the Barcelona Arc de Triomphe. Just after passing two lovers kissing at a shadowed street corner, we found a shoe store with very interesting foot wear, and some of them made on site by the cobbler (!), but were very surprised to find what I thought were the coolest shoes were imports hand crafted in California, brand name CYDWOQ ( sidewalk)! A half mile after the Arc Leslie pled for mercy, so we caught a cab the rest of the way up to Parc Guell, where we learned we could not get tickets for admission into the Gaudi monuments area until 6:30, so instead we just wandered the Parc. No matter, it was so beautiful. We spent the cost of tickets on a delightful lunch.

 

The “north side” of the cathedral turned out to be the northwest side, at the far opposite end of the main entrance where the ticket office is located. At the anointed hour, 4 of us had gathered, a portent of things to come. People gradually dribbled in, all except David, who had gone off on his own because he recently had foot surgery and could still not do much walking. Several scouts were sent around the cathedral in different directions to see if he was sitting in a local bar. He wasn’t, but finally came hobbling in. Everybody now regathered, we caught some cabs for dinner to a little tapas bar called Lolita (no connection to my erstwhile friend of the night before). They did not open until 7, typical as dinner usually doesn’t begin until after 9, but we had to get back to Viladecans to meet our motos, so we were seated on the sidewalk where we could be served early while (whilst?) enjoying a little lubrication and the view of the local Catalunya fauna frolicking about their favorite watering hole. Naturally, each of us had a different opinion of what to order from the menu that hardly any of us could read, but somebody came up with the idea of having the waiter order whatever he thought was best (maybe that was the waiter’s idea?). “Whilst” waiting, Brian opined that when filling our tanks “on the morrow” we must be sure to only use the “green hose”, as the black one that read “gazole” was diesel and would ruin the motorcycles’ engines. This lead to an impromptu discussion of why a green hose was preferable to a black hose, and the relative of the merits of each, in particular how they fit into the “gazole”, “whilst” Leslie considered catching the next flight home when she was asked for her professional opinion. The first tapas began to arrive and saved the day. They were “brilliant” - creative, fabulous and abundant, sloshed down with ample quantities of local cerveza fria.

Left to Right: Mel, Brian, David, Leslie, Lovett, Rick, Arthur and Douglas (and some interloper behind).

Over dinner we discovered a wide disparity of opinions about current events. Some strongly favored the individual right to bear arms under the 2^nd Amendment while others vigorously deplored the stupidity lax gun controls in the US, some were staunchly in favor of Brexit while others considered themselves citizens of the EU first, but in all (well, most) cases opinions were expressed respectfully, and in every case those expressing them were well informed. It was actually a bonding experience, as opinions crossed national lines, and at the end of the day, we were all breaking bread together, something our politicians no longer seem capable of doing.   Naturally there were 9 opinions amongst the 8 of us as to which tapas was best, but a consensus favored the foie gras on toasts with raspberry jam as a starter, fried coated eggplant drizzled with molasses for the main, and the honey and pepper coated strawberries with goat cheese for dessert - although 7 agreed that the faunette slowing losing the buttons on her blouse at the bar might be better. Leslie asked, “Who?” 

Take my word for it, it is worth your while (whilst?) to hunt up Lolita Taperia for a meal if you a find yourself in Barcelona.

There was more vigorous discussion of the merits of each bike to be ridden, as all were anxious to get their hands on what they would actually be riding. However, by the time we returned to Viladecans the motorcycle delivery man had gone to bed, which inevitably would also translate into a later departure in the morning – but nobody really cared! We had each one of us already made new friends.

Sunday; Barcelona to Besalu, Spain

Plan: meet at 7:30, departure at 9:30 after breakfast. Two hours should be more than enough.

Not.

First we had to sort out our bikes aka motos better known as motorcycles, and get everything packed. Typically European, the hotel had only one very small and very slow elevator (lift) so it took inordinately long for everybody to gather with all their gear in the underground garage (car park), where we were provided keys and instructions on the intricacies of the bikes with which we might be unfamiliar, and signed off as to their condition. Mine was BMW’s hot new sport tourers, their answer to the Ducati Multistrada that  I had ridden in Croatia, a BMW S1000XR, brand new, out of the crate with less than 10km on the odometer, and fire engine red. I was cautioned at least 4 times by three different people in the first 15 minutes to “be careful!” – so much so that I was afraid I might do something  stupid like dumping it trying to get out of the carpark. (I didn’t). 

Altogether we had a BMW R1200GSA (David), two BMW F700GS’s (Lovett and Leslie), two Triumph Tiger 80Wc’s (Mel and Arthur), one Honda (Brian), and – what??? Douglas the Harley Davidson devotee was riding what? A SCOOTER? Yes, sports fans, it’s true.

Once we got all that sorted out, we had to find a gas (petrol) station and fill up, and immediately we ran into the problem that we could not use US credit cards at the pumps because US cards do not have PINs, so there was much confusion and deals like “I’ll fill yours and you fill mine next time” or “you buy drinks later.” Finally, well after the 9:30 departure target, we headed off, only to wander seemingly aimlessly for few blocks until Brian pulled over having trouble with his gps (satnav, satellite navigation system). He had loaded the entire itinerary and route on his system, the latest and greatest, but unfortunately the system mounted on his rented moto was not so up to date: bottom line, the two sat nav systems could not communicate! Long story short, we exited Barcelona way behind schedule via 6 lane throughways rather than the planned picturesque and twisty back roads, and when we exited the throughway we were strung out and lost the back half of the group – and the helmet speaker communications system was good only over a limited distance, so we had to pull over and wait while Brian tried to reach Arthur by cell phone to explain how to re-link up. No way we were having lunch in the ancient Roman town of Vic, as planned. Instead, we pulled over at some random bar in a random town in Catalonia – which turned out to be just fine because the food was good and cheap and the refreshments cold. No alcohol of any kind until we were done riding for the day – strict rule with which everybody was happy to abide.

Over lunch, Brian explained how we would have to “deviate from” (change) our route at the next “conversion of roads” (junction). I asked Arthur how he liked riding drag, to which he looked quizzical. “No, no, Arthur, no in drag, riding drag. I am not saying you are a drag, either. Drag is American cowboy slang for the rider eating dust at the back of the herd who prods stragglers and makes sure no dogies (steers) wander off.” Or one of the other 12 definitions of drag or to drag in the dictionary of the English language. Continuing our mutual linguistic education, we Yanks learned that “don’t be a fanny” was equivalent to “don’t be an idiot” or “don’t be a jerk” but a fanny is a behind or a bum in the US (not to be confused with a vagabond or hobo) and a vagina in the UK, and when combined with “jerking off” could lead to a lot of embarrassing confusion, which we all agreed was perhaps why the Brits so often stuck their heads up their constipated asses. Yanks, Brits and Scots, cousin cultures divided by a common language.

Later that afternoon under brooding skies, we rode single file into Vic. Being Sunday, the streets were barren of traffic except around an old church where they were having some kind of cheese festival, complete with goats in pens. As we rode in, we snaked through several working class neighborhoods and I was surprised that they were quite obviously populated almost entirely of immigrants from Africa and the Middle East, nary a native Spaniard or Catalonian anywhere in sight. Swap African for Mexican and I could have been in Ligonier or Goshen, Indiana. I wondered how the EU policies of immigration and free movement of labor were working out, and suspect it is much like the US: great for the employers and the government types in the capitals, not so much for the common people in the smaller cities and towns, many of whom feel their very culture is under assault.  Immigration plus cultural assimilation is great, immigration plus cultural separatism not so much.

We parked the bikes all in a row at the edge of the main plaza, and promptly informally split into 3 or 4 groups headed in separate directions. I walked back to the old Roman bridge for a photo, Lovett and David kept going past the bridge to the festival, and Brian and several others went 180 degrees in the opposite direction looking for an ice cream shop, and some others went somewhere else, all with promises to rendezvous back at the bikes in 20 minutes.

I found Brian and had my ice cream, but of course the rendezvous did not happen on time. It started to rain, and that drove everybody scurrying back to the bikes and started a flurry of donning rain gear. Brian and Leslie, being the shorter of our crew, had trouble pushing their bikes “up hill” out of the gutter along the curb where we had all backed in, so we helped push them out, and then finally(!) we were off. After one trip circumnavigating the main plaza, and two circles of a round-about, we found the way through the Collsacabra to the volcanic region of la Garrotxa, and ultimately Besalu.

And then, everything was wonderful! We climbed out of the clouds to the sun and hit the twisties in empty wooded mountains speckled with sheep grazing in the occasional unfenced meadows. No traffic, everybody was gaining confidence and speed as we learned the handling nuances of our motos. Well, no automobile traffic, we ran into (almost literally) a small herd of cattle sharing our route to the top. With varying degrees of success, we threaded our ways among cows and calves and around cow flops (devilishly slippery if you ride over them), moto horns wanking and cattle lowing, and then I found myself cruising up a long ridge next to an eagle soaring on a thermal over my left shoulder, with views so tempting to gaze at that I almost drove off the curvy road. It was marvelous, exactly why we had come to ride in Catalunya! We were way behind schedule, but who cared? Vistas to the left of us, vistas to the right of us, curves in front of us, beckoned and tempted. Was there a man (or woman) dismayed? Not though the rider knew. On rode the eight riders!

Once down the North side, in contrast to the aridity we had ridden through the topography became increasingly lush, damp and deep green. La Garrotxa gets over 40 inches of rain a year, and it is said “if it’s not raining in Olot, it’s not raining anywhere!  We stopped for a little break by a field of poppies

before cruising through Olot and then East down the River Fluvia to Besalu, nominated for the best secret village in Europe that you have never heard of! Our accommodation was the intimate and delightful boutique Hotel Els Jardin de la Martana, sittting right at the mouth of the ancient Roamnesque stone bridge across the Fluvia to the walled city of Beslau.

We had a rollicking dinner of I don’t remember what except that it was excellent, lost in a haze of good feelings and fellowship as everyone shared the favorite events of the day’s ride and interesting details of their own lives. Certainly most compelling was David’s Dickenesque tale of being unfairly deprived of any share in the millions of dollars made from sale of the family business by a father displeased that he had left business to pursue his own passion of metal sculpture. Of course, his eloquence was aided by consumption of copious quantities every variety of liquor available behind the hotel’s bar until he settled on the sangria as his favorite. Following dinner, several of us wandered the cobbled streets of the old city under the streetlights after dark. It was so entrancing that I ventured out again on my own in the morning before breakfast, when the local bakery was just opening its doors. Besalu dates to the 9^th century. It had a thriving Jewish quarter until 1391 when the community was “concentrated” and then “eliminated” within a decade. The city was occupied by the French during the Napoleonic Wars, who then destroyed part of the bridge when they evacuated back to France. During the Spanish Civil War in the 1930’s, it was a hot bed of Republicanism, but the mayor somehow preserved it from being destroyed and pillaged when it was captured by the fascists, even though he was subsequently banished from the country – although following the war, he apparently managed to sneak back in and live in cognito until he died in his beloved native village.

Monday; Besalu to Carcassonne, France

Monday morning went much better. Brian still struggled with his incompatible sat nav, and David was the little worse for wear. I was directly behind him in our cavalcade, and several times he wandered across the road’s mid line and alternately toward the shoulder, so much so that I wondered what the devil he was doing and dropped back  to put more space between us. Nonetheless, after a few false starts and detours, we were soon all happily traversing steep and twisties through the foothills of the Pyrenees in L’Alta Garrotxa on the 5221 to the Carretera d’Oix a Beget. We crossed a stream by an ancient and abandoned Roman bridge where I stopped for a photo, and we all pulled over for a brief break in the picturesque village of Beget. I gathered a small bouquet of wildflowers and presented it to Leslie, who broke my heart when she left the blooms wilting by the side of the road. J From Beget, we took the 5223 and turned north on the C-38 to the French border. Just before the crossing, we chatted with a friendly Spanish border guard who turned out to be a motorcycle enthusiast. After admiring my S1000XR, he wished us all a fun ride. No problem. We stopped at the border to admire the views.

Well rested and thoroughly happy, we started down the French side into the departmente de Pyrenees Orientales on what was now French D115.  David was feeling his oats and wanted to go faster than the rest of us duffers, so he took off in front of Brian to satisfy his need for speed. I hung back to take a shot. 

The road alternated with between gorgeous straight aways followed abruptly by series of tight hairpins, all heading down toward the little vilage of Arles on the River Tech (not to be confused with another Arles in Provence near the Parc Camargue where VanGogh painted the famous yellow Café Terrace at Night). We almost made it to Arles.

As Brian entered one of the hairpins on top of the bluff overlooking Arles, he came across David’s motorcycle in the ditch on the left side of the road. A little further on David was sitting beside the road, disoriented with grass in his helmet from sailing over his handlebars and (luckily) into an embankment, hitting mainly with his chest and shoulders, short of the trees which lined the haiirpin and missing the boulders scattered about. Quite literally, had this happened 50 yards further on David might have arrived in Arles airborne. One by one the rest of the moto train arrived, parked their bikes, and started directing traffic around the accident. It took us all quite a while to make sure David was ok and to sort out what happened. David was not real clear-headed, but he managed to tell us that as he came around the hairpin, a car coming uphill had crossed the center line and was straddling both lanes. Given a choice between a head on collision and the ditch, Dvid chose the ditch, and shot across the road barely in front of the uphill car. The driver of the car stopped and spoke briefly to David, but then hurried off on up the hill just before the rest of us began to arrive.  Evidentally we had all passed him going up hill as we came down, and by now the car driver was certainly across the border in Spain.

David had no apparent serious injury, but naturally he was very shaken. His bike was not so lucky. Several of us pulled it out of the ditch. A quick inspection revealed engine crash bars were permanently bent, a broken pannier and a cracked windshield. Luckily, somehow the front wheel had not been damaged, and it was still ridable once we jerry-rigged a way to refasten his pannier with bungie cords. We remounted and slolwy and carefully proceded down the rest of the way to Arles, where we had intended to stop for a coffee. David needed a little more R&R, and we were now once again hopelessly behind schedule, so instead we had lunch there in an outdoor café. 

The rest of the day (thankfully) passed uneventfully as we traversed the countryside of Languedoc to the ancient walled city of Carcassonne. We were scheduled to stop to see a famous pipe organ rock formation a called Site des Orgues, but by the time we arrived we were hot, tired and further behind schedule, so we just downed some cold water and pressed on. When we finally did arrive at Carcassonne, we gazed up at the imposing castle on a hill overlooking the bustling modern town. However, we could not find our way through the warren of streets at the base of the hill into the walls to our hotel. Brian called the hotel for help, and they sent out a car to show us the car park just outside the walls, get our luggage, and lead us in, weary and not a little bit cranky. Our hotel, Le Donjon was quite cool in more ways than one: it had ac, and had once been the castle’s dungeon. We were so late that we barely made it to dinner before the kitchen closed. The wine and food were terrific, although by the time we were done, night had fallen. After a short walk, most of us retired early.

I resolved to rise early and took a little extra time to explore the old town of Carcassonne with Leslie in the morning. The hilltop fortress is massive and from below, spectacular, but the small size of the actual living area inside the walls is surprising. I estimate it comprises less than 20% of the footprint of the fortress. On the other hand, the defenses to keep people out were elaborate, multiple and huge. It really was primarily a fort. There are three rings of walled defenses, and in the middle of that, the final stronghold, the keep. The gates are protected by stone porticos with double portcullises (those large iron grates lowered to bar the pathway), each extra thick. The entry path sometimes turns a corner underneath the tower to frustrate the use of battering rams, and virtually all of them have openings at the top of the arch under the tower to allow boiling oil to be poured down on besiegers caught below. What struck me was how truly nasty the neighbors must have been to make these kinds of defenses necessary - not just in Carcassonne, but to a lesser degree in Besalu, and as we would see later, in Rocamadour and Ainsa, in virtually every ancient city we passed through. The devil’s bargain made by the “common folk” was to relinquish all power to the warrior class, the “nobility” who promised protection from the marauders outside, and who actually did the dirty work of fighting them. Things have not changed much in a 1,000 years. The neighborhood is still nasty, with public beheadings and innocents still being slaughtered. Today we don’t have physical walls (yet), but we do have the faceless TSA, Xray screenings and SEALs fighting to keep all the nasties with their IED’s away. The same devil’s bargain is offered: surrender your liberties (and turn in your weapons) and the state will protect you. It’s a bad bargain. Those who trade liberty for security get neither. That’s not exactly what Benjamin Franklin said, but its close enough.

Just for perspective, that tiny stick figure is me standing at the base of one of the towers!

Tuesday; France, Carcassonne to Rocamadour

Lo, after breakfast we got started pretty much on time, and Brian had clearly resolved to keep us on schedule as we had a long day’s ride ahead of us.

Wasn’t going to happen. After about 20 minutes, we stopped briefly to double check directions. No problem. Our route was to skirt to the east of Toulouse through the Haut (high) Languedoc countryside to Castres. David took the opportunity to look for something at a pharmacy, and when we pulled out our column became a little stretched out along the road. We somehow lost our last 3 riders in traffic at a roundabout. We stopped to wait for them to catch up. And waited. And waited. Where had they gone? Leslie had been the last person at the turn off, marking where to turn at the roundabout, and finally she showed up, having given up on the others. Brian rode back to try and find them, to no avail. We turned off our engines and sat in the shade by the side of the road. And waited some more while Brian tried to raise them on the telephone. Finally, Brian announced that he had set a rendezvous point at a village up the road with a small town plaza here we could wait and not be missed. 30 minutes later we arrived at the plaza, where we parked our bikes and waited some more.

By now, it was getting hungry out. The plaza was lovely, but nothing was open in the square. We were hot and getting grumpy. I rode up and down the road to have something to do while Brian took some photos of me riding the fearsome S1000XR.

Finally we heard from Arthur. The missing bikers had stopped to get something to eat! That did not go over well. We were sitting around waiting for them in the hot sun while they were having a bite? The general response was screw this, let’s go, we’ve sat here long enough, they can catch up with us later. So we agreed there were many roads to Rocamadour and we would see them there.

We rode through bucolic and hilly farm, but we had no time to tarry in the villages of Figeac or Gramat.  Somewhere we crossed into Dordogne as we climbed into the rugged, boulder strewn Parc naturel regional des Causses du Quercy. At one point, I passed Brian and just pulled over at a roadside park to force a break, my back simply demanded it. Close to dusk, at last we arrived at Rocamadour.  We threaded our way single file down the narrow road clinging to the wall of the canyon formed by the meandering L’Alzou River at the bottom. Through the haze of the fading light, across the valley we could see the stone walls of the village clinging to the steep cliffs, with just one gated entry 100 feet above the valley floor. There will still plenty of tourists clogging the streets when we arrived, who seemed reluctant to make way for our motos in the main, truly the only street, which they evidently believed was a pedestrian walk way. The parking lot was down one story on the road out of town, and to get our stuff back up we had to find our way wearily up some steep staircases and poorly marked doors. Leslie followed me, and much to our surprise as well as the chefs, we found ourselves standing with all of our gear and panniers in the kitchen of the restaurant across from our hotel. Amid much laughter and goodwill, one of the staff led us out through the bar and pointed our way across the street. While we checked in and found our rooms, we were all chagrined to learn that the missing trio had stopped to get something to eat that morning only because David appeared to have been having some kind of seizure. He had been disoriented and could not keep his balance. God bless them, Douglas and Arthur stayed with him to make sure he was all right. They ended up parking his bike at a car dealership, and then accompanied him to a hospital in Carcassonne.  David was admitted and put on an IV. David and Arthur waited with David, and eventually David began to recover. He wanted to continue with the ride, but the doctors insisted he remain in the hospital for the night. Nobody seemed to be quite sure what was the problem, he did not have a concussion and it didn’t appear to be a delayed reaction to the accident. His condition seemed similar to a diabetic reaction to an imbalance of blood sugar. However, David insisted he was not diabetic. Arthur and Douglas decided to ride through the night to rejoin us in Rocamadour, and we would check on David’s condition in the morning. Riding carefully by headlights, they didn’t arrive until long after dinner, closer to midnight.

It was becoming my habit to walk the streets after dinner. Like Carcassonne, Rocamadour is a big tourist destination. However, from late afternoon until mid-morning, the streets are empty of tourists except those of us lucky (or foresighted) enough to be spending the night inside the walls. It was magical in the half-light under the street lamps, listening to my boots on the cobbled streets as cats scampered away into the shadows. I hoped David was ok. How marvelous that the hospital had admitted him immediately, without asking for an insurance card! Still, I reflected how glad I was to be in Rocamadour, not in some strange hospital room in Carcassonne.

Thinking about David and health care kept returned my thoughts to Brexit and the immigrants in Vic. Earlier in the day, I had read about an uptick of polio cases across Europe, and a cluster of cases in Southern France in particular. In 2002, 15 years ago the World Health Organization had declared the European Region, 53 countries from Portugal to Russia, free of polio. The European Centre for Disease Protection called the outbreaks a “wake up call,” imported by un-inoculated refugees from Syria. The “Dreamers” let into the United States by the millions were also resulted in a little publicized resurgence of diseases not seen in the U.S. for decades. I remember when I visited the Isle of Man TT races two years ago that our host was livid because he could not get admitted to the hospital for treatment of some chronic illness, because the beds were all full with illegal immigrants who were given priority over him by the UK National Health Service.  Then we heard this week about the bombing of the Ariana Grande teeny-bop concert in Manchester, England, and a pair of terrorist attacks along London Bridge that left 7 dead. All of this is at the root of Brexit, and the election of Donald Trump, as well. Brexit opponents are worried about a resurgence of nationalism, and it is certainly a justified worry in Europe, where nation states fought wars for centuries until they shredded the entire 20^th Century world with The War to End All Wars followed just 20 years later by the Second World War. After 70 years of unprecedented peace under the EU, who wants to go back to that? Nobody, of course. But I don’t think Brexit is an expression of aggressive nationalism, not at all. Just the opposite, it is a defensive reflex, even regardless of warnings of potential economic disruption, to protect the country its culture from waves of unarmed invaders, the same as in the U.S. Funny, in the U.S and Europe, it’s the same, health care and immigration are roiling the public peace. The walls of Rocamadour and Carcassonne cannot protect anybody from these new dangers of the modern mobile world. Maybe the Great Wall of China could. It kept the Mongol hordes out of China for centuries.

Wednesday; Rocamadour and Cahors

The town of Rocamadour has attracted visitors for centuries. Founded by Saint Amadour (the name is derived from rock of Amadour) who created a sanctuary at the location in the 4th century, the town currently has a mere 645 citizens. It is a vertical city, literally built into and seemingly hanging from the steep cliffs of a canyon. Our hotel, the Beau Site, is in the center of the medieval town, with parts dating back to the 1400's when it was the home of Commander of the Order of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem. The window of my room opened up over the street facing east, so I awoke to light streaming in my window as the sun crested the canyon rim. The warmth of the sunlight began to chase away the chill of the night air as I just sat watching the light creep down the town’s stone walls to the street while I listened to the morning silence, broken only by the coos of doves roosting high under the eaves, until bells in the far distance from one, then two, and three churches began softly ringing at 7 a.m..  The closest and loudest fourth church rang 7 bells at 7:02 according to my Iphone – close enough. The bells seemed to also awaken the birds, as they began chirping as if to welcome the morning, and pretty soon the cumulative sounds of the day began to drown out the doves. A door shut somewhere and a lady in a black pants suit began scraping chairs across the floor as she rearranged the red chairs on the patio of the restaurant across the street where we took our meals.

Over breakfast, Brian reported that David felt well enough to fall in love with his gorgeous French nurse, and he definitely wanted to rejoin us to finish the ride. Douglas and Arthur were not even out of bed yet. The rest of us were skeptical about the wisdom of David’s choice. Brian decided he would ride back to Carcassonne to satisfy himself that David was well enough to continue. If not, he would help him take care of his moto and whatever came next, and if yes, he would escort him back to us in Rocamadour. Either way, Brian was out of commission for the day and would see us at dinner, hopefully with David in tow. The rest of us were left to our own devices, this being our “day of rest.”

It was not hard to fill the day. I climbed all the way up to the fortified church at the top of the cliff, stopping at each station of the cross. Along the way up, I ventured into the chapel. Inside, I discovered a priest and two supplicants chanting together surrounded by burning candles. The dim light filtering through the windows, the flickering candles and the mingled voices were mesmerizing. I presumed they were praying for the soul of a recently departed family member, and did my best not to disturb them.

Late that morning, most of us took a short ride down through Carlucet and the Parc Naturel to the city of Cahors. It was gorgeous – the ride, not so much Cahors! We wandered about the city until we found a sidewalk café for a leisurely lunch. By happenstance we were afforded free entertainment, ring side seats of a guy and a girl “sitting” on a bench in a protracted lip lock while publicly enjoying each other’s bodily delights. They really did need to get a room.

When we arrived back in Rocamadour, we were very happy to learn that David would be joining us for cocktails before dinner! He graciously bought the first round of drinks as a “thank you” for looking out for him. It was unanimous: Rocamadour was the best venue on the trip so far!