Research is always rewarded. As well as the internet, local libraries are a great source of travel books, maps, camping and B&B guides. Rather than take the whole book along copy the relevant parts and while the books might not be up to date, camping sites, roads etc. rarely disappear.

Consider bringing menu/food translations with you, while it's not so adventurous knowing what you are ordering the result may be more to your liking.

An International Camping Carnet is worth the money. It gives you extra travel insurance, saves you handing over your passport while camping and it will often get you a discounted camping price.

If you can find the room a little camping stove to make a cup of tea/coffee is useful, while we had no trouble getting lovely fresh pastries for breakfast it was more difficult trying to get a hot drink.

Have a trial run packing your bike before you travel. Then find room to pack those leathers, jackets etc. which will be discarded in the heat no matter what you say about safe riding before you leave home.

Learn a few words of Italian as our tricolor was often mistaken for the Italian flag and you might as well play along.

In the heat remember to increase your salt as well as your water intake.

Give yourself extra time for the return journey. Putting yourself under pressure rushing for ferries can cause accidents.

A motorcycle cover will keep prying hands off, make the bike a little less noticeable and depending where you park enable soft luggage to be left on.

If you are bothered by insect bites try Zanza-click [available from Booths] its a piezo-electric remedy that really works.

Above all be flexible and be prepared to change your plans.

Scotland 1999, there was no way we were going, no way. Earlier in the year we had hoped to go to the British treffen and spend a week touring Scotland, but there is more to our lives than wings. When the time came we had other commitments, which meant we would not be free to leave before Friday and would have to be back in Dublin by Tuesday morning. So we both agreed that there was no point in going. Friday morning dawned and he went to work which left me with time on my hands and nothing better to do than think about the treffen. Nothing ventured nothing gained, I phoned and asked him. If I could get a good deal on ferry prices would you consider going to the treffen. While he told me again we really could not spare the time I knew he was tempted. Two phone calls later and with a price of 54 pounds return it was agreed, we would go to Kelso. He left work at 2.30pm we packed and left the house by 3.30 [practice makes perfect] and were in Larne with lots of time to spare for the 7.00 ferry.

This was our first time on this new ferry. The deck hands took great care of the bike and used big foam pads under the straps. We passed the time with two Scottish bikers who were returning home after a two-week touring holiday of Ireland. Had time for a quick look at our map to check the route. It looked fairly straightforward, just what we needed for traveling in the dark. Meals on board ferries always seem expensive to us but at 10 pounds for two rounds of sandwiches and two cups of coffee this took the biscuit. It only took an hour or so to Cairnryan and a few minutes to clear the docks.

Waved good-bye to the other bikers and were soon on our way. In the ten years since we had been to Scotland the roads hadn’t changed, they were as good as we remembered. Traffic was very light and for long stretches we seemed to be the only vehicle on the road. The night was warm and while there were clouds in the sky early on, they soon cleared to leave a beautiful starry night. When we had looked at the route we noted that long stretches had been marked as scenic, while we can’t say we saw much of the scenery in the dark we did enjoy the roads. We met some Scottish wildlife on our journey, chasing a startled rabbit down one stretch of road, a fox down another, as we moved from side to side of the road the fox did the same ahead of us but finally it ran into the undergrowth at the edge of the road.

I worried about arriving on site so late but Kevin said that it would be OK, and of course as usual he was right. The British club had everything under control. It was just after 12.30am when we arrived on site, all we had to do was hand over our GWEF card to be redeemed in the morning when we inscribed. We pitched our much traveled and very faded little house in the first available space and headed towards the bright lights of the marquees for something to eat. The burger bar was doing a roaring trade, they were working on a ticket system and it was too late to buy any tickets. Fair play to the guys behind the counter, they took pity on us and were going to trust us to pay the next morning when we found a fiver and all was oxo. As we stuffed our faces we were pointed out to all and sundry as the crazy people who had just arrived. As the rest of the populace had several hours of drinking under their belt nobody particularly cared. We spent some time chatting to various people and then headed for bed.

At inscription the next morning, there was lots of coffee and shortbread, which made a nice breakfast. After breakfast we read the programme, which was packed with the details of events to be held over the weekend. From Scottish pipe bands, to the re-enactment of battles, to fireworks, there was something for everyone. We never got to visit the large hall, which held the trade stalls but I'm sure they were up to the usual standard. The routes of the treffen ‘runs’ were detailed in the programme which we thought was a good idea, ideal for people like us who arrived late or for people who don’t like traveling in large groups.

The Friday run had gone to Lindisfarne, which seemed a good a place as any to go today, Saturday. Accompanied by a friend from Norway we enjoyed a lovely run, part of which was along the causeway out to the holy island. We then turned inland and had some fun on the roller coaster roads that at one point took us through the town of Coldstream. I had heard of the Coldstream Guards but I never realised they were named after a town [stupid me] a nearby museum chronicles the history of the regiment.

Sunday and we headed for Edinburgh. We had been told that the parade which started the festival was worth a ‘look see’. This was our first visit to the city and as we neared the center we came across more and more people abandoning their cars and heading towards the city center. We rode on full of confidence that he would find a parking space for the bike and sure enough he did just a few minutes walk off the parade route. We were in plenty of time and while there were thousands of people already taking up the best vantage points we went and had some lunch. Tourists get away with a lot, so we [being tourists] wormed our way to the front of the crowd near the start of the parade and had a good view of the whole thing. All the military bands taking part in the tattoo marched past along with floats advertising the different theater productions happening at the festival. The anniversary of the mini saw about 50 cars in livery varying from the wild and psychedelic to old racing green at the top of the parade. We could here a deep roar coming after the minis, tanks we though, alas we were wrong and the massed ranks of Harley Davidsons roared into view. After the parade we had a look around the city but really didn’t have enough time to do it justice, they will just have to have another treffen in Scotland soon.

The quite bar had the nicest staff of any treffen anywhere [guess how much I was paid to say that] and was decorated in a Scottish theme, which added to the great atmosphere. A brilliant fireworks display and pipers playing to the appreciative crowd rounded off Sunday night.

All too soon Monday dawned and it was time to pack up and head home. A lot of people were staying on to attend the Military Tattoo that night in Edinburgh. Our ferry booking wasn’t until 9.30pm so we had all day to travel the one hundred and fifty miles or so to Cairnryan. We took a longer undulating route, which brought us to the coast above Ayr from where we followed the coast down to the ferry. With nearly two hours to wait we had a meal in the pub opposite the terminal, it doesn’t look much but the food was good.

Arriving back in Larne it was another lovely night and while the journey home was uneventful it could have lasted longer . Rolled up our driveway at 1am. Arriving home reminded us that at the end of any journey, wherever we’ve been, what matters is the journey itself.

It doesn't pay to be complacent now does it? Earlier this year we were booked to travel on the 6.40 am HSS Dun Laoghaire/Holyhead ferry. Have a nice leisurely spin down through Wales and England [Sunday is the only day to travel this route as much of the commercial traffic is off the road] and then catch a ferry from Dover to Calais Monday morning. We of course are seasoned travelers and as such would never dream of checking that the ferries were running to schedule. Oh no, not us, we just crawled out of bed at the crack of dawn, left a sleeping house behind us and headed for the ferry.

As we rode down towards the ferry terminal we could see cars turning in the unusually empty ‘holding pen’ and leaving. This strange scene was soon explained when we reached the check in booth. The ferry had broken down the day before and was not expected back in service for at least 24 hours. OK we asked what do we do now, this was the last weekend of ‘duty free’ and all the ferries were booked to capacity. The earliest we could get off this island of ours was 11.30 that night from Rosslare, the 40 quid in vouchers they gave us didn’t really help our mood. Nothing for it but to return home, try to get a few hours sleep and then head to Rosslare. On the way home we tried the other ferries even the new Liverpool one but all were fully booked and also had standby passengers waiting.

Arrived home, left a note explaining we didn’t want to be disturbed and went to bed. Sleep eluded us; we gave up and watched some bike racing on TV. Having nothing better to do we decided to check our new tickets, only to discover the time printed on them didn’t match the printed schedule. Better check with the ferry company we though [we were learning]. Phoned up to be told that our original ferry was back in service minus one turbine and we could travel that night if we wished [yippee].

It was about 11 pm when we arrived in Holyhead. We donned balaclavas, scarves and extra layers of clothes under our leathers and waterproofs over them; we were ready for whatever weather Wales had in store for us. Knowing the road so well has its advantages especially when you are traveling in the dark. Heavy rain kept us company all the way to the English border and beyond; it finally petered out when we reached the M6. As expected, traffic was lighter but there was still a surprising lot of it about. We also came across more traffic accidents than ever before, between the M6, M1, and M25. The bike kept us warm, the music kept us happy and we talked more than usual to pass the night away. We stopped for coffee and breakfast at our usual place on the M6. Riding southeast we saw the beautiful dawn colours paint the sky ahead.

Real friends are those who get up at unearthly hours, make tea and toast and still manage to be happy. God bless them, ours even invited us to stay with them again should we be passing through. We got an escort to the docks, where with usual efficiency we were soon on board the ferry with the bike happily strapped down. Our holiday was at last back on track, timewise at least, if not sleepwise. We were too happy to be tired and decided to visit the duty free. The shelves were bare, could we survive 3 weeks without our friend Jameson? We searched and searched and were rewarded with another old Irish friend by the name of Paddy, which turned out to be quite an agreeable little compromise.

Plan A as discussed on the ferry, was to get off at Calais and find somewhere to sleep. We didn’t have a plan B. You know what they say about the best-laid plans. When we got off the ferry it was a lovely day, he wasn’t tired, he said we would go on for a little bit, and as soon as he felt tired we would stop [oh yea, how many times have I heard that line before]. The little bit extended through France into Belgium and nearly out the other side before he agreed to stop for the night. At last we came down off the motorway into a small town. It had a lovely square with lots of nice looking shops and restaurants. There was only one thing missing, there wasn’t a bed to be had. Was this the only town in Europe without at least a B&B? The locals were helpful and directed us about 10 km outside the town to the nearest guesthouse. The extra time and journey were worth it, the guesthouse stood alone at a cross road and Chantal the proprietor was very friendly and didn’t mind me looking at the room [always a good idea] before we decided to stay. The room was lovely with two big windows letting the light in and letting us watch the world go by. The under-floor heating was on so we showered and changed straight away. While he was down putting the cover on the bike I washed out the clothes we had been wearing for what seemed like a week [36 hours], and laid them on the warm floor to dry. With all our housework done we headed down to dinner and a surprise. The restaurant was just beautiful, with fresh flowers and linen, silverware and glasses sparkling in the candlelight. We were the only guests. When we read the menu [with a little help] we soon remembered we hadn't eaten a proper meal in nearly 24 hours. The meal lived up to its surroundings and was helped down with a nice bottle of wine. The wine made us realise how truly shattered we were. We said our good nights and headed for bed.

When morning finally dawned for us, it was as we say a soft day. We had our breakfast in the little public bar, the walls of which were covered in lovely watercolours and oils. The locals like us, bemoaned the weather and told us that just like home, it seemed to have rained non stop for the previous 6 months and that for most of the winter the surrounding fields were under water. After a huge breakfast we packed up and said our good-byes, promising to call in again if we were ever in the area.

We were soon back on the motorway system, which we had planned to use to get to the Polish Treffen for Thursday. Some people say I can’t navigate my way out of a paper bag. I choose to disagree with this view but I'll hold my hand up and say I find German motorways difficult. When you enter the motorway they tell you what number road you’re on, they occasionally remind you of the number as you travel along but I have yet to find a signpost with a number on it when it comes to exiting the motorway. Well that's' my story and I’m sticking to it come hell or evidence otherwise. Everything was going just fine until we rode into the fairy ring. As most people know, when you wander into a fairy ring you can wander around for days until the fairies decide to let you go. I thought that the only place they were to be found was Ireland, imagine my surprise when we fell into one in the middle of Germany. We got stuck on a ring road still under construction and of course not on our map. Around and around we went, not seeing the exit we wanted; thank God the fairies must have found someone better to play with, for eventually we were traveling in the right direction. Having left the motorway behind us for the day we rode down some lovely scenic roads. We passed a likely looking campsite and although it was still fairly early we stopped for the night. We had decided not to bring any cooking equipment with us this year as the previous year we had only used it twice. Once we had the teach beag suas we headed to town. The old town was pedestrianised, all cobbled narrow streets, tall buildings with steeply pitched roofs. We ate pub grub washed down with some local beer. The bells of the church serenaded us as we headed back to the campsite. We were only stopped once by a trucker who asked us directions, I was not allowed to give any.

Next morning and the weather was overcast but it was starting to get warmer as we headed towards Poland. The trip was uneventful, the motorway was quite deserted and with every mile it was getting warmer. We stopped so he could change out of his leathers for the first time this trip and decided to cross the border into Poland that evening and camp in one of the many campsites marked on our map. The queue through the border was as long and as slow as usual but we were in no rush, we only had to go two or three miles to the nearest camp site. It was dark as we followed the signs to the town but failed to find any signs for a campsite. Pulling in, we were approached by local people who did their best to understand us and with much waving of arms and pointing sent us on our way. Down the road around the corner up the next road and we were lost again. Once more locals saved the day, realising how stupid we were, one man jumped into his car and led the way for us. The campsite was just down the road and around another corner but we would never have found it as it was hidden behind some high locked gates. We thanked our guide and introduced ourselves to the woman running the campsite. She checked our passports and took our money, it only cost about a pound but she had to go and look for change for us. In the mean time, we could put our teach beag anywhere we wanted. Looking around it dawned on us that we were her only guests. The woman was soon back with our change and using the universally understood language of waving arms and pointing, we were soon on our way to the nearest restaurant which turned out to be a Greek one, about 15 minutes walk down the road. This was the first Greek restaurant I was ever in but I didn’t expect it to be in Poland. I have never been to Greece but this had to be pretty close with Greek music and food, murals on the walls and all the waiters speaking the language. There was a terrifying electric storm while we were eating but it had cleared by the time we were ready to head ‘home’. The gates were closed when we arrived back but they were quickly opened and locked again behind us. At night local car owners used the forecourt of the campground for secure parking.

We decided to forego the 'pleasures’ of using the very basic facilities the next morning, and were soon on the road to Laziska Gorne. Roads in Poland compare well to those in Ireland usually well surfaced, though a lot of the towns and villages are cobbled and treacherous when wet. We had traveled on motorway 4 before and we should have remembered it, but traveling is just like childbirth, the pain is soon forgotten. Imagine if you can, a concrete two-lane highway where the concrete rippled across the road and there did not appear to be any proper ‘jointing’ between the slabs. The inside lane was so bad the all traffic traveled on the outside lane and would move over when a faster vehicle came up. Once the vehicle was passed everyone would move back out into the ‘fast’ lane again. The mirrors on the bike were useless and the passenger had to be the lookout for the rider. We drove for about 30kms then just had to stop. At last we came across a section of smooth surface. God help our bones and the bikes’ front forks, amazingly nothing had loosened or fallen off. There were two Dutch wingers stopped having coffee we all congratulated ourselves on surviving the road. These wingers headed off before us and we wished them luck as they went. Half an hour later we were back on the road and had only gone about 2kms when we were back on the ripples again. The road sign told us we would have to 'endure' this for another 40kms. Further down the road we met the two wingers again and we began to travel together. One of these guys spoke a little Polish and we found our way to the Treffen site without too much difficulty. This part of Silesia is very industrialised. Breathing in the smoggy air made the last part of the journey very uncomfortable for me and even caused my eyes to water.

This was our third Polish treffen and the site facilities were the best yet. It was based in a sports ground with a big swimming pool complex to one side. There were plenty of toilets and there were also hot showers available all weekend. A small restaurant provided good food, which was excellent value as always and while the service was slow it was friendly. Our neighbours on the campsite where a couple from Belgium fairly new to wings. They told us stories of their trip to Norway earlier in the year where the roads were so rough from the snow the bike needed new tyres after the trip. While we camped, there were rooms available in the main complex, which looked good. The Polish club provided breakfast in a marquee every morning and once they got over the first morning’s teething problems this worked very well. The local town didn’t seem to have anything to offer. On previous visits I had been surprised by the Polish love of flowers, they were everywhere even on grim blocks of flats where every balcony seemed to be bedecked with cascading flowers. Not so in this town, we went for a walk and saw only block after block of grey flats and found just one shop. Our trips around the surrounding countryside were much nicer. On Saturday the ‘Parade of Nations’ took us to Pszczyna which had a lovely market square a very fine Castle and lots and lots of very nice people. One woman stopped us and trust a pen into our hands because it matched the colour of the bike. Felt slippers were supplied for our tour of the magnificent castle during which we heard all about its chequered past. Dating back to the 12th century when the Opole dukes built it as a hunting lodge, it was gradually enlarged and remodeled over the centuries. The castle changed hands several times and was owned by the Hochbergs one of the richest families in Europe until 1945. During WW2 it was plundered but thankfully not destroyed, soldiers had even resorted to burning the library in an effort to keep warm. After the war it was restored and became a museum. We even managed to see a wedding taking place in the 14th century parish church. The numbers visiting the treffen were down on previous years and I hope the Polish club who worked so hard over the weekend didn’t loose any money running the event.

After the Polish treffen we relished the thought of being on our own again. The freedom of going down the roads we wanted to travel, stopping when we wanted to stop, for a photo, a meal or a night or two. The only plan was to be at the Swiss treffen the following weekend and to use motorways as little as possible. The Czech roads were good. The E462 was built to double as a runway and its an odd feeling to suddenly find yourself riding down a runway with taxiways leading off it to hangers and aircraft in the distance. It was very hot and we stopped a couple of times to cool down, once near an airfield where we sat eating ice-cream watching skydivers float to earth. When the temperature fell towards a more comfortable level we headed on again. Crossing the border into Austria there were lots of ‘duty free’ stores. It was Sunday evening and there was nowhere open for us to buy a motorway sticker. Car drivers were walking around asking men in uniform what were they to do. They were met with shrugs of shoulders and most of them gave up and like us, headed off ‘sticker less’ on to the roads of Austria. In the fading light of evening we rode over some gentle curving hills to Krems. The campsite was closed when we arrived but we were able to open the gate enough to get the bike in and set up our teach with its back to the Danube. After a cool drink we headed for bed. We checked in next morning and had some breakfast in a little enclosed garden. Being the last people down to buy breakfast we were told to take as much food as we wished as it was only going to go to waste. It was going to be another very hot day so we stayed off the bike, walked along the river and watched the barges go by. Lying in the shade reading and sleeping the day away we eat an early meal that evening and headed to bed. We had a cunning plan for tomorrow. The plan, which worked brilliantly, was just so simple. We got up in the early hours, very quietly packed up our home and were on the road by 6 am. This was another high point of our holiday. It was a beautiful misty morning, we drove along the twisty roads following the course of the river. The fine mist was gently burned off as the heat began to rise. The sun glinted off the river and we had the road to ourselves except for the occasional early morning commuter. This is the only way to travel. Some road works meant we had to use the motorway for a short distance, so we were very good and bought a motorway sticker. This was not too expensive as you can buy one valid for two months only [about five punts]. Kevin was enjoying this journey so much he was not going to stop, was he? On and on we drove enjoying the countryside, the scenery changing with the miles.

Then we came to the mountains, it’s just so different from Ireland, the high peaks lost in the clouds. We found a place with some cable cars and decided to stop for lunch, sadly the cable cars were also stopped for lunch. Sitting out on a high terrace finishing our coffee we noticed the dark clouds rolling in. There was no point waiting for the cable cars to restart, the only thing we would have been able to see from them would be the inside of some very angry grey clouds. Time to move on. The rain held off for a while and we enjoyed the ride as the roads climbed into the mountains. The road got narrower and narrower it’s condition worsening with every mile, it was under construction at one point and we had to travel on gravel, loose gravel. It started to mist rain, there was no point going back, so onwards and upwards into the clouds and snow. There was no place to stop, on and on we went, at last we reached the summit. In the mist we saw some sports bikes sheltering at a little hut, we continued on, now going downhill the road almost swishing back on itself on sharp bends. Although we could still see very little, we could feel the air starting to warm up, then we heard the cow bells and were out of the clouds with only the misty rain and a ratty wife to contend with.

What's the point of stopping now, its raining, might as well go on to Bregenz. There were signs for campsites all over the place. We picked one by the lakeshore and stayed for the two days and enjoyed walking along the lakeshore into the town. The town had been badly affected by floods sometime before we arrived. There were soggy piles of sandbags everywhere, the parkland at the edge of the lake was still flooded, and in some parts of town flattened hoses snaked around the roads. If the money had been available we would have cleared out the camping shop we found, as it was, we bought two new airbeds which packed up and weighed about half that of our old ones. It was here we also found the best food of our holiday, in a small restaurant, up a side road. It was very popular with the locals and it never had an empty table for more than a few minutes. At the edge of the lake there is a magnificent stage built out onto the water, people were allowed to wonder in and watch the preparations for a forthcoming concert.

Swiss Treffen.

Traveling on scenic country roads it was only a short hop to the Swiss treffen at Wettingen so no need to buy a Swiss motorway pass. The site was split in two with camping, shops and showers on one side of the road and the event hall on the other. The weather decided to throw everything it had at us, over the weekend we had very heavy rain, which made parts of the campground very soft. We got a prime site just off a ‘road’ and the teach beag was only set up when we started to see some familiar faces. The first to arrive was an old friend riding an 1100. The bike looked really well and is something he should be justifiable proud of. This old romantic had turned up early to pitch the tent and get everything ready for the weekend. He planned to return home, say nothing to his better half, and then surprise her when they turned up at the treffen site later that night. We were sitting downtown one day having lunch when we met some Irish wingers who had heard about the treffen from a local biker while they were broken-down by the roadside. They were brand new to wings, had never heard of treffens but were having a real blast. We spent most of the weekend in the company of some Scottish friends who helped us forget the miserable weather. One of their treffen highlights was watching us trying to pump up our new airbeds. It took hours and bets were laid on whether we had drained the bike battery of life, in the end we had to modify the inlet valves after which everything worked fine. The highlight for us were the brilliant bands who performed each evening. One group of very fit men in national costume wore giant cowbells suspended from harnesses across their shoulders. These bells rang as the men moved around the hall and they got everyone on their feet applauding. We reluctantly turned down an offer to spend some time with friends after the treffen and promising to take up the invitation some time in the future we headed for pastures new.

With a week left to explore, and Europe at our feet we headed for Baden-Baden. Some members of our family have great stories of time spent here. The wet weather vanished and we were back in brilliant sunshine. Much has changed since Roman times when the Black Forest was an impenetrable wilderness thought to be inhabited by wild beasts and barbarians. Today there is little left of the dense forests but the ride gave us wonderful views of the forested slopes rising above the picture postcard valleys dotted with those typical farmhouses whose roofs almost touch the ground. There were lots of shops selling souvenir walking sticks and cuckoo clocks of every size and description. This was another perfect day traveling in real motorcycling country. Bikes were everywhere; we even saw one huge one made out of bales of hay. Black Forest cuisine is thought by many to be the best in the country; we sampled some when we stopped for lunch in a small restaurant near the base of the Triberg Falls, the highest falls in Germany. The day had to end sometime of course and we eventually stopped at a campsite so big it could almost qualify as a small town.

We crossed the Rhine into France enjoying the small country roads. Having stopped for coffee we were only back on the bike about five minutes when the heavens opened, lighting flashed and the road turned into a river under our wheels. We had no option but to stop as we thought in the middle of nowhere, then we saw someone wave to us from across the road. A local farmer brought us into his barn where we stood around with his family and watched the storm. They were amazed we had traveled so far and we were the first Irish people they had met. Suddenly there was panic; the water level was rising at the back of the barn. When the farmer ran to open a door to relieve the pressure, water rushed in but because of a concrete ‘lip’ could not get out the front, it was threatening the house. It was all hands to the deck as Irish and French worked together to dig out a trench to get the water away, it worked and everyone cheered as the waterlevel began to drop. Soon it was all over, the sunshine was back we said our good-byes and headed off on the steaming roads.

The next couple of days were spent taking our time traveling up through the country, we lost track of time only realising it was Bastille day when we passed through a village covered in flags. From then on every village had their party face on with bunting and flags flying everywhere. Stopping for a late breakfast we wandered into a town square in time to see a ceremony involving the firebrigade, police and a local band. Each village we passed through also had its war memorial dressed with flowers and flags. We were riding through Lorraine towards Picardy and the Somme.

A small family run campsite became our home for the remainder of our holidays. This place was so perfect it even had its own duck pond and dovecote. It was run by the son who cooked the piazzas every evening, his parents ran the place during the day and each new arrival would be shown the exact spot on which to pitch their tent. The campsite was really a part of the local community, when we arrived local children were on site to enjoy lots of 'sudsy' water games. Later that evening there were fireworks to celebrate Bastille Day.

The whole countryside hereabouts is scattered with war graves and monuments recalling the catastrophic Battle of the Somme. From the large and impressive to the very tiny marooned among the cultivated fields they all had one thing in common, the respect in which they are regarded and maintained. Each was built to a similar design and had a little recess at the entrance where books containing details of the people who were buried there were kept, along with a visitor’s book. We visited the Ulster Tower were we found poppy wreaths laid on the 12th July. The Newfoundland Memorial Park at Beaumont-Hamel has a massive bronze caribou (the regimental emblem) on top of a rock-garden of native Newfoundland shrubs. Opened in 1925 it commemorates the soldiers who died here during WW1. During one of the most dramatic days of the campaign, the 1st of July 1916, having arrived the night before, the 1st Newfoundland Regiment lost more then three quarters of its soldiers in less than half an hour, mown down by enemy machine-gun fire.

One of the largest and most meticulously maintained war memorial areas is Vimy Parc. It commemorates in particular the tremendous assault of 9th April 1917 when all four divisions of the Canadian Corps, stormed the German defenses on Vimy Ridge. We walked in the preserved open trenches and were stunned to see how close the opposing front lines were, within speaking never mind shouting distance of each other. There is a small museum on site and young Canadians give guided tours of part of the underground tunneling system and explain its importance to the successful outcome of the battle. There are signs everywhere reminding visitors of the danger of unexploded shells. Only a few years ago a British bomb disposal expert lost his life here while exploring part of the tunneling system. For some reason when we went back to the bike we were given a small Canadian flag by one of the site workers, don’t know why maybe it was the colour of the bike again. A little distance away on the crown of the ridge there is a wonderfully impressive limestone memorial ‘The Memorial Canadian’ whose soaring pillars bear the maple leaf of Canada, the fleur-de-lys of France and the names of all those Canadians who lost their lives in the First World War. The day we visited there were Canadian servicemen visiting, one had a bugle with a name inscribed on it. As we looked on he found the name of the bugles original owner also inscribed on the memorial.

It was time to go home, we had our last dinner in Calais in an Italian restaurant where beautiful sad music [which suited our mood] played in the background. A short hop across the channel and we were back with our friends again. After a good nights sleep we were back on the motorways of England and the roads of Wales. At our lunch stop we met a Fireblade owner who was traveling home to Donegal from Spain. While we admired the blade he admired the seat on the wing and told us the sad tail of his numb bum. There were a lot of bikes on the ferry, very few cars. We had just enough time to have something to eat [using up those vouchers] and we were back in Dun Laoghaire, less than an hour later we were home sweet home. No matter how enjoyable the trip nothing beats being back in your own bed.

Some pictures from the trip. Click on the thumbnail picture to see it full size. From left; 1, 2, & 4 show some breathtaking scenery from Austria, with a church around every corner. Picture 5 is the calm before the storm, literally. Picture 6, Bastille day in Ceremont and the next two pictures are at the Canadian memorial, Vimy Parc. Picture 9 is in the front line.

Our trip to France & Spain 2000.

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