6th - 26th September 2014 (Entry 21)

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After many months of saving and a whole lot more planning than we ever did for our trip to the Americas, we finally reached the decision to go ahead with the wedding and follow it up with another adventure, albeit a mini one, for the honeymoon. With limited time and money, we shunned Africa, Asia and Australasia (with lingering hopes to discover all three one day), and settled for exploring a bit more of our own continent.

Maps were purchased, wedding dresses and suits were bought, venues were booked, invitations were sent, bags were packed and the Flying Aga was serviced in preparation. The stags went boating and the hens went surfing until eventually, the final countdown to the big day began.

With a week to go, Isabel’s little car was loaded to the brim with wine in the boot, a restored post box in the foot well, copious amounts of decorated jam jars and chopped logs laid across the back seat, multiple suits and bridesmaids dresses piled high on top of the logs, and one very delicate wedding dress resting across the parcel shelf. With the full load, she set off south towards the coast where the big day was to play out…and soon broke down.

After hours spent waiting in the rain beside a particularly smelly lay-by on the A1, a recovery van carrying a mechanic who turned out to be as resourceful as Byron, pulled in to help. He had been pre-warned by the operator that the car was carrying a precious load and, under no uncertain terms, it had to be fixed there and then, not recovered. So with the help of some instant gasket, hoseclips and a touch-up paint pen, he patched up the cracked cooling system just enough for the little car to get to its destination – wedding dress et al intact.

A couple of days later, Byron was loading up the bike to make the same journey down and, not to be outdone, came close to breaking down in the rain too due to a faulty voltage regulator. The omens weren’t looking too good.

All was not lost though and the wedding went amazingly – without a sign of rain or a breakdown!

As well as the bike making an appearance at the reception, we were chuffed that Aaron, who had brought the wheel and suspension to us from the USA to Nicaragua (see entry 12 or read the book!), made it all the way from Miami to join us.

One notable sneaky surprise on the day came from Byron when he whipped out a personalised leather waistcoat during his speech and welcomed Isabel to his new chapter – much to the delight of our guests who egged the more reluctant bride to put it on! So, as well as man and wife, we now make up the A-Team Brethren club, as Chairman and Treasurer.

After the excitement of the day eventually came to a close and the hangovers set in, we rode to a very deserted Dover docks with minutes to spare and boarded a ferry to the continent. The sun shone gloriously as the white cliffs of home disappeared behind us and we tucked into croissants and champagne.

Having toured France on the Flying Aga more than a few times in the past, we planned to blast along its pricey toll roads towards Italy. The sun continued to light up the skies as great memories from the past week kept the hours flying by and it wasn’t long before we arrived in the champagne region and settled down for the night in one of the incredibly old, timbered buildings of Troyes. Having already eaten croissants and drunk champagne, we went in search of the other French necessities that evening – namely mussels, frites and beer.

Despite the quality of the hotel (we purposely left the tent at home for this trip!), we both slept terribly and were pretty convinced that the room was haunted. Hoping that the spooky night completed the third and final step of our bad luck, we tucked into a very French breakfast and, after an almost certain sighting of Jennifer Saunders by Isabel, we set off towards the Alps.

The scenery that day more than made up for the less splendid weather. The clouds had closed in and the temperature dropped as we rode into the lush Alps, winding higher and higher before calling it a day in a tiny village where we booked into a ski lodge. Pre-season, the village was deserted and we just managed to miss closing time in the only restaurant that was open – and where the chef wasn’t shy with his use of cheese!

After a night in possibly the tiniest bed ever made for two, the return of the sun woke us early and we thawed out on a descent into Italy. Reminding ourselves that we hadn’t just dropped back into Latin America (on account of the constant near-heart attacks bought on by the reckless driving), the roads flattened out to cut through the mountainous hills – leading us through tunnel after endless tunnel. As light turned to darkness and darkness turned to light for the rest of the ride, the Italian drivers didn’t seem to think it necessary to keep more than just half an eye on the road while they kept themselves entertained by the apparently obligatory use of mobile phones. We were nearly taken completely out by at least two truckers who edged us onto the hard shoulder, having not checked before changing lanes.

We had left the haute cuisine of France behind us that morning so instead, embraced the culinary delights of Italy for lunch, stopping to regain our composure with pizza and espresso. Not knowing any Italian, we instinctively ordered in the only other languages we knew – a hybrid of Spanish and French which was met with cool Italian indifference.

Besides the kamikaze driving and the greasy pizza, a chapter of Italy’s Hell’s Angels, Vespa scooters and an extremely stylish police force at every petrol station, defined our entry into Italy that day.

We made it to the verge of the Cinque Terre national park miraculously unscathed, and rode up a steep, winding road, high into the hills where beautiful coloured houses of every shape and size hung off the near vertical hills. Tiny pathways and alleys mapped routes through the little hamlet and it took us some searching to find the small hostel that we’d booked into. The tranquil hilltop offered the most incredible views across the surrounding hills where other similar settlements emerged from the blanket of trees, each defined by an individual church tower.

We explored the Cinque Terre, where five isolated, cliff-top towns can only be reached by death-defying winding roads, a coastal train or a trek across the magnificent, Mediterranean-facing cliffs that serve a valuable purpose of hosting no end of sprawling vineyards. After doing the latter in searing heat, we enjoyed the produce of the vineyards and the treats from the sea below.
After a couple of days in the slice of Mediterranean paradise, we set off back down the narrow, winding track, out of the coastal hills and inland towards Tuscany. The mixture of stunning landscapes and hazardous driving kept us on our toes until we stopped for a rest in a petrol station. After purchasing €1 cups of coffee, we dug out the huge slab of wedding cake that we had been carting around in the top box and as we sat and tore chunks out of it, it suddenly sank in that we were now officially a Mr & Mrs!

We reached Tuscany later that afternoon, but not before the heavens had burst apart and forks of lightening sparked and flashed all around us on the road. It would have been a gloomy end to the day if we knew we had to pitch a tent in the deluge too, but the thought of a cosy, Tuscan hotel waiting for us kept our spirits up while the cold and damp invaded our layers. The rain made rivers of the roads and concealed any sign of the renowned Tuscan countryside we had been eager to see, but we eventually reached our destination that evening and rode along the cobbled streets, through the ancient stone walls of Montisi to settle into a haven of a hotel.

No adventure is complete without a trip to a hot spring, and true to form, we hunted down some thermal baths the next day. The journey there finally gave us the chance to witness the fantastic hills and triangular evergreen tress that define Tuscany too. We made the most of the spa and fought hard for a sun lounger to enjoy the sunshine that had broken free (should anyone ask though, we’re sticking to the story that we did not enjoy a couple’s massage or wear wierd paper pants to enjoy said massage).

The Tuscan visit was topped off by an early morning the next day when we rose at the crack of dawn to join a hot air balloon ride over the iconic landscape - simultaneously claiming the accolade of being the first ever clients of the company to turn up on a motorbike. As the sun rose over the hills and swathes of fog rested in the distant valleys, we silently climbed high above our parked bike and drifted peacefully over the hills. The balloon was eventually brought to land in the ‘grappa field’ – so called because usually the owner runs out to ply the tourists in the balloon with grappa. It being a holy day though, he was nowhere to be seen so we settled for a Prosecco breakfast laid out by the owners. As good a way as any to begin a Sunday!

We made our way back through the countless tunnels later that day, dodging more careless truckers to reach the grimy port town of Genoa where its apparent pirate heritage seemed quite fitting. We parked up and explored the city that night, eating at what was unquestionably one of Italy’s dodgier establishments where, just before we left, the waiter explained that we should show anyone who gave us trouble, including the police, the receipt of where we’d been and we ‘would be ok’.

A respite from the heaviest of rain only came in the endless flurry of tunnels the next morning, before we crossed back into France. The tunnels disappeared but the rain remained as we chased our tail around miles and miles of deserted, wet country roads, attempting to find a site in the depths of the Ardeche where we had booked to stay in a yurt.

We arrived late in the evening and, exhausted, fell into bed in the scenic retreat. It wasn’t until the morning that we realised the noise that had kept us restless all night was coming from an army of mites that was relentlessly eating away, inside the wooden structure.

During the lulls in the rain, we climbed down and explored the nearby gorge, but mostly spent the next few days feasting on French cuisine and hiding from the rain, the bugs and the spiders.
The inevitable tempest of the storm struck on the final day and with it, brought an eerie plague of dead and dying flying beetles that fell squirming on every surface. The next morning they lay like a blanket across the site and needless to say, we were pretty hasty in packing up and setting off.

Just as we thought we had escaped the rain, another heavy downpour struck. We couldn’t recall that so much heavy rain had fallen for so many days in a row on the trip around the Americas but were thankful that the bike was still going strong – literally just before the clutch cable snapped!

By a stroke of luck, Byron had spotted a kit-car garage some hundred meters back up the road and went to try his chances. As always seems to be the case in these tales, a kind mechanic told him to hop in his van before driving him around the nearby town in search of a new cable. Not only did they find one, but he came back to the bike to help fit it and before an hour had passed since breaking down, he was waving us back on our way.

The end of that day came with a change in fortune. It was the one place we had been most excited about before we had set off on the mini adventure and it fulfilled all our expectations. That night we ate duck, drank champagne and slept in a tree house at a beautiful French chateau.

The temperature soared the next day and after stopping by in Toulouse to visit our flower girl, Charlotte, and Isabel’s cousin Jessie, we rode on to the edge of the Pyrenees where an airstream trailer park lay in wait. We were assigned Studio 54 – a trailer that had been decked out like its very own nightclub, strobe lights and disco balls included.

The next morning we made our way deeper into the Pyrenees, through an immaculate Andorra and out the other side into Spain. So many bikers and cyclists were out in force, enjoying the bikers’ delight of twisting roads and incredible mountain views on a day that was by far, the most spectacular and exciting of the trip. It was also the longest and we arrived in the small mountain town of Ainsa late that night.

After eating in the ancient cobbled square, we fell into bed exhausted again before being woken in the middle of the night by the sound of the bike falling on the cobbles in the alleyway far below our window. Having raced to see what was happening, we just caught the tale-end of some local scallywags who had obviously been messing with it before it fell. Luckily the only damage done was a twist to the handlebar that it had fallen on. Pesky kids.

The final days of the trip passed by in Saint Sebastian on the northern Spanish coast where the most amazing Basque tapas (pintxos) bars line the streets of the old town. More rain dashed our hopes of a sunny ending to the trip but we made up for the lack of sunbathing by exploring the old town and eating instead.

A twenty-four hour ferry ride back to the UK ended the honeymoon and thankfully, despite the terrible reputation of the Bay of Biscay and our luck with weather on the trip, we enjoyed an incredibly smooth ride back to Blighty.

After one last stop in Portsmouth to change the alternator rotor on the bike, which had stopped working just before we had arrived in San Sebastian, our mini adventure honeymoon came to a close and reality struck with a blow once again. The bike is now in hibernation for the winter while we hatch our next adventure – perhaps further afield next time, away from the rain!

Thank you to all our family and friends for the generous gifts that helped to make our first trip as Mr & Mrs Vincent so much fun!



Scroll further down for lots more photos.

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