A Solo Tour of the Alps by Motorcycle - Part Two

Why do we ride motorcycles? You get wet when it rains, you freeze when it's cold, and too hot when it heats up. You have to wear all sorts of gear just to ride one. You straddle a tank full of petrol and an exhaust pipe that would melt skin if you touch it. And you have zero protection in a crash, which is easy to do because you only have two wheels and have to lean over to get round bends. 

And, frankly, it's exhausting. Spend five hours in a car and you're usually fine. Spend five hours on a bike and you need a shower and a cold beer just to recover.

Hominids have existed for seven million years, and Homo Sapiens for 190,000 years. And until just a few years ago survival was of the fittest. If you didn't have your wits about you you'd be killed by an animal, other human, or just the weather.

And now we live in an era of welfare state, hospitals, sofas and carpets, worker's rights and touchy feely everything, where the most pain is caused by someone getting your pronouns wrong. For some people that's lovely. For others it's deadly. 

Bikers need excitement. We need to be scared, to straddle the thin line between danger and safety, to experience what it means to be human for a while. We need to understand and embrace our evolution. We want to control a dangerous machine and do so with skill and finesse.

Anyway...back to the trip

Day 5 - Bled to Norge (Italy)

I'd woken early. It was too hot to sleep well. 7.30am I was showered and ready and found that the hotel didn't start breakfast until 8am. Oh dear.

8.30am I was on the road. The temperature had risen to 36ºC as I cruised around the southern part of Lake Bled. I found some lovely spots but nowhere to take a decent photo of the bike in front of the lake.

I knew on my trip I had the opportunity to see the Adriatic Sea at some point. I thought of Venice but that's not something you do on a motorcycle, and it would take at least half a day. Someone suggested I visit Grado, an Italian peninsula some 50 miles east of Venice.

So by 11am and in baking heat I found a bike parking spot in Grado and headed to an air conditioned cafe for cake and coke.

The road out of Grado is a four mile long bridge. The breeze from the sea was welcome but it was still hot. I'd noticed a lot of the local riders - typically younger men on red Ducatis - rode without their protective jacket. 

In danger of overheating myself I decided to remove my jacket. The heat was becoming a genuine cause of fatigue, and fatigue can lead to reduced concentration and reaction times. It wasn't safer to remove my jacket but it did improve my ability to ride safely.

I then headed west along the southern flank of the alps towards a town called Valdobbiadene. Just north of Valdobbiadene is a mountain pass. I'd read about it in a book, but knew very little about it. It just looked fun. Up and over a mountain.

Initially the land was flat as I skirted south of the alps. I then threaded into the mountain foothills through beautiful villages set in lush green valleys of orange groves and vineyards set on perilous slopes.

I stopped to take a photo of as roadsign - Lago. I was the high plains drifter on my steel horse heading into adventures and scrapes - little was I to know...

And then the valleys closed in and the road became tree lined. I was climbing. The road twisted with long bends. I stopped for a while to drink and eat by the side of the road. In ten minutes not a single vehicle passed me.

I remounted and carried on. Climbing, the road twisting more and more. It was narrow and the surface was poor. Gravel, potholes, crumbling tarmac.

As we climbed higher the road surface got worse, the bends tightened to hairpins, and narrowed more. It was exhilarating. But the vertigo was returning.

My eyes were on stalks as I met a car coming there other way. Too fast, too close to me. I was pushed to the edge, an edge with a steep drop and no barrier. One slip and I would be gone. Would anyone find me?

Two, three more cars. Each one too fast and not close enough to their edge of the road and pushing me out to my edge. My breathing was becoming laboured, my vision ever focussed. I was sweating from the heat and from fear.

I rounded one hairpin, I ran a little wide. Ahead of me was a straight section with a gentle curve to the left. Suddenly a car appeared. A BMW X1. He was in the middle. I was in the middle. I glimpsed daylight through the trees to my right. I saw mountain tops beneath me.

I could not force myself too close to the edge. My brain wouldn't allow it. All those years of evolution telling me a fall from height would definitely kill me, but an approaching BMW? He was coming towards me too fast. We were going to hit. My front wheel skipped as the ABS kicked in, he hardly slowed.

Bang, we hit. He missed my arm and leg by centimetres. He'd hit my left pannier. Put a dent in it, and a dent in his car.

The driver was out, arms gesticulating. His girlfriend telling him "Non essere arrabiato. Stai calmo".

I was numb. Nobody had any injuries. The fault was 50/50. He should have been slower, should have got closer to the edge. I should have moved closer to the edge.

We talked and passed details. No Italian from me, no English from them. But we coped. We shook hands and carried on.

I was alone with my thoughts. I was near the top of a mountain pass and I had no choice to carry on and descend the other side.

Ten minutes later I reached the summit. 1400 metres above sea level. An entire world below me. 

I descended cautiously. I could not afford a repeat of the incident. I had to get home in one piece. I enjoyed the ride. I was super focussed. I had to unlearn fear and learn control of my brain - the part that put me in harms way.

It was another two hour ride to my hotel. Mainly autoroutes but the final half hour was another climb, into Trento and up a mountain pass towards a ski resort called Norge. The hotel was beautifully located. The view was spectacular.

Once unpacked and in my room I reflected on what had been a challenging but also thrilling day. I enjoyed an amazing four course dinner that night, and slept well.

Day 6 - Norge to Bönigen (Switzerland) Rickenback (Germany)

A lazy, late start. On the bike at 9.30am. A beautiful crisp, clear day. Views of an entire country, sculpted over millions of years. The satnav took me north and up to yet another summit. I dug deep and improved my skills with every ferocious bend.

This was going to be a long day. 300 miles westward and into Switzerland. Autoroutes and mountain passes. The most beautiful, wonderful place. Hot again but cooling ever so slightly with every mile. 

The fields once again were littered with alpine barns. The writing on the signs turned from Italian to...German? Was I in Switzerland already? In this part of the world it's easy to cross international borders without even realising.

I stopped for lunch at the place in the first photo in this article. A wine shop in Schluderns. I walked in to find three people speaking what sounded like German. They all stopped. A man said "Ahhh motorcycle." He pointed to my bike parked outside. I nodded. He beamed.

I said, "Sandwich?" and was greeted with puzzled looks. "Pane? Prosciutto? Formaggio?"

"Ahhhh" said the jolly lady behind the counter. She walked to a plastic bag on a shelf and pulled out a bread roll. 

"Yes," I said. "Sorry, ja".

"Käse?" she pulled out a huge block of Emmental.

"Ja"

"Schinken?" A massive slab of ham. I nodded.

Sandwich made and paid for I headed outside to a single table in the shade. The jolly German lady sat with me, lit a cigarette and stared as I ate.

I pointed at the ground and said, "Switzerland?"

"Nein," she said. "Das ist Italien, aber wir sprechen Deutsch."

I understood. I'd heard about this place before and that memory suddenly flipped into my mind. In South Tyrol there is a German speaking Italian community. It had been part of Austro-Hungary but after the First World War became part of Italy. Mussolini agreed with Hitler that it would not be subsumed into Nazi Germany during the Second World War. It's remained Italian since, to the chagrin of the locals.

I carried on and into the most beautiful town. Called Glorenza, and still in Italy, I stopped to take the photo below. As I did a BMW M1000XR passed me.

I carried on and headed in the direction of Switzerland and a famous road called the Flüela Pass. 

I passed the BMW, who's rider had stopped to take a photo. He waved, I waved.

Minutes later the BMW passed me. And after he did he undocked his phone from its satnav mount and started filming the countryside around, one handed. I passed, he nodded, I nodded.

A while later I stopped for fuel. The BMW was parked at the next pump. We sat, drank cold cokes and talked for half an hour about travel, families, motorcycles. His bike had 200hp, mine 95hp. I wasn't so upset about him passing me.

We carried on and arrived at the Flüela Pass. We rode hard and fast. My fears vanished as I chased the lunatic on the BMW. It was awesome fun. The road was well paved and absolutely spectacular. It rises and flows up and over and descends down to Davos, where the internal elites and plot and scheme ways of making our lives worse. 

That was possibly the single best ride I've ever experienced.

By 4pm I was exhausted. I continued to ride. The BMW rider was going gone and I was headed for Zurich. I rode through a three mile long tunnel. Once out the other side it was raining. A complete surprise. It had been a beautiful sunny day at the start of the tunnel.

I stopped to change into my waterproofs. I checked my satnav and came to an awful realisation.

I'd been heading to the wrong hotel. I was two hours north of where I needed to be.

I had no choice but to cancel. It was 5.30pm and I had very little energy. I realised I was mistakenly heading towards the hotel in Rickenback I'd stayed at on my second night. It cost me £100 but I couldn't ride another two hours.

Luckily the Rickenback hotel had space. I headed there in the pouring rain. Arrived at 6.45pm, thankful of some familiarity.

After a good meal and some more cold beer I slept well.

Day 7 - Rickenback to Manderen (France)

I won't go into too much detail with the remaining journey. I'll just post some photos. The fun parts were pretty much done. It was all motorway work from hereonin. Nevertheless I did have fun, even on the motorway. I enjoy riding my motorcycle, even in adverse conditions. 

Why? See paragraphs one to five.

Day 8 - Manderen to Ashford (England)

Day 9 - Ashord to Cheshire

By Matt Hubbard

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A Solo Tour of the Alps by Motorcycle - Part One

Every year I just have to get away. To go somewhere on the motorcycle. Somewhere wild, where the roads are good and the scenery epic.

I usually need a reason for my trips and the reason for this one came to me over the winter of 2023. I was watching The Grand Tour: Eurocrash, in which our intrepid heroes take three ridiculous cars across Europe to Slovenia. They park next to Lake Bled, which Clarkson pronounces the prettiest place he's ever seen.

And there and then I decided I had to visit Lake Bled.

And I would have to go on my own. Because my brother was still recovering from his crash earlier that year. Still, not to worry. I had been watching the journey of Noraly Schoenmaker, also known as Itchy Boots.

Noraly has travelled the world on her motorcycle, completely alone. I can't think any of anyone with more bravery and spirit. If she can ride the west coast of Africa on a Honda CRF 300 Rally then I could spin down the autobahn for a week in the alps.

I planned the trip in some detail. My plan is always to decide on where each day should start and end, book a hotel, and any waypoints I wanted to make. I added all these to my Google Maps and would use my phone as a satnav. I can then plan each individual day's route on the fly.

My bike, a 2019 Tiger 900 Rally Pro has done 20,000 miles and suits me down to the ground. I have panniers and a top box so have plenty of room for luggage. I made sure the bike was fully serviced and prepped before the trip. 

Day 1 - Cheshire to Lille (France) via Le Shuttle

The day started at 7am. The bike had been packed the weekend before. One pannier contained all my clothes and things needed for each hotel stay, the other pannier contained all the motorcycle maintenance equipment as well as tools, puncture repair kit, first aid kit etc. The top box was empty except for waterproofs and a water bottle. This was intentional. It's quite handy having a space to stow helmet and gloves when stopping at services.

I was up at 6am, ate and showered. I'd checked and rechecked the weather forecast and could see a mix of rain and heat ahead. My riding gear was armoured jeans, motorcycle boots, and a waterproof, but not particularly warm, jacket. The theory being if it rained or turned cold I could add layers as appropriate. If I was to wear heavy gear it would cause issues when the sun beat down. Heat related fatigue can be particularly dangerous on a motorcycle.

The first five hours across England's motorway network was conducted smoothly. I arrived at Folkestone with plenty of time to catch my train...and then French customs delighted in holding us all up for an hour.

Not to worry. I had been due on the 3.30pm train but ended up on the 4.30pm train, which has half empty as customs was still holding people up for no reason.

I met a fellow traveller on the train. His plan was similar to mine but instead of staying in hotels he was camping - and his Yamaha MT07 was piled sky high with equipment. None of his luggage was in hard panniers. Instead it was all just strapped down. I admired his spirit and sense of adventure and wondered if I'd meet him again (I didn't).

Unloaded from the train and on to the autoroute it was an hour blast to Lille and my hotel where I ate a so-so dinner, drank a couple of beers and collapsed in bed

Day 2 - Lille to Rickenback (Germany)

By 9am I was ready to go. The sky was bright and the temperature just perfect. I hit the road. This was going to be a long day. 430 miles by various Belgian and French autoroutes (top speed 130kph) and a stretch of German autobahn (top speed whatever you can stretch to).

By lunch I had covered 200 miles and was still feeling quite fresh. The Tiger does 200 miles to a tank but once it's less than half full I start to think about a refill, so I was stopping every 120 miles or so to refuel. And at each stop the skies were getting darker.

Finally by mid afternoon the heavens opened somewhere south of Nancy. I stopped to pull on my waterproofs and carried on. 

The rain was ceaseless. But I was still cheerful. I enjoyed the changes in scenery and landscape as I hit Germany. I love the place. In the rain I hit 189kph (118mph) on the autobahn. Once in the hills leading to the hotel I stopped to take a photo by a roadside shrine, a small statue of Jesus. Across all the countries of the alps these statues would crop up everywhere. Catholicism seems to cut across cultures and nationalities.

I arrived at Hotel Ammenhof at 6.50pm. I was completely drenched. I squelched to my room, showered and changed and hung up all my gear. The rain had managed to find its way around my waterproof trousers and my boots were full of water.

The hotel was a delight. Alpine in design and quite simple and rustic. None of the staff spoke English but it was fun communicating with them, and the schnitzel and ice cold Fürstenberg beer were most welcome.

I had taken my iPad on the trip and didn't turn on a single hotel television then entire week. I watched some YouTube videos then slept like a log.

Day 3 - Rickenback to Götzens (Austria)

Today was more promising. 220 miles across the north western alps into Austria. My boots were still wet from the day before, and my jeans still a little moist, but I was ready to go. The day was damp, but not raining hard. More of a light drizzle.

The hotel was close to the border so within half an hour I was in Switzerland. The roads swept through valleys with wide expanses of pasture either side. In the pasture lands were numerous barns with overhanging roofs, designed to allow a space around the walls of the structure free from snow.

These barns lined the roads almost the entire trip. They are an ancient system of grain storage over winter. The locations seem random, and sometimes there are lots of them, sometimes not so many. But they all look quite lovely, and add to the general pleasantness of the alpine landscape.

By lunch the rain had just about gone and I stopped at a cafe in a town called Kressbronn an Bodensee on the northern shore of Lake Bodensee. Again none of the staff spoke English but we got there somehow and I enjoyed the first of many ham and cheese sandwiches of the trip.

After lunch I called in on Lindau, an island in the lake itself. By now the sun was shining and the temperature had risen to 25ºC.

The afternoon was a pleasant ride on great roads through Austria. By this point the mountains were rising higher and higher with each mile. Mile high shards of rock peppered with trees, wildlife and the occasional road twisting up and down. 

I stopped to take a photo by the road sign for Wank and enjoyed the achingly beautiful landscape as I closed in on Götzens, a ski resort in the mountain south of Innsbruck.

The view from my balcony was of a spectacularly craggy mountain to the north. Dinner that night was a local dish of mixed meats along with more cold beer and the F1 highlights on my iPad.

Day 4 - Götzens to Bled (Slovenia)

I was now in the alps proper. And for the first time I was to cross from north to south, meaning I'd cross some of the highest points.

The day's ride was going to be around 230 miles and at some point I'd travel over the Grossglockner, a famous mountain pass. In order not to tire myself out too much I opted to take the autoroute for most of the morning, enjoying the view as I weaved through valley bottoms at 130kph.

By late morning I skirted Zell am See and then plunged south towards the Grossglockner. I'd done no research on it and when I arrived found that it was a toll road. At the entrance to the Grossglockner is a tourist village with various attractions. It was now 30ºC and took lunch at a restaurant and just as I was finished and ready to head to the toll booth the road was closed due to an accident on the mountain.

After a delay of 45 minutes in the baking sun the road was opened and I joined about a hundred other bikers in paying £33 to head onto the 45 kilometre long Grossglockner High Alpine Road.

The road immediately ascended. Higher and higher it wound, initially with sweeping bends. I saw the course of the closure - an old VW had set on fire. From the smell I could tell the brakes had overheated and started a fire which must have spread to the engine bay and then consumed the entire car.

I continued to climb and as I did the temperature dropped. Sweeping curves turned to sharp hairpins. The view was spectacular.

Higher and higher, colder and colder. I have been riding motorcycles for a long time and am quite adept in conditions like this. I'm not so fast I'm reckless but I settle into a pace and my mind sharpens so it takes no effort to push and push, until...

Until vertigo kicked in. I've always been afraid of heights and often on mountain passes I've felt nervous when close to exposed edges, but this was a different level.

My riding started to become more mechanical and when I stopped to take photos and enjoy the view I struggled to knock the side stand down and dismount for fear of falling over and down some slope - even though I was nowhere near the edge.

The human brain can act irrationally at times, and mine was really playing up.

I finally reached the summit, which is 2504 metres above sea level. Bought a fridge magnet and sticker, took a load of photos. And had a conversation with myself about the ride down.

My tactic was simply to look where I needed to go. On a motorcycle it's easy to look at the road immediately ahead. This is called target fixation and can lead to running wide on bends. But I also didn't want to look outside the confines of the road and the huge drop to the side. So instead I focused on the vanishing point of the road ahead.

At one point I stopped to touch a glacier with my bare hands. Large swathes of ice abound around the place, kept frozen by their sheer mass through the summer months.

Down I went and the further down the higher the temperature. It had been 16ºC on the summit and 30ºC again as I reached slightly lower levels.

It was 3pm when I stopped for a cup of tea served by a grumpy Austrian lady.

The rest of the afternoon consisted of a pleasant ride through green lands until at 5.30pm I arrived in Slovenia. By 6pm I was at my hotel. I was a sweaty mess. It was 33ºC by now and the hotel was in town and surrounded by endless roadworks.

I showered and was chased around the bathroom by a wasp for a few minutes.

I walked down to Lake Bled and it is indeed one of the most beautiful places in the world. I enjoyed a meal and a few cold beers on a terrace overlooking the lake. Afterwards I walked around the local area and enjoyed an ice cream whilst watching a spectacular sunset over the lake before heading back to my hotel to reflect on the day.

By Matt Hubbard

To be continued...

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Touring Ireland by Motorcycle

Why tour Ireland by motorcycle? Why not? I'm 52 years old, live only two hours from the port of Holyhead from where ferries leave for Dublin several times a day for a reasonable sum, and yet have never in my adult life been to Ireland.

So, why? I wasn't sure. We're taught nothing about Ireland in English schools. I've learned more about it from Father Ted on the television than anywhere else. The news has nothing good to say about the place. 

I'm quite happy to drive five hours to Calais to cross to Europe but never once thought about visiting Ireland. I suppose the main thing that made me not think about it was the rain. It does rain a lot.

And then I read a book called 'What Fresh Lunacy Is This?' which is a biography of Oliver Reed. The actor spent his final years in Ireland, in a small village in Cork. The depiction of the place interested me enough that I read some more about it, and then I bought a big paper map which I spread out on the floor and started planning a trip.

Four of us regularly travel to places on bikes. Last year we rode to the Pyrenees. We all agreed to do the Irish trip. I roughly planned a route and reckoned we could cover enough ground in four days.

So we all booked ferry crossings, and I planned the trip in more detail. 

When I route plan I set hard points and let us decide which way to go on the day. I plan options so we can make decisions on the fly. I booked three hotels - in Kilkenny, Killarney, and Ballina. And worked out mileages and waypoints.

We were set. Two weeks to go. And then one of us, my brother Colin, was knocked off his motorcycle by a driver who wasn't looking and appeared from out of a junction and into the side of him. He suffered a broken collar bone, every rib, scaphoid and kneecap.

In the hospital the extent of his injuries was identified. Luckily there were no issues with his spine or brain. He would heal. It would take a long time but he would heal.

We discussed what to do. Colin wanted us to go. One chap didn't want to go with Colin out of action, but two of us - Nik and me - decided we would.

NB - Little Col did come on the trip. Take a look at the photo at the very bottom of this article.

Day 1

Nik, arrived at my house at 7am. The ferry was sailing at 10.40am from Holyhead. We left at 8.15am and blasted across Wales and Anglesey on the A55 in two hours. We ate breakfast in a cafe in Holyhead and then halfway through a sausage I realised it was half an hour til sailing and we chomped what we could in thirty seconds, jumped on the bikes and headed for the port.

At 2pm we had unloaded and were in Dublin. The port is the same as any port in any city. Industrial and rather bleak. I wanted to see the GPO and Nik wanted to see Temple Bar so we headed into the city centre.

Dublin's roads are the most anti-motorcycle I've even encountered. Most roads have a wide lane for cyclists, and then another for buses, and taxis. And then another for everything else. So whilst private hire vehicles carrying civil servants on expenses, and bicycles have free abandon the motorcycles are stuck in a single lane so narrow it's impossible to filter past lorries ands coaches and cars. 

And it was hot. Very hot. On a motorbike you need a bit of speed to feel the cool air but for most of the time we were stuck behind some HGV. We stopped a couple of times to take photos, got separated trying to find Temple Bar, and gave up on the city.

To the countryside...

Dublin to Kilkenny is only 125km and just over an hour so we thought we'd head south  and stop somewhere for a cuppa. We duly rode southwards on the M11 for a while and then at a random junction left the motorway and had a look at the map. 

We skirted the Wicklow mountains and stopped in a small village called Churchtown for refreshments, and here it was we encountered our first locals.

We were sat outside and I spilled my tea on Nik's phone, and said 'Shit!' and a woman who had been talking to Nik got the giggles which were contagious and soon enough I was giggling and it wasn't long before tears were streaming down our faces.

Riding though the Wicklow area reminded me of South Tyrol in Italy. Green, mountainous and open. It had the look and feel of the place, only with worse weather.

We arrived at your hotel in Kilkenny and the receptionist said 'Is that you lads with the motorcycles. Oh I love fecking motorbikes and I got a 125 and me da' said you want a bigger fecking bike than that and I said I'd better fecking save up then'

She was a genuine delight, and helpful with where to eat that night. Not until I'd had my first Guinness though!

Day 2

It rained overnight and was drizzling as we packed up and headed out. This day was to be a morning on the motorway followed by an afternoon tour of the Ring of Kerry.

We took the M8 to Cork. Irish roads (outside Dublin) are generally quiet. Speed limits are about the same as in England and are usually adhered to. But there was no evidence of any speed cameras or police, so we thought it safe add a few kph to the limit as a good cruising speed.

We stopped at Sneem, absolutely wet through. It had drizzled heavily all morning. Not quite rain, not quite dry. But wet enough to make us miserable, and for our phones to stop charging. We took solace in a cafe, had some lunch and dried out. A bit.

After lunch we started the Ring of Kerry. The ring is a 100km route around the Kerry peninsula. It's world famous and takes in various sites such as the Skellig Isle, Waterville village and miles of rugged, beautiful coastline. It felt to me like Highway One in California - only more wet.

The roads were busier than any others we'd encountered so far in Ireland, and we saw for the first time something we'd see more of as we progressed - American tourists. They were there in coaches and rental cars en masse.

It was really quite a lovely place but the weather tempered the experience somewhat. At one point we parked at a statue of Mary high up on the cliff at Com an Chiste. It's advertised as a viewpoint but you could only see maybe 100 metres.

We stopped in a place called Rossbeigh to take in the views of the beach before the final hour's ride to Killarney.

Killarney town was larger than I'd imagined. I thought that out here in western Ireland the towns would be small and only populated by locals. How wrong could I be. The rain had cleared up as we walked to town and we ate in a place called Paris, Texas which did great food, and then moved on to a pub called Killarney Grand which did great Guinness and had an Irish band and we talked at length to a chef who was half cut. It was a good evening.

Day 3

The next morning we left early and the weather looked good. No rain forecast. A friend on twitter had recommended we try the Shannon ferry from Tarbert in County Kerry north to Killimer in County Clare.

The ferry crossing was fun. It took twenty minutes and was smooth. One coach, four motorcycles and bunch of cars. The lady who took your money for the crossing was another delightful personality, full of jokes and general happiness.

Once in Clare the trip stepped up a gear. 

The road east from Killimer is an R road, which is the Irish equivalent to the English A road. Only there was no-one on it. The limit is 100kmh but you can safely travel at more than that if you've your wits about you.

Then we decided to find the real Craggy Island Parochial House which is actually a large detached house in the stunning Burren National Park. The road there was an L road which is Ireland's equivalent to the unclassified road. It was narrow, had grass growing in the middle, and bumpy. Huge fun.

At one point we stopped in a place called Six Cross Roads, which was exactly that. A pair of border collies guarded a statue of Mary. I said hello to the collies and Herself and we headed north to Burren. The views were stunning with mountains rising up in the background and seas of rocky outcrops either side of the road.

My Triumph Tiger 900 Rally Pro was perfect on these roads. Stood up or sat down the chassis absorbed all bumps and the ride was comfortable. Nik on his Honda VFR1200 enjoyed them less so.

We found Father Ted's house which provided a frisson of excitement! I took a few photos and we carried on through the spectacular Burren National Park to lunch in Kinnane.

After a great start the day just got better and better. 

We passed through Galway and along the coast to Inverin where we turned north and through the mountains and lakes (Loughs) to Camus Oughter and on to our hotel in Ballina.

But pause, rewind. That afternoon's ride was possibly the best of my life. The dead quiet mountain roads were a revelation. This, in Galway and then Mayo, is where I found the Ireland I loved.

Vast open spaces. Not for the first time was I reminded of America. Western Ireland's roads are well maintained and very quiet. Sometimes they twist and turn and you can flip the bike from one side to the other - my brand new tyres were worn right to the edges - and sometimes they are long and straight and with rocky spaces on either side with mountains in the distance and a view to die for.

And then I started to notice the details. Ireland is a lush, green place. Emerald Isle indeed - must be the rain. And there are cows everywhere. Sometimes tiny fields in between houses will have three for four cows quietly grazing under leaden skies.

Not only cows but donkeys! So many donkeys. At one point on a particular lunar landscape of rocks and not much else stood a lone donkey chewing at a small patch of grass.

The houses tend to be detached and often single storey and line the roads with cow fields in between. White, cream or stone coloured they are rendered and surrounded by sturdy rendered walls often with decorative columns. Some may say this architectural style is twee but in it I saw a proud people who like to take care of their appearance.

As described elsewhere speed limits are generally adhered to, but sometimes drivers stay well under the limit, and find a long train of vehicles behind. It's not unusual to see twenty or thirty cars in a slow moving convoy for mile after mile.

It was fun overtaking them all. And when I did none of them reacted badly, like they do in Wales or England.

Day 4

Dark skies overhead but no rain. We had a few hours until the ferry so we decided to stay off the motorway except for the final section into Dublin.

I set the satnav for a place called Cavan and we were soon whisked into a biker's fantasy of completely empty, perfectly paved, roads. Sometimes miles long which allowed super fast cruising, and then mile after mile of twists and turns. Absolute heaven.

We came across a classic car show as they were leaving a village, and ended up in the convoy, being photographed and videoed by a clapping and cheering populace. Well I had to wave back didn't I?

And then we were on the N3 motorway, which turned into the M3 - though I don't know the difference. Part of this was a toll road and motorcycles were charged 80 cents which I thought very reasonable.

So it was we waited an age at the port for the ship that was late to leave and late to arrive in Holyhead. A two hour blast home and the trip was over.

Over four days we covered 1,000 miles. I know some people like to take life slower and to see more of where they are. But I like to stretch things out. Get into the groove, enjoy the road and see the sights, sounds, smells and action as I pass it.

I loved Ireland. I learned a lot about it and its people. I learned I knew very little about it before I went and that four days wasn't nearly enough to learn much more.

I will be back.

By Matt Hubbard

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The Pyrenees by Motorcycle, or There and Back Again

For an introduction to the trip - who, why, how - see this link.

The day before we were due to leave was one of excitement and nerves. I had bought and packed tools, a puncture repair kit, duct tape, zip ties, chain cleaner and most things required to get a poorly bike going again, should it be needed. We had all bought breakdown cover. Everything was booked and set and sorted. 

We were all experienced motorcyclists. And yet we were all as nervous as you would be heading into an important job interview. Whatsapp messages flew back and forth. Have you packed this? I'm planning to wear this, how about you? The weather looks iffy, what if it rains all the time? Are French toilets still a hole in the ground?

I've driven in France multiple times, including earlier in the year for Le Mans. Colin is well travelled but had only driven in France once before. Nik has been to a few places but had never been to France. None of us had ever ridden a motorcycle in a foreign country.

Even at fifty years old the anticipation of new experiences can make you feel a little lost.

However by the evening of the day before I knew I had prepared as well as I possibly could. I slept like a log.

Nik is a truck driver by trade and as such wakes at 5am. Despite us agreeing to leave my house at 9.30am he arrived at 7.30am. He'd been up for hours and wanted to get going. I had only just stepped out of the shower.

Colin arrived at 8.30am. If you remember from part one my back had gone ping and was causing me a huge amount of pain. Colin helped me pull my bike out of the garage and onto the road. We lined up the bikes for a photo. We all had satnav of some kind - Nik and I were using Google Maps on our phones, and Colin had a posh Garmin satnav (that proved to be pretty useless).

And at 9.03am exactly we were off.

I hadn't ridden my bike with panniers before. They stick out massively and I thought they would be like sails. But after a few miles on the motorway I didn't notice them at all. My back was causing me some gyp but I realised if I twisted and stretched a little, and shifted my weight about it would be just fine.

Our Eurotunnel train was booked for 4.50pm and at 3.30pm we arrived at Folkestone. For some daft reason the M20 had been reduced to 50mph for about ten miles, and lorries were guided into a separate lane and were limited to 30mph. However the weather had been fine and there had been no queues on the motorways and we had all enjoyed a good blast down south.

We were waved through check in and customs quickly and given a place on an earlier train, so at 4.10pm were were wobbling our way onto the last carriage of the train that would take us under the sea and into France.

It was hot in Folkestone and we'd all suffered in the sun whilst loading. The train carriage was empty save for our three motorcycles. It was also boiling hot but thankfully beautifully cooled air was pumped into our carriage.

The crossing was over in just a few minutes. We even had mobile coverage for most of the subterranean trip.

We departed Tunnel sous La Manche and were in France. Where they drive on the wrong side of the road. We had been telling each other repeatedly. WRONG side. Right side, wrong, wrong side.

We left the Eurotunnel complex and immediately filled up with fuel. It cost fifty pence per litre less than in the UK. We were ecstatic. I was even more ecstatic when I bought a bottle of Orangina, my favourite drink.

Our hotel was in Bolougne, a half hour ride from Calais. It was a lovely hotel but the French chap serving drinks was quite surly, and took great delight in underfilling our glasses, and became even more surly when Colin asked for his to be topped up. Well, what did you expect for eight euros for 500ml.

Dinner was a short walk away in the medieval centre of town. Which was a good job because my back was almost totally seized and causing me much discomfort. After some faffing about we decided on a typical French restaurant (they were all typical French restaurants) and enjoyed enormous steaks (pas de cheval s'il vous plait) and frites. I did all the ordering as my smattering of French was more than Colin and Nik were able. 

I had asked for a peppercorn sauce and enjoyed dipping bits of my pas de cheval in it. Colin and I both have a pathological hatred of mushrooms and he was convinced the sauce contained champignons. As we finished and the waitress was clearing our table Colin asked if there were any mushrooms in the sauce. Of course not, I said. Un peu, she said, which none of us understood. But we did understand when she held her forefinger and thumb slightly apart. A little...

Colin was victorious. I had eaten the dreaded trumpets of death - even if it was 'un peu'.

We slept well and I awoke at 5am in pain with my back again. I breakfasted early and found Nik outside, on his second Marlboro of the day. We both decided we should wake Colin and get going.

With clear skies overhead we hit the road. Our destination was a small town called Niort, 410 miles south and about two thirds of the way down the west coast of France.

It was a day of autoroutes. These roads are fantastic but expensive. The limit is 130kph, which is 81mph. Every now and again you stop at a toll booth, take a ticket and carry on. Then later on you stop again and put your ticket in the machine and it charges you for the distance and the class of vehicle. Bikes are the cheapest but if you go in the wrong lane (there can be twenty to choose from) it can charge you the highest rate - as Nik once found to his cost.

The sun beat down all morning and by lunchtime it was 30ºC. Even at 80mph you feel hot. It's like sitting in the blast of a hair dryer. You open vents and undo buttons and it's still hot. The heat makes you weary.

By 5pm we were all exhausted. But we had miles to go. We were all getting a little irritable. Nik had bought a new helmet just before the trip and the buckle was digging into his chin, leaving a bruise. 

We found a place to stop in the shade. He'd had enough of the buckle. I dug into my panniers and found the toolkit. In it was a pair of pliers with a cutting edge. We used this clumsy tool to snip away at the plastic that was causing him the most discomfort. Hurrah! It worked.

At 7pm we finally arrived at our hotel. Weary and still hot we piled into the bar for a beer like we'd hadn't drunk anything for an eternity. Damn it tasted good, even if it cost eight euros for 500ml.

That night we ate at an American style diner which was next to the hotel. Not very French but gloriously welcome after our long day on the road. The three amigos clinked glasses and exchanged stories of our adventures so far.

The next morning Nik and I awoke at 5am and were ready to go for 7am. Colin was still asleep so we bombarded him with Whatsapp messages until he arose, and as the sun rose over a new day we were loaded and ready.

Our destination was Pamplona. Viva Espana!

Day three was half autoroute and half mountain. By lunchtime we were off the autoroute and on to rural French roads.  The sun was really beating down and we stopped at a roadside diner for jambon and fromage baguettes with a cold Coke and a dose of welcome air conditioning. 

We headed towards a place called Saint Palais, purely because the roads looked interesting, and they didn't disappoint. The D933 takes you into the French Pyrenees and at some point it becomes the N135 and the Spanish Pyrenees, only you don't notice until you see road signs and numberplate and realise you've crossed into another country.

That afternoon I rode the best roads I've ever experienced. I was totally in my element. Hairpins and sharp bends on mountain sides. Despite riding an adventure bike loaded with luggage I was braking as late and hard and leaning as much as I dared in corners. And the corners just came at me, one after another. Sharp turn, tyres squirming, short straight, red line the engine and overtake a car or two, brake hard, shift weight a little to aid stopping and then turning. 

On and on they went until the most spectacular vista and an area to stop and take stock. We all stripped off coats and helmets, had a drink and larked around awhile, full of vim from the exhilaration.

The rest of the day continued in the same vein until we came down out of the mountains and into Pamplona's suburbs. All our satnavs said different things and we were all a little grumpy after a hard day's ride. We turned this way and that until we found the hotel. As with all of them I'd chosen it for secure parking and a decent bar nearby.

The area around the hotel felt a little rough but we headed to a restaurant the hotel receptionist had suggested and tucked into simple but delicious food, and cheap, cold beer. The Spanish people were welcoming and friendly but none of us could understand a word they said, though Google translate helped us out.

We sat in an outdoor bar in a town square and drank a few beers and by 10pm were all headed to the hotel and to sleep the sleep of the exhausted once again.

Up early and we spent twenty minutes trying to order breakfast. In the end we pointed at things and this seemed to work. I eneded up with a small egg and chorizo baguette and it was delicious. 

The day's roads were entirely amazing. We headed east out of Pamplona along an autoroute surrounded on both sides by mountains topped with thousands of motionless wind turbines. Within half an hour we had turned off onto a smaller road and stopped to take photos, including the one below.

Then we rode along a valley floor. Mountains miles away on either side. Hot in the sun and cold in the shade. I spotted a few red kites, and a golden eagle. Huge, spectacular birds. I felt honoured to have seen them.

The road climbed and climbed. We were heading for Lourdes, simply to take us south to north across the mountains. Small roads that in the UK would be B roads but with perfect surfaces took us higher and higher, with hairpins to enjoy. I was so focussed and at times had to tell myself to enjoy the view as much as the next corner apex.

By this point I felt invincible. Completely at one with the bike. My inputs were entirely unconscious. The bike and I were mentally entwined, elemental. I was in the zone and nothing, not even the relentless heat, could shake me out of it. 

We'd stop every so often to take photos and chat. The natural order of the ride was me first (partially because I was in charge of the route and partially because I like to ride fast), then Colin, and then Nik. We all understood that we'd stretch out along a stage, but that we'd catch up when a junction or turn off was approaching. 

We arrived in Lourdes hot and pretty worn out from the mental intensity of the morning's ride. We stopped immediately opposite the famous Notre-Dame de Lourdes and as we were on a hill none of us could put our side stands down - and a lady had shouted at me as I reversed to the pavement. 

Nik wanted to stop somewhere in Lourdes but I was really feeling the heat and the place felt like a religious Blackpool. And as it was so hilly there wasn't anywhere obvious to stop, so I rode straight through and on. This didn't go down so well. I should have stopped really, but..ah well.

From Lourdes we headed south and into the mountains again towards our evening's destination.

Vielha is a skiing village during the winter, and a popular tourist venue during the summer. There were no ugly buildings, only rather lovely chalet style houses and hotels. By this point my back was rather less painful so we walked a way to find a dinner venue, had a drink in one place that looked promising but the food was an unappetising looking tapas. 

Finally we stopped at a modern pizzeria and ate and drank well. And once again it was cheap. The differences between French and Spanish prices couldn't be more stark. In France a beer costs eight euros, in Spain it is three. 

We were now halfway through the trip and the next morning headed east and passed through more mountain roads that at times were covered in some kind of animal dung. We soon saw why. Pyrenees horses roamed free. Gorgeous creatures with distinctive sounding bells tied around their necks. We also saw huge flocks of sheep - often round blind corners. You'd see them and slam the anchors on, sit up and slow to a crawl whilst they passed, unphased.

By late morning we hit a border post. We had no idea why. I obviously hadn't researched this part of the trip very well because we were entering a sovereign micro state called Andorra. We didn't have to show our passports but several vehicles were pulled over for inspection and we were waved through.

At lunch we arrived at Lake Engolasters - the reason for our trip. A huge body of water and much busier than I'd imagined. Seeing it from an aeroplane it looked isolated, alone in the mountains. From the ground it is reached via a steep, twisting road lined with houses. We had hoped to lunch at the hotel just off the car park which overlooks the lake but it was closed.

We carried on through Andorra. It felt very strange. A busy city laid out along a winding road high up in the mountains. We needed food and stopped at a couple of places only to find them closed. We were also running late and had a long motorway run ahead of us. We stopped for fuel and bought yet more jambon and fromage sandwiches. 

The rest of the day was motorway. We passed back into Spain and then France and at 6.30pm arrived at Chateau de Lacan in Brive la Gallard. It was a lovely hotel in a suburban area of town. The only place to eat was a pizzeria, but the pizza was lovely. And the beer was eight euros.

The rest of the trip took two days. We covered 780 miles during those two days. Long and tough. The twelve kilometre tunnel under Paris was hot and humid. The channel crossing was a welcome break. Once in England the driving standards were noticeably worse than on the continent. In France people want to get along as fast as possible, and if you are not overtaking you stay in the outside lane.

It also rained on us for the first time in a week. On the content we encountered no rain, no traffic (aside from in Paris), no middle lane hoggers. On our journey back to Cheshire we encountered all three.

Indeed at points the rain was so intense it was difficult to see.

We arrived home late afternoon, seven days after we had left. The bikes filthy and our clothing wet. We were exhausted, but elated.

It had been a fantastically enjoyable trip.

By Matt Hubbard

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The Pyrenees by Motorcycle, or There and Back Again - Introduction

Last year my son and I flew to Mallorca for a long weekend. We enjoyed our days in the sun and flew home cattle class. Now the children are adults I get the window seat as I take far more enjoyment watching the world below than they ever did.

And as we flew across the Pyrenees I watched in wonder at the ribbons of tarmac linking isolated communities high up in the mountains. On first glance the landscape below was nothing but mountains, jagged and messy and wild. It's only when you concentrate that you see what humans have made in between the peaks. 

There was evidence of life everywhere, despite the seemingly hostile conditions. In between the mountain tops I would see lakes, and some had squared off edges that meant they'd been dammed and the water used for...what? Hydroelectricity or drinking water I presumed.

And then I saw one huge lake. It's shape unusual and interesting enough that I stared at it as we flew over and then when I couldn't see it anymore I made a vow.

One day I will visit the Pyrenees, and I'll find that lake.

On arrival at home I bought a paper map of the Pyrenees, laid it out on the kitchen counter and tried to find the lake. I hadn't taken a photo of it, and my memory is terrible, but I knew that when I found it I would know.

And I did. It took a couple of days but I found the lake. When I saw it I had a Eureka moment. 

After finding the lake my immediate decision was that I'd visit just after the summer holidays in 2022, and I'd go by motorcycle. At first I was happy to go by myself as it was a bit of a personal mission but when I mentioned it to my brother, Colin, he immediately said he'd like to go with me. 

And then when I next visited my cousin, Liz, and her husband, Nick, and mentioned what I was doing Liz immediately volunteered Nik. "It'll do you good," she said. 

So that was that. Three amigos on a mission to Spanish mountains. For whom the motorcycle bell tolls.

I love preparing for trips like this. I started working out places to visit, and to work out distances. It soon became apparent it was going to be a bit of a monster trip with some long motorway sections. We all agreed we would do it in seven days, not least because we're tight with days off and holiday leave.

We could have opted to take the overnight ferry from Portsmouth to Santander but I quickly discounted that. It would eat up 30-odd hours each way, cost an absolute fortune, and, frankly, was a cop out. This trip was going to be a proper adventure. An ordeal and a challenge. Not an easy cruise over the channel and a bimble around the mountains. I wanted us to really ride our bikes and test ourselves, and stay in interesting places along the way.

Colin and Nik both made it clear they were happy to leave all organisation up to me and would go along with my plans. They listened as I told them about the distances and weren't phased.

The first problem that arose was Nik's arthritic hands. He doesn't suffer badly but on a previous trip to Scotland he really suffered after a couple of days and could barely pull the clutch lever. Colin, more experienced in the motorcycle market, took him along to a motorcycle superstore and show him a Honda VFR1200 with DCT gearbox. This is essentially a manual gearbox with an automated clutch, just as in many modern cars. 

There and then Nik traded in his Kawasaki for a 2015 VFR1200 in blood red. After a couple of rides he was perfectly tuned to the strange auto gearbox, and quite happy with it.

Then, nearer the start of the trip, Colin decided he didn't like his bike - a BMW R1200RS. He'd owned it for some time but it had always produced an odd buffeting around the neck and helmet area that gave him ear issues. He'd tried earplugs and different screens but nothing made it better. I had a ride on it and the buffeting produced a negative pressure which I felt in my ears. With that confirmation he sold the bike.

Without a bike suitable for a 2000 mile plus tour he turned to a friend who was looking to sell a 2004 Honda VFR800, with full luggage set of panniers and top box. A price was agreed and Colin had as suitable bike.

I've owned a Triumph Tiger 900 Rally Pro for a year or so and knew it is what I would take on the trip. I have a top box but bought a set of panniers at great expense. 

Just a couple of days before the trip, and with all hotels and Eurotunnel crossings booked, maps marked up, communication headsets bought and tested, clothing chosen and readied, bikes serviced, extra undies and socks bought, I was sitting on my garage floor packing my panniers.

I turned to pick something up and felt an agonising pain in my lower spine. I tried to stand up, and couldn't. I rolled onto my hands and knees and hauled myself upright. I stood and took stock. I was in absolute agony, and it wasn't going away.

Something had gone ping in my back. Would I be able to even sit on a motorcycle, never mind ride it for nine hours a day, seven days in a row? 

I called my son into the garage for assistance, necked some painkillers, and gingerly lifted a leg over the bike, made more difficult by the huge panniers now bolted to it.

I could sit on it, I could reach the pegs and handlebars, but it hurt like hell.

I did some thinking. It took fifteen seconds to decide. I was still going on the trip. Nothing was going to stop me.

Part two available soon...

In agony, but able to sit on a bike

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Witnessing the aftermath of a horrific crash

 I left home early to get to Yorkshire in time for the survey I was due to attend. It had snowed the night before but though the garden had looked pretty in white at 11pm it had almost all melted by 7am. At 8am I was in my car, heating on, heated seat on, windscreen cleared. 

I reversed out of my drive and drove slowly down the road which was still covered with a patchy layer of white. It's a long cul de sac which sees little traffic, and slopes downhill to the end so whenever we've had snow or ice you have to be careful not to slide inexorably towards the scene of a collision.

Safely out of the village I hit the busy dual-carriageway A-road which took me eastwards. The sky was grey and the dirty water on the road was being kicked up by HGVs and large SUVs piloted by small people. 

Unavoidably two abreast at 50mph there were a few occasions when the sheer volume of spray caused by the intersection of juggernauts and Audi Q8s temporarily reduced visibility to nought. You hold your breath, slow a little - but not so much that the car behind panic brakes and causes a concertina crash - and cover the brakes. 

The journey continued in this vein until I reached the motorway. The M56 east and then the M60 heading past Stockport and eventually north around Manchester and towards the M62.

The skies were clear but the spray continued to impede vision. I would avoid the SUVs and HGVs wherever possible. Some people drive right in their wake, seeing nothing but giant tyres and a dirty cloud of spray. I hold back, wait for my chance to pass. Visibility is key in these circumstances. You need to understand what other drivers are doing, what you think they are going to do, where they are going, whether they are on their phone, in a temper, in a dream.

One large woman in a red Fiat 500 with wheel trims sat on my bumper for a mile. I could not move over due to traffic, would not speed up due to spray and could do nothing but keep my eye on her and anticipate what she might do and what I could do if a hazard ahead caused an emergency brake. Eventually I moved left and she passed, her eyes looking down at something on the dash instead of the road, to do the same to the next driver.

We were all happily moving along at pace when I saw a disturbance ahead and to my left. I was in lane four and something was going on. I could detect it in the micro-movements of vehicles around me

I slowed a little to avoid debris in the road, a piece of black plastic. Then an articulated lorry moved across from lane two and went to stop, blocking lanes one and two. Everybody was slowing. My mind was in emergency mode. Time slowed.

I saw a car, a white or silver Honda I think. Only its passenger side still existed. It had hit been hit at an almighty speed by something unstoppable. It was stationary and facing towards me on the hard shoulder. The HGV that had swerved had been blocking the road to stop traffic from getting close. This was deadly serious. Whoever had been in the Honda must be dead. I knew it.

Maybe five cars were stopped by now. People were racing to the remains of the Honda. There were enough on scene. Me stopping wouldn't help anyone. I carried on.

I couldn't get the thought of the Honda out of my mind. I thought about all the people impacted by losing a loved one. I thought about a pet dog waiting for its mum or dad to come home. I thought about children who did not yet know a parent had been killed.

I forgot the name of everyone I was at the survey with. I kept having to look at my notes. My brain was numb. I've never seen anything like that before.

I drove home in the afternoon in even worse conditions. The stupidity and arrogance of dozens of drivers in sleet and freezing rain amazed me. I beeped my horn at several who just drifted across lanes because they were on the phone.

And all day I thought of that Honda. 

I got home and checked the North West Motorway Police twitter account. They mentioned it briefly. People who had seen the crash were distraught. One lady and I who had seen it comforted each other. Another lady said her son was in the car and she was worried how he would be at school after having seen it. One man wrote "Went past just after it happened. Loads of public literally ripping the roof off the car. Hope everyone is OK."

Literally ripping the roof off the car.

As with everything I will eventually forget what I saw, but the family of the victim(s) won't. And neither will their pets.

By Matt Hubbard

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Automotive Simplicity

I've always valued simplicity in a car. Give me just what I need and no more. More equals weight and weight is bad. You have to put more effort into going forwards with more weight. You have to build bigger brakes and suffer stiffer suspension with more weight. This adds more expense, more complexity and yet more weight.

Yet complexity for the sake of complexity seems to be the way we are heading. As well as valuing simplicity I also value space, comfort and speed. I like a car to carry me emotionally as well as physically. I once drove a Toyota Yaris to Sussex and arrived at my destination brain dead. It was a hollow experience.

Balancing all these values brought me to buying a Mk7 Golf GTI. I've owned it a year and love its combination of speed, comfort and relative light weight. At 1400kg it's not too porky.

However I have recently discovered it is complex. Far too complex. We had packed the Golf for a long needed week in Cornwall. 250 miles and four hours. It would be a breeze. Adaptive cruise control set to 79 and a couple of editions of the Talking Sopranos podcast and we'd be in Perranporth in the blink of an eye.

Only it didn't turn out that way. Within half a mile of leaving home the coolant warning light came on. I got out, observed the trail of fluid we'd left behind and turned back for home.  I opened the bonnet and found that whatever fluid I put in the header tank was escaping at speed through an unspecified location amidst a mess of wires, pipes and something called camshaft adjustment actuators at the back of the engine. We unpacked everything from the Golf and repacked it in my son's Seat Mii - a sibling to the VW Up! - and set off for Cornwall.

I had previously ignored the Mii for anything other than local journeys. It is a fabulous little car. Small outside, spacious inside, comfortable and simple. The driver's seat has far less support than the Golf's, there is no cruise control, no arm rests, no cubby spaces for storage.

Yet the seat was comfortable, there was enough space, we crammed everything in the Mii that had been in the Golf. It cruised along at motorway speeds with nary a complaint from any occupant. My phone provided satnav and the Talking Sopranos podcasts through the car's stereo. It has electric windows, which I consider an essential, and it has heating and A/C, also an essential. What it lacks is cruise control. That's the only thing I really missed.

Despite only having a 1 litre engine with 60 bhp the Mii delivered us to Cornwall in a relaxed and happy state. The Golf would not have been any faster over the entire journey.

And when in Cornwall the Mii continued to delight. Its low weight means the suspension is soft and this was perfect for trekking round awfully paved roads and gravel tracks to find beach car parks. The car's small dimensions, neutral steering and light clutch made Cornish lanes easy to navigate and the tiny brakes were plenty enough to stop us quickly when faced with oncoming SUVs at mighty speed around blind Cornish bends.

And finally when we drove home I was quite tired after three hours driving so we pulled into Leigh Delamere services and my son was able to drive the rest of the way home. He isn't insured on the Golf because it would cost about a million pounds.

When we arrived home my mechanic friend came round and showed me his investigations into the Golf's coolant loss. It could be anything from a blown head gasket to a simple pipe failing. But because it is in a location surrounded by technological gubbins he would rather a specialist look at it. So I've booked a mobile Volkswagen specialist to come and investigate. The bill will potentially be ruinous.

I have learned over the course of the past week that despite the Mii producing around 170bhp less than the Golf it is far more its equal than I had imagined. You really have to drive the little car. You use the gears to overcome the lack of power and you hustle it round corners to keep the speed up. It is a fun car to drive and it engages you more than many a faster, more expensive, more luxurious, heavier and more complex car.

The Golf is still a better all round car than the Mii but not by the margin I expected. Once the Golf is fixed I am seriously considering swapping it in for a simpler, lighter machine. But it must have cruise control and electric windows.

By Matt Hubbard

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