Wine

Og and I have been known to enjoy a glass of red; in fact it was the third bottle one night a year or so ago that spawned this trip.

I've never been a great fan of the lighter reds we get in Oz, but was pleasantly surprised by the Italian reds we tried. Good colour, full flavoured, slightly lower alcohol content and less tannin. Very, very drinkable. From the villa we discovered one day a local drop, "Montipuciano", which was a snip at €7.78 a bottle, which is A$13.26 according to calculations.

Whilst this does not sound cheap, you need to consider how much you get. 750ml bottles are pretentious, and we first tried Montipuciano in 1.5 litre bottles. It was so good we had to buy the big bottles; that's FIVE LITRES for €7.78, Equivalent to almost 7 standard bottles at A$2 each! Waaaayyyy to go!!!

The 5 litre bottles are screw capped and refillable. We first encountered these in Firenze, where we had to buy one in a wine shop. This place had three stainless steel vats, each roughly a 200litre (44 gallon) drum on end size, with a dinky little tap on the bottom end. Select your bottle, select your variety (blanco, chianti, rosso) and watch it fill at €2.20 per litre. Adding the cost of the bottle, that made it an expensive €17 for 5 litres, for quite good wine, given the pretentious nature of the shop and the fact that we did buy in Firenze.

However, it would be a very good buy indeed to top the Montepuciano from the supermarket in Mercatale.

Roma, after the Villa and Venice now with pictures

Just a quick few words. I am in an internet cafe near the station in Rome, full ID documents supplied to prevent terrorism. Ha. In the last week or so there has been a coup in Thailand, and a very pleasant holiday in Italy, not connected.


I can't add photos to the blog from here, for the first time ever the Olympus will not install as an external disk on the computer. So in the mean time folks will have to imagine rolling hills, valleys filled with morning mist, local wine in 5 litre flagons, the azure blue of the swimming pool, walled cities, winding passageways, vaporetti on the Grand Canal...

Later, some piccies:

Roma and North by Og

Have dropped off bikes, collected the women, got the rental car and arrived at the villa in Umbria. Well Umbria by about 200m, the Tuscany/Umbria sign is just near the house. It is nice to have more than one night in a bed, and not to be boiling in black motorcycle clothes. Black Italian clothes instead.

Have just finished a blog update in Perugia (ppicture above), we have not been near an internet cafe with time to spare for a week.

Amalfi by Massey

I don't remember the last dispatch, so forgive any duplication or ommission.

The ferry to Bari was notable mainly for the great sleep. Bari is notable for being forgettable, but that gave us an opportunity to ride the Amalfi coast and thus completing the "big three" coastal rides. Across Italy to Salerno was a straightforward blat. Italian speed limits are very conservative, but universally ignored, so no worries at all. No worries apart from signage, that is.

The GPS has gone West (Poland roads have finally had their revenge, the Bluetooth has stopped), so we're on the analogue paper map and post-it notes on the windscreen system, thus dependent on road signs. Italian road signs tend to have a lot of information, which is not presented consistently. Your major destination may be anywhere amongst the many places listed, and not highlighted. There is also an Italian technique for signing something straight ahead which need adapting to. Elswhere, straight ahead is show with an "up" arrow. Here it's not. They use a "left" or a "right" arrow, set not quite square on. We think that a left arrow on the right and a right arrow on the left both mean straight ahead, wheras a left arrow on the left means turn left. Suffice to say that we have seen some parts of Italy that we had not planned to...

And so Salerno, and the Amalfi Coast. This doe deserve it's place at the top of the list of great coastal roads. It's stunning. Tight, narrow, good surface, spectacular scenery in the extreme (even on a hazy day) it wins, no contest. Unfortunately it carries the traffic of Chapel street on Saturday morning. If deserted it is a first and second gear ride, with rare snatches of third; but in traffic and 35*C heat was not as much fun as it might have been. At one stage Og lowered his arm and a stream of sweat ran from the cuff. Yuk. Despite the tightness, overtaking was easy and so threading through with second gear blasts was the way to go. There were heards of scooters, and it was very annoying that they were so hard to shake off.

The Sorrento end of the coast was not as spectacular, and it delivers in Napoli, which is far from attractive. So we took the motorway for Rome, a 95MPH blast. It's a toll road. take a ticket when you get on, pay according to distance travelled when you get off.

At the booth near Rome, I inserted my ticket. €11.50 owing, so a €2 coin in the slot, €10 note in the bill slot, change comes out, boom gate opens, I go through and wait for Og. Og inserts ticket, €11.50 owing. Feeds €10 note, machine burps and displays "please insert ticket". No credit, no ticket, and worst of all...no opening boom gate. Pushing the "help" button only gives the same recording in sing song Italian. After a short, if animated, period we discover that you can physically lift the boom gate enough to get a bike through.

And into Rome, to Og's mates Cath and Marco, arriving at about 8.00PM.

Wednesday.

We'd been in touch with the Moto Guzzi Club of Rome who had recommended a mechanic to service both bikes, tweak the errant fuel injection on Og's and fit long overdue fork seals in mine. Marco calledon our behalf and teed it up. Felice will be very happy to have both bikes for the 2 weeks that the girls are here, a great arrangement that suits both parties.

Felice speaks less English than I do Italian, but he has maybe 30 Guzzis in his workshop, from V7 to Breva. His workshop is in a basement, and has no external signage. "Look for the Guzzi on the ramp", his Le Mans III. Hopefully he's Rome's Barry Jones. We'll find out in a fortnight.

After a great time in Turkey, we're back in Og's second home, Thessaloniki. A fantastic night with Yanna and Petros last night, Greek BBQ with Petros' selection of very fine Greek reds.

This morning we set of for Igounomitsa, to catch our ferry to Italy. Og wants to go via Meteora, and since I have never heard of the place, don't argue. It's a drag getting out of town, and then a highway run for a couple of hours. We turn off for Meteora and hit the twisty bits. Meteora is a group of monasteries build on absurdly inaccessible rock heights. If only they had used that energy and initiative for something for the greater benefit. It's a great riding road, but choked with tourist busses to the extent that they block each other, so they unload where they're jammed. We dodge busses, tourists etc and are impressed by the effort that has been applied here.

From there we head to Ioannina, and this is where my education has progressed. I did not realise that Greece has Alps, let alone Alpine passes, let alone a sequence of them nearly 250km in length! These are serious passes, through ski resorts, hairpins upon hairpins until it levels out at Igoumenitsa, at sea level. The road surface is generally ok, but there are some very, very slippery bits of worn surface amongst it. We've both had a number of very disconcerting front end slides, fortunately all recovered from. This road carries a lot of traffic from the ferry terminals, particularly trucks. The road is only one lane each way, double lines almost all the way. Redeeming feature is that this is a Greek road; the lanes are one and a half cars wide, and double lines have no meaning here. Drivers are good and keep to the edge when they can. It's easy to pass, and I've enjoyed a great day of sportsman-like riding, a nice change.

I've also learnt that the first part of the California to scrape is the footboard, followed very soon after by the pannier... too much fun, methinks.

So now we are in a cafe in Igoumenitsa awaiting the 7.30 boarding for our ferry to Bari. We've drunk the place out of local beer; three in total!

Sometime later:

• We're booked on the 9 o'clock ferry to Bari via Korfu. The girl in the agency was particularly helpful, pricing various options on different sailings. Yo can book a single room, a twin room, or a 4 bed room. For us to share a twin room for the overnight crossing would have cost €236; but the hot tip is that they only have 4 bed rooms. Book for a single, and you get to share with three empty beds, so......
• Og has the room, I'm notionally in a seat. We board. We go to reception. My ticket is thrust back at me. "No cabin!", so I retire to the lounge with my panniers. Og, however, is feted. A porter (!!!!!!!) carries his panniers to his state room, while I sit waiting. Eventually, a freshly showered and clean-clothed Og wanders back to my unwashed company. The door-bitch is a tyrant, guarding the access to the cabins as if she paid for them with her own money. So I go via the outside deck, park my stuff in the cupboard, have a quick wash and make a tactical withdrawal to the bar.
• Hopefully she'll give up early, but the weather is fine and calm, so access via the outside deck mick just be prudent.

Posting comments

Some folks have been asking about posting to the blog. You should be able to post as Anonymous by going through the Comments section. That does not apply to spammers!

Breakfast in Istanbul, not a bad view.

Istanbul

Well we have made it, we are in Istanbul where the keyboard has a choice of the letter 'i'. Decided to visit Gallipoli on the way instead of after, took the ferry to Chanakale for the night then rode around the areas of interest yesterday. Cape Helles, Anzac Cove. What a stupid place to land troops.

While enjoying the sea view at Chanakale I was sharing some of my limited knowldge of Islam wıth Massey, explaining the Haj and that the older men with the beanies had probably made the pilgrimage and could be comfortably addressed as Haji. Massey never believes what I say. At Anzac Cove yesterday 2 kids started chatting to us while we were eating, the 'what is your nom' and 'how old are you' type stuff. When they heard how old Massey was, the boy called hım Haji!. The grey beard helped. And because I was so nice, he called me baclava.

So Haji is out at the moment visiting Aga Sophia, I am attempting to upload some images which has been only partly successful. Tried again, no luck.

İt gets worse... by Massey

My last entry was written from the roadside while we waited for the car wrecks to be cleared. Foolishly, we thought this might be quick. After more than 3 hours there was no sign. More polis and the crash investigator with his tape measure.

We were looking at the map when one of the Polis came over and indicated an alternate route to bypass the blockage. So back to the last exit, into the village and I led us up the totally wrong road. This was a really rough, rocky track, and the ford was the real indication that it was wrong. Back to the village and Og gets us onto the right track.

Track is the key word. A single vehicle width rocky track that is doubtless the old road, and which follows beside the railway line. Not a road for which a Guzzi California is designed. First and second gear we pick though. There is some car traffic coming the other way, a comforting indication that this is the right road after all. Farm traffic is donkey drawn carts. I pick my way past a cart, expecting to find Og in the mirrors, but he's not there. Wait. Turn around, not easy on the rocks and narrow track.

Fearing the worst, I am relieved to see Og standing and the bike upright. The front of the bike is down the embankment, the weight taken on the sump and left cylinder. Two of us haul it back, no damage done other to senses of humour, which are hard taxed by now.

Moving off, we can see the highway on the other side of the valley. We see the long line of stationary cars and trucks, and are really peeved to see that they have started moving past the crash site. This silly detour would have saved us perhaps 10 minutes if I hadn't got us lost.

Naturally, we're at the tail end of a long queue at the border, where the guards have had a quiet afternoon with no traffic at all and are not pleased by a sudden workload. We fry in the 35* heat, hot. dirty, sweaty, dehydrated, tired, and not even a small bit happy.

Now we're fully two days behind the plan. Istanbul is not an option for tonight. We change plans. Thessaloniki for the night, a rest, and head for Istanbul tomorrow. By dropping the circumnavigation of the Sea of Marmara and the Venice ferry we can pick up those days.

Og does brilliantly in Thessaloniki, an air conditioned room at the back of a small hotel; cool and quiet. Out of the bike gear, cool showers, clean clothes, much better. I am feeling crook from the tribulations of the day. Og wants to show me Thessaloniki, a place he knows well. All I want to do is go to sleep, somehow Og has fired up. We go out to eat, first call the cash machine, which is when I discover that I have lost my Visa card, last used over the counter at a bank in Montenegro.

It gets worse. My phone, which does the email but also has multi-zone clock feature, has been playing up. Not so much the phone itself, but the juggling between service providers has confused it's little tin brain. Realising the seriousness of the lost card, I need to tell Robyn. I check the time. 11.30AM tomorrow in Melbourne. So I call. Og asks quizzically if I am sure I want to do this. Any other time this would have made me question; but in my fuddled state I missed that. So I called her......at 3.30AM.

We eat, I sleep. In the morning Og looks greyish and opines that we have enough wood for the Winter. Not sure what that means.

In a cool, quiet room I slept.

Og's second home, Saloniki

Just added Massey's last 3 posts, and forgot the camera in the jacket pocket so no photos yet. Bad day yesterday, my bike is running like Guzzi's agricultural engines, it is very hot and the road was blocked for hours. So much for getting into Turkey, we were advised by the Kosovar wife of an American policeman that this route was the better option than Bulgaria. On the advice of a FYROM policeman our short detour around the crash scene became a ride through a creek to a hydro station, and when we got on the right road, a ride through loose stones. No fun with a top heavy road bike, hot hard work.

When we were waiting in the queue to leave FYROM (and as it was a bad day it would not happen quickly enough), when I lowered my arm sweat ran out on my jacket sleeve. Not dripped, poured. We killed 1.5lt of water each when just inside Greece but we were still dehydrated by the time we got to Thessaloniki. Massey was exhausted, and so was I until I realised I was back in Saloniki, Saloniki, Saloniki. An early night anyway. Today my bike is getting a new front tyre as I have worn one out already, and hopefully a tune or whatever.

As for FYROM, don't bother. We spent about 14 Euro per hour for the pleasure, there's nothing to see and the borders are slow. The only interest was the African American sapper from KFOR who pushed into the queue to leave Kosovo, thereby ensuring the wrath of people behind him. He got out of the car, shouted, went into boxer stance, rolled his shoulders and ensured the attention of 3 border police. And Americans just still do not know why nobody likes them.

Oh, and Kosovo was a surprise, it was not shown on any of our maps. A place where the UN KFOR tries to stop the locals slaughtering each other. And we should never forgive the Serbs and Montenegrans for the senseless shelling of Dubrovnik our of spite. The Balkans, need I say more?

Piccies hopefully when we get to Istanbul.

Macedonia, not the Greek one but FYROM

Our Kosovar experience was great, and this morning we learned the cost; €49.5, including drinks ancd bottled water, a real bargain.

So to Pristina, where we gave up on finding tha airport, and thence into Macedonia, or FYROM, depending on your affiliations. What a racket. We need a visa (€35, only obtainable at the border, and insurance for each bike at €50, so €85 for a country we'll spend less than 2 hours crossing. Subsequently learned that you can get a "transit" pass, somewhat cheaper. "Transit" is the magic word apparently. Grumbles toself, places Mak on the list of places not to go to, ranking slightly ahead of Wales.

In the end we did get our money's worth. About 40km from the Greek border the road is blocked by a crash that has just happened. No scope to wriggle round, so we just quietly stew in our bike gear in the 35*heat..

If it's Monday...

Finally, a border crossing to expectation; half hour wait in the queue, surly, diffident border guards, who held our passports until we had insurance. We were brusquely directed towards a newish building. Across I went, noting that a truck driver I had seen earlier came around the side of the building. Crossing the stream of raw sewerage that dribbled from a drain cover, I saw that the downstairs was unfinished and empty. So around the corner, up the stair which lead to the back of the place. Enter. A rough hand drawn sign points up the passageway "insurance", a few doors up two adolescents in T shirts motion to me. It looks like their bedroom, with a couch and posters, but they are the insurance persons. €10 later (each) we both have our insurance papers, retrieve our passports and go.

The big sign says "You are now in Montenegro", but not "Welcome to...", and they mean it. Atrocious roads gradually improve as we approach the resort beaches. Og really liked these. As "managed" beaches, the sun chairs, umbrella and duck boards are all laid out with a precision that appeals to surveyors..... Countryside still much like Croatia, only a bit more spectacular. Leaving the coast we crossed a mountain pass, a stunning road that climbed from sea level into the clouds and down again into Podgorica.

This was a horrible place, with that strange smell unique to devastated places: a mix of putrifying rubbish, stinking, dank humanity and diesel exhaust fumes. We were glad to be out of it.

Had I thought about it, I would have thought that "Montenego" would mean "black mountains", but I hadn't thought that and was consequently astounded by the visual grandeur of the place. From Podgorica the road follows a fantastic ravine-gorge into spectacular rocky mountains. The road is quite good, an engineering marvel of tunnels, bridges, etc, this is such wildly mountainous country. All fine. We climb up, climb down, and think we're done. But wait! There's more, and more, and more. Brilliant riding, but slow as we negotiate traffic. We stop for coffee; Turkish in this part of the world. As we leave the crowded cafe, a local points at the eagle on the tank "Kookaburra" he says! No doubt his brother drives a taxi in Sydney.

Police are conspicuous in Montenegro, so much so that I start to think that it's an alternative to the dole. There's a speed trap in every town, although the smaller villages sometimes miss out. There are police in cars, at intersections, in the parking bays. We were stopped once, for "speeding". It's almost comical; they wave you down with a fly swat like device, and make an accusation. There is a well known scam variant of this where you pay the officer in cash, but as I had no Euros and he had no English, we got away with it.

More mountains, more tunnels. Spectacular, but slow and we realise that we're not likely to make Pristina; and we're already a day behind plan. We stopped briefly outside a really good looking motel-restaurant that had half a dozen bikes outside. They beckoned us join them, and we nearly did, but pressed on for the last hour of daylight.

This was not such a good idea. 100km to Pristina, but very slow going. And there was something we hadn't considered: Kosovo. Riding in the dark was never in the plan, riding in the dark in Serbia-Montenegro is just silly, but you'd need rocks in your head to ride Kosovo after dark. And the alternative is? So we get our visas and into Kosovo in the last fading light. At least the moon is up, so it's not all bad.

There were lots of stray and feral animals though Montenegro, and so continues. Not far into Kosovo a large dog crossed my headlight and kept going. Soon after a small white pup a bit bigger than a Jack Russell ran onto the road, crossed and turned back. I saw him look into the headlight and then the inevitable thump. At least I kept the bike up. I am a dog-person and this experience troubles me.

Feeling somewhat less cheery we rode on into the Kosovo dark, passing UN patrols etc makes you feel really safe. Eventually a village with a motel, a great roadhouse/restaurant with good clean rooms, a lock-up garage and great basic food. Smoked pork for Og, a mixed grill for me, and a few pivos. The mixed grill had a heavy pork content in the mix: pork fillet, pork chop, smoked pork, pork sausages, but very good. There's one only English language menu, and it's the only English in the place.

There is a fine collection of stuffed animals in the corner of the restaurant; wolves, wild pigs, bears, and otter-ish things. Yes, you'd have to have rocks in your head to ride at night here.

Dubrivnik, sure did.

Fortified and reinvigorated by our swim in the Adriatic (note beach bar above), we hatched a plan for Dubrovnik. The tourist info included a mention of a "biker cafe", with suitable warm fuzzy embellishment, so we thought we'd use that as a base. Suffice to say that it was a bit of a dissapointment, but it was a place to change into our shorts, and to leave the bike. The redeeming feature was the front window, which was covered in bike club stickers. Most were local and Harley-esque, but there was one from Gowanlochs, and from the Horror. Now there is a MGOCV one too.

It was maybe 500m down a rough path to the old city. This is a wonderful place; picturesque in the extreme, as you'll see from the pictures when Og uploads them. The Serbs and Slavs shelled it in 1991, an act of wanton spiteful vandalism, but it has been restored carefully. There is not one blot, not one jarring sight, and no American fast food franchises. It remains a living city with real character, jammed with tourists. Cruise ships sail right into the harbour, beside the old walls, and add to the spectacle. They add significantly to the tourist crowds. too.

Dınner was salamı, bread and cheese wıth a Croatian white on the end of the jetty.

Some words from Og

Massey still has the luxury of evenings spent posting his missives to my Yahoo account for uploading to the blog, I really wish I had GPRS on my phone.

Anyway I will post some photos of the recent voyages when I have extended time at an Internet Cafe. Today we are in Dubrovnic and I don't want to waste time staring at a screen. This is a wonderful place, it lives up to its reputation. A must see. Thousands of tourists can't be wrong, but even that does not matter.

My Cali is still giving some problems, the occasional cut out on deceleration from speed and it still drinks petrol. We have tried everything that can be done with a fuel injected system apart from the computer chip. That may be next. It is parked for the day out the front of the Biker's Cafe here in Dubrovnic, a sort of bonding experience. Off for a swim...

Dalmatians

Wien had been good for us, staying with Michael and Nives was really comfortable; to be in someone's home is much warmer than the best hotel room. And Michael had cooked us genuine Wiener Schnitzel, too. Og repayed the favour with Thai food, green chicken curry and som tom with carrot instead of mango.

Out of Wien via GPS and freeway into Slovenia, where the freeway gives way to goat track. Almost pointless border crossings into there and Croatia. Croatia unfortunately suffers from some poor marketing. Their roads are stunning. Ok, it's a toll road, but a 95MPH blast down to Split is a glorious ride. Strange country, looks to be all rock with a few shrubs struggling to hold on. Then you burst through a mountain range to look down on the Adriatic, and ultimately, Split. The highway hairpins down after a 6km tunnel, truly spectacular.

It was after dark by the time we reached Split proper, and we were not impressed. Really ugly blocks of flats, and lots of them. We decided to split from Split, headed out of town and found an apartment. €25 each, but quite nice, with en suite. No worries, we move in. They have a restaurant, so we have a look; it's on the water, as in you can hear the gentle waves lapping from the table. These are micro-waves, too. So we have a contemplative beer and decide that it has been a long day, it is late, and it's not half bad, so the old principle of not eating where you sleep is shelved for tonight. Grand. The chef acts as waiter, suggests that a seafood grill is what we really need, and good Croatian wine. And he was right, spot on. We really should have enquired about the price before we agreed. No matter, bread and cheese for the next ten days we restore us to budget....

This morning we sneaked into Split to have a look at Diocletian's Palace, allegedly the most intact of all Roman ruins. Og demurred for a bit, on the basis that we were going to Rome soon, and that's where all this crap came from... Anyway, we went. Despite being the heart and cause of Split, it's not signed and was not easy to find; but once found you could spend weeks there. Diocletian built himself a nice beach house, and people have been living in it since he put his shield in the rack. End result is a vast rambling, plainly identifiable as one residence, series of shops, plazas (plazae??), alleyways, a great place to roam. An obligatory coffee and time to head for Dubrovnik.

Poor old Big Sur has just dropped another level. The road down the Dalmatian coast is a stunner; very close to the bluest water I have ever seen, it dips and winds beautifully. A bit congested, but a good surface and nice relaxed riding. Hurry is not a Croatian concept. We probably averaged less than 70kph to Dubrovnik, and it didn't matter.



A few k's short of Dubrovnik we found an apartment. There are people spruiking their apartments everywhere, but we have both principles and standards; principally, it had to be beach front, of a decent standard, with secure bike parking. In the end we compromised; it's 30m to the beach, but there's a half way bar for sustenance, and another at the beach, albeit at the far end of the 80m of (pebble) beach. Sometimes, you just have to compromise....

So we've had a swim in the pristine Adriatic. Water so clear that you cannot dive to the depth of the visible sandy floor, very salty and bouyant, a bit below bath temperature, but not by much. And so to the bar... There's a fair chance of grilled seafood for tea tonight, but we'll be asking the price first!

Kutna Hora (horror)

One thing I forgot in the last missive. 100km East of Prague is the village of Kutna Hora. At some point in the 15th or 16th century, someone returned from a pilgrimage to the holy land with a bucket of dirt, which they spread in the churchyard. This made the whole place holy to the faithful, and they were dying to get in. Perhaps all of those holes helped, too.....

Suffice to say that there was some excess of bones accumulating in the crypt, and a novel, if incredibly macabre, solution was found. They were used for ornamentation; the place is decorated in bones. There is a real coat of arms, with real arms, for example. The central chandelier is alleged to use at least one of every bone in a skeleton. The corners between walls and across the vaulted ceilings are all picked out with an alternating pattern of skulls and femurs. Most impressive are the pyramids that fill each of the four apses. These fill spaces perhaps 7m square and 4m high, neatly stacked skulls and femurs. Most macabre of all is a glass case of damaged skulls; with sword blows and bashed in sections.

We cannot say whether the bloke who did all this had a wicked sense of humour, or absolutely none, but it was one or the other! Massey.