Massey and Og's Travels through the Occident

Last day, sort of...

2006-10-13T18:35:00.000+10:00

Murphy's Law. We have a long, boring transit across Germany and France, and this is the best weather day we've seen for some time. Blue sky, no wind. Perfect riding day for a tedious high speed haul.

Munchen, Stuttgart, Karlsruhe, Mannheim, Saarbrucken, Metz, Reims, Calais, arriving by chance 25 minutes before the ferry sails; perfect timing.

We've seen nothing but motorways today. Sitting on 95MPH, stop for fuel, back to 95. Had to slow to 40 for the French border, but other than that, tedious. Beautiful sky; perfect azure with an elaborate lattice of jet vapour trails.

Finally back in England. I debate routes to get to Dave and Jane's house on Hayling Island, near Portsmouth on the South coast. Given that it's 9 PM on Sunday, I decide to take the M23 to Brighton, then A27 West to Hayling; a simple route, and there shouldn't be any traffic. Correct on both counts. Unfortunately the access to the A27 West is to the East, and thus less than obvious. After an unscheduled tour of Brighton we were on the right road.

Then the rain started. Probably just a shower, but at the closing phase of a long day, now dark and slippery, it seemed like a torrent.

Finally, Hayling Island. 11PM, we've been riding for 14 hours Og tells me... but we have done 830 miles.

For me the trip is now technically over, given that I started from here. Cooper's in St Albans was where we set off together. Like most endings this is a bit of a let down. Dave and Jane are away, but we have keys! The house is dark, we're both tired, and there's no beer in the fridge. Showered and changed, we congratulate each other on the amazing good fortune that we have had that has allowed us to have this huge adventure.

Unwisely, Dave has left a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label on view. Perfectly appropriate. We'll have to replace it tomorrow....

Grossglockner

2006-10-13T18:34:00.000+10:00

We had to leave Helga and Klaus' home in Innsbruck in a bit of haste. There was no great social blunder that caused this, it was yet another case of me getting slightly confused about the time - space continuum. Confident that my flight home was 10PM Friday, I was a bit surprised to find on checking that it is actually mid - day Thursday, effectively two full days earlier than I'd thought.

It was dry and overcast, the Grossglockner forecast had been for fair today and good tomorrow. It looked ok, so we went for it.

Dry down the freeway, but increasingly wet and steady rain as we crossed the Gerlos Pass. Shame, that, because it is a loveiery ride, great road and postcard standard scenery.

At least it was dry, with high, light grey cloud as we pulled up at the Grossglockner toll booths. We had a plan. Cross the pass for a "sighting" run, then a liesurely return with lots of photo stops. And like all good plans....

€17 each gets us a day pass. Grossglockner actively promotes itself as the most motorcycle friendly pass, in addition to being the roof of Austria. There is a lot of good rider info; suggested routes, specific "biker points" and so on. "Biker Points" have lockers so you can secure your helmet and jacket while you go for a walk and take in the natural wonderment. All of the info is in German, of course.

So we're into it. It is superb. Great surface, wide, hairpins are all second gear jobs, traffic is light. Glorious fanging. We take the turning up to the real Franz Josef glacier, where there is a vast multi storey carpark, with a large, chained off, motorcycle parking area at ground level. Having marvelled at it all, we rode on and down to Heiligeniblut, the Southern end, for fuel. Back for the photo run, and feeling very smug.

Stopping at the toll booth to show our passes, we were rapidly de - smugged. The advice from the booth girl was that the weather had changed, it was now snowing and may not be safe for motorcycles. She made a call and then told us to go, but to go straight over and not stop. Stelvio is still etched into our muscles, we could be called "snow shy", and I have formally seen enough of the bloody stuff to last me forever. But from the other side we head Salzburg, Munich, London, so we went.

It was wet, it was foggy and snowing wet, sticky flakes, but nowhere as bad as Stelvio. Suffice to say that we don't have many photos as proof, but we did it.

That marked the official end of the fun. All that remains is the transit back to the UK. So we start that. Gradually growing roads until we're on the freeway and then the Autobahn. Salzburg, then Munich. Should have been straightforward, and was (I suppose) apart from the detour. Part of the Abahn was closed for works, so three lanes of traffic were directed through a string of villages, regulated by one intersection where the light sequence would allow a max of six cars through at a time. Utter bedlam, and in a thunderous storm, possibly the heaviest rain we have seen on the trip. Trickling around and through, we made better of it than the cars.

Naturally it was fully dark by the time we hit the Munchen ring road. Round we went, exiting for Erding, a really nice village not far from the airport and close to the freeway. Close to the freeway, but 26km from the ring road! Og was convinced that I was lost. Anyway... a good hotel in town, a great bar/restaurant down an alleyway, and a glorious snooze capped the day.

Innsbruck by Og

2006-10-06T19:03:00.000+10:00

After a pleasant morning in Bormio pondering the map and weather reports we decided that most of the passes we intended to ride would now be too dangerous for the bikes. We even rang the Grossglockner weather advice line and were told that although the pass was currently open it may not be later in the day. So we opted to visit my friends Klaus and Helga in Innsbruck and save the passes for another day. We still needed to cross the alps, and the Santa Maria pass seemed lower so we took that option. That meant riding up the Stelvio to the turn off, so we contined up to turn 7 to visit the scene of our adventure. The road was clear of snow, but at least there was another car off the side where we got stuck so we made the right decision in getting the truck to get us off the mountain.

The ride up now meant that we did complete the ride of the Stelvio! Picture above.

We will check Grossglockner again today, it is fine and sunny in Innsbruck so we may be able to do it tomorrow on our way north to Nurburgring and eventually England.

Many updates and adventures, by Og

2006-10-05T18:54:00.000+10:00

Well finally an internet cafe, in the hamlet of Bormio in the Italian Alps. This morning we woke to see we were surrounded by snow capped mountains. No great surprise, we were up there yesterday as you will see from the postings. Massey has provided the next few blog updates, he still has the luxury of GPRS at night while I hunt rabbits.

A lot has happened in the true Boy's Own adventure theme. At no stage life threatening (for the 'worriers') but the time came when we could say pudding knowing that we were experiencing the more interesting and rare moments of life.

Read on, more photos when I can upload them a bit faster. I have an 8 megapixel camera and without any way to reduce the file size they take for ever to post.

Pass Out.

2006-10-05T18:35:00.000+10:00

Forecast rain, and it was raining when we woke up at the slightly more conventional time of 7.30. By the time we wre ready to roll it had stopped, and the sky showed promise. Eschewing the rompers, a real risk, I was at last vindicated; the day just got better and better.

Heading back to Chiavenna, but bearing right, we rode the Maloja Pass. This was brilliant. The sun was out, the road dry, long sweepers through the pine trees before an abrupt change to first gear hairpins, which delivered us onto the plateau. Lakes, yachts, and general prettiness rolls into St Moritz against a backdrop of speccy mountains freshly dusted with ominously new snow. We took a picture of a coffee, because we knew from the look of the place that we could not afford to buy one, let alone two...

From there we skipped the San Bernina for Zernez and the Ofenpass. This was brilliant; fast, flowing and open like Luckmanier (without the falling down), scenic, with only two hairpins....but it delivered us to the Northern approach to the mighty Stelvio. In nervous anticipation we had a coffee at San Gian. In hindsight this was probably a critical error.

Stelvio is THE pass, 48 hairpins, numbered from the top on this side, 36 on the Bormio side. Weather is deteriorating as we climb. By hairpin 30 something it's raining, and by hairpin 40 it has turned to snow. Cresting the pass, there's a dusting of snow on the ground. We follow a deliver truck down, riding in the broad strip left by his dual wheels.

Until we round hairpin 7, that is. Despite rolling against a closed throttle, it's getting tricky. I hear that disquieting graunching sound of motorcycle on pavement, look in the mirror to see Og sliding....and fall off myself. We get up, fall down, get up again, fall down, get up again (just like the Chumbalunga song - Og). There's a layer of ice on the road and you can't hold the bike up. We try wheeling them, we try walking them with the stand down, but the result is always the same. Forget control. We are stuck.

After a brief consultation we decide to stop. Not really our decision, of course, given that we'd passed the famous point of no return, yet progress was not an option.

Similarly, calling for help was not really optional. Challenging, given that we're 3km down the Stelvio and speak neither Italian nor German, but eventually the message got through. This was confirmed by various passing motorists, which was reassuring. We became quite good friends with the snow plough driver, chatting with him each time he passed. All the while it was snowing. Chucking it down. In our riding kit and helmets we were warm and sort of dry-ish, so we waited relatively happily, bemused by the ridiculous absurdity of our position.

Eventually the Carbinieri arrived. Coppers, Og, but not as we Aussies know them. Great guys, happy, helpful. One of them told us that he'd taken his BMW on a 2800km ride around Italy on his last leave. They offered to take us down to the police station until the rescue truck arrived, but we declined.

Finally, after four hours, the truck arrives. A tilt-tray, we easily pushed the bikes up. Surprisingly, the driver knew how to tie bikes down, and had those nifty handlebar end tie downs. More than 20cm of snow had fallen. It was still falling heavily down at turn 30, so our Alpine prospects are looking very, very poor at the moment.

At dinner in Bormio (Oh oh, Bormio sung to Van Morrison's Domino - Og) we discovered that 40cm of snow had fallen. So we have ridden the Stelvio, although the descent was in the front cab of a truck.

Massey Makes the Haj

2006-10-05T18:16:00.000+10:00

Promptly at 9.45 I woke up, stirred by Og's gentle remonstrations "Massey, wake up, it's 9.45!!" He was in shock from the same discovery.

We had a plan for the day. There's nothing at Mandello other than the sacred shrine of the Guzzisti, and the museum does not open until 3.00. So we'll find an internet cafe and update the blog. This, dear reader, you know did not work. From the hotel we had directions, a long walk when you ache all over, only to find that the internet cafe was now the Irish pub...

Og found a place to download his now full camera memory card to CD, an act of great faith, given that the woman in the place inspired no confidence at all.

At 2.00 we gave up searching for an internet cafe and went over to Mandello. Og was right; there's not much there apart from The Factory. Tourist season is officially over, so most of the cafes are just shut, and the place has an air of closed-ness about it.

Initially the guard at the factory gate wanted to move us on, but when we explained that we just wanted a photo of our bikes at the factory he softened. Then he shut the gate so that we had the red gate with the Guzzi logo in the background as well! There was no way we'd get in before the museum opening time. I asked if we could see the wind tunnel, a pantomime of explanation to the non-English speaking guard, but the answer was clear.

We pootled around to Agostini's, the Guzzi agent in Mandello. Closed for lunch. Most of Italy closes 12.30 - 2.30 and goes home for lunch. Drives the rest of the EU mad, but what can you do?

At 2.45 we're back at The Factory and it's starting to rain. We gather with the few other visitors and wait. I am very excited. Whilst the great bulk of this tour has been a new idea, for many years I had whimsically fancied riding a Guzzi to the factory, a whimsy now realised.

Grinning enormously on the inside, we followed the museum man down the central laneway and up into the museum. This has, according to Og, radically improved since his last visit (smarty-pants) ten years ago.

Where it was once a single long hall jammed with bikes crammed so close as to be difficult to see, it's now spread through double the area. Up one floor we start in the middle of the lower level, although this is not apparent at the time. Crest the stairs and before us is No1, as last used, in a glass case. Behind it the hall has ramps sloping up on either side, with early bikes in chronological sequence mounted at angles which means really good vision of each bike. Most are restored, but many are not, which I like. Our guide runs a commentary on each bike. Unfortunately (and typically) it is in Italian only. Great for the Italian couple, but not much use for the other ten or dozen of us.

Up the stairs to the next floor, which is essentially post-war, a hall twice the length of the first, with the bikes closer packed. Again, sequencing is loosely chronologic.

Downstairs at the end into another room. This has a raised central platform about 600mm high with a few notable bikes, including a V8, at ideal peering height. An assortment of engines are suspended from the ceiling at perfect peering level.

Round the curtain at the end and we're back at the start. Another lap, check out a few things more thoroughly and then exit via the gift shop. Italy is starting to get the marketing act together. There is still some way to go. A couple of T shirts later we're out into the poring rain. Our waterproofs are, naturally, in the hotel.

Around to Agostinis, now open, for a look. Og buys a new mirror, but they're out of footboard rubbers for Calis. The quest for an internet cafe resumes.

Suffice to say that this quest also failed, but not for want of trying. Four times we asked directions and were generally directed to the same area. but could not find an internet cafe. We gave up, and headed out of town to where we'd seen an internet cafe on the way to Mandello. We'd looked for it on the way back, but hadn't seen it. Easily found going the other way, parking was difficult, even for a couple of bikes. Despite a big sign on the wall proclaiming it, this too was a dud. Motioning to a computer game console thingy, the barrista said "that thing there, but is broken"

So we continue the search another day.

Pass rate, 9 Today! But there's more...

2006-10-05T18:13:00.000+10:00

Any morning when you wake up in a storybook hotel halfway up the Furka Pass is the start of a great day. It's a tiny room, no curtains, and a full height window. From the bed I can see that there's low cloud, and that it's dry. Passes today, Mandello del Lario tonight. I have waited a long time for this.

Breakfast doesn't start until 8.00, so it's almost 9 by the time we head out. The roads are wet, and it's cool, about 10*, and we've planned a circuit of 7 passes.

24 hours later as I write this, the passes have all merged in my mind. All were different, all quite stunning, and most had different weather on the ascent and descent.

First off we finish climbing Furka. and drop down the other side to pick up the St Gotthard and climb into ridiculous fog. Visibility is less than 10m at the top; enough to see two white lines on the road. Not much point in photos. From St Gottard we sought the Nufen, which was tricky to find, because it was generally signed as "Passo del Navone", although not exclusively.

We did find it, and it took us back to Gletsch for the Grimsel, a stunning series of switchback hairpins that agin took us into fog, though not so thick this time. Stopped for coffee at top, where they had a strange menagerie that included native beaver-ish things.

From there the Susten, a great combination of everything alpen, into Andermatt. This looks like a scale model town with natty little Triang trains, but is real. Trains cart endless tourists to the Matterhorn in carriages with glassed sides and roof, and we follow the line for a bit. Tourists gawp. Dead jealous, I reckon. We leave them to go under while we go over the Oberalp. This is an unusual pass, because it is through grassy farm land. Damned steep grassy farmland, but not precipitous rock like the others. This brings us to Luckmanier Pass.

Luckmanier climbs along the flank of a long spur, much more open than the other passes, lots of fast sweepers, a great ride. Roaring through a long gallery at about 70MPH, enjoying the reverberration of the exhaust and well in the groove, the fun is suspended without notice. It's mid afternoon, clear and dry, good visibilty, a near straight section with no traffic and I'm leading. The front slides, the rear slides, there's a nanosecond of reflex correction and I'm dumped hard on the road. The bike's ahead of me, which is good, on it's left side, showering sparks prettily as it spins it's way down the road. I'm flat on my back in the gutter following it. Some would suggest that I've been flat on my back in the gutter before, but I deny it!

I don't think I'd even come to a halt when I saw that Og had gone down as well, and his bike was also on it's left side spinning down the road with an equally pretty show of sparks, thankfully far enough away not to worry me.

By the time I got up Og was getting up too. Neither of us were hurt, there was no blood. We picked up the bikes and looked at each other. What? Og found the cause. Through the concrete road surface was leaching groung water which left a slime deposit so slippery that Og almost fell when standing on it. The slick was about 10m long, and barely visible, we had no chance.

The damage count is pretty modest. Both bikes have crash bars. These and the panniers took most of the punishment. Both bikes have a bit ground off the front mudguard stay, an abrasion mark on the screen, and tiny grind off the front left indicator. Og lost the left mirror, but mine was loose and so twisted rather than broke. My bike must have slid against the guard rail, because the top box has had a hiding.

My BMW touring jacket is wrecked. The fabric has rubbed through to the back protector in a couple of spots, but more annoying is that it has rubbed right through on the left forearm. While I was sliding down the gutter I had my left arm bent at the elbow, so my hand was up in the air. My forearm was running along the kerb edge, and that wore through the jacket. It's a deficiency of these synthetic jackets that there's not much protection in the non-armoured bits. Leather would have been better. Scuffing on my leather pants and boots will blacken and vanish.

Og's waterproof trousers have a hole worn through near the knee, and the Draggin jeans a tiny rub mark. We got off very lightly.

Somewhere along the way we came to the realisation that we'd never make Mandello (the Guzzi factory) for the museum open hours of 3.00PM to 4.00PM, so we added San Bernardino and Splugen. San Bernardino was a foggy climb, visibility down to 20m in places, but gloriously clear on the Swiss side. The fine weather held while we climbed Splugen, but only just. Cloud was tumbling in rapidly, and I think we were lucky to get our photos. Splugen is a great string of first gear hairpins, most so close together that second gear is not an option.

Cresting Splugen, now in soupy fog, we came to the Italian border. We slowed, but didn't stop as the signs directed. The border guards in their office did not even turn to look at us....

And so the descent. More hairpins, it seems to go forever, right through Chiavenna to the Como shore, clearing as we go, but getting dark.

Eventually we arrive in Lecco, having passed within a few hundred metres of that holy of holies, the Guzzi factory at Mandello del Lario.

It's been a long day. We're knackered from fun overdose, compounded by pride injuries. Find a hotel. 2 nights please. Dinner, couple of bottles of cheap red, then bed. Tomorrow is the Big Day.

Pass One

2006-10-05T18:08:00.000+10:00

Sunday morning. We've planned an 0800 departure, and get away at exactly 0800...GMT, that is, 0900 Roma time. We have had a great time with Cate, Marco and their kids, but are reminded of the Czech proverb; "Visitors are like fish, after two days they start to smell".

Quickly out of Roma, onto the GRA and thence the A1 North via Firenze, Bologna, Milano. Relatively quiet Sunday traffic, good roads, we blast along, aspiring for 90 - 95 MPH I am inevitably drawn over the magic "ton" for the sheer naughtiness of doing it. There's a school of thought to the effect that the fuel economies of 75MPH are worth being patient for, and that's probably true. However, it fails to consider the Italian school of tolls. €29.50 each for the 600km Roma - Milan. Consider that €33 will fill both bikes, and suddenly fuel consumption is a minor issue.

As a transit day, the weather has been ideal. Low cloud blots out the sun, making it cool enough for pleasnat riding. Visibility is about 5km, and the forcast rain almost leaves us alone, except for some drizzle near Milano.

North of Milano the cloud drops lower. We pass Lake Maggiore, but can only see the nearer parts. The rest vanishes into the soup. GPS delivered us to Domosomosola or something like it, the last town in Italy. The Alps are a different map set, to be loaded tomorrow. In the traffic we'd become separated by a few car lengths, so I arrived at the Swiss border first. The car ahead of me was waved through, the guard glanced at me waved me through and turned his back on me. Perhaps he saw the UK plate as I passed, but for whatever reason, he gave Og the third degree.

Being now in Switzerland we're already on the first big name pass; the Simplon. We've already ridden alpine passes in Sweden, Greece and Italy, but this is the first certified biggie. It's damp, the road surface is wet, but good. Traffic and commonsense mean a cautious climb. Lots of hairpins, several tunnels and as we get higher the fog thickens until we cross the actual pass without realising until too late. So we stop and return for a photo. Visibility was barely 100m.

Dropping down towards Brig things cleared quickly, and were much drier. 9.5% descent for some silly distance, most of it through "galleries", a sort of half tunnel that has the low side open, supported by pillars. Very speccy, but there's not much opportunity for a photo stop. Swiss weather is looking better than on the Italian side, too.

We turn right at Brig, heading for Glietsch, which is the common connection of the Furka, Grimsel, and Neurfen passes. I've misread the map and think it's only 19km (it's really 55) so start harbouring thoughts of a lap of the Furka/Grimsel before it gets dark. The road is narrow, winding along the valley floor through village after village. Quite slow, and the nearer we get to Glietsch, the wetter it gets. In Glietsch it's misting rain, so we decide to stop. There's not much in Glietsch, a grand hotel and a road junction. The hotel looks deserted, but there are lights on. As I'm about to go in, Og points out a stone building in the distance, halfway up the Furka pass, and says " Now that would be a cool place to stay, but I bet it's only a restaurant". So I go into the hotel, a Marie Celeste experience. Eventually I find a living soul who dissappears to consult and returns to advise that the hotel is closed tonight. She recommends "The Belvedere", and indicates up the Furka pass.

I report to Og, who notes some little orange figures way up on the roadway and tells me of the huge crashing crunching noise he just heard, sounding, he thinks, like a rock fall.

We head off up the famous Furka pass. We find the little orange vest clad figures directing traffic around a rock fall. Only about half a dozen rocks, but rocks of a size that one on it's own would ruin your day completely.

Og's dream is realised. The Belvedere is built in a hairpin on the Furka pass. Stone, quaint, imposing, 95 Swiss francs per person per night, and the only show open for miles around. Two single rooms, so at least they have two bathrooms to clean!

The hotel is old, with the look of an Agatha Christie novel; wide, creaking stairways, long hallways, an open fire in the sitting room. The rooms are small, but have stunning outlooks in the fading light. Hopefully the camera caught it. We head for the bar, but there isn't one. We're ushered into the dining room, which is built into the hairpin, rounded, with picture windows so that you can peer down onto passing cars. Some beer, some food, some amusement supplied by the Americans, then to sleep to the sound of running water falling off the Rhone Glacier. Which just happens to be 100m away.

Gran Sasso

2006-10-05T18:05:00.000+10:00

Gran sasso? No, I'd never heard of it either.

Apparently "sasso" is Italian for "very big rock", so a grand one is even bigger. We're staying with Cate and Marco, and they've invited us to a family lunch in Grand Sasso. This involves all of Marco's family, so there's no room in the car and we will have to ride. Marco assures us that it is a good place for motorcycles. So we set the GPS for Santa Stefano di Sessanio and charge off.

Italian road signage can be tricky. Usually you only get one sign, buried amongst a lot of others, compounded by the need to abbreviate long and complex names. So we're looking for "Santa Stefano di Sessanio", but it is signed as "S Stefano S". GPS saves us again.

Now we learn that Marco was right, that the Grand Sasso is actually the dividing range that runs down the spine of Italy, and that it offers stunning riding only 120km from Rome. The range is so high that it is well above the snow line, and since it is all rock with a minimum of dirt, the overall effect is not unlike Nordkapp; a spectacular moonscape, with ribbons of narrow bitumen across it. Through Calascio, a quick visit to Rocka Calascio, the castle ruin on the mountain top, left through Castel del Monte and up onto the plateau.

In the middle of this, really the middle of nowhere, we came across what we thought was a bustling cafe, so we stopped. 4.30, Saturday afternoon and there must have been forty people inside, drinking not coffee but local grappa. The place is fundamentally a macelleria, selling meat, local cheeses, and local hooch. People obviously come for miles, simply because there isn't another building, let alone a house, within 10 or 15 miles of it.

Starved of the essential caffiene hit, we soldiered on through the twisties into the next cafe, at "ferro cement" (sic). There were a few other riders there, including a group from Pescare, all on BMWs. Their first question to me was "What has broken down?" Truthfully, I could only admit to a fork seal, and luckily they didn't ask about Og's bike.....

In order to take control, we gave them a good serve on their lack of patriotism in riding German product, the dearth of the passionate Italians of legend, the wonderment of Guzzi provenance, etc. They took this well enough to insist on a group photo at the end.

From there we're back on the motorway to Rome. It's a toll road, €7.60 each, but it's also a 95-100MPH blast. You get a ticket as you enter, which you present as you exit...which means that they also monitor elapsed times. Fortunately there's a servo just before the exit booths, and a 20 minute queue that remove any fine risk from our trip.

We've only just touched on Grand Sasso. By the look of the detailed road maps there is probably a good week's worth just within short commute of Rome. Makes a note for next time. (Photos coming, I forgot the CDs of the pictures in the hotel room, from Og)

Felice

2006-10-05T18:04:00.000+10:00

Before the girls had arrived we had left the bikes with Felice, the Moto Guzzi Club del Roma recommended mechanic. Og's was running like a dog and drinking fuel, mine was ok but had popped a fork seal, both were long overdue oil changes and regular service.

Felice spoke no English, less than my Italian, but we are both fluent in Guzzi, so we left the bikes for two weeks for general service and sundry repairs. There was an element of faith in this; Felice's workshop was full of Guzzis, and it was obvious that many of them had been there a long time.

This morning we collected the bikes. Felice had done a really good job; he'd done all the work we asked for, plus had gone through and tidied everything; replaced missing screws, replaced missing rubber caps and bungs, variously tweaked and adjusted anything and everything that looked to need it. And he'd cleaned both bikes; even took the dead bird out of Og's, where it had mummified itself between the left cylinder and fuel pump. Both bikes now look and run like not quite so old and neglected as they once looked.

The fuel injection problem that had plagued Og's bike was fixed by replacement of the entire injector/throttle body/TPS on the right side. Felice did give me a detailed explanation of the where and why of this, but in technical italian. I bracketed the assembly between thumb and forefinger and said to him "Nuovo?", to which he replied "Si" Anything more technical is lost completely, but the bike is fixed.

The additional cost of Og's injector bits equated with the additional labour for the fork seals on mine, nett result just a whisker under €400 each. We were both a bit shocked at this initially when the figure was relayed by phone to us. Given that I have never before paid anyone to service my bike I certainly had no idea of what to expect. However, on seeing the bikes and the detailed attention Felice had applied to them, we both felt that we had been very fortunate to find him, and that we have fair value.

And so the recommendation, for anyone needing Guzzi anything in Roma:

Felice Denci
Riparazioni Moto
Via Bolognetta, 79
Via Casalina km18.100 - Finocchio
00132 - Roma

Ph/fax 06 2076 2254
cell 347 445 3945
(but only for Italian speakers!)

Wine

2006-09-29T19:25:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-27T18:49:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-18T23:28:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-18T23:19:00.000+10:00

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.

2006-09-18T23:05:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-08T19:11:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-08T18:46:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-08T17:42:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-06T17:49:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-06T17:48:00.000+10:00

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...

2006-09-06T17:46:00.000+10:00

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.

2006-09-06T17:45:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-03T23:24:00.000+10:00

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

2006-09-03T23:22:00.000+10:00

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)

2006-09-03T23:20:00.000+10:00

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.