I had to get organised! The paperwork was just about sorted (quite a task). So, it was off to my friend Pat's to transplant Krauser panniers and top box from his A7 onto the BSA. This done, it looked like a proper tourer, and the fact that the boxes both locked shut and onto the frames helped to allay fears that my companion for the trip, Lesley, had voiced about security.
Having lived in Seville for some years she had first hand experience of the hazards of leaving vehicles parked in Spain (as it turned out we had no problems of the light-fingered kind). After much jumping up and down we managed to get tank bag, panniers, top box and tent loaded and still leave space for us on the fortuitously ample seat.
Experience of touring past had convinced me of the need for American spec bars for extra leverage when hauling 530lbs of bike, 20 stone of people and gear for three weeks, but apart from that the bike was a perfectly standard Mk.1. We were accompanied on the trip by our friend Brian, another BSA club member who rides to work every day on a BSA Thunderbolt, but for some reason chose his BMW R100T for the trip.
The big day came around, we cruised majestically off down Oldham Road, heading south. A long thrash later we were in Portsmouth, and waiting for the 23.30 ferry for Le Harve. We had booked cabins, hoping to wake refreshed in France. However, by the time we boarded, unloaded, had a drink, looked around the ship, and watched Blighty disappear, it was hardly worth going to bed. At 5.30am we were up and eating an incredibly (or perhaps inedibly) expensive breakfast.
France was dark and misty but it was good to be back for the first time since 1980, when I went to Luxembourg on the A7SS. We did not have an exact route planned, but intended to keep to back roads and strike roughly due south. Heading inland, we met thicker mist, and before long we were down to a crawl. It’s no fun riding in fog at the best of times, but if you wear glasses the problems are doubled opening up the visor merely replicates the drops of water and mist on the glasses instead. You can’t see a damn thing! The only solution left is to lift up the visor, take off the glasses, and manage by much blinking and flying blind.
By late morning we were ready for a rest and stopped off in small town cafe for a hot drink and lunch whilst the fog cleared. Thankfully, by afternoon, the sun was breaking through and with it the heat. Soon, it began to swelter. By the time we reached Toures it was boiling and I was not in much of a mood for sightseeing. We covered a few more miles in the late afternoon, and made our first camp at Chinon in the shadow of an impressive medieval castle.
By this time, the Three’s oil pressure was dropping in direct proportion to the increase in temperature, at tickover it dis appeared right off the gauge, the oil light flickering on and off to the beat of the engine. A little disturbing that, but at least it pumped back up to 40lbs once we got going, so I didn’t worry too much, but decided to bung in some STP when I got the chance.
Over the next few days we continued our way south, passing through the villages and vineyards of Bordeaux towards the Pyrenees. French B roads are well surfaced and quiet. I an always amazed by how big the Continent feels with roads stretching for miles through open country. In our crowded island it’s quite an event if you get a couple of hours before coming upon some sprawling mass of civilisation.
Our cruising speed during the trip varied between zero and 80mph, depending on conditions, with short bursts to higher speeds when the situation demanded (or I couldn't resist). The scenery was typically French, something that also surprised me. Somehow I never expect places to be the way they are imagined, so it's nice when illusions are confirmed by reality. Little whitewashed, red roofed houses surrounded by vineyards and fields of sunflowers will do me fine, thanks.
On our journey we passed through such well known delicacies as St. Emilion and Rochefort and, of course, we spoiled ourselves with the local goodies - no one said this was going to be a very cheap holiday... our base camp for the assault on the Pyrenees was to be Pau, and we arrived at the campsite in time. for a cooling swim in the outdoor pool. That night there was a tremendous thunderstorm, although I was so knackered I would’ve slept through a Starfire’s tappet rattle. The morning was still cloudy and wet, the first time it had rained in a week. We set off through Lourdes and sought out the dreaded Col du Tourmalet, the highest pass over the mountains.
The Rocket is very powerful and despite the engine’s reputation for being gutless at low engine revs, mine pulls like a train. Even with all the weight and 1 in 4 mountain passes it wasn't necessary to use more than 4000 revs, although it was fun at times to roll out of hairpin bends with about 2000rpm up, letting it sing up to 6000rpm or so. On the steepest hills it would still pull yer arms off! What a pity I didn’t have a five speed box (yet), as even from these revs I was having trouble holding on to third, such is the gap from second.
Having lunched at the summit of the Col du Tourmalet, we dropped down into the mist which was swirling up the mountainside and headed for the Col D’Aubisque to do it all over again. We nicknamed this pass The Beastie and it certainly lived up to it! Mist reduced visibility to a few yards and as the road wound a tortuous route upward, the glasses came off again and were bunged over to a somewhat disconcerted passenger who knows that I am as blind as a bat without them. How would you feel seated behind a blind rider on a single track hairpin strewn road, with an unguarded massive drop only inches away?
It all became very spooky when massive horses appeared to loom out of the mist, standing quite still in the middle of the road. They remained motionless as we trickled past. At least I think it was still misty - but maybe it was just me. It has to be said that the French have built some horrible skiing villages in the mountains, complete with concrete, multi-storey hotels. They would never get planning permission in the Peak District! After cresting The Beastie we climbed up to the Spanish border, where the sun was waiting for us, in a brilliant blue sky, giving us our first decent view of the Pyrenees.
We camped that night just over the border, surrounded by rugged peaks, and had our first taste of tapas (Spanish bar snacks) and ice cold beer. In the morning we hung a right and headed south west towards the interior, The country had changed radically from France, becoming flat, scrubby and open, with craggy outcrops, some of which had tiny villages perched precariously on top, crowned by the inevitable campanile of the church.
The weather remained searingly hot inside our bike gear, more so than I can ever remember. No matter how fast we rode it was impossible to become cool, we simply were blasted all the more by the heat. As we travelled west the land became very dry and barren, stretching away to the sky on every side. I was able to see the horizon in whichever direction I looked, across a featureless landscape. We were still keeping to the back roads, which continued to be good, with the added advantage of providing a number of villages to use as watering holes.
Our camp that night was at El Burgo De Osma, an old city with many interesting buildings, including a magnificent cathedral. The campsite here was overlooked by the squat ruin of a Moorish fort which added to the atmosphere. Next morning we set off for Salamanca with a stop at a ruined castle. We were averaging 250-300 miles a day, which included lots of sightseeing and eating stops. It was debatable who was in the worst shape, the bike or I. Hard riding in the intense heat was doing neither of us much good. I was having trouble keeping up with the BMW’s mile eating pace. If the BSA could go faster than the BMW, it lacked it’s comfortable riding position, fairing and relative lack of mass - lugging the weight of the Rocket and holding onto the high bars at speed was hard work.
The Rocket expressed its distaste by sooting up one of the plugs and this problem was to happen many times, caused by a combination of over-rich carburation and slight oil burning in one cylinder. Needless to say, it was not helped by the Three's thirst for oil and petrol, which are vast. I think Brian put oil in the BM once, while I used about a pint a day! However, this didn't bother me too much as I was glad the top end lubricant had managed to stay on the inside. To the bike's credit, despite the heat and hard riding, not a drop of oil had escaped to the outside world.
Having arrived at a campsite, I collapsed onto the bone hard ground, while the others had fun trying to find a pitch where the tent pegs would go in. They gave up in the end and used rocks instead. In the evening we went to a bar on the outskirts of Salamanca for a meal. Neither the food nor the place were much cop, and our impression of the city would’ve been the same had we left the next day as planned. In the event, fate decreed otherwise.
Having covered 1600 miles from Manchester to Salamanca without laying a spanner on the Three, it was about time for some routine maintenance. This was a mistake. As I tightened up the rear wheel spindle after adjusting the chain I had that dreaded feeling of something letting go, and sure enough the wheel nut had stripped. I was rather upset by this as the damn thing had held the wheel on quite happily since 1969, and had waited until I was in the middle of Spain to give up. Typical!
Well, I don’t know if any of you have tried to buy a 3/4” UNF nut in Salamanca, but if you are thinking of trying, don’t bother. There aren't any. Not one. Lesley, who is fluent in Spanish, but not in technobabble, and Brian, whose technical vocabulary is extensive but Spanish extremely limited, made a tour of every car/bike dealer, hardware/engineering supply shop and engineering workshop in the city. The best they came up with was an engineer who offered to cut a metric thread on the spindle and supply a nut to suit. Whilst sunbathing on the campsite, it occurred to me to use the nut on the speedo drive....so I could put the AA 5 Star document away (does anyone understand those?).
The centre of Salamanca turned out to be wonderful, with lots of fabulous old buildings and was teeming with life at night. Where all the people came from I can’t imagine, but the streets were thronged with traffic and people, whilst all the bars were packed out.
After our unscheduled day off, we made tracks for the Portuguese border, crossing over at Miranda do Douro, where a large dam blocks the river Douro, forming a reservoir in a spectacularly deep gorge. Again, the change in feel of the country was marked after Spain, and it was good to have made it to our destination. I was struck at once by the poverty of Portugal, which seemed like a third world country, even compared to the tiny one-horse towns of Spain.
The hamlets were full of women dressed from head to toe in black, washing clothes at communal troughs, and people carrying produce on their head or on donkeys. The roads also became decidedly rustic. The surface seemed to consist of one long repair after another, separated by pot-holes. This made riding even more tiring, as the pounding from the rather basic BSA suspension was not much fun.
The countryside was gently rolling and quite green at first, but soon became more mountainous. Before long we were having our first encounters with the infamous Portuguese lorry drivers, who could be quite frightening when met on hairpin bends. Reckless is the word for it, when I'm being politely restrained.
At the end of the day we rolled into Mecedo de Cavaleiros looking for a place to stay. The cost of living is very low in Portugal and we could buy a lot for our small change. With this in mind, we decided to treat ourselves to a real bed for a change. We found a hotel, which looked a little posh, to be honest, complete with bellboy resplendent in cap and gold braided uniform, who struggled gamely with panniers, tent and all The thought of the same thing happening in Britain made me laugh.
As we travelled westward we both became aware of a strange phenomenon, we were surrounded by Bantams. Or at least we thought so for a while. Before long it became clear that they were not Bantams at all, but small current model two strokes with sixties style chrome tanks adorned with the distinctive pear shaped plastic sunburst badge. The hallowed insignia from Birmingham had been usurped by a foreign pirate. On closer inspection we found numerous names such as Telstar on the badges which were definitely of the same manufacture as those supplied to BSA. Nice to see they have found someone else to flog them to.
Our route westward roughly followed the Douro towards Porto on the coast. Unfortunately, the road we had chosen soon became very busy and turned into one long traffic jam all the way into the city. A full afternoon stuck in the Portugese rush hour is enough to try the patience of, well... me! I've never been to Paris, but the driving can’t be any worse can it? We had stopped only for a moment on the outskirts of Porto to check our maps, when there was a crash right under our noses. Definitely somewhere to leave the bikes and go by bus.
After a somewhat terrifying tour of the suburbs, we found a campsite in a pleasant wooded area and decided to break the journey for a few days. During this time we explored the city, visiting the famous Port wine cellars, cruising on the river, and generally being tourists. Brian had the energy for a couple of day trips but I was content just to relax.
After several days off we resumed the trip north towards the mountains. The sun remained brilliant, but it was not quite so hot. I think we were all glad of that. The northern uplands are very beautiful with forests, rivers, lakes and hills. In this region we visited Chaves, an ancient town with its own Roman bridge and colonial style hotel (which was almost as old) in which we stayed the night.
With its high ceilings and wide corridors, this had a great airy feeling; it had also one of those smashing iron lifts, with all the gubbins exposed. The whole place had an air of decaying splendour which suited me fine. After Chaves we were soon over the border, and back into Spain. By this time, we were conscious of the need to be back in Le Havre in a few days, and as a certain amount of speed was needed we decided to use the main roads and motorways.
Back on the well surfaced Spanish roads we made good time towards the northern coast. Main roads proved. to be hard work, as the traffic moves fast. On more than one occasion I had over 7000rpm up in third to pass trucks, before a drop into top eased that to around 6500rpm, which is over the ton on Mark 1 gearing. Not bad at all, sitting up in front of high bars with all the gear and a passenger on board.
Next, we came across Brian gesturing at a motorcycle cop in a lay-by, who flagged us down. It looked as though we were about to be presented with a fixed penalty speeding ticket. It turned out that he was complaining that we weren't using our headlamps. Luckily, we had Lesley to smooth things over with the guy in her fluent Spanish, though I had the distinct impression he could’ve otherwise been very awkward.
The last obstacle between us and the Atlantic was the Picos de Europa range of mountains at the beginning of the Pyrenees. These provided some of the most spectacular scenery of the trip, with one memorable road winding at the bottom of a sheer sided gorge for miles. In fact, the narrow, steep roads with their constant hairpins made the riding so interesting, I was torn between riding slow enough to admire the scenery, and fast enough to enjoy the roads.
Once clear of the mountains, we headed for the coast, which was lush and green and reminded me of Cornwall. Our last night in Spain was spent at Santillana del Mar on a particularly pleasant campsite from whence, at daybreak, we moved off for Bilbao, a large and ugly steel town, which we bypassed on the motorway en route for the Basque. country and then Biarritz, just over the French border. Here we stopped briefly for a pose on the beach, but by this time I was so shattered that if a single grain of sand had been kicked in my face, I would've been out for a week!
We slept at a grotty bed and breakfast in Bayonne, in a bed which I believe once belonged to Quasimodo.
Next morning we pressed on up the motorway at a steady 80mph, to Poitiers, where we had a tour of the city and stayed the night in a farmhouse. By then we'd given up camping as I hadn't been so shattered since I ran a marathon in 1983. Next, busy main roads, through Le Mans (down the Mulsanne straight) on the way to Le Havre. The French drive like whole country is one long extended Le Mans and I was constantly shocked when we were passed by the most unlikely vehicles being driven flat out at speeds you would not credit. By this time the weather was cutting up rough, with wind and rain making things unpleasant, but despite this we rolled into Le Havre in good time.
As the ship slipped out onto the darkening channel, the lights of France slowly dimmed and disappeared. Brian could not believe how quickly the time had passed since we arrived. To me, however, it seemed almost an age, I had seen and experienced a greater variety of things and places in three weeks than I could remember in a lifetime.
The familiar wet and windy British weather was there to greet us in Portsmouth, and it remained so all the way back to Manchester. The journey was not made any easier by constant road repairs, but it was great to be back. I was really proud that the Rocket had coped so well with what was, after all, a fairly ambitious tour (by my standards, anyway). Apart from the stripped wheel nut which isn’t exactly a mechanical failure, the only attention the bike had required over the entire 3000 plus mile trip was a couple of plug cleaning sessions. And this in searing heat, on demanding roads, heavily loaded and keeping up with a modern grand tourer! To think, when I first crammed it into my old Reliant in about a million knackered pieces, it seemed impossible to believe that I would ever get it going.
Paul Critchley
[Paul's BSA not only survived this adventure, but it's still showing as taxed and on the road today! - 2021 Ed.]