In the middle of September 1988, around midnight, on a clear mild night and here we are, my wife and I with everything stowed and ready to go. We are off to the Continent on our 1986 Kawasaki GTR1000. We bid farewell to our two sons and off we go from London in plenty of time to catch the 8.00am Plymouth to Santander ferry.
As we left I thought I noticed the wry smile of derision on the face of our sons, the younger a licence-less despatch rider, the older a courier with a van. We'd been planning this trip for months, we'd taken all the precautions and limited ourselves to the bare necessities.
One of the bits of forethought included leaving sufficient time to stop at a few of the all night cafes on the A303. Leaving the outskirts of London, along the A315, we'd realised we had made our first mistake. Although being a pleasantly mild night in London, it was far from so once we hit the open road and it took 140 miles to find a garage with a coffee machine let alone a cafe!
I let my wife off the bike and decided to top up with petrol, this done I drew up outside the cash area, put my foot in a pool of oil, promptly dropped the bike, gear and all. Landing on my knee in the process, this was not half as painful as the grinning faces of the onlookers that suddenly appeared from nowhere as soon as it happened.
Funny I wasn't cold any more, just very embarrassed! We finally arrived in Plymouth at 4.00am, after a long stop in the Exeter Services, just in time, I thought. After finding the ferry terminal and discovering the docks restaurant (if you can call it that) would not open until six, we decided to look around Plymouth for a cafe, the few people we asked looked bemused by the very idea so gave up on that.
When we had finally booked in, had a coffee, we boarded the ferry, tied the bike down with some greasy ropes and retired to our cabin with the tank bag and small rucksack. After an uneventful and pleasant voyage we docked next day at Santander in Northern Spain, all very civilised. Tank full, bags arranged, intercom turned on (its batteries were flat as we left it turned on), off we go westward towards Spain along the northern coast and away from the tourist tracks.
It rains intermittently during the morning and early afternoon, we poodle along stopping off at promising looking cafes and resorts for food and sightseeing. Tiring of the resort areas, we decided to put some miles in, we'll see if we can make La Coruna by that evening.
As soon as the thought entered my mind the road changed from pleasant, if mediocre in quality, to something more akin to Wimbledon Speedway track. For many miles the road surface had been removed to make way for widening and resurfacing, this slowed us down considerably. At one rare point between road works we dived into a small village slowing to about twice the legal limit, only to have our photo taken by your friendly dago traffic cops, whose two Guzzi mounted assistants were waiting with cash bag, tickets and invitation to buy back a not too flattering likeness of two rather aging, overweight GTR mounted gringos.
After parting with our pesetas (equivalent to £30, we were told, I might add, that this is a special tourist rate) we were once more on our way. We reached La Coruna by about 6.30pm and decided to have a night of luxury (and a long soak in the bath) at the three star Cuidad de la Coruna hotel. Very nice place except for the view of the local sewage treatment plant between the hotel and the sea. Our system for securing rooms at hotels consists of the wife going on ahead sans motorcycle gear and myself turning up with all the motorcycle stuff just after she has signed in - that way we get less hassle and more rooms.
Next day we set off, at around 9.30am, for further adventures, hoping to reach Oprto or even Lisbon, but we moderated our expectations after the previous encounter with Spanish roads, but to our pleasant surprise we find this part of the west coast not too bad at all and by lunchtime we've crossed the Spanish/Portuguese frontier.
As we move south the weather is improving, making my lined Rukka not the sweetest smelling attire. Still, along with our new helmets, lightweight gloves and boots, we are feeling very comfortable. We stopped for lunch, our first in Portugal and immediately attract a small crowd, apparently no-one here has seen a bike of such size before. Most of the locals ride obscure fifties that look like they were designed twenty years ago. The kids wear their helmets perched at a peculiar angle on the back of the head, the ones that actually had straps were left undone - we had many admiring hands to fend off our new helmets. We were told by locals that the helmet law states you should wear a helmet but it doesn't say where you have to wear it, so lots of them wear it hanging over their arms.
It was just eight kilometres from Oprto and we had just overtaken a mile long queue at a controlled junction, congratulating ourselves on the good time we'd made. How comfortable we were, how smooth the bike was running and what great petrol consumption considering the two fat lumps and all the luggage, we averaged well over 50mpg.
Then it happened. We were on the outside of the traffic just pulling away from the lights when the driver of a small Toyota 15cwt tipper decided to avoid the pot-hole in the middle of the junction, he veered sharply left and nudged me via the right hand pannier into the path of Fiat Polski which had just pulled away from the lights in the opposite direction. The car hit the left side of the fairing and decapitated the left side pannier, catapulting us in a semi-circle around the Polski into a head-on collision with the car behind, a Renault 9.
Next thing, we found ourselves sitting in the middle of the road next to the remnants of our once immaculate GTR. Fortunately, though, we were not badly hurt - I had a bruised toe (the result of hitting the car with my foot) and my wife had a bruised top left arm. Now, this is what everyone dreads, an accident in a remote place where no-one speaks a word of English.
After waiting half an hour the police arrived. Two Moto Guzzi mounted cops (could this be the same two come to sell us more photos? - Nah). Meanwhile whilst documents are exchanged a local man who spoke German, told me he would ring the AA 5 Star rep at the Automobile Club de Portugal. He did this and would not hear of me paying for the phone call. But for this man's help I think we'd still be there. He even offered us a bed at his home if we couldn't get anywhere to stay.
Attempting to explain in English to three irate drivers and two cops, who were all in varying degrees of intoxication, and none of them who spoke a word of English, was trying in the extreme. However we finally managed to placate the drivers and police who only then decided to direct the enormous queues of traffic (every one had been given a new hooter for Christmas).
Eventually the AA truck arrived and the bike was duly loaded, if unceremoniously, with the help of some locals. The truck was a car transporter and not equipped for motorcycles, so the bike had to lie on its side during the trip into Oprto - okay for my bike as it was already well damaged, but somewhat annoying if it was one with only a few dents. We arrived at the Auto Club de Portugal and luckily the man there spoke good English and was extremely helpful, nothing was too much trouble, he booked a hotel and directed us to the Avis office and told us that the local rep was called Fiddledad - yes, really.
The next morning we went to Fiddledad to sort out the paperwork. That done, the next thing on the agenda was to hire a car for the rest of our holiday. Avis, the company the AA 5 star insurance gave us vouchers for, had disposed of most of its fleet and was waiting for the new ones to arrive. We were told to go and enjoy ourselves and come back in the afternoon. Still no car, so we went to Hertz which got rid of a large pile of travellers checks.
We decided to head for the next largest resort to see if the Avis there had a car. In Figuera de Foz we got lucky and with our free car set out for Estoril, our original destination. The weather was great, the countryside picturesque and we stopped at a cheap roadside restaurant on the outskirts of Alcobacca. Suitably nourished we found the car had been broken into - camera and jacket stolen from inside the car and the failed attempt at opening the boot meant it now wouldn't open for anyone.
We wasted yet another afternoon, this time in the police station (which reminded us of something out of a South American terrorist movie). They took details from the locals first and then us. They did not speak English but after some time we were given a statement and sent on our way, at last!
Finally, we reached the Estoril coast and headed for Cascais where we found a small motel some way beyond in the hills. It was Saturday and we should've been there by the previous Wednesday. We stayed three nights, it's a really great place, the sea and beaches superb and most things so much cheaper than in England.
Whilst in Cascais we watched a motorcycle wedding. The groom dressed in best suit and the bride in a long white wedding dress with masses of lace and a net headdress. After the wedding the couple paraded through the streets on their motorcycle (a GPz900), the whole effect spectacular. We would have taken a picture if the camera hadn't been nicked.
We also observed a strange ritual amongst car owners in Portugal, when they left their cars they took their car radios for a walk with them; maybe they are frustrated dog owners. We went towards home on the main road through the centre of Spain via Madrid and then Santander for our boat home The scenery wasn't very picturesque but the roads were very good.
A night in a road-house, next morning on to Santander, which we reach by lunchtime, a day early, and it's drizzling on and off, probably has done since we left. Thursday's bright and warm as we sail off to Plymouth at 6pm. Just to round off the holiday, the last hour is spent on a sea that's what the French call busy. Many trips to the head later we hit dry land, myself a peculiar shade of green, sworn to be a good, god-fearing Christian from now on.
On the docks we pick up another Avis car and set off home. The places and scenery in Portugal are just great, but the standard of driving is just diabolical, but that's the price you have to pay for getting away from the likes of Benidorm - but this year, bikeless and penniless, we have decided to fly to Turkey, but maybe we'll be able to hire a bike once we arrive there....
David Norton