It rained, a lot, so much so that I got up in the night and sheltered her side-stand with my folding chair to keep the ground beneath dry. That worked, thankfully, because had it pierced the sodden ground then the bike would have toppled onto the tent, dousing me with petrol as a bonus.
By morning there were puddles in the squelchy ground. I bogged and blogged. Vincent, appalled that I was starting my day with a ‘Poweraid’ chemical drink, generously brought us a breakfast of coffee, croissants and orange juice.
He packed and left, I checked my plan to do the Route Napoleon and realised that it would leave me more than a day from Como and, if I have learnt anything, I overestimate the miles that I can do in a day. I bailed on the Gap and set a course for Col d’ Izoard and a randomly selected campsite after. A quick chat with Mark, from Wales but working in Kuwait on the airport air conditioning, it’s 45 degrees there, and I packed and left the lac.
I stopped to mount the 360 camera on my helmet, the act, like forgetting an umbrella, precipitated precipitation adding tiny droplet lenses to the lenses. Soldiering on, the road started to get interesting then downright fascinating as I climbed to Col la Visard. Slatibartfast may have had a hand in designing these squiggly bits. Spectacular and scary.
I was relieved to return to the sweeping curves nearer the valley floor and thought perhaps the worst was over. Col d’ izoard had other ideas, raising the bar on peril with wet roads and acrophobia inducing drop offs. I’m not ashamed to say that I waved, with my leg, other bolder bikers by.
Camping Ristolas awaited, a spacious site in the valley with strong ‘new age’ vibes. Didier, the proprietor calmed my apprehension, he spends the summer here but the rest of the year in Manchester. He proved to be a perfect host, I was prepared to pitch, he offered the use of a large tent in ‘the bivouac’ for the same, very reasonable, price. My neighbours were Matthias and Marine who had arrived on a BMW GS1200 from Como, A mirror of my journey and motorcycle selection, but we had much in common.
Nature tried to eat me, one blighter chose to bite the centre of my forehead, the motorcycle mirror revealed a new third mystic eye, somehow appropriate. No bugs under the pine trees where an unexpected surprise awaited, the camp open air restaurant. Matthias graciously offered to help me with the menu of locally sourced dishes but Didier stepped in as the attentive host. I picked a table on my own, because I’m English, Josephine took my order of Beef Louise (slow cooked with salad, pasta, frites, beans, carrots …) washed down with a locally brewed Amber Ale. I’m not a foodie, normally struggling to feed myself, however I’m starting to see it, might be an age thing.
Kids and dogs, families sitting at long tables, fairy lights in the trees and yurts in the shadows, country music and an open fire, woodsmoke in my nostrils complimenting a Glenmorangie. You get the picture, you’ll have too because I didn’t take many.
Le Mans man 