Today started in the middle of the night being disturbed by the rain on the tent. It didn’t leak though I was trying to stop myself worrying about it (this must have been my very first night under canvas). Eventually I woke up at 8.30 with puffy eyes. Challenges were getting small change for the clever shower machine (that didn’t work properly in the end), making some coffee with my primus stove (it boils quicker than you can change your knickers crouched the other side of the tent) and packing up a wet tent. Kindly the rain held off while I had breakfast and packed up but started again on the motorway drive up toward Prague, coming down in buckets but this time I wasn’t panicked as I remember I had been last year on the motorway in Holland where I pulled over because I couldn’t see a thing. I had soup and rolls and a pastry and latte in a service station and watched the Czechs. The clientele at a service station in CZ say as little about the Czechs as if I were watching the same groups in England. And then you tend to notice the unusual people – the very fat and hairy, or shabby or men with gold chains on their necks and Porsche t-shirts. I felt relaxed. By the time I got up to the Prague ring road it was pouring again and disobeying the GPS I ended up in maddening circles again surrounded by big trucks. When I first got on the D5 motorway this morning near Marienbad (which I looked around briefly in the rain) I was the only vehicle in sight. Finally I found my way to Kutna Hora with some luck. I think I headed there under the influence of Euan and Charlie, I’m slightly embarrassed to say. In fact the whole easterly direction of this trip was probably treading in their steps.

There was a band playing in the square just to welcome me, along with the rumble of gathering thunder. Three smiling men plugged into a sound system that made them sound more like, well, four men. 
Half the road in CZ seem to be dug up. Including the street surrounding this small hotel on the corner which looked cheap to me. i couldn’t cope with another night under canvass with already damp clothes.

This place is cheap (38 Euro)but camping was cheaper – 5 Euro! And I prefer the informality of camping and chats with the others there, two retired german couples, one of whom was on a 5 week trip in their campervan up to the Baltic states and finland – very sweet. She was wondering around the campsite in a red dressing gown and told me on my greeting that she was covered in soap, that the shower had stopped unexpectedly and she had too go and get more 20 crown coins. In hotels its a bit more frosty.

When I arrived in Kutna Hora a band was playing in the main square very nice and corny European tunes which I sang along to (to the tune known as ‘Never on a Sunday’ – see the rist of two embarrasingly poor quality video clips). I found a hotel but then rode round and round trying to park nearby – completely in vain. So had to haul my luggage half a mile up hill. I didn’t want to leave anything on the bike so far from where I was staying. The hotel is opposite a convent and I watched a naughty nun hitch up her skirt as she negotiated the mud that is the road outside – where the cobbles used to be. The bar downstairs is smokey with the usual regulars you seem to see in any bar and wonder if they have jobs to do. But I will have dinner here I can’t resist it – much nicer than the smartish pizza places in town catering for the smart elderly tourists who seem to be thronging here. The next picture is of the famous and much (too) visited ossuary. Also visited by E&C. (those were the days – before nearly every motorcycle became an ‘adventure’ bike.)

Today’s mileage was only 165 but felt longer. Three and a half hours in the saddle compared to much longer times on the first two days. The Ossuary here is I have to say, a Ewan and Charlie landmark on their journey East which I couldn’t resist. I have to say, now I am out and about, I admire their guts to wade through (literally often) some of the really tough parts of their journey. I’ve only had rain and traffic to battle with. (Mind you, there is only one of me…)

Wow what a lot of riding today but I made it to the Czech republic! Crossing the non-existent (but mysteriously implied by the lack of a sense of the German byroad going anywhere) EU border gave me extra energy when it was flagging. My plan was to load a string of interesting German towns into my GPS instead of let it take me on boring motorways as it usually does. Unfortunately all didn’t go according to plan: Eisenach was an interesting town. Now I know where all the cool young people are – certainly not in the small conservative towns I’ve visited up to now. Weimar, or at least what my route showed me of it seemed labouring under something, large groups of brooding men shambling down the street dressed in dark colours and cynical groups of youths (don’t ask me how I could tell that from my bike). Then the main road to Jena (where the Jena romantics came from as well as my Carl Zeiss lenses for my old SLR in the 1970s) was closed and the day was wearing on and rain threatening so I thought forget this and knuckled down to another stint on the motorway. I rode for 6 hours 25 minutes. My riding time was over 8 hours yesterday.

Finally I found a campsite mentioned in my green book on the Czech side of the border after a lady with a baby in a pushchair managed to tell me that the one I was aiming for was being refurbished – by Americans if I understood properly. That town seemed poor, reminding me of Ulrich Siedel films (strange as his films were set in Austria or Ukraine), and the campsite was meant to be right next to a Siedelesque housing estate. So, 20 miles down yet another motorway I found this place which I’d downloaded from the useful Dutch camping site. It is so informal. A young guy seems to run it with his friends hanging out, practising a band and drinking beer. He made me some fried chicken and chips which I ate eagerly with some beer, surrounded by people talking Czech and enjoyed so much more than the meal I had in my last hotel, then smoked a cigarette outside with another nice cold beer. It was one of those moments when I felt satisfied with my geographical achievement and relaxed. Hearing Czech seems so familiar after nearly every other person at home is speaking Polish. (to my ear I am afraid to say they sound the same.) Oh yes, my tent is up (it is the only one in the field) and I am smeared with insect repellant.

Even as I unpacked the bike I was welcomed to the site by a gang of mosquitos. Ha – let them deal with my 100 percent plus (how can that be possible?) Deet! This place would be perfect if I could connect to the wireless network which I can’t. In the picture my Triumph Sprint with the great panniers I bought on Ebay. And the Triumph rack. I had so much more room for luggage in this trip than my first jaunt the year before.

Some 260 miles of sunny motorway riding has brought me here to a small hotel in the busy town of Wolfhagen. The only mishap on an otherwise smooth journey was forgetting to plug in the curly extension lead for my earbuds into the Garmin after filling up at a service station. I realised once I was back in the traffic. One end was fixed but the other end must have been trailing somewhere because when I eventually stopped by the turnoff I needed the plug had been wrenched off. Not only this but because I hadn’t heard the last vital instruction I guessed the wrong route off the motorway and ended up in that familiar endless loop around a town as the GPS tries to put you back. The only snag was the slip road I needed was closed due to roadworks. But nowadays I try not to blame myself so harshly when I get lost like this. Its completely pointless stress.

Once I arrived in this town I suddenly remembered the atmosphere of these small rural towns in Germany – rural. The lady running the hotel was not exactly welcoming and we didn’t speak any English. Lucky I have my spattering of Deutsch. As usual I fell asleep as soon as i touched the bed, troubled by strange noises. Ominously, just as I was arriving, a funeral party was filing in with meine grumpy host standing to attention holding cups of teas for the mourners. I think they have safely gone now. I’m drinking vodka now though, just in case.

I’ve just had a walk around this small town (it took 20 minutes at a slow pace). Its beautifully pretty in classic German way, with timbered buildings, church bells ringing and cobbled pathways. But its incredibly quiet. Everywhere is closed and there is almost no one on the street. The only noisy place is the intersection outside my hotel which is a pity because there is a music school opposite with occasional wafts of student music.

As I eat my dinner of battered fish downstairs here in the bar a little girl in pink comes to my table and puts down her plastic toy house and spreads the people and their beds down all over the table talking herself through a story. She makes a ring ring sound as someone phones up the house. Outside there are the strains of violin playing from the music school opposite but for every phrase of notes there are ten minutes of ranting from a music teacher. There’s a piece of metal on the road and every time a smart BMW or Golf passes by its tyres jangle against this ominous piece of metal. A couple are eating outside, he smokes while his partner finishes her meal. They talk in hushed voices. It’s nine o’clock and I’m tired but its still too light. These days seem too long now.

On trips like these I often find myself prey to fundamental self-doubt, along the lines of ‘why are you doing this? Its not enjoyable, its just some mad test of endurance, peppered with tension and boredom’. I try to keep in mind my friend David’s wise words: ‘just think of yourself as traveling- not having a holiday. A holiday is something you’re expected to enjoy.’ So, I take each day at a time. The task is to reach the next destination and find somewhere to stay – and find something to eat and drink. I’ve programmed into my GPS – I hope – old german towns to the east of here – Wiemar, Jena, before i turn south then east again to cross the Czech border.

I have been up past midnight downloading and installing the latest Garmin European map updates. It cost £100 for a ‘lifetime’ account for unlimited map updates. Geoff says, at my age I should consider this a real bargain. But actually its the lifetime of the GPS that is more the question.
I’ve also discovered the European Speed Camera Database. For €10 you get a POI download – not that I intend to speed all over Europe – just England. So I will see what its like. The Cyclops database that came with my Garmin contains lots of false positives. The SCDB has a link which is:

Our Tip: SCDB.info – the most up-to-date speed camera database in Europe for your GPS!

The bike’s booked in for a service now so I am nearly ready to head off for two weeks at the end of June.. The Leatherman tool that I bought came in a tin can with ‘no you are ready to go’ printed on the outside.

Yesterday was my mother’s 84th birthday and I rode down the 65 mile journey to Ruislip to see her. Last year on her birthday I did exactly the same and I had just picked up the bike I’m riding now so, one year of riding it, what do I think of it – and how is it running?

I remember that it felt so much like a real bike and made the Bandit 600 that I owned previously feel rather tinny in comparison. The Triumph feels much more solid, sophisticated (it has a radiator and a fuel gauge!), and has what people call grunt. Now that I’ve ridden for a year and 2000 miles, including two brief continental trips I can confirm that this is a comfortable and capable bike. In Germany, about 8 hours riding one day left me with a tired right hand but no back ache, sore bottom or any other debilitating pain. The bike can also achieve some nice speeds with little drama. Its wind noise and blast that limit speed, apart from nerve and the law. The speedo has read over 100 on occasions, once for longer than a few seconds, but my GPS has showed me that the speedo consistently over estimates speed by 6mph. It is, so far, reliable and has never stopped or refused to start. And having spent a year, many hours on ebay and a few hundred pounds, on Triumph luggage, it is sorted for more tours. So, is there anything I would change? Well, the colour – I would never have chosen a blue bike; maybe a taller winsdscreen – which I can do anyway. And it is rather top heavy. In a slow sharp turn I’ve often felt that I was going to topple inwards. The only reason to change would be to try something different – like a big trail type bike.

I’ve just arrived in the beautiful Fairmont Empress hotel in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada, probably the most lavish room I have stayed in with its colonial style. The darkening sky tells me that evening is starting to settle in. But because I have not reset my watch as I have travelled Westwards across time zones, I can see that its exactly 24 hours since I climbed in a taxi in the darkness outside my mother’s house in Ruislip, Middlesex and had to put up with the driver’s spooky stories and inquiries all the way to Heathrow Airport – so, he asked after squeezing me for the information that I was an academic going to a conference, it’s the tax payer paying for your jollies is it then? The rest of the time has been in planes and, perhaps more tiring, sitting around in airports and being subject to huge amounts of questioning and x-raying. The constant security probes do start to feel personal and wearying. How I’m looking forward to next week’s (yikes!) ferry to Denmark, where you just turn up and drive on. Is it the tiredness, the air-conditioning, the anonymous space, or the body’s confusion over time that puts you into a dull trance? A kind of drugged alienation where you can’t really think or concentrate or be on edge, where you have to remind yourself five times to pick up your passport, where you forget things on the countless forms you have to fill in. A kind of passive mode.