Fortunately, before what had ended up being a very long, very late and very expensive evening in the restaurant and bar we’d done as much as we could in the way of a pre-emptive pack. Rob, uncharacteristically, was first to poke his head out into the cool damp of the morning and had pretty much emptied his tent and was way ahead of me by the time, fuzzy headed from the previous nights excesses, I struggled in to some form of consciousness. We broke camp, dry mouthed, and in Génépi induced silence. After what any other day might have been an hilarious long and drawn out conversation between one of the old crones “managing” the campsite and a hung over Rob carried out in exquisite Franglais and the international language of mime, we duly paid what we owed and were on the road shortly after 9am.

The plan was to just get going, get some miles behind us and stop for a quick coffee/breakfast at a little roadside bar we knew overlooking the Lac high up on the stunning Col du Mont Cenis. Tired, jaded with banging heads and with the depressing reality that the best parts of another trip were now behind us, the thought of the 700 or 800 miles of largely dull péage which lay ahead did little to spur us on. It was however a pleasant ride back over the Val des Prés to Bardonecchia, onwards to Susa and up the Italian side of the Col du Mont Cenis and over the high-mountain Italian/French border point to where, at the bar, we indulged in a couple of strong coffees each and a medicinal Croque Monsieur which went some way to restoring us to some semblance of normality again.

Dropping down the French side of the Col on it’s racetrack smooth snaking ribbon of tarmac blew away the final cobwebs and by the time we’d traversed the long glacial valley we were well up for the most awesome piece of road that is the Col d’Iseran. It seemed, on the Southern ascent at least, to be all but deserted and we soon found our flow, flicking the bikes from one sweeping corner to the next, climbing with each turn until we reached the surprisingly busy crest at an impressive 2770 metres – one of the highest stretches of tarmac in the Alps. Contrary to previous visits up here, and all too aware how far we had still to go, we pushed on over the top and back down in to Val d’Isere without stopping for the customary picture next to the sign at the top.

As opposed to Dave and Paul who had both hopped on the nearest stretch of motorway when they made their departures, we’d opted to sacrifice initial progress for some more interesting riding. Stopping only briefly in the ski resort of Tignes for a picture outside the hotel where Rob used to work as Bar Manager/Ski Guide we pushed on and, just in time for a delicious late lunch in the glorious afternoon sun, arrived back at Lake Annecy.

It was such a lovely waterside spot we really didn’t want to leave and the temptation to return to the campsite right across the lake on the opposite shore and pitch the tents again was almost too much to resist! Eventually though we steeled ourselves for the long haul ahead, from here it was motorway essentially all the way home, and rode off into what quickly became almost stationary traffic around Annecy town. Urrrrgh! We lost the better part of an hour to make around 10 miles to the junction with the péage, unable to filter through the nose to tail traffic on the narrow roads with our wide panniers and heavily loaded bikes.

Once on the motorway it all becomes a blur. The miles dropped away and, as night fell, the monotony was punctuated only by the occasional stop – sans plomb for the steeds and coffee for the riders. Passing Beaune, where we knew there to be a beautiful campsite we’d used several times before (not to mention a lovely town with great bars and restaurants) the nagging temptation to stop and rest reared its head again. Stopping here though would leave us a real task for the following day and mean we’d need to be up, camp down, bikes packed and back on the road by 7am at the latest. As tired as we now were, this was a prospect neither of us relished. The next logical stop up the road, and one which would stand us in good stead for the remainder of the ride the next day was the town of Troyes. Around 9.30pm, having been on the road for over 12 hours already, we were still an hour away and, realising by the time we made it to Troyes we’d be very lucky to find anything to eat, we pulled in to yet another service area and quickly filled up on dry and unsatisfactory sandwiches, crisps and surprisingly good machine-coffee.

An hour and a half later, we flopped into the automated motel’s double bed almost fully clothed and fell instantly asleep. On arriving at the B&B Hotel there was only one double room remaining. At this point, metaphorically speaking, our tanks were empty and what would under normal circumstances be an unacceptably awkard prospect of sharing a bed didn’t even figure as an issue. Rob inserted his credit card into the reader by the door and the machine duly spat out a ticket with room number and door code. We walked in literally with what we wore, not wanting the extra hassle of digging out fresh undercrackers or a wash bag at this stage of proceedings and relishing the thought of packing it all up again in the morning even less.

After a surprisingly good, if all too brief, nights sleep we were up, bike gear and lids back on, and back on the road bright and early the next day – with 4 hours riding to the ferry, we had time in hand for 2 or 3 stops for fuel and coffee. At our first fuel stop (caffeine and unleaded) an hour or so North of Troyes, a British couple filled us in on the news we’d been missing, surprised it seemed that we didn’t have the World Service blasting from radios on our bikes. Reports were of the storming of the port of Calais by the rising influx of refugees amassing there. We’d seen a number of them darting across the Pêage on our arrival and in some ways the news had a certain inevitability to it. Nonetheless it was a concern.

We needn’t have worried, with Rob’s brilliant planning we arrived dockside with minute perfect accuracy and other than a slightly increased security boarded without a hiccup. By far the most broken I’ve ever been. I slept on the brief crossing home and rode the remainder of my journey in a complete daze. Bruised, battered, dog-tired… but WOW! WHAT A TRIP!!!