28/07 La Spezia, Italy to Monaco
Rested and back on the road, the very same road, in fact our intention being to stay on that road for the day to all intents and purposes. Barring the odd deviation that is exactly what we did. Snaking around the coastline. Genoa was another big surprise to me – more so due to my confusion between Genoa and Geneva probably – entering the city it felt small and pleasantly town-like but as we rode on and into it the city seemed to sprawl before us until it has insidiously engulfed us completely. With all the traits of a modern metropolitan city it had a habit of throwing up the most amazing oddities; an old wooden ship in the docks, an amazing cathedral, an inspiring square, all these interwoven with a regular working city and port.
We were looking for a supermarket and stopped at what looked like would serve that purpose. It turned out to be a great little indoor market – not ‘super’ in any conventional sense but better. Inside this huge warehouse structure lay a collection of stalls selling home grown produce. We bought fresh baked bread, cheese and chorizo (essentially what had become our staple diet, for lunches on the move at least) and pushed on out of town looking for a perfect picnic spot – this proved elusive, so in the end we simply pitched up on a corner and ate our lunch at the side of the road!
To me at least there seamed a genuine shift in identity the closer we got to France, many of the seaside towns diluting their Italian-ness. Quaint as many were, the distinct impression that many were merely servicing tourists could not be escaped. Quite unlike the equally beautiful towns on the Calabrian coast of Southern Italy which were first and foremost Italian.
By now comms had only been working one-way – I could hear Rob but no longer had the ability to drive him nuts with my incessant mindless babble. I had a ‘call’ button which broadcasts a ring tone which I could use in emergencies to which Rob would usually respond with “I don’t know what you’re saying” to which I would gesticulate wildly until an understanding was agreed – or near enough. This rather basic system was fine until we lost each other in traffic or some such act of stupidity. A couple of time whilst taking the lead I had ‘lost eyeballs’ on my tail and resorted to the call button, hearing a comforting “yup, right behind you” in response. After a number of these I genuinely hadn’t seen Rob for some time, I paused and hit the call button,
“I’m just behind you, you know where you’re going, I know where I’m going – I’ll meet you there.”
In terms of final destination for the day Monaco was on the itinerary and we’d had some discussion about camping somewhere between there and Nice. In terms of “… knowing where I’m going…” that was what I had to work with so after losing Rob in or about San Remo, and perhaps getting the impression that he might have wanted some solo time, I made my first border crossing on a motorcycle on my own. Lacking the pomp and grandeur I might have hoped for it was, at least, easy – just a sign that read ‘Francia’. Oh well, I pressed on… and got lost.
At this point the temptation to delve into the realms of panic were obvious. No comms, no phone, no clue and all alone. We had one road (SS1, now the N7 en France) and it followed the coast – how hard could it be? It had been some time but I now heard from Rob again,
“Unplug your radio and use it handheld so you can talk back to me…”
the embarrassing thing was that, although I knew I was on the right road, even heading in the right direction, I simply had no idea where on that road I was. No clue as to how far I’d travelled on the road so just as Rob was asking where I was I hear,
“… scratch that, you’re ten meters infront of me.” PHEW!
He seemed a little unusually annoyed. To say the least. As it transpired Rob had quite reasonably expected me to stop at the border to re-establish our mini convoy. I meekly protested that his “you know where you’re going” comment might not have made the intended rendezvous quite as clear as he’d have hoped. Either way, the band was back together now, even if the music wasn’t quite so harmonious for the time being.
As far as I can gather there is but one sole campsite between Monaco and Nice – this we know from passing Monaco and riding almost into Nice before turning around and heading back up to the one campsite we’d seen. It sits proudly on one of the steep, high hills that cradle the Cote d’Azur. High enough to be a challenging climb on the loaded XRVs but affording a breath-taking view. Said view may well have been part catalyst for the inflated site costs but I expect more so the proximity to Monaco and their monopoly over the whole local campsite market. Also, when I say that it sits on a steep hill, I mean that quite literally. We had to park the bikes at the top and lug all our camping gear down a steep set of stairs to a tiered precipice in a series of sweaty climbs. Way too much effort in my humble opinion and at those prices I kind of expected portage to be included. That said, the view from the tent “door” down over Cap Ferrat wasn’t half bad. Begrudgingly we paid, set up camp and rode off into Monaco to explore.
Technically I suppose Monaco could count as a third country in one day (well, a principality at least) – not a major fete for a couple of bikers that have spanned a country in 30 minutes before but pretty cool. Perhaps being a principality negates the need for a formal border but it still felt like riding into a small town. I was actually a little surprised at how empty it was until we got down into the harbour. We parked up the bikes (illegally) outside the Casino for a couple of necessary photos, with no trouble. Even when three cops walked by just giving us a knowing smile. We had a bit of a spin around and I got to do one of my favourite Formala 1 corners (although the rest of the track appeared to be closed). After finding a more suitable parking spot we wandered down to the harbour again, this time on foot, to join the throng of tourists.
Of all places it was Monaco where my bank cards refused to work – typically I’d set off on this trip in a sorry state of financial disrepair – luckily Rob, with finances mostly in place, subbed me a loaner. Rides, arcades and souvenir boutiques litter the facade, creating a mini tourist theme park. Not at all what I had expected and nothing like the scenes witnessed watching years of F1 racing although it was obvious that the tourists here were more affluent than your usual flip-flop brigade. Obviously alerted in advance of our arrival, the principality had laid on a rather spectacular fireworks display – music et al! All the lights were turned off (including the shops) making for an impressive spectacle reflected in the still Mediterranean waters of the harbour.
We grabbed a panini from a local take away (vainly hoping it might be cheap) and headed back to camp in the dark. Up the winding smooth road my head all full of Formula 1 it was all I could do to keep from wringing the throttle’s neck… until I rounded a corner to come face to face with a cop with a radar gun. I looked at him. He looked at me… did he nod? Shake his head? Was I speeding? My guts were in my throat and I was sure I’d been nabbed – luckily, I must have caught him in a charitable mood and I got away with my transgression. Phew!
