Category Archives: Harley Davidson

Goodbye Dog Days of Summer

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OK I admit it, I’ve not been out on two wheels anywhere near enough in recent weeks!

I’m not over worried about the lack of bike action though. I had to smile to myself yesterday when the latest copy of HOG, Harley Owners Group, magazine dropped through the Dookes letterbox and the editorial commented that this year’s  “Riding Season” was coming to a close.

I’m sure that I have previously mentioned, to me there is no defined “Riding Season.” I ride all year round, whenever I can get out. It’s just about having the right gear and more importantly the right mental attitude and the commitment to clean the bike off afterwards…!

As I said in my last post, life has been busy and just as if I needed reminding to slow up a bit my body has done it for me. A torn Achilles tendon and a mild kidney infection have slowed me up nicely and given some badly needed time for recharging the old Dookes batteries. I do feel a bit of a fraud though, my mate leukaemia battling G is back in hospital and considerably more poorly than I am; here’s thinking of you fella.

Sadly, summer in the Northern Hemisphere is beginning to wind down; shadows are getting longer and the nights are noticeably drawing in. We’ve still been enjoying plenty of good weather though, all is not yet mists and leaf-fall, but the dog days are certainly gone for another year.

In our garden at Dookes HQ we have a delightful raised bed planted full of various types of mint. It’s useful as a herb for cooking, but at this time of year I love it because the flowers acts as a magnet to butterflies and bees.  This summer the butterfly population of Cornwall has been noticeably depleted, possibly this is a result of our mild wet winter last year, so its been great to see at least some of our residents topping up their nectar levels on our mint blossom. On a glorious morning the other day I grabbed a camera and stalked the butterflies for a few minutes, I must say that I am quite pleased with the results!

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This rather lovely Small Tortoiseshell (Aglais ureicae) caught my eye with its dazzling colours. This is one species that has suffered a worrying decline in recent years, particularly in the South of our country. One theory is that is being attacked by a parasitic fly, whose range is spreading due to global warning. It’s still one of our most widespread butterflies and occurs throughout the British Isles. I just glad it chose our garden!

P1070685

Looking at the photos, I think that they might be two  different butterflies as the wing pattern doesn’t seem the same in both photos. I am, however, very pleased with the results and I hope you like them.

“What it’s like to walk amongst butterflies.”

Catch you soon.

Dookes

 

A Little Bit of History Repeating

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When I’m off on my little motorcycle adventures, there’s nothing I love more than riding new roads. Actually, that’s what its all about, new roads, new vistas, new places and new people.

There are times though when I retrace my steps. Sometimes it’s because of necessity because there is no other practical route and other times it’s just because I want to.

Now I’m not talking not those grand places that call me back, like for example Col du Galibier in the French Alps. No, I mean those back roads that just need to be ridden at a leisurely pace without a care in the world.

A few weeks back, as I trundled across Brittany heading for the ferry home, I had one of those moments. I wasn’t in a hurry and the D764 road to Pontivy just sort of called me to enjoy a steady trundle across the gentle Breton countryside.

I couldn’t resist stopping to try to recreate a photo that I took of “Harls” a couple of years ago on the same road.
Heres the first picture:

Harls in Brittany 2014.

Harls in Brittany 2014.

And here we are with “Baby” in the same spot two years later!

Baby, Brittany 2016.

Baby in Brittany 2016.

Apart from the difference in the weather and the height of the crops in the field behind the bikes, I don’t think too much has changed.

“Harls” looks a bit dirtier than “Baby,” but that’s probably got a lot to do with her being a naked bike and all exposed to the elements, as I am when I’m riding her!

All I know is that it’s a privilege to be able to own, ride and enjoy two lovely machines such as these and take them to the many wonderful places that I do.

It’s what keeps me sane in this crazy world that we live in!

“Yes I’ve seen it before,
just little bits of history repeating.”

Catch you soon.

Dookes

Melting Again

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I’m quite proud to be labelled as an “All Weather Rider.”

Now normally, to most people, this would indicate I am some kind of mad-man who enjoys riding in the rain! Well, not exactly thank you, like most sensible folk on two wheels I would really much prefer to ride in dry daylight, but when you do long distance road trips you sometimes have to contend with what nature throws at you.

Over the years, weather-wise, I think I’ve just about collected the set, ridden in everything that there is and yes had a few “Squeaky-Bum” moments along the way as well. Sometimes though, it’s the conditions that appear the most benign that can catch out the unwary and hot days are right up there!

The hottest temperature that I’m aware that I’ve ridden in was last year in Provence, South East France, when the mercury was nudging 40 degrees Celsius, that’s about 104 Fahrenheit. Add into the mix a whopping big V-Twin engine between the legs and you can appreciate that it was bloody hot! The biggest problem with days like that is fatigue, you quickly get tired in the heat which screws your reactions and clouds judgement. Dehydration can be a real issue too.

Now all of this is very predictable if you are riding in countries where high climatic temperatures are the norm. Here in the UK though, we don’t have a climate… we just have weather!

On Tuesday this week Mrs Dookes had a business meeting in Plymouth, that’s the famous sea port city about 25 miles from Dookes H.Q. and as her meeting would be over by lunchtime we decided to meet up for a bite to eat. All good so far.

I thought it would be nice to take “Baby” for a little ride around and enjoy some of the good weather. I set out and rode a nice sixty mile loop taking in the lovely A374, with its twisty bends from Trerulefoot to Torpoint, before taking the chain-ferry across to Plymouth.

Torpoint ferry, not high on the list of best looking ships!

Torpoint ferry, not high on the list of best looking ships!

What I didn’t realise was that whilst we were out the temperature would soar to 30 degrees Celsius and guess who put the wrong jacket on and took the wrong bike as Baby’s faring keeps all the passing breeze off me? Fortunately I took a change of shirt and a handy towel as by the time I arrived for our lunch date I was, frankly, dripping!

Our rendezvous was the old Royal William Yard in Stonehouse, a part of Plymouth that lies adjacent to Devonport Naval Base on the Hamoaze estuary.IMG_1681

The yard was a major victualling depot for the Royal Navy from 1826 until 1992. It’s an amazing 16 acre site that is all historically protected and although now in private hands still very much retains it’s identity and heritage.

Once a store for beer, spirits and vinegar; now expensive apartments.

Once a store for beer, spirits and vinegar; now expensive apartments.

Urban re-development has converted many of the buildings into award-winning swanky apartments, boutiques, exhibition halls and restaurants. There are still odd corners that await the developers touch,IMG_1695 but largely most of the restoration is now complete. It is, however, one of the most impressive industrial monuments in the whole of the UK.

The scale of what this place did in its heyday is amazing. On site was a flour mill, bakery, slaughterhouse, butchery, brewery and cooperage, not to mention dozens of other smaller workshops and storehouses. Worthy of note is that the flour mill could produce 270,00 pounds/122,500kilos of flour every week, that’s an awful lot of bread and ships biscuits!

Part of the brewhouse, now a restaurant.

Part of the brewhouse, now a restaurant.

The impressive buildings were designed by the architect Sir John Rennie and are built of local limestone and granite. The whole site is also paved with similar stone cut to engineered precision, these are not common cobbles! image

Anyway, we had a super lunch with great views up the river towards CornwallIMG_1686…..then it was time to start-up Baby and cook a bit more!

Next day, it was ten degrees cooler and today it’s been raining!
Like I said, we just have weather!

Catch you soon.

Dookes

Back to Brittany

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I’ve just been playing with the Via Michelin App to see what it made of the trip from Como to Brittany, where we are this evening. Interestingly, it nearly came up with the same route that I had, but mine was a bit more interesting and therefore longer!

Today we passed the 2000 mile mark on this little jaunt. Not bad when you consider that three days were spent in Como and on the day we rode Stelvio and Gavia it really wasn’t any mileage at all.

The journey today has been nice and relaxing, if you can ever say that about nearly three hundred miles on a motorbike! We kicked off with a nice little trundle of around twenty miles to warm up before we hit the Autoroute and then followed a spirited 130 miles dash to Angers. That blew the morning cobwebs away!

Baby was certainly on song cruising the Autoroute westwards and to add to my pleasure there was hardly any traffic at all. We stopped briefly for fuel in Bougueil; the town is rightly famous for delightful wines that are flavoursome yet light. Well, we had to grab a bottle whilst we were passing through, it was only polite!

I always look on Angers as a defining point on any journey through this part of France, heading West you enter the wide, wide, valley of the River Loire and coming East it’s the gateway to Brittany. I can almost spot exactly where the wide open wheat fields and vineyards end and the smaller Breton pastures bounded by hedges and old oak trees begin, it’s quite magical!

In France, Brittany is often referred to as “Little Britain,” such is the similarity to the Western parts of the U.K. No wonder I always feel so at home here. You can tell it’s a region influenced by the weather of the North Atlantic, slate roofs steeply sloped to throw off the sometimes copious rain!

I have Mrs Dookes to thank for introducing me to Brittany, as before we met I’d never been to this lovely part of “L’Hexagone.” Merci beaucoup mon amour, je t’aime!

Tonight I’m staying with my friends Denis and Anne, at their delightful Château which nestles on the edge of an ancient wood, deep in the centre of the region. Baby is safely ensconced in the garage, Anne’s Mercedes was evicted to make room! Denis is his usual loud energetic self, laughing at the Euro 2016 football tournament and especially the English losing to Iceland – we both agree on that! He’s threatening to cook me “Carre de porcelet,” which I suppose translates as piglet chops….! Knowing him this is going to be good! Anne meanwhile rolls her eyes at the two of us, she’s seen the floor show before.

I’ll report on the food later.

Now back to the ride….

From Angers we went cross-country, first to the delightful town of Chateaubriant then I just headed West.

Le château, Châteaubriant.

Le château, Châteaubriant.

I know it sounds corny, but I do have an innate sense of direction and so I turned the SatNav off and just followed my internal compass. I find it quite relaxing as well, heading where the mood takes. It must’ve worked, we got here!

So here comes that familiar “end of trip” hollow feeling. It’s sort of a mix of elation that the plan came together and also the realisation that it’s nearly all over, until next time.

I usually fight it off by starting to think about “The Next One.” Therein lies a problem, as Mrs Dookes and I have a shedload of work to do over the coming months. . .
“The Next One” may lay some way off in the future.

Actually, to tell the truth, I have an idea.

Why don’t we go to……….

“Freedom is a dusty road heading to a highway.”

Catch you later.

Dookes

Beastie – Beating Stevio.

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Just under a year ago I was in Italy with a brand new bike. One day I wrote this:

“Today we should have ridden the Stelvio Pass, but poor weather at Bolzano, low cloud and rain put paid to that idea. In addition I have come to the conclusion that Baby Harls just ain’t the girl for that type of road, she’s too heavy and her long wheelbase makes it “interesting” on the tight hairpins. What she is good at though is “mile munching” and today she did that just fine. ”

A few days later we crested the Col de Lombarde and rode the Cime de la Bonette, the highest paved through road in Europe. Was I wrong a few days previously? Yes, totally!

Since then there’s been a beast gnawing at my back and it’s name is Stelvio.

In the past year there hasn’t been a week when I haven’t studied the map of that bloody Pass, or read articles about it, or watched videos of people riding it’s famous hairpins. I wasn’t obsessed, it was eating at me and mocking me from a distance. It seemed that Stelvio believed that it had beaten me, it’s reputation had scared me away and it had wormed into my psyche.

You see I believe that mountains have something, call it character, call it soul; I’ve felt it many times. Sometimes it’s as if it doesn’t want you there. In my beloved Welsh mountains Aran Fawddwy stands out like that, perhaps it’s because it has claimed so many lives, but it definitely never wants you on its slopes; mountains, like the sea, demand respect.

What Stelvio hadn’t realised was that I’m a Celt, we understand and feel these things and we don’t take crap from anyone or anything.

All that time I was plotting my revenge, looking for the moment when I would return and conquer.

Today I woke early in Livigno. There had been rain overnight, the ground was soaking with large puddles everywhere and the cloud still hugged the mountains like gossamer strands caressing the silent peaks. A slow steady breakfast was on the cards, followed by a gentle stroll through the awakening streets.

By ten o’clock, things were looking up and the sun had begun to break through. Time to move, Stelvio – I’m coming to get you!

Livigno, basecamp.

Livigno, basecamp.

From Livigno the only road to Bormio and today’s target is the S301. At the Passo di Foscagno there’s a customs post, which is a bit strange as we are still in Italy, but it’s all due to the duty-free status of Livigno. I have to say that however laid back the Italians are, they do love a good bit of bureaucracy and this customs post took the biscuit! There was a poor chap in front of me who was made to unpack his car and another who was given a right grilling! When it came to my turn, I’m afraid I tired of the game pretty quickly – “just how many cigarettes and bottles of alcohol do you think I can carry on a motorbike?” I demanded of the official. He shrugged his shoulders and backed off when I told him that he was welcome to search through my dirty washing. “Grazie, buongiorno ,” was all I got, with a thumbs up and a jerk of the wrist indicating I was free to go!

Stelvio, I’m coming for you!

I dropped the bags off at my hotel in Bormio, I wanted the least top weight on Baby as possible, she’s heavy enough empty! Leaving the hotel, we turned left took a deep breath and hit the road.

Passo dello Stelvio at 2757 m / 9045 ft above sea level is the highest paved mountain pass in the Eastern Alps and the second highest in the whole of the Alps being just a tad below Col de Bonette in France. I’ve ridden Bonette on both Harls and Baby, so this upstart needed taming.

The climb and the hairpins start as soon as you leave Bormio. There are 75 in total, split roughly 50/50 between each side, this was going to be hard work! Throw into the mix various tunnels and Avalanche shelters, all dripping with water and having questionable road surfaces, life was getting very interesting.

The great thing about a Harley Davidson is the low-end grunt you get from the engine, there’s torque aplenty even below 2000 revs, so we stayed in second or third gears and just kept plugging at it. Just after a flight of 14 hairpins and about 7/8ths of the way up there is a road that bears off to the Umbrail Pass, right on the Swiss Border; well it would have been rude to ignore it, so hello again Switzerland! The customs post was, predictably, deserted!

Umbrail Pass, customs post. I like to declare...oh don't bother!

Umbrail Pass, customs post. I like to declare…oh don’t bother!

Returning to Italy and a further half-dozen bends took us to the summit…

Oh dear, what a disappointment!image

I love the peace that you normally find on a high mountain summit, maybe a small refuge or café, but this was something else! Every kind of small shop and stall selling any sort of Stelvio branded rubbish that you can imagine! It was all so tacky!

Stevio Pass? Over-used, over-publicised, over-rated!

Ok, so I did buy a pin badge, a patch and a bratwurst… which makes me a hypocrite, but I’m not the first in my family at that!

With perfect timing Mrs Dookes telephoned me whilst I was at the top, which was nice. She’s not a hypocrite incidentally!

We came up there!

We came up there!

Then it was time to escape and trundle back down the seemingly never-ending hill, for me going down is always harder that the uphill stretch.
Stelvio hairpin, just a silly old bend!

Stelvio hairpin, just a silly old bend!

Downhill you are always riding the brake and keeping the speed in check, going up gravity helps with that!
Serious bends!

Serious bends!


Stelvio, the high alp. It's not all hairpins, honestly!

Stelvio, the high alp. It’s not all hairpins, honestly!

Anyway, after a few “moments” we made it to Bormio and being a sucker for punishment I turned left for the Gavia Pass.

At 2621 metres, Passo di Gavia is right up there with the big ones. Unlike Stelvio it’s wild country, unspoilt by commerce and hordes of people. True there’s a cafe and a rundown refuge at the top, but there’s also silence, still tranquility.

Gavia Pass, for those that like their mountains pointy and peaceful!

Gavia Pass, for those that like their mountains pointy and peaceful!

The road up was in a terrible state, but with only eight true hairpins I could relax a bit more than earlier. Where Stelvio was a battle, this was almost a pilgrimage back to real mountain roads. On top of that, the scenery was amazing!

Baby and I trundled back to Bormio happy in a job well done. The beast had been laid to rest and now it was time to move on.

I’ve ridden all bar one of the top twenty paved passes in Europe and goodness knows how many others, maybe one day I’ll count them. For now, I’m going to ride a couple more tomorrow then a few old friends next week, after that if you see me heading for a mountain pass on a motorbike….just shoot me!

“So stand as one defiant – yes, and let your voices swell.
Stare that beastie in the face and really give him hell.”

Catch you later.

Dookes

24 Heurs du Le Mans

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When I put this trip together I was aware that the Euro 2016 football championship was taking place in France, but a quick check of venues showed that I shouldn’t be bothered by any disruption; actually what is a bit strange is that although France are the hosts there aren’t any of today’s three games on television here!

What I forgot to check was the date of the famous Le Mans 24 hour motor race I had routed myself right through the city of Le Mans and today the race started! The sad thing is that I love the city, especially the old quarter, Vieux Mans and I had hoped to enjoy a coffee there on my way through. So you’ll have to be content with a couple of photos from a previous visit!

Vieux Mans

Vieux Mans


Le Mans trams in the Cité Plantagenet.

Le Mans trams in the Cité Plantagenêt.

I also adore the magic that is the famous race, where cars and crews are pushed to the limit; massive sports cars power along the Mulsannne Straight in the darkness and their headlights light the trees in the forest of the Sarthe at midnight. I haven’t yet been to the race in person; I keep promising myself to go to one year….only not this one! A couple of years ago I spent a very enjoyable morning in the 24 Hour museum, which is located on one of the permanent parts of the circuit, half of it is public roads for the rest of the year. It’s well worth a visit, even Mrs Dookes enjoyed it!

Le Mans Bentley Speed 8, Winner Le Mans 2003

Le Mans Bentley Speed 8,
Winner Le Mans 2003

So there we were happily trudging along the A81 heading East, getting near to Le Mans and the traffic just went stupid, from 110kph to 10kph in about 300metres! Time to bale out and find another way; which is just what we did, cutting South across the beautiful countryside of the Sarthe towards Angers.

Now here’s a strange thing, every time I go anywhere near Angers there’s always roadworks and not just a bit of resurfacing! Oh no, we are talking “let’s dig it all up and rebuild it” stuff! Diversions, temporary surfaces and just as we got on the brand-spank-me new stuff, it promptly welcomed us by having a thunderstorm and turning the new oily asphalt into black ice! Twice, as I accelerated off roundabouts, the rear wheel lost traction…now that’s quite a peculiar feeling to have the rear wheel spinning when you are going in a straight line! Bear in mind as well, fully loaded and with me on board, Baby weighs in at just over half a metric tonne….and we lost straight-line grip – twice!!!!!

Thankfully, the rest of the mile munching day wasn’t quite as “interesting,”

Dookes

Dreams of The Sun

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OK lets face it, mild, wet winters are, as a good friend of mine says, rubbish!

It’s not like you can get out and enjoy the crispness of a beautiful frosty day or have fun fooling around in the snow, no, everything is wet, slippery and squishy! Walking around the grounds Dookes H.Q. is like taking on the mud of the Western Front, trying to do the winter garden maintenance is becoming very, well, trying!

We’ve got a quite few trees that need serious pruning and in a couple of cases felling. I’ve managed to tackle some of the work, but the underfoot conditions are certainly limiting productivity. It’s enough to drive you to tears. Talking of which, take a look at this photo of the end of a branch that I cut off a large pine tree, I swear that the tree is shedding a tear!  Can you see it?IMG_1040

Anyway, enough of this moaning stuff!

At least with no ice on the roads I have been out and about quite a lot on two wheels and I’m pleased to report the effectiveness of my gear at keeping out the water! I’ve banged on previously about how important quality protective equipment is on a motorbike, it’s certainly something I never skimp on and I feel that approach repays me many times over.

I also believe in good training and as regular blogonaughts may recall, I am qualified as an “Advanced” motorcyclist. One of the great things, or maybe not, about this is that every few years I have to go through an “Assessment Ride,” with a qualified examiner, just to check that I’m up to standard and behaving myself! Now the great thing about riding with my mate ‘G’ is that he’s a qualified Police trained advanced instructor and is great at giving constructive feedback, even so, when I had to do my assessment the other week I was still a little nervous and that’s probably no bad thing.

The weather was, predictably awful; strong winds, driving rain, the odd bit of hail and part way through a burst of bright sunshine that shone straight in my face and reflected off the road like a laser beam! Oh yeah, then more rain!

Because I wanted to feel really comfortable I took ‘Harls,’ yes I know ‘Baby’ has better fairing protection, but she’s big and heavy and ‘Harls’ fits me like a glove, I wanted to concentrate on the ride and not the bike! “Baby” and I have done quite a few thousand miles in the ten months that I’ve owned her, but nothing like the tens of thousands that “Harls” and I have shared!

Two sexy wheels!

Two sexy wheels!

The ride took in a variety of different roads and traffic levels, all fiendishly structured to put me through my paces and check out different facets of my riding. I didn’t know where we were going and had to watch out for my examiners traffic signals in my rear-view mirror to tell me which way to go, just an additional little pressure!

Anyway all went well and sixty or so miles later my examiner was happy to sign me off as still competent. ‘G’ says that he would have kicked my backside if not!!! Even better, no rain leaked into any of my riding clothing or helmet, happiness all round!

There’ll be even more happiness when the better weather arrives, but in the meantime I’ll content myself with pictures of warmer days and get on with planning the next few trips!

Île de Ré Salt Lagoons

Île de Ré Salt Lagoons

Catch you all soon!

“Go forth and have no fear, come close and lend an ear.”

Dooks

Passo del Tonale

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It’s the 30th of November, happy St Andrew’s Day everyone!

Outside a Westerly gale is howling in off the North Atlantic, winds are gusting at 55knots, that’s over 60 miles per hour, the rain swirls horizontally hardly touching the ground, but soaking everything that dares to be vertical, definitely not motorcycling weather!

Inside Dookes H.Q. the kitchen log fire is oozing warmth and comfort, which is greatly appreciated by Deltic, my old gun-dog, who firmly refuses to budge from his chosen cozy spot in front of the dancing flames, who can blame him! He’s like me now, retired and content, I hate to think of how many muddy wet miles he’s trotted alongside me, patiently waiting to pick up a pheasant, partridge or pigeon, he’s earned his time in front of the fire.

Deltic's favourite spot.

Deltic’s favourite spot.

The espresso pot hisses as it produces a brew of strong, almost black, Italian coffee and my mind is transported back to sunnier days in Italy riding from Bolzano to Milan. I had to slightly rearrange my planned route on account of bad weather over the Stelvio Pass so I consulted the map for another way to go without too much Autostrada riding.

Hmm, Passo del Tonale with an elevation of 1883m/6178ft, that would fit the bill!

I wander into the lounge and settle in front of the other log-burner as my dear old dog won’t let me near the one in the kitchen. Hmm, thinking of Italy let’s have a Grappa to accompany the espresso! Ah yes, the ride. . .

Leaving Bolzano to we followed the wide Adige valley to San Michele, where we hung a right and crossed the pale green river.P1040419

The SS43 road soon began to climb up through vineyards and it became quite a pleasant day.
P1040430
The scenery got more alpine as we approached Passo del Tonale, very pleasant indeed.P1040434
The thing about Tonale today is that it’s one of Italy’s biggest ski stations and unfortunately has been blighted with a whole bunch of, frankly, ugly apartment blocks! I’m sure that when there is snow everywhere and the place is buzzing with ‘Apres Ski’ activity, it must be quite pleasant, but it looked pretty grim to me as we rolled in. It didn’t smell too good either, the verdant ski slopes were well populated with goats doing a great job at keeping the grass nice and short and the air was full of their distinctive odour. Oh yes, I nearly forgot, their “calling cards” were all over the road as well!

One reason why I wanted to visit Tonale was because of its significance during World War One, when the whole of what is now Northern Italy, stretching from Switzerland to Slovenia, became known as “The Italian Front.”

Battles were sporadically fought here between 1915 and 1918, but mostly it was a cold, bloody, stalemate.

Italy had entered the war in order to annex parts of Austria, including the regions of present day Trentino and South Tyrol. The Italians had hoped to gain the initiative with a surprise offensive, but the front soon bogged down into trench warfare. This was grimly similar to the Western Front fought in France, but at high altitude. The fighting here was at times savage, but in reality the most deadly enemy was the weather. Both armies also suffered from poor logistical supply networks, meaning that not only ammunition, but more importantly food and fuel, was constantly in dreadfully short supply.

Autumn 1917 on the front line.

Autumn 1917 on the front line.

The soldiers had to contend with snow, ice and sub-zero temperatures and soon it was dubbed “The White War”. The civilian population was forced to evacuate and many thousands died in Italian and Austrian refugee camps from malnutrition and illness. The really sad thing about the war here, apart from the 1.2 million lost lives, was that the area has always been and still remains, somewhat autonomous, walk into a shop and you will be as likely to be greeted in German as Italian, the locals had always rubbed along just fine.

The front line passed directly through Passo del Tonale. Today a memorial stands in what was once No-Mans Land.P1040435
Built in 1936 on the instructions of Benito Mussolini and designed by architect Pietro Del Fabbro, it is dedicated to the soldiers of all countries who died fighting in the surrounding mountains during WW1.

Actually, its much more than just a monument, it’s also an ossuary, where the wall niches hold the remains of 847 soldiers.

I parked Baby and walked past the heavy wood and bronze doors into the Stygian gloom of a large square crypt. The atmosphere was oppressive and cold. A rack of votive candles flickered before a small altar, the light from their tear shaped flames fell onto a large marble statue of the risen Christ in the center of the room.

I paused for a moment taking in the scene and then lit a candle myself. I’m not big into religion these days, but it seemed the right thing to do as I stood there, being the only living one of the 848 of us who were present.

Walking around the crypt I paused frequently in front of the niches. Some were marked as “Unknown Italian Soldier” or “Unknown Austrian Soldier.” Some had names and others held fading photographs of the occupants, sometimes in uniform and sometimes in civilian dress. Some niches held multiple remains.

I only did one tour around the room before I had to leave, it was just too oppressive and hauntingly sad.

Outside, steps curve to a semicircular terrace above the crypt where I was able to sit in the warm sunlight and ponder the room beneath me. I was honestly glad to get out of there. P1040437

Today in the surrounding mountains, as snow and glaciers melt with climate change, further corpses and remains are being uncovered. Modern generations are still honouring the memory of these newly discovered soldiers of a hundred years ago, but thankfully the mountains are now playgrounds, not battlegrounds.P1040438

Playgrounds for people like me, free to play on a wonderful Harley Davidson.

Most of all, just grateful to be Free.

“‘Till the next time we say goodbye, I’ll be thinking of you.”

Catch you all soon.

Dookes

Return to Italy

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This retirement game is pretty OK, particularly with such a fantastic summer of sport going on all around.

First there was the splendour and power of Le Tour de France, then the cricket test matches between England and Australia have enthralled and are now being followed by the first warm up games for the rapidly approaching Rugby Union World Cup. If only the weather in the UK was quite as predictable!

Time to slip back to Italy for a top up of coffee, fine wine and sunshine!

It’s true to say that I have fallen hopelessly in love with everything I have seen so far in Italy. The country is a place where passion is worn on one’s sleeve and wow, do the Italians get passionate about things! On top of which, everyone I have met have been friendly, happy and super welcoming. Note to self; learn to speak the language better this winter!

Drifting back to the hills of Piedmont, in the North West of Italy, on a Harley Davidson is no hardship at all! The name Piedmont apparently comes from latin, meaning “at the foot of the mountains,” though if you speak French it is also easy to see the link and as the area is bounded on three sides by the Alps it’s also pretty obvious too!

Piedmont is an important industrial region, it is home to FIAT the automobile manufacturer, but for me more importantly is one of the greatest wine-producing regions in Italy. Here they do not make “old rot gut” stuff, oh no, this is the home of top end prestigious wines such as Barbaresco, Moscato d’Asti and most revered of all, Barolo. P1040478

Situated about 30 miles southeast of Turin, yet light years away in time, lies the small town of Barolo, population 750, which gives it’s name to this most majestic of wines. On my last trip I slightly slipped up, I didn’t buy enough, so hence my return!DSCF3864

We rolled into the compact town square just after midday. The town was quiet, actually it was more than that, it was dead. The hot air was still and the scorching sun reflected back off the terracotta roof tiles making the sky above shimmer. It’s an unassuming little place, really only attractive from a distance when the red tiles stand out against the verdant vineyards that run right up to the edge of town. From a small bar came muffled voices and the alluring scent of strong Italian coffee.
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Baby Harley’s engine ticked as she cooled gently in the heat of the narrow streets. A large truck with French registration plates rumbled past, stirring dusty clouds up off the parched road.

I walked through the open door into the shady interior of the bar and ordered a double espresso and lunch. The sunlight penetrated in shards of light that captured a million dust particles hanging like shimmering diamonds in the still air. I settled in a corner chair, rubbed my eyes and realised how much the ride had taken out of me. The lady working behind the bar smiled and delivered my coffee accompanied with a carafe of water and a glass; the Italians know much about coffee and the obligatory water was certainly welcome.

My ears were singing a high-pitched wail as a dumped my riding jacket on the tiled floor. Riding motorbikes plays hell with my tinnitus, even with ear protection and a quiet helmet; it’s the legacy of years working with noisy railway locomotives!

I sipped the strong, excellent coffee and pondered the sanity of riding to Barolo just for some wine. Yep, definitely a good idea!

La Signora reappeared and placed a plate of heaven on the table in front of me. Filetto Baciato, made from pork fillet marinated in white wine then coated with a paste made from salami and packed into a sausage casing to age for six months, wood roasted artichoke hearts and fresh asparagus spears, a small jug of olive oil, some crisp bitter salad leaves and of course Grissini, the Turin breadstick now common all over Italy. Piedmont is rightly famous for it’s simple cuisine, at its gamey best in the autumn, but hey this is summer so go with what’s available, I’m not complaining! I contemplated a cold beer, but no, I’m riding, so stick to water.

The other patrons of the bar are seemingly locals, it’s not the sort of establishment that really attracts tourists and that suits me fine. There are probably about a dozen other people as well as me, cutlery chinks against plain solid crockery as we all eat, enjoy our lunches and for those with companions, talk. My Italian language skill is not great, but I catch snatches of conversation and smile at the animated way that views are exchanged, deals made and the food discussed, yes this food deserves to be discussed it’s simple and very good.

You know, just about everywhere I go it’s always about the food and sadly mine is now finished.

I catch La Signora’s eye and order another coffee. Well, why not, I don’t intend to sleep for hours yet! She returns with a fresh cup and offers a bottle of grappa. It’s another Italian tradition that I love, whereby the spirit is supposed to take the edge off the caffeine or the caffeine off the alcohol, I get the logic, but either way I politely decline!

Coffee gone, I settle up and step outside back into the furnace of this scorching summer. It’s nearly two in the afternoon and the glass is reading 34 degrees Celsius. Time to hunt down this small town’s most famous product and ride on!P1040712
Guess that’s mission accomplished!

“I love wine, women an’ song.”

Catch you soon.

Dookes

Land of Mystery

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Lovely early summer days have arrived here in Cornwall and for me the best way to enjoy them is from the saddle of one of my beloved Harley Davidson motorbikes!

On my last post I took you to the times of Arthurian Legend, this time lets go back further in time. . . a lot further back.

High on the South Eastern edge of Bodmin Moor is the small and incredibly named village of Minions, yes honestly that’s the name of the place! Here can be found evidence of human habitation that stretches back to the Neolithic Period, at least 2500BC, or to put it another way, thats over four and a half thousand years ago! Around the parish can be found burial mounds, standing stones, ditch-ways and a host of other mysterious works.

Most impressive of all can be found on the Western edge of the village where three intriguing stone circles laid in a straight line lie. These are known as “The Hurlers,” or in the local Cornish language, “An Hurlysi.” They are probably the best example of ceremonial circles in South West England and folklore has it that they are the petrified remains of men punished for playing Cornish Hurling on a Sunday.P1030830

The three large circles are aligned on an axis running NNE to SSW. The largest circle is the centre one and measures just over 41 metres in diameter, with its flanking neighbours both just over 30 metres across. Just off to the West are two separate stones known as “The Pipers,” possibly they were playing for the Hurlers when they were set in stone! The whole site is big! 

 

Now don’t go expecting another Stonehenge, the more famous site on Salibury Plain, the Hurlers are nowhere near as grand, but to the Ancient people in this part of the world, probably just as important.

It is fair to say that what they represent is, today, a mystery. Some scholars have suggested that the layout of the stones concurs with stella alignment particularly linked to the stars Vega and Arcturus, or at least where that combination would have appeared in antiquity. Others have linked the layout to the stars in the constellation of Orion, specifically the “Belt,” though as recent archaeology has revealed that there once was a fourth circle I guess that kicks that theory into touch! 

 The stones that remain show clear signs of being crafted and hammered smooth. Originally there were 28 in the centre circle but now only 14 survive, whilst the North circle has 15 out of 30 remaining.

As a place to visit it is certainly worth the effort, particularly on a nice clear day and if industrial archaeology also floats your boat, there are countless reminders of Cornwall’s tin and copper mining heritage to be seen as well. More on that in a future post. I couldn’t resist a bit of monochrome either! 

 About half a mile South of the Hurlers is another fascinating relic of ancient times. This is “Long Tom” also known as “The Long Stone,” an ancient Menhir that possibly pre-dates even the Hurlers. Again the original reason why this 2.8 metre tall stone has been placed here is lost in the mists of time. The most fascinating thing about Long Tom is that at some time the rather phallic stone has been “Christianised,” a simple Celtic Cross has been roughly carved in the head. I found it quite hard to define in a photograph, but trust me, there is a cross there.  

 

 Now here’s an interesting thing, if you take Long Tom as the starting point a line can be drawn right along the axis of The Hurlers and it leads to an ancient burial mound known as Rillaton Barrow. Local legend says that that Rillaton is haunted by the spirit of a Druid Priest, who offers travellers a drink from an undrainable cup. During archaeological excavations back in 1837 a variety of finds were unearthed. Human remains, obviously, but also “grave goods” including a bronze dagger, beads, pottery and a wonderful gold cup. Now known as The Rillaton Cup this beautiful, 90mm high, relic of an ancient time can be seen in the British Museum, London; could this be the cup of the Druid Priest? 

 Pondering the past and happy to be a Druid, I eased Harley into gear and nodded a distant salute to the Priest as I rode away; luckily I wasn’t thirsty!

“Forget about the cheque we’ll get hell to pay, have a drink on me!

Catch you soon.

Dookes
Oh yes, I nearly forgot. Someone in the village of Minions has a sense of humour and I fully approve!