mcmiles.net Plymouth to Hanoi, the slow way round!

This ride isn’t really part of getting to Hanoi. My Oma passed away a few days ago and I’m just paying my respects to a woman I admire immensely and never spent enough time with when it was still possible. It came out of the blue but it just felt natural to postpone Spain and ride out to Groningen to say farewell to my Oma and hear stories from people who knew a side of her I never saw. Brittany Ferries were good enough to postpone my Spanish ticket a week and didn’t charge me a penny for their troubles.

It started out a little bit discouraging because I thought I knew the way to Harwich and ended up taking the most awkward possible route. It took me 2 hours just to get out of London and clear the M25. It should have taken 45 minutes if I’d consulted a map or just been less block-headed stubborn. I also managed to miss the last turn for Harwich and only realised just outside of Felixstowe. On the bright side, the weather was far more amiable than predicted and didn’t give me an opportunity to put my new waterproofs to the test. Driving south to correct my error, I remembered reading that bikers are supposed to live by the creed: “Ride hard, something, something, be happy”. I dropped a gear, twisted the crank and remembered that getting lost just means more riding time. By the time I reached the port, I was grinning from ear to ear.

I like to hook my helmet on my elbow when I’m pfaffing with passports and boarding cards for the ferry. It gives me a chance to hear the engine properly and listen for any sounds or engine whines that are normally muffled by the helmet. Also it looks crazy cool because the port staff always wave bikes to the front of the queue and you can almost hear the suffering of the cagers as they see you wizz past with the breeze in your hair while their kids argue about the film playing on their in car entertainment. Anyway, this time I got caught out because while I was manovering into my tie down crib on the car deck, the helmet which was now hanging from one of the handlebars, came loose and smacked down hard on the steel deck. They tell you at riding school that this means it’s new helmet time. It took my grin away and I was pretty shaky for the rest of the evening. I think I was just upset with myself for letting it happen. There’s no obvious damage and it’ll have to do until I can find a replacement which is going to be dificult en-route to a funeral.

The ride must have worked up an apetite because I devoured a blue-rare rib-eye and a tower of chips covered in mustardy Dutch mayo as soon as I got on board and before I’d even removed my layers of scarves and kevlar. The waitress had to interrupt my plate licking ceremony because all the posh guests were becoming nervous and scared. They pacified me with a loaf of bread and a hunk of what can only be described as salty lard. I’ve only ever been served that on the continent. I don’t know what it’s called but it’s bloody good and doubly so when you’re ravenous.

No, of course this is not my picture, they don’t give you cleavers like that on a ferry crossing.