Cruising with the King

New Year's Eve 2009. I left early from the riad orangery, aiming to ride all the way to the port and head over into Spain for an earlier than anticipated return home. I was experiencing some problems with the rear brake and so I decided it was best to sprint back to the UK and enjoy a few extra days at home before returning to Kazakhstan. I had almost overdosed on the solo adventuring thing and was tired out from long desert riding days.

Cruising the motorway network north via Marrakech, Rabat and then onto Tangier was hard on the tyres, wearing the off road knobbles to triangular points in less than 600 miles. The weather was still pleasant but not as warm as in the south. The bike began to develop a rattle in the top of the engine and the power seemed sluggish at times, although the strong winds off the Atlantic were not helping matters.

Suddenly, after Marrakech the roads became lined with police and military men, positioned every two or three hundred metres. . The motorway become progressively empty. I decided to wave at a police man who stood rigidly to attention and surprisingly he saluted back. Very friendly. Then next one saluted too, and then the next. I felt rather honoured until I saw the red and blue flashing lights bearing down on me in the mirrors. A cavalcade of smart cars rumbled past, led by a very smart gentlemen in a perfect dark green Rolls Royce. The tan leather complemented his very sharp suit and he seemed to be enjoying his job. The back seat was empty. I kept right and tried to see who was in the dark windowed cavalcade, seemingly on their way to collect some dignitary.

Later I passed the entourage stopped in a motorway services, the dark security vehicles positioned strategically around the Rolls. Minutes later the cavalcade appeared in my mirrors. I decided I would try to look, without actually looking, at who might be in the rear of the Rolls. As it approached the soldiers saluted me again. The Roller drew level. The back seat was empty. Then it dawned on me. The driver was familiar. Who else would commmand such security arrangements? As I realised who he must be, I resisted the impulse to wave with my culturally insulting left hand and just held on tightly as my speed increased with my zeal to give this aristocratic boyracer more of a once-over. As I realised I may have looked like a security threat, suddenly keeping pace with the royal Roller, I backed off the throttle and King Mohammed VI floated regally onward.

A few hours later it was dark again as I arrived at Tangiers. I misread the sign for the port and ended up crossing the high pass over to Ceuta in gusting winds along winding roads with no back brake. I was hoping to get the last ferry of the year across the water to Spain. The border crossing from Morocco in the Spanish enclave was hectic as expected but with a little patience and some polite British perseverence I crossed our of Morocco at 10pm and headed for the port. I was greeted by a queue of Spanish and French cars who evidently had also missed the last ferry and were lined up on the port entrance yard in the white painted lanes. This impromptu campsite was not at all appealing from a driver's point of view and in the driving rain and the chill wind, I was not much looking forward to the night ahead. Ceuta was dead. No hostels or restaurants were doing business. Only the 4 star Hilton-eque establishment looked open. The ferry left in 7 hours. It was 100 Euros a night vs a concrete step under cover at the customs desk at the front of the queue of cars. It was time for the survival kit.

I was wearing most of my clothes already because of the temperature. So I set myself a bedspace out of the wind against the barrier checkpoint building. I inflated my sleeping mat, wrapped myself in the tarpaulin, flipped down my visor to keep my face warm and tried to sleep. I wondered briefly if some Spanish or French driver might take pity on me as I tossed and turned under the lights of the 'guichet', but their steamed windows closed them off into a less comfortable (I hoped) bubble of sleeping rough. I was cold but at least I had some space. I must have dozed for a total of an hour during the 7 hour exposure to the elements which wore slowly on. Then at 6am staff began to arrive for the first shift of the new year. I was quickly packed and ready to join the front of the queue. I reckoned I deserved to push in given the night's accommodation.

I showed my ticket to the desk clerk and was beckoned aboard by a tall, blond Latvian guy who, I quickly discovered, wreaked of vodka and was still up from the revellry of the night before. I spotted his accent and spoke to him in Russian which seemed to make his day. He embraced me in the way people do when too much alcohol makes them pronounce their long-lived undying love. I was almost equally as pleased to be out of the rain and into the warm. After my new Latvian friend had tried unsuccesfully to tether my bike for the second time, I tightened the knot myself and extricated myself from the conversation which had already espoused the friendliness of British people, the despotic holiday regulations of his Spanish employers and his love for working in Britain. He staggered off to join his colleagues as I made my way upstairs, hoping that the Captain of the ship had not been partying as hard the night before.

The crossing was flat and we arrived on time. I made for the first services on the motorway out of Algeciras. The bar was bizarrely filled with late shift industrial workers (also victim of despotic holiday regulations) and smartly dressed party revellers who had survived the excesses of the night before. Can they have spent their entire night in the service station in the middle of an industrial estate? Then again, I spent mine asleep on the dockside in the wind and rain on the Spanish tip of northwest Africa. Theirs was positively a step up from my new year celebration.

I downed a Redbull which that bar owner in Toledo had given me over 2 weeks previously and hit the road for northern Spain. I hit a snow storm 12 hours later, just north of Madrid. After a few kilometres in a blinding blizzard I found the only operational hotel in the region - a five star immitation castle with suits of armour and a smattering of medieaval paraphernalia. It was sumptuous and the most stark contrast from the night before. As I handed over my Goldcard I averted my eyes as the receptionist typed in a multi-digit Euro amount and spun it through the Visa machine. I was desperate to sleep.

The next day the snow had gone and the road to Bilbao was easy. The P&O crossing was uneventful and it delivered me 29 hours later to Portsmouth dock ready for the two hour trip to Bristol which was cold but bearable. Had I returned two days later as I had previously intended I would have been arriving in snow. As I buzzed along the M4 I recalled my wobbley start to the most epic adventure ride I have ever done. It was definitely worth it but I was glad to be home and was looking forward to not going anywhere for a few days. Next stop, Kazakhstan. But first I needed some time to reflect and prepare myself for some decision making for the year ahead.