Nizza to Isa.
Saturday 28th June 2008.
Awake and blurry eye-sighted dimly aware of early morning sunlight shining through holes in the heavy metal shutters, horizontal shafts of neon brightness piercing the gloom of the room, casting glowing sunspots onto the wall beside me.
Roll off the bed.
Ugggh.
Hmmmn, I appear to remain ‘fully’ clothed from the previous evening.
Ok.
Try standing.
Yeah, that works.
Now, just a few steps to the window …
yup, still have the use of my legs Thank You God(dess).
Operate the device that raises the shutters clunk clatter, clatter – aaaaaagh … blast of bright light from the newly risen just-above-the-horizon-sun!
Intense reflection bouncing off shimmering sea has blinded me … an’ I can’t see, temporarily.
Arf.
Conceptual continuity gradually restored, revealing a view from hotel room balcony of a startlingly clear blue sky topped panorama, encompassing the far away across the sea silhouetted mountainous grandeur of hazy blue Italy, distant geology dwarfing assorted sizeable shipping underway making passage through the Straights of Messina.
Attention drawn to early morning activity of a Sicilian seaside town; joggers pounding along the promenade; early swimmers teetering over pebbles to the brink of the plunge; watchful fishermen in small boats, bobbing about patiently; immigrant dustbin lorry personnel servicing seafront litter bins; wasp-waisted Sicilian matron in black, hips swinging, sweeping some steps.
Ahem.
Right, that’s your establishing where the feck I am in the world bit dealt with.
Now. First things first – Find the Bathroom. Last night’s litre of Morretti is impatient to continue its journey.
Aaah - That’s better.
Remove ‘nightgown’ – step into shower. Double Aaah.
A cleansed, refreshed and clothed Human emerges from hotel room, intent upon Sicilian Breakfast … which is soon found, self-service style, waiting for me on a terrace overlooking The View.
A couple of croissants and a “Doppio Espresso per piacere.”
Then back in the hotel room, with Italian phrase book in hand, it’s too early in the morning for comic conversation time, trying to make myself understood over the ‘phone to the receptionist.
“I wanna ‘phone – I mean …”
(sfx of rapid phrase book page rustling)
“Ho bisogno di fare una telefonata Isola di Malta.”
(sfx of more rapid phrase book page rustling)
Imagine how long it takes me to translate the Half-Italienne’s thirteen digit home ‘phone number into phonetically meaningful sounds to a patient, Full-Italian …
“errr, dze-roh, dze-roh,
um, tray,
ah, cheen-quay,
urrr, se-ee,
errr, oo-noh,
errr, doo-ay,
errr, kwat-troh …” etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.
Gordon Bennett, Chaps! It really is worth the effort to learn some of the lingo, rather than as I seem to, always depending on the kindness (and appreciable tolerance) of strangers.
Brrring-brrring, brrring-brrring - She never picks up until after the third ring - brrring-brrring, brrring-brrring, brrring-brrring, brrring-brrring … hmmmn. Too early in the morning for the Half-Italienne too … Herself answers, still in bed and sleepy, just being awoken by me on the ‘phone.
(The Half-Italienne comment
early morning pest…)(© comment
Girlies, eh!)Scusi Sweetie.
Prepare for the day, pack stuff, hand over dosh to pay the bill, get handed back me passport.
Load the 900 while The Manager moves his limo out of the way so that I can wheel the luggage laden top-heavy, GPz towards one of his pumps, where I can fill’er up, to make my 900 even more wobbly-tank-full-top-heavy.
Approaching rough rumbling hacking coughing sound comes into view … a properly Red, Open-Top Ferrari. The Italian Stallion nonchalantly piloted by a heads-turningly, devilishly handsome Italian - Reflected in petrol pump glass, glimpse myself, a properly red-faced englishman abroad, nonchalantly sweaty and grey-haired on top.
Ferrari pops bangs & coughs past a couple more times whilst I’m getting togged up. The devilishly handsome Italian is obviously having a bit of bother with the temperamental thoroughbred.
Press the GPz go stud, the 900 bursts into harmonious four cylinder song, eager for Sicilian roads to be travelled along.
Set off south along the Nizza seafront, it’s thick with weekend cars and mopeds and swarthy types on motorbikes.
Progress in convoy behind a slow coach, squeezing along narrow roads and streets, as one after another small seaside town seems to join seamlessly with the next.
Fan switch on, creeping along behind the coach, jockeying for an opportunity for an overtaking position with a Girlie riding a slim scooter. Natch, with Local Knowledge, she gets it first and is fast on her way. Another minor humiliation for Yours Truly, still stuck in the wake of coach diesel smoke and engine heat.
Gentle Reader, should you be in a southern hurry in this part of Sicily, take the E-45/A-18 main autoroute. That way you’ll avoid the stretches of very old flagstone paved Sicilian streets, all charmingly rustic and historic no doubt, but no matter what degree of retarded velocity they are negotiated at, felt as though they were surely about to vibrate the beloved 900 to bits.
The out of town stretches of SS114 coast road would have been much better and Really Jolly Good 900 Fun, with enjoyable changes in elevation, scenery and road speed and flow, and all of those exploring new roads excitements we crave … had it not been for the heavy Saturday traffic getting in the way on nearly every interesting bit of it that wasn’t being made dangerous by some of the most consistently dodgy drivers I have ever had the misfortune to try and avoid sharing the same piece of tarmac with at one and the same time!
Strewth!
Sicilian freestyle, liberty-taking driving or what … and usually at edge of control speeds, careering around blind bends, straddling the white line and aimed straight at me.
Make No Mistake.
These 'Drivers' Will Kill Ya!
The melancholy reminder of so many road-side shrines attests to that dead centre of the road Fact.
Coast road leads me to a temporary pause for rest, reflection and re-hydration at Capo Taromina, surely an almost picture perfect cliché image of Sicilian coastline.
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Coaches, cars and camper vans all slowly enjoying the coastline too.
Hot, Hot, Hot.
Carry on, carry on.
Around about Giarre, the sulphurous stench of Mount Etna wafts within my helmet.
There’s no ignoring it.
The Presence of That Ferking Great Big Volcano.
It is there, ahead and to the right, looming menacingly over me.
Yeah, Ok, it’s ten and a half miles away.
But I’ve seen the films, and ten and a half miles away ain’t but jack-shee-it to a full on pyroplastic flow or a mighty, hot rocks ejaculatin’ eruption.
Best increase velocity smart’ish and pass on way beyond this potential threat coming between me and the completion of my Half-Italienne mission. And besides, after all of the planning and work an’all, neither would I want to run the risk of singeing the paintwork of my recently restored, charcol black 900.
So - Enough of the impeded progress.
Need cooling speed and room to out manoeuvre the homicidal four-wheelers and any possible danger from the Volcano (yeah … you can laugh).
Search for find and accelerate onto the A18/E-45, riding swiftly south, by-passing the centre of Catania.
Masses of Saturday traffic moving with me … but thankfully not at me.
Not sure where I’m going exactly.
Eventually see signposts to the Airport and Ferries.
Peel off at next exit to Catania docklands.
2.00pm: 2,289.5 road miles from Myross, arrive at Catania dock to see the Maria Delores catamaran fast ferry to Malta moored at the quay, main stern ramp shut tight, smaller, side ramp still down, looking as though loading has finished ...
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See the ferry ticket office staff shutting up shop ... Panic!
“Mi Scusi! Sono inglese, non parlo Italiano … Can I buy a ticket, how much for a ticket for a motorcycle to Malta?”
‘Yus,” says english speaking Maltese Manager of the ferry ticket office, “€65, but not now, you come back when we re-open at 6 O’clock for 8 O’clock sailing, arrive Valletta 11 O’clock.”
Ok. The ferry has only recently arrived, no need to panic, just be patient and wait.
€65 ain’t bad one way for a catamaran crossing over seventy miles of sea.
Gawd but it’s hot here.
Park the 900 in available shade, strip off as far as decency in the docks will bear, then guzzle the last of my water.
There’s an about to close bar next to the ferry ticket office, with plentiful supplies of cool, cool water. A couple of litres purchasing opportunity not to be missed.
Gawd but it is so, so hot here.
Pheeew.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
No point in zipping off anywhere, exploring V.large metropolitan Catania, just to kill time or be killed by the Sicilians.
Humpf.
Probably safer staying stationary, where I am … though there are some very Bravado Catanian Dockers in specialised trucks racing hither and thither about me, reversing, bumping and hitching onto and towing, loading heavily laden trailers upon RoRo ferries berthed nearby.
Gawd but it really is so, very hot here.
Gasp.
There’s not even a bit of a hint of a breeze to bring a wee bit of relief.
Seen through the hot air heat haze to the north, the twenty-three miles away mass of Mount Etna looms menacingly over Catania. I’m convinced I can see signs of smoke billowing upwards from the far off top of the volcano … or is it just cloud created by moist sea level air being blown up the slopes to the summit and, y’know, all that high up the mountain, warm air, cold air condensation weather system so on & so on … Was that a flash of lightning I saw in the rising column of broiling smoke above where the crater must be … ? Physics, Geology, Vulcanology … eruptions spew dust and rocks high into the sky, creating massive static electric charges … releasing massive bolts of lightning … blimey, The God(desses)s Must Be Angry!
I’m hungry.
The Racing Dockers have loaded aboard trailers enough to clear a space, revealing a view through to the far end of the docks, where, it appears to me that, an open snack-bar is still doing good business.
I must mount my rumbling, empty tummy aboard the 900 and go investigate.
Now, Gentle Reader, if you should ever find yourself at a hungry, loose end in the Catania docks, then do check-out this particular snack-bar near the beginning of the harbour wall. In it I scoffed one most delicious savoury pastry envelope, constructed in traditional Sicilian style, a triangular cone shape, containing spinach and tomatoes and mushrooms and cheese and stuff - oooh, I could’ve easily eaten two, but, y’know how it is, middle aged man on a mission, fighting middle age spread, with just seventy or so miles of sea crossing separating him from The Woman.
Wiping the last few crumbs from me whiskers, draining the last of a cool drink, from the snack-bar I see the very long harbour wall, the ‘Molo Di Levante,’ looking like easy 900r access to all areas along it up to the Very Big Crane at the far end (maybe a mile and a half away, maybe two … I mean, sure, I zero the trip meter often enough – but then, in all the excitement of going and arriving, almost always forget to check what the total mileage is when I get to wherever it is I wanted to measure the distance to).
GPz posed under the Big Crane. Molo Di Levante, Catania Dock.
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Back at the waiting at the ticket office, a Maltese/Australian arrives on foot. He looks like he’s been a boxer, has that rangy, light on his feet, loose limbness about him. Plus the boxers broken nose is a dead giveaway. But he ain’t no punch drunk bruiser, telling me lucidly he’s come back to give his birthplace, Malta, one last look before returning to Oz for good. He talks the remaining waiting time away with entertaining tales of life in the Antipodes.
Catania Dock. 2,289.5 road miles from Myross.
6.00pm: Ticket office opens and Tourists, Maltese and other assorted travellers all mill about, elbows out trying to push past me to be first in the queue … such unruly fellows! But being an englishman abroad, I grit my teeth determinedly and with a tight, polite “Excuse Me” elbow ‘em back outta my way to request -
“A Ticket to Malta, One Way, Please.”
Passport, bike reg., etc., etc., tippy-tapping of booking computer terminal keys, buzzzing of printer and ...
“That will be €160.00 Please, Mr.Cooper.”
“Hold on a mo … you said it would be €65 one way!”
“Yes Mr.Cooper, €65.00 one way for your motorcycle, plus €70.00 one way for you, plus €25 in taxes. Total €160.00.”
“Oh … Sicily … €9 to arrive €160 to leave.”
“Shut Up and Pay the Man.” says the Maltese/Australian, and walks off.
Dosh handed over.
Start Loading !
Up the ramp and into the aluminum car deck of the cat. I’m directed over towards a section of aluminum wall that has hinged, purpose built aluminum padded brackets, that are lowered over the seat of the in position motorcycle, then ratchet belted securely to the aluminum deck. Jolly Good!
Helmet stashed safely in tank-bag.
Make my way up the aluminum steps to the front row of the comfy chaired saloon, get comfy, looking out of the picture window ‘port-hole’ keep a wary eye on the still smokin’ Etna, beyond the bunch of out on deck last gasp smokers.
Marine engines increase revs, vibrating the aluminum ship as she gets underway, the catamaran hull rising up smoothly out of the water gaining speed, The Maria Delores leaves Catania in her wake.
I thumb my nose at Etna
Tourists, Maltese and other assorted travellers all mill about the passenger compartments in the usual confusion of whose sitting with whom and where, and I want a drink and when I get it, the coffee is crap, and served sulkily by a surly yoof who’d much rather not be disturbed by the likes of a Grumpy Old Fart like me whilst He’s busy texting his Girlie … which reminds me … sms an “Underway from Sicily” to her Half-Italienne-ness. “Buon Viaggio” her reply.
Dump the rest of the yukkk ‘coffee’ and do some sulking of my own, snuggled up against the chill of the Cat’s AC, within the baggy leather jacket you may have noticed about me. Comfy’ish, snooze for most of the three-hour crossing.
Sleepily sensing that subtle sinking sensation that accompanies the catamarans decrease in speed, awaken to see in the darkness ahead the burgeoning higgledy-piggledy confusion of illumination along the Maltese coastline as Valletta comes closer and the Grand Harbour entrance gapes welcomingly.
“Put The Kettle On” texted to Half-Italienne.
-ding-dong-
Would all vehicle drivers please report now to the car deck, go to their vehicles, immediately start their engines and proceed to choke on the noxious exhaust fumes produced and confined therein for the next fifteen minutes until we dock and then have to wait a further ten minutes for the car deck exit doors to be opened and the vehicle ramp to be lowered … Thank Yeeew!
The Captain And Crew Of The Maria Delores Do Hope You Enjoyed Your Voyage With Us And Have A Safe Onward Journey And The Captain And Crew Of The Maria Delores Look Forward To Seeing You Again Soon Aboard The Maria Delores.
Righto.
Down below, 900 released from bondage.
Helmet on, engine on, engage first gear and gently down the ramp off the ferry.
Maltese customs guys scrutinize the black, quite legal Irish ’84 C plate, then grudgingly wave me through.
Out of the terminal gate and turn right, along Pinto Wharf, left up Crucifix Hill, past the appreciative pavement audience assembled outside The Tom Bar.
Ride into Floriana, 900 exhaust note echoing off tall limestone buildings along deep canyon streets. Another left and 2,290 road miles from Myross, calmly cruise to a halt outside the Half-Italienne’s half-open door.
Inside, the tea is brewing and there’s an equally warm welcome.
Now, if you’d be so kind, just talk among yourselves ...
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Outside the Half-Italienne's half-open front door, 2,290 road miles from Myross.
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Then later, inside ...
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1984 Gpz 900r, © & Ms.B. posing with Lovers in the Bull, Oil and mixed media on canvas 168cm x 247cm, also 1984.
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Then later, outside
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To the beach, Xrobb L-Ghagin, with Flippers, ready for a dip in 27°C warm waters. But, Great-Scott!, the roads to the coast are bumpy! ... an’with all the beach paraphenalia to transport, a TransAlp with a topbox begins to seem the very thing.
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Captured by The Half-Italienne at Delimara. Posing, pale englishman avoiding the merciless
mediterranean sun, parking 900 in the shade, prior to more swimming in the 27°C sea.
Note the dusty road surface - a welcome alternative to park up on, after Twenty minutes
of slow slalom trying to avoid potholes. This island is most definitely TransAlp Territory.
Transalps there are a-plenty too, I've seen 'em ... but not that many on view at the Golden Bay Sunday meet.
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11am Sunday, The Cafe above Golden Bay, prior to the Maltese Family Sunday Luncheon exodus.
2008 Myross to Malta.
The End.
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