Articles published in September, 2025
The last ten days have been a fairly comfortable prelude to the adventure, through familiar country, although I oddly failed to note the night outside Florence where, refusing to go to a hotel and finding all the camp sites locked I spent the night sleeping triumphantly on the bike under my umbrella.
An audience in Florence, the night I slept on the bike under my umbrella
Tuesday November 16th
Left Rome. Stopped in Latina for coffee.
Too hot. Tied chaps round luggage and lost them.
Spent the most miserable afternoon I can remember looking in vain over 25 km of road and then cursing, whining, wishing and regretting everything I had ever done. Not helped by impossibility of finding anywhere to put tent.
At last, at Larga Patrici, just before Naples, a beachy site. Felt better in tent. Terrible condensation in morning. Stopped to dry out tent on autostrada to Regio just after Pollo. Tent filled like a sail. Took 200mm pix of caterpillar and mountains. Also frames, 28mm, 3,4,5,6,7 of bike against mountain and villages. A little further on, a town against a mountain.
Then came off A3 at 1.15 to find some hot food. Buonapiticola provided a ‘Pizzeria’ where I asked for spaghetti. Passed old lady, just like Lucy, gathering vegetables in garden. Spaghetti at 300 lira was too expensive, but I regret the noise I made. Northern male strikes again.
From the autostrada
This business of the chaps has provoked a great many notions. I suppose a journey of this sort is bound to search out one’s weaknesses as well as expose other underlying traits. While the solitude is not so apparent nor the strain so monotonous as in a wilderness or on the high seas, it may in in its own way be as telling.
Alone in a yacht or on polar expeditions I’ve heard it said that men are inclined to swing between much greater extremes of misery and ecstasy. My own reaction to the loss of the chaps was naturally profound, but it seemed to eat deeper into me in a bitter fashion as I rode along in the night, going nowhere, looking for somewhere, almost crying with vexation, longing, self-pity and love for Jo, whom I seemed to have abandoned just as stupidly as I did the garment her loving hands had made to protect me.
As I rode through the night, from one locked campsite to another, I composed endless letters to her expressing my feelings and simply couldn’t wait to find somewhere to get my pen to paper. Yet as soon as I got somewhere and was settled into the tent, my anguish seemed to entirely evaporate, and I was forced to observe my own apparent fickleness with some disgust while feeling far too relieved to be really unhappy even about that.
This was written while waiting for the spaghetti to cook.
Back on A3. Viaducts between mountains become ever more spectacular. Took 28mm pic of one being built. At 4pm decided to leave A3 in search of a place to pitch my tent. Night falls here at about 5pm. Came to town called Roggiano. Lads shouted, children rushed up. Found a group of men in the square, in carefully pressed suits. One spoke English. They were curious and he spoke to me. I wanted to buy coffee. He indicated the alimentari shop which opened at 4.30. Bought an orange soda then went back to talk to them. Point is, I had time on my hands. Result was that eventually he said there’s an international centre up the hill. UNESCO he said. They would give me a bed if I said I was a journalist.
A cavalcade of young boys (where do the young girls go?) escorted me for 500 metres whooping and shouting as I maneouvered the Triumph among them. A young man with renaissance features and facial hair to match received me kindly in halting French (I spoke no Italian worth speaking with). He described the basic idea of the centre , which consisted of a number of low, flat buildings, pastel pebble-dash, steel-frame windows, in gravel paths and thin grass. It started as a centre for UNLA – the national campaign against illiteracy in 1949. It has become a cultural centre for the region. It has a staff of four full-time, himself, his father, another teacher and a secretary.
All the buildings were erected by the people of the region in their spare time, including bedrooms for those who have to come a long way to Roggiano from one of the other 14 villages scattered around the river Esaro. In a great communal hall a grave young woman in black brought a tray of coffee and cups and stood by us patiently while we drank. Earlier I had watched her with a vast bundle of laundry at least as tall as herself balanced on her head, walking easily through a doorway without an inch to spare on either side.
I was received by the father, Guiseppe Zanfini, in his office. When he had finished his telephone call he beamed across at me with such concentrated benevolence and hospitality that I wanted immediately to vote him into office, any office. Then without preamble and scarcely a pleasantry he launched directly and astonishingly into his story.
Next week: Zanfini’s story.
The journey began in confusion.
At the time I had no place of my own in London and was staying in Putney with friends, John, Graham and Diane, who had to put up with my chaotic preparations. In my room I had the three fibre-glass boxes that were attached to the bike and spent endless hours assembling, and sorting and often discarding the eclectic assortment of things I thought I might need in remote parts of the world of which I knew nothing. Everything was last minute. Even the north-African visas came with only days to spare.
I was due to leave on Saturday, October 6th. My first notes, made on Friday, began with a list of numbers:
American Express Card No: 421 109 604 7 800AX
Midland A/c No: 90739812
Traveller cheque serial Nos. RA72 443 021/5 ($100)
Passport number 535439A Issued 10 Sep 1973
Previous passport number 575911 issued 14 June 1968
Domestic driving licence No 3A/1024534 Exp 3rd April 1976
Triumph registration number XRW964M
Naturalisation Cert. No. BZ233
Engine & Chassis Serial No. DH 31414
Insurance policy no. GB/105/L82d9857 (83) London & Lancashire
Sudan Air Ticket: (British Midland Airways) serial number 001580 5
Even though I was on a bike, Sudan required a return ticket by air for a visa.
Cable Credit Card No CW14602CW
Camera serial numbers: BODY 1 5386100/BODY 2 5413027/28mm 5838503/200mm5852279/55mm 6290789
Tony Morgan Telex No. 99291. Ask for Vera Dormer Tel 037576519
Triumph key nos. Ignition FS 913, Lock EJR 5 Both Union.
You will note the absence of mobile phone numbers and email addresses. Then followed an inventory of my wealth:
Cash. $600 US, Libya 5 Dinars, $Aus 10, Ethiopia 28 dollars, Zambia 10 kwatcha Brazil 38.5 cruzeiros, Francs 50, Balance at bank (all cheques cleared) £1000
I was supposed to start the journey from the Sunday Times office building in Grays Inn road on Saturday so that the paper could print the news of my departure on Sunday.
Saturday 6th October
[Still in Putney]
I started packing, writing letters for Peter Harland to send to Sudan, trying to sort out rubbish, hours sped by, 4pm still not finished.
John enters to say Egypt and Israel are at war. Outside it’s raining heavily, with thunder. Graham and Cheryl [an Australian couple also staying there] are in a terrible state about their air ticket. A strange mood. Everything feels wrong. Jo [my girlfriend in France] is to ring me at Orsett at 7.
At 6pm I am at the ST. The war progresses and must be taken seriously. Thus, on the very day I leave, after six months of preparation, all my arrangements are thrown into confusion. It may even mean going round the world in the opposite direction. A card has arrived at the ST wishing me well, from Mary & David Abercrombie. I pick up TriX film and ST cuttings, and leave. Outside in the rain I drop Mary’s card in the gutter where it quickly becomes muddy litter. Bike won’t start. And I have left my leathers at Putney, where I have already been bid a hero’s farewell.
[Well, the bike did start after all. I rode back to Putney for the “leathers” – some beautiful chaps that Jo had made for me – and then rode on to Essex. Although the paper said I was riding to Folkestone that night I had always planned to spend two more days before leaving England. Tony Morgan, another friend, had invited me to spend the night at his palatial home at Orsett, and the following day I said goodbye to my mother, at Wickford.]
Drive through rain to Orsett. Musto trousers are not waterproof, but next best thing.
[There was no waterproof clothing for bikers that I could find. Tony had suggested tunic and trousers made for yachtsmen made by his friend Musto.]
At Orsett all turns much better. Champagne. Happy times. Jo has called. I’ll ring her on Sunday morning.
Sunday 7th
Mostly at Orsett, reading in ST about my departure from Folkestone the night before. Repacking, timing engine, etc. Then at 5pm to Wickford.
Monday 8th
Leave at 7.15. Arrive Dover 9.30. Buy umbrella. Take 10.30 hovercraft at 11.30. “Electrical faults.” Don’t believe it. Probably just saving money if they can get two loads into the 11.30 trip. Drive as far as Orleans.
Canterbury lamb. Oast houses. Orchards. Sugar beet in France. Huge area devoted to it. Grandvilliers, north of Paris. “Son Parking.” “Sa Zone Industrielle.” Uneventful drive to Orleans. Hotel du Martron. Garage. Bushy gray-haired proprietor. Happy. Had a Matchless and an AJS. Thinks they were much better.
“La Baraque.” “La Baraque Brulée.”
[Two villages]
Tuesday 9th
Fog out of Orleans. 100 miles. Nearly killed on road into Millau. How to allow for suicidal over takers? Remember other roads, fast narrow roads in and out of provincial towns and dangerous home-bound traffic at dusk. I shall have to remember. Slow start. Slow finish. It takes an effort of will to get the speed down. The will to survive.
Wednesday 10th
Millau. The International Hotel. Memories of steam engines wafting in the smoky air. Jo on the plateau. Repacking. Tomatoes and green peppers. Home. The barn so neat, so complete looking. Love. Tiredness. Calm.
Thursday 11th
To Nice. Easy ride. Autoroute (9 NF). Pierre welcoming. [Pierre Guirand was the director of the Westminster Hotel on the Promenade des Anglais. I knew him from my newspaper days.] Meet two American actors and a girlfriend, Ruth. They are Tom Skerrit (c/o William Morris) and Keith Carradine (c/o I.F.A ) in LA.
Did push the bike over outside Gignac, fiddling with the horn. Got a rough taste of what it will be like having to pick it up. In Nice repacked once more. Now have the sleeping bag outside the sack on top with the waterproofs in plastic. Washing bag on top box, with knife and sausage. Also tightened up rear suspension to maximum.
Friday 12th
Felt sleazy. Did some exercise. 7 pushups maximum. Thought again about picking up bike, regret weak arms. Down for coffee, croissant on terrace, having fetched bike from garage. The picture with Pierre. Can’t get the measure of him.
[A woman insists I must be going to Sierra Leone.]
“When in Sierra Leone. Robert Snowden (World Bank). Diana Pitt (his wife is her first cousin.) Aziz 6791108 / Ferahi 4249967.”
Sat/Sunday/Monday
In Rome. First day exclusively on cleaning and looking at the bike. Reset tappet clearances. Rt hand inlet had little, if any. Machine is now quieter, but also vibration just as pronounced. Primary chain seems a trifle loose, but every time I adjust it, it seems to find this same tension. So I’ll see if it stays or gets slacker. Cleaned it. Tightened front crankcase bolt (LH).
Andrew and Gabrielle Hale [newspaper contacts] very hospitable, though he gets up tight often and shows a waspish front to deter invasions of privacy. A pained look that must have developed over years of coping with Italian gusto.
Pensione “Kent House” on via delle Crocce. 3,500 lire a night for three bed room. Family restaurant next door (on the right, facing houses). 2000 lire a meal. (Etrusca in Vittoria is cheaper).
Monday recorded for LBC and felt unhappy about it.
[A new radio station had opened in London and I had an arrangement to record stuff and send them tapes.]
Faced first problems of postage. Wrote out notes for ST. Seemed to spend ages packing again, as always. Tried to buy a few simple things and found them appallingly expensive or unobtainable. (ie. Roll of tape for 500 lire). Must be like an Italian trying to buy ironmongery in Mayfair. Met Oswaldo Marino and learned a few things.
Next week: To Roggiano
This has been an unusual week. In France there has been a day of nationwide strikes because people think the government isn’t giving them what they want, but they can’t seem to elect a government that will, probably because no such government could exist.
In England I witnessed, on TV of course, the most elaborate and expensive act of sycophancy ever devised by any government in the history of the world to flatter one person, Donald Trump, in the desperate hope that he will really think he deserves it. They seem to have succeeded.
Next week, back to reality.
With this excerpt I’m only days away from the end of a four-year journey, approaching the Mediterranean coast of Turkey, still in the company of Ted Holst and Mina on their BMW.
Still Monday June 6th
At Mersin a fertiliser factory is producing the worst smoke pollution I’ve ever seen. A pall of salmon smoke completely obscures the road and the country around.
Trying to get to Silifke before dark. Tried at a MoCamp (BP). Prices were too high, and I thought it was all too lavish. We went on and spotted the “Yilmaz” restaurant overlooking bay. They let us camp on a terrace, and we ate and drank – fish, salad and wine – for 48 Lira each.
Tuesday June 7th
Stayed at restaurant. Met two burly bulldozer mechanics who were liberal with fish and raki. Peter had difficulty accepting it. (He turned up just before lunch.) In afternoon another family came and dished out fruit and yoghurt. A lazy day.
[The question of which offers to accept and which to refuse can be tricky. I took the rather grandiose and self-serving view that since I was intending to give all my thoughts and experiences back to the world as a book, I was entitled to take from it whatever it offered. I was on a mission. Peter was not.]
Wednesday 8th
Left, and forgot to pack the fishing rod. Slept in woods before Alanya, with fire. Nice coast.
View from the road
Thursday 9th
To Antalya. Public campground on road to Kemer, on beach. Grilled kebab meat. Nice port. High stone walls. Fish restaurants. Cheap apricots. Dropped gloves twice in street.
Friday 10th
Next day left Pete and rode north. Then vibration started. We fiddled with timing and stuff.
[I guess Pete must have caught up with me.]
Lost lots of time, and stopped long way short of Afyon, the target. In small hotel, where French couple, coming the other way, joined us in trip to the Hamam, escorted by hotel owner and Turkish friend. All together in bath, while Turks waited outside. Afterwards lots of lewd remarks about “spielen” – and next morning the foolish scene in bedroom between Hennie [the French girl] and hotel keeper while Mark slept. So a good impression spoiled, but not too badly for us men. We are not Muslims.
Next day, Saturday, stopped again to camp behind BP station eating bread and sausage and cheese. So, Sunday into Istanbul.
The bridge out of Asia – across the Bosphorus to Istanbul
[I spent three days in Istanbul and saw plenty but wrote nothing about it. I only have one very clear recollection. In a residential neighbourhood the three or four storey houses, built as a U, enclosed an open space where a long table was set up and people all ate and drank there together. I, a total stranger, was invited. I found it extraordinarily civilised.]
Thursday 16th
Left Istanbul at 12.00. Milometer reads 31310. Fresh oil to full mark. Fresh engine oil. Tank full of petrol and five lira in pocket.
Difficulty to find way out of Sultanahmet. Once on road vibration was as bad as after Antalya. Hot day. Met idiot driver who nearly pushed me off the road.
Retarded timing. No effect. Plugs white. Put on choke. No apparent change. Spent much time contemplating engine failure. Had to change another £10 [traveller’s cheque] in Tekirdag. Lunch of Köfte, rice etc, 23 Lira. Changed 235 Lira at border into 510 Drachma. Border is 150 miles from Istanbul. Called Hudut. Got to Kavela, slept under concrete skeleton in lovely bay. Good fish, chips, salad and retsina for 49 drachmae.
Next day Thessaloniki. Rained. Prisunic [supermarket]. Spent about 54. Got litre of oil. Balance in Petrol. Thought I was diddled by 6 Drachmae. Ran out of petrol 100 m from border. Had 10 Dinar given by mistake. Worth a litre. Got one and a half litres by mistake. Absurdity on Yugoslav side with money and coupons. Changed £10. Rode on through rain. Stopped for tea. Met Dieter’s bro-in-law. Hash story. We went on together, but he lost me just before Skopje. Thought I saw him pounding back on the other side of dual carriageway.
Tried motel. Awful little box for 114 Dinar (£4) Went out of town. Slept in field with tent. Did well. Next day changed £10 in Nisi and had scratch breakfast. On to Belgrade by 1.15. (Yugoslavs always sitting at empty tables).
From West Turkey the New German Empire. Every other car in Yugoslavia is Deutsch. Belgrade surprised me. So many tall blocks. They do well at apartment buildings it seems. Hwy runs in and out. Stopped for a moment on a grassy side turning. Already 225 miles today. Vibration varies. Loosening primary chain seemed to help. Alignment also better (next day). But still lot of ache in limbs. Now countryside changes. Lower lying. More prosperous. Tidy towns with churches. Stopped somewhere near Sisak. Altogether about 425 miles.
Friendly waiter in restaurant gives short measures in beer but good goulash. Camp at end of field. Again OK, but ground very bumpy. In morning first sign of backache, but not serious. Bread, chocolate and tea. Put in litre of oil. Began to think of reaching München today. Past Zagreb and Ljubljana.
On way, nastiest accident scene. Little car torn apart and two TIR trucks askew on road. Mother and 5-month baby dead. Great queues of traffic form in no time.
I skip past, exchange a word with TIR drivers, all standing around in singlets. Then on with no traffic ahead or behind. Made my journey easier. They didn’t give their lives for nothing. Very little though. Don’t know who was driving the car. The baby maybe would have had better instinct for survival. Strange how we lose the instinct in a car.
After Ljubljana spend my last Dinar on petrol. So £20 gone in Yugoslavia and almost all of it on petrol. New frontier roads, through broad mountain pass, to Villach where I was waved into Austria and met Gaby of Neckerman Reise. Also, the Grüss Gott witch with the goulash supper. But very gentle man in bank. There’s a jazz festival in Ljubljana. Oh God, No way.
Sunday 19th
To Spittal and then the amazing toll road under the mountains, Katschberg, etc. 4 endless tunnels. 50 schilling toll (£2). I burst out laughing. It seemed preposterous, but of course it’s in line with everything else. [What was I thinking? For once I simply can’t put my head back into that place. I may have been slightly nuts.]
Now lots of rain, and hail. But dry patches afterwards. Tank up once near Werfen. Petrol still over a £1 a gallon. To border. No formalities at all. Could have brought anything at all into Europe. Then the long, fast motorway to Munich, but I’m the slowest thing on it. And just at nightfall, in rain or drizzle, I pull up in the Rosenheimer Strasse and call Octavia [one of the German sisters I met in Ceylon] from a Gaststätte.
Wonderful. Home and dry after a lot of searching for house. Pleasant looking girl in VW which seems to be full of mongoloid idiots with faces pressed against windows.
Miles 32750. So, 1400 from Istanbul. Average 400 a day. 2 litres of oil – not quite. Bike fell over in Austria in rain. Had to lift it, but with back already bad put my body to severest strain. Felt it and laughed about it with Octavia.
2 days in München with O and one more alone. Meanwhile contact with Jackie Stewart and Mme Albaret in Paris about my things.
So I’m in Munich, and almost home, though where home is remains to be seen.
I began publishing these notes two and a half years ago – as single excerpts at first, from Cairo and Aswan, Chile and Ceylon and then, as I got into the fun of it, in sequence. But the sequence began halfway up South America, so most of my notes from the beginning of the journey have not yet graced your Sunday breakfast table (or wherever it is you read them).
Starting next week I’ll go back to the beginning of the story.
I am still thinking about how this might be made into a book. It presents some peculiar problems, but it could be beautiful. More words of encouragement from you would be welcome.
