May 16, 2022

We loaded up the bike in Dubrovnik for the slog up the toll road to Zadar. Before leaving, I had to pay our host for the two nights, in cash, and I didn’t have enough, so once more I hiked down the hill to the ATM to get kunas. Although it was early, it was already humid, and I was soaked by the time I got back to the apartment. Oh well.

Diana finishes loading the bike as I take one last photo from our terrace.

And one last panoramic photo from a little higher up, looking out the window of our host Marija’s home. I’m already missing this place. It was so relaxing.

The toll road headed north from just after the Bosnia crossing reminded me of the 241 Toll Road that runs along the eastern edge of Orange County in southern California. There are few buildings or towns, and it’s mostly rocky hills with scrub, but a very nice divided four lane road with a number of tunnels through the hills. Unlike the SoCal toll road, this one was a little under $9 to go about 160 miles.

A little further north, it begins to look more like Highway 99 just north of Bakersfield; you can see the mountains in the distance on either side, but you’re sort of in the valley between, and headed straight. Unlike the 99, the “mountains” on our left were actually islands just off the Adriatic coast. This became more obvious as we turned west and headed down into Zadar.

Nothing against this sea town, but after Split and Dubrovnik, it’s just not quite in the same category, though it is a beautiful town in its’ own right. One of its’ main attractions is the Church of St. Donatus, built in the early 9th century on the ruins of an ancient forum. Literally ON the ruins. It’s amazing to see the broken antique columns, pillars, and stone beams from a previous era that were used as the foundation materials for the church. Among these filler materials are even remains of a sacrificial altar and the base of the statue of a deity with an inscription dedicated to the goddess Juno and the the supreme deity Jupiter.

The Church of St. Donatus, built on an even older forum.

As we approached the church, it was obvious that the underlying foundation was bits and pieces of a former empire. While the church was interesting, the method of building the foundation fascinated me more.

I guess the materials were readily available, but it sure makes for an uneven first layer of stones.

Maybe it was just the opportunity to snub the former people and their architecture? There are still pieces of some of these columns standing outside at the edge of the forum, but it had to be a lot of work to cut them to length and lay them in place.

A little further along the seawall is the Sea Organ. This experimental musical “instrument” is really an art installation that was built into the sea wall in 2005. Marble steps allow visitors to sit above the organ and listen to the “music” as the waves move the large tubes under the sea wall.

The Sea Organ sits under these steps, and is played by the waves hitting the “pipes”. Pretty small waves when we were there, which resulted in some deep notes that sounded to me more like the background music from an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

Next to the Sea Organ is the Greeting to the Sun installation. This 22-meter diameter solar installation has 300 multi-layered glass panels with solar panels within it. At night, a computer-generated light show is presented from the panels.

Around the polished steel ring of the Greeting to the Sun installation are inscriptions, one for each of the 36 saints for whom a church in Zadar is named. Next to each Saint’s name is the date they are celebrated, and the sun’s coordinates on that particular day.

On our way back to the bike after visiting Old Zadar, we just happened to stumble on the “Tuna, Sushi, and Wine Festival”. It was lunch time, and this was a no-brainer: for about $4.75 each, we each had a large tuna steak drizzled with olives and a mediterranean sauce, a dinner roll, and a glass of wine.

I think the last time I had a tuna steak that large in the US with a glass of wine, it was about $45. So, applying US prices to the meal, that means our lodging for tonight is basically free. 🙂

Next to the Tuna Festival was a Toyota display, with the new Aygo X model that I keep seeing billboards for. I really like this car. It’s a hybrid, typical European model with a 1 liter engine and 6-speed manual transmission. The base model is a little over $13,000 here, and the one in the photo (fancy wheels, nicer interior, not sure what other add-ons) is about $20,000. The Highlander next to it, on the other hand, is $69,000. Uh, no thanks.

The Sea Gate, one of the entrances to the old walled city, built in the 1500s.

As in Split, and Dubrovnik, there’s a lot of money sitting on the water here.

Tomorrow we head a bit further north to our last stop in Croatia.

May 19, 2022

As we left Zadar, we headed east and began to climb into the mountains. The speed limit on the highway here is 130kph, or about 81mph, and that’s how fast we were going when the first giant gust hit us from the left side. Just prior to this, there were lighted signs overhead warning of windy conditions and advising 60kph, or 37mph. But hey, how bad could it be? Cars were going 80mph. RVs were going a bit slower.

And then it hit. On a large bridge with total exposure on both sides. The gust hit us so hard that it felt like the front tire was lifted off the ground and pushed sideways. I leaned the bike into the wind at what felt like an extreme angle considering we were just trying to go straight. For a brief second, I was sure the front end had washed out and we were going down. But although the bike fought with us and the wind, it stayed on its’ wheels and we managed to avoid being driven into the guardrail as we blew across the lane.

I immediately slowed down to about 50mph, but even at that speed, the direct crosswind, which had to be more than 60mph, was a huge struggle. My arms, shoulders, and back fought with all I had to keep the bike leaned into the wind and in the lane. Eventually we settled into a 25mph (40kph) speed behind a motorhome that was doing the same, with our flashers on, and we fought the wind for what seemed like an eternity, although it was actually only about thirty minutes before we emerged from a tunnel on the east side of the mountains and the wind slowed considerably. There were a few tunnels during the crosswinds that allowed us a brief reprieve, but eventually there was one that was about two miles long, and this allowed me to release my grip and shake my arms out, regaining feeling from the death grip that I hadn’t realized had become so strong.

We continued north to Smiljan, the small village where Nikola Tesla was born. His childhood home has been turned into a museum of sorts, and a scaled-down reproduction of his 1899 laboratory in Colorado Springs has been built here, complete with a large working Tesla coil. We were handed flourescent light bulbs to hold while the docent fired up the Tesla coil, illuminating the bulbs in our hands wirelessly.

This statue of Nikola Tesla stands outside his childhood home at the Tesla Memorial Museum in Smiljan.

A Tesla coil sits in the corner of a scale reproduction of Tesla’s Experimental Station. The original was in Colorado Springs in 1899-1900, but when a local caretaker won a judgement for $928 against Tesla for unpaid services, it was sold at auction, and torn down for scrap.

Tesla’s childhood home, now a museum with a detailed timeline of his life and accomplishments.

The Tesla Memorial was interesting, but only whet my appetite for more Tesla background and history. While some of the exhibits have English translations, much of it is in Croatian, without English subtitles, so while we got the gist of it, I now want to learn more about his early childhood, experiments, patents (he had over 700 of them), and his time in America with Thomas Edison, George Westinghouse and more. In his last 30 or so years in America, he lived in hotels, and he justified it by saying that settling into one place would stifle his scientific creativity (never mind that he was bankrupt and had several judgements against him, including some from unpaid hotel bills. He was a brilliant scientist, but apparently a terrible businessman.) He also said a lot of other things that I might consider today the ravings of a madman, but there’s no denying his brilliance.

Back on the bike, we headed northwest to the Istrian Peninsula, and then south again to Pula, where we met up with Dalibor and Suzanne, our hosts for the next two evenings. Dalibor is an electrician, and after spending several years working at sea for a large cruise ship company, he now does consulting from home in Pula, while restoring and renting out apartments in a small complex very near the center of town.

Our apartment is on the left, just across from the Sex Shop, which is right next to the Catholic Church. The large tree on the left side of the street is where the amphitheater is located, about a block or less from our place.

The interior courtyard of our apartment. That’s our door straight ahead.

The living room, with all of our gear scattered about. This is the lap of luxury for us, at $68 a night. Bear in mind that most campgrounds in Europe cost $35 to $45 just to pitch our tent, so it’s nice to spend a little more once in a while and get a bed, a couch, a kitchen, and even air conditioning.

I have to admit, I was a bit nervous about staying here, only because there is no on-site parking, and one of my priorities — if not my highest priority — when deciding where to stay is the security of the motorcycle. In this particular instance, it was necessary to park about two blocks away, in an open parking lot that had an arm blocking the entrance and exit. As I parked the bike there after unloading our stuff into the apartment, I couldn’t help but notice that besides one car that looked like it had been parked there for quite a while, our motorcycle was the only other vehicle in the lot. Dalibor assured me that crime was not a problem in Pula, and I accepted his reassurances. Although I still added my usual routine of cable lock through the rear wheel, disc lock on the front wheel, steering locked, and bike cover in place. Over the years, I’ve found the bike cover to be the most effective anti-theft item, as once the cover is on the bike, it becomes nearly invisible, and no longer attracts attention. Whereas without the cover, just the Texas license plate is enough to draw a crowd. (However, we were beat out today by a car parked on the street near our apartment…a blue Cadillac with Nevada license plates. I’m glad I didn’t have to pay to ship that over here!)

The day was looking to be around 75F and 40% humidity; much cooler and drier than the last several days further south. Diana put together several points of interest and we set off on a walking tour of Pula. First off, the Amphitheater:

The Pula Amphitheater, built between 27 BC and AD 68, is the only remaining Roman amphitheater to have all four side towers entirely preserved.

Incredibly, this two thousand year old structure is not off-limits. There were kids playing on the floor today while tourists roamed around the inside. There are no “stay off” signs, no “no trespassing”, nothing. It’s available for public use. Several concerts and plays are held here each summer.

The Temple of Augustus, built between 27 BC and AD 14. Unfortunately it was struck by a bomb in 1944 and had to be totally rebuilt in 1947.

The Arch of the Sergii, once a Roman gateway to the city. Built in 29 BC

The Twin Gates, one of ten entrances to the old city. These were built in the late 2nd Century AD.

And finally….

When we arrived at our apartment to check in, and began off-loading our stuff from the bike, Diana noticed this scooter parked next to us. No idea how long it had been there, but it was there when we arrived. Note the plastic bags on the floorboard.

Yes, that is meat. Lots of meat. I would say fresh meat, but I have no idea how long it had been sitting on the scooter. Nor do I know how long it continued to sit there. But that’s a lot of meat.

It just feels wrong to go on a Dolphin Watching Tour that includes a Fish Dinner.

I saw this Gelato Shop sign, and thought, “Hmmm…that would be the perfect name for a local place that comes by and scoops your dog’s poop in your yard.” I’ve seen those services in the States, but it just has a better ring here in Pula. Or Poo-la.

And then I saw this image on t-shirts and tote bags in several shops, and wondered why Disney fans and others who are unhappy with the governor of Florida hadn’t adopted it. I have no idea what the original intent was, other than just a fun random act of Mickey.

Tomorrow we leave Croatia for our crazy rush across Europe to the other side. We’re both a bit bummed that we’ve planned this part of the trip too much, which doesn’t allow time for things that might suddenly pop up, like the fact that three other travelers from our past are all within an extra day’s ride, and we don’t have an extra day to go see them. Graeme and Katrina, from Australia, are in Northern Italy right now, having just recently arrived back to their motorcycle, which had been stored in Bulgaria during the Covid lockdowns. We met them originally while waiting for the ferry from Belfast, Ireland to Isle of Man in 2018. Jake, who stayed at our place in Texas just a little more than a month ago, is now in Italy as well. We’re still hoping to possibly cross paths as Diana and I pass through on our way to Normandy.

We’ve made a vow to not structure the trip so tightly that we can’t make alternate plans. This, along with having a definitive end date due to home maintenance and having cats at home that we’d like to see, is a big difference between the way this ride feels and the first trip in 2015-16. But we’re adjusting slowly. And…even though we have an “end date” in mind, we’ve already started making commitments to another exciting leg that could very likely start within days after this trip “ends”.

May 20, 2022

UPDATED May 30, 2022 to add detail about Romeo & Juliette

After more than a week of long days of riding, and rainy days and nights, the rain has stopped, at least temporarily and so have we. We’re finally settled into our campsite in Lydney, England (just north of Bristol) for a few days. So it’s time to go back and catch up on where we’ve been for the past week. Let’s start where we left off…

We left Pula, Croatia and headed back up the Istrian Peninsula to cut through the western corner of Slovenia and into Italy. Crossing the border from Croatia into Italy, it was like someone had said, “Okay, Slovenia, you get all the green and trees, but as soon as there is no more of that, Croatia begins. Strange how borders are drawn, based on rivers, terrain, etc.

It was a very brief ride through this sliver of Slovenia, although we had to stop at the border and check back in, as our Schengen Visa time began again as we crossed into Slovenia. Within a few short miles we entered Italy, and needed gas, so we stopped at the first station we saw. As I was finishing filling the tank, a blue 700 Tenere pulled up on the other side of the pump. We had seen a few other T7’s on the road, but this was the first with full luggage and two people, like us, and they seemed as excited to see us as we were to see them.

Sandro and his sister-in-law/navigator/mechanic (yes, SHE is all that) were on their way home. Like us, he had previously owned a Super Tenere before downsizing to the 700, and like us, felt it was the perfect bike for two-up distance touring on backroads.

We parted ways with Sandro, agreeing that perhaps we would meet up in Mongolia next year (a goal for both of us). Our goal for the evening was Verona, and since we had a number of long days ahead of us, we chose to take the highway for a while. At the first toll booth we came to in Italy, the woman in the booth asked “What is wahldruck?”

“Sorry?”, I replied, not understanding the question.

“What is wahldruck?” she repeated. I was lost. I had no idea what she was saying. I was there simply to pay my two euros and proceed on.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand”, I said.

Diana said, “She is asking “What is Wall Drug”. It finally dawned on me that she was looking at our pannier, and the giant “Where the Heck is Wall Drug?” bumper sticker that we picked up in South Dakota last year on the way back from Alaska.

“Oh! It’s a pharmacy, in South Dakota, United States.”

“So, it is store?”

“Um, yeah, sort of. It’s more of a giant tourist destination.”

Now she looked like she was either really confused, or doubting me. Americans have pharmacies for tourist attractions? No wonder they have a drug problem.

She took my money and the arm raised and off we went.

We eventually made it to Verona, and our campsite at Camping Castel San Pietro. The campground is on the top of the highest hill in town, or at least very near the old town of Verona, just across the river. On top of this hill is a castle — the Castel San Pietro — and just behind the castle is the campground. It makes for some incredible views overlooking Verona.

Beautiful views from the campground above Verona, Italy

We set up camp and walked down the hill and into town to grab a quick bite to eat. Everywhere were sidewalk cafes advertising Spritz Apertifs. As we crossed an intersection of two alleyways, I could see a large piazza about a block off to the right. We headed that way to check it out, and just happened to stumble on Juliet’s house.

As we sat having a snack at this sidewalk cafe, these doors across the way began to open inward electrically. It looked like the entrance doors to Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride at Disneyland. It turns out, they are two large doors that lead into a large courtyard where multiple cars were parked.

Around the corner and down another alleyway was this large piazza, and just before getting there, was Juliet’s House.

This, we are all told, is the actual home of Juliet.

Yep, that Juliet, of Romeo and Juliet fame. We listened as a tour guide explained in English to a group of tourists: “Yes, this is the real house of Juliet. We know that Romeo’s family had a house nearby also based on records. You can see the family crest of the Capulet family above the entryway. The balcony has been replaced because the original was very ugly. Shakespeare adapted his story from the local legend that was recorded by an officer; he did not originate the story.”

With a little research after our visit, we found online that the original lover’s tragedy of Romeo and Juliette was said to be a true story which occurred in Verona in 1303, and was passed on in Italian folklore for many years, being told in different versions by many poets and authors in the 14th century. However, it appears that William Shakespeare mainly drew inspiration on a 1562 poem by Arthur Brooke.

Although we are also told that this is NOT the original balcony that Juliet uttered those famous words from, as the original balcony was replaced because it was “too ugly”. (Oh, and Shakespeare’s stage directions never had a balcony; she appeared in a window.)

This bronze statue of “Giulietta” stands in the courtyard. You may notice that her upper torso is much more polished while the rest of the statue has a typical tarnish to it. This is because legend has it that if you rub her breast you will have good luck. There’s been a lot of breast-polishing going on, and we saw a lot of it in the few minutes we stood there.

How much of the story is factual, and how much is evolved folklore is hard to say, but it has definitely been good for the local economy.

We walked a bit further to a local grocery store next to the ancient coliseum and bought some food for dinner, then began the hike back up the hill to our campsite. When we arrived, tired and sweaty, I found that the campground store, in addition to everything we just hiked two miles to buy, had a bar serving Spritz apertifs. So we ordered two and sat on the patio enjoying the sunset.

Later that evening, as we lay in our tent, it became clear that the road to the top of the hill, which has several switchbacks as it climbs steeply, is used as the Verona version of the Pikes Peak Hillclimb at night by the local scooter riders, as well as a few cars. Apparently the only requirement to compete is that you must have a very loud exhaust. This went on until nearly 3am, the combination of screaming scooters and squealing car tires. It’s a shame, because aside from these late-night scooter clowns, it’s a beautiful campground.

Fortunately the noise died down around 3am and we were still able to get a few good hours of sleep before another long day of riding the next day.

May 21-22, 2022

We left Verona on a mission to make it to Chamonix, France before nightfall. While only 250 miles, much of it snakes through small towns and over the Alps on twisty climbs, and I decided that today we would take the smaller roads and avoid the tolls. Which made it even longer of course.

On our way out of Verona, the GPS started adopting new habits. For the first time this trip, she suddenly decided to announce turns over the intercom system. Up until this morning, if Diana and I had the intercoms on, I couldn’t hear the GPS announcements. If I shut the intercoms off, the GPS announcements would come through my headset. Now, in the middle of a conversation, the GPS would cut us off to announce a turn, then there would be a ten second lag before the intercom would come back on. Which was just enough time to require the next turn announcement, so it was nearly impossible to have a conversation.

About this same time, the turn announcements started occurring about a half mile after the actual turn, which rendered the announcements useless.

Before leaving Verona, the GPS suddenly re-booted in the middle of traffic, and came up in portrait mode rather than landscape mode, making the map nearly impossible to read. Shutting it off and re-starting it seemed to solve this problem at least.

Several times during the day, it also would announce that “External Power Has Been Lost”, but at the same time the symbol in the upper right corner indicated that it was indeed still connected to the bike’s power and charging.

One last note on all this: after two days of these antics, it has stopped doing any of that and is now back to normal. I didn’t remove it from its’ dock or change anything, but it definitely seems to have a mind of its’ own. And this is the same GPS that we used for five months last year to Alaska and back, with no issues. I’m thinking Garmin did an online update that somehow went awry.

Okay, back to the ride: a little more than an hour out of Verona, I received a phone call (which scared me, as my phone rang in my headset and the GPS announced that “Jake” was calling. I had never received an announced phone call over my headset AND GPS before. You may recall Jake had stopped at our place in Texas about five weeks ago on his way through from Mexico. He was now back in Europe on a different bike and continuing his European ride. He had been following our route on the blog, and had called to say that it looked like we would be literally crossing paths in another hour or so near Gallarate, Italy. We agreed to meet in Gallarate at a pasta restaurant for a quick lunch. Jake was headed to Varese for the Distinguished Gentleman’s Ride the next day. We would have loved to tag along, but we had unfortunately committed to a tight schedule. It was great to catch up over pasta, and with several long days ahead we hit the road again. (This punishment is regrettable, in hindsight. More on that later.)

Not sure when we may see Jake again, but we’ll keep in touch.

On we pushed, skipping the toll roads and riding through the small towns, criss-crossing over the toll road and back multiple times. Eventually we arrived at the first climb into the Alps, crossing into Switzerland and up and over Simplon Pass, with spectacular views of the high mountains.

We dropped back down into the valley on the Swiss side, and continued into France to Chamonix. Our campsite for the night was at the base of Mt. Blanc, the highest peak in the Alps.

Looking up at Mt Blanc from our campsite. This photo was taken about 11pm.

The next morning.

During a clear, star-filled night, several times I heard what sounded like the crack of lightning followed by thunder. It took a while to realize that what I was hearing was an avalanche on the glacier high above us.

The next day would be our longest of the trip, not just so far but ever, as far as I’m concerned, as 400 miles is almost three times the daily average that I adhere to. We were also breaking another of my rules, which is not to ride more than four days a week. All of this effort to ride across Europe in a few days was wearing us out and preventing us from seeing anything. We (I) had made a schedule because we had certain things we wanted to do or see on certain dates, and this was beginning to wear on us. I’ve since concluded that in the future we will not make such solid plans, and not reserve places ahead of time, so that we can slow down and enjoy our surroundings. If this means covering less ground and seeing less of the big tourist sites, then those will have to wait.

Since we had arrived at our campsite in Chamonix rather late by our standards — it was around 8pm, even though it stays light until after 10pm — and the owner of the campground was not around, we stopped on our way out the next morning to pay. She was very surprised to learn that we were even there the night before, and also surprised that we bothered to pay before leaving. Apparently, and sadly, it must be common for campers to just use her facilities and leave without paying. Her English, like my French, was non-existent, but the conversation flowed easily with simple words and gestures.

Leaving Chamonix, we again took the toll road, as we had a lot of ground to cover yet again. We ended up on the E15 motorway, and my exhaustion, combined with the lack of consistency in toll booths, began to frustrate me. In a matter of fifty or so miles, all on the same road, we approached three toll booths. At the first, only cash was accepted; no credit cards. No problem: we had Euros, but I was trying to spare them for places that only took cash, and this was one of those places. At the second, there were four lanes marked for credit cards, and all four were also marked “No Motorcycles”. Eventually we found that the cash-only lanes that allowed motorcycles also took credit cards (I still haven’t figured this out completely. The toll booth somehow recognizes that we are on a motorcycle as we approach, and displays the motorcycle rate. So why can’t it do that in ALL of the lanes? Or do they just recognize that it takes motorcyclists longer to pay a toll because we have to dig in our pockets, and possibly remove a glove, so they keep some lanes open for the supposedly faster-paying cars?). At the third toll booth, you had to take a ticket, which you later inserted in a machine at the next toll booth to pay, and again where some lanes were marked “No Motorcycles” and some were not.

Likewise, we stopped for gas at a gas pump that only took cards. Except it wouldn’t take my cards. When I asked the cashier, I was told that I could use any other pump EXCEPT the one I was at. (Every other gas station since, except one, has not been a problem. We encountered one other station that although all of the pumps looked identical, only pumps 2 through 9 would take my credit card. Weird.

At the end of a very long day, we arrived at the Municipal Campground in Dreux, France, only to find that it is no longer a campground, or open to the public at all. A quick search on the GPS found another campground less than a mile away, which had available space for us.

On the way to the campground we passed what seemed to be a “compound” of almost fantasy proportion, looking like something from a movie set or a theme park attraction.

An odd sight along a city block in Dreux, France. It looked like a movie set, and it turns out that although it wasn’t built to be one, it has been used as one multiple times, in movies like Thunderball and The Pink Panther Strikes Again.

The palace was ordered built in the 1550s by King Henry II for his mistress Diane of Poitiers.

This Byzantine chapel holds the remains of Diane of Poitiers.

The long haul to Dreux, just outside Paris, meant that we would have a shorter day tomorrow to get to our campsite in Normandy.

May 23-24, 2022

We had set up the tent in Dreux without the rain fly, but by 11pm the first drops of rain were hitting the tent, so I jumped up and quickly put the fly over the tent. It rained on and off most of the night, and in the morning it still looked dark and ominous, but a break in the rain had us scrambling to tear down camp and pack up before more rain started again. We packed up a wet tent and headed west.

It didn’t take long for the rain to resume. After about an hour, we pulled into a service area on the side of the highway (these usually have a gas station, a restaurant or two, and a store, and are accessible without leaving the tollway). We decided to have breakfast and wait for the rain to ease up. We ended up staying longer than expected, which allowed us some amusement as well. Here are a few views of “French-ness” that entertained us during this rainy day break.

Apparently it’s okay to take up motorcycle-specific parking spaces with your car as long as you turn your flashers on. This car sat here for more than an hour while it’s owners ate lunch. We retaliated by taking a car parking space closer to the entrance, which was available to them as well. (Note the “A” sticker in the rear window of the car. That stands for “Apprenti”, or French for “Learner”. It’s required for new drivers to display this sticker. It’s apparently not required for them to display their intelligence.

Likewise, it’s apparently acceptable to park your Mercedes in the handicap parking space and go inside to have lunch, as long as you leave your flashers on.

This is our electrical adapter plugged into a French outlet. Every other outlet placed it straight up and down. For some reason, this one placed it at a 45-degree angle. Thumbing their noses at the rest of the world?

A little more than two hours later, after having breakfast and lunch, we got back on the road. Today was only 160 miles, but we had one long stop planned in Caen, and we hadn’t planned on the rain or the long stop at the service area, so a short mileage day was still going to be a long day of riding.

We arrived at the Memorial de Caen, a large World War II and Cold War museum built atop a former Nazi command bunker. This museum is full of artifacts from World War II and particularly the Normandy beach landings, and the displays tell the story of the fall of France over a six week period during the war and the later liberation of France by American, British and Canadian forces. I have to admit that I knew just the basics about this part of the war, but the museum at Caen did a superb job of helping me understand the events leading up to D-Day, and the push onward from Normandy to Germany to end the war.

We were so focused on the exhibits and learning that we neglected to take many photos at this museum. It was well worth the visit and we’d like to return and spend more time there in the future.

Leaving Caen we had another hour ride to get to our campsite, which was located at Omaha Beach, a significant location of the D-Day invasion.

Our campsite at Omaha Beach. In addition to the overwhelming feeling of being on such a historic battlefield, this campsite was one of the nicest facilities we’ve stayed in. The small building next to our tent is two rooms: the front room is a kitchen with fridge, sink, prep counter and storage shelves, while the rear door is our own personal bathroom with toilet and shower. Just to the right of the white building on the far right you can see Omaha Beach.

It was a bit odd at first to notice that nearly all of the campers around us had German license plates. However, this is a place of historical significance to the entire world, and there is no denying that not only did a lot of Germans lose their lives here, but today’s Germans want to learn what happened here as well. I struggled to think of how it might feel to a German citizen seeing the entire area showing its’ thanks to America, Britain and Canada for liberating them from the German war machine. Somewhat similarly, we visited the memorial and museum at Hiroshima, Japan a few years ago, and at first I felt a bit uneasy being an American there, until you realize that everyone is welcome and encouraged to learn from our past.

The next day we had a long list of D-Day sights to visit, beginning with the Church of Sainte-Mere-Eglise.

During the initial stages of Operation Overlord (the D-Day invasion), early in the morning of June 6, 1944 and under cover of darkness, paratroopers from the US 82nd Airborne and US 101st Airborne Divisions dropped into the town of Sainte-Mere-Eglise. A number of the paratroopers died when they became caught on utility poles and trees and were shot by German troops before they could cut themselves loose.

One famouse story involved paratrooper John Steele of the 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment, one of four regiments of the US 82nd Airborne Division. His parachute became caught on the town’s church spire, and he hung there for more than two hours, pretending to be dead, before German troops cut him down and took him prisoner. He later escaped.

This monument was created on the church commemorating Steele’s story.

Then to Utah Beach and the Landing Museum there.

Looking out onto Utah Beach.

One of the many memorials to the men who fought at Utah Beach. Many of the first to land had the job of clearing a path across the beach for the men and vehicles that would arrive just behind them. The 4th Infantry Division landed 21,000 men on Utah Beach.

And on to Pointe du Hoc

Pointe du Hoc is a 110-foot high cliff just west of Omaha Beach. On the morning of June 6th, 1944 an assault force of Rangers in ten landing craft were to land on the beach and scale the cliffs, taking over the German guns in casements at the top of the cliffs. Once there, they were to fire flares to alert another larger force of eight Ranger companies to commence the second wave of the assault. But due to navigational errors, the initial force arrived late and lost their element of surprise. The larger second wave detoured to Omaha Beach instead. When the Rangers scaled the cliffs, they found the German guns were not there, which set off a search to find the guns and eliminate them to prevent firing on later landing forces.

These large casements were mostly empty, the guns having been removed earlier by German forces and moved inland to repair and refit while the casements were reinforced. The land around the entire area looks today like large, deep, grassy craters, which is of course what they are. The entire area had been bombed so heavily that the land is forever changed.

Then to the American Cemetery

The Memorial at the American Cemetery

More than 9,300 are buried here, most of whom lost their lived during D-Day or the following operations.

It’s a very beautiful yet difficult place to see.

And Longues Sur Mer, to the German artillery battery there.

The German artillery battery here is the only one that still has all of its’ original guns in place.

Some of the guns were obviously destroyed during battle.

The Longues Sur Mer battery was captured on June 7, 1944 and was not operational after that.

And finally Arromanches, where the Allies created an artificial harbor in order to bring men, vehicles and supplies in until they could capture and rebuild Cherbourg.

Our time in Normandy had been too short, but our understanding of the great sacrifices that were made here to turn the war had grown tremendously. There is much more to see and learn here, but with an enriched view of the battles we can now do more research and hopefully return soon.

May 25-28

Our wi-fi signal for the past several days has been too weak to upload photos, so we finally rode into town today and found a strong enough signal to upload enough photos to do some catching up on the blog. So here goes…

It had rained every night, and a bit during the day, for the past several days, and we once again found ourselves quickly packing up a damp tent to try to beat the rain out of Omaha Beach. Today would be a 250 mile ride to Calais, to catch the Eurotunnel train under the English Channel to England. We ducked in and out of rain clouds all day, and had a bit of wind, though nothing like Croatia. The countryside was mostly green rolling farmland, dotted with the occasional town which inevitably had a large church spire towering over the residents.

We arrived at the entrance to the Eurotunnel train early enough that we were told we could board an earlier train, saving us about an hour of wait time. We proceeded through immigration — due to Brexit, you have to stamp out of France and stamp into the UK before getting on the train — and were directed down to the queue. Glancing up at the board, it became clear that the earlier boarding had already taken place, and we were now lined up in our original time slot. Oh well…what else did we have to do?

The time came, we boarded the train along with about eight other motorcycles, and took our spots. It’s only a 30 minute crossing, and there’s no place to go, so we stood by the bike and chatted with a few other riders until we pulled into Folkestone on the UK side of the English Channel.

We rode another few miles to our Folkestone campsite, which was a nice grassy spot overlooking the channel. We set up next to another rider on a Suzuki V-strom who was from Cambridge and was headed to France the next day to visit family. After stowing our gear, we hopped back on the bike and rode into Folkestone to find a bite to eat. It’s not a big place, and it was maybe 8pm, so most places were closed. We eventually found a Fish & Chips shop which turned out to be quite good.

In the morning we again scrambled to pack during a break in the weather, and headed south towards Southampton. Riding through the small village of Bells Yew Green in Turnbridge Wells, I spotted The Brecknock Arms pub, and decided it was a good time to stop for lunch. While today was only 160 miles, the route was entirely on narrow hedge-lined roads through small villages, and took all day.

I took a photo of a couple of sayings scrawled on a blackboard inside the pub, but I’m going to keep it and add it to a “British Humour” blog post coming up in a day or two.

We stopped at the Tesco in Lymington for gas and supplies, and so I could use the restroom (gotta get used to saying “loo”). Finding the loo out of service, I told Diana to go ahead and do the shopping and I would ride to the next petrol station to find a working toilet and be right back.

Easier said than done. According to the GPS, the next petrol station, a Shell, was 3.5 miles away. When I arrived there, I found a chain link fence around an empty lot, the station having been completely torn down and under new construction. So I check for the next petrol station on the GPS, which turned out to be another nine miles away. Too far! I entered the coordinates for our campground, and found it was less than a mile. So I selected that route, and was steered down a dead end road to the local garbage dump. Enough already! A quick dip off the side of the road and into the trees…

Twenty minutes later, I returned to pick up Diana and the groceries, and again entered the coordinates for the campground. Since we were coming at it from a different direction this time, it took us a slightly different way, avoiding the dead-end garbage dump road. This time we navigated down a small road to a gated foot path, where Garmin announced “You Have Arrived!”.

Not.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and entered the coordinates into Google Maps, which said I needed to go another two hundred yards to the entrance to the campground. Amazingly, as soon as I hit “Go” on my phone’s directions, the GPS switched to the same location and told me to ride another 200 yards down the road.

So helpful, Garmin. Glad you could get it right, with the help of a mobile phone.

We checked in and were told to pick any spot in any of the three large fields. In order to gain some shelter from the wind, we chose a spot along a large hedgerow, which is what the other campers were doing.

This is one of three huge grass fields that during the summer would be packed with motorhomes, travel trailers, and tents. But we’re here early, before the season really starts. So we picked a spot up against the hedge with the other four campers. That’s our tent in the middle.

We enjoyed dinner on a picnic table that happened to placed between two buildings just enough to block the wind. While cooking dinner, a car pulled up and a woman jumped out and rushed up to Diana and said “Reception?”.

Reception had closed an hour or so earlier.

A bit confused, Diana replied, “It’s up at the entrance.”

“I know that”, the woman said. “I need gas (propane) for our caravan.”

Diana just shrugged and said “Sorry”, as we had no idea where she could get a bottle of propane at 9pm in Lymington. The woman was obviously upset that Diana wouldn’t get up and go get her a propane bottle. She eventually huffed loudly and said, “Well!” and stormed back to her husband and their car.

We have no idea why the woman mistook an American tourist in a campground for an employee, but it was amusing nonetheless.

The next morning (Friday) we rode a short ten miles to the Sammy Miller Motorcycle Museum. Sammy Miller was a motorcycle racer, primarily in the 60s and 70s, who competed in both roadracing and trials events, and won a huge number of races and championships. Sammy is in his late 80s now, and still putters around the museum and workshop. He has a tremendous collection of motorcycles, many with historical significance, and several early British marques that even I had never heard of.

Sammy Miller’s Motorcycle Museum, Tea Room, and Crafts Stores. A nice little stop that I’ve tried multiple times to reach, and finally made it.

A small number of the regional, national and international championship trophies that Sammy Miller won over his career. There are three or four of these cases full of silver cups.

There are way too many interesting motorcycles here to show even a small percentage of them, so I’m just going to pick a couple. This one is a 1935 Scott Inline Three Cylinder, 1000cc Two Stroke. Not something you see every day. Or ever.

1912 Verdel 5-Cylinder radial 750cc. Looks like an airplane engine.

After an hour or so at the museum we headed towards Bristol and then just north, cutting in and out of Wales to claim our 10th country of the trip, to Lydney, a small village about half way between Bristol and Gloucester. Once again, we found that it didn’t seem to matter if we were going 50 miles or 350 miles in a day, the amount of time required to cover the distance was always about the same. In this case, it took us two hours to go sixteen miles through Bristol. (At least it wasn’t raining — finally!). Afterwards, we learned that a combination of it being a holiday (“mid-terms” — sort of the equivalent of our Spring Break) and a nearby Ed Sheeran concert caused a huge backup of traffic on the motorways, mostly because they don’t have overpasses on the motorways here; they use roundabouts — the larger ones with traffic lights — which at a certain level of traffic becomes sheer chaos and stopped.

Sheephouse Camping would be our base for the next several days. I had an appointment at the local Yamaha dealer Saturday morning for an oil change, something I normally do myself, but disposing of the waste oil is a bit more of a problem here than many other places. So Saturday we were up early and headed back into Bristol. Fowler’s Yamaha is also a dealer for just about every other brand of motorcycle, and is so large that the first two floors are full of bikes and accessories, and the third floor is KTM on one side and Harry’s Cafe on the other side. We had a great Full English breakfast at Harry’s while waiting on the bike, and by 10am we were looping all over Bristol in search of Banksy street art.

Banksy’s “Girl with a Pierced Eardrum”, a take on Vermeer’s “Girl with a Pearl Earring”. Note that the “earring” is an alarm siren on the building, hence the pierced eardrum.

This small Banksy piece is on the front wall of a house. Called “Rose in a Mousetrap”, it has been framed to protect it from vandalism.

“The Mild Mild West” is an early Banksy piece poking fun at the police’s attack on local rave parties.

“Well Hung Lover” was vandalized a few years ago by some idiot with a paintball gun, but is still one of the more popular Banksy pieces in Bristol.

After scouring the city for several hours in search of Banksy art that either had been covered over or had been removed and preserved or removed and auctioned off, we headed back to the campground for another evening.

May 29-May 31, 2022

I was startled awake at 5am on Sunday morning by Diana saying “Oh Sh*t!”

“What’s wrong?”, I asked sitting up suddenly in the tent.

“Look at this!” she said, and handed me her phone.

For the past two years, we had made plans to attend the Cooper’s Hill Cheese Roll Festival after watching a documentary on Netflix called We Are The Champions. If you haven’t seen it, it’s worth a watch. Every year on the Monday after the last weekend in May, the event is held in Brockworth, outside of Gloucester, at the steepest grass-covered hill short of a cliff that you can imagine. Contestants line up at the top of the hill, and a large wheel of cheese is rolled down the hill, after which the contestants run, tumble, fly, spin, flop and otherwise crash to the bottom of the hill chasing the cheese. No one actually catches it; the person that manages to fling the remains of their body across the finish line at the bottom first wins, and the wheel of cheese is awarded to them as the trophy, sometimes in the hospital, hopefully not post-humously. It’s incredibly entertaining to watch, but very painful to experience for many.

Well, in our case, after watching the movie, we immediately looked it up and put it on our calendar, and booked three nights at the Sheephouse Campsite to cover our time in both Bristol and Gloucester. We also booked a house sit in Manchester to begin the evening after the Cheese Roll.

Until the morning before the Cheese Roll, when Diana looked it up again. For the first time in history, they had decided to postpone the Cooper’s Hill Cheese Festival for one week due to the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee celebration. At which time we would be on the Isle of Man.

Grrrrr…..

Oh well. Congratulations to the Queen on her Platinum Jubilee. But please don’t mess with my Cheese Rolling Festival again.

No Cheese Rolling Festival for us this year. (Post Note: Here’s a video I found with some clips from this year’s Cheese Roll:

I texted our homeowner in Manchester where we were supposed to arrive the next day to sit her two cats for a couple of days. She needed to leave early the next morning, and agreed that it would be great if we could arrive a day early to meet the cats and learn the routines. We packed up and said our goodbyes to Tim and Miriam, the owners at Sheephouse, and headed north, in and out of the rain. It was an unexpected 230 mile day, but less traffic than in Bristol, so not too bad.

We arrived at our house sit in Failsworth, Manchester and met Jen, the homeowner, and two great cats, Luna and Neville. Luna was much more open and curious, quickly making friends. Neville was very shy, and spent his time under Jen’s bedcovers. For two days we would check on the lump in the bed, raise the covers and have a chat, and leave him some food next to the bed, which he quickly devoured once alone.

Luna. Great cat to just hang out with.

Luna liked to hang out in the window and watch both outside and inside.

She also liked to lay on my riding jacket, with a “I always do this” look.

It was Sunday night, and we needed to find some dinner. The grocery stores were all closed, as were most of the restaurants. We found a Chinese Food take-away place that was cash only. At this point we still didn’t have any cash, but fortunately there was an ATM at the end of the shopping center, so I grabbed some cash and walked back to the Chinese place. We ordered some food, and when it was ready, we took the bag and went outside to sit on the short wall and eat (the place is take-away only, just a counter to order, pay and pick up your food). While outside, the woman who took our order came out and said “What are you doing? My husband saw you out here on the video camera. Come inside!”. We walked back in, and her husband appeared from the kitchen with a small table and passed it over the counter. There were two chairs at the end of the counter and they made a small dining area for us. Other customers — clearly regulars — came in and looked at us quizzically, as if to say, “We never get to eat here.” One even pointed to the table and said “All you need is a little candle in the middle!”.

Time Gap. Highly recommended. Be sure to call ahead to reserve the only table, which is usually leaning against the wall in the kitchen.

The food is nothing special really, just good chinese take-out. But it’s extra tasty when you’ve been cold and wet all day.

In a cheap Chinese take-away, in a small Manchester suburb, another great memory was made.

The following evening, we had another coincidental event. We had watched another documentary before leaving home on the rock band Queen with Adam Lambert as their “new” frontman. We thought it would be great to see them in England, but when we checked on tickets in London, we found that this was a concert that was delayed since 2020 due to Covid, and the tickets had been sold out for two years. So I wrote it off and didn’t think about it again, until we booked the house sit in Manchester. For some reason, I happened to look at the concert dates again, and found that they were doing two shows in Manchester, and one of them corresponded to when we would be there. A quick search for tickets found that a few upper level seats could be had, and we quickly grabbed two.

So on our second night in Manchester, we took the train from Failsworth to Victoria Station and had dinner at an incredible Indian Street Food place called Mowgli. Small plates of tapas-style dishes that will forever change my view of “Indian Food”. I’m missing it already.

These are called Yoghurt Chat Bombs. They are crisp bread puffs filled with chickpeas, spiced yogurt, tamarind, coriander and mint. When you bite into them, they explode in your mouth. I could eat a couple dozen of these. One of the best things I’ve had in a long time.

The rest of our meal at Mowgli.

After dinner, we walked back to AO Arena, which sits directly above Victoria Station, and watched Queen with Adam Lambert perform their greatest hits for two and a half hours straight. Much of the audience was our age or older, but everyone was a true fan, and at times the entire arena was singing louder than Adam Lambert. It was a great event.

June 8, 2022

Time for a quick travel break (and a bit out of order) to insert a random post with humorous photos. Some of these are intentional British humour (intentionally spelled the British way), and others are amusing solely because we’re American, and find it funny even if the Brits don’t.

This may be a lot more common here (and Ireland) than some are willing to admit. But obviously others aren’t hesitant to point it out.

Just a couple of sayings off the board in the Brecknock Pub

“Guacamole?” Just call it what it is. I’m still not sure about the “1 of your 5 a Day = 1/2 of a Pot” thing.

They’re serious about hand sanitization here.

There are several Wildlife or Safari Parks around; the one near Liverpool is called Knowsley Safari. So while in Liverpool, we hid in the bushes beside the road for over an hour trying to catch a glimpse of the elusive hybrid Humped Zebra that’s known to be seen crossing the road here. Then someone explained that the crosswalks are Zebra Crossings, and since this one is raised like a wide speed bump, it’s a Humped Zebra Crossing. Now I want to paint a camel black and white just to prove them wrong.

They are REALLY serious about their hand sanitization here.

June 3-10, 2022

We left Morecambe early in the morning for a ten minute ride to the Heysham Steampacket Terminal, headed to Douglas on the Isle of Man for the annual TT motorcycle races. We and Lukasz, Marcin, Michal (another friend from Poland), and Glen (from Australia) had planned this trip for 2020, but of course Covid canceled that. Glen and I had actually bought motorcycles in Ireland in 2020 in preparation for the trip; the last I heard, Glen’s bike is still sitting in Ireland (he’s never even seen it in person) since he wasn’t able to be here with us in 2022. I was lucky enough that the dealer/distributor in Ireland was nice enough to refund my purchase price since the bike hadn’t even come out of the crate yet, and was in high demand. Our ferry tickets rolled over from 2020 to 2021, which then rolled over again to 2022 when the 2021 races were also canceled. Unfortunately our lodging reservation did not roll over, and we were left to find alternative lodging for 2022, which can be difficult in a normal year for the TT, as most lodging is reserved two to three years out.

It rained during the night, and we awoke to light rain. We packed and rode to the terminal, where we joined the queue to check in; there were several hundred bikes ahead of us, along with a few cars and a couple of dozen bicyclists and pedestrians. While sitting in line, the rain picked up. By the time we check in and lined up in one of five lines of motorcycles to board, it was raining fairly hard. We sat in line in the rain for just over two hours before finally boarding the ferry. Everyone was still in a good mood, as this is normal weather in England, so nobody was really surprised. Somehow we checked in ahead of Marcin and Lukasz, but they lined up in a different line, and ended up boarding long before us. We were actually one of the last twelve or so motorcycles to get on the ship.

Waiting in line to check in at the ferry, before the rain got heavy.

On board the ferry, headed to Douglas. This is one third of the width of the bikes in the ferry, plus the second level (you can see more bikes upstairs on the right). There are usually between 350 and 500 bikes on this ferry per crossing.

We docked in Douglas about two and a half hours later and rode straight to our campground in Laxey, just north of Douglas. We would camp here for the next seven nights; Lukasz and Marcin would stay five nights before heading back to England and Wales to meet Michal and his family at a friend’s place in Cardiff. We set up our tents on the Laxey Association Football Club’s pitch, then rode up to Creg-ny-Baa to watch the Supersport qualifying.

Tents cover the Laxey Football pitch. Our home for seven nights.

The pub and restaurant at Creg-ny-Baa is a great place to view the races. They have grandstands set up entering and exiting the corner also.

Panoramic shot of the corner at Creg-ny-Baa. Riders come down the hill, round the corner in maybe 2nd gear, then accelerate all the way to top speed down the straight towards Douglas.

Saturday was the first day of races, and we headed to Douglas to watch the morning Superbike race from the Grandstand area. Diana and I excused ourselves for a bit of the morning as we had an appointment in Douglas for the past two years that was finally happening…

Simon was a riot, and we had a great time at Manx Tattoo. You can tell from Diana’s expression just how painful it was.

Diana’s first tattoo. She’s very happy with it.

The Isle of Man has been a special place to me for a while now, and the country’s triskelion emblem on their flag is very identifiable with the Manx.

Afterwards we met up with Marcin and Lukasz at the Grandstand in time to watch Peter Hickman win the Superbike race. For those who may be reading this that aren’t familiar with the TT, it’s a 37.7 mile course run on public roads around the northern half of the island. The roads are closed to public transportation during the race obviously, as riders reach speeds of just under 200mph. It takes the top riders about 17 minutes to cover the 37.7 miles, averaging over 130 miles per hour through small villages, past stone walls, and over the mountain back down into Douglas. Coming from the point of view of a former roadracer (on tracks, not streets), it’s terrifying just to ride the roads at normal speeds and think about what these guys are seeing (and not seeing) as they fly past at three to four times the normal speed limit.

Over 40,000 people attended this years TT. A large percentage of them are on motorcycles. The races are typically run every other day (Saturday, Monday, Wednesday and Friday), and usually begin between 11am and noon. Spectators begin lining up alongside the road before 7am to claim their favorite viewing spot. The roads are closed an hour before the races begin, and open again after the last race ends. This means that, for the most part, you pick your spot for the day and stay put. There are ways around between locations but it’s still best to plan your day; we did one day “inside” the course, and a couple of days “outside” the course. However, in the process of moving between spots inside the course, we discovered that there is a way “under” the course at one point that allowed us to get “outside” while the course was closed.

Unfortunately, the Saturday afternoon sidecar race was canceled before the first lap was completed when a French team crashed just beyond the start, killing the driver (it was originally reported that the passenger had died, but it has since been changed to indicate that it was the driver that died, with the passenger suffering severe injuries). This was the second fatality this year, as a rider was killed earlier the prior week during qualifying. This is a terribly dangerous event, and all of these riders know it going in. The race has been run for well over 100 years now, and is still incredibly popular. Michael Dunlop, one of the top riders now with 20 race wins, has lost his father, his grandfather, and his uncle to this racing. No one understands the cost more than he does.

We spent most of Sunday wandering around Douglas, visiting the pit area and the vendors. The sidecar race was shortened and rescheduled for Monday afternoon, and the other races on Monday were also shortened by one lap to make room for the added race. In the evening, Lukasz & Marcin magically produced a bottle of Soplica (a Polilsh quince liquor), and Maciej, our chef from the campground (the Laxey Football Club provided breakfast and dinner at an extra charge), who also happens to be from Poland, joined us for a round of shots.

Maciej (everyone calls him “Magic”) prepared some great meals for us and the other campers at Laxey AFC camping during TT week. When he found out there were two guys from Poland camping there, they struck up a conversation, and by the end of the week, we all left as new friends. In fact, Magic invited us to stay with his family when we are in Poland.

On Monday we rode to Ballaugh Bridge before the roads closed, and watched the morning Supersport race from there. Riders here scream down the road from Kirkmichael, slowing as they approach the humped bridge, then leap across the bridge (on roadracing bikes!), landing well clear of the bridge and accelerating hard again.

As we parked our bikes for the morning race, a woman walked out of the house beside us, and nicely mentioned that we shouldn’t block the farmland access drive next to her house. I asked if she was Kenny’s wife. She looked startled and said “Yes”.

Six years ago I had met Kenny at Ballaugh Bridge. He is a course marshall here. Kenny is 80 years old now, and has been a course marshall for the TT since 1958.

This photo of Kenny and me was taken in 2016 when I was here on my 250. I saw Kenny from a distance this year, but due to some changes to the spectator area at Ballaugh I wasn’t able to get to him to say hi or take another photo.

I joked to Kenny’s wife that she could expect me for lunch, as six years ago Kenny told me that he lived so close that he could walk home for lunch between races.

We watched Michael Dunlop win his 20th TT race, then rode up the mountain via the backroads to watch the sidecar race from Snaefell.

These guys go by so fast that I just got really lucky and caught the Birchall brothers, winners of the sidecar race, with Marcin in this photo on top of the mountain.

The last race of the day was the Superstock race, and we rode back down to Douglas to watch from Bray Hill. Unfortunately, the race was postponed for a couple of hours, so we decided to ride back to camp, then up to Creg-ny-Baa via the backroad and watch the Superstock race from there.

As Tuesday was an off day for the races, we did a “tour” of the island, first visiting the Fairy Bridge…

This small bridge is known as the Fairy Bridge, and local folklore says that you should always greet the fairies as you cross it. TT Racers have taken to crossing the bridge and greeting the fairies for good luck, but others have taken to placing tributes and memorials to lost loved ones at the bridge.

Then riding the course up to Ballaugh, and veering up to Jurby to the Motor Museum.

There’s a bit of everything in the Manx Motor Museum.

A wall of motorcycles. There are also two elevated platforms full of early motorcycles. Below them are everything from a Japanese funeral hearse and flower cars, to military vehicles, and…

Even an unmanned space capsule.

Displayed inside the capsule are three Haynes Repair Manuals, for owners of Saturn V rockets, NASA Space Shuttles, and Lunar Rovers. I assume that, like other Haynes manuals, they give you suggestions on how to get around using the factory-required special tools, substituting things like 2×4’s and baling wire.

In the parking lot of the museum we spotted this bike from Italy. Where we carry water bottles on the back of our panniers, this one had a large bottle of wine. And why not? It’s cheaper than water there! (The bike also had three helmets locked to it on the right side; I’m hoping this was just doing a friend a favor, and not three adults on it, but hey…Italian.

We left the museum and took the backroads to Ramsey, where we again jumped on the TT course and rode up and across the mountain. Leaving Ramsey the road is limited to one-way traffic on the mountain, and there is no speed limit, even for those with no common sense on the wrong type of motorcycle. Sport bikes were passing us at well into triple digit speeds, while we rode along at a modest 75 to 80 miles per hour. It’s common for the local authorities to close the mountain road several times during the off-days in order to pick up the pieces and riders who exceed their skill levels. One gentleman from Germany in our campground joined that group. Fortunately he was not badly injured, but what’s left of his bike will be going back to Germany on a pallet.

Over our last TT dinner together at a small local Italian restaurant just down from our campground, we already started discussing plans to meet back at the Isle of Man for the 2024 TT Races.

It rained most of the night Tuesday night, and Marcin and Lukasz packed up early Wednesday morning to catch the ferry back to Heysham. We said goodbye in between rain storms. Due to weather, only one race was completed on Wednesday, with the second Supersport race postponed until noon on Thursday. Then it rained again Wednesday night and Thursday morning, and the race was again postponed. So that’s all the racing we’ll see this year.

Tomorrow morning we catch the ferry back to Heysham, and will spend the day riding the Yorkshire Dales before heading south to meet up with Michal and family in Wales on Saturday.

Here’s something you don’t see everywhere: Trust. In two different locations in the campground, people just plug in their phones, tablets, and computers to charge them, and walk away, leaving them for the day/evening.

UPDATE: Sadly, we learned that a father/son sidecar team were both killed in the Friday sidecar race. This brought the total death toll of 2022 TT racers to five.