Europe by cake - MrsC's WDW 2016 tour report

[MrsC_772]

Bled cream cake

Day 12 - Wednesday 6 July

At breakfast in the Alp Penzion, more evidence of pettiness. An orange juicing machine with a label saying that no more than 2 oranges may be inserted. As I was looking at where to put my oranges, one of the hotel staff came past and interrogated me about whether I knew what to do with the machine. She reiterated that the number of oranges to be inserted shall be 2, not 1, not 3 but 2. My 2 oranges made a feeble trickle of juice, in stark contrast to the good 6 oranges' worth that must have gone into my Maniago breakfast spremuta. I don't know if the reason for her command was that more than 2 would block the machine, but after the air con incident the night before, I suspected a mere stinginess about the fruit budget. (Were oranges rationed in Tito's day?) Even if I might naturally have chosen 2 oranges, I resent being ordered not to use more.

I'd put together a circular route round Slovenia, taking in the Triglavski national park and Bohinjsko lake and several mountain passes, including the Predel back over the border to Italy. I had a lovely morning's ride. Slovenia is the most breathtakingly beautiful of all the Alpine countries I've visited: unfeasibly clear lakes, teeming with fish, inviting turquoise streams, woods, majestic mountains, pretty little villages. One Slovenian peculiarity is the hayracks constructed like tall roofed fences through which the hay is stuffed. Not sure if the idea is that cows can graze directly from them in winter, but they're more picturesque than the British hay swiss roll or worse plastic wrapped silage bale.

If you fancied a change from motorcycling, lots of outdoor activities (cycling, canoeing, climbing, rafting, parasailing, hiking) were available. Cafes & hotels with bikers welcome signs outside everywhere I road. (Dear Slovenian tourist board ...gissa job hvala ....) On one of the passes, however (probably the one the Slovenian on the other Ducati forum advised me to avoid due to poor surfaces and too many visitors) there were cobbles on many of the hairpins, so I was glad it was a dry sunny day. Fortunately the RVs were going in the opposite direction so I wasn't subject to Stelvioesque frustrations.

Heading back to Bled, my mission was to try Bled cream cake. I was basically under orders from my mum to do so. The Park Hotel cafe next to the lake, claims to be where it was originated, so I sat there and ordered an original Bled cream cake, while contemplating which Game of Thrones castle the clifftop Bled Grad most resembled (the Eyrie - you could certainly build a moon door given the location).

Bled cream cake is a mille feuille type construction with flaky pastry top and bottom and layers of sort of moussey whipped cream and creme patissiere. It was nicer than I expected, given that I'm not a big creme pat fan, ever so light, although had a bit of a soggy bottom (hark at me, coming over all Mary Berry). The absence of kirsch from it means that the Schwarzwald Kirschtorte pips in in the cake-olympics in my book.

I thought I'd better walk up the hill to the Castle to burn off some cream cake, so did the tourist thing (managing to go round the museum totally backwards). Jolly nice views from the top. Back down the hill for dinner (another trout dish, no almonds or butter this time) with a very small glass of white wine, and then the discovery of the hotel Computer.

 

[MrsC_772]

Austria gets back into my good books

Day 13 - Thursday 7 July

After breakfast I checked out of Alp Penzion. The hotel manageress had relented and told me that I would not be charged the €5 per day for aircon after all, but the threat of the charge and the Juice Business detracted from what could potentially have been a very nice hotel.

The Slovenian/Austrian border was the first since leaving England where someone manned the crossing - 2 Austrian soldiers. They waved me straight through, without bothering to check my papers (unlike the car in front). The likelihood of my smuggling in terrorists, Syrian refugees etc. in my Kriega tailpacks was minimal!

Having used up the last of my mini chain lube, I spotted a Triumph dealer just outside Villach, and thought they might sell me more. They did, after much faffing around (although being Austria, it should probably be spelled Pfaffing around, especially after previously driving past a town called Pfafflar!) to find the price in various catalogues/computer records. I was even offered a coffee and they let me use their loo. Not bad, considering I wasn't on a Triumph. Maybe Bill Bryson was wrong (after a less than happy trip many years ago, he remarked that Austria would be nice if it were not for the Austrians).

Around noon I arrived in Bad Kleinkirchheim, a town name I associate with watching Ski Sunday with my Dad when I was a kid. I reckoned it was strudel o'clock, so parked up in front of a bakery and ordered an apfelstrudel and cappuccino. Tasty filling - still trying to pin down the spice blend, more than just cinnamon & lemon, I'm sure. Sat at the next table was an Austrian straight from central casting: old guy in lederhosen, green wool cloth waistcoat and Tyrolean hat (no feather but an edelweiss pin). Tourist board employee or Englishman trying too hard to fit in?

Next Brownie point for Austria was the Nockalmstrasse - a toll road through the mountains designed to be fun to ride. 52 individually number bends, perfect tarmac, helpful camber to allow for a relaxed ride. Meadows with wild flowers including lupins, grazing cows (only 1 actually stood in the road), all very pleasant. OK it was €10.50, but more fun than €10.50 worth of Italian motorway riding.

After stopping at a supermarket for an iced coffee drink and punnet of blueberries (more vitamin karma), I filled up with fuel. Another pleasant surprise - price per litre cheaper than Luxembourg!

Finally, I headed towards the Grossglocknerhochlapinestrasse, and my hotel in Heiligenblut. I will not write off the Austrian inkeeping profession after all. Today's dirndl clad blonde asked me to complete my address on the check in form which already had my Name printed, and gave me the key to my room, which has a balcony with a splendid mountain view. While I could happily have sat staring at the view, I fancied a relaxing swim.

Once again, my lack of German frustrated me (all the info in the folder or on notices in the room is in German alone). I checked with the receptionist that my understanding was correct (that the apricot coloured towels in the wardrobe are for use in the swimming pool and spa and should be left down there). Lovely indoor pool, with huge windows looking out onto a view almost as good as that from my balcony. 50 lazy breaststroke lengths (the odd numbered ones with views of darting swifts, housemartins and the mountains, even numbered ones with just the stone carving of alpine activities on the wall). Swim was followed by sauna (again, spotlessly clean with a bizarre array of alternative showers). Only on leaving did I spot the sign saying that swimsuits were not allowed in the sauna!

Dinner was spinach and cheese dumplings, another bland Austrian beer (the Austrians should leave brewing to the Germans if you ask me) and ice cream (not up to Maniago standards), with, you've guesed, more mountain views!

 

[slob]

and the Germans should leave brewing to the Belgians IMHO ;-)

keep the write ups coming, I'm suffering from culture shock since my return, I just want to be back in Italy

Did you ride Grossglockner? Vir enjoyed it http://www.globetrotter90.ducati.com/grossglockner/

I rode it two years ago and agree with him completely

 

[Ursa]

I'm suffering from culture shock since my return, I just want to be back in Italy

Yes, I hear you on that one, off out with my Italian bezzie tonight to try soften the bumpy landing back to London :worried:

 

[Dirty]

Thoroughly enjoying this. Thank you for taking the time. For me long bike rides are best taken vicariously and this is one of my favourites

 

[slob]

... long bike rides are best taken vicariously...

just get on and go mate, a journey of a thousand miles still begins by engaging first gear (apologies to Laozi)

 

[Dirty]

just get on and go mate, a journey of a thousand miles still begins by engaging first gear (apologies to Laozi)

I know how to do it. It's exactly the same as short journeys, only longer and with luggage. If I've had enough after an hour or so I can't see me enjoying 2 weeks of saddle time.

I love my Monster, and I love messing about with it. Riding it comes 3rd, I'm still a car man in that sense. Offer me 2 weeks riding around Europe on any bike I like or an entry level 911 and I'd be sat in Stuttgart leather, ac and Bose every time.

 

[slob]

maybe you could drive the trailing support van with your bike in the back and get the best of both worlds

 

[Dirty]

maybe you could drive the trailing support van with your bike in the back and get the best of both worlds

Yes, because vans are just like sports cars :freak:

No, maybe I could just arrive fresh and unsweaty at my destinations without a saddle sore behind and covered in dead insects?

 

[slob]

strangley insect free in Italy, wiped my visor twice in 11 days

... still got chewed to £@&! by mossies in the evening though

you'd still have your bike at the destination for the short rides you enjoy

 

[Dirty]

strangley insect free in Italy, wiped my visor twice in 11 days

... still got chewed to £@&! by mossies in the evening though

you'd still have your bike at the destination for the short rides you enjoy

Yes true, cruising up and down the Italian seafront or a quick blast in the mountains does have a big appeal. I think rentals would be the way forward though, the price of driving a van 1000s of miles is too high!

 

[pompone]

Yes true, cruising up and down the Italian seafront or a quick blast in the mountains does have a big appeal. I think rentals would be the way forward though, the price of driving a van 1000s of miles is too high!

If you split 4 ways as we did is very reasonable.

 

[Dirty]

If you split 4 ways as we did is very reasonable.

Haha, yes, getting you to take it would be an option, though I was referring to the 'price' of having to drive a boring van through some lovely bits of Europe.

 

[Ursa]

Haha, yes, getting you to take it would be an option, though I was referring to the 'price' of having to drive a boring van through some lovely bits of Europe.

It's not too bad, although I can't say much, I dozed most of the way, only waking up to laugh at rude place names (Bever, Asse, Inschitt Tunnel etc), instigate games of I Spy, sing along to the radio and talk nonsense about bears mostly. As long as your van buddies are fun it can be a laugh and adds to the "adventure" :biggrin:

 

[utopia]

I drove the full distance, both ways.
Tbh I'd rather be in the van on those particular roads as the fast route is fairly boring .. Swiss scenery excepted.
Of course other routes are available but they require more time and overnight stops.
If I was to ride there I would take a completely different route .. and an extra couple of weeks to enjoy it .. and lots more cash.

 

[Dirty]

It's not too bad, although I can't say much, I dozed most of the way, only waking up to laugh at rude place names (Bever, Asse, Inschitt Tunnel etc), instigate games of I Spy, sing along to the radio and talk nonsense about bears mostly. As long as your van buddies are fun it can be a laugh and adds to the "adventure" :biggrin:

I think my point was that if I'm going to drive across Europe my preferred choice of steed would not be a bike or a van

 

[MrsC_772]

Toll roads and toll roads

Day 14 - Friday 8 July

I'dthought that Waldblick provided the ultimate continental breakfast: Hotel Glocknerhof in Austria proved that I ain't seen nothing yet. While waiting for my egg to boil, I counted 13 different fruit & veg juices (I had cherry), 10 cheeses, 25 herb teas including a house blend and around 15 types of bread (complete with an illustrated guide to what the different types of roll contained). I didn't even recognise some of the dishes (there was a pot of some sort of bubbling broth, surrounded by dishes of ham, chopped veg and chickpeas). Wandering round I felt like the east German Martin/Moritz character in Deutschland 83 on first encountering a west German supermarket.

I should have taken Slob's advice and allowed myself a whole day for the Grossglocknerhochalpenstrasse. 25 Euros is a steep charge for 48 km but there's a lot to see (waterfalls, Tobleronesque triangular mountain peaks, meadows of wild flowers) as well as riding the bends. Although limited for time, I couldn't resist taking the spur road to Kaiser-Franz-Josefs-Höhe get closer views of the main glacier. (It may be 25 years since my A-level geography studies but I couldn't resist good cwm/col/cirque and a bit of moraine).

I also rode up to Bikers' Point - whoever thought that bikers would appreciate a special bit of road with cobblestoned hairpins needs a stern talking to. I was most amused by a poster there advertising an alpine herb face cream - made in "Rottenegg". Austria seems particularly prone to "lost in translation" language that seems amusing to the English ear and eye. (I must confess to smirking when spotting a van later that day emblazoned with "Fritzen.w.a.n.k.e.r").

After the Grossglockner, the 3rd and final entertaining toll road: the Gerlospass. I can understand why Triumph have their big knees up (their equivalent of World Ducati Week) based in Neukirchen, not Hinckley, as Neukirchen lies close to the Gerlospass. More flowing than the Grossglockner, and I was riding better, enjoying the slightly more open road and less traffic.

"Toll" is the German word for "great" (that much I had absorbed from the Memrise app) and the Grossglocknerhochalpenstrasse and Gerlosspass are "toll" roads in both the English and German senses of the word.

After the fun stuff, and a mediocre coffee at a cafe where the radio was playing nothing but cheesy accordion music, and the purchase of a new vignette, on to the motorway to make swifter progress towards the Italian Dolomites. Austrian motorway services apfelstrudel was, unsurprisingly, not as good as the BKK bakery version.

The motorway climbed out of Innsbruck, crossing the Italian border at the Brennero pass. Just after Bolzano I turned and caught my first glimpse of the Dolomites proper. If the Grossglockner mountains were Toblerone chunks, the Dolomites were the ragged jagged bone comb in the Bled Castle museum. It was now more pleasantly cool, and the road wound through the trees. It was such a relief on stopping for fuel to speak Italian again.

The Rider Hotel, Rauth, is a fairly basic establishment, geared up to touring German bikers. I was the only non-German guest there, and the proprietor greeted me initially in German. Unlike another guest, I did not make use of the hotel's Karcher jet wash to clean my bike. On checking in I was handed a map showing suggested touring routes in the region, and over a weissbier, the hotel proprietor helped me put together a route down to Verona. Dinner choices (served in the hotel bar, not a fancy restaurant) was a limited choice between steak cooked on a hot stone (quite expensive), burgers or (to my pleasant suprise) a limited Thai menu - I think the cook was Thai. I had a large and tasty bowl of pad thai noodles with chicken, which made a nice change.

 

[MrsC_772]

Feeling the heat not the love in Verona

Day 15 - Saturday 9 July

My ride this morning took me from Alpine scenery in the Dolomites, along the "strada dei formaggi delle Dolomiti", to a hotter, drier, more southern European landscape, with steep terraced vineyards, after Cembra, where brown tourist signs advertised Muller Thurgau wines, and grappa (one of the few drinks that makes limoncello seem appetising).

Then it was through a small town with one of the many clifftop castles which litter the region, for a cappucino and the first hostility I'd encountered as a Brit travelling in Europe post Brexit decision. One of the other cafe customers said "Welcome in Europe" and when I responded "Grazie" he said "just joking" before leaving. I didn't resort to one of the choice Italian phrases Ursa had taught me from the translated football chants, however tempting.

Back on my bike, past apple orchards around Trento and on to olive groves at Arco, just north of Lake Garda. I was glad I decided against trying to ride along the shore of Lake Garda - I got excellent views of the sailing boats on the lake from a massive traffic jam that was starting to crawl its way down the hill to the lakeside. Then it was on to the motorway, down to Verona and to the railway station.

I'd booked myself and the bike on an overnight motorrail service to Dusseldorf, with a view to saving myself a day of tedious slog across northern France. On previous WDW trips, after fun in S.E. France, I'd had 2 full days of boring riding, where neither the motorway nor off motorway routes offered much in the way of scenery or exhilaration. I arrived in Verona early, around 12.30, and hoped to find a nice lunch before checking in for the train.

Verona Porta Nuova is no St Pancras when it comes to dining options. The area immediately around the station seemed equally barren, and I ended up eating falafel in a kebab shop near the bus stands. Having been underwhelmed by the train's dining car dinner menu, I trudged off in search of a supermarket to pick up a picnic dinner. (Oh for an M&S Simply Food ...) Verona may be the (very touristy) city of Romeo & Juliet but I was not feeling the love, nor (lugging my lid & leathers around in the heat) the inclination to explore the city centre and find the famous balcony.

Returning to the station it was time to load the bike onto the train. It's rare for shorty me to have to duck, but the ceiling of the lower deck of the 2 tier vehicle transporter wagons was so low, even I was hunched over the tank like Ursa on the track at Misano while riding on board.

With over 2 hours before the scheduled departure time, I took refuge in the station bookshop (about the only place with aircon) and curled up for a siesta on a cushioned seating area upstairs. On waking up, the guy sat next to me started chatting - he'd spotted my DOC t-shirt and asked if I'd been to WDW - he was a fellow 696 owner.

The train was due to leave at 17.34. Around 5, I found my seat. The 4 fellow passengers in my compartment were all Dutch (the motorrail service is operated by a Dutch travel company): one was a motorcycle journalist with a V Strom, just returning from a trip round Slovenia, Croatia and Bosnia, another owned a Ducati 888.

Interesting conversation did not make up for the failure of the promised aircon to work. The train steward claimed it would work once we were moving, but sadly that was not so. It was stiflingly hot (I was by now wearing a beach sarong, the journalist kept mopping his sweaty face with a bar towel). A welcome breeze blowed through the open window, but the temperature didn't become bearable until we were back at Brennero on the Austrian border. The seats were converted into bunk beds, the train company providing pillows and sheet sleeping bags (not seen one of those since Interrailing aged 18!) and I managed to get some sleep. Thank goodness my fellow passengers didn't snore!

 

[MrsC_772]

Services without a smile, Belgian temptation

Day 16 - Sunday 10 July

After an airline style boxed breakfast on the train, at 8.30 am I rode off into the thankfully deserted streets of Dusseldorf, heading via the motorways of Holland and Belgium to my last overnight stop in Ieper/Ypres.

If the "better than Tebay" service station near Bologna was the pinnacle of motorway breaks, the Netherlands serves up the nadir. Dutch motorway facilities are not what you'd call holistic. You can have a parking area (predominantly for big lorries), then a few km later a filling station (very like a UK non-motorway one, down to the "Wild Bean Cafe" serving up the same disappointing coffee) and then a little further a restaurant, but very rarely, if ever, all 3 on the same site. The Dutch petrol price was the highest outside Italy. And like in Austria, they charged 0.5 Euros to use the loo! Somehow, the Netherlands, a normally very civilised nation, had managed to combine the worst attributes of motorway services from across the EU. Perhaps it is the influence of the Dutch green lobby, determined to make car travel as tedious or unpleasant as possible, to encourage bicycle use instead.

After 2 more coffee stops in Belgium (marginally less grim services & coffee), and a bit of filtering around the Antwerp ring road, I arrived in Ypres about 3.15 pm, Having checked into my hotel, and feeling it was probably a bit early for a lightweight like me to hit the strong Belgian beer, I asked about cycle hire. Unlike the Alps, the flatter terrain of Flanders didn't seem too daunting for my unfit legs, and after a fortnight of pizza, gelato and cake, I thought a little light exercise would do me some good.

For 9 Euros, the Ambrosia hotel around the corner gave me a sit-up-and-beg bike for a couple of hours. I meandered out of town past a small lake, through potato fields (well, frites have to come from somewhere), cornfields and at an all too regular interval, past the small and immaculately tended Commonwealth War Graves cemeteries of the WWI fallen. The biking gods saw fit to tempt me, by placing a farm shop, with a cone shaped sign advertising home made ice cream, right on the cycle path. I could hardly ride straight past, could I? One scoop each of strawberry and apple tart ice cream and I was on my way back to the town.

After returning the hired bicycle, I was ready for a beer. I can highly recommend the St Arnoldus biercafe: 25 draft beers on tap, and around 6 samplers, each comprising 4 x 150ml glasses of different beers, and allowing even a lightweight to have a chance of drinking one's way along the bar. While enjoying my "light" selection (nothing under 4.5%) I chatted to 3 other British bikers, Army guys, combining a battlefields tour with a trip to the Nurburgring. They left early as they were going to lay a wreath at that evening's Last Post ceremony at the Menin Gate.

While I hadn't originally planned to attend, on leaving the cafe at around 7.45, heading to the Menin Gate felt like the appropriate thing to do. Every evening at 8, buglers play the Last Post, and there is a short remembrance ceremony. The crowds are deep. This evening the singing of a Welsh male voice choir accompanied the wreath laying.

Whereas 2 weeks previously, the non-availability of frites in Belgium on a Sunday had been a big disappointment, Ypres put that right. My final continental dinner was a portion of chips, with curry sauce, at the Kattekwaad frituur on the main town square.

 

[MrsC_772]

Homeward bound

Day 17 - Monday 11 July

After waking early, to a rather grey morning, I hit the road to the Chunnel. Much as the prospect of a hop museum in Poperinge intrigued me, I just wanted to get home. I arrived at the Calais check in sufficiently early that I was allowed to select an earlier train.

Contrary to what some of my colleagues appeared to have expected, Calais, and the UK immigration officers based there, have not erected a Westerosi-style huge wall to keep people out, nor are there large crowds of desperate migrants hurling themselves at every passing car or bike. While the French immigration officers didn't actually shrug in the stereotypical Gallic manner, when I proffered my passport, they were clearly unconcerned about who left France. The UK ones did check my passport, and asked me to remove my helmet to see if my face bore a passing resemblance to my photo.

I was the last to board the early train, queuing up behind a couple of of other bikers, who had clearly swallowed the "Bike Shed how to be a hipster" book.
Open face or retro 70s (with press studs to attach visors) helmets, with goggles - check!
Big bushy Edwardian beards - check!
Blue denim (non motorcycle) jeans - check!
Brown (non motorcycle) boots - check!
Belstaff retro wax jacket - check!
On removing jacket, sleeve tattoos - check!
Motorcycles that are a triumph of style over practicality - check! (Triumph Scrambler and a hardtail matt black Harley).

I spoke briefly to the hipsters on the train, and to their credit, they'd been on a big European tour, having ridden as far as Prague, and then around Germany. They confessed that they'd tried to stay more than one night in any location, given how uncomfortable the Harley was to ride any distance. Its unfortunate habit of shaking itself to bits had led to the acquisition of a variety of tools in Europe for reattaching what they'd picked up from the road. The Triumph had to carry the satnav, since the Harley's vibrations made the screen illegible. I was impressed with how little luggage these guys carried, for such a big trip - apart from their tools, I presume their minimalist panniers/lashed on small rucksack must simply have contained their checked shirts (since that was the one item from the hipster uniform missing from their appearance that day).

Back up the M20, round the M25 (yawn) with the tea break rule (if on a bike ride, you're in 2 minds about stopping for a cuppa, stopping for tea is always the right decision) being invoked at Cobham Services. I'd not stopped there before, and it was a pleasant surprise (perhaps my expectations having been lowered by my Dutch experiences), not least, due to the Mint Leaves Indian food stand, serving not only your usual chicken tikka masala & samosas, but also the (far less common) South Indian idli sambar (steamed rice cakes with a runny tasty veggie curry sauce). I got my first proper curry fix in a fortnight for lunch, washed down with masala chai!

Finally at around 2pm I rolled up onto the drive at home, with the vague idea of washing my bike. Just after unlocking the garage, the heavens opened, so thoughts of getting the hose out were washed away, and the bike retains its patina of grime, encrustation of Belgian bugsplats, and Austrian motorway vignette.