The Adventures of a Rally Roadie

We’re up and down for breakfast (after all, it is a B&B). Have a very nice chat with the owner and a great English breakfast to boot. Luggage in the car and up the M roads to Heathrow.

There’s only a short distance to the M road so my weak left hand driving isn’t really too much of a problem. Once on the Motorway, it really doesn’t matter at all. I pick out a middle lane and stay ahead of the traffic in the left (slow) lane and stay out of the way of the speed demons in the right (fast) lane.

The UK has the most confusing array of speed limits and speeding cameras imaginable. From the action if the right (fast) lane, it appears that the speed limits are recommendations. Nobody seems to be paying any attention to them at all. Then all of a sudden, the signs change and everyone slows down. Then, just as inexplicably, everyone speeds up again to warp 9 in the right hand lane. If I lived here, I’d probably have my driver’s license for a day, maybe 2. Suffice to say, I haven’t a clue and I adopt a driving style that’s not as fast as the fastest and faster than the slowest. All I have to do is get John to Heathrow and me back to Gatwick.

Up the M20 to Maidstone. Then left on to the M26 for a bit and then west on the M25, the London ring road. The M25 goes past the M23 (the turn to Gatwick) and then bends to the north. Soon we’re at the turn off for Heathrow. Or rather, one of the turn offs for Heathrow. Which turn off you take depends on which terminal you’re flying out of. And John doesn’t know which terminal he needs.

We finally decide on Terminal 2 (or was it 4?) and head in to the rabbit warren that is Heathrow. Round and round. A wrong turn here, another there but we eventually get to the terminal in what I think is the taxi lane. We never do find the normal civilian departure drop off area if there even is one. (There must be one somewhere!) Stop at the curb, John jumps out we say our goodbyes, shake hands, wish each other well and he’s across the lane and into the terminal. I suspect that the good luck was more for me who now has to get out of the rabbit waren and back on the M25, now south and east, to Gatwick. I amiagine Joh n chuckling over a pint while he waits for his 1:30 flight.

Getting out of Heathrow is much easier than getting in and soon I’m on the M25 actually headed in the right direction – south. The traffic is whizzing but I’m in last lap mode. Don’t do anything stupid and wreck the car on the last lap. Down the M25 to the M23 to Gatwick.

An Audi R10 goes by. I resist the urge to speed up and catch it just to get a good look at it. Easy boy, don’t wreck the car on the last lap. But I really want to catch the Audi… Okay, no speeding, no wrecks.

Soon a sign for Gatwick. Off the M23 and on to the airport access road. This is confuxing also but not as bad as Heathrow. I’m headed for the Holiday Inn at Gatwick. It’s right over there. I take the exit off the access road, come to a round about, take the road that looks like it heads to the Holiday Inn. And end up in the aviation fuel depot. Back to the round about and back to the access road. Get turned around and try this again. Hmmm… Back in the fuel depot. Fire up Google Maps, get directions to the Holiday Inn, go back to the round about, take the “other” left (the one that looks like it taking you away from the airport) and then take a left and another and I’m in the Holiday Inn parking lot. Damn! I made it.

In a sudden downpour. I park the car, check in, move the car to the proper parking area and finally have lunch. I still have to drop off the car at some local address for Julian Nowill (the Petra organizer who is buying the car from us) to pick up. But that can wait at least until it stops raining.

After lunch, I check the address for the drop off on Google Maps and it looks like it really is only a couple of streets from the hotel. Back in the car (don’t wreck the car on the last lap). Follow the directions to the round about, take the first left, look for the first street sign, miss it, turn around take the first left, go to the end of the street, take a left. The house is the first on the left. Damn! There it is.

I pull in to the driveway, knock on the door. An elderly man answers. I introduce myself. He has no idea who I am. I tell him that Julian asked me to drop the car here. “That’s nice. Right where you have it will do nicely.” He knows Julian but knows nothing about the car drop. Just as I’m giving him the car keys, his daughter arrives. She also knows Julian but she also knows about the car deal. “That’s perfect. Brialliant! Thanks so much.” a five minute walk to the hotel and the car is gone.

It’s room service dinner and then a good night’s sleep. Up at 6:00 and on the bus to the airport for a 9:30 flight to Charlotte. I treat myself to a points upgrade to Business class and right home comfy. A few hours of sleep and we’re landing in Charlotte. Home again. Until the next trip: the Alcan 5000 in February.

Obi-wan

When we get get going again, it’s still grey and overcast but not raining. Up the motorway to Bastogne. Which is the easy part. Finding the Bastogne Historical Museum is a bit more difficult.

It appears that there is maximum sign size here in Belgium. Some signs like the one pointing to Calais (6 letters) are large enough to read. Others, like “Bastonge Historical Museum” (26 letters), are the same size but the type size is reduced to allow all the letters to fit on the standard sign. The fact that the signs can be almost unreadable hardly seems to bother the Walloones. Then put this sign on a sign post with 10 other signs and … We can’t find the most important location in the area. Fritteries, fine. Museum, no joy.

We try the usual method we employ when trying to find a hotel in Istanbul or Budapest or Koln: grid search. We used to use random searching but now that we’ve perfected the grid search method, we use that method. This means that we pick a random compass point, and head down the road in that direction for some distance (usually a few km) searching for a sign.

If we don’t find a sign, we turn around, go back, pick a different compass point and repeat. If we do find a sign, we head in the direction the sign indicates until we get lost and then start the procedure over again. If we eventually fail, we ask for help.

Actually, we try to find someone who speaks English and THEN we ask for directions. We’ve found through many previous attempts that getting directions in languages other than English is not really very helpful though it often gets to drive to places that we would have seen otherwise. Like Hengersberg, Austria, for instance.

This search is complicated by the fact that John is trying to do this from memory of a trip to Bastogne that he did with his brother some years ago. Why anyone our age (“What the hell did I come into the room for?”) would try to do this from memory is beyond me. As is our way, we do find the museum. Against all odds. As Trillian says, “It’s not impossible. Just very highly improbable.”

It’s closed for renovations. And is the crypt. (It’s even locked. No praying for the dead today.) But the monument is open and we climb the stairs to the top and look out over the rolling landscape that was home to the most famous site in the Battle of the Bulge in WWII.

The German Panzer Grenadiers must have been shocked that they could not defeat the American troops that raced them to Bastogne and stopped them before they had a chance to even construct defenses. They must have known the answer to the German surrender demands even before the famous “Nuts!” message was returned.

In less than a month, over 78,000 Americans, aided by the local Belgains who refused to leave in the face of the German attack, were killed, wounded or declared missing. One of the greatest tolls in the history of the US Army. In less than a month between mid December, 1944 and mid January, 1945.

Back in the car. On to Calais. Well, maybe just one more stop. “How close are we to Brugge?” “We’re going right past it.” “Wanna stop?” “ Sure.”

John’s trying to do this entry into Brugge from memory also. It might have been better if he was driving. But I’m driving and he’s navigating and we do get into Brugge on the first try. John, though, is convinced that we’ve taken a wrong turn. In all fairness, the area around Brugge is all road construction and there’s no way to do this from memory. Hell, our map is useless. But we kep following the signs and, for once, that works. Into Brugge, park the car, walk into the walled city.

Brugge is just place gorgeous. We walk around and just see the beautiful old city. I really have to thank John for suggesting all these stops: Passau, Melk, Salzburg, Bastogne, Brugge. I would have just driven by (white line fever) if he hadn’t suggested that we stop.

We walk around Brugge. The town is a medieval walled city. Small houses. Narrow streets. Big squares. Clock/bell towers. And shoppes. And cafes. We pick a cafe on the main square and stop for a beer. John has a panini but I’m holding out for a fritterie . A fritterie is a small shop or food cart that sells french fries, frites.

They serve them in paper cones with a dressing on the top, usually some type of mayonnaise. Way more frites than you can eat and the agonizing choice of dressing. Walking back to the car, we pass a fritterie and I get my frites with, I might add, mayonnaise #29. The other unique thing about fritteries is that they offer a mind-boggling array of dressing choices. It’s not uncommon to find a fritterie that offers more than 50 dressings. Um, yummy!

Just as we get back to the car, the rain starts. Head northwest to Oostendt and then left to Calais. Stop at the ferry ticket office. Into the queue for the ferry. On to the boat. Two and a half hours to Dover.

Disembark in Dover. Drive on the left. The car knows how to. It was born here. I wasn’t. At every turn: “Drive on the left. Drive on the left!” Clemo had put a tape arrow on the wideshield when we did the Bourgas trip. No arrow now. Stop and take off the headlight deflectors. That’s better – now I can at least see. Drive on the left. Drive on the left.

We leave the port and start looking for the B & B that we stayed in on the Bourgas trip, the Norman House. It’s comfortable, has good breakfast and it’s got good parking. Plus, there’s a pub (the Eight Bells; NOT the Boar’s Head) in town that has great beer and decent food and great prices.

We had decided to stay in Dover tonight rather than drive to One of the airports. It’s another 2-3 hours to Heathrow where John is leaving from and there’s not much but motorway from Dover to there. The Norman House it is. Now we just have to find it.

John’s doing a good job of remembering where in town the B & B is. I’m doing a terrible job of taking directions. We end up driving out of Dover and have to drive back over the cost hill and in to Dover. With not too much ado, we’re back in town and we find the Norman House. We check in and head out to the pub for food. And a few pints. Just a few. Maybe just one. Or two.

“We don’t need no stinking directions!” Until we wander about a bit and can’t find the Boar’s Head. A woman gives us directions that send back out of town. That can’t be right. The pub is around the center somewhere. We stop in a fish & chips joint aand ask. “Oh, you mean the Eight Bells. Head straight back down the street, bear left, it’s on the right.” Of course, it is.

It is, of course. Go in, a few pints, some food, a few more pints. Back to the hotel. Bed.

Obi-Wan

In the morning we walk into the Old City and walk about. It’s totally dedicated to music and specifically “The Sound of Music”. Julie Andrews is immortalized on every other poster. And is Mozart and Beethoven. It’s beautiful and clean. But we need to get on our way. Back to the hotel to check out, load the car and boogie.

In the daylight we see just how dirty the car is and promise to wash it today. The day has started clear, cold and sunny. On the way out of Salzburg, we stop for fuel and the station has an automated car wash. Great.

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The day starts early with a breakfast at the hotel. The restaurant is filled with Japanese tourists from a tour bus that was parked in front of the hotel when we arrived. They’re noisy and AWAKE. We aren’t (see last post about GREAT second bottle of wine).

As is always the case with Japanese groups, there’s a hierarchy and we’re sitting next to the table with whom appears to be the top of their food chain. Whenever anyone comes over to speak to him or his wife, the person bows deferentially. A few visits and they bow. His wife leaves. A few seconds late when he thinks no one is watching, top dog surreptitiously slides a small packet of nut butter in to his pocket and leaves.

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We’re up early to get the ferry across the Dardanells to Gallipoli and Europe. The breakfast in the hotel is so small that it’s really symbolic. It is only $25 for the two of us; breakfast and parking included. As much Nescafe as you can stand.

Out to the car to maneuver it out of the alley and on to the tiny street in front of the hotel. There is a bus blocking the exit so I head back for another coffee. I come back only to find the bus gone but now I’m blocked by to cars. And the owners of the cars look so disorganized (Bulgaristanis) that I give up and just wiggle the car out with the John’s help and the Bulgaristanis watching.

On to the ferry. John asks the girl at the driveby ticket booth if the is the right ferry to Killibabit. Yes, yes. She point us to the ferry. We get on. The ferry leaves. Continue Reading »

The time changed over night which we didn’t know until we went for breakfast hoping for an early coffee and an early checkout. Bekir’s son was there trying to explain that the time had changed from Daylight Savings to Standard. It was 6:30 not 7:30 which explained why there wasn’t any coffee.

It also explained why there were 25 hot air balloons hovering over the town. It was a beautiful still air, blue sky morning and the rising sun showed off the balloon colors perfectly. The scene was only disturbed by the roar of the balloons’ propane burners as they suddenly popped up out of one of the many canyons and gullies around town. At one point, I counted 30 balloons visible from Bekir’s front balcony.

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John has declared that today is an “off” day which means “NO DRIVING”. I agree completely. We get a late breakfast and then an even later start to the hike up Red Valley to see the underground churches and their frescoes. It’s an very interesting place and a nice walk for a change.

But then it’s back to the car and off to find other caves, the fairy chimneys and the mushrooms. I won’t describe it here but I’m uploading a lot of pictures to the Photo Gallery. Just remember that when you look at these amazing formations that this is just wind and rain hard at wrok.

After we return to the hotel, we get a tweet the the Latvians and Joachim are in town and at the Gultekin Hotel. We tweet back that we’re on our way. We meet up for dinner in a very nice restaurant on the main street of Goreme. The food is great. So great that we knock off 5 bottle of a great local cabernet. Dinner ends. We say our goodbyes (they’re going on to Syria and we’re about to head back to the UK) and good luck.

Back to the hotel and bed.

Obi-Wan

We intended to get an early start but breakfast wasn’t until 8 and we’d had some serious beers the night before so both the spirit and the body were weak. Then at breakfast we got into chatting with some other guests in the hotel. The short version: we left at 10.

Load the car and head down the hill to the coast boulevard right into a dispute between 2 vans that are both trying to get into the same lane. Simple physics. Primordial battle for supremacy between the 2 drivers. We squeak through just as the rest of their passengers pull them apart and the drivers in the cars they are holding up start leaving their vehicles to go help sort out the holdup. Good time to leave. If this had been Tirana instead of Istanbul the guns would have been out by now. Take a left and head for the bridge.

We cross over the Golden Horn and end up stranded at another damned tollbooth. With no card and no idea what to do. We totally forgot to find out what to do about tolls and now we’re stuck again at a toll gate with late morning traffic stacking up behind us. I get out of the car and head to the car behind us and offer a few euros to use his card. He simply smiles, refuses the euros and gives me the card. I swipe it, run back to return it, trying to say thank you in Turkish. He just smiles and waves. We’re off again.

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Last night we survived the Istanbul traffic and found the hotel. Istanbul drivers are nothing if not aggressive. Leave the smallest opening and a car or truck or bus(!) tries to squeeze into the spot. One lane off ramps become 3 lane off ramps that end in 6 lane merges on the next road. And the signs are in Turkish (bad for us) and the destinations on the signs are different than the maps (really bad for us). But we get there.

Check into a small but very nice hotel 2 blocks up from the south end of the Bosporus. Out for dinner. The good news? The food is great. The bad news? There’s no beer, wine or liquor. We’re within site of the Blue Mosque in SultanHamet (the Old City) and it’s dry. Back to the hotel. We’re exhausted. Bed.

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After we left our friends in Bulgaria, we crossed uneventfully into Turkey. Not quickly, uneventfully. It’s still a “4 step” process (see posts on the Grecian 3000), obscure, confusing, arcane. But on the road to Istanbul in about 45 minutes.

The road is such a relief after Bulgaria. The road from the frontier is a divided highway with a lot of trucks but we’re moving at 120 kph. Soon we’re on a true motorway. Everything goes fine. Until Istanbul.

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