travellingbennetts

Spain, Portugal, and Morocco. We’d done all three which we decided was enough. It was time to turn around.

We left Part 2 at the end of Day 11 at Marrakesh in the Es Saadi Hotel, about to have a swim and a gin and a tonic. I can happily report that we achieved all three of those objectives. Talk of the casino next door were put to one side, we just wanted a dinner and, as per every other day of a trip, somewhere to do laundry. Up on “day off the bikes” Day 12, Marrakesh beckoned. An organised tour was organised, so off we went, deviating into any shade as it was already starting to get warm.

First stop was the Bahia Palace. This was a bit damaged in the 2023 earthquake, but the bits that are open are somewhat impressive. Having just completed a bathroom reno, and seeing how wrong tiling can go, the tiny little tiles are just incredible. The plaster starts at head height to avoid people accidentally knocking holes in it with their ceremonial daggers and is actually made as standard panels off-site and installed like we do gyprock sheets.

Starting to sweat up big-time by now, we left the stillness of the palace and hit the old city markets. First stop was an Argane oil and general cosmetics and culinary products shop. We all packed into a small room and were given a presentation by a fairly dynamic chap. At one point while going through the wide range of culinary uses of Argane oil, he said it was very good to take after rooster. With Morocco being a French protectorate for a long time, he used the French work for rooster. I’ll leave you to Googs that, but the effect on the crowd was impressive, Cindy and the crew up the front were trying to hold it together while Julia sitting behind me sounded like she was trying to swallow a motel pillow.

Loaded up with Saffron liver stuff to help him function normally in social situations, we wandered through the markets and tried to avoid getting run over by all the carts. It was now too hot to do anything but get into an air-conditioned restaurant for yet another awesome tajine lunch. Back to the hotel, it was a rare opportunity for relaxation before dressing up for a team dinner, right back in town about 100m from where we’d had lunch. No walking though, Uber 2 horsepower carriages had been organised. For people who had just been riding camels, this was the height of comfort and luxury.

Into the restaurant, packed as usual because it was good, and another Morocco tour tradition continued – special water was distributed. Not sure why – alcohol isn’t illegal – but many of us acted like 17 year olds at schoolies, pouring it out under the table when staff weren’t watching, holding cups brimming with shiraz with the full-finger “could be tea” wrap, and generally behaving like ludicrously guilty people. No-one cares of course, full eye contact with a staff member while pouring a glass showed how utterly disinterested they were. The food came, and it was the usual awesome event with lots of excellent dishes. Done, we decided that hiding the special water bottles behind table legs would make nice surprise souvenirs to offer the restaurant staff, disinterested as they may be. Down and out into the markets, it was going off just like every other night.

Smashing through the crowds, we headed back to the hotel and prepped for Day 13. The unlucky day in the tour calendar, every Day 13 we’ve experienced has been disastrous. Day 13 on the Cairo to Cape Town was in Khartoum, Sudan. We had a heap of fun that day but didn’t realise until later it meant we could never, ever, get a US ESTA visa, ever again. Day 13 on our Alaska tour was one of the best days I’ve ever had riding. Day 13 in South America was the Perito Moreno glacier. We’d just fixed Cindy’s oil seal after her crash in Patagonia, it is still there, and the glacier was next level incredible. Hang on, maybe Day 13’s are only disastrous because they have always been the best of days. The law of averages must therefore apply, and we must have resulting boring days. But let’s just see how this Day 13 plays out.

Our first destination was the Ouzoud Waterfalls. This was a bit odd; a guide had been organised but he didn’t say anything and it was like being guided to a Statue of Liberty viewing platform without getting any talk; you are showing us something bleeding obvious, what value are you adding? So we all strolled off, and checked out the falls on our own, while the guide tried hard to muster us back into a flock. These were growing falls, the water is calcium and magnesium rich, so they grow as these precipitate out.

Eventually catching up with everyone at an out-of-the-truck lunch after wandering lost about the town, the temperature was not pleasant. And then the local police stepped in – please sit under our shady tree out the front of the station and we’ll provide chairs. Just fabulous – out in the dry heat of Morocco a bit of shade works wonders. Luncheoned, we were back on for the ride through some spectacular country into Beni-Mellal.

Past the Bin El Ouidane dam, several opportunities were taken for “drive-by” photos, and we were back on the flats yet again after some truly epic sweeping bends coming through and off the Atlas. Another amazing Day 13, which is now pushing for The Best of Riding Days title and is definitely on the podium.

Into town and the hotel, it was all a bit of struggle as both of us weren’t feeling that great. I blamed the camels, simply because they are the root cause of everything that goes wrong, for example the Black Death, Smallpox, the Spanish Inquisition, and World Wars 1 and 2 can all be traced back to a camel named Nigel. Firstly we hit the pool, almost literally because the tiles outside our room were insanely slippery. We were also very Dirham-poor, which didn’t become clear until we were in a very basic grocery shop after a 2km march. I thought you had money was countered by I thought you had money? I can’t have these peanuts then? Well yes you can but that means no chips, or water. Just peanuts. Sophie’s choices managed, we were back through the stark town and into the hotel to eat our chips and drink our water.

Day 14, not sure where that sits in the riding days pantheon, was all about getting to the old capital city of Meknes, just to the west of Fez. Yet more spectacular riding interspersed with trips on the main roads, a highlight was the ride through the Aguelmam Azegza National Park. By this point of the trip Pamalee had grown tired of sitting in the van, and as she’d brought her helmet and jacket Doug and I were in open competition to have her on as a pillion. I won on this day perhaps because I’d told her that Doug is an excellent rider, which he really is. Raising my eyebrows and applying air quotes when saying excellent rider may have inadvertently led to some misinterpretation, but either way she decided to ride with me. The only downer was that the heat was getting up, so when riding in traffic or not in the shade it could be a little sweaty. Lunch was at an interesting place in the National Park, out in the bush but with stalls selling yet more fossils and very good looking black orbs filled with purple or metallic crystals. These are somehow made by the locals but attempted to be passed off as natural – my suspicions were aroused when they showed one apparently full of cobalt crystals. One that was purchased also dissolved in water. The jig was up.

Endless winding roads through some rather odd landscape of small stony ground with trees, including a bit of dusty dirt requiring some on-the-run mode adjustment out of Dynamic and into Enduro – thank heavens for BMWs – and the national parks theme continued into the Ifrane National Park. Once through that, we hit the dreaded main roads into town, including the incredibly slippery round-abouts. At one round-about Cindy actually had to give way to a strolling donkey. But rules are rules.

The Meknes hotel was excellent; the pool, the well-stocked bar and the restaurant menu, although the rooms were tiny. But we are adventure motorcyclists, and perfection is never attained. Breaking through the time barrier into Day 15, we were approaching the end of Morocco and this was our last full day. Target was Asilah, on the Atlantic only 30km south of the Strait of Gibraltar. We were looking forward to a beach, maybe a chance for a cooling off. But things to do before worrying about that, with a short ride out of Meknes to Volubilis. This was an ancient Berber-Roman city and reeked of advanced civilisation which started in the area some 5,000 years ago. Olives were the go, and still are.

A wander through the fantastic site in the heat, luckily a stall was open near the entrance to load up on water both internally and externally – it wasn’t going to be cool any time soon. Some seriously wealthy people had obviously lived there, the mosaics were amazing and there were lots of them. But it was right on the edge of the Roman empire, hence there was always pressure from the Berber tribes loitering about the fringes. Eventually the cost-benefit analysis said it was not worth defending, and it slowly faded away.

Back on the bikes, we trundled on. A memorable moment was a stop on the side of the road to re-group. There was a bit of off-road potential and so we all charged off into the bush. We were all lucky as it turned out, not because it was a bit sandy or had baby-head rocks, but because there were hidden deep death holes.

Coasting down to the coast, we pulled into the Asilah hotel. Some people believe in miracles, I didn’t, until this hotel. We got a ground floor room. The rest had to drag their enormous bags up precipitous 2ft wide steps in a tight near-vertical spiral, it is written up in the bible somewhere because they must have deserved it. Casually dressed, we decided on a walk to the beach.

Having strolled about the beach for a bit and avoided the muddy bits, we decided on finding a bottlo and having a drink back in our perfect bottom floor room before our group dinner. Googs said there were several bottlos within a short distance. But this was Morocco, and the bottlos turned out have everything but bottles, so once again water and chips was the result. Out to an excellent dinner with the gang, we prepped for our final night in Africa by doing absolutely no preparation except ensuring we still had some form of passport. Day 16 arrived and with it an avalanche of luggage and punters down the stairs. We had to get to the Tangiers Port for our 11am departure but the ferry could be a bit random so we needed to get there early, so onto the BMW seats now well-sculpted to our collective cheeks. It was only about 70km and mainly on freeways, at about 8:30am we were in hang-about mode. Usual stuff-up with currency – we don’t need any more Dirhams – swap all except a few coins back into Euro – hang on is that a café over there? – yes – how much for a coffee? – slightly more than my remaining Dirhams god-dammit! – quick stop that person changing all their Dirhams! I’ll give them my first born! – oh thank you so much – can you give me a bit more so I can get a slice of cake as well?

Onto the ferry after the usual inspections and multiple checking’s of personal and vehicle documentation, always excitingly random, and we could relax. Getting into Spain was far less of a pain than going the other way, so we could just cruise across the gap and have a nice galley cheeseburger luncheon along the way. We lobbed into Algeciras Port, now confidently speaking perfect Spanish once again, apart from the occasional panicky “merci beaucoup” when dealing with service providers and officials. On the bikes and off the ferry, Julia led us to a spot on the waterfront to take a proper look at one of the world’s most strategic bits of geology; the Rock of Gibraltar.

A bit of a split occurred after the group photo. When we’d originally signed up for the Spain Portugal and Morocco tour Gibraltar was part of the itinerary, with a lunch at the Rock before heading off to the ancient Spanish town of Ronda. The problem was the previous tours had arrived at the Rock at 3:30pm, a touch late for lunch and resulting in Ronda arrival close to 8pm. But for Cindy and I and our old mates Peter and Michele, Gibraltar wasn’t a nice to have, it was a must. So while the rest of the crowd chuffed off to the east and then north, we went about 1km to Gibraltar immigration. Fears about getting into the UK out of Spain, given all the Brexit palaver, were quickly put to bed and the biggest delay in the process was getting the passport out. Bang went the stamp, next. Then into the tight little outpost, these days accessed by a tunnel under the airport runway rather than having to run across between planes. The traffic wasn’t too bad, but the streets are pretty tight and there are a lot of 1 ways. But within 10 minutes of splitting off from the group we were checking into the Bristol Hotel. Air-con on and relax.

Out for a wander about town, it was joyous. Just after 5pm and everything was open; shops, pubs, and restaurants. Spoiled for choice for pre-dinners, dinner with drinks, and trying to find a UK power adapter. Pre-dinners first, go full traditional with gin and tonics and pints of Old Speckled Hen. Then off to the Lord Nelson for dinner.

Spoiler alert. Day 17 was one of those perfect adventure motorcycling days. We were up early-ish when the Old Speckled rooster crowed, went up town for a breakfast, then our Cindy-organised tour guide Tommy turned up. The man reeked Gibraltar learning, he had been born here and his heritage was classic – British Navy father meets mother who was the daughter of Spanish civil war refugees. The Rock dynamics are very interesting. When Queen Elizabeth visited in 1954, Franco was so annoyed that eventually he completely shut it off – no food, no telephones, no nothing. Tommy and his family used to stand on one side of the airport and use binoculars to see their grandparents holding up signs on the other side. But every referendum about who should own the Rock just annoyed Franco even more as it was overwhelmingly to stay with Britain. These days the Spaniards still want it back, but like the Argentinians with the Falklands, ain’t getting it. Way bigger issues exist these days. The interesting thing is a huge number of people, both tourists and workers enter Gibraltar every day, but we were part of a surprisingly small number who stay a night.

Anyway, up the Rock. First to a spot celebrating the importance of Gibraltar for the ancient and the modern world, it was a pillar of Hercules, the other being across the strait at Jebel Musa. Going back a long time Gibraltar was joined to Africa, then it separated, then the Atlantic flooded in to make the Mediterranean, so the Hercules story isn’t that far from reality. Next stop was the caves, Gibraltar is limestone so there are a few ancient natural ones besides the 54km of tunnels in a Rock that is only 3km long and 1km wide. The caves were well done, with a light show explaining the geology of the area and plenty of seats for the Old Speckled victims.

Next, we were going up the top. Expectations were that we must catch a cable car or do steps or something, but there is actually a road which winds its way up, involving a few three to five-point turns. Eventually we got to the top, nearly, and the Tetris parking of tour vans was something to see. Then the steps, around and over old bunkers and observation posts. During WW2 the expansion of the tunnels was huge, and those at the Rock lived underground and could travel anywhere without going outside.

Back down, we were off to the macaque feeding area. The history of the macaques is interesting, our guide firmly believes they were not native to that side of the strait, and had been brought over from Morocco as pets by the Moors which makes sense. They live up on the Rock and are very tightly managed and monitored. Feeding and providing water up on the Rock stops the likelihood of attraction into the town which would not end well.

A stroll through the original galleries that were dug out by the British after they took over in the early 1700’s, and we were back to the hotel for a quick change into riding togs. That tour was one of the best we’ve ever done by the way – getting the history from someone who was born there, knew everything, and who made it great fun ticked all the tour boxes. Tommy ticked more boxes by telling us that a circumnavigation around the Rock was well worth it, and even gave us the premier riding route to get to Ronda.

Getting back into Spain took even less time than getting out, we even had our own motorcycle and bicycle lane to bypass the large queue of cars. Through La Linea, and north through the rural countryside it was lovely cruising on a beautiful day. We stopped for an excellent lunch in a suburb of Los Angeles, or LA as it is usually known, before heading up into the hills.

This road was one of the tour highlights, endless twisties through steep hills with little white house villages dotted along the spurs. The BMW’s just purred along, and all was good. A few stops at spectacular lookouts, and we dropped off the peaks via even more superlative overload roads into Help me Ronda. Truly one of the best days we’ve ever had in motorcycle travel coming to an end at the Parador de Ronda hotel.

First job in a famous ancient city – laundry. Way past reeking and well into sepsis ward. We had no alternative but to bundle the toxic brew into a tight bacterial ball and wander off up the street. Hopes are always low or whatever is less than low when it comes to hope, laundry disappointment has moved into expectation over the years. But we found the Nature Lavanderia, and it was open. And it had automatic detergent addition. And there was a supermarket just up the road selling cans of wine and beer. And it had another customer who selected and started a machine that his clothes weren’t in, and couldn’t stop it, which made it a lot of fun.

Day 18 plan was Granada, so heading a bit further east along the bottom of Spain. The roads were excellent, this part of Spain is very hilly so the roads are not at all straight. We were right into the heart of olive country here, the trees are just everywhere. As always, a photo idea became an obsession, this time getting a shot of the bike nestled amongst olive trees with a geologically interesting hill or mountain in the background. Several near-perfect ones were discarded for various reasons, including power lines and someone using their driveway which prevented me from parking in the middle of it, before finding one that was a good as it could get after I’d removed a shopping bag from the frame. When doing the artistic shot, extra care must be taken not to drop the bike because often you are out of sight of the road, and the support van drivers Juan or João would not see you. So you would have to walk all the way to the road, wave them down, and wait comfortably in the shade while they picked up the bike and straightened the mirrors.

Motoring along, the slight tummy issue that I’d picked up in Morocco surfaced suddenly. I’d been hoovering Imodium like they were party drugs since Marrakesh, but they weren’t working their usual magic and the jelly wasn’t setting. I was carrying an emergency pack with everything including abattoir floor wipes, so full pressure on the brakes and off in a flash. Luckily there was plenty of bush so up the hill I went. A good spot was selected, but when coming in for the carrier landing, I slipped and went down into a gully and into a prickle bush. I discovered Gore-Tex doesn’t protect from prickles, a Klim fail there. But the fall shock worked better than Imodium, and once the prickles were pulled out of the seat I could return to the bike and head on my tentative way after giving a coded series of nods to João, who understood none of them. Into lunch at an impressive picnic area below a limestone mountain, no-one needed to know why I was a bit late.

Ploughing on, it was more nice roads into Granada. Into the city, I blatantly rode through a red light, because if I hadn’t, people would have died. Vulnerable people, including children. Into the Hotel Alixares, we stopped out the front. Police pulled in behind us, the same police that had been stopped on the other side of the red light. No eye contact was made. Then more police arrived. Obviously they couldn’t pinpoint exactly who the red light runner was, they needed back-up to interrogate all of us and prevent escapes. We ignored them. Strangely, they ignored us. Maybe Julia was already in custody, helping them with their enquiries. Fine, we’ll worry about parking. 14 bikes into space for 8½ bikes, on the side stand some were so badly trapped that we had to pass meals to them from the buffet on the other side of the windows.

Day 19 started with a tour of the Alhambra, one of the premier examples of Islamic palace and fortress architecture. Having slaves was obviously helpful in getting stuff done, Human Resources Departments were not too common back then. The complex is enormous and has all the features of the Islamic period plus the mods made after the Reconquista, when it was surrendered without a fight.

Our afternoon wasn’t that taxing, it was only to Cordoba. For one of the first times the group was split up getting to our hotel in the old city, with some going one way and others going another way, but we all made it which was very disappointing for storytellers. Cordoba is a pleasant and old-world place, with lots of hard surfaces. Usual progression through history for these southern Spanish places – neanderthals, homo sapiens, pre-urban settlements, growth via agriculture and metallurgy, Carthaginian settlement, Roman take-over, Visigoth take-over, Islamic take-over, and Reconquista with the normal sackings, destructions, expansions, and civil works. Also the usual dramas trying to find somewhere that opened for dinner before 10pm, luckily one of the group discovered a bar and we were in.

Day 20 and the journey west was in earnest now. Portugal earnest in fact. After a few navigational dramas including Nic riding back towards us and realising his direction could be misinterpreted as us going the wrong way rather than him going the wrong way so giving a confusing pointing signal, we were out of Cordoba and into the countryside. The awesome roads refused to go away, and we did a lot of “could only be in Spain” cruisin’, then suddenly we were back in the cork trees. A stop in the inevitable olive grove for lunch, where the men’s loo was designated from 0° to 359°, and the ladies were given a generous 1° as this was the only practical solution to the ill-defined problem of blokes just dropping the tweeds anywhere that isn’t obviously in direct line of sight of the windows of a primary school.

Then suddenly a border sign appeared. No room to park, but everyone did anyway. Photos to celebrate getting back into Portugal, some near misses with traffic, then back on, across a very big dam, and into one of the of the numerous fortress towns for a break. This one was the Castelo de Monsaraz, and parking on the baby-head sized cobbles reminded us that challenging adventure motorcycling was already being planned for back in the 14^th century. A wander through the old town, into the bull fighting arena, and ending up in the Inquisition Museum. Cindy then called to say everyone was leaving, which was unfortunate as I was literally at the other end of the town. Never mind, a jog with sweat sluicing down inside every article of clothing, and I made it back to find that I was nowhere near last and could have strolled.

Across into Evora for our final tour night, and yet another excellent hotel, a highlight of this one being our room about 10ft from reception. The tour routine continued – drinks at the bar then off into town for dinner, then read the WhatsApp messages from Julia about what on earth was happening the following day. When the following Day 21 appeared, there was no pressure to leave early as there wasn’t far to go to Lisbon, so we had a look about the town. Evora is famous for a cathedral with an ossuary, the cathedral doesn’t draw many visitors but the ossuary brings in loads. Everyone is interested in bones, especially when there enough of them to make a large chapel. Built by Franciscan monks out of 5,000 skeletons, there were likely skills learned on the job that weren’t easily transferable, and probably weren’t worth highlighting in the resume, unless applying for a position to stock supermarket shelves with lamb shanks.

On for the final time, it was a relatively quick trip via the freeways for the 130km into Lisbon. A last conga-line re-fuel, some roadworks deviations from the preferred route, and then suddenly we were pulling into MotoXplorers. Off my F850GS and Cindy’s F750GS, we had put 10,000km on them so it was a sad moment, as they had been comfortable and ultra-reliable which are the main hopes for a hire bike. Always at the end of a big trip, feelings are mixed – happy to have made it, but sad to have to accept it was all over. We had truly seen some amazing places and some fabulous scenery, so no real call for sorrow. Especially as MotoXplorers put on the best end-of-tour drinks in the history of end-of-tour drinks. Helped us all jump for the group photo and ignore the pain of the broken hips.

That night we were out to a dinner down by the waterfront. A joy for us on this trip is we know we will see each other again, as we already have most, and our BMWMCQ friends a lot. We have always been very lucky on our tours, and this one was the same – every person on it was great fun to be with. Once again, this small series of wafflings are dedicated to the SPAM tour group – led by the redoubtable Julia, who tragically we never saw riding like we know she can.

On the downside we now have a taste for Europe.