by Nick Jenkin
There is a song from “Hair”, the ‘60s’ musical, which I rather took to heart called ‘My Conviction’. It is all about men adopting the dazzling array of colours sported by most of the other male species in the world.
But maybe the real reason I wouldn’t wear a one-piece leather suit is bottoms. Have you ever had a good look at bikers in leather trousers? After a while of bending over, the leather around the bottom stretches and they all look like they are packing dirty nappies, or diapers if you are American. How embarrassing is that? Have a look sometime!
Nancy – Well my German man looked the bee’s knees.
Nick – I will say he was very kind, even if he did look like he had pooed his pants. He didn’t know us from Adam and he had offered to go out of his way to help us. In my book, that makes him a bit of a hero. We followed him into town where he used his ‘sat-nav’ to find the nearest petrol station, except he couldn’t find it.
We travelled around and around the residential streets of Dunkirk watching the petrol gauge getting closer to the bottom of the red mark with no luck. He was so polite he always made sure he never left us behind. I was beginning to wish he had! I would have asked someone for directions, but never mind. Eventually he found petrol and made sure we knew what we were doing before he headed off to Frankfurt amidst our grateful waves and shouts of ‘Auf Wiedersehen’.
Nancy – Frankfurt is 350 miles from Dunkirk and he was planning to be home that evening, even though it was already 4 o’clock European time. We were only going a few miles in comparison. Oh for a BMW 1250 throbbing between my legs.
Nick – Right. Yes. Well, we paid our few euros to fill up and we were on our way. Dusseldorf is about 230 miles from Dunkirk but we only planned to ride to our hotel in Westrem near Ghent before we lost the light at around 8, that gave us 4 hours to find it.
Little did we know we would need all of that and more. We had to follow the E40 all the way, then turn right at Ostend bypassing Bruges and Ghent. (A shame because both are beautiful, historic cities. Belgium is so overlooked and so underestimated don’t you think?) Anyway, our motel was just past Ghent and, was on the E40. According to my detailed maps taken from the net, (deep intake of breath!) the motel was on the right, after the junction with the N42 where there was a slipway clearly marked.
But we had had experience of these online maps before. Once, when we were looking for Middle Wallop in Dorset it sent us to another Wallop 20 miles away even though we had keyed in the postcode of the destination. And, then, when we were looking for our holiday apartment on the Greek island of Thassos, it sent us to the wrong end of town completely, where we spent 2 hours searching as the rain and darkness fell all over us. In the end, we only found our destination by taking a taxi.
As we hit the French motorways, I got used to driving on the ‘wrong side of the road’ again very quickly especially because Nancy continually shouted in my ear and gesticulated in front of my face to make sure I stayed on the right-hand side.
We navigated France and Belgium with ease. The problem now was not the driving, it was finding our motel.
Very slowly, we passed the junction with the N42, looking for a slipway just beyond it but there was none, just a turn into a service station. It was obvious there was no hotel in there and we couldn’t stop on the hard shoulder, so we argued over the traffic noise, as we drove away from our destination. Imagine it: the middle of Belgium, a red and white scooter swerving across the motorway lane with 2 old, English fogies balanced on top of it, splaying their arms about and shouting at each other.
Nancy – One ‘old fogey’ thank you. We were tired. We don’t often argue or shout at each other.
Nick – At the next junction, 15 miles ahead, I pulled off the motorway and stopped. We drew on all the information that we had: maps torn from the atlas of Europe, my detailed sketches, the address, and our extensive experience of navigating from the past. It seemed we had 2 choices. We either went back onto the E40, drove back to the N42 junction, turned again and made a second pass of the area, maybe ending up here again, or we turned right at this junction onto a B road which ran parallel to the E40 and found it that way by using our noses.
Lost in Belgium
Nick – This is when we made a wrong decision. Rather than stick to the road we knew and return down the other side of the motorway we decided to take the scenic ‘B’ road.
Looking back, I really don’t know why. I suppose we were caught up in the whole excitement of the trip. 15 miles would take no time at all, especially as we had over 2 hours to do it in and, as a team, we are good at finding our way, or so we thought. How hard could the town of Westrem be to find? We threw caution to the wind.
Nancy – I am quite good at French, even though this was Belgium, and we were feeling confident, having driven this far in one day. Six o’clock that very morning seemed like a lifetime away now. We had survived many trials and tribulations. Finding the town would be easy. The sun was out, the road was pleasant and wove between beautiful fields and Belgian villages. It was an adventure.
Nick – What we didn’t realise was that the road didn’t actually run parallel to the E40 but was slowly pulling away from it at an angle. After a while, I got the map out again, had another look and found a turn right that would take us to our destination.
But, of course, in real life the road looked nothing like the map. We came to some traffic lights in a small town that looked like the junction on the map but there were no signs to Westrem or anywhere else that we could find. Anyway, we took it and drove down a rather bumpy road until after several miles we came to a larger town, but there was still no sign for Westrem or the E40. We had to have taken the wrong turn.
Nancy – After another discussion, we agreed that the junction we had been looking for had to have been further along the original minor road. So, we did a U-turn, made our way back to it, turned right and continued on in the original direction for several miles. But another junction simply didn’t materialise.
We were lost and it was beginning to get dark with, maybe, only 45 minutes of light left. We hadn’t eaten since before midday, in Dover, and we were tired and getting cold. Now it seemed like an eternity since 6 that morning.
Nick – I stopped again and we had a ‘team meeting’. There were 3 options: we could try and find somewhere else to lay our head that night, so forfeiting the £60 for the hotel, we could turn round and re-explore the right turn we had taken earlier and rejected or, the final option, we could put the bike on its stand, drop to the ground and bang our heads on the tarmac.
At this point, Nancy was very strong and gave us a pep talk, after which we turned again and, at the lights, turned down the way we had gone half an hour earlier. When we reached the same town, still with no signs to Westrem in it, I convinced Nancy that as the driver I should stay on the bike while she, with her French, went and asked in a shop. She was brilliant. She came out confused but convinced that she had been told to drive through the town and turn right, which we did. At this point, the lights in the houses were switching on and looked warm and homely. After 20 minutes of further motoring, we found nothing.
We were in darkness and there was nothing around for miles, apart from fields. Then, 5 minutes on, we stumbled across this bar. It was like a beacon in the night. The lights were on and it was full of Belgian workmen drinking their Belgian beers. The whole thing was rather weird. It reminded me of those early Hammer horror films where the stranger stumbles out of the woods into the village pub, the piano stops and they all go quiet.
As I waited on the scooter, I cajoled Nancy forward against her will, into the bar. I was at a low ebb and entering the bar was something I couldn’t have done for the life of me. She was heroic.
Nancy – He wasn’t fair, but I suppose I did have some French and it did save turning off the engine and putting the bike on the stand. I hate being the first one to go into a pub and always push Nick in first.
Inside the bar, the Belgian men tur
ned to goggle at this strange woman, appearing out of the shadows, holding a crash helmet to her breast and shouting something that sounded like English. Amidst a thick haze of Gauloise smoke, their mouths fell open and their cigarettes would have dropped to the ground had they not stuck to their lower lips!
Nick – I have to say, as I watched her go through the door my heart went out to her. I felt ashamed. She was being so brave and all I was doing was sitting, hiding on the scooter. From that point on I decided I would have to man up. She had done enough. After all, it is my job is to keep her safe and happy.
Nancy – Nick was being too hard on himself. I didn’t want to be the one to ask the way but I was the navigator. Nick had driven all day, concentrating hard on the road and keeping the bike upright and me safe. He had been a brick.
Nick – When she emerged, she looked triumphant. The owner of the bar turned out to be a woman who spoke English and she had given Nancy precise directions to our hotel. Nancy had turned defeat into victory. What an amazon.
Nancy – It takes women together to break through all the crap.
Nick – As we drove off, the landlady came running after us shouting directions – take the second road not the first.
Nancy – We had to turn left, go over 2 bridges and we couldn’t miss it! Okay?
Nick – It was pitch black now and we were in a nightmare. We drove out into the countryside again, crossed the first bridge, nearly knocking down a man who was walking his dog in the middle of nowhere, and then came to a dead end. The road, or lane as it was now, sort of continued but it was overgrown by trees, and there were bollards barring access. To our right was another dark lane.
Nancy – I was for continuing through the bollards even though the lane was little more than a muddy footpath.
Nick – I was for turning right and exploring down there first, which we did despite Nancy disagreeing. Half a mile on and the lane led through a barred gate and then suddenly emerged into a blaze of lights. It was the motorway service station that we had driven slowly past, nearly 2 hours earlier on the E42. Bugger!
We had entered it the illicit way by the service road. However, there was no hotel, motel, house of bricks, house of straw, nothing! I drove up to the door of the motorway café and Nancy did her thing. When she came out, she was smiling from ear to ear.
Nancy – We had bumbled our way to the right place except the hotel we wanted was on the other side of the motorway.
Nick – I nearly threw my helmet on the floor. It was quarter past 8, and we still had to find our way back to junction 42 of the E40, the junction we had stopped at earlier, then return on the other side of the motorway before turning off into the service station from there. We could see the bloody thing from where were standing. I wanted to lift the scooter over the central barrier. I had had enough.
Nancy – The man at the service till had given me directions as to how to get to the other side of the motorway but said it was complicated. Then he suggested we risk it and go across the E40 by using the spooky, tree covered lane across the rickety-rackety bridge, even though it was banned to vehicles. Apparently, once upon a time, it was a recognised road bridge over the motorway.
Nick – So much for internet mapping, hotel directions, detailed sketches and our innate sense of direction. At that very point in time, I made a vow to myself – I would never, ever, travel anywhere in or on a vehicle, apart from to the shops and back, without a sat-nav. That is an absolute.
It was ridiculous. Here we were, in the middle of Belgium, 2 mature adults, that I like to think are not too dim, who had completely lost their way and become so desperate that they were about to break the law and drive down a very questionable lane, in complete darkness, across a rickety-rackety bridge, that might even have a troll hiding beneath it. I squeezed the scooter slowly through the bollards, slipped over a carpet of muddy leaves, brushed past fallen branches, turned first left and there it was, the motel.
It was 8.30 p.m. and the host was standing behind the reception desk as if she had been there all day, a smile on her face, ready.
As depicted on the net, the motel was a modern, barn construction, with clean cut lines and ample private parking. The host was all smiles and even had her young daughter with her. She pushed her forward to say hello but she hung back, her arms locked behind her, her stomach sticking out and her face turning bright red. Finally, at her mother’s insistence, she whispered in her best English, ‘Gooood eeevenin’.’
It was charming. All the previous toil and trouble was immediately erased, like it never happened. We were famished but, as we could have predicted knowing our luck, the restaurant was closed. But, oh, how wonderful, we could eat at the service station which was by foot across the lorry park (any port in a storm!).
Nancy – I insisted on a quick shower but Nick was good enough to delay his until after he had eaten and went looking for the cafe.
Nick – The woman behind the desk had disappeared and all was deserted. Well, as we said earlier, nothing comes easy to us. The way out of the lorry park was through a heavy metal turnstile for which you needed a lorry driver’s pin card. Deep breath. As far as I could see, there was no other option but to go back along the spooky lane, over the rickety-rackety bridge, to the service station on the other side of the motorway. Give me a break! This day was turning out to be interminable.
No, I was not using the bike. It was safely tucked away for the night, cover on, chain in place. Beside I had had enough of it and I needed a glass of wine.
Nancy – So back we went, on foot, over the spooky bridge, down the dark lane to the service station on the other side of the motorway. What had we done to deserve this? The gate would be locked, the service station shut, the restaurant closed…but no, it was open. Completely empty but open, and they were serving chicken and chips with vegetables. I also grabbed a delicious looking cake for pudding.
Nick – And I grabbed a half bottle of red for pudding.
Is it ‘dessert’ or ‘pudding’? Nancy and I often discuss this. As if most people in the world are worried about what to call the second or third course of their meal when they can’t find enough to eat to keep them alive in the first place!
Nancy – For goodness’ sake. We were tired and hungry, give it a break.
Nick – Whatever, ask the Queen. She knows language is important as a signifier of class in British society! I think she eats ‘pudding’.
Nancy – Nick! Shut up.
We had made it. The bigger the obstacle the greater the victory. The relief was tangible. Canned music played in the restaurant, so I started singing along, Nick joined in and our voices rang out across the empty room as the Belgian waiters looked at us very strangely. Two English oldies in the middle of nowhere, singing their hearts out.
Nick – I’m not old!
Nancy – Ah! If you say so dear.
Day 2
Nick – Is it only day 2? The motel was attractive and we would go there again now we know how to find it. On the E42, it certainly is not but it is set in its own grounds with safe parking and almost new, which showed. We couldn’t shut the door to the bathroom because the bed was in the way and we couldn’t move the bed because the bedside table was in the way. The shower was in darkness for lack of a light and there was a door in a wall that went nowhere. However, it was warm and, despite being a stone’s throw from the motorway, it was quiet. So, after a good night’s sleep, we went in search of the motorway slip road.
The motorway was on our doorstep but we still had to do a 6-mile detour to get onto it. Thank goodness we didn’t have to retrace the route from the night before – through the dark trees, across the rickety-rackety bridge with the troll lurking beneath! I think it would have let us pass anyway because our little billy goat gruff was very small, not enough meat to fill a troll, and there was bound to be a bigger BMW 1250cc billy goat following on behind, sometime or other. Enough!
This had been another lesson for us though. Just because the
internet map says the hotel is right next to the motorway, with a slip road leading to it, don’t believe it.
As soon as we were on the motorway, we stopped for petrol, coffee and croissants. Wonderful. I have always been a tea person, oh how boringly British, but since living in Greece I have found the attraction of an hour in the morning, at a waterside café with a latte, a frappe or even, occasionally, a thimble full of thick, strong Greek coffee, washed down by a glass of water, irresistible.
The day was laid out before us. An easy leg through the rest of Belgium, slice through the bottom of Holland and on into Germany. For those of you who keep an eye on E numbers, we had to drive the rest of the E42, then the E313, E314 and E25. We had done all the hard work the day before. We knew the scooter, we knew the roads, we knew how often to stop and it was sunny. We had about 160 miles to go until we hit Dusseldorf and 6 hours to do it in. The train didn’t leave till 6pm but they had suggested arriving early, so the only potential problem was finding blasted Hauptbahnhof station in Schlagelstrabe, Dusseldorf. Yes, the language was a problem.
Nancy – Nick is good at Greek, he has worked hard at it but, as for other languages, he has just enough to get him a beer and find the toilets. As for German, he is still at the stage where he giggles at the word for ‘vehicle exit’ – ‘Ausfahrt’.
Nick – I had done the usual map from the internet although a fat lot of use that had proven the night before! Hauptbahnhof Station was straight in on the A52, across the Rhine, turn left and ‘et voila!’
Well of course it wasn’t. We crossed the river looking for a left turn then immediately saw a sign saying right turn for the station. We must have crossed on a different bridge! I grabbed a look behind, ‘Quick, stick out your hand Nancy!’ and we darted across 3 lanes of traffic, grinning and waving at all the cars that had stopped for us because they felt sorry for this strange red and white contraption veering about all over the road. After 10 more signs, believe it or not, we arrived at Hauptbahnhof station.