Boogity, boogity, boogity...

It all started with this - this entire eight-month trip.   As soon as I heard rumours of a Formula One race through the streets of Singapore I knew I wanted a piece of the action.  Up until the start of this season there was just one street race each year - the grand daddy of them all: the Monaco Grand Prix - and Singapore sounded like it had the potential to be the Monaco of Asia.  When official confirmation final came there was an extra twist: it was going to be held at night!  This was a first for Formula One and I decided then and there that I would be in Singapore for the race no matter what the cost.  This determination was a definite plus as the weekend would end up costing me a sum of money similar to the annual budget of Scuderia Ferrari!The decision made I waited until the date for the meeting was formally announced and then set out to book my flights.  Having failed to come up with an even vaguely sensible price, I contacted a couple of travel agents.  They couldn’t help but one asked what seemed at the time to be a very random question - “have you looked into a ‘round-the-world’ ticket?”  Well, no, I hadn’t but, crazy as it sounds, the price that she came back with was a fraction of the cost of a standard return flight for that particular weekend.  Crisis averted, I sat back and waited for the race tickets to go on sale a couple of months later.

Things are never that simple, of course, and this was no exception.  For a couple of months everything seemed to be telling me that my life wasn’t going anywhere and that I needed to make a change.  And, after all, I did have that round-the-world ticket burning a hole in my pocket, right?  Within weeks of finally booking my race tickets, I had quit my job and was getting dropped off at the front doors of Heathrow.  I was off on an eight-month adventure and it was all Singapore’s fault!

And here I was; five months after leaving home, heading off to Asia.  Boy, was I excited!  My flight took me into Singapore but, despite the sight of huge numbers of F1 team personnel heading throughthe airport - I wasn’t hanging around; I was catching a connecting flight up to Kuala Lumpur - in neighbouring Malaysia - where I would spend the first three nights of my time in Asia.  I knew very little about the city other than it is home to the impressive Petronas Twin Towers (which were, until recently, the tallest buildings in the world) but I figured the best way to find out was to go and experience it for myself.

I arrived in KL following a long and tiring overnight journey from Darwin, hopped on the fast train from the airport to downtown KL and then finished my journey to the hotel in a cab.  In that short ride it soon become apparent that KL is a place of huge contrasts - whether that be the contrast between the ‘haves’ riding round in their Mercedes and Maybachs and the ‘have-nots’ who live in the slums on the outskirts of town or the contrast between the absolute third-world chaos of the roads to the modern and superbly-efficient airport and express rail link - it sure is a fascinating mix and I loved the city.  It was fantastic to be able to walk the streets at night without fear of being robbed and then to return to the hotel and enjoy real luxury for a pittance. 

The Petronas Twin Towers were, as expected, the centrepiece of the city and I visited a number of times to take photos at various times of the day (and to take the free tour of the building) but what I really enjoyed was hopping on and off the excellent monorail system at random intervals and exploring those contrasting scenes that I mentioned.  For the second time on this tour I had to go looking for a new camera after mine decided to cry foul and finally died.  With the bargain prices on electronics in Malaysia it couldn’t have happened in a better place.

Having checked out of my hotel I hopped on the monorail one final time and head off to KL Sentral - the main railway station - where I was to catch a train to Singapore.  68 Ringits (something like £10GBP) took me south across the border at a fraction of the cost of flying and with the added bonus of a huge reclining seat which puts anything even Business Class could offer to shame.  The journey was quick and painless and took us through some stunning jungle scenery.  I wish that I had more time to get off and explore some of the fascinating looking towns which we passed by but I, and seemingly most everyone else on the train, had an appointment 330km south of KL.

Before we knew it we had arrived at the station at Johor Bahru where Malaysian immigration officials boarded the train and officially signed us out of the country.  I couldn’t help, as we crossed the famous causeway into Singapore, but promise myself that I would come back to explore the rest of this fascinating country someday.  A few hundred yards across the border we pulled in to the Woodlands Train Checkpoint where we all had to disembark the train and queue up to clear Singapore Immigration.  This was a short and painless procedure - although it was a pain to have to lug all our bags off the train - and we were soon on our way once again.

25 minutes down the line and we reached the end of the line: Keppel Road Station.  Or Malaysia Station as locals know it.  Whatever you want to call it, you can’t help but be amazed at the long-faded colonial grandeur of the art-deco building which, despite being on Singapore territory, is still owned by Malaysians even though the Singaporeans have spent many years trying to buy it for redevelopment.  Due to their lack of success they have refused to provide connections to the rest of their excellent public transport system and this left me with a frustrating 30-minute wait for a cab to my hotel on the other side of town.  I had finally arrived in Singapore and the reality hit home as I sat looking out of the window of my 26^th floor hotel room at an amazing view of an amazing city.  I couldn’t stop grinning.

Early the next morning I took the short walk to Outram Park MRT (Mass Rapid Transit) station where I picked up an EZ-Link card - a pre-paid card used for all manner of payments across the city including public transit - and made my way to Suntec City to collect my race tickets.  The journey on the train was quick, easy and - at 66cents - very cheap (in fact I would spend less than 7 bucks on buses and trains all weekend including getting out to the airport!)  Suntec City, on the other hand, was anything but cheap: it was huge and had all manner of lovely things to spend my money on!  After several false starts, I finally found my way to the SingPost office where I had selected to collect my race tickets.  I flashed my passport, was handed my passes and was quickly on my way.  I stopped briefly at the Singapore Motor Show at Suntec Convention Centre but soon realised that it was a total waste of time and headed over to the nearby circuit.

Having spent even more of my precious money on T shirts, a programme and food I headed to the grandstand to find my seat.  I’d managed to get myself a ticket for row one in turn one which should have been one of the best seats in the house but I was disappointed to find my view of the track badly obstructed by a safety rail on the front of the grandstand.  Just before the on-track activity started I met my neighbour for the next few days who turned out to be a guy from Manchester.  We spent the next couple of days cheering on Lewis Hamilton, jeering Jenson Button, antagonising the Aussies in the row behind us, drinking beer and struggling to find our way back to our hotels afterwards.  Happy days!

Sunday came and it was a strange experience to wake at 10am then lounge around all day before heading off to the race mid-afternoon.   At any other race you have to be up at the crack of dawn, battle it out on the road to get anywhere near the venue and then fight your way through crowds to get to your seat.  In Singapore it was a simple ride on the MRT, a quick beer at a local bar and then a short unhurried walk to your seat past street entertainers and bands performing on nearby stages.  To put t simply - it was one hell of a party! 

Excitement built as the sun started to go down and, at 8pm, the race got underway.  It was an exciting race, full of unpredictable action, and it was over all too soon.  Fernando Alonso - long out of favour in the Antill household - ran out as winner, with Nico Rosberg a strong second despite a ten-second stop-go penalty and Lewis Hamilton happy to sit in third and pick up six more points than Felipe Massa (his main rival for the championship) who endured an awful race.

We’d been repeatedly warned to stay off the track at the end of the race but, following the lead of half a dozen spectators who made it onto the track as the final cars crossed the line, Dan and I leapt down from the grandstand, hit the track and set off towards the podium.  Having sprinted the length of the pit straight- thankfully now with scores of other people following - we made it to the podium just in time for the trophy presentations and national anthems.  It was quite an experience and fair play to the authorities who let us get away with it before politely asking us all to make out way back into the public areas.  The whole weekend was rounded off nicely when we went to buy a couple of post-race beers and were handed a hundred bucks worth of beer tokens by one of the hospitality people.   Magic.

As we left the circuit we became aware of a commotion up ahead and were amazed to find ourselves walking through two long lines of event staff who were cheering and applauding us as we left.  I’ve really got no idea if this show of appreciation was spontaneous or not but one thing was very clear: they were genuine in their appreciation of those who had come and very proud of what they had pulled off.   And rightly so - it was an amazing weekend.

Monday morning came and I woke sad that it was all over and felt sad that I would be heading back to Australia later in the day.  I think that has to be the ultimate compliment - how many people can say they are sad to be heading to Australia?  Before I headed off to the airport I headed back to the circuit to see what was going on and was surprised to discover that the teams were still there working away.  I guess that is the difference between a fly away race and one of the regular European races that I had been to before where spectators will still be milling around as the last of the transporters roll out of the circuit before being driven through the night to be back at base on Monday morning.  

 It would be wrong of me to say that Malaysia and Singapore had been what I had hoped they would be. Far from it; they’d been  far better and I can’t wait until I get another opportunity to go back. As an Englishman who is more used to broken and failing infrastructure and negative attitudes, it was a thoroughly refreshing change to find a place which is forward-looking and positive. I’ll be back!

I really should have been more on-form - I was catching a flight to Vegas of all places, after all - but for whatever reason I really wasn’t having a good morning.  Maybe it was the 5am alarm call or maybe it was the pouring rain that drenched me as I made my way to the airport, maybe it was just the time of the month?  I am not sure, but then, if I understood how the human mind worked, I guess I’d be a shrink.  Thankfully Bellingham Airport was more reminiscent of Blackbushe than Heathrow so it took mere moments to check-in and clear security and I was soon sitting in the luxurious portakabin that the really-rather-classy Allegiant Air had kindly laid on as their waiting area.  It reminded me more of a bus depot than an airport but I guess it did everything that it needed to do.  I really do love the simplicity of these small airports.

Unfortunately Las Vegas Airport was anything but small and it certainly wasn’t a simple process to reclaim my bag - something not helped when it was sent to the wrong carousel - and collect my rental car.  For the first time in a month I found myself climbing back behind the wheel and hitting the highway again.  Fortunately I didn’t hit anything else and I was soon wobbling my way down the road to a nearby Walmart to resupply myself with camping supplies.  I managed to pick up a new tent, kit to cook with and a cooler (along with food to fill the cooler) and had change from 100 bucks.  People may knock Walmart - myself included - but you really can’t knock their prices.

I’d planned to spend the night camping at the Red Rock Canyon State Park but, on arrival, discovered that the campground was closed due to the heat so instead spent some time exploring the place (and trying to reacclimatise to the 104 degrees temperature) before climbing back into the car and heading to the aptly named Valley of Fire State Park which was located 50 searingly-hot miles to the north of The Strip.  I loved both parks, not to mention the improvement in weather since I’d left Bellingham, but I still had a downer on.  I set myself up on the campground within the park - one of the most remarkable places that I’ve ever camped - and, whilst I watched the sun set over the red rocks, I had a quiet word with myself.  By the time morning came around, I’d finally kicked the downer into touch: like I say, if I knew how the human mind worked…

Zion National Park was my next destination and, having taken a final, early-morning, look around Valley of Fire, I headed off on a leisurely drive up Interstate 15.  I had been to Zion once previously and knew exactly where I wanted to stay - the Zion Canyon Campground in Springdale - so I was pleased to arrive and find they could accommodate me for a couple of nights.  More than that they gave me a nice site on the riverbank so there was a cooling breeze.  Once again the power of the Euro hit home as I introduced myself to the guys on neighbouring sites - of the four groups that I spoke to, two groups were French, one were Germans and another were Italians.  I’m sure that someday the Dollar is gonna get stronger again but, for the time being, the tourist industry in the US is doing very well out of us, thank-you very much!

I’d decided to tackle the infamous Angels Landing Trail so I was, once again, awake far too early.  It’s not so much the (not inconsiderable) elevation gain which has gained it it’s infamy; rather the narrow ledges you must clamber along and the huge drop-offs to each side.  As the signs cheerfully point out as you start up the last ½ mile of the trail, ‘falls from this trail have resulted in death’, so you best hold on tightly to the provided chains!  I headed up as early as I could (a 530am alarm call was dictated by the time of the first shuttle bus into the canyon) to avoid as much of the direct sunlight as possible.  It proved to be a wise decision, not so much for avoiding the sun, but for avoiding the crowds.  It really is ‘one-at-a-time’ near the end of the trail and, as I made my way back down, the crowds were getting heavier and heavier.   It really would have been an absolute nightmare to get stuck behind a crowd of nervous hikers on that trail.

By the time that I made it back to the bottom of the trail  it was still only 10am so I filled the morning with a couple of other hikes and then spent the rest of the day chilling out in the sun on the campground as a reward for my efforts!  It had been a good day but, as two Trek America vans rolled onto the campground to join the two already there, I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of them.  I went over for a chat but this made me feel even more jealous so I wandered into town for a change of scene - only to find another two Trek America vans checking-in at a motel!  At this point I had to laugh and it slowly dawned on me that it wasn’t Trek poking fun at me - it was just proof that I was back on the tourist trail.  Those ‘glory days’ of the solitude of The Dempster were now nothing but a fading memory.

Early the next morning (sense a trend developing here?), I packed away my tent and set off through the park towards the Mt Carmel Tunnel and out towards my next destination: Bryce Canyon National Park.   It proved to be a beautiful drive through a very scenic area of the park but my memory from my last visit was of a long drive out to the park boundary, so I resisted the urge to stop for too many photos.  It was with some surprise that I arrived quickly at Mt Carmel Junction - I guess we must have stopped more often than I remembered last time around!

Shortly after passing through Red Canyon, I pulled in to a gas station for a cold drink and got chatting to a Suntrek tour leader whilst I was there.  He told me how, when they visit Bryce, they always stay on a campground just outside the park.  Always happy to listen to the advice of someone who should know I took him up on his advice and followed him to the Rubys Inn Campground where I set up camp before heading down to the park.  I decided to go for a big hike and it felt good to get the blood flowing again but, despite the initial feeling of awe towards the park, I soon found myself feeling that old desire to press on to the next destination.  I stuck with it until sunset but, after a look around the nearby town area, I decided the next day would be a lazy day.

After a welcome lie-in, I headed off along the spectacular Route 12 towards Capitol Reef National Park where I found myself driving through some absolutely breathtaking scenery.  I stopped numerous times for photos before I found myself instinctively turning off the main road and on to the Hell’s Backbone Road.  I’d heard that it was a fun detour to my destination but I knew little more than that.  It sure was fun and, having got to the other end, I decided to turn round and do the return run!  60 miles later I was back where I had started but the time had allowed me to practice my rally driving skills once again.  With dust and dirt covering the entire car I pulled in to a gas station…  “Rental car?” enquired the clerk, “gotta love a rental car…”  Indeed!

Capitol Reef, it turned out, didn’t really ‘do’ it for me and, having explored the park both in the car and on foot, I headed off around lunchtime the following day.  I had no idea of where I was heading other than I was to be in Vegas in just over 24 hours.  As I passed Cedar City I spotted a sign advertising rooms in a local Travelodge for $33.95 and, although it was only 3pm, I pulled-in and spent the rest of the day eating McDonalds, watching movies and updating the photos on my website.  Just to make sure that I got my money’s worth I didn’t leave the following morning until 11am.  It really was one of those perfectly-timed interludes.

I had one final stop before I returned to Las Vegas and that was at the Kolob Canyon area of Zion National Park,   After the near-pandemonium around the main Zion Canyon area, it was a very pleasant surprise to discover how quiet it was at Kolob and I spent four very enjoyable hours out there checking out a couple of hikes.  I really don’t understand why it isn’t more popular so, the next time that you find yourself driving along Interstate 15, make sure you find time to stop for a few hours! 

I arrived at Mark and Megan’s house in Vegas bang on 5pm as agreed and, as if to mark the occasion, the weather gods had laid on a summer storm to cool down the high temperatures a little.  Mark had kindly been out and picked up a six-pack of Alaskan Amber which went down a treat and soon got me in the party spirit.  Several bottles of wine later it was time for bed.  Whilst it was fun, it probably wasn’t the greatest idea I’d ever had as I had a long drive ahead of me the following morning.

I left Vegas, after a lovely breakfast, around 11am and headed off towards the Limekiln State Park on the Monterey Peninsula.  The previous evening we’d devised a route which saw me head out through Death Valley before heading south to Bakersfield via Trona, Ridgecrest and the shores of Lake Isabelle; out to the coast on route 58 and then up the coast to the state park.  We estimated it would take 8-9 hours but we were, unfortunately, a little cavalier in our estimates and, despite my best efforts to make up time on the challenging route 58 (including one memorable occasion where I pushed a little too much and very nearly put the car into a ditch when I crested a hill in a lurid four-wheel drift!), it wasn’t until 10.30pm that I finally arrived at my destination… only to find the gate to the campground locked for the night!  Unsure what to do, I resigned myself to sleeping in the car for the night but, just as I was unrolling my sleeping bag, another camper arrived armed with the code for the gate and let me in.  I’ve never been so pleased to crawl into my tent as I was that evening.

The following morning I was awake early - too early - I’d forgotten about the time zone shift the previous day.  The plan for the day was to head up to Laguna Seca Raceway which was about 50 miles to the north.  I’d been looking forward to the drive as it took me along the spectacular Pacific Coast Highway, right through Big Sur, but the whole area was shrouded in fog.  I was disappointed but maybe it was a good thing as it hid the damage from the recent fires even though the stench of charred forest still hung in the air.  It also saw to it that, despite it being a Sunday, there was a total lack of Sunday Drivers to slow down my arrival at the circuit.

I arrived nice and early and took the opportunity to beat the crowds into the extensive paddock.  After some time admiring the machinery and chatting with some of the drivers I decided it was time to head out to the track to check out what had drawn me to the venue in the first place: the infamous turn eight, otherwise known as The Corkscrew.  Motorsport is a mix of spectacle and pantomime with the odd bit of tragedy thrown in.  The Corkscrew has seen it all: Alex Zanardi’s audacious last-lap pass on Bryan Herta for victory in the 1996 CART race - and the entertaining post-race drama from the American - being eclipsed by the tragic loss of Gonzalo Rodriguez three-years later.  As I stood there, contemplating, I glanced sideways and did a double-take at the guy stood next to me.  It was none other than Zanardi’s former F1 teammate, Johnny Herbert.  I think it is fair to say that Johnny had always been a  bit of a hero to me whilst I was growing up so it was a pleasure to discover that he was exactly the same in person as he had always come across on TV: a real nice guy.  Which is a lot more than can be said for Bobby Rahal and Michael Andretti who were hanging around the paddock and whose attitude couldn’t have been any further removed.   

At the end of the day I made my way south back to Limekiln State Park and was pleased to discover that the fog had cleared, allowing me to enjoy the scenery and get a few photos.  I woke on Monday morning in the knowledge that, although I was still in the country for a couple more days, I’d now done everything that I’d planned to before I left home…it was now time to slow down and relax.  I did some hiking in the park and then headed south, stopping often along the way, before calling it a day mid-afternoon when I reached the Quality Inn at Buelton.  When I visited the western USA in 2006 we had spent the first evening of the trip there so it somehow seemed fitting that I should spend the last night of this trip there.  And, besides, it was cheap!!

Tuesday morning came and, 111 days after it had begun, it was finally time to draw my North American odyssey to a close.  I wanted to head down to the Home Depot Center - home of the LA Galaxy - in Los Angeles to pick myself up a team shirt but getting there turned in to a bit of a race against tome after I spent longer than planned checking out the truly terrible ‘Danish replica village’ of Solvang. 

I got my shirt and made my flight but, as I sat on the plane and watched the US disappear from sight beneath me, I couldn’t help but smile.  The last couple of days - national parks, far too much alcohol, a change from 120 degrees to 57 in a matter of hours, some motorsport, scenic drives, tacky tourist draws and, more than anything, that last-minute race against time - could have been a scale model of the previous 3½ months.  It had been a fantastic experience but the time had definitely arrived to move on and experience something different - Hawaii, Australia, New Zealand, Singapore, Malaysia, Hong Kong, Dubai and Egypt will certainly offer that opportunity.  Bring it on!

Okay, so we were here to do a job.  It has to be said that I’ve worked in worse places and for worse people but it’s still boring.  We were shown around the property - easily the most awesome house that I have ever been in - and were then offered lunch on the terrace (which benefitted from awe inspiring views along the French Riviera to the east and Monaco and Italy to the west) but, when it comes down to it, it was still work so I’ll not mention it again.

When we’d finished the unmentionable we decided to head on down the coast to check out Monaco.  The drive along the coast was beautiful but almost spoiled by a crazy local who did his utmost to reverse into us as he tried to park his car.  Not once, would you believe, but twice!  He then proceeded to remonstrate with us - at least I presume that he was remonstrating for he was waving his arms about a lot and shouting something in French which I did not understand a word of, maybe he was asking us directions? - for having had the audacity to blow our horn at him to thank him for his efforts.  We gave back as good as we got but, as we would later realise, he’d done us a favour by giving us a relatively gentle introduction to the atrocious driving standards of the Monacese before we arrived in the chaos of Monte Carlo.

Of course we’ve all seen Monte Carlo on the TV whilst we’ve watched coverage of the Grand Prix but it’s just not possible to get an accurate impression of the place as the cameras try their best to follow the cars as they race around the streets.  It was quite surreal then to suddenly turn onto the circuit and follow the route that the racecars will be taking in a few weeks.  If the gleaming yachts moored in the harbour didn’t set the scene then the already installed Armco barriers and track signage, along with the construction crews assembling the grandstands and safety crews rehearsing around the track, sure did. 

There was absolutely no hope of parking up and going to explore on foot - much as I would have loved to - but it was quite surreal to have finally driven through the streets of Monte Carlo.  What a place.  I’ve never felt the desire to visit the race before as it is ludicrously expensive and you see next to nothing from the grandstand but I now feel quite differently.  I will be back.  Watch this space!
     
To the man in the street Monaco’s only sporting event of note is the Grand Prix but the motorsport fan is better educated than that - there is the small matter of the Monte Carlo Rally in the hills above the harbour - and I had set my heart on checking out some of the stunning roads which make up the stages.  One of the most challenging of these stages is the Col de Turini so naturally that was going to be our next port of call.
 

I had a route map planned and everything but, much as I was enjoying myself on the switchbacks, I couldn’t ignore Paul who was sat in the passenger seat.  He had turned a funny shade of yellow and he really wasn’t saying a great deal.  I thought he was kidding me when he’d said he gets a little nervous when it comes to big drops but - as the roads became narrower, the hairpins tighter and the drops higher - it was becoming apparent that he’d been deadly serious. 

When we reached the village of Ste Agnes - a mere 20 miles in to my planned route and twice that shy of Turini - I knew I had no choice but to get him back to Nice using the Autoroute.  I was a little gutted to have to give up the sort of landscape that I thought only existed in South America but in reality I knew that we’d never make it back to Nice before dark and, whilst I enjoy a challenge behind the wheel, we really weren’t in the right vehicle to enjoy the drive as the road was quickly becoming narrower and more challenging.  And, well, I’d be back in a year or two for the Grand Prix.  Right? 

Back to the hotel then and I was suddenly feeling a little tired but a nice hot shower, a bite to eat and a cold beer from the mini bar certainly hit the spot.  I left Paul in his room and went for a wander to explore the local area.  After the sights of the last few days the landscape was nothing amazing but, as I sat on the beach and watched the sun set over the Mediterranean, I had time to chill and reflect.  I never used to be much of a fan of Europe at all but what I’d seen in the last few weeks had turned that on its head; I’m really starting to love it down here.  I will be back.  Oh yes indeed.  And not just to the Grand Prix.

When we checked in to the hotel we spotted a notice saying breakfast would be served from 6.30am and I’d suggested to Paul that we had a long day ahead so we should probably go down then and get on the road as early as possible.  He looked at me funny and I had wondered if he was gonna get upset but he seemed to be consoled by me reminding him that that we were in a different time zone to ‘back home’ and it would really only be 7.30am.  Of course, when I woke up and it was pitch black outside, I realised I’d done my sums wrong…

So, shortly after 5.30am, we’d eaten breakfast checked out and, after a short panic getting back into the room to collect the satnav which had been so carefully locked away in the safe for, erm, safe keeping, we hit the road.

We’d come up with a list of places to visit today but the first stop was the Circuit de Charade which was a couple of hours away to the south in the Auvergne Mountains above the town of Clermont-Ferrand.   The drive down was interesting only for its tedium; miles and miles and miles - well 120 of them - of tree lined roads through flat boring nothingness.   We must have passed no more than twenty villages and a similar number of cars.

Turns out that the Auvergne Mountains aren’t really mountains, rather a series of cinder cones and lava domes.  Volcanoes to you and I.  Now I don’t ever recall seeing a volcano before and suddenly, here we were, surrounded by a seemingly never-ending chain of them stretching for 30 miles.  It was quite a sight and something I wasn’t expecting.  We made our way to the circuit which, on any other day, I would have been very excited to see but today my mind was elsewhere.  It wasn’t that the circuit wasn’t impressive - built around the sides of an extinct volcano it has been described as mini-Nurburgring - but as we drove up through the switchbacks to reach it I kept seeing signs directing me to the top of the largest of the volcanoes.  When we were chased out of the venue by two security vehicles I wasn’t overly disappointed and we set off to check out the big volcano.

After a couple of wrong turns we eventually found our way to the foot of the snow-capped Puy-de-Dome.  We were very disappointed to discover that, although you can indeed drive to the top via a steep concentric access road, they levy a hefty charge for doing so.  We couldn’t justify the expense at the time but I’m kicking myself a little now.  Hey ho - we did have a long way to go and we’d lost a lot of time in the area.

I handed the keys to Paul for the drive back to the A75 and south to the MIllau Bridge.  It was another 120 miles or so and this allowed me to get a little bit of shut eye.  Thankfully I didn’t sleep for too long and woke to see a fantastic sight.  My stint may have seen us driving through a flat featureless landscape but we were now heading through a stunning mountainous region which seemed to go on and on.  It was quite something.

Le Viaduc de Milau is, at 343 metres high, the tallest vehicular bridge in the world and is an imposing feat of engineering.  So it was no surprise that we first caught sight of it more than ten miles before we reached it.  It’s that kind of construction.  Big.  I saw a programme on its construction several years ago on the Discovery channel and had always wanted to visit so I was delighted to be passing by for work.  We stopped at the gare de peage and paid our toll - something that we had grown quite used to travelling through France - and headed towards the overlook immediately prior to the bridge.  Excitedly we made our way to the top and there she was in front of us, stretching out across the valley carved out deep below by the River Tarn.  Somehow it was not as impressive as I had hoped but you can’t take it away from the people who designed and constructed the bridge - British, by the way, a fact we took great delight in reminding the very proud looking locals - they did an amazing job.  I would have loved to have gone down into the old village of Millau far far below us to view the bridge from there but we simply had to press on as we were running out of time.

Back in the saddle I drove on through the area known as the Gorges du Tarn - a gorgeous area which somehow reminded me of Zion National Park in Utah - and, after stopping several times for photos, through a tunnel under another snow-capped mountain.  When we emerged from the other side there was another transformation.  We’d gone from flat nothingness, through a large area of extinct volcanoes, a huge range of mountains, some amazing gorges and canyons and now, as if by magic, we’d suddenly arrived in the Mediterranean.  It was quite surreal to suddenly find ourselves driving through areas lined with endless vineyards, palm trees and white houses with terracotta roofs.  I don’t know if there’s a word hiding away in the dictionary which describes something which is more surreal than surreal itself but, if there is, this would have been the perfect opportunity to use it.

We’d covered a hundred miles or so since we’d left the bridge at Millau and we still had another couple of hundred ahead of us so it really was time to put the pedal to the metal and get this drive nailed.  We cut the trip to the Gorges de Verdon loose and gunned it.  Three hours later we finally caught a glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea as we neared Nice.  After such a long drive down it was certainly a sight for sore eyes and just about as far removed from the ugly town of Calais where we had started our cross-continent drive yesterday morning. 

It’s probably fair to say that it’s not the best preparation for a 4am start followed by a long drive to go to bed after midnight the previous night but that’s how I played this one.  I knew it was stupidity at the time but did that stop me?  Well, if it had, I’d not have written the past paragraph, would I?  Duh!

I have recently become a big fan of the Channel Tunnel and today’s experience only went to reinforce that faith.  We drove up to the check in window and were cheerfully directed towards the next train.  Ten minutes after turning off the M20 we’d driven onto the train and a further thirty minutes later we were driving off again and onto the French highways.  Awesome.

Our route took us down to Paris but, rather than use the infamous Periphique ring road, I rather mischievously directed us through the centre of Paris.  Well, it is a more direct route!  Poor old Paul was somewhat shocked to suddenly be greeted by the utter mayhem that is the Arc d’Triomphe - the only place in France where crashes are not judged and both drivers are automatically presumed to be equally at fault - but he coped with the shock admirably despite the Parisians throwing everything that they could at him. 

Leaving the locals to race around the giant roundabout like an out of control comet circling the sun we shoot off like a pinball down the Champs-Elysées towards the Louvre before turning along the banks of the Seine towards the Eiffel Tower.  Used to driving in London we were amazed at the speed at which we were able to cross the city - it’s just that kind of place - it may be known as the city of love but, to me at least, it’ll always be the city of driving insanity.  There is a reason that Claude Lelouch shot his most (in)famous movie, C’était un rendez-vous, there and I like the city a lot. 

As we left Paris behind in our mirrors it was fast becoming apparent that we’d underestimated the sheer size of France.  The furthest that I had been previously was Le Mans and we were heading all the way to Magny-Cours before calling it a day.  As well as being our base for the night, the town also boasts a race circuit which, for the past 15 years or so, has been the home to French Grand Prix.  Teams and fans alike complain about the location - slap bang in the middle of France - but, when we were looking for a hotel halfway between Calais and Nice, it seemed therefore only natural that we should break our journey there for the evening.

Eventually we arrive and, after driving past the circuit entrance a number of times, we finally realised that the hotel was located within the circuit itself which was, I thought, a most agreeable location.   It was a lovely hotel and a bargain to boot but what really ‘made’ it for me was the unmistakeable sound of race cars when I opened my bedroom window.  I had to go and investigate.  As I wandered around the perimeter looking for a way in, whilst trying my best not to look like I was up to no good, I started to have my suspicions about what I could here circulating…

As it started to rain I finally found a fence low enough to climb over and I made my way into the grandstand on the final corner.  From my vantage point I saw the glorious sight of a mid-nineties Benetton F1 car barrelling down the long straight towards me - full chat in the wet - the back of the car fishtailing as it powered through the puddles forming on the track.  It went round just one more time before pitting but the sight and sound of that car will live with me for a long time and I refuse to let the memory by sullied by the later efforts of a handful of very lucky people who, after handing over a large sum of money and being subjected to a ‘you bend it, you mend it’ lecture, were allowed to take this and another identified car out for a few laps.  I can only presume that the first driver that I saw was either the instructor or a very very rich individual who really didn’t give two tosses about how much it would cost him if he did indeed bend it.  Either way I liked his style and, after an hour or so and thoroughly soaked, I made my way back to the hotel for a hot shower and to meet Paul in the bar for a hot meal and a couple of pints.  Not a bad day, all in all, it has to be said.