 |
| Author | Post |
|---|
John Clarke
Member
| Joined: | Wed Aug 20th, 2008 |
| Location: | |
| Posts: | 5 |
| Favourite Bike: | |
| Status: |
Offline
|
| Mana: |  |
|
Posted: Thu Sep 11th, 2008 12:03 am |
|
Greece / Corfu 1971
This trip remains one of my fondest memories. I don’t know whether it was the times, my age, the company or what, but it was a time of total abandonment of responsibilities and of freedom. I had finished my final exams at the London College of Printing, the Yamaha was still running well and we were planning to go away for a month, two weeks longer than my work vacation allowed.
Best of all, we had two girls to go with us, for me a rare and exotic commodity at the time. Stuart and I had known Jacqui and Brigitte for some time and had been on trips with them before. Both girls were very attractive. The first time we got to know them was a van trip to Innsbruck the winter of 1969 organized by Andy and the second, another van trip to Perranporth organized by me Easter 1971. Jacqui had also been with me on a very muddy canoe trip in St. Osyth’s Creek in Essex. My grandmother lived in St. Osyth and I kept my canoe there. We traveled down on the Yamaha for a weekend.
They were both part of a group of people I was lucky enough to get to know through my work friends at Lorilleux and Bolton. These people were based around Muswell Hill in North London and a totally bohemian and artsy crowd. Brigitte was the youngest of the Coffey Clan, a family of 13 who lived in a large, chaotic household in Muswell Hill. Her father, Dr. Brian Coffey was my former maths teacher at St. Ignatius and, I later found out, a rather well known writer and poet.
Jacqui lived in Mill Hill in army accommodation, as her father was a soldier. I was going out with Jane, a friend of hers who also lived in Mill Hill, though I secretly preferred Jacqui. Unfortunately, Stuart liked Jacqui as well. Early in 1971 I read the book "my family and other animals" by Gerald Durrell and determined to go to Corfu. My friend Andy was taking a Land Rover trip to Istanbul, stopping off in Athens so the trip was born. We arranged to meet Andy in Athens at the Dafni campground. Jacqui was to go with Stuart and I was to go with Jane. As the departure date approached I was getting less and less interested in taking Jane and eventually broke off the relationship. Jacqui stepped in with Brigitte Coffey. I couldn’t believe my luck. The rub was that Brigitte had a boyfriend.
Stuart had bought himself a basket case Honda CB-72 250cc bike and he and his father worked on it to get it ready. My Yamaha was only just over one year old but the mileage was creeping up. Just before the departure date, Stuart’s Honda developed problems but was fixed with a Read Titan 350cc conversion. On the departure date we arrived at the Coffey residence to be told that Jacqui had "gone off to collect her passport". She had been born in Benghazi, N. Africa and was having trouble with her birth certificate etc. for the passport. Several hours after the departure time, Jacqui wandered nonchalantly back to the house with her passport in hand.
Our luggage arrangements were little better than the previous year. I had decided that the Yamaha was to carry the luggage in two small suitcases on the rack. The tent was piled on top and the whole plot covered with a groundsheet and tied on with rope. That way, things would only fall off in large lumps not a bit at a time. Brigitte brought along her ukelele in a case. Stuart had managed to find two fabric panniers for the back of the Honda, the only problem being that the high level pipes on one side of the bike pointed right into Jacqui’s pannier. When she unpacked her stuff it was all dirty and smudgy. I had at last bought a decent tent, a Vango force 10 Mark 5, a tent I still have to this day. It cost a fortune at the time at 27 pounds sterling, which was more than two weeks pay but a small price to pay for something that was to last eventually more than 35 years.
We set off for the ferry port more than three hours late and may have made the ferry had not Stuart’s license plate fallen off and he had to go back and look for it. We eventually arrived on the continent and headed off for Belgium. Our route was to take us through Belgium, Germany, Austria, over the Brenner Pass into Italy and follow the coast down to the tip where we had a ferry booked from Otranto to Igoumenitsa on the Greek mainland. Things went moderately well until middle Belgium where Stuart’s back tire blew out causing a lot of swerving and a near crash. Since it was night we holed up under an overpass and waited for the morning. Then Stuart and I took off the wheel and set off on the Yamaha to get it fixed. We found that the inner tube had been split and patched by whoever had put the oversized rear tire on the Honda. We left the girls sitting by the side of the road with the Honda for hours. It was repaired but the patch blew out again after a few hours. We then had to find a new tube, which was a big problem since it was a public holiday. Eventually, we got underway and finished the day somewhere in Germany on a campsite about 300 miles behind schedule. However, the beer was excellent.
The next day our start was delayed by over helpful Germans concerned that our bikes were in "less than perfect" condition. We had garnered a lot of attention by our relative youth. Brigitte had just turned 17, Jacqui was 19 and Stuart and I, 20. My bike had lost a nut from the suspension that worried the Germans a lot more than I. By days end however, we were in the Alps and decided to sleep rough at the side of the road. It was a blissful night and we lay under the stars in the cool fresh air talking until we fell asleep.
The following day was relatively uneventful except that I discovered that the rack on the Yamaha had broken. An Italian motorcyclist on a 250 Ducatti took us to a shop to get it fixed. They would take no payment but wanted Brigitte to sing them a song and play a tune for them. The motorcyclist guided us out of town at high speed and we eventually reached the coast and a campground even further behind schedule. We went into town after dark for something to eat and the girls went off skinny-dipping in the Mediterranean.
The rest of the ride to Otranto was remembered as hot and long. We had heard that it was possible to sell blood in Italy and we tried to do so at a hospital along the way to get some extra money. We were not successful. We had asked some motorcycle police the way to the local hospital and got an escort. They must have thought it was some sort of emergency.
We got to Otranto just a few hours late for our pre-booked ferry but decided to camp for the night and try the next day. The ferry was supposed to run once every 24 hours. What we found was that the ferry was always late and we could have got it the previous day. It managed to lose one day in every seven and times were very approximate to say the least. The scene at the ferry port was complete chaos with mobs around the ticket counter all pushing and shoving and shouting. It was even worse trying to get on the boat as "The Rumba" loaded through the side. Every car had to be turned around and moved into the hull. Bikes were loaded last and used to fill any remaining space. The few bikers on the dock kicked up a big fuss because they thought they were going to be left behind. In later years we found that The Rumba had somewhat of a reputation in the area and probably sunk somewhere in the Adriatic. It was definitely a rusty old hulk.
Arriving at the Greek mainland was also interesting. All the passports had been taken from the passengers as they boarded the ship and an official got on at the other end and called out the names of the passengers one by one to get the stamp. Of course the official could not pronounce the names properly and most people could not hear anyway so more chaos ensued.
The journey to Athens was a long slog through the northern Greek mountains and I am not sure if we made the trip in one day or not. We passed and marveled at the mountains of Meteora near Kalambaka without stopping. Going through a small Greek village Brigitte suddenly spots a school friend of hers, sitting waiting for a bus so we had to stop for a while for them to chat. Then it was south to Athens, the last part being on an overcrowded motorway. As we got closer to the city and the traffic slowed down, cars full of Greek men would pull alongside the bikes and some would lean out of the windows and try and grope the girls. Brigitte exchanged her shirt for mine, which was much bigger and baggier to try and disguise "her charms".
Amazingly, we found the Daphne campground with Andy there with his Land Rover. Next door to the campground, a week – long wine festival was in full swing and we visited this later. We spent a few days in Athens doing the mandatory historic sites and walking around the Plaka district. The girls wanted to visit a renowned bead shop in the old district. Andy continued his trip to Istanbul but left his girlfriend, Frances Rogers, with us as she was due to fly home only going with him as far as Athens. It was my job to get her to the airport.
Our last night in Athens the girls and I went to the wine festival. Stuart was unwell with an upset stomach. The entrance fee gave you a glass carafe so you could fill it up anywhere from large barrels and drink as much as you liked. I remember laying on the ground on my back blowing fountains of wine into the air. Things started to get nasty with the locals who were pinching the girl’s bums. Brigitte spun around and punched one in the face so we had to make a hasty retreat by climbing over the fence back into the campsite.
We set off the next morning heading north west to Ioanina. That night we slept in a field near Delfi but did not go to the oracle. Stuart was cracking jokes about expecting to see Hercules. Looking back, I am amazed that I did so little research into the countries we visited. The mountains of Meteora would have made a great stop and so would a visit to the Oracle at Delfi. At the time though it was all about the drive, looking for a beautiful sunny beach and bugger the history. I had bought a blanket in Athens and we all slept under it at night by the roadside. On one such evening I bought some decidedly stinky Feta cheese from a small village shop and we sat eating it with bread and tomatoes before bed.
From Igoumenitsa, it was only a short ferry ride to Corfu. Without any map or idea where we were going we just set off only to spend the night in an olive grove, not an idyllic beach. We found that the next day! The place was called Sidari in the north of the island and comprised of a long narrow crescent of sand with a rocky bluff at one end jutting into the water and a small family run hotel the other. A small colony of hippies were camping on the beach near the bluff and had constructed some rough shelters. We left our bikes up by the bluff and set up the tent on the sandy top, out of sight. This was to be our home for the next ten days.
The swimming was perfect, the water a clear blue and the sun never stopped shining. We would get up with the sun and possibly have a coffee for breakfast at the hotel. I can’t remember. We sat on our rock and sunbathed and swam and sunbathed and swam. With evening, we walked to the hotel along the beach after they had stopped serving the guests and they would provide us with a huge bowl of spaghetti bolognese for a pittance. The girls were running out of clothes so one of them tore a white sheet they had brought in half and they wore half each over their bikinis to "dress for dinner". We made a day trip to Paleokastritsa, which Stuart remembered being in an article about the ten most beautiful beaches in the world. It deserved it. We also went into Corfu Town on a couple of occasions for souvenirs and that sort of thing. It was in Corfu Town that we discovered Sid’s Souvlaki Bar as we christened it.
Sid’s was a small grubby looking establishment in a back street of Corfu Town selling souvlakis, which were shish kebabs or gyros in a pita bread with a garlic yogurt dressing. They were simply delicious, very cheap and we realized that we were very, very hungry. We consumed enormous amounts of souvlakis to the point where the proprietor’s eyes started widening. Sid’s had a dubious looking ceiling fan that looked like it might detach itself at any moment so we elected not to sit under it. I returned many times to Sid’s in ensuing years and the ceiling fan was still wobbling dangerously.
One evening, a strange thing happened. I was trying to shave by the ocean and Jacqui came down to watch. She said she liked to see men shave. Later that night, when we were all sleeping in the tent she woke up and said she was hot and suggested we (her and I) sleep outside. Like a dope, that is just what I did. I’m not sure to this day whether it was a come on, but suspect it was. I knew that Stuart really like her and we had a really strong friendship. Responding to Jacqui, if that is what it was, would have wrecked that friendship. Stuart and I remained firm friends until 1986 when I moved permanently to the U.S. He shortly re-married and that strange bond of friendship ceased.
I had known Stuart since my school days when we were both 11 years old but we did not become firm friends until 14 or 15. He had a violent and unpredictable temper which he used to take out on his mother / father / brother or long - suffering Lambretta scooter. I remember him flinging a side panel across the road in a rage, ruining the paint, just because it was difficult to fit on. However, in twenty years on numerous trips both motorbike, van, backpacking or whatever in the most miserable and trying of conditions we never, ever, ever argued or fought.
After one excursion we got back to Sidari to find the hippies all gone. The Greek police had chucked them all out but missed our tent high up on the bluff. But our time was coming to an end too. One day, a black cloud appeared on the horizon, literally. Within minutes a vicious squall hit our camp and all but demolished the tent, which had been carelessly pegged in the loose sand. Much of our stuff, clothes and the like which we had left strewn about was blown into the sea. We were blasted with flying sand but still managed to get some photos of the event. The tent and contents were saved but we decided to move to lower ground for our last night. The next day we picked our lost stuff off the beach and packed the bikes to return home. At the ferry port we went into the washrooms and saw our reflections in the mirror. We were filthy dirty with dust from the storm.
The return journey was marked by lack of money and hunger. We spend several hours in Italy arguing with a petrol pump attendant we thought had cheated us out of a few liters of fuel, paid for with our petrol coupons. We waited in northern Italy for a pizza parlour to open so that we could spend our last few lira only to be rewarded by a slap up breakfast paid for by a British resident who took pity on us. We got back to England tired and hungry.
The following weekend, Jacqui came with me to my friend Stuart Marsh’s wedding. The wedding photos show us darkly tanned and standing out from the rest of the guests. I got badly drunk on Bacardi and collapsed on a bed in the house the reception was in. We got home to my parent’s house in a taxi. I saw Jacqui a few more times. Once we went to a King Crimson concert and another time I visited her at Loughborough University where she was training to become a nurse. Later, she moved to Bristol and I was able to get her address. I called at her house unannounced a year or so later when I was travelling with my wife to be Julie on a Triumph Trident. She was not amused.
I maybe saw Brigitte one more time but then she moved to the U.S. for a year before returning to England to get married. The Coffey’s moved to Southampton after youngest son Dominic was killed on a motorcycle.
During the one-month away the girls were absolutely fabulous. They never complained, fought or rebelled and put up with two strange, introverted, motorcycle obsessed guys and very arduous conditions. Of course they also got to experience something they may never have got a chance to do again.
Stuart and I continued to travel as much as possible within the confines of our careers and marriages for the next 15 years. Some trips were good, some bad and some excellent in their own way but nothing to me compared to the experience of this one month away. Perhaps it was the girls. They were very independent spirits and great company. It was however, the beginning of the end of innocence for me and life became ever more serious as I changed jobs, moved away from home, got a proper girlfriend and eventually married.
I went back to Corfu several more times - a disasterous trip on a Bonneville in 1973, my honeymoon in 1976, a good van trip in my Bedford CF minibus and one on a Gold Wing. My last was with my parents by air in the early 1980's and that was that.
There are a lot more stories to come like going to the edge of the Sahara desert way south of Marrakesh on two Gold Wings and a GS-750 Suzuki in 1978, the first unofficial Elephant Rally in Salzburg on a CB-72, Suzuki 125 and Kawasaki 100 in the middle of winter and other craziness.
|
ashley748916
Member
|
Posted: Thu Sep 11th, 2008 06:58 am |
|
Great story John, any pics. We love pics
____________________
http://www.hotel-harmoniebadgrund.org.uk
http://simon-fuller.fotopic.net/
|
triumph5ta
Member
| Joined: | Thu Jun 26th, 2008 |
| Location: | London, United Kingdom |
| Posts: | 287 |
| Favourite Bike: | Ducati SpClassic 1000, Triumph TR7RV, Puch GP50 |
| Status: |
Offline
|
| Mana: |   |
|
Posted: Thu Sep 11th, 2008 11:16 am |
|
| Thanks John, great to hear tales like this. Its so much easier now although chaos and confusion can still reign sometimes in Italy.
|
Current time is 01:42 pm | |
|
|
|
|
