Mountain Country
It was the summer of 1965, and my friend John and I were on the hard shoulder of the M6. Two patrolmen from the RAC and AA were helping to put a new tube into the rear wheel of my
Velocette Viper Sports. I must have nipped the tube when I changed the rear tyre, and the resulting blow-out on the outside lane of the motorway had me steering a fully laden bike and passenger precariously towards the hard shoulder. Eventually, back on the road again we made it to Liverpool Docks with minutes to spare, but we caught the boat and made it to Dublin. Thus began my one and only motorcycle trip abroad, until 54 years later I found myself at Portsmouth docks, this time waiting to board the ferry to Bilbao.
Having reached the grand old age of 72, I decided it was now or never. I had a reasonable touring bike in the shape of a Yamaha Tracer 900, luggage and a new textile jacket. I might be older, but the time I had
