Long Way Down Page 5

  We stayed for lunch then reluctantly said our goodbyes and rode on to Erskine Hospital, an establishment for ex-service people that my brother is involved with. We spoke to some ex-soldiers – one old boy in particular had been part of the actual Great Escape. He told us that he’d been a private, though, and it was the officers who got to escape; he and his mates had to stay behind and cover for them. The youngest resident was twenty-two and suffering from chronic arthritis; the oldest was a hundred. Charley spoke to a bloke who’d served with Robert Lawrence, a friend of Charley’s who had been horrifically wounded in the Falklands. He wrote about his experiences in the controversial book Tumbledown.

  It had been an incredible, inspiring day. In their different ways both places had taught us something about the nature of true courage and it was a real privilege to have been invited.

  My dad left us now. He was a little emotional saying goodbye; he’d loved riding with us and I’d loved having him there. But he was heading home now and we were going to Cape Town and I imagine there was a part of him that wanted to go with us and another part that was nervous for us. We shed a couple of tears and parted company and then there were four bikes on the road. We cut across country to the south-eastern part of Scotland – an area I’d never visited – and from there to the desolate location of Holy Isle. It’s built on a promontory beyond a causeway which floods at high tide, and the wind howls in an almost permanent gale. I could only imagine how cold it must be to live there but there was a barren beauty to it even so. A little further on a couple of people came rushing out of their house, waving their arms. I pulled up. They told me that they’d been following our departure on some website. Dave and Claire, both BMW riders: I told them to get the kettle on. They were the first of many along the route who would show us great hospitality – and this was half the fun of the trip for me.

  My brother was going to peel off and head back to Edinburgh but I really wanted him to stay and we persuaded him to spend the night. The weather was filthy and he was wet and cold and we could eat together, have a drink and he could take off in the morning. And then the four would become three and that’s how it would remain all the way to Cape Town.

  Just before we hit the border with England we had our second moment on the bikes – if you can call my brush with ‘boy-racer’ a moment. Claudio banked into a sharp right and ran wide on the grass. When we pulled up for a breather the Swiss, in his own inimitable fashion, told us he was missing the off-road experience and decided on a little practice before we got to Africa.

  We chilled out for a while, drinking water and lucozade. Charley was a little windy (he’s known for it) but he claimed it was the altitude expanding the air in his arse.

  We rode south and on the third night camped at Silverstone. Right on the race track, the sweeping bend before the start and finish straight; a triangle of grass, between that bend and the chicane that was used for superbike races. Apparently we were the first people in the sixty year history of the place to actually camp on the track itself.

  It was the ideal opportunity to test the gear before we hit the continent. If anything was awry we’d have time to rectify it. My tent was great; dry and cosy and plenty big enough for me and all my gear. It rained in the night and again first thing, but when I packed up everything was bone dry.

  Before we left Charley and I followed a pace car for two laps of the track with the Nissan Patrols following. It was foul weather, pouring with rain, but still Charley managed a second gear wheelie. From Silverstone it was London. We fuelled the bikes at the same petrol station where we’d filled up on the first day of Long Way Round. From there it was Avonmore Road, the workshop, the gang, and home for one last night with our families.

  6

  Here We Go, Charley

  EWAN: The following morning everyone was gathered at Avonmore Road: our families and friends, and many of the people who’d been there to see us off the first time. It gave us a real sense of support. We said our final goodbyes. Clara, my eldest daughter, was there with my wife, but Esther and Jamyan, my younger two, were both at school.

  The bikes packed, the trucks ready, we rolled out of the workshop for the last time and everyone was gathered on the pavement. Flags were waved, we had a line painted on the tarmac just as we had before we set off round the world, and we cut a cake made in the shape of a crash helmet.

  Shaking hands with Charley, I looked round for my wife. There she was: a smile, a final wave and that was it. Pulling my best ever wheelie I led us off down the road.

  All sorts of emotions rushed through me; my heart was pounding, adrenalin pumping and I was sweating buckets I was so hot. I’d not see my daughters again until Cape Town. I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t believe it. I was suddenly confused about the whole thing. Was I just being fucking selfish, taking off for so long and leaving my family behind? I didn’t know. I couldn’t get my head round any of it.

  I concentrated. I had to: my pulse was racing so much I was in danger of crashing and I’d hit enough pedestrians for one year already. All I could think about was what one wise man was supposed to have said: ‘Get me the fuck out of London!’

  CHARLEY: Ewan popped the wheelie and I followed him. We were skipping through the traffic when all at once a pickup truck stopped right in front of me. I didn’t even see his brake lights. With so much buzzing through my head I wasn’t concentrating.

  On the line I’d shaken hands with Ewan and wished him luck. Ollie was standing on the pavement and I yelled out that I loved her and then we were gone. Ten minutes down the road and I’d almost smacked a Mitsubishi up the backside. I had to brake suddenly, the suspension working overtime. Ewan came flashing by on my right.

  For a couple of seconds I just sat there, telling myself to chill out. It’s what my wife had been telling me ever since I’d got home the night before. I’d been all of a twitter and she’d kept telling me to calm down and enjoy it. Ollie always has the right thing to say to me: no matter what’s going on in her life. When I’m away she has to cope, and when I’m not away I’m jittery about when I will be. Never mind what angst she might be going through, all she thinks about is how I’m feeling. She’s my hero, she really is.

  It was heart-wrenching to leave, even though we’d said our proper goodbyes at home earlier that morning. Ollie was so much better and I was very relieved as I’d never have been able to go if she hadn’t been. At least my walkie-talkie was working now and I could talk to Ewan. Over the past couple of days it had been out, but now we could chat away as much as we wanted. I told Ewan what Ollie had been saying and he told me he’d had similar pangs to mine. Of course he had, he was bound to, and Eve had been just as supportive.

  Gradually I relaxed; the traffic eased, we were on the motorway and heading for Folkestone with the Eurostar thundering by on our left. I could think about nothing but Ollie and how she was coping with her lung and all that she had to do; how much I was going to miss her, how much I’d miss the kids.

  Two hours later we were waiting to board the train and now I had a real twinge of emotion. This was it; we were leaving the island, leaving Britain. Ahead lay France, Italy, Africa. Ewan pulled up alongside me, killed his engine and complained of a headache, probably due to all the emotion and the stress of finally leaving. For some reason I wondered what his mum was thinking. I knew she’d prefer him not to go; she’d prefer us all not to go. She had admitted that she’d had no real idea what had been going on the last time even though Ewan had phoned from Siberia and told her how knackered he was, how the potholes were unbelievable and we were doing no miles an hour. Until she watched the DVD she had no inkling of how dangerous it was.

  She said she’d been delighted when Ewan’s brother left the RAF, because it meant he wouldn’t have to go back to Iraq: one son safe, now the other off on a bike again; another fourteen thousand miles, this time to Cape Town. She said she’d spent her life worrying about her family and now she was thinking about taking up bungee jumping
or something so her family could worry about her for a change. Mind you she was also kind enough to point out that without Long Way Round the fact that in some parts of the world kids lived in sewers might never have been highlighted. She’s a remedial teacher and told us that loads of classrooms around the country had followed our journey via maps on the wall. She said that both the DVD and the book were being used as teaching aids for subjects such as geography and modern studies. As someone who had often struggled at school, it was strange to think that something I’d done could help broaden kids’ knowledge of the world.

  Ewan’s mum confessed that she’d finally got her head round the fact that her son was nuts about motorbikes. She even went with Ewan when he bought his Guzzi and was amazed at his knowledge; the fact that he not only buys and rides bikes, he rebuilds old ones himself. I think she and her husband Jim are very proud of him, of all of us, of how we put Long Way Round together and the impact it’s had. It was brought home to Jim when we stopped at Castle Urquhart on the shores of Loch Ness and a couple pulled in, having no idea we were there. Believe it or not they had a copy of the Long Way Round DVD in the car and Ewan and I signed it. Jim was very proud, they both were, but it didn’t stop them worrying.

  EWAN: This was it. We were really leaving now and a rush of adrenalin washed through me. With the train waiting we headed on to the ramp, side by side. I looked over at my mate with a smile on my face and my headache fading.

  ‘Here we go, Charley,’ I yelled. I remembered the last time we’d left Britain, hitting France and swinging east towards Brussels. East, east, forever it had been east. This time, apart from a little bit of south-west maybe, we were heading south all the way.

  Charley looked across with a grin under his helmet. ‘Hey, we could always just go back up the ramp.’

  Within half an hour we were in the saddle again and pulling out of the train on the French side of the channel. Like a flag over conquered land, Charley hoisted the front wheel and I was laughing now, excited. The first thing Eve had said to me when I phoned from the tunnel was: ‘You did a really big wheelie!’

  France, and the first leg proper: God it was brilliant. It was overcast but not raining, the skies a feathered grey and the road dead straight: farmers’ fields unrolled left and right, very flat, just the odd tree here and there to interrupt the horizon. We drifted south through one-street towns heading for Reims, which was about four hours from the tunnel. I’d always thought it was pronounced ‘Reems’. Then I thought it might be ‘Rems’. You’d think I’d know, wouldn’t you, being married to a French woman for a dozen years. I finally learned it’s pronounced ‘Rance’.

  By six p.m. French time we were an hour from the hotel where we’d booked to stay the night. I didn’t recall making any decision about a hotel, in fact I wanted to camp. It was dull but not wet and I’d really enjoyed the night we’d had at Silverstone. It seems to me these decisions have a habit of just being made, sort of remote control, and I always find out afterwards.

  I was into the riding, though, and right now that was all that mattered. I’d waited for this for so long that just to be on the road again was fantastic. Some of the driving left a little to be desired, mind you: cars kept overtaking then slamming on their brakes, pulling across in front of me and diving off at the exit. It happened about three times and really began to piss me off.

  I ignored them the best I could: when you ride a bike you get used to the antics of car drivers who aren’t always as considerate as they might be.

  I was conscious of the distance now, the size of the trip, in a way that I hadn’t been in Scotland but I settled back, determined not to rush. I knew there was a magnificent Cathedral in Reims and thought we might want to take a look at it, but it seemed there was an urgency to press on. I could feel it, racing the clock – exactly what I’d wanted to try and avoid.

  I suppose there was a need to just get to Africa; the trip was about Africa and wouldn’t truly begin until we got there. I picked up the same feeling from Ted Simon’s book Jupiter’s Travels – a book that had always inspired me – when he describes the urge to rush through Europe to get to the beginning of the journey.

  Oh my God, we’re going to Cape Town! Sitting there on the French motorway I could feel the grin stretching my face and I began to wonder what it would be like when we did get there. I tried to imagine arriving in Tunisia; the noise, the colour, the smells of the port town; the coast road in Libya; Alexandria. What was it going to be like in Sudan; in Kenya; Namibia? Sand dunes and God knows what kind of road conditions; that would really test my riding skills.

  CHARLEY: Out of the train I pulled a wheelie as I planned to at every border. I was still feeling emotional, though better now I’d had some food in Folkestone. I’d been on the phone to Ollie and that made me a little sad but now we were on the continent and heading south and I was totally into the bike. We had another four hours before we stopped for the night – not a bad day in the saddle and at least it wasn’t raining.

  Ewan had been up for camping tonight, and we’d been talking about camping in Europe being so different to camping in Africa. There I imagined it would be the cuds, unknown territory, as it had on Long Way Round; in Europe we’d probably have to go to proper sites. We both preferred the cuds, but thought it might be a laugh on a campsite and it was a chance to meet people. We’d just roll up on the bikes, pitch the tents and see who came along.

  Not tonight, though. We’d agreed on a hotel and arrived about seven I guess; a nice, modern place just outside Reims. We pulled off the road onto a gravel drive backed by sweeping lawns.

  Ewan took his helmet off. ‘We should’ve camped,’ he said. ‘Pulling up at a hotel like this with all the adventure gear, I feel like a bit of a dick.’

  He spends a large part of his life in hotels and he had a point. But though he seemed to have missed it, there had been a consensus about this first night. The weather looked iffy and we had to get through the Mont Blanc tunnel the following aftenoon if we were to make it to the Moto Guzzi factory as planned.

  We got settled in our rooms and met up for dinner. Sitting round the table we had what I’d call a substantial discussion about what we were going to do; what the route would be and how it would pan out. It got a little heated with Ewan stating that he wanted to see more of Europe. There was a lot of humming and hawing and Ewan got genuinely upset, partly about the planning and partly because he’d set his mind on camping.

  EWAN: I slept well and in the morning when I looked out the window, I was in fact quite glad we’d decided on a hotel. Charley would probably be thinking ‘I told you so’ because it rained in the night and it was raining now; not heavy but ominous-looking and slanting from an ashen sky. There was no sign of it lifting.

  Today was a big push. We were hooning down French motorways to the Mont Blanc tunnel. We’d be in Italy tonight and had some three hundred and seventy miles to cover. We’d see nothing of France which was a shame, because the area around Dijon is particularly beautiful; I’ve got some great memories from back in the early nineties when I made The Scarlet and the Black for the BBC. But then I knew I could always come back another time with my family.

  I was really enjoying myself now; I just love riding. These trips aren’t about me trying to get away from acting or the movie business. They’re more about melding my two worlds, professional and personal if you like. I love the fact that there aren’t a hundred and one people ushering me around like there is when I’m working. Fantastic that no one tells me to get off the motorbike because it’s too dangerous and we have to get a stuntman in for those bits: if I want to zoom along at a hundred and fifteen in a tunnel I can; if I want to stop at a transport cafe and throw a map on the table I do. It’s partly riding with Charley, of course, partly adventure, and partly just the camaraderie of motorcycling. Everything I need is on that bike: that’s why when the opportunity is there to just pull over and put a tent up I want to take it.

  The rain was light at f
irst and I was pretty relaxed; muscle memory or mind memory had kicked in. This was day six of about ninety and I was looking forward to the rest of the trip. East of Dijon is Besançon where we also did some filming and where Eve’s parents have a house. It’s a stunning part of the world, sumptuous countryside, all gorges and rivers, chateaux dotted here and there. It’s where George Millar was based during World War II. One of many British SOE agents fighting with the French Resistance, he led a band of Maquis that attacked German rail traffic. There’s also a nice little love story there – Marie, a French girl I knew long before I met Eve. She was…well actually, no, that’s another story…

  The day wore on and the rain grew heavier the further south we went. My boots gradually filled with water. The roads were slick and there was so much spray. We were beetling along at around 80 mph, the bikes perfectly stable, perfectly smooth; the only real bends were the perfect radius slip roads where, in the dry, you can really get the bike cranked over. Not today though, today was as wet as I can remember and forget the three days I told you about from John O’Groats – we’d had more rain this second morning alone than during the whole of Long Way Round. Four hours in the sodding rain. I could feel water moving around my toes, passing back under the arch of my foot and gathering at the heel. My foot was in a spa only the water wasn’t hot. Would somebody get me out of this fucking rain?

  The countryside was dim and grizzled-looking. We were into mountains and lakes that on any other day would’ve been beautiful, but the clouds hung so low they draped like damp shrouds and all we could see was the swirl of grey and the viciously slanting rain.