Back and blue.

I’m back from Poland.

The journey itself was fairly undramatic, apart from when the fuel-gauge stopped working. We had to guess when to fill up – it was kind of like a game of petrol-chicken, that we didn’t want the bike to win.

Whilst we were fortunate with our fuel estimations, our luck with the weather had finally run out. Up until this point, I hadn’t really minded if it rained while we were riding. We had waterproofs on over our leathers, and the only real consequence was that we couldn’t go as fast. Today, however, as we reached Belgium, the overcast sky released its dismal contents. And it didn’t stop. A dull film of rain covered the road, spraying up the bike as we sped along. The flat horizon was obscured by a grey mist, the silhouettes of wind-turbines providing the only respite in the grey monotony.

To their credit, my waterproofs did their job. The only issue was my leather gloves. Leather isn’t waterproof. I could feel the rain seeping into the material, my hands getting damp and clammy as I clung on to the bike. As we reached Calais, the sun emerged. I gratefully took off my soggy gloves, only to find blue hands. I guess now I look like a hardened roughy toughy biker (which is exactly what I am). Or maybe I just look like I have some kind of mild skin discolouration.

Overall it’s been an awesome trip. It was great to spend time with my Grandad in such a beautiful country, and to meet so many of the friends that he’s made there. I’m sure I’ll be back one day. But regrettably, it’s unlikely that it’ll be on the back of his motorbike. I think we’ll take a plane next time.

Salty mines and sweaty leathers.

We’ve spent the past two days in Krakow. It’s somewhere that Grandad had been, and that I wanted to go, so after some gentle pestering, he agreed to make the 400-mile round-trip. There are many benefits to being the eldest (and by default, favourite) grandchild, and one of them is always getting your own way.

We left Jelenia Gora at 6:00 yesterday morning. After a sleepy meander through some hazy villages, and the occasional fumble at a toll booth (change is difficult with biker gloves), we made it to Wieliczka, home of an impossibly huge and labyrinthine salt mine, about 20 kilometres from Krakow.

We duly queued for our one-earphone headsets, and promptly embon our guided tour, along with a couple of enthusiastic Americans, and a delightful German family, whose boisterous children were an absolute pleasure to share a tour with.

We descended into the shaft, the rickety wooden steps resembling the Penrose stairs, showing no sign of ending. Eventually we reached 168 metres below ground, following a series of passages that had been carved out of the block of salt. Occasionally the corridors would burst into cavernous chapels, the splendour of which would have rivalled Moria. The underground lakes lay undisturbed, reflecting the vast ceilings that melted into darkness above our heads, and everywhere the precious salt glistened.

After the tour, we emerged blindly into the glare of the midday sun. And the heat. On returning to the bike, we reluctantly pulled on our heavy jackets and suffocating helmets, scorching ourselves on the seat, as we headed into Krakow to find our apartment. The roadside thermometer showed 34°, as we crossed the river Wisla, the sweat plastering our t-shirts to our backs, and moulding our leathers to our legs.

On reaching the apartment, the first thing I wanted to do was take a shower. However, this desire was obstructed by the impossibility of extracting my legs from my leathers. If anyone’s seen that episode of ‘Friends’, with Ross writhing around a bathroom, frantically applying talcum powder to his beleathered legs, you’ll have a pretty accurate picture of what was going on. After a heroic struggle, the villainous leathers were defeated. Victory is sweet.

We wandered into the centre of the Old Town, taking in the impressive Cloth Hall in the main square, the Barbican, the Florian Gate, the Wawel, and the innumerable other buildings that proudly decorate the city. We watched the sun set in the square with a well-deserved Zywiec and some pierogi, amazed at how much we’d managed to cram in to one day.

Today saw our crash-course in Krakow continue. We explored the Jewish quarter, stumbling across the magnificent Corpus Christi church (no, I don’t know why there was a church in the Jewish quarter), before crossing the river into the old ghetto, and finding Schindler’s factory.

Krakow is one of those places that can surprise you by its contrasts. Its history remains, visible in the chinks of its touristic facade, and you get the sense that there is a sadness behind its outward beauty.

As we headed back to Jelenia Gora this afternoon, the unbearable heat was softened by the storm that had been brooding on the horizon. Thick drops of rain spattered on my visor, bringing with them that glorious scent of freshness, as the earth sighs after quenching it’s thirst. We sped down the motorway towards the mountains, leaving behind a city that refuses to be compromised by the failings of human memory.

I am a mountain.

It’s easier coming down a mountain than going up.

Today Graszyna, Grandad and I visited the picturesque and amusingly touristy Karpacz, to scale the pride of the Karkonosze, the imperious Śnieżka. However, after juddering up the perilous incline in Graszyna’s tiny Corsa, we found that the chairlift that was to bear us majestically to the summit of the mountain was broken. So we did what anyone would do. Walked.

The number of sprightly young children dancing up the path, along with the droves of pensioners armed with back-supports and walking sticks reassured me that the route couldn’t be that bad. It was only when we were half way up (like the ill-fated grand old Duke of York) that Graszyna let slip that we’d taken the black route. The path became steeper and increasingly uneven, as I tried in vain to position my unresponsive feet (which, as anyone that knows me will attest, are unreliable at the best of times).

Faced with a track that looked more like a landslide than a path, I despaired, regretting my inappropriate choice of footwear and wondering whether I would ever come home.

But, after two hours of sweaty toil, we reached the summit. We triumphantly surveyed the sublime vistas, and after taking some cheeky selfies, we turned around and glided down the track that had so nearly conquered us. I’ll let you judge whether it was worth it:

Packing light and a motorbike.

You can’t fit much on a motorbike.

We set off from Suffolk at 7:00 yesterday morning (and no, I was not sufficiently recovered from the ball). A couple of hours later, and I am admiring the serene tranquillity of the undulating Channel, as the noble white cliffs of Dover melt out of my vision. That is, until three coach-loads of prepubescent pipsqueaks flood the deck, clutching their giant Toblerones and swapping French profanities. Oh to be young.

Like my youth, the crossing was soon over, and Grandad and I were back on the bike which by this point, I had learned was a 1999 Honda VFR. Bikers are very friendly people, but to join in with the conversations that Grandad frequently struck up with Randoms,  I needed some biker-chat. Learning the model of bike was a start. I still have a long way to go before I can pass as someone who knows what they’re talking about.

From Calais we passed through Belgium, skirting around Brussels and Liège before entering Germany. The difference between the countries was immediate. For a start, the signs were different (hahaha). The road suddenly became as smooth as ice (though not quite that smooth because that would be slippery and we would have fallen off), and as we pelted down the Autobahn at 110 mph, I felt a rush of freedom that made me want to stay on the bike forever. The grim industry of Belgium morphed into rolling hills blanketed by forests. Small towns nestled in valleys, their church spires meekly peering through the pines. After passing Köln we stopped in Gummersbach, in a weird kitchy hotel, lovingly tended by an old man with white shoulder-length hair named Walter. After dumping our bags and taking some much-needed showers, we ventured to the pub down the road to see if the other residents of Gummersbach were as friendly and eccentric as our German Basil Fawlty.

Yes, is the short answer. Grandad and I got chatting to a lovely man called Cey, who at 37 years of age still harbours dreams of becoming a rockstar. He showed us a YouTube video of his cover of AC/DC, which, whilst very convincing, didn’t assure me that his dream would be realised. He invited us to karaoke when we stop in Gummersbach on our way home. That’s an adventure waiting to happen.

We set off early again this morning, heading east towards Dresden, before finally being welcomed by the homely shabbiness of Poland – a few potholes now and then keep you alert. We arrived at Grandad’s apartment at 17:30, and after a few yoga poses to click my back, we visited some friends for dinner. Leading up to this trip, my primary concern had been for a numb bum. Turns out I have sufficient padding for any bike seat – I hadn’t considered that an achey sacrum would be my main source of discomfort.

But it’s a small price to pay. Not many people ride 843 miles across Europe in two days with a sixty-eight year old relative. So far this has been an awesome trip. I’ve seen a lot, met some crazies, and to Grandad’s credit, you wouldn’t guess his age. At least not when he’s got his helmet on.