It started with a thread on the http://www.Visordown.com website, by pono_headstump:

Right, the missus is duffed up after 12months of trying and she says i can go on a bike trip before t'baby is born.

I've always wanted to ride down to Casablanca so i thought "Sod it" i'm going to do it. I will be buying a BMW K100 RS/RT/ sometime in the next couple of weeks because i don't fancy doing it on my VN1500.

Should be doing somewhere between 400-600 miles a day to get there, from Calais through France and Spain to Morocco and then a tour through to the north coast of Spain to catch the ferry back from Santander to Plymouth.

Timings as follows

Blag the afternoon of Friday April 21st off and ride to Dover, across to Calais to overnight in a cheap hotel i know there. From there its ride down through France and Spain to the ferry near Gib and on into Morocco and Casablanca. Then back up through Morocco and Spain to catch the ferry on the 1st May @ 16.40 to get home on the 2nd @ 10.30 in Plymouth and ride home.

Should be a good trip. Anyone who wants to come give me a shout, anyone who has done something similar to this trip going to the same destination with any advice please post away.

Thanks!!

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If you can do this on an '85 FJ, I'm sure my '87 VFR can make it.
Though I think over 400 miles in a day is hopeful, can't the trip be extended to 10 days?

edit: oh it already is.

I decided to keep a journal for the trip to supplement photos, it is reproduced here with some of the spelling corrected and the stuff that really didn't make any sense removed.

It seemed like a lot of kit, but I feel I have been pretty thorough in pairing down the list to essentials. The planning has been going on for a couple of months, I've spent a long time on line reading other peoples travel accounts, their tips and pitfalls.

I have an emergency toolkit (the bikes standard kit), duct tape and cable ties. It really didn't seem worth taking any more tools, there is a limit to what I can repair at the roadside!

I've put clothes/wash bag/shoes in one pannier, with paperwork, documents, tools and lubes, water, 1^st Aid and maps in the other. Tent, sleeping bag and mat are strapped to the seat, with a magnetic map holder on the tank.

I am going to be pretty well wrapped up, as it warms up I'll have to strap discarded clothing on the seat with the tent.

Ah well, work tomorrow, home by 6, Paul (pono_headstump) should be with me by 6:30 and we'll be at the ferry for 7, which leaves at 8:30.

The boat from Portsmouth to St Malo left on time and carried us across the channel while we slept.

Rennes, Nantes, then follow the signs through Bordeaux to Bayonne where an F1 hotel is booked. About 440 miles.

Stayed in an F1 hotel on Saturday night in Bayonne, simple, clean, cheap and difficult to find.

Back to Bayonne and ate steak and chips in a cafe. Our hunger satisfied we went back to the hotel, or rather we would have but Paul's ignition key suddenly didn't fit his bike. 20 minutes later and for no apparent reason it suddenly did.

Overcast and foggy through the Pyrenees mountain pass, then the skies cleared to give a sunny and warm day.

We must have passed through three different mountain ranges before we got to Madrid, spectacular scenery, great roads.

We kept going, egging each other on to make enough distance that we can cross to Africa on Monday.

Finally we got to a small town called Loja. We got a room in the first hotel we found (40 Euros for a twin), a short conversation with some other Brits in the hotel told Paul enough to know we should eat in the restaurant next door.

Some pizza, lots of beer and mutual reassurance that we “could have kept going if we wanted to” saw me fall unconscious at around 1:30.

Showered, shaved and hung over we loaded the bikes and popped back into the hotel bar where we'd seen a cash point.

Five minutes later, I'm on the phone to the help desk trying to figure out why the machine had eaten my card. A call to my wife to get the card canceled and we were on the road by 8:30.

100 miles to Algecieras and the ferry to Ceuta, the Spanish enclave on the Moroccan coast.

We stopped and bought boat tickets at a service station on the toll motorway (92 Euros return for 1 person and bike, crossing time 35 minutes).

30 miles later we were filtering past a 3 mile jam into Algecieras, passing the smash just as they reopened the road. Then down to the port and onto the ferry, a baguette and a drink helping with the hangover.

I've been sat with the bikes for about half an hour, Paul cleared off with our documents and a tout....

Then he called me over to stand in the line while he went and sat with the bikes.

My turn at the window, one guy with an ancient computer checks over the forms, our V5s and insurance. He doesn't like mine because it doesn't specify Morocco.

The helpful tout takes me to another office where I can buy insurance, 15 minutes and 78 Euros later I'm OK to proceed. The two touts big themselves up about how useful they have been and I give the 10 Euros each. Allowing for the ingenious con on the Spanish side which saw me 20 Euros lighter the cost of the border crossing was 118 Euros.

Interestingly the tout said that the French, Germans, Spanish and Dutch always have insurance when they arrive. It is only the English (about 70% of them) who show up without appropriate cover. Probably thanks to the fairly mediocre information peddled by the press and the insurance companies themselves. (See the appendix on what you need to have and do to cross the border).

The touts were however genuinely helpful, so I wished them well and didn't begrudge the 20 Euros.

Through a final passport check and we were in Morocco, border crossing time about 2 hours.

We pulled over to organise ourselves and sort our riding gear out, the sky was a threatening grey and the first beggar was on us within 10 seconds, we left quickly.

We followed the road toward Tatouen and the heavens opened, really heavy monsoon style rain washing over the road about an inch deep. So Paul saying he couldn't see anything turned right toward what looked like a town.

500 yards later the road was dug up and blocked with a diversion in place, so, still in torrential rain we followed a Fiat Uno. The road vanished, so now we're off road, in heavy rainfall following a lunatic in a Fiat around a maze of dirt streets. Great rivers of water running down the slippery muddy tracks, potholes and huge craters causing the bikes to ground out on their stands and exhausts every 20 yards and rubbish everywhere. 10 minutes and several wrong turns later the rain eased and we found the main road again.

20 miles later we pulled in to Tatouen and found a cash point, Paul got some cash and subbed me since I now had no card.

We followed the road up, skirting the Rif mountains. The roads are best described as variable, people, sheep, horses, goats and donkeys cross where they please, there is mud on every corner and trucks everywhere. The scenery is spectacular, the roads are a bit like the UK was 30/40 years ago and full of badly patched holes. Great fun.

We got to Tangier, fueled and headed down the coastal motorway toward Rabat. A toll road, it is a) empty and b) perfectly surfaced. So we ground out some miles paid about £4 in tolls and stopped North of Rabat.

We looked around but failed to find a hotel, Paul pulled up by a van load of Police and asked, “Follow us” they said and showed us to a hotel. A twin room was 422 dinar (about 40 euros or £30), £15 each. We walked to a cafe ordered pizza, had some mint tea and were welcomed to Morocco by the proprietor.

Starting with breakfast by the pool for 50 dinar we then packed up and prepared to head to Casablanca, lubed the chains, then Paul's bike wouldn't start.

The next ten minutes were spent with me gradually stripping off as I got hotter and hotter pushing Paul's bike up and down the road, eventually it started and we left.

The journey back to the motorway involved us taking a wrong turn and stopping to ask some police for directions.

We passed Rabat and the number of police increased to one every ½km, just standing by the roadside watching the traffic. This continued all the way to Casablanca where we stopped by a sign and took some photos. We refueled the bikes and decided not to go into the industrial port that is Casablanca.

Instead we headed South on the road to Marrakesh for about 30 miles where we turned off and headed East to Khouribga. The quality of the road dropped, but it was OK. At Khouribgd we took the road to Oued-Zem where we stopped at a cafe in the town centre. Sitting there watching the world go by I ordered a Coke and Paul some mint tea, a young lad, carrying a box came over and asked if we would like our boots cleaned. I accepted and he set about my boots with brushes and polish leaving them gleaming like new, I tipped him 12 dinar (£1) and he seemed made up about that!

The bar owner suggested we might like to stay at his hotel for 200 dinar, but we were keen to press on toward the Atlas mountains. Paul spoke to some police and they suggested we stay in Beni-Mellal at the foot of the Atlas mountains.

The road ran in the shadow of the mountains for 10 miles, occasionally twisting and dipping to a bridge over a river while shepherds tended their small flocks by the roadside. The volume of traffic was low, even the busy motorway between Rabat and Casablanca was no worse than the M25 on a Sunday morning.

At Beni-Mellal we followed signs to the hotel-de-ville and checked in. We ate and drank at the hotel bar that night.

We met and talked to Abrahman who guided our food choice and talked of world peace and tollerence all night long. We ate seafood (some of the species I didn't even recognise), bread, baked vegetables prepared in a Tagine, lamb and spices, delicious. Abrahman was drinking red wine mixed with Fanta, he said it prevented acid indigestion! We ordered some of the Moroccan red wine to supplement our beer. The hospitality was so good, Paul and I began to joke about being in heaven, maybe we hadn't made it past that last bend in the road! If Carlsberg made bars etc...etc...

The Moroccans are an incredibly warm, genuine, nice, helpful people. Abrahman deserves special mention, we sat with him, his friends and the bouncers all evening. A genuinely more honest kind hearted person I have yet to meet. As for the idea that the food is dodgy and will give you the squits, utter rubbish.

We did around 250 miles yesterday, today we will only do half that, but first we must get our bikes out of the bar where we parked them for security.

We left the hotel and took the Marrakesh road West, we were planning on going up the Atlas mountains. Aiming for the turn at Oulad M'Bareko to take us on a 200km loop climbing to approximately 2000 metres.
It was during this foray we learned to ride one handed, with a camera in the other.

Our Michelin map was no Ordnance Survey sheet, most of the roads aren't marked, and there are lots of them. Consequently we turned too early, after a mile the asphalt vanished

so we continued for 6 miles along a potholed dirt track before falling over the road we should have taken in the first place. The road seemed to have been recently resurfaced and was the best quality rural road we had come across.

When we reached Quaoizarht the good road ended and we were back to the usual pot holed track with huge sections missing. We followed the winding pass up the mountain side, while the lake in the valley got smaller as we gained altitude, crossing the summit we pulled over, the view was staggering.

We dropped down into Afourer refueled and followed the road back to Beni Mellal. Through the town and on to Kasba Tadla then Khenifra, we passed through a small town called Tighassaline, right in the centre a 6 foot section of road had been washed away. We both saw it too late and crashed down the drop onto potholed rock and back up the other side, the bikes twisting and squirming as the suspension bottomed out, then leaving the ground, albeit momentarily.

At Khenifra we stopped for lunch, just pulled up at the roadside and walked 10 feet to a cafe where we sat outside and were served bread with minced meats fried right in front of us. Cool.

After Khenifra we passed an Africa Twin and a R100GS going the other way, it dawned on us these were the only other touring bikers we had seen.

The roads are either heavily potholed or polished smooth through use, a thin dust covers them, which turns into a greasy slurry when it rains. Every corner in the mountains has diesel slicks.

We got to Azrou, drove round the town and went to 'The Panoramic Hotel', we ate in the hotel restaurant, vegetable soup followed by roast meat, potatoes and carrots with creme caramel for desert, an instantly forgettable meal all washed down with a beer. I turned in early (9pm) exhausted.

We left the hotel promptly by 8:30 and rode the short distance to Azrou town centre where we stopped for coffee and Paul had his boots renovated. We lubed the bike chains and Paul proceeded to drop his bike as it came off the centre stand, luckily no damage.

The road between Azrou and Fez is in very good condition, we were passing an increasing number of tourism coaches and minibuses. We were out of the 'wilderness' and into the Moroccan tourist area.

Fez is a large sprawling town, the suburbs have a very Western European air about them with tree lined avenues. As we rode in we were approached by two traveling touts on a small motorcycle inviting us to follow them, we declined.

A few wrong turns later we were lost and in among the potholes and slums, we pulled over at a cafe, ordered a drink and started talking to the guy at the next table. He gave us directions to the Medina (the old city), we thanked him, drank our mint tea and were on our way.

A couple of miles later we were alongside the wall around the Medina, we couldn't find the gate we wanted (Bab Ziat) but were quickly picked up by another tout on a moped, he showed us the way and tried to convince us to stay at his brother in laws place. We declined and knocked on the door of Riad Al-Bartal (a Riad is a sort of guest house),

they had no room but phoned round and found us a room in Riad Les Oudayas. So we waited in their picturesque courtyard while a man came over to guide us there. We thanked our original motorcycle guide and tipped him 20 dirham and a union jack keyring, he left.

Paul attempted to start his bike and it gushed petrol all over the floor. One repair to a split hose later we were ready to go. Our new guide sat pillion on top of my tent and sleeping bag and directed me around the outside of the Medina to another gate. We parked in a garage just inside the gate and carried our kit the short distance to the Riad.

We were shown round this spectacular building, sauna, en-suite room, courtyard and tortoise, then checked in. A quick shower later we went into the Medina market, narrow alleys, hustle and bustle a real experience. We had a Moroccan stew with bread and mint tea for lunch at 25 dirham each (£2), got lost and guided by a guy with a shop, then had a beer back in the Riad courtyard. This was the realisation point that Fez had been touristed.

A 25cl bottle of local lager was being charged out at 7 Euros (£5), to actually use the sauna would be 20 Euros each (£15) and the room was 120 Euros (£50 each). London prices in Fez, the Riads are impressive but pricey. So we went and sat on the Riad's roof garden and watched the sun set over the Medina, three hours for free!

At about 7:30 we went in search of dinner. If you stop walking for more than 2 seconds in the Medina the touts are on you, we hesitated and were immediately approached. I showed him the card given to us earlier in the day for “La Menara” restaurant, he said he would show us the way, but he thought they were closed. So we proceeded to walk for about a mile, dropping perhaps 500 feet into the Medina, we arrived at the restaurant and it is indeed closed. “He won't open until 10 O'clock” our guide informs us, “But I know a good place near your hotel”. So we proceed to climb back up the steep Medina streets to where we came from, our guide reminds me of a Gazelle, leaping from step to step, Paul and I struggle on behind. Eventually we reach a very ornate and touristy place, where we learn nothing will start 'til 9, but we can wait. With great relief we sit down and are handed menus, the food with wine and a floor show will cost us 600 to 1200 dirham each. Very good we're sure but too expensive. We leave.

It seems parts of the city are charging heavily inflated “tourist rates”, a big shame in a unique place. On the way back to our Riad we stop at a street vendor and purchase crisps and chocolate (20 dirham).

I would like to be back in the South, where everything seemed much nicer. Maybe Sahara next time.

We got up early (7:30) and had breakfast (it was included in the price, so we weren't going to miss it!), we paid the bill, they didn't take credit cards so paying in cash used up nearly all of it. A guide appeared to take us back to the garage housing our bikes, we walked carrying all our gear for about ¾ mile and arrived at the wrong garage. So we turned around and walked all the way back up to another garage, only our guide couldn't remember where it was, so he left us while he went to find our original guide. Eventually we got back to our bikes, loaded, paid our remaining 100 dirham to the garage and left. We (typically some might say) turned the wrong way onto the ring road then took the wrong road. We turned around after a few miles and continued back around the ring road. Following a complete lap of the ring road where I witnessed a roller skater hanging onto the back of a bendy bus at 40mph for a free ride, we saw 3 x BMW GS riders near the Medina, then we took the correct road toward Chefchaouen.

The traffic congestion immediately eased considerably as we began to climb into the Rif mountains.

We continued along mountain passes clinging to the hillsides, avoiding the inevitable potholes and diesel slicks as best we could. We crossed valleys and skirted summits, another wrong turn and a minor detour then we stopped for fuel. They didn't have unleaded so we settled for some super (4*), not a problem for us, but a potential issue for bikes with catalytic converters. Another 10 miles we pulled into a roadside cafe and ordered 2 cokes.

The town, so small it isn't on the map was called Khlralfa, we were greeted by Abdhula who had studied English in a French university and was keen to practice. The three guys on the table next to us lit a Kif pipe, they offered to share it with us, we declined saying that motorcycles, mountain passes and Kif was a poor mix. Abdhula explained that Kif was technically illegal, but there were few police and they knew who they were. He explained this small town once marked the border between French and Spanish occupied Morocco. The Spanish are building a coastal motorway with EU money between Ceuta and Mellilia. He went on to tell us that electricity only arrived here 4 years ago (2002) and they still do not have piped water. It seems the Morocco we had seen may not be here much longer, come and see it while you can. His 5 year old son came by so I gave him one of our union jack keyrings.

Then he told us of the winter snows, it seemed surreal as we basked in the afternoon warmth of the sunshine, so he got some photos that showed them building a life size lion from the snow.

There is a real community feeling about the town, they all know each other, waving or nodding as they pass. Moroccans may be the friendliest people on the planet.

As we sat watching the world go by we were joined by Harald Deflorin, a German on a R100GS on his way to Mauritania. Ex police he was now seeing the world on his “old lady” as he described his bike. Next year he plans to visit Turkey and the surrounding areas, he was 72 years young. Cool guy.

Our lunch arrived ½ roast chicken , bread, chips, with a tomato, olive and onion salad, delicious. Harald saw it and ordered the same.

Abdhula said a taxi to the nearest big town cost 6 Euros, so the locals would get 6 people in a taxi to share the cost.

Harald warned us the road to Chaouen was full of people trying to sell Kiff/Hash and we went our separate ways, he toward Fez us toward Chaouen.

The views in the mountains were spectacular, the roads deteriorated, people by the roadside began waving and flagging us down. We pulled over at a breathtaking vantage point to admire the view and photograph it, the first passing car pulled over, it's occupant came over and introduced himself, welcomed us to his country and invited us to come to his house just down the road for mint tea. Nice as this genuine offer was we had just finished lunch so declined. The next car to pull up offered to sell us Kiff, again we declined, we had to get on.

The road narrowed to the width of a car, the sides of the road crumbling away. Some sections were so badly subsided and potholed we had to ride standing on the foot pegs. The frantic waving of the locals at every souk we passed became quickly wearing. We wanted to ride and enjoy the scenery, they wanted us to stop and buy their wares. The towns Taounate-el-Kchour, Souk-el-had-de-Ikauen and Tieta-Ketama saw sales activity multiply one hundred fold and the roads all but disappear, to be replaced with a crater filled dusty track reminiscent of the moons surface, thank goodness it was dry.

The junction at Ketama where we turned left for Chaouen saw the “road” deteriorate to an all time low. It remained that way until we reached Bab-Berret, from this point significant road improvements have been made. Subsidence has been dealt with, the road had two proper lanes and a half decent surface. Some sections had been straightened, embankments built and cuttings made. The scenery at this point could be likened to Canada, the roadside sellers diminished and our pace improved. We got to Chaouen around 4:30pm where we stopped for mint tea and to see what accommodation options were available.

Chaouen sits on a mountainside and was founded in 1471 as a base for Berber (Arab) tribesmen to launch attacks on the Portuguese at Ceuta. In 1920 a Spanish garrison occupied the town, before this Christians were forbidden and killed when found. Its modern name is Chefchaouen (Look at the peaks), the Spanish called it Xaouen but the original name that everybody uses is Chaouen (the peaks).

We checked into the hotel Marrakesh, 250 dirham incl. breakfast for both of us. We went down the street and into a bar, they didn't serve beer, “There is only one bar in town with beer”, he gave us directions. We went too far and got another set of directions. After 2 beers we were joined by two Americans from New York, one was in mental health, the other insurance and they were traveling by bus on a week long tour. They had purchased a lot of rugs which were being shipped home.

We let the waiter choose dinner (a practice I can recommend if you are at all unsure) and got a delicious sizzling skiff of meatballs, spices and onion with an egg on top. A couple more beers and then a well deserved sleep, it had been a hard days ride.

The ride out of Morocco was uneventful. We breakfasted and rode down from the mountains through the clouds and then under a grey sky, heading straight for the border. Knowing what was expected this time we crossed in only 10 minutes to Cueta.

Paul got some Euros at a cash point and we went straight to the port. A ten minute wait then we boarded the ferry. The crossing was very calm and 45 minutes later we were back in Europe on the Spanish mainland and riding.

From Malaga we headed North toward Cordoba hoping to see more of Spain than we had on the way down. A time check revealed it was 5:45pm local time (Spain is 2 hours ahead of Morocco) so we started to look for a hotel. Unfortunately every hotel in and around Cordoba was full. So we had to keep going until we finally found a place right next to the motorway. We ate in the hotel restaurant and turned in.

The plan was to head up through Ciuded Real, Toledo, Valladolid and Leon to the coast. The Turkish MotoGP was on so we hoped to find a bar that was showing it.

We left our hotel, which transpired to be on the outskirts of Montoro, and drove through the town. They seemed to be warming up for a festival of some kind, people were in traditional costume, a number of horses were about and there was a traffic queue from one end of town to the other. We slipped past on our bikes and up a steep road that wound it's way up the mountainside, at the top we joined the N420 road to Cuided Real. We rode through awesome scenery on this new road, catching glimpses of the old road which sympathetically wound around olive groves and over hillsides. The new road cut through hills and spanned valleys. A great biking road with an excellent surface, but it lacked the raw frontier feel we had become accustomed to in Morocco.

Through Ciuded Real and out onto the N401 Toledo Road, followed by the N403 to Avila. On the N401 we were flagged down by a stranded Spaniard on a broken ZZR1100. The fairing looked smashed and scraped, he gestured he was OK and on closer inspection it appeared these were old wounds and he hadn't been down the road on this occasion. But the motor had oil all over it, possibly a holed oil cooler, there wasn't much we could do about it. He pulled a mobile from his top box and showed us it was blocked and requesting a PUK code. So I lent him a phone, he called somebody, indicated they would be one hour and shook us by the hand. He seemed happy so we left.

We pulled into a roadside bar hoping to see the MotoGP, all they had on was some Roadrunner cartoons, so we watched those and ate some rolls with cheese and ham.

Just South of Avilla we stopped by a GSX750F and a Blackbird, two Brits who had just got off the ferry in Bilbao, they were going to Malaga to visit a friend but had stopped to bugger about with their sat nav. We wished them well and told them of the Spanish mountain roads they were about to meet, “Like a giant cat and fiddle” said Paul. Our roads flattened and straightened, we were back on dual carriageway, past Valladolid to Palencia. We asked a guy on a GPZ500 stopped at the traffic lights about a hotel while we waited, “Follow me” he said and led us to a nice well priced hotel (46 Euros for a twin room). We watched yesterdays goals from the Premiership on a Spanish TV channel, which saw Portsmouth hang onto their Premiership status, just.

We walked from the hotel down to the river, very pretty, with well kept flower beds, trees, churches and historic bridges. Palencia was a very nice town.

We passed an old church with a large open bell tower and went for a beer in a bar in the same square. Around 8 we decided we needed to eat so went to find a restaurant, there was a place just around the corner with Paella on the menu, when in Rome... so we went in. The proprietor/chef told us it was too early, we should come back in one hour, so we went back to the bar. At about 10 we returned to the restaurant where we were chastised for being late before being sat down and served a starter, then the most delicious Paella and lots of it. We chose a 9 Euro bottle of Rioja which turned out to be one of the best I've ever tasted. Thoroughly satisfied we sat back nursing swollen bellies, the table was cleared and we were brought a large plate of 2” thick steak. We prodded it around the plate a bit but were too full to eat any more.

We popped into a bar next to the hotel for a nightcap and got talking to some locals. A few beers later the bar closed and Paul went back to the hotel. I was invited to join my new twenty something Spanish buddies, they were going on somewhere. We went to a “disco bar” and when that closed a club. They were great hosts, buying me drinks and asking why I wasn't dancing with all the pretty girls. “Are you gay?”, “No, married”.

Ultimately I found myself walking somewhere in Palencia in the early hours, with no money, no phone, no clue where I was or what my hotel was called. I rather pointlessly asked some passers by if they knew where my hotel was, I was told “This is your problem”, I already knew that. Eventually I found the river and subsequently the hotel, it was 6:50am.

The road is undergoing huge improvements with a new motorway clearly visible cutting tunnels through mountains, I assume it will open very soon.

We dropped down through the mountains and in to Santander at 1pm, had a light lunch in a cafe and went and queued for the boat. It left on time at 4:30 (3:30 UK time) and I went for a lie down before dinner at 7 and bed by 9. We arrived in Plymouth on time at 10:30 to a dark grey sky and rain.

180 miles to home and the kettle was on by 2:10pm with my dogs very happy to see me.