L is for Larnach Castle

The town of Dunedin was the third destination our New Zealand motorcycle tour itinerary. I remember the morning at breakfast when our tour guides asked us to choose our dinner entrée for that evening’s meal. “Prawns or chicken?” We’d be dining and staying over at Larnach Castle. I’m usually a happy hosteler when it comes to lodgings on the road, but once I knew we’d be in a castle, I envisioned the palaces of movies I’d seen and imagined myself there. I ordered prawns and Judy ordered chicken. 

That day’s ride took us to New Zealand’s only castle, built in the late 1800's atop a huge hill on the Otago Peninsula, overlooking Dunedin. 

Internet photo

Our route wound through the heart of the city, where we stopped for a bit of sight-seeing, including the southernmost Harley Davidson shop in the world.

Then, to reach Larnach Castle, we crossed a bridge to the peninsula and circled around the edge of the harbor for 9km.  Finally, we traversed 3km of narrow, twisty roads back up into the hills. It seemed to take forever; there were no sign of the castle. “Where the heck IS the castle?” I said out loud into my helmet, but I kept going in hopes I was on the right road.  What a relief when Larnach came into view, every bit as spectacular as I’d imagined.

After years of neglect and disrepair, a couple, the Barkers, bought Larnach Castle in 1967 and restored it. They added a lodge and converted the stables into guest accommodations. Assigned to the Sea Room, which was situated on a corner of the Lodge, we had a terrific view of the sunset beyond the hills of the city. The next morning we were delighted by the pink rays and clouds as the sun rose over the water. 

Along with our friend Donna, we took a quick tour of the gardens and the castle, going to the highest roof for a 360° panorama of the whole area.

Internet photo

Dinner was served in the castle dining room.  Everything, except for all of us in our motorcycle gear, was very formal. There were finger bowls on the table for those of us who had ordered prawns.  We sure needed them. The shrimp were still in their shells (with heads on!), and the dish was served with some fancy sauce splashed over the shells. We didn’t get to taste much of the sauce, but those finger bowls were put to good use. Judy’s choice, the pesto and sun-dried tomato stuffed chicken breast, was far neater.

Internet photo of Stables

Though there were stories of the castle being haunted, we found no evidence and spent a peaceful night tucked into the Sea Room.

Breakfast was served on the ground floor of the stables the next morning. Among wrought-iron-and-wood conveyances,tables and chairs were set up on the cobblestone flooring, and the whole affair was a lot less messy than dinner.

Did I feel like a princess? Not really, but staying overnight at Larnach Castle was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

~ xoA ~

F is for Farmstay in Fiordland

(photo from Internet)

One delight that we’ve had on tours all over the world has been getting an “insider’s view” of the country by having a home-cooked meal in private homes. On the New Zealand motorcycle tour we took in February of 2000, it went a step further. For two nights, we stayed at a farm out of Te Anau in Fiordland. This would be our “home base” for the next day’s excursion to Milford Sound.

Many farms in New Zealand produce sheep, while others raise combinations of cattle, deer, horses, and sheep.  Five of us, Judy and I, our friend Donna from Michigan, and two men from Minnesota, were assigned to the 875-acre sheep farm of Don and Dorothy Cromb.  After a sumptuous lunch at Lammerview Orchard, we found our destination with no trouble and entered the property via the long gravel driveway.

Our hosts, the Crombs, provided us with a warm and homey place to stay and interesting conversations.  Fellow biker Donna was especially interested in the workings of the sheep farm since she and her husband farmed in Michigan.

Dorothy Cromb was a real "farm wife.”  She fed us breakfast, including her homemade muesili , and prepared two delicious 3-course dinners for us. She tended to the details on-call to help with the bailing.  My thought about Dorothy was “Whatta Woman!” 

 “We enjoy having groups come,” Don said. “We can’t leave to go travel the world, so this way the world comes to us.” 

The second morning, before our departure, all of us bikers climbed into the back of Don’s pick-up. While Dorothy stripped the beds, did the laundry, and made ready for the next group, Don drove us around the farm for a tour. We all enjoyed seeing the place, and Donna had a lot of questions and made observations that enhanced the farm tour for the rest of us.

That day we rode out with an appreciation of New Zealand farm life and something tourists rarely experience: a chance to know how the real people in another country live. And, tucked away, we had the recipe for Dorothy’s muesili, which Judy made for us several times after we were back home. 

~ xoA ~

B is for Baja

The Malecon in LaPaz

On a rainy Sunday in January of 1997, I rode out of Bakersfield to meet up with a group in San Ysidro. Our 12-day excursion riding the Baja was billed as a “Women’s Tour with a Few Good Men.” Never before had I taken off in a downpour, but I had no choice. Straight down I-5, through Los Angeles, the rain did not let up. Since motorcycles are allowed in the freeway diamond lane, I rode there, feeling safer, exposed to only one lane of traffic on my right.

Heavy rain flooded my windscreen. I stood on Big Red’s floor boards for miles so I could see over it and at the same time let the wind blow the stream off my face shield. Though I wore rain gear, water seeped in and everything was damp. My boots and feet were soaked from passing vehicles causing pools of water to fantail over the floorboards. I arrived at San Ysidro wet to the bone but ready for my new adventure.

At our orientation meeting, the organizers provided us with maps, breakfast vouchers, and information about riding in Mexico and how our “friends tour” would work. We’d arrive at each day’s destination before dark to avoid hazards like potholes and wild animals, and we’d chain our bikes together at night in sets of three for security.

I roomed with Tammy, a woman from Arizona who rode a white Harley Davidson “dresser.” Neither of us had been on a tour like this before. The next morning, we discovered leaving our boots on the heater overnight didn’t dry them out. Undaunted, we plunged our feet into plastic bags then put on our boots and headed out to face a drizzle that would turn into two more days of wet riding.

Crossing at Tijuana

Before this trip, I had only been to Tijuana. Now I would see the real country. In those first miles, the juxtaposition of Mexico’s natural beauty and the poverty -- the mountains of litter and tiny, dilapidated shacks -- overwhelmed me with sadness. Yet, there was hope. I saw women bustling about, sweeping their dirt yards and hanging their laundry and men at work on the roadsides.

Our little band of riders with one of the men driving the chase vehicle made our way down to the tip and back. On winding roads, never too far from an ocean view, we ticked off the towns: San QuintÍn, Rosarita, Guerrero Negro, Mulegé, La Paz, Cabo San Lucas. 

Cabo San Lucas

The Baja trip is where I grew as a rider. Previously squeamish about riding on gravel or dirt, I got over it after the first few times we fueled up at the Pemex stations. From the road, we’d cross a large expanse of gravel to get to the pumps. With a dozen bikes in our entourage, we often had to wait on the gravel, moving up to the cement platforms as other bikes finished fueling. Then we’d move forward onto gravel to wait while the others fueled their bikes.

Loreto

I learned a lot about safety in group riding. Using a CB radio, the last rider warned the rest about cars attempting to overtake us.  When we were ready to pass vehicles on a two-lane road, the leaders stayed in the left lane to signal a clear roadway to the riders who were behind.

One new friend schooled me on my first complete Spanish sentence: “Un Pacifico, por favor, con limón!” Sampling tortilla soup up and down the peninsula, I discovered the large variety of recipes.

And, I learned that I took the safety and freedoms I felt at home for granted.  Several times we rode by young men, who looked more like the 14-year-olds I taught,  wearing military style clothing and standing by with big guns in their hands or strapped over their shoulders. 

On our last leg, a number of miles from the border crossing at Tecate, we came to a roadblock. These militaristic boys ordered us to stop. A humorless, ramrod-stiff woman patted me down and rifled through Big Red’s trunk and saddlebags. “No drugs?” 

I tried to lighten the moment with “Oh, no. No drugs. I’m a teacher.” She never cracked a smile or gave any indication that she understood. And I realized I just needed to be quiet and try to stay out of trouble.

Too soon, having landed in the U.S. at Tecate, we all pulled over. From there, everyone would split off in many directions. New friends, bound together by our adventure and our love for motorcycling, we hugged, saddled up, and rode off for home.

~ xoA ~

 All photos from the Internet

A is for Arthur's Pass

**Today marks the beginning of the 2014 Writers of Kern Blog Challenge. I told you I had motorcycle stories. During this annual blogging event, I'll be regaling you with 26 of them, A-Z. So now, away we go -- Clutches Out!

Two of the scariest incidents I’ve experienced astride a motorcycle occurred on a tour of New Zealand’s South Island in 2000. The trip was my retirement gift to myself, and I rode a BMW 800, a bike provided by the tour company. Judy came along but rented a compact Toyota Echo and became a part of the adventure. This is the tale of one of those gut-wrenching episodes.

Just the two of us traveled together our last riding day before returning our wheels in Christchurch. The route wound us down the coast and inland through Arthur’s Pass, the highest pass over the Southern Alps. On State Highway 73, we encountered a road crew blasting a narrow, curvy road out of the side of a mountain. Heavy machinery, yellow behemoths, inhabited the area, blocking the single traffic lane. We would have to negotiate the pass with only the help of timed traffic signals at each end of the stretch. We soon learned those signals were out of sync.

When the red light turned green, we naively proceeded, unable to see far enough ahead to discern “the mess.” Navigating a couple of curves, we came upon the snarl and had to brake and stop on a hill. Three vehicles were still in the lane, coming toward us! No place to move over! In order to get to a wider spot, I had to back down the left-leaning gravel-strewn road, countering the tilt of the road. After a bit of maneuvering, all of us managed to squeeze past each other. Judy and I snugged up to the rock to our left, and the cars coming at us crept along with their passenger-side tires half off the cliff.

I let out the deep breath I’d been holding. Whew! The worst was over! But around the next bend, I came upon a huge crane that occupied the entire lane. No big deal after what we’d already survived. We were stopped on a slight hill this time. But, when the equipment moved and we could continue, my eyes bulged as the six vehicles that had been stopped on the other side of the crane headed toward us. For an interminable ten minutes, everyone inched forward, negotiating the pass, while the road crew urged us on with wild gestures and shouting, “You’ve got plenty of room!” 

After untangling, all the vehicles in our line whizzed down the other side of the mountain and stopped at the first café. Judy and I parked the car and bike then hugged each other and screamed. “Plenty of room,” she said, “A feather’s width does not equate to ‘plenty of room’!” Then we groaned our fears and chatted with the Kiwi couple who were in the Toyota SUV ahead of us. Now we were like old friends; we’d survived a helluva experience together.

~ xoA ~

(Photos from the Internet)

Zee Wrap

Key West, FL

Twenty-six posts in 13 weeks. That’ll keep a blogger busy. The same goes for readers and followers. A writer writes for others as well as for herself.  So hearing from readers and fellow writers told me that my goal of reaching other people was being met. Some folks commented on the blog; others emailed me privately. Of no surprise, the post that garnered the most feedback was “I is for Intercourse.”  Most often, responders said, “You really got my attention with that title.”

At meetings, on the phone, or when we’d randomly bump into each other, people would let me know they were traveling with me.

Ketchikan, Alaska

My sincere thanks to you who stuck with me on this challenge, reading along and sharing your memories and experiences and encouraging me in my quest to become a better writer.

And thanks to Judy. She is the photographer who took many of the pictures and often dove into the archives on her external hard drive to retrieve just the photo I needed.

Rainbow Row in Charleston, SC

A to Z, I had some difficult choices to make: San Antonio, Sydney, Savannah or Skagway? Columbus, Chapel Hill, Cusco, or Charleston? Michigan, Machu Picchu, Maui, or Mexico City? And, I forgot all about Ann Arbor until I was on to H.

The Urubamba at Aguas Calientes

The delicious thing was that I revisited many meaningful places and relived long-ago memories. I heard the cacophony of the Urubama River, in the village where we stayed on our way to Machu Picchu. I suffered the queasy knees of those first steps out on the Sidney Bridge.  I felt the comfort of family and childhood days in Columbus and Detroit.  As Anaїs Nin said, I “tasted life twice.” 

For me, it was a marvelous journey -- again. Which was your favorite stop?

 ~ xoA ~