the problem was diagnosed by friends
as far flung as Delhi, Australia, Sark,
Bristol and Cornwall. They thought
it was either the coil or the condens-
er. The symptoms fitted with a faulty
coil. I arrived in Jerez which was at its
wettest for decades, settled in a pretty
posada and found a mechanic to sort
out the bike. My poor Spanish was
enhanced by pointing at pictures in
the manual. They understood! A new
Toyota ‘bobina de encendido’ did the
trick. No more racing, cranky engine
at the end of the day. The steering had
become rather wobbly by this time.
The days spent with my daughter at
the flamenco festival were outstand-
ing as well as sunny and dry. After
much dancing, tapas, performing
horses and sherry, she flew home. I
wanted to explore now it had stopped
raining.
At Tarifa, the jumping-off point for
boats to Morocco, I exchanged maps
and travel stories with a motorcycling
friend on his way back to the UK af-
ter a six-month tour of Africa on his
Trans Alp. He inspired me to see what
it was like, too.
As the ferry approached Morocco I
felt that mixture of apprehension and
excitement that comes before enter-
ing a new country. No matter how ex-
perienced you are, it’s always a thrill.
The border crossing was straightfor-
ward at Ceuta and I was issued with
some bits of paper to keep until I left.
My bike insurance had just expired
and I didn’t buy any for Morocco
which, being non-European Union,
was not covered by my insurance
anyway. As usual I hoped for the best
and rode along good roads with views
of the lush mountains, dry for all the
fifty-four kilometres to Chefchaouen.
At the Hotel Bonsai, I rode down the
TRAVERSE 76
steps into the courtyard with orange
trees and I was suddenly aware that
I was in another continent. Different
vegetation and culture … Arab; Islam-
ic; squat toilets; busy markets; people
dressed in long cloaks, heads covered.
Another world on Europe’s doorstep.
But still European weather and the
next day, the rain was so bad it pre-
vented me from moving on.
In the medina (marketplace) with
tiny streets which on a map would
look like a heap of spaghetti, I imme-
diately got lost. A man who sold his
own hand-knitted hats, gloves and
jumpers offered to close his shop for
the afternoon in order to warm me up.
“My name is Love” he crooned. Had
he known I was wearing three jump-
ers, two vests, leggings under my jeans
and plastic bags on my feet inside my
boots, he might not have offered. I de-
clined but he did cheer me up!