South to Sicily
In a last minute twist, last year's planned trip takes me to Italy instead of Croatia
I hope you enjoyed the extracts from my book North to Norway that I’ve serialised over the last ten weeks. It’s taken you as a fellow passenger on my trip in 2022 to Spain, when I rode to Tarifa, the most southerly place in Europe. I didn’t want to serialise the northern leg of the route, in 2023, as I’d already written about this in my blogs starting in June 2023 with Opportunity Knocks.
If I’ve whet your appetite to read the whole book there’s a link at the bottom of this blog which will take you to Amazon, where it’s available as a paperback or e-book. I’m delighted to say it’s also available in a number of specialist bookshops too. If you’d like to purchase one direct from me, signed, of course, just drop me a comment and I’ll sort that out for you.
This summer I’m heading to Spain and Portugal with Ralph again. We’re riding in the Picos mountains, then through to Galicia, across the border into Portugal and then down the coast to Cabo da Roca, the most westerly point of Europe. Several weeks later we plan to reach Malaga, from where we will have the bikes shipped home. That’s the plan, at least, but as you’ll know from reading this blog – anything can happen!
In the future I’ll be writing about this year’s Iberian adventures. In the meantime, however, please join me for a taste of Italy. Last year (2024) I found myself heading to the land of opera, gelato, pizza and the mafia. Over the course of the next few months I’ll write a short but hopefully entertaining post about that trip. It all began with a phone call……..
My mobile phone buzzed to life, displaying a WhatsApp notification from Ralph.
The message read: ‘Stephen, I’m so incredibly sorry to disappoint you, especially since it’s completely out of my hands. I’ve spent weeks meticulously researching routes, charming stop-off points, must-see highlights, and lovely accommodations. And now this. Best wishes, Ralph.’
The message echoed our conversation from mere moments ago. Even over the phone, I could hear the genuine disappointment in my riding partner’s voice.
A wave of flatness washed over me as I typed my reply: ‘I can only imagine how gutted you must be, and I completely understand it’s beyond your control.’
After our trip of a lifetime to Nordkapp, we’d poured for months over maps and guides, meticulously crafting our next great escape. Croatia was the chosen land, and we’d designed a motorbike tour to uncover its hidden gems, venturing far beyond the usual tourist trails. But now, with just a week to go, a demanding work crisis had erupted, requiring Ralph’s full and immediate attention. It seemed our carefully laid plans were about to crumble.
My mind raced, searching for a solution. The company would cover any expenses, but it wasn’t the money that mattered; it was the precious time. This fortnight was my only window for travel. Missing it meant another year without that essential adventure fix. A pang of guilt hit me, but I knew what I had to do. I rang Ralph back.
‘I’m still going,’ I announced, ‘but I’m heading to Italy instead. We’ll conquer Croatia another time, you’ll see.’ I had a plan, a way to keep our shared dream alive for the future, even if this particular ride would be a solo one.
Our trusty motorbikes weren’t waiting for us in the Midlands; they were much further afield – tucked away in a warehouse on an industrial estate near Ljubljana, Slovenia, to be precise. We’d shipped them out weeks in advance, a strategic move to allow us to fly in and plunge directly into the heart of Croatia, saving precious days that would have been spent traversing Germany and the majestic Alps.
As I unfolded the map, an idea sparked. Our initial itinerary had us booked for our first night in Trieste, Italy, a gateway to Croatia. From there, we were meant to head south. But now, I saw a different path. I would still fly in, collect my bike from its Slovenian depot, and ride to Trieste as planned. However, instead of turning south, I would veer westwards. The exact destination beyond that was still a blank canvas, but I trusted that inspiration would strike along the way. This was certainly not the Croatian road trip I had envisioned. Once again, the hand of serendipity would take the reins. My meticulously planned route had vanished, replaced by the exhilarating uncertainty of the open road. My initial disappointment now morphed into a thrill of anticipation.
First things first, though: the less exciting task of cancelling all the accommodation bookings we’d painstakingly made over the past months for Croatia. So much for the best-laid plans.
The taxi from the airport delivered me to an unassuming industrial building a short distance away. I pressed the buzzer, and Tony, one of the managers, greeted me at the door.
‘Hi, I’m Stephen. Here to collect my motorbike.’
‘Where is ze oozer von off you?’ Tony inquired, his accent thick.
‘He couldn’t make it, unfortunately. It’s just me.’
‘Oh. Zat’s a pity.’
‘Precisely,’ I replied, a touch of disappointment still lingering in my voice.
He led me to a room where I could change into my biking gear, which had been shipped out with the bikes. As I ascended the staircase in the modern office block, I failed to notice a series of plant pots perched precariously close to the edge. Swinging my bag a little too carelessly, I clipped two of them. They tumbled to the tiled floor with a resounding crash, leaving a mess of soil and shattered pottery scattered across the pristine surface.
‘You are not haffing much luck, are you?’ Tony grinned, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he went to find a brush.
This was hardly the auspicious start I’d hoped for.
Inside the cavernous warehouse, filled with rows of pallets holding mysterious consignments, stood our two motorbikes, encased in layers of cling film. I pointed towards my Honda, and the forklift driver expertly manoeuvred it out into the sun-drenched yard. I eagerly stripped off its protective covering, the familiar feel and smell of the bike made me happy as I busied myself preparing it for the road. In the corner, still wrapped and untouched, Ralph’s BMW seemed to sulk in its abandonment, a sad reminder of our altered plans.
© 2025 Stephen Oliver
You can find my book North to Norway in paperback and Kindle format on Amazon.