The Queen's Funeral
A Chance Encounter on the ferry to Barcelona
My book ‘North to Norway’ is out in paperback and e-book. It's a story as much about the joy of travel as about motorcycling. As one of the reviews on Amazon puts it:
“A wonderful read. I know nothing about motorcycling and have never visited either Spain or Norway yet this book had my attention from the start. Well written, amusing and full of descriptive narrative Stephen takes the reader on his journey with him making you long to explore many of the places visited. Highly recommended.”
Recent excerpts might give you a flavour of my writing and the adventures I recount in the book. I hope that you’ll want to buy the full version, available now on Amazon and in selected branches of Waterstones.
In last week’s extract A Nostalgic Return my route in the south of Spain had taken me to a little bar-restaurant in the hills where I’d enjoyed holiday fun with the kids decades earlier. After days on the road I began to feel a longing for my own bed in Mallorca. After a summer there it was time to set off to Blighty across the mighty Pyrennees.
My plan, loosely worked out, was to sail across the Med from Palma de Mallorca to Barcelona, a mere 200 kilometres across the Balearic Sea, then cut through the Pyrenees before catching the long ferry from Bilbao to Portsmouth.
The dockside was a furnace, devoid of shade. Stripped down to the bare essentials, I draped my clothes over the motorcycle, transforming it into a makeshift clothesline as I awaited the boarding signal.
It was the day of Queen Elizabeth II's funeral, and I watched the sombre ceremony on my phone, shielding my eyes from the sun's searching glare. Finally, the queue began to move, and an official's whistle roused the small group of waiting bikers. We hastily donned our gear and rode aboard.
Sometime later I entered the ship’s cafeteria where a screen was streaming the funeral. The soldiers were carrying her coffin, with infinite care and dignity, into Windsor Castle. There was a hushed, respectful crowd behind the barriers and the immense, shiny black hearse pulled gently away. Its work, like the Queen’s, done.
Beer in hand, I sat down on a blue plastic chair next to a Spanish family, kids, mum, dad and grandparents. They were glued to the large-screen TV in the centre of the deck, as were several other travellers dotted about the room, mostly Brits if their clothes were a reliable guide. My jacket was draped over the back of the chair and my helmet lay on the table next to the cold Mahou beer. I hadn’t booked a cabin for the daytime crossing. Lugging my gear around was a hassle but saved me money I'd rather spend on the road.
The abuela (grandmother), a woman in her sixties with a kindly face and a touch of silver in her hair, turned to me. Her cream trousers and light blue blouse shimmered in the sunlight filtering through the portholes.
‘És molt trist però és un cerimònia preciosa,’ she said in Catalan.
‘Yes, it is sad, but she had a long life,’ I replied in my halting Castilian.
‘Your Queen was wonderful. We love the royal family here in Spain—yours too,’ she said in BBC-accented English, making me feel rather linguistically inadequate.
‘It’s historic,’ I replied. ‘And we Brits do pomp and circumstance well, don't we? The crowds in London are incredible. People from all over.’
‘She made a historic visit to Mallorca in 1988, you know,’ she offered with a sad smile. ‘I was lucky. I met her and Prince Philip at the Marivent Palace. I was one of the interpreters for the day.’
A touch of pride lit her eyes.
Maria Pilar, it turned out, was a retired languages teacher from Sitges near Barcelona. Her family had a villa tucked near Alcudia, that sweep of golden beach in the northeast of Mallorca.
‘Tell me,’ she leaned forward intently, ‘where is your motorcycle taking you?’
I gave her a potted list of places.
‘Head up into the mountains of Montseny if you are going to the Pyrenees. It’s north of Barcelona and a beautiful area, a natural park. Sometimes we go there for a picnic.’
I thanked her and told her I’d check the map. She was right, it was on the way that I had in mind. I ordered another beer at the bar. When I sat back down, Maria turned to me, a glass of red wine in hand. We clinked glasses in tribute.
‘The Queen.’
The TV coverage became increasingly difficult to watch. Those excitable studio commentators—couldn’t they take a solemn breath? I waved my new Spanish friends goodbye and headed up on deck for some fresh air, where I came across Juan, an Argentinean who lived in Palma. I'd briefly chatted to him in the ferry queue earlier. He was also riding a Honda, an Africa Twin.
This was going to be a challenge. My Spanish was being sorely tested; he had a strong South American accent and, unlike Maria, spoke no English. I'd had only a couple of beers but my Spanish often turns to mush after a few. I struggled to follow what he was saying but the gist was that he planned to ride off-road the whole way to the aptly named town of Hondarribia in the Basque Country. He’d be doing some seriously gnarly tracks on his own, which struck me as far riskier than my solo trip.
Before long, our little biker huddle outside on the stern deck, sheltered from the stiff breeze, grew with the arrival of Karl and Jutta. They were from Malmö, Sweden, and were riding a Harley back home, where more machines lurked in their garage. Karl had lost count, but he claimed he had fifteen motorbikes.
‘We come down to Mallorca on the bike from Sweden most years. We take a long break from the clinic, you know? Karl’s an orthopaedic surgeon, I’m an anaesthetist. Keeps us busy,’ said Jutta.
‘Have you seen some bad motorcycling injuries’? I asked Karl, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Naturligtvis, I’ve had to deal with some bad ones, but being a biker, I get it. You patch them up and hope they keep their nerve enough to get on a bike again.’
‘Doesn’t it put you off, knowing what might happen?’
‘It’s made us more careful riders, especially on the long journey here from Malmö. We don’t take any silly risks.’
I thought of the contrast with Juan, who was standing only a few feet away.
Did I feel a twinge shoot through my ribs? A reminder to take care? I didn't mention my fall to the docs.
Lucky was the word everyone used at Marchena wasn’t it? Sometimes luck is all that separates us from disaster.
A few years ago on an isolated highway in Aragon in the centre of Spain I’d stopped to look at a monument that marked the Prime Meridian. Momentarily distracted, when I rejoined the highway I missed a VW Golf that was overtaking another car, by only a foot or two. It scared me shitless.
Luck saved the day. Again.
© 2025 Stephen Oliver
If you’ve enjoyed this excerpt you can find the complete story in paperback and Kindle format on Amazon.