From Asti I headed for the Frejus tunnel and the South of France.  It was bright and sunny but even so I began to feel the chill as I climbed on the motorway built for the 2006 Turin Olympics up towards the snow line. The tunnel is a surreal experience, a single bore with two-way traffic restricted to sixty kilometres an hour and seemingly going on forever in a straight line.  It's hot inside, like a fan oven on a "warm" setting.  France appeared eventually and then it was downhill to the outskirts of Lyon and north to Beaune, where the motorways diverge, left for Paris and right for the Northern industrial town of Lille and Belgium. I was aiming for Paris but turned off at Beaune to find my B&B for the night.  I rode down idyllic country lanes shaded by tall plane trees and dappled with sunlight into the terroir of Chateauneuf du Pape.  My scribbled directions were hard to follow, but eventually I found the tiny village where my  Chambre d'hote w...

I can't believe how much easier touring is becoming thanks to my ipad and the internet.  Each morning I estimate the days' ride using Google Maps then use a booking website to find cheap accommodation for the evening.  With GPS it's possible to book really out of the way places knowing that they will be easy to find.  Unfortunately my phone's battery is on the way out and I have no way of charging it on the bike, so I have to write down directions to use at the end of the day. Yesterday I decided to head for Asti, near Turin, ready for crossing the Alps today.  It was a long but uneventful ride from Nocera to Asti and after riding round the beautiful old town for fifteen minutes I finally picked up the scent of my b&b, a charming old house called "La Cascina Rossa" (the Red Farm) a couple of kilometres out of town.  In the evening I rode back into Asti and had a stonking supper of squid and potatoes, followed by fritto misto di pesche washed down with...

I had a very long day yesterday.  What should have been a simple train journey from Bari to Locorotondo became an Italian epic.  A train arrived on time at Bari Central station, but after the passengers got on, the guard helpfully informed us it was a delayed earlier train going somewhere different.  Our train finally arrived fifteen minutes late and took us only a few stations to Rutigliano, where this train's guard told us that we had to transfer to a coach because of repair work caused by the fact that robbers had stolen some of the overhead electric cables for the copper.  The bus took us to Conversano, where we got another train before having to change again at Putignano, finally arriving in Locorotondo a mere forty five minutes late, where our good friend and neighbour Paolo was waiting to pick me up. The delays did allow for some interesting encounters.  At the start of the journey I chatted with an old guy who lives in Noicattaro and proudly told me...

I'm on my way to collect my motorbike from Puglia.  This is the start of a new set of travels, first to Italy, then shortly after I return to the UK, Vietnam and Borneo, to celebrate mine and Sue's sixtieth birthdays. It started at ten am with a bus from dad's place into town.  This zigzagged through the suburbs picking up mainly elderly folk off to do the shopping.  Then at Lincoln Central Station the first of three trains getting me to Stansted Airport via Newark, Peterborough, March, Ely and Cambridge.  I looked at the flat landscape with a new interest as I've recently been thinking about buying a pied a terre with the proceeds of the sale of dad's bungalow and I've been considering somewhere closer to Stansted.  Ely looked especially attractive as we skirted the town and I got a view of the cathedral with a large marina in the foreground. Now I'm on the very familiar Ryanair flight to Bari, my impatience building as we get closer.  After we ...

I've been going more and more stir crazy staying at dad's place waiting for the 'phone to ring.  Sometimes it feels like I'm in hiding here, reluctant to make contact with people for reasons I don't understand.  I have a list of people I feel I should 'phone, but somehow I never get around to it.  In need of some human interaction beyond Facetime with Sue on my Mac, occasional meals with my dad's friend Bernie and a chat with the checkout staff at Sainsburys, I finally gave my old friend Andrew a call on Friday and invited him over for the weekend. Andrew and I first met thirty five years ago at a course for trainee local government accountants and had an instant rapport, both unable to take the process seriously and disappearing over the wall to the nearest pub at the first opportunity.  Later, we studied together for a while at East Ham Technical College, where he was my bridge partner during long pub lunchtimes and a bit later we both worked for ...

I got a call yesterday from young Jamie at the estate agents to say that the people that came to view the house last Friday had made an offer.  After a little haggling we settled on a figure and so I hope it is done, for the second time of asking. As ever, it's a question of waiting.  I seem to be doing a lot of that again these days, including waiting for funeral directors to 'phone - it's all gone quiet since I got back from Puglia.  I feel a like a prisoner in dad's little bungalow and that the new buyers are coming to spring me. Peering out at the garden this evening I notice that the pear tree dad tried to kill with creosote has another bumper crop and that the wooden eagle that sits on plinth nearby has fallen in the strong winds and that its paint is beginning to peel.  Hopefully I'll be gone before the fruit has ripened ...

So often I seem to see the most fantastic sunsets waiting for a plane.  I guess it's a combination of having time on your hands and that airports usually give you a big view of the sky.  This was what I saw from the departure lounge of Bari Airport yesterday as the sun went down behind the Adriatic. I was feeling very tired having drunk too much alcohol over the preceding week.  A bit strung out and tense as well.  And alone.  I would like to have started a conversation with someone, anyone.  But my English reserve cut in and I remained silent, while trying to look enigmatic. My thoughts turned to home as the queue for the plane began to form, even before it had landed.  Home?  Our house in Puglia or England and dad's little bungalow or both? Missing dad.  Missing Sue.  Feeling lost and excited.

I've spent the last week at home in Puglia.  For my last evening I went out with our friend Pat to Il Cucco, one of our favourite restaurants in Cisternino and then to Bar Fod, my favourite bar in all the world, in one of the central piazzas of the beautiful little town. It's still early in the season so although the days are pleasantly warm and sunny there are still very few tourists around and the outside chairs and tables of the bar were only half full.  Last night was a bit chilly and the bar staff were handing out bright yellow blankets to anyone who was feeling the cold. I had an ice-cream, a coffee and a small grappa and did what I always do in Bar Fod - lay back and watch the people passing by - old ladies with dogs, canoodling couples, anxious Brits glued to their guidebooks and those not so easy to place. I shall be sad to leave today.  Back to dad's tatty little bungalow, waiting for something to happen.

I woke up about one am this morning and for some reason checked my emails and found one from Sue only a few minutes old.  She'd just woken up when her hotel room in Kota Kinabalu started moving and things falling over.  I checked the internet and then got another email from Sue confirming there'd been an earthquake under nearby Mount Kinabalu.  Now there is more information that there are some people missing and killed on the mountain, including someone our friend Kerry knows.