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It was disappointing but not wholly unexpected, not to be allowed into Algeria. It’s meant to be a beautiful country, the 11th largest in the world, but coming as it does with such a terrifying reputation, perhaps our guardian angel had our best interests at heart. The ferry to Genoa was both slow and dull, like a self imposed captivity. Our two days of freedom in Italy was a reality check on how much life in the Euro zone costs, but it was great to have some good food, and see some comforting European surroundings.

Fortunately there is a BMW concession in Genoa. I don’t speak Italian. They didn’t speak much English, and no French. I had ordered two parts I knew we needed, and went to collect them. Whilst I was there I asked if the mechanic could identify what a particular noise was. Expecting and hoping him to take the bike for a ride, I was somewhat surprised to see him ride off with the spares tucked into his belt. Perhaps it was best. He identified the noise; new bearings needed in the shaft, but then the old girl has clocked up 63,000 miles, and been through some rough stuff.

Whilst waiting to board the Tunis bound ferry we were amongst thirty or so other bikes. Now I know she’s no beauty, but I love my bike. She a working bike, modified for proper hardcore adventuring!! True she could do with a clean, and the modified fuel tank could do with painting, but she works, and she’s all we’ve got. For her age and what she’s been through she’s in good shape. As we hovered around her, keeping very much to ourselves, we had to admit though, she did look like a Gypsy Caravan. As we didn’t have far to come from our hotel, and knowing we hadn’t booked a cabin, we had dressed accordingly with our bike trousers packed away so we would have to take only the minimum on board with us. Still, the sight we afforded to the others, all dressed in their new desert gear, shinny bikes polished to perfection and spotless boots, must have been comic. Apart from being in thin jeans, the stuffed panniers had our ferry bag – one of those plasticized bags old folk have on their shopping trolleys – strapped to one side and a bulging picnic basket on the other, both being clutched by Flora. Our djelaba bag hung from the day bags bungeed to the back, and all in all we looked a little particular.

Eventually on board, we had hoped to get a cabin, but there was a clear sign informing everyone there were no more available. It was three pm; we were due to dock in 24 hours. More self-contained captivity, but a lighter sentence this time. We found an open locker, with our soon to be hosts, far away from the other Europeans. There were definite boundaries. When night time came, the ubiquitous blaring TV, available at any hour of the day, in every public space, was turned down but not off. We politely shifted a somnolent Tunisian from our corner of the room, clearly – of course – marked out by our bags and helmets as a German would do with his swimming towel to a deckchair. We soon learned the comfy thing to do is to rip the seat cushions off their Velcro fastenings, and fashion a makeshift mattress. Following suit we passed a not too awful night, aside from my tummy fighting to cope with the rich Genoese food.

It’s a dull thing, the ferry!