Jane’s dad is not sure that securing a passage for me and the bike to Iceland out of a port such as Frazerburgh would be strictly legal, unless it has a border control post. I hadn’t thought about this, I find the whole concept of political borders and passports an anathema. If I could find someone to take me, I think I’d go anyway but only if I felt sure I could get a similar ride back, otherwise things might get tricky. Failing this a return ferry ticket from Scotland to Torshavn, in the Faroes, and on to Seydisfjordur from there, presents a less risky option.
Directferries.co.uk has this to say about 'Plan C'; Sorry, our Scotland - Faroe Islands page is no longer available due to this service not running anymore. Bummer. I did read somewhere that it’s always worth calling as some sailings somehow go to Iceland even when they technically don’t exist. I’ll be following up this line of enquiry by phone. On the plus side, the two ferries implicated in Plan C should work out cheaper than the three in Plan A [TBB 5.1]. I would also get to ride through Scotland.
My investments haven’t taken off, yet, and I have to face the fact that I’m likely to be on a tight budget when the time comes. Two companies I nearly invested in are doing very nicely, proving what a gamble it all is. Baobab Resources (LON:BAO) is particularly buoyant; I was attracted to this mining outfit having been to Tete, in Mozambique, where they operate. Indeed, the Tete river crossing is notorious in our family history and it was my first ever ferry ride.
All the way from Blantyre down to the Malawi/Mozambique border my sister and I pestered our mum with questions about the trip we were making through to Zimbabwe, as dad bounced the bashplate on our Morris 1800 through the ruts. Mars (for they were Mars and Hack to us) told us about the ferry boat – shops upstairs, cars downstairs – and that there might even be a ping pong table for us to play on, while the parents went for whatever at the bar.
When we got to Tete the river was swollen and the ferry nothing more than a raft chained to a smoky tugboat. We were horrified but it was the only way across. I’ve never been tempted by theme park rides - why would you want to go on a log flume after the Tete ferry, 1970s style? I remember sitting in the front seat of the car, belt on, watching the boiling brown torrent lashing at the small boat wreathed in diesel smoke upstream, a long stretch of rusty looking chain keeping us all from croc-infested oblivion.
Mum and dad endured but never really gelled with Africa proper. Colonial Africa was their thing, a kind of suspended disbelief in shorts. Christ, they even wore business suits with shorts and called them Safari Suits. This kind of dislocation from reality is what you get when you stick doggedly with what you know, even though you’re thousands of miles away from home. Crazy really. And when they eventually did return to Europe it had changed beyond recognition too. Double whammy.
I dropped in to see if I could catch the old boy at Bruce’s shop who works on the vintage bikes but he was gone. I got talking to Bruce instead, who is less cagey than I first thought. The man builds bikes to order and he’s selling the car business to concentrate on this. He’s got to get though a brain operation later in the year before he kickstarts his core interest out of a home-based workshop. So the Black Bullet will be in safe hands when things need done in time to come. I hope it all works out for him, I really do. The bike comes back tomorrow.
