Take a couple of (rubbish) photos then start the descent. More amazing views and a little way down decide to stop and take more pictures. All alone apart from the occasional passing car and a youngish middle-aged guy wandering about - odd there's no sign of a parked car. Take some pictures, get kitted up again, sit on the bike, (parked in gear on a gravely slope) and am just about to start it when there's a tap on my shoulder. Look around, and it's this guy. "What?" I say, and he points down. I look where he's pointing and see him pumping his dick as it hangs out of his pants. I resist the temptation to rap it hard with my carbon knuckles, mainly because I'm worried about being dragged off the bike, so do the cleverest thing I can think off - shout "Fuck off" at him and drive away. Regaling friends later with the story and I'm gleefully told this was obviously an alpine pass. Groan. Only in Italy could you have perverts up mountains.

At the next fuel stop I've been averaging 71kph since the last - not good as a fair chunk of the last tankful (about 280km) had been on motorways. It's mid afternoon and I reconcile myself to not reaching Monaco today.

Bike is purring though, and the roads get faster. I make my way out of the Alps and down to Milan via Monza, it's 5:00pm, busy, and I fill with petrol even though I don't really need it yet: I'll be looking for a room in about 100 miles so don't want to be worried about fuel then as well. Take Autostrada from Milan towards Torino, but, as getting through Torino looked a nightmare on the map I exit the Autostrada at Chivasso and head south looking for somewhere to stay. Motor down the 458 (a much better road than it appears on the map) towards Asti, quite a large town, finding nowhere to stay until I get there around 7:45 as it's getting dark. And have a very nice evening at the Hotel Rainero in the town centre for 55 euro - bargain. 734km over the mountains from Rosenheim and I'm exhausted.

16th September, Thursday, I open the shutters and it's raining. I'd been woken by a huge thunderstorm in the night, and as I take the lift down to breakfast I see the lobby has colour photos of when the town last flooded and black and white ones of the time before that - car roofs visible above disgustingly coloured water, boats at first floor windows, people looking damp and pissed off. This doesn't cheer me up in the slightest.

Sit down for breakfast and notice that my arse is sore - which is unusual. So I do a detailed check in the mirror when I'm back at my room - not a pretty sight and worse than usual today; my buttocks appear to be corrugated. Skin unbroken but chafed. Wonder if it's the Ducati seat (comfortable for about 200kms, then starts getting hard), but from the position of the corrugations decide it's probably down to my jockey shorts - they have seen better days, ahem. Don't want to continue like this, though as it'll only get worse, so do a bit of shopping in the rain. At a chemist I point to some plasters and gesticulate "Bigger! Bigger!" It works and I've got some stick-on padding. I also find a cheap clothes store (didn't know they had them in Italy, but it was just as well because the expensive ones weren't opening before 10:30) and bought some boxers. Patched myself up at the hotel and left at 10:00. It had stopped raining, but 20 minutes later it started again.

Even without the rain this stretch across northern Italy would have been the pits. The roads looked OK on the map but were single carriageway and infested with lorries, lots of cars and unending ribbon development - hardly any open stretches at all. Just like home in fact, apart from the mountains in the distance and the standard of driving - Italian car drivers seem much more awake than UK ones, although their habit of starting to creep out as you approach is disconcerting. Saw and waved to a few Italians on bikes as well, but they didn't seem to see me. Brits tend to nod while the French and Belgians take the left hand off the bars and hold it palm down as they come towards you. The Germans (almost imperceptibly) raise a finger, and I'd assumed that the Italians, famed for talking mainly with their arms, would at least wave their helmet or dance on the seat, but no - in Italy absolutely nothing was the only response I got.

My route was to head to the Med via Cuneo and Menton and I'd assumed a couple of hours to see the sea. It took double that and didn't stop raining until I popped out of the tunnel into the south of France. The road surface immediately improved as usual, the sun came out and I started to enjoy myself swinging the bike down the gorge, watching the distance to Menton get shorter and shorter on the signs… until suddenly the signs turned back into Italian, Menton wasn't mentioned and the road side sprouted signs saying SS20. Clearly I was back in Italy, but for the life of me I couldn't work out how, so stopped and checked the map. And close examination showed that Italy bulged over the road and now the place to head for was Ventimiglia. Arrive and there's an Autostrada signed to Nice. It couldn't be far and I was keen not to get involved with another Italian town, so I roll up to the booth, gloves off, take ticket, stash it safely, gloves on, into first, second, third, round a bend… and there's another booth, manned. Slow down, gloves off, hand over ticket, find money, pay toll, stash wallet, gloves back on, and head towards Nice thinking "Why?".

Peel off the Autoroute at Monaco and cruise through. It's 2:00pm, the Med is a gorgeous aquamarine and there's a lot of big boats and bourgmobiles on view. It's sunny and warm so stop and get out of my wets. Pose along the coast and through Nice, looking for the N85 to Digne Le Bains and Grenoble - the famous Route Napolean and supposed to be a fabulous road. Coming out of Nice I see Digne on the signs so follow them out of the town and towards the mountains. After a few miles I spot the road is the N202, so check the map, and I've turned inland too early, but this road looks good on the map so I continue. And it's a gem - mostly following valleys through the mountains with road surfaces you could play snooker on (were there any holes), a few real sharp bends but mostly sweeper after sweeper and spectacular views - a total and uplifting contrast to the morning's ride. And very little traffic, reason for which becomes clear around 4:00pm - I'm about 20km from Digne and there's suddenly a queue. Filter up it and see the road's been closed. Ask a lorry driver when it'll be open again - 5:00pm. I now realise the significance of the yellow 'route barrée' signs I've been seeing - I knew a road was going to be closed, but the village name wasn't on my map so I'd assumed it was another, minor, road. Ho hum. Check map again to see if there was any way I could divert but no, this is mountain country and to go around would've meant backtracking for hours. So I retrace the last 20kms to enjoy the road again and fill up with fuel, and when I return the queue's moving.

Because of this delay I ditch the plan to head north to Grenoble. I'm supposed to be in Melle (way to the west, near Niort) the next day, I want to get there before dark and I'm covering ground too slowly. So from Digne I head north then north-west onto the D993, good call!

Stelvio Pass. No trees, but pervert just out of shot

I'm in the Ardêche, a part of France I've not gone through before and it's an amazing mix of mountains and plains. It just randomly repeats: a stretch of flat, open sweepers, a long straight, a set of twisties tighter than a seagull's sphincter, all for mile after mile and all to a backdrop of mountains on every side - stunning. It's a fact about French roads that you simply cannot judge the quality from the title - this is yet another D road that's wider and better maintained than most English A roads. And the views... speechless.

I start looking for places to stay in Die (as in a place to...) but eventually get the cheapest room of the trip further on in Crest (19 euro and not worth it). Spend the difference on a Cordon Bleu meal, best of the trip, in the bistro next door (duck with mushrooms and scallops, fine wine and a wonderful cheeseboard, mmm!). Afterwards check the bike - 591kms today, and work out a route for tomorrow - I need to go a long way, over mountains so I put the emphasis on speed, and plan west then north via Le Puy and Clermond Ferrand, mostly on N roads.

It's Friday and I'm due in Melle this evening. Set off at 8:30 in watery sunshine on a crisp clear morning worried about how long it seems to take to get anywhere. But the roads (N102/N88) are fantastic - wide open with gentle curves and great visibility, I bowl along at 180+kph and get to Le Puy in less than 90 minutes. So I zap my original route and improvise west to Aurillac along roads that look good on the map; another top result and the N122 is a dream. There's absolutely no doubt that of all the roads I've done this trip the French ones are far and away the best, in terms of surface, signposting, scenery and traffic. I don't think I went round a single bend in France that wasn't constant radius and only in France do you get drivers egging you on as you pass them. Admittedly they do sometimes get a bit over-enthusiastic and drive on the verge to give you ample room to pass, forcing you to do so asap just to get out of the debris they're throwing at you, but I can forgive them for that.

Aurillac to Tulle, Autoroute to Limoges, I'm out of the mountains and it's only about 150kms to Melle… where I pitch up about 5:00pm, 630kms later.

I'm staying with Tony for the next few days, an old chum who runs motorcycling weekends for English bikers (http://www.flashtours.co.uk/), and he has half a dozen down this weekend. The deal is he wines and dines them, puts them up in 'le chateau' for a long weekend, and leads them out on an interesting run each day (2 - 300kms), which I tag onto. Good roads and he's still quick on his 1100GS BMW so we have loads of fun. The food is, er, also interesting - he's a good cook and we both love French food but unfortunately that's not something his clientele go for. It seems, he confides in me, that English bikers only like their food in geometric shapes and/or bland, so burgers, fish fingers and pizza are good, along with pasta, rice and couscous. I dream of duck and on the last day he redeems himself by serving oysters. Not unexpectedly not everyone's cup of tea, so I can indulge myself!

Final day and I've got to get to Cherbourg. Tony gives me a 'twisties' route. As I head north the leaves have started to change and drop, eight hours later I'm getting on the Cherbourg/Portsmouth express, and by 11:00pm I'm home. In total, 5512 km, or 3445 miles so she's about 1000 miles past the second service mileage. In the whole trip the Ducati used just under a litre of oil and I adjusted the chain twice… the second time to slacken it off. No, I've no idea either.

Good trip? Absolutely. I enjoy the camaraderie of riding in a group, but going alone and just out of season has its advantages too. It meant no need to book rooms in advance and so no need to stick to a particular itinerary or timetable. It also meant I covered ground far more quickly - I seriously doubt a group could have covered the distance from Rosenheim to Melle via the Med in three days, having to travel at the speed of the slowest and gassing up en-masse (which never takes less than half an hour every 120 miles when I'd have at least another 90 miles in the tank). I also didn't bother much with lunch stops, and when I did it wasn't for more than 30 mins - again, not really an option if a group's not to develop fractious elements. And, of course, I had three days of group riding at the end to look forward to.

Looking back the only part I'd change would be heading down to the Med from Italy - I'd wanted to get there just to see it, but given the state of the roads and the traffic if I were to do it again I'd not drop south after the Stelvio, I'd head west instead, staying in the Alps, heading towards Grenoble and doing the Col d'Iseran as well. Maybe next year, ho ho!

Ardeche. Poor photo of a great road