Once again I am up early and leave Guy snoozing in the room. When my head hits the pillow at night, I'm out like a light. I am able to get my rest and usually am ready to go when daylight shows up. So I quietly slip out of the room to leave him to his important matters. I wander down to the coffee shop and see that some of the folks are already enjoying their morning tea. We talk about the day and where we will be going. It will be a leisurely ride to some amazing historical sites – not a lot of miles, but some beautiful runs along the southwestern English sea coast. I finish up my breakfast and go back to the room.

“Hey, you gonna sleep all day?” I ask Guy.

“Alright buddy, gotta get goin” he replies.

I gather up my belongings and head out the ST1300. I'm still not as quick packing it as I am my ST1100s, but I'm getting better. The UK riders are already in the lot and getting ready to ride. I see my friend Moff who was so kind to give us our London walking tour, so I go over and give him a big hug.

When I get back to my bike, there's couple with a cute little girl who is intently staring at my bike with her dark eyes.

“If it is okay with you, she is more than welcome to sit on the bike” I tell the parents.

“Oh, are you sure it would be all right?” the mom asks.

“Absolutely. I'll start it up so she can honk the horn and rev the motor!”

The little girl just has a big time playing with her new ‘toy'.

“Hold it right there and I will get a picture for you. If you'll send me an e-mail, I'll send you copy of it when I get back” I volunteer and give them one of my business cards.

The parents are just amazed that a stranger would volunteer to do that, and they thank me. I can't help but remember when I was a little kid and being fascinated by my granddaddy's motorcycle in the old farm shed. I figure as much bad press that is out there about riders, a little kindness along the way can't hurt. Besides, it might start her a lifelong love of motorcycling. As they walk away, it's time to mount up and Peter explains how the ride will be conducted.

"The lead bike and tail gunner will never change.  Anytime we arrive at a point where a decision has to made, I will drop off the number 2 bike.  I will signal and expect you to find a safe place to the side, where everyone coming past will know what direction we went.  Remain posted at the turn until the gunner comes into view, when you see Moff you know everyone is accounted for, and take the spot directly in front of him, he will let you in.  At no time pass the rider ahead of you.  Everyone will have a turn near the front.  This way you always know who the person is in front and behind you.  If one of them comes up missing, let someone know."

One thing you come to really appreciate riding in the UK is the better discipline of the drivers and the awareness of motorcycles. Drivers expect you to do what you are supposed to for the most part, so if your turn signal is on, you had better turn. I quickly discover that I cannot see the turn indicators on the ST1300, so my UK friends gently remind me of my peril until I do a better job of watching it. The day is cloudy and cool, which makes for good riding. But getting used to the idea of a vehicle on your right, especially in a left hander on a narrow road, still tends to unnerve you a little.

As we pass through the coastal villages we encounter some serious traffic, which will be typical for the day. I notice an unusual sight – a Union Jack fluttering in the coastal breeze. I've seldom seen one flying as I've traveled about the UK

Soon we come to the ferry at Dartmouth, where the Royal Navy has an officer's school. It's quite a collection of ST1100s and ST1300s assembled. Coastal ferries are in frequent use all over the UK and are pretty efficient and can save several hours of travel time. It's been drizzling a bit so you have to really watch going up and down the ramps. It's a bit like a bank robbery – ‘don't nobody make no sudden moves and won't nobody get hurt'. Pieter, a BMW rider from Holland almost drops his bike on the slick surfaces, but several of the fellows come to the rescue.

As we leave the city and climb into slightly higher elevations, a fog bank sweeps in and the riders in front of me disappear into it.

Peter is taking us to a unique area known as Slapton Sands in Devon. During World War II, the Allies took over this part of the country to train for the D-Day invasion because the area was so similar to the beaches at Normandy.

It was a top secret event and there would be bombing and use of live ammunition. The government relocated the local people to other areas of the country so that secrecy could be maintained. During the early hours of April 28, 1944, nine German U-boats intercepted the final training rehearsal for D-Day called Operation Tiger and 946 US servicemen were killed in the ensuing battle. Most loved ones back in the states never knew exactly what happened until one gentleman, Ken Small, later became intrigued with the affair and dedicated his life to finding out what happened. He published a book “The Forgotten Dead” (ISBN 0-7475-7543-6) about his story and research. Almost by accident, he also found an old Sherman Tank that had sunk during the affair. After much effort, he was able to bring it ashore and use it as the centerpiece of a memorial to those who made the ultimate sacrifice.

It is a fitting memorial to a generation that was willing to pay the price to make sure that America remained free. One big difference then was that the media was helping instead of hurting the war effort. Can you even imagine trying to accomplish the same thing today? CNN would be on it like a duck on a junebug, notifying all of our enemies exactly what our plans were and then complaining about the ensuing slaughter. The idea of sacrificing for a greater good seems to have been erased from most of the American minds –except for those great men and women who have joined the military now to serve their country. Having spent two years in the Marines, I have a great appreciation for those who chose to serve. Whenever I see a World War II, Korean or other vet, I always try to thank them for their sacrifice. So I really appreciate Peter planning a stop here so I could take in this bit of forgotten history. There is a nice coffee shop at the memorial, so we wander into it after we've surveyed the area. Moff tells me,

“You've got to have a proper creamed tea now.”

For this simple hillbilly, I'm thinking “Creamed tea – what would a feller put cream in tea for? That's what you do with coffee”, but I keep it to myself. Always one up for trying something different, I tell him –

“Just show me the way.”

He gets me fixed up and it is nothing like what I expected. I receive a wonderful scone (a biscuit where I'm from), some delicious Devon clotted cream, delightful jam, and a nice cup of hot tea. Moff explains to me –

“White sugar goes in the tea, not brown.”

I figure there's a lot more to this that I'll ever know, so I try to take it all in. Then the ‘famous' discussion about the order of application of cream and jam to the scone takes place. It seems that Keith is from Cornwall and Peter is from Devon and they have a major difference of opinion over the proper preparation of a creamed tea. It was quite a robust conversation but I will quote Peter's later written explanation (since I don't have one from Keith) so that I get it straight –

Then of course the next question which cream Cornish or Devonish as they are made differently. Devonshire clotted cream is made by scalding the milk and then leaving it to stand for several hours and removing the cream/crust which forms on the top. Cornish clotted cream is made by separating the cream from the milk, then heating it and allowing it to cool slowly. Gives a slightly different result. So there you have it - Devon Cream teas are the best because I come from Devon.”

So there you have it as written by a man who knows!

As we look out over the harbor, I can only imagine the excitement and trepidation of those brave folks boarding the Mayflower.

Guy walks through the commemorative arch and is lost in his thoughts about what this place means.

I quietly walk past him and view the actual steps that the Pilgrims used to board for their long journey to the “New World”.

Since most of the fish and chip shops in Looe are not very large, we split up into small groups so we do not overwhelm the folks in one place. The fish and chips you get along the coasts of the U.K. are far and above better than anything you see in the states. They are usually fresh and very tasty, not the ‘under the lamp' stuff that's just been freshly defrosted that we get. I'm not much of seafood person, but when it's fresh seafood I really like it a lot. We still have a pretty good little journey by British standards to get to Pendeen, our stop for the evening, so it's collecting time and we're off again. As we make our way across the southwest part of England, the weather turns a bit for the worse. A slow drizzle sets in and the roads become even slicker.

As we pass through some farming villages, Colin, who is in front me of has a bit of ‘tail waggle' as his ST1100 slips on a mysterious liquid on the road. I take note and am extra careful as I pass through the same stuff. Before long, we come to the River Fal in Cornwall. We spend a short time waiting to cross on King Harry Ferry. The name just sort of tickles me when I think about.

Again, the getting on and getting off the ferry has to be taken with care because of the drizzle that is coming down. But we all manage it with no problems and soon we are back at it. When we finally pull into the North Inn where we have accommodations, the wind has picked up and it is turning cold.