Asha my Aegean blue Triumph Bonneville was parked in front of a wall of red bougainvillea interspersed with white tipped rose buds, sparrows played hide-and-seek amongst the foliage, and blue-black butterflies flitted between the flowers.

An Iranian man in an open necked shirt and grey wide bottomed flares holding his son in his arms peered at the top of the tank, which listed the countries from Scotland to Nepal that I was riding through.

He then looked to the side of the tank at a map of Europe, the Middle-East and South Asia.

Every time he tried to explain to his son my journey the little boy would wave into his father's mirror sunglasses.

The gentleman turned around and looked in my direction.

Yes, I nodded.

He came over to where I was sat and asked if I had traveled all that way.

I had.

His little boy wanted to know why I travel.

"To meet people like you."

We laughed and I shook his hand and I tapped his son gently on the arm.

He couldn't stay any longer, as he had to go shopping with his wife.

"Wives are the same the world over then!" We both nodded.

As he rushed off flicking the fringe out of the little boy's eyes, he turned:

"I will comeback later and we will take tea."

I waited, but he never did.

Six weeks from Glasgow to Kathmandu riding throuugh eleven countries experiencing only hospitality not hostility.

I was in Tabriz in northern Iran after driving 1400 miles from Istanbul. I was tired and I need to rest up for a while.

What now seemed a long time ago - two weeks or so ago, back in Mulhouse in southern France I had left the Formule1 hotel I was staying at and filled Asha up at the first petrol station I came to.

It was across the road from the Schlumpf Car Museum, which houses a priceless collection of prestigious cars. Maybe a special section could be opened for priceless Triumph motorcycles?

Katee the petrol station attendant insisted on taking my photograph. She kept saying: "I was so real, you are so real". I left with a smile on my face.

It took me no time at all to cross over to Switzerland. I rode straight through the border post and into a labyrinthine maze of tunnels and underpasses beneath Basel. It was not what I expected, flat and not a mountain in sight.

Soon though, the motorway climbed up and through a tunnel to another glorious valley and a picturesque blue tinged lake. The mountains slopes were covered with grass manicured as well as pristine bowling green lawns.

I was in awe at the expense and expertise the Swiss had spent to build the motorways and tunnels, and I had not paid a toll for the privilege to use them.

After riding through the 16km St Gotthard Tunnel I stopped off at a service area where I met a guy called Wayne who had taken three months off from teaching.

I noticed a sticker on the front of his BMW. What's that for? I enquired. Oh' that's the Swiss road tax which you must pay at the border.

All the way to the frontier I thought a Swiss border guard was going to put an apple on my head and use me for target practice.

Scream if you want to go faster

I was surprised to find that Milan is close to the Swiss border and it wasn't long until I hit the Milan ring road - like the M25 on steroids.

In the outside lane I had to ride at over 80mph and keep an eye on what was behind me, as cars just came right up behind me.

If I rode in the inside lane I had to try and dodge the trucks.

They have two signs on the back:

80 - very fast 90 - hold on.

I stopped and caught my breath…'oh and my nerve back.

As soon as I have been out of the main cities the roads have been relatively clear.

I managed to get to my friend Aidan and Bianca's house in Tuscany without any further scares. A wonderful couple of days spent with Aidan.

Brief Encounter

I left Aidan's and rode down past Florence then took a turn east and started to climb up over the mountains to Ancona to catch the ferry to Greece.

The road was empty and I rode upwards around wonderful sweeping bends.

I stopped at a lay-by to drink some water and admire the view.

At the other end of the lay-by stood two girls in short skirts and knee length boots. They weren't waiting for a bus.

I told them I was Scottish and I pointed to the map on Asha's tank from Glasgow to Nepal. They told me they were from Bratislava.

As my Slovakian is nil and they're English just as bad, we laughed and used sign language.

I think I got it across to them that I preferred keen amateurs.

However, the younger of the two looked very fragile and appeared to me to have been mentally, sexually or physically abused.

She looked scared enough.

I rode on feeling very angry that these two women could be left in a lay-by miles away from anywhere doing what they did.

I don't know if someone came and picked them up every evening or if they just got a lift to the next lay-by.

It upset me then and it upsets me now.

Running on empty

One of the first rules of adventure motorcycling is always to fill up your petrol tank the first chance you get as you don't know when you will reach the next petrol station. Italy closes down between one and three in the afternoon and I was concerned about Asha's thirst.

After what had happened at the last lay-by I felt sad, and lonely. After reaching the summit I took it easy down the other side.

I came across a petrol station with no one about. I stopped and noticed a tin can on the top of the petrol pump. It had a note in it and about 180 Euros.

I filled up the tank and left 20 Euros.

Fear of flying

I caught the ferry with only 10 minutes to spare. Well everyone needs a bit of tension in his or her lives.

In the bar I met up with Girt a German bus driver who was taking a group to southern Greece. He had been to the UK many times and we chatted about London, York, and Edinburgh. Oh' and football which I struggled a bit with.

I asked if him he flew to get away from the buses for a while. He told me he had only ever been on two flights.

On the first flight thick black smoke poured into the cabin and on the second due to bad weather had a terrible landing.

A stocky wee guy came into the bar, which immediately interested me. I went over and asked if I could join him.

He was Peruvian and was going to Greece to sail his employer's yacht back to France. He had come over from South America 20 years ago.

He learnt to speak French, how to sail and trained as a carpenter.

He then bought a 21-foot wooden fishing smack; fitted a mast and then sailed it back across the Atlantic to South America.

Not bad. 'Ah?

To be continued.