avoidingeurope

Three Years

2010-03-03T13:01:00.001Z

I miss the soles of my feet clipping my pedals everyday,
Trying to read foreign road signs, losing my way.

I miss the sun on my face, the burn in my legs,
Arriving at a campsite, claiming my place.

I miss looking out at another beautiful new view,
Eating pizza in Italy, Hungarian stew.

I miss worrying about the state of my tyres,
Being thankful in Germany for a pub’s real fire.

I miss all of the times when I was amazed,
Surviving Greece in a heat wave, twice across Spain.

I miss the challenge of living out there on my own,
Riding country to country on my bicycle home.

I miss the sweat in my eyes, the dirt on my clothes,
The calluses on my hands, sitting in cafes writing prose.

I miss drinking Guinness with Norwegians in Nice,
Tapas in Spain, souvlaki in Greece.

I miss talking to my journal every single day,
Of always having something exciting to say.

I miss patting the frame of my bike, me and him against the world,
Holding on tightly as another mountain unfurls.

Most of all I miss the limitless freedom I had,
Sitting here thinking, trying not to look back.

Moving On

2008-02-02T19:24:00.001Z

I've decided to leave Avoiding Europe here, at its natural conclusion as a journey. The physical journey, at least. It continues still for me, of course, as I try to put into words - entertaining words at that - my story of Europe. I think this is the most difficult part so far.

I'm not going completely though, just moving. Here, if you feel so inclined. Thanks for joining me on my bike.

Observations of an ex-cyclist

2007-12-21T18:14:00.000Z

Opinion is divided on what is apparently the hot topic of debate following my return - have I lost a lot of weight or not. 'Skinny' say some, 'broader' say others, 'let's have a look at your legs' say perverts. I don't know, I haven't weighed myself, but I remain perplexed as to why my body shape and size is seen as 'fair game' for discussion and comment, when fatties get left well alone.

Upon return, I found myself immersed in retirement with my Dad. With Mum out at work we fill our days worrying about the time the postman comes, agonising over lunch choices, indulging in a good bit of curtain twitching and neighbourhood gossip and, in the evenings, working our way throug my Dad's stock of Claret. All good fun, as you can imagine, but after two weeks of that, and lots of sleep, I felt the need to get on with things.

I have started writing a book based on the trip. It's in the early stages still, in concept as well as content, as I search for the style I'm after. I don't want to write a 'normal' travel book. I'm aiming for something which reads like a novel but is, of course, true. A 'Trovel' a friend of mine suggested, which I quite like.

I'm fortunate enough to have not spent all my savings over the last nine months, so I don't have to get paid work yet. As I keep having to remind my Mum, I do have a job - I'm a writer - it's just not very well paid at the moment. I still struggle to answer the 'so what do you do?' question from people I meet though. 'I'm a writer' sounds very pretentious in the pub but it is true at the moment, I guess.

I will be renaming this blog and concentrating on things other than the bike ride - a move to Manchester becons in the new year so maybe the scallies up there will provide me with some inspiration.

I started riding my bike again this week, every day, after three weeks off. It's nice. Retirement and Claret haven't taken all my fitness from me.

Finally, a request. When (if) I see you, please don't ask me if I've seen Long Way Down/Round. Everybody - literally - asks me and it's very annoying. I still don't know why or what relation it has to what I did. Engines, support team and a camera crew? No, that's not it.

Day 254 - Chichester - Southern England

2007-11-21T08:48:00.000Z

Monday of this week, 10pm, I'm sitting in bed in a small hotel in the French town of Abbeville, contemplating the next four days riding to Le Harve. Well, more the fact that they will be my last four days riding rather than the actual riding itself.

I phone home and speak to my parents, as has become routine on a Monday night. "I'll be on a ferry to Portsmouth this Friday," I tell my Dad. "What time?" he asks. "I don't know, whenever they go, I suppose." I can hear my Dad clicking on his computer, using our friend Google to find ferry times. "Oh." He says. What? "Oh," he says again. What?? "There are no ferries sailing from Le Harve between the 17th and 26th November. Additional services are running from Dieppe." "Ok," I say, "I'll just go from Dieppe then." I think about this for a second, then it hits me. "It's tomorrow," I say. "What's tomorrow?" "Dieppe," I reply, "I planned to be in Dieppe tomorrow. I can catch a boat tomorrow. This time tomorrow night I'll be in England. Tomorrow, this will be over." "There you go then."

There, indeed, I go. Or rather I did...err...go, hence the location of this post.

My last day of riding, yesterday, was 40 miles of constant rain, headwind and lorry spray slapping me in the face, up and down the gentle rolls of the French coast until I reached the outskirts of Dieppe at about 3pm. A sign sent me right to the ferry terminal and as I started rolling downhill a view opened out in front of me. Something I'd been waiting to see for a long time - the sea, the channel. I rose out of my saddle and took in the view, patted my bike on the frame. "We've done it," I told him.

500 metres further on there's a small ferry terminal at the base of a cliff. I go into the reception and am told there's a ferry sailing at 5pm, check in closes in about half an hour. Just enough time for me to take a cheesy victory photo of me and Hewy (the bike) at the channel, at the end of our journey:

p.s. This blog will continue - I'm not finished yet!

Day 248 - Charleville-Mezieres - North East France

2007-11-15T14:38:00.000Z

I bought my last maps today, to take me across Picardie and Brittany to Le Harve, and the ferry. I also visited my final two 'new' countries in the last week - Luxembourg and Belgium.

Luxembourg was a funny one - a tiny country, really only consisting of a city and some countryside. I went into the city, couldn't find anywhere to stay in/near the centre and ended up in 'The Worst Hotel in the World' (re-named by me), about a mile or so from anywhere . Not that that made much difference anyway - nothing happens in the centre, from what I could tell. Few restaurants, few bars, little life. It's nice - pretty, you know, cobbled streets, nice buildings and crap like that, but there wasn't really any life, any bite to it. Not that I saw, anyway.

Back in TWHITW, I sat on the bed looking at the dirty, thredbare carpet and the stained walls, my nostrils full of stale smoke and damp, the bed creaking and sagging underneath me, and I thought 'I'm getting sick of this shit'. The 65 euro price tag on the room didn't help. I've stayed in the centre if Vienna, in a nice place, for little more than that. And countless other places. If you want to go to a little country in Europe, go to Andorra, that's what I say. Or if you have to go to Luxembourg, don't stay in the Hotel Bristol.

So, after my 'I'm getting sick of this shit' moment, I changed my plan. I was going to head North into Belgium and touch Holland, but instead I decided to go West, through Belgium, back into France and head for the channel. Which is what I did. I was in Belgium for one night and am now looking at six days or so back to the channel.

The weather has been getting increasingly worse - I was riding in sleet the other day, snow yesterday, and temperatures rarely go over three degrees. Perhaps surprisingly, it doesn't really bother me that much. I've got clothes on, you know, and gloves, and dry clothes to wear afterwards in waterproof bags on the back of my bike, so it's just like another day at the office, so to speak.

Anyway, I'm off to enjoy my last days on the road in France, before my return to England makes this all seem so far away.

Day 242 - Metz - North East France

2007-11-09T15:15:00.000Z

Last few weeks of the trip, a gentle wind-down through quiet, peaceful France, a chance for reflection and some space in which to prepare my mind for all that will be involved in returning. All of the big adventures, nights out and strange random happenings are behind me. Or so I thought - it seems this trip is determined to keep it up right 'til the end.

Last night involved making new friends in a kebab shop and proceeding on to a hot, sweaty underground cavern of a club where French punk bands were making lots of noise, drinking industrial quantities of pression, being offered non-legal things to smoke at the bar, hanging around with ageing French punks and just generally making it impossible for me to cycle anywhere today.

I like Metz.

Day 240 - Sarreguemines - North East France

2007-11-07T15:49:00.000Z

It was my birthday yesterday. I spent it cycling through the hills and forests of Des Vosges, in Alsace. It was deserted - I think three cars passed me - and beautiful. I spent the night in a small town, had a beer, ate dinner, read a book, wrote in my journal. Just another day on the road. I think it was the first birthday I have ever spent completely on my own. It was nice. Fitting that I shall remember my 30th like that, after all I've done over the last year.

I was going to say '...spent completely on my own in a strange, foreign land,' but France doesn't feel strange or foreign to me anymore. It almost felt like home when I crossed the border from Germany - the road signs, the shops, the towns and villages. It was all somehow familiar, not that unsurprisingly as I've spent over two months here this year. Plus I can speak the lingo a bit, so can actually communicate with people on a reasonable level, which makes a nice change.

I move towards Luxembourg and Belgium in the next week or so and then probably to the channel and a boat to England. This trip has been marked throughout by various bodies of water - the Channel to the Atlantic, Atlantic to Med to Adriatic to Aegean, as well as the Loire, the Dordogne, the Rhone, the Danube, the Rhine (which I crossed two days ago)...they all seem to have provided a constant thread running through, so it will be a poignant moment when I finally reach the Channel again, signalling the end of the trip.

Those of you who have been paying attention will notice that I will therefore not be going to 'Every European Country', as I said I set out to do. That is slightly disappointing to me, but only very slightly. I would hope that you have realised by now that this was never about ticking boxes, never about just being able to say I've been here, or there, scoring some kind of points in the pub. This journey was always about just that - the journey. The discovery, the experiences, the adventure, as well as the physical and mental challenge involved in doing it as I have, alone on my bike.

I will still have done what I set out to do and that was to live this, to survive and to rise to the challenges I set myself. Returning to the channel, having travelled every land-inch on my two wheels, using only my two legs, is the biggest of those challenges and soon, hopefully, I will be succeeding in that. Then I will be a very happy 30 year old man.

No words...

2007-11-02T16:57:00.000Z

...just pictures this time...

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=11552&l=ad7c8&id=528356526

Day 229 - Ingolstadt - South-Central Germany

2007-10-27T15:32:00.000Z

My recent posts have been perhaps a bit long and, on re-reading them, I seem to do a lot of moaning. Ok, so I always do a lot of moaning - it gets me through the day and I can't help it if people are so annoying - but still, I thought I'd try a 'normal', positive post. Here goes...

Germany is nice. They have cycle lanes and big clock tower things in the town centres so even when there's no signs telling you where the centre is, you just aim for the clock tower. They also have nice beer in Germany. Something called Helles, which is different to Pils and Weissbier. I've had them all, of course. I quite like Weissbier but I think too much of it would send me loopy. They also have an Irish pub in pretty much every town so when I feel the need I can get myself a Guinness. They do it surprisingly well here. Nearly as well as the best Guinness of the trip - Scanlans Bar in Gernika Lumo, Northern Spain (Hello Patrick!).

The weather is chilly now but actually quite pleasant to ride in. Kind of fresh feeling. Birthday weather, for those in the know.

I am aiming for Luxembourg and will soon leave my friend since Bulgaria, the Danube, to head towards Stuttgart. We've had some good times together, the Danube and I, and it's been nice to have such a solid reference point when my bearings have gone a bit awry. She's been with me through three capital cities, countless miles of countryside and seven countries now. Rivers really are quite amazing, aren't they? All that water, flowing constantly. If we had to build a big river from scratch it would be quite a hard job. I like big rivers.

A typical day in Austria

2007-10-22T18:44:00.000Z

I wake from a deep, vivid dream and look at my watch. 8.45am. Really, already? I wrap myself in the duvet and lie still, trying to think of a way of freezing time so I can sleep for another four hours.

I give in a 9.02am, dress quickly and head bleery-eyed to the breakfast room. Do I want coffee, the woman asks. No, thank you. 'Coffee?' she asks in English, believing I hadn't understood her. No, thank you, juice is fine (I don't drink coffee or tea). She looks amazed, as do the rest of the people in the breakfast room. I eat two rolls, one with butter and honey, one with nutella, and some juice. I don't like being too full up when I'm riding. It's too early to be eating anyway.

I confirm that I have to be out of the room for 10am, which I do, and return to my room cursing these early risers. In the room, I open the window wide and sniff the air, gauging the weather. It feels cold, really cold. At least it's not raining. I dress - leggins, two pairs of socks, waterproof overshoes (even though it's not raining they help insulate. Plus, it might rain). Long-sleeved baselayer, thin fleece. Gloves and headband/earwarmer at the ready.

At 10.15am I carry my bags down the stairs to my bike, pat him on the frame and say, 'Morning lad'. He doesn't reply. He never does - he doesn't like mornings either. I check neither tyre has deflated in the night. They haven't, this time. I load my bike as I have done for the last 200-something times - rear panniers on, bungee strap ready, dry bags on, bungee round, attach second bungee, slip cable lock under bungee, do the same with D lock, attach computer to handlebar bracket, return settings to zero, strap watch to handlebar, clip on barbag. Ready.

I go and pay and they give me an A4 sheet of paper as an invoice, which I stuff into the back of my barbag along with the others.

Outside, I look up and down the road - empty. The Danube sits just 20 yards away from me, across the road, a thin mist still lingering on its surface. It looks beautiful, magical. I sling my leg over and straddle the bike. Another quick look up and down the road and a glance behind, to check I haven't left/dropped anything, and I'm rolling again. Ah yes, I remember this. I settle onto the saddle, a familiar sensation, no longer painful. I roll onto the road and start to spin again, my legs slightly stiff but not sore. I keep a low gear for the first kilometer or so, letting my legs warm up and my joints click back into place. Within minutes it feels natural again and I settle down, gripping the handlebar, breathing the cold air and relaxing.

I look around me - I am on a strip of tarmac about five feet wide, the water only another five feet to my right at about the same level. Across the river the land rises steeply from the water, trees blanket the hill displaying their earthy, Autumn colours. I can neither see nor hear a motorised vehicle nor another human being. Leaves cover most of the path infront of me and I have to concentrate on my line - last thing I want is to come off.

I look at my computer - five miles done. That's the warm up. I feel ok, my body has warmed and the slight chill coming through my clothing is welcome. Only my hands feel the cold, slightly.

My mind wanders - I think about the book I finished last night, how it has similarities to a story I started writing a while ago. I think about my story, why I stopped writing it. It was shit, that's why. Well, not shit. I just...I lost faith in the fact that it was worth doing, as I did with a lot of things I was writing at the time. I wonder whether I'll try writing it again when I get back and decide not to - I'll write a better one. I look at my watch and realise I've been riding for an hour, spinning continuously, averaging about 15mph on flat ground. My heart beats regularly, slowly, in my chest, my breathing is shallow. I could do this all day.

15 miles gone, I approach a little town, its clock tower and traditional-style buildings sitting perfectly against the Autumn trees and the river behind. Another perfect photo opportunity. I curse. Taking photos is a hassle sometimes, especially when it's this cold. I ask myself whether I would be happy just to commit it to memory. No, it'll only take a minute, just stop and take it. Damn you.

I stop, take the photo, convince myself it won't come out any good anyway because this new camera is shit. Bloody thing. Why did my other one have to break? That was perfect - it took the clearest pictures, no matter what situation. This new one's just crap, the focussing is really shit. I'm going to sell it on e-Bay when I get back. No, actually, I'm going to write to fucking Pentax and tell them how shit it is and how it ruined my trip. 20 miles gone.

I pass fields of deer, lots of little females and one big stag, penned in by a thin wire fence. They look beautiful against the backdrop of the river and the trees. Great, another photo stop.

Another mile on I approach two more deer, this time with no fence keeping them in. They pause by the path, look my way and I can see them both thinking 'shall we, shan't we?' They don't and hop off across the field, stopping to look back as I pass just 20 yards behind them.

The road takes me up and I relish the change in terrain - I haven't climbed a big hill for ages. My legs still feel strong though and I power up it, keeping pace for a good half a kilometer without breaking sweat or breathing heavily. It rolls down again and I feel the wind run through my clothing, chilling me properly now.

Back by the river I can't help but be taken by the scenery. I think about the many hours I've spent on my bike, alone in deserted landscapes, and realise how good it makes me feel and how much I will miss it when I finally stop doing this. I stop pedalling and just drift for a hundred yards, breathing the air, enjoying the solitude.

Pedalling again, I look down at the chrome top of the headset stem. In it I can see a reflection of my head, arms and shoulders, and alternating knees as I pedal. I think, not for the first time, how cool it would have been to have had a camera on there. I play the highlights in my head - the joy and despair on my face of the first few weeks, rain and snow falling around me as I pedal, wrapped up for the cold, sweat dripping from me as I pedal in a vest and shorts, the pain on my face in the 20th mile of ascent in the Pyrenees, the relief coming down the other side - all the 'other sides', the fear as I accelerate away from a pack of three dogs. There was no camera, of course, so that'll all just have to live in the memory of my bike.

From nowhere, I get a rhythmn in my head and improvise lyrics, creating the first verse of a song, and then I realise my computer reads 40 miles and I'm passing the sign that tells me I've arrived in the town I was aiming for. I follow the road across the river and into the centre of town. It seems different somehow, to the last few towns, and then I realise why. I'm in Germany now.

Day 221 - Linz - Austria

2007-10-19T12:51:00.000Z

I had thought for a long time - back even in France and Spain - that reaching Austria, marking my return to 'Western' Europe, would be a huge relief. The 'Scary East' would have been done. All the fears I had of travelling through those countries I knew so little about either dispelled or proven but, hopefully, lived through.

They were, they have been, but back on the road, after four days of partying in Vienna, I was left with a very different feeling to relief - sadness. I found myself reflecting on all that has been - remembering the nervousness of the first few weeks on the road, looking at maps of Spain and just thinking 'How?', entering the foothills of the Pyrenees, looking up at the peaks thinking 'Oh shit', worrying in Italy about what Greece and beyond would hold for me; the heat, the hills, the dogs, all of the bad talk people had of Bulgaria and Romania - and I wasn't feeling relieved that it was behind me, I was sad that it was over. I was, in a sense, mourning, if not the ending of the whole trip then certainly a very large part of it.

Austria provided me with a very intense reminder that things move on, experiences last for only a moment and all too soon memories are all that is left of them. I will (hopefully) always hold those memories, of course with the aid of my journals and photographs, but perhaps never again will I be in that situation, experiencing what I did. Once I'd realised that was the cause of my rather down-mood, I was a lot happier about it and able to get on with 'experiencing' the here and now.

Talking of which, Austria is very much the return to Western Europe I thought it would be - there's stuff in the shops! And it is, of course, ever so neat and organised. Perhaps too much so - their cycle paths, which they seem so very proud of, are wonderful things. They really are. I've spent four days cruising along a flat piece of tarmac next to the Danube, far from any motorised vehicles. It's great, 95% of the time. But that other 5% is the problem. On two occassions now the path has just ended on me. Miles and miles of perfect track with an abundance of reassuring sign posts then...a field. No sign, no explanation. That's when the distance from a road becomes a problem, because I don't have a get out clause. Either head into the field and risk getting bogged down or turn around and retrace the last 3 miles back to the last junction. Great.

I have to also mention this bloody place - Linz - dubbed, by me, at approximately 11.30am today, in driving wind and freezing rain, 'The Worst Town in the World'. My task today was simple - an easy 15 mile jaunt from last night's stop into the town centre. I'd come off the cycle track last night to get to a town that wasn't on it (god forbid), but the one small road connecting that town to Linz seemed like an easy prospect - it went straight to the centre. And easy it was for about 10 miles, then there was a big dangerous-looking tunnel with 'no cycling' signs at the entrance. I have been known to ignore such signs (I would never have got through Hungary if I hadn't) but I had to agree with them here - I wasn't going into that tunnel. So what options? I turn off, there's a cycle lane. No signs. I ride it in the general direction the tunnel was going in and end up heading the opposite way. I ask some people and they point me in the right direction (after lifting my bike up to see how heavy it is and marvelling at my *ahem* amazing cycling adventures). I come to a cross roads - straight on 'Zentrum' - no bikes. Left (cycle track sign) - 'Weiner Strasse', right 'Siemens Depot'. Ok, so, Sausage Road or Siemens bloody head office. I go straight on and after 2 miles of motorway and a lot of faffing about, find my way. It turned out, however, that the track going to 'Siemens Depot' ended up leading to the centre. Why can't they just put 'Zentrum' on the cycle signs too? And why would I want to know where bloody 'Weiner Strasse' was? Pfft...give me a Greek motorway any day. At least they go where they say they're going, and in a straight line too!

Day 215 - Vienna - Austria

2007-10-13T12:27:00.000Z

Justine is Australian. I'm talking to her in an Australian pub - I went in there to see what the local places were like (that's a joke, by the way, that I told myself. I know, a shit one). She's in Vienna for five days before going to Prague then back to London to 'get a job'. Jim is American. He's just got out of the navy after six years and is having a break before 'getting a job'. He's in Vienna for two days before going to Prague. Justine fancies Jim. She's been making eyes at him for the last hour and admits as much to me when he goes to the toilet. Jim seems to have noticed but doesn't seem particularly bothered. I don't blame him.

I take them to a small pub I found the night before. It's tiny - maximum capacity of about 20 people - but it's nice, cluttered, good beer, friendly staff. We drink in there for a few hours, talking, laughing. Justine is fascinated by the fact that weed grows at the side of the road in Hungary and Bulgaria and wants us three to hire a car and drive out there. I'm the only one with a driving licence. I agree, as does Jim, but I sense that we both know we won't be meeting Justine at the cathedral at 12 o'clock the next day, as is planned.

At about 2am we head towards a club the barman recommends, down by the canal. Now, before I continue, I am going to add a small explainer here: I don't know why, but it seems that I am always the one people turn to for things - information, plans, making things happen. I do seem to be quite good at it, but I still don't know why relative strangers seem to think I know things, or where to get things. I must give off some sort of knowledgeable aura. You'll see what I mean when you read on.

On the way the way to the club my new Australian friend decides she wants something to stick up her nose. It must have been all the talk of weed. They both look at me. I take them on an impromptu tour of Vienna's underbelly - seedy backstreets populated by men in hooded coats with shifty eyes. I find what she wants quite easily - as I said, I seem to be quite good at it - and we continue on to the club, which has about the same atmosphere as the small streets we've just been ratting around.

The club is packed, dirty, sweaty, smelly, loud, sticky-floored and beer soaked - just my kind of place. I lose Jim and Justine almost immediately - I think I last saw them snogging in a corner - and dance on my own in the heaving mass for a while before deciding it's time to go. I walk out of the club at about 6am and realise I have absolutely no idea where I am. I walk aimlessly away from the canal until I see the big cathedral spire appear above the rooftops and head for it.

I wake at 9.30am and phone reception. Can I have the room for another night, please? Yes. Thank god for that.

Tubage

2007-10-08T16:47:00.000Z

I was too busy copying out my journal yesterday to mention the statistics that were in my head while I was riding. Entering Slovakia brought with it the following:

The 8th different currency of the trip.
The 12th different language of the trip.
The 14th country of the trip.

Thought I`d share that. Here`s a few vids I`ve had lying around for a bit.

Bulgarian Hotel:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l0a6MuRyRsE

Travelling companion in Hungary:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dB7LgH7vug8

If I ever have a wedding, I want these dudes to play:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4XGxKraEHo

Day 209 - Komarno - Southern Slovakia

2007-10-07T18:08:00.000Z

Some journal entries from the last week or so:

Thursday 27th September - Szeged - Hungary

We both got sore throats last night from talking so much. Beers in a bar followed by pizza, then another bar and more beer. Went to look at the (very impressive) town hall clocktowers and were attracted by a huge bunsen-blue flame blasting from one corner of the square - a nightclub called Burn. They wanted student cards on the door but I blagged us in - told him our cards were in the hotel and looked desperate and he just said OK and let us in. Peoper student nightclub - lots of beers, lots of people, shit toilets, music a bit RnB for my taste, but it was ok. We drank beer and Jagermeister and danced like fools. By about 4am I was knackered and hungry so we went.

Monday 1st October - Budapest

Nice riding, again. Perfect weather (can´t believe I´m still cycling in shorts and a vest in October), flat roads with good surface, traffic OK. Saw more weed at the side of the road and lots of prostitutes about 6-7 miles from Budapest. Was waiting for it to get really busy and horrible but it never did - went straight to the centre, along the Danube, all the way to the chain bridge.

Tuesday 2nd October - Budapest

Walked up to the castle on the other side of the river. Nice views of the city. Went into the art gallery thinking we´d be able to go up and outside the dome for better views but after 5 flights of stairs and only boring old paintings to look at we were told we didn´t have the ´special tickets´required to continue, despite asking for them initially. We could get them, back down in the lobby. Fuck that. Went instead for postcard writing and white wine in the ´Old Town´.

Wednesday 3rd October - Budapest

Went to a ´Rock Bar´ which was more like a school disco. DJ wouldn´t play our requests and was very rude and a guy in the bar was being quite agressive towards Ashley. We considered beating him up or something but just left, heading for a club the barman told us about, next to the opera house (near the flat). Went there - cellar type club, lots of beer, karaoke, people dancing etc. Got out at 4am still asking people where to go out in Budapest. Go to bed! They told us.

Sunday 7th October - Komarno - Slovakia

The first thing I did today was cross the river into Slovakia. No passport control from Hungary but, surprisingly, there was a guy looking at them, comparing faces and photos, on the Slovak side. First impressions were of a very ´Eastern European´ looking place - lots of towers blocks and a sort of neglected air to the place.

It´s really weird to think that it´s all winding up. I was thinking about the ferry ride over from Portsmouth and, of course, it seems ages ago. But all the hopes, fears, expectations I had then have been lived out now, nearly. I will be relieved to not have to think about it so much, when it is over, but I will miss that feeling of discovery every day, of adventure yet to come. That´ll be the weirdest thing I think, being back. Not having the daily adventures. The fact that they´re gone. The fact that all of this - the three years of planning, saving, spending, thinking - is gone. Over. I´ve lived it - I am living it. But it will end. Then I will need to look forward again, to focus on other things. It goes on, life goes on, of course, but stick something like these last seven months in it and it´s a strange, perhaps unique feeling. That´s why I´m here.

They have the biggest, blackest mosquitos here. One was biting my arm a minute ago and I just tried to grab one hovering over my beer. I missed.

Day 196 - Timisoara - North-West Romania

2007-09-24T16:29:00.000Z

Romania has surprised me, I have to admit. I was given a lot of 'advice' from various people, as has often been the case throughout this trip, before I arrived. It ranged from a modest 'It's quite a culture shock' to a number of people who didn't say anything, just sucked their teeth, shook their heads and looked grave when the 'R' word was mentioned.

If I'm honest, I didn't know what to expect, but that is, of course, the reason I'm here doing what I'm doing and not just taking other people's word for it - because I wanted to find out. And what I've found is a beautiful country. The Carpathian Mountains, who's foothills I cycled through two days ago, are stunning. The countryside all around here has a very natural, pure quality to it, unlike any other countryside I've cycled through.

The poverty I was told to expect is evident, as it has been since Turkey, but it's different here. There's not the desperate air to it that I witnessed in Bulgaria and Serbia. There's a certain pride and dignity in Romania that is both endearing and inspiring.

I mention Serbia but realise that you, dear reader, would not know that I spent three days there, on my way up. It's much like Bulgaria but they have bigger houses.

Spiritual (and meaningless) observations aside, here's a few highlights since my last posting:

I reached the Danube and followed it for a few days. Serbia, as I mentioned, was reminiscent of Bulgaria - dirty hotels, shabby towns and a general feeling of neglect. Cheap, though. I got rained on in Serbia too, the first time properly since the West coast of France, if your memory stretches back that far. A 65 mile day two days ago took me most of the way through this part of Romania. I will be in Hungary in the next two days, meeting up with a friend who is planning to catch a train while I cycle. We plan to relax in Budapest for a few days before I turn my sights on the route home - likely to look something like this: Hungary, Slovakia, Czech Republic, Austria, Germany, Luxembourg, Belgium, Netherlands, arriving back in the UK before Winter really sets in.

Puncture Repair

2007-09-17T15:18:00.000Z

Following a day that contained two punctures, I head into town to find new inner tubes, patches and glue. In a small shopping centre is a shop that mainly sells sports clothing, but there are a few bikes as well. I go in and ask the guy if he has any tubes or patches. Well, I don't, I ask him if he speaks English or French. He doesn't, so I produce one of my poorly inner tubes from my rucsac and, through the medium of pointing and a variety of facial expressions, get the message across. He takes out his mobile phone, calls someone, speaks for a minute, hangs up and beckons me out of the shop, which he locks behind us.

He leads me downstairs and as we step out of the shopping centre another man pulls up on a bike, carrying a new inner tube in one hand. They talk for a minute then I'm handed the tube. That's great, thanks, I say, but I want two really. And some patches and glue. 'Ok,' the new guy says to me, 'five minutes' and motions for me to sit at a table outside a cafe. I do, but ask 'Five minutes what?' He's already gone inside the cafe though, returning a second later, sitting down opposite me and laying out a large betting coupon. 'Where are you from?' he asks me. 'England,' I reply. 'Yes but which town?' 'Southampton'. He scans the paper in front of him. 'Ok - Southampton - Watford,' he states, looking at me expectantly. I get it. 'Err...2-1, to Southampton,' I guess. He eagerly inks some boxes. 'Cardiff - Plymouth.' '2-0 Cardiff.' 'Stoke City - Hull.' 'Nil-Nil.'

We continue like that for about ten fixtures, and I mainly just make up scores because I have no idea whether Stoke are any better than Hull, or vice versa, but he seems happy. After he's submitted his form he leads me on a five minute walk through town to his little bike shop. New tubes are produced, as are a number of patches and a tube of glue. He also insists on patching the holes in the tube I have in my bag, and does a very good job of it. His top tip - hammer the edges of the patch lightly once the glue had adhered.

Once finished, he gestures towards an old cassette player and says, 'Now, music!' 'Aerosmit' (sic) play out and he smiles at me, seeking approval, while playing a riff on his air guitar. 'You like guitar music?' I offer, not really wanted to enthuse about Aeromit, puncture repaired or not. 'Yeah,' he says, 'Tonight in the Rock Club, here in town.' 'You're playing?' 'No, watching, good band, two Irishmen and two Bulgarians. 10pm.' 'Ok,' I say, 'I might see you down there.'

Day 185 - Sofia - West Bulgaria

2007-09-13T14:51:00.000Z

I'd cycled for nine days straight from the Greek coast to here, so felt like a rest.

My one night, two day, stop in Turkey was quite a shock coming from quiet, unassuming Greece - Turkey was alive! People everywhere, on tractors, horse and carts, cars, bikes...waving at me, saying 'Hello', shouting at each other. Edirne, the town I stayed in, was the true embodiment of the word 'bustling'. I walked the crowded streets, photographed the huge and impressive Mosques, ate kebabs with the locals, talked to random strangers who approached me and started conversations in the street, got confused with the new money that I hadn't looked up the exchange rate for and, for the first time in about four months, felt cold. The weather was finally turning!

Entering Bulgaria the following day was as equal a shock. My first experience was of peace - a quiet road lead me along a valley, gently up and down some slight hills, mountains in the distance, fertile countryside all around. Then I started passing some small towns and got my first sight of the people - whole families piled onto horse and carts, people picking through rubbish piles, old men picking fruit and berries from trees. The first town I stayed in had three hotels, all contained within the same building, a tall, shabby towerblock. They each took up two floors of the building and had a reception each in the small lobby. I paid with the third different currency in three days, Bulgarian lira, changing it from Turkish and having even less of a clue as to its relative value. I drank a beer in one of the two cafes in town, then ate a pizza (there is pizza everywhere here - they love it!). Surprisingly, the other establishment in the small row was an internet cafe, so I went online and did some currency conversion. That night I paid: Eight GBP for the hotel room (supposedly 3 star, but more like 2), 40p for a pint of beer and about one pound twenty for a beer and a pizza.

My diagonal ride across the country over the last week had a few notable 'highlights': Quiet roads and peaceful riding but a constant headwind that was really draining. A couple of really nice towns, my favourite being Plovdiv, 'cos I thnk the name sounds funny. Two cochroach infested hotel rooms in smaller towns. The second one had a restaurant attached which was the only place in town to eat. I ate there, accompanied by more cockroaches on the curtains next to me. A stretch of country road about 5 miles long that was lined with large, flourishing marijuana plants. I stopped to investigate and they were indeed 'the real deal'. Arriving in Sofia along a big, very, very busy road.

Sofia seems to live under different rules than the rest of the country - my hotel, one of only a few I could find in the centre, is the same price as the posh room I rented in Nice and not half as nice. I met a couple of dudes in a bar last night who took me on a mini tour of Sofia's thriving ex-pat scene. I watched the England football match surrounded by drunk English people in a smoky pub. They pointed out all of the mafia run bars and clubs to me ('The ones with the Masseratis and Porsches outside? Yeah, mafia. Don't go in there.'). I drank too much Guinness for my cycle-weary body to handle. One day I might learn.

The Turkish-Bulgarian Border

2007-09-07T17:37:00.000Z

A line of lorries begins two miles before the border control. They sit tucked in on the right of the road, I cruise past in the left hand lane. I scan the number plates - Turkish, Turkish, Bulgarian, Turkish, German, Dutch, German, Turkish...a car passes me with a number plate I vaguely recognise - big letters. It's British. The second one I've seen in three months. The drivers of the lorries are milling about, eating fruit from the roadside stalls, sipping tea, chatting to the guys who wander up and down the line with armfuls of beads and trinkets. Some wave at me, most just watch me ride past.

Turkish passport control has a line of cars leading to it which I join. A policeman who is supervising things approaches me and holds out his hand. I shake it. 'Where are you from?' he asks me. I tell him. I also answer his other questions - yes, I get tired sometimes. Yes, it's heavy. No, I'm not a professional cyclist. When it's my turn at the passport booth he goes in and explains to his friend what I've just told him. 'Where are you going?' his friend asks, whilst matching my face with the photo in my passport. I point forwards and declare 'Bulgaria!' like a man about to try and conquer a country. They both laugh and wave me on.

There's a line of about 40 cars for the customs bit, but I just roll down the outside and slip into the queue two before the gate. An official, in the process of emptying someone's boot, sees me and waves me through. 'Thanks mate' I wave as I pass.

A cluster of duty-free shops are ahead, fronted by a large, full carpark. I weave my way through without stopping and approach a huge marble-effect archway across the road, embossed with large letters - TURKEY. I pass underneath and am faced with 30 yards of road before another archway, this one more simple, a plastic banner declaring 'BULGARIA'. I freewheel the 30 yards and think to myself 'I'm not actually in any country right now'. I say it out loud to myself and laugh.

Beyond the Bulgaria banner is another booth preceeded by a dip in the road that is lined with metal grids and is, I notice, wet. The two guys in the booth see me and smile. I know what's coming and smile too - as I enter the dip they turn on the disenfectant sprays. I fake disgust. They laugh. I drop my passport. One of the guys runs over and picks it up for me. I proceed to Bulgarian passport control, beyond which I can see a long, straight, empty road skirting the side of a shallow valley, hills in the distance. 'Where are you going?' this guy asks me. 'England' I reply.

The Greek-Turkish Border

2007-09-06T14:10:00.000Z

Passport Control Guy: "Vısa, ten sterling."
Percy: "I don`t have any sterling."
PCG: (Shrugs, holds my passport out to me and points left, towards Greece.)
I smile, not in an attempt to smooth my way but because I was expectıng something like this.
P: "I`ve got some euros, if you..."
PCG: "No!" He interrupts me, shouting, "Sterling. It says it here!"
He shows me the visa sticker and it does indeed say "10 GBP".
P: "Well I don`t have sterling. I`ve got euros," I say agaın but he`s not listenıng to me, he`s throwing his hands in the air in an exasperated fashion, shouting ın Turkish, gesturıng towards me, then glaring at me. "Blimey," I mutter under my breath, "chill out." I go to my bike and return with my wallet. He`s sitting in his chair, still glaring. I decide to exercise my international diplomacy skills which, in this case, consist of shouting back at him.
PCG: "No euros, only sterlıng," he says agaın.
P: (shouting, nearly) "Why would I have any sterling? I`ve not come from England. I don`t even live in England (which is kınd of true). I haven`t even been in England for over a year (which obvıously isn`t true but firstly, how would he know and secondly, it feels like I haven`t). I`ve got euros."

I produce a fan of euro notes from my wallet. Seeing the colour of my money seems to have an effect. He grumbles somethıng then disappears into a back office, speaks on a phone and returns a minute later. "16 euros," he mutters. Thankfully I have 16 exactly. I dread to think what having to produce change would have done to him. The problem, it transpires, is not that they can`t take euros, it was just that he didn`t want to have to work out what 10 GBP was in euros. He had to phone someone to tell him.

Day 176 - Soufli - North East Greece

2007-09-04T15:43:00.000Z

A momentous day today, sort of. For the first time in nearly six months, 176 days on the road, my compass points North. I've been heading East for what seems like a lifetime, ever since Decision Beach, but now, finally, I go North towards cooler, wetter weather, towards Eastern and Central Europe, then down into 'the flat countries'. I am also, for the first time, heading towards home, in a roundabout kind of way. A strange feeling, but not an unpleasant one.

I will enter Turkey briefly in the next couple of days, then straight up into Bulgaria. Entering Turkey will complete two big things which have been at the back of my mind for quite a while - a complete crossing of mainland Greece, from sea to border (in an August heatwave!) and, perhaps not quite as accurately but nonetheless noteworthy, a crossing of Europe, the whole continent, from the Atlantic in Portugal to Turkey, the beginning of Asia. I think Asia officially starts halfway through Istanbul, on the Eastern shore of the Bosphorus strait, but I'm not going all the way down there just for that.

My plan now is to cycle until around the end of October/beginning November. Hopefully I will get to most of the Central and Eastern countries in that time, as well as returning to the UK solely on my two wheels. It's unlikely I will get to Scandanavia before then and, to be honest, I don't really fancy that after November. Frostbite anyone?

More immediate news from the last week includes: A prolonged stomach upset which seems to have been quelled by cleaning the green mould out of my water bottles (I know - brains), a broken camera hastily replaced from the (small) selection on offer in the town I happened to be in, concern over my rapidly-running-out-of-space Moleskin journal (I could get some sort of replacement, which I will have to soon, but not Moleskin and it's just not the same!), lots of people asking if I'm German (to which I reply 'Nein' and leave them with a 'Danke' just to amuse myself, but probably not them), a man with a pushchair full of junk (sorry - 'quality merchandise') flicking open a four inch knife in my face and asking if I wanted to pay three euros for it (No, but do you have any clean pants?), getting a bit fed up with Greek summer food (meat and chips is ok for a few days, but all the time? Soon, I'll turn into a souvlaki).

Day 170 - Kavala - North-East Greece

2007-08-29T13:56:00.000Z

I've got a confession: I hired a car and drove 300 miles. And I'm not ashamed to say that, as I cruised effortlessly up hills, surrounded by cool air, I thought, 'I'm glad I'm not riding this'. The miles flew by and I revelled in the fact that the only effort I was making was to press my right foot down slightly - no burning thighs, cramping calves or sweat dripping off my face , running into my eyes. No need to continuously consume endless litres of water or worry about my energy levels. A tank of petrol and an engine put all that behind me, for six days.

My (supposed) 'loyal band of blog readers' (not my words) may be relieved to learn that I dropped the car back at the place where I picked it up from and, two days ago, continued riding, after a ten day break, from the hotel I arrived at (on the bike) ten days previous. I had a visitor, you see, and we've been on holiday, around the coves and beaches of Halkidiki, a peninsula just below Thessaloniki. Nice it was, too - we spent our days on the beaches and in the crystal clear sea, and our nights on the same beaches, eating by the waves in local tavernas.

Unaccustomed as I am to relaying useful or interesting facts about the places I've visited on this blog, the 'third finger' of Halkidiki caught my imagination sufficiently to relay the following: Halkidiki consist of three 'fingers', or pensinulas, extending from the mainland. The Western most is considered the 'party finger' (think Falaraki/Aiya Napa, but not nearly as lively), the middle finger is 'the quieter one' and the third finger...well, this is the interesting one. A few facts about it: Women are not allowed on it. It is inhabited by monks who live in a collection of monasteries. There are no roads (I don't think). If you want to visit it you need a few things: A penis (whether this specifically has to be a naturally occurring one or not I don't know - any post-op transsexuals out there ever tried to get on there?), a permit or pass (which takes weeks to organise, apparently) and three days spare. You buy the permit and are allowed to stay three nights, one each in a different monastery. You are dropped off, and picked up, by boat. You can, I assume, if you want, while you're there, climb the 2033 metre mount Athos that makes up most of the finger. The closest women can get is 500 metres - any tourist boats carrying inquisitive women must stay that distance from the shore. Another fact about this third finger - they produce wine. Now, I don't know, maybe I'm just a cynic or a sceptic or something, but this all sounds a bit like the worlds biggest men's club to me - no roads, no police, wine, beaches, sea, mountain (which, incidentally, probably provides a very good climate for growing a certain herbal plant, in summer)...I've got images of deeply tanned men lounging around the beach, drinking wine, passing joints. 'Quick Nickos, put your robe on, there's a boat coming!'

Another thing I feel inclined to mention is guidebooks. My visitor brought with them a copy of 'Greece' by a certain well known guidebook publisher...actually, sod it, I'm not the BBC - it was a Lonely Planet guide. It was the first guide I'd looked at on this trip (see 'Avoiding Europe' explanation, err, somewhere else on here) and it was crap. Well, the section on 'The North of Greece', that we used, was, anyway. Apart from being completely wrong about a lot of things, it was written with such a snobbish hand that I was inclined not to take any notice of its recommendations anyway - avoiding europe indeed. There is, apparently, a breed of traveller who refer to themselves as 'Independent Travellers' ('Hi, I'm an Independent Traveller'), and they, according to the guidebook, sneer at 'fast food' establishments (which here means the local gyros place that most locals eat from), bars, clubs, people on holiday...pretty much a lot of the things the rest of us consider elements of that mystical thing called 'fun', and spend their time entirely searching out museums and historical sites and monuments. I actually read, in the description of a delightful little place we stayed in, 'There is little for the independent traveller here'. Good, piss off then.

Anyway, riding again after the ten day break has been pretty hard - the heat is taking some getting used to again, my body not entirely happy about the resumption of the dehydration/rehydration pattern and I now realise what resilience I must have built up in a certan aspect of bike riding - after three days in the saddle my bum hurts.

Day 155 - Katerini - Sort of in the middle bit, by the sea

2007-08-14T14:20:00.000Z

My initial enthusiasm for Greece has abated somewhat in the last few days. The landscape is very nice, the people are, on the whole, very friendly, the food is good...but nothing happens! The height of excitement in all of the nightlife I've seen is when someone orders another iced coffee. They don't drink, they certainly don't know what draught Guinness is, they don't listen to music (well, not decent music), they don't dance or make fools of themselves, they're not particularly open to conversation. They just sit around drinking iced coffee, or playing computer games and smoking.

I have found one bar here - a 'Rock Bar'. Regular readers may remember Day 56, somewhere in Spain. That involved a Rock Bar aswell, along with enough vodka and bacardi to render my legs, amongst other things, useless. That was a proper Rock Bar. This Greek one is a bit different. It has all the hallmarks of a proper rocker's bar, standing out from the surrounding neon lights, trendy sofas and well-groomed patrons of the normal cafes with its dark, gloomy interior, pub-style chairs and tables and, of course, heavy guitar music booming out. The front tables are filled with fat guys with long hair, goatees and black t-shirts with things like 'Theatre of Destruction' printed on them. They look sullenly on the passing 'normal' Greeks making their way to their chosen trendy-cafe. Unfortunately that's where the Rock Bar, and typical rocker-mystique, part ends, because they all sit there sipping delicate glasses of iced coffee through straws! The barman does smoke a pipe, however, so he gets a bonus point.

I go to Thessoloniki soon, the second biggest city (after Athens, obviously), so maybe that will change my view a bit. It can't be any worse than the third biggest city...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8i418VMypaI

Here he is (somewhere)...

2007-08-10T15:58:00.001Z

Day 150 - Kalampaka - Central Greece

2007-08-09T14:50:00.000Z

Today I saw a tortoise crossing the road in front of me. Like, a wild one. Not one from a box in someone's garden that sleeps all the time. It made me laugh. I like tortoises.

Here's some TouristTube for you, with a (very) brief appearance from 'The (New) Beard', especially for I.T. (and yes, I know, I still need to work on my camera skills):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UUzUafUjq08

I've also been forced into this Facebook thing. One plus side is that I can share photos with non-members. Here's some random views from the bike for you:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=3880&l=5ed7b&id=528356526

Day 147 - Metsovo - in the Greek Mountains

2007-08-06T15:24:00.000Z

My first day in Greece was something of a baptism of fire. I rolled off the ferry at 9.45am and headed East, towards a place called Ioannina. Eight hours, 60 miles, well over 1000 metres of vertical ascent in 40 degree heat and seven litres of water later, I arrived. It was without doubt the hardest day I've ever had in the saddle. I came close to complete physical exhaustion - I was consuming everything I could get my hands on at one point, in an effort to stay upright. My clothes were rigid from the salt in my sweat, once they had dried out. I had to have a day off yesterday to get over it.

I rode to Metsovo today, a ski resort, in the Winter, apparently, but how often they get decent snow at 1100 metres I don't know. I'll be riding over a pass tomorrow, at 1700 metres, then down towards the coast.

The biggest surprise for me has been that I am thoroughly enjoying Greece - I didn't think I would, for a variety of reasons. But I am - I like the mountains, I like the little stalls in the street that sell drinks and food at all hours, I like the trendy cafes with their funky sofas. I especially like the fact that I have been tooted at, waved at and generally encouraged by far more people since I've been here than in any other country so far. Struggling in the heat two days ago, numerous people slowed in their cars and lorries to check I was doing ok, had enough to drink, wasn't going to collapse. I actually was at one point, but I waved them on and gave a thumbs up, so determined was I not to 'give in'. Today, on two occasions, passing cars slowed and the occupants actually applauded me through their open windows.

Day 143 - Ancona - on the Adriatic

2007-08-02T16:00:00.000Z

Made it.

p.s. Here's some West-coast Italy for you:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_4EVLacr3HY

Day 141 - Foligno - Central Italy

2007-07-31T14:26:00.000Z

I hit a bit of a low on the West coast of Italy. I did like it - the food, the scenery, the sea - just something didn't feel quite right. For the first time on this trip I really felt like an outsider, looking on but not interacting, a bit of a spare part.

Maybe it was all the Italians on holiday together, maybe it was just me having a five-month low, I don't know. It all came to a head in a little dead-end port of a town about halfway down the Tuscan coast. I don't even know why I rode there - I hate cycling back over roads I've already been on, especially when I arrive going downhill, and it was a proper dead-end. The only way out was back up the hill or over to Sardinia on the ferry. I felt desperate. My rough plan for Italy had fallen apart in my mind - sticking to the West coast all the way then crossing to the East for a ferry to Greece would take me ages and I couldn't handle any more of this coast. Plus, crossing the country seemed like an impossibility - all those mountains and hills in this heat? No way!

I checked to see if I could get a ferry from Sardinia to Greece, or even just the East coast of Italy. I couldn't. I felt lost. I found myself waiting for a car rental place in the port to open after lunch. If I could, I was going to hire a car for two days and drive over to the port on the East coast. That was decided in my mind. I'd 'done' Italy. I needed to get to Greece, to get on with the rest of this trip, give myself a chance of getting up to Scandinavia before Winter.

Thankfully, they didn't have any cars. I went back to town, found somewhere to stay and went out and walked the streets aimlessly. Passing a bookshop, I instinctively went in - maps, always need maps. They had the two that I needed for the rest of Italy and I figured, riding it or driving it, I would need them, so I bought them. I walked some more, went and looked at the sea for a while, then went to a bar for a beer.

Marco, the owner, was the only other person in there. I sat at the bar and looked around - nice place, a bit like a pub, Irish stout on tap - I liked it. Marco and I started talking. He was interested in my trip and particularly keen to show me where to go in Tuscany. We got my new maps out and I explained that I was a bit lost for a plan, didn't know what I was doing, where I was going. Marco's friend, Antonio, came in and looked over the maps with us, putting in his Euros worth of places to visit. Half an hour later I had a pretty decent and, more importantly, realistic-looking, route across Italy to Ancona, from where I could get a ferry to Greece. My dream of cycling from the Portuguese Atlantic to the Adriatic, hatched at 'Decision Beach', was still alive. I had another pint, then some dinner and went back to the hotel - I had to ride the next day. I had a plan now.

I rode the next day with feelings of freedom and enjoyment that had been missing for previous week or so. I couldn't believe how close I'd come to copping out, cheating, taking the easy route. 'Hire a car?' I thought to myself, 'Are you mad? You're so close! You have the opportunity here, right now, to achieve something! Get on with it!'

I am currently about two days ride from Ancona, and the Adriatic. I have to take a boat there, to get to Greece, but I will have made it all the way from the Atlantic, from Decision Beach, on two wheels, powered only by my two legs and a bit of gravity.

Somnium

2007-07-27T17:01:00.000Z

I dream of the soles of my feet on the cool kitchen floor,
Of the look on your face as you open the door.
I dream of sofas and films and cheese in the fridge,
Of cycling to town, over troll bridge.

I dream of England, of clouds and cool air,
Of people and pubs, the slight air of despair.
I dream of packing my things for the very last time,
Of not having to worry about thieves and their crimes.

I dream of talking to people who know who I am,
Of visiting friends, just because I can.
I dream of hearing conversations that I understand,
Of not having calluses on the palms of my hands.

I dream of good newspapers and Radio Two,
That hopefully one day I can read this for you.
I dream of a time when I won't have to move on,
Of sitting at your table, hearing your song.

I dream of cooking fresh food whilst sipping chilled wine,
Of the knowledge that I have lived dreams of mine.
I dream of the day when it will become clear,
Just exactly what it is that I'm learning here.

Them

2007-07-21T13:49:00.000Z

I can hear you, you know, your cries in the night,
You laughter that floats on the breeze, out of sight.
Your singing and chanting, and shouting sometimes,
Those are a few of your most common crimes.

I see you each day, together, by the shore,
Or buying the things you, for some reason, adore.
You don't see me, I'm happy to say,
Sitting, observing, staying out of your way.

I want you to know that I see what you have,
The chinks of your glasses, your sun tanned backs.
I envy you this, wish I could see,
Just for a moment, those same things for me.

The time when you notice is during the day,
I'm alone then too, in a different way.
You stare at me strangely, like I'm an alien thing,
As if I am crazy, not living a dream.

I need you, you know, sometimes, by my side,
Watching my footsteps, matching my stride.
Helping me see the ways I've gone wrong,
Singing with me my favourite song.

A few things

2007-07-18T14:37:00.000Z

-I have a new phone now but I have lost all the numbers, so if you do text me let me know who you are. I have had a few already. (Can someone tell Floppy when you see him, please? Ta.)

-Browsing my funky Clustermaps thing on the right there, I note that there are people who regularly read this in Norway, Italy, Eatern USA...somewhere in the Far East. Just out of curiosity, say hello sometime, eh? I know who some of the big dots in strange places are, but not others.

-err...that's it actually. I'll fill this up with some random thoughts: Italian ice cream is nice - I had banana sorbet last night. I haven't seen a cloud for about two weeks. The rear hub on my bike has a crack in it and needs replacing - I hope I can get that done before it collapses. I swam in the sea earlier today, it was nice but I cut my foot on a rock getting out. I have a square of sunburn in the middle of my back, where I can't reach with the cream. I've stopped using a sleeping bag at night. I found a cool beach bar last night - they were playing Bob, which is always a good sign. I watched the sun set behind the mountains. I have seven mosquito bites at the moment. Camping in this heat isn't that much fun. I'm getting free food in bars around here - something I haven't had since Spain. I'm going for some now.

Day 126 - Rapallo - North-West Italy

2007-07-16T16:06:00.000Z

The day I crossed the border into Italy was exactly four months from the day I rolled off the ferry in St Malo. It feels like a lifetime ago. Quite a lot has happened...

-I've cycled over 3000 miles in seven countries (including England and classing Monaco as one), over mountains, around lakes, over and along rivers, down gorges, through tunnels, towns, villages and hamlets, as well as vast areas where no one lived, and along many hundreds of miles of coast;

-I've stayed in countless campsites, hotels, hostels and people's sofas;

-I've used four bottles of sun cream, and the same of aftersun, and have the deepest tan I've ever had, but it stops at two dark brown semi-circles on my shoulder blades where my cycling vest sits, contrasting wildly with my milky-white back;

-I've shared food, drinks and laughs with people from France, Spain, Denmark, Holland, Norway, Switzerland, Sweden, Germany, Canada, America, Argentina, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Ireland, Wales...and England;

-I've had drinks bought for me by barmen, bar managers, random people I didn't even speak to, an Englishman looking for a cat and a German looking for the meaning of life;

-I've seen dogs, cats, ferrets, squirrells, birds of prey, pine martins, snakes, lizards, badgers, sheep, cows, wild boar, a wolf and a bear, all dead at the side of the road. I've also seen living versions of many of those;

-My French is now good enough to hold conversations with people, understand everything and be understood - my Spanish is adequate enough for me to live and make some small talk. I'm working on the Italian;

-I've been happy, sad, elated, depresed, amazed, lonely, surprised, annoyed, excited, frustrated, drunk, high, hungover, exhausted, dehydrated...and pretty much everything in between;

-I've been, or probably am, the fittest I've ever been in my life - endurance wise;

-I'll mention them as everyone seems to ask about them - my legs are bigger, certainly stronger, but they're not of cartoon proportions as everyone thinks they should be. All you sports scientists will know that prolonged, relatively low-intensity exercise does not really build muscle, only strengthens and tones;

-I don't really crave anything in particular, not material things anyway;

-Right now, I feel like I want to live like this forever, but I know that won't last and I know that I can't. I'm just trying to enjoy it as much as I can, hopefully for another four months.

p.s. And it's...Jonny Herbert, coming through the tunnel...

http://it.youtube.com/watch?v=81vKx39va8Y

Nice - 4am

2007-07-12T13:44:00.001Z

I knew I didn't like him the minute I saw him. He had a cocky swagger that I detested immediately, although I knew it was just that - swagger, no substance.

'We play for drinks,' he said to Jense, my Norweigan friend who had politely asserted our desire to play. Jense nodded and shrugged at the same time. 'Whatever'.

Jense lost. The victor came immediately over to where we were standing and demanded his prize. 'Double vodka Red Bull,' he said, with a wry smile directed at his friends across the room. Jense shrugged again and went off to the bar, returning a few minutes later looking deflated. 'Twenty euros that cost me,' he complained, 'I bet he knew that too.' Expensive, even for a Norweigan.

'I'm playing the winner,' I announced, stepping up to the table and racking the balls before anyone could argue. 'We still play for drinks,' my now even cockier opponent said. 'Of course,' I replied.

By the time I was lining up the black, with most of his balls still on the table, I had a gallery of Nordic support behind me. 'Go on Percy!' they urged, keen to see me win but keener to see our new friend's face when I did. I slotted the black in easily to rapturous applause from the Norweigans. My opponent turned immediately and headed for the bustle of the club. 'Oi!' I called after him, demonstrating my finely honed European language skills, 'You owe me a drink.' He mumbled something about his drink having been knocked over, which cancelled it out. I wouldn't normally be too bothered about such things. I have actually, in the past, turned pints down when offered them after giving some lads a thorough beating. Victory was my prize and I was happy with that. This was different though. 'That was nothing to do with me,' I said (it was in fact Jense), 'You owe me a drink,' I repeated. 'Ok,' he conceded, 'What do you want?' 'Double vodka Red Bull,' I replied, seeing Jense smirking behind him.

I gave most of it to Jense who said, as we chinked glasses, 'Thank you Percy, that was cool. I thought he was trying to make a fool out of me, asking for a twenty euro drink. I don't like people like that. He's a...' he struggled to think of the English translation for what he was thinking. I finished his sentence for him. 'Wanker.'

Public Service Announcement

2007-07-11T13:02:00.000Z

Due to an unfortunate incident at 3 o'clock this morning involving five Norweigans, eight pints of Guinness, some shots of something black and a fountain, I appear to have drowned my phone.

If you text me can you identify yourself, please - I think I might have lost numbers from the phone that weren't 'saved to SIM' or whatever nonsense way those things work. In fact, if you're reading this and you think I might need your phone number at some point in the future, can you email it to me or something, please? Ta.

Day 117 - Agay - South-East France

2007-07-07T13:41:00.000Z

Channel to Med is quite a popular cycling challenge, a bit like Lands End to John O'Groats. I completed it yesterday, in a round about sort of way, arriving in St Raphael and seeing the sea for the first time since Portugal, about two months ago. I like the sea - I like its size, its colour, its power. I like its breeze too. It's hot here. People are on holiday - the beaches are full and the bars and restaurants are buzzing with life. It feels a bit strange seeing people on holiday, thinking that they chose this place carefully for their two weeks off and it's just another nice place for me to stop off, relax a little, then move on.

St Raphael was a bit too busy for me, plus there were no obvious campsites, so I carried on to here - Agay - a small town in a neat little bay. I'm camped on the beach, literally, in a nice campsite overlooking the whole bay. It's an amazing spot, I can hardly bring myself to leave. Tonight will be my second night here. It'd be silly to leave on a Sunday, right?

I arrived here via the Verdon gorge, which I have to mention because it was magnificent. I cycled the Southern side - the Corniche Sublime they call it - from the lake (where I camped) all the way along, rising up to around 1100 metres or so. Some serious climbing, not dissimilar to the Pyrenees experience, but well worth it. There were quite a few touristy types around and not one - not even those with expensive road bikes strapped to the back of their grotesque mobile homes - gave me a toot or wave of encouragement as I slogged my way up the 10% gradients. Miserable bastards.

I had hoped to put some photos up of the gorge and this coast but I'm currently standing at a counter in a shop, paying about 8 euros an hour for this slow internet connection, and I don't feel like getting my camera and cables and all that crap out, so you'll have to wait, or use Google in the meantime.

I can also see the sea, the beach and the nice bar on the beach through the window, so I'm off.

Day 109 - Cavaillon - South-East France

2007-06-29T15:40:00.000Z

The weather in Provence at the moment is just about perfect. Hot, cloudless days, warm evenings and cool nights. I was sitting overlooking the Rhone last night, with a cold beer, trying to imagine a time when this lifestyle might get a bit boring. I couldn't, so had another beer just to think about it a bit more.

The stuttering restart after the holiday continued for a few days after Rodez, with a stomach upset in Millau necessitating another day off and a few easier days in the saddle. I think I'm pretty much back to fitness now, having just done four days of riding reasonable distances.

Some of the landscape here reminds me of Spain - fertile, hilly - but in Spain you don't get welcoming French towns every 15 miles. I say welcoming, and they are, but they are also pretty dead, still. I do enjoy their relaxed lifestlye and I'm still happy in my own company (you may be amazed to hear) but just occassionally it would be nice for a bit more life, or at least the choice.

I'm going to stay inland for a while, heading to the Verdon Gorge, then go down to the coast around the Nice area, ready to cross the border into Italy, which I will be doing on the coast - you don't get much choice!

Day 100 - Rodez - South-Central France

2007-06-20T13:15:00.000Z

I've been on holiday. Met up with friends and ended up staying there for 9 days. I reacquainted myself with many things - people, conversation, laughter, late nights, too much beer, hangovers, sitting around not doing much, not having much to do, eating cheese. A proper break. I even spent many hours not thinking about 'the trip'. Not thinking about cycling, about finding somewhere to sleep the night, finding a shop, making dinner. It rested my mind, and my body. It was good.

I thought the hard part was going to be returning to life on my own, on the road, but I've slipped back into that easily, almost immediately. It's a familiar routine now. The hard part was the cycling - I arrived in Rodez yesterday afternoon absolutely exhausted after only 30 miles. I barely had the energy to put the tent up and shop for supplies, and, after a shower, I did something I'd not done since Day One, in Combourg - I slept during the day, waking up at about 8pm, still exhausted. I had some dinner and went back to sleep. You don't realise until you stop for a while just how hard, physically, it is to live like this.

I was going to move on today but after a lazy morning I didn't really feel like it and wanted to see a bit of the town. I'll move on tomorrow, heading for Millau and then picking a route down and into Italy. The roads and mountains look like they'll make route-choosing interesting, but hopefully not too dangerous.

HerbTube

2007-06-05T15:49:00.000Z

Some more shaky, pixelated rubbish for your viewing 'pleasure'.

Vultures in Extremadura, Spain:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aSpkN95xN9c

Relaxing and philosophising at Lake Caspe, Spain:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k5CHVfaJU5c

Rain in the Pyrenees:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_9YEUEic05I

Anders and Magic

2007-06-05T15:08:00.000Z

Anders and Magic have been on the same campsite for two and a half weeks now. Anders doesn't really know why. "I don't really know why," he tells me, "it's not like it's a particularly nice site or anything, just sort of quiet. We'll hopefully move on soon." He talks about it as if it's someone else's decision. He's right though - it's not a particularly nice site.

They have come from Holland, on foot. They're going to 'somewhere in Spain, just the other side of the mountains'. That's as specific as he gets.

I don't think Magic really minds where he is, as long as he's with Anders. Magic is quite big - about hip-height - with floppy black curly fur. Not tight and delicate like a poodle, but rough and weathered, like a tough rastafarian.

They left Holland on a whim after Anders lost his job. Instead of sitting around waiting for something else to come along he decided to go out and look for it, but rather than looking through the job section of the paper, like most people, he headed South, on foot, away from Holland. "Maybe I was just fed up with Holland," he muses, still talking as if it was someone else making the decisions. Magic sits by his side, awaiting instructions. "I think I'll stay when I get to Spain," Anders continues. Does he have friends out there? I ask. "No, not really." So where is he going? "A little town just across the border." Why there though? He shrugs his shoulders and smokes his cigarette. I try and suppress my questioning instinct and settle for looking slightly baffled.

Later, I go over to their tent to let Anders look at my maps but Magic warns me back with his barking and threatening pose. Anders eventually pokes his head out of the tent, looking like he's been disturbed doing something either sordid or illegal. Maybe both. "I'd better come see you later," he tells me, cryptically.

I never do see him later, nor the next morning when I leave. Maybe I will see him again - next time I'm in the area I'll pop into the campsite, see if they're still there. Or maybe Anders will be on the news sometime.

Conversation with a Policeman

2007-06-02T15:13:00.000Z

(A Police car pulls up in front of me, facing me, and two police-people (a man and a woman) get out and stop me in the road)

(In French)

Policeman: Hello

Percy: Hello

PM: Have you just been riding on that road? (Points to the road behind me, the sliproad of which he's just watched me ride up)

P: Yes.

PM: (Looking stern and astounded) You can't cycle on there!

P: Oh, right. Ok. (Consider looking bothered and apologetic but can't manage it so give him my best Gallic Shrug)

PM: See that sign there? (Points to a big blue sign with a white outline of a car on it)

P: Yes.

PM: That means you can't cycle on it. Cars only.

P: Really? I thought if I wasn't allowed there would be a sign with a bike on it and a big cross through it, or something like that.

PM: No.

P: Oh, ok. (Another Gallic Shrug)

PM: When it is a dual carriageway you aren't allowed on it.

P: Ok. I thought it was just these roads with the white and yellow in them I wasn't allowed on (point at map). I've been following this road since Andorra - I didn't have a choice.

PM: It's dangerous.

P: I know it is! I didn't have another choice - there was only one road.

PM: Well now you can go on the smaller road alongside this one.

P: Yes, that's what I was going to do.

PM: Good. Well, Bon Courage!

P: Bye!

Day 79 - Tarascon-s-Ariege - South-West France

2007-05-30T13:53:00.000Z

I cycled 40 miles yesterday. The first 20 were uphill, at an average gradient of 7%.

I left Andorra La Villa under clear skies, unsure of where I would stop that night. The roads gave me no time to sit back and think - the town lies in a deep basin, surrounded by steep mountain sides. My route went up a gorge to the North - up being the operative word, I was climbing from the first pedal strokes. So up into the valley I went, the sides getting gradually steeper and narrower, the road never relenting. I passed through small towns that advertised their proximity to ski slopes - a 3 or 5 minute drive. Then I started going through ski resorts - I recognised the familiar collection of bars, shops, chalets and hotels from skiing holidays I`ve been on. A strange feeling indeed - not only because there was no snow to give them that extra 'ski resort' feeling, but because ski resorts to me were always slightly other-worldly - places you got to after very long car or coach journeys, arriving at night, somehow separate from the rest of the world, but there I was, pedalling through them, having got there by leg power alone. I thought back to Decision Beach - sea level to mountain top in one seamless journey.

That was not the time for self-congratulatory reflection, however, as the road continued to take me up - beyond the ski resorts, now level with the largely-snowless slopes, with their dormant lifts. The air was getting cold and thin. I was stopping regularly to eat and drink - the last thing I needed was to run out of energy here - but the cold mountain air would get to me immediately, evaporating the sweat on my body and chilling me instantly. I put on extra layers.

The road came to the end of the valley, the view ahead filled with snow-capped peaks and the scree slopes that ran down from them. It was a dead end and there was only one way out of it - up and over. To my left the road climbed the valley side, a series of switchback turns that I knew would eventually lead to the top. I didn't let myself think of the top though - I concentrated on my pedal strokes, making sure I got the most out of the energy I was expending, and kept my eyes on the road immediately in front of me. It was relentless. After 4 or 5 turns I was really feeling it - my legs were beginning to protest loudly, my breathing was getting heavier and my chest aching from the cold air, I could feel my heart beating, imagined it wondering what the hell I was doing to it. Steeper turns followed, one after the other, still concentrating on nothing more than the 4 or 5 metres of tarmac infront of me, then I looked up - a petrol station and a building. The road started to ease off. I sat up in the saddle, my legs suddenly relieved of some of the burden and now spinning more freely, more easily. A small sign, insignificant almost - Pas de la Casa - 2408 metres.

I stopped to take photos and marvel at the road snaking its way down a new valley over the other side. It was bitter up there though and I knew enough about cycling in the mountains to put on yet more layers, including my windproof. One thing I failed to take adequate precautions with, however, was my hands. After just 5 minutes down the other side my fingers were frozen and I knew my warm gloves were in the bottom of a pannier. I did have something that might help close to hand though - a pair of socks in the top of a bag on the back.

So there I was, rolling down into France with a sock on each hand. They helped but the next 20 miles were less than comfortable. My hands and forearms were cramping with the cold and constant braking, my feet went numb from inaction and my whole body seemed to ache not only from the effort of getting up but also from the pressure on it to keep rigid whilst being forced forward on the way down. I arrived at Ax-Les-Termes 5 hours after I had set off that morning.

I have been reaping my rewards today, however. This French side is much different to the Spanish side I experienced - I feewheeled down the valley for 20 miles this morning, basking in the warm sunshine, breathing in the fresh mountain air and marvelling at the scenery - lush green mountain sides scarred with rocky crags, snow-capped peaks in the background. This is what mountains in the Spring time is all about. I've even managed to find a near-perfect campsite to relax in for a few days, in Tarascon, next to the river. I think there's a bar that sells Guinness in town aswell.

Day 75 - Balaguer - at the foot of the Pyrenees

2007-05-26T15:10:00.000Z

I saw them today for the first time, the moutains, looming on the horizon as I cruised along the last few miles of this plain. I've spent a long time looking at the map for this next bit and been told many scary stories - the roads are full of lorries and very dangerous, not to mention choked with fumes, Andorra's a horrible place anyway - don't bother, you'll be going uphill for a long, long time. I like that last one, as if it was news to me that crossing the Pyrenees was going to involve going uphill.

I think I just need to get on with it now so tomorrow I head up into the foot hills, granny-gear at the ready.

Mountains aside, I am quite looking forward to getting back to France, for a number of reasons. Spain has been good - very good - but it's been long and, at times, seemed impossible. Crossing that border will be sweet. I am also meeting friends in France for a 4 or 5 day rest - the first familiar faces I will have seen for three months. And then of course there's the Super U.

A Story

2007-05-18T14:38:00.001Z

Luke is 47 or 48. He doesn't remember which. Either that or he just doesn't know. I don't think it makes much difference to him. In certain light, he looks quite youthful - more 30's than 40's. He has smooth, weathered skin that hides his love for cigarettes well

He's never settled down, always moving from one job to another, one town to the next, never staying for longer than about two years at a time. He went to University in his thirties and then went back to working as he did before - gardening, labouring, tree surgery. Six years ago he decided to go and see some friends he had in Madrid and try and make a life for himself in Spain. He drove down in a beaten-up old car he had, with two hundred pounds in his pocket. He didn't stay in Madrid long and went South, looking for work amongst the English communities that had congregated there. He got some work, bought a caravan and lived on some land with a commune of Brits, all of whom were either escaping something or putting something off. Luke didn't feel that way though, he felt at home for the first time in years. He got two cats - Bertie and Onka - and for the first time in his life he felt something like settled.

Luke, Bertie and Onka were like a little family. He had been alone for so long it didn't take Luke any time at all to become very attached to them. They were like his brother and sister, his best friends. But things weren't all rosy in Spain. Luke made just about enough money for the three of them to live, then the car started breaking down, then the tools he used to work with needed replacing - it was just one thing after another - one step forwrd, two steps back - and he started to accumulate a large amount of debt. After a while he decided to cut his losses and return to England. He could live rent-free on his parents land, in his caravan, and work as much as he could, repay his debts and save some money.

So the three of them set off for a ferry in the North. About 40 miles South of Madrid they stopped in a motorway services for the night. They're not ideal for stopping at but they didn't normally charge you and you could get back on the road straight away the following morning. In the middle of the night Luke was woken by Bertie and Onka fighting. He reached for his torch, which had its own little hook above his bed, but for some reason it wasn't there. He started to get up but by then they had stopped, so he settled down to sleep again.

In the morning, Luke woke and put the kettle on for coffee and started to fill the cat's bowls. Onka rubbed around his legs, as normal. 'Bertie!' he called, expecting him to come skipping out from his sleeping place between the cupboards. Bertie didn't come out. Panic rose in Luke's chest. 'Bertie!' he called again, his voice anxious now. He looked around the small caravan - at the cushion the cats sometimes slept on together, at the place on the sofa where they often sat with him, then at the makeshift cat flap he had put in the door, with its piece of wire to hold it shut. The wire was hanging loose. Bertie was gone.

Luke stayed at the services for 5 days, walking around, calling Bertie's name, asking people if they'd seen him. He climbed over the back wall, walked the fields and farm tracks. Still no Bertie. He couldn't stay there forever and on the sixth day he wrenched himself away, distraught. Chances were, Bertie was either long gone or flat on the road somewhere, but he didn't know. It's the not knowing that kills you.

His plan in England worked and after three years he had paid off all his debts and saved a lot of money. His application for residency in New Zealand was accepted, Onka had her jabs and passport, and they were due to fly out in 6 weeks time. He got lucky with two weeks of cash work and was suddenly flush. He thought of what to do with it and his mind led him back to three years ago and a promise he had made to himself, to Onka, to Bertie. If he ever had the chance he would come back and look for him.

Luke packed a rucsac and a tent, flew to Madrid, hired a car and started driving South. The place had changed but he still recognised some things, especially when he got on the road South. He knew he was getting nearer and his heart started beating faster, his hands becoming slippery on the steering wheel. His heart was in his throat as he approached the services, tears already welling in his eyes, excitement in his stomach. It was a long shot, he knew that. But he had to try it. He owed it to himself, to Onka, to Bertie.

The barman at the services was bemused at first but eventually remembered the strange English guy who stayed there for a week three years ago, looking for his cat. Luke started pretty much where he left off - walking, calling. He did a day at the services then headed South, on the route back to where he and the cats had lived together for three years. He stopped in villages, walked every street and every farm track, calling Bertie. He inspected every litter of kittens for traces of Bertie's genes, questioned every cat owner, and pretty much anyone he met. Every movement in the shadows, every cry or wail from a cat at night was a potential Bertie. He immersed himself in it, it drove him mad, but he knew he had to do it.

He went back to the commune where he had lived. All the same people were still there but, strangely, all but one of the couples had swapped partners with each other. That was the way with these places. They had a party that lasted until 7am. A big, angry woman who remembered Luke from years ago, and didn't like him then, punched him in the face and knocked him to the floor. He was too drunk to remember it properly, or for it to hurt too much.

There was no Bertie though and Luke headed back towards Madrid, stopping in the same villages, walking the same tracks, calling the same name.

He flies home tomorrow morning. He's stopped calling now, stopped looking. He's looking forward to seeing Onka again, to starting his new life in New Zealand. At least the journey back to England will be straight forward, with no quarantine to deal with.

Day 62 - Toledo - Central Spain

2007-05-13T19:00:00.000Z

I've been here two days now and will probably make it three tomorrow - my first real 'holiday'!

I was going to leave today but I met some people in a bar last night, just as I was about to go back and have an early night. It's always the way, isn't it? Mark and Javi were going down to the river to a free 'concert'. I went with them. We drank beers and listened to local rock bands. Then we went to a club in the centre of town. Spanish people don't dance - Javi told me that and I saw it for myself. They have waiters in the clubs here - you don't even have to go to the bar. I got back to the tent at about 5.30am.

Today I have been playing football with Javi, Mark and a group of their friends. I scored a goal. We went for a beer and then back to Javi's house and now we're going out for a drink and some food. Javi has pet caterpillars.

MoreTube

2007-05-08T16:50:00.000Z

Due to popular demand...

Decision Beach - where I decided to pedal back across Spain:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMFm8DHk9jc

Riding through Extremadura, underneath the eagles:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-TFND40s-W8

Chilling in Caceres - Sunday evening in the Plaza Mayor (main square):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=idOhEdPANaQ

Day 56 - Caceres - Central-Eastern Spain

2007-05-07T15:22:00.000Z

Two and a half years ago, when I first decided to do this, I wrote a short piece explaining why I was doing it and what I meant by ´Avoiding Europe´. Some of you may have read it - it was on my website for a while - most of you probably haven't and should possibly consider yourselves lucky.

Anyway, as well as a bit of a rant about Australia and general musings as to what 'travelling' actually was, I wrote something along the lines of:

"Most people know Spain for beach holidays in the south and maybe the odd city break, but how many people go to Extremadura, one of the most beautiful places in the country?"

I don't know the answer to that - I'm not out here doing a survey - but I have been cycling through Extremadura for the last two days. And it is beautiful. Rolling hills, pristine countryside, pitted with huge granite boulders, stretching as far as you can see, bright orange lizards, snakes, rivers, lakes, eagles constantly within sight, circling in the sky above me...it's quite a place.

In contrast to that I'm feeling awful today and am having a day off in Caceres. You could say ´self inflicted´ but I blame the barman in the ´Berlin Bar´, a proper rocker´s paradise. The walls are adorned with pictures of a Guns and Roses tribute band and the barman has proper 80´s Stadium Rock hair that he swishes about dramatically while playing, unashamedly, a mean bit of air guitar. He also dishes out shots of vodka to his friends at the bar (and me, last night), giving out double measures but only having a single shot himself each time, ´because I´m working´, and uses half a bottle of Bacardi to make two Bacardi and cokes, in pint-sized glasses, hence how I feel today.

Day 51 - Coimbra - Central Portugal

2007-05-02T16:02:00.000Z

I spent a day in Porto at the weekend, thinking I might have a day off there. I didn't like it much though - despite discovering an excellent local food and drinkery - so I continued down the coast and discovered a bit of postcard Portugal. Sun, sand, sea, a beach promenade and a pleasant, chilled atmosphere. I took a day off there, in Espinho, and spent Sunday sitting on the beach wall with the locals, looking at the sea. I walked down to the waves, took my shoes off and stood in the water, the powerful tide stripping the sand from beneath my feet as it rushed out, and nearly knocking me over as it came back in again. It's a beautiful sight, the Atlantic, especially when you know there's nothing but water between you and America. Makes you feel quite small, quite insignificant.

Got me thinking too. When I arrive on the East coast of Italy and look out over the Adriatic, having done the same on the Med., how would I feel knowing I had cycled all that way, on my own? And how would I feel if I turned up having 'cheated' a bit, on the pretence of saving some time? I can feel it now, thinking about it, in my stomach, and that's why I'm heading East to the border with Spain tomorrow and then for the Pyrenees again. On my bike.

Day 45 - Viana do Castelo - West Coast - Portugal

2007-04-26T16:47:00.000Z

Cycling into Portugal was a surreal, but satisfying, experience. Surreal because I was in a remote valley following a winding road up and down the left hand side, towards the sea, occassionally passing a large house and its terraced fields, and even more occassionally passing a person - an actual person! - walking along the road or, as is usual, stopping their work to look at me as if I were a different, alien species. Around one corner a large concrete sort of archway was covering the road. No signs, no warning, no explanation, just a concrete box - like a garage you could drive right through - and then, afterwards, a sign explaining the 'new' rules of the road (mainly speed limits for cars) because we were now, apparently, in Portugal. You wouldn't know it otherwise and the first time I really noticed was about 10 miles down the road - they have orange traffic arrows! They're green in Spain! Amazing.

I've been following that river, in the valley, for the last three days, meandering my way down the left hand side, looking across at Spain, on the right, until today when I reached the sea and my compass began to point South again. That's the satisfying bit, by the way. Knowing I've now cycled the length of France, from coast to border, the width of Spain, from border to border, and now not-quite the-width of Portugal, from border to coast.

I have a decision to make, however, fuelled in part by mother nature but also by my own conscience. To complete my plan of cycling through all European countries this year, I really need to be starting at the top of Italy at the beginning of June. I don't know when the last time you properly looked at a map of Europe, or, more specifically, France and Spain, was, but that is quite a long way from the West coast of Portugal. With Andorra in between, I would even go so far as to say it's too far for me to be able to cycle in 4/5 weeks. So do I sacrifice any purist intentions and resort to other means, at least for the journey back across Spain, or do I stay in the saddle, regardless of how that might affect the overall plan? I've always said there are no rules - and there aren't - only in my head, which is where this particular battle is currently taking place.

Finally (yes, I'll shut up in a minute), in response to a specific request (thanks for all the comments, by the way), if you want to recreate the conditions I am currently working under, in order to be able to experience these 'best thing since mass-produced vodka'...err...experiences, try the following:

Turn the heating up to about 30 degrees (or just go outside, if the weather reports I'm hearing are correct), get an exercise bike and put together a small mixture of sun cream and salt water (or just sweat, if you happen to have lots of that lying around). Set the exercise bike to nearly the hardest level, get on it and pedal. Every 5 minutes or so turn the level up for 10 minutes, to the point where you can just about keep the momentum going - that's a hill. At the same time, get someone to flick the suncream/sweat solution into your eyes. Keep pedalling until sweat, real sweat, drips off your nose and runs down into your mouth, your eyebrows long since overwhelmed. Taste that suncream. Feel the burn in the legs? Tough, another hill. Get out of the saddle, push down on those pedals. Get someone to throw some insects at you, making sure that some stick to your face, legs and arms, and at least one large one gets caught in your hat. Try and get it out while still pedalling. Get someone to throw dust and dirt at you every five minutes - they're lorries passing. Do this for four hours.

Admittedly, the scenery, the food and the cold, cheap beer tends to take the edge off a bit, but you'll get the general idea.

Day 38 - Ribadeo - North West Spain

2007-04-19T15:45:00.000Z

There´s been a few notable landmarks reached since I last was able to write on here. ´One month away´ was over a week ago now - I left on 12th March, started cycling on the 13th. I´m now well into my fifth week ´on the road´. I´ve also cycled more than 1000 miles, I discovered this morning. About 1100 now, actually.

Numbers aside, the last ten days or so have been quite eventful. I´ve eaten tapas whilst ´talking´ with Spanish people (they talked, I did my nodding/shaking head at seemingly appropriate points routine), made friends with a couple from the Basque country, drank brandy with an eighty-something-year-old English couple in their campervan, met and cycled for a day with a lonely guy from New Zealand who talked too much, stayed in a town called ´Poo´, and had my hardest day - physically and mentally - of the trip so far.

That was yesterday and pretty much the end of this North coast for me now. I´ve seen and met a lot of people on the ´Pilgrims Route´ to Santiago Compostella in the last week or so. I´ve also been asked if I´m on it myself many times, but I´m not - I´m avoiding things like that, remember? So I´ve no real desire to keep going to Santiago for the sake of it. Portugal beckons, as does the rest of Spain after that, so it´s time to head South.

Day 27 - Gernika-Lumo - North-East Spain

2007-04-09T15:10:00.000Z

My journey out of Les Landes (that flat forresty bit in the bottom left corner of France) was more rapid than I expected it to be. Another leisurely day planned, I headed for a small town a few hours ride away. That seemed pretty dead on arrival so I set my sights on Biarritz, in the hope of some decent leisure time and a bit of life. Biarritz didn´t grab me at all, not helped by the most snotty, unhelpful tourist information employee I have encountered thus far, in my life, so, further still I went and found myself in St Jean De Luz at the end of the day. I also found myself, more noticably, in Basque country. Suddenly there were ´proper´ tapas bars, people speaking Spanish, red and white flags displayed proudly, and hills. Oh yes, hills.

A day off in St Jean followed (thoroughly recommended - much nicer than Biarritz) which allowed me to rid myself of a few kilos of books and maps, courtesy of the French postal service. Then I had only one place to go - Spain.

I had envisaged the border crossing to be a somewhat monumental affair. Ok, maybe not monumental, but a sign at least, that I could photograph and look at with pride, but in reality there was nothing. I crossed the river that acts as the border in the centre of Hendaye and entered Spain without so much of a ´You are now leaving...Welcome to...´

Some might say that I cheated my way around the Pyrenees, by sticking to the coast. To that I would reply ´Have you seen the coast?´ - ´cheating´ is certainly not a word I would use. I also made up for it in some way, and avoided 20km of traffic on the main road, but taking the scenic route - up Mt. Jaizkibel. I did the 6.5 miles, 455 vertical metres, from sea (harbour) to summit, in dead on an hour.

In Donostia-San Sebastian I got my first real taste of Spain and coming out of a sleepy France in March, it was quite a shock. There were people! And life and colour and laughter and chatter and people drinking in the streets outside bars, shouting at their friends from cars. The fact that it was Good Friday obviously added to all this and it also added to my accommodation problem. In this part of Spain they don´t have campsites near town centres, mainly because the town centres generally fill a hole between steep hills. Showing me on the map where the campsite was, and noting my bike, the girl in the tourist information winced at me. ´I´m sorry´ was about all she said.

6km and another 400+ vertical metres later I arrived at what seemed to be a Spanish college Easter Holiday party. The majority of the occupants were 20-somethings already well stuck into numerous cans of lager and large quantities of strong smelling weed (is it legal here? They smoke it everywhere!). They weren´t, however, a particularly friendly lot so I didn´t join them, only took advantage of the onsite facilities (a bar!) and went to bed to rest my hill-weary legs.

I have spent the last three days following the coastal road from Orio to Lekeitio, cutting across this afternoon to here. If you are ever near here - on foot, bike, car, whatever - travel along that road. It is quite magnificent and absolutely beautiful. It is rides like that which remind me why I´m here and put a genuine smile on my face, even going uphill.

Day 22 - Vieux-Boucau-les-Bains - South West France

2007-04-03T15:21:00.000Z

"But, you know, it can't rain all the time."

Hmm...talk about tempting fate because, actually, it did rain all the time. Well, it did on Sunday at least and I can tell you with some authority that rain, camping, sand and cycling is not a good mix.

After three hours of it on Sunday, and no end in sight, I retreated to a hotel to lay my things out infront of a heater and remove damp sand from, err, damp sandy places. My panniers are waterproof, if you pack them properly. Lesson learnt.

The other lesson learnt is that quiet France is all very well and good but a different game altogether when you get to the real 'summer' towns - the ones with the beaches. Here you find that instead of summer just being busier, it is, in fact, 'it'. At this time of year they are just dead.

Still, South I continue to go, now finding some (sandy) campsites open. The boarded up bars, restaurants and supermarkets on site hint at more profitable, and sunnier, times, and also add another 2-4 miles to my daily riding in order to stock up on supplies and get a beer in the evening. Not a hardship by any means and I comfort myself with the thought that in 2/3 months time I may very well be sick of 'the summer season' and crave a quiet, chilly French town in April.

The riding continues to be flat and the pine forests beautiful and calming, perhaps natures way of preparing me for the 'storm' of the Pyrenees?

Dat 19 - Arcachon

2007-03-31T15:28:00.000Z

Like all the pro cyclists (ahem), I still get on the bike on my 'days off'. It keeps the legs loose, you see, and it's started to feel a bit strange if I don't ride the bike for a day, even if only for a few miles.

Since leaving the Ile De Ré I've ridden every day this week - Monday to Friday, averaging about 4 hours, and 40 miles, a day. It's been pleasant riding - the good people who govern the area of the Bassin D'Arcachon have taken it upon themselves to lay smooth tarmac cycle tracks through the dense pine forests, some way from the noisy roads. The forest also absorbs some of that wind, which is a bonus.

I stopped briefly in a strange little place called Lége-Cap-Ferret. I say strange because, even for France, it was dead. No bar, no cafe, no restaurant open. And the campsite was lacking a certain charm too, even less so at four in the morning when my tent felt like it was about to be ripped from the ground by the wind - either that or submerged by the amount of water falling from the sky.

I left that place pretty quickly and ended up here on Friday night - in Arcachon, at the only campsite open for miles (apparently). I decided on a day off today, a decision helped greatly by the presence of a bar on site, and have been riding the coastal path, enjoying (yes, enjoying, on an unloaded bike) the steep hills around the town and marvelling at the size of the houses and the amount of money that is obviously present here.

Once again, it is obvious that this is an entirely different place during the summer. I get the impression, and have been told, that it is positively 'heaving'. That was, in part, a reason for the cycle tracks, I think - to minimise deaths on the roads during summer.

I am, however, glad to be here at this time of year. It's much easier to enjoy the beauty and serenity of a place when it's not crammed full of people. It feels relaxed, like on the Ile De Ré. And the sun does shine, occasionally. Between the rain. But, you know, it can't rain all the time.

Day 16 - Paullic - on the Gironde, North of Bordeaux

2007-03-28T15:08:00.000Z

As any cyclist will tell you, the wind is not always your friend. She has been a cruel Mistress to me these last three days, making me fight my way down the West coast. Her relentless presence is like a hand on my forehead, pushing me backwards. If I stop pedalling on flat, or even slightly downhill, ground, any momentum I had, and every effort I've put in, is lost almost instantly as my invisible foe relishes her power. Frustrating, slightly demoralising and, mainly, bloody knackering.

That aside, it's been a pleasant if uneventful few days. I discovered France's Great Yarmouth - Royan, a town that was (apparently) bombed to dust in the war and re-built in true 50's style. They actually say that on the leaflets - Frances premier 50's town! It's kitsch, in a strangely French way and, unsurprisingly, slightly more charming that Great Yarmouth.

I crossed the Gironde at its mouth, by boat, and have today cycled most of the length of the left bank (wine buffs will nod in appreciation at this point). The number and size of the vineyards is truly staggering - I cycled a good 30 miles without losing site of vines as far as the eye could see.

I'm hotel-bound again tonight, due to camping ferme, so I'm off to sample some of the local produce.

Day 13 - St Martin de Ré

2007-03-25T17:09:00.000Z

Today is my fourth, and last, full day on the island. When I walk into this internet cafe, I don't have to ask to use the net, I just say 'Bonjour, cava?' to the guy who works here and sit at a computer. In the two bars that are affordable to drink in around the harbour, they know that I will want a 'pression' and don't bother to give me the little receipts that tell them how much I've drunk at the end of my visit. They just remember, or they trust me to remember, or perhaps they don't really care. I say hello in the street to the guy from the newsagents (where they sell the Guardian) and the woman at the campsite jokes with me, or perhaps at me, humouring my stuttering French. I like it here.

But I will not be sad to leave. Four days is enough. I'm ready to move on now, so South I will head, tomorrow, hopefully in better weather (it's cloudy and chilly today) to see what it may bring.

Incidentally, my initial comments that much of this island is like the New Forest only really applies to the first 10km, or so. The rest is mainly a sort of marshland, networked by thin tarmac cycling tracks that link the towns, and beaches, on the coasts. I cycled to the tip yesterday, in the better weather that the afternoon offered, and looked out onto the atlantic. I also cycled to the other main towns on the island and was happy to conclude that I made the right choice by staying in St Martin. They consist, as does most of the rest of the island, mainly of empty summer houses waiting for August, when the French take their (month long) holiday. I'm glad I've seen it now - quiet, relaxed, friendly - as I imagine it's a much different place in Summer, and not for the better.

As a parting shot, and because I've had (one) favourable response from my two previous experiments, here's some more YouTubing. My intention was to film my journey from campsite to town centre - a six minute walk that I planned to run in about three because I only have enough memory in my camera for three minutes. Something went wrong early on though (user-error, no doubt) and I realised half-way to town that it had stopped recording. So this is the second half of my walk to town, which was meant to be from tent to harbour, but isn't now for the reasons I've just explained. And yes, my camera-handling does need a bit of work.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNavh8rB6kQ

JC

2007-03-23T15:27:00.000Z

After an unexpected 50+ mile/+4 hour day last week, I decided to take it easy the next day and cruised all of 15 miles to the nearest big town. Fed up with paying out for Hotels, I figured Cholet would have more to offer for your budget traveller. I was wrong, as it turned out, and had to settle in a town centre hotel for about the same price as everywhere else (non-town centre hotels were the same price and given the choice I'd prefer to be in the middle). Resigned to another 40 euros flying out of my wallet I decided to make the most of it and headed into town for an early beer to see what the night life was like - this was, after all, Saturday night in the biggest town I had been in yet. A few beers in a few nice little French bars, and a bit of journal writing, and things seemed pretty normal - i.e. non-descript. Then I saw the Guinness sign and decided to see how well it travelled. Not too bad, as it turns out, and after a pint of the black stuff (I think they had to dust the pint glass off for me) I felt...ahem...confident enough to stick a Euro on the pool table and test my French trying to work out the local 'rules'. It turns out they don't really have any, nor any pool skills (at least not in this particular bar), but I did strike up conversation with a few of them and we soon abandoned the pool in favour of the bar, and more Guinness, to discuss whatever it is that men discuss in pubs.

Jean-Christophe was the only other person in the bar drinking Guinness by the pint and we found common ground not only in our drinking habits. My normal limit of an evening whilst 'on the road' is two, maybe three, 'French' beers. That's halves, if you didn't know. After a good more than three I insisted on eating, so Jean-Christophe and I decanted ourselves to a nearby pizzeria where he, being French, insisted on 'a petite aperitif'...of whisky, followed by unusual quantities of red wine. The pizza was magnificant, as I suppose it would be, but after yet another beer in a club afterwards I had to homeward bound before I fell over. At somepoint in that last bar, Jean-Christophe mentioned that I should stay with him the following night.

That was about as much as I remembered the following morning when I woke, and I prepared myself for a day of (little) cycling, unsure whether he meant it or, indeed, if he had ever said it. At 11am sharp, as I was packing the last of my things up, I saw a familiar figure trudging down the road so I open the window to greet it with a 'cava?'. Jean-Christophe looked up at me with bloodshot eyes and replied 'non'. But he was there at least and we packed my belongings into his car and headed across town to his apartment.

I spent the day on the internet, phoning my family and occassionally watching TV. Jean-Christophe spent it on the sofa drinking Coca Cola, but it was a pleasant and relaxing day. My natural thoughts (that he was a murderer/psycho/wrongun) eased throughout the day and by the time we headed out for a medicinal beer and game of pool (about 6pm) such thoughts had completely gone. We chatted, played pool and joked as, I suppose, good friends do on Sunday afternoons - him in broken English, me in broken French - then we went and ate heartily at a restaurant and returned 'home' to watch a film then sleep.

The following morning he insisted on taking me to the local supermarket for my daily supplies and all I had to give Jean-Christophe as we said 'au revoir' an hour later was my thanks. I hope that some day I will be able to return the favour. Is this the nicest man in France?

He gets my vote.

Day Ten - Ile De Ré

2007-03-22T15:42:00.000Z

Well, I've made it to what was always 'Destination One' for me. 'My only real route plan', I would tell people, 'is to go to the Ile De Ré and have a few days off, just to chill out. Then I'll decide from there'. That still stands except I have pretty much decided that I am not going to go inland to my contact in Limoges (again, thanks, and sorry) but keep on the coast for Bordeaux and Spain. France feels a bit like a warm up to the trip proper at the moment. I've done it before and I will be back here again at least twice on this trip. Don't get me wrong - I love it here, but I don't think it will feel like it's started properly until I break some new boundaries - or borders - and now I'm over a week here I want to get on with doing that, and Spain is the place to do it.

Anyway, that aside, the Ile is pretty much as I expected it to be - beautiful, quiet, relaxed. It has a reputation for being the place 'where the French come on holiday' and I can see why that would be (it also made me think whether the same theory is applied by people visiting England. 'Where shall we go?' 'I don't know - I've heard the English go to Blackpool'. Nothing against Blackpool but...you know).

It's actually quite a big island, dotted with (I think) ten main towns. In between the towns are large areas of forest - not unlike the New Forest, strangely - which contain networks of cycle paths. This is, apparently, 'The Island of Cycling', or something like that. I guess the idea is that it's pretty flat. I have to confess, I returned to the roads after about 2km. Not only do they have flatter surfaces (something you really notice with a full load) they also have signs telling you where places are!

The towns (I'm in the capital - St Martin de Ré) are what an older generation would call 'quaint' and what females of my generation would call 'cute'. I'm not sure which I'd feel comfortable using, if either. St Martin revolves around a harbour surrounded by cobbled streets filled with cafes, hotels and restaurants. Branching off of this centre is a network of smaller srteets and alleyways, each one urging you to walk up it or, at least, take a photo of it, as they each seem to promise some hidden treasure or adventure. Very quaint. Or cute, if you like.

My first night camping, last night, made a nice change, despite the cold. And it is cold - I got up to a cloudless sky today and have spent my time cycling to the daily market, eating breakfast in the harbour (not in it, in it - you know what I mean), cycling to the supermarket for more supplies and then waiting for my (first lot of) washing to finish at the campsite, whilst sitting around reading Tuesday's Guardian and soaking up some rays. Out of the wind it's fine, but stick the sun behind a cloud or get up a bit of a breeze and it's bitter - around 5 degrees.

I think I may spend another day here tomorrow, possibly to explore the rest of the island on the bike or maybe, as seems to be the general idea around here, just sit about and relax.

Day Eight - Luçon - Western France

2007-03-20T15:54:00.000Z

Today marks my first week on the road. I have cycled seven of the last eight days and covered, approximately, 220 miles. Not a great distance by any standards but I'm about where I thought I would be - ready to take a few days off on the Ile De Ré.

I have gotten used to riding the loaded bike, my legs are a bit stronger and my heart has stopped trying to beat through my chest when I'm trying to sleep, as it did in for the first four or five days, perhaps indicating that it, like me, is relaxing a bit now.

Mornings are still the worst times, though, as I continue to have uncontrollable, subconscious feelings of fear and sickness. Not fear though, really, because I'm not scared - not consciously - but whatever I eat or however I think I feel slightly sick and my legs feel weak for those first few hours in the morning before I leave. This soon passes after a few miles on the road and I again begin to look forward, if only to a cold beer and a warm bed that evening. If this morning feeling is going to pass I cannot see it doing so soon, but it is something I think I am learning to live with.

The task ahead remains a daunting one to me but I have resolved to take each day at a time. Although, when my mind inevitably wanders beyond France, and Spain, and Western Europe and into the next who-knows-how-many months, I have yet to properly relish in that feeling of 'challenge'. But I will, in time.

Not Just Words

2007-03-20T15:47:00.000Z

Being a child of the digital age, I've decided to fully utilise the resources available to me and join the millions (or is that minions?) on the ever-popular YouTube. Only snippets and, yes, I pronounce Cholet wrong, but there you go, what are you gonna do?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KUvs84fmP68

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KlAOATGCBiw

A Small Treat

2007-03-18T13:51:00.000Z

I won't be doing this very often as I'd prefer my words to give you all you need, but she was very nice and seemed proper chuffed when I asked if I could take her photo. Plus I have a bit of time on my hands today as I'm taking my first day off, watching crap French Sunday TV at Jean-Christophe's house - my new friend who I met whilst playing pool in a bar last night. Anyway, that's another story. I give you Madame Lebret and her shop:

Day Five - Cholet - Central-Western France

2007-03-17T13:44:00.000Z

After that rather eventful first day I decided to take it easy these first few weeks, to get a bit of cycling fitness up and, well, just because I can really. I've been aiming to do about 30-40 miles a day, slowly working my way down France. My overnight stops so far, map fans, have been: Combourg - Chateaugiron - Chateaubriant - Beaupreau. A typical day will look something like this:

9am (ish) - Wake up, remind myself where I am/what I'm doing. Read/watch French TV. Get up/ wash/ eat light breakfast/ stuff everything back into the pannier(s)/ look at map and decide which (medium sized) town to head for.
11am - Depart, start cycling. Stop occasionally for snacks/views/ photos.
2.30-3pm - Arrive at destination, look for Tourist Information. Ask them where the cheapest place to stay in town is. Discover there's no such thing as a 'cheap place to stay'.
4pm - Shower, dress in my 'off the bike wear', walk into town, take photos, scope out restaurants, look at the 'sights' (normally a castle of some description), find a nice looking bar, order a beer, sit down to write in my journal.
6pm - go back to Hotel (if it's nice - if not, stay in bar) for a lie down/read.
8pm - out for dinner. Although last night, I sneakily cooked in my room - much cheaper. Post-dinner stroll around town.
10pm - in bed!

So I'm sleeping quite a lot, riding a little, reading a lot, eating a bit, drinking a bit and just generally sort of chilling out. This lifestyle can't last though - if I keep staying in Hotels all through March I'll be skint by Spain and on the boat back from Bilbao when I get there. And, actually, I'd prefer a bit of camping, to be honest. For one, I'd actually start to use all this gear I'm lugging about. The cost is obviously also a factor, as are other small things. My bike, for example, spends it's time locked in garages. If I were camping I'd be able to potter about a bit - tighten and oil things, check spacings - during my post-dinner relaxation time. Just generally give it a bit of love. I'd also prefer, you may be surprised to learn, to be able to cook my own food. Finding a decent meal mid-afternoon is not an easy task, and a frustrating one when starving after a few hours on the bike.

Anyway - I'll stop moaning now. I have a decision to make - continue on the coast to my intended first stop - the Ile De Rè - and hope for cheaper accommodation, or retreat to my contact inland and see out March in some free accommodation.

Day One - Combourg - North West France

2007-03-13T14:24:00.000Z

It's currently 3.30pm on my first day. I got off the ferry at 8.30am. The following has already happened:

Bought and ate proper croissants and pain au chocolat
Got lost in St Malo and went the 'wrong' way - for everyone who's asked me what my route is or how I decide it, the answer is 'I head for places where there are road signs to, that are also on the map'
Cycled through deserted French countryside with the sun, and a smile, on my face
Cycled through deserted French countryside feeling lonely and daunted by what lies ahead, and also wondering whether I'm able to do this or not
Seen a man driving a Citroen van in blue overalls with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth
Discovered that my hunch was correct - French campsites aren't open at this time of year
Slept in a park overlooking a lake, in the sun, for an hour
Been offered (and accepted, against my better judgement) a lift from a stranger
Discovered my better judgement isn't always right and met a very nice Frenchman
Been offered a lift to Rennes and a bed for the night (which I declined)
Met Madame Lebret

I have to say, this last one could possibly be the highlight. After discovering the campsite was shut and really feeling the effects of little sleep on the Ferry and my first 40 miles on a fully loaded bike in quite a while, I decided that I would stay here - in Combourg - campsite or no campsite. The Office de Tourisme recommended a 'Chambre D'Hotes' (B&B) in the town centre, run by Madame Lebret who owns the florists next door. 'She's...ummm...the rooms are very nice,' the girl in the tourist office offered nervously. I asked her what she meant. 'She might seem a little...wacky, and her shop is a mess, but the rooms are fine,' she answered, again, slightly nervously.

Entering the florists, I could see what she meant. I was greeted with an enthusiastic handshake from a weathered Frenchman with a very impressive moustache. He stepped aside to reveal a thin passageway to the back of the shop, sided by tables and stands of flowers and general, dusty clutter. At the end of this path was a small woman - literally about 4'5" - sat behind a desk in the centre of the shop, babbling in French to two women. She was wearing a flourescent pink and purple jumper, at least two sizes too big even for her ample frame, and a large fuschia pink ribbon, tied in a bow on her head - not in a dissimilar way to comedy-toothache bandages. This was, of course, Madame Lebret.

I am meeting her at 5pm so she can take me to my room, hence why I'm blogging so soon. There was no way I was going to carry on cycling today, I'm too knackered! So I look forward to a shower, some dinner in one of the restaurants in town and, hopefully, a long, still, night's sleep. Then I'll see where the road signs take me tomorrow.

Dreams becoming reality

2007-02-21T10:25:00.000Z

It's possible that the next time I write on here will be from France - as in, on my own in France, with my bike.

I have seven days of work left - about 15 days until I leave the country. It's quite surreal really - everything is so normal at the moment and it will be right up until I leave. Then, presumably, it will hit me - this thing, this 'changing of my life', this adventure. That's a good thing - it is, afterall, why I'm going - to experience just that, the fear, the excitement, the loneliness, the people, the places. And I'm done talking about it now - I just want to go.

Not long to go!

2006-09-06T15:32:00.000Z

Six months would normally seem like quite a long time. It is, after all, around half of the time I'm expecting to be away! But it's not actually that long, considering what I have to do in that time. A brief list:

Finalise my equipment and buy remaining items.
Hand in my notice at work (woo hoo).
Cancel the contract and move out of the flat.
Transfer the car insurance to my brother.
Change all my contact addresses to my parents house.
Arrange storage for all my worldly posessions.
Choose a date and book the ferry to France.

Ok, so it's not actually that much, but it's exciting that I'm finally reaching the stage when these things actually need to be done, as opposed to being on a long list of 'things to do nearer the time'. Riding off the ferry with nothing pressing on my time, other than where I want to go next, has seemed like an almost impossible dream for a long time now, but it seems like it will finally become a reality. In truth, it scares me the closer I get to it, but it also excites me more and more. I'll finally stop wondering what it would be like and start finding out.

Changing Plans

2006-05-17T15:47:00.000Z

Easter has been and gone and I haven't cycled LEJOG yet - or, indeed, JOGLE. My plans have changed so much that I am now at a point where I don't really have any plans for this year! I am aware that it is less than a year before I leave, however, and that my savings really do need to start being more strictly controlled.

I don't know if I made it clear before, but I am now starting 'Avoiding Europe' in March 2007. I have put the date back from September 2006 partly for weather reasons (I'd rather head off into Summer than Winter) and partly for money reasons - it simply allows me more time to save more money.

The other thing I have been thinking about is what I'm actually going to do while I'm out there. Sure, I'll be cycling, seeing new places, learning new languages, relaxing, cycling, eating, seeing some sights, 'Avoiding Europe', cycling some more...but I'd like a bit more if I can get it. I want to experience as large a variety of things and people as I can. Which brings me neatly to a new section of the website that should be up soon - Give Me a Job! It will be self explanatory so please have alook when it's up.

Aside from that I'm deciding what to do for 'training' this year. LEJOG may still happen around Autumn time but I am concentrating more on this Summer. My girlfriend has gotten herself a job in Germany for a month or so in June/July, so I thought I might take a ride out there. Maybe through France, Belgium and Holland for a week or so then stay in her hotel for a week. Isn't there some sort of sporting event going on around that time?

More Training

2005-12-01T14:16:00.000Z

Finally something proper to write about!

I've said all along that part of my preparation would be to cycle End to End (or LEJOG, if you prefer). Partly for the training, partly because it would be a good way to tick 'the UK' off of my Europe list and partly...well, just for the fun of it really.

Easter next year was my rough target for this and I have just realised that, actually, it's not that far away. It's not too bad though - thanks to the France trip I have pretty much all the equipment I need. The only things I really need to do are sort out the route and the logistics - I live nowhere near either Lands End or John O'Groats. And make sure I'm in decent physical shape.

So that's what I'm doing. I bought the maps today. Slightly bigger (or is it smaller?) scale than I wanted - I liked the 1: 180000 maps I used in France. You can get a UK version of them, but they don't have contour lines on them. I've gone for some OS maps this time - 1: 250000. They have contours and campsites, which is a bonus (although I know from experience not to rely on the campsites actually existing).

And I need to work out which way round I want to do it. Do I want to finish in Cornwall or Scotland? Decisions decisions...

Anniversary

2005-11-11T16:49:00.000Z

I realised the other day that the one year anniversary of the idea for Avoiding Europe passed the other day without me noticing (well - I did notice - it was my birthday. But I didn't realise.) Have a look at my first ever post on here, if you don't believe me.

So what has been achieved over the last year? Well, I've planned the route in as detailed a way as I would like before I leave. I've worked out how much money and equipment I'll need and started saving accordingly. I've bought a large amount of that equipment - including the bike. I have set up sponsorship for the British Heart Foundation through my website. There was a feature about me in the paper. I got a website set up. And some business cards printed. I did a training ride in France, covering about 800 miles in eleven days cycling, on my own. I've read a lot about cycle touring and all the countries I'll be visiting (especially the Eastern European ones).

In short, quite a bloody lot. So its not been a total waste of time. I just hope the next year is as productive.

Update

2005-11-09T16:15:00.000Z

Well, it's been a while. But don't worry - I am still alive. And yes, I am still planning on 'Avoiding Europe'. I've been busy with other things over the past few months - trying to make a name for myself as a music reviewer, having a birthday, life in general.

As I think I mentioned before, I'm in a sort of limbo period with the trip. I have the route finalised. I have the equipment. I want to go. I just don't have the money at the moment. But that's alright - I'll just work for a bit longer.

Which is another thing I was talking about last time - when am I actually going to go? Well, I think I am going to avoid Winter. I'm thinking of seven to eight months in total for the trip, so if I leave in March I don't have to be in Winter anywhere. That will be March 2007, by the way. Like I said - I can't afford to go yet. I can't just leave and expect to live nearly a year on the road in Europe with about £900 (my current savings). It just wouldn't work and I want to do it properly.

In the mean time I've got some decent reading material - the library was getting rid of their 'travels in Eastern Europe' section so I got 5 books for £1. I am also planning to sort out the photos on the website soon, so keep checking back - it will be updated!

September

2005-09-19T15:13:00.000Z

To those of you who managed to get all the way through my France 'write ups' - well done! I'm quite impressed.

Over a month has now passed since I got back from France and not a lot has changed. My return to 'normality' was a depressingly easy one. My sun tan has faded, my cycling muscles are withering and the freedom of the open road is becoming a distant memory. A lot of people have asked me how I feel after France, particularly with respect to Avoiding Europe, which is, I keep reminding myself, only a year away now.

The answer is that I feel good about it, in essence, but my feelings towards it have changed somewhat. Before France I was adament that I would be 'Avoiding Europe' on my own. The first few days of France, which were also my first few days of 'solo cycling', were surprisingly lonely and, I must admit, had me thinking that I'd never be able to do the whole thing on my own. As the trip went on I became more comfortable on my own but still more accepting of the idea of 'another' coming with me. I'm not going to actively seek a cycling partner and I don't doubt that I will be doing it on my own, I'm just not so adament that I *have* to be on my own now.

Anyway - aside from that France did actually give me some 'thinking space' and I now have a more focussed 'life plan' than I did before. This has little bearing on Avoiding Europe but is such a major breakthrough for me, after 27 years of idle time wasting, that I had to mention it. I have plans for re-educating myself and persuing a 'career path' when I return, all of which means that 'Avoiding Europe' is becoming more of a turning point in my life than I had imagined.

Another thing I have been thinking of more recently is timing and weather. I am beginning to think a more realistic timescale for the trip is around 7 months and, as a result, that leaving in September might not be the best idea. I could, for example, leave in March, looking to finish in September/October. I would be in France/Spain/Portugal/Italy for Spring and the beginning of summer, then up in the middle countries and the Nordics for high summer and back into Denmark/Netherlands/France for Autumn. This would mean I wouldn't have to spend 'deep Winter' anywhere (well, England, obviously) - I've heard even Greece can get quite chilly.

I don't know - I'm not scared of the cold particularly, so it doesn't matter too much, it's just that things like accommodation would be easier to find in that period aswell.

I have a while to think about it anyway. All I really have to do before I leave is save money. I have the equipment and the plan. So here I go - saving.

France - Part Two

2005-08-20T12:26:00.000Z

Day One

Sillé le Phillippe to Montoire sur le Loir

Time in saddle 3hrs 53 mins 54 secs
Average Speed 12.5
Max Speed 26.6
Distance 48.97

It was a bit strange to be on my own again, but I slipped back into ‘cycling mode’ fairly easily. I did think I might push it down to Blois, on the River Loire, but didn’t fancy such a long day as my first day back. Montoire Sur Loir looked nicer on the map than it did in reality. That’s actually quite a strange thing to say, I’ve just realised, but it’s true! I think it may be because the road I entered the town on passed through a large industrial area before reaching town. I arrived about 3pm and, naturally, everything was shut. I saw the first properly drunk French people of the trip, though. At least, the first properly acting drunk French people. One was a man who was staggering across the road in front of me, who looked like he was about to fall over, and the other an old guy who, on seeing me approaching, stopped and shook his fists at me shouting ‘allez allez allez!’ in a, presumably, encouraging manner. My natural response was to laugh at his performance, which I did, and he, thankfully, did also. I guess they don’t all spend siesta time sleeping.

The town wasn’t actually that bad and after putting the tent up, showering, applying cream etc. I cycled back into town to find something to amuse myself with. I was on the hunt for an Internet café and an English book. I had only taken one book with me and I had finished that while we were at the gite. Now I was on my own again, having something to read in the evenings was essential. I asked in l’Office de Tourisme if there was an Internet place in town and was told it was just up the street to the right, above a shop – number 21. After walking up and down the street three times I returned for more detailed directions. It turned out I was looking up the wrong street and I asked what sort of shop it was above, so as to make sure I would find it this time. ‘A dog parlour’ came the reply, at which I laughed, but the woman remained quite serious. ‘Pour les chien?’ I asked, to which she replied ‘Oui’. I set off, up the right street this time, and after a short walk came across number 21 – a dog-grooming parlour. It was a small shop, with a fenced off area to the right that contained two tables, on which were a small poodle and a large, hairy thing. They were being shampooed and trimmed by two ladies. The following conversation was conducted in French, but as my written French is worse than my spoken French, I will relay it in English.

‘Hello!’
‘Hello. The woman in the Tourist Information said that you had…errr…Internet access?’ shrug shoulders, raise eyebrows and look baffled as if to imply the Tourist Information lady was crazy.
‘Oh yes, yes. Come with me’
At which point she opened the gate to the fenced off area and lead me through the to a small staircase at the back. The poodle followed us enthusiastically.
‘Should I shut the poodle in?’
‘Yes, you better had’

At the top of the rickety staircase was an attic room with four or five PCs along the right hand wall, and lots of junk along the left hand wall.
‘Which one would you like to use?’ she asked me, as if I had a preference.
‘The fastest?’
‘Ok – here you go’ she said, turning the computer on and heading back downstairs.
‘How much is it?’ I shouted after her.
‘Oh, four Euros per hour or one Euro for 10 minutes’ she said, disappearing downstairs.

And so I was left alone in the attic. After about 30 minutes of checking email and generally catching up with things I got bored of the Internet and realised I hadn’t eaten properly yet that day, so went back downstairs into the parlour. There were two different dogs being ‘done’ now, both strapped onto the tables while they were being pampered. I quickly scampered through the dog area and shut the gate behind me.
‘How much?’ I asked.
‘How long were you on there?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Errr…no, really I don’t know.’
‘Oh. Well, it wasn’t an hour was it?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll just give you four Euros for an hour, I don’t mind.’
‘Let’s call it three.’
‘Ok, there you go. Thank you. Bye.’
‘Woof woof.’

After a bit of shopping, but no English book, I went back to camp for dinner, which I ate via two beers at the bar. Once the washing up had been done, the journal written and normality resumed it was about 8.30pm and prime ‘book reading time’. I considered hunting down the English people on the campsite and pleading with them for an English book, but my natural shyness got the better of me. Without a book and little energy for anything else I went to bed and was asleep by about 9.15pm.

Day Two

Montoire sure Loir to Mayet

Time in saddle 3hrs 17 mins 20 secs
Average Speed 11.9
Max Speed 23.5
Distance 39.21

I’d now decided to knock Blois, and the Loire, on the head. Going East to Blois, then back West and North to get up to St Malo was going to be a bit of a slog in five days and not at all in keeping with the leisurely, holiday theme I had in mind for this week. So I decided to stay in the similarly named, but considerably smaller, Loir valley and begin to head West, then North, at a leisurely pace. I had a lie in, which was amazing considering the time I went to bed, and didn’t get on the road till about 11am, heading for Chateau du Loir, only a short distance down the valley. I got there about 1pm to find l’Office de Tourisme shut until 2pm, so went to a café for some lunch. Amazingly, not only was there a café open for lunch, but I also saw an open ‘creperie’ – a first on this trip! After lunch I posted some postcards and had a bit of a ride round town, with an eye out for an internet café and a bookshop. I found both, although the bookshop didn’t look promising (and it was shut), and went back to the Tourist Information, which was now open. The very helpful woman who worked there told me that there wasn’t a campsite in Chateau du Loire, but there were municipal sites in two town close by, which happened to be about 5 miles on, in the direction I was heading. She also said my best chance of finding an English book was in the Centre Commercial, about 3 miles back in the direction I had come from. As it was early still, and the Internet café didn’t open till 3pm, I headed back up the road in search of a book. There was a large book section in the supermarket, but none at all in English. After considering a French novel, and flicking through a few Stephen Kings, I decided that my poor French was probably better suited to something a bit more basic. I ended up buying a Harry Potter book from the children’s section. Outside the supermarket a small child, about 10 or 11, approached me and offered me a postcard with a lion on it. I took it, looked at it, and handed it back to him. He said something in French that I didn’t understand, so I told him (in French) ‘I don’t understand’. He gestured that he wanted some money. Being abroad does funny things to you - well, it does to me - and I instinctively pulled about one and a half euros from my pocket and handed it to him. I would never have done that in England. He offered me the postcard in return, which I declined. It was, to be honest, a crap postcard and I had no use for it. After unlocking my bike and packing my new purchases away I looked around for a bin to put some rubbish in. Postcard boy whistled at me to get my attention, so I walked towards him. Talking in French that I didn’t understand again, he now seemed to have a bit more confidence. ‘I’m looking for a bin’ I said to him, holding up the empty plastic bottles to reinforce my point. ‘Centre Ville’ was all he would say in reply. ‘I only want to throw them away’ I said and his response was to slowly mouth ‘Centre Ville’ as if I was totally stupid and wasting his time. I strapped the bottles to my bike and rode off back to town, leaving the boy offering postcards to unsuspecting old ladies. Had my French stretched to it, I would have offered him some advice as a parting gift, something along the lines of: ‘You’re lucky I gave you any money at all you little shit, especially now you’re being rude to me. I’d be surprised if you get anything for those shitty postcards – I’d move into a more appealing line of merchandise if I were you.’ Or something like that. But it didn’t, so it doesn’t matter now..

Back in town I went to the Internet café, which was now open, and had one of the most confusing conversations of the trip. Again, this was conducted in French.

‘Are you open for the Internet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ok. Can I use the Internet?’
‘Yes. What do you want to do?’
‘Err…check my email. Umm, maybe read some news.’
‘Ok. How long do you think you will need?’
‘About half an hour to an hour.’
‘Are you on holiday here?’
‘In France, yes. Not here, in this town. Why?’
‘You could have bought a card for two hours of Internet access and two drinks for 10 euros.’
‘Oh, ok. Well I’m going to be moving on this evening so I don’t really want two hours.’
‘We have another card for one hour and a drink for six euros’
‘How much is just an hour of Internet on its own?’
‘Umm…I’m not sure.’
‘Well I’ll just have the card with the drink then if it’s easier.’
‘You pay when you’ve finished so we know how long you’ve had.’

At which point he showed me to a computer.

An hour and ten minutes later I went to the bar to pay.

‘You have been on there for one hour ten minutes.’
‘Yes. How much is it?’
‘Well an hour would have been six Euros.’
‘Ok.’
‘I can’t just charge you for an hour because you were on there for one hour ten minutes.’
‘I know. How much is it then?’
‘Six euros 50 cents’
‘Here you go.’

It seemed that strange Internet experiences were becoming something of a theme.

Anyway, I set off for Mayet, where I knew there would be a campsite, cycling over the only Tour de France road graffiti I was to pass on the whole trip. The campsite was easy to find and situated right next to a fishing lake. Not the best quality campsite I had stayed at (no toilet paper or seats) but it was quiet and comfortable enough. After the daily rituals I set off into town in search of a shop and a beer. I got some bread from a patisserie and settled down outside a café in the main square to write my journal, have a beer and chill out. There was a shop opposite which was part of the French chain ‘8 a huit’, which I had always taken to mean, not unreasonably, that they were open between 8am and 8pm. I finished my beer at 7.30pm and walked over to the shop to get some snacks for the evening and following day, but they were shut! ‘Eight’ my butt, is what I thought. On the 2km cycle back to the campsite I tried to take a time-delayed photo of myself riding my bike. In the first one I managed to get about three quarters of me in shot. The second was all trees, so I gave up then (NB - photos will be on the website soon!). After dinner I went for a walk around the lake, which provided some nice sunset photos, as well as a nice place to sit and (try to) read my new French book. After half a chapter I decided reading in French wasn’t for me. I sort of knew what was going on, but…well, to be honest, I didn’t have a clue. Still, the lake and my late arrival at camp meant I didn’t have much time to kill, so by the time I had taken a few more photos and got back to the tent it was time for bed anyway.

Day Three

Mayet to Sablé sur Sathe

Time in saddle 3hrs 08 mins 30 secs
Average Speed 11.7
Max Speed 24.1
Distance 37.01

I felt a bit disheartened in the morning, which seemed strange as I had had such a good day the day before. Still, I had planned another easy day, so I took my time getting packed up and was on the road again about 11am. I felt a bit weak for the first hour or so, which I put down to day-three-syndrome. The riding wasn’t unpleasant, though, and I reached Sablé sur Sathe at about 2pm. This was my intended stop for the night but for some reason I didn’t get a very good vibe from the place. I don’t know if it was the size of the place – the biggest town I had been in for three days – making me feel intimidated, but I quickly started looking for the road leading out of town. When that wasn’t forthcoming I found myself following the signs to the campsite, just to see what it was like. I found it via the rough looking part of town, which didn’t endear me to the place anymore, but the site looked nice. I asked the woman at the desk how far it was to the centre of town and it turned out I had gone the very long way round and that town centre was only about 2km away. I decided to give the place a chance and booked in for the night. It turned out to be a very nice campsite – toilet seats and paper in the very recently refurbished toilet blocks. After the usual tent/shower/cream combo, I headed into town on my bike. The ride back into town was much nicer than the run-down-estate route I had taken to get to the campsite. A small road on the right as you went out of the campsite lead down to the river, which you could then ride along for about 1km right into the centre of town. I locked my bike up and went for a walk, feeling more like a tourist, with my camera slung around me, than I had done all trip. I bought a croissant and a pain au chocolat, due to the lack of anything else obvious to eat and extreme hunger, and strolled along the cobbled streets. I found an Internet café, or rather an Internet ‘facility’. It was a room with eight computers and a queue of people waiting to use them, sitting on chairs on the right as you went in. It seemed to run on a sort of first come first served basis and you just had to wait for a computer to be vacated. There was a man in the corner with a big desk, who I assumed to be the owner/hired help/technician, but no one seemed to be talking to him, or more importantly giving him money, when they came in or when they left. I waited in the seats with everyone else, scanning people’s screens for signs of their imminent departure. When it was logically my turn I walked over to the vacant computer and, to cut the story short, did what I wanted, then got up and left. I found myself walking rather briskly away from the place in case there was some sort of payment system that I hadn’t noticed, but I don’t think there was. Before I got my baguette for dinner and headed back to camp I decided, as was my routine now, to have a beer before dinner. The liveliest, and most inviting looking place in the square was a bar that, I think, was made out to look like an English pub. It wasn’t really like an English pub at all because they served nice lager and had waiter service, but at least they tried. Before I made dinner back at camp I was flicking through the brochure for the campsite and notice that in the list of facilities they mentioned a ‘TV room and library’. My hopes suddenly soared at the mention of ‘library’ and I went up to the reception block to find the TV room. There was one person in there watching The Simpsons in French and in the far left corner of the room was a bookcase, which was full. I approached it and scanned the sleeves of the books, looking for signs of English. To my great excitement there were about four or five English books and after a quick scan of each of them I picked a cheesy looking murder/crime novel by an American author. It was the best of a bad choice, I think, but it didn’t matter – I had something to read! After dinner I was going to head back to town for another look around but slight over-indulgence in food and the fact I had a book meant that I sat in camp and read until it got dark, then went to bed.

Day Four

Sablé sur Sarthe to Ernée

Time in saddle 4hrs 40 mins 47 secs
Average Speed 11.4
Max Speed 29.6
Distance 53.49

I had three days to get back to St Malo, so I decided to do a reasonable day in distance then have two easier days. The cycling for the previous few days had been ok, but marred by winds and lack of energy, meaning I hadn’t enjoyed it as much as I would have liked. The ride to Ernée, however, was good. I felt strong and the wind wasn’t such a problem. The small towns linked together easily and the highlight of the cycling was going through the ‘Foret de Mayenne’ on the only road that crossed it. I had the road to myself the whole way through. The only bad point of the day was an inexplicable nosebleed I suffered when entering the small village of Vautorte. Stopping at the side of the road I proceeded to bleed quite profusely for about 10 minutes. As usual, there was no one around, but I’m sure some people must have looked at me through their windows and wondered what I was doing. I found the campsite in Ernée easily, as it was on the road that lead into town. It was a three star Municipal site and the cheapest I stayed at all trip. Normally at a Municipal site they have to fill in some paper work, look at you passport and get your name and address. It was a bit different in Ernée, however, and the woman who appeared when I entered the site simply said ‘Camp where you like – three euros please. They normally cost at least four euros, and I asked if she needed my name and address or anything. ‘No It’s fine – just three euros please’. I suspect those three euros went straight into her pocket, which is fine by me. When I went for a shower, and looked in the mirror, a possible reason for the lady not wanting to linger speaking to me became apparent. The previous evening I had gotten something in my left eye and it had itched, and I had scratched it, quite a lot in the night. As a result my eye was red and quite swollen that morning, and I realised now that it had probably been like that all day. The nosebleed from earlier had also left it’s mark and I had dried blood covering the end of my nose and my top lip, as well as being splattered over my top. Ernée is a nice, simple, town. I went in, as was the norm for me, before dinner and bought some supplies and eye drops from a pharmacy. My beer that evening was in the bar that all the old folk of the town were congregated in, as opposed to the ‘pub’ across the road. Back in camp, after dinner, I looked over the maps and picked out a stop for the next evening, allowing a short ride back to St Malo the following day. I was enjoying being ‘on the road’ and wanted to make it last as long as possible.

Day Five

Time in saddle 5hrs 55 mins 14 secs
Average Speed 11.5
Max Speed 30.4
Distance 68.16

I had a lie in again and set off about 11.15am. It was overcast, so, for the first time that week, I didn’t have to put sun cream on before I set off. After an hour or so of cycling it began top rain – the first rain I had seen on the bike since the day I got off the ferry in St Malo two and a half weeks previously. I didn’t mind cycling in the rain at all and pushed on for another two hours, which took me to my intended stop for the evening. I had started to think that I might as well just go through to St Malo as it was early and I was already wet. I could find a camp in St Malo and have the following day free to have a look around town. Stopping now would have meant putting the tent up in the rain and having wet gear in the tent, which I would have to pack up and cycle with the next day. So I didn’t stop and carried on through, thinking St Malo was only a short ride West. I changed the map over, getting it very wet in the process, and realised St Malo wasn’t as close as I had thought. It didn’t matter – I still had plenty of time. St Malo wasn’t going to come easily, though, and the weather made sure that my final stretch of riding was some of the hardest I had done all trip. I commented in my journal on day one of stage one of this trip that the cycling ‘wasn’t too bad, with few hills’. I now know why I wrote that - in my first day excitement it had obviously gone unnoticed that it was all down hill! The other problem was that there was a strong North Westerly wind blowing rain into my face. Those final 20 miles were spent on a straight road battling against the wind, rain and hills. I finally got to St Malo and chose the easiest navigation option – the main road. The minor roads were quieter but provided much more opportunity for getting lost and I was prepared to deal with the traffic if it meant I got to town a bit quicker. In town I looked for a sign to the Tourist Information but couldn’t see one so ended up following signs to a campsite. The Municipal Campsite in St Malo is in a lovely position on a hill overlooking the harbour and is, thankfully, the closest campsite to the Ferry port. It is also, unfortunately, the worst campsite I stayed in. The facilities weren’t too bad (no toilet seat but some toilet paper – a strange combination) but it was the sheer number of people that ruined it. Most Municipal sites had around 20-30 pitches. The one in St Malo has over 300. I found it quite oppressive. The other thing about the site was that they were full for the following evening, so I could only stay one night, meaning that,, effectively, I didn’t have anywhere to stay for the night before my ferry crossing. I booked in for one night and considered my options – cycle over to the other two campsites the next day in the hope that they have spaces; get a hotel or bed and breakfast in town; look for a youth hostel; try and change my ferry ticket to a day earlier. I decided to try the last option and headed to town in search of the Brittany Ferries office. I found it eventually, by the ferry-docking place (surprise surprise), and changed my ticket to depart the following morning for no extra charge, or any hassle. Brittany Ferries, I salute you. I celebrated that night with a few beers (notice the theme here?), a pizza and a ‘crepe’ for dessert. To make sure I slept in the overcrowded campsite I also had two more beers after dinner.

Day Six

I packed up as usual in the morning but knew I only had about a mile to cycle to the ferry. On the way I stopped at a patisserie and bought breakfast to eat on the boat. There were five other cyclists on the ferry and our bikes were lashed together with big ropes, to stop them messing around while we were sailing. I dumped my things in the cabin and went to the back of the boat to sit in the sun and eat breakfast, while watching the rest of the cars board the ferry. I was surrounded by British families who were, to be honest, quite loud. I didn’t know what they had been doing in France but I felt an immediate distance between myself and them. My trip next year is called Avoiding Europe because I want to discover the places in all the different countries in Europe that you don’t normally hear about, or where people don’t normally go on holiday. The sort of places, I thought, sitting on that boat, where these people don’t go on holiday. As I was eating my fresh croissants, the family next to me opened a bag of pre-packed mini pain au chocolat, similar to those you would get in Tesco. After breakfast I went to my cabin to read the rest of my book, on my own.

France - Interlude

2005-08-18T14:41:00.000Z

My arrival at the gite was, as Grannyspit kindly points out, greeted with a round of applause from the assembled car/van drivers and the consumption of too much lager and barbeque food. After six days on the road with a minimal diet of cereal bars, dried fruit, pasta and bread, and approximately 10 pints of water a day, very few of which ever saw daylight again, the lager and sausage onslaught was rather too much to handle. Still, I managed to get used to it again fairly quickly and spent the next five days re-acquainting myself with life ‘out of the saddle’. Half way through that week our band managed the seemingly impossible and played at the wedding, which was, after all, the whole reason we were down there. A good time, as they say, was had by all.

After five days it was, sadly, time to leave the gite. I had a week before I had to catch the return ferry from St Malo and had two options:

1. Cycle back up the same route I had taken down,
2. Get a lift up to Le Mans and spend the week in the Loire valley and make my way up to the ferry.

I chose option two and spent 7 hours in a pink van entertaining a two-year-old boy. A different kind of tiring to cycling for 7 hours, but still not un-enjoyable. The first five hours weren’t, anyway. The main reason I chose to take the lift was because it would mean this week would be more like the ‘Avoiding Europe’ trip next year. As I would be closer to the ferry, there wasn’t as much pressure on me to do so many miles a day, so I could take it a bit easier with the cycling and stop at places I liked.

We actually camped about 10 miles out of Le Mans and stayed for two nights, meaning I had a full day to kill, so I cycled into the centre of town for a look around. Being Sunday it was dead, but I enjoyed riding on an un-laden with 6 days of cycling strength in my legs. The following morning I got up early with my friends, who were hoping to leave at 9am to catch their ferry in Calais. They left at about 10am in the end, and missed the ferry, but that’s another story. I also left at about 10am and headed towards Blois, in the Loire valley.

France - Part One

2005-08-17T13:46:00.000Z

Ok, so I’m back now. Obviously, since it’s been about two weeks or so. I wasn’t going to do a ‘full write up’ for this trip, but having started it I realised I had more to write about than I thought.

Anyway, here goes. Below is a day-by-day account of the first six days – from the ferry in St Malo to Loubatieré, South of Figeac (which is up and right from Toulouse). Each day I made a note of my computer readings, which may or may not interest you. All references to speed/distance are in miles per hour.

Day One

St Malo to Vitré

Time in saddle 5hrs 3 mins 46 secs
Average Speed 12.5
Max Speed 32.5
Distance 63.51

A good first day that saw me reach camp by about 3.30pm, mainly due to the fact that I didn’t stop for lunch. That was a bit of a mistake really as, despite snacking a lot, I felt quite weak by the end of it. But I made my daily target quite easily so it was promising, considering I had no idea how realistic my targets were. Stayed at the Camping Municipal in Vitré, which was easy to find and reasonable in price and quality. Spent the rest of the afternoon/evening sitting around reading, eating and telling the strange guy opposite numerous times that, no, I didn’t have any hashish but, yes, I did like The Cure. I don’t really, but felt it was best to say I did to avoid any confrontation or knife attacks in the night. My first experience of solo travelling had me a bit nervous and, if I’m honest, a bit lonely that first night. It’s strange how the reality of being on your own in a foreign country is different to how you imagine it would be. I knew it would be hard at times, but I also thought I would be experiencing feelings of freedom and excitement at being on my own, having an adventure. I had neither of those that first night, but put it down to first day getting used to it syndrome and went to bed. ‘We’ll see what tomorrow brings’ is what I wrote in my journal.

Day Two

Vitré to Chemillé

Time in saddle 5 hrs 43 mins 27 secs
Average Speed 13.5
Max Speed 45.9
Distance 77.35

A better day in terms of morale and distance. As I had made the first days target quite easily, I planned to push on a bit from now and try to gain distance on my daily targets as the week goes on. This would mean that I will either arrive at the destination earlier than planned or that I will have more time on my hands when the mountains start, meaning I won’t have to kill myself to get there. Up at 8am and away for 9am, the morning was spent linking small villages along minor roads. The roads are immaculate – flat tarmac stretching for miles. There was a bit of up and down, but nothing too bad, and little traffic. This is why people come to France to cycle and highlights, in my opinion, the main problem with the UK – there’s too many people. Anyway – enough of that. I tried to stop for lunch, after yesterday’s lack-of-lunch-weakness episode, but found no food places open in Segré. Admittedly, I didn’t look to hard, but there was nothing obvious. So I bought a ham and cheese baguette from a patisserie and a bottle of water and got back on the road. I made my daily target (Chalonnes-sur-Loire) by 2pm and pushed on to Chemillé, arriving about 4.30pm, via L’Office de Tourisme to locate the campsite. I stayed in a private campsite this time (as opposed to a Municipal – government run) which was nice.
I quickly realised that the quality of the campsite can easily be judged by the state of the toilets. The better ones have toilet seats (ceramic is not comfortable), toilet paper and no option of a ‘hole in the ground’ squat toilet. The slightly lesser quality campsites have the opposite in toilet comfort.

Arriving at camp a bit later made the evening more pleasant, mainly because it meant I had less time to kill. After performing the essential daily rituals (tent up, eat and drink something, shower, apply cream (don’t ask!), write journal, have dinner) there was only about an hour or so left to read, have a quick look around and take some photos. I generally felt better about ‘being on my own’ anyway. I really enjoyed the cycling and was starting to enjoy doing this on my own.

Day Three

Chemillé to Sanxay

Time in saddle 6 hrs 52 mins 22 secs
Average Speed 12.3
Max Speed 32
Distance 85.28

As I had done so well the day before in terms of distance my plan was to do the same again, meaning I would be within a normal days cycling of where my friends would be camped on the evening of my day four. If I was working to plan their campsite would fall halfway between days four and five, but as I was ahead of time it meant that reaching their campsite for the evening of day four was feasible. All I needed was another good day. Unfortunately, I didn’t get one. I set off in good spirits but then got to Bressuire. Or ‘Fucking Bressuire’ as it became known on that day. Getting to Bressuire was not a problem. It was getting out of the bloody place that caused the problem. I had a specific road I was aiming for that lead to a fairly large village. Simple, then, you might think. Follow signs to that place, or the even bigger town a bit further down the road. Which is what I did and ended up on a motorway. It didn’t look like a motorway at first, so I persisted, but as a sweeping corner opened up I saw it stretching out in front of me, heading back around town in completely the wrong direction. My map was close to useless now as I didn’t actually know where I was and I had done at least a mile on the motorway. I stopped at the side barrier where a minor road went under the motorway, swore a bit, then decided the best thing I could do was to get off the motorway. The only thing separating me and the minor road, 15 feet below, was a steep bank. So, off with the panniers and three trips later my bike and all my luggage was in a pile on the minor road. The only problem was I didn’t know which road it was, where it was in relation to the town or where it went. I decided to go in the direction I thought town was in the hope of more useful signage. About 4 miles later I was climbing a long hill up to an industrial area and realised that I had already been there about 45 minutes earlier, climbing that sane hill. Not very happy-making. This time I headed into the town centre hoping for an easier route, but it was not to be. I spent another 30 minutes or so following signs, asking people and generally getting frustrated and going round in circles. Finally, trying possibly the only road I hadn’t yet been down, I found the road I was looking for and turned, with some relief, onto it. These things are sent to test us, I thought, and promised myself I would push on to make up time, and never let it happen again. I hadn’t, however, anticipated the next sting in the days tail – Parthenay. Or ‘Fucking Parthenay’ as it became known. I did actually try and get something to eat in Parthenay but, as was becoming the theme, there was nowhere open. So I had a drink and sat down for 20 minutes to review the map. As I left the café I asked the waitreess to point me to the road I was aiming for, just to make sure there wasn’t a repeat of the Bressuire incident. ‘Up that road and left – there is a sign’ was the reply. Sounded simple, I thought. 20 minutes later I was cycling past the café swearing under my breath and becoming increasingly frustrated with French signage. I asked five different people for directions out of Parthenay. At one point I came across a supermarket and decided a walk around an air-conditioned building was a good idea, so spent 10 minutes calming down in a Super U. I finally found my way out of Partheny after asking two old ladies by the side of the road. After following what I thought was their directions for two miles I came across a roundabout for a motorway and no other convincing options. Heading back into town, cursing again, I asked another person for directions (this time a man standing at his gate). Halfway through my map pointing routine one of the two old ladies walked past, recognised me and had a good laugh with the man at the gate. My French, and my mood, wasn’t up to working out what they were saying, although I suspect it was something along the lines of ‘Shall we help him or let him stay here forever’. The lady assured the man she would sort me out and proceeded to walk me the half mile to the junction I needed to take. Old French lady, if you are reading this, I am eternally grateful.

So that was my nightmare day and just as I was beginning to hate France, particularly French road signs, I rolled into Sanxay. If ever there were a perfect French village to appear after a hard day cycling, Sanxay is surely it. At least, it was that day. A pleasant, friendly campsite (with toilet seats, but no paper) was a short walk over a river to the idyllic French.

That was my third day on the road and my body was starting to feel the effects of the cycling. My bum was a bit sore, my legs ached a bit and my energy levels were generally feeling a bit lower than normal. I think it was day three syndrome – days one and two were both kicking in and I hadn’t yet built up the extra strength/fitness. I also had some problems, mainly at night, with pins and needles in my little fingers/forearms. It’s a common ailment in cyclists, I believe. I would wake up with cramp in my forearms and a loss of sensation in my little fingers, on both hands.

The only other point of note for this day was the road kill. I saw a lot of road kill throughout the trip, but this day produced the most varied. The three of note were 1) a tortoiseshell cat, 2) a snake and 3) an owl.

Day Four

Sanxay to Montbron

Time in saddle 6 hrs 55 mins 06 secs
Average Speed 11.7
Max Speed 28.6
Distance 81.55

After the previous days fiasco I hadn’t made up as many miles as I would liked to have done, so to make it to the camp where my friends were staying meant a bit more of a slog than I had wanted. It didn’t help that the hills started around here as well. The weather was good for cycling – overcast, so cool, with no wind. Surprisingly I felt stronger than the previous day. Three days of cycling had obviously improved my fitness. This day saw my first serious bit of climbing and I encountered other cyclists for the first time, surprisingly. I had seen the odd one or two during the first three days, but I passed some other tourers today (going the other way), a ‘team’ and a few ‘old boys’ out in their full team kits (one of whom I passed on an uphill, which I’m not sure pleased him too much). I must say, I found French cyclists less friendly than their English counter parts. Back home, if you look ‘like a cyclist’ (clothing, helmet, bike), and sometimes even if you don’t, every other ‘cyclist’ will give you a nod/wave/say hello. In France I found that, particularly those who wear the full team colours, don’t so much as nod at you. Even on completely empty roads.

Anyway – it matters not. I didn’t get lost and found the campsite ok, so rolled up at my friends pitch at around 4.30pm. A longer day than I had expected, and I knew the big hills were to come, but I was still half a day ahead of schedule and feeling ok, so I had my first beer (or four) of the trip.

Day Five

Montbron to Cherveix-Cubas

Time in saddle 4 hrs 46 mins 05 secs
Average Speed 12.1
Max Speed 26.4
Distance 57.88

I had planned to have a rest day, maybe only doing 30 miles or so. I was, after all, half a day ahead of schedule and had just done three 80 mile days. I was worried what the mountains were going to do to me, though, and thought that the half day I had in hand could easily be wiped out if the hills really took it out of me. I set off later than normal, about 11am, to climb the mile or so out of the gorge my friends had, helpfully, chosen to camp in. The first friendly French cyclist I encountered passed me on the way up and, seemingly impressed that I was doing the climb ‘fully loaded’, passed me with a wave of the hand and an enthusiastic ‘bravo!’. The next couple of hours cycling were good. There were hills to climb, which were hard work, but I managed them all and as we all know ‘what goes up must come down’, so for every climb I was doing at 7 miles an hour, there was a descent at 25 miles an hour, meaning my average speed was about the same as on the ‘flat’ days. By about 4.30pm I had done the equivalent of a planned day’s cycle. I felt strong – the later start in the morning had given my legs a nice break and, being day five, my fitness was obviously improving. I was tempted to push on that evening, to start eating into the next days cycling, but forced myself to stop for camp. The sign that said ‘Camping – Bar’ also played some part in persuading me. The campsite wasn’t the best - no toilet seats, no toilet roll and a choice of ‘hole in the ground’, as well as being riddled with bugs of all sorts. Still, I had quite a nice evening. I had a couple of beers at the bar whilst writing my journal and reading a bit before dinner, then had pasta for dinner and went to bed early in preparation for day six. I had looked at the maps again after dinner and worked out that my destination (a small village called Loubatieré, about 20 miles south of Figeac) was probably about 100 miles away. I knew the hills would be big, as it is touching the Massif Central region, but I like a challenge, so I had it in my mind that I would go for it.

Day Six

Cherveix-Cubas to Loubatieré

Time in saddle 8 hrs 30 mins 07 secs
Average Speed 11.9
Max Speed 32.8
Distance 101

Despite the previous nights excitement at possibly completing the ride today, I started somewhat subdued. There was a long way to go and it looked, on the map, like there might be a few complicated parts. I might get lost in another town and lose time and energy, or I simply might not be able to make it. So I didn’t really have any expectations, which was a good thing, I think. The first part of the day went very smoothly. I had to link some main roads up to take me East, so I could connect with the road that would take me all the way down to Figeac. Despite being a busy road, it was pleasant riding and there weren’t many ups and downs. I think I was heading along a valley, as opposed to cutting across them, but I didn’t know for sure as my maps didn’t have contour lines. I was judging where hills would be by looking at where rivers were, and where they started from, and where viewpoints were on my maps. While not totally accurate, this method did prove to be quite useful. I connected with the road heading South and set off towards Gramat, still not sure whether I would be pushing for the finish or splitting the ride over two days. I re-assessed at Gramat and, as it was still early afternoon and I was feeling good, I decided to go for it. Figeac had been the main town I was heading to all along and it proved to be the sting in the tail of this whole ride. There were two long, hard climbs into and of the town that nearly defeated me, but I was too stubborn to let them. Out of Figeac and along the main road that would lead to my final destination there was yet another big hill to climb out of a valley, by which time I was expecting it.

I reached Villeneuve and stopped for a drink in the supermarket, knowing I was within about 5 kilometres of the Gite where my friends were staying. Following the directions I had kept with me all the way I set off up the road, which climbed all the way to the junction I needed to turn off at. The Gite was located at the end of this dead-end road, about a mile long, and I was still full of adrenalin as I cycled along there, my body refusing to relax until it absolutely knew it was allowed to. As I cycled along, passing some farm houses on my left, a view opened out of the hills and valleys to the West. It was truly breathtaking and it really felt like I was on the highest point for miles around. I had climbed enough hills, afterall. Admiring the view, with the sun on my face, I freewheeled down to the Gite, after my first 100 mile day on a bike, with a smile on my face.

From France

2005-08-02T13:45:00.000Z

I thought I'd just do a quick one, seeing as I am actually in France, on 'The France Trip'.

I will post a more detailed account when I get back, but for now here's what's been happening:

I got down to the place near Figeac, where I was heading, a day ahead of when I expected to. I had judged the mileage about right, but being the stubborn little git that I am, I pushed myself and got ahead of time. The last day was the longest and hardest as I was in the Massif Central region (mountains!), but I did 101 miles in about eight and a half hours cycling. Here are my approximate daily mileages (with no rest days):

60
80
80
80
60
100

After a week of partying I decided I didn't want to do the same route in reverse, so got a lift up to Le Mans. With 5 days to get back to St Malo, this week is a bit easier. I did about 50 miles down to the river Loir yesterday, and have followed the river west for about 30 miles today. I will probably do another ten or so to find a campsite for tonight, then four days up to St Malo for the ferry home.

It's nice to have a bit more time to relax and look around, instead of cycling all the time, as I was in the first week. I just wish I had brought another book with me to read. Today I resorted to buying a book in French due to the lack of English books around. My French isn't great, but maybe this will improve it? Who knows, but it's better than no book!

France

2005-07-13T15:31:00.000Z

Blimey - is it time to leave already? Yes, it is. Nearly.

In six days I will be getting on a ferry to St Malo and not coming back for 19 days. What I do in those 19 days remains to be seen. I will hopefully be cycling 400 miles to a small place near Figeac, in Southern France, staying for three days, then cycling back.

Whether I can do that or not only time will tell. I may have completely misjudged the distance and my capability to cycle that far. I might have an accident or my bike might fall apart. I might hit a sheep on a small country lane, fall unconscious and wake up two weeks later in a barn, having been nursed back to health by the sheep and her family.

It's all unknowns at the moment and there's only one way of finding out what will happen - by getting out there and doing it. I can't wait.

Getting Ready

2005-06-22T15:08:00.000Z

Things are moving on steadily now, in terms of 'training' and France-trip preparation.

I am getting out riding about 3/4 times a week (that's not including cycling to work or other small journeys) and I think my fitness is improving. I'm certainly getting more used to it - the hills, the roads, potholes, cars, rabbits and, most importantly, the bike. It feels like 'my bike' now, which may sound like a strange thing to say, especially as I paid for it a good few weeks ago, but that's how it feels. It's a bit like we're not just a bike and a person anymore, as two separate entities, we are becoming one. Like a ...umm...Bison. No - a Percycle.

I think the heat is getting to me.

Anyway - as I've mentioned before, all of this training is for a reason - the France trip. I'm currently in the process of getting the final bits and pieces of equipment I need to make my luggage as light and minimal as possible, and also sorting out other things - like an E111, and insurance, and stuff.

The main thing that concerns me, to be honest, is being able to do the miles I have planned - especially if it is going to be really hot (and as it's end July/beginning August when I'm going, I expect it will be). Somewhat foolishly, I have been reading other peoples opinions and thoughts on 'how much training is required' and 'how far you can feasibly cycle in one day with a loaded bike'. I say foolishly because it's all so relative. It is nice to see what other people think and have experienced, but I really must get myself into thinking away from that and discovering for myself.

It's like with the big trip. I've stopped reading other peoples accounts of touring Europe, or seeking advice on anything. It's nice that people offer their words of wisdom, but a lot of the time I would honestly rather not know. For example - "Spend as little time in Italy as possible - the drivers are mental and seem to hate cyclists", "Hungary? I wouldn't bother. You're better off spending more time in Slovenia". All well and good, but I'd rather find out for myself and form my own opinions, thank you very much.

And there endeth a rant that I didn't plan on having.

Where was I? Oh yeah - France and distance and things. Well, I'll continue training, then just set off and see what happens. Seems as good a plan as any.

Training

2005-06-09T14:58:00.000Z

I've never really been one for 'training' particularly. I've always just done stuff that happens to keep me fit.

I've never really liked gyms either, because I just never got the point of them - people running 20 minutes on a treadmill so...? So what? So that they can come back next week and do it again? What are they doing it for? Nothing.

Well, weight loss/vanity/wellbeing obviously play a part, but as that was something that never really concerned me, I didn't really see it like that.

So introducing the concept of training to myself was something I was a bit apprehensive about. The main focus of the training isn't actually the big trip, but the France trip in the summer. The time constraint I have on it (two and a half weeks - 700 miles) puts enormous pressure on my ability to be able to cycle a long way each day with a loaded bike. When I go on the big trip I will have no time constraint (and by that I mean no work to get back for) so I can do as much or as little as I like, and my fitness can improve naturally as I progress.

In France, though, I have to cycle a lot. So that's what I'm doing now - cycling a lot. How else do you prepare for cycling 60 miles a day, every day? I could go to the gym, I guess.

Learning Curve

2005-05-31T16:00:00.000Z

If last weekend was a reality check, this weekend was definitely a steep learning curve.

I had always said that I wanted the bike in time for the last May Bank Holiday weekend, so I could make use of the three days to torture myself.

Having had problems with the racks and luggage, it was good to finally have everything as it should be, and be able to load it up and get out on the road. My first experience of a fully-loaded bike was as strange, scary and enjoyable as I thought it would be. Friday night was only 11 miles to the New Forest, but that was enough after a day at work, and to get used to the handling of the bike.

The next day we aimed for Swanage, and set off into a relentless wind. After a couple of hours both Herbie (my brother) and I were completely exhausted, and experienced what I think is called 'The Bonk'. Proper cyclists out there may wish to correct me on that. Anyway - we were knackered. My legs were wobbly, I felt sick, my head was spinning. I was completely spent.

There are two important things to note here - 1. I had eaten a minimal breakfast of some horrible cous cous and a cereal bar. 2. That's all I had eaten.

Apart from the lack of general cycling fitness, food was the key thing here. So there we go - lesson learnt. Eat more!

A chocolate bar and energy drink later and we were back on the road heading for Swanage. The wind kept at us but we were eating up the miles. We finally arrived in Swanage in the afternoon after 50 miles and about 4.5 hours in the saddle. Not too bad.

The following day we had what proved to be an easier ride back through the New Forest to home.

All told I did 130 miles over the weekend, 110 of which were fully loaded. All equipment performed as expected, with the exception of the bar bag (which lost a rivet - but a replacement is already in the post from the manufacturer) and a couple of gears on the bike that have started slipping. I am taking it in for fine tuning tonight.

Lessons learnt:

1. I need to be fitter for the summer France trip
2. Food is very important
3. Panniers filled with 'stuff' are heavy
4. Hills and wind are my enemy, but I will have to learn to love them
5. Food is very important

Reality Check

2005-05-23T15:11:00.000Z

So I've planned the trip, made a website, bought some equipment, grovelled for sponsorship and told everyone and their dog about it - now what? Oh yeah - I suppose I'd better try out this cycling lark hadn't I!

My first 'proper' ride over the weekend saw me cruising over to Winchester and back - around 34 miles in all. And it was fine. Fun, in fact, which is rather a relief. Admittedly, going up the never-ending hills on the way back with the wind against me, I did manage a swear word or two. And my bum and legs hurt a bit. But I will get used to that in time, I hope, as my fitness/bum-saddle relationship improves.

This weekend I'm planning double the distance with a fully laden bike, two days in a row. Nothing like throwing yourself in at the deep end is there!

Aside from all that practical stuff, I received my first sponsorship package this morning - a box of 100 Nike puncture repair kits. I'm selling them to anyone who will buy them at £2 each or 3 for £5. Website to be updated with details soon, but email me in the mean time if you have a desperate need to fix a bike puncture/rubber ring/armbands/bouncy castle etc. and I will sort you out!

Kid at Christmas

2005-05-16T11:44:00.000Z

Saturday was one of those days that happens without you really noticing, if you know what I mean. You probably don't, but it was the finale of months of planning, advice, decisions, saving and waiting, and it passed as if it was a dream.

It wasn't, of course, and I was like a small child at Christmas. I probably would have been unable to sleep on Friday night if it wasn't for 4 hours of driving and 4 cans of lager, but then Saturday came and went and it was done - I had my bike.

Collecting it from the shop was a simple affair - a quick spin round the block to check all was well, choose a helmet, get a few spare spokes and I was done. Paul Hewitt (of Hewitt Cycles) was his usual calm self, probably slightly bemused by an excitable 27 year old from Southampton whose eyes were like saucers at the sight of the shiney new bike.

And I'm pretty sure he was unaware of just how important that day, and that bike, were to me. But that's part of the charm of it, I think. He didn't know what I was planning to do with the bike, and it wouldn't have made any difference. He would have made the bike in exactly the same way if it were for someone planning to ride it a few miles once a week or for someone who was going around the World on it. And there is only one word to describe how the bike has been made and put together - perfect.

Progress

2005-05-05T11:02:00.000Z

Things are finally beginning to come together a bit more. The first main bit of news is that the bike will be ready for me to pick up next weekend (as in, not this weekend, next weekend). I finally cracked under the pressure of waiting and not hearing anything, gave the shop a call to check on progress and was told they had just received the frame and would be able to put the whole bike together for me on Saturday 14 May. So that's it's birthday then, I guess, if I was being all maternal about it. I'll have to think of a name too, I suppose.

Anyway. I've also been ticking off my equipment list and filling up my credit card some more. Not too much left to get, in fact, and then my monthly savings can start going towards 'saving for the trip' as opposed to 'spending for the trip'.

That shouldn't be too much of a problem as I plan to spend the majority of my spare time on the bike, and not out spending money in pubs. By 'on the bike' I mean cycling, by the way, not just sitting on it in the hallway. That wouldn't really help much at all.

The Bank Holiday weekend at the end of May will hopefully be my first real test ride - Swanage and back over three days. I will also be carrying all of my brother's camping equipment on my bike as he doesn't have room on his ultra-lightweight road bike. Which will be fun. It's not like I don't need the practice, though.

The Waiting Game

2005-04-26T16:19:00.000Z

I continue to spend money in alarmingly large quantities, which is a very satisfying thing to do. The fact that it is all 'within budget' takes away some of the guilt normally associated with such frivolity, but it still makes me feel a bit dangerous.

Recent purchases include a multi-fuel stove, assorted camping accessories (including a very cool bit of kit that transforms my Thermarest into a surprisingly comfortable chair)and a sleeping bag.

That's not true - I haven't bought the sleeping bag yet - I decided on the one I want, after lengthy interrogation from the man at Snow and Rock, but they didn't have it in stock. I am going for a down sleeping bag (much lighter, less bulky and more expensive than synthetic) despite my apparent allergy to feathers. I have been assured by 'the man' that sleeping bags are made from entirely different quality feathers than those found in conventional duvets/pillows, which normally cause an allergic reaction. Seems like a bit of a gamble to me, but seeing as it only weighs 650g I'm prepared to take it.

The sleeping bag buying experience faced me with another 'I could talk all about my trip and try and get free stuff and more interest' situation that I ducked out of, partly due to my aforementioned shyness with such things, and partly, it has to be said, due to the state I was in from the night before. It also reminded me of just how diverse a trip this promises to be. I shall demonstrate:

The Man - "Can I help?"
Me - "Yeah. I'm looking for a new sleeping bag. Needs to be light and pack down small."
The Man - "Ok. What temperature does it need to go down to?"
Me - "Errr. I dunno."
The Man - "Where are you going?"
Me - "Well, Europe. I'll be in Greece in the winter - is it still hot then?"
The Man - "Dunno. Never been to Greece in the Winter."
Me - "I've heard they get snow in Athens."
The Man - "Right. How about we look at bags that go down to minus 2 degrees."
Me - "Ok. If you think so. I'll also be going to Norway - to the Arctic Circle."
The Man - "Right."
Me - "So I need a sleeping bag that can cope with Spain in the Autumn, Greece in the Winter and the Arctic Circle."
The Man - "Get out."

He didn't actually say that - he was very helpful, and I have, if you are at all interested, gone for a bag with a comfort rating down to minus five.

I also looked at GPS systems and have pretty much decided that I'm not going to get one. After another lengthy discussion with 'the man' it was fairly clear that they don't do anything. Well, they obviously do something, but nothing of any real use to me, I don't think. You can set points and plot a map so you can find your way back to wherever it is you want to go back to (the car, for example. Or a pub.), and it can give you a latitude and longitude of wherever you are in the World. Fair enough, but in reality not something which is going to be of any consequence to me. I think I will just stick with a map or two.

Finally, a bike update. Completion date was guessed at 'early May' when I ordered it and I have heard nothing since. I can only assume they are still waiting for the frame to be built. Either that or they've pocketed my deposit and are sitting on a beach in the Bahamas living the life of very well off criminals. It was only £250, though, so I doubt it.

Moving on

2005-04-14T11:31:00.000Z

That last post turned into a bit of a rant, which wasn't my intention.

There are, in fact, positive things happening in avoidingeurope world (that sounds weird).

The bike is on order (as you know), I now have all my luggage to go on the bike and will be picking up the last of the 'bits' from the Post Office on Saturday. So basically, once the bike arrives, I'm ready to go! In theory.

I also got my 'business cards' in the post yesterday, which are cool. They don't say much - just the website really - but it saves me writing it down on a post-it every time I mention it to someone. Plus they use the same design as the website (thanks to Mr Emery AGAIN!) so I have a sort of running theme identity thing going on. Which is nice.

What else? I'm finalising the details for the Summer France training adventure. I've now got detailed maps so can properly plan a route down there. The main problem I'm encountering is the ferries. A return ticket for one, with bike, to St Malo is going to cost me £186! That's what I thought. I'm sure they do £30 each way for a car with four people, or something. Maybe I should just pretend I'm a car. If the people who answer the phones at the ticket booking place are anything to go by no one will notice.

You can't take it with you

2005-04-12T15:32:00.000Z

Having gotten well and truly fed up of researching, comparing equipment, speculating and seeking opinions I have now started buying things, much to the dismay of my bank manager and the delight of Southampton's cycling shop managers.

That's actually a bit misleading - I don't imagine my bank manager really knows or cares that I bought some padded shorts at the weekend, but you get the point.

I have also discovered that 'equipment for the trip' has it's own monetary denomination - £100. I'm spending £100 chunks of cash (well - virtual cash - thank you Mastercard) at quite an alarming rate. A few examples:

Lights and pump for bike = £100
Assorted cycling clothing = £100
Panniers and shoes = £200
Sleeping bag = £100
Multi-fuel stove = £100

In fact, those last two are things I haven't bought yet, which brings me rather unconvincingly to the next major development:

Despite sending out about 40 letters and just as many emails offering various companies the chance to donate to my cause I have received a nice round number of positive replies - none. I even wrote to ferry companies suggesting they might like to 'donate' a ferry ticket to get me to France, but no. Not interested.

It's funny because the thing that gets to me the most isn't the fact that they don't want to give me any money/equipment/donations - I started this thing not expecting anything and I will still go on to do it whether I get anything or not - it's more the fact that no-one is interested. That sounds really sad now I've written it, and again it's not because I'm doing this for recognition or anything like that, it just starts to wear me down after a while. Let me give you a few examples:

I wrote to a well know cycle luggage manufacturer, whos products I have actually ended up buying. It was a good letter - I even printed a colour route map on the back for them and said please and thank you. I didn't get a reply. I have just learnt that a guy who is doing a cycle tour of America (North, Central and South)got free luggage from them. Free! Me? Not even a reply.

Not that replies are worth getting. Example two:

Enclosed in a reply from another company was my original letter. Scribbled on the top right hand corner of the page were two words : 'Standard reply?'. Standard bloody reply?! You don't seem to have read my letter properly - THIRTY countries! ONE YEAR! ON MY OWN! Standard reply?! Jesus.

Anyway - where was I? Oh yes, the point of all this is as follows:

Despite sending out letters and generating a bit of publicity, I tend to shy away from banging on about my trip in order to generate any form of sponsorship/donation etc. People often say to me 'Have you asked so and so to sponsor you? Have you asked them for equipment?' to which I often reply 'No'. They must hear about thousands of trips, probably much more exciting/adventurous than mine. Besides, I don't really feel that comfotable just saying to people 'fancy giving me some free stuff?'.

I have, however, relented, and decided to work on the old theory of 'don't ask don't get'. My soon to be updated web page will now contain a detailed 'Equipment' section and a 'Sponsorship' page. The equipment section - here's the clever part - will give details of things I still need, and in the sonsorship I am asking directly for people to buy them for me!

Ok, so maybe not that clever, but like I said - if you don't ask you don't get.

Decisions Decisions

2005-04-08T20:24:00.000Z

Who said buying a bike would be easy?

Well, maybe no one did, but I never thought it would be this much hassle! Hassle is possibly the wrong word, and it was only complicated because I made it so, but I think it was all worth it.

You may remember from my last post that I had whittled the competition down to three candidates and that I was visiting two of them during my week off. The first visit was to Hewitt cycles which is 'up North'. Leyland, if you want to be precise. Anyway, I went there, got measured up (see the photos section) and had a chat with Mr Hewitt about the bike. He priced one up for me and that was it. I must admit that I was very impressed with his approach to it and the overall feel of the place. I was pretty much sold, and even considered flexing my flexible friend right there and then, but I knew I should look at all the options.

So, via a wet week in Wales, I ended up on the doorstep of the infamous St John Street Cycles (SJS), home of Thorn. You would be forgiven for thinking, when entering their shop, that you were in the wrong place. Hewitt cycles is a small shop crammed with frames, wheels and tools, and smelt of rubber, oil and grease. It was a bike shop. SJS was more like a travel agents. A large room, with clean carpet, had a long desk on the right, a water cooler, waiting area and people behind the desk on phones. Had it not been for the four bikes on a display rack to my left I would have turned around and walked out. After a chat with one of the 'agents' a man from out back was sent for who lead me through spacious workshops, parts stores, more workshops, a courtyard, more parts, then up a ramp to a showroom. The place is massive!

Anyway - I feel like I'm going on a bit more than I should really. Basically SJS recommended a bike with different size wheels than those ojn the bike Hewitt recommended. The prices were about the same, although the Hewitt bike was made with higher specification components, but basically that was the choice. Do I buy the Thorn with 26" wheels or the Hewitt with 700c wheels?

I appreciate that this may mean absolutely nothing to you and, to be honest, I would try and keep it that way. I would have liked to, but I had to find out which bike I should go for, so I left SJS with a choice to make. Incidentally, I also left SJS with a full set of panniers, a bar bag and a pair of cycling shoes. My first proper purchases for the trip!

Research into the wheel size issue was a confusing and sometimes frustrating affair. Whoever you talk to and whatever you read you will always find some arguments for and against each size, as with anything, I suppose. 26" are stronger, 700c roll better and are better for distance, 26" are better for rough tracks and off road, if you're spending most of your time on road 700c is best - they can handle some rough stuff, there's more choice of tyre for 26" and they're available all over the world, people have toured with 700c for years all over the world etcetera etcetera.

In the end I took two pieces of advice:

1. Don't choose your bike by it's wheel size
2. Go with what your instincts tell you.

I've gone with the Hewitt, with the 700c wheels and I don't want to hear another word on bloody wheel sizes!

Spending Money

2005-03-23T16:30:00.000Z

Once again I feel I have to remind you that a lack of entries into this Blog is, again, purely due to nothing having happened.

I feel somewhat obliged to write something, however, to cater for the unlikely event of anybody actually reading this.

Anyway - onwards and upwards. Upwards towards Manchester in fact, where I'm going this weekend. Bike buying time is nearly upon me and I have reduced my options to three possible machines. During my week off next week I will be visitng numbers one and two (in no particular order) - Hewitt (near Blackpool) and Thorn (in Somerset). Both independent bike shops who claim their bikes are the 'best value tourers in the country'. Whether that is true is, hopefully, what I will be finding out.

Number three is a slightly more simple affair, being an 'off the peg' model by a company called Dawes, which you can find at most local bike shops.

All three cost about the same, all three look about the same, so it's my mission to find out which one 'does it' for me.

Passing the time

2005-03-08T11:57:00.000Z

After the initial excitement of getting the website going and being in the paper, you may be forgiven for thinking that I have already lost interest in updating this Blog.

You would be wrong - it is simply the case that nothing has happened!

That's not strictly true, as I will explain below, but we must keep in mind that it is still over a year before I leave.

So what has happened? Well, I've written a few more letters to people asking for sponsorship. And I plan to buy the bike in the next few weeks. After months of researching bikes, frames, components, weights, sizes, colours and specifications I am well and truly fed up with thinking about it all and am tempted to go to the LBS*, give them a wad of cash and take whatever they give me. Of course, I won't do that. But I feel like it sometimes.

The other thing that has been happening, which is in some way connected to the search for sponsorship, is the planning of the France trip in the summer.

This is now becoming very much a reality - I have even booked the time off work! - so I am finalising routes, campsites and ferry crossings. Unlike the big trip, this one will be a highly organised affair (organised in terms of me knowing where I'm going to stay each night, what food I will be eating etc.), maily beacause I'm running on such a tight timescale.

One thing I've realised while planning the France trip is that my affiliation with the British Heart Foundation needn't be limited to 'the big one'. These 'training' rides that I have planned are of big enough proportions to warrant their own mention, and I have been doing so in my 'sponsor' letters. What they make of it all remains to be seen.

*I am slightly ashamed to admit that my extensive bike and equipment research has involved a certain amount of time spent reading internet forums, from where I picked up this abbreviation - LBS = local bike shop. I'm not proud of this.

Going Public

2005-02-24T12:06:00.000Z

Isn't it amazing - one day they're taking your photo, the next you're in the paper. Not that I knew anything about it!

Quite a nice article really, considering I was being warned about the 'dangers of the press'. Sadly they didn't print my website address, but at least I have the article to use as a bit of leverage for sponsorship and things.

The website is now fully up and running (thanks again Mr Emery) so I will be spreading the word.

I have been pushed into 'going public' at work, partly by the newspaper article and partly so I tell them before they find out for themselves, type of thing. Maybe something will come out of that, but I can probably resign myself to not getting a promotion over the next 18 months now! Hey ho.

As a final thought, it feels a bit weird all this 'coming out'. I am taking myself beyond the stage where I can just say 'actually, I don't fancy it. I think I'll stay here'. It's becoming more and more real, despite still being 18 months away, and I'm gradually moving on from just planning and thinking about it, to realising I'm actually going to do it.

It's a bit scary, but I like it.

Charity

2005-02-22T15:45:00.000Z

Two posts on the first day. I'm amazing myself.

My first proper update though. I've just set up my own sponsorship page on the British Heart Foundation website where you can, presumably, give them your money. You'll find the link on my website.

Website - that reminds me. In a frantic rush following the Echo visit today, webiste creator extraordinaire Mr Roger Emery is, as we speak (well, as I speak, or type, if you like) putting together a temporary site to please the punters. The 'real' site is currently in production and will, hopefully, be displaying the talents of an anonymous person very shortly.

Am I allowed to, or should I, put peoples names on here? I don't know. I've done it now. Tell me if you don't like it.

edit: apparently I'm not!

In the beginning...

2005-02-22T14:35:00.000Z

This is it then. My trip Blog. Wow...I feel suddenly nervous.

Although it's about one year six months until the start of the trip proper, there is so much going on at the moment that I thought I had better start this Blog. This will hopefully serve many purposes, not least as an online journal to track my progress both in preparation and mileage.

I guess I had better bring it up to speed then.

Well, I'm about four months into this - that is, four months from the point when I decided I was actually going to do this. I have had the idea in the back of my mind for years. November 6 2004 (my 27th birthday) is the date I consider to be the birthday of this...umm...thing.

Anyway - four months in. I have a fairly good idea of my exact route, which needs a bit of tweaking to avoid/incorporate certain mountian ranges, depending on how I feel. But basically it is done. I have sent around 30 letters to various people asking for money, equipment, TV coverage, toilet paper etc. and have so far had nothing but negative response. I am still waiting on 'The Big Ones', namely the bike manufacturers and cycling specific equipment people.

I have had some contact with the British Heart Foundation, who seem to be happy that I have chosen to support them, but haven't indicated that I need to do anything beyond that thought! They do, quite rightly, point out that the start of my trip is still quite a way off, though.

What else? Oh yeah - the Echo took my photo today (wear my BHF t-shirt) and an article on me should be out by the end of this week. I'm not really sure what it's going to say, or, to be honest, why I put myself up for it. I mean, what will I actually gain from it? Apart from the fact that my employers will now know that I plan to piss off in just over a year!

My monthly savings scheme is in full force and I am just about managing to survive £326 lighter each month. It's not easy though, and it nearly annoys me sometimes that it is money, and money alone, that is stopping me leaving sooner. I've already put the start date back a year! Money eh? Crap, isn't it. £326 a month is peanuts to some people. That's life I suppose.

Anyway - before I drag this first post down any further. What else?

Well, I've started training to an extent. My 1 mile cycle ride home every night is now about 5 miles. I'm enjoying it mostly, which is a relief considering.

I think I'll leave it there for now. Too much for one post already, but a reasonable 'background' post to get this up to speed.