Snow?!

I'm glad we got to see Burgos yesterday in the sun, because I may not have liked it as much as I did if we had arrived today. The only reason for this is: rain! It's hard not to let the weather affect your mood but it definitely does. Rain coupled with wind beat down on us and froze our fingers.
We were off road today and as the day progressed and the weather worsened the wooded trails we are following turned to mud and slush. Even pushing the bikes is hard, the wet mud in places ankle deep.
By the evening it is snowing. This is something I did not expect to encounter in Spain. Willow is excited and immediately sees the silver linings in the situation - the whitening landscape is beautiful, and of course it's an experience to cycle through Spain, among the falling flakes. Yesterday it was over 25°C. A reality check that anything really can happen, and I wonder what the rest of the week brings...

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Routine ≥ adventure

Despite the snow laying last night, there was no sign of it this morning. The forecast said 40mph winds and rain. It wasn't raining yet, but it was definitely windy. I felt scared. You see, the truth is, I'm not the adventurer you think I am.

I'm not even the adventurer I thought I was.

I like the idea of adventure.
I like cycling for miles, camping in the woods, exploring new places.
I like hard work and the great outdoors, throwing myself into the unknown and unexpected.

I also like being clean and dry.
I like order and routine.
I have a high tolerance for discomfort - I even seek it out occasionally - but I definitely prefer to be comfortable.
And I am scared of rain and wind.

Sometimes I don't camp at all. Sometimes I would rather take the easy option and sleep in a hotel. Sometimes I need a certain level of sameness and security in order to embrace the big, scary adventures.

Today was a big, scary day.
The wind wasn't so bad, the rain wasn't so bad.
But it did rain. I cycled behind Willow and had my head down for hours, feeling my forehead sting with cold water. I had a runny nose that wouldn't stop. I even had water in one ear that blocked out all the sound until the water ran out again much later on. I did a lot of doubting and wondering and worrying.
We walked our bikes through fields and got so much mud on our shoes that our feet became heavy to lift. Our wheels collected so much mud they wouldn't turn, our brakes seized up and became huge blocks of mud. My front mudguard gathered so much mud that the weight of it all snapped the mudguard off entirely. Which is ironic, and now I don't have a mudguard. I've never seen so much mud.

But the sun did actually come out. It was brief, and still only 3°C, but it did shine a bit, and I didn't expect that and it was lovely. We saw lots of storks. One had a frog in its beak. We saw lots of snowy mountains around us. We also saw some red squirrels on the bike path going into Logroño. In fact, the bike path there was really pretty - even in the wet.
And we found a hotel too. It feels ridiculous, getting clean for the night just so we can get cold and wet and dirty again tomorrow. It feels like pretending, somehow. But it's a routine that works and it helps the big, scary adventures seem less big and scary.

I'm not the adventurer I thought I was. But I'm not pretending to be that person. I don't think I even know who that person is. I'm just somebody on a bike ride. What do I know?

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Feelings

A month into spring, and I feel like I did back then when winter officially left: rejuvenated, excited, and for no particular reason.
The mountains are starting to rear up again, but gently and gradually. We have entered La Rioja and are frequently flanked by the thick red soil and stripes of vineyards. The towns we pass through have impossibly narrow streets, flags and washing strung out on balconies that are almost touching.
Blogging publicly so often feels weird - this isn't really a trip anymore, it's my life. But at the same time not a reflection of my real life, because I've stepped outside myself to cycle every single day for weeks on end through Europe. It's interesting stuff.
What's maybe more interesting than anything we are seeing is the way your mood climbs up and down across the days. Not erratically or to extremes (not too much anyway), but just the exposure you get to your feelings, strapped to a saddle for hours on end in the open air. In the last few days I've felt very sad, very lost, very triumphant, very happy, very relaxed. For the record, today was a very good day - it's amazing what a trip to the laundrette can do for your well-being. But there have definitely been days that weren't so good. The 'why' maybe isn't important. I am learning to accept my feelings and fight them less. Perhaps crucially, I am becoming more acquainted with all the feelings I have. I know them better, am accustomed to feeling X, am more used to feeling Y, I know what Z means. Good or bad, my feelings are no longer strangers. They are my feelings, and I am no longer assigning the responsibility for them to anybody else, or ignoring them, or getting frightened by them - or exaggerating them.
Reading all that back feels (there's that word again) a bit weird, so I will draw a little line under all that and move on (for now).

I am thoroughly enjoying it again, anyway. I don't think I'd want to do this ride with anyone else. Starting to cycle more slopes means we are meeting more downhills and it's great to crawl upwards then fly along downwards alongside Willow, laughing loads and chattering away. Or not, sometimes we are quiet, but I enjoy it either way.
Unfortunately Willow had some bad luck today - her rear bike light stopped working; she lost the waterproof cover to her front bike light; and finally her phone screen got accidentally smashed. These are all of course fixable problems but they still need fixing.
We passed through some beautiful neat pine forests, and I thought of La Vélodyssée back on the French coast. It is weird to think we'll be back in France in a few days. I am just getting used to Spain...

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Pamplona

Rising early, we got to experience the world before the sun touched onto its hidden surfaces. It was cold in the tall alleyways, and where the river opened out the town, rushing through underneath the pretty bridge, the water bubbled and gurgled in sparkling light. A few kilometres beyond, past the glow of young spring leaves and old willow trees, we saw the cloud collars leave the mountain tops as the warming day climbed the peaks from top down. Acres of yellow rape fields followed us across contoured land, swapping out with red earth banks and pines whenever we climbed uphill. Some construction workers call out to us: are we going to Santiago? We say no - we are going to France! They gather and applaud us until we are out of sight.
Our final long slope passed and we free-wheeled spectacularly down the other side. To our left, rolling grassy plains fringed with yellow mountain ridges; and below us, ahead of us, grew Pamplona, looking flat and widespread.
We skirt down, down, down, submerged by the rape fields. It is a beautiful descent and a beautiful day.
We follow the cycle path into another new city, gradually feeling the nature around us fall away. All I know about Pamplona is the city's affiliation with bull-running, and I'm looking forward to that sole association being replaced by broader, new knowledge as well as new experiences that are entirely our own. There is always more to a place than the stereotypes or classic depictions, and the only way to really find out is to go, simply and quietly, and get immersed. I know I will leave the city with a completely new perspective on this place. But I don't know yet what that will be.

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Food for thought

Today I decided that if I could choose any superpower, it would be the ability to work out the recipe of anything and remember it, simply from eating it once.
Our time in Spain is now very close to ending. A week or so ago I would have maybe felt excited at this prospect, ready for a change, but now things are different. I'm suddenly proud of us, for persevering over the mountains that threatened to push us down. And in the last week or so, we have seen more, heard more, met more people, made more friends, eaten more food.
But it's not about the "more".

We met Fernando in Pamplona through the app Warm Showers. For the last two days we have been living in his house with him, and seamlessly immersed into his way of life. There is another cycle tourist here too, Philippe from Switzerland, and we are all sharing space together in the house, getting to know each other, sharing our time with food, stories and ideas.
It feels arbitrary to simply relate the events in this manner: "we are here, with X and Y, doing Z etc." - but really, this is surely the point of it all, if there is even a point:

Traveling by bicycle brings people together. It is not about the more. Think about that: for the last two days, we have all been sharing our lives together.

Since meeting Fernando and Philippe, we have been to a local concert together, which was a small event at the library to promote ideas on the environment. We met more friends and stayed up late at a bar, made plans for the next day. We helped out at a community garden in the centre of Pamplona, planting vegetables and afterwards sharing a huge pot luck with the hugely friendly, welcoming group of people who meet there every few weeks and maintain the garden. Afterwards we visited a café all together, one big group, one big group of people who are all speaking Spanish, Italian and English together along with the language of smiles and gestures to understand each other. And then more communal cooking and sharing of cultures, through food and simply spending time.
I have learnt a lot, learnt a lot about the cultures in Spain and in the Basque Country, learnt a lot about the English. I realised today that across a lot of the Europe we have seen, people will really slow down to listen to you and think afterwards about their reply back. I feel like in England, it's more common to listen to someone talk to you; only to reply regardless with what you had decided you were going to say anyway halfway through their speech. It's more like waiting your turn than listening. Ironically I wait for someone to finish talking before I change the subject to point this out.

We were poised on the brink of the border, ready to return to France and the familiarity, the flat terrain. But we said "yes" to an invitation to stay a day in Pamplona; meet people through the inside edge of a new-found mutual friend; see the city through the eyes of... normal, wildly different, local people. Cycling in convoy through the streets with others who know the roads so well. Talking endlessly about local dialects, the words we all make up for things that only our cultures have, and yet can all relate to.

We have slowed down, but we are English people learning to slow down amongst people who instinctively understand what it is to take time, who don't possess our twitchy need to finish a drink, pay the bill, get up and go, catch the next train. I feel that a lot of the things I have learned, I am still learning, are still sinking in, so I cannot express those things right now. But I can feel that they are there inside.

Fernando has a notebook that he gives to people in order for them to write their favourite recipe in, or if they eat together, so he can make the dish again. It is full of different languages; handwriting; pens, pencils; drawings. It is a wonderful thing.

One of my favourite observations he makes is this: climbers and cavers practice two very different but very similar sports, both involving calculated risk and specialist equipment; yet they do not mix as people. Climbers are more insistent ("I will climb up there, that way, this route, those holds..."); whereas cavers are more curious ("What is down here? Let's go and see") and relinquish control. I love how ideas and words reveal new concepts when translated into other languages. It is revealing. Another observation is that while English people say "spare time", the Spanish say "free time". Two totally different perspectives on the same principle.

I am making disparate observations, but it's all worth thinking about. There is more to come, I'm sure, but for now, this is all I have.

europecycle tourspain

Mushroom hunting

I think that a good way of traveling is to allow yourself the freedom to stop traveling. Even if the stop is more like a pause.
We delayed another day in Pamplona, accepted an invitation to go mushroom hunting. About half an hour's drive north, a deciduous forest grows tangled and mottled. Today it is delightfully foggy, silver beeches standing in silent columns. Great grey legs of giant elephants. Sprayed like the fine mist of aerosol paint wherever their branches end, brilliant leaves are sprouting, brightly green with verdant young life. They are tightly curled, unfurling like baby ferns, little trumpets upturned and iced in water droplets from where the fog touches their soft lips. It is like looking through huge curtains of peridot pieces, the startling green of chlorophyll set against phosphorescent silver.
There are five of us; four humans and a dog all brought together through chance encounters, saying "yes" to invitations to try new things, through mutual interests. We are looking for an edible mushroom - I forget the name for it - but really we are looking for an excuse to explore, enjoy the nature, be outside, spend time.
At any rate, we don't find any mushrooms, apart from a small edible specimen of a different variety. There are toxic ones too, of course. But we leave these alone. It is too late now for the right sort of mushrooms, and the basket stays empty.
But it is just the right time for walking in the woods. The silence of a living wood is a beautiful thing. Sometimes a blackbird punctuates the stillness like a flute of light, the way that a soft breeze moves the shadows to reveal a little sun when it parts the leaves with its breath. There is a brook, winding down through the steep sides of the valley, surprisingly clear and clean. Our companions pull a stove from the car and we fry sausages for sandwiches. Food in Spain is always shared.

For another day Willow and I are residents of a city that last week was simply a circle on a map of another country. In the evening, at Fernando's, Willow cooks quesadillas and we eat these all together, along with falafel that Fernando has made. There is homemade tiramisu, the best I have tasted. Ginger gets grated, infused with boiling water. Drinking this I wonder why teabags were ever invented. And of course we stir in honey - Fernando produces a large jar, Cantabrian honey from his friend back home. It glows amber, thick and treacly, autumnal. A spoonful of this stuff tastes like flowers smell; your tongue experiences candied meadows and the rich candour of clean air. It is wonderful, intoxicating, sugary sweet.
I lie in bed here for the last time this trip - we leave for France tomorrow. My head wanders, I am back in the forest; back in the bars; cycling through streets that meld from strangers to friends with every bend. No one back home is here or knows; no photographs or letters can stand in for being here in the flesh, touching and smelling and seeing.
But then, all it takes is a few days of pedalling. Everything else is the same.

europecycle tourspain

A manageable hill

"A manageable hill" - this was the phrase used by Willow today to describe the Pyrenees mountain range. We were cycling to the top of the pass that would soon separate us from Spain after one whole month of cycling around its northern provinces.
Her remark was slightly tongue in cheek, slightly serious. We had been warned by many cycle tourists that the Pyrenees would be much worse than anything we had climbed so far. The cyclists we had met were all coming the other way - from France. Maybe slightly smugly, they had assured us that the worst was still to come. Maybe they didn't factor in that the French side of the Pyrenees is a lot steeper than the Spanish side, which is more or less a steady, gradual gradient. Maybe they didn't factor in that we have spent the last month cycling up and down mountains, more or less every day. Maybe it was the over-estimation that always pairs with fearful anticipation, but today the Pyrenees didn't feel that bad. Not that bad at all.

I could simply leave it there, neatly wrap it all up and scoff at the "manageable hill" and say we did it, adiós Spain, bonjour France.
But I can't do that.
The truth is, Spain has left an indelible mark on the both of us. In the month we spent cycling around it, we pushed our bodies and encouraged each other. Our relationship strained, strengthened and finally cemented like never before. I went through a full set of brand new brake pads in two weeks. We had multiple days of climbing over 1000m of vertical, and two days of cycling further than 100km - and today we did both of those things. We cried, laughed, shivered, sweated, sang, shouted, cursed and wondered. We very very nearly gave up, on each other and on the ride. We stayed with a cult. We were turned away from a campsite. We stayed with locals. We made friends with lots of amazing people. We ate a lot of amazing food. We fell in love over and over again. We pushed our bikes. We pulled our bikes. We didn't see any wild boar, even though I promised Willow we would. We saw snow, and mud, and sun, and hail. We helped at a community garden. There are lots of other things we did. We had our minds blown each and every day.

I nearly chose a photo of the summit today, but for me this photo captures the emotion far more. We had reached the top, and we had lunch at the viewpoint. And then we had over 17km of downhill to look forward to. And it was the best downhill I've ever ever done.
I didn't take photos, we were going too fast. The hairpins were too tight, you needed both hands on the bars. But the views were amazing. We looped and flew through gorges, past waterfalls and rivers, and the landscape changed as we lowered into springtime. The world got visibly greener and brighter as we descended. I cannot describe how amazing this downhill was. And we got to share it with each other, knowing that we probably won't have a downhill like this one again in a long time.
There were a few points when the road levelled out; and during one of these I turned in my seat and managed to take this photo of Willow behind me, flying along. We were doing close to 30kmph and the sun was behind me, so I couldn't really see what I was taking a photo of. Turns out it's a pretty good shot. This is as close as telling you how it felt to fly down the last mountain knowing that it's all behind you. But behind you in a good way, behind you as memories and growth and the fact we did it all together and it's still going to all be there for when we want to do it again.

I nearly missed the moment the languages changed on the signs as we flew over the border. We are now following the homely, undulating hills of the French Basque Country, and the houses here are trademark red and white, black berets on the heads of the farmers we pass. If you're ever at a loose end at the end of April, take a bike ride through the foothills north of Saint Jean Pierre De Port. It's quiet, off the tourist trail, and on a day like today has been, it's absolutely beautiful. Daisies and dandelion clocks catch the late afternoon sun, the ground continually humping away in huge green waves. Sheep and chickens and quiet tangled roads, water running and lapping the banks always close by. A young girl on a tricycle tries to race Willow up a hill and laughs out loud. A white swallowtail butterfly basks on the tarmac. Red kites mew and hover along the forest edges. The light takes its time fading today, and the steam from my stove swirls through the last rays of the day as I make pasta. I lay in the dark and hear the last of the jays calling, and finally only the rustling of the leaves on the forest floor.

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Beautiful Basque

There truly is something to be said for camping in deciduous woodland during the spring, and rising early to full sunlight and birdsong. You simply cannot beat it, and it is very hard to have a bad mood thereafter. I think we nailed it today; we were up before the heat burned off all the dew - the fields nearby were all topped with shining dandelion clocks and buttercups, their edges glimmering as the low light slanted across from behind the trees. Burly beeches reached for the air around them and everything was green. New ferns uncurled like octopus limbs while the forest floor steamed. The woods were loud and garrulous with competing birds, all chanting and singing beautifully, an invisible chorus to wake the day.
We made 14km before breakfast, briefly held up by a procession of cows being led to another field by their farmer and a lad on a motocross bike.
The countryside here is astoundingly lovely. We did climb some hills, not huge ones, but always behind us was the view of the Pyrenees - now snow covered and clear as cold October air. We could see all the ridges and veins scribed into their blue peaks. I am not sure why the French Basque Country is not more famous. It is just beautiful. I feel like we've skipped out spring and dived straight into summer. The weather was still and hot, baby clouds forming rows of helixes and duck-down feathers in wispy puffs high above. Yellow, pink, blue flowers everywhere, and always a river or stream. White houses with the trademark maroon shutters and roofs; most with logpiles, some with chicken coops, occasionally ponies or goats. It feels amazing to once again be following a cycle path that is waymarked; flat; and off-road. The leaves, the grass all so lushly green, everywhere.
We follow a river all afternoon, seeing storks and hearing cuckoos. The yellow flower fields go on and on and on. Now and then we hear the cackling of randy frogs warbling from the water below us. Broadleaf trees: sycamore, plane, beech and young oaks. It is surreal to see tall palm trees lumped in with these familiar species - but then, we are in the south of France!

Camped just off the cycle path in some thick woods. We looked carefully for the runs of deer or wild boar and pitched our tent well out of the way, tucked behind some bushes. I cook pasta in the waning light while Willow lies down. After we've eaten and cleared away I join her and listen to the lustful frogs by the river whose antics show no audible signs of abating. Presently it starts raining gently, and it is lovely to lie here and hear it. It is still very warm, even after sunset. I don't tend to sleep well in the heat, but I don't really mind tonight. I can hear a male tawny owl hoo-ing - all of the night sounds are comforting and exciting to listen to, especially because now is my time to relax and do nothing but listen.

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Simplicity and nature

Willow was first to leave the tent this morning and she startled a resting roe deer not three feet from the tent door. It barked loudly and scampered off.
It is beautiful to pack down, and step out onto quiet, flat cycle path and just follow the river for miles, easily, in warm weather. There are regular water points and benches to sit on. It feels like you've cheated the system in some way, it's very liberating. But really all it is, is a lot of simple things grouped together and a lot of nature. Which for me, is kind of the point. Simplicity, and being in nature, and less resistance to these things.
We are seeing a lot of storks. After following the river for an hour or so, we left its green expanse and turned into a pretty broadleaf woodland on dirt track. It's so nice to be among familiar plants, I particularly enjoy the cow parsley and buttercups. The trees soon gave way to a group of flat meadows, horses grazing amongst the long grass and many yellow flowers. A stork flew low in front of us, landing gear out, and began grazing too. Beyond, a train track cut through the fields, with posts at short intervals for the electric wires along the track. Atop every single post perched a stork nest with occupant standing proudly and unperturbed by the cargo trucks beneath them. They seem to find the most unlikely places to build their nests, and don't seem to mind sharing tight spots with other nesting pairs. It's amazing to see them.
The countryside undulated gently but for the most part flat; more often than not we were speeding easily along well-paved, wooded trails with pretty, detached houses at intervals. We must have become pretty fit; I remember when we put in our 70km+ day, we were dead chuffed. Today we did a similar distance, all after lunch, without even noticing it!
We are both thoroughly enjoying the easy terrain and cute countryside. Yesterday and today we could hear and see swifts screaming over the chimney pots, and today I heard the chiff chaffs chiff-chaffing away for the first time since we left France in March. We also saw two hoopoes in flight, and then - and then - a black woodpecker!! Willow spotted all of these birds before me (I think she's a lucky charm when it comes to birdwatching or nature watching in general) and we were so happy to see the black woodpecker! A first time for both of us and we managed to see his red crown quite clearly.
As we ate lunch we watched a gardener planting shrubs by some trees next to a pedestrian crossing. I've noticed I'm taking more of an interest in planting and cultivating things since leaving for this trip and it was good to watch.
Later in the day we passed through the surprisingly beautiful town of Mont-de-Marsan (pictured here). If it wasn't so late, we'd have stopped and explored properly. I've made a note to do so in the future, even if to walk down the river and look at the waterfalls again. I know I keep on saying it, but I really cannot get over how lovely this stretch of France is - from just north of Saint Jean Pierre De Port, all along and up, following the EuroVelo 3. In terms of rural beauty, it's a hidden gem, and I will be back for sure to see it all again.

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Following the forest

A day that felt slow but was deceptively fast. Mostly looked like what you see here - flat, rough dirt track in green surrounds. Muggy climate, the omnipresent yellow flowers on tall stems. Expecting a storm soon. It's amazing how well designed France seems to be for cycling holidays: well signposted, accessible (mostly flat) trails through beautiful and varied scenery; good camping spots; water points and apparently a boulangerie every few kilometres. We can talk easily while cycling, constantly pedaling. The routes in Spain seemed to aim us at the mountains and over them; here we are often diverted to maintain course on the flat.
Another black woodpecker flies low in front of us and we both wonder aloud, how it is that you never see something and then as soon as you've seen it once you keep on seeing it.
A puncture (my bike of course) encourages us to stop for lunch. We have a fresh baguette and camembert, then some peaches. It goes without saying, but the food in France is just so good.
Now and again we see other cycle tourists, and once a lad on a slackline, which he's strung across the path between two trees. He smiles and holds up the line for us to cycle underneath.
Later in the day we meet a Belgian cyclist who tells us he's already done 150km and will probably do another 60km that day. He carries printed maps, a GPS and is also following the same signposted route we are, but opts to ask us for directions as well. We have met quite a few cycle tourists of all kinds while on the road, and it is endlessly fascinating, simply how much of a varied bunch we all seem to be. Last week in Spain, we met a touring couple from Holland. They told us they'd cycled through all the bad weather that we had also experienced on the plains. Their response to the showers? They immediately bought flights home. Later on they were in the process of loading up their bikes at the concierge, when they changed their minds and promptly tore up their plane tickets, carrying on their ride. I'd love to see what they're like at home.

I realise with a shock today that in one month's time we will be cycling down the north of England, on the final leg of our journey. There are many things to come that I am excited for, but equally this ride encompasses so many elements and experiences that I hold dear in life, and traveling by bicycle for days on end is an incredible way to approach living. But there will surely be other rides like this. One thing is true: through all the tricky bits and icky bits, I will always want to be on a big bike ride somewhere. Willow too is enjoying it, maybe sometimes in different ways, and I am really happy to be sharing it with her.

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Close encounters

A surprisingly eventful day of mostly halcyon tranquility, slightly scratched by later events.
We followed the Garonne canal path for pretty much the entirety of the cycling; a gloriously cool, shady route. We could have been in a Kenneth Grahame book, the beautiful green leaves of ash trees and sycamores; glowing sunpools, blue water and blue damselflies. Our morning coffee stop overlooked the water at Lavardac, we watched swifts and martins chase and scree, hawking for insects. No hills to speak of, just flat and easy miles.
In the light the water was vibrant, opaque and aqua; in the shade clear and bottle green. Huge fish basked in the warm shallows, crickets murmured and chirruped, cow parsley nodded as the breeze passed them like an old friend. Lizards scuttled out of the way every few metres, lithe in the leaflitter. It was a day that conjured up images of picnics, fishing, lying in a hammock and reading a good book. We ate fresh bread and butter, finished off the camembert and shared a red apple the size of a mango. All was well, we passed under dappled trees, over pretty arched bridges and through a haze of fluffy seeds, the spore from thousands of dandelion clocks docked in the warm air.

We picked up some supplies in Langon with light left in the sky and followed the trail of honeysuckle and pines to a quiet stretch of trees.
We made camp as usual; Willow pitched the tent while I cooked dinner. She checked us from the path to make sure we were well hidden. We ate in the tent, listening to the late cuckoos. Suddenly Willow found a tick on her arm, and we stopped eating and began a thorough search. There is always more than one. Sure enough, there were four on her and two on me. We tweezed them off and got rid of them, carried on eating feeling a little put off.
Some soft pattering noise close by caught our attention, and we stopped to listen. Perhaps a roe deer come out to feed - soon it would sense us nearby and take fright. But it did not. The pattering gently grew until we could hear heavy, sharp footfalls - and not just from one set of feet. These loud thuds are accompanied by coarse snuffling and gruntings, the sounds of large animals churning through the dead leaves. Boar. We freeze, motionless on our rustly sleeping mats in the half dark. The footfalls - hooves - get heavier, louder, the grunts huff and wheeze from all sides of the tent, much too close now.
And then - everything comes to an abrupt stop. Absolute, terrible silence. I am suddenly very aware of my heart beating, and can see Willow's little silhouette is bolt upright and rigid. Just like I am.
And then there is this deep, inhaling, sucking noise, from just outside the tent's pathetic outer fabric. The boar is sniffing, shockingly loudly, slowly and deliberately. Then, silence again. Longer this time. I am aware now that this one is a shared silence; it is listening as acutely as we are, feet away. This is the silence of a creature analysing and making up its wild mind what to do next, while we sit uncomfortably, unfamiliar and unprepared, in the dark and in a tent.
And then - no it's not over yet - and then, there's this growl, deep and reverberating. It sounds almost like some giant dog. But I've heard dogs growl, and this is different; this thing is growling in the same way as it was sniffing us with those awful wet sucking noises, a few minutes ago, an eternity ago. In the dark.
I brace myself for the rush, the charge and slash of fabric, and I hear its hooves break into a run. Fast footsteps that are getting... quieter and quieter. The others follow suit, galloping and crashing, the other way, through the bushes.
And then, it is silent.

My pasta is cold, Willow is shaking. To be honest, I'm shaking too. I rub her leg as comfortingly as I can, because that's apparently the best I can do.
And then I go outside, and wash up, in the dark woods that are now vast and gaping like a black mouth. I shine my torch at the foliage around me, its limp beam darkening the shadows further and illuminating the honeysuckle into gnarled triffids. A deer barks and I jump, banging my head on a branch. It keeps barking, and my overactive mind tells me the forest creatures are rallying against us.
I turn my torch to the floor and sing "I Wanna Be Like You" from The Jungle Book in a quavering falsetto to calm down. My voice is thin and papery. As I go back to the washing up I see five new ticks crawling up my left hand towards my sleeve. For a few seconds I stare at them, dumbfounded, then head back to the tent. Willow hands me the tweezers, and we remove them.
Once I've washed up I stash the food pannier away from the tent, and we zip up tight. We do a thorough tick check, on our clothes and bodies. Just as we are done and de-ticked, I lie back down and see another one crawling up my right arm. We remove this too and I feel my skin crawl; how did we miss that one? Did we miss any others? How will we know?

Fast forward to the morning - there were no more ticks and no more boars, but also not much sleep. I sweated and shivered and kept hearing scratching noises despite my earplugs. The sound of the cuckoo at dawn was a welcome relief. We did another tick check without leaving the tent - our clothes and bodies yielded no hitch hikers, so we packed down quickly and gingerly and left the forest. Back on the concrete path, we shook the tent out and gave it the once over. Then we laughed at the daylight, at the familiar colours and sounds, and pedalled hard to the next boulangerie.

europecycle tourfrance

A quiet day

After our eventful night in the tick-infested territory of the wild boar family, we have had a slow day. It is amazing how much of a relief the daylight is. We arrived in the town of Uzeste and sat in the square under a hot sun to eat breakfast. We bought baguettes and ate breakfast twice, probably because it was so good to be able to. By the time we left the square, it was gone midday.
A warm headwind forbade us from speeding along, but today we were in no hurry. Everything will be closed tomorrow for the first day of May, so we needed to head to the shops and stock up. There was a laundrette by the supermarket so we washed our clothes and towels too. Unfortunately the dryer was out of order, so we packed up the wet clothes and headed off to find somewhere to hang the washing. We ended up draping all the stuff over our bikes as well as some fence posts next to the cycle track. It was hot and despite the lack of storms, the air is clearer. We ate lunch on the floor while we waited for the washing to air out.
We were both very quiet. I won't pretend that last night wasn't scary. It was very scary, and I also think we were very lucky, even if boar aren't the most aggressive creatures of all. It is a very powerful feeling to be trapped inside a tent, at night, in unknown woods far from home or help, with a large animal just beyond the zip that could kill you if it chose, and that said animal is currently mulling over that choice. I could feel my throat tight like a fist, and I could feel my body quaking, straining to run, panic and get out of there, but all I could do was sit tight and as still, as quiet as I could possibly be and just bloody hope. Wild boar don't generally attack without feeling threatened, but we were in its space and we all of us knew it, and there was nothing Willow or I could do but stay still. Being zipped up in a tent completely removes your choices and options. I am not going to forget that feeling in a long time.
By the time the washing had dried it was about five o'clock, so we packed up and moved on. It was a beautiful day, hot and exotic feeling among the avenues of pines and sandy soil. But it was getting later and getting closer to evening again, and we needed to find somewhere to sleep soon.
While we cycled we kept looking for boar runs - and they're everywhere here. Suddenly woods are out of the question, turned from sanctuary to a no go area. Maybe more open places are a better bet - we keep scouting, maybe if we camp in a field, everyone can have their own space then. We come across an open stretch of sparse long grass and wide sandy patches, with pylons girdling the corners. We dismount and study this as an option, and immediately find fresh boar tracks in the sand; prints easily identified by their round open shape and the dents where their snouts push in the earth. Maybe not here then.
Back on the bikes it is, I'm surprised how anxious this is all making me feel.
The arid scrub gives way to trees and then to fields again. Soon it will be suburbia and then trees, trees are no good and then it will be dark...
...Hang on, say that again.

Suburbia.

I remember it's possible to ask permission to camp in people's gardens. I have never done so directly due to fear of rejection or embarrassment. (Remember, the point is to get away, out into nature!)
But now - I will admit this - I am afraid of wild boar, and so I swallow my pride and my fears and ask I the first person I see if I can camp in their garden. And they say - yes, of course, please come in.
And so an hour later we are all set up for the night under a mossy tree at the far end of a big garden. We have been introduced to the kids and the dog, shown where the water tap is, we've shared a little of ourselves in as much French as we can manage. We are unobtrusive and essentially uninvited but made very welcome. My gratitude eclipses the surprise I feel at my own brassneck for asking. I lie in the dark and listen to cars passing, I'm glad it's just cars, and I hope the sun is shining tomorrow.

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May Day

May Day today, and all is quiet here in France. We wake to mist and start cycling early. Small spiderwebs, iced in dew droplets, pointed like miniature muslin mountains in the heather and gorse. Beyond the flat, straight path through the national park, we make coffee on the stove and have brioche and yoghurt. All the boulangeries are closed - in fact, everywhere is closed. It is the day of the worker across the continent,  and the people are out on the streets selling garlands of wild flowers, having picnics in the parks or else elsewhere.
Perhaps because of our timing, Bordeaux is not overly lively and after a quick lunch on the grass overlooking the Garonne we pick up again and make fast progress out of the city. We pass some shantytowns on the north-eastern bank. I am not sure but I think they are where a community of Romani families are living. It is surreal to see people living like this so close to affluence and tourism, and I wonder what their daily lives are like.

The river disappears and we enter woodland again. We follow the busy path, which is cool and gently curving, fringed with cow parsley, dandelion clocks and buttercups. It is enjoyable, so much so that we miss our turning and have to double back on ourselves 10km later. At least it's not raining.

In the event, I am actually glad we got a little slowed up. We cross the Dordogne as the light is lengthening and turning orange. The vineyards are all in leaf and some are surrounded by poppies, which are popping with flushed colour by the roadside. A beaver swims in a tributary as we pass it, barely six feet away. We count eleven storks in a field including a pale juvenile. We have also seen more hoopoes here and there. I look for a suitable camp spot but it is hard in this open country. The one secluded spot is full of the signs of wild animals, so we leave it. There are also warning signs for traps in the woodland.
We enter a village just before dusk and there is a man watering his plants. I ask him, where is a good place to camp. He shrugs, and says that people park their campervans behind the cemetery; we could try there, he thinks it will be quiet. Then he points to a patch of grass behind his house - or here. I ask about wild boar, and he laughs, we only have owls around here.
And so we pitch our tent on the grass between his van, a glass recycling bin, and a patch of private woodland with a no entry sign. It's not too bad - it's flat, and we have a great view of the vineyards next door. The man offers us water, a shower, and even a cup of tea made from the mint he is currently watering. He is celebrating Ramadan, and in half an hour he will be eating with his family. If we would like to have something, it is no problem. He will even help hide the tent by moving his car in front of it.
In the event, we are too tired for any of this. We put up the tent, eat dinner, and fall asleep. It may be a short straight line as the crow flies, but today we did about 110km, including our little detour. But I am very happy that all the things that have happened so far allowed us to find this spot for the night.

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Roadside living

I slept incredibly deeply last night, which is very good, all things considered. We packed down quickly before the village woke up and made off for breakfast. We saw the campervans parked by the cemetery, but I'm glad we chose to sleep where we did; much quieter. Quiche and jésuite with coffee under a tree as it was raining gently.
The rain soon disappeared as we followed the D-road away from the village, and we skirt along towards busy Libourne.
After some grocery shopping, we pick up the cycle path and leave into suburbia. Nestled between empty concrete wasteland and some private fishing lakes, there is a Romani encampment. First we see a group of young girls burning bags of rubbish in a pile; and then we pass caravans, with washing out to dry and a father working on the wheels of his truck while carrying a baby girl. It is a quiet place as we pass but thoroughly lived in.
We talk about this as we pedal past the vineyards and horsefields that replace the caravans on the route. Could we have stopped and spoken with the people there? What sort of lives do they live? For sure it's a sad state of affairs. Many people write off the homesteads of travellers as unsightly, fearful places. Take the girls burning litter - the scene may well be labelled as a dirty one; young girls with no concern for passersby or the environment. But it's not that at all. I'm sure, as in England, the local authorities here refuse to collect their waste like they collect it from those people living in houses. The girls have little choice but to burn it; shunned and ignored, they are simply clearing up after themselves in the only way they are able to, in a lifestyle they've been born into and inherited just like the rest of us have. It is likely the young girls are forbidden to enter the education system, possibly even the healthcare system. If a shop owner recognised them from the caravans on the edge of town, it is likely they would be forbidden to enter the shop too, or at least be scrutinised closely while they visited.
Travellers the world over are victims of prejudice to the point of total exclusion, literally pushed to the fringes of our towns and cities - from what I can see simply for leading their lives their own way. There is nothing wrong with their choice; it does not harm or hurt anybody. There is an incredible sense of community and togetherness within the Romani way of life. There is honesty, a straight to the point attitude; and an uncanny ability to remain true to oneself. There is always help if and when you need it. There is passion and deep friendship; family is important, moreso here than in many other cultures I've seen. And today as I pedal alongside my Romani companion, we talk about it all in depth. There is often no provision for those in Traveller communities; with very few authorised sites they are relegated to their encampments on the edgelands of towns on the land no one else wants. There is hardly even any rhetoric on the racism that Travellers receive; it doesn't stir up the backlash that is always incurred from other forms of racism. We are all just people trying to make a living.

The signs for our route meander in and out of towns, sometimes pointlessly zigzagging side streets to avoid the main roads. We stop for lunch in a sunny layby and air out the damp tent on a fence. The countryside soon turns into the pines, gorse and bracken associated with the natural parks - and with our friends the wild boar. It is easy to pedal through fortunately, and we keep moving. An elderly woman hails us as we pass and we end up talking in French for half an hour. We learn about her family, and she hears about our journey and lives back home. It is a touching experience. When we first entered the country we remarked on the frequency of locals stopping in the street for a chinwag - and here we are now doing the same.
The pines give way to a voie verte, which is trademark in its flatness and stillness. A buzzard is mobbed by a crow and the two of them fly around a bush and nearly collide with us, breaking apart several feet from our faces. We push on for a few hours more until we dismount by a flat patch of grass, next to a field and a few feet from the cycle path. We cook and eat dinner by the track (see photo), watching the clear sun fade through peach to silver as it sets. Four people in total pass us by over a couple of hours and we figure here is a good place to spend the night. It is open, yes - but this is deliberately considered; it is very unlikely we will be in the way of any wild boar out here. We pitch the tent as it gets dark, and as I lie in my sleeping bag to write this all is quiet. There is a garden centre (closed until 09:00 tomorrow) opposite the field and every now and then I hear the greenhouse sprinklers switch on and off. Presently I hear a single cyclist pass us in the dark, but that is all. We will be gone by the morning, hopefully without any altercations.

Just before I close my eyes for sleep, a nightingale strikes up smoothly in the trees close by, and it is wonderful to hear him repeat his phrases over and over, unbridled and unabashed, from the blackness.

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Weary and warm

When the 06:30 alarm went off this morning I felt a little tired but grateful to have had an undisturbed night. We packed down as the sun was purpling the morning sky, and cruised into Barbezieux in the golden hour. It was great to start the day so early and have breakfast in the town watching the people come and go from the boulangerie. These establishments are the hubs of the communities here in France and I thoroughly enjoy observing the conversations and variety of people that always stop by for their morning baguette.
It has been a thickly hot day and our route filtered between open fields, close woods and also suburbia. We flew past a pretty house with blue roof; red window shutters; an S-shaped garden path and a curious shrub that had lots of curved wooden branches ending in circular crowns of leaves. It would have been a perfect photo but we were moving too quick; besides, the traffic is behind me. There have been a lot of moments like this, where I see a photo but never take it due to circumstance. I work hard to preserve it in my memory.
Occasionally the signs for the EuroVelo 3 disappear and we have to use or noses in combination with Google Maps. We found the river, high and green; swollen from the recent rains, and followed it into Angoulême. Before the river path became too busy, I was looking out along the water as we cycled along its banks. I was thinking about the beaver we saw two days ago, when I suddenly spotted a familiar shape sliding through the water. I whispered to Willow and we dismounted quietly. It looked fairly young, maybe a yearling, and it was quite happily gliding to and fro in the dark water. Two herons stood sentinel close by; a swan serenely floating in the foreground. The beaver carried on and swam to a newly felled tree, lying in the water. It climbed aboard and preened, shaking the droplets from its dense fur. After attending its toilet, back into the water it went, slowly propelling itself toward us until it disappeared under the near bank.
We have lunch overlooking the river as it is a nice spot. Sometimes big white fish flop above the surface and then splash back down again.
Angoulême passes quickly but takes a while to fade away. We traverse the outskirts of the town for a long while before the houses finally give in to the countryside, but not before we surprise a sunbathing snake on the tarmac. I am yet to identify the thing, but it is not one I recognise. The hills are picking up again too, never too high or steep but more frequent.
The day finishes after an hour or so on a voie verte, and I feel my energy disappearing. We both miss home despite all the beauty of the road. I snack a lot in the afternoons but am getting easily hungry now; and I decide to listen to my body and we call it a day, pulling off the road in a quiet place near some woods. We sit in a fallow field among weeds and wildflowers and make dinner together in the sun. We will put the tent up later on when it is quieter and clear that we will be left alone. For some reason it feels for both of us like we are cycling slowly, even though we are covering more than 80km a day by bike. It is pointless to measure in a straight line because our route is not linear at all, nor is this approach good for morale.

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Everything in its place

Something I am very much enjoying as a direct result of this trip is the simple way of living. Everything I have with me fits nicely into four bags on my bike; with Willow carrying two of her own plus the tent. I have seen many people travel with less but the load doesn't feel heavy or cumbersome to cycle with, and I have also used everything I have brought.
In my front left pannier I carry my sleeping mat; sleeping bag and wash kit; all in separate dry bags. There is also a ziplock wallet containing our documents and passports.
My front right pannier is reserved for bike tools and puncture repair kits; my pump; my down jacket; a waterproof; gloves; my penknife; sewing kit; some heavy duty cable ties; a roll of gaffer tape; and a dry bag containing all the film I have with me for the trip. There is also my portable hangboard. Somehow I've found the energy every week to perform a few sets of repeater exercises with it, to at least maintain my fingerstrength while not climbing. Plus, it's a fun break from cycling and reminder of my usual routine. The front right pannier also contains an ornamental lamp that a passerby gifted us with for good luck, nearly two months ago in Rochefort. We've been unable to find a use for this but equally unable to part with it.

My rear right pannier is reserved for food, and is either half empty or full to bursting depending on the day. Invariably at the moment there is always a baguette poking out the top of this pannier as I cycle along.
On my left at the back, I keep my clothes. There is a dry bag in here with enough for a few changes, but to be honest I've been wearing the same shorts since I left England. I keep a pair of long trousers and shirt aside for when I want to pretend I am not living in a tent. There is a carrier bag for dirty washing, and also underneath all this, another bag with two pairs of climbing shoes in, and a chalkbag. We've only been climbing twice on this trip so far, but these additions are definitely well worth the small amount of weight they add. I also have a small 21W solar panel and a battery pack for our phones. These take up hardly any space when packed away, and are really worth it for the use they get. At the moment I am able to keep everything going using just the solar panel alone.
My film camera is always within reach, sitting in a frame bag by my handlebars with its lens cap removed and ready to go. I have shot about 13 rolls of film so far in the two months we have been away.

Willow carries our stove set and pots in her panniers along with her clothes, sleeping gear and wash kit. There are a couple of paperbacks she is reading. Willow also has a golf ball and a tennis ball that we both use to roll out our muscles with at the end of the day. On top of her rear rack we keep the tent in a drybag.

I really enjoy how everything has its place and is packed away neatly every morning so that we can cycle. It is satisfying to have everything to hand when you need it but also able to clear it away easily too. Everything has a function and an order, and there is nothing superfluous. This suits me really well and is one of the appeals of this mode of travel. This may not be for everyone, but I am proud of maintaining this arrangement. I acknowledge that routine and familiarity are essential components for me to embrace most things, and this trip is no exception.

We woke an hour later than we did yesterday, and it's amazing how much difference that hour makes. Full sun and heat and daylight and loud birds calling, no chilly pre-dawn calm today.
While buying coffee in the next town, I was talking to the vendor when I noticed a definite Yorkshire twang in her French sales patter. I queried, "vous parlez anglais?" She broke into laughter and we switched to English. She had moved out here eight years ago along with her husband, and now they run a small café together.

The landscape is noticeably sliding from southern to northern; we have left the monotony of the pine forests and the apricot coloured bungalows; the landscape is now green hills punctuated with drystone farms and the seemingly endless fields of buttercups. I enjoy watching this gradual but visible change.
Cuckoos are constantly calling. We are now seeing bluebells too along with wood anemone; and many other woodland flowers. The frogs keep burbling from the ponds and streams like frantic marimbas.
It is a hilly day and we finish early, stopping in a patch of open woodland by the road side. The sun leaves the clouds for a few minutes and I see a red roe deer bounding away through the long grass beyond the trees. I cook pasta with blue cheese and pesto and we eat in the shade. I lie in the tent and listen to the birds for hours as the shadows deepen to blue in the twilight. Occasionally I hear our new friend the black woodpecker join in, and I try and relax under their melodies.

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Restful

I have just identified another bird song that we have been hearing a lot of recently since entering Southern France; that of the golden oriole. This is a beautiful bird, and knowing that we have been close to it, hearing it frequently, makes me very happy even if we haven't seen one yet. I woke up this morning to the sound of its fruity song outside the tent, and sun streaming in through the flysheet. Privileged.
I didn't sleep too well; I couldn't switch my mind off, but dozing in the warm tent felt good. I am glad we picked out the spot we did last night to sleep for barely five minutes along the road from our tent was a pond - and this morning we had the pleasure of watching three beavers forage and swim contentedly in its still waters.
Today's picture features Willow taking a nap. We haven't had any rest days since our stay in Pamplona nearly a fortnight ago and we took today slowly. Lots of moderate hills and slopes; a backdrop of maturing oaks with green leaves, featureless skies and caterpillar nests filling the bushes. I could hear hoopoe calling from the trees as we cycled, learning new birdsong is always worthwhile.
I have been thinking a lot about photography; about taking better, more impactful pictures; and about being more present. More on this another time, as I am still thinking.
Much later on today, we were searching for a place to pitch our tent when we found wild boar scat and a hoof print. We took this as our cue to move on, and after another forty minutes saw a signpost for a campsite. For €6 each I'm not complaining - we have a shower and a beautiful pitch on the river. It is still the off-season, so we have the entire field to ourselves. Listening to the water churn and crickets churr is soothing.

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Amazing things

Woke this morning to the river sounds of birdsong, the calls rounded at the edges as they bounced along the still water. I could hear a hoopoe from somewhere behind the tent. It makes me feel sad to think this trip will be over in a month or so, but one of the elements that is making me happiest as we go is our constant proximity to nature - and that is something that can be achieved anywhere, more or less.
We found an incredible boulangerie this morning. It was situated on the edge of a large square and facing south, so we had full sun on us as we sat outside to eat breakfast. There was no wind at all and not a single cloud, and of course the produce on offer was amazing. This time is my favourite part of the day as a rule and this morning was no exception. Sharing fresh coffee and pastries in the sun with a close companion and knowing you both have a full day ahead, and you will spend it cycling together in good weather across beautiful terrain, is a really great feeling. It feels boastful to say it like that, but it really is a great feeling. But then I don't think it's boastful at all; because at the same time, getting to this point has been logistically very easy. Beautiful experiences like this one are there to be had - you just need to start pedalling, and head somewhere nice. If you don't have a friend to bring with you, don't be put off because you'll make a lot on the way.

After our leisurely start, we wound through the now routine slew of places that come with this part of France: flat and open villages; gently rolling fields, wheat and rapeseed; busy roundabouts on either side of sleepy towns; riverside trails that wind and smell of cut grass and nettles. There are white flowers on the green surfaces of the rivers, blooming and garnishing the surface, clustered like confetti on a lawn. I saw a kingfisher hovering, glinting electric blue, smaller than you expect and faster too. They always seem out of place purely due to their astounding beauty. It jerked around in the air like a hummingbird and then jinked and turned, followed the river, a butane flame with wings, flashing mercurial, an outsize dragonfly.
Later on, in a different town, we cycled through a 100ft long swarm of bees. This was startling, but fortunately nothing worse.
We seem to be seeing beavers every day now, swimming in pools, invisible until you get your eye in. We are always close to amazing things, and not just the two of us here - we all are, you just need to look. Swallows on the wires, collared doves that can sleep anywhere, even the thinnest of twigs. Our brightly coloured panniers are magnets for insects as we cycle, and it is always a source of entertainment for me to look at the little hitchhikers that gather on my front yellow pannier (always the front yellow one) while I'm pedalling. We see cockchafers, shield bugs, soldier beetles, lacewings, all sorts of butterflies and caterpillars, ladybirds and sometimes weevils. We have also seen longhorn beetles, which are magnificent; and tiny lime-green aphids that parade on the leaves of young trees.

We push on today, aiming to close the gap between us and Tours. This is not a problem and it never feels like we are working hard. The month in mountainous Spain has created a very active pedalling style in both of us; and it is common now to average 20kmph without hassle.
We stop in a pretty campsite on the River Indre and make dinner in the long evening. It is precious to be outside at all hours and see the light alter over the day. I stand by the bank and can see ripples very close by; I think it is a beaver but I will never know for sure. The cuckoos are nonstop, and a couple of them speed up their trademark calls into fast trills that sound similar to the yap of the little owl. I have never heard this before and if you know why they do it, I'd love to know. Presently the crickets and tawny owls take over and I am incredibly grateful to be where I am.

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Back on ourselves (almost)

A half rest day. Arriving in Tours midmorning, we found a good repair shop en route for Willow's phone and hung about in the city while it got fixed. The three or four hours we had while we waited were easily filled with a long nap and picnic in the park at the bottom of the city.
It's really interesting approaching this city from the opposite direction and from open countryside, two months later on from when we came through in March along the river. The city seems a totally different place. I don't mind retracing some of our footsteps at all. The bits I do recognise add to it all; there is a familiarity there and more of a sense of place. I realise though that the location pins on my website map may be hard to trace in order now.
I remember Tours as a brief interlude, busy streets but not overwhelming, quiet in a way. Some protesters outside the big hotel by the fountain, a grey place between us and the adventure, the final big city before we hit the coast. I was unaware of the beautiful park and how summer transforms the avenues into bright thoroughfares. It is nice to revisit and spend some time here.
We will be retracing our steps more or less exactly until we are past Paris again on the northern side; and it will be interesting to compare the differences between then and now. I remember looking at the Loire's landscape and wondering what it would be like come summer - now I will find out. Last time we deviated away from the river here and there; whereas now I think we plan to stick right to the water. Doing so today meant we found a restaurant and bar, built into a cave on the bank of the river. This was a great find, we tried their mixed platter and I've never had better cheeses in my life. It's refreshing to see a place change from your memory of rain and grey, a revolving door of buildings and bare trees - to a sunny, thriving attraction. Once again I marvel at how much weather can do for your perception and experience. It's also amazing to cycle around a corner in a foreign country and suddenly recognise the individual trees you see and know where you are. I wonder what other hitherto hidden delights lie in wait as we retrace our way up the river.

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The grass is greener

Today was a little bit of a trip down memory lane, with a summery twist. The last time we were here, about two months ago, it took us about two and a half days to make the distance that took us about one day this time. I am enjoying repeating this stage of the route, if even for this comparison. But it's not just heightened fitness on our side this time; the days are much longer and the weather is also flawless. From the moment we got up, it was too hot for anything but shorts and shirt today and more or less cloudless all day.
Our route was largely the same as last time, but with enough variations to make it interesting - we simply followed the river on the opposite side! And wherever we literally retraced our steps, it was a pleasure to notice the changes. In fact, if you compare today's photo to the one captioned 'Loire and wide" you yourself can get involved in a little spot the difference. Where there were empty walls, now there are vines; where there was bare soil, now there are flowers; the river is sparkling with lilies and avian life; and of course the sun just adds to things.
We stopped for lunch on the same bench as last time; taking our time in the sunshine instead of a brisk wind and clouds. Our breakfast stop by the river was by another coincidence next to the same bridge that last time we sheltered underneath from the rain - except of course this time it was a familiar, sunlit, friendly place.
I hadn't expected to backtrack like this and I hadn't expected to enjoy it this much when I realised we would do so. The traveling takes on a new dimension when you go through a place you know but only vaguely. Today enjoyed sweeping theough the markets that weren't here last time and I enjoyed anticipating the pretty squares I knew would be ahead. It is also handy knowing exactly where the water fountains are.
Later in the day we were treated to a surprise parade in Orléans taking place across a bridge. I'm not sure what it was about - maybe victory day in Europe, but I like not quite knowing. When it comes to traveling I think it's special to stand in a place, not have a clue what's going on, and take the time to check it out and take it all in.
We continued to follow the river on the southern side until it was quiet again. The light was gorgeous, of course and the sun set for hours. A pinky glow over the grasses and trees. I wish I'd framed a photo of the city across the river but I'm also glad I just took it all in. We cooked pasta in the grass by the cycle track and savoured the golden hour.
Camped down a short slope off the track and listening to the night noises. It's hard not to be extra-aware since our wild boar episode last week. A nightingale sings very briefly. There is a slight rustling noise in the grass, but I don't know what it is. I will keep listening but it doesn't sound like it will bother us.

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Summer in a bowl

Not only is my tyre flat, but it is bald.
I've never run through a tyre before, at all, let alone in two months of use from brand new. I guess that says a lot about me and my bike. About the amount of time we are spending together.

I don't know how many miles we've racked up. I don't care either. It was never about numbers. Truth be told, we'd planned a bigger loop, a longer route with more ground to be covered and more countries to be seen. But we never made it. We decided to change course ever so slightly and alter the angle of our journey, shorten the length yet to come.

It's about quality. It's about seeing places, really seeing places, and not rushing too much. If we wanted to rush, we'd have driven. Or even read about these places online.
If we wanted it done quickly.

But we do not want it done quickly. We want to go slowly and as we please. We don't want to know where we are staying and what's happening tomorrow. So we go by bike and we learn about what we want as it happens.

Today we got to see the Loire valley, a stretch we haven't seen before, in all its summer glory. Wildflowers and cornfields, ripe and green. I counted six beavers all foraging together alongside egrets and herons at a shallow patch on the bank. Whole fields of blue cornflowers, like a mirror to the sky. Discovering a cache of swallows' nests under the eaves of a building and watching the young fledge above our heads. A day that dawned early and golden and stayed blue and hot, windless and hot, for hours and hours and hours. A day that you don't want to waste, but you can't see all of because sleep is important too. We saw pretty chateaus with moats, tiny flowered streets. We crossed the longest canal bridge in France. Dinner in the tent door during the long, long sunset, listening to a cacophony of birds and crickets. We stopped at a boulangerie so good it warranted a queue out the door and round the corner (it was this good).

Spain was a country that warranted emotional spikes. Compared to France, the cycling in Spain brought me far more lows; and also more emphatic highs, highs that whoop and shriek out of you suddenly like a winning football team. I had tears of joy in Spain many times. But today was a day of constant, steady deliverance. The highs in France are easygoing, like good bread and butter: simple yet extremely effective when done well.
I often think that to be able to take stock and acknowledge the situation you are in for a good one, is a real skill that isn't always easily learnt. It's a skill I'm working on honing.

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Falling victim to the moment

The flatness of waterside paths will accompany us until we are well past Paris. We slept last night in the tent without the flysheet and woke this morning to an all-round panorama of sun, cutting through the woodland canopy beyond the mesh. The inner tent's fabric has caught a lot of dew but it is worth it for this view. I see young swallows preening in a sunny patch close by.
Today we are on the canal, cluttered with cow parsley. Green caterpillars dangle on silken threads, tugging on the young oak leaves as we catch on their invisible curtains. Herons stand with wings open in the heat (see photo). A bumblebee flies down my neck and underneath my shirt, which is not a pleasant experience but definitely worse for the bumblebee. Later on, a female mallard nibbles my bare toes while I eat my lunch.
We pass a sign near a bridge that reads "passing place for wild animals", with images of wild boar and deer. Minutes later, we see what looks like a dead boar floating in the middle of the water. Maybe I should start taking these signs more literally.

It could have been a day of big miles, but it wasn't - we had to go off route to buy more gas for our stove; and a new tyre for my back wheel (the second new tyre this wheel has seen in two months). As well as this, it was simply too hot to bother going too hard.

I feel a big a hot bubble of tears boiling up inside me as we go, and I silently wonder why. It never comes to anything outwardly. A few weeks ago I wrote about how my feelings are my own, but now I don't know if this is true. It is more like I fell victim to the moment back then, riding the wave of daily life when the cards were playing my way. So what's going on now?
Riding a bike is a great form of meditation. You are trapped with your own thoughts for a long time, while your body is occupied. I think about things like ego; the feeling of entitlement; comparing myself to others I know and wish I knew, think of others I wish I didn't know - in all walks of life. I wish I was better at X, I wish I was a Y person and not a Z person. I wish people thought of me as A, and not B or C. The dots keep floating around in my head and I am unable to join them. I look forward to finding a campsite and relaxing in my tent so I can lie very still.
In the event, this never happens. We find a campsite - except it is closed to tents, only motorhomes allowed. So we deliberate, fill up our bottles nearby and then walk around the outside perimeter of the campsite. Very soon we are pitched up quietly, just the other side of the fence, next to the canal by a picnic table. It is a beautiful evening and there are small flying insects that look a little like mayflies, jiggling up and down in vertical columns around us. I make pasta on the table in the beautiful light and Willow puts new tape on her handlebars. It is a singularly picturesque and tranquil scene, and the delightful irony of our spot is not lost on either of us. I am too immersed in the acts of problem solving; finding a camp spot; making dinner, to dwell on my feelings. This is not just avoiding them altogether, but I find a sense of peace in taking small tasks at a time and doing them holistically. I wonder what life will be like after my trip; then I wonder why I'm separating life then from life now. Then I take a deep breath, and focus on life now.

cycle toureuropefrance

"À bientôt!"

"You guys are doing amazing, you must be having the best time."

"A bike ride around Europe? What do you want to do that for?"

"I'm so jealous."

"Won't you miss climbing?"

"I wish I could do what you're doing."

"Cycling for three months? Five minutes up the road is enough for me."

I wish I could take all these people with me and show them the answers to their questions, ask them to reiterate their statements and see if they still stand. There's seemingly a lot of pressure to be experiencing things that warrant these conjectures. I wonder what people picture when I tell them I'm cycling with nothing but a vague plan, with enough time to take up one third of a year. I wonder what I pictured beforehand, and how it measures up now. There's an awful lot of daily life - you know the type: shopping centres; using the toilet; washing; sleeping; spending half the day seeking out industrial estates to buy that part you didn't think you'd need but do; waking up and wanting to not get up, for no tangible reason at all. There's an awful lot of this, except over here everything is in a different language and I carry my house on my bicycle. You're never exempt from mundane normality, and the superhumans you see on the internet that tell you otherwise are lying.

But I digress. There's an awful lot of gobsmacking, eye-watering beauty as well. It just depends on your perspective.
We woke today on the quiet canal bank, beaten to it only by the young sun, who was balancing on the ripples made by small fish; the dawn light turning the green water clear gold as it shifted and swirled. Being so close to the town meant it was all of five minutes until we were at the boulangerie, and as we ate in the warming town square we fell into conversation with a local. Bernadette is 71 and relates more to her Irish family in Dublin than she does to her home country. We have a delightful conversation together for an hour or so, and she gives us her address: after making us promise to write to her, she says we are welcome to stay any time. As we pedal away we hear her: "À bientôt!"

We follow the canal and its charms into the heat. Goslings and ducklings learn the trade from watchful parents; the water is blue-green and seems thick like jelly under the surface. A dead cat floats bloated and grey, out of place in this pristine world.
I can always tell when we are nearing a city: litter increases, and the people rapidly diversify. The bigger the city, the earlier the signals. We will be in and out of Paris tomorrow, and today we are on the fringes of Fontainebleau forest. Climbing heaven, but we fly by. I'm sure my friends would ask why - the truth is, this is a different trip; I wouldn't want to leave, I'd feel torn and I'd feel my interest shift from the delights of bike exploration. Besides, it's way too hot for climbing. And the rocks aren't going anywhere yet.

We eat lunch by the Seine, two kingfishers call shrilly and fly out in opposite directions from under a bush right by us. There are other birds too - plovers, or sanderlings - but I can't tell because I'm crap with wading birds. It is beautiful anyway. It is also much too hot to relax, so we don't linger too long.
The scenery becomes more urban, more busy, dirtier. We could reach the city today but we won't, because we want to cycle through during the day and avoid it in the evening rush. So we stop early, set up our tent in a garden: it's set aside as a small campsite, and surprisingly tucked away amongst the traffic and chaos nearby. I would like to go for a swim in the river, but I don't. I sit the shade and listen to John Martyn and watch a male blackbird climb onto my bike frame under the walnut tree. I'm not a different person to the one who left on his bike two months ago. I'm not more decisive, bigger, better, or seizing more of the day. And when it comes down to it, we are not that much different either, at all.

europecycle tourfrance

Mayor Never Make Your Bed Out In The Cold

As we ate breakfast on the western bank of the Seine this morning, about 50km from Paris' beating heart, I savoured the brief tranquility.
Cities, by and large, are not my thing. They are busy and loud places, full of people who all seem to know what's what, what's going on, where to be and how to get there. And the closer we got to this one, the more I noticed two major changes to the environment.

Road users became more aggressive, and the urban wildlife less timid around people. We followed the Seine, zigzagging in places to avoid construction sites and road works. About 20km from the city centre we saw a pair of beaver, quite unhurriedly foraging around the bank. I could dismount and walk fairly close to them, they were completely unfazed. Ring-necked parakeets screeched from the trees and reminded me of London.
I'm sure Paris has a lot going for it, but for me today it was all stop-start-go with people on all sides, car horns and scooters, e-bikes and commuters. It occurred to me that despite the red lights and painted crossing lines, the entire traffic system in Paris seems to be based on the assumption that everyone else will do what you expect (hope) them to do. Running the lights, swerving across lanes, taking in the pavement and filtering through pedestrians - it all goes, provided nobody does the unexpected and stops or hesitates. You follow the flow of a river that is made up of hundreds of other people breaking the rules in the same way. And of course, nobody wears a helmet either!
You are at once lost in a sea of people and simultaneously sticking out like a sore thumb, because you are lugging a heavy bike; you are waiting at red lights and giving way to other road users. And of course you are hesitating too.
It took me many years to realise cities make me anxious. My frame of reference for this feeling was non existent until I went to a party for the first time and then I had something to compare it to. I followed Willow along the river and past Notre Dame, and allowed it all to fly past jerkily. Fair play to Willow for leading the way! I couldn't do it. Très bon.

The city slowly dismantled the further north and east we got, along with the knot in my stomach.
Half an hour or so from the northern part of the centre, a scooter came belting down the cycle path. When it was twenty feet away, we could see it was ridden by a boy, not yet in his teens. His tiny head was hunched over the huge handlebars as he ricocheted deftly between the grass and the asphalt. By the time we realised he probably shouldn't be riding it and definitely not on the cycle path, he'd gone. And of course, he wasn't wearing a helmet either.

We left the canal behind after an hour or so, and very quickly the countryside mercifully reclaimed us. There is a national park up ahead which is prime boar territory, so it's time to look for a safe refuge. I have wildly optimistic visions of being camped well before sunset somewhere enclosed, enjoying dinner by the tent.
There are, however, no campsites nearby.
A few weeks ago I would have churned at the idea of asking a stranger outright where is safe to camp nearby; now I am more than happy to do so and have a well rehearsed patter en français. There is a burger van in the square of this town; a man is talking to the vendors and buying food. I walk up, wait my turn, and ask - is there any camping near here? All my chips are down now.
The vendors and the man all look suitably unsure, but not put off. This is good, but not great.
I talk with the customer, and he confirms what I already know; that there aren't any campsites nearby at all. But then he keeps talking, and says that he is the mayor of this town; and if it's just for one night, he will open up the garden to the mairie for us. There is a public green down the road we could also use but the mairie's garden will be safer, has a water tap, and is beautifully presented; with a lawn, reading bench and a delightful old tree laced in vines. He beckons, we follow, and soon it all comes true: we are camped well before sunset; somewhere enclosed; and, courtesy of the burger van, enjoying dinner by the tent.
After a cheery conversation together, the mayor shows us the padlock to the garden and says we will be safe here for the night, and could we please close the gate when we leave tomorrow. It is not a problem for him, he says. And it is certainly not a problem for us either. The road ahead doesn't seem to have many public campsites advertised, but I hope that there are more friendly mayors. We shall have to wait and see.

europecycle tourfrance

Making tracks

An interesting mix of canal paths, national parks and housing estates. Construction sites are more common too. Our day began in the sun with an exceptional espresso and hot salmon quiche, eaten sat on the curb.
We cycled through sand, on gravel track and tarmac roads. The forest park trails were so rough in places that once one of my panniers detached from the bike and bounced away down the bank.
A day that felt slow but probably wasn't (where does the time go?!)
The experiences are very much merging into one at the moment and I am struggling to sum it all up. There's a lot on my mind; I'm thinking about the accessibility of adventure and following big scary ideas out versus the incredible sacrifices undertaken by many (but often overlooked) to raise a child, make a living, follow a career path, or simply do the done thing.
A beautiful hot day through lots of different terrain. I am very hungry so will leave this here. Good night!

europecycle tourfrance

Water features

Crazy to think that this time in two weeks we'll be in England again. At the moment it's all so routine: pack down the tent, cycle a few kilometres, eat breakfast, cycle more and keep cycling unless you're eating lunch or looking at something interesting.
We saw a lot of musk rats today, swimming through the canal or feeding on the bank. You can get very close to them until they dive into the water with a plop.
Several arctic terns made an appearance as well, interspersed with the black-headed gulls. This is exciting and I hope I'm correct in my identification of these elegant birds. I am also seeing a fair few dead animals on the canal surface: many different fish and once a roe deer, it's body silent and slowly rotating in the gentle current. Other features of the water are grebes; both little and great crested. Sometimes we surprise herons that clatter away from their perches like ironing boards being thrown into the air and unfolding.

We did our laundry in an Intermarché carpark, standing listless on the sweating tarmac among the dust and litter.
Time moves like a distant cloud; all at once fast and slow. It seems like it's not moving at all - then you realise it's a different shape; has morphed across tens of kilometres whilst hanging motionless on the horizon. Every day I am amazed at how it is suddenly mid-afternoon already, and that I'm suddenly halfway up a country that last month was just a shape on a map, and that so soon this will just be memory, and experience to draw upon for the next map unveiling.

This may be - may be - our last night in France for a long long time. It is not significant news to me, there is not a lot of weight there when I think about it. What grabs me more is the notion that I am suddenly very used to this state of constant transition; it's become a comfortable routine. Odd that, wasn't it routine and normality that I was trying to leave behind? Does this make it 'less adventurous'? What does normality look like anyway? Who cares? The sun is out, and so are we.

europecycle tourfrance

A snake that's one inch thick

Our last full day in France today recalled our previous 'last day' before here crossing the Spanish border, in that a stranger offered us a baguette. We had just bought one, so declined his offer, but it felt good to have been asked anyway. It's good to feel looked out for. The woman at the counter of the boulangerie made a fuss of us and got out some chairs and a table so we could sit outside in the sun and eat without having to find a bench.  This was also good, there is a lot of happiness to be found when interactions are more than transactions.
The sun is strong and it's just buttercup fields for miles and miles and miles. There is cow parsley too, and fallen catkins that keep getting caught up in my treads and flung up at me. I no longer have any mudguards now on either wheel so I am routinely dusted with whatever loose matter is covering the floor. My bare legs at the moment are flecked with small pieces of leaf and pollen. Sometimes even a mudguard makes no difference. The clouds of midges that swirl along the river banks become daily attached to my legs and arms as I cycle through them; sometimes my legs are peppered with their small bodies as they stick to me and I look like a sesame seed gingerbread man.

We stop for a snack along the River Oise and I watch trout shimmering in the current. I think about how I could have researched the places we are visiting more thoroughly beforehand so I could have maximised my knowledge for photography; knowledge of the best lighting, what things to look out for. But then I think about how the whole point is to go in blind and just be delighted as we move, and see what we see as it happens.

Our day's cycling was pleasant; rolling hills dotted with towns, these neatly bookended with two lengthy stages of flat voie verte track that frequently reconnected with rivers and ponds. The temperature climbed up to 28°C, and we had to go a couple of kilometres off route to find a water tap. By the end of the day I am grubby and sticky but it's not unpleasant. I am sitting barefooted on the Sambre's bank, watching the sun drain off the land and listening to the mallards and geese go into roost.
We decided against crossing the border into Belgium today; camping instead a few kilometres shy of it by the riverside. This decision was made so that we have a full day to get our heads around any changes and settle into the new country well before finding a place to sleep. It's also pleasant alongside the river, and quiet. We sit and take stock of the fact that we just cycled the full length of France from bottom to top. This isn't really a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but it is a satisfying feeling.
A kingfisher flies left to right in front of me, drawing a metaphorical line under our decision to stop here for the night and I feel peaceful. I've been thinking about the concept of lines today; we may have cycled around and across France but there is still so much left unturned. We have seen so much, so much - but all retained upon the tracing of a line the width of a tyre-tread; a snake that's one inch thick. It is a big, big loop but half a mile within the boundaries and beyond its fringes I am a complete stranger.

europecycle tourfrance

Belgium

Heated by the sun, we woke up early. I didn't sleep too great but being so close to the path, we had to get up. It was radiant on the river, all fresh hazy gold.
It's been a while since I've felt hot before 07:00, but today was one of those days. It didn't last long; by mid-morning we were cycling through gentle rain, which lasted a couple of hours - the first rain for us in weeks.
We almost missed the crossing into Belgium. It was all construction sites and frustratingly diverted roads, unkempt with litter. And then a tiny sign on the riverside announced that we were in a different country.
And soon I noticed other indications of this new place; most notably a bumpier cycle path; cars that are impatiently less tolerant towards bikes; and a blurrier line between industry and leisure. The river track took in great stretches of factories and recycling plants; giant hammers and cranes sorting twisted piles of metal; funnels churning out dusty white stones and streams of water. There was an overspill of pale powder onto the river path, where it all mixed with the rain on the floor. And we cycled right through - my back, legs and panniers sprayed with white flecks now that I have no mudguards.
Barges carry machines, freight and luxury sports cars. Concrete jetties lined with cormorants and herons standing like old fishermen. Once we see a heron retreat up the bank with a fat rat squirming in its beak. A crow plucks the eyes out of a beached carp, bleached and flabby amongst the smells and swirls of a working canal. There is more litter and more airplanes above us than I've seen for months; but it is still calm. Occasionally we are amongst trees.
The canal path is flat, but Belgium is not. Twice we leave the waterside - once to look for water and once for a campsite - and immediately find ourselves climbing steeply upward. Both hills are intense and relatively short.
We stop earlier than planned at about 16:30 as we are both tired and I have a headache. I wash the white muck off my clothes and legs. While I make pasta I phone my brother and we speak properly for the first time in over two months. This gives me another kind of happiness, one I know but can be easy to miss if you have a busy a social life. I don't have one of these, but I am away, so I've been missing out almost altogether. It's family happiness, and it's very powerful when you are far away and they are not; when you are apart but not for much longer. We chat for an hour and I am very grateful for it. When the conversation ends, it is it for once not because I have run out of things to say; but because it is time for bed for me and dinner for Ben.

europecycle tourbelgium

It's funny what you see

One of the appeals of bicycle travel is that you are wholly exposed to the real facets of the place you are moving through. One of the possible downsides to this aspect, however, is that you are going nowhere fast and if you are following a certain route that takes in certain scenery, this can form your entire impression of a country. A few days ago I mentioned the concept of a snake trail that's one inch thick; your perspective on a bike is limited to the width of your tyre trails and all you can see and hear beyond them.
What I'm building up to saying is that from where I sit in the saddle and from what I can see so far, Belgium seems to be a giant industrial estate that has taken just over two days to pedal across. Scrap metal yards, dusty building sites, a nuclear powerplant, and many weary towns crusted with aging graffiti and spilling over with litter that refuses to deteriorate. This is not to run it down, it's simply what I'm seeing - and it's interesting to see it, when beforehand I'd just think of beer and waffles.

I think that the shared language between France and the Belgium we are seeing highlights even more the differences between the two places. The streets seem tired and forgotten, broken pavements, sagging benches and often the marks of BBQ scorch marks on the grass and picnic tables. The street art has moved away from the massive murals and inspired depictions to simple signatures repeated over and over. There is dog poo everywhere.
It's not set up too well for cycling even with the bike route. There are no visible places to fill up your water bottles, so once we are empty we ask in a pharmacy - and they are more than happy to oblige. Once today, the signs directed us the wrong way down a motorway slip road, and it was only luck that the lane was quiet before we noticed. The bicycle route was hidden behind a wall a little way away from the signs.

But it's not altogether unpleasant - we are seeing many Canada geese and their yellowy goslings, often crossing our path quite close by. Bizarrely, there are a lot of Egyptian geese on the river as well, and it is lovely to see them. We also spy some felled saplings with the hallmark teeth marks of beavers.
We camp 30km west of the border, and the sun throws gorgeous purple and orange shapes through the leaves above us. The light doesn't rush, lingering beautifully preserved for ages. I reflect on this brief experience in Belgium and wonder how Germany will measure up. It's funny what you see on a bike, and what you don't.

cycle toureuropebelgium

Into Germany

We woke at 8:00 this morning to the booming sounds of out-dated techno being blasted out from several loudspeakers, and I silently vowed never to stop at an all-inclusive campsite again. Actually, I didn't mind too much, but nothing beats hearing the birds singing first thing and it was a shame to have all that disturbed.
We'd run out of euros and nowhere in the nearest town would take any of our cards for some reason, so it was an 8km cycle uphill before we could find an ATM and some food. I savoured the stop; we enter another new country today and of course that brings a little package of uncertainty until we suss the place out. And I've heard a lot about Germany - it's meant to have strict rules on most things, and cycling has its own set of do's and don't's that are apparently legally binding. All cyclists must have a full set of working lights, reflectors and a bell that works too. Willow doesn't have a rear light, at least not one that works, and her bell doesn't sound anymore either. There's a lot of etiquette about cycle lanes and crossing the road. Wild camping is not tolerated either. And there's wild boar!
I wonder what to expect. My mind must stay open. The final miles of Belgium see the scenery pick up, charming churches placed neatly between trees and gentle hills. We climb a steep, hairpinned hill and are briefly poised at the top between three countries - Belgium behind, the Netherlands to our left, and Germany ahead.
And we roll down the hill.
For a while, nothing happens. The trees are still green and the sun still shines. We pop out the other side of the forest and all the numberplates are different, and suddenly I can't read any signs. This is fun!
We muddle our way downwards and arrive in Aachen, unsure of what to do next. We eat lunch in the park - it is 29°C - and I watch the people go by. For all the rules, it is not mandatory to wear a helmet.

Aachen is really pretty. The streets are cobbled, a café is painted in red and white stripes and there are many people out and about on foot or on their bikes - most of them in Birkenstocks. We continue to muddle our way along, loosely following the red cycle lane signs. A couple of people ask us where we are going and I am surprised to hear they are all speaking perfect English. This is probably not a surprise to anyone else, but it is to me. And a group of cyclists and a car even run a red light! Maybe it's not as strict as I've heard.
Gradually the countryside rebuilds itself and we go up and down some hills. Willow is at the helm and navigating - I really don't know how she does it - through cities and towns and countryside, and I am simply following behind and looking all around. By a field, there is a dead crow mounted on a fence as if it's standing there.
We descend a long hill, and this soon turns into a long uphill. I'm put strongly in mind of Spain.
There are no water points, as in Belgium, but we are good at divining it by now and soon we are refilled. I watch a dipper fly by along the river as I use the tap. I am enjoying this, it's all new and exciting.
Above the striped houses the trees all merge into tall - really tall - pines. We rise slowly in the heat on the ribbon of road. It's now all national forest, there is logging going on and surely boar living here too. But it is gorgeous and quiet, the sun searing down in a big 'O' shape, all silver haze over the open landscape where the pine stools crouch, the logs piled nearby and bleaching like giant bones. We pass several hunter's lookouts, over twelve feet tall, and briefly toy with the idea of sleeping in one. Safe from boar there but maybe not the best call.
We still aren't 100% sure of where we are heading, vaguely towards Bonn, but other than that it's just use the sun and whatever signs appear. We pass through a small village, I try my luck asking about any campsites nearby but I may as well have asked for directions to the moon, there is nothing to be had here unfortunately. We press on, motivated not really by optimism; more just routine and necessity. We will find a place to camp because we have to. All we are looking for is somewhere reasonably quiet, hidden and roughly six foot square, ideally not in the middle of any animal trails. It is not a lot to ask, and soon we find it.
Our current approach is to pick the spot and make dinner there. We count how many people pass nearby, and if it's quiet - and if we haven't been moved on by the time dinner is over - we go for it. In this case, it is very quiet. We are tucked behind a blanket of beech trees right next to the cycle path; on the other side of us is another belt of trees, then a fence, and then an expanse of felled land with no houses, leading up to a forest. As I am cooking, a walker makes her way past on the cycle path and makes eye contact with me through the trees. There's nothing I can do about this so I just carry on. An hour later, nothing else has happened, so up goes the tent.
And so far it has stayed pretty quiet. I wonder what tomorrow will bring. I'm completely at sea again in a new country, but somewhat eased in that we've got past the first day; found water and now found a place to sleep, without much trouble at all. Simple things but the most important things.

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It's all downhill from here

Happily, we survived the night. There's something really satisfying about it all coming together. You know you're not supposed to be there but you're doing it anyway. You scout around, pick a spot; make dinner there and put the tent up; go to sleep and wake up undisturbed as the sun is peeping newborn through the birch trunks; pack down and move on knowing no one will ever know, you judged it just right and luck or circumstance was on your team and you're out the other side.
The road dipped and turned. Breakfast in a Lidl carpark is still breakfast and at 07:00 with no one else around you are more aware of the early larks than the slow moving shoppers.
These red cycle path signs are easy to follow and soon we are off-road and dropping fast through pines and steep clearings where brown cows lollop and graze. A buzzard flies low and stays low, past the next bend an absent minded roe deer studies us like a lurcher, head tilted before it starts and sprints up the rocky bank. Here and there little streams gush and bubble. Orange butterflies skitter and flick between blossoms.
We climb on the gravel, tyres skidding sometimes. To our left the trees are leafless and bleached; some trunks fallen, rotten and orange from the inside out. These are windblown, dead but not dead-ends. Brightly coloured bracket fungus sprouts from some of the split stumps.

The villages we pass through are also quiet, houses striped black and white, done up with timbers and painted shutters. Sometimes the whole buildings are log cabins, and there are always flowers: geraniums and roses spilling from the sills. Ornate gates wrought with iron throw twisted shadows onto manicured lawns. There is a brook running down the main street in one town; each house has a small bridge from garden to cobbled lane. Once we see an elderly lady stood in the middle of her empty drive, hissing and waving at a pigeon who is stood on the floor a foot away from her and not the slightest bit interested. Amused and intrigued, I stop and watch. The lady keeps hissing and gesturing furiously at the pigeon, who maintains a polite distance and does absolutely nothing else to retreat or interact. I leave them to it and writing this now I wonder how long that went on for.
As we move along, I think about taking photos but it's not the time; besides, the light is flat and I'm too busy cycling. It is true I haven't taken any photos since we were in France; Belgium remains unexposed onto my film and maybe Germany will go the same way. I am a thoughtful photographer but also indecisive and impulsive. The truth is, it's all beautiful here but I'm past making pictures just for the journalism. I'm enjoying it as I am which is surely better than snap happy.
I am reminded of the Scottish Highlands, it feels like lowland merging with alpine where we are. The benches cut out of logs, the bare wood and window boxes. We see a sign warning for beaver in the forest; earlier on we saw a dam across a stream. Leaving the through road, we begin to climb shaded switchbacks and leave the trickling waterside behind. It is sticky hot. I am glad we are shaded but not enjoying the flies. Soon we are up very high, the pines open out to our left; it is at once enclosed and spacious. I shoot a frame of the view while Willow pedals ahead. I realise that if we switched places, the image of her cycling uphill from the higher vantage point would be tremendous for a photo. You'd see it all, the trees and the snaking trail and the height. But I can't expect her to wheel back down to repeat the climb, so I leave it. I feel slightly hung up on this; it's a theme with me that I create photos in my imagination, and hold onto them more than the moments that pass.
At the top we stop for a snack. It is quiet. Only birds are singing. The heat is exceptional. This is pretty much our last hill, until we are back in England. I don't know how I feel about that. I like easy cycling; but I like the variety and vigour that hills provide. I don't know what to think really, three months on a bike is a long time but time flies and you can't borrow it back.

I have noticed a lot of the trees here in towns have coloured tassels on them; often many metres above the ground. Does anyone know why? Colour is more of a decorative theme here than the block palettes of the south. Every now and then we see great cliffs rise from the forests and sometimes there are gothic castles perched on the top of them.
In the late afternoon, the weather changes very fast. The sunlight is suddenly stark on the white of church buildings; and the wind, absent all day, now blows furiously, accelerating and deliberate. Behind us the sky is black and boiling. Tailwinds are normally welcomed but this one feels purposeful, a pursuer. Leaves skitter in front of us and we pick up speed, ironically aided by the storm we are trying to outpace. It is much darker already, we join the rush hour traffic and it feels like we are all on the run from some big invisible monster. Thunder threatens. We pass some sort of tree plantation, I'd love to stop for a photo now but we are very exposed. And three kilometres later we lose the race with the weather. The rain is first; it spills out of the sky all at once in thick sheets of water. Lightning hurts my eyes and makes me jumpy; thunder follows suit, jolting my sternum, violently loud. We wait it out under a supermarket shelter. I watch everyone else carry on as normal and wonder how the hell they are doing it. I'm not a storm person if I can hear them. This one doesn't last long but it makes up for it with intensity. An hour or so later we are on our way and the air is clear.

I lie in my tent later and watch the light turn scarlet on a nearby tree as the sun speeds up its journey below the horizon for another night. I make no effort to move, and as I watch the light change I think about where I am. In just over one week I'll be on the ferry home, having spent nearly three months exploring western Europe by bicycle. It's very feasable we will have spanned four countries in one week by the time we are in the Netherlands in a few days. It sounds amazing, and I try and remember what I expected to feel when I envisaged this trip taking place. And I wonder: is this the right way to be spending my time? And being here, now, in the tent as the light turns to its most beautiful, is this the best place to be to make the most of the experience? What if I took a short walk by the river, towards the castle, into the open, would that be more optimal for the conditions? Should I have brought a longer lens? Would I have taken more photos in Germany and Belgium if I'd had colour film, not black and white? Should I always make sure I'm somewhere for sunset, or sunrise, instead of going with it? Do I not owe it to myself to be up and about at all times, looking, searching, doing, speaking, learning and integrating? If I'm only in Germany for four days or so, why am I lying in my tent when I could be making the most of this place? What does making the most of something actually look like? And if I knew the answer, would I change my actions?

The light is dulled and the faraway castle falling into shadow. Internally I am relieved; I am now no longer torn between 'up and about' and 'relaxing in my tent'. I stay on my back, winding down from a long day of cycling quietly by lying down silently. A blue tit serenades the lilac interlude from somewhere above and I am enthralled that such a tiny creature can survive such a heavy storm. The air around me smells of wet leaves, camping gas and open sky. The fence quivers; a robin alights and chirrups his wistful song, departing with a tail flick. It is miraculously beautiful. I could lay in my tent for ever.

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Rhineland

To our right is the Rhine and the rising sun. It is well past dawn but still grey, the filter paper of cloud cover thinning out the light. The world is under a softbox. I have a roll of HP5 on the go and I pretend that I don't see colour, pretend that it's just light and shade and form. And it's not that hard to do so, for down here on the riverbank the mud and the water and the far bank of rising rock under the morning mist are veiled like gauze.

I don't know what to make of Germany. It is very clear that the culture is a far cry from what I'm used to, what I expect, even. What I do know is that I would like to spend more time here and learn more. When I feel out of my depth in a new place, my first instinct is to resist or ignore, move back to my comfort zone. But when I allow time to pass, my curiosity outweighs this uncertainty. I like that I do not know what to make of Germany. I would like to spend more time here, but it will have to wait. I have to keep going now, or I'll miss my ferry, but I also have something to come back to.
Everyone moves with purpose; and in the two full days we've so far had here, we've received more direct instructions from locals about how to keep going and where to not go, than from all the other countries we've visited put together. There has been no small talk. I make sense of the world around me by looking and looking for patterns, and as my world is changing so much day to day, I'm looking a lot too. Travelling by bicycle, you get very proficient at the practicalities - but the cultures are always always new things, you need to start from scratch and learn them honestly and openly. Moving many tens of kilometres per day in the open air gives you a unique perspective to see cultures morph and slide; but maybe also a skewed position, in that change simply becomes your backdrop due to the constant transition. I am also trying to make sense of the world around me from a very English point of view. And I need to drop that filter. (And yet here I am still talking about myself and what I see).

Following a river is also a catalyst for change. We saw Cologne today, saw many parks and many housing estates. The rain came and went - we were warned, twice, by locals of the danger of the weather forecast and how we must avoid it, that bicycle travel is too dangerous - so we found shelter under a bridge when it came, and honestly it wasn't too bad. And once the weather had cleared, the sun came out in that beautiful, stark, crisp after-rain way. Even nettles look desirable if the lighting is good.
It hits me a lot at the moment, how much weather impacts human activity. It can raise us up to ecstatic heights and it can wreck us uncontrollably; make life blissfully easy or see us slog and sweat just for the simplest of necessities. If you don't believe me, move into a tent for a week and watch your priorities re-shuffle themselves.

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Puncture repair and urban camping

We are currently camped about 20km shy of Wesel, on the eastern bank of the Rhine. There are a few photos I could have chosen to share for today's update; however this one somehow captures the spirit of the evening. A river sunset, deep peach orange, but no time to stop because we are too busy searching for a place to pitch our tent. There is urgency in this image.

Dusseldorf came today and went slowly, growing from typical suburbs into a humming city with impressive sculptures, fountains and architecture. There was a manga event in the streets; so every few people we passed were dressed in costume, from steampunk to samurai. We passed a van selling bratwurst and beers, stopped here to eat and people-watch. Our heavily laden bikes are apparently a constant source of curiosity to the locals who see us within this country. It is interesting to watch them watch us.
There is something up with my rear tyre - maybe my bike is just too heavy - for I have a puncture in it this afternoon. I think it's a weight problem as opposed to anything else because after checking for stones inside the rim, we swap the inner tube for a fresh one. Within 10km I have another split in this brand new inner; along the seam in the rubber. I fix this new puncture in the new tube, having to use two patches to span along the seam. Ain't nothing like it for causing frustration; especially just before sundown when you haven't had dinner yet. Or found anywhere to camp. Except we did see somewhere, about 4km back the way we've come. Given where we are it's our only feasable option as it's getting dark. So we backtrack and I scout for a spot while Willow cooks pasta on a bench. The only real option is tucked just away from the path underneath some trees. We are very close to factory sites and there is litter among the broken branches. But it'll do. Despite its proximity to the path and the factories, our little spot is invisible from the path during the day - and it's dark now.
Really, we don't have it too bad - it's not raining, the sunset is spectacular, and we have a river view. Willow makes an amazing pasta concoction with sausage and aubergine. And if my puncture repair holds, that's solved too. Tomorrow we hope to cross the border into the Netherlands, our final country in Europe on this bike trip. In a week's time we'll be on the home straight.
But I'm not really thinking about that. The boats on the river are loud and the factories are chugging away. It is time for sleep, so I put my earplugs in.

europecycle tourgermany

The Netherlands!

I don't know what to say. We arrived in the Netherlands today; having spanned four countries in the space of one week, and having cycled around a slice of western Europe for nearly three months together. On Friday we will catch a ferry from Amsterdam to Newcastle, and then begin the short stretch homewards on (relatively) familiar ground. But for now, I don't know what to say. We have 130km to do until we reach our final European destination, and three days to do it in. Suddenly, the slog and the planning and the work and the stress and the shine of it all, is almost almost over. And it's a bit of a shock.

Germany left us as a quiet, straight line of empty towns and one main road. We left the zigzagging banks of the Rhine; and following a direct path along well managed asphalt, we were out of the country before lunchtime - making the 70km from last night's camp spot easily and lightly. It is easy to travel fast, if you want to. Being camped so close to the bike path last night, we were up and out this morning at 06:30 because we had to be. Sundays in Germany are silent days apparently; all the shops are closed, even big supermarkets, so there was nothing to do but pedal through open and unoccupied roads. And it is so flat now! We maybe climbed a grand total of 9 metres, which is hilarious considering where we were a month and a half ago.

I find border crossings amazing things. Truth be told, I didn't notice it today, apart from a slight change in the air; a rise in temperature perhaps. There was no signage, no police checkpoint, nothing at all really. And then suddenly I noticed lots of people on bicycles. We came from a land this morning where there was no life, no movement, nothing open; and entered a world spilling over with cyclists of all shapes and sizes, and shops open till the evening. The change was unobtrusive but quite dramatic. A few miles apart, there are two places separated by nothing more than abstract concepts but at once physically very different. Having crossed through so much change recently, I feel like I exist as a fly on the wall, live in a bubble of my own making.

So far, this new country is very flat - and sunnier than its neighbour, which of course adds to the illusion of change. A few miles past the border we see oystercatchers and their chicks in a field, piping away to each other. The houses have steep pitches to the roofs, bright colours on the paintwork. We see garden walls and thatched roofs for the first time since leaving England. It is also bizarre to see for miles whilst being at sea level.

I am impatient for time to pass and for the world to stop turning. Even with less than a week left, the dream is realised, it's over now.
Eight years ago I told myself that I'd cycle the world; little did I know how that would look. Three months away is enough for me, for now; I know deep down that I will pick up the threads of where I've left off, keep chipping away and returning until I've joined all the dots and traversed our little earth by bicycle. I am not a cyclist. This I maintain. But I revel in what bicycle exploration throws up at you. So I will go home, slot back in, gloss it all over, say it was good, say that it was enough, and wait for the dream to rebuild itself and gestate until I can deny it no longer, and then I will be back on my bike somewhere further down that line and then I will go and see what's around the next bend from this one. But right now I am ready for change in a new way.

Above all, I am so proud of Willow. She continues to surprise me and enthrall me. If you can cycle next to someone every day all day for nearly three months and still have the laughter come easily and the conversation spark so you want to keep talking without needing to, something very special is there. It's not perfect, it's very three dimensional, but through it all I'm so glad we could share this between us two. I look back at the photos I took on my phone and am buoyant and happy; momentarily the world stops turning.

europecycle tourthe Netherlandsholland

Slowing down

We are forcing ourselves to slow down now. We are so close to the ferry port that we could cycle it in a day; but instead, we are ensuring that doesn't happen, stopping around lunchtime and exploring off the bikes. Sightseeing is important, but this change of pace feels odd. And it draws a big circle around the fact that these are the last few days out here for us, it all wound up to this. We are sightseeing here because we won't be able to soon. It creates a different feeling, we are looking around in a different way to before. The landscape has changed from adventure playground to a Polaroid negative that we have to keep shaking to observe before it disappears. With all that in mind, I'm taking less photos. Hardly any. The light is mostly flat, and so is the horizon, so I am just looking around inside. But the houses are wonderful, bright colours and theatrical thatched roofs. Wide open glass windows; houses that reveal their designer innards. Front gardens spattered by mixed wildflowers, quirky bushes and uniform lawns. All the streets and towns are so well-presented, the people so relaxed and friendly, we both comment that it's stylised, like the living you see on a film set. But strangely the bread here is more expensive to buy than anywhere else we've been: €4 for a loaf. I wonder why.

We take a ferry across the Rhine, it costs €1.10 each and the journey is maybe fifty feet, thirty seconds long. An oystercatcher strolls through the centre of Arnhem, probing a patch of grass among the comings and goings, completely unperturbed by the hubbub. In the countryside, foals negotiate walking like tripods that refuse to lock in position; all their legs involved out of keenness, not in understanding how the process works. They must be so young, some of them are tiny. Later on I see a pair of grey wagtails brawl in midair, revolving and flashing white as wings flicker. We pass a hollow tree that is mewing with the sound of baby birds, just inside the visible nest hole.
We find a surprise castle and walk around its perimeter, the rain starts to fall in splats. There is a small vegetable garden and we explore that too. Currants and gooseberries grow green, not yet ready for picking. Outside we find an ants' nest in a tree hole; the wood turned to compost behind the bark and glistening with its occupants that move ceaselessly over one another.

The rain settles in for the night. I haven't stretched in days; this encourages me to feel out of place and echoes that sensation.

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The simmer dim

I wake at 06:00, but it is gone 09:00 before I get up and past 11:00 when I finally leave the tent. But even if I act like time is not passing, it does, and so up I get. We make coffee on the stove underneath a grey wagtail's nest, watching the parent flit back and forth between the fields and the three open beaks bouncing around the lip of the nest's cup. The wind is strong and the rain comes and goes but only gently.
I am tired and uninspired by the weather; and it feels like we have a long way to go - we've moved hardly more than 50km in the last two days. But really we don't; our ferry leaves Amsterdam on Friday, and that's only a generous day's riding away. It's Tuesday now. We have a campsite arranged for tomorrow night and Thursday, just so we can spend some time off-bikes here before we go.
We cycle off into a stiff breeze that blows us back; cycling on flat is okay but not when it's windy like this. I stop to photograph a woodland pool and notice a huge fish cutting the water's black surface, its back pushing lilies apart. The fish moves slowly and silently, dorsal fin catching on petals as it peruses the shallows underneath me. It rolls and submerges and the pool is only moved by the wind.
Pink rhododendrons are flowering wherever we go. Having left late, we stop in a shop, buy expensive bread and expensive cheese and sit in intermittent drizzle on a wall in the town to eat it. And then we head off, never climbing anything too steep, or too high, for it really is flat here. And the cycle lane is almost as wide as the road; the signposts too easy to spot. This country really is geared up for bicycling around, better than any we've visited. You just can't cycle fast. The lanes zigzag and meander; we pass through pretty woods and model toy villages. Everyone and everything seem happy in a Sylvanian way. We follow rivers and open flower fields, pass by houses with steep-pitched roofs and window boxes, timber-clad cabins nestled behind symmetrical hedges or underneath wysteria. Groups of teenagers mill along on their bicycles, sometimes one or two on scooters, it's all carefree and safe. But you can't build up speed; this place is not designed for that. It's designed very well for cyclists who want to take their time. So we do.
Tomorrow will be our last day in Europe that we are actually cycling anywhere. It feels...who knows how? You certainly don't do this stuff for the glowing feeling of satisfaction, that's for sure.

Once the tent is pitched, we go for a walk. The steep, tall roofs of thatched houses and chocolate box cottages catch every last glint of the long, warm rays. In the meadows, hares gallop and pose, tall and svelte. Pines and huge oaks line the avenues and file back in green processions past the path; the evening voices of the birds are at once everywhere and nowhere, invisible and shining. I watch a blackbird hop upward from branch to branch around the trunk of a taller pine; the thin twigs like stairs, spiralling up and away to wherever my imagination takes it. The low slants of clear evening highlight the trusses and embellishments of the cottages. Window sills picked out in red; place names carved into beech planks; a greenhouse given over to dining space, clean white cloth, a garland of pink carnations, neat and simple wooden chairs. It is too beautiful to focus on my original plan of running through the previous three months in my mind and comparing each town, each country. I half expect to run into little red riding hood, but we don't. Rhododendron blooms glow from the sun's backlighting, a blueish pink. Sky is orange, clouds swelling purple like bruises, but too thin and scattered for rain. Shepherd's delight.
There is no point in lifting up my camera, containing black and white film. And really this is for the better because I can focus more on using my eyes. This is our last evening going to bed in a tent in Europe; tomorrow we will be in a small cabin on the outskirts of a city. There is a wonderful Shetland phrase, the 'simmer dim' - used to describe the long twilight of midsummer nights. Worth waiting three seasons for, worth the drip drip cold of winter for. The flare of sky refuses to buckle, and burns; sizzling around the edges of trees close to the ground so the trunks all have haloes.

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Amsterdam

One of the amazing things about birds is not only their means to conjure up flight - literally out of the still and silent thin air - but also their ability to stay grounded; perched and immobile even in the stiffest breezes when you think surely they can't help but take off. Our ride today, starting south of Doorn and finishing up on the outskirts of Amsterdam, shared the fields with a heavy crosswind that had us both bent double and leaning hard left into its invisible pushing. Our jackets flapped, hair slapped eyes and in the fields whole trees bowed, waving and flexing like young saplings.

Black-tailed godwits - the national bird of this country - stood and grazed, stoic sentinels in the pulsating long grass. Lapwings were the only things in the sky, acrobats in green jackets and black berets. A woodpigeon cowered low so the wind funneled over his smooth back. I can still hear the electric crackle of chattering starlings that always manage to dazzle me with their audacious flight. And everywhere the overconfident jackdaws trying their luck, getting almost too close, looking at me with tilted heads and bright eyes.
The route was a delight. Before the exposure of the windy fields, we took in a lot: whole poppy meadows intermingled with quiet forest trails that felt surprisingly wild; there were classy suburbs; then busy streets and squares as we pass through Utrecht. People became more and more frequent and stylish until we were caught up in the flow of tens of cyclists in Utrecht's heart; and each one could have easily been modelling for expensive sunglasses or watches. But they are ordinary people like me and that's part of the fun. The other types of ordinary you see when you move through regions slowly under your own steam.
I like the layout of the Netherlands and the look of its buildings. Wide windows from floor to ceiling, open plan houses and open plan living. It's attractive without being showy, the people here seem to know when enough is enough.

This notion comes back to haunt me later on. It's late at night and we are walking through Amsterdam's busy center. Two days from now, on Friday, we will catch a ferry to Newcastle from Ijmuiden port, located about 28km away from the city's hub. But in the meantime we have a couple days to explore; and right now we are following the noise around the canals in the notorious De Wallen area.
The people here do not seem to know when enough is enough. It's a neon world of desiring and having, taking, buying whatever you want - sex, drugs, plastic toys, plastic food. You can stuff your face full, there's sugar, spice and all things nice. It's 21st century excess gone mad; it's the cloying embodiment of our addictions to consuming and being consumed. (But you're on holiday mate, it's alright, you'll be well behaved when you get back home).

Joint smoke, candy floss and bare skin behind glass instead of under clothes. You eat with your wallet and your eyes and your mouth. It's a theater, and you can be an understudy or a main part. Or you can watch while others forget their lines, starstruck and betrayed by bravado. No little boy left.

During the day, it is subdued but in a recuperating sort of way. Some cities take on a split personality between day and night whereas Amsterdam is unapologetically itself; its energy simply fluctuates. It's a mess of tangled bikes; potted plants on outside steps; thrumming waterways; seagulls boisterous and shrill; tall crooked houses crammed in like a bookshelf of brickwork, the most interesting library ever. Complicated public transport, overpriced waffles with too many toppings. And it's surprisingly not a dirty place, nor is it overwhelming - just surreal with what goes on. I like it a lot. I like the canals and the maze of streets, the cycle culture, the stockpiling of character. It's eye-wateringly expensive but you don't have to spend a lot of money here if you avoid the tourist spread ,(admittedly sometimes hard to do so but of course possible).

And so we are here for a couple days, which will probably be about enough. And then we have a ferry to catch.

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Boarding the ferry to Newcastle

After three months cycling around the west of Europe, it's time to go home. But first we have another week or so on the bikes heading south down England's east coast. It just feels like another day on the road for us. Will carry on the story on the other side of the water...

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Arriving in Newcastle

Making it back to the UK doesn't feel like the big deal I thought it would. I am surprised at my reaction to seeing the cliffs and seaside towns coming into view this morning: "this place is flat, there are no mountain", I think to myself.

I am too used to what I am doing for it to feel any different - besides, I'm a stranger to the north east coast. More than anything, it's a relief to know I'll be cycling again. After our full rest day in Amsterdam - the only rest day we've taken in the last month or so - my legs are stiff and tight. Cycling is the only thing they know how to do at the moment and oddly enough it's cycling that relieves them, the ache stops the moment I begin pedalling and starts up soon after I dismount.

We leave the ferry into thin sun - the first time I've ever re-entered the UK and it's not been raining - and disembark in a huge melee of other cycle tourists and motorbike riders, which feels pretty cool. And then suddenly we are out, I can read all the signs, and there's that familiar 'England' smell that I still can't describe but always identify. And we are off...

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Back on the road

My only regret today is cycling past some huge sea stacks, just offshore and easily visible from the cliff top; covered with nesting guillemots and gulls - and just cycling past, not taking a photo of it. Bloody shame on me.

Maybe it is slightly underwhelming being back in the UK, but I don't think it is - and it's certainly not unpleasant. Even though the adventure continues, I know where I stand here, know what's what. It's palpably not Europe; move past the obvious differences and there's something there that's hard to pinpoint. Even if I'd made the crossing back unawares and hadn't yet seen any signs or spoken to anyone, I would be able to tell I'm in England. Maybe it's the houses that all look the same, maybe it's the people out and about in their pyjamas, maybe it's the way the cycle paths are all added as an afterthought; often literally painted onto the pavements and routing right through obstacles like bus stops and bins.
But it's nice to be here again and see a side to the country that I really don't know. I see a yellowhammer in a bush, and he probably sees me too. There is no rain at all, and Willow and I both enjoy following the coast through bouts of sun. The north of England is a very friendly place. Unfortunately cars do not give way to bikes, sometimes do not even acknowledge them, which is a huge contrast to Europe.

We make easy miles through compact and diverse terrain, following the National Cycle Network. England is so small and busy that each day you will cycle through multiple types of environment. I remember this from my LEJOG trip last year and it's a nice feature of England. It's also good to know there is no wild boar here.
At the end of the day my rear gear cable snaps, and suddenly I can't change gear and am struggling to cycle even over speed bumps, stuck in the hardest cog. Until this is fixed, I can hardly cycle far. We decide to call it a day there and find the perfect camp spot in some trees, just next to Middlesbrough golf course. There is a nest box by the site of our tent and a great tit is to-ing and fro-ing to the tune of the young ones. Sunset is golden and crisp through the nettles and birch trunks.

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Into Yorkshire

First job today was dealing with my severed gear cable. As luck would have it, we were about 3 miles away from an open cycle shop - not bad for relatively lost cyclists on a Sunday. We just had to get there - easier said than done; and I found myself marvelling at the engineering of working gears. A couple of months ago I was summitting literal mountains under my own steam on this bike; and this morning I struggled with moderately aggressive speed bumps. But we got there in the end, and twenty minutes later left the place: me with working gears again, and Willow with a tighter steering column. I also bought another spare inner tube and more patches, which would prove a wise move later on. The lads in the shop were great and all tickled pink when we told them where we were going and where we had come from.
The rain came and went; and with it the scenery flashed by, England showing off its trademark variety in fine form. I think this is something that is easily overlooked and often undervalued about England: we have a real array of landscape, and it is likely you will pass through most of the variations within a couple of hours pedalling. I think this is brilliant.
Dull council estates merged seamlessly into verdant countryside, and I rediscovered what hedges are; remembered the twisting and turning of countryside travel as we moved into the rural space through the green arteries of old fashioned lanes that only England can be known for. Presently we began to climb, steeply and sharply, and just when it got awful and unsustainable we crested out onto the North Yorkshire Moors. Gorse and grass ablaze in the sudden light, familiar cattle grids (remember these?!) and of course the sheep, weather-worn and shaggy, ambling along the fawn of the starched grasses. Beyond the curve of the road, there was - and I'm still not sure if I should be surprised or not - an ice cream van, with an apparently steady stream of customers. This is another very English thing, quite possibly our equivalent to the boulangeries in France. No matter where you are in this country, if you are by a road and there is some flat ground nearby large enough to take a vehicle, you will probably find an ice cream van, supplying the hikers and strollers that you will also stumble upon - and this is true come rain, snow or shine.
So we stopped, lined up and soon were rewarded with two huge cones, complete with flake. You know you're in England when you're eating an ice cream while wearing a down jacket and woolly hat. An elderly couple approached us and, seeing our panniers, asked where we've come from. I love the enthusiasm in people and the obvious delight that appears when you tell them - "we cycled from....well, Newcastle, but before that we were in the Netherlands, and we cycled from Spain to get there. But we started in Kent, and that's where we are going now."
We are not sponsored, we are not famous, and only one of us is good-looking (hint: it's not me). And when the people we meet hear our responses, hear what we are doing and how, you can see them relate to it. The idea is accessible and something rubs off on them. Cycling is simple, and cycling for days on end doesn't really complicate things. Millions of normal people use their bicycles to commute to work every day of the year, and what we've done isn't really much different. Except we are not getting paid, and instead of repeating the same route day in day out, we are keeping the line going in one big loop. It's really that simple.

After our lovely chat with the Yorkshire couple, we finish our ice creams and keep our line going, following NCN 65 off of the tarmac and into the moorland. It's a sunny day but cool and happily there is none of the slumping feeling I normally get when I return to England from another country. On the contrary, I am seeing how beautiful this place can be. Having explored some really exceptional places in Europe by bike, it's refreshing to quickly compare them to my homeland and find that actually, England's got a heck of a lot going for it. As ever, it's all about where you look.
We haven't missed the last of the bluebells or the wild garlic; and as well as these there are foxgloves, giant daisies, forget-me-nots. Beyond the pines, curlews pipe timelessly. We see a pair of curlew chicks following their parents around the grass, maybe twenty feet from the path. These are moments you can't photograph with a 28mm lens, but you bloody remember them. And I get a chance for a good look too, because I've got a puncture. Same place as usual, it's a split seam in the tube on my back wheel. I repair it, and within ten minutes I have another puncture in exactly the same way. So I swap out for the brand new inner tube. This lasts for just under an hour, and then I hear the familiar hiss, notice the familiar wobble on the back. At this point, I've had at least three inner tubes have split along the seam, always on the back wheel. There is no visible sign of any sharp objects or wear in the tyre. We conclude it must be a weight problem; my rear panniers bearing down on the wheel and splitting the tube. After repairing this third puncture, we experiment by each swapping one of our rear panniers. This way we both have a heavy one and a lighter one each; and hopefully this will reveal whether or not the excess weight on my bike is in fact the cause of the punctures.
And so far, so good. It is evening now and I am currently puncture free. Neither of us noticed the change in weight distribution on the back; and I have to say that Willow is absolutely flying up the hills now. I make this point because she was worried she wouldn't, but she really is and it's great to see. We always thought that returning to England would be the litmus test, that we'd see how much we've gained with hill climbing when we cycle up the slopes on familiar ground. And the results are so far as expected, and unsurprisingly so: our highest point on the route home is about three times lower than the average peak we'd do almost daily in Spain.

Before I lay down for sleep, I'll reiterate again that Yorkshire is quaint and beautiful. The houses, churches, greens and pubs of the villages, the rolling hills, the moors. We saw today an entire hillside flushed bright purple, the heather draped thickly down the slopes, velveteen and clear. Hares chase and lollop until they see us; then they gallop and disappear. Goldfinches 'zeeeet' away, bolting into the hedgerows. Drystone walls keep the cow parsley at bay; tall grasses and green wheat fields fill the remaining space between roadside and horizon. It's a privilege to rediscover this country by bicycle in midsummer, following our noses and the thin green line on a map.

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A day in the life

Eventful one today. No need for poetry, here's a list of the highs and lows in chronological order:

06:00 - wake up, it's too early for dog walkers but I can hear a runner nearby. Listen to the birds and watch the light grow across the flysheet.
07:00 - all packed down, notice the puncture I fixed last night is back again and my rear tyre is flat.
07:30 - walk bikes to a bench, sit down and put jam on some bread for breakfast. Will eat before repairing puncture.
07:40 - look at flat tyre, decide to eat rest of bread and jam before repairing it. Hear a voice calling out to us and look up to see a man in his garden asking if we want a coffee. Shout back and say yes please!
07:50 - man appears with two coffees and sugar, tells us that he has a water tap we can use and asks if we need anything else. He asks about our journey so far and tells us about a car-camping trip he made from Paris to Spain when he was younger.
08:00 - we finish our chat with the friendly man and I start repairing the puncture.
08:10 - man reappears with a puncture repair kit and says if we need a shower or toast we should just knock. We are very grateful and tell him so.
08:20 - puncture is fixed, we cycle off in the direction of York 12 miles away.
08:40 - there is an incredibly loud cracking sound, as my rear inner tube explodes and bursts a hole in the tyre wall. I stop and dismount. Ears ringing.
08:41 - I contemplate burning my bike and walking to Kent.
08:44 - remove all panniers from bike and have a tiny tantrum.
08:45 - I remove the burst tyre and burst inner tube. Silently wonder what I have done to deserve this many punctures on this trip.
08:48 - retrieve old inner tube with puncture in saved from a few weeks ago out of depths of pannier. Will have to fix the puncture on this one to replace my current tube that never made it past 24 hours of use without having a three inch hole blown through it.
09:05 - new (old) inner tube patched up, old (new) inner tube put away ready to be discarded.
09:10 - bike is still unrideable due to gaping hole in my rear tyre wall; unwilling to admit defeat so run through possible options to fix it.
09:11 - I contemplate burning my bike and walking to Kent.
09:13 - use gaffer tape to patch up gaping hole in tyre, hilariously feeble attempt at an actual repair.
09:15 - put wheel back together and pump tyre back up very gently.
09:16 - put all panniers back on bike.
09:17 - cycle away, with worried glances at my rear wheel.
09:18 - it starts raining very heavily. Dismount again and put my solar panel away.
09:20 - discuss with Willow why on earth we have set aside a large portion of our free time, in the prime of our lives, for this.
09:26 - work through it, realise rain isn't going anywhere and neither are we so we get back on the bikes and pedal off at about 3mph due to bulge in my rear tyre.
09:50 - rain stops. Continue cycling painfully slowly following signs for York.
12:00 - nearly at York. Realise my rear wheel has another slow puncture. Concede defeat; pump it up a bit more and look for bike shops online. Find one that's meant to be very good and on route fairly close by.
12:41 - arrive outside bike shop to find it's a residential street. I phone number on website; the shop is run from the guy's house and he is fully booked until next week, wishes us goodluck getting to Kent. Recommends another bike shop two miles in the direction we've just come from.
12:46 - I phone number of this second bike shop; I ask about availability and am answered by laughter followed by ringing silence. I think that either means he's busy, or that I'm really funny. I say thanks a lot and decide to find somewhere myself.
13:00 - follow Google Maps through York city centre, which is overflowing with people. The shops are all wide open and there's a lot of reenactment events taking place.
13:20 - arrive at the cycle shop Poetry In Motion, am immediately put at ease by the owner's manner and knowledge - and the fact he has been on a lot of long bike tours himself; in Canada, America, India and around Europe. He agrees to look over my bike and sort out the wheel. He will look over Willow's bike for good measure too, and allows us to leave our panniers in the shop while we wait so we can explore York. I am incredibly thankful and grateful.
13:40 - wander around the city and buy some wraps for lunch. Sit under the cathedral and watch nesting peregrines fly above the steeple.
14:30 - head to the Post Office and send off 17 rolls of film to be developed; all the rolls I've shot on this trip so far. Feel very excited and nervous.
14:57 - get a call from Poetry In Motion; our bikes are ready for collection.
15:10 - we arrive at the cycle shop; my bike has a new Schwalbe Marathon Plus tyre fitted on the back - which makes it the third rear tyre I've bought on this trip - and both our bikes have been serviced. Turns out Willow had snapped a spoke somehow so that's all been sorted too. I wish I'd bought Marathon tyres before the trip but am over the moon at our good fortune to have been nearby this bike shop and to have made it here. We have a great conversation with the owner, it's great to meet someone so like-minded and who 'gets' touring on a bike. It must be said I wholeheartedly recommend Poetry In Motion cycle shop for anybody in the area who wants their bike looking at; especially cycle tourists.
15:30 - we muddle our way out of York, taking about seven wrong turnings due to a construction site blocking the way.
16:00 - we leave the city and hit the cycle path again! And it feels so good to have a new rear tyre! Yippee!
16:20 - we bump into two cyclists heading to Scotland. They warn us of maintenance work up ahead blocking the path and tell us how we can get around it.
16:30 - we climb over some logs and through a hedge to avoid the works.
16:32 - back on the cycle path.
17:00 - after another 8km, we decide to call it there because we are nearly at Selby and it will be harder to find a good camp spot for the night.
17:05 - video call my mum for the first time in three months and catch up.
17:30 - find a quiet hollow behind some trees by the path. Move bikes through and set up the tent.
17:50 - sit in the tent and open a pack of biscuits. Can hear blackbirds and skylarks. It starts to rain.
18:00 - rain stops, eat more biscuits. Write this blog post.
18:30 - silently mull over the fact that this tent has seen more use behind hedgerows and in ditches than it has anywhere else. Wonder what  the concept of adventure has come to, and if there is anything at all adventurous about repairing punctures badly then lying in a bush by the cycle path gorging on biscuits.
19:00 - finish biscuits, have dry mouth. Mentally run through all the times I could have taken a photo in the last few days but chose not to instead. Feel a little regretful when I think I've only taken three photos since arriving in England. Start the process of berating myself as a storyteller and photographer.
19:50 - remember I sent off 17 rolls of film to be developed today and feel very excited again.
19:53 - remember how much it cost to send off all the film and worry my photos will not be good enough; remember why I'm being selective with exposures. Enter into a heated mental battle with myself as I wonder what 'good enough' entails.
20:00 - wait for noise of cyclists and walkers to disappear so I can start cooking dinner.
20:07 - press 'upload' on my website and publish this blog post. Wonder who on earth is reading all these.
20:15 - start preparing food for dinner.
20:34 - share pasta with Willow and wish I hadn't eaten all the biscuits.
20:47 - wash up the pans with a mugful of water and arrange them under the porch of the tent to dry overnight.
20:58 - feel suddenly very tired and get into my sleeping bag. Listen to a woodpigeon cooing to itself above the tent.
21:02 - say goodnight to Willow and put my earplugs in for sleep.

cycle tourenglandyorkshire

Rain stops play

It's June tomorrow, the days are nearly at their very longest, midsummer's day is fast approaching...so of course it bucketed down today, almost all day.
I'll keep this one brief as I need to conserve my phone battery. We slept beautifully in the tent behind the hedge, and we woke there was no rain. But within half an hour of packing everything away it was soon set in; stubborn rain that is featureless and constant. Thank goodness for good gloves and waterproofs - we kept going, heads down, persevering for hours in the lashing grey. Fields and fields and quaint cottages; disused but preserved red phone boxes. No reason to stop and nothing to do if we did.
The Humber river flirted its grey sides at us, but it wouldn't be till later on this evening that we finally crossed the Humber bridge. In the meantime, just when the water started to go down our socks and inside our gloves, and our toes started to go numb, we found...a pub. This gave us a reason to stop. So we stopped for a bit, somebody heard us talking and bought us a drink for cycling goodness knows how far.
And then when it stopped raining, we headed out again. Crossed the bridge in the grey under sluggish cloud and found a quiet patch of woods just off the road to pitch the tent, and lie down again. And the thought enters my head again, how much of a hold the weather has on us and what we do with our days.

cycle tourenglandLincolnshire

Cycling through Lincolnshire

I woke this morning to feel a gentle myself being gently shaken by the shoulder. I opened my eyes and Willow was shaking me; wordlessly she pointed to the ceiling of the tent above us. You could tell the sun was out in full, and perched on the roof of the tent was a small songbird - maybe a robin or a great tit - and it's tiny feet were clearly outlined on the tent's outer fabric, with its body's silhouette vaguely shadowed above. It was walking around not more than a couple of feet from our heads, and we silently watched it pitter patter this way and that across the flysheet before it abruptly flew off and disappeared. What a special way to wake up.
It's June today. In three weeks' time the days will begin to shorten again. I always think of summer as starting way back at the tail end of March for this reason; but it doesn't really matter anyway, it is nice to be outside regardless.
While cycling away from our quiet camp spot we pass a hen pheasant who is brooding over her minute chicks; her huge body is flattened and pressed over and around them like a giant tea cosy. Only one of the young is visible, kiwi sized and pinstriped, a ball of furry energy.
We find a trucker's cafe, which serves great food and also offers showers - we make the most of both of these options.
The countryside is undulating, yellow and green fields under emphatic clouds. Cloud shapes always seem more pronounced over English farmland, and I don't know why. A stoat bounds along the track ahead of us, as small as he is vicious, and pauses at intervals to turn his neck and check up on us before running on. The rain returns for a spell and when it passes, burns off the asphalt as steam in the sunlight. We go from drenched to dry during a windblown half hour and watch out for slugs on the wet road.

I love the countryside here. The woodland is mixed and broadleaved, with pines here and there. Two or three nights ago we watched a barn owl quartering a meadow, a big white ghost, silent and majestic. Sometimes at camp we can hear their metallic hiss from within the blackness; more often the tawnies tu-whit tu-whooing.
It is a shame that cycling doesn't receive the provision it deserves in England. The cycle networks are improving, but currently it is not what it is elsewhere. There seems to be no room in the drivers' psyche to foresee cyclists or consider how they use the road. When I entered Spain and discovered most of the cycling would have to be done on their national roads, I felt nervous until I realised that Spanish drivers share the road differently to English ones. In Spain you are required to pass bicycles with at least 1.5m of room, and give way to cyclists at crossings. In England, if you're the cyclist, you can frequently expect to feel a car pass within 1.5 feet of you - and if you need to cross the road with your bicycle, you may be waiting for several minutes before somebody allows you to cross the road at dropped curbs. Of course, it's a different culture and different laws, but it speaks volumes about the perception of cyclists as road users here. And the cycle lanes, though present; easy to follow and well-maintained, are often afterthoughts to the transport infrastructure or very limiting in their options for cyclists. It's not uncommon for cycle lanes to lead you up on to the pavement and away from road junctions, which is fine until you need to either cross the road or follow the road away from the cycle lane. Being away from the junction, there is suddenly nowhere safe to join the road or monitor traffic from. If you pre-emptively enter a road at a junction and ignore the cycle path - which in many cases is often logistically easier and safer for the cyclist - you risk abuse from drivers who apparently can't understand why you are not on the designated path.
For sure all this is a tricky issue to pull apart, and hard to explain without specific examples; but my point is, from what I can see after having spent three months exploring Europe by bike, England is the least cycle-friendly place I've been so far.

Happily though, it's where I grew up cycling, so I can more or less take it all in my stride. And I feel I could cycle anywhere at the moment with my new tyre and serviced bike! It feels amazing!
Tonight we will be meeting my brother Ben somewhere on route in the countryside, and spend a couple of days camping together and catching up. I won't be updating the blog for that time but will be back to finish off the final stages of our journey home.

cycle tourenglandlincolnshire

Moulton Marsh

Sat in this spot last night and watched a muntjac forage and wander along the field edge, close enough to see the curiosity in its eyes when it stopped and looked up at us. A magical twenty minutes.
Camp coffee this morning then goodbye to Ben and heading out into the windy wash for the final push to the south.

cycle tourEnglandLincolnshire

Heads and tails

A day of mostly flat distance, spiked and smoothed throughout by the boisterous winds that push unchecked across the wheat fields of the wash.
In the morning we were doglegging east and cycling into it; invisible hands pushing us back and batting away our shouted conversations, whooshing all sound behind us. It's hard going and demoralising, cycling into wind.
So it was a relief when we headed south, turned our backs to the invisible hands after a few hours. We suddenly covered the morning's slogged out distance, and a little more, in a third of the time. Tailwinds feel like you've grown wings, and in this one we could freewheel for close to a mile without losing much impetus. But we didn't do that; all our legs know now is to push on the pedals, push on the pedals, keep chipping away at this sculpture we are building that will be dismantled as soon as we complete it.

The further south we head - and I hate to say this - the drivers that pass us become more aggressive, more assertive. But it's really true. We aren't seeing as many as I thought we would, I remember England being busier than this.
Lincolnshire turns into Cambridgeshire, but the fields stay the same. We've arranged to meet Ben again for one last night of camping together and have fixed a rough location near Cambridge city that would suit both his van and our tent.
A single muntjac displays extraordinary prowess, sprinting and leaping higher than I could over the yellowing wheat.
Late in the day, we try and take a shortcut to follow the river. Soon we are committed, and soon we are on the bank on a footpath clearly not used by many cyclists. We startle whole families of geese and swans as we gainfully roll through the grass that's getting longer and longer. A few roe deer spring in and out of sight. Nettles and thistles push up on all sides and by this time we are literally bouncing along, ruts big enough to derail you appearing  everywhere. It is farcically slow and painfully exerting. But the light is fantastic over the sleepy waterways and nodding grasses.
Back on the road we regain our speed, but this late in the day it's waning. Old oaks, the huge friendly uncles of the tree world, provide refuge for the blackbirds and song thrushes that stop out late to sing. Wheat fields left and right, green turning blue-grey in the simmer dim. A barn owl flaunts itself, lamp-like and effortlessly floating. They are not large birds until you see their wingspan. This one is quartering a field, the night's gatekeeper clocking onto his shift. I know it's a 'he' because of his size and the white on his front, which is paler than the speckled front of a larger female barn owl.
Willow sees more muntjac but I don't; she also sees two hares ahead of us in a field. Earlier on a hare ran next to her, she said (I missed this too) and bounded away over a hedge after several huge strides. The sun is deep and richly orange, hanging there over the clouds and thickening dark down where we are. Soon the clouds will be lambent too but for now the sun has the spotlight solo performance.
We come to a footpath - the only footpath - and a sign says "no cycling - bicycles require written permission". This seems absurd and does absolutely nothing to discourage us, so we continue. Presently there is a locked gate made up of long wooden planks that are slotted into metal holsters between the gateposts, so I dismantle these and we wheel our bikes through. Once the gate is back together we are on our way again, on to the next obstacles: a pair of kissing gates. These are tricky to manage with fully loaded bikes but we are good at managing by now and together we help ourselves get through, but tired and starving. And then - and then - there's two flights of stairs to navigate, up and over the bridge. That sign should have read "no cycling - unless you fancy an obstacle course". But we climb the stairs too. One thing I will not miss is pushing my bike and its four panniers up staircases and down again. I wonder what we must look like, if a local were to see us clambering over the bridge and through all the kissing gates with our bikes and panniers.
Finally there is only a manual level crossing to go, and one train later that's behind us too.

When the world is this flat the sunset seems to last forever and that is a good thing here, for by the time we finish and meet my brother again it is close to ten o'clock at night. We've had another day of exceeding 100km and we are tired. But of course we still have to make dinner and find a hidden spot that would suit our tent, then put the tent up and sleep. The rendezvous we made with Ben works out; the rough location pin on the map turns out to be ideal. There's an empty carpark for walkers, ideal for a small campervan; and a big wood nextdoor, ideal for a small tent.
I'm so hungry I could eat dinner twice, but I only have the energy to make it once. We eat quickly and quietly. The tent is soon tucked away underneath a hawthorn tree and soon after that Willow and I have said goodnight to Ben. We'll catch up in the morning.

englandcycle tourCambridgeshire

Led by curiosity

Our penultimate morning is the first time on the entire trip that waking up in the tent is an unpleasant experience. We were so tired last night that we didn't peg out each end of the tent, only the four corners; and after the night of heavy rain there is now water on the floor and underneath our sleeping mats. Not a lot of water, and only our sleeping mats are wet, but there is nothing worse than a wet tent on a camping trip.
But I don't care. Whether I am past the point of caring; well used to the surprises and pitfalls by now; or simply more resilient, I don't know. But I know that together Willow and I can deal with this problem and solve it, just like we've dealt with everything else so far, together. I read somewhere once that "problems have solutions, a problem without a solution is simply a situation". Our solution today is to wait, lie in bed until the rain stops; then pack everything away as normal. Our sleeping mats are still wet, our tent is still wet, but everything has its place and its own separate drybag and later on when the rain stops we will be able to air everything out.

I must interrupt this blog post briefly and say this: we very nearly caught a train home from Cambridge. We very nearly did. We looked at the weather forecast, which was meant to be appalling rain for the next two days, and decided we didn't fancy two more days of cycling if the weather was wet. We've done enough cycling, we know what it's about. We've done enough wet cycling too, and we know what that's about. We have nothing to prove to anyone. So we looked up the train times and very nearly went and did it.
But - and this bit is very important - we did what we always do now when we make big decisions: we talked it over. And the thing that stuck out and eventually moved us to stick it out, was not the thing I expected. Turns out it's not wanting to save face that keeps you going in the rain, turns out it's not integrity or wanting to 'prove it', turns out it's not stubborn determination. Turns out that the thing that keeps us going, the thing that kept us cycling come what may for the last two measly days despite the weather warnings was...

Curiosity.
And I find this very interesting. We both wanted to see what it felt like to cycle home. To turn the volume all the way up on adventure; leave the front door on two heavily loaded bikes and cycle off to unknown and exciting lands - and then slowly turn the volume back down again, moving by honest and earnest increments into the country we were both born in, and pedal back from north to south. We didn't want to break that spell. Watching the people, the landscape, the smells and sounds slowly form and reform and reform themselves until finally you're back in your village again, until you know your way around again by pedal stroke and pedal stroke - that's something I want to experience. Too often I've taken a trip, driven or flown back and felt the jolt of homecoming, the unsettled snatch of change and normality again. But this would be different. We'd cycle home and it would just fade back into who we are, who we were.
And we both wanted to know what that was like.

The early morning cycle along the river Cam was maybe a catalyst for this decision - although I didn't know it at the time; the flat fields grew into green banks, barges, house boats and swans. Row boats and university rowers, hipster cyclists and city runners. We palpably left behind the openness that had followed from the Humber and felt a new land taking shape. At this point we were still undecided; the rain was gentler than I expected but still there, misty and pervasive.
We met Ben in Jesus Green and walked into the centre, ate breakfast in a café and the three of us talked about what Willow and I would do. It became very clear quickly that our decision hinged on not wanting to get wet vs. curiosity. And curiosity won.

In the end, curiosity didn't kill the cat. The rain wasn't half as bad as predicted. We said a final good bye to Ben and then the two of us followed the city's architecture and cycle lanes out into the suburbs. The rain slowly faded away, and soon I had taken my gloves off. Rolling hills took shape, shrouded in water vapour. We passed pretty villages, stonewalled houses vined in pink roses. Thatched roofs, picket fences, the tiny and pointlessly steep hills that I never thought I would miss. A man with his dog sees us and says: "dig deep, there are hills ahead!" It makes us smile. The people we cycle past have a three second window to say anything they'd like to us as we pass them and too often can't seem to come up with anything more imaginative than "you're going the wrong way" or "driving is quicker". But that was a nice thing to have said. Dig deep.

And the hills are there, but they are only hills. There are no wild boar here, no mountain ranges, no cults or ticks or snowstorms or any of the other things that we have cycled among. Kestrels perch on wires; skylarks rise from the fields, their trademark song fizzing and bubbling out from everywhere at once. Sometimes swallows, often woodpigeons, flocked together in great clumps on the stubble. A dog fox leaps in front of me and crosses the path, a brilliant flash of copper fire, hunter and fugitive. Soon I realise the coat of arms displayed on the public bins is for a new place - we are in Essex.

We pass through Hatfield forest and it is around this time that the signs for the cycle route run out. Both our phones are long dead. English country roads were never designed for easy navigation or fast travel, but we do our best now with half-remembered village names. In the end we stop for the night and make a quiet camp in a roadside copse. We never got to air the tent out, but it's not soaking wet and it's not raining now. There are signs of fox scat and also the leg bones from a sheep in the leaflitter.
We cook pasta for the final time, crouched in the damp leaves. There are no distractions at all and I think about what we have just done together, now and over the last 95 days. Truth is, it's just another day, but a day in a life that I have grown very much used to.
.
Just as the last of the gas burns out, leaving the canister empty (how poetic), the rain starts up again and begins pitter pattering on the flysheet. Tomorrow we cycle home, come what may.

englandcycle tourCambridgeshireessex

The home straight - Part I

Another way to deal with the problem of rain is to remove the presence of waymarked signs and your reliance on your phone for navigating - you become very pragmatic and forget about the wet. If we want to get home today, we need to cycle over 100km from our camp spot somewhere north of Chelmsford, all the way to just south of Canterbury. And if we want to do that, we need to find our way out of here.
Of course, this is only England and we can't go far wrong but it's still a bit of orienteering fun. We mosey our way southwards on unmarked country lanes. If you know how, you can use the landscape around you to roughly work out compass points on a cloudy day: look at which directions the flowers are facing and where they're mostly growing; the general trend of ivy growths; the shape of isolated trees in open fields. It's a satisfying way to go and when it works it's great. Soon enough we find a café (this is only England after all) and can charge phones enough to work out a detailed route the rest of the way. And the rain stops too, which is a bonus.
The plan is, head to Tilbury and catch the ferry to Gravesend; from there it's just follow National Cycle Route 1, more or less the final 50 miles to home. It's much quicker to follow the A roads but also more stressful. Our 20 mile stint on the A128 from Ongar to Tilbury firmly reminds me of the sad fact that the closer you get to London, the drivers get quicker and show less respect on the road. After 5500+ kilometres in Europe, the least safe I've felt on this trip as a cyclist is on English roads, and no more than today on the A128. I've not missed cars passing by a foot away, nor have I missed how they don't wait until the road is clear before overtaking.
But the A road is straight and fast and soon we are there - wheeling down the pontoon to wait for the ferry. Ahead, the final county of the final day of the trip. And soon we are on the other side; Essex and London and the Midlands and the North; all of the other days and places and people behind us now, because we are back in Kent and going home.

englandcycle touressexkent