Bike Hippies

Monday September 8th - Loo roll!

2009-11-12T23:27:00.004Z

The church bells rang at 4am in Rosport. In continental Europe you get used to bells ringing at 6am or sunrise, but at 4 it was still very dark and I'm not sure what sane person would need or want to hear church bells at that time.

At a slightly more sane hour I set out into another damp and hazy morning, continuing along the river valley. A few miles down the road, a huge structure loomed out of the mist above me - it was the motorway passing high above the valley, supported by enormouse concrete columns. I've never seen a motorway look so beautiful!

At Wasserbillig, I left the bike path for a while to pick up some goodies in the town. I bought the world's tastiest plum tart and some bread from the bakery, a couple of chicken legs and, triumphantly, some loo roll. I've never been so happy to see toilet paper!

After spending quite a lot of time in the town I decided to put in some real miles before lunch. The road was flat so it was easy to set small targets - for example, getting to 25 miles by 11:30am.

The cycle path disappeared for a while and became a red strip at the side of the road. Vineyards became the dominant scenery, and the sun burned away the mist. The Our river flowed into the Moselle and the valley widened out a little.

I reached the 30 mile mark a few miles short of the French border and stopped for a chicken sandwich and to hang my washing on the back of the bike.

I arrived in Schengen, home to all good shared border agreements, shortly after that. There's probably a good reason for the choice of Schengen for that particular treaty - it stands close to the meeting point of three countries. In the space of a couple of minutes I left Luxembourg, crossed the bridge to Germany and turned the corner into France.

A small model of the Eiffel tower marked my passage into France. The cycle path vanished in the town of Apach and all of a sudden fast lorries and cars were whooshing past my shoulder. Then I remembered the first rule of cycling on N roads in France - don't! I dug out my trusty Michelin atlas pages to plan a nice D-route.

Things got hilly that afternoon. I huffed and puffed my way up a tiny little road, across open farmland and through tiny villages in which stood numerous closed and abandoned cafes. It also happened to get very hot, which was nice but also meant a lot of sweat and a lot of suncream. I reached Bouzonville, a reasonably sized town which didn't appear to have any accommodation but at least had a boulangerie where I was able to buy food and water, and a tabac whose owner directed me to the nearest campsite.

I double checked outside by Googling the place on my phone. I hope that doesn't seem like a rude or mistrustful thing to do. I've been sent on a few wild goose chases before, usually unintentional I'm sure - and whereas locals are normally an excellent source of general information about what's in the area, I don't expect the average person to keep a working and up to date knowledge of campsite opening dates and finer details. However, it looked as if the campsite existed and was open so I headed off in that direction.

An hour later, the sun was getting low in the sky when I reached the campsite, a pretty place beside a lake near the small village of Burtoncourt. It was good to pay single digit prices for camping again!

Distance: 59 miles (361 miles so far) • Day 8 Route • Day 8 Photos

Sunday September 7th - Chairlift

2009-11-03T23:12:00.006Z

The bell on the level crossing at Wilwerwiltz woke me straight away when the trains started nice and early on Sunday morning. The tent felt damp, it was cold and I was cosy in my sleeping bag. I put my hat on for extra warmth and fell asleep again.

Since entering Luxembourg I hadn't been able to get mobile signal, so hadn't been able to contact Dgym the previous night. I knew he'd be worried so I got up at 7 to set off in search of some means of communication.

It was misty again - the sun was already starting to poke through, but despite my best drying efforts (soaking up moisture with awesome microfibre towel and then wringing it out) I left with a damp and heavy tent.

I started out along a quiet road which at first followed the valley of a small stream but then turned away and climbed steadily.

At the top of the hill I stopped for a wee and used up the last of the loo roll. Luxembourg, I had discovered, is one of those countries (like France) where you are expected to bring your own, and I hadn't packed much. I was also running low on food supplies - I had a single biscuit, some liquorice and half a stinky cheese. There had been very few open shops or cafes so far. I got hungry and ate the final biscuit. But at least it was a lovely sunny day at last. Hooray!

I carried on through small villages, aiming for the Our river. At Stolzembourg I descended into the valley on a road signed as 17% gradient. The Michelin map claimed 4-7% and, worshipful as I am of their French maps, I started to wonder about the quality of their Luxembourg data.

Vianden was a pleasant tourist town overlooked by a huge castle set in forest a couple of hundred metres up the side of the valley. A chairlift extended over the town and up through the pine trees. I've only ever been up chairlifts on skis and snowboards (For a while I was even slightly terrified of them after my first ever ski chairlift ride involved a slightly late exit and a bit more jumping than strictly necessary) so thought I'd try a pedestrian experience. I parked up at the bottom - there were bike carriers but it didn't seem like a good idea with so many panniers.

In the cafe at the top I had a plate of chips and admired the panoramic view over the valley, then went for a short walk through the woods and took a curious peek at the alternative route down - a zipwire traversing back and forth through the trees.

Heading out of Vianden, I picked up some more snacky cakes at the service station, and a packet of spaghetti as an emergency dinner option.

A bit further down the road I found long distance cycle route number 3, which would lead me along the Our river and the German border, all the way to France. The route turned out to be excellent. Sometimes on road, but mostly as a separate lane, and sometimes beside the road, but often leading away from it to peaceful riverside tracks passing under shady trees and past flocks of wading geese. The path often passed right through campsites and the distance to the next town was frequently labelled.

A few miles before Echternach I found a usable wifi network measuring about two meters square. Taking care to remain in that tiny area, I IM-chatted with dgym for a while - yes, he had been a bit worried. I was starting to enjoy things but still not feeling like spending a month away - we agreed that I should come back after two weeks away.

In Echternach I searched the town centre for cash and toilet paper. Cash was easy to find. Toilet paper was more evasive. I'm pretty sure it should be easy to find in a nation which is unwilling to provide it in public toilets. I left empty handed, having to improvise with paper napkins from cafes. I did, however, manage to find my old friend the Eiscafe, featuring all the favourites - Spaghetti Eis, Pizza Eis, etc, and had a cone of freezy coffee flavoured deliciousness.

I stopped to camp at Rosport, a small town on the river, just across the bridge from the German town of Ralingen. Not actually wanting buttered spaghetti for dinner (so far that day I'd eaten chips, ice cream and biscuits) I set off in search of nice food.

An Asian restaurant in the town looked good - menu outside, opened at 6... except when I tried to go in there at 6:30, the door wouldn't open. Then I noticed the cobwebs around the door, the yellowed newspapers stuffed in the letterbox around the side and the hole in one of the windows. It didn't look as if anybody had been in there for quite a while. Perhaps I didn't want to eat there after all.... There was nothing else suitable in the town so I crossed to the German side and found an open restaurant serving lovely big schnitzel, chips and salad.

Distance: 42 miles (302 miles so far) • Day 7 Route • Day 7 Photos

Saturday September 6th - Luxembourg

2009-10-29T00:03:00.004Z

I awoke to hotel breakfast at 7am, which was a huge and very tasty feast of pastries, breads, jams, yoghurt, two poached eggs, assorted charcuterie, orange juice and tea. I left absolutely stuffed.

I headed out of Malmedy towards St Vith and it quickly became clear it was one of those days. The ones where it feels like you're carrying an extra bag of rocks but you can't figure out why. (although looking back, it may have been breakfast related). It also happened to be uphill, not an easy start to the day.

It was a cold misty one - well, more like a cold white cloud blanket. It almost felt like the kind of cloud that gives way to snow (but not cold enough). I held out hope that it was one of those mists where the sun breaks through and it all goes away but it took two hours for that to happen, it didn't last long and the air remained cold.

I arrived at St Vith and realised I was into German speaking territory. But that's OK - I can just about cope with simple German.

I stopped at a bakery, pointed at a tasty looking chocolatey pastry thing and asked what it was. She replied to the effect that it was some kind of chocolatey pastry thing. Yum. I asked for one, but somehow she took that to mean I wanted six and started to fill a large paper bag with pastry after delicious pastry. I attempted to correct the mistake "Nein, nein, ich mochte EIN, nicht sechs" (or something like that) but she took 'one' to mean 'one more' and I ended up with seven. Again I tried to ask for just one but ended up with yet another. I had eight chocolate pastries, and my German wasn't good enough to explain the error. Fortunately another customer saw the problem, explained to the assistant and I left with my single pastry.

After St Vith the N-road I was following got a lot busier and there was no cycle path. I took the turn off to Thommen and a pleasant detour via Burg-Reuland and the Ouren valley.

The valley delayed my entry into Luxembourg ever so slightly but it was worth it for the quiet roads, lush forests and pancake house, and since I have developed a strict policy of never looking a pancake house in the mouth, it was compulsory to stop. I ate my sugar & butter pancake in Belgium with Germany just across the Our river to my left and Luxembourg about a kilometre to the right.

I started a long hard climb out of the valley towards the border. It was only a single gradient arrow on my Michelin map, which is normally fine, (4-7%) but it seemed a lot steeper than that. A pack of roadies passed me on the way up and I wondered whether, to an outside observer, it looked as if i was with them and carrying all their stuff! I had to stop several times and, although they were lighter and faster, I could see it was tough on them too. Apart from maybe the guy who turned around at the top of the hill, rode back down and overtook me for a second time.

At the top I passed an EU flag by a church- that may have been the border but it wasn't clear.

I carried on towards Clervaux. The landscape seemed quite English in many ways - hilly with grassy fields, cows grazing, some arable land with rolls of hay, dots of forest here and there, but a lot more wind turbines.

Doubts about the trip re-entered my mind at Clervaux, mostly due to being both cold and frustrated with my own lack of fitness. Clervaux had a railway station which I considered using, but decided I wasn't prepared to give up just yet. My third-day blues had extended well beyond the third day but I was determined to shake them off and give it at least a week. I carried on up the hill out of town and over into the Clerve valley. The valley was relatively flat, as valleys often are, and in my frustration I found some power in my thighs and made good progress to Wilwerwiltz where I camped by the river and ate bread, stinky cheese, herring salad and kiwi for dinner.

Distance: 44 miles (total 260 miles) • Day 6 Route • Day 6 Photos

Friday September 5th - Stinky cheese

2009-10-27T00:41:00.005Z

After packing away, filling my bottles and receiving some directions from Jean, I was on my way, feeling somewhat refreshed - well, from the shoulders upwards anyway. I was into the Ardennes now, real hills, and my legs were having difficulty. I'd trained for this trip as much as I had for any other - i.e. barely at all.

In Clermont, a pretty village with a gatehouse, I rattled along cobblestone streets - if anything was going to reboot my brain it was that. Further south, in the town of Limbourg, I picked up a couple of rather disappointing and slightly stale pains au chocolat (french-speaking country but not french-baking).

After Limbourg, I faced a long (although not particularly steep) climb, passing on the way up a hydroelectric station, empty moorland and pine forests. The scenery was making the climb worthwhile - Jean had advised well on my route.

I reached the observation point of Baraque Michel at an altitude of 625m and stopped for hot chocolate and an omelette.

It was all downhill after that, a beautiful long sweeping foresty descent down to Malmedy, passing ski stations on the way down.

Malmedy looked nice and the map didn't show a campsite at a suitable distance so I visited the tourist office and found a room for the night. This also allowed me the opportunity to go shopping and find a lovely Michelin 1:150k map of Luxembourg, which was not far off. I purchased some picnicky food for dinner, among which was a super-stinky cheese that made everything smell faintly cheesy for the next few days, and probably warranted its own pannier.

Distance: 30 miles (216 miles so far) • Day 5 Route • Day 5 Photos

Friday September 4th - Into Belgium

2009-10-25T23:25:00.004Z

I got to sleep really early at Valkenburg but was woken at 2am by people talking outside the tent. I stuck my earphones in (even when not plugged into anything they're quite effective noise blockers) and fell asleep again.

On Thursday evening I wasn't sure whether I'd be riding the next day - Valkenburg had seemed like a good place to stop and take a day's rest, but the night's disturbance had convinced me to move on. However, I still had shopping to do - I was running out of cash and needed a decent map and some AA batteries for emergency phone charging (still very little luck with the Solio). I found cash, and a half decent map at the campsite shop, but no batteries. Valkenburg was great for restaurants but useless for most other things.

I left Valkenburg around midday and set out into dark, cold cloudiness which did not promise a good afternoon. The wind had died down but that just meant there was nothing to blow the bad weather away. Before long I was entertaining thoughts of abandoning the crappy Northern European weather system and getting myself down to Sardinia for some sunshine cycling. I stopped at a bakery and bought a really horrible cheese pastry and a mediocre apricot one. The skies opened, it pissed down with rain and left me absolutely soaked.

I stopped at a guest house in the border town of Noorbeek for some lunch. Their tomato soup was good and I asked whether they had rooms available, but they were full. I left, disappointed but a bit drier and at least the rain had stopped.

The only way I could find going southwards out of town was a tiny road that quickly turned into stony track and occasionally light mud, winding between fields of cows and horses. I was pretty sure it would lead me towards Belgium, but there were no signs. Clearly they didn't want people escaping the Netherlands.

The track eventually met up with a paved and marked cycle path, numbered in the Belgian scheme and displaying the Belgian bike sign (the bike looks less like a Dutch bike and more like mine!) The path led to a road, again with very little useful signposting, so once again it was just me and the compass.

I reached Aubel at 4:30 - typically, the tourist office had already closed and there was no sign of any hotel, only signs pointing to two lodgings out of town. I followed the signs and was led several km towards Julemont.

The first, an auberge, showed no sign of life.

Outside the second, La Bushaye, I spotted three cyclists who I recognised from a pack of roadies that had passed me earlier. I wandered around looking for the owner and eventually a blonde woman came out to greet me. I asked her in French whether there was room - no they didn't, but we quickly established that since she was Dutch and I was English, we really ought to speak English. She suggested a couple of towns where I might be able to find a room but they were all several kilometres in the wrong direction and, it being Friday and getting late, I was starting to really not fancy my chances of finding much.

I'd had a bit of a miserable day and probably looked like I needed a bit of kindness and bless this lovely lady, she offered me a spot to pitch my tent on the grass beside a small coop of very shy chickens. Before I knew it the woman, Raissa, and her little girl (aged about two I think) were helping put my tent up, and her husband Jean was offering me a portion of the meal he was cooking for the other guests.

It turned out they were hosting fourteen of the cyclists - a crowd of them passed by just as I finished putting up the tent. One asked whether I was planning on sleeping alone in there, and I was offered a place in numerous different beds. Um, thanks but no thanks.

Dinner was pasta with tomatoes, followed by saltimbocca and then creme brulee - all were excellent. I also managed to squeeze in a bit of internet access and USB charging courtesy of the computer there.

It seemed almost too good to be true that these lovely kind people were there to help me when I was tired and fed up. I went to bed feeling a good deal happier and very well looked after.

Distance: 20 miles (186 miles so far) • Day 4 Route • Day 4 Photos

Thursday September 3rd - Borders

2009-10-20T01:12:00.006+01:00

I was woken at some unknown time in the middle of the night by wind and rain beating the outside of the tent. I snuggled down into my sleeping bag, glad that it was still dark and therefore I didn't have to get up yet - there was a chance the weather would improve by morning.

It was still grey and a bit rainy when I woke again at six - and packed very slowly, waiting in the tent and hoping things would brighten up a bit. Breakfast was bread and butter - on previous trips I would make porridge each morning while packing up but, despite carrying stove and fuel, I was yet to actually cook anything this time round. I'd spent the last couple of days getting hot food in cafes at lunchtime and eating picnic-style dinners, in the hope that this would be a great idea and I wouldn't have to endure my horrible camp cooking ever again.

I finally left at about half past eight during a dry spell.

I was nearing the narrow southern tip of the Netherlands now, and crossed briefly in and out of Belgium during the course of the morning. It was while in Belgium that I spotted a bakery and, enticed by its delicious smell, pulled over and noticed a bread vending machine outside (empty, presumably because they were open). I am all for vending machines that sell things other than the usual chocolatey / fizzy rubbish. My personal favourite was an inner tube vending machine in Austria, but I was pretty pleased to find bread available at all hours. Rock on Belgium!

The Netherlands is only a few miles wide at that point and, after crossing back from Belgium, it wasn't long before I was close to the German border. I didn't manage to actually find the border, but stopped for lunch at a coffee house nearby. Another habit I was getting into was hot chocolate. I don't usually drink it, all that hot liquid sugariness goes straight to my head and I get the whole sugar high / crash / headache thing - but hot liquid sugariness is just perfect half way through a day's cycling under a damp cloudy sky.

Further south I entered the sprawling urban landscapes of Sittard / Geleen, two cities which failed to capture my imagination with what I saw of them - but the weather was deteriorating by that point, and very few cities actually look good in the rain.

I saw my first hill on the way out of Geleen, and climbed my first shortly after that, although they were still only tiny hills by pretty much any other country's standards.

Finally I got back into the countryside and spotted a left turn to Valkenburg. I wanted to go to Valkenburg but the route looked to be in the wrong direction so there was some hesitation and checking of maps and compasses before deciding that a break from traffic would be a good idea, and hurtling off down the stony track between cornfields, the wind on my back for a change. The route didn't last long but it was the highlight of my day!

I soon found myself back on the road, beside some roadworks, with no idea where I was or where to go. The wind had really picked up and was making it very hard to use the map (OK, GPS wins a point there). I wasn't sure whether I should be heading off down the newly laid cycle path that ran through the roadworks - the signs were confusing - but I eventually did when I saw some other bloke do it. It turned out to be roughly in the right direction and I was soon at Valkenburg.

Valkenburg turned out to be a pretty (and quite touristy) town with an old castle and city walls, and the town campsite was quite pleasantly situated on a hill overlooking the castle ruins. I was finding Dutch camping prices to be particularly high, and this was no exception - 17.50 euro for the night (I'd normally consider £10 expensive). Since there were lots of places to eat in town I went for a beer and schnitzel. It may not be cheap in the Netherlands but the portions are usually of a good size and they know how to lay on the carbs - my schnitzel came with both chips and rice!

Distance: 50 miles (166 miles so far) • Day 3 Route • Day 3 Photos

Wednesday September 2nd: Perfect Pancakes

2009-10-16T00:43:00.008+01:00

On Wednesday I set off into sunshine, with lovely straight, wide, smooth cycle paths running down each side of the road.

I started to rely more on the compass than on maps and signs, and it did me well.

I arrived in Eindhoven at about 4pm and started hunting down Cool Blue, aka gpsshop, to pick up an iGotu GT-200.

The GT-200 is a small GPS logging device which can also double up as an external Bluetooth GPS receiver for a phone. I'm not a big fan of navigating by GPS - I don't need the extra battery drain and like using paper maps. But I liked the idea of having this little device quietly logging my journey - it's often hard to remember the precise route when I get home and want to draw a map of the trip (even more so in places like the Netherlands in which I often don't even know my location at the time). And, should I get truly lost, it would be a handy replacement for the Nokia built-in GPS receiver which is really quite pants. (Unfortunately, on this trip I don't think I ever managed to give the GT-200 quite enough charge to start working and remained clueless as to the meanings of all the different LED combinations until I got home).

South of Eindhoven, the flat farmland faded away into gently sloping pine forests.

Close to Leende I stopped at a junction, unsure of which way to go. Dedicated cycle paths headed both left and right through the woods. Should I go left towards Heeze, where a campsite was marked on my map? Or go right, i.e. south east, the direction I am generally headed in, and find another campsite a little further down? While weighing up this decision I noticed the third option and the only one that really mattered - the sign pointing straight on towards a pannenkoekenhuis (pancake house).

Pannenkoekenhuis De Clown is the kind of place I can get on with - or would consider giving it all up and camping next to for the rest of my life. They offer one hundred and ninety different varieties of delicious tasty pancake. I ordered chocolate and banana and was not disappointed.

I am very impressed with the Dutch dedication to pancakes, as am I with the embeddedness of the banana. A lady sitting nearby had a pancake topped with strawberries and fresh cream which also looked fantastic.

Stuffed full of chocolatey banana-y goodness I waddled out of De Clown and got back on my bike. With a little directional help from a cafe owner further down the road I located a small farm campsite close to Leende, where I also found an abundance of mains sockets in the washroom. I hadn't been able to gather a lot of sunshine with the Solio over the past two days so it was good to be able to charge it overnight.

Distance: 54 miles (116 miles so far) • Day 2 Route • Day 2 Photos

Tuesday September 1st: South Holland and Biesbosch

2009-10-13T14:13:00.002+01:00

The boat was due to arrive at 7:45 but I'd forgotten the time zone change so, what with the wake up call being an hour before arrival, I was effectively up at 5:45am. Ouch.

Fortunately the weather smiled upon us as we arrived at Hook of Holland and I cycled off into a beautiful sunny morning, which cast the industrial lands around Rotterdam in a far more flattering light than the last time I visited.

It was good to be back on Dutch cycle paths and the signposts guided me easily along the waterfront past wind turbines, docks and factories. Before long I was feeling thoroughly spoiled to have such lovely paths to ride on. Having right of way when crossing side roads, not having the path come to an abrupt end half way along a busy trunk road... those are things that I could quite happily get used to, but had better not - the UK is a long way off from this.

Dutch cycle paths aren't perfect of course - on our previous trip we got lost quite a lot and often encountered some quite bumpy surfaces. The roads and cycle paths were being dug up in Vlaardingen, and with no sign of any diversion being signposted it came down to common sense and a compass (And a bit of Google maps). Just before I reached Rotterdam, the path turned into a huge sandpit, forcing me to get off and push for a couple of hundred metres.

Just before Dordrecht I had to cross the Oude Maas river, which at that point is spanned by lifting road and rail bridges. The bridges were opening to let boats through when I arrived. The road bridge lifted Tower Bridge style, whereas the rail section was a vertical lift bridge, and it was quite remarkable to watch the two operating side by side. (Photos of the rail bridge under construction)

It had been raining lightly since mid-morning and I stopped in Dordrecht for some shelter and a cheesy pancake. I popped into a book shop to consider getting some proper maps of the cycle paths but at 8 euros each and not covering a huge area, it seemed a bit expensive so I didn't. (I was carrying the same two maps we used in 2006 - a Michelin 1:400K that shows no cycle routes at all, and a fairly useless Benelux cycle map, which shows only the major LF routes and large towns and cities). The afternoon might have gone a little better if I'd made that investment.

More water stood in my way after Dordrecht, this time crossed by ferry. I stopped and chatted to a couple of truck drivers while waiting for the boat, one of them kindly offered to take my photo.

See? It had definitely turned into a bit of a damp day.

The ferry took me into the national park of the Biesbosch, a lovely peaceful area with very few houses and a mixture of woodland, farmland and lakes. I saw herons, and discovered that 300 geese taking flight all at once make the most awesome noise.

The dedicated bike path came to an abrupt stop by the river at Pontje Steur. There was a bell on my side of the river and the world's tiniest ferry was on the other. The ferryman came out of his little hut, waved to indicate he had seen me, and set out across the 40-50m of water that separated us. The ferry was only a couple of metres wide, just enough to take a couple of bicycles or a few people.

It got sunny again towards the end of the day but I got very lost trying to get out of the Biesbosch park - my lack of decent map was not helping, nor were my efforts to follow the LF12 cycle route, which was not exactly direct, and as evening approached I started to need direct.

Eventually I found a little board showing cycle routes, and discovered that I had made little progress and was in danger of going round in circles. It was good to see a map and get my bearings back and I soon reached a small town called Hank on the edge of the park, with a campsite nearby.

Distance: 62 miles • Day 1 Route • Day 1 Photos

Day Zero - getting to the starting post

2009-10-08T18:27:00.007+01:00

Before

This was hardly the best-prepared of bike trips. I finished working about a week before I left, after nine months of dashing back and forth across the country to London and barely seeing home. During that week Dgym and I went on a mini-break to Winchester to check out the area as a potential place to live, and of course pay a visit to Ralph the wetsuited penguin at nearby Marwell Zoo.

I cycled to Winchester and back, an approximately 130 mile round trip, to test out both me and the bike after so many months apart. We did OK and had a particularly lovely time crossing the New Forest.

Day 0

The day of departure arrived, Monday 31st August, and all I wanted to do was stay in bed. It wasn't exactly a positive start - I was already looking forward to spending lazy autumn days at home when I got back, and wondering why I was doing this at all. At least there was an answer to that question: after a crazy few months, I really needed to reboot my brain.

The packing was somewhat last minute, but at least well-rehearsed - my packing list hasn't changed much. I wasn't sure about the mini-pump (a Topeak Roadmorph) as the Schraeder end had given me some trouble a while back, but a quick deflation and reinflation showed the Presta side worked just fine.

I left mid-afternoon, surprised by how light the bike was. I hadn't packed less or got any stronger - I think it had just been a long time since I'd carried those kind of loads.

I stopped half way to the station to take my first photo of the trip, a perfect blue sky textured with several different types of cloud.

The train reached London and I crossed an unusually quiet city to get to Liverpool Street (Notting Hill Carnival was happening on the other side of town). I almost made it without needing a map, but went horribly wrong right at the end and ended up at Old Street.

This being the UK on a bank holiday, it would have been too much to expect the trains to run as normal, and I would like to thank the Sail Rail people for not bothering to inform me that I was actually booking a Sail Replacement Bus ticket. And we all know what the policy is for carrying bikes on replacement buses (If you don't, it generally involves hoping the bike will conveniently dissolve into thin air).

Fortunately, National Express' drivers are a good deal nicer than their policies and, after some discussion that I should perhaps follow the coach or be towed on a rope, my bike was stowed away into the vast underbelly of the coach. It looked like I was going somewhere after all...

After a long coach journey with the world's most annoying squeaky children, we arrived at Harwich ferry port. I boarded, and my bike was tied up on the car deck. I foolishly decided to carry all my panniers up onto the ferry, forgetting what a pain they are to carry all at once, and dropping water bottles, tickets and bags left right and centre. Fortunately the nice ferry staff picked up what I dropped and helped me to my cabin.

The cabin was a pleasant surprise, one of the nicest I've seen on board a ferry - the decor was good, and the bathroom didn't look too much like a ferry bathroom. I sat in bed eating the sushi box I'd picked up in London, and fell asleep easily after that.

New Plans

2009-08-23T19:50:00.006+01:00

It's been a long journey, and I haven't even got on the bike yet.

It was some time in the winter that I got the idea into my head of cycling to Istanbul. It's a long way - about 2000 miles which for me corresponds to two months of cycling. Everybody who I told about it thought I was mad. But, who wouldn't want to cycle to Istanbul? It's that east-meets-west thing, the gateway to Asia, and seemed like it would be a really satisfying place to end a journey. I'd begin in Amsterdam. Amsterdam to Istanbul has a good ring to it, and Amsterdam's not far away. I'd finish work at the end of May, spend a couple of months at home and then set off in the autumn. The journey would take me across an entire continent, over the Alps and through so many different countries, languages and cultures.

As happens with so many of my travel plans, things didn't quite happen that way. I was really happy with the contract I was on and agreed to extend for an extra month, and then another six weeks. They finally set me free but I've only just stopped working, and September starts next week. Which has left me with a boy at home who's been missing me all year, but a brain that desperately needs a break before I get back to normal life. We talked and reached a compromise whereby I'd go away for one month rather than two.

But there's no way I can cycle to Istanbul in two months. What to do? Just do part of the journey? Go somewhere else entirely? For a while I was going to ride from Strasbourg to Belgrade, two cities I would really like to see, and do the other bits of the journey another time - but I haven't exactly been training and I wouldn't get much of a run-up to the Alps. (Momentum is everything.)

I've finally decided to split the journey into two halves and start from Hook of Holland. It would have been Amsterdam but there are rush hour bike-on-train complications there as the ferry gets in at 7:45am. I'll finish somewhere around eastern Italy / Slovenia / Northern Croatia, depending on how things go.

From the North Sea to the Adriatic. I think that sounds pretty good.

I will finish that story...

2009-07-11T14:33:00.009+01:00

... although it's not very cycley.

Dgym was due to drive down and join me in Lulworth the next day for a bit of B&B and seaside time, so I left the campsite and rolled a mile down the hill to the Cove. That was my day's cycling.

Lulworth Cove is a Mecca for Dorset geography teachers. Pilgrimages are made daily so that crowds of clipboard-equipped students can learn how different rates of rock erosion have shaped the Jurassic coastline. Perfect eavesdropping material for a bored geeky cyclist with very little else to do that day.

Five years ago, five equally sized lumps of different types of rock were placed outside the visitor centre - Portland limestone, Purbeck limestone, Wealden, Greensands and chalk. Today there's nothing left of the Wealden, and the Greensands and Chalk have disintegrated considerably, whereas the limestones are still standing tall. If you were considering constructing a building that lasts for more than five years, I hope that helps in your choice of materials.

After that I got bored again, wandered off and bought a pretty windmill for dgym. I'm a bit of a sucker for brightly coloured stuff.

Dgym showed up in the evening and we stayed the night in the Lulworth Cove Inn which was very nice and we had a balcony. We ate at Pebbles restaurant which was disappointing - expensive tiny mediocre food - but we hurried up the road to the Castle Inn afterwards to fill up on delicious puddings.

We squeezed the bike into the car and drove home the next day. I was tired out, oversunned, had a lot to do at home and was feeling generally uninspired by Wednesday's ride (for a multitude of possible reasons).

I'm due to finish work (for real this time) towards the end of August. It'll nearly be cycling time again and I'm busy thinking about where to go, which gadgets to bring, how to get back, etc. More on that soon.

Cycling seasons

2009-07-11T10:50:00.014+01:00

There are two times of year that I consider to be cycling season in this part of the world - April/May and September/October. There are a few reasons for this...

1. Temperatures are reasonable. Although there is often some leftover winter chill in April and September can still be quite hot, it's not usually unbearable in either direction.

2. With about 12 hours of light in the day, there's enough time for a good day's cycling but it's still easy to experience both sunset and sunrise with a good sleep in between.

3. With many people taking advantage of school holidays in July and August, tourist areas are usually open but less busy in the spring and autumn months. This makes things a bit more pleasant, and it's much easier (and often cheaper) to find somewhere to stay.

The benefits of moderate temperature became clear last week when with some time off work, a new tripod and a hired 10-22mm lens from Lenses For Hire (my new favourite people since I turned camera geek) I took off for the Dorset coast.

It was the first time in over a year that I'd ridden fully loaded - if you can call it that. Full camping gear but no kitchen kit, woolly thermals or winter hat. The extra camera stuff probably made up for that a little bit but I was still travelling lighter than usual.

London suffered a heatwave that week (well, 30C) - it looked as if Dorset would remain several degrees cooler but it didn't feel that way. I dawdled about packing all morning and set off into the heat at 1pm. The first few miles were good but once I hit the Dorset Downs there didn't seem to be a lot of shade and I turned into a melty exhausted heap of sweat, dust and suncream. The road surface seemed a little too shiny in places and the mass of grit that ended up stuck to my front tyre confirmed that yes, the road had been melting.

I pulled into the village shop at Piddletrenthide with one water bottle still full but warm enough to take a bath in. Piddletrenthide is lovely - it's a pleasant and quiet village with an amusing name, a nice little shop and there always seems to be somebody to smile at you in the street. I stocked up on delicious tasty cold water and some snacks.

When you're a pale and pasty person stuck out in baking heat all day long, several applications of suncream are needed throughout the day. It can be very easy to miss a bit just once - this time it was my arms and I ended up with a lovely pair of permanent pink arm warmers, which make me look a bit stupid in a sleeveless top.

Near Puddletown I needed to cross a dual carriageway, the A35. Dual carriageway is a rare occurrence in Dorset and every encounter must be savoured. Spotting a footbridge, I pulled off the road, opened the gate and started to wheel my bike up the dusty path. Another gate stood at the top, I peered around and noticed an adjacent field of cows. A couple of nights previously I'd had a dream about being chased by an over-enthusiastic herd of cattle while out walking, and in general I prefer it if they stay on their side of the fence and I stay on mine.

Checking that they were definitely enclosed within a field I opened the pedestrian gate and pushed my bike through, started to turn right onto the bridge and... oh, look. Several enormous Friesians were trotting merrily across the footbridge over the A35 in my general direction. Arrrgghh! The bike was reversed, the gate was closed and the cows and I greeted one another cordially if somewhat tersely before I wheeled back down in search of an alternate route. Yeah, I'm a wuss. But that was clearly their side of the fence.

The land between the Dorset Downs and the coast consists mostly of quite gentle gradients. I was hot and exhausted but things were easy until I reached Lulworth where I coasted down a long hill into the village. My destination was Durdle Door campsite, situated close to the coast near the rocky landmark of the same name, and about a mile outside West Lulworth. And, as I had obviously forgotten from previous visits, up a massive hill. It was long, straight and probably at least 12%, I was knackered and walked the bike all the way up (as I have explained before, not the easy option!)

The campsite wasn't far from the top of the hill, it was quite busy but there was room for a small tent. I pitched up, went straight for the campsite pub and ordered nachos. Oh yes... the nachos. Are they technically still nachos if you serve them with no sour cream, no guacamole and no jalapenos? I'm pretty sure that should be illegal, and I'm very sure it is an insult to nachos. So I had crisps with melted cheese and chicken & tomato sauce for dinner. After a day of munching on Tracker bars I felt a bit cheated

I took a quick walk along the cliffs to catch some sunset and take a few photos before returning to the tent. My head hit the mattress and I was asleep straight away.

Bike hippy misses bike

2009-03-09T19:53:00.005Z

Hi, readers... those of you who are still around anyway. If you're still coming back and checking for new posts every so often, thanks for sticking around. If you're still coming back and checking every day, you're insane and need new hobbies.

I've not exactly lived up to the "bike hippy" label lately. I've been out for some nice day rides close to home (Dorset and Somerset), many in combination with geocaching, but for the last few months I've been peddling the feeble excuse of being far too busy working.

It's not like I've got a real job. Touring made me very much allergic to permanent work, however travelling and life in general take their financial toll and after almost three years of the both of us being unemployed / running our own not-yet-profitable business, it was decided that somebody had better go out and earn some proper money. I think I did pretty well out of it to start with the basic requirement of getting any old contract to top up the bank account (after all it's only for a few months) and end up on a ridiculously cool project developing a brand new website for the BBC. I'm just over half way through a six month contract and having an awesome time.

I'm living part time in London at the moment. I only get home every two weeks or so and whenever I do it always seems like there are hundreds of things to do, the bike rides never seem to happen and it makes me sad. However, working in London was a good opportunity to get the poor neglected little orange brompton out so I'm still getting something of a cycling fix in the form of a 5 miles each way commute, but up and down the A40 is not very adventurous and I miss riding through winding lanes, between green fields, up and down mountains, across continents... see? Daydreaming again.

If you use twitter, you can follow bikehippy. I'm hoping that even if I can't come up with full blog posts all the time I might be able to manage 140 characters every now and then.

Some thoughts on Scotland

2008-07-28T19:00:00.005+01:00

It's been about 3 months since I got back from Scotland.

It hasn't stuck with me the way other trips have, and didn't really leave me wanting more. Only now am I starting to get the travel itch again and when I do it's mostly with memories of earlier trips. Perhaps it's because riding from home to a distant point feels like more of a journey, there's a feeling of achievement and adventure which isn't the same when your start point is also your finish line. Maybe it's that riding in the UK doesn't hold the same excitement as setting off across foreign lands and trying to get by in funny languages. (Gaelic doesn't really count) It's helped me figure out a little more about what I like in a tour, which is good.

There were some nice aspects to the tour. The campsites in Scotland are pretty good and it was great to get hot showers and not smell so bad. It's easier to get hold of books in my own language. The scenery was lovely and it was fun staying at hostels and meeting other cyclists. I was even fortunate enough not encounter any haggis, kilts or bagpipes. The weather sucked at times but I was blessed with a few lovely days too. The drivers acted like British drivers, there weren't too many of them but the single track roads make it more of a big deal when you do meet one.

The food situation left a lot to be desired. I really missed the little boulangeries and charcuteries of France, fresh bread, pastries, cheese, fruit & veg in every town, my morning pain au chocolats... In the remote Scottish islands, such shops are rare. Most are Co-ops and general grocery stores with very little in the way of good fresh produce. The only thing Scotland really had going for it foodwise was the excellent local smoked fish.

The Outer Hebrides are quite a popular cycle touring destination. They are very special with some beautiful spots and I'd recommend going just for the experience of going, but they're definitely not among my greatest cycling experiences, and I doubt that would be much different if the wind had been on my back. I'm quite glad I didn't end up cycling on Lewis as apparently there are many miles of boggy flatness.

Gearing down

Those of you who like to store useless information in your brains may remember that I changed my gearing before going on this trip. In my daily cycling at home I found that this really helped with getting up hills. Once fully loaded I found it helped a little but not enough. Unfortunately I would need to change quite a few more bits and pieces to get my gears any lower so it's not likely to happen soon.

Early return

There were a few reasons why I came back earlier than planned and one of them is also the reason that it's taken me so long to write up this trip... our new business.

Dgym and I started our web hosting business back in January and have been working hard at it ever since. There's been quite a lot to work on, while I was away dgym and I often found ourselves talking quite excitedly over the phone about new ideas, making me a little keener than usual to come back home.

So it's been busy and exciting and it's taken me longer than usual to get the travel itch back into my system, but now summer is here it's happening again and I'm hoping to get enough sorted with the business that I can get going again.

One difficult thing about running this kind of business is that once people have signed up they are paying for a constant service and you need to make sure that service is always there for them. The nice thing is that when the service is running, most people are generally happy and don't tend to bother you. With the right setup to alert you if anything goes wrong or anybody does need help, and the tools to put it right wherever you are, things can be pretty sweet. It somewhat messes with my ideal of riding off into the distance and getting away from technology for a few weeks, but if that's a sacrifice that will enable to me tour at all, it's one worth making.

Wednesday May 7th - Back again

2008-07-27T17:44:00.003+01:00

I woke up early again, disturbed by the breeze, which wasn't as strong as the winds of a few days ago but it doesn't take much to get the tent flapping around. I was away at 7:30 for the final day of riding.

I followed the alternative coastal route, a pleasant little single track lane which I think used to be the main Road to the Isles. It turned onto a cycle lane alongside the main road for the last stretch, and then I was in Mallaig. The ferry to Armadale was short and sweet, and then I was back on Skye, on the Sleat Peninsula which was luscious, green and smelled of wild garlic.

The road mostly followed the coast for a while, then turned inland towards Broadford. The sun was scorching by this point, it was July weather at the beginning of May (and I'm not talking about the previous year's July which was depressingly rainy). The roads were big, wide, straight, empty and fairly flat. I normally hate roads that big but occasionally it's nice to hunch down on a big stretch of tarmac, shift up to the big chainring and go for it.

The miles rolled by and soon I was back on the A87 road where I'd started out my journey, and turning towards Kyle of Lochalsh. It really isn't a great road. The surface is quite poor and it's full of fast lorries.

Grey Mouse and I stopped on Skye Bridge for a final holiday snap, and then arrived in Kyle with about four hours to spare before the train left. I went into the nearby pub for soup and chips. Some pubs like to proudly announce that their food is home cooked, that's great and all but some of them really shouldn't bother. My chips were actually potato wedges and impressively managed to be soggy on the outside and hard on the inside.

I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting around at the station, browsing the station museum and shop there and trainspotter spotting. I'm still not sure why Kyle of Lochalsh station is so important in trainspotter-land...

The train eventually left for Inverness. Unlike the outward journey ten days earlier, today was a clear and sunny day so it was a little easier to appreciate the scenery as we passed by mountains, lochs and moorland. I even saw a few deer.

I wasn't lucky enough to get a cabin on the sleeper train this time but the reclining seats were surprisingly comfortable. I was a little concerned at first that the seats all around me appeared to be reserved, and worried I might end up next to a drooling stranger all night, but as the evening drew on and the train left it became apparent that those seats were reserved for me, to allow a bit more space since there weren't many passengers. I spread out across two seats and slept very well.

Getting home was fun, I won't go into the boring details, suffice to say that if you book advance train tickets for a journey in the south of England while you're in the north of Scotland, make sure you leave a spare couple of hours to allow various different operating companies and call centres to get their act together so you can actually pick up a ticket.

Tuesday May 6th - Small Isles

2008-07-14T22:23:00.011+01:00

After all the cycling on Monday there remained only thirty miles and a short ferry trip to get back to Kyle, one day's worth of riding for two days. I was camped near Arisaig, from which day cruises leave for the Small Isles, and on that particular day the boat was visiting Eigg and Rum.

The boat called at Eigg and there was a choice of either getting off to spend the day there, or continuing for another hour to visit Rum. I decided to stay on and spent a baking hot couple of hours wandering around the small village of Kinloch which consists of a small port, a castle, general store, craft shop, tea room and post office. Supposedly Rum has some of the worst midges in Scotland but they weren't evident today.

I visited the craft shop, a small wooden hut containing a great variety of jewellery, crochet items, picture frames and other handmade crafts. The bloke behind the counter told me his wife made everything in there. He was a creative type too, a carpenter, working on anything from furniture to houses. They had lived on the island for thirteen years and only went over to the mainland about five times a year.

We got back on the boat and, after stopping off to pick up the Eigg daytrippers, we headed back for the mainland. It was a fun day out I suppose. On the boat, we saw a few seals and seabirds - although not having binoculars, I'm not sure I got the most out of it. One lady very kindly let me borrow hers to see distant golden eagles over the cliffs of Eigg, although you could still only make out a small dot.

Dinner was a classically horrible camping meal, an uninspired mess composed of all the leftover stuff in my panniers and a couple of tins from the local co-op. Yum.

Monday May 5th - Ardnamurchan

2008-07-11T14:01:00.007+01:00

Monday was a long and wonderful day, the kind that makes it all worthwhile. The weather was sunny, there was very little wind, beautiful scenery and I had cool new sunglasses.

I'd lost my sunglasses at some point over the past few days, hard to say when as I hadn't been needing them much until I got to Mull. Fortunately Tobermory is one of those towns that actually has shops (rare in the Scottish Isles) so the next morning I was able to buy some new ones, just in time for some sunshine to let me test them out properly.

One other good thing Tobermory had was a bakery/delicatessen, and although I think the lady in the bakery got a bit annoyed with all my umming and erring (being spoilt for choice after many days of nasty stale co-op bread and packaged cheddar), I ended up with four rather nice looking white rolls and a bit of Camembert.

The ferry to Kilchoan was tiny, with room for about three cars which had to reverse on board. It was lucky the weather was good as there was no indoor passenger deck.

Ardnamurchan was wonderful, and gave me the kind of cycling I can really get into. In the first couple of miles the road had started to ascend and I passed a walker who announced "It's a long hill". It really was.

The road wrapped around the back of Ben Hiant and back down to the coast, where it stayed for the next fifteen miles, winding in and out of glittering bays, passing through forest, mountain and moorland.

I stopped at Salen for a drink and a topup of water then headed northwards, off the Ardnamurchan peninsula and past lochs and forests towards the Road to the Isles.

The Road to the Isles is not as great as you'd expect, well maybe as rail routes and big A-roads and rail routes go I suppose it's pretty scenic but after the little winding coastal and mountain routes I'd experienced in the past couple of days, it hardly compared. It wasn't busy but it was big, and they're making it bigger. The roadworks, huge dusty piles of rubble and the stench of fresh tarmac really didn't help matters.

I eventually reached Arisaig after about fifty miles and around 7pm. I found a beach campsite nearby and spent the evening paddling and eating sausage sandwiches.

Sunday May 4th - Ferries

2008-07-10T10:50:00.004+01:00

Sunday was a day of ferries, upon which I planned to reach the Isle of Mull via the mainland port of Oban. My legs were looking forward to a rest after the previous two days.

I left the hostel in time for the 9:20 ferry, saying my goodbyes and feeling slightly sorry for those who were cycling or walking into the still foul weather (Not too sorry though as most would be heading north with the wind on their backs).

I took Grey Mouse into my hand-luggage this time, having been a bit worried on the Eriskay crossing yesterday. If the sea got too rough and we had to abandon ship, how could I leave my mouse to drown? (He has no arms and it's hard to tread water with two stubby little legs and one ear). You have to consider these things. A lady at the ferry port waiting room caught sight of him in my handlebar bag and smiled. He'd have smiled back if he had a mouth.

The crossing was rough to start with. I'd ordered a full Scottish breakfast at the ferry cafe and had trouble finishing it. Scottish breakfast is much like an English one but you get a square sausage (apparently very convenient in sandwiches made from square loaves) and a potato cake.

The boat reached Oban, the wind thankfully having died down a lot, and the sea become a lot calmer. I had business to attend on the mainland, with access to both a mobile phone signal and a railway station I was able to re-book the journey home. I'd hoped for a Friday night train, giving me five days to get back to Kyle of Lochalsh, but ended up with just three (apparently getting bicycle space at such short notice is rather hit and miss).

My second ferry of the day took me to Craignure. It was half past four when we arrived, and I'd usually be thinking about finishing up around the time, but once I hit the road it was hard to stop. It was so wonderful to be freewheeling, coasting, moving at speed again and, although it was raining a bit, the road was rather pretty, with fantastic views across to Ardnamurchan. The rain soon stopped, the sun came out and after about ten miles I started to look for wild camping spots. I'm not very good at that and have a bit of a hard time getting into the mentality of "Hey, I'll just stick my tent there!". Nothing good came up, everything looked too bumpy, slopey, squishy or fenced off and I eventually got to Tobermory.

On the way into town I caught up with three other cyclists, two men up front and a woman a couple of hundred yards behind. I pulled in behind the lady and started chatting about our respective travels. They were heading for a pre-booked B&B in Tobermory. I think she got a bit annoyed with me and invited me to overtake.

I found a hostel in Tobermory but it was full. According to the lady at the desk there were a lot of people looking for budget accommodation that night, and that's when I remembered it was a bank holiday weekend, which is always fun when you're touring. It probably didn't help that Tobermory is also known as Balamory, of kids' TV programme fame, which probably makes it a great spot for people to take their kids on bank holidays.

I headed back up the (rather big) hill and continued down the road until I found the local campsite, which was busy but not full. It was about half past eight by then so I covered up with midge-repellant and started simultaneously pitching the tent and boiling water for dinner.

Saturday May 3rd - South Uist and Barra

2008-07-09T14:08:00.005+01:00

I hoped the wind might die down overnight but if anything it got stronger and again kept me up by constantly rippling through canvas. At least Friday had mostly been quite sunny but I got up at about six o'clock to find an overcast and rainy Saturday morning awaiting. After breakfast I packed up, hopped on the bike and rode on into the windy drizzle.

I took it a small bite at a time, allowing myself a stop after every mile and constantly counting down to the next junction or landmark. The day was grey and the landscape quite flat (which is why I don't have any pictures to post for that portion of the journey) The wind picked up an easterly component for a while as I neared Eriskay, which presented a new problem with sidewinds potentially blowing me into the path of other traffic on the single-track road. I would occasionally swerve intentionally as they approached, to alert them of the risk.

Eriskay came into sight, the connecting causeway a grey ribbon of stone and tarmac across the sea. For a moment the road looped northwards and I had a brief sweet reminder of what it was like to have the wind at your back. The causeway wasn't as bad as it could have been, the stone walls at the edge taking away some of the wind's impact. The road leading off it was a bland grey strip of uphill and headwind, and I got off to use my magic 24-inch gear. I caught sight of a fluorescent yellow dot ahead on the left side of the road and wondered whether it was another insane cyclist heading south, but when I caught up it turned out to be a man on foot.

Eriskay was both hilly and exposed to strong gusts of wind but I finally made it to the ferry port and spent a blissful wind-free hour in the waiting room chatting up two middle aged ladies on a walking trip, who were coming the other way and waiting for a bus.

The ferry ride was pretty extreme. We headed southwards to begin with, hitting huge west-bound waves at an angle, tossing the ship into the air and smashing it back down onto the sea's surface, triggering car alarms and sending spray high into the air. We passengers exchanged nervous looks while the crew strolled around without a care in the world, assuring us this was nothing unusual. They were probably right, the boat turned to the west and, with the sea on our side, we carried on more calmly to Barra.

The road around Barra is circular, and I had to get from the north to the south end, giving me a choice between the east or west coast. Apparently the west is a bit more scenic but on a day like Saturday I didn't think that would matter much - number one priority was to be more sheltered. I was advised that the east coast is more rocky and therefore a bit less exposed, and also a bit shorter, so decided on that. This partially worked, some bits were sheltered and others very exposed.

Towards the end there was one more huge climb for which I got off and pushed, before an equally enormous descent took me down to Castlebay.

I stayed at the hostel, everything clean and quite modern. The hostel was quite busy and I shared a dorm with Maireadh, an Irish lady also cycling alone (again, northbound). She told me she was married with two kids, worked for the tax office in Dublin and liked to get away on her own on the bike a couple of weeks each year.

The weather was still horrible when I went to sleep that night, but I was relieved to be indoors, having completed my southbound journey. I was leaving the Outer Hebrides the next morning, which meant a change of direction and hopefully a change of weather.

Friday May 2nd - The silly direction

2008-07-03T09:03:00.006+01:00

The original journey plan involved travelling from south to north on the Outer Hebrides. This was a carefully researched decision based on prevailing winds, which can be pretty strong on these exposed islands. A wise decision, you might think...

Perhaps not such a wise decision to completely revise my journey plan a couple of days into the trip, and decide that I'd be going North to South instead, my only concession to the prevailing winds being "Oh well... how bad can a headwind be?"

The answer made itself clear over the next couple of days. There had been no wind on Harris, but during the night at Berneray my tent started flapping like crazy and I woke up every couple of hours thinking "I hope that's going in the right direction" and "I hope the tent pegs hold out". My position by the shore was fairly exposed.

Unfortunately, the wind was in pretty much exactly the wrong direction and Friday saw me struggle for fifty miles across mostly flat and exposed landscapes, directly into it. However, I did meet some nice little ponies.

My morale dropped to approximately zero at around 35-40 miles, especially when oncoming cars sped towards me along the single track road with very little consideration. It didn't help that the landscape was a bit flat, mostly on not particularly beautiful roads, and at those kind of speeds I get bored quite easily. That's why I'm a cyclist and not a walker.

The advantage of choosing a silly direction to cycle in is that you tend to meet slightly more sensible cyclists coming the other way (Or perhaps I'd rather meet the silly ones, I'm not sure). I met a group of ten or fifteen riders coming the other way on North Uist, out of whom two ladies stopped to chat, they turned out to be from the CTC sections of Aberdeen and Bristol.

Huge dark clouds threatened for a couple of hours on South Uist, but it never actually rained. I found a Co-op on Benbecula and stocked up on doughnuts and Snickers bars for sugary energy comforty snacky purposes.

I finally made it to Howmore, another of the Gatliff hostels, absolutely knackered. The hostel consisted of a number of blackhouses, some containing the dorms and shared area, one in use as an impromptu bike shed, and several tents parked among the ruins of others. I found an empty spot (again, quite exposed), pitched up and dived into dinner, which was local flaky smoked salmon with broccoli and rice and was absolutely fantastic. The other campers all turned out to be cyclists and we sat around in the hostel chatting into the evening before I retired to my tent and checked the pegs were stuck firmly in the ground in readiness for another windy night.

Thursday May 1st - South Harris and Berneray

2008-06-16T11:39:00.007+01:00

It rained most of the night and early in the morning, and there had been a bit of sunshine since then, but the weather seemed a bit unsure about what it wanted to do. I chose a sunny moment to say my goodbyes to Laura and Jack, and head off through South Harris.

The first six or seven miles were desolate, grassy and rocky. The map pointed out "South Harris Forest" to the north, but there wasn't a tree in sight.

The road looped inland and emerged on the coast again at Luskentyre Beach, a vast expanse of fine white sand and quite a jaw-dropping sight as it first came into view between the bare hillsides.

Beaches were the theme of the day after that, from the stunning clear turquoise sea at Seilebost through tiny rocky bays at Horgabost and Borve, to Scarista which is overlooked by a golf course. Thankfully the hills were a little kinder around there, although there was quite a big climb as the road changed direction south towards Leverburgh.

It had turned into a sunny day and I rode north onto Berneray, which was so lovely and peaceful, the sun was out, nobody was around and seals were basking on the rocks.

I made my way to Baile for the Gatliff hostel, following the tiny "Hostel" signs until the road turned into a field of sheep and I wondered whether I'd come to the right place. Several stone buildings stood in various states of repair and disrepair, with builders working on some of them. The builders said I should just pitch up and wait for the warden to come round later.

I found a nice flat spot by the shore, full of sheep who soon scattered when it became apparent I was there to stay. The nearest building was a derelict stone cottage with a grass roof but no roof-goats.

It was a couple of miles ride back down the road to the nearest phone box as I couldn't get a mobile signal (Apparently not all networks are created equal, and on the Outer Hebrides most of them are greater than mine) I'd had quite a lovely day so for once was able to sound a bit more jolly on the phone to dgym.

There were two others guests at the hostel. I was quite excited to see Mike's trike as it was exactly like dgym's and you don't see those too often. Mike was a Hebridean resident, living on Lewis and quite regularly cycling up and down the islands.

71-year-old Dave was not on a bike but a cycling enthusiast nonetheless. He had cycled in 84 out of the 86 counties, and firmly believed that riding a bicycle is the most fun that can possibly be had. He told us about a 1950's Claude Butler at home in need of repair. It sounded like a lovely bike and I told him he really should take it to a bike shop to get it fixed up.

Wednesday April 30th - Fairy Glen and the edge of the world.

2008-06-10T22:30:00.003+01:00

The day started out beautifully, a few dark clouds that soon faded away. I had several hours to kill until the 2pm ferry, so left the tent behind and headed for Fairy Glen.

Fairy Glen is one of those wonderful little secrets that you won't find signposted on marked on the map, I'd seen references to it on the internet with no real idea as to what was there, just talk of how magical it was.

It was a few miles away from the town and I had to ride all the way around the bay, up a fair bit and then up a fair bit more after I'd turned off the main road. It was worth the climb. I reached the top of the hill to find myself looking down into a valley full of little natural hill formations covered in sheep. It was pretty unique, not a soul in sight, interesting scenery, beautiful day, nice sheep... but I didn't see any fairies.

I returned to the campsite, showered (Scottish campsites are so much better than French ones when it comes to getting a decent hot shower and it's fair to say I probably smelled better on this trip than the last one) and packed away. I stopped at a cafe in town for all day breakfast (nothing special) and boarded the ferry.

Sailing to the Outer Hebrides felt a bit like sailing to the edge of the world, or at least to a remote rocky outcrop on the edge of the Atlantic. As the bloke on the campsite had predicted the weather had cooled down and it was now becoming windy and overcast.

At Tarbert I found a mobile signal for the first time since I'd arrived, so stopped to call dgym. As we spoke, raindrops started to fall. By the time I got off the phone, it was pouring. I had planned on getting to a campsite a few miles down the road but, as the Rock View Bunkhouse conveniently appeared as I rode through the town, I suddenly failed to see the point.

I've never been convinced about hostels... well, I've only ever stayed in one and that was pretty awful but this one was OK. The kitchen facilites were a bit old and in some cases broken, and the decor a bit outdated, but didn't have bare electrical wires or things growing in the showers or even obnoxious Dutchmen making loud phonecalls at 2am.

There were only two other guests that night, Laura and Jack, two travellers who had met up a couple of days previously. Both were getting around by public transport. Laura was born in the USA but had been travelling for 20 years. From what she said, I concluded she was in her fifties, although she looked much younger. She was a Muslim (although not born so) and her hijab had attracted mockery almost as soon as she set foot in Oban. She was hoping to reach Edinburgh the next evening, and going to Doncaster after that. Jack, an Aussie who I estimated to be in his late sixties, wasn't sure where he was off to next.

I had sardines on toast for dinner, toast being a rare luxury for the regular camper. Somebody had left the toaster on one of the many "black" settings so I managed to smoke out the kitchen, conveniently not setting off the somewhat dubious smoke alarm.

Tuesday April 29th - Trotternish

2008-06-04T20:25:00.005+01:00

In France it was easy to fall asleep and wake up with the sun. It was just the right time of year that the night hours made for convenient sleeping hours, and I rather liked it that way. It was a bit harder to do that in Scotland - the nights were already on the short side, about five or six hours, so I'd often fall asleep in light and the sun got up well before I did.

The night was quite chilly at Portree. I'd brought my light sleeping bag, which was fine but I had to wear warm stuff inside it too and make the most of the hood and drawstrings.

I woke at 7:30 and left at 9, pleased to find that at I hadn't got any slower at getting away in the morning. I was pleased to find that the BBC's "two raindrops" forecast for Tuesday was a pack of lies, and the day was pleasantly sunny, a blue sky with only a few puffy white clouds.

I carried on up the road and onto the Trotternish Peninsula, which is characterized by a huge ancient landslip running most of its length. The traffic and I parted ways at this point, and the road turned single track. Sheep wandered everywhere. As animals go, sheep are quite cyclist-friendly, despite being a bit annoying if you get stuck behind one. Unlike dogs, horses and cattle I've never had a sheep try to "take me on" by rearing up, chasing or charging. They seem to be universally terrified of the bicycle in a non-aggressive way, even if they will jog half a mile while frantically dashing themselves against the nearest fence in order to prove it.

I passed the Old Man of Storr, a tall needle-like rock on the landslip, and Kilt Rock, a cliff with a tartan-like pattern marked out by rock strata, with its nearby waterfall. I don't think I'd ever seen a "proper" waterfall before.

The terrain was quite tough, a lot of ups and downs, and my legs were still getting used to carrying a full load again, but there were plenty of interesting, rocky and beautiful landscapes and things were made easier by the lovely weather.

I dropped down a series of sharp hairpin bends into Uig, having revised my original route quite considerably and planning on getting the ferry to Tarbert the next day. I spent the night on a mostly empty campsite with lovely views across the water, the rocky outline of the Outer Hebrides visible on the horizon.

Monday April 28th - Skye

2008-06-03T11:38:00.005+01:00

I started out on the A87 from Kyle of Lochalsh, over the bridge to Skye and then along the eastern coast towards Portree, the island's capital. Huge logging trucks thundered past on the single carriageway and I managed to scare the occasional sheep into running away from me - unfortunately when sheep run away, they often do so quite slowly in a straight line directly ahead of you, and are happy to do so for a considerable distance.

After a couple of hours of weak sunshine, the weather took a turn for the greyer again. Curtains of white mist descended over the Cuillin hills, obscuring what would otherwise have been a wonderful view.

As first days go, it could have been better. There's often a morale drop near the beginning of a tour, you wonder why you're doing what you're doing, you miss the comforts of home, and the distance yet to be covered is vast and intimidating, but it doesn't normally kick in on the first day.

I reached Sligachan after 25 miles, damp and downhearted. There was a campsite by the loch, it was closed but there were four or five tents parked there anyway. I suppose with land access right being what they are in Scotland, a closed campsite just means closed facilities. I sat down in the doorway of the toilet block to shelter from the drizzle that had just started. The weather, the traffic and my own lack of fitness had been getting to me.

After about 15 minutes I decided I'd had enough for the day so started testing various areas of campground for squishiness (result: mostly quite squishy). I'd just picked a slightly less squishy spot when I glanced up at the horizon and noticed a promising white light and hint of blue in the general direction of Portree. Hooray! Exactly the morale boost I needed. I abandoned my camp plans and set off again. My legs were hurting but after a couple of miles it was downhill all the way to Portree, where I camped just beyond the town.

Dinner was buttered macaroni and local smoked mackerel fried with onions, which was surprisingly tasty.

Sunday April 27th - Getting there

2008-05-22T18:44:00.011+01:00

The journey started at Horsley station, with me plus half my body weight in bike and luggage on one side of the tracks, four minutes until my train was due, and my passage rudely interrupted by one of those pesky iron footbridges that is the scourge of train-travelling cyclists UK-wide. Had this been the end rather than the beginning of a tour and I was feeling a little fitter, I might just have been able to heave everything up one side and restrain it from crashing down the other, but I decided not to risk breaking my back.

I left the bike and handlebar bag on one side and raced (well, it felt like racing but probably looked more like waddling) over the bridge with all four panniers, then returned for the rest while several bystanders gazed on with amusement. It's not easy even getting an unladen bike over those things, and I only just made the train.

I was headed for the western islands of Scotland, a journey I'd had in mind ever since I'd got back from France, seen the vast empty mountainous landscapes of the Highlands on the telly a few times and imagined rolling up and down those long lonely roads on my bike.

I reached London and crossed from Waterloo to Euston without incident, apart from nearly wrenching my left hip out of its socket while stopped at traffic lights when my body forgot that a fully loaded touring bike is quite hard to hold upright.

The lights were off in the bike compartment and I spent several minutes struggling with a torch between my teeth while trying hang the bike up on the accursed hooks that train companies seem so keen on (those who care about their wheels slightly less so). Fortunately there was another cyclist to help, Harold, who was heading up the western and northern coasts over 5 days, riding 70 miles a day and staying in pre-booked B&Bs. We sat down in the lounge car later on, compared routes and chatted about cycling with a lady whose name I never found out, not a cyclist but a keen hill-walker. She worked in Scotland for the John Muir Trust, a charity which is not very well known but owns and protects various wild land in Scotland, including the peak of Ben Nevis which apparently cost about £400K a few years ago. She reassured me that, despite the miserable weather forecast over the next few days, I was bound to end up with at least some good weather over the next three weeks.

Being short on funds, I had booked a reclining seat on the sleeper but there was no power in the carriage I was supposed to be in so it was replaced with a berth carriage and I was fortunate enough to get a free bed for the night. Best of all, this included a toiletry kit with an awesome little collapsible toothbrush. I didn't sleep particularly well, mainly through excitement (about Scotland, not the toothbrush). Scotland isn't technically a different country but it has its own identity and is quite distinct in a lot of ways and I was really excited about seeing it for the first time. Every couple of hours, or every time the train stopped, I'd get up and peek through the window to see what station we'd stopped at, are we in Scotland yet, is it light yet...

It was light, and turning out to be a grey and drizzly day, by the time we reached Inverness. Thankfully, Inverness station is easy to get around with a bike and has no nasty footbridges. I stopped off at the cash machine to get some funny money and then boarded the train to Kyle of Lochalsh. A little old man seated by the bike compartment, started talking to me in a strong regional accent, and I had very little idea of what he was actually saying. I had joked before I left, that I'd probably have a harder time understanding the locals in Scotland than I did in France, but this did make me a bit worried that it might actually be true.

Harold and I chatted some more on the train, then he got out at some intermediate station whose name I forget, to begin his journey north. I hope he enjoyed it...

The train passed green-brown mountains, lochs, pine trees and sheep-covered grasslands. Newborn lambs frolicked and played together, big hairy cows grazed.

The sun came out as we arrived in Kyle of Lochalsh, and the cycling began.