The Glittering Prizes

I entered a competition on twitter where you had to send in a photo of yourself in London 100 kit. I had one on my desktop, sent it in and I've won a water bottle signed by the World & Olympic cycling champion, Laura Trott; but what on earth do I do with it? If I so much as breathe near it the signature comes off so I can't use it, and yet a signed, plastic water bottle on a shelf?

6 Days To London

Six days to the Prudential London - Surrey 100 and there are all kinds of conflicting weather reports for the day. As I type, the sky is bruised and thunder is rolling round the countryside looking for somewhere to relieve itself, so I'm hoping for an improvement. Every time I do a big ride the weather turns belligerent and it would make a nice change to gather a suntan.

Firkin Challenge 2013

TDF 2014

I painted the window of one of Ripon's boarded up shops and it garnered the attention of the press and our Tory MP, Julian Smith:

Claire, Neil, Rob, Julian Smith MP, Stuart, Al, Self

London 100

Preparing to set out on a training ride for the London, Surrey 100 with Alastair Little. 2 weeks to go.

Old Favourites

I spend a good deal of time trundling around the countryside searching out new and interesting routes to ride, sometimes neglecting the old favourites and forgetting why they are old favourites - it's easy to be seduced by the tougher, hilly routes and forget the benefits and beauty of a fast, flat-ish ride through the countryside to the east of home.  So after a break of several months I decided to do the 'Boroughbridge Route'. The first mile or so gets you out of Ripon and there is a flat straight of half a mile in length where you can judge the wind direction and decide (if you haven't done so already from the direction of the cathedral flag) whether it will be easy on the outward or homeward journey.

Once over the bypass the road heads out through Littlethorpe and immediately into quintessentially English countryside: small, hedged meadows, knots of woodland, grazing cattle & sheep and a chicken curious to find out what's on the other side causes a moment's swerving excitement. Today is one of the first really warm days of summer and the scents of the hedgerow, (covered now in Campion, Violets and Cow-parsley) rise to meet me, along with a significant hatch of flies - perhaps I should have gone fishing! Once onto the Knaresborough road I pass the farm with the sleepy red bull and gently rise out of the valley. The landscape opens like a book and as I approach the highest point on the ride panoramic views open eastward to the Hambleton hills and the White Horse.

By Bishop Monkton the legs have usually warmed up and it's time to turn on the gas; there's a bit of mild showing off as I zip past a busy pub garden and sweep through the village on the drops. Passing the old dairy farm, the lane is covered in cow shit…….Green and skiddy in the wet, rumble-strip hard today. And then the road turns Ypres - potholes the size of craters gape and maw and threaten to bounce bottles from cages or twang spokes like a piano at the breaker's yard but I'm wise to it and slalom through the battlefield, cross the little stream at Holbeck wood and rise into the sunshine and now I'm into time trial country.

The road from here to Roecliffe is smooth, flat and sinuous and my world narrows to existentialist self awareness: cadence, breathing, my own shadow and the sound of the bike. I watch my thighs hammering down on the pedals and the road flies past beneath me in a blur. Heart rate 165 (yep - I'm getting old), speed 26.4 mph, distance 8 mls (half way); it's beginning to hurt; keep pumping, ignore the pain, ignore the wind, concentrate. At Roecliffe I ease off, take the sharp left hander at the Crown Inn and once more the road gets tetchy and in the tree-dappled sunlight it's hard to avoid the holes. Up a couple of hills - they're not even hills dammit -  they're rises, but they are enough to chop my speed to about 16 mph and my average is being chomped away at.

Under the A1 and in to Boroughbridge and the driver in front thinks she can't get through a gap big enough for a gypsy wedding; there's no way past, my track standing is track lying down so I unclip and wait for Godot.

Back on it, over the Ure, avoid a 4x4 roundabout massacre (it's impossible to ride through Boroughbridge without at least one attempt on your life) and left through Langthorpe where the council have helpfully spray painted the potholes in order to make them more attractive when you fall down them - urban graffiti comes to the sticks.  Back under the A1 and up the god-awful little hillock to the skylark fields and the comforting smell of pigs. Full gas again to Skelton where an elderly couple in straw hats and deck chairs give me a cheery wave and I  hammer on. Another exciting moment of gravel on a tight right-hander and on to the Main road. Clear, out of the saddle and build speed down the hill and the glorious left hander onto Hewick Bridge. The river glints and shimmers in the sunshine - perhaps I should have gone fishing - and as I approach the race course, a cue of traffic stretches ahead of me (evening meeting) so I pull over and take a reading from my computer - Ave heart rate 157, Ave speed 20.1 mph - that's ok. the final mile is leisurely but the road is busy. The ominous sound of squealing air brakes assails me from behind and I'm engulfed in the shadow of a monster truck; when the road clears he pulls out to the other side of the road to overtake and I wave, he stays out until I see him in his mirror, I wave him in and he blasts his horns in salute………a cheering finish to a good ride.

Black Sheep Firkin Challenge, 2013

Simon, Beags, Al, Self, Deano, Mike.

In 2008 in an effort to raise money for for my charity, I set off to cycle from Darlington to Vienna. It was late May/early June and I'd imagined a fortnight of sunny days pootling through the English countryside, into Holland, Germany and finally down the Danube in to Austria, instead it hammered down for over a week, blew several gales, and brought down trees across my path.

Last year I was persuaded to do the Firkin challenge which as many of you will know is a hundred mile bike ride through the Yorkshire Dales to raise money for Wooden Spoon, again in May. It lashed down and the temperature dropped below freezing (the countryside was too bleak for trees).

As I write I'm sitting in a cottage in Devon where I've come to get in some cycle training for this year's Firkin Challenge. It's coming down stair rods and blowing a hoolie; the forecast for the day of the race is for the weather to deteriorate!

The morning of the 2013 Firkin Challenge dawns; I say 'dawns' though it doesn't actually get light, there is only a barely discernible lessening of the darkness and a snare-drum roll of rain batters the plants outside my bedroom window. I drag my charity-shop body out of bed, squash it into hideous lycra and await the arrival of my teammates and the van that will carry us and our bikes, food and equipment to the start. The team - Robabank Twostep - arrive and en route the road ahead turns milky with bouncing water and the windscreen wipers flail ineffectually against the deluge but we are in wry good spirits. On arrival at Black Sheep Brewery in Masham where the Firkin starts we have a briefing, receive our race numbers, then head outside again to prepare ourselves and our bikes for the 'fun' ahead.

8:55 a.m. - Start time, sees the starters huddled under an awning brandishing clipboards, an unfortunate photographer swathed in wax jacket and wellington boots and we few, we happy few, we band of brothers - Al our leader, Beags and Deano, Simon, Michael and Me, astride our trusty steeds, dripping like willows. And we're off. And there's a crash - three minutes in and Beags runs into the back of Deano and hits the deck, embarrassment wraps him in its reddening grip but from now to the ending of the world he can roll up his hose and say 'These scars did I receive upon the Firkin day.'

Trees wave us on our way, birdsong dopplers overhead and villages zip past in a blur of hiss and spray:  Watlass and Well, Hackfall and Hornby. Soon enough we are in Hauxwell and the first real climb of the day; the 'peloton' strings out and the world slows: sweat mingles with the rain dripping from my nose and running into my eyes, my riding glasses steam up and I can't see, my 'waterproof' gloves have lived up to their name and refuse to let any water out, lending my grip on the bars a cold, clammy, squelch, and my overwhelming sensation is of trying to force too much oxygen into my lamentably inadequate lungs whilst the downpour dampens the fire in my legs. At the top there's a regrouping and we all pretend not to be breathing through our ears, but the heaving chests and mouth open grins give the game away.

The road sweeps along the top of Barden Moor escarpment with Penhill to our left and roadside signs warn of the possibility of being run over by a tank or shot on the firing ranges (there was no mention of this at this morning's safety briefing). The road plunges into valleys and grinds back up again and after thirty miles or so we reach Reeth and our first checkpoint.  Standing in the rain we have our cards marked and more photographs taken though I don't remember smiling for the camera. From here it is a ten mile climb to Tan Hill Inn, the highest pub in the British Isles at 1,732 feet (528 m) above sea level and famous for Ted Moult's clumsiness with a feather. But we haven't got there yet: there's still the matter of the ten mile ascent. Of course there are some downhill bits too, but they are the kind of downs that snigger and mock the ups you've just done and taunt you for the ones you are about to do - every freewheeled downhill foot to be revisited in an 8 mph uphill slog.

A shout of 'mechanical!' from behind alerts us to the fact that Al, our team leader has a problem; we slow the pace further and await news………catastrophe…….the gravitational pull on Al's robust person has proven too strong for his lightweight Mavic wheels and a spoke has pinged. News and advice volley backwards and forwards but in the absence of a spare back wheel bad tidings inevitably trickle through - Al's abandoned.  Reluctantly we press on without him and the task in hand soon reasserts itself as our main concern - up and ever up. We overhaul others struggling towards the top. The rain eases. Someone has a puncture, we grind past more bikes. False summit after false summit and we're in the clouds.  Water pours across the road in a river, visibility decreases with our reserves of energy. Take a drink, pedal on, I can't feel my feet, will it never end? I take a look at my bike computer - 39.7 miles - not even half way! Up and up, to a cattle grid and then at last, through the mist, Tan Hill, our support crew and a few minutes respite.

I eat and drink at the roadside and change most of my clothing for dry stuff: warm socks - bliss! Soon the cold begins to gnaw at us and we must press on to keep it at bay.  From here the route plunges off the moor towards Kirkby Stephen; it is a fast, tricky and at times, technical descent, particularly with the amount of water on the road and we have to be careful not to overcook the corners; nonetheless we reach speeds well over 40 mph. Soon we're below the cloud-base and the Eden valley opens in front of us - Welcome to Cumbria!

It seems odd that as we pass through the market town of Kirkby Stephen, everyone is going about their daily business - life is normal, and yet we are in a kind of cocoon: shut off from normality, in a world of our own. But we soon come down to earth with a bump, or at least Deano does: he somehow contrives to run into my back wheel and ends up sprawled across the tarmac like a suddenly beached swimmer. There are some minor recriminations: 'You braked!' 'No I didn't; you weren't paying attention.' Deano bends his rear derailleur back into shape and we're off again to our next checkpoint at Nateby and we're just over half way. To everyone's surprise a land rover pulls up and Al jumps out complete with replacement bike which he has somehow managed to conjure up from home so team Robabank is back together again.

It's a long drag from Nateby to checkpoint 3 at Hawes through the wild country of Mallerstang, but there is a sense of moving towards home territory and the big climbs are behind us. Hawes welcomes us with trays of delicious Fat Rascals and on top of them I shovel in a load of carbs in pasta form to fuel the final thirty odd miles.

Once out of Hawes we form a train behind Al who is fresh as a spring lamb and we put the hammer down - the villages of Wensleydale fly by and there are some moments of pure joy as the peloton swings out to the white line and swoops through the apex of corners at high speed like Spitfires coming off the top of a roll or Swallows in pursuit of hatching Mayfly. Askrigg, Newbiggin, Carperby. Bolton Castle towers above us and we hare by, the fields are impossibly green, like emeralds and then we hit Redmire and down to the outskirts of Wensley where we join the main road and pull into Wensleydale Rugby Club and our final checkpoint. We sign in, grab a quick drink and some chocolate cake which appears from nowhere and we're soon off on the final leg. 

The last few miles, familiar to us from our training rides, seem endless and our legs are tired. We are determined to keep the group together so we can finish as a team but it means waiting, when all we really want to do is get off these damned bikes, but eventually we roll into Masham and up the final hill to the finish and forming a line, we all ride over together and cheers fill our ears and cameras flash and we do indeed get off these damned bikes!

Later we drink beer and wallow in the warm glow of success and we talk over the day and was it worth it? Oh yes!

Darlington to Vienna - The Route and Blog:

Here is the approximate route I took.  The map is interactive so give it a moment to load.

View Larger Map


I've archived the rest of the blog in order to speed up loading. You'll find it all under 'blog archive' on the right hand side.

Blighty

Setting off from the Education Village was an emotional affair - after months of preparation and training, the time came to say goodbye to everyone and what a turnout! It was lovely to see so many friends, The Worshipful Mayor of Darlington and of course children of the village. There were many photographs taken and I began to get very nervous as the time to leave approached - rituals that were to become second nature were gone through for the first time - the smearing of the Vaseline amongst them - and I began to contemplate the absurd distance ahead of me. I climbed into Myfanwy to change and it was a haven of quiet - I wanted to sit down and stay there - the noise and chatter outside began to make me anxious and I knew I had to move now or I was sunk. Back outside the clamour fills my head and I begin to feel sick – more photographs – I straddle my bike, Becky tells me how proud she is of me, I want to stay and I want to go. “Will you cycle round the roundabout once so we can get some cycling photo’s?” I say I will but as I push down on the pedals for the first time I know that I can’t and head straight down the drive and out into the road. I wave once and then: “It’s just you and
me now Jamie.”
I wonder: should I have stayed longer, should I have said a few words of thanks? But I’m glad to be away at last and at home on my bike.

The Worshipful the Mayor of Darlington - Councillor Ian G Haszeldine.

The weather is good, and after getting through the Darlington traffic, I head out into familiar countryside on a route I've done many times before. I meet Phil and Jenny in Easingwold and get some massive sandwiches from the deli' for lunch. Fortunately we've all watched the David Attenborough programmes avidly and as a consequence are able to dislocate our lower jaws in the manner of cow eating snakes, which is fortunate since our sandwiches are indeed the size of a medium sized ruminant.
Jaw back in place and stomach swaying from side to side I head off again – perhaps a little slower than before but nonetheless in good spirits.

At the end of this, the first day I have reached Pocklington, (or Pock, to the locals) and I’ve covered 72.3 miles. I meet up with P & J again and as we begin to load the bike onto Myfanwy I’m stopped by an old lady who kindly gives me a couple of pounds for the charity.
We’ve decided that since it is not far, we’ll drive home and spend the night there rather than pitch up in Pock’, so there’s a good deal of confusion when I rock up at my local bar in the evening.

Sat 24th May (day 2)


The second day sees me heading through the slightly less familiar countryside of the Yorkshire Wolds and there are one or two stiff-ish climbs that take me by surprise. I pass through the ancient market town of Market Weighton, a place with a colourful history of giants and witches – one of whom, Peg Fyfe, reputedly skinned a local youth alive in the 1660s. Hanged for the crime, she swallowed a spoon to save herself but upon escape was hacked to bits by two passing knights – so not a good day for her.


The first major landmark of the trip is the Humber Bridge which I’ve been looking forward to crossing but it proves more elusive than I’d imagined and I get lost within sight of it’s towers. The delay is frustrating but soon I’m on the bridge and the wind that had been against me changes direction, increases tenfold and whoops me across at brake melting speed. I should have made the most of it since it’s not long before I’m battling into the wind again, and as the landscape flattens out it gets stronger and stronger. We meet up for lunch in the prettily named Barnetby le Wold; It’s name by far and away the prettiest thing about it. There don’t appear to be any restaurants or pubs open so we sit in Myfanwy. So. Pasta for lunch then!
It begins to rain in the afternoon but I’m not worried – it’ll pass over and we are heading south. What with the wind and the rain it is quite a hard afternoon and I’m pleased to finish the day in Hemingby with another 72.5 miles behind me, sore legs and an aching bum – more Vaseline needed!

Jenny has arranged for us to park up in the car park of the Coach and Horses pub. Good Lass! So, after a shower and change we head in for dinner, noticing as we do that the pub holds a couple of ‘Tastes of Lincolnshire’ awards. Here’s a tip: If you’re ever tempted to have a nibble of Lincolnshire – resist! If this is the best, there must be some pretty rotten stuff out there. Anyway, the beer’s good so we get plenty of it down our necks and misguidedly top it off with a bottle of the ‘House’. Who’s going to be waking everyone up in the middle of the night?

A hot day for the Lincolnshire newshounds.


Sun 25th May

We stayed in the car park of the Coach and Horses pub in Hemingby last night and it's from here I set off into the wind once more, bound for Boston where we stop for a loo visit and some breakfast. If I'd thought the wind was a problem I now find it has started to rain and boy, does it rain! Now you'd think, as I did, that things can't get worse. Just as this comforting idea is formulating in my mind I get a puncture.........Bugger! Phil and I spend what seems like hours fixing the damned thing whilst hiding from the weather in the lea of a village hall and then I'm off again. I manage about four miles when I get.............Another puncture. The rain continues to lash down and the wind continues to whip across the endless miles of bugger all and Jenny and I sit glumly in the steamed up Myfanwy whilst poor Phil changes the tube and tyre. We have some pasta for lunch and sit on whilst the rain drums on the roof.





We try to sit it out but after an hour or so it becomes obvious that I will have to set off again and I'm getting pissed off with wet lycra. On and on; water pouring off my waterproof top and running down into my shoes. It runs down my face and mixes with snot, turning me into a kind of cycling slug and the landscape is remorselessly flat. FLAT. Did I say flat? Well I meant FLAT. I finish the day in Chatteris

In the restaurant - Chatteris
In Chatteris we go in search of somewhere to eat. There are two or three restaurants and pubs along what appears to be the main street so we split up and recce the joint. Jenny recons she’s found the ideal spot – well I think that’s what she said! So in we go. It’s a funny little place – half pub, half restaurant, we get some drinks, plonk ourselves down in some leather armchairs and grow stubble whilst the woman behind the bar decides whether to bring us menus or not; we give up and collect our own. It’s an odd menu, and even odder, I notice is a line at the bottom saying, ‘We do not serve tap water!’ What the hell is that about? After ordering we’re taken through to the restaurant where we order wine and, of course, tap water. The young waitress disappears and returns with the wine and a nervous tick.
“I’m sorry, we don’t serve tap water” She says.
“Why not?” I snap. “It’s not as if there isn’t plenty of the stuff about”.
She squirms with embarrassment and says she doesn’t know; she’s new. This sort of answer cuts no ice with me at all, but I can see I’m in a minority of one – Phil and Jenny clearly feel sorry for her and I soon begin to see their point. She’s as pleasing to look at as a Sumo’s gusset and she’s far from the brightest star in the firmament, so we let it go.
What possible reason can there be for a restaurant not to serve tap water; other than to mug its customers? We are allowing ourselves to be conned and dictated to by silly fashionistas who think that an exorbitantly costly bottle of French bog water looks more sophisticated than a jug of the recently precipitated with ice. Well think again!

Monday 26th May (Bank Holiday) Spitting on to rain!






First sight of a windmill. No, not in Holland, but in Suffolk A beautiful day as we enter EssexA lovely view of Harwich ferry terminal from my bedroom window on Myfanwy. This is where we spent the night. Below that, the ferry, and finaly, boarding.
Also. I'd like to thank the guys I've met on the cycle ways of Holland and Germany. send me your emails, I'll reply when possible and thanks for your kind comments.

Holland

Holland I can't remember where the photo below was taken but I like its balance so I'm putting it in..... O.k. so it's a bit arty farty but get used to it ..... it's my blog and I'll farty if I want to.
Anyway, here we are - on the continent. Well you know what they say - Harwich for the continent - Ripon for the incontinent.......................Sorry!
We docked at Hook of Holland this afternoon and we've made it as far as Dordrecht. On arrival Jenny throws a bit of a wobbly and refuses to look round the place, so Phil and I go for a bit of a wander. I'm excited to be in a foreign country at last and I like the look of the place. We return to Myfanwy and look for somewhere to stay.
We're in a great campsite in the outskirts of the town/city? and in celebration we've garlanded half the site with my gaily fluttering washing, cheering up the other campers no end. We plan to head into town for some food. By accident we stumble across a brilliant place called the Grand-cafe Boekmans which serves really good, simple food and good wine, but it is without doubt the service which makes the place what it is. The waitresses are smiley and chatty and enjoy using English - they even have a menu in English - Ein Englische Karte - Needless to say we have a great time and I'd go back like a shot. This is a view of Dordrecht.

Holland, as many of you may know, has a tendency towards the flat. And as you can see, not only are the roads flat but they are unchallenging in the steering department too. This piece of straight went on for at least fifteen miles! Despite an unpromising landscape, this is a country I really like. The people we meet are unfailingly friendly and love to speak English and I would very much have liked to speak Dutch back to them, even if only a few words but we are here for such a very short time.And then of course, there are canals. They carry the biggest barges I have ever seen and they are still very much used for carrying commercial goods, thereby freeing up the roads, though the one below may have seen better days.
My first ferry crossing - The first of many. Notice the cycle route: These are all over the place here and it does make for safe cycling. Some of the routes are by the side of roads and quite a few are separate and make for easy, quiet cycling. The attitude to bikes is different here - they are a legitimate means of transport, rather than an oddity. Wed 28th May

Not the best of days. Set off from Dortrecht this morning and got as far as Woudrichem where I had to catch a ferry across the river; I waited 45 minutes only to be told it was the wrong ferry and I would have to catch a smaller one up river. After half an hour's searching I found a small boat tethered to a jetty but the place was deserted I wandered about shouting and getting very cross when the ferryman appears. He’s the most surly, monosyllabic old ……..I’ve had the misfortune to be afloat with and is clearly employed to prove the rule. I pay the man and cycle off in a huff, past the unremarkable Schloss Loevestein and on for a few miles until I get a puncture. Aaaaaagh! Phil comes to meet me and we fix it but as I reach Beneden-Leeuwen where we are scheduled to have lunch it becomes clear that there are further problems with the bike. Bizarrely and very fortunately, since this is a small place there is a bike shop. Phil borrows some tools to affect a repair but it soon becomes clear that the problem is more serious so it’s back to the shop. Michelle, the owner, sends me across the road to the workshop where his Father is hard at work surrounded by bikes – he doesn’t look pleased to see me.
“Er, hello”. I say. “Did your son phone to say I was coming?”
“Yessss”.
“I have a bit of a problem”.
“And now I suppose your problem is going to be my problem”.
It’s not a promising start and I stand around nervously for what seems an age until he’s finally ready to look at my bike…..Apparently it’s his first day back after his holiday and the work has piled up.

Michelle

Arnold in his workshop
We get chatting and he begins to thaw a bit.
“It could be bad news”. He says. “Or it could be very bad”.
It turns out that Arnold worked on the Dutch national cycling team’s bikes in his younger days and he’s been doing the job for 44 years. He clearly knows what he’s about. He dismantles the rear hub, sucks his teeth, tuts, changes the bearings and various worn out bits and pieces and then begins to check the rest of the bike.
“Where you are going you will need new brake pads”. He says worryingly but by now I know I’m in good hands and we’re getting on well. When the time comes to pay, he and Michelle insist on giving us discount and we shake hands warmly. If you’re ever in the area even without your bike, pop in to ‘Geer Tweewielers’, they are great people.
We push on to Nijmegen.


A genuine dutch windmill.Here's a barge that doesn't move.
And here's one that does!

Our second and final night in Holland is spent at an all singing & dancing campsite outside the town of Groesbeek, near Nijmegen. The showerblock is a memorably misguided extravaganza of Trompe l'oeil and lurid coloured plastic plants, but the facilities are good and we are able to wash all my cycling kit as well as ourselves. Also, when the campsite owner learns that we are raising money for autism he waives the whole fee. Good man! The weather has improved a bit so we can sit outside the bar near the campsite entrance and contemplate tomorrow and Germany. I think the border can only be a couple of Km.
My time in Holland was far too short and I'll be returning for a longer visit soon. It struck me as an open, tollerant and fun-loving society and though the landscape can be a little monotonous the towns and cities are lovely. Also, we found a great wine bar in Dordrecht called the Book Bar or Library Bar or something like that,so if anyone from there reads this- email me the details would you - you were all great. And the girl that served us our drinks and meal smiled a lot - not something I was to witness often over the next week or two.

Germany

GermanyThe early part of our journey through Germany follows the valley of the mighty Rhine. Huge barges pligh thier trade up and down its length. They seem to carry vast amounts of cargo ranging from coal to cars and that must make a significant difference to the amount of trucks on the road since many of them are piled high with containers.

I suppose it was inevitable that it would happen sometime, but that it should have been such a nightmare! We stop for lunch in the pretty little town of Xanten and as we do so the heavens open. I leave my bike chained to the railings outside the restaurant and we enter the strange old fashioned world of the German middle
Rain through the restaurant window; Xanten.classes - they don't seem overly pleased to see us – there’s a woman sitting opposite me with a face on, and when I get up to go to the loo everyone looks as though they’re sucking lemons for lunch! We choose from a menu that is to become all too familiar over the next couple of weeks - heavily biased towards pork which is odd because throughout the trip I don't see a single pig. Where do they keep them? I sit, damp and shivering, wondering what's going on at home. After lunch I leave my all too familiar calling card – a bum shaped damp patch and head back out into the rain. The day drags on and I cross the Rhine and find myself in the hideous, industrial conurbation that is Duisburg. The place is ghastly with heavy traffic, terrible signage and bridges everywhere so that it’s not long before I’m totally disorientated, and I can’t find anyone who speaks English. I ride through dirty grey streets, past miles of railway sidings and factories for what seems like an age, never really knowing where I am and I feel tired and stressed. One dour satellite town joins another until finally I begin to see fields again. I reach a village called Ungelsheim and ring Phil:
“Where are you?” He says.
“I’m in Ungelsheim”.
“We’re at the campsite on the other side of the river”.
“I’m tired and my phone’s running out of battery and it’s beginning to get dark”.
“I don’t know how to get across the river”. He says.
I’m incensed and snap my phone shut; partly because I’m so cross and partly to save the battery.
“FIND A FUCKING BRIDGE!” I shout; at no-one in particular, and cycle on.
I re-join the river and eventually spot a ferry – it’s across the other side so I wait……and wait. It doesn’t take too long to realise that they’ve stopped for the day and it is getting darker and I have no lights, and I can see things are going badly. Back on the riverside path I see a huge bridge in the distance and pedal like mad; and the path gets narrower and narrower and grassier and grassier and runs out. “Bugger!”
I re-trace my route and finally make it to the bridge – it is enormous, with a dual carriageway crossing it and two cycle paths. Cars and lorries thunder past - all with their lights on. I cross the bridge and ring Phil.
“Where’s the campsite?”
“We’ve left the campsite”.
“Well where are you then?”
“Ungelsheim”.
“Oh Fffff. Look, I’m on this great big bridge across the Rhine; It can’t be far from the campsite; my battery is about to give out.”
“We’ll be there in ten minutes”. Says Phil. And then my phone battery runs out “Oh Great!”
I hang around in the increasing gloom for 20 minutes and no-one appears. I’m fighting a rising tide of panic and I cycle back across the bridge – nothing! Back across the bridge again and I realise that even if they do turn up they won’t be able to stop on a motorway so I leave the bridge and join the riverside path.
“But what if they’ve turned up on the bridge?”
Back on the bridge and there’s no-one there and the panic has taken hold. I try to think rationally and leave the bridge once more. I ask a couple of people on the path if there are any campsites by the river. One tells me there’s nothing to the north but 4 or 5 Kilometres to the south there is a site; and the other tells me the exact opposite – I head south. After a few minutes hard cycling I come across the campsite and spend ten minutes dragging my bike and stumbling through the thick undergrowth trying to find the entrance……..It’s the wrong site. The campers are having a great time on the jollily lit veranda of the campsite bar but there’s no sign on Myfanwy. I’m devastated. I try not to look too wretched as I pass the bar on the way out. What now? I’m in a country where I don’t speak the language, I have no money, no friends, no phone and it is now dark
There’s nothing for it; I pick on the first two people I see, fling myself weeping at their feet and with little hope of a positive reply:
“Sprechen sie Englisch?” I say.
“Actually I speak very good English.” Says the woman - in very good English. I could have hugged her there and then.
They introduce themselves as Carmela and Peter.
I tell them all my woes and Carmela says;
“No problem – you can ring your friends from my mobile.”
“I’m afraid it’s not as easy as that”. I say. “You see, their number’s on my phone and the battery has run out.”
“Is there no-one else you can ring?”
“Well, there’s my wife”, I say hesitantly, “But she’s in England.”
“It’s fine.” She says and hands me her phone.
Phone calls zip backwards and forwards through the ether and we wait for contact from Phil
“We were just going to a bar for a drink”, Says Peter, “Why don’t you come with us and wait there.”
“Well, I’d love to, but you see: I spent all my money at lunchtime.”
Once again it is no problem and we spend a lovely, and hugely relieved, half an hour together sitting in a bar called Sonnendeck, sipping our cold beers and waiting for Phil and Jenny to arrive.
Thank you both, you were utterly brilliant and I look forward to meeting again soon - though under less trying circumstances!
P.S. It turned out that Phil and Jenny had been waiting for me on another bridge entirely……Ah well, all’s well that….etc.

Reunited at the end of a very long day!


I will write more over the next couple of days and hopefully put it on the net when we reach Wurtzburg.

Many, many thanks for all your texts, calls and encouragement. Keep the coming

Much love to all............David

The Dom, Cologne
Great pub at Poll near Koln Railway station at Bingen Cooling down in Rudesheim - What! it's not raining?

Phil praying to mecca in Worth. Thats the wrong way Phil!
OberweselAnd here are Phil and Jenny at last night's campsite in Worth - Jenny appears to be picking her nose! No. She's not really.........
View over the river from our pitch in Worth. Tues 3rd June 11.44 pm
I'm sitting in a hotel room for the first time on this trip. it's been a very long day and I've notched up 102 miles from a little village called Worth, a few Km to the west of Wertheim, to Ansbach. We couldn't find a camp site in the area so, by about 8pm we decided to abandon the search and book in to the first hotel we could find. This place is called the Weinstube in Lichtenau and the delightful owners are looking after us wonderfully.





The whole journey has been dogged by bad weather and rain means punctures. the worst I've had is three in one day so when today dawned bright and sunny I was hoping for the best, particularly with such a long day ahead. After 80 miles we stopped at a touristy, but handsome town called Rothenburg, where we had coffee and the best cake I've ever tasted and we spent a long time discussing whether or not to press on to Ansbach; it was four 'o' clock and I was tired, but in the end I decided to press on. Within five miles I get a puncture. I think it's the law in Germany that I have one every day!





Thursday 5th June. 11.30am


I'm sitting in a sunlit square in Regensburg watching the world go by. This is my first day off from the lycra, Vaseline and bottled food as, after riding 190 miles in two days we are ahead of schedule and this means that I can sit around in internet cafes drinking coffee and eating cake. I've never been a great fan of cake in the past but Germany has given me an unexpected taste for it: in the first place, they do make exceptional cake, and in the second place, sadly, our experience of the other food on offer has been dismal; most of it consisting of flattened pork steaks covered in bucket loads of gooey sauce.


A massively tall nun is strolling by licking an ice cream.


There is a quiet, Sunday feeling to Regensburg and it is the most relaxed place since we left Holland. Phil and Jenny are off doing thier own thing and I've had a pleasant, slow morning. I had a look in the Dom St' Peter and fealt immediately at home: the sights, smells and sounds are those of Ripon Cathedral though on a smaller scale and there was a service going on and these are the same in any language.
Friday 6th June. 16.24
Pulled in to today’s campsite about half an hour ago; P& J have already set up camp. We’re in a little village by the Danube called Muhlau about 30Km from Passau and the Austrian border. When I arrive Jenny is in a hurry to show me the showers which are spacious and self contained. I’ve really had quite enough of the sound of half a dozen Germans belching, farting, hawking and spitting in the mornings to last me well into my next lifetime which, having written this, I will have to spend as a Lederhosen moth! I’m pretty sure that when I go for a morning shower, I do so silently, but these guys can make more noise than an Autobahn full of HGVs.
I left Regensburg this morning and travelled down the Danube (or Donau) via Straubing, where there was a market and I bought a fishcake sandwich from a kiosk (I know it sounds odd but it was good), I would have liked to spend more time in Straubing – it looks an interesting town but Vienna calls; then on to Bogen and Deggendorf, neither of which seemed to have much to recommend them. By the time I get to the camp site I’ve covered 73.4 miles which for a gentle day is enough.


As we get further south it becomes increasingly obvious that Catholicism plays a large part in the lives of the people here: There are large, roadside crucifixes dotted all over the place, often with votive offerings, as you would expect to find in Mediterranean countries though not necessarily here in Germany. But along side this is what I can only imagine to be a pagan rite where most of the villages have enormously tall maypoles, some of which have what appear to be heraldic shields attached to them, but some have baby clothes, dolls and prams hanging from them and a figure of a Stork! It’s more like being in Albania than in a modern European country.

Sat 7th June. 13.50



I'm sitting in yet another internet cafe, this time in Passau on the German/Austrian border. I arrived here this morning at about 11.00am, about half an hour after the inevitable puncture. I had a good ride into town with two cyclists I met en-route - Tony and Auguste who kept me entertained on the way in with lively chat. I know they'll be watching the football tonight so good luck to your team guys and enjoy the beer and chips!
Above: Auguste and Tony when we parted company in Passau.
This is an all too familiar sight. My trusty steed taken through Myfanwy's back window at the campsite near Passau. Confluence of the rivers Inn and Danau - PassauCampsite restaurant, Passau. It looks like I'm drinking beer but I'm just holding it for a friend.Well, between the thunder showers the sun is shining and it seems a shame to spend the day in the cafe when a new and interesting city awaits exploration.