August 14, 2018

Day 1 – Split to Pakoštane, Croatia – 61 miles & 968 metres climbed

So it felt like a pending examination. I had some butterflies about the upcoming distance, the hilly terrain, narrow roads (and impatient traffic), sweltering heat, weight on the bike (with luggage) and a slightly dodgy right knee. I’ve been here before but had some anxiety about the journey home before I started. 

This had a lot to do with a 6 mile 400 metre climb shortly after leaving the apartment on a narrow mountain pass and wondering whether Croatia losing the World Cup Final had a bearing on how they’d drive the next morning. After a wonderful time on holiday in Croatia (and too briefly in Herzegovina) I left Anna and Sophie (wife and youngest daughter) in Kaštel Lukšić to the west of Split to pedal home. The route is simply heading north. Up through Croatia and then into Slovenia. After this there is the small matter of the Austrian Alps to overcome before the relative flat of Southern Germany before I push onto France. I think it may be around 1,500 miles before I walk through my home front door.

Continue reading Croatia to England (by bike) – July & August 2018 →

It rained heavily in the night and I thought of the UK. Reports suggest that in all the weeks that I have been away then it has only rained twice there. It was a slow dismantling of the camp: what was the rush today? With no little irony then the day was relatively chilly. When the sun came out it was warm but when behind the clouds it was blustery and cool. Oh for some of this earlier in the trip!

I sauntered into Bruges. It really is a lovely tourist town. Sat on a series of canals and well preserved with architecture that you’ll find on a thousand jigsaw puzzle box lids. I found the town completely packed and I pushed my bike through crowds to, firstly, a record shop where I was tempted by some Average White Band on vinyl (how would I safely carry it?) and then on to buy some sandwiches and bits for tonight’s meal on the ferry. I don’t partake of the dining on the ferry. It seldom appeals and as it transpires then I might have been head down in the soup with weariness after entering the restaurant!

I found some out of town shopping and ate a hot meal at a restaurant. From here it was onwards to the docks (courtesy of more f&*king cycle paths).

On arrival I was placed with the other two wheeled travellers. Needless to say they all had engines and had also been on long distance jaunts from the Czech Republic to Italy.

In my dreams I would love to be the archetypal Yorkshireman – bluff, independent minded, no nonsense and slightly detached. I met a man who was standing beside his motorbike. He was between 65 and 70 years old. Short, craggy and fit.

Tony:                    “So have you been far?”

Yorkshireman:   “Naples”

(In my mind Naples may have been glorious 200 years ago but today it has a reputation for being an industrial busy port with unsavoury elements of crime).

Tony:                     “So how was it?”

Yorkshireman:    “Not so good, first I got food poisoning that needed hospital treatment and then I nearly got mugged. I was approached by three teenagers and one of them stood in front of me and said ‘phone’. I punched him in the face and side swiped his girlfriend who was hovering. They ran off.”

(I found that a bit of a show stopper and I was left slightly speechless albeit it did seem brave and a fitting response. However, what if they had a knife?)

Tony:                      “Gosh, well that worked! However, I can see that losing your phone would have been terribly inconvenient.”

Yorkshireman:      “Oh no, that was back in the hotel.”

On the ferry I showered and put on long trousers and a fleece top, strange and new garments after so many weeks of heat. I mooched around Duty Free and had a £4.25 pint of Guinness expecting it wouldn’t be the last. However on briefly returning to the cabin I was drawn to lying down and did so. After an hour of Ricky Gervais on Netflix I fell asleep at a ridiculously early hour! I think the body was about to insist that it was time to recuperate.

So the ferry poured us all into a busy Hull and I found my way home. Now, I have to be sensitive here because a good friend, Steve, has a deep heritage with Hull and complains at my slights. So firstly the good news is that out of all the Yorkshire towns that might have been visited by Aliens then Hull has that privilege. The folk who designed the cycle paths to move around and leave the city must have come from a different planet as they were neither co-ordinated or complete. Clearly on their planet they never have been to Hull or ridden a bicycle. Less fortunate was my discovery when completing a corner on one of these cycle paths. Facing me were two large Alsation dogs running at full pelt toward me. Slightly alarmed I noted quickly that they were both on a leash to a man who was astride his mobility scooter someway back. He understandably, to provide safety from head injuries, was wearing a cowboy hat. I give you Hull.

By the time I got back onto my street I had cycled 1,455 miles (or, for Greg Smith, 2,342 kilometres). Up until Bruges I averaged 7 hours a day on the bike and the distance averaged at just over 69 miles (112 kilometres) a day. To add to this I climbed 19,400 metres (Everest is 8,848 metres high) at 970 metres average per day. I have to add that the temperature was always over 30 degrees C sometime during the day and France, despite being further north seemed the hottest with most of the cycling time being above 33 degrees C (92 degrees F).

Any regrets? Well I am sorry that on the top of the first horrific hill out of Split (the worst of the whole ride within 5 miles of setting off!) when I met the German cyclists who were eating McVitie Digestive biscuits that I forgot to tell them that they were even more wonderful if dunked in a hot drink. To think that they proceeded to Greece not knowing this will always haunt me.

I steered my bike onto my street thinking where I had started was unreal and that apart from the North Sea I had pedalled each and every mile. It was a blast. Thank you for your company and if you want to read up about more of my tours and or receive a free guide to what I call ‘Cycle Tour Craft’ on how to get set up to do this then please click tonyives.com

The surprising thing was that as a landmark I was expecting to see the Belgium border as my seventh country arrived. However, as I’m pedalling along it dawned on me that with all the Belgium car number plates, a Belgium postal services van and local buses that I was actually in Belgium. There was no marked border. Ah, you may be thinking; its down to all those happy Europeans tearing down borders (unlike us disagreeable Brits who seem to be intent on erecting them). Nah, as I cycled through France then the signage was regular for all the 96 internal Départements and the other administrative 12 Régions. Even in Belgium where the country is split into French and Flemish (Dutch) speaking when you leave Wallonia and enter Flanders there is signage. They are proud of their nationality yet I suspect someone in the Government isn’t and hence the absence of signage.

From a rural setting I was now into an urban one. The traffic was a lot more intense and less well behaved as everyone seemed anxious to be on their way. Hence women drivers would appear out of side streets cutting you up or other drivers would drive way too close. So much for Belgium being flat. It was in the morning that I was still working my way through the gears to cope with the regular inclines.

Below is a fabulous depiction of the 1988 World Championship Road Race held in Ronse. Fondriest won it after sailing past Bauer and Criquelion. The latter two were well in front of Fondriest but clashed in the final sprint. Bauer was subsequently disqualified.

Eventually Belgium behaved like Belgium and there were no hills in sight. I was steered toward cycle paths and with some good things (see below) and some less good by being blocked by vegetation or having rutted surfaces.

The ferry to Yorkshire was tomorrow night. This meant that I would have the opportunity to make up any distance shortfall tomorrow, However, I simply wanted it done and tomorrow could be a short distance day with my arriving at the docks in good time with no worry about delays, mechanicals or some such.

With this in mind I pushed on for my longest day. A worrying aspect of long distance riding in high heat is that your appetite disappears yet your need for calories grows. Toward the end of the day I passed a few supermarkets not knowing what to buy as I really had no interest. Eventually I made a decision that I really must stop. Here I found some hummus, bread, a donut and fruit. It was a lucky stop because we were close on 7pm and everything was shutting.

The only campsite in miles was to the east of Bruges. It was a small and very busy site close to the centre. Not for the first time the signs were up saying full! I walked in and I think I got the last pitch in a busy tent area full of cycle tourers.

One such was Jack who’d done a three month round trip to Sicily. Respect. He was now heading home after meeting up with his wife (Tiber) in Paris who was camping and cycling with him home to Holland. Inevitably our conversation turned to how he crossed Austria! Not easy with talk of enormous percentage gradients. Another German lady was ambling around Belgium and France. She was about my age and seemed to be a seasoned camper who was taking it easy and had routes that avoided hills. Other cycle tourers abounded and I think that the reality is that they fall into another type of tourer who do short distances. Maybe they actually do this stuff for pleasure?

(Hammer: British caravaners)

The route continued to be rural and despite my fondest hopes the road continued to go up and down. The profile was like a piece of corrugated cardboard with endless relative minor ups and downs. The plan was now to get to the coast. The Zeebrugge (in Belgium) to Hull ferry was booked by Anna. This is a car ferry that takes you to the north of England overnight. I’d used it most years lately, either with a bicycle or my sports car. It was relatively expensive but dropped me less than 50 miles from home and was a fairly busy but easy run home. I got a cabin.

Today felt like the beginning of the end of the trip and thoughts were on home. As usual I found a boulangerie and bought croissants to set me up for the day. Intriguingly across the road from the bakers were a couple who led out two horses, mounted them and trundled off up the high street of this small town.

Amongst cyclists there is a debate about listening to music or radio through headphones. Some think it reduces the awareness of the rider and jeopardises their safety. I’m not sure but maybe listening to Megadeth at Volume 12 would impair your judgement! I was able to get, intermittently, the radio from a BBC App on my ride. It seems very incongruous to be proceeding through the French countryside listening to a cricket match. However, I did and it was engrossing and a great time killer.

Some of these days were very long in the saddle: today was 7 hours and 59 minutes. This was quite typical and not my longest day. Added to this were times when I’d stop to eat or shop.

With the size of France there is a considerable scattering of the population. So many/most rural/small town settlements have abandoned properties. It seems improbable that they will ever be refurbished and restored. These buildings are in sun bleached and quiet locations but nowhere you’d probably want to live unless you had some considerable roots. The buildings often look very grand I wonder at what time in the 20th Century the occupants fled to a city?

Lunch at Aubenton was a ‘plat de jour’ at a restaurant I found along the route. I asked what it was and was told it was a ‘brochette’. I had no idea what was coming until a large white sausage appeared on a skewer. Delicious and needless to say it didn’t hit the sides!

On the drink front I was so tired of drinking hot water that I bought these concentrates to add to my bottles. At least the hot water was flavoured and more satisfying now.

Maubeuge eventually came into sight and I cycled through the centre. It looked an attractive large town on the Sambre river. This looked navigable. However time was getting on and I was now aiming for the one campsite I’d identified.

Campsites are now very few and far between in Northern France. This is not a tourist area. I’d identified one at a small town to the North East of Maubeuge. In reality it was a static van site and didn’t cater to tourers. Folk had permanent homes here and either came on the weekend or for holiday breaks. It was up a steep hill in a wood and was an attractive setting. It took me a while to work out where Reception was. Now could I find someone to check me in? When I did locate someone it seemed straightforward, except for the showers.

The madame took my money, around €8, but advised a shower would cost extra – €1. What the hell I thought, let’s live a little and wash. However, she wanted some humungous deposit to hand across the dongle that activated the system in the washroom. This would be refunded tomorrow when I returned the device. However, the office re-opened at 9am the next day. I planned to be well up the road by then. So ’Plan B’ was to surrender my Passport for the duration of the shower. This would be returned tonight.

So I had a shower and returned to swap our relative treasures. The madame had my Passport in plain sight but couldn’t locate it to hand back. I watched slightly bemused (being my usual tolerant self). In exasperation she eventually concluded that this document in front of her must be mine. Sadly the problem arises in the fact that the photo taken in 2010 of yours truly shows an athletic younger man with more dark hair than the specimen in front of her! I absorbed the blow.

They say to foreigners, who visit Britain, that if you have to eat British food then have the breakfast three times a day. I can see the attraction for the French as they don’t have hot breakfasts! And if I’ve complained how drab McDonald’s food is then finding that their Gallic restaurants don’t do the Breakfast Menu reaffirms that they’ve even missed out the best bit. With this in mind I pedalled past the Bar-le-Duc one knowing it was a ‘Sausage Egg McMuffin’ free zone. Inconsolable.

The harvested corn fields I cycled through were scenes of great conflict a little over a century ago in WW1. The Germans attempted their invasion in this area from the East and due to the nature of wide opened spaces it appears indefensible. Along my ride were cemeteries and memorials to these conflicts and horrific losses. As in British towns then villages always have a memorial with countless names on the cenotaph. The scale of the remembrance to the fallen throughout France is enormous. It is quite stark in its scale to the few monuments of the war 20 years later. Here you’ll see an odd roadside headstone to a member of the Resistance or maybe a plaque on a bridge that the Resistance defended or blew up against the Nazis.

In Saints-Menehould I stopped off at a roadside bar for a couple of Cokes and enjoyed the ambience of a busy Sunday social scene.

I soldiered on in the heat and the traffic was literally non-existent on this Sunday. I eventually dived into a town, Vouziers, and found a cafe in the square. Here I joined three Belgian lads in the shade having a late lunch. I had a large chicken kebab and they had pizzas. They were riding their motorbikes back from a wedding to Belgium and had stopped off to recuperate. We talked about the World Cup and my trip. One motorcyclist was interested in my thoughts on Croatia. I was positive but not as much as he was. One of his friends rather ‘popped his balloon’ by commenting that his enthusiasm was heightened by some holiday romance in Zagreb!

So where tonight? I decided Attigny looked good. In fact it would be my third visit – once by bike and once previously in the Morgan. I shall never forget my first visit when a Dutchman suddenly appeared on my pitch with a cold can of beer. No such luck today. Being such a short day on the bike I was able to wash and dry laundry and pop into town for a beer at a bar. This nearly proved embarrassing as I didn’t have any cash to pay for it and had to pop out to find an ATM.

Being Sunday the restaurants were shut but I found a boulangerie for a grim sort of pasty. In fact I can advise that if the French combine pastry and meat it is not a happy event, ever. It was a quiet night and the sleep was needed.

(Hammer: French lady)

It was a late start. A combination of being tired, needing to wait until 8.30am for Reception to open to pay my fees and a great site. I wobbled onto the road in a tardy fashion.

Vittel is a spa town with gardens near its centre. I discovered most of this by the Garmin being unable to find a way out. As a consequence I seemed to go round in circles for a little while before making an executive decision just to head north, predictably it was therefore up a steep incline. I must add that I’ve toured in some parlous weather on many expeditions but yet again it was a flawless blue sky with bright sunshine and that threat of afternoon high heat. I shouldn’t complain too much.

Bar-le-Duc was the objective/plan and the route was broadly North West with quite a decent elevation profile of not being too difficult. As always I peeked at the Google Maps and Komoot Apps on my phone and then trusted myself to the Garmin and Michelin maps. It looked like my usual trawl through minor towns better known for their farming than anything else.

Fellow cycle tourers are now long gone. I’m alone on this journey. This is mainly due to my route – a fairly featureless several hundred miles. However it does cross my mind that in all this distance a lone soul with their back bent will eventually appear over the brow of a hill.

A word or two for the bike. Before every tour I do a dry run and as I embark on this I never can believe the weight I’m loading on the rear and the way the bike twitches/trembles at the front end due to the imbalance. However, it holds up well. I mentioned that I had a knee injury that I feared had stopped this long distance riding. A lot of rehab and some adaptation of the riding position had solved in large part any issues. The typical day is always spent going up and down the gears and chain wheels. The load on the chain and gear cogs are immense and the smoothness of the gear changes soon goes as chain stretching or wear kicks in. It doesn’t get chronic, or if it does then I get it addressed but the reality is that the failing is mine with my set up rather than the bike’s. My leather saddle keeps me comfortable and wear on my hands is protected by the gloves. The gloves however do become a health hazard with all the sweat and even after a shower I can smell something unpleasant in the palm of my hands.

McDonald’s becomes a regular stop simply for an ice cold drink. I haul out my charging cables and devices and plug in to top up wherever possible. I joked earlier about the sin of using them but they are now common throughout all of Europe and especially in France. I usually have the chicken sandwiches but I am increasingly avoiding the food due to it being tasteless, tepid in temperature or dull in variety. However, with predictable locations, wi-fi, toilets and air con it does provide a respite in the middle of the day.

Neufchâteau was such a spot. I descended gradually into this large town (knowing that there would be payback for such a pleasure) and as I checked my Garmin for the location of McDonald’s I was presented with a spiteful suburb 15% gradient hill to reach it. Being Saturday, then to quote Fats Waller “the joint was jumping”. I found my usual corner, plugged in and tried to catch up on my blog. Fathers struggled with young children excited by their Happy Meals and I bided my time whilst I used the bike as a clothes line. I have to do this because I get to sites so late, last night was 8.25pm, that I can wash kit but not have enough heat or sun left in the day to dry it at the site.

I always lock the bike when I’m away from it but if someone were inclined then they could rifle through the panniers and take items. The items they might take would be worth nothing to them but their absence would be an inconvenience to me. There is always a risk of theft but in small towns then I tend to have faith that the worst of human nature is not common.

Re-energised I pushed on to Bar-le-Duc and the municipal campsite. Municipal means that they are run by the local town. They have good washrooms, basic pitches and few other facilities. One bonus is that they are in the towns and nearer to facilities. When I got there it looked spartan but had a few motorhomes sprinkled around it; mainly in one field. I chose one of the other three fields with one motor home in it thinking that this would be quiet. It transpired that a millennial man by himself was the other occupant and he’d called up a pal to join him. A chap subsequently arrived separately in a car.

The protocol used to be that silence should reign after 10pm on campsites and believe me I was certainly tucked up for the night by then. However my neighbour and pal were only just warming up. They had gentle background music on, a few drinks on the go and incessant chatter. The guy had picked this field to be alone and I had stumbled on his Saturday night party. At 10 minutes past midnight I jettisoned my ear plugs, grabbed my bright bike light and clambered out of the tent for a chat. They were surprised I was approaching them. With their faces lit up by my torch I was astonished to see that they’d just started their BBQ, and the sizzling noise was not French House music but sausages on a grill!

They said they didn’t speak English and so I attempted to advise them that I was tired and had ridden a long way in my French. The music was unacceptable. A few grunts ensued and the music was switched off as I returned to the tent. Their chatter continued and next to the campsite was a children’s playground. In here teenagers were shouting, chanting and being rowdy. That wasn’t a problem I could negotiate. You have to remember that for the majority of the campers had walls thicker than canvas and were not too inconvenienced by all this.

I think I dropped off to sleep at about 2.30am when my neighbours decided to get some sleep or to retreat inside the van as it was getting chilly and the playground kids went home. I awoke at 6.15am as rooks in the trees engaged in a spat. I decided to pack up and get on the road as I wasn’t going to get back to sleep.

My neighbours were also up and about and I wondered if they’d been to sleep and whether they’d been popping pills as well as taking a drink? You live and learn.

I maybe should have known that pitching next to construction contractors on a Thursday night may mean an early start. Having worked in the industry then I know that many contractors stay away from home during the week and then return home on the Friday afternoon. I knew they were contractors by their company flat bed truck logo. They must have been working locally and camping during the week. I imagine this makes it very affordable for the contractor and in decent weather it isn’t a particular hardship. What was a hardship, to their neighbours, was that they started to ‘break camp’ at 5.15am on the Friday morning. There was a reasonably responsible attempt at minimising the noise but I was frustrated to get woken up. Sleep is a fuel.

So this clonking about went on for around an hour and I must have fallen asleep again because when I next looked at my watch it was 7.30am and they were gone. I needed to be up to get a few miles in before the inferno started and I wasn’t pleased.

I wrote about the rest day and if it had provided any recovery; obviously it was a help but I was not as fresh as I was when I started in Split. The thought of lots of climbing up seriously demanding inclines was abhorrent as I turned out of the campsite. So I decided to aim a little west to get past the mountain range to the north in the Vosges. In the heat I trundled along to Lure and then had a splendid lunch in Luxeuil-les-Bains of risotto and another Coke and ice with that delirious pleasure of the first mouthful cracking on the back of your parched throat.

Food wise I was struggling. I simply had little or no appetite yet if I failed to eat properly then I quickly faded. Often I might pass a supermarket thinking that I should get something in but I felt so uninspired as I plodded around the aisles. All this is in stark contrast to the lectures I put in my Touring Handbook on my personal site called Cycle Tour Craft. Take a look as this is a literal A to Z of touring based on my travels in Europe and North America.

With my water bottles replenished I had a vague plan to get as far north as I could and also to a campsite. In this part of France then campsites were thin on the ground and there wasn’t much to see. The landscape went up and down and arable farming was on either side of the road.

However, today the heat seemed at a new level. The thermometer read up to 36 degrees C or 97 degrees F but it seemed more intense than other days and the road heat came up at you like as if you were opening an oven door. I found myself with a dry mouth all the time and I went on to drink over 7 litres of fluid for the day. Inevitably I ran low on occasion and I surprised two ladies, sat outside their house, in some small village by pulling up in front of them and pleading “excuse moi, avez d’eau s’il vous plaît?” Of course they helped.

Which, brings me onto another subject: the sociability of the French. After the indifference of the Austrians and Germans I was now being regularly acknowledged by pedestrians I’d pass on my ride, tractor drivers, other cyclists and little old ladies urging me on as I reached the brow of another hill. In fact I often used too much French language when stationary and a torrent would come back that I had no idea about. It was simply heartening to have some interaction during 7 or 8 hours on the bike. Viva la France.

Yet, was it? The football team won the World Cup a couple of weeks earlier and there was the odd French Tricolour draped on a wall but little else. In England half the nation wouldn’t have sobered up yet had we won it!

So all a sudden despite feeling less than sparkling and still thirsty I decided to push on to Vittel (of the table water fame) and came across a blissful municipal campsite. I got there at 8.25pm and the sign at Reception suggested I should find a pitch and pay in the morning. Okey dokey.

This day got me to a total of 1,079 miles for the trip.

(Hammer: Dutch motorcyclists).

It was a gentle start after some time off and I rolled beside the Rhine through flat fields of maize. I’ d amassed 881 miles getting to Strasbourg and the meter started running again. The farming seemed all small holding with little tractors chugging everywhere. As happens during hot days then it seems everything in the town is deserted and the only movement is from another dog barking at me or perhaps the squeals of delight from some young children in a paddling pool at the rear of a house.

I never could see the river but it’s influence on the terrain was complete. Most towns had the suffix of ‘heim’, which is German for ‘home’. This told the story of its earlier heritage.

The route was flat without so much as a railway bridge to ascend. The legs liked this! The destination was Colmar, which the observant amongst you will recall I visited the day before. However, the objective was to reach a campsite.

This was a bit of a shock in that for the first time since Croatia I came across British tourists. On the road from Croatia I had had come across a handful of British registered cars, motor homes or motorbikes. The latter category had the kindness to acknowledge me. If the real British were here then there were also some pale imitators. As I’m stood there wondering where to place my small tent on a large available patch of ground my neighbour pipes up, in pure Cockney, “put it anywhere you like, it’ll fit!”

So as I’m thinking to ask him if he was born within the sound of Bow Bells and supports West Ham when I establish that he’s actually from Copenhagen and a Dane. Now this isn’t the first time I’ve come across a Dane with an immaculate English, or in her case, American accent. I reckon they would make great spies as a nation. Breaking a habit I didn’t seek out a Dutch hammer but borrowed a Danish one.

The campsite had little charm. This was reinforced with lager at €6 for a pint.

Cycling off the next morning, as always in bright sunshine, the reality about the condition of my legs hit me. They had thought I’d finished the expedition and had in effect returned to York with Anna. So in their ‘absence’ Plan B was to grind the small gears and with the road still brilliantly flat I got back amongst the fields and made it to Mulhouse.

On one of these country lanes I experienced a lot of trucks. It must have been a cut through or was on the route to a factory. On the bike you get used to the steady growl of large engines behind you and I recollect hearing a large beast slow and that awesome large grumble dawdle behind me waiting for an opportunity to pass. When he did he hit his air horn. I nearly lost control of all bodily functions. He either did this to let me know he was there and or he did this because he was France’s longest surviving brain donor in charge of an articulated truck. I now know why Brooks saddles are brown.

Mulhouse is a large town. My reason for visiting was to visit, for the third time, the French National Automobile Museum. In a purpose built setting a large number of mainly French cars from the beginning until the end of the 20th Century are displayed. It has the largest collection of Bugattis in the world at over 70 cars. The collection was owned by the Schlumpf brothers. They amassed the collection whilst running a large textile business in the city. Many thought the collection and refurbishment of cars was their priority as they employed 40 people alone to restore and maintain them.

With global migration of textiles to Asia in the 1970’s the business collapsed, albeit the Schlumpfs had been selling off bits. With bankruptsy looming the Schlumps fled to Switzerland and the workers took over the factories.  The Schlumpfs were exiled abroad and the large collection of cars, never previously seen, were put on display.

Eventually  the collection was sold and is now part of the museum. I, personally, like the 1960’s designs and the more mundane saloon cars. It is bewildering to think how many manufacturers there were and so disappointing that they eventually closed down. Today we have a handful of manufacturers worldwide.

So after a spin around and some spaghetti I saddle up for a tough afternoon. The heat was unforgiving as was the Sat Nav that made me take a tortuous path to the South West and Belfort. I never actually went in that direction as I seemed to tack and zig zag like a small sailing boat up and down little hills.

Frazzled I got to a campsite that I last visited in, I think, 2011, some cheer was restored as I saw a large chill cabinet selling cans of beer for €2. Normal service was resumed as I reverted to asking the Dutch for a hammer.

So it was simply a freewheel downhill to Strasbourg? I wish. I’d found a hotel just west of Freudenstadt in a spot called Zweiselberg. The next morning even though I was at the top of the mountain range it meant a steep and long descent before a long climb back to the top to find the road to the bottom. This required an hour’s worth of climbing up hairpins deep in the forest to get back to the freewheel scenario. It was slow and painful in the Sunday morning cool of the sheltered valley. I wasn’t alone though as Sunday morning is motorcycle time in the mountains. I must have seen over 100 bikes that morning as they zipped up and down the valleys. Apart from the noise, which must drive the locals mad, then another joy was the speedsters who raced each other up the hills.

I’m on a badly balanced bicycle descending at 35mph. I’m leaning into some very sharp lethal corners and always on the brakes: not that would solve much in a hurry. I’m picking a line nicely on one side of the road to allow overtaking from behind but also allowing me to take the bends. Next comes three screaming bikes around a bend racing each other up the mountain. They need all the road (both sides) as they lean virtually to the horizontal. I can do nothing but reflect on whether it’s too late for me to embrace Christianity.

On the descent I find cycling strugglers climbing. I came across a number of disabled cyclists using their hands and arms to pedal. Even when assisted by an electric bike solution I loved the ambition and effort. I’ve posted an image of the type of bike they rode (minus the motor and battery).

Eventually I am towards the valley floor and either maddenly twiddling around on gravel cycle paths or trying to use main roads where I am prohibited. I’m aiming for Kehl. This is the last German town before you cross the Rhine and enter France.

Entering France might be described as low key because whilst the river is the border then in reality there is no border. This was my sixth country of the ride. The Strasbourg tram runs from the centre of the the town and across the river into Germany. I know this because last year I was in Kehl staying at a campsite and took the tram.

Next mission is to find the hotel and my wife! The Okko Hotel is just west of the centre in a busy area with lots of restaurants. I just find this as my bride is wearily pulling her cabin bag toward the front door. Perfect timing! She’s had a big effort to get to Strasbourg using public transport from York to north of London where Stansted is located. Her tribulation with delays and under manning seem to make my ride seem a doddle.

The hotel is very chic and apart from a trendy room with a futuristic bathroom pod it also has ‘The Club’ where you can hang all day with free drinks and some snacks. After having spent all the preceding days thirsty then to have tins of soft drinks available in a large fridge free is like winning the lottery.

I’ve always known how to show a girl a good time and of course after showering then the first point of call is the launderette. Anna had done her research but I expect that the hotel staff, when quizzed, never expected to be answering these typical ‘cyclist on the road’ mundane questions! The present Mrs Ives was mollified by a McFlurry for allowing me to wash my smalls properly.

All sorted we sauntered into the beautiful town centre to have a look around and have a spot of very late lunch. Strasbourg has a history of having been either French or German over the last few centuries. It is also full of millennials and I worry that many have jobs associated with the European Union. The Commission and Parliament have premises here and for reasons that beautifully explain the whole nine yards of fudge that the EU is then the Parliament convenes here 12 times a year for 4 day sessions by way of ‘away days’ for the MEP’s. (I noted that a hotel in the centre, in the district called Petit France, had rooms at €550 per room. I wonder how many of those I’ve paid for over the years).

We went on a boat trip. Canals are to be found in the exquisite centre and we had a dreary history by pre-recorded audio. Interesting facts include the fact that once there was a gas works supporting 360 street lights and that quite a lot of the city was developed during the second to last German ownership at the end of the 19th Century. After this we wandered back to the hotel.

Day 2 of my rest days sees an expedition to Colmar, about 40 miles south. Another beautiful city that leans on that mix of German architecture and French style. We strolled around in the staggering heat. We had some lunch including exceptional cake and then made the trip back.

The French trains are sublime – air conditioned, spacious and new. A real pleasure to experience. That night we find some pasta for me and risotto for Anna. Also I have some delicious white wine – something that I haven’t had much of for a while. The next morning Anna’s steeling herself for Ryanair and I’m thinking of that long road home up through France.

We have some falafel at a Lebanese restaurant, kiss goodbye and I set off in the wrong direction as usual. That bloody Garmin!

So I was up early and when clambering out of the tent found a man standing guard. I would describe him like a WW2 U Boat Captain – tall, fair, lean, 30 something and sporting a stubbly beard. (He wasn’t wearing a roll neck sweater and carrying a periscope). It was early, but nothing is ever early on a farm is it?

So I did my ablutions, packed the tent and then despite the ‘guard’ (who was probably ensuring that I didn’t kidnap any of the sacrificial children) I cycled off without paying.

Now, in my defence, I didn’t know where Mrs Farmer resided, whether she was going to charge me for a corner of a lawn and the use of a toilet overnight, whether we could communicate because she didn’t speak English and whether she was pre-occupied with Daisy, Ermintrude and her sisters who seemed to be very inconsiderate and needed milking again. Anyway I was gone.

So the usual pattern ensued of little busy roads in the towns and quite a bit of climbing when taking to the quieter routes. I have to declare that my focus was now on reaching Strasbourg as soon as possible. The present Mrs Ives had deigned to visit to break up my visit and with it also came the promise of three nights in a luxury hotel. (Apparently they have showers that you can use all the time). Anna had not dictated the schedule but those lovable rogues Ryanair who only flew into Strasbourg a couple of times a week did. When I say ‘lovable rogues’ then let’s be frank… we all hate them but they are cheap and fly to places we want to go to.

So I plodded on admiring the beauty of the countryside but frankly making a mental note never to pedal across this part of the world again. It was tough and hot cycling with little, other than the view, to detain you. Rosenheim was my late afternoon stop and in my quest to get west I found no campsites. Booking.com identified cheap accommodation (€40) in Altheim and I found it eventually in the back streets of a little suburb.

The German young lady who took my booking spoke wondrous English after a year out in Ontario. I dug out my phone and showed her the room availability and price on the website to confirm that this was what I expected to pay. She told me her boss wouldn’t take a debit card but needed cash. Ffs… We all know this is nonsense as he cannot run a hotel on cash. He personally helpfully gave me vague directions in German where back in the little town I’d find an ATM. I spent another 30 minutes on top of a long day sorting out this challenge. I got back and handed the cash across. I must add that he also ran a takeaway restaurant on the site and dealt with me whilst serving doner kebabs and pizzas.

I chose not to use Booking.com to save the hotel the 20% commission. Frankly, in Germany, I’ve twice been mucked about by Turkish gentlemen who push their luck on these matters. I will now use the Booking.com website and they can pay the commission. My irritation is that they don’t recognise that I know I’m saving them money by going direct.

I’d bought some food en route and after this and a quick beer I called it a day.

Well again I was on the road by 7.30am with, according to my Garmin, 108 miles to go. However, as the day unfolded then with more detours and roads that prohibited bicycles that figure went up. A really frustrating symbol was a sign with a blue background and a car on it. This meant only motorised traffic could use a particular road. I’d ignored a couple of these but they could be dangerous by incorporating tunnels or have cars seriously go fast. Inevitably I got a bit of horn blowing by plonkers.

What was on my mind was that on top of the ‘up and down’ I had the Black Mountains to cross. These rose up before The Rhine and Strasbourg. In principle all was good because my destination, Strasbourg, was 400 metres lower. However there was still the matter of these mountains.

As routes got blocked by prohibitions I’d stop to consult my map, Garmin and mobile. The latter had not been very useful because my 3G or 4G signal was useless in Western Southern Germany. So there I was at some junction, quite lost, when a very nice German lady, with her grand child, asked if she could help. Given the general indifference of the population I was quite overwhelmed at this intervention. I was so touched. Anyway, we didn’t have the ability to communicate and that was that.

By small steps I found my way down the country lanes where cereals were being harvested on either side and eventually made it to the top of the mountain. At Freudenstadt I was done for the day and had 45 miles left before France. A Google search found a campsite that professed to be full. I went back to Booking.com and booked a cheap hotel. The only rub was that it was another 5 miles away!

Eventually I got there and checked in. It would do, and so would the beer and schnitzel. One more day to ride before luxury.