It was such a beautiful day as I saddled up and pedalled up and out of Karlobag. First I needed to buy some fruit and specifically bananas. They’re great for energy. At the start of each day I think through what I’d like to eat and a thing I never expected to ever say would have been that I would have been delighted to find a Subway. Just to get a simple sandwich and some crisps (chips) would have been fine.

The ride along the coast had yesterday been up and down but the traffic was light and some of the views dramatic. The views continued to delight but the climb was all up and the type and volume of traffic changed; became fast and furious. Small ferry stations (that connected the islands) were shipping cars, camper vans, trucks and motor cycles across. I think that because the vehicles had to wait for boarding, wait to cross the water and then wait to disembark it came to resemble the start of a Formula 1 GP when they eventually got off. On the single track road cars jockeyed for position to overtake and motorcycles just did it! I was caught up in all this.

I lost count of the number of stretches where a car would pop out behind a camper van/ bus/ truck and overtake. The only problem was that I was only 50 yards away on the other side of the narrow road. As they squeezed by at Mach 4 I would either indicate that they were mental by pointing at my temple or use another well known English hand gesture that suggested that they liked sex (by themselves). Senj came and I found a restaurant down a side alley out of the glaring sun and had a glorious lunch.

Back on the road then as we got further north and nearer to my campsite at Crikvenica trucks became very common. These trucks were mainly articulated (semi – trailer), which made space tight. I’ve said before that professional drivers do have brains and courtesy ordinarily and whilst they may kill you it won’t be through negligence! On one stretch the traffic halted behind a recovery vehicle and behind that was a crumpled 3 Series BMW and some other hot hatch. All the result of this race track mentality.

You may wonder about my communication with home? I usually speak with Anna everyday and then there is WhatsApp and text. However, I am also tagged and via ‘Find Friends’ (on our iPhones) Anna always know where I am.

By 5pm I was torched by the heat and pulled into a targeted campsite. The tent went up but I needed a hammer/mallet to put the tent pegs into the ground. I found a bunch of other Croatian campers chatting and started with the winning line of “Do you speak English?” A chap there couldn’t have been more helpful and he found another ‘resident’ with the said device. I have to say that the Croats were always kind, helpful and courteous, if not driving, and I never felt in danger during my time there. Also whilst I never tested this then I didn’t think that any theft or crime was likely.

So down to the sea to bathe my legs – the sea wasn’t very cold! Later I had some spaghetti and hit the sack.

Busy campsites on the coast possess children. (Anyone would think that they deserved a holiday by the seaside!) They make a noise running around and shouting late into the night whilst mother and father take that next glass of wine safe in the knowledge the campsite is sealed. This was noisy for a tired man trying attempting to fall asleep. Added to that was a distant cafe bar with a singer who murdered most covers of 1980’s American chart classics. Stevie Wonder would have sought litigation but in fairness Donna Summer would have maybe been less upset.

I’ve stopped mentioning other tourers. They are simply far too many to mention. They are mostly heading south to Greece. With this heat have you lost your minds? Personally I would like to visit Albania but not in July or August. Olly and Aaron, from Cornwall, two millennials got to the site at around 7.30pm. That is pushing it on a campsite on this busy coast. They had tales of a hellish ride from Slovenia to Croatia – not what I wanted to hear as I was doing the reverse trip the next day. They had wild camped in Slovenia for three nights, I think a shower and some restaurant food held a great attraction to them.

The next day saw me follow Google Maps and my Garmin route to Rijeka. It was convoluted and I’d done 400 metres by the time I cycled through this unattractive port. For the sake of completeness I thought I’d cycle through the pedestrian precinct with its shops and restaurants.

Here I discovered ‘Mecca’: my first McDonalds for hundreds of miles! I locked up the bike and took a photo.

To the right you can see an old boy. As I’m locking the bike up to facilitate a quick entry to the temple he kicks off in Croatian about something. Two younger guys nearby looked similarly nonplussed. They translated that by leaving my bike there I was undermining his access and egress. Pillock. He wasn’t even a customer but just taking a breather on a free seat! Being the nice guy I am (occasionally) I moved the bike and went in search of a McChicken meal.

On my return he’d left – no doubt his minders in white coats armed with a syringe had tracked him down and had shoved him into the back of a van sedated. However, no seats remained and so Ian gave up his seat and I got talking my him and Marko.

Ian’s parents spent six years in Australia and hence the name. Both chaps worked in a nursery (tomato plants not children) and they’d got up at 3.30 am to start a 230 km bike ride. Beyond epic. I had an interesting chat with Marko about why Croatia hadn’t joined the Euro. He wasn’t keen as he observed then all it did was put up prices. Eventually the boys had to go and so did I.

I then had to ride up 500 metres to a town call Viškovo. In the heat and with unspeakable gradients I did quite a lot of pushing. This hill was unreal and I’ve cycled enough to have some perspective. After this climb I still had another 100 metres upwards before the Slovenia border presented itself.

A few drops of rain fell as I was struggling up the last bit and just as I’m looking forward to a great photo opportunity at the border torrential rain fell (with thunder). Why always me? All I could do was take cover as rain bounced back up off the road for 30 minutes. However, no photos.

Despite ending with hail the sun quickly came out and I descended into my second country of the trip, Slovenia. The main thing I know about the country, apart from previously being part of Yugoslavia, was that the long suffering Melania Trump is a native. She certainly knows how to lay on a welcome!

Hills to climb were splendid easy gradients and all the buildings had an Austrian appearance with lots of small holdings. Industry also was evident with this chipboard mill.

What a difference, all green and alpine scenery. I pushed onto a previously researched campsite within a delightful setting. I got there at well after 7.30 pm, it looked like that laundry would have to wait!

I tried to confirm the BBC weather report (that there would be thunder and lightning that night and the following morning) with a local. The site manager said that it might rain the following afternoon. What did she know as at about 10.30pm an electric storm started (and lasted 90 minutes).

Yes, we’ve all seen or experienced thunder and lightning but this was new to me. Torrential rain, lightning such that I could have read a book and thunder worse than being in the mosh pit of a Motörhead concert. My little tent nearly took flight as I was buffeted. Fortunately I’d try to ‘seal down the hatches’ before attempting sleep before the storm. And I may have got damp but not wet, as moisture abounded. On one side the caravan had his awning trashed and on the other the camper moved furniture, a tent and two children (into a car he went to fetch from off the site) during the storm. This was irritating given that I was beside this operation in a little tent. Given the weather then the noises and shouts were similar to how I imagine it was on The Titanic.

The next morning I awoke to noisy Germans slamming car doors at 6.30am (don’t they teach this lot any manners at school?) and I eventually got up to survey my property. The main issue was mud and tree debris on the tent along with most things being sodden that were outward facing. So I started cleaning by mainly hosing stuff down away from the pitch. I needed a surface that was not earth and stones.

At just before 10am I hit the road. I saw a Post Office and much to my amazement remembered that I had postcards to post (this task had been delegated by the departing Anna a day or two before). Now the postal service and its outlets appear to be a social club rather than business and I queued patiently whilst various souls unloaded their tribulations to the post mistress. None of these issues had anything to do with posting anything. Eventually fearing that my continued presence would require shaving kit I just abandoned the task and got pedalling. (Fear not I did eventually find a P.O. and did the deed later).

The first task was to head east to find another coastline to ride up. This took me through an agricultural landscape with fruit trees and some vines. Also to be found, in the shade, in these small villagers were very elderly men sat wearing singlets ‘shooting the breeze’. If I had been closer and spoken Croatian then I am sure I’d have heard them saying that France’s Anton Griezmann’s gazelle like leap over an outstretched limb (that he never touched) and his subsequent tumble like a sack of potatoes falling from the moon had brought into question whether his mother was married at the time of his birth. (This gymnastic misdemeanour took place in the first half of the World Cup Final and the free kick led to France’s opening goal).

I cycled through one shelled town that had a monument to fallen Croatians during the 1993 war. Islam Grčki was original the final frontier of the old Ottoman Empire and more recently came to be a Serbian enclave. (There was no religious influence that I could see). Here the Serbs and Croats fought and several buildings still remained in ruins and abandoned. It was not typical of this part of the country.

I’m still fascinated that Croatians might have been threatened (or worse) by Serbia but would you shell and shoot long term local neighbours? I imagine prior to this bloody conflict some men worked together, their kids went to the same schools and the women shopped at the same shops…

I stopped at Posedarje for a pizza and coke after declining the opportunity to make a bungee jump. From here I pedalled up the coast road. It was hot yet the road was quite kind, albeit up and down. I cycled past resorts and campsites but in time the coast line became jagged and rocky. The road builders struggled to build anything passable on the low coast line to construct a road. This meant the road went up and then down quite severely. I was a hot and weary traveller at this time.

I’d research a campsite in Lukovo Sugarje but when I got to this hamlet I could find nothing. Even worse was descending on the road high above the coast to find the only way of getting back was by pushing. It was getting late but apart from wild camping then I had no options other than to push on to the next big town 13 miles further north. Light was falling and even the traffic and motorcycles seemed to stop.

I got to Karlobag at after 7 pm and it was quite a lively place. This was mainly due to it being a ferry port to one of the islands. I was bounced at one hotel and so I asked for advice of where I might stay? I was directed to the still open Tourist Information who suggested an apartment. Even better was that the young staff rang up the apartment and agreed the price (€50 or 370 Kuna).

So I met the landlady by the petrol station and her English was as awful as my German. However, her daughter was at hand with fabulous English (at this point I remembered my Favourite Youngest Daughter’s advice to speak English normally rather than enunciate every syllable slowly in such a way that I might use when conversing with a simpleton). Actually she worked in Austria, in a bank, but was back in Croatia with her husband and sprogs for a holiday.

Anyway I showered and then descended into town for some dinner. A happy end to the day.

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.

Having toured before, whether through Europe or the USA, you think you know what to carry, how far to ride each day and how your body will react. However the first hill is the acid test: I have a relatively lightweight bike with 28mm tyres on 32 spoke rims but the kind of weight on the back wheel that beggars belief. I know everything will get lighter as the days go by including me! As I’m carrying all the camping clobber I added a 33 tooth gear to the rear cassette – I hope I can go low enough.I like to push on, frankly travelling is always better than arriving. When cycling in new countries then predicting the impact of the terrain, heat and other aspects of your environment such as traffic, campsites, availability of water is the unknown. It’s the risk and yet the exciting part. I’ll be self contained and plan to camp as many nights I can. I’ve pored across maps and accommodation websites to plan it all but I know I’ll deviate as I get underway and new/other opportunities or challenges present themselves. The route will be my own and whilst I plan to camp then I won’t be wild/stealth camping. I need a daily shower!

So back to that hill. It was terrible! Grinding up at 4 mph whilst large trucks nearly stall as they arrive at your rear wheel on a 9% gradient. Trying to keep the bike moving in a straight line at this speed is a challenge I’ve faced many times. However despite leaving at just after 7 am I hit the hill in 27°C. At the top a mild euphoria gripped me knowing that it was over. There I immediately discovered two young German lads en route from Bonn to Greece. If you look at the first one’s rear pannier the red box: it contains McVitie’s Digestive biscuits. I’m also carrying a packet. Cycle tourers of the world unite!

They’d only been on the road for 5 kilometres that day and were wild camping. It’s illegal in Croatia but I suspect the Police were otherwise engaged last night.

So I still climbed after this epic first mountain but not as steeply. On my eventual descent into Šibenik I came across a very bedraggled Korean who’d been pushing his bike after despairing at the climbing. I had some the glad tidings to pass on to him: it was frankly a very long descent to the coast after he topped out on his current climb (and then completely flat to Split). He’d started in Venice and was headed to Istanbul. Respect, but I worry….

I was too early for lunch when I arrived in Šibenek and asked for oatmeal at a cafe. It was mainly yoghurt with fruit. Delicious but not appropriate fuel. From here it was along the Adriatic coast until Pakoštane. I have to admit that the heat did frazzle me and even after drinking two litres of water then I had no urge to visit the loo. (I was on the brink of getting severe cramp and so I just kept drinking at the tent).

Pakoštane is a small resort with some cafes, a beach and several campsites just along the shoreline. For 200 kuna (c$30) I got a pitch after being rejected at two other sites. I was expecting this price and it is about three times what I expect to pay in Austria, Germany and France. For this I got a stony pitch with lots of bits off the trees on the ground. I obviously didn’t need electricity and begrudgingly my landlady waived the 1€ for the intermittent wi-fi.

The tourists are mainly Germans. Add a few Dutch, Italians, Poles and Slovenians and you have a very strange mix for a Brit to be consorting with! English was not as widely spoken as further down the coast and my German extends to “zwei beire bitten”. Yes, I accept my ignorance but frankly who doesn’t speak English nowadays if they’re in business abroad?

I thought I’d cool off and let my legs enjoy some cold water. I went in the sea at the bottom of the site. I really cannot remember how long ago it was that I actually last went in the sea. I discovered it was salty. So my advice is keep it away from your mouth and eyes (no please don’t thank me).

What unfolded next was literally biblical but I’ll save that for Day 2.

Anna had been the architect of the Croatian and Bosnian holiday and she picked Makarska for the next two nights. Passage from Bosnia had its moments of tension with a border to cross. This led to the long lost excitement of having your passport stamped. At the Croatian border we passed through Passport Control to be faced next with Customs. This was a slow process. At the booth a nice middle aged lady asked “do you have any cigarettes or alcohol?” I quickly said “no”. On my mind was a large sealed box with a bike in the boot of the estate car. It only had a bike (in bits) in it but I really didn’t want to have it opened with the removal of tape and the spilling of loose pedals, a saddle etc. So when my first wife, thinking she was hilarious, chirped up that she had a can of beer I anticipated that Alsatians would be sniffing the wheel arches and crack troops would be dismantling the car nut by nut. Fortunately the Customs Officer recognised my wife’s comment as a joke and we were allowed to proceed.Makarska is on the Dalmatian coast, about 50 miles south of Split. It’s a resort town with a flourishing frontage of pebble beaches, restaurants, bars, endless sellers of beach balls, knock off replica football shirts and water sports. It was heaving. Without the crowds it would have been attractive with its marina and sparkling clear water.

Anna had visions of something a lot more elegant and charming in mind when she booked this interim stop before Split. (I shall be supervising her more closely in future).In high summer there were mainly Croatians holidaying but also lots of Czechs, Slovenians, Poles, Bosnians and then the usual limited sprinkling of Germans, Brits and Scandinavians. I imagine that the resort was a well known Iron Curtain destination from back in the day and still remains popular with those who can reach it by car. It has no rail or air links but doesn’t lack patronage. It’s on the sliver of coastline that is still toward the south of the country before the borders push back inland to Zagreb in the north. Behind the coast are a majestic line of grey and very sunlit mountains.I hated it.If I had had a young family who wanted to be in the water or teenagers/ young millennials who like to mooch about in very little, other than Ambre Solaire, and then danced on a houseboat to Euro Pop until the early hours it would have been unbeatable. I didn’t and you were left in the day with considerable crowds milling about in 34°C, (93°F) whooping and splashing about (regrettably enjoying themselves!) The ‘front’ was probably two miles long. As Anna observed, attempting to adjust my withering assessment, then we didn’t see any drunken behaviour. It appears these holiday makers enjoy, rather than abuse, a drink. Also all prices encouraging fell as you headed north away from Dubrovnik.At this point I must add that Croatians speak excellent English and it is the lingua franca. It is the default language for anyone who isn’t Croatian. Less impressive is the use of it as the language on every T Shirt. At this point you think that some student of Friends has got a source for buying Bangladeshi cotton wear and has a printing press. Gems such as “I used to care but now I know I don’t” and “I believe in me” are typical along with “WTF”.(I know they wouldn’t dare use the same acronym in Croatian for the shame they’d feel in trying to explain to their grand parents why they had put some profanity on a piece of clothing they wore).Our accommodation for two nights had a wonderful view, balcony and a helpful landlady but for 1,925 Kuna (£230 or $304) we got a badly equipped studio with a fold out double bed from IKEA. Even your teenage daughter’s friends would have complained about spending two nights sleeping on this back breaker. Our host had a job near Augsburg in Bavaria in a dental practise. This we learned as she collected the rent before departing 600 miles north. However, we could contact her on her mobile if we needed anything. We did and dutifully a sister arrived with a kettle and ice tray for the freezer box! All was not lost if I tell you the highlights included finding a replacement for my broken soap box and a seafood risotto in a quiet restaurant way off the front whilst watching France vs Belgium. It will not make my ‘50 Places To Visit Before You Die’ list. We were happy to pack up and head north as soon as we could.

So an early start to departing Lapad saw us heading along the narrow coast road to the airport. Last night was very much an early morning affair for the Croatians. They’d crept past the Russians in the Quarter Final of the World Cup on penalties. Celebrations continued well after we turned in. I’d like to think that as repayment for the music, cheering and flares that the coastal mosquitoes dined royally on the revellers. Lord knows Anna and I had been a very tasty starter.The airport chucked up a wondrous hire car – a new Opel Astra Estate with all the accessories you’d want. So after leaving the airport I pulled over and we programmed the Sat Nav and connected my mobile/cell to play my large music collection on the iPhone. The south of Bosnia Herzegovina is the Herzegovina part and is quite arid and mountainous. I was thrilled to get into some wide open spaces and was more thrilled to see some cycle tourers battling the terrain and heat as we trundled along the single lane road. Sunday traffic was light and apart from a few buses there were no large trucks delaying progress.Towns were few and far between as we drove the 80 miles to Mostar. Interestingly there were minarets as well as churches dotted around. At one petrol station we stopped for a coffee to discover that unsurprisingly they didn’t seem comfortable taking Croatian Kuna rather than their own Bosnian Marks. Anna, however, persisted and did obtain two expresso coffees for some Kuna, the change was in Bosnian Marks! The reality was that we had no idea whether we’d got a bargain or been ripped off.After some fabulous scenery we got to a very small busy city. Our hotel was in the old town yet as the Sat Nav guided us there there was a man walking in the middle of the road directing us into some car park he was controlling. As I didn’t slow down he lost the game of ‘chicken’ and we got to the centre and a nearer car park.The Hotel Kriva Cuprija was service itself. We were sat down with a cold drink and our bags put in the room. (Now remember our bags included a heavy suitcase with my camping gear in it!) At this point we were told that the hotel didn’t take credit or debit cards but only cash and not even Kuna. Joy. This was an introduction to a lesser economy and emerging nation.However we were soon out and about on the famous ‘Stari Most’ bridge and perambulating along the narrow streets with their endless tourists trinkets, restaurants and numerous sightseers. Mostar is the capital of the south of the country: the Herzegovina bit. (The Bosnia part has Sarajevo as its capital as well as the country itself). The ‘old town’ is the tourist trap and the rest is an attractive re-built city with six bridges across the River Neretva that splits it. The Ottoman Empire occupied the area for four centuries before the Austrian Hapsburg’s acquired it in 1878. (Hence the introduction of Islam in the Balkans). At this point the Austrians built a further five bridges – up until this point then the ‘Stari Most ‘bridge was the only way to cross the bridge after paying a toll. It has subsequent become a protected UNESCO World Heritage Centre site. Sadly this didn’t stop the Croatians bombing and destroying it in late 1993. Those pesky Croatians eh?The town has a large Muslim population and this seemed to attract international Muslim tourists. You obviously know this by the women wearing hajibs or burkas. In fact there is a large Saudi Arabian Consulate in the town. Our Walking Tour Guide the next day pointed out that Marriott were building a large hotel near the old town to cater for Arab tourism. It seems that the numerous lodging scattered around the town are not plush enough for Middle Eastern tourists.So we wandered about, took photos and returned to the hotel for dinner. The setting was blissful.

After dinner we had another walk and by this time the old town was a sea of lights and restaurants doing excellent business. Being in the old town meant that we had a loud concert playing badly amplified Balkan Electronica (not a genre I recommend) until midnight. This seemed strange to have it punctuated by the ‘call to prayer’ from the local mosques. After 12 am we were allowed to sleep by revellers and worshippers.Next day after sorting out the local currency cash demands of the hotel we met the Walking Tour at The Spanish Square. So named and funded by the Spanish in memory of the 23 Spanish UN soldiers who died in the war. In the party were Americans, Australians, Danes, Pakistanis and us Yorkshire folk.The recent history was that Bosnia declared independence like other former Yugoslav countries in 1992. The Serbs within Bosnia rejected this event as they felt more allied to the neighbouring country (Serbia) rather than the Bosniaks (Muslims) and Bosnian Croats. War developed and the Serbs were repelled. The Bosniaks and Croats then fell out and another war took place. All this left thousands dead and the city badly destroyed. I do marvel that despite all this that life and integration takes places today. I suspect there is still considerable tension but as they say the past is a ‘different country’.Many nations have subsequently contributed to the town’s rebuilding. There are still several bombed out buildings to this day. The guide advised that many nations contributed €11m to rebuild the old bridge but the British didn’t. He did wryly wonder why, therefore, Prince Charles re-opened it! The ambience of the city is a little looser than an organised European city and by being outside of the EU it doesn’t suffer all the rules. People rode motor scooters without helmets and H&S isn’t a concept worrying road construction workers yet. On the streets there were some child beggars being managed by, I presume, Romany adults. On our walking tour a very precocious child joined the group and worked her way unproductively around the group with her hand out. It really wasn’t a disincentive to visit the city but it is worth noting that it is an industry happening on the margins.Needless to say this small nation of less than 4 million people aspires to join the European Union with its various credit lines and cash. Not least for the young is the opportunity to move within the zone. I’m sure it is only a matter of time.

Reluctantly we steered the Opel south. I will come back and regretted that we had had too little time in the country. I was intrigued.

June 30, 2018

A guest blog by Matt Gray

(Matt and Katrina (no relation) were on holiday in Vancouver and then Seattle when the following unfortunate event came to pass. What can you say! 

Matt is a writer, coffee connoisseur, voracious reader and potential Northampton Town fan (he just hasn’t realised it yet). After duress, on Katrina, she has delegated and prevalied on Matt to pick up his pen. Frankly this is so funny and well written that there are unlikely to be any further pieces of his work on my web site).

It was at the end of a traditional delving into the touristic that we found ourselves, having ascended the Space Needle and pottered around the Museum of Popular Culture, at a bus stop in Downtown Seattle, where a rather unfortunate incident was about to occur.

The only thing hotter than the sidewalks were the temperaments and heat-frazzled declarations of the vagrants, which, being British, we dutifully ignored, and ignored admirably.

However, one such declaration came from a gentleman, half shrouded in the shadow of a shop’s awning, which caught our ears before he caught our eyes. 

‘Anyone here waitin’ fo’ the 27?’

The 27, as it so happened, was our bus. I was all set for British stoicism, but my companion, never being one to shirk off the heeding call for assistance, confirmed that we, in fact, were waiting for the 27, as it happened.

Bugger.

The man was bound to a bulky wheelchair, all manner of odds and ends jutting from its rear. He smiled a brown-toothed smile, given life afresh by the lack of complete shirking he was used to. In one hand, a half-smoked cigarette clung greedily to stained fingers as though an extension of his less-than-savoury form. The packet from which said stick had originally been drawn was perched between his feet on the little rest, as crumpled as he was. 

‘You wouldn’t be so kind as to help push me onto the bus, when it comes, would ya?’ He emitted a phlegmatic cough of such deep-rooted rot I thought he may not survive the wait. 

‘Of course.’ With those two simple words my executioner had swiftly dished my sentence. By ‘of course’ she meant: ‘Of course *he* will: the unfortunate owner of that pronoun in this case being yours truly. 

Fifteen minutes passed, in which time I offered for us to, as the weather was rather amiable, maybe take a stroll down to the next stop? I was given the stare a warden gives to the prisoner suggesting he loosen the shackles slightly while he relieves himself by the roadside. ‘But you have to help him onto the bus!’

Bugger.

Then a conflicting duo of emotion at the arrival of the bus: Yes, it’s here!; Shit, it’s here!

I moved to the rear of the shlock’s chair and pushed, nearly doing myself a mischief in the process. I expected it to be a smooth mover but I was wrong. What was he keeping in this dead contraption? Did he live in this chair? Did he, when the sun had descended for the day, slither into the back to nibble upon the supple bones of those who had kindly pushed him?

I managed to swivel the chair so it faced the bus. All that awaited now was for the final grand exertion, the straight-line heave to the finish. 

What happened next was over in a flash, but will forever be etched upon my retinas, reducing me to a giggling mess whenever I ponder the events for too long. 

Fate had deigned that day to place a full, miniature-sized bottle of sun-tan cream directly in front of the wheel I was about to move at a swift pace. Like the train flattening the unfortunate maiden tied to the tracks I did not feel it happen, but its effects became instantly apparent. 

A lady wearing an elegant full-length dress, back turned to us, waiting to board the bus, happened to fall prey to simple geometry. A flag bearer for the maxim ‘wrong place, wrong time’. The lid was the first to go under the chair’s immense weight, springing instantly back on its plastic hinge under the strain. Next came the money shot: a mightily impressive load of viscous white liquid spurted from the bottle in a display that would have made a Pornstar proud. At first I thought it had merely gotten her ankles, but as my eyes ascended I noticed it had arced its way gracefully up the full length of the dress, stopping a mere inch shy of her hair. Snaking tendrils of cream lined her legs and back.

Being dutifully British I said nothing and my face did not betray me. 

The sunken fellow in the chair, however, tried his best to be the good citizen and, the chair now having caught up with her, tried his best to alleviate the issue. She was, it seemed, unaware, had felt nothing of the hot liquid upon her. What she did notice thought was a filthy wheelchair-bound vagrant covering his own hands in cream (cigarette still firmly in place betwixt fingers) smearing it deeper into the fibres. 

She seemed more concerned about the cigarette. However, I wanted to tell her not to worry: with that much sun-tan lotion applied she was highly unlikely to burn anytime soon.

France is undoubtedly the best place in the world to cycle. It has warm weather, sparse traffic away from the cities, plentiful accommodation, delicious food and a beautiful terrain. I hadn’t had a French cycling holiday for sometime. So with the intrepid explorer, Tony Franco, we flew into Toulouse Blagnac Airport with easyJet. The plan was to cycle north east from the airport to the Dordogne where we’d then cycle west along the river and have a rest day. After this then it would be a return to Toulouse knowing that the last day was basically a flat run for home.

In fact we flew from ‘London-Luton’ Airport. It makes you wonder how strong the brand of London is that it necessitates ‘Luton’ having the prefix. London is 40 miles away. ‘London-Luton’ mainly handles budget airlines (used by UK residents) and so who are they fooling with this nonsense? I used ‘Meet & Greet’ for the car parking. This had a slightly worrying feel to it. I drove up to the third floor of a multi storey car park and a fairly scruffy bloke appeared, smiled in a friendly way and took my car keys, hopped into the Merc and then disappeared down the ramp. Manoeuvring two large bicycle boxes onto a trolley and repeatedly taking them off to enter narrow lifts was a chore. Eventually I found Tony and after lobbing his bike into the spare empty box (with loving care) we headed for the check in.

The plan was to re-assemble the bikes in Toulouse Airport and cycle ten miles north to a hotel before embarking on the tour the next day. I had travelled in my cycling kit however Tony hadn’t. Not a problem until he decided to change in the Arrivals Terminal with small children running around. I half expected to leave the airport to the accompaniment of police sirens searching for a British exhibitionist.

DAY 1   Toulouse Blagnac Airport to Bruguiéres – 14 miles 

With my expert knowledge of France I had implored Tony to invest in some food to take with him to France. I opined that France would be ‘shut’ on Sunday evening as regards finding dining solutions. Dutifully we shopped at Luton for food. As we cycled away from Toulouse Airport then the landscape was heavily populated with open restaurants! This may have irritated Tony but as I had stupidly left my food under a seat on the aeroplane then this was a good discovery.

The fairly modern hotel in Bruguières, in the suburbs of Toulouse, was adequate although there was some type of depot nearby and with the window slightly ajar my sleep was interrupted by roaring diesels all night. 

DAY 2   Bruguiéres to Villefranche-de-Rouergue – 74 miles/1,300m of climbing

The next day was Monday morning redolent with rush hour traffic. There were a number of stops and starts as we attempted to find our route to the North East. It was good to be underway and soon we were truly on the open road and aiming for Gaillac. The weather was now in the early 20º’s and no rain in prospect. The lunch stop was a delight with French cuisine (ribs) from a small restaurant in the town centre. The locals were quaffing wine and beer but with so many miles to complete and the potential for dehydration then water was the lubrication.

One striking aspect of riding at this time of the year are the fragrances as you ride along from the crops, trees and flowers. We were en route to Villefranche-de-Rouergue and we were high up and rolling mainly through arable farmland. After Gaillac we came across the beautiful tourist town of Cordes-sur-Ciel, which is an ancient fortified town high on a hill. I had stayed here on a previous 2007 cycling tour. Climbing into the town was done in heavy rain but it soon disappeared and the sun came out for the rest of the day. We stopped for a coffee break and Tony took a couple of business calls (whilst I helpfully added my enormous business acumen on European food trends to his sum of knowledge).  

Leaving Cordes-sur-Ciel we saw a stop for shoe repairs after a mean little climb for a mile. Back on the road there would occasionally be a long descent, which was a relief and delight but the ‘invoice’ was soon presented with a climb immediately when you reached the bottom of the hill. One such arose in 32ºC heat as we bottomed out at Saint-Martin-Laguépie. As soon as we crossed the River Tarn there began a one hour climb. It was all about a 4 to 8% gradient and I ground up in the granny gears very slowly. As all tourers know then you are praying that this is the last hill before you hit the top. Inevitably you turn a corner to find that there is more to come. I often watch the cars coming and going past – what gear are they in and how fast are they going? This can all point to whether they have experienced an immediate climb or descent.

Throughout the week I always stayed in touch with Tony when out on the road. This was a brutal project where you attack the day and cover the terrain whatever the weather, mileage or elevation. Tony had received his initiation in Derbyshire, Lancashire and Yorkshire last year with lots of miles, climbing, late finishes and changing routes. Surprisingly, he signed up for a further larger dose of exertion. 

As I’d cycled over 1,200 miles this year and spent sometime in the Yorkshire Wolds climbing I was in good shape. Tony had been out training when he could but it seems most of his recent cycling had been in gyms in Shanghai, Melbourne, Dublin or Bogota whilst instructing millennials to locally best market their beer. He gets about. So you can take the view that I was his guardian angel ensuring that he was never left behind or abandoned. I, personally, would take the view that I was a nagging pain in the butt, often short of humour if he’d switched off his phone so that I couldn’t contact him or taken a turning that wasn’t fully ‘authorised’. It was on this climb from Saint-Martin-Laguépie that I came to rest wondering how far I was now ahead? – was it 5 minutes or 20 minutes? Did he have any water left? So I was just finishing  leaving him a text message when he hauled into view much to my delight. He ate some of my precious stock of midget gems, took half of my remaining water and we pedalled on. I knew at this point he should be able to get through the week (but maybe I should wait less if he was going to eat my sweets).

Another glorious four mile descent took us into Villefranche-de-Rouergue and we eventually found a B&B. The room only had a double bed and so the landlady told us to go and have dinner whilst she swapped the beds around. This was no problem other than two very sweaty and weary men arriving at your restaurant wasn’t necessarily attractive. As regards conspicuous then apart from lycra shorts then one was wearing the Croatia home football shirt (red and white checks) and the other was in the leader’s jersey from the Giro d’Italia (pink). A full stomach of pasta, a couple of beers and a shower ensured that sleep came easily!

DAY 3   Villefranche-de-Rouergue to Saint Céré – 55miles/1,400m

After finishing the evening before in sunshine we awoke to rain and a fairly gloomy prospect from the bedroom window.

We bonded so closely with the landlady and her husband that we couldn’t shake them off at the door as we packed the bikes to set off the next morning. I blame Tony who can speak French reasonably: I find my limited school boy French soon makes the natives disperse. The road out of town was wide albeit with trucks but well surfaced and the miles were eaten up. I often stop to take photos and on one particular bend I was told by a shouting Dutch lady that I shouldn’t stand there; I was summoned to join her.

Margit was 50 something and domiciled in a small village near Figeac. With her husband, Fran, they’d bought a house 19 years ago and since retirement life seemed to be about landscaping, building, fitting, general construction and moaning about how unsocial the other expat Brits were. When Tony joined us we were invited to their house for a coffee. Why not? I stayed behind to take my photograph. I then discovered that their house was not ‘just off the main road’ and pedalled around for a long time up and down hills trying to find them. Out of the Seven Dwarves then I possibly resembled Grumpy when I eventually came to rest with the smiling Margit suggesting I had no sense of direction.

So we had a coffee and listened to Margit who amongst much information sharing enquired as to my age? Being hilarious I offered her three guesses. By her second guess she had suggested that I was 70 years old. To be positive then the age gap was coming down with each guess but I eschewed the last insult and told her my correct age. She was very proud of her former career in Holland showing international customers around various projects on the disposal of human waste. Mischievously I felt that Tony should now step forward and talk about his world class knowledge on beer. He absorbed this ‘ambulance pass’, with good grace, and as he expanded on my introduction Fran then volunteered that he had drunk most of the brands Tony had come across!

With time flying and the thought of lunch in Figeac we thanked them for their hospitality and headed down the proverbial (and literal) road, over the River Lot, and then into town for another splendid outside lunch in a pedestrian precinct at a small restaurant.

From here came a very tough afternoon as we climbed up from the River Célé valley. I failed to find the most direct route to our next stop. Fortunately Tony never detected the error as we climbed and meandered along minor roads in heavy rain. It was scenic and the only chance of seeing another car was if it was as lost as we were. By way of deflection when we pulled up for a discussion, on the weather, conditions of our legs and how far to go, I proffered him a Mars Bar. Never have I seen such a happy human being.

With my bearings re-established we found Lacapelle-Marival where we dried out by stopping for a coffee before the last push. The weather dried up and the scenery was hilly and rural with odd settlements, however, progress seemed slow. With yesterday’s climbing in the legs and with this latest bout of mountaineering I will never forget the large village of Leyme. It had a long main street that just got steeper until ascension and departure was only possible with the negotiation of a tight steep hairpin. This joy was accompanied by the obligatory dog ‘going off’ like a burglar alarm at my passing a large house and garden.

All over the world dogs sit in their gardens barely raising their head at the passing of aircraft, trucks cars, cats or walkers but as soon as a cyclist pedals past making no noise at all then something makes them go ballistic. (There may be money in identifying the chromosome that leads to this canine madness).

However after passing Leyme there was a long descent into a damp Saint Céré where an adequate hotel had been reserved via Booking.com. The small town had its charm and the next morning it looked like a busy and interesting place to hang around in despite the heavy rain. However the Dordogne now beckoned.

DAY 4   Saint Céré to Sarlat-la-Canéda – 54 miles/ 600m

Quickly we were enjoying the flat roads and made our first ‘pit stop’ for a coffee at a café run by a couple of Brits in Carrenac on the banks of the river. From here on very minor roads we trundled along the river. These were probably the quietest roads we’d found and through the trees we had the Dordogne on our right.

It was the type of route where trucks were advised not to use as their Sat Nav would let them down by picking an impassable route. This came to pass in Floirac where a truck was nearly wedged between two buildings. Tony established this from a local who reported that it was quite routine.

From here the road rose up and fell and we ended up on a sublime piece of road. This led us beside a large rock cliff and gave us fabulous views of the river. Somehow it seemed like the tour had been aiming to reach this very road such were the delightful views. Keeping on we reached Creysse where an omelette and as many French fries as a cyclist can possibly eat in one sitting were consumed.

The route to Sarlat involved a climb and we cycled past one of many monuments you can find in France to fallen members of the Resistance from the Second World War. I like the fact that these young people are still commemorated and their sacrifice is unquestionable but I’ve always harboured a feeling that, at best, some French had a very mixed war.

Sarlat was reached and it was clear that this was ‘Tourist Central’. Beautiful stone buildings with foreign tourists from farther afield, than Tooting and Acaster Malbis, were evident on what I suspect was their whirlwind tour of France. The ambience and attractiveness of the centre was clear but this was maybe not the France I came to find.

Certainly the hotel was not what I came to find. An internet booking went wrong and the hotel were simply intransigent. On discovering the room we wanted was not available, at the price I booked it for, cancellation wasn’t allowed. Paying another €50 seemed the only solution. I argued the toss but made no progress and in fact was made to feel quite shoddy and a bit of a ‘chancer’ by the manager. Anyway the next morning we paid and left. The upshot was this testimonial I left on Trip Advisor. Booking.com gave me half the ‘overcharge’ back in compensation. Frankly I still don’t know what I really did wrong.

This unpleasantness meant that we decided not to have a rest day in Sarlat but moved onto Bergerac. However, the town did offer up the best breakfast of the tour – it was the usual bread, croissants, coffee and juice but this seemed more plentiful and fresh.

DAY 5    Sarlat-la-Canéda to Bergerac  – 46 miles/500m

You might think that riding along the Dordogne would be flat but unfortunately that isn’t the way it works out. We kept to the main road, which wasn’t too busy. There were continuing delights to see including Beynac-et-Cazenac.

After a Croque Madame (cheese on toast with a fried egg on top) in Lalinde we sped into Bergerac. Earlier I’d been sat in a layby ringing a bike shop in York about my front wheel bearings when Tony sped past. I called to him yet such was his concentration and gusto he didn’t hear me. Later harnessing this graft I ‘sat on his wheel’ into Bergerac and marvelled at how he was getting into this touring lark with all the road cyclist deft moves that help you cope with traffic, hazards and still maximise speed.

I’d stayed at the Hotel de Bordeaux, in Bergerac in 2007 and 1997 and so it was familiar albeit much improved. It was spacious and a good place to come to rest after the hard miles.

Day 5   Rest Day

Yesterday’s Stage winner appeared in the room the next morning with a cup of coffee and orange juice for my consumption. It helped me get over the loss of the midget gems (a little bit). From here a lazy day ensued of bike cleaning, a trip to a bike shop to get my front wheel bearings checked over and a short ride to the edge of the town for Tony to increase his wardrobe at Decathlon. Another fabulous outdoor meal confirmed our satisfaction with Bergerac as a rest day stop.

Me and Cyrano – an uncanny resemblance?

Day 6  Bergerac to Valence d’Agen – 69 miles/ 900m

Thoughts were turning to home and the need to get south. To this end we made a beeline for Agen before heading from here east to Valence d’Agen. As it was Saturday the traffic was light and as the sun beat down (it touched 38ºC). This peak coincided with being directed off the main road onto a side road due to bicycles being prohibited. It was one of those tortuous minor roads that offered endless steep climbs. 

If there are a couple of things about my time with Tony that I should report then it is that he gained an appreciation of McDonalds and had begun to swear like a navvy. Being from Italian stock and South London then fast food was a deplorable development until he worked out that whenever you stopped the place was air conditioned, had clean toilets, a safe place to lean your bike, low prices, efficient wi-fi, quick food and didn’t require a major deviation off route. (On a serious note though I am still amazed at all the packaging that comes along with a meal eaten in the restaurant. So much paper, tissue, plastic and wrappers – they really need to pick up their game). As for the swearing then I can safely say that I for one never uttered a profanity or expressed displeasure at drivers, hoteliers, oiks on noisy motorcycles, rain, hills or dogs. I’m not sure what set him off (cough).

Agen was busy and industrial but Valence came into view shortly afterwards. I cycled to the centre and booked a room in the only hotel in town. This was a super place with lots of space and a good price. After a hot day in the saddle the Leffe beer went down well as did the pizza at the only restaurant open on a Saturday night in the town?

Day 7  Valence d’Agen to Toulouse Blagnac Airport – 53 miles/ 170m

The manager re-appeared the next day to serve our breakfast. In the night there had been a dramatic thunder and lightning storm and she described the noise and light by the delicate phrase of “fuck”. Which is what Tony and I thought when this petite and attractive young lady suddenly uttered the word. It transpired her English lexicon had been expanded by a year in Beckenham as a chef! 

The ride began on a canal tow path that was beyond exquisite as a start to the day. For much of the way it ran beside the River Garonne. Dodging the twigs scattered on the path after the storm we made steady but slow progress. Along the way were lots of middle aged ladies walking with hiking sticks and the odd fisherman enjoying the solace and hopefully biting fish. Locks came at regular intervals but seldom a moving boat. We discovered that this was because they were all moored up in Moissac. A morning market was drawing crowds as we passed through.

It wasn’t a difficult ride to the Airport but I thought that we were going too slowly. We needed to have insurance against problems on the road and have enough time at the airport for dismantling and packing the bikes. So we used the quiet roads to get to our destination.

I’m still surprised by how many shops are open on Sunday in France nowadays. In a boulangerie we bought some sustenance and came across this birthday cake. I hope the driver was gentle on the brakes and corners as they took it home!

Packing the bikes was always going to be a chore. First you have to repack your panniers because you can only take one in the cabin. Then you have to break the bike down, protect it and put it in a bag. This took an hour. At check in the airline then said that we could only put the bike in the bag and not a pannier and so we had to re-pack! I have to say easyJet were reasonable and we were allowed to take two cabin bags at no extra cost.

Eventually we got rid of the bikes and grabbed a bite to eat. The next challenge was going through Security with a bag full of tools, metal pedals and other chunky objects. We both got singled out for detailed bag inspection – my heart sank. My inspector pulled out my Swiss penknife and muttered ‘bicyclette’ under her breath to explain this stuff and put it back! Even I was expecting confiscation.

Due to those nice people in French Air Traffic Control we were late taking off and getting to Luton but it went without a hitch. Back in Blighty I helped Tony assemble his steed and then we parted – him for the train and me for the multi-storey car park.

So where next? I may have answers soon…