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…

April 23, 2018

Abu Dhabi is part of the United Arab Emirates. It isn’t running out of money anytime soon with 9% of the world’s reserves of oil and 5% of its gas . However, it is a very small piece of desert with a coast line in a very hot place where a lot of concrete has now been poured. As part of the diversification (for the day when we heat our houses by solar panels or drive our electric cars) they have developed a tourism business.

Anna booked the Sofitel Corniche and it was very much 5 stars with wall to wall smiling, beautifully groomed and trained staff and luxurious and attractive facilities. We’d planned to find some winter sun. It could be argued that we were late in the season but the “Beast Of The East’ had made the preceding weeks icy in the UK and some genuine heat was in order.

It has to be said that there isn’t a lot to do other than lounge about beside a hotel pool. Granted there are shopping malls although they are around 20% more expensive than the UK. An offshoot of The Louvre was to be found. I understand that most of the exhibits of these large museums/galleries are kept in storage and so no doubt finding another outlet seems good business. Ferrari World wasn’t a gigantic car museum but a themed park with rides – at £60 a pop to enter and maybe a little too long in the tooth then we weren’t interested.

So first it was about getting into the swing of hotel living. The first bemusing thing is getting into the lift/elevator and riding 30 floors whilst avoiding eye contact and communication with all the other occupants. However, on exit you then turn to the people you’ve ignored and say ‘goodbye’. Other adjustments were alcohol. In the hotel a pint of lager clocked in at £9. We, later, had access to a free Happy Hour in a Lounge that overcame this potentially ruinous state of affairs.

Leaving the UK is not what it was with a blackout of news from home a couple of decades ago. The Internet and TV provide all the current affairs you can absorb. Sadly this coverage extended to sport and even the coverage of the Aston Villa versus Leeds game – is there no escape from a disastrous season? However some Premiership football and a Grand Prix were better entertainment. Communication with our progeny, Katrina and Sophie, was eventually resolved despite FaceTime and Skype being unusable. Apparently there are encryption disputes with the Government and Apple can’t be bothered to fix them. We used the call facility on WhatsApp. Some of the calls proved illuminating as Katrina explained that at her party she was playing ‘pass the parcel’. In between the layers of paper were sweets and a condom. The prize was unmentionable in pleasant company. I can’t tell you how much we spent on her education, where did it all go wrong?

Food was copious and delicious. We ate in the hotel and also out and about. Breakfast is always the big treat that you seldom fashion at home in the same way – fresh fruit (pineapple, melon, segments of grapefruit, segments of orange, kiwi fruit etc.) , followed by croissants or cereal with ground coffee before a leisurely stroll up to the counter (again) for an omelette or some pancakes. After this you need some exercise and via two pedestrian underpasses we were 200m from the front. Here was a large promenade with joggers, cyclists, some fishermen and a few children. We enjoyed feeling virtuous by walking a few kilometres. On a couple of occasions we took advantage of some ‘Boris bikes’. They enabled us to get further and not least find a café for some iced coffee. We learned to ensure that they didn’t add sugar! Abu Dhabi has a sweet tooth and cakes were everywhere and all the soft drinks seemed too sweet.

 I should have known this, I’d been here before. Back in the day (early noughties) at Moores we did quite a lot of business with a contractor/studio in the town. These exports were several hundreds of £000’s per year and we were glad to have it. Our contact was Lebanese and he wasn’t beyond the odd unconventional arrangement. The first I recollect was that he overpaid for deliveries. This largesse was because after we took the correct amount from the transaction he requested that we placed the balance in a UK bank account – his! The second thing was that he had a Kitchen Designer in the office, who was an employee and wife of another colleague. He brought her to the UK for kitchen design training (along with her very young child) . If the ‘cat was out of the bag’ that they were more than colleagues it came to light when over dinner they were feeding each other dessert with their respective spoons and also retired very early!

In fact in the UAE 99% of the workforce are expat. The 1% of Arabs who work tend to be in the public sector and can be found in the Government departments, airports, police and no doubt counting their money as they manage the Indians, Filipinos, Pakistanis and Europeans who run the country. Out of a population of 9 million in the UAE then 60% are expats with no legal domicile rights or any chance to get citizenship. Remarkably there are 1.8m Indians, 1.2m Pakistanis, 0.6m Filipinos and 0.5m Bangladeshis in the Emirates. 

You can’t overlook the fact that they are keeping their respective homelands afloat with all the money they send back. It seems many have been in Abu Dhabi for decades. Our porter from Bangladesh had been in the Emirates for 10 years, our Filipino hostess in the Lounge had been in the country three years; she was busy sending money back home to educate her siblings. Lastly, Richard out taxi driver was Ugandan. He calculated that he would earn a quarter of what he earned in Abu Dhabi back home as a teacher. This seems so sad to waste such talent. He had plans to buy a farm at home and he’d calculated that was where the money was.

Richard had brought us back from the Yas Mall. This is a cavernous construction near the F1 Grand Prix Track, Ferrari World and, not least, IKEA. (When it came to lunch my wife did suggest a quick trip into the furniture store but I could live without meatballs for a few days!) The Mall had all the major brands but, as I’ve said, the prices were uninteresting but it is an worthwhile visit.

Not nearly as interesting as The Grand Mosque. This is a sumptuous construction and despite the numbers of visitors had a great calm and coolness about it. Anna was made to dress appropriately: unfortunately there was no retail outlet for me to buy this outfit for her. In fact our Mosque guide explained the traditional dress (unconvincingly).

It goes something like – back in the day the men worked in the sun and needed white robes. With no money left then the women were stuck with cheaper black material. Nowadays they can wear white if they want, and I did see one woman at the airport dressed thus. However the reality is that they don’t. Similarly it was explained that women worshipped separately because the men had to touch shoulders in the Mosque and also prostrate themselves. This was inappropriate between the sexes – I had hoped for some dissent from the gathered emancipated Western ladies, unfortunately my eldest daughter was back in London (wrapping condoms). 

The guide, for all the frailty of these explanations in the 21st Century, did have a sense of humour. He showed us a monumental 8 ton chandelier in the centre and after explaining the lighting and weight did comment that in his early days he’d taken his grandmother around the Mosque. She’d not asked a question about the grandeur, King Zayed who instructed and paid for its building, the types of marble from Italy, Macedonia and China or where the carpet had come (Iran) from but did ask how they cleaned this huge suspended chandelier!

Of all the things I found impressive after the splendour of this ‘palace’ was the explanation of Islam to us ‘infidels’. It was gently paced and informative. I am not a Christian but why don’t tourists get taken around (the magnificent) St Paul’s in London (for free) with an explanation of the faith it represents? Are we ashamed?

Taking taxis was the norm. It came as a shock to find women taxi drivers in this male dominated society. The cars were a mixture of high end European models and Japanese for everything else. I still scratch my head at what happened to the British motor industry in the 1970’s. We used to export all around the world and in what seems like months that all collapsed and the Japanese moved in. Forty or fifty years later they still saturate the market with cars, vans, buses, trucks and 4 x 4s. 

So in between our daily trip out I spent time in the gym clocking up a few miles on a bike or groaning on the hamstring curl apparatus. I was even found in the hotel pool – I think this is the first time I’ve been in a pool on holiday for about 15 years (yes, ‘Tony’s most dull fact of the report’). I liked to stroll around the expats shops in the town (Anna less so!) and I could understand the mobile phone and computer shops – these folk needed to talk to home. I could see why you’d need laundry services but why so many stationery shops? I have never seen so many shops selling paper, ball point pens, pencil erasers or staplers – what is going on?

Children seem very welcome and with an absence of alcohol then it works better with them for eating out. There were plenty of facilities for playing and no one seemed put out by their presence (apart from me). Safety was guaranteed. Despite poor urban lighting and shady alleys then single women jogged in the gloom, people wore their finery and jewellery in public places and respect was shown for all. In fact I think this is where we were once upon a time in the UK. When I am amongst this calm and respect I want to live in places like this.

Not all went to plan. After breakfast I left my mobile/cell phone on the breakfast table. My minder (Anna) retrieved this and handed it to me as I was entering the Lift/Elevator. The closing door hit my hand and the phone fell miraculously into the gap between the lift and the lobby. So 43 floors or ⅓rd of a mile later the phone came to rest at the bottom of the shaft. You may be unsurprised to learn that it no longer worked! Anyway the hotel retrieved the pieces and I was left with the job of sorting out a replacement back in Blighty.

The flight was a scheduled 7 hours each way, which is more than enough flying in Economy in less than a week. On the return flight there were UK based Commonwealth athletes from the England, Northern Ireland and Isle of Man teams. Whilst waiting for the loo I ended up talking to a girl who was resplendent in the kit. “So did you compete?” “Basketball” “Oh, did you win a medal?” Silver”. At this point I felt a complete plonker. 

My other flight victim was the passenger sat next to me. He was a lad who was brought up in Grimsby but was an Albanian Kosovan (some might say that wasn’t a lucky escape). He was fascinating and we discussed the Balkans war, language, relations with Serbia, local food and football – I suspect the flight might have been longer than 7 hours for him! Overall a splendid break.

November 26, 2017

So through a cock up we visited Nürnberg a few days before the famous Christmas market. Anna had originally thought that it was being held on the dates we were visiting.

We discovered that it didn’t matter because if you can live without an acre of stalls selling small wooden figurines, glühwein and sausages then you’re not missing much. However, that being said then all I knew about the city was its awful Nazi history and the fact that my Favourite Youngest Daughter seemed to fly in here every month on adidas business. Their HQ is located nearby.Ryanair continue to delight. The flights were ludicrously cheap – £10 each way (which might have been a clue as to the fact the market hadn’t started) but the random seat allocator on the web site put Anna and I 12 rows apart. Of course this could be corrected for £4! The next joy was that Ryanair had the passengers embark through one door, at Manchester, leaving you to queue on the runway and steps whilst it rained. Passengers who had not been seat prioritised (you also pay extra for that) jostled for overhead locker space delaying others getting to their seat or getting out of the rain. Lovely.

Nürnberg greeted us with the famous ivory coloured taxis (not an Uber in sight) and we were whisked into the town centre accompanied by the Everly Bros, The Doobie Brothers and Cliff Richard on the radio. And they ask why we want to leave the EU?

We were staying in the old part of the city and close to all the sights. After checking into the excellent Hotel Five in the centre we encountered the other significant challenge of the trip – vegetarian restaurants. The legal statutes of Franconia (the Northern part of Bavaria) require a German to consume at least a kilogram of pork meat every 24 hours. All very well for me but unfortunately Anna forswore the ‘fleisch’ several decades ago. A lap of the restaurants offering schweinhaxe and quite a quantity of schnitzel but few nut cutlets. However the diner at the hotel came up trumps with a veggie burger. As always the quality of the English spoken by virtually anyone is shaming to the average Brit. Our waiter, of Vietnamese extract, spoke perfect English and this was learned at school.

The German climate, whilst cold is dry in winter (apart from when it is raining, cough) and many burghers can be found at outside tables drinking and, more worryingly, often smoking. This is quite a sight as even in the harder parts of the UK then being outside after dark in the winter isn’t a popular pursuit even for those fortified with alcohol.

Day 2 – The weather was cold but quite sunny and quite pleasant if wrapped up. Generating body heat was not a problem as the next morning I was led up a steep cobbled hill to the Castle (Kaiserburg). Quite a delightful building that very occasionally housed kings and emperors. These chaps rotated around their Bavarian cities collecting money from the well healed to fight their next war. It wasn’t very grand inside and I wouldn’t recommend shelling out to look around. There is continuing refurbishment on the building. It has to said that there is quite a lot of construction in Nürnberg generally and it was worth noting that this included the obligatory blokes in hard hats and hi viz loitering as one or two were actually doing something.

The old city (Altstadt) is very authentic and looks centuries old. Nevertheless this is a reconstruction since the 1940’s. In fact British and American bombing levelled 92% of it. By 1945 it was rubble. After the war the Germans painstakingly rebuilt it all. In fact Nürnberg was the second most bombed and destroyed German city of the war. The Allies targeted it because of its war effort supporting industry and it’s iconic status for the Nazis.

After our mountaineering then we did it again with, Regina, our tour guide. She led the 11 O’clock tour up the hill. She was a Finn but had been a resident for many years. Her talk didn’t skirt the ‘dark times’ but frankly we knew enough about WW2 that it held no real interest apart from some of the practicalities that befell the residents. Nürnberg, following the War, lost its industry, or it never came back, and today it is mainly service led. Tourism is popular and the Rhine-Main-Danube Canal brings cruises all the year round through the town. They disembark for, wait for it, glühwein, sausages and small wooden figurines. They also probably partake of the magnificent cake that you can find at many cafes. We felt it necessary to sample and in fact over the next couple of days did ample research. Delicious.

The town centre with its outdoor Germans was also a hive of joinery as all the stalls were being built for the market. The influx of tourists, mainly German is immense and the market runs all the way up until Christmas. Which brings us onto another interesting fact. The Germans appear to be quite interested in Christianity. In the UK it is in dramatic decline but here the churches appear quite well supported and references to religiosity seem more prolific. Regina advised that if you belonged to a church then tithes were collected at source – 8% of the amount you paid in tax went to the church you nominated. I can imagine active marketing campaigns for new membership!

The population of Nürnberg is 501,000 and whilst most live away from the old town then many do visit the large centre and it’s shops just across the small Pegnitz River, which splits the city centre. This was vibrant and at the weekend it came alive. On the pedestrianised streets were a lot of street vendors selling delicacies, vegetables, cheeses, flowers, sandwiches and the like. It was always buzzing.

Evening dining was later solved at a Vietnamese restaurant, which was delicious, and joy knew bounds when Sky News was found on Channels 1035 on the hotel TV. Only I would trawl through so many Channels! The hope was to learn more about the Ashes, which were not in complete disrepair at this stage of the series.

Day 3 – Anna led yours truly toward the railway station. As she pointed out you could tell we were getting closer to the terminal as we passed a large old hotel, Tourist Information, McDonalds and beggars. We were bound for Bamberg. Forty miles north of Nürnberg. Or were we?Negotiating the ticket machine resulted in obtaining two tickets costing over €38. Further review of the ticket revealed that one would have been sufficient and that we now needed two other adults and four children under the age of sixteen to get the full value of our investment. If that was a disappointment so was getting on the wrong train.

Let’s call her ‘Heidi’. She was quite gentle as Anna presented our tickets and enquired if we were on the correct train? We were not and although the train was going in the correct direction it was a sort of inter city train rather than the smaller affair that ran locally. So we were ejected at Erlangen. Now slightly uncertain about the tickets we decided to visit the ticket office. Yours truly was despairing at German efficiency as two little old ladies took an age at the counter to be served. I imagined judging by the engagement and activity of the assistant that they were exploring the cost and connections involved in travelling with a small farmyard animal from Erlangen to Motherwell via Athens on a long Bank Holiday weekend in 2019 paying with Bitcoins. Eventually a counter became free and in immaculate English the lady confirmed our new travel arrangements… and without prompting reimbursed me for the extra ticket we bought erroneously. “All good in the ‘hood” we both thought.

Bamburg has importance as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. For a short time it was the centre of the Holy Roman Empire and had religious importance and still today has a number of important churches and a monastery. My eye was drawn on Wikipedia to the golden years of the 17th century when about one thousand victims were claimed in the witch trials. Those crazy Bavarians.

So we wandered around had more coffee and cake and then ambled down an alley ostensibly heading back toward the barnhof. German architecture is solid and attractive but the level of graffiti is awful. For all their discipline then it appears that many youths take delight in spraying bollocks on beautiful emulsioned walls in a variety of colours. If I were a resident then I could be attracted to joining a vigilante group to coral these morons for some 21st century ‘witch trials’.

However, grumpiness was lifted by finding a second hand record store. The Germans do have some superb shops and other masochists who read my blogs know that I have driven to Stuttgart twice in the last couple of years to visit a brilliant shop there. Here I bought a German compilation album of a British band called East of Eden. It was pure nostalgia because I saw them supporting the Jack Bruce Band at The Queens Hall, Leeds on October 8th 1971.

On the train back to Nürnberg it was rammed with school kids. Anna deduced that they were weekly boarders who were let off early in the afternoon. I remember that I used to read books and listen to music on these journeys but now like the rest of the human race I scroll through rubbish on my mobile phone. If on leaving the EU we lose our free data roaming rights then I may get my life back when on holiday.

As compensation for being accommodating on Anna’s dining limitations I was allowed to select Bratwurst Röslein for dinner. This was a large hall with wenches in bustling red dresses over their white blouses who seated you at long wooden benches and proffered menus with dishes that were probably popular a couple of centuries ago. I had the pork schnitzel that covered the full plate and Anna had a potato goulash that didn’t seem to hit the sides, on the few occasions I looked up from my emptying plate and large wheat beer.

Day 3 – Rain! We had a morning to fill and the heavens truly opened. Anna thought the best way to avoid this was by going on a tour of caves under the city! There is quite a complex under the city that had two main purposes. The first was a place to ferment lager up until the mid 19th Century. The brewing process requires a cool temperature and as the average German drank 500 litres of beer/year back in the day there was a large industry to keep Fritz and Helga blotto. However after brewing didn’t necessitate being stored underground the mainly empty labyrinths were vital as an air raid shelter. Such is the network and its depths that it limited the death count to 6,800 in the war. This is still terrible but in the most bombed city, Dresden, it was nearer 25,000.

In line with our new protocol we proceeded from the sandstone depths to a café for another piece of cake before catching the metro to the airport. All went according to plan and we got back to Manchester on time.

Splendid. Get your tickets booked. We barely scratched the surface of all its delights.

October 19, 2017

Sunday was a perfect October day. Bright, still and not yet too cold. On this basis I managed to lure the present Mrs Ives into the Morgan and we set the controls for Salturn-by-the-Sea.

Located on the North Yorkshire coast this small resort of about 6,000 people is nestled into the former heavy industry conurbations of Teesside. The town has always existed as a resort, established in the 19th Century. Boasting a long attractive beach and restored Victorian pier there is a lot to like but the town on the cliff behind is quite a small affair and not overly prosperous. Frankly you’d be hard pressed to give it a definable status in the 21st century other than as housing community for commuters to Middlesbrough.

For me it is redolent with memories. In 1965 at the tender age of 10 years old I was despatched to Saltburn Manor School to board. Seventy miles from my home. Any visit for me is an examination of a distant memory with some diverse recollections.

The school was located on a hill detached from the town by valley gardens. The link into town was via a classic 19th century 200 metre long iron footbridge. Need less to say this bridge fell into physical decline and was demolished in 1974 but by this time the school had shut. I long remember the short walk into town across this bridge. The loss of the bridge and school is quite a significant ‘erase’ and a visitor wouldn’t know of their former existence without research.

Our visit started at the pier and in stark contrast to 1965 I found three Muslim girls on the pier attempt to take a selfie. I helped by taking a group photo. We then observed the fishermen at the end of the pier wondering what fish they might haul up before ascending the steep cliff back into the town centre.

The heart of the town is dominated by the railway station and a selection of shops that at best seem remnants of more prosperous times. 

In one of these shops I remember buying my mother a record for a present. It was “Strangers In The Night” by Frank Sinatra. Another memory was the organ pipes at a local church. On Sunday mornings we were marched in a ‘crocodile’ into town for a church service. As a child I spent many Sundays sat on pews and gazing around these fairly austere and chilly surroundings, which were always leavened by some colour. Most church organ pipes are not painted but these were. Other memories include the manufacture of balsa wood models. This involved glue and dope for the paper clad wings. More brilliantly for a small boy it also included a fiercely sharp scalpel like knife to fashion the wood. I still have the scar where I managed to remove a flap of skin on my thigh!

I only spent one year here before I was sent to another boarding school in Harrogate.

On our stroll we found a local delicatessen cum grocery and enjoyed a coffee before finding the car and returning home. We found an epic winding route from Stokesley to Hemsley. Things were a little quiet on my left hand side during the journey. I later received the terse comment that I had enjoyed the Morgan on the demanding roads pushing it a little too fast though the corners. Nonsense.

September 18, 2017

September 12th was our 30th wedding anniversary and a break was planned to another European city we’d not yet visited – Helsinki. We’d both ticked off most of the other Nordic capitals together or separately but never this far north. My knowledge of Finland was limited and knowledge of anyone famous really stopped at the former Bolton Wanderers’ goalkeeper. So this trip quietly excited your intrepid explorer.

I am not that devoted to loyalty schemes but I’ve had a BA American Express air miles card for some years and occasionally cash the miles for a journey. A return flight to Helsinki in Business Class was booked!

Part of the deal of cashing these ‘miles’ is that everything flies out of Heathrow. So we plummeted down the M1 for an overnight stay prior to a flight the next day on Finnair. An evening meal was hastily planned at Newport Pagnell and a Turkish restaurant called Capadocia was selected. Anna and myself like Turkish cuisine and she could select a vegetarian selection with ease. The restaurant was busy for a Wednesday night and our meal was fine. The Turkish proprietor who floated around the tables introduced himself and asked how we’d found out about the restaurant? ‘Trip Advisor’!

Oh dear, light blue touch paper and retire…

From here he recounted a brutal review of a day earlier from a diner that had given him one star. In fact he visited the table twice to show genuine hurt and pain and even brought up the review on his smart phone to show us. The diners had thought that the food bland. “Why didn’t they tell us when they were here? We would have changed the meal or given them some money off?”

His lament continued at the low score. “Maybe three stars would have been fair?” He’ had looked through their other reviews and establishments visited recently and even opined that they were saboteurs who preferred another local Turkish restaurant and was attempting to hurt his restaurant by posting this review!

As I say the place was busy with happy customers and getting so upset over one review was not worth it. However, it does highlight the damage and outrage some reviews on Trip Advisor can create. In fact you don’t have to stay at the hotel or eat at the restaurant to write a review. By the way, my main course had little flavour! I will not be noting this with a review on Trip Advisor.

Terminal 3 is not a venue that I have any affection for. We stayed 3 miles away from it but it still took 25 minutes to reach in the rush hour. It is a tangled web of entrances and various phases of construction and I pity an elderly or less mobile traveller using it.

We were chipper however as we had use of the Business Lounge and copious coffee, fruit and pastries were consumed along with our free newspapers before embarkation. Ordinarily then any turn left would cause me discomfort but on entering the aircraft a platinum blond goddess looked at our boarding pass and sent us toward Business Class. Oh deep joy!

I had often trouped past these little cubicles after an uncomfortable long haul flight envying the lucky so and so’s who luxuriated in these pens whilst I had got a crick in my neck and little or no sleep back in ‘cargo’. Now it was my turn but sadly for only 2 hours 50 minutes. It did cross my mind to suggest that they took the ‘long way round’ to Finland to enjoy this experience more. It was bliss and a wonderful way to travel.

Helsinki airport is modern but was hellish on our arrival. The trek to the train station is past endless Duty Free shops and not only was it a long walk but the place was rammed with travellers. Most I would volunteer were Chinese nationals who transit via Helsinki before flying onto China via the shorter northern route.

We eventually made the train and had a pleasant 30 minute ride to the city centre. From here we had another walk to the hotel. We could have used an Uber or some such but it’s not our way, we’re addicted to the step counter on the iPhone! A taxi only seemed a good idea as the rain started to steadily fall.

The Four Star Boutique hotel was a 19th Century converted prison! Anna found this on Trip Advisor and it was a little strange to check into three converted cells via a heavily fortified wall but everything was quite classy and plush. In the basement they had kept one of the original cells and encouraged recent visitors to write on the walls. It was utilitarian, brutal and dimly lit – any lengthy stay here would have been hell.

We wandered the short distance into the centre near the front for dinner and dined at ‘Toca’. This was a gourmet dinner which didn’t run to à la carte menu but various choices were explained to you and then modest but adequate portions of modern cuisine appeared. It was surprising and delicious… especially as we had selected it at the hotel thinking it was a pizza restaurant! The bill before the tip came to €110. This brings us to Finnish prices. Certain things were expensive but overall the prices were fine. Food and drink was a high price but frankly eating in the centre of any major capital is never cheap is it? Everything we ate was usually delicious and beautifully presented.

The next morning we did a walking tour of the centre of Helsinki. We’re avid walking tour fans and I reckon I could write a guide for those leading them to maximise the entertainment. Our guide failed to mention that whilst the tour was free that she’d welcome tips. A lot of the folk abandoned her after two hours, literally receiving a free tour. The guides are usually students trying to raise extra funds. I think we tipped well.

Finland, like a number of the Nordic nations, is quite young. It only has a population of 5.5 millions and around 11% live in Helsinki. Over the centuries either the Swedes or the Russians have occupied it. It only gained its independence in 1917 when it took advantage of the Russian Bolshevik Revolution to break free. In the meanwhile they have a very long border with the Russian bear and know that if they want to come back then not a lot will stop them! The Soviet Union was very hostile and repeatedly tried to occupy the country during WW2 and eventually took some territory.

The Finns seemed very calm, organised and open. We were struck by how a large sand pit used by children in a park had toys left scattered around for the next day’s play. In the UK these would be locked away and the sandpit surrounded by a high fence to stop the local youth doing something horrid to it overnight. Around the city were embassies and Government offices that all looked very vulnerable to easy entry and terrorism should a malign party wish to cause harm. This Scandinavian innocence is quite a contrast to our UK world. (As we were in Helsinki then the Parsons Green Tube explosion was reported).

In the afternoon the sun came out, briefly, and I found a few vinyl record shops to look around and Anna looked at the shops in the centre. I was short of time on my tour and didn’t buy anything but found a great jazz record store where the owner seemed to be having a great time playing his personal favourites. Next door was a record store specialising in reggae. Love it.

That night it was a couple of drinks in a local bar and an omelette.

The next day we had a leisurely start and got the ferry to Estonia. It was a two and a half hour sail to Tallinn. There were cars but most of the passengers were going by foot. Near us in the queue was a party of primary school teachers going for an overnight stay and a night out. In fact many of the passengers seemed to be getting into a party mood on the ship and there was much imbibing. (The return sailing saw lads wheeling on cans and cans of beer and many others wielding carrier bags of booze. It seems a long time ago that the Brits visited mainland Europe on booze cruises, or do they still do it?)

Tallinn was beautiful. The old town was beautifully presented with its cobbled streets and old buildings. Again another walking tour filled our time and we learned quite a lot about this nation of 1.3m people. It was the usual story of occupation over the centuries by Swedes, Germans and Russians. Whilst they celebrate 100 years of independence shortly then they only got rid of the Russians in 1991. From here they achieved the Holy Grail for these small nations by joining the EU in 2004.

It is easy to see that the EU is an attractive option for these smaller nations. You get access to markets, you get subsidy, you get an internationally recognised currency and not least you get an umbrella of supposed security by being part if a larger group. Especially useful if your neighbour and 25% of your population is Russia or Russian. Add NATO membership and you may even start to dream about another 100 years of independence.

The guide for all his earnest explanation about the history and economy did excel at talking about the Estonian character. They don’t like people and seldom, if ever, socially greet each other. They are not tactile and the concept of dating is foreign to them! Meeting the opposite sex was described as either as a sort of stalking for several weeks and pretending it is a coincidence to run into the desired target repeatedly. Or the popularity of binge drinking and finding yourself, the next morning, beside a partner that you couldn’t remember meeting seemed common. I suspect this is rubbish but it did give an illuminating insight into this small nation.

Our visit to Estonia, and back, never involved the inspection or even presentation of passports. I am not sure if they are in Schengen but it seemed that terrorism could move easily between the countries. Back in Helsinki we had a pizza and checked the football results back in Blighty. Yet more rain as we walked around but never very cold.

The next morning we took a couple of bikes from the hotel and toured the peninsula where we were staying. The icebreaker ships were moored here along with other more traditional forms of sailing craft.

So from the hotel we got to a quiet Sunday airport and relaxed in the Business lounge before the flight home. Whilst Business then the cabin wasn’t the new layout, but everything else was pampering! We picked up the car and, listening to the football, drove to York.

August 31, 2017

Before I share some thoughts on Canada then it is only apposite to mention that we never nearly made it to Manchester Airport. The drive from York suffered delays due to traffic jams. After reaching the M60 via a tortuous route over Saddleworth Moor, we started to move nicely for the first time in over an hour. At a junction an old Audi came onto the motorway and in heavy traffic made a dash for the outside lane. The only problem was that he was steering directly into the side of our car at 70mph. I swerved toward the barrier in the centre, our car hit the grass and gravel and we slewed along as the Audi made the outside lane but kept accelerating. Thanks to presence of mind and a great car, with superb handling, we kept control, didn’t hit the barrier, go into a spin and take out the cars behind us or those beside us. This fool could have killed 5 or 6 people in a heartbeat.

Anyway more than a little shaken we made the flight to Toronto. I’d been here in 2015 and thought it fabulous. Arriving and exiting by bicycle was a very different experience to that of doing it by car. My time on the bike was spent by Lake Ontario and then when arriving at Niagara I only ever saw the Falls (not the town) before continuing south into the USA via Buffalo.

Toronto is organised and attractive but busy. Our hotel was massive and choked with international tourists passing through. Our city bus tour was remarkable for revealing that Toronto might be modern and important but it had no history that you could repeat or remember. In fact I remember more about the Toronto Blue Jays playing baseball at the Rogers stadium and the window cleaners at the large children’s hospital dressing as Super Heroes to entertain the young patients than anything else. The tour involved a trip across the harbour to some islands.

The main reason for this stop over in the east before heading to the Pacific was to show Anna Niagara Falls. The drive to Niagara Falls was on a rammed motorway and when we got to the waterfalls we saw the resort, just off the main drag past the Falls. This rather reduced the magic of the natural phenomena. It is literally ‘kiss me quick’ hats, burgers and amusement arcades. However, you cannot take away the majesty of these wonderful waterfalls and I can barely imagine the impact it had on the first Europeans who came across it.

From here we drove to Niagara-on-the-Lake and it was simply delightful. A small resort on Lake Ontario at the head of the Niagara River (that is part of the waterway between Ontario and Erie). This quaint and historic town is beyond manicured and full of tea shops, restaurants and most things that would carry the tag of ‘upmarket’. The flower beds and hanging baskets were a vision to behold. 

Needless to say there were many other tourists there. The surrounding area is planted with vines and it appears a considerable wine producing area. We tasted some ‘icewine’. This is fermented from grapes that are frozen at the time of picking in winter. It was very sweet, like dessert wine. After this it was back into the traffic and back for a vegetarian meal in the centre of Toronto.

Our flight to Vancouver, to complete the journey west was another four hours. This is a very large country with the 4th biggest land mass as a country but only 36m inhabitants. You quickly learn that everyone lives broadly up against the US border and some Provinces (out of the 10) such as Yukon, only have a total population of 36,000! Clearly the terrain and climate offer no incentive to live there or many places north.

Vancouver is a fine city and Anna booked us into  a more luxurious hotel this time near Downtown where we were to discover the first of a lot of German tourists. They flood across from Europe and love the west coast of the Americas. We did a Chinatown walking tour on our first morning, which was surprisingly engrossing. The Chinese came in the 19th century to build the railways. As part of British Columbia becoming part of Canada it needed a rail link. The Chinese, from the Pearl River Delta, can be viewed just as indigenous as many of the Europeans. However it was a long road for their equal rights, they even had to overcome racists laws in the 20th century. Our Canadian Chinese guide slightly gilded the story of local ethnic Chinese heroes bringing about change. I’m sure their efforts were vital but in fact the post war Universal Declaration of Human Rights adopted by the UN in 1948 meant things had to change for the Canadians. (The plonker with the Mohican is from Australia…)

Coming up to the present day then several conversations talked of ‘Asian’ immigration or property buying throughout the main cities. These properties were not always to live in but as a speculative investment. (A lot of nations in post communist countries buy property speculatively outside their homeland e.g. Russians in London). In addition there were hundreds of Mainland China tourists in the resorts. This even led to the recycling bins having script in Mandarin to ensure tins didn’t go in the wrong bin! Like York then they are bringing considerable revenue to these tourist destinations but the cultures of China, Europe or North America do appear uncomfortable together at times. 

Even more energy sapping was being behind two people who’s first language was not English in a shop. Such was the accent that they either spent sometime repeating things to each other or, even worse, one poor lady at a fast food joint I went to only partially got what she came in to buy. Who’d be an immigrant? This partially explains the lack of integration I expect.

In Vancouver we tried to get over the jet lag, ate well, rode bikes around Stanley Park and soaked up the more laid back vibe of Canada. Eventually we picked up our second hire car and headed for Victoria Island. I paid scant attention to the holiday booking details and getting a ‘compact’ car seemed fine. It ended up being a little small and under powered. The power was undermined by the statutory North American automatic gearbox. To dust off an old politically incorrect comment then our little Nissan couldn’t pull a sailor off your sister. This meant that on some busy winding roads putting your foot down to overtake took courage and blind faith. I am a Leeds United fan: I coped.

To get to Victoria on Vancouver Island (on the south tip of the island) meant an hour and a half ferry and we absorbed the majestic views before we disembarked and made our way to the hotel. 

Here one of the staff, a chap called Waddingham, told us of his family’s origins in Hull. All good although we did correct him on his name’s pronunciation of Waddingham and not ‘Wardingharm’! Victoria is the Province capital of British Columbia and has a legislature and fine older architecture. I find it quaint that they still have ‘British’ in their name and, frankly, any residual attachment to the UK. In 1931 Canada gained their independence and any involvement of the British Parliament went in 1982. The Royal Family is still affectionately regarded. Will and Kate visited Victoria fairly recently but frankly when the Queen passes I think the majority of the Commonwealth, let alone Canada, will call time on any remotely formal connnection.

We saw the city by bicycle and here Jessica steered us up and down hills and kept us away from traffic. Vancouver Island was the first settlement in British Colombia and hence it became the capital despite being detached. 

Today Vancouver is several times larger but the Parliament resides here. I expected a distinct difference between the USA and Canada to be evident: it wasn’t. The Canadian’s accent, TV channels, road signage, chain stores, cars, types of food, ambience etc seemed just a continuation. Even detail like the yellow school buses were evident. To this end the shadow of the USA looms large and not larger than Trump. In fairness he has freaked out the world with his language, behaviour and perceived priorities. He has many people all caught like rabbits in the headlights and for better or worse then sensibilities and fears of many are heightened to the extent that he is a preoccupation. I sensed it in a few conversations and as always you could rely on the ubiquitous CNN to talk negatively 24/7 on all things Trump – I don’t doubt some of the negativity is well earned. 

From Victoria we weaved on a motorway and then minor roads to Ucluelet on the west coast of the island. There are several names that originate from the Native Indians or First Nation people who were here long before the Europeans. In this small coastal town there was tourism and also facilities for fishing trawlers. The trawlers brought ashore hake (for McDonalds!), salmon and other white fish. We had a fabulous trip off the shore in a launch with other tourists. The expedition was to find Grey Whales but sadly there were none to see. However we saw many Sea Lions, Sea Otters and Bald Eagles. The tranquility of the sea near the shore and the clear fresh air were glorious and enervating. Back at our apartment we dipped in the jacuzzi and ate our store bought provisions. The following morning we sadly had to depart but not before a quick hike around a trail directly on the shore. Wonderful and I think we’ll be back.

So another ferry and then a straightforward drive up to Whistler. Whistler is a skiing resort but in the summer there are some scenery seekers, like ourselves, but also hundreds of mountain bikers. When we got there we discovered competitions which brought in many young chaps on expensive bikes. However many others with the right head and body apparatus took the lifts to the top of the mountains and came down on the trails. During the winter then these would be the various ski slopes. It looked great fun for all ages as the gradients, like ski slopes, were graded. We were in a hotel with some catering facilities and on arrival popped out to the supermarket. Licensing laws meant that the store didn’t sell alcohol and as it was 9 pm nowhere else was open. To rectify this crisis I went to the hotel bar and returned to the lift with 2 pints to ascend to the room. A crowded lift turned toward me to note my 2 pints. I felt clarification was necessary and I did blurt out”they’re not both for me!”

It was here that it struck home how expensive Canada was. Two people eating out with a drink and basic fare would bash £50. I wouldn’t pretend that we didn’t budget for this but you do get to a point where it isn’t as if you are doing more than refuelling at a high cost. 

Whistler hosted part of Vancouver’s 2010 Olympic set up and it is a well laid out town with great facilities, links and transport for skiers. However, frankly it wasn’t suitable for folk like us passing through with just scenery and relaxing in mind. I think it’s reputation blinded us and so we went. Don’t go unless you’re on a mountain bike or skis. 

One notable thing to mention about Canada is pedestrians, of which Whistler had many, and the car. The pedestrian has priority and courtesy is shown by the motorist at all times. Not only do the cars wait for walkers to complete their progress to the kerb but hold back some distance. This courtesy is extended to cyclists. It’s just in the culture. There is endless debate in the UK about making the roads safe for cyclists. Solutions include car exclusion, cycle lanes on roads, specially built cycle paths, execution for offending drivers by beheading etc. Frankly a good start would be the elevation of the pedestrian and cyclist, when sharing the same space, to be respected and protected. Costs nowt an’ all.

The drive to Kamloops, the biggest town in this part of the Rockies, was tough. It was single lane and slow traffic made the going miserable. On the odd occasion that an overtaking opportunity arose I gunned the poor little Nissan within an inch of its life past a bus or dawdling SUV. I’d never heard Anna pray out loud before…

Our first stop for some lunch was Lillooet where our sandwiches were prepared by a lady from Glasgow. Her escape to this absorbing scenery and clear mountain air made a lot of sense. This small settlement has had many incarnations, not least as a rail stop and mining town. The heritage of the town is preserved by a number of graphics that mainly hark back to the 19th Century. However, one piece of recent history was the incarceration of the Canadian Japanese population in WW2 after the bombing of Pearl Harbour. Many were shifted from the coast, where they traded and were fishermen, to the interior. In retrospect then this seems very harsh and wrong. If, given the issues, you can understand that then maybe not the confiscation of Japanese property and assets which they received scant compensation for, if any. They weren’t allowed freedom of movement until 1949 or an apology until 1988. 

A brief stop at Blue Water was to again break the journey and buy an ice cream. This settlement had experienced forest fires and the road had been closed recently. It was pleasing to see that a sign in the Welcome Center offered fire fighters free drinks. Attached to the Center was the Gift Shop. The Canadians are no slouches in every part of British Columbia or Alberta at flogging swag. As I sauntered back to the car my bride bought four very nice coasters made of slate and etched with the images of elk or moose. Pleased with her purchase as we drove off I volunteered that a First Nation Indian had not spent a winter’s day sat on the unheated clay floor of his wigwam holding the slate between his feet whilst he chipped away with tools made from flint and animal bones. More like that a man called Mr Lee based in a large factory on the outskirts of Shanghai had been the machine operative who was producing about 500 coasters per hour. Naturally this ‘negative’ comment was dismissed until she established the country of origin on the box. She was partially correct in that his name probably wasn’t Mr Lee but Mr Wang.

Kamloops is a large town and due to the lack of other big towns miles around it seems to be the centre for every car dealer, motel, lawyer, appliance showroom in the area. We were located just outside of town at a hotel that might be described as more of a ‘country club’. It had a gym, bikes to ride, swimming pool and a wedding! We partook of the first three and then drove back into town for dinner. The weather was getting warmer and despite being in the Rockies, and our experiencing some rain, then we were regularly above 20° C.

Rain greeted our residual drive to Jasper. The first thing you feel is the deep local welcome when you get there: from Australia. There appears to be an acute shortage of bar staff and shop assistants throughout the Rockies. Australia (and New Zealand) has stepped into the breach. Many of these millennials have been here for some time. We talked with a few, usually the opening line was, ‘you’re a long way from home?’ Many had come and stayed. Given the flight time and cost to the Antipodes I can see how they had ended up residents. By way of variation the present Mrs Ives had booked us into a log cabin on the banks of Lake Patricia.

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Everyone likes a picture of a train, be honest.

Jasper is small, mainly summer driven, resort overwhelmed by Brits, Germans and Chinese. It is on the famous Canadian Railway line and hosts the tourist train that pulls through every day. It is also ideally located for local lakes – Maligne, Pyramid and Patricia. It’s on the latter that we stayed in a log cabin. (Just to return to an earlier theme, then on Lake Pyramid you could hire canoes by the hour – $40). We tripped out to see the lakes and absorb the beauty. It was chilly and overcast for some of the days and the beauty is cast into monochrome only to fully hit you when the sun comes out and glorious Technicolour abounds.

Anna had so wanted to see bears and as you drive along then there are many road signs warning of wildlife. Needless to say our sightings were limited but we did see one bear on a bank near the road. That was it. Elks were not so hard to find and this moose was caught early evening grazing.

The Icefields Parkway is the 180 mile stretch of road that takes you south in a long valley. Either side are lakes, glaciers and creeks can be found often with bus loads of other tourists. 

Our pleasure was taken in a steep hike to the top of a very tall hill/mountain to look down on Lake Peyto. The colour of the water is made by a fine silt that is found in the lakes.

Our last stop was Canmore, a mere stone’s throw from the famous Banff. This is an upmarket little town full of expensive second homes and a main street selling specialist bagels, artisan coffee, gifts and craft beers. Our B&B was exceptional and a very Continental breakfast afforded talking to the other guests who were mainly Canadians. Topics from Bonnie Raitt, Alberta oil sands, speaking French and that bloke Trump (again) were discussed. There were a selection of great eating options and one owned by a brewery that did small samples for $10.

We drove back to Banff to see what the fuss was about and it was just a little bigger with more tourists and shops selling stuffed elks, key fobs, cushions with Mounties on them and similar tat. I believe it is more important in winter when the skiing season will fill all the hotels on the outskirts.

Back in Canmore we rode bikes along the river, drank coffee, drank beer and headed back up the road past Banff to see Lake Louise. It was so named after Queen Victoria’s fourth daughter. The graphic telling this described Victoria as the ‘Queen of England’ – slightly disappointing to read given Canada’s place in the Commonwealth.

To celebrate our disappointment we ascended 1,000 feet for over 2 miles for a cup of hot chocolate and a large piece of banana bread – a fair exchange in my book. The step count on the iPhone said we had ascended 79 floors!

A return to Canmore for a bagel was bewildering. I was asked by the young man, resplendent with tattoos, hat and piercings, what I wanted? Such was the enormous choice that I took some time to answer. Like all attentive youngsters dealing with older people he patiently smiled and then repeated the question. I did gently ( a major concession on my part) say that I understood the ‘kin question but was considering my choice. His mother loves him.

It would be remiss not to talk about what the Canadians have done to our language. Despite some British spelling then they mangle ‘aluminium’ like the Yanks. Their metal is pronounced aloominum and Hyundai is bastardised to Hundi. By way of forgiveness we did enjoy some of the language such as a dog accessories shop was called ‘Mutt Hut’ and the children’s section of the menu at one restaurant called ‘Cub Grub’. I would add the establishment was called The Grizzly Paw.

Our last day was spent in pursuit of retail joy. We found two malls that sold CD’s and vinyl LP’s and Anna found Gap and Coach. The Canadian economy benefited. 

Whilst waiting for Anna to pay for the unbelievable ‘bargain’ purchase I chatted with the young lady handing out ‘50% off’ vouchers at the entrance. She is a student and this is a Summer job. She hopes to become an optician. She suggested that the 27° C weather outside would soon fall apart and that Calgary would be cast into a freezing winter and only emerge in May. No thanks. The Mall attracts a lot of tourists and many from Mainland China bulk buying – Anna followed a lady at the till buying 9 identical bags no doubt for redistribution back home.

We wended our way to the Airport and dropped off the hire car. A diligent chap looked around the car for damage, checked the fuel and what not. I did advise that the engine was missing. Now usually my profound hilarity is met with ‘tumbleweed rolling across an empty street’. However, being a bright bunny he did reflect and surmise that such an underpowered car in the mountains was sluggish and disappeared to provide a $5 free coffee card and a free car upgrade the next time we rented with Alamo. Being a prat does on occasion pay off!

The flight home, via Heathrow to Manchester, was routine. 

So Canada? Kind, beautiful, genuinely interested in the environment, organised, quite expensive compared to the USA but similar in taking a lead from, culture, food, language, appearance and system. A bit ‘vanilla’, somehow too gentle and giving the impression of a new country that’s still finding its identity.

So where next?

July 17, 2017

‘Lord I was born a ramblin’ man’ sang Gregg Allman in 1972 and the riff from this classic Rock song is one that everyone knows because it became the theme to Top Gear. And so this is me again, the latest jaunt sees me load Samantha (Morgan Plus 4) onto the Hull to Zeebrugge ferry with a vague idea of where I am ramblin’. I enjoy driving the car, French camp sites, seeing new sights and generally being off the grid for a week or so.

Any holiday that starts on a ferry has a large frisson of excitement and despite spending a disproportionate amount of my children’s inheritance on this tug every year then I still have the same anticipation when I get on board.

Day 1

The pleasure starts when you drive off and attempt to drill into your numbskull that Johnny Foreigner drives on the other side of the road. Anyway with the hood down I soon strode across Belgium under sunny and then stormy skies.

First stop was the Decathlon superstore at Lille, their head quarters. Daughter No 2 (or Number 1 in her mind) worked in London for the French sports retailer and I just love the selection and prices! So I got to the store with the hood down and came back to the parked car (hood up!) to be in one hell of a summer downpour. This deluge continued as I headed south east down the main motorways for several hours.

Eventually the sun appeared but my once immaculately clean car was filthy and with this dark cloud over me I headed into some motorway services on the French / Luxembourg border. I only ever thought of this little country as a tax haven and irritant by being involved in World Cup qualifiers but also I really don’t like its foremost politician – Jean Claude Juncker. With Brexit looming he made a speech in French eschewing English given that we will be soon gone from his club. I thought this was childish and the prevalence of the English language unstoppable. And so it was in the services with the cashier clarifying matters for all people in English!

Border security has now been reintroduced and at every border there are traffic jams as gun toting police scrutinise the cars and trucks as they file past them presumably in search of terrorists. The implication was that I lost considerable time on all the borders. The longest delay was between France and Germany. Ironic really because I’ve noted that the Germans do not indicate their borders!

Eventually the motorway became too wearying and monotonous and in the late afternoon I find some side roads and look for a campsite. The car is bliss on windy smaller roads providing the road surface is good. The two most horrifying words in French a Morgan driver can see are in the photo below:

Eventually I find one. I last visited it in 2011, by bicycle, in Verdun. I passed this way when looking at the French and German WW1 battlefields. Job done for the day.

Day 2

A bicycle day starts early because there are big distances to pedal. However in the car it is a lot more leisurely. Also I was only sauntering down the road to Villey-le-Sec, near Toul. I have visited this campsite in the car in the last three years and some of scenery is staggering. The Morgan is wonderful with the hood down but if you take the temperature above the twenties then it is like being put under the grill. At McDonalds in Toul where I used the free wifi then the air conditioning was delicious. More memorable was the idiot trying to open my toilet cubicle door and twisting the handle until I came out. His face was a picture of contrition as he thought his work colleague was within (instead of me). Those crazy French eh?

At the campsite I take a familiar spot opposite the Moselle. I have previously seen working barges but over the time I’m there I only see a few pleasure cruisers. I pop out and get some provisions and when I return it’s a literal procession of people who come up and admire the car. Lots of questions about the engine, where it’s made and even one Belgian admirer has one at home. As much as I love the car my heart gently sinks as the next Dutchmen slowly approaches asking if it is still made with a wooden chassis. In fact such was the love that I started getting paranoid. The next morning as other campers passed me saying ‘morgen’ I had to stop and not confirm to them that they were correct and it was in fact a ‘Morgan’.

With this admiring audience I wash the car and then chat with two German cyclists who I tease about carrying too much luggage. They defended the lugging of a cold box several hundred miles on the basis that they always had cool drinks to hand. I wonder if they’ll be so smug when they find more hills as they push on to Marseilles. Also on occasion you come across a lunatic cyclist tourer who is doing it all wrong…

A chap on a mountain bike comes into view pulling a child carrier trailer. In the trailer is fido. However within the trailer are no tent, cooking equipment, clothes etc. So this deranged cyclist finds a tree next to the river to shelter under (a good idea given the heatwave and tropical rain storm combination) and unfurls his sleeping bag, ties up the dog and then goes to sleep. Surprisingly he’s still there the next morning despite the considerable risk of his rolling into the river and floating downstream to the lock.

I imagine like me he was woken by four rooks that are making a spectacular din as they play/fight between the tents. Given that the French seem to eat anything then I may have a solution that appeals to them.

Day 3

So well awake and up I get on the road and decide that I’ll have a look at Strasbourg. First I stop at Decathlon in Nancy to buy Anna some cycling shorts. Apparently the padding is in a different place to boy’s shorts? I come out to lots of Morgan admirers. One besotted Frenchman after seeing my car and viewing the engine compartment drags me across to see the engine of his BMW Z3. Oh ffs

The decision to go to Strasbourg and avoiding the main roads takes me through some minor mountains on empty roads. Despite the midday heat then the wooded climbs keep me cool and I swoop and climb for many miles. My wife would have been thrilled as I saw a deer amble across the road as I slow for another hairpin bend.

What becomes clear here and in many parts of France is the rural abandonment that probably started 60 years ago but continues at a high pace. A lot of settlements have derelict hotels, mills, shops and houses. It seems the jobs went and so did the people. Whilst these places are not terribly remote then I can imagine, back in the day, telling a teenager who’s 25 miles from ‘civilisation’ that this is a fun place to be would be a challenge. Clearly if you’re a Brit with the dosh you can get a lot for a song.

In Strasbourg the intended campsite is reached, nicely within reach of the centre by walking. However, I am turned away as it is full! When I last drove to the site in 2016 it was shut as it was being refurbished. I don’t believe that I am meant to ever stay here! Positively, however, then I’m offered an option 5 miles away but it takes over an hour to reach. Kehl is on the other side of the Rhine but as there is a border then those cunning Germans have made entry on this busy route into a one lane affair and in the sizzling sun I broil as I inch toward the border. The campsite is super and the obligatory man over 50 appears to drool over the car (a bit like a scene from The Truman Show when a man on a walkie talkie advises the actors that I am now on the campsite and a man must appear to admire the car) and then a bloke from York seeks me out. He regularly comes here. So often in fact that he stays with the campsite owner! Anyway bonding done and I walk back to the bridge/border to get a free tram into Strasbourg.

What a beautiful city. Lovely architecture, probably owing more to German than French design but sumptuous and a magnificent cathedral. My mind wonders as to how much it would have cost to build originally. Mind-boggling.

Strasbourg is the other home of the EU and the MEP’s are meant to move between here and Brussels. The reality is that is a pointless double centre arrangement but unsurprisingly the French veto any talk of ‘shutting’ Strasbourg. ‘Non’.

So after a good walk around I find an outside restaurant and the result was excellent. I was only offered two cooking choices – ‘red or medium’! I get back on the tram to Kehl and then saunter back to the campsite. Another striking factor is the ethnic mix on the both sides of the border. There are many many people from the Middle East and Africa. I guess that there were a lot of newcomers long before Angela tore down the border for refugees.

Back at the campsite I find a German lady who is admiring the car. ‘Ageing crumpet’ will save me a lot of words in describing her (apologies to the Thought Police). She has come to Strasbourg on her bike to meet someone to do something but tomorrow she is planning to escape the heat by going swimming with a Russian girlfriend (…you think I make all this up!) Anyway back in the ’90’s she visited the Morgan factory on a professional photography assignment and was relaying this to me with considerable colour – ‘oh, you should have seen zee factory with all zee walls covered in porno’.

Why she is travelling alone is now becoming a little clearer.

Clearly it is a long time before Page 3 girls were prohibited from being posted on lockers but I remember those years well. Not a loss. All in all I’m disappointed that this was her main memory of the most exquisite of British motor engineering!

Day 4

Anyway no rooks next morning but quite a bit of rain and being Sunday I drive into France to find a supermarket. Germany ‘does’ Sunday and no retail shops are open other than in tourist areas. A little face peaks through my car window as I park up and asks if I speak English? “A little bit”. “May I take a photo?” “Mais oui”.

The drive to Stuttgart up the E5 was horrid. I drank a litre and a half of water in 3 hours just sat still in the car as I toasted alive hurtling east. Along the way with pending late afternoon thunderstorms I decide on a hotel and find one on the internet. Through heavy traffic I get to the hotel in late afternoon to find the door in North Stuttgart locked! I ring the intercom and am advised to type in a code and a key pops out of a hole! The room was hot but it was good to get out of the storm and try and find my lost prescription sunglasses.

Day 5

Alas they were not to be found and I decided to solve the problem by going ‘old school’ to quote Daughter No. 1 (who definitely knows that she is No. 1) and planned to get some clip on’s. Very ‘1985’ I hear you saying but continuing on my travels squinting was not an option. Up the road was an optician and in the morning he had the solution and was prepared to cut the lens to fit my glasses. All for €19.

In downtown Stuttgart I found an underground car park and went in search of Second Hand Records. This is a truly brilliant vinyl record store for anyone collecting older stuff. In fairness they had lots of new but I bought some Humble Pie, The Nice, Santana & McLaughlin, Millie Jackson, Ten Years After, Candi Staton, Cat Stevens, Average White Band and Alvin Lee. Blissfully happy I steered Samantha into the Black Forest on the B roads.

Now this was the sensible way to head south west again. It is lovely although I expected a larger area. I got to St Peter and found a campsite that for views and shower block immediately makes the ‘Tony Ives Top 10 Campsites’ and all for €9 with great wi-fi. In speaking to Anna I demonstrated the rugged side of my nature as she listened to the rain falling on the tent. However real manhood would have been demonstrated as she heard the thunder and lightning that I endured until the early hours of the morning. I genuinely thought that the ground would be so waterlogged that I couldn’t drive the car off the grass next morning. It wasn’t.

In gentle rain I continued south and made it to Mulhouse. Here I popped into the shop to buy a couple of T Shirts at the French National Motor Museum. I went around it in 2013 and it is probably the best car museum in the world. I replaced a much loved T Shirt I bought back then.

Now it was up the mountains in the Vosges. This is where the car excels and it is a pleasure to surge up the hills and take the corners tight on the way down! I pushed onto another Google find in St Maurice-sous-les-Côtes. This campsite was a field of mirabelle plum trees with spaces and a small mixed shower block. In asking a lady when Reception would open I made a friend in Susan and her husband, Immer. She was an English woman, married to a Dutchman, who tuned pianos and painted oil pictures of our currently conflicted world… Trump, Theresa May, discarded plastic bottles in the ocean and miners with bird faces (so very Tony, I know). Knowing that she was a gentle soul I felt compelled to discuss Brexit! ‘Light blue touch paper and retire’ comes to mind. Anyway I hope I assured her that the world will continue to spin and Boris Johnson’s mum loves him even if Remainers don’t. I return to the tent to find the ‘neighbour’ shaving her legs (and trimming her moustache, just joking about the second part) but the Dutch are really a practical nation as was another Dutch lady changing her top in the mixed shower block the next morning!

All in all a lovely very French site with an owner selling local produce and being so courteous and helpful that I must find his site on Trip Advisor to anoint him. Maybe we bonded when he talked about the car on a TV programme that he watched about someone refurbishing a Morgan.

Day 6

In more rain I head north. Now I’m thinking about the ferry home and edging closer. Again Google finds a site as I’m sat in a McDonalds in Reims charging the iPad and using the ‘whiffy’. I drive to Guise and find a gem of a town with a fabulous campsite. “Where can I pitch the tent?” “Anywhere”. Correct answer. So that means away from the kids and other folk at the bottom of the site! Here in the now warm evening I wash the car. Originally I got the really grim dirt off it at a car washing centre with a high pressure jet but back on the site some further detail work needed doing. After is a stroll into town to meet Stella (Artois). Then back for another episode of House of Cards Season 5, nicely held on my iPad after a Netflix download.

Day 7

Again a leisurely departure and a drive north through arable land and past French and British World War One cemeteries. All poignant. A stop at a supermarket in Roubaix to get some vittles for the ship and then onto the ferry.

There are signs warning about illegal migrants stowing away on trucks and at the ferry port security are checking cars. I am exempt from the search as it become plain that my fitting into the car with luggage is difficult let alone a bloke fleeing Afghanistan.

A routine sailing with me catching up on the blog with a pint of Guinness later.

Day 8

Into the Hull rush hour and then home.

July 4, 2017

Day 1

So back on the road… how exciting! After a winter of injury then to actually pack the panniers and gingerly advance on my trusty steed toward York Station was quite a thrill. Frankly I’m not fully restored but I was anxious to see how the knee behaved as I had planned a tour that by any standards was not a gentle re-introduction.

Lord knows Cross Country Rail is not a thing of beauty and even less so as it arrived 35 minutes late as I wended my way down to Derby to start the ride. The first challenge was loading the bike onto the correct carriage and then ‘hanging it up’ in a special recess. That went well but at the next stop, Leeds, another cyclist was moving my heavy bike to create space for his and clattering it as he grappled with its weight. I was heard to utter a loud ‘whoa!!’ to indicate my displeasure at his manhandling. The weightlifter in question objected to my objection and pointed out that the ‘train wasn’t my personal property’….’’maybe, but the bike’s my personal property”. Anyway I went back to my seat hoping he had an unfortunate accident with a car outside Wakefield Station when he alighted.

Eventually Derby came and I met up with Tony Franco who’d had to hang around the Station until I arrived. Tony and I met in 1985 when we studied at the University of Bradford for our MBA’s. Tony has a busy work schedule but is a cyclist, runner and swimmer. However such a long trip was new to him.

The Marketing Guru led off through Derby traffic for our evening accommodation but gave an indication that it might be three days of intensive supervision when he forgot the directions on the way to his parent’s house! To confirm my suspicions then on this short trip he managed to get a puncture.

Anyway we left Mr & Mrs Franco’s and were later fêted like Kings at his sister and brother-in-laws’ house in Littleover and then retired to contemplate the expedition ahead.

Day 2

A grey and chilly morning greeted us as we cycled to Etwall to pick up Sustran’s Route 68 – ‘The Pennine Cycleway’. This was on country lanes par excellence and made even better by the sighting of an early morning E Type Jaguar on its way, no doubt, to a Show or some such.

The road rose and fell a little but Ashbourne was reached with little distress. We nearly missed it as we were diverted around the edges of the town but stopped at the beginning of the Tissington Trail for a teacake and cup of tea. After this we had a gentle 10 mile uphill ride. We joined a Hen Party on their hired bikes, sporting sashes, grinding along uphill stoically. Being cheery with this hung over party was not completely well received and the future sister-in-law did confide that she was looking forward to the pub stop (it had been promised) not too far away. It also was busy with walkers on the Trail and there were a lot of small teenagers hidden by enormous rucksacks out in the wilds doing their Duke Of Edinburgh awards.

The views of the Peak District were fabulous as we pedalled along and we left the route briefly at Hurdlow for some lunch at a pub. The complete joy of long distance cycling is that you can eat what you want with impunity… we did. At this stop I instructed Tony how to operate his expensive Garmin Sat Nav/Computer sat on his handlebars looking, up until this point, neglected.

Up until this point Tony and I had been jauntily suggesting that our wives could have completed and enjoyed the ride so far and so let’s have them invest in those padded shorts and get their diaries out. As the day progressed then this idea seemed less promising.

After gentle gradients then gravity took a more serious and unwelcome role in our lives as we approached Buxton. Figures like 13% started to appear on my Garmin as I reached for the granny gears on the bike. Close to Buxton the frailties of friendship and consultation reared their ugly head and instead of logically following a trim female road cyclist on a carbon bike up an A Road to Buxton I gave the option to Tony of following the map or the cyclist. Anyway the upshot was a long walk on a shattered track resplendent with boulders and loose stones. If I am to blame for this mistake then it was not to have questioned in more detail a very nice gentleman picking up litter near said track. I just enquired as to whether it was a quick route into Buxton, which he confirmed it was. He also did add that it was quite a decent road surface until all “the four by fours fucked it up”!

We eventually got to the delightful town that is Buxton in warm sunshine and partook of refreshment before contemplating the next part of the ride.

This meant a very serious ascent out of the town and by now I’m feeling like I am punishing Tony with the amount and severity of climbing. He was, in fairness, cheerful and game throughout but maybe my planning had been a slight over optimistic. Toward the top of the hill outside of Buxton the map directed us up another terribly steep hill to where the road became a stony track. Once in a day is careless but twice is stupidity and so a plan was hatched to stick to main roads from here to Glossop. This decision was immediately rewarded by a several mile descent toward Whaley Bridge. A man in a small Peugeot convertible passed with a washing machine in the passenger seat, I wondered if he had ever thought that online dating sites might bring him more success?

At the bottom I rang the pub that we were staying at for the night to be treated like a retard and told there was no reservation. I had arranged everything in early June and so this was not only inconvenient but also simply ignorant. Trip Advisor will inform the world of their oversight: I promise.

So with Tony consuming gel bars and Mars bars we climbed into Glossop and completed our 65 miles for the day and clocked up 1,676 metres worth of climbing. The last few miles were enormously steep gradients. For a novice this was a remarkable baptism of fire… sorry! The Travel Lodge in Glossop had space and after a shower and some food we both separated to sleep soundly

Day 3

I think Lionel Ritchie once volunteered ‘Easy like Sunday morning’. Not if you’re with me Lionel! We went into Wetherspoons for breakfast and consumed a complete ‘heart attack on a plate’. Delicious. I did ask the waiter if they actually served alcohol at 8 am? He said that they didn’t until 9 am. He did say that some lost souls actually did buy booze at 9 am. He liked to think they were off a night shift somewhere but he knew they weren’t.

In line with a developing pattern we climbed out of Glossop and went in search of Route 68. Stopping to ask the locals was quite funny as we asked one chap who gave a very good plan of how to get to it only for him to leave and another bloke to dismiss his directions as tosh as ‘he was new around here’. I can’t pretend we nailed the route to start with but eventually we made progress north until near Holme Moss. Here I foolishly, in retrospect, followed the ‘Trans-Pennine Way’. If that was foolish then the Park Ranger who gave us further directions was even more of a fool. We were sent on a trail that wasn’t fit for bicycles or well marked. The upshot was that we pushed our bicycles up a long grassy hill/mountain to a stone shed that was clearly a dead end.  One interesting discovery was that in a space of several hundred square miles cows can crap copiously on a small strip of grass path – the only place where you can push or ride your bicycle.

Holmfirth was eventually reached in lovely sunshine and predictably heaving with tourists. All no doubt seeking a cup of tea at the famous café used in Last of the Summer Wine. It was early afternoon and we had over 40 miles to cycle so we pushed on. The Sat Nav said Huddersfield next and we entered the home of Premiership football in no time and then reaching for our crampons climbed out of the town leaving the speeding cars below us. Tony was now starting to understand long distance touring and was developing his own nutritional solutions – Peppa Pig Gums.

Elland was a wonderful discovery only because of the amazing descent shortly after you pass beneath the M62 and from here we aimed for Halifax. It was here that my nutritional solution was adopted – McDonalds. Being a cool dude then Tony had heard of this fast food outlet and apparently close relatives of his frequented these popular temples of delight. Unfortunately, he had not sullied the premises in his living memory and I’d like to think I helped him overcome some psychological barriers as he ravenously consumed a Chicken Legend, fries and two large Cokes.

Pleasure was short lived as Halifax provided more steep climbs and continuing heavy traffic before a long descent into Hebden Bridge. Here we checked out letting the train take some of the strain and found out we could get to Burnley on the 16:52. So a quick spin around Hebden Bridge and even a look in a record shop before back to the Station to catch… the wrong train. Anyway Manchester Victoria was nice and Tony bonded with an older lady who remonstrated that the train driver had failed to stop at Smithy Bridge (no, we had never heard of it either). We felt her pain and no doubt so did the train driver who she bolted toward when we came to rest.

Given my accumulating transgressions for this murderous route then I was keen to re-apportion blame for this mistake and Tony accepted my opprobrium with good grace. So catching another train to Burnley we got there with a bijou 13 miles to complete to get to Barnoldswick. I had telephoned ahead to the hotel/pub to advise we were coming but worried that we might not get food on a Sunday night in this little place and urged Tony for one last push. Poor chap he was cycling on memory by now but uncomplaining and up for the challenge.

So through Burnley, Nelson and Colne we pressed on in the early evening sunshine noting the differing communities and the surprising number of elderly immaculate Mercedes and BMW’s being driven by young Asian lads blaring out the Top 20 from Karachi. Another feature of the communities was a sewing machine shop! There must be many dressmakers to keep a shop in business and it momentarily reminded my mother and her dress making back in the day.

The Fountains Head was a noisy pub with rooms upstairs – yet despite our being late, smelly and it being very busy with many patrons we were ushered in and fed magnificently. The room was super but to be honest we could have slept on a clothes line by now.

I am a great believer in the maxim that you should only tell the truth if it serves a useful purpose. To this end whilst paying the bill at the bar a fairly well oiled woman perching on a bar stool made the perceptive observation, probably driven by my being in an orange lycra jersey, cycle shorts and looking knackered that I had been riding a bike. I confirmed her assertion and then went onto to outline the route (“never heard of Glossop, is it in Kent?”) and the distances involved. She then opined that as I was ‘getting on’ then clearly this was an achievement…. I never did like Barnoldswick.

‘Scores on the doors?’ – 54.2 miles for the day and a mere 1,360 metres of climbing. (Sorry, again).

Day 4

Rain! This was the greeting as we stepped out of the door after our ‘thank you’s’ to Carole, the owner of said hostelry. However before this we were befriended by Dave Dee (or Duxbury to his bank manager and doctor). Dave made breakfast, sadly not a core competence, and then regaled us with his disappointment at large families living off Benefits whilst he made do on a lot less, his time as an undertaker (loved the job), Night Club Singer (Tamla is his forte), his broken earlier marriage, child bereavement and his discovery that his real father (he was adopted) sang on cruise liners. We needed some quiet time on the bike to process all this…

Carole suggested picking up the Leeds to Liverpool Canal towpath at Skipton. Between Barnoldswick and Skipton was a poor path apparently. So we joined the Monday morning rush hour on the horrific A59 to Skipton – awful!

Once in Skipton I found the canal as Tony sped past into the centre of town with me bawling “TONY!… Pay attention 007”. He dutifully turned around. The towpath after Skipton became a muddy track with large stones and tree roots – no fun and after a coffee stop in Silsden I was thinking that I cannot ride this for another 25 miles into Leeds. Fortunately about a mile south of Silsden the track became a made up towpath and from here into Leeds got progressively smoother and faster. After the earlier two days I owed Tony something flatter and the ride into Leeds was a gradual descent from the top of the Pennines.

This canal was opened in the early 19th Century and cost £877,000 to build. However miraculously you could leave Leeds on a Wednesday and be in Liverpool on the Saturday. I expect that the railway soon led the canal to lose its traffic and with the motor vehicle the waterway is now a beautiful relic. In fact we saw few barges and if you did it was as they were queuing or within the locks that help the barges deal with the terrain. The canal was picturesque and the towpath sparsely populated.

There was a lot of development near to the canal as we progressed toward Leeds and I expect residents wanted a view of the canal and its calming influence. You could see some imposing and large converted mills along its length that foretold a very different history to the de-industrialised world we now cycled through. A beautiful ride and easy to boot. Frankly, I am not sure why I have not heard of more folk doing this.

Lunch was taken at Rodley in the outskirts of Leeds and then we literally cycled past the entrance to Leeds Station where Tony bought a train ticket to London with the rejoinder that for the same price he could have booked a return flight to Barcelona!

This ride from Barnoldswick totalled 38.1 miles and a mere 159 metres of climbing.

I then dragged my weary body up and out of Leeds and found some of my regular cycle routes near Thorner. These took me back to York where I amassed 62.8 miles for the day and 469 metres of climbing. I didn’t envy Tony who had to reawaken those screaming muscles at Kings Cross and persuade then to function through London rush hour traffic on his ride home.

A great whirlwind of a trip. Great company, memorable cycling and at times captivating scenery. Can’t wait for the next one.