A Rambler's Rambles

As I rode away, South-West, from Amsterdam, I didn't know which port I would be ferrying home from: Hoek van Holland or Dunkirque. I said to myself the next day, if I get to Hoek in time for the 2pm crossing I'll sail to Harwich, if not I'll ride on to Dunkirque. After stocking up on waffles and Dutch beer in Den Haag, and getting distracted in a deep second hand bookshop, I raced on to the port. I was 10km away with an hour to go; achievable, yet challenging in the ferocious coastal headwind, when I decided to stop and spend the afternoon in the Dutch dunes. I discovered some large metal pipes stacked up on the beach, that later sufficed as a squat for me over night.

However a peaceful night tucked away in sheltering tube turned out to be pipe dream. I was freezing as the conducting iron sapped away my little body heat, and the rain blew in the end (10m away) and trickled down, wetting my sleeping bag. At about 2am I woke up to powerful lights and voices entering my abode through the storm. It was the beach patrol. They'd seen my bike chained up at the rack a few hundred metres away and had come looking for me! Hopefully the search hadn't been too long. Afterwards I thought I should had told them to take a couple of beers from my suitcase. They had absolutely no problem with me sleeping on the beach.

After breakfast of crunchy muesli covered in half-a-dozen sachets of coffee milk, I rode to the port, past the quintessentially Dutch glasshouses. Whilst waiting for the ferry at Hoek, I saw a man wearing a huge backpack, pushing a simple bike laden at the handlebars with shopping bags. I went over, but just as I started to make conversation, I was met with a bark of: "Please just leave me alone." A shame.

"The last of dusk over the sea - beautiful.
As the distant glimmer of Harwich,
a luminous island on the dark horizon,
grows brighter, it dawns on me:
I'm nearly home."

I was up the following morning, on English soil, early than intended. It's funny how the only times in the 8weeks that I had to get up uncomfortablely early for fear of detection, were the nights after the ferry to and from the continent. This time was due to a pack of dogs going beserk in the next field. I was glad of the 6' fence between us as I hurriedly packed away the tent at 6 in the morning after limitted sleep.

It felt great changing in to fresh boxers and socks at the side of the road, and devouring a huge bowl of pasta. I lost my map early on in the day, so had only my compass to guide me. Turns out Cambridge was much further North than I thought.

A relaxed young postman (also called Simon) helped correct my misorientation. Later that afternoon, after 10hours on the road, I spotted a sign for stollen - a favourite German cake that I forgot to stockpile. I dashed over and handed my remaining cash (only euros) through the sash window in exchange for local honeycomb and cake.

An hour later I was sat in Christ's Pieces, sponateously accompanying a busker on my Jew's harp. Turns out he's also called Simon - bizarre. Vicky met me after a couple of songs and whisked me off to Sainsburys and halls. Sat in King's College Bar that evening I enjoyed my first English ale in 2 months - Old Speckled Hen never tasted so good.

The next day (Number 58) I set off on my last ride home. Mary [bike] loaded, Jack [Union flag] sailing, bunting tied and L-plates on show. As I rolled up to the rugby club, I spotted one middle aged man looking far more excited than the others waiting for their wives to collect them. Dad. Great to see him again. The warm embrace was broken quickly for him to hop back to take a photo on his primed camera.

After a couple of beers in the rugby club, I rode home. It was strange riding such a familiar route after so long on unknown tarmac. I slipped round the back and let myself in. I leant against the living room door frame staring at Mum, sat in the window chair reading a book by the half-open curtain, waiting to spot my return. But I was already back. I was home.

I survived the night at The White Mountains with out being raped, and shortly left for the city. Part of me wanted to spend another day there: beautifully serene in the early morning light Sun. Then as the morning wore on and more and more dog walkers appearred, I decided to head on North.
I really appreciated putting my tent away dry for a second day in a row; not even a light dew.

As I rode toward Amsterdam's centre I stopped to watch a gaggle of ~10 geese march the pavement and obstruct the cycleway. I received lots of smiles as I fed the bread, and was even given more bread by a passing lady, part of which was then gratefully received by some nearby children.

The city: woah. I rode around for sometime, eye bulging, trying to take in it all. Every metrre of the street filled with activity: souveniers, bars, coffee shops, hotels, tourists, funfairs.. After a while though I felt, for the first time in the 52days of my journey, alone and burdened with my bike. I couldn't leave it anywhere to explore inside any of the buildings; I was trapped upon what had been my vehicle of liberity, only able to gaze upon groups of friends inside inviting (and not so inviting) venues.

I decided I wanted to see more of the city and its culture (opposed to the tourists and their culture of the centre) I found my way out to the Van Gogh museum. I saw the queue before I saw the museum, a line of people snaking their way 50m up the street to the expensive entrance. I sat down on the pavement across the road, eating through my last bread and cheese, and befriending two weathered pigeons. While gazing out, considering the differences between my trip and that of those huddling under umbrella over the road, I noticed to bright green wild 'parrots' sat up high in the trees between us. This truly brightened up my day, seeing such a juxtaposition; vibrant birds in the wet, grey city. There tourists across the streets only seeing the LEDs tick down the hours until they got through the doors.

At that point I realised I needed to find somewhere to stay: I was shivering, my hands shrivelled wet. I made it to a soggy campsite a couple of hours later. The original plan was: pitch, feed, warm up and get back to the city. As often is the way, chance changed all this, for the better. I met three great Australians in the campsite and spent the rest of the evening huddled under a tarpaulin strung out between thier small tents. The rain that evening was absolutely torrential.

The next day we wandered round Amsterdam together. I went to the cinema with them, choosing company over exploration.

The following morning I awoke to a magnificant sunrise across the bay. The Aussies had left the evening before, flying onto London before South America, leaving behind a few unwanted bits for me. This gesture meant the cornflakes [with milk!], pasta, beans tasted all the better and the shower was even more refreshing. I got chatting to a man at the campsites bike rental, whilst waiting for clothes to dry and power mokey to charge. He'd just got back from cycling down to Southern Italy a couple of weeks ago by himself.

Riding across the city, I managed to miss the thick, consuming city centre entirely, instead riding round some pretty, local streets/canals nearby. That afternoon, whilst following the cycle route signs to "Den Haag", I happened upon another load of 'imperfect' potatoes in an already harvested field.

It was only on the final morning with my last European host, Bernd in Monchengladbach, that I considered visting Amsterdam. I'd spent the last few days near Dusseldorf with my friend Jana again. Ever since hearing about the 'European Outdoor Film Tour' back in Bamberg, and finding a location & date that tied in with my unplanned route home, I rode in anticipatation of watching these 10 best outdoor films of the year.
I arrived at Jana's with a couple of days to spare before the film showing, and what a full couple of days. I watched Jana play football, went with her for a driving lesson (in a BMW X3!), out for dinner, to university and climbing. Climbing: the biggest and best indoor wall I have ever visited; 13m high, laced with a plethora of routes. I really appriciate the thought they put in taking me out there, as I know they are not climbers themselves. A wonderful second respite, after a week’s race across central Germany.

The morning downpour had cleared to an afternoon of Sun by the time I departed from Bernd, loaded with my last loaf of German bread, cheese, Lebkuchen and apples. Last week, while sat on the toilet at Jana's, an idea came to me, an adventorous shift in my thinking on this journey: to [try and] ride back to the port without using a map. So in the early afternoon Sun I pedalled away with only my compass by the handlebars and a quickly fading memory of Google's map of Holland.

After longer than expected I finally crossed over into The Netherlands, determined to be sleeping in another country. Before reaching the border I filled my suitcase with most of the endemically German goods I'd aimed to buy before leaving (i.e. beer (3bottles), stollen, chocolate, a German magazine...).

That evening, after riding late in the dark, I found a little village shelter to cook in. As it gets colder I've been decidedly riding later in the evening, while the last warmth of the day lingers, to compensate for getting up later the next morning, while I wait for the Sun to thaw out my bones and attempt to evapourate at least some of the increasingly heavy dew off my tent. Not long after getting some water boiling on the Trangia, I was join by one then two young Dutch men and the potent smell of their marujuana. They smoked and discussed football, while I continued cooking. Before leaving to watch the game they advised me against sleeping in the small shelter.

So again I was faced with the challenge of finding somewhere fairly inconspicuous to camp in a country that lacked any hills or hedgerows. However this time, with six weeks more wild camping experience since I was last in the flats of Holland & Belgium, it wasn't too long before I found somewhere to pitch. The other problem that I had trying to camp in this topographically plain country was the groundwater. After the rain of the last week, all of the land suffered the high water table, with no areas of high ground to escape the damp.

Shivering as the Sun rose over the frozen landscape the next morning, I started to reconsider my rash decision to visit Amsterdam, the option of riding straight home to the warmth of a centrally heated house seeming more and more appealing. However, prioritising adventure above comfort as normal, I decided to go on.

The riding improved that day as I finally understood how to use the vast Dutch cycle network. Well, it was good for most of the day. A late afternoon puncture prompted me to stop early and set up camp (fotunately I found a spot just 50m away). I took me over an hour to put in a new inner tube and switch the tyres over in the morning; a task that would normally take half that time.

That afternoon, whilst riding along a small canal through a hamlet, I spotted a projection on the bridge that spanned the water: a diving board. I could give it a miss. So after checking the depth with a passing youngster, I got going. Warm clothes out, kettle on the brew, soap ready, camera on: JUMP! Cold, cold water; but great to feel clean again.

I was set to pedal the last 30km to 'Dam a bit smaller, when I came across the "White Mountains". Glancing through the trees at the side of the track my eyes were deceived into seeing a lake, for the expanse was not of water, but sand. A unexpected beauty, miles from the current coastline. I spent the last hour of daylight-into-dusk running barefoot like a child across the sand, through small outcrops of trees and around its wooded perimeter. I happened upon two friendly dog walkers. After some minutes conversation, one offer me a shower, but no more, then offered soup too. Unfortunately, due to the difficulty of moving my bike across the sand to her village, and realising she would have to rearrange her friends that evening, I declined.
Interestingly, she said she really likes England as there's a 'spirituality in the air that isn't present in Holland'. Then warned me that this area is a homosexual dogging site.

The weather riding from Leipzig back towards Köln has been fantastic: Sun everyday, and I was also treated to a tailwind for the first couple of days of this leg. The afternoons were warm, albeit the mornings Cold. I take back what I said in the last entry about 'it feels so great to always be warm, strong body blahblahblah'; it's starting to get cold out here. The days are fine, the nights in my -12'C sleeping bag also alright, but getting up early surrounded by dense fog to squat on the frosty ground while I shovel muesli into my mouth is really pretty chilly.

The first night I didn't even put my tent up; I slept in luxury. No, not a hotel, or even a youth hostel - this was a real find. I was feeling quite apathetic about having to pitch my tent that evening, and I hadn't seen anywhere decent for the last few miles while I'd been looking, when I stumbled across a large derelict bus stop in the middle of no-where - result. Quick check of the timetable: no bus's until 12:42 the next Sunday afternoon, meaning I was to have a 'undisturbed' night.

Yet again I forgot to implement "Stock Up Saturdays", meaning another Sunday without lunch and no shops open until the next day. Fortunately though I managed to find a petrol station selling breadrolls that morning. Although the supermarkets were shut, their bins weren't. I managed to salvage a cucumber to go with my rolls, and then later I unexpectantly found dumplings and Camembert burgers with cranberry sauce - fine dining for me!
That afternoon I cam across a great bunch of people. As I rode into one of the lonely village I was halted by about a dozen or so costume folk, some with brass/percusion instruments, some with beer and one with a megaphone. They were on their annual patrol of the boroughs collecting money for their church, and having merry time about it. I wasn't quite sure what the tradition was with the man wrapped up in a thick straw suit, chained to another man who accompanied him to each door.. Interesting nevertheless.
That night I camped within the reaches of a grand lime tree, whose boughs came don to the ground, that grew atop a vast hill. Beatiful spot, ideal place for the bench and small shrine to the deceased Jesus Christ that was nearby.

The next morning I awoke and unzipped my tent doors, to gaze out, bleary eyed through the leaves, upon a magnificant Sunrise. The riding that day was good again, with glorious Sun and tailwind. However I failed to see the humour at Witzenhausen ("Jokeshouses"), where I got lost after eating lunch. Nothing too bad, just a couple of km in the wrong direction here and there. I stopped that evening while it was still light[ish] to cook, thinking I'd go on a bit further and camp later, but ended up just pushing my bike in the dark across the grassy field away from the path to pitch at the edge of the woods. Not the best spot mind, with my head about a foot higher than my feet.

Heavy mist the next morning and freezing cold air. I really thought the good weather had come to an end and this change was to stay. However by noon I was catnapping topless under the Sun at the edge of the roadside forest, while my tent dried out nearby. I decided to follow a cyclepath North that day to Edersee, a large lake formed by a man-made dam on the river Eder. Excellent camping spot by the vast water. I indulged that evening, having made it through 40days and 40nights on the road, with some local Johannisbeer (blackcurrant) wine by a small fire on the beach.

First thing the next morning I rode 2km back along the lakeside track to where I'd seen a port-a-loo, but to great dissapointment it was locked. Despite the Sun not rising due to the mist, the lake was magnificent early in the morning; really tranquil. Brunch at the roadside wasn't so nice. Having forgotten to fill up on water, and there not being anywhere for the next hour, I decided to save my last half litre and have my muesli witht the left over wine. Regardless of how much I tried to persuade myself the [sickly]sweet, fruity liquid complemented the cereal, I couldn't finish it.

Breakfast the next morning was incredible in comparison: chocolate muesli with hot milk and honey - although only a minimal quantity of cold, viscous honey could be enticed out of its bottle. I started to feel the effects of cycling and camping day in day out, being fatigued all day. I had to curl up on a pile of logs to get another hours sleep before I could carry on.
That afternoon, riding through Meinerzhagen, I found another treat: a big reddish brown leather suitcase - fits perfectly on the back of the bike, and more room to bring back goods!

The next day my sign came to life. A few days earlier I'd created a sign out of a scap of cardboard and marker pens: "Hungrig Radfahrer - Fragen gerne" [hungry cyclists - questions welcome]. That morning I'd stopped a petrol station to top up on water and buy bread. As I returned to my bike a 4x4 pulled up. The driver leant across, said he'd read the sign, and gave me a bottle of shandy! Only an hour or so later I was stopped at Altenberg Dom (grand monastry) fixing my first puncture since the journey began. As I was sat, with bags strewn out across a bench and bike in pieces, three lovely old Germans approached and upon reading my humble sign, dug deep in their pockets and gave me 5€60 between them. Trying to continue the flow of generosity, I made a donation to the monastry. The third stroke of kindness came when I was sat outside Köln Dom later that afternoon trying to busk with my Jew's Harp. A lady leant over to read the sign, paused, asked for a photo, paused, the reached into her bag and tossed me a Royal Gala - so lovely.

That evening I was lying on the beach of the Rhine contemplating my lack of water and lack of enthusiasm to go a find some to cook with, when it started to rain. Not wanting to have to pitch my already went tent in the rain, I ran over to the nearby footbridge and found a wee ledge to sleep on. Quite a nice little abode, once I'd swept all the broken glass away.

The next day's ride back to my friend in Kaarst was fortunately only a couple of hours. It felt odd to be riding in the rain for the first time in three weeks.

The first day leaving Bamberg was full of free food: potatoes not good enough for shops in a left in a field, sweetcorn cob, apples and plums donated from a lovely lady at a roadside stall. With finds like these I managed to only spend ~15€ over the next three days - trying to make up for splashing out over the last week.

The scenery riding through Thuringer Wald was beautiful: rivers, forests and hills. Yes, hills. Quote I on seeing the road veer steeply up a large hill: "Oh no, oh no...". Then reading the sign telling me that this 10% incline continued for for the 2km: "Oh noo, ohh noo, Oh Nooo!!". I stopped pedalling near the top and pulled off my shirt: I was literally steaming. Incredible descent, though I think it might have been the cause for my brand-bloody-new back light to go bust - the dynamo screaming against the front wheel the whole way down.

On the second morning here I was in search of water (my last few hundred millilitres sloshed about it's lonely bottle). The first settlement I came to had no sportsfield, petrol station or open cafes; so I approached an elderly man cleaning his drive: "Kann ich ein bitschen Leitungswasser habe, bitte?" Despite asking for tapwater, thinking it would be easiest, he insisted that I'd prefer sparkling mineral water, then emerged a minute later with some fancy-restaurant style glass bottles!

I finshed riding that day just before Sunset, as I found a great place to stay. It had everything: door, roof, chair, carpeted walls, windows (2 of 3 intact) offering scenic views over the landscape, "stairs"... This luxurious abode was a wooden bird-watching/shooting tower, placed on a remote hillside. Unfortunately I didn't sleep as well as hoped, the hut being only about 5' long, so I was scrunched up in a ball, propped up against the wall or had my feet dangling out the door 15' above the ground.

It was pretty satisfying the next morning to discover I'd consumed the average women's GDA of calories (2000kcal) just for breakfast: 1L full-fat milk, ~1/2kg muesli, twix and an apple. The riding that day was easier, as I left the mountainous region, but still nearly as beautiful. I stopped halfway through the day to strip off and have a wash in a cool, sandy stream. It really feels great to have such a burning metabolism to be able to jump in a stream on an overcast day in October, then still continue on in just shorts and T-shirt.

After numerous delays (getting lost, roadworks etc.) I reached Leipzig in the dark that evening. Funnily enough, Ellie (of good ol'Bedfordshire) has only been living in this flat for a week, while she works as a English Assissant in a 'nearby' village school. Really cool day spent wandering in Leipzig. We found a DDR museum, and then sampled the finer products of German supermarkets; such as Sauerkraut Juice - yum!

Sauerkraut Saft