Wonderwall

Along the Calais-St Omer canal path in the afternoon sunshine this is familiar territory except now, without the ice and puddles of February, I can choose the smooth riding line.

Calais is all spring bustle and the route to the ferry well marked. Air flights have resumed so there is no hold up at the P&O ticket desk, just a hike in price to remind you of the recent travel chaos.

"Where have you come from?" asks the French Customs Officer.

"Lebanon", I respond.

"Nederland?".

"No Libon".

"Libon. Nonnnn!"

I feel good. Some recognition of my exploit. Keep it coming.

Then two hours later the magnificent White Cliffs of Dover beckon, truly familiar territory. I am last off the exit ramp, Bike shuddering over gaps and bumps as the coaches and cars speed ahead.

"Where have you been?" asks a man on the Dover promenade.

"Lebanon" I reply.

"That's great, I did Alaska to Argentina last year". That puts me in my place.

And then begins the long haul out of Dover to the top of the cliffs and beyond.