Dedication

And finally, this blog is dedicated to Sally who puts up with all my feigned efforts to find romance while on Bike, clearly an impossible task in view of the 'licorice' look that comes with the role. So she indulges my childish quips, waits patiently to welcome me home, but then secretly cheers when I head off again.

So it's Good Night from Him, and ...

Back home at last. a second trip completed. And what can I learn from this latest venture?

Firstly that introducing yourself to the neighbouring campers is a worthwhile move. I had some lovely conversations, especially with Dutch people, got some free food and wine and learned a lot from them.

Secondly, I have decided that, while self awareness is all very commendable, it does not (and need not) necessarily lead to any change in your behaviour. It just helps to know that, and perhaps why, you do somethings in certain ways and to remind you that you can at times be a hypocrite (we all are at sometime or other), so be careful when you (even silently) criticise others.

Anything else? Well, I have such enthusiastic intentions on the road, like turning this blog into a book. But when I get home it doesn't sound such a good idea. It's like the really good thought that you have in the middle of the night, the one that almost explains the meaning of life, which you write down on the pad by the side of your bed and then, when you wake up in the morning enthusiastic to progress it, you see in the cold light of day that it just says 'marmalade'.

But then maybe the idea isn't stupid, maybe it's just that your head gets full of so many other things when you get home or wake up. Many of these are totally unnecessary worries or unproductive actions (so, new resolution to self - stop aimlessly surfing the internet). Perhaps, if I could do away with these issues then I would have more creative time and energy to actually turn all this blurb into something. Yes, I'll have another think about that.

And the final thing I have learned, is to undo the slimming effects of all that exercise by eating a lot as soon as I get home. That way my weight gets back above Sally's, where it needs to be if I am to have a peaceful home life. Luckily I have now done this. Saddleman, sacrificing himself so that others may benefit.

In the meantime, that's it. Bye, and thanks for reading.

Hear no Evil, See no Evil

I was quite proud of the train service from Dover. The man at the ticket desk was helpful and friendly, the elevator was working fine with plenty of room to take Bike to platform 2, the high speed service to St Pancras was waiting there and I still had time to buy a coffee and newspaper before we departed. And Bike was allowed on any carriage with a seat near by for me to stay in view.

Then an elderly lady came and sat next to me. She didn't like train journeys so would welcome a chat. So chat we did in the hour and a half trip into London. But we made a curious pair. She admitted to the onset of Alzheimer's ("it makes playing Bridge difficult as I can't always remember what I bid") while I told her about my tinnitus. So I couldn't really hear what she was saying, especially with the many roaring tunnels on the route, and she couldn't recall what she'd said. But we got along fine and the time passed by quickly.

Border Control

On towards the French coast and along the familiar Canal de Calais once more. A short stop at a last street market in Watten, past the garden where the lady kindly let me camp on the way out. Over the canal bridges and on into town to the passenger ferry terminal

The P&O ferry offered uncompromising exploitation - no combined ferry and train ticket as on the way out and 38 Euros one way so  I plumbed for the more reasonable £18 Euros at Sea France. The next ferry was in just half an hour.

So onto passport control where life shuddered to a stop. I chose the wrong line. The one with all the vans from Lithuania. Three vans but 36 passengers. Each taking 10 minutes to convince the French Border Control Officer. She was fast-idious. But the word seems wrong. She may be "protecting our borders" and supposedly "keeping Britain Safe" but she was making me miss my ferry. When my turn came and I reached the embarkation desk the response was "Sorry Monsieur, the next ferry is in 2 hours." It is the price we pay for safe borders. But pleading helps and a mad dash got on board in time.

And finally the White Cliffs of Dover appear. The UK Customs Officer asks where I have been. Italy and Back. Oh, well done. It's not really a customs check, more a friendly welcome. The borders will take care of themselves.

Serves Me, Right?

I have to confess that I headed for McD's, from 50kms away. I knew that there was one just outside of St Omer and that they stopped serving breakfast at 11am. It became a challenge, to get there in time.

They should use me in their T.V. ads. Lips smacking, saliva oozing, trying to decide whether to have the Egg or Bacon McMuffin with the Cappuccino, all for just 2 Euros. It sounds crass but it drove me towards the coast.

And I made it, pulling in around 10.40am in the soft morning sun. What an achievement. The back of the trip had been broken. The T.V. producer would have loved it. Confidently striding toward the counter I placed my order. Except that they don't do Egg McMuffins in the St Omer McD's. Just two croissants and some jam. And no cappuccino, only weak filter coffee. So it was all a little disappointing but then it wasn't really such a disaster. After all, I had reached St Omer.

Trailer for Sale or Rent

I met a hero today. Or at least that's what I think he was. He'd set off from Warrington in the north of England some five weeks ago on his bike. It was the one he'd built himself but it had a design fault: the front panniers kept wobbling. So much so that he could not fill them but he still needed the storage space for all his stuff.

His solution was to take along a trailer. He'd built that himself as well. But it broke after 100 miles so he bought another, a proper one. That broke later in Central France. He'd reached Clermont Ferrand on his way to Marseilles, which is a curious route to take because it takes you over the Massif Central, which lives up to its name. I think its presence took him by surprise.

He also brought along a pop-up tent shaped like a huge ring that was too big to fit in any pannier, or the trailer, so he tied it to the frame of his bike. Except it kept hitting the front wheel when he tried to steer. So he'd rigged up another contraption to fix this.

But none of this mattered as it turned out that he'd run out of money. So now he was heading home on the train.

I learned so much about him in our short train ride together. Yet he never asked me one question about my trip. Perhaps he was still in awe at all the obstacles that he had managed to overcome. Yes, he must be a hero. At least I think that is the word to describe him.

Pea Souper

When you camp out in a field all night and get up before it's light to make some miles towards the coast and home, what you really need is a warm, bright morning sun. Yes, that would have been nice.

The D77 outside of St Pol is a great road: flat and straight, with little traffic. It doesn't dip down  into villages but stays on the high ground. Unfortunately this is also where the fog stays. While the earlier main road had long cleared the D77 remained shrouded. You could hardly see 50 yards ahead. I guess it's because all the traffic movement and heat from the vehicles really does have a warming effect that soon burns off the mist. Unfortunately the D77 doesn't have that. But it really was a nice road to cycle along. Not that I could see much of it.

♪It's so fine,♫ Doulens, Doulens, Doulens♫

Did I ever tell you how beautiful the landscape of Northern France can be? In the area around Amiens, north of the River Somme, it is open fields of cereals, rolling away as far as the eye can see, disturbed only be the occasional woodland or towering wind turbines. High above, the clouds scurry by like cotton wool. It could all have been taken from a Constable painting.

The main villages and towns seem always to be set in dips where a river cuts through the landscape. For the cyclist this means a fast ride in but a strenuous climb out. Doulens is one such town. It looked like a nice community. In the centre, people were sitting at outside tables or bars and cafes drinking and talking. The whole town seemed to be out and about this evening.

But I wander about towns in such hollows. Do the inhabitants ever getaway? Or do they stay and live their whole lives there? Does the fact that the only way out is up mean that the effort is not considered worthwhile? For whatever is over the brow of the hill could be enticing, or scary. From the numerous young people sitting and drinking outside the bars it seemed that many had already made their own decision.

Bulls Eye

I was planning to go around Paris. To stay in the land of campsites and avoid the long drag that normally marks the gateway to major cities. I even had a list of small towns to head for: Cherny, Lardy, Foges Les Bains... It was all kindly plotted out by my brother and patiently texted to me.

Then I devised another plan. A bold one. I would camp on the southern side, close to the city, gather all my strength and then, with a mighty effort, propel myself through the centre and out the other side, all in one day. After all, it would be shame to come so close and then miss out on the wonderful sites of this great city.

So here I am at 12 noon right in the centre, sitting on a stone bench looking up at the Notre Dame Cathedral. There is still the Louvre, Eiffel Tower and one or two other places to see, as well as a slow wander through the characteristic streets for an hour or two. Afterwards it's either a long slog north or perhaps I may swing by the Gard du Nord and convince myself that a short train ride may help me on my way. But first the Tuileries Garden and lunch.