Back to the Future Part 1 pt2
Up up up and inland I went into the hot, barren, but majestically beautiful lands of southern Spain. If cycling down to Valencia caused a few brain cells to stop working due to the sheer boredom then the roads to Granada were paved with amphetamines.
The pre-Valencian moody blues had convinced me that I should turn my back on the deep ocean blue. The beginning of this final downwards leg saw me leave Valencia and head for Albacete, which required travelling through the Reserva Muela de Cortes – another recommended search for you on Google.
I almost immediately regretted this decision however. Having cycled continually for an entire afternoon under the high hanging sun, cycling through what can be best described as Spanish ‘bad lands’, I succumbed to a spot of heat stroke which nearly resulted in me crashing into a steep rocky ditch. At the last moment – of an incident which only lasted 4 seconds max – I managed to gain enough control to merely skid to an emergency stop. It was a lucky escape with both Skip and I fortunate to be in one piece. With this wake-up shunt in my mind we gingerly continued onwards.
Despite a drama worthy of a 999/Strange But True style reconstruction (that’s some corking 90’s referencing there) this day marked the renaissance of jBd2010 – it was near prefect. On entering the Muela region and opting to take the more scenic route I was presented with mile after mile of stunning views, rewarding riding (i.e. tough climbs and fun declines), the Cofrentes nuclear power plant and an absolutely stunning hilltop campsite in Jarafuel. At the end of this day I felt back on top of the world, and happily for me it set the trend for what was to follow.
I can see my house from here - although I couldn't, I don't even have a house
This highly satisfying part of my journey was all about the cycling. I hit top form, covering large distances in tough conditions but feeling confident and loving every minute of it. Destinations aimed at were reached and quality campsites located. Day 2 was all about dragging myself through further winding Spanish moorland, day 3 about Spain’s rolling hills. At the end of the third day I had reached the positionally remarkable city of Carzola.
Staying in a campsite with a mountain backdrop must have inspired me some as the next day I powered across deserts, up mountains, down mountains, through valleys and along roads yet to be built all so I could reach Granada by sun’s out. Yup this final day was scenic, long and eventful. First up I had to find my way out of some Mars-like surroundings and after a couple of hours take a left. Next up was some continued climbing in order to reach the high placed town of Jodar. After skirting around scenery which would have comfortably hosted the antics of Road Runner and Wyle E. Coyote I looked at my map and had a choice. Either I took a straight looking road from Guadahortuna to the next town (Iznalloz) or I take the long way round. This wasn’t much or a choice now…was it?
One of my favourite songs is Bod Dylan’s Desolation Row. On each country travelled though I would jokingly label certain stretches ‘Desolation Road’, but no road came close to being more apt than a certain section of the A-323. I say road but really it was a vehicle sized chunk of countryside that had been dug out, littered with rock and forgotten about. This moment really captured my true grit, determination and foolhardy pigheadedness whilst on this adventure. In short took me nearly two hours to cover a distance which should have taken 30 minutes. Nonetheless I made it through and was soon speeding my way towards Granada following what I dubbed ‘the John Bracey hyper express way’. Principly a road which ran alongside a train track and reminded me of Ffestiniog in Wales.
As the sun dipped down under the highlands I worked my way through the hot dusty streets and arrived at my latest Hostel in time for dusk. My expectation for Granada was high – this was Spain as I imagined it.
“Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortune-telling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he’s dressing
He’s getting ready for the show
He’s going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row”
Back to the Future Part 1 pt1
These blog entries have been far too positive & upbeat don’t you think? Well the sweet don’t taste as sweet without the bitter so here’s a whole article on lemons.
The first few days post Barcelona were the trips toughest. There I said it. I’ve probably said that before but this time I really mean it. It might have been down to my rock-of-Gibraltar bottom morale but at this moment all of Spain felt against me – I’ll let you come up with your own clever & historical/political witticisms.
The man who had spent 2 weeks in the company of friends, after 2 months alone, now had to get used to solitude all over again. For the first time since those hazy early days I seriously questioned why on earth I ever thought this adventure was a good idea (I’ve no doubt claimed that before too – someone go check the archive). However this time I wasn’t being propelled by a wave of awe & optimism which accompanied me through Sweden’s green land – oh & no. This leg of Spain was a bitch – my body was still kicking up a mighty fever & the riding temperatures were the hottest I’d experienced to date. To top it off the pleasant surroundings which can get you through the worst of times had disappeared. Where did they go – I don’t know, probably under yet another concrete slab of unfinished Brits-abroad style holiday-apartment bloc.
The geographical wiz kids in the audience may wonder how these days could be so bad “you were still following the Mediterranean down to Valencia weren’t you?” Yes but my Spanish hosts had decided that their roads (which I must say were beautifully conditioned – lovely asphalt) should ensure that all travellers only saw the Med from a safe distance, far away from any girls selling seashells by the seaside. I suspect this was the doing of Anglo-Spanish estate agents. “As you can see senior & senorita Smith your building, that grey splurge in the horizon is your holiday apartment. It is a new build located right on the coast. All we ask is that you make a goodwill gesture, a deposit of several thousand Euros – then it’s yours”. Senior & Senorita sign of course but on arrival soon realise that their holiday flat is missing doors, windows, floors & walls – “It looked alright from the car” despair’s senorita Smith. Ah well it keeps the producers of BBC’s watchdog in jobs. Side-note: loads of stray dogs in Spain.
Where the deuce was I? OK so I left Barcelona on the Wednesday afternoon & arrived into Valencia Saturday evening. This journey doesn’t have much I look back on with a great fondness. Expensive holiday campsites & uncomfortably long days spent in the saddle. I did get the chance to visit the increasingly popular town of Benicasim but without the music festival (which I had missed by a month) it really wasn’t all that. [Most notably the town is famous for some of the most important artificial beaches in Europe. Happy anniversary Wikipedia.
For those still reading this post of woe, hang on as things are about to return to a sweeter disposition. The day I drifted into Valencia began like those before it. Industrial surroundings combined with a thick heat haze. I also resumed my ongoing battle with an increasingly complex anti-bicycle road system. The big V proved itself worth it though. To explore Valencia is to understand what it would have been like to visit Barcelona in the days before the title of filth-pit was placed on the mantelpiece alongside the other wonderful artefacts on display. Valencia is a great mix of the old & the new (like many of the best Spanish cities). North American diagonal blocs meet tiny winding streets themselves older than North America. The extravagant architecture on display isn’t as ‘trippy’ as Guadi’s finest but it’s certainly pleasing on the eye. The Cathedral & Turia Fountain duo are as picture-postcard-perfect as any other manmade plot I saw on my travels. The heart of the city should be seen from inside a Trojan horse rather than bikeback as a moat had to be crossed & the imposing Quart towers passed through. One thing is for sure – the Valencians love a good bridge.
This vibrant & bustling place served to remind me (again) why my trip was worth it. Valencia is a place I advise all to visit. Despite this positive note cabin fever had started to take a hold of me & I knew it was time to pull out the big carrot-on-a-stick. During my last night in Valencia I went onto unsinkable.com to search for a vessel to take me back to the UK. A ship leaving the port of Santander in one month’s time was found and booked. Now I just had to cycle around the rest of Spain… Would I make it? I’d better – I had a boat to catch.
Soon High Noon?
Will it be worth the wait?
The Back to the Future double-trilogy-blogs coming soon.
jBd2010/jBd2011
The good the bad and Antoni
So – is Gaudi Barcelona OR is Barcelona Gaudi?
It is mostly a huge compliment to the eccentric genius that without doubt modern Barcelona is a reflection of the man. I am assuming with this that the real Guadi wasn’t as grimy and as sordid as parts of Barca and that he also didn’t have a particular hankering for work-keen prostitutes of all shades, shapes & colours.
On spending near enough a week in the capital of Catalonia it was impossible to avoid his work and influence – but that was no bad thing.
It can be safely concluded then that James and I made it to our ultimate destination, in good time too. It took 2.5 days to reach the city from last blogs starting position on the French Spanish border. Spain day 1 saw us power through the top of Catalonia, ultimately finding an isolated but picturesque campsite just south of Girona. We stopped for lunch in a town called Figueres, the significance of which didn’t hit me until the moment had passed. Basically we had headed inland from Llanca but by doing this we inadvertently missed a wonderful chunk of coast made famous for being Salvador Dali’s landscape muse i.e the place where he lived, worked, and ultimately created his madhouse museum. Anyhoo I digress.
The campsite was another tricky find being right bang in the middle of a rural & traditional looking part of Spain. Fortunately we were once again aided by some friendly locals. Was it likely that our penultimate pitch was run by the matriarch of a Russian cartel? Yes. But it did have a pool.
The next morning turned out to be particularly splendid Spanish summers AM – perfect conditions for 9 holes at the local pitch & putt. Golf certainly wasn’t a winner, unlike James who hit some breathtaking shots including a hole-in-1 (well it was really close). After another pleasant ride through further countryside, darting past some more roadside hoes, we had once again returned to the trusty Mediterranean. Our last night under the stars was well within kicking distance of the big B. On the subject of roadside prostitution – nothing is quite as awkward as passing a lady-of-day on a heavy bike whilst panting up a hill. The moments of approach, engagement & departure seem to last forever. They stare at you and you stare right back. “Good day – business brisk?” was the best comment I could muster during one such pass… *Apologies to those of high moral standing who are no doubt shocked at the second appearance of prostitutes in this blog – I’m not the pimp though.
On the 3rd day James led us into the city with a crescendo. Then after cycling down one of the most famous/busy/awful tourist streets in the world (La Rambla) we checked into our ‘Ideal’ youth hostel. By ideal it meant cheap cesspit in the centre of town, but you get what you pay for. What we did get was a place where we could safely lock & access our bikes, and a hostel staffed by some gems. One such jewel Leticia really looked after us during our stay and even made living in that musty sweaty clap trap seem worth it. Our fondness of this senorita (away from the obvious) came from her kind temperament, willingness to hear of our tales and heartily laugh at our jokes. She also had a truly glorious smile. It was so refreshing to meet such a positive person in the middle of this towns grime. A great big thank you from James and I is extended to all the staff at that building. Leticia we wish you all the best in your Post grad studies & hope you are having a grand old time meeting travellers without bikes!
Having slogged away for well over a week we now could switch off our thighs and enjoy the fruits of our labour. Time was used wisely & the ‘bike boys’ – as we came to be known by the hostel staff – treated Skip & Tiyana to all the sites & sounds of the city. We explored many of the significant areas – such as the Olympic park – thanks to Jamesy’s tentative first steps in the tour guide business. We also experienced our first proper Spanish street/bloc fiesta, cooked, drank & chilled out on numerous grassy knolls, and even had the pleasure of seeing a certain Mr Messi score another glorious hat-trick as Barcelona FC tore into my beloved Seville at Camp Nou.
Barcelona’s Gaudi 1; Sagrada Familia; For me the highlight of jBdJB2010 came on the first night when, with a few cans of beers packed, we rode off into the night to view an illuminated Sagrada Familia. For the ultimate show in cheek and audacity you have to go no further than this monstrosity of a monastery. It truly is a fantastic building with so much detail & character that two visits at least are required (one during the day & one at night ideally). This building represents Gaudi’s ultimate project, something he spent a career working on. It also acts as a most ludicrous headstone as the big G himself is buried beneath it. To design a building which would ultimately have people still trying to complete it a good hundred years after your death takes some doing.
As a tropical rain descended from the heavens, we sat captivated in the darkness gulping down cool cerveza. At that point we clearly saw why the previous 600 miles in 11 mad days had been completely worth it.
Unbelievably the day came when James had to leave. As we said our goodbyes & he sheepishly walked off up La Rambla I wondered if he had enjoyed his time. I truly hope he had. James was one of the very few people who could have joined jBd2010 2500 miles in & make it work. Thanks Mr Bradley – it was an absolute pleasure to have you join me and I am thankful I got to share this adventure first hand with someone else. Love fest over.
A handsome & charming man was substituted for a beautiful and elegant woman. To meet me James had flown into Genova, Madeleine though decided that an international train from Paris (where she was busy studying French & the art of baguette construction) could be the way forward. Although her stay was brief it was no less memorable. We achieved a great deal through an approach I wasn’t overly familiar with – walking. On two feet as supposed to two wheels we saw a great deal of the city, taking in sites such as; the cafe on the edge of Catalunya Square, several of Gaudi’s Cassa’s, Palau de la Música Catalana and even a classic Spanish pharmacy (apparently Mad’s was being eaten alive by train bugs – thanks for letting me share that with the world). Most importantly though we had a proper explore of Parc Guell – my favourite place in the entire city. *See below. Aside from some awful tapas and my body regretting the previous day’s decision to swim in Barcelona’s stretch of Med it was a lovely day.
Guadi’s Barcelona 2; Parc Guell. The highlight of my first trip to this city back in the summer of 05’ was a near midnight visit to Parc Guell, a place where the cheek of Gaudi rears it head once again. Guadi was commissioned to construct a park for the well to do of Barcelona (which latterly was completed by the council and given to the public). In return all that Guadi asked (apart from a whopping great big pay check) was permission to build his house bang in the middle! I’ll let him off though because some of the details & design, especially in the mosaics and tiling, blow your mind! Parc Guell is especially famous for its permanent resident – Mr Larry the Lizard (that’s how I know him), and for its peak – a place where you can get a 360 degree look of the town. Despite these two fantastic features the real joy of Parc Guell comes from simply walking round it. Exploring this island of calm and extravagant splendour as the sun dipped and dusk hit proved to be a moment that I will always claim to be a point of genuine happiness and contentment. The company perfect, the colours unbelievable and the feel of the place positively spellbinding.
At daybreak and in a mildly feverish state I walked Mads to Barcelona’s Eastacio de Franca, reluctantly shoving her on a train for London. On my return to the hostel I was in a grump, alone in Barcelona & at 7am approached by a crack dealer/possible mugger on La bloody Rambla. Frustrated, tired & disbelieving the fact that such a guy was still at it I snapped & responded to his advances by throwing a half-empty bottle of water at him. Sensing that I perhaps wasn’t the fella to engage in any sort of transaction with he quickly scurried back into the early morning shadows. To sweat out my fever & regain some strength I stayed for one more day + night, good old Laticia found me a much better room in the ‘Ideal’ Inn.
On moving day morale was at its lowest since the ‘Stromstad setback’. This time though instead of being confronted by a park full of wonderful female Swedes I got chased out of town by a glass wielding Spanish taxi driver who took offence to my cycling style & finger gestures… And so in the space of 24 hours I had gone from having two of the finest people I knew by my side to returning to the sound of silence. I was ill, sweaty and low on both motivation and energy. BUT Seville was still my quest, my star to follow – no matter how hopeless no matter how far. Talking to no one but the ants I muttered ‘onwards’ & onwards I went.
As a consequence of the Polish girls “all black people smell like steamed cauliflower” remark, Jules’s heavily sunburnt face got a little redder…
Va Va Voooom!
Monday: There we were giggling away like a couple of excited schoolgirls on the first day of camp, but these were heady moments. James Bradley had threatend for awhile that he would cycle with me whilst in Europe & now here he was, flesh, chest hair & bones. jBd2010 – from Genova to Barcelona – had indeed become jBdJB10.
Despite being a very good friend of mine I hadn’t seen Jamesy for well over a year hence there was much to discuss as we put his glorious Trek bike (Tiyana) back together outside arrivals. As we chatted, reminised, joked & got covered in oil it was clear that the bank of Genovian taxi drivers behind us found the scene highly amusing..
..As if some greasey Italians would put off. “Hay Luigi,
It’s a me Mario! Whatsa so afunny?” I muttered – one of those moments vitally important that I kept more or less to myself. As for ‘whatsa wasa so funny’ we soon found out. Time had rapidly ticked by & with us both aware of the importance of getting some miles covered the pressure was on. Unfortuneatly – despite our best efforts – the bike was not right. Just as we were running out of ideas over strolls one of the chuckling Italian cabbies. He proceeded to point out that we had fixed the steering column backwards ie. with the brakes located behind the front forks. For those unsure what I’m on about it was the equivalent of two Russian doll enthusiasts – one who had just flown in to attend a two week Russian doll convention, the other who had been ridding a vintage doll for over 2500 miles (don’t go there) putting together a top range piece with the head facing backwards – highly embarassing & a tad dangerous.
Strange anologies & schoolboy errors aside we still managed to hit the road mid afternoon & headed for our first destination down the coast. James got to experience some beautiful evening cycling along the Med via some old converted railway networks, discovered with the help of a random alturistic Italian cyclist – sweaty, definately not greasy. Overall we got well away from Genova & even found a bike shop to double check our earlier ‘handy’ work.
Homeless away from home:
Locating accomodation (be it on a map or by sign) & then reaching it is essentially what “tour” cycling can be simplified into. The only difference between someone like me & a gypsie is that I do tend to move on. Anyways more often than not in the company of Mr Bradley this exercise became the most eventful (& most thrilling) part of the day. For night 1 we ended up staying in Hostel Eagles nest (for legal reasons I must state that this is not it’s real name). On the map this shelter was located somwhere in the costal town of Savona however in reality, like Genova before, it was actually positioned at the very top of the towering hillside behind the borough. Splendid view but a real bitch to get to (it was one of the steepest roads I had encountered – welcome to jBd2010 JB!). Nethertheless the hill was climbed (slowly), hostel reached & food cooked. We were metaphorically & literally cooking on unleaded.
Tuesday: JB just had enough time in Italy to buy himself a packet of genuine filter coffee because at the end of Day deux we had arrived in France. The only other things to note -away from James crossing his first international boundary in less than 48 hours – were that the route was pleasant, the hilltop hostel desease had spread to the French town of Menton & that French males aged 17 to 22 are the worst groups to meet travelling. No smiles, no joy + they smell.
Away from those French chaps facing a post teenage existential crisis the time we spent in France was a genuine hoot. I would even go as far to say that it was the most enjoyable section we completed as a pair. Not convinced? Well let me elaborate…
Wednesday: Geroge Bush doesn’t care about French campsites. After a hugely eventful days cycling, one that saw us cycle the glamorous (& in places genuinely beautiful) French Riviera incorporating stops in Monaco, Nice & seriously out pacing some cycling Spaniards along a wonderful section of the coastline PAST Cannes (what a cycle that was) we were in need of a good campsite. With the evening drawing in & my stress levels rising we finally found some options just past Fréjus. Here a decsion needed to be made. Turn left & immediately pitch up in a mega ‘holidaycampsite’ or turn right & follow a battered sign & old dirt road to somewhere else! James said right & I totally concurred.
There is a French connection (not the shop) historically with New Orleanes – “The city is named after Philippe d’ Orléans, Duke of Orléans, Regent of France, and is well known for its distinct French Creole architecture” thanks Wikipedia – & on cycling down that old dirt road we could have been forgiven for thinking we were in the city itself post Katrina. There were overturned caravans lying in random fields, tide marks + rubbish up trees & general flood damage all around. The campsite we eventually came to had a layer of hardend river silt covering the ground but still provided an interesting place to stop for the night, certainly more comfortable than the hostel the night before.
Thursday: The campsite of Eden. James holds this day in high regard because he really went through something physically & emotionally – possibly even spiritually?! Long distances, many elevations & tricky conditions ie. heat + wind, were the orders of the day. James showed his true British grit in completing the distance we had set – all he required from me was to deny him a deserved biscuit until we had covered a few more kilometers – harsh but I’m in the results business.
Not to go all Sartre on you (though I was cycling in France with a fellow Philosopher) but at the end of this greuling day we were again confronted with genuine choice – I had angst. Either we; continue forward onto the next town OR take the right into some hills. Perhaps we showed a twisted side but into the hills we went. Our reward? The most picture perfect & tranquil campsite you could ask for. Cheap, quiet, complete with shop & a French owner who encouraged us to speak our basic French without being too pushy. Tres bon.
Friday: We had assigned this as our official day of rest. It was a super chilled out morning at camp. Eventually we packed up & made the short trip to the typically French city of Aix-en-Provance in which we spent the remainder of the afternoon. A-en-P is remarkable town which I had no idea existed until seeing it on our map! Both of us were very impressed with this spot of France & it certainly makes my own ‘go back there’ bucket list.
The plan following our taste of true French life/culture was to cycle a little further until we found a place to rest… Man we were casual, perhaps too casual! We both expected something to come up not long after leaving the city but concerns grew when 25 miles on we still didn’t have a sniff – time was not on our side either. James popped into a random resturant outside a Zoo to ask for a lead & was given a set golden directions by a French waiter who may or may not of been in Bad Faith. We set off again going on nothing but what the waiter had said but as we cycled through the next town, with sun time almost up, James saw a sign for ‘Camping Nostrodamus’. Who would have predicted that?!
Campsite Nostrodamus was soon renamed campsite Wonker. On arrival it felt like we had just found a golden ticket – & then we met the owner. After a few stressful hours he was just the tonic, truely the Willy Wonker of the outdoor world. He offered us pure enthusiasm, witty international jokes, signing, provided me with a carton of fruit juice & just when we were thinking this was all too much he insisted on showing us to out patch. Did he walk us there? No of course not, rather he hopped into his glass elivator (a golf cart) & before you could say Augustus Gloop he had clicked his fingers summoning several children (not Umpa Lumpas) from nowhere who jumped onto his cart with glee. Mr Wonker then set about speeding off down the drive – there was even a dog in hot pursuit to complete the scene. Like excited kids ourselves we hastily followed on bike.
Saturday: Our goal was Montpellier, one we reached without too many problems other than the fact that our legs were really starting to feel the strain towards the end. Our problems actually came in Montpellier. Something big & French was happening that weekend (though we never did find out what) & so the towns one & only hostel was full. There was no room at the inn, I said ‘you know they refused Jesus too’ – they said “you’re not him”. *please do say if I’ve used that somewhere before!*
Via more good work from Mr Bradley we ended up checking into a cheap hotel which was exactly what Fawlty Towers meets Steptoe & Son would have been like. I will let your imaginations run with that one.
As for Montpellier it was another attractive & interesting French town, one that deserved more than the evening we spent in it. At the end of the night we ended up – briefly – in a British theamed pub, where the ‘locals’ were awful, the alcohol disgustingly expensive & the tv failing to have match of the day – poor show Brits abroad.
Sunday bloody Sunday: We hoped for a sign – just give us a sign! We got what we asked for but strings were most definately attached. Earlier we had started the day in lackluster fashion – both running on empty. Fortunately a McDonalds coffee or two provided us with a suprisingly good second wind, so much so that we suceeded to round the ‘bend’ near the bottom of France (we were now facing Spain). I even managed to feel sprightly enough that, on being ushered into some gravel by a car, I could sucessfully complete a flying rolling dismount which would have scored highly with any Olympic judge. My follow up reaction to this ‘incident’ was to immediately spring back up, yell something obscene at the elderly French couple in the culpable vehicle, and then speed off into the distance – I didn’t look back in anger. This impromptu sprint session also took me to within a few miles of the 3000 mark, a massive achievement I reached soon after with James as my witness. Later that day we asked aloud for a camping sign. The one we got suggested we would soon find a campsite near Narbonne…
I should have been cautious from be off as the sign also had ‘plage’ (beach) written on it and at that point we were positioned slightly inland. I can only imagine that on seeing the sign & realising that there was a campsite near my brain & body started to run in energy saving mode. Reality bit however when we reached the next one which pointed us up & over a mountinous headland, 14km of steep winding road. This wasn’t really the ideal warm down after another demanding day but ‘onwards’ we went, cycling through a rather aesthetically pleasing national park esq. area, arriving exhausted at the campsite an hour & a half later. We eat & slept well that night safe in the knowledge we thoroughly deserved both. Always read the fine print!
2nd Monday: Pulling it out of the bag.
“Fortune favours the brave” was a sentence James uttered several times during the trip. He also noted that after most stops I would say “onwards” to get us moving again – I found this habit of mine pleasing!
Oh my did we go for it on that second Monday. From our starting position near-ish Perpignan we decided to launch an assault on the Spanish border. To be honest we had to really, the thick yellow bondary line looked very reachable however you shouldn’t get over ambitious when a mountain range such as the Pyrenees is involved.
As he was so used to me saying ‘onwards’ I wonder what James thought that evening when, after a quick pause, I said “we’ve set ourselves an overly ambitious & ultimately unobtainable goal”. I also wonder if I was quite that well spoken at the time. Anyhoo we agreed that it would be for the best if we soon stopped & completed the final section in the morning. At this point we had just started to weave around the Pyrenees headland (yes in a sense we were going around the side!) & in the town of Argelès-Sur-Mur we found a campsite. Things just worked out for us that night. The campsite we found was not only the first we came across after re-evluating our plans but it also turned out to be the only one reasonably reachable in that region at that time of day. That was a freebie and made what happend next even more significant. The campaite was full & new arrivals (in motorvehicles) were being turned away. We went into the reception & used our best exhausted puppy dog eyes but for once I was convinced our luck had run out… BUT after a few careless whispers the staff, who obviously felt sorry for us, said that a pitch would be available in an hour or so if we didnt mind waiting. Mardi Gras! Good vibrations weren’t done with us yet though as after setting up camp we strolled into the town & somehow found a bar which was showing the Man Utd vs Newcastle game. If only I had gone to the bingo that week!
The next morning, a clear & beautiful affair, we finished what we started & crossed the French-Spanish border. This boundary had recent historical significance due to the large numbers of Spanish refugees who attempted to pass through this point in their efforts to escape Franco & the civil war. For us our peaceful border crossing marked the fact that we had somehow cycled the entire width of the South of France in a week. Although an impressive feat it was also a tad excessive. If we could have got out bikes up to 88mph & gone back in time then perhaps we would have slowed down & enjoyed a couple of more days in certain places.
Shoulda coulda woulda’s were no use to us now though. We were in Spain & had many more miles to go. Barcelona sure did feel a whole lot closer mind you.
What Jamesy did on his beautiful bike Tiyana Trek from Genova airport to our successful crossing into Spain still impresses me now when I think about it. He deserves a lot of kudos especially considering that I didn’t make many concessions for the fact that he was joining someone who had been cycling like this, day-in day-out, for almost two months. Lance Armstrong would no doubt describe him as a ‘stud’ (before latterly divorcing him).
All that remained for us to do now was find a way from the top of Spain to Barcelona, something which according to the map & in relation to what we had just completed shouldn’t be too hard… Should it?!…
• Will the boys make to Barcelona in time?
• What ever happend to Mads?!
To be continued – again…
Perfectly reasonabliano Italiano
Part deux:
You know what they say – “When in Rome…” And that was the secret, not just of getting by, but of thoroughly enjoying Italy – embrace the madness, without trying to rationalise it & whenever possible add to it! So he did.
From Imola onwards my Iti’ adventure really hit top gear (subtle formula one link very much intended). Imola is a pleasant little riverside town most famous for hosting the San Marino GP which itself is historic for many reasons (including being the place where Ayrton Senna sadly lost his life). During my not so speedy dart round the outside of the circuit I was surprised by how run down it was, a great shame considering its heritage. I was required to hotel-it for only the second time during my trip, no hostels or campsites here – don’t be fooled by what maps indicate.. The next day though that hotel expense was soon rendered meaningless as I had one of those cycles… i.e one where all the elements come together & I remember why I bother to continually put myself through it all.
Imola for starters, Florence for finishers:
I picked myself a nice yellow looking road which in a simple enough manner diagonally connected my two places of interest. In the flesh the road cut through some rolling & tumbling Italian hills – it was fantastic. The route was quiet, the views stunning & the cycling challenging in all the right ways. I spent 8 saddle hours happy & hot, went over another ‘pass’ – the passo del giogo, 900 meters in height – & was content with the days work. In the early evening the two wheeled circus freak rolled into the town of Florence & without too much trouble found the cities main hostel (on the outskirts). I even had the time to check out Florentina’s shapely stadium & some big important dome located centrally.
I granted myself a couple of days in this lovely city, even bought a postcard. A big tip for all you romantics out there is to head up to the top of Michelangelo’s garden & watch the sunset blaze a hundred different colours over this classic Italian town (complete with a ‘dramtic hills’ backdrop). Take your love – or if you have nobody a Moretti beer. A slight buzz will always take away some of the lonliness, though you may wobble a bit on your journey back home.. If you’re really lucky there might even be an acoustic busking set going on with Simon & Garfunkle hits (of which there are many) flowing freely.
Following on from this sunset ending the next day that same bright yellow ball closely stalked me as I undertook the rediculous journey to Pisa. I ended up arriving in front of the worlds most famous cowboy build just after lunch (madness considering where I started out from). Quarter way around a Pisian roundabout I was flanked by a fellow cycilng tourer, a chap from Norway. He had just landed & was beginning his trip to Switzerland. After asking me for some directions he was about to head off without seeing the tower – not on my watch though,nso off we went together, off to see the novelty posers photographic dream – be warned it’s much smaller than you would imagine. In a hetic 20 minutes of random meetings, in addition to the Norweigan, I also met a cycling gang of Italian youths (like the cast of west side story on bicycles) who were impressed with my efforts & a facinating German actor/dancer/teacher whose opening remark was to inform me that his parents had planted his seed in this very city 40-ish years ago & that he was on his second life. In return I offered him the role of ‘nutty’ professor when my university sitcom HIGHer Education gets picked up & comissioned (that’s right I wrote a television pilot about Uni life. *For more info go onto the HIGHer Education Facebook page or email me & I shall happily send you a copy of the script.
Tales from the Med:
Man for awhile I had been like a Greek gods child on Christmas morning (Christmas is for all, even the Greeks – Zeus loves a bit of Jesus ), desperate to open my present from Atlas. I had dropped enough hints that this year I wanted an Ocean, the Meditteranean preferably, & now the big day had arrived! Just after Pisa I could unwrap the damp seawatered box…
….As is frequently the case with wanting something too much there’s always a chance it may dissapoint on arrival. After pushing on from Pisa I made the final dart for the glorious blue. What I got was more Blackpool than Zihuatanejo… Flat beaches (all privately owned by hotels – don’t get me started on the ‘how do you own a beach?’ question, featuremess coastline, super rich idiots – even the water looked brown. That evening as I dipped my toes & chewed on some olives I hoped that things could only get better – remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things…
Italys Big Sur:
Things can just really work out now & again. My tourist trap, souless, Mediterranian coastline churned up the mother of all storms the next morning, a storm which would have paniced the likes of Noah & the main characters from Jumanji. Thunder, fork lightning & heavy heavy rain decended from the skies, but I love all that so packed up & carried on regardless. The wet grey & electric blue hid most of the ugly local features I detested & as the rain eased I could see some interesting headland approaching, ‘this could be more like it’.
BANG!! (of the non thunder variety). I thought it odd that someone would have a large balloon where I was at that moment – only to quickly realise that the only thing that would have gone pop round here was one of my tires. Sure enough after 2500 miles my back rubber had had enough – I just experianced my first big blow out. It occured on a small roundabout in the middle of a tiny village but before I could really dispair I looked up to see that literally 50 meters to my left there was a bike shop. I could not believe my luck. OK it was shut for lunch & so I had to wait around for a few hours but it was worth the wait as the shop owner soon pulled out an appropriate new tire, fixed it in seconds & then advised that I should spend the afternoon/evening cycling a stretch of coast he described as “Alp-like” but “very beautiful”.
I reached this part of the coast in the early evening, first climbing a monsterous hill before going through another large tunnel which ended up taking me into wonderland. For the next 2 hours I cycled with awe & a big grin as I travelled through an Italian national park from La Spezia to Levanto. Because of the blow out I hit this part of coast at the perfect time of day, goldielocks hour where the temperature & colours were all just right. The area is called Cinque Terre & I will always hold it in very special regard. It’s a place that I hope to return to one day.
Genova & James:
Continuing down the coast, although nothing was going to top what I had seen the day before, there were flashes of brilliance which went alongside a truely terrifying & extensive network of Italian tunnels. After a morning of clifftop roads the Italians got bored & started digging. This network went on for 5 kilometers, 5KM of narrow, dark, damp single road. There were daylight breaks now & again but doing all this on a bike was not cool (alright it was a bit of dangeros fun). Things here got real interesting when, 2KM in, I realised that bikes were not allowed on these roads. I kept quiet & put my lights on.
After this the route returned to the norms of coastal cycling – constant ups & downs. On topping another big old hill I caught a glimps of Genova in the distance & it looked idealic. Europes Rio?!!
No. The truth at street level was not so glamorous, although the city was in many ways geographically similar to Rio – the Hostel was located where the statue of Christ would have been – now that was a nightmare to get to! What it really lacked amazingly was a beach! Still Genova provided an ideal setting in which to recharge & relax for a few days. One morning I decided to climb the remaining section of hill behind the hostel. I got lost & grumpy when looking for a panoramic view of the city from where I could eat my vanilla waffers, but then I heard a familiar-ish sound drift across the hilltops… It was the unmisstakable sound of Bagpipes & I immediately started to head towards them. Guy was busy practicing with the entire city below him. Originally from Aberdeen he was a true Scot but had been living in Genova for the past 20 years with his Italian wife. Importantly Guy could still play the bags & play them well, a skill which is a good little earner in Italy. When I find the business card I shall put the details of his band up on here. To top off a surreal meeting, after pointing me in the right direction, Guy played me out as I walked away – certainly a lasting memory!
The rest of the time in the city I spent with a random hostel crew – Alexander, uncle Dave, & Luke – a well traveled young Dutchman, an elder Aussie with a backstory I didn’t want to know too much about & a South African working on boats up & down the coast. Chuck in some wine & petrol stove – with petrol – & you will have yourself a good time!
As I sat on the grass outside the airports arrival gate I realised that I hadn’t thought that much about the process of cycling with another human. Sure I was more than aware of Jamesy’s arrival – it had driven my pace to Genova – & I was genuinely looking forward to it, but for the first time it dawned on me that as soon as he touched down a clock would start ticking. In two weeks a plane would take off from Barcelona whether James was on it or not. Also in just under two weeks a young lady called Madeleine would be waiting for me in Barcelona having just made the train journey from Paris to make good on a long talked about rendezvous. jBd2010 wasn’t just featuring jBd anymore!
The pressure wasn’t intense but the consequences of not making it in time were potentially shocking; James Bradley a respectable secondary school teacher would become a homeless international bum selling goes on his beautiful bike just so he could eat, and as for Mads, without someone to meet her in Barcelona?! Well we’ve all seen the film/documentary ‘Taken’ right, & I’m not quite Liam Neilson! JBD2010 couldn’t afford to have these consequences being associated with it – think what such negative publicity would do to charity sponsorship levels! Barcelona would have to be reached in time…
24 the hit series may have ended but as Jamesy’s big smiling face & huge bike box sqeezed through the airports automatic doors a digital clock somewhere stated beeping…
jBdJBday 1 24:00, 23:59, 23:58 cue 24 end credit music…
Italiano Craziano
Part 1: A tale between two peoples
Gee where do you go after the Alps?! Well depending on the direction travelled, Italy. The morning after the Alp before I woke up in my idealic Swiss lakeside campsite where all was calm & ordered – everything was in it’s right place. At 9am off I rode, along the last 20km of perfectly marked cycle path, towards Como on the Swiss-Italian border. It was another one of those glorious European summer mornings though I was noticing that overall the temperature was cranking up!
Lets be frank about this – to start with I really disliked Italy. I just wasn’t ready for the culture shock. So far I had been through the highly structured & functional parts of Europe, now I was nearing the Med the characteristics of the places & people were getting more firey.
North (above Milan) Italy saw me having to cycle on busy tight roads which were jam packed full of lorries, had cryptic road markings, unclear road rules & a set of distances which would have even Ray Mears asking ‘dude where am I?!’ This was coupled with coming to grips with a people who, on first impression, were quite mad & a tad angry. These hustling Italian types honked thier horn or yelled at every opportunity, in fact I’m quite sure that if you took away the car & just left them the steering wheel & hooter they would be more than content. It wasn’t going to be a stress free cycle here!
jBD & the tunnel of doom:
Como to Bergamo was my overall aim but a section of the route caused me to fear for my safety for only the second time in 2000 miles. Separating me from the final main road I needed to be on was a large hill with a tube like tunnel going through it. This was something that normally I would have attempted to find a way around, especially as I was convinced it was not for pedestriatians or cyclists. Anyhoo after finding no alternatives & speaking to a local who seemed convinced it was fine for me to power on through I embarked of the 2km of darkness with nothing but the sounds of huge lorries & fast cars booming behind & then passing me. All I could do was hope they saw my small figure, & ultimately I did make it through!
Italy day 1 wasn’t great…
…but then I reached my target city Bergamo & started to get why Italy really ain’t that bad at all. Here I drove into being offered a reduced cost night in a B&B (though there was no Breakfast) owned by a very nice Italian lady & had the time to explore the old part of a truely stunning hilltop city. I had no idea about this place but it was a Fantastic accidental find!
Day 2 in Italy followed the same pattern of the first. A nightmareish days cycing followed by a light at the end of a (metaphorical) tunnel so bright that I could have believed I uncovered the ‘god particle’ CERN is so keen to find. What I certainly did get from the cycle on day 2 was a massive sense if achievement as I went from Bergamo to Verona in one trip.
In fair Verona my scene got saved:
Verona felt so old that I swear all it’s bulidings were starting to turn into dust. It offered A true view of the other half if the Italian culture, beauty, freindliness & an appreciation for making sure you enjoy the good things in life. Verona’s chilled out atmosphere allowed me to relax for the first time in days, gave me lots to see & do, great people to interact with AND came complete with the most spetacular hostel I will ever stay in on this trip. True I had a awkward moment of egotistical, narcissism when, whilst walking past ‘lovers wall’ – where the custom is to write down your true loves name – I put down my website and surrounded it with a heart, but hay I’ve been alone for along time! The highlight was one wonderful night at the Opera where everything just came together.
The party possie:
Throw together two Canadian, one South Korean guy, two lovely German women & a mad Englishman & you WILL have a good time. I met Michael & James in the hostel on my first night. These Canadian brothers were exploring Europe prior to Michael jetting off for further impressive legs in the other major continents. We got chatting & I suggested that going to see the Opera one night might be good shout. NB, I know nohing about the Opera just that if you’re going to see one for the first time Verona wouldn’t be a bad place to start! M & J said that they were also considering it & that they had met two Germans who were also keen. A tentative arrangement to meet outside the hostel following next night was agreed.
Man, me & South Korean guy hit it off right away. Lee Yo Han had just completed his national service & was now exploring Europe. We met over during a hostel dinner (alongside a Dutch man who was nearing Rome following a 3 month walk from Holland). He allowed me to joke about his ‘noisy neighbours’ from the North & before you knew it we were off to the Opera together along with the Canadians. The two German girls were waiting for us at the gate (torr). It all came together so poetically as separately we had all ended up buying tickets for the same section (no not the cheapest ones …the price up actually) & managed to find a spot in which we all could sit (who needs seats facing the stage?!) Most miraculously though was the fact that it stayed dry for the entire 3 hour performance – amazing considering the hard rain that had fallen throughout most the day.
Carmen of the Opera:
It’s a biggie in the operatic world I’m led to believe and it was played out in one the most dramatic outside arenas I’ve been in. I had a unforgettable night complete with nice company, good food, drink & a not so fat lady who could really sing. If you find yourself in Verona go to the Opera (it’s not even that expensive). In summary Carmen is about the hottest woman in a village who causes no end of trouble mainly because she can’t choose between two men, who themselves end up constantly coming to blows over her – chaps you know the type, the girl who everyone wants to be with even though her appeal (beyond looks) may perhaps be an illusion. Anyhoo on an accurate reflection on the sexual politics of overly beautiful lasses, to use the words of Dylan “There ain’t no limit to the amount of trouble women bring. Love is pleasing, love is teasing, love’s not an evil thing”. Whether or not you agree with the last sentiment overall Carmen’s teasing leads to a humdinger of a climax, just not of the sort either bloke was after sadly…
The German girls turned out to be fellow cycling tourers who were going to Venice from Deutchland by bike. At the opera Hanna & Katrin proposed that we ride together for a spell. I accepted and so the next afternoon we headed out of Verona. In return for my ‘manly’ protection & navigation skills they found a place to ‘wild camp’ for the night. Now all I had to do was hunt a bore. They set up camp in a perfect spot & we spent a lovely afternoon/evening together. The next day, in a fork in the road we went our separate ways.
Again smack me down with two contrasting nights in a tent. One night free, tucked away in some Italian farmers field NOT on any crops I must emphasise, the next in an awful Butlins esq mega campsite where I had to pay €30 for the trouble. At least I covered some good ground that Saturday ending up on the Adriatic coast. I also met another splended family at the campsite who equiped me with a military spec gas stove, the only dissapointing thing was how unimpressive the Adriatic was, especially after travelling all that way.
As week 1 in Italy came to a close I spent Formula 1 Sunday heading for Imola, travelling down the coast before darting inland.
During this Italian section I reached the 2000 mile mark which was pleasing & now was charged with the task of heading back towards the Med, a process which would see me crossing the width of Northern Italy.
Just like a BT advert this Italian tale is -
To be continued…
An informative broadcast from jBd2010
Dear all, please excuse my recent lack of chatter.
If you’ve had a chance to hear yourself think over the past week or so this may have been a direct consequence of me not filling your mind with long winded ramblings from Europe. I hope you have enjoyed those moments of clarity as I’m back!
This recent quiet spell has been down to an intense period of cycling which has seen me travel from Genova to Barcelona in 10 days (further details will appear in good time). During this ‘stage’ of my tour I have addressing some firsts which have eaten up the moments where I would have normally been drafting my online prose.
Firstly there have been some distance deadlines to hit. I placed an onus on myself to reach Barça by the end of August. Sat in Genova looking at the map, studying the coast & seeing the winding roads over/around large clumps of grey matter – aka the French Alps & Pyrenees – it looked like a time consuming, energy sapping 700ish miles – I needed to get a groove on.
Secondly (+ more interetingly) I’ve had some quality & consistant company – say hello & wave goodbye to Mr James Bradley who has flown out to Genova with his bike (Tiyana) to cycle this stretch with me.
JB is a real post graduation success story! Like myself James is a fellow graduate in Philosophy, unlike me (& most philosophy graduates) James has gone onto do something constructive with his life. James is a teacher in a London secondary school having gone about it the most challenging & interesting way possible ie. via the teach first programme.
I’ve lone cycled for along time now & to introduce a second set of wheels for two weeks was a big call – was it the right one?? Find out soon right here on the jBd2010 blog!
So that’s what I’ve been up to, it amounts to little more than a set of excuses excuses but I promise I will be writing about my post Alp adventures in Italy shortly – so stay tuned… DO NOT adjust your sets – or reconfigure your broadband width if that’s even a acceptable 21st century comparison? I’m still alive & still plodding along!
I trust all is well,
Jules x
O K-Swiss
JBDiaclaimer “Dear all, this is going to be a long post, but considering I sucessfully cycled over the Alps – on a very heavy bike – I hope you can excuse me that much. Go on, get yourself a tea/coffee, some biscuits, get comfy & settle down for the story about how my life got turned up-an-Alp-&-down…”
Jules x
O K-Swiss
Well I can tell you right away that for cycling Switzerland was way better than OK, it was superb in every respect. I would go as far as to say that it was the best European country I’ve cycled in and doubt it will be bettered. The only problem with that proclamation is the fact that Switzerland isn’t really part of Europe. It’s a place which happens to be smack bang in the middle of Europe, surrounded by 3 major European countries, but it certainly doesn’t consider itself connected to the EU, and like Toblerone & the Swiss Franc this is something that is going to stay as so.
I crossed a lake to get to its shores with my landing craft dropping me off in the Swiss town of Romanshorn. On the float over I joked that I was now entering planet neutral – the Swiss don’t do fights, doubt if they even have an army.. ..Of course 5 minutes into my cycle towards the town of Winterthur several Swiss tanks passed me on the road. God this trip has made me laugh at times – be on your guard Germany, France & Italy, the Swiss might just be coming – better late than never. Speaking of God he ended up being closer to me than I had previously thought.
The journey to Winterthur was relatively straight forward as was pinpointing the location of it’s campsite. I ended up pitching up next to an ex-banker turned Reverand (looks like god got him out at the right time!) & his family. They too were fully utilising Switzerlands truely fantastic cycle network for a two wheeled holiday. * Other types of outdoor networks are available including walking, mountain biking, canoeing & roller bladding! www.veloland.ch/en/routen.cfm * They proved to be splended neighbours & in the rain provided me with meat & hot chocolate. In the full day I spent in Winterthur I managed to get my bike serviced by a great man called Christian. His shop was one of the dealers of excellence I wanted to visit for BROOKS & it proved to be a highly useful contact to have. He was genuinely shocked, & a little distraught, when he saw what I was cycling but still got his hands dirty giving ‘skip the mule’ some new & much needed breaks (good idea for the Alps) plus a rain cover for my saddle. Importantly he also removed my heavy bike stand. The stand, although useful, was preventing me from shifting into the lowest set of gears, now I had 6 more – yup for almost 2000 miles I had only been using the middle & high gears! Anyway thanks Christian, my ‘old Raleigh 90′ is just about hanging in there still another 1000 miles on. **
After a couple of wet nights in the tent I made the relatively short trip to Zürich where an international iron man competition was being staged (must have heard I was coming).
This proved to be both useful & annoying. It was annnoying as all the hostels were fully booked & thus I had to sleep in my damp tent, but because the campsite was near the hostel it did mean I could sneak in & eat a free breakfast fit for an iron man, vital considering the the physical feat I was about to embark on. As for Zürich, despite the drizzle you could see what a lovely city it is, the lake is glorious but in truth I didn’t have the time or energy to explore much of it & would certainly need to re-visit the place to hold any worthwhile opinions.
THE ALPS:
In truth they deserve a post all to themselves & trying to describe my cycling experiance using just words is tricky, nothing I can say will do them justice. For those interested in knowing more about the part of the Alps I crossed it was called the Pass d. Gottardo, have a google & see what you think.
The Sunday warm up act saw me first cycle up & Alp (out) of Zürich, up a ‘tiny’ mound 800 meters in height called the Albipass. From here I went down & ultimately deep into the Swiss valleys. After cycling alongside a couple if stunningly blue lakes I found myself cycling across the valley floor with towering Alps either side, casting a dark shadow over everything. Amazing & epic are the useless words I shall use. And on I continued, subtly climbing up the valley towards taller & taller triangular molehills – Alright I shouldn’t make a molehill out of a mountain..
On route I met a young Swiss cyclist who was doing the same Alp route as me (without the baggage). He advised that I aimed for the town of Andermatt & stay there for the night, using it as the final camp before attempting the Pass d. Gottardo. I liked his style & with a good few hours of cycling left I set the hostel just outside of Andermatt as the goal.
Things were a little too easy as I trekked through the Jurassic Park esq valley (the theme music from that truely excellent movie would have gone down a treat here) & when I saw a sign saying Andermatt was a mere 35 kilometers away I thought I would arrive in no time. The final 25 km proved to be some of the longest I have ever completed.
Suddenly the road crept up & before I knew what was going on I was continually climbing a gradiant which made my top speed 7mph MAX. In phase 1 there were no down parts, no breaks in the climb, it was just up. Phase 2 happend after a good hour. P2 brought snaking roads to the party, ie. where the road has to repeatedly turn back on itself, a painfull spiral upwards. Things were starting to hurt now but I just kept going, highly envilous of the cars which sped by my lumbering mass. It was phase 3 which proved to be the toughest mentally, physiclly, spiritually & any other ‘ally’ you can think of. Here the gradiant increased again, here the twists & turns became more & more – here I started to respect the Alps – here they also threw tunnels into the equation. Travelling slowly through long, poorly lit, cold tunnels with cars speeding by ain’t a picnic & stopping for a quick pause not an option. I just kept on going, Andermatt 9km.
Phase 3 went on for what felt like an age but then, out of another tunnel, I glanced up & saw a potential brow of a hill. I had made it to Adermatt.
Knackered I slunked through the town, finding time to throw myself off the bike at speed, & just about got to the youth hostel. I checked in, drank a lot of Rivella (the Swiss soft drink of choice) eat a bowl of pasta with potatos & caught some needed zzzzz’s.
Cold up top warm down below:
This was the morning – & I knew it. I awoke early & went to breakfast which fortuneately in this hill top hostel was good (always a good sign). Look I had a heavy bike (and it had a heavy person sat on it) so I can’t pretend that I zoomed up the Alps. Nope my final journey was a long, slow, hard slog which required more mental toughness than I knew I had (& couple of pauses along the way!). The average speed at this point was a impressive 4.5mph & what I remember most, other than the fact I was up high, was how cold it was. Not freezing (although there was a tiny bit of snow) but considering the sweltering temperatures I had gotten used to certainly chilly enough for 4 layers!
To demonstrate how little I knew about the route I ended up cycling past the top. After two further hours of up up up things flatterend out & I drifted for a spell, whizzing by some sort of village thing on the left. Past it I noticed that things were about to go down very quickly. Thinking this odd I turned the bike around & headed for those few isolated buildings which as it turned out marked the top of the Gottardo pass. Relief shiverred through my body as I took my treasured photos. What was especially nice was how even 2090 meters up I still managed to find some lovely people to chat to. Simon & his girlfriend were on their way to Legano for a hot few days but paused to chat to me about my mad biking exploits!
What goes up must come down:
To return to street level I had a choice between two paths. One was an old stunning cobbled road which winded down the mountain, the other being a perfectly tarmaced tunnel pass. I went for tradition all the way & for several hours decended on a spiral roadway from heaven. A grin was firmly fixed in my face as the air warmed and I truely got the chance to enjoy my magical surroundings. At one point I thought that the vintage James Bond Aston Martyn would have been the ultimate vehicle for such a road – then after a second of reconsideration concluded that I wouldnt swap my creaking Raleigh for anything.
Again I am fully aware of how much I love contrasts when blogging but following a day of climbing to a chilly part of the world I ended up spending a day decending into a campsite which had a lake so warm that I managed a late night & early morning swim. It was hard to process all that I had accomplished over a mad 48 hours whilst cooking my pasta. I had woken up one morning in Zürich, gone up an Alp, come down the otherside & now, one evening later, found myself an hour away from Italy. It was a strange mix of emotions & it was hard to decifer what I was feeling. I was calm though & next to that lake I enjoyend a moment of peaceful clarity, a moment that I wouldn’t see again for awhile I was about to enter the Italian mad house…
So the Alps were crossed, & now firmly behind me. I had completed something that I will proudly take with me for the rest of my life. It is moments like these which will help ensure that my trip will be worth all the hardship, saving & bloody cycling!
Good times.
At some point whilst hurtling through downtown Münich at night, on my bike, on a Sunday, following two artists & wielding a spanner in my left hand, I got chance to take stock of the previous 12 hours & thought “wow, the day can really get away from you”.
48 hours previous…
The trip from Prauge to Münich was tough, especially the German section. I have already mentioned how pleasurable the the Czech leg was and the good sights rolled on the other side of the green map territory line (this one was much more obviously marked). On this super fresh Saturday – it thundered so heavily the night before that at one point I woke up startled, thinking why had I gone to one of Nottinghams warehouse raves, still it cleared the atmosphere – I took on another hundred miles & some big hills. At one point, just re-inside of Germany I looked at my map & picked the most direct road I could find. Easy. As I started climbing vertically a truck passed the otherway. It’s front seat passangers gave me a wave & laughed – the why? Well because my direct
Yellow line failed to include details on gradiants – 10% mostly, in places 12%.
*as an additional remark who worked out the percentage system for hills? I would like to know more as in my mind it doesn’t completely make sense. Father Bracey get commenting!*
Anyhoo the pain was worth it as I found a delightful (& cheap) youth hostel in a town 80ish miles from Berlin. God the Germans do excellent youth hostels or Jugendherberge.
12 hours previous…
On the Sunday morning I awoke knowing that Münich was one big cycle away. This was when things began to get a little strange. About 40 mins into the morning leg I passed through a Gemran village. The road was closed off to cars, accident I thought? No the Germans were on the march again.. To this day I still don’t know what I saw but it involved a thousand or so Germans marching around this tiny little village, divided into units, all in different uniforms, with each individual division being led by a beautiful girl. Many looked at me strange, I can only imagine what my reciprocal look back to them was like (imagine as I didn’t have a mirror). After all that excitement the rest of the trip to Münich was relatively dull…
…early that Sunday evening…
Dull it might have been, easy it was not. The roads were wet, slow & filled with drivers who didn’t much like me. On entering north Münich (I passed the worlds largest & most impressive piece of bubble wrap (aka the allianz arena) I was pooped. As soon as I found me some free wifi I went searching for my hostel. What I didnt realise was how big the city was. Despite being well within the city limits the hostel was still a good 30mins away. I slogged on sulking! As I moaped through the center I passed a lady on a bike. I then took a wrong turn, did a tiny loop & found myself waiting at some lights, now behind that same lady. She asked where I was going, I said “youth hos” -but before I could get ‘tel’ out of my mouth I was already following this random woman to her flat having agreed to spend the night there..
Münich – little Berlin with big London prices:
Despite the costs I did like Münich though, which is why I stayed for a few days. It was a good thing too as at this point I was getting corpse tired. Day one was little more than food & rest. More energised I got much more out of the second day, I saw many of the historic sights of Munich, went to the 1972 Olympic complex & spent an entire afternoon in the large English Garden – I even got the chance to swim.
Back to the flat…
I did quite literally just said yes to a strangers kind offer. Kind though it was I still didn’t have a clue about who I was following & where I was going. I didn’t, but I needent of worried though. The ladies name was Stefanie & she & her husband were artists – Schmuck & Objekte, Sammeck & Sammeck München. Stefanie once walked from France to the bottom Spain & had empathy for the distance traveller. The Sammeck’s were also hosting another traveller called Miguel, he was staying with them to learn German but was also a fellow artist & nice chap too – miguelgonzalezcabezas.blogspot.com
The highlight that evening came in downtown in Münich. Stefanie wanted to show Miguel & I the town. We took our bikes & on the way my spanner dropped out of it’s BROOKS bag (“oh so that’s how you ended up holding it”). We went to a true Bavarian beer house, touched some lucky gold stone & went to a place where the locals dance for free. At this last place Stefanie stated how much she loved to dance but her husband didn’t. After a awkward few moments of watching all the prancing couples I manned up & told my hostess that I would dance with her. One minute later she uttered the words “this isn’t working” & I was cast to the side. After 1500 miles you try dancing! We rounded the night off with some ice cream & went home. I can’t thank the Sammeck’s enough & hope they enjoy thier holiday in Cornwall.
For the next few days & nights I returned to hostel living. Out of Münich saw me cover another 200 miles in 2 days. This incorporated what turned out to be a very pleasant night in a German guest house in *details to follow* & ultimately a lovely boat trip to Switzerland from Friedrichshafen.
It disgusts me how casually I can simply drop in 200 miles when writing! Nothing casual about doing it!
Suddenly – finally – that was Germany completed. As the Zeppelin museum became a gray blur behind me I couldn’t help but think that it would have been an even better way to have entered Switzerland – I was also thinking about Indiana Jones & the last crusade.
Although it didn’t get my heart racing continually (see earlier post) Germany was just swell. It may not be the prom queen but it certainly was the girl you would no doubt ending up having a life with. For the most part you would be content & grateful with that. Auf wiedersehen & danke deutschland.
Next I just had the small matter of crossing the alps…
