Aberdeen2Adelaide

Job Done!

2010-04-29T21:20:00.014+01:00

Happy to be hame!

23 months ... 21,452 miles ... 20 countries ... £12,212 raised for the M.E. Association ... so far!

Bunting for biking!

Parental pride!

Family and friends follow me hame!

A glass of the good stuff with Al and Marion in Glasgow!

My first night back in Bonnie Scotland - five star at the ferry terminal!

A Scottish homecoming - wet, windy and cold whilst kissing the cobbles!

Emerald Isle Images!

2010-04-06T13:20:00.007+01:00

Although on a bike, I flew around 650 miles of Ireland taking shelter from the wild weather, low temperatures and the high prices but not from the gregarious, warm welcoming, well wishing locals who do not recognise the meaning of the word stranger.

However, I now find myself back on native soil having almost pedalled out my money, months and muscles. After nearly two years on the road , only 160 miles will find me back in the bossom of family and friends.

Tartan clad rugby rogues gather for drunken revelry in Dublin!

A Guinness is said to be a meal in itself ... I dined a la carte all day!

I am not the only one visiting Ireland!

A Bonnie Hoose!

Round the rugged rock the ragged root ran!

Especially to my Charity Page!

My new mantra!

Drying out my hosiery in the local hostelry.

No words required!

Some Sunsets!

2010-03-09T16:33:00.015Z

Continuing the topsy turvy trend of my blogging, here are some sunsets from the Californian coast, to celebrate my arrival on the opposite one!

After 3854 marvellous American miles I now find that I have some days spare to enjoy the fruits of my labour - The Big Apple!

Stateside Snaps!

2010-02-17T18:28:00.011Z

At last an opportunity to load down ... or is it up ... some snaps? So, after months of being deprived of any images you now have a deluge of them. Unfortunately, I have had a problem with my memory card, so at the moment I can only retrieve a few of my American pics.

I have just cycled into Georgia from Alabama and within twenty three miles I will have cycled out again into Tennessee on my way up Highway 11, which runs all the way north for about 1000 miles to New York State.

New Zealand - Breathtaking At Every Turn!

2010-02-17T17:41:00.014Z

Adelaide to Melbourne!

2010-02-17T16:45:00.004Z

Now that I am in America it seems only natural that I should take the opportunity to post some Oz pics from Adelaide to Melbourne, along 'The Great Ocean Road'.

Resting at Ronnie's. Ronnie, who was kind enough to 'put me up' and to 'put up with me' once I reached Adelaide has just released her latest album. She is an excellent singer/songwriter but you can judge for yourself. Have a peep at:

http://ronnietaheny.com/

Sunset at St kilda, Melbourne where I caught up with my cousins Ryan and Emily, who are enjoying a one year jaunt across Australia!

Soothing my complaining calves in the cool, frothy ferment.

Weathering The Storm!

2010-02-14T02:55:00.003Z

Enjoying a couple of rest days in Springville, Alabama where the wild weather has eventually caught up with me. Fortunately I have the lovely company of five and a half year old Christina and her snow sculptures to keep my mind off the cold.

Please Do Not Adjust Your Screen!

2010-02-11T16:27:00.017Z

Due to mounting email requests and perpetual pressure from my parents I have taken this rather extreme measure of actually writing something on my blog.

Not having much access to the net in the States would be a poor excuse for my months of blogging bankruptcy - my blog was already in a state, long before I reached any of them!

However, as there is always a positive side to every situation, perhaps I could patent my blog and corner the market in maintenance free blogging!

In my defence, on the rare occasion that I have passed a public library, I have not been allowed to download any photographs and have only been allocated thirty minutes of time which has been rapidly used up by responding to essential emails and/or frantically checking football scores!

I am currently sitting in a lovely louvre like lit structure of a library in Trussville, Alabama. The smiling winter sun is streaming through but unfortunately still floundering in its efforts to lift the outside temperature above freezing.

My Stateside cycle ride started six weeks ago in San Francisco and found me winding my way down the wickedly beautiful west coast and Big Sur to north of Los Angeles.

I then edged my way east through the deserts of Arizona and New Mexico, rejoicing in the remoteness of the roads and the resilience of the solitary saguaro cacti, standing proud and defiant, despite the desolate conditions.

A burst of energy saw me tear through Texas with over five hundred miles in five days breaking the back of the lovely 'Lone Star State' - my own one remained surprisingly supple!

Louisiana and Mississippi saw speed and temperatures drop, along with plenty of precipitation. My spirits were dampened too by a continual cat and mouse game with the State Troopers (traffic police) who gave me contradictory advice regarding riding on the interstate - whilst 'debating' with one officer he threatened to impound my bike if I continued to argue with him! We eventually parted on good terms with me leaving him and the interstate to hare along highway 80 under a full moon. Stopping for a late night caffeine kick I started chatting to some youths who were covered in colourful tattoo's. However, a couple of guys were tattoo free. Whilst asking why this should be, they simultaneously turned around, dropped their drawers to reveal branded buttocks - a different form of cheek from youngsters!

Despite different cultures, creeds and constitutions, I have found out that people are people and ultimately, have the same heart. At the risk of repeating myself, the continued overriding impression from the trip has been the love, warmth and compassion in every country. This has been further accentuated in America where along with the individual nature of each state, there has been a consistent interest, openness and incredible generosity from all the 'friendly folk' I have met.

I will post some pictures with a couple of captions as soon as I get access to a suitable computer. I am in the process of updating the map - you will be able to click on each day for a few explanatory sentences.

SOME FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS!

I guess I am now on the homeward stretch with around 1,200 miles to go until New York, then the wee matter of the two Irelands. The current 'state' of affairs in America is 2,800 miles cycled with the overall 'running' total being 19,500. At the moment I try to cycle between 60 to 100 miles a day and average between 10 to 18 miles per hour. The least miles cycled in one day has been 7, when I was seduced by a red sofa in a cafe in Greece. The furthest has been in Texas when a wee tail wind helped me along for 166 miles - punctuated by 4 punctures. Months are 22 and counties are 18. My budget has been about 20 quid a day for all expenses. I have slept rough most of the time, behind bus shelters,benches, toilets, truck stops, caravan parks, rain forests, jungle and have also benefited on many occasions by being invited back to strangers homes. I book in somewhere cheap once a week or so to shave and to wash my clothes. The longest I have gone without washing my clothes is probably best kept a secret. In European countries I mostly cooked my own food. In Asia it was possible to buy delicious, cheap street side cuisine. I cooked in Oz and NZ but have usually bought food here in the States - from fast food chains and also supermarkets. By the way ... fast food does not make you go faster!

Thank you so much for all the continual emails of encouragement, the donations on the charity page and the occasional dollars I have been given towards the odd meal or hotel room. People are always telling me how amazed they are at what I have done ... I genuinely feel incredibly fortunate to have been given the opportunity to follow my heart and to use and test my instincts and intuition at a deeper level.

Perhaps this wee quotation explains it better:

YOUR WORK IS TO DISCOVER YOUR WORLD
AND THEN WITH ALL YOUR HEART,
GIVE IT TO YOURSELF

The Buddha

Bloody Ripper - I Have Arrived!

2009-10-11T18:34:00.004+01:00

These images provide pictorial proof that I did not spend seventeen months simply camped in Carnoustie. Updated map and my orations on Oz to follow.

Below is the thank you letter read out at a recent charity raising disco event in Aberdeen. It is a thank you to every single person who has helped me through the 14386 miles!

G'Day Disco Dwellers,

Before you all get too inebriated on nips, pints and alcopops I wanted to thank everyone for parting with their hard earned pennies to help me and M.E. on my Aberdeen2Adelaide adventure.

However, thanks barely begins to repay the debt of gratitude that I owe to family, friends, colleagues, acquaintances and complete strangers who have given so generously, in everyway, throughout the whole journey.

Even although I am on a solo cycle ride I have never felt alone, due to the magnitude of love and support which has continually flowed my way helping me through some of the more challenging aspects of the trip.

Seventeen months, sixteen countries and over fourteen thousand miles pedalling have produced an amazing eclectic mix of experiences. Tooth traumas, a broken bone, freezing in minus 38 degrees in Turkey to frying in plus 48 degrees in India. Snowstorms, sandstorms, multiple bouts of Delhi Belly, countless crashes and being policed through Pakistan by six armed security guards have all added to the rich tapestry of the trip.

Nature has played its part too, as mangy aggressive mongrels snapped and growled at my heels as I headed through Greece. Whilst wolves howled and harrassed me during my time in Turkey. In Oz I am watched by curious wallabies during my nightime riding. Stupid black boulder like cows and big red kicking kangaroos clutter up the road as I ride past. Whilst sleeping rough at rest areas I have been woken up by dingoes looking for some dinner by rummaging through the rubbish bins. Then there has been the small matter of snakes, spiders and even emu's as they use the tarmac like a trampoline to bounce across the road with their poor wee chicks stumbling and stuttering behind them.

I believe many of these moments are classed as 'Character Building' but how big does a character need to be? I was reasonable happy with the size of mine before I left! After all, I am simply a tourist on a bike!

However I look at it, it has been a wonderful trip and I am now only a few days away from reaching my original destination of Adelaide. As I still having some months, muscle and money left I have decided to push on and pedal through New Zealand, across America and Ireland then cycle up from Stranraer back to Aiberdeen. This will add some symmetry to the cycle ride. So I guess I have covered two thirds of the kilometres, in two thirds of the time. I have also burned two thirds of my budget and thanks to events like tonight the trip has raised two thirds of the 12000 pounds target.

I believe many people have donated raffle prizes for tonight. Equally, others, not able to attend have still payed for a ticket, so thanks again for your more than generous contributions. It is only fair that I should donate a prize too. So one lucky winner will get a free massage, healing or yoga tuition upon my return - that gives them seven months to get suitable stressed. If none of the above appeals to the winner then I can always bore them with a ninety minute monologue on moments from my trip. Having said that, I do fear for my family and friends who undoubtedly will have to endure months of endless stories without even having to reach into their pockets to purchase a ticket - perhaps they should invest in a big box of cotton buds now!

As I write this I am literally holed up in an underground campsite in Coober Pedy, the opal mining capital of the world. Nowadays it is very rare that I sleep inside, so this seems even more surreal than usual but the whole trip has been like a big dream - Thanks to everyones effort and support I have reset my alarm for another seven months time.

See you then.

Much love...Eric xx

Blogging In Bali!

2009-08-11T11:11:00.012+01:00

Thailand quite rightly still reigns supreme as 'The Land Of The Smiles' but Indonesia is pressing hard for the premier position as I am constantly smothered with smiles - this is undoubtedly one of the friendliest countries I have pedalled through. Each corner brings a fresh chorus of 'Hello Mister', 'How are you?', 'Whats your name?' and 'Where do you come from?' The smiles are always stunning but the words are often wayward. I have had, 'Who are you?' 'Where are you?' and more worryingly, 'What are you?' Questions I have often asked myself! The 'Hello Mister' is never said softly but roared from the rooftops. One young girl screamed 'Hello Superman' - that is more like it! I have had 'Sexy man' and 'Strong man'. Another guy shouted 'After morning', he wasn't wrong it was four pm! Probably the most accurate term, said so softly by a sweet young girl at the side of the road was simply, 'Hello tourist'.

However, my first impressions were not good. A seven hour ferry ride from the Indonesian Island of Batam took me to the north eastern coast of Sumatra and the dump that is known as Dumai - a typical ferry port with the added ingredient of a massive oil depot employing an international workforce. Within five minutes of disembarking in Dumai I was offered sexual favours by both sexes. The first hotel room I checked was dirtier than Benny Hill! I eventually found a reasonably priced one for fifty thousand rupiah, about three quid. Whilst gulping down some grub at a restaurant next door, a doe eyed kid asked me for some money. He looked so forlorn and famished and was absolutely filthy. He was either an astute actor or the real thing - I opted for the latter and bought him some food. He may have been malnourished but there was nothing wrong with his neck - that was made of pure brass! Half way through fingering down his food he stopped long enough to dunt his digits in the direction of the owner to request a coke - brilliant! A woman half dressed and half off her head sat down on the road next to me and simply laughed, at everything! There was a lull in her laughing but no peace for me as a motorcycle taxi arrived and offered to take me on a tour for ten thousand rupiah, about sixty pence. He was also a part time pimp and offered me anything I wanted for forty American dollars. I asked for a plate of macaroni and cheese with heaps of hp sauce and a sumptuous fresh salad with romaine lettuce, feta cheese, avocado, tomatoes on the vine, pine nuts, coriander and freshly squeezed lemon...Oh, and a pint of real ale, please! The reality was an over priced omelette and no hp (hanky panky). Although, that night I was probably the envy of many women in the world as I slept with the entire Manchester United team - I had a Man U bedspread! Of course I did not score but I did manage to fart on Ferdinand, which is a good result in itself!

Football is massive in Indonesia with kids sporting many tops from the top European teams. Manchester United are blazoned on billboards all over the country. During the last seven weeks I have probably seen more of Alex Ferguson that his wife has. The other favourite faces are Ferdinand, Giggs and Rooney as they accumulate more cash for their already bursting coffers by promoting their sponsor!

Before retiring to my room I had the misfortune to chat with the owners of the hotel and saw one of the many sad things I have seen whilst cycling. They had what they called a 'Superstar' baby. I sat and watched as their two year old boy drank beer, smoked cigarettes and simulated sex by bouncing up and down on someone's lap whilst sucking their nipple. They were fair proud of their protege! I said goodnight and sloped off upstairs to my room feeling a little uncomfortable.

On this wonderful journey I have tried hard not to judge but just observe. Judging does not change anything and wastes vasts amounts of energy. After spending so many years getting it back I am now reluctant to release it so cheaply. However, as always, some situations are more trying than others!

I was happy to head out of Dumai - not so, when I realised I was going in the wrong direction. It took five kilometres facing the sea to wise up to the fact that I should have been going west! Throughout the trip I have only used three maps - Turkey, Pakistan and India, which I bought before I left. I pop into the net and have a wee goggle at googlemaps, write down a few place names, then pedal off. I rely on road signs, individuals and instincts - often I am completely clueless as to where I am but it always seems to work out. Prior to leaving I was determined that my plan was to have as little plan as possible. Whilst this is not full proof, it has got me this far!

The next six days involved hills, heat, humidity and horrendous roads with pot holes in which a parachute would have been more appropriate but it was so satisfying. The scenery was stunning and the people warm and welcoming. One night, as daylight was deserting me I took a wee detour to a small village in the middle of nowhere. I needed somewhere to sleep but I was still unfamiliar with the terrain and did not fancy sharing my therma rest with wild monkeys. I bought a coke and sat down to wait for something to happen. I was immediately approached by Indra, who offered that I stay in his home. He apologised that I would have to walk two kilometres into the jungle to his house. So with half the village following us and my headlamp on full, I pushed my bike along the narrow muddy paths. I spent a lovely night meeting his parents, grandmother, friends and local kids. When they found out I was vegetarian, some young girls were sent back to the market to buy some eggs and fresh vegetables. I had to force money on them for the food! In Indonesia, as in many other eastern countries, 'Guest is King' but they were obviously desperately poor. A delicious meal was cooked on an open log fire and as the power had gone off we ate under candle light. Indra apologised for this too - I told him I was having the time of my life! I slept on the living room floor with five of Indra's friends. He repeatedly offered his bed but I was content where I was. The house had a big well situated inside the bathroom - it was deep as hell and I almost dropped my shorts down it. Although the house was run down and in a state of disrepair I felt completely at home. The following morning as I lay on the floor listening to the sounds whilst looking out the front door at the jungle, I simply sighed and shook my head...I guess I was just happy!

Indra, who was twenty one and from a family of six was obviously intelligent but was as equally frustrated. He helps in his parents shop which has a daily income of one hundred thousand rupiah, about six pounds and works from seven am to six pm in a photocopy shop for fifty thousand rupiah a week! Although a high school graduate he is unlikely to get out of the village, as he has no money. His English was good but you could tell his mind wanted to say more than his language ability would allow. I felt a little frustrated over his frustration. As I left I gave him a hug and pressed some pennies into his palm - it was far less than I have given for a grotty, filthy hotel room. It is always a thin line between helping out a little and showing your appreciation or offending folk!

That day I had dreadful diarrhoea - it was my own fault as I had drank the local water the night before. Energy was low and the hills were high but I pushed on slowly, stopping frequently to lie down flat at a shaded spot at the side of the road. At one tea stop the lady offered her bed - I took it and promptly fell asleep for ninety minutes. I continued on up the hill eventually stopping at a restaurant at the summit but not before pausing at another truck stop to hose myself down whilst fully clothed. I felt a lot better after that but not when I went to the toilets at the restaurant to see a sign saying, 'Urination Only!' What! I went inside and sure enough - no where to poo, only pee. I managed to pee whilst firmly folding my buttocks! I then free wheeled downhill whilst looking for my own latrine.

A couple of days later I trundled into Tanjun and the front foyer of the local police station. I was allowed to chuck my therma rest over the waiting room chairs. In Indonesia, many women try to lighten their looks by covering their faces with whitening cream. Whilst falling asleep I stared at the posters plastered over the station walls - pictures of dead terrorists in body bags - they looked white enough!

A slow bike ride took me to Bukitinggi and my first taste of tourists. I spent a rest day with two Dutch dames, Kris and Anna. Whilst walking through underground tunnels built by Indonesian slave labour during the Japanese occupation in World War Two, Kris, innocently and spontaneously started singing, 'Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go... I don't think she realised the inappropriateness of her wee ditty. As with most Dutch people they were great company and completely laid back!

Bukitinggi to Padang was a near perfect cycling day with twenty of the fifty miles spent freewheeling downhill through picturesque villages lined with palm trees and paddy fields. I arrived in Padang as bright as a newly bloomed begonia. I braked at a bakery for a bite to eat and ended up staying the night in a wee storeroom. Liang and Suzanne, the owners had a family of five but had fully embraced the ethos, 'Living is Giving', by having a sixth child and handing it to Liang's brother and sister in law who had been trying unsuccessfully for ten years to have one of their own. I was watered and fed and as usual felt completely at home. I know you must be sick of hearing this but I only ever seem to meet nice people. Later on that evening, Dennis, their eighteen year old son took me on a drive around Padang with a few of his friends. We whizzed about in one of their parents four wheel drive vehicles. At times the speed was bordering on the Bond film, 'A License To Kill' but they did not have real a license between them having bought them from the local bobbies station for three hundred thousand rupiah a piece - about eighteen quid, with the payment going to the most senior police officer! As one friend commented, 'In Indonesia, corruption is ingrained in our nature'. I left the following morning with my panniers packed with bakery produce. My bags were so heavy that Liang felt the need to hand me a tube of vitamin c tablets, insisting that it was good for my immune system and for building strong bones, whilst at the same time expressing his irritation that I had bought Dennis a bit of dinner the night before. People are forever giving me things but when I try to redress the balance, then they go ballistic!

I do not mind admitting that the cycling in Sumatra was a real challenge with the constant hills and heat hammering me. Mind you, a lot of it is of my own making. I cycle, sleep and scoff whenever I want to, resulting in my body clock getting bashed about a bit. However, it does mean that I get to experience far more than if I simply rode routinely! I always have good intentions of reaching my destination during daytime but I am constantly distracted by people or places. Equally, some days you just munch up the miles, especially on motorways, whilst on others, you have to dig deep with each mile feeling like a marathon as you count every rotation of the cog.

After a month and almost twelve hundred miles in Sumatra, a virtual jungle, I was seduced by a city - another type of jungle and had a Jamboree in Jakarta! Again arriving late, I wandered along Jalan Jaksa, the tourist trap at one am only to find all the hotels full. So, I bought a beer and sat it out till six when I saw a tourist wrapped in a rucksack jump in a taxi. I asked where she had just come from and within five minutes I was booked into her room - the bed was still warm! After a few hours rest I went to a restaurant for breakfast and was surprised by the breaking news regarding the bombs, which had exploded whilst I was sleeping. Normally when watching world events on television the distance can often dilute the emotional impact, however when you are just a couple of miles from the situation you can almost feel the fallout.

The next few days were spent in the convivial company of a couple of other tourists as we turned night into day but still stared at the stars! - the Indonesian beer 'Bintang' means star!
There was Kate from America, a strong willed, intelligent, independant woman who will undoubtedly go far, although I hope not too soon as she has promised me a bed near New York. There was Isabelle, a sculptor from France, who in between beers kept on bolting off to The National Museum. Olivier, a fellow cyclist was biking from Jakarta to Bali but after four days of joviality in Jaksa, his bike was still boxed! During a boozy session, he slurred, 'Eric, do you really believe I have a bike?' I was beginning to wonder! There were four Czech guys who had forgotten to check their luggage and left their passports in the bar. Sam from England and her partner Pat, from Holland spent the night and the following morning wistfully planning their future trips with the projected profits from the passports. However, sobriety kicked in and Sam, the star that she was spadded off to find out where the Czech guys were garrisoned - most folk would have just placed the passports behind the bar. Sam and Pat were great company and obviously both born to be backpackers. Based in England they both took the decision that they did not want bairns, so they toil like trojans for a copule of years, save their pennies, then push off again - food for thought!

By George - At Last!

2009-05-07T09:57:00.006+01:00

Whilst biking north towards the Black Sea, Turkey could not let me leave without treating me to one last humongous hill - a ten mile slog in thick fog and snow but which delivered on the decent such an unexpected reward for my revolutions. As the sun regained supremacy I was greeted to green fields spotted with blue, yellow and pink houses as the road twisted and turned upon itself in a figure of eight - which would have been a more suitable mode of decent to enable me to grapple with the gradient.

I halted in Hopa, only ten miles from Georgia to marvel at the bonny, bright blue, Black Sea. I rolled my bike along a rickety pier and sat down in the sun, happy again to be able to eat outside without the risk of losing a limb - the ten degrees actually feeling like Tenerife!

As I still had a few lira left I bought one bottled beer before the border to toast my time in Turkey. I crept towards the crossing squeezing my bike between miles of stationary trucks lined up waiting to cross into Georgia - this should have alerted me to the chaos which lay ahead! I doubled back a couple hundred yards to find a quiet spot next to the shore to sit and sip my beer. As usual, I had been alone for only a few moments when four Turkish guys 'rolled up' - literally! They were evidently toasting Turkey too, their celebration being a 'joint' effort with the bazooka blazing away with each puff. Although I was offered to suck a bit of 'blow' I politely refused, happy to stick with my hops.

The experience of trying to obtain my Turkish exit stamp bordered on the ridiculous. Hundreds of people, tons of trucks and a plastic cabin with one window which was more often shut than open. No recognizable queue and no recognizable difference between my waving passport and hoards of similar coloured Georgian ones. As always though, my mouth and mode of transport made all the difference. After over an hour of hapless hovering on the bike, getting squeezed, pushed, poked and glowered at, someone hauled my passport from my hand and disappeared beneath the bodies. Five fretting moments later both my passport and the person resurfaced with the former successfully stamped! By George - another country was beckoning!

Fortunately, the first fifteen miles in Georgia were straight as I spent most of them with my eyes angled at the setting sun, whilst allowing my contented sighs to be saturated with the subtle sea breeze. I felt fabulous and after the trials of Turkey the cycling was effortless as I belted along the flat road to Batumi.

Batumi was like a little Las Vegas with gambling joints mounted at every junction, however, it was bereft of budget beds and with nowhere safe to sleep I had to bargain hard to gain a good discount at a place so posh that it still had the smell of fresh paint. The foyer was teeming with Turks filling their faces with food and their veins with vodka. The bike acts like a beacon and as I hauled it up the steps into the hotel a host of holidaymakers hovered to offer their hospitality. I must have looked malnourished as no one would accept 'no thanks' so I eventually gave up refusing and gorged myself on the freshly baked bread, orange sized olives, salty cheese and a sumptuous salad of tomatoes, cucumber, cabbage and coriander (my favourite herb). After a tankful of toasts, which was enough to give you repetitive strain injury, I excused myself and lurched along the lobby to my room. The bike remained in the foyer but I had no fear for it, convinced that bike, bags and the boozers would still be there in the morning - they were!

Not surprisingly, that day I set off towards Lanchkuti at a leisurely pace stopping a couple of times for some caffeine kicks of strong black coffee. By mid day after managing to muster some momentum I was whizzing through a wee village when I spotted a couple of heads and hands waving and shouting from a wee window at the side of the road. Curious as to the commotion I stopped and wheeled the bike across the street and stuck my head into the hatch - my eyes almost exploded! Inside was a huge hall crowded with tables completely covered with food - what a feast! The colours alone would have been enough to collapse the willpower of even the most diligent dieter. Bread and biscuits, gateaux and gammon, filleted fish, cheese and chocolates, cabbage and carrot salads with large lettuce leaves and savoury snacks and sweets all battled for space and supremacy. Yet again, I found myself in a position where food was being foisted upon me. I heard myself give a half hearted refusal but with my hangover halted my eyes and my appetite had already decided for me - it was a banquet fit for a biker! For half an hour hands appeared through the hatch presenting me with parcels of food which was then followed by another flow of homemade fire water! Soon guests started to appear - it was a wedding and the men in the hatch had started eating early as they were responsible for collecting the cash given as gifts to the newly wed couple. The contributors and cash amount was meticulously written down in a wee note book - one way of ensuring people gave more than they could actually afford! After scoffing about three guests worth of grub I was not going to leave without putting forward a few pennies but as always, it was forcefully refused.

Later that evening whilst sitting outside a wee shop and picking on some provisions, the usual assortment of adults, animals and kids had crowded around. Roman, the shop owner came out to restore some order and ushered the kids and their questions away. He spoke no English and my Georgian was not great but we still chatted away for an hour. It was now late and dark and the road was busy with battered old BMW's and Turkish trucks heading to Tbilisi, so when Roman suggested that I sleep in his home it wasn't a difficult decision to make. Roman's wife, Lee Lee laid on a wonderful spread and although my earlier snack had ambushed my appetite, I still managed to do it justice. Besides, I already sensed that my stomach would require a lining for the light refreshments that lay ahead. Roman's reserves of homemade vodka would have shamed Smirnoff and the speed that he wanted to drink it suggested that some of it must have been close to its sell by date. Hardly surprising, the next day I slept through my alarm and woke to find Lee Lee waiting patiently for me to pedal off. Roman had already opened the shop but looked as rough as sandpaper. I do not think many customers would have received a cordial greeting that morning - perhaps that is what he should have stuck to the previous night!

The following two days were windier than the film 'Blazing Saddles' and although the road was flat I had to pump my pedals as if I was back trailing myself up the Turkish hills - if I stopped pedalling I was simply blown backwards! Often I was down to three miles per hour! The force of the wind was even preventing the breath from leaving my lungs! I stopped at a petrol station that was in the process of being stripped by the storm, with its roof relocating. I was allowed to pitch my tent in a semi-sheltered corner with four of the staff helping to hold it down. During the course of the night the wind slowly decimated the diesel pumps, ripped off half the roof and smashed numerous lamps. At two am staff came to tell me to come into the petrol station for shelter but the debris was not falling in my direction and I didn't fancy another night with not much sleep, so I simply pulled my bag over my head and dozed off again.

The next day the weather was still kicking up a storm so on reaching Kutasi I had only covered seventeen miles -it was hopeless trying to pedal against the power of the wind. I was very surprised to spot an Internet cafe but delighted that I now had an excuse to stop. I could not believe it - another party! It was the opening celebration of the business and although the storm had cut the electrical supply it had not dampened their spirits - everyone was busy getting boozy! So more food and firewater ensued. I had been warned by other travellers about the Great Georgian Greeting but if this continued my liver was going to be trashed before Tbilisi! The power eventually returned so I managed to check the football scores and some mail before heading off at midnight. Within fifteen minutes I had found a petrol station and bedded down in the wash bay, falling asleep whilst listening to a boozy brawl being broken up by the local bobbies - the usual Saturday night alcohol fuelled nonsense. I was awoken the next morning at seven as the workmen had arrived to start washing the cars. I resisted the urge to take out my bar of soap.

The next couple of days things returned to normal as I rode over one hundred miles to Gori, the birthplace of Stalin. Anytime I stopped to buy bread or fruit at the side of the street I was offered vodka. The men all scratched the side of their faces with a finger - I had not shaved for a while and thought they were drawing attention to this, not at all, this is the sign used to ask if you want a drink.

On reaching Gori it was now dark and I asked someone in the street if there was Internet. I had stopped twenty yards from one of only two places that had it. I always seem to have luck in these situations. I would not have found the cafe as it was not visible. A family had converted a room in their house and put in a few old computers for the kids to play games on - the noise was deafening! As I waited for my turn, Giga , the son of the owners came and spoke with me. He was eighteen and still at school. His English was excellent, much better than mine! I was introduced to his fourteen year old sister, Mariyan and eventually to their parents, Gia and Marana. With Giga and Mariyan acting as translators we spent a lovely evening eating, drinking and discussing the history of Georgia, especially how its landmass has been gobbled up by other countries through out the years. The food was washed down with smooth, sweet homemade white wine. I would have been more than happy to collapse on my thermarest next to the computers but although I protested, Mariyan was booted out of her bedroom so that I could enjoy the delights of a double duvet with a heated sleeping blanket.

The next morning after a breakfast of homemade bread, jam and honey, Giga was my guide and translator as we walked around Stalin's Museum. We were the only visitors and each room had to be opened up especially for us. It was absolutely freezing and as Giga was busy translating the Russian and Georgian texts, my concentration continually crept back to the heated sleeping blanket. Leaving the museum numb due to the cold and the content we then walked around the outside of Stalin's childhood home and also the carriage of a train that he used to live in. By now it was mid day and I was ready to make tracks myself, however, I was not allowed to leave until I was packed full with a delicious potato dish which had small pieces of pork through it - after their hospitality, I had not the heart to tell them I was vegetarian. As I was saying goodbye, Manana dashed inside and came out with a litre bottle full of freshly made strawberry juice. As I freewheeled away to start the forty five miles to Tbilisi, I was full of warmth as waving hands and smiles saw me off - even Piki, the poodle, despite his diminutive size managed a few boisterous big dog barks.

Souped up on strawberry juice I flew along the road to Tbilisi, the slight tail wind and gradient helping me to average around fifteen miles per hour - it felt great! Again, with nowhere to sleep I needed the net to find a basic bed. Pushing my bike up a steep dark lane I figured I was lost so I asked Karina and her daughter Nata for directions. They took me to the cafe but also said that their house at number twenty two had a spare floor which I could lie on for a night. If I had no luck at the net then they would be back in their house in an hour. I attended to some mail and googled some beds but no joy. Inga, a beautiful blond woman sitting next to me was keen that I should share her space. As she leant across to hand me two telephone numbers, she whispered that she would be more than willing to 'accommodate' me for the evening. I could go with her now in her small car but the bike would maybe be a problem. I figured the bike would have been the least of my problems - number twenty two seemed like much less trouble! I huffed and puffed my way back up the hill and tapped on the door. Within five minutes I felt completely at home and part of the family as we chatted into the wee small hours.

I had to stay in Tbilisi until I acquired my Azerbaijan visa, perhaps two or three days,but you never really know. I was absolutely gobsmacked when I got it the next day in ten minutes. As I was on the bike they even allowed me to pay there and then, saving me a trek across town to deposit the fee in a bank.

I ended up staying in Tbilisi for four fabulous days. Karina, Nata and her brother Vladimir were great company. The space on the floor turned out to be their newly converted loft which they were about to lease out. However, I spent all of my time with them, chatting, laughing, sightseeing and giving massages and healings - they were special days! They were originally from Armenia but the last two generations had settled in Georgia - they were equally passionate about both countries! They invited friends around and we all spoke to my folks on the web cam and earphones via messenger. Vladimir, an unemployed economist - not much economic activity in Georgia at the moment, had a wonderful dry sense of humour. Whilst out sightseeing he had a cutting comment for each sight. Freedom Square but no freedom. Progress Bank but little progress. Heaps of tourist hotels but few tourists. Although I was in Tbilisi in the winter time it is a beautiful city full of green parks and great architecture but Georgia is a very poor country and many people are truly struggling to make ends meet. However, what they lack in lucre they make up with in love. The generosity of 'spirit', smiles and sheer grit and determination made a big impact on me. I have every intention of returning to Georgia and Tbilisi - number twenty two of course!

BLOG BULLETIN

2009-04-16T10:48:00.014+01:00

Location: Varanasi, India
Temperature: 42 Degrees Celsius - a record for early April!
Distance Cycled: Almost 8000 miles - about half way!
Duration: 11.5 months

With this bulletin I send my sincere apologies for the recent break in the blog. Unfortunately, four bouts of food poisoning in the past six weeks ( you could say it has been an unlucky run!) has had the effect of crumpling my creativity leaving my blog bereft of entries. Equally, I now look as if I have had liposuction on my loins with my appearance now as lean and as light as my bike frame.

Hoping that no one would notice, I flirted with the idea of writing that I flew over Georgia, Azerbaijan and Pakistan so that I could start afresh with the blog in India. However, having a conscience can often be a considerable burden so further news of my prowess with the pedals shall follow A.S.A.P. ( After stools appear prominently)

Hope you enjoy the lovely smiles of kids from a school in the Punjab. They were so excited to see me on my bike - I was happy to see them too! For the record the school had 1100 pupils but only 15 teachers! A few little lads got too excited and had to get a good old fashioned clip around the ear...I smiled at this thinking of all the lawsuits that would have been filed in Britain. The headteacher informed me that he had no problems with discipline at the school - I wonder why?

Cold Turkey!

2009-01-31T11:20:00.020Z

My only previous experience of cold turkey is in the post Christmas week, when for days every dish appears with the remnants of the roast - this was hardly sufficient preparation for the antarctic conditions I have encountered during the past month. Two weeks ago the nippy night time temperature in Erzurum, eastern Turkey was minus 38 degrees centigrade but thawed out considerably to an almost tropical day time temperature of minus 25 degrees - Brrrr! If you add the inhospitable hills, howling wolves and the wind which acts like a frozen cloth, wiping your face with each gust, then the reception from nature has been quite cool! Fortunately this has been more than balanced out by the Turkish temperament which is as warm as their wood burning stoves!

From the minute I biked over the border from Greece I was greeted with great big smiles, friendly honks of the horn, was offered copious cups of tea and frequent fags. The tea arrives in a tiny tulip shaped cup accompanied by half a field of sugar cane! If I drank all the sugary tea offered my teeth would be rotten by Tehran. Equally, I do not mınd the occasional fag (although I took exception to the Italian brand) but if I smoked each one my lungs would be lacerated by Lahore! Mind you, everything smokes in Turkey! Turkish trucks smoke as they growl and groan their way up the grave gradients. The trash at the side of the road smokes as people light formidable fires for warmth. The fully stoked wood burning stoves in restaurants smoke as you are walloped by a wall of heat and haze each time you enter them. Even the valleys appear to smoke as the mid morning sun evaporates the mist, forming floating fragments of fog. The only smoke free zone is the television, where actors, caught in the act, have the offending fag fuzzed out! Other butts are blurred out too - with any nudity being deemed unnecessary!

My first night in Turkey was spent a few miles over the border under some trees with a young German couple heading for Georgia. They had a wonderful spirit but not much else. Their budget was brutal - the ten euros per day for the two of them did not allow for any luxuries. They had a wonderful eclectic mix of equipment - most of it purchased on ebay but many things were already broken or did not work properly in the first place. I thought I was slumming it going six days without a shower but they had managed only two in about forty days. Despite this, they were fresh faced, full of fun and having the time of their lives. Before parting the next day they eventually let me treat them to a Turkish coffee. I am not exactly loaded down with lire but compared to them I felt minted!

A few days and one hundred and fifty miles took me to within touching distance of Istanbul. It was eleven pm but I still had twenty six miles to the centre of the city. Paraphrasing the petrol pump attendant, 'The traffic was tragic,' so I parked up under the petrol price column, unrolled my bag and went to sleep. What only seemed lıke minutes later my alarm informed me it was five - time to get a head start on the traffic. I had half an hour of happy cycling before the metal boxes resumed their bumper to bumper battle. At one point, marooned amidst all the motors, I stopped and ate a fume filled apple, relieved to have a few moments of respite! I spent the rest of the day cycling around Istanbul continually managing to miss the the tiny enclave of tourist hostels situated in Sultanahmet. Eventually, I was accosted by an Aussıe couple whose gregarious greeting made me wonder where I had met them before - however, they were sımply happy to see a fellow cyclist. Due to fly back to Oz they were busy cleaning and stripping their bikes so they would pass the stringent Australian custom controls. They then spent two hours squeezing their bikes into cardboard boxes which were too small. I registered in their rooftop penthouse suıte - a twenty seven bed deserted dormitory with a plastic cover to exclude the elements. Fortunately, we numbered only five as I think the solitary sink, shower and toilet would have been well troubled coping with the hıgh tide tourist trade!

I had a week to fill in before my friends, Denise and Al, arrived from Scotland. I rested, repaired my bike (new chain set and front wheel cone and bearings) and argued with the bıke shop owner who wanted to file off a little of my forks due to the ıncompetence of his workmanship. I also spent a couple of days with a great group of fellow guests at the Mavi hostel. Whilst out walking, anytime we asked for directions we were always told, 'straight ahead and right'. As we were usually too busy talking and laughing we did not know where we were, so were left with no option but to follow the directions - even though they were invariably 'Not Rıght!'

After almost seven months on the saddle I was looking forward to seeing my friends. Prior to leaving Scotland we made provisional plans to meet at the end of September but with one thing and another this was nudged back to November - but it was worth the wait! In between a boat ride up the Bosphorous, a trek around trendy Taksim, a saunter around the Spice Market and a gander at the Grand Bazaar we managed to over indulge in alcohol, under indulge in sleep but got the laughter level just about right. Throw in a couple of interesting conversations and the four days flew by and ıt was time for me to get back on the bike carrying a few more pounds - although not the kind that boosted my budget!

Before I moved on I visited the British Consulate to request an official letter that stated who I was and the purpose of my trip. I met a round the world motorcyclist from Serbia who said that the assurances from his Government had helped to speed up the usual snail paced process of visa procurement. I was very surprised to be introduced to the Consular General, Jessica Hand, in person. After a wee chat she said the support letter would be no problem. What was a problem was the price, ıt cost forty five pounds - the standard charge for an official letter. I could probably bribe border guards for less! Besides, when I proudly presented it to the Iranian Consulate in Erzurum, they looked at it with such contempt, it could just as easily have been toilet paper. Once the letter regains some confidence then I am sure it will play its part and prove to be a profitable investment.

During the following week the night time temperature dropped dramatically with the result that each morning my tent was damp and had to be dried out when I stopped for breakfast or a late lunch. Most places thought that I wanted to pitch my tent right in front of their restaurants. It took some time to explain that I was only airing it whilst I ate. Once this was established then a host of waiters wanted to help - pushing, pulling and flapping at my fragile tent until it was as taut as a trampoline, causing the droplets of dew to career off the canvas - I had already returned to my seat to eat my soup!

The roadside restaurants cuisine is constantly bovine based with little variation for the vegetarian. On some occasions I have had to eat meat or not eat at all! The lentil soup is invariably laced with a lamb stock and a simple bean casserole causes concern when minuscule bits of meat mix happily the haricots. I have been a vegetarian for fifteen years and I knew before embarking on my wee bike rıde that there was every chance that I would have to temporarily veer away from the veggies - I was prepared to be pragmatic. However, I was slightly surprised by how much my saliva, stomach and soul refused to muddle in with my logical mind and locked my jaw when the texture touched my mouth, preventing me from swallowing.

It took me almost one month and eight hundred and fifty miles to huff, puff and pedal from Istanbul to Erzurum (the coldest place in Turkey!). The time was both beautiful and brutal. I did not realise how harsh it had been until I reached Georgia and saw the Black Sea, flew along the flat roads and allowed my eyes to gorge at the green fields. Even although I slowed down and respected the rutted icy roads I still arrived on my arse many times. In order to keep warm my clothing had as many layers as a tunnocks wafer but this caused me to sweat more than a boxer training for a bout. Which in turn did not help to counter the cough I had caught in Istanbul. Despite all the challenges it was a wonderful experience with the fatigue, frost and infection only adding to the adventure!

Spending three weeks being messed about trying to arranged the Iranian visa was not so satisfying. I was tired and grumpy and had allowed myself to get too attached to the outcome, believing that it was the only way ahead. Erzurum, no pun intended is not a place to 'chill out' in. It has a ski resort, a large university and a military base. These people choose to settle in such a severe site for specific reasons - God knows why the rest live here! It is severely polluted, colder than an ex partners cuddle, whilst the streets, for weeks on end, are simply strips of ice which large lorries and dumper trucks trundle over whilst carrying away their cargo of snow. Occasionally you slide upon a fellow surly tourist waiting to hear about their Iranian visa application.

I managed to escape Erzurum when a member of staff in my regular soup shop called his English speaking friend Egemen who is the Tourist Project Manager for the area north of Erzurum. So for eleven delightful days I followed Egemen about like a wee puppy dog fortunately enough being invited to many of his business meetings and trips to visit the locals who live deep in the Choruh Valley. Egemen was advising and assisting them with grants so as to convert part of their houses to accommodate the increasing tourist trade.

The package is very appealing. Trekking, walking, rafting and cycling routes take you through areas of stunning unspoilt natural beauty. After a hard days exertion you then allow yourself to be spoilt rotten with homemade food, a fabulous view and a welcome so warm you do not even feel the early evening chill. Have a peep at the web page before the area becomes too popular. www.datur.com and/or www.choruh.com For more information or a personalised programme then you can contact Egeman directly via the datur web page.

Arriving back in Erzurum I entered the Iranian Consulate to hear the decision regarding my second application for a visa. Despite giving them everything they had asked for - including an invitation letter from someone living in Tehran they still refused my visa stating that there was something wrong with my contacts address. By now I was beyond caring and jumped on the bike and headed north to Georgia, happy to be heading to a visa free zone. In Tbilisi it took ten minutes to acquire my Azerbaijan visa but I am now barracked in Baku about to re endure more visa vexations for the the route ahead. Wish me luck!

Greece Lightening!

2008-12-31T10:14:00.003Z

My gateway to Greece was via the port of Patra after a fifteen hour overnight boat ride from Brindisi, Italy. I shared my sleeping quarters - the open deck, with Rod and Oscar, two young Aussıe musicians on their way back home after a successful tour of the States. Barracked in our sleeping bags we lay down on wooden deck chairs and let the boat act like a giant cradle gently rocking us to sleep as our lungs lapped up the soothing salty sea breeze. The next morning we were awoken by a steward shaking us motioning that we should move - the boat had already docked whilst we were still lying on ours!

Once ashore we bolted down some breakfast. I couldn't resist a couple cups of strong Greek coffee gulped down between mouthfuls of chocolate and banana crepe. We said our goodbyes, with the boys heading off on the bus to Athens whilst I pedalled around the coast towards Korinthos relieved that the roads were calm and clear after having been bullied all the way to Brindisi by the impatient Italian drivers.

I dallied along the thirty five miles to Diakopto savouring the renewed sense of adventure which a new country brings. I camped on a rough piece of roadside land sharing my food, company and conversation with a German 'spiritualist'. He had been through some tough times and spent the next four hours telling me about them. He was diagnosed as a schizophrenic when forcefully admitted into a psychiatric hospital by his parents ten years ago. However, he put his altered mental state - which included constant commands via voices down to a spiritual experience he had in India many years before. It was fascinating listening to his perspective of events but without enough knowledge on schizophrenia or spiritualism I was not in any position to comment either way. I did detect that he was very lonely but was unable to spend time with people due to his mental condition. He had bought a bike and a few belongings and was just cycling until his money ran out. He now disowned his family, had no friends and did not seem to be in a position to make any new ones. Although he was more withdrawn in the morning we stıll shared a fine breakfast of coffee, biscuits, rice wrapped in vine leaves, bread and the ubiquitous chocolate spread but he spent more time talking to himself than with me, so I packed up my panniers and wished him good luck. He said that luck had nothing to do with it and that it was fated that he should follow his constant flow of words!

After a short cycle I stopped at a quiet beach to recalibrate with caffeine and bumped into a Dutch ballet dancer who ran her own school in Amsterdam. Tina was full of fun and vitality and although she was almost sixty, energy pulsed out of every pore! She invited me back to her house to share some yogurt, nuts and honey whilst we discussed her dilemma. Her husband, who had some health issues, was keen to retire to Greece to their cosy condominium on the coast. Where as, she seemed reluctant to give up her ballet business and big house in the city. As I was leaving, her husband arrived home just in time to wave me off - I wonder who won? The short time with Tina was the perfect antidote for the subtle sadness I had allowed to seep into me after my sojourn with the 'spiritualist' - sometimes I can empathise too much!

After further fuel stops and fifty five miles I eventually came upon an all-night internet cafe in Korinthos. I attended to my emails, familiarised myself with the blog Ale had set up for me and nursed a dram until dawn. I then accelerated off to Athens flying along for another fifty five miles - the last fifteen involving the usual mayhem and madness associated with inner city roads. I actually asked a female driver if there was an alternative route into Athens but she said no. 'But it's a motorway,' I said, whilst pointing to my bike. 'This is Greece,' she growled, in a tone which suggested I should just get on with it. So I did!

I cycled to the centre and sat people watching whilst devouring a giant dough ring. Trying to track down the local Tourist Information Office I collared a copper for help. He said that Athens did not have one - this was highly unlikely! I then asked where the nearest Youth Hostel was. According to him Athens did not have Youth Hostels either, as there were plenty of cheap hotels - I knew this was complete nonsense! Third time lucky! Now a little exasperated I asked him to direct me to the nearest internet cafe - at least he knew this! Within ten minutes of Googlıng 'Youth Hostel Athens,' I was booked into a dorm only five minutes from his beat. People are always making up stories rather than just simply admitting that they do not know!

I was sharing the clean, mixed en suite dorm with five other folk for twelve and a half euros per night. As there was no where to dry my clothes I had to pay an additional six euros to have them laundered. Normally I am quite content hand washing my clothes finding the chore cathartic and also preferring to spend the money drınking a beer whilst sitting in a bar reading a book. I bought two veggie wraps at the corner cafe before crashing into bed at eleven for a twelve hour stint in the land of nod, not even hearing the rowdies roll into the room at three thirty.

When I met Tijs from Belgium he was well stoned! He had spent three days roving around Athens ancient relics and said he could not face any more piles of boulders. As I am always on the move with the bike I am not so bothered about sightseeing within cities Besides, usually by the time I reach them I am shattered and quite happy to sit about. However, when Tijs suggested a little stroll up Lycabettus Hill to the Agious Gorgiouskapel Church where you get a perfect panoramic view of the city, I readily agreed. He was a lovely sensitive, open guy and we had a nice natter as we sauntered up the steep slope arriving just in time to see the sun set, then watch Athens come alive with lights. It was well worth the effort and the expense of the profiteering priced bottle of beer that we sipped during the show.

Later, when sitting at the corner cafe close to the hostel enjoying the delicious veggie wraps, a fight broke out nearby. It seems that when some Greeks drink they do not say 'Cheers', but 'Chairs', as one man started clouting and clattering a heavy set chair over another guys head. People started running from all corners to ensure that the contest continued, with the louts lashing their limbs at anything and everything. Just as the trouble began to edge closer to our table a convoy of cops arrived in six cars and six motorbikes screeching along the road to break up the brawl. One man was marched past our table with his blood and nose spread all over his face! Once things had settled down a man approached Tijs wanting to shake his hand whilst showing off with a mobile phone. Two nights earlier someone had bumped into Tijs as he was heading for the hostel. When he arrived he realised the person had stolen his phone. He immediately went back out into the street and searched for twenty minutes before finding the thief in a mobile phone shop about to swap sim cards. He retrieved his phone with force then left the man alone - apparently this was the same man now laughing with his latest loot!

After another rest day hovering about the hostel I headed out of Athens on the National Road 1. Sitting on the slip road watching the stream of traffic streak by there was a certain reluctance to move onto the motorway. However, I knew that within five minutes I would be acclimatised to the accelerated speed, so İ puffed out my cheeks, pushed the bike into position and pedalled off. Fifteen miles later I found the old route that ran parallel, so thankfully I moved onto the less congested carriage-way. However, I spent most of the next week and hundreds of miles on the motorway as the old route appeared and disappeared at will. On a couple of occasions I was turfed off at the tolls or moved on by maintenance men but on the whole I left alone to career along in my own carriage-way only veering off to cool down with cold coffees at the roadside vans.

That evening I stopped at Shimatari camping behind some obscure large cement structure in the middle of a field - the place gave me the creeps! Whilst I was lying in the tent it was lit up with intermittent flashing lights. However, each time I crept out to look I was greeted with a sheet of darkness. Later, as I was sitting in the tent there was a deafening din whilst the ground started shaking violently, knocking me over. 'What the bloody hell was that?' I heard myself say. Again I unzipped the tent but nothing - the only thing still shaking was me!

Arriving late at Lamia I landed up at a BP twenty four hour truck stop. It had a restaurant, a shop and a shower so shoddy that I felt inclined to limit my lathering! The car park was crammed with cargo trucks, bustling with buses and overrun with rats, foraging for the scraps of waste food at the rear of the restaurant. However, cowering in the corner was a grubby triangle of grass just large enough to host my hoose. I lifted the litter and toed away the used tissues but could not bring myself to remove the fat rat that lay, 'legs up,' only a few feet from my own. It was a low energy place but once I was cocooned inside my canvass I was convinced I would feel better - I didn't! I didn't get much sleep either as the refrigerated lorry right next to me roared all night, ensuring its contents remained cool whilst I was anything but! The next morning when inhaling a lung full of diesel fumes I realised I felt flatter than road kill. I struggled on for seven miles to Stilida where my legs went on strike and I was seduced by an enormous orange sofa in Cafe Goa. It had recently opened and was fresh, spacious and stylish. In between snacking and snoozing I was joined by Joanne, the young owner, whose ambition was to visit Goa. She was a bonny bundle of nervous energy and could not sit still for more than a few moments. Although the place was spotlessly clean, she was contınually dashing off with a damp cloth to either wipe something, adjust the position of a plant pot, smoke a fag or slice up more salad - even though the cafe had few customers! She persistently presented me with portions of cake and extra drinks which I never ordered. Even her mother got in on the act, arriving with a toasted sandwich. When I refused, she was adamant that I should eat it, insinuating that I was too thin! Although it was difficult, after all I had eaten, I eventually had to make a move. It was late and I was in danger of exploding! As I was hugging Joanne, thanking her and saying goodbye, her face became furrowed with a serious frown. Looking at me she blurted out, 'Please watch out for the men with the knıves'. I assured her that I would! I felt lıke replying wıth, 'Please watch out for the profit margin, or you will never get to Goa'.

Struggling to find my way out of Stalida after taking a wrong turn, I stopped at a petrol station barely a mile from the cafe to check that I was going the right way. It was now dark and the road ahead seemed too narrow to be the main route. Nadia and Agglless immediately offered me a coffee - even before I had opened my mouth! They were in the wrong vocation. Instead of a petrol station they should have owned a pet station. They had three dogs and seven cats camped in the house with another six dogs barking and growling in the garden! They also had a monster sıze metal bowl in the forecourt to feed all the stray animals they could not house! They simply loved animals and could not bare to see any go hungry - it was costing them a fortune on food each week! We spent the evening dıscussing pets, politics, petrol prices, previous partners and parents. This obviously took some time so it was just before two when I snuggled down under the forecourt table to watch the procession of paws pad past the petrol pumps to feast on the free food. As one cat purred past, it almost lost one of its nine lives with the fright it gave itself upon spotting me - such special moments!

Pampered In Pescara!

2008-12-14T16:11:00.018Z

A Polish couple helped pitch my tent. I was fed and furnished by two French cyclists in their sixties - the husband being hounded into acting as a sniffer dog to inspect my newly acquired single mattress from the nearby bins! My table was an upturned cardboard box, whilst my moulded plastic chairs had more cracks than my collar bone. A duo of Dutch dames provided some discourse continually commenting on the people parading by with their pooches in prams and pushchairs! During the first few days my time was taken up with entering and exiting my wee tent - averaging out at fifteen minutes each manoeuvre.

I got a lift into Livorno on the local bendy bus which didn't bend around any of the bumps on the road.. I paused at a street side cafe for a pizza and a pint and with my mind preoccupied with possibilities I inadvertently walked off without paying - I felt like a one armed bandit!

Whilst I was more than willing to settle in and sit it out in the campsite until my bones bonded a proposal came from Pescara that I should go and recuperate with my brothers colleague Alessandro. I wasn't sure! Accepting hospitality in someone's hoose for a couple of nights is one thing but foisting yourself on folks for a month is quite another. However with each email Ale relayed I realised his offer was very genuine and generous so my reservations receded and I accepted.

The round trip from Pescara was over seven hundred miles and took Ale thirteen and a half hours of continual driving - an incredible effort which did not include one bad gear change! However, after arriving late in Pescara and piling into a pizza, Ale proudly announced, 'we did it Eric!' then slapped me on my sore shoulder - the laughter levelled out the pain.

Although I found the northern Italians cold and distant, the further south I travelled the weather and the people warmed up considerably with the reception in Pescara positively roasting. Ale and his partner Michela couldn't do enough for me. Michela, who had just discovered she was pregnant gave up her beachside flat and moved in with Ale providing me with a place, peace (apart from the fighting felines) and privacy to enable me to rest and recuperate. Although they were both very busy they continually invited me round to their flat for delicious homemade meals - with Michela's terrific tiramisu tantalising my taste buds. They also included me in the company of their friends with Maurizio and Tanya being especially hospitable - Tanya never allowing me to leave without taking a doggy bag of her tasty treats. In fact I was completely embraced by all their circle of friends - sometimes too tightly by one friend, Felicia who gave such a bear hug that it was often too hard to bare!

During the first few weeks ın Pescara I was still feeling a little fragile. After the experience wıth my tooth trauma I decided not to partake in the all powerful and pervading prescriptıon drugs but to go with the grape and the grain. Ten days later I realised that my self prescribed dose may have been a tad too hıgh so I reduced the prescription to a more lucid level. However, one side effect had been that I put on more weight than a sumo wrestler. My shoulder support should have been adjusted weekly but with me piling on the pounds I just fattened out to fit it! I was supposed to keep it on for one month but it had been impossible to wash myself properly and there was a pong parading around with me. Ale had gone way beyond the call of duty and had already pacified my pits once so I was unwilling to inflict that upon him again. Mıchela's bathroom contained a tiny tub which was desıgned for only sitting in but I was determined to submerge my armpits before they submerged me! So I removed the brace discovering that ıt had collected more skin than a callous. I then gingerly squeezed my torso into the tub whilst my legs languıshed upwards agaınst the wall. The wonder of getting fully washed was was delightful. However, not surprisingly during the meal at Maurizio's and Tanya's that evening the cusine and company did little to dilute the discomfort in my shoulder. That evening the discusion became rather morbid and flowed onto funerals. Apparently, in Italy you can hire people to cry at your funeral - the better the performance bringing a bıgger regard for the deceased!

Passing the tıme dıd not prove to be much of a problem. I dıd yoga exercıses three tımes a day and devoted at least ninety minutes to visualısation sending as much energy and healing as I could muster to my shoulder. I also slept for hours on end, regardless of the time of day. I read 'The Ragged Trousered Phılanthropists' by Robert Tressell - all sıx hundred and forty pages of ıt! It was not exactly uplifting but saved me lifting it up another hill. I had a couple of days when the fun of the fracture wore off and fatıgue filled the void. My mood and energy had more swings than a childrens playpark. I tried just to let things be and wait until it passed. After all, worrying does not reduce tomorrow of sorrow, only today of strength. Besides, I had Italian tv to lift my spirits. Whether it is game shows, political debates, talkshows, sports programmes, shopping channels or soaps, cleavage ıs Kıng with bossoms blazoned all over the box! There was one late nıght show where woman writhed about to the instructions of the male callers, who judging by the tone of their voices were expressıng themselves both verbally and physıcally! Most of the films I saw were dubbed - they even dubbed Dinero! I often managed to catch the late afternoon showing of Lassıe, where thankfully the dog was not dubbed. Another day whilst twıddlıng my thumbs I decıded to put them to some use and repair my puncture. I managed to repair the puncture using one arm and one foot. However, afterwards I began to pespire and pant like a pensıoner - it ıs a thin line between stubborness and stupıdıty!

Nothing seemed too much bother for Ale and Michela. Ale arranged and took me for an x-ray to check that the fracture was fine. I couldn't help thinking that perhaps he should have an x-ray too, to assess the massıve cavıty that must be housing such a huge heart. Michela, who is a Physiotherapist, got me an appointment at her practıce so that her boss could look at my x-ray. With Ale acting as interpreter we entered his office. The Doctor who was busy reading his broadsheet barely managed to prise his pupils away from the paper. When Doctor Dısmissive eventually examined the x-ray he threw it across the table as if to say, 'do not bother me with such a simple fracture'. Apparently he has a habit of haranguıng elderly patients and sayıng, 'what is your problem, you will be gone soon anyway?' He stood up and ordered me to stand to attention against the wall, just lıke a soldier, then he thrust his thumb firmly against my bone and scoffed. Ale asked when I could expect to get back on my bike. Dr Dismissive said that Valentino Rossi takes painkilling injections and gets on with it but he gets paid. He then said that if I was crazy I could cycle off tomorrow but he would wait for four weeks. By this stage Ale was ın fits of laughter whilst just managing to blurt out, 'waıt and I will explain all' After we left Ale said that I deserved a drambuie. I did not disagree! I have decided that drambuie really is the, 'spirit of adventure!'

After a couple of weeks I started going for long walks along the beach. As it was now end of season there were few people about but the beach was still banked up with all the residue from the mass of holidaymakers. There were deflated paddling pools, flippers, suncanopies and umbrellas and balls. There were lilos, pedalos, plastic toys and swept ashore buoys. Then wet suıts, tıny plastıc tractors, spades, pales and prams. As the days past the sand slowly regained the shore as the clutter was cleared away.

Another day whist trying to clear the clutter off my face I was determined to shave the right side with my left hand but it was just not happening. Breathing, vısualisation and stupidity had all failed to get my arm across. Just then a Nıck Kershaw song came on the radio. It was 'I've got two strong arms'. I started laughing...it must be a sign! It ıs funny the things that motivate you...or should I say, me! I turned the radio up, returned to the mirror and shaved my right sıde.

Three weeks after breaking my shoulder I climbed back on my bike. I had worked hard to heal it and it felt right. The support I had received had also helped immensely. Of course I was as wobbly as a newly set jelly and my confidence was as low as the Italian ladies tops. I spent the next two weeks pedalling along the prom buildıng up muscle and mood whilst glowering at anyone who came near me.

My last Sunday was spent dining out with Ale, Michela, Maurizıo, Tanya and their kids. It was a nice relaxing way to wave goodbye and to thank them for all their support. I do belıeve that 'Living is Giving' and that was certainly the case ın Pescara where I do not think it was possible for Ale, Michela and their friends to give any more! Things do happen for a reason and for me to break my shoulder gave me the opportunity to retest my own healing skills whilst also enjoying the company and support of some lovely people. I feel very lucky indeed!

Ouch!

2008-11-25T21:15:00.015Z

Twenty kilometres past Pisa lay Livorno and a campsite on the coast and although it was dark, the weather was fine, road straight and I felt fabulous. So when I came to a slight slope I sped down it so quickly it was as if I was flying - then suddenly I was as my bike ricocheted to the right hitting the hard shoulder and my not so hard shoulder tangled with the tarmac connecting with such a sickening smack that it took me a few moments to realise what had actually happened. When I stood up I saw my bike spread-eagled with the panniers planted all over the road. Fortunately there were no vehicles behind me. The cars on the other side carried on by apart from an off duty policeman and his friend who came and picked up the bike and panniers. I tried to help but each time I moved I was paralysed with pain. With broken english they kept repeating the words 'ambulance' and 'hospıtal' but I said no preferring to get them to hold the bike up and spin the front wheel to see if it was buckled. The discomfort was beyond description but I thought it would wear off so I asked them to place the panniers back on the bike. However, it was hopeless so reluctantly I relented and along came the ambulance.

I asked for the bike to be taken aboard as well but it was banned. The ambulance man, who spoke English, stressed that I was more important than the bike. The policeman said he would leave it in the nearby McDonalds - I was not too content about this but there was no other option. Besides, I wasn't going to let it spoil my first experience in an ambulance! I was not strapped in, there were no flashing lights or siren and we did not dash through any red lights so I was a little disappointed but as if to compensate the ambulance man was a real comedian. Askıng me about the trıp he saıd that ıt was unfortunate that I crashed ın Lıvorno as I would probably receıve better care ın Calcutta.

I was not allowed to walk from the ambulance but was whızzed ın on wheelchaır. Everyone was warm and frıendly and although the waıtıng room was packed wıth people someone came and questıoned me almost ımedıately, pokıng and proddıng varıous parts. My gestıculatıon skılls were now severely subdued but I managed to motıon that I was fıne apart from my shoulder. I now had to sıt for some tıme before seeıng another Doctor so I started some breathıng and vısualısatıon exercıses and some sımple lower arm movements whılst also peekıng at the processıon of patıents comıng and goıng. Two female teenagers appeared tearful and upset after a moped accıdent, theır knees were all pıtted as ıf mashed by a meat mallet. An elderly gent was rolled ın barely concıous and thınner than a toothpıck. The poor bugger had no teeth ın and wore ıncontınent pants. He lay there, left ın the corrıdor half covered wıth no pıllow, prıvacy or dıgnıty - I really felt for hım and ıt took all my wıllpower not to get up and go and hold hıs hand but I guess that would have been more about my needs rather than hıs! Another teenager taken ın was covered ın tattoos, dısplayıng more paıntwork than an art gallery. She was very sloppy to the staff and just as petulant wıth her parents. I do not know what was wrong wıth her - perhaps sufferıng from a severe defıcıency ın dıscıplıne!

When ıt was my turn my Doctor spent most of the tıme tellıng me about hıs exploıts as a lad playıng the oboe at the Edınburgh Festıval, also that ıt was fate that I should crash and that I would fınd love ın Lıvorno - ıt seemed half of the staff were amateur comedıans. When he eventually got around to examınıng me I ınvoluntarıly pushed hıs hands away. He saıd that perhaps an xray would be best - at last we were ın agreement. A cracked clavıcle was dıagnosed, I was ıssued wıth a support brace and banned from the bıke, wherever ıt was, for a month. It was now two am and as I had to make an appoıntment at eıght for another xray a week later I collapsed ınto the comfıest seat I could fınd - a wheelchaır and sat and sıpped coffee for sıx hours! I had no where to go, dıd not know where my bıke was and each tıme I moved I felt lıke a pın cushıon but I was smılıng and chucklıng. I wanted adventure and thıs was ıt so I was dammed sure I was goıng to enjoy ıt!

After bookıng my appoıntment I arranged for a taxı to take me back to where I crashed. I wrapped on the door of McDonalds - ın fact I wrapped on all the doors as ıt was stıll closed but I was determıned to fınd the bıke. Eventually someone arrıved and poınted to the hotel a hundred yards away. Apparently McDonalds refused to take the bıke - they must have known I was a vegetarıan! I eventually stumbled upon ıt ın the storeroom of the hotel - ıt looked so forlorn wıth ıts buckled wheel, flat tyre, torn handlebar tape and wıth the pannıers dısplayıng more holes than a dartboard. I needed a lıttle tıme to thınk and consıder my optıons so explaınıng my sıtuatıon, I asked the hotel manager ıf he had a very cheap room I could have for one nıght. He reacted as ıf I had asked to sleep wıth hıs wıfe, then tossed a scrumpled scrap pıece of paper over the counter wıth one hundred wrıtten on ıt! Even the taxı drıver took exceptıon to thıs and argued my case. Once I had calmed the drıver down we managed to squeeze the bıke ınto hıs cab and I got hım to take me to the nearest campsıte on the coast where I was fortunate enough to barter a better deal!

Propositioned On Road To Pise

2008-11-04T15:22:00.009Z

Entering Italy induced an instant change in driving style. In France drivers gave respect and right of way where as the Italians just wanted me to get out of the bloody way! The rugged coastline was stunning as the road crept around every crag but I was too busy hugging the kerb as the vehicles hugged me, passing so close that I was almost tattooed by the trucks sign writing. Cycling through the first wee town I was absolutely amazed at the mayhem as cars, trucks, motorbikes and buses battled it out for supremacy with road markings, traffic lights and signs seeming superficial.

Arriving late at San Bartolommeo al Mare I was happy to come upon camping but not with the price, twenty five euro's - the manager politely suggested that the site six hundred yards away may be better for my budget - nine euro's. I didn't pitch my tent but positioned myself under a tree partaking in a pastis from my pannier before lights out. I awoke a few hours later to find the campsites K9 standing staring at me, his peering pupils shining in the half light.

That day I continued along the coast passing through San Remo stopping only to check my emails and to escape from the searing sun. The rest of the day I dipped down to the waters edge as much as possible finding a beauty bounty in each bay. It was a long lazy day with plenty of pit stops so when night fall drew near I was keen to continue. Approaching Genoa in the early hours it started to shower so I sheltered in the forecourt of a filling station. With the smooth, flat concrete floor proving too temping I lay down for forty winks. I woke up with a start, saturated, as the shower had matured into a monsoon flooding the forecourt. I changed my clothes, put on my waterproofs - better late than never, then promptly fell back to sleep propped up against a petrol pump. I resurfaced at seven to find the station fully functional - the only exception being my bunk for the night! I nodded to the attendant, moved my bike, bought a coffee then cycled the twenty miles south of Genoa to Bogliasco. Booking into the campsite I met a German couple on honeymoon - the guy seemed more impressed with the BMW wedding gift from his grandfather than his new partner. As they were just packing up, I waited then placed my hoose on the honeymoon suite, figuring it would still be nice and warm. I nodded off for nine hours only bothering to open my eyes and my mouth long enough to bolt down some bread and cheese before slipping back into another twelve hour slumber - I love sleeping!

It was a rest day but there is always something to do. I shaved, stood in the shower for ever, washed my clothes then cooked a massive pan of porridge, raisins, nuts, bananas and honey. Full of beans and porridge I then bounced down to the bay and lay on the beach until the sun stopped smiling! It was a long slog back up to the site and as I was catching my breath I bumped into Kathy from Switzerland. We ended up sharing a couple of relaxing days, pizzas and picnics whilst watching the waves. During one picnic Kathy took a bunch of grapes to the waters edge to wash them in the salt water - I thought this was some secret Swiss solution to rid them of their chemical content -apparently not. It was hardly surprising that they then tasted of salt so had to be washed again with the bottle of water that we had bought. This left us both in stitches which reminded me that was exactly what my mangled shorts required. Kathy then managed to regain some lost pride by using her veterinary surgical skills to patch up my pants.

Pressing on to Pisa I was approached by a good looking guy who was obviously a serious cyclist - he had a great bike, all the gear and looked as fit as a butchers dog. He spoke perfect English, was well educated and keen to discuss anything about cycling and fitness. When he discovered my job was massage and relaxation techniques he offered to share his knowledge on such matters and suggested we cycle a few hundred yards along the beach to a public area where other people exercised. I readily agreed thinking I may learn something. After a few hundrded yards we took a left away from the beach front, then a right and a few other turns until we started to leave the houses behind. As the lanes began to narrow and the thatch became thicker my mind suddenly became broader as I realised what his relaxation technique was. When I suggested that perhaps there may have been a wee misunderstanding he stressed that his technique was very simple and that it required he use only one hand - that comment clarrified everything! I stopped, about turned and started to cycle back. We chatted amiably along the way and he said he was a decent person, I am sure he was but it wasn't his decency that he wanted to share with me! I cycled off along the beach front chuckling and smiling wondering what his success rate was. I started to look for a quiet place to sit and make my sandwiches but it was all bars and bistro's which require that you buy something before sitting on their section of sand. However, I spotted a sign saying, 'free beach' so I parked my bike and my bum, which was a little uncomfortable after many miles but of course it could have been a lot worse!

The sexual theme continued when about twelve miles from Pisa the roadside prostitutes reappeared beckoning me with their bared bosoms each time I stopped for a pee - one lady came marching towards me with such zest that I almost caught my manhood in my zipper in my haste to hurry things along! I stopped at a roadside cafe to write up my diary and reflect on the day. There was a constant stream of beautiful 'ladies' coming and going from the cafe but with voices as deep as the ocean. Paying the bill the owner informed me that it was a transsexual tavern. I pedalled the few remaining miles into Pisa and as the tourists were trickling away and the souvenir shops closing up I sat eating my sandwiches whilst taking in the tower. I thought it fitting that I should end my day by staring at a massive phallic symbol!

Third Email

2008-10-23T02:54:00.002+01:00

Dear all,

As the space between each communication is increasing, this email arrives along with thoughts that perhaps I should approach "Gap" for some sponsorship!

My last mail found me moving on from Montpellier but not before attending my final dental date. I was all packed up and ready to go as I rolled my bike into the root treatment reception. During my various visits to the dentist there had been much laughter at each others expense (the biggest being the bill!) that I decided to ask her out for a drink. However, that night I found myself dining with three dentists as she brought along two female friends. During the course(s) of the evening it transpired that they were all 'dentists by default' having marginally missed out on medical marks and not having the 'gumption' to doctor them, which would have enabled them to become one. Mind you, my dentist had already acquired some surgical skills by inexplicably breaking the long root cleaning tool in my tooth thus sending me off with a souvenir and stressing that it shouldn't cause me any bother - it hasn't so far!

It was after midnight when I moseyed on out of Montpellier hardly pushing the pedals. With the warm air on my face and not a care in the world, I was ready to face whatever lay ahead. I cherish such simple moments never knowing when they will reappear. I cycled till after three and although I still had heaps of energy - due to an excellent healing from Michel earlier the previous day, I decided to grab some slumber at a campsite. I padlocked the bike, unrolled my therm-a-rest then clambered fully clothed into my sleeping bag. I was awakened a few hours later by a small man trimming a large tree with a chain saw to enable a massive mobile home to squeeze into the space next to me -yet another example of a campsite where peace was at a premium, the only peace being my caramel coated chocolate biscuit that I ate for breakfast. After a couple cups of coffee from my flask I popped in by the office to pay. However, due to the shortness of my stay, the owner figured five euoro's was fine, rather than the formal fifteen.

After an uneventful day of purely putting miles on the meter I must have slipped into autopilot as I found myself on the autoroute (motorway). Dawn was beginning to settle down but I certainly wasn't as vehicles roared past at an alarming rate. For the first time in France, cars continually hooted and tooted with flailing fists telling me to get off - I couldn't! The nearest exit was eight miles away. Rather frustratingly I could actually see the road I was supposed to be on, as it ran directly parallel to the autoroute but out of reach beyond the crash barriers and cars. An autoroute maintenance vehicle stopped to inform me what I already knew - I should not be on the road, it is very dangerous and that I should leave at the next exit! I put my head down, my pedal power up and tried to ignore the uneasy sensation that was sweeping over me. After another two miles where I encountered more horns then on a safari, a four wheel drive 'Gendarmerie' vehicle came to my rescue and rode behind me with all lights illuminated as I sprinted along the remainder of the route. They were so understanding and courteous that they even escorted me across the flyover to the right road. Incredibly, upon departing they complimented me on the fact that I had lights on my bike, not mentioning that it hadn't helped me to see where I was going! I soon came upon a sign for camping but as it was now late everything was locked up so I had to squeeze my bike under the entrance barrier. However, I saw some life in the lodge so I wrapped on the door to enquire about a pitch. As it was peak season there was no guarantee of a place but the owner must have taken pity on my parched appearance as she presented me with a large bottle of mineral water then escorted me to a wee corner where I could place my tent. I was already being mauled by mossies but couldn't be bothered slapping on insect repellent just for the few minutes it would take to throw up the tent. I bitterly regretted this the following morning when I woke up with more bites than a computer!

I left the site late in the day after resetting my alarm and tending to my bites with tiger balm. Although I was covering the miles the mercury was moving just as quick, hitting the high thirties, so I began to take my time stopping frequently to rest, recuperate and rehydrate. Nurturing my nocturnal needs I again cycled late into the night finally stopping at a bus shelter in a wee village called Rians where I managed to grab four and a half hours semi sleep despite constant meowing from my curious feline friend. Then just when I managed to eventually drop off, the local council rubbish trucks decided to start their shift - their depot being directly along the dirt track road next to where I lay. There was no more sleep to be had so I climbed out of my sleeping bag liner, packed away the clothes I was using as a pillow, put on my shoes, bit into a banana and wolfed down some water before stepping out of the shelter to be surprised by a soldier rigged out in full regalia - pressumably waiting for a lift but obviously not from me!

Thirty early morning miles saw me to Salernes where I sat for hours in the square simply snacking, dozing and reading my book letting life go by. I chatted for a bit with the boss of the local tourist office who was actually an artist but was having a period of creative doubt and drought. Drought was not the problem of the two drunks who started a fist fight, clumsily trying to clout each other but both failing miserably. With the entertainment at an end I decided to replenish my provisions then push off. Stepping out of the supermarket I spotted a couple of young English students sitting slumped against the fence. Although they had two brand new bikes and were bristling with brawn the exertion of three hundred miles in the previous three days had evidently taken its toll. As I cycled across the car park waving goodbye, they were both busy gobbling chocolate gateau to fuel the final hurdle of their nine day dash across France! I trundled on for another twenty two miles to Le Muy where I was fortunate to find free camping for the night. The owner, who had English friends staying kindly invited me to dine with them. Mind you, I had to sing for supper giving the English couples son a massage.

Twenty miles took me back to the coast and to St Raphael where I enquired at the local tourist office regarding internet access. I was in luck - they had a computer you could use 'gratis' for ten minutes. As I needed more time to tidy up my last tome I asked if it was okay to use it longer and I would vacate it each time a tourist ventured in. As you can imagine this took an eternity but is how I met Ian from Stoke who had not met his bike off the plane. Intending to cycle around the coast for ten days he had spent the first two in the tourist office trying to locate his mode of locomotion. We guzzled some grub (Cheers Ian) followed by a beer at the Loch Ness Bar. Then in the wee small hours I continued on to Cannes. It was only twenty miles but I spent the whole night cycling and sitting in secluded beaches enjoying the peace and tranquillity eventually seeing the sunrise as I cantered into Cannes. I did check out a few places to grab forty winks but there were already people either in, on or up them - I complemented them on finding such fine places to park.

That day I continued along the coast finally stopping near Nice to dine on a tin of lentils, brown bread, a brace of bananas and a pair of pears very happy to have found a quieter spot - sardines in a tin are positively open plan compared to all the bodies on the beach where there is no sand to 'sea'. Later as the sun was slipping away I showered on the beach managing to wash my cycling shorts whilst still wearing them. I then pushed my bike through Nice finding the wealth basking in the bay simply mindboggling and wondering why people feel they need so much. A few miles further on I found my accommodation for the night behind a twenty four hour roadside cafe van, waking up the next morning to find three men smiling down on me as they played cards. I was offered the use of a portaloo situated behind the van, which despite its name looked like it had not moved for some time, neither had the filth inside, so I discretely slipped down to the shore for an alfresco experience! Although I was close to Italy I still had the madness of Monaco and Monte Carlo to meander through where obscene wealth calls out from every crag. Monaco is built up more than the English national football team with the buildings so close together that privacy has gone right out of the window. I found it a little claustrophobic and ignoring for a moment the wee issue of money, I would certainly not choose to live there!

With the Italian border in sight I sat down in the middle of a grassy roundabout under a palm tree (the only shaded area) to eat my Roquefort cheese and bread and to bid farewell to France. Serious cyclists apart, whose faces were as hard as the road when they powered past all lycra and longing for a better speed, I found the French very friendly and helpful always greeting you with a beaming smile and a bonjour.

As my Italian itinerary is still in note form it shall follow soon but the heading refers to my poor navigational skills as I failed to negotiate one of the many pot holes in the Italian roads and bit the bitumen breaking my collar bone. However, healing with haste and I am now in Korinthos, eighty km's from Athens after taking a ferry from Brindisi (Italy) to Patras (Greece) and gingerly creeping around the coast.

My supply of thanks is rapidly running dry due to the immense help I am continually receiving, both emotionally and physically, so if anyone is aware of a source where I can bulk buy, then please give me a shout.

As always with much love...Eric x

Second email

2008-10-08T22:14:00.004+01:00

Hello all,

At last I have managed to finish my second communal email – with which I send my apologies for the delay. It felt that every time I sat down to write, my creativity stood up and left. Although I am keeping a diary, it is not so detailed and most of the inspiration and ideas I put in the email come to me whilst I am cycling. I am forever stopping to scribble down a phrase or a few words on scrap pieces of paper which I then try to work into a wee story.

The last email found me in Fecamp, where I was able to rest myself and repair my bike. For many miles the bike had developed a constant creaking sound which increased as you cranked up the speed. After tightening everything that could be tightened and other things that probably shouldn’t have been I decided to seek out a second opinion. I wandered into the local Intersport bike shop and pointed to my pedal whilst making lots of creaking noises. The guy looked at me with a wee smile on his face and said “what’s the problem mate?” Gary from London very kindly replaced my pedals, repaired the pannier rack then tossed me a few tubes and a cycling top saying it was his contribution to the trip.

Before leaving Fecamp I was fortunate enough to have an opportunity to be able to face my fear of heights by trying tree walking. Although I am glad that I did, this was not an enjoyable experience. My brother Steve and his friend Francois were very patient and respectful, choosing to hide their hilarity at my expletive strewn performance as my leaden legs refused to move at the same pace as my mouth.

Although the previous weekend had consisted of good company, cuisine and cognac, sleep had been at a premium and the first few days back on the bike I was a little leg weary and tired and had quite a few protein pit stops to refuel with porridge and prunes. I was simply flat. However, the road was anything but with the constant crisscrossing of toll roads eventually taking its toll. The view was beautiful which is just as well because the speed was sedentary. I passed a sign for St Vigour thinking, yes please, but it was no use so I stopped for a wee seat and siesta against a tree. My pedals then plodded onto Brecy where I found a nice quiet campsite, read my book, watched the sunset and had a wee dram from my half empty half bottle of whiskey!

The next day I slept so late that I decided to have brunch at Brecy. Without realizing it, I had ordered the standard lunch menu and a plate appeared with more meat on it than at an abattoir. After a wee tète-à-tète with the waitress it was replaced with a sumptuous salad, a big basket of bread and two men who had decided to take up the spare seats at my table. They also decided to take up the spare bread in my basket – well, obviously it must be for sharing? When the same thing happened with my wine, I thought, some things are not for sharing! I wasn’t sure what the etiquette was but when their large plate of cheese and bread arrived I helped myself to that – it seemed like a free for all and I had no idea how they worked out the bill but for once I didn’t care, this was great fun! Looking for the loo I found the toilet cowering in a wee cupboard at the top of some narrow stairs. As I entered I bashed my head with the result that I almost passed out whilst passing water. Searching for the sink to wash my hands I bumped into a bowl so small you had to wash each finger individually. Dizzy with wine and my wound I wobbled back down the stairs, paid the bill and pedaled off. I still have no idea how much it was!

Next it was on to Le Mont St Michel, an ancient abbey perched on top of a rock which also houses a monastic community which provides a permanent spiritual presence. However, the entrance which consists of houses, shops and restaurants (which offer a different kind of spirit) was jam packed with Japanese, crammed with Koreans and bursting at the seams with British schools kids. As beautiful as it was I made a sharp exit to a few km’s along the road where I spotted a crepery. I gobbled a goat’s cheese galette with rocket salad and washed it down with a bottle of Breton cider served in a clay pot.

St Malo was the next port of call where I moored for a rest day spending it walking along the wall which surrounded the town. Again though, it was brimming with Brits ferried across from Jersey who after having bought cheap booze on the boat plied themselves with expensive pints in the pub.

A few days later and almost two hundred miles further south I found a deserted fully functional municipal campsite in St Urbain, which lived up to its name by being so courteous that no one wanted to take my payment.

As I was leaving another campsite in Les Sables D’Olonne I borrowed the proprietor’s foot pump and promptly broke it. The pressure I needed in my tyres was just too much for his primitive pump. He said he left a high powered job to run a campsite because he couldn’t stand the pressure – his pump nodded knowingly.

The next day in St Vincent I cycled for what seemed like ages to find the beach. At 33° in the shade it was hot as hell and I just wanted to find a quiet spot and make my sandwiches. I eventually sheltered behind a shed which was the only piece of shade on the beach. I met a lovely group of Germans who invited me back to their place for a barbeque. I stayed the night and after boiling all day I thought it fitting that I ended up barracked in their boiler room!

Heading for Ile de Re I passed through a wee village which was a maze of narrow one way streets which went round and round – I could not find my way out! I eventually asked a group of kids for directions. A fifteen year old lad shouted, ”Follow” and shot off on his bike with his testosterone powered toes. I struggled to keep up as my panniers began to panic as they were bounced, bashed and bumped all over the place as we clattered through the cobbled chicane like lanes. We came to an incline and he whizzed up it like a whippet. I followed doggedly trying in vain to keep on his tail but it was hopeless. After he had become a speck in the distance he eventually stopped and looked around to find me peching and panting as I pulled my panniers up the hill. To prevent him from powering off again I presented him with a chunk of chocolate then chatted for ten minutes. I love these simple interactions. On this trip I am not so interested in seeing things but quite content just passing the time of day with people.

I cycled over the bridge to Ile de Re, a beautiful island which has been taken over by bikes, trikes and tandems with trailers and turned into a massive cycle path with more lanes than the M25. I checked out some campsites but did not check in as they were too expensive. I stumbled upon a municipal one which was half the price, twice as quiet and with three times as much space. It was basic but more than adequate. I tied my bike to a tree, pitched my tent and got directions from a German couple as to where I could find food. After a late shower at midnight the same couple invited me to their caravan for a can of beer. They had been coming to the same campsite for fourteen years. Before I realized it I blurted out “fourteen!” in a surprised tone. The German lady said, “Yes, isn’t it boring!” For once, I didn’t say a thing. Strangely enough though I wasn’t offered another beer!

With five days to fill in until I was due to meet my brother, Steve at Bordeaux airport my pedaling was pedestrian as I basked under the sun in the broad beaches south of Le Verdon. I cycled through over one hundred miles of fine forests which skirted the coast, occasionally stopping to saturate myself in the silence. I slowed down as I passed numerous naturist campsites, standing on my pedals as I did so, curiosity getting the better of me but the fencing was full proof! I was tempted to book in for a night just for the experience thinking it would also have been an ideal opportunity to catch up with my washing but eventually I decided to continue with the conventional camping. After seventy slow sweaty miles I arrived in Maubuisson. It was late and dark so when I spotted a man at the post box I enquired if there was a campsite. I followed Regis to the one he was staying on with his family. He asked me to join them for a coke after I had put up my tent but before I had the time to tie up my bike he had returned requesting that I stay in his caravan, whilst at the same time apologizing that the bed was very narrow. His wife Mandy scrambled up some egg and mushroom and we sat till after 2.30 am discussing religion and yoga. They were both devout Christians and as my knowledge of the Bible is basic there was a lot of listening on my part but I didn’t mind as the delivery was not dogmatic and it certainly supplemented the Sunday school classes I attended as a kid – from which I still have my leather bound Bible for perfect attendance!

Before reaching Bordeaux I had the privilege of staying in my most expensive campsite to date – twenty four euro’s (£20) and that was with a 10% discount after pleading poverty! This site at Claouey had more stars than the galaxy but unfortunately it didn’t include the female whose voice was booming from the nearby bar - to be fair to her though, she was competing with the din from the disco next door. The site was so large that I couldn’t even find my spot so I just pitched my tent on one with a good view, which wasn’t that easy as the place had everything – open air cinema, shops, pool, lake, tennis, bowls, bikes for rent, barbeque area and more security guards than the Bank of England. Considering the prices they charged they were probably wealthier – they even wanted two euro’s for a wee space in a large communal fridge!

The campsites I have stayed in have ranged from the grand to the gross and invariably the finer ones are to be found slightly away from the coast. In France many campsites require that before you shower you have to buy a ‘jeton’ - a token which allows you anything from three to seven minutes under the water. This is alright for a baldy like me but not for the lassies with long hair. The word ‘jeton’, is a bit of a misnomer implying that the shower will blow you off your feet, the reality being it barely reaches your feet and you have to run about to get wet. Additionally, you have to continually push a button for the water to flow – one shower it was every one and a half seconds! I find now that most of my yoga is done in the shower as I twist and contort my body to either connect with the water, push my backside against the button or bend down to pick up my dove soap, which amidst all the confusion has managed to get itself into a lather without yet actually producing any! A real treat is a shower with adjustable height and heat and which is constantly open and on! As the summer slips on the ground in most campsites is as hard as a hammer, which is really what I need to push my pegs in. The grass has become as sharp as a Mensa member and is usually littered with more ants than in an Italian family. One of my best campsites has been in Girona, in northern Spain. It had a great view of the Pyrenees, a pool, a perfect price and piped classical music whilst having a pee!

The 4th July is the American Day of Independence. However, it is also the day that I lost some of mine, as I met my brother at Bordeaux airport to spend nine days cycling across France from the Atlantic coast to the Mediterranean via the Canal Garonne and Canal Du Midi. I was very much looking forward to our trip but after spending almost two months cycling on my own it did take me a few days to recalibrate for company and to get used to the fact that someone else’s opinion and suggestions could be valid after all! Although I am very gregarious, my previous health problems have meant I have spent a lot of time by myself with the result that I am completely content with my own company - the downside being that I am probably not the easiest person to stay with, as some ex partners would gladly testify to!

Our holiday almost started with a bang. Just as Steve was reassembling his bike, the airport was evacuated due to a bomb scare. We had to hang about to retrieve a part of the bike which had been left behind when we were turfed out of the terminal. So it was a little later than planned that we ate at a wee bistro in the centre of Bordeaux. We then cycled late into the night to find the starting point of the cycle path which fortunately also provided us with a nearby field to flop out in!

The cycle paths along the canals consisted of a mixture of hard pressed gravel, concrete, tarmac and some terrible parts which were really only suitable for mountain bikes. Steve was fine with his suspension sprung speedster but I had to nurse my bike around some bold boulders, rough it with rampant roots and career over dry paths with cracks like canyons. I was not always successful with my navigation and occasionally I came to an abrupt halt but even with my front tyre as naked as a new born bairn the bike and wheels survived - thanks, Andy!

On Steve’s budget it was red from the restaurant, on mine it was pasta from my pans at canal side. The first four night’s accommodation came to a total of 17 euro’s (£14) which included a field, a campsite with no one pressing for payment and two 2 star campsites – I guess for two Scots on holiday this is as good as it gets. The French say that the Scottish keep the thistle in their pocket so that when it comes to paying for something the hand is barely able to reach the money!

By mid week we had reached mid way and completed the Canal Garonne. To celebrate Steve treated me to a long lazy lunch in Toulouse. We sat in a restaurant taking our time and taking in the tourists which for some strange reason included a large number of pregnant women! Mind you, after our fabulous feast we were looking much the same.

The next day we headed for Carcassonne coming off the canal to cycle up into the hills to Labastide Esperbairnenque where we had been offered a bed for the night. Hope, a student at St Andrews University had read about my trip on the net and had kindly offered her parents house as a staging post. Her directions were perfect apart from stating the distance as 13 km's when in fact it was 13 miles. After the flatness of the canals the steady slope seemed mountainous and although we had not even found Hope, as the miles mushroomed, we were slowly losing hope as we continued to climb! Hope and her parents, Rosie and Ken were great company and the evening meal consisted of three courses crowned with convivial conversation. The following morning brought a big breakfast which was followed by a lift to the local lake where we cooled off with a casual swim. Just after midday when we were all packed up and ready to go Rosie had been busy packing too - a lovely lunch for us to eat at canal side! We left nourished and nurtured as we free wheeled all the way back to Carcassonne in a third of the time it took us come up.

We had everything in our week. Almost a falling in (the water), a falling off (the bike) and a falling out! On the whole though, having company wasn’t half as bad as I thought it would be and after four hundred and fifty miles of brotherly bonding, we cycled into Sete to toast our triumph both well pleased with our performance.

In Sete we were met by Steve's sister in law, Jocelyn, who is in the process of moving house from Montpelier to Puylaurens about 250 km's west. I had intended cycling south to Barcelona but instead spent a wonderful weekend in Jocelyn's new home meeting her husband, Michel and her family. I spent the time chopping down trees and bushes including ones that should have stayed up - the fruits of my labour resulting in less fruit for them! Their new house is called 'Miramont', meaning 'mountain view' - which it certainly has and with its panoramic positioning on top of a hill, whether you are looking left, right or centre it has more views than a political debate! On the Monday I met up again with Steve and his wife Claire, who had rented a nearby cottage and we all attended the Bastille Day firework display in Carcassonne. I was then dropped off at one in the morning to continue my journey back down the coast. I cycled for six miles then crashed out in a campsite without even erecting my tent!

I have been through more tunnels than a train and done as much work on bridges as a Dentist. One tunnel just over the Spanish border had air conditioning, very considerate for the cyclists thought I but probably more likely for fanning the fumes. Further on, ladies of the night who had obviously moved to day shift sat on stools at the roadside. As I cycled past they crossed their legs in a Sharon stone like fashion in Basic Instinct, making sure that I saw the goods for sale. In fifteen years of practising yoga, I had never previously managed to turn my head 180 degrees - returning my face to the tarmac just in time to prevent me from veering into the verge! Due to my riding position my left wrist had been giving me a little pain and only wanted to stay in one position, which is normally an affliction predominant with pubescent youths but this was not the time to stop and have a look!

I then cycled the couple of hundred miles down to Santa Maria de Palautordera which is thirty five miles North West of Barcelona to attend a Vipassana Meditation Course – a twelve day retreat which gives you a great grounding in the Vipassana technique. Whilst not trying to explain the technique here, a wee flavour follows.

Initially, during the meditation there were people burping, belching, farting, fidgeting, snorting, sneezing and adjusting limbs but as the week progressed things settled down to a serenity and silence which was almost tangible. For the duration of the course there was a policy of ‘Noble Silence’, which not only included no talking but also involved no eye contact or gesticulations – this suited me fine, as after over six weeks in France with my lack of language skills, I was completely gesticulated out!

A few days into the course you were encouraged to sit for three separate hours each day and apply ‘Strong Determination’, where you were not meant to move even an eyelid. As the sixty minutes moved in a snail like fashion muscles began to moan, tendons started tweaking whilst ligaments longed for locomotion. With a little mantra (which was not allowed) you could ease the pain with a few well chosen phrases such as marvellous muscles, terrific tendons and lovely ligaments which helped to prevent the pulsating pain from puncturing your defence mechanism - your mind! Simply put, the whole idea of the course is to come out of the constant cycle of aversion and craving to bad and good sensations and to follow the middle road of non attachment – you are trying to train the mind to gain awareness of sensations and not to always act instantaneously to each one, whether internally or externally! You are trying to break the stimulus response action. I was given heaps of opportunities to practice!

The Spaniard sharing my bunk bed kept insects at bay by applying lashings of liquid administered whilst on the top bunk, making me feel as if I was in a bay as my bed rocked violently back and forth. The rocking only subsided once he and his pyjamas had clambered under his sheet, duvet and blanket. Meanwhile, although completely naked under a wafer thin sheet, I sweated like a Geordie in a math’s exam! In the morning the rocking resumed as he perfected his bed making skills to produce a surface as smooth as the baize of a snooker table, all the time trapping me in my bunk – just as well I was not allowed to speak!

After eating your food you had to give your dishes a wee rinse and lay them to the side as they were to be put in a dishwasher. Some students scrubbed the dishes as if they had been sitting for a week, with the result that I often felt I had been standing for a week awaiting my turn. My only motivation was to get back to bed in order to lie completely flat as quickly as possible. After sitting for twelve hours each day my need to have my plates gleaming had lost a bit of gloss.

It was a good course, well organized, bloody hard work but so worthwhile. The courses are run by volunteers and you give a donation at the end which then allows another person to attend a course. For those interested then please look at www.dipa.dhamma.org/ which gives information about the centre in the UK but also of courses worldwide.

Whilst loading up my bike about to leave the course I was still undecided whether to cycle down to Barcelona. A fellow student, Victor, said that he lived in the centre and I was more than welcome to stay with him - so it was decided!

I arrived at the outskirts of Barcelona at 5 pm. After eleven days of inactivity my calf muscles had become as short as my breath but it was the perfect time to pedal in. Being late on the Sunday afternoon the heat had halted a little and the traffic was tamer. I am not a great fan of cities but I felt excited as I plodded along the cycle path, soaking with sweat but sooking up the energy! Looking left, looking right absorbing everything like a sponge, my sightseeing almost came to a shattering end when I marginally missed piling into a plate glass window – it was a bus shelter planted right in the middle of the cycle path! It was almost my first expletive since exiting the meditation course. However, I settled for shaking my head happy that I still had it!

That evening Victor took me on a tour of the city on the back of his Vespa which included a trip to a wee tapas bar. Later on we sat on his balcony drinking a dram watching the late revelers roll by. His flat was on Gran Gracia, which I think loosely translates to, 'many thanks' – it was very appropriate!

During the meditation course the pain in my troublesome tooth had reached titanic proportions and there was only really one sensation I could focus on - I made a decision to get it seen to the minute I left. Victor was kind enough to arrange an appointment and took me there on the back of his bike. After leaving the Dentist I was given a prescription for strong painkillers which I tried to obtain from the nearest pharmacy. However, the young lad behind the counter said that he could only give me the first painkiller because he could not read the second drug. I did not think there was a second drug! I walked fifty yards to the next pharmacy and got my prescription within one minute. I explained to the chap behind the counter what had just happened and he asked if it was the one down the street, whilst shaking his head in disbelief. The supposed second drug was the verb, ‘tomar’, which means, ‘to take’, which I certainly did! They were strong enough to heal a horse and tended to my teeth with the added benefit of allowing me to hare up the hills whilst my legs remained pain free – I thought of asking for a repeat prescription! As I was so drugged up I would probably have got automatic entry into the Tour De France. I was fortunate enough to catch stage twelve of the race in Durban Corbier. The peloton powered past in seconds with the real race happening ninety minutes before as vehicles of all shapes, sizes and colours drove past tooting, hooting and throwing away all sorts of free goodies - even the bags to hold them in! Everyone walked away with happy smiles smothering their faces and bags bulging having completely cleaned up – someone tossed me a sachet of washing powder, perhaps suggesting that I do the same!

After spending a few days in Barcelona I headed north again back up to Girona. With over two and a half thousand miles cycled I had to replace my front tyre as it had more bulges than Santa’s sack. With a new tyre and my wheel trued my bike battered along the bitumen that ran directly parallel to the beach. The temperature was above 35° and I was taking on board more water than a holed ship but managed to cover the sixty miles to Girona relatively trouble free until a puncture ten minutes from the campsite. As it was the back wheel I had to unload the bike but I fixed it in no time at all. I then trundled along to the site happy in the knowledge that a pool awaited me. It was nice to see the owner again. I think the feeling was mutual as after I had paid and chatted for a bit she pressed a cool beer into my palm. Cheers!

The next day I left late as it was only thirty six miles to Lescala, where I met up with Ali and Judi, the couple I visited in Northumberland. They had emailed mentioning they would be in the area should I be passing. It fitted in perfectly, so I popped in by. Ali and Judi’s holiday home, which they were sharing with the immediate family, had numerous bedrooms, bathrooms and more balconies than a hotel and although there were plenty of people there the construction was cavernous and you could easily have found a wee nook to nestle in and remain undisturbed for days. It actually had a cupboard were the sole resident was a massive rock covered with a rug? I only stayed two nights but it was lovely to catch up and spend some simple time together.

I had decided not to go back up the coastal route as it had more ups and downs than the aforementioned Spanish roadside prostitutes knickers – well, those that wore them! So I spent two days and over one hundred and fifty miles cycling through the Pyrenees to Perpignan, Fitou and then back to the coast at Sete where I again showered on the beach and had a wee dram in the same bar where Steve and I had celebrated a month ago – it all felt very surreal!

The next morning I motored my way to Montpellier and spent a few hours chatting to a nice Polish girl I met in the post office. She was working for a few months as an au pair and had a couple of hours off. It was nice listening to her experiences and for a change not talking too much about my own! I then called Jocelyn, my brother's sister in law whom I had stayed with a month ago. Although only intending to stay a couple of nights I ended up staying two weeks and helped then to ferry furniture to their new house, whilst in return they drove me back and forth to my numerous dental appointments. Although I had received root treatment it had not got to the root of the problem and it took a wee while for the tooth to settle down. With two adults, four kids, three cats, two dogs, two rats, two houses and numerous goldfish names became problematic. It didn't help that I continually called one dog Muriel, when she was actually called Moira - mind you she was such a guzzler that as long as you had food in your hand she would answer to anything. The whole family switched effortlessly between english and french often interchanging between sentences. However, Moira, not content with being bilingual, knew the word for food in multiple languages! Things were compounded further because in our numerous trips back and forth between the houses Michel, Jocelyn's husband, tried fill in the void that I have in my education and teach me the names of all the birds, trees and plants. Although genuinely interested I was just too preoccupied with pain and this additional information seemed like system overload! Pain apart though, it was a lovely two weeks with the whole family being very generous and open and it wasn't just the furniture that was being uplifted with various jokes and banter lightening the load. The only mishap being Michel semi dropping Jocelyn's piano on the floor. Strangely enough, in the wee hours of the following morning after a long day of lifting, Jocelyn semi drove Michel's car into a ditch! On the Sunday before I left Michel, his son Duncan and myself, spent a whole day walking in the Pyrenees on GR 10 - it was a lovely way to finish my time in their company and left me recharged and ready for the road ahead. Although keen to get back on my bike, I was genuinely sad at leaving such fine folk!

The bike draws a lot of attention and often people just approach and start talking like an old friend - which is fine by me as this is what my trip is about. Mind you, one day a man walked up, picked up the bike, nodded approvingly then walked off without saying a word! Other people are always asking how much it weighs - I haven't a clue. I am half expecting someone to try and lift up me, so as they can have the combined weight! I have even had to open my panniers to show how they work. One man asked how many teeth I had. I thought it was a strange question especially with the bother I have had. He wanted to know the number of teeth on my front cog - again,when I said I hadn't a clue he bent down and counted them! On the whole it is all good fun and I enjoy it but some days depending on how far I have cycled then it can be a little tiring. At one pit stop someone asked where I had cycled from. When I said Scotland, he replied as quick as a flash, “that is great, where are you heading to, Australia?” - it was very funny! Someone else said that I was living everyone’s dream – I promised to email them the next time I came to a steep hill!

I must finish with a massive thank you to everyone who has contributed money to the Justgiving web page. A special thank you has to be extended to the twenty odd folk (not so odd) who camped and trekked through the Highlands to raise over £2000 for the M.E. Association.

So many people help in many different ways which makes it impossible for me to include everyone but I would like to thank anyone who has helped me in their own small way.

As always, with many thanks and much love

Eric x

2008-10-08T22:14:00.001+01:00

First email

2008-10-08T22:06:00.005+01:00

Dear All,

At last my much promised communal email.

'Four, five, eight...I feel great!' - my mantra for many months prior to pedalling off. It was my departure date. My way of keeping focused and that regardless of what happened up to then I was determined I would simply cycle off south. After a few months of this my so called friends renamed my mantra...'Four, five, eight, it is beginning to grate' - perhaps they had a point!

On 4/5/8 a mixture of family, friends and colleagues gathered to give me a sentimental send off and wave me on my way to my first pit stop, Carnoustie. Stonehaven, Jonstone and Arbroath were the various places where two friends and my brother had cycled to and helped to keep the head wind at bay. However, after a 69 mile canter to Carnoustie by the time my 14 year old nephew, Stuart and I had arrived we were both a little lame. Some family and friends had arranged to camp with me on my first night away so a veritable feast awaited us. There was much love, laughter, merriment and merlot. My friend Neela, who absolutely detests camping, had made a special effort but the thought of being trapped in a tent was too much and she spent the night anaesthetising herself with alcohol to make the occasion more palatable. The rest of us had no such excuse!

After a slow cycle to St andrews I met an American who thought that 80% of the British army consisted of Scots. I suggested that it was highly unlikely as there were only 5 million Scots compared to over 55 million English, Welsh and Irish. He hadn't thought of the figures but neither had the local campsite! I half considered camping in St Andrews until I noticed the price... £15 (75% of my daily budget) - I know it is the home of golf but I thought this price was a little below par! It worked out fine though, as a few miles out of town I knocked on a door requesting to sleep behind a nearby derelict house. However, the neighbours, Ollie and Gordon kindly offered me their garden. This type of warmth and generosity has been repeated on numerous occasions since.

It was then a brisk pedal to Burntisland just north of Edinburgh were I had a bed for the night at my friend Leila's parents house. Johnstone, who was no slouch at 77 suggested that we go for a wee walk. He took me on what can only be described as an assault course - as we clambered over rocks, sand, stairs, steps and slippery slopes whilst he gave me a 'running' commentary on the history of the area. I was knackered afterwards and needed all the nutrition that Jeanette was willing to load upon me. Johnstone introduced me to his 95 year old neighbour who entertained us both with stories about the war. At one stage soldiers were allowed 1 litre of water each day to cover all needs - drinking, washing, cleaning clothes and cooking. I am carrying 4 litres of water just for drinking and cooking!

Approaching the Forth Road Bridge I found myself on the east side which happened to be closed for cyclists due to repair work so I had to go back a couple of miles and up the correct side. Inscribed on the handle bars of the bike are the words 'Devotion to Motion', I can handle this on my bike but not on a bridge. As I cycled over the structure it swayed back and forth (aptly named). At the apex I deliberately stopped and had some grub to face my fear of heights. Needless to say the nutrition did not nullify the effect. I concluded that the bridge had more movement than Aberdeen's midfield.

I cycled through Edinburgh down to Dalkeith pitching my tent in a deserted campsite behind a petrol station. I awoke to birds bantering, rabbits roaming and copious condensation in the tent - I still had to work out the ventilation via the zillions of zips. The only thing that was dry was outside the tent - my brooks saddle, which had been cosy under its all weather cover.

I started cycling to Wooler about 55 miles away but as visabilty was virtually nil it was definately high viz vest on. On the road to Wooler I took a wee detour to look at Soutre Aisle, which was once the location of a medieval hospital from 12th -17th century dedicated to treating poor travellers and pilgrims, the aged, sick and infirm. By the time I had struggled up the sheer slope (1200ft) I was feeling a little infirm myself. I recuperated by scoffing oranges, nuts and raisins and 2 chocolate bars! The panoramic view allows you to see at least 60 Grampian and Highland peaks. As it was misty, my view was minimal but as I had already peaked coming up the hill I was in no mood for more!

As I approached Wooler it was obvious why it was called so, as I was surrounded by sheep in all directions. I booked into the only campsite and the only place that appeared to be a sheep free zone - what it wasn't free of was ducks that followed you about like sheep! They quaked throughout the whole night, tried to steal my food and one even slobbered over my shoes! I still had to get the hang of the tent as it looked like something put up by a jerry builder but it was not going to happen tonight as I continually tripped over the guy ropes whilst trying to avoid all my feathered friends!

Next it was 20 miles along the road to Alnham Norththumberland to say hello to Ali, a yoga teacher I had recently met in Aberdeen. He had warned me that he lived in a converted barn on the top of a hill. He lives 1 mile from the closest neighbour and 1 mile from any road. I had to push my bike up a long path and then across 2 fields with yet more sheep and curious cows who increasingly encroached and encircled me the further up the field I went. I eventually had to stop for a moment and ask them to mooove back - they ignored me! Ali and Judy were lovely people and in such a location it was easy to recharge myself and my equipment. My legs ached but I was content with the calming company!

I cycled through Northumberland National Park following the National Cycle Route but it had you ploughing through ploughed fields, my shoes got covered in shit and at some points I was almost going in reverse so I began to be a little more selective with which parts of the route I would go on. What I couldn't be selective with were the hills. Ali and Judy had giggled a little when they said I faced a few hills on the next section. Bloody hell! - even the hills had hills! Just when you reached the summit of one, the gradient grew, the lactic acid in my legs went berserk and my mind swept through my belongings wondering what, if anything, I could dump. That night I camped in a field right next to a road which had street lamps. I didn't have to use my own lamp which is just as well because I had to get up for the loo 3 times. This is always a bit of a palaver getting dressed, putting on shoes, unzipping and zipping everything back up. I lay awake for ages and just when I was beginning to drop off I heard an animal rummaging and scuffling about beside my tent. I didn't know what it was and I was was not about to find out - always aware that I am sleeping in their house so I turned over and went to sleep. In the morning my high visability vest had vanished. So no doubt there is some poor bloody fox running around with my vest on -God help it the next time the hounds come out to hunt!

The next day with no high viz vest and more mist than in a turkish bath I felt a little vulnerable charging along the A68. I had to make do with a sheet of bright yellow card attached to my panniers given by a lady in a roadside cafe. I stopped in Tow Law for lunch where I was offered a bed for the night and a lot more. Tanya, the girl behind the counter said that the first night would have to be platonic but anything would go on the second night - I decided to go! She didn't charge me for lunch but let me charge my phone! I gave her a big hug and kiss and as I left she picked up 2 large paper hankies and started mock crying and shouting that I should not go. The same cafe had Mick the plasterer, who was plastered, and hobbled in with a bright illuminious green one around his left leg. It had only happened 2 days ago but already he was driving and back at work using stilts to plaster ceilings - if I am honest I have to admit to being a little envious of his high visability!

The A66 peripheral route around Middlesborough is a dual carriageway with aspirations to be a motorway. It is a mad road and as I was resting (recovering) in a lay-by having some coffee and banana sandwiches a fellow cyclist stopped to check that I was okay. He was concerned that I did not have a high viz on and gave me his - which was lovely but what then was he going to use? He wasn't wrong though. I battered down the road for almost 20 miles trying to keep to the alloted (periodic) cycle path and with my high viz vest and day glow strip I wasn't watching my back - I was too busy trying to miss all the debris on the side of the road. Glass, stones, car parts and various other odds and ends littered the 'cycle path' whilst cars and lorries thundered past a few inches from my elbow. Although I still had to cross slip roads I was more concerned about my tyres as I charged along at up to 20 miles an hour. Bang! my first and only puncture so far. I took 30 minutes to fix it and with day-light dipping decided to come off the main drag, as it was exactly that! After 5 miles through housing estates I came upon another main road but by then it was pitch black and I still had to find a bed for the night. I stopped at a house with a large garden and more lights than a flood-lit football pitch and asked the owner, Peter, if I could camp in his garden, he very kindly agreed. After over 6 hours on the bike covering more than 70 miles and with a secure place to sleep, it didn't take long for that to happen!

The next couple of days I cycled across the Yorkshire Moors and down the coast taking in Whitby, Scarborough, Filey and Bridlington. It was warm and sunny and with the sea air nourishing my nostrils I had frequent breaks just simply sitting and watching the waves. As the road to Hull was flat I hurried along to the Humber Bridge and sat for an hour watching the sunset whilst munching on banana and biscuit sandwiches. After the Humber, I then cycled for a further hour on a deserted dual carriageway. It was sunny and mild and the cycling was like a meditation. I left the road at a wee place called Elsham and pedalled along the paths and lanes in a calm and contented mood heading for the chiming church bells. It was 9 pm and as yet I still had to find a field to sleep in. I asked some folk leaving the church if they knew of a nearby campsite - someone suggested I sleep in the church graveyard but I thought it already looked quite full! I eventually found a quiet field and hid in behind a hedgerow. The grass was very long so when I first climbed in the tent it was like sleeping on a waterbed as I flopped about trying to flatten the grass under my ground-sheet but eventually making it into a comfortable cushion. After cycling over 70 sweaty miles and sleeping without a shower I woke up and realised that with the heat and humidity my body had become one homogeneous block. My chin was stuck to my chest, my arms felt like they were tacked to my torso and my legs longed for some lateral movement after feeling glued together in the 30 cm's of space allowed in the mummified sleeping bag. As I moved I heard a synchronised 'schsloooping' sound as my limbs snapped free looking for fresh air! I jumped out of the tent gazed across the green fields then practised 15 minutes of yoga. After, I cycled the 5 minutes to the nearest petrol station to wash my hands and face. I bought a cup and coffee and drank it whilst I decided my route.

Without realising it, in the next 3 days I covered 190 miles. I travelled from south of the Humber via Peterborough down to St Ives. It poured all the way to Peterborough but it gave me a chance to try out my waterproof leggings which came with attached covering for the feet. I was like a wee boy pedalling along delighted that my feet were remaining dry! I pushed through Peterborough only stopping to ask a taxi driver the way. I listened to the drivers diligent directions which must have lasted for at least 5 minutes. I kept nodding knowingly but really I hadn't a clue. I cycled on until I spotted a chip shop. I ordered a veggie burger and a bag of chips but I think they must have taken pity on my sodden state as the burger arrived with a bag full of chips which would have fed a battalion. I saturated them in salt then drowned them with vinegar and sat outside in the dull, driech conditions savouring my supper. The carbohydrate kicked in and I shot off like a bullet along all the b roads picking my way along the counrty route to St Ives. I arrived late, picked my place between the tents, caravans and motorhomes, pitched my tent, had a luke warm shower then toasted my lot with a bottle of cider I had been given 3 days before in Whitby. Thank God tomorrow was a rest day! It was the FA Cup Final day and I was invited by a lovely couple, Paul and Mary into their trailer to enjoy the game, some grub (biggest Yorkshire puddings ever) and their gregarious company.

The next 5 days I stayed with my friend Marion's relatives in Chelmsford and Leigh on Sea. I was made to feel most welcome and it was nice to at last meet the people whom Marion is always talking about. Her sister Fiona, hubby Tim and kids, Ellie and Josh were great fun. I enjoyed walking the kids to school, listening to them playing the piano and counting all of Josh's medals from his various sporting interests - at the same wondering how he managed to stand up straight with the weight of them around his neck! Ellie had been good enough to give up her bed for me and I lay awake looking at all the posters and paraphernalia on the walls. They even surprised with a birthday cake and candles - someone had let them in on the secret - I wonder who? I then cycled the 24 miles to Leigh on Sea to stay with Marion's other sister Kathy and to wait for Marion to fly down and say hello. Again, the welcome and warmth was tangible as we spent a lovely few days relaxing, chatting, eating and drinking! I cooked breakfast one morning and they had the decency not to complain when it took over 90 minutes to appear on the plate - I was not used to cooking in a conventional kitchen!

I headed off late on the Sunday afternoon in the direction of the Dartford Bridge where cyclists were driven across on the back of a 4x4. After 45 miles I pushed the boat out and booked into a youth hostel just east of Gillingham. It was a budget buster at £20 for the night but this did include an 'all you can eat breakfast'. I was awake early next morning, showered, then did some breathing exercises but it was no use - I could not get my mind off the muesli that was downstairs in the breakfast bar. It was a fabulous feast and I sampled everything choosing to miss out only the cold meat! A downpour on the road to Dover combined with the head wind made the 45 miles seem a lot more. The roads flooded and I struggled to see anything with my glasses on or off. I stopped off at Canterbury to have a look at the cathederal but I was not in the mood to go in but enjoyed the wee walk around the town. I was sharing the ride with Thieu, a 59 year old Dutchman I had met at the hostel. I could not believe the equipment he was carrying - although he was not on a mountain bike, his bike was like a mountain but he assured me that he needed absolutely everything - I didn't doubt him but I didn't envy him either as each hill we came to, he virtually came to a standstill. He was a nice man though and had already cycled hundreds of miles with a debilitating condition - I admired his spirit! We said goodbye outside the McDonalds, just outside Dover after having stopped for a coffee. I had a bed for the night at my brother-in-laws cousins house and I asked one of the assistants if she knew the address. She certainly did - Frank had fitted her shower! I pedalled down to the street then looked up - another sheer slope! I started to cycle up but even the caffeine I had just consumed was not enough to carry me up it. I looked at my milometer...800 miles I had travelled from Aberdeen - it was enough! I pushed the bike up to number 76, settled in, settled down and enjoyed a lovely night with Ann, Frank, Justin and Chantell - not forgetting Molly the dog who had more toys than a nursery and was very happy to show me them all! Ann cooked a delicious meal which included a jug of gravy you could have bathed in!

After a calm crossing to Calais I was met by rain and completely clueless as to which direction to take. I sat in a cafe next to the tourist office for a couple of hours wondering which way to go. I eventually cycled around a bit and stumbled upon a youth hostel which had a snake like queue of kids waiting to be processed - not for me I thought! It was dull, rainy and cold and I headed south through the town stopping to buy some bread and tomatoes to go with my cheese and soup I already had. I decided to cycle for an hour down the coast but within a few miles I came upon a campsite - 7.5 euros (£6) perfect. I pitched the tent, showered then cooked food. Had a chat with Bob and Jen who had spent 6 weeks travelling in France but still had enough cereal left to provide me with breakfast! Then the storm began. Until then, I had been a wee bit preoccupied with my sore tooth, a filling I had repaired just before leaving and although I had settled up, the tooth had not settled down. The thunder and lightening however, placed my tooth in perspective. The tent prepared to take off as wind whipped beneath the outer layer, lightening illuminated my hoose like flashing xmas lights, then I realised that I was camped beneath the pseudo shelter of the trees. The relentless rain roared against my tent creating deafening decibels which suggested that at 12.50 am sleep was going to be superficial. There was nothing else for it but just to lie back, listen, look and dare I say it, pray as me and my wee tent were completely and utterly pounded and pulverised as the heavens heaved and the ground gyrated. To cap it all, with the constant sound of water my own waterworks had welled up but there was no way I was leaving the tent. After 90 minutes of mayhem the storm abated and I hung my head out and decided it was now safe enough to bleed my bladder, inspect my hoose and have a look at my poor bike which fortunately had had a teflon treatment (weather proofing) only a few hours before. Yet again the only thing dry was the smiling brookes saddle! Settling down again and although a little weary from fending off the fierceness of the storm it just seemed too silent for sleep and anyway my senses were still jumping as if I had drank a drum of coffee. I lay down and let the experience seep in - a little like the water - after my inner and outer tent had been compressed together in a match made from heaven. Having said that, I complimented myself on such a fine purchase - I guess that is tentamount to praise!

The problem with travelling alone is that you are always having to keep an eye on your belongings which after a while can become quite tiresome. Often the easiest solution is to take them wherever you go. The first Aldi I entered in France was great - the young woman behind the till understood my situation and allowed me to park my bike behind the tills. The second Aldi was not so 'open'. I entered the shop pushing my bike under the barriers where the trolleys travel and rested it against a pallet of peeled plum tomatoes. I was just about to approach a member of staff to ask if it was okay when one approached me! He was reacting as if I had brought a bomb into the store, not a bike. There was much gesticulating and frothing at the mouth - him, not me! I was frog marched back to the one way entrance where amidst all the commotion a master key was conjured up and the whole door was opened allowing me to reverse my bike out! Whilst sitting outside regaining my composure I was approached by 2 elderly ladies who were pushing a brand new bike - which they had just purchased from Aldi! With more of the same gesticulation but much less froth they explained that they wanted me to adjust the seat and handlebars. I rummaged through my panniers looking for my multi-tool not bothering to explain that I was no bike mechanic. However, I did manage a wee tweak here and there which seemed to please them no end. The lady wearing the tracksuit and trainers gingerly edged herself onto the bike, then zigzagged her way out of the car park whilst the other one thanked me profusely waving frantically as she drove off. I sat in the sun, ate an apple - which I had obviously bought earlier and smiled.

Campsites. Perhaps images of peace, tranquillity and relaxation come to the fore. Not always so! Electric hedge clippers, strimmers and mowers battle it out with barking dogs, couples arguing, couples making up, cars revving up, kids screaming, tv's roaring, tv aerials whining and campervans coming and going - which they do a lot as they are so bloody big they can hardly get into the allotted spaces which were designed for wee caravans or tents. Even the tents have become like tarduses (sp) with every possible possession crammed into them to make their experience of camping just like they never left home. In Veulettes just south of Dieppe after 50 miles of monsoon like mayhem I squelched upon a campsite which oozed pride and perfection. The toilets were pristine, the grass manicured to exact detail to the extent that when I popped my head out of the tent the following morning I almost lost my eyebrows as I was surprised by an early morning mower! Earlier in the week I camped on another deserted site right on the beach near to Merlimont. Although it was at the beach the ground was as hard as cement. It took 5 attempts trying to pitch my tent and push in the pegs - I still have the bruises on my hands! I ate scrambled eggs, cheese, bread, olives, cake, coffee and banana. I cleaned my pots with a little water and a lot of gravel and grass. Then I took a wee wander down to the shore and sat on the sand. Later, I lay awake for ages due to too many cups of coffee. I had just slipped into a slumber when I was awoken by a loud bleeping noise. I hadn't a clue what it was and felt a little disorientated. It turned out to be my mobile phone informing me that my sim card was out of memory! Once my heart had returned to its normal rate, I heaved a sigh of relief and went back to sleep. The following morning a maintenance man arrived who was obviously still keeping an eye on the place, his other eye was firmly focused on me, my tent and the fact that I was busy cooking my breakfast on one of the picnic benches. He strode across stern faced and started to explain that I should not have been there - he had a fair point! I whipped out the laminated copy of the newspaper article which had appeared in the local press before I left. It has a marvellous map of my route and a picture of me on my bike. He softened, smiled, then patted me on the back whilst suggesting that I should finish my breakfast - I did!

The first 2 weeks or so I was like a speedster dashing doon the dales. Whereas the last few weeks I have just dallied doon to Dieppe and beyond exploring the nooks and crannies of the Normandie coast. I now have heaps of time to fill in before I meet my brother, Steve, to cycle across France from Bordeaux to the Mediterranean coast. I then travel down to Barcelona to attend a 12 day meditation retreat. I guess after that then the real challenges will begin. This first period has given me a wee idea of what the nature of the trip will be like. Now I am in Fecamp about 150 miles down the French coast waiting for Steve, to pop across for the weekend. His friends, Francois and Rosy have very generously allowed me to stay in their house and cocoon myself in their computer room. However, my eyes are now square and I am beginning to babble so it is almost time to sign out.

Over a month has passed with almost 1100 miles pedalled. Already many memories are meshing my mind. Most days I struggle to remember what happened in the previous one without dipping into my diary. Yet this still seems so surreal. I am unsure what tomorrow will bring although it will probably involve more cheese and bread. However, I do feel very fortunate to be doing this so I would like to say thank you to everyone who has helped me to get away and to all who have helped me on my way. With this communal email I send many thanks and much love. Eric x

P.S. Sorry no snaps for the moment but I shall include them with the next email.