Preparation Before Departure Stage 1 : Vancouver to Aberdeen
Stage 2 : Newport to San Francisco
Stage 3 : San Francisco to Mojave
Stage 8 : Miami to Catalonia, Spain via a flight to Lisbon, Portugal
Stage 9 : Catalonia, Spain to Corsica, France
Stage 10 : Corsica, France to Sicily, Italy
Stage 11 : Sicily, Italy to Greece
Stage 13 : Turkey to India via a flight to avoid Iraq
Stage 15 : Thailand to Indonesia
Stage 16 : Indonesia to Australia
Stage 17 : Australia to New Zealand
Stage Diary Entry Before Departure One Week and Counting. Well, months of plotting and planning are finally coming together. The endless scribbling on maps, visa applications, equipment lists and appeals to sponsors has abated and I am nearly on my way. As I have been travelling both at home and abroad, things have all been done by email or phone, so its all felt slightly unreal. My plans have been reduced to flickering words on a computer screen, pictures on maps and quick conversations, so nothing has seemed solid or tangible. It is only now that my journey is beginning to feel like a reality as I sit in a friend's garage amidst opened boxes, camping equipment and piles of shiny new bicycle parts.
My attempts at lightening my load are not going well as I endlessly agonize over what to take and what to leave behind. Trying to plan for a nine month journey through differing countries, terrains, weather, cultures and situations has been a challenge, filled with both fun and frustration. I've tried numerous methods to limit my load: I've laid out all my gear on top of my panniers and had to put two thirds of it back. I've resorted to flipping a coin to decide what to leave. Most importantly, I've had to ditch the manuals for all my electronic toys and gadgets, so amidst my panicky packing, I've also had to memorise how to operate my digital camera, global positioning system, dictaphone, blackberry and cell phone. No doubt I will be busy on route taking photos with my dictaphone and trying to contact home with my gps.
Despite all this activity, I have been desperate to get going. To get on my bike and begin my journey but problems in getting a new passport have delayed me booking a ticket and organizing visas. Today though, I have bitten the bullet and organized a ticket for next Sunday, May 9th. The result of this has been a blind panic, trying to ensure that everything gets done in time. The clock has begun to tick and soon I will be on my way.
Before this point, time seems to have dragged as the inconsistencies of my plan have very slowly fitted into place. The delay has cost me time, hours of worry and frustration, yet on the up side, the weather will be warmer when I start cycling and there will be less chance of rain.
So, am I nervous? That is the question that everyone has been asking me but, in short, the answer is no, not really. I've been too busy planning, arranging and having jabs even to think about nerves. I am so infrequently in the UK that any spare time that I have had has been spent with friends and family, doing the things I can't do when I'm abroad. So, in between dusting Corsican dust out of my tent and wiping Cambodian mud off my bike, I have been busy eating fish and chips, drinking real ale and going to the cinema to watch films in English.
Experience tells me, from previous trips that I have undertaken, that one day soon it will dawn on me just how close the things are to happening. No doubt the excitement will start then and nerves may begin to show. As it is that moment that I long for, I don't think nerves will be much of a factor. I will be too caught up in the moment and excited about what is to come.
Here's to an exciting journey around the world.
Let the games begin!
Stage 1 Vancouver to Aberdeen Well, the first week is over and it seems as though I've been on the road for ages. Being totally unfazed by impending sagas, I have faced this last week with a zen like calmness. No major dramas have presented themselves during the course of this week. Instead I have been met by a country that is full of beautiful wildlife and pretty seaside towns that are getting ready for the summer season. On top of that, I've also been greeted by torrents of Canadian fog and rain!
I often set off on a journey without a map and acquire them along the way. I've navigated my way through most major countries with the help of a compass and a tiny free map that I have secretly liberated from car hire desks at airports. This trip is a little different though. My route has to be precise and well documented, so for the last few days I have been peddling away, on a well defined course, along Canada's highways. Riding on the interstate is … ahhh! Traffic whizzing by not caring for your safety. The noise of the engines gets in your ears and stays in your head, even when you have left the road, and there is no time to enjoy the scenery.
My first stop in a motel was 80 miles south of Vancouver, and I was glad to get out of the pounding rain and take solace in a dry room with a warm bath. Oh, a warm bath. The best thing about stopovers. I immediately found myself uncontrollably running a bath and jumping into it. The hot water on my tired muscles was simply divine. Two baths later I emerged, a little shrunken, a little wrinkly, but happy, content, and much less achy. Still, my ass is stinging as it takes quite a while to acquire a comfortable saddle bum. It takes quite a while to settle your body into the continuous rhythm of peddling, especially when recovering from jet lag. Oh the joys of cycling!
Once I had left the interstate, my journey really began. I love cycling on the back roads as it enables me to really get a feeling for the country. Whilst cycling the coastal road, you are surrounded by the fresh smell of sea salt. Yet when you turn inland, the scenery changes. I've encountered black tailed deer, moose, buffalo and, best of all, a bald headed eagle. The eagle was hunting along a sea inlet and, as it flew silently along the water's edge, was causing quite a commotion. The few cars that were on the road suddenly came to a halt as gulls and waders panicked and flew up and over the road. Once the eagle had showed off its supreme skills of hovering, swooping and fishing, it banked to devour its catch. Almost immediately, the local nesting birds set about the eagle, harassing it, urging it, with respect, to move away from their nesting site. This interaction between birds seemed so dangerous, yet so respectful. A rare sight, and I felt privileged to see it.
I took my day off from cycling in a town called Aberdeen, which was founded only 150 years ago. My body ached and was not going to pedal any further. I spent my day walking amongst sleezy motels, empty shops and derelict housing, a journey that was accompanied, in my mind, by the tune from Deliverance! The town museum offered a modern view of small town communities, despite the numerous timbre mills that harked back to the days of the first settlers. The modernity of the town was again evident as I encountered the gun isle in the local supermarket. Hand guns, shot guns and air rifles positioned against the fruit and veg. Very surreal and a real testament to this country's relaxed gun laws. Thankfully the ammunition was under lock and key, but it opened my eyes to my surroundings. From now on, I shall ride with apprehension. Onwards, down Route 5, toward the US border.
Stage 2 Newport to San Francisco This week has seen a new route introduced into my trip. My journey has taken me from Newport to Reedsport, Bandon Brookings, Crescent City, Arcata, Garberville, Fort Bragg, Point Arena, Bodega Bay and finally on to the big city: San Francisco.
Hot tailing it between these towns has led me along the Oregon and California coasts, so I've been cycling amidst a mix of high cliffs, rocky valleys and long sandy beaches.
This varied terrain has brought lots of new sights and sounds with it. The sheer beauty of the huge Pacific rollers has overawed me as they break upon the shoreline, and expend their energy in that final moment of contact. I know this sight is special to me as a surfer, but who could fail to be awed by the sight of white tipped, peeling waves? I spent a glorious half hour watching a dog play with seals on a river mouth beach. The dog, accompanied by its encouraging owner, began to chase the seals that lay off shore. With six or seven heads poking cheekily out of the water, the baited dog began chasing his prey in a splash of surf. Its first seal target avoided capture by slinking silently beneath the surface. Puzzled, the dog sighted another seal and lolloped toward it at full pace, only to be eluded again. Within seconds, the seals would pop back up, reappear just feet away from their apparent tormentor; but it became increasingly clear as the game continued that the seals were actually playing with the dog! This scene mesmerised me, the switch in fortunes gripping me to the spot.
Seal and Sea Lion colonies are as much a part of this landscape as the sea, sand and rocks. Whether visible as I travel along, or simply audible as I ride along the high cliff roads, their breeding grounds are continually apparent as deep barking calls become the soundtrack to my journey. Amidst this cacophony, I have been continually scanning the seascape for signs of whales. Whale watching is world famous along this coastline, as migrating grey whales and sea Orcas patrol these waters. With one eye on the road and the other on the sea, I have often skidded to a halt to inspect the sea, fooled into thinking a whale was near by the vagaries of the waves. Rocky outcrops also masquerade as whales, in my eyes, as their dark formations breech the water's surface. So far, sightings have been nil, but my attempts have lost me hours as riding time, as each potential detection needs thorough investigation.
Sea fog is infamous in this area, so the guidebook says, as the cold water currents offshore collide with the warm land mass. Up until this week I had not experienced this phenomena, but as I started my day, midweek, a white layer of mist seemingly cut off my route on the wooded highway. As I cycled into it, I got goose bumps from the chill in the air, and my world narrowed to a visibility of about ten feet. Sounds also changed as the tick misty air dampened any noise. In these eerie surroundings, all I could hear was the repetitive whir of my pedal strokes, the rhythmical exhaling of my breathing and a strange swishing noise. I assumed this later sound to be the fog swishing past my body as I thrust forward into the mist, but I cannot be sure. This surreal effect added an extra dimension to my trip as I entered what felt like a Hollywood movie set. I was approaching California after all!
Riding into redwood forests has been amazing. The sheer size and mass of these wooded heavyweights reducing me to a mere blip on the landscape. These trees are up to 370 feet high, are 22 feet wide at their base, weigh in at 1200 tons and some are 2000 years old. These statistics are awesome considering all grow from a seed the size of a tomato pip! I wanted to experience the majesty of these giants on my own, so I got up at dawn and began to pedal along the tree-lined avenue. Alone amongst these colossal trees, I felt truly lucky and inspired as the dawn light filtered through the high branches and the dawn chorus broke into song. Each birdsong is accentuated in this cavernous place as the trees' towering canopy holds out the wind and ensures a cathedral like hush in the wooded world beneath. The heavy scent of dew-covered pine was intoxicating and heady, and as I rode through the forest I felt like an ant amongst the grass.
My ride further into California has been marked by a change in scenery. The magnificent and imposing redwood forests, which you enter when first encountering the state, give way to dry fields and scrub land. As the lush greenery retreats, the landscape vastly changes, and the air begins to feel warmer, more arid and more fragrant. For me, this variation in fauna and flora acts as a signpost, signalling to me that I have progressed on my journey and entered another climate zone. This, for me, is much more satisfying that plotting my advance upon a map. It is the earth indicating that I am making progress. In this open surrounding, the sounds become more immediate. Cicadas merrily chirp upon the breeze and insects hum in the air. Soon though, the drone of city traffic and the bustle of metropolitan living will replace this rural melody. The landscape will also be filled with concrete blocks. Tomorrow I pedal into the big city, San Francisco, and I sense a culture shock coming up.
Stage 3 San Francisco to Mojave The last leg of my southern California route has led me through regions devastated by forest fires. The ravages of the first big forest fire of the season, and its aftermath, are clear for all to see. A black charred landscape stretches out before the eye, encompassing the whole valley and continuing mile after mile, beyond the horizon. From the roadside on the valley floor to the hilltop hundreds of feet above, nothing has escaped the fire's ferocious licks. The vivid shades of nature no longer adorn this ground. There isn't a single hint of greenery. Instead, the black, brown and grey of the soil and burnt remains signal that life is temporarily suspended.
Riding through this wasteland is a bizarre experience, and a sobering one. The full extent of this natural phenomenon is apparent as the imposing flames and devastation dwarf fire crews. I have been lucky enough to avoid the forest fire first hand, but its power and substance is evident as over eighty fire engines line the roadside, awaiting any regeneration of flames. The brilliant red and yellow of the fire crews signalled the possibility of recurrent danger, and I couldn't help pondering the contrast between nature's method of cleansing the land and man's use of advancing technology to halt the natural world. Mid thought, I was interrupted by a whirring noise that startled me. Snapped out of my reverie, I looked skyward to witness a fire fighting helicopter swoop down, eagle like, toward the sea. Once it had gathered its watery load, the chopper headed inland to deposit its gallons of water on the charred remains beneath. The contrast that I had been considering was no more apparent than at this moment.
I continued to cycle through the forest remains, and it was only then that I began to fully appreciate the enormity of massive devastation. Local newspapers announced that the fires had been burning for four days, and when measured on my cycling computer, the burned area measured in excess of twelve miles!
My turn inland took me out of the burnt valley and away from the sea. My search for whales had finally proved illusive and I turned my bike and back toward the ocean, fleetingly glancing backward in hope of finally seeing a whale. This action was without joy and my luck had at last run out as I bade goodbye to the sea.
My pedal inland took a curious route this week as I embarked upon a 'short cut'. This detour, which was meant to save time and reduce miles, took me, rather unsuspectingly, over a large mountain. In fact, the mountain was so big that I rode uphill for four hours without so much as a few flat yards. The upside of this effort was that this road took me through a beautiful landscape dominated by avocado and citrus farms. Such a rapid change in scenery was a stark contrast to my previous environment, and as I cycled upwards I could clearly feel the change in climate. Here, amongst the citrus trees, it was more humid. As I cycled inland toward the Mojave, I had expected to see brown tones and feel the dry muggy air, signalling the upcoming desert. However, along this route, the lush green foliage of crops indicated the triumph of man over his landscape. Huge irrigations systems adorn the roadside, so amongst the tan countryside, verdant patches of jade, olive and lime abound. Indeed, one of the joys of early morning cycling is the experience of riding alone amongst the moistened groves. In this wet atmosphere, a lemon/lime mist settles on your face and body and bathes you in a citrus haze whose aroma remains with you throughout the day.
With all the farms enthusiastically growing any crop they can, this fertile region is filled with numerous plants, each in different stages of flower. In order to aid pollination, the farmers import droves of bees. So, as I cycled along I became increasingly aware of a low humming sound. Unaware of this custom, I strained my ears to try and identify the source of the noise, frantically checking my equipment for any sign of failure. I became quite perturbed by this hum until I looked toward the fields and saw many trailers, parked amidst the fruit trees. Hundreds, neigh thousands, no millions of bees surrounded these trailers. My previous encounter with wild animals, during the snake incident, had made me a little nervous, so on initial sighting, my heart began to race and there was a definite increase in pedal power during that moment. The swarm horded round the trailers, humming, humming, humming, like a philharmonic orchestra building toward crescendo. My own heartbeat added the baseline to this tune, but as I began to relax and appreciate the beauty of this sight, the pace of my heart lessened. Having time to watch the bees was a real privilege, and as I focussed on the swarm, I began to realise that each colony had its own designated flight path, to and from a specific plant or crop. This bee motorway was in rush hour as droves of bees flew east toward the food source and then west toward their hive in a constant stream of insects.
Added to the hum of bees was the sweet song of the humming bird. These birds were out in force as numerous flashes of feather and colour flitted here and there, from flower to flower exacting pollen. Such exquisite blurs of emerald and pink drew my eyes wherever they darted, but I was unable to keep pace with their winged movements.
My journey eastward has also taken me through natural tar springs this week. What a strange yet amazing phenomena. At first I was unnerved by the sight of shiny black tar oozing out of the ground and pouring, lava like, down the hills. The oil soaked drainage ditches at roadside also made me think of an environmental disaster, but seeing the rainbow coloured petrol slicks that floated on the water's surface silently announced nature's beauty. On reflection, the trees and bushes in this region thrive, and seem totally oblivious to their crude oil surroundings. So man and nature coexist in harmony. This thought may be a little hippyish, but hey, I am in California!
As you can see, my ride eastward signals the ever-changing landscape. Indeed, as I pedal onward the land will get more arid and vegetation more sparse. I will enter my last town before the Mojave, aptly named Desert View, as I cross the mountain ranges that separate coastal California from the desert region. My journey into the desert is approaching, so I must bask in the watered surroundings of the citrus groves while I can.
Stage 4 Mojave to Phoenix This weeks ride through Arizona took me through Victorville, 29 Palms, Parker, Aguila and finally onto Phoenix.
My journey into the desert interior of North America has enabled me to experience the real nitty gritty of desert living. As I have pedalled further inland, the landscape that has surrounded me has grown dryer. The soil is much more arid as luscious greenery gives way to parched scrub, rock and sand. With such a dramatic change in surrounding and scenery, there is no denying that I am travelling east and approaching the border of the desert area.
Temperatures soar as I approach this barren land and tip the scale at 115 degrees. This heat, as I swelter under the power of the midday sun, has caused me to perspire profusely. Indeed, as the temperature raises, the heat and aridity invade my body and I sweat more with each agonizing turn of the pedal. The nights do not offer much solace either. The dark shadow of evening brings with it a slight reprieve, but even then, the nights are warm, neigh hot, making it almost impossible to slumber. My lack of rest is compounded by the fact that humidity is around nine percent. Yes, nine percent. Everything in this landscape is drying out, including me! Added to the untold effort that riding is exerting upon my body, my lips are also raw and chapped, and skin is peeling off my arms in sheets. I push on harder every day, trying to escape the blaze of the sun's hot rays but as I do so, my breathing rate is raised and the hot air rushes into my mouth and burns my throat and vocal chords. In this atmosphere, breathing is hard work and any form of speech is virtually impossible.
In order to ride comfortably through this desert zone, I have tried to outwit nature by rising at five a.m. and pedal on through the early morning hours. This cunning plan enables me to ride in the coolest part of the day, and avoid the rush hour of people commuting to the bigger cities. Starting my journey so early also allows me to experience and bask in the quiet lonesomeness of the desert at dawn. This lack of people would seemingly ensure a lack of activity, but this is not so. As I continue on, I share the sand with nocturnal animals, who scurry about, busily attending to their business, before settling out of sight for the day. This part of my day brings with it an air of freedom and tranquillity and makes me realise how lucky I am to share in the animal's desert world.
Planning a route through the desert has been a different experience to plotting my way through the urban metropolis. It also differs from route planning through country towns and sleepy seaside resorts. Out here there is nothing! No marker to plot your way. No landmark to show progress or mark time. Advancement seems slow, although I am journeying forth at a similar pace. In the city or suburbs, I could plot my route specifically. Buildings, streets and highways, all indicate that I am on my way. I could also build contingency plans into my route. If my bike suffered from mechanical failure, I could stop at a plotted place. If I felt tired or ill, I could rest my weary bones at a town up ahead. In the desert, all of these safety plans are not possible. There is no one local to contact in case of emergency. No place to stop if I required a rest. The distances between places put paid to that. One this single road that meanders its way from town to town, there are no turn offs, no side roads, no houses sitting on the kerb edge, watching you pass on by. Both water and food are not at my fingertips. Instead, the miles stretch out before me, as the tarmac rises and falls its way towards the horizon. This is big mileage country, and there are no means of escape.
Despite all these terrors, my ride has been very worthwhile this week. I have bathed in the pink early morning glow of sunrise, and this has added a new, almost spiritual dimension to this harsh landscape. When backlit by such a powerful source as dawn light, the desert's beauty is immediately apparent. Slowly, as the sun rises, the shadows of the mountains are cast down on the land, marking out the precise shape of every ledge and precipice. This shape and colour of these formations changes, like to mood of the desert, as the sun climbs higher and higher, and the once dark shadows take on the hues of burnt sienna, tan and yellow. After ten a.m., the sun is so high in the sky that all of the colours are drowned out by the bright, white light of all day sunshine. This brilliant glow overpowers all that it shines upon and drowns out all shape and form from the natural landscape.
Riding after midday is extremely hot and hard work. White heat exudes from the burning orb, up above. When combined with the radiated heat that emits from the black tarmac below my wheels, the midday sun takes its toll on my body and my energy is sapped. After noon, my speed halves and my pace drops dramatically. It is at this time that the desert miles seem to stretch out endlessly before me. When this happens, I turn my attention toward the sounds of this landscape, in order to distract myself from the hard task I am engaged in. My ears come alive at this time, and I tune into the desert's deafening silence. At this time, there is no wind, no noise of traffic busily rushing by. The sandscape is without the rustling of trees, and without the call of bird song. It is seemingly without the sounds of life but I know that below the earth's crusty surface, life endures. The total silence is noisy in itself and evokes a spooky feeling deep within me. I am not scared, rather overawed as I ponder on the desert's breathtaking ability to present me with yet another new experience.
The countryside around me is the country that we all dream of when we think of the Wild West. It is the stage of Native American history, the place where cowboys fought with Indians, and raised cattle amongst the parries. The landscape is that of the cactus and the rattle-snake. It is the place where Indian culture finds its home. These past few days, I have been riding through the nations of the Apache and Navaho. Historic markers are displayed on the roadside as constant evidence of the tribes' history and presence. Sadly, most mark the bloody history of Indian slaughter and the violent events of native wars.
Apart from these modern monuments, which mark a specific site or spot, the physicality of this bloodshed has been erased with the passage of time. The moods and movement of the desert have all but wiped out signs of man's futile struggles. Instead, the desert itself gets on with its own survival. It is to my own survival that I now turn as I anticipate the adventures that lay ahead of me. I have ridden through this desert, but there has been no long lasting trace of my activity. Nothing on or in the landscape marks my progress. Rather, I take with me my memories of rising early, and the excitement I felt on having this wonderland to myself to ride in. My journey has also been shockingly hard, but I have revelled in the challenge. Like many men that have gone before, I too will keep in the saddle, but my transport will be bicycle not horse. It is in this adventurous vain that I proceed further, and as the mountains grow up before me I am more and more curious about the land and adventures that lay ahead.
Stage 5 Phoenix to Artesia This week's ride saw me cover the many miles between Phoenix, Globe, Safford, Lordsburg, Siver City, Demming, Las Cruces, Almogoro and Artesia.
I have peddled through the lowland deserts during the past days, whilst the large looming mountains have stood watch, continually overseeing my progress. These colossal geological monuments are testimony to this land's age. Historical giants. Witnesses to all that has been played out on the desert stage; my fleet footed journey being merely a short scene. As I peddled onward, I approached these diverse monoliths and the lowlands begin to merge into the towering peaks ahead. It was only then that I realised that all of my previous peddling had been in anticipation of these mountains. My training had finally finished and the real challenge had begun.
The heat in this area is tremendous. It is hot, hot, hot. Perspiration was at a maximum as I climbed upwards, seemingly forever, toward the plateau. The reward of the summit was cooler weather, where I basked in a fresh breeze. The added moisture in the air also changes the environment, so each turn of my wheels took me toward more luscious scenery. At higher altitudes, foliage is more abundant and the green leaves are a stark contrast to the desert's tan hues. Road signs warn of snow and ice in this area, but this possibility seems mythical at this time. This land is truly caught in nature's grip. Imagine a terrain that is baked dry in the summertime and frozen solid in the wintertime. It is wonder to me that any plant or animal can survive.
The local topography has meant that my journey has taken me across mountain ridges. After these highpoints, I have plunged into the flat, riverbed valleys below. This continual rising and falling has meant that the scenery has changed by the hour. Each valley is made up of lush farmland that is irrigated by the local water supply. Once again, these verdant areas match the humid green caps of the mountain tops, but are alien to the dry, barren rocks that lie between.
A local weather report has informed me that the 'monsoon' season is soon to arrive. Like its namesake, torrents of rain are due to descend upon this place, thundering down onto the dry land beneath. Before these storms descended, the sky was filled with huge cumulonimbus clouds, stacked heavenward. These columns of cloud are formed when the hot desert air draws in cool Pacific air from the west. The result is a bright blue sky filled with towering white mountains of cloud. For a split second, as I looked skyward, I saw a mirror image of the land, reflected in the sky. It is these gargantuan cloud formations that cause electrical thunderstorms that defy description. As the clouds gathered, I became aware of their dark underbelly. This threat cast dark shadows over the land below. When these storms descend, lightening flashed across the sky, illuminating all beneath. Loud claps of thunder also announced the weather's ferocious intent, as bellowing roars echoed across the plains and ricocheted off the mountain-sides. Storm monitoring is big news here. Everyone relies upon this information as lightening strikes often cause bush fires. These fires, which often rage uncontrolled, are fuelled by the wind's strength and fury, and much like the locals, my route has been reliant upon this news. At every opportunity, I have raced to get to a television, desperate to find out if my journey can continue on its planned route.
Despite being exposed to these extremes of weather, it was wonderful to experience. To watch the shafts of darkness inching across the plains, toward me, added another dimension to my trip. My heart raced faster as I focussed upon the gathering clouds. Hearing the ripple of thunder in the distance made my skin prickle, as I rode toward it. Apprehension hung in the air as I peddled onward to meet the storm. It was almost spiritual as I watched the weather moving toward me, knowing at any moment that I was about to be caught up in the full force of nature. Every day this week, I have braced my body as the clouds have gathered and loomed overhead. As the shadows catch you in their grasp, the temperature drops and the air takes on a moistened feel. Tension also increases as previous experience tells you something BIG is about to happen.
Being caught in the rain has been scary and pleasurable at the same time. I have peddled onward under the pelt of driving wind and rain. The rain here drops earthward in large bullet sized pellets. There is no drizzle that seems to dominate UK weather. Instead, shafts of beating precipitation bounce off the land and leave lasting marks on your body. Riverlets of water collect in gulleys and run in channels across the parched earth, making everlasting marks in the sand. The spray on the road makes it impossible to ride, as visibility is minimal and the desert is lost in a moistened haze. When I have been forced to dismount and sit out the storm, I have been surrounded by a hissing noise. Perturbed at first, I soon worked out that this mystery noise was the sound of the baked earth turning the rain to a steamy mist. Sitting in this sauna-like world, I began to reflect on the scene and soon, I began to see this sound as the desert breathing a sign of relief, as the ground accepts this bounty from above.
When the rain has not been pounding my flesh, I have been busy trying to dry out. The rays from the baking sun have scorched my wet clothes and body, and have dried me out within minutes. In between these torturous tirades, I have witnessed dust storms, although I have not been directly involved in these 'dust devils' whilst on my bike. Instead I have seen huge columns of dust on the horizon, that have been sucked up in a funnel over a mile high. Highly prolific, these funnels of dirt have perpetually been in my sight. During my crossing of one valley, I could see three funnels at one time.
Sitting in a motel room, after a days cycling, I was exposed to the might of these dust storms. I had been watching it approach from the west, appreciating its beauty and glory. As the funnel moved forward, it suddenly dawned on me that it was heading straight toward the motel! Despite this fact, I could not tear myself away from the doorway. Instead, I sat motionless, watching the pale sandy column pass over the desert and move toward the flood irrigated cotton fields. As it passed over these moistened fields, the funnel took on a dark brown sienna colour as it ingested the water.
When the storm hit the motel, it arrived in a howl of wind. The roar of the swirling air pelted dust and mud onto all below. I was mesmerised. The sky took on a dark hue and visibility dropped to a few feet. I couldn't even see out of the motel window, and the cars that had been left lounging in the car park became mysterious ghosts that disappeared into the background. Sods of mud and grit were thrown on the window pane, and the loud clattering echoed around my small room. Sat alone in this dismal space, I suddenly became aware of how isolated and vulnerable I was. I was trapped in a small shelter of bricks and mortar. As soon as this thought had crossed my mind, the wind died down and the force of the storm passed. The air was filled with a split second silence, then within minutes, normal life resumed as people took to the street. The cars parked opposite my room became instantly visible and the motel's maintenance man walked past my door, whistling merrily, as he began to hose down the car park. Within minutes, the remnants of the storm had been cleared away, obliterated, showing that this occurrence was common, and not to be feared. I sat amidst this scene, wondering at the swift passage of nature. It is onto the flat American plains next week. Let's see if this land has similar weapons with which to assault my body and leave my mind whirling.
Stage 6 Artesia to Jasper This diary entry relates to the route that I rode through Hobbs, Lemesa, Sweetwater, Coleman, Goldthwaite, Temple, Bryan, Livingstone and onto Jasper.
My ride during this stage has finally taken me out of the mountains and onto the flat. Oh boy, is this country flat. Miles and miles of land, a great expanse set out before me. Just land, land, land, stretching out to the horizon. The enormity of this place is hard to comprehend. I peddle, and peddle and peddle, and seem to be making little progress. Americans call this part of their land 'big country', and it is easy to see why. I am just a blip on the landscape of this enormous continent.
The country around me is BIG! Often you can see over thirty miles in every direction. There are no obstacles to my view, just large amounts of flat land. When I do catch sight of the town or hamlet that I am heading toward, it sits on the horizon, much like a mirage or oasis in the desert. These visions taunt me as I think I am approaching the town, and my much needed rest, but the closer I get, the further away the town feels. Those last miles, during which I can see my reward, drag on insatiably. The hours go slowly and seem to be never ending as I creep toward my bed. It is only after hours of toil, observing my goal, that I finally reach my destination.
Within this land, which is akin to that of 'Dorothy and Toto', half my vision is taken up by sky. The land seems dwarfed by these giant expanses of open air. As I advance, the sky becomes my total focus as my eyes are dragged upward. I am unable to concentrate on anything else. Its huge, cloudless breadth stretches out, capturing all that sits beneath its gaze.
During previous stages of my journey, I have been unable to see weather forming. Instead, bad weather has often taken me by surprise, as it has crept up on me, as my back has been turned. I have been caught unwittingly in driving rain, but that will not happen here. In this landscape, any hint of weather can immediately be seen as clouds begin to build upon the horizon. Weather watching has begun part of my daily ritual. Often, I observe the gathering of cloud during the afternoon, as I cycle along. Soft wisps of white waft along the breeze. These white wisps then develop into brilliant white cotton buds that hang in the marine blue sky. As they float on the air currents, their shape and form is so clearly outlined by the contrast of colour and bright light. Like candy floss, the billowing vapours drift gently across the view in front of me. I can only watch in awe at the beauty of nature.
The role of weather in my journey can not be underestimated. Indeed, weather formations play a massive and increasingly important part of my life. Underneath this vast atmospheric canvass, the heat of the burning sun can have a huge effect of my performance. The searing heat means exhaustion and perspiration. A slight breeze brings an airy relief to my aching body, and the wind behind me equals an easy day in the saddle. If the wind is blowing in my face, as it has been during the last few days, then a grimacing expression hinders my ride. When this occurs, much of my body becomes a landing strip for flying insects, which launch themselves against my skin with vigour. One such incident occurred this week as I was peddling along. Trying to maintain a good pace, I was cycling with my mouth open, breathing hard. As I inhaled and exhaled through my mouth, a rather large bee crashed into my lip and ricocheted into the gaping hole that was my open mouth. The result of this new entry was a coughing and spluttering episode that ended with the bee being spat, amidst a shower of saliva, across the road and into the ditch beyond. Although this occurred in a matter of seconds, the bee was canny enough to leave a small trace of its ordeal in my mouth, and I had to pedal the remainder of the day with a bee sting stuck to the inside of my lip. Ouch.
As I have peddled onward, through insect assault and this sky basking country, I have also encountered a swarm of furious flying stinging ants stuck themselves to my sun creamed skin. Not something I recommend! My days have blurred together with each turn on my wheel, and each night spent in identical motel rooms. Dejavu has taken over and my life has turned into Groundhog Day. The monotony of cycling was broken toward the end of last week as I was accompanied on my journey by the odd snake and tarantula. I say the odd one, but to be more truthful, the company of numerous big snakes and spiders has often enlivened my early morning jaunts.
During the first hours after dawn, these creatures roam the roads and its environs, watching out for the unwitting cyclist. Luckily I have had experience with snake littered roads in Cambodia, where I literally had to weave between bodies in order to stay upright. During my Asian trip, I was unlucky enough to ride over the broad back of a sleeping snake! The pressure of my tyre, mixed with the weight of both my bike and body, ensured that the snake was awakened out of its reverie with much haste. As my wheel bumped over its back, the angered serpent whipped its body around to attack its attacker. This instantaneous lash of the snake caught my pannier, and the snake attempted to bite into the canvas with ferocity. Luckily, for me, the snake bounced off my pack and fell to the ground. Without the ability to click my feet out of my pedals, I was unable to remove my legs from the line of fire, so the moment passed in a heart stopping haze. The blind panic of this situation haunts me even now, and as I rode amongst the serpents yet again, I couldn't help casting my mind back to that frantic moment. On this occasion though, I managed to avoid all who lay prostrate before me.
A trick to surviving in this atmosphere is something you wouldn't expect. I had thought that I would learn many things on my travels, but did not expect the key to surviving the American plains would be speed-eating ice cream. This newly found skill, which is a very, very hasty affair in 110º heat, has been a great bonus of my trip. Practice, as they say, makes perfect, so at every opportunity I have been indulging my new skill. Many times I have been left holding the stick, with a creamy pool of melted ice cream at my feet. My distress at this situation has led to much speed eating, and I can now proudly say that I have mastered my task. No doubt my perseverance will pay off as I travel eastward through Europe, eating my way through the continents many splendid ice creams.
As I have drifted eastward, the land has transformed from a rich brown to the slowly grown green of an agricultural environment. From this mid shade green, the flora and fauna has changed to a dramatic, vibrant green as trees are swamped in creepers and vivid plants grow out into the road. Much like the snakes, I avoid these bright outcroppings, always thankful to stay on two wheels.
Along with the change in vegetation, humidity has descended and the air is now filled with a damp, muggy feel. This moisture makes the temperature feel hotter than the gauge on my cycle reads. It is invasive, penetrating every layer of clothing and leaves a clammy dew like film on your skin. Cycling in the afternoons has now become impossible and I often end my cycling day around 2pm. This rescheduling has meant much planning and rerouting, but is essential if I am to conquer America. I need to stay comfortable and healthy so I can continue my ride.
It seems that as I progress, the volume of insects increases, hence the noise emitted from these beings seemingly announces my arrival in increased tones. I am continually surrounded by a chirping and buzzing noise that resembles the whirr of a hover mower. This sound is most evident as I have ridden through rice paddy, yet my mind has, thankfully, been preoccupied in watching a crop spraying aircraft perform acrobatics, just metres above plant level. Such air displays mesmerize me, and unawares, I become caught up in the spectacle of low level flying. As the plane loops around the paddy, the wheels literally touch the top of the plant, dowsing the greenery in a fine mist of agricultural spray. It is moments like these that transport me away from my journey and allow me to ponder the wonderful relationship between man, machine and nature.
One of the more enjoyable parts of this ride has been my passing through Texas. I have not had much chance to interact with people on this trip, as I only ever stop for food in petrol stations and room in lonely motels. Riding amongst the Texans has brought a new experience to me, as each person you meet is friendly. Not afraid to make conversation, these confident Texans wade into your life, forever questioning. This interest is not intrusive, quite the opposite. I have been party to many a conversation where people have asked me about myself, whilst queuing at a shop checkout. Such questions are always friendly and accompanied by a certain warmth of feeling and generosity. The Americans call it southern hospitality, and I must admit that I have been charmed.
It is on this note that I head onto the south to penetrate its interior and world famous culture. If it is anything like Texas, I should feel right at home.
Stage 7 Jasper to Miami This diary entry saw me peddling my way along the route between Derrider, Opelousas, Hammond, Bay St. Louis, Pascagoula, Pensacola, Fort Walton, Defuniak, Marianna, Monticello, Lake City, Gainsville, Leesburg, Titusville, Indiatlantic, Fort Pierce, Lantana, Fort Lauderdale and Miami.
I have finally entered the steamy south and boy is it humid. I am continually surrounded by damp, sticky, sweltering air that induces perspiration at an alarming rate. Even though the temperature is only 90 to 95 degrees, the humidity is 90%, so I am sweating before I climb onto the bike. Just loading up my panniers is enough activity to cover my t-shirt in dark, moist marks. Here, the local radio stations give out constant weather forecasts, and I have found myself on constant alert, listening out for the heat index. This index, which is the opposite of the wind-chill factor, reports on the heat and takes into account the humidity. According to local calculations, the heat and humidity have made it feel like 110ºc, most days.
I have, of course, been cycling in this heat. The journey must go on. It is difficult to describe just how it feels to be caught in this searing heat. The air is damp and oppressive. It bears down on your body, as though crushing everything beneath. Such a pressure saps any strength that you may have, and I have found myself battling with weather as well as country. Despite this oppression, I must say that there is something wonderfully tropical about this land and its weather. As I advance, I continually bask in the exotic, as the steamy air envelops me. The swampy vapour wraps its moistened arms around your body and draws you close to the water's edge. On this edge, the air is so thick that it smells. Its pungent aroma permeates your pores and enters your lungs, as you breathe deep lungfulls of acerbic, mordant air. As this occurs, you become shrouded in a liquid atmosphere that swamps, swathes and envelops both mind and body. It is when this happens that you truly enter the land of Ernest Hemmingway, Charles W. Chestnut and Zora Neale Hurston.
At the close of each day, I dismount and enter into air-conditioned motel rooms. As I do this, I can feel myself crossing the border between the moist, laden air of the outside and the cool, refreshing atmosphere of the temperature regulated room. The contrast between the two is amazing, at has, and times, stopped me in my tracks and literally taken my breath away.
Returning to my bike in a morning is far too much for my body's temperature gauge to cope with, so I have had to plan in advance, and turn down the air conditioning, hours prior to my departure. This cunning trick enables my body to get used to the humidity as I sleep, so I spend the nocturnal hours adjusting to my surroundings.
Whilst I am peddling, I am enjoying the flats. It is not just flat here, it is low lying, so every few miles I cross a stream, river or swamp. The agricultural fields of middle America have given way to rice paddies, and the animals that occupy these environs are mainly water dwellers. Snapping turtles, frogs and alligators patrol these waters, and snakes slither freely from land to water, water to land. The snakes here are much different to their cousins of the flatlands and deserts. Rather than their scales showing off a brown and mottled grey camouflage design, the snakes of the south are not afraid to advertise their appearance. Bright red serpents, vibrant yellow snakes and day-glo green vipers all slink through these swamps and, on first sight, seem to proudly announce their arrival in the vicinity. Such bright colours, which seemingly warn of danger, give these snakes and extra air of menace and I avoid them at all cost.
I have been accompanied on my ride by numerous birds during this leg of the journey. Mostly, these creatures are wading birds, herons and egrets, which stride out into the swamps and marches on long spindly legs. Their fishing exploits seem successful, and I am glad to have their graceful company as I pass on by. Such birds add a sense of serenity, and I allow myself to pause and watch, as the bright white plumage of the egrets contrasts sharply with the vivid greens of the swamp's undergrowth.
The wildlife is so abundant here, that I am never truly alone. Every pond, stream, ditch and river is teaming with life. Much like the humid air, the water is laden with animals whose activity is abundant. As I cycle by, my eye is often caught as a fish darts beneath the water's glassy surface. Terrapins and frogs also scurry out of the way, their journey hastened by the noise and vibration of my approaching tyres. As the sun hangs in the sky, the outline of my body often casts a shadow on these wet lands, and occasionally I am able to see the outline of an alligator slipping silently below the water's surface. These soundless predators skulk in the rivers, appearing and disappearing at intervals. These ghostly figures seem to stalk me as I pass by, watching my every move. I feel their eyes burning into my back as I advance. In this swampy land, it is clear that I am also regarded as prey.
To see alligators and turtles basking on the riverbank, soaking up the sun's rays has been an amazing experience, and it has dawned on me as I continue, just how close to nature I am getting. Whilst cycling, I have passed within metres of basking alligators, a good ten-foot long, which have heaved their weighty bodies out of the water, to stretch out in the midday sun. Although ferocious, and highly dangerous, these stunning creatures wear their markings and battle scars with an inherent beauty and regal air. It is plain to see, whilst watching them, just how close to the dinosaurs these animals really are. They a living breathing link to our prehistoric past. To get this close to such huge carnivores is humbling and mesmerizing, but I felt something more than that. As I sat on a bridge, watching the old relic soaking up the sun, I felt something primeval. I guess sitting so close to the one of the world's top apex predator is heightening my senses.
Riding through this southern land has made me much more attuned to nature. Whether it is panic or me being in sync with the landscape, my eyes move quicker and are more focussed. I turn at even the slightest sound, and my heart seems to pound with expectancy. The quick withdrawal of a retreating gator toward the water's edge has, at times, left my head buzzing and my body tingling. In short, I feel ALIVE.
My escape from the Southern swamps toward the coast has been a welcome relief, as I have felt the Atlantic wind flow around my muscles. Before I reached the coast, I passed through miles of coastal swamps and, although I could not see the ocean, the salty aroma beckoned me on, toward its waved surface. As I rode on, I could sense the cool sea air and once sighted, I peddled faster, with purpose; the prize being a total immersion in the sea's brackish body. My ride along the coastline has enabled me to swim whenever I like. I simply dismount and walk, fully clothed, into the water. This action brings with it much relief as I cycle in the sun, and is the only sure way that I cool off.
Following such a beautiful coastline has also meant that I travel alongside white sandy beaches, whose sand resembles the fine white powder of icing sugar. The small coastal towns that I encounter are a shock to my system as I have been used to riding cross-country through small towns and farming communities. The brash, touristy seaside is a total culture shock, as the glitz and kitsch of summer vacations assaults my senses. Luckily, as I ride down the eastern seaboard, the seaside towns should be more gentile; at least that is what the guidebook suggests.
My ride on the Atlantic coast has been hastened by lost time, as I hurry toward Miami in order to stay within the allotted time on my visa. Not being allowed to cycle on some American roads has added extra time onto my journey, so this latter stage has been ridden against the clock. This pressure has added another dimension to my trip and feels a little like a time trial. Add to this the tropical weather, as I journey south toward the Tropic of Cancer, and you have a potent mix. It is hurricane season in these parts and I seem to ride amidst tropical thunderstorms on a daily basis. These storms are wonderfully exciting, and set my nerves on edge as the thunder booms, lightening strikes and the rains pelt down with vigour. These monsoon like rains get so thick that they appear like a curtain that has been drawn across the land. Here the earth shakes beneath the thunder's quake and the roads become flooded with water a foot deep. The storms pass a quickly as they appear and, once departed, a steamy calm descends over the land before the sun fights its way out of the clouds and begins to dry all below.
It is so very satisfying to know that I have completed the first leg of my journey. From here it is on to Lisbon, Portugal. I have successfully cycled 4,741 miles and have only had two punctures. Unlike my body, that has encountered snakes, biting ants and flying bees, my bike has remained intact for the whole stage. It is on this note that I look toward Europe, my home and place of origin. I can't wait to be back on the continent again and wonder what adventures await me there.
Stage 8 Miami to Catalonia, Spain via a flight to Lisbon, Portugal Back to Europe and civilisation at last! It's great to be home on my native continent, and boy do I feel relaxed. After hot tailing it across the Atlantic, after skipping the US just moment before my visa ran out, I am no on home soil. Well, home as in Europe, at any rate.
Arriving in Lisbon, Portugal was like a breath of much needed fresh air. I was immediately immersed in the wash that is European culture, and as I departed the airport, I was overcome by memories of surfing along the Portuguese coast. Surfing this beautiful coastline seems like a lifetime away, but as the memories flooded back, I began to get excited about the adventures that lay before me in this wonderful country.
So, why is Europe so different from the U.S. I could write an essay but I will keep my answers brief. In short: good food, fine wine, fruit and vegetables, fresh crunchy bread, fruit juice without additives, and beautiful people. Need I say more. I am not saying that America is not filled with great people and interesting food, I am just celebrating the life that is European. On my travels through the U.S. Giant portions of fast food, donuts, sweet canned drinks full of preservatives, additives and colourings continually assaulted me. Wendy's, Pizza Hut, MacDonalds, Burger King and KFC all pushed their way into my life, occupying much of my vision for a very long way. Even when I was in the mountains, away from modern consumerism, fresh produce seemed very hard to find.
The people of America are kind, warm-hearted people, often large in girth, and were not particularly open to the plight of a cyclist on their roads. In Portugal, things are very different. Like many Europeans, the Portuguese are a little less weighty than their American cousins. Their appearance is smarter and snappier. They eat the fresh produce that they produce, taking time over their food and wine, monitoring what goes into their bodies. America, to me, seems to have lost this control.
Cycling in a procycling nation is amazing, and is a true joy. I was assaulted, both verbally and physically, on a daily basis in the U.S. Motorist would screech by me, calling obscenities, as they passed. In Portugal, I have felt a huge wave of support descend over me as passing motorist sound their horns in a salute to my effort and progress. The boost that a cheery horn or thumbs up gives me cannot be described. These little gestures buoy my spirit, as I climb uphill, standing up in my pedals to take on the road. It is now noticeable if a car passes without a toot or salute, and very often the supportive gesture is accompanied by voices crying out "Allez, Allez, Allez" as they pass on by.
I cannot over emphasize the kindness of the Portuguese people. On a hilly ascent toward a mountain pass, the other day, I peddled toward a group of workmen, who were busy fixing the road. When they saw me approaching, gasping for breath and fighting the steep slope, they rushed to their icebox and approached me carrying an iced bottle of water. This small token, was greatly appreciated and much needed, but it is such thoughtfulness and benevolence that is the true gift of travel. The people that I have met on my way have been diverse. Children at local primary schools have cheered and waved at me as I have passed them by. Relaxed partygoers have applauded as I have ridden past their bar. This kindness of strangers goes a long way, when you are travelling alone in a foreign country. Everyday so far, someone has touched me with his or her kind-heartedness and I am, at present, riding on this wave of compassion and consideration.
So far, the weather has been a friend, and a much cooler, more agreeable temperature has replaced the humidity that I endured in the Southern States of the U.S.. Although it is sunny and bright, it is not too hot and the sun's rays no longer burn a hole on my back. This was, I must admit, much of a surprise to me as I had thought I would suffer beneath the midsummer sun, but it is a nice surprise; the perfect weather for cycling.
My route over the Iberian Peninsular has taken me out of Portugal into the northern half of Spain. I am, at present, following a railway track in an attempt to ensure a flattish route. Although this journey will take me over the high plains, I am hoping that the added altitude will help to maintain a cooler body temperature, so I can ride further each day. So far, the plan is working.
One thing that I did miss in the U.S. was riding through historical places. America is a relatively young country, without firm foundations of history and culture. To be riding in the 'old world' is a great joy, and the passing documentations of real time and age, make me feel grounded again. Once again, I feel included in sometime, not just a mere blip on the landscape that passes without a trace. I am making my own journey, as others have done for centuries, and knowing that I am part of a lone line of fellow sojourners makes my ride much more enjoyable and interesting.
During my ride into Spain, I have been breathing great lungfulls of sweet smelling air. Glorious smells waft on the wind here, and my chest has been treated to the wonderful aroma of eucalyptus groves, whose hot air was thick with an oily scent. I have also been treated to the smell of pine forests baking in the heat. Riding through this thick and heady aroma was as much a physical experience as a sensual one, as my body cut through the moist air that was steamy with resin. Away from the towering forests, the fields also offer sweet smelling odours as fruit orchards, vine fields, freshly mown hay meadows and pastures of cut wheat all emit their individual aroma into the atmosphere and add to the heady mixture of fresh air.
My ride into Spain along back roads, through livery yards that release the heavy, pungent odour of horses, and along main roads is equally shared. Each day I cycle along roads, which rise to high altitudes and then plunge downward into the valley beneath. My bike faces north, then south as I continue to pedal and with each turn of the wheel, the scenery seems to perpetually change around me. The crops that are being harvested in the wide valleys are, 1000 feet above, still young and tender stalks that are far from being yielded. The soil also changes in both colour and texture, as I pass on by, my tyres are graced with an ever-changing spectrum of red, brown and grey mud.
My peaceful ride through the countryside has far from prepared me for the towns that I have encountered on route. On previous trips to Spain have crisscrossed the country on main roads, but my journey into the interior of back roads and small towns has enabled me to experience a totally different country and culture. Up until this visit, I have liked Spain, but now the country has seduced me and I am in love with this wonderful land and its people.
Every town that I encounter has a medieval centre. The history of this place is clearly visible and its ancient architecture jumps out and assaults you senses with its bygone styles. Throughout my ride I have passes huge, hulking castles, which boast large towering battlements. Ancient stone ruins have illustrated my progress, each fallen building unique and beloved by the town that lays claim to it. Although tourists come to view these astonishing historical sites, the towns are not tourist centres that cater for their passing trade. Instead, the culture of this land has changed little since the ruined buildings stood in all their former glory. The middle ages seem to have immersed both the land and the living in its grasp, and now, country farmers eek out of living from the harsh but fertile land around them. Little has changed for centuries, and hopefully, these little time capsuled hamlets will remain.
As I cycle along the ancient paths, modern motorways parallel my route, just kilometres away. This startling contrast has been evident, to my mind, in great abundance. Whilst resting I have sat amidst a rural cobbled village, watching farmers pass by with their donkey driven carts, yet in the distance I have also been able to view the flashing colours of cars and lorries as they streak their way along the busy motorway that crosses the Spanish plains. Despite this stark contrast, the country villages are, much like the towns, in that the afternoons are punctuated by a siesta. As I have ridden through the deserted streets, the wind howling through empty alleyways has been my only companion. Even the wildlife retreat out of the sun's hot rays and take refuge in a shady spot. Spanish dogs are, in my experience, always hungry for a passing cyclist's leg, so even when they are cooling down in the darkened shadow of a tree canopy, I keep a watchful eye out, in case the beasts are not really asleep!
During siesta, the soundtrack to my ride is oddly stopped; cut shot, almost immediately, as soon as siesta time arrives. The crickets and grasshoppers all suspend their cacophony of chirps and chirrups, and I ride as though in suspended animation, silence following me save for the sound of my tyres on the road. As I have wandered through the lower Pyrenees, a wild and weird orchestra of sounds has accompanied my passage. Here, all of the livestock are adorned with gargantuan cowbells that drape around their neck and punctuate each animal's step with a melodious tune. My favourite group of animal musicians are the horses, each of which wears a hand made bell around their mane. These bells, which offer a different sound to the chimes of the cows, ring out clearly across the air as the herds of horses gather round the feeding troughs. Once assembled, these equine animals constantly switch their manes back and forth in a constant attempt to keep the black flies at bay that buzz around their heads. Thus discordant cacophony is a sound to behold, and is unique to this part of the world. As I passed I felt so lucky to be caught up in the timbre's beat and rhythm.
Such tunes have, in my mind, signalled the fiestas that I have been a part of in many of the small towns I have ridden through. Their tempo, measure and cadence have signalled the holiday mood of the season that is upon us. Although I have not directly been caught up in a fiesta, the part spirit still adorns the roadside as I pedal through the towns in the early morning. The fiesta debris still litters the street and although the dancing figures, vibrant scenes and celebratory atmosphere has physically left the streets, their essence and memory lives in the brightly coloured litter and discarded bottles that lay festooned in the gutter. During one morning ride, a merry drunk, still inebriated from the previous night, who has in good spirits, accompanied my journey through the littered streets. Weaving his way down the street, he joined my pace and ran with me through the town, shouting what I think were encouraging words, as I peddled by. This gregarious man, who was unable to speak English, communicated his found wishes through his actions and tone of voice. Another Spanish couple also wished me well, although I couldn't understand a word they said, as they helped to push me up a seemingly never ending hill. Both toiled until they collapsed and then bade me farewell with fond waves of their hand and a jubilant cry. Once again, the kindness of strangers was evident in words I could not understand, but their gestures said enough and spurred me on my way.
Now, as I draw into Catalonia, I am pushing toward the French border. As I approach the change in country, I can feel the landscape and culture changing with every pedal. A little bit of French spirit is beginning to touch me, and as I advance, I look forward to the adventures that await me at the other side of the border.
Stage 9 Catalonia, Spain to Corsica, France I have felt a little more relaxed during this leg of the journey, as I am cycling into the known: France. My ride up to the summit of the Pyrenees has taken me into a country in which I have spent much time. Many happy hours have been wiled away in this country, and I feel part native, as I also speak a little of this land's mother tongue.
My ride, one in France, has been interesting to say the least. Little did I realise how crazy the French holiday season is. Why all the French take their annual holiday in August is quite beyond me. The busy roads have caused me no end of untold grief and as for trying to find a hotel at the end of each day, well, that's all I have been doing, trying, trying, trying. Often the only hotels that have vacancies are the ones that should, in my view, be left vacant, as some rooms only seem fit for cockroach inhabitants.
Locating a room at night has been very entertaining, save for the continual disappointment. Often Tourist Information, my first port of call in every new place, has sent me off on my bike to view a suitable and vacant room, but by the time I cycle there, the room has already been let. That has happened time and time again, and is adding kilometre after kilometre onto my journey. On one such night I added an extra 31km onto my total. No doubt Guinness will be impressed, but my aching legs and the looks of the Tourist Information staff each time I returned without lodgings told the real story. Each time I appeared at the window, happy smiles were painted over with glum expressions, and their enthusiasm for the job was visually ebbing away. I did think about returning to camping, and the old trusty tent, but past experience on cycling holidays told me that bright green canvas and spoked wheels do not go together very well. Plus, with the holiday season upon us, French camp sites would be full of gregarious party types, out for fun and frolicking into the early hours. My body needs time to rest, before my early rise, and I need quality rest on a sprung mattress. At least that is what my body thinks it deserves!
My decision to follow the coast road has paid off. I love this part of France, and know this stretch of coastline well. It offers such stunning scenery, tied in with happy memories, and I couldn't help immersing myself in the coast's spectacular beauty once again. The only drawback with my plan was that I didn't think about the hoards of holidaymakers that have also flocked to this area. No doubt they also wanted to experience the beauty and tranquillity of this place, but by turning up in their hundreds, we both have missed out on the very thing that we came to experience: serene splendour and tranquillity. The queues that I rode past by the beach measured an incredible 27km long. Add to that fact that people had abandoned their cars to walk along the shoreline or shop in a nearby village, so when the traffic jam began to abate, motorists could only advance as far as the next forsaken stationary car.
As I rode along the coastline I became a little melancholic. The luscious sandy beaches that I love so much, and remember fondly, were virtually unrecognisable as they were clogged with people. Hoards of semi naked holiday- makers clung to their own bit of sand, like limpits, and the deserted shoreline I remembered in fond dreams seemed far from this scene. Saying that though, France continues to charm me, a little more, every time I am here, and such incidence adds to the entertainment of the trip.
My troubles on this coastline have also been added to by my experiences of cycling amidst mistral winds. These violent and gushy winds hit your body full on as they charge in from the sea and blow brutally over the land. Add to this scene as small cycler: me, and you get a picture of much hilarity. As the gusts blasted into my body, I refused to dismount and take the easy option of sheltering or pushing my bike. Instead, like all mad dogs and Englishmen, I battled on with stiff upper lip, determined to see out my ride. As I progressed, inch-by-inch, along the coast road, the number of caravans and lorries that littered the roadside amused me; each of which had pulled over to avoid the storm or was lying on their side. It was not so much the strength of the wind, but the fury and force of the gusts. Many times I was blown completely off my bike and the road, and was thrown, careering into a ditch or up a steep embankment. This was, of course, highly amusing and at times painful, as my feet are clipped into the cycle pedals. This fact meant that I had to ride the wind, much like a kite, and let my body go exactly where the airy blasts wanted to put me. At one point, I struggled past two policemen who were waving all vehicles off the road and into the shelter of a nearby lay-by. When they saw me approaching, teeth gritted, body braced and breathing hard, they just shook their heads and waved me on, all of us laughing. My total mileage for the blustery day was a much fought for 61km, of which I am increasingly proud.
Being in France enables me to experience the gastronomic delight that is French cuisine. In a word, it is wonderful. During my ride, I have managed to grab food at convenient intervals. No, I admit, I have consumed large quantities of what can only be described as foodstuffs when it is compared against French delicacies. So, I have given way to that little voice in my head that urges me to sample any form of food in this country, whenever I can. My ride across France is all but fleeting, so I have taken up the chance to dine out at every occasion. It would be frivolous of me to give up such an opportunity, wouldn't it?
The meals in this part of the world are simply heavenly. I am salivating like Pavolv's dogs just thinking about the tasty morsels and sumptuous puddings that I have been lucky enough to savour. Add to this one of the world's best wine producing areas, and wine that is akin to liquid gold, then you can imagine what I have experienced during the last few days. I have often taken time out to lounge around in pavement café's, watching the world go by, whilst drinking oaky, rich merlots, sweet, fruity chardonnays and strong, textured clarets. The life of a cycler is hard. So many local vineyards, so very little time.
All too soon, I had to board the ferry, which sped me across the sea to Corsica: in my opinion, the most beautiful and underrated island in the world. It is difficult for me to find the right words to describe Corsica. It is such a wonderful and mind blowing, beautiful place. The island quietly boasts towering sheer mountains that rise to the heavens. Its golden sandy beaches hug the coastline as they are bathed in the bluest, most crystal like water I have ever seen. The sun dances on its transparent surface, and dazzles your eyes whenever you cast your gaze seaward. Indeed the contrasts of this area as so notable and stunning, that no other place compares. You can travel round this island and small fishing villages and local harbours laden with bright vivid super yachts dripping with supermodels. Next to these moneyed giants of the sea, are small, humble fishing vessels adorned with leathery skinned fishermen, busy about their work. Both models and fishermen, yacht and row boat, seem totally oblivious of this contrast or each other, so there is a lack of pretension about the place. This place is honest and tells of life in all its forms.
When one journeys up into the mountain region, you uncover entire villages that have been lost in time. These ancient homesteads cling to the rocks, ensconced beneath the mountain's large might. The dominance of this geographical feature is simply awe-inspiring, and as the clear mountain rivers sojourn towards the sea, the river's inhabitance can be plainly seen. When viewed, it almost appears as though the fish are floating in mid air. When down by the shoreline, the sea sparkles a vivid aqua marine blue that dazzles the eyes, yet continues to draw one's gaze. The seas around Corsica are also marine reserves, so pods of dolphins and whales can often be seen offshore.
I just can't get enough of this paradise island. I have even rescheduled, and squeezed in two extra days of rest so I can further indulge my passion for this place. This indulgence may seem extravagant when it only takes two days to navigate the island, but my love of the country is so strong that I cannot resist. My reward for riding for two weeks without a break seems worth it now, as I sit in the harbour-side bar in Bonafasio. I am also taking this time indulge another passion: watching the world go by. At times like this it is hard not to wax lyrical about such a peaceful and splendid scene. As I watch the ferries cast out into the open sea toward Sardinia, I avert my gaze. I know that all too soon, one of these boats will whisk me away from my paradise and deposit me in the dawn light, on the next leg of the journey. For now though, my departure is hours away and, until that point, I intend to keep such a thought far from my mind. For now, I am happy to bask in a country of my dreams.
Stage 10 Corsica, France to Sicily, Italy So onto Sardinia, Sicily and the Italian lifestyle.
In short, Italy drives me crazy.
Maybe it is me, but there is such a frenetic pace to Italian living and a continual sense of chaos, that I find it very hard to adjust. There is no doubt in my mind, that I am not an Italian. I do not have, in any way, an Italian spirit, nor do I possess a deep desire to integrate into Italian culture. It is too fast paced for me. It is a whirling cycle of freneticism that boggles my brain, confuses my chilled out philosophy and leaves me gasping for air. It is in this tone that I cycle speedily through the Italian islands of Sardinia and Sicily.On arrival in Sardinia, I purposefully purchased a map of the island, so that my journey through this country would be short and sweet. My plan was to navigate the shortest route through the countryside and depart a.s.a.p. Annoyingly, things did not go to plan.
As I peddled forth, I began to realise that my map depicted a different landscape. The topography on my map related to some other foreign land. At first, I sensed that I was reading the map incorrectly, but after many months of crossing continents, I decided my skill was worthy of praise. It was not me; hence it must be the map. Cycling onward, toward junctions that were not there, along roads that were not marked nor plotted, I began to be plagued by my irritation for all things Italian. How was a stranger meant to strike out independently, on Italian soil, when native cartographers couldn't even chart their own land? On arrival at a petrol station, I began to solve the problem, when I consulted another map and, much to my disbelief, found that the second map charted other routes that were not there either. The differences between maps was astounding and, in an attempt to resolve the discrepancies, thought that my original map must be out of date. Hastily, I checked the publishing dates, only to find that both maps were considered to be current! In desperation, my urge to find a suitable hotel along a marked route, led me to buy the second map and, along the way, I continually cross-referenced in order to make sense of where I was and go forward.
As I travelled onward, I again boggled at Italian signposting and mileage. On three separate occasions, I passed signs saying that the next town was 40km away. Nothing wrong in that I hear you cry, but the only problem was, was that I rode 12km between signs!
I have, once before, travelled this route between Spain and Turkey, so in order to make my journey more interesting, I have chosen to take a completely different route. On many occasion this week have I wished that I had reversed this decision! My previous journey was sensible - I navigated a flatish route so my cycle would not be too energetic. This time, I thought I would ride along the other side of the island. Not a bad decision when studying the map. Sadly, what the map failed to point out, was the two, 3,000 foot mountains that line the route. Adding to this, the towns that were on the map were, in truth, less major than I had expected, so many a time, I have been without a place to stay. You can't stay in a hotel, if the town doesn't have one, and it is through experience that I have found this out.
One cruel trick that I didn't anticipate was that the towns would still display signs of hotels that are now closed. No doubt these phantom establishments were once bustling with life and travellers, but now they are mere signposts, mocking my naïve trust in cartography. My realisation of this fact was a long time coming, as I blindly cycled around towns, searching for the holy grail of bed and board. The signs filled my gaze as I peddled north, then south, east then west, searching, searching, searching....
At last I found shelter in some interesting accommodation along the way. My favourite overnight stay was in a family run B&B, where I joined the family for breakfast. As I ate, glad to be around the closeness of family life, the grandfather chatted to me in a continual and seemingly never-ending flourish of Italian. This man, not aware that I couldn't speak a word of the language, beyond ciao, spoke to me in an animated and friendly voice. He seemed to be unperturbed by my lack of answer and reticence, and blithely rattled on and on and on, much to the disgust of his family. In an attempt to excuse the octogenarian, his family made silent gestures behind his back, circling fingers at their temples, in an attempt to tell me he was mad. This action was sad, but I saw the comic element of it and had to coke back laughter as the relatives made ever-increasing circular motions, and pulled funny faces akin to a gurning contest.
Another hotel that I stayed in seemed to be a throwback from a horror movie. This scary establishment was lost in time and harked back to an era where everything was in black and white. This monochrome environment was made all the more fearful by the landlady, who appeared in witch like costume. Dressed for little more than Halloween, this lady cast long dark shadows on the wall of her hotel and when she asked me, with croaking voice and a crooked beckoning finger, to join her in breakfast, I began to wonder if I would be on the menu. At speed, I declined and tired to depart but the woman swiftly grabbed my arm and marched me toward my seat. I dare not do anything but comply and sat down, trying to suppress my paranoia, to a surprisingly normal breakfast of bread and cheese.
One amazing thing about this island is the grazing that the cyclist can do along this route. The roads here are adorned with groves of apricots, peaches, pears, figs and grapes; all of which grow wild. As I passed these trees, their scent wafted deep into my nostrils and I often obey my desire, as I stopped and feasted on the fruity flesh of whatever was at hand. Likewise, I often stopped and washed in the troughs that are at the roadside, each of which announces a fresh water spring. This gift of cool water is bliss as I was able to quench my thirst and splash cool water on my hot body. These oasis' also cooled my mind as I battled with some of the most challenging and, in my view, dangerous drivers in the world.
As I have travelled, I have noticed that almost every car in Sardinia has some damage to its body. Whether a broken tail-light, a damaged bumper or a huge great dint in the rear off side, each car is testimony to that frenetic lifestyle I mentioned earlier. I am sure that every car in Palermo was damaged, and nearly all were without wing mirrors! It was not surprise to me that accidents are frequent here. In fact, I have been witness to more accidents on this stage of my journey, than the rest of my route put together. It is not surprising though, as the roads are full of potholes and are patched up in the most appalling manner. I do not exaggerate when I say that the roads here resemble those in the third world. This is, in my view, an odd sight considering I am in the heart of Europe.
This third world atmosphere prevails in many towns here, I am sad to say. Poverty and rural migration have meant that townspeople often ride down the street on ancient donkeys, which pull even older carts. The folk even live in mud built houses that are more reminiscent of an African village than the modern metropolis that has become synonymous with Italian life and style. The contrast of modernity, packaged in designer labels and an illusion of chic is a far cry from the reality of Sardinian life. In the Sardinian countryside the names of fashion houses are as foreign to society as outer space, yet just a few miles down the road, in the towns, cultural icons and fashionistas rule. This duality, within such a confined area, is a stark contrast that continues to confuse and baffle me. I have, long ago, stopped trying and work it out. Instead, I just sit back and enjoy the ride.
When on my bike, my journey is continually accompanied by a musical soundtrack that is all Italian. The prolonged and excessive use of horns create a soundtrack that will not fade into the background. Day or night, the toot of the horn continues to blow. These horns announce every manoeuvre that the Italian motorist intends to execute. Whether warning of coming, going, passing or reversing, these hollow shrills of noise continually sound. Hello, good bye, mind out, watch it, or an expletive, the Italian driver has an audible version of everything! Such a gregarious nature is rather wearing on the cycler, as I continually have to strain to distinguish between real warning and general chit-chatt.
The sound of Sundays is a welcome break from the tooting of vehicle warfare, and I have been seduced by this holiest of days. On Sundays, church bells peel and fill the air with the blissful resonance of chiming bells. This clamour is accompanied by parades of elderly people, all in their Sunday best, who process through the streets celebrating their beliefs. This meeting is also social, as hoards of folk turn up early to congregate amidst the shaded town squares. Older people, the town's poor, and the young all congregate in one spot, so there is a vast array of styles and sounds. Under the shade of the buildings, period costume mixes with trendy, designer style, and the sound of talk and laughter mixes melodiously with the ringing bells.
On the good side, this land is famed for its gastronomic delights, and I have been indulging. The cooking here is fabulous. The pizza is delightful, the pasta heavenly and the ice-cream dreamy. Whether from a posh restaurant or a back street vendor, everything edible is sublime. I am in food heaven, but all too soon I have to leave this place and journey on. The next stop on my journey is Greece, and as I sat in the ferry port, wondering what the delights of Greek culture would offer up gastronomically, my mind is cast out to sea. I can't wait to taste the flavours that the waters of Greece have to offer.
Stage 11 Sicily, Italy to Greece With the dawn of my Grecian journey, I have felt myself relax, both physically and mentally. Gone are the tooting horn and traffic mayhem that I encountered in Italy. In Greece there is a much slower pace of life, which suits my personality exactly. In this country, I feel as if I am at home. Bliss.
For me, this country holds a certain charm that is typically southern European. In the rural communities, everyone is so relaxed and at peace with their chilled out lifestyle. In these non tourist areas, farming has gone on for generations, changed little by the passage of time, and uninterrupted by the ever bounding force of metropolitan living and capitalism.
The beauty of this area is unchallenged by much of my route so far, and as I cycled onward, I followed the coast road, awe inspired by the blue green brilliance of the sea. As I rode, I passed sky blue sheltered coves that were filled with brilliant white bobbing yachts. Such a sharp contrast in colour assaulted my senses, and as I drank in this visual spectacle, I could feel my karma returning to its pre-Italy state.
My journey around Greece seems to have been filled with numerous stunning vistas; topaz bays, bright colourful ports and an endless array of mountains. The late summer colours of this landscape paint a palate of rusty reds through to the steely blue grey of the rock cladded roads. The reddened grasses intermingle with varied dried out shoots that announce their presence with ochre and burnt sienna blades. At night, as I often sat and reflected on my day, my beautiful surroundings would simply take my breath away as the burnt orange and vivid yellows of the sun setting sky contrasted sharply with the dark greeny blue pines and the olive green groves. In the midst of this abundant palate, I have been transfixed; my eyes wide open in an attempt to absorb all that surrounded me. I do not want to miss or forget a minute of my time in this stunning place.
Culturally, this land has a new growth about it. The return of the Olympics to their native land has enabled Greece to flourish in a wave of new building projects. Everywhere, buildings are being erected; from the giant stadiums and sports halls of the Olympiad, new houses, shops and roads are following suit. On a previous bike ride to Greece I encountered many towns and cities, but as I revisit these places, I am soon lost in the ever-expanding building revolution. Where old streets once were, new buildings mark the dawn of the future. This contrast of old and new is curious to me and makes me think of nature. The new developments are like a new shoot of growth on the side of an old native flora. It is saddening to me to see once beautiful fishing ports trembling with the terrors of mass tourism. Like a tumour, these modern monstrosities are attached to the pre-existing sites, draining, in my view, a place's original beauty and charm.
Despite my view of tourism, I do detect newly sprung pride about this country. The people are proud of their culture and see tourism not as an invasion, but as an addition to their lives. Despite my misgivings, I do sense a nice buzz about the place. It is as if Greece is suddenly waking from a centuries sleep. The country is coming alive and reaffirming whom it is.
As I rode on into Greece's interior, I was gladdened to see the difference between new growing towns and dust strewn farming communities. This vast change, in but a few short miles, affirmed to me that the old Greece that I know and love will not be lost. Greek farmers will still own a tractor before a car, and ride that tractor with pride. Rustic farmhouses will still be nestled in the heart of the countryside, their occupants dutifully obeying tradition with a glad heart. This is the Greece that I am familiar with, and this is the Greece that will remain in my mind.
The wildlife of this region has enjoyed my visit no end. Scores of attacking animals have savaged my body and feasted on my form. Firstly, I was attacked by a dog of all animals. Being a cyclist, and much use to the dog chasing bike scenario, I have fought off a dog many a time and have lived to tell the tale. My pride in this act is legendary. As my friends can testify, I often recount stories of dangerous rabid dogs in dangerous ravaged countries. Along with each story, I wildly accentuate my deliverance from the jaws of danger and continually point out the fact that I got away unscathed. So confident am I that I often shout at sleeping dogs, in order to provoke an attack and liven up my day. As you can no doubt guess, I provoked one dog too many; hence the beginning of my tale:
Once upon a time, dogs congregated in groups and as a result large packs of dogs roamed the Greek countryside. Encountering a lone cyclist, these dogs lock onto their prey and surround the victim, howling, barking and intimidating the person in their sights. Sadly, on more than one occasion, this prey was me, and I since have learnt that shouting at dogs is but a mere invitation for them to have me as lunch. In doing so, the game is different and the odds are severely altered in the dogs' favour. On numerous occasions I have been scarred beyond belief.
Other Greek animals that have assaulted me are wasps and jellyfish. Much like my encounter with a wasp in North America, my mishap with a wasp was anything but enjoyable. Unlike the insect that flew into my mouth in the States, the wasps here took great offence at my luminous yellow cycling jersey. In an attempt to stay visible to all traffic, these insect road users seemed to be greatly affronted by my bright yellow form, and took to stinging me again and again in order to get their offence heard. I often bump into wasps as we are both flying along the road, but in this instance, I was literally bombarded by a group of wasps that were furious in their precision attack. Each launch at my body seemed to be choreographed, as they hit me flat out, buzzing crazily and desperately trying to sting me. As you can imagine, it is quite hard to peddle, steer and be aware of traffic when a hoard of stinging pests are recreating their own version of the battle of Britain. In this situation, swatting is virtually impossible, so I had to resort to furious peddling, in an attempt to hot foot it out of the area. When I did eventually out pace the wasps, lady luck shined her light on me and, but a few hours later, saw my aching and stinging body arrive at a hotel which had a bath; the first room with a bath in it for the last few months!
My incident with the jellyfish was similar in that I was swimming in the sea, casually minding my own business, when a jellyfish seemed to swim directly up to me and launch itself onto my body. Some would say that my recounting of the story was a little biased, but after my body has taken such a beating at the hands of the Greek animal population, you must understand a little of my paranoia.
After the hardship of the Greek invasion, I must tell you that my journey has not been all bad. One of my favourite moments on my whole trip so far has occurred in this wonderful land. After a hard day at the wheel, I chanced upon a little hotel, tucked away in the heart of a run down town. This out of the way place was as peaceful as its location and solitude, and it was not long before my body joined the relaxed rhythm of the place. I had decided to sit out in the last few rays of the sun, on the balcony to my room and, as I did so, a classical flute lesson began in the building opposite me. As both teacher and pupil joined in musical song, I could feel the tension drain away from my muscles, as my body and mind relaxed. This small snapshot of harmony is, in my mind, a true postcard of Greece and, although I have encountered hints of the third world upon this shore, I can only praise this land and fondly remember my time here.
Next it is onto Turkey, as I begin my journey due east. Hopefully, with luck, I will encounter the eastern promise that I have often heard about. Until this happens, I will continue peddling onward.
Stage 12 Greece to Turkey Well, What a crossing of borders! My shift into the non European countries couldn't be more obvious and the change in countries and cultures really hit me hard. The normal cross border routine, which is getting rather familiar and somewhat tedious for me, took place and I emerged into a new world.
Just inside the Greek border is a sugar beet factory and I was immediately confronted with the sight of man and machine working in opposite methods and in different cultures. On the Greek side of the border, farmers harvest their beet with shiny new bright coloured tractors that dig into the earth and harvest the food. In total contrast, on the Turkish side of the border, the field were full of men and women harvesting by hand. The back breaking labour, so labourious. People wielding shovels and loading newly harvested beet onto a rusting tractor and trailer really showed the contrast between nations and cultures. Both methods have their value, but the differences between methods, being operated only yards apart was really shocking to see.
Despite this contrast, I was once again over come by the kindness of strangers. The hospitality began the moment I approached the border as the Turkish soldiers flagged me down in their truck and began to chat to me. I had previously passed the Greek soldiers at the border, who were lazily sitting in chairs at their post. As I passed them, they seemed oblivious to my presence and seemed not to care that I had travelled over the border. These people and countries are side by side, but worlds apart.
Apart from the obvious difference in culture, I became aware that I was now travelling in a different world when the first call to prayer rang out from the mosque towers. The holy sound ricocheted round the building, bouncing off walls, summoning the people. The deep resonance of this noise immediately sets an atmosphere that makes your hairs stand up on end. It is so meaningful; it not only heralds a different religious culture, but it also harks back to a different time some how. I have travelled widely in other Islamic countries and enjoyed the sights and sounds that Islam brings to a land. So, once again I began to bask in the calming and Karmic effect that Islam has to offer.
Once over the border I headed off to my first stop: the war graves of Gallipoli. It would be hard to find a sadder place in the world, and these graves rival the sadness that surrounds horrific death. Places such as this exude a sadness that can only surround horrific loss. The shadow of what happened on this land seems to linger in the air. Even the birds are silent; their lack of song somehow acting as a mark of respect.
The people here are so friendly, and as I ride I feel that I am surrounded by friends. This feeling is different from anywhere else I have travelled. There is, of course, the same hooting and waving that I experience elsewhere, but there is an openness about these people and the hospitality that they offer. When enquiring about local accommodation, people insist that I stay with them, in their house, and participate in family life. Each direction given or cheerful hello is backed up with a simple saying that makes me feel very humble. They simply say, "I have to help you as you are a guest in my country".
The intimate feeling that accompanies my journey here has made my stay so much more enjoyable. I have been able to experience this culture on many different levels, my favourite being able to experience real life. This intimacy normally accompanies my travels in the third world, which is the reason I travel there so much, but elsewhere it has not occurred, until now.
My love of the contrasts that you find in the third world have begun to appear thick and fast here. One minute you are riding through a busy metropolis, passing neon signs that scream capitalist slogans, then next day you are riding through a dust, mud brick built village. In these villages, people and cattle roam freely, at ease, where as in the city, people move with a greater sense of urgency. Again, you can be riding through bustling tourist towns, that bustle over with merchandise and busy shoppers, where as next day, you can be riding amongst fishermen, in a sleepy fishing village, where the only bustle, is a man mending his fishing nets. These differing lifestyles are just moments apart from each other, but exist in contrast and harmony. I feel extremely lucky to experience Turkey as I have. Many people who visit and stick to the resorts miss out on such a lot. Turkey is beautiful, with all its contradictions.
Turkey lives in a state where both the old and new worlds collide and exist side by side. It is common as I ride along to see veiled women, covered head to foot in fabric, walking alongside skimpily clad women who are embracing western fashion. Drab colours of clothing are brightly contrasted with the brilliant colours of new garments. Here east meets west. Old Turkey confronts new Turkey, but all are happy. As well as fashion, the buildings of this land also show a great difference in architectural styles. There is a mix of modern buildings and Roman architecture. Some of the Roman sites are a wonder to see. They are large, incredibly well preserved and so complete. Empty Roman towns stand as a monument to a past culture. The building have not been torn down or defaced. They simply stand in their original majesty. You can actually feel the history as you wander through the ancient streets and if you listen carefully, you can even imagine that the stone walls tell of past secrets.
The terrain has changed day after day, as I have cycled onward. Dry scrubland has been replaced by lush green coasts, which boast sheltered bays and views to die for. Big mountains and huge lakes have appeared around bends and I have been transported back, in my mind, to the Lake District of England that I love so much. These lakes have then been replaced by the sight of the Anatolian steppes, the dusty dry flatlands. These changes are wonderful and continually excite my mind, as I wonder what is over the next hill and around the next corner. I am continually surprised.
Tea drinking seems to be a national occupation here and anywhere you slow your pace, you are invited in for tea. From petrol stations, to people's houses, everyone offers you tea. I have spent many a happy hour, clutching a tea cup and talking about culture, religion, pop music, UN affairs and international politics. It is a fabulous way to spend your days. The Turks pigeon English has made me rejoice in laughter as I have discussed every topic in basic phrases or through an interpreter who relayed my views to an assembled crowd.
My journey has been hard to continue at times. I have wanted to stay with my new found friends and continue the discussions. Sadly, though I have had to push on, but I do get to meet new friends. No doubt I will pass this way again so and our talks can continue.
As life operates at a slower pace here, there is more time to talk and engage in friendly banter. I am often the centre of attention as I cycle off the beaten track, on a somewhat different mode of transport to the usual visitor. I have loved this attention though and have used it as an opportunity to get to know the people better. I shall miss this real sense of community when I leave. The more remote the terrain, the more excited I get as I penetrate into the real Turkish world. Here, the task is to find food, shelter and water. The basic essentials of life and travel, so it is here that I begin to encounter real challenges.
On my ride through Turkey, I have passed my half-way marker, and as I did so I was overwhelmed by a strange feeling that the adventures have only just begun. At night my head rings with the possibility of new adventure, and it is on this note that I head into the next stage of my ride. On to India.
Stage 13 Turkey to India via a flight to avoid Iraq When you think of India, there are a few words that spring to mind. You think of the exotic, of spices, the smell of bubbling curries and bright coloured saris. The images of beautiful women prancing across the golden Bollywood screen jump out at you as dance ensembles fill the screen and new Indian music fills the air. This is the glamorous side of India that the world has been exposed to as the culture of Bollywood has enclosed us in its grasp; but India does have another side. A rather dark side that is filled with pollution, slums, over crowded towns, and poverty. This is the India that I have been exposed to on my ride. This is the real India and it is a country that I will never forget.
After a long flight, I arrive in India and check into the same bland hotel that sits aside every airport in the world. Next morning I awake and go through the same morning routine that I have been doing since I began my ride. Check my equipment, check my self and check out of the hotel. This same blandness envelops me each day as I begin my ride, but as I open the hotel doors and encounter India, the continent enthrals me from the first moment I set eyes on it. India is an assault to the senses. As you see and hear it, you also encounter the aroma of Indian life. Bright colours stimulate my brain, whilst a cacophony of loud noises ring in my ears. People are shouting, cars are hooting, everyone is talking. Then, the smell of the street with its spices, exhaust fumes, grim and people slaps you across the face and makes you realise that this is a new country, a new day and a brand new experience.
In an attempt to adjust to the many sights and sounds that India offers, I try and purvey the scene. On one side of the road, a line of elephants and handlers stand idly, waiting for people to hire them for work. On the other side of the street, camels parade up and down lugging carts. They too are also awaiting the call to industry. In the midst of this animal jamboree, a market is being erected and people are swarming around the tables, setting up their stall and calling to any customers that may be passing by. The sight of the stalls, many with bright colours, immediately draws my attention as vegetables are displayed alongside fine cloths. Many stalls seem to belch smoke into the open air and tinge the street with a burnt aroma. All of this information seems to jam in my brain and for a short while I am lost in the moment.
When I recover from this onslaught of activity, I mount my cycle and head off into one of India's biggest cities at rush hour. Like many of my fellow road users, I ride a cycle, so I steadily go with the flow of traffic as I inch forward into the metropolis. I am desperately searching for any form of street sign, which will point me in my chosen direction, but everywhere I look, I am unable to find any sense of where I am or where I am heading. In a last ditch attempt to take control of my own navigation, I attempt, in sign language and pidgin English, to talk to the rider next to me. The answer comes from many people that surround me, all of them sending me in completely different directions.
The city is heavily industrial and the air that I am breathing in is thick with pollution. My lungs seem to ache as I desperately try to breathe in the laden air. All around the city, large chimneys launch dark billowing clouds of smoke into the sky. The strong odour fills my lungs and numbs my mind, as I cycle forth. I have never seen anything like it as visibility is also restricted to a minimum as I fight my way through the smog. Finally, I reach what I think is the right road and continue on my journey.
It seemingly takes me half the morning to escape the grasping arms of the city, and as I eventually begin to ride through clean air, my lungs are revived by the sweet smell of oxygen. When I perceive this, I stop peddling and look around me. I am surrounded by farmland, and have successfully peddled my way into the open countryside. Glad of my escape, I climb off my bike and take rest on a nearby tree stump. As I do so I feel my heart beating like a marching drum in my chest. I will want to rest until my heart stops pounding with excitement and returns to its normal rhythm. As arrivals go, it has been an eventful welcome to India.
Finding my way around this beautiful country has been great fun and has given me hours of joy. Due to the war in Iraq and Pakistan, I have been unable to follow my original route round the world, so my detour has meant that I have had to make up these miles in India. This plan has meant that I have had to follow the whole of the Indian coast line, following its V like shape. This route has enabled me to bask in the country's coastal beauty as I follow the sea, and has also enabled me to dispatch with my 3 maps: one in Indian, one in English and one in French. (As I am unable to carry maps of every country that I visit with me continually, I buy a new map as I move into each new country. This time I have had to buy three maps; the Indian one being the one that I am following and planning my day to day route from.
As I have ridden, I have noticed many differences between my three maps. None of them seemingly correspond. The journey that I have just ridden does not occur on one map, partially occurs on the other and is in full view on another. I am very confused. Which map is right? It is impossible to navigate your way round this continent using street signs, as my route out of the city showed me. Street signs and names do not exist in some places. So my ride has been interesting to say the least. This latest test of my navigational skills has found me somewhat wanting, until I gleaned the knowledge that India, fearing for its national security, deliberately maps its coastline and defensive borders inaccurately. Oh how this knowledge would have helped me in my preparation and execution!
With planning a bit ad hoc, I have cycled on, gleaning new information with every turn of my wheels. Such a task is less than easy, and complicates even the simplest of rides, but adds to the tapestry of my journey. Added to this confusion is the Asian custom, where it is impolite to say 'no' when asked a question. This cultural anomaly has made my ride interesting, as strangers have sent me riding in the wrong direction, for fear of saying 'no'! These wrong directions have sent me into farming districts where the locals have never been further than their village's boundary, so, when asked where the next town may lie, they reply with an empty look or crinkled brow. The people in these areas are exceptionally polite and accommodating, a trait that I found to be charming, despite my many haggles with the truth. Literacy in this part of the world isn't high on the agenda either, so many folk don't know the written names of the surrounding areas and cannot read a map, so at times I have been sailing upon a sea of illiteracy and ignorance.
Such a sea of ignorance has made my trip more interesting though. During one of my frequent talks with the farming communities, one man repeatedly thumbed through my map books and decided that we were definitely somewhere near Moscow! This, he pronounced, with much vigour and confidence, and immediately bade me to mount my cycle and head toward the iron curtain!
Distance means nothing to people who have never travelled, so their ideas are tinged with a lack of comprehension. On questioning yet another man, I was advised that it was only 50km to Madras from his village, so I eagerly set about my task, aiming to be in town before night fell. As I began to push my bike forward, an unexplained feeling of insecurity began to cross my mind. Almost as an afterthought, I asked the same man how my km it was to Bombay, and in return he replied, "only 50km". Pressing him further, I asked if he knew the distance from Bombay to London. Once again, this master of the road knowingly replied, "50km". As I departed, I decided to trust my own instincts, and follow my nose.
Further down the road, I encountered two taxi drivers who sat idle in their vehicles. By this time I knew I was nearing a city as the scenery had begun to change and become more industrial. I had a hunch that the city limits would loom large on the horizon any time soon, but thought I would double check with local residents. Both men earnestly answered my question by simultaneously pointing in opposite directions, then, on seeing that they had contradicted the other, changed their minds and pointed in the same way as their companion! Realising their gaff, both men broke into raucous laughter, as did I, at the ludicrously of the situation. Being lost is a great way to meet new people.
My favourite lack of street signs took place on the major road between Madras and Calcutta. This chief roadway paves the way between two of India's most important cities, yet this 600km stretch of road is neither signed nor appears on some of the maps! Still, it has been fun navigating my somewhat crooked route.
The Indian people are charming and boy is there a lot of them though! The continent of India makes up 2% of the Earth's landmass, but in contrast, Indian people make up 16% of the Earth's population. It is a country that is full of people, and what a people they are. Warm, full of fun, inquisitive and ready to include you into their family and friends at any occasion. If you are a shy traveller, then India's back roads are not the place for you. I loved the people's inquisitiveness, and as a seasoned traveller who is always on the lookout for a new experience, I found their sense of fun a constant source of entertainment.
If you stop on the roadside, any traveller will be immediately caught up in a crowd of people, each of them looking at you and examining you with their hands. People attempt to engage you in conversation, even though you speak a different language, as they want information, as much as they can get. Where a person is going, what he is doing, is a constant source of intrigue to Indian people. They are so interested in a newcomer's life that often, the slightest stop for water can take many hours, as many hands are thrust at you in an attempt to make new friends. Often, I have had to fight my way out of the crowds and get on my bike, whilst hands are still being pushed toward me, or patting me on the back. I don't mean to be rude, but I would still be there if I hadn't made a getaway. I do have a Guinness record to make!
Trying to take photographs amongst Indian people has also, sadly, become a no go. The vast scenery of this wonderful country is often crowded out by villagers who immediately crowd your view when you stop at the roadside. In minutes of disembarking, a crowd is around you and the view that you previously encountered is gone forever. When asked, politely, to move, the crowds shuffle sideways, only millimetres, but as they do, more and more people step forward to see the strange foreigner and his shiny equipment. I have to include my apologies at this point as my shots of India are few and far between. If I did manage to take a photo, then everyone in the crowd wanted to see it, and then asked if they could have a photo of themselves. Being the person I am, I never had the heart to say 'no', so I have spent much time during this part of my trip taking photos of people and then frantically swapping addresses, so that I can send the image back to them when I return home. This occurred so often that I decided to keep my camera in my pocket, untouched, but safe, in an attempt to keep to the timing of my planned route.
The interest in me has been genuine and heartfelt as I have toured around, and I feel that this contact with the country's people has enabled me to see a bit of the 'real' India. I have, at times, been offered hospitality from Indians who speak perfect English. Such offers have been met by pure excitement on my part as I have taken the opportunity to investigate the country and culture in my native tongue. It is from these conversations that I have been able to glen a little of real Indian culture. English is the second language of India, and is the chosen language of the administration, so any educated person speaks English fluently. This has meant that my conversations in English have been enthralling, and has enabled me to discuss the things that have puzzled me for so long about Indian culture. I have often wondered about the truth behind arranged marriages, divorce, religion and politics. I have found that guide books only hint at the truth about cultures, so I have been able to dive headlong into real culture, with native Indian people as my guide. This experience has been a heady mix of investigation, excitement and knowledge and has ensured that I have been immersed in the maintenance and balking of Indian tradition.
Added to this fun, half the newspapers in India are printed in English, so I have been able to keep abreast of world affairs and engage in cosmopolitan discussion with new friends. One of my favourite discussions of the trip so far occurred in a bar, when the waiter approached me and asked me in all seriousness, if I knew the meaning to life?! Being the ungodly creature that I am, I sent him away for another beer and pondered the question. In answer I could offer only rhetoric, much of which was beer fuelled. Another encounter saw a man screech his car to a halt, on passing me, and jump out of his vehicle to flag me down. I stopped, only to be hugged by this man, kissed on the cheek and told that Jesus was his saviour. Maybe he thought I was in need of a little salvation. I do, at times, resemble a vagabond; an appearance that made a woman, fully clad in her burka, raise her arm toward me and wave like fury. It is amazing what the sight of a man in scantily clad Lycra does for people!
My days in India have seemed to have settled into a routine where I rise at dawn to cycle. This routine means that I avoid peddling in the hottest part of the day, but it has also meant that I see India as it awakes. At dawn, people light dung fires for their first drink of the day, wash themselves in local rivers and ponds alongside buffalo, and then cycle or walk to work and school. As I ride, many children have challenged me to a race, and as declining would be seen as rude, I have begun many a day with a swift sprint.
When the midday sun rises, I have to stop riding and explore the countryside or town that I find myself in. I have the habit of finding a local taxi driver who speaks English, and then ask him to show me the local sights. This tack has ensured me company for the day and after the tour and the usual beer, I have often been invited back to the driver's house for food and company. As I visit with these people, I am able to offer them the goodies that I have liberated from the posh hotels that I have stayed in on route. The welcome packs that include shampoo, soaps, plasters, nail files, sewing kits and pencils and paper have been squirreled away in my panniers, but when I encounter a family, I often take them out and give them to my hosts. I have also been able to offer these goods to the poorer communities that I have ridden though, my favourite being the schools that I have visited, where resources are extremely low.
As I move along the coastline, the scenery changes from towns to agriculture and back to towns again. As I move, I have seen a constantly changing culture, where differing religions sit side by side in harmony. Hindu, Muslim and Christian cultures mix happily, their places of worship often sitting alongside each other. Amusingly, each religion seems to compete for followers in this region, and each sermon can be heard on the street as the words of the gods are piped outward, direct from the pulpit! I have oft listened to these musical messages, but refrained from any commitment and carried on my way.
India is perhaps the cheapest country that I have ridden through so far. At times, this lack of cost and money is shocking as a cup of tea is as little as 2p and a good meal can be bought for £1. My stay in a hotel can be in the region of £2 a night, where as a luxury hotel is merely £20 a night. So, the next question on your lips is, am I economising in this culture of little or nothing? Of course not! I am taking the opportunity to live it up. Here the best hotels are based in Maharajah's palaces, so I am able to soak up the strong colonial past.
Contrast is, as followers of this site will know, one of my favourite parts of travelling, so I have been indulging in this whenever I am able. One night I will sleep on the ground, in the middle of paddy fields, sweating in the tropical heat, in the midst of flying mosquitoes, looking up at the star clad sky. In this place, I will be without food and water, stranded more than 100 miles from the next town. Then, the next night, I will stay in an old palace, swimming in a crystal blue pool, having my legs massaged, whilst trying to decide whether I eat lobster or steak as I sip my ice cold beer. Such contrast makes me appreciate the good things in life, and I don't feel as guilty pampering myself, when I have spent a night sleeping rough. Excesses in this country exist in contrast to extreme poverty, and I am very glad to have been able to experience both sides of the coin; something that many locals will never do. Such a liberty has made me appreciate the life I have and make me aware of what a privilege it is to visit India in my circumstance. I am a very lucky man.
Stage 14 India to Thailand Whilst India took me by storm, Thailand is as equally enchanting, but in a different way. Thailand is luxurious. The whole country breathes with an air of opulence and extravagance. Life is easy by comparison, and once again I have begun to notice that the simple things in life are wonderful.
Life in Indian had been a run of poverty, hardship and constant self-denial. Once over the Thailand border the contrast was immediate as I could lavish my taste buds with a wash of my chosen drink. I am constantly surprised by the amount of choice that Thailand offers. Cold drinks are available everywhere, and the range of them is huge. In India, unreliable power sources meant that fridges were a rarely seen luxury, so fresh juice quickly went sour. Here, fresh drinks are aplenty and I am consuming as much as I can. I simply love the taste of fresh fruit, especially the pomello (a cross between a grapefruit and an orange, which is about the size of a small melon); again another simple thing that makes my ride so much easier.
Once again indulging my stomach, and increasing the ever-expanding waist line, I am able to eat both Eastern and Western cuisine. I even enjoyed shopping in the super market, something that I usually loathe with a passion, but here it seemed so novel and decadent. It feels a world away from the poverty of India.
The roads in Thailand are also signposted, so for the first time in weeks, I can rely on signs and keep my maps tucked away in my panniers. Wide smooth roads majestically sweep their away across the country in a criss-cross design, and I am able to access places with ease. Where ever I travel though, the roads always seem to lead me into the heart of the country's people. People in Thailand exude an air of gentleness and serenity. As always, they are kind, friendly and ultra polite, but they are somehow distant and differential. They do not greet you in the same gregarious way as Indian people do.
I do not mean to over generalise, but I have encountered the most intriguing sense of humour in this land. Everything is life seems to be blessed with a light hearted feel. I have often been quickly labelled as 'the bicycle man' or 'bike boy' as I enter hotels or ride past their doorways, peering in. Many luxury hotels here are astonished to see a Westerner travelling using this mode of transport, and are taken aback when I dismount my bike and carry it into the marble laden foyer. In this manner, my route round the globe continues in this decadent manner as I uphold the noble image of an English gentleman abroad. My version of a grand tour seems to deviate from the aristocratic norm though, as I fluctuate between staying in high-class hotels, where style and chic are the norm, and humble surroundings, where the bed is the only thing to adorn the room. It is this contrast that I love and this disparity between the lavish and the modest.
I constantly fight a guilt that lurks at the back of my consciousness, when I stay in grand surroundings. The adversity and destitution of that I have witnessed in previous countries still haunts me, and I find it increasingly difficult to lavish money on myself, especially when I don't actually need it. In order to get over this plaguing feeling, I have upped the number of miles that I ride each day. After many more miles, I can fool myself into thinking that I have earned the opulent lifestyle that I am bestowing upon myself. In these sumptuous retreats I am able to bathe in their giant sized pools and languish in their massage rooms where my aching muscles are manipulated and gently teased back into place. Each of these 'therapy' sessions have seen many a beautiful Thai girl pummelling by body, and often I have had one girl working on my neck and shoulders while two other girls work away at my legs! What with the view and a beer in my hand, could life get any better? I am sure I have discovered cyclist heaven.
One exciting moment on this leg of the trip was the first time that I encountered a monitor lizard. The flora and fauna around here is abundant, but it was not high enough to camouflage a resplendent monitor lizard basking in the sun. It was a truly shocking Jurassic Park moment, as I was totally unaware of how big they were! Whilst I kept my distance and cycled around it, a little bit in fear, I immediately tried to access an encyclopaedia, so that I could learn the truth about the creature that I had seen. After much reading and research, I now know that my friend was an Asian water monitor lizard, which can grow up to 7 feet long and weigh up to 135 lbs. In my mind, this one was fully grown, and I was glad to avoid its huge long claws that lay upon the ground. Despite the fact that I have lived in Florida, where huge alligators roamed the neighbourhoods, I have never been afraid of these animals. This lizard was different though. This monitor darted out of the bushes ahead of me, to devour the carrion that lay prostrate before me on the road. The size of this monstrous remnant from bygone days stood high on its legs, proudly thrusting its scaled form into the sky. Its speed was worthy of document as it gracefully waddled forward, weaving its way toward its prize. Unbeknown to the dinosaur, I stopped to observe, and unashamedly it began to tear away at its prey. The ripping flesh gave way beneath its strong jaws, and the meat was quickly stripped from the bone. I sat there, totally mesmerised and amazed, truly grateful to have shared this moment with such a wild creature. While the lizard began to digest its food, my thoughts began to wander and I became aware of my task. With the website in mind, I quickly reached for my camera, to snap this sight, but as I did so, the noise of the zip startled the creature. Momentarily, the lizard turned its head and for a split second, looked me directly in the eyes. As it did so, I felt as if I were being observed, checked out by an animal that could cause me serious damage. Then, it turned and ran straight towards me, as if on a collision course, before turning left and disappearing, as quickly as it had appeared. Another fabulous moment filed in the cabinet that is my mind!
The food in Thailand is, to use an Americanism, simply awesome. A true gastronomic delight that I am able to indulge in day after day. Boy have I enjoyed my time here. Much of the cuisine is spicy, like India, but is comprised of many different spices. I have been caught out on many an occasion by the delayed chilli action! The dishes seem hot when you taste them. They give your mouth a warm feel that lights the fire of the taste buds, but the spices don't seem to be too hot. Later though, the chillies take their revenge and ravish the mouth, leaving you gasping for water and relief. I do believe that on occasion, smoke has been seen coming out of my ears!
I especially love the presentation of food here. It is simply hilarious, as much food is served in the empty shell of a pineapple. I was expecting to see fruit drinks and cocktails presented in a fruit shell but I was amazed to see prawn and coconut curry, or more shockingly, spaghetti bolognaise served in this manner. Quite Brilliant!
One of my favourite moments of my Thailand experience took place as I rode toward the Malaysian border, through villages that revolve around picking and drying wild coffee beans. I had stopped in one village for a closer look, and one farmer quickly waved me into his farmyard. I quickly rode forward, happy to take up his invitation. As I asked questions about the farmer's coffee production, he proudly took some roasting beans and ground them for me, making me a cup of coffee from fresh beans. As I drank, its black liquid flowed over my tongue and its earthy taste washed over my tongue and down my throat. Pure liquid gold. Although instant, in that it was made in front of me, this was the best cup of coffee that I have ever tasted. After we had exchanged pleasantries, and I had expressed my gratitude for much a wonderful cup of char, I remounted my bike and set of peddling down the road. As I did so, my heart thumped loudly, my eyes seemingly wired open, after the biggest caffeine hit I have ever had.
Like my time in Thailand, this caffeine hit wore off, and before I knew it, I had ridden my way through the country. It had taken me eleven days to descend down the backbone of this land, witnessing its wonders. From the new agriculture of rubber tapping that is at work in the forests, to the majestic magnificence of