Prologue
As a Dutchman you're not easily inclined to do away with your bicycle. Every bike sooner or later gets stolen, and that is the moment to acquire a new one, as inconvenient as that moment may be. That is the natural process by which you renew you bicycle, and there is not much point in speeding it up by getting a new one 'in between'. Besides, by doing that you would become even more prone to theft.
I planned the route: via three youth hostels I would do the distance of 320 km (as the crow flies) to Harwich in four days, then take the ferry, and cycle one day more in the Netherlands. All my friends and colleagues know how cycle-crazy I am, but think I have now gone completely mad. An Australian colleague, with whom I have cycled to Bristol and back (but that was on my new bike), says: "I have seen how fast you cycle, so you will make it, I'm not worried about that. But that old bike of yours, that is going to collapse somewhere half the way!" And maybe he's right ...
Day 1; 13/9/6
Everything at home is closed and off, the plants have been watered etc., and I leave at 11:00 from Bath, in good courage and similar weather. First along the A4, from Bathford away from the main road, and along a small road lightly up the hill. I leave here already my home county 'Bath and North East Somerset', and enter Wiltshire.
From Avebury a path leads up the hill, and from there due left, to the northeast: this is where the Ridgeway starts. To be precise the Ridgeway is longer than that, but the route as a whole is only open for walkers. From here starts a long section that has been classified as cycle route.
Day 2; 14/9/6
I am the only guest in the youth hostel who takes a breakfast, because it is not included in the price. I sit like a king alone in the spacious dining hall, while the cook prepares and serves especially for me the scrambled eggs, ham, mushrooms, coffee and toast. Kingly service in a youth hostel.
14:00 in a pub in Watlington a high club sandwich with everything on it, and around it. I am now halfway today's trip, so I am much better on schedule than yesterday. This is going well. Charged up I climb the hill ridge and cross the Ridgeway, to get eastward in the direction of the youth hostel of Jordans. After Christmas Common I cross on the top a county border, descend the hills in Buckinghamshire and come down near Turville.
Aaah!!! How could I not notice that? How long has that been gone? I'm going back, to look!! It must be lying somewhere along the road! I'm following my trail back, on the right (wrong) side of the road. Have you seen a black rucksack lying on the road? no... darn, where is that thing? ... where did I see it last - that was with that friendly lawnmowerer; that is a very long way back ... which way did I actually come? That there seems a one way street toward there, so that can't be ... but it wasn't this way either ... ah it was that way after all because it isn't a one way street ... still no black rucksack ...
Beside the road is a large house. I ring the bell at the closed gate, try to explain something through the intercom, and ask for a telephone and/or a lift. The man comes with a cordless telephone to the gate. He can't completely follow my problem, but that may be due to my explanation. (Just try to tell something like this clearly!) My mobile number still gives no reply. The man can't give me a lift because he is only house-sitting, and cannot leave.
Apart from a girl of about 20 and a man of about 30 years old behind the bar, it is empty. "Hi; I hope that somebody here can help me with at least one of my problems", I enter cheerfully. I explain everything, and immediately get use of the telephone. My mobile number however now gives the message "this telephone is switched off ". So, battery dead.
At night, halfway walking back to Cadmore End I catch a ride. I even succeed in that! But fate starts again being a little against me when, after getting out, can't exactly find the house back anymore. Am I in the right street? Why didn't I earlier pay attention to the house number?! After having tried the key on several doors (again almost arrested as a stalker!) I do run into a house that looks very familiar, and to which the key does fit.
Day 3; 15/9/6
Hardly having slept, but therefore not less active, I run downstairs, ready to get my business sorted. Ms. Crichton, whose name I now finally learn to spell and pronounce (as "cryton"), lends me the phone, and over breakfast I call to the police station in High Wycombe to report my lost bag. They haven't found it yet. And I call Hanna, who probably was worried to death because she didn't receive any text messages from me anymore.
I want to get up again when I see that from my front wheel the left winged nut is missing. Darn, now how could that happen? Yes, that one sometimes comes loose, but that doesn't mean it has to disappear straight away? At any rate, with my front wheel suspended on only one point I cannot really cycle safely hundreds of kilometres, so we'll have to do something about this. They will surely have those nuts in Cycle Care.
I buy a new mobile phone -a second-hand simple old model-, and new rucksack. My stomach is rumbling so I eat a sandwich and coffee in a café, served by a little angel with big white wings. I manage to change the reservations on the ferry and the B&B in Hoek van Holland by a day. However, the youth hostel in Castle Hedingham, and the one in Jordans, where I now would like to go tonight, I can't reach.
Day 4; 16/9/6
In the morning it turns out I should have ordered breakfast in the evening. Nice, that you're telling me that now! But a bowl of muesli and a glass of orange juice I can get on the spot. On second thoughts, it's better that I didn't know it then, because that heavy English breakfast, with eggs, bacon, sausage and the whole lot, I actually don't care much about.
In the pub, a few regular customers, with whom my case has already been spoken around, ask me: "Did you now come cycling all the way from Bishop's Stortford?"
Day 5; 17/9/6
At breakfast I call my mother and tell her that she mustn't expect me tonight; according to the present planning I won't be arriving until tomorrow evening. Still a bit more fine tuning on my bicycle and I am ready for the last étape in England - and an easy one it should be. After all, according to the Michelin route planner I am now still only 60 km from Harwich. The ferry reservation told me that I have to be present at 18:00 for the ferry of 19:20. I should be able to make that now.
After a schnitzel and chips, and some relaxing with a few Murphy's beers, because the lager is Heineken and I really can't drink that stuff, it is quickly already 24:00 local time and we are in Hoek van Holland.
Day 6; 18/9/6
At 7:00 I'm already wide awake. Do I now have to wait all the way until nine for breakfast? On the shower door is written I can shower from 7:30, so at that moment I do that, and afterwards pack my things. At 8:30 I am all ready to go. I don't feel like waiting any longer for breakfast, but I do still want my change back. I go to the living room. The door is locked, but through the glass door I can see that the table is set.
I eat a mushroom omelette and an old-cheese roll in the railway station restaurant, where the service is friendly. The menu is completely in Dutch and English, except 'uitsmijter', of which the bartender says he doesn't know how to call it in English. (It is an open fried-egg sandwich.) Looks like the English will just have to learn that word.
Epilogue
What struck me most after completing this trip, was that I felt like going on. I had expected beforehand, that I, at least for a few days, wouldn't be able to stand the sight of a bicycle. None of the kind: I was more energetic than ever. In fact, on the whole trip I had even been most tired at the end of the first day. Of course this had to do with the fact that I had been pushing along a bike, clogged up with mud, for several kilometres. And on the second day I naturally wasn't tired enough because I hadn't gotten as far as was planned. But what about the fourth day (Ivinghoe - Braintree); wasn't I tired after that? Of course I was, but not so that I felt that I couldn't go on. And also afterwards in Driebergen: even though the last day was such a long day, I could go much further, and wasn't anything near 'run out'.
Further: for experienced cycle travellers this is probably nothing new, but for me it was a revelation how lovely it feels to traverse a large area on a bicycle. What freedom! To start with, as a cyclist you have of course the contact with the landscape, with your surroundings, which a car traveller in a tin box never gets to know at all. But even when you make a day cycle trip, you always still realise that you have to be back again in the evening, and this limits your action radius; it keeps you to some extent 'on a hook'. This time I had, already the first morning, when I left Bath and knew that I could cycle for the whole day in one direction without having to come back, an incredible feeling of freedom. I felt like a bird in the air, crossing borders and seas, on its way to his other home in Africa.
Of course the adversities were less nice: the several punctures, the rainstorm, the lost luggage and the missing nut. But some bad luck you can always expect. These things certainly do not make me think back to this trip as being a 'failure'. After all, exactly because of this I experienced a lot and met a lot of sympathetic people, and exactly there I had the feeling I was not alone: in the Peacock, at ms. Crichton's, and at Cycle Care. (I have sent afterwards thank-you cards to those three places, and to Crichton also a bunch of orchids.)
But something else that could have been done differently: it was a bit of a pity that I had little extra time, for instance to go and see things, such as the Avebury stone circles, or the Ivinghoe beacon. The trip maybe would have been more relaxed if I would be travelling only for about five hours per day, and had the rest of the day off, to go and see a town or a monument. On the other hand, maybe that actually would give me even more that unsatisfied feeling that I could still have cycled much more. So the optimum may be a variation of long cycling days with quieter days, on which you have time to do something else.
This takes me to another aspect of this kind of adventurous trips, not only of cycling trips. You get to know the people so well. How friendly and warm-hearted the people in England were! I dare not think how things would have turned out for me near High Wycombe if everybody there hadn't been so helpful and hadn't made me feel so much at home there. But not only that. The youth hostel manager in Wantage who, though the kitchen had been closed for a long time, still provided me with bread and soup. The regular customers and the staff of the Hare & Hounds in Braintree, who nicely went solving puzzles with me. Everybody gave me the feeling that I was welcome.
To close off. The aim has been achieved: the bicycle is standing now in the shed at my parents' place. And already during the week that I subsequently spent with them, I enjoyed it immensely, cycling round in Driebergen, but also in the surroundings. This felt good. This bicycle belongs here. Of course it has also been built for the flat Dutch roads with good bicycle tracks, and is less suitable for all those other countries.
Probably I am now generalising too much; this won't apply to all Dutch people. That's because it applies to me even for other things: I don't replace my stuff until it completely falls apart, or gets lost. The fact that because of this I am usually out of fashion (and sometimes even in it!) is something I couldn't care less about, and I save bucketloads of money this way.
Anyway, for the above reason, my bicycle, a road bike that I had bought second-hand in 1993, was still in my possession in 2005. It had moved with me to Finland in 1995, back to the Netherlands in 1997, to France in 2000 and to England in 2003. With this bicycle I also rode happily around in England until I had a nasty fall in January 2005. Right in front of my house, I rode down a slope and quickly turned around a corner to go up another slope. But I didn't realize how slippery it was. I skidded and fell. Wanted to get up and continue, but I noticed my head was bleeding. This was not good. I went back inside, where Hanna got the shock of her life. Right beside my right eye there was a huge open wound exposing the bone. It appeared that during the fall, my head had hit the ground, and my glasses had broken. The frame had penetrated my head and cut the wound.
I won't bother you too long with this story. The wound has been stitched, and apart from a small scar near my eye, everything has healed up. But this accident has led to many discussions. Do I cycle safely? Shouldn't I wear a helmet? Of course, as a Dutchman I have a different opinion on this than Hanna (from Finland) and the English. I think that, although I was very lucky it wasn't any worse -no skull fracture or concussion, no wound in my eye-, I was also very unlucky that this happened at all. I think I fell in a quite unlikely way. Only the fact that something happened doesn't prove, according to me, that it is 'likely' and will easily happen again. After all, normally when you skid with a bicycle, you don't land on your head.
Still, I undertook some actions to reduce the probability of such an accident further, and bought, completely against my principles, a new bicycle. The old bike was a little instable anyway, and I could afford it. On my new hybrid bicycle I now ride with more ease and pleasure every day up the hill to my work at the University of Bath, because my old road bike was actually less suitable for hills anyway. And in the evenings while rolling down that hill, I now also wear a helmet. That is how far I have I have gone in stretching my standards.
But what to do now with my old bicycle? It is now summer 2006, and it is just standing there, unused, souvenir of lot of experiences, ending dramatically with that nasty fall. Everybody would tell me to take that bike to the rubbish tip. I could never do that, as long as it's still usable to some extent. Besides, this bike is a monument. Every scratch, dent and crack has a story.
There is a weld in the frame near the pedals' axel, made by welders who were installing some pipes at Onera in Toulouse, where I worked. This way, they repaired a crack in my frame, which not a single bike repairman could, or wanted to, even consider repairing. And they refused every payment.
There is a 'bite' taken from the front fender, cut by myself to make room for a certain dynamo - which is not anymore on it now.
With this bicycle I had the removal drama from Finland back to the Netherlands, when I had packed it full to be used as a luggage trolley, but in Sweden they wouldn't let me on the trains like this. Through some very complicated procedures I finally managed to get both the bike and all other luggage through Sweden.
And this bike, my companion and witness of twelve years of my life, I would have to get rid of, only because a new bike rides better up the hill? No way!
A solution to this dilemma I found in the fact that every time I visit my parents in Driebergen, the Netherlands, I don't have a bicycle, and always have to borrow my mother's whenever I want to make a tour or want to go to a pub with my sister. So why don't I put this old bike over there?
And with this idea came immediately another idea, to restore my old steel horse's honour. After the fall of 2005 I suddenly never used it anymore, and now it risks rusting away. I have found all the time that in doing so I am not doing it justice. It always has served me faithfully, and now, just because of that fall, which it couldn't help, it is being made redundant. That is not fair. So, apart from giving this bike a significant role as my bike at my parents' place (and a warm dry shed as a stable, instead of the shelter of a plastic cover at my place in England), I also want to give the bike an opportunity to show that it is still very well able to take from A to B. Therefore the idea: let's move the bike by riding it all the way to Driebergen.
Of course, in the back of my head there were even more arguments. I like to make bicycle trips, and have often considered taking a whole cycling holiday, but I never get round to doing that. The only time I did something the like was in 1981, when we, a group of high school graduates, cycled three weeks through France and Belgium. Furthermore, it seems like Hanna and I will soon be moving from England (back) to Finland, and as a goodbye action I would like to make one more nice trip in this beautiful country. So: to do justice to my bicycle, to cycling in general, and to England, it is logical to ride this bike all the way to the Netherlands.
I checked the bicycle, and oiled and adjusted everything carefully. Of course it would be wise also to take it to a bicycle shop to have it checked. But I am way too afraid that they will say: "To the Netherlands on this bike? No-o-o-o, not before we first replace all the parts!" Me, I don't even replace anything at all, because everything still works. Should something break on the way, I can always go to a repairman then. (I'll admit, that is again my weird conservationism of old stuff. Still, I think that this strategy generally works.)
To be sure, I mount some battery front and rear lights on it, which I borrowed from Hanna, although I am planning to cycle only during daytime. For safety I also mount the rear view mirror which Hanna had on her bike in France (for obvious reasons, if you know the traffic over there). And I make several test rides, which give me the impression that this old boy really still works fine, and certainly is able to transport me through southern England and western Netherlands.
I mount a little bike computer on it, a birthday present, which measures speeds and distances. I mark on maps of the area which routes are part of the national cycle network of the British cycle organisation Sustrans. For the Netherlands I have the online cycle route planners of the provinces of Zuid-Holland and Utrecht determine my routes. I pack my stuff in one large bag and one small rucksack, which I tie together on the back of the bike with a four-point strap, and so I am ready to go, on the morning of Wednesday September 13.
Planned route:
Day 1: Bath - Wantage 91 km
Day 2: Wantage - Jordans 78 km
Day 3: Jordans - Castle Hedingham 118 km
Day 4: Castle Hedingham - Harwich (ferry) 62 km
Day 5: Hoek van Holland - Driebergen 92 km
(distances estimated with a car route planner)
Such a hill is of course not ideal on this bicycle, but in this area you can't actually avoid them. On top of the hill, going between the golf courses, it is a sheer pleasure with the little trees on both sides of the road, with the sun peeping through every time. Just like walking in an orchard.
At the end of this hill I enter Corsham via a different road than I had thought. This is not dramatic, but I conclude that I cannot rely on road signs alone. I resolve to stop at every crossing to consult the map.
In the centre of Corsham, a peacock is walking on the pavement, quietly past the houses, turns a corner and walks on. Isn't a bit bothered by pedestrians who look at him a bit strangely. "If people, dogs and cats can walk here, then why can't I?" He's right too. I dig up my camera from my bag, but it's too late. A peacock is not going to wait for nosy tourists who want to take pictures of him. He is already gone.
From Corsham I could go straight ahead to Chippenham. But I would like to avoid the cities as much as possible, and so I go a little to the south to pass by this one.
Lacock, to be precise the area near Lacock Abbey, is very pretty, with buildings reconstructed in medieval style. But after Lacock I get the first problem. I want to cross the foresty area near Bowden Hill, via a road which I had picked out on the map, but at the start of this road there is a blockage: "Road closed". Of course I can pass this with my little bicycle, and hope that the real closure -whatever it is- does not form a blockage for cyclists. But I decide not to take the risk. However, while looking for other roads through this area that are open, I soon end up all the way in Melksham. Darn, it wasn't meant to go this way. I am now due south of Chippenham, and not at all going in the direction I want to go. Besides, if I had gone immediately to Melksham and not to Corsham, or I had gone from Corsham straight to Chippenham, I would have saved a lot of time. I will just have to count with adversities like this.
I am looking for a road out of Melksham toward the east. When I ask it from a local passer-by, we find out together that all roads through the area around Bowden Hill are closed. She advises me to take a road further south, via Sells Green.
Following her instructions I find this road easily, and it takes me in the right direction, but it looks so dubious that I would never have taken it without somebody's advice. Another mental note: ask a lot!
I have taken the barrier of Bowden Hill and am finally again on my way eastward. I celebrate this with a blackberry break. Everywhere along the roads blackberry bushes grow abundantly, and exactly at this time they are at their ripest. Perfect power food for cyclists! I grasp merrily for the blackest berries, cunningly avoiding all thorns, and indulge in the sweet fruits. For a moment, I have to think mercifully of my colleagues, who are now normally at work.
Past Calne I choose a cycle route from Sustrans that leads into my direction. This was partly marked on the website as "poor surface". That's true; parts of it are along a gravel path which is not really nice to cycle. But it's not too bad, and if this is labelled "poor", then the other routes can't be any problem, can they?
This route leads me to Avebury. Here I eat a steak sandwich on a terrace of a pub. This does indeed consist of two large slices of bread with a large steak in between. Advised by my Australian colleague I now believe that a steak gives valuable power for a long cycle ride. The house cat of the pub is all the time begging me for food. So adorable that another guest asks whether he can take a picture of it.
On the terrace I make up the balance. It is already 16:00, and according to my bike computer I have gone already 60 km. Not a bad achievement, but I have proceeded only 40 km; as the crow flies I am only halfway my trip of today. So I am way behind. But I have little choice; I'll have to cycle to Wantage anyway, as long as the circumstances don't make this completely impossible. Besides: right after this starts a cycle route following the Ridgeway, in an almost straight line to Wantage. So I won't really get lost anymore.
The Ridgeway is a route, mostly following a hill ridge of the Chiltern Hills, through a large part of southern England. This route is very old, and was probably used by people in the age of Stonehenge and the other stone circles.
Speaking of stone circles, here in Avebury are also some very nice ones. This place is almost as spectacular as Stonehenge; here the stones are just not piled on top of each other. But the fact that it is not so touristic here makes it again more special. A large number of stones, about 3 to 5 m high, are here arranged in large circles, and have been here already much longer than any other construction known to us. Not only why, but also how the people have done this keeps the experts busy. There are plenty of hypotheses, but they still stay hypotheses.
I have my picture taken with my bicycle and with some stones in the background. It's a pity that I don't have time to have a look at the stones themselves. But that was because of that road closure. I hope I won't get more of this kind of adversities in the coming days.
Avebury (photo from the Avebury website)That may be so, but it's not easy to cycle. It is a sandy/grassy path full of irregularities, holes, rocks and ditches. Cycling inside such a ditch your pedal keeps hitting the edge of it. And on a piece between two ditches you have to be a tightrope walker not to fall into one of the ditches. Every now and then I manage to cycle, but sometimes I have to get off and drag my bike through the landscape. Right, if this goes on for 40 km, this is not going to work. In the still bright blue sky I see a helicopter passing by. Are they coming to look for me already now?
But however slowly it goes, I enjoy being here in the middle of the landscape. And the view is spectacular, that needs to be said. On the right hand side are more hills; on the left hand side I look out over a vast plain terrain. I see Swindon, and further away Didcot and Oxford. I can see for tens of kilometres here.
A little further on, the surface actually becomes a bit better: a hard sandy path full of stones. This is really possible to cycle, albeit that my bike doesn't like this personally (it isn't made for this). Also for me it is tiring. We keep going uphill-downhill, and on the downhill parts I just have to keep standing on the pedals to avoid my bones all being shaken up by those stones, since my bike doesn't have anything remotely like suspension. But the consequence of this is that I can never relax my legs. Thus this promises to be a very tiring day.
Near Swindon my joints are saved: the path changes into a tarmac road. Here I can cycle relaxedly on for a moment, while I keep enjoying the view.
Near Whitehorse Hill I read on an information panel that here should be one of the famous giant white horses, that have been drawn in chalk on the hillside. I look around me, but see nothing. Probably the road on which I am standing is part of the leg of the horse?
I tell myself that maybe it is wiser to avoid sand/gravel paths as the one of a moment ago. After the announcement "Welcome to Oxfordshire", the Ridgeway changes again to one of those mountainbikers' fun paths. Now I have a dilemma: go on, or move away to the normal roads, which is a detour. After all the youth hostel of Wantage is only some 10 km away, and is on the Ridgeway. Besides, although it was tiring, I enjoyed this country road very much. I decide that the path doesn't look so very bad and take the risk.
While climbing to the top of the hill near Letcombe Basset, a man comes cycling towards me, apparently a bit older than me, and with a much more suitable bicycle for this terrain. Visibly enjoying his bumpy descent he greets me with his smile.
On the high plain before a hilltop it happens. A puncture in the rear tyre. Maybe no surprise with my thin tyres and these sharp stones. But we don't give up the good spirit. I have a puncture repair kit, so the bike goes upside down and I start doing the business that you can always expect sooner or later on a longer cycle trip. In the direction I am coming from, the setting sun paints the sky firy red. Left of the path is still a stunning view. It could be worse. While I am busy, the cyclist who earlier came towards me, comes riding by again.
"Ah, hello; you're on your way back?" I greet him.
"Yes; are you allright?"
"Yeah well, a puncture. But I can fix it."
"Anything I can do for you?"
"No, thank you, I'll be allright. Is it still a long way to the youth hostel in Wantage?"
"No, that's here on the Ridgeway. It can't be more than about 5 km. I don't know exactly, because I just have to go over this hilltop and then I'll be home."
"Ah yes. Well 5 km, I could even walk that."
"If it would come to that, yes ... Are you sure you'll be allright?"
"Yes, really. Thank you."
"OK. Have a nice evening!"
In ten minutes the tyre is fixed. I click the front and rear lamps in their holders and start, full of new courage, on the last part (maybe a little too much courage?). A few meters (!) further the rear tyre is again flat. Why is it, that when I don't let myself be discouraged by one adversity, the gods often keep 'adverting' me until I really lose my good spirit?
There doesn't seem much point in fixing anymore; after all it may be that the puncture I just repaired, actually doesn't let itself be repaired and has opened again. Besides, it is getting dark now and soon I won't be able to see what I am doing, and also the youth hostel is not far away anymore. So I start walking, bicycle in hand.
Evening falls. And as if it is part of the deal, it starts raining softly. The water loosens the sand and the path becomes muddy. Although past the hilltop I have gravity on my side again, my wheels pick up the mud, which accumulates in all corners.
A long time later, near a road to Letcombe Basset, it has become pitchdark. It keeps raining. I have the feeling that I have walked already way over 5 km. A couple of lights come flying by, which sound like cyclists. As a reaction to my question I hear from the dark that the youth hostel is still about 2 km away. (Yes, just like the earlier man they speak of kilometres and not of miles. Is continental thinking more accepted with cyclists than with motorists?)
Two kilometres. Darn, I should be able to make it. But it is surprising how long two kilometres can be walking in the dark and the rain, while you're pushing a heavily loaded bicycle along which is so clogged up with mud that the wheels are hardly turning anymore.
After another eternity I reach the side road to Wantage. On the corner is a house. Is this the youth hostel? I pick the lamp from my bike and start nosing around. After having spied on all gates and doors from all sides so much that the residents are probably already calling the police because of a stalker, I conclude that if this was the youth hostel, they could have marked it somewhere.
A little down the road to Wantage is indeed the youth hostel. At 20:40 I enter, wet, muddy (but I take off my shoes in the porch; I still have my manners!), sweaty, and exhausted. There is nobody behind the reception desk, but I hear some noises in the kitchen. A notice says that outside of opening hours you can call by dialling '9' on the phone in the lobby. I follow the instruction, and hear the phone ringing around the corner in the kitchen.
"Hello?" I hear, at the same time through the horn and from the kitchen.
"I would like to check in please."
"Er... are you in the lobby?"
"Yes..."
"Shall we then stop talking through the phone, and face each other?"
The kitchen is already long closed for dinner, but the manager satisfies my needs with his home made soup and several slices of bread, which I, immensely grateful, heat up in the guests' kitchen. After my rain-mud-sand-stones-flat-tyre adventure I am happy with anything.
In the bike shed I fix my tyre, which actually had just gotten a second small puncture. I take a hot shower. The pub is unfortunately a little too far away to be worth the trouble, and the youth hostel doesn't have an alcohol license, but even with a couple of ginger beers in front of the tv I let myself easily get so sleepy that afterwards in my bed I fall asleep like a log.
Distance 103.7 km
Riding time 7:15 h:m
Average speed 14.6 km/h
Maximum speed 40.9 km/h
Rested and strengthened I make 'plan de campagne'. My bicycle is again in good order, but I better stay away from such country paths as yesterday and stick to the roads. My bike will be more able to handle those, and this way I will proceed faster. Besides, it is raining still, or again, albeit softly, so the Ridgeway will be even muddier, and I wouldn't have much pleasure from the view either.
But I'm not waiting until the rain stops. Shorts and t-shirt on; I wipe the worst mud from the bike so that also my front wheel can turn freely again, and leave at 9:50, on the road down the hill to Wantage. Of course, as soon as I'm on my way it starts raining more heavily. That's not so very bad: the bicycle rinses nice and clean this way. And as long as I keep moving, I won't get cold.
Down in Wantage I turn right to Didcot. The hills on my right I don't see at all; just imagine how much I would have seen if I had been up there on the Ridgeway. But the rain does become a bit annoying. The rucksack, which sits on top of my other bag, is not watertight, and my map, which I put back in there every time after consulting it, does get soaken wet.
In Didcot I flee into a hamburger shop to recover a little. Looking like a drowned kitten I order a cup of tea, to warm up, because my theory "I move therefore I stay warm" does have its limitations. I organise my luggage so that it can stand massive water flows a bit better: my stuff wrapped in the raincoat inside the rucksack. This maybe I should have done earlier, for lo: while I am riding out of Didcot, the rain stops.
Via inner roads to Wallingford and then some distance to the northeast, parallel to the Ridgeway. The warm air dries my clothes, and I feel in perfect condition again. The hill range with the Ridgeway is on display on my right, and the flat landscape lies vastly around me. The view is from here almost as beautiful as from up there. I feel as rich as a king.
I should now soon be crossing the motorway M40. The confusing signpost at the crossing near Turville seems to point me to the left. I go there, and am soon afterwards climbing up again. On my right I can see the valley, parallel to this road. This can not be right. I try another side road, but that doesn't look much better.
A man who is mowing his lawn with much pleasure, provides me with requested clarification. Apparently I am now going back up the hills, and should have turned right, down below. He adds that he has been living here for years and years, as if that is necessary to convince me.
I descend the hills again, cross the valley near Fingest, and climb out again near Bolter End. After Lane End I cross the M40 and enter High Wycombe, a small city. A cycle route through the park takes me to the centre, and without effort I find afterwards the exit route east toward Beaconsfield. This is going well; it is 17:00 and I am already almost where I have to get today.
Almost out of the city I get off near a crossing, to have one more good look at the map, just to be sure, and see my brown leather bag sitting lonely on the back of my bicycle. The rucksack is gone.
In the park is a day care centre, where I ask whether my bag has been found there. No. Another idea: in the bag is my mobile phone; if we call to that one, maybe the finder will pick up the phone. The day carers call my number, but no reply.
I leave my e-mail address and start searching again. Further back, out of the city ... no it isn't here either ... across the M40, through Lane End and Bolter End ... how can I not have noticed for so long ... down back into the valley ... oh, let it please be lying somewhere here along the road! And rolling down the hill into the valley it happens again: a puncture in the rear tyre. And my puncture repair kit was in that bag ...
Deprived of power to even pull the brakes I roll further down the hill, and come to a stop at the bottom of the valley. Still no black bag to be seen, and now I can't move anymore. I get off.
The road is dead silent.
I thank mr. House Sitter and try my luck on the deserted road. After a while a four-wheel-drive comes driving up, which I think should be able to transport a bicycle. He stops for my -supposedly- desperate looking waving motions. But from up close the driver appears to have his car full of small children, so, I tell myself, I have to understand that he cannot squeeze a bicycle in as well.
The next car that drives by, five minutes later, also stops. This one is a lot smaller, but the driver feels so sorry for me that he immediately agrees to put my bike in his trunk. My front wheel sticks out, and the rear door of the car is being held reasonably closed with my strap. This way, with my big bag stuck between me and the dashboard I get driven out of the silent valley.
Mr. Driver drops me off at the pub 'the Peacock' in Bolter End, and says: "A lot of cyclists come here. They can probably help you here." I think so too, and completely relieved that I am in the civilised world again, I hoist my bike out of the car, thank the driver, and walk into the pub.
The Peacock (photo from the Peacock website)And do they have a puncture repair kit? Not here in the pub. "But," says the girl, whose name is Lindsay, "I think we have that at home. I'll make a call."
She calls to her boyfriend, who is apparently at her parents' place. But he can't find the puncture repair kit in their garage. "Can you then, when daddy comes home, ask him where it is ... if you dare?"
After she has hung up, I ask: "Er... 'if you dare'?"
"Yes, that is because daddy has today his aviation theory exam. He has failed it already twice. And if he fails now again, he'll have to go to London to do it again, and he refuses to do that. It's now or never!"
Waiting for more news over a pint or beer, I marvel at the fact that things can go in such a way that my chances to fix my tyre today can depend on the momentary theoretical aviation knowledge of the father of the waitress in this pub. In the meantime I join their discussion about ideas for the interior design of this place. Indeed that light green is a bit strange in combination with the brown and white. Lindsay also sends a text message to my phone, to ask the finder to contact the youth hostel in Jordans. Because that is still where I want to go.
The phone rings. Lindsay's father has come home. I hear her call out: "Yes?! Oh, wonderful!!" and tell myself that that is more likely to be about the exam than about finding the puncture repair kit. After the call it appears that that is indeed the case, but also the repair kit has been found!
A moment later dad comes into the pub with the repair kit. I thank and congratulate him in a festive mood, and start working on my tyre, using two spoons which I got from the pub, because tyre levers are not in the box. Alas. Too many, too large holes in the tube. And it is getting dark now, so I wouldn't be able to hitchhike anymore either. That means staying here.
I receive from the bar staff again use of the phone, and a couple of numbers of B&Bs in the neighbourhood. In the meantime the pub is filling up nicely. I feel already completely at home here, and tonight there is here a quiz night, so that in a way I don't mind at all that I am stuck in this place. I cancel Jordans, and book a room with ms. Crichton in Cadmore End, the next village.
Mr. Crichton comes to pick me up, while I leave my bicycle well chained up at the pub. Who would even want to steal a bicycle like this (except in the Netherlands)?
After checking in I walk back to the Peacock, for a dinner. The kitchen is now (21:00) already closed, and so it becomes again soup and bread. Is that going to be my standard food on this trip? Anyway I wouldn't mind this; it feels to me like a kingly meal.
I don't take part in the quiz, but I secretly pass on information to the team standing next to me at the bar: Zürich is in Switzerland and between Italy and ex-Yugoslavia is the Adriatic Sea. This way I get the feeling that I can also sometimes help other people, instead of always only being helped by others.
The bar of The Peacock (photo from the Peacock website)That night I sleep very little, out of continuous worry about all the things I have to do tomorrow to get my stuff organised.
Distance 94,3 km
Riding time 5:51 u:m
Average speed 16,1 km/u
Maximum speed 44,1 km/u
In the bag were all kinds of stuff: water bottle, raincoat, mobile phone, camera, glasses, sunglasses, diary, puncture repair kit... but actually nothing of great value. The raincoat, phone, camera, glasses and sunglasses were all so old and worn, that everybody already for a long time had been saying to me: "why don't you buy a new one!" Well, if the bag doesn't get found, I'll be glad I never did! So it goes to show: better not replace anything before their time; the moment to do so will come anyway! At least if you're as forgetful and messy as I am.
That doesn't mean that it isn't annoying; for instance also the mobile phone numbers of everybody I know, and the photos on the film roll are in it. That's why I hope that the bag will still be found. But more than that I cannot do now, and I'll start to concentrate on my bicycle.
Mr. Crichton gives me a ride, passing by the Peacock to pick up my bike, which amply fits in his family car (what does he need that car for actually, apart from transporting stranded cyclists?), and then to the bicycle shop 'Cycle Care' in High Wycombe.
The shop attendants of Cycle Care are also a bit surprised that I make such a trip on this bike, and the bike in this condition, but, they say: "It got you this far, so you should be able to make it!"
I buy a new tyre and tube, and go to their parking space to put them on. While I'm at it, I also replace all brake pads, because the CycleCarers rightly state "your brake pads are non-existent". I really think there was something left of them when I started, the day before yesterday! So those have been nicely used up. I also buy a new puncture repair kit, and at 10:50 I am again in tip-top state, and ready to leave.
I say goodbye to Cycle Care and start in good courage cycling again through High Wycombe. At Homebase I quickly drink something and put on the shorts again, because the weather is again great, and plan my route on the map. I do have a long way to go to Castle Hedingham, more than 100 km, but if I start off well now I should be able to make it.
I go back to the well known cycle shop. There they look rather shocked: "How is that possible; I really think it was there earlier!" But what is more shocking, my nut is of a strange size -7 mm- which they don't stock! This is because my front wheel is the size of 27 inch which is not common anymore; this is an 'imperial' size, and nowadays everything is metric (so that explains the kilometre indications the day before yesterday?).
They advise me to go and ask in the hardware store 'Isaac Lord' or the car part shop 'Interparts'. Nobody has it. In that last shop I get another idea: maybe I lost the nut while my bicycle lay horizontally in mr. Crichton's car. Maybe the nut is in his car? Could I maybe make a phone call? The car part dealer says "No. But there on the corner is a payphone."
The payphone doesn't do anything at all, and doesn't return my (minimum inlay) 30p. This is the moment where I do start getting a little annoyed.
I go back to what now feels as my home: Cycle Care. My friends in there do allow me to use the phone. Ms. Crichton is compassionate with my situation, and is also a little surprised that I am not yet very far away. (She doesn't have an attitude of "I knew it", but she also hasn't seen my bicycle yet at all!)
A few minutes later she calls back. She has called her husband. But he has gone golfing straight after dropping me off, and it will be at least an hour and a half before he gets back to his car. But she is willing to try in the bike shop in Marlow, another little city nearby, whether they have that nut. She has to go in that direction anyway. I just don't know how thankful I should be, that she wants to go through so much trouble.
Waiting for a result of this action, I dig up a book from my bag and sit down outside on the front steps of the shop to read. But I can't help feeling irritated by the fact that this lovely sunny day now gets wasted, because me and my bike, both further in perfect condition, are now withheld from cycling a decent distance today, by one stupid nut! What do the gods want to tell me? "Don't have such wild ideas, boy"?
Bored I walk back into the shop. One of my old friends there says: "How was it now with you? Ah yes, are you now actually wasting your time? I know something else you might try: the bolt-and-nut wholesale store 'Beefast'. If anybody sells your nut, it's them." With my wobbly front wheel I can only just cycle to that place, even though it is steeply uphill. But: also they find my screw size too strange, and don't stock the nuts.
For the fifth time back into my temporary home, the cycle shop. Still no news from ms. Crichton. I see one of the shop attendants talking outside with another customer, and pointing at my bike. I can only guess what they're saying: "Look, with this thing he wants to travel all the way through England. Look, nice saddle, but completely worn out".
If that nut really can not be replaced anywhere, I ask, maybe my whole front wheel will have to be replaced by a 28 inch? "Maybe. Let's see if he we stock a fitting wheel at all." We go out of the shop to have good look at my front wheel, and in the door run into ms. Crichton.
"Did you find it?!" I exclaim.
She warns me not to cheer too early; her husband still hasn't gotten back to his car, and she has only been to the bike shop in Marlow and brought a couple of nuts along; maybe one of them will fit. Under the expecting eyes of ms. Crichton, the bike shop attendant, and especially myself, I start trying the nuts. The first one is way too big. The second one... FITS!!! For a moment, I have trouble really believing it. But it really fits! I throw myself around ms. Crichton's neck.
The Bike Shop Boys provide me with a washer to put in between, and properly tighten the nut, and I am finally again ready to go. I say deeply and thankfully goodbye to my temporary home. But it is now already 14:00 and really too late to cycle all the way to Castle Hedingham. However much I would want to, more than 100 km still at this hour is really not a realistic planning. Especially if you count my luck of the last couple of days. I will have to delay my whole trip by one day. So I cycle, instead of happily out of the city, wearily into the centre.
I want to make more phonecalls, but the battery of my new mobile is already flat. No worries, I think, there are payphones here, and there are people calling in them, so these ones work. I throw a pound in the one phone that is free. The phone -surprise, surprise-, doesn't do anything, and doesn't return my pound. Grrrr! This was the last time that I try those things in this country! One word of warning for tourists in this country: STAY AWAY FROM THE PAYPHONES!
Even though I almost haven't cycled anything yet today (or maybe because of that?) my right knee has started to swell up and hurt. That could become a problem on the rest of the trip!
Still tired, lightly painful, and not knowing what to do, I slowly cycle to a pub. The bartender friendlily agrees to charge up my phone. He is impressed by the model: "wow, it's been a while since I've seen one of those". A man at the bar tells me, after hearing my short story, about a certain Heinz Stücke, who cycles all around the world. A hero, in his eyes. Well, for me too, even though I didn't know him yet. But apparently after a lot of roaming his bicycle got nicked, in England, of all places. You can always be more unlucky still. But theft of the bicycle seems to me in my case quite unlikely, given the state (also with respect to the fashion) of my bicycle.
I decide to eat something here too. My bar companion asks whether I like Thai food.
"Why?"
"This pub serves only Thai food."
"A bit unusual, isn't it, for a pub? Where are the steak pie, and the fish & chips?"
"Yes well, that's because in this area there are a lot of Thai immigrants, and they all work in kitchens. So everywhere here you get Thai food."
Having decided then to enjoy the fact that I am here in Little Thailand, I order from the charming, undoubtedly Thai, waitress a red curry. It tastes fine, but doesn't feel right in the stomach. I long for the soup and bread, the ideal dinner for the bicycle tourist!!
In the meantime it is starting to be evening, so I urgently need to determine where I am now going to sleep. With my phone charged up again I hear that Castle Hedingham is fully booked for the next evening. That is to worry about later. The youth hostel in Jordans is closed tonight, so I will have to think of something else. The youth hostel in Ivinghoe, also nearby, has some free space. I book it immediately.
I quickly leave at 18:30 toward Ivinghoe, not because I feel like cycling a lot right now, but because I notice on the map that it is actually not at all as near as I had thought! I have still some 40 km to go. I try to spare my painful right knee as much as possible, and work as hard as possible with my left knee, not knowing how long I will keep this up.
Riding out of High Wycombe and through the neighbouring villages I notice that my pub companion was right: the whole range of restaurants in this area consists of Thai, Thai, and more Thai. Undoubtedly nice if you like it. But who doesn't like it, had better stay far away from High Wycombe.
Without much trouble I ride on, to past Great Hampden. When twilight falls I put the front lamp on the bike, but in the rear light there doesn't seem to me much point on these deserted roads. I turn somewhere into a road which according to the map is the only one taking me in the direction of Wendover, even though it doesn't have a signpost. This road leads, half tarmac half sand, steeply up the hill, between farmland and woods. It goes so steeply that at this point I don't have any energy for it anymore, and start walking, wasting my precious time, hoping that eventually I have something of my energy left. Staggering on top of the hill I pass several manors, and try not to think of the idea that this road might even be completely wrong ... then I'll really be in trouble!
Darkness falls, and the road goes down again, and I back onto the saddle. Near a farm entrance some big headlights appear behind me. Life! I wave like somebody running away from a bear, and the four-wheel-drive stops.
"Hello, am I here on the road to Wendover?"
"Yes, but you're not doing to do a good job on it without a rear light. Soon you'll be coming to a busy through road, where everybody drives like mad!"
Relieved that I am where I think I am, I put the rear light also on the bike, and roll down the hill.
Via the busy road I get to Wendover; from there I don't go to Tring because a passer-by assures me that that goes over a steep hill, but to Weston Turville and Aston Clinton.
After this, I race between the pitchdark fields as fast as I can. On and on and on ... how far is it still? ... 5 miles, it says there ... pity I don't see anything of the landscape ... but let's just go on ... still 3 miles, according to the roadsign ... how long will I still keep this up ... across the river, across the railway ... aren't we there yet? ... no, still 1 mile ... still on for a bit more then ... yeeah, there it is: Ivinghoe!! 21:15 I arrive satisfiedly tired in the youth hostel.
I tell enthousiastically why I arrive so late to a man who appears not to be the receptionist. But probably he finds it more interesting than the receptionist anyway.
Ivinghoe is a tiny village with a windmill, a church and not much more. After checking in I want to go and drink one glass in the pub. What I think is a pub, appears to be a posh hotel with a dresscode, to which I of course don't comply with my sweatshirt and baggy trousers. And even if I had, I am principally against every dresscode, other than a ban on neckties. I marvel at what a hotel like that is doing in a village like this. It doesn't matter much, because there is also a pub, where with one glass I easily get sleepy enough for a deep night's sleep.
At 24:00 I am in bed and asleep. At 2:00 I am awake again. There is a snoring competition going on in my dormitory. A good chance to win has the man to whom I earlier tonight trusted my cycling experiences. I don't stay to cheer him, but go and look on the corridor, where I find several bunk beds. My blankets are quickly moved over here, and I sleep as a log after all.
Distance 40.3 km
Riding time 2:27 h:m
Average speed 17.1 km/h
Maximum speed 34.3 km/h
Ivinghoe church (illustration from the information leaflet)I start off at 9:10; look around for a while near the church, but I don't have time to loiter any further. I've still got a long way to go today. And the circumstances don't seem perfect: the Thai dinner of yesterday still has my stomach a little upset, and my right knee is still swollen and hurts with every effort. And on top of that, the weather is also deep grey. Where did that beautiful sunshine of yesterday go? I pass the Ivinghoe beacon, an apparently beautiful-view hill. Also that seems not to be doable right now considering the circumstances. Both physically and mentally I don't feel up to anything. If I don't do something about that quickly, this is not going to work today!
I enter county Bedfordshire, and ride through Dunstable, which in this grey weather looks uglily dull, and into Luton, of which the same can be said. In an internet café I look up B&B phone numbers in Bishop's Stortford, Dunmow and Braintree, three possible end goals for today. I can always decide later how far I want to get: Bishop's Stortford should be possible in any case, but Braintree would be best, because is furthest away and hence closest to Harwich.
In an indoor shopping centre I buy stomach tablets and a pressure bandage for my knee. On a terrace, while I rub in my knee with some muscle cream before putting on the bandage, a lady at the table next to me looks round puzzled, wondering where that eucalyptus smell is coming from. When she finally finds out, she assures me that it doesn't disturb her, she just found it very strange.
That bandage around my knee does me good. I feel immediately a lot stronger and more confident. Onward!
Getting out of the city is, as often, very difficult. Signs for cyclists are non-existent, and the signs for cars always point to the biggest roads and motorways. I see on the map which road I want to take, but nothing in the city indicates me how to get there. Thus I exit Luton in the southeast, while I had wanted to go east. When I finally find out where I am, I decide to go on until Harpenden, where I am being welcomed in Hertfordshire. From here runs a nice piece of Sustrans cycle route along the river Lea to Wheathampstead.
Past Codicote I drink a large glass of water and a J2O in a lovely countryside pub with a garden terrace. It is apparently also a dog pub: there are all but more dogs than people here. Undoubtedly this is a popular stop for dog-walking house fathers. This is going well: I am already halfway the distance to Bishop's Stortford. And behold, the sun breaks through again: a wholly different world than the grey weather of this morning.
Right after this I cross the motorway A1. A special motorway, because it isn't written with an M. But it is really a Motorway.
By now, I'm getting a pretty good picture of which roads are best taken for a cycle trip like this. Motorways ('M') are of course forbidden, and also the 'A'-roads with one figure are to be avoided, and so are actually A-roads with two figures. An A with three figures becomes already more acceptable, but an A with four figures is even better. B-roads (almost always have 4 figures) are really good, and the roads without any number are absolutely best, albeit that those, exactly through their anonymity, are sometimes hard to identify.
Near Watton at Stone I follow for a moment a slightly larger road, the A602. But already quickly I leave it again, and turn left toward Sacombe. And as almost every time when I do so, it does mean a great enjoyment because of the quietness, the total absence of other traffic, and the lovely landscape, but it also mostly means: uphill. But the hills are in this area already a lot less high than in the west, near Bath. While I get more to the east, the landscape becomes steadily flatter. Because of that, the views become less impressive, but it stays beautiful, and what I lose in view, I gain in cycling comfort.
Past Sacombe, on a tiny road that runs between the fields over a low hill, I get off near the hilltop. While my bicycle is leaning at an angle to the high shoulder, and I am standing beside the road looking around me, a girl on a horse comes walking by from behind. The horse has some trouble to get past me. It hesitates, steps aside, and makes lots of strange movements, before its rider manages to convince it that there really isn't any reason to walk just straight on. She explains to me: "Sorry; he has seen a bicycle before, but only once!" Alright, my bicycle probably does look scary. My friends found that anyway, but that was mainly because they wondered how I would manage with it. Never thought that a passing horse would be worried about that.
A little later, when I continue, I soon notice that I risk overtaking them again, because the horse is really going at crawling speed. I decide to hold back and stay behind, because what would this compassionate four-legger think of my bicycle with me on it?
Further on I get to a T-junction with a signpost of which no sign points left or right, two to the road that I'm coming from, and one straight on, into the fields. Because I think I know for sure where I am, I conclude that this is not right, and turn the signs so that one points to each road, in such a way as I think is correct. My contribution to the cycling pleasure of others, and to do something in return for all that help yesterday.
Past the A10 I pass through a flat area veined with little rivers. Some of these are not crossed by a bridge, but the road just passes through the river in a ford. A scale next to it indicates how deep it is. A nice opportunity for motorists and cyclists to rinse off the tyres (for pedestrians there is always still a little bridge beside it).
In Much Hadham I stop once more time to drink a J2O and a lot of water on a terrace of a pub, but especially to enjoy a little longer the country feeling and the peacefulness, because in a moment I will enter a city again.
That city is Bishop's Stortford, where I arrive at 18:00. Time to have dinner, but also to decide now where I'm going to spend the night. Over a pasta meal I call the different numbers in the various places. The closest is here in town, but in the end I still decide for the farthest, in Braintree: the 'Hare & Hounds', a pub and B&B. This means for now again a long night ride, but then I will have it easy tomorrow.
At 19:30 I start off, further toward the east. I should be able to make it in 2 hours. Right outside Bishop's Stortford is a big sign: "Welcome to Essex". Yeees! Essex, on the east coast, is the last English county of my trip, and for me this is the announcement that I am approaching the coast.
I am racing over a big through road through the dark. So unfortunately again no view, but we are proceeding nicely this way. Past Stansted airport, and several villages. After an hour I am in Great Dunmow, and at 21:30 indeed in Braintree.
The staff of the Hare & Hounds had told me through the phone that the H&H is on the road 'High Garrett', which is the road to the village High Garrett, north of Braintree. That seems simple enough. I ask at a service station the way to High Garrett and so end up on a long exit road. The road, however, is called Broad Road. I go on and on and on; the road does not change name, but does become less and less inhabited. First open plains on the left, later also to the right. This can't be right, can it? I'm almost out of the city, and they had assured me that it was in the city.
Still a little further I get to a roundabout of which I can see on the map that here is a ring road which widely encircles the city. This really can't be right. There is not a living soul to be seen here, to ask for directions. To make another phone call seems a good idea, but the battery of my telephone appears to be empty. It is 22:00 and I have no idea where to go.
I cycle back, into the city. Near the centre I find a pub, where I enter to ask.
"The Hare & Hounds? Yes, that is on that road. It's not far; just a few miles. You can't miss it!", the waitress and a customer at the bar assure me.
"Well, I think I missed it twice already!"
"Really? You just have to pass that roundabout, and there it is!"
"What, further still?!?"
I cycle again all the way down that road, or actually up that road, because it goes uphill, all the way out of the city, or so it seems. I cross the roundabout, and, by a miracle, there are houses again, and blimey: the road is even called High Garrett! A little later, a large house on the right side with an unmistakable neon sign: "Hare & Hounds". At 22:15 I arrive.
"Er, that was only this evening. This morning I came from Ivinghoe, west of Luton."
That gets them quiet for a moment. When I tell them that I am on my way from Bath to the Netherlands, they look for words that are applicable, because they are not used to this.
"Er... I'd rather just get in a car. No, seriously, that's great, that you're able to do this!"
The bartender also has a nice question for me. "How did you find us? This place is hard to find!"
Nice, that you're telling me that now! A little more explanation through the phone would have been handy. I tell them my whole searching quest, also because I want to make clear that I did do the distance Bishop's Stortford - Braintree really in two hours flat (followed by 45 minutes of searching).
I notice that the swelling and the pain in my knee have, with a pressure bandage and a long day of cycling, all but disappeared completely!
In the style of the city (anyway its name) the staff, the regulars, and I, enjoy ourselves further at the bar with a couple of wooden ('tree') logic puzzles ('brain'). But the beer makes me quickly, just like on most other evenings, very sleepy.
Distance 123.9 km
Riding time 7:47 h:m
Average speed 16.3 km/h
Maximum speed 41.1 km/h
I first go into the city, to buy a camera. This is because my camera was also in the bag that is now probably really lost, and I do want to have some photographs of this trip. I buy in a megastore a small digital camera for £15. Seems a perfect solution, until after unpacking I read in the user's manual that you first have to charge it with a computer. I go immediately back into the shop and buy also a disposable camera for £2.70. Now, that should be enough upgrades of my photographic instrumentarium.
In cloudy weather I start exiting the city at 10:30. I end up on a different exit road than I want (a too big one, of course), and via inner roads through the residential areas try to find the road that I'm looking for. Bad idea. Every road that I go into, takes me, via successively all houses of an area, eventually back to the starting point. I don't see another solution than just to keep turning left, and try all roads this way.
The name of the city Braintree refers, I think, to its shape: there are both long pointy branches, like the one where yesterday the Hare & Hounds was, and neurons, which via infinitely long curled-up lines interconnect the most unexpected points.
Eventually I find, via the centre, finally the road that I want, and exit the city at 11:30. It took me an hour to exit this labyrinth; note: even longer than last night to find the Hare & Hounds. Braintree remains in my memory as the city of puzzles en brain teasers.
Here in Essex people maybe cycle a bit more than in the west; possibly because it's flatter. Not that I see many other cyclists, but I do see more cycle tracks along the roads, especially at the roundabouts. The latter is however not an improvement. It means that you don't have the right of way anymore, and have to stop at every entrance. Another disadvantage is that you can't see the road signs on the roundabouts anymore. So I decide to ignore those cycle tracks and stay on the road on the roundabouts. The car drivers aren't bothered by this and still give me space. Probably they don't know about the existence of these cycle tracks.
The sun breaks through again; it is becoming again a beautiful day, so on a secluded spot I again put on my shorts.
In Cressing I ask some ladies who are chatting near the church to take a picture of me. One of them has a son who lives in Bath and is with a cycling club over there. No, I don't know him. But what a small world it is again.
CressingKelvedon is a pleasant village on a river. On this sunny Sunday it is full of day trip tourists. Difficult to cycle through, but it does give a holiday feeling.
Via Messing, Hardy's Green and the Colchester Zoo, marked by a lot of childrens' voices and bird screaming in all kinds of keys from beside the road, I enter Colchester at about 14:00.
On the way to the centre, at a crossing there is a pedestrian tunnel, where at the entrance is marked that it is also for cyclists. After having passed through this, I end up on the pavement. Here, while I am taking off my helmet and looking around me for a moment where to go now, a pedestrian, a man of about 25, calls out to me:
"At your age? You should be ashamed of yourself! What are roads for?"
What he is complaining about is not quite clear to me. Maybe it's the fact that I -after a tunnel which is allowed for cyclists- find myself for a moment on the pavement. I give him a disapproving look, shake my head, and ignore him for the rest.
It makes me think though. This was the first unfriendly person of my whole trip. Is this a sign of cultural influence of my own nearby Netherlands; country of arrogant know-it-alls?
Also Colchester is full of tourists. Over a coffee and a muffin on a terrace I hear lots of languages around me, but especially Dutch. This is of course the easiest city to visit from Harwich; you don't have to go through London.
Colchester is, according to the information panels, the oldest known city in Britain. From those times you naturally can't see anything, but there is a nice centre, with the Lion's Walk, a picturesque street with historical buildings and small shops.
The Lion's Walk in ColchesterExiting the city I especially have to watch out that I end up on the good side of the river Colne, because it widens from here towards the sea, and further on doesn't have any bridges over it anymore.
Via Wivenhoe again into the countryside, which in the meantime has become entirely flat; a lovely easy ride. Vast farm fields. I take some more pictures.
From here there is again a Sustrans cycle route, all the way to Harwich. All the way on roads, so no cycle paths, but they are nice and quiet roads. I pass lots of villages. Here and there I take another blackberry break, to make sure I enjoy the fact that I am still in the countryside.
Up to the last village Little Oakley I don't notice anything of the city, but right afterwards I enter Harwich. At a crossing I stop and consider not to go directly to the harbour, but to follow the cycle route further on, which undoubtedly also takes me there. Because while considering this I am looking at the map, a helpful motorist winds down his window and asks:
"Are you looking for the harbour?"
"Well, eventually I have to get there, but I'm going to do it via this route ..."
"Well, then you have to go that way, turn right at the roundabout, turn left at the second roundabout, and then just straight on."
"Yes, thank you, but I'm not going to do that. I'm going this way."
It is striking that people interpret somebody who is looking at a map immediately as somebody who is lost, and therefore needs help. With me that is exactly not the case: if I regularly consult a map, I don't lose my way. Without a map on the other hand I pretty soon get completely lost. But then I can walk around looking desperate for as long as I want, nobody will spontaneously come up to help me; I'll always have to accost somebody myself. It is impressive how bad people often are in interpreting body language.
I am soon already very glad that I keep following the cycle route, because this leads via the beach promenade. Undoubtedly it is an achievement of Sustrans that this piece of promenade has been opened up for cyclists. A lovely view across the sea while I am gliding along the deserted promenade. In contrast to Colchester there is hardly a human being in sight here. Maybe it is because the sun has disappeared behind the clouds again. Anyway, the peacefulness is sheer pleasure.
The cycle route does indeed lead up to the harbour, where I arrive at 17:00; still an hour too early. I decide not to check in yet and make another round through the city, with another time to and fro along the promenade. Finally for once I don't have to hurry, but can ride around a bit extra, just for fun!
It actually had been my plan to achieve every day as easily as this one. Without the troubles on the first few days maybe I would even have succeeded in that. But on the other hand - wouldn't that have been a bit boring?
At 18:00 I check in at the harbour. The lady behind the desk finds my name great, as it in my passport: with four long first names and a surname of three words. Yes, sure, but just try to fill it in on a form.
Waiting for the ferry I drink a cider at the café, to celebrate that I made it. On my distance meter I see to my amazement that also today I have already done 99 km! I did the journey in the planned time, but have gone 50% more than the planned distance. I feel great. I can handle the whole world.
At the ferry port in HarwichI have a chat with the traffic warden, a lady whose accent seems a combination of all kinds of English accents -well, as far as I can recognise those-, and eventually appears to be French. It's impressive how well she speaks English ... but she also didn't realise that I am Dutch. Ha!
The café, so probably later the boat, is completely full of Dutch people. If you think that it is Sunday evening, that is probably not so strange: weekend-tourists on their way home. But then I do find it striking that I am the only cyclist. Riding onto the boat I park on my own between five motor bikers.
The boat is apparently the largest high speed ferry in the world. With a few other travelers I stand on the back while we watch with steadily increasing speed (max. 80 km/h) the harbour of Harwich, and with it England, disappear in the distance.
Going on land, at the passport control I get off my bike to fetch my passport, and a sharp edge of my saddle makes a big tear in my long baggy trousers. The customs officer has my passport specially checked in an office, while other people are just driving by. But they can't find anything; I am still being let into the country. Torn clothes and a worn bike are not enough reasons to reject an immigrant with a Dutch passport.
I ride immediately to the B&B. Ms. van de Wel already expects me, and hangs looking out of the window on the first floor. In front of the front door there is a rack against which the bicycle can go.
"Just put your bicycle there ", she says.
"Yes allright ... at least, if you don't have a sheltered place. But it is probably not going to rain anyway."
"No, but a bike can stand a little rain, can't it?"
"Well, not really."
"Is it an expensive bike?"
"No, but rain is never nice for a bicycle."
"So what do you do when you cycle in the rain?"
"Look for shelter." A more sensible answer is, I get the impression, wasted on this conversation partner.
Inside I am being shown to the room. I am not allowed to use the (common) shower at night, because that disturbs to neighbours too much. Alright, then I'll just dirty your sheets a bit more.
"At what time do you want breakfast?"
"I don't know ... eight o'clock?"
"No, that's too early. I'm exhausted. We'll do breakfast at nine, or not at all."
Hmm, a bit unusual for a guesthouse, but never mind. "Alright, nine o'clock."
I point at the key sticking in the door of the room. "Is that the key?"
"Why?"
"Well, if I still want to go out."
"No, we don't do that."
"What are you telling me now?!"
"No, we can't do that. We're going nicely to sleep now."
And with that she closes the door and leaves me alone in the room, while I'm bursting with energy and want to celebrate that I have arrived in the Netherlands, but am locked in this house where nothing is allowed. I wish I hadn't come here straight away!
A moment later she is back again. "You still have to pay."
"Oh, do I have to right now?"
"Yes, you have to pay in advance."
"Well madam, that is going to be difficult, because I don't have any euros. I came directly here, from the boat from England. If you would have let me go out, I could have gone to get some money."
"No, we can't start doing that."
"Madam," I say a bit more pressingly, "if you would just let me out for five minutes, I can go round the cash machine."
"Well, be quick then."
Outside I get my bike and pass quickly by the cash machine, but also round a snack bar to buy a beer, which I hide in my trouser pocket, because that probably isn't allowed chez van de Wel either. Madam lets me back in.
The price was €28. I hand her €30, to which she says: "I'll give you your change tomorrow morning. I don't have it right now."
Right. So that's how the relations are: I have to pay in the evening, but she doesn't have to give me the change until the morning. I have a feeling that I don't entirely agree with the regime and the rules at this place.
On my room is a TV set, but it almost seems like even that isn't working. Finally I do get it to work, and I can get Ms. van de Wel's grumpy face a little bit off my mind. The beer is unfortunately again Heineken, of which I thus can reconfirm that it is one of the worst lager brands there are. I drink only half of it.
Distance 100.8 km
Riding time 6:02 h:m
Average speed 17.2 km/h
Maximum speed 37.4 km/h
I knock on the door. No answer. The key is sticking on the door, so I take a chance, open the door and go in. Nobody to be seen. A moment later Ms. van de Wel comes in through the front door.
"Good morning", I greet her, because I still have my manners.
"Who told you you could go in there?"
"Can I have my two euros back, because I'm out of here."
She gives them to me. "I had just popped out to the pharmacy; so couldn't you have waited a little?"
"I didn't know you were only gone for a moment, did I?"
"Well, anyway, breakfast is ready; you can go and eat, if you're in such a hurry."
But I still want to leave. Not anymore because of the time, but I have been reminded of the patronising attitude of my hostess, and I don't feel like spending here a minute longer. At the front door I stop to give her a little lecture.
"I have to say, you don't have much respect for your guests."
"Well, if with such an old bicycle you're afraid of a little rain, I wonder if you're entirely normal."
"Well, if you think that bicycles can stand rain, I wonder if you are entirely normal. But that's not the point. You lock me in the house in the evening, but in the house rules, that I found in the room, I don't see that."
"Oh, if you knew all that I have experienced here: people that come home deep in the night, make noise, piss everything under ... Actually I don't even take any young people in at all anymore now."
"Well, I don't know if you see me as 'young' ..."
"You're not 40 yet, are you?"
"I'm over 40, madam. (And thank you, although coming from her it's probably not a compliment.) But anyway, when I come home at night, I do it quietly, because that's what I find normal."
"Oh ... but just come and eat now; breakfast is ready!"
"And you're telling me 'we're going nicely to sleep now'. It's none of your business what I do!"
"Ah come on and have breakfast now. There is no problem, now is there?"
"No, I'd rather not. Bye."
I can hear she's retreating a bit, but I think she deserves to be taught more of a lesson, by being left with her breakfast. Besides, I don't feel like looking at that grumpy face any longer. That I now will have to pay for my breakfast, this is worth to me.
I have a slight saddle pain, but now really have to start the last étape. To do justice to the cycle route through the province of Zuid-Holland which I downloaded, I go to the starting point that I have chosen: the Zeedijk. For a moment, I gaze across the windy deserted beach at the sea, breathe in the fresh sea air, and start off at 10:30.
The route first takes me via a network of cycle paths through the dunes. Very nice cycling, but the route description is confusing. "After 800 m turn right: Cycle path." "After 145 m turn left: Cycle path." This area is teeming with cycle paths; which one do I have to take? My distance meter doesn't show anything more accurate than 100 m, so I can't see it so precisely. And as long as all roads are called 'Cycle path', the names are no help either.
After a lot of wrong turns, I finally manage to get out of the dunes on the right spot. But near Naaldwijk it goes wrong again. I have to turn left, into a road called "--"; just try to find something like that. After that, I have to turn right into the Monnikenlaan and straight on into the Kade van Ras. To get to the latter one I have to cross a main road via a bridge. Maybe with one of the indications that bridge is meant. Then, after the Kade van Ras, straight on into Hoge Noordweg. But the Kade van Ras is a dead end. This is wrong. I consider all possibilities, and take what is in my eyes the most probable. I find out after a couple of hundreds of metres that I am going completely the wrong way. But it stays unclear what the route description means.
With a GPS device, or the route marked on a very detailed map, undoubtedly you would be able to know exactly where to go, but with just a route description it's really no use. I cancel my trust in the route planner, put the paper away, and let myself be led by my map of the Netherlands and the red ANWB cycle signposts.
I want to avoid the cities as much as possible, which is not easy in this part of the world. Even near London it was easier to find a rural route. But eventually I do find the only route through the bottleneck between Den Haag / Delft and Rotterdam / Schiedam. Here is the green oasis of Delfland, a peaceful polder landscape. A bicycle route takes me via the sweet village of Schipluiden and across several canals, through the green heart.
Another difficulty of cycling across the Netherlands is the large number of rivers and other barriers, such as motorways. I am all the time looking for crossings over consecutively the river Schie, the motorway A13, the river Rotte, and a canal with no name.
Near that canal a man on a bicycle points me to the nearest bridge. He asks me why I don't take the route along the Lek, via Schoonhoven; that is very beautiful. He has cycled a lot in this area, and knows it all. But the name of this canal he doesn't know either. I'm not going along the Lek because then I first should have gone either through Rotterdam, or all the way around it. And now it's not nicely on my way anymore.
I follow the cycle signposts from Nieuwerkerk aan de IJssel toward Gouda. But this leads along the terribly noisy motorway A20. I escape, taking a random cycle path to the right straight into the fields. Anything is better than that noise! By a pleasant route between gardening businesses this takes me to the river Hollandse IJssel, which I start following.
Near Nieuwerkerk aan de IJsselWhat cycling pleasure! I am riding over the dyke, between small houses and the narrow river, past a lot of residential narrowboats. I see children playing with balls and little bicycles around me. All this is about two metres above the surrounding landscape. Why is not this indicated as the cycle route to Gouda, but the road along the busy A20?
Of course, I know the answer: that is to keep this road the oasis of quietness that it is now. After all, the phenomenon 'cyclists' in the Netherlands can also mean mass traffic; as an expatriate I sometimes forget this.
Near Gouda I have to watch out: the river forks. So, entoxicated by my carelessness, I go a bit too far the wrong way, before I do cross the bridge. This bridge is a massive double drawbridge across a lock. One of the two bridges is probably always open -anyway one is now-, so you can choose to wait and to look at the impressive bridge, or just drive on across the other one. I go on, because drawbridges I have seen before.
At about 15:00 I go into the centre of Gouda, to enjoy this beautiful city and a Brittany ham sandwich on a terrace on the market square.
They are busy building a fair on this square. This blocks somewhat my view on the lovely church, but it is also interesting to see how the workmen are lifting the massive lights into the high constructions. Groups of children are enjoying themselves in one of the rides. They seem to enjoy extra the fact that the machine is not running now, that this is free, and undoubtedly actually not allowed.
After Gouda I keep following the IJssel, into the province of Utrecht. Unfortunately the road does not stay on top of the river dyke all the time, but it does stay beautiful. Because this is the last étape, and I know I should be able to make it now, I cycle very much at ease, take pictures, and at 17:00 I am only 15 km past Gouda, near Oudewater.
The river IJsselOudewater is a town where time has stood still. While I am cycling through the quiet streets of the centre, there is little that assures me that I haven't through a 'timewarp' ended up in the middle ages. Everything has been perfectly preserved and almost unspoilt. Oudewater is known from the Heksenwaag ('Witch scales'), the office of justice where suspects of witchcraft were weighed. According to the information panels, here they always weighed fairly, in contrast to other places, so that nobody ever ended up at the stake.
I celebrate the last couple of hours of daylight on my trip with a white beer on a terrace - one of the few modern elements of the town.
I decide over the phone with my mother that I won't be home before dinner, and stay to eat here. I order a bass in red wine sauce from the waitress, who, by the complete absence of a smile, gives the impression that either she's not happy with me or is not enjoying her work, but who does stay friendly. This seems to be something typical Dutch, which I have noticed today from all serving staff everywhere.
The fish tastes great, and at 19:30 I quickly get on my way again, for the very last étape part.
When darkness falls -and it is always amazing how hard it falls!- I search at a lighted bus stop for the bicycle lamps in my bag. The rear light tricks me by hiding as deep as possible; I don't find it until I have plucked everything out. All my possessions are at one moment in one big heap in the shelter, and are then just as chaotically stuffed back into the bag.
To avoid Utrecht I cycle straight through Nieuwegein (nice cycle throughway there!), and past Houten on the south side.
Near Odijk I decide, because I am arriving from the countryside, to continue a similar route up to Driebergen, and because of that I don't take the Hoofdstraat, but the country roads Langbroekerdijk and Rijsenburgselaan. But at this hour those turn out to be very dark! Guided only by the narrow beam from my headlight and my knowledge of these roads, I fly, with ever increasing speed now that I smell the stable, through the darkness.
21:50 I arrive at my parental house in the Emmalaan in Driebergen, and therewith finish off a six-day Odyssey. My father has already gone to bed. Together with my mother and a bottle of wine I celebrate the safe homecoming.
Distance 147.1 km
Riding time 8:06 h:m
Average speed 18.7 km/h
Maximum speed 33.1 km/h
Even stronger, I want to do more of this kind of trips! It is a pity that I, apart from that graduation holiday, never have done any cycling holidays. But it isn't too late to start those now.
Of course, the increasing ease with which I completed the trip has to do with the fact that the hills became gradually lower and eventually disappeared. But counter to that is the fact that my bicycle isn't even really suitable for hills, so on my new bicycle I probably would be able to do hilly trips even better.
Also the physical problems disappeared by just going on: my swollen knee, which I started feeling, of all moments, at the end of the forced resting day in High Wycombe, completely disappeared with a pressure bandage around it and a whole day of sturdily cycling on. Cycling is the remedy for everything! Only the saddle pain: that one kept getting worse, and only went away by doing nothing for a couple of days in Driebergen.
And the things that you see and experience! I saw the landscape change all the time. From the hills of Somerset, via the more smooth rural areas of Wiltshire, to the Chiltern Hills, with the Ridgeway on top and Oxfordshire vast at the foot of the hill range. At the other side of the hills, in Buckinghamshire and Bedfordshire, it was more busy, built up everywhere, but you have to realise that with this I entered the surroundings of London. Very striking was afterwards Hertfordshire, which, even though here my way skimmed all the time the north edge of London, was nevertheless again a very open and still area (although of course I had to cross a lot of incoming roads). Essex was again a special case: a vast and flat agrarian land, which gave me a holiday feeling.
Then across the sea to our land of polders and rivers. I was happy to notice that in Zuid-Holland they have managed to preserve still something of the traditional polder landscape; imagine the task, with such a density of population and transport activities and the largest port in the world. In the province of Utrecht it struck me how beautiful everything is: the landscape and the old towns, and even the many new buildings are stylish and in harmony with the surroundings.
But to say that I am happy with those adversities is of course exaggerated. There are things that I have learnt, and which I would probably do differently a next time. For instance my bicycle was in a reasonable state, at least for riding on decent roads, but not for the Ridgeway. To start with, my kind of bicycle already wasn't very suitable for that, but the state of the rear tyre even less. Now I didn't know beforehand either that this was such a rough road, but when I found that out, I should have considered a bit longer whether my bike could handle this, but also whether my rear tyre wasn't maybe really a little too worn off for such a stony sand track. But even then I don't regret that I did this, and have seen the Ridgeway, and enjoyed the landscape and the view. I am often the one who goes a little bit further than what seems sensible. But I personally think that the experiences you live this way are more than worth the adversities, which you actually ask for.
And then my luggage. Yes, of course I will secure that better from now on, like I already did on this trip after this incident: every bag with one strap around the saddle, so really nothing can fall off without me noticing. By doing and failing you learn. In hindsight you can say "how stupid", but beforehand I really couldn't imagine that that bag could fall off just like that, and even less that I wouldn't hear the 'thump' sound. It's still a mystery. I also never found the bag back, so I never found out where it fell. And yes, with future trips I'll probably just use special bicycle bags.
And so it shows that the adversity gods, which let me lose my bag and then gave me a puncture, wanted the best for me. They actually forced me to such a more modest scheme: an extra day, with an evening in a nice pub, and a morning/afternoon among helpful people. That is what they wanted to tell me!
And I'm sorry to have to say it: this feeling stopped at the North Sea. Take ms. van de Wel, who apparently thinks she is running a boarding school instead of a B&B. The other people were polite, but distant. They couldn't spare a smile, and they all seemed want to get rid of me a fast as possible.
This kind of experiences, and the time you have on the bicycle to think about things, make you look differently at certain things, in this case the nature of people. Dutch people are actually really quite arrogant and rude. This is probably a consequence of the large number of people on a small piece of land. Everybody is all the time in each other's way, and everybody is all the time annoyed by this. But if that is the cause, then why is that so different in England? Southern Engeland is just as full as the Netherlands. But, apart from the excesses of aggression which occur in both countries, the average Englishman is so incredibly much more friendly towards any stranger, than the Dutchman. They take everything with a smile (the British humour), respect everybody by default (the well known "sorry" from both parties when they bump into each other), and accept you in their company. We Dutchmen can still learn a lot from this!
I am sure that this bicycle will still bring me a lot of pleasure this way. Besides, my mother now has again unlimited use of her own bicycle. And my old bike's honour has been restored; it has gotten the chance to show that as a bicycle it is still worth something.
Distance 610.1 km
Riding time 37:28 h:m
Average speed 16.3 km/h
Maximum speed 44.1 km/h
Somewhere in Essex
