Making The Switch To Dharavi: When Adding Value Is Not Just About Profit

Office in Dharavi

“You’re doing WHAT?!”

This sentiment, be it a sense of enduring fascination from friends or a cry of anguish from a long suffering family, has pervaded most of my adult life. Six months after leaving a well paid and highly respectable job in London to go on a bicycle ride from the UK to Turkey this last summer, the exact same reaction was again ringing in my ears. This time two wheels had been exchanged for three as I found myself in a tuk tuk whizzing through the streets of Mumbai to my new home. The daily commute now being to the slightly less luxurious surroundings here in Dharavi, one of Mumbai’s and indeed Asia’s largest slum communities.

My new “office” is within the slum itself, on the upper tier of a two-storey hutment accessed by an initially unnerving climb up some steep outside metal steps. Now achieved with increasing confidence but still not without the occasional stumble. Having negotiated the crowded charms of Mumbai’s local trains the walk in often consists of dodging small barefoot children playing in the alleys or local workers carrying everything from pottery to bullock hides atop their heads, in a ridiculous show of cranial equilibrium. An ever changing menagerie of chickens, lambs and goats pervade the scene regularly and poke their head in through the open sliding door.

View from office in Dharavi

Corrugated metal sheets comprise the walls and ceiling. Smoke and dust often filtering in through the gaps as onions are fried, cooking fires are lit or ground dust is raised. The external heat and humidity permeates inside, requiring fans permanently switched on to avoid a change of shirt colour during the day. Wedding processions and other day to day festivities often reduce audibility levels to those of your average dance club in the early hours. The battle to block them out and focus on the tasks at hand often a real challenge.

So….why and how am I here?

Panorama of recycling area of Dharavi. One of it’s biggest industries.

Fifteen years ago I travelled to Australia after university. What initially I figured would be no more than a typical gap year then in reality started a love affair with travel to this day. A passion that has ultimately allowed me to make a living out of travel with various small group adventure tour operators. Starting as a tour leader I gradually moved up through various operations positions in well-respected brands within the sector, working in places as diverse as Guatemala, Thailand, Cuba, Kenya and Peru. I was one of THOSE people you hear about, living the dream, working a lot harder than many assume but still travelling the world and having amazing life experiences basically paid for me. Feel free to call me a git. You’d be more than entitled to and I fully realise it’s true.

Girl’s football program. Creating team-building and self-confidence.

Yet over the last few years I increasingly found myself examining the social benefits of the tours and my own role in this regard. As a tour leader I always enjoyed the odd occasion where the tour would interact with a local community or support a project. I got indirectly involved in several small projects through the tour groups but there was no sustained commitment. As I rose up through management levels I tentatively started to question company practices and looked in more detail at how we as travellers and travel companies were on balance benefiting the communities visited, if at all. Whilst I still have great affection for my previous companies I felt an ever stronger desire that I wanted to work for an operator where a social business model was at the core of their practices, the real ethos of their existence as opposed to a slight bonus should we have a good financial year or as a sideshow. A company that could commit and provide sustainable support through direct investment.

There are sadly many companies out there that pay lip service to being a committed socially responsible company. It is now a marketing tool in itself and many are desperate to try and prove their worth in this regard, often with very questionable or spurious claims of best practice, never really audited. Other times it is simply a case of limited resources, be they time, personnel or financial, which curtail their ability to prioritise this aspect. If as a company your initial purpose was not to be a social business it is very difficult to integrate it further on down the line.

Receiving her first hearing aid!

Hence how I find myself here in my new role working as CEO for Reality Tours & Travel, an Indian tour operator which runs day tours in Mumbai and Delhi ranging from cycling to market tours, sightseeing to street food. We also operate the occasional group tour around the likes of Kerala and Rajasthan. Nothing too unusual there right. The difference being our signature tour also involves taking the more socially curious traveller around Dharavi slum itself. Attempting through our local guides not only to inform about the well publicised challenges which exist in such a society, but also provide a more balanced viewpoint about the incredible community spirit and entrepreneurship which the slum’s residents show. 80% of the profits from all the tours run by the company are then used to fund directly operated projects within the community through our sister organisation Reality Gives. Projects which focus on the education and empowerment of children and youths in the community, creating opportunities for personal growth and development which may not otherwise exist. The projects were the goal from the start, the tours a means to securing initial and ongoing revenue to finance them. Hence after a few years of gradual growth in passenger numbers our two co-founders, Krishna from India and Chris from the UK, were able to start a community centre after consultation with the local residents as to their requirements.

Checking out the markets with Dinesh, one of our amazing guides.

I am a born cynic. I expect many reading this might be too. Before arriving I questioned myself if the company’s claims regarding their commitment, financial and moral, to the projects was completely genuine. Was this too ultimately a ploy to bring more people on tour. Or a well-intentioned venture which ultimately didn’t quite deliver on its promises. Now that I have full access to the company accounts I can certainly verify the claims made in terms of profits being funnelled into the local projects, accounts we also put on the website. The particular attraction for me is of the self-financing nature of the business, in that it is the tour revenues themselves which provide the vast majority of the income for the projects. Whilst donations are more than welcome and gratefully received they too predominantly come from previous clients or personal contacts. The two sides of the company are inherently linked but operate autonomously also. We do not wish for pity tourism where people come on an average quality tour simply because they know their money is going to the good causes. The tours should be professional and enjoyable in their own right.

Slum tour operations is a controversial subject of course and I have never been in a position before where I have had to in some ways justify my role and a company’s product. It is galling to think of the number of operators out there running environmentally and socially irresponsible tours, at great profit to shareholders, who would never be questioned in the same way. Yet a company dedicated to investing in community projects, working in partnership with the residents and raising our own funds seemingly has to do so. So our continued adherence to responsible practices is something else I was keen to ensure. To see that we ran the tours in the best way possible to directly benefit the community overall, without being intrusive or creating further issues. Happily the company has received industry recognition in this regard and make all efforts to ensure we maintain this mutual respect with the community.

Checking out the street food on tour.

We all know the usual accusations and nay-sayers. It is all too easy for the critical outsider to deride us as well-meaning but ultimately deluded NGO staff. Who come from predominantly middle class backgrounds in wealthy nations and think that a brief stay somewhere like India is going to make a difference without really knowing the true issues or any unintentional consequences of our being here. The critique will likely go on to say that in reality we’re on a bit of a power kick and satisfying a more selfish semblance of feeling good by helping. Secure in our knowledge we’ll return back home soon enough having enjoyed a bit of an adventure. I too wrestle with these thoughts from time to time and question myself in that regard. I know full well the ability to make light of things like career paths, income and job titles comes from the knowledge I have options available, had opportunities growing up and don’t have the concerns of so many worldwide including many of my colleagues now.

Will I ever be able to truly empathise with some of the toughest conditions faced by locals in Dharavi and the inspirational life stories of them and some of our local staff? Of course not. Whilst my salary and disposable income are a shadow of more recent years I still go home to a decent apartment in a nice suburb of Mumbai where air-conditioning and home delivery is readily available. I live with two others who are currently wanting to find a maid and cook for us, struggling to relate that to the scenes I see most days in Dharavi and the tough lives of many here in India. I still feel pangs of shame when talking of my lifestyle should they ask and try not to raise the subject, although that doesn’t stop me sending out for comfort food and drinking at expat bars from time to time. Even though on the whole when asked they are not doing so out of any sense of bitterness or jealousy, mostly curiosity.

A typical wedding celebration in Dharavi

So that means we’re a big sham and nothing we do is ever of real benefit right? I’d like to think of course that this is blatantly untrue. To fixate on these negative stereotypes of NGO style work is plain wrong and the perfect excuse for nobody to do anything. The license to never give to such causes, to not interfere as we may do more harm than good. From very early on meeting the team I realised the passion and energy of everyone involved. That the local staff genuinely cared about the company and were proud to work there and equally proud of the company’s achievements and principles. If they felt positive about us overall beyond simply providing employment then this was a good sign. Even more so when seeing direct feedback from the local community which, after initial reticence and uncertainty, slowly over the ten years the company has been going increasingly understood our intentions and respected our efforts. Albeit there is still a key requirement to remain engaged on an ongoing basis to ensure their continued support and integration. I have learnt that the few foreign staff like myself are all truly here from the heart having made similar choices to me and with a similar desire to mine of simply trying to help where we can based on our experiences or connections. We are not deluded, we are very aware of the issues involved and that they are on a scale we could never attempt to fully solve directly. We know at times we don’t do everything perfectly, nobody does. We simply took the choice of believing that we could make a slight beneficial difference overall by our support, no matter how big or small.

Typical posers!

I have already seen the faces of children being given hearing aids. Heard first-hand the stories of how the projects have given a greater feeling of self-worth, improved confidence, social skills and opportunities to many of our program students. I have visited the kindergarten and junior school where we are training local teachers and seen the different standards and working practices in comparison to the often over-run government efforts. I am working with incredible local colleagues who in equal measure humble and inspire me every day. Many of whom have grasped opportunities themselves to become guides and office staff in key positions, several coming through the programs directly. Would they all have been better off if my predecessors had stayed at home minding their business?

Does this mean we are angelic? Of course not. I have to suppress frustration sometimes when Indians outside of Dharavi, other expats and tourists praise us for being “brave” enough to work in Dharavi and to have come over from our home countries to India. That in itself reveals the social stigma so prevalent here and global values of worth which so often relate success to possessions and bank balance. To me I am receiving nothing but an incredibly warm welcome from people very proud of their background and homes, if wishing for certain social and economic changes which would aid the development of them and their community further. I work in an incredibly interesting and challenging environment where no two days are ever the same. I would find certain other more outwardly comfortable existences distinctly sterile in comparison and the opportunity to live in and explore more of India is an incredible one.

Sunrise at Worli Fort at the end of our all night cycle.

A certain dose of scepticism is healthy, but if you’re not careful it’s simply an excuse for inaction, the turning of blind eyes and deaf ears. More actors than critics tends to bring a more creative environment. It is early days still but I for one am glad I made the switch.

From Penises To Puffins – 48 Hours In Iceland

Reykjavik, Iceland

Iceland in November! That stupidity gene is in full force again I see Paul. Whilst most Europeans going on holiday this time of year tend to be heading towards the heat in order to prolong summer that bit further, or even get a chance of sampling it often in the case of the Brits, I felt an attraction to see a country that had fascinated me for years out of peak season. It seemed to make sense, visiting a country of this name during balmy summer sun just didn’t feel right somehow. Besides it’s not as if it gets up to mediterranean temperatures at any stage of year and whilst the daylight hours might be short there were some distinct advantages.

Skogar, Iceland

Iceland has always had a reputation for cost. Prohibitively so. Yet the country’s dramatic banking collapse a few years ago whilst terrible for the locals and indeed with ramifications worldwide has now made it at least no longer the preserve purely of the comparatively wealthy or a treat destination. For sure it is still not cheap, yet for someone who has spent the last few years living in London it is now comparable. If in a group you’re still going to hope yours is the round of drinks that there just wasn’t quite time for. Maybe that’s just me thinking about it. Yet in general with a bit of cagey purchasing by avoiding the pricey imports you needn’t need to re-mortgage or sell a limb in advance. A definite benefit of going in the winter season being that hotels are cheaper. I was able to find a single room in a perfectly decent guesthouse for £35 per night. Good luck doing that in Central London any time of year and dorms were available for half that price. When you add in the fact that flights with the likes of Wow, Easyjet and Flybe can be bought for around £150 return from the UK then all in a visit is more than achievable for the majority.

One of the ‘Hidden People’ Coming Out

And boy is it worth it. In all my travels I have never seen anything quite like the scenery in Iceland. From the moment you arrive at the main airport in Reykjavik dark basalt rocks pepper the scene in between the runways. The world’s most northerly capital, its name means “Smoky Bay”, a self-explanatory moniker as the geothermal earth sends plumes of steam soaring skywards in every direction visible from the coastline. The capital itself is worth a quick visit and not without a certain charm. Quiet, low-key and with not a skyscraper in sight. Most of the buildings are single storey and of pastel colouring with the tallest structure in the city, indeed all of Iceland, being the main church. The main pedestrian street harbours a quaint and at times quirky collection of tourist shops and restaurants ranging from a grill restaurant dedicated to the legendary action movie icon that is Chuck Norris, to another based on the Big Lebowski film that has its own indoor bowling alley. All complimented by pavements naturally heated using underground thermal pipes.

Phallalogical Museum, Reykjavik

Having no doubt beaten off stiff competition standing erect in the centre of town lies reputedly the world’s first phallological museum. Started by a local teacher who received a bull’s penis in the form of a whip as a gift, it is dedicated to all things penis related. It’s emphasis is on the endemic fauna of Iceland, with specimens preserved in formaldehyde ranging from a hamster phallus only visible with a magnifying glass to a blue whale’s manhood which dwarfs the majority of (mostly female) visitors. Yet there are also numerous pictures of penis related artwork to raise a cheeky smile. As well as official letters of donation from so far four humans happy to add their own reproductive apparatus to the stock. The first of whom, an apparently womanising and ballsy Icelandic farmer who reached the age of 95, is already exhibited but has proved excessively wrinkly by all accounts so a younger specimen is being requested. One donor by the name of Elmo having genuinely offered his even in advance of his ultimate demise in a bid for fame and to get ahead. There is also ‘Phallobilia”, ranging from carved penis shaped telephones and shot glass holders, to lampshades made out of scrotums, to the cast moulds of the entire Olympic silver medal winning Icelandic mens handball (appropriately enough) squad. Certain members of the team very keen to point out that the attached group photo is not necessarily in the same order as the display. Given the displays included a formalised scorecard for women relating to their historical male partners, as well as a genuine proceeding undertaken by a local lady to attempt to have a minimum legal penis length which if not reached divorce might be permissible, it proved most informative on many levels and quite a climax to the trip.

Note from the author:

I would just like to take this opportunity to unreservedly apologise for the multiple puns based on the concept of innuendo evident when describing the phallalogical museum. The author realises this is in no way reflective of the education afforded to him by his parents and is suitably embarrassed by this sudden cataclysmic downfall in his previously infallible sense of humour, which has been without reproach until this point.

Strokkur, Iceland

But whilst Reykjavik corresponds to the country’s character well, potentially a fetish for penises aside, the real Iceland that truly sets it apart lies in the more remote wilderness. The same size as the UK, yet with a population of only 330,000, means mother nature is the true master.  As a solo traveller hiring a car was possible but did fall into the too expensive bracket. And with public transport being limited and not conducive to those of us with a very limited timescale it is the norm to undertake a series of arranged excursions instead. It should be noted that certain excursions such as whale watching and boat cruises are only available in the summer months, but the mainstays are available year round. The most famous being the Golden Circle consisting of a visit to the most visited sights in the country. Firstly towards Geysir, where the bubbling earth first gave name to the natural occurrence that now uses the term worldwide. The actual geysir at the original site has long been dormant however so there is now a short detour to Strokkur to ensure you get your appropriate fix of boiling water regularly spouting from the earth’s core to heights of up to 40 metres. Requiring a very rudimentary yet necessary calculation of wind strength and direction if one is to avoid an impromptu scolding shower.

Geysir, Iceland

The sheer extent of the country’s perilous location is hard to fathom. I was one of those affected by the eruption of the Eyjafjallajökull volcano in 2010 where the ash cloud played havoc with worldwide flights, but such problems felt retrospectively trivial as on this trip I passed the site itself and witnessed the villages where lives were truly devastated rather than merely temporarily inconvenienced. A short visit to the beautiful Pingvellir National Park made it possible to almost uniquely see the edge of both the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates, which are slowly drifting apart. Increasing the size of Iceland a couple of inches per year and contributing to a large number of earthquakes. Currently a section of the country is still not available to visit following another volcanic eruption at Bardarbunga in the central region that has lasted several months. The largest activity in centuries and one which eclipses the 2010 eruption. Yet the silver lining for the Icelandic tourist board is that no areas generally frequented by travellers are affected.

Gullfoss, Iceland

Without a doubt the main highlight though was a visit to Gullfoss waterfall. I have been lucky enough to see most of the globe’s major waterfalls and must admit a part of me was not expecting to be over impressed. Yet upon turning a blind corner on the admittedly tourist trodden path suddenly before me lay a scene which simply made me give an all too audible gasp out loud, a rare occurrence and one which I think ruined any lingering chance with the young lady who was following close behind. The fact that recent snow and sub-zero temperatures meant a thin layer of ice was apparent only added to the spectacle. As the giant two-tiered stepped falls filled the panorama more like an artist’s sketch than real life, cascading down into a crevice initially hidden from view yet over 100 feet deep. A simple path allowing you to get up close and personal with the sheer force generated. Truly spectacular.

Myrdalsjokkul Glacier

There really is little of the country’s scenery that is not impressive. Huge lava fields and heaths covered in moss, jagged granite cliffs and volcanic rocks dominate the interior. There were visits slightly further afield to the likes of the black sand beaches of Reynisfjara, the impressive glacier at Myrdalsjokkul and more waterfalls at Skogafoss and Seljalandsfoss epitomising the overall rugged beauty of the landscape, foreboding yet beguiling in equal nature. A true land of fire and ice if ever there was one. For the vast majority no visit is complete without a visit to one of the thermal spas or hot springs, the most famous being the Blue Lagoon. However whilst I have visited such places on previous occasions my own decision tends to be based on a cost versus reward scenario. I hear it is beautiful yet at €35 fell into the not for me category, particularly bearing in mind that it is not a natural occurrence but more of a luxury spa manufactured by a dam. There are undoubtedly more natural hot springs however where many visit for both therapeutic health and general interest reasons.

Reynisfjara Beach

Skogar

Nor are Iceland’s natural wonders limited purely to the earth and what’s below it. Look skywards on a clear winter night and it is one of the best places in the world to attempt to see the Aurora Borealis, or Northern Lights, a spectacle not available during the midnight sun of summer months. Long a desire of mine to see this phenomenon caused by the collision of charged particles with gases from the sun, I had spent an entire week when on an arctic survival course in Swedish Lapland some years ago unsuccessfully awaiting a show. So I had limited hopes for success given my time-slot this time around was two nights only, especially as the general weather had been wet and cloudy during my stay and was predicted to remain. Heading out of the city for a couple of hours our first port of call proved to be heading into the storm and was abandoned. After another hour sourcing a potentially more promising location we stopped at a field, more in hope than expectation. Just as the group was at the resigned point of using camera lights more for taking selfies Blair Witch Project style, suddenly a small gap in the clouds allowed a full view of the moon and a few stars appear to act as mild encouragement. Finally after another hour the first thin lines of white appeared, their spiral movements betraying them as something other than cloud forms. Like a giant coriolis effect, the opaque lights swirled in movement with the wind at times spreading into a wide formation of wispish translucence. The group craning their necks likes a herd of giraffe as the direction and starting points continually changed. Whilst the full colour spectrum would have to wait another time I still found it utterly absorbing and can only imagine what witnessing a rainbow effect would be like. It certainly whetted the appetite to give it another chance somewhere else and I was just so glad to finally get to see it first-hand.

Skogafoss, Iceland

There is a certain tendency to ahead of time stereotypically label Icelanders as a little on the dour side, or outright crazy given most people could only name the loony pop star Bjork if pushed to name a famous offspring. The history of the country means the current population is a mix of Nordic and Celtic in origin. The result of its initially Norwegian and then Danish masters together with the predominantly female British and Irish slaves they brought over with them. Potentially resulting in this mixture of stoicism combined with a quirky sense of humour. To a certain extent there is a generally reserved and quiet nature, yet those I encountered were nothing but friendly and welcoming once conversation was in flow. Such shyness often being related to a generally good standard of living and long lasting peace, Iceland having no standing army and reliant on NATO support in the event of any unlikely invasion. Indeed their only recent ‘war’ being with the UK in the 1970’s in relation to fishing quotas and jurisdictions, the so-called Cod War.

One aspect of genuine belief still held by some (albeit a minority) of Icelanders that had me a little bemused is in the supposed existence of hidden people, be they elves, trolls or ghosts. By definition it is of course somewhat hard to refute their existence or otherwise, however there is still a sufficient lack of scepticism that the newly updated main ring road at certain points takes a more circuitous route than necessary in order to avoid upsetting the trolls thought to dwell within certain caves and mountains.

Puffin, Dried Fish and Fermented Shark. Nice!

Cuisine in Iceland is dominated by two staple foods. Seafood and then the more expensive lamb. I tried to sample as much as I could in the limited time there. Be it the ubiquitous skyr (a type of yogurt) to lamb soup. Dried haddock with butter severely tested the molars and the admittedly cute puffin proved to be an incredibly tasty red meat once I got over the mental scar. Yet it was the traditional ritual of tasting fermented shark washed down with the local aquavit called ‘brennevin’ which really proved the most intriguing. The shark being inedibly poisonous when fresh therefore needing to be cured and allowed to decay for several months to remove the acid, resulting in a strong ammonia content that has been known to induce gagging in certain first-timers. So much so that it is delivered inside a sealed jar so as not to disseminate the smell across any wider an area than absolutely necessary. I’m not sure whether my experience sampling international dishes came in handy, or simply whether I have lost my sense of smell over the years, yet I found it more than palatable, albeit not overly tasty. Certainly an experience however and one of the more unusual meals I’ve encountered. Thankfully the illegality of beer in Iceland was lifted in 1989, allowing sampling of the local tipples as well. From what I saw when joining in with the locals at a music festival they are certainly celebrating this silver anniversary in style.

Vik, Iceland

Whilst the days may be longer and the weather that little more reliable in the summer months therefore it would seem there really isn’t a bad time to visit Iceland. Perhaps a return in June next time is needed for a true comparison. My only real regret was that I didn’t get to stay longer. Whether you’re more into penises or puffins, geysers or glaciers, Iceland I reckon has something for everyone.

Le Grand Voyage – The Final Week – Gallipoli to Istanbul

Gelibolu, Turkey

I miss Chantal. I feel the use of the moniker appropriate in this instance before anyone cares to mock due to the affinity generated by the journey we’ve enjoyed together these last few months. There were days (rare but very real) where I longed for the ability to cast off her weight and simply be a normal backpacker again. There were days when I wanted nothing more than to give legs, lungs and buttocks a bit of a rest and just chill. And yet now I’m back in the UK and have left the bike with friends in Istanbul I’m in a state of confusion, a certain feeling of loss. I look enviously at those cyclists careering past as I stroll far too slowly down to town. Bikes loosely locked act as a sore temptation, more for a quick loan than any more permanent criminal suggestion. I can already feel even after just a week or two that fitness levels are sloping downwards once more, as the culinary appetite has not diminished yet there is no corresponding burning of the calories. I can no longer order a pizza or eat those crisps with quite such a devil may care attitude. I have attempted to keep some semblance of form through jogging and signing up for my local half-marathon with all of about ten days notice but I think I’ve definitely placed myself in the cycling camp these days.

Troy, Turkey

As might be suggested by these shambolic ramblings I reached the target of Istanbul well and good. Surprisingly by the end from a physical perspective the concern was more about bike than rider, but ultimately both arrived safe and sound. The final few days from Gallipoli did not quite prove to be the relaxing final stretch that would be part of the ideal world. I never really expected it to be so if I’m honest. Turkey has somewhat of a reputation amongst cyclists of having a difficult road network. Not in terms of the standard of roads which are generally good, but more the nature of them. Following the road from the southern Greek border does entail riding on the hard shoulder of at times six-lane motorway style routes. Occasionally almost devoid of traffic resulting in a somewhat eerie feel. I can only summarise that the Turkish government is about to launch an initiative to move the Blue Mosque to the Gallipoli peninsula as I can see little reason otherwise to create such a grandiose project for about five vehicles a minute in that particular area (God forbid the cynic suggesting political kudos or big money contracts playing a part). But equally likely there are to be monumentally busy transit routes the nearer you get to Istanbul. Add in fairly consistent road-works throwing up concrete dust and drivers who see you as the lowest rung of the pecking order ladder and it’s not the most fun you can have on two wheels, albeit a certain challenge. It does mean on the whole decent speed of progress at least.

Cannakale, Turkey

As intimated in my previous post I decided to do a bit of a detour and after visiting the Gallipoli peninsula with a base in Eceabat I decided I’d also pop over on the ferry to Cannakale for a quick visit and side trip to the ancient site of Troy. I will hold my hands up and confess to doing so by local dolmus (shared minivan) for the seventy five kilometre round trip, leaving my bike at a local hostel. The site’s history is impressive. Depressingly if you Google “Troy” these days your first couple of search result pages will result in half naked pictures of Eric Bana, Orlando Bloom or Brad Pitt. So I guess not actually so depressing for a certain portion of the population. The site is actually quite small in scale and belies the historical importance of the site, being a key stage in the Ancient Greek battles of times gone by. But it was an interesting enough little outing not just for its cultural importance but also for being able to pass through small local villages and see a side to Turkish life that may be missed by those on speedy day trips to the site combining it with Gallipoli. Some even doing so from Istanbul in supersonic timescale. To do so is to miss Cannakale itself which turned out to have a pleasant waterfront amidst the inevitable and somewhat ubiquitous homage to the Trojan horse story, the mock equine used in the Hollywood blockbuster standing proudly centre stage in the centre of town.

With the Roach family. Tekirdag, Turkey

From Cannakale it was time to head on to visit a friend in Tekirdag, the traditional home of Raki situated on the Sea of Marmara. The last of the mountain ranges had by this stage been passed so mother nature decided strong coastal winds would provide the final entertainment instead. But it was great to catch up with a mate and receive some home comforts over a beer and shisha. From there it was along the coast to Silivri and finally on to the big smoke itself. There is, apparently, a comfortable enough route into Istanbul by continuing to hug the coast rather than stay on the D100 main highway. A road whose very name sends shudders through certain cyclists. I managed to find it, taking far longer but passing through the myriad of smaller towns that precede the sprawling conurbation of the city, using minor roads, footpaths and very occasionally cycle paths instead. Doing so however adding huge chunks of time to the journey, actually resulting in a final night’s stay in a cheap hotel given my friend’s apartment was on the other side of the city.

Buyukcekmece, Turkey

For those that don’t know (very few I should think) Istanbul is large and busy. Very large and busy. For about the only time on the trip I regretted not having GPS given a definite location for once was being reached but eventually I made it out to another friend’s place where I enjoyed four days of ridiculously warm hospitality in true oriental style. In all my travels nobody quite does sheltering a guest and making them feel welcome like those in the “East”, much as I dislike that empirical derived term. In travels from Turkey to Uzbekistan I have always found myself in a certain state of shame that in general those of us in the likes of Western Europe, Australasia or North America just simply can’t compete. This is not to say there are not very welcoming and friendly people in these regions. There most certainly are and I have incredibly open friends in all these areas. Similarly many a Turk or Uzbek would not invite a stranger into their home. But it just doesn’t come quite as naturally or as such an intrinsic part of the overall “Western” culture I feel. As a broad stereotype I believe in some truth that lives are that bit more individualistic as decades of material and personal progression have been engrained in people as advantageous or desirable. If a stay would impinge upon work, family or previous commitments ordinarily this is often admitted, directly or more often discreetly through some alternative reasoning given despite best intentions. You could offer them a couch but it would be a little inconvenient truth be told.

Sarkoy region, Turkey

Yet in oriental visits there appears genuine pride in having someone over to stay and share their normally spotless home with. Whether it be a modern apartment will all the modern conveniences or a local homestead with only bare essentials in the desert. Family and home go hand in hand. Meals often eaten together and prepared at home, an open door policy taken as a given. I was almost embarrassed to enter both my friend’s homes with a set of clothes and belongings that will never again pass any odour or cleanliness test. Receiving far more in gifts both material and spiritual than frankly those offered in return. The policy of normally receiving a guest warmly in the likes of Central Asia ultimately comes from the nomadic code but the fact it continues in a modern cosmopolitan world city like Istanbul means many in London, New York or Sydney could learn much.

Yenikoy, Turkey

The city itself did not disappoint. Given it loomed so large on the radar for so long on this journey there was always a potential for it to be a damp squib. To not quite live up to the expectations. But it most certainly did. In terms of a city that has such history whilst maintaining a key position in today’s modern world and global marketplace only London, Paris and to a lesser extent Rome (loses out slightly on modernity) amongst those cities I’ve visited are up there. From the myriad of mosques each more impressive than the previous to hidden away Jewish quarters, sweeping bay areas of the Bosphorous to quaint plazas, modern pedestrian precincts to ancient ruins. Istanbul certainly ticks all the boxes of a must see destination, deserving at the very minimum of a few days exploration. After a couple of days of being a tourist (this appears to be an uncool word these days it seems by many who try to pass themselves off as something different) visiting the usual attractions, I spent my final day wandering amongst the less visited areas, local markets and cafes. Attempting to see even for a minimal amount of time how day to day life still unfolds and is carried out. It would in reality take a lot longer to even scratch the surface, but it is always a real privilege to have such an opportunity. A suitably fitting end to a memorable journey.

Istanbul, Turkey

Six thousand, two hundred and thirty two kilometres completed. Would I have done anything differently? Well not a great deal I have to say. Potentially a bit more advanced bicycle maintenance knowledge if only to allay at times unnecessary concern over trivial issues initially. Does that once a revolution noise mean your crankset is about to split open or simply your spoke needs a bit of greasing. Yet even that tends to be learning on the job. A bike is a simple vehicle, yet the number of tiny things that can go slightly askew is daunting. Rarely however can it not be fixed with even rudimentary tools. Timing wise I am very pleased with how it worked out. Generally avoiding the worst of the weather and peak seasons in high tourism areas. Thus both crowds and expense were contained slightly. Equipment wise there was little that wasn’t regularly used except I’m pleased to say the first aid and mechanical repair kits. I did not really have envy for items missing either, despite making the choice not to bother with a cooking set as I found street food just as convenient and cheap on my particular route. Were I to continue beyond Europe or visit more isolated areas several things would be added or slightly amended. Spare chain, spokes, stove, slightly more hardcore tyres etc. Potentially a switch to 26” wheels. But this was known in advance that generally I was not visiting complete remote wilderness areas or crossing any deserts.

The Salutaci family. Istanbul, Turkey

Istanbul, Turkey

One thing I can vouch for is that there is no substitute training and fitness wise for just getting out there. I weighed seventeen stone (108kg) not so long ago following a sedentary desk job and a little too much of the good life in Bangkok. I am now down to thirteen and a half stone (86kg) , still slightly above your average touring cyclist, but I assure you that virtually anyone can get fit riding a touring cycle. It doesn’t take too long either. Yes the first few days of climbing or longer distance especially did result in some virtual collapse into the tent moments but quickly a routine develops and latent fitness improves. Cycling works on different muscle types to other forms of exercise so whilst a regular runner or sportsperson may find it that bit easier and quicker to adjust this is another reason to just get out there and enjoy the ride. Ultimately the far bigger challenge is in the head, cliché as that may sound. If you crave home comforts, the constant companionship of friends and family or a predictable routine these will be far bigger obstacles than a bit of excess weight or lack of cycling experience. The ability to go with the flow, deal with the unexpected, perseverance through discomfort at times, self-motivation and, especially if going solo, to be content with your own company are far more important. Ultimately though this is the most rewarding trip I have done in all my travels. It did exactly as I hoped, allowing me to experience local hospitality and visit places in a far deeper way than any public transport or private vehicle could ever have done. As suspected 95% of the overnight stops I made were in places I never knew existed going into the trip, amongst which were some true gems. I would recommend anyone who enjoys new experiences and trying to gain a greater understanding of other cultures to give it a go. Arriving into town on a loaded bike is the easiest of ice-breakers in starting up a local conversation and sparking interest. One need never be short of interaction.

So where is the bike now?

Istanbul, Turkey

Well actually at my friend’s apartment in Istanbul. If I am to continue cycling it would not be starting again from the UK so there seemed little point to do a return journey with it boxed up. Yet the time of year does somewhat work against continuing on to Central Asia or making a return trip to the UK via the northern Europe route until Spring next year at least. There are some other route options but I have yet to decide what the near future holds. It has been good to catch up with family again and make sure all is OK following a health scare for my father. Half an eye is open for potential routes back into the world of work as sadly I have still to win the lottery. Yet enough of the initial budget remains to continue for a while longer, be it with or without the bike.

Istanbul, Turkey

I intend to write one or two other posts in the meantime so would love to have those reading this continue to follow if there has even been an iota of interest in any of the blog posts I’ve published. I must say there are any number of candidates online out there who make my trip seem like a ride to the local corner shop but if anyone is tempted to do a similar style trip I’d be only too happy to offer some advice if required. Feel free to contact me via the blog website. I love to follow other adventures as well if you too have a blog so I’d love to receive any similar links. Otherwise I hope one or two of you have found it semi-interesting and watch this space.

Take care all. Paul.

 

 

Le Grand Voyage – Weeks 11 and 12 – Prizren to Gallipoli

A world without borders. Well not quite. That may have to wait a while longer however I have now personally completed my own final land frontier crossing of this particular journey, having partaken in three such ventures this last fortnight. Having spent the last few weeks travelling through the hinterland of the Ottomans in centuries past I have finally made it to their own current backyard here in Turkey. Within tantalising reach of the final goal.

Typical Balkan Fare Of Cevapi, Kosovo.

When last I left you I was in Prizren, Kosovo. Deliberating over whether to take the high road (Macedonia and Bulgaria) or the low road (Albania) to part borrow a song line from my Scottish brethren. I also mentioned that weather would play a part. Well indeed it did. The mountainous rough track road through Albania from Kukes to Peshkopi was a sorely tempting option. Any Google search or cycle site will tell you it is one of the most difficult one-day cycle touring journeys out there, certainly in Europe at the very least. As I opened the curtains (yes I was treating myself to a hotel once more – deal with it) the dark gloom was foreboding. And as I saw the heavens open and amidst the continued reports of flooding in the general region for once I took the sensible option. Yes it means Albania has been left out but heck one look at the map will tell anyone that for it to be the sole blank in a one-off journey through the Balkans is still some effort.

The Clouds Roll In. Calm Before The Storm. Kosovo.

So it was I headed towards the land of Alexander. Yet Kosovo having been kind to this point had a sting in the tail. The choice of route simply meant slightly better roads yet the weather was generic. There was no avoiding the deluge. The worst weather I have ever encountered cycling followed a long ascent through Malet e Sharrit National Park. The descent was fairly treacherous with the amount of standing water meaning aquaplaning was a real concern and the sudden temperature reduction on descent meaning loss of feeling in the hands and a worrying amount of shivering. Visibility was reduced to a matter of feet amongst the clouds and rain. The resistant nature of all equipment was tested, ultimately my ipod being the only casualty. From now on my own singing was going to have to freak out the local residents instead. But it was not without some relief when I had descended far enough to appear once more from the fog. Wet clothes were eventually swapped for dry and once more it was onwards.

Understated Architecture of Skopje, Macedonia.

Having crossed into Macedonia it was a short hop to the capital itself, Skopje. Normally I am not a great fan of big cities but I found myself strangely drawn and ended up staying an extra night. It is a real mix of old and new. Old due to its traditional bazaars and streets. Split between a market for locals and everyday wares, then another section which has now been turned over to cafes and shops mostly catering for the tourist market or middle-class locals. And yet its centre is dominated by grand bronze or gold statues on every corner and marble-collonaded government buildings and museums. Anyone who has read my blog post on Ashgabat in Turkmenistan (and why wouldn’t you have as it’s bloody brilliant of course) it created a remarkably similar feel just on a slightly smaller scale. There is a part of me that once more feels a little sore about such grandiose surroundings costing what must be hundreds of millions of dollars, when local roma children are leaning against them asking for a coin. Yet the selfish tourist part of me can’t help but be fascinated.

Fertile Plains of Bulgaria

From Skopje I generally sliced a southern diagonal through the country towards the very south-westernmost corner of Bulgaria. Passing through open scenery reminiscent of the prairies and encountering at times very strong winds on the plains. Strong headwinds it must be said are probably the most demoralising of all conditions for the solo touring cyclist in particular who has no respite, no shielding effect. The lack of progress for the effort involved is tough to swallow, but ultimately perseverance is necessary and wins out. Pleasant enough towns such as Stip and Stumica provided the stopovers, with the landscape generally being agrarian and rural in aspect. One noticeable aspect being the increased curiosity of bystanders. Children often coming up when I’ve pulled over to squeeze the brakes or ask if they can give it a ride. Call me Scrooge if you wish but when a five year old who barely reaches the pedals standing up asks to take it for a spin I have to decline. However the bell (never used so it’s not sad) and helmet provide enough photo opportunities and amusement it seems, albeit a poor second as their perfected angelic frowns testify.

Rush Hour in South-West Bulgaria

Crossing into Bulgaria resulted in unintentionally stumbling across the one and only Bella Rock Festival in Petrich. Alongside Glastonbury, Rock in Rio and Sziget it ranks as one of the must see musical extravaganzas with artists and fans coming from as far away as the next village to party on down and ensure Chris De Burgh and Rick Astley are never to be forgotten. I shouldn’t mock. In actual fact the three days I had in Bulgaria whetted the appetite for more and gave a very favourable first impression. Were it not for geographical necessity if I am to complete this trip in less than a year I would gladly have spent more time there. The roads dramatically improved and the small corner I saw at the least was a real case of country life with more horse and carts carrying hay than there were modern juggernauts for once. Traditional farmsteads dominated with the populace going about their harvests or tending their livestock.

 

In Hindsight The Clues Were There! Tough Day Of Cycling In Bulgaria.

Bulgaria did provide the toughest climb of the trip to date (I seem to be writing that line every post at the moment). A monster 25km continuous of over 10% average that was the closest I have come to wondering if I would actually make my intended overnight target for the day. But as usual after a few hours of climbing eventually a pass was reached, to be followed by all of twenty minutes descending and mission was once again accomplished. Thus far every time I have been at my lowest ebb a fillip has appeared just in time. Long may that continue.

St Nicholas Monastery. Lake Vistonida, Greece

Crossing south into Greece there then followed several days of heading pretty much due east, making good direct ground towards Istanbul at last. Stopping off first in Drama where, appropriately enough, there was a short film festival going on. Then on through the coastal town of Kavala with its old town and castle perched high on a rocky outcrop. The town also provided my first sign for the journey’s final destination. “Konstantinopolous – 460km” poking out from underneath some drooping tree foliage. I know by now to at least double that with the inevitable detours and the fact I am not a crow. However it still provided a real boost to see the end goal becoming a realistic proposition. After Kavala I passed through Xanthi and Alexandroupoli, once again fringing the Aegean coastline. Having passed through the beautiful Lagos region and made a brief stop at the picturesque St Nicholas Monastery on Lake Vistonida it was time to make that final crossing.

Old Town of Xanthi, Greece

Regrettably shortly before the lake I did however have my only real “moment” on the bike to date. It is tempting to fall once more into the stereotype scenario but it appears that Greeks often do not get around to finishing things (Athens Olympics anybody?). Bridges being amongst these items. Often the main join is left as a three foot high ridge to be negotiated or a chasm worthy of Evel Knievel’s best efforts there to trap the unwary. And so it was. Seeing the large canyon fault too late to slow in time and with a truck hot on my heels to prevent any hopes of direction change it was time to brace. The result? Just about staying upright but the tread on my rear tyre severely lost, a front wheel too buckled to allow clearance of the brake pads and several damaged spokes. The inevitable punctures ensued and after a day of limping the inevitable had to be given into and a new rear tyre fitted. Owing to a lack of options in the one bike shop found Chantal is now a bit of a mongrel, or as I prefer to say a hybrid, with a thicker rear tyre resulting in slight speed reduction and less effective brakes but greater grip. A mixed blessing on the uphills but hopefully the worst of those are over. Anyone who has ever tried to true a badly buckled wheel solo and by eye without any type of stand or proper tools will know it’s not easy at the best of times. When it’s a heavily loaded touring bike you can forget anything more than “that will do” as an end outcome. Given as soon as the pannier  and yourself go back on and you put pressure on it once more no amount of “destressing” in bicycle parlance (advance compensating for spoke tension under load) will totally counter that affect.

Kavala, Greece

In an ideal world I wanted to finish with the same spec I started. Call it pride if you wish or a sense of trying to prove people wrong who say tyres and saddle on a tourer must be changed immediately on purchase (I did neither). But taking into account the thousands of kilometres over at times very suspect roads it was an accomplishment on the part of my basic road tyres they lasted as long as they did. The front is still going strong. Even with a purposefully balanced weight between front and rear panniers there is no getting around the fact when you add even a slightly more toned me on the back the distribution was too much to bear. The incident was simply the final straw, not the cause and effect. As issues go a slightly bent front wheel and the resulting loss in brake control is a fairly minor casualty list thus far and I’ve been very lucky. There are several previously unknown creaks and groans that if the journey were continuing I would look further into but I’m at the stage of damage limitation to get me to the end. Fingers crossed.

Anzac Cove, Gallipoli Peninsula, Turkey

Seeing the “Welcome to Turkey” sign did feel like the beginning of the end at least. To this point I had always been counting how long I had been riding for, especially if people asked. Now I find myself counting down. I have already spent a few days here now enjoying the Thrace region and could have made Istanbul itself. However having already completed over five thousand kilometres on this journey I figured what’s a couple of hundred more between friends so I have headed south towards the Gallipoli peninsula, currently in Eceabat having stopped off at Kesan and Gelibolu en route. It seemed appropriate given my first days were spent on the beaches of Normandy that I effectively book-end the trip at another famous military landing site, this time from the first world war. So I have spent this afternoon visiting the beaches and commemorative sites around Anzac Cove. A place of national pilgrimage for many Australians and New Zealanders in particular who tragedy as it undoubtedly was also somewhat identify with it as a coming of age moment in their nation’s autonomous pride. The plan is to meet up with some old friends which after several months of stuttering conversations in pidgin English with strangers will be welcomed and spend these final few days taking in a couple more sights before Istanbul, including the famous site of Troy.

The First Sign! Kavala, Greece

Constantinople, Istanbul. The place which even one local in Greece described to me as the “city of cities”. It’s been quite a journey, I’m not sure I want it to end just yet……..

 

Le Grand Voyage – Weeks 9 and 10 – Kotor to Prizren

So I write this latest update sitting in a square dotted with cafes in the city of Prizren, Kosovo. Sipping on another ridiculously cheap beer whilst around me in the near vicinity alone a dozen muezzin seemingly compete in their own version of adhan X Factor from their various minarets.

Budva, Montenegro

It’s been a varied couple of weeks. Having enjoyed the old town charms of Kotor I thought it rude not to also visit nearby Budva, another historical town on the coast of Montenegro, now firmly entrenched on the backpacker circuit but for good reason. With yet more picturesque cobbled alleyways and a fortress position on the Adriatic. From there in order to take in the country as much as possible and head towards Serbia I aimed north-east, passing through the forgettable capital of Podgorica. Forgettable however is not a word I would ever use to describe the scenery though. Staggering possibly, breath-taking for sure. Given I cycled literally across the country I think it’s fair to say Montenegro has positioned itself right up there as one of the most beautiful places I’ve visited in all my travels. For the touring cyclist such beauty once again came with the price tag of long and at times arduous mountain passes. Yet whilst I may have momentarily cursed on occasion, at the end of each day I found myself looking back on yet another incredible journey.

Moraca River, Montenegro

From the coastal road the ascent was probably my toughest yet. Sea level to nearly 1500 metres over several hours of switchback roads but leading ultimately to Skadarsko Jezero National Park, the largest lake in the Balkans and surrounded by verdant pine forests on almost deserted roads. Then having passed through the capital it was time to switch mountains and lakes for a river canyon. As I followed for an entire morning the River Moraca, eventually deciding it was the perfect place for an early break and staying by a monastery in a small log cabin on its banks.

 

 

 

Typical Serbian Countryside

It was almost with a slightly heavy heart that the following day I crossed the border into Serbia, such had been my time in Montenegro and the impression it had made on me. Yet moving on is what us travellers tend to do.  Serbia proved to be a slightly different entity. Admittedly, even though I took a very long circuitous detour from the direction of Istanbul to visit, I still only saw the southern half. However perhaps it was due to the panoramas and stopovers that preceded it that I have found it a slightly less impressive destination. The people have been as friendly as ever, and I would not go nearly as far as to call it ugly. In fact for a couple of days there have also been beautiful stretches along further river canyons and rolling farmlands. Yet the towns lacked the appeal of those of the earlier countries on the trip and there has been far greater signs of heavy industry. The war in the 90’s aside it’s almost as if Serbia has struggled more than the other Balkan states to throw off the shackles of communism, with concrete to the fore and functionality at a premium over aesthetics. What outer appeal there was has tended to shield the inner truth in my very limited personal experience at least. Glamorous looking hotels that have never had a guest in them, hospital projects that never saw a patient. Such concentration on the superficial a central tenet of the Soviet era.  Perhaps I am ignorant of Serbia’s particular circumstances, more than likely. And of course it suffered, in very broad terms, more than most territorially in the eventual break up of Yugoslavia. No doubt such conditions partly remain in the other countries also (Kosovo certainly) but given the similar history of its neighbours it would appear to be slightly contradictory how outwardly it lacks the same restorative powers, appeal and tourist attractions that the likes of Croatia and Montenegro have these days. Money no doubt playing a part.

Krusevac, Serbia

That said there have been some obvious efforts and Novi Pazar was an interesting first stopover. Funding from the EU helping to attract tourists to its old islamic neighbourhoods that have stood for centuries exactly as they are today. The city being predominantly Bosniak (or Slavic speaking muslims) in its composition in contrast to the majority orthodox Christians of Serbia as a whole. Then passing on through Kraljevo there was an entire day spent following the course of the Morava river to Krusevac and eventually on to Nis. Nis was undoubtedly the slight exception to the concrete non-descript settlements I have earlier described. Whilst it too has a modern shopping and café dominated centre it also has a historic fortress you can walk around at will. I also visited the skull tower where the Turkish sultan had the craniums of the Serbian uprisers in the early 1800’s embedded into the very framework of the building. Nice right. My own personal guide (I was the only visitor and had to be let in) quizzing me on the populations of all major towns in England. At first I presumed as a lead in to the comparative losses sustained by the country in its various conflicts, but no it turns out she just had a passion for demography and I think numbers were the only thing she could deal with in English.

Skull Tower. Nis, Serbia

On an equally sombre note the remains of one of the concentration camps used by Nazi Germany is also available to walk around. In truth the extent of the museum not being worth even the modest admission fee but a humbling place worthy of reflection nevertheless. I often look at the local elderly residents in many of these countries and think what they must have gone through in their lives. Not only dealing with incredible hardships during the World War but then going through communism and finally seeing neighbour turn upon neighbour as well years later. It is little wonder then that they often stop and stare at this strange guy going around their country and others on a ridiculously loaded bicycle with a certain amount of bemusement. How fortunate is my generation in comparison and I think they can be forgiven for often being accused of being a little dour in outward appearance. A condition undermined completely once a smile and cheery ciao often comes from them. Ciao now having taken over as the word for hi and bye in Serbian. In the same way pomfrit has taken over for chips (fries for the North Americans amongst you). Ah the internationalisation of language continues in earnest.

Mountains become hills! Serbia.

I must also add at this point that Serbia (at least I can vouch the southern half) has one major thing going for it for a cyclist. It is generally flat! After 3 weeks of major mountain ascents the novelty and challenge value of them was I admit wearing thin. So to see mountain passes of up to 2000 metres gradually reduce to hills and then eventually farming countryside and valleys was a blessed relief. A relief but us humans being as we are I have to admit that whilst easier it has meant slightly more monotonous riding at times. I know I know – never satisfied. In general though it has meant some much speedier days and some relief of aching bones. The roads are generally of decent quality although leading up to Kosovo became unsealed in parts. The biggest noticeable thing being the amount of road-kill that has to be avoided. Next time I cycle here I’m going to invite some New Zealand mates over so that they can rustle up their national dish from it and keep us well fed.

Kraljevo, Serbia

Where it created some moments of uncertainty is once off the beaten track Serbian Cyrillic only is used. Given I have no GPS and my paper map of the entire Balkans area involves two sheets of A4 with only the major settlements listed this has caused a guess or two on the road. Whilst some letters are recognisable others are completely different. Thank goodness Cyrillic and Latin at least have the same amount of characters as often I found myself counting them and hoping for the best. There have been periods of many hours cycling though in the more remote countryside where I was unsure if I was even heading in the right direction due to lack of signs of any variety, and distances are never put either for a sense of progress. By car these are just nuisances, by bike they can be the difference between being out after dark or the best part of a day lost along with the physical effort. Even casting aside my manhood and asking for directions at times is of no use. Minimal English is spoken in the rural areas and unless you can find someone more youthful the older generation cares little as to which direction their capital or any other settlement beyond their own or at least nearby is. Weather, family, livestock and harvest. They’re what matters. The average elderly farmer having no more to do with it than if someone was to ask a local in Birmingham which ring road was best to get towards Buenos Aires.

Some political graffiti. Kosovo.

From Nis it was time to cross into Kosovo. I had intentionally entered Serbia first having been firstly advised by a friend (thanks Emma) and then reading reports of some difficulties doing it the other way around, Kosovo of course still not being recognised by Serbia. I was not too sure what to expect on crossing the border. This was the first in a few days recently of persistent heavy rain and as it was getting dark I checked into the first hotel I saw literally just over the semi-official frontier. From the outside it looked your typical fairly shabby border town cheap motel. Only to be greeted with wifi, cable TV and a shower that looked like something out of Dr Who. From the outset it was obvious that, whilst currently peaceful, tensions have existed and continue to do so, particularly in the north. Flags of Albania as well as Kosovo proudly being flown from many private homes. The fact that speed signs not only showed those relevant to cars but also to tanks gave this away further and the occasional UN and KFOR vehicles have passed me by. Yet I have now travelled right through the entire middle of the country and no problem whatsoever. In fact I’m inclined to say the major towns I have visited are a notch above Serbia in facilities and appeal. Albeit the obvious poverty en route when passing through the country villages, people becoming ever more curious as I pass due to the increasing novelty value.

Pristina, Kosovo

Pristina itself was a real mix of modern and historic but not without justification for a quick stopover. However my current location of Prizren is definitely worth a look if you’re ever in the region. Passing through mostly fertile farmland, then ultimately taking an almost deserted ride on the new Kosovo-Albania highway only completed last year, Prizren is establishing itself on the traveller circuit. A young and vibrant energy exists here yet it is overlooked by a medieval fortress that was once the capital seat of the Serbian empire and its central area is dominated by old stone bridges and mosques dating back six centuries to the Ottoman Turks. It makes a nice change as a Brit that another old empire gets most of the bad press here.

 

Prizren, Kosovo

 

So from here there are two options for these final couple of weeks. Going via Albania down to Lake Ohrid in Macedonia and then the long road due east through Greece to Istanbul. Or heading from here more directly to Skopje and cutting largely through Bulgaria. The poor weather currently in the region is playing a part in the plans but as I type this I still haven’t decided. I guess as long as I have by tomorrow morning, when I place feet in pedal straps and buttocks on saddle once more!

Le Grand Voyage – Weeks 7 and 8 – Florence to Kotor

Knackered. If I was urged to come up with one word to describe my current state. There, you’ve had it. And yet I look at the map and it appears as if I’ve slowed down a little. I have given myself a couple of rest days but undeniably physically I have found the last couple of weeks very challenging. Enjoyable, yet challenging.

The Hills Of Tuscany

After a day chilling and taking in the cultural charms of Florence once again it was time to head to off into the Tuscan hills. Two days of fairly continuous up and downs with at times lengthy climbs but beautiful countryside of vineyards, olive groves and terracotta clad villages such as Poppi and Arpecchio, my overnight stops. Then it was off to the coast in preparation for the second planned ferry of the trip, from Ancona to Split in Croatia. Anyone who cares to dispute the ongoing veracity of the trip’s premise by using such a vehicle need only to look at my circuitous route to this point should they care to. Plus unless I’m missing something anybody from the UK wanting to cross Europe has a little bit of water to contend with at some point no matter what. So no complaints shall be heard.

Makarska, Croatia

Croatia has long been one of my favourite countries and once again it didn’t disappoint. Stepping off the overnight ferry in the early morning I headed straight on the blissfully smooth roads compared to Italy (heaping yet further shame on the Rome government) for the campsite at Stobrec about 8km out of town. Quite possibly one of the best campsites, as well as largest, I’ve ever seen in a stunning location. Thus the intended overnight base became a stay for a further day in order to relax and enjoy the old town of Split, celebrating it’s Roman past with a week long celebration whilst I was there.

Following the coastal road along the Adriatic I passed through the obviously locally popular resort of Makarska, an unexpectedly pleasant stopover set around an inlet. Then it was time to head inland once again and tackle the first of many Balkan climbs. Heading into the Biokovo National Park on route for Bosnia and Herzegovina. After an initially steep cliff-side incline once over the pass a stunning lush green panorama opened up and quiet undulating roads asked to be enjoyed. I often think how fortunate I have been so far in my route in that there really has been very little of ugliness, at times due to some prior planning but occasionally simply by following the lesser roads and letting the natural scenery take over. Without wishing to get overly spiritual generally speaking if you avoid the big modern cities (i.e. man’s influence) this earth thing is naturally just a little bit special.

The Road Through Biokovo National Park, Croatia

The road eventually plateaued out and before knowing it I had arrived at one of the quainter border points I’ve seen pretty much consisting of a hut within a picturesque village. The destination goal initially within Bosnia was Mostar, a place I had heard much about and site of the famous Stari Most bridge that was so culturally and historically sensitive during the war in the 1990’s. Along with Sydney and San Francisco it must be one of the few bridges in the world that helps to define it’s own city. Wandering the restored cobbled old town was at once charming and at the same time made the troubles of 20 years ago all once again seem as futile as ever, given Bosnian, Serbian and Croatian could all be happily heard chatting together. What was noticeable was the gradual move towards the Orient, with Islamic and Ottoman influences creeping in. Some of it as ever contrived in the countless souvenir stalls offering genuine Turkish trinkets and tea (made in China) but in other aspects quite genuine as you hear the wafts of the muezzin from the various mosques dotted about town, start to see Islamic dress in evidence and see bread substituted for sausages and kebab.

Diving From The Famous Stari Most Bridge In Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Leaving Mostar it was time to cross the mountains again (shock) heading East once more towards ultimately Montenegro. Immediately upon leaving town a significant ascent continuing numerous kilometres ensured any lactic still in the legs was found. The heat also has been unrelenting and the rocky open nature of the landscape offers little opportunity for respite, but once again eventually after traversing the pass further quiet plateau roads and valleys ensured it was worthwhile. A particularly tricky moment was entering Lubinje and seeing a large country style welcome sign, a suspiciously Serbian looking flag and the road signs suddenly look a whole lot more Cyrillic than Latin. I even got out my Europe map just to ensure I hadn’t got my boundary bearings very wrong. Only when I got to a hotel in Trebinje did I Google to see that the Republic of Srpska (which I had thought might mean Serbia) is one of the two regional entities of Bosnia and Herzegovina, chiefly for the majority Serb population there who wish for it’s full independence still. Given the religious, cultural and territorial complexities involved in this region it is very easy to stroll into a monumental faux pas still, however now it made sense. Kind of. Yet another stunning road (if seemingly never-ending given no shade or opportunity for water for over 80km) eventually led to Trebinje, a walled city with a pleasant river setting location.

Heading To Trebinje, Republic of Srpska, Bosnia and Herzegovina

The following day it was time to cross a third border in a week. In contrast to the Croatia/Bosnia border the route to Montenegro involved a long climb up through mountains to a summit border post. Catching my breath to hand over my passport was however followed by a good 15 kilometres of first hairpin and then gradual descent all the way down to the coast once more at Herceg Novi, situated on the breathtaking Bay of Kotor. Breathtaking, yet a little cruel for a weary cyclist, as my end point could be seen just over the water, yet there was still a good 40km of pedalling all the way around the bay past numerous smaller villages in order to get to Kotor itself. I reckon if enough cycling tourists get together over say 50 years a short bridge might be affordable. Sod the eye-sore view. Not really, but if you’d have asked me towards the end of the ride yesterday.

Kotor, Montenegro

I mentioned I feel like I have been slowing down, yet inevitably since Italy the size of the countries and my eastern route through them has meant only spending a few days in each one. Trying to find a route through which allows you to get a feel for each country without missing one is actually quite difficult and the comparative lack of road options compared to say France also means some major detours and long circuits which can add to the feeling of not much distance reward for the effort involved. However I am well within the time scale I loosely set myself and as the crow flies at least I am now within the final third of the trip towards Istanbul.

Since Croatia it has also been noticeable the reduction in costs. So much so that the sleeping bag and tent have been given quite a few nights off. Heck when it’s £10 for an en-suite with wifi, TV and fridge, look I’m adventurous but I’m not that stupid to pass it up now and then.

Kotor Bay, Montenegro

And so here I find myself once again in a small town not far from Kotor called Dobrota sitting in an old square, surrounded by ladies as beautiful as the setting, with a cheap beer by my one side, 14^th century church to the other and the lapping waters of the Adriatic all of 3 feet away. Remind me once again why I am doing this……. 😉 

Le Grand Voyage – Weeks 5 and 6 – Avignon to Florence

Au revoir France! Ciao Italia! The border has been crossed and I’m currently enjoying a first rest day in a while in Florence at the heart of Tuscany.  I always promised to tell an honest account of the journey so in truth it’s been an up and down couple of weeks in all senses – physically, topographically and mentally.

The scenery of Les Baux-de-Provence, France

Having put aside a day in Avignon last I wrote, it ended being taken up making several phone-calls in order to cancel credit cards and order new ones having somehow misplaced my wallet earlier in the day. Most annoyingly for all of a couple of days I’d lazily put both cards in the same place, a rookie no-no in travel terms and something I haven’t done in years, having advised others not to do so for a living even. Sure enough the one time I do it, bang. Fortunately a few spare dollar notes from previous travel were found to get some internet time and some quick Skype calls and a Western Union transfer courtesy embarrassingly of the parents tided me over until a pick up arrangement could be made at a local hotel. Lesson learnt though and a delay resulted awaiting the delivery.

Draguinan, France

I’d like to pretend that’s the only reason why the map inches haven’t been flying so quickly this last fortnight but good old geology has played its part as well. I now know full well why the majority of touring cyclists keep to the flatter northern route in Europe, thus avoiding the Alps and the other lesser mountain ranges that just about monopolise the southern regions and coastline. Whilst there has been fluctuation in the level day to day there really has overall been little respite since Provence. The routine of a long tiring day in the saddle climbing and descending, then more climbing and descending only to be repeated again the next day does take its toll mentally as much as physically. I can see where a companion for such moments could be beneficial for sure for the odd lift of sagging spirits. However for the few down moments this has caused the scenery has been breath-taking at times, and such a venture was always going to rely on a large amount of self-motivation. I do have to sometimes take stock and think that I’m fulfilling my dream of cycling through these gorgeous regions as opposed to sitting at a desk. That keeps one going for sure!

Tourettes, France

I decided to keep to the mainland and follow the coast around rather than take a recommendation to visit Corsica by ferry and continue to Italy from there. Whilst that was a tempting option I’m now very glad I took the coastal route. Not only does it feel slightly more genuine as an overland trip but there has been some great moments and I already intended to take a ferry over to the Dalmatian Coast in Croatia later on. Too many boat rides and the nature of the trip may be lost a little in my eyes.

Beaulieu, France

Having continued across Provence stopping over at the likes of Les Baux de Provence, Draguinan and Tourettes (picturesque village – not a swear word heard apart from me reaching the top of a hill or two most likely) it was time to add to the beautiful people (stop your laughing there on the back row) on the French Riviera. Speeding at times enviously past resort after resort of sunbathing holiday makers for whom their main physical challenge was having to get out of their lounger to the bar 20 metres over the road. I believe I broke my own record for over-landing across a country, or principality at least, and I’d suspect few have bettered it. Less than 5 minutes going through Monaco, partly having visited already but mostly as by bike you end up speeding through underground tunnels and before you know it the harbour that was ahead of you is now behind. You’re back in France again with little chance to turn around. Perhaps a sprint across the Vatican in your best runners might beat it but that’s pretty speedy. Still I know if I’d have stopped I would have spent a day’s budget grabbing a coke, and more than likely I would have had to god forbid change clothes and grab the deodorant from deep deep down into the pannier, so probably for the best.

Ventimiglia, Italy

The Via Aurelia coastal road, Italy

Taking in the likes of Nice, Villefranche-sur-Mer and Beaulieu though along the coastal road was great fun and an insight into how the other half live (not necessarily for me – but I get the appeal for some). Eventually crossing at Menton into Italy. First stop San Remo, appropriately the end of one of cycling’s classic one day races which starts at Milan. Showing once again how insane professional cyclists really are. Then following what was now called the P1 into the Via Aurelia, a road that was to become my second home for a few days, all along the Ligurian Sea through the Gulf of Genova. At times fairly tame, at other moments highly undulating and tough going taking in the towns dotted along the cliffs. There is something a little dispiriting of a long uphill, followed by a descent of all of a few minutes only to repeat the process immediately again with no flat to regain some energy. Darn those locals for wanting a hilltop panorama eh! But in all seriousness the views are the compensation for sure.

Typically nonsensical road signs in Italy! None of these distances were remotely accurate by the way.

It was summiting another of these roads that I got my first genuine “Bravo Grande” from a local couple of cyclists. I must admit to a certain pride at such moments and it has been a very noticeable difference between France and Italy the amount of support from other cyclists. There are still those who through a mixture of snobbery and machismo refrain to return any greeting and even look away (look at him with his pale legs doing it in his cheap clothing with a loaded touring bike making us no longer look quite so super-fit and special). But there have also been any number of “Ciao” greetings and acknowledgement of someone else simply doing the same thing in a slightly different style. On most occasions of course I don’t actually know what they’re saying but body language tends to suggest it is favourable. Their spirits are already up with one of their own having just recently won the Tour de France, Vincenzo Nibali. Italy has long since usurped France as the home of cycling and it is easy to see why.

A mild example of the the roads in Italy.

The other major difference I’m noticing in Italy though is less positive. The roads. By far the worst I have seen in Europe, certainly Western Europe. Appreciated that at times the seismic activity in the area has played its part over the years but even some major thoroughfares are a case of avoiding cracked ridges of mini-Etnas or mini-Vesuviuses. Yes in Africa or Asia there will be some much worse overall, and by and large we are talking bitumen here so it’s all comparative.  But given the billions that are spent in the country on over-valued clothing and smelling like you’ve just fallen into a vat of lavender it is all the more disappointing that it has been left in such a state. It is well known that finances are often syphoned off and contracts are not exactly given to those with the greatest work ethic and quality (did I hear someone say the words “bunga bunga”) but still it is no coincidence that within 2 days of arriving in Italy I had my first puncture, a pinched flat. Having managed over 4500 kilometres through the UK, Ireland and France without one. You can also forget all about distances being accurate on road signs, there has been many an occasion where suggestions have been increasing as I’ve been nearing the destination, at times it’s close to comical were your legs not burning and the light of day fading. I had been told prior to arrival that France now is a nation of drivers who still respect cyclists, that Italy is a nation of cyclists who get little respect from drivers. I can testify to a sense of truth in this suggestion.There are far more cyclists yet the roads are narrower, steeper and the drivers less respectful. Still it certainly toughens you up and aids your bike craft further. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Lucca, Italy

In Italy’s favour however compared to France is most definitely that shops are often OPEN – even at times on a Sunday, even at times between 11am and 3pm! Sure it’s still not like the UK or Northern Europe with their workaholic status but I’d gotten so used to stocking up in advance in France, especially at weekends, due to the casual opening hours. I’d come to assume that the reason the cross channel ferries to the UK on a Sunday are full is not due to Brits returning to Monday work but French families have sent one of theirs over because they’d run out of milk. Plus pizzas, the cyclist’s staple diet due to its calories/cost ratio, are available for four Euros, the cheapest thing on any menu. This my friends is progress. Beer mind you at the same cost as a meal and for a measure akin to a thimble is a low point, but it has meant complete sobriety for a period.

Florence, Italy

So the last couple of days eventually resulted in getting away from the coast and making my way across Romagna and into Tuscany, destination Ancona these next few days where the intention is to take the ferry over to Split in Croatia. The picture postcard walled city of Lucca was passed through yesterday and I’m back in Florence, having visited with my old travel company some years ago. Back then I remember a toga party, mass water balloon fight with several of our competitors and sore heads in the very campsite I’ve returned to now. Something tells me this time might be a little different….but you never know.

Le Grand Voyage – Weeks 3 and 4 – La Charite sur Loire to Avignon

Well it’s been some couple of weeks. I’ve reached my southern goal of Avignon having completed my following of the Loire river, crossed over the Massif Central, cruised through the Ardeches region and am now in Provence.

The dancing horses on Bastille Day in Nevers

The final stopover on the Loire route was Nevers where the main “Loire a Velo” route stops. Reaching it in time for the 14th July Bastille celebrations incorporating an impressive fireworks display and slightly more intriguingly a procession of illuminated dancing white horses who proceeded to dance with remarkable intuition to a musical score. At least I believe that’s what happened, although I had been coaxed into having a few beers with the locals by then.

The Central Asia style buildings of Vichy

 

Leaving behind the ease of following a recognised bike route did take a while to get used to again as the maps were once again scoured for the regional roads to try and avoid the busy roads and subsequent juggernaut trucks speeding inches by. At times an impossible task. However I generally made my way southeast across the Puy-de-Dome and Haute Loire regions. Passing places such as Vichy, which I found to be a pleasant enough town having been only aware of its less salubrious historical connections during the Second World War. As well as places previously unheard of, yet great scenic and historical stopovers, such as Olliergues, La Chaise-Dieu and Le Puy-en-Velay. Each with their old towns, cobbled alleyways, typical central plaza replete with church and cafes dotted around. Little did I know that Puy-en-Velay was part of the Camino de Frances pilgrimage route towards Santiago de Compostela , a place I visited only last year for Easter. Therefore for once there were as many hikers as bikers strolling through.

Le Puy-en-Velay

One of the great things about cycle touring is that you do sometimes stumble fortuitously across places that just wouldn’t have been your radar with pre-planned trips revolving around booked hotels and the main settlements. A typical example being taking a fork in the road through gut instinct and coming across the staggering rock crop location of Arlempdes, which justifiably turned out to be voted one of France’s prettiest towns.

The Massif Central incorporates a large part of southern and central France, 15% of the country in total, comprising of mountains, volcanoes and plateau. Whilst not quite of the same grandeur as the Alps, from which it is separated chiefly by the Rhone river, nonetheless it presents a serious challenge to the novice touring cyclist. Numerous cols ranging from 500m to 1500m needed to be ascended, at times of significant enough steepness extending for kilometres of uninterrupted climbing.

Visibiilty at the top of Col du Pendu!

An additional element became the weather. It has been one of extremes with certain days reaching into the high 30’s adding to the effort involved and on other occasions thunderstorms, making the subsequent descents particularly tricky. One particular night providing quite a show with countless thunder claps and sheet lightning. I must admit that alone in a wild tent during such times does add to a sense of vulnerability and a distinct hope that the particles involved will not be too attracted to the metal poles. As any regular camper knows being in a stand-alone tent during such times only heightens the sense of drama unfolding outside, as even light rain is exacerbated, let alone a deluge which sounds like a swarm of beetles are constantly running over your canvas.

The descent to come down Col de Meyrand

 

 

Perhaps the highlight so far was the twelve kilometres of continued switchback descent down through the Ardeches gorge district, from the peak of Col de Meyrand at 1370 metres to the small town of Largentieres. Having approached the summit following a prolonged ascent into cloudy fog with barely ten metres visibility suddenly a short while later I was faced with a panoramic view of breathtaking beauty as the valley stretched out before me. This was matched by not a little trepidation as I saw the hairpin bends wind their way all the way down to the valley floor, steep and with no barriers at all. Feathering the brakes for such a prolonged duration was nerve-wracking and exhilarating in equal measure as sheer almost thousand metre drops were tackled. It certainly tested the cables as well as my forearms and fingers.

One of the tunnels in the Ardeche Gorge

Having finally got over the bulk of the Massif it was straight into the Ardeches and the beautiful gorge route. A cyclist’s dream as comparatively quiet roads leave you sweeping views and multiple lookouts. As after the initial cycle following the river, then a climb to the top at about five hundred metres, the road actually follows the cliff top all the way around. Tunnels have been cut directly out of the rock resulting in arches across the road to pass under. A place of simply staggering natural beauty.

The Gorges D’Ardeche

One thing I have noticed is the gradual increase of tourists and on the occasions of campsites being used their level of custom subsequently increasing also. We are starting to get into the true tourist season here in France and for the first time in the two months I’ve been riding I was turned away due to being full. In truth whilst my French has gradually improved I would have been just as well to learn Dutch or particularly German such is their dominance of the overseas camping scene here. I particularly wanted to be somewhere to at least see the World Cup Final and of course managed to find a camp where a school from Germany was staying. What most took me was their apparent calmness as their team lifted the trophy. An obligatory rendition of Queen’s “We Are The Champions” and then it was off to bed, simply expectation fulfilled. Oh what a different world to the impoverished English supporter!

From here there is a decision to be made. Originally I had been guided towards heading to Nice through and taking the ferry to Corsica and then on to Italy. Yet I may stay on the mainland and work around the southern Mediterranean coast after passing Provence instead. I guess by the next update that decision will have been made!

Le Grand Voyage – Week 2 – Le Mont St Michel to La Charite-sur-Loire

My aim is to become a dung beetle. Not in the sense of trudging around compiling inordinate amounts of waste to then be used as a domicile and breeding ground for food, although bike touring does get close to that at times. Nor am I a revolutionary reverse Buddhist. No I mean more in the sense of their ability to carry and push weights significantly heavier than that of their own body. The old power to weight ratio utopia that every cyclist is ultimately striving for.

I’d say I started as a sloth. Cute they may be but in terms of output efficiency they won’t be winning medals any time soon. Then probably progressed through say an elephant and am heading towards potentially a horse at the moment. More of a nag than a prime thoroughbred though. It’s hard to define, as I am probably proving. I don’t think as yet they’ve registered a scientific scale for such assessments alongside say the Richter or Scovell.

Town of Amboise

Suffice to say I am noticing a greater speed average and stamina naturally occurring for no discernible greater effort. I actually weigh only slightly less than when I started, despite the odd look of concern from friends. The difference being I am of a slightly better tone where some of the fat appears to have become muscular again at last after a 15 year hiatus. Albeit still the odd historical beer, or ten, is showing around the midriff. Even if I were to say 10km to work off for every pint there’s no journey doable in a lifetime that could erase the Hop Years as I call them. There are still times when some local French guy with a baguette under his arm, a basket full of flowers and whistling no doubt some Edith Piaf number overtakes with a nonchalant gallic “bonjour”. But overall I’m feeling good about gradually improving fitness levels it’s fair to say.

Gite at Ernee.

This second week has seen me move on from the Normandy area through Brittany and into the Loire region. Brittany involving incessant undulating hills but typical countryside of hay bales, wheat fields and dairy farms. Including a treat stay at a local gite, where myself and an impossibly beautiful young French chocolatier (does a dream girl get any better?) were the only guests. Home-made cheese, home-made freshly pressed apple juice, home-made yogurt, home-made strawberry jam and fresh bread purchased from the local boulangerie (lazy sods!) were an absolute tonic after a general daily diet consisting of peanuts, bananas, stale baguette and the cheapest of cheap pate.

Loire River

On seeing the map given my target of heading south-east towards Italy the course of the Loire stood out and I knew of some decent cycle network territory there. Having spent several days having to contend with heavy traffic and HGV’s who it seems gain points for touching cyclists elbows at 90 kilometres per hour I headed to Angers to see if some respite was in order. Sure enough a network of cycle routes over 800km long in total, the “Loire a Velo” heads between the Atlantic coast at St Nazaire and Nevers in Central France, with the river its focal point. So I have spent the last week or so following its route and enjoying the comparatively flat terrain and easy nature of following designated cycle paths.

Typical Breton Scenery

The route itself whilst centred around the Loire river does in truth spend as much time away from its banks as by them, but this does allow for some variety in terrain and scenery. Favourite places thus far en route were I would say Montsoreau and Amboise, where centuries of history in the old town combined with a castle backdrop and picturesque views over the meandering river countryside. From passing through small hamlet villages to vineyards, fields of sunflowers spreading to the horizon to the famous chateau at just about every turn the route is certainly beautiful though. In parts for Chantal I was concerned. As with basic road tyres some of the at times gravel, forest trail and loose stone surface more suited to mountain bike or cyclo-cross outfits has no doubt taken a touch of gloss off the Continentals. However as yet she has come through generally unscathed but now certainly does look like she has completed the almost two thousand miles on the clock. Over the course of which an affinity and bond has started to develop, the cleaning and maintenance process being done with just that little more tender care.

Chateau D’Usse

There is a variety of cycling etiquette I notice. I tend to say bonjour as a matter of habit whenever passing someone. There is a mix of responses. From an equally cheery return “bon jour” (occasionally in an equally British accent – there really is just no hope for us passing ourselves off in this language) to a muted reply, to a look of abject horror that you’ve deigned yourself sufficiently interesting or important to interrupt their focus for a moment. Much of the route I assume used to be basically locals only and a lot quieter for residents, mostly walking tracks and for giving the dog exercise. Which leads to the occasional conflict as the turning of spokes seems to be the canine equivalent of flashing strobe lights for epileptics. Many a game of chicken has been had with locals especially as the right to the road is established.

Cycling By The Loire

After a few days of heat the latter end to the week has swung completely around. Almost constant rain has meant a real test of waterproofing of all bags and exactly how much of a fair weather rider this cycle touring imposter is. Camping in consistent rain where no chance of drying out is not fun. End of. Anyone who says otherwise is either a member of a sadomasochistic society or simply fibbing. Normally the latter but check for any winces if you pat them on the back, or enquiries as to if you could do it harder next time. By doing the Loire a Velo there has been a steady stream of fellow cyclists, some along for a day ride minimally burdened, others like myself carrying full pannier sets and all sorts of assorted contraptions. There is an unsaid but noticeable respect hierarchy amongst cycle tourers. Yes it’s all very nice being out with your family on a little ride in the sun. But when you’re slogging away at 8 miles per hour along muddy tracks in the teeming rain with a bike you can barely lift. Well then that little tilt of the head or acknowledgement says much. We are brethren my friend, peace and courage be with you. Noticeably the two-wheeled traffic dwindled considerably in the wetter occasions.

Town of Sancerre From The Castle

Currently in La Charite-sur-Loire the aim now is to head due South more directly towards Clermont Ferrand and the coast. Following the Loire has been scenic but at times once again has added significant extra mileage. As the crow flies Cherbourg to my current location is just over 300 miles, yet I have done nearer 700, such is the trade-off between direct routes and those of more interest and quieter roads. Apologies for the mix between miles and kilometres by the way. I headed off before learning how to change from one to the other on my £6.99 bicycle computer. One day I’ll work it out. Once again though this journey was as much for pleasure as for physical challenge or speed so I have no regrets. There is one slight hurdle going south it’s hard to avoid though……… the Massif Central. The real challenge commences.

 

 

Le Grand Voyage – Week 1 – Solihull to Le Mont St Michel

Solihull to Le Mont St Michel

Have you ever felt like your pelvis seems to have just been offered to the Klitschko brothers on the basis on them having been told they’re free to do their worst in punches below the belt?

Because I have. Several times in fact this last week. At least I assume the dull throbbing must be akin to taking some of their blows, albeit no visible bruising at this stage. Saddle adjustments and slight changes in posture have been attempted and even some extra stuffing courtesy of spare socks has been added, to the point of almost looking boastful, but as yet no long term remedy. I’m hoping that over time the body will adapt once again I guess, although I never felt this on the recce so I can only put it down to the lesser natural cushioning following the slim down that has occurred since my Ireland venture. I’ll keep you posted as I know this situation of mine is likely to trend substantially on twitter within everyone’s consciousness.

With A Couple Of Other Cycle Tourers On The Ferry To France

Aside from that the first week has gone generally pretty well. A slight change of plan meant instead of the normal Dover-Calais ferry, followed by the then usual going through northern European countries like they’re going out of fashion, I headed to Poole via a London stopover and got the ferry over to Cherbourg. Why? Well for one I just like being a little different. And two it meant I could take in a couple of extra sights I had always wanted to visit.

Devil May Care

On arrival in Cherbourg I managed to find the one campsite in France, probably in Europe, that had decided to host a heavy metal festival at the same time. “Boom Boom Boom” the sweet lady owner insisted again and again with a whack against her head for good measure to really hammer the point home that this was not going to be a quiet night. Was I really sure I still wanted to pitch a tent? Really sure?? No I mean it – REALLY sure!! I was slightly more worried about the early arrivals of bikers all of whom seeming followed the obligatory code of more tattoos than hair, frantically searching my phrasebook trying to find the French for “you’re a lovely guy but you’re just not my type”. When I was given a wristband with “The Devil Is In Me” (assuming my French has not deteriorated over the years to a greater extent than I already know it has) to ensure I would be allowed to visit the toilets this was notched a tad higher again. However it ended up being a perfect cross language barrier ice-breaker to interact and whilst little sleep ensued not everyone can say they have been able to lie down in their tent watching a concert directly in front of them.

A Nearly Stop. Before I Saw The Signs About Land Mines!

By landing in Cherbourg there was the added bonus of being able to cycle a little through Normandy and visit the D-Day beaches from World War 2.  As this involved a slight detour anyway I focused on the first I reached which was Utah Beach, one used mostly by the Americans. In typical under-stated fashion countless stars and stripes flags were draped over buildings and welcome to our liberators extolled everywhere. The site itself with museum and statues does have a tendency to forget the other allied nations efforts but the area itself was interesting and hard to imagine as a location of such horrors and loss so comparatively recently. I passed several German defensive bunkers which I thought would be useful for a wild camp but then remembered reading about the thousands of mines planted during the conflict in that area so decided maybe I should stay on the beaten track a little just this once.

Le Mont St Michel

From Normandy I cycled my way down through the Mayenne region taking in the Channel coast (or La Manche as the French are keen to point out – certainly not the ENGLISH Channel I’ll have you know!) heading away from the overall direction of Istanbul once again to take in the World Heritage Listed site of Le Mont St Michel, an island commune consisting entirely of an abbey which successfully resisted the English in the Hundred Years War.  It has not it seems managed to fend off the tourist invasion quite so successfully but then I doubt it intends to given the revenue stream provided now by one of the most visited attractions in France. It is undeniably a stunning setting however and still manages to retain some semblance of its character in spite of the mass visitors, its quaint narrow cobbled streets completing the medieval backdrop.

 

A Field of Hay, Baguette and Gruyere Cheese. Apart From A Beret Could It Be Anywhere Else?

The weather has been changeable for sure. Some rain but a couple of days well up into the 30’s creating new challenges. Given my aim to head South and through the Balkans in July/August this should serve me well and be something I need to get used to, but it certainly saps the energy levels at times, especially if the terrain is undulating also.

The French are closely related to camels by the way. What? Bit racist there Paul where did that come from?? It’s an undeniable logical truth based on the fact that you often go some distance without ever seeing a shop selling drinks. Oh sure there’s a tobacconist on every corner and they’ve got charcuteries, boulangeries and epiceries coming out of their ears but a general shop to sell a cold drink, well they’re tougher to spot and are often reserved for the hypermarkets out of town on the major roads you’re trying to avoid. I’ve often said to friends how I want to retire partly in a place that hasn’t fallen foul of the trait of losing specialist shops to large supermarkets, so I am perfectly open to accusations of hypocrisy. But situation is everything I suppose. It certainly doesn’t help your mood if you’re desperate for water after running out an hour or two earlier but it really is extraordinary that cigarettes seem to be more readily available than water still. C’est la vie I suppose.

Vive La France!

I stock up in advance now – more weight to carry but less risk of dehydration. I’m tempted to say this undeniable genetic relationship also acquaints to their stereotypical disposition to sulk and go on strike all the time but I’ll refrain from the obvious joke about why they get the hump a lot. Oh yes – I went there.

I’ve still to work out if my decent Spanish language is a help or a hindrance. I believe a new language is actually slowly evolving (you heard it here first) as I mix the two incessantly.  I’m also thinking of starting a “you know when you’re a cyclist” marketing campaign. First up for me would be when I found myself instinctively filling up my sports drinks bottle after actually sitting down for a restaurant meal and ordering. Much to the surprise of the other patrons who had already probably wondered about the establishment’s policy on dining in lycra.

A Close Call! The Second Bottle Of Coke I Got Given.

Oh and one last thing for now. After much deliberation, mostly as to how manly or distinctly uncool it would be, a decision was made to name the bike so as to avoid it simply being called “the bike” for ever more. How I hear you cry? Well after a nationwide vote which I duly discarded I decided to go with the name which was on the first Coke bottle I was given (other gaseous drinks are available). You know the ‘I’m sharing with……so and so’ kind they brought out to try and help guys get brownie points with their new girlfriend for all of a few seconds – I don’t go around naming every bottle of soda I purchase just to clarify. Partly for the sake of added jeopardy as I’m that kind of guy and partly so I could hide behind the fact it wasn’t actually down to me were it considered “sad” or unsuitable at all. So from now on if you see “Chantal” being mentioned that will be the bike. Unless of course I happen to actually meet a girl by the name of Chantal whilst in France, but in that case I shall make it clear whether I am referring to the machine I am riding during the day or the lady I am……. stop that now.

Busy Streets Of Le Mont St Michel

Where next? Continuing to head South and across France taking in the Loire River for a while eventually aiming for Provence. At least as I type this that’s the plan. But then a week ago I had no idea I’d be where I am now. The map line is already a bit squiggly (top word by the way) I have to say.

Au revoir.