tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57307458039426606142024-03-05T11:30:39.673-08:00No particular place to go...Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.comBlogger127125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-36525544221800204602012-05-14T06:17:00.001-07:002012-05-14T06:17:10.662-07:0016th May, Craven Arms – Shrewsbury, 33km<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<u><span style="color: #666666;">16<sup>th</sup> May,
Craven Arms – Shrewsbury, 33km</span></u><br />
<br />
So. I thought I should
sneak in the last few blog entries as it's fast approaching one year
since I finished riding.<br />
<br />
I wake at seven and
fight the urge not to roll over for another hour – my reluctance to
observe my natural circadian rhythms is quite impressive! Once
outside the tent I jump around to force some energy into my sluggish
limbs. That is, at least, how it feels – to an on-looker its
probably more Stumbling Hobo than Mr Motivator. As I savour my last
Wild Poo I ask myself “when was the last time I did something for
the first time?” Answerless, I abandon the idea of letting the tent
dry out, jam my bags onto the trailer, hitch up, and ride.
<br />
<br />
A few kilometres down
the road I begin to lag. I realise that, to my astonishment, I didn't
eat breakfast. Very, very out of character. So distracted and
excited by my Day of Lasts, and seeing Jess, that I forgot to have my
last breakfast. I pull up, and cook up. Porridge, of course, but this
time with all the trimmings.
<br />
<br />
With a bowl full of
oaty stodge assaulting my my intestines I'm feeling much more human.
The sun muscles it's way through the clouds and the riding is easy. I
keep a gentle pace knowing that the twenty miles to my destination
wont take long, however I decide to tackle it.<br />
<br />
I arrive early and
indulge in some fast food snacks while I wait for Jess. I steal some
local wifi and catch up on some blogging. I see her car pull up and
go outside to greet her – given the bouffant I'm sporting these
days, I'm not sure she'd spot me in a line up! We embrace for an age,
and then fall into excitable jabbering. Ten months is a long time to
be without someone. I'm aware of a feeling – something like relief.
Not relief at concluding my trip, or really even at seeing Jess once
more. I take it to be a relaxed contentedness that, I gather, only
surfaces in the company of those near and dear. I'll do my best to
explain: Whilst travelling and, more specifically, meeting new
people, I place upon myself a certain obligation to “perform”. As
I see it, if someone is kind enough to offer me their
company/food/bed, ignoring my hunger/fatigue/general irritability and
being a “good guest” is the least I can do. There is also a
chance that it's my hosts first meeting with Johnny Foreigner – if
I can leave them with good vibes then the way is paved for the next
ambling traveller. These performances were largely unnecessary, I was
generally delighted to be on the receiving end of these random acts
of kindness. But, there were odd occasions where I fell foul of what
<a href="http://theadventuresofjimmyrathbone.blogspot.co.uk/2010/12/istanbul-escape-to-princes-island.html">Bryan and Gizem</a><span style="text-decoration: none;"> called
Hospitality Terror.</span><br />
<br />
We check into a hotel,
my first since Syria. I attempt to freshen up – no easy feat given
my wardrobe. Afternoon becomes evening as we drift between coffee
bars, shops and restaurants. I'm a little disturbed by how I feel as
though I have been away.<br />
</div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-34654654501422602612011-12-01T04:42:00.000-08:002011-12-01T04:45:37.389-08:00Herefordshire - Inching ever closer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apologies for the delay!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>15<sup>th</sup> May, Falfield – Cravern Arms, 119km</u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After my ritual porridge and coffee I pack up the gear. I do it with a little more care than I might usually. Increasingly aware that the end is nigh, I attempt to savour the details of my habits. Everything is folded in the same manner each time. And everything has it's place in my bags – it never does pack down as well if something is out of place. It took only a few of the three hundred and seventeen days for me to realise that there's a certain comfort that comes with the routine I have adopted. That's one aspect of travel people tend to overlook. It's easy to get blinded by ideas of careless freedom and exploration. But like it or not we are creatures of routine. We only need observe the cycle of the sun to remember this – it's the only reference point we need. It's one of many reasons I expect polar travel would throw up a whole new level of challenges. </span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxOUiCharmYtYXvrpWc-HU42LrEhW2LlTUPBr9XXFwR63ubkEiZP-lskW4BjQgCQ6icdFO6gI2q0LKTb9SgWGcEu0Q7M10HAUuXFnaooROeZg2EPtAvVt25yDrkNwNYUIOBQcSy9p8oDQq/s1600/IMG_1778.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxOUiCharmYtYXvrpWc-HU42LrEhW2LlTUPBr9XXFwR63ubkEiZP-lskW4BjQgCQ6icdFO6gI2q0LKTb9SgWGcEu0Q7M10HAUuXFnaooROeZg2EPtAvVt25yDrkNwNYUIOBQcSy9p8oDQq/s320/IMG_1778.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I speak to my girlfriend on the phone and we make plans to spend the final night of my journey together in Shrewsbury. I plan to ride most of the way today and have an easy morning tomorrow. The short sharp hills of Hereford ensure my lungs get periodic workouts throughout the day. They are not the kind of climbs that have me spitting and swearing – but enough to keep boredom at bay.</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having spent a few years screaming around this part of the world on a motorcycle I begin to recognise many of the towns I pass through. And, though it may make me unpopular with my biker-buddies, I'd say it's more enjoyable at the speed of the ambling cyclist. I follow river valleys and pick my way North through the county. </span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A gentle, yet penetrating, rain begins to fall. I take refuge under a broad leaf Oak in a layby. Lunchtime. I pop a tin of tuna while my side order of porridge comes upto heat. It's been a quiet morning – no verbal exchanges, and I opted for no music. There are times when the silence helps my absorb my surroundings. I pluck bunches of long grass to clean up my pans. Pack the bike. Wrestle with the clammy waterproofs. Turn the pedals.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixlnECunqlGPIeAp7RpQcOuS6skM-x_lYOT91Eo0_zWYKjHnZYDJJ7qFVUy4o5uP-k2z5trqMf3O43KGDZmkIxZqoLjEMLE3POCv3uZgYJ2w3T5ToyCQ0dvnWmOyY1WuTM40GA2NCldfCO/s1600/ludlow-street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixlnECunqlGPIeAp7RpQcOuS6skM-x_lYOT91Eo0_zWYKjHnZYDJJ7qFVUy4o5uP-k2z5trqMf3O43KGDZmkIxZqoLjEMLE3POCv3uZgYJ2w3T5ToyCQ0dvnWmOyY1WuTM40GA2NCldfCO/s320/ludlow-street.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By early evening I cross into Shropshire and reach the market town of Ludlow. I take a short break from the riding to walk through the town and admire the castle. Then, conscious that the day is disappearing, I roll on out of town. Following the river Corve I scan the road sides for a picturesque camping spot – this being the last night I shall spend in my tent. The soft evening light is oppressed by the persistent mizzle – I realise that “scenic” might be asking a bit much form tonight. Through a field entrance I spot a sheltered copse. I put up the tent and eat outside (despite the rain). Given tomorrows luxurious accommodation, tonight feels like my last night on the road – and it wouldn't do to let the rain sour my mood.</span> </div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><u><span style="color: #666666;"> </span></u></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's a wee video I shot on my iphone</span></div><br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="449" mozallowfullscreen="" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/24940593?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0&color=ffffff" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="599"></iframe><br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-8376121552808679082011-09-19T08:11:00.000-07:002011-09-19T08:11:12.090-07:00Bristol - The first of many reunions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>13<sup>th</sup> May, 35km, West Huntspil – Puxton</u></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a phonecall to my mother my plans for the day change some. I now have an easy day towards Bristol and tomorrow I will meet her in the city. I enjoy a slow breakfast and coffee on the banks of the river. I barely find a rhythm on the bike before my first stop at Weston Super Mare. I've never seen the fascination with English seaside towns. As a child I remember begging my parents for money to spend on the (even then) decrepit amusement parks. These days I notice more the decaying facades of shop fronts and the interesting period styling of the houses overlooking the promenade. The “glory days” of such places are gone for now it seems. On this particular Friday it's a fizzing fusion of coach tours and zimmer frames.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsAZ8UglDHXdybQLJD80BTU0WN8CvZMOZJJ8CbIQt881BiYurg1TQDSvFj3ddwWQg7ar3BoOKv5RHeIXP4prgnsUqwuUX-YC8z4iu0X-zTTAT4BTWJZ6m2Rt3CxzJwvdyG1MhnaEtuAZ2_/s1600/IMG_1754.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsAZ8UglDHXdybQLJD80BTU0WN8CvZMOZJJ8CbIQt881BiYurg1TQDSvFj3ddwWQg7ar3BoOKv5RHeIXP4prgnsUqwuUX-YC8z4iu0X-zTTAT4BTWJZ6m2Rt3CxzJwvdyG1MhnaEtuAZ2_/s320/IMG_1754.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Weston-Super-Mare</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I have no pressing engagements I let the hours waft by. After making a suitable dent in my latest book I decide to head inland. A few supermarkets catch my eye as I leave. After snorting three raspberry trifles, a cornetto, a punnet of raspberries and a gingerbread man I make the decision to leave supermarket bins alone for a while – for no other reason than my gradually declining health.</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I spot a sign for one of the National Cycle Network routes. Their paths often have a rural routing and therefore scope for camping areas. I sit in a nature reserve and soak up the evening sun before skulking off to a field to pitch up.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2fGAwPw-QYrxOEoYXHDKfO-wHs69wDBO7FaQZYJx9OwbE45YtsYmZ2kvtfJuL4r7RTrgGZ0kEb2KwpDpc7eelrNhZ_6BKD6RskyrRyn4w951IZSC5iJvfL6P_lZ1xwQLRzebFX41zwIPJ/s1600/DSC_0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2fGAwPw-QYrxOEoYXHDKfO-wHs69wDBO7FaQZYJx9OwbE45YtsYmZ2kvtfJuL4r7RTrgGZ0kEb2KwpDpc7eelrNhZ_6BKD6RskyrRyn4w951IZSC5iJvfL6P_lZ1xwQLRzebFX41zwIPJ/s320/DSC_0006.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>14<sup>th</sup> May, 48km, Puxton – Bristol – Flafield</u></span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thanks to epic condensation I don't break camp as swiftly as planned. Once the tent is dry, I roll it up, and hit the road. The easy day yesterday ensures my energy levels are topped up. The weather is fine and the riding is easy. I have the added incentive that I'm meeting my mother and her partner Bob in Bristol for the day.</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The A38 takes me right into the centre. I'm surprised how quickly the scenery changes from ash trees and meadows to brick and tiles – there's very little sprawl to the south of the city.</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a warm reunion and lots of excitable chatter we get to exploring the city. Still very much in travelling mode my “hobo-radar” picks up on things like well located youth hostels and accessible dustbins. Around the floating harbour many old boats have been converted into cider bars – I think Britsol would be a top night out. Endless music venues elude to a good spectrum of live entertainment.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm0wQ04q5eQF7wQAnTa6lr8ILICUZLkQElnd-Hc_1l5FTr79HRkbyk0t6qsbJi7rfKonPhKWoY1SxT3oUA-jKGc8jCM6adEmQbsb3rUodw_qX_fih5pjHThlJ6ppZCc2WV78lu5QVn4ofA/s1600/IMG_1766.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm0wQ04q5eQF7wQAnTa6lr8ILICUZLkQElnd-Hc_1l5FTr79HRkbyk0t6qsbJi7rfKonPhKWoY1SxT3oUA-jKGc8jCM6adEmQbsb3rUodw_qX_fih5pjHThlJ6ppZCc2WV78lu5QVn4ofA/s320/IMG_1766.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">The Clifton Suspension Bridge</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the evening we part company. I am, of course, offered a lift home. It's harder to refuse than I expect. They then ask if they can take some of the things that I don't need – the guitar mainly. I hand over a hole-riddled tarp that needs throwing out. But I can't bring myself to part with anything else, much to their confusion, and mine too. I conclude it has something to do with finishing what I've started. And taking the easy route at this late stage would only serve to undermine all the moments of stuggle that have come before. I know that if I give them the trailer I would regret it – even if I do tend to refer to it as “the damn trailer”. I may have mentioned this earlier in the blog, but the company that makes the trailer is call B.o.b “Beast Of Burden”. Only once you've used one do you realise just how aptly it's named.</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rain begins to fall as I ride north out of the city – I start to wonder if not taking the lift was the wrong choice. Moments later I hear a toot behind me. By chance we are on the same route out of town. As they pass I realise that riding is the right thing to do. I wave as they disappear into the distance - all the while chuntering to myself at even considering the lazy option. I like to use quotes when I feel myself slipping off course. Not that I found the riding particularly painful but Lance Armstrongs "pain is temporary, quitting lasts forver" came to mind on this occasion.</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I admire the seven bridges set against angry skies over South Wales. Over several miles thehousing density drops off and I begin the routine search for a tent sized patch of flat ground. A dirt lane leading to several fields provides all I need for the evening. I make sure my tent is out of the way should I get an early morning visit from a farmer looking to work his land.</span></div></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-77054262054547137672011-07-14T03:44:00.000-07:002011-07-14T03:44:14.891-07:00England - Bristol Bound<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>10th May, 89km, Lanner – Widemouth Bay</u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wake up groggy with feeling that I could have slept another twelve hours. I breakfast with Matt Sara and Amelia. Once Matt leaves for work I begin to pack my things. With a “toodle pip” to Sara and Amelia I throw my bags on the bike and get going. The monotony of the road soon has me exploring my thoughts once more - obvious reluctance and sadness to leave good friends and a place I love. I sense the steadily developing battle between apprehension and excitement about being home in less than a week. I make a note to savour every moment. Every drop rain, every toot or wave – it all feels more precious than ever.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihht0LfbaimnewRi5hiBT-dlxQ9cWvMpGsgqMXC6nvkuukw8v2Tc9a0g-jQqMl9-1L662ypvbTs6kkN2fT127v8zov9tdHyUV9-JNpTOV7AOhOc5Eb9D2LfdxCjjiqt2qxgJbetF7C4ts4/s1600/IMG_1713.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihht0LfbaimnewRi5hiBT-dlxQ9cWvMpGsgqMXC6nvkuukw8v2Tc9a0g-jQqMl9-1L662ypvbTs6kkN2fT127v8zov9tdHyUV9-JNpTOV7AOhOc5Eb9D2LfdxCjjiqt2qxgJbetF7C4ts4/s400/IMG_1713.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Out of Redruth I join the A30 (the main spinal road through the county). It ain't pretty, but it is quick. Once through Truro I split left for a more coastal route. Up and down over and over again, the short hills are relentless, but satisfying.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By mid evening I make it to WideMouth Bay. I explore the coastal footpath and sure enough – a camping spot appears. I spend a very pleasant hour staring out at the Atlantic while waiting for darkness to fall.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3iE2VlVgd9ZYgVS4F_GrpF9EkLjc7WYR_xPjE1DRtw6NqkLXKAXB9x9cqy7F0vV8BKOZHTbe8fd30tnqCCZRNTVwHNTBJCBD1jO6tMgD6K-CU5NnrlVVq8wikjh3vxaZmdQcMA5uO_9J3/s1600/IMG_1727.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3iE2VlVgd9ZYgVS4F_GrpF9EkLjc7WYR_xPjE1DRtw6NqkLXKAXB9x9cqy7F0vV8BKOZHTbe8fd30tnqCCZRNTVwHNTBJCBD1jO6tMgD6K-CU5NnrlVVq8wikjh3vxaZmdQcMA5uO_9J3/s640/IMG_1727.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>11th May, 87km, Widemouth Bay – Simonsbath</u></span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wake to the sound of the ocean – taking note that it could be the last time I do so on this trip. Outside the tent the sun is shining. There is no better start to a day. The few clouds there are race across the sky heading NorthEast – signifying a notable tailwind. I pack up the gear and then kill some time talking to my friend Mongy on the phone – old habits dies hard! It's eleven o'clock before I get going.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwQjqanm8qku6DLn4UeLjZzM3B9ZnZTSMz0-MP0beoWO4rKv8mo0om2CxdE4UIvzbdEF6l1FR0Yklse3QT98OU8tHsvYqucby-vRbDf-1gqQUnlTWB23tpPqmEQKz-bKOrdlGjcOJAXDwK/s1600/IMG_1732.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: #666666;"><img border="0" height="239" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwQjqanm8qku6DLn4UeLjZzM3B9ZnZTSMz0-MP0beoWO4rKv8mo0om2CxdE4UIvzbdEF6l1FR0Yklse3QT98OU8tHsvYqucby-vRbDf-1gqQUnlTWB23tpPqmEQKz-bKOrdlGjcOJAXDwK/s320/IMG_1732.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">For those who can't afford Cornish Cream Tea: Bin muffins, bid rice pudding and jam.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I amble along tiny country lanes until I join up with the Atlantic Highway (known to most of us as the A39). I pass the historic fishing village of Clovelly – the resting place of my relatives the Shacksons. I spy a multitude of pretty thatched pubs with their tempting array of amber nectar. But as I've decided to finish the trip in true skinflint style I don't indulge.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg744RghjdGBscOmIl9-cMKaPC5UKjCGe1pP4ZbDUFbWFeY1Dpm7_IQTgyIzUHd64Y-WuvoM-SKggnsXSWetxrbAyiHi2NGHsm780uivVPaopqtrzoxqVYfA_GkVEdV6YuyW_2ZHvV-PeOO/s1600/IMG_1735.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg744RghjdGBscOmIl9-cMKaPC5UKjCGe1pP4ZbDUFbWFeY1Dpm7_IQTgyIzUHd64Y-WuvoM-SKggnsXSWetxrbAyiHi2NGHsm780uivVPaopqtrzoxqVYfA_GkVEdV6YuyW_2ZHvV-PeOO/s320/IMG_1735.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I push on out of Bideford (a very cyclist friendly town) towards Exmoor Natinal Park. I battle with the usual ups and downs until the light threatens to leave for the day. It's my first visit to Exmoor and I'm a little disappointed. I'm sure the best of it is only revealed once you get off the beaten track. The hilly open moorland is perfect for camping. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>12th May, 85km, Simonsbath – West Huntspil</u></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBna-0i8Xtu8dQRp7DtVRIQ3ZmfDmQ9aUmHvqjxaFIDdmy1RPcIPhUqhZ1OkJuvpHbyclyEDOae287VpuMiNYbuw1FpVvp6DPLqn7QJeDEFbEmcJbOKBdwUVD9Il-fdoMKOLljJ1c0eW0d/s1600/IMG_1737.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBna-0i8Xtu8dQRp7DtVRIQ3ZmfDmQ9aUmHvqjxaFIDdmy1RPcIPhUqhZ1OkJuvpHbyclyEDOae287VpuMiNYbuw1FpVvp6DPLqn7QJeDEFbEmcJbOKBdwUVD9Il-fdoMKOLljJ1c0eW0d/s320/IMG_1737.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The familiar patter of raindrops rouses me from sleep. It's early, I can afford to sleep a while longer. When I wake again the soundtrack hasn't changed. I pack away all that I can from inside the tent, by the time I vacate my nylon enclosure the rain has subsided. I finish the packing in double quick time. It's just as well I do as the landowner arrives just as I pull my water bottle form the packed bike.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The top of the moors is not a flat as I'd hoped. The hill are short but sufficiently steep to have me standing on the pedals and gritting my teeth. My progress North is slower than I'd hoped. The land drops away towards Taunton. My broken trailer twitches spontaneously and throws me off balance - making the faster downhills more scary than “scary fun”. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGrjCP3TJP4NHAqBwB543HcNSMKi5lXZtemz5mHA7JFfsCWOLQPfKF_ZqNPucFffKAPOa5cFjB5bpU9nh_VFQ0IEkthBeqPPMV__-TCvM6yHGp865sBglu0yGaSMrt3tt7wr0yz5Qns5dK/s1600/IMG_1745.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGrjCP3TJP4NHAqBwB543HcNSMKi5lXZtemz5mHA7JFfsCWOLQPfKF_ZqNPucFffKAPOa5cFjB5bpU9nh_VFQ0IEkthBeqPPMV__-TCvM6yHGp865sBglu0yGaSMrt3tt7wr0yz5Qns5dK/s320/IMG_1745.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVv8t_PqMwWHDBuVAWEcI3yxX8ILC1S5v86G-eGGt84cqFmlG0hhsDJDpfyWYvDHXi6n6IdfGXBR2alvrloEEjNVPLtU2oAkJfQOAzC9mas7A38V6SJVEU3Ca1yHvjmxfZ82t7xX6egQb4/s1600/IMG_1744.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVv8t_PqMwWHDBuVAWEcI3yxX8ILC1S5v86G-eGGt84cqFmlG0hhsDJDpfyWYvDHXi6n6IdfGXBR2alvrloEEjNVPLtU2oAkJfQOAzC9mas7A38V6SJVEU3Ca1yHvjmxfZ82t7xX6egQb4/s400/IMG_1744.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once through Taunton I seek out the country lanes and begin the search for tonight’s accommodation. I consider asking at farms, having not tried this approach yet in Blighty. Before the opportunity arrises I cross a river. From the bridge I spy the perfect spot. With several hours of light left I opt to cook for dinner. As my spaghetti bubbles away some locals arrive to test their speedboat. I chat with Oz. He's an ex professional wake boarder who now makes his bread instructing. I spend a very pleasant half an hour sitting on the bridge watching the boat (capable of one hundred miles per hour) kick up huge “rooster tails” and screaming off down the river towards the sinking sun. They tell me this is final test before the race this coming weekend. A race in which they will be representing the UK. Good look fellas.</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitL9MN6yzQo4eoGiyEMAhbM4ALx0QkLpHsGt_spqVLo7vdonl_3lureAcKZIFI-YwwhrSDwOmsOK4EViLTSA1ip5A6VT2QbttfOOz1s0hFEAZQFI9Zn7DQ007guj6fQGUn-vkHupwJF3Me/s1600/IMG_1751.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitL9MN6yzQo4eoGiyEMAhbM4ALx0QkLpHsGt_spqVLo7vdonl_3lureAcKZIFI-YwwhrSDwOmsOK4EViLTSA1ip5A6VT2QbttfOOz1s0hFEAZQFI9Zn7DQ007guj6fQGUn-vkHupwJF3Me/s400/IMG_1751.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-70699014708208905232011-06-28T07:48:00.000-07:002011-06-28T07:48:58.349-07:00England - Familiar Faces<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>6th May, 20km, Truro – Lanner</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a hearty breakfast I am on my way. The three miles to the centre of Truro is over before I know it. I take a mooch through the town. Excited by the prospect of seeing the first familiar faces in nine months I don't linger long. I call to check they're in and then leave Truro heading West for Lanner. Despite the fact that I've driven much of Cornwall, riding through the county allows me a new perspective (doesn't it always). I follow an old railway track through Carnon Downs. When operational it was used to carry the mined Tin to the coast where it was picked up by Norwegian ships. The only evidence of this extinct industry is the engine houses littering the countryside. And the “Norwegian” pub in Devoran – as the clock is yet to strike noon I don't stop for a pint.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I arrive at Matt and Sara's and enjoy the first of the hug-fest reunions. Their daughter Amelia is not so forthcoming with the hugs. In fairness – the last time she saw me (via a skype chat) I was looking more “Osama Bin Rathbone” than James...We settle in to an afternoon of catching up. I perhaps do more than my fair share of the ear chewing. They have the unfortunate position of being the first step of my re-integration. To my surprise it's not as hard as expected. While I feel a little different...the familiarity is comforting. I seem to have held on to humanity better than I though - I only notice a small concious effort on my part – bathroom not garden, cutlery not hands...you get the idea. And the bed! I really don't recall sleeping quite so well during the last ten months! KO'd.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilXaqxTfrNCPyXmP_pAdM2sze_c7fDpRNcOCh7VzoEKWriFe7g7LkycadztjwRhYbIWMqORVsEvEkKTDgHkWAcyXuQSaV0CAhh89AfWbLEkRcT3Rsuen4iMmz_GXrS9VoGBUFSe9rQoGiZ/s1600/IMG_1704.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilXaqxTfrNCPyXmP_pAdM2sze_c7fDpRNcOCh7VzoEKWriFe7g7LkycadztjwRhYbIWMqORVsEvEkKTDgHkWAcyXuQSaV0CAhh89AfWbLEkRcT3Rsuen4iMmz_GXrS9VoGBUFSe9rQoGiZ/s400/IMG_1704.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Making the most of our proximity to the coast Matt and I head to Gwithian Beach. We meet Matt's brother in law Mike. From the moss topped cliffs we observe the swell while I cook up some bush coffee. We gear up and head in. The water is about 9 degrees. Had I not been borrowing Matts wetsuit it would have been torture. From the beach folks may have clocked my sunbleached mop and orange complexion and (mistaking me for a surf dude) expected some serious shredding. The reality (for on-lookers) couldn't have been more disappointing – for me, it was great fun all the same. That said - I think I'll stick to Couch Surfing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My long weekend in Lanner goes far to quickly. I decide to head off on Tuesday – before I'm infected by the comforts of the familiar and convenient – at which point I might possibly crumble and take the train.</span></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-83689104350462498282011-06-11T06:43:00.001-07:002011-06-11T06:43:56.776-07:00A short video<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"></div><br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/24940593" width="520"></iframe><br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/24940593">Life on the road</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user5281805">James Rathbone</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br />
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Final posts to follow soon...</div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-50887590142222928502011-05-26T13:24:00.000-07:002011-05-26T13:24:49.720-07:00England - Cornwall<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>5th May, 70km, Antony - Truro</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As with all countries (and "fresh starts") I attempt to begin the final stage of the trip with a degree of discipline. I wake up at six. Once the blur leaves my eyes I roll out of the tent. A few stinging nettles on bare feet accelerate the waking up process. While eating breakfast I check the map and plan a vague route West.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQrLZswOIBuJusvWrMoUY8ipu1S-dnK6ULHqld4xw0fqvQrjfksWvsuTMstWIBsPN2dx4DZPW2Z3v9g0MrFNip-hdp1YX3BzwcZza7DCV-ygW_Z-tVKCQOCcLLpsXuZK0TMa_CUvPlZM54/s1600/IMG_1697.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQrLZswOIBuJusvWrMoUY8ipu1S-dnK6ULHqld4xw0fqvQrjfksWvsuTMstWIBsPN2dx4DZPW2Z3v9g0MrFNip-hdp1YX3BzwcZza7DCV-ygW_Z-tVKCQOCcLLpsXuZK0TMa_CUvPlZM54/s400/IMG_1697.jpg" t8="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The South-West of England is well known amongst cyclists for its hilly nature. Aside from the spinal main road down the centre all other routes are Lung Busting Leg Burners – makes for great interval training! My route along the South coast from Plymouth to St Austell (via Looe) is a perfect example of such topography.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A cold wind rolls off the Atlantic – bringing with it bucket loads of rain. The moment I stop all heat is sucked from my body. I gather I've adjusted some since the consistent sub-zeros of Turkey and Iran. I take refuge in a traditional red phone box. I use my last sixty pence to make a phonecall to my girlfriend. The call doesn't connect and I loose my money. Sad face. I muster the motivation to face the cold once more. I plug in some Drum and Bass, turn the pedals, and let my mind wander.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Early evening I'm on the outskirts of Truro (the County town of Cornwall). I stop to fill my water bottles and consider whether to camp or try some last minute Couch Surfing in town. As my mind chews the idea I'm approached by John and Judy. We chat briefly about my trip and where I'm heading. They invite me to stay with them for the night. Random Act of Kindness number one – not bad for my second day in a new country.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWuA9ar7Pd0GG12FF5dZ67u-H2BWaPaNQt5O-WvZThyO1Qqlj-GMQYTBiLYr2Di2i_bXETKf-aHvu8SRMyqhkMZP26RQlL2sZ4U7oSUNufaFRcydl6HYX868st8Bl-KXI923YfmlQgYTWu/s1600/IMG_1701.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWuA9ar7Pd0GG12FF5dZ67u-H2BWaPaNQt5O-WvZThyO1Qqlj-GMQYTBiLYr2Di2i_bXETKf-aHvu8SRMyqhkMZP26RQlL2sZ4U7oSUNufaFRcydl6HYX868st8Bl-KXI923YfmlQgYTWu/s400/IMG_1701.jpg" t8="true" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We feast on carbalicious cycling fodder for dinner. While eating we chat about cycling, Cornwall and everything in-between. They are planning to ride the JogLe (The length of Britain from John o Groats in Scotland to Lands End in England) later this year. I enjoy the first shower in a while and flick through some cycling books before bed.</span></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-17522963772017745772011-05-19T08:58:00.000-07:002011-05-19T08:58:25.995-07:00England<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>4th May, 35km, Carantec - Roscoff (ferry) Plymouth - Antony</u></span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The day starts as usual - porridge followed by coffee and then Richard waits for me to pack up. It's a beautiful morning and neither of us are in any rush. I sense a little procrastination within me. Today I plan to take the ferry back to England - the final nail in the homeward bound coffin.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRIFVFcatVgoIN_89BDGemF9rw2ITtfm8McoyWj8tV1YqcX9xXMiGV37H8Mewn59sHXo22MSDR06PA3PN7povGP99joz16y9jbB3U-lFJTHXgR7ZHGTx-6HDLdD1Dz3_ai9-KiQl5q30CY/s1600/DSC_0076.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRIFVFcatVgoIN_89BDGemF9rw2ITtfm8McoyWj8tV1YqcX9xXMiGV37H8Mewn59sHXo22MSDR06PA3PN7povGP99joz16y9jbB3U-lFJTHXgR7ZHGTx-6HDLdD1Dz3_ai9-KiQl5q30CY/s400/DSC_0076.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We spend a few hours exploring the mini peninsular on which we currently reside. There is a tidal causeway and our timing is such that it is just becoming accessible. From the other side we get great views of the surrounding coastline.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65xNsfNVMF8ai5ATjPEQ93CA4cBJAgftAaRe4HLzj4A0NLzdQG2w-w2-P6X1CaS9_sAQUBaMnenVkUXBo1aVpbeSKSYzWmzBiv4Sth2rx9ci_H_oQjMt6UTS6Z0zrbx51fc3tu20PIPTq/s1600/IMG_1691.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="139" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65xNsfNVMF8ai5ATjPEQ93CA4cBJAgftAaRe4HLzj4A0NLzdQG2w-w2-P6X1CaS9_sAQUBaMnenVkUXBo1aVpbeSKSYzWmzBiv4Sth2rx9ci_H_oQjMt6UTS6Z0zrbx51fc3tu20PIPTq/s640/IMG_1691.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The time comes when I can faff no longer and we head to the port at Roscoff. Though not before one last dustbin diving session.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As these things seem to go I arrive just in time for last boarding. With my wallet €73 lighter I am ushered towards the terminal. A quick goodbye to Richard, these things always seem to be rushed, and I'm aboard.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fairly uninteresting six hours. I'm a little dumbfounded to be surrounded by people speaking in a language I can understand.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Terra firma. England. Home.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I follow several other cyclists off the ferry. We split of fairly quickly. The smell of fish and chips hits me like a freight train and stays with me to the outskirts of Plymouth. I bet that would make good riding food. I take a minute to adjust to riding on the left hand side of the road again. I'm also struck by the number of "young-uns" hanging out - not something I've seen for a long time. Many folks return my smiles and nods. I even get cheered up one particularly steep hill. No sooner am I off the ferry than I'm getting on another one at Torpoint - a short estuary crossing. The staff are very friendly and we quickly get chatting. A guy called Frank Holden (father to Amanda - no joke) leads the way with the questions. "I have to shake the hand of a man that's cycled to Iran and back. Good work". And I have to shake the hand of the farther of Amanda Holden. Equally good work! Frank tips me off about a great camping spot a few miles up the road.</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Its almost dark by the time I get there. Up with the tent. Then a moment to reflect on my return to England before sleep. For a long time I have been curious to see if my opinions of my home country will be altered by my post-travel perspective. I guess time will tell - but first impressions are very good.</span></div></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-72959896751564203272011-05-18T06:17:00.000-07:002011-05-18T06:17:17.532-07:00France - North for England!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>2nd May, 52km, Carnac - Plouay</u></span> <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lazy start. I rearrange the bike. We eat breakfast together. Richard and I leave to explore more old stones.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the way out of town we stop at Lidl. There is not so much in the way of food but I help myself to a few flowers to “gay-up” the bike.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At midday we point the handlebars north and start turning the pedals. Not our best day. Great stop in Hennebont for an extended and late lunch. The heavens open in the early evening. We ride on through what looks like the beginnings of a mud slide. </span><br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/23903477" width="520"></iframe><br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/23903477">The beginnings of a mudslide in Brittany</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user5281805">James Rathbone</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With visibility vastly reduced we duck into a bus stop and wait for the rain to abate. Richard catches on to my “press-ups to keep you warm” routine. The rain doesn't stop but we decide to push on regardless. We barely get up to speed before I spy a generously porched DIY store.</span><br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/23903925" width="520"></iframe><br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/23903925">The DIY Store Motel - Brittany</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user5281805">James Rathbone</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br />
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<u><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3rd May, 118km, </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Plouay - Carantec</span></span></u><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Easy pack up thanks to our lack or camping. On the road very early as we don't plan to be caught snoozing when the store opens - you snooze you loose dudes!</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7EpjoRY5oDBQBJv_hSPy3VbfWer3uZdqaC7eV2z08xysJfr5uwdGSkW52dmMI4QhGu4-VBbf1PO84HQbCn1BUnaspaTR2vQtHA-uIwxPP315U3p-bh7_Jpkkw2WRy0odX5bbSE8jtI5z8/s1600/IMG_1674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7EpjoRY5oDBQBJv_hSPy3VbfWer3uZdqaC7eV2z08xysJfr5uwdGSkW52dmMI4QhGu4-VBbf1PO84HQbCn1BUnaspaTR2vQtHA-uIwxPP315U3p-bh7_Jpkkw2WRy0odX5bbSE8jtI5z8/s400/IMG_1674.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The idea that I could be back in England tomorrow motivates me to push the pedals a little harder than usual. I'm not sure if my arse hurts to the usual degree and I'm blocking it out better – or my saddle is in fact becoming more comfortable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We find a nice riverside spot for lunch and indulge in all types of luxury bin food. We do not hang around. With distended guts we join the main road North and continue on.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSKEuZFy9FnMkTgQLxvREPr6BiRc2DHExNxIZ-j78YpkGfJ50qk3uOcCzY6Hb-kmg0x-4xcj5onol2MORCf0FJFFFvAv0GAysyAoroL01TkbiFamCu4MTUi4lnyMLkgZsRRaexKTIkI_DC/s1600/IMG_1679.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSKEuZFy9FnMkTgQLxvREPr6BiRc2DHExNxIZ-j78YpkGfJ50qk3uOcCzY6Hb-kmg0x-4xcj5onol2MORCf0FJFFFvAv0GAysyAoroL01TkbiFamCu4MTUi4lnyMLkgZsRRaexKTIkI_DC/s320/IMG_1679.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At a local farm I buy a few bottles of famous Brittany cider. We make the effort to find a camping spot worthy of my last night in France. The ride from the trendy town of Morlaix follows an estuary. As it begins to open out towards the sea the land opens up many camping opportunities.</span> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz5oIIblNBmlRX2JhCO6RFEyPgB95T08lB33lwjitutiN8JP2nHOYbdrBAUDuFUt7JKcqXQd8D5GO8JURCB7mxMzVX05B4GTwrJgWTbqxxPene214MdBPSSF76mezHLm1AFoFbemp16AxJ/s1600/DSC_0069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz5oIIblNBmlRX2JhCO6RFEyPgB95T08lB33lwjitutiN8JP2nHOYbdrBAUDuFUt7JKcqXQd8D5GO8JURCB7mxMzVX05B4GTwrJgWTbqxxPene214MdBPSSF76mezHLm1AFoFbemp16AxJ/s400/DSC_0069.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-11291550944002978472011-05-09T16:46:00.000-07:002011-05-09T16:46:53.857-07:00France - Carnac<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>29th April, 102km, Genner - Les Touches</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The wind rolls off the Loire chilling our bones. Reluctantly we pack our things. Porridge and coffee gives the required energy to get moving, and once we do, the riding is great. Quiet roads with lots of wildlife – I ask for little more.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A fine view to wake up to</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We stop to re supply at a supermarket. Somehow considerable time passes. The area selling TV's is playing the royal wedding - it doesn't hold my interest for long.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY0vrEQkgHOm4SA0dTNYzJ3485yP3ef8xcHOKg5QH3uBWp8X-z1FKwct3DqjrV8drJ30hQUMBAXMnd-V0383kgCx6cwFTo4mjQX-TGffqPCmPbQZBcWJoa97Whj2BiydDSyrB-IeLAv0yS/s1600/IMG_1599.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY0vrEQkgHOm4SA0dTNYzJ3485yP3ef8xcHOKg5QH3uBWp8X-z1FKwct3DqjrV8drJ30hQUMBAXMnd-V0383kgCx6cwFTo4mjQX-TGffqPCmPbQZBcWJoa97Whj2BiydDSyrB-IeLAv0yS/s400/IMG_1599.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunchtime</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the town of Chalonnes we hit the bin jackpot. I know - I said I wouldn't mention it! But Richard pulls out a bag containing more bakery goods than we know what to do with. We load up my bike with €50 worth of fodder and roll out of town. Once we come across a suitable place we take stock of our goods.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSsTcG_tbe6W2-9cKpSKUsSZUI81GlWXph-p-hjPiuh0QsuLadGBt4BL5w-cYDdIe1VGQH0Qladh2qKLU3H7VO7q-NOP4AYC2p65lJNf2elxqAPPk0MipIPyDkIVIQCDHlOpbe1oZDYAR/s1600/IMG_1607.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSsTcG_tbe6W2-9cKpSKUsSZUI81GlWXph-p-hjPiuh0QsuLadGBt4BL5w-cYDdIe1VGQH0Qladh2qKLU3H7VO7q-NOP4AYC2p65lJNf2elxqAPPk0MipIPyDkIVIQCDHlOpbe1oZDYAR/s400/IMG_1607.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bin Jackpot!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some hard riding takes us over the ton for the first time in while. I hadn't realised until now but I'd be slaking for quite some time on the riding front. Riding at a higher rate pushes me into my cardio zone – it feels great to get the lungs pumping once more.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsZBcrj1Xrl0xghGTZiYgojdDWyJQ-x-hX7xHwKWbWKNoeo69HfYI6LFIL0FcSwj3IleE8yrW92h2SZDZltJJVaY-cGbYpEhyphenhyphennx57RM7Z1cjDNsWfGWEBJr_W4lrUuVtRFzmV7laK6IgCY/s1600/IMG_1599.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsZBcrj1Xrl0xghGTZiYgojdDWyJQ-x-hX7xHwKWbWKNoeo69HfYI6LFIL0FcSwj3IleE8yrW92h2SZDZltJJVaY-cGbYpEhyphenhyphennx57RM7Z1cjDNsWfGWEBJr_W4lrUuVtRFzmV7laK6IgCY/s400/IMG_1599.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch overlooking the planes of Northern France</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For a change our campsite is not so picturesque. A small park on the outskirts of town supplies us with all we need – some reasonably flat ground. We even have the luxury of a picnic bench.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>30th April,105km, Les Touches - La Vraie Croix</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pastries make up the majority of our breakfast. For 11'sis we fire up the stove for coffee - and of course more pastries.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yesterdays revelation of riding harder hasn't faded and I push the pedals harder up each hill working my lungs more each time. The hard work pays off as I pass the 10,000km (6000mile) mark. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Magic Number.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thunderstorms in the afternoon. My mood darkens as the rain begins to fall. But as the pattern seems to go - once wet through I'm as happy as a pig in shit. The skies clear and allow us a great sunny evening ride.</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We set up camp in a field of grass shoots. Well timed storms roll in just as we jump into the tents. The patter of rain and the flicker of lightning is the perfect send off - natures lullaby.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u><span style="color: #666666;">1st May, 69km, La Vraie Croix - Carnac</span></u> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wake up to a puddle in my tent. Definitely one of my cheaper buys that is not going to stand the test of time. Still £60 for ten months – comes in a long way shy of a mortgage. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our mornings ride gets off to a fine start and the kilometers begin to tick away. After the customary supermarket bins stops we arrive in the town of Vannes. The town itself is partly set behind castle Walls and very pretty. We a drawn to the dock area where we take a break and enjoy the photo exhibition that is being displayed there - ocean theme.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4aqtSkUd_0N1bhSiSGzN8t1jeqdyZX7bO3eU59MsunDFKNKhiTspApCGG7jqm_3w4BXewKgeHGWKS0k6RjlFYuOxri2rISS6NEo7bzQ0MkPbp-Fd6e4Y2fhzlj81jxN919iKLX_kcgBSI/s1600/IMG_1638.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4aqtSkUd_0N1bhSiSGzN8t1jeqdyZX7bO3eU59MsunDFKNKhiTspApCGG7jqm_3w4BXewKgeHGWKS0k6RjlFYuOxri2rISS6NEo7bzQ0MkPbp-Fd6e4Y2fhzlj81jxN919iKLX_kcgBSI/s400/IMG_1638.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the way out of town we bump into Catherine. She gives us some directions but then offers us lunch - Richard and I require little encouragement. As a fellow cycle tourist we talk about our trips etc while munching on homemade quiche. We also sink some local beer and talk about the French political situation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually we leave after a very enjoyable few hours. Thanks Catherine. I had honestly though I'd seen the last of random acts of hospitality on this trip.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back on the road the midday showers have eased revealing blue skies. Our destination for the day is Carnac - a town famous for it's Neolithic ruins. While riding I notice my bike behaving strangely - after such and extended period one developes an enhanced sensitivity to such things. Much like a martial artists weapon becomes an extension of himself. Yes - I just compared bike touring to martial arts. Anyway. My trailer has given up - the bottom half completely shearing away. I prey that the two cable ties will hold out until we find a suitable stopping point. Once in Carnac we do find just the place - the beach and my first views of the Atlantic in a long time. As I fix the bike I dig my toes into the sand, look out over the rolling waves, and allow myself a small and secret "yey, I made it" moment.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carnac</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bike sorted we go to check out the old stones. And great they are too. While drying my soaked tent I meet Max(germany) and Danny(Spain) - two backpackers touring western France. We get on great and the nights camping duo becomes a four. Great evening of food sharing, whiskey drinking, fires, guitars and laughs.</span></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-82739776654673918952011-05-09T13:36:00.000-07:002011-05-09T14:17:11.007-07:00France - The Final Leg<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>26th April, 86km, La Cellette - Migne</u></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The beginning of the final leg of France. We spend the morning with our new friends. Between breakfast and cups of tea we pack up our things. With photos and goodbyes done we point our bikes North-West and start pedalling. Midday. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For a change we have no luck with supermarket bins and opt to pay for our lunch. Over the course of the afternoon the road gets progressively flatter. The quiet country lanes make for perfect cycling. My body feels well rested and very well fed. All is well in Jimmy world.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hardly seems worth a mention!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By evening we make it to an area called the Brenne. Here hundreds of lakes are crammed into a small region. We disappear off down a side road and find a suitable camping spot. We get set up and eat next to an open fire. Frogs make a racket all night.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Camping in the Brenne</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>27th April, 86km, Migne - Noyant de Touraine</u></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back on the Vaseline - good times people!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wake to the sound of frogs. I unzip my door to the world and a greeted by the misty lake. Aside from the frogs there is no other evidence of lastnights multispecies performance – the carp are no longer rising and the water snakes have wriggled away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once on the road we enjoy the views of the remainder of the Brenne. We stop for an early lunch and power nap in Preuilly sur Claise. Richard prefers to gorge himself and then nap it off and I take on his routine – in fair it's perhaps preferable to my gorge myself and then feel sick for the first hours riding.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zzzzzzz</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Casualty of the day is my right pedal. I falls off at every opportunity and eventually wears my patience down. We stop in Descartes to get it sorted. While there we take a second lunch and check out the birthplace of the famous philosopher (“I cycletour, therefore I am”) - you know the one....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our shadows begin to lengthen and so we peel off the main road and begin the camping </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">hunt. The first exploratory foray down a grassy lane comes up trumps. The last of the light is used to cook dinner. Bed once dark – back to our circadian rhythms. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">28th April, 92km</span>, <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Noyant de Touraine - Gennes</span></u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As usual Richard wins the race to get packed up – the old “wild poo” tends to set me back abit. We make our way along the banks of a tributary of the Loire. We take an early lunch on the banks of the river. It's shallow enough to go for a dip – though neither of us can muster the motivation. Our dustbin diving moves up a notch (though you may think 'down') from supermarkets to domestic bins. Thankfully people seem to make speedy exits from holiday homes and sling all remaining food – keep up the good work folks!</span> <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5JeexKVTnkPkqIvk7E_9_WyQjZoK58y9Sumite9VjxraC2EtbACZxhuaYHElbg2YA9Jt9EYwBJfLwDpqSiROh458SXzbknqEuSucNnFX1vNGKVNVVQvk3fJV06mi-5D-dxPJ1jI0JiPwx/s1600/IMG_1587.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5JeexKVTnkPkqIvk7E_9_WyQjZoK58y9Sumite9VjxraC2EtbACZxhuaYHElbg2YA9Jt9EYwBJfLwDpqSiROh458SXzbknqEuSucNnFX1vNGKVNVVQvk3fJV06mi-5D-dxPJ1jI0JiPwx/s400/IMG_1587.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's not long before we reach the Loire. By pure coincidence we join Euro Velo 6 – the long distance cycle route I used to cross Europe East. Begin to follow the signs as I did in Germany/Austria. Begin to get lost. Begin to get angry. I'm reminded of the early days when Mihailo and I would get pissed off at the wiggly routing of the cycle path – at which point one of us would bellow “FUCK THE PATH!!” - and we'd jump back onto the road. Richard and I managed to get ourselves onto restricted military land - smart move.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The road to nowhere - or in our case military property</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In fairness if you can put up with the inefficiency you are rewarded with no traffic, better scenery and often very good camping opportunities. We jump back on the route in the evening for this very reason. Once on the banks of the Loire we roll out the gear and spark up a fire.</span></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-5576666604457430922011-05-09T11:53:00.000-07:002011-05-09T14:16:30.835-07:00France - La Forge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>16th-25th April, La Cellette</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We time our stay very well indeed – arriving at the weekend when (officially) no work is done. Richard and I are keen to make a good impression (and earn the great food we are receiving) and so ask for a project to keep our hands busy. We spend the weekend building decking and steps for the home made, wood fired, hot-tub. We use our spare time to get to know our hosts Peter and Julie.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fqWVlvI-qI2SqSt05QZn69Czvhrs3u5P20JSaTZNi-MpifmBqjjQGwRhjAJFqOi8NB-y2pyio6c5XkY9uHZ9EUMqIDfH1lrKgyBn4I1bnDn051r7DFLShaxB_0Se5rYQ8xCBERpyGv98/s1600/DSC_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fqWVlvI-qI2SqSt05QZn69Czvhrs3u5P20JSaTZNi-MpifmBqjjQGwRhjAJFqOi8NB-y2pyio6c5XkY9uHZ9EUMqIDfH1lrKgyBn4I1bnDn051r7DFLShaxB_0Se5rYQ8xCBERpyGv98/s400/DSC_0001.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No dig beds for tatties</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Several years ago the had there own “fuck it” moment. They upped sticks and started a tour of Europe in their camper van (which now sits in the barn and is used as the guests accommodation). They then settled in Le Cruise and got stuck in to the self sufficient farming lifestyle. It's just the kind of place Richard and I had been looking for. Their one hectare plot now provides them with all the food they can eat year round. The daily yield from the resident chickens is sufficient to supply the entire region with organic eggs. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our accommodation - hopefully it will see the road again!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The major project during our stay is to complete the “no-dig” beds and to get the potatoes, onions and parsnips planted. We weave Hazel whithies around chestnut stakes to form the circular beds. Then layers of cardboard, shit and straw. And potatoes!</span> <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hamish</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The evening meals are a highlight each day. Julies cooking is fantastic – I think if my tastebuds had the choice they would remain here forever – rather than be subject to the bread and jam that my typical road diet dictates. The homemade cider goes down very well. And each dinner is an opportunity to have a giggle and learn more about eachother. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trimming up some whithies</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the days pass I familiarise myself with the farm animals.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> That is, apart from the goose – who tries to pick a fight at every opportunity. After hearing about it's infamous “bite and twist” fighting style and give it a wide birth – not sure my Kung Fu is upto “goose standard” just yet. I find the goats to be quite personable. Richard and I take turns to milk them in the evening. The two dogs (wolf hound/great dane cross) Hamish and Willow are great. With their help I continue to solidify my wounded relationship with the canine species.</span> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfd31O2J0QF0QRzmhRflqSaHW_Xe_18Q32TDGPqq69-RYeIHEvRP6OituQX1wmJ6u6yAht80hZv6plXdh8oyvXt3FYhzb4cNG_L3mlSa8bca4AfGKAxsa_9W-FK6xwkcpH1k8rJjOeYSTn/s1600/DSC_0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfd31O2J0QF0QRzmhRflqSaHW_Xe_18Q32TDGPqq69-RYeIHEvRP6OituQX1wmJ6u6yAht80hZv6plXdh8oyvXt3FYhzb4cNG_L3mlSa8bca4AfGKAxsa_9W-FK6xwkcpH1k8rJjOeYSTn/s400/DSC_0005.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Propper Spoon!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">On the weekend we take a trip to the woods. The two hectare plot (also owned by Peter and Julie) is a short ride from the farm. We collect more fire wood and whithes while there. Our visit to the woods is well synchronised with the bluebells. I take the time to traipse through the trees and enjoy the carpet of blue. Richard and I opt to stay the night. Strike up a fire and roll out the sleeping bags under the canopy of oak overhead. In the flickering light we whittle away at hazel branches crafting our first “bush spoons” </span></span> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDPaf-lakYdVD4RP8g6eJFX9AOC6nFaIjJO9QB5pGfZhvmDcGYCOggMHeL9tqiGGyJ1iZsyZZmKshFbWqGkSE2fPmqWIJMeFYxqdI1rmzf7nUyjsEsUDJTGsjHcBa-DBk1cm8LICQBDnft/s1600/DSC_0142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDPaf-lakYdVD4RP8g6eJFX9AOC6nFaIjJO9QB5pGfZhvmDcGYCOggMHeL9tqiGGyJ1iZsyZZmKshFbWqGkSE2fPmqWIJMeFYxqdI1rmzf7nUyjsEsUDJTGsjHcBa-DBk1cm8LICQBDnft/s400/DSC_0142.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Night in the woods - wouldn't be complete without a fire</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually the time comes when we have to leave – there is still half of France waiting to be crossed after all. Had I known how much I would enjoy my time here (and indeed Helpx/wwoofing in general) I would have dedicated a larger proportion of my trip to doing it. Particularly with the farming its of far more benefit to you, and your host, if you can stay longer. The benefit being you can learn more and become more of an asset to them. And in return establish a stronger connection with the farm and your hosts.</span> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh98UXIk6aymF_qtRbkRI96AwuTUZF9rPNa0T8ulO-Djd3O2AtLbSZ5kOoFkdONb5D2GValzZPsRdpA3EXMmG0yPQ1FDgME3Q4ncxwdqHi4_j4HHLdDFp98_WWd-HspKcQfgA3tU1Axife2/s1600/DSC_0014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="288" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh98UXIk6aymF_qtRbkRI96AwuTUZF9rPNa0T8ulO-Djd3O2AtLbSZ5kOoFkdONb5D2GValzZPsRdpA3EXMmG0yPQ1FDgME3Q4ncxwdqHi4_j4HHLdDFp98_WWd-HspKcQfgA3tU1Axife2/s400/DSC_0014.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The gang</td></tr>
</tbody></table> </div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-31966103053641194432011-05-09T09:55:00.000-07:002011-05-09T09:55:09.630-07:00France - Massif Central<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>13th April, 74km, Cohade - Aydat</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Surprise frosty morning. I exit the tent feeling some strange joy at the return of the chilly morning. With a cup of coffee I go to watch the mist rising from the river until my body feels ready for further exertion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our days ride starts slowly - this is entirely my doing. I take the time to try and bodge up the cracked weld on the trailer and some other bike tinkering.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the first few hours on the road we see only a handful of cars. As the pattern goes - we climb steadily for some time. Once in the high country we get great views out over the rolling hills.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPMks5pxQA_NvyZcJHburYEFCp0mMYv31c8pl_zT73AhU9CpTcvyXQu6T-GOyZyU7wIHhZuTdkGkGvxAdCm5Nw6PoAjmBE4l2PMCi6dmOM7Je5XHO6ze2nRYBff_h7g_xvWEV7ac8zV8N3/s1600/IMG_1496.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPMks5pxQA_NvyZcJHburYEFCp0mMYv31c8pl_zT73AhU9CpTcvyXQu6T-GOyZyU7wIHhZuTdkGkGvxAdCm5Nw6PoAjmBE4l2PMCi6dmOM7Je5XHO6ze2nRYBff_h7g_xvWEV7ac8zV8N3/s400/IMG_1496.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All bus stops should look like this!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Food of champions!! </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All day Red Kites escort us. The riding is slow but very pleasant. I we decide to finish off a long climb before stopping for lunch. Thanks to an insufficient breakfast I get dizzy at the half way point. A handful of peanuts and scoop of dodgy Nutella copy sees me back in the game to finish the climb.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Equally bliss afternoons ride. In the evening we head for a lake on the map in hope of some camping opportunities. We cook up a huge feast on the lakeside and then seek out a campspot. Dedicated camping car area fits the bill.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>14th April, 66km, Aydat - Mainsat</u></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg283vvKqFNiv8TJO1epkg_gWCHCyHRwV4Y-sd5D6L1l-YzZ51XfWcvJHVY1XkDzyqukPXhViRApjGLDaQlgkAqRbiadZZogJXrDKZ6OExOlvRiGju_1N5a5qoEopAqD31eykAsxoQiqQg3/s1600/DSC_0096.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg283vvKqFNiv8TJO1epkg_gWCHCyHRwV4Y-sd5D6L1l-YzZ51XfWcvJHVY1XkDzyqukPXhViRApjGLDaQlgkAqRbiadZZogJXrDKZ6OExOlvRiGju_1N5a5qoEopAqD31eykAsxoQiqQg3/s400/DSC_0096.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snoozing trout</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We get moving early and get a good mornings riding out the way. We stop at Carrefour for lunch and hit the jackpot. We pilfer enough “bingredients” to make Spagetti Carbonara. Win!! We bask in the sun with full bellies for some time.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bin Carbonara - yum!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After an easy afternoons ride our thoughts eventually turn to camping. Our hope is to find a good spot at which we can have a fire. Richard asks at a house for some water and our plans soon change. Veronique fills our water bottles and then invites us to unofficially CouchSurf at her place for the night – result! Richard leads the conversation most of night – his French being better than mine. He also wins Rock Paper Scissors for the spare bed and so I roll out my matt on the floor. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #999999; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>15th April, 88km, Mainsat - La Cellette</u></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breakfast with Veronique</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the morning we are treated to a typical French breakfast (much like we often eat on the road) but with one very important addition – real butter. Veronique very kindly gives us the butter and jam for the road. We say our thanks and goodbyes and get on our way. Today we hope to reach the Helpx farm. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-D5Sz2s6N7QRdl0gLHSJlNDDjelt2912e5JsL0uzgRhItZFKtjNIcm3H9zRQ_s_IjZivHoONgHY1IAoeMp3BHlVtgyYY5uWCs_f54Dim0fw50nUKRbMd88CbSU9HzgjwieYbBeSZ6QOk/s1600/DSC_0098.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-D5Sz2s6N7QRdl0gLHSJlNDDjelt2912e5JsL0uzgRhItZFKtjNIcm3H9zRQ_s_IjZivHoONgHY1IAoeMp3BHlVtgyYY5uWCs_f54Dim0fw50nUKRbMd88CbSU9HzgjwieYbBeSZ6QOk/s400/DSC_0098.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In search of some fresh drinking water - many of the wells in the area are no longer used</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A wee note on Helpx. Much like Wwoof it's an online database for voluteers to find work. There is a fair old variety of placements available including organic farms, building work, hostel work, ski seasons etc. The deal is always similar – work a set amount of hours each day for your food and board.</span></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-45578441857614734952011-04-25T15:21:00.000-07:002011-04-25T15:21:38.499-07:00France - On route "North" - Central Massive<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>10th 75km</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once all are awake we pack up and join our friends for a morning coffee and a croissant.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At ten Richard and I hit the road. Despite the strong winds we both enjoy the riding. The countryside is beautiful - and quite reminiscent of the landscape back home. Meadows and rapeseed fields repeat over and over without becoming dull. Beech trees dazzle us with their vibrant new foliage. More and more wild flowers appear by the roadside. Every now and then we get a quick blast of fragrance from a blossoming tree.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We stop at several supermarkets to check the bins. Shops are closed on Sunday's and we had hoped that the bins would be filled Saturday evening. Not so.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the afternoon I am troubled by a terrible tragedy - my iPod has stopped working. It doesn't hit me straight away. I expect that because I'm riding with Richard I'm not using it so much. I imagine the grieving process will begin soon...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of all the things to lift my mood - I didn't think it would be a Carrefour bin. Richard and I drool slightly while tearing at the bin bags. With our panniers bursting with fresh baked goods and some slightly iffy dairy produce we seek out a place to sleep. Before crashing out we fill up on the evening harvest.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>11th 83km</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We greet several sets of dog walkers while eating breakfast. While breaking camp we enjoy a few cups of coffee – one thing I can never be bothered to do when cycling alone.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchCKth9nOsofZLYd8Om6cgssLC-NnewoQS21CU_MzHrEQv90hyphenhyphenWOA7t1nvtUOPT7AKRGXX9klPz5G2gt-Bg5Q56ZB1sg4KHODXptYxq0IfAJNyJ6w_isaotTqewNNVOIcVk-AAS7a1wOK/s1600/IMG_1468.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchCKth9nOsofZLYd8Om6cgssLC-NnewoQS21CU_MzHrEQv90hyphenhyphenWOA7t1nvtUOPT7AKRGXX9klPz5G2gt-Bg5Q56ZB1sg4KHODXptYxq0IfAJNyJ6w_isaotTqewNNVOIcVk-AAS7a1wOK/s320/IMG_1468.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We climb gradually all day. At two o'clock we stop for lunch. We've done fifty kilometres and perhaps only two of which have been flat/downhill.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The supermarket bins serve us well once more. In the afternoon we get yoghurt and salad and in the evening bread more yoghurt and all kinds of sweet treats.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We crest a climb and reach a plateau at around twelve hundred meters. From then on the climbs are short. Fields dusted with wild daffodils stretch as far as the eye can see. As the riding is so nice we push on into the evening hoping to reap the rewards of the mornings climbing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In good time we are indeed rewarded. Eight kilometres of winding downhill - helps to boost our daily distance.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>12th 89km</u></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgS7VE8GBRfw_XR1mET75LU4USEoH_ApVRllRovqEI19Xm7d56exN-D4lvEvmNtfJOls3uI6rPLGbYMhyof0fO6SHb1ovaBDknaY1JN-gL_Q-OL8aRTWuAiYzMgoBvWZTLZ4dhB08zxI4/s1600/IMG_1487.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgS7VE8GBRfw_XR1mET75LU4USEoH_ApVRllRovqEI19Xm7d56exN-D4lvEvmNtfJOls3uI6rPLGbYMhyof0fO6SHb1ovaBDknaY1JN-gL_Q-OL8aRTWuAiYzMgoBvWZTLZ4dhB08zxI4/s320/IMG_1487.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The morning dew soaks our feet as we pack up. This the first day in along time that we are not greeted by blue skies. Instead we have grey clouds, fog and the feel of rain in the air.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We have another morning of fairly solid climbing. In Le Puy we pick up main road - our aim being to sacrifice some scenery for expediency. As we climb out of town we see the statues atop the hills at several locations in the town. All around us the ancient rounded mountains of Massive Central roll off into the distance. It's hard to imagine that millions of years ago they looked a lot more like their spiky neighbours the Alps.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I climb steadily. Richard has vanished off into the distance. As I ride three very healthy looking horses gallop across their field to watch. Not wanting their efforts to be wasted I park up and go to lean on the fence and stroke them for a while.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back on the bike we eventually summit the col we'd be battling with. We are then greeted by a roadsign the likes of which would give any cyclist a three quarter chubb - 11km 7%. The persistent headwind ensures I don't reach record breaking speed - it's good fun all the same.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've decided this will be my last mention of bin food. It seems to be a frequent occurrence - safe to assume most days are successful.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Find a picnic area to camp in - river on one side, fishing lake on the other. Perfect...so long as you ignore the no camping signs.</span></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-83421766411421500682011-04-24T14:43:00.000-07:002011-04-24T14:43:48.274-07:00France - Die and beyond<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With the bikes packed Richard and I decide it's the appropriate time to changes our minds – we shall not leave in the morning but instead go to the concert in town and leave the following day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It turns out to be a good call as the concert is great and the beer from the local micro brewery aint half bad either.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsYHtD4AZc23elUGIXSJiyjl3mdeEVQS3U_Zx6YLCMqb9UZ3Hvwgydm9rWEgyEkpJi2fzXl6YZfkaH29JEiRd_U6Kj6DdygOQ8rxnfQd6Qk9K5MSX7uqdXGg8nFLp07CBVGWlguZm69s9/s1600/IMG_1438.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsYHtD4AZc23elUGIXSJiyjl3mdeEVQS3U_Zx6YLCMqb9UZ3Hvwgydm9rWEgyEkpJi2fzXl6YZfkaH29JEiRd_U6Kj6DdygOQ8rxnfQd6Qk9K5MSX7uqdXGg8nFLp07CBVGWlguZm69s9/s400/IMG_1438.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>9th 63km Die to Pont de Bonnet</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We tidy up Wim's flat while cooking up breakfast (dustbin pizza). We join Raff and Pierre at the town Market. After a brief peruse of all the lovely food we can't afford we say our goodbyes and roll on out of town.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We are both very excited to get back to the road - and this time with company. The day is bright and blue. The road is good and the scenery continues to astound us. Spring is becoming evermore evident - it's a real pleasure to see the gradual onset of the new season. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjApu3gb1mAhoDPP-hAx9PdwR0AEZXE8gzg-MhsfmODRAo6iXvIqXutGafdt9Zu4qpfetOPTyQhLsYUfQxFL1EUaDn90pIVKWon5juBJOUmnHW42ijHygWBsHEF-2WzUeme8ulR8ykv-_xu/s1600/IMG_1444.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjApu3gb1mAhoDPP-hAx9PdwR0AEZXE8gzg-MhsfmODRAo6iXvIqXutGafdt9Zu4qpfetOPTyQhLsYUfQxFL1EUaDn90pIVKWon5juBJOUmnHW42ijHygWBsHEF-2WzUeme8ulR8ykv-_xu/s320/IMG_1444.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR9YxV9TJ5YiPlOpC0bQAaOesKeVqDZbeY42_H6QK49gVVFXZWEZdhyphenhyphen7fScN7YXDV9gENgZgH76dPuo1bL1RJRTd_yRf-D9xIWkuGyKzNxI488w3Sr8dkURT8ExfYb3QK98gwITihZJrar/s1600/IMG_1445.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR9YxV9TJ5YiPlOpC0bQAaOesKeVqDZbeY42_H6QK49gVVFXZWEZdhyphenhyphen7fScN7YXDV9gENgZgH76dPuo1bL1RJRTd_yRf-D9xIWkuGyKzNxI488w3Sr8dkURT8ExfYb3QK98gwITihZJrar/s320/IMG_1445.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We stop in the town of Crest. The supermarket bins are not so forthcoming so we move on to the town centre for a look around. We are approached be two friendly locals. They invite us to join them for lunch. Back at the flat we meet more friendly faces. Lunch is a selection of meats with sourcroute. During the meal they tell us about their afternoon plans - a local music festival. A glance in Richards direction tell me he's thinking what I'm thinking - enough riding for one day. We get the directions and meet them there.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJsjg3KjKqWtcjbJHO0_7y-i07RibhZT_wczBuMmQ-sxC9MnRwU91kUQKdDk45oVEaw8_5l-TbR-IxUqFJ4QTqyBDebw_F8WebvMqQZXxY4xfqcEb_NcZ7EMLLav4JrzsYYArv8ypPcKIm/s1600/DSC_0029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJsjg3KjKqWtcjbJHO0_7y-i07RibhZT_wczBuMmQ-sxC9MnRwU91kUQKdDk45oVEaw8_5l-TbR-IxUqFJ4QTqyBDebw_F8WebvMqQZXxY4xfqcEb_NcZ7EMLLav4JrzsYYArv8ypPcKIm/s400/DSC_0029.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pont de Bonnet is a small town set in a beautiful riverside location. The streets are filled with people. We pass many bars - all of which are putting on live entertainment of some kind. We spend the evening passing for bar to bar sampling all mannor of live music. Highlights for me are: the dancers on stilts, insane free-for-all dancing to jazz improv hurdy-gurdy music and two girls dressed as fairies doing what (to me) seemed like - erotic tree climbing while singing. Brilliant!</span> <br />
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</div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-45831016935169925252011-04-07T11:07:00.000-07:002011-04-07T11:07:24.441-07:00France - Woof!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>4th</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wim leaves very early before I wake. He is going to study away for ten days or so. He very kindly lets me stay as long as I wish – and suggests I see some of his friends about some wwoofing (volunteering) opportunities.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Very relaxing day – reading and playing guitar. I speak to Fanny his neighbour. She has a pottery workshop and suggests that (as she need some help) I join here there and in return she will sort out my meals each day. Thanks to Wim my accommodation is sorted – and so I accept.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the evening we drink beer in another neighbours garden. Bottles of Leffe disappear and eventually we are greeted by the stars (new moon). The pace of life here is perfect – I feel myself losing track of the days once more.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Later on Richard (from Istanbul & The Boat) arrives. I'm a little surprised (and impressed) that our vague plan of meeting up actually reaches fruition. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>5th</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At eleven I go the workshop to meet Fanny. She gives me a tour of the workshop and the premises. An old cement factory by the river is now in the process of being converted into many small commercial units. I meet tailors, musicians, builders, artists and the like. Once the introductions are over I get to work making clay jewellery. While I do so Fanny and Cathy (with whom Fanny shares the workshop) teach me a little about the process involved. There is a lot more science in it that I realised – a goulash of colours, chemicals and temperatures. I feel a career change coming on...</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkuvG9ST-pHsxx7X3B7g8vxorW-4vE9XQFooGpmW68ArLehTwt8V__8bOkY8O0OoqukPa_h8Ih___EyARrayMLK_Zmab74-EAycboxP4BuuYdDzodtIKFc2sX81seWgJhQjA1RnSfNqOWQ/s1600/IMG_1396.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkuvG9ST-pHsxx7X3B7g8vxorW-4vE9XQFooGpmW68ArLehTwt8V__8bOkY8O0OoqukPa_h8Ih___EyARrayMLK_Zmab74-EAycboxP4BuuYdDzodtIKFc2sX81seWgJhQjA1RnSfNqOWQ/s400/IMG_1396.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lunchtimes at the workshop are a social affair. Everyone sits at a big communal table in the courtyard and each worker takes their turn in cooking up a feast. It's a great opportunity to have a laugh and escape the office – or workshop in my case.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4XOu9HUViVT_AZNT1Z6JUCh8w0Ow576YPfR8ZZHZSr3gi2LTEEjx8ljLQgoBt3BuZhjd5Rsk4-4CFu-_Wv5Sf5G5ns0L5mU9CN1ehWU4Xdia-IrzFxqWnurkEq1T4yrhCuMpndzYHfIVU/s1600/IMG_1415.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4XOu9HUViVT_AZNT1Z6JUCh8w0Ow576YPfR8ZZHZSr3gi2LTEEjx8ljLQgoBt3BuZhjd5Rsk4-4CFu-_Wv5Sf5G5ns0L5mU9CN1ehWU4Xdia-IrzFxqWnurkEq1T4yrhCuMpndzYHfIVU/s400/IMG_1415.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My three hours labour get me a free dinner – with a cheeky beer thrown in. Mellow evening film watching.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>6th</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Richard and I rise reasonably early. Our mission for the morning in to head down to the supermarkets for some Dumpster Diving. The first bins lid we open reveals half a pack of biscuits – supplying us with vital energy for our activities. Then onwards to the supermarkets and the Premier League of discarded food goods. At Intermarche we pilfer three loafs of bread, goats cheese, butter a bag of salad leaves and the cream of the crop – two peppered steaks. All of which were sealed and in date. We were not so fortunate with Lidl as the bins had just been emptied – not a bad haul all the same....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We then head to the local market to meet our friends. After a quick walk around the market (all the food is natural organic goodness and therefore out of our pricerange) we all go down to the river for a picnic. Wednesday here is “the day for children”. The schools are closed and children spend the day with their parents – often to take part in art, play or outdoor activities. What a great idea. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>7th </u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The day kicks off with another Dumpster Diving session. It appears today is the day when they sling all the meat. We leave with more protein than we know what to do with and two cakes from the bakery – pear gateau and two huge vanilla slices. Scorchio!!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I join Fanny for the communal lunchtime meal. In the afternoon I prepare the bike and begin to load my luggage ready for the off tomorrow.</span> </div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-47356785262921019962011-04-07T11:04:00.000-07:002011-04-07T11:04:27.188-07:00France - Couchsurfing in Die<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>1st 55km</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Henry cooks me eggs for breakfast. I eat as the sun appears from behind the western ridge. Once my gear is dry I begin to pack up – I notice my reluctance to leave. I have a couchsurfing arrangement which I a keen to fulfil - this helps motivate me to get moving.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I say a big thankyou/goodbye to Henry and the start on the six kilometre climb to the top of the Col de Carabes (1261m). I make good time on the way up and so pause for a while to enjoy the views and the quiet from the top. From then on it's down hill all day – bliss!</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4j4AXC_yJldsBSNHY3qH0iaQGpNovwf0NIOhEcbOfQJuEHX4CinCwEFGMf4pNUigdjeMcA1lMduklqgs4EgoE5FC2XnH0LE0VxaQqrR-0FyzwJJ5_8F-xGgTlaVF5aKa8VDMnH752-sbW/s1600/DSC_0121.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4j4AXC_yJldsBSNHY3qH0iaQGpNovwf0NIOhEcbOfQJuEHX4CinCwEFGMf4pNUigdjeMcA1lMduklqgs4EgoE5FC2XnH0LE0VxaQqrR-0FyzwJJ5_8F-xGgTlaVF5aKa8VDMnH752-sbW/s400/DSC_0121.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I arrive in the town of Die (pronounced Dee) and decide to “just turn up” at my hosts house. It can be difficult to arrange couchsurfing without either a phone or regular internet connection. I find his house but he is not there. I meet his neighbours Pierre and Raffel. They give me a beer. I sit all afternoon in the garden reading in the hope that my host will return. He does – and he brings with him some friends and more beer – from a local micro brewery. A mellow night under the stars. My first French lesson in a long time. Good beer.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>2nd</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lazy day. I play guitar outside while Wim studies. In the evening we go to a party. One of his neighbours has opened a pottery workshop and is throwing a party to celebrate. I gather from those I meet that this is quite an “alternative” community – lots of artists, musicians, organic farmers, outdoor enthusiasts etc. My kind of place.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wim and I leave the party early – our plan is to go hiking this evening. His mother gives us a lift into the forest and from then on it's down to our legs. With the last hour of daylight we power through five kilometers of climbing up a plateau at sixteen hundred meters. It's some of the steepest hiking I've done, very enjoyable, but not the kind of place you'd want to take a fall. The star scape from atop the climb is spectacular. We make our way north until we come to the mountain hut – our accommodation for the night. We open the door to see four guys sitting around the table. One of whom happens to be Wim's friend. It's a great building and very simple. Five by five meters, flat timber roof, thick brick walls coated in a coarse pebble render. Inside there's a wooden bunk (for six or eight people), a picnic table, a wood burner, axe, saw and a few candles.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We throw another fat chunk of pine in the wood burner, cook up a feed, and chat around the table. We pass around a tiny (medicine sized) bottle containing a potent concoction – which I suspect even trumps the Georgians Cha Cha for alcohol content. The mixture of mountain herbs and vegetables comes out at brain cell popping 70%.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>3rd</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thanks to the exercise and the night cap we sleep well. Simple breakfast and then we begin our walk of the ridge. Vultures have recently been re-introduced to the area and all morning we see them riding thermals. We are joined by Wim's friend Isabelle for todays hike. They are both training to be mountain guides and both take an interest in the local flora species. We make regular stops to admire and reference wild flowers. On the walk back down we take an off piste route along a ridge. Either side of us the ground drops away hundreds of meters. There are a few sphincter twitching moments but Wim, being the most experienced of us, comforts me with advice like - “this would be a bad place to fall”. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjonoZmvuTXU0rkz0AHcFgTBCA6LzeUAQxAlWpN7KGvppbjYP3cXXLv1X18VP7lpkhDMlV3jNIMAvPd3T8PC0uXwC6Zbqi4x0tkIEPOWeZHcgMHnhu8XtH5TXpYrjwh8xz116HFvac2MH22/s1600/IMG_1384.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjonoZmvuTXU0rkz0AHcFgTBCA6LzeUAQxAlWpN7KGvppbjYP3cXXLv1X18VP7lpkhDMlV3jNIMAvPd3T8PC0uXwC6Zbqi4x0tkIEPOWeZHcgMHnhu8XtH5TXpYrjwh8xz116HFvac2MH22/s400/IMG_1384.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A tranquil evening with beers in the garden. Sleep very well...</span></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-45476176482825730512011-04-07T08:22:00.000-07:002011-04-07T08:22:02.414-07:00France - Henry<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhpXDIjTyRfN5NTJaT13z_ZAJH0OirEsPn2vZbq-8bMScxiPxf28BMwSGVuF2x9iNeIgJO4zkMv60a2ahay6mGFRjMCTrn7p4ZXzs8vCA03F2GDifEL0me-F59CGzQH7S5pW_TWbflDfy/s1600/IMG_1338.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhpXDIjTyRfN5NTJaT13z_ZAJH0OirEsPn2vZbq-8bMScxiPxf28BMwSGVuF2x9iNeIgJO4zkMv60a2ahay6mGFRjMCTrn7p4ZXzs8vCA03F2GDifEL0me-F59CGzQH7S5pW_TWbflDfy/s400/IMG_1338.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pah!!</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>30th 39km</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Very slack start. I let the rain dry off the tent. I use the morning to chill out, do some chores, and just enjoy being outside. The facial hair gets a serious bashing – I enjoy it so much I almost forget about the compulsory comedy facial hair. I discover a rash on my chin. It could have been there for months - stealthily lurking in my nutella encrusted face pubes!</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJKBgSuenSiBYhtJfa_XEivEPJ9eM2aC11e0x8h2QiblEvwEgJKorwOZoKNuZYbjDeVLMUGMubFBBvmR9kZOogjdFEiHntGJeJC_ZZMXPqFa7xiGJaYNz01byFQk9YRAa-4eqHek4W6Iw/s1600/IMG_1341.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJKBgSuenSiBYhtJfa_XEivEPJ9eM2aC11e0x8h2QiblEvwEgJKorwOZoKNuZYbjDeVLMUGMubFBBvmR9kZOogjdFEiHntGJeJC_ZZMXPqFa7xiGJaYNz01byFQk9YRAa-4eqHek4W6Iw/s400/IMG_1341.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once on the road a headwind stunts my progress. I'm learning to recognise when I'm going up a hill. Sounds stupid I know – but the landscape often causes illusions that have you wondering why your slugging away in a low gear when your eyes are telling you your going downhill.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I take a gamble and pick a “short cut” that isn't on my poorly scaled map. It's a col that looks more challenging and interesting – and appears to be more direct.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTru1bqkuACE7H70NFa-EZX1JXikR8UHCGbmF9ivZSWQR0UcfJxnvrUbOIogmzqSOGKZtr9m18f7AxicsvXHpUXva3u0SCADEcfvJfiMa13ud3E3w504w283QFDgNFJRcKxEqvDFwXaneL/s1600/IMG_1344.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTru1bqkuACE7H70NFa-EZX1JXikR8UHCGbmF9ivZSWQR0UcfJxnvrUbOIogmzqSOGKZtr9m18f7AxicsvXHpUXva3u0SCADEcfvJfiMa13ud3E3w504w283QFDgNFJRcKxEqvDFwXaneL/s400/IMG_1344.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the tiny village of La Piarre a man comes out of his house to greet me. After a brief exchange I'm setting my tent up outside his house. He says “I saw you coming up the hill, it was like you were coming from another planet. Something told me to come out and talk to you”. I'm glad he did. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My new host, Henry that is, leaves me to set-up in peace. Once that is done he invites me inside to join him in demolishing a bottle of 50% proof white rum. I meet his girlfriend Sohpia and we all talk the night away. I learn about his work as a painter, his previous drug addictions and his plans for the future.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>31st surprise restday 6km</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Habit of the road sees me awake before sun up. The bonus of this is that I get to watch my first sunrise in the Alps. While packing up my things Henry says it's fine if I want to stay another day. I do.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAzfXvA5F37W-10uez902knYgtfkUTI4BSqOTn17uQzIVQg-B_smwRjYWfUGnSgcBnCfpmyvgt34q6qNTAHG_weqrKPCNWl5qyV-_apZ6yuB5ALLcO96D5SbxbCH869R-buIu-_RPpjdn/s1600/IMG_1347.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAzfXvA5F37W-10uez902knYgtfkUTI4BSqOTn17uQzIVQg-B_smwRjYWfUGnSgcBnCfpmyvgt34q6qNTAHG_weqrKPCNWl5qyV-_apZ6yuB5ALLcO96D5SbxbCH869R-buIu-_RPpjdn/s400/IMG_1347.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I read and do exercises all morning. In the afternoon I ride a small local mountain pass on the unloaded bike – and get to really make the most of my returning fitness. I take a walk and see signs of Spring all around me. Budding trees and wild flowers by the roadside. Lizards dart away form my clumsy footfalls as I explore shadowy woods. Several hours vanish – I spend most of the time just staring at the mountain views all around me. I love the Alps.</span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoynO7vnZChXINW6cVtpkgc17KRmlUG2LsN87K9UDLbOQuHSOfh18HfDyPpbUIw76AbGMSQ6KnYcwwrkAXcAtlXUQZ__Bp4V1aMCE1MMHQ420vOooYCSnfmWMO5U8DeSqhVfLpIXRxLToR/s1600/DSC_0118.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoynO7vnZChXINW6cVtpkgc17KRmlUG2LsN87K9UDLbOQuHSOfh18HfDyPpbUIw76AbGMSQ6KnYcwwrkAXcAtlXUQZ__Bp4V1aMCE1MMHQ420vOooYCSnfmWMO5U8DeSqhVfLpIXRxLToR/s400/DSC_0118.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the evening we play guitars, eat stew and make a million and one future travel plans.</span></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-30312582659909275712011-04-07T08:05:00.000-07:002011-04-07T08:05:44.500-07:00France - Heading North<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>28th 73km</u></span> <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My breakfast of two bananas doesn't take me far. I stop at a patisserie for bread and a pastry – slipping nicely back into my old habits!! Contrary to the forecast the weather is good. And thanks to said good weather and the sweet treat in my gut I'm in a fine mood. On with the riding then.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOJfF4XkVawHL-i_V5x0564-oNem6S_SXnhgnmSjBzPusUDPpdBesciRaWVU-gnRgm5kAkzaahC2_Hr2v547XQvtBzW97ue3OtJf3ABd9l4TBd4i3MR7LOvO3cxruAd94e8xV1QDflf_a0/s1600/IMG_1354.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="243" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOJfF4XkVawHL-i_V5x0564-oNem6S_SXnhgnmSjBzPusUDPpdBesciRaWVU-gnRgm5kAkzaahC2_Hr2v547XQvtBzW97ue3OtJf3ABd9l4TBd4i3MR7LOvO3cxruAd94e8xV1QDflf_a0/s640/IMG_1354.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entrevaux</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At mid-day I stop at Entrevaux – a small village in the Alps set behind castle fortifications. A very pretty place (I add it to the “to come back to” list).</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzU6lr9CDmZri3l6JW4AhUKsP18LOX89vBp1HnceFCQrHobDFugthb4mgIFaV_JydqVJ1UdyBGAlye3Po54g2I1UVdEzId5iyzblba2vBxiZ1QvUOnOF1C7JKKogeEBeK27bwKa0D_4ddX/s1600/IMG_1313.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzU6lr9CDmZri3l6JW4AhUKsP18LOX89vBp1HnceFCQrHobDFugthb4mgIFaV_JydqVJ1UdyBGAlye3Po54g2I1UVdEzId5iyzblba2vBxiZ1QvUOnOF1C7JKKogeEBeK27bwKa0D_4ddX/s320/IMG_1313.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Disappointing news - Highest through road in Europe - closed!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mid-afternoon I notice the clouds building and looking quite stormilicious. I throw on the rain clobber and let the sweat fest begin. I stop every so often in lay-bys to sulk and half heartedly look for campspots. I sit in a bus-stop and daydream for a while. Then I snap to and decide to “man up” - which I vocally repeat several times while remembering the multiple occasions on which I have given people grief for moaning about the rain. I'm rewarded with incredible views of gorges and mountain all afternoon. Better yet the rain dies away and the clouds let through a little blue sweetness. I top a mountain pass – the Col de Toutes Aures at 1124m. I'm happy that I stay below the cloud line as this way I get the views I've earned. On the way down I reflect on the day – a perfect example of a good days bike touring.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCzaKuSKvzune8rTPMCVO4AlP0QMeHv7qgKP5Yt75xbwN0OgIYDge88NeqI-NN6SB6xe2njqIj8AZ9Wd2BK8cWuSRONMt0w7Sj37VVQ6QfFk4cP9-HoV7c0XOgvlddsXhbbpF6xlcnjjXA/s1600/DSC_0098.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCzaKuSKvzune8rTPMCVO4AlP0QMeHv7qgKP5Yt75xbwN0OgIYDge88NeqI-NN6SB6xe2njqIj8AZ9Wd2BK8cWuSRONMt0w7Sj37VVQ6QfFk4cP9-HoV7c0XOgvlddsXhbbpF6xlcnjjXA/s400/DSC_0098.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I find a campsite – real one this time. There's no-one around but I push my bike in and pitch up anyway. At around midnight I wake to hear some crazy animal noises in the hills. They sound much like the Jackels of Turkey – but I'm pretty sure France doesn't have such creatures.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>29th 87km</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wake with a chill – caught out by a cheeky Spring frost. The campsite turned out to be closed (early season) and so I leave without handing over a cent – don't feel too bad though having only utilised their empty field.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0o5SXzEEKt3qRyR899MdWFvutA08_SG0hEmcbR8vTanLp0qi71i7kd9UTwGDay6ZMEmYJn_JU4tqJ_NZEh0pfK0fsfE1ZEgWEAZb2kQwQzxSUDywu8jWisHteoI5HWt5jJnLfVZLkGSGv/s1600/IMG_1332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0o5SXzEEKt3qRyR899MdWFvutA08_SG0hEmcbR8vTanLp0qi71i7kd9UTwGDay6ZMEmYJn_JU4tqJ_NZEh0pfK0fsfE1ZEgWEAZb2kQwQzxSUDywu8jWisHteoI5HWt5jJnLfVZLkGSGv/s400/IMG_1332.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I start the day wearing full cold weather gear – the same as I was wearing in the winter. Three months on it's not even below zero – seems I have already softened to warmer climates. Even my peanut butter protests against the cold – refusing to spread causing me to cut slithers off it and place them on my bread.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The riding is much like yesterday (no bad thing at all). Always following rivers, mountain pass becomes dreamy downhills becomes gorges and tunnels, there's constantly something to keep me entertained.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-TOcCtZRrk-to0XvOP1g4EfhqhEnFUaZnt5K6qrHGH1hFIlXcb8qJP5qIMlobpBtVQgCsCtC0GkyATV_HeqNzcKaZVCKAlnchd5WwlE_Cutl6a0A2LFNNzuvkcMTePpQ-3-YMRk3F4Y1V/s1600/IMG_1355.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-TOcCtZRrk-to0XvOP1g4EfhqhEnFUaZnt5K6qrHGH1hFIlXcb8qJP5qIMlobpBtVQgCsCtC0GkyATV_HeqNzcKaZVCKAlnchd5WwlE_Cutl6a0A2LFNNzuvkcMTePpQ-3-YMRk3F4Y1V/s640/IMG_1355.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A storm creeps up behind me in the afternoon. I jump out of my skin at the first clap of thunder directly overhead. I duck into a mountain shelter but quickly lose patience and decide to continue on. I realise that it only feels good to get out of the rain if you know your not going to have to get back in. Otherwise it's best just to keep on pushing. And it makes the sunny days that much sweeter too.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fairly naff campspot – an empty field on the outskirts of a small town. The rain breaks just long enough for me to cook up a warm dinner. I spend a long time cautiously setting up in the downpour. Everything is wet bust I do my best to minimise the discomfort regardless.</span></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-56146505544423628152011-04-07T06:58:00.000-07:002011-04-07T07:42:18.469-07:00France - Cote d'azur<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>26th 44km</u></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9og9emwZ9UXN4aVxiGKw1cbSA_ctPzlLTpp5rRCTWiR8HV6Dsle5oqkhf4R3jtm173B3rLzuLGLqAX0ADv30P6qzpH_kkYYH63m6Kj03fsrOee3raliKVKnS5-eL8Jt1eZqWeV7ejTz28/s1600/DSC_0055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9og9emwZ9UXN4aVxiGKw1cbSA_ctPzlLTpp5rRCTWiR8HV6Dsle5oqkhf4R3jtm173B3rLzuLGLqAX0ADv30P6qzpH_kkYYH63m6Kj03fsrOee3raliKVKnS5-eL8Jt1eZqWeV7ejTz28/s400/DSC_0055.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A pleasant start to the day. The ten kilometres downhill is over before I know it and then I start on another mountain pass. With more energy than last night I get stuck in without a second thought – my legs spinning to the rhythm of the tunes on my ipod. The climb is great and with every switchback I'm rewarded with new and interesting views. The colour is yet to come to the trees that dominate the hillside. Any accessible land seems to be used for olives groves or vineyards. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMol2W4vECYPRFYFgyoR8ea-o9GnbLpBP12u0Dwfo8cBFh52L0acGzC8T5BsV5FY0HMmND4oGglD6QyTyq6bcaEDHpSJKd9rMizlF9q7p2crYMTbn-4JwqgMoWa7lftWQzt61Ejy3pl7Q0/s1600/DSC_0058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMol2W4vECYPRFYFgyoR8ea-o9GnbLpBP12u0Dwfo8cBFh52L0acGzC8T5BsV5FY0HMmND4oGglD6QyTyq6bcaEDHpSJKd9rMizlF9q7p2crYMTbn-4JwqgMoWa7lftWQzt61Ejy3pl7Q0/s400/DSC_0058.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCtQpiW7mmmKyW1JQbJDibza4L7_iUvqCpGqF5MN1stCrhEzIcaHw5NbkV7N6vV-G5q10iw28BXPASwZG_sqgwipVZB6MfiKFnL0MIPs1_UcsdZruXP5vD-9r-oXw7T3k7EFLEMzcw063/s1600/IMG_1282.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCtQpiW7mmmKyW1JQbJDibza4L7_iUvqCpGqF5MN1stCrhEzIcaHw5NbkV7N6vV-G5q10iw28BXPASwZG_sqgwipVZB6MfiKFnL0MIPs1_UcsdZruXP5vD-9r-oXw7T3k7EFLEMzcw063/s320/IMG_1282.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Another tunnel halts my progress but this time I decide to chance it. It pays off. The small amount of guilt I feel is removed when I see two racing cyclists pass through the same way – the rules don't apply to all it seems.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stunning downhill take me all the way to Menton. I stop periodically to admire the views – and on one occasion to watch some motorcross racing. I briefly explore the town but quickly abandon this in favour of the beach. I roll out the well tent and sleeping back, pick my spot, and spend all afternoon reading. Evening rolls in. I play my guitar until it's too dark to be seen and then roll out my sleeping bag under the decking of a beach bar (which is closed as it's a little too early in the season). Mediterranean beach bum life for me!</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhIN01vuUTKHRknLw0e5HqGTL4ZS95LBJJ6VRokE4aLM0s-B1vn8nId7EATo3Y4wk-piGCVwJMbtKUODjx0k3GABJblKpPSlKb07vgMkqlfCpXwR9Ic5E1WS9bVcx8sya28IpHHz5J8RD/s1600/Snapshot+1+%252804-04-2011+08-47%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhIN01vuUTKHRknLw0e5HqGTL4ZS95LBJJ6VRokE4aLM0s-B1vn8nId7EATo3Y4wk-piGCVwJMbtKUODjx0k3GABJblKpPSlKb07vgMkqlfCpXwR9Ic5E1WS9bVcx8sya28IpHHz5J8RD/s400/Snapshot+1+%252804-04-2011+08-47%2529.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>27th 59km</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wake early and utilise the free showers on the beach. Ice cold water allows my nipples to reach Glass Cutting status. I stuff away my sleeping bag, inhale some banana/nutella sandwiches and then begin on the coastal road West.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb7HQ1C204anG5oYbmXzLXHQcDrpLxJn2amOiAOPKXSVyUrT36dz_i__E_SVyzmbksTMIfy-X1KDDHPddRgnCXtSaU-ZHKO_th7C2MksXCMNM7pok8mzGT3CShUs6GDoQawScrHURpgRAu/s1600/DSC_0060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb7HQ1C204anG5oYbmXzLXHQcDrpLxJn2amOiAOPKXSVyUrT36dz_i__E_SVyzmbksTMIfy-X1KDDHPddRgnCXtSaU-ZHKO_th7C2MksXCMNM7pok8mzGT3CShUs6GDoQawScrHURpgRAu/s400/DSC_0060.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I ride through Monte Carlo – figuring while I'm there I might aswell go and see what all fuss is about. I explore the streets for sometime – trying to recall the shape of the Formula 1 track as I go. Down at the famous waterfront there's a cycle race on so I sit and watch for some time. As I do so it dawns on me that little about my life is athletic – dispite my boasts of “so many kilometres this day” etc. Lycra shod men with outrageously chiselled calves throw me cursory bemused glances as they saunter past – the kind of look you might give that animal in the zoo that you know you should recognise...but don't. Aside from a few impressive looking boats – I'm a little dissapointed with Monte Carlo. Dont get me wrong - I'm sure there's some great restaurants with superb food and hotels with elaborate doilies and origami style folded toilet paper. But nothing grabs me...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I move on hoping Nice has more appeal for the vagabiker community. The heavens open and so I don't stay long in the city. A brief internet stop to get an idea of my route and then I make may way inland. I battle with the rain until the light begins to fail. With little in the way of camping (all the land is fenced off) I ask at a motel if I can pitch up outside. My French fails me and so I end up taking a room – and after six hours of riding in the cold and wet I'm very grateful.</span><br />
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</div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-34390855162644910412011-04-05T01:48:00.000-07:002011-04-05T01:48:17.860-07:00Italy - Turin and onwards<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>22nd 24km</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Easy morning ride into Turin. I stop on the way to steal some wifi for a city map. While I tap away two local mountain bikers pull along side. With broken Italianglish we establish who's who. A quick </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bob Dylan number secures me a croissant and a coffee - result They take lots of picture of me and then, with some bear-like parting handshakes, they are on their way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I cop out. Campsite. I spend the evening servicing the bike and doing laundry. The campsite is empty and beer expensive – two factors that drastically reduce the chances of a rocking night. Nice view of the city though...</span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>23rd</u></span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last minute I opt for a rest day. My first in a week. I attempt to catch up on the blog, do other internet tasks, and then actually get to explore some of the city. I had forgot the pleasure of sightseeing (by bike) in a bicycle friendly city. I park up in various cafes that take my fancy, drink far too much good coffee, and indulge in some laptop time. In the evening I find an Irish bar and treat myself to a stout – wwwwwwwwwooooooooooooowwwwwww (my taste buds are barely prepared for proper beer) it's been too long old friend! </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>24th 101km</u></span>- Back on the ton!<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I leave the city at ten in the morning – not my snappiest start. Riding out of town attracts a lot of attention – Italy is full of cyclists. While pedalling away I chat with various lycra clad speed demons. The morning passes quickly. Old faithful (Lidl) supplies me with three days of food for €10. I get my fruit from roadside stalls. The seller is miserable – but as I tuck into two kilos of prime oranges he grumpiness is forgotten. With a weeks worth of vitamin C pumping through my veins I return to the road.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I lost my sun hat long back and by mid-afternoon the sun is getting the better of me. I spot an outdoor store and get a new shade for my bonce.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All afternoon my gaze is fixed on the snowy peaks in the distance. It doesn't feel that long ago that I was surrounded by them in Turkey/Georgia – though it's been a few months now. I'm excited by the idea of mountain riding again – but I must admit I'm definitely getting comfortable with the warm Mediterranean Spring.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo7hO3c8JHfuwb5TDmlcv5kAnD4xbIsdWCB6Ohen-xGnBt-bSlxJX0n_wKyw3KlXXuMo_0O3SLIq-hlwYr-Gm21JO2RLWNTvOTiXY83St3b6RHPvkvblyARfIGF2jrWTsIKH_u5wuw8E14/s1600/IMG_1258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo7hO3c8JHfuwb5TDmlcv5kAnD4xbIsdWCB6Ohen-xGnBt-bSlxJX0n_wKyw3KlXXuMo_0O3SLIq-hlwYr-Gm21JO2RLWNTvOTiXY83St3b6RHPvkvblyARfIGF2jrWTsIKH_u5wuw8E14/s400/IMG_1258.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I spy a nice spot to camp. With thirty minutes of light remaining I hide in some woodland until no-one can see me set up.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUqkDRB92dbFClDZqPlpg6m46_c7IJ3MpdrB1eahBTH92JX9VVyxTRIKd0PkmjCa2gMxZsy8f_ohxAuqfkJUjPdgBVUfqRSmB8ep1qOu1rSC8En5Gt-YXduHdC4yjJRF3KwsiiW3wxfQxw/s1600/DSC_0051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUqkDRB92dbFClDZqPlpg6m46_c7IJ3MpdrB1eahBTH92JX9VVyxTRIKd0PkmjCa2gMxZsy8f_ohxAuqfkJUjPdgBVUfqRSmB8ep1qOu1rSC8En5Gt-YXduHdC4yjJRF3KwsiiW3wxfQxw/s400/DSC_0051.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>25th 58km</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All morning I climb slowly through the foothills of the Italian Alps. Along the way I pass several signs indicating that bicycles are not allowed on this road. I ignore them – seeing no good reason why not.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By mid-afternoon I find the reason for the road restrictions – a four kilometre tunnel linking Italy and France. I hop off the bike and take a water break. The line of car drivers all watch me as I explore the tunnel entrance, dimly lit, stretching on seemingly forever until my eyes fail me. It doesn't look good. A traffic light system sends cars through in fifteen minute shifts, at a set speed, with a set separation distance. There are no curbs and only one lane. I go for plan B. I take the bike apart piece by piece. Take a seat on the luggage pile, pull out the guitar, and flash my thumb at all who pass by.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It works!</span><br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/21561274" width="520"></iframe><br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/21561274">France</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user5281805">James Rathbone</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the evening I make a start on a mountain pass...but give up. Pussy! With little in the way of camping I decide on a different (more coastal) route.</span><br />
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</div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-79700081063595761462011-03-27T14:41:00.000-07:002011-03-27T14:42:02.664-07:00Italy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>21st 86k's</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wake a little surprised by the cold - barely above a frost by my guess. Once outside the tent I'm greeted by sun filtering through the trees. Pack up, inhale three oranges, and hit the road.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgjmy86OH75mMxVNRX4aGmWAyrZNaLxX-S-5DxwejvPPF4AGh7j2OsJnGFeXybZlS0KC4vHJuDDplXk48vsS8Wf5x4mdKVK9cG7gZqy4aLGOt-5VLBfG7DjTPtW4cbJXXERjV6v2EBWlMk/s1600/DSC_0027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgjmy86OH75mMxVNRX4aGmWAyrZNaLxX-S-5DxwejvPPF4AGh7j2OsJnGFeXybZlS0KC4vHJuDDplXk48vsS8Wf5x4mdKVK9cG7gZqy4aLGOt-5VLBfG7DjTPtW4cbJXXERjV6v2EBWlMk/s400/DSC_0027.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRb5ON9VU6IY7CBcSfJYYmaexGg8lfRpspOgm0hq6firr5H4kqX9UrlryZeHgf3ChCLMW72H1q4ueoQdDYOsb9l4heElx0HLeG6m2mOm1OKB-c7ExENriII9bLiik4rIMqpm_hTpG-9cTT/s1600/DSC_0028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRb5ON9VU6IY7CBcSfJYYmaexGg8lfRpspOgm0hq6firr5H4kqX9UrlryZeHgf3ChCLMW72H1q4ueoQdDYOsb9l4heElx0HLeG6m2mOm1OKB-c7ExENriII9bLiik4rIMqpm_hTpG-9cTT/s400/DSC_0028.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I make good pace thanks to a tail wind. By three o'clock I'm close to Turin and looking for somewhere to camp. An unfamiliar scene catches my eye. I wheel my bike down to a wooded area. The recent heavy rains have flattened all the dead foliage onto each tree limb and stump making quite a spooky but beautiful sight. I don't camp as the farmers working in field. But explore and then move on. Spend the afternoon reading in a park. When the light fades I seek out a campspot - boat storage area on the river bank.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM3OWuO-5eJdYKm7_ynf1sbBevHF3ZtbHUO3otWumSIOXRcu7uwastYtcSyvV9SY96BJFZK1L93Vw43xZFxH5IGa-i6FjaeGw37HVqCHHHUlBPS68mZ6aAP78kqtQAwP4L7Stc56epZvbx/s1600/DSC_0029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM3OWuO-5eJdYKm7_ynf1sbBevHF3ZtbHUO3otWumSIOXRcu7uwastYtcSyvV9SY96BJFZK1L93Vw43xZFxH5IGa-i6FjaeGw37HVqCHHHUlBPS68mZ6aAP78kqtQAwP4L7Stc56epZvbx/s400/DSC_0029.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd0tL9W3g8SkuFSe5LXpRAX-D_uij-YvaJF_7ZIqMSAl9Z0V-0XGR-w1YULJYgwxf4-yuOLe4hh8L4I3toLliobBf6pB04TKYKg2qT2iV6R46bXFo47OaXEVxkk67G8NNBbuVcnxbVMWRB/s1600/DSC_0031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd0tL9W3g8SkuFSe5LXpRAX-D_uij-YvaJF_7ZIqMSAl9Z0V-0XGR-w1YULJYgwxf4-yuOLe4hh8L4I3toLliobBf6pB04TKYKg2qT2iV6R46bXFo47OaXEVxkk67G8NNBbuVcnxbVMWRB/s400/DSC_0031.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaR5nDu9UehBFH3EceP8o-M9XtAu5H9lY3s054_IxzXZmTjH559qIL4s0lNMO9gdMPerGVHzw2zVTylKn30SpEcg-6GAHIkRn8uDJ5gU3WDHONIIM-r38OBiCsBTY0IIWPsGI6hpCEev1y/s1600/IMG_1248.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaR5nDu9UehBFH3EceP8o-M9XtAu5H9lY3s054_IxzXZmTjH559qIL4s0lNMO9gdMPerGVHzw2zVTylKn30SpEcg-6GAHIkRn8uDJ5gU3WDHONIIM-r38OBiCsBTY0IIWPsGI6hpCEev1y/s400/IMG_1248.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-16146567956989599382011-03-27T13:21:00.000-07:002011-03-27T13:21:43.349-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>17th 80km</u></span><br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/21559575" width="520"></iframe><br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/21559575">My first morning in Italy</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user5281805">James Rathbone</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5albQN9UdZjhN58-CnfC7jO_4ZWU_H55tHsYQNobbt_sWbg34ZbA4hWXcfh2s5AsB02SUSiw9wTpiu2Qj8gJfidZHFmIJBARWRAmq6yN6n3_cfllIsUOJphyphenhyphen1uWNQS0sUrQN7_w7alXpC/s1600/IMG_1217.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5albQN9UdZjhN58-CnfC7jO_4ZWU_H55tHsYQNobbt_sWbg34ZbA4hWXcfh2s5AsB02SUSiw9wTpiu2Qj8gJfidZHFmIJBARWRAmq6yN6n3_cfllIsUOJphyphenhyphen1uWNQS0sUrQN7_w7alXpC/s400/IMG_1217.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I manage a disciplined start for a change – new beginnings and all that rot. Even with gear drying session I'm on the road by nine. Sunny morning, few showers in the afternoon. Not such pretty riding today - more industrious feel. I waste money on a Mcdonalds – the empty promise of free wifi. Not so.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I squeeze eighty kilometers out of the day - my biggest daily distance in a long time. Stop early before Verona. Wait for dark before pitching up. My campsite of choice tonight is a particularly uninspiring waste-ground next to a factory.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>18th 60k's</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The morning pases with little drama. By lunchtime I'm in Verona and make my way towards the centre for a quite poke around. It feels strange to park up in the centre and not immediately gather a crowd - faux celebrity status removed from here on in! I treat myself to an espresso and then continue on out of town.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAhvJKtFzxaE4AcYV6kyahpy29-0rLEObyer4UTjU82zoB70dbpuzbMARbxmsM50EFk6FD7XwAqKvBAGrgPL99YgLhJ8zTPlDhgSz80Qi1dObpTMGLaMH3XRPRZc2YZmFPAOxkLp8vSWlo/s1600/IMG_1218.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAhvJKtFzxaE4AcYV6kyahpy29-0rLEObyer4UTjU82zoB70dbpuzbMARbxmsM50EFk6FD7XwAqKvBAGrgPL99YgLhJ8zTPlDhgSz80Qi1dObpTMGLaMH3XRPRZc2YZmFPAOxkLp8vSWlo/s640/IMG_1218.jpg" width="478" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I actually manage to catch a milestone! 8000km</span></div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpoANlWtB-1uFhQ7iBCJlXeZZ9ZFXn8ahGvK2KTDgc3_4Mbg4sXQClbAMx87oTKG41nw4DIwr1N9JnEaVU-JNcpuD7q3bxxEjEGVocKEJisH0871kTSMGsEpl08DQ0id95Bqy20ftCLKP9/s1600/IMG_1220.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpoANlWtB-1uFhQ7iBCJlXeZZ9ZFXn8ahGvK2KTDgc3_4Mbg4sXQClbAMx87oTKG41nw4DIwr1N9JnEaVU-JNcpuD7q3bxxEjEGVocKEJisH0871kTSMGsEpl08DQ0id95Bqy20ftCLKP9/s400/IMG_1220.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Verona - no crowd!?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By late afternoon I make it to Lake Garda – a place I've been meaning to visit for a few years. I spend a few hours chilling out and enjoying the view. I ride around for a while and consider parting with my precious Euros for a campsite. After some debate I give up on the campsite and opt for a night without the tent on the beach. I wait until dark and then roll out my sleeping bag behind some seemingly empty holiday homes. I heard a few chuckles from passing walkers at various stage in the night – however I was much more concerned with the dew. Once the temperature dropped dew covered everything killing the insulation in my sleeping bag – I'll be more careful next time...</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx4q-exrmtNCv0MTol095Csc3nJf04z9xFmCIHJTAxy2NGlJC-mzXYLXg4x7WhEgpxZwZBiMK90_UnmNMIEhmDn8pk31Mr3f6JxYiXYupk3_RS_n39702rP_fcsYiVjgQiHWmyV1qD7ov6/s1600/IMG_1227.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx4q-exrmtNCv0MTol095Csc3nJf04z9xFmCIHJTAxy2NGlJC-mzXYLXg4x7WhEgpxZwZBiMK90_UnmNMIEhmDn8pk31Mr3f6JxYiXYupk3_RS_n39702rP_fcsYiVjgQiHWmyV1qD7ov6/s400/IMG_1227.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Lake Garda</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>19th 94k's</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I arrange all my belongings out on the pavement in the hope that the weak morning sun with rid them of the moisture. After an hour I'm bored and so get on with riding – making a plan for an extended “gear drying” lunch break.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The flat roads are a treat in my “out of shape” state and I'm able to set a good pace once again. I spend the afternoon scanning for potential camping spots but not much turns up – all the derelict buildings in Italy are disappointingly fenced off.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipZmg27mkUyxfKcO5b5XSOudFOAOzQm-jzKXoOAPzMVYc2dMJ1SAVG9f0nWGeDko23OLWoGiF_1DqhtW_dNxRBPJXrKxnRZ092N8B9_RBFqTWOkq2x9iqk-jH5LpFp7NV4PBP1TECVs4FO/s1600/IMG_1223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipZmg27mkUyxfKcO5b5XSOudFOAOzQm-jzKXoOAPzMVYc2dMJ1SAVG9f0nWGeDko23OLWoGiF_1DqhtW_dNxRBPJXrKxnRZ092N8B9_RBFqTWOkq2x9iqk-jH5LpFp7NV4PBP1TECVs4FO/s400/IMG_1223.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;">Lunch!...or was that breakfast?....or dinner?</span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm eager to break the one hundred kilometer mark to prove to myself that I still can. Just before I do I cross a river (which tends to throw up camping opportunities on the banks) – this time is no exception. I sit and read in the last of the days light before pitching up and sleeping well. The "ton" will have to wait.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXfRKJelKmbAB4zyObuY8IRz2b-Mz5DG_zrj7ZjWaGOaOdiH7GVkuSu-5Z9SDYvx81KrPq2dObdqRyXZdXfHyRvJMSwhgKmVsgj-uSkguuzy8A_suOHFKEwFyXuYmnrtXPMZRpUNnpIQS/s1600/DSC_0019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXfRKJelKmbAB4zyObuY8IRz2b-Mz5DG_zrj7ZjWaGOaOdiH7GVkuSu-5Z9SDYvx81KrPq2dObdqRyXZdXfHyRvJMSwhgKmVsgj-uSkguuzy8A_suOHFKEwFyXuYmnrtXPMZRpUNnpIQS/s400/DSC_0019.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>20th 86k's</u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I lie in a little to let the nights rain dry off the tent - and because it's Sunday. Flat roads all day again – this is not what I expected form Italy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I stop for water at a roadside cafe. No sooner have I parked up my bike than Vince strolls over to say “hello”. He's from Sicily (where he has an orange farm) and sells his oranges all over Italy. Having spent twenty years in Canada he speaks English as well as I. We talk for some time – I'm gutted to decline his offer of accommodation at his farm in Sicily. He treats me to a coffee, loads me up with oranges, and sends me on my way. Thanks Vince!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the evening I find some form of reserve to camp in. I use the evening light to explore before settling on an orchard of young horse chestnut trees.</span><br />
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</div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-74486419255336934052011-03-23T15:52:00.000-07:002011-03-23T15:52:41.801-07:00Italy - Venice and beyond<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By the end of four days aboard I'm happy to once again be making food babies which would give Gillian Mckeith a lonely tear of pride. It's my own fault as the guide book does state - “Do not drink the water”. Hey ho!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At nine in the morning Richard and I are done with brief passport checks and wheel our bikes off the boat. Europe greets us in the best possible mannor – blustery winds and hard driving rain. I quickly give up on looking round Venice and duck into a bar for a coffee. Venice can wait older and richer – or at least older.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After an unsuccessful hunt for a supermarket Richard and I part company. He goes East to Slovenia while I head the opposite way for France. I'd love to join him but my budget and time frame wont quite allow. With him travelling lighter and faster there's a chance we maybe join forces once more – perhaps in France.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the afternoon develops the rain eases and I enjoy the riding more and more. My route inland follows the a river – quiet little riverside villages pop up with pleasing frequency.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I noticing a growing sensation of comfort and confidence – which I guess comes from the knowledge that I've done this bit before (Western Europe that is). I can't speak the lingo – but the challenge seems reduced all the same. I hope to come up with a few methods for keeping the ride interesting or maintaining some form of challenge. I'm open to ideas, so if you have any get in touch!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With the bike now point homeward I feel very much like I'm on my way. I suspect the next six weeks will disappear at a surprising rate.</span></div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5730745803942660614.post-61646977042458065682011-03-23T15:41:00.000-07:002011-03-23T15:41:17.426-07:00The Boat<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I fall back into the European world with a bump. The boat does not cater for filth like myself – that is, there's no “hobo class”. My room is very nice and I'm happy with it – but no happier than I'd be rolling out my sleeping bag on the top deck. Everything comes at an extortionate cost...or at least that's how it feels after a considerable stay in the Middle East.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I exchange pleasantries with the few other English speaking guests on board. No other traveller types and no-one remotely my age to share the bar with. Perhaps it's not bad thing – one of the few nuggets I've learned on this venture – I'm a total sucker for bad beer and good company.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My first day aboard passes quickly. The novelty of new transport and the three hundred and sixty degree view of endless blue has me transfixed for some hours. I talk with the manager about my food/money problem in the evening – not even through the first day and I'm already struggling with my empty stomach. We come a deal where by I can have some meals and pay for it by card when we dock in Egypt.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The next day we arrive in Egypt. I watch from the top deck as passengers and goods are unloaded and then loaded – its a painfully slow process. The manager mentions that there might be another cyclist staying in my cabin (my original cabin-mate was not a fan of “au de cyclist” and so asked for another room). Late afternoon comes a knock on my door. I open it and in walk Richard (from such episodes as Istanbul Take Two). In walks Richard. My brain is unable to compute this co-incidence and so my greeting comes out as a mumbled grunt. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Thought I recognised that bike downstairs”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then there were two...</span><br />
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</div>Jhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04457570114169666298noreply@blogger.com0